The championship match between Leo and Barristan had everyone talking.
Word had spread fast that the two were actually teacher and student. A master-versus-apprentice final made the whole thing even juicier.
Plenty of newcomers to King's Landing heard the rumor that Leo had only trained under Barristan for two months and had never studied swordplay or mounted combat before that. Most of them flat-out refused to believe it.
"No way. Two months of sword training? Bullshit."
"Exactly. Every knight worth his salt grinds for years. Nobody wins runner-up at a royal tourney after two months and then takes a shot at the crown."
"Seven hells, I watched him unhorse the Hound! That didn't look like two months to me."
"Someone's feeding us lies so we won't bet on him. Classic bookie trick. They want you thinking, 'No rookie beats Barristan the Bold.'"
"Damn right. Don't fall for it. We all ride on Ser Neo!"
The whispers turned into open shouting. Soon half the stands were convinced the "two-month" story was a scam to keep the odds fat on Barristan. More and more people stormed the betting stalls and slammed their coin on Leo.
By the time Leo heard the news at lunch, he could only shake his head and laugh.
He didn't even have real confidence he could beat his teacher, yet these fools were all-in on him. Someone had definitely stirred the pot.
If he lost tomorrow, half the city was going to look like they'd been slapped.
Still, facts were facts. Every bit of skill Leo had came from Barristan. Even with his system skills, a win wasn't guaranteed—and Leo had already decided out of respect that he wouldn't use them. He was probably going to lose.
But he wasn't about to let a golden money-making chance slip by.
He waved Varyn over. "Bet twenty thousand gold dragons."
Varyn nearly dropped his cup. "Did I hear that right? Twenty thousand? On Ser Barristan? Not… on you?"
"You heard me. Make it happen."
Varyn hesitated, then nodded and left. Halfway out of the pavilion he finally caught on. My lord's throwing the match on purpose. Betting heavy on Barristan would be a guaranteed win. No wonder the amount was so huge.
Varyn still didn't like it. He had watched Leo train every day for two months—from clumsy beginner to the man who had just crushed the Hound and a dozen other knights. Leo was a once-in-a-thousand-years talent.
Honor should matter more than gold… right?
He shook his head, confused, but followed orders anyway. He split the twenty thousand across different bookies so it wouldn't look too suspicious. Then he took every last silver stag he owned and quietly bet it all on Leo.
Littlefinger, who ran the biggest betting syndicate on the field, studied the latest ledger and smiled wider than ever.
He had planted the "two-month rookie" rumor himself and fanned the flames until almost everyone believed Leo was the sure thing. The heavier the public money poured onto Leo, the fatter Littlefinger's profit when the old lion won.
He flipped the page and froze.
Dozens of unfamiliar names had just dropped more than twenty thousand gold dragons on Barristan.
"Smart money," he muttered.
Most of the big noble bets on Barristan came from houses he knew by heart. These new ones were different—anonymous, split up, perfectly timed. Someone was trying to stay hidden.
He sent a runner to check. The answer came back fast: all the bets had been placed through Varyn, Leo's right-hand man.
Littlefinger leaned back, lips curling. "So the honorable Ser Neo is just as greedy as the rest of us underneath that shiny armor. Excellent."
The discovery pleased him more than it worried him. A man who talked honor but acted like this was someone he could actually work with.
Leo had no idea his casual money grab had just made Littlefinger like him even more—and plan to recruit him harder.
By afternoon the jousts were done for the day. The brutal group melee was next on the schedule.
Then the real bombshell dropped.
King Robert was entering the melee himself.
The entire tourney ground exploded.