A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

He wanted to speak, and give a little jab, just for entertainment's sake. But it was Blackthorn's turn. She could quite easily overturn their little game, and ruin it from the off by siding with Gargon.

But she shook her head, as expected. She did so more firmly than one would usually do to one of Gargon's rank. Perhaps it was because her house was so close to Lordship itself, it didn't need to be pushed around quite as strongly by the Gargon prestige?

"Oh, Lord Gargon, I hardly saw you there," Oliver grinned, feigning a lighter attitude. "See, I got your title right this time. When I first met you, I really didn't realize. I could have sworn you were minor nobility. But I suppose that just goes to show how important it is to check – you never know who you're speaking to, after all."

Like Gargon, he didn't spare much effort in disguising his insult, nor did he even spare effort on inventing a new one. He fired back the same dig that Gargon had used on him, though he'd dressed it up and repackaged it to be something new.

Despite that lack of effort, it was more than enough to rile Gargon up. He had two other nobles standing behind him, both of them boys. As Gargon grew angry, so did they, but theirs was a more careful sort of anger. They couldn't risk the kind of outbursts that Gargon could. Oliver could see the boy clench his fist, barely controlling his range.

A vein likely bulged on his forehead beneath his sweeping fringe.

"Ah… It was you, after all, Patrick. I was certain it was a commoner," he managed to say through gritted teeth. "I heard a little bird recently tell me of your attempt at poaching. Offering my workers double my pay. A lesser businessman would have taken offence at that."

"Businessman?" Oliver openly laughed. He didn't need to fake the emotion, or force the laugh. When compared to Greeves – despite all his darkness and inscrutability – how could a noble born into such immense wealth declare himself a businessman? It seemed an insult to the profession.

The fact that his emotion was genuine only served to upset Gargon even further. Oliver's opinion of him was so obvious with his unrestrained laugh that it shocked the boy. Nobles hid their true emotions through euphemisms, only allowing hints of it through. Rarely did one get an open and honest view of how someone else saw them – and even then, it was rarely in such a negative light.

Oliver held him in utter contempt. He made that clear to everyone else on the table.

It was a shocking thing. It was one thing to go against a Lord, and dislike him, but to make it so obvious that you saw the Lord as insignificant was something else. It made Gargon's breath catch in his throat.

He was the heir to the House of Gargon.n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

They weren't just Lord's, they were powerful, rich Lords, well within the King's favour. His father was but a few steps away from being the man in charge of the King's whole treasury. That was the kind of power that he'd grown up with. Absolute civic power. When there was not a battlefield, his people dominated.

They ruled in every aspect of civic life, controlling everything that mattered in their region.

Even other Lords would nod to them with respect. They even greeted Gargon with respect, as afforded to the heir of the Gargon House. These were full Lords, some nearly as powerful as his father, and yet more so, and it was him that they dipped their head to, sixteen-year-old Gargon.

But what of this? What of this clear… animosity? Why was there an absence of fear in the boy's eyes? It wasn't just an absence of fear, it was a predatory look, like a tiger eyeing the juicy hide of a mountain boar. It was chilling. Enough to freeze him in place.

Just what kind of… What kind of substance was he made of, to be able to look at Gargon and think that? Gargon dared to hold his gaze. No, that was wrong. He didn't dare to – he simply couldn't tear his eyes away. He saw the way Oliver's lips curled into a slight smile, and he felt the way his eyes ran straight through him.

Those light scars on his cheek… Warriors scars, the sort of thing the Gargons would never be. His people fielded an army, of course, but they had never given birth to a great warrior, nor a Great General.

That was it then… The rumours, maybe they were true… Maybe the boy had seen his share of battle. Maybe that's why—

Gargon recovered himself before he let the silence stretch out any further. He shook his head, regaining his usual confidence. It was madness that afflicted the Patrick boy, he was sure now. There was no other way he could swagger in a field full of enemies.

'And make no mistake,' Gargon said, eyeing him. 'These people are all your enemies.'

He saved his dignity by not even deigning Oliver worthy of his response. He merely snorted, and left, with nothing but a searching glance towards Lady Blackthorn. Just what was their relationship, he wondered? Surely it wasn't a romantic one… He had heard some say that the Patrick boy was handsome, thinking him to be out of earshot, but even then, none would dare court him.

He was a mere oddity, an object of fascination. Not something you allowed within your home.

Oliver watched Gargon go, leaning back in his chair. He saw Blackthorn glaring at him out of the corner of his eye.

"Ah, I think we're friends now," he said to her. He could practically hear her teeth grinding. Then he heard her foot stomp loudly onto the ground a moment later. She'd been aiming to stomp his toes, but of course, even in that, Oliver Patrick would not allow himself to be defeated.

Aime and Beatrice seemed to look at him for the first time. He returned their looks with an amiable smile.