"Forgive me, Lord Renly," Jon apologized awkwardly, instinctively wanting to scratch his head but forcing the motion down.
It was an uncouth gesture.
Renly waved his hand kindly.
"Please, eat, Ser Jon. I hope you enjoy the sturgeon from our Stormlands—its flesh is tender, the bones few, and it's best when roasted with lemon."
"When evening comes, I'll host a livelier banquet to celebrate the gift you've brought."
Renly smiled as he spoke, making it clear this was merely a casual meal.
Jon hurriedly assented.
He had never received such treatment before, and it left him feeling somewhat uneasy.
Servants from the kitchens soon brought the dishes into the hall, and Jon sat at the right hand of Renly Baratheon, sharing a table with the king's younger brother.
As for Bronn and the others, they took seats elsewhere of their own accord.
Kal's gift had been set beside Jon; he rested one hand on the box lid, waiting for his meal to arrive.
Throughout the meal, Renly continuously attempted to converse with Jon, his words witty and humorous, occasionally asking about recent events in King's Landing.
But under that unrelenting gaze, Jon could only answer briefly, awkward and stiff all over.
Even so, both Renly Baratheon and Loras Tyrell would now and then let out murmurs of astonishment.
"Ser Kal truly is formidable—who would have thought that even the Mountain could withstand only a few moves before losing his head."
"My brother Robert, in his youth, might not have been quite as valiant as him."
"Though he crushed Rhaegar Targaryen's chest with a hammer—a deed he's been proud of his whole life."
Renly exclaimed in admiration.
As his words fell, the Knight of Flowers' eyes gleamed brightly at his side.
"I long to face him upon horseback, and I'll prepare twenty lances if I must—until I claim victory!"
His boast drew Renly's hearty laughter and a clap of approval.
Hearing that declaration, Jon gave a brief, curious glance toward the young, slender knight before him.
His gaze unconsciously lingered on Loras's armor and weapon—the sigil upon them showed three golden roses blooming over a green field, quite striking to the eye.
Yet looking at that emblem, Jon couldn't see how such a slim man could have the right to stand before Lord Kal.
Still, as a guest, he kept his thoughts to himself.
But Renly, having just shared a few laughs with Loras, keenly caught the faint trace of doubt and barely veiled disdain in Jon's eyes.
At once, he pointed again toward the Knight of Flowers and gave a fuller introduction.
"Loras Tyrell is the third son of Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, and also a knight of exceptional skill."
"His prowess in combat is unmatched, his mastery of the lance second to none. He's triumphed in countless tourneys, and wields the sword, axe, and mace with equal mastery."
Renly spoke in Loras's defense, as though unwilling to let the bastard before him look down upon him.
At his words, Loras lifted his chin slightly, clearly pleased.
After all, what Renly Baratheon said was true.
He too was a fine warrior, one who in countless jousts had delivered lethal strikes with the weapons in his hands.
This had earned him the adoration of the common folk—especially the women.
Yet as Jon watched Renly's praise and the proud look spreading over Loras's face, his mind couldn't help but recall that battlefield figure—Kal Stone—wielding a double-handed warhammer, smashing foes and mounts alike into pulp.
At times, even the enemy's own horse would become a weapon in his grasp.
He was a man recognized by both enemy and comrade, bearing a string of titles—
The Blooded One, Child of Death, Bloodwind, Stranger's Proxy, and more.
But among them, the most widely spoken name was Bloodwind Kal.
Thinking of that man who brought destruction like a storm of blood, Jon's throat bobbed, and he lowered his head slightly.
"I imagine that would be quite a spectacle. I wonder when I'll have the honor to see it."
He spoke words of admiration, his tone carrying sincere anticipation.
Yet inwardly, he couldn't help picturing Lord Kal skewering the "slender" man before him upon his lance, then circling the field atop Fawkes.
It was said that the champion's wreath was woven from flowers—how fitting for one called the Knight of Flowers.
Thinking such improper thoughts, Jon instinctively glanced again at Loras Tyrell; the three golden roses upon his armor shone brilliantly.
Only—then who, exactly, was the "Queen of Love and Beauty" meant to belong to—the champion of the tourney, or the "flower" that served as his crown?
Lowering his gaze under the pretense of eating, Jon's strange expression went unnoticed by the two men seated at the table's head.
Renly merely laughed aloud and thumped his chest with confidence. "Trust me—when my royal brother returns to King's Landing, he'll surely hold a grand celebration!"
"I, too, look forward to seeing who will emerge as the champion of this tourney!"
"And I can guarantee it will be an event worthy of history—one to rival the 'False Spring' itself."
As he spoke, Lord Renly unconsciously turned his head and exchanged a glance with the Knight of Flowers.
"If I win the championship, I'll personally place the crown of the 'Queen of Love and Beauty' upon the true queen's head."
Meeting Renly's gaze, Loras answered with his own smile, the two sharing a silent laugh together.
Jon, however, couldn't quite grasp their meaning. Thinking he must have misheard, he quickly popped a few more pieces of fish into his mouth.
The lemon juice perfectly cut through the faint fishiness, while at the same time bringing out the full flavor of the tender flesh.
Combined with the slightly sour, refreshing taste of lemon and the soft, juicy texture, Jon found the grilled fish genuinely delicious.
Lord Renly, it seemed, hadn't been lying.
With Renly Baratheon's practiced courtesies and his well-timed laughter that steered the atmosphere with ease, the simple banquet soon drew to an end.
Even so, Jon was still not quite accustomed to the change in his status.
Back in the North, he had been a child of no importance—a bastard.
When the adults drank and traded toasts, he only needed to stay at the far end of the hall, quietly pouring himself a few extra cups of red wine.
For only at such times could he drink freely, without anyone bothering him.
But here, he was Ser Jon—a man in the spotlight, the center of attention at the feast.
Every gaze seemed to fall upon him without effort, making him feel awkward even sitting on the stool.
Thankfully, Lord Renly Baratheon's cheerful laughter eased much of his discomfort, and after several rounds of conversation, Jon gradually relaxed.
Yet despite Renly Baratheon's friendly manner, he still felt uneasy.
It was a kind of physical discomfort—
Especially whenever he caught the subtle jokes or whispered exchanges between the two men before him.
Casting a quick, almost pleading glance toward Bronn—who sat not far away, drinking with others yet never letting go of the box—Jon hesitated for two seconds before finally speaking up about the matter of the gift inside.
"Lord Renly, forgive my discourtesy. Lord Kal instructed me before departing that I must deliver the Mountain's head to House Martell as soon as possible."
"He said this war ought to end—too many innocents have already been dragged into the eye of this storm."
Interrupted mid-conversation with Loras, Renly tapped a finger lightly on the armrest, his smile never fading.
"Indeed, we all wish this absurd war would end soon."
"No one truly knows how unbearable the climate here can be."
"I've already received word about what's happened in King's Landing and the war in the Riverlands. If Dorne's communications aren't as isolated as people imagine, I suppose Prince Oberyn Martell must be growing impatient by now."
It had to be said—Renly Baratheon truly possessed a certain unique charm.
Anyone who spent time with him could feel that warmth and gentleness radiating from his very presence.
With just a few simple words, he neatly eased Jon's impatience, then smoothly arranged for everyone—now fed and rested—to leave the castle gates together.
And he went with Jon himself.
Ser Loras Tyrell faithfully served as Lord Renly's guard, riding behind him on a white warhorse, clad in that striking, gleaming armor.
Thus, with the men Jon had brought along, a column of more than one hundred people departed from Blackhaven and followed the Boneway, heading toward the Martell army stationed outside the city.
Perhaps they, too, had received word.
The Dornish troops showed no hostility toward the party; aside from halting a few guards for inspection, they allowed them peacefully into the camp.
---
I will post some extra Chapters in Patreon, you can check it out. >> patreon.com/TitoVillar
---