Chapter 68 – The Northern Conspiracy
When Brandon Stark rode into the tourney grounds wearing his iron mask, his emotions were a jumble of excitement and frustration.
He hadn't expected that on only the second day of the competition, he'd already be facing that man.
Not that he was afraid. As the heir to Winterfell — undefeated across the frozen expanse of the North — Brandon Stark feared no man.
If he lacked absolute confidence in his strength, his father, Lord Rickard Stark, would never have sent him south to King's Landing to carry out the plan.
Still, after witnessing the fearsome prowess of two Kingsguard knights yesterday, Brandon had learned humility. He no longer saw them as pampered "white-cloaked lapdogs," but as warriors worthy of respect.
And today's opponent was far from ordinary.
"The Sword of the Morning…"
As the famed white knight rode into the arena, the crowd's roar shook the stands. His silver armor shimmered beneath the sun; his white cloak billowed like a banner of legend.
Even before the bout began, Ser Arthur Dayne was already the crowd's victor.
Brandon clenched his jaw, feeling a sting of jealousy — and unease.
"Damn it… I never should've wagered that sword."
He took a deep breath, cursing himself.
That sword — his favorite — was a fine bastard sword, not as legendary as the Stark ancestral blade Ice, but worth every bit of its ten gold dragons.
Ten! Just the steel and the smithing cost that much — enough to buy two full suits of knight's armor in the Riverlands.
As for why he hadn't brought Ice?
Well, because the damn thing weighed more than his sister Lyanna.
Forged entirely of Valyrian steel, Ice stood taller than any man in Winterfell. Swinging it in battle was exhausting enough — anyone who tried jousting with it would need their head examined.
Still, if he had brought Ice, he wouldn't have pawned it off at a brothel, that was for sure.
"Damn it all…"
"I have to win this match!"
Brandon vaulted onto his horse, heart blazing with stubborn pride.
If he lost here, not only would his sword be gone, he wouldn't even have the coin to travel home.
Why else would the heir of Winterfell stoop so low as to skip paying a whore?
Because he was broke.
The North might be vast — but it was poor as dirt.
Even the funds to forge that sword had been scraped together from his mother's old dowry.
(Granted, she was also his grandaunt — but in the North, family trees were… flexible.)
"Hahhh!"
Brandon smacked the side of his head, trying to psych himself up. Just as he prepared to charge into the lists, a hand suddenly grabbed his reins.
Startled, he turned — and nearly trampled Maester Wylis, his scrawny attendant, who was struggling to control the restless warhorse.
"Wylis? What the hell are you doing here?"
"I— I bribed the herald to let me in, my lord!" the maester stammered, face red, his frail arms straining against the leather.
"You bribed him?" Brandon blinked. Then his eyes lit up. "Wait — you still have money?"
"Pffft—!"
Wylis nearly coughed up blood.
"That's not the point, my lord!"
Still, forcing down his irritation, he took a deep breath and spoke quickly:
"I also bribed your opponent's squire!"
Brandon's eyes widened slightly.
"He told me Ser Arthur Dayne's wounds still haven't healed. His right arm is almost useless!"
"He's left-handed, yes, but if you time your strike and press the attack to his right side, you might—"
"Why didn't you say so earlier!"
Before Wylis could finish, Brandon yanked the reins, shouting in excitement. His stallion reared and bolted toward the arena.
The maester, still gripping the bridle, was yanked several yards through the air before crashing into the mud with a splat.
Luckily, it was soft earth.
"Reckless brute…"
Groaning, Wylis pounded the ground with his fist, glaring after his departing master.
Why, why had he, a maester of the Citadel — a graduate with honors — ever decided to serve the Stark family?
Lord Rickard was manageable, cold and strategic.
But his son? His son was an idiot in armor — all muscle, no brain.
"Hey! You there!"
The sudden shout came from the herald, who was glaring at him.
"You can't sleep here, old man! Out!"
---
Meanwhile, in the royal stands, Ser Lance Lot leaned on the railing, watching the two riders prepare to charge.
Below, Arthur Dayne spun his lance with effortless grace, wielding it one-handed. The crowd roared as the weapon blurred in the sunlight.
Lance frowned.
"Didn't you say his injury hadn't healed?"
Beside him, Ser Barristan Selmy — "the Bold" — stood like a statue, arms folded, gaze calm.
"It seems it has," Barristan said plainly. "Even with one arm, Ser Arthur could still defeat a so-called Winter Wolf Knight."
"Winter Wolf Knight…"
Lance's lips twitched as he eyed the dark-armored figure galloping toward the center of the lists.
Brown hair. Black armor. Wolf sigil on the breastplate.
"That's obviously a Stark," he muttered. "And he's wearing a mask? Really? What's the point?"
"That man," Barristan noted, "is likely Rickard Stark's eldest son — Brandon."
"Oh?" Lance arched a brow. "How can you tell with the mask on?"
Barristan turned to him, genuinely puzzled.
"He's wearing a mask?"
Lance blinked.
"…You've got to be kidding me."
He sighed. No wonder these people keep getting assassinated.
Before he could say anything else, Barristan's tone softened.
"Ser Lance — about what you asked me yesterday, regarding Prince Duncan Targaryen…"
Lance smiled faintly, his gaze still fixed on the field.
"Ah, that," he said quietly. "I already know."
Lance glanced over his shoulder. The royal dais stood half-empty — the King's chair vacant as always. Only the Queen remained, sitting elegantly with a goblet of wine in her hand.
She raised it slightly toward him, her gaze playful and knowing, the corner of her lips hinting at meaning beyond words.
"Last night, someone already explained everything to me."
"Some rumors are nothing but nonsense," he said lightly, swirling her wine. "There's no proof of any of it. You needn't overthink, Ser Barristan."
"That's good to hear," the old knight replied with a nod, his tone as solemn as ever.
But then, as if something had just occurred to him, he turned toward Lance with mild curiosity.
"Tell me, Ser Lance — did you place a bet?"
"A bet?" Lance blinked. "On what?"
Barristan's lips twitched upward. For a man known as the very image of knighthood, the sight of a grin on his face was downright shocking.
"You really haven't heard?" he asked, almost amused.
"It's all over the stands — the Sword of the Morning versus the Winter Wolf Knight! One gold dragon gets you even odds if Ser Arthur wins within three passes, and two to one if he wins in just one!"
"I've wagered one hundred and fifty gold dragons myself!"
"How could you not know about this?"
"What— what did you just say!?"
Lance stared at him in disbelief.
Barristan the Bold — the righteous, the incorruptible — gambling?
And worse, he hadn't invited him?
The corners of Lance's mouth twitched.
You hypocrite…
Of course, he told himself he was above such things.
A righteous man like Ser Lance Lot didn't concern himself with filthy money.
…Except when he did.
Next time I fight, I'm betting everything I have — on myself.
Decision made, Lance returned his gaze to the field, watching the two knights lower their lances and spur their steeds into a full charge.
The banners snapped in the wind. The thunder of hooves filled the air.
A Stark, hiding behind a mask, in King's Landing — during a royal tournament?
He could smell it — the faint, iron scent of politics.
The King in the North had been banished from the capital, yet here his son appeared, disguised, in a crowd full of nobles and spies.
There was no way this was coincidence.
The two riders met at full tilt. Spears shattered. The crowd erupted in cheers.
Even from the stands, the impact was enough to make the air tremble.
And as always, Arthur Dayne — the Sword of the Morning — was magnificent.
With only one hand on his lance, he still guided the weapon with surgical precision, slipping past his opponent's shield and striking cleanly across the chest.
But this time, something was different.
Arthur hadn't raised a shield at all.
His injured right arm was still weak — too damaged to bear the weight.
Brandon, spotting the flaw, charged headlong without dodging, his own lance aimed straight at Arthur's right shoulder joint.
The two lances struck almost simultaneously.
A sharp crack! split the air as both weapons splintered.
Arthur twisted aside, avoiding the worst of it, but not entirely — the northern knight's lance had torn across his arm. Pain seared through his right side, and his grip on his weapon faltered for a heartbeat.
Brandon, however, refused to fall. Though his body rocked from the hit, he stayed in the saddle, barely holding on as their horses thundered past each other.
The crowd screamed with delight.
No time to rest. Squires rushed forward with new lances. Both knights wheeled their steeds around for another charge.
"Dishonorable cur…"
Arthur hissed beneath his breath, lowering his body, protecting his right side as best he could.
His instincts screamed at him — the way his masked opponent smiled beneath that wolf-faced helm, the way his attack had deliberately targeted his wound.
It wasn't luck. It was intent.
To strike at an injury in open combat — a coward's tactic.
"You're no knight," Arthur growled through clenched teeth.
"Let's end this — dog!"
As they clashed again, Arthur twisted in the saddle at the last possible instant, slamming his own armored chest into the oncoming lance, deflecting the blow with sheer force.
At the same time, his own lance darted like a serpent, bending in a perfect arc to bypass Brandon's shield and strike hard into the northern knight's side.
The impact was thunderous.
Gasps filled the arena as the Winter Wolf Knight was sent flying through the air — but just before he fell, he clutched his reins with an iron grip, using every ounce of strength to pull himself back into the saddle.
The crowd roared.
Arthur sat rigid on his horse, body trembling slightly, but he didn't fall.
The second round ended — both men still in their saddles.
The duel would continue.
---
"Something's off," Lance murmured suddenly.
"What do you mean?" Barristan asked, not taking his eyes off the joust.
Lance frowned, his gaze narrowing on Arthur's steed.
"His horse…"
He could see it clearly — the beast's eyes were bloodshot, froth flecking its mouth, nostrils flaring wildly.
It wasn't the usual adrenaline of battle. It was fear.
The kind of panic that came from pain or poison.
Drawing on the instincts he'd inherited from the Dothraki Khal whose memories still echoed faintly in his mind, Lance could tell something was terribly wrong.
He sighed softly, patting Barristan's armored shoulder.
"Ser Barristan," he said quietly. "I hate to tell you this…"
A pause.
Then, dryly:
"But I think your hundred and fifty gold dragons are about to vanish."