The 26th day of the 8th moon, 269 B.C.
The Hour of High Sun (11 P.M.)
Ser Alaric Mormont, Outskirts of Lannisport
The final day. Today is the day all of this ends, and I will finally be able to leave and begin the construction of Bear Island and the rest of the North.
With the field already prepared for the joust, the beginning of the end was near.
Normally, the joust is either left as the final event to be held, or its conclusion is. But going against tradition, Aerys made the Mock Battle the closing event, which only reinforced how it was viewed as the most important of all.
But despite the joust not being the grand finale, the greatest of the events, its commencement still left many excited, including Andrey, who was shaking his leg nonstop.
"I learned my lesson. I am only betting 50 gold dragons this time."
Not only did he continue to invade the North's space, but he also hadn't given up on gambling.
"The lesson is that you should stop betting altogether, not reduce the amount," I countered.
Quieting his leg, he turned to face me.
"Don't act all almighty with me, I know you've been betting too."
I didn't need to ask where he got that piece of information, because Jeor beat me to it.
"What? Alaric, what is he talking about? Where did you get that from, Dornishman? Maege, did you know about this?"
He fired question after question in rapid succession, his indignation growing with each one.
I was surprised. But I shouldn't have been. I should have expected this reaction. Sometimes I forget that, in his eyes, I am just an overgrown twelve-year-old boy with magical powers.
Accused of being an accomplice, Maege reacted by shrugging her shoulders and throwing her hands up.
"I don't know anything," she defended herself before turning to me. "How much did you make?"
Wrong answer. Jeor didn't like that one bit and glared furiously in her direction.
"'How much did you make?' Do you even hear yourself?!"
Maege threw her head back and sighed before replying.
"Relax! We won three out of the five events. Unless he suddenly turned into an idiot overnight, he won a lot."
Again, the wrong answer.
While the siblings bickered, Jorah approached me about the matter.
"Is it true?"
"Yes."
The cat is out of the bag. And it wasn't as if I had something terrible to hide.
"Why didn't you tell me anything? And why does HE," he pointed at Blackmont, who was watching the argument with a smirk but turned to us when he realized he was being referred to, "know?"
What the fuck is that? He is jealous.
"I didn't tell anyone. I saw no reason to." I turned to Andrey. "And how the hell do you know about it?"
The Dornishman looked at me as if I were stupid before answering.
"I saw you betting a full sack at one of the tents while I was waiting in line at mine. Did you think that hood was enough to disguise you?"
I did.
"It wasn't. I also noticed other people looking, but I don't think they were sure it was you. They looked quite confused. Next time you bet that much all at once, send someone else in your place."
"Noted."
He patted my shoulder.
"You're welcome."
"Alaric!" Jeor yelled. "How much did you bet?"
"A thousand gold dragons on the—"
"A thousand dragons?!" Andrey interrupted me the moment he heard the sum. "And you have the audacity to criticize me for my fifty?! Unbelievable!"
Andrey wasn't the only one to react prematurely to the number.
"Bloody hell, boy! I expected a few dozen gold dragons, not that," Maege said through laughs.
"Damn! You went all in, huh," Harren added, his eyes wide.
Even Rickard, who seemed to be keeping himself out of the discussion, couldn't help himself and whispered "a thousand" while staring at me. The same reaction was repeated by the other Northmen who were watching the scene out of the corners of their eyes.
I ignored everyone and continued. Judging by the furious look and the twitching eyebrow of my father, I had better explain before he exploded.
"I bet a thousand gold dragons on the Archery, a thousand on the axe throwing, two thousand on the turf race, and two thousand on the duel. But I withdrew the three thousand gold dragons from the Melee in time after realizing we would lose."
This time, nobody said a word. They all fell silent, but the looks they gave me spoke louder than a thousand words.
The amount was truly exorbitant. Making certain calculations by taking into account how much a loaf of bread costs, and also considering what a loaf of bread is worth in dollars, a single gold dragon could be worth approximately 1,500 reais.
Which meant that my smallest bet, the one of a thousand, was equivalent to one million five hundred thousand dollars. The most expensive was three million. That was without considering the four million five hundred thousand dollars cancelled just in time.
To the Lannisters, that is nothing, so much so that they gave away much more, but to the vast majority of the Northmen, this was not an amount small enough to throw away on wagers.
In the North, only houses like the Starks and Manderlys possess a fortune high enough for this to seem trivial, and even then, I doubt they would gamble it away. But they are the exception, and far from the majority of the nobles present there, who would need an entire year's worth of revenue to match what I bet in this tournament.
Not to mention the commoners, whose lives and those of their children would be changed forever.
With the threat of winter always on their minds, something like this was unthinkable.
Snapping out of his stupor, Jeor finally spoke.
"You lost two thousand gold dragons?"
Still shaken, his voice was barely a whisper.
"I won much more on the others. The odds were good on almost all of them," I tried to explain.
"Two thousand..."
He was still stuck on the two thousand. With two thousand being worth more than five times what Bear Island produces in a year, his indignation was understandable, but what I pulled in was much more.
"I profited four thousand five hundred on the Archery, two thousand on the axe throwing, many rushed to change their bets after Murch's performance in the Archery, and twenty-eight thousand on the Turf race. Nobody believed a Northman could be a good rider, and Benfred was a dark horse."
The numbers seemed to wake him up.
"Alaric, are you lying?"
"No. The money is hidden in my room. I can show it to you later."
No, it isn't. But there was no reason to tell the truth with so many people around me.
Upon receiving my confirmation, Jeor began to rub his mouth hard, trying to digest what this meant.
"In total that is..."
"34,500 gold dragons." Or 51,750,000 dollars.
Nearly a hundred times what Bear Island manages to collect in a year. With this money, I could sustain and reform Bear Island even without the magic I learned from leveling up. But since I have it, I can use these dragons to do what my magical repertoire is not yet capable of.
"It should have been more, but the Lannister taxes are quite high and ate up a good portion of the winnings."
"By the old gods, boy..." I heard Maege say. "And you kept this hidden?"
"I didn't want to draw attention away from the event. But I intended to reveal it," I turned to Andrey, "after the end of the tournament."
Flashing an awkward, toothy grin, the clueless guy at least had the decency to look embarrassed. But before he or anyone else could say anything, the sound of the trumpet echoed.
Toot! Toot!
The first joust of the round of sixteen, Ser Damon Marbrand against Ser Barristan Selmy, the Westerlands against the Stormlands—or would it be the Crownlands? Which mattered more, his realm of birth or his position?—was about to begin.
Continuing the bad luck of the western lands, Marbrand was unhorsed on the second lance, leaving only one other man representing the Westerlands: Kevan Lannister, the brother of the Warden of the West himself.
His turn was next, against a knight from the Reach. And from what I could tell through my GM Eyes, he still hadn't fully recovered from the previous day.
I would be surprised if he weren't nearly collapsing under the pressure on his shoulders to achieve the impossible.
To my surprise, he managed to unhorse the Reach knight on the fourth lance. But by the way he left his lance lowered, only raising it moments before impact, I didn't think he would last long. Maybe he wouldn't even make it past the next round.
The third joust was between a nobleman from the Vale and Steffon Baratheon. And, surprising me once again, Steffon showed himself to be an excellent knight by unhorsing the man from the Vale on the very first tilt.
"Who would have thought he'd be good. But Barristan is still the best."
Andrey spoke to reassure himself that his choice to risk 50 gold dragons on a member of the Kingsguard was the right one.
Benfred Manderly only rode to compete in the seventh joust.
"Don't fall in the first round, merman!" Maege shouted among the various other cheers of motivation from the North.
But no matter what was said, Benfred still carried the same air of impending disaster to his end, a total contrast to his posture in the Turf race. Being told he would only receive an Enhance Ability had seriously damaged his confidence to compete.
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