That night Emond threw another feast in the camp to celebrate House Cotoin’s archery victory.
Gavin sat at the high table but his mind was elsewhere.
His eyes kept drifting toward the tent flap until Tommen finally lifted it and gave him a quick signal.
Gavin excused himself from Emond and slipped out.
They hurried back to his tent.
“Captain, we’re rich,” Tommen said, voice tight with excitement.
He dragged a heavy leather sack from under the cot and dropped it at Gavin’s feet.
Gavin yanked it open.
“How much?” “Thirteen thousand gold dragons.
You put in a thousand.
The lads scraped together another three hundred between them.” Tommen’s eyes shone.
“We hit it big.” Gavin nodded.
“Go get the men.
They can collect their shares here.
Keep my portion separate and split the rest however you see fit.” Tommen didn’t move.
His face had gone serious.
“What?” Gavin asked.
“There’s bad news.
The odds on the melee dropped.” Gavin felt his stomach tighten.
“How bad?” “Five to one.
Ten to one if you’re the last man standing on the winning side.” Gavin let out a slow breath.
“Still workable.” He met Tommen’s eyes.
“Once the men have their gold, take everything I just won plus the thousand Emond gave me and put it all on me being the sole survivor.
You and the lads decide for yourselves whether you want to follow.” Tommen straightened.
“We already talked it over.
We’re staying with you.” Gavin clapped him on the shoulder.
“Then go handle it.
I won’t let any of you down.” Tommen nodded hard and left.
Gavin stayed in the tent, already doing the math in his head.
This kind of money would finally let him start building blood puppets.
The only real problem left was bodies.
He paced the small space, brow furrowed.
The Reach had been peaceful for too long.
Where could he find enough corpses without drawing attention?
The thought of going sellsword for a while kept circling back.
Narrow Sea or Essos.
Two clear advantages: plenty of fresh dead from pirates, warring Free Cities, and Dothraki raids.
And any puppets he brought back could be explained away as loyal guards hired on the far side of the sea.
The more he turned it over, the more the plan felt solid.
Dangerous, yes, but the need was stronger.
He made his decision.
Gavin pushed the thoughts down and returned to the feast.
He was the guest of honor tonight.
Disappearing for too long would look strange.
Emond was already deep in his cups, one heavy arm slung around Ryan’s shoulders, laughing loud at something only the two of them understood.
The moment he spotted Gavin he waved him over and pulled him into the drinking.
By the time the feast ended Emond could barely stand.
Gavin and a pair of servants half-carried, half-dragged him back to his tent and got him onto the bed.
Gavin was turning to leave when a hand shot out and caught his forearm.
Emond’s eyes had cleared a little.
He pushed himself upright with effort, took the cup of water a servant handed him, and drank it down.
Then he pointed at a sturdy wooden chest in the corner.
“I meant to give this to you when you were older,” he said, voice rough.
“But you need it now.
And it feels like it belongs to you anyway.” Gavin looked at the chest, uncertain.
Emond jerked his chin toward it.
Gavin walked over and lifted the lid.
Inside lay a beautiful set of plate armor, every plate polished and engraved with fine patterns, the joints fitted with obvious skill.
Beside it rested a long, straight sword.
The hilt was set with a single red gem that caught the lamplight, and the blade looked sharp enough to shave with.
Gavin stared, surprised and moved.
Emond had gotten to his feet and now stood behind him.
“It was made for your father on his coming-of-age day.
It’s yours now.” Gavin closed the chest at once.
“My lord, this is too valuable—” Emond waved the protest away.
“Take it.
I want it to keep you safe.
That’s all.
Now let an old man sleep.” He dropped back onto the bed without another word.
With Tommen’s help Gavin buckled the armor on.
It was lighter than it looked and clearly expensive, with a reinforced hook on one side for a lance.
Even at fifteen the fit was nearly perfect.
He studied his reflection in the small steel mirror and felt a quiet warmth spread through his chest.
Emond had never treated him like a bastard.
From the beginning he had given Gavin real care, real training, real chances—everything a true uncle, or even a father, would have given.
In this world that kindness meant more than Gavin could ever say.
The next morning the team melee began on the same broad field in front of Highgarden.
The Tyrells had ringed a five-hundred-pace circle with low wooden barriers and left more than twenty gaps so any fighter who wanted out could leave without shame.
Teams were limited to five men.
Ryan had wanted to add an experienced soldier, but Gavin refused.
He raised his lance, the Cotoin banner snapping from its tip, and led the three gladiators through one of the openings.
Over two hundred armored fighters already stood inside the circle, weapons ready, staying tight with their own groups.