On the morning of the second day.
The banks of the Blackwater Rush were bustling with life. Locals from King's Landing gathered to escape the stench of the summer heat that wafted from Flea Bottom. Dozens of colorful tents stood nestled beneath the trees along the riverbank, with linen banners fluttering in the breeze. Servants bustled back and forth, bearing fruit-filled platters and barrels of wine. The scene was vibrant and chaotic, but far from unpleasant.
"This isn't bad at all," Patrick commented, enjoying the soft breeze and the distant scent of brine carried up from the Blackwater Bay.
"The Red Keep would be better," Desmond said with a wry grin, "but none of us are important enough to be lodged there."
The grizzled coach from Riverrun wasn't wrong.
By tradition, noble guests of high standing were offered quarters in the Red Keep when visiting the capital. Lords of ancient houses, highborn knights in service to the Crown, or direct vassals to House Baratheon often received this courtesy.
Take Lord Beric Dondarrion, for instance—the young Lord of Blackhaven, sworn to Storm's End and thus a Baratheon bannerman. Though only a minor lord, Beric stayed in the Red Keep, as his house hailed from the Stormlands, one of the Crown's core territories.
By contrast, Patrick—heir to House Mallister of Seagard—and Arthur, the newly rising Lord of Briarwhite in the eastern Riverlands, were from the Tully-held Riverlands, a realm with no such favor at court. Thus, like Desmond and most visiting lords, they were made to stay outside the Keep, scattered across inns and merchant homes in the upper hills.
There was politics in this, of course.
With Robert Baratheon seated on the Iron Throne, certain houses held greater influence—not just because of power, but proximity and allegiance. The three territories that formed the Baratheon "core" were the Crownlands, Dragonstone, and the Stormlands. Nobles from these regions—especially Stormlanders like the Selmys and Dondarrions—were treated with more esteem than their peers of similar rank elsewhere.
Following them were the bannermen of House Lannister. With Queen Cersei seated beside Robert, and Lord Tywin ruling the Westerlands, even lesser Lannister-aligned houses found favor. Ser Lancel and cousin Tyrek Lannister were seen frequently in court.
When Jon Arryn still lived, the Vale had its share of influence as well, with many of its sworn lords enjoying seats in the Small Council or on court business. Now, with his death and Lady Lysa retreating to the Eyrie, their political reach had withered.
As for the North—House Stark and its vassals had recently come into favor with Eddard Stark's arrival in the capital as Hand of the King. The direwolf banners now flew above the Hand's Tower, giving House Stark unprecedented presence in court affairs.
But the Riverlands? House Tully had fought fiercely in Robert's Rebellion, yet now stood outside the circles of influence. The same could be said for Arthur and his men.
This subtle hierarchy, full of courtly favoritism and unequal recognition, revealed the uneasy foundation of Robert's reign.
In theory, Robert's Iron Throne had been won by four great houses: the Deer of Storm's End, the Wolf of Winterfell, the Fish of Riverrun, and the Falcon of the Vale. Yet in practice, the alliances had frayed.
The Stormlands contributed little early in the rebellion; the brunt of the fighting had fallen to the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands. But it was Robert, the rebel crowned king, who reaped the crown and redistributed the rewards.
The Reach and Westerlands—both of which had stayed neutral or aligned with the Mad King until the eleventh hour—retained their power and lands. The Lannisters marched into King's Landing only after the city had fallen, and yet Robert married their daughter, granting them the greatest prize of all: the throne beside his.
House Tully, House Stark, and House Arryn—those who had truly bled for the rebellion—gained nothing more than what they had before: land, titles, and honor, but little power in the capital.
Lord Tywin's consolidation of power through his daughter Cersei, his gold, and his cold strategy became the centerpiece of post-war politics. The Lannisters had given least but gained the most.
As for House Tyrell and the Reach, they had bided their time. Though the Tyrells had bent the knee after the fall of the Mad King, they remained the most populous and fertile region in Westeros. Their strength was not spent, and their ambitions simmered beneath their rose banners. They had no intention of merely feeding the capital—they wanted influence that matched their might.
With no throne of their own to claim, marriage remained their greatest tool. And should Robert falter, they would back the next man willing to make a deal.
Even within House Baratheon, the seeds of division had sprouted. Stannis Baratheon, Robert's middle brother, had held Storm's End during the rebellion and had won Dragonstone through sacrifice. Yet he received the smallest reward—a barren island and cold respect. Renly, Robert's youngest brother, received Storm's End, a mighty seat, and the love of the court, though he had done nothing in the war.
Jealousy bred discord. Pride turned into silence. The Baratheon brothers barely spoke now, and court rumors whispered that each harbored thoughts of kingship.
The Iron Throne, barely held together by force and alliances, now trembled beneath the weight of those old cracks.
And in the shadows, Petyr Baelish had made his move. It was he who whispered into Lysa Arryn's ear and convinced her to poison her husband, the Hand of the King. The death of Jon Arryn had shattered what little stability remained and opened the path for chaos.
But for Arthur Bracken and his companions, none of this concerned them.
They were outsiders to the games of the capital—for now.
At this moment, what they needed to face were the assembled sons and heirs of various houses from the Reach—dozens of noble youths from families great and small. With them came their household knights, squires, and retinues, tripling their numbers with servants clad in house colors, attending to their every whim.
"Arthur Bracken, I'm glad you accepted the invitation," said Ser Loras Tyrell, rising from his seat in a show of genuine warmth.
Loras—widely known as the Knight of Flowers—was clad in a green and gold doublet embroidered with thorny roses. He radiated youthful elegance, charm, and martial confidence. Behind Arthur stood Patrick Mallister, Desmond, and the others, but Loras merely gave them a courteous nod—formality without warmth.
As the favored son of Lord Mace Tyrell, Warden of the South and one of the most powerful lords in the Seven Kingdoms, Ser Loras had little need to cultivate ties with minor nobles or hedge knights.
His invitation had been extended to Arthur alone—for two reasons. First, he deeply respected Arthur's act of defending a serving girl from a noble's cruelty in the tavern; second, and more pressing, Loras was intrigued by the tales of Arthur's overwhelming strength and his decisive handling of the confrontation that followed.
"I'd just been thinking of taking up the lance again," Arthur replied smoothly. "Your invitation is like a pillow delivered to a weary man."
Though his custom-forged plate armor was still incomplete—commissioned just days ago from Tobho Mott and others in Steel Street—Arthur had no intention of sitting idle. Riding alone, even unarmored, would help restore his rhythm with the lance.
In a tilt, the goal was simple: to unseat the opponent while staying astride. The lances used were longer and blunted, and the shields—designed for the joust—were not the flat or kite-shaped ones seen in battle. Instead, concave round shields were used, their design made to cradle the oncoming lance tip, preventing it from glancing off prematurely. It was all about balance, speed, and precision.
"There's no rush," Loras said with a grin. "I see you're not armored yet, so we'll just loosen up on horseback."
The Knight of Flowers was magnanimous with those he considered comrades. Without further formality, the two of them stepped away from the crowd and took seats together beneath a canopy draped with Tyrell green and golden trim. It was positioned at the front row of the makeshift gallery overlooking the tourney field—a place of honor.
Though the tiltyard was still being prepared for the Hand's Tourney in a few days, Loras' influence as the son of the Reach's ruling house ensured early access for training. The other nobles—sons of minor lords from the Mander valley and beyond—had no objection. After all, in the Reach, the Tyrell name carried near-royal weight.
Patrick, Desmond, and the others weren't extended the same courtesy. They were ushered toward seats a short distance back—nothing shameful, just appropriately matched to their station. Still, with the area largely empty, they sat close enough to hear the conversation ahead.
"I have to ask," Loras began, curiosity glinting in his eyes, "is your strength something natural? A gift from the gods? Or was it earned through training?"
With a graceful gesture, he signaled to a servant to pour wine—Arbor Gold from House Redwyne's own vineyards.
"Not a gift," Arthur said, his voice steady. "I earned every ounce of it through years of hard work."
He spoke with the confident ease of someone telling a well-rehearsed truth—conveniently omitting the system that had transformed him.
Loras leaned in with admiration. "You're the strongest man I've ever seen. You must teach me—help me reach that level."
Arthur allowed himself a restrained smile, then replied earnestly, "Strength begins in the core—your waist, your gut, your lower back. That's where true power comes from. You can't swing a sword or brace a lance without it."
"To train that," he continued, improvising, "you need to focus on things like—well, sit-ups, planking, balance drills. And of course, eating meat. Lots of it. Muscle needs fuel."
Loras listened, brow furrowed in thought. These were not terms he'd heard before—certainly not in the training yards of Highgarden or King's Landing.
"Those exercises," he said slowly, "did you create them yourself? They sound… sophisticated."
Arthur nodded, bluffing effortlessly. "Since I was a boy, I've been trying to find better ways to grow stronger. What I just told you? It's barely the surface of what I've learned."
"That only proves I was right to invite you," Loras said warmly. "You're unlike any knight I've ever met. I think I can learn a great deal from you."
Just then, a servant arrived carrying the promised wine. Loras took the goblet and, in a mark of honor, poured Arthur's cup himself with golden Arbor vintage.
Their talk continued in good spirits, the two knights sharing stories and theories—Arthur weaving together old-world charm and modern athletic logic.
But the moment was broken by a sharp voice from the edge of the field.
"What? Did I hear that right—someone killed over three hundred people?!"
Heads turned. Even the Tyrell guards nearby looked up in surprise. The murmurs rippled through the noble gathering like wind in tall grass.
Arthur's expression didn't change. But in his heart, he knew the rumors had begun to grow beyond his control.
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