285 AC
The wedding feast was a lavish affair, spanning thirty-five courses, crowned by a massive cream cake shaped like a heart. The bride looked radiant in ivory samite, her bodice adorned with freshwater pearls that caught the torchlight. Her groom, Lord Eon Hunter was old enough to be her great-grandfather, was a little gouty, once a stout sword and knight, now diminished by age and infirmity.
Artys, as heir to the Eyrie, sat in a place of high honor closest to the groom. He talked with Lord Eon Hunter though the old knight was no longer a warrior, he remained chivalrous and loyal, unlikely to live long enough to see any son of his with Myranda reach manhood.
Myranda had slipped into Artys' room multiple times over the past week. He knew he was foolish—he could have bedded any number of common women without consequence—but soiling the daughter of a noble house carried weight. Yet he also suspected Lord Nestor Royce either knew or chose to look the other way. Artys would never marry Myranda, but if he grew fond of her, he might, when he came into power, keep Nestor Royce on as a high steward. They were a cadet branch of the Royce family, like all lords beneath their polite masks, was ambitious and opportunistic. He would have to discern their motives and manipulate them accordingly.
A joust was set for the morrow, with the winner promised a prize of one thousand dragons and the runner-up five hundred. Artys planned to compete as a mystery knight, keen to impress the nobility of the Vale with his valor. In a feudal society, displays of strength and wealth were not mere entertainment—they were essential currency for survival and influence. Robar drunk as can be yelled " It time Lord Eon shows his young bride his skill at jousting " The hall laughed and with that the bedding ceremony began. Myranda was picked up by a bunch of drunken lordlings who undressed her piece by piece as she giggled and squealed . While a group noble ladies did the same to lord Hunter. Artys withdrew himself from the feast and went to the stables to prepare his horse.
The sun dragged itself over the mountains, pale and cold, throwing long shadows across the tilt yard. Banners snapped in the wind, house colors bright against the grey morning. All the houses of the Vale great and small were there The Royces of Runestone, The Redforts of Redfort , The Graftons of Gulltown , colorful banners fluttering in the wind. Lords and ladies packed the raised stands, their eyes fixed on the field while the commons watched from the other side . The favorites were clear enough. Among the 200 knights Ser Robar Royce, Lord Bronze Yohn Royce, and Lyonel Cobray.
Then the last rider appeared. No name was called. He wore night-black armor with no sigil on his surcoat, only a crescent moon painted stark and silver across his shield. Great helm shut tight, no words spoken riding a black destrier . The crowds named him soon enough—the Knight of the Crescent Moon.
The first tilts were quick and brutal. Horses thundered down the lists, lances slammed against shields, wood shattered. One after another, the famed knights of the Vale hit the ground. The field thinned fast. By the end of the second day, only four remained. All the expected favorites had advanced—but so had the mystery knight, who had unhorsed every foe on the very first tilt.
Ser Marwyn Belmore faced him for a place in the final four. The warhorses thundered forward and the knights lowered their lances. Ser Belmore struck true on the shield, but the mystery knight seemed to shrug off the blow. His own strike sent Ser Belmore flying clean off his horse. The Knight of the Crescent Moon offered a curt salute and rode straight back to his pavilion.
Ser Lyonel Corbray followed soon after—unhorsed clean and fast. The Knight of the Crescent Moon wasted nothing—no show, no flourish. The best knights in the Vale might as well have been quintains.
That left Bronze Yohn. Still strong, still fierce, his movements steady and sure despite his years. They rode at each other again and again, each tilt harder than the last. Lances shattered. Horses reeled. The sound of iron rang through the yard. On the final pass, the Knight of the Crescent Moon drove his lance into Royce's shield with such force that the older man flew from the saddle and hit the earth with a grunt.
For a moment, there was only the wind and the creak of leather. Then the stands erupted—cheers, shouts, disbelief, admiration. The black knight raised his lance once in acknowledgment, nothing more. He claimed no ransom, took no spoils, and left his fallen foes their dignity.
When the time came to name the Queen of Love and Beauty, he chose Myranda Royce. She curtsied, cheeks flushed, eyes searching the dark visor as though she already knew the truth beneath it. The Knight of the Crescent Moon gave no sign.
Behind the steel, Artys allowed himself the smallest smile. The Vale had seen his strength, his control, his chivalry. They would remember the black knight with the crescent moon—and that was enough. Almost every lord in the Vale had noted his absence on the dais during the tourney. It didn't take them long to put two and two together. When asked, Artys only gave them a coy smile and changed the topic.
Robar Royce's father, Bronze Yohn Royce, approached him with an appraising look and sighed. "You must at least let me knight you, lad. I cannot sleep knowing I was bested by a squire."
Artys allowed himself a chuckle. "I know not of what you speak, my lord. But I am the king's squire, and I am sure he will knight me when he deems me fit."
The lord of Runestone gave a curt nod, while Robar laughed. "You could have at least let me in on it. I would have put coin on you," he said, half-japing.
"Such unchivalrous behavior. I ought to dismiss you from my service," Artys said with mock disgust. Waymar Royce, the youngest of Yohn's sons, squired for him, and the boy had managed to keep the secret even from his own family. As Artys considered a fitting reward for Waymar, the singer began a new song:
Rode the Falcon of the Vale, with no fear to quell,Steel at his hip and the wind at his back…
Silly propaganda, he told himself—but necessary. He had commanded Shadrich to pay the singers to make a song about the Fighting Falcon. That was how the game was played, and it was always better to control the narrative, Artys told himself. Besides, "the Fighting Falcon" was not a bad name.
Without displays such as this, he would never rule a host of banners borne by proud old houses, each commanding thousands of swords. He did not want to rule like Tywin Lannister—by fear and terror. Robert Baratheon, for all his failings, could inspire loyalty in his men like no other. Inspiration—that was what Artys sought. He would need their support for the reforms he planned to make.
Because sooner or later, winter was coming.