That night the whole camp threw another massive feast to celebrate the king winning the group melee.
Robert's gut wound didn't slow him down one bit. If anything, the pain made the victory feel real. For the first time in years he'd actually fought hard instead of everyone pulling punches because he was the king.
And Neo had been a beast out there, carving through the field and making Robert look unstoppable. The kid had stayed glued to his side the whole time, guarding him like a sworn shield. Robert saw real talent—someone worth keeping close.
Robert wasn't a total political idiot. Four of the seven small council seats were already his people: Jon Arryn (his foster father) as Hand, Littlefinger as Master of Coin, Renly as Master of Laws, and Stannis as Master of Ships. Barristan Selmy led the Kingsguard—loyal and fearless. He kept Pycelle and Varys around to quiet the old Targaryen loyalists. The Lannisters got the queen and Jaime's white cloak, but nothing else. Robert kept them out of real power.
He knew how to use marriages, titles, and balance to stay on the throne. That's why he liked Neo so much. The kid had real fighting skill, bags of gold, and some mysterious eastern empire behind him. When Neo also knew exactly how to flatter without looking like a bootlicker, Robert had the perfect excuse to knight him.
A cheap title in exchange for a high-value ally? Easy win.
So the feast wasn't just about the melee. It was about pulling Neo tighter into his circle.
The second the banquet started, Robert called Neo over and personally dragged him to the seat on his left—the spot normally reserved for the Hand. Jon Arryn had skipped the feast again, claiming too much work and poor health.
Neo sitting at the king's table turned every head in the pavilion.
Most of the lords and knights had either watched or heard about the afternoon's bloodbath. They knew exactly how savage Neo had been. Everyone raised their cups to Robert and to Neo. The mood was loud, warm, and full of backslaps.
Robert's wound wasn't bad, but Grand Maester Pycelle still begged him to take it easy. Robert ignored him, drank like a fish, and ended up blackout drunk. Servants had to carry him back to his tent.
Leo got hit just as hard—cup after cup from men wanting to toast the hero of the melee. By the end he was slumped over, carried out of the pavilion like a sack of grain.
Littlefinger, tucked in a dark corner, let a tiny smile slip across his face when he saw Neo hauled away. Barristan, still on royal guard duty, frowned and shook his head.
The moment the last servant left Leo's tent and the flaps dropped, Leo's eyes snapped open. Sharp, clear, and grinning like a fox.
He'd been faking the whole time.
Perfect excuse for tomorrow's final against Barristan. Whether he lost fair and square or just decided to throw it, he could blame the group melee, the blood loss, and all the wine.
Besides, the melee had pushed him to level 9 and unlocked a new skill.
[Heroic Throw]: Hurl your weapon at an enemy with massively increased accuracy. Hit chance and damage scale with your strength and speed.
Stats now sat at:
Strength 15.6
Agility 12.45
Stamina 15.8
Magic Power 0 (still zero, stubborn as ever).
The night passed quietly.
Dawn came and Leo woke up ready for the championship match, confidence high—until Varyn stormed into the tent, face tight with anger.
"Bad news, my lord."
Varyn's voice was low and pissed.
"I went to the stables before sunrise to feed your stallion some premium oats—make sure he was perfect for today. Found this mixed into the trough."
He pulled out a small paper packet, unfolded it, and showed Leo a handful of gray-brown hay flecked with pale gray powder. It looked like moldy scraps.
"What the hell is it?" Leo asked.
"If I'm right, it's hay laced with greycap powder and monkshood dust," Varyn said. "I saw this crap on a sellsword job once. Greycap gives horses gut cramps, diarrhea, dehydration. Monkshood is the maesters' favorite—makes them puke, twist in pain, go weak, heart races all over the place."
"I've kept every stable hand away from your horse since the tourney started. I feed him myself. This morning I spotted leftover hay in the trough and checked it close. Someone sabotaged your mount, my lord. They don't want you winning today. Filthy cowards!"
Leo's jaw clenched. He got it instantly. The same bastards who'd bet heavy on Barristan were playing dirty.
They'd do anything to protect their coin.
Or maybe someone who already hated him just wanted him to look like a fool in the biggest match of the tourney.
"My lord, your breakfast is here!" a servant called from outside the tent.
Leo shot Varyn a quick look, then answered loud and easy, "Bring it in!"