In the end, Arthur had all the lamb chops to himself, while Patrick Mallister and his five attendants were served the inferior boiled chicken.
After getting a good look at Arthur's handsomeness, Patrick surprisingly took the initiative to make concessions and even apologized. What Arthur didn't expect was that the so-called proud heir of Seagard—seat of House Mallister—actually brought his food over and sat down at his table.
"We're all from the Riverlands," Patrick had said cheerfully. "We ought to get to know each other better."
Compared to his proud and haughty entrance, his current attitude had shifted a full one-eighty. He had gone from entitled noble to chummy flatterer in less than an hour.
Arthur, of course, ignored him.
Good-looking dogs were still dogs.
If I didn't have this face, Arthur thought, I'd probably be bashing in that pretty little head with my warhammer right now.
"Just look at his bearing," Patrick later said, gesturing toward Arthur as they finished their meal. "He's got the posture and poise of a proper Westerlands noble. I'd wager he's a direct heir of some landed knight in Lannisport!"
After the meal, the flattery continued. Patrick seemed to have wholly forgotten the earlier confrontation. He spoke as if Arthur were some long-lost cousin of Genna Lannister or a knight of the Kingsguard.
Arthur shot him a sidelong glare. "Stay away from me."
Of course, Arthur's words were meant as an intimidation. What Patrick heard, however, seemed to be: You may follow, but from a distance.
After paying two silver stags to the innkeeper, Arthur insisted on getting his change—down to the last copper.
It wasn't about the money. Not really. It was about principle.
Arthur still hadn't forgiven the innkeeper for running up to him earlier, asking if he would yield the lamb chops. As if he were the sort of lordling who could be browbeaten or bribed into giving up his meal.
Do I look like I can be pushed around? Arthur thought bitterly.
After all seventeen had rested and filled their bellies, they set out again. If they pressed on, they'd reach the Moulin Rouge by nightfall.
Of course, there were now six extra riders tagging along—Patrick and his five retainers.
Arthur didn't have the authority to drive them off. This wasn't his land, and Patrick was heir to a major bannerman of House Tully.
"Let's pick up the pace," Arthur muttered to Javier. "Maybe we can lose them on the road."
Being trailed by the clinging Mallisters was like trying to ride with honey-sticky candy stuck to your saddle.
"Why so fast?" Patrick called, his golden mare keeping pace with Arthur's destrier. "I was hoping we'd watch the tourney together in King's Landing! Did you hear? It's hosted by the new Hand—Lord Eddard Stark! With his favor and the king's gold behind it, it'll be better than Joffrey's nameday tourney by far. The purse is massive!"
Arthur had, indeed, heard of it.
He knew that the prince's nameday celebration—the one held for Joffrey shortly after Jon Arryn's death—had drawn many knights, but this new tournament was on another scale. Arthur remembered, with almost perfect clarity, that Sandor Clegane—the Hound—won the joust. The prize was forty thousand gold dragons. The runner-up received twenty thousand. The melee winner walked away with another twenty thousand. The archery champion took home ten thousand.
Ninety thousand dragons in total.
Wait—ninety thousand dragons.
Arthur blinked.
He'd been so preoccupied with the tensions around Raventree Hall and his rapidly growing fortress that he'd almost forgotten the tournament even existed. But now that Patrick had reminded him, a burning excitement stirred in his chest.
Seventy thousand dragons were still potentially up for grabs—assuming he didn't place second in the joust.
With that kind of money, he could commission mastercrafted plate armor for every man under his banner. Hell, even the finest blacksmiths in King's Landing would struggle to meet those demands.
The real question was: If he left, what would happen to the Moulin Rouge?
Without Arthur to command, Amber's militia and Havel's hundred wouldn't be enough to repel a full-scale retaliation from House Blackwood.
He clenched his jaw.
If I'm here, he thought, I can break their commanders and scatter their forces like autumn leaves in a storm. But if I'm gone…
The heat in his chest faded to cold stone.
"Are you planning to compete in the tourney?" Arthur asked, giving Patrick a sideways glance.
Patrick gave a sheepish grin. "Me? Seven hells, no. I know my own limits. I'm only going to watch the fun. Seagard's boring. I'd rather see knights bash each other's skulls in."
"I'd like to join," Arthur said truthfully, "but there are matters in my territory I can't ignore."
Patrick leaned in. "What's there to worry about in your little corner of the Trident? Come with me. This might be our only chance to witness something like this in our lifetimes."
They had exchanged their names and noble status earlier, so Patrick already knew Arthur's identity.
To his credit, he didn't mock Arthur's ambition.
"I suppose if there were a prize for handsomeness, you'd win that," Patrick chuckled. "But you're planning to charge lances with the best of them?"
Arthur didn't dignify the comment with a response. Some things were too complex to share with someone you'd just met. Even if he told Patrick the truth—that he had the strength to crush enemy commanders and turn the tide of battle alone—the heir of Seagard would likely laugh it off as posturing.
"Then can I visit your castle sometime?" Patrick asked, smiling. "As your friend, I think that's only fair."
Arthur glanced at him, slightly exasperated.
Still, having a friendly relationship with the heir of Seagard might be useful—so long as they didn't become too familiar.
"You can visit. But don't expect much."
Patrick was thrilled. He rode closer and chattered on about the court gossip of King's Landing. Arthur had heard most of it already—whispers about the Queen's infidelity, Varys's spies, and the growing tension between the Lannisters and the Starks.
By the time they returned to the Moulin Rouge, it was nearly dark.
The gamblers, now footsore and grumbling, looked half-dead. The return journey had been hard on them.
As they approached, Patrick's jaw dropped at the sight of the half-finished fortress.
"By the Seven!" he gasped. "Are you building the largest keep in the Riverlands? No wonder you couldn't leave. You're trying to raise a whole damn castle!"
Arthur dismounted calmly. "It's just a stronghold. Not a proper castle."
"It's massive," Patrick said, wide-eyed. "How many people do you plan to house? Your entire village couldn't fill this place!"
"You underestimate my land," Arthur replied with a smirk. "This village is just the beginning."
They passed between tents, timber stacks, and stone heaps. The construction site buzzed with activity.
Patrick noted the number of laborers and asked, "Where'd you get all these hands?"
"I borrowed a few thousand men from the lands of Shili City. Earl Genos arranged it," Arthur said plainly. "Didn't have to pay a copper. It's like corvée labor—obligatory service for the realm."
Patrick was fascinated by Arthur's vision. When he heard about the feud with House Blackwood, and how Arthur had been attacked, he grew even more sympathetic.
"Justice must prevail," he said solemnly. "If they murdered your people, they must be punished. Light overcomes darkness—that's the way of things."
As they rode past the outer scaffolding and construction platforms, Amber approached from the keep, flanked by three servants.
He bowed slightly.
"My lord," Amber said, "Ser Desmond Grell, the master-at-arms of Riverrun, has arrived."
Arthur's expression sharpened.
So the Tullys had finally sent someone.
Time to see what the Lords of the Trident truly wanted.
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