"To my uncle, Lancel Lannister!" I proclaimed, raising the next toast.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," he said, rising to his feet, bowing, and raising his wine cup high. Lancel, dressed in a crimson doublet and black chausses embroidered with silver, had somehow grown taller and more mature. One of his eyes was covered with a patch, and the people in the castle had quite reasonably begun calling him the One-Eyed.
Kevan, seated to my right, looked at his son with undisguised pride. And truth be told, over the past year the boy had made remarkable progress. I could still clearly picture a very different Lancel—the one who had once summoned me to his chambers and confessed to his affair with Cersei.
Now Ser Hasty had appointed Lancel a centurion in the Holy Order. The unit itself was rapidly recruiting worthy men. After the battle at the Hill, the prestige of the royal formation had reached impressive heights.
We congratulated Tyrek, Lancel, Robert Brax, and many others. Each of them received a gift that evening—a gold or silver chain, coins, weapons or armor, a horse, or something else valuable and useful.
The day before, we had honored Mace Tyrell and his aides in much the same way.
And on the following day, a tourney was held in honor of the victory, where warriors competed in three disciplines—archery, individual knightly tilts known as jousts, and a grand melee fought until a single victor remained.
In the archery contest, a simple warrior named Lory Rolly—an amusing name—took first place. Of average height, with muscular arms and broad shoulders, he secured his victory with confidence. I awarded him a thousand gold dragons and offered him a place in the Honor and Valor unit. The young man accepted.
At the battle at the Hill, Honor and Valor had won its first glory—and had been nearly wiped out. Only a couple dozen men remained. In place of the fallen Erg Dark, I appointed Gordik Shelby, and now we were rebuilding the unit practically from scratch. Fortunately, there was no shortage of volunteers.
The Hand and I granted the Holy Order and Honor and Valor the right to bear their own banners, and we were currently working out the designs of their future standards.
As I recalled, the first standing army in Europe had been introduced by the French king Charles VII in 1445. He formed fifteen companies, each numbering six hundred men. Among these units, a place of honor belonged to the Scottish company, which held a special status and was considered the elite of the army.
I intended to create something similar, and I already had two units—one entirely mounted, the other infantry. These would become the elite, which over time will develop traditions, prestige, and everything else it needs, such as banners, ranks, and uniforms. Later, I planned to create two or three more units, perhaps even more, and make one of them entirely naval,"tailored" for raids, rapid landings, boarding actions, and amphibious assaults.
Hundreds of banners rippled around us, horns sang, and laughter rang out, punctuated by the startled gasps of ladies during the more bloodier moments of the tourney. And I, as if seeing it with my own eyes, envisioned a reorganized royal army.
In the individual knightly contest, Ragnar Ran unexpectedly took first place, with Tyrek Lannister coming in second.
Ragnar received two thousand dragons, and Tyrek one.
I looked at these young men with pride. Now I could confidently say that I had people of my own—loyal to me, ready to do much.
In the grand melee, several men distinguished themselves—Herald Orm, Loras Tyrell, and others. But it was Jaime Lannister who outshone them all. All this time he had trained tirelessly, learning to fight with his left hand, and now it had become clear to nearly everyone that he had regained all his unmatched mastery and versatile skills. Jaime took first place. The prize of two thousand dragons he donated to the needs of the Kingsguard. Lords and knights were clearly impressed by such generosity. Still, one must remember that money had never been a problem for Jaime.
"Jaime has become a true Lord Commander," Kevan leaned toward me and said.
"A fair observation, Uncle," I replied, fully agreeing with the Hand. It seemed that Jaime had finally grown up, outgrown his youthful grievances and foolish ambitions, becoming a true man and a very dependable Lord Commander.
The festive mood was somewhat dampened by a serious injury sustained by Arys Oakheart—a lance pierced his neck. The knight, gurgling blood, was immediately carried from the field, and Archmaester Marwyn the Mage hurried off to examine him.
Toward evening, I learned that he had given Oakheart milk of the poppy and stitched the wound. The archmaester promised that within a month the knight would make a full recovery and return to duty. Marwyn's apprentice, a young man named Alleras, followed him. I couldn't help recalling that the archmaester had once mentioned he'd had two boys serving him, but one had disappeared during the Stand at the Ruby Ford. It seemed the second had either died, drowned, or perhaps simply gone off in search of adventure.
At the very end, I presented Turquoise to the assembled crowd. The dragon took to the air and made several circles above the tourney grounds. Everyone was delighted.
These three days of continuous celebration had somewhat depleted the royal treasury. We had spent heavily—there was no denying it. Studying the financial records with Tyrion, I came to a pleasing conclusion—even now, during the prolonged war, the crown managed to break even almost every month. If there was a deficit, it was very small and effectively limited to the last month, arising solely from the festivities we had arranged.
This was explained, above all, by the taxes from the port and maritime trade — the capital was the largest window linking Westeros, Essos, the Summer and other islands, and through us flowed an incredibly powerful stream of money.
In addition to trade, various shops and workshops brought in solid income—smithies, armories, leatherworkers, weavers, and many others.
(End of Chapter)
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