Chapter 34 - True Intentions

122 Ac

The second day of the sixth moon

Ulf Pov

"Why are we going to watch the archery competition?" Hugh asked, his tone filled with curiosity.

"Are you serious, Hugh?" I responded incredulously. "We are at one of the biggest tourneys in the seven kingdoms! We should definitely watch it."

Hearing my response, Hugh chuckled, his amusement evident. "You're scared of tomorrow's joust, aren't you, Ulf?" he teased, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

I sighed inwardly, knowing that Hugh had hit the mark. "I'm not scared, you oaf," I replied, attempting to mask my nervousness. "Rather, I'm... excited," I added, my voice faltering slightly.

The truth was, the impending joust filled me with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. As a young knight, it was my first time participating in such a grand tournament, and the weight of expectations pressed heavily upon me. The cheers of the crowd, the sight of skilled competitors displaying their prowess, and the adrenaline that coursed through my veins were both exhilarating and overwhelming.

Deep down, I knew that the archery competition would provide valuable insights. Observing the precision and finesse of the archers might teach me a thing or two about focus and technique, skills I would need to employ in the joust. Besides, witnessing such displays of talent and agility would serve as a reminder of the formidable opponents I would face on the morrow.

As we approached the archery range, the air grew tense with anticipation. The archers, clad in their distinctive attires, stood tall and focused, their bows poised to release arrows with deadly accuracy. The crowd, a sea of eager onlookers, murmured with excitement, their eyes trained on the targets downrange.

We found a spot among the spectators, our gazes fixed on the archers. One after another, they stepped forward, drawing their bows with grace and precision, releasing arrows that soared through the air, hitting their marks with uncanny accuracy. The crowd erupted into applause and cheers, recognizing and appreciating the skill displayed before them.

As I watched the archers, a sense of awe washed over me. Each shot seemed effortless, yet it carried the weight of countless hours of practice and dedication. The way they seamlessly aligned their bodies, adjusted their stances, and released their arrows with fluidity was a testament to their mastery. It was a stark contrast to the clunky, heavy armor I would be donning for the joust.

As the competition progressed, I couldn't help but reflect on my own preparations. Doubt crept into my mind, questioning whether I had done enough, whether my own skills would prove sufficient in the face of formidable opponents. The archers' prowess only served to amplify my inner turmoil.

Nevertheless, I was determined not to let fear consume me. The archery competition reminded me that success in the tournament required not only physical strength and prowess but also mental fortitude. I would need to channel my nervous energy into focused determination, harnessing every ounce of skill and strategy I possessed.

The archers' final shots rang out, and the competition came to a close. The victor was celebrated, and the crowd dispersed, discussing the impressive display they had witnessed. Hugh turned to me, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes.

"I see why you wanted to watch the archery competition," he admitted, his tone softer than before. "It's about more than just entertainment. It's about inspiration and learning from the best."

I stared at Hugh in astonishment, my eyebrows raised in disbelief. "Hugh, are you feeling alright?" I asked, concern lacing my words. "We should go to the maester and have him take a look at you."

"Why?" Hugh responded, looking genuinely confused by my reaction.

"Because," I explained, my voice filled with a mix of surprise and excitement, "instead of the usual nonsense that you spew, what you just said was something incredible."

As my words sank in, Hugh's face transformed from confusion to delight. A wide grin spread across his face as he basked in the unexpected compliment I had given him. However, his happiness was short-lived as realization dawned on him, and his face turned a bright shade of red. Suddenly, he lunged toward me, his playful anger evident, and I instinctively started running away from him, laughter escaping my lips.

We chased each other through the bustling tournament grounds, the thrill of the moment overpowering any lingering nervousness. The cheers and laughter of the onlookers blended with the sounds of the jousts and festivities, creating a vibrant symphony of excitement and camaraderie.

As we weaved through the crowd, our playful chase came to a halt near a lively tavern. We both paused, breathless from the exhilaration of the chase, and exchanged mischievous glances. It was then that we decided to take a well-deserved break, finding a spot outside to catch our breath and enjoy a moment of respite.

Sitting at a wooden table, we reminisced about the events that had unfolded earlier. I couldn't help but marvel at the unexpected turn of events—the archery competition, the compliment I had bestowed upon Hugh, and our impromptu chase through the bustling crowd. It was in these moments of camaraderie and lightheartedness that the weight of tomorrow's joust seemed to momentarily fade away.

The warm sun bathed us in its golden light as we indulged in refreshing drinks, the clinking of glasses adding to the joyful atmosphere. As the laughter subsided, I turned to Hugh, a newfound admiration shining in my eyes.

"You know, Hugh," I began, my voice filled with sincerity, "despite our playful banter and occasional disagreements, I appreciate having you as my friend. You bring a sense of adventure and unpredictability to even the most mundane moments."

Hugh's expression softened, and he leaned back in his chair, a touch of sentimentality in his voice. "Likewise, Ulf," he replied, his gaze wandering across the bustling tournament grounds. "Through all the challenges we face, it's moments like these—filled with laughter and shared experiences—that make it all worthwhile."

As we sat there, enjoying the camaraderie and the vibrant atmosphere, a sense of gratitude enveloped me.

"Harlon Flowers," the name echoed in my mind as I reminisced about the archery competition. Strangely, I realized that his name had not been mentioned at all during the celebratory festivities known as the Dance.

"Poor sod," I muttered under my breath, a tinge of sadness coloring my voice. "He must have met an unfortunate fate or perhaps didn't make much of an effort to be recognized."

A sense of sympathy washed over me as I pondered the possible reasons for Harlon's absence from the Dance.

Harlon's arrows had soared through the air with uncanny accuracy, hitting their marks with impressive precision. Each shot had showcased not only his physical prowess but also his unwavering focus and dedication to his craft. The crowd had erupted into applause and cheers, recognizing his talent and the artistry of his performance.

As I continued to reflect on Harlon's absence, I couldn't help but wonder about the stories that lay hidden behind the scenes. Perhaps fate had dealt him an unfortunate hand, snatching away the opportunity to participate in the Dance Of Dragons. With his skills he could easily shoot a dragon rider if given the proper opportunity

Lost in my thoughts, I couldn't shake off the lingering feeling of admiration for Harlon's abilities. It was not just his archery skills that impressed me; it was the passion and dedication he had displayed on that grand stage. The memory of his precise movements and the determination in his eyes remained etched in my mind.

Suddenly, a chilling scream pierced through the air, snapping my attention away from our contemplative conversation. My head turned swiftly, and my eyes widened in alarm as I witnessed a distressing scene unfold before me. A young girl lay on the ground, her tear-streaked face marred by bruises, her cries of pain echoing through the tavern.

The collective murmur of the patrons died down, and a heavy silence settled over the room as all eyes fixated on the heart-wrenching sight. The tavern owner, whom I assumed to be the girl's father, rushed toward her, his face etched with worry and anger.

In a vile display of cruelty, the man responsible for the girl's injuries brazenly spoke his contemptuous words. "Stupid bitch," he spat with venom, his armor gleaming in the dim light of the tavern.

Recognition sparked within me, and I felt a surge of anger well up from deep within my chest. It was Ser Mervyn Flowers, the same knight who had suffered defeat in the archery competition. The man's bitterness and frustration had evidently boiled over, leading him to unleash his rage upon the innocent girl.

"Papa, it hurts," the girl sobbed, her pain and fear tangible in her trembling voice as her father cradled her protectively.

Disgust washed over me at the callousness of Ser Mervyn's words. I felt an overwhelming desire to confront him, to make him answer for his despicable actions. But before I could utter a single word, my attention was drawn to a figure rapidly approaching Ser Mervyn.

With a resolute determination, the figure swung a powerful punch, connecting squarely with Ser Mervyn's face. The knight staggered backward, his armor rattling, as surprise and pain registered on his features. His companions, reacting swiftly, unsheathed their swords, ready to exact vengeance upon the audacious assailant.

Astonishment gripped me as I recognized the person who had come to the girl's defense. It was none other than Harlon Flowers, the skilled archer who had emerged victorious in the archery competition. Harlon, seemingly fueled by a righteous fury, stood firm, his gaze unwavering despite the looming threat of Ser Mervyn's allies.

The tavern erupted into a chaotic flurry of gasps and murmurs. The atmosphere crackled with tension, the air thick with anticipation as the scene teetered on the precipice of violence. Yet, amidst the commotion, a newfound sense of justice and hope sparked within me.

As the tension escalated, my instincts kicked in. I couldn't let Harlon face the onslaught alone. I stepped forward, positioning myself beside him, my eyes fixed on Ser Mervyn and his allies.

"Everyone, calm the fuck down!" I bellowed, my voice cutting through the chaos like a thunderclap. The tavern fell into an uneasy silence, and the patrons turned their attention toward me, their murmurs now replaced by hushed whispers.

Mervyn Flowers, his face twisted with anger and arrogance, sneered at me. "Get out of the way, boy, and let me gut the fucking bastard," he spat, his words dripping with venom.

I refused to back down. Meeting his gaze head-on, I mustered every ounce of confidence and resolve. "Do not call me boy," I asserted firmly, my voice laced with a quiet intensity. "You know very well who I am."

The room seemed to hold its breath, anticipation thick in the air. Mervyn's companions, still visibly agitated, were ready to pounce, their hands gripping their unsheathed swords tightly. However, the tension dissolved as Hugh rose from his seat, standing tall beside me. "You heard him," Hugh interjected, his voice commanding and resolute. The weight of his words seemed to penetrate the air, influencing Mervyn's companions. Reluctantly, they sheathed their swords, acknowledging the gravity of the situation.

Redirecting my focus to Mervyn, I locked eyes with him, my gaze unwavering. "You just struck an innocent girl. What kind of knight are you?" I questioned, my voice filled with a mix of disappointment and righteous anger.

Mervyn's face twisted further, his fury intensifying. "What the fuck did you say to me?" he seethed, his voice dripping with menace.

"Just because you were the prince's squire doesn't mean shit," Mervyn retorted, his words laced with derision.

A chuckle escaped my lips, a brief moment of amusement amidst the tension. "Of course, it won't mean anything," I replied, my tone laced with a steely resolve. "But I don't need the prince's help to teach a lesson to a man who beats children and tarnishes the name of knighthood."

As Mervyn reached for his sword, the atmosphere became charged with imminent violence. However, before blood could be shed, the doors of the tavern burst open, revealing a group of goldcloaks rushing in, their armor gleaming in the dim light.

The presence of the city's guards startled the tavern's occupants, freezing them in their tracks. The goldcloaks swiftly assessed the situation, their eyes narrowing as they took in the scene before them. Stepping forward, one of the guards, a stern-faced captain, commanded authority.

"Enough! Lower your weapons and explain yourselves," the captain demanded, his voice resonating with a mix of power and caution.

Realizing the gravity of the situation and the potential consequences, Mervyn hesitated for a moment. Slowly, he sheathed his sword, his eyes narrowing as he glared at me.

"This isn't over," he hissed, a promise of future confrontation lingering in his words.

As tensions eased, the captain turned his attention to me, his gaze scrutinizing. "What transpired here?" he inquired, his voice a mix of sternness and curiosity.

I took a deep breath, preparing to recount the events that had unfolded. With measured clarity, I relayed the story, highlighting Mervyn's violent actions toward the innocent girl and my own stand against his deplorable behavior. The goldcloaks listened intently, their expressions shifting from sternness to concern.

After hearing both sides of the story, the captain nodded, his gaze now fixated on Mervyn. "You will have to answer for your actions," he stated firmly, his voice leaving no room for negotiation.

As the Gold cloaks led Mervyn away, a sense of justice washed over me. The tavern, once filled with tension and aggression, now buzzed with a mixture of relief and gratitude. The patrons, having witnessed the incident, approached me with a newfound respect and gratitude, offering words of appreciation for standing up against injustice.

They were all like mindless sheep, I thought with frustration, allowing Harlon's act of bravery to be the sole catalyst for action. If he hadn't stepped up, they would have remained passive spectators, doing nothing to protect the innocent.

As the commotion settled and the tavern began to regain its normalcy, Harlon's voice reached my ears. "Here, take this," he said, his voice filled with sincerity, as he handed a gold dragon to the grateful tavern owner. The man expressed his profound gratitude, clasping the coin tightly in his hand before rushing his daughter off to seek the care of a healer.

Turning to face Hugh and me, Harlon's expression softened, gratitude evident in his eyes. "I wish to thank you both, Sers," he said, his voice laced with sincerity as he bowed his head in appreciation.

My frustration boiled over, and I couldn't help but speak my mind. "You're an idiot," I blurted out abruptly, the words laced with a mix of exasperation and concern. Harlon's face contorted with surprise and anger at my seemingly harsh statement.

"What?" he retorted, his voice betraying a mix of confusion and offense.

"You should not have struck Ser Mervyn," I clarified, my voice carrying a note of firmness. "Yes, he struck the young girl, and his actions were despicable. But imagine if Hugh and I hadn't been here. They would have your head on a spike by now. You had barely any weapons on you, and you let your emotions get the better of you."

Listening to my reasoning, Harlon's anger subsided, replaced by a sense of remorse and understanding. His face fell, marked with a tinge of sadness. "But..." he began, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

Interrupting him, I continued, my tone softening with empathy. "I know, I know," I reassured him. "He struck the innocent girl, and the anger in your heart was justified. But in situations like these, we must think with our heads, not just our hearts. Sometimes, restraint and strategy are what will truly save us from further harm."

As the weight of my words settled in, the tavern owner's expression shifted, the understanding slowly taking root. He nodded, a mixture of gratitude and regret crossing his features. "You're right," he admitted, his voice filled with a hint of resignation. "I let my anger cloud my judgment. Thank you for reminding me of the importance of reason."

A somber silence fell between us, the weight of the recent events hanging in the air. Despite the tension, there was also an unspoken bond forming, a shared understanding of the complexities of human nature and the choices we face in the face of injustice.

With a sense of closure, I extended my hand toward the tavern owner. "Apologies for my bluntness," I said sincerely, my voice softened. "We all make mistakes. The important thing is that we learn from them and strive to be better."

Hugh accepted my gesture, shaking my hand with a mixture of gratitude and newfound respect. Hugh, standing by my side, nodded in agreement, offering his own silent support.

"So now you buy us a drink," Hugh chimed in with a mischievous smile, breaking the somber mood that had settled between Harlon and me.

Hearing Hugh's playful remark, Harlon's spirits lifted, and he cheerfully brought us some ale. We sat together, sipping our drinks, the weight of the recent events temporarily pushed to the back of our minds. It was a moment of camaraderie amidst the chaos of the world.

After a few rounds of drinks, Hugh excused himself to relieve his bladder, leaving Harlon and me alone at the table. The tavern buzzed with activity around us, but we found solace in the quiet exchange between two newfound acquaintances.

"It is good that Ser Mervyn will face justice and be held accountable for his actions," Harlon said, his eyes shining with determination.

I couldn't help but shake my head, a wry smile playing on my lips. "You know nothing, Harlon Flowers," I replied, my voice tinged with a hint of cynicism.

Harlon looked at me, perplexed by my cryptic statement. "What do you mean?" he inquired, his curiosity piqued.

"Mervyn is the brother of the Lord of one of the strongest houses in the Reach," I explained, leaning in slightly. "And that brother happens to be in the capital as we speak. Ser Mervyn will not face any real consequences for his actions. But you, my friend," I said, emphasizing each word, "you will find yourself in deep trouble."

Harlon's troubled expression deepened, a sense of worry clouding his features. He clearly had not considered the potential repercussions of his actions beyond the immediate aftermath.

Feeling a mix of responsibility and sympathy, I offered him a solution. "Don't worry, Harlon. I will speak to Prince Daemon on your behalf. I'll ask him to take you into his household as one of his guards. You can come back with us to Dragonstone, and once news spreads that you are a part of Prince Daemon's retinue, nobody will dare lay a finger on you, fearing the wrath of the prince."

Harlon's eyes widened with a mix of gratitude and relief. "But Ulf, what about returning to the Reach? What about my family and my life there?" he questioned, voicing his concerns.

I chuckled softly, realizing the gravity of the decision he faced. "Harlon, my friend," I said, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder, "you have the opportunity to make your father proud by serving as one of Prince Daemon's knights. The chance to be a part of something greater than yourself. It's more than enough reason to leave behind the troubles and dangers that await you on the Goldroad."

A sense of determination shone in Harlon's eyes as he nodded, gratitude evident in his voice. "Thank you, Ulf," he said sincerely. "I never expected such kindness and support. I am ready to embrace this new path, to make my family proud and serve Prince Daemon with all my heart."

I smiled warmly, appreciating the bond that had formed between us amidst the chaos of the tavern. "It's fine, Harlon," I replied with a hint of humility. "We stand together, allies on this new journey."

Harlon excused himself, eager to fetch another drink, his steps filled with renewed purpose. As I watched him walk away, a sense of satisfaction washed over me. His trust in me was growing, unknowing of the ulterior motives that drove my actions.

I couldn't help but smirk as I contemplated the web of manipulation I had been weaving. Hugh, Aemond, and now Harlon—all pawns in the grand game of thrones, all unwittingly serving my purposes. The pieces were falling into place, aligning themselves to further my ambitions.

Hugh, with his gullible nature, had been a simple target. It was child's play to guide him along, using his loyalty and naivety to my advantage. Aemond, with his sob story of wanting forgiveness for his actions, had been equally susceptible to my manipulations. I had whispered the right words, played on his desires, and watched as he willingly became a puppet in my scheme.

And now Harlon, the skilled archer who had shown bravery and potential, had unknowingly become entangled in my intricate plot. With him by my side, I would have a devoted ally, someone who could tip the scales in my favor when the time came. His prowess with a bow and his newfound allegiance to Prince Daemon's household and the Blacks would be valuable assets in the impending war.

I relished in the knowledge that these individuals, driven by their own desires and aspirations, were unknowingly advancing my own cause. It was a satisfying feeling, knowing that the strings I pulled were subtly altering the course of events to favor my own ambitions. In the game of thrones, winning was all that mattered, and I was determined to emerge victorious.

With each passing moment, I grew more confident in my ability to manipulate those around me. The intricate dance of deception and influence had become second nature to me. I reveled in the power it afforded me—the power to shape destinies, to manipulate loyalties, and to control the outcome of events.

But I was careful not to let my satisfaction show. To maintain the facade of friendship and loyalty, I had to ensure that my true intentions remained hidden. The art of manipulation relied on subtlety, on planting seeds of doubt and suggestion that grew unnoticed. It required careful planning, calculated moves, and an unwavering determination to achieve one's goals.

As I took a sip of my drink, a smile played upon my lips. The game was afoot, and I was the puppet master pulling the strings. The path to victory lay before me, and with each pawn I manipulated, my grip on power tightened. The war to come would be ruthless, but I was prepared to go to any lengths to secure my place on the Iron Throne. Of course, I was not foolish enough to think that I would ever sit on it. Rather I would be the one controlling it through the shadows.

In the end, it would be my cunning, my ability to deceive and manipulate, that would determine the outcome. And as I gazed into the future, my eyes filled with ambition and guile, I knew that I would stop at nothing to claim the ultimate prize—the throne of Westeros.