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CaveLeather
When Lancel came back to his senses, he was already following King Robert through the woods, wine sack in hand.
He was also carrying two rabbits by the ears. Robert's haul was clearly disappointing, so the king was in a foul mood.
The king's bulky frame snatched the wine sack from Lancel's grip. "You damned Lannister, what are you standing there like an idiot for?!"
He took a long, satisfied swig and shoved the sack back into Lancel's arms.
Lancel lowered his head and staggered back two steps.
Just then Ser Barristan Selmy and the red-robed priest Thoros of Myr stepped into the space behind the king, taking Lancel's place.
"Snort—snort!"
A wild boar burst out of the underbrush, eyes blood-red, clearly startled.
The guards around Robert instantly formed a protective wall.
"Get out of my way!" Robert roared, shoving Barristan and Thoros aside with his short spear.
Everyone who served the king knew his temper. When Robert said move, no one dared argue—not even Ser Barristan, who simply opened his mouth, then closed it and stepped aside.
Better to stay quiet. Ever since Renly and Eddard were murdered, Robert had several times flown into rages and accused Barristan of being a Targaryen spy.
Barristan shook his head helplessly, hand resting on his sword hilt.
Thoros of Myr—the red priest famous for his flaming-sword tricks—swayed drunkenly behind the king, face flushed bright red.
He was the only one allowed to follow Robert, because he had taken over Lancel's wine-serving duties.
And judging by his red face and unsteady steps, he had also taken over the drinking duties.
The boar charged, tusks gleaming.
"Thoros, you stay back too! Watch how your king deals with this beast!"
Robert's steps were unsteady, but he still stood firm. He spun the short spear once and hurled it with all his strength.
Whoosh!
The spear flew true—then thudded harmlessly into the dirt.
The boar never slowed.
Bang!
Before anyone could react, the mountain of muscle slammed into Robert. A tusk punched straight through the king's belly.
"Your Grace!"
Thoros sobered up instantly. By the Light of the Lord, if the king bled out right in front of him, he was finished.
Sword drawn, the red priest charged the boar still tangled with Robert.
Barristan and the other Kingsguard rushed in right behind him.
Stab—stab—stab!
Thoros drove his blade into the boar's vital spots three times. On the third thrust the sword snapped; half the blade stayed buried in the boar's flesh.
Bad luck. His sword had been made by Tobho Mott—a master smith who despised Thoros for ruining good steel with fire tricks. So Thoros always got "scrap swords" made from cheap off-cuts.
Normally he just dipped the blade in wildfire and called it a day. Today, when he actually needed it, the sword betrayed him without hesitation.
Luckily Barristan and the others arrived. A dozen blades flashed, and the boar finally collapsed.
They rolled the carcass off Robert. The king was soaked head to toe in blood, yet he still managed a grin.
"Look! It was my dagger that finished the beast!"
They looked. Sure enough, Robert clutched a blood-drenched dagger, and the boar's throat had a gaping wound still pumping.
Technically Robert had delivered the killing blow… but right now no one had time to flatter him.
They had to get the king back to the Red Keep—fast.
The guards lifted Robert (who weighed almost as much as the boar) and hurried toward the castle.
Lancel stood frozen, body trembling. Everyone assumed the young Lannister had simply been terrified by the gore.
Only Lancel knew the truth.
He knew exactly what he had poured into the king's wine.
And how much the fat bastard had drunk.
No! It was the king's own fault—he drank too much, got careless, and got gored. All his own doing!
They carried Robert back to the Red Keep. The wound was too severe.
After they wrapped him like a mummy, the new Grand Maester Pycelle (sent by the Citadel after the old one died) stood covered in blood, face pale, completely helpless.
Half the boar's tusk was still lodged in Robert's belly.
He couldn't remove it. Every touch made the wound bleed worse. The only thing the maester could do was keep feeding Robert milk of the poppy. He had no idea how to save the king, or even how to stop the bleeding.
The royal family and senior ministers paced anxiously outside the chamber.
Only one person was missing: the king's squire, Lancel Lannister.
No one suspected him. Just a boy frightened out of his wits.
"Ser Barristan! Why didn't you protect your king?!"
Queen Cersei's eyes were red-rimmed, voice full of fury as she questioned the blood-soaked Kingsguard and the red priest.
She looked every inch the devoted, worried wife.
Meanwhile…
Lancel crept nervously into Flea Bottom, constantly glancing over his shoulder, terrified someone was following.
A huge hand suddenly reached out from a dark alley and clamped onto his shoulder.
"Who—?!" Lancel jumped, almost screaming.
"Come with me."
He recognized the voice at once. It was the same brute who had left a black handprint on his fine clothes that day—the one whose breath could knock a brothel girl unconscious.
Lancel breathed a sigh of relief and followed the thug through the twisting alleys until they once again stood before Rorge's underground fighting pit.
The players were waiting.