"So, this is the great hero?" Joffrey drawled, his voice high and thin, dripping with arrogance. "The lowly ward who thinks himself a knight because he caught a falling cripple. My mother says the North is full of beggars and dirt, but I didn't realize they let the beggars talk like kings."
Jon Snow's jaw tightened, his hand instinctively moving toward the hilt of his practice sword. Tyrion sighed, taking a long pull of his wine as if bracing himself for a headache.
"Prince Joffrey," Tyrion said dryly. "I thought you were busy being tucked into your silk sheets."
Joffrey ignored his uncle, his gaze locked on Alaric. He stepped closer, stopping only when the Hound stood directly behind him like a mountain of steel. "I heard your little speech, Thorne. 'Removing the need for walls?' 'Storms wrapped in silk?' You have a very long tongue for someone who owns nothing but the boots he stands in."
Alaric didn't bow. He didn't even blink. He simply stood his ground, his dark eyes absorbing the Prince's features.
[System Analysis: Target 'Joffrey Baratheon']
[Status: Hostile / Arrogant / Volatile]
[Threat Level: Low (Personal) / Extreme (Political)]
"A tongue is a tool, Your Grace," Alaric said, his voice a calm contrast to Joffrey's sneer. "Just like a sword. Some use it better than others."
Joffrey's face flushed a blotchy red. "How dare you look at me as an equal? You're a stray dog the Starks took in out of pity." He kicked a discarded wooden practice blade toward Alaric's feet. "Pick it up. Everyone is whispering about your 'reflexes.' I want to see how a hero handles himself when the opponent isn't a falling child."
"The Prince wants a spar, Alaric," the Hound grunted from behind his helm, his voice like grinding stones. "Unless you're as soft as you look."
Jon stepped forward, his voice low. "Alaric, don't. He's the Prince."
But Alaric saw the opportunity. Joffrey wasn't just a nuisance; he was a platform. If he could humiliate the Prince without breaking the law, he would cement his reputation in the eyes of the onlookers—and further prove to Jon Snow that the "Golden Lion" was nothing more than a hollow shell.
"A spar, Your Grace?" Alaric asked, his hand slowly reaching down to pick up the wooden sword. He felt the weight of it, his mind calculating the distance. "I wouldn't want to hurt the future King. It might look bad on my record."
Joffrey laughed, a shrill, ugly sound. "Hurt me? Dog, give me your steel."
"The Queen wouldn't like that, Your Grace," Sandor replied, though he looked like he'd enjoy the carnage.
"I said give it to me!" Joffrey snapped. He snatched a blunt training steel from a nearby rack instead, swinging it clumsily through the air. "I'll show you what real blood looks like, Ward. On your knees, or defend yourself."
Alaric adjusted his grip on the wooden lath. He could feel the System humming in the back of his mind, his 250 MP a safety net he hoped he wouldn't have to touch.
"As you wish, My Prince," Alaric said, a cold, predatory light entering his eyes. "Let's see if you're as sharp as your crown."
Alaric stepped into the open circle of packed dirt. The torches framed him in flickering orange light. Frost crunched under his boots as he set his stance. Loose. Balanced. Ready.
Joffrey rushed first. It was ugly.
The prince swung high and wide, all shoulder and rage. The steel blade hissed through empty air. Alaric shifted half a step to the side and tapped Joffrey's wrist with the wooden sword. Not hard. Just enough.
The steel clattered to the ground.
A ripple moved through the yard. Joffrey froze, stunned, then snarled. "Pick it up," he barked, more command than request.
Alaric didn't move.
"Again," Joffrey shouted, bending to grab the sword.
This time he came in faster. Still sloppy. Alaric let the blade pass close enough for the wind to brush his cheek. He pivoted and struck Joffrey's forearm. The blow landed flat, controlled, and precise. Joffrey cried out. The sword dropped again.
Laughter broke from somewhere near the gallery. It died fast when Sandor shifted his weight. Joffrey's face twisted. "Stop playing with me!"
"I'm not," Alaric said. "You are."
That did it. Joffrey screamed and charged, swinging with both hands like he wanted to split Alaric in two. Alaric stepped inside the arc. He slammed the wooden blade into Joffrey's ribs, then hooked the prince's ankle and shoved.
Joffrey hit the ground hard. The sound echoed off stone. Silence followed.
Alaric placed the wooden sword against Joffrey's throat and leaned in just enough for the prince to hear him. "You want men to kneel because of your name. That only works while they're afraid."
Alaric stepped back and lowered the weapon. Sandor moved at once, hauling Joffrey to his feet. His voice dropped low. "Enough."
Joffrey shook him off. "He attacked me," he shrieked, pointing with a trembling hand. "He humiliated me!"
Tyrion cleared his throat. "You challenged him. In the yard. With witnesses."
Jon stood rigid, eyes locked on Alaric. Not fear. Joffrey looked around and saw it. The guards. The stable boys. The quiet judgment in their faces. His mouth opened, then closed.
"This isn't over," he spat at Alaric. "My mother will hear of this."
"I'm sure she will," Alaric said.
Joffrey stormed off, Sandor following without a word. The yard breathed again.
[System Update: Public Perception Increased]
[Jon Snow: Loyalty +15]
[Status: Trust Forming]
Jon exhaled slowly. "You didn't have to do that."
"Yes," Alaric said. "I did."
Tyrion watched him with open interest now. No humor. No mask. "You didn't just beat a prince," he said. "You showed everyone what he isn't."
Alaric wiped frost from his knuckles. "Someone needed to."
Tyrion smiled thinly. "I think," he said, "you've just made yourself impossible to ignore."
Alaric met his gaze. "That was the point."
As Alaric watched the retreating backs of the Prince and his shadow.
A sharp, crystalline chime resonated through his mind, louder and more triumphant than the previous triggers.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
Objective Accomplished: Publicly demonstrate the fragility of the "Golden Lion."
Feat: Humiliated the Crown Prince without drawing blood or breaking the law of the yard.
Impact: The seeds of doubt have been planted in the minds of the Northern witnesses and Jon Snow.
[REWARDS GRANTED]
+250 Monarch Points (MP)
Alaric felt a low, dark vibration in his chest—a dry giggle that he caught before it reached his lips. He had suspected the System rewarded sovereignty over mere survival, but his gamble had paid off better than he'd imagined.
The 250 MP surge settled into his mind, doubling his previous hoard and giving him a total of 500 Monarch Points to sharpen his path south.
The silence of the yard didn't last. The heavy thud of the Great Hall's doors swinging open cut through the frost, and soon the courtyard was flooded with the heavy hitters of the realm:
King Robert: Leading the way, his face red from wine and the cold.
Ned Stark & Catelyn: Ned stood grim while Catelyn appeared pale.
Cersei Lannister: Moving with the grace of a stalking cat, her eyes finding her son instantly.
Jaime Lannister: Walking beside her, his hand already resting on the gilded hilt of his blade.
"What is this?" the King roared, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "My son, bleeding in the dirt?"
Joffrey scrambled toward his mother, his face a mask of calculated agony. "He attacked me, Father! The ward... he used a wooden sword to strike me when I wasn't looking! He called you a fool and said he would remove the need for kings!"