Celestial Hymn 39 (Patreon)

Celestial Hymn

Chapter 39

-VB-

Robb Stark

He was not a strong man. He was a good swordsman but knew that he wasn’t good enough to be compared to the likes of Jaime Lannister or the former Kingsguard Barristan Selmy. He wasn’t ignorant of how others tried to butter him up.

But there was difference being buttered up and finding himself as the strongest swordman as well as the leader of the North.

Its king, one might say.

Its king, as others began to listen to that voice.

They would have declared him king if it wasn’t for an acolyte of the Mage.

---

“Your Grace.”

Everyone in the hall turned to the only silent participant who had been standing to the side until now.

The man was Aren the Mage, an “acolyte” of the Mage Lord, who was betrothed to Myrcella Baratheon and thus an enemy of House Stark. The man had arrived at Winterfell no less than a week before his father’s execution.

“Why is he here?!” Greatjon roared before anyone else or the acolyte himself could say anything. “A Lannister dog should’ve left the moment it heard the news!”

The acolyte remained calm. “I am here as an advisor to the Stark in Winterfell. I give advice and facilitate communication. I do nothing more, Lord Umber,” he replied. “So take this advice for free: my Lord Marris is not a friend of Queen Regent Cersei Lannister or Lord Paramount Tywin Lannister.” He paused. “In fact, I personally think that he considers the royal family to be a pain in the butt.”

The acolyte’s words brought up Umber short.

“Huh? But he’s going to be married to them!”

He glanced at Robb and he nodded to get the man to continue.

“If you must know, we magicians would prefer to hole up in our towers and workshops,” the acolyte continued. “In fact, you may ask the servants in Winterfell. I also do the same. We are more concerned with how we can improve our craft than we are with power, politics, and posing. For us magicians, our magic is our power. Why would we seek to help the royal family when it is clear they wronged you? In fact, they might just do that to us and our liege lord. Why would we help them?”

“Because you’re a Lannister dog!”

“Lannisters can’t buy shit from us,” the acolyte replied with a glare. “In fact, my liege forced the Tywin “I shit gold” Lannister to wait for his Damascus blades.”

Robb didn’t know that.

Sure, the Starks had not been in court at the time nor did they request any such blade for themselves; they needed to spend their money elsewhere that was much more important than fancy sub-par blades without history nor the strength for the cost of such.

That said, it took guts - and power - to tell Tywin to stop and wait.

“And your liege seeks an audience. With me,” Robb repeated for clarification.

“Yes, Your Grace,” the acolyte bowed again, which irked some of the more lords with what they saw as a simpering gesture. Robb also thought that the acolyte was overdoing it with the bowing but he didn’t stop him; there was no reason to that wouldn’t veer away from the subject of the talk. “He believes that there is a non-violent way to solve the problem at hand.”

“YOU WANT TO BRIBE US!” someone roared. Probably Greatjon.

The acolyte ignored the shout. “My liege is calling for a Great Council.”

That brought up everyone short, though Robb wasn’t quite sure of the impact as the older and experienced lords.

He glanced at Lord Bolton. His father was told by his father to never show the Boltons his weakness but, at the same time, the current Lord Bolton was … not hostile. Robb just didn’t know what was going on through his head. What he did know was that Lord Bolton didn’t look happy at the prospect of a Great Council.

So it must mean something good for him and the Starks, right?

“Very well. I shall grant your liege an audience to try and convince me to partake in the ‘Great Council.’”

The acolyte bowed again. “That is all he asks.”

-VB-

And now, that lord would soon be here.

A shimmering portal opened up in the courtyard, which was surrounded on all sides by soldiers warily looking at the lone acolyte holding some kind of magical instrument. It looked like a trumpet.

Robb stood at the center of a procession of Northern lords, all of whom tried to not look like they were intrigued by this magical method of travel. Robb wouldn’t lie to himself; he too thought of how useful this traveling method would be if it allowed a man to travel from the Stormlands to the North.

But he also knew that such methods of travel could be used to invade, and all it required was a single “acolyte” with a single magical device.

It was both a show of force and a reminder.

If the North didn’t back off and join the Great Council which would drag the Mage Lord into the mess, then they would use it to end the conflict as quickly as possible.

“We are more concerned with how we can improve our craft than we are with power, politics, and posing. For us magicians, our magic is our power.”

Indeed, magic was a power of its own separate from politics and the traditional aspects of war.

Speaking of magic, he glanced to his left.

Next to him, his mother stood with a glare in her eyes. She was a traditional and more conservative member of the Faith of the Seven. Even though the Old Town down south had declared the Mage Lord a saint or something, she did not see it that way. Magic was to be avoided and feared, not kept close and used.

And then a man stepped through.

With a deep blue cloak with white fur around the top of the shoulder and dressed like a knight with unfamiliar runes like that of House Royce yet glowing dimly even in daylight, Lord Marris walked into Winterfell’s courtyard.

He looked around, spotted him, and bowed down to his waist. A show of respect.

“I greet the Lord Paramount of the North.”

“And I greet Lord Marris,” he replied. “Someone get me the bread and salt. And please, rise up, Lord Marris.”

Thankfully, all of the Northern lords kept their silence for now, though how long that would remain the case was not yet certain.

Robb took this time to look at the Stormland lord born in the Vale. He looked … almost like a fairy tale. His black hair was glossy not with grease but cleanliness. He did not look weak nor did his armor look ill fit for him. He stood a head taller than Robb, only a little bit shorter than Greatjon. He looked average yet handsome. Confident yet humble. His shoulders looked broader than they were. He exuded a presence that made Robb want to avoid angering him.

‘What would it be like to fight against this man and his magic?’

At this moment, a servant came out from the crowd and presented a plate of bread and salt. Both he and Lord Marris partook in the ritual.

Only once did they complete it did everyone relax.

Robb hadn’t even noticed that everyone had been so tense.

“Wonderful. Let us talk inside now,” he said and gestured for Lord Marris to follow him.

His decision today, tomorrow, and even a week from now would decide the fate of the North.