"Arsath Lannister?"
King Robert Baratheon sat atop his massive iron throne, a sneer twisting his bloated face as he slammed Tywin Lannister's recommendation letter onto the table. His eyes, bloodshot and heavy, were fixed on the young golden-haired man standing before him.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Arthas replied calmly, his posture perfectly balanced between confidence and respect. He observed Robert carefully, noting the deep dark circles beneath the King's eyes and the telltale signs of a night spent in excess. This ruler of Westeros, for all his strength and past glory, seemed barely aware of the world around him—certainly not the number of women he had indulged the previous night.
Robert shifted in his throne, the weight of years and indulgence pressing down upon him. Once a strong, imposing man, he had become bloated, his powerful frame now slow and unwieldy. Fortunately for Queen Cersei, she had never shared a bed with him since his girth had grown; otherwise, the small, lithe Queen might have suffered greatly under his weight.
"My dear King," Cersei interjected, her tone soft yet commanding, though Robert paid her no mind. The wine in his hand flowed carelessly to his mouth as he loudly read Tywin's letter aloud, spittle flying with each word:
"My youngest son, Arsath Lannister, is exceptionally brave and sharp-minded. He is the ideal candidate for commander of the city watch. I believe he will ensure the security of King's Landing while you travel to Winterfell."
Robert's face turned red, whether from anger, shame, or the lingering effects of wine, no one could tell. Trembling slightly, he pointed at Arthas with a fat, shaking hand.
"Another Lannister! My queen is a Lannister, my Kingsguard are Lannisters, and now even the commander of the Gold Cloaks is to become a Lannister!"
He bellowed, the words echoing harshly off the stone walls. "King's Landing is surrounded by Lannisters! To hell with the Lannisters! Why not just let House Tyrell hand over the city too? You are the ones truly 'Growing Strong!'"
Beside him, Jaime and Cersei remained silent, their patience tested by Robert's drunken tirade. If Tyrion had been present, perhaps Robert's fury would have been even greater.
"Robert!" Cersei's voice finally rang out, sharp and deliberate. She slammed her hand upon the table and rose to her full height, glaring at her husband with emerald eyes filled with both authority and exasperation.
"You are drunk!" she stated simply, her voice echoing through the hall. She turned toward Jaime, standing dutifully by her side in gleaming white armor. "Jaime, as a member of the Kingsguard, I expect you to escort the King to his chambers. He must rest."
Jaime's lips curved into a faint, meaningful smile, a mixture of reluctance and duty. "As you command, my Queen."
Gripping his scabbard, he stepped forward, supporting Robert's thick arm with his other hand. "Your Majesty, you are indeed intoxicated. Please allow me to assist you to your chambers."
"What? Now even my bedtime is decided by you Lannisters?" Robert roared, alcohol-laced breath stinking of wine, spittle flying across Jaime's face. The young knight ignored it, his grip steady, guiding the King down the hall.
"Seven Gods!" Robert continued to shout incoherently, his mind clouded, cursing the Lannisters at every turn. Gradually, his voice faded into the distance as Jaime maneuvered him toward the safety of his chambers. The hall, long accustomed to such spectacles, remained silent, its members pretending nothing had happened.
Cersei finally exhaled, her face softening slightly. Turning to Arthas, she offered a faint apology, tinged with desire. "I am sorry. King Robert's Hand has passed, and his mood has been… unsettled."
"It does not matter, sister," Arthas replied coolly, avoiding her burning gaze. He maintained a respectful distance, mindful of the complicated relationships within the Lannister family.
"Regarding the appointment of Arthas as commander of the city watch," Cersei continued, her voice now firm and commanding, "does anyone here object?"
Lord Baelish, the Master of Coin, was first to speak. Clad in freshly cleaned attire, he looked every inch the courtier, his polished manners betraying the sly cunning beneath.
"Even with Duke Tywin's recommendation and Lord Arthas's impressive abilities," he said smoothly, "he is still young. Commanding the city watch requires more experience. Commander Janos Slynt is well-respected; a boy of fourteen may struggle to assert authority."
Varys, the eunuch spymaster, added his voice. "Lord Baelish is correct. The city's security has been stable under Commander Slynt. Removing him prematurely may undermine confidence in the watch."
Cersei, impatient, turned to Grand Maester Pycelle. The old man shuffled forward, his hair and beard white as snow, moving with a feigned fragility. "Qu… Queen Majesty," he began, his voice trembling slightly, "tradition does not favor a child as commander of the city watch."
Arthas studied Pycelle carefully, noting the deliberate act. The old man was clearly robust, his limbs capable and strong—yet he feigned weakness to conceal his true vitality.
"However," Pycelle continued, his eyes glinting with cunning, "if Lord Arthas proves himself at the upcoming tournament—if he claims victory as the Seven Kingdoms' greatest warrior—then there should be no question of his ability to command the Gold Cloaks. Even Commander Janos would have no objection."
Cersei's eyes brightened, and she nodded, satisfied with this compromise. She turned to Arthas, her emerald gaze fixed on him with admiration and subtle longing.
"Do you have the confidence to claim first place in the tournament?"
"Of course," Arthas said simply, as if the answer were obvious. His confidence radiated from him, a quiet storm that drew every eye in the room.
Cersei was captivated, her mind already imagining his dominance and power. "Then what is your method?" she asked, shifting slightly, her voice trembling with anticipation.
Arthas's golden eyes turned toward Ser Barristan, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, standing silently by Cersei's side, his white hair and blue eyes sharp and dignified even with age.
"Ser Barristan," Arthas began respectfully, "there are seven Kingsguard, correct?"
"That is correct, Lord Arthas," Barristan replied, his voice deep and resonant, the strength of his youth still apparent in every movement.
Arthas's lips curved into a confident smile, his hand raised in salute. "Once King Robert recovers from his… indispositions, I request that you assemble the Kingsguard. Under the witness of the Seven Gods and all nobles present, I will duel you—all seven—simultaneously."
Barristan's eyes widened, astonished by the audacity of the young man before him. "Very well," he said after a pause, a glint of excitement in his gaze. "It has been long since I faced a challenger with such fighting spirit."
Arthas's presence seemed to fill the hall, an aura of power radiating outward like an unbreakable shield. He turned his gaze on Barristan, unflinching, and declared:
"No need for anyone else. I, alone, am enough."
The hall fell silent. Seven Kingsguard, the most elite warriors of the Seven Kingdoms, were now tasked to oppose a single boy. And yet, in Arthas's posture and words, there was no arrogance—only an absolute, undeniable certainty.
Even Cersei felt a shiver of awe. This was not the youthful arrogance of a boy—it was the calm, terrifying confidence of someone destined to command respect and power, the aura of a true warrior and leader.
Arthas's challenge had been made. The tournament could wait. The city, the Small Council, and the eyes of the Seven Kingdoms now bore witness to a force unlike any seen before—Arthas Lannister, the one who could stand alone against seven, and emerge unbowed.