chapter 195 part 2
Jon smiled and shook his head helplessly. "What I heard may not necessarily be true."
Young Griff tossed a wineskin to Jon and said, "Jon, no rush. Drink while you talk."
…
…
Crackclaw Point, Mermaid Port, Council Chambers.
Glyn Crabbe stood with his hands behind his back before a window. In his hand was a reply letter written personally by Daenerys.
…
…
Fifteen days later, at Bitterbridge in the Reach, the murky Mander River shimmered under the sun.
Along both sides of the Rose Road, on the verdant grass, were arrayed countless trebuchets, scorpions, and battering rams. The tents of the Reach and Stormlands lords were like silk mushrooms scattered across the fields, and thousands of campfires filled the air with a pale, thin mist. Under the bright sun, countless spearpoints glinted with a red light, as if they were weeping.
Renly Baratheon's great banner flew high above the center of the camp: a black crowned stag, rampant and proud, on a field of gold.
Beneath the banner of the crowned stag, a field had been cleared for the tourney. It was filled with the whinnying of horses, the clang of weapons, and the cheers of the crowd—a boiling cauldron of sound.
On the high platform, Renly and Margaery sat side-by-side, talking and laughing.
The stag crown on Renly's head was artfully inlaid with a circlet of roses. He wore a green velvet doublet, the Baratheon sigil embroidered on its breast with the golden thread of the Golden Rose.
Renly had slender limbs, broad shoulders, smooth and straight jet-black hair, and clear blue eyes. With his familiar faint smile, he was simply a young Robert reborn.
Margaery Tyrell wore a green, sleeveless Highgarden gown. Her long, brown, curly hair fell lazily over her shoulders. A pair of gentle eyes looked towards Renly from time to time, and her smile was both shy and sweet.
Down on the field, with a loud crash, two fully armored warhorses slammed into each other, a tangle of steel and flesh that drew gasps from the crowd.
Margaery, on the high platform, nearly cried out in alarm. Only when the two knights in full plate armor staggered to their feet did she release the breath she had been holding.
Sensing that she had drawn Renly's gaze, Margaery turned her slightly pale face to the side. Her charming features revealed a faint smile of lingering fear.
A comforting smile appeared on Renly's handsome face, exceptionally gentle. The noblewomen who were watching their interaction couldn't help but clutch their chests and let out soft sighs.
…
Seated not far away, Olenna Tyrell shifted her gaze and said in a low, huffy voice, "Just like a king."
Beside her, Mace Tyrell paused in the act of stroking his beard and asked quizzically, "Mother, what did you say?"
Lady Olenna was incensed just looking at her smiling son. "My Lord Mace, when will my granddaughter finally mount the future king?"
Lord Mace's smile froze for an instant. He said placatingly, "Mother, King Renly has already made his promise. If you don't believe others, do you not believe your own granddaughter?"
He stroked his beard and added, "Margaery has already taken her place as Queen. The Golden Rose endures."
Lady Olenna snorted coldly. "Besides bowing and scraping every day, this old woman hasn't seen anything tangible."
Lord Mace explained to his mother, "Lord Tywin's army has advanced on the Riverlands. After they finish their battle, if we're lucky, we might not even have to fight to..."
Lady Olenna impatiently cut Lord Mace off. "This old woman doesn't understand how to fight wars, and I'm tired of hearing about this 'art of war' you trumpet every day. You all can handle it as you see fit."
She added, "I plan to return to Highgarden."
Hearing this, Lord Mace said in shock, "Mother, you..."
Lady Olenna huffily slapped her own knee. "Lord of Highgarden, take pity on this poor old woman. If I keep bowing and kneeling like this, I might never be able to get up again."
…
The tourney grounds were a mess, muddy and littered with broken armor and shattered lances. The melee at Bitterbridge, in which one hundred and sixteen knights had participated, had raged for a full day. In the end, Brienne of House Tarth was victorious.
King Renly announced in a loud voice, "Come forward, my champion."
As Renly's words fell, Brienne limped towards the high platform.
Reaching Renly, Brienne stood tall and proud. "Your Grace."
Her blue armor was covered in wounds—dents from warhammers and maces, deep gashes from longswords. The enamel on her breastplate had flaked off, and her cloak was torn to shreds.
Renly looked at Brienne with a warm expression and praised her, "Your noble father did not exaggerate. You are indeed an excellent swordsman."
He continued, "As champion, you may ask of me anything you desire. So long as it is within my power, I shall grant it to you."
Brienne answered without hesitation, "Your Grace, I ask for the honored position of a Rainbow Guard. I ask to become one of your Seven, to offer my life for you, to follow you to the ends of the earth, to never leave your side, and to protect you from all harm."
"I agree."
As Renly's words fell, a girlish, genuine smile blossomed on Brienne's homely face.
Renly smiled, unfastened Brienne's tattered cloak, and personally tied a brand-new rainbow cloak around her.
Brienne's voice could hardly suppress her excitement. "Your Grace, my life is yours. I swear by the new gods and the old, from this day forth, I am your shield."
…
As evening fell, the tourney feast began. To the performance of singers and acrobats, the guests first enjoyed pears poached in spiced wine, followed by delicious little fish rolled in salt and fried crisp, and squab stuffed with onions and mushrooms. Then came great loaves of brown-baked bread, mountains of turnips, sweetcorn, and peas, fine hams and roast geese, and platters piled high with venison stewed in ale and barley.
At the high table, King Renly would occasionally use the tip of his dagger to pick out food for Margaery. The two of them would either play at jests or whisper secrets to one another.
King Renly often burst into hearty laughter. No matter a lord's station, he could converse with them cordially.
As the feast neared its end, the guests who had drunk too much became unruly. For example, the sons of Ser Willan, Josua and Elys, argued endlessly over who would be the first to scale the walls of King's Landing; Lord Varnar pulled a serving girl onto his lap, nuzzling her neck while his hand slipped into her undergarments; Ser Lorimer in green fancied himself a singer, strummed a harp, and performed a song about tying a knot in a lion's tail; Ser Mullendore teased a black-and-white monkey, feeding it scraps from his own plate; and Ser Tanton, whose foot had just landed in a cruet of sauce, swore he would finish off the Hound, Sandor crabbe, in single combat.
Amidst the hall's roaring laughter, Margaery's handmaiden discreetly approached and whispered a few words in her ear. Margaery gave a slight nod.
…
Soldiers in full forest-green plate armor, their helms adorned with two massive golden antlers, guarded either side of the entrance to the King's tent.
Hearing a sound, the guard Captain looked over warily. When he saw the newcomer clearly, his eyes widened involuntarily.
He looked as if he had seen a ghost. "Lor... Ser Loras?"
(end of chapter)