The Mander rolled onward, the Centaur slipping away from Longtable's docks.
The castle of the exiled lord stood empty, patiently waiting for Orton Merryweather to one day reclaim it.
Longtable might look small, but its family still had plenty of story left to tell.
Lord Orton's exile across the Narrow Sea had not been kind.
His house was neither easily forgiven by Robert and Jon Arryn in King's Landing nor welcomed into the innermost circle of the Tyrells at Highgarden.
Orton wandered, bleeding coin year after year.
It was only natural that the "Eight-Clawed Spider" Varys and the "Cheesemonger" Illyrio had bought him.
Varys's web reached far: not only Orton's future wife, Tysha of Myr, but Orton himself.
That explained why Tysha of Myr could later approach Cersei with so much dangerous knowledge.
Tysha likely had ties to both Dorne and Highgarden, yet at her core she belonged to the Spider.
And foolish-looking Orton… who could say whether the foolery was an act to shield his wife, the same way Doran shielded the Red Viper's schemes?
"Clever," Arthur murmured, privately admiring the eunuch's reach. Varys's spies bloomed everywhere—even in the Reach and Dorne.
Few suspected that Blackfyre remnants still operated at the very heart of power, planning the ultimate "steal the sky and switch the sun" deception.
"After the savage Marq died in the Stepstones, the Blackfyre male line ended," Arthur thought.
That comforting lie had lulled almost everyone. No one saw the vanished Blackfyres as a threat.
On the surface, plenty of lords chafed under the wolf-stag-fish-falcon-lion order: the Tyrells of the Reach, the Martells of Dorne, the Greyjoys of the Iron Islands.
Then came the overlooked houses—Whent, Mooton, Darry, Connington.
The dragon and the spear wanted to overturn Robert's rule outright.
The kraken wanted to restore the Old Way and ancient independence.
The rose simply wanted to shove everyone else aside and squeeze into Robert's inner circle.
The obvious malcontents were easy to watch.
No one imagined the Blackfyres would rise from the grave.
Inside the flower ship's cabin, Arthur and his companions enjoyed Longtable's fine fruits while Ser Lucas shared old gossip.
"Old Owen was a shameless flatterer with mediocre talent," Ser Lucas recalled. "He climbed by kissing the Mad King's arse."
"Yet he still issued the bounty decrees," Wylis Wode added. "Oh, right—the year of the four Hands."
283 AC, the Year of the Four Hands in Westeros.
If you counted Jon Arryn later, it became five.
After the Rebellion erupted, Lord Owen publicly declared Robert Baratheon, Eddard Stark, Jon Arryn, and Hoster Tully traitors, ordering every minor lord to put bounties on their heads.
Inside King's Landing, however, he worked hard to suppress the news.
Lord Owen encouraged Stormlands lords to ignore their liege Robert's call to arms.
All of it came to nothing after Robert's three victories in one day at Summerhall.
"The Merryweathers paid dearly for their greed," Ser Lucas sighed. "They climbed too high and fell too hard."
Owen's half-hearted bounties without sending troops had been useless—almost treasonous—and it enraged the Mad King.
Aerys stripped the Merryweathers of titles, lands, and honors, then exiled them.
But the great lords Owen had placed bounties on were never going to forgive him.
They let Owen die in exile, and even his grandson still could not return to the Reach.
"The Smiling Hand Owen and the Griffin were consecutive Hands, weren't they?" young Lucas Roote chimed in, clearly enjoying the old stories. "The Griffin came to the Harrenhal tourney too. The Mad King was always cruel to his Hands—he kept cutting their palms on the Iron Throne."
"The Griffin didn't actually die," Arthur thought silently.
These were secrets few knew.
Owen had been a mediocre flatterer.
The Griffin had been a brilliant, sword-obsessed young man who worshipped Rhaegar.
Both had served as the Mad King's Hand and both had been exiled.
Compared to later Hands, they fared better: one had been burned alive by the Mad King, another slain by the Kingslayer.
"None of those four Hands from that year met good ends," Ser Lucas said quietly.
"A dangerous seat, yet men still swarm to it like moths to flame," Arthur mused. "That, I suppose, is the taste of power."
As long as power existed, the killing would never stop.
The spy Lord of Longtable, the resurrected Griffin, the wildfire left by the pyromancers—even the Mad King's last four Hands still rippled across the realm.
A fractured Iron Throne, and every player wanted to be the mantis that caught the cicada.
Arthur's task was simple: clear every obstacle in his path.
...
Several days later, Highgarden.
The flower ship Centaur docked at the Tyrells' private Golden Rose harbor.
House Caswell's hospitality ended here.
From Highgarden, Arthur's party would ride south to Oldtown.
Highgarden sat on the Mander; Oldtown sat on the Honeywine. Two very different rivers.
"My thanks for your hospitality," Arthur told the captain as they disembarked. The captain still had cargo business at the common docks.
"It was our honor," the captain replied with a bow.
Delivering Arthur to Highgarden had already earned them good coin.
"Who comes?" the green-robed harbor tax collector asked, two green-cloaked spearmen at his back.
Even with the bat banner flying, protocol had to be observed.
Arthur's group—aside from Arthur himself and the ordinary servants handling cargo—consisted of Ser Lucas Dayne, squires Wylis and young Lucas, big Rolly, and the two hedge knights Lothor Brune and Clarence Crabb. They made an impressively martial sight.
"Visiting Highgarden is the heir to Harrenhal and Earl of Whitewalls, Lord Arthur Whent," Wylis announced smoothly.
Arthur's titles were still few.
Otherwise they would have added the full flourish—"Black Arthur, the Dark Knight"—all titles he had earned himself.
"Ah, Lord Arthur," the tax collector's tone warmed at once.
"It is I," Arthur nodded.
"Lord Randyll Tarly and Lord Jon Caswell both sent ravens about your southward journey. Young Lord Willas and Ser Garlan specifically instructed that if you reached the docks, I was to escort you to Highgarden at once. Both young lords greatly admire your skill at arms and your knightly spirit," the tax collector said enthusiastically.
"Willas Tyrell and Garlan Tyrell?" Arthur raised an eyebrow, surprised.
Willas was more the scholarly type.
But Garlan—the second son—was a formidable warrior who simply never chased fame. In the years to come, it would be the Knight of Flowers, Loras, who stole all the glory.
"Indeed, the two young lords. Your dominance at the Dragonstone Squire's Tourney made quite the impression. They say you fought like the Warrior himself," the tax collector beamed.
"You flatter me," Arthur replied with a modest smile.
When it came to boasting and hype, no one did it better than the Reach.
The Knight of Flowers' later fame owed much to the Tyrells' generous purse—pure coin power.
It seemed Garlan had become a fan and was inviting Arthur to dine at Highgarden.
"Then we would be delighted," Arthur said. He had no reason to refuse.
The Caswells and Tarlys had already spread word of his movements. Refusing would be rude.
"I'll have men escort you at once, Lord Arthur," the tax collector laughed happily.
He assigned two green-cloaked spearmen to clear the way and personally led Arthur's party toward Highgarden.
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