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The Reach, Hightower Vanguard Camp, Commander's Tent.
"Moryn! Why did you stop me from dueling Snow? If I had defeated him, everything would be solved!" Garth Hightower was furious at losing the chance to face Arthur.
"Do you think I can't defeat the Sword of the Morning? I told you, if not for that cursed Dornish sun, he never would have beaten me!"
"Calm yourself, Garth." Ser Moryn Tyrell sat composed on a folding chair, stroking his white beard.
"I do not doubt your valor. However, we cannot meet Ser Arthur's demands, nor can we make promises on behalf of Highgarden.
"Furthermore, before we left, Baelor specifically instructed us that our primary objective is defense and containment, not a decisive battle."
Truth be told, Ser Moryn didn't think Garth had much chance of defeating Arthur.
A reputation is like a shadow; where there is a shadow, there is a tree. Moryn believed that for a Snow to earn the title of Sword of the Morning and wield the ancestral blade of House Dayne, Arthur's skill must be extraordinary, not merely a product of luck.
Moreover, he knew that Arthur was not only the champion of the Starfall tourney but had also defeated the Red Viper twice when he was just starting out. He couldn't let Garth take such a risk.
However, in front of everyone, he had to save Garth some face.
Hearing that Ser Moryn wasn't questioning his martial prowess, Garth's anger subsided slightly. He waved his hand dismissively.
"Fine. Once the main army besieges Ring and we capture Snow, there will be plenty of chances to settle the score."
Seeing Garth calm down, Moryn nodded slightly, relieved.
He turned to the other knights and bannermen in the tent, who had been holding their breath, afraid of getting caught in the argument.
"Alright, sirs." His voice regained the authority of a commander.
"We have just arrived. We need to hasten the construction of our camp and siege engines to prepare for the assault.
"Everyone, return to your duties as assigned."
The knights bowed and withdrew, their armor and boots thudding dully on the carpet.
Soon, only Moryn and Garth remained in the large tent.
"Garth." Moryn's tone softened. "If you wish, take your cavalry and strengthen the patrols. Clear out those wildling riders and scouts."
"Understood," Garth agreed verbally, though he was dismissive in his heart.
Strengthen patrols? Snow just said he has enough food for a year and plans to turtle up in Ring. Does he have the guts to come out?
As for those wildling riders and scouts, they're just light cavalry without armor. They come and go like the wind, annoying as flies. I suppose I should deal with them.
Leaving the command tent, Garth strode through the camp, illuminated by torches.
He saw a group of cavalrymen and squires gathered around Ser Mark Mullendore and his monkey, laughing continuously.
The monkey, wearing its tiny chainmail, was doing a handstand, drawing cheers from the crowd.
"Ser Mark!" Garth barked sharply. "This is a military camp, not a circus! Take the men around you and go hunt down those wildling riders!"
A young squire looked troubled. "My Lord, I still have to attend to my knight..."
Garth sneered, his armor glinting coldly in the firelight. "Then call your master to go with you!"
He waved a large hand toward the dark plains. "I'll pay a bounty for every wildling head.
"Perhaps Ser Mark's monkey show will attract the wildling cavalry. While they're distracted watching the monkey, you just need to swing your swords once to claim the reward."
The men looked at each other. Mark rubbed the monkey's head helplessly, and the little creature squeaked in dissatisfaction.
"As you command, My Lord."
He gave an exaggerated bow, and the monkey mimicked him with a comical gesture, but no one dared to laugh.
"Go on then. Tell any cavalrymen who want the bounty they can join you."
Watching the group dawdle as they prepared to leave, Garth turned and left impatiently.
The noise of the camp faded behind him. His personal tent, bearing the Hightower sigil—a white stone tower crowned with flames on a smoke-grey field—was just ahead. The guards at the entrance straightened their backs immediately.
Inside, his squires had already laid out a feather mattress and lit incense to drive away mosquitoes.
Fresh bread, cheese, and cured meat were arranged on a small table.
"My Lord, shall we help you remove your armor?" a young squire asked respectfully, holding a linen cloth and oil.
Garth intended to refuse—a commander on the battlefield could be attacked at any moment; staying armed was common sense. But then he thought, Snow is committed to being a turtle in his shell. What is there to worry about?
He opened his arms. "Take it off! And bring me some Arbor gold."
The two squires exchanged a surprised look. One asked cautiously, "My Lord, didn't you say before we left that you wouldn't drink during the war?"
"Hmph!" Garth chuckled, letting the squires unbuckle his breastplate.
"Your esteemed 'Sword of the Morning' has decided to hide in his shell. He plans to hole up in Ring with his Dornishmen and wildlings. This siege is going to last a long time."
The squires realized what was happening. So that's why Lord Garth is acting out of character, removing his armor and asking for wine.
Piece by piece, the armor came off. First the steel plate, then the chainmail, and finally the sweat-soaked leather padding.
With each layer removed, Garth felt a bit lighter.
"My Lord, do you require a camp follower?" the squire asked before leaving to fetch the wine.
Garth sat at the table and rinsed his mouth with water from a pitcher. Thinking of the frustration Moryn had caused him, he nodded.
"Find me one. You know what I like."
The squires gave knowing smiles and split up to fetch the wine and the woman.
Wearing only a linen tunic, Garth ate some crusty bread with butter.
About a quarter of an hour later, the squire returned with the wine.
"What took you so long?" Garth asked.
"My Lord," the squire reported as he filled Garth's goblet, "after hearing that Ser Arthur plans to defend Ring to the death, knights everywhere in the camp are calling for wine. I had to use your name to get priority from the quartermaster."
Garth frowned instinctively. He felt something was wrong, but couldn't quite put his finger on it.
Just then, the other squire led in a voluptuous camp follower.
The woman wore a seductive smile. "My Lord, your squire says serving you pays well."
Garth downed the wine in one gulp. "I usually pay in gold dragons, if your service satisfies me."
After eating and drinking his fill, the squires tactfully withdrew.
Darkness gradually enveloped the Hightower camp. Campfires lit up one by one. Aside from the mournful song of a nightingale, the camp slowly fell silent.