Artys Arryn POV
"What is the meaning of this?" Lord Grafton demanded, his voice full of anger and authority, the easy humour gone from his face entirely.
I glanced back. Ser Lyn and Ser Jasper already had their hands resting on their sword hilts, along with the Silver Knights and the Moon Knights behind them.
Why do I always end up in situations like this? I don't even have a sword on me. Not that I'd need one right now.
I let my hand drift to my waist, to the hidden dagger beneath my robe. Just in case things went south.
"This is the Hand's son, heir to the Eyrie, Ser Artys Arryn. Why has the passage been blocked?" Grafton demanded of the guard captain.
The captain looked around timidly at the hundred odd knights now standing with their hands on their swords, and swallowed hard.
"My lord, the queen's orders were to only allow the lords and ladies inside. Your party is rather large, I'm afraid," he explained anxiously, sweat already beading on his forehead. "There isn't even enough room to accommodate all of you."
"Ahh." I let out a slow breath and loosened my grip on the dagger's lace beneath my robe. "They're right, Lord Grafton. The stands won't hold if we bring every knight in with us."
"So be it." I looked around at the men. "Ser Jasper, take the men to our quarters. They must be tired too. I'll come find you all once this is over."
Before he could protest, I added, "Don't worry, Ser Lyn will stay with me as guard, along with Kalen."
Ser Jasper simply nodded, gave a short bow, and turned to organise the men, leaving only the Vale lords, their families, and myself.
I turned back to the guard captain. "Is that acceptable now?"
"Yes, my lord," the man said immediately, relief flooding his face as he stepped back and waved the rest of his soldiers to stand down. The two guards who'd crossed their spears at the gate pulled them apart, clearing the path ahead of us.
We were let through at last, and the hallway inside was lit only dimly, candles set along each step. A few strides in, a man in Lannister colours stood posted along the passage.
Flexing your muscles, aren't you, old lion.
We climbed the stairs, Lord Grafton leading the way, and as we neared the top I could already hear the noise of the crowd, cheering, hooting, jeering. Reminded me of a food fight, though I preferred actual fighting well enough over that.
Light hit my eyes as we reached the top, and I could make out the royal box perfectly from here, raised above the rest of the stands. Robert and Ned sat together, trading jokes, Cersei watched the field with a worried set to her mouth, and that little shit Joffrey leaned over the rail, screaming down at something below with an expression I couldn't quite read from here.
It definitely wasn't going to be good, whatever it was. It never was, with him.
"This way, my lord," Grafton said, pointing toward the right.
As we walked, I glanced across the open stretch between the two stands to where our own section sat, tucked in beside the Reach, Dorne, and the Iron Islands, just as I'd noticed earlier. The arrangement had irritated me the moment I'd first laid eyes on it. It still did.
"Oh, look. It seems the young falcon has finally come home."
The dry, sharp old voice halted me mid stride as I walked toward the Vale's section.
I know only one woman in the Reach with a tongue that sharp.
Well. I suppose it's time to have a talk with the old fox, and see if I could ally with them.
"Lord Grafton, you and the rest of the Vale lords go on ahead to your seats. I'll have a word with the Tyrells," I said.
The old lord simply nodded, an amused thought clearly working behind his eyes, probably imagining I'd taken a liking to Margaery again, and the rest of the Vale party moved off, leaving me with Ser Lyn and Kalen at my back.
I turned and found the pair. An old woman sat fanning herself in a high backed chair, and beside her—
Well. For a moment, I couldn't quite think straight.
Margaery was, as everyone said, beautiful.
Especially in that gown. It was modest enough to be proper, yet cut in precisely the way that drew the eye without appearing to try.
I dragged my gaze back to the old woman before either of them could catch me looking for too long.
"Lady Olenna," I said, offering a smile and a small nod of my head.
"It's an honour to meet the mighty Queen of Thorns," I added, glancing toward Margaery as I straightened. "And the stories certainly failed to do your granddaughter justice, my lady. She is far lovelier than people claim."
Margaery's cheeks coloured slightly at that, though whether it was genuine or simply the proper reaction, I couldn't tell.
With Margaery Tyrell, I suspected one could never be entirely certain.
"So the mighty falcon of the Vale has finally decided to come home," Olenna said, her fan moving lazily before her face.
"I was beginning to wonder whether you'd forgotten which side of the mountains you belonged to."
I see. Trying to pull information out of me the moment your spies can't manage it themselves.
"I was summoned by my father to attend," I said, raising a hand and gesturing loosely toward the whole grand arrangement around us, keeping the explanation short.
"How dutiful of you," Olenna replied. "Though you are rather late. The celebrations began a week ago."
"What can I say? I did my best to arrive in time. Besides, isn't the whole thing meant to last two weeks? There's still a week left," I said back, matching her tone.
"Today's the last day of the jousting," Margaery corrected gently, her smile never wavering. "You just missed a wonderful match between Ser Loras and Ser Jaime."
"The one who wins will face Ser Gregor Clegane in the final," she added, glancing toward the lists below as though the information were nothing more than an afterthought.
Right. So she is acting.
And does she really think her lovestruck brother stands a chance against the Mountain.
"My bad luck," I replied, offering a smile of my own.
Gods, she really is lovely.
Focus, Artys. Focus.
"Why don't you join in?" Olenna asked. "Tomorrow's the melee, is it not? Surely that would suit a man with your reputation better than sitting among us ladies."
"I don't think that would be a good idea, my lady," I said, trying to sidestep the question.
"Oh?" Olenna's brows rose. "And here I thought young men spent half their lives looking for an excuse to swing a sword to impress young girls."
"Don't you want to show the realm your skill with a sword?" she added, watching me with the patient sort of interest that told me she already knew exactly what my answer would be and simply wanted to hear how I'd phrase it.
"We've heard the stories," Margaery added, her voice soft and pleasant. "About the wars against the hill tribes, and the fighting against Meereen and Yunkai to protect the freed slaves."
"I'm honoured you've heard of me, but I'm afraid I won't be taking part in the melee, my lady, or any sort of competition being held," I said.
"Why not?" Olenna asked, a faint smile appearing beneath her fan.
She's asking question after question like I'm applying for a fucking job and she's the one conducting the interview.
"Grandmother, perhaps Ser Artys is tired after all those thousands of miles at sea," Margaery said, gently taking Olenna's hand between hers.
There was something almost innocent about the gesture.
Almost.
"Yes, that is one of the reasons," I said, glancing past her toward the two men currently squaring off below.
"Besides, these tourneys do nothing but bore me. They're gatherings for low born knights seeking glory or gold, or maybe both, neither of which I desire."
I finally turned to look properly at the grounds, trying to make out what all the noise was actually about.
Wait. What? Why in the seven hells are Jaime and Loras fighting on foot? Shouldn't they both be back with their own houses by now?
The only way that made sense was if they'd unhorsed each other on the same pass, and now here they stood, sword raised against sword, about to meet the Kingslayer properly in a duel.
"Are you calling both of them low-born?" Olenna asked, her voice carrying not a trace of amusement now, flat, precise, and entirely unimpressed.
Her eyes flicked meaningfully toward her grandson standing in the dirt below.
Shit. I might have said a little too much.
"Not at all, my lady," I said quickly, recovering my footing before the silence could stretch any further.
"I only meant the sport itself. The men who need fame chase it hardest, especially those who have little else to their name. Second sons, hedge knights, bastards and the like. Some do it purely for the fun of it, of course, and there's no shame in that either."
"Your grandson," I added quickly, nodding toward the field.
"He has far more to offer than just lance and horse, given he's currently trading blows with the Kingslayer and still standing. That tells you a lot about his skill on its own. Besides, he's of noble blood."
"House Tyrell is a great house as well, Warden of the Reach, with a long history of glory and bravery," I added with a polite smile.
Olenna's eyes narrowed slightly.
She knew exactly what I was doing.
House Tyrell had not always been a great house. A few centuries ago, they'd been stewards of House Gardener before the dragons raised them to the Lordship of the Reach.
I need to leave before things go overboard and I make a fool of myself.
The last few months I'd spent surrounded by soldiers, war councils, sea voyages, and the governance of cities that didn't run themselves. Worse still, I was still a virgin through all of it. I hadn't wanted to lose it to some whore.
Not to mention the risk of fucking STDs.
I glanced toward Robert Baratheon, still laughing away beside Ned Stark. If the wine and the boar hadn't killed him, STDs would have surely done the job.
The man practically fucked multiple whores every day.
I can't even imagine it. I mean, him licking the
Who knew. Maybe he liked it that way.
I dragged my eyes back to the two women in front of me before that thought could show on my face.
Olenna studied me a moment longer, that sharp gaze weighing whether I'd meant it or simply talked my way out cleanly.
Then, slowly, the corner of her mouth curled.
"A careful tongue," she said. "I like that in a man. Though one should be careful. A tongue that quick can get a man into trouble."
"If the trouble is as beautiful as Lady Margaery, any man would happily take it," I threw in.
That earned an actual laugh from her, short, dry, but real, while Margaery covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes bright with something that looked entirely too pleased for my comfort.
Well. Let's hope I could convince the Tyrells to ally with me.
POV ends