Wingman Eddard

Only when the "boy" stood up did it happen.

Titus finally realized that this was no "tall boy."

The dark-haired young man stood straight and very tall, at least six feet five, only a little short of the standard height for a basketball swingman.

But he was even stronger and more athletic!

The pronounced contours of his muscles showed faintly beneath his clothes. All he lacked were the words "I'm a stud" carved across his forehead.

Only then did Titus notice the inconspicuous companion beside the dark-haired young man, with dark brown hair and gray eyes. He too wore a stern expression as he glared at them alongside his companion.

The burly soldier sitting on the floor with his legs splayed finally recovered. Having thoroughly embarrassed himself before the Earl, he rapidly turned red and rose to charge the dark-haired young man, only for Oswin, who could tell their opponent was no pushover, to stop him with a hand.

Deputy Captain Bowen was already circling behind, moving to the dark-haired young man's rear flank, a position well suited to a surprise attack.

The sudden tension between the two sides quieted the surrounding noise.

Many nearby patrons looked over curiously, waiting for the conflict to erupt. A few bored idlers were even itching to join the tavern brawl that seemed about to break out.

Titus, whose mood had been improving steadily today, kept his expression calm. He gave a soft cough to draw everyone's attention and raised a hand to stop them, the gold embroidery on his cuff glinting in the candlelight.

"Don't get carried away. No fighting. We're all civilized people."

His voice was clear as a stream, seeming to flow through the tavern's clamor. "This friend of ours seems quite strong. He threw my soldier to the floor, so why don't we settle this with strength-how about arm wrestling?"

The noisy tavern fell silent for a second, then erupted in deafening cheers.

The bartender hurried out from behind the counter and dragged over an unused little round table. The patrons gathered around, and even the smith who had been dozing in the corner came over, still clutching a horseshoe he had not finished wiping.

After restraining the angry Peake soldier, Oswin, built solidly as a bull, strode forward boldly, looking as though he would yield the place to no one.

The muscles of his upper body stretched his mail taut, and those in his arms were hard as stone.

Without a word, the Ironborn stiffened his neck and slammed his elbow down in the center of the round table. The wooden table groaned beneath the weight, as though joining his challenging stare at the tall, dark-haired young man.

The dark-haired young man raised an eyebrow and smiled. He unfastened his cloak and tossed it to his brown-haired companion, fully revealing the knotted arms beneath. His left palm slapped onto the tabletop, and his right hand clasped the Ironborn's directly, his knuckles whitening with the force of his grip.

"First, never let your emotions get the better of you..."

Titus approached with a beaming smile, volunteering as the impromptu referee.

"Second, never misjudge a single victory."

He winked at Oswin as a bit of pre-match encouragement from the boss, his face full of the excitement of a spectator who did not mind how far things escalated.

"Third, always referee fairly and beautifully! I'll count to three, and then you start! Three... two... one! Go!-"

The drinkers around them counted down along with Titus. As the boy in hunting clothes suddenly swept his arm down, the two large hands above the table locked together like iron clamps.

At first they were evenly matched. The round wooden table shook slightly under their struggle, wood shavings falling from it, only to be caught and clamped steady by their equally powerful left hands.

Then the Ironborn's face began to redden. As veins bulged on his forehead, the dark-haired young man opposite him seemed to falter, his forearm slowly tilting toward the tabletop.

The dark-haired young man's gaze sharpened. Fine beads of sweat seeped from his faintly trembling cheeks, and he pressed his lips tightly together. The muscles in his arm bulged, the edges of his clothing even making faint ripping sounds with the effort. He hauled his arm back upright, then pressed it toward the Ironborn's side.

Shouts rose and fell around them. Some cheered on the bull-like Oswin, while others rooted for the better-looking dark-haired young man. The fragrance of ale mingled with the smell of sweat in the increasingly heated air.

After another stalemate lasting roughly the time it took to drink a little under half a cup of tea, the dark-haired young man suddenly gave a low shout amid the cheers of his companion, who was flushed with excitement and clenching his fists, and surged with his arm.

Titus noticed Oswin's wrist tilt sharply, visibly. The Ironborn could no longer hold him.

Just as he was about to give way, the bull of a man had a flash of inspiration. Using his opponent's powerful pull, he suddenly twisted sideways while secretly dropping his elbow.

A crack rang out.

The little round table, already tottering under their strength, shattered. Its legs broke, and the tabletop slapped against the floor, scattering wood chips everywhere.

Both men staggered a few steps from their momentum. After exchanging a glance, they suddenly laughed.

"You're a strong fellow!"

The dark-haired young man, who had not met anyone who could match his strength since reaching adulthood, waved generously. His brown-haired companion hurriedly handed him a cup of ale, which he tipped back and drained.

Oswin rubbed his palm where a splinter had stabbed it and gently massaged his still-aching wrist. He grinned too, saying in a rumbling voice, "You've got a mighty arm yourself, lad. If the table hadn't collapsed, I really wouldn't have held out."

Titus looked at the young man, then at the Ironborn. Longneck Who Survived Three Hangings really had spent time in the brotherhood. That was some street smarts, a profound understanding of the ultimate truth of Crow Wisdom: overturn the table at the first disagreement.

Looking at the two men, who seemed to have put their differences behind them, he took a silver moon from his purse.

He flicked it with a finger. The silver coin spun through the air in a glittering arc and landed precisely in the hand of the bartender who had helped move the table, compensating him for its loss.

The surrounding patrons cheered for more ale, and the tavern grew even louder than before. The earlier tension, however, had long since vanished, leaving only clinking cups and laughter echoing among the wooden beams.

The dark-haired young man's companion noticed Titus paying and leaned over to whisper something in the young man's ear. The young man nodded readily, and his companion immediately jumped onto a stool, shouting as though eager to put on a show:

"This round is on young Master Baratheon of Storm's End!"

At once, the atmosphere in the tavern reached its peak.

With raucous cheers and praise in the background.

The diligent bartender hurriedly cleared the wreckage of the wooden table into a corner, then brought over a larger round table. The group simply moved several stools up to it and sat in a circle.

Working deftly, the bartender soon brought several jugs of amber ale, a large platter of grilled sausages, and a few dishes of salt-roasted nuts to the dark-haired young host's table.

With his temper cooled, the dark-haired young man was truly generous. He took the initiative to exchange a few words with the soldier he had knocked over earlier, then clinked cups with him. The clear ring of the earthenware cups dispelled the earlier conflict completely.

Titus noticed that the young man spoke in a clear voice, with a slight curl of the tongue at the ends of his words, unlike the rough tones of an ordinary brute. His conversation was measured, and even the way his knuckles tapped lightly against his earthenware cup had a touch of elegance, showing traces of noble etiquette.

He really is a young Baratheon noble...

The dark-haired young man took a deep drink of ale, his Adam's apple bobbing, then spoke in a ringing voice:

"I'm Robert Baratheon." As he spoke, he pointed to the companion seated beside him. "This is my good brother, Eddard Stark. We're both staying at the Eyrie in the Vale at present."

As the young Robert Baratheon introduced them, he flashed a handsome, open smile, his tone revealing curiosity about the world beyond:

"What about you? Are you tournament contestants, travelers passing through the Riverlands, sons of merchants, or adventurers or sellswords on a mission?"

Eddard Stark in his youth: