Their father had trained them well in military and martial arts during their childhood and hoped that they would one day prove themselves worthy of the favor of some influential lord. Such was the path for many young men of noble birth who had no expectation of inheriting the family estate.
The two Orm brothers distinguished themselves at Blackwater. Yet there were so many others who had shown equal or greater valor that, although they were awarded knighthood, nothing more came of it. The influential lords had too many choices, and once again, fortune passed the Orms by.
They decided to remain in King's Landing for a few weeks. Meanwhile, the wedding of Joffrey and Margaery was drawing near. It would have been unwise to leave the capital at such a time—especially since the king had been feeding his guests for free throughout the celebrations.
Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—Herald met a beautiful girl, Lady Olivia of House Footley. They took several walks together, accompanied by friends in the surrounding gardens and parks, and even began to grow fond of one another. Everything went well until Olivia's father, Ser Shamble Footley, learned of the budding romance and strictly forbade his daughter to continue the acquaintance.
It was bitter, but Herald understood the reason. The Orms were not inferior to the Footleys in nobility, yet they were far poorer. And Ser Shamble wished to find a more advantageous match for his daughter.
Herald and his brother racked their brains but could find no solution. They needed either money or titles—but neither seemed likely in the foreseeable future.
Time passed, and one day they attended the breakfast preceding the royal wedding. However, the master of ceremonies' assistants seated them at the farthest table and advised them to behave modestly and avoid drawing attention to themselves.
Although they represented the Reach, the Orms found themselves at Joffrey's breakfast rather than Margaery's, as both Lord Tywin and Lord Mace wished to display to the assembled knights the strong friendship that now bound their two great houses.
The servants brought out exquisite dishes and fine wines. Light music played, and laughter filled the hall.
"Our king looks quite impressive," the elder brother murmured into Herald's ear. "From what I'd heard, I imagined him differently."
"Yeah," Herald agreed, glancing around the hall. The king sat at the highest table, surrounded by numerous Lannisters and Tyrells.
Rumor had painted Joffrey as spoiled, spiteful, petty, and cruel. Yet after observing him for a couple of hours, the Orms saw little to confirm such tales.
The representatives of the Hightowers sat at another table, just one level below the royal dais. They were attended by standard-bearers, and Herald thought bitterly that once, the Orms' place would have been there—not at the third table among the lesser knights.
The king began to receive gifts. The knights, particularly those who were envious or simple-minded, whispered and speculated about the value of each offering, their eyes gleaming with curiosity.
Then, when King Joffrey was presented with a sword forged of Valyrian steel, the entire hall fell respectfully silent.
"What shall I call it, lords?" the young king asked, turning to those gathered before him.
At first, the more noble and senior lords called out their suggestions. Herald simply watched with mild curiosity. The king seemed displeased with all the names offered, and then, quite unexpectedly, a thought came to the younger Orm. How would he like to name such a sword? He hesitated only a moment before shouting out:
"Wind of Change!"
"Who said that? Show yourself!" the king demanded.
"It was I, Your Majesty," Herald replied, standing straight.
"Who are you, ser?"
"Herald Orm, of House Orm, in service to the Lords of Hightower."
"Thank you, ser. I accept the name Wind of Change for my sword," the king said with a nod, then stepped forward and gave the blade a sharp swing through the air.
Herald sat back down, feeling a faint sting of disappointment. It was possible, after all, that the king might have taken more notice of him—perhaps even rewarded him—but he was merely thanked and dismissed.
"Well, has King Joffrey noticed you now?" his older brother teased, grinning as he clapped him on the shoulder.
"I don't think it will go any further than that," Herald replied thoughtfully, folding his arms across his chest.
That evening's wedding ceremony, and the following day's festivities—when the king and his new wife held another feast and even a tournament in celebration—only confirmed all his suspicions. The king thanked him and promptly forgot about him.
And he did not participate in the tournament himself, for he owned neither horse nor proper armor, and their father could not afford to provide them.
Thus, he and his brother watched from the stands as the knights displayed their strength and skill. The finest archer proved to be Ser Balon Swann of the Kingsguard, while second place went to a tall, powerfully built man with dark skin named Jalabhar Xho. Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper, won the single combat competition.
The day, rich with impressions and excitement, came to an end. The Orms returned to their tent and began preparing for supper. Around them, a small group had gathered on the grass—Cedric Hastvik, Berg Graves, and a few other knights and squires. All were men of the Reach, their families bound by friendship for generations. Their grandfathers and great-grandfathers had campaigned together and shared many a late-night feast by the fire.
A gentle breeze fanned the flames, sending a thousand crimson sparks rising into the starry sky. The grass gave off an exciting scent. The coals crackled softly, and the chirping of cicadas blended with a distant, melodious voice accompanied by a harp, singing "The Seasons of My Love."
The warriors sat drinking from their wineskins, speaking leisurely of the battles they had witnessed, and waited for the moment when the lamb hanging over the fire would finally be ready.
"I swear by the Seven, I might not have won like the Red Viper, but I'd have kicked half those knights' asses," Harald declared loudly, taking a long drink.
"If the late Lord Renly were here, he'd have fucked everyone's ass," Herald laughed, and the others joined in, roaring with laughter.
When the laughter subsided, Herald placed a saddle behind his back, stretched out his long legs, leaned against it, and gazed into the fire for a long time.
And the next morning, a young man approached their tent and introduced himself as Robert Brax, the king's steward.
"His Majesty wishes to speak with you, Ser Herald," he said.