The assembled guests watched in stunned silence as King Robert Baratheon, fresh from his illicit tryst, swaggered back to the high table and took his seat.
With his black hair, startling blue eyes, and massive, muscular frame, the King looked like a god of war made flesh. Yet he behaved less like a monarch and more like a rutting beast.
"Ah... there is no controlling him."
Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, trailed behind Robert, his face a mask of weary defeat. He let out a long, heavy sigh. It was the eternal lament of a parent dealing with a rebellious, overgrown child.
Robert's lechery was boundless, but this latest stunt truly bordered on the pathological.
Robert Baratheon and the unwed Delena Florent had just desecrated Stannis's wedding bed on the night of his marriage. And to make matters worse, Delena was the bride's own cousin and maiden companion.
This wasn't just a simple case of infidelity; it was a profound, calculated humiliation of the newlyweds and a mockery of the sacred institution of marriage itself.
Dragonstone was a massive fortress. There were countless empty bedchambers and hundreds of pavilions pitched outside. Yet Robert, in his brazen, utterly heedless manner, had chosen the single most insulting, scandalous location possible for his fornication.
His actions guaranteed a heavy, suffocating shadow would hang over the entire wedding.
"Bring the wine!" Robert bellowed, thoroughly satisfied with his recent exertion.
His cupbearers scrambled to fill his goblet, and the King resumed his heavy drinking without missing a beat. The man could eat, drink, and whore with the stamina of a giant; it was no wonder he eventually ballooned into a massive, bloated figure later in life.
While Robert possessed the sheer, brazen audacity to return to the feast as if nothing had happened, the Florent girl was nowhere to be seen, clearly too ashamed to face the crowd.
Outwardly, the guests maintained polite, impassive expressions, but internally, the fires of gossip were already raging out of control.
What a piece of trash!
The Whore-Monger King! Thinking with his cock again!
An absolute sex maniac!
Where is the justice in this?
Countless lords were silently condemning Robert in their minds.
Fucking a random girl on your own brother's wedding day was bad enough. But to fuck her in your brother's actual wedding bed? What kind of monster does that?
Stannis had bled for Robert. He had held Storm's End through a year-long starvation siege, built the Royal Fleet from scratch, and constantly served as Robert's personal, unappreciated firefighter. Even this marriage had been forced upon him by Robert and Jon Arryn for political gain.
The bride was a plain-faced girl from a secondary branch of House Florent, hardly a prize for a man of Stannis's accomplishments. And now, thanks to Robert's monumental stunt, Stannis had been reduced to a complete and utter laughingstock in front of the entire realm.
Arthur discreetly observed Richard Horpe, Justin Massey, and the other Stormlands squires. Every single one of them looked deeply uncomfortable, their faces tight with embarrassment.
Perhaps, deep down, they were just as disappointed in Robert as everyone else.
When it came to loyalty and sheer competence, who could ever compare to Stannis?
Ser Lucas Dayne surveyed the impossibly awkward atmosphere in the Great Hall and muttered, "Well, that was certainly eye-opening."
Keep digging that grave, Robert, Arthur thought coldly.
With every thoughtless, selfish act, Robert was systematically alienating the very people who had put him on the throne.
Stannis, his own blood brother. Justin Massey and Richard Horpe, his loyal Stormlands and Crownlands squires.
He constantly favored flatterers and sycophants while pushing away capable, loyal men. He shamelessly showered Cersei and the Lannisters with wealth and power while neglecting his own foundational power base in the Stormlands. Even after Robert claimed the Iron Throne, many of his oldest, truest brothers-in-arms found themselves holding less influence than the upjumped Lannister in-laws.
These men were quietly burying their resentment, directing their simmering hatred toward House Lannister.
But tiny streams eventually form a raging river.
Years down the line, these same spurned Stormlords would gleefully flock to Renly's banner, completely rejecting the legitimacy of Robert's supposed heirs.
"You're a very wealthy young man now, Arthur," Ser Lucas remarked, attempting to lighten the mood.
"And we made a pretty penny riding his coattails!" Lucas Roote and Wylis Wode laughed, looking thoroughly satisfied.
"The more I win, the more we all earn," Arthur nodded.
"Made a killing today. Straight to the top," Arthur calculated his total haul from the Dragonstone Squire's Tourney.
Tourneys were incredibly lucrative if you knew how to play the game. The champion claimed the prize purse, raked in the betting odds, and possessed the right to claim the armor and warhorses of the knights he unhorsed or defeated. (Though, as a knight became more famous, the betting odds on him naturally plummeted, making the prize purse the primary source of income.)
Damn, it feels good. Arthur's coin purse had practically exploded in a single day.
Between the prize money and the bets, he had raked in roughly nine thousand gold dragons.
Five thousand came from the prize pool itself. King Robert had thrown in four hundred, the Great Lords like Jon Arryn and Mace Tyrell had matched him with two hundred each, and the lesser lords contributed a hundred or fifty apiece. The remaining nobles and wealthy ladies had padded the pool with nearly two thousand more.
Then came the massive payout from his own aggressive betting. By going all-in on himself at astronomical odds, the leverage had yielded a staggering four thousand gold dragons in profit.
Ser Lucas, Roote, and Wode had also walked away significantly richer for backing him.
No wonder the famous tourney champions are all incredibly wealthy. A single good run can literally set you up for life, Arthur marveled.
The most absurd example was the upcoming Hand's Tourney Robert would throw for Ned Stark in the original timeline; the prize for the jousting champion was an incomprehensible forty thousand gold dragons.
Arthur was fully determined to go big. He planned to keep dominating the tourney circuit and ruthlessly harvesting the prize pools. Assuming you were truly unbeatable, tourneys were hands-down the most legal, highly profitable enterprise in the Seven Kingdoms.
The purchasing power of a single gold dragon was still immense.
Ransoming an ordinary, hedge-born knight typically cost thirty to fifty gold dragons. A landed knight of good standing might fetch a hundred. A high-value heir to a major house, like Brienne of Tarth, could command three hundred. And a legendary knight from a Great House—someone like the Kingslayer—carried a bounty of a thousand dragons, with a ransom price that was functionally limitless.
"And now, let the wedding proceed!" Jon Arryn announced loudly, desperately trying to smooth things over.
What else could he do? He truly had no control over his giant, man-child of a foster son.
"Strike up the music!" Robert roared, waving his goblet enthusiastically, acting as if he hadn't just committed a massive social atrocity.
And so, the forced, hollow atmosphere of joy resumed. The only ones suffering were Stannis Baratheon and his new bride.
"Oooooooooh!" The brass horns blared once more.
"The groom approaches! The bride approaches!"
Stannis and his wife, Selyse, rode into the Great Hall side-by-side on matching purebred yellow destriers.
Stannis, with his harsh, square jaw and rigid posture, wore black trousers and a tunic of cloth-of-gold with black silk sleeves, fastened with gold stag buttons.
Selyse had shed the demure maiden's gown she had worn during their vows in the sept, changing into a stunning gown of sky-blue silk, the tight bodice cut low to expose her shoulders and the swell of her breasts.
Unfortunately, the bride was notoriously plain-faced, possessing the prominent ears and sharp features typical of House Florent. No one in the hall was particularly envious of the Lord of Dragonstone's new bedmate.
But what truly drew the guests' attention was the color of their faces. Both the bride and groom were deathly pale, their expressions tight with poorly concealed, absolute fury. The humiliation they had just suffered was staggering. Once the story spread, they would become the biggest laughingstocks in the realm.
The cupbearers scrambled ahead of the horses, desperately scattering rose petals across the floor.
The bride and groom look like they're marching to the gallows!
Lord Stannis looks like he wants to murder someone!
That was the unspoken consensus of the entire hall.
Robert had cut Stannis deeply, twice over. First, by insulting him with the barren rock of Dragonstone instead of Storm's End. And second, by publicly cuckolding the sanctity of his wedding day.
The squires hurried forward, helping the newlyweds dismount and escorting them up the steps to their seats of honor at the high table.
Behind them hung a row of massive silk banners: the gold and black stag of Baratheon, the sky-blue fox of Florent, the green rose of Tyrell, the red-and-blue trout of Tully, and the sky-blue falcon of Arryn.
"May the Old Gods and the New bless your union with harmony!" Robert bellowed cheerfully, acting as the head of House Baratheon. He pulled the bride into a crushing hug and kissed her hand with exaggerated gallantry.
Young Lord Renly followed suit, offering a polite bow.
"May the Gods protect you always, and grant you many strong, healthy sons!" Stannis remained rigidly still as he accepted the traditional kisses of blessing from Selyse's uncle, Lord Alester, her second uncle, and her two brothers.
The High Septon of Dragonstone rose from his seat, raising his hands to lead the hall in prayer.
"The Seven who created us, hear our prayers. Close your eyes, let go of all worldly troubles. The Gods watch over you, little children. Stannis of House Baratheon and Selyse of House Florent shall henceforth be one flesh, one heart, and one soul."
"Fill the cups!" Robert demanded the instant the prayer ended.
His cupbearer rushed forward, pouring an entire flagon of dark red Arbor vintage into the King's golden goblet.
Robert raised the cup high with both hands. "To marriage! I wish my brother Stannis and his new bride, Selyse, a lifetime of happiness!"
"Long live Lord Stannis! Long live Lady Selyse!" the entire hall roared in response, raising their own cups. "Long live Lady Selyse! To the marriage!"
A thousand goblets clinked simultaneously, officially marking the start of the wedding feast.
Stannis and Selyse raised their golden cups, but their smiles were agonizingly forced and brittle.
This was not a warm, joyful union. It was a humiliating, degrading farce.
Despite the horrific scandal that had just occurred, the wedding ground on, wrapped in a thick layer of suffocating hypocrisy. In front of the assembled lords of the Seven Kingdoms, Stannis was forced to plaster on a fake smile and swallow the massive, public slap in the face his brother had just delivered.