Chapter 51: Lord Arryn's Invitation
After seeing off the Rat Catcher Roken, Syrio Forel returned.
Rhaegar poured Syrio a cup of hot water.
"Master Syrio, do you feel I'm too mature? I even study the cold scheming and acting of politicians."
Syrio looked at Rhaegar without hesitation.
"A good man does not easily become a good king. I want you to be a good man, a good king, and a good warrior. Though it's hard, I'll do everything I can to help you."
Syrio drained the hot water and added,
"King Jaehaerys II Targaryen once showed me great kindness; teaching you the Water Dance repays that debt. I'm no White Sword bound to serve House Targaryen—we're friends, and I believe you'll be a great, brave prince."
House Targaryen's greatest weakness now was its few numbers and feeble strength. Yet with Syrio, Ser Barristan Selmy, and Roken at hand—and the dragon king's ring to rely on—what was there to fear?
Entrusted in the hour of defeat, commanded in the midst of peril.
Rhaegar nodded, as though flames had been kindled in his chest.
"I will live up to your trust and forge a mighty legacy."
I shall be the true dragon, and fire…
Beyond King's Landing, the Kingswood fluttered with banners of every color.
The golden lion, the sky-blue falcon, the crowned stag, and the three-headed dragon led the van, followed by the lesser banners of vassal houses.
The hunt began.
Though coin was tight and no tourney or mock sea battle had been staged for Lord Jon Arryn's arrival or Ser Tywin Lannister's wedding, a hunt could still be arranged.
Knights prowled like silver fish in a stream.
Young knights raised their standards, pride and resolve shining on their faces.
Lion-crested, eagle-crested, stag-crested, and dragon-crested helms thundered ahead, hoping to find fine quarry in the Kingswood.
A wolf would do, a boar better; if it were the stag, by the Seven it would be perfect.
The stag—regal as any king.
Hawking and hunting were the delights of nobles.
Extravagant, yes, but they proclaimed rank and station.
At Ser Steffon Baratheon's suggestion, the great houses gladly joined.
The eldest knight was Lord Jon Arryn. After him came Ser Tywin Lannister, Ser Steffon Baratheon, and Prince Aerys Targaryen.
Rhaegar dearly wished to join, but his request was refused—too young, too risky.
A monstrous boar or a savage bear would be terrifying.
So Rhaegar stayed in the outermost camp tent, packed in with the womenfolk.
The women chattered and laughed; to Rhaegar they were only noise. Only Lady Lysa Arryn, older than the rest and burdened by care, looked ever gloomy.
However mighty the lords they married, their world seemed a circle of children and household.
Robert was already asleep; only Roberta remained in Lady Joanna Lannister's arms, her blue doe-eyes lovely, a dear little girl.
"Could our Silver Prince play another tune for us? I saw you bring your harp," said Lady Cassana Baratheon.
Rhaegar wanted to refuse—his mind was on the hunt, eager to test his strength, not perform.
"He could," Queen Rhaella Targaryen laughed, "but one song from Rhaegar will cost you golden dragons."
"What of it? Cassana's gift is ready." Princess Elia Martell produced a golden brooch: House Martell's sun-and-spear piercing the day—bright gold that spurred Rhaegar anew.
"You may well stand in for Cassana; the Baratheons have twins, a heavy expense. How I envy you those twins," said Lady Joanna.
Rhaegar drew out his harp and began.
Though he now favored steel over books and music, his gift still grew—he was a six-sided warrior.
He plucked the strings; music flowed like a spring, a murmuring stream, sweet and clear.
The sounds of spring followed Rhaegar's playing, slowly drawing everyone in.
"Wonderful! The boy will be a knight of love and beauty. He knows arms and music, unlike our men who care only for hunts and tourneys," Lady Cassana laughed.
Rhaegar knew her meaning—Baratheons bred brawny fighters who loved hunts, jousts, and brothels. Ser Steffon Baratheon was the exception; he had married a princess and was a true knight. Yet Robert would slip back into the old ways.
She's right, Rhaegar thought. Your Robert will master hunting, jousting, wenching, and whoring.
"Next time bring more dragons, Cassana, or you'll lack coin for the prince's music." Princess Elia laughed, and every woman joined in.
"No matter—I'll leave my little treasure as pledge." Cassana grinned, pointing to her baby girl.
"So many children—I should have brought my Elia and Oberyn." Princess Elia smiled, warm and free as Dorne itself.
Inside the tent, laughter floated—save for Lady Lysa Arryn, upon whose face clouds still lingered.
As the chatter rose, Lady Lysa's face darkened, lost in grim memory.
Today only Lord and Lady Arryn were old, yet the lord still lacked an heir.
The succession had quietly shifted to his nephew.
"I long for a child of my own—boy or girl—to hold," Lady Lysa sighed.
"The Seven willing, you shall yet bear one, my lady," Queen Rhaella comforted her.
Rhaegar studied Lady Lysa. Lord Arryn could father children—if not for poison, his strong frame might last till eighty.
The lack of babes likely lay more in the lady's frail health.
Soon the drumming of hooves, the ring of mail, the roar of voices, the scent of meat and the mingled smells of blood and wine rolled over them.
Rhaegar heard Ser Steffon shout,
"Lord Arryn's today's lucky one—he speared a boar himself!"
They had taken hares, doves, wolves, and pheasants, but Lord Arryn's boar was the prize.
"A fine omen—may the lord soon have a child as bold as the hawk above and as strong as the boar below!" Prince Aerys Targaryen laughed.
On the grass the cooks set to work, serving the boar—tough, but a solid dish.
"Thank you for the blessing, my prince. If it fails, I'll take Prince Rhaegar back to the Eyrie as my squire!" Lord Arryn joked—rare humor from him.
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