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Daeron buried the guards on the banks of the river. The ground was hard and dry since the Riverlands hadn’t seen any rain in a moon, though he could smell a storm on the wind. Daeron worked through the evening, choking on the rising dust until he created a pit, six feet wide and six feet deep. 

The corpses of the Stark men laid about the small forest trail, the bandits mixed in among them. Daeron stripped the Stark guards of their armor and their swords, and piled the equipment between two fir trees, then dragged their bodies and laid them into the pit, side by side. The bodies of the ragged outlaws he left lying where they fell.

The murmuring of the river sounded in his ears as he filled the pit. When he was finished, he staggered down the riverbank, falling to his knees before he dunked his face in the water, the red dust of the rich soil trailing like a plume of smoke downstream.

Daeron sat back on his haunches, the cold water dripping down his face, and stared into the distance. Storm clouds were brewing on the horizon and the first flashes of lightning exploded among the clouds. It’ll be a long night, Daeron thought. Best I get moving.

He picked up a couple of stones and piled them atop the pit to mark the grave, then stood up straight and put his hands behind his back. “I’m sorry you’re dead, Sers.” He swallowed. “I shouldn’t have insisted we take the long way. I should’ve let you take me down the Kingsroad.” They might’ve been in King’s Landing by now if Daeron hadn’t insisted on avoiding his royal father for as long as possible.

“Ser Ronnel, you first taught me how to fletch arrows. And Ser Daryn, thank you for that trick with a dagger. I already beat Robb with it once.” He hadn’t known the other two that well. “The Old Gods keep you.”

They’d been good men, all of them. “We’ll get him to King’s Landing, m’lord, nothing but death can stop us,” they had told Uncle Ned before they departed Winterfell. Well, a dozen bandits and an ambush in the forest had proven the truth of their words. They’d fought well; each took at least two men into the grave with him, but in the end, Daeron was the only one left standing while Ser Ronnel gasped his last breaths, holding onto his guts though they insisted on spilling out of his body.

Daeron approached the horses he’d tied to the trunk of an old oak. He had two horses to pick from now, and a mule that carried their supplies. Ser Ronnel’s blood-red palfrey had bolted in the chaos along with the gold Uncle Ned had given them for the journey. That left Daeron’s black palfry, Honor, and a white destrier Ser Daryn called Dawn. I could use him for Tourneys and battle, Daeron thought. It was certainly big enough and Ser Daryn often mentioned its speed and strength.

The armor was another issue. Daeron couldn’t use his own. His black breastplate was engraved with the heads of dragons and wolves, the helm shaped in the form of a snarling direwolf’s head. Even his sword was too fine a blade for the hedge knight he meant to become: a longsword polished to perfection, the grip inlaid with silver, and a cross-guard made of dragon heads.

He bent down to pilfer through the pile of equipment and pieced together a set from the armor of the guards. Ser Ronnel had been about his size, so he took his plain, soot-grey chelate, his visored barbute helm, the skirt of lobstered steel, but kept his own chainmail, shin guards, and his black surcoat. Ser Ronnel preferred a greatsword, so he had to take Ser Daryn’s weapon, a longsword, no wider than half his palm at the cross-guard. Daeron took a couple of experimental swings. Mikken’s work. Nobody could balance a blade like the old blacksmith.

After loading his armor of choice onto the mule, Daeron slid his new sword into the scabbard. The rest of the armor he threw in the river. It would attract too much notice if he tried to sell it. The purses of silver he saved for last. Daeron didn’t have his own since Uncle Ned didn’t expect he’d need it, and the other three had painfully little coins to share between them: some three silvers and twenty jots. Enough to keep me fed for a week, but no more.

Daeron sat down on the ground and watched the river flow by. He should get on the horse, ride to King’s Landing, and meet his father, along with the rest of the Royal family. Uncle Ned would certainly demand it, and Daeron couldn’t help but imagine that King Rhaegar would concur. Daeron could be in the castle within the sennight and he would never have to worry about gold or food ever again. And then what? He’d spend the rest of his life in that bloody castle, living as the King’s bastard, fighting off suspicions of treachery.

Or he could get on that same horse and ride wherever he damn well pleased. Daeron had been raised in the tradition of the North – they were warriors up there, not knights, which meant Daeron had been trained to kill men, not overthrow them in a tourney. But that didn’t mean that Daeron couldn’t take to the road as a hedge knight, earn gold where he could, maybe even win some glory. Who could stop him?

When people thought of the dragons, they imagined silver hair, purple eyes, and beauty to inspire a song. Daeron had dirt-brown hair and plain features. He did have purple eyes, that much was true, but they were so dark, they looked black unless one knew what to look for. According to most people, Daeron only resembled King Rhaegar for his smooth features, but even that was a blessing. Looking too much like Ned Stark would also harm his prospects if he came across anyone with the wit necessary to connect a two dots. No, Daeron thought he’d inherited just enough from each side of the family to ensure he resembled neither. He could walk into any tavern, castle, or town, and not a single person would consider that Daeron might be descended from two of the oldest families in the Seven Kingdoms. 

Yes, it could work. And there was a tourney over at Wayfarer’s Rest.

Daeron had been riding for a couple of days when he came upon the light of a campfire in the forest. The rain had been falling steadily the entire time and turned the roads to mud. His clothes were soaked all the way through, his tunic stuck to his skin, and he tried to keep from shivering as he navigated the roots and the puddles to keep Honor from stumbling. He dismounted some twenty paces from the fire and approached on foot, hands in the air.

The smell of a crackling rabbit met him on the wind as he came closer. “Ho, there,” he called out as he stepped into a small clearing, his hands in the air. “I am a lone traveler and I was wondering if I might share your fire.”

A man stood up at his approach, no more than a year or two older than Daeron, a young boy with ears too big for his head by his side. His hand went to the hilt of his sword only to relax when he saw the palms of Daeron’s hands. The man was a head taller than Daeron and broad-shouldered, with a thin white scar running over his right brow and down his cheeks. The fire burned between them and in the flickering light Daeron saw the soggy blond hair, his black cloak fastened at the shoulder by a silver broach. A yellow surcoat hung over his chainmail, with brown acorns arranged on it. The young lad beside him wore a plain brown doublet and a black cloak, his long brown hair glued to the sides of his face. Across the fire, an older man sat, a grizzled knight by the look of it. His eyes were shrouded in darkness, but the man seemed short and barrel-chested, with shaggy brown hair and a thick salt-and-pepper beard.

“By all means, join us, friend,” the knight said. His nose seemed to have been broken a number of times and his thin eyebrows lent a certain sharpness to his gaze. “We’ve got some rabbit meat and bread, if you’d like it.”

“Much obliged.” Daeron moved back and pulled a skin of wine off the mule. “Some wine?”

“That would be lovely.” The knight sat back down. The three of them had each built a shabby lean-to for themselves with what looked like their horse blankets to spare them the worst of the rain, and they quickly huddled back under the covers.

“My name is Ser Ryam of White Tree,” Daeron told him as he approached. He’d come up with the name in advance. “Might I have yours?” He handed the man his skin of wine then returned to his horse to get a blanket.

“Ser Jojen Smallwood, at your service.” The knight bowed his head. “And this is my squire, Jayson.”

“Pleasure to meet you both.” Ryam nodded and looked to the older man expectantly.

“Ser Tymon of the Laughing Ridge,” the knight grunted and took a swig of Daeron’s wine when Ser Jojen handed it over.

“A pleasure to meet you, Ser.”

Daeron unfolded a blanket, took a pair of pegs they normally used for tents, and drove them into the earth by the tree, then slammed his dagger through the blanket into the trunk. With that done, he pulled down the saddle from Honor, unloaded his mule, and hobbled them both.

Placing a blanket across the roots of the tree, Daeron sat down and faced Ser Jojen and his squire. “Smallwood, you said?” Daeron’s eyes lingered on the rabbit. “You wouldn’t happen to be related to Lord Theomar Smallwood, would you?” Lord Theomar had been a noted Baratheon loyalist, albeit one who’d quickly surrendered when King Rhaegar broke the rebel alliance at the Stoney Sept.

The young knight regarded Daeron for a moment. “He is my father. Jayson here is my cousin on my mother’s side.”

“And you?” the young boy asked. He reminded Daeron of Bran – his young cousin was also missing a chin thanks to his recent growth spurt. “Where you from?”

“Watch your tongue, brat.” Jojen gave the boy a good-natured cuff around the ears. “This is a knight you’re speaking to.” He looked at Daeron. “Forgive the boy, I don’t beat him as much as I should.”

“That’s quite alright. And I come from White Harbor,” Daeron replied with an indulgent smile and took back the skin of wine when Ser Jojen offered it. The bitter liquid splashed over his tongue and warmed him up a bit.

All three of them seemed to stiffen at that information. The North and the Riverlands fought on the same side of the Rebellion, but many in the south had never forgiven Lord Eddard for bending the knee in exchange for the return of Lady Lyanna. “A northman?” Ser Tymon asked. “What brings you down south?”

Daeron pretended as though he hadn’t noticed their unease. “My father was landed knight sworn to Lord Manderly, but he died recently. After my older brother inherited, I figured it was time for me to move on.” Daeron was quite proud of the story he concocted; most southerners didn’t have a good grasp of northern affairs and weren’t liable to gainsay him.

“Aye, I can understand that.” Ser Jojen nodded in sympathy. Some of the tension seemed to lift from his shoulders. “Myself, I am only the second son of Lord Smallwood. That’s why me and Jayson here snuck off. We’re going to the tourney at Wayfarer’s Rest, see.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, I mean to be a champion there.”

Ser Tymon snorted. “You and every other pimply lad within fifty leagues.”

Ser Jojen shot him a nasty look. “And what tourneys have you won, good Ser?”

“Few enough.” The knight prodded the fire with a stick. “But I’ve won my fair share of ransoms, aye, that I have.”

“I’m going that way myself,” Daeron said. “Mayhaps we should share the journey. The roads aren’t as safe as they used to be.”

The knight and his squire exchanged a look. “We’d be happy to share the road with you, Ser Ryam.”        

“They say there’s going to be rich prizes for the winners, you know,” the boy Jayson gushed, squatting by the fire as Ser Jojen carved a strip of flesh from the rabbit. “Lady Vance’s eldest daughter has come of age, so she’s promised to give a hundred gold pieces to the winner and fifty to the man who comes in second.”           

“Truly?” Daeron asked. A hundred gold pieces would put his worries about gold behind him for a year, though winning a ransom or two would be enough. Given Daeron’s lack of fondness for jousting, however, even that might be too much to hope for. “The Riverlands will descend on the castle, then?”

Ser Jojen grimaced. “Undoubtedly.” He reached into a bag by his side and pulled out three loaves of bread, handing one to Ryam and the other to his cousin. Ser Tymon had some bread of his own.

Daeron reached to his belt and pulled out his dagger, hewed the loaf in half with three strokes, and reached out with the bottom half to let the squire place three strips of meat on it. As he took a bite, the grease ran down his chin and dripped onto his surcoat.

“The best way to find a husband, my father says,” the boy commented in between bites.

“Your father likes to gossip too much,” Ser Jojen said. “Though he’s not wrong in this case.”

Daeron had to agree. “Surely a daughter of a House as prominent as House Vance should have suitors aplenty?”

“She should,” Ser Tymon spoke up. “But Lady Marianne Vance’s a strange woman, vicious and half-mad, some say. She probably wants to personally inspect every one of them until she finds the one she finds appropriate.”

“And what does Lord Vance say?”

“Lord  Karyl Vance’s a young man. ‘Twas the old man that Lady Marianne was married to. She was his second wife and she bore him two daughters and a son.”     

“Lady Marianne was born a Blackwood, wasn’t she?” the squire asked.

Ser Tymon paused in his chewing and nodded. “Aye, that she was.”

That piece of information seemed to hold some significance, though it was entirely lost on Daeron.

“The Blackwoods were at the Stoney Sept with Robert Baratheon when King Rhaegar appeared with the Royal army,” Ser Jojen explained, very carefully. “Lord Blackwood preferred exile rather than bending the knee to the Dragons. It is said Lady Marianne never forgave the Tullys, the Arryns, and the Starks for abandoning him.”

Daeron nodded in understanding but didn’t say anything on the matter, afraid his voice might betray him. He took another bite of the bread instead, and the conversation tapered down after that. When they finished with their meals, the four unlikely companions curled up under their lean-to’s to get some rest. Daeron sat with his back leaning against the trunk, the light of the fire flickering in his eyes as he stared into the dark forest for a long time after the other three had gone quiet. The forest was lit up by the icy-blue flashes of lightning every once in a while, and Daeron paid close attention to every brief moment of clarity. He could’ve sworn he saw massive beasts lurking around their camps – from vicious direwolves, stalking, to massive dragons, pushing themselves forward and bringing down ancient trees as they went. But every time darkness returned, the dark forms disappeared, leaving Daeron to rub his eyes and try to convince himself he was merely seeing things. 

Daeron didn’t rightly recall when sleep took him, but he was woken by a gentle nudge of the foot. He blinked and looked up to find Ser Tymon staring down at him. “Wake up. We leave soon, so you best get ready.”

The clouds had cleared in the night and though the roads remained bogs of mud, Daeron stared up at the sky to soak in the sunshine and savor the warmth as it seeped down to his bones. The lush greenery of the forest surrounded them on both sides and a pleasant breeze moved through their hair as birds sang and chirped in the distance. The land seemed to be bursting with life. Daeron spotted a pair of deer watching them from the trees, bold as brass, and looked up to find a squirrel scampering over the branches above, tracking their progress.

Ser Tymon kept quiet most of the time as they rode while Ser Jojen nodded along at Jayson’s excited babbling.

“… and Ser Marq Piper’s coming, they say he overthrew four of the Freys during the last Tourney at Riverrun.”

Ser Tymon rubbed his chin through the beard. “Not much of a feat, if ye ask me.”

Daeron snorted and grinned at Ser Tymon.

The squire didn’t take well to that. “Well, he broke six lances against the Knight of Flowers at the tourney in King’s Landing!”

“Aye, and landed on his arse on the seventh.” Ser Tymon shifted in his saddle and flicked the reins of his horse. “Spare me the tales of green knights and their sticks. Ser Arthur Dayne’s still the greatest knight in the realm and these boys will fall before him like wheat before a scythe if ever they meet!”

“In a swordfight, perhaps,” Ser Jojen said in a quiet voice, but they all gave him their full attention. “In a joust, Ser Loras is above and beyond the rest of them.”

Ser Tymon made a face and spat to the side. Daeron couldn’t help but share the old knight’s sentiment – jousting was a fancy pastime for southern flowers, as far as he was concerned. It might come in handy during a cavalry charge, but beyond that, it was the swordsmen who ruled the battlefield. But that didn’t mean that Daeron wouldn’t have to defeat a couple of these southern flowers if he wanted to keep his mount and armor for the foreseeable future.

“Are any of these champions expected at the Tourney?” Daeron asked as they came upon a merchant by the side of the road, barking orders at his two boys who were trying to lift the cart so he might reattach the wheel.

“I doubt it,” Ser Jojen shook his head, eyes on the boys. “Lord Brynden Blackwood’s sure to come, though, since he’s Lady Marianne’s brother. Same for Ser Patrek Mallister and other knights of the Riverlands.”

Daeron hummed and they rode on in silence. The journey took them through villages and small towns, full of thatched roofs and cobbled market squares. Vast fields of wheat and barley stretched to both sides of the road, the men at work pausing to watch them pass, shielding their eyes from the sun with their hands. One evening, they camped in the shadow of a burned-out keep, Ser Tymon explaining it had once belonged to a House that had refused House Blackwood call to rise against the Dragons. The next day, they had to drag Ser Tymon on when he wanted to stop at the first brothel on the way, a painting of a dancing maiden above the door, and let each other know with nothing but the looks in their eyes that their purses would prefer dinner in the forest when they stumbled upon an inn.

On the third day, they arrived at Wayfarer’s Rest. Spotting it in the distance, Daeron could admit it made for a formidable sight. The castle stood atop a cliff, the Red Fork flowing some three hundred feet beneath its walls. Shaped like an arrowhead, the curtain walls hugged the edge of the cliff and its main tower stretched high into the sky, providing a commanding view of the lands to the west up to the Golden Tooth.

A sea of colorful tents had sprung up in the field before the castle. The banners of its noble owners fluttered in the wind and Daeron recognized the pink dancing maiden upon a blue field of the Pipers, the silver eagle of the Mallisters, the red salmon of the Motoons, the plowman of the Darrys, and the white weirwood surrounded by black ravens of House Blackwood. The flower of the Riverlands had come to the tourney.

The cluster of pavilions was split in half by the tourney ground where the carpenters were hard at work erecting palisades and stands for the commoners and the nobles, and on the other side of the lists, the merchants and tradesmen plied their wares.

“That’s more like it,” Ser Jojen murmured beside him with a slight smile and spurred his horse forward. “Where shall we set up camp?”     

Daeron felt shame rise up in him as he followed. Ser Jojen undoubtedly had a pavilion of his own and meant to join the ranks of the Lord and the knights whereas Daeron would have to settle for sleeping under the open skies. “I think we must part ways here, Sers.”

“Why?” Ser Jojen turned his mount around. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t have a pavilion, Ser.” Daeron nodded to the tree line in the distance. “The leaves shall be my tent.”

“They shall be ours as well, Ser,” Ser Jojen said and Jayson grinned beside him. “We shall make camp together.”

That threw Daeron off. “But—But surely…”

“There’s no shame in sleeping in the hedges, Ser,” Ser Tymon said, wheeling his horse about. “All the cunts I’ve ever met sleep on featherbeds.”

Ser Jojen cracked a grin. “And I suppose I should’ve explained myself better. My Lord father wasn’t much enthused at the idea of me attending this tourney, so Jayson and I… well, I suppose we ran away.”

“And Ser Tymon?” Daeron glanced at the old knight.

“Ser Tymon’s a knight in my father’s service. He decided to come along.” The look on his face suggested Ser Jojen did not necessarily appreciate the gesture.

“Someone’s got to make sure you two get yourself killed,” the older knight said with a laugh.

Ser Jojen glowered at him. “We didn’t have time to pack a pavilion, so we shall be joining you in the hedges, if you don’t mind.”

Daeron found his heart lifted by the prospect of some company. “Not at all, Ser.”