The sun slowly sank into the western sea.
Several bonfires were lit along the beach, their flames flickering in the evening wind.
Garon sat together with Robert and Eddard, while a short distance away four or five guards had lit their own fires. Everyone chatted and laughed as they grilled the freshly caught sea fish.
Some of the smaller fish, lacking any real flavor, were tossed directly into the flames. Only the larger, meatier fish were skewered on branches and carefully roasted. Each person ended up with two or three fish, a clear sign that their harvest had been plentiful.
Most of the fish had been shot by Garon.
A smaller portion had been caught by Ned.
Robert, on the other hand, had only managed to hit two.
Robert's swordsmanship was solid, but his archery talent was undeniably average.
"Ned's pretty good," Robert admitted reluctantly, tearing into a piece of grilled fish, "but he still can't compare to you, Garon."
Garon smiled faintly as he turned the fish over the fire.
"Why are you so accurate?" Robert asked, genuinely curious. "Every arrow hits."
"I don't know," Garon replied casually. "Maybe it's just talent."
This time, Garon did not bother to downplay it.
His archery talent truly was stronger than his swordsmanship. Without spending a single Judgment Point, his archery proficiency had already reached thirty-three percent. In a few more years, it could easily reach fifty.
That kind of growth was frightening.
Even Ser Goodwin had been amazed by Garon's progress and once predicted that Garon would someday win the archery championship at a major tournament.
Garon himself didn't think it was anything special.
After all, every knight in Westeros wore plate armor. No matter how skilled an archer was, arrows were rarely lethal against heavy armor. At best, archery was useful for picking off lightly armored soldiers.
For Garon, archery was simply enjoyable.
The moment the bowstring was released, watching the arrow fly and strike its target, was far more satisfying than endless sword drills.
"You'll definitely win a tournament someday," Ned said quietly.
"It's still too early for that," Garon replied with a smile.
But he wasn't being modest.
Given his current growth rate—and the system backing him—dominating the tourney fields of Westeros was only a matter of time.
"By the way," Robert said suddenly, his tone shifting, "two years ago you didn't go to the tourney at Lannisport. Ned and I did. Rhaegar was… impressive."
For reasons even Robert couldn't explain, he had always felt uncomfortable around Prince Rhaegar. The man felt too composed, too perfect, as if he were deliberately putting on a show.
"It was too far," Garon said calmly. "My father didn't want me traveling that long."
Which was half true.
The journey from Tarth to Lannisport would have taken over half a month round trip. Garon had decided his time was better spent training.
"Rhaegar is three years older than you," Garon added. "It's normal that he's strong."
"Tch," Robert scoffed. "Next time, I'll beat him."
Two years ago, Robert had been thirteen and Rhaegar sixteen. Watching Rhaegar win the tourney had left a deep impression on him.
Now fifteen, Robert was eager to prove himself.
A grand tournament consisted of three main events: the joust, the melee, and archery. Among them, the joust was the most important.
Robert was born strong, rode well, and excelled with a lance. He believed he had every advantage.
Garon smiled quietly.
If history followed its course, Rhaegar would still win the Tourney of Harrenhal four years later. Robert would not take the crown.
But that did not mean Robert was weaker.
After all, Robert would one day kill Rhaegar with his own hands at the Trident.
Rhaegar was brilliant in tournaments.
Robert was a monster on the battlefield.
One swing of his hammer could end everything.
That was why Garon had focused so heavily on strength and agility over the past two years, pouring nearly all his Judgment Points into those attributes.
A body that could crush everything head-on.
"By the way," Garon said casually, "I heard from Maester Ronnel and my father that Rhaegar and King Aerys are… very different people. Is that true?"
Robert and Ned both stiffened slightly.
They thought of King Aerys's behavior over the past year.
"That's true," Robert said grimly. "Compared to the king, Rhaegar is polite. Almost gentle."
"Especially after that incident last year," Robert continued. "The king has gotten worse."
Ned glanced toward the distant guards, making sure they were out of earshot. Calling the king mad was dangerous, even for nobles.
Garon smiled faintly.
The incident Robert referred to was already infamous among the nobility.
The Rebellion of Duskendale.
Years earlier, Tywin Lannister had stopped using Lannister gold to subsidize the royal treasury. The crown's finances collapsed almost overnight.
To compensate, King Aerys doubled port taxes in King's Landing and Oldtown—and tripled them everywhere else.
It was effective.
And catastrophically stupid.
The king had offended nearly every noble house with a port.
Tarth itself relied on Sapphire Harbor. Lord Selwyn had been furious ever since.
The king wasn't just cruel.
He was stealing directly from the nobles' bowls.
That was the real reason the realm would eventually rebel.
Cruelty could be endured.
Losing money could not.
Duskendale suffered the worst.
Once the most prosperous port in Blackwater Bay, it had been strangled by King's Landing's growth. When Aerys tripled its taxes, trade vanished overnight.
Lord Denys Darklyn refused to comply.
He stopped paying taxes entirely.
King Aerys, enraged, planned to attack—until Denys invited him to Duskendale to negotiate.
Against all advice, Aerys went.
He was captured the moment he arrived.
For half a year, Tywin besieged the city.
Negotiations failed.
Then Barristan Selmy acted.
Climbing the walls alone, disguised as a beggar, cutting his way through guards, he rescued the king and escaped on horseback before the gates closed.
A living legend was born.
And a monster was unleashed.
Aerys never recovered.
He slaughtered House Darklyn, exterminated the Hollards, and became obsessed with fire and betrayal.
From that day on, madness ruled the Iron Throne.
Garon stared into the fire as fat dripped from the fish and sparks leapt upward.
"Robert," he said calmly, "he is still the king. No matter how mad he becomes, no one can touch him."
Robert clenched his jaw.
"And Rhaegar?" Ned asked quietly.
"He's trapped," Garon replied. "Between a mad father and a realm that expects him to replace him."
The flames crackled.
None of them yet knew how violently the future would shatter.
But Garon did.