Galladon brought Stoin and Barius to the Hightower camp and presented the flowers to Helena.
Afterward, he accompanied the Hightowers to the Hall of a Hundred Hearths.
Tonight, the hall was overflowing.
More than a thousand people filled the vast chamber—mostly nobles, along with renowned knights participating in the tournament.
Nine long tables, each over twenty meters in length, stretched across the hall. Around them were numerous smaller tables, though even these could seat twenty guests.
The center of the hall was left open as a dance floor.
Upon entering, Galladon parted from the Hightowers. As a Stormlord, he was expected to sit with the Baratheons and other nobles of the Stormlands.
"Galladon, you came here just to see your fiancée, didn't you?"
Robert leaned over with a grin, having just seen Galladon enter alongside Helena and Lord Leyton.
"Don't slander me," Galladon replied lightly. "I'm here for the tournament."
Robert rolled his eyes.
"Believe it or not."
"And you?" Galladon countered. "Aren't you here for the tournament?"
Robert coughed awkwardly.
"Of course I am."
The two exchanged looks and suppressed their laughter.
Soon, Mad King Aerys entered the hall with members of the royal court.
Among them stood a bald, smooth-faced man in silk robes, smiling faintly.
"That is Varys," Lord Emmon of Greenstone whispered beside Galladon.
Emmon's son muttered darkly, "That eunuch whispers poison into the king's ear."
Other Stormlords cast hostile glances toward another figure—Wisdom Rossart, the pyromancer favored by Aerys.
In recent years, executions had increasingly been carried out with wildfire.
Aerys delighted in burning his enemies.
Many nobles found this intolerable.
Galladon, however, studied Rossart thoughtfully.
Wildfire was a terrifying weapon.
He recalled how it had devastated fleets in Blackwater Bay.
Tarth, isolated in the Narrow Sea, would rely heavily on naval strength in the future.
If wildfire could be weaponized effectively at sea—perhaps combined with trebuchets—it might revolutionize naval warfare.
Boarding combat was primitive.
Wildfire was not.
An idea slowly formed in Galladon's mind.
After a brief speech, Aerys declared the feast begun.
Wine flowed. Laughter rose.
Then Lord Whent introduced Prince Rhaegar.
The silver-haired prince stepped forward with his harp.
Under the gaze of countless noble ladies, he played.
The melody was haunting. Melancholic. Beautiful.
Galladon did not like Rhaegar personally, but he could not deny the prince's talent.
The music carried sorrow and destiny within it.
Rhaegar possessed skill, beauty, martial strength, and royal blood.
A perfect hero, in another story.
Galladon glanced at Robert.
Robert's face was dark.
Hatred lingered in his heart—for the Targaryens, for the death of his parents.
He also despised Rhaegar's refined, gentle demeanor.
To Robert, a man should drink deeply, laugh loudly, and live boldly.
Rhaegar seemed too soft. Too composed.
Galladon shook his head inwardly.
Robert did not understand.
Women were captivated by such things.
Galladon looked toward the northern table.
There she was.
Lyanna Stark.
She was watching Rhaegar with rapt attention, eyes shining.
Moved by the music, she even shed a tear.
Galladon glanced back at Robert, who remained completely unaware.
Bozi… you're a little green.
Earlier that day in the woods, Rhaegar's gaze had lingered on Lyanna.
Now Lyanna was entranced by his music and presence.
They needed only an opportunity.
Like moths drawn to flame.
Galladon exhaled quietly.
History was unfolding before his eyes.
(End of Chapter 33)
A/N:
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