Chapter 71 – Me, Brandon Stark… a Thief?!
"Good morning?"
At the sound of Jerryl's forced greeting, the knight raised an eyebrow and glanced toward the pitch-black window. Outside, the shrill cries of summer cicadas filled the humid air.
It was most certainly not morning.
But Ser Baelor Hightower didn't bother correcting him. He stepped forward with slow, deliberate menace, tapping the heavy wooden baton— thwap, thwap.
"You filthy little pimp," he sneered. "You thought you could hide Beth here for a northern savage? Do you think House Hightower can't afford her fee?"
Each lazy smack of his baton against Jerryl's shoulder wasn't meant to wound — but to humiliate. The brothel keeper flinched with every tap, bowing lower and lower, his smile growing tighter.
Behind him, his hired muscle stood frozen. They knew exactly who these two knights were — and none of them dared to so much as breathe too loudly.
Their boss, the richest man on Silk Street, suddenly looked as helpless as a rat in a lion's den.
"N-no, never, Ser Baelor Hightower!"
Jerryl's voice trembled as he tried to explain, his neck shrinking like a turtle retreating into its shell.
"I-I had no idea you were here tonight, ser! That damned fool Varg must've mistaken you and your brother for… for ordinary guests! A simple misunderstanding, I swear it!"
"A misunderstanding, is it?"
Baelor said nothing, but his younger brother, Ser Garth Hightower, smirked — and suddenly slapped Jerryl across the face. The sound cracked like a whip.
The blow stung, but Jerryl didn't so much as frown. In fact, he quickly turned the other cheek toward him, forcing a pathetic grin.
The shameless display was so grotesque that even Garth chuckled.
"Tch. No wonder you survive down here," he muttered, wiping his hand.
But he didn't press further. After all, their true target wasn't this worm of a man.
"Go summon the Goldcloaks," Garth ordered casually, pointing his baton toward the half-naked northerner standing defensively across the room. "Tell them there's an armed brawl at the Blue Pearl."
He grinned, his tone dripping with false civility.
Jerryl, however, didn't move. He leaned forward instead, smiling obsequiously.
"Already done, Ser Garth. The moment I heard the commotion, I sent my men to fetch the watch."
At that, his own guards gasped softly.
So that's how this bastard made it to the top, one of them thought. He's quicker to sell someone out than anyone I've ever seen.
Meanwhile, Brandon Stark, still naked and gripping his sword, looked more alarmed by the second. His pale gray eyes darted around, searching for an escape.
If the Goldcloaks came and recognized him, the entire Stark plan in King's Landing would fall apart before it even began.
"Don't move, boy!"
Baelor's voice thundered through the room, his sharp eyes catching Brandon's subtle shift toward the window.
"Until the Goldcloaks arrive, you're not leaving this room!"
He and Garth advanced in unison, cutting off both exits. Their gleaming fish-scale armor caught the candlelight as they closed in.
Brandon's jaw clenched. His heartbeat roared in his ears like a war drum.
"You bastards…" he hissed under his breath, eyes blazing like a cornered wolf.
He hadn't even done anything wrong. One moment he'd been drinking and enjoying himself — the next, two noble-born southern knights had burst in, hurling accusations and fists.
Hightowers. Of all the people to pick a fight with…
"What, do all southern lords punch first and think later?" he growled internally. You idiots even brawl during whoring?
He glanced at the brothers again — both armored, both armed. Around them, Jerryl's men slowly circled closer, eager to please the knights.
Brandon cursed silently. I can't win this fight.
If he had been fully armed, things would be different. But naked, half-drunk, and with only a sword at hand — facing two armored knights was suicide.
No choice.
He took a breath, backed toward the window — then, with a furious snarl, leapt out.
Glass shattered. The sound echoed down the street.
"Seven above," a voice whispered from across the alley. "That Stark boy's got balls!"
In the opposite building, Lord Jason Mallister of Seagard and Lord Leyton Hightower stood at a window, watching the chaos unfold within the Blue Pearl.
Jason couldn't help but let out a laugh.
"Jumped from the third floor without hesitation… Seven damn it, Leyton, maybe we pushed the boy a bit too far."
He frowned, suddenly uneasy.
"If he dies from that fall, Rickard Stark will lose his mind. And when that wolf bares his fangs—"
"Afraid, are you?" Leyton interrupted with a faint, amused smirk.
"You're the one who said the boy needed humbling. Don't tell me you've grown soft."
Jason straightened immediately, scowling.
"Afraid? Me?" He snorted. "My house has guarded Seagard for a thousand years. Every time the Ironborn dared crawl ashore, it was the Mallisters who drove them back into the sea!"
He puffed his chest, pride swelling in his voice.
"If it weren't for the need to defend our coast, the title of Lord Paramount of the Riverlands would've been ours long ago — not the Tullys'!"
Leyton raised an eyebrow.
"And yet, despite being Tully bannermen, you chose to strike at the Stark heir?"
Jason scoffed.
"Don't twist my words. I owe nothing to that boy. Hoster's a fool, blinded by the promise of alliance. But Catelyn — I watched that girl grow up. Before he betrothed her to the Stark pup, I had the boy's background checked."
He spat on the floor in disgust.
"What I found at Barrowton was filth. The way he toyed with Lord Dustin's daughter… he's no better than a sellsword in a brothel."
"That little bastard's not worthy of her."
Leyton said nothing, though his expression darkened.
"You're treading close to slander, Jason."
"Slander? Hah!" Jason barked. "I told Hoster Tully myself to think twice. But he wouldn't listen. Blinded by northern alliances and dowries. Now look — his precious son-in-law-to-be is flashing his manhood in Silk Street!"
He laughed, bitter and triumphant.
"That wild, crude Stark boy isn't half the man your son-in-law is."
"That's enough," Leyton cut him off sharply, his tone low. "Duke Mace may be… overly cautious, but he's not without merit. It's his mother who casts too long a shadow, not his weakness."
Jason shrugged. "Fine, fine. No offense meant."
Then his gaze flicked back to the street below — and he burst out laughing again.
"Look! The fool's limping! Haha! Broke his leg, I bet!"
Below them, bathed in torchlight, a pale naked figure staggered down the cobbled street, clutching a sword for balance.
Bystanders along Silk Street stopped to stare and whisper, pointing and laughing as Brandon Stark, heir of Winterfell, limped away half-naked into the night.
Jason wiped tears of laughter from his eyes.
"Hah! Rickard Stark's pride, crawling through the gutters of King's Landing — what a sight! Finally, justice served!"
"Not quite enough," came a deep, steady voice from behind them.
Both men turned.
Out of the shadows stepped a tall knight in full armor, arms folded over a massive greatsword. His gray eyes were as cold and sharp as tempered steel.
"Ser Randyll Tarly!" Jason exclaimed, startled but pleased. "You came after all!"
The Knight of Horn Hill gave a curt nod.
"I was here the whole time," Randyll said evenly. "You two were just too busy laughing to notice."
He stepped beside them, peering down at the street where Brandon Stark limped away into the dark. A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
"Still," Randyll murmured, "I'll give him this much — the boy's got nerve."
Resting one hand on the window frame, Lord Leyton Hightower, the Earl of Oldtown, spoke slowly, his eyes reflecting the dim firelight.
"Rickard Stark is no fool. Exiled from King's Landing, yet he still sends his eldest son to compete in the royal tourney?"
Leyton's tone deepened, heavy with suspicion.
"There's a game being played here — one we don't yet see."
Behind him, Ser Randyll Tarly stood with arms crossed, face expressionless as ever.
"Perhaps," he said flatly, "but if that boy can't compete, their little plan ends before it begins."
He stepped forward and tapped his gauntlet lightly on the stone windowsill, his voice low and deliberate.
"Have the Goldcloaks work overtime tonight."
His gray eyes glinted as he continued, his words laced with implication.
"Let's say the Blue Pearl lost several hundred gold dragons' worth of jewels this evening. And as for the thief…"
A pause. The faintest trace of amusement crept into his tone.
"Why, he's a northerner — of course."
---
"Much appreciated, Ser Manly."
Watching Janos Slynt shuffle nervously out of the room, Ser Lance Lot allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.
Everything was falling neatly into place.
Thanks to that cowardly little herald's "cooperation," the next match — no matter how the pairings were announced — would pit him directly against the wolf pup from the North.
Brandon Stark.
Whatever scheme Rickard Stark had brought to King's Landing, it was clear the tourney played a role. They had already tampered with Ser Arthur's horse — that much was obvious.
Lance's blue eyes narrowed.
"Fine," he murmured under his breath. "Whatever your plan is, Stark… I'll crush it head-on."
"When I'm done with you, the North will remember the name Lance Lot."
He clenched his fist and smiled thinly.
"You wanted war by proxy, did you? I'll give you a duel that'll make your father choke on his pride."
---
Across the table, Ser Manly, commander of the City Watch, looked deeply respectful — even deferential.
"You're too kind, Ser Lance," he said, bowing slightly.
Though he had played only a minor role in the purge of the Brotherhood, the tale of Lance and his two brothers-in-arms cutting down more than thirty knights had spread like wildfire.
For a man who'd spent his life commanding drunken watchmen and corrupt guardsmen, facing a real warrior of legend was enough to inspire both awe and terror.
"When it's three against thirty," Manly said, half in wonder, "that's not battle — that's slaughter."
Lance waved a hand modestly, though a glint of pride crossed his eyes.
But before he could speak, there came a sharp knock knock knock at the door.
For a heartbeat, the room stilled.
Then the door opened wider, and Ser Gerold Hightower himself stepped through — tall, broad-shouldered, and calm as the dawn. His white cloak trailed behind him like a stream of moonlight, and the polished tower-and-crown on his breastplate gleamed faintly in the torchlight.
"Ser Lance," he said in that low, unshakable voice that carried authority without volume. "The King wishes to see you. Immediately."
"Ser Gerold." Lance rose, his expression respectful but curious. "Did His Grace say why?"
"Not yet," Gerold replied, moving further into the room.
Lance nodded once, rising smoothly from his chair. He was just about to take his leave when a Goldcloak burst in, panting.
"S-ser! Terrible news!" the man blurted. "The Blue Pearl's been robbed — hundreds of gold dragons' worth of jewels gone!"
Manly's brow darkened immediately.
"What?"
"That's not all, ser," the guard continued, voice trembling. "Lord Leyton Hightower was there at the time — even his family's Valyrian steel sword, Vigilance, was stolen!"
"Seven hells!"
Manly's face went pale. He stormed forward and grabbed the man by the collar, roaring,
"Who in the Seven would dare rob under my watch?"
"I—I don't know, ser!" the guard stammered.
He wanted to cry. I didn't steal it, why are you yelling at me?
But all he could do was stammer out what he'd been told.
"Ser Baelor Hightower said the thief was a northerner. Some man from the North."
"These damned savages," Manly spat. "No respect for order!"
He tightened his grip on his sword hilt, then turned to Lance and Gerold.
"My apologies, ser knights. I must see to this at once."
"No need," said Lance coolly. "We were just leaving."
Then, after a pause, his tone hardened.
"Whoever this thief is — northern or not — he's had the gall to steal from House Hightower and defy the King's peace. When he's caught, I expect nothing less than severe punishment."
"Yes, Ser Lance!" Manly barked, standing straight as a spear, as though receiving orders from a superior officer rather than a guest.
Without further delay, he and his men hurried out, leaving the two white knights alone.
---
When the sound of their boots faded, Lance exhaled softly and shook his head with a dry smile.
"Blue Pearl. Northern thief. Stolen jewels. A Valyrian sword of House Hightower."
He chuckled, his tone laced with irony.
"So many coincidences piling up in one night…"
"Brandon Stark," he murmured, "you've made quite a few enemies already."
He turned toward Ser Gerold Hightower, who had remained silent through it all, his expression as unreadable as stone.
What struck Lance, however, was that the Lord Commander hadn't reacted at all to hearing that his own family's ancestral sword had been stolen.
Not even a flicker of emotion.
"You seem unconcerned for your family's honor, Ser Gerold," Lance said quietly, brow furrowing.
Gerold glanced at him, his face unreadable.
"Honor is not restored by panic," he replied simply.
Then, after a short silence, he again added in his deep, steady tone:
"The King wishes to see you.
And..."
He hesitated — just long enough for it to matter.
"These past two nights, His Grace has met several times with that eunuch from Pentos."
Lance's eyes narrowed, a cold ripple running through him.
"Varys."
The name hung in the air like poison.
And for the first time that evening, the knight now known as the "Fearless" felt a flicker of unease crawl beneath his armor.