"This is it. I remember it as a very good tavern," Desmond said, pointing to a modest building nestled in a crooked alley halfway up Visenya's Hill, not far from the sea breeze that rolled in from Blackwater Bay.
Though close to the foul-smelling slums of Flea Bottom, the salty wind from the bay kept the air here surprisingly fresh. It was a quiet corner between the bustling ports and the grandeur of the Red Keep, an ideal spot for a discreet meal.
The tavern's exterior was simple but well-kept—timbered beams, fresh whitewash, a signboard painted with a steaming meat pie hanging from rusted iron hooks. The windows overlooked the bay below, and from the inside one could glimpse the towers of Maegor's Holdfast and the Great Hall of the Red Keep glinting in the distance.
Arthur nodded approvingly. He led the group inside, claiming one of the last open tables near the wide windows. The place was bustling with patrons—dockhands, hedge knights, and a few off-duty Gold Cloaks laughing over cheap ale.
"Owner! What's good today?" Arthur called out.
Instead of a grizzled barkeep, a girl no older than fifteen bounded over. She wore a plain beige linen coat, her freckled face glowing with youthful energy. Her hands were quick and her tone practiced as she launched into a list of the tavern's offerings—grilled beef, honeyed pigeon, brown bread, thick barley stew, and their house rice wine, which she emphasized with pride.
Despite her age, she handled customers with a maturity uncommon for a girl her size, probably the daughter of the tavern's owner, trained to work since she could walk.
"I'll have a large grilled steak, two roast pigeons, two loaves of bread, and a small cask of rice wine. Let these gentlemen, and the ones at that corner table, order as they please," Arthur said, nodding toward a group of sellswords nearby.
Like most of Westeros, where cuisine still clung to pre-modern sensibilities, the meals here leaned heavily on roasting, boiling, or stewing. The idea of delicate sauces or refined presentation was foreign outside of the high courts of Oldtown or Sunspear. Here, food was hearty and simple—substance over style.
Stews, often cooked with whatever was on hand, made Arthur queasy. A single glance at a greasy cauldron of barley, onions, and mystery meat was enough to turn his stomach. Only roasted meat—charred steak or sizzling lamb—stirred his appetite.
"Right away!" the girl chirped. She curtsied before rushing off to fetch their meals, nimble on her feet as she weaved through the crowded tables. Though just a common girl in King's Landing, she bowed to noble customers with a grace that would've been absurd in a Riverlands village like Shire.
Arthur thought of the villagers back home, who only gawked or grinned stupidly when they saw him. Compared to them, this girl had poise. When she returned to confirm their order, Arthur slipped her four or five copper stars. She glanced toward the bar to ensure her parents weren't watching, then quickly tucked the coins into her pocket with a sly smile and a playful wink.
It was nearly sunset, and the tavern swelled with noise and heat. Arthur and his companions chatted with travelers, knights, and merchants seated nearby. In the free-spirited climate of Robert Baratheon's reign, commoners weren't afraid to speak openly—even about the king.
"King Robert will smash the melee," one man boasted, raising his cup. "He was a demon with that warhammer at the Trident. Who'd dare face him?"
"Bah!" another countered. "Have you seen him lately? Fat as a pig. Can't even buckle his breastplate!"
Robert's reign had grown lax. Laws were loosely enforced, and the capital thrummed with gossip. In taverns like this, even lowborn men speculated about royal mistresses, laughed about Robert's drunken exploits, and bragged about "measuring up" to the king—whether in stature or stamina.
Men placed bets on who Robert had bedded at Chataya's or who he'd fathered in Flea Bottom, comparing their own conquests as if they walked in his shadow.
Arthur ignored the gossip and leaned forward, his tone sharper. "What about the joust? Who's taking the champion's purse?"
That caught the room's attention. The lance competition was no sideshow—it was the main event. The winner stood to gain forty thousand gold dragons, not to mention prestige and political favor. Arthur wasn't just here for sport—if he could claim victory or catch the eye of a major southern house, he could secure the backing he needed.
Several patrons chimed in eagerly.
"Ser Loras, of course! He unhorsed the Kingslayer with one tilt at Highgarden last year. Everyone calls him the Knight of Flowers, but that boy can fight."
Ser Loras Tyrell, youngest son of Mace Tyrell, was known for his flowery barding and boyish looks—but underestimating him was a mistake. He was quick, precise, and trained since childhood.
"Don't make me laugh," scoffed a bald sellsword. "He couldn't even best the Hound. And that's just the younger Clegane!"
Sandor Clegane—the Hound—was Queen Cersei's sworn sword, though never knighted himself. He disdained the title, mocking his brother Ser Gregor, the Mountain, who'd been knighted by Rhaegar Targaryen during the war. Sandor served the Lannisters out of spite, not honor.
Now, he was often seen at Prince Joffrey's side, glaring through his half-burned face like a dog guarding its master. Later, he would join the Kingsguard, becoming the first non-knight to do so.
"I say the Mountain's taking it," one man grunted. "No one rides harder."
"Don't count out the Kingslayer. Jaime Lannister may be arrogant, but he's quick with a lance."
"And what about Barristan the Bold?" someone piped up.
"He's past sixty!"
"Still sharper than most lads half his age!"
"Beric Dondarrion might surprise us," another offered, raising a brow.
A round of laughter erupted. "Beric? Has he even won a tilt since he left Blackhaven?"
The argument spun out of control, each man defending his favorite as if speaking for family. But in truth, none of them had met these knights. Their loyalty came from tales, gossip, and dreams of glory they'd never touch.
As the debate roared, the food arrived. The scent of roasted meat and baked bread overtook the noise. Arthur's stomach growled, and he eagerly tore into a plump pigeon wing, the juices staining his fingers.
"Oi! What are you doing?" the tavern girl suddenly shouted from across the room.
Arthur looked up, seeing her confronting a well-dressed young noble—barely older than she was—who had grabbed her arm as she passed. The contact was light, but clearly unwelcome.
The tavern owner rushed over, red-faced. His wife followed, hissing at the girl to apologize. They bowed to the young noble, smiling nervously, and even offered a free cask of rice wine to smooth it over.
The girl's expression darkened. She yanked free and stormed toward the kitchen, shaking off her mother's grip.
Arthur sighed. Incidents like this were common, even here. King's Landing might be the most tightly controlled city in Westeros, but justice still bent for the rich.
Still, under Robert's reign, the crown's subjects were technically his alone. Even nobles from the Vale or the Stormlands often hesitated to offend a commoner in the capital—they feared the king's unpredictable wrath far more than the law itself.
Arthur returned to his meal. He wiped his hands and grabbed his steak, still hot, the char crackling under his knife. The meat was perfectly seared—crispy crust outside, juicy within.
Patrick gave him a side glance. "Might try eating like a knight and not a dockhand. Doesn't suit your 'handsome lord' image."
Arthur chuckled between bites. "It's because I'm handsome I don't have to try. Ugly men like you must compensate with manners."
He raised his cup and took a long pull of the rice wine. It was stronger than expected, with a smoky aftertaste and an earthy finish.
Just as Arthur reached for his second pigeon, a loud voice interrupted him.
"Let me go! I don't want to apologize to them!"
All eyes turned to the kitchen door. The tavern girl was shouting again—and this time, something was about to break.
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