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"My lord, what about the match… your horse?" Varyn asked, watching Leo's frown deepen.
The white stallion was definitely out. No way it could run today. Varyn needed to know the next move.
Leo snapped out of it and waved him off. "Don't worry about the mount—I've got it handled. Go find me a plain brown horse… actually, forget it. I'm taking this straight to the king."
The horse problem wasn't a problem at all. His Collections tab held hundreds of mounts, including several from the human races. He could summon a swift brown warhorse in a heartbeat and swap it in quietly.
But screw quiet.
Whoever poisoned him hadn't been caught. He wasn't swallowing this insult without payback.
Time to dump the whole mess in Robert's lap.
Leo grabbed the tainted breakfast tray and headed for the royal pavilion.
He was the victim. The squeaky wheel gets the grease.
And while he was at it, he'd use the incident to smoke out the bastard behind it.
Minutes later he stood inside Robert's tent, facing a king who had just rolled out of bed.
The second Robert heard what happened, he exploded.
"Someone dared poison my man right under my nose?!" His face turned purple. "What if they can do the same to me—or the queen—or my sons?!"
The thought of Targaryen remnants or some other shadow slipping poison into the royal food hit him like a hammer. Robert's spine went ice-cold.
"Guards!" he roared. "Bring me Varys, Barristan, Pycelle, and Janos Slynt—now! Move!"
Outside, Jaime heard the bellow and sent runners, then stepped into the tent himself, hand resting on his sword hilt, waiting for orders.
Robert was already sweeping everything off the table, cups and plates crashing to the ground. "This is treason! Seven hells! I'll have the whoreson's head on a spike!"
"Your Grace, please calm yourself," Leo cut in fast. "We shouldn't make this public."
Robert rounded on him, beard bristling. "What?"
Leo kept his voice low and steady. "This was aimed at me. If you send the gold cloaks tearing through the camp, the real culprit will know we're onto him. Better to act like nothing happened. Use only people you trust for a quiet hunt."
"I'll pretend the poison worked. Let them think their plan succeeded. They'll get careless and slip up."
"Besides, this could stay small—some gambler panicking over lost coin—or blow up into a stain on the honor of every lord in the Seven Kingdoms… and on your name, Your Grace. Certain people would love to twist it against the crown."
Robert wasn't stupid. Rage had just clouded his thinking for a moment. He rubbed his face, then nodded.
"You're right. We do it your way."
He shot Jaime a glare. "Not a word of this leaves the tent."
Jaime gave a stiff bow and left without comment, but not before throwing Leo a long, measuring look.
Soon Barristan and Varys arrived. Robert kept the circle tight—only those two.
Barristan's loyalty was unquestioned. Varys was the master of whispers; any secret investigation needed him.
Both men listened, faces tightening with shock.
Robert's orders were iron. "Varys—three days. I want answers. Barristan, the royal family's safety is on you. Eyes open, no mistakes. Understood?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
Robert turned to Barristan again, voice dropping. "The final joust is almost here… I was looking forward to it. Now with this…"
He and Leo had already worked out the details. If Leo was pretending to be poisoned, he couldn't fight at full strength. The outcome was obvious.
Barristan glanced at Leo, regret plain in his eyes.
Robert clapped Leo on the shoulder. "You got screwed today, lad. Don't worry—I'll make it right. You have my word."
Leo kept his face perfectly grateful. "Serving you is never a hardship, Your Grace."
Robert barked a laugh. "You always know what to say, boy."
…
By midday the crowd was roaring. The championship joust everyone had waited for was finally here.
Leo and Barristan rode to the center of the lists for the king's review and the cheers of the stands.
Commoners screamed themselves hoarse for whoever they'd bet on. Nobles on the high dais chatted excitedly about the teacher-versus-student showdown.
Would the old lion Barristan still take the crown, or would the young powerhouse Neo finally topple his master?
A few sharp-eyed lords noticed one odd detail right away: Neo was riding a plain, unremarkable gray warhorse instead of his usual dazzling white stallion.
Swapped mounts at the final? And for something so ordinary?
Where was the white charger?
Was the foreigner just cocky… or had something gone wrong?
In the noble stands, one man's mouth curved into a small, satisfied smile.
Looks like this one's in the bag.