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"Well done, Neo! You just gave me one hell of a surprise!"
The moment Leo stepped onto the royal platform, Robert slammed a heavy fist into his armored chest—the king's version of a victory hug.
Leo felt the solid thump through the plate. Robert was grinning like a kid on nameday. (The king's knuckles probably hurt more than Leo's ribs did.)
Robert shook out his hand behind his back, forced a quick smile, then barked at the nervous golden-haired squire standing nearby. "What are you waiting for? Pour the victor some wine, you idiot!"
The young man hurried over with a pitcher and cup, hands shaking as he filled it with golden Arbor wine. Leo recognized him at once—Lancel Lannister, Ser Kevan's eldest son. Right now he was just a timid royal squire who took Robert's abuse without a word. Years from now this same boy would help Cersei murder the king and later become a brutal fanatic under the High Sparrow. But that was still far off.
Robert laughed and clinked his cup against Leo's. "You know I bet a hundred gold dragons on you myself? Never expected you to finish it in one clean tilt! Gods, that was satisfying!" He drained the cup in three gulps, burped, and wiped his beard.
He glanced at Cersei. "See? Sometimes you actually have good taste."
Cersei answered with her usual cool, haughty smile.
Joffrey looked like he'd swallowed a lemon. He muttered something vicious to the Hound beside him, who shot Leo a fresh glare full of murder.
Tommen, on the other hand, stared at Leo with wide, excited eyes. He already knew the tall knight in the golden armor would soon be his personal sworn shield.
Littlefinger approached with that ever-present half-smile. "Ser Neo, you've cost me a fortune today."
Robert burst out laughing again. "Here comes the victim! How much did your own betting pool lose because of him?"
Littlefinger put on a wounded expression. "Quite a bit. Everyone—including me—had money on Balman. The foreigner winning in a single pass was… unexpected."
Leo just smiled. He knew better than to take Littlefinger's act at face value. The man ran half the gambling in King's Landing; he never left anything to chance. If most people bet against Leo, Littlefinger had probably cleaned up anyway. A tourney this big offered plenty of other ways to make coin.
Leo raised his cup. "Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows Lord Baelish can rub two gold dragons together and make a third appear. A man that gifted with money doesn't lose. It's why His Grace and the Hand made you Master of Coin. Speaking of which… where is Lord Arryn?"
Robert waved a hand. "Jon had business. You know how it is—the whole realm sits on that poor man's shoulders. He's my Hand and the kingdom's true father." He chuckled at his own joke.
Leo nodded. King gets to hunt, drink, and whore. Hand gets to clean up the mess.
Littlefinger gave a small bow to the king, then turned back to Leo. "Ser Neo, you've been buried in training since you arrived and haven't had much time for society. You must come to the feast tonight. I'll introduce you to a few knights who are very eager to meet the handsome, wealthy, and now famously skilled young lord from the east."
"Absolutely!" Robert boomed. "Neo, the only things worth living for besides swinging a sword are good wine and beautiful women. You turned down my last few invitations because of training. Tonight you're coming. We're drinking until we can't stand!"
"As you command, Your Grace," Leo said with a smile. He wasn't about to refuse. This was the perfect chance to break into the upper circles of King's Landing—especially now that he'd just proven himself in front of everyone.
Robert grinned, took another long pull of wine, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "You'll be fighting in the melee this afternoon too, right?"
"Of course," Leo answered, sipping his own wine. "The melee is what I've been looking forward to most."
"Good! I'll be watching. You go out there and knock every last one of them on their asses!"
"Yes, Your Grace."
The tourney schedule was straightforward. Morning belonged to the jousts—the main event—and ran until midday. With so many knights entered, today was mostly first-round matches. The big-name tilts were all scheduled here on the royal field where the most powerful lords and ladies could watch the best action.
Lesser-known knights and freeriders were sent to the outer lists.
In the afternoon the foot melee began on every field—one-on-one, real steel, no blunted weapons. Brutal, straightforward, and deadly.
Later in the week, after the jousting champion was decided, came the grand melee—the bloodiest event of all. Dozens or even hundreds of knights fought at once in a chaotic mock battle, each man with his own small band of retainers. The last group still standing on the field won.
Injuries and even deaths were common in every event, yet the nobles and knights couldn't get enough. In a world starved for entertainment, nothing else came close to the thrill of the tourney. Lords used it to flaunt their power, freeriders used it as their only path upward in peacetime, and the smallfolk loved watching the highborn beat each other bloody in the name of "honor."
That was why the entire realm threw itself into the spectacle with such feverish excitement.