"My apologies, beautiful lady."
Looking into the captivating eyes before him, Arthas remained entirely unmoved.
In Lordaeron, after that figure of purest white had turned away from him and resolutely left, his longing for love had long since died.
He merely raised his wine cup with equal courtesy and replied gently, with a hint of apology:
"Perhaps my gaze disturbed your enjoyment of the dance."
"Oh, this damned blockhead."
The Imp slapped his forehead, inwardly crying that this boy was beyond saving.
Faced with such clear advances from such a beauty, Arthas still acted so stiffly.
"Perhaps all his brains went into fighting."
"Thank goodness I can't fight."
He patted his chest with lingering apprehension, grateful for the first time in his life that he was a dwarf.
"Oh, Lord Arthas, what are you saying?"
Under the Imp's incredulous gaze, the girl smiled, as though Arthas's words had amused her beyond restraint.
She walked up to Arthas of her own accord and hooked her hand around his broad arm:
"It is an honor to have your attention. Would you ask me to dance?"
Arthas did not refuse the girl's invitation. He nodded and gave her a smile no noblewoman in King's Landing could resist, then led her toward the center of the dance floor.
"Seven above, that actually worked!"
The Imp's jaw nearly hit the floor in astonishment, and he began regretting once more that he was not as handsome as his two siblings.
He hastily gulped down a large mouthful of wine to soothe his wounded heart.
"Lord Tyrion, someone outside wishes to see you."
Just as the Imp was feeling rather forlorn, a servant leaned close to his ear and pointed outside the banquet hall.
In the dim light, the Imp could barely make out a slender figure standing beneath the moonlight.
His heart burned with eagerness. He immediately set down his wine cup and headed outside on his short little legs.
On the dance floor, Arthas lightly held the girl's slender waist, swaying slowly to the gentle music beneath the envious gazes of the men around them.
Whether as the prince of Lordaeron or the heir to House Lannister, dancing had always been an essential skill for noble society.
"You dance wonderfully, Lord Arthas."
A hint of adoration filled the girl's bright eyes, and her slightly parted red lips nearly touched his face.
"You flatter me, beautiful lady."
Arthas maintained a safe distance from her throughout, like a perfect gentleman entirely unmoved by beauty.
He offered only a mild reply to her compliment, then said nothing more.
"Please don't call me beautiful lady."
A flicker of annoyance passed through the girl's adoring eyes. She had been so forward, yet this fellow seemed not to have noticed at all, his gaze constantly wandering above her head.
Could he be like that fellow Loras, with no interest in women whatsoever?
"My name is Margaery Tyrell. You may simply call me Margaery."
Full of doubts, the girl made up her mind to test him a little.
Before long, as the music changed, the atmosphere gradually grew more intimate.
Noble men and women poured onto the dance floor, and those who had originally stood some distance apart were squeezed together by the crowd.
Seizing the opportunity, everyone frantically rubbed their bodies against their partners. Panting rose and fell all around, and the king's grand banquet hall became a scene of extravagance and debauchery.
Margaery also took the opportunity to press her head against Arthas's broad chest, her delicate little hands roaming over his body.
Feeling the hardness against her abdomen, a triumphant smile appeared in Margaery's eyes.
"That is enough, Lady Margaery."
A steady, gentle voice sounded beside her ear. She looked up to find Arthas's clear gaze before her, without a trace of lust.
A veteran of many battles, how could Arthas fail to understand this young girl's intentions? He had only allowed her actions out of courtesy.
Seeing her grow increasingly excessive, Arthas had no choice but to take a firm stance, briskly leading Margaery through the crowd and forcing a path off the dance floor.
"Look who it is!"
They had barely emerged from the crowd when Robert's booming voice sounded beside them.
He was exceptionally excited, his face bearing a flush that seemed never to fade. After all, hunting, whoring, and drinking were this king's three favorite things.
Fond of "sharing in his people's pleasures," he could easily indulge in two of those things on this occasion, though hunting was impractical.
"Isn't this my newly appointed Commander?"
Striding up to Arthas, Robert warmly took his hand and called out to those on the dance floor:
"Everyone, raise your cups, and let us cheer for the mightiest warrior in the history of Westeros!"
"Arthas Lannister!"
"Arthas Lannister!"
"Arthas Lannister!"
At Robert's call, everyone responded, raising their wine cups and loudly cheering Arthas's name.
Watching this while drinking glumly in her seat, Cersei merely shook her head helplessly, as though long accustomed to the outrageous behavior of her unreliable husband.
Then her beautiful eyes turned to Arthas, brimming with desire. After witnessing his valor firsthand in the tournament grounds, Cersei's desire for him had grown all the stronger.
"Young Lannister, how is your wound?"
Once the cheering ended, Robert warmly patted Arthas on the shoulder and inquired with concern, his tone entirely different from the one he used with other Lannisters.
"Only a minor wound, Your Grace."
Before Robert, Arthas always wore an upright, reverent expression:
"To a young warrior who wishes to serve the realm, such a wound is nothing."
"Hahahaha!"
The spirited declaration drew another delighted burst of laughter from the king, leaving him still more reassured about entrusting the Gold Cloaks to Arthas:
"It's good to be young. When I was your age, I could smash an enemy's head to pulp with a single swing of my hammer!"
Then he looked at the girl beside Arthas, lowering his voice slightly:
"If I remember correctly, you must be the little girl from House Tyrell. You've grown so much."
"Good evening, Your Grace."
Margaery elegantly lifted her skirts, showing no timidity before the king:
"My grandmother asked me to give you her regards."
Robert was quite friendly toward House Tyrell, whose wealth rivaled that of House Lannister. He nodded with a kindly smile:
"Give Lady Olenna my regards as well, and wish her good health."
Then his amused gaze turned to the pair, their shoulders pressed close together, and he teased:
"It seems these two handsome young people have important business to attend to."
"An 'old man' like me had better not interrupt your 'friendly exchange'!"
"Otherwise, I'd be quite the nuisance."
"Hahaha!"
With that, he left the two standing there and headed straight for the center of the dance floor.
But after Robert left, Arthas showed no inclination to linger despite the beauty at his side. He bowed slightly and apologized:
"My sincerest apologies, little rose of Highgarden."
"I think it is time for me to leave as well."
He had not seen the Imp for quite some time, which was rather unusual for someone so fond of banquets.
Leaving them with a view of his dashing figure from behind, he departed this place more depraved than the Street of Silk beneath Cersei's and Margaery's disappointed gazes.
Whatever else might be said, Arthas's courteous conduct gave Margaery nothing to criticize, much less a reason to keep him.
Only after Arthas had vanished completely did the adoration in Margaery's eyes disappear in an instant.
Adept at maneuvering others since childhood, she had tasted rejection for the first time today.
Her gaze shifted, and a trace of determination and curiosity flashed through her somewhat annoyed eyes:
"Arthas."
"I will make you submit at my feet!"
"Lord Tyrion."
"My apologies for luring you here in this manner."
Looking at the man's brutish face before him, the Imp could not help shrinking his neck.
Fortunately, the brown bear-like Mountain stood guard beside him.
"Tell me what you want."
Seeing that the man's manner was sincere and that he did not seem to mean him harm, and with a beauty in his arms, he could not have gotten angry even if he had wanted to.
Since there was no danger, the Imp simply sat down with a swagger and got straight to the point:
"You certainly spared no expense, luring me here with such an exquisite beauty."
He patted the pert bottom beside his hand, and the gauze-clad woman with sultry eyes immediately took the hint, lowering her head and setting diligently to work.
"Lord Tyrion."
Seeing the Imp's blissful expression, Yarn knew the matter was already halfway settled, and stopped beating around the bush.
The flesh of his brutish face twitched, and a savage smile rose at the corners of his mouth:
"My name is Yarn Snow."
"I own the Underground Fighting Pit in Flea Bottom."
"I would like to make a deal with you..."
Before you continue