"Can't you be more serious?" King Robert barked, glaring at his younger brother. "You think it's right to let a group of men who've already been beaten get beat again just for show?"
Lord Renly Baratheon gave his elder brother a calm, courtly smile, clearly unfazed, and fell silent.
Behind him stood Ser Loras Tyrell, the famed Knight of Flowers, clad in his signature green and gold. He watched the exchange between the Baratheon brothers with faint amusement, saying nothing, but clearly entertained by the king's irritation.
Robert exhaled heavily, then turned his scowl toward Arthur and his companions standing before the Iron Throne.
"You all have your own stories, and Seven help me, I can't tell who's lying and who's not. So let's make it simple. Arthur—if you show me you can beat these twenty men, I'll believe you."
The king considered that the fairest compromise he could offer, given the chaos.
"First of all, I'm not a knight, Your Grace," Arthur replied evenly. "I'm a landed noble. The title Ser doesn't apply to me."
Arthur was careful to correct the king's wording. In Westeros, only knighted men bore the honorific of Ser. Landed lords and their heirs might not always take the title, particularly if they hadn't earned their spurs in a formal ceremony.
"Secondly," Arthur continued, "I'm more than happy to use my strength to expose Cleos and his cousin's lies."
He stared at Cleos with open contempt. The same man who cowered like a whipped dog in the tavern now stood tall and full of bluster in court, lying through his teeth as if it were second nature. Arthur had seen enough of highborn arrogance to last a lifetime.
"If the gods are good, I'll get to deal with him again."
"You're alone, unarmored, and they're twenty strong," Robert said, gesturing toward Cleos and his men. "How would you have it arranged?"
"I don't care," Arthur said bluntly. "Let them come as they are. My strength doesn't need polishing. Just let them come, like Lord Renly said."
Robert stared at him, then gave a resigned sigh. "Hells. Fine. Then we'll make it more of a test. One of my Kingsguard will fight you—without armor. If it's a draw, I'll consider your word true."
The Kingsguard were the most elite knights in all the Seven Kingdoms—seven warriors sworn for life to defend the king, never to marry, father children, or hold lands. Their vows rivaled even those of the Night's Watch, but with prestige and honor that outshone any other knightly order. To face even one was to face legend.
The moment Robert made the announcement, murmurs swept the hall like wind through dry grass.
"Typical, they only help their own," someone grumbled.
"Isn't this too much? Arthur saved a girl's life. Maybe he exaggerated, but it doesn't make him a liar."
"Of course the king would side with the Lannister kin," another noble muttered under their breath. "His queen's a lion, after all."
"How's a Riverlands boy meant to stand against a Kingsguard?" came another whisper.
Renly, the instigator of the test, now stepped in again, raising his voice over the crowd. "Brother, don't you think this is a bit much? Everyone here knows the strength of your Kingsguard. Asking Arthur to match one is the same as calling him a liar."
Even Lord Eddard Stark, the new Hand of the King, stepped forward to speak. "I must agree," he said, voice firm. "Pitting a young man against one of the Kingsguard—trained since boyhood, tested in countless battles—can only end one way. It would hardly be just."
Robert scratched his beard, visibly reconsidering. Eddard's voice carried weight with him—more than Renly's—and the tension in the room was mounting. He knew full well what his sworn brothers of the Kingsguard could do. Ser Barristan alone had fought in three wars and slain more men than Robert could count.
Even the older ones like Ser Barristan or Ser Meryn Trant would likely best Arthur. Let alone someone like Jaime, still in his prime.
Robert let out a grunt of irritation. "Fine. You're right. The boy's got stones, but he's no knight of the Kingsguard."
He turned to the side of the throne where the City Watch captains stood. "Sterling. Pick one of your captains. I want someone decent, strong—but not your best. We're here to test truth, not kill anyone."
Janos Sterling, commander of the City Watch—the gold cloaks—bowed quickly and turned to his officers behind him. He scanned their faces, weighing his options, then subtly signaled to a thick-set captain with a crooked nose and callused hands.
Sterling had heard enough to guess where the wind was blowing. Best to choose someone who looked the part but wouldn't risk embarrassing the Lannister name.
He motioned to the man to step forward, and the crowd shifted with anticipation.
He could still understand King Robert's reasoning—at least in part.
"Ah, that's not important," Arthur said dismissively. "My strength is what it is. Fighting a Kingsguard means nothing to me."
The young Lord of the Red Mill knew this was more than a test—it was spectacle. In his own estimation, he was approaching the level of the realm's most elite warriors. Perhaps not quite Barristan Selmy or Ser Gregor Clegane, but not far behind either.
Among the Kingsguard, aside from Ser Barristan the Bold, most were not legends. Men like Meryn Trant and Boros Blount were competent, but hardly exceptional. Even Jaime Lannister, known as the Kingslayer, had his reputation tainted by oath-breaking. Arthur was confident that even if his martial skill fell short, his strength could bridge the gap.
He wasn't exaggerating. His current strength measured at seventeen—only three shy of the human peak of twenty. That level of power alone made him a rarity among Westerosi knights.
The gathered lords and courtly spectators, of course, had no way of understanding what Arthur meant.
"Don't be so stubborn, boy! You can't take on a Kingsguard!"
"Just go with the king's suggestion!"
"Let him try it, then! Let's see if he still looks proud when he's sprawled on the floor."
Robert was already frowning, his goodwill toward Arthur diminishing with every proud refusal.
"You insist? Fine," the king snapped. "Ser Meryn Trant—strip off your armor and give this gentleman a taste of a white cloak's steel. Just don't spill any blood."
Ser Meryn, stationed among the white-robed guards flanking the Iron Throne, gave a curt nod, bowed to the king, and withdrew through a rear door to prepare for the bout.
Arthur, unshaken, turned toward the gathered lords and captains. "Could a kind soul lend me a greatsword? The heavier, the better."
His warhammer and black-forged sword New Moon were still back at the inn on the slope of Visenya's Hill, and he'd come to the Red Keep unarmed.
Laughter rippled through the throne room.
"All this noise, and you show up without a blade?"
"Is this a joke? Challenging the Kingsguard and forgetting your sword?"
King Robert, still stewing over Arthur's rejection of his "fair compromise," made no move to assist. The atmosphere turned awkward.
Then Eddard Stark, Hand of the King and Lord of Winterfell, stepped forward. "I'll lend him Ice," he said evenly.
Ice—a massive Valyrian steel greatsword—was the ancestral weapon of House Stark. Forged in Valyria before the Doom, it was as much a symbol as a weapon: justice, strength, tradition.
In the lore of Westeros, Ice would one day be melted down by Tywin Lannister into two swords: Oathkeeper and Widow's Wail. But at this moment, it was still whole, and still Stark's.
The offer wasn't made lightly. But Eddard respected men who acted on principle, and Arthur's defense of the tavern girl had struck a chord.
He motioned for Captain Jory Cassel, who carried Ice wrapped in oiled cloth, to step forward.
"Thank you, my lord," Arthur said sincerely. "The righteous always seem to recognize each other."
He took the sword reverently, unwrapped it, and tested its balance. Though long and heavy, Ice moved well in his hands. If fate allowed, perhaps he could return the blade to House Stark one day, should the tragedy he'd heard whispers of ever come to pass.
Minutes later, Ser Meryn returned, clad in simple gray breeches and a loose linen shirt. He looked confident, almost lazy, but there was menace in the way he carried himself.
"You're not to kill or wound," Ser Barristan Selmy reminded them, stepping forward as the voice of calm authority. "Just a few passes, enough to demonstrate whether Desmond and Arthur's claims hold water. Let's have no bloodshed in the Red Keep."
The gold cloaks quickly cleared a space in the throne room, forming a circle of bodies to mark the fighting ground.
Arthur and Meryn entered the ring, locking eyes, each weighing the other's stance.
On the dais, King Robert leaned toward his old friend. "Ed—what's your read on this?"
Eddard Stark folded his arms. "I hope Arthur wins. But if you're asking what I think will happen—Ser Meryn's chances are stronger."
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the bout began.
Before the eyes of nearly a thousand gathered nobles, guardsmen, and courtiers, the two fighters closed the distance—and steel met steel.
JOIN MY PATREON TO READ ADVANCE 50+ CHAPTERS
Patreon.com/Kora_1