Beast Slayer Online: Initialization
Copyright© 2026 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 158: The River Turned Black
Robert was a man with a temper fit to split oak. Once it rose, there were few men alive who could force it back down.
Perhaps Lord Jon Arryn, the former Hand of the King and Robert’s foster father, might have managed it. But the old man had died an unnatural death.
Eddard did not even dare tell Robert that much. One careless word might shake the kingdom loose from its hinges.
Eddard and Baelish were both driven out of the King’s tent. This time Robert called for two squires to strap him into his plate armor. He meant to force his belly into the steel no matter what, and if that failed, he would have a smith hammer the damned thing into shape on the spot.
Standing outside the royal tent, Eddard kept his face cold and forced himself not to look at Petyr Baelish. Before Lannor had pointed out the man’s problems, Eddard might have taken this as nothing more than clumsy flattery, a man trying to please the King and the Hand only to provoke Robert because he did not understand him. Baelish had erred and caused trouble, but not by design. With Eddard’s regard for honor and rules, he likely would not even have turned his anger on Baelish. He would have swallowed the bitterness and stewed in silence.
Now, however, Eddard could feel it clearly. The man had measured Robert’s temper, then deliberately struck the note that would drive him into the field.
In earlier days, Eddard might have thrown the matter in Baelish’s face at once, blunt as a sword on stone. But the information and perspective Lannor had given him had shown him what sort of place King’s Landing truly was.
So the Hand of the King kept his gaze away from Baelish and forced his voice level. “The King can’t be stopped now. I’ll go make arrangements for the match. Good day.”
After parting from Baelish, Eddard immediately began searching the camp for Lannor. Fortunately, though the Hand’s household had not spent the night at the jousting grounds, their tents had still been raised. Rank demanded its own canvas. So when Eddard needed Lannor, he found him easily enough in one of the remaining tents, chatting idly with members of the guard detachment.
“The Neck? Near where I first met you lot, then? Its famous beast is the lizard-lion, is it? I should hunt one someday. Is its venom truly as vicious as you say? Giants north of the North? Ah. I doubt I’ll go that far. Too damned far.”
When Eddard lifted the heavy tent flap and stepped inside, the first thing he saw was Lannor checking the buckles of his plate, surrounded by guardsmen trading stories with him. Thanks to his increasingly refined but still martial features, and his habit of listening closely whenever anyone spoke of strange creatures or local specialties, meaning possible alchemical materials, Lannor had become rather well-liked among the guards. Everyone seemed willing to talk with him for a few moments.
Good looks had their uses.
“Lannor. A word outside,” Eddard said from the entrance, holding the flap aside.
The guardsmen relaxed at once. They were not nervous before their lord, but the little circle still broke apart. Lannor walked out from among them and followed Eddard to a quiet corner.
“What is it?” Lannor asked.
“The exotic flora and fauna materials you asked for, I’ve gathered a batch. They’re stored in the cellar of the Hand’s Tower. You can look through them when we return.”
“Mhm. And?”
Lannor did not believe for a moment that Eddard had pulled him aside just to mention something already agreed upon in public.
Sure enough, Eddard pressed his lips together, helplessness and anger tightening his face. “In the melee later, the King will enter the field.”
The Witcher raised a brow. “You didn’t stop him?”
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