The training yard lay quiet after the chaos, yet the echoes of battle still lingered like a heavy mist. Arthas, the young lion of House Lannister, stood at the center, chest heaving, his golden hair fluttering in the gentle breeze. Blood seeped from shallow wounds across his chest, crimson against the pale golden armor, but the youth remained unshaken, a picture of calm amidst carnage.
Earlier, the arena had erupted into pandemonium. In the very first moments, Arthas had felled two members of the Kingsguard, a feat that stunned every noble in attendance. Barristan Selmy, the legendary knight known as Barristan the Bold, still lay on the ground, gasping for breath, struggling to rise. His body bore the strain of age and battle alike, but his eyes, sharp and calculating, observed Arthas with an expression of both shock and reluctant admiration.
The remaining four Kingsguard, including Jaime Lannister, Arthas's elder brother, tightened their formation. Despite their superior numbers and the weight of their skill, not a single one dared strike first. The young Lannister's aura was too imposing, too commanding, even as he bled. They merely shifted their stances, swords held at the ready, surrounding him like a cage of steel.
"Hah…hah…" Barristan wheezed, clutching his chest. Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself upright, his veteran instincts keeping him alert. He moved toward Meryn Trant's lifeless form, carefully prying the sword from the grip of the fallen knight. The gesture was methodical, controlled; even in exhaustion, Barristan's knightly honor endured.
"Young man," Barristan said, regulating his ragged breathing, "I admit your strength. But stop pushing yourself—your body cannot endure much longer."
Though he spoke with the calm authority of a master swordsman, there was unease behind his eyes. For the first time in decades of battle, Barristan Selmy faced an opponent whose presence, skill, and cunning unnerved him. Arthas, only fourteen, had shaken the legendary knight to his core. His strikes, his knowledge of anatomy, and his unflinching courage surpassed anything the seasoned warrior had seen.
Arthas glanced down at his chest, where blood ran in thin rivulets. A faint, mocking smile played across his lips. Though the wound looked mortal to any observer, he knew its true nature. Under the guidance of Uther in his early years and strengthened by the dark lessons of the Death Knight, he had mastered not only the art of combat but the understanding of human physiology. The sword that had pierced him had missed every vital organ by a hair's breadth. His bleeding was slow, almost deceptive, his body repairing faster than the crimson could flow.
"Even Barristan the Bold…" Arthas whispered under his breath, letting his eyes gleam, "has felt fear."
From the stands, Tyrion Lannister watched, his small form tense with anxiety. The Imp's mismatched eyes flitted across the battlefield, desperate not to miss a single detail. Though he had never fought a day in his life, even he understood the peril of Arthas's position. A single mistake could be fatal. And yet, the youth did not falter; he moved like a predator among prey, every step calculated.
"Relax, Lord Tyrion," Baelish murmured, his voice calm, almost amused. The older man observed the young lion's display with a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "Do not fear. Arthas has a plan. He always does. The boy is confident, bold, and brilliant. He will not fall so easily."
Tyrion blinked, tears threatening in his eyes, grateful for the reassurance. "I… I do not expect him to win. I pray only that he survives. Ten thousand gold dragons are nothing compared to the life of House Lannister's heir."
Baelish patted the Imp's shoulder gently. "He is strong, clever, and fearless. Remember, he took down two Kingsguard almost effortlessly. Do not doubt him. Not now."
Meanwhile, King Robert Baratheon, wine goblet in hand, watched the spectacle with rapt attention. Once, he had been a mighty warrior himself, swinging his heavy warhammer across battlefields until they were soaked in blood. Now, years later, he could only observe, yet even he felt a thrill surge through his veins.
The outcome seemed impossible. Barristan Selmy, veteran of a hundred battles, might have been evenly matched against one opponent of Arthas's age—but against a youth with such unnatural skill? The balance was extraordinary. The King's wine had already emptied into his stomach without him noticing. "Wine!" he roared, and a startled attendant rushed to refill his cup.
Queen Cersei's gaze, however, was fixed entirely on the young Lannister in the arena. Arthas, his golden hair and commanding presence shimmering under the sunlight, exuded a power that eclipsed even Jaime, her beloved twin. Her pulse quickened as she watched him move effortlessly through the deadly formation, striking and countering with precision and confidence.
Jaime, observing her expression, felt a pang of jealousy unlike anything before. Though he had trained under the greatest knights of Westeros and sacrificed inheritance to serve the Kingsguard, he could not ignore the admiration she showed for Arthas. The twin bond they shared could not prevent the surge of envy as he saw her eyes brighten for another.
"That look belongs only to me!" Jaime thought fiercely. His mind clouded with desire, pride, and fear, he acted rashly, charging into the fray.
"No, Jaime!" Barristan's voice called, but it was too late. The elder brother was already rushing toward his younger kin, sword raised, driven by love, jealousy, and desperation.
Arthas, poised and unyielding, allowed Jaime's strike to approach. He had already anticipated the blow, knowing the full extent of his brother's skill. When the attack landed, Arthas moved with precise timing, letting the strike glance harmlessly across him, redirecting momentum, and leaving Jaime off balance.
Pain flashed across Jaime's face as the blow connected, and he tumbled to the ground, dust and blood rising in a choking cloud. He struggled to rise, limbs trembling, but Arthas's golden eyes already scanned the rest of the Kingsguard, ready to counter.
In moments, the battlefield fell silent save for the labored breathing of the combatants and the distant cheers and gasps from the stands. One by one, Arthas moved with inexorable precision, parrying, striking, and countering. Barristan and the remaining Kingsguard were left staggered, some on their knees, others sprawled across the arena, battered but alive.
Finally, Arthas planted Frostmourne into the ground, kneeling once before Jaime. His expression was calm, almost regal, his smile gentle despite the carnage around him.
"Jaime, my brother," he said softly, voice carrying across the yard. "You possess a knightly spirit worthy of the lions of Lannister. Your skill, your heart… I see it all."
Then, with a graceful rise, he stepped aside. Behind him, the remnants of the Kingsguard lay defeated, their armor dented, swords scattered, their pride broken. Arthas's golden hair shone in the sunlight, his youthful face both handsome and commanding.
"There can only be one king of the lions," he said, voice resolute, eyes blazing with a fire that seemed to set the arena itself alight. The crowd, noble and commoner alike, held their breath. The young Lannister had proven his strength, his cunning, and his unyielding will.
In that moment, the battle ended. The arena fell silent, and yet the echoes of a new ruler's roar lingered, proclaiming that the age of the Young Lion had begun.