King Robert Baratheon heaved his growing girth toward the royal viewing platform, his once-mighty frame now straining beneath the weight of indulgence. The heat, the buzz of the crowd, and the memory of Cersei forbidding him from competing in the melee soured his mood. Worse still, he'd discovered that morning he could no longer buckle his own breastplate. He was the King of the Seven Kingdoms, and yet his own armor refused him.
But before he could sink into his chair, a murmur rose from the gathered masses.
"Seven Hells! Is that real?"
"It must be hollow—no one could lift it if it's solid."
"Hollow or not, it looks like it could kill a horse."
Drawn by the commotion, Robert turned his eyes to the field.
There, the golden-armored knight who had charged into the semifinals yesterday was now striding toward the melee grounds—not with a lance, but wielding a monstrous warhammer. The hammer's head was enormous, broader than a man's skull, with a blackened nail tip that glinted ominously under the sun.
Even at a distance, Robert could tell—it dwarfed his own old hammer.
Most warriors wielded hammers the size of a clenched fist, small enough for speed, large enough to break bones. This one was a brute's weapon, nearly the length of a longsword handle, and far too heavy for any man without ridiculous strength.
The king's beard twitched at the memory. Sixteen years ago, on the burned plains of Summerhall, he'd crushed three knights in a single day with his own warhammer, claiming the battlefield and the throne in one swoop. Back then, I owned the world…
Nearby, Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, followed Robert's gaze and noticed his puzzled expression.
"Your Grace, that might be a prop. A showpiece. Surely it can't be real," Barristan offered.
"A showpiece?" Robert echoed. Then he snorted, face brightening with sudden curiosity. "That's too good for my taste!"
He rose and marched off toward the red horse rider. Behind him trailed Barristan and several white-cloaked Kingsguard knights, all trying to keep pace.
As Lord Commander, Barristan not only led the Kingsguard but advised the King as a member of the Small Council. And yet, like the rest of them, he often found himself amused by Robert's unpredictable moods.
Arthur Bracken, oblivious at first, had just set the great warhammer down on the edge of the melee grounds. His squire, Medan, was tasked with guarding it—not out of fear of theft, for few could carry it, but to prevent gawkers from poking at it.
By now, the crowd's attention had fully turned to the spectacle.
Arthur turned—ready to wave off the gathering onlookers—only to stop short when he recognized the barrel-chested man leading them. It was the King himself.
He couldn't very well wave off Robert Baratheon.
"By the Seven," the king said, stepping forward. "That thing should've been mine."
There was something wistful in his voice, even as his eyes danced with excitement. "Now that I've seen it, I want it."
Robert reached toward the hammer, testing its weight.
Arthur grinned. "If Your Grace can lift it over your head, then it's yours."
He won't lift it, Arthur thought. This is no drinking horn—it's my battlefield reaper, forged by Tobho Mott himself. The thing weighs more than two mail-clad squires.
Robert squared his feet, rolled his shoulders, and eyed Arthur.
"If I raise it, I'll take it as a gift. A token of your loyalty for… handling a certain Frey problem last week. How about that?"
Arthur gestured grandly. "By all means, Your Grace."
This had the feel of an old Westerosi tale—of ancient kings lifting cauldrons or beasts, proving their divine right to rule. Today, it was Robert with a hammer instead of a crown.
Cheers erupted from the crowd, the smallfolk shouting their king's name.
Robert removed his golden crown and handed it to Arthur. Then he bent low, wrapped thick fingers around the hammer's long grip, and took a deep breath.
"Get up—!" he growled.
His arms bulged, face reddened, but the hammer barely budged—a hand's width from the ground, no more. He grit his teeth, strained again, but the beastly thing refused to rise.
Gods, Robert thought bitterly, is this bloody thing solid?
He let go. The hammer crashed to the ground with a resounding thud that sent vibrations through the earth.
The crowd gasped.
"The King couldn't lift it?"
"How can anyone swing that thing in a melee? That's not a weapon—it's a siege engine!"
Even the Kingsguard exchanged glances, unsure what they'd just witnessed.
Ser Barristan, ever the knight, stepped forward. "Your Grace, perhaps I might try."
The white-haired warrior bent with a grunt and heaved. His result was worse—barely half a hand off the ground. But considering his age, even that was admirable.
Robert took his crown back, breathing heavily.
"How strong are you?" he asked Arthur, staring in awe.
"Maybe the strongest in Westeros," Arthur answered, half-joking.
Robert chuckled and nodded. "Even the Mountain would have trouble with this. It's no toy."
From the crowd, a voice piped up. "Is it really solid?"
Robert turned, face darkening. "I couldn't lift it. Do you think I'd be fooled by a fake?"
He was still only in his late thirties—past his prime but not yet old. Though wine and ease had sapped his stamina, his raw strength remained formidable. That the hammer defeated even him—that meant something.
"I'd like a try," said a lean archer with a bow nearly as tall as himself. His bare arms bulged with muscle, his leather armor stained with sweat and dirt.
Arthur shrugged. "Go ahead."
The man strode forward, gripped the hammer, and gave a guttural yell. With immense effort, he managed to raise the thing to his chest—but no higher. He released it, and the hammer hit the ground with a deeper boom than before.
"What kind of melee is this?" he muttered, shaking out his arms. "One hit from that thing and you're paste."
Robert considered that. Cersei's refusal to let him fight in today's melee suddenly made a little more sense.
He exhaled, smiled faintly, and turned back toward the viewing box, choosing—for once—to be a spectator.
The moment passed.
Arthur mounted Red Hare, his scarlet destrier snorting as they prepared for the next event: the final jousts of the day.
What he didn't yet realize was that the sight of that hammer had left its mark—dozens of warriors quietly withdrew their names from the group melee. None wanted to face a man who swung a weapon that even the king could not lift.
And so, as the draw for the semifinals was announced, the matchups delighted the crowd:
Ser Loras Tyrell, the famed Knight of Flowers, would face the brutal Ser Gregor Clegane.
And Arthur Bracken? He would face the Mountain's own brother—Sandor Clegane, the Hound.
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