Gavin bowed politely.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Lord Willas.
I’m Gavin Flowers.” Willas smiled back.
“Emond’s spoken of you.
I didn’t expect someone so young to already be that skilled with a blade.” The three of them moved deeper into the feast together.
They sat side by side.
At first Willas kept the conversation light and courteous, but the longer they talked the more it flowed.
Willas quickly realized Gavin might be young, but he spoke with a maturity and steadiness far beyond his years.
Whether he was breaking down the current political situation or offering sharp insights into people’s motives, Gavin’s ideas felt fresh and precise, like he carried a quiet library of hard-won wisdom in his head.
When the talk turned to running a domain, his suggestions were practical, grounded, and forward-looking.
Willas watched him with growing admiration.
Gavin’s clear logic and original thinking were impressive enough on their own, but the way he laid everything out—calm, structured, and convincing—had a kind of quiet pull that made it hard to look away.
Willas found himself thinking, This one’s a rare find.
If we could bring him into House Tyrell he’d be a real asset.
Pity he’s a bastard.
Already his mind was turning over ways to approach Emond and see if he could pry the boy loose.
The feast wound down.
As he prepared to leave, Willas extended an invitation to both Emond and Gavin.
“Once the archery and team melee are finished, we’re holding a proper banquet inside the castle to celebrate my sister Margaery’s thirteenth name day.
Emond, make sure you bring Gavin.” Emond grinned and accepted.
In the quiet of his private tent, Gavin carefully cleaned and checked his gear.
Emond had given him a well-made hard bow for the competition.
Tommen slipped inside, letting the flap fall behind him.
“Captain, I got the numbers.” Gavin looked up.
“Let’s hear it.” Tommen kept his voice low.
“Odds on you winning the archery are ten to one.
For the team melee it’s the same—ten to one.
If you’re the sole survivor on the winning side, it jumps to twenty to one.” Gavin didn’t hesitate.
“Put it all on me.” Tommen’s face tightened.
“Captain, that’s everything.
If something goes wrong—” “There’s no ‘if.’ Risk and reward go together.
I’m confident.” Tommen studied him for a long moment, then gave a short nod and clenched his jaw.
“All right.
The lads are throwing in everything they’ve got too.
We’re all with you.” Gavin clapped him on the shoulder.
“I won’t let you down.” Tommen left to place the bets.
Gavin went back to his equipment, eyes steady.
Emond had handed him a thousand gold dragons as payment for fighting on behalf of the house.
The moment Gavin heard about the betting pools he’d told Tommen to put every coin on him.
If he won, his purse would grow fast enough to solve a lot of problems.
He was ready.
All he needed now was the moment to arrive.
The archery grounds spread out in a wide golden field in front of Highgarden, sunlight turning the grass bright.
A massive stand had been raised below the castle walls, packed with nobles in their finest clothes who chatted and watched the field below with interest.
The rules were straightforward.
Each archer faced a target at a hundred paces and got five shots.
Anyone who hit with every arrow saw the target moved back another ten paces and shrunk.
The process repeated until only one competitor remained.
“Archers, ready!” Gavin stood tall, drew the hard bow Emond had given him, and loosed.
His form was clean and powerful, every movement precise.
His silver hair caught the light and spilled over his shoulders, framing a face that was already drawing stares from the stands.
Noble ladies leaned toward one another, whispering and asking who the striking young archer was.
Up on the stand Willas nudged Emond with a grin.
“Your nephew’s got quite the effect on the ladies.
Half the women up here are swooning.” Emond’s chest swelled with quiet pride.
“Of course.
He carries Cotoin blood.” Gavin kept shooting.
Arrow after arrow flew true.
He reached a hundred and eighty paces with the target now no bigger than a cup—hard to see clearly even in good light.
Only two archers remained.
His arms were starting to burn.
Sweat beaded on his forehead.
If they reached two hundred paces without a winner he might have to spend an energy point, something he’d rather avoid.
Across from him his opponent was struggling too, hands visibly trembling.
Then a wave of high, excited voices rose from one section of the stands.
Several young noblewomen were calling Gavin’s name, faces flushed, cheering him on without shame.
The sudden noise rattled the other archer.
Already tense, he lost what little control he had left.
His next arrow flew wide.
Gavin lowered his bow and watched the man’s arrow miss.
He shook his head, half amused, half exasperated.
I can’t believe I just won the archery championship because of my face.
He couldn’t help the small, crooked smile that tugged at his mouth.
It wasn’t how he’d planned to take the win, but he’d take it all the same.
The prize was his.