Beast Slayer Online: Initialization
Copyright© 2026 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 157: The Silence Before Dawn
The next morning, rather than hurrying to the Tournament grounds, Eddard remained behind after the Small Council concluded its business and asked the royal Maester to stay.
Westeros possessed something of the old imperial habit of separating nobility from bureaucracy.
The lords ruled their fiefs, but the Maesters, educated in their own order, stood beside them to advise, consult, and handle countless practical matters of governance.
The system worked so conveniently that some of the greatest noble houses in Westerosi history had produced lords barely capable of reading or writing.
Using Maesters was simply easier.
Because of that tradition, the Grand Maester held a seat on the Small Council itself.
The current royal Maester looked ancient enough to crumble into dust at any moment. Eddard had never once seen the old man straighten his back while walking.
“Grand Maester Pycelle,” Eddard said in his usual rigid, serious tone, the exact manner everyone expected from him. “I heard the former Hand of the King spoke with you several times before his death?”
Under normal circumstances, the old man would likely have pretended not to hear, forcing Eddard to repeat himself until the matter quietly died.
But today, perhaps because everyone already believed the Hand of the King had begun losing interest in Jon Arryn’s death, Pycelle’s hearing seemed remarkably sharp.
“Ah, yes, yes. I remember now. Please, come with me. Lord Arryn borrowed a book from me once. I shall fetch it for you.”
The Grand Maester led Eddard toward his office and painfully extracted an enormous tome from the shelf behind his chair.
The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms.
“This book ... Jon Arryn was reading this?”
Eddard knew his foster father well enough.
Jon Arryn had been capable and diligent, certainly.
But voluntarily reading a tome that looked this useless? No. The old falcon would never torment himself for sport.
“Mhm.” Pycelle slowly lowered himself into his chair. “It details marriages between the great houses, bloodlines, descendants and such. Dreadfully dull reading, I admit. But that was all the former Hand wished to discuss with me.”
Eddard pressed his lips together and nodded once. “Thank you for your help. I’ll borrow it.”
“Ah, of course. By all means.”
Afterward, Eddard left the tome upon the desk in the Hand’s Tower before hurrying toward the Tournament grounds with Lannor and the guard detachment.
Today’s events no longer included the knightly jousts.
Only the melee remained, a massive free-for-all where the last man standing claimed victory.
And somewhere off to the side, an archery contest almost no one cared about.
The blood spilled yesterday had already faded from public memory.
Only Eddard still remembered it clearly enough to leave his daughters behind.
From his experience attending tournaments, the melee was always the ugliest part. Most of the warriors and sellswords entering for prize money wielded weapons fully capable of killing.
And while the prize for the melee could not compare to the prestige of the jousts, the champion would still receive ten thousand Golden Dragons.
Even landed lords would covet that amount.
It took little imagination to picture what men would do for such money.
Using his status as one of the Hand’s guards, Lannor entered the melee himself.
No matter how enormous the purse was, or how ruinously expensive this Tournament must have been for Robert, ten thousand Golden Dragons were still ten thousand Golden Dragons.
Even brought back to the Magical World, the minting might differ, but gold remained gold.
When Eddard heard Lannor had entered, he had even asked whether the young Witcher needed a helmet.
In melees, the deadliest strikes often came from behind, and men naturally aimed for unprotected places.
Lannor had dismissed the concern without hesitation.
Eddard merely sighed.
Talented men often carried pride with them, but he genuinely valued Lannor’s mind. Without the young Witcher’s help, Eddard increasingly suspected the schemers of King’s Landing would soon play him to death.
And beyond Lannor’s stubbornness, another headache awaited him.
His royal brother was causing trouble again.
The moment Eddard reached the large tent where the King had spent the night, Robert’s booming roar was already shaking the canvas walls.
“Tighter! I said tighter, damn you! My side’s hanging out of the armor! Do you want my guts spilling onto the lists?!”
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