Titus studied Robert's young, handsome face and those clear eyes, like those of a college student fresh out in the world.
And then there was that powerful build, which had stood out among the others earlier like a towering giant...
Clearly, he was still a jock who needed time to mature.
Still, he had to admit that the fellow opposite him was exactly the strapping man lovestruck maidens dreamed of.
"My name is Titus, Titus Peake. The man who tested his strength against yours just now was Oswin, 'Yellow Bull.' He's my guard."
Oswin, who had already been reduced to a beast of burden for Starpike, was eating a grilled sausage. He inwardly rolled his eyes at that. His complexion was just a little sallow... Still, he offered no rebuttal and listened as the earl went on spouting nonsense:
"We are indeed carrying out a highly important secret mission. It concerns not only Harrenhal, not far from here, but the outcome of the entire tourney..."
Seeing Robert's face, along with that Eddard fellow's, gradually turn serious, Titus continued with a smile:
"Our mission is to win fame and the championship at this tourney at Harrenhal, and show the kingdom what Starpike of the Dornish Marches can do!"
Robert and Eddard exchanged looks, realizing that this fellow, a few years younger than they were, had been joking.
"So you're a knight?"
Having grown familiar with the others, Eddard showed his livelier side and blurted the question out without any guile.
Young Eddard still had his entire family, got along well with his siblings, and was the second son, without much of an heir's burden. Though he had been sent to the Eyrie as someone else's ward from childhood, he had a foster father he respected and a brother to roughhouse with, so naturally he had a pleasant disposition.
A smile played at Titus's lips as he asked Eddard in return, "Aren't you?"
Then he turned to Robert, who was drinking. "What about you?"
"Er..."
Young Eddard's results in his training as a squire were less than ideal... All right, they were actually quite good. He simply could not match Robert, who was training alongside him and was far more outstanding.
For some reason, though, neither of them had yet earned their foster father Lord Jon's approval and been knighted.
Robert, beside him, thought nothing of it and declared heartily:
"It's only a matter of time. Eddard and I aren't in a hurry. Besides, it's not as though I've never beaten up a knight before. Wearing the title of 'knight' doesn't necessarily make your fists hit harder. Hahaha..."
Titus could tell that he truly did not care.
And fair enough. Even without being a knight, he was the illustrious Lord of Storm's End, free to attend any noble ball or tourney he pleased. He hardly needed another title.
After Robert's father, Steffon Baratheon, the previous Lord of Storm's End, had been shipwrecked and perished beneath Shipbreaker Bay, the young Robert had been sent to Lord Jon as his ward.
He and Eddard studied together at the Eyrie in the Vale of Arryn. Lord Arryn, who had no sons, treated the two extremely well, almost as though their own fathers were there with them again.
Such treatment was rare.
Ordinarily, a lord's household that took in a ward merely provided basic instruction, much as it would for a squire or a knight in training.
At most, to strengthen the friendship between the foster family and the birth family, they would offer greater material comforts in daily life. They would not truly treat the ward as their own child.
There was even less to be said for wards whose position was closer to that of a hostage. Those young people were, in reality, political tools serving as pledges of loyalty-hostages, to put it bluntly.
Though they received certain privileges, the actual reason they lived under another family's roof remained to threaten and restrain the families they came from.
Their contest had brought them together, and the men found that they had something in common.
Seeing that Robert was quite interested in the mercenary trade, Titus catered to his tastes, telling him wondrous legends and little tales of adventures across the Narrow Sea, some that he knew and others that he had merely heard, quickly drawing them all closer.
Robert listened with relish, but Eddard showed little interest.
Seeing this, Titus, who had been talking about mercenary organizations such as the Second Sons, the Stormcrows, and the Long Lances, could hardly move on to the highly sensitive subject of the Golden Company. Instead, he changed tack and spoke of the last "King in the North," Torrhen Stark, the "King Who Knelt," who had bent the knee beside the Trident to submit to Aegon Targaryen, "the Conqueror."
Sure enough, Eddard perked up at hearing his own family's story.
He listened with particular attention when Titus described how, after Torrhen Stark bent the knee, a band of warriors from the North had refused to surrender to Aegon I and instead chosen exile east of the Narrow Sea, forming a sellsword company called the Rose Company.
Even Robert joined in the teasing, mocking the northmen for stealing the "rose" name from House Tyrell, the Wardens of the South.
Eddard was not annoyed. The image of a little girl with hair much like his own and the same eyes passed through his mind. The North may be bitterly cold, but roses bloom there too...
Titus also mentioned the remnants of the Winter Wolves, whose illustrious record under Earl Rodrik Dustin during the Dance of the Dragons was well known. Rumor had it that they too had crossed the sea eastward after the war and founded the Wolf Pack Company on the eastern continent of Essos.
Robert gazed at the dusk outside the window, his eyes unusually bright:
"In a couple of years, when Eddard and I leave the Eyrie and the Vale, I want to visit those mercenary city-states across the sea...
"I hear the warriors there have no knightly titles. Strength does all the talking, and a single gold coin can buy you a bloody fight. The bards there would absolutely adore me..."
"Oh, give it a rest, Robert!"
Eddard had drunk a little too much and could not help clapping the dark-haired young man hard on the shoulder, hoping to sober the young lord up a little.
"Last time, you said you wanted to be a pirate, but you got so seasick you couldn't stand steady even on a moored ship! With that-with that... hic-how are you going to get to Essos? Hmm?"
Everyone slapped the table and roared with laughter.
Robert was good-natured about it now. He merely called out "Ned" with a laugh and tossed nuts into his good brother's wide, laughing mouth to stop him talking.
Titus, who had only sipped his drink, did not laugh at Robert:
"Then remember to bring plenty of retainers. Knights' travelogues and adventure stories are one thing; actually becoming a sellsword and fighting wars is another.
"As for the bloody fighting you mentioned, I've heard that the city-states of Slaver's Bay do indeed have arenas floored with yellow sand. Spectators watch from outside, while gladiators wearing bronze masks fight one another in the arena. Only the winners receive the wreaths and coins the spectators throw."
Robert's blue eyes widened. He truly loved these tales of the eastern continent, and he leaned forward involuntarily. "There really are arenas?"
"And champion gladiators, too." Titus raised a thumb to signify "the one." "The very best gladiator in the whole arena!"
Robert laughed at that, lifting his head and raising his cup:
"A toast! To the champion gladiator!"
"To the champion gladiator!"
Everyone responded with a roar.
The earthenware cups collided above the table, spilling a few drops of ale onto the wooden surface, as though adding a few spirited marks to this chance encounter and sudden friendship.
Laughter and cheerful voices rose and fell throughout the tavern.
Robert said he had made up his mind: he was going to become the "King of the Mercenaries"!
Eddard, who sobered up as quickly as he got drunk, began recounting Robert's embarrassing bouts of seasickness again;
Oswin boasted about the clever application of strength he had used during their arm-wrestling match, before his voice gradually sank lower and disappeared beneath the table.
The widely read and knowledgeable Titus occasionally added a few curious tales from overseas, or joined in with cries of "Same here!"...
As the drinking wore on.
Robert, Eddard, and Titus, growing livelier with every drink, threw their arms around one another's shoulders and swore brotherhood... In Westeros, they were called "blood brothers," the equivalent of the "iron buddies" of the northeast or the "blood brothers" of the southwest in Titus's previous life-a band of brothers.
Firelight danced across their young faces.
It lit the figures of men of different stations together, sketching a lively picture within this endlessly clamorous tavern.
A group portrait of the three brothers:
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