Many lords and soldiers looked on, their faces of shock and disbelief, as Damian bestowed the precious Valyrian steel upon a man who seemed to be his follower and was now raised to the nobility, holding Old Wyk as his seat.
Yet, the decision of what to do with the sword rested solely with Damian as the victor. If it was his will to grant this precious treasure to his vassal, none could rightly challenge his decision.
Damian's gaze swept across the throng of Ironborn, their rough faces marked by the day's tensions, until it settled on Gorold Goodbrother. The older man stood amidst a cluster of captains and lesser nobles, his expression a blend of resignation and newfound respect.
"What is your decision now, Lord Gorold?" Damian's voice cut through the murmurs, clear and commanding.
Without hesitating, Gorold's grizzled features softened, and he dropped to one knee, his chainmail clinking softly in the heavy silence. "I swear fealty to you, Lord Damian Stark," he proclaimed, his voice resolute.
His act seemed to break the tension among the gathered Ironborn, serving as a signal for the others. One by one, captains and several nobles began to kneel, some with a look of genuine acceptance, others clearly just yielding to the tide of change.
Ding!
A notification appeared in the system, but Damian made it disappear after quickly skimming through it. He would look at it when he was free.
Robert Baratheon rose from his seat, a rare smile playing across his weathered features as he approached Damian. The king's heavy steps were filled with a new respect as he clapped a firm hand on Damian's back. "You outdid my expectations, Damian. I have never seen a man fight like you," he boomed, his voice echoing across the assembled crowd. "It was as though you were dancing around children, not battling seasoned warriors. They couldn't even land a blow on you. Had I known of your prowess earlier, I would have asked you to join my Kingsguard. Alas, I know it's too late to ask."
Then, turning to address the gathered Ironborn, his expression hardened into the stern mask of a ruler. Robert's voice carried the weight of royal command as he decreed, "Slavery is banned and condemned throughout all of Westeros, yet here in the Iron Islands, it persists under the guises of thralls and salt wives. Let it be known, this ends today."
Robert's voice resonated with the authority of the Iron Throne as he continued, each word a stroke shaping the future of the Iron Islands. "Furthermore," he declared, turning his gaze across the sea of faces, mostly resigned, "all longships that remain seaworthy will henceforth be surrendered to Lord Damian. He alone shall maintain a naval force."
The murmurs among the Ironborn grew louder, a restless sea of discontent and disbelief. Robert raised his hand, demanding silence, his eyes sweeping over the crowd. "For the next ten years, no other lord shall build or acquire anything beyond simple boats suited for fishing and small-scale transport. This is to ensure peace and order under the new governance."
This decree struck at the very heart of Ironborn culture. To restrict their ships was to curb their freedom, a measure not just practical in preventing further rebellion but symbolic of the drastic changes now imposed upon them.
The implications were profound. Damian, now in command of the islands' only naval force, found himself not just a lord of the land but a master of the seas surrounding the rugged shores of the Iron Islands. Robert made this strategic move, ensuring that any dissent could be swiftly quelled by controlling the very element that defined Ironborn's identity.
"I do not wish to come here with an army again and spill more blood, so don't give me a reason," Robert declared with finality, his voice carrying the weight of kingship as he ended the proceedings.
As his words settled over the gathered crowd, a solemn quiet followed, then the assembly began to slowly disperse. The Ironborn nobles, though newly sworn to fealty, found themselves not entirely free. Freed from their cells, yes, but now under the vigilant gaze of Damian's soldiers, their movements and conversations were carefully observed for the time being.
Meanwhile, Damian found himself the object of intense scrutiny, not only for his new command over the Iron Islands but also for the artifacts he possessed. His bronze sword, armguards, and short knife, all adorned with runes of the old tongue, drew the eyes and whispers of many. These pieces were not mere weapons but relics as well.
His own brother, Ned, approached him with a mix of curiosity and concern. "Where did you come upon such treasures, Damian?" he asked, his gaze lingering on the shimmering sapphire set into the dragon pommel of Damian's sword—a gem whose worth could easily ransom a lord's keep. In all of Westeros, only Lord Yohn Royce boasted artifacts of similar make, his famed bronze armor etched with runes from a bygone era.
Ned studied Damian closely, sensing the measured restraint in his brother's voice. "I discovered them at sea," Damian responded, his expression unreadable, hinting at depths yet untold. His answer was deliberate, skirting the full truth, for the origins of these artifacts were tied to secrets not yet ready to be shared—secrets of Dyger Seadrake's cave, a place shrouded in mystery and ancient lore.
Damian's eyes met Ned's, a silent communication passing between them—a promise of a fuller explanation when the time was right.
"Come, let's break our fast. We've much to discuss about your new role and the support you'll need to establish yourself properly here," Ned suggested with a nod towards the great hall of Pyke.
Damian nodded and went along with his brother to have lunch.
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24 Chapter Ahead.
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