The next day, the Red Keep's tournament grounds were alive with an energy rarely seen outside the most celebrated festivals of Westeros. On ordinary days, the grounds were quiet, almost forgotten. Today, however, every noble in King's Landing seemed to have flocked here, drawn by the promise of a battle unlike any other.
The sun blazed in the sky, a burning orb of gold, relentless and unyielding. Its heat made the air shimmer, yet the oppressive warmth did nothing to temper the fervor of the crowd. Voices rose in anticipation, a chorus of nobles, soldiers, and curious spectators eager to witness a spectacle that promised to shake the foundations of the Seven Kingdoms.
"Lord Tyrion!"
A familiar voice called out. Among the throng, Petyr Baelish had spotted The Imp weaving skillfully through the crowd, his sharp eyes never missing a detail.
"Oh, Lord Baelish," Tyrion replied, bowing slightly, yet with a warmth reserved for allies rather than sycophants. The two men approached one another, exchanging the pleasantries of old friends, and nearly embracing in mutual recognition.
"Come, sit beside me," Baelish said with a polite flourish, dismissing the gentleman who had been holding the seat beside him. "From here, you can watch your brother claim victory. The view is perfect."
Tyrion grinned, swinging his short legs impatiently as he clambered onto the bench. "So, Lord Baelish, you actually think Arthas can win?"
"Of course," Baelish said without hesitation, his voice smooth as silk. "Arthas is the most courageous warrior I have ever seen. His skill is unmatched; he will triumph today."
The Imp nodded, though a shadow of concern crossed his face. "Yet… I hear the betting odds aren't in his favor. Most of the nobles seem to doubt him. Even I, a dwarf who knows nothing of combat, understand that fighting seven men at once offers little advantage."
Baelish's smile did not falter. "That is because most nobles have never faced true power. They live in comfort, blind to the strength of men like Arthas. One against seven is shocking to them, yes—but strength is not a matter of numbers."
Tyrion's eyes widened with hope. "So… he really has a chance?"
"Indeed!" Baelish thumped his chest for emphasis. "Why do you think I wagered 500 Gold Dragons on Arthas? It is not mere confidence, but certainty. And if necessary, I can raise the stakes."
"Raise the stakes?" Tyrion echoed, his eyes alight. "How much are we talking?"
Baelish's lips curved knowingly. "Ten thousand Gold Dragons, all on Lord Arthas."
Gasps rippled through nearby spectators. The sum was astronomical, enough to silence whispers in the crowd. Yet seeing the golden lion of Lannister emblazoned on his chest, and recognizing the iconic stature of the Master of Coin, the crowd could only marvel.
"Lord Baelish," Tyrion said, lowering his voice but allowing everyone around to hear, "can you truly afford such a bet?"
Baelish leaned in, his tone conspiratorial yet commanding. "As long as you wager, I can pay. Do you doubt the Master of Coin of the Seven Kingdoms?"
Tyrion's eyes gleamed. "Good. Then consider it done. Ten thousand Gold Dragons on my brother, Arthas Lannister! Witness this, all of King's Landing!"
The nobles erupted into applause and laughter. Some mocked the seemingly foolish dwarf, while others delighted in the spectacle, eager to see the audacious gamble unfold. Tyrion, satisfied, leaned back and watched quietly, the storm of anticipation mirrored in his eyes.
Meanwhile, King Robert Baratheon, massive and boisterous, laughed heartily at the scene, a red-faced giant enjoying the show. "The little brother has lost his mind!" he bellowed to Cersei. "Ten thousand Gold Dragons on a hopeless fight? Hahaha! He's not only defective in body, but in brains as well!"
Cersei merely rolled her eyes, her patience for her husband's crude humor long worn thin. She had long since given up on any true companionship with the man who spent more time in brothels than on his throne. Even so, her sharp eyes never left the arena; her focus was on her youngest brother.
"Alright, for the Seven!" King Robert finally roared, his enthusiasm palpable, though more akin to a ruffian than a monarch. "Let the battle begin!"
The guards promptly pulled open the gates, and the knights, fully armored, began entering the arena. The first to step forward was Barristan Selmy, clad in his iconic white armor and carrying his white helmet. Behind him, six other Kingsguard followed in perfect formation, their steps synchronized, their presence radiating a silent but terrifying authority.
The crowd held its breath. Even the harsh sun seemed to dim in the shadow cast by these seven legendary warriors. The aura they exuded was suffocating, yet exhilarating. The name of Barristan the Bold alone sent shivers down spines.
"I fought him once," a middle-aged man boomed from the crowd, pulling back his chestplate to reveal a scar that ran across his torso. "And this wound remains, even after twenty years!"
Around him, whispers of admiration spread. To survive a clash with Barristan Selmy was to claim a lifetime of honor.
A noblewoman, eyes wide with desire, shrieked as she saw Jaime Lannister enter the arena. Her bosom exposed in a bold display, she tossed her undergarments toward him—a Westerosi custom that shocked and delighted the spectators simultaneously. Jaime's golden hair glinted in the sun as he moved with grace, a figure both heroic and tempting to those watching.
Then, from the opposite gate, a figure in red armor emerged. The golden lion emblazoned on his chest gleamed brilliantly under the sun. Golden hair caught the light, reflecting a dazzling aura across the arena. He carried no helmet, swinging it casually in his left hand.
In his right hand, Frostmourne dragged along the ground, the icy tip screeching against the stone. Its ghostly blue shimmer seemed to absorb the light around it, projecting an aura of death and inevitability.
The crowd fell silent. Even the boisterous King Robert found his voice caught in his throat. Every eye was on Arthas as he walked to the center of the arena, each step measured, deliberate, resonant with the authority of a king and the inevitability of death.
"Arthas, surrender," Jaime called after him, his tone a mixture of fear and affection. "You have no chance of winning!"
Arthas paused, turning slightly toward his elder brother. A faint smile curved his lips, gentle yet disarming, captivating the noblewomen in the stands. His golden eyes, now shimmering with silver at the edges beneath his helmet, held no fear.
Gripping his helmet with both hands, he lowered it slowly, sliding it onto his head. Through the narrow eye slit, his gaze locked onto the seven men before him, calculating, unyielding, and provocative. Frostmourne raised in front of him, the chill from the blade crawling into his very bones.
And then, in a voice that carried across the tournament grounds, the whisper of a legend echoed for the first time in Westeros:
"The ones who should surrender… are you."
A hush fell over the arena. The Kingsguard, the nobles, even the sun itself seemed to pause in acknowledgment. Today, the Death Knight had arrived.