(Male protagonist's perspective)
The banquet was in full swing, the hall filled with laughter and the clinking of goblets. Amidst the revelry, Lord Royce's cold gaze fixed on me, a testament to his displeasure with our match. However, he wasn't entirely a sour loser; after all, he was the one who gifted me the bronze armor. If my hunch was correct, and its magical properties were indeed depleted, I intended to return it after a thorough examination over the next few months. But even if I didn't, they possessed more than one bronze armor.
Just as I was lost in thought, the king's booming voice broke my reverie. " Ser Drasil, bring a goblet and let these delicate flowers see how a real man drinks!"
Thanks to my tolerance to alcohol, it posed almost no threat to me. I could drink like a sponge, though this also meant I often had to fetch the jug at night. When I finished my seventh cup, King Robert burst into hearty laughter. "You lot are pathetic! You can't even outdrink this young man, let alone defeat him with a sword!"
Robert's words seemed to sting the Kingslayer's pride, for he could not tolerate such an implication. He stepped forward, a haughty sneer on his face. "My king, we cannot truly assess his swordsmanship until we engage him in close combat."
Robert, a provocateur, pressed further. "Are you implying that you can defeat him in melee?"
Jaime's smile deepened. He retorted, "I'm not afraid of a conflict with him. Even if he has the title of knight, he's just a nouveau riche who hasn't met anyone truly great yet."
Jory Cassel interjected, his voice full of challenge. "He beat Harras Harlaw, Victarion Greyjoy, and don't forget he was the one who breached the main gate."
Jaime quickly retorted, a disdainful smile playing on his lips. " Harras Harlaw is merely a mid-level knight. As for Victarion, I heard his men dragged him off the battlefield before the fight was even over."
The knights and nobles of the North were enraged by Jaime's words, their anger palpable. However, none dared to voice their discontent until Jory stood up and threw his goblet to the floor at Jaime's feet. "Are you belittling the achievements of the knights of the North?"
At that moment, I clapped my hands forcefully, the sound like thunder, silencing the entire hall. As I spoke, all eyes were on me, my voice piercing the tense atmosphere. " Ser Cassel, we are knights of the North. We do not mock each other's achievements at the dinner table; that is a pastime for idle men. As for you, Kingslayer, you should know: wine and sword are a dangerous mixture. We are currently without swords, otherwise I would challenge you to a duel on the spot."
Jaime couldn't help but chime in, chuckling to himself. "Right now, I won't think about it. People might gossip, saying I beat you when you were drunk."
King Robert turned his attention to Eddard Stark, his curiosity piqued. "What do your men call the boy?"
They gave him several titles. Devout followers of the Old Gods called him the Sword of the Old Gods. Knights and soldiers of Winterfell called him the Sword of Winter, and some commoners called him the Calamity.
Robert pondered for a moment, then let out a loud hiccup. " The Sword of Winter sounds fitting. I agree. Before the melee begins, the Kingslayer and the Sword of Winter will have a friendly duel. Knights should speak with their swords, not their tongues."
He turned to the two of us, asking for our consent, "Do you agree?"
"I accept." I answered without hesitation.
"I accept it," Jaime reluctantly admitted.
Throughout this exchange, Lord Tywin Lannister remained a silent observer, his expression unchanged. He didn't utter a word or make any other move, simply sipping his wine and lost in thought.
(Third-person perspective)
The atmosphere was tense and heavy in Tywin Lannister's private bedchamber. The grandeur of the room contrasted sharply with the obvious tension between father and son. The golden gleam in Jaime's hair was dimmed by his father's gaze. Stacks of meticulously organized documents lay across Tywin's imposing desk.
Tywin's voice, as resolute as steel, cut through the air. "This is a completely thoughtless act. You don't need to belittle the hero in the eyes of North lords and knights, thus provoking their anger."
Jaime, usually so full of bravado, found himself trembling with fear under his father's merciless gaze. He hesitated for a moment before answering, his arrogant expression masking his true feelings.
"If the North considers a sixteen-year-old boy worthy of hero worship, then they are mistaken. Strip away his 'beast' persona, and he's nothing more than an ordinary child."
Tywin's gaze remained unwavering, his words dripping with icy disdain. "Do you have any real knowledge of his achievements, or is your judgment based entirely on drunken ramblings?"
Jaime's answer carried a hint of skepticism, "All I've encountered are boastful exaggerations. He supposedly defeated a few insignificant enemies with a bunch of pets, and suddenly he's hailed as an unparalleled warrior."
"Jealousy and envy are meaningless emotions, especially for Lannister. Approaching him with such contempt is tantamount to self-destruction."
Jaime was immediately incredulous; his father's praise of the boy was delivered in a strange and incomprehensible tone. Jaime thought to himself, he never praised anyone. He clenched his fists, feeling the pressure until his knuckles turned white, and struggled to find the right words as Tywin's speech continued.
"Though his bloodline is humble, his abilities are undeniable." Tywin made a measured gesture, sliding a stack of documents across the desk. Hesitant fingers grasped the report, Jaime's eyes scanning its meticulous contents. A complex intelligence report about Aermir Drasil had been revealed.
He not only quelled numerous bandits and protected coastal towns from the Ironborn's invasion with his "beasts," but also achieved remarkable success. The North suffered minimal losses, largely thanks to his keen strategic vision and accurate archery. Consider this: could you fight the Ironborn tribe with only a bow? Witnesses testify that he has killed many with his arrows, perhaps with the help of his "monsters." But undeniably, he is no ordinary young man; he is a harbinger of death, a mysterious force.
More documents flew through the air, providing layer upon layer of evidence for Tywin's arguments.
"Next time you fight, make sure you accurately assess your opponent's strength. I won't tolerate any mistakes caused by your arrogance. While I can't gauge his swordsmanship, I can imagine his underdeveloped body might not be suited for melee combat. However, underestimating him could very well be the catalyst for your defeat."
No further words were needed. Tywin's chilling gaze conveyed a wealth of information, silencing the room completely. A tense atmosphere filled the air, until finally Tywin gave a dismissive glance.
"I will not accept any outcome that tarnishes our family's reputation."