Chapter 18: Investiture
The main hall of Pyke smelled of salt and old stone and the particular aftermath of a castle that had just changed hands. Robert Baratheon sat in the Seastone Chair.
The chair was a remarkable thing — carved from a single block of black stone, smooth and dark, worked into the shape of a kraken with its arms forming the seat and back. The stone was old enough that no one remembered who had cut it or where it had come from. The ironborn said only a man blessed by the Drowned God could sit in it without consequence.
Robert sat in it the way Robert sat in everything — as if the object had been designed specifically for him and anyone who said otherwise was wrong.
The hall was arranged in the manner of a formal proceeding. The vassal lords stood in two rows, knights behind them against the walls. Between the rows, kneeling on the stone floor, were Balon Greyjoy and the lords of the Iron Islands who had followed him into rebellion. Balon's driftwood crown had been taken from his head and placed on the floor in front of his knees.
Henry stepped forward, unrolled the Greyjoy kraken banner across the floor before the kneeling Balon, and returned to his place.
Balon looked diminished without the crown. He'd always been a lean man — sharp-featured, angular — and the days since the castle fell had carved him down further. His grey-streaked hair hung loose around his face. He kept his eyes down.
Robert looked at him the way a man looks at a problem he's already solved but hasn't finished tidying up.
"Balon Greyjoy." He turned the wine cup slowly in his hand. "What should I do with you?"
"Your Grace." Balon's voice was controlled, which cost him something to manage. "I was led astray by poor counsel. I renounce the crown. I ask only for your mercy."
Robert didn't look at the crown on the floor. "I considered the Wall. You're too old for it to mean much." He took a drink. "You'll keep the Iron Islands. Your family keeps its seat. I'm not stripping you of your lands."
"Your Grace is merciful beyond what I deserve." Balon pressed his forehead toward the stone.
"Your heir will go to Winterfell. Lord Eddard will foster him. This is not negotiable."
A pause from the floor. When Balon spoke again, his voice had changed — something cracked in it that hadn't been there before. "Your Grace — my eldest son died outside Seagard. He fell during the raiding." He stopped. Started again. "My second son, Maron, was twenty-seven — past fostering age." Another pause. "He was in the Blood Keep."
Robert glanced across the hall. "Henry Reyne."
Henry stepped out of the knight's line and came to stand beside the kneeling Balon. "Your Grace."
"The man who died in the side hall that day — Jorah Mormont and Thoros both said it was your blade." Robert took another drink, watching him.
"It was, Your Grace."
Balon turned his head. He looked up at Henry from the floor with an expression that had grief and hatred in equal and indistinguishable measure. His shoulders shook once. Then he said, without looking away from the floor again, "I have another son. Theon. He's young. He can go to Lord Stark."
Henry looked at Balon and said nothing. There was nothing worth saying.
"Done," Robert said. "Anyone else from the Iron Islands who wishes to speak, speak now."
A figure crawled forward from behind Balon — one of the kneeling ironborn lords, younger than most of the others, his face pale and tight.
Robert looked at him without warmth. "Well?"
The man kept his eyes away from Henry with the deliberateness of someone trying very hard not to make eye contact with a specific person. "Your Grace. I am Denys Drumm. My father was Dunstan Drumm, called Bonefist. He followed Lord Balon into rebellion and paid for it — I accept that, and I make no complaint about his death." He swallowed. "I ask only that Your Grace order the return of our house's ancestral sword. Red Rain. It is a Valyrian steel blade, in the possession of—"
"I know where it is." Robert looked at Henry. Something in his expression suggested he was anticipating this. "It's your spoils of war, Ser Henry. Your call."
Henry considered Denys Drumm for a moment. "Your Grace," he said pleasantly, "the history of House Reyne will record that Henry Reyne, through valor and justice, won a Valyrian steel blade from a rebel lord in lawful combat." He paused. "The sword belongs to whoever earned it."
The hall laughed. Not politely — genuinely. Even some of the ironborn on the floor looked at Denys with the particular contempt that ironborn reserve for a man who has embarrassed himself in public.
"The Humiliated," someone murmured from the floor. It carried.
Denys Drumm lay flat and said nothing. His face was the color of old ash.
"Anyone else?" Robert's voice had a cheerful edge that suggested he would very much enjoy it if someone tried. Silence. "Then the Iron Islands matter is settled."
He set the wine cup down and straightened in the Seastone Chair. "Henry Reyne. Jorah Mormont. Thoros of Myr. Step forward."
All three came out of the line.
Robert looked at them. "Here is what you did." He said it without ceremony, running through it like a man reading a ledger — which, in a way, he was. "Henry Reyne: led the vanguard that breached the gate of Pyke, an action that broke the siege entirely. Took Blacktyde Keep by stratagem with fewer than a hundred men. Captured the holy ground of Nagga's Hill on Old Wyk. Slew Dunstan Drumm in single combat, forcing the surrender of Drumm Keep. Held the Blood Keep side hall with two companions against odds that should have been unsurvivable, and in doing so killed Maron Greyjoy and removed the last coherent command from Pyke's defenders."
He paused.
"People outside are calling you things. 'The Ironborn Slayer.' 'The Red Lion.' 'First Over the Wall.' I've heard all of them this week."
He stood, drew the sword at his hip, and looked at Thoros. "You're a free man of the Free Cities, Thoros. I suspect you have less interest in what I can give than in what you can drink. I'll see you're well compensated in King's Landing."
Thoros bowed with the dignified good humor of a man entirely comfortable with this assessment of his priorities.
"Henry Reyne. Jorah Mormont. Kneel."
Both men came forward and went to one knee.
Henry passed Balon Greyjoy on the way. His foot came down on the driftwood crown. It cracked under his boot. He stepped over the Greyjoy banner and knelt before the King without looking back.
Robert watched this happen and laughed once — a short, genuine sound. "Balon. If you ever consider doing this again, build a sturdier crown first."
"Yes, Your Grace." Balon's voice came from somewhere near the floor.
Robert touched the flat of his sword to Henry's right shoulder. "In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave." The blade moved to the left. "In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just." Back to the right. "In the name of the Mother, I charge you to protect the innocent and the weak." Left again. "In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to defend all women."
He repeated the words over Jorah's shoulders.
Then he sheathed the sword. "Rise, knights of the Seven Kingdoms."
The hall applauded — proper applause, the kind that fills stone walls and comes back at you. Henry and Jorah rose.
"Henry — stay kneeling."
Henry looked at the King, surprised, and knelt again. The applause died.
Robert looked down at him with an expression that was, for Robert, unusually measured.
"Ser Henry Reyne. I know your family's grievance with the Lannisters. Your grandfather had cause, and Tywin's methods were — " He chose the word carefully. " — beyond what justice required. I cannot undo that, and I cannot give you Casterly Rock. But I can give you land."
He nodded to a herald, who unrolled a parchment.
"House Gote of Baywood died in the Duskendale Rebellion — the last of their men followed their lord into that madness and didn't come back. Their seat, Iron Fist Keep, and the lands south of the Blackwater Rush — the Bay of Crabs, Mill Town, Waterside, Greyhelm and their villages — have reverted to the Crown since then and sat empty."
He looked at Henry directly.
"I — Robert of House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm — do hereby grant to Ser Henry Reyne the lordship of the Bay of Crabs. Iron Fist Keep is yours. The lands, the towns, the taxes — yours and your heirs' in perpetuity, subject to the Crown."
He let that settle.
"Furthermore, I name you Defender of the Blackwater Rush. You will raise and maintain a river guard within your lands, responsible for patrol and enforcement on the Rush and the Bay. Smuggling, piracy, and threats to the waterway fall under your authority and your responsibility." He paused. "Now. Swear to me."
Henry reached back and unstrapped Red Rain from his back. He laid the Valyrian blade flat on the stone before him, the dark steel catching the hall's torchlight.
"Your Grace." His voice was steady. "I — Henry of House Reyne — swear by the Old Gods and the New to give the loyalty of my house to you and to your lawful heirs. My sword and my service are yours. I will answer your summons. I will uphold your rule. I will keep your counsel, defend your honor, protect the weak, and deal justly with every man who stands before me. I will not betray your trust."
Robert reached down and picked up Red Rain. He held it for a moment — feeling the weight of it, the balance — then laid it across Henry's left shoulder.
"And I — Robert of House Baratheon, First of His Name — swear that you shall have a place in my hall and a seat at my table. Your service will be honored, not diminished. I swear this by the Old Gods and the New." He lifted the blade. "Rise, Lord Henry of the Bay of Crabs."
Henry rose.
The hall gave him the applause of men who had watched the whole campaign and knew what it had cost.
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