Chapter 29: The Baratheon's Pride and the Immortal's Scorn
The reign of King Robert I Baratheon, though victorious, was plagued by challenges. The treasury dwindled, the Small Council squabbled, and the King himself, more inclined to hunting, feasting, and tourneys than the minutiae of governance, allowed the realm to drift. In 289 AC, just six years into his rule, another rebellion erupted in the west: Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands, crowned himself King of the Iron Islands and declared independence, striking at the very heart of Robert's newly forged realm.
The Ironborn Rebellion was a harsh test for the new king. Robert, finally roused to action, led his armies with the ferocity that had won him his crown. Lord Eddard Stark, ever loyal, also marched with his northern forces. The war was brutal, fought on land and sea, culminating in the siege of Pyke.
A King's Demand and the Immortal's Scorn
It was in the aftermath of the rebellion, as Robert's victorious armies began to disperse, or perhaps during a royal progress that took him near the Riverlands, that King Robert Baratheon, emboldened by his victory and fueled by his deep-seated hatred for all things Targaryen, decided to confront the anomaly of Leywin. He had heard the whispers, seen the quiet reverence Eddard and others held for the Immortal Lord, and it chafed at his royal authority. He wanted closure. He wanted the dragonspawn.
He marched a significant portion of his retinue to the very edge of the Leywin lands, near the Grand Castle itself, a silent challenge in his presence. His face, usually jovial, was set in a grim, determined scowl.
"IMMORTAL LORD!" Robert's booming voice, accustomed to commanding armies, echoed across the silent fields. "I AM ROBERT BARATHEON, KING OF THE ANDALS, THE RHOYNAR, AND THE FIRST MEN! I KNOW YOU HOLD THEM! SURRENDER THE DRAGONSPAWN! ELIA MARTELL AND HER BRATS! THEY ARE TRAITORS!"
From the battlements of the Grand Castle, I descended. Not through a gate, but simply appearing on the field, my Asuran form radiating an aura of ancient, unassailable power. My golden, cat-like slit eyes fixed upon the King, utterly unimpressed. Beside me, Sylvie materialized, her immense, shimmering draconic form casting a long shadow over Robert's retinue, her golden eyes glowing with a calm, predatory awareness.
Robert, for a moment, faltered, his bluster draining as he beheld Sylvie. The sheer majesty and power radiating from her dwarfed even the legends of Balerion. He instinctively took a step back, his hand subconsciously going to the warhammer at his side.
"So," Robert finally managed, his voice slightly hoarse, trying to regain his composure. "You are the Leywin. The one who protects them. I will give you gold. Any amount you name. For the dragonspawn. Deliver them to me, and I will shower your domain with riches beyond your wildest dreams."
Then, I laughed.
It was not a laugh of mirth. It was a cold, ancient sound, reverberating through the very air, a sound that carried the weight of millennia and the deep scorn for mortal ambition. It echoed across the battlefield, chilling the hearts of every man present.
"Gold?" my voice resonated, utterly devoid of warmth, yet filled with an undeniable power. "You speak to me of gold, King Robert Baratheon?" My gaze swept over him, over his proud banners, over his vast armies. "I could buy your Seven Kingdoms, their mountains, their rivers, their castles, their very souls, a thousand times over, and still not deplete the true wealth at my command."
My eyes narrowed, my voice dropping, becoming a quiet, dangerous growl. "These lands are under my protection. The pact stands. The children under my roof are safe. You have played your game, Robert. You have spilled enough blood for your crown. Now, go. Go back to your drinking and your whoring. Go back to your throne and forget these children. For if you ever, ever again presume to issue demands upon my domain, your reign will end as swiftly and as utterly as a candle snuffed out in a storm. And your name will be less than a whisper in the annals of time."
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the nervous shifting of the horses and the slight tremors in the ground. Robert Baratheon, the mighty warrior-king who had won the realm, stood utterly humiliated, his face turning a furious shade of crimson, but his eyes locked on mine with a raw, impotent fury. He was cornered, defeated not by sword or hammer, but by an ancient, unassailable power that made his kingship feel like a child's game.
He snarled, wanting to rage, to strike, but his instincts screamed at him of utter annihilation. His lords, including a grim-faced Eddard Stark, watched, terrified.
Finally, with a roar of frustration and humiliation, Robert turned on his heel. "WE RIDE!" he bellowed, his voice cracking with rage. He mounted his horse, barely waiting for his men, and rode away, defeated without a single blow struck, the image of the laughing Immortal Lord and the magnificent, silent dragon burned into his mind.
The tale spread like wildfire throughout Westeros: the King, humbled by the mythical Lord of Leywin. It cemented my domain as truly untouchable, a sacred place where no king's writ ran, and where the Bane of Andal and Ironborn stood as the ultimate deterrent against any who would challenge his word. From that day on, none would ever dare to demand asylum-seekers from the Grand Castle of Leywin.