ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

After the tournament, the city began to empty in layers.

The great lords left first or prepared to leave with enough wagons to make it everyone else’s problem. Knights collected debts, paid for broken armor, found missing squires, and tried to look less bruised than they were. Sellswords looked for employers. Merchants counted profits. Whores counted better profits. King’s Landing swallowed the remains of the festival and immediately began smelling like itself again.

Lord Jason Mallister was also preparing to return to Seagard.

Before leaving, he sent for Arthur. The meeting took place near the stables where Mallister men were loading the last of their baggage. Jason looked ready for the road, wearing practical riding clothes and no unnecessary finery. Arthur appreciated a lord who understood that travel was not a painting.

”I am leaving for Seagard,” Jason said. ”Will you ride with me, Ser Arthur, or do you have other business?”

Arthur lowered his head slightly. ”My lord, I ask permission to remain in King’s Landing for a few days. There are private matters I must handle. Once finished, I will ride to Seagard immediately and report to you.”

Jason watched him for several seconds. ”Do not delay too long. Seagard needs men.”

”I understand, my lord.”

”See that you do.”

Arthur bowed and watched Lord Jason ride out with his household. With that, the Battanian Rangers had gained something more useful than tournament applause. They had a patron. Not a great shield, perhaps, but a legal place to stand. In Westeros, where even breathing became political if the wrong lord noticed, that mattered.

He stood at the inn door afterward, looking toward the Red Keep.

The tournament was over. The prize money had been secured. The knighthood was gained. A temporary backer had been found. By all practical measures, he should have left the city at once and taken his company to Seagard. Practicality, however, was not the same as blindness. King’s Landing still had unfinished business.

There were people worth contacting, information worth gathering, and foundations worth laying while the city was still full of movement after the tournament. A few days would not break him. Leaving too quickly might cost opportunities he could not name yet.

When he turned back toward the inn, Ena was leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed.

”Where next?” she asked.

”King’s Landing for a few more days,” Arthur said. ”Then Seagard. Our new home, apparently.”

”Apparently?”

”I try not to trust homes too quickly.”

Ena raised an eyebrow, but she did not argue. A flicker of anticipation crossed her face before she hid it. She had never seen Seagard. Neither had he. A port fortress facing Ironborn raids sounded inconvenient, dangerous, and politically useful. In other words, exactly the sort of place the world would give him.

During the following days, Arthur moved carefully through the capital. He purchased southern goods that would sell well farther north and west: spices, fine cloth, a few delicate Braavosi crafts, small luxuries that traveled better than heavy coin. He spoke to merchants, paid tavern keepers for rumors, and confirmed routes toward the Riverlands. He also watched which houses remained in the city and which men seemed suddenly eager to leave.

The prize money changed his position completely. The twenty thousand gold dragons from the melee, together with the archery rewards, gave him more than twenty-five thousand gold dragons in total. Converted into system dinars, his wealth column passed fifty thousand. It was an absurd amount compared to the coin he had counted in Wintertown. Once, he had worried about the cost of skinning knives and cheap rooms. Now he could buy men, supplies, horses, and time. The world had not become safe. Merely more negotiable.

More important than the coin was the title.

Ser Arthur Greyoak. Landless knight. Minor, temporary, and not hereditary, but still recognized. He could use a coat of arms now. He could take squires, speak before certain men without being dismissed as a hired blade, and accept contracts under noble protection. It was not power yet. It was permission to begin reaching for it.

When everything was ready, the Battanian Rangers left King’s Landing and rode north along the Kingsroad toward the Riverlands.

The road was hot, dry, and dusty under the summer sun. Horses kicked up brown clouds that clung to cloaks and faces. The wagons moved slower than Arthur liked, but faster than they had during the journey south. Their loads were better organized now, and the men had learned how to move like a company rather than a wandering argument with wheels.

Five days later, they reached the Crossroads Inn.

The inn stood north of the Trident, where the Kingsroad met the River Road and the High Road, not far west of the Ruby Ford. It belonged to lands under House Darry, though inns had a way of belonging mostly to whoever was armed and present. The main building was broad, built of wood and stone, with stables and storage in the yard. Travelers, merchants, singers, guards, and fools with destinations all passed through it.

Evening was falling, so Arthur decided to stay the night. The men unloaded goods, fed horses, and filled several long tables in the hall. Bread, stew, salted meat, and local ale were brought out. The food was rough, but it filled the stomach, which made it better than most noble speeches.

A singer with brown curls sat in the corner playing a harp and telling stories about the King’s Landing tournament. He sang badly, lied confidently, and complained about losing all his money betting on the wrong men. The merchants laughed and jeered, especially when he imitated Sandor Clegane’s gravel voice with more courage than talent.

”I saw the Knight of Flowers fall with my own eyes,” the singer said, waving one hand dramatically. ”I thought I would be rich. I put my coin where my heart was. My heart, sadly, is a fool.”

The door opened.

A small man entered.

The hall quieted for a breath.

Tyrion Lannister wore an expensive silk coat and a deep red cloak. He was short, but his presence filled more space than most tall men managed. His mismatched eyes swept across the hall with habitual mockery and curiosity. He looked like a man who had spent his life being stared at and had learned to stare back sharper.

The singer brightened at once.

”Lord Tyrion! What luck. I have a new song about your brother and the Knight of Flowers.”

Tyrion tossed him a silver stag without effort and sat near the window, ordering wine as if the room belonged to him. Arthur watched quietly. Then his eyes moved to another table.

A hooded woman had stiffened when Tyrion entered.

She wore plain traveling clothes, but she did not sit like a peasant or a merchant’s wife. Beside her was an old knight with white whiskers and a hard face. Ser Rodrik Cassel. Arthur recognized him. Which meant the woman was Catelyn Stark.

Arthur felt trouble enter the room more surely than if it had kicked the door open.