Ice and Fire: Reign of the Dragon.

Chapter 470 The Defenders' War (Part 3)
Ed ultimately failed to persuade Brandon, and Brandon even had Ed kept an eye on before he could prepare the dinner, fearing the boy might tip Robert off.

The banquet was held in the ancient hall of Long Night Castle. There was no way around it; even when the long night was approaching, the nobles still regarded banquets as an essential part of life. Especially in the event of victory, banquets were the perfect way to add color to the victory and also a platform for the lords to socialize with each other.

Candlelight flickered in the stone hall, casting the shadows of the lords onto the walls engraved with First Men runes. The long table was piled high with roasted venison, honey cod, and steaming onion soup; the aroma of ale mingled with the scent of charcoal. The supplies from the Wall and Winterfell, along with provisions brought from the south, made for a lavish feast.

Brandon Stark leaned against a stone pillar, his eyes fixed on Robert, who was drinking heartily. He gave Houghton Amber a look, and the latter immediately understood. The lord of Last Hearth swaggered over, picking up a barrel of Greenbeard Isle gin and heading toward Robert.

Tywin Lannister noticed what was happening. The little lion chuckled and continued to slowly savor the food in front of him. Count Marbran whispered something in the ear of the heir to the Westerlands.

"Lord Tywin, this..."

“Never mind.” Tywin picked up a piece of venison with his fork: “The fiercer the fight between the wolf and the deer, the more opportunities the lion will have.”

"Baratheon!" Horton's roar made the wine glass tremble. He slammed the barrel down in front of Robert, the spilled wine meandering like blood across the oak table. "You're a fine man, but the Northmen have never seen a Southerner who can outdrink us! Come on, have a drink with me!"

Robert Baratheon looked up and burst into laughter. He ripped open his collar, already soaked with wine, revealing his muscular chest. "Then give it a try, Amber! But be careful not to end up like your Northern summers, with such a low alcohol tolerance that no one remembers you!"

After downing the first barrel of beer, Horton Amber's face was as red as his beard, but his momentum remained undiminished.

With the second barrel halfway through, Amber's laughter began to grow dull, and her eyelids grew heavy.

When the third bucket was empty
"belch"

Horton Amber's massive body slid slowly off the bench, crashing to the ground with a thud, snoring loudly.

Robert laughed heartily and slammed his hand on the table: "Who's next?"

Brandon frowned almost imperceptibly and turned his gaze to Roose Bolton.

A sinister smile crept across the pale, ghoul-like face of the Earl of Dreadfort. He rose gracefully, his long, slender fingers lifting a silver-inlaid goblet, and slowly walked toward Robert.

"Let me also raise a toast to you, Stormland Stag. To your bravery." His voice was as soft as silk, yet it sent chills down one's spine.

Robert raised an eyebrow, but without flinching, he took the glass and drank it down in one gulp.

Roose Bolton could drink far better than Horton Amber, but his complexion grew increasingly worse, his pale skin beaded with cold sweat, yet the smile on his lips remained unchanged, like a meticulously sculpted mask.

"Again." He mechanically raised his glass, his voice already somewhat unsteady.

Robert's face was flushed, and beads of sweat hung on his nose, but his blue eyes shone brightly, even with a hint of mockery:

"What? Stark, is this all you Northerners can do?"

Brandon's knuckles turned white from clenching his fists. He had underestimated the Stormland Buck's drinking capacity; he was a bottomless pit.

Damn.

Just as Brandon was considering whether to step in himself, a figure quietly appeared behind Robert.

Hoffa steadied the swaying Roose Bolton and asked with feigned concern, "Lord Bolton, you look terrible and need to rest."

At the same time, he lightly tapped Robert's boot with his toe, sending a warning look. Robert raised an eyebrow, about to retort, but Hoffa had already announced loudly:
"The two gentlemen have had too much to drink. I'll take them to sober up!"

Before anyone could react, he grabbed Brandon with one hand and Robert with the other, and amidst the laughter of the crowd, he half-dragged, half-carried the two away from the banquet hall.

Brandon struggled for a moment, but Hoffa's voice whispered in his ear:

"Stop fooling around, Stark. Lord Igor is sending out scouts tomorrow morning. If you two get completely drunk, the spots for the Northern Expedition will go to someone else."

Robert laughed heartily, patting Hoffa's shoulder drunkenly: "Lord Hoffa, you underestimate me. I can drink as much as that kid Brandon makes me drink, and I'll still be able to smash a dozen White Walkers to death by tomorrow morning!"

Brandon snorted, but ultimately did not resist.

In the cold stone chamber, the fireplace glowed so faintly that it seemed almost swallowed by the chill. Hoffa placed two bowls of bitter, steaming hangover soup heavily on the oak table, the brown liquid splattering on the surface like a pool of dried blood.

"Enough." His voice was low, yet it was like dragon flames sweeping across ice, carrying an undeniable heat. "Lord Igor is about to lead his army north on a campaign, and you, the good knights of the seven kingdoms, the heirs of two dukes, are playing these petty tricks here?"

Brandon Stark didn't speak, but stared at Robert, a dangerous glint in his gray eyes.

Robert Baratheon, who had been leaning drunkenly against the wall, suddenly burst into a loud laugh that made the candlelight flicker.

“He’s right, you wolf cub!” Robert grinned, his blue eyes flashing with a wild fighting spirit. “Trying to get me drunk? You’ll have to train for another ten years!”

Brandon's pupils contracted sharply, like an enraged direwolf. He sprang to his feet, grabbing Robert by the collar, crumpling the Stormlands stag's deep blue cloak into a ball.

“You think you’ve got this in the bag?” Brandon’s voice sounded like it was being squeezed out from between his teeth. “Northerners never admit defeat at the dinner table.”

Robert's smile vanished, replaced by a dangerous calm. His fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white, and veins bulged on the back of his hands.

“Then let’s give it a try, Stark.”

Just as tensions were about to rise, the door was suddenly kicked open.

Eddard Stark stood in the doorway, his grey eyes wide, his chest heaving violently. His usually gentle face was now contorted with anger and disappointment, tears welling in his eyes, yet he stubbornly refused to let them fall.

"Stop!" His voice trembled unusually, like that of an angry fawn, certainly not like that of a wolf. "You... how could you do this!"

The room fell into dead silence instantly.

Brandon's fingers were still gripping Robert's collar, while Robert's fist was still suspended in mid-air. Yet, the two seemed to be frozen in place by some invisible force.

Ed's voice was very soft:
"Direwolves and stags should stand side by side, why are you killing each other?"

Brandon's Adam's apple bobbed, as if burned by his brother's tears. Robert's fist slowly loosened; he stared at Ed, the anger in his eyes gradually replaced by a complex emotion.

Guilt? Confusion? Or...
Some kind of emotion that he couldn't quite put his finger on?
Robert didn't know.

(End of this chapter)