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The feast continued deep into the night, the Great Hall of the Red Keep alive with roaring laughter, clinking goblets, and the warmth of a long-overdue celebration. Flames danced in the chandeliers, their golden light casting intricate patterns over the banners that adorned the walls—Baratheon's crowned stag, Stark's direwolf, Arryn's falcon, Tully's leaping trout, and the crimson lion of House Lannister. Whispers of the realm's future mingled with the echoes of the past, carried on the breeze of conversation and the scent of spiced wine.
King Robert Baratheon, seated at the high table, was in his element. His booming laughter punctuated the murmur of the hall, his face red with mirth and drink. Goblet in hand, he leaned forward, regaling the lords and ladies beside him with tales of valor—some true, others likely embellished in the haze of wine.
Suddenly, Robert slammed his goblet down, the sound reverberating like a war drum. His voice cut through the revelry, commanding the attention of everyone in the room.
"Enough of this idle talk!" he bellowed, his words carrying the unmistakable authority of a king and the brashness of a warrior. "We've spent all night speaking of war and worries! Let us not forget—our victory was not merely won by swords and steel, but by the men who wielded them! And there is one among us, a stranger to this land, who fought like a storm given form. A man who became a knight not so long ago!"
The hall fell into a curious hush, all eyes turning toward the back corner where Steve Rogers sat. He had, until now, been content in his quiet refuge, sharing conversation and laughter with Tyrion, Stannis, and the others. But now, under the weight of the crowd's gaze, he straightened slightly, his natural humility clashing with the attention thrust upon him.
Robert pointed a thick finger toward him, grinning broadly. "Aye, I'm talking about you, Captain! Don't think I haven't heard the name they call you among the men. You took up no lord's banner, wore no sigil, yet fought as if the realm itself ran in your blood!" His grin widened, the warmth of his admiration unmistakable. "I've seen men break under the weight of war, but you? You thrived in it. You were everywhere—Fairmarket, Lord Harroway's Town, the Trident!"
He turned to the lords beside him, spreading his hands in a grand gesture. "Did you see him at the Trident? The man charged the enemy with nothing but two shields, knocking down knights like a hammer to a nail!"
A ripple of laughter and murmurs spread through the hall. Some knights nodded in agreement, recalling the tales they'd heard from soldiers who had fought alongside the enigmatic Captain. Jaime Lannister, seated further down the high table, smirked and murmured to the knight beside him, "Now that was a sight to see."
Robert, encouraged by the reaction, raised his goblet high. "So, tonight, let us raise our cups! To the Captain of no House, but a warrior of the realm!"
The hall erupted in cheers, the toast taken up with fervor. "To the Captain!" Goblets clinked, wine spilled, and voices soared in a chorus of approval.
Steve, though never one for such displays, inclined his head respectfully and lifted his own cup. In his time, in his world, he had been honored before—but this was different. These were warriors and rulers, bound by a land unfamiliar to him, yet they welcomed him not as an outsider, but as one of their own.
He stood, his stature commanding without effort. The hall quieted as he prepared to speak, his voice steady and resonant. "Thank you," he began simply, his words carrying the weight of sincerity. "But no victory is won alone. Every man and woman who fought, bled, and stood their ground deserves this toast as much as I do. We fought together, and it is together that we celebrate."
Eddard Stark, ever the quiet observer, gave a subtle nod of approval from his seat at the high table. Ser Barristan Selmy, further down, smiled faintly, his eyes reflecting respect for the young man's humility and grace.
The hall roared once more, the collective spirit of camaraderie igniting like a flame. Steve sat back down, relieved as the attention began to shift away. Tyrion leaned closer, his sharp eyes glittering with amusement.
"Modesty suits you, Captain. Though I dare say, had you claimed all the credit, no one would have dared contradict you."
Steve chuckled softly. "That's not who I am."
"No," Tyrion agreed, swirling his wine. "But it is who they think you are, and perception is often more powerful than truth."
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The Aftermath of the Toast
As the celebration continued, the energy of the room shifted subtly. Whispers of tomorrow's coronation buzzed among the lords and ladies, their voices blending with the hum of speculative conversation.
"Who will be named Hand of the King?" one lord murmured, his tone eager.
"What rewards will be granted to the victors?" another asked, his eyes gleaming with ambition.
The excitement of the feast began to take on a different edge—one of anticipation, of intrigue. The realm was at peace, but the games of power were far from over.
Tyrion, ever the keen observer, smirked as he watched the room. "Well, Captain," he said, turning to Steve. "It seems even the greatest warriors must make way for the true excitement of the evening—politics and ambition."
Steve, who had seen his share of political maneuvering in another life, simply nodded. "I've learned that celebrations rarely stay focused on the past. People always look to the future."
"Indeed," Tyrion mused, raising his goblet. "And in Westeros, the future is far more dangerous than the past."
Steve's gaze swept the room, taking in the faces of those who would shape that future. Kings and knights, lords and ladies—all poised on the precipice of a new era. And yet, amid the laughter and the toasts, he couldn't shake the feeling that tonight's celebration was merely the calm before the storm.
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Closing Reflections
The night wore on, the hall gradually emptying as the revelers retired to their chambers. Steve remained a while longer, his thoughts lingering on the toast, on the faces of those who had cheered for him. He thought of the battles they had fought, the sacrifices made, the bonds forged in the crucible of war.
Tyrion, still seated beside him, broke the silence. "You don't enjoy the spotlight much, do you?"
Steve smiled faintly. "I don't fight for recognition."
Tyrion raised his goblet in a final toast, his tone unusually sincere. "To men who fight for something greater than themselves."
Steve clinked his goblet gently against Tyrion's. "To peace."
As the candles burned low and the shadows deepened, the Great Hall of the Red Keep stood as a testament to what had been won—and a reminder of what was still to come.
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