(Poll Pairing for Robb: Alys Karstark, Ysilla Royce, Wylla Manderly, Bethany Blackwood. For those who will ask why Margeary isn't here, it is because Margeary is a possible pairing for Arthur.)
(Poll For Arthur: Harem or No Harem. If Harem, who do you want there? Keep in mind, he will not collect women like Pokemon cards. It'll only be women he could have genuine bonds with. I know I had initially decided that there would be no harem, but I already had planned multiple romances for Arthur. I just didn't finalize the endgame because I wished to do it according to my readers' decision. So what I had planned was ending those romances, eventually one by one. But now, Many of you have suggested many pairings for Arthur. And to be honest, there are many, many amazing female characters in Asoiaf. So I am really in a dilemma. Whatever you guys decide. The votes will go on for ten chapters, then we will count them and go with the majority decision.)
POV: Arthur
The tourney grounds roared like a waking giant. Trumpets blared, banners snapped in the wind, and the great commons of King's Landing seethed with color. Arthur stood at the edge of the lists, watching Wylla, Arya, and Lady Margaery drift toward the high box.
Arthur's heart swelled with pride… and worry. Reckless, fearless, stubborn girl. Wylla'd take on the Seven themselves if she thought she could win. He would have to speak to her, gently, firmly, before the day was done. Now he had a melee to win… and a very particular task to see done.
The field was a chaos of clattering steel and shouting men as the twenty competing teams made their final preparations. Seven fighters per team, two mounted, five afoot. Capturing the opponents was the main goal of the game, though in the heat of such a melee, it was often difficult to tell where the sport ended, and true rage began.
Arthur's men gathered nearby Ser Robert Gale, Ser Orson Wells and Ser Kyle Condon. They were good, loyal, honest men, all sworn to white harbor. Now they needed three more. Two of the others were already on their way. Making their way to the field in secret for the mission. They should be arriving soon. Arthur was now walking towards the final man.
Sandor Clegane.
The Hound stood apart from the other fighters, a dark, hulking shape fastening buckles with hard, jerking motions. The clang of metal against metal came sharp and ill-tempered, like everything else about the man. Most men in the yard gave him wide berth. Wise of them.
Arthur strode across the churned earth toward him, boots crunching over gravel and stray bits of straw. The Hound did not bother to look up, even when Arthur was nearly upon him. A similar breed of animal, Sandor was to his brother, though he was no monster, Arthur had to admit that much.
"You could use a squire for that," Arthur said lightly.
The Hound grunted without looking up. "If you're here to prattle, piss off. I've work to do."
Arthur allowed himself a small smile. "Aye. As do I. And I'd have you part of it."
Sandor turned then, his dark eyes narrowing, "Part of what? Da fuck do you want, merman?"
"Come now, Sandor," Arthur said, folding his arms. "No need to bare your teeth just yet. I come with an offer."
"I've no time for your smiles and lies, ser," Sandor spat, snapping a strap tight enough that the leather creaked in protest.
Arthur's smile only widened. He drew a small pouch from his belt, a weighty thing, and tossed it underhand toward the Hound. Sandor caught it with one gauntleted hand, the gold inside clinking like a promised summer.
Arthur watched the man's eyes narrow as he thumbed open the drawstring. The glint of yellow metal gleamed. He asked with a smirk, "That bone big enough to make you interested?"
Soldiers were many things... fools, braggarts, dreamers, but they were also very simple. Hunger and coin were truths they never argued with.
Sandor gave a low grunt. Not approval, not thanks… something nearer to reluctant agreement, Arthur thought.
"So," Arthur said, cocking a brow, "that is how a dog smiles."
Sandor's burned lip curled. Whether it was a snarl or a smirk, Arthur could not quite tell. "Speak your offer, merman," he said, ignoring the jab like it was no more than a fly. "What do you want?"
Arthur smirked. "The same as you, I suppose," he said, his voice smooth. "I want gold. I want women. More often than not, I want a golden woman."
Arthur let his smile fade. Some truths were not meant to be spoken lightly. "I also want Peace… but more than anything in this world, I want Vengeance."
"Fuck your riddles. Speak plain." Sandor barked a humourless laugh. "Seven hells, this is what happens when a man spends too much time with septons and maesters. Words, long, bloody, words!"
Arthur lifted a hand, nodding past the press of men toward the towering figure looming at the far end of the lists, Ser Gregor Clegane, The mountain wrapped in steel.
"I offer you your heart's desire, Clegane. I offer his death in front of gods and men. I offer you revenge."
Sandor froze. The way a wounded animal freezes when old pain surges back to gnaw the marrow. His burned cheek twitched, his breath sharpened, and his dark eye fixed on his brother.
Sandor's stare clung to his brother like a curse. Hatred lived in the man, old, festering, bone-deep. Arthur had seen many sorts of rage in his life, but Sandor's was different, a wound that never healed, only hardened. A story that was forgotten, yet worn as a scar.
Arthur had heard the tale a dozen ways, half-whispered in smoky winesinks of Lannisport, murmured in brothels by women who bedded Clegane men, but the truth was always the same.
Gregor stood amid his retainers, laughing at some poor fool's fear. His helm glinted beneath the noonday sun, monstrous and impersonal, hiding the face that had once pressed a boy's head into flame for daring to play with a toy. Gregor Clegane was a monster by design, and if Arthur has his way, he shall design this monster's end.
Sandor bared his teeth. "He's Tywin's dog. No one can hurt him."
"Oh, but I will," Arthur said softly. "I shall have him tried and executed."
Sandor spat in the dirt. "I don't want a sham trial, merman. I want blood."
"I know." Arthur's voice matched steel for coldness. "And you shall have it. Gregor's blood will pay the dues of many innocents… including your sister."
The words struck harder than a mailed fist. Sandor flinched as if something inside him had cracked open. Shock flickered across his face, followed swiftly by fury.
Sandor's lip curled. "You talk big, merman, and you talk a lot," he rasped. "Men like him don't die easy."
"Yet this man will," Arthur answered quietly. "And his death shall bring about no consequence for you. No golden lord's wrath. No crimson royal decree. No false trial. And no chains on your hands when the deed is done." He tilted his head. "I shall give you a lawful killing, before the realm. I offer you a path… cleared of every trap."
"If you're lying, I'll kill you." Sandor's hand shot to his sword hilt.
"It would only be just to do so," Arthur replied coldly. "Yet I do not make false promises, Clegane. I am a Manderly, and we are true to our words."
Sandor's gaze flicked toward him, sharp and suspicious. "Why?"
"Mayhaps because some evils live too long in this world, wreak too much pain upon the innocents. Or mayhaps because so long justice remains a debt unpaid, men like him can stain this world." Arthur's jaw tightened. "Perhaps I want monsters like him dead, not anointed. And perhaps because a Stark has once again become Hand, and justice can finally be demanded."
Sandor's hand had gone still on his gauntlet, hanging half-buckled. "Justice," he spat. "You think you can kill him and call it justice."
"You let me worry about that part," Arthur smiled.
Sandor muttered, "No, killing that… thing can only be called vengeance."
"For some it shall be justice." Arthur met his eye. "For others..... it will be peace."
Sandor's throat worked, a hard swallow forced through years of hatred. For a heartbeat, Arthur saw not the Hound but the boy beneath, the boy screaming, the boy burning.
Then the mask returned.
"And what do you gain?" Sandor demanded.
Arthur allowed himself a thin smile. "Many things. I get a dangerous enemy removed. A friend's cause honored. An ally from blood and revenge. And many innocent families of from his atrocities." His voice dropped lower. "I have waited long to set this piece on the board. Longer still to see it played."
Arthur had been shaping this plan for years. Long talks with Prince Doran through ink-black ravens. Cautious promises. Calculated steps. If the dragon were ever to rise again, the Martells would be the bedrock beneath them, and how better to earn their loyalty than to give them the one thing Westeros denied them for near two decades?
Justice.
Justice for Elia and her children. Justice for Dorne. And, though he would never admit it aloud, justice for this broken hound whose life had been stolen by the same brute.
Sandor looked again to his brother, hatred burning so hot it near shimmered in the air.
"Let me fight him," he said at last, voice raw. "Let me face him clean, with no knights shouting rules and no lords crying foul."
"You shall have his death," Arthur promised. "When the time comes."
Sandor closed the pouch of gold, tied it to his belt with hands that trembled, not with fear, but with anticipation.
"Fine then," he growled. "I'll fight with your lot today. But know this, when the Mountain falls, I'll not thank you for it."
Arthur stared at him coldly, "I don't require your thanks, Clegane. Only that you fight well."
Sandor spat at the ground, eyes never leaving his brother.
"Oh, I will," he said, voice rough as gravel. "I've been waiting my whole bloody life for this."
They walked back toward the gathering lines, the roar of the crowd swelling with anticipation as steel clattered and banners snapped in the wind.
Arthur's men were already assembled, Robert Gale's axe resting on his shoulder, Orson Wells tightening his gauntlets, Kyle Condon exchanging last words with a squire. But it was the newest arrivals who drew every gaze.
The first was a handsome, young, and keen-eyed man with sky-blue eyes. Light sandy hair framed his face. Ser Daemon Sand, the Bastard of Godsgrace, bore himself with the quiet confidence of a man certain he belonged in any company.
Beside him stood a far more dangerous figure.
Prince Oberyn Martell moved like a blade drawn in silk. Tall, lean, and sinuous, his every step had the graceful certainty of a man intimate with violence. His skin was smooth and sun-kissed, his long black hair streaked faintly with silver, strands glinting like threads of moonlight. The widow's peak only sharpened the viper's mien.
His dark eyes studied Arthur with a mix of amusement and calculation.
"Ser Arthur," Oberyn said, voice like warm wine poured over a dagger's edge, "I was beginning to think you meant to fight this little game without us."
Daemon smirked. "Aye, my prince was growing restless. Not every day one sees so many knights gathered only to form twenty teams of fools."
"My prince, it is an honor to finally meet you," Arthur said, bowing his head. "Your timing couldn't be more perfect. Our merry team of fools is now, too, complete."
Oberyn Martell's smirk curved like a scorpion's tail. His brown eyes swept over Arthur in a slow, assessing glide.
"We have met before, young merman," he said. "I do not expect you to remember. You were still a suckling babe, and your father was the hero back then."
A hundred questions rose in Arthur's mind, but he let none show. He returned the smile. "I hope you enjoyed your visit to White Harbor then. You should come by again soon, our city has prospered much."
Oberyn's grin sharpened. "It was not in your harbor, young knight."
Arthur stilled. So it had been elsewhere. He wanted to ask, but the field was alive with steel, and time pressed like a mailed hand on his shoulder. "I see," Arthur said. "I shall hear that tale one day soon enough. But today… Today we must write a different one… the tale of justice and of revenge."
Oberyn's eyes gleamed. "And how do you plan to bring justice in a melee?" His gaze fell to the far side of the grounds, where the lion's banner snapped in the wind. "I have dreamed of that monster's death more times than I have tasted wine," the prince murmured. "And every ending was sweeter than the last."
Arthur nodded. "This time, the ending shall be real. We shall take the beast alive and then skin him, my prince."
Oberyn's smile was thin and lethal. "Deliver this properly to Dorne, and Sunspear will be your eternal ally. On my word."
A horn blared. Gates creaked. Teams formed into ranks. Across the field, Gregor hefted his greatsword, the blade gleaming like a slab of winter sun. Arthur drew a slow breath. Today marks the beginning of Gregor's end.