Anticipating a delicious fallen soul

Eddard left after all.

Taking his two daughters, he left the land he had ruled for over a decade and set out for the royal capital.

Though he was reluctant to leave, though he worried deeply about his wife and his son, who remained unconscious.

Duty called, and with his old friend pleading so earnestly and righteously, he had no choice but to brave the lion's den that was King's Landing.

But the closer he came to King's Landing, the more Eddard realized that things had changed beyond anything he had imagined.

First, his younger daughter Arya clashed with Robert's eldest son Joffrey on the road, and her direwolf Nymeria bit Joffrey's arm.

Then his elder daughter Sansa actually lied in front of everyone to support Joffrey and help him...

Having been that age themselves, anyone present could see what the adolescent girl was thinking, but no one pointed it out.

Yet who could have known that her lie would ultimately bring retribution upon her own direwolf, Lady?

Rubbing his aching brow, Eddard drew his already stern brows into an even deeper frown.

He disliked Joffrey, his future son-in-law, intensely.

The boy was erratic and cowardly. According to Arya, his nine-year-old daughter had actually disarmed him, and he had even cried without a shred of royal dignity.

Compared with the wolf pups back home, golden-haired Joffrey was like a little girl spoiled rotten by her parents!

He had no idea how the brave and battle-hardened Robert had fathered such a creature.

But there was nothing he could do. With Robert and Cersei pushing the match so strongly, his daughter could barely take her eyes off Joffrey and was eagerly awaiting her future as the crown prince's bride!

Eddard could only hold his nose and accept the marriage.

After all, only a marriage between the two great houses of Baratheon and Stark could unite them against the formidable Lannisters.

Though the Baratheons and Lannisters were also bound by marriage...

"Oh, Ned!"

His clothes flecked with blood and his face flushed, Robert barged into Eddard's tent without so much as announcing himself.

Having just killed two wild boars, he was in excellent spirits, and that forward village woman had left him thoroughly satisfied as well.

The moment he entered, Robert spotted Eddard's furrowed brow and gave him an affectionate clap on the shoulder.

"You look like a seventy-year-old man. You really should come hunting with me and unwind. There are far more beasts in the Riverlands than in King's Landing."

"We're no longer the young men we once were, Robert."

Smelling the strong reek of wine on Robert, Eddard frowned even more deeply.

"You were never young."

Robert's retort was merciless, and he snatched the wine jug from the attendant beside him and took several great swallows.

"For your own safety, Your Grace."

As the soon-to-be Hand of the King and Robert's closest friend, Eddard had no choice but to put on a stern face and perform his duty.

"I advise you not to hunt while drunk again. It's far too dangerous."

"Oh, by the Seven!"

Seemingly too drunk to stand steady, Robert shoved the wine attendant aside, hurled the jug to the ground, and shouted.

"Spare me the lectures, Lord Hand!"

"You and Jon Arryn are both so fucking dull. The gods know why I went all the way to Winterfell to fetch you!"

Staggering over to the edge of the tent, Robert, who appeared thoroughly drunk, steadied himself against the entrance flap and turned back, lowering his voice.

"Rather than worrying about my safety, Ned."

"You'd do better to think about how we can break through the Lannisters' encirclement and do everything we can to preserve my throne."

"I don't want to be the next king to die on the Iron Throne!"

Leaving those weighty words behind, Robert departed, stumbling every other step.

Reminded of the situation, Eddard frowned again, the space between his brows seeming to grow ever narrower.

The queen, the Kingsguard, the Master of Coin, the Commander of the Gold Cloaks.

The four Lannister siblings had all but taken over half of King's Landing, not to mention the old lion watching hungrily from the distant Westerlands.

Breaking the deadlock under these circumstances would be no easy task.

"Head up, back straight!"

"Drive with your legs. Imagine yourself as a great hammer being swung!"

"Oh, gods, how many times have I told you? Why are you as thick as a pig?"

In the square at Gold Cloaks headquarters, Syrio held a wooden longsword with his arms folded across his chest, sternly supervising Gendry and occasionally voicing an exasperated complaint.

Ever since agreeing to become the Gold Cloaks' sword instructor for Arthas, he had spared no effort in tormenting these pampered men every day.

He had no intention of teaching the Water Dance to these utterly untalented Gold Cloaks. Even if he taught them, they would never learn it.

The Lannister knights, meanwhile, had their own style of swordsmanship suited to fighting on the battlefield.

But among these men, he had found one promising prospect.

Gendry, who was stronger than an ox.

Even the worldly Syrio had been astonished when he first witnessed the boy's strength. His appreciation for talent had immediately stirred, and he decided to give him private instruction.

He did not teach Gendry the Water Dance either, however. The lad was too strong and suited only to a heavy hammer.

Though he had never used a hammer himself, that did not prevent Syrio from teaching him how to apply his strength.

"All right, take a break. We'll continue in half an hour."

Watching Gendry panting and drenched in sweat, a trace of satisfaction flashed through Syrio's eyes before quickly disappearing.

Gendry was actually very talented. At first, he had only known how to swing his heavy hammer with brute force, but now he could control where it landed with considerable ease.

Even when he failed to hit someone, he could swiftly adjust as his opponent dodged, truly making the hammer follow the man.

But he had never offered Gendry a single word of praise, only reprimands, afraid that the talented young man would become complacent over a little progress.

In his thirty years as a swordsman, Syrio had seen far too many people stop advancing after achieving the slightest success.

Their endings were generally not pleasant.

Besides...

Looking up toward Arthas's office, Syrio picked up his sword and began practicing as well.

After becoming First Sword, he too had grown somewhat lax.

"So full of life..."

Gazing at the master and pupil training diligently in the square, Arthas sighed with genuine feeling.

Since arriving in King's Landing, he had barely practiced his swordsmanship, occupied as he was with worldly affairs.

Not that practicing made much difference to him, since his magical power and physical strength were visibly increasing every day.

Still, he was very pleased to see Syrio so dedicated.

Under Syrio's supervision these past days, none of the Gold Cloaks had dared slack off, and Arthas had seen all their progress.

These men, who had once done nothing but squeeze the common people, had actually begun to show a hint of elite quality.

In truth, their basic caliber was not poor for a City Watch.

After all, compared with other jobs, service in the Gold Cloaks was still a cushy position, even with Janos skimming off the top.

Almost everyone who joined the Gold Cloaks had either pulled strings or paid their way in.

Their living conditions were countless times better than those of the poor in Flea Bottom. With adequate nutrition, their physical condition naturally could not be too bad.

Moreover, over these past days, Arthas had dismissed men of poor caliber or those who disobeyed orders, reducing the Gold Cloaks from six thousand to roughly four thousand.

With the ranks streamlined, their quality had improved, and they were easier to command.

One could say that until Robert returned, Arthas alone had the final say over almost all of King's Landing.

"Knock, knock, knock."

A knock sounded, and Lancel, Arthas's secretary and the head of his personal guard, entered with his back bent like a personal eunuch.

"Lord Arthas."

Only after coming to a halt before him did Lancel straighten and respectfully begin his report.

"Over the past few days, we have spent a total of thirty-two thousand six hundred gold dragons on the construction of the capital's drainage system and the cleanup of Flea Bottom."

"There are currently two million seven hundred sixty-four thousand three hundred fifty gold dragons left in the treasury."

Only when he saw Arthas nod in satisfaction did Lancel breathe a sigh of relief and continue.

"All the lawbreakers we have arrested these past days have been put to work on King's Landing's infrastructure."

"As you instructed, our next step will be to allocate five hundred thousand gold dragons to work with all the smithies in King's Landing and comprehensively upgrade the Gold Cloaks' equipment."

"However, I suggest putting down fifty thousand gold dragons as a deposit first. Once they produce finished samples for quality testing, we can compare them and select the smithies with superior work."

"Please give your decision."

"Do as you suggest, Lancel."

Arthas regarded his Lannister cousin with satisfaction. Though the man was neither skilled at fighting nor particularly brave.

He did at least have some talent for handling internal affairs.

"How long until Robert and the others reach King's Landing, and how is our plan progressing?"

Leaning back slightly against his chair, Arthas asked casually.

"According to reliable information, King Robert and Eddard Stark, Duke of Winterfell, will return to King's Landing within three days at the latest."

Lancel answered honestly, then paused briefly, as though choosing his words.

"However, our plan... has encountered some obstacles."

"The Faith of the Seven seems unwilling to cooperate with your actions."

"Though your name is already widely known among the common people, they seem to have been vigorously spreading their teachings these past days and preparing to reestablish the Sons of the Warrior."

Having delivered his report in one breath, Lancel considerately stepped forward to fill Arthas's cup with red wine, then stood quietly to one side.

"I knew that Sparrow wouldn't obediently do as he was told."

Tapping his knuckles lightly against the desk, Arthas raised the corners of his mouth into a playful smile.

"But that makes it interesting, doesn't it?"

"A purely fallen soul, suddenly tumbling from the highest point of its life."

"How delicious would that be?"

Ghostly blue magical energy danced gently at his fingertips, its flickering light illuminating Arthas's face.

Beside him, Lancel seemed long accustomed to such sights and showed no reaction to the eerie scene.