Chapter 5:
Night had fallen. Countless bonfires lit up the banks of the Trident River.
The royal camp was clearly divided. On one side, the grim Northerners quietly polished their weapons in silence. On the other, the Lannister guards reveled in noisy luxury while Robert's Baratheon retainers drank themselves into a stupor.
Inside the massive golden royal tent at the center of the camp, thunderous laughter erupted.
"Hahahaha! Drink! Drink up, boy!"
Robert Baratheon, King of Westeros, had one foot planted on the table, his face flushed red as he raised a huge drinking horn. "Victor, you little Pompey bastard — if you spill even one drop, I'll have your head stuffed inside a wine barrel!"
Sitting across from him, Victor Pompey smiled gracefully yet boldly. He raised his cup filled with dark ale and downed it in one go, not leaving a single drop behind.
"Your Grace, men of House Pompey shed blood, not tears — and when we drink, we don't leave any fish in the pond."
Victor turned his empty cup upside down and shook it lightly, his face completely unchanged.
[System Passive Active: Dragon Kidney (Additional Effect: Extremely Rapid Metabolism of Toxins and Alcohol).] [Current Intoxication Level: 0%.]
Trying to outdrink someone with system enhancements? Even if Robert had once been the legendary "Storm Hammer," he was now nothing more than a overweight, middle-aged drunk.
"Good! Excellent! By the gods, I like you, lad!"
Robert slapped Victor's shoulder hard enough to shatter an ordinary man's bones. "You're much better than those simpering Lannister pretty boys! From now on in King's Landing, if anyone gives you trouble, just drop my name!"
Ned Stark, sitting nearby, disliked this kind of heavy drinking scene, but he still gave Victor an approving look.
During the day, Victor had protected the weak. At night, he showed a straightforward character. This suited the Northerners' taste perfectly.
"Baron Pompey," Ned said in a deep voice, "thank you for what happened today. Sansa was badly frightened. If not for you, the consequences could have been disastrous."
"It was nothing, Lord Hand," Victor nodded slightly, his eyes clear. "Lady Sansa is as pure as a snow lotus from the North. Any true knight who saw that scene would have stepped forward."
At the mention of Sansa, Ned's expression softened considerably. One of his guards then brought forward a neatly wrapped package.
"This is from Sansa," Ned said with a helpless sigh, clearly unable to refuse his daughter's pleading. "She made it herself to thank you for the handkerchief — lemon cakes."
Victor accepted the delicately wrapped cake, the corner of his lips curving up imperceptibly.
Lemon cakes?
In the original story, these were Sansa's favorite treat. The fact that she had given him her most beloved food spoke volumes about the young girl's budding feelings.
After several rounds of wine, Robert was already dead drunk and was carried away by his attendants. Ned also excused himself to handle official matters.
Victor stepped out of the royal tent. The night wind was cool.
But he knew the real highlight of the evening had only just begun.
"Baron Pompey."
A soft, effeminate voice came from the shadows.
Lancel Lannister (Cersei's cousin and lover) appeared like a ghost, his eyes carrying a mix of jealousy and arrogance. "Her Grace the Queen summons you. Immediately."
Victor flicked his sleeve, unsurprised.
That extremely controlling woman would never ignore any "variable" that appeared under her nose.
…
Inside the Queen's tent, the air was thick with heavy incense and oppressive tension.
Cersei Lannister lounged lazily on a soft couch covered in fox furs, swirling a cup of red wine in her hand. She wore a low-cut crimson gown, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders. Her emerald-green eyes were locked intently on Victor as he entered.
She was a dangerous beauty — beautiful, foolish, and vicious.
"Kneel."
Cersei didn't look up, coldly spitting out the command.
Victor stopped in the center of the tent. He did not kneel. Instead, he looked straight into Cersei's eyes, his gaze fearless and even carrying a hint of aggression.
"Your Grace, the knees of House Pompey only bend to the gods, our ancestors, and the heavens."
Victor's voice was steady. "Besides, I am no longer the timid little noble I once was. You summoned me — surely not for such boring formalities?"
"Insolent!" Lancel reached for his sword.
"Get out," Cersei suddenly ordered, her eyes never leaving Victor.
Lancel froze, gritted his teeth, and reluctantly withdrew.
Only the two of them remained in the tent.
Cersei stood up like a lioness patrolling her territory and slowly walked toward Victor. Her rich perfume mixed with the scent of wine and mature womanhood washed over him.
"You have quite the nerve, Victor Pompey."
Cersei extended a finger and slowly traced it across Victor's firm chest. "You humiliated my son Joffrey today. Do you know that in King's Landing, that is a crime punishable by death?"
"That was education, Your Grace."
Victor caught her restless hand. Her fingers were cool and delicate. Instead of letting go, he gently pulled her half a step closer.
The move was extremely bold — even borderline offensive.
Cersei's pupils shrank slightly. She wanted to get angry, but the strong masculine scent coming from Victor and his deep, unfathomable purple eyes actually made her heart flutter for a moment — a feeling she hadn't experienced in a long time.
That drunkard Robert had long disgusted her. The man before her was young, strong, and dangerous. He reminded her of Jaime in his prime, yet he possessed an extra layer of unfathomable depth.
"Prince Joffrey is still a rough gem that needs polishing," Victor lowered his head and whispered into Cersei's ear, his hot breath brushing against her sensitive earlobe. "If you keep him sheltered under your wings forever, he will never become a true lion.
You wouldn't want the future king to be a crybaby weakling, would you?"
Cersei's body stiffened for a moment, then she let out a soft laugh and pulled her hand back.
"You have a sweet tongue, Pompey." Cersei returned to her couch, crossed her legs, and deliberately revealed her fair calf. "But sweet words alone mean nothing. You claim you did it for Joffrey's own good — then how do you plan to prove your loyalty?"
This was both a test and an attempt to recruit him.
Victor knew that if he showed even the slightest weakness now, Cersei would immediately treat him like a dog — or have him killed outright.
"Loyalty goes both ways, Your Grace."
Victor took out a gold coin from his pocket and toyed with it between his fingers. "I have some connections in King's Landing, as well as a few unique ways to make money. I may be able to help you solve some… financial troubles that King Robert cannot handle."
"And," he paused, his eyes turning playful, "compared to those boring old men, I believe I would make a far more suitable… ally for you."
Cersei narrowed her eyes, carefully studying the man before her.
Finance? Money? That was indeed a headache for her right now. And this man… truly appealed to her tastes.
"Very well."
Cersei took a sip of wine, her lips stained blood-red. "When we reach King's Landing, come find me at the Red Keep. Do not disappoint me, Victor. Otherwise, I will have your head mounted on the city walls."
"As you command, my beautiful Queen."
Victor performed an elegant gentleman's bow and turned to leave.
The moment he stepped out of the tent, Victor let out a long breath.
His back was slightly damp with sweat.
Dealing with this madwoman was like dancing on the edge of a blade.
But he had bet correctly.
Cersei was both a beauty-obsessed woman and extremely arrogant. She wouldn't kill a man who both intrigued and could be useful to her — at least not yet.
[Ding! Congratulations, host, on completing "First Confrontation"!] [Cersei Lannister Favorability Unlocked: Interested (20/100).] [Gained Political Reputation: 50 (You are no longer a nobody in King's Landing).]
Victor looked up at the night sky and took a bite of the lemon cake Sansa had given him.
It tasted sweet and sour.
"Not a bad opening at all."
He murmured to himself.
Right now, the King saw him as a drinking buddy, the Hand owed him a favor, the Queen was interested in him, and the future lady of the North had already developed a secret crush.
The net had been cast.
Once he reached King's Landing, it would be like a fish swimming into the vast ocean.
But before that, he needed to return to his own carriage. There, his newlywed wife Alice — who had just gotten a taste of pleasure — was waiting for him to "pay his marital dues."
After all, the system had made it clear: more children meant more blessings.
Politics had to be played, but the great mission of having children could not stop.
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