Chapter 31

Chapter 31: The Falcon, The Stag, and The Horseman 

…

5 days before the tourney

Jon Arryn POV

In the distance, the city of Lannisport came into view, its white stone walls glowing softly in the afternoon light. Beyond it, Casterly Rock towered above the sea, its golden cliffs rising majestically like a lion guarding its domain.

Closer to the city, the tourney grounds were already bustling with life. A colorful patchwork of tents stretched across the fields, banners of noble houses fluttering in the breeze, filling the air with excitement.

After the long journey, the sight was a welcome relief. My men, though weary from the road, seemed to regain their energy at the prospect of rest, good food, and the spectacle of the tourney. We had finally arrived.

"Finally, we're here! Ned, let's race! First to the tourney grounds isn't a loser!" Robert Baratheon's voice rang out, his usual boisterousness already filling the air as he spurred his horse ahead without waiting for a reply.

I sighed, amused but exasperated. Robert, my ward, was a handful—a lad full of mischief and boundless energy. I had treated him like a son, trying to guide him, but the boy was as wild as the storm in his family's sigil.

Beside me rode Eddard Stark, or Ned. Unlike Robert, Ned was quieter, more thoughtful, but I could see the spark of eagerness in his eyes as he watched his friend gallop ahead.

He turned to me, silently seeking permission. I nodded, knowing the boy well enough by now. They were both only eleven, full of youth and vigor, and deserved a moment of fun after such a long journey.

Ned wasted no time. With a determined look, he urged his horse forward, chasing after Robert with quiet intensity. Though he wouldn't shout or laugh like Robert, I knew Ned's competitive spirit ran just as deep—perhaps even deeper.

As I watched the two of them race toward the tourney grounds, so different yet bonded like brothers, I couldn't help but smile.

"Lord Arryn, is it wise to let them run off like that?" a voice asked, laced with concern. I turned to my left and found Yohn Royce, the Lord of Runestone, towering beside me.

Yohn was an imposing man, standing at 6'8, his presence as solid as the armor he wore. He was one of the most honorable and loyal lords under my banner, a true embodiment of the values we held dear in the Vale.

He would represent House Arryn in the upcoming tourney, and he wasn't alone. Lords Corbray, Redfort, Hunter, and other knights from the Vale would also be participating, each eager to bring honor to their houses.

"They'll be fine," I replied with a smile. "Let them have their fun. They've earned a bit of reprieve after the long journey."

Yohn grunted, not fully convinced but willing to trust my judgment. "Alright, but if they stir up trouble, I'll see to it they receive a little punishment," he said with a hearty laugh, his deep voice booming.

"Haha, of course, my friend," I chuckled, amused by his protectiveness.

With that, we continued riding at a leisurely pace toward the tourney camp. The excitement in the air was palpable, but for now, it was a moment of peace before the storm of competition.

…

Steffon Baratheon POV

As we neared the towering gates of Casterly Rock, a familiar mix of excitement and impatience stirred within me. The fortress, carved from the golden cliffs, loomed as imposing as the man who ruled it—Tywin Lannister, my old friend.

I was eager to see him again, to share a drink and talk, as we had done many times over the years. We had set up camp near the tourney grounds days earlier, leaving some of my men to keep watch.

But now, I longed for better accommodations, something more fitting for a lord paramount. A proper room within the Rock was certainly a step above a tent, no matter how well-appointed.

Cassana, my wife, was comfortably settled in the wheelhouse with her maids. I could hear their voices faintly as we rode alongside.

Beside me was Stannis, soon to turn ten. A dutiful son, always serious, though I wished he'd loosen up a little more. Still, I was proud of him; he would grow into a strong leader one day, even if he was my second son.

The air hung heavy with anticipation—not just for the tourney, but for the reunion with Tywin. 

As the gates creaked open, I nudged my horse forward, eager to enter Casterly Rock and see what awaited us within. We crossed the stone bridge leading to the great gates, the sound of hooves echoing off the cliff walls.

Ahead, a familiar figure approached on horseback. Though it wasn't Tywin, the golden hair and green eyes marked him unmistakably—Kevan Lannister, Tywin's brother.

"Greetings, Lord Baratheon. Welcome to Casterly Rock," Kevan said with a respectful nod, reining his horse in beside us.

I returned the nod, a grin spreading across my face. "No need for the titles, Kevan. How's Tywin? And Joanna? Keeping well, I trust?" My laughter boomed in the crisp air.

"They are both doing quite well, thank you," Kevan replied, his tone composed as ever.

"And the child?" I asked, my tone dropping slightly. "I've heard rumors—a dwarf, they say. Is it true?"

Kevan's expression grew serious. "It's true," he said evenly. "But regardless, he's a Lannister. My brother will treat him no less than any son of the Rock."

I scratched my beard, noting the subtle defense in Kevan's tone. He must have thought my question came from malice. "I respect that," I said sincerely, nodding at him. "May Tywin and the Lannisters prosper."

Kevan's tense expression softened, and he gave me a small nod in return. No hard feelings. Just like that, we rode onward to the main gate of Casterly Rock, the imposing fortress looming ever closer.

After reaching the stables, we dismounted. I couldn't help but notice the sheer number of horses housed there—dozens, perhaps more. Other visiting houses must have arrived as well, likely drawn by the upcoming tourney.

Once we'd handed our reins to the stable hands, I turned to Cassana and Stannis. 

"You two head to the main hall. I'll catch up after I greet Tywin." Cassana offered me a soft smile, her eyes sparkling with understanding. Stannis nodded quietly before following his mother toward the entrance.

"Well then, Kevan, lead the way," I said, breaking the moment's tension. Without hesitation, he nodded and began to ascend the many stairs, his long strides carrying him effortlessly through the vast hall.

We wound through the stone corridors, rich artifacts and portraits of Lannister ancestors lining the walls as we climbed. At last, we reached the door to Tywin's chambers. 

The guards stationed outside acknowledged us with nods as we approached. With a firm knock, Kevan announced our presence, and I felt a thrill of anticipation. 

…

Third POV

In the training grounds of Casterly Rock, Galahad was a sight to behold atop his large black stallion, a magnificent beast gifted to him by Tygett after a particularly daring bet. 

The stallion's sleek coat glistened in the sunlight, its muscles rippling beneath the surface as it moved with an elegance that mirrored Galahad's own skill.

Galahad's horse riding was nothing short of impeccable; each movement was fluid and instinctual, as if his very essence melded with the powerful animal beneath him. 

Together, they danced through a series of obstacles—wooden barrels and hay bales intricately arranged into a challenging course, demanding agility and precision. 

He navigated them with ease, guiding his stallion with subtle shifts of weight and well-timed cues, embodying a harmony that few could achieve between horse and rider.

A crowd of spectators, consisting of Lannister, Tyrell, Tully, and Martell knights, gathered at the edges of the training ground, their murmurs of admiration and disbelief weaving through the air. 

They watched with a mixture of awe and confusion; Galahad's methods of training were unconventional, to say the least.

"Why does he insist on doing it this way?" a Tyrell knight whispered, scratching his head as he observed the bizarre drills, bewildered by Galahad's techniques.

A Lannister knight shrugged, a grin spreading across his face. "Whatever the method, it works. You may not know, but the lad's become quite a legend in Casterly Rock," he replied, pride evident in his tone.

Pushing the stallion to its limits, Galahad launched into a particularly daunting obstacle—a barricade of logs stacked high. The stallion soared through the air, landing with a powerful thud that resonated across the ground. 

Cheers erupted from the onlookers, but he barely acknowledged them, his focus sharp on the next challenge ahead. He reveled in the thrill of the ride, the wind whipping through his golden hair, exhilaration coursing through his veins.

As he finished the obstacle course, Galahad dismounted the black stallion, a swell of accomplishment blooming within him. 

Leaning close, he whispered to the horse as if it could truly understand him, the bond between them palpable. He patted the animal affectionately, caressing its glossy mane, feeling the raw power that lay beneath its muscular frame.

"Bravo, quite a show there," came a voice from behind him. Oberyn Martell clapped his hands, amusement dancing in his eyes as he watched the scene unfold.

Beside him, Gerion Lannister shook his head in disbelief, slapping his cheeks as if to awaken himself from a dream. 

"You lied, didn't you? Five days ago, you said it was luck. But you were a great horse rider all along," he said, his tone mingling playful lament with mock seriousness.

"Haha, cheer up! You weren't the only one unhorsed," Oberyn replied, giving Gerion a friendly smack on the back, laughter and warmth filling the air around them.

"Well, you guys never asked," Galahad shot back, flashing them a cheeky grin.

"Okay then, I'll ask. How does a son of a smallfolk know how to ride this well?" Gerion inquired, curiosity glinting in his eyes, his expression earnest.

"I'm just built different," Galahad retorted, his trademark joke ready at hand.

"I swear to the Seven Gods, if you say that one more time…" Gerion said, clenching his fist in mock frustration, making a playful gesture as if to threaten Galahad with breaking him like a stick.

Galahad acted scared and changed the conversation.

"I'm a little hungry; instead of breaking my bones, why don't we fill our stomachs?" Galahad suggested, mischief lighting up his eyes.

The laughter flowed freely between them, a moment of levity that stood in stark contrast to their competitive spirits.

Just then, a shout broke through their revelry. "I yield!" It came from a Tyrell knight, and the trio turned to see Tygett standing tall, a blunt sword pointed at the defeated knight.

"Should we ask Tygett to join us?" Galahad suggested, hope glimmering in his voice.

Gerion shook his head, a frown creasing his brow. "Nah, I don't think he's in a good mood," he replied, concern lacing his words.

"Well, ever since he lost that joust bet—and, of course, the fine horse—he's been a bit sour," Oberyn added, nudging Galahad playfully, the memory of Galahad's victory still fresh and stinging for Tygett.

Galahad chuckled, shrugging off the tension that hung in the air. "Well, I guess it's just the three of us then," he said lightly, his tone breezy despite the earlier events.

They all nodded in agreement, their camaraderie unbroken by Tygett's foul mood. As they turned to head toward the main hall, the promise of roasted meats and fresh bread awaited them.