ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

It had been nearly two moons since Arthur and his company left Winterfell when the walls of King’s Landing finally appeared on the horizon. By then, the road had already taught everyone that maps were polite liars. The Kingsroad looked clean enough when drawn on parchment, a straight line from North to South, but the real thing was mud, rain, broken wheels, lame horses, and men cursing gods they had never bothered to pray to properly.

The journey had been longer and uglier than Arthur expected. Sudden rainstorms turned the road into a swamp more than once, forcing the wagons to sink axle-deep in mud while every man with arms had to push, pull, and swear. Small bands of broken men and bandits appeared from the woods from time to time, drawn by the sight of wagons and packhorses. They expected merchants. Instead, they found Battanian soldiers waiting behind trees, in ditches, or along the roadside with arrows and axes. That mistake usually lasted a few breaths.

Those little fights were not grand battles, but they were useful. The recruits learned to move under pressure, the veterans learned to command without shouting, and Arthur learned which men still looked at blood too long after spilling it. Villages along the way took northern furs, herbs, leatherwork, and bone crafts in exchange for food, fodder, and water. The trades were never generous. Hungry villages did not care how pretty northern goods looked if their own stores were thin. Still, the caravan kept moving.

The system flickered often during the journey. Dinars rose slowly through trade and bandit suppression. Experience bars moved in small steps after each skirmish and drill. Five recruits advanced into Old Wolf Warriors through actual fighting, which made the company sharper and much less embarrassing to call a company. Arthur watched the numbers improve with satisfaction, though he knew better than to trust numbers alone. Men died in ways systems did not predict.

When the caravan passed through the Gate of the Gods and entered King’s Landing, Ena leaned out from the carriage window despite herself. Her eyes widened, all her usual northern caution briefly swallowed by shock.

”Is this King’s Landing?”

Arthur looked ahead and understood her reaction, even if he had less patience for wonder. The city was massive, loud, and alive in the way a wound was alive. Towers and spires rose everywhere, crowded together under the shadow of the Red Keep on Aegon’s High Hill. Streets twisted between leaning buildings. Carts, horses, merchants, beggars, guards, septons, whores, sailors, smiths, and thieves all fought for space and noise. The air carried spices, horse dung, sea salt, baking bread, sweat, sewage, and ambition. Mostly sewage.

The city was prosperous, filthy, and shameless about both. Compared to the cold silence of the North, King’s Landing felt like a living beast, fat from eating the desires of men. Arthur frowned slightly at the open gutters, the piles of refuse at street corners, and the buildings pressed too close together. This was the capital of the Seven Kingdoms. Naturally, it smelled like no one in power had ever walked through it without guards clearing the way first.

He said nothing and raised a hand, signaling the caravan to keep moving. Following the route he had asked about before entering the city, they passed through Cobbler’s Square and headed toward the area near the Great Sept of Baelor. It was not pure safety, because no such thing existed in King’s Landing, but it was safer than the dockside alleys and cleaner than Flea Bottom. The concentration of inns also made it suitable for a company that needed rooms, stables, storage, and enough space to keep armed men from becoming a public incident.

They found an inn called the Blessings of the Seven. It was large enough for their needs and respectable enough to charge for the appearance of respectability, which was the foundation of half the city’s economy. The innkeeper was bald, fat, and blessed with small eyes that became brighter the moment he saw armed men with wagons. He hurried out with a smile wide enough to hide several knives and began arranging rooms, stables, and a warehouse space before Arthur had even finished asking.

After settling the men and counting supplies, Arthur took a few trusted soldiers to sell part of the goods they had brought south. The market near the sept was crowded with nobles’ servants, merchants, tourney followers, and men hoping to profit from everyone else’s stupidity. Northern furs, rare herbs, handmade leather goods, and carved bone ornaments sold much faster than expected. Prices in King’s Landing were far higher than in the North, mostly because people here seemed willing to pay extra for things they could brag about not needing.

The reason became clear soon enough. King Robert was hosting a grand tournament to celebrate Eddard Stark’s appointment as Hand of the King. Nobles, knights, sellswords, merchants, singers, gamblers, and every kind of parasite had rushed into the capital. Coin was flowing everywhere, and where coin flowed, Arthur intended to stand close enough to catch some of it.

When he returned to the inn, he sought out the owner and asked about recent news. The innkeeper, having already received good coin, became wonderfully generous with words. Men always claimed loyalty was priceless, but tavern keepers knew better.

”The tournament,” Arthur said, holding a cup of hot tea instead of ale. ”It is truly for Lord Stark becoming Hand?”

”True as the Seven,” the innkeeper said, slapping his thigh. ”King Robert ordered it himself. A grand thing. Joust, team melee, and archery. Forty thousand gold dragons for the joust champion, twenty thousand for the melee, and ten thousand for the best archer. Half of Westeros is here to break bones for coin.”

Arthur’s fingers stilled around the cup.

Forty thousand gold dragons was absurd. Twenty thousand was still absurd. Ten thousand for archery alone was enough to feed and arm men for a long time. The money mattered, of course. Arthur was not stupid enough to pretend otherwise. But fame mattered more. A company unknown beyond Wintertown could become something else if it performed well in front of lords, knights, and the royal court.

”What are the registration conditions?” Arthur asked. ”Status, numbers, restrictions?”

”Loose enough for every fool with a sword to dream,” the innkeeper replied. ”Free men only. Bring your own arms, pay the fee, and you can enter. The melee allows teams, though the number is capped. The archery is individual. Your men look hard enough. You should try the melee, or the bow. Leave the joust to men who can afford dying beautifully.”

Arthur almost smiled. On rare occasions, wisdom escaped from ugly mouths.

He thanked the innkeeper and returned to his room. Once alone, he dismissed his attendants and opened the system interface to check the company properly. Two moons of travel, training, skirmishes, and upgrades had changed the Battanian Rangers into something much better than the group that had left Winterfell.

Old Wolf Warriors: 12 men. Advanced archers, skilled in forest stealth, long-range shooting, and close combat with hand axes.

Battanian Clan Warriors: 8 men. Heavy infantry with longswords, round shields, and leather armor, suited for formation fighting and frontal assault.

Battanian Raiders: 6 men. Spearmen armed with spears and javelins, mobile and useful against riders.

Battanian Volunteers: 15 men. Basic infantry, not impressive, but obedient and steady enough to support the main line.

Battanian Young Wolf Warriors: 5 men. Basic archers, useful for harassment and support.

Forty-six fighting men in total, plus Ena and eleven non-combat attendants recruited along the road for cooking, medicine, cleaning, and supplies. The company was no army, but it was balanced. Archers, infantry, spearmen, scouts, and enough discipline not to disgrace themselves immediately. That was more than many sellsword bands could claim, which said miserable things about sellswords.

Arthur studied the tournament rules again. The team melee allowed up to thirty fighters. Archery was individual. The joust was for mounted knights with lances, armor, horses, and a deep desire to become a corpse under applause. Battanians were forest fighters, not tourney lancers. Sending his men into the joust would be like using a knife as a hammer and then blaming the knife for breaking.

The plan formed quickly.

The archers would enter the individual archery competition. The melee team would be made from the best Clan Warriors, Raiders, and Volunteers. The joust would be ignored entirely.

There was no shame in refusing a fight designed for another man’s strengths. Shame was dying because pride had taken command.