The crowds roared with approval as the vicious Ser Gregor Clegane was at last unhorsed – and by the Knight of Flowers of all tourney jousters. Ser Loras smiled as he rode around the tourney field atop his white mare in armour wrought with jewelled flowers and his cape of woven roses billowed around him. Orys's bright blue eyes followed him, wishing Ser Loras would quickly hand the red rose in his hand to the simpering maiden who had caught his fancy. Orys Baratheon couldn't wait until the tourney was over.
Orys glanced to his left. His younger brother Ormund was occupied, chattering busily to Bran Stark, no doubt about the Knight of Flowers's tourney skills. Both of them had enjoyed the Highgarden tourney immensely; Orys not so much. All of this…just for Uncle Renly's wedding! Orys inwardly sighed. His royal father often said that he was too solemn like Uncle Stannis.
"Ser Loras gives flowers every time he unhorses an opponent," Orys heard his sister Lyanna remark to Bran's sister Lady Lyarra. Both the girls were staunchly supporting their respective betrotheds: Robb Stark and Domeric Bolton, both of whom Orys noticed were fair jousters. Their techniques were not as refined and elegant as say Ser Loras's or Ser Jaime Lannister's, but they were quite good for a pair of Northerners.
The Knight of Flowers slowed in front of the royal stand and after nodding to Orys's parents, he handed the red rose to his beaming sister Lady Margaery, now Lady Baratheon. Orys spotted his new aunt Margaery's favour – a green strip of linen decorated with something golden and black – tied to the tip of her brother's lance. It seemed she'd given her favour to both Uncle Renly and Ser Loras.
"Who do you think will win the tourney?"
Orys blinked. Ormund and Bran looked at him expectedly. "There are a good number of excellent jousters," Orys said cautiously, "Ser Barristan the Bold, Robb Stark, Domeric Bolton, Ser Jaime Lannister, Great-Uncle Brynden…" If he had not mentioned the two Northerners, both his sister and future good-sister would be quite displeased and Lord and Lady Stark who sat close to his father and mother would be offended. As anticipated, all the women in the royal stand – his mother, two sisters, Lady Stark, Lady Lyarra and Lady Margaery – nodded agreeably. His father grunted too. "And Ser Loras," Lady Margaery added. "My brother is a great jouster do you not agree my prince?" She laughed a little. "It is odd is it not?" she said, still smiling. "My lady grandmother had once hoped when I was a little girl that I would be your wife – now I am your aunt. Is that not amusing?"
Orys cracked a smile as Ormund snickered. He did not find it humorous. "Your father made the proper choice," Uncle Stannis had once said to him. "When your father won the Iron Throne by conquest, the Tyrells were traitors. If they had not controlled one of the largest armies and fleets, they would have no doubt been all stripped of their titles and lands." He had darkened. "However your father was a merciful king and thought it best to bind the Tyrells to our House hence why you will have a Tyrell aunt soon." When Orys asked why the Lady Margaery wasn't to be his bride to unite Houses Baratheon and Tyrell, Uncle Stannis had grinded his teeth and muttered, "Only a fool rewards a traitor by wedding a traitor's child to his own royal heir."
The thought of marriage had crossed Orys's mind once in a while. One day he would be married to a highborn girl from one of Westeros's noble houses for the sake of a strong friendship between his House and her House. At first he thought he would receive a Stark bride due to his father's close friendship with Lord Ned Stark, but it seemed Father was more interested in having a Stark good-son than a Stark good-daughter. Will it be a Lannister? No. Aunt Cersei was a Lannister. A Greyjoy? The thought of it was horrifying. An Arryn? Possibly. A Martell? Another possibility perhaps…
Next to his mother, little Minisa yawned sleepily. " Mother," said Orys, seizing the opportunity at once. "Minisa is tired from all this excitement. I will escort her to her chamber so she can rest awhile before the celebratory feast." His mother smiled and nodded. She glanced at Ser Arys Oakheart. "Ser Arys?"
Orys took Minisa's hand and slowly walked away with the Reach knight of the Kingsguard trailing behind them. "Will Aunt Margaery come home with us?" little Minisa asked eagerly.
"Do you wish her to?" asked Orys.
Minisa nodded eagerly, a bright beam appearing on her heart-shaped face. "I like her," she declared. "She is kinder than Aunt Cersei."
"Sssh," Orys hushed her at once. "Do not say that Minisa. It is dangerous. Aunt Cersei will be very angry if she hears this." He too didn't like Uncle Stannis's wife much, but he never uttered a word of hatred against her. Not only was it unkind, but her father was the powerful Lord of Casterly Rock
Minisa blinked blankly. Orys sighed. She was still a child…a child of seven, but still a child. Gone were his days of childhood; he had lost them when he was sent from the royal nursery and into the household of his uncle Stannis. Orys was well aware of the arguments that erupted between his father and uncle – who would not? – and found himself secretly siding with Uncle Stannis the more he grew up and learnt more about the changing world.
"Aunt Margaery is so kind to me," Minisa had chattered on. "When we arrived at Highgarden, she arranged for me to have many playmates. They're all friendly Orys! We played many games together. Before Aunt Margaery's wedding, we had played come-into-my-castle, hide-the-treasure and rats-and-cats. I also wished to play monsters-and-maidens, but Lady Alerie was worried I would hurt myself in the game. Lady Alerie suggested that instead of playing monsters-and-maidens, it would be safer to go inside and play with dolls."
"Who did you play with?"
"Lady Leona and Lady Alysanne. They are so nice to me." No doubt one or the both of them were Tyrells. "Can they come with us and Aunt Margaery to King's Landing?" Minisa looked hopefully at Orys.
"You cannot trust Tyrells." Orys remembered Uncle Stannis telling him. "They grow…closer and closer to power." Perhaps it was because of Uncle Stannis's own hatred towards them that he was so suspicious and grim. Then again, Mother had often warned Orys not to favour nobles of one House too much. It was said that a royal favourite more often than not would end up being the most despised man – or woman – in all of Westeros.
"You have lovely friends in King's Landing," said Orys gently. "I hear Mother is arranging for a few noble girls around your age to join you now that Ormund and Lyanna have their own companions." It was true. Over the last few months, their mother had began making arrangements to foster young girls Minisa's age in her household. Minisa had always been shy; more friends her age would do her some good. Besides, she would need companions as Lyanna would be leaving them in a few months' time. We are not much like our father, Orys couldn't help think. Out of the four of them – him, Lyanna, Ormund and Minisa – only Ormund carried the air of open friendliness that was prominent amongst their good-humoured father and charismatic Uncle Renly. Orys himself found the overly jovial behaviour too uncomfortable to manage. As for the girls, they both seemed to be miniatures of their mother: polite, beautiful, well-mannered…
"When will you be married, Orys?"
Orys opened the door to his little sister's bedchamber. "When the time is ripe, little sister," he told her softly. "When the time is ripe. Now rest, Minisa. You will be expected at tonight's feast." Another feast. More dancing. More mingling. More diplomatic responses.
When will it all end?
The Seven seemed to have granted Orys's wish. That night, amongst the great blusters and mumbles of Lord Mace Tyrell, he managed to say that the wedding festivities were finally coming to an end. "Tonight we'll celebrate in honour of all the victors," Lord Tyrell declared, "and tomorrow festivities will officially end in the Reach way: a farewell feast."
Beside him, Ormund roared with approval. Their father chuckled. At least he is pleased one of his children is like him, Orys thought. As Lord Tyrell continued his long and tiresome speech, Orys's mind began to wonder. For a prince, he had not travelled in his father's domains much. He visited Winterfell once – no doubt it'll be twice when Lyanna marries Robb Stark – and Riverrun over a dozen times as he had been quite fond of his Tully grandfather and Mother liked taking him and Lyanna to visit him once a few months. He had even been a guest at Greenstone – the seat of his now deceased great grandfather Lord Estermont – and had played with his Baratheon cousins at Storm's End on more than one occasion. He could not help but wish they were here with him.
"…and House Tyrell is so very honoured to have the royal family here…" Lord Tyrell was saying. "We of House Tyrell will wish naught more…"
Orys glanced at his father. His smile was gone, replaced by a look of boredom and impatience. From his place on the dais, Orys scanned the sea of nobles. Many of them looked bored, some impassive. None of them seemed pleased to listen to Lord Tyrell's seemingly endless speech. Orys made a note that in the future if he was ever required to make a speech, he will keep it short and sweet. No one alive would want to hear the brags of a proud man. Orys almost laughed when he saw Minisa stare sleepily at the empty plate in front of her.
The heir to the Iron Throne snuck another glance at his father. Over the years, his stomach had grown larger and his temper shorter. Odd. Orys dug around his memory – had Father visited him in the nursery often? No. As far as Orys and his siblings were concerned, their father rarely visited them whether they were little babes in the nursery or growing children in the schoolroom. Father seems to be a good more at ease with strangers than his own family. Mayhap it was the Tully in him. Many children don't see their parents during their childhood, a voice said in Orys's head. It is only natural.
Would I have accepted Father's absences if Mother too rarely saw us? Though married to a Baratheon, Mother still held strong to the Tully words. Orys almost smiled as he remembered the hours he would spend on his mother's knee when he was a little boy – almost. There was no good in the nobles catching the tiniest of glimpses in his smiles.
Finally after what seemed like a few centuries, Lord Tyrell ceased talking and the penultimate feast finally started. Orys was not attached to fine food as strong as his father was, but when the Tyrell servants started placing platters and bowls of different types of Reach delicacies on the table in front of him, Orys's eyes had gleamed with hunger and his mouth watered.
"Let the feast begin!" said Lord Tyrell generously.
Nothing more needed to be said.
To his left, Father attacked the roasted boar with great relish; it perturbingly reminded Orys of Father's favourite war tale – slaying the dragon prince Rhaegar Targaryen in the Battle of the Trident. It is a roasted boar, Orys thought uneasily as he calmly cut himself a portion of roasted chicken, his dagger slicing bits of its gleaming golden skin with a satisfying crunch. It's a roasted boar, not Rhaegar. It is a roasted boar. Just a roasted boar.
On Orys's right, Ormund seemed torn between the roasted boar and finely cut slices of venison. "The boar or the venison?" Orys heard Ormund ask their uncle Renly who had changed his clothes for the third time that day. Right now he was garbed in bright green silk to Orys's discomfort. Uncle Renly was a Baratheon. He should wear the Baratheon colours with pride. Like the Lannisters, whispered the voice in Orys's head. On impulse, Orys glanced down at the Lannisters who didn't look the least bit happy being seated at the lower tables. Well, the unsmiling Lord Tywin Lannister and his heir Lord Tyrion were given places of honour at the high table like the lords and the heirs of the other Great Houses. It would have been a vast slight if Lord Tywin was not seated at the high table.
"Is something amiss my prince?" Lady Margaery looked at Orys intently. Orys shook his head. "I was lost in thought," he answered.
"Eat, my son," Father encouraged. He glanced at Orys critically. "You are much too thin," he declared. "Eat more, Orys! Eat more!" He snickered more to himself than to other listeners. Orys forced himself to smile and laugh as he watched his father help himself to more roasted boar.
"You are in fine shape Orys," Mother said kindly. "Try the rosehip soup. One of the Tyrell ladies told me it is quite refreshing." Tentatively, Orys tried the soup. It was rich dark orange-brown in colour and tasted sweet and and indeed, slightly refreshing. It was also less rich than the soups at King's Landing – excellent. Soup should not be as rich as the cakes and biscuits.
"Did you expect Prince Oberyn to win the joust?" Ormund asked Orys. "If we were permitted to wager with real coins, I would have lost hundreds. But I hadn't wagered," he added hastily as Mother began to frown at him.
Orys shook his head. "I did not think Prince Oberyn Martell had the patience in jousting. I thought he would win the melee."
"Indeed Brother! I did not expect a Northerner to win; and a woman too!" He lowered his voice. "Did you see Lord Tyrell's face?"
Orys could not help but chuckle. "I remember his mother Lady Olenna snap at him to shut his mouth before he swallows a fly. A remarkable woman, his mother. There are not many women like her."
"You fancy her eh?" Ormund grinned childishly. "Will you ask for her hand?"
Orys rolled his eyes. "Will you wed the melee victor?"
Ormund shuddered. "Uncle Renly is so fortunate," he whispered enviously. "I would love to marry a lady as pretty as Lady Margaery. She is just like a princess from the songs." Orys stared at him, astonished. Since when did Ormund read or listen to the songs ladies loved so much? Then again, even he must admit that his new good-aunt was exceptionally beautiful and charming and acted in a manner similar to a princess from the songs that Lyanna had described to him and their mother in avid detail when she was a child. "Uncle Renly didn't wed her because she is beautiful," Orys said finally. "He married her because of duty."
Ormund frowned. "Can a lord or prince not marry a lady because of love too? I thought Lord Stark married Lady Stark out of love – Bran told me that they never argued and always loved each other."
Orys glanced at Lord Stark and his wife. Both were immersed in a seemingly deep conversation. "They could be married for political reasons first," he pointed out flatly. The talk of marriage started to irk him. "Have you decided whether to sample the boar or the venison yet?"
"I've decided to taste both."
"Try the rosehip soup. Mother recommends it highly."
Ormund snorted. "Soup? Soup is for women and the weak!" Orys could feel his elder sister's sharp glare – she sat a few seats away from him. "You'd enjoyed the warm soup we had at Winterfell," Orys remarked. Ormund huffed and returned to chat with Uncle Renly. Orys himself took a bite of chicken and allowed his eyes to wander over to the Stark table. There sat Lyanna's future family; a couple with grim expressions like their Stark ancestors and the rest laughing, no doubt at a joke uttered by one of them or their friends.
Closest to the edge of the trestle table was the eldest of the three Stark sisters, the Lady Lyarra. From afar, she looked like a miniature version of her mother. It was her long dark hair, Orys decided. Next to her was the Lady Arya, who had for some reason loaded a pile of peas onto her spoon. Her smirk showed that she did not plan to eat those peas. Orys almost smiled. Opposite the two girls were their brothers Bran and the brooding Jon Snow and their future good-brother Domeric Bolton. Their marriage is set in stone, Orys thought as he watched the Bolton heir pour Lady Lyarra Arbor gold himself. They'll wed as Robb Stark and Lyanna will too. He looked at Robb who was seated beside Lyanna at the high table. He liked the Stark heir; he had an honest and kind look about him and was quite able with the jousting lance. Robb had did quite brilliantly actually, progressing well to the end, only to be unhorsed against Great Uncle Blackfish, who in turn lost against Domeric Bolton who was knocked from his horse when he jousted against Prince Oberyn. It was a shock; Lady Lyarra had claimed her betrothed was an excellent rider and was almost part-horse himself. Then again, even horses are spooked by snakes and what more sly serpent was there other than the Red Viper himself?
"My father was quite horrified when Prince Oberyn crowned his paramour his Queen of Love and Beauty," Aunt Margaery was chattering away to Uncle Renly who nodded politely. "I too found it scandalising yet expected it. Why else would Prince Oberyn bring his paramour to Highgarden?" Orys said nothing. As he went on eating his meal, he caught sight of Mother whispering in Lyanna's ear. Lyanna then turned to Robb. "My lord," Orys heard her say sweetly. "I am afraid I am ah, quite full. Shall we dance for awhile?" Would Robb Stark be bold enough to reject it…with both his parents and Lyanna's watching like hawks?
It was not long before Mother caught Orys watching. "Go and dance too," she mouthed. "Begin with your new good-aunt." Orys bit back a sigh. Shouldn't Uncle Renly dance with his wife first? In no mood to argue, Orys turned to his lady aunt by marriage. "Lady Baratheon," he said respectfully, standing up. "I will be quite honoured if you dance with me."
Lady Margaery smiled and took his hand. "I'll be honoured to dance with you my prince," she responded. The musicians spotted them approach the vast dance floor and immediately struck a new, more jovial tune. Lyanna and Robb followed them as did a couple of other nobles. After the first four bars of music, the dance floor was quite crowded. Northerners danced with southroners; Valemen with a number of Reach ladies; old grudges were laid aside and Brackens stiffly danced with Blackwoods and Prince Oberyn favoured a number of dances with a couple of Margaery's Tyrell cousins. His Queen of Love and Beauty remained seated and watched her lover dance.
After Orys danced with Margaery, he felt obliged to dance with other ladies. It would do him no favours if he slinked back to his chair like a sulky child. Over the next few hours, Orys danced with so many highborn maidens: Lyanna and Lyarra and even Arya Stark; he also asked Lord Stark's bastard niece to dance. Frey girls and Lannisters clamoured to him and he courteously danced with all – or almost all – of them. When he finally danced with the majority of all the women present (except Lady Olenna who proclaimed her sore feet quite loudly), he scrambled to the nearest chair and sighed softly, relieved that he was at last released from his dancing duties. He glanced around and was startled to see Prince Oberyn on the seat beside him, looking lazily at him.
"My prince," the Red Viper acknowledged languidly. "I see you were occupied all night on…social business."
"Prince Oberyn," Orys greeted. "Congratulations on your victory." His victory was astounding…and unexpected. The way he treated the joust as if it was just a silly game, with his broad smiles and light armour…he laughed with the squires and enchanted the ladies. It was only when he defeated Ser Jaime Lannister when he struck, posed for victory like a viper about to kill.
"My victory…" Prince Oberyn smirked. "Some say victory tastes sweet. Did you see our gracious host's face when I defeated his son?"
"An impressive victory."
Oberyn shrugged. "What is jousting when it comes to war? Ask Ser Brynden or Ser Barristan or even your royal father." He suddenly winked. "When it comes to a spear…or a lance and a swift steed, some say the Dornish have the upper hand." He paused for a moment. "Do you know a dish best served cold?"
A dish best served cold? Orys stared at the Dornish prince, puzzled. If Oberyn Martell was eager to discuss cold cuisine, perhaps he should consult the cooks or the Reachmen even?
"The colder the dish," Prince Oberyn continued, "the sweeter the victory…" He stood up and dipped his head. "My dear Queen of Love and Beauty seems to be in the pits of boredom," he commented. "I must remedy it with a dance. Until we ah speak again, eh?" He winked again and sauntered away, leaving Orys alone in his bewildered thoughts.
I'm sorry for the late update. This is what happened: I decided to take a short break (by short break, I mean finishing a load of uni work -_-), then I caught the flu which lasted a week and then I had a new batch of uni work to finish. Anyway, thank you so much pawelp for helping me climb out of the massive hole I created with the plot :) The plot problems are now solved (hopefully) so I will try and write more once this week is over :)
