(Thanks to Warhammer Martial God Emperor for the two monthly tickets.)
Inside the arena.
Arthas's feat of killing two men at the outset had already demonstrated strength far beyond that of ordinary men.
Barristan still lay on the ground, struggling to get up.
The four remaining Kingsguard, including Arthas's elder brother Jaime, exchanged glances. Although Arthas was already wounded, not one of them dared strike first in the face of their opponent's overwhelming presence.
The four merely held up their longswords and shifted their footing, keeping Arthas tightly surrounded on all sides.
"Hah... hah..."
Barristan rose shakily to his feet, clutching his chest with his right hand as he gasped for breath.
Having finally regained his sight, he silently observed the stalemate in the arena, then staggered toward Meryn Trant's body, the closest one to him.
He forcibly pried open the hand gripping the sword hilt and picked up the longsword that had belonged to his comrade.
"Young man."
Barristan steadied his breathing and looked at Arthas, whose chest was still slowly bleeding. A trace of reluctance showed through the shock in his eyes.
"I acknowledge your strength, but please stop forcing yourself to hold on. You cannot last much longer."
Much as he hated to admit it, the pressure he had felt fighting Arthas was unlike anything he had ever experienced in his lifetime of combat.
In both swordsmanship and courage, Arthas had astounded him as no one ever had.
Barristan, who had upheld the spirit of chivalry his entire life, had never raised a hand against children or women. He was even less willing to see a youth with such tremendous strength and such a promising future die before him.
Indeed, Arthas was only fourteen years old.
"Heh."
The former prince of Lordaeron lowered his head to glance at the wound in his chest. He knew his current condition perfectly well.
Having received Uther's instruction in his early years and later become an invincible Death Knight who dealt with the undead every day, Arthas could be said to possess knowledge of human anatomy far beyond that of any maester in Westeros.
The instant Barristan's longsword thrust toward him, he had perfectly avoided every internal organ.
The wound looked hideous and bled incessantly, but it had not damaged a single vital part.
Under the effects of Unholy Aura, the bleeding could not even keep pace with his body's self-repair.
"What can I say?"
"Has even Barristan the Bold begun to feel fear?"
A breeze swept past, setting his long golden hair adrift. Arthas stroked Frostmourne's blade with a mocking smile on his face.
"That brat! He's still provoking his opponent at a time like this!"
The Imp's eyes were wide, afraid to miss even the slightest movement in the arena, as though he were the one facing five Kingsguard.
Although he was no good at fighting-or rather, had never fought anyone-he knew that wildly provoking an opponent while already wounded was no different from dancing on a knife's edge.
No, perhaps Arthas had been destined to dance on a knife's edge from the very beginning of this contest.
"Relax, Lord Tyrion."
Baelish, seated beside him, looked perfectly at ease as he began comforting the Imp.
As he watched Arthas, still bleeding and surrounded as though he were on his last legs, a barely perceptible hint of amusement appeared in his eyes.
He lightly patted the Imp's tense shoulder and gently counseled him with great concern, like an old friend of many years:
"We must have faith in Lord Arthas."
"Although his condition is not very good right now, he must have a plan of his own."
That damned pimp.
He had already cursed eight generations of Baelish's ancestors in his heart, but this was not yet the time to drop all pretense.
The Imp raised his head, his mismatched eyes, one black and one green, taking on an innocent, guileless look. He gazed at Baelish, whose sincere expression suggested deep concern for him, and a glimmer of tears seemed to flash in his eyes:
"Thank you so very much, Lord Baelish."
"At a time like this, I fear you are the only one who can support Arthas so steadfastly."
Then he sighed softly and wiped away the nonexistent tears at the corners of his eyes:
"I do not even hope for Arthas to win this battle. I only ask that he survive at the hands of the mighty Kingsguard."
"Ten thousand Gold Dragons are nothing compared with the heir to House Lannister."
His words were filled with concern for his young brother.
"It will be all right, Lord Tyrion."
The amusement in Baelish's eyes was almost spilling over, but he still patted the Imp's shoulder with feigned sympathy:
"Lord Arthas is a confident and spirited young man."
"You saw it yourself. He killed two Kingsguard with almost no effort just now."
"I think I ought to go raise funds now and find a way to repay you more than a million Gold Dragons."
The two master actors of Westeros thus furiously competed in acting, like sworn friends who had shared life and death through adversity.
"Seven above, that brother of yours really is impressive."
Elsewhere, Robert held his wine cup and watched the two sides confronting each other in the arena with complete concentration, marveling to Cersei beside him, who was watching just as intently.
Many years ago, he too had been a powerful warrior, his heavy warhammer stained with the blood of countless enemies.
As Barristan was his Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Robert understood his strength better than anyone.
Even at Robert's peak, his chances against this battle-hardened veteran would have been no better than even.
He had never expected this Lannister, so young, to withstand Barristan's attacks head-on and kill two Kingsguard in succession.
Although he could not enter the arena himself, the spectacular fighting still set his blood boiling, as though he had recaptured something of his youth.
He was just about to pour wine into his mouth when he discovered that his cup had somehow become completely empty.
"Wine!"
The cupbearer beside him, whose attention had been drawn to the battle, snapped out of his daze at the king's angry shout and hurriedly lifted the large wine jug to refill Robert's cup.
"Arthas..."
The beautiful queen paid no attention to her already tipsy husband beside her. Her eyes remained fixed on the proud youth in the arena as she murmured Arthas's name. He was so commanding and powerful.
Before him, Jaime, the lover she had grown up with, her gentle, handsome twin brother, now seemed to have become an insignificant backdrop.
Watching Arthas's wild, unrestrained figure standing in the arena, his golden hair drifting in the wind, Cersei seemed to feel a warm current slowly flowing beneath her skirts.
"Arthas!"
As though sensing his lover's gaze, Jaime looked toward Cersei outside the arena, only to find that her eyes were not on him. An emotion called jealousy immediately surged into his heart once more.
As Tywin's eldest son, he should have been House Lannister's rightful heir, and he had naturally grown up surrounded by attention and adulation.
But Jaime's disposition was unlike that of an ordinary Lannister. Since childhood, he had loved listening to bards tell stories of knights and had resolved to become an upright knight.
Under his father's disappointed and furious gaze, he had gladly accepted the Mad King's appointment and become a Kingsguard, relinquishing his inheritance of House Lannister's title from that day onward.
Amid the condemnation of the entire world, he had personally killed the king to whom he had sworn allegiance to protect King's Landing, becoming the universally reviled "Kingslayer."
Amid Robert's contempt and insults, he had stood guard outside the door day after day, listening to Robert make merry with the whores of King's Landing.
But none of this could stop him from loving, with near-madness and unwavering devotion, the elder sister who had shared the same womb with him, Cersei Lannister!
He could not bear to see the love of his life, before the eyes of so many people, gaze with adoration at that Lannister who was taller than him, more handsome than him, and even stronger than him!
That look can belong only to me!
Jealousy clouded Jaime's mind. Instead of attacking together with the others as he should have, he charged at Arthas alone, longsword in hand.
"No, Jaime!"
Knowing Arthas's strength, Barristan had already prepared to join forces with the others to subdue this wounded Lannister lion.
He had no idea why Jaime had suddenly charged at their opponent like a madman.
"There's no other choice."
"Attack!"
Since Jaime had already charged, Barristan could only raise his longsword and, with a loud shout, attack Arthas alongside the other three.
If five Kingsguard did not even dare strike at a single youth, they would not only become the laughingstock of all the nobles of Westeros, but even King Robert's reputation would suffer a tremendous blow.
Jaime, who had charged out first, had already reached Arthas. He raised his longsword high and brought it down toward his shoulder.
Although anger had already clouded his mind, the chivalry instilled in him since childhood and his love for his Lannister family still made Jaime carefully avoid Arthas's vital points.
He merely hoped to prove himself to Cersei through his strength.
The longsword fell swiftly, yet Arthas seemed not to have seen it at all. He stood motionless, as though he intended to let the blade strike him.
Has he lost so much blood that he can no longer move?
Dodge!
Jaime, who had been filled with resentment, suddenly felt some regret. A trace of reluctance appeared in his fierce eyes. He did not know why he had raised his sword against his younger brother, a fellow Lannister.
But his sword was already swinging, and it was far too late to pull it back. He could only pray silently that this innocent brother would not die by his blade.
Thud!
Just as Jaime was about to close his eyes, unable to bear the sight of Arthas being cut down, his vision went black.
Then a sharp pain struck his cheek, and his body flew uncontrollably backward, slamming heavily into the ground and raising a great cloud of dust.
By the time he came to his senses and opened his eyes, Arthas was already locked in combat with Barristan and the other three, Frostmourne in hand.
Jaime desperately tried to get up and join the battle, but his limbs seemed no longer to belong to him. He could only lie on the ground, gasping for breath as dust kept pouring into his mouth and nose.
After an unknown length of time, the clash of blades in the arena gradually ceased...
Footsteps approached. Jaime raised his head and saw Arthas looking at him with a gentle smile, his crimson armor covered in blood, as though he had not just fought a deadly battle but merely returned from a spring outing.
His long golden hair still swayed in the wind. In the sunlight, the youth's handsome face was so dazzling.
Arthas planted Frostmourne in the ground and knelt on one knee before Jaime. His calm tone reminded Jaime of his all-capable father:
"Jaime, my elder brother."
"As a lion of House Lannister, you do indeed possess admirable chivalry."
Clearly, Jaime's deliberate avoidance of his vital points had not escaped Arthas's all-seeing golden eyes.
"But."
Arthas stood and stepped out of Jaime's line of sight, revealing Barristan and the other three sprawled on the ground behind him.
His steady footsteps gradually receded, like a sovereign ruling over all about to ascend his throne:
"There can be only one king of the lions."
(P.S. I really am not very good at describing fight scenes. Writing these chapters has practically wrung my breas... brains dry.)
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