Arthur turned around and saw the tavern couple dragging their daughter forward. They looked like they meant to force her into bowing before the drunken noble, whose flushed cheeks and loose tongue made his intentions sickeningly clear.
"Look at that face… you're lucky I touched it," the noble slurred, his voice soaked with Arbor red. His fingers, though clumsy, found their mark with disturbing ease, trailing down the girl's shoulders and lingering far too low.
His companions roared with laughter, pounding their tankards on the tables as if this were some mummer's farce. The tavern owner and his wife averted their eyes, keeping their daughter's head down while muttering weak apologies. Around the tavern, other patrons avoided looking—some out of shame, others out of fear—but a few hooted along, eager for a show.
Despite her head being forced down and the noble's hand groping her chest, the girl clenched her jaw and hissed through her teeth, refusing to cry out.
Arthur found the scene repugnant. But this wasn't Shire, and she wasn't his subject. She was a girl of Flea Bottom or the lower slopes of Visenya's Hill, and King's Landing had its own king—though Robert Baratheon was likely drinking with whores in the Red Keep or chasing serving girls through the royal kitchens.
"Your lordship, she's already apologized," the tavern owner said humbly, his voice almost groveling. "Please accept two more barrels of steamed rice wine, no charge."
"No, no, no," the nobleman giggled, waving a wobbly finger. "She stays with me. All night. All. Night."
The father looked down at his daughter's shaking form. Her body resisted his grip, but he didn't budge. In his mind, he told himself that chastity wasn't worth dying over—after all, even Lord Jon Arryn had married mad Lysa Tully. If this could avoid ruin, so be it.
He nodded. "Just for one night."
With that, he released his daughter's head. She raised her tear-streaked face and spat: "I didn't do anything wrong! Why are you apologizing for me? Why—?" She choked, sobbing.
That seemed to excite the drunken noble even more. He seized her, pulling her tight against his chest.
"Let me go!" the girl shouted, then bit hard into his forearm. He shrieked. She broke free, stumbling toward Arthur's table, where she collapsed in a heap. She tried to stand, failed, and broke into heavier sobs.
"Seven save me!" she wailed. "Please, someone… help me!"
The noble stormed over, dragging his feet but moving with singular purpose. "You little wretch! You're mine—mine!"
He knelt beside her, his belt already undone. Though his breeches hadn't dropped, the intent was all too plain.
The girl curled into herself, knowing the gold cloaks wouldn't come. The City Watch served the nobles, not lowborn girls. Her cries grew desperate as he reached out.
Then a hand—firm, cold, unrelenting—closed around the noble's wrist like a steel trap.
"That's enough," Arthur said, his voice sharp and low.
The noble blinked, confused, then enraged. He tugged, but Arthur's grip didn't budge.
"Hit him!" the noble shouted. "Hit him!"
His retainers surged forward.
"You bumpkins know who you're touching?" one shouted.
"Kneel and beg before your betters!" screamed another.
Arthur casually grabbed his unfinished pigeon and crammed it into the noble's mouth. "Sober up."
The noble gagged.
Desmond, cautious as always, murmured, "Let it be. No need to provoke a scene."
Patrick leaned forward with a grin. "Scene's already here. Might as well make it a good one."
Arthur rose slowly, still holding the noble. One hand was enough.
The first thug lunged—and flew backward before he even got close. Arthur's kick hit like a hammer, launching the man into the stone wall with a crash. He crumpled to the ground, groaning faintly.
The second tried to duck in, but caught a spinning blow to the jaw and spun twice before hitting the floor.
The third and fourth got only partial hits—a backhand and a boot to the thigh—but it was enough to knock them off their feet.
The fifth man took one look at the wreckage and vanished into the crowd.
"Stop! Please stop!" the tavern couple pleaded. "We'll take her away—no more trouble!"
But they spoke of her like one might of broken crockery: something regrettable, but replaceable.
The crowd buzzed—some urging Arthur to let it go, others sneering that he'd face royal punishment, and a few cheering the chaos. Arthur cast a glare across the room.
"Shut up," he barked.
Silence fell like a sword.
He turned back to the noble, who was now wide-eyed and spitting out pigeon meat.
"You sober now?" Arthur asked. "This is King's Landing—not your backwater keep."
The noble's drunken haze was clearing, but arrogance remained.
"You—country scum—you touch me and think you'll get away with it? Her parents agreed! You hear me? They said yes!"
The girl whimpered, wiping her eyes, then spoke through tears: "Thank you, ser… thank you."
Arthur ignored the noble's snarling and bent toward her. "What's your answer?"
If she gave in, he would walk away.
But her voice was firm: "He touched me. I did nothing wrong. I won't go with him."
Arthur nodded. "Good. That's all I needed."
He straightened and looked the nobleman dead in the eye.
"I already told you—this is enough. You didn't understand, did you?"
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