Artys Arryn POV
I guess my intuition was right. Cersei really did try to mess with my bow, but luckily I had Soryn arrange another one, and right before I stepped into the arena, I switched it with him.
Looking at the audience. Smallfolk and lords filled the sitting area , and at the center sat the royal household. Everyone was there from the King to the Queen and the Crown Prince. Myrcella sat with the maids.
As for Tommen… he was still swimming somewhere in Jaime's balls for now.
The contest was simple. Three rounds. First round: hit a target fifty yards away. Miss once and you're out. Anyone who clears it moves on to the next round, where the target is at seventy-five yards.
Clear that, and you reach the third and final round: a hundred yards out. Most participants never make it past the second.
There were about thirty participants, including me. The reason? The entry fee was twenty golden dragons.
A fortune for commoners, considering the average smallfolk family makes two or three dragons a year. So usually only nobles or the wealthy participate.
"The archery contest begins now! The winner will receive a prize of ten thousand golden dragons!" the herald shouted. The crowd roared.
"Hey, little one. Don't be disappointed when you lose," someone muttered behind me.
I turned, annoyed. A man with brown skin stood there. Dornish, I guessed. They're deadly archers.
"No offense, little one. You've got the attention of the whole stadium, after all. Bold of you to make a bet with the King of the Seven Kingdoms," he said. His accent wasn't Westerosi; definitely foreign.
What does this guy even want? Mind your business, stranger.
"My lord—or ser—whatever your title is, would you please tell me what you want? Because you're annoying."
"It's Prince," he said.
"Prince what?" That word didn't fit the conversation at all. I stared at him, confused.
"Myself, Zhalan Toh. Prince from the Summer Isles, Its a distant land far south of Westeros," he said, giving me an introduction I never asked for.
That explained the accent. A Summer Isles prince… they have hundreds of them. The isles aren't a united kingdom; they're a patchwork of tiny fiefdoms ruled by different princes.
"Would you honor this lowly lord's heir with the reason for your visit to Westeros, if the Summer Isles are so far away? Don't you have kingdoms to rule or fathers to assist?" I asked, smirking, letting the sarcasm drip.
"I am here to explore the world. I was in the city and heard about the king's tourney, so I joined in for fun," he said with a polite smile, ignoring my jab.
Explore the world, my ass. You're a bad liar, exiled-fuck. If you weren't exiled, why would a Summer Isles prince be in King's Landing?
"And don't worry, I don't plan to lose today," I said loudly. Heads turned.
Most people expect me to fail. They think I'm just some arrogant child who bet a Valyrian steel sword against the Crown. Rumors spread like wildfire, and most mocked me.
Bad PR overall.
Honestly, I should've put the sword away as soon as I found it or better, not made a bet with the King at all. If not for the celestial gift of archery, I'd be embarrassing myself.
"Let's start! First group of ten will aim at the target. If you hit, you move to the next round. If you miss, you're out," the overseer announced.
We prepared. Everyone had tokens with numbers to determine order. I was in the first group.
We took our positions. I nocked my arrow, drew back the string, muscles tight, eyes locked on the target—a classic medieval one: outer white ring, inner black ring, white center.
"Fire," the judge said.
I released. A perfect bullseye.
For a heartbeat the crowd was silent. Then the cheers hit like a wave.
POV ends
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Cersie Lannister POV
What in the seven hells is going on? How did that Arryn boy hit the target? I had one of our men sabotage his bow.
"Mother, why are people cheering for him?" Joffrey asked. Sweet boy. Cute, really.
"Because the smallfolk love an underdog, my sweet. They cheer for puppies and cripples and little falcons who think they can fly. Let them bark. Puppies don't sit the Iron Throne. Lions do."
"Don't worry. He'll be out in the second round." I gestured for Jaime to come closer.
"What?" Jaime whispered.
"Do something about this," I said.
"Do what? For gods' sake, Cersei, this is a tourney. Thousands are watching. What do you want me to do?" Jaime hissed.
My dear brother… you make it sound far harder than it is.
"There will be time before the second round. Go tamper with his bowstring or his grip or something. Just make sure he's out."
"There's no need. The boy just got lucky," Jaime insisted.
"There is. Did you see that shot? I've heard rumors he's good, but I mistook them for fake lies spread by Jon Arryn. But the way the boy shot… we can't take risks."
"The boy got lucky. It won't happen again. Besides, that Summer Isles prince and that Dornish archer are excellent. He won't win," Jaime argued.
"Still, we need to act. There is a Valyrian steel sword at stake. And the bloody bet is known to entire city. We will lose face if the boy wins." I didn't bother hiding my irritation.
"I could try, but don't get your hopes high, dear sister. Don't forget Lyn Corbray is guarding him."
Lyn Corbray? Really, brother? If you can't fool that weak Vale knight, who's nothing but a sword swallower.
"Just do it!" I finally said, annoyed.
POV end
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10 minutes latter
Jamie POV
I don't understand why she puts me through this. The boy just got lucky; he won't win.
I reached the waiting area with two Lannister men. The participants were waiting for the second round to begin.
Artys Arryn was in the corner of the waiting area with his Essosi servants and his guard unit, bow in hand.
For the past two days, this boy has been the source of all my troubles. He reminds me of Rhaegar when he was young, that silver hair along with classic Valyrian facial features. If not for his right eye being blue, people would mistake him for a Targaryen bastard.
"You know what to do," I told my men.
"Yes, ser. We'll be discreet. No one will notice," one said.
"Good. I'll create a distraction. Be quick." I walked toward Artys Arryn, my men following.
"I suppose congratulations are in order," I said, catching his attention.
"Ser Jaime." The boy said it loud and sharp. He didn't bother hiding the disgust on his face.
Inside his head he's probably calling me Kingslayer or Oathbreaker, the new name he has given me. I don't understand why he hates me this much.
"Boy, you are very bad at keeping your emotions hidden," I said, jaw tightening.
"Let's bury the past. You're heir to the Eyrie and will one day rule. It's important to be on good terms with the Crown. Especially the prince. He'll sit the Iron Throne someday," I said to him.
"What do you mean, Ser Jaime? The prince and I are very good friends. We've played together since childhood," the boy said innocently, far too innocently.
He's lying. He hates Joffrey, and Joffrey hates him. If I hadn't personally seen how those two treat each other, I might've fallen for his lies too.
"Perhaps you'd like some Arbor Gold until the second round starts? Consider it a gift from me, for a better future and better relations between us," I said, raising my right hand to place it on the boy's shoulder.
But before I could reach him, a hand clamped around my wrist. Lyn Corbray. Jon Arryn's loyal dog. Looks like I'll need to put him in his place.
"Know your place, Ser, or I'll be forced to show it to you," I said.
"Why don't you show me, Kingslayer? I'd love to see what skills the mighty Kingslayer has ,besides backstabbing an old weak man and that too from behind, if the rumors are right." Lyn laughed loudly, clearly trying to draw more attention.
How dare he insult me. He has no idea what happened during the Sack, and I have no interest in telling anyone but calling me a backstabber? That goes too far.
POV ends.
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