"Seven hells!" King Robert Baratheon roared, his voice echoing through the chambers.
"If this isn't worth my time, I'm going to plant my boot so far up your arse you'll taste leather!"
He sat half-naked on the edge of his grand bed in the Tower of the Hand, his hair disheveled, a flagon of wine resting on the nightstand beside him. Several women lounged nearby beneath the furs—silent, wide-eyed, pretending not to hear or see.
The Goldcloak standing before him—rigid, eyes straight ahead—pretended not to notice the half-nude king or the bedwarmers behind him. He stood at attention and reported the incident in the tavern: a brutal fight between two parties, both bearing noble blood.
Robert took another swig from the flagon and slammed it down. "Cleo again? That bumbling pisspot? Of course it's him. Lannister by name, Lannister by trouble."
He meant Cleos Frey—nephew to Lord Walder Frey and cousin to Queen Cersei Lannister. Of course, Cleos didn't share the Lannister name, but that didn't matter to Robert. Anyone remotely connected to Cersei was enough to sour his mood.
The Goldcloak was careful in his summary, emphasizing that Queen Cersei's cousin had been "mishandled" by a group of Riverland nobles, with tensions rising quickly.
"Gods be damned," Robert muttered, rising with a groan. "Interrupt my morning with women, will you? I'll teach Cleos and his fool kin what a king's justice tastes like. Especially if that smug golden lion Jaime's still loitering outside the door, waiting to kiss his sister's boots."
He threw on a padded doublet, then his robe, and left the chamber, flanked by Ser Barristan Selmy and a pair of silent Kingsguard. His mood was foul, and the clanging of his boots on the stone floor echoed his fury.
By the time King Robert entered the throne room, it was already packed. Nobles, smallfolk, city watchmen, and court officials had crowded inside, all whispering about the incident that had pulled the king from his pleasures.
"I think the Riverlanders were in the right!" a merchant whispered.
"Rubbish," a hedge knight scoffed. "The beaten man is a noble. The girl's a commoner. Even if she was wronged, how can a knight raise his hand against the queen's kin?"
"You're not a lord either," the merchant hissed back. "Maybe you like being trampled."
"It's not about rank. It's about order! If every upstart gets to punch a Frey, we'll have chaos."
The nobility leaned toward Cleos, sensing a threat to their class. For them, Arthur's assault wasn't just violence—it was a challenge to the social order.
Robert stormed in through the rear hall, his steps thudding up the dais. Lord Eddard Stark, already seated in his Hand's chair beside the throne, rose respectfully. Robert gave him a curt nod, then dropped himself onto the Iron Throne with a groan of displeasure.
Made from the swords of Aegon's enemies, the Iron Throne was famously uncomfortable. The Baratheon king shifted irritably. "Bloody thing's like sitting on a porcupine."
Then he bellowed, "Quiet!"
The room silenced instantly. Robert's voice had the volume of a warhorn.
"Let's hear from the one who got beat first."
He assumed, naturally, that the aggressors were the Riverlanders. He'd heard enough of Cersei's family squabbling with people they deemed beneath them. This time, he wanted the whole story before the queen started screeching in his ear.
Cleos Frey, forehead bandaged, stepped forward, pale and wobbly. His cousin, the other victim, followed with a limp.
Cleos bowed stiffly. "Your Grace… I was enjoying a drink in a tavern when this brute—Ser Arthur Bracken—attacked us without warning. We were unarmed. We meant no harm."
Robert squinted. "Did you now?"
Cleos licked his lips nervously. "A girl stumbled into me and spilled wine on my coat. Her parents offered… recompense. I refused, but my cousin—he tried to lighten the mood."
The cousin nodded quickly. "That's right. Just a misunderstanding. No threat."
Robert snorted, unconvinced.
"And then?" he asked.
Cleos shuffled. "Then Ser Bracken burst in, claimed we were harassing the girl, and assaulted us. Twenty men fell before we could blink. The man fights like a bear on fire."
Murmurs rippled across the hall.
Robert leaned forward. "So you're saying twenty armed men couldn't stop one knight?"
"He caught us off guard!" Cleos yelped. "If we'd been ready, we'd have prevailed."
His voice was unconvincing even to himself.
Robert sat back, rubbing his beard, trying not to smile. Cersei's family—brought low in a tavern brawl? That was the best news he'd heard in a fortnight.
He glanced toward Eddard Stark, who stood by silently, arms crossed. Ned had known Arthur Bracken since the man arrived with Lord Mallister. The reports said Bracken was not just bold—but honorable.
Robert's eyes turned back to Cleos. "And what of this girl?"
"She was… unharmed," Cleos said, though his tone lacked conviction.
Robert raised a brow. "So you weren't laying hands on her?"
"No, Your Grace," both men replied, almost in unison.
But the crowd stirred uneasily. There were witnesses who saw otherwise.
A middle-aged man stepped forward. He was the girl's father—a butcher from Flea Bottom.
"Your Grace," he said, bowing awkwardly. "They cornered my daughter. She's just thirteen. That Riverlander knight stopped them. That's the truth."
The room buzzed.
Robert held up a hand. "Enough."
He let the silence stretch, letting the shame settle on Cleos and his cousin.
"You interrupted my morning," he said finally. "With women far prettier than your cousin's excuses. For what? A tavern scuffle? You tried to coerce a child and got what you deserved."
Cleos looked stricken.
Robert pointed. "You—go apologize to that girl's family. And give them a hundred silver stags."
He turned to the Goldcloak captain. "As for Ser Bracken… he stays in the city. I want no charges brought. He'll be treated with courtesy—and care."
The officer nodded quickly.
Then Robert looked down at Cleos again, his tone dripping with scorn.
"And if you so much as look at another girl wrong, I'll send you to the Wall myself. Understand?"
Cleos and his cousin bowed, humiliated.
Robert stood. "I'm done with this nonsense."
He turned to Ned. "See to it these fools don't cause more trouble."
Ned nodded, silent as ever.
As Robert stormed out, muttering about "idiots in golden cloaks" and "Lannister leeches," the crowd slowly dispersed.
Arthur Bracken remained in the throne room, flanked by Desmond and Patrick.
Patrick turned to Arthur, grinning.
"You beat a dozen men. And now the king beat them again—with words."
Arthur smirked, voice low.
"Words are wind. But sometimes, the wind howls just right."
Then he scoffed. "So you still didn't pay? When I was your age, I knew you always paid a golden dragon—especially when you wanted something you didn't deserve."
King Robert gave Cleos a look of pure contempt, then motioned impatiently for the attacker to step forward and give his side of the story.
Arthur exchanged a look with his companions. Desmond, the seasoned knight among them, gave a sigh as he was nudged forward. He adjusted his belt and stepped into the center of the hall.
"…Here's how it happened, Your Grace," Desmond began, voice steady. "Ser Arthur acted out of justice. The girl was in danger. As for the scuffle that followed—well, it was no scuffle. It was Cleos and his cousin trying to blackmail us. They brought it upon themselves."
Desmond's account was clear and direct, dismantling Cleos's version of events without embellishment.
Robert leaned back on the Iron Throne, arms folded across his chest. He raised an eyebrow at Desmond, then looked toward Arthur.
"I want to believe you, Master Knight of Riverrun," he said with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "But I'll need more than a Riverlander's honor to believe this boy beat twenty men on his own."
In Robert's eyes, Arthur Bracken didn't look the part—tall and lean, almost too polished for the tales being told. Not the sort you'd expect to throw men across tavern walls. His armor wasn't dented, and his face lacked the scarring of a brawler. Robert may have hated the Lannisters, but he hated liars more.
"Your Grace, there are witnesses you can summon," Desmond offered, gesturing toward the couple from the tavern.
Robert motioned for them to come forward. The man and woman stepped ahead, nervous, shifting under the weight of the court's gaze.
Cleos glared at them from across the floor. The husband flinched under his stare. His wife hesitated, looking down at her feet. And then, after a beat of silence, they both agreed with Cleos's version of the story.
A low murmur spread through the court.
Robert scratched his beard and frowned. "See? Even your so-called witnesses say otherwise."
He didn't sound entirely convinced—he sounded irritated. And deep down, he knew the stink of fear when he saw it.
Arthur took two quiet steps forward.
"Your Grace," he said, "why not ask yourself why their story changed?"
He turned so the entire room could see his face—calm, collected, not a hint of fear.
"We don't intend to harm the tavern couple, even after they turned their backs on the truth. But Cleos? He has a name, gold, and the reach to return and punish them. Of course they're afraid. Of course they'll say anything he wants."
"That's enough—address His Grace properly!" Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, barked sharply.
But Robert held up a hand, waving him down. "It's fine, Ser Barristan. Let the lad speak."
He turned to Arthur with a crooked smile. "What you said makes sense. But even so, you've still got no proof. Just stories. And I still don't see how you floored twenty men without help or a sword."
Arthur didn't respond. Instead, he turned his eyes toward the corner of the room—where the girl stood, eyes red from crying but no longer trembling. She looked at him, then at the king.
"There's still one person who hasn't spoken," Arthur said quietly.
The girl stepped forward without being asked. Though tears still streaked her cheeks, her voice rang clear across the throne room.
"Your Grace," she began, "I spilled wine on that man by accident. He grabbed me. I tried to run, but his cousin blocked the door. They said… they said my parents could make it right by letting me stay the night."
The room went still.
"Then Ser Arthur came in. He shouted at them to leave me alone. When they didn't, he fought them. I saw it. He moved like lightning. He saved me."
Even Robert looked stunned.
He turned to his old friend beside the throne. "Gods, Ned. What do you make of it?"
Eddard Stark was stone-faced. "Arthur's story sounds more believable, but I won't lie—beating twenty men alone strains belief. Even for a knight."
Ned had no love for Queen Cersei's relatives, especially not after what he had seen at court. But he was also a man of principle. He wouldn't abandon skepticism just to score a point against Lannister kin.
As Lord of Winterfell, Ned had outlawed the ancient First Night tradition in the North—a practice that Cleos's actions mirrored too closely for comfort. His voice was even, but there was fire in his eyes.
Robert sighed, rubbing his temples. "I should've stayed in bed."
Just then, another voice chimed in.
"This is easy to settle."
Renly Baratheon had appeared beside the dais, dressed in green and gold, a wry smile on his lips.
"Let them fight again."
A ripple of laughter moved through the court.
Robert grinned for the first time that morning. "Now that's an idea."
Desmond frowned, and Patrick Mallister folded his arms—but Arthur simply stepped forward.
"Fine by me," he said, cracking his knuckles. "I've still got energy to spare."
Cleos blanched visibly.
The room began to hum with anticipation.
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