Chapter 21. Archery tournment.
Back in the resting area, Arthur asked about Ena first.
The archery competition had been held in another part of the grounds at the same time as the melee. Ena, twelve Old Wolf Warriors, and five Young Wolf Warriors had entered the individual event. Several rounds of elimination had thinned the competitors quickly. The Battanians had done well, better than most expected. Ena and one Old Wolf Warrior reached the final four, which already placed them above dozens of men who had entered with more confidence than sense.
They did not win.
A red-haired boy from the Dornish Marches took the championship. Anguy, they called him. He shot fast, clean, and with a precision that made the crowd stop mocking long enough to appreciate danger. Ena was defeated near the end, and the Old Wolf Warrior fell soon after. Second and third still brought prize money, but Ena did not look comforted by numbers.
"I am sorry," she said when Arthur found her.
Her head was lowered, her voice tight with frustration. She looked more wounded by failure than she had after actual wounds. Arthur sighed and reached out to ruffle her hair. She looked up sharply, but did not move away.
"What is there to be sorry about?" he said. "You lost to a true expert. That is not shame. That is information."
"I wanted to win."
"So did everyone else. Most of them did worse."
"That is not comforting."
"It was not meant to be. I am not good at comfort."
"You are terrible at it."
Arthur smiled. "But honest."
She rolled her eyes, though the edge in her face softened.
In his mind, Arthur stored the name Anguy carefully. He remembered fragments from the story. A master archer, later connected to outlaws, perhaps the Brotherhood. The memory was incomplete, like most of the useful ones. Still, some names were worth remembering even when the details refused to behave.
The tournament ended with Sandor Clegane as champion of the joust, Anguy as champion of the archery contest, and the Battanian Rangers as champions of the melee. The crowd might have hated the way they won, but hatred was not silence. By evening, everyone in the city seemed to have heard of the strange mountain warriors who had turned the royal melee into a lesson in practical violence.
Fame followed quickly.
Too quickly.
Invitations began arriving at the inn before Arthur had properly finished counting the prizes. Some came from minor knights. Others from noble households. A few carried seals important enough to make the innkeeper's face go pale. The wording varied: congratulations, admiration, curiosity, patronage, employment, private meeting. The meaning beneath all of it was the same.
Come serve me.
Arthur rubbed his temples.
He had expected attention. He had wanted attention. That did not mean he enjoyed being surrounded by smiling wolves. The tournament was not only spectacle. It was a market where noble houses watched for useful men to buy, bind, or bury. A rootless mercenary company with proven discipline and no ancient patron was exactly the sort of prize every ambitious lord wanted to touch before someone else claimed it.
Rejecting everyone would be foolish. Choosing poorly would be worse.
Arthur spent the next day studying each invitation. Lannister and Tyrell offers were powerful, rich, and poisonous in the way all great houses were poisonous. Their courts were full of factions, cousins, flatterers, parasites, and old knives. A man like Arthur would be used, watched, and discarded if useful only once. Smaller nobles were safer in appearance, but serving one might make him a convenient target for greater men.
Then he found the invitation from the Riverlands.
Lord Jason Mallister of Seagard.
The Mallisters were old, respected, and not bloated with power. Seagard faced the Ironborn and therefore needed men who could actually fight instead of merely shine in tourneys. They were bannermen of House Tully, which gave Arthur a place within a real political structure without forcing him into the center of the lion's mouth. It was a useful door. Not too high. Not too low. Dangerous, naturally, because apparently every door in Westeros opened onto teeth.
Arthur accepted.
The meeting was arranged in a parlor inside the Red Keep. Lord Jason Mallister was tall, thin, and middle-aged, dressed simply for a lord, with sharp eyes and a face that did not waste much time smiling. Arthur liked him more for that. Smiling lords made him suspicious. Silent ones at least allowed their blades to be imaginary for a few breaths.
"I saw your performance in the melee," Lord Jason said plainly. "Flexible tactics. Not quite the sort of thing singers call chivalry, but effective. Seagard needs men who can fight, not polished vases who only know how to fall prettily from horses."
Arthur bowed with one hand over his chest. "Your words honor us, my lord."
"I can grant you knighthood, but no land for now," Jason said. "You will serve as my direct vassal. You and your men may be stationed at Seagard. Your duties will include training soldiers, suppressing bandits, escorting supply, and helping defend against Ironborn raids. You will be paid accordingly. Is that acceptable?"
"It is, my lord."
Arthur knelt and swore the oath.
The ceremony was simple, but it changed everything. Arthur Greyoak became a landless knight under Lord Jason Mallister. The rank was low, personal, and non-hereditary, but it was still a step into the noble class. In Westeros, even the lowest rung of nobility was high enough for men below to see and men above to consider using.
Afterward came the matter of a coat of arms.
Arthur sketched the design himself. The main figure was an oak tree with deep roots and broad branches, symbolizing shelter and endurance. On either side he drew golden wheat, representing harvest and abundance. Before the trunk, he placed the head of a strange beast from memory: antlers, a horse-like face, and long flowing whiskers. An eastern dragon, though no one in Westeros would know that.
Lord Jason studied the sketch. "The tree and wheat are clear enough. This beast, however, I have never seen."
"A guardian spirit from old Battanian legend, my lord," Arthur lied without blinking. "Wisdom, strength, and protection."
Jason looked at him for a moment. Arthur kept his face calm.
At last, the lord nodded. "Good meanings. I will have it recorded."
And so the device was accepted.
Oak, wheat, and the guardian beast. A lie turned into heraldry. Very Westerosi, in the end.