The merchant ship rounded Whispering Bay and swung east into the Mander just before reaching the Shield Islands.
Dense forests and rolling hills lined both banks, the scenery lush and peaceful.
As the vessel pushed farther upriver toward Highgarden, golden wheat fields rippled in the breeze along the shores.
Orchards hung heavy with ripe fruit, their sweet scent drifting over the water.
Small villages and tidy farmsteads dotted the landscape, where people worked the land in quiet rhythm.
At last the ship docked at the nearest river port to Highgarden.
The waterfront bustled with activity—ships coming and going, crews loading and unloading cargo under the midday sun.
Gavin stepped onto the quay and looked up at the distant white castle crowning the green hills.
Highgarden rose like a polished pearl set in the earth, its pale walls tall and strong, gleaming softly in the sunlight as if carved from finest marble.
Graceful towers stabbed into the clear blue sky, their spires proclaiming the seat’s power and elegance.
He let out a low whistle.
“Highgarden really is the most beautiful castle in Westeros, just like they say.” The harmonious layout, the intricate stonework, the way everything fit together—it looked like something out of a dream, a perfect medieval vision brought to life right in front of him.
Down below the castle walls the tourney had turned the fields into a roaring sea of color and noise.
Tents of every hue dotted the ground like scattered jewels.
Merchants shouted over one another, hawking spices, weapons, silks, and trinkets.
The rich smell of roasting meat and exotic spices hung thick in the warm air.
Jugglers tumbled and spun through the crowds to cheers and applause.
Bards plucked harps and sang of old heroes.
Children darted between the legs of adults, their laughter bright as bells.
Gavin shouldered his way through the packed camp outside the city gates, only to learn that every room inside Highgarden’s walls was already taken.
With a quiet curse he turned back, found an open patch of ground on the outskirts, and paid for a small tent and a spot to pitch it.
Even the outer camp was packed shoulder to shoulder, alive with shouting vendors and bursts of laughter.
Then a flash of color caught his eye—a banner snapping in the breeze atop one of the larger pavilions.
It was quartered: on black fields, a silver chalice gleamed; on gold, a black rose bloomed bold and dark.
House Cotoin’s standard.
He’d known that banner since he was a boy.
A slow smile spread across his face.
If Ser Emond was here, it would be smart to pay his respects.
He adjusted his pack and headed straight for the pavilion.
The guard at the entrance was Tommen—one of the men who’d served under him back at Three Towers.
The big sellsword’s eyes went wide the second he recognized Gavin.
“Captain Gavin!
Seven hells, didn’t expect to see you here!
Thought you were buried in books at the Citadel.” Gavin grinned and clapped him on the arm.
“The Citadel doesn’t forbid assistant maesters from swinging a sword or drawing a bow.
Rules are flexible when you’re not actually forging the chain.” Tommen barked a laugh and scratched the back of his neck.
“Fair enough, Captain.
Ser Emond and Master Ryan both rode in.
You want to see them?” “That’s why I’m here.
Where’s their tent?” Tommen jerked his thumb toward the center of the camp.
“Right over there.
Go on in—they’ll be glad to see you.
I’ve got to stay on the gate.” Gavin nodded his thanks, gave Tommen’s shoulder a friendly squeeze, and strode inside.
Inside the pavilion Ser Emond paced with his arms folded tight across his chest, face grim.
“If it comes down to it, I’ll take the lists myself.
This tourney decides the last disputed village.
We can’t lose it.” Master Ryan sat forward in his chair, elbows on his knees.
“My lord, House Hightower’s no small thing.
You step into the joust and something goes wrong, what then?
I’ve already hired three hard men from across the Narrow Sea for the team melee—former gladiators out of the fighting pits, ten years each.
They’ll at least win us that one.” Emond stopped pacing.
“And the archery?” “I’ll shoot it myself,” Ryan said firmly.
“But I still don’t like the idea of you competing.” Emond opened his mouth to answer when a guard ducked inside and announced Gavin’s arrival.
Surprise and relief flashed across Emond’s face.
He pushed out of the tent at once, Ryan rising to follow.
The moment Emond spotted Gavin standing there he broke into a wide grin, crossed the ground in three long strides, and pulled the younger man into a crushing hug.
One big hand ruffled Gavin’s silver hair.
“Half a year and you’ve grown again.
Come inside, lad.” He hauled Gavin into the tent, sat him down on a camp stool, and dropped into the chair opposite.
“How’s the Citadel been treating you?” Gavin met his uncle’s eyes without hesitation.
“Learned more than I ever expected, my lord.
If I actually wanted the chain I could forge it tomorrow—but I don’t plan on becoming a real maester.” Master Ryan let out a booming laugh.
“This boy’s always been sharper than the rest of us.” Then the older man straightened, a new thought lighting his face.
He turned to Emond.
“My lord, Gavin’s archery is better than mine ever was.
Now that he’s here, why not have him shoot for the house?” Emond studied Gavin for a long moment, eyes narrowing with appraisal.
“Gavin, have you kept up your training these past six months?
Or has all that reading turned you soft?” Gavin stood and gave a short, respectful bow.
“Every day, my lord.
Never missed a session.” Emond nodded once, decision made.
“Good.
Then you’ll represent House Cotoin in the archery contest.” Gavin didn’t answer right away.
He looked from Emond to Ryan and back.
“My lord…
is there more to this than just the tourney?” Ryan leaned in and laid it out plain.
The Hand’s last ruling had settled one of the two disputed villages between Cotoin and Hightower, but left the second one hanging on purpose—keeping the old feud simmering.
Both houses had finally seen through the game and sat down to talk for the first time in years.
They’d struck a deal: the tourney would decide who took the last village.
Best of three.
Whichever side’s competitors placed higher in the events would win each round.
Gavin listened in silence, the pieces clicking into place.
High stakes, then.
Not just glory or coin—land, and the old grudge with the Hightowers riding on every arrow and every swing.
He felt the familiar weight of expectation settle on his shoulders, and beneath it, the quiet burn of anticipation.