"This is Arthur—the invincible Arthur," Horace Redwyne announced with a grin, limping slightly as he leaned on a carved cane. Despite the fresh bruises and swelling beneath his bandaged thigh, he had insisted on attending the evening's gathering.
Thanks to the protection of his steel plate armor, only the muscle of his upper leg had been badly pinched and bloodied. The bone had not fractured, and with maester-applied poultices and a dose of milk of the poppy, he managed to appear upright—if hobbling—at the Tyrell gathering.
"I've heard the name," said one noble youth in embroidered green. "Isn't he the one who thrashed Queen Cersei's cousin, Cleos?"
"Yes, that's him," another replied, eyes bright with mischief. "A warrior unafraid of lions."
"Truly," added a third, sipping Arbor red. "The Lannisters and Freys—perfect bedfellows, aren't they? I take great pleasure in seeing either one of them get knocked down."
The circle of Reach-born nobles chuckled, their words carefully weighed. They knew the politics of King's Landing well—enough to recognize that their own house, House Tyrell, stood poised to rise. If the realm was ever to replace the lions, it would be the roses who would seat a queen on the Iron Throne.
Unlike James Lannister, who was once sent off to squire for Lord Crakehall, or even Eddard Stark, who had been raised under Jon Arryn's guardianship, these young men had been educated within the halls of Highgarden, tutored in rhetoric, house politics, and etiquette. They knew exactly how to speak in public, and more importantly, what not to say.
What might be slander in another city was flattery here—carefully veiled and beautifully timed.
Not far away, Hobber Redwyne—the other half of the Redwyne twins—approached with a goblet in hand. Upon seeing Arthur, he gave an exaggerated bow and launched into a spirited, almost theatrical recounting of their match earlier that day.
With open admiration, he praised Arthur's strange, brute strength, describing in wild detail how he was "as unyielding as a weirwood trunk and as fast as a Dornish spear." He even embellished Arthur's earlier battles, claiming that the Lord of the Red Mill had once broken through the Raventree lines, fought off hundreds, and slain two knights in single combat.
His tone suggested he had witnessed these feats firsthand, though Desmond and Patrick—stationed just nearby—added just enough plausible detail to the stories that several in the crowd began to murmur their belief.
It was a classic convert's praise: the louder Hobber celebrated Arthur's strength, the more reasonable his own swift defeat seemed.
The nobles in the circle played their roles to perfection. There were polite gasps, skeptical smiles, and well-timed exclamations of "By the Seven!" and "Astonishing!"—all finely tuned to the rhythm of courtly banter. They weren't fooled, but they were entertained. Supporting the joke was its own form of etiquette.
Arthur, for his part, did not bother correcting the exaggerations. Instead, he stood quietly near the refreshment table, sampling delicacies crafted by the Red Keep's royal pastry chefs and sipping the finest wines of House Redwyne's vineyards on the Arbor.
The food reflected the wealth and power of House Tyrell, second only to the Lannisters in terms of economic might. Every pastry bore a rose crest, baked and etched with delicate precision. The lemon cakes had sugared petals, and the spiced tarts were folded into miniature blossoms.
It was… overwhelming.
Commoners in the Riverlands might live off hard bread and barley stew for months, but here, even a cake was stamped with heraldry. The contrast stung. Arthur, raised among dusty halls and bloody fields, felt the weight of that inequality.
Even more shocking was the prize for the joust's champion: forty thousand gold dragons. An unfathomable sum—considering a Riverlands farmer's entire year might yield only a handful of silver stags. And with one gold dragon worth approximately 210 silver stags, the prize could buy a small keep outright, or feed a village for years.
The elite lived in a world so extravagant it bordered on myth.
But Arthur could not change the world—not yet. These were not things he could challenge. All he could do was sigh inwardly, nod politely to a passing noble, and then take another heaping plate of food from the silver trays.
Survival first. Eating is important.
At that moment, a warm and confident voice carried across the bustling hall.
"Apologies, my friends. Had I known of this gathering sooner, I'd have had it held within the Red Keep itself."
Arthur turned his head. The speaker was none other than Lord Renly Baratheon, youngest brother of King Robert, Lord of Storm's End, and titular head of the Stormlands. Clad in a deep green velvet doublet with a golden stag brooch, he exuded effortless charm and gallantry.
This man was truly adept at currying favor—wherever he went, he found a way to buy goodwill with words that seemed generous but cost nothing. Arthur didn't believe for a second that Renly had been unaware of this party's location. That was absurd.
Everyone knew the host was Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers—Renly's "close friend," his frequent companion, and, as whispered in the corridors of court, his lover. The Tyrells had arranged this event in one of their family's grand residences nestled near the Red Keep, not in the keep itself, which suggested that Renly had deliberately allowed it to happen that way.
Still, the moment Renly uttered that line, the expressions of several Reach and Crownlands nobles visibly shifted. It was nothing but polite posturing, and yet it made him seem generous, powerful, and supportive—a prince's brother who would have helped, had he only known. It gained him goodwill with minimal effort.
Arthur quietly observed, filing the move away in the back of his mind. It was a kind of power—soft power. When his own influence grew, he might use such tactics himself. They were subtle tools for turning noble hearts.
Several high-ranking Reach lords immediately gravitated toward Renly, surrounding him with smiles and bows, eager to be seen in his orbit. Arthur and his companions, knowing their place, remained where they were, sipping wine and conversing amongst themselves. They understood they shared little with a lord of Storm's End—at least for now.
The atmosphere remained lively. Talk ranged from recent tourney matches to history, heraldry, and legendary deeds. For many of the nobles in attendance, exploring ancient lineages and distant ancestral links was as enjoyable as the wine.
Luckily for Arthur, while his current title might be modest, the House Bracken name carried weight. The Brackens had once ruled as Kings of the Trident, long before Aegon's Conquest. Even if that rule had been more claimed than confirmed, the story lingered, and that alone held value among the nobility of the Reach.
After all, many Reach families traced some part of their ancestry to the now-extinct House Gardener, the old kings of the Reach. And while the Brackens were now vassals of the Tullys, their house had a pedigree far older than most present.
This shared sense of noble ancestry brought Arthur into deeper conversations. And with Horace and Hobber Redwyne publicly supporting him—and recounting his strength, his tourney feats, and his spat with the Frey cousin of Queen Cersei—Arthur's reputation spread quickly through the hall. His anti-Lannister posture only made him more welcome.
Before long, Arthur became one of the most talked-about figures of the evening.
He lost count of how many Reach nobles eagerly shared the stories of their houses with him, hoping to find or fabricate a distant tie to House Bracken. Someone even brought up the Blackfyre Rebellions, which sparked a long and animated discussion.
The topic, though ancient, was still charged. Many lords in the Reach and Stormlands had once backed Daemon Blackfyre, a legitimized Targaryen bastard who claimed the Iron Throne. The rebellion had been born of frustration over the Iron Throne's increasingly close ties to Dorne, following the marriage of Daeron II to a Dornish princess.
Though the Red Dragon loyalists had prevailed, old wounds still lingered in some bloodlines. The Tullys, for example, had always supported the Red Dragons, and it was said that the famous Ser Brynden "Blackfish" Tully had once refused to marry a Redwyne daughter because of her family's Blackfyre ties.
Coincidentally—or perhaps fatefully—House Bracken had supported the Black Dragon cause. That made Arthur an even more intriguing guest in the eyes of the Blackfyre-sympathetic Reachmen. Shared ancestry and historical alliances could always bring people closer.
When Arthur spoke of his recent skirmishes with House Blackwood's forces in the northern Riverlands and his intent to purchase armor for his growing retinue, many lords were quick to lend support. Some offered to sell him sets of armor at market price—polite, businesslike, but generous in context.
One house might offer a dozen suits. Seven or eight houses together added up fast.
Adding those to the 300 sets of standard armor and weaponry promised by the Redwyne twins, Arthur suddenly had access to over 600 sets, perhaps closer to 700 if all pledges held.
The Lord of the Red Mill was quietly thrilled. Still, beneath his polite smile, a sense of urgency gnawed at him.
Once the War of the Five Kings broke out—and it surely would, in a matter of weeks—promises made in wine-soaked halls would vanish like mist. In a realm fractured by civil war, armor became more precious than gold, more valuable than bread.
If he didn't act quickly after the tourney ended, he might lose everything he had just gained.
In the end, it was as the old soldier's saying went:
"My neighbor farms, and I forge swords—my neighbor becomes my granary."
Arthur understood this. The time to gather steel was now.
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