"Ahhh—!"
The drunken noble screamed like a pig at slaughter, a sound so wretched it might've drawn tears from stone.
"Ser, mercy! Have mercy, please! I understand now—it's almost done, I understand!"
Arthur's iron grip clamped down on the man's wrist like a smith's vice. The noble squirmed, his flushed face draining of color. He was certain the bones in his hand had been shattered.
But Arthur wasn't finished.
"Say it," Arthur ordered, voice low and even. "Admit you tried to force the girl, then tried to blackmail her family—and swear you'll leave them in peace."
"I did it! I did!" the man blurted, flailing in panic. "I swear on the Seven, I'll cause no more trouble!"
The pain in his right hand was blinding. If Arthur had demanded he confess to killing the Mad King himself, he might have agreed just to make it stop.
Arthur released him.
"Repeat it," said Ser Jean quietly, standing behind Arthur.
The nobleman, sweat-soaked and panting, wasn't entirely drunk anymore. Fear sobered him quickly. Realizing he might've just escaped worse, he echoed his confession and promised again—loudly this time—that he'd seek no revenge.
But his eyes said otherwise.
Arthur watched him a moment longer. Satisfied, he waved him off.
The man's four retainers—bruised and battered—stumbled over and helped their master to a bench near the hearth. They shot Arthur cautious glances but didn't dare say a word. They knew better now.
"Thank you, ser… thank you," the girl whispered, standing shakily. Her gratitude was genuine.
Arthur offered a shrug, playing it off. "It was nothing."
To him, it had been nothing but principle.
Once the heat of it had cooled, the tavern-keeper and his wife crept out from behind the bar. They knelt first to the drunken noble, apologizing profusely, then turned and berated their daughter until she fled to the kitchens in tears.
Only then did they approach Arthur's table, heads low.
"Ser… thank you for stepping in," the tavern-keeper murmured. "Please… you don't need to pay for anything tonight."
Their voices trembled, not with gratitude, but fear—fear the nobleman might retaliate again if he heard.
Arthur's expression soured. He hadn't stepped in for a free meal.
He did it because that lecherous knight disgusted him—and because sometimes, all it took was someone to say "That's enough."
"No need," Arthur said, glancing at the prices chalked on the wall. He pulled three silver stags from his purse and dropped them on the table.
The tavern-keeper hesitated, but took the coins without offering change.
Patrick, seated nearby, hadn't moved to pay a single time since they'd arrived in the capital. Desmond, the old knight who served as Riverrun's master-at-arms, always seemed to glide through inns and halls without ever producing coin.
So once again, it fell to Arthur. Not because he minded—but because someone had to.
He didn't bully the smallfolk. Selling food was how they lived. And he had no interest in profiting from their fear.
The group finished their meal quickly and made ready to leave.
Just then, armored boots thundered against the wooden floor.
"Well, well," came a bark from the door. "Trying to slip away after causing trouble in King's Landing?"
A half-dozen Gold Cloaks entered, yellow cloaks swinging behind them. The captain, a squat man with a greasy beard, looked smug.
"You think the City Watch is just for show?" he sneered.
Arthur sighed internally. Aren't you? he thought.
Around them, most of the tavern's patrons bolted, fleeing without paying.
Only seven or eight remained—well-dressed men lingering to see how things played out. Nobles, clearly.
One more man slipped in behind the Gold Cloaks—it was the fifth retainer, the one who'd fled earlier. His mouth curled into a smirk as he pointed at Arthur.
"Still feel like hitting someone?" he taunted. "Come on, show these officers how tough you are!"
The noble, seeing the City Watch at last, stood up with a puffed chest.
"That's him! That wild brute attacked me! I demand justice!"
The Gold Cloak captain turned, sizing up the parties.
"Ah, perfect," he said, grinning at the noble. "Got here just in time, my lord. Forgive me—we'll handle it."
Then, loudly: "Seize the attacker!"
The Gold Cloaks began to advance on Arthur and his companions.
Arthur frowned and rose slowly. His fists clenched—but before he could act, Patrick stepped forward and drew back his cloak.
"Best open your eyes, captain," Patrick said coldly. "Take a good look at the crest on my collar."
The embroidered sigil of House Mallister—a silver eagle on purple—glinted under torchlight.
The Gold Cloaks hesitated.
They weren't trained to recognize every noble in the Seven Kingdoms, but they knew that was no merchant's emblem. And the man carried himself like a trueborn son of a lord.
"You said these men were smallfolk?" the captain hissed at the noble's retainer.
The man flinched. "Didn't recognize 'em."
Didn't bother, the captain thought grimly. Now he was in a tight spot. Siding with a noble only to find the other party was nobler still could ruin a man.
He cleared his throat and switched tactics.
"My mistake," he said smoothly. "I should've known—only a Mallister would act so decisively."
Arthur smirked but said nothing. He sat back down and reached for his rice wine.
The drunken noble, sensing the shift, leaned toward a still-conscious retainer.
"Go get my cousin," he muttered. "Bring men—twenty if you can. If we don't act now, we'll lose face."
The retainer nodded and slipped out unnoticed.
The noble turned back, voice rising.
"So what if you're a Mallister? You think I'll let this go?" He jabbed a finger at the Gold Cloaks. "I demand justice! And I still want that girl—she's mine!"
The captain's face tensed. He couldn't side openly against a lord's heir, but he couldn't insult the other noble either.
Then he remembered the advice passed down in every Watch barracks from the alleys of Flea Bottom to the gates of Maegor's Holdfast:
When nobles quarrel, pick the side with more titles.
"Very well," he said loudly. "No Watchmen witnessed the events. Too many conflicting accounts."
He raised his hands.
"Let's settle this fairly. Both parties declare their name and rank. Higher title takes precedence. That's the law in King's Landing."
Patrick stepped forward again, his chin lifted.
"I am Ser Patrick Mallister, heir to Lord Jason Mallister of Seagard. Let the other speak—if he dares."
Arthur leaned back and took another sip, amused.
A contest of titles? This could be fun.
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