Chapter 173 – The Disappearing Heir
On the day the Free Combat Arena officially opened, King's Landing had already begun stirring before dawn.
It was as though some invisible force had awakened the entire city at once.
Street vendors rolled out their carts.
Bakeries lit their ovens.
Even the prostitutes dragged themselves out of bed early, preparing for the flood of customers certain to arrive.
An atmosphere of feverish excitement spread through every alley and district.
Because today—
was the grand opening of Ser Odin's "Ring of Order."
That enormous structure towering over the western edge of Flea Bottom.
The land had once been an abandoned leather workshop district.
Back then, its proximity to Flea Bottom had made hiring workers nearly impossible, while theft happened almost daily.
According to the former owner—a certain Lord Petyr Baelish, who allegedly "did not wish to be named"—
investing beside Flea Bottom had been the stupidest decision of his life.
After Petyr's departure, Odin had practically bought the unwanted land for scraps, then poured nearly ten thousand gold dragons into rebuilding it from the ground up over the course of three months.
From the outside, the Ring of Order resembled a gigantic stone circle.
Its outer walls were constructed from pale gray granite, standing over thirty feet tall.
There were no windows.
Only eight massive oak gates spaced evenly around the circumference.
Each gate bore the same symbol painted in black:
a hand reaching from the shadows.
Palm upward.
Fingers slightly spread.
The emblem of the Black Hand.
Along the top of the outer walls, iron flagpoles stood every ten feet.
Today, every single one flew deep crimson triangular banners embroidered with crossed swords in gold thread—
the official sigil of the arena itself.
A symbol of battle.
And judgment.
The banners snapped violently in the morning wind.
Meanwhile, the streets outside had already become completely packed.
From every corner of Flea Bottom came streams of commoners.
Merchants arrived from the Street of Silk.
Sailors poured in from the harbor district.
Even peasants and minor lords from outside the city had traveled to witness the spectacle.
The crowd formed two enormous lines winding around the arena walls like giant serpents.
The left entrance was for ordinary spectators.
Ticket prices ranged from ten copper pennies to a single silver stag.
The right entrance was reserved for nobles and wealthy guests.
Admission alone cost at least one gold dragon.
And that was merely the cheapest seat.
The finest viewing positions cost as much as one hundred gold dragons each.
Still—
people considered it worth every coin.
Those seats came with personal attendants, unlimited food and wine, and even a specially issued VIP plaque personally signed by Odin himself.
Thanks to Odin's relentless pre-event promotion campaign, the turnout had become almost uncontrollable.
Gray-uniformed neighborhood enforcers weaved through the masses, shouting themselves hoarse while trying to maintain order.
But their voices were quickly swallowed by even louder waves of noise.
"BROTHER'S BATTLE!"
"HOUND! HOUND! HOUND!"
"The Mountain's gonna rip him in half! I put twenty silver stags on it!"
"Twenty? That's nothing! I wagered two gold dragons!"
People waved betting slips overhead like sacred relics.
The tickets came from the specially constructed betting stations surrounding the arena—
temporary wooden structures open on three sides, packed with clerks furiously recording wagers into mountains of ledgers.
In only three days, total betting volume had already surpassed three hundred thousand gold dragons.
An utterly insane figure.
To put it into perspective—
the entire annual tax revenue of King's Landing barely reached one hundred fifty thousand gold dragons.
And all of this had happened because Odin had done something no one thought possible.
He had transformed the "Red Viper's Revenge Match"…
into the "Battle of Brothers."
Three days earlier, when Odin publicly announced that Prince Oberyn Martell was too injured to fight and would be replaced by the Hound—
the entirety of King's Landing exploded.
The Hound versus the Mountain?
Wasn't that just suicide?
People nearly rioted.
Furious gamblers almost surrounded the Hall of Order demanding refunds.
Had they not feared getting beaten to death by Black Hand enforcers, they might genuinely have burned the place to the ground.
But before the angry gamblers could truly erupt, Odin had already spent a fortune on crisis management.
He had people spreading stories everywhere about the hatred between the Mountain and the Hound, turning the two brothers into legends—the greatest warriors in all of Westeros.
And rumors…
had a way of growing.
As people embellished the tale more and more, the stories became increasingly outrageous.
Eventually, some even began claiming that the Mountain and the Hound were the reincarnations of the twin brothers Ser Arryk Cargyll and Ser Erryk Cargyll, who had killed each other during the Dance of the Dragons.
According to the rumor, the twins had been condemned to the Seven Hells for murdering one another, yet even death could not stop their endless feud.
So the Stranger himself had forced them to be reborn as brothers once more—
only so they could continue killing each other forever.
Ridiculous?
Absolutely.
But people loved it.
Odin even had Rorge hang an enormous poster outside the Ring of Order.
On the left side was an illustration of the Mountain—
a gigantic figure clad in monstrous armor, wielding a bloodstained greatsword.
Below the image, massive blood-red letters read:
[THE KINSLAYER'S BATTLE!
The monster who shoved his own brother into a brazier!
The most terrifying killing machine in the Seven Kingdoms!]
On the right side was the Hound—
burn-scarred face, cold eyes, hand resting on his sword.
Beneath his image, dark gray lettering declared:
[Former member of the Kingsguard!
At the Battle of the Blackwater, he slaughtered over a hundred of Stannis's soldiers alone!
Tonight… he comes to reclaim justice!]
And beneath both portraits, written in the largest font of all:
[WHO WILL WIN THIS BATTLE?]
The results proved Odin's public relations campaign had been a complete success.
Not only had betting enthusiasm not declined—
it had exploded even further.
The growth merely appeared slower because most of the early wagers had come from nobles already connected to Odin.
Inside the Ring of Order, the spectacle became even more overwhelming.
The circular arena could seat over two thousand five hundred spectators.
Its design blended the Roman coliseums Odin remembered from his previous life with traditional Westerosi tournament grounds.
The fighting pit itself was a perfect circle, eighty feet across, covered in fine white sand hauled from the banks of the Blackwater Rush.
The sand layer was three inches thick—
soft enough to absorb impact, yet firm enough not to hinder footwork.
The arena remained completely open overhead.
No roof.
Sunlight poured directly down into the pit, illuminating everything with brutal clarity.
The seating area surrounding the arena was divided into four tiers.
The first tier consisted of VIP seats closest to the sand.
Fewer than fifty in total.
Each seat came stocked with Arbor gold wine, Dornish reds, and imported delicacies from across the Narrow Sea—
all complimentary.
The second tier was reserved for knights.
One hundred twenty seats.
No cushions, but still an excellent view.
The third tier belonged to ordinary cityfolk.
Five hundred wooden bench seats.
No wine.
No luxury.
And finally, the fourth tier—
standing room only.
Nearly two thousand people packed together like sardines.
Yet nobody complained.
Tickets for the standing section cost only ten copper pennies—
cheap enough for even a dockworker to afford after a day's labor.
Now, every single seat was occupied.
The roar of the crowd crashed against the stone walls like endless waves.
At the center of the first-tier VIP section stood several seats raised slightly above the others.
Those belonged exclusively to the royal family.
The Hand of the King sat furthest to the left.
Tywin Lannister leaned calmly against the high-backed chair, one arm resting casually on the armrest while the other held a goblet of wine.
His face revealed absolutely nothing.
If anything, he appeared to be in rather good spirits.
As though repeated setbacks against Odin had not affected him in the slightest.
The Queen Regent, however, was far less composed.
Cersei Lannister sat on the opposite side, drinking cup after cup of wine with visible frustration.
Ever since her failed attempt to seize power during the Small Council meeting, she had sunk deeper into bitterness.
She drank daily to drown her anger and spent most of her time entangled with her Kingsguard, ignoring nearly everything else.
Meanwhile, the young king sat between Cersei and Tywin.
Tommen Baratheon was still too small for the oversized chair.
His feet dangled in the air, legs swinging nervously.
Resting on his lap was a beautifully crafted parchment program booklet bearing the crossed-swords sigil of the Ring of Order.
He stared down at it, pretending to read.
In truth—
he could not focus on a single word.
All he could think about was whether he should close his eyes during the duel later.
Grandfather had told him:
"A king never closes his eyes."
But Mother had told him:
"A king may do whatever he wishes."
So who was he supposed to listen to?
Tommen secretly glanced toward Tywin.
His grandfather was currently speaking with an elderly noble dressed in a dark blue coat.
The old man bent low while speaking, smiling so hard his face looked ready to split apart.
He leaned forward constantly, as though desperate to crawl directly into Tywin's eyes.
His words flowed endlessly like a broken dam.
Tywin merely nodded occasionally.
He never even bothered responding aloud.
Yet the old noble looked overwhelmed with joy regardless, bowing repeatedly as though he had received divine grace.
Soon after, more nobles of King's Landing approached the royal seats one after another.
Every single one first bowed respectfully to Tywin, showering him with flattery.
Only afterward would they turn toward Tommen with a perfunctory nod.
"Your Grace."
Nothing more.
Just enough to fulfill an obligation.
Tommen was already eight years old.
Old enough to understand what "power" really meant.
Pouting slightly, the little king lowered his head again and returned to the program booklet.
The first match description read:
"Brothers…"
"Hatred…"
"Blood debt…"
He still did not fully understand how those words connected together.
But for some reason—
today's sunlight felt strangely blinding.
Just as Tommen continued struggling through the difficult words, a sudden commotion arose near the VIP entrance corridor.
The crowd instinctively parted.
An elderly man with a broad frame and a dark blue velvet coat strode into the arena.
His steps were large and steady, like someone long accustomed to people moving aside for him.
Behind him followed a young man in his early twenties.
He wore a neatly tailored dark-gray knight's tunic with a longsword at his waist.
His posture was disciplined, but his eyes shifted nervously under the attention of so many people.
"Lord Reveray Rykker!"
someone whispered in surprise.
Tommen looked up curiously.
He knew the Rykker family.
Or rather—
he had heard the name during Small Council discussions.
The maesters once mentioned Duskendale while discussing Crownlands taxation, saying its trade income ranked second only to King's Landing itself.
Another time, he overheard Tywin and Ser Kevan speaking privately.
"The old fox Rykker made a fortune off Flea Bottom business."
Tommen had no idea what business that meant.
Nor did he understand why becoming wealthy mattered so much.
But he knew one thing:
anyone remembered by his grandfather had to be important.
Reveray Rykker entered the VIP section and swept his gaze across the arena.
He saw Tywin.
Tommen expected him to immediately approach, bow deeply, and shower the Hand with praise like everyone else.
But Reveray did not.
Their eyes met briefly—
then Reveray casually looked away.
Instead, he walked directly to the front of the royal seating area and stopped before Tommen himself.
He bowed deeply.
The twin black warhammers emblazoned across his chest gleamed beneath the sunlight.
"Your Grace," he said in a deep, resonant voice, "Reveray Rykker, Lord of Duskendale, offers you his highest respect."
"May the Seven bless your reign with prosperity and longevity."
Tommen froze slightly.
For some reason, he suddenly felt touched.
"M-May the Seven bless you as well, Lord Rykker."
His voice came out small and awkward.
But sincere.
Reveray straightened with a warm smile—
the sort of smile an elder gives a child trying his best.
Then he pulled the young knight beside him slightly forward.
"Your Grace, this is my second son and heir to Duskendale—Lake Rykker."
The young man stepped forward and bowed deeply as well.
"Lake Rykker greets His Grace."
Unlike his father, his movements were stiff and somewhat awkward.
Tommen looked him over carefully.
Average height.
Average build.
Clean brown hair.
A brand-new knight's tunic.
A sword at his waist.
Completely ordinary.
But somehow still more likable than those jeweled noble youths constantly strutting around with their noses in the air.
Tommen nodded thoughtfully.
Then suddenly, something occurred to him.
"Second son… heir?"
Tilting his head, he asked in confusion:
"Lord Rykker… where is your eldest son?"
"Did he die too?"
Reveray's smile froze for a brief instant.
Still, he did not take offense.
After all, the king before him was only eight years old.
And Tommen himself had only inherited the Iron Throne after his older brother Joffrey Baratheon died.
The question actually sounded perfectly natural coming from him.
Reveray glanced at the boy, then unconsciously looked toward the countless Black Hand emblems decorating the arena.
He suddenly laughed heartily.
"An excellent question, Your Grace."
"My eldest son, River Rykker…"
"voluntarily relinquished his inheritance."
Tommen's eyes widened instantly.
"He gave up his inheritance? Why?"
"Because he longed for the world across the Narrow Sea," Reveray replied.
"He wanted to see the Long Bridge of Volantis."
"To witness the Sea Lord's Palace in Braavos."
"To wander through the gardens of Lys."
"He did not wish to spend his entire life trapped inside a castle at Duskendale."
Reveray paused.
There was no anger in his tone.
If anything—
he sounded proud.
"So I let him go."
"He's a wandering knight in the Free Cities now."
"And by all accounts… quite happy."
Tommen listened with obvious envy written all over his face.
He had never crossed the Narrow Sea.
He had never even left King's Landing.
He never knew someone could simply abandon an inheritance and pursue the life they wanted.
But if he gave up the throne…
who else could inherit the Iron Throne?
Tommen frowned deeply.
Myrcella Baratheon?
She was in Dorne.
Mother?
She was not a Baratheon.
Thinking about it made him sigh quietly.
Though the throne covered in swords felt terribly uncomfortable…
he genuinely could not think of anyone else.
However—
sitting beside him, the future queen Margaery Tyrell slowly narrowed her eyes.
The more she listened…
the stranger this story sounded.
A noble heir voluntarily abandoning succession rights to become a wandering knight across the Narrow Sea?
Why did that script sound so familiar?
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