A clear little stream murmured through the woods.
The water flowed with a pleasant sound, and it should have been a peaceful place.
But now, its tranquility had been shattered by a crude uproar.
Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, had his shirt open at the collar and was drinking to his heart's content.
He sat leaning against a great tree, clutching a silver goblet. Wine dripped from his thick black beard, soaking his open collar.
"More!"
he roared, his voice like thunder.
"More!"
Maron Greyjoy immediately snatched the wine jug from a servant. Holding the heavy jug in both hands, he came forward, knelt, and carefully refilled the king's cup.
His face was plastered with a fawning smile, and his eyes held undisguised ambition and greed.
On the grass beside the stream, several disheveled prostitutes from nearby towns giggled. The stench of their cheap perfume mingled with the strong smell of alcohol, making the air nauseating.
Aside from Robert Baratheon's guards, who stood all around with numb expressions, pretending not to see what was happening, the other nobles on the hunt kept their distance and whispered among themselves. Their eyes swept over the king and Maron Greyjoy at his side, their disdain plain to see.
Robert Baratheon drained a full cup of wine in one gulp, then let out a deafening laugh. "Hahahahaha!"
He grabbed one of the prostitutes and pulled her onto his lap, his great hands roaming freely.
Suleiman stood not far away, silently watching the scene. He shook his head slightly.
In his eyes, the first half of Robert Baratheon's life had been worthy of praise: he had lived boldly, taken vengeance, and seized a kingdom. With his warhorse and warhammer, and his mighty forces, he had struggled at death's door time and again, yet