Who cared whether it was funny?
Titus continued unconcernedly:
"...While you demand a ransom, send someone to notify me promptly. I'll go negotiate with that Frederick White."
This Whitegrove Knight seemed rather low-key. He had not spotted the fellow at all at the banquet the Lord of Highgarden had just hosted.
Or had Ser Frederick, a Tyrell lackey, deliberately avoided appearing before Whitegrove's former owner?
Wenda, who was hardly someone to cross in the first place, still did not understand what Titus meant by an "opportunity to settle accounts," but nodded her agreement after hearing him out.
She was no keyboard feminist, but a sister who had run with the brotherhood.
An arrow through the head or a sword across the throat-verbal arguments and catfights were almost never involved.
She was all action.
Since Lord Mace Tyrell had no intention of going to Harrenhal himself, the nobles of the Reach began their final preparations for departure after the banquet that had served both to entertain the guests and to rally them.
During this time, Bowen, who had been roaming about gathering intelligence, brought fresh news.
Arthur White, the younger brother of the Whitegrove Knight, no longer dared provoke Starpike, but that was not the end of the matter.
Bowen learned that the fellow had gone to a little tavern outside Highgarden City to boast that, sooner or later, he would gouge out the White Eagle's remaining eye.
Titus could not help laughing when he heard the news. Wasn't that just fine? Dying sooner and being reborn sooner was a decent choice too.
He summoned his beautiful deputy captain, explained the situation, and solemnly promised Wenda:
"Arthur is mine. Not even the Seven can save him. You have my word."
Titus thought for a moment, nodded, and replied decisively:
"Next year. By next year at the latest, you'll have your wish."
As he had said before, war was coming soon.
Never mind the younger son of a knightly house dying—even if the Whitegrove Knight himself and his entire family died, Titus would consider it perfectly normal.
Perhaps they would even be the ones to do it.
In another guest chamber at Highgarden.
Frederick White gave his troublemaking youngest brother a fierce scolding and sent Arthur White, who had drawn Starpike's attention, home. That left him as the only one from Whitegrove attending the tourney.
Frederick did not know what "looking furtive" meant, but he had always avoided meeting the former owner of his fief.
Whether House Peake was renowned for its power or notorious for its infamy, it was, in any case, a house he dared not provoke lightly.
He did not want to meet the Earl of Starpike, but because of Wenda's affair, Titus had made a point of getting a look at him. He thought that this old knight already had a full head of white hair, yet was still so keen to compete in strenuous events. Wasn't he afraid of dropping dead on the spot?
What Titus did not know was that premature graying ran in the White family. Frederick was indeed getting on in years as well, so he simply looked even older...
Two days later.
At the docks outside the first curtain wall on the northern side of Highgarden.
The docks adjoined the Mander River, and the dozens of tents pitched along its banks were being briskly packed away.
The banners before the tents bore the distinct colors of their houses and fluttered proudly in the wind. Every banner, every coat of arms, represented the glory and heritage behind it.
Naturally, House Peake's banner of three castles on orange was among them.
It was still early.
The morning mist along the banks had yet to disperse completely, and sleeping Highgarden crouched like a great beast to the south of the riverbank.
The open ground before the Mander River docks was already bustling with voices.
Noble lords from the various domains of the Reach wore magnificent cloaks embroidered with gold and inlaid with silver as they conversed quietly in twos and threes, paying no heed to their fur-trimmed hems sweeping over the dew-covered ground with each step.
Knights in gleaming armor held their warhorses' reins and stood in formation behind their respective lords. Their armor reflected a cold light in the morning sun, while the personal heraldry on their shields formed a dazzling display.
Squires bustled between the ranks, some grooming the horses' manes, others holding silver trays laden with snacks, their boot soles making a clamor as they crossed the ground.
Several younger squires stared fixedly at the knights' armor, their eyes shining with longing. The seasoned attendants, meanwhile, calmly checked the baggage, making sure the tents, tableware, and sealed wine barrels needed for the journey were all ready.
Titus stood among the lords with his guards. They had a distinctive air that made them seem out of place, for apart from a handful of houses, he had brought the most men. Nor had he summoned the knights of his domain to compete... they had to work with Master Robinson to train the troops.
The entire "Reach delegation" numbered only a few hundred.
Titus paid no mind to the furtive glances cast his way, thinking that the Reach had truly enjoyed peace for too long. They had no vigilance at all. If he suddenly attacked now, he could take the heads of at least a double-digit number of earls.
He suppressed his morbid amusement and murderous intent. The latter still needed time to build and brew slowly.
Shortly, Mace Tyrell would come here to address the members of the Reach delegation about to set out.
The lords and knights who had come out to the docks so early were waiting for the duke's speech.
When the Lord of Highgarden appeared, the lords straightened their robes, the knights raised their hands to adjust their helmets, and banners of every color rose high.
Lord Mace stood before the ranks of several hundred people without a trace of stage fright and delivered a public address to the delegation with a strong appetite for showmanship.
To Titus's ears, it was nothing more than encouragement and morale-boosting, something about achieving fresh triumphs... ensuring they did not disgrace the renowned knights of the Reach, and so on... What damned "renown" did the knights of the Reach have? It was true enough that their lords generally had money and land and loved holding all sorts of flashy tourneys.
Excepting the special case of the Dornish Marches, the so-called knights of the Reach were, in the eyes of the warrior-producing Stormlands and the Vale with its knights, merely a bunch of showy incompetents who liked to swagger.
The duke's speech had little to recommend it. Apart from differences in era, status, and background, it was not much different from an old headmaster's lecture on a school playing field.
Once Mace Tyrell finished speaking, the clamor on the docks gradually subsided, leaving only the snapping of banners and the soft tread of hooves.
Titus waited patiently for the formalities to conclude, then joined the competitors as they boarded, house by house according to their numbers, the dozen or so flower boats House Tyrell had arranged well in advance.
These flower boats were not the sort where one listened to music in brothels and women made a living selling their smiles. They were House Tyrell's passenger vessels, frequently lavishly decorated with fresh flowers, giving them an air that mingled artistry with powder and rouge.
House Peake had enough people to occupy almost an entire boat.
Titus thought that was quite good. There was no need to share with outsiders.
The Mander River was the largest river in the Reach, and Highgarden stood along its middle reaches, commanding east and west.
It was also the longest and widest river in Westeros. The titles of House Tyrell of Highgarden actually included Governor of the Mander River Basin.
The last house to hold the hereditary title of "Great Captain of the Mander River" had been House Peake's sworn enemy-House Manderly.
Many people pointed to the surname, believing that this greatest river in Westeros had been named after House Manderly.
That was a misconception.
Three black castles on an orange-gold field:
Before you continue