Although the drunken nobleman was shaken, his confidence quickly returned as he remembered his cousin—Ser Cleos Frey.
Cleos was the eldest son of Ser Emmon Frey, the second son of Lord Walder Frey, the aged and infamous Lord of the Twins. Though Emmon himself was a minor figure among the Frey brood, what made Cleos influential in King's Landing was not his Frey lineage—but his mother, Genna Lannister, sister to Lord Tywin Lannister, and aunt to Queen Cersei, Ser Jaime, and Tyrion.
By blood, Cleos was cousin to the Queen herself, which meant this drunken nobleman—however distantly—was family to the Iron Throne.
It was a frail connection, but in the game of power, even a whisper of Lannister blood carried weight. And in King's Landing, where names meant more than deeds, he fancied himself untouchable.
Of course, flashing his modest title now would be a mistake. He was only the heir to a minor Riverlands house sworn to the Freys—his standing meant nothing without backup.
So he groaned, clutching his temple and stumbling like a bad mummer. "Ahh! My head! That brute struck my noble brow!"
The Goldcloak captain, already weary of this farce, watched with barely disguised contempt. He recognized this as what it was: a weak attempt to play victim now that status had failed him.
He sighed and turned to Patrick Mallister, clearly the man of higher standing. "My lord, it seems your case is solid. If you're satisfied, you may leave."
The captain's hope was clear: let the nobles of Seagard leave quietly, then help the lesser nobleman hobble away—offending neither side.
But things didn't go to plan.
Patrick nodded and turned to Arthur to suggest they go. But Arthur only leaned back, sipping from his cup and signaling for him to wait.
"The moment we walked in, you were ready to throw us in chains," Arthur said coolly to the Goldcloak. "Now we're in the right, let's see if you have the same courage to act."
Patrick smirked and sat back down beside Arthur, crossing his arms. Desmond followed, taking his place beside them.
The captain grimaced. The Seagard group had the stronger claim, but the drunk noble was connected—unfortunately, to House Frey and worse, the Lannisters. The situation was spiraling.
"Ser… perhaps let the matter drop. The beaten are already punished, in spirit and body."
Arthur laughed dryly. "Punished? You call that punishment? What about the girl he tried to force himself on? Or her family?"
Patrick nodded, his pride stirred. "Right. We're in the right. He deserves worse."
"Can't you be lenient?" the captain pleaded.
"No." Arthur's voice was firm. "Why show mercy to cowards who prey on the powerless?"
The Goldcloak's face twisted in defeat—he was cornered.
Then came a voice from the tavern door.
"You lot from Seagard, eh? Think you can lay hands on my cousin and walk free?"
The crowd parted. A group of men entered, their leader a man in his thirties—Cleos Frey.
His reddish-blond hair and freckled face were unremarkable, but the red and silver twin towers of House Frey on his cloak, and the Lannister crimson trim, gave him weight. Even the Goldcloak captain straightened at the sight of him.
"Ser Cleos," he said, rushing over. "Forgive me, I was just—"
Cleos waved him off with casual arrogance. "Spare me the excuses. My cousin's honor has been insulted. That demands retribution."
He turned to Arthur and his companions, still seated, calmly watching.
"Which of you struck him?" he asked, tone faux-polite.
Arthur raised a brow. "Does it matter? Your cousin assaulted a tavern girl. We stopped him."
"He was drunk," Cleos said dismissively. "You could've used words."
"He used hands first," Arthur replied flatly.
The drunken noble scrambled to Cleos' side, dramatically recounting the tale. Cleos half-listened, his eyes on Patrick's fine cloak and the silver eagle of House Mallister.
He saw opportunity.
"You nobles from the Trident," he sneered. "Always acting like you're above the rest. That's not how things work in King's Landing."
"Tell that to your cousin," Patrick said coolly.
"I'll settle this generously," Cleos declared. "Pay a thousand gold dragons as compensation—call it a fine for assaulting a nobleman of Frey blood. And give up the tavern girl as part of the apology. Then we'll be even."
Laughter answered him.
Arthur stood, not as a knight, but as a man fed up with pretense. "I have no gold for cowards. Only fists."
"You'll regret that," Cleos snapped. "You think your Seagard name means anything here? I'll show you the value of a Marquis House."
He raised a hand. Twenty retainers behind him—guards, Frey men, a few sellswords—stepped forward. A few Goldcloaks drifted toward them too, uncertain but leaning Frey's way.
The Goldcloak captain looked on in horror. He wanted no part in this brawl, but couldn't back down either.
"If they strike first," he muttered under his breath, "we're neutral. Let them swing…"
The few tavern patrons still watching began murmuring.
"Don't provoke them," one said to Arthur's group. "They've got numbers."
"You're only six. They're twenty strong. Just pay them."
"Apologize and walk. Not worth it."
Arthur's smile was cold.
"Frogs croaking at the edge of a well think the sky ends at the rim. I'll show you the value of a marquis house."
And then he moved.
His fist caught the first Frey man clean in the jaw, dropping him like a sack of barley.
Patrick was up next, elbowing a man aside and tackling another.
Desmond, ever cautious, hesitated. But when he saw the tide turn, even he couldn't help but wade in.
And so, the brawl began—not just fists and boots, but honor, resentment, and defiance against a name that once struck fear.
Cleos Frey, for all his bloodlines and boasting, was about to learn that in the heart of King's Landing, a noble title could still be broken over a tavern table.
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