A/N: Sigh, I know I haven't been delivering on my promises of uploads, but the last few days I had writer's block, and a big problem with the chapter I was writing originally. Originally, this chapter was not supposed to be Odyn's POV, but Renly's first POV. So we scraped I scraped it early Wednesday morning and got to work on this chapter. However, it didn't really fit quite well in the story, as some of the plot seemed forced and rushed. However, my collaborators and I have found a way to add more conflict to the A Song of Ice and Fire novels with this story, if that is even possible. Odyn Sand will fall in love with Margaery Tyrell, and while Margaery will not return the affections until much later, because of her queenly aspirations. This also means as far as I know she makes an appearance much earlier than she did in the books. And since I've already changed quite a bit from the canon (ie Stafford existing in the first place, Connington becoming Griff earlier, and of course Odyn's very existence), I decided to change this as well. Margaery's age in this one is eighteen, as if she was fourteen, she would be younger than Stafford, and two years younger than Joffrey, which doesn't make sense as in the canon novel, Joffrey was eleven while she was fourteen. So generally, the series will be once again using show ages, as Stafford's story would be impossible as he would be ten year old, and that is far less believable than his current fifteen almost sixteen year old form. Sorry for the long blabber for this chapter, and this time I PROMISE to upload tommorrow, the next chapter in Stafford's Saga.

Odyn

After staring at the pale red ceiling of one of the Red Keep's medical rooms, the bedchambers Lord Eddard Stark and the small council had readied were a true delight. It was richly furnished with the proud crimson and golden-bronze of House Martell, a bed with silks and pillows soft as sin, stocked with his personal guard and maesters sent from Dorne, and had a grand balcony with high railings, overlooking much of King's Landing. And on the morning of his second week outside the operating room, Odyn Sand felt the breeze upon his scarred face as he stood wistfully upon his balcony.

Though he had rapidly recovered in a short two weeks after his incident, to the point where he overheard Pycelle requesting samples of his muscle tissue, his maesters and guards advised him to stay and rest another two in this tower. Disheartened, Odyn relented to their orders. Though they do not speak of my father's wrath, they knew that words could not describe their terror. Needless to say, with a son of Oberyn Martell injured in the city remembered for atrocities against House Martell, the small council and Dorne's diplomats urgently and discreetly negotiated a peaceful conclusion.

Odyn Sand twiddled his fingers absent-mindedly and took a light swig of his flask, filled with wine. He had already eaten his lunch of golden beef stew and garlic bread, and his ruddy face had grown pale during his time of medication. His muscles had weakened slightly, but he regained much of their former strength. His arms, chest, and legs remained strong, but his innards required heavy rest from almost being outards. Thus he was bandaged, and maintained a strict posture. Filled with worry and not much else to do, Odyn Sand to a last swig of wine, and made his way into his room.

He strode past his guards and maesters hard at work writing letters for ravens they were to send back to Dorne, constantly alerting his family of his recovering physical condition. The guards were decked in long mail hauberks plated by bronze discs that glimmered in the sun, with red-bronze gambesons below their mail and an extra coat of translucent, crimson silk above their armor. Their faces were armored with nasal helmets with aventails of mail and bronze scales, with an extra layer of padding beneath their coifs. They carried bossed shields of ash wood painted in the spear-impaled sun of Martell, and wielded long spears. The ensemble of the Dornishmen was completed with a longsword at their side, and a dagger slung behind their back.

Indeed, their armor and weaponry was relatively heavier than the Dornish standard, but due to King's Landing's cooler climate and a different duty required than frontline combat, it wasn't unwarranted. And mail armor was light, and only made a minute and negligible difference in weight at all.

He strode to his nightstand and retrieved a larger round shield brought by his convoy and his longsword brought by one of Tobho Mott's emissaries to the Red Keep while he was still unconscious. Odyn beckoned two of his twenty guards to accompany him with a slight nod, and the maesters charged to keep his good health all rose nervously. "Odyn Sand, where do you think you're going in such terrible condition?" A grey-robed and bearded maester gently held him by the shoulder. "We don't enjoy keeping you from your adventures, but you know your father's orders. This foray can lead you to even greater catastrophe."

With a gentle sigh, Odyn lifted of the maester's hand and gave him a stern look. "Maester Denys, I was simply leaving to spectate the Hand's Tourney. Don't you think I've recovered enough for a light walk and a carriage ride? I'm accompanied by a heavy guard and I haven't forgotten my weapons."

The maester gave a tired, begrudging grunt. "Alright then. We will allow this. But only this. And bring four more guards. They make for a better shield wall if needed be."

"Many thanks, Maester Denys. In your letters, tell my father I said hello." He smiled faintly and turned away, followed by four more guards than the original two. Picking up crates of his personal armor and spear, and handing the excess to another guard, he made his leave for a waiting carriage outside the Red Keep.

In his early morning stupor, the walk felt like nothing at all, down the winding corridors and flights of stairs in the Red Keep, and he soon found his way to an emptier hall than he expected. The nobility must've already departed for their extravagant celebration.

Odyn Sand was dressed in deep crimson silks with the bronze spear and sun of House Martell sewn on his breast, better finery than the last robe he had worn in his fight with that filthy ruffian. His long, scruffy hair had fell to his shoulders, and he had shaven his coarse beard to a lighter frame around his jawline and a styled moustache. His shield was slung over his shoulder and he wore a longsword and dagger at his side.

Outside the Red Keep, he soon met with an unassuming carriage drawn by common horses, large enough to carry up to ten people but not large enough to draw any attention amidst the grander entrances of the royal family. And beneath an early afternoon sun in a pale blue sky, he entered the carriage.

Have those maesters noticed me bringing my armament with me?

On the ride to the tourney pavilions outside the city, Odyn kept the carriage windows shut out of security concerns from Dorne. The guards had sat the closest to the windows for easier for Odyn's protection, who sat in between four guards. What a shame. Would've loved to see the city streets again after all these weeks. He had, however, heard of the renewed bustle and crowded noise steadily growing as they approached the venue. Odyn turned to the guard on his farthest right. "You there, what's your name?"

The guard nervously turned to Odyn Sand. "The name's Moren."

"Moren, would you mind opening the windows so I may observe the guests in attendance of today's celebration?"

"Not at all. Please, allow me a moment to get these fastenings out of the way." He undid the fastenings and drew back the short curtains. After saying his thanks, Odyn looked out the window to survey the honored guests of the Hand's Tourney.

Time in the carriage had passed quickly, and there the carriage had stopped, outside a crowded pavilion amidst a hundred pavilions erected beside the river, overcame by the chaotic din of a great crowd. Every inn, building, and alley in King's Landing was filled to the brim with countless people. "Guards, I suggest we disembark immediately from this carriage. We can go no further upon these roads." Odyn then leaped down from the carriage, and his guards followed readily. He then turned to face the carriage driver.

The carriage driver was stout and barrel-chested, in a ragged white robe that shadowed his face. Beneath his hood, his round head turned to his passengers. "So, you all reached where ya need to get?" The driver's high, thin voice was soft and whispery, but reverted to a sharp and guttural snarl mid-sentence. Have we met? Deep inside him, Odyn swore he had heard the man's voice. Whether it had been on the streets, in his travels of elsewhere, or from a delirium during his surgery, he could not remember.

"Yes, me and my men have reached our celebration. Thank you for bringing us here through all this. Take and keep whatever excess in dragons is in this pouch. A compensation for this traffic." He reached from inside his silk robes and fished out a weighty pouch of a dozen stags and half that much dragons. With a gentle toss of the pouch to the portly fellow, the driver caught his coin, muttered a low grunt of thanks, and drove off into a new opening amidst the roaring horde of people, back into the city.

Chaos had followed the Hand's Tourney. Knights from all over the realm followed by many freeriders, craftsmen, men-at-arms, merchants, whores, and thieves to steal their property. Odyn had heard and witnessed much madness following the hype of the tourney. Multiple robberies, rapes, murders, assaults, and even a horse race of drunks down the Street of the Sisters. He hoped that all the swords he managed to sharpen with Gendry and Tobho Mott were going to good use.

"Odd. Have any of you gentlemen met this driver before?"

"No, none of us recall anybody like him."

"That's strange. I swear I met him a while back. At least I heard his voice before." Odyn turned back to his men before the oddly familiar carriage driver drove away. "But that's besides the point. You all know the drill. Follow my lead, and save your questions only for those of utmost importance." He spun quickly back to the pavilion, and after lightly elbowing his way through the crowds, he parted the tarp and entered the central pavilion with a swaggering walk.

Upon entering the pavilion, he turned to the right of the entrance, and approached a steward upon a shaded table, surrounded by mountains of parchment with a quill in hand. The old man was thin and haggard, with a long beard framing his narrow face and squinty eyes. "Morning. What do you lot want?"

"This is where I enter the tourney lists, yes?" Odyn fished another pouch of gold from his seemingly bottomless robes and placed it down upon the table. "If so, then I seek entrance into the axe-throwing, archery, and melee."

And at his demand to enter the melee, the guards were rattled from their small talk and fell quiet, as if a viper slithered up their breeches as they napped in the grass. Moren, voice quivering beneath his helmet, was the first to object. "Odyn, us guards are willing to let you participate in trials of ranged combat. We'll be quiet. We won't say a thing to the maesters. But the damned melee? After nearly getting gutted alive? What madness has struck you now?"

Upon the Moren's voice growing faint, Odyn smiledand took a deep breath. "Madness? No, my friend, VICTORY itself has struck me! I have always wanted to join in these tourneys. This may be one of the first times I may gain my renown amongst the lands. When has a man risen to glorious heights from keeping his head down in the sand and keeping the waiting glory of the world out of his mind? We all start somewhere, and hear I make my decision. For I have dipped my hands in muddied waters, and have withdrawn them from the muck, and I HAVE FOUND that it is better to be a CHAMPION than a COMMON MAN!"

And at that he turned to the old steward, frightened by the dancing light in the mad Dornishman's eyes. Odyn's voice dropped to a low, chuckling whisper. "I demand entry into the tourney. Now." The steward frantically withdrew the appropriate forms for entry into the tourney. He slid them over to Odyn, and he signed his name on all three forms. He asked him to sign another three, copies given to the announcers and posted on the training yards.

And with great satisfaction, Odyn led his guards out of the steward's registry, and sat down at the closest seat propped up, watching the heraldry of the noble houses enter the upper stands. Even from the farthest of seats, Odyn could clearly see their colorful banners flying in the wind.

He already saw the direwolf of Stark, lion of Lannister, the stag of Baratheon in the upper stands and their closest bannermen. Even from the vast distance away, there was no mistaking them. Amongst them, amidst the closer pavilions of the jousting knights, waved the white banner of the Kingsguard, the three dogs of Clegane, the lightning of Dondarrion, the gape cluster of Redwyne, the twin-tower bridge of Frey, the eagle of Mallister, the runes of Royce, and the countless new banners of unsung freeriders, green squires, younger sons of higher lords, and heirs of lesser houses. One day, the Seven Kingdoms may yet sing praises of their deeds and valor. Possibly.

"Hold on, that one looks familiar." Odyn halted the somber clamber of his six guards with an outstretched hand. Marching in procession to the field of pavilions, only a few paces away, was a long baggage train followed by the passionate roars of the common folk. The golden rose of House Tyrell of Highgarden was everywhere: upon the breast of their armsmen and servants, upon silk banners adorning lance, pike, and halberd, painted on the shields of all their men. And at the head of this grand procession, rode the dashing Ser Loras Tyrell, youngest son of Lord Mace Tyrell, the knight they called the Knight of Flowers. His intricate plate armor was polished silver and enameled with an entire multi-colored field of flowers, and his snow-white stallion wreathed in red and white roses.

"Fucking damn, that's some good armor, am I right?" The hushed voice roused a chorus of agreement. But even Loras Tyrell's majestic parade armor was rendered moot by the stunning young lady that rode beside him. She was statuesque, slender yet shapely. Her high-cheekboned and heart-shaped face smirked lopsidedly as she confidently rode ahead. Her mane of long, reddish brown hair shone like molten bronze in the afternoon sun, as it tumbled down her backless, sleeveless, and tight-fitting silk gown. Her skin was fair and unblemished as a field of freshly fallen snow. And even from quite a distance, her innocent, doe-like, and oddly sultry brown eyes left Odyn struggling to contain the fire they lit in his heart and in his loins. Even as she had rode past, he was still left struggling to find words to describe her beauty. Upon her horse, shyly waving and smiling to the adoring crowds of commoners, was Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden.

"My fuckin priorities. Where were my fucking priorities?" Moren was staring at her so intently he almost lost his balance as he leaned on his spear. "I swear, she'll be somebody's queen one day. One way or another, she'll be a queen."

Another guard butted in. "She'll be the queen."

"No. She'll be my queen." The gaggle of guardsmen turned rapidly upon Odyn.

As Margaery passed on by, Odyn smiled and turned back to his men. "So anyways, my guards, back to what you were going to say?"

"Ah, yes. Thank you. As I was about to deliberate: Odyn, what in seven hells are we going to do now?! Do you really intend to fight such high calibre opponents and lose?" Moren was nodding in agreement with his fellow guards beneath his visored nasal helmet.

"I don't know. I didn't come up with a plan! I did not think I would get this far. I'll just make it up as I go along. Always seems to work out for situations like these."

The guards exploded into a commotion at the madness of Odyn's plan, or rather, the lack of a plan. "But Odyn, don't you understand? We're fucked! No plan, no ideas, no back up to get us out of this mess if shit goes wild." Moren's face was deep in his palm, screaming more profanities.

Odyn simply laughed heartily and brushed off their reason as he had forsaken his own. "Moren, my armor and my weapon. If you've remembered to bring them this time."

"B-But Odyn-"

"My armor. My weapon. Bring them here."

Moren let out a grunt, his fellow guards silently leaning on their spears.

"Seriously, my friends, trust me on this. What can go wrong?"

It was high noon, and the summer sun shone upon the vast field of pavilions, a pale yellow amidst an almost cloudless blue sky. Stands filled with nobles from all over Westeros had flocked to see a grand display of combat skill. From underneath a massive tent outside a makeshift throwing range, a line of contestants walked, fully armored.

They were led out to the cheers of nobility and commoners alike. It was in the preliminary events of Archery and Axe-Throwing.

The first to come out was the yearly champion, since he was old enough to wield an axe, Prince Stafford Baratheon. He wore a light, gilded cuirass with the crowned black stag of House Baratheon enameled upon his chest and framed in ornate silver scrollwork and onyx inlays. Other competitors of note joined in the match, such as Sandor "The Hound" Clegane in dark grey plate and helm in the fearsome visage of a snarling hound, the monstrous and nearly 8-feet-tall Gregor Clegane, the black knight Beric Dondarrion with purple lightning bolts etched in his cuirass, and the young, charming Knight of Flowers Loras Tyrell.

But then the announcer had called upon one of the last few competitors, the most recent addition in this grand tourney. "And of course, we have… Odyn Sand of Dorne."

And after a light smattering of half hearted applause and confused whispers, a tall figure clad in crimson parted the tent's tarp and swaggered upon the field.

He was dressed in a visored nasal helm with a mail aventail, concealing his face, already armored in a padded mail coif. Beneath his coif, he was armored in a bronze lamellar cuirass, above a long hauberk of mail padded by a scarlet robe of silk. And underneath that was a thick gambeson, laced in bronze and gold. His greaves and vambraces were bronze etched in copper scrollwork of leaping vipers that shone brilliantly in the sun.

He walked to the axe-throwing range nonchalantly and without a single sound, save for the thud of his leather boots. Once the announcer explained the rules, the first round began.

In the first two rounds, nearly all the other axemen were eliminated at forty paces. Only Loras Tyrell, Gregor Clegane, Sandor Clegane, Beric Dondarrion, Stafford Baratheon, and Odyn Sand remained. In this brief competition, lasting only half an hour due to the speed of the throwing, the nerves of the competitors grew frazzled, eventually choking in a required third strike to the target and getting eliminated. It was hard work, quick work, and required all the focus and finesse a man could muster. Not one mistake from any man could be afforded. Yet in the heat of competition and against experienced foes, Odyn Sand had held his own, kept his calm, and never gave a single damn. Over the rounds, the cheers of his name steadily grew louder and louder, almost surpassing the support of more renowned names of Loras, Beric, and even the Prince himself. Almost.

After Gregor, Sandor, and Beric narrowly missed the target requirement at fifty paces, only Loras Tyrell, Stafford Baratheon, and Odyn Sand were left. But on a last and crucial effort at sixty paces, Loras was hand's span off-center from the bullseye, and was eliminated. Many of common folk called out foul play and more were awestruck by the sudden possibility of Stafford's upset defeat. No one had made it past eighty paces except for Stafford until the Dornishman entered the range. The cheers for Odyn Sand grew even louder.

Beneath his aventail, the Bastard of Sunspear laughed and japed. Child's play.

He looked at the stands all around him, a surprising amount of common folk and nobility cheering his name.

On the final round at a hundred paces, the final two competitors were allowed a brief break. Odyn Sand strode over to his guards on the lower stands. His lamellar and mail clinked softly as his footsteps thudded. "So, what do you think? Haven't even put any effort on a single throw and I've out axed almost every other competitor."

"I'll be fucked, Odyn Sand. Did you even practice for this?"

"No. Absolutely not. The technique is quite easy to understand, but it is very hard to master. Even with my finesse, I am afraid I may be defeated by the experience and organization of Prince Stafford."

Moren clapped his hands on Odyn's shoulders. "Well no matter what, we have not been fucked over as of yet, so just keep doing what you're doing and maybe, just maybe, you'll win."

Odyn let out a rumbling laugh from beneath his helmet. "Win or lose, I have fun." And with a pat on the back, Odyn walked back to the range to meet his last foe. Prince Stafford, brawny and blue-eyed, stood with his axe in hand.

"Prince Stafford. Long time, no see. Glad to meet you again." Odyn reached out his hand, and the Prince shook it in return. With a stern look with his electric blue eyes, he let out a low and tired grunt.

"Odyn Sand, the last I saw you, you were disemboweled and garbage and muck were pouring into your wounds. How did you recover so quickly?"

"It's just a flesh wound. Didn't go that deep."

"Well, I have sorely underestimated your endurance. And as this final round comes, I wish you well, Odyn Sand."

"As to you, Prince Stafford. As to you." And at that he patted the Prince on the shoulder and walked back to his target. An axe in hand, he eased himself and laughed quietly in his helm.

The steward stood upon a raised platform and sounded the horn. In the blink of an eye, Stafford and Odyn threw their axes from a seventy paces at a target. Odyn was half a hand's span away from the bullseye, and Stafford's was dead center. The crowd cheered, but few groaned. The judges were scoring their shots, and the score totaled five to two and a half.

After half a minute, the stewards retrieved the axes from the targets and handed them back to the men eagerly. Stafford was smiling, but the steely determination in his eyes never relented. He knew that nobody ever made it past eighty paces. Much less a crippled bastard from Dorne.

But Odyn was laid-back, uncaring of his victory or loss. He crossed his arms and chuckled as he was handed back his axe.

And at the count of three, the horn thundered again. With brutal precision, Odyn watched as his axe made its mark, dead center of the target's midline. When he looked at Stafford's target, it was barely off-center, but it was enough to cost him the throw. He had tied the scores. Even through the eyeholes of his visor, Odyn saw Stafford in disbelief, rubbing his eyes and trying to comprehend his miss. Stafford turned to the helmeted Dornishman with a look of awe.

On the fourth round, as Odyn grew cockier, he twisted his wrist at the wrong time and sent the axe spiraling a full hand's width above the bullseye. The shocked crowd gasped, but Odyn just grunted lightly and turned to Stafford's perfect bullseye. With the baking hot sun upon him, he grew sweaty, and as this close match grew even closer, his nerves were roused violently. The score was then eight to five.

After what seemed like an eternity, Odyn raised his axe for one last time.

In the blink of an eye, a deafening crack of the wooden target splitting down the center echoed across the field. Odyn's target had fallen from the brute force of his last throw, and was knocked over. The whole crowd went the loudest it had been the whole thirty minutes.

But as the dust settled, and the target was raised once again, Odyn was revealed to have been barely an entire foot to the right of the bullseye. Stafford had won the match, and Odyn swore he could hear Stafford releasing a deep breath of relief before smiling and running to him. The final score was six points for Odyn, and ten for Stafford.

"By the Seven, I may have won, but that was one hell of a shot, Odyn. Good fight, man!" Odyn smiled from beneath his helm, and shook Stafford's hand as he patted him on the back. Despite taking a loss, Odyn's tired arm was raised by Stafford as he called out to the stands.

"This friend of mine has been the closest match I've met in my years of axe-throwing! Greet him as deserved by such a strong challenger!" Nobles and commoners and his own guards alike arose from the stands, clapping proudly. Odyn lifted his helm, and shook the hair out of his eyes, and smiled. It had been a good fight and a hard one. Prince Stafford was truly a force to be reckoned with. Not a bad start, I suppose. They cheered him on as he left the range to walk with his guards on a brief intermission between the Axe-Throwing and Archery competitions.

As Odyn walked with Moren to the Archery field, he was met with the happy greetings of the commons, for being the closest to end the Prince's winning streak. "Not bad, Odyn, not bad at all. For your lack of effort, you've come a long way," Moren was saying. "How did you manage such accuracy with so little practice?"

Odyn took a brief swig of boiled water from his skin. "It's all in the wrist, Moren. Never skip arm day, that's for damned sure," the Dornishman said bemusedly.

The archery competition had begun and Stafford Baratheon entered in first. However, this time he messed up and ended up hitting Boros Blount, who was standing next to the targets fixing something, not knowing the competition had begun. Luckily, clanked off his armor, and Stafford was the first person ever to be eliminated by scoring no points in the archery range. The Gods gave him skill in the axe, but no such skill with the bow

And another hour later, after a grueling test of marksmanship, a commoner named Anguy from the Dornish marches won the Archery competition. In the trial, Odyn sand had outshot Jalabhar Xho, but was in turn narrowly defeated by Ser Balon Swann at a hundred paces, shortly before Anguy beat Ser Balon Swann to win the trial. Walking back to the stands for the Joust, Odyn had overheard one of Eddard Stark's men offering Anguy a spot on the Hand's Guard, but drunk on his newfound riches and victory, the boy turned the offer down.

"Odyn, I never knew you were proficient in archery." Moren whispered to him as they sat upon the stands, awaiting the start of the Joust.

"I've traveled across Westeros, and I've been known to hunt and bag wild game whenever I can. But even I'll admit, it's far harder than it looks. You'll need strong arms to manage the draw weights of most bows. It took years for me to become half decent at it," Odyn said after he chewed on some mutton he had bought from a food stand nearby.

"Odyn! I need to speak to you urgently." A clear and booming voice rang out from near the lists. When Odyn turned his head to the voice, he saw Prince Stafford Baratheon beckoning him. And standing next the Prince was Margaery Tyrell.

"Guards, if you'll excuse me for a brief moment…" He stood up from his own seat, in the lower stands, vaulted over a few rows to the ground, and walked to Prince Stafford. "I'll be right there, Stafford!" With a brief sprint from the stands, he made it to where Stafford and Margaery stood.

Odyn's lamellar and chain clinked softly as he strode over to Stafford. "You called for me, Prince Stafford?" While he spoke he glanced nervously at Margaery. She looks even prettier up close. Her doe-like eyes stared at him as she smiled.

"Indeed I have." Stafford smiled charmingly, his blue eyes twinkling.

"So, what did you want to speak to me about?" Odyn said curiously. For all his insight, he was blind as to what the Prince himself would want with a man of his status.

"Well, my friend, I want to introduce you to a close friend of mine. Margaery, this is my good friend and honored guest Odyn Sand. And Odyn, this Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Odyn." Margaery outstretched her hand, and Odyn shook it firmly while looking into her eyes. Keep it together. Keep it together. Don't fuck this up.

"The pleasure is all mine, Margaery. If I seem drunk, it's only because you're so intoxicating." She chuckled warmly and bit her lip. Her large brown eyes glanced at Odyn shyly.

"Thank you, Odyn." She tried hiding what looked to be her blushing at his words. Don't fuck this up.

Stafford looked around nervously, as if looking for somebody. "Now if you two will excuse me, I have important matters to attend to." And with that, Stafford Baratheon walked off into the labyrinth of pavilions. He melted into the crowd, and neither Odyn or Margaery could see him anymore.

"So Margaery, I've got to ask: What did you think of the tourney?" Odyn and Margaery were walking back to the stands amid the gathering crowds of commoners. There were armorers and blacksmiths selling their wares to discerning knights, farmers and ranchers were offering their produce, and guards patrolled the makeshift camp.

"Well I personally was quite impressed by your skill in the Axe-Throwing competition. Stafford spoke highly of your ability. And you managed to out-throw my brother Loras, and you know that he'll soon be one of the greatest knights in all the land."

"Thanks. Your brother's a good warrior. I can see all the singers from Sunspear to Winterfell praising his deeds one day."

"And I saw you in the Archery competition. How did you train to get that skilled?"

"Well I am a wanderer. I've traveled all over Westeros and the Free cities of Essos. I go hunting game a lot. There's just something great about living off the land and losing yourself in the wilds. It captures this beautiful essence in our world that I don't think people really feel anymore. And the world is just beautiful. There's always so much more to see than what we think, you know?"

"I know how you feel, Odyn. I've always wanted to travel. So few people really see the world as it should be seen. It's a shame, really." As the two walked back to the stands, Margaery looked into his black eyes. She smiled warmly.

"Hey, Margaery, can I ask you a question?" Odyn asked nervously his eyes, glancing at her.

"You just did," She responded jokingly. He let out a light chuckle. "So, what did you want to ask?"

"May I please sit with you in the stands to watch the joust?"

"Of course, Odyn. I'd like that very much."

Odyn smiled and swept his hair out of his eyes. As he and Margaery walked to the stands, Odyn was silently praising and blessing Stafford Baratheon, thankful for all the kindness he regarded towards him.

As the sun rose high in the sky, another horn sounded. It was time for the Joust.