Robert Baratheon's Favor

Beneath Pyke, the icy sea wind howled without end.

It swept over the endless rows of tents, carrying away the last trace of meager warmth.

The siege had already lasted several weeks.

House Greyjoy's Pyke was like a stubborn barnacle clinging to a cliff, hard and silent.

Inside Robert Baratheon's enormous tent, warm braziers drove away the cold, while the scent of roasted meat and wine filled the air.

The king himself was pacing irritably.

The stag armor he had once been so proud of had grown tight, and his increasingly heavy body made every step come with labored breathing.

"Seven hells, this damned place is even more boring than Ned's North."

Robert Baratheon snatched up a goblet from the table and drained the wine in one gulp.

"Can't those Ironborn come out and fight a proper battle? Do they have to hide inside their stone shell and rot?"

Inside the tent, Eddard Stark stood expressionlessly before the map, like a statue.

The bannermen of the Stormlands and the Crownlands sat to one side, silently enduring the king's complaints.

Just then, the tent flap was violently thrown open.

A servant hurried in, carrying a letter sealed with the Hand's wax seal.

"Your Grace, an urgent letter from King's Landing."

Robert Baratheon waved a hand impatiently.

"Read it."

Not long ago, Jon Arryn had written to order Stannis to lead a fleet back to King's Landing, saying the situation was extremely urgent.

Robert hated this feeling. It kept him from fighting with peace of mind.

The servant unfolded the letter, cleared his throat, and began to read.

The letter was written by Jon Arryn. Its contents were lengthy, filled with worries over the kingdom's current state and the chaotic situation in King's Landing.

Robert Baratheon was nearly falling asleep from boredom