The opening day of the fighting pit hit King's Landing like a fever.
From first light, the city was already moving. Street vendors rolled out their carts, bakeries filled the air with smoke, and even the whores dragged themselves out of bed early, ready for the crowds. Everyone felt it—that electric pull in the air.
Today was the grand opening of Vito Corleone's "Ring of Order," the massive stone arena rising on the western edge of Flea Bottom.
What used to be a rundown leatherworks district—too close to the slums, always getting robbed—had been bought cheap after Littlefinger bailed. Corleone dumped nearly ten thousand dragons into clearing the ground and rebuilding it in three months.
From the outside it looked like a giant stone ring. Thirty-foot walls of pale granite, no windows, just eight heavy oak doors spaced evenly around the circle. Each door was painted with a black hand reaching out from shadow, palm up, fingers spread—the sigil of the Black Hand.
Iron flagpoles topped the walls every ten feet. Today every one flew a deep red triangular banner with crossed swords in gold thread—the arena's own crest, standing for "combat" and "justice."
The streets outside were already packed.
People poured in from every corner of the city—smallfolk from Flea Bottom, merchants from the Street of Silk, sailors from the docks, even farmers and minor lords who'd ridden in from outside the walls. Lines snaked along the outer walls in two long queues. Left side for regular tickets, ten coppers to a silver stag. Right side for the VIP gate—minimum one gold dragon just to walk in, with the best seats going for a hundred.
Those pricey seats came with a personal attendant, free wine and food, and a signed guest token from Corleone himself.
The gray-uniformed wardens moved through the crowd, shouting for people to keep the lines straight, but their voices got swallowed by the noise.
"Brothers' War!"
"Hound! Hound! Hound!"
"The Mountain's gonna rip him in half—I put twenty silver stags on it!"
"Twenty silver stags? I dropped two whole gold dragons!"
People waved their betting slips like holy relics. The slips came from the temporary betting booth set up beside the arena—three open sides, a row of clerks inside, ledgers stacked high.
In just three days the total bets had already smashed past three hundred thousand gold dragons.
That number made heads spin. King's Landing's entire yearly tax take was only a hundred and fifty thousand.
All because Corleone had turned the "Red Viper's Revenge" into something bigger.
Three days earlier, when he announced that Prince Oberyn was too injured to fight and the Hound would take his place, the city lost its mind.
The Hound versus the Mountain?
That wasn't a fight. That was a funeral.
Angry bettors nearly stormed the Hall of Order. Only fear of getting their asses kicked kept them from burning the place down.
But Corleone had already spent heavy coin on damage control. He spread stories about the old hatred between the brothers, hyped both men as two of the strongest fighters in all of Westeros.
Rumors fed on themselves. By the end, people were whispering that the Mountain and the Hound were the reincarnated Clegane twins from the Dance of the Dragons—Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk—who'd killed each other and been cursed by the Stranger to be reborn as brothers and keep fighting forever.
It was insane. It was perfect.
Corleone had Rolje post giant posters outside the Hall of Order.
Left side: the Mountain in full armor, giant body, snarling helm, bloodstained greatsword. Big red letters underneath: "Kinslayer's War!" "The monster who shoved his own brother into a brazier!" "The most terrifying killing machine in the Seven Kingdoms!"
Right side: the Hound, burned face, cold eyes, sword in hand. Dark gray text: "Former Kingsguard!" "At the Blackwater he cut down over a hundred of Stannis's men by himself!" "Tonight he comes for justice!"
At the bottom, huge letters: "Who wins this fight?"
The spin worked. People kept betting—harder than before. Most of the big early money had come from Corleone's noble contacts, so the growth looked steady instead of explosive.
Inside the arena the scale hit even harder.
The Ring of Order could hold twenty-five hundred people. It blended the old Roman colosseum style Corleone remembered with Westerosi tourney grounds.
The fighting pit was a perfect circle, eighty feet across, covered in fine white sand hauled up from the Blackwater shore—three inches deep to cushion falls without slowing anyone down.
No roof overhead. Sunlight poured straight down and lit the whole sand like a stage.
Four tiers of seating ringed the pit.
Bottom tier: VIP boxes, closest to the action, fewer than fifty seats. Cushioned chairs, free Arbor gold, Dornish red, and snacks from across the Narrow Sea.
Second tier: knights' seats, a hundred and twenty spots, good views, no cushions.
Third tier: citizen seating, five hundred wooden benches, no drinks included.
Top tier: standing room for nearly two thousand—packed like sardines, but only ten coppers a head. A dockworker could afford it on one day's wage.
Every seat was already full.
The roar of the crowd rolled in waves against the stone walls.
In the center of the VIP tier sat the royal box, raised half a foot higher than the rest.
Tywin Lannister sat on the far left, relaxed in his high-backed chair, one hand resting on the armrest, the other holding a cup of wine. His face gave nothing away. He looked almost bored, like the repeated clashes with Corleone hadn't touched him at all.
Cersei, on the right, was drinking steadily, one cup after another. Ever since her power grab at the Small Council had failed, she'd been drowning herself in wine and spending her days tangled up with her Kingsguard.
Little King Tommen sat between his mother and grandfather, feet dangling off the big chair. He kept shifting his legs nervously. A fancy program booklet rested on his knees, the crossed-swords crest of the arena stamped on the cover in gold. He stared down at it, pretending to read.
He wasn't reading a damn thing.
He was wondering if he should close his eyes when the fighting started.
Grandfather had told him a king never closes his eyes.
Mother had told him a king does whatever he wants.
Which one was he supposed to listen to?
He snuck a glance at his grandfather. Tywin was listening to some old lord in a deep blue coat who was bent almost double, smiling too wide, leaning in like he wanted to crawl into Tywin's lap. The old man talked without stopping. Tywin just nodded once in a while.
That was apparently enough. The old lord looked like he'd been handed the moon. He bowed over and over as he backed away.
More important lords kept approaching the royal box. They bowed to Tywin first, poured on the compliments, then gave Tommen a quick nod and a "Your Grace" like it was just something they had to check off a list.
Tommen was only eight, but he already understood what power looked like.
He pressed his lips together and looked back down at the program.
"Brothers… hatred… blood for blood…"
He didn't know what the words really meant together.
The sun felt too bright today.
While Tommen was still wrestling with the fancy lettering, a stir ran through the VIP entrance.
The crowd parted without being asked.
An older man in a deep blue velvet coat strode in—broad-shouldered, walking like he expected people to get out of his way. Behind him came a younger man, maybe twenty, in clean gray riding clothes and a sword at his hip. The young one stood straight but kept his eyes down, like he wasn't used to this many stares.
"Lord Rafford Lake!" someone muttered in the crowd.
Tommen looked up, curious. He knew the Lake name. Maesters had mentioned the taxes from Duskendale during council meetings—second only to King's Landing itself. He'd also overheard Tywin and Kevan talking about "that old fox Lake getting rich off Flea Bottom business."
Tommen didn't know exactly where Flea Bottom was or how Lake made his money, but he knew anyone Tywin remembered by name had to matter.
Rafford Lake entered the VIP section and swept his gaze across the stands. His eyes passed over Tywin without lingering. No deep bow. No fawning. Just a brief, polite nod before he kept walking straight toward the royal box.
He stopped in front of Tommen and bowed deeply. The crossed black warhammers on his chest flashed in the sunlight.
"Your Grace," he said, voice strong and clear. "Rafford Lake, Lord of Duskendale, offers you his highest respect. May the Seven bless your reign with long years and great prosperity."
Tommen blinked, oddly touched.
"May the gods bless you too, Lord Lake," he managed, voice small but serious.
Rafford straightened, smiling like a grandfather who approved of good manners. Then he turned and gently pulled the younger man forward.
"Your Grace, this is my second son and heir to Duskendale—Herbert Lake."
The young man stepped up and bowed as well, a little stiff.
"Herbert Lake, Your Grace."
Tommen studied him. Average height, average build, plain but honest face, brown hair neatly combed, wearing a brand-new gray riding doublet and a sword. He looked… normal. Cleaner than most of the flashy noble sons who usually strutted around.
Tommen nodded, then something clicked.
"Second son? Heir?" He tilted his head. "Where's your oldest son, my lord? Did he die too?"
Rafford's smile paused for half a second. Then he chuckled, loud and easy.
"A fair question, Your Grace." He glanced briefly at the black-hand sigils scattered around the arena. "My eldest son, Aemon Lake, chose to give up his inheritance."
Tommen's eyes went wide.
"Give it up? Why?"
"Because he wanted to see what lies across the Narrow Sea," Rafford said. "He wanted to walk the Long Bridge of Volantis, see the Sealord's Palace in Braavos, walk through the gardens of Lys. He didn't want to spend his whole life trapped inside Duskendale's walls as a lord."
Rafford's voice held no anger—only a trace of pride. "So I let him go. He's a hedge knight in the Free Cities now. From what I hear, he's quite happy."
Tommen listened, envy plain on his face. He'd never left King's Landing. He'd never even seen the sea properly. The idea that someone could just walk away from a title and go wherever he wanted felt huge.
But if Tommen gave up the Iron Throne… who would sit on it?
Myrcella? She was in Dorne.
Mother? She wasn't a Baratheon.
Tommen sighed, disappointed. The seat full of swords didn't look comfortable anyway, but he couldn't think of anyone else.
Margaery, sitting nearby and about to become queen, listened with growing suspicion.
A firstborn son voluntarily giving up his inheritance to become a hedge knight across the Narrow Sea?
That story sounded awfully familiar.