Arthas's audacious declaration immediately sent ripples through the stands of King's Landing. The nobles, accustomed to courtesy and posturing, were stunned. None had expected a Lannister youth to confront the combined might of seven Kingsguard with such arrogance.
"Lannister, you are far too bold!"
Before Jaime could intervene, Meryn Trant, standing just behind him, could no longer contain his outrage. He drew his sword with a sharp metallic hiss, eyes burning with indignation as he faced Arthas, gripping the hilt with both hands. He paid no heed to the golden lion sigil across the boy's chest—blood and family loyalty had no weight in the face of such audacity.
"If Ser Jaime hadn't personally acknowledged your previous victory, what right do you have to challenge seven Kingsguard at once?" Trant's words drew nods from surrounding nobles. Though they had witnessed the aura Arthas radiated upon entering the arena, few had actually seen him fight. Most were there to witness spectacle, not believe in miracles.
"Ser Meryn Trant, you speak too much," Arthas said coldly, shifting his grip on Frostmourne. The blade, which had been aimed at Jaime moments before, now pointed directly at Trant, the faint blue shimmer of the runes catching the sunlight. His golden eyes—already partially silver beneath the helmet—locked onto Trant with unrelenting intensity.
A chill crawled down Trant's spine. Even without seeing the expression beneath the helmet, he felt as though the weight of death itself pressed upon him. Whispers of the long-dead seemed to echo in his ears, their voices distant yet unmistakable, a chorus of doom he could not escape.
Clang!
The sword slipped from his hands. His body froze, unresponsive to his commands, and the longsword clattered against the stone.
"What's happening?" King Robert shouted, drawn from his casual perch at the railing, his wine momentarily forgotten. "Meryn Trant!"
"You incompetent glutton! Has peace made you so weak that you cannot even hold your weapon?" The king's voice boomed, eliciting a ripple of laughter from the nobles in the stands.
Trant struggled, bending to retrieve his sword, but Arthas's aura pressed upon him like an invisible vice, leaving him unable to move.
"Ser Meryn," a calm voice spoke. Barristan Selmy, who had remained silent until now, stepped forward. His tall, broad frame loomed between Trant and the Death Knight, absorbing some of the oppressive killing intent.
"Pick up your sword. The battle is about to begin."
Relief flooded Trant. He bent fully, reclaimed his weapon, and looked toward Barristan with gratitude. "Thank you, Ser Barristan."
Barristan offered no reply. Instead, he slowly lowered his helmet into place, signaling the other six Kingsguard to follow suit. A palpable tension descended upon the arena—the seven elite warriors standing like the tip of an arrow ready to strike.
"I believe it is time," Barristan murmured, his voice low, almost as if speaking to himself. Though a veteran of countless battles, the Death Knight's aura had stirred an exhilaration in him he hadn't felt in years. Every muscle, every nerve in his body tingled with anticipation.
"King Robert," Barristan's voice rang clear and commanding, "please give the order!"
Eyes turned toward the king. Robert's face was flushed with excitement, wine-fueled but sincere. "Witnessed by the Seven! I, Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, command it—begin the slaughter, knights!"
At Robert's words, an impossible scene unfolded. Arthas, the younger and ostensibly weaker of the combatants, surged forward with unrelenting speed. Like a lion charging a flock of sheep, he ran headlong at the seven Kingsguard, unyielding, fearless.
"This child!" a noblewoman shrieked. "He will die instantly!"
"No… that's suicide!" another shouted, aghast at the sheer audacity.
Experience dictated that when outnumbered, retreat and defense were the only options. Even the great Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, had fallen to a sneak attack for failing to understand such principles. Yet here was Arthas, defying every lesson, every expectation, with reckless brilliance.
"Kill him, Jaime!" cried Joffrey, pumping his tiny fists with excitement. The memory of being terrified by Arthas the day before still haunted him. Arthas's insinuations about his parentage had left him sleepless, frightened, and now, watching the Death Knight rush to his potential doom, Joffrey felt a twisted delight.
"Move aside, Joffrey," Cersei scolded, her voice sharp. The boy quickly stepped back, seated obediently beside her, chastened despite his excitement.
"You are the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms," Cersei reminded him, echoing Arthas's stern words from the previous day. "A future protector of the realm—you must maintain your dignity."
Meanwhile, in the arena, Arthas had reached Barristan. Frostmourne was in motion, its icy tip flickering like a serpent's tongue. The veteran held his longsword upright, prepared for the assault. Suddenly, the blade flashed forward with impossible speed, aimed directly at his forehead. Barristan's instincts, honed over decades, guided him to sidestep—just barely avoiding the lethal strike. Crimson streaked his cheek, but he remained standing.
Arthas crossed his previous position with lightning swiftness. Barristan countered with a precise thrust toward Arthas's waist. The boy had no room for error; the swords of Meryn Trant and the Kingsguard to his sides were already descending.
A hint of a smile flickered beneath Arthas's helmet. Barristan, being the closest, noticed it. A surge of unease struck him—a premonition of catastrophe he could not name.
Then it happened. Arthas did not parry. He did not dodge. He allowed Barristan's sword to pierce his chest.
In a heartbeat, he seized Barristan's longsword with his right hand, kicking the veteran meters away with such force that the air seemed to explode around him. Barristan momentarily lost his breath, vision darkening from the sheer impact.
Turning to Meryn Trant, Arthas swung Frostmourne, piercing the man's chest with terrifying precision. His right hand ripped free the weapon lodged in his own body, hurling it toward the next Kingsguard. In an instant, two men lay defeated—one critically wounded, the other incapacitated.
The remaining four charged to surround him, but Arthas moved like a phantom. The speed granted by his dark aura made every strike and counter strike blur into an almost impossible choreography. Blood and steel filled the arena.
From the stands, gasps and murmurs filled the air:
"Too brutal!"
"How can anyone fight like this?"
"Even with the Kingsguard against him… he fights as if possessed!"
The Imp gripped his short legs tightly, anxiety and hope mingling as he watched his brother fight. Though he had never believed in the Seven, his mind silently prayed for Arthas to survive.
Arthas's movements were a dance of death, exhilarating and terrifying. The long-lost thrill of battle, once buried in his past, surged within him. Frostmourne, long sealed and untouched, drank the first taste of blood in over a decade. Two screaming souls were drawn into the blade, their wails feeding its ethereal light. The skull-and-ram engravings along the sword shimmered faintly, awakened from their slumber.
"Old friend… are you pleased?" Arthas whispered to the sword, his laugh tearing across the battlefield as he threw his helmet aside. The laughter was raw, filled with weariness yet alive with renewed vigor.
He stood amidst the chaos, holding Frostmourne in both hands, facing four remaining Kingsguard, a lion in the center of a flock. Every swing, every motion radiated dominance, power, and the promise of unstoppable force.
"I am Arthas Lannister!" he roared, his voice echoing like thunder. "When this is over, you shall beg for my forgiveness—and I…"
He raised Frostmourne high, the icy blade glinting in the sun, a declaration of defiance, and finished:
"…will choose to refuse!"
The arena erupted, some in terror, some in awe. A legend was being forged before their eyes—a boy who dared defy the Seven Kingdoms' greatest warriors, wielding a sword older than many of them, and surviving against impossible odds.