It had been seven days since Ra and Elia departed for Winterfell again, and to the surprise of Jon Arryn and the Kingsguard, Robert Baratheon sat the Iron Throne and held court.

In those seven days Robert had slowed his drinking, and on this morning he was entirely sober. The hall felt different for it.

At Robert’s right hand stood Ser Barristan Selmy, white cloak falling straight, his back rigid, his gaze sharp as a drawn blade.

At the foot of the throne, Jon Arryn held a roll of parchment, his expression grave but hopeful. Jaime Lannister lingered a little apart, golden hair catching the torchlight, standing near the place where Queen Cersei sat with her ladies.

Robert sat upright, one hand gripping the armrest of the throne, the other wrapped firmly around the handle of his massive spiked iron warhammer. The weapon rested against the steel steps, a reminder of the man he had been on the battlefield.

He glanced at Jon Arryn.

“Any petitions today?” he asked.

The old man gave a proud, almost relieved smile, and nodded.

Jon looked down at the parchment, frowning at the first entry. He hesitated, his eyes flicking toward Robert as if to pass it over.

“Trust me, my lord,” Robert said from the throne, nodding at his foster father.

Jon inclined his head and announced in a clear voice “Your Grace, the smallfolk of Sow’s Horn have laid complaint against their liege lord, Harwyn Longsword. They accuse him of reviving the outlawed custom of the First Night.”

Robert’s jaw tightened. He looked ahead and nodded at a Goldcloak.

“Bring in the smallfolk and their lord, and I will hear what they have to say.”

The Goldcloak bowed and departed. Moments later, the great doors groaned open. A handful of peasants were ushered in, heads bowed, a septon at their side. Behind them came Lord Harwyn, armor polished but plain, his face set in a mask of forced humility.

The smallfolk were pressed to their knees before the throne. Harwyn bent low in a deep bow, holding it long enough to show respect, though his eyes flicked upward. He seemed almost relieved to see Robert seated there, as if expecting to win just by Robert being there.

Robert caught the flicker of relief and raised an eyebrow.

Jon Arryn’s voice carried again “The petition states that Lord Harwyn has taken brides from their beds on their wedding eve, against law and honor. They beg the Iron Throne for justice.”

Robert fixed his eyes on Harwyn.

“You’ve heard the charge. What say you?”

The lord bowed again, forcing a smile.

“The First Night is an ancient right, older than the Andals. My grandsire claimed it, and so do I. As I understand, Your Grace may agree with such a custom.”

For a heartbeat Robert’s face betrayed realization. Jon Arryn’s hesitation, Harwyn’s confidence, it all stemmed from one fact.

‘They know me as a womanizer. They think I’ll go soft on him for it.’ Robert thought.

Robert’s eyes flicked toward Cersei. She looked bored, as if she already knew the outcome.

“The practice has been outlawed,” Robert said, looking at Harwyn.

Harwyn blinked, confused, then nodded quickly.

“It is, Your Grace. But I feed these people and protect them. I beg your pardon, but in the laws of gods and men, I deserve this.”

Robert looked down at the kneeling smallfolk. They trembled, eyes hollow, hope already gone. They knew who Robert was, and they believed themselves doomed.

Robert gestured to the septon.

“Arise, septon. What say you?”

The old man stood, bowed once, and spoke with conviction “Your Grace, the First Night is no right but a sin. The Father judges it theft, the Mother weeps for the bride defiled, and the Maiden is shamed. The Faith has long held it accursed, and the law of King Jaehaerys struck it down. To revive it is to spit upon gods and king alike.”

Some Goldcloaks frowned at the septon’s boldness, hands drifting to sword hilts. Robert waved a hand, and they relaxed.

He turned back to Harwyn.

“You hear the man of the gods. Do you spit upon me and the gods both?”

Harwyn shook his head vigorously.

“It is these peasants who waste your time and strength, Your Grace,” he said, pointing at the kneeling folk.

Robert leaned back, wincing as the throne’s steel lightly bit into him. He muttered under his breath, “Fucking Targaryens.”

He gripped his hammer in one hand, rested his face in the other, his elbow on the arm rest and drew a long breath.

“Ancient right, you call it? I’ll tell you of rights, Harwyn. During the Rebellion, I marched with men from every village in the Stormlands. They left wives and daughters behind, trusting their lords to keep them safe.”

A smile flickered across his face, but it soured into a frown.

“They bled for me, died for me. And what would they have thought, if they’d come home to find their daughters stolen in the night by the very men sworn to guard them?”

His voice rose, echoing off the hall. He glared down at Harwyn.

Cersei’s eyes widened in surprise. Jon Arryn’s face showed the same, though only briefly.

Harwyn dropped to both knees, hands clasped.

“See reason, Your Grace. These people are not worth your consideration.”

Robert scoffed.

“Reason? You dare speak of reason? You are a rapist who betrayed his own folk.” His roar filled the chamber, and Harwyn flinched, stumbling back.

“This is reason. Were this the battlefield, I’d smash your skull myself. But this is the king’s hall, and you’ll die by the king’s justice.”

He raised his hammer slightly, then lowered it with finality.

“Take him to the headsman. Let the crows have what’s left.”

The Goldcloaks seized Harwyn. He kicked and screamed as they dragged him away.

The peasants wept, pressing their faces to the stone. Jon Arryn rolled the parchment closed and bowed his head. Robert settled back onto the throne, his judgment delivered.

The smallfolk were granted compensation from Harwyn’s coffers and dismissed.

‘This is who I am.’ Robert thought. ‘Had I not forgotten myself, I might have made a firmer decision with Elia and the dragonspawn.’ Hatred burned in his eyes.

“I will make that golden cunt look up at me the next we meet,” he muttered low, glancing at Jon Arryn’s proud expression and thinking of the golden warrior who had made him cower just seven days ago.

A/n: Please leave your thoughts on the chapter.

And power stones.

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