Summer reigns in the Seven Kingdoms, and no less so in King’s Landing. Some courtiers prefer the cool halls of the keep, where they’re plied with iced wine or sweets kept chilled in the depths of the castle, while others—almost all men, to be honest—prefer the warmth of the sun and honest exercise at arms. The yard rings with guards tramping about on their duties, farriers at the stables hammering shoes into place, knights swinging and striking practice weapons against one another . . . and the clatter as the portcullis is raised, and a troop of horse enters. Before it rides a Kingsguard knight, the royal banner in hand, and behind is the king, and on with a number of nobles great and all, small councillors to sworn swords, and a lady here and there.
Emerging from the direction of the southern yard is Ser Ardon Tyrell, green-clad and munching an apple with his customary casual nonchalance. He pauses to watch the royal cavalcade arrive, his eyes lingering admiringly on the expensive display of quality horseflesh.
NOT among those ladies riding with the King is Reyna Saltcliffe. Instead, she stands just outside the stableyard giving a baleful glare to the litter which has just been brought out for her. Then she, too, turns an eye to the party of riders, and her wistful sigh carries.
There’s a flurry of activity out of the stableyard, grooms rushing to be ready to take hand of the horses when the king and his companions dismount. The king is in the midst of a jest with Lord Ryger, the master of laws, as he leaves the saddle, causing some titters of laughter. Only once he is dismounted do all else dismount, some of the ladies taking help from the grooms as they do so, and one being lifted down by a gallant knight who wins a blushing smile from her.
“Have Master Wat have a look at Valor’s hoofs—there may be a stone bothering him,” the king remarks casually, interrupting his conversation with the elder Ryger. His eyes, that strange purple of the Valyrians, sweep the crowd—and marks the Tyrells. Yet he continues, for a time, in his conversation with the small councillor as the rest of the courtiers mill about, Ser Aleyn of the Kingsguard standing silent watch. Until, that is, the king is done, and with a gracious smile makes it plain that they can all go.
There are bows, there are farewells, and then they do, indeed, go about their way.
Finishing his apple and tossing the core into the grass, Ardon begins threading his way toward the royal party by way of his old mentor, the Foxglove. “Ser Aleyn,” greets the Tyrell, offering a friendly smile; he glances toward the King, bowing in deference, then pats the neck of the Kingsguard’s horse. “Hot day for a ride.”
Reyna starts toward her brother, but stops when he detours and turns instead with a few others toward the King, to whom they are nearest. “Your Grace,” she murmurs in greeting, making him a deep curtsy.
Grey-haired and homely, but still hale, Ser Aleyn grins at Ardon. “Some might say so, ser. Not the king, though.” He glanecs towards where that apple core fell and remarks, “Don’t happen to have another of those, do you? If you do, this old beast’ll ferret it out.” And indeed, his destrier is nuzzling about the Tyrell’s doublet, lips and teeth searching, while a groom is busy taking off the heavy saddle.
“Oh, do rise, Lady Reyna. And well met, of course,” the Young Dragon says, solicitous. He studies the litter and smiles at it. “A litter, my lady? Does our bold commander still not trust you upon horseback?”
“It will be imprudent to ride for a few more months yet,” Reyna replies with a rosy blush in her cheeks and a demure casting down of her eyes as she rises. “but I assure Your Grace that our groom is keeping my mount in fine condition, and I shall be glad to ride again to the hunt.”
Laughing at the horse’s insistent nudging, Ardon shakes his head. “Sorry, last one, old fellow,” he says. To Ser Aleyn: “You’re looking well, ser. And you are right; this warmth is a far cry from Dorne.”
He turns toward his sister and the King, overhearing their exchange. “Ser Dagur is abundantly cautious about my lady sister, Your Grace,” he volunteers. “Moreso than he should, perhaps, but who can blame him?”
Daeron’s unsurprised by the time it’ll take, and Reyna’s blush. “Indeed? I look forward to it. In a few more months, of course.” He takes a quick glance at the sky, measuring the time of the day, a hand idly plucking at his sword belt to pull it up a little from where its heavy weight lies low at his hips. “Oh, I certainly wouldn’t blame him, Ser Ardon. Roses can be delicate when newly budding.” A swift smile follows that, as he looks the knight over. “You look well, ser, after the kingswood. You and your men-at-arms seem to have made short order of the bandits that came your way.”
“Your Grace is too kind,” Reyna murmurs, before flashing a smile to her brother. “Tyrell men are always to be depended upon,” she remarks, returning the compliment to Ardon. “And my brother above all. A pity he had no chance at the Starveling; I hear he was most wily.”
Inclining his head modestly, Ardon waves away the King’s compliment. “Very generous, Your Grace.” He glances at his sister. “Catching Starion will pose a challenge for Ser Sarmion,” he says delicately. “He is used to being hunted, and after this latest chastening he will be more careful than ever. It will be… problematic.”
“It’s hard to credit,” the king says to the Tyrells, “and yet he’s been a gnat in the kingswood since my father’s day…” A pause, a silence, and then a shrug. “He’ll continue to be a gnat in my day too, it seems. Would that matters had been different.” What goes on behind those purple eyes is not quite hidden—he’s been king long enough to know the ways of the court, and its courtiers—but he stands still rather, and listens. “It was a near thing, from the reports I have had. And a near thing for our most important hostage, Martell. I was surprised that the Stormbreaker put so much trust in the Dornishmen.” That, he sounds almost pleased about.
“I do hope that the Prince is recovering,” Reyna replies, sounding as if she means it. “I would be… surprised, Your Grace, if Ser Sarmion had truly trusted the Prince, however. I… oh, how to put it delicately?” She bites the corner of her lip and looks an appeal to Ardon.
“Best let it lie, Reyna,” Ardon replies amiably. “Sarmion Stormbreaker is who he is. And thankfully the Seven were merciful, and the Prince will live.”
He frowns. “I am a little concerned, however, at the fear Ser Sarmion seems to inspire in the Kingswood. Seems the smallfolk fear him as much as Flowers.”
Daeron listens, with a casual sort of patience. A flicker of his eyes suggests disquiet, or irritation, when he follows on Ardon’s words with. “No, no. By all means, speak forthrightly, my lady. We are all friends here, are we not?” the king says to his subjects, the lightest of tone belied by the iron behind it that suggests a command. “Weren’t the Dornishmen and your husband’s watchmen placed so as to prevent Flowers’s reinforcements from joining him? “
“Your Grace,” Reyna replies, caught off guard. “I regret that I know little to nothing of the disposition of my husband’s or anyone’s men in the Kingswood. I can only plead ignorance of such things, and refer you to my own lord.”
She smiles in obvious hopes of not further annoying the King with her demurral. “My doubts about Ser Sarmion are purely of a personal nature, based on things I have heard him say in the past, which would suggest he bears rather an irrational dislike of the Dornish. But your grace must not listen too much to me; what do women know of these matters?”
“Starion has a keen eye for subterfuge, Your Grace; a hunter’s eye,” Ardon remarks mildly, marking the subtle irritation in the King’s eyes. “It was a cunning snare he laid for our Dornish guests, and they fought out of it well.”
He looks to his sister. “Women should know strategy, and it is a good lesson for a budding strategist, my lady. Beware the wolf in his lair, for others of of his pack may be lying in wait for you in the brambles.”
“If only someone would tell the Witch that, my lady, matters would be a deal easier,” Daeron replies, with a sharp smile; Reports still have the bandit-queen causing her trouble in the Boneway that Lord Tyrell was said to have promised to clear more than six months ago. But then he turns his attention to Ser Ardon. “So. Not so much as my warden’s intention, as his luck.” A silence, a weighing gaze, and then he remarks to Ser Aleyn, “Some say you make your own luck, Foxglove. What do you think of that?”
“I’ve always thought so, your grace. I’ve been very lucky in the lists,” the old champion says with a false modesty, and the king laughs.
“So you have, ser. But lets leave that aside,” the Young Dragon says, a hand waving it away, closing the discussion on the dornishmen. “The crofters and poachers fear the Stormbreaker. And yet they seemed to fear Flowers more; Ser Sarmion says many of them were colluding with him, out of terror. Do you think kindness would have server us better in the Kingswood?”
“If I may, Your Grace,” Reyna puts in with a great deal more confidence. “When the other ladies and I were captive to Starion’s men, it was indeed true that the folk of that little village feared him and served him as a matter of course.”
She pauses, as if thinking better of her boldness, then plunges on. “But it seemed to me—and to the others, as well—that their very remoteness made them feel they were not true subjects of Your Majesty, for who goes into the Kingswood to look after their needs? They see only the tithe-collectors. It may indeed be that not kindness, but simple attention would serve Your Grace as well as Ser Sarmion’s rougher style.”
“It may be as my sister says,” Ardon replies quietly. “An iron fist is well and good, but a velvet touch can be just as deft. Perhaps a balance between the two would be efficacious.”
He shrugs. “In a contest of who can inspire the most fear, the Starveling will win. For he will take the lives of innocents, and that is something Sarmion will not do. At least… I hope not,” he adds with a laugh.
The king smiles at the jest, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. “You’ve a point there, ser. Something to discuss with my councillors, and my Hand. Perhaps Ser Sarmion does not have all the resources required for the task.” He adjusts the belt at his hips again, as the Tyrell courtier takes his leave, with the king parting with him with some remark about coming into the inheritance his father willed to him. It does seem to bring something to his mind, that.
“I trust all goes well with your part in the wedding plans, Lady Reyna?”
“It does indeed,” Reyna replies, sounding relieved to be sailing in safer waters. “So well that I would wager even my Lord Hand will smile to see it.”
“That will be something to see. My lord uncle last smiled before I was born, I suspect,” the king says with a laugh in his voice by the end. But Ser Aleyn interjects. “That’s not so, your grace. I’m sure he smiled when you said you’d be taking me along to Dorne; he’s never cared for the sight of me.” Foxglove says, the delivery of the words rather dry. Daeron laughs again, a young man rather than a wise king at that moment. “Well, who’s to blame him? You’re not the famous beauty you once were, ser.” Foxglove sighs, and shakes his head sadly.
Another chuckle, and Daeron turns back to Reyna, “So, if Prince Viserys will be so glad of your efforts ... I trust your kin will be glad to host a feast and entertainment for the Sealord? Something extravagant, as only Highgarden can provide. Ser Rickard, fresh from Casterly Rock, has already promised that the lions are ready to do much the same.”
“We would be most honored,” Reyna assents without missing a beat. “I will begin making the arrangements at once; it needs only a date that would be most suitable for all involved. We but await Your Grace’s pleasure.”
“Good. I will have Ser William arrange matters,” the Young Dragon says. “I intend to keep the Sealord and his companions well-entertained while they are here, and to let him have a taste of what the Seven Kingdoms has to offer before the wedding takes up too much of my attention.”
Reyna bends her head gracefully. “He will be well entertained and well fed by the Tyrell, Your Grace,” she says before looking toward her litter and sighing. “If you will forgive me, I must be away. My children are waiting for me, and they are rather demanding creatures who do not always understand that a King must needs take precedence.” She laughs as she says it, a fond smile coming over her lips.
“You may convey them my best wishes, Lady Reyna,” the king says graciously. “Tell them the king expects them to be dutiful sons, for he’ll need obedient knights when they’re of age.” And with that, the king and Ser Aleyn see Reyna off in her litter before going on their way.