A/N: I have started writing another Fan-fic, this one is a One Piece fan-fic called Sword Saint In The One Piece (D&D) if you are interested, please take a look.
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CHAPTER 155
290 AC
POV MC
The feast was in full swing, the hall alive with the symphony of laughter and clinking goblets. Amidst the revelry, Lord Royce's icy glares bore into me, a testament to his disgruntlement at our contest. Yet, he wasn't entirely a sour loser; he had, after all, delivered the bronze armor. If my hunch was correct, and its magical properties were indeed spent, I pondered returning it after a few months of thorough examination. But even if I didn't, they had more than one bronze armor.
Amid my contemplation, the King's booming voice shattered my reverie. "Ser Drasil, fetch a goblet and show these delicate flowers how a true man handles his drink!"
Thanks to my poison resistance, alcohol held little threat to me. I could imbibe like a sponge, though it did result in frequent nocturnal trips to the chamberpot. As I drained my seventh goblet, King Robert burst into hearty laughter. "You men are a sorry sight! Can't even outdrink this lad or beat him with a sword."
Robert's words seemed to prick at the Kingslayer's pride, for he couldn't stomach the implication. He stepped forward, an arrogant smirk etched upon his face. "My king, we can't truly assess his swordsmanship until the melee."
Robert, ever the instigator, pressed further. "Are you implying you'd best him in the melee?"
Jaime's smirk deepened as he retorted, "I don't fear a clash with him. Even if he bears the title of a knight, he's merely an upstart who's yet to face anyone of significance."
Jory Cassel interjected, his voice a challenge. "He bested Harras Harlaw, Victarion Greyjoy, and let's not forget he was the one who breached the main gate."
Jaime was quick to dismiss, a disdainful twist to his lips. "Harras Harlaw was hardly more than a middling knight. As for Victarion, I heard his men dragged him from the fray before the battle was even over."
The Northern knights and nobles bristled at Jaime's words, their irritation palpable. However, none dared voice their displeasure until Jory stood, hurling his goblet to the floor at Jaime's feet. "Are you attempting to belittle the achievements of Northern knights?"
At that moment, I clapped my hands with such force that it resonated like thunder, jolting the hall into silence. All eyes were on me as I spoke, my voice cutting through the tension. "Ser Cassel, we are the knights of the North. We don't deride one another's accomplishments at a drinking table; that's a pastime better suited for idle men. And as for you, Ser Kingslayer, know this: alcohol and swords are a dangerous mix. We're without our blades now, or I'd have challenged you to a duel on the spot."
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Jaime couldn't resist interjecting, a smirk of his own in place. "At this moment, I wouldn't entertain it. People might gossip that I defeated you while you were inebriated."
King Robert shifted his attention to Ned Stark, his curiosity piqued. "What are your men calling this boy?"
"They've bestowed him with a few titles. Devout believers of the old gods refer to him as Sword of the Old Gods. Knights and soldiers of Winterfell have dubbed him Sword of Winter, and some commoners know him as The Bane."
Robert mused for a moment before emitting a resounding belch. "Sword of Winter sounds fitting. I'm inclined to allow it. Before the melee commences, Kingslayer and Sword of Winter shall engage in a friendly duel. A knight ought to speak with his sword, not his tongue."
He turned to both of us, seeking our affirmation. "Do you accept?"
"I accept," I replied without hesitation.
"I accept," Jaime begrudgingly conceded.
Amidst this exchange, Lord Tywin remained a silent observer, his demeanor unchanged. He hadn't uttered a word or made a move throughout the interactions, simply sipping his wine in quiet contemplation.
...
POV THIRD PERSON
In the privacy of Lord Tywin Lannister's chambers, a tense atmosphere hung heavy. The grandeur of the room contrasted starkly with the palpable unease between father and son. The golden glint of Jaime's hair was dimmed by the weight of his father's gaze as it bore into him. Across the expanse of Tywin's imposing desk lay an array of meticulously organized papers.
With a tone as unyielding as steel, Tywin's voice sliced through the air, "That was an utterly thoughtless move. You needn't have ignited the ire of the northern lords and knights by belittling their celebrated hero."
Jaime, typically overflowing with bravado, found himself reduced to a state of unease in front of his father's ruthless eyes. He hesitated for a brief moment before responding, his arrogance veiling his words,
"If the North has deemed a mere sixteen-name-day-old worthy of hero worship, it is a testament to their skewed judgment. Strip away his... 'beast,' and he's nothing but a mediocre boy."
Tywin's gaze remained unswerving, his words dripping with frosty disdain, "Do you possess any factual knowledge of his accomplishments, or are your judgments founded solely upon the ramblings of inebriated tongues?"
Jaime's reply carried an undertone of skepticism, "All I've encountered is grandiloquent boasting. He's supposedly vanquished a handful of inconsequential foes with his coterie of pets, and suddenly, he's hailed as an unparalleled champion."
"Jealousy and envy are emotions that serve no purpose, especially for a Lannister. Should you approach him with such a dismissive mindset, you're inviting a downfall of your own making."
Jaime found himself caught in a moment of incredulity; his father's praise for the boy was an unfamiliar and puzzling note. He never praises someone, Jaime thought. He clenched his fists, feeling the pressure until his knuckles turned white, struggling to find words as Tywin's oration continued to unfold.
"Though he may bear base lineage, his prowess is undeniable." With a controlled gesture, Tywin slid a stack of papers across the desk. Hesitant fingers grasped the reports, and Jaime's eyes scanned the meticulous contents. An intricate tapestry of intelligence on Aermir Drasil revealed itself.
"He's quelled a multitude of bandits and safeguarded coastal towns against Ironborn aggression with nothing but his 'beasts.' The minimal loss toll the North bore is, in large part, due to his strategic acumen and precision in archery. Consider this: Could you, alone, combat a horde of Ironborn using only a bow? Witnesses attest that he's felled scores with bow and arrow and perhaps a little help from his 'monster.' What remains undeniable is that he's no ordinary youth; he's a harbinger of death, an enigmatic force."
More papers sailed through the air, a cascade of evidence in Tywin's argument.
"The next time you engage, ensure you comprehend precisely the caliber of your opponent. I shall brook no errors borne from your arrogance. While I may not gauge his prowess with a blade, it is conceivable that his undeveloped body might be ill-suited for physical contest. However, underestimation may well be the catalyst for your undoing."
No further words were needed. The intensity of Tywin's chilling gaze conveyed volumes, leaving the room to resound with silence. The charged atmosphere hung in the air, eventually punctuated by the dismissive sweep of Tywin's hand.
"I shall entertain no outcome that tarnishes the name of our family."