The arena was silent for a moment, then erupted into murmurs of disbelief. "What happened?" one noble gasped. "How did it end so quickly?" another whispered, eyes wide. "Impossible! That was Barristan the Bold! He cannot be defeated so easily!"
The nobles of King's Landing were in uproar. Their discontent was palpable, driven by frustration more than anything else. Battles were meant to be long and spectacular, a display of skill and valor. But this… this had ended in mere moments. The phrase "too fast" echoed in the minds of everyone present, a bitter pill to swallow.
It had all unfolded in a flash. Jaime Lannister, sent flying with barely a single strike from Arthas, was only the beginning. Barristan and the remaining three Kingsguard converged, attempting to trap the young Lannister from all sides. Four swords descended simultaneously toward him, a perfect cordon, seemingly leaving no escape.
But Arthas did not flinch, nor did he evade. Instead, he lifted Frostmourne—the greatsword of ghostly blue energy—and traced a flawless circle in the air. The blade, shimmering with the souls of those it had claimed, cut through the steel swords of the four Kingsguard as though they were no more than brittle twigs. The sound of snapping steel rang through the arena, shocking the spectators.
A knight without his sword was like a beast stripped of claws, and Arthas exploited this with ruthless precision. Each strike left bruises and shallow cuts, armor unable to withstand the ghostly edge of Frostmourne. Barristan, still agile despite his fifty-plus years, lasted only seconds longer than the others, before succumbing to the youth's unrelenting assault. Even the man long considered the finest knight in Westeros had to bow before the golden-haired lion.
In the stands, accusations erupted. "Littlefinger! It must be you!" a man shouted, pointing a shaking finger at Baelish. "You swapped their swords to let this dwarf win!"
The crowd's attention snapped toward Littlefinger, whose expression remained as calm as ever, though his mind raced. If he did not act quickly, the mob could turn violent in an instant.
"Please! Calm yourselves!" Baelish called, bowing slightly, maintaining his trademark elegance even as his voice trembled. "This was a fair duel, witnessed by the Seven Gods themselves. How would I dare manipulate such a sacred contest?"
The crowd did not relent. Their eyes, sharp with suspicion, bore down on Baelish, waiting for a crack in his composure. Baelish quickly motioned toward The Imp, pulling Tyrion Lannister close.
"Lord Tyrion," he said, forcing urgency into his tone, "surely everyone recognizes him! He wagered one hundred thousand gold dragons before the match, which everyone heard. If Arthas won, I would have owed him over a million gold dragons! Do you think I would risk tampering with the event under such circumstances?"
Tyrion coughed, adjusting his robe, then spoke with quiet authority. "They must be in cahoots!" he began sarcastically, earning gasps from the crowd, before continuing with a roar: "I, Tyrion Lannister! Son of Tywin Lannister! If anyone dares claim that a Lannister schemes for money, let them hear the lion's roar! A Lannister always pays his debts!"
The statement brought a momentary hush over the crowd. Fear of Tywin Lannister's reputation, combined with respect for the house's immense wealth, silenced most voices. But the peace was short-lived. A rotten egg, hurled from the gallery, splattered across Baelish's face, and the mob's rage reignited.
"Curse you, Littlefinger! May the Seven Hells claim you!" they shouted, surging forward.
The Imp was immediately pressed against the mob, tiny and vulnerable. Despite struggling, he was no match for the mass of bodies pressing in from all sides. But then, just as despair threatened to overwhelm him, the crowd parted. Strong arms lifted him up and tucked him securely under an armpit, moving like an unyielding wall.
"Clegane…" Tyrion muttered, noting the Mountain's silent protection. The ferocious man's imposing frame created a protective corridor, pushing through the mob with ease.
"Hey! Be careful!" Tyrion shouted, pointing at the throng behind them. "He owes me over a million gold dragons! Do not let him die! A Lannister always pays his debts!"
With each stride, the Mountain cleared the path until Tyrion and Baelish were finally out of reach of the mob.
Meanwhile, the arena had calmed once more. Arthas strode forward, his armor gleaming crimson, Frostmourne resting against both hands. The nobles stared in awe, unable to believe what they had just witnessed. The victorious youth knelt gracefully on one knee before King Robert's viewing box.
Robert's eyes were wide with disbelief. Several Kingsguard had recovered from their disarray, their broken swords forcing them to approach empty-handed, except Jaime, whose longsword remained intact. The surviving knights knelt as if acknowledging the younger Lannister as their leader.
"You have defeated seven of my Kingsguard," Robert said, voice booming across the arena. "A feat never before seen in all of Westeros. Your skill and courage will inspire knights for generations to come!"
Arthas looked up at the King, expression calm and reverent. "Your Majesty," he said steadily, "I desire nothing for myself. Only that you fulfill your promise and make me the commander of the City Watch, to serve and protect King's Landing with honor."
Robert's satisfaction grew. This young Lannister was unlike the scheming nobles he usually detested. His loyalty, courage, and clear eyes impressed the King more than any soldier had in years.
"Then, under the witness of the Seven Gods, and before all nobles present…" Robert declared. "Will you forever serve me loyally?"
"My blade is forever at your service," Arthas replied, voice steady, yet gentle, the tone of a knight who had already embraced his destiny.
"Very well!" Robert roared, raising his wine cup. "I, Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals and the First Men, formally confer upon Arsath Lannister the title of Commander of the City Watch! You shall command all Gold Cloaks and maintain the safety of King's Landing!"
Arthas rose slowly, upright and disciplined, as if every movement embodied the honor of the Lannister name. "I shall guard King's Landing day and night, until my last breath, Your Majesty."
Even Robert felt a rare warmth, imagining a future where this young lion upheld order with strength and integrity. His thoughts briefly wandered to Myrcella, but he quickly dismissed them; the girl was still young, and bloodlines mattered even to a man of his passions.
The King then addressed the defeated Kingsguard. "Ser Allar Oakhart! Ser Boros Blount! Ser Meryn Trant! You are not disgraced for losing to such a warrior. Gather yourselves—the King still requires your service!"
He omitted Jaime's name deliberately, letting the young knight's pride simmer in silence. Then, with a gesture of personal concern, he instructed the others to see Grand Maester Pycelle for their wounds before leaving with his wine attendant.
Arthas turned to his elder brother, Jaime, who still sat in the arena, jaw tight with frustration and admiration. The young lion approached, plunging Frostmourne into the ground to steady himself, then extended a strong arm to help Jaime up.
"We are brothers," Arthas said sincerely, voice steady. "Victory or defeat, our glory remains with House Lannister."
Jaime looked up, feeling a weight lift from his heart. The jealousy that had burned moments ago began to dissipate. He accepted his younger brother's hand, and the two embraced warmly, an unspoken understanding passing between them.
"Arthas," Jaime whispered, stroking the younger brother's golden hair, "I know I have never been a fitting Lannister. It is a relief… to pass this mantle to you."
Arthas smiled gently, the bond of family stronger than any competition, any feud. Together, the young lions of House Lannister stood, side by side, their strength and unity now undeniable to all of King's Landing.