Early the next morning, by the banks of the Blackwater River.
Bustling crowds had gathered long before sunrise, clogging the area so tightly that not even a passage for the nobles of King's Landing would have remained if not for the diligent Gold Cloaks standing guard.
For today was the day of the Tourney held specifically to welcome the current hand of the king, Eddard Stark!
Small vendors, drawn by the scent of coin, displayed their finest crafts—food, drink, and all sorts of novel trinkets.
All to entice those generous noble lords into parting with the Gold Dragons in their pockets.
Had Arthas not ordered a ban on any indecent behavior near the Tourney, even the prostitutes of Silk Street might have pitched tents nearby, spreading their legs to await the entry of Gold Dragons.
It could be said that while Robert was extravagant, spending nearly a hundred thousand Gold Dragons on this Tourney alone, it also indirectly stimulated consumption in King's Landing.
Once spent, this money would flow back into the pockets of the people of King's Landing in various forms; in a sense, it was taken from the people and used for the people.
At the highest point with the best view, the Gold Cloaks had constructed a luxurious grandstand specifically for the royal family and high nobility.
Robert, clad in heavy armor, sat in the center of the stand, his excited eyes bloodshot. Above the thick flagpole directly in front of him hung the fresh carcass of a massive grizzly bear.
Hunting while drunk—this absurd king had, surprisingly, met with no accidents.
He had gone out of the city yesterday and, like a blind cat finding a dead mouse, soon encountered this grizzly bear that stood nearly three meters tall.
Excitedly wielding his hammer, he had smashed the grizzly's head to a pulp in just a few blows, leaving Barristan and Jaime, who were following him, utterly stunned.
Had Robert not spent the entire night in a frenzy on Silk Street afterward, the two might have wondered if he had been possessed by The Warrior of the Seven Gods.
Despite having had no sleep and having bloodshot eyes, Robert felt no fatigue at all. Instead, he felt his body surging with power.
Ever since the day he returned from chasing Arthas on the Kings Road, he felt as if he were a tireless machine.
But he had never looked deeply into the matter, or rather, he subconsciously chose to ignore it.
It was a good thing, wasn't it?
Since passing the age of thirty, although he was still vigorous thanks to his youthful foundation, he wasn't quite as fierce in certain aspects as he had been in his teens or twenties.
Who could understand the pain of a middle-aged man?
But from that day on, he had barely slept. He spent his days wandering between Silk Street and his own chambers, his kingly prowess making the wayward women beg for mercy one after another, greatly satisfying his self-esteem.
"Gulp, gulp~"
He drained another cup of wine, his fat face flushed red with intoxication.
"Wine!"
He thrust his cup toward the wine steward beside him, who hurriedly and tremblingly refilled it.
This wine steward from House Tyrell was terrified. Over the past few days, the King had consumed nearly five large barrels of wine as tall as a man.
From the mild Dornish Summerhall at the start to the strong Dornish wine now, he never stopped drinking, even while visiting prostitutes.
The steward stood shakily by Robert's side, praying to the gods that the King wouldn't die of alcohol poisoning.
"What is wrong with this fellow lately?"
Cersei's green eyes flickered slightly at his side; she had noticed something was amiss.
Although Robert was usually improper and as addicted to wine as she was, it shouldn't have reached the absurd level of trying to drown himself in it.
But she had no intention of interfering.
Taking a light sip of the sweet wine from The Reach, Cersei only wished the man would die sooner.
When it came to power, Cersei had an even more obsessive desire for control than her father, Tywin.
Once Robert was dead and her son Joffrey ascended the throne, the young king would need a Queen Regent to handle the affairs of state for him.
When that time came... Hiding her gaze behind her wine cup, she watched the blond youth slowly walking onto the stand. A trace of malice flickered beneath her beautiful lashes.
Never underestimate a woman's desire for revenge; she still remembered the insult from that day... "Hello, Young Miss of House Stark."
With elegant steps, Arthas paced slowly toward the petite and delicate Sansa Stark.
Though she was close to him in age, the girl, who had inherited her mother's fine genes, had already grown into a graceful young woman.
With clear blue eyes, soft auburn hair, an exquisite face, and years of lady-like education, Sansa appeared very elegant.
"May I sit here?"
With a kind smile, Arthas's golden eyes, bright as the sun, met hers.
"Of... of course, My Lord."
The sudden question startled Sansa. She stared at Arthas's incredibly handsome face like a smitten girl, wondering how such a handsome man could exist in King's Landing.
It wasn't until he coughed twice that she snapped out of it, quickly shifting her seat to make room beside her.
"Judging by your age, you must be the eldest daughter of Lord Stark?"
"If I recall correctly, your name is Sansa Stark, isn't it?"
Arthas seemed to enjoy seeing the girl's shy demeanor; he leaned slightly closer and asked softly.
"Ye... yes, My Lord."
"Might I ask for your name?"
Even though he seemed to be teasing her, Sansa didn't resist at all. Instead, her heart fluttered like a trapped bird, and for a moment, she completely forgot about her beloved Joffrey.
Her accent didn't sound like a Northerner's; instead, it carried the stiff refinement typical of King's Landing nobility, yet it seemed playful given her shy expression.
Arsath Lannister.
Seeing Sansa's timid look, Arthas seemed even more interested. He leaned in closer and whispered in her ear:
"I am Joffrey's uncle. You may also call me Al."
"You are Arsath Lannister!"
Realizing he was the first knight of the seven kingdoms whose name echoed throughout Westeros, Sansa was so excited she almost cried out, forgetting her manners.
"Why, do I not look the part?"
"No, no..."
Seeing that Arthas seemed a bit offended, Sansa quickly explained:
"I just didn't expect the first knight of the seven kingdoms to be so... handsome."
Her voice trailed off, her face flushing crimson as she lowered her head, not daring to meet his eyes.
"Does Young Miss Sansa believe that all powerful knights should be like that stray dog by Joffrey's side?"
"Or perhaps, always wear a stern face like your father?"
As he spoke, Arthas's expression turned serious, and he began to mimic Eddard Stark in a deep voice:
"I am Eddard Stark. You—no drinking!"
"Hahaha~"
The lifelike impression made the girl cover her mouth, not daring to laugh out loud.
But she didn't notice the eerie smile curling at the corner of the gentle youth's mouth... "Arsath Lannister!"
While the two were laughing happily, Joffrey, standing behind Sansa, watched them sitting together like a perfect couple, his eyes nearly spitting fire.
Although his mother had told him that Sansa was merely a tool to unite with House Stark...
And although he himself only saw her as a stupid plaything to be manipulated at will...
But when someone else coveted her, especially when that person was Arthas, Joffrey could no longer endure it!
The Hound!
Recalling Arthas's martial prowess, the future great emperor did not intend to confront him directly. Instead, he shouted for his personal guard.
A faint look of impatience flickered in his eyes, wondering what trouble he was about to cause now, but The Hound still obediently stepped to Joffrey's side:
"Your commands, Your Highness."
"I want you to get rid of Arthas!"
Staring resentfully at the happy backs of Arthas and Sansa, Joffrey gripped his wine cup tightly, as if wishing he could cut off the man's head immediately.
"Me?"
Seemingly shocked by Joffrey's Heaven-Defying remark, The Hound's eyes filled with disbelief.
He stared wide-eyed at this seemingly brain-dead prince, as if wondering just how low his IQ could go:
"With all due respect, Prince Joffrey."
Despite his inner shock, The Hound replied respectfully on the surface:
"Never mind me, in all of Westeros, I doubt there is anyone who can do what you just said."
Seeing The Hound look at him as if he were an idiot, Joffrey grew furious. He slammed his wine cup to the ground and tried to grab the man's collar.
But since the man was wearing armor, he could only grab The Hound's arms, cursing in a low, angry voice:
"You fool, I'm not telling you to face him in a direct confrontation!"
"You mean..."
As if guessing Joffrey's thoughts, The Hound asked back in a suspicious tone.
"Find some assassins, you idiot!"
With a malicious glint in his eyes identical to Cersei's, Joffrey spoke incredibly cruel words:
"Whether it's poison or assassination."
"No matter what method you use, I want him dead!"
"But... Your Highness, he is still your uncle."
The Hound clearly didn't want to get involved in this mess. Putting aside the fact that his name was Clegane, if he really moved against Arthas, regardless of success or failure, he, the "dog," would be the first one thrown out to be skinned alive as a scapegoat.
"Hmph, uncle?"
Walking back to the table to pick up another cup, Joffrey watched Jaime standing behind Robert, calculating his own schemes.
"He's nothing but a damned bastard!"
"Once he's dead, Casterly Rock will have no heir."
"Then, Grandfather will definitely do everything he can to make Jaime return."
And then... Joffrey thought with what little intelligence he had, as long as Jaime was kept away from Cersei, the issue of his parentage would be resolved.
That's how it is, right...
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