"Arthas, you son of a—bastard! Damn you!"
Joffrey's face flushed crimson, his usual poise shattered. Accustomed to privilege and indulgence, the pampered prince had never tolerated contradiction. Now, his anger erupted in a torrent of insults, crude and unbecoming of his noble status.
"Keep talking," Arthas replied calmly, his golden eyes cold, devoid of any emotion. He watched the young prince like one might observe a dying fly, detached and measured.
The effect was immediate. Joffrey, furious moments ago, now felt as though he had fallen into an ice cellar. Every hair on his body stood on end. The words he had carefully crafted to wound were stuck, powerless against the suffocating aura emanating from Arthas.
"Joffrey."
The single word was soft, deliberate, and terrifying in its control. Arthas's leather boots clacked against the floor as he took a slow step forward. The sound, steady and heavy, reverberated in the hall like the approach of the God of Death himself.
Gently, almost tenderly, he placed a hand on Joffrey's shoulder. His golden gaze bore into the young prince, calm and unyielding.
"You are a prince of the Seven Kingdoms," Arthas said softly, "and as such, you must maintain elegance, dignity, and restraint. If you cannot do so yourself, then I, your uncle, shall see that you are… corrected."
Joffrey's knees went weak. His body trembled, frozen in place. Everyone present knew the prince's reputation—cowardly, spoiled, and utterly unskilled in any form of battle. Even with all the arrogance he projected, beneath it lay an undeniable fear of true power.
Arthas leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, soft as silk yet heavy with menace.
"And speaking of bastard issues… do you even realize the nature of your existence? Or has that pigeon-sized brain of yours failed to comprehend that your very birth was a mistake?"
The words struck Joffrey with the force of a thunderclap. For a moment, he forgot to fear, forgot to breathe. His pupils dilated, and he attempted to speak—but the words died in his throat, frozen by the chill radiating from Arthas's presence.
Frost seemed to edge the young Lannister's golden eyes, an aura of infinite cold that gripped Joffrey's heart. Even the midday sun, high and bright, could not thaw the fear clawing at him. This was no ordinary terror—this was a taste of the Seventh Hell itself.
"Let me remind you," Arthas continued, his tone soft but deadly, "you are Gregor Clegane's younger brother, are you not?"
Joffrey's gaze darted nervously to the towering man standing beside him. The figure nodded with reluctant acknowledgment.
"Yes… Lord Arthas," he said, his voice steady but cautious.
"My name is Sandor Clegane," the man admitted, "though most call me The Hound."
Even the battle-hardened Hound, whose scars and temper were legendary, found himself unnerved by Arthas's aura. He forced a thin smile, bowing his head in reluctant respect.
"Lord Arthas, please, spare the prince from further fright," Sandor advised. Despite his relief at seeing Joffrey humbled, duty compelled him to protect the boy, no matter how worthless.
Arthas's gaze flicked to the Hound, commanding and absolute. "Keep watch over your master. Do not fail."
Only after issuing this measured warning did Arthas withdraw his overwhelming Killing Intent, leaving Joffrey frozen, unable to move or speak.
"If I hear another reckless word escape your lips," Arthas said, his voice calm again, "next time, it will not be so easy for you."
With that, he turned and left the chamber, a shadow of cold authority retreating down the corridor.
"Arthas!" Joffrey's voice broke, sharp and desperate. But the figure was already gone.
The prince's gaze narrowed, venom in his eyes, yet he dared not speak further. Instead, he turned on The Hound, fury giving way to humiliation.
"You useless dog! You should have taught him a lesson! Letting your own master be humiliated—what good are you?"
Sandor merely shrugged, accustomed to Joffrey's tantrums. "Be content, Your Highness," he said. "Given Lord Arthas's strength, had he intended harm, I doubt anyone in King's Landing could stop him. Including me."
The Hound's words, though calm, carried the weight of undeniable truth. Ever since The Mountain burned half his face, Sandor had developed a sixth sense for danger. Just standing near Arthas evoked a feeling akin to standing in the path of a roaring wildfire—powerless and terrified.
"Let's go, Prince Joffrey," Sandor added, hiding a faint smirk. "Your first task: change your pants."
Joffrey's face turned crimson again—this time for a very different reason.
Meanwhile, across the city, another figure was equally alarmed. Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, had been enjoying the comforts of Silk Street—three courtesans from Dorne attending him, their laughter mingling with the scent of incense and wine—when suddenly two Lannister knights burst in, dragging him away mid-revel.
"What—who dares interrupt me!" he yelled, kicking and cursing, only to be dragged, half-naked and furious, back to the Red Keep.
Arriving, breathless and red-faced, he froze. His mind struggled to comprehend what he had just heard: Arthas was planning to face seven Kingsguard alone.
"Arthas, have you been cursed by a sorcerer?" he exclaimed, hurrying forward to check the young Lannister's forehead, as if fever could explain madness.
"Don't touch me with those filthy hands," Arthas said sharply, sidestepping, disgusted. "I am confident. Seven Kingsguard—nothing more."
The Imp, eyes wide, nearly jumped out of his boots. "Seven?! Are you insane? Barristan alone could crush you! And Jaime… you expect to fight him too? You'd have Lannisters killing Lannisters!"
Arthas smiled gently, placing a reassuring hand on Tyrion's shoulder. "Do not worry. I have considered all factors carefully."
Unlike Cersei's manipulative concern, Tyrion's care was genuine. He had worried for Arthas since their arrival in Westeros.
"Drink," Arthas said simply, gesturing to a cup of wine.
Tyrion, who had been running on adrenaline, immediately obeyed, gulping down the liquid. His mind finally clearing, he leaned forward, voice earnest.
"You are not impulsive," he said. "There must be a reason for this madness. What is your plan? Bribery? Traps? Aphrodisiacs? Women to distract them?"
Arthas offered only a calm smile, silent, then turned to Frostmourne. The legendary blade gleamed ethereally in the candlelight. Its blue sheen reflected his handsome features, sharp and cold.
"Tyrion," he murmured, as if to himself, "do you truly believe I cannot win fair and square?"
"Of course not!" The Imp's response was immediate, confidence in his brother's skill unwavering.
"You know Barristan's feats, Arthas?" Tyrion continued, recounting with awe the legendary victories: defeating Prince Duncan the Short, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard Ser Duncan the Tall, slaying Maelys the Monstrous, and even confronting Rhaegar Targaryen. "They say even Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, might not have bested him!"
"Even so," Tyrion said, leaning closer, "you face seven. How will you contend with the remaining six after Barristan?"
Arthas's golden eyes, reflecting the blue of Frostmourne, half-turned silver. He straightened, aura sharp, his voice commanding yet intimate:
"Tyrion, my elder brother… do you wish to become the Master of Coin of the Seven Kingdoms?"
Tyrion blinked, unsure if he had heard correctly, but the weight in Arthas's words left no room for jest or doubt. The blade's reflection shimmered like moonlight on ice—a promise, a threat, and a challenge all in one.
The Imp's mind raced. He could not yet guess Arthas's full plan, but he knew one thing: the young Lannister was unstoppable when he chose to be.
And the Seven Kingsguard, the finest knights of Westeros, would soon learn what it meant to face Arthas Lannister… alone.