The Wang Party and the Empress Party
The King's two attendants exchanged nervous smiles as Robert Baratheon turned his gaze back toward them.
Eddard Stark could not help but study the pair more closely. It was obvious at a glance where they came from.
House Lannister.
Both boys were handsome in the way only the Westerlands seemed capable of producing—fair-skinned, tall, and well-proportioned. One, with golden curls, looked to be about Sansa's age. The other appeared a little older, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, with yellow-brown hair, the faint shadow of a mustache on his upper lip, and striking emerald-green eyes that were unmistakably inherited from the Queen.
Robert snorted, then pointed at them with a grin.
"You two—yes, you two. Did you hear what the Hand said?" he barked. "The King has grown too fat for his armor. Go find Ser Alyn Santagar and tell him I need pincers to stretch the breastplate."
He waved them off impatiently.
"Well? What are you waiting for? Run!"
The two boys scrambled out of the bedchamber in a panic, nearly tripping over each other as they fled. The moment the door closed behind them, Robert's stern expression shattered. He leaned back against the bed and burst into loud, unrestrained laughter, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes.
Eddard shook his head faintly.
"Are both of them Lannister men?" he asked.
Robert nodded, still chuckling.
"Cersei's cousins. Sons of my good father-in-law's brother," he said vaguely. "The one who died… or maybe the one who's still alive. Hell if I remember."
He shrugged.
"My wife comes from a very large family, Eddard."
Eddard did not reply at once.
House Lannister was indeed vast. Tywin Lannister had three brothers, each with children of their own, and the family's hunger for power was legendary. Gold, influence, offices at court—nothing was ever enough.
Eddard had no personal grievance against the two boys. They seemed harmless enough. Yet he could not help thinking that it might have been better if the King were attended by young men of House Baratheon, or sons of loyal Stormlands lords.
Instead, Lannister colors surrounded Robert day and night.
And yet, the King himself seemed utterly unconcerned.
"I heard you had a disagreement with the Queen last night," Eddard said carefully.
The laughter vanished from Robert's face as if it had never been there.
"That woman tried to stop me from riding in today's tourney," Robert said darkly. "She's sulking somewhere in the castle now. Let her choke on her anger."
He snorted.
"Your sister would never have humiliated me like that."
Eddard looked at his old friend with quiet sadness.
"Robert," he said gently, "you don't know Lyanna as well as you think. You loved her beauty, but you never understood her stubbornness."
He met Robert's gaze squarely.
"If she were still alive, she would tell you plainly that you have no business riding in this tourney."
Robert opened his mouth to argue, then stopped.
In the end, after much grumbling and a great deal of persuasion, he reluctantly abandoned the idea of entering the lists himself.
As they continued talking, the King's dark mood gradually lifted. They spoke of the Iron Throne, the Queen, and the burdens of rule, but soon the conversation drifted elsewhere—back to their youth at the Eyrie.
They laughed as they recalled hurling oranges through the halls, filling the lofty corridors with flying fruit and youthful mischief.
For a moment, Eddard allowed himself a dangerous fantasy.
Perhaps Robert was still the same man he had known—loyal to Jon Arryn, steadfast at heart, capable of ruling wisely if only he chose to.
Compared to the Lannisters, or Littlefinger and his ilk, Robert still held supreme power.
That thought alone gave Eddard a small measure of comfort.
Together, they made their way toward the tourney grounds.
Eddard had promised Sansa he would watch the final match with her. The Queen, still angry with the King, had chosen not to attend.
The first bout was already drawing attention.
The Hound versus Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer.
The arena buzzed with anticipation.
Sandor Clegane entered first, clad in smoke-grey armor, an olive-green cloak draped over his shoulders. His hound-shaped helm was his only ornament, brutal and plain.
When Jaime Lannister rode out, the contrast was striking.
His blood-bay warhorse was draped in gilded chainmail. Jaime himself gleamed from head to toe, golden armor polished to perfection. Even his longspear was carved from rare golden wood imported from the Summer Isles.
Wagers were still being placed.
"One hundred gold dragons on the Kingslayer," Littlefinger called lazily.
"I'll take that," Lord Renly replied with a grin. "The Hound looks particularly hungry this morning."
"Even a hungry dog knows not to bite the hand that feeds it," Littlefinger shot back coolly.
"Two hundred gold dragons on Ser Jaime."
The voice came from below the stands.
Tyrion Lannister hurried into the arena, wrapped in a shadowcat fur cloak that only made his small stature more conspicuous. Bronn and two hired swords followed him closely.
"Thank the gods," Tyrion muttered. "I didn't miss my brother's match."
"Who do we have here, if not our short friend?" Renly said cheerfully.
"Thank you for remembering me, Lord Renly," Tyrion replied dryly.
"How could I forget that big head of yours?" Renly laughed. "I've missed you."
Littlefinger smiled at Tyrion.
"My lord, I thought I was the only one still backing Ser Jaime."
"You won't lose my gold," Tyrion said. "Though I'd dearly like to carve that smile off your face."
He didn't say that last part aloud.
Tyrion scanned the crowd. His sister was nowhere to be seen. That could only mean one thing—the King and Queen had quarreled again.
Littlefinger felt a flicker of unease, but quickly dismissed it. Fools were useful tools, and he had always known how to handle them.
Tyrion spotted Eddard Stark standing beside the King. Ned wore a rare smile today, though it faltered briefly when he noticed Tyrion.
It seemed Lord Stark was already aware of what had happened at the inn.
Jon Snow also saw Tyrion in the crowd, but prudence kept him silent.
Jaime waved cheerfully toward his brother, blew a kiss to a lady in the stands, and lowered his visor. The Hound ignored such theatrics entirely.
The horns sounded.
Both knights lowered their spears and spurred their horses forward.
The stands shook as the horses thundered across the field. Few truly favored the Hound, but neither did the smallfolk hold much love for the Kingslayer.
Jaime's spear struck true.
The Hound's was deflected at the last moment.
The crowd roared as Sandor nearly lost his seat.
"I told you," Tyrion said smugly.
But the second pass decided everything.
Both spears shattered, but it was Jaime who was unhorsed. He rolled in the mud, golden armor dented and smeared.
The King laughed louder than anyone.
Tyrion rose from his seat.
"I should go see to my brother."
As he descended, he spotted Jon Snow in the crowd.
"Jon," Tyrion said quietly.
The game, it seemed, was only just beginning.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)