"Pardon me, beautiful young lady," Arsath said politely, his tone calm and measured, yet utterly devoid of the flutter that any nobleman might feel in the presence of such a striking maiden.
Margaery Tyrell's eyes—so wide, so deep, so impossibly captivating—locked with his, yet he remained unmoved. Years ago, in Lordaeron, he had once yearned for love, for passion, and for companionship. But that longing had long since faded, extinguished by duty and the relentless march of battle. Now, he simply raised his wine glass with courteous acknowledgment, his voice carrying a gentle note of apology:
"Perhaps my gaze disturbed your pleasant mood for dancing."
"Oh, this damned blockhead," Tyrion muttered under his breath, slapping his forehead. Inwardly, he groaned at Arsath's apparent inability to recognize interest. Here was a beauty, bold and unmistakably curious, yet the young Lannister treated her with the stiffness of a man focused solely on war.
"Perhaps his brain is entirely consumed by fighting," Tyrion muttered further, patting his chest in relief. "Good thing I don't fight. Otherwise…"
Arsath remained courteous, polite, and unwavering. The Imp's eyes narrowed as he studied his nephew. "Look at this, and tell me he's not beyond saving!"
The young lady, however, seemed amused rather than insulted. Her delicate face broke into a smile, one that could disarm even the hardest hearts. She stepped closer, looping her slender arm through Arsath's broad bicep:
"It is my honor to receive your gaze, Lord Arsath. May I ask you to dance?"
Arsath inclined his head slightly, a gentlemanly smile curving his lips. He guided her to the center of the dance floor, moving with the grace of a man who had been trained not just in the art of war, but in all the finer arts demanded of a nobleman.
"The Seven above… that works too!" Tyrion whispered, aghast, his jaw nearly hitting the floor. "Why wasn't I this charming when I was fourteen? Curse this unfairness of genetics!" He downed a large gulp of wine, trying to drown his wounded pride.
Just then, a waiter approached Tyrion, leaning close enough for him to hear over the music. "Lord Tyrion, someone is waiting for you outside," he whispered, gesturing toward the moonlit gardens. Tyrion's heart thumped as he caught a glimpse of a slender figure standing beneath the pale light. He quickly set down his cup and hurried after the mysterious visitor.
On the dance floor, Arsath maintained a composed demeanor. His hands rested lightly on Margaery's slender waist, swaying gently to the music. Though her gaze occasionally drifted into admiration or subtle seduction, Arsath remained unreadable, polite but distant, aware of every subtle nuance in her movements.
"You dance wonderfully, Lord Arsath," Margaery said softly, her voice tinged with admiration. Her red lips hovered near his face as if to test his reaction.
"You flatter me, Lady Margaery," Arsath replied evenly, maintaining a perfect gentleman's distance.
A flash of impatience crossed her delicate features. "Please… call me Margaery. Not 'Lady Margaery.'"
Arsath, however, remained composed. Was she like Loras, he wondered silently? Simply beautiful, but fleeting in importance compared to the weight of his responsibilities?
The music swelled, and noblemen and women flooded the dance floor. The room became a symphony of bodies pressed close, gasps of breath mixing with laughter and the soft brush of silk. Margaery pressed herself against him lightly, exploring the firmness of his chest, the width of his shoulders, and the strength beneath his armor. She smiled triumphantly.
"Enough, Miss Margaery," Arsath said, his voice gentle yet firm. She looked up, meeting his clear, unyielding gaze. Despite her forwardness, he had allowed her actions out of courtesy. But now, the dance floor offered no cover for excess. Arsath guided her through the crowd, separating them from the prying eyes of the court.
"Look who it is!" King Robert's booming voice cut through the din. His face, flushed from wine and perpetual excitement, beamed as he strode toward the young commander.
"Isn't this my newly appointed Commander of the City Watch?" Robert shouted, grabbing Arsath's hand and raising it high. "Everyone, raise your glasses! Let us cheer for the strongest warrior Westeros has ever seen!"
"Arsath Lannister! Arsath Lannister! Arsath Lannister!" The crowd roared in unison, raising cups and glasses in celebration.
Cersei, seated elegantly with her wine, only shook her head in exasperation at her husband's theatrical antics. Yet even she could not deny the growing desire in her gaze as she watched Arsath, freshly victorious, standing so proudly.
"Young Lannister," she murmured, voice low and velvety, "how is your injury?"
"Just a minor scratch, Your Majesty," Arsath replied with honesty and reverence. "For one devoted to defending the realm, such trifles are meaningless."
Robert's hearty laughter erupted across the hall. "Hahaha! Youth is a wonderful thing! When I was your age, I could crush a man's skull with a single strike!" He looked toward Margaery and lowered his voice with a playful note, "And I see this little rose from House Tyrell has grown into a fine young lady."
Margaery inclined her head, regal and composed. "Good evening, Your Majesty. Grandmother asked me to send her regards."
Robert nodded warmly. "And send my regards to Lady Olenna as well. Wish her good health." His eyes sparkled with mischief as they shifted to the young couple. "It seems you two have important business to attend to. An old man like me should not interrupt your 'friendly exchange!'"
"Hahaha!" He clapped them both on the shoulder and walked toward the center of the dance floor, leaving Margaery and Arsath alone.
Despite the proximity of the beautiful Tyrell maiden, Arsath showed no lingering interest. He bowed slightly, his tone formal and regretful.
"I am truly sorry, Little Rose from Highgarden. I must take my leave."
The absence of Tyrion, who had gone outside, went unnoticed by most, but his absence had been unusual. He hurried along the dimly lit corridors, guided by the faint moonlight and his own curiosity.
Margaery's eyes, once bright with anticipation, cooled as Arsath disappeared from the hall. Her youthful face betrayed the first taste of rejection she had ever experienced. Determination and curiosity sparked in her gaze.
"Arsath," she whispered under her breath, a shadow of challenge and promise, "I will make you submit at my feet."
Meanwhile, Tyrion found himself facing a large, burly figure outside the hall. He instinctively shrank back, though the Mountain's imposing form standing beside him offered reassurance.
"State your purpose," he demanded, his voice firm.
The figure's expression was earnest, devoid of hostility. In his arms, a striking woman leaned, her elegance impossible to ignore. Tyrion relaxed slightly, seating himself with cautious curiosity.
"Lord Tyrion," the man began, "I apologize for drawing you out in this manner."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Using such a stunner to lure me here… you spared no expense." He patted the curve of the woman's hip lightly, and she bent her head in acknowledgment, understanding her role perfectly.
"My name is Yarn Snow," the man said, his grin ferocious, his eyes gleaming with ambition. "I am the owner of the underground fighting arena in Flea Bottom. And I… want to make a deal with you."
Tyrion leaned forward, intrigued. Flea Bottom was a dangerous place, yet Yarn Snow's audacity and confidence were unmistakable. This was no ordinary man seeking coin—he was a player in a city teeming with shadows and opportunity.
And Tyrion, ever curious and ever opportunistic, realized that tonight, perhaps, the true game of Westeros had only just begun.