SANSA
The Hand's Tourney had arrived, and the splendour of the event excited Sansa like nothing in her life had before; the knights in their armour, the shouts and screams from the crowd, and the banners whipping about. Before her rode heroes and legends, spoken of in song and story. She had seen the knights of the kingsguard, the Kingslayer and his golden armour, the Mountain That Rides and his brother, the Hound, the king's brother Lord Renly Baratheon, and oddities like the warrior priest Thoros of Myr, and the exiled Summer Islander Jalabhar Xho.
Some people she knew well, with Jory, Alyn, and Harwin riding for Winterfell and the whole north. Jory Cassel rode well, unhorsing a Redwyne and a Frey, before he found his match in a freerider, Lothor Brune; King Robert gave the victory to Brune. His fellow northerners fared not as well, falling on their first tilts. There were others she recalled from visits to her home, like Yohn Royce, the Lord of Runestone. He wore his signature armour bronze, engraved with magic runes that supposedly kept him from harm. She had told Jeyne Poole, though the girl did not seem to believe her. She kept her eye on those she knew, and anticipation grew within her as she began to count the victors and losers.
There were countless knights and squires, most of whom she couldn't ever hope to remember the names of. Men and boys from houses whose sigils she had come to learn with each passing tilt; Swann, Caron, Royce, Redwyne, Mallister, Frey, and Dondarrion. Every time a man fell, Jeyne would cover her eyes; unlike her, Sansa was stern, keeping her eyes on the joust. Septa Mordane had taken notice of her hardy glare and unwavering interest, and nodded; she knew a great lady would need to behave herself at a tournament, and not find disgust and fear in what was expected to be seen at a tourney.
She could say that to herself all she liked, but she was both terrified and intrigued when she saw Ser Gregor fell impale a man through his throat; the knight from the Vale was struck through the gorget with such force that it killed him instantly. As he fell in front of them, she had seen the blood flow from his neck in pulses, the life fading from his eyes. His blue cloak, marked with the crescent moons that symbolised House Arryn, was stained by the blood, slowly turning the white moons red, foreboding as the very sight of his death itself. Jeyne had wept so hysterically that Septa Mordane had to take her from the stands to regain her composure. However, Sansa couldn't feel sadness for the man lying in the mud, only fascination with the sight of such brutality; it only came to sadden her as she realised she didn't remember the knight's name, and that no one else would.
As more knights came and went, she watched a few more tilts, the number of contenders slowly dropping. A more interesting joust came when the comely Lord Renly lost to the Hound, having been thrown right from his horse; a snap sounded out when he had struck the dirt, but it had just been the antlers of his helm, to the crowd's relief. He had given up gallantly, offering a broken golden tine from his antlered helm to his conqueror; Sandor Clegane had snorted and refused it, tossing it into the crowd, which brawled over the tiniest bit of gold. Lord Renly had to intercede and restore the peace, and by the time the smallfolk had calmed themselves, Septa Mordane returned, having gone to the castle with Jeyne, who had been sick. She had been so enthralled by the tilts that she had completely forgotten about her friend.
More tilts followed that notable one, between various riders, though she could only name a few notable ones such as Beric Dondarrion, Aron Santagar, Lothor Brune, Jason Mallister and Robar Royce, and Loras Tyrell, the dashing knight of flowers; he was everything she imagined a knight would be, as if he were plucked right out of a tale that Old Nan might have told her and her siblings as a child. The youngest knight there, yet he had unhorsed three knights of the Kingsguard.
The last tilt of the day came between Ser Robar Royce, wearing the same runes as his father, Bronze Yohn, and a Dornishman whose name she did not know; throughout the tilts he had worn a plain steel helm that covered his face, though she could see black locks spurting out by his neck. His allegiance was clear as he wore the colours of House Martell over plate and chain armour, which looked far more worn than most of the armour she'd seen on any of the highborn knights. He bore a shield that had a red snake eating its own tail upon an orange field, instead of the sunburst and spear she had expected.
The Dornishman had rode a few times before, though she hadn't paid as much attention to him, as he had been mostly tilting against a few hedge knights and lesser sons of nobles, whose sigils she could not even identify. When he charged against Ser Robar, she expected the rune-marked knight to come out victorious, but it seemed that their protections were overstated, as the Dornishman's lance just missed his shield on the first tilt, striking him in the side, and making him lurch and fall from his steed. Ser Robar groaned and moaned on the ground, and struggled to return to his feet, and had to be walked away by his elder brother Ser Andar.
The crowd cheered for the Dornishman, who pulled his helmet off his face to greet the commons. Upon seeing his face, he was not what she was expecting; from his well-worn armour and precise movements, she had imagined some older, grizzled knight, perhaps looking more like her father, or Lord Jason Mallister.
However, that couldn't be further from the truth: he could not have been past his twenty-fifth year, with a clear, clean shaven face, and had long, flowing black locks, curled at the ends, and a face so striking she thought that he could certainly square up to Ser Loras in that regard. He had bright, but pale blue eyes, looking like the colour of the sky above a sunset, and sun-tanned skin that made him seem strange and alluring; she couldn't deny that he was perhaps the prettiest man in the entire tourney. He turned to face the stands, and raised his lance towards them, perhaps wanting to be acknowledged by King Robert; his eyes momentarily locked with her own, but he continued riding his steed, heading back off to the camps. She couldn't help but turn to Septa Mordane, curious as to who they had just watched tilt.
"Who was that?" she asked the Septa, whose gaze had turned up above them; Sansa turned and say that a man was standing over them; short with a pointed beard, he had a silver streak through his hair, looking around as old her father.
"You must be one of her daughters." he addressed her with a smile, though his eyes remained stern, "You have the Tully look."
"I'm Sansa Stark." she introduced herself, noting the man's heavy cloak, which was fastened with a silver mockingbird for a brooch, "I have not had the honour, my lord." she admitted that she did not know him.
Septa Mordane intervened at once, trying to sound as sweet as she could, as if she were talking down to her, "Sweet child, this is Lord Petyr Baelish, of the king's small council."
"Your mother was my queen of beauty once." he quietly acknowledged, before reaching a hand through her auburn locks, "You have her hair."
"Lord Baelish." she addressed him, wondering if he knew, "Do you know who was riding in that last tilt? Not Ser Robar, the other knight."
"Only the bastard of Prince Oberyn Martell himself." he answered her question, "Marion Sand. He might be worth a bet." he gave his thoughts on the man, before striding away without another word.
"Oberyn Martell." she mumbled, "I feel like I have heard his name before." she admitted; she did not know much about Dorne, but she did know that they were ruled by House Martell, whose Prince was a man by the name of Doran- it was one of the things she had memorised when learning about all the great houses.
"He is better known as the Red Viper." Septa Mordane clarified, before she grimaced, "He is... infamous here in the south."
"For what?"
"Crippling the brother of Ser Loras, Willas Tyrell." she explained, and Sansa's eyes widened.
"And they might go to the tilt next?" she asked, Septa Mordane shrugging her shoulders with indifference.
"I would not know, but... it would be a sight to see."
EDDARD
Ned had seen tourneys before, and though he had no great desire for a tourney to be called in his name, he couldn't dare refuse Robert. The man got what he wanted, and that was drinking, revelry, and bloodshed; it didn't surprise him that he had told him about his desire to leave his crown behind and become a 'sellsword king'. However, that would never happen, especially with Cersei and the Lannisters ready to whisper into Prince Joffrey's ear; so, Robert would have to make do with a tourney, and make do he did.
After their hearty breakfast came the jousts, where his daughter awaited him; he had promised to watch the final tilts with Sansa, who had become so enamoured with the jousting knights. Robert sat down beside an empty seat, where the Queen would have been, while Ned sat himself beside his daughter; she was so engrossed that she barely seemed to notice him sitting down. The horns were blown and the riders came out.
First came out a rider he did not recognise immediately; a man wearing the colours of House Martell, in dull looking armour that was mostly chain, and at first he guessed he might have been some household knight that served in Sunspear. His horse had only a scanty covering of ringmail over its neck and sides, while the rest of its body was protected by some scraps of leather. He looked almost like a hedge knight, but the others in the stand were quick to correct him.
"Ah, out comes the Viper's bastard." Lord Renly commented on the knight, and it only took Ned a moment to realise who he was looking at; the bastard son of the Red Viper, Oberyn Martell, and from his understanding, the only son out of a set of ten bastards.
Ned would have expected the son of a Prince of Dorne to be afforded finer armour, but he imagined that the bastard must have bought the armour himself from whatever money he had scrounged up, presumably from other tourneys he would have partook in.
Littlefinger made an uproar as Jaime Lannister entered the lists, "Fifty gold dragons on the Kingslayer!"
The Kingslayer came in wearing golden ringmail, and wielded a golden lance fashioned out of wood from the Summer Isles. He rode upon a blood bay destrier, which itself was covered with ringmail painted gold.
"You know what, I'll take it." Lord Renly accepted Littlefinger's bet, "The bastard looks keen."
"And have you heard of this beggar knight before?" he asked the Lord of Storm's End in return.
The Viper's son eyed the stands momentarily, perhaps eyeing Littlefinger for his off-handed insult, before pulling his visor down, the metal ringing as it struck the chainmail that covered his neck. Ser Jaime was far more gusto, tossing a kiss to a woman in the commons before lowering his visor softly. The two then rode to their respective ends of the lists, and couched their lances.
Though he had not partaken in any bets, Ned Stark was hoping that the Kingslayer would fall from his horse, though that was out of no love for the bastard. Their horses broke into a gallop, leaning their lances forward; Ser Jaime tried to shift as they made contact, but instead found his shield hammered by the lance. He barely retained his seat, while the Viper's son rode on unscathed; he swore he could almost hear him laugh, though it was hard to hear as the commons cheered.
"Huh, I can almost feel your coin in my hand." Lord Renly joked, his words clearly marked for Littlefinger, who seemed more amused than annoyed that the Kingslayer had nearly been thrown from his horse.
The riders turned around, received their new lances; instead of trying to play coy, Jaime Lannister rode without relent, charging down the bastard. It seemed that his bravery outweighed his opponent's, as when the Viper's son readied his shield, his lance was off to the side, missing the Kingslayer; he was struck in the chest by the lance, which shattered on impact, and he was thrown from his saddle, landing on his back in the mud. He let out a groan, before pulling his helmet from his head, revealing that he was mostly unscathed.
"Ah, well, where are my dragons, Lord Renly?" Littlefinger called down to the disappointed young lord, who raised a small bag, the size of a fist up, before tossing it over to the Master of Coin.
He played with the little bag like he was fondling a woman's bosom, before the bag disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Down in the mud, the Dornishman dusted himself off and rose up; his gaze met the stands, his bright eyes not matching his lips. He put on a gracious smile, but his eyes pierced like daggers; he certainly must have had a rage to match the Red Viper's, if those eyes were any indication.
Sansa seemed a little disappointed looking at the results of the tilt, "I thought the bastard might want to tilt against Ser Loras." she acknowledged something that he himself hadn't thought of, "Father, did you know his father crippled Ser Loras' brother?"
"Yes, I do." he nodded, recalling the story about Willas Tyrell, which would give Ser Loras good reason to try and harm the Red Viper's blood, even if he had no part in the crippling, "But he had good reason to fall."
His daughter turned, intrigued by his comment, "Why?"
"The Mountain still stands to tilt... and there's already enough Martell blood on his hands." he admitted, not knowing whether he ought to believe the rumours about how he had dashed the head of Prince Aegon Targaryen against a wall, and raped his mother, Elia Martell, before killing her as well.
As he expected, Ser Gregor rode out to the head of the lists; he was a massive man, the largest he had ever seen. The Mountain That Rides, that was what men called him, and he could say the name was well given; his destrier, which was fully grown, seemed like a pony under his legs, while his lance looked as small as a broom. It was only when he saw a man beside him that he could truly grasp the size of the man. The Mountain was tilting against Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers. He was a slender man, wearing shimmering silver armour, with a cloak covered in flowers, while his steed was as slim as him, compared to the massive stallion that Gregor rode.
When his daughter made eyes upon him, she let out a whisper, "Oh, he's so beautiful."
Ned could not disagree, but beauty would not win him the tilt; her eyes were set upon the man, and she grasped at his arm, making a pleading face.
"Father, don't let Ser Gregor hurt him." she begged, and he realised that Sansa was wearing the flower that Ser Loras had given her the day prior, which Jory had told him about.
"These are tourney lances." he assured her, "They make them to splinter on impact, so no one is hurt."
However, Ned's words felt hollow, thinking back to the dead boy with his cloak of crescent moons. Ser Gregor was having issues controlling his horse, and in a bout of anger, he kicked at the stallion, trying to get it to stop; it reared, and nearly threw him from the saddle. Ser Loras paid no mind to this, and saluted King Robert, before he rode to the far end of the list.
He couched his lance, and Ser Gregor got his stallion to position, though it didn't seem any less disturbed; the stallion broke into a gallop, charging forward wildly, while the mare charged smoothly. Ser Gregor moved his shield into position, juggling it with his lance, as he struggled to keep his mount going in a straight line line. It was no use, as Ser Loras was suddenly upon him, the lance striking him in the chest, throwing him down; he was so huge that his horse came down with him.
The crowd came up, giving applause, cheers, whistles, shocked gasps, while the Mountain's younger brother bellowed a laugh nearby. The Knight of Flowers reined his horse, and his lance still was in one piece; the commons loved him, cheering wildly. The Mountain, however, was boiling with rage, rising to his feet and throwing off his massive helm, revealing his rage-filled eyes.
"My sword!" he shouted to his squire, and the boy ran it out to him; the stallion was back on its feet, though only for a moment.
That was because Gregor swung his sword down upon the horse's neck, killing it in a single blow; the cheers of the commons turned to shrieks, as the stallion fell to its knees. It screamed as it died, its neck half-severed; that did not sate Ser Gregor's rage, as he was already striding down the lists towards Ser Loras with his bloodied sword in hand.
"Stop him!" Ned shouted out, but his words fell deaf, the screams of the crowd drowning out his words.
Then, everything moved fast. Ser Loras shouted for his own sword from his squire, and Ser Gregor tried to knock the squire aside, only to be stopped by a sword; Ned had to lean over to see that the Viper's son was the one wielding the blade, which gleamed brightly in the sun. He had seen Ice enough times to recognise the colour and gleam- Valyrian steel. It was a bastard sword, big enough that it could hold off the Mountain's greatsword, which he was able to wield single-handedly due to his inhuman strength.
"Not today, Clegane." he warned the knight before parrying the greatsword away, granting his target some time to prepare for the inevitable fight.
By the time Ser Loras had his sword in hand, the two knights were clashing, the Dornishman barely holding off the blows of the massive knight. The Knight of Flowers intervened, and swung his sword at Ser Gregor's back, trying to get him to stop; he didn't seem fazed by it, and continued to swing at the agile Dornishman, who was able to slash the Mountain's leg.
He let out a roar, and swung his sword around, striking Ser Loras into the lists, which audibly cracked from the force of the impact; the Knight of Flowers slumped down to the ground, and though the Dornishman looked ready to attack, the Hound hand stepped out into the, with his own sword out. He stood between him and his brother, and reached out to stop him from doing anything worse.
"Leave him be!" Sandor Clegane demanded, having grasped his brother's arm before he could cleave Ser Loras in two.
Ser Loras was helped to his feet by the Viper's son, all while the two Cleganes began to swing their swords at each other, the Mountain striking his brother's helmet thrice, while the Hound didn't even lay a single cut upon his brother. The fight was fast, but it was only stopped by the king's booming voice.
"Stop this madness in the name of your king!" Robert shouted at the brothers; the Hound fell to a knee, while Ser Gregor swung his sword through the air one last time, coming to his senses and dropping the blade.
The Mountain glared down the king as he was surrounded by the Kingsguard and a dozen knights and guardsmen; without a word, he turned and strode off, shoving past Barristan Selmy.
"Let him go." Robert permitted, and with that, it was over.
Sansa turned to her father, clearly curious about what would follow, "Who jousts next?"
"The Hound and the Kingslayer." he observed, knowing that they remained to joust against each other, "And then, which of them that wins will ride against Ser Loras."
Loras Tyrell returned to the field not long after, wearing a linen doublet instead of his armour, and addressed the Hound, "I owe you my life. The victory ought to go to you, ser."
"I am no ser." he retorted, before eyeing the man beside him, the Viper's son, "What about him? He nearly lost his head for you."
"He has already lost his tilt, but you're right." he acknowledged, and bowed to him, "Thank you, Marion."
"It was my honour, Loras. My dear Myriah would not forgive me if I let her brother-in-law die in my presence." he acknowledged, glancing once more to the stands, presumably looking at the king, before he paced off, Ser Loras following after him.
"So, they're related by marriage." Sansa realised, "I thought the Tyrells hated the Red Viper."
"Things might not be what they seem." Ned conceded, unsure why one of Mace Tyrell's sons would marry a Martell, especially a bastard; the Myriah the young man spoke of could only be one of Prince Oberyn's bastard daughters, as he had no trueborn children, "Perhaps the girl was offered up to make peace between them." he mumbled, telling her his best guess.
Sansa seemed a little unnerved by that, "Father, why am I promised to Prince Joffrey?"
"Because Robert desired it... he was to marry your aunt. So, our houses will be bound in marriage." he explained, letting out a sigh; the thought of his dear sister did not bring any comfort to Eddard, who had spent years trying to forget her, only to have her face stare down his own in the form of his other daughter.
"You don't talk about Aunt Lyanna much, Father." she mumbled, before her eyes lit up, "Did she like tourneys too?"
He almost laughed, and nodded, recalling one of his last happy memories with all his siblings, when they were together at the Tourney of Harrenhal.
"Yes, yes she did."
THE SON OF THE VIPER
Marion knew that he had made the right choice, as the look on Garlan's face told him everything he needed to know. He had risked his neck for Loras, but it seemed that act of kindness might pay well for him. The three of them were seated in the Tyrell's tent, away from the lists, with a bottle of Dornish red shared between them; though he had acted graciously in front of the Hound and the others, he was clearly shaken by the events. Loras Tyrell was a well-spoken and charismatic young man, but he feared death as much as the next; Marion had smelled blood many a time, but he thought that afternoon he'd almost found out if the boy's piss smelled like flowers.
"My dear brother, I thought you would have known better than to face the Mountain of all men. I wouldn't dream of that fight, and I dream of many." Garlan warned his brother, who let out a huff, before swigging from the cup of wine he had clasped in his hands.
"I know, Garlan." he murmured, "Please don't tell Mother... or Grandmother."
"She'd strangle the dear life out of you if I told her." he suggested, though his face told Marion that it was a joke.
"I still have to joust again." Loras realised, raising a hand to his forehead, "May the warrior make me charge true." he wished to the Seven, before swigging down some more wine; Marion might have laughed, but he didn't- the Faith was not something to mock, especially with a Reachman.
The Knight of Flower's attention turned to him, perhaps noticing that he wasn't nearly as rattled by the Mountain as he had been, "Why are you so calm, Ser Marion?" he asked him, the formal address amusing, if only for its inaccuracy.
"I have ridden through the disputed lands with Father. I have fought sellswords, unsullied, broken men, and gone against the strongest steel the Free Cities have to offer." he admitted his own experience; he was told to be a braggart was unseemly and made his opponents cautious, but he had no fear that he'd ever cross swords with Ser Loras.
"What, Valyrian steel?" Loras asked, seemingly in jest.
"Well, yes. Some of the better armed sellswords have got themselves fine blades of Valyrian steel. They probably all stole them, from one or the other. I've heard that even the savage Dothraki khals have arakhs made of Valyrian steel, reforged from the finest blades of Old Valyria."
"And how did you get that sword?" he gestured over to his sword, which was leaning off by the armour stand.
"I earned it." he told him all he needed to know; the tale was long and mostly boring, and would involve him telling Loras far more than he needed to know about himself.
"I think Marion is just trying to make up for his father's mistake." Garlan spoke up, giving an out for his actions, which Marion greatly appreciated.
"Ah, Willas." the Knight of Flowers spoke his brother's name, sounding disappointed, "I wonder if he would have been a good knight. He's even more serious than you, Garlan."
"He will be a fine lord, that is what counts." he argued, before gesturing out of the tent, "Will you go to the lists, or will you let the Kingslayer win by default?"
"The Hound will snap Ser Jaime like a twig... if the Prince permits it." Loras suggested a possibility, though Marion couldn't foresee it being likely; the Hound was the sworn sword of Joffrey Baratheon, and he would presumably not want his uncle losing to his underling, let alone being made a cripple by the powerful knight.
He had never met the Prince, so he could not argue against Loras's point, "He might... but I don't think the Hound is a man to take the fall."
"He is a dog for the Lannisters. I don't imagine that gives him much of a choice." Garlan gave his own thoughts, sounding sympathetic to the Hound; Marion could only feel sorry that he had to have such a monster for a brother- his split face told the story easily enough.
"We will see... I mean, I will. You two are just going to spend the morning getting into a stupor." Ser Loras joked, before rising to his feet, "Squire!" he called on his squire, "I'm getting my armour back on. It's time that I get back to the lists."
"Are you sure that you should be heading out so soon after a drink?" Garlan asked his brother, "You can request that they delay the tilt." he offered a solution, though Loras clearly wasn't going to take a delay.
"I will ride, and I will win. My mare has proven itself useful enough in the prior tilts. Let us hope she gives me the victory we so desire."
"I didn't hear you were giving me your winnings, ser." Marion argued, knowing that he wouldn't likely see a single dragon from Ser Loras.
"No, no, but I promise I'll take you to the finest establishments in King's Landing. I swear! Lord Renly and I have been to quite a few."
"Well, I can't say no to that." Garlan agreed to the proposition, and Marion gave a nod, not wanting to seem eager for something that he wasn't.
Though he had no distaste for fine meals, bedding whores, and getting drunk out of his mind, he knew best to keep himself straight in King's Landing; it was not safe with the spies of the Spider about, and whoever else had their agents at work. Many people had a vested interest in the court of the Usurper, and he could not account for all of them.
The squire came around and got Loras into his plate, and hung the cloak of flowers over his back, before he followed him out the tent; only with both of them gone could he relax a little more, knowing that Garlan was able to speak freely.
"So, I must ask, how does my dear sister fare?"
"She is well. Highgarden suits her, and she gets on... well, very finely with Margaery. The two of them are together more than I am with either... not that I can complain. She ought to feel welcome in her new home."
"That is good." he smiled, pleased to hear favourable news; the lack of mention told him that she was not yet with child.
She was still quite young, and he doubted that Garlan had bedded her more than once, being as chivalrous and dignified as he was. He knew that she would have a child, in time, and with it, the alliance with House Tyrell would be all but secured.
"And the Water Gardens? Has Prince Doran given my suggestion any thought?"
"Lady Margaery is a comely, fine woman; any Lord would be blessed to have her as his wife. But, dear brother, promises have been made." he warned him as softly as he could; he didn't want to annoy his brother-in-law, but a double marriage was not politically expedient- he didn't need Doran to tell him that.
"The knights and soldiers of the Reach can win any war. You cannot say the same of Dorne's." he suggested, and Marion let out a sigh.
Dorne had won every defensive war it had fought, but they did not resist the Usurper, perhaps to save themselves the struggle when waiting was far more expedient. Mace Tyrell, however, did not have that excuse when he had enough men to destroy the remaining kingdoms combined.
"And why then, was your wise father not at the Trident? Where was Randyll Tarly, and the rest of the Marcher Lords?" he asked Garlan, who would have been well versed in the history of the last great war to embroil Westeros; his father, Lord Mace Tyrell, had commanded the Reach's forces, but they had failed to make any tangible differences outside of the southern front in the Stormlands.
"The siege of Storm's End was quite necessary." he reminded him, "Lord Tarly won at Ashford, I might remind you."
"And Rhaegar fell at the Trident. If your lord father had rode north with the Dornish host and left Storms End to Lord Redwyne, Rhaegar would sit the Iron Throne, and the Usurper and his dogs would be long ashes." he stressed, before shaking his head; he had been counselled to restrain his anger, especially when it came to the tragedy of the War of the Usurper.
"Please, don't-" he began, before sighing, "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologise for your father's incompetence." he retorted, "He has quite some time to make up for it." he suggested, Garlan's expression hardening.
"When will you make your move?"
"When the time comes. The Usurper still bears breath, and his alliance holds strong. Your brother has made inroads with Lord Renly... perhaps we could put that to use."
"Renly has greater desires than simply being Lord of Storm's End." he warned him, "Loras has spoken of his grand desires, and though they don't require him to be the King, I doubt that he will be made Hand in any case."
"Young men aren't well suited to being Hand of the King." he noted, recalling the story of Jon Connington, "The Griffin proves that well enough."
"You blame my father, yet he is just as guilty of losing the war." Garlan added, making him smirk.
"You are right." he agreed, before narrowing his eyes, "I imagine your lord father has desires for the handship himself."
"I don't think Grandmother would allow it." he admitted, sounding more amused than disappointed, "But, he is Lord of Highgarden. If he is offered it, he would not refuse."
"The Usurper would never, not after Storm's End... but the boy... or his Lannister bitch of a mother, they might think himself smart for trying to tie your house to the Iron Throne." he suggested, before shaking his head, "In any case, I would tell you to advise your father against it."
"You think he could put his efforts elsewhere?"
"Needlessly placing himself in the storm that will follow the stag is playing a fool's game." he argued, before rising to his feet, deciding that he might as well get moving; he wanted to try his hand in the melee, after all, "You're going to fight in the melee as well, aren't you?"
"Certainly." he nodded, swigging down the rest of his wine, "But it won't be until noon at least. We can relax until then... but you're not the relaxing type."
"I can relax... but here, no, I cannot."
"You really need to fuck somebody." he suggested, Marion immediately knowing his words a jest; Garlan was not a man for whores, gambling, or his dishonest tricks- the kind of man that he wanted to serve by his side.
"You kid, but you're not wrong. I would avoid it here... with all the whores in Littlefinger's pocket. I've heard only concerning things about that man's ability to get his fingers in things, especially brothels."
"I thought you were going to refer to women." Garlan admitted with a flushed face, before laughing, "Have you seen that man? The only reason a woman would bed him is if he had the dragons for it."
"They call Oberyn a snake, but... that man truly has their eyes." he conceded, before sighing; he missed the Red Viper, both his japes and advice, which were well found in his ears.
Garlan's kindness got boring at times, as did his cautiousness; despite that, it was Oberyn who taught him when to be cautious and when to strike. He might have made a public face of vicious unpredictability, but he was just as considered and measured in his choices as his elder brother.
"Your father is on your mind?" he asked him, and Marion shook his head.
"You know who I am... you do not need to call him what he is not."
"But he has raised you." he argued, making him laugh.
"And when a man raises sheep, he is a shepherd and not their father." he argued against his point with a metaphor, which fit quite well in his eyes.
"So, would you call him your shepherd?" Garlan asked, making him purse his lips.
"Dragonkeeper." he corrected him, "I am no sheep. What do you see in my eyes?"
"The blood of Old Valyria." he told him the truth; not many saw it, for they saw his hair and attire, thinking him but a mere Dornish bastard, or at most, a Lysene one.
His lilac eyes were not something that were common in Westeros; he might have only shared them with a Celtigar, Velaryon, and a few hundred smallfolk on Dragonstone and Driftmark, who might have had more dragonblood than himself. That was an embarrassing thought, but suggestive of the long history Valyrians had over the islands of the Narrow Sea. That history had been broken by the placement of Stannis Baratheon as Lord of Dragonstone; the idea of someone so disconnected from the history and blood of that place ruling it disgusted him thoroughly. He would have preferred an upstart dragonseed to a treacherous Baratheon, but in either case, they would face his fury in time.
"Don't forget that when you lay with my dear sister. You have been given an honour not many Westerosi have had."
"My grandfather was meant to marry Shaera Targaryen, and my grandmother Daeron Targaryen." he told him a piece of history he had recalled well when he came to understand the betrothal between his sister and Garlan.
"My grandfather and grandmother kept the blood pure... and I know what it cost them, what it cost me." he acknowledged the fact that his mother had hid from him as a boy; Oberyn had been sure to tell him the truth, no matter how much it pained him, for he never lied to the boy he treated as his own.
"So, you believe what they say about King Aerys?" he asked him, and his eyes turned away; he was not always Marion Sand- his true name was almost lost from his lips, the syllables feeling foreign, as the only person who he permitted to utter it was far away, enjoying the splendour of Highgarden.
His own tongue, the true High Valyrian one, was almost as foreign to him, but he had done well to keep up with his studies from Maester Caleotte, who was more than willing to indulge his interests. The one thing he had struggled to understand was his father; why he had done the things he had, and whether he was better off with him dead.
"If my father was truly mad, then things cannot bode well for his children." he admitted, refusing to even refer to himself; he did not know if his mind would be so easily shattered, but he had never faced a Duskendale, or the torments and frustrations of a scheming bastard like Tywin Lannister, "Let us just hope that Lord Tywin was the source of his paranoia."
"Why?"
"Because his head is the one I seek to mount most on the ramparts of the Red Keep... so he may never torment my house again. But first, his house will fall. Lannister, Baratheon, Stark, Arryn, and Tully. All must pay in blood for their digressions against their king."
"Viserys." Garlan uttered his true name, and he reached for the sword; the very fact he had it within his grasp made his claim more worthy than the fat oaf who had shouted and beckoned but hadn't raised his warhammer in a decade.
"My name." he spoke up as he drew it towards his brother-in-law, though low and slow, not wanting to actually scare the capable fighter before him, "Be wise to not say it again. If Myriah permitted it, then she was a fool to do so." he warned him, before narrowing his eyes, "When you return to Highgarden, be sure to tell her that I faced him."
"Your father's killer?"
"Yes... he was far less impressive than I expected. The Bold even less so, but then I guess treason does wear on the soul." he acknowledged, recalling the sight of Ser Barristan Selmy holding vigil over the body of the knight from the Vale, whose name he could not recall.
The nameless knight did not matter, yet the old man was willing to stand for him; if he had stood true for his king, or for Rhaegar, then perhaps House Targaryen would still sit the Iron Throne.
"They are the greatest living knights... treason does not take away one's skill." he reminded him of the obvious fact of their abilities.
"That is true." he nodded, before he drew the sword over his back, "But I am no knight. I am a dragon."
"Then where is your dragonfire?"
"You see the sword. It was enough for the Young Dragon... it will have to be enough for me."