"And there you have it, people!" The announcer screamed, his voice carrying across the stands, riding over the roar of the crowd. "With that arrow, which seemed to have been guided by the crone herself, Lord Blackfish—er, Lord Brynden Tully—defeats Anguy and takes the win as the best Archer of the Tourney."
The crowd snickered at the herald's fumble, but who could blame him? Even the children recognised the veteran knight by his nickname rather than his true name.
"Curse it! I was sure that Anguy from Dorne would take the win." The Baker threw the wooden stub to the ground before stomping on it for good measure.
"How much did you bet?" Gendry looked at his friend with amusement as they retook their seats along with the rest of the charged crowd.
"5 stags," he admitted reluctantly.
"You put that much on a bet?" Gendry asked incredulously. "Did your father finally increase your allowance?"
"As if! The miserable old goat would bake all his money and eat it before he'd give me an extra penny," he snorted. "It's part of what I managed to save over the years."
"Stole from your father, you mean," Gendry mumbled, but the Baker ignored him.
"But I really thought the Dornish boy would win." He slammed his fist into his palm. "He always managed to hit the centre so easily before, so how did he fumble at just ten paces more?"
"I think it must have been the wind." Gendry glanced towards the flags fluttering in the wind. "They both tied at a hundred paces, and the only thing different this time was that the wind was flowing a little faster. Blackfish is a veteran of many wars, and has a lot more experience than Anguy, after all. Besides, it's already a great achievement for him to reach the finals against nobles like Swann and Blackfish."
"How would that help me?" he grumbled. "The Blackfish must be over fifty, right? So how could he hit a target that I can't even see from here?"
"I heard it's because he eats fish eyes for breakfast, lunch and dinner, every single day of his life."
An old farmer sitting in front of them turned his head and chipped in with a serious expression.
"Yeah, right," he scoffed, but a moment later he turned to Gendry. "That wouldn't help, right?" he whispered.
"Who knows?" He shrugged.
"Look, they are clearing the fields." He pointed at the men taking away the targets. "Are they finally going to start the lists now?"
"Let's see." The Baker counted on his fingers. "The archery is over, and we had that squire's melee before that, and the True Melee doesn't start until two days later, so I guess the final is the only thing left now."
"Why are they taking two days' break? Wouldn't it be better to do it all at once?"
"Well, they have to give the ones who competed in the Tourney a chance to take some rest, don't they?" He settled back while folding his hands. "And especially the two in the finals. Even if the pretty one from Reach doesn't compete, Jon Snow is surely going to be joining the Melee."
"You think so?"
Gendry scratched his head.
"But isn't he too young? I mean, I know he is talented and all to reach the finals against everyone, but it is one thing to compete on a horse and quite another to go head-to-head against monsters such as Sandor Clegane. The beast is at least a foot taller than him."
"He is not just any fifteen-year-old, though." The Baker shook his head. "Didn't you see those brats hitting each other with their wooden swords in that idiotic squire's bout earlier? They are probably the same age as him, likely even older, so do you think they stand a chance against him?" He raised an eyebrow.
"No." The answer came without any hesitation.
The answer left Gendry's mouth before he even finished thinking about it.
In fact, just imagining those fumbling padded squires standing against Jon Snow made him wince in sympathy. It would be too cruel.
"Exactly." The Baker leaned back and nodded. "The boy's been blessed by the gods, I tell you. He'll show us another amazing show in the Melee, I am sure of it."
"You don't expect him to win against the likes of Jaime Lannister and others, do you?" He turned to him with a strange expression on his face.
No matter how much you believe in someone, there has to be a limit to how far you can stretch it.
To have faith that a fifteen-year-old brat will outdo forty other veteran knights in a chaotic bout and come out on top was nothing short of a fantasy; one might as well believe that dragons will revive again.
"Why not?"
The Baker raised his chin. "I-It can happen," but his voice lacked the confidence his body was trying to exude; clearly, even he was having trouble imagining this coming to fruition.
"Yes, sure." Gendry rolled his eyes at the stubbornness of his friend.
"People say that the boy has been fed wolf hearts since he was born, and has the strength of a hundred wolves."
The farmer turned and chimed in again.
"Where are you getting these facts of yours, old man?" Gendry smiled helplessly. "Have you even travelled out of the city in your whole life?"
"Why? Of course I have," the farmer retorted defensively. "I have been to many places like t-that Dunkesdale. I went there just last year to my cousin whose brother's son's maternal uncle was getting married, and I also—"
But before the old farmer could tick off all the places he had ever been to, the women sitting just below them, separated by a wide empty section, stood up and began screaming their hearts out.
Ahhh!!!
"W-What? What happened?"
Gendry stood up and looked around with alarm.
"I-It's Jon Snow. He is here." The Baker jumped in excitement and began pointing towards the fields. "Look! On that white horse! Damn, he looks good in that armour."
"That's it?!"
Gendry was left speechless by this exaggerated reaction from the women at seeing a boy they had been witnessing every day over the past week.
But despite his internal grumbling, he couldn't resist craning his head and taking advantage of his height to see the famous bastard in all his glory.
"He doesn't look that strong, though..." was the conclusion he reached a few minutes later, as he watched the boy complete a round of the grounds while waving at the crowds with a brilliant smile on his face.
"You wouldn't be saying that if you had seen him smash knight after knight from their horses as if they were toys, without taking a single hit." The Baker pointed proudly towards the field. "He is like lightning out there. One moment he is riding calmly and the next, whoosh! His lance strikes true. One can barely see him."
"Uh-huh." He nodded distractedly, his attention having been fully captured by the armour Jon Snow was sporting.
Black plate covered him from head to toe. Every piece fitted so closely that it seemed less like armour and more like a second piece of clothing made out of dark steel.
The edges of the plates overlapped with such precision; simply from the way he moved his arm, Gendry could tell that whoever made it had taken his measurements down to the smallest detail.
Not only practical, but it was also very beautiful, and every time the sun shone on the polished black surface, intricate details appeared that must have taken weeks of effort to create.
'Who could have made something like this?'
Gendry frowned as he went over the names of all the master smiths famous across Westeros.
'Even Master Tohbo wouldn't be able to create this... at least not without a lot of help from other skilled blacksmiths scattered all over the Seven Kingdoms.'
The screams from the stands gradually faded as Jon headed towards the white tent at the edge of the field with a flag showing a proud white wolf snapping in the wind.
Then another wave of screams rose from the women, mostly from the younger lasses.
"What is it this time—"
"It's the Tyrell boy!"
The Baker jumped again.
Gendry huffed and dropped back into his seat, not feeling very excited to see yet another noble boy who was good at riding horses because it was the only thing he had trained in since he was a child.
Their seats were on the left side of the grounds, and they sat close enough to Jon Snow's tent that Gendry could see the boy's armour in even more detail.
"Who's that red one?"
Gendry noticed Jon talking with a tall, muscular boy around his age standing in front of his tent with a smile on his face.
"Oh, that's Robb Stark, the heir of the North." The Baker turned towards him. "He is Jon Snow's older half-brother."
"They seem close," Gendry murmured, feeling a strange warmth in his chest for some reason at watching them like this.
'But what do I care if a bastard is accepted by his family?'
"Look! Loras is heading right there!" The Baker practically bounced in his seat.
"Why in seven hells are you getting excited about that?"
Gendry looked helplessly at his friend, who ignored him and kept his focus on the pretty Tyrell boy in white armour as he dismounted before the two Northerners.
"What do you think they are talking about?" The Baker asked aloud with intense curiosity on his face.
"Are they friends?" Gendry watched the two young boys, who were about to meet in the finals, trading jests and knocking each other's shoulders.
"Are they friends?!" The Baker squeaked as he turned with a look of disbelief. "Are you out of your mind? Have you been living under a rock?!" He pointed at Gendry as if he had just told him he didn't know who the Sevens were.
"Why?" The extreme reaction made even Gendry doubt himself, wondering if he overlooked something obvious.
"Don't you know that they are—"
"Look! It's Lady Margaery."
A young girl of about 18 suddenly screamed and jumped in her seat, being the first one to notice, drawing the attention of the two boys and everyone else sitting nearby.
"What is she doing there?"
Gendry stared in amazement as the Tyrell lady, who was easily the most beautiful girl he had seen in his entire life (which was saying something, considering he lived in King's Landing, the home of nobles), greeted the three boys and conversed with the two Northerners as if they had all known each other for years.
'They all seem happy.'
Gendry noticed, which seemed like a bizarre thing to notice, but when he recalled every other noble he had seen before, he remembered only faces with their nose up in the air, with disgust in their eyes or carrying a false, hypocritical smile on their faces that sent shivers down your spine... but they seemed different.
"You really don't know?" The Baker sat down and looked at Gendry as if he were a rare animal. "Haven't you heard the rumour?"
"What rumour?"
"That Lady Margaery and Jon Snow..." The Baker raised two fingers and slowly pressed them together "...are like this."
"Don't be absurd." Gendry scoffed with a roll of his eyes. "Jon Snow is a bastard," he stated as if it explained everything.
"It would be more believable if you said the same about the red-haired one." Gendry pointed towards Robb.
"But it's the truth! Ask anyone out here." He immediately searched around for a target, and coincidentally the one closest to them was the farmer sitting in front.
"Oi, old man! You know about Jon Snow and Lady Margaery, right?" The baker grabbed his shoulder and pulled him around. "Tell my friend here that I am not lying about them."
"Huh, oh, yes. He is telling the truth." The farmer nodded, though reluctantly for some reason. "There is indeed something going on between the two."
"But he is a bastard..." Gendry had a look of utter incomprehension, as if the world wasn't making sense. "Even if he belongs to one of the Great Houses, there is little chance that there would be any future between them, right? So how is anyone even allowing that..."
"That's what makes it so interesting, you fool!" He slapped Gendry's back in excitement. "It's just like in the stories, a lowly bastard who rose up from the bottom because of his hard work, and a beautiful high noble lady who fell in love with him because of his chivalry..."
"You are really not making this all up?"
"I am not—"
"Your friend's telling the truth." The excitable young girl sitting in front of the farmer turned to join the conversation. "I saw the two just yesterday; they were alone, by themselves, shopping in the market, just the two of them," she insisted with her eyes wide open, as if she couldn't even believe her own words.
"Did you really see them?" A middle-aged woman sitting beside her leaned forward with a gossipy expression. "How did they look?"
"So pretty." The girl clasped her hands together. "Like a match made by the Sevens."
The farmer let out a sigh.
"It is truly regrettable, though, that such a noble lady from a good family like hers has been beguiled by the wiles of a bastard, even if he is good-looking and knows jousting."
"Watch your mouth, old man?!"
"Yes, who are you calling lowly, you old fucker?"
The middle-aged woman and the young girl wheeled on him together, with angry expressions on their faces, as if they were ready to fight.
The farmer was flustered, but didn't back down. "B-But everyone knows that bastards are products of sin, who are cunning, envious and treacherous, and will rob you of your wealth if you are not careful."
"He has enough money to buy all thirteen of your generations. Where the fuck do you get the guts to call him lowly?"
"I... I..." The farmer stuttered in embarrassment, but he couldn't find the words to retort.
"Sheena, look!! She is taking out a ribbon," the young girl's friend said, shaking her shoulder, and taking her attention away from the pious farmer.
"Really?"
The girl's head snapped towards the field.
Gendry followed her gaze and finally spotted the thin red string in Lady Margaery's hand.
"I bet she's going to put it around Jon!" she squeaked.
"You think so? But her brother's right there." The friend seemed torn between Loras and Jon, as if unable to decide which one to support.
"Doesn't matter. She'll choose Jon, because he is her lover after all." The young girl was confident.
"But she can't just embarrass her brother like that in front of everyone, right?"
"How about a bet then?" she provoked with a smile That new red dress of yours would look good on me," she provoked with a sly smile.
"T-That, only if you bet your brother."
"Which one?"
"The younger one."
"Deal!"
..
.
"What the fuck is wrong with these two?"
Gendry looked at the Baker.
The Baker stared back.
Both of them shivered before simultaneously shaking their heads, deciding to purge the conversation from their minds.
///