Chapter 22
A Knight, Ser: Uplands
Oldtown smelled of flowers and salt. Percy rode in the lead with Drey and Myles either side, both of whom were familiar with the city in passing. Everywhere Percy looked, there were people.
It was the first time he'd stepped foot in a Westerosi city. Oldtown dwarfed Sunspear, as it did to most settlements. The most populous city in Westeros was only challenged by King's Landing, the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, with Lannisport in the Westerlands trailing them both. Percy learned all of this in Dyanna's lessons. Still, seeing it felt different.
They followed a street that ran along the harbor after leaving the ship. Its cobblestone surface was better engineered and maintained than any road Percy had seen in this world. On either side, foot traffic hemmed in the passage of horses and carts. To their left wooden docks jutted into the Whispering Sound— the huge bay at the mouth of the Honeywine which Oldtown took its shape around. It was dotted with more than fifty islands of different sizes, most with some form of buildings atop them.
Ships ranging from looming trading vessels to small fishing skiffs sat moored at the docks, their captains and sailors busy with all manner of work. When the wind shifted, Percy caught a stronger whiff of fish. Then, the breeze blew the other direction, and he smelled flowers and spices. With docks on the left, various markets separated by rows of inns and homes passed to their right. It was loud here. Children tasked with attracting customers screamed the virtue of their inn, or the quality of this store's goods, or claimed that the shoddily-signed forge they were out front of boasted the best blacksmith "This side of Tyrosh!"
"How does city life treat you, Ser Perseus?" Drey asked. "Many find it to be too much, and I count myself among them. Though, there are benefits. The brothels are incomparable to any countryside house of whores."
"Plenty of people," Ser Myles said. "More to choose from. More customers to pay. More diseases to go 'round."
"Did you have to add the last? I was actually hoping to pay a visit before this trip was done," Drey said. "There's a wonderful little building right on the water, with even more wonderful women."
"Then visit." Myles shrugged. "No business of mine."
"We're not staying in the city," Percy said. "By the time the sun sets, we'll be halfway to Uplands. They'll have inns along the way."
"Perhaps on the way back…" Drey sighed.
The number of people didn't die down the further they went. Oldtown's heart was the water, with its shape bending to hug both shores of the sound. By following this road, the group wound toward the narrow end of the bay. Eventually, they reached the place where the Whispering Sound became the Honeywine River. An immense stone bridge arced up and down high enough to permit ships underneath, sitting wide enough to have supported a four-lane freeway. It was as tightly packed as the fish barrels they'd seen carried off the docks. At the peak of the arch, Percy tugged on the reins, pausing a second to stare at the view.
It was midday, the sun perched in a cloudless expanse. The water caught its beams, as did the metal rigging on passing boats. The wind was at Percy's back, blowing out to sea while making his hair sway. He squinted, taking in Oldtown's chief landmark.
The High Tower was visible from everywhere. Not just a beacon to those coming by sea, it stood so utterly tall on its isolated island that it could be seen from the entire city and beyond. It wasn't much shorter than the Empire State Building. Discounting Olympus, of course.
The city's lighthouse, the High Tower was also much more. It was the ruling family's seat of power. Counted amongst the wonders of the world, it stood taller than the Wall in the north. The base was a fortress of fused black stone that had no grooves, no divots, and no chinks, even though it was older than he settlement itself.
Above that, the tower walls were stark white, like the skin of a corpse left without sun. At the very top, a cage of fire smouldered endlessly, an artificial sun jammed into the sky by men and, if you believed rumors, magic.
Commotion behind them reminded Percy that they were in the middle of a bridge, blocking the way. He spurred his horse forward and the group began moving again.
"It's quite a sight," Drey said. "By all means, take your time to enjoy it. I'd recommend an hour, at least, to absorb it properly."
"While you go and visit one of those establishments you've been dreaming of?"
"Why not? We'd both be taking in the local beauty."
"Keep riding."
"Pity," Drey said.
At the Eastern Gate, nicknamed the Oaken Gate for the forests its road led toward, the group stopped in order to say a planned goodbye.
Lord Dayne and his son Edric rode up to Percy in the shadow of Oldtown's walls.
"We'll part here," Lord Dayne said. "There's no point in our leaving the city. The best inns lay inside, and I see no reason to waste time reentering."
Percy nodded. "You're staying for two nights?"
"With luck," Lord Dayne said. "Until my wife and sister arrive, this is where we'll be. If their trip has been delayed, we'll have no choice but to wait."
Their seat, Starfall, was one of the closest keeps to Uplands. It was only slightly further across land than the journey from Oldtown. Except, instead of well-traveled roads through fertile farmland, the landscape between Starfall and Uplands consisted of merciless mountains and no easy passes. The simplest trip was to sail to Old Town, then ride in from the opposite side. That was what the rest of their family would be doing, while Lord Dayne and Ned waited for them to catch up.
"You have to win," Ned said. "You must, Percy. You absolutely must."
It honestly seemed like the kid cared more about this than Percy himself. Lord Dayne shook his head.
"Say goodbye properly, Ned. You've plenty to be thankful to him for."
"Thank you for teaching me." Ned lowered his head, holding a hand to his chest. It looked slightly funny, thanks to his age, no matter how many times he insisted he was old enough to be a squire. "I won't forget your lessons. Not a single word of them."
Edric lifted his head, his eyes catching Percy's. For a moment, Percy thought he was going to say something else. He didn't.
"We'll see each other soon," Percy said. "I hope your family gets here on time."
"As do I," Lord Dayne said. "I have a feeling this Tourney will be worth seeing."
Strangely, the Daynes weren't planning to compete. So far as Percy could tell, they were only going to watch. Slightly strange, but it wasn't his place to judge.
"Until next time."
O-O-O
The Reach was a breath of fresh air compared to Dorne, by which Percy meant you could actually take a deep breath in the middle of the afternoon and it wouldn't scrape your throat with grit and dry heat.
It was warm, yet temperate. The forests provided shade without being too dense to navigate. They spent a night at an inn located within a copse of oak and yew trees, beside a burbling creek. That night they ate pork and chicken dressed with artichoke and carrots, and though some of the Dornish delegation grumbled, Percy wasn't sad to eat a meal that didn't burn on the way down. The fruity sauce the pork had been dressed in was outright sweet, made with plums as a prime ingredient.
Three hours into the second day, they came upon the tourney grounds.
An hour earlier they'd begun to see hedge knights going the same direction and smallfolk who sang songs and joked as they traveled. Now, the destination came into view.
Percy was mildly impressed.
The land was less flat than most of the Reach, situated in the foothills of the Red Mountains. A long and relatively narrow valley formed the flattest land, following the path of a large creek just shy of a river. From the road, you could look left and see a village, look right to see another village, or look straight and gaze at the keep.
Uplands had dull gray walls and eight towers, one at every corner as well as in the center of each wall. The gates sat open with the dark shapes of servants scurrying in and out. Between the two villages, the open land was completely filled with tents in every color of the rainbow, leaving only one bit of open space enclosed within a freshly-erected wooden fence. It was an active construction zone, with large bleachers three-quarters finished, and narrow lanes being partitioned in parallel rows. That would be the site of the jousts.
Drey inhaled. "I can smell the merriment from here."
"You mean you can smell wine," Tomar said.
"What kind of man do you take me for?" Drey asked. "I'm here to do more than drink."
Shamelessly, Drey tracked two giggling young women with his eyes as they went past. Both were pretty, dressed nicely for smallfolk, because their appearances were an investment.
"Camp followers," Drey said. "I could introduce you to some if you'd like, Tomar. It could help you relax—"
"You'll do nothing of the sort!" Valena said.
"Let's go," Myles grunted. "Get our tents up before lunch."
They rode down and into the chaos. Other than their pace slowing to a crawl their path wasn't impeded, eventually finding an open stretch of grass wide enough to accommodate seven tents, the amount that they had brought. These tents weren't the kind used for camping on earth. Two were for the servants to sleep inside of, one was for Drey, another for the Toland siblings, and a third was for Myles Manwoody. Finally, there was a tent for Percy himself, and another one that was the size of all the other tents pooled together. When it was up, they filled this tent with seats and tables, the heaviest portion of the luggage.
The only thing left then were the flags, which went up in a matter of minutes.
Every house in attendance bore their own coat of arms. Myles' tent sat beneath a black flag, a crown-bearing cracked skull gazing on all who came close. Andrey Dalt had a purple flag with rows of lemons. The Toland flag was yellow, with a green dragon biting into its own tail.
As for Percy's…
"It came out well, I think," Tyene judged.
She and Percy stood together, watching his flag flutter in the wind.
"I like it too," Percy said.
He was in an unusual position. Sworn to Arianne, trained by Oberyn, he was nonetheless not a member of House Martell, making it a mistake to use their crest as his own. He couldn't use something completely different either, because that too would be a misstep. The common practice was to alter the crest of the house you were sworn to, showing your allegiance without claiming to be one of them.
That was what Percy had done. Arianne, Teora, and Valena sewed it themselves. The orange background of the Martell crest had been replaced by sea green, like Percy's eyes. The red sun remained. Only, instead of a golden spear piercing it, Percy's heraldry had a three-pronged trident.
"A peculiar weapon," Tyene remarked. "Was there a reason you chose it?"
"It's what my father used," Percy said.
He watched his flag flap and ripple, thoughts drifting to another life, in another world.
"What's this heavy face?" Drey, with his things in order, strolled over. "Chin up, Ser Perseus. There's fun to be had!"
"Did I look sad?" Percy asked.
"You didn't look merry, that's all I know," Drey said. "And we can't have that. This is the best part of the tourney."
"Before it's started?"
"Exactly!" Drey said. "We can eat, drink, party, and sleep as little as we want, without worrying about a lance to the gut in the morning! When you're jousting, you have to worry about torrid things like moderation."
Tyene touched Percy's arm.
"We'll be drinking, certainly," she said. "I brought my own brews. The kind that you like…"
Percy's constitution extended to things like drinking tolerance. It wasn't that he couldn't get drunk. He just had to drink harder and faster in order to get the same buzz. When he mentioned as much around Tyene, she'd taken to making her own.
It was still a poison, in her words, and she knew those best of all. When her father tried one of her creations for the first time, Oberyn had set it down immediately.
"It will make me drunk in an instant," he'd said, "and that is the worst way to get there."
Percy, on the other hand, loved it.
"Tyene Sand's own personal brew? I'll pass on that," Drey said. "I like myself alive."
"I don't kill those I don't mean to," Tyene said, batting her eyes.
"And I have no trust that you won't mean to when it comes to me," Drey said. "You've had it out for me ever since I crushed your prized scorpion. I can only say, again, how was I supposed to know it was yours? If it's on the loose, running about the floor…"
"The floor of my own room," Tyene said sweetly. "The one you entered without permission."
"I apologized!"
"And my scorpion did not accept it," Tyene said. "I loved him dearly. He had the prettiest venom."
Seeing his odds of getting through to her dwindle, Drey turned away from Tyene.
"Tonight, I hope you won't be drinking in your own tent," he said.
"Why?" Percy asked.
"Because!" Drey said. "Tonight is the first banquet."
O-O-O
Percy and Tyene took a walk around the valley that afternoon. They ranged from the northern village they'd seen, which was called Upper Spylcreek, and the southern village, which was Lower Spylcreek. Spirits generally seemed high amongst the crowd, except for the servants feverishly seeing to task after task. Tyene acted as Percy's guide, displaying a deep knowledge about the local flora, albeit with a clear disdain for how many of the plants were edible, and how few were toxic.
Soon enough, late afternoon arrived, and they met again with the rest of their group. The only absentee was Myles, who preferred to stay in his tent.
The banquet was being held at long outdoor tables soon to be beneath the stars. They were in rows, with one table that was clearly for the hosts. With each row you moved back from that, the lower the birth of those seated there became. It wasn't being policed too heavily, so some mixing was inevitable, but the system remained clear.
Their group sat three tables back. They could have moved up one, if they wanted. Percy just didn't feel like pushing it. Tyene was a bastard, even though she was born to a prince, not to mention the prince she was born to was far from popular in these parts. It was simpler to slink back amongst the lesser houses. None of them wanted to find a fight on their first day.
When they were seated, Drey leaned close to Percy, lifting an arm to point at the tables more important than theirs. Both the host's table and the two between it and them.
"We've a true muster tonight," Drey said. "Why, just there, we have the Reach's finest."
He was pointing at the table closest to the main one. Drey's finger started drifting along it.
"Redwyne, Florent, Fossoway, Caswell, and unless my eyes deceive me, those are the Peakes there at the end. And we've more than Reach-blood. Crakehalls, Mallisters, and Dondarrions. More than half the kingdoms are represented, with others still to come."
The seating wasn't full. There were still two nights before the tournament began. Like the Daynes, plenty of houses had yet to arrive.
Drey went on naming names. Percy was surprised. He was almost as knowledgeable about people as Nymeria.
"What can I say?" Drey said, when he noticed Percy looking impressed. "I'm good with faces. I prefer women's, but I can remember a man if I have to."
The table they'd picked had a mix of landed knights, a smattering of bastards, and a few of the families who didn't have enough pull to sit at the next table. Or had decided it wasn't worth it, as Percy's group had.
Behind them, it was all smallfolk. Ahead of them, the next table seated lesser vassal houses from the various regions. House Orem and House and House Norridge, as examples from amongst them. These, not even Drey could name all of.
The next table was the one they looked at first. These were the more powerful Reach houses, plus prominent guests hailing from the Riverlands, Stormlands, and Westerlands. If Myles Manwoody had been attending alone, he could have mixed amongst them. That is, if his Dornish blood didn't chaff the locals.
Finally, there was the table for the hosts.
Martyn Mullendore was middle aged with wavy brown hair, sharp eyes, and puffy cheeks. He had a woman next to him, presumably his wife, who was handsome for her age and bedecked with a helping of jewelry, all done in gold with a glittering jewel on her broach. Their son was next to them, with long black hair and—
"Is that a fucking monkey?"
A landed knight sitting nearby burst into laughter.
"Not seen Mark Mullendore before?" he asked. "The little beast goes everywhere with him. He shows it off the way you'd show a comely wife."
"Where'd he get it?" Percy asked.
"Summer Isles," the man said, shrugging beefy shoulders. "Where else? Gods know how he came into it in the first place."
He turned away while Percy watched Mark Mullendore, heir of Uplands, pull leaves of lettuce out of his dinner and hand them to his pet monkey, which perched on his shoulder eating all it was given. Even from this far away, Percy could see him grinning.
Finally, there was the one running the event. Sitting in the middle of the table, an honor higher than had been afforded to Lord Martyn Mullendore himself, marked this man as a Tyrell. After everything Percy heard, he'd expected it to be Mace Tyrell himself.
Now, he'd never seen the Lord of Highgarden, but he could tell this wasn't him.
For one thing, he never heard anything about Mace Tyrell having a bad leg. He also wouldn't be in his mid-twenties, the way this man was. He wore all green, embroidered with a pattern of golden roses. His black hair was cut close to his head, every edge sharp and precise, which could be said about his goatee too. His face was narrow and his chin was sharp. Despite being in the position of honor, he was doing as much work as any servant. Beside his plate was a pile of parchments, which he was reading through one at a time, handing each off when he finished with it to a waiting servant, who would dash off into the night. Sometimes, he stamped a document before giving it away. The entire time, while working with his right hand, he ate with his left.
"Willas Tyrell?" Percy guessed.
It was either him or Garlan, the Tyrells' second son, but the leg was a giveaway.
"He ran the last Harvest Tourney as well. That one was at Horn Hill," Drey said. It was one of the two tournaments he'd previously attended. "From what I saw, the Heir of Roses is the force behind this event's growth. It certainly didn't used to pull such crowds. Ah… the increased rewards didn't hurt either. A thousand gold dragons to the one who wins, half that to one who loses to them."
"I heard that King's Landing offers ten times that," Tomar said. "And they have more events. Archery and a melee, not just jousts."
Even to Percy's fairly limited grasp of Westerosi economics, that seemed exorbitantly high.
"What can I say?" Drey said. "The king likes tourneys. The Tyrells like to show that they're capable of hosting tourneys. They want to get more out than they put in."
"They won't make back that many dragons," Valena said, frowning.
"They're not being paid in gold," Drey said. "It projects strength. It increases unity." He waved vaguely to many of the most powerful houses in the Reach, laughing and drinking together, some of them talking animatedly with their counterparts from neighboring kingdoms. "When you make friends, and you help your friends make friends, you never know what those investments might pay."
A trumpet blast made even the tipsiest voices shut up. The one who'd blown was a servant in Tyrell clothing, standing beside the host table, stepped back next to a handful of empty seats.
Willas Tyrell was on his feet.
Having found a stopping point in his work, he used the table in place of his crutch, nestling his palms between his plate and the leftover pages of parchment. He was smiling.
"Eating well?" Willas asked.
This was met with a roar, especially from the tables at the back. Percy had noticed when they came in. Other than the host table, which was a cut above, everyone had been served the same kind of food. For the most powerful nobles at the first table, that made it a fairly ordinary meal. But for the smallfolk and traveling knights who'd assembled, it might well have been the best meal of their lives.
Willas waited for the roar to quiet. He'd been aiming for it— of course he would let it run its course.
"You'll be glad to hear, I wager, that this is far from the last such meal! We are in the Reach, Sers and ladies, heirs and heiresses. If we cannot fill tables with fine food, who could? You are our guests, to be fed tomorrow night as you were tonight, and the day after as well. On full stomachs and full hearts, we will welcome the joust, and when it concludes, I will welcome you here one more time… With even more splendor than you've seen tonight."
Willas never raised his voice, Percy noticed. He left the crowd to do that for him. Willas delivered his words carefully, knowing the whole time what reaction he'd get. In addition to cheering, men were stomping and drumming the tables. The landed knight who told Percy about Mark Mullendore's monkey was amongst them. With a smirk, Drey took a swig of wine and joined in.
This time, Willas had to raise a hand to get quiet back.
"Feast with my blessings," he said. "And when you're done, drink. Dance. Make merry. All I ask is when you raise your first drink, offer one measly toast."
Willas looked sideways, calling Mark Mullendore to his feet. They were close in age, relatively, although Mark was clearly younger.
The heir of Uplands shot up, his monkey clinging to the back of his neck, and shouted in Willas' place, thrusting his glass toward the heavens.
"To House Mullendore, and to House Tyrell, Lords Paramount of the Reach and Mander!"
"Hurrah!" came the combined response, with even some of the foreign nobles adding their voices, particularly the young ones.
Willas waited, watching, as the feast turned into a party outright. Finally, still smiling, he turned his back and took his cane, hobbling away from the table with his food half-eaten. Servants scooped up the papers he left behind, following him on the path toward the keep.
As Willas limped away, Tyene leaned close to Percy's face, whispering near to him.
"Do you know?" she asked.
"Know what?" Percy said.
"Where the heir of Highgarden earned his limp. It was on a tourney field such as here, when his horse fell atop him and crushed his leg."
This story was starting to sound familiar. He'd heard something similar before, only without the names.
"And who else might he have been riding against, but—"
"Prince Oberyn," Percy said.
Tyene giggled. Not appropriate to the topic, maybe, but he knew she had a morbid sense of humor.
"That's right, it was Father," she said. "Let's hope they don't hold a grudge, hm?"
Percy picked out Willas Tyrell's back. It was still easy to see him. He hadn't gone far. Willas moved his cane before his body, practicedly hobbling in front of tailing attendants held back to his pace.
The figure kept going, climbing slowly and steadfastly toward the keep beyond, while in his wake wine spilled from dozens of cups, all hoisted with a great cheer offered indirectly in his name. One he hadn't waited to see.