(Squrmy/Flagg Collab) --- [i]Some Weeks before the Gulltown Tourney.[/i] King's Landing. The stench of the place was unmistakable, and even if one was blind, they would know where they were purely by the smell. It was a large, busy place - noisey, and dirty at that. Lord Arron Redwyne had only been to the city five or six times - and the first time had been in his youth, when he had visited all of the cleaner Pleasure Houses that the city had to offer. A ghost of a smile played on his lips at the thought of those buildings and the experiences he'd had in them as he rode through the city, on the back of a noble destrier: heading for the manse that his family had built in the city roughly seventy years ago, in the time of his grandfather. In company with the aging Lord were five or six knights, and another ten men-at-arms: the colours of House Redwyne worn proudly upon their chests, the two men who rode a slight distance behind their Lord on equally noble horses carrying flags from which the pennants of the Noble House flew, snapping proudly in the wind. Arron was travelling away from the large, sprawling docks that were located by the city's waterfront: having arrived in the capital only a few hours prior, he planned on freshening up at his manse in preparation for the arrival of his family: Halmon had informed him roughly a month ago that the Tyrells were leaving Highgarden, in company with numerous Knights of The Reach. It had only taken twenty-eight days to arrive in the Targaryen's City, built in the time of Aegon's Conquest, and it was a time that Lord Arron was proud of. His ships had moved swiftly through the ocean around the Westerosi Coast, the well-built vessels overtaking merchants from Dorne and The Stormlands alike with ease. The performance of the galleys was a testament to the skill of The Arbor's shipmakers - several of whom had travelled in company with Arron to King's Landing with their apprentices, in order to begin work on a number of pleasure ships for the nobles who called the city their home: having recieved Lord Arron's permission to do so, their Master pleased for them at the prospect of such large commissions. They were good, honest, hard-working men: they deserved their reward. The snowy-haired Lord arrived at the large, ornate gates of his manse within the hour, having navigated his way through the busy streets and thoroughfares of the capital from memory. At the sight of the Lord, the gates were quickly opened by the men on duty: Arron's proud posture and the sigils that were flown and worn all around him leaving no mistake of who he was. Riding into the courtyard, Arron dismounted from his destrier, waving off the help of a young stableboy with a small smile. He may have been getting older, but he could still mount and dismount from his horse: the day when he was unable to ride or sail would be the day he died. "Take good care of him - he's a good mount," Arron instructed the lad with a small smile, pressing a few halfpennies into the boy's hand as he made his way towards the doors that led to the mansion's interior; the sound of men who had not seen each other in years greeting one another filling the Lord's ears. The large, polished double doors - each with a cluster of grapes engraved into them expertly - were swung open by the guards who stood on duty outside them, the men standing at rigid attention as Arron passed them. Stepping into the manse's main hallway - which was brightly lit, a result of the curtains all having been thrown open so the bright sunlight of King's Landing could seep inside - the Lord looked around with a critical gaze, tutting softly. Everything looked to be clean and maintained, which is what he was paying the men for - he knew it was an easy job, living and enjoying the manse when he and his family were away, but it was a reward which Arron bestowed upon his elder and loyal retainers: a thank-you, of sorts, for their service to him over the years. The Lord allowed another smile to pass over his lips, turning his attention to the steward - an elderly, bent-over man who had served as one of The Arbor's best wine merchants before his retirement - as he hurried over to greet him, bowing deeply despite the hunched nature of his elderly back. A result of the weight of the burdens he had carried over the years for Lord Arron - or so he liked to joke. "Their rooms are prepared?" Arron began, referencing his impending guests, "The kitchens are working? You've hired in new staff? There's not a spec of dust to be seen?" To each and every question, the steward nodded his head - earning a grin of thanks, along with a small sigh of relief from his Lord. "Thank you, Jon - I don't know where I'd be without you. Back on The Arbor, probably - without a penny to my name." Laughing, Arron made his way up the wide staircase that led to the manse's upper floors, already beginning to unbuckle his heavy travelling cloak as he went - after all, he had to [i]look[/i] like a Lord, whenever his son-in-law arrived. --- [i]Later that Day. Some Weeks before the Gulltown Tourney. The Kings Road, near Kings Landing[/i] They rode side by side, the Lord of Highgarden and his young heir, at the head of their party. Behind them, arrayed in neat formation, rode guards in the green and gold livery of the Reach. A huge wheelhouse trundled along in the middle of the column, bearing twin standards of the Rose of Highgarden and the Grapes of the Arbor. Lord Tyrell was dressed in an emerald riding doublet and matching pants, with a shimmering cape of iridescent feathers from the Summer Isles hanging about his shoulders. A gold-chased Dothraki arakh hung at his side in place of a long sword. A crown of white flowers adorned his wild black hair. He was talking quickly at his son and gesticulating wildly with the reins as he did so, causing his mount to weave and stumble as they plodded on towards the capital. "...the juice of justice. What is it? A philosophical question, and an alliterative one at that," said Lord Leos, favoring Vymar with a toothsome grin. "The Redwynes, your mother's family and your uncleses' family and your grandfather's family- you get the idea. They'd like the juice to be wine, you see, then they'd have all the justice, except for the justice that comes from elsewhere, like Volantis, of course. If justice were wine, I daresay your mother would be a paragon of righteous living just after lunch each day. But no, m'boy. Justice isn't wine, and nor is it gold, much to our friends of Lannister's displeasure. You can't buy justice with gold, and when you melt gold, it doesn't become juice. I don't think. That's a question for the maesters, anyway, and we aren't maesters. You're much too young and I don't go that way. But we were talking justice. The juice, I think, is blood." Tyrell gave his son with a solemn nod, hooded lids drooping over dark eyes. Vymar listened, totally lost yet totally enrapt. It was for rare his father to notice him, let alone [i]talk[/i] to him. "Blood, my teensy grumpkin, my infinitesimal snark." said Lord Leos. "You want to keep the peace? You want to punish the wicked and make yet-to-be wickeds afraid to be actually wicked? Blood, I'm afraid- terribly afraid of rats, mostly. Disgusting creatures. Justice, though. It'll cost blood, from rolling heads and lashed backs." Lord Leos sat back in his saddle, musing to himself for a moment. Ahead of them the red walls of Kings Landing rose higher, and the clamour and stench of the city drifted faintly over them on the breeze. "I tell you this, poppinsy dear, because there will be much talk of justice in Gulltown, if my eyes and ears and the other sensory organs I have in place there are correct. Rousing speeches. The will of the gods, that sort of thing. Righteousness. Very inspiring, perhaps, to a lad your age. What are you, four now? Five?" "Ten father." "Fourteen, just so!" Leos exclaimed, slapping his thigh. "Now then. Keep in mind, my tasty little bobbet, when we're in Gulltown and those blockhead Arryns are screeching and cawing about justice and duty, just what the [i]juice[/i] of the matter will be- more blood than they likely bargained for. Justice is blood- a little looks pretty on your smock, but a lot you can drown in. You'll be Lord of Lowgarden when I'm high, someda-" "Father?" "Don't interrupt, my tender peach. You'll be Lord of Highgarden when I die. You should be preparing for that, and a lord should know about juice."