The stands were packed, buzzing with noise. Knights thundered past on their destriers, lances leveled, splinters flying as they shattered against shields. Yet most of the crowd barely spared the jousts a glance.
A Valyrian steel sword rested on a velvet cushion beside the royal podium. It was close enough for the highborn to admire, far enough to drive the smallfolk half-mad with longing.
House Lannister had funded the entire tourney, and the gold poured into the royal seating alone could've fed half of Flea Bottom for a week.
Rumors crackled through the crowd like wildfire.
"Look at that sword," a man whispered. "That's Valyrian steel."
"It's a rare treasure, I heard its so valuable that high lords would kill for it," another replied. "Even Tywin Lannister once offered a million gold dragons for House Mormont's Valyrian steel sword."
"A million gold dragons? How rich are they?" said a woman, imagining how nice it would be if Tywin Lannister were her husband.
"House Mormont? Never heard of 'em," a third muttered.
"It's a Dornish house," declared a broad-chested woman with absolute confidence and absolutely no knowledge.
"It's a Northern house, you stupid whore," snarled the man beside her.
She smirked. "Stupid you may call me, but at least I earn my coin. Unlike you living off your wife. Seven know how she earns it. Maybe she sells herself too."
"What did you say?" he roared, half-rising.
Before they could engage further, some drunk shouted toward the royal box, "There's no better whore than the blond queen!"
"Gods save us, one day we might all die because of this idiot," someone hissed. Luckily, no guard heard the drunk fool's comment about the Queen because of the noise of the crowd.
In the central stands, clustered closest to the royal dais, sat the great lords, their jeweled ladies, and the wealthy merchants.
Jon Arryn sat with Lord Royce and Petyr Baelish sat together in the seats next to royal dias.
"The crowd seems more eager for the archery part," Royce noted.
"It is expected of them," Jon muttered. "News of the bet between my son and the king spread through the city like wildfire."
Petyr leaned in. "My lords, the queen ordered the spending for this tourney be doubled from what we originally planned." His voice was soft, almost timid; he was still new in King's Landing and clung to Jon's support like a lifeline.
"You didn't listen to her, did you?" Jon asked sharply.
"My lord hand, she is the queen," Petyr said quickly, gesturing to the lavish arrangements. "I did as she demanded."
"She may be queen, but she has no authority over the treasury or how the money is spent. That falls under the king—and his council." Jon's irritation was impossible to miss.
"I explained that to her, my lord. But she assured me House Lannister would cover all additional costs. Not the crown." Petyr puffed his chest slightly, proud of a negotiation he hadn't actually conducted.
Jon sighed. "Of course she did."
His old guilt stirred again. He was the one who arranged the marriage between Cersei Lannister and Robert Baratheon.
Still, deep down, he knew he'd make the same choice. After the Rebellion, the realm had needed stability. Tywin Lannister's support was needed to make Roberts claim to throne stable.
"We've borrowed from the Lannisters before," Petyr continued. "And the taxes of this year would be arriving soon. We could then pay Lannister debt and crown would be debt free again."
"Many Targaryen kings borrowed vast sums from great houses, the Faith, even the Iron Bank," Petyr added cheerfully. "It always worked out for them."
Jon shot him a flat look. "Yes, they borrowed. But not for whores, feasts, and tourneys. And the war with the Ironborn strained the treasury far more than Robert will admit. At this rate, we won't be able to pay the crowns debts back not while he spends as if the treasury were bottomless."
Before Petyr could answer, a herald shouted:
"The jousting is over! The archery contest begins!"
Workers rushed to set up targets as the crowd roared in anticipation.
"The archery contest carries a rare prize, A Valyrian steel sword" the herald declared.
"A bet took place between His Grace Robert Baratheon and Artys Arryn, son of the Hand. If young Artys wins, the Valyrian steel sword is his. If he fails the crown claims it!"
Cheers swept across the grounds.
Cersei Lannister POV
I enjoyed jousting, but only when my brother bothers to compete. Yet today—on his own daughter's nameday—he refuses to ride. He should be in the lists, winning the tilts, and setting the victor's wreath in my lap for all to see.
But no. He leaves me to sit here while he sulks elsewhere.
I glanced at my husband. A whore sat on his right thigh, soaked in wine and giggling as she held a cup to his lips. Her hair was black. Of course it was. He still mourned that Northern barbarian Stark girl.
The insult was plain. He dared humiliate me in public.
I forced myself to look at my daughter instead. My little princess slept in the arms of the wet nurses. Today's tourney was held in her honor. A princess of the Seven Kingdoms.
The small council had approved one hundred fifty thousand golden dragons. Far too little. So I arranged… additional Lannister contributions. As I always did.
And today, my golden boy would receive a Valyrian steel sword. The event should match the prestige of House Lannister.
I looked at my beautiful boy. Already so handsome. I could picture him grown—seated on the Iron Throne, Valyrian steel in hand. And I would stand beside him, guiding him with my wisdom.
"Mother, will the sword truly be mine?" Joffrey asked, eyes gleaming at the weapon.
"Of course, little lion," I told him. "Valyrian steel belongs in the hands of a prince."
"That boy will get nothing," Joffrey laughed cruel and careless, like his father.
"Yes," I whispered, stroking his hair. "You are the prince. Every good thing belongs to you. When you grow up, he will be nothing but a servant beneath you."
"More wine!" Robert bellowed. Already drunk. The man could drown a kraken with what he drank.
The herald called the contestants forward. Twenty-five archers stepped onto the field.
I searched until I found him that boy. That cursed child who had haunted my family since he could speak. Servants compared him to my Joffrey constantly.
Not after today.
I had one of my men tamper with his bow. Even without that, he would've lost. But a wise woman never relies on chance.
The Seven bless me and my family. I am the cleverest woman in the realm. I must always stay ahead like a lioness guarding her cubs.
POV ends
Meanwhile, in the trees above the field
The birds ,Artys Arryn's feathered army watched.
"Emperor's going to show these fools what a real man looks like!" a pigeon cooed. Several pigeons joined in, chirping like overexcited cheerleaders.
"Shut up," a crow snapped. "Some of us are trying to watch. And don't forget—no drawing attention."
"These pigeons are so dramatic," Crow No. 21 grumbled. Artys had given each bird a number.
"That's why they work in the FBI and we're in the Luftwaffe," said the one-eyed crow, completely serious.
"Lieutenant, where are the ravens? Why aren't they here?" Crow No. 21 asked.
"They're recruiting more into the Emperor's service," the one-eyed crow replied.
"I'll go check on them."
The one-eyed crow snapped his right wing upward—stiff, angled, sharp.
A salute from another world.
"Glory to the Emperor," he declared.
Crow Twenty-One mirrored him, wing raised rigidly. "Glory to the Emperor."
With that, the one-eyed crow launched into the sky toward the Red Keep.
"He's terrifying," No. 21 muttered. "Ever since the Emperor made him lieutenant, it's gone to his head."
"Obviously. He fought half the ravens for that rank. Lost an eye in the fight," No. 22 said, remembering last night's brutal contest for First Lieutenant.
No. 21 lowered his voice. "You ever wonder if the boy can actually keep his promises? He can speak to us. Control us. That doesn't… unsettle you?"
"Of course it does." No. 22 clicked his beak. And call him Emperor properly. He's got fanatics now. You don't want a court-martial. Do you?"
"But what choice do we have? He has some kind of sorcery. When he commands us, our bodies obey. And he promised food, shelter, safety. If he delivers…" No. 22 shrugged his wings. "Serving him might be smart."
"Fair enough."
They turned their attention back to the field.
On the roof of the Red Keep
Fifty ravens stood in formation five rows of ten. Wings tucked. Eyes focused.
In front of them stood another raven, posture sharp as a commander inspecting new recruits. His aura silenced even the most unhinged crow among the trainees.
He was the Drill Wingmaster , known simply as the Drill Master.
If a human had seen this, they would've assumed madness had infected the ravens.
The Drill Master inspected the line, then shouted:
"What is your pledge?"
"Service unto the Emperor!" fifty ravens croaked, the sound echoing like a ritual.
"What is the fate of a traitor of the coward, the weak-winged flee-flapper who abandons his brothers?"
"Death by pecking!"
"And what is the reward for loyalty?"
"Glory and food!"
"What is your purpose?"
"To watch.
To serve.
To strike when called.
Fly in darkness. Kill in silence. Glory to the Emperor!"
A moment later, the one-eyed crow landed beside the Drill Master. The Drill Master saluted.
"Drill Sergeant, code 045, reporting to Lieutenant."
The one-eyed crow scanned the recruits. "Where are the rest of your boys? The number of new recruits should be twice this."
"Sir, the boys are disposing of the bodies. Many ravens refused to join. Said they preferred loyalty to their human masters. As you know… we ravens carry messages for humans. So they chose their masters over the Emperor."
"So… we killed them."
"I see. Good job."
He looked over the line of silent, disciplined ravens. "Let's inspect the new recruits."
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