Mondon's dull eyes turned to Jon, and in his thick voice he said,
"Twenty thousand gold dragons—we split it half and half."
Jon was tempted, but after a moment's thought, he replied,
"No need to split the gold dragons. We're friends. I'll help you."
After speaking, he patted Mondon's thick arm and smiled openly.
Mondon shook his head at first, then broke into a chuckle.
"Jon, thank you. But the money must be divided. I have one request…"
Along the riverbank outside King's Landing, near the grounds of the tourney, more than a hundred tents had already been raised. Thousands of spectators would soon gather here.
Duke Eddard had learned late last night that King Robert had finally returned to the city. Since the tournament was to be held today, he chose to stay at the grounds rather than return to the Red Keep.
At dawn, Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, accompanied Lord Eddard Stark toward the royal pavilion.
As they walked, Barristan spoke.
"His Grace intends to enter the mêlée."
Eddard's face grew grave.
"Ser Barristan, I had heard the same before meeting you."
The old knight wore a troubled look.
"My lord, I only hope that, once awake, our king will have changed his mind."
"That will be difficult."
The royal pavilion stood close to the water's edge, woven of golden silk, the largest and most splendid tent in the entire tourney encampment. Outside its entrance rested Robert's great warhammer and an immense iron shield bearing the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
Inside, they found Robert bellowing at two flustered young squires who were struggling to help him into his armor.
"Your Grace, this armor is too small—it won't fit!"
The lad looked near tears. Under Robert's curses, he tried again, only for his hand to slip—clang!—the gorget meant for Robert's thick neck fell hard to the ground.
"Seven hells!"
Robert roared,
"Gods-damned fools! Must I do it all myself? You pair of louts, pick it up! Don't just gape like sheep. Lancel—pick it up, quick!"
Lancel nearly leapt where he stood and scrambled to snatch the gorget from the ground.
Robert turned his head toward Eddard.
"Ned, look at these dolts. They call themselves squires? They're clothed swine, that's what they are."
Eddard glanced over, his voice calm.
"Robert, it's not their fault. You've grown too fat—that's why it doesn't fit."
"Too fat? Too fat, is it?"
Robert downed a great draught of wine, hurled the empty horn onto his furs, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he laughed.
"Gods damn you, Ned, why must you always see the truth so quickly?"
He turned back to his two squires, who forced nervous smiles.
"You two! Did you hear the Hand? The king is too fat, that's why the armor won't fit. Go fetch Ser Aron and tell him I need the tongs to spread my breastplate. Off with you! What are you waiting for?"
The boys bolted, stumbling over one another as they fled.
Robert put on a stern face—until they were gone. Then he sank back into his chair, shaking with laughter.
Even solemn Ser Barristan allowed himself a chuckle, and Eddard's lips curved in a faint smile.
"Ah, I'd give much to see Ser Aron's face when they tell him. If he has any wits, he'll send them on to someone else. Let them run themselves ragged all day!"
Eddard, thoughtful, asked,
"Robert, those boys—they are Lannisters, are they not?"
He could not help but notice them: handsome youths, fair-skinned and well-made. The golden-haired one was about Sansa's age. The other, about Robb's, had tawny hair and eyes the very green of Queen Cersei's.
Robert wiped laughter-tears from his cheeks and nodded.
"Cersei's cousins. Tywin's brother's sons—one of those dead brothers…or perhaps the living one. I can't recall. My queen comes from a vast brood."
Eddard thought grimly: And from an ambitious brood.
The squires themselves did not trouble him—but that Robert was ever surrounded by Lannisters troubled him deeply for his friend's safety.
Eddard wasted no words.
"Robert, I hear you mean to fight in the mêlée?"
Robert scowled.
"Ned, you'll not forbid me!"
"You have no place in the mêlée," Eddard pressed.
"You're tiresome," Robert grumbled. "You've spent too long in the North; your blood has frozen to ice. Hear me: mine still runs hot!"
To prove it, he thumped his chest with a great meaty hand.
Eddard would not yield.
"Do not forget—you are king."
Robert's voice thundered with anger.
"I took that accursed Iron Throne—must it rob me of every pleasure? Can I not drink as other men drink, laugh with a wench, ride a horse, strike a blow or two? Seven hells, Ned, I am stifling. I only want to hit someone."
Ser Barristan spoke softly,
"Your Grace, it would be unseemly. No man would dare lift a hand against you—the contest would not be fair."
That gave Robert pause. He growled,
"Anyone! So long as they've the steel in them, the last man standing…"
Eddard finished calmly,
"Would be you."
The words hit home. To warn of danger would only spur Robert on, but to point at his pride struck deeper.
"Ned, you mean they would shrink from me? Strike wide on purpose?"
Eddard shrugged.
"Of course."
Barristan nodded gravely.
Robert flushed crimson. He stormed across the tent and back, seething. Suddenly he snatched up his breastplate and flung it at Barristan—who neatly sidestepped.
"Out, before I kill you," Robert snarled.
The old knight inclined his head and departed.
Eddard made to follow, but Robert stopped him.
"Ned, you stay."
The king poured wine, thrusting a cup at him.
"Drink."
"I do not—"
"Drink. That's a command, from your fool of a king."
Eddard sighed, took the cup, and sipped. The wine was so strong it stung his eyes.
Robert slumped down.
"Gods damn you, Ned Stark. You and Jon Arryn—I loved you both, and what have you given me? It's you or Jon who ought to be king."
"You were rightful, Robert. No man had a better claim to the Iron Throne."
"I said drink, not talk back! Seven hells, Ned, when I speak you might at least listen! Look at me—look what this crown has made of me. Too fat to wear my own armor! How did it come to this?"
"Robert—"
"Quiet! The king is speaking. By the gods, Ned, never have I been happier than when fighting, never more dead than as king."
He fell silent, then muttered,
"I'll not fight in the mêlée."
Robert rose, clapped Eddard on the shoulder.
"Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I've become a good king after all."
When Ned said nothing, Robert snapped,
"Damn you, Ned, this is where you nod in agreement."
"…You're right."
"Seven bloody hells!"
Robert dragged him outside.
"Tell me—who do you think will win today? You've seen Mace's boy, haven't you? They call him the Knight of Flowers. With a son like that, any man would be proud. Last tourney he dumped the Kingslayer flat on his golden arse. You should've seen Cersei's face—I laughed till I thought my belly would burst…"
The tourney field blazed with polished armor and gold-barded horses. Banners streamed in the wind—House Arryn's silver falcon, Ser Brys Caron's nightingale upon a field, the Redwynes' grapes, a brindled boar, a red bull, a burning tree, a white ram, a triple spiral, a golden marsh-marigold, a purple unicorn, a dancing maid, a black serpent, twin towers, a long-horned owl.
The Seven of the Kingsguard became the focus as they passed the stands, clad all in silver plate and white cloaks like fresh-fallen snow. At their head rode Ser Barristan Selmy, beside Ser Jaime Lannister.
Jaime wore his own white cloak, but his armor shone gold, and with his flowing hair he dazzled every eye.
Behind came Yohn Royce of Runestone, the famed "Bronze Yohn," whose ancient rune-carved bronze armor was said to bear wards of protection. With him rode his sons, Ser Andar and Ser Robar Royce, their silvered armor etched with the same runes.
Then came the Redwyne twins, Ser Horas and Ser Hobber, their shields marked with grapes on a blue and burgundy field.
Lord Gawen entered with a company of Lord Walder Frey's brood—even the old lord's bastard Martin Rivers was among them.
Walder Frey, nine decades old, had wed many times, begetting near thirty trueborn children and uncounted bastards. Rumor claimed his eighth wife was already with child.
Gawen tugged his reins, adjusting his course. With helm under arm, his gaze swept the stands—so many beauties.
"Lord Crabb!"
The clear call drew his eye to the daughters of the Hand.
Arya Stark waved, dressed for once in a green gown like her sister Sansa—no doubt Septa Mordane's doing.
Gawen's glance slid to another—Taena Mooton, niece of the Lord of Maidenpool…that slanderous girl. Were it not for her, he would hardly have remembered that Maidenpool belonged inseparably to the Crab Claw Peninsula. A simple lord, indeed.
He nodded at other familiar faces, until—humm!—the ladies craned their necks toward the field.
The Knight of Flowers had entered.
Ser Loras Tyrell glittered in silver armor, adorned with sapphire blossoms. His cloak was stitched with hundreds of fresh flowers, his hair a tousle of brown curls, his eyes molten gold. His white stallion was draped in red cloth and white roses. The women in the stands swooned.
Gawen drew back his gaze. Ahead was Jaime, behind him Loras. To be set between two "hundreds" while he was but a "ninety"? He would have words with whoever arranged the order. Still, looking upon the misshapen brood of House Frey, his mood lightened.
"Oh, he's so beautiful!"
Sansa Stark felt her heart near bursting at the sight of the Knight of Flowers.
Behind him thundered Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, shaking the stands with his passing.
Septa Mordane sniffed,
"Compared to the others, Jory looks a beggar."
Her words pulled Sansa back from her daze. She glanced at her father's captain of guards. Jory Cassel wore plain grey-blue armor without sigil or ornament, his thin grey cloak like a rag.
Sansa hid a smile, unable to deny Septa's judgment.
Mordane next pointed out Lord Jason Mallister, helm crested with eagle wings, cloak of purple and silver. She told the girls how he had once slain three of Prince Rhaegar's lords upon the Trident.
Sansa's friend Jeyne Poole, daughter of Winterfell's steward Vayon Poole, nearly squealed when she saw Lord Beric Dondarrion—flashing red-gold hair, a shield blazoned with a lightning bolt. She clutched Sansa's wrist and declared she would marry him on the spot.
To the girls, these knights were living ballads, heroes sprung from a thousand songs, one after another shining.
They saw many more besides—hedge knights from the Fingers, from Highgarden, even from Dorne; freeriders sung of in no song; younger sons of noble houses; heirs of lesser lords.
Few had yet earned great fame, but Sansa believed one day their names would be known throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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