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Chapter Text

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.”

Chapter Text

After they had brushed down the horses and had them watered and fed, Daeron helped Jojen dig a fire pit while Jayson wandered into the forest in search of wood and kindling. Ser Tymon sat leaning against a tree, sharpening his sword and drinking his wine, ignoring Daeron’s and Jojen’s entreaties for help.

“Three battles in a single day, can you imagine it?” Ser Tymon regaled them with the tales of Robert Baratheon to the sound of the whetstone sliding down his blade. Seeing Ser Jojen roll his eyes, Daeron guessed it was not the first time the old knight had told this story. “Robert was a warrior without equal in the Seven Kingdoms. With his warhammer in hand, no man could stand against him.”

“A great warrior and a traitor,” Ser Jojen shot back and threw some more dirt over his shoulder.

“Pahh,” Ser Tymon snorted. “How can a man be a traitor with a madman on the Iron Throne.”

Daeron paused in his digging to look at the old knight. “A madman King Rhaegar deposed.”

“Aye.” Ser Jojen sank his shovel back into the ground. “And still Baratheon did not yield.”

“Deposed him, aye, that much he did.” Ser Tymon spat to the side and took another sip of the wine. He’s drunk. “By sneaking through the Red Keep and slaying his opponents. The King can say what he likes. There was no honor in it.”

Much and more had been said of King Rhaegar’s methods since the end of the rebellion, and Daeron had heard many echo Ser Tymon’s words. After he learned of the gruesome murders of Rickard and Brandon Stark, the Crown Prince raced back to the capital. The nobles and the smallfolk alike thought he meant to raise an army and march against the rebel forces sprouting around the kingdoms, but the Silver Prince had other ideas. The Mad King had relied on the Spider to report every whisper of treason, but Daeron’s father solved that problem by never stating his plans out loud. It was said that he had simply emerged from his chambers in the middle of the night and bade Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell, the two Kingsguard on duty, to follow him. The two knights did not balk when Rhaegar led them through the Red Keep and ordered them to slay the Mad King’s most loyal lickspittles, one after another. By morning, the Captain of the Red Keep’s Guards and all his main lieutenants were dead, and half the Small Council was squatting in the Black Cells. Then Rheagar ordered that the Mad King be shipped off the Dragonstone where he would spend the short remainder of his life.

Some Lords supported Rhaegar’s actions wholeheartedly. Even Uncle Ned, never a great admirer of the King, told Daeron that Rhaegar’s decision to trigger the Night of the Hidden Draggers was the wisest choice his father had ever made. But even more saw Rhaegar’s actions as incontrovertible proof that the House of the Dragon was filled with madmen, murderers, and men without honor.

Daeron narrowed his eyes at the old knight. “He had a war to prevent, Ser.”

“A war to prevent, he says,” Ser Tymon repeated with a mocking tone. “How can you prevent a war when half a dozen battles had already been fought, when thousands of men had already laid down their lives?”

“A war to stop, then.”

“Mayhaps, aye. But methinks he’d never have stopped it if Lord Stark wasn’t such a craven and Jon Arryn had something other than water running through his veins.”

Daeron jerked, his pick in hand, but Ser Jojen’s hand on his arm stopped him. “Easy, Ser. He’s drunk. He don’t mean nothing by it.”

Daeron glared at Ser Tymon over Ser Jojen’s shoulder. “Lord Stark is an honorable man.”

“Aye.” Ser Tymon’s cackled. “An honorable man. King Rhaegar returns him his sister, despoiled and with a bastard in her belly, and the fool forgets all about getting justice for his father and brother. Sounds like a craven to me.”

Daeron threw down his pick and stepped out of the pit in front of the knight, looking down at him. “Apologize.”

“Ser Tymon!” Ser Jojen rushed to put himself between the two, facing Daeron as he barked an order over his shoulder. “Take a walk.”

“Are you going to fight me, lad?” Ser Tymon took another sip of his wine. “D’you know how many green boys like you I’ve put into the ground?”

“Ser Tymon!” Ser Jojen shouted as he put both hands on Daeron’s shoulders to hold him back from lunging at the old man. “He’s drunk, Ser, he’s drunk.”

Daeron blinked. “That’s all right.” He threw off Ser Jojen’s hands and looked away from the old knight. “I’m the one who’s leaving.” Daeron grabbed his sword belt and threw his cloak over his shoulders.

‘Tha’s right, run away, just like the rest of you northerners,” Ser Tymon said and laughed.

Daeron threw one last look over his shoulder but walked on. With his heart hammering against his chest like a battering ram trying to break down the gates, Daeron headed toward the forest of tents in the distance. A Myrish man set up a stand and put spyglasses and rugs on the display for all to see and a Tyroshi cloth-merchant offered fabrics were of colors Daeron had never seen before. Blacksmiths peddled their armor, some of it covered in intricate engravings, shaped in the forms of wild beasts and chased with silver and gold, while others sold armor as plain as Daeron’s own. But it was when he noticed an old man with a stack of shields on his stand that Daeron stopped. The haze had begun to lift from his eyes, and he recognized that since he’d thrown the shields of his Stark guardsmen into the river – they all sported the direwolf of Winterfell – he needed another for the tourney.

“Something caught your eye, young Ser?” a hunched old man with a white beard asked when he saw Daeron looking.

Daeron approached him. “I am in need of a new shield.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place. Tommard’s my name.” The old man bobbed his head. “Shields I have, and plenty of ‘em. How much would Your Lordship want to pay?”

“A silver,” Daeron murmured. “And I’m not a Lord.”

“No? You certain?” Tommard eyed him from beneath his brow.

Daeron gave him a hard look.

“For a silver you can pick through these, Ser, they’re lined with iron so they won’t splinter as easily as the rest. Do you have a sigil in mind?”

“No, and no time to have one painted either.”

The old man nodded and proceeded to sift through the shields as though they were pieces of parchment, showing off the many sigils he’d created. There was a blood-red sword on a white field, a bouquet of golden roses upon a red field. Spears and lightning bolts, mountain lions and trout, crossed axes, and the glowing sun. But it wasn’t until they came upon a shield that bore the painting of a white weirwood tree on a grey field that Daeron bid him halt.

“What is this?”

Tommard ran his hands over the paint. “A northerner ordered it some moons ago, but never showed up to collect it.”

“I am of the North as well,” Daeron said as he examined the wood for any cracks and the iron for rust. He found none. “I will take it.” He slung the shield over his back and gave the old man his silver. “Thank you.”

Tommard bobbed his head. “Come find me if you need another.”

Daeron nodded, feeling a bit better, as if he’d acquired the final piece of his costume. He forgot about Ser Tymon’s insults and decided to wander through the camp; the first of the cookfires had begun sprouting and knights and their squires sat around on buckets or their blankets, drinking ale and jesting. He heard all sorts of noises coming from the various tents, chuckled when he saw two knights wrestling in the dirt and passed a group of squires singing a bawdy tune.

Then a young man stuck his head through the flaps of a tent and pointed a finger at Daeron. “You, Ser. Yes, you, come ‘ere, we are in desperate need of assistance.”

“Me?” Daeron approached, noting the dancing maiden of the Pipers flapping from the top of the tent. “How may I help you?”

“Come inside, come.” The man held the flap open for him. He had a tussled mane of blond hair, a square chin, and a cape hanging from his shoulder, a cape the same color as the tent. Ser Marq Piper, then.

Inside, a pair of knights stood around a table, the light of the candles flickering on their faces as they argued. “Enough now,” Ser Marq commanded. “We need an outsider’s ruling, and I’ve found one.” He turned to Daeron. “What’s your name?”

“Ser Ryam of White Tree.” Daeron bowed his head. “Pleasure to meet you, Sers.”

“And what’s this whelp supposed to do?” one of the men asked, a tall muscular knight with stern features.

“He will give the ruling and we will all promise to abide by it, agreed?”

The two knights exchanged looks and murmured their assent, though neither seemed happy about it.

“Now, then, Ser Ryam, was it? Have you ever played dice? Excellent! Tell us, then, good Ser, if the dice should fall off the table, does the throw still count? Ser Harmon here seems to think it does.” He gestured to the knight who had spoken, a giant of a man who had a greatsword peeking over his shoulder.

“No, of course not.” That had been the rule among the guardsmen at Winterfell.

“Careful now, lad,” Ser Harmon growled. “I’ve challenged men to duels for such lies before.”

Daeron peered at him. “And that has helped you keep the dice on the table?”

The men went silent.

“Bold this one, isn’t he?” Ser Harmon looked around. Then he barked, “I like it.” The men erupted in laughter.

“All righ’, all righ’, here’s your bloody gold, won’t no one ever call me a cheat.” He slammed a pair of golden dragons on the table so hard a cup of wine spilled.

“If that is all, I will leave you to it.” Daeron nodded and made to leave.

“What? No, no, have a drink with us.” Ser Marq grabbed him by the arm and pushed a cup of wine into his hands. “I am Ser Marq Piper, and this is my cousin, Ser Lyman.” Ser Marq introduced the remaining stranger in the tent.

“Well met,” Ser Lyman said with a sly grin as he pocketed the gold. He was a slim man with long, greasy hair, and from the look in his eyes, Daeron could that the man was, above all, clever.

“Well met.” Daeron figured he might as well – he took a sip of the sweet wine and felt it warm up his insides.

“Looking to enter the lists?” Ser Lyman asked.

“For a certain.” The Tourney offered him a chance at freedom, though he did not know how good that chance was. In Winterfell, he was far and away the best sword and rider, and Ser Rodrik often praised his talent with the sword and lance. But he did not know how he would fair against these southern knights; their tales of battle and glory seemed twice as grand as those of the nothern warriors and Daeron assumed at least some of them must be true. Uncle Ned, as it happened, never appreciated the sentiment.

“I always thought northerners shied away from such civilized behavior and preferred to wrestle with wolves in the woods,” Ser Lyman said.

“Never mind my cousin, he didn’t listen when his father taught him the value of good manners,” Ser Marq said before Daeron could respond and quickly launched them on a tale of large bosoms and shapely behinds, both of which he’d glimpsed the last time he had visited a brothel. Daeron thought his language disrespectful and coarse as he finished his first cup, but Ser Marq kept refilling his cup and Daeron wasn’t inclined to refuse him. By the end of his third cup, Daeron was laughing along with the rest of them. The stories Ser Marq told about the maiden daughters of their his bannermen made Daeron wonder if he hadn’t misjudged the daughters of northern Lords when they had visited Winterfell, and he tucked away a few of the tricks Ser Marq used to drive Lord Bracken’s second daughter Barbrey wild.

They made him blush when they asked about his own exploits in the brothel and guffawed when Daeron admitted he’d never visited. “The soul of chivalry and honor, this one.” Ser Harmon clapped him on the back so hard Daeron staggered into the table. “You should go before it’s too late. Your wife won’t appreciate a fumbling boy, lad.”

I’ll never have a wife, Daeron repeated that old promise but nodded amiably for the knight’s convenience.

It was some hours later that he staggered out of the tent half-drunk and tried to find his way back to the forest. Daeron didn’t rightly know when he’d decided to get drunk, or why he’d allowed things to go that far, but he preferred to focus on getting back to his camp rather than dwell on his mistakes. A number of times his feet carried him west when he should’ve gone north and, surrounded by tents on all sides, he peered at the stars, one eye closed so he might see better until he found the Ice Dragon and regained his bearings.

It was after he’d puked his guts out into one of the buckets that laid abandoned by a cook-fire and made his quick getaway that he stumbled onto a conversation from one of the tents. Daeron wanted to quench his thirst in a barrel of water, but the voices from inside drew his ear.

“…I’ve received word Prince Jaehaerys is coming!” He heard a thick, hoarse whisper, its owner clearly trying to contain his panic.

“You blind fool,” the other man said. This one’s voice was smooth and elegant, so calm it set Daeron’s teeth on edge. “Can’t you see, but this is perfect!” The voice hissed. “We can use Ser Edmure now. The King hasn’t trusted him since the Princess broke their betrothal, so instead of having Ser Edmure judge his friends, he’ll be accused with them. And with the Prince to witness it, there’ll be no doubt that the traitors deserved to die!”

Prince? Daeron wondered, half-panicked. What Prince? And what traitors are they talking about?

There was a beat of silence from the tent. Then the first man spoke up hesitantly, “And what of Lord Karyl?”

“Lord Karyl will fall in the same swoop, don’t you worry. This is a great stroke of luck that fell into our lap and I don’t intend to waste it.” A sound of footsteps followed that declaration and Daeron heard the flap of the tent pulled to the side. For reasons he could not divine, he crouched behind the barrel of water and kept in place until the man disappeared into the darkness. And then, gently – slowly – he crept away, moving among the tents. When he reasoned he’d gone far enough, Daeron took off and returned to the forest as quickly as his legs could carry him.

Next morning he woke up with a pitiful groan, his mouth as dry as the sands of Dorne, and the taste of acid hovering at the back of his throat. Ser Tymon met this sight with a boisterous laugh. “There goes the drinking hero.” He grinned down at Daeron. “Here, have some of this.”

Daeron snatched the skin of water and, propping himself up to lean against a tree, he swallowed down huge gulps of the liquid. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic and though the world still seemed a bit wobbly, he felt much better.

“Better?” Ser Tymon asked.

“Better.” Daeron nodded and took another sip to make sure.

Ser Tymon crouched next to him and said in a quiet voice, “Listen, lad, what I said yesterday…”

“It’s fine.” Daeron waved him off. “No harm done.”

Ser Tymon watched him for a few beats as if to make sure, then gave a nod and stood back up. “You drink the rest of it. I’ll go get us some bacon to put on the fire.”

Ser Jojen came out of the woods with Jayson in tow a few minutes later, a stack of kindling in his arms, while Jayson carried the wood. “Did he apologize?” Ser Jojen asked as he laid out the firewood at the bottom of the pit.

“Aye.” Daeron nodded.

“Good, that’s good.” He took Jayson’s firewood and stacked it up. “His mouth gets away from him sometimes when he’s drunk.”

“He does it a lot.” Jayson bobbed his head knowingly.

“His brother was with Lord Blackwood at the Stoney Sept,” Ser Jojen said. “Tymon calls him an idiot when he’s sober, but when he starts drinking…”

Daeron nodded in understanding and Ser Jojen, confident that Daeron got the message, piled the kindling at the bottom of the pit and started a fire. Ser Tymon returned awhile later with the food and they watched strips of bacon sizzle at the bottom of the pot until they became hard and crisp. They had ten, thick pieces each and some bread to go along. The greasy pork helped settle Daeron’s stomach.

He felt half-way human by the time he finished though he stank of sweat accumulated over the previous nights and his hair had turned into a matted mess. The river flowing some two hundred yards away lent itself nicely to his problem. “I’m going for a swim,” he told his new friends.

“A swim? But the Red Fork must be freezing right now!” Ser Jojen exclaimed.

Daeron shrugged. “A hot spring compared to the rivers in the North, I’m sure.” He and Robb had been swimming in them since they were children.

Ser Jojen seemed to take this information into consideration. “Better you than me. When you come back, we’ll go to enter our names into the lists together.”

Daeron left all his clothes but his tunic and his breeches behind and undressed on the riverbank. Wayfarer’s Rest loomed above him to the south. The water made his muscles clench up when he first waded into it, but with deep breaths, Daeron forced himself to relax and keep going until it reached up to his neck. The current seemed gentle enough, but Daeron had heard many tales of treacherous rivers, so he kept close to the shore, his feet firmly on the ground. The temperature of the water sent his blood racing through his veins and dispersed the worst of the fog that hung over his mind. What better day to get drunk for the first time, he chided himself. What was I thinking? Perhaps it would be wiser to avoid entering the lists; surely he couldn’t hope to compete in such a state, especially since jousting was far from his strong suit? But he needed the ransoms and some might name him craven if he tried to avoid it.

Mussing up his hair, Daeron walked out of the water and sat down on the smooth, round pebbles that littered the riverbank. He lounged under the sun, waiting to dry off and hoping his queasiness might disappear.

The nervousness that sat in the pit of his stomach like a stone did not help. Those voices last night said the Prince was coming, he thought. They also spoke about using traitors and Ser Edmure, but Daeron’s memory was shrouded in a mist, and he couldn’t rightly recall what he’d heard. One man said they’d take care of Lord Karyl, but what did that mean?

And what were the odds that the Prince might recognize him? Had anyone even taken note of his disappearance? The Starks will think me dead, he realized with a start and cursed himself for his selfishness. It never even occurred to him to leave some sort of message, something to allay their fears.

Not that he could do anything about it now. The Maester of Wayfarer’s Rest might allow him to send a raven to Winterfell if he identified himself, but that would destroy his hopes of maintaining the ruse. With a tired sigh, Daeron got up and got dressed. I chose my path, now I have to live with it.

When Daeron returned to the campfire, he found Ser Tymon sparring with the boy Jayson, though it didn’t seem to be going very well. “Pathetic,” Ser Tymon spat when he disarmed the boy. As Jayson went to pick up his sword, the knight continued by saying, “When I was two and ten, I’d already survived a skirmish and captured two knights!”

Jayson took grabbed his sword and fell into a fighting stance again, but Daeron could tell at first glance that it was all a bluff, that the boy’s balance wouldn’t withstand the first attack. And he was proven right when Ser Tymon disarmed Jayson with a single strike again.

“There you are.” Ser Jojen said when he spotted Daeron. He threw his brown cloak over his shoulder. “Here, take your shield and let us go.”

Daeron went along, though he glanced over his shoulder a couple more times. “Jayson doesn’t seem to be doing very well.”

Ser Jojen looked over his shoulder as well. “The boy lacks the aggressiveness, yes.”

“Why take him on as a squire, then?”

“He’s so far down the family tree that becoming a knight is his only hope. Or so his father claims.” Ser Jojen scratched the back of his head. “To be honest, I took him on because I plan to travel as a knight, and I hope he might discover a calling that suits him better along the way.”

“I see. That’s very chivalrous of you, Ser,” Daeron said as they entered the camp, which seemed to be waking from its night stupor. Squires ran about, fetching breakfast for their masters, scrubbing their chainmail in barrels of sand, or brushing down their mounts. The people who’d come to witness the tourney trickled towards the lists, taking their places behind the wooden fences. Ser Jojen and Daeron found the Master of the Games beneath the viewing box constructed for the nobles, with a sheet of parchment on a small table in front of him and a quill at the ready.

“Ser Jojen Smallwood,” Ser Jojen told him, pulling his yellow shield from his back to showcase his sigil. “Here to enter the Tourney.”

The Master of the Games gave the shield a glance and jotted down the name.

“And Ser Ryam of White Tree,” Daeron repeated Ser Jojen’s actions.

“Ser Ryam?” The Master gave a frown. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard of—”

“No need,” Ser Jojen interrupted him. “I vouch for him.”

The man didn’t seem to appreciate it; he narrowed his eyes at the two of them, then looked back to where a knight dressed in all black stood in the box. “Ser Robin,” he called.

“Yes, Boros, what is it?” The knight replied in a bored air, though his voice sounded eerily familiar to Daeron. He had black hair and sharp features, perfectly suited for looking down his nose at people, helped all the more by his formidable height. Daeron wagered Ser Robin to be two heads taller than him.

“This lad here claims to be a knight.” The Master of the Games gestured to Daeron.

The knight eyed him up and down and his lips twisted in displeasure. “Be gone with you fool, we’ve no need of your rabble here.”

This is him. This is the man from last night.

Ser Jojen stepped in front of Daeron. “This man is Ser Ryam of White Tree and, as I’ve already said, I vouch for him.”

“I have little care for the assurances of some pup.”

“I’m sure my father, Lord Smallwood, would like to hear about that. Now enter my friend into the lists, Ser Robin, or you’ll have some explaining to do.”

Daeron saw Ser Robin’s hand twitch for his sword, but then he gave a smile that was all teeth. “Enter the boy, Boros, maybe seeing him fly from the saddle will amuse our Lady.” With a flap of his cloak, he left.

The Master of Games jerked his head in a grudging approximation of a nod and wrote down Daeron’s stated name.

“Why did you do that?” Daeron asked him as they walked away. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Ser Jojen shrugged, a faint smile on his face as he exchanged nods with a pair of knights they passed, every one of them familiar to him. “You’re right, of course. But I have a great feeling about you and I always trust my feelings,” he said. “And it’d be a shame if you were excluded from the tourney before I found out why.”

“Well, I can’t speak for your feelings, but thank you, Ser.”

“Quite alright.” Ser Jojen waved him off as they trekked back to the forest. “The Prince Jaehaerys arrived in the night, did you hear? And Ser Edmure Tully as well.”

“Does the Prince mean to compete?” Daeron asked.

“So they say. He’s a formidable warrior in his own right. He overthrew the Red Viper of Dorne, the Sword of the Morning, and Ser Barristan Selmy at the last Tourney before falling to the Knight of Flowers.” Ser Jojen tilted his head in thought. “Of course, he’s always been in the shadow of his older brothers.”

Queen Rhaella had borne King Aerys five children; King Rhaegar was the first, Prince Aemon came second and Prince Jaehaerys third. The Queen had a number of miscarriages between their births, so nearly fifteen years separated the birth of Rhaegar and Jaehaerys, five more before Prince Viserys came shrieking into the world, and another six before the birth of Princess Daenerys.

King Rhaegar had always been the favorite of the smallfolk as the Crown Prince, Prince Aemon the bold knight who’d earned the epithet ‘the Dashing’ during the waning days of King Aerys’ reign, when Prince Jaehaerys had been little more than a boy. That is why the masses often forgot all about him, though he was Lord of the rebuilt Summerhall and the hero of Pyke.

Jayson and Ser Tymon waited for them as they returned to their camp and they went about putting on their armor together, double-checking the straps on the breast plates, the shoulder guards and the vambraces. Jayson helped where he could and when they were finished, Daeron stood clad in steel from neck to knees, holding his helm beneath his arm as he led Dawn towards the tourney grounds.

All the competitors, some forty by Daeron’s estimate, gathered at one end of the lists, and together, two by two, they marched down the field past the viewing box to greet the Lord and his noble family. Lord Karyl sat in the place of honor wearing a simple black doublet. His brown hair fell to his shoulders, a thick mustache above his upper lip, but a slight frown marred his face as he watched them pass.

His step-mother, the Lady Marianne, was a tall woman, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, wearing a deep green gown, but to Daeron she seemed held back, dismissive of the knights, throwing looks of thinly-veiled derision Lord Karyl’s way. The children looked almost exactly like her – blonde and blue-eyed, they seemed possessed by the same stiffness of bearing that plagued their mother.

At the end of the lists, the knights gave the reins of their horses to the stable boys in Lord Vance’s service and arranged themselves in a crescent line, where they would wait until their turn was called.

The smallfolk in the audience swelled in numbers and their cheering sent spikes of pain through Daeron’s head. Sweat poured down his face in spite of the relatively cool spring morning. With queasy eyes, he watched Lord Vance stand from his seat and give the command to begin the tourney.

“Welcome, welcome, to the tourney in honor of our Lady Sabatha’s nameday,” the herald called, dressed in the livery of House Vance. The smallfolk cheered the young lady who blushed in her place. “Our first two competitors for the day are Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, Lord of Summerhall, and Ser Ryam of White Tree.”

Daeron felt bile rise up his throat. His heartbeat sped up, his hands became clammy, and his wooden fingers couldn’t grab the straps of his helm for the life of him. With a deep breath, conscious of the hundreds of pairs of eyes on him, he pulled the helm down on his head and mounted Dawn when the stableboy brought it forth. I’m jousting against the Prince! And my head’s still spinning! If Daeron lost the fight, his dreams of vagabond knighthood would come to a swift end.

Daeron glanced at Prince Jaehaerys, clad in midnight armor with a silver dragon on his breastplate, his helm fashioned in the shape of a dragon’s head. Riding to the other end of the lists where a young boy met him, Daeron snatched the lance the boy offered. Having something to hold helped keep his hands from shaking.

Dawn beneath him was restless and agitated as he guided her to the start of the lists; Daeron patted its neck and whispered soothing words until it calmed down. Then, with a final look at the speculative gazes aimed his way, he slammed down his visor and waited for the herald’s call. Three trumpets sounded and on the other side of the field,  Prince Jaehaerys sprang into motion. Daeron dug his spurs into the horse’s flank and Dawn advanced. They built speed slowly – Daeron allowed Dawn to speed up in rhythm – as he lowered his lance and placed it in the cradle. He aim the graphite first that tipped his lance directly at Prince Jaehaerys’ heart, but Daeron felt soft and weak even though he flew down the field. He kept taking short, gasping breaths and felt as though he might choke behind the visor. Daeron closed his eyes for a moment to stop the world from spinning and opened them at the last second; the point of his lance struck Prince Jaehaerys in the shoulder but the Prince’s own hit Daeron’s breastplate clean.

For a second it felt like Daeron had been snagged on a branch and his horse rode on without him, but then he dropped like a stone and the ground rushed up to meet him.

Chapter Text

Daeron stumbled back to their camp, his armor caked in dirt and dust. His hip ached from where he hit the ground and he focused on undoing his armor to keep the shame from rising on his face. One tilt, I managed one tilt.  Daeron pulled on the strap on his shoulder, throwing the blasted piece of metal to the ground.

“Are you going to be alright, Ser?” Jayson asked him, jumping from one foot to the other.

“I’ll be fine,” Daeron said and exhaled deeply. “You go on and help Ser Jojen.” The boy had been kind enough to help Daeron off the field.

“Yes, Ser.” The boy nodded and made to go. “You almost had him, Ser. He almost went down, I saw him sway in the saddle.”

Daeron gave a grateful nod and went to work on his breastplate. Slowly taking off one piece of armor after another, he piled it all on the ground by the tree, grabbed a skin of water and drank it until the last drop. I’m never getting drunk again, he vowed, not that it mattered. It had already cost him. The two silvers in his purse wouldn’t be enough to ransom back his armor and horse; worse yet, the Prince would know his face so if he ran to the safety of King’s Landing, Jaehaerys could tell the Royal family all about how the King’s bastard had shamed himself in front of the entire Realm.

Daeron leaned against the tree and slid to the ground. What other option do I have? He could escape, but that would make his humiliation all the worse if his true identity ever got out. Ransoming his horse meant that dreams of a knighthood disappeared, but perhaps he could find service as a man-at-arms for a Lord or the city guard of King’s Landing, or better yet, Lannisport?

Bahh, who am I fooling? The Night’s Watch presented a much better opportunity. It had been his plan for the longest time. Serving at the Wall was an honorable calling, a place where no one would care whose bastard he was. Even as he left Winterfell, Daeron thought it the best option, only… I wanted to see the world first. He never imagined he’d see so little of it.

Dabbing his eyes, he looked about to see if there were any witnesses, and blew out his nose. Right, he sniffled. Let’s get it over with. He stood up, draped his cloak about his shoulders, and attached his armor to the saddle of Dawn. “I’m sorry, girl.” He led her back to the Tourney grounds. “Looks like you’ll be getting a new owner again, but this one will treat you far better than I could, I promise. The Royal stables are a wondrous place, people say.”

Dawn had no answer so Daeron made his way among the tents, careful to keep his distance from the lists without appearing suspicious; Daeron had little wish to stumble across mocking knights and swaggering squires.

Prince Jaehaerys’ tent was hard to miss; made of blood-red silk, with a Targaryen banner flapping off the top, it was by far the biggest tent in the camp. Daeron tied Dawn to the hitching rail out front and approached the two men-at-arms who stood guard in front of the entrance. “Is Prince Jaehaerys within?” he asked.

“Who’s asking?” the man on the left asked.

“Ser Ryam of White Tree. I’m here to deliver my horse and armor.”

The two guards exchanged a look and then the one on the left slipped inside. He returned moments later and led Daeron into the tent.

The interior was one fit for a Prince. A sprawling four-poster bed dominated one side of it, the silk curtains hiding what Daeron imagined was a soft, featherbed mattress. On the other side, he found Prince Jaehaerys sitting behind a round table, a silver cup on his hands, a knight next to him. His armor had been reassembled and placed on a stand, scrubbed to a dull shin. A black longbow made of dragonbone black as the night and a quiver of arrows sat on a stand to the left of the table, the Prince’s squire sitting behind it, honing his master’s longsword.

“Ah, Ser Ryam,” Prince Jaehaerys said and rose. He gestured to a chair. “Come, come.”

“Your Grace.” Daeron bowed and took the chair, taking the opportunity to examine his Uncle. Prince Jaehaerys wore a black doublet embroidered with a dragon in silver stitch. Unlike most Targaryens, he kept his hair short and parted in the middle, the silver strands falling to his brows, much like Aegon the Dragon’s had in all his portraits. But where the Conqueror had the strong jaw and the stern expression of a fearsome warrior, Prince Jaehaerys’ features were smooth. He had the face upon which anger and hatred would look foreign. With a start, Daeron realized the Prince couldn’t be older than four-and-twenty.

“You rode well, Ser Ryam,” Jaehaerys said with an encouraging smile and sat down.

The man to his left snorted. A broad-shoulder brute by the look of him, he wore a sable cloak over a brown tunic, his black hair tied up in a ponytail.

“Come, Silveraxe, don’t insult my guest.”

But Silveraxe wasn’t so easily dissuaded. “How old are ‘ya, pup?”

That rankled. “Eight-and-ten.”

At this, Prince Jaehaerys raised an eyebrow. “It’s treason to lie to your Prince, you realize this?”

Daeron looked down to hide his blush. “Six-and-ten.”

That got the two men laughing. “Your first tourney?” Jaehaerys inquired as he took a sip from the cup.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“A bit young to be an outlaw,” Silveraxe mused. “Where’d you steal the armor, boy?”

“I didn’t steal it,” Daeron returned hotly. “I earned my spurs.”

“Where?” Prince Jaehaerys pressed on.

“In… In the North. I’m from the North, Your Grace. White Harbor.” Daeron clenched and unclenched his fists, his palms slick with sweat.

Prince Jaehaerys regarded him for a long moment, and Daeron thought about revealing everything, but the opportunity passed and the Prince said, “As you say.” Jaehaerys took a slow sip of his wine. “Now I imagine you’ve come here to settle the ransom, yes?”

“Yes, Your Grace, but…”

“Lucas, bring our guest some wine, will you?” the Prince interrupted him.

“Aye, the lad looks like he needs it,” Silveraxe grumbled. “Have you seen a ghost, boy, is that it?”

“No, I’m quite alright.” Daeron tugged on the collar of his tunic. “And I’ll have to refuse the wine, Your Grace, I fear I’ve no taste to it.”

“Nonsense.” Silveraxe waved him off and stood up. “It’ll make you feel better.”

“No, no, I really—” but then Silveraxe was pushing the cup into his hands and the Prince raised his own. Daeron had no choice but to drink. A whiff of the sweet aroma of the Arbor Gold was all it took. Prince Jaehaerys toasted the glory of the King at the same moment as Daeron puked under his table.

The two jumped from their seats and backed up, their expressions mingling fury with nausea.

“Gods, boy,” Silveraxe exclaimed, “what’s the matter with you? You sick?”

“No.” Daeron kept his head bowed and wiped his mouth and sleeve of his tunic. “I’m just…” His own puke cut him off.

“Hungover. Ha!” Silveraxe began laughing.

“Your Grace,” Daeron said with a hiccup. “I’m very sorry.”

“That’s quite alright,” Prince Jaehaerys said with a look of distaste. “Lucas, get a bucket of water, will you?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The boy laid the Prince’s sword on the stand and ran out of the tent.

All Daeron wanted to do was disappear. Get rid of the horse, get rid of the armor, and find a way to Castle Black. “Your Grace, I came because I can’t afford a ransom. My horse is outside, Dawn’s her name, she’s a fine horse, and I attached my armor to it. With your leave…” He rose from his seat and only the courtesies drilled into his head by the Lady Catelyn kept him from bolting out of the tent.

“Calm down, Ser, calm down. You’re hardly the first knight to joust after a night of drinking, especially ahead of his first tourney.”

“You might be the first to puke under the table of a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, though,” Silveraxe supplied.

Lucas returned with the bucket of water and splashed it under the table, dispersing the worst of the smell. The squire looked Daeron’s way and shook his head, then ran out to refill the bucket.

“As I recall, I drank on the same day,” Silveraxe reported with a grin.

Prince Jaehaerys ignored his friend. “Who is it that got you drunk?”

“Ser Marq Piper and his cousins, Your Grace,” Daeron said with a frown. He suspected there might be more to the question, but it was not as though he was telling on them for committing some terrible deed.

The Prince and Silveraxe exchanged a look and grinned.

“Your Grace?”

“It is a noble tradition for veteran knights to try and get younger knights drunk before their first tourney. Though I daresay, it rarely works as well as it worked on you.”

Daeron looked down, his face red hot.

“As for your ransom, Ser, I shall have to refuse it. I want to foster nothing but goodwill among my competitors, so you are free to keep your armor and horse.”

“That… That is very chivalrous of you, Your Grace. Thank you.”

The Prince gave a faint nod. “Away with you, Ser. And try not to drink next time.”

“I won’t, Your Grace. I promise I won’t,” Daeron said and walked out of the tent with what little dignity remained to him.

He walked through the camp like a rabbit, chased by the foxes of his shame. He heard sporadic sounds of splintering lances followed by the cheers of the crowd, but Daeron paid them no mind. He returned to the edge of the forest; Ser Jojen and Jayson had still not returned, which had to mean they still waited for Jojen’s first tilt. Hopefully, he does better than I. The young knight had shown him more kindness than Daeron deserved.

Daeron tied Dawn against the tree and patted her neck, grateful for some small bit of relief. Then he dug through Honor’s saddlebag until he found a couple of pieces of salted beef wrapped in a rag. Sitting down and leaning against the tree, he chewed on the beef, ripping pieces of it with his teeth, and stared off into the forest. The sun trekked across the sky and he might’ve fallen asleep a couple of times. Jayson returned to their camp as dusk began to fall over the grounds.

“How did Ser Jojen fare?” Daeron asked as the boy approached. By his breathless grin and ecstatic manner, he divined the answer.

“He won his first tilt, Ser, against Ser Ryam Frey. And then he had the second one almost immediately against Ser Marq Piper and won that, too. You should’ve seen it, Ser, he was marvelous.”

Aye, I should have, Daeron berated himself. He should’ve gone to cheer on the young knight rather than sitting under a tree, waiting for his head to recover from the night before. “What will happen now?”

“The knights who’ve competed have been invited to a feast at the castle. Ser Jojen sent me to come and get you.”

The boy was itching to be off, but Daeron followed with some reluctance. The Great Hall of Wayfarer’s Rest would undoubtedly offer opportunities to worsen his humiliation, but it would also offer a hot meal. At that reminder, Daeron resigned himself and followed the boy. Daeron Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, could think about his reputation. Ser Ryam of White Tree had to accept a warm meal where he could find it.

Their path took them through the castle gates and into the outer courtyard where four tables had been prepared for the squires’ feast. Jayson led him on, through the gates of the main tower and into the great hall. It was half as big as that of Winterfell; the knights and the Lords that had come for the tourney crowded the benches. The most important guests took the dais at the end of the hall, with Prince Jaehaerys taking the seat to Lord Karyl’s right and Ser Edmure taking his left. The banners of House Vance hung from the rafters, a quartered coat of arms depicting two black dragons on a white field and two golden eyes in a golden ring on a black field.

Jayson paused at the entrance and his eyes sought out Ser Jojen among the canopy of heads until he pointed to the left and led Daeron to his place.

“Ah, Ser Ryam!” Ser Jojen stood up, a breathless smile on his face. “Good of you to join us. We were just talking about you.”

“There goes the conquering hero,” Ser Lyman shouted out, his arms spread wide in a mocking welcome.

“Sers,” Daeron said, his shoulders stiff, doing his best not to rise to the provocation. He nodded to the rest of the knights sitting with Ser Jojen, including Ser Tymon, Ser Marq, and Ser Harmon.

“Ser Ryam.” Ser Marq stood up to shake his hand. “I’d like to apologize for our actions the night before. It’s an old tradition, I hope there’s no hard feelings between us.”

“It’s quite alright.” Daeron took a seat next to Jojen when the young knight slid to the side to make some room for him. “It’s my fault I fell for it.”

Ser Marq nodded and sat down.

“And how were the rest of the matches?” Daeron asked. “Any notable showings?”

“Ser Robin, that’s Vance’s Captain of Guards, he overthrew three men today, Ser Patrek Mallister among them,” Ser Harman told him.

“And hasn’t stopped bragging since he got off his horse,” Ser Marq said with a sneer.

Ser Jojen regarded the man for a moment. “Do I smell a bit of a history there?”

Ser Lyman laughed and said, “Ser Robin may or may not have defeated my brave cousin at the last tourney, isn’t that so?” When Ser Marq flushed, Ser Lyman laughed all the louder.

“In Ser Marq’s defense, the man is a right old cunt,” Ser Harmon said, looking over his shoulder at the dais. “Don’t know why Lord Karyl tolerates him as his Captain of the Guards.”

“It’s Lady Marianne who had him appointed. Ser Robin has been a friend of her brother, Ser Brynden, since they were boys,” Ser Marq explained.

Daeron cast his eyes across the hall in search of Lady Marianne and her Captain. He found her at the edge of the dais, ignored and forgotten, wearing a silver dress. She had her lips pursed in a thin line and seemed to twitch every time laughter rippled from the center of the dais where Lord Karyl was entertaining Prince Jaehaerys and Lord Edmure. It occurred to Daeron then that Lady Marianne might’ve been a woman of breathtaking beauty, if it weren’t for some inner coldness that made her features seem harsh rather than noble.

“And what about Ser Edmure? How did he fare?” Daeron asked absent-mindedly as his eyes fell on Lady Stark’s younger brother. He had Robb’s auburn hair and the same sharp jaw-line, but Daeron thought his smiles came too easily, and that cup of wine in his hands needed to be refilled far too often. Lady Stark had a quality about her, something that whispered of a steel resolve that was not to be tested. By comparison, Ser Edmure seemed like a lout and a fool. That Prince Jaehaerys sat next to him with a stony expression and refused to partake in the back-and-forth between Lord Karyl and Ser Edmure told Daeron everything he had to know.

“Silveraxe Fell threw him on his first tilt,” Ser Marq replied to Daeron’s question with a hint of hesitation. “Ser Edmure was never one for jousting.”

The feast began in earnest after that. The servants brought out a roasted boar with an apple in its mouth for the dais. The guests of honor would gorge themselves on a pheasant swimming in buttery gravy, sweet melons from the Reach, and the finest Arbor Gold to wash it all down. Below the dais, the servants laid out fried chickens, cooked ham, ripe cheese, and flagons of ale. They brought out smoking loaves of bread, straight from the oven, and bowls of cooked potatoes. In Winterfell, Uncle Ned would lay out such a feast only on Harvest Days, but here in the South, such fare seemed ordinary and casual. With a happy sigh, Daeron dug in and ate the food that was offered with gusto.

“Ah,” Ser Harmon muttered with a grin in between bites. “You can always depend on the Vances to feed you well.”

Daeron hummed in agreement along with the rest of them and swallowed down another bite of the chicken. It had been a week since he’d had such a full meal, and nearly a moon since he’d eaten so well.

“Do you know who you’ll be jousting against tomorrow?” Daeron asked Jojen after he’d had his fill.

“Prince Jaehaerys,” Ser Jojen replied with a brittle grin. “There’s only five of us left, today’s jousting went by quicker than most expected.”

Daeron went over the numbers. Of course. Three matches, and half the competitors were eliminated with each one. “Who’s the fifth lance?” he asked. In such tourneys, when the number of competitors boiled down to an uneven digit, the fourth and the fifth lances had to joust for the chance to fight in the semi-finals, their places determined by the Master of the Games based on their performance.

“Silveraxe Fell. He’ll be jousting against Ser Brynden Blackwood and the winner will go against Ser Robin in the semi-finals.” The young knight tapped his fingers on the table. “You’ve jousted against the Prince – any advice you might share?”

Daeron munched on some bread to buy himself the time to think. “His technique is perfect. And he sits a horse well.”

Ser Jojen nodded; he probably knew these things already.

“But there’s no trickery to it. He’ll go through a man before he dances around him.”

“What do you mean?”

Daeron shrugged. “You’re going to have to take a risk. It’s the only way.” He might’ve done the same if he stayed on his horse long enough to heed his own observations. Four victories and I might’ve been in the final.

Ser Jojen bobbed his head with a thoughtful look on his face. “I’ll think about it, thank you.”

Daeron wanted to say some more words of encouragement, but he spotted Ser Robin make his way up to the dais and whisper some words to Lady Marianne. She stood up, excused herself to the Prince and Lord Karyl, and left the hall with Ser Robin to escort her to her chambers.

“I’ll be right back,” he told his companions. Daeron made his way down the table and approached the door. Conscious of the risk, he stepped through, hoping he did not attract too much attention, and emerged in a dark and dank hallway, lit only by the torches that lined the walls.

Daeron crept forward on the balls of his feet, ears pricked for any sounds of conversation. They probably went to her private quarters. He walked another twenty feet until he was presented with a choice: left or right.

Old Gods guide me, Daeron prayed and went right. It stood to reason they’d want to move further away from the entrance. With every step he remained on guard; if a sentry or anyone else should catch him, he had to appear casual, lost. The torches lighted the way for him, the lights flickering over the tapestries that lined the walls. Daeron made two more turns, guessing the way every time, until he came across a pair of voices.

“…will it happen?”

“Tomorrow.” The second voice belonged to Ser Robin.

A pause. “Is this truly necessary? Can we think of no other way?”

“It is if we wish to get our revenge.”

“I don’t. I want to protect my children.”

“Then need I remind you of—”

“Enough, Ser.” Daeron thought he heard a tired sigh. “You and Brynden are sure this will work?”

“Yes. Ser Brynden will inform the Prince of their treason during the feast after the final.”

“And you are certain the Prince will believe him?”

“We’ve prepared all the letters and the documents. To the Prince, it’ll seem like they’ve been conspiring for months.”

“I hope you’re right. For my children’s sake.”

Daeron leaned against the wall and tried to piece together the puzzles as quickly as Ser Robin supplied them. Caught up in his thinking, he failed to notice that the following silence lasted a number of seconds. Before he knew it, the latch on the door descended and with a creak, the door opened. Thinking quickly, Daeron threw himself at the door, then staggered back with a howl.

He heard a grunt on the other side and as he fell on his ass, the large form of Ser Robin snatched a torch off the wall and waved it in his face.

“Ah, Ser, don’t you know to open doors a bit less violently?” Daeron asked, rubbing his forehead where he got hit.

“You!” Ser Robin thundered. “What are you doing here, eavesdropping on us?”

“Eavesdropping?” Daeron demanded with equal outrage. “I’m trying to find the privy, the only thing I was listening for was the sound of men shitting themselves.” He got off the stone floor and dusted himself off. That’s when he pretended to notice Lady Marianne. “M’lady.” He bowed low. “I am truly sorry if I have inconvenienced you.”

Lady Marianne stared down at him with a hard expression, half her face hidden in darkness. Daeron felt himself being weighed and tested; he must’ve done well, for something in her expression eased and she said, “That’s quite alright, Ser Robin. This young man’s gotten lost.”

Ser Robin backed down when half a second earlier he seemed ready to cave Daeron’s face in.

“Thank you, m’lady,” Daeron said. “Might either of you point me in the direction of the privy, perhaps? I feel like a fool stumbling down one hallway after another.”

“It’s back the way you came.” She nodded down the hallway. “Take the first right and then the first right again.”

“Unless that’s something too hard for a half-wit to remember.”

“Thank you for your kindness, m’lady.” Daeron turned around and followed her orders. He had to fight himself to keep from looking back; something about their easy dismissal of him rubbed him the wrong way, and he walked down the corridor half certain that she planned to loose a crossbow bolt into his back the moment he relaxed.

The tension in his shoulders eased when he turned the corner and he tried to exhale in relief without making too much noise. Daeron went to the privy – to ensure he kept up appearances – then returned to the great hall with all speed.

Chapter Text

“It took you long enough,” Ser Tymon said when Daeron returned to the hall, a tankard of ale in his hand and a lusty wench in his lap.

“Got lost a dozen times on the way,” Daeron told him with a sheepish grin.

The people in the hall had slowly begun to show their levels of inebriation and Ser Tymon wasn’t the only knight with a woman in his lap. The laughter among the guests grew louder, the arguments more violent. Daeron spied Ser Brynden Blackwood on the dais; the knight fell asleep with his head on the table, his right hand still clutching a goblet of wine.

Daeron sat down next to Ser Jojen who was arm-wrestling Ser Marq and losing. When defeat came, Ser Marq slammed his hand against the table so hard every horn of ale did a jiggle.

“Again, Ser,” Ser Jojen demanded. “I know I’ll have you next time.”

“Enough, lad.” Ser Harmon waved him down. “Better luck next time.” And then Ser Harmon proceeded to challenge Ser Marq himself.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Ser Lyman said with a drawl and stood up. “I do believe I can find some nobler company than this.” He left without noticing the looks of derision that came his way from every side of the table.

“Are you alright?” Ser Jojen asked him when he saw the faraway look on Daeron’s face.

Daeron’s eyes zeroed in on his face and for a second he wondered if he could trust the young man he’d met so recently. “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

“Of course. What it is?”

Daeron looked around. “I’d prefer to wait until people’ve gotten… drunker.”

Ser Jojen’s eyebrows rose to his hairline then. “Back at the camp?” he asked and put his own tankard of ale back on the table.

“Back at the camp,” Daeron agreed.

It took another two hours before people began to trickle out and Daeron was only too happy to follow them. They emerged from the hazy hall that smelled of ale and piss and sweat into the cool night air. They collected Jayson in the outside courtyard and returned together to their tent under the canopy of the trees.

“You two have something you need to discuss?” Ser Tymon asked when they settled down on their blankets.

Daeroned looked at him in surprise.

“Oh, come, you two are about as subtle as young lovers.” Ser Tymon pulled a skin of wine from the saddle by the tree, uncorked it with his teeth, and said, “Now out with it.”

So Daeron followed his orders. He told them about the conversation he overheard when he was stumbling drunk through the camp. He told them about the conversation he overheard when he went to the privy and tried his best to explain what he thought Ser Robin was planning, and how Lady Marianne didn’t seem to want to have anything to do with it.

Ser Jojen had gone deathly still as Daeron told the tale, while Jayson seemed to vibrate with excitement at the prospect of uncovering a plot. Ser Tymon, on the other hand, seemed as cool as a northern river, casually sipping his wine while Daeron talked. “So old Robin’s at it again,” Daeron heard him mutter under his breath when he finished, though he did not know what to make of it.

“What do you plan to do, Ser?” Jayson asked him, his expression a testament to his youth – he watched Daeron as though he wanted to hear the next part of the tale.

“Truthfully, I have no idea, beyond warning Ser Edmure of the danger.”

“Why not tell Prince Jaehaerys? He’ll put a stop to it!”

“Tell him what, lad?” Ser Tymon spoke up. “That Ser Edmure’s about to be accused of treason and Ser Ryam here thinks he’s probably innocent? The dragons have no reason to trust Ser Edmure, not since Princess Daenerys told him to bugger off.” He looked to Daeron next. “And when it comes to it, don’t approach Ser Edmure either. That fool won’t listen to a hedge knight. All you’ll achieve is that Ser Robin will know what you’re up to.”

Daeron frowned. “So what do we do?”

“Nothing.” Ser Tymon shrugged. “Ser Edmure’s a man grown, he should save himself… if he can.”

“How can you say that?” Ser Jojen demanded.

“The man’s going to be your liege lord one day,” Daeron said. Lady Stark would never forgive him if he allowed her brother to go to the gallows without putting up a fight.

“You’re used to the North, lad,” Ser Tymon huffed. “Up there, people would starve if it weren’t for the Starks maintaining order. But if Edmure Tully dies, the people of the Riverlands won’t notice unless they’re invited to the execution.”

“But we still have to do something!” Ser Jojen implored.

“You’ll only get yourself killed, lad.”

“Ser Ryam said it right, Ser Edmure’s our—”

“Jojen!” Ser Tymon barked, and Ser Jojen fell silent. “Your Lord Father wouldn’t appreciate it if I returned your corpse to Acorn Hall.”

“My father’s so drunk he wouldn’t even notice until winter comes!” Ser Jojen returned, and it took Daeron aback to see such raw anger on the face of the steadfast knight.

Ser Tymon stared at Ser Jojen in the darkness and said nothing, while Jayson looked from one to the other, eyes wide and frightened. After a few beats of silence, Ser Tymon looked at Daeron and said, “You are free to do as you like, but these two will stay well away from it.”

Daeron knew better than to argue. “As you say, Ser.” Ser Jojen kept staring at Ser Tymon, but he didn’t say a word to challenge the old knight’s assertion, eventually lowering his head to stare at the ground. As Daeron prepared to bed down for the knight, all he could think of was that Ser Tymon was right – Daeron had no way to prove Ser Edmure was innocent. But Ser Robin mentioned he had some letters he meant to use against Ser Edmure. If those were to go missing, Ser Robin would have as hard a time proving Ser Edmure’s guilt as Daeron would have proving his innocence.

The next morning felt like one of the rare days at Winterfell when Uncle Ned freed Daeron of his various duties and allowed him to do as he liked. While Ser Jojen put on his armor with Jayson’s help, the argument of the night before seemingly forgotten, Daeron got to fry three pieces of bacon and chew on them as he watched Ser Jojen fret about his upcoming match against the Prince. The knight had to walk to the tourney grounds, weighed down by his armor, while Daeron moved with a spring in his step beside, free of the hangover that had plagued him the day before, wearing nothing but a tunic and a black cloak. Ser Tymon trailed after them, groggy from the night’s drinking.

The clouds had come in during the night and settled over Wayfarer’s Rest like a grey blanket; the mood of the crowd gathering around the palisades reflected the weather, and their number seemed much smaller than the day before.

“Good luck, Ser.” Daeron shook Ser Jojen’s hand in a warrior’s handshake. The young knight led his horse toward the end of the tourney grounds where Prince Jaehaerys, Ser Robin, Ser Brynden, and Silveraxe Fell waited.

The five remaining competitors were armored splendidly. Ser Robin wore heavy plate armor, black as the night, that covered him from head to heel – Daeron would’ve been surprised to learn the man could walk more than ten paces while wearing it. His helm was fashioned in the shape of a tower and fastened to his neck guard, and a cloth-of-gold cloak flowed from his shoulders to cover most of his horse’s rear.

Ser Jojen looked tiny beside him. Even his shiny steel armor, covered in acorn engravings, could not disguise the differences in size and strength. Ser Robin was twice as large and thrice as intimidating.

Prince Jaehaerys, in his black armor with a silver dragon upon his breastplate, looked every inch a Prince of the Realm. A silver cloak flowed from his shoulders, and he gave the spectators a bright smile and a wave before he slid his dragon helm over his head and adopted the appearance of the warrior who was rumored to have slain half a hundred Greyjoy men-at-arms beneath the walls of Pyke.

Silveraxe Fell laughed the entire time, from his first appearance on the field to the moment he mounted and put on his great helm. His armor, dark green of the autumn fir trees, looked nowhere near as splendid as that of his competitors, but Daeron would not wish to go up against the hulking knight if he could avoid it.

Ser Brynden, coming up last, cemented Daeron’s belief that alcohol and jousting do not mix well. Oh, he made for a noble image – his cloak had been made of crow feathers – but the Lord of House Blackwood swayed in his saddle and looked upon the crowds with the queasy expression Daeron found eerily familiar.

The five knights rode the length of the lists, past Daeron and Ser Tymon who’d pushed their way to the front. They saluted Lord Vance and the rest of his family, before taking their places in the same spot where the day before forty knights had stood.

Silveraxe and Ser Brynden moved to take their places; they had to earn the honor of becoming the fourth lance. Silveraxe was the one who gave ground this time, riding to the other end of the lists, laughing the entire time. No doubt he feared Ser Brynden would fall off his horse if he were asked to do the same.

The crowd quieted in anticipation. Daeron saw Lord Karyl lean forward, the rest of the nobles placing last-minute wagers. The trumpets rose in the air and gave the signal.

Silveraxe sprang forward with a glad cry. Ser Brynden was much slower off the start. Their two warhorses raced down the lists, kicking up dirt and dust in their wake. The lances wobbled, then slowly lowered, until they came together in a mighty crash. Wood splintered, steel caved, and when it was over, Daeron saw Ser Brynden rolling through the dirt while Silveraxe raised his gauntleted hand in the air victoriously.

The crowds groaned at the pitiful display of jousting. Daeron wondered if they’d done the same when he fell since he’d been too distracted to notice. Ser Brynden’s squire ran onto the field and helped his staggering master return to his tent, much to the amusement of the onlookers who jeered and mocked the Lord of Raventree Hall, only to fall silent when the herald announced the next match.

“Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, Lord of Summerhall, versus Ser Jojen Smallwood. Come forth and prove your valor.”

Silveraxe Fell laughed again as he sat down on a chair his squire provided and called for a cup of wine, while the people eyed Lord Smallwood’s third son with speculative gazes. Daeron had heard enough talk of the previous day’s jousting to know Ser Jojen had distinguished himself, yet people remained unconvinced that he could defeat one of the finest warriors in the realm.

“Does he have a chance?” he asked Ser Tymon, for he remained unsure himself.

“No,” Ser Tymon answered without missing a beat, his eyes locked on the Prince of Summerhall.

“And you’re such an expert on these matters?” Daeron said, annoyed.

“I’m the finest knight you’ve met so far, boy.”

“How come I’ve never heard of Ser Tymon of the Laughing Ridge, then?”

“Because you’re not the type to pay attention.”

“Ah,” Daeron said. “And now that you’ve got it, how about you tell me why Jojen will lose.”

“Too green,” Ser Tymon said and nodded in Ser Jojen’s direction. “Too nervous. He’s never been here before, and he’s not cocky enough to think he can win in spite of it.”

“I would’ve thought that to be a good thing,” Daeron murmured as Ser Jojen rode to the other end of the lists, showing preference for royalty.

“It makes him a good lad, aye, but it won’t serve his jousting none.”

Daeron looked at Ser Tymon from the corner of his eyes, wondering at the man that hid beneath the thick, bushy beard and the white scars that lined his forehead and his cheeks. “If you say so, Ser.”

They turned their attention back to the field when the trumpets blew and the two knights sprang into motion. Ser Jojen rode well – half-a-centaur, as Uncle Ned would say – and dipped his lance with practiced competence, every movement measured and controlled. Prince Jaehaerys raced against him, and he resembled a brick wall on four legs – no elegance to be found, no style, but Daeron knew only stubborn bravery kept knights from fleeing at the sight of his approach.

What’re you going to do, what’re you going to do? Daeron wondered as Ser Jojen thundered past him. The young knight’s plan became abundantly clear a second later. The two men came crashing together and in the last moment, Ser Jojen shifted in his saddle. He pulled his right shoulder back and when Prince Jaehaerys’ lance struck his plate, it glanced off.

The tip of Ser Jojen’s own lance struck the Prince of Summerhall in the shoulders. Jaehaerys’ head whipped back, his knees came up, and for a beat, it seemed certain the Prince would roll over the back of his horse.

But then he grabbed the reins, clutched his horse with his thighs, and pulled himself upright, much to the roaring delight of the commoners.

Ser Jojen looked back at the Prince as he rode to the end of the lists and Daeron sensed the disappointment oozing off of him.  It had been his one hope.

“That’s it, then,” Ser Tymon grumbled. “The boy’s done for.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

Ser Tymon seemed to find Daeron’s optimism somewhat offensive if the look of distaste on his face was anything to go by, but he kept his silence.

In the end, Ser Tymon’s words proved true, though not as quickly as the old knight expected. Ser Jojen and Prince Jaehaerys broke four more lances; each time, Ser Jojen tried a different trick, but the Prince had become wary and refused to fall for it a second time. On the fifth tilt, Ser Jojen risked too much, shifted in his saddle again, and received the tip of the Prince’s lance straight into his exposed shoulder.

“That must’ve hurt,” Ser Tymon said with a savage sort of pleasure when his young charge went flying from the saddle.

Jayson came running onto the field amid the cheers of the crowd; Ser Jojen lost, but he’d proved his skills for all to see, and the people made sure to let him know when he limped off the field, clutching his shoulder.

“He rode well,” Daeron said, applauding the young knight.

“He delayed defeat well.”

Daeron gave an exasperated huff and decided it might be better to ignore the cantankerous old knight.

Silveraxe and Ser Robin were up next. They rode tilt after tilt, both their lances breaking on the first four passes. It was a credit to their skill, but to Daeron’s eye, Ser Robin seemed the superior lance. He had keen warrior’s instincts, predicting Silveraxe’s moves and countering them with razor-sharp moves. Silveraxe laughed through the first three tilts but went quiet afterward, and Daeron saw that the stormlander felt his defeat approaching.

Silveraxe fell on the seventh tilt, but the cheers were muted this time – it seemed Ser Robin was no favorite of the smallfolk. When he pulled off his helm, his expression showed nothing but grim satisfaction, a vicious smirk playing upon his lips as he watched Silveraxe climb to his feet.

The people eagerly awaited the final, and Daeron found himself curious to see who would prevail as well. Ser Robin had proven himself a formidable opponent, but Prince Jaehaerys represented an altogether different type of opponent to any Ser Robin had faced thus far. It also didn’t help that the two had remarkably similar jousting styles – direct and brutal, with little cunning or trickery. We might as well watch two stone walls joust, Daeron thought, but Prince Jaehaerys proved him, and everyone else watching, wrong.

Ser Robin was allowed a short respite to drink a cup of water and catch his breath before the heralds called him back to the lists. The two knights exchanged courteous nods as they rode past each other, much to the approval of the crowds, and went to take their places.

Pointing their lances at the sky, their horses pawing at the ground, they waited like loaded crossbows for the trumpets to sound. And when the signal broke through the shouting of the crowds, they sprang forward, their horses throwing up dirt and dust in their wake. On the first pass, they both hit each other’s shield with glancing blows and broke their lances. The smallfolk screamed their approval while the nobles clapped politely. Quickly replacing their broken weapons, their squires threw them fresh ones and they were at it again. This time Ser Robin his Jaehaerys’ breastplate cleanly, and while the hit clearly jarred the Prince, it wasn’t enough to unhorse.

It was on the third pass, however, that Prince Jaehaerys showed his true colors. The two knights charged at each other at full tilt and it seemed obvious that they would hammer each other until one of them broke. But then, right before impact, Prince Jaehaerys shifted in his saddle the same way Ser Jojen had. What had been another perfectly placed lance from Ser Robin glanced off the Prince’s breastplate effortlessly, while the Prince’s own lance found Ser Robin’s shoulder. House Vance’s Captain of the Guards was nearly spun in his saddle before he rolled off his charging mount and went rolling in the dirt.

The crowd exploded in cheers for their Prince, and even Daeron found himself clapping furiously while Ser Tymon next to him let out a full-belly laugh. “What a cheeky little bugger,” Ser Tymon said.

Daeron had to agree. Prince Jaehaerys had held back the entire Tourney, only to deliver a ruthless killing blow in the final round. No doubt Daeron’s Uncle could have won without revealing his true abilities, but then again maybe there was more to the story. The crowds might’ve gone mad for their Prince, but Daeron couldn’t help but note the nobles seemed far more subdued in their support for the Prince, and more than a few wore looks of apprehension as they watched Prince Jaehaerys ride to the end of the lists. The herald presented the Prince with a crown of flowers there, and Jaehaerys quickly rode to the viewing box where he crowned Lady Sabbatha the Queen of Love and Beauty.

It made for a story that would undoubtedly be repeated over and over again throughout the Riverlands and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms for the coming moons. It was a pity that Daeron had the distinct feeling the tale might be overshadowed by the treason that would undoubtedly take place in the evening.

Chapter Text

After the tourney concluded, the smallfolk and the nobles dispersed. The smallfolk disappeared into the village, while the nobles retreated to the castle or to their tents. Daeron went back to the safety of the campfire, where he waited for the feast to begin and a plan of action to form. He stared at the fire as it burned, while Ser Jojen took off his armor and put on his finest doublet. The knight had distinguished himself in the Tourney – Daeron had heard many whispers of his prowess – so the feast represented a brilliant opportunity to cement that good first impression.

All Daeron could think of was how he might steal the letters Ser Robin had prepared to use as evidence against Ser Edmure and whoever else would be among the accused. He had no knowledge of the layout of the castle, apart from what he’d learned stumbling through its hallways the night before. But most castles he’d visited with Uncle Ned did have a similar layout – the Lord’s study was usually situated at the top of the tallest tower, while the Captain of the Guards usually had his quarters in the barracks meant for the castle guards. Those barracks, Daeron knew, were right by the castle gates, so if he could sneak inside and search Ser Robin’s quarter, maybe he might find the letters. Or maybe Ser Robin has them hidden on his person at all times. It was a genuine worry, but Daeron had to take a risk. He had no other option.

“You’re thinking of doing something stupid, aren’t you?” Ser Tymon asked.

Jayson and Jojen both instantly looked at him, as though they’d been waiting for the excuse the entire time.

“Why would Ser Robin want to get rid of Ser Edmure?” Daeron asked.

“He’s weak.” Ser Tymon shrugged. “Plus, it doesn’t seem as though he’s as angry about Princess Daenerys’ rejection as some people think he should be.”

That brought Daeron up short. “So they want to get rid of him because they can’t rely on him to rise against the Crown when the time comes.”

Ser Tymon scratched his beard. “That… might be it, yes.”

“Alright,” Daeron said, drumming his fingers on his knee. “So who else is too close to the Crown. Who’s been allowed back into the fold.”

Jayson perked up this time. “Oh, plenty of Lords and knights. Lord Karyl and Ser Marq Piper are both friendly with Prince Aegon. So is Ser Patrek Mallister.”

“That’s it!” Daeron said, and he couldn’t help the smile that took charge of his face. “They want to get rid of all unreliable Lords. And they want Prince Jaehaerys himself to condemn them!”

Ser Tymon huffed, shaking his head. “The balls on these fuckers.”

With the knowledge of exactly what was at stake, Daeron could hardly wait for the feast to begin. He watched the sun begin to set on the Red Fork, painting the sky in Lannister colors, and when he saw the gates of Wayfarer’s Rest open to the knights and Lords from the camps, he immediately jumped up and headed up the hill toward the castle.

“What will you do?” Ser Jojen asked in a worried whisper, hurrying after him.

“I don’t know. But if I don’t show up by the time Ser Robin confronts Ser Edmure and the rest, you have to tell Prince Jaehaerys about the plot.”

“And what if he doesn’t believe me?”

Daeron looked at him and went to say something, but realized he had nothing. Ser Jojen would either risk it or he wouldn’t – nothing Daeron could say would make a difference. “I don’t know.”

They reached the throng of people at the gates, noble Lords and formidable knights moving into the castle, and Daeron allowed himself to be carried by the current of the crowd until he found himself in the courtyard of the castle, surrounded by its curtain walls on all sides, its three towers looming high above him.

He turned to Ser Jojen, Ser Tymon, and Jayson. “Talk to the Prince if I don’t return.” Then he broke off from the crowd. Daeron sought the shadows, so he hugged the wall and moved toward the barracks to the right, even though he didn’t have much to fear yet. Guests were often allowed the freedom of the castle, so even if some guards found him wandering the corridors, it most likely wouldn’t be much of a problem. Only if they found him pilfering through Ser Robin’s personal items would the trouble start. That’s why Daeron tried to appear as casual as he could while doing his best to avoid drawing the eyes of the guards or the other guests.

The guards’ barracks stood right next to the main hall and Daeron saw that they could be accessed from the courtyard as well as the top of the wall. Too many people would see him if he tried to enter from the courtyard, while he could wait for his opportunity atop the wall, so Daeron climbed the stairs.

The fields beyond the castle were shrouded in darkness, apart from the occasional island of light created by a campfire, and there didn’t seem to be a guard in sight. Daeron probed the door to the barracks and the hatch opened with ease. Quickly slipping inside, Daeron closed the door behind him, the guards’ quarters stretching before him. They were completely empty, row on row of cots stretching before him, with another door right at the end of the long room. They had to lead to Ser Robin’s quarters.

Daeron made his way across the room at a light jog, wanting desperately to spring, yet held back, as though afraid he might wake some unseen guard if he made any noise. When he reached the door, Daeron gently lifted the latch and opened it a bit. Peeking through the slit, he saw no one inside, but it was clear the room served as a personal quarters. The only man they could belong to was Ser Robin. Daeron slipped inside and went to the desk in the corner of the room, spying the parchment scattered across it. He squinted in the dark to try and read the text, but the documents seemed to be focused exclusively on various reports and inventories. Nothing that might get a future Lord of Paramount executed. Daeron went through the drawers next, but he fared no better, and when he searched the quarters for any hidden caches, he came up empty.

Daeron stepped back from Ser Robin’s desk, looked around, and realized he had no more ideas. “Best I get out of here,” he told himself and went to the door. But when he reached for the latch, the door opened on its own, and suddenly Daeron found himself standing face-to-face with a guard.

“Hey, what are—”

Daeron cut him off with a punch to the nose, and as the guard went reeling, Daeron slipped past him, down the stairs to the right of the door. The barracks had two floors, and luckily the first one was empty as well. With the guard’s shouting spurring him on, he quickly found the door leading to the courtyard. He saw a rack of spears, shields, swords, and daggers by the door, no doubt placed there for the guards’ convenience. Daeron snatched one of the daggers, threw open the door, and when it shut behind him, he slammed the dagger into the wood just above the latch. The guard would have to find another way to follow him. Then Daeron spotted the entrance into the main keep and hurriedly slipped inside.

With his heart bucking in his chest like a wild horse, Daeron tried to calm his breathing, heading down one hallway after another. He passed a guard on his way, then a pair of nobles in the midst of an intense conversation. Just as he managed to calm down a little, Daeron turned the corner and ran right into Ser Lyman Piper.

“Ser Ryam!” Ser Lyman cried out. “What brings you here?”

“My apologies, Ser Lyman,” Daeron said. “I got a little lost.” Daeron tried to brush past the cocky knight, but Ser Lyman stepped into his path again.

“That seems to happen to you a lot, doesn’t it?” Ser Lyman asked.

Daeron took a step back, a frown forming on his face, and only then did he notice Ser Lyman wore his swordbelt. “Get out of my way, Ser, I have to speak to Prince Jaehaerys. I think your cousin’s life might be in danger.”

Ser Lyman grinned at him. “I sincerely hope so. Otherwise, I’m gonna have to have a conversation with Ser Robin about broken promises.”

“Wh—What?” Daeron asked, taking another step back. “You’re a part of this?”

“Of course I am,” Ser Lyman said with a chuckle as his hand went to the hilt of his sword and he slowly drew the blade. “How else am I to become the Heir to Pinkmaiden?”

“But he’s your blood.”

“So? Cousin or not, I can hardly be expected to listen to that half-wit’s orders my entire life.” Ser Lyman took a step forward. “And that means you must be silenced. I know you don’t have any evidence, but it wouldn’t do to let you make the Prince doubt his decision, wouldn’t you agree?”

Ser Lyman lifted his sword high in the air, but all Daeron could think of was that the man should’ve chosen his dagger. The hallway didn’t allow for full freedom of movement with a long sword and the absence of any armor meant Daeron would be hard to catch with a sword. But that didn’t mean the slightest slip-up wouldn’t lead to disaster.

Ser Lyman swung down and Daeron had to push himself against the wall to avoid the strike. Then he threw himself forward, ramming Ser Lyman with his shoulder and pushing past him. That bought him some breathing room and, more importantly, a chance to snatch a torch off the wall.

“Don’t be a nuisance and die, will you?” Ser Lyman drawled and swung again. Daeron deflected the blow with his torch, but chips of wood went flying in every direction. Ser Lyman followed the strike with another and then another. The torch wouldn’t last much longer, but the entire time Daeron kept glancing at the dagger at Ser Lyman’s hip.

“As thought a dirty Northern savage could defeat me,” Ser Lyman growled, properly angry now, and swung again.

Daeron deflected his strike into the wall this time, and took a step forward, into close quarters. He reached out with his left hand and snatched Ser Lyman’s dagger just as the knight rammed him with his shoulder. Daeron staggered back but slashed up on instinct. Daeron barely caught his balance, and when he looked up, it was to find Ser Lyman staggering toward him, holding a hand to his neck while blood poured between his fingers.

“Ser Daryn taught me that,” Daeron said as Ser Lyman fell to his knees before him. “A dirty Northerner.”

When Daeron reached the Great Hall of Wayfarer’s Rest, he found it in uproar. All the guests seemed to be on their feet, watching the shouting coming from the direction of the dais. Daeron pushed through the throngs until he reached the front; he came upon a scene of chaos.

In front of the dais, on one side stood Prince Jaehaerys, with Ser Brynden and Ser Robin next to him. Before them, surrounded by guards, were Ser Edmure, Ser Patrek, Ser Marq, and Lord Karyl. Another Lord might’ve held the upper hand if an outsider tried to seize him within his own home, but it seemed Lord Karyl’s authority had been completely undermined by Ser Robin, since the castle guards had all turned on him.

“… naught but lies!” Lord Karyl shouted, held back by his men, a whiff of desperation in his eyes.

“Then how do you explain the letters we’ve found?” Ser Robin demanded, waving a stack of parchments.

“Fabrications! Planted by my enemies!” Lord Karyl thundered back.

Ser Robin turned to Prince Jaehaerys and said, “Your Grace, I am sworn to this man’s service, it brings me no joy to do this, but these letters prove Ser Brynden’s claims. These men are traitors!”

The great hall erupted again, with many knights and Lords shouting at the accused, pointing their fingers at them, and hurling abuse. To see the hate on their faces, Daeron would have never thought most of them had fought on the wrong side of the Rebellion as well.

Prince Jaehaerys raised a hand and the men quietened. “And what do you propose I do, Ser Robin?”

The Captain of the Guards seemed to sense the trap in the question. Ser Robin took a step back and lowered his head. “I would not presume to tell Your Grace what to do about this matter. I merely wanted to prove Ser Brynden’s telling the truth.”

“But he’s lying.”

Daeron found himself a step ahead of the crowd, and suddenly every eye in the great hall turned toward him.

“What did you say, boy?” Ser Robin asked, taking a threatening step forward.

Daeron braced himself, as if for a blow, and said, “I said you’re a liar. And so is Ser Brynden.”

“I’ll have your lying—”

“Stand down, Ser Robin, at once!” Prince Jaehaerys thundered, and the force of the Prince’s rebuke erased all anger from Ser Robin’s face. Then his uncle turned his attention to Daeron. He stared right at him for a few beats, seemingly searching for something, before he said, “You claim Ser Robin and Ser Brynden are lying?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Daeron heard the whispers behind him. They were like a hive of angry hornets, and Daeron had to fight hard to keep from looking over his shoulder, afraid someone might stick a blade in his back.

Prince Jaehaerys raised an eyebrow. “And what makes you say that?”

“Ser Edmure, Ser Patrek, Ser Marq and Lord Karyl are loyal subjects of the Crown. I bet His Grace, King Rhaegar, considers them his most reliable subjects in the Riverlands.”

“He does… or should I say, he did, until today.”

“And that is why Ser Robin and Ser Brynden have come up with this plot. To undermine the Crown in the Riverlands and have you execute the very men you can most rely on.”

Ser Robin went to shout something again, but Prince Jaehaerys merely raised his hand and looked his way. That was enough for the Captain to bite his tongue. Daeron couldn’t help but note the giant knight looked just a little paler.

Prince Jaehaerys stepped forward – his scrutiny of Daeron became so intense, it was all Daeron could do to maintain eye contact. “And how have you come by this information?”

Daeron told him about the conversations he’d overheard, and then he said, “And Ser Lyman Piper confessed all of it to me.”

“Ser Lyman?” Prince Jaehaerys repeated, looking over the heads of the crowd as though hoping to spot him. “Where is he? I’d like to have a word with him.”

“He’s dead, Your Grace.”

“Dead?”

“Yes, Your Grace. I killed him.” Only then did Daeron notice that he had some dried blood on his hands – no doubt he had more of it on his doublet and his cloak, but they were both black and probably hid the worst of it.

The great hall exploded in shouts at that admission, while Daeron looked at the ground, though he couldn’t help but notice the horrified look on Ser Marq’s face.

“Your Grace!” Ser Robin exclaimed, pointing at Daeron. “This bandit has infiltrated our Tourney from the beginning, and now that he’s committed murder, he hopes to get away with it by casting doubt on this proceeding.”

“I entered this castle unarmed, just like everyone else,” Daeron shot back. “So would you mind explaining to me why Ser Lyman met me in the corridor, wearing his swordbelt?”

“It’s true!” Jayson exclaimed. Daeron hadn’t even seen Ser Tymon and Ser Jojen standing to the side of the dais. “Ser Ryam didn’t have a blade, none of us did.”

“And what did Ser Lyman say to you?” Prince Jaehaerys asked.

“That the purpose of this scheme was to replace Lords and Heirs who are loyal to the Crown with men the rebels could rely on, Your Grace. Ser Lyman himself would become the next Heir to Pinkmaiden if Ser Marq died today.”

“I see.” Prince Jaehaerys regarded him for another moment, then put his hands behind his back and stepped toward Ser Robin and Ser Brynden. “So, you’re saying these two men are liars and traitors, attempting to deceive the Crown?”

Daeron clenched his teeth and nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. I am.”

“Your Grace—” Ser Brynden said.

“A pair of low-life scum who deserve either the sword or the Wall?”

Daeron did not understand why Prince Jaehaerys felt the need to say such things, but his accusations were true all the same, and he meant to say as much when Ser Robin finally broke his silence.

“Your Grace!” he exclaimed. “This bandit is lying! I cannot allow him to make such accusations unchallenged!”

“Unchallenged?” Prince Jaehaerys nearly sang the word. “Are you asking for a trial-by-combat, Ser Robin?”

From the look on Ser Robin’s face, it seemed clear the knight hadn’t meant anything of the sort. His plans had probably involved strangling Daeron on the spot. The second Prince Jaehaerys had brought up a trial-by-combat, however, any reluctance on Ser Robin’s part would be interpreted as cowardice, and proof of guilt. So it did not come as much of a surprise to Daeron that Ser Robin shouted out, “Yes, Your Grace. I want a trial-by-combat.”

Daeron swallowed. It wasn’t all bad. Ser Robin was a skilled knight, it was true, and Daeron couldn’t hope to beat him in a joust, but swordplay was another matter entirely. And since most trials-by-combat involved fighting on foot, Daeron liked his chances.

That was until Ser Edmure spoke up. “As do I!” he called out, puffing out his chest.

Prince Jaehaerys spun on his heel and faced the Heir to Riverrun. “Ser Edmure?”

“If what Ser Ryam says is true, then Ser Robin and Ser Brynden attempted to have us killed. I want justice, and they should both answer for their crimes.”

Prince Jaehaerys frowned. “What are you suggesting?”

“Isn’t it plain?” Ser Marq Piper stepped forward. “We want a Trial of Seven.”

All Daeron could think about was lances, horses, and how much happier he would’ve been if only Ser Edmure had kept his mouth shut.

Chapter Text

“That was brilliant, actually.”

Daeron didn’t know who he’d expected to break the silence as they walked out of the castle, but he didn’t think it would be Jayson.

“Tell me, lad,” Ser Tymon began, his tone suggesting the old knight’s dolorous attitude was out in full force. “Which part of it was brilliant?”

The boy froze a little. No doubt he hadn’t expected all three of them to look at him with such anger in their eyes, but he quickly regained his nerve. “I only meant what Prince Jaehaerys, did, tricking Ser Robin into accepting a trial-by-combat like that.”

Daeron hadn’t seen anything of the sort take place. He stopped to face the lad. “What do you mean?” They were right in the middle of the camp, and every campfire seemed to have been lit so the knights and the Lords could go over the events of the evening, but Daeron didn’t care if any curious passers-by might eavesdrop.

“Well…” Jayson looked between Ser Jojen and Ser Tymon, as though he was unsure of how to break the news to Daeron. “You were lost, Ser. You’d accused Ser Brynden and Ser Robin, but you had no proof, what with Ser Lyman being dead.”

“And?” Daeron asked, impatient for the lad to get it over with.

“Prince Jaehaerys knew it too. He intentionally provoked Ser Robin into demanding a trial-by-combat. If he hadn’t, that lout might’ve noticed that it was his word against yours and, well…”

“I’m just a hedge knight,” Daeron finished the thought Jayson seemed unwilling to. And the boy was right. Since he’d buried his guards on the banks of the Red Fork, Daeron had called himself a hedge knight, but he hadn’t been behaving like one. His actions today had proven it – they were the actions of a young lordling used to being heard, not a hedge knight who knew better than to risk his life by getting involved in a Lord’s plot.

“Uh, yes, Ser,” Jayson said, his eyes on the ground.

“Our lad might not be the greatest swordsman the world’s ever seen, but he’s got a sharp brain between these two ears of his,” Ser Tymon said, mussing up the boy’s hair. Jayson glared at him. “Everything he said was true.”

“But it doesn’t tell me how in the Seven Hells I’m going to survive this Trial of Seven,” Daeron said, running a hand through his hair as he headed off toward their camp.

“By killing Ser Brynden and Ser Robin, how else?” Ser Tymon said with a laugh as they followed Daeron.

“At least you still have your sense of humor,” Daeron said, too busy worrying to resent Ser Tymon’s cheerful attitude.

Ser Tymon stomped after him, the uneven rhythm of his footsteps telling Daeron exactly how much he’d had to drink. “Don’t worry, lad, if you can’t find a way to kill those cunts, you were never going to be much of a knight anyway, so there’s really nothing to fear.”

Daeron stopped and was about to give the man a piece of his mind when a guard wearing the armor of House Targaryen stepped in front of him. “Ser Ryam?”

“Yes?”

“Prince Jaehaerys asks for an audience. Will you come with me?” The guard did not wait for confirmation – he turned and began to walk back to the castle, leaving Daeron to deal with the pit in his stomach, drawing strength from the encouraging looks aimed his way by Ser Jojen and Jayson.

Prince Jaehaerys waited for Daeron in the guest’s chambers atop the main tower of Wayfarer’s Rest. Sitting at a table with a window overlooking the Red Fork behind him, the Prince was reading through a stack of parchments by candlelight when the guards escorted Daeron inside.

At the Prince’s gesture, Daeron approached the table and sat down, but Jaehaerys kept his silence until the servant closed the door behind him. Then he leaned back in his seat and examined Daeron closely. “When I found my brother’s lost son at a tourney in the Riverlands, I did not imagine I’d have quite so much trouble getting you to King’s Landing alive.”

Daeron’s hands gripped the armrests of his chair on instinct as if to bolt out of his chair, then he took a deep breath and relaxed. “How long have you known, Your Grace?” he asked, lowering his eyes.

“I suspected it during the joust, but I was certain when you stepped into my tent.” Jaehaerys searched out his gaze. “Did you think a son of the King could disappear without anyone being sent to search for him?”

Daeron hadn’t… quite considered the matter in those terms. “I did not hear anyone talk about my disappearance.”

“They wouldn’t. Rhaegar did not want it known, or half the Realm would be in pursuit.”

“Why?” Daeron wondered genuinely. “I’m only a bastard.”

“Yes. You are.” Jaeherys held Daeron’s gaze, as though he wanted to drive home the truth that Daeron had caused more trouble than he was worth. “But that means little in the face of a King’s affection, especially a King like ours.”

Daeron did not quite know what Jaehaerys meant by that, but he didn’t know how he might go about finding out without causing some grave offense. So he said, “I understand.”

Jaehaerys scoffed, a trace of derision on his face. “I doubt you do.” Daeron’s Uncle scribbled something on parchment and said, “My men found the bandits on the road, and the guards you buried. You were the only survivor?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And you managed to kill Ser Lyman in single combat, without a blade, though he was considered one of the finest swordsmen in the Riverlands.” Jaehaerys stopped scribbling to observe Daeron with open curiosity.

Daeron did not know how to respond, so he merely averted his eyes.

“And yet, during our joust, I would hardly say you’d distinguished yourself, sick from drinking or not.”

Daeron looked up and quickly said, “I’m better with the sword than a lance, Your Grace. Better on foot than mounted.”

“Strange, don’t you think? Considering both your parents were such gifted riders.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Daeron replied and swallowed hard. “Strange.”

“That was not wise, what you did back there,” Jaehaerys continued. “If I hadn’t provoked Ser Robin, they would’ve hanged you, you know that, right?”

Daeron thanked the Old Gods for sending Jayson to explain matters to him. “Yes, Your Grace. Thank you.”

“Your poor survival instincts notwithstanding, you did perform a great service to the Crown.” The Prince almost seemed surprised that a man such as Daeron could be capable of such a feat. “To execute those men would’ve been a great blow, so I thank you.”

Daeron didn’t know what to say. To say, “You’re welcome,” almost seemed presumptuous, so he settled for nodding.

The Prince went back to scribbling on his parchment. “The Smallwood lad, where did you meet him?”

Daeron wiped the palms of his hands on his trousers, feeling that the worst of the interrogation might be over. “On the road to the tourney.”

“So he was not involved in any of this?”

“No, Your Grace. Is there something I should know?”

“Not per se. The Smallwoods were rebels, but one of the first to kneel. They did have a pair of infamous cousins who rode with Robert Baratheon, however.”

“Ser Tybolt and Ser Luthor. They are both dead now, are they not?

“Yes,” Jaehaerys agreed. “I suppose there’s something to be said about that. And it doesn’t hurt that his father became a drunkard while his son and Heir is rumored to be a wastrel, more interested in visiting a brothel than cooking up a scheme.”

“Oh… I see, Your Grace.”

“What is this Ser Jojen like? He seems good enough with a lance for someone so young.”

Was Jaehaerys asking him to report on his friends? “He’s… reliable, Your Grace. Trustworthy. And, yes, good with a lance.”

Jaehaerys seemed to take a moment to decide if Daeron told the truth. Then a faint smile broke through his stern façade and he said, “Daeron Snow, the mysterious son of the King. I’ve had a lot of questions about you. It’s nice to finally get some answers.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Daeron said, too anxious about what his uncle might think of him to dare ask him about it.

Jaehaerys smiled in sympathy. “I won’t keep you any longer, you’ve a battle to fight tomorrow. We’ll speak more afterward.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“You are free to go.” Jaehaery nodded towards the door.

Daeron stood up, bowed, and made to leave, but when he got to the door, Jaehaerys called out after him. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yes, Your Grace?” Daeron turned around.

“Good luck, nephew.”

Daeron’s breath hitched in his throat. “Thank you… uncle.”

The next morning, Daeron and the rest woke with the first light. Jayson helped him put on his armor, chattering excitedly the entire time – this would be the first Trial of Seven since the one that killed Baelor Breakspear at Ashford Meadow, and Jayson couldn’t seem to believe his luck, to be given a chance to witness one firsthand.

But then, after Jayson had triple-checked the straps on every piece of the armor, the boy began helping Ser Tymon put on his armor as well.

“What are you doing?” Daeron asked.

Ser Tymon huffed, apparently annoyed at having to explain himself. “What does it look like? I’m the sixth champion.”

“And I’m the seventh,” Ser Jojen said as he put on his surcoat.

Daeron looked between Ser Jojen and Ser Tymon. “And you agreed with this?” Daeron asked Ser Tymon.

The older knight regarded Ser Jojen, then looked at Daeron and nodded. “Aye, I did.”

“But why?” Daeron demanded.

Ser Tymon shrugged as Jayson helped him put on pauldrons. “I changed my mind.”

“Ser Edmure said he wanted good men to fight alongside them, so who better than us?” Ser Jojen said, grinning.

The younger knight seemed eager, almost hungry, for the fight. He reminded Daeron of the dogs he’d seen in Winterfell before a hunt, pulling on the chain, itching to be let loose. Daeron supposed he understood why Ser Edmure would want a man like that in his corner, especially after Ser Jojen’s display of skill in the Tourney, but why would Ser Edmure want Ser Tymon to fight alongside them? A run-of-the-mill hedge knight would certainly never warrant the attention of a man as proud as Ser Edmure.

Daeron did not voice any of these questions. He felt relieved, instead. Lord Karyl, Ser Marq, and the rest were strangers to him – Daeron knew they were loyal to the Crown, but that was not the same as trusting them to guard his back in a battle. Ser Jojen and Ser Tymon, on the other hand, had somehow earned at least a portion of Daeron’s trust, though he did not rightly know when that had happened.

“It’ll be an honor to fight alongside you, Sers.”

“And you, Ser Ryam,” Ser Jojen replied.

Ser Tymon merely inclined his head, and seeing the soft look in the eyes of the cynical knight drove home the truth – Daeron would be in a fight for his life within the hour. His heartbeat jumped like a horse that’s been branded, but Daeron swallowed his nervousness, muttered a quick prayer to the Old Gods, and then turned his thoughts to the battle ahead.

The three men, the boy at their sides, made their way from the woods to the tourney grounds, where a sizeable crowd had already gathered. Though a low overcast marred the early morning, hundreds of people had gathered to witness the Trial. The crowd had to part for Daeron to even reach the lists, and he was surprised to find many people patting him on the back and offering encouragement as he walked past.

Ser Marq, Ser Edmure, Ser Patrek, and Lord Karyl were already waiting for them when they arrived. They all rose from the seats their squires had undoubtedly provided for them and went to greet Daeron and the rest.

“Ser Ryam,” Lord Karyl said as he shook hands with him. “I’d like to thank you for coming forward yesterday. I do believe you saved our lives.”

“It’s no problem, Lord Karyl.”

“He hasn’t saved our lives yet,” Ser Patrek said with a grin. “We still have to survive those fuckers.”

Ser Robin, Ser Brynden, and an assortment of knights stood at the other end of the lists, preparing for the battle.

“They’ve had their chance,” Ser Marq said, throwing a contemptuous look over his shoulder as he came to shake Daeron’s hand. “Their schemes failed. Now, they’ll have to face us like men, and this is where we’ll get them.”

“Hear, hear,” said Ser Jojen and Ser Patrek.

“I’d like to apologize for my cousin’s attempt on your life, Ser Ryam,” Ser Marq said. “I promise not all Pipers are as rotten as he was.”

Daeron could only nod – what more could a man say? Luckily, the Master of the Games walked up to them, and the look of disgust on his face made it clear where his sympathies lay. “Are you prepared?”

They all nodded. When the man walked back toward the viewing box, Ser Patrek shook his head and said, “Lord Karyl, not to be too presumptuous, but I do think you should clean your house once this is over.”

“Yes.” Lord Karyl said with a melancholy look in his eyes. Daeron noticed him glancing at Lady Marianne. “I do believe you’re correct.”

“Alrigh’, come closer, all of you,” Ser Tymon said.

Much to Daeron’s surprise, all the men followed his instructions and formed a circle around him. “Remember two things: only Ser Brynden and Ser Robin need die today, and yielding will spare you your life, you understand?”

“Are you suggesting—” Ser Edmure went to say, but Ser Tymon grabbed him by his gorget and pulled him closer.

Ser Tymon looked Ser Edmure right in the eyes and said, “This isn’t one of those songs you’ve been dreaming about your whole life. You act a fool out there, you’ll never see another sunrise, you hear me?”

Where Daeron might’ve expected the Heir to Riverrun to object to being manhandled by a common hedge knight, Ser Edmure merely looked ashamed when Ser Tymon finally let go of him. “I understand,” he said, looking at the ground.

“Good.” Ser Tymon regarded the rest of them. “As long as you survive the first pass, you’ve got a good chance of surviving the whole thing. Just don’t try to play the hero or do anything stupid.”

With that, the men separated, each going to his own horse. As Daeron mounted Dawn, all he could think of was the last piece of advice Ser Tymon had given. All I need to do is survive the first pass. It was true he wasn’t a prodigy when it came to horsemanship, but Daeron had been riding all his life. He could hold his own. And that he had performed poorly in the Tourney might even be to his advantage. Mayhap his opponent would underestimate him.

Daeron put on his helm and secured the straps, then slammed down the visor. Looking around, he saw his fellow combatants take their places and maneuvered his own mount into position. He took the extreme right of the fight, and in the distance, he saw Ser Robin’s giant figure moving into position directly opposite him. No doubt he wants to kill me first.

“Oak and shield, guard me well, or else I’m dead and doomed to hell,” Daeron whispered under his breath as he heard some Septon ask the Seven to bless this Trial. Then there came a moment of silence, followed by the blare of trumpets.

The horse seemed to jump into motion on his own – Daeron certainly hadn’t remembered to spur him. They started at a light canter, Ser Tymon to his immediate left, lances pointed at the sky, and then they began to build speed. The weight of the armor seemed to disappear with the rhythm of the ride, as did the noise from the crowd and all the thoughts bouncing around Daeron’s head. All he could see was the black knight riding toward him, the giant target presented by his broad shoulders, and the vulnerable heart hiding behind the breastplate.

As the knights reached full tilt, Daeron lowered his lance, and placed it in the cradle, aiming straight for Ser Robin’s heart. The thundering of the horses slowly built toward a climax, Daeron’s ears full of it, and then, though he’d been waiting for it, the sudden impact took him by surprise.

Ser Robin had leaned forward at the last moment as though hoping to reach for him. Daeron reacted on instinct, lifting his shield just a little higher – next thing he knew, he felt a sharp sting in his left shoulder as the impact of the lance threw him back and off the horse.

All sound and thought disappeared for a beat, only to return with double the power. The screams and shouts of men and horses sounded in his ears, everything hurt, and Daeron did not know where he was. He scrambled in the dirt, trying to find his footing, and stumbled to his feet. Terrified, Daeron did his best to survey the field; a man in yellow was lying on the ground, a broken piece of lance sticking from his gut. Two horses were running around riderless, while four knights engaged on horseback with their swords. Daeron noticed Ser Robin coming around for a second pass at the last moment and threw himself out of the way, got back to his feet, and drew his sword.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he murmured, watching Ser Robin wheel about. “Dismount, dismount like a man.”

Ser Robin did just that and called for his sword. Daeron smiled, and advanced on the man, holding his longsword with both hands, but when he lifted it up, his left shoulder complained the entire way. Daeron cursed, but there was nothing to be done – Ser Robin’s squire had brought the knight his sword, and then Ser Robin came at him.

His first swing came at Daeron’s head. Daeron deflected the strike and took a step back. The next one came at his torso. Daeron deflected again, and took another step back, refusing to let Ser Robin stagger him with sheer power. Then the giant knight raised his sword and slashed down diagonally. Daeron ducked under and danced out of the way.

“Fight, you coward!” Ser Robin’s voice sounded hollow under his great helm.

Every muscle in Daeron’s body brimmed with contained energy, a loaded spring ready to be unleashed, but Daeron kept waiting. Ser Robin launched a combination and drove him back, and Daeron gave ground readily. But Ser Robin’s fourth strike was hurried and uncontrolled – the man didn’t put the weight of his body behind the hit because he saw he wasn’t fast enough to catch him. So Daeron planted his foot, batted away Ser Robin’s swing, and struck. The blow landed on the side of Ser Robin’s head and the large knight stumbled to the side.

Daeron did not pursue, but eagerly awaited the next round, dimly aware of the sound of sword on sword around him. No others came near him, though.

Ser Robin shook his head and came on again with a roar. He seemed to expect Daeron to take the defensive again, so Daeron refused to oblige him. He struck out at Ser Robin’s sword hand and hit his wrist mid-swing; it would have severed his hand if he hadn’t worn his gauntlets, but the jarring blow wrenched Ser Robin’s sword from his hand.

Then Daeron planted his foot in the knight’s chest to buy himself space and began hacking at his shield, one strike after another, cleaving through the iron chasing and sending chips of wood flying. He never committed to the attack, though, knowing full well he couldn’t overwhelm Ser Robin’s defenses yet, so when the knight responded by throwing himself at him, Daeron quickly moved out of the way. It didn’t matter that Ser Robin earned himself a chance to reclaim his sword.

Daeron thought to get a chance to take a breath, but a scream from the side announced another threat. He wheeled about in time to deflect another knight’s great axe right into the ground. Without planning it, Daeron found himself inside the knight’s guard and slashed up. His blade found the gap between the knight’s neck guard and his helm, and a spray of blood colored his chest plate and his visor; Daeron could taste the knight’s blood at the tip of his tongue.

He pushed the dying man off and then the back of his head exploded with pain. His vision went white, the world spun, and it was the instinct to bring up his sword that saved him from Ser Robin’s second blow. Daeron staggered to the side, blinking to clear his vision. The Captain of the Guards hacked and slashed at him, and Daeron’s arm ached harder with each blow. But still, he waited and, as his equilibrium returned, Daeron began blocking and parrying to test the waters. Ser Robin’s hits had lost most of their strength and lost even more speed with every second. Then, when Ser Robin seemed in desperate need of a short break, Daeron began to attack. Quick, lightning counter-strikes aimed to weaken his opponent further. A thrust left a long scratch across Ser Robin’s chest plate, a strike dented his shoulder guard, and then Ser Robin had to stumble back to avoid a swing at his throat.

Ser Robin’s bravado had quietly gone away; no more curses flew from his lips and no more savage cries. He pulled back and waited for Daeron’s attacks now, and Daeron attacked all the same, feinting here and there, too fast for Ser Robin to catch him and too cautious to slip. Then the giant knight went for a wild swing, Daeron deflected the blow, pivoted, and slashed down at the back of his knee.

The giant knight stumbled forward, but remained on his feet, though it was clear he wouldn’t be putting much weight on the wounded leg anymore. After seemingly assessing his situation, Ser Robin gave a loud shout and threw himself at Daeron who danced out of the way and slammed his blade at the back of the knight’s head when he stumbled past.

Ser Robin fell to the earth, face first. He rolled over and found Daeron’s blade pressed to his neck. “Yield, Ser.”

“No.”

“Yield!”

“No. Kill me!”

A southern knight might’ve insisted, but Daeron was of the North, and they did not take such chances. Raising the sword high, he stabbed down and pierced the knight’s plate, driving the tip through his heart. It was over in moments.

He looked up, fear in his heart; he’d forgotten there were other men on the field fighting. Ser Patrek lay on the ground, crawling towards the edge; Ser Edmure and Ser Marq fought a pair of men together and struggled to keep them at bay; Lord Karyl fought a man, though heavily bleeding.

It was Ser Tymon who caught Daeron’s eye. He advanced on Ser Brynden, leaving another fresh corpse in his wake, and disarmed the Lord of Raventree Hall in three savage strikes. He pressed his blade to the Ser Brynden’s neck, and boomed, “Tell them. Tell them!”

“It’s true!” Ser Brynden squealed. “I lied. I lied to the Prince!”

In the viewing box, Prince Jaehaerys shot to his feet. “Stand down! Stand down at once!”

The knights froze mid-combat; they stopped attacking but none lowered their swords, afraid their enemies might take advantage, so they took wary steps back until they judged themselves at a safe distance.

Daeron ripped off his helm and took a big, lungful of the cool noon air. He had some liquid in his mouth and spat it out to find the brown dirt take on a red tint. I’ll be lucky if I still have all my teeth. Ser Robin’s blow had made his head ring in a way he hadn’t experienced since he was a little boy with a master-at-arms determined to drive home a lesson.

But then he heard a scream to the side – Jayson had run onto the Tourney grounds and was cradling Ser Jojen’s head. The young knight had a cruel piece of wood sticking out of his gut, and Daeron immediately ran over.

Ser Jojen was pale and sweaty, fighting for every breath. His eyes were unfocused and unseeing, but then they zeroed in on Daeron’s face. Ser Jojen reached for him and Daeron immediately fell to one knee and took his hand. “Jayson,” Ser Jojen said, swallowing hard. “Promise you’ll take Jayson.”

Daeron squeezed his hand. “I will, Ser Jojen, I will.”

“Promise. Promise. Promise.”

“I promise, Ser,” Daeron said again, but it wasn’t necessary. Ser Jojen’s hand had gone limp.

Chapter Text

Ser Jojen of House Smallwood went to the water in the Red Fork, downstream from Wayfarer’s Rest. According to the traditions of most of the Houses of the Riverlands, the body was placed in a skiff, surrounded by hay and wood, set alight, and sent down the river.

Hundreds of people had gathered to pay respects to the young knight who’d so distinguished himself during the Tourney, bemoaning that one, well-placed strike should rob the Riverlands and House Smallwood of such a promising young knight, one who had it in him to bring glory to them all.

Jayson was inconsolable since his master’s death – his eyes bloodshot, the boy insisted that Ser Brynden be executed for his crimes, even though the man had chosen to take the Black. There was no one else for Jayson to take revenge on since Daeron slew the knight who’d delivered the killing blow, a man by the name of Ser Lucas Finch.

“He was a good lad,” Ser Tymon said as they watched the skiff drift down the river, the flames rising higher by the moment.

“A good knight,” Daeron echoed Ser Tymon. Jayson could only nod, so Daeron placed a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder and offered an encouraging smile when Jayson looked up at him.

Lord Karyl, Ser Edmure, Ser Marq, and Ser Patrek came to thank them for fighting by their side then, the last of them limping due to a blow to the leg Ser Brynden gave him during the fighting. “A damned shame,” Ser Patrek said. “You have my deepest condolences.”

It wasn’t long until the skiff disappeared around a bend in the river, and the crowd of people dispersed, Daeron himself walking back to their camp, Jayson trudging forward by his side.

“Tell me,” Daeron said that evening, sitting around their campfire with Ser Tymon and Jayson, “how is it that the Heir to Riverrun didn’t seem to mind being manhandled by a hedge knight?” Daeron settled against the tree trunk, took a swig of wine, and stared up at the stars.

The older knight huffed and prodded the fire with a stick. “I’ll tell you my secrets if you tell me yours. Especially if you think you’ll take the boy with you on the road.”

Daeron had already offered to take Jayson as a squire, as Ser Jojen had wanted, and the boy had eagerly accepted. What hadn’t been discussed was where the two would serve. Ser Tymon was correct that Daeron owed them both the truth if he wanted to take the boy with him. “My name isn’t Ser Ryam of White Tree. I’m Daeron Snow, bastard son of King Rhaegar, First of His Name, and so on, and so on.”

Jayson perked up and stared at Daeron as though he saw him for the first time, while Ser Tymon merely nodded. “I figured as much. You look like Ned Stark, if that fucker hadn’t spent his entire childhood frowning in disapproval.”

Daeron smiled in spite of everything. “Now’s your turn.”

“Ser Tybolt Smallwood,” he said. “Previously of Myr, currently presumed dead.”

“Ser Tybolt Smallwood,” Daeron repeated. Stories spoke of him as one of the deadliest blades in Robert Baratheon’s inner circle. He was rumored to have cut down half a hundred men at the Battles of Summerhall, and had reportedly nearly killed Lord Randyll Tarly at the Battle of Ashford. “I should’ve known. What are you doing back in the Seven Kingdoms?”

“I got on the wrong ship in Myr.”

Daeron turned his eyes to Jayson for answers.

“My grandmother was dying. She wanted to see him one last time,” Jayson said, eyes on the ground. “So my uncle, Lord Smallwood, allowed it. But when Ser Tybolt returned, no one else recognized him, so we came up with a new name and told everyone he’d sworn his sword to us.” Then he looked up at Daeron with a conflicted expression, a loyal boy’s plea for mercy fighting with a dutiful son’s desire for the return of a family member. “But we’re none of us traitors. We just wanted him back.”

That might’ve been a good enough explanation on any other day, but Daeron needed more. “So why’d you fight with me then, if you suspected who I was? Why did you let Ser Jojen fight? Shouldn’t you be trying to kill me, to avenge Robert Baratheon’s dishonor?”

Ser Tybolt spat to the side. “Fuck Robert Baratheon’s honor.”

Daeron lifted an eyebrow.

“I was expected to be a knight of the Kingsguard, once upon a time, did you know that?” the knight asked. “Ser Gerold Hightower himself told me I would be a great addition to the brotherhood. When Ser Harlan Grandison died, I was next in line.” Ser Tybolt’s mouth twisted bitterly. “But instead, the Mad King gave the white cloak to Ser Jaime, just so he could stick it to the Lannisters. So I wanted to get even. I told myself I was fighting to overthrow a lunatic, that I was fighting for a good cause. And maybe I was, but I also wanted revenge. When Robert Baratheon showed up offering a chance to get it, who was I to say no, eh? Next thing I knew, I was a mercenary, fighting other hired swords in the Disputed Lands, and if you had asked me why I was fighting, I wouldn’t be able to tell you in a hundred years.”

For a few moments, nothing was heard but the crackling of the fire and Ser Tybolt swallowing another mouthful of wine. “I did more to help the Seven Kingdoms and its people today than I did in my entire life. That’s a hard thing to admit, but it’s the truth. I don’t owe Robert Baratheon or anyone else anything anymore. That’s why I fought. And that’s why I let Jojen fight. And if you think to pity him for what happened, think again. The lad fought for something until the very end. It’s more than most can say.”

Daeron figured he could understand that. But he chose his next words carefully, as the older knight had worked himself up into quite a state, breathing heavily as he continued staring at the fire. “And did you like the feeling of it, fighting today?”

That made Ser Tybolt look away from the flames. “I did.”

Daeron smiled. “Would you want to do it again?”

Ser Tybolt frowned, but Daeron could see curiosity spark to life in his eyes. “What’d you mean?”

Daeron shrugged and took another sip. “I have no interest in going to King’s Landing. And I’m guessing might not be looking forward to going back to Acorn Hall. So maybe we can take to the road, serve where we will… fight where we want?”

The older knight and the boy exchanged looks, and they were about to answer when Prince Jaehaerys stepped into the light of the fire. All three of them got to their feet in a hurry. “Prince Jaehaerys,” Daeron said.

“Daeron.” Jaehaerys inclined his head, then looked at the other three. “Might I have a moment with my nephew?”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Jayson said since Ser Tybolt didn’t seem capable of forming a coherent sentence.

“Thank you.”

The men quickly scampered towards the camps, but not before Jaehaerys said, “Oh, Ser Tybolt?”

The older knight froze, his shoulders instantly tensing up. He turned around and said, “Your Grace?”

“I shall have a word with my brother. There’s no more need to hide your true identity – consider yourself pardoned.”

Ser Tybolt’s eyes widened for a short moment, so short Daeron almost missed it, but it gave him a glimpse of the boy Ser Tybolt had once been, the boy who seemed to be hiding behind the large beard and cynical comments. The knight swallowed and bowed his head, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Prince Jaehaerys inclined his head, then turned his attention to Daeron. “It seems to me you don’t plan on going back to King’s Landing with me.”

Daeron took another sip of his wine since he couldn’t think of a reason why not. “No, Your Grace.”

“I could force you, you know.”

Daeron paused at that. A thousand thoughts rushed through his mind. “I suppose you could, yes.”

Jaehaerys looked down at him with a raised eyebrow. For a moment, Daeron wondered if he’d get angry, but then he heard a deep, rumbling laugh, straight from the belly. “That’s dragons for you,” he murmured, though more to himself. “And may I ask why you don’t wish to visit the capital?”

“I don’t wish to visit yet,” Daeron pointed out, “and as to why… I suppose there’s other things I’d like to do first.”

“Like play the part of the hedge knight?”

“Yes.” Daeron regarded him with a defiant look. “Trueborn sons get the status, but they also get the duty. Bastards have no status, but we get the freedom. I won’t have mine taken away from me so easily.”

“Rhaegar was insistent on you coming to the capital,” Jaehaerys said with a thoughtful look, “but I suppose your decision has its uses as well.”

“And what would those be?” Daeron asked.

“Our family is in need of sensible men. Men who know what the world looks like beyond the walls of the Red Keep. Traveling the kingdoms as a hedge knight might help your education in that regard.”

“So you’ll let me go, Your Grace?”

“Yes, I think I will, though the Seven know Rhaegar might never forgive me,” Jaehaerys said.  “I might’ve done the same once if I had the chance.”

“Good,” said Daeron. His shoulders eased and he recognized he’d been more nervous than he’d allowed himself to believe. “Thank you.”

Prince Jaehaerys nodded. “You’re welcome.”

Daeron drank a little more wine, then had an idea. He held the skin out for Jaehaery to take. His Uncle stared at the wine as though he’d been offered a venomous snake, but after some consideration, he grabbed it and took a sip. “What will happen to Lady Marianne?” Daeron asked. With Ser Robin dead and Ser Brynden opting to go to the Wall rather than face the sword, she was the last part of the puzzle.

Jaehaerys wiped his mouth and handed the skin back to Daeron. “She will join the Silent Sisters. She confessed that he firstborn son wasn’t fathered by the old Lord Vance. She’d had a lover as a young woman, who’d died in the Rebellion, and then her father sold her to Lord Vance before anyone found out. But Ser Brynden obviously knew, that’s how he blackmailed her into taking part.”

“Poor woman.”

“Yes, she is.” In the light of the fire, his Uncle stared at Daeron for a few beats, then held out a hand and said, “Best of luck to you, nephew. Don’t make me regret my decision.”

Daeron scrambled to his feet and did a poor job of it as the wine made itself known, but he shook the Prince’s hand in the end. “Thank you, uncle. I promise I won’t.”

They’d been riding through the day, eager to put some distance between themselves and Wayfarer’s Rest. The thought that Prince Jaehaerys might change his mind urged Daeron on. His new companions recognized the look on his face and obliged him.

When evening fell, they made camp in a forest north of Pinkmaiden. Surrounded by fir trees on all sides, they got a nice fire going and had Jayson roast a pair of rabbits for them.

“So, Ser Tybolt,” Damon murmured, putting on his gauntlets. “Will you tell me more about your mysterious past?”

The older knight huffed and tightened his vambraces. “Let’s put it this way, little lizard. For every victory, you get a piece of information.”

They both stood up and drew their swords. “I suppose that means I’ll be getting the entire confession today.”

Ser Tybolt’s grin was insidious in the flickering light of the fire. “I’m going to enjoy breaking you, lad.”

Daeron pointed the tip of his sword at Ser Tybolt’s chest. “Come and try, grandpa.”

The two knights clashed, and the forest came alive with the screams of steel.

Daeron lasted four strikes. He had never felt more at home before.

Chapter Text

The burned remains of a wagon sat in the middle of the road, with four corpses around it. Daeron reined up at first sight of them, Ser Tybolt and Jayson by his side.

“Well,” Ser Tybolt said in his usual droll tone, “we know what happened to the shipment.”

“Swords?” Ser Waymar asked, placing one hand on the hilt of his sword.

“No need for that, I think,” Daeron said as he dismounted Dawn and handed the reigns to Jayson. Ser Waymar was another knight in the service of Lord Greenwood. They’d been sent out to find the wagon after a raven arrived from the Grassy Vale, informing Lord Greenwood that another shipment had gone missing.

These men had died at the hands of bandits, Daeron had no doubt, and judging by the grey color of their skin, they had to have been killed at least a day or two ago. One of them had his throat cut, another seemed to have taken an axe straight to the head because his face was a bloody ruin. The other two didn’t sport visible signs of injuries, but their surcoats were covered in blood. As he crept closer, Daeron saw the holes in their chainmail. Arrows, but they’d been retrieved. Bandits couldn’t afford to waste a single shaft.

“More of the Green Knight’s work, no doubt,” Ser Waymar said, making the sign of the Seven in the air. Ser Waymar was an anxious knight, his flinty eyes continuously rolling in his sockets in search of danger. Heavy-set and with a healthy love of wine, he wasn’t exactly the soul of chivalry the songs liked to promise, but Daeron considered him more honest and true than most.

“Aye, you’re probably right,” Daeron said. He couldn’t help but look around the woods that stretched down both sides of the road, wondering if the Green Knight and his men were watching him at that very moment. Did a bandit have his bow trained on him, waiting for his commander to give the signal to loose? Daeron figured that might as well be the case, and it made him itch to draw his sword. He’d been taught that it was honorable to die with a sword in your hand, facing down your foe. This Green Knight and his band of outlaws were the scum of the earth, as far as Daeron was concerned, attacking and hiding, too cowardly to face their enemies like men.

“Let’s go inform Lord Greenwood he lost a couple more men, then,” Ser Tybolt said, no more sick and tired of this kind of work than Daeron was, though the older knight made the mistake of showing it. They’d sworn their swords to Lord Meadows thinking they’d get to battle the Green Knight, but the bandit always struck hard and then disappeared before they got the chance to fight him, or avoided them altogether on the few occasions when the men of Greenwood Castle rode out in force.

“That’ll make him happy,” Ser Waymar said as he pulled a flask from his saddle and took a sip to calm his nerves.

“It’s his damn fault,” Ser Tybolt said with a snort. “Riding out in force like an idiot, hoping the Green Knight will come and face him.”

Daeron settled into the saddle and they began their ride back to Greenwood Castle. “What else is he to do?” he asked. “What is anyone to do, when you’re dealing with a foe that doesn’t have the courage to fight you.”

“Doesn’t have the courage to fight us, you say?” Ser Tybolt asked. “I say he’s too smart to fight us on our terms, as any good commander will tell you.”

They’d had the conversation more than a few times since they’d taken up service with Lord Greenwood. “You’d do well not to show your appreciation for the outlaw too loudly, Ser.”

Ser Tybolt looked at him with his penetrating eyes. “I’ll say what I think, boy, and don’t you go lecturing me.”

That Ser Tybolt would say what he thought was exactly what worried Daeron. He didn’t mean to lecture the older knight, but he had the distinct impression that his loose tongue would get them in trouble one day. Ser Tybolt had spent too much time as a prominent knight and then a rogue mercenary – he would never be an obedient and steadfast knight again, and Daeron worried this deficiency might make some prickly Lord take offense.

Before Daeron could voice these concerns to Ser Tybolt, the older knight continued saying exactly what he thought. “Give me a hundred gold dragons, and I’ll have the location of their camp out of the smallfolk before you can say, ‘Gallows!’”.

“Or maybe you’d have a hundred fewer gold dragons in your pouch and the smoking remains of campfire,” Daeron replied. “Either way, it’s not our job to tell Lord Greenwood how to conduct his affairs.”

“Lord Meadows’, you mean?” Ser Tybolt said with a sharp grin, always happy to contradict Daeron’s obedient lies with the hard truth.

And it was the truth, Daeron knew. Lord Beron Greenwood was a young man in the prime of his life, around four-and-twenty, but he was skinny and bookish by nature, more interested in ancient scrolls and obscure texts than he was in ruling his domain. The people of Greenwood Castle whispered that the Green Knight would have taken control of these lands moons ago if it wasn’t for Lord Meadows. A man of six-and-fifty, he’d taken Lord Greenwood’s young sister as a second wife after the first one had failed to produce an Heir. Lord Meadows was a constant presence at Greenwood Castle since the Green Knight had started plaguing these lands, working tirelessly to defeat the bandit.

“So what if he has taken command?” Daeron asked. “It’s hardly his fault that Lord Beron can’t be bothered to rule.”

“Ser Ryam has a point, you’ve got to admit,” Ser Waymar said, chuckling as he leaned back in the saddle and held his flask over his mouth, trying to coax the last few drops of wine from it.

“And I think you’re complaining because you don’t know how you’d bring him down either,” Daeron told Ser Tybolt, a grin tugging on his lips. It felt good to return some of the poison the older knight liked to spread like a disease.

“Tis true that it’d be hard to hunt him down, aye,” Ser Tymon said. Then he smiled. “But I’d manage it.”

“I heard a rumor that the Green Knight is Lord Beron’s older brother, the one who’d died in Tyrosh and that he’s come to haunt these lands as a ghost to get revenge on Lord Beron for selling their little sister to Lord Meadows,” Jayson said, eyes wide with excitement, looking between the three knights in search of someone who might support his fancy.

“Don’t pay attention to tales like that,” Daeron said gently. The boy had to learn not to put so much stock in kitchen gossip, and Daeron had no doubt that’s where he heard the story. The cook had given him a lemon cake the first day they’d sworn their swords to Lord Beron, and the boy returned to ask for more every day since.

“They said it’s the only way to explain how the Green Knight manages to strike at will and then disappear like the smoke,” Jayson insisted. “How else do you explain that he appeared in the middle of the keep, without anyone knowing how he got there?”

Ser Tybolt barked a laugh. “Well, Ser Ryam, how are you going to explain that one to your squire, eh?”

They’d all heard the story the day they took up service with Lord Greenwood. The people of the castle claimed the Green Knight had come to try and kill Lord Greenwood and take his place as the Lord of these lands, but Lord Meadows’ men had intercepted him and managed to drive him off, though not before the Green Knight slew two men and wounded a third.

“He scaled the walls, is all,” Daeron told Jayson, ignoring Ser Tymon. Ever since Daeron decided he wouldn’t force Jayson to spar if the boy didn’t want to, the older knight kept suggesting Daeron wasn’t much of a master with a thousand loaded comments. “You don’t need to be a ghost to manage that.”

Clearly, that notion had occurred to Jayson – Daeron knew the lad was too smart to believe the old wives’ tales – but the boy’s youth was working against him. No doubt Jayson thought ghosts were a far more interesting explanation than the one that involved a hook and some rope.

“How much longer until we’re back at the castle?” Jayson asked, knowing perfectly well that since it took them the entire morning to find the burned wagon, it would probably take them most of the afternoon to get back to the castle.

Still, in memory of Uncle Ned and his gentle exasperation, Daeron said, “It’s just around the bend, I think.”

***

The sun was setting in the west when Greenwood Castle came into view. Standing atop a small hill, the castle was surrounded by the Greenwood on all sides. Four roads stretched in every direction from the castle, like points on a compass. One led south to Dorne, one east to the Stormlands, one led towards Higharden, and another toward the Riverlands. Greenwood Castle had a tower for each of these roads, and together with the curtain walls, they formed a square, with the great keep in the middle.

When the guards on the walls saw Daeron and his party return, the call quickly went out and the gates opened for them to enter. The Captain of the Guards, Ser Casper Lynch, greeted them in the courtyard. A veteran of half a half-a-hundred battles, Ser Casper had the type of raw practicality and no-nonsense attitude Lords liked in their soldiers. No taller than Daeron but with arms that were twice as thick and a big mane of black hair, Daeron held the man in high regard, as he was the one tasked with hunting down a foe who wouldn’t show his face.

With both hands resting on the hilt of his sword, Ser Casper regarded Daeron and said, “So, they’re dead.”

Daeron inclined his head. “Yes, Ser.”

“Of course they are,” Ser Casper said and turned around, to go report to Lord Meadows, no doubt.

Daeron made to follow. “Ser, if I may…”

“Yes?” Ser Casper asked over his shoulder, but he did not stop walking.

“We found four corpses, Ser.”

That brought the Captain to a halt. He faced Daeron. “Four corpses? So either the Others took the other two, or…”

“Yes, Ser.” It wasn’t the first time that some of the men sent to protect the wagons ended up joining the bandits. Daeron suspected the Green Knight liked to give the last few survivors a choice between death and a different kind of service. It came as no surprise that the men chose survival, though Daeron didn’t think much of the Green Knight for giving them the option. Better to die with honor than to take up with outlaws, all in a petty attempt to make your life last a little longer.

“I’ll let Lord Greenwood know,” Ser Casper said and disappeared into the great keep.

Daeron turned around and looked around the courtyard. Most of it was empty since the knights sworn to House Greenwood and the castle guards were probably at their evening meal. A couple of them patrolled the battlements, and the blacksmith worked in the forge, but other than that, Daeron had the courtyard to himself, with nothing to do for the rest of the evening.

The moment that last thought raced through his head, Daeron regretted it. As if on cue, he heard the sound of a sword sliding out of its sheath. Daeron turned around and faced Ser Tybolt, the smile on the man’s face suggesting he meant to take all his frustrations out on Daeron.

Daeron wanted to sigh tiredly and roll his eyes. He wanted to tell Ser Tybolt that they’d been riding all day, that he hadn’t had his dinner yet, that he simply didn’t fucking feel like sparring at the moment. The problem was that Daeron had tried every one of these excuses over the past six moons, and he knew where they would lead.

“You think the enemy will wait for you to have your supper?”

“You think the enemy won’t be delighted to hear you’re tired?”

“D’you imagine anybody gives a shit if you want to fight or not?”

So Daeron didn’t try any of those excuses. Instead, he drew his sword as Ser Tybolt drew his, and prepared to take another battering. The two came together in a scream of steel on steel, and their song of swordplay filled the courtyard for the next hour.

Ser Tybolt taunted, insulted, and cursed him when he wasn’t busy sending him into the dirt or nearly breaking the bones in his arms and legs. The older knight liked to switch fighting styles during their spars, repeating the same line every day: “A great warrior is great because his mind is sharper than his sword.” By that, Ser Tybolt meant that a knight had to be able to analyze his opponent, find his weaknesses, and exploit them to the fullest.

Some days, Ser Tybolt would come straight at Daeron with heavy blows, while other days Ser Tybolt hung back, defended, and then delivered lightning strikes when the opportunity presented itself. Each time, Ser Tybolt would let Daeron figure out how to best deal with a different style, offering no clues, no matter how much Daeron asked for them.

“Memorizing the answers is useless,” Ser Tybolt liked to say. “You must learn to think like a warrior, and then the answers will come themselves.” Ser Tybolt fought with the same style until Daeron figured out how to best deal with it. Then Ser Tybolt changed his technique, and the process started from the beginning.

This was Day 14 of the latest style, and Daeron was nowhere near a solution. Ser Tybolt liked to remain on guard, circling Daeron, waiting for him to attack. His movements seemed almost sluggish as he survived Daeron’s combinations, but when he spied the slightest opening, Ser Tybolt struck with dazzling speed, taking Daeron off guard again and again and adding to the impressive collection of bruises Daeron sported.

When the guard shift changed, a few of the men stopped by to watch the bouts, placing wagers on the outcome, and one could always tell apart the dreamers from the realists based on their willingness to bet on Daeron.

That wasn’t to say Daeron lost all his matches. He’d been a skilled swordsman before he ever met Ser Tybolt, and after six moons of training, Daeron had learned a great deal more. But Ser Tybolt was still too strong, too fast, and too experienced. There was no extra fat on his technique, not a single wasted movement, which meant that Daeron, even at his best, only won around one out of five matches. And he was nowhere near his best today.

“C’mon, Ser Ryam, you’re losing me money,” Ser Waymar said, handing over a couple of coppers to one of the guards when Ser Tybolt sent Daeron into the dirt again.

“Feel free to stop betting, then,” Daeron replied as he got to his feet with a grunt and grabbed his sword. He grabbed it with both hands and fell into a fighting stance, ready for another bout.

Ser Tybolt watched him for a few moments, as though assessing Daeron’s readiness, then lowered his sword and said, “Enough for today.”

“Oh, thank the Gods,” Daeron said and collapsed back into the dirt. That brought a round of laughter from the guards, and they left, shaking their heads.

Jayson walked over with a skin of water and handed it to Daeron. The boy was biting his lip, careful not to say anything – he’d made the mistake of laughing at Daeron a few times, but after Daeron had threatened to force him to spar as well, the boy had learned to keep his mouth shut.

Daeron took a sip of the water and climbed to his feet. “I’m hungry, let’s go eat.”

The great hall of Greenwood Castle was nowhere near the size of the great hall in Winterfell, or even the one in Wayfarer’s Rest. With three hearths running down each side, the hall could seat two hundred men at most. The banners of House Greenwood – three arrows on a green field – hung from the walls and the rafters, with a dais at the end of the hall where the Lord, his family, and his closest confidants ate. A hundred candles burned and dripped wax down on the people from the chandeliers, but together with the fires burning in the hearths, they kept the darkness at bay.

When Daeron entered the hall, the dais was empty, as it was most of the time. Occasionally Lord Meadows joined the men for meals, but Lord Beron rarely did, and his sister, Lady Dyanna, was said to be going through a difficult pregnancy, so she spent her days confined in her chambers atop the Great Keep.

Daeron, Ser Tybolt, and Jayson went to take their seats at the far end of the hall, as far from the dais as one could get since that’s where the rest of the recently-sworn knights congregated. Around a dozen altogether, they were a rowdy bunch, loud and boisterous, yet full of hard-won wisdom that could only be earned through years of sleeping in ditches. Most of them didn’t mind any task or duty, too happy for a chance at a warm meal and a hard bed to complain.

Ser Waymar was already waiting for them when they arrived, raising a cup when he saw them. “Ser Tybolt, Ser Ryam, join us! Join us!”

Daeron sat down on the bench across from Ser Waymar, and Ser Tybolt sat next to him, while Jayson went to join the squires at another table. Daeron looked down the table at the assortment of knights. There was a Ser John the Wanderer, a man who had traveled from Lannisport to Ashaai and back. A tall man, sinewy instead of muscular, he had a long braid of grey hair and a distinctive goatee. Ser John always greeted Daeron with a ready smile, only too happy to share a story or two from his travels. He liked to say that after seeing the entire world, he was ready to settle down. “Now all I need is a chance to save some lordling’s life and I’ll be set with a keep and a wife of my own.”

Then there was Ser Raynard the Red, a knight of House Corbray, who’d left Vale behind for a life in the hedges after Ser Lyn Corbray had dishonored his sister. It was rumored that Ser Lyn had Ser Raynard accused of theft because he was so afraid of his fury, forcing Ser Raynard into a soft exile. Daeron could sympathize – Ser Raynard was a mountain of a man who preferred a great double-handed axe to swords. He had black hair, black eyes, and rough features that seemed permanently trapped in a frown. A few days earlier, Ser Tybolt had Daeron go up against Ser Raynard in a spar – Daeron’s shield arm still ached from the blows.

As the servants brought them each a bowl of brown and a cup of ale, Daeron tucked in and the conversation around the table washed over him.

“So you found some more dead men, eh?” Ser Raynard asked. “That’s a surprise.”

“Aye, about as surprising as when Ser Casper comes marching through these doors in a little while and announces we’re riding out in force again on the morrow,” Ser Tybolt said as he played with his food.

Ser Raynard and Ser John chuckled at that. “I wouldn’t wager against that, that much I’ll tell you,” Ser John said.

“Aye, me neither,” Ser Raynard agreed.

“It would’ve been much different if Lord Arwyn were still alive,” Ser John said, taking a sip of ale. “I heard it said he was a fine warrior in his own right, not at all like his brother. He would’ve dealt with this Green Knight long ago.”

“You might be right about that,” another knight butted in, this one a short and stocky Westerner by the name of Ser Gormon Fill. “Lord Arwyn was one of the finest lances in the Reach, his skill matched only by his short temper.”

Daeron had heard similar stories. Lord Arwyn had been sent into exile after he had killed Lord Ulrich Costayne in a duel over some soon-forgotten insult. The young Lord was said to have died in Pentos, though no one seemed to know what killed him. It didn’t matter, as far as Daeron was concerned. Quick-tempered and rash he might’ve been, but there was no doubt that the lands of House Greenwood would’ve been better served with him as the Lord, rather than his younger brother.

“Even Lady Dyanne might do a better job, only Lord Meadows never lets her leave her chambers,” Ser Raynard said, his voice low to make sure he wouldn’t be overheard.

Daeron frowned at that. “There were complications with her pregnancy, were there not? That’s why she must stay in her chambers?”

“Aye, that’s what His Lordship tells us,” Ser John replied. “But I spoke to some of the maids, and they said the Maester hasn’t been up to see Lady Dyanne in almost a fortnight. What kind of a complicated pregnancy doesn’t require the help of a Maester?”

“Most like Lord Meadows keeps her locked up until the girl gives him an Heir,” Ser Gormon said. “I’d heard she’s beautiful but headstrong. The old man probably can’t keep up with her.”

That elicited some laughter from the men, but it made Daeron wonder. Why would Lord Meadows feel the need to lock up his pregnant wife? “How long has she been confined to her chambers?” Daeron asked.

“More than two moons, I’ve heard,” Ser Raynard said with his rumbling voice. “Longer than I’ve served here.” The rest of the hedge knights listening nodded along – the same was true for them.

“Don’t worry yourself over it,” Ser Tybolt said. “Lady Dyanna’s hardly the first woman who needed some time to come to terms with her husband’s looks.”

That brought another round of laughter, but it quickly died down when Ser Casper walked through the main doors of the great hall, a pair of men-at-arms walking behind him. Now came the announcement everyone had been waiting for – tomorrow they would ride out in force again, and go looking for ghosts and the Green Knight. The way Daeron figured, they were as likely to find one as the other.

“Listen up,” Ser Casper called when he reached the dais and faced them. The knights and guards stopped whispering among themselves. “As you might’ve guessed, we’re riding out tomorrow to track down the Green Knight.”

There was some nodding from the men, but other than that, no visible reaction. They all knew what was coming. They were all bored.

“But there is one major difference this time – Lord Meadows shall be riding out with us.”

That earned Ser Casper some whispers and nods of approval, though Daeron didn’t know why that should be the case. Lord Meadows was an old man, and far from a warrior of great renown. How was his addition to the tracking party supposed to help them find the Green Knight?

Daeron made his thoughts plain to the hedge knights around him when Ser Casper left the great hall. Most of them looked at him with dumbfounded expressions, and it irritated Daeron to think he might be missing something obvious.

“Do you have nothing but wool between your ears, Ser?” Ser John asked, shaking his head.

“His Lordship’s clearly realized this Green Knight is too tricky to catch in the forest,” Ser Tybolt said.

“So?”

“So instead of chasing him, he’s going to draw the man out.” Ser Tybolt grinned, the same way he always did when he expected a good fight. “And I can think of no more attractive prize for the Green Knight than the chance to slay Lord Meadows.”

Daeron felt a shiver go down his spine, and two moons of boredom peeled off to reveal the naked anticipation underneath. He smiled at Ser Tybolt. “Oh, I see,” he said. “Wonderful.”

Chapter Text

Daeron woke before the first light of the day fell on Greenwood Castle. The rest of the hedge knights sleeping on the cots next to him were still asleep, so Daeron snuck out of the barracks that had been assigned to them and into the castle’s courtyard.

It was still night out, but by the light of the torches and the braziers, the servants of the castle worked as they prepared everything the men would need to ride out against the Green Knight. In his forge, the blacksmith was repairing swords and sharpening axes, while squires and servants laid out the armor and the shields the guards would take on their expedition.

The sky above the castle was as clear as a northern pond, the stars shining brightly down on them, and a faint breeze moved through the courtyard, sending a light chill through Daeron. It was all for the best – the slight cold reminded Daeron of the North, not to mention it provided sharp relief compared to the heat that would undoubtedly have them in its grip later in the day.

Daeron went to the armory where he had stored his belongings and went to work putting them on. Jayson would be miffed that Daeron had prevented him from fulfilling his duties, but sometimes Daeron found the slow and steady process of arming himself quite calming. And so he began by putting on his greaves to protect his legs and moved up his body. He put on his chainmail and a skirt of lobstered steel that fell to his midthigh. His breastplate came next, and then he put his black surcoat over it, with a white weirdwood tree painted on. His pauldrons and his gorget came next to protect his shoulders and neck, but he didn’t put on his vambraces, his gauntlets, or his helm. Those could wait until they rode out.

The first light began streaming through the tiny window in the armory by the time he was finished. All that was left for Daeron to do was put on his swordbelt and carry the rest of his armor, as well as his shield, to the stables so he could strap them to Honor’s saddle. Most of the men-at-arms and knights were up by the time he emerged from the armory, and Daeron nodded to the men he passed, though Ser Tybolt and Jayson were nowhere to be found. No doubt they’re still sleeping, Daeron thought, wondering how Ser Tybolt would react if Daeron spent the next fortnight reminding him of it.

As he reached the stables, however, right in the shadow of the Great Keep, a piece of parchment floated to the ground in front of him. Daeron looked up at the battlements to see if one of the guards had dropped it but saw no one. The parchment was about a quarter of the size of his palm, the type Maesters used for sending messages with ravens, and as Daeron picked it up, he saw it was filled with small, neat writing.

Daeron skimmed over the words, and a couple of them caught his eyes. The Green Knight is none other than--

“You there, stop that this instant!”

Daeron looked up and was surprised to find the owner of the voice was referring to him. Ser Casper marched across the yard, holding out a hand. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

“I’m sorry, Ser, but I don’t know what you mean.”

“That message there, hand it over this instant,” Ser Casper demanded. He snatched it out of Daeron’s hand and said, “What gives you the right to read His Lordship's messages, eh?”

“It floated to the ground in front of me,” Daeron said, a bit angry about Ser Casper’s accusation. “How was I to know who it belonged to?”

“You’re lucky I don’t have you flogged for this,” Ser Casper hissed. “Now, get movin’!”

Thinking it might be wise to take the knight’s advice, Daeron moved on. He entered the stables, found Honor, and quickly tied the various pieces of armor to every part of the saddle he could think of until a jingle of steel accompanied every move Honor made. Smiling at the sight of it, Daeron returned to the courtyard, and there Ser Tybolt and Jayson were waiting for him, Ser Casper having disappeared back into the Keep.

“There you are,” Daeron said when he saw them. “Decided to sleep in?”

“Aye, some of us can,” Ser Tybolt replied, rubbing his eyes. “Not all of us are as jittery as a maiden before her bedding.”

Daeron grinned. He should’ve known Ser Tybolt would find a way to turn his barbs against him. “As you say, Ser.”

“You put on the armor already?” Jayson asked, frowning up at him. “But that’s my duty.”

“That’s alright, Jayson.” Daeron patted his head. “Now, I want you to go to the steward and ask him if there’s anything you can help him with for the day.”

The boy’s frown deepened. “Help him? But I’m riding out with you, am I not?”

Now it was Daeron’s turn to frown, as though the boy’s words made no sense. “Jayson,” he said, “I don’t mind having you as a squire and taking you with me across the Seven Kingdoms, but I’m not taking you into battle until I feel you can defend yourself. And you won’t be able to do that until you start practicing with the sword and lance.”

Jayson’s eyes went wide, humiliation and betrayal both playing prominent roles in his expression, and then the boy said, “But—”

“What, you thought you could avoid swordplay your entire life, and then go fight a battle?” Daeron asked. Ser Tybolt snorted and shook his head at the boy.

“But I’m still your squire, I still deserve—”

“To get a clout in your ear if you don’t do as I say,” Daeron said, and he saw the hurt in Jayson’s eyes. It was the first time that Daeron had taken a more firm approach to training the boy. “Now go find the steward.”

Jayson nodded, his shoulders drooping, and walked off with his head hung low, in search of the steward. Ser Tybolt and Daeron watched him go, then turned to go to the great hall.

“D’you think that’ll work?” Daeron asked the older knight.

He found Ser Tybolt grinning at him. “I think I underestimated you, little lizard,” the older knight said in a low voice, so none would hear. “Letting him have his way only to reveal the consequences when it’s too late? That was very well done.”

Daeron felt a warm glow in his chest at Ser Tybolt’s praise, and since the old knight delivered it on rare occasions, Daeron didn’t want to tell him he hadn’t planned any of it. It didn’t occur to him until the middle of the night that he couldn’t take Jayson with him when they rode out, and how that might be an opportunity to teach the boy a lesson.

After they’d had their fill of food – Lord Meadows had ordered a boar be roasted for the men to lift their morale – Daeron followed the rest of the knights and the men-at-arms into the courtyard, where Lord Meadows finally made an appearance, together with Lord Greenwood. They stood atop the ramparts to address the men in the courtyard.

Lord Meadows was an old man, with a main of silver hair and a healthy gut. Daeron had seen his kind a thousand times – lovers of good food and the Arbor gold, such men usually had enough pride for ten men and the ambition to match. But they could also be dangerous, and Lord Meadows, wearing dark green armor, certainly looked like a man who could swing a sword. Lord Greenwood, by his side, seemed frail and weak by comparison. A man of middling height and a healthy gut, Lord Beron looked like a chinless craven, his rheumy eyes perusing the men in the courtyard as though they were his private toy soldiers, rolling a green ring on his finger the entire time.

“Men,” Lord Meadows shouted out in a strong, deep voice, “Today we put an end to the Green Knight!”

There were nods of anticipation from the knights and men-at-arms, but if Lord Meadows had expected cheers, he was mistaken. So His Lordship continued, saying, “This Green Knight has proven too craven to face any of you like a man, so today I shall dangle myself in front of him like a ripe peach.”

The men laughed, and even Daeron found himself cracking a smile.

“And if he should be fool enough to reach out, we shall cut off the bastard’s hand!”

Now the men raised their hands in the air, some of them shouting, “Meadows!”

“A hundred gold dragons to the man who brings me the fucker’s head!”

Those were the magic words – the men started cheering in earnest, shouting, “Lord Meadows! Lord Meadows! Lord Meadows!”

Daeron looked at Lord Greenwood. The man stared down at the knights with a pleased smile. He didn’t seem to mind that his men were cheering another Lord in his own castle.

Though the Greenwood forest was utterly foreign to him, and though it hid men who would have undoubtedly rejoiced to see his head on a pike, Daeron couldn’t help but admire its beauty. The ground was soft, covered in a thick layer of leaves, broken apart every once in a while by whispering brooks. The air was fresh and cool despite the heat, and it reminded Daeron of the North. The birds sang from their perches, and lances of sunlight found their way through the foliage to blind him every once in a while. It was the kind of place where one might want to wander for days and days, living off the bounty of the forest, clearing one’s head. It hardly even registered with Daeron that bandits might be hiding behind every trunk, waiting to take them unawares.

The column of knights and men-at-arms snaked its way through the forest, following an old hunting path, the men riding in pairs. Daeron and Ser Tybolt were right at the head of the column, while Lord Meadows and his best men rode somewhere in the middle.

“It’s always the most beautiful places that see the most bloodshed,” Ser Tybolt said, riding beside Daeron. “My grandmother told me that when I was little after I asked her why the armies of the Seven Kingdoms always come to the Riverlands to slaughter each other.”

Daeron cracked a grin. “I suppose she thought you were too thick to understand how the landscape influences military strategies.”

Ser Tybolt snorted and tried to smack him, but Daeron had measured the distance between their mounts well. His ear only felt the faint breeze of Ser Tybolt’s hand passing by.

Grinning at the older knight, Daeron felt it would be prudent to change tactics. “Tell me, good Ser, what’s the toughest fight you’ve ever been in?” Daeron asked. He liked to quiz the older knight with random questions. Daeron figured all information was useful when it came to combat, and Ser Tybolt, with his experience fighting in the Seven Kingdoms as well as the Disputed Lands, had quite a bit of information to share.

“Ser Gyles Prichard,” Ser Tybolt responded at once. “Fought him at Ashford. Gods that was a fight.”

Normally, they might’ve shied away from such a conversation when surrounded by strangers, but plenty of men in Lord Meadows’ retinue had fought for Baratheon. It was even rumored that Lord Meadows himself had made a deal with Lord Robert when the stag led his army west after the Battles of Summerhall. Lord Meadows had been slow to join his levies to the main Tyrell host and arrived to the Battle of Ashford late, claiming boggy roads had prevented his progress. None could dispute his excuses, and he served faithfully on the loyalist side afterward, but the rumors persisted.

“Who was he?” Daeron asked.

“A knight sworn to Lord Tarly. Common-born, as far as I recall. Three heads taller than me, and stronger than an ox. Every time his damn axe hit my shield, I thought he’d broken something.” Ser Tybolt laughed at the memory.

“I remembered Ser Gyles,” Ser John said, riding behind them with Ser Raynard. “I jousted against him at Harrenhall. The fucker put me on my arse right in front of the Mad King.” Ser John chuckled. “I swear to the Seven, I thought that mad bastard would burst something, he was cackling so damn hard.”

“How’d you beat him, Ser?” Ser Raynard asked Tybolt, leaning forward in his saddle in interest.

“Barely. I barely beat him.” Ser Tybolt scrunched up his nose, rubbing his right shoulder as though remembering an old wound. “I’d been fighting Lord Tarly, and had been about to kill him. That dour fucker wounded me in my arm and leg with Heartsbane, but I disarmed him. I was about to take his head off his shoulders and win us the battle when Ser Gyles rammed into me.”

“Rammed into you?” Daeron ask. Why would a knight do such a thing?

“Aye,” Ser Tybolt said, seeing what Daeron was hinting at. “He was too noble to take me unawares, so he did what he had to do to get me off his Lord without killing me.”

“That was chivalrous of him,” Ser Raynard said.

“Aye, ‘twas. But I didn’t quite appreciate the gesture, seeing as he went to work on me the second I stood up. We must’ve fought for half an hour, him hammering with that great axe of his, me trying to tickle him in the joints any chance I could get. But he was as fast as he was large. Any time I found a gap, it disappeared by the time the tip of my sword got there. And while I was waiting for him to tire out, the battle had turned against us. I had to do something, or they’d have taken me prisoner.”

Ser Tybolt looked at Daeron from the corner of his eye, and said, “Now, listen here, Robert Baratheon taught me this move, and it’s the best one to use when fighting a larger man. Marq Grafton used on Robert, nearly killed him with it at Gulltown.”

“Alright, what is it?”

“You wait for them to go for the big swing, preferably a diagonal one. And when they do, you set your feet and raise your sword as though you mean to met their strike. And then, at the last moment, you duck under their swing and take a step forward, to their side. And as they recover, you strike at the neck.” Ser Tybolt’s eyes drove home his point – this wasn’t a random story, but another lesson Daeron would do well to remember. “I used it on Ser Gyles, killed him on the spot.”

“How come Baratheon survived it?” Daeron asked.

Ser Tybolt snorted, half in amusement, half in exasperation. “That man’s got better fighting instincts than any warrior I’d ever seen. He knew he was in trouble the second Grafton slipped under his swing and felt the strike coming. So he’d ducked on instinct – Grafton lopped off one of the antlers on his helm, but in return, Baratheon hit him with the hilt of his hammer to daze him, then killed him with the next swing.”

“You saw this yourself?” a knight riding behind Ser John and Ser Raynard asked. It seemed their conversation had attracted quite a bit of attention.

“Aye, I was standing ten feet away.”

That brought some appreciative whistles and shakes of the head. The stories of Robert Baratheon’s prowess in battle were legendary, and it didn’t seem as though they had lost any of their power since the end of the Rebellion.

“He might’ve been a traitor,” Ser Raynard said, “but the Realm could use a warrior like that at the moment.”

Daeron had heard similar sentiments expressed numerous times over the past couple of moons. He’d heard them expressed too many times, in fact. With the pirates in the Stepstones getting bolder and bolder and the whole business in the Riverlands, many expected King Rhaegar to respond. There was even talk that Robert Baratheon had sent an envoy to Storm’s End, demanding Lord Stannis’ fealty. Rumor had it Lord Stannis had the envoy thrown into his dungeons, but it did nothing to diminish the sense of turmoil that permeated the Realm, especially when the Dragon sat in King’s Landing, watching it all unfold, and did nothing.

“Funny you should say that we need Baratheon to solve our problems, when Baratheon is our biggest problem,” Ser John replied, and Daeron instantly liked him a little more. “He waits in Tyrosh, plotting his return with the Golden Company, and everyone knows it. That’s why the pirates send more and more ships to plunder up and down the Narrow Sea each day, testing how far they can push the King.”

“And what of that Tourney in the Riverlands?” Ser Raynard asked.

“It seems to me the traitors got their due,” Ser John replied. “Prince Jaehaerys handled the matter.”

None of the knights seemed to know Daeron and Ser Tybolt were involved in the Tourney. The story that had spread through the Kingdoms spoke of the treason of Ser Brynden Blackwood and the death of Ser Jojen Smallwood. If the involvement of hedge knights was ever mentioned, it was never by name.

“He’s the only one of the Princes worth a damn, I’ll give you that much,” Ser Raynard said. “The rest only want to play their courtly games, competing to see who’ll be Hand of the King, to hear folks tell it.”

Daeron would have dearly liked to defend his half-brother and his uncles, but Prince Jaehaery was the only one Daeron knew, and he didn’t need defending. Daeron had heard Prince Aegon was a good man, but bookish and fond of wine. Of Rhaenys, Daeron had heard nothing, other than that she was the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms who’d taken after the Dornish in both looks and character – it was said the Red Viper himself had taught the Princess how to fight with the spear.

“That’s why you should always stay away from politics, I always say,” Ser John said, smiling dreamily. “A man has to see the world, and after he’s had his fill, find his little patch of land and settle down.”

“Is that what you’re doing right now? Searching for your patch of land?” Ser Raynard might’ve sounded dubious, but he was still smiling.

“Aye.” Ser John kept staring into the distance, as though he could already see it.

“And how do you imagine you’ll come by this land?” Ser Tybolt asked.

“I have no idea,” Ser John replied. Strangely, this admission didn’t dampen his spirits in the slightest.

Daeron shook his head in amusement and grabbed a skin of water from his saddle. The rustle of wings from above as a raven took flight pulled him from his thoughts. The sordid secrets of the royal court and Ser John’s dreams would have to wait – they had to survive the Green Knight first.

Chapter Text

They made camp by a stream that evening, having spent the entire day riding through the forest in vain. There had been no sign of the Green Knight or any of his men, and more than a few of the knights sworn to Lord Meadows could be heard grumbling to themselves about another wasted expedition.

“This Green Knight is a coward,” Lord Meadows proclaimed when he ordered them to make camp. Then he cracked a grin. “But mayhaps he’ll grow a pair of balls by tomorrow, so we’ll make sure to give him another chance.”

The men laughed, but it was clear that they would not get their hopes up. They all wanted the Green Knight to come out and face them, and if the bandit had proven anything since he’d first begun terrorizing the people of the Greenwood, it’s that he never did what his enemies wanted him to do.

The men set up a campfire along one side of the stream, so they couldn’t be split in two in case the Green Knight attacked during the night, and Lord Meadows even had them create sharpened stakes to work as a protective barrier.

As the fires crackled to life, the hunters Lord Meadows had sent out returned with rabbits and squirrels for His Lordship and his commanders, while Daeron and his like had to make do with salted beef and some apples they picked along the way. Daeron gathered around the fire with Ser Tybolt, Ser John, Ser Raynard, and Ser Waymar, and it didn’t take him long to figure out that none of the men were particularly happy with Lord Meadows for his decision to spend the night in the forest.

“Damned fool,” Ser Tybolt grumbled as he nibbled on his salted beef, trying to soften it. “These are the Green Knight’s lands. Lord Meadows has us squatting her like a bunch of seagulls, with a shark circling underneath.”

“I think you’re overestimating our foe,” Ser Waymar said with a brittle smile, but Daeron noticed his flinty eyes searching through the dark. “We’ve got over a hundred men here. The Green Knight would be a fool to attack us directly.”

Ser Tybolt kept his dour look and said, “Who said anything about a direct attack?” Then the older knight looked at Daeron then and added, “If you fall asleep tonight, I’ll do you the favor of slitting your throat myself and sparing those fuckers the hassle, you understand?”

Daeron stared at him for a few beats, then inclined his head in agreement. “If we’re so exposed, why’s Lord Meadows doing it then?”

“He’s grown impatient,” Ser Tybolt replied with a dark look over his shoulder. Lord Meadows had his camp right in the midst of his men, the safest spot available. “I figure he doesn’t mind sacrificing a few men to put this matter behind him.”

That made altogether too much sense. Daeron could even admit that if he were reading about this fight back at Winterfell’s library, he might’ve agreed with Lord Meadows’ decision, maybe call it ‘necessary’. But being one of the men who might be sacrificed did a great deal to sour him on such a perspective. As much as Daeron despised the Green Knight for his tactics, he could at least admit that the bandit hadn’t yet wasted the life of a single one of his men.

With that in mind, Daeron made sure to get plenty of food and refuse all offers of wine from the other man, so as to keep his wits about him. Since their fire was at the far end of the camp, Daeron switched seats with Ser John so he might sit with his left shoulder to the stream, trusting the hundred men behind him to guard his back while he inspected both sides of the stream for threats.

Gradually, the sound of men drinking and eating and singing died down, and the sentries took their places while the rest fell into a much-needed sleep. Except for Daeron and Ser Tybolt. They remained awake and on guard. The other hedge knights called them crazy even though they agreed that trouble was coming, believing that some sleep had to be better than none. Ser Tybolt would not be dissuaded – he told them they’d wake up dead – and Daeron knew better than to complain. In the six moons Daeron had known him, Ser Tybolt had taught him as much about combat as Uncle Ned had over the course of Daeron’s entire childhood. He’d be a fool to ignore his advice.

It soon turned out Ser Tybolt had correctly predicted the Green Knight’s thinking. The second the men around them completed their journey into the land of dreams, a shaft came flying from the woods, aimed straight at Lord Meadows’ campfire. Daeron heard the faint whistle, heard the dull thud as the arrow struck the earth, but by the time he put the pieces together, Ser Tybolt had already picked up his shield, drawn his sword, and began shouting, “We’re under attack! We’re under attack!”

More arrows came from the darkness – they were fired from across the stream, all of them aimed at Lord Meadows, but the man’s sworn swords quickly surrounded him, their shields saving His Lordship from certain death.

That seemed to be some kind of a signal. Now the arrows came flying in earnest, aimed at everybody in the camp. Ser Tybolt had Daeron and the rest of the hedge knights form a circle in no time, but the rest of the men in the camp weren’t as disciplined. Daeron saw one, two, three, four of them fall to the arrows.

“Keep your shields up, don’t break rank!” Ser Tybolt commanded the hedge knights.

As if trying to prove the wisdom of his command, a pair of knights sworn to Lord Meadows broke ranks and crossed the stream, apparently intent on charging the darkness, shouting, “The Grassy Vale!”

The unseen bandits turned them into a pair of hedgehogs in short order. Daeron watched their bodies flow gently down the stream through the crack between the shields, cursing the Green Knight the entire time.

“What now?” Ser Waymar asked, his voice nervous.

“We keep position,” Ser Tybolt returned. “If they’re disciplined, they’ll retreat and come back later. If we’re lucky, they’ll attack.”

It turned out luck wasn't on their side. After the deaths of the two men in the stream, arrows stopped coming from the darkness, but Daeron had the overwhelming feeling that the bandits remained right where they were, waiting for them to drop their guard.

Minutes crawled by, the shield walls around every campfire remaining in place like little islands of light. But since no new attack came, Daeron began to hear murmurs and whispers, the knights and men-at-arms wondering what they should do next. No new orders came from Lord Meadows, so it was assumed they should hold their position, though no one seemed too happy about it.

Finally, a man-at-arms by the name of Horace broke ranks. The man was the jovial sort, not one to hold his tongue. Daeron had seen him drink five men under the table, singing the entire time. Horace declared for all to hear, “Seven Hells, I’m not standing here crouching the entire night. If they want to kill me, they’re bloody welcome to it.” Then Horace plopped down next to his fire, grabbed a skin of what Daeron assumed was wine, and drank deeply.

Daeron thought this was the kind of stupidity that the Old Gods and the New would quickly reward with an arrow through the throat, but he was wrong. No arrows came flying at Horace. The rest of the men waited a while, as though Horace was bait, but when no fish came biting, they began to lower their shields as well. Murmurs spread, followed by a kind of panicked laughter of men who didn’t want to admit they’d been frightened.

“Don’t any of you dare drop your shields,” Ser Tybolt warned them.

Daeron saw that none of them had planned on it. The hedge knights had gotten a sense of the kind of man Ser Tybolt was and, having ignored him earlier, they didn’t plan on doing it again. Their round shield wall remained even as the rest of the knights and men-at-arms sat down around their fires.

“At least they don’t plan on going to sleep again,” Daeron murmured.

“Small mercies,” Ser Waymar replied.

A knight with the three arrows of House Greenwood on his surcoat approached their shield wall, a smile on his face. “You can drop your guard, Sers, I doubt they’ll be returning tonight.”

In answer to his claim, an arrow came arching from the forest, piercing the knight’s neck. He went down, gurgling blood, and the entire camp jumped to its feet, for this time the arrows came from their side of the stream.

“They’re coming!” Lord Meadows boomed and all the men rushed forward, shields at the ready, to take their places behind the stakes.

“They’re not!” Ser Tybolt barked.

The first arrow turned out to be a ruse, for this time arrows came flying from both sides of the stream. The men who thought they’d finally face an enemy head-on got hit in the back and went down screaming. Another four or five dropped before Lord Meadows got wise and ordered them to form protective circles again. And then the arrows stopped coming, and the waiting game resumed.

That’s how the night passed for Daeron and the hedge knights. Every time the men would drop their guard, more arrows would come flying, and another couple of men would fall. By the first light of the day, Daeron’s legs and back were stiff since he’d maintained a crouching position, his shield arm had gone past the point of burning and into numbness, but he told himself it was a small price to pay in exchange for staying alive.

At the beginning of the night, Daeron was cursing the Green Knight under his breath, but as the hours passed, Lord Meadows became the target of his ire. The old Lord had allowed his men to spend the night in the open, completely exposed, wasting one life after another. People of the Reach would undoubtedly call Lord Meadows bold and chivalrous for his decision when they heard the story, but Daeron was the one who’d spent the night on his feet, and he found it harder and harder not to regard the ‘chivalrous’ tactics as stupid.

The night dragged on, and Daeron felt tempted to try and cut his way free of the trap half a hundred times but was held back by Ser Tybolt’s calm discipline and determination. Then finally, as the sky turned grey and some visibility came into the forest, Lord Meadows shouted out, “Mount your horses! We ride for Greenwood Castle!”

The knights and men-at-arms stumbled to their mounts, bone tired, but Ser Tybolt kept the hedge knights in formation. They didn’t drop their protective circle until they were all mounted, and even then they pressed close, riding knee to knee, their shields at the ready.

“Hedge knights!” Lord Meadows shouted out when he saw them. “Take the lead!”

They obeyed that command and led the column of men out of the camp, riding at a light canter, their eyes peeled for any figures in the greyness. They saw nothing. In fact, Daeron thought as they advanced deeper into the forest, they had lost over twenty men but hadn’t seen a single enemy. Not even the outline of one, let alone their face. Whoever this Green Knight was, he knew what he was doing and kept his men in good order. Even Uncle Ned would have cautioned Daeron when facing such a foe.

“They’re gonna hit us one more time, I’d wager my balls on it,” Ser Tybolt told them as they rode. No doubt he didn’t want any of them to start hoping for a calm ride back to the castle.

Ser Tybolt’s prediction made sense. The Green Knight hadn’t kept them up all night, fraying their nerves and tiring their sword arms, only to let them ride back to Greenwood Castle now and get some rest. The bandits had to hit them again and press their advantage.

The column advanced another three or four leagues until their horses began to grow tired from the pace and they found themselves about halfway between their camp and the castle. That’s when Daeron heard a soft thud behind him, one that brought to mind an axe hitting wood.

“Tree! Tree!” screamed the men behind him and Daeron looked over his shoulder to find a huge pine tree falling directly into the path of the column. It came down on top of two knights and leveled them with the ground, splitting the column – some thirty men, Daeron included, were cut off from the rest of Lord Meadows’ party.

The bandits came at them then, but they only hit Daeron’s part of the column. A hail of arrows from the right announced them, two shafts lodging in Daeron’s shield, and then the bandits burst into the open, appearing among the trees like ghouls. Their screams rent the airs, and they charged forward wielding axes, swords, and maces.

Daeron wheeled his mount about with the rest of the men to face this oncoming threat, lifted his sword high, and gave Honor the spurs. The horse sprang to life, and Daeron heard himself screaming, “Winterfell!” as he picked out a bandit wearing a patchwork of armor.

The bandit wielded a mace and came at Daeron riding at full tilt, but he made the mistake of aiming for Daeron’s head, whereas Daeron aimed for his arm. Daeron hit him above the wrist – the bandit’s gauntlet saved his hand, but Daeron’s blade still punched through the metal and drew blood. Daeron heard a cry as the bandit slipped past him, and when he wheeled about, he saw the man had dropped his mace and was riding away, cradling his arm.

Daeron looked for a new foe, but all the bandits seemed to be continuing on their path. They had made one pass, and they had left a couple of their own behind, even as they cut down another five or six men from Lord Meadows’ retinue. And it was Lord Meadows himself that Daeron then heard screaming, “They’re running! They’re running! Go after them!”

His Lordship’s half of the column seemed to be pinned down by the trees that had come down all around them, not to mention the occasional arrow that made sure none of the Lord Meadows’ knights grew too bold.

But when Daeron and the rest of the men hesitated to pursue the bandits, Lord Meadows screamed, “What are you waiting for, you cowards! Hunt them down!”

All Daeron could think of was that the attack had been too quick, too light – it had to be a ruse to draw them away from the main column. But then he heard Ser Tybolt shout, “Let’s go after them, on me!”

The hedge knights and a few of the men-at-arms followed Ser Tybolt’s lead. With glad cries, they spurred their mounts in the direction the bandits had ridden off in. They couldn’t see them through the trees, but the bandits couldn’t have more than a couple of hundred yards of a headstart.

As they began their chase, Daeron shouted to Ser Tybolt, “This is a ruse!”

The old knight shouted back, “Yes!”

Confused by that answer, Daeron shouted again, “This is a ruse!”

The old knight ignored him this time, spurring his horse to the head of their party, pointing his sword straight ahead, screaming the entire time. The rest of the men joined him in his shouting, filling the forest with their voices, and Daeron kept looking around like a fool, searching for the foe these men seemed to be charging. He didn’t see anyone. It was as if the bandits had vanished into thin air. Then, after they had been riding for almost half an hour, as if by unseen signal, all the hedge knights slowed down to a trot and sheathed their swords.

Daeron watched them with a bewildered look, still holding onto his sword and shield. He reined up next to Ser Tybolt and said, “Mind explaining to me what in the Seven Hells just happened?”

“His Lordship ordered us to chase down the bandits, so we chased them,” Ser Tybolt replied.

The hedge knights erupted in laughter. Daeron looked over his shoulder, and it soothed his pride a bit to see some of the men-at-arms who’d come along for the ride were as confused as he was.

“But it was a ruse, I told you,” Daeron replied. “The bandits we were chasing probably wheeled around and hit the main column.”

“I’m sure they did,” Ser Tybolt replied. He looked over. “D’you have some great desire to die today, or what?”

“We’d sworn an oath to Lord Meadows to help defeat the Green Knight. But instead, you ride away the moment you find the excuse?” Daeron demanded. He couldn’t help but notice the laughter and the chuckling behind him had died down.

“Lord Meadows is a fool,” Ser Tybolt replied in a deathly quiet voice. “How many men died for nothing tonight? And I promise you, he lost another thirty or forty after he sent us away.” The older knight looked away from Daeron. “The battle was lost the moment he ordered us to make camp last night. No point in us dying with them.”

“Ser Tybolt is correct,” Ser John spoke up from behind them. “Lord Meadows brought this disaster on himself. We need not answer for it with our lives.”

“And what now?” Daeron demanded.

“We go back to Greenwood Castle, we get Jayson, and we go on our merry way. We’re hedge knights, we serve where we will. And I, for one, won’t serve a man who’ll waste my life as though it’s a simple wager.”

“Sounds good to me,” Ser John said.

“Aye!” Ser Vymar and Ser Raynard seconded him.

Outnumbered and outvoted, Daeron rode on with them, thinking of the Green Knight and how his ‘dishonorable’ tactics had killed more than half of Lord Meadows’ men and broke the spirit of the rest. How many losses did the bandits suffer themselves? Daeron wondered, and with that question, all that he thought he knew about commanding troops in battle crumbled into dust.

Around noon, after they’d been riding for hours and the excitement of the fight gave way to the tiredness of the long night behind them, the party of hedge knights and men-at-arms came upon a small settlement in the forest. It was no bigger than six hovels, positioned around a small creak. When a small boy saw their approach, he immediately started shouting for his father, and soon a half-dozen men came running, all of them carrying bows and arrows.

“Peace!” Ser Tybolt shouted out. “We’re no bandits, we mean you no harm.”

The men were not dissuaded by such talk. “It’s not the bandits who’ve been a threat to us these last few moons!” one of the men replied and nocked his arrow.

The expression on Ser Tybolt’s face changed. “Now, I don’t know what you mean by that, but if you mean to send that arrow my way, you better be sure you’ll hit your mark. Because if you miss, I’m going to use this sword here” – Ser Tybolt tapped the hilt of his blade – “and I’m going to split you right down the middle. So think carefully.”

The man hesitated and looked to his compatriots for any clues about what to do next. It was all the opening Ser Tybolt needed. “We’re knights,” he said, “and we are bone tired and hungry. If you let us rest here for a little while, we’d be very grateful. We won’t steal nothin’ and we won’t harm nothin’, but if we do, we promise to give you fair coin in exchange.”

The rest of the hedge knights, Daeron included, chorused their agreement.

The men exchanged some hurried whispers, and then the man who seemed to be their leader said, “You swear on your honor as knights?”

“We swear it,” Ser Tybolt replied.

The man gestured for them to come closer. Daeron dismounted with the rest of the men and they led their horses to a hitching rail that stood in front of one of the hovels. Now that the danger had passed, the rest of the people living in the settlement started poking their heads out, namely women in children. Most clung to their mother’s skirts, but a few bold lads came forward to gawk at the swords and the armor and even ask some questions.

“My name’s Symon,” the leader said. Symon had to be in his late forties and he looked like most peasants Daeron had known – tough, practical, and not particularly fond of nonsense. He had coal-black hair, a round face, and the kind of willowy physique one gets when one hasn’t been fed well enough to develop real muscle.

“A real pleasure to meet you, Symon,” Ser Tybolt said.

“You can have our water and our food if you pay for it, but if it’s only rest you want, then feel free to lay down anywhere you like. No one’s like to bother you around here.”

“That’s good to hear,” Ser Tybolt replied. He pulled a few coppers from his purse and handed it to Symon. “We’ll take some meat and wine if you have them, but we’ll settle for anything that isn’t salted beef.”

“Aye,” Symon said, looking over the coins. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The men settled themselves along the stream, refilling their skins and freshening up. Daeron took off all his armor, his shoulders and neck stiff as wood when he took off his chainmail. He stripped down until he wore nothing than he breeches, then laid down in the stream. It wasn’t deep enough to let him submerge entirely, but as the water flowed around his body, it washed away the sweat and fear of the night, and soothed his frayed nerves. Daeron might have fallen asleep right there, but he heard the men exclaiming in delight when Symon showed up with bowls of stew for everyone. Daeron quickly jumped out of the water and grabbed a bowl Symon handed over, still dripping.

The stew warmed his insides and brought some vitality back to his limbs. Daeron still felt exhausted, but at least now he could carry on regardless of his feelings, instead of worrying his legs might give out.

“Get some rest, all of you,” Ser Tybolt told them. “We head out in an hour.”

Daeron found an empty patch of grass and fell asleep with its blades tickling his neck and cheek.

Chapter Text

When Daeron woke, most of the men around him were snoring away without a care in the world. Judging by the position of the sun, more than an hour had passed, but since Ser Tybolt himself was passed out in the grass, no one was likely to disturb the men.

Daeron sat up and listened to the sounds of the creak and watched the forest ahead of him. It reminded him of the Wolfswood in the height of summer when the frost would retreat for long enough to enjoy a picnic on the ground. Daeron and Robb liked to go on long rides then, and share a skin of wine at the end, talking about the glories they meant to win and the honors they meant to earn.

As Daeron went about putting on his chainmail and his armor, he wondered what his cousin was doing at that very moment. Was he listening to petitions with his Lord Father, or was he sneaking Arya out of the castle so they could go racing together? Prince Jaehaerys had told him that Winterfell would be informed of his survival, so Robb wouldn’t be worried sick, but what did he make of Daeron’s decision to roam the Seven Kingdoms?

Mayhaps it was the exhaustion after the long night, mayhaps his near-brushes with death had made it easier for Daeron to be honest with himself, but he found he cared precious little what Robb or any of the Starks thought of his choices. Daeron had been sad to leave Winterfell, but it was mostly going to King’s Landing that had caused his sadness, not a desire to stay. Uncle Ned had always been a kind and caring guardian, but Lord Eddard Stark was an impossible figure for anyone to live up to, let alone a bastard. Sometimes it seemed to Daeron as though the man lived in a different world, one where people didn’t lie and cheat and stab each other in the back. If Daeron had stayed in Winterfell in Lord Stark’s shadow, he would have spent the rest of his life trying to make up for the shame of his birth, but in the wider world, among people who didn’t know his real name, Daeron could walk his path without the burden of his birth pressing down on his shoulders. He could make his own name.

For the past few moons, everyone knew him as Ser Ryam, so it wasn’t a coincidence that Daeron had never been happier. Entire days went by without him being reminded of the shame of his birth even once. Even the ridicule and the insults he had to endure as a hedge knight were a treat compared to the unspoken curses and looks of resentment his name often provoked in people.

A few weeks ago, as he’d sat through another meal with the hedge knights in the great hall, Daeron found himself laughing at one of Ser Waymar’s jokes, and he was startled to notice he looked exactly like Robb, who always laughed until he choked during the shared meals in Winterfell.

Daeron would have thought he’d feel sad at the memory, but instead a flash of anger seared through him. He’d always resented Robb, he could see that now. Robb’s place in the world had always been so clearly defined, and he had a father any son could look up to. Worst of all, Robb seemed wholly unaware of his blessings, walking around with that goofy smile on his face, as though being born the Heir to one of the oldest families in Westeros was something that happened to most people.

Daeron’s anger built like a fire, then collapsed in a heap of rubble, with nothing but guilt left in the glowing embers. The Starks had raised him and protected him. The vultures in King’s Landing would have picked him clean before he turned ten if it wasn’t for Lord Stark, who’d taken him in, though he’d caused a war and the death of his sister. And how did Daeron repay him? By quietly resenting his son and heir his entire life, then running away to cause even more fear and worry.

Daeron shook his head. This wouldn’t do, so he squashed his guilt and stood up, noticing Symon had come out of his hut with a dead rabbit in one hand and a butcher’s knife in the other. The man went to work skinning the rabbit in front of his hut, so Daeron walked over.

“You want to know what I meant earlier when I said it’s not the bandits who’ve been threatening us, don’t you?” Symon said without looking away from the rabbit.

Daeron squatted before him, trying to draw his eyes, but Symon wouldn’t budge. “How did you know?”

With a few quick cuts, Symon grabbed the rabbit’s fur and pulled it off as though it were a wet sock. “You have the look of a man who likes to pull on threads until he finds his answer.”

Daeron felt puzzled. “Who are you?” he asked.

Symon smiled indulgently, the way a parent might smile at a child who’s made a ridiculous demand. “It’s Lord Meadows who’s plaguing these lands, lad, not the Green Knight.”

“Who is he? The Green Knight?”

Symon tilted his head and peered at him. “There was an attack on Leafy village a fortnight ago, d’you remember?”

“Aye, the Green Knight and his men came. They carried off everything that wasn’t nailed down,” Daeron replied. Lord Meadows had ordered another expedition into the Greenwood the next day, but they didn’t find a trace of the bandits.

Symon hefted his knife and cut the rabbit into nice little pieces with quick strokes. “That wasn’t the Green Knight. ‘Twas Lord Meadows’ men who did that.”

“And you know this for a fact?”

“Saw it with my own eyes,” Symon said, nodding. “Lord Meadows’ men thought they’d killed everyone, but we’d been hunting close by and heard the screams. We got there in time to see them leave.”

That didn’t make sense to Daeron. “What about the shipments the Green Knight has been destroying? You’re telling me Lord Meadows is destroying those too?”

“No.” Symon shook his head. “He’s stealing back what Lord Meadows had stolen. The old man’s sending his loot back to the Grassy Vale.”

“Why would he do that? He’s married to Lord Greenwood’s sister.”

Symon looked at him, his eyes so calm it was unnerving. “I don’t know, young Ser. You tell me.”

Daeron had seen enough while watching Lord Stark deal with his bannermen – he could easily think of a few reasons why Lord Meadows would want to pillage these lands. But if he meant to find out for sure, that meant he’d have to start asking questions, and he had the strange feeling Lord Meadows would have him gutted the second the words left his mouth.

“What in the Seven Hells are you doing?” Ser Tybolt demanded. He grabbed Daeron’s arm and spun him around to face him.

Daeron wrenched his arm free. “What’s it to you?”

Ser Tybolt shook his head and looked at Symon. “What’d you tell him?”

“Nothing the young Ser didn’t want to know,” Symon replied.

It seemed that wasn’t the answer Ser Tybolt wanted to hear. “Where’d you fight, huh? When did it become too much? The Greyjoy Rebellion?”

Symon smiled faintly as he used his knife to push the rabbit meat into a bowl. “Even further back. Ashford.” Ser Tybolt blanched as Symon looked at him. “You were magnificent that day, if I may say so myself.”

“C’mon,” Ser Tybolt said. He grabbed Daeron by the shoulder and pulled him after him toward the horses. “We’re leaving.”

“What in the Seven Hells is going on?” Daeron asked, wrenching free from Ser Tybolt’s grasp again. “Who is that man?”

“A nobody, another broken man. You’ll find them every once in a while,” Ser Tybolt said, then he looked at Daeron. “What did he tell you?”

“That it’s Lord Meadows who’s behind the attacks. That he’s been pillaging these lands and sending the loot back to the Grassy Vale.”

“I thought he might, aye.” Ser Tybolt stopped and faced Daeron. “You forget what you heard, you understand me? There’ll be none of your hero business today. We’re going to Greenwood Castle, we’ll get Jayson, and we’re getting out of here, you understand?”

Daeron stared at him and said nothing.

“Tell me you understand!” Ser Tybolt shouted right in Daeron’s face, drawing the attention of the rest of the hedge knights who were preparing to mount their horses.

Daeron pushed him off. “No, I don’t understand.” He walked over to Honor, untied it from the hitching rail, and mounted it.

Ser Tybolt jumped on his own horse next to him, but his manner had changed from angry to pleading. “He lied to you, Dae—Ser Ryam, he lied to you. These are the Green Knight’s lands, his people.”

“Why didn’t they slit our throats then?” Daeron asked as he spurred Honor forward.

Ser Tybolt didn’t seem to have an immediate answer to Daeron’s question, and that brought an opportunity for Ser John the Wanderer to butt into the conversation. “Would you two mind sharing what’s going on with the rest of us?”

Daeron exchanged a look with Ser Tybolt, the older knight beseeching him with his eyes to keep his mouth shut. But Daeron wouldn’t. “That man back there claims Lord Meadows has been pillaging these lands, not the Green Knight.” Daeron told them about the wagons filled with loot that Lord Meadows had supposedly been sending back to the Grassy Vale.

“Troubling,” Ser John the Wanderer said when Daeron finished, stroking his goatee.

“Doesn’t surprise me, though,” Ser Raynard added. “If Lord Beron dies and Lady Dyanna gives him a son, that boy will inherit the lands of House Meadows as well as House Greenwood.”

“But why would Lord Meadows pillage the lands he expects to rule soon, then?” Daeron asked.

Ser Raynard shrugged. “Mayhaps he wants to weaken Lord Beron, in case His Lordship should wake up one day and decide to fight back. Mayhaps he wants to present himself as the hero who’s saving these lands. Most of the smallfolk won’t shut up about how grateful they are for his protection.”

That was true enough. Most of the smallfolk around these parts did seem to think they would’ve all been murdered by the Green Knight long ago if it wasn’t for Lord Meadows. But if there were people like Symon, who knew the truth, then the tale would spread eventually. Daeron supposed Lord Meadows planned to deal with Lord Greenwood long before that happened.

“The truth doesn’t matter,” Ser Tybolt interjected. “What matters is that this has nothing to do with us. We stay the course and put as many leagues between us and Greenwood Castle as we can.”

“You do what you like,” Daeron said, fighting hard not to look at Ser Tybolt. “But I’m going to find out the truth.”

Daeron saw Ser Tybolt try to say something out of the corner of his eye, but then the older knight seemed to bite his tongue. They rode on in silence after that.

When the gates of Greenwood Castle opened for the party of hedge knights and men-at-arms, they revealed a scene of chaos. The Maester was operating on wounded knights right there in the courtyard, his assistants running between the patients laid out on the ground, trying to keep the men alive while the Maester tended to the most pressing cases.

Lord Meadows seemed to expect a direct attack because the surviving men and the castle garrison were gathering their armor and their arrows, preparing stones and boiling water. His Lordship stood right in the middle of the courtyard, shouting orders, looking far more disheveled and frightened than Daeron had thought possible. Look what the Green Knight’s accomplished, Daeron couldn’t help but think in admiration. In an effort to protect his land, forced to overcome every obstacle a commander could possibly face, the Green Knight had pushed Lord Meadows and his men to the brink. These knights had the experience and the training, they had Greenwood Castle and the cavalry, and yet they were all but beaten. Incredible.

“Where in the Seven Hells were you?” Ser Casper asked when he came marching up to meet them. His armor was caked in blood and dirt, but the Captain of the Guards didn’t seem to have a scratch on him. Daeron had admired the man, but now he seemed another incompetent buffoon, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the Captain knew exactly what Lord Meadows had been up to over the past couple of moons.

“Lord Meadows sent us after those men, you heard him yourself,” Ser Tybolt responded. “But we lost them somewhere in the forest. They disappeared.”

“Like ghosts, eh?” Ser Casper asked with a knowing look.

Ser Tybolt ignored the jab. “What in the Seven Hells happened here?”

“The Green Knight hit us with over a hundred men, we barely cut our way through,” Ser Casper said, running a hand through his hair. “Then we get back to find the bastard’s snuck into the castle while we were gone and kidnapped Lady Dyanna. She’s nowhere to be found.”

“How’s that even possible?” Daeron asked.

“D’you lot see anything suspicious out there?”

“No, we didn’t even run into anyone,” Ser Tybolt said.

“Fine, whatever you say. Go get some food then report for duty.”

They all nodded in agreement and Ser Casper left them by the gates. When he was safely out of earshot, Daeron looked at Ser Tybolt and said, “Go find Jayson, and get the hell out of here.”

Ser Tybolt nodded. “What will you do?”

“I have no idea,” Daeron said as he dismounted his horse and handed the reins to one of the stableboys.

Daeron made to go to the great keep, thinking he might find someone who could offer him some answers there, but he paused when he heard a sound.

“Psst! Psst!”

Daeron looked around, trying to find where the sound was coming from. Then he caught sight of Jayson by the door to the stables, poking his head around the corner and trying to get his attention. Confused, Daeron approached the stable doors but Jayson didn’t say anything. Instead, the boy gestured for Daeron to follow him.

Sensing the boy had done something dangerous, Daeron walked behind him through the stables and whispered, “Jayson, what is going on?”

Jayson looked over his shoulder with a frightened expression, but they reached the last stall and Jayson gestured him inside. Daeron turned the corner and found none other than Lady Dyanna lying among the hay. She was a beautiful woman, there was no doubt about it, with curly brown hair, a heart-shaped face, and a button nose. Lady Dyanna wore a light blue gown that did nothing to hide her massive belly. She looked ready to pop.

Daeron took her in, lying on the floor there, then looked at Jayson. “What in the Seven Hells did you think bringing her here?” 

“Don’t be mad at the boy,” Lady Dyanna said with a strained voice. “I was the one who asked him to help.”

“And you always said a knight is supposed to help a lady in distress,” Jayson said, pulling back his shoulders and lifting his chin imperiously.

Lady Dyanna chuckled, but Daeron could tell she was not well. “Would that most squires listened to their master’s teaching with such care.”

“My Lady, why are you here? You should be in bed with a Maester looking over you,” Daeron said as he knelt in the hay next to her.

“Our Maester’s currently too busy helping men die to have the time to help me give life,” Lady Dyanna said, grimacing in pain.

“That’s no reason to hide out here. We could be discovered at any moment, My Lady.”

“No, we won’t, the stableboy’s name is Timmon, he’s always been loyal to me. He won’t tell.” She moaned in pain. “They think I've disappeared from the castle, they won't come looking in here, trust me.”

Daeron found that assurances that involved brave stableboys weren’t very calming to him. “But why do we need to hide in the first place?”

Lady Dyanna grabbed him by the arm then, her grip surprisingly strong, and said, “The second I give birth to a boy, my devoted husband will kill Beron and claim all these lands in my name. I can’t let that happen, you understand? I’d hoped that my brother would kill my husband when you all rode out, but he failed, so now I must make do.”

“Your brother kill him?” Daeron asked. He looked at Jayson to see if her words made any sense to him. “But Lord Beron remained back at the castle when we rode out.”

“Not that brother. My eldest brother. Arwyn. He’s the Green Knight.”

Jayson was bouncing on the balls of his feet, so excited was he to uncover a sinister plot. “Lord Meadows tried to have him killed in Pentos, and then again when he returned to claim his seat, Ser.”

That made little sense. “Why not tell everyone then?”

“Tell who?” Lady Dyanna said, and she moaned in pain as though the terrible truth that she had no one to turn to had caused her physical pain.

Now Daeron started to put the pieces together. “Lord Beron is in on this as well, is he not?”

Lady Dyanna nodded, her brow slick with perspiration. “While my Lord husband waits for an heir before he kills Beron, Beron is waiting for my Lord husband to kill Arwyn before he strikes. And Beron’s played his hand well – everyone thinks he’s bookish and harmless, Lord Meadows has no idea what he’s capable of.”

“He’s bribed at least half of Lord Meadows’ men, Ser,” Jayson told him. “They’ll strike when he gives the order.”

Daeron stared at the boy. “How d’you know that?”

“The cook told me, Ser,” Jayson said, squirming shyly. “I’d been going to get lemon cakes and talking to him because my father always said cooks know everything that goes on in a castle.”

Daeron took a moment to process this, then shook his head in exasperation. The boy was something else.

“It seems you’ve got quite a crafty squire, Ser,” Lady Dyanna said, smiling through her pain.

“It does indeed,” Daeron said. Then he tried to take stock of the situation. “I assume you want us to get you as far away from the castle as we possibly can?”

“Yes. Yes, Ser,” she said, nodding her head furiously. 

“Uh-huh.” Daeron figured as much. “And you wouldn’t happen to have a plan of escape prepared, would you?”

Lady Dyanna looked at Jayson, then back at Daeron. “Well, as it happens…”

Chapter Text

“You did what?” Ser Tybolt asked him when Daeron found him gathering his personal effects in the barracks. Two rows of empty cots stretched on both sides of the room, but Daeron and Ser Tybolt were the only people present.

“Not me, actually,” Daeron said, grinning. “Jayson did it.”

“That damned boy, he won’t touch a sword, but show him a back-stabbing scheme and you can’t keep him away.” Ser Tybolt shook his head as he stuffed a tunic and breeches into his sack. “So what do you mean to do?”

“Apparently, there’s a hidden tunnel in the cellars that few know about. The same one the Green Knight used to sneak into the castle a few moons back. Jayson is going to smuggle Lady Dyanna out of the castle that way, all we need to do is find a way to get out of the castle. But I have no idea how to convince Lord Meadows. He’ll call us oathbreakers and have us hanged.”

“He won’t if you tell him your name,” Ser Tybolt said, regarding Daeron seriously.

The older knight liked to push Daeron with such suggestions every once in a while, and no matter how many times Daeron told him the option wasn’t on the table, Ser Tybolt kept trying. “I’m not doing that.”

“Then we’ll have to try a different approach.”

“And what’s that?”

Ser Tybolt smiled and put a hand on Daeron’s shoulder. “It’s not always the clever solution that does the trick, lad. Remember that.” Ser Tybolt grabbed the sack and nodded toward the door. “Come with me.”

They walked out of the barracks and into the courtyard. The worst of the chaos had died down – the Maester had most of the wounded men moved into his quarters, while guards had established some order as they patrolled the walls. The rest of the hedge knights who meant to leave with them were waiting by the stables as they had their horses watered and fed.

Ser Tybolt walked up to them and said, “Get your things, we’re leaving.”

The hedge knights exchanged looks. “And what do you plan to do, walk out the main gates?” Ser Raynard asked.

“Aye.”

Daeron and Ser Tybolt fetched their horses and the mule they used to carry their supplies while the hedge knights looked on. Daeron unslung his shield from the saddle and put his barbuted helm back on. Then they rode out of the stables together and headed straight for the main gates, eight men in all.

“Halt!” the guards at the gates called.

“Let us pass,” Ser Tybolt commanded. “We are no longer in service to Lord Meadows.”

The two guards standing on each side of the gates exchange looks. Clearly, they had no idea what to do in such a situation. But luckily for them, Ser Casper came running with a half-a-dozen men behind him. “What’s the meaning of this?” he shouted.

“We are no longer in service to Lord Meadows. We won’t fight for a man who’ll waste our lives as though they were nothing.”

“What?” Ser Casper said as he put himself between them and the gates. “This is treason, you fuckin’ oathbreakers. I ought to have you all hanged.”

“Aye, and you would’ve, on any other day. But not today, Ser. You can’t afford it, and you know it because if you try to take us, we’ll fight. And each one of us will take a couple of your men with us. How long do you think the Green Knight will need to breach these walls then, eh?”

As if to underwrite Ser Tybolt’s claim, all the hedge knights drew their swords. Ser Casper’s men mirrored their movements, hefting their weapons, but Daeron saw the uncertainty in their eyes. Ser Tybolt’s words rang true, and they had all seen what some of the hedge knights could do with their weapons, Ser Tybolt and Ser Raynard in particular.

Ser Casper stared at Ser Tybolt, never glancing at any of the hedge knights, and his jaw muscles worked furiously as the man gradually came to accept the truth of Ser Tybolt’s words. The courtyard was engulfed in silence for a few beats, with every pair of eyes focused exclusively on the gates, and then Ser Casper stepped aside and called, “Open the gates.”

The guards sprang to life and followed the order while Ser Casper’s men stepped to the side to let them pass. As the gates opened and the group rode forth, Ser Casper glared at each and every one of them, as if he was trying to memorize their faces. No doubt he hoped to murder them somewhere down the road.

The group of hedge knights, with Ser Tybolt leading, rode out of Greenwood Castle. When their horses’ hooves hit the road, Ser Tybolt called out, “Ride!”

They broke out into a fast canter, kicking up dirt and dust as they disappeared into the forest. Daeron could feel the guards on the walls watching their backs and, like Ser Tybolt, he could feel the men on the battlements itching to hunt them down.

The tunnel Jayson had taken with Lady Dyanna ended about a league away from Greenwood Castle. Ser Tybolt had led Daeron and the rest of the hedge knights on a merry ride through the forest, but then they double-backed and headed toward the location Lady Dyanna had described to Daeron.

The tunnel surfaced among a clump of trees and Jayson and Lady Dyanna were already waiting for them by the time they got there. Jayson had a little wagon he’d used to pull Lady Dyanna behind him, but the young woman still looked exhausted and overwhelmed. Her face had grown paler since Daeron had last seen her and droplets of sweat trickled down her face.

“And who might this be?” Ser John the Wanderer asked, as though they had ran into a casual acquaintance on the road to King’s Landing.

“This is Lady Dyanna Greenwood. She asked me to help her get out of the castle,” Daeron said. Then he explained everything that Dyanna had told him and everything that Symon had told him back at the hamlet they had stopped at. “If you don’t want to have anything to do with us, I understand. There will be no hard feelings, I promise you.”

“Now, now, there’ll be no need for that,” Ser Raynard said. “We might be hedge knights, but that does not mean we do not lend out assistance when fair Ladies require it, especially if they are with child.” The giant of a knight went down on one knee in front of Lady Dyanna and took her hand. “We shall do everything in our power to get you to safety, you have my word.”

Lady Dyanna stared at him, as though measuring the truth of his words. “Thank you, Ser,” she said finally, and when she exhaled, Daeron could’ve sworn half the tension in her body left as well. “You’ve no idea what this means to me.”

“Who knew you were capable of such gallantry, Ser Raynard,” Ser Waymar said with a chortle.

Ser Raynard stood, a slight smile playing on his lips. “I’ll have you know that the Knights of the Vale are and always have been the soul of chivalry. Our noble reputation shall not die today, I assure you.”

“Do we have any idea how we’re to get her to her brother?” Ser John asked, looking around as though the foliage might provide some clues.

“I think the plan is to wander around these woods and hope Lord Arwyn finds us before the men Ser Casper has undoubtedly sent after us,” Daeron told them.

“Excellent,” Ser John said, clapping his head in delight. “I’ve no doubt this will be very interesting.”

“I appreciate your confidence, Ser,” Ser Tybolt told him.

“Oh, I didn’t say it will turn out well, only interesting. That’s the best a man can hope for, I’ve found.” The pleasant and polite smile on Ser John’s face told Daeron it had been that kind of acceptance that had helped the knight survive as he traveled around the world. It also told Daeron he would never manage the same himself.

“I suggest we get going,” Ser Tybolt said. “We can hitch that wagon to our mule so Lady Dyanna will be as comfortable as can be, but that’s the best we can do.”

“It’s plenty,” Lady Dyanna said, and so the plan was adopted post haste. The roots on the forest path meant it would be a bumpy ride for her, but it was better than walking, so the group set out to wander the Greenwood and hope its legendary bandit would show up quickly.

When the Green Knight found them, he did not disappoint.

For two hours, Daeron and the hedge knights wandered through the Greenwood Forest, expecting bandits to come jumping from behind every tree and bush. The hour had begun to grow late, the sky above them flowing from a crisp blue to an orange-red. They had started talking about setting up camp for the night – there was little point in wandering aimlessly through the forest, and they had Lady Dyanna to think of besides.

As though he had heard them, the Green Knight appeared. They all heard a crack to their right, as though a big branch had snapped, and when they next looked ahead, there he was. Mounted on a fine courser, his armor was a vibrant green, reminiscent of the leaves in spring. The Green Knight had a longsword at his hip and carried his helm under his arm, so they could all see his face. He had the same brown locks as his sister, a prominent jaw, and the piercing brown eyes of a leader.

But then he smiled at them, and Daeron saw the mischievous nature that had gotten him exiled. “Good evening to you, fine Sers,” he said. “A fine prize you carry in that wagon of yours.”

“Arwyn!” Lady Dyanna cried out.

“Hello, little sister,” Lord Arwyn said with a smile. “Have these rogues rescued you, or must I stick them full of arrows?”

“They saved me, Arwyn,” Lady Dyanna said, her voice full of laughter and undoubtable fondness. It made Daeron think of Arya.

“Oh, they did, did they?” Lord Arwyn said. “That’s good. We’re running out of arrows, you see.”

At those words, two dozen bandits revealed themselves, stepping out of their hiding places all around the little column of hedge knights. They’d surrounded them without Daeron or anyone else noticing anything was amiss. No wonder Lord Meadows hasn’t managed to hunt them down.

“Is your camp nearby?” Ser Tybolt called out, the tone of his voice putting an end to the light mood.  “I’m afraid your Lady sister desperately needs to get some rest.”

Lord Arwyn sobered up. “Petyr, Robyn, help with the wagon, we leave at once!”

“Aye, m’lord!” one of the bandits cried out and sprang forward.

“Follow us!” Lord Arwyn called out, but he let his men take the lead, preferring to ride to the back of the column so he could talk to his little sister instead.

Daeron and the hedge knights didn’t care. They were all too busy eyeing the bandits that surrounded them, worried that some of them might be a bit sore about their fight. The bandits, for their part, seemed to share their hesitation. The two groups eyed each other in silence, and just when it seemed Daeron could hardly bear to endure another second of it, a young man cried out, “Oi, this the one that nearly cut off me hand!”

Daeron looked around to find a young man pointing at him. He had a bow slung over his shoulder, and a quiver of arrows, but when Daeron looked closer, he saw the familiar patchwork of armor, some of it black, some of it red, some of it plain steel.

Expecting the young man to take offense to nearly losing a limb, Daeron braced himself for a violent reaction from the rest of the bandits, but the young man cried out, laughing, and approached Daeron, saying, “That was a good move, Ser. Ne’er saw it comin’!”

Daeron cracked a smile and glanced at Ser Tybolt. “Always go for the hand instead of the head. It’s closer.

“Hear, hear!” Ser Tybolt called out, and no wonder, since those had been his exact words to Daeron a couple moons back. “I’ve left so many stumps in my wake, most people assume I’m a woodcutter.”

A wave of laughter exploded from both hedge knights and bandits, instantly breaking the rest of the tension. Conversations began popping up all around the column between different men – Daeron heard Ser John complimenting a pair of men on their stealthy movements, and it wasn’t long before the men began explaining exactly what he had to do to remain unseen in the forest. Ser Tybolt began demonstrating the best ways to maim somebody with an imaginary sword, a number of bandits paying close attention to his words. Daeron himself found himself under assault from the young man who’d first spoken. His name was Edmond, and he seemed awe-struck with Daeron for seemingly no other reason than Daeron had nearly killed him.

The camp was located in a cave about a league away. Its entrance was narrow and almost completely obscured by trees and bushes, with only a pair of guards watching outside. When they reached it, Lord Arwyn ordered for a woman named Ursula to be brought out so she could help his sister, while he told the hedge knights to dismount.

By the time Daeron had tied Honor’s reins to a tree branch, a group of women had emerged from the cave, led by one who had the look of a witch – wild black hair, wearing dirty brown robes, and a bit of a crazed look in her eyes. Daeron assumed she was Ursula and watched her help Lady Dyanna from the wagon and lead her into the cave.

Daeron spied Lord Arwyn approach him from the corner of his eyes. “Will she be alright?” he couldn’t help but ask.

“Aye, Ursula and her women know more about healing than any Maester in the Citadel, I assure you,” Lord Arwyn told him.

Daeron felt some of the tension leave him at those words. He’d heard of too many women who’d died during childbirth, and for some reason, Ursula’s disheveled look inspired more confidence in him than the grey robes of any Maester he’d ever seen.

“Ser Ryam, is that right?” Lord Arwyn asked. “My sister told me it was you and your squire who’d helped her escape.”

“Aye,” Daeron said. “Though it was mostly my squire’s doing, to tell you the truth.”

Lord Arwyn looked over his shoulder at Jayson, who was moving gingerly into the cave, his wide eyes taking in every detail. The boy looked as though he had stepped into one of his stories and worried that one wrong move might bring about the return of real life.

“Brave boy,” Lord Arwyn said.

“True enough,” Daeron replied, then took a moment to regard this high-born bandit and wonder what the man planned to do next.

Lord Arwyn noticed him looking and said, “Come, you must all be hungry. Let’s see if we can’t find something to fill all our bellies.”

The bandits prepared quite a feast for them – roasted rabbits and squirrels, a cup of ale for every man (courtesy of Lord Meadows), and even some wild berries the women had picked that morning. Daeron sat around a fire at the very start of the cave, most of the hedge knights arrayed in a circle around him, and feasted as he never had in Winterfell.

The cave the bandits used as their camp might’ve been narrow at its entrance, but that merely hid the cavernous chamber inside. A dozen fires burned throughout, the flames sparkling off the stalactites hanging off the ceiling. A hundred men, women, and children lived inside. It was no wonder Lord Meadows’ men had failed so spectacularly when they tried to track down the outlaws. They’d always assumed the bandits worked in groups, separated, and constantly moved camps. Ser Casper and his men could have ridden thirty feet from the cave and never suspected how close they were to their prize.

As they ate, they told Lord Arwyn of their escape from Greenwood Castle and Lord Meadows’ firm belief that the Green Knight meant to attack the castle head-on. Then Lord Arwyn told them his side of the story.

“I was in Pentos when a Tyroshi with a purple mustache tried to kill me.” He smiled as though he found the idea of a man with a purple mustache trying to kill anyone ridiculous.

“I figured it had to have something to do with the work I’d done in the Free Cities. I’d sold my sword every now and again, just to stave off boredom and get myself out of the brothel every once in a while. So I didn’t think much of it and kept drinking and whoring until I received word that my Lord father was dying a few days later. According to the rules of my exile, I wasn’t supposed to return home for another six moons, but I booked the first ship home anyway, sending word ahead that I was coming. I figured my Lord father or Beron might find a way to let me return home. I arrived in Oldtown a fortnight later, but when I disembarked the ship, I found a pair of hired killers waiting for me, instead of my father’s men.”

Lord Arwyn grabbed a stick and prodded the fire. “I slew the men, but thick as I am, I still didn’t imagine something might have gone wrong at home. I thought the new Lord Cockshaw might’ve decided he wanted my exile to take on a more permanent hue and sent some knives after me. So I bought a horse in Oldtown and rode home as fast as I could.

“I wanted to surprise my family, though. Mainly Dyanna.” Lord Arwyn grinned at his sister who sat propped up against the wall, both hands caressing her belly. “So instead of announcing myself at the gates, I used the old tunnel to sneak back into the castle. I’ve always been stupid like that, but now that I think back on it, I’m sure it saved my life. Lord Meadows certainly had his men on the gates, waiting to kill me the second I showed my face.

“So, I got in through the tunnel and made my way up the great keep into the family quarters. And who else comes walking around the corner but Dyanna. You lot should’ve seen the look on her face when she saw me standing there.”

The people around the fire laughed while Lady Dyanna herself shook her head in exasperation. “I thought he’d died and come back to haunt me for the toy knights I’d stolen from him when we were little.”

Even Daeron laughed at that, and for a few seconds, their laughter echoed around the cave. “Aye, and you’d have deserved it,” Lord Arwyn said, grinning. “Anyway, as we were hugging in the hallway, our little brother chanced upon us.” Lord Arwyn’s mouth twisted bitterly at the word and he exchanged a look with Lady Dyanna, whose eyes filled up with tears. “He started screaming for the guards, shouting that a rogue had come for his sister.

“Next thing I know, men are coming at me from every direction. I had to fight them off, and barely got out of there alive. Thank the Seven Beron’s always been too interested in his books, or he might’ve learned about the hidden tunnel himself.”

Ser Tybolt looked at Lady Dyanna. “And Lord Meadows had you locked up at the top of the great keep for the rest of your pregnancy so you wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“Yes, Ser,” Lady Dyanna said, wiping her tears. “He did.”

“But why’d you decide to become an outlaw then?” Jayson piped up from his place at the wall.

Lord Arwyn and the rest of the bandits laughed at that. “I didn’t plan on it, I swear. I thought maybe I deserved to be exiled for good. I abandoned my family when they needed me most. I thought these lands might well be better served with a different ruler. I got on my horse and rode away, but that night, I was camping by the edge of the Greenwood, close to a little village. Lord Meadows’ men raided it in the night, killing everyone and stealing everything they had of value. In the morning, I went to look for survivors, and found Petyr delirious from a cut to his shoulder.” Lord Arwyn nodded at a skinny man sitting at another fire. “I nursed him back to health, and then we decided we’d fight back.” Lord Arwyn looked up to find all their eyes on him. He smiled. “That was three moons ago. I’d say we’re doing quite well, eh?”

“Hear, hear!” the rest of the outlaws cried out and started laughing.

“Got the buggers scared to death!” a man shouted out to more laughter.

“And what do you plan to do next?” Ser Tybolt’s calm voice cut through the merriment.

The laughter died down, and once again the mirth left Lord Arwyn’s face. He seemed to understand that men like Ser Tybolt didn’t suffer fools, and wouldn’t stick around long when led by those they deem incompetent. “We thought to use the tunnel to infiltrate the castle now that we have the numbers, but since Dyanna used it to escape, I can’t be sure Lord Meadows or my brother won’t figure out something’s wrong.”

“Nobody saw us leave, I swear it,” Jayson cried out, offended at the notion that his scheme might’ve ruined Lord Arwyn’s plan of attack.

“Aye, lad, but the truth of the matter is that Greenwoods seem to be appearing and disappearing from the castle at will, so Lord Meadows is bound to suspect something. Even before, I was hesitant to use the tunnel, thinking that the old fox might have a trap waiting for me. But we have no choice. If we push Lord Meadows and my brother even further, they might start calling up their levies in earnest, and then this fight will last for years more.”

“But you have the support of the people, don’t you?” Daeron said. “Surely they must know it’s Lord Meadows who’s been attacking the villages.”

Lord Arwyn grimaced. “He’s been smart about it, targeting only specific villages and leaving the rest alone. As far as most of the people are concerned, the stories of Lord Meadows’ attacks are vile lies. And the septons he’s sent into those villages have made sure of it.”

“Why not declare yourself?” Ser Raynard asked. “You are the rightful Lord of the Greenwood. The people owe you their allegiance.”

“I thought to do that, yes, but Lord Meadows spread the word that an outlaw was claiming to be Lord Arwyn Greenwood before I claimed to be Lord Arwyn Greenwood.” Lord Arwyn smiled at that, as though he appreciated Lord Meadows’ cheek.

“So what do you mean to do now?” Ser Tybolt asked.

“Well, as my father used to say, every disaster brings its opportunities. My tunnel plan is dead, but now you hedge knights have come into our midst. You can win this war, if you feel like it.”

“How?” Daeron asked, only noticing the hunger in his voice when a dozen people raised their eyebrows.

Lord Arwyn seemed pleased by his enthusiasm. “My noble sister tells me that Lord Meadows is waiting for the birth of his son before he kills Beron.”

“Yes, she told us the same.”

“And Beron is waiting for my death before he kills Lord Meadows.”

Ser Tybolt frowned as he looked at him. “Your point?”

“Those two are waiting for the chance to go to war with each other.” Lord Arwyn spread his arms. “So I was wondering, why not give it to them?”

Lord Arwyn proceeded to explain exactly what he meant to do to defeat Lord Meadows and his little brother. It was a plan that relied on subterfuge and lies, a plan that Daeron might’ve have thought very little of only a few weeks ago.

Thus, it came as quite a surprise to him that when Lord Arwyn stopped talking, Daeron immediately volunteered.

Chapter Text

The first light of the day hadn’t yet lit up the Greenwood when Daeron set out from the bandit camp with Jayson, Ser John, and Ser Raynard. It was a wet morning – it had been raining all night – so the mists rose slowly over the woods, the leaves dripping on their heads as they began their journey back to Greenwood Castle. All the bandits watched them go, Ser Tybolt and Lord Arwyn standing at the head of the pack.

“The Seven go with you, Ser Ryam,” Lord Arwyn told Daeron, still wearing his green armor. “We’ll be right behind you.”

Daeron nodded then looked to Ser Tybolt, who hadn’t been at all pleased with his decision to take the lead on this plan. “Stay alive,” the older knight said in a gruff voice. “I’m not done smacking you around yet.”

Daeron grinned. “Whatever you say, old man.”

They rode out into the forest, dragging the wagon that had brought Lady Dyanna to the cave with their horses. With one last look at the bandits watching them go and the corpse they’d laid out in the wagon, Daeron turned his eyes to the road ahead, trying to focus on the roots in their path, the dragonflies zooming through the air, the ancient trees that surrounded them on all sides. Anything to get his mind off the plan he’d so foolishly volunteered for.

But that was difficult, considering his squire’s nature. “Do you think it’ll work?” Jayson asked, looking up at him from the old courser he rode by Daeron’s side. The boy wore brown boots and breeches, and over his usual white tunic, he now wore a shirt of boiled leather. Daeron hoped it would be enough, though most of his hopes were rested on the belief that Lord Meadows’ men wouldn’t cut down a squire.

“Maybe.” Daeron shrugged. “It’s worth a short, anyway.”

“I think it’ll work,” the boy declared, as though that settled the matter. The boy had been nothing but enchanted by Lord Arwyn since he first laid eyes on him. “It’s a good plan.”

Daeron felt his spirits rise somewhat at Jayson’s optimism, and he shared a smile with Ser John and Ser Raynard who seemed to take heart in the boy’s confidence as well. They rode on with a little less weight on their shoulders, and even the weather began to reflect it. The morning mists began to give way to the unrelenting power of the sun. Around noon, as they neared Greenwood Castle, most of the roads had dried up and the slight chill was replaced by a pleasant warmth.

It was all forgotten when the towers of the castle came into view. Daeron looked to his companions, offered an encouraging smile for Jayson, and then muttered a quick prayer to the Old Gods and the New before he spurred Honor forward for the last couple hundred yards.

“Halt!” the guards on the towers called out when Daeron led the group toward the gate. “Who goes there?”

“Ser Ryam of White Tree, together with Ser John the Wanderer and Ser Raynard the Red! We have brought the corpse of the Green Knight to Lord Greenwood.”

The guards disappeared from view, and for a few long moments, nothing happened. Daeron heard some shouting on the other side, but couldn’t make out the words. Then, with an almighty groan, the gates of the castle opened, Ser Casper and half his men waiting on the other side.

“Come!” Ser Casper commanded, gesturing for them to ride forward.

To ride into a trap, Daeron knew, but he had no other option. He spurred Honor forward, while Ser John and Ser Raynard pulled the wagon behind them. When they emerged on the other side of the gate, they spotted the men on the battlements, their bows trained on them, while the rest wasted no time in closing the gates behind them.

“So, you’ve returned,” Ser Casper said. “That’s a surprise.”

Behind him, Lord Meadows and Lord Greenwood both came running out of the Great Keep. They looked as though Daeron had interrupted them in the middle of their midday meal. Neither of them was dressed for a fight, but observing their anxious manner, it seemed they both expected one.

“Aye, Ser,” Daeron told the Captain of the Guards, wondering who the man would side with.

“And with a dead Green Knight to boot,” Ser Casper said, resting his hands on the hilt of his sword. “Miraculous.”

“How can that be, Ser?” Lord Beron asked as he came running. “How did you manage to slay the rogue?”

“They attacked us as we were leaving, my Lord,” Daeron replied. “Ser Tybolt fought him and slew him, though not before the Green Knight delivered the fatal blow himself. We did not know whom Ser Tybolt had killed, but when the bandits saw him fall, they stopped fighting.”

Lord Beron’s eyes were shining, as though he could hardly believe his luck. “And what happened then?”

“The bandits told us they would spare our lives if we took the body to you and let you know there won’t be no more trouble if you promise not to go hunting for them either.”

Seeing that his young Lord was inclined to believe Daeron, Ser Casper quickly stepped in. “You can’t believe a word they say, my Lord. These men are hedge knights and have proven themselves oathbreakers!”

“Aye, Ser, we followed Ser Tybolt’s lead because we did not want to die in vain. And for that, he was struck down immediately, along with most of our men. But that does not mean we are liars.”

“How are we to know you speak the truth?” Ser Casper demanded. “How are we to know that is actually the Green Knight?”

“Oh, I know how we can be sure,” Lord Beron said as he moved forward.

Daeron exchanged a look with Ser John and Ser Raynard. They watched Lord Beron as he approached the wagon and began inspecting every inch of the corpse. The bandit who’d actually died was of a similar build to Lord Arwyn, had brown hair, and had died of a sword thrust through the face, so there was little Lord Beron could do in that regard. But Lord Arwyn had known what his brother would be looking for, namely the family ring with the crest of House Greenwood they both liked to wear on their left hands. Lord Beron spotted the ring and climbed onto the wagon to look closer. He smiled to himself, then whispered something as he slipped the ring off the man’s finger and put it in his pocket.

Lord Beron jumped off the wagon, all the men watching him, and returned to his place.

“Well?” Lord Meadows asked. “Is it the Green Knight? Is it him?”

Lord Beron smiled at the old man, looked around the courtyard, and said, “Men of House Greenwood, kill all the traitors!” With those words, the coward immediately ran for the cover of the Great Keep, as the swords and axes came out all around him.

Lord Meadows drew his sword, calling his men to him, but there were fewer than he had expected, and he had to cut down two of his own men while shouting orders to the rest. The men on the battlements rained down arrows on them, but already a contingent of men Lord Meadows had dispatched climbed the stairs, drawing the attention of most of the archers and offering Lord Meadows a chance of survival.

Daeron, Ser John, Ser Raynard, and Jayson all jumped from their horses as the mayhem erupted, so as to not draw the attention of the archers. They drew their swords, Ser Raynard hefting his axe, and formed a circle, with Jayson in the middle. Moving toward the gates, a guard or two ran their way, but after Ser John had skewered one and Ser Raynard had taken the head of another, the rest remembered that the hedge knights weren’t their real enemy.

This was the opportunity Daeron had hoped for. They ran for the gates and Ser Raynard and Ser John took their places on each side of it to lift the wooden latch. Daeron wanted to help in the middle, but then he heard a shout behind him. “Oh, no, you don’t!”

Daeron turned in time to raise his sword and block a strike from Ser Casper’s sword that would have opened him from his chest to his groin. It made him stagger back, but he had to keep his sword up as Ser Casper followed the attack with a lightning combination. Daeron barely survived, late for every parry and every block, but he found his footing and slipped under the last swing to give himself some room.

Ser John and Ser Raynard strained to lift the hatch, one eye on Ser Casper, but when the Captain of the Guards tried to take advantage and slashed at Ser Raynard, Daeron jumped in the way, catching the blow with his shield, then hitting the knight in the helm with the hilt of his sword to make him back off.

“Get him, Ser!” Jayson screamed somewhere to the right. “Get him! Get him! Get him!”

“You’re going to die today, fool!” Ser Casper snarled, as two of his men rushed past him to attack Ser John and Ser Reynard.

Daeron let them pass and went on the attack. A thrust at Ser Casper’s face, a swing at his neck, another thrust at his belly, then Daeron rolled his wrist, brought his sword high, and swung at the top of Ser Casper’s head. The Captain of the Guards deflected all the attacks easily, but he made no move to counter-attack until Daeron’s last strike. Ser Casper deflected the strike at the top of his head, then thrust forward with the speed of a viper. Sheer instinct made Daeron lean to the side –  Ser Casper’s blade passed by his right ear – before he ducked when the Captain slashed at his throat.

Ser Raynard and Ser John had their hands full with the guards, the screams of clashing steel ever present behind Daeron’s as he and Ser Casper circled each other and re-engaged. Again Daeron attacked with a quick combination, and again Ser Casper defended without seemingly looking for an opening. But this time he didn’t wait for Daeron to finish his combination – after deflecting a thrust to his face, Ser Casper flicked his wrist and sent his blade straight at Daeron’s neck. Daeron tried to duck under the swing, and while he protected his neck, Ser Casper still hit him in the helm and sent him reeling.

Daeron’s head rang, all his senses seemed befuddled, but over it all screamed the panicked knowledge that Ser Casper was still out there, still coming. The Captain of the Guards advanced on Daeron, hacking at his shield, striking at every opening. Daeron’s chest plate and his shoulders guards, his vambraces and his skirt of lobstered steel – they all took blows, Ser Casper leaving long scratches and dents in his wake, and Daeron saw the blood flowing between the gaps in his armor. His left hand was becoming harder and harder to lift, and a blow to his right thigh seemed to be sapping more of his strength with every passing moment.

With his shield nearly hacked to pieces, Daeron managed to deflect one blow with his sword, then threw shield at Ser Casper’s face. He hit the knight in his helm, and though he didn’t cause much damage, Daeron could finally assess his surroundings. Ser Raynard and Ser John still hadn’t opened the gates, they both had their hands full with Ser Casper’s men, though they’d dispatched a few of them, judging by the corpses lying on the ground.

Daeron faced his foe, standing with his back to the battlements. Ser Casper was in front of him, trying to breathe in some fresh air from behind his helm. “Northern fuckin’ mongrel,” Ser Casper said, raised his blade, and attacked.

Daeron hefted his sword with both hands and deflected Ser Casper’s strike, then threw his shoulder at the knight to buy himself some room, and struck. The blade caught on Ser Casper’s shoulder guards, a good strike, and Daeron followed it up with a hit at Ser Casper’s forearm that made the knight drop his shield.

Evenly matched once again, their swords met in a shower of sparks, trading blows with equal ferocity, but Daeron did not know how long he could keep it up. Ser Casper was the same size as him, but stronger and more experienced, not to mention he’d wounded Daeron. In a battle of attrition, the knight would win, so how could Daeron change the dynamics to his advantage? Daeron thought of Lord Arwyn, the cunning bandit, and got an idea.

With his next attack, Ser Casper feigned a strike at Daeron’s helm, and when Daeron brought his sword up, Ser Casper struck down at his left knee. The armor deflected the blow with ease, but Daeron cried out and backtracked with a limp.

Ser Casper pointed his sword straight at his heart. “Time to die, pup.” He came at Daeron with a scream, convinced that one heavy blow would be enough to topple Daeron, who jumped to his left at the last moment, put his entire weight on his left leg without issue, and struck.

Daeron hit Ser Casper behind his head and his blade bit through the chainmail and into the flesh underneath; Ser Casper fell forward as though he was a statue that had been tipped over. He hit the dirt with a mighty crash and made no move.

When Daeron turned around, he saw Ser Raynard and Ser John holding off three of Ser Casper’s men, while Jayson stood on the stairs to the top of the battlements, holding a sword he must’ve taken from one of the dead men. Immediately, Daeron charged forward. He attacked from behind, nearly decapitating the first guard he attacked, then pulling his sword free and gutting the second guard when the man turned to face him. The third guard, alarmed at the sudden threat from behind, turned toward Daeron as well, and gave Ser Raynard all the opportunity he needed to bury his axe in the man’s shoulder.

That last death brought a lull in the battle – the courtyard was still overflowing with the sounds of swordplay, but it seemed Ser Casper had been the only one who’d recognized the threat posed by the hedge knights.

“Quickly now, open the gates,” Daeron said. His legs felt like boulders, his head woozy and uncentered – he felt like he might tip over if he took another step, so he stumbled to the gates, put his shoulder under the latch, and pushed. The damn thing sprung free, and Ser John and Ser Raynard pulled open the gates while Daeron staggered back.

“Lad, get Ser Ryam!” Daeron heard Ser John shout, and then Jayson was there, hands under his armpits, dragging him away.

The last thing Daeron remembered was Lord Arwyn Greenwood in his resplendent armor, riding past him, with his greatsword held high in the air.

Chapter Text

When Daeron woke, the first thing he noticed was the alarming softness beneath him. It felt as though he was being held up by unsteady hands, so Daeron quickly sat up, only to realize he’d been lying on a featherbed. It had been so long since he’d felt anything but the firm ground beneath him, the comfort of the bed felt dangerously unreliable.

“Easy, Ser, easy,” Jayson said. The lad had jumped from his chair by the wall and was watching Daeron as one might watch a dangerous animal, worried about what he might do next.

“Where in the Seven Hells am I?” Daeron asked as he lowered himself back into bed, half his body throbbing in pain. His shoulder was aching, there was a pulsing pain in his thigh, and he might’ve also had a terrible headache, though Daeron couldn’t be sure if those weren’t the echoes of all the other pains in his body.

“Greenwood Castle, Ser,” Jayson said. “Lord Arwyn had these chambers given over to you.”

“Right, right,” Daeron said with a groan. That made sense. “What happened?”

“After you got the gates open, Lord Arwyn and his men took the castle, Ser. Lord Meadows was killed, and so was Lord Beron.”

“How?”

“Lord Meadows slew him for betraying him, then tried to kill Lord Arwyn as well. He failed,” Jayson said, though the excitement Daeron would have expected from him was nowhere to be found. No doubt the lad was beginning to learn the difference between hearing a story told around a campfire and living it.

“So Lord Arwyn’s got his lands back,” Daeron said, looking up at the ceiling. “What happens now?”

Jayson shrugged. “Lord Tyrell’s been informed of what happened, so Lord Arwyn’s been confirmed in his position. Oh, and Lady Dyanna gave birth to a boy. She’ll be his Regent until he comes of age, ruling over lands of House Meadows.”

Daeron cracked a smile at that. It sounded a lot like justice. Then something jumped out to him. “Lord Arwyn’s been confirmed?” He looked at the boy. “How long have I been sleeping?”

Jayson squirmed, looking down at the floor. “About a week, Ser. The Maester said you lost a lot of blood.”

Asleep for a week? Daeron didn’t think that was possible. The fight with Ser Casper was blurry in his mind, colored by the desperation that made him trick Ser Casper into believing he was all but beaten. Daeron could taste that desperation at the tip of his tongue, could feel it churning in his gut. But it worked. I'm alive, and he's not.

“Where – Where was I wounded?” he asked Jayson.

“Your shoulder and your leg, Ser. The Maester had to stitch you up. Also your brow, you had a deep cut from Ser Casper’s blow.”

Daeron raised his fingers to his right eyebrow, and felt the scar running through the hair like a mountain range that split a forest in two.

“You were amazing, Ser,” Jayson said. “I watched you fight. Even Ser John and Ser Raynard said it was a great duel.”

Daeron smiled and exhaled deeply. Funny how little that mattered to him, but he appreciated Jayson for saying it all the same. “Thank you, lad.”

Jayson nodded solemnly, as though he felt duty-bound to make sure Daeron knew these things. “Lord Greenwood said he wanted to talk to you when you woke up. Shall I fetch him?”

“No, no.” Daeron shook his head, sinking a little deeper in his pillow. “Later.”

Two days passed before Daeron felt like getting up from his bed, and when he did, he was invited into the study of the new Lord of Greenwood Castle. Still limping from the wound to his thigh, and constantly reminded of the blow to his shoulder by the echoing pain, Daeron took a seat across the desk from Lord Arwyn.

It was late at night and Lord Arwyn had candles lit throughout his study, the door to the balcony behind him opened so a light breeze came through. With a cup of wine in his hand, Lord Arwyn looked much different than he did back at the cave – for one, he seemed to have been scrubbed clean for the first time in many moons, and for another, he wore a deep green doublet adorned with arrows in golden stitch.

“Ser Ryam,” Lord Arwyn said as they sat down. “I am happy to hear you are better.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Daeron said. “And I was happy to hear of your success, though you have my condolences on the death of your brother.”

Lord Arwyn grimaced, then nodded as though admitting the truth of Daeron’s words. “Beron was many things… aye, but he was still my brother. I wish I at least had the chance to talk to him, to… understand.”

Daeron watched the young Lord take a sip of his wine and decided it might be wise to change the subject. “May I ask what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Ah, yes.” Lord Arwyn set down his cup. “I wanted to offer you a Lordship and a lands of your own for your valor. There are two keeps on my western borders that you could choose from, but when I happened to mention it aloud, Ser Tybolt led me aside and revealed that your name isn’t Ser Ryam of White Tree, but something else entirely.”

Daeron blinked at that. It seemed Lord Arwyn truly enjoyed his dramatic ambushes.

Lord Arwyn tilted his head and grinned. “I always wondered what you might look like, the child of a love so great it broke the Realm in two.”

A cold chill traveled down Daeron’s spine. “And?”

“You did not disappoint, my friend. Not even close.” Lord Arwyn grabbed his cup and took another sip. “But that does leave the question of how I am to reward you, unless of course, you’ve decided to settle down in the Reach?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Pity. So what’s it to be? A new suit of armor? A horse? Both?”

Daeron thought about what he might want, what he could ask for. Then an idea came to him. “You said you have two keeps that need new masters?”

“Aye, the two knights who held them before died in the fighting.” Lord Arwyn leaned forward, intrigued. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I know the perfect candidates to fill those positions, my Lord.”

“My brother said you were leaving.” Lady Dyanna caught them in the stables, preparing their mounts for the ride ahead.

Daeron turned at the sound of her voice and found her standing by the entrance, a small bundle in her arms that seemed to be reaching for her face. Daeron stepped away from Honor and approached her. “Aye, my Lady. It’s time we returned to the road.”

“A strange dragon you are,” Lady Dyanna said, smiling to let Daeron know she didn’t mean anything by it. “Helping to save my family, then refusing all rewards for your actions.”

“I’ve no need of them, my Lady.”

“I suppose not.” She nodded and looked down at her child. “I thought long and hard about how I should thank you for getting me out of this castle, but I figured you wouldn’t accept any of my gifts. So I decided I’d give you this.” She held out her hand and showed an obsidian arrowhead on a slim chain. “This was my father’s, and his father’s before him. Ten generations of men in my family carried this to battle. It brought them luck, Ser, so now I give it to you, hoping it will bring you the same.”

Daeron’s first instinct was to refuse – it was too grand a gift to give – but the look in Lady Dyanna’s eyes made him bite his tongue. “Thank you, my Lady,” he said as he took the necklace and placed it around his neck. “I shall cherish it forever.”

“You do that,” she said with a firm nod. “I wish you good fortune, Ser.”

An hour later, as the morning began to slip into noon, Daeron rode out of Greenwood Castle with Ser Tybolt and Jayson in tow.

“Where to next?” Ser Tybolt asked, the road through the Greenwood stretching before them. “King’s Landing?”

Daeron looked at him sharply. “What makes you think I want to go to King’s Landing?”

“I don’t know.” Ser Tybolt shrugged, but Daeron could tell he was feigning innocence. “I thought maybe you’d performed enough heroics to earn a place at Court.”

Daeron stared at him, wondering what the man was getting at. “I don’t have to perform any heroics to earn a place at Court. The King never suggested anything of the sort.”

“Oh, don’t worry, lad, I never imagined the King set these tasks for you…” Ser Tybolt trailed off with a sly look in his eyes.

“Don’t mind him, Ser,” Jayson said. “He’s just sore you had Lord Arwyn give Ser John and Ser Raynard a keep each, and didn’t mention him.”

“That’s nonsense. Ser Tybolt has already claimed the greatest reward of them all, accompanying the two of us around the Seven Kingdoms.” Conscious that Ser Tybolt was glaring at him, Daeron made sure to keep his eyes on Jayson. “Though we might have to get rid of him, seeing as he took it upon himself to tell Lord Arwyn my name.”

“Somebody had to do it,” Ser Tybolt grunted.

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because you performed a great service for Lord Arwyn and Lady Dyanna,” Jayson said, without even looking at Daeron. “It’s important that they feel indebted to the Crown for it, but that only happens if they know who really helped them.”

The stinging reply Daeron had been preparing for Ser Tybolt lodged in his throat as he looked at the boy. Was it possible Jayson saw things so much more clearly than him, simply because Daeron was so desperate to hide his identity? It had never even occurred to him that revealing his name might benefit the Crown – all he could remember was the quiet panic about what Lord Arwyn or Lady Dyanna might say if they knew the truth.

Feeling chastised by a boy of ten, Daeron kept his mouth shut, and the trio rode on in silence after that. They didn’t speak until the evening when they got a fire going right at the edge of the Greenwood.

“Where d’you want to go next?” Daeron asked Jayson. “Dorne?”

The boy had finished scrubbing Daeron’s chainmail and sharpening his sword and was stowing them back among their supplies. “No, Ser. How about the Westerlands? My Lord father always said they were beautiful.”

“The Westerlands?” Ser Tybolt replied, deadpan. “Brilliant idea, lad, what could possibly go wrong under Lord Tywin’s watchful gaze?”

Daeron didn’t particularly care where he went next, but Ser Tybolt’s opposition settled the matter in his mind. “Westerlands it is,” he said, winking at Jayson when it seemed Ser Tybolt might throw a fit.

“Good,” the boy said with a grin. Then he grabbed a pair of blunted blades and threw one at Daeron’s feet. “Now, can we spar? I want to learn how to fight.”

Daeron looked at the blade, looked at Ser Tybolt whose face had forgotten he was supposed to look cross, then at the boy. Daeron grabbed the blade, stood up, and said, “Took you long enough.”

END OF PART TWO.

Chapter Text

His Grace King Rhaegar of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Roynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protectors of the Realm, sat at the head of the table in the Small Council chambers.

The rooms were all but shrouded in darkness. Only a half-dozen candles burned around the chambers, the shadows playing upon Rhaegar’s face. The smooth features and the breathless beauty of his youth may have passed thanks to the many burdens of a King, but they were replaced with the austere features of a man used to the weight of leadership and the piercing eyes that could freeze unwary courtiers in place. Rhaegar liked to wear his hair pulled back, his brow blessedly bereft of a crown, which he only wore on official occasions.

The King wore a black doublet with silver dragons embroidered in the fabric. He had a dagger at his belt, the hilt of it poking over the edge of the desk, and wore the signet ring of his House on his left hand. His back was as straight as a sword, never touching the back of his chair, and he drummed his fingers on the armrests.

The King’s eyes were focused on nothing in particular, wandering around the room, until the sound of a door opening made Rhaegar look toward the entrance. Jon Connington, the Hand of the King, appeared between the two Valyrian sphinxes that framed the entrance. A hand on his sword, his copper hair gleaming in the candlelight, his shoulders eased when he recognized Rhaegar.

“Your Grace,” he said. “You summoned me?”

Rhaegar gestured for his Hand to take a seat to his right. “The others should be along shortly.”

Jon offered a terse nod and marched over to his chair. Most men would have immediately asked for more information. They would have pestered Rhaegar with questions, but Jon kept his silence – it was one of the reasons why the man was invaluable to Rhaegar.

The rest of the council members streamed in soon after. Lord Randyll Tarly came first, his harsh features all the more severe in the dim light. The martial Lord took one look at Rhaegar and Jon, grunted, and went to take his seat as Master of War. The aged Jon Arryn, Master of Laws, arrived at the council together with Tyrion Lannister, the Master of Coin. That was an odd pairing and Rhaegar saw his Hand glance at him from the corner of his eye. The Master of Ships, Paxter Redwyne, arrived in his customary blue doublet, with Ser Barristan Selmy, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, right after him. Prince Oberyn, the Master of Whisperers, arrived last, walking into the chambers with his languid strides.

“My apologies,” the Red Viper said and bowed, while the rest took their seats with a scraping of chairs. Prince Oberyn looked around the table and asked, “No wine?” The Prince tsked and walked to the wall where a flagon of wine sat on a table. He grabbed it, along with a pair of cups, and took a seat at the table, sliding one of the glasses over to Lord Tyrion, his most faithful drinking companion.

Lord Tyrion thanked the Red Viper for his kindness, then regarded Rhaegar with those mismatched eyes. “To what do we owe the pleasure, Your Grace?”

“Is it Robert?” Jon Arrys asked, his aged face concerned and afraid. “Is he coming?”

Rhaegar didn’t appreciate the familiarity Lord Arryn had for Robert Baratheon or the affection he still hadn’t learned to hide, but he supposed it couldn’t be helped.

“No,” Prince Oberyn replied as leaned back in his chair and took the first sip. “The Stag remains in Tyrosh, preparing his assault on Myr.” It was all anyone could talk about, on both sides of the Narrow Sea.

“I did not summon you here to talk about Robert Baratheon, my Lords,” Rhaegar finally said, his eyes going over the face of each councilor. I must pay close attention now. “A matter of a different sort has arisen, and I need to hear your thoughts.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Lord Paxter replied. “We are ever at your service.”

Rhaegar acknowledged the Arbor Lord’s words with a nod. “As you all know, I have spent many moons thinking about the best match for Aegon. Thinking about the woman who might be his Queen, the Alysanne to his Jaehaerys.”

Rhaegar let the words hang in the air for a moment. Lord Paxter and Lord Tarly leaned forward in interest, Lord Tyrion and Prince Oberyn seemed bored, while Ser Barristan and Lord Arryn displayed no visible reaction. The last two weren’t surprising since neither man had a horse in the race, so Rhaegar’s focus centered on the other four as he delivered his verdict. “After much deliberation, I’ve decided to follow the ancient Targaryen tradition and wed Aegon to my daughter Rhaenys.”

Lord Redwyne blinked and Lord Tarly went stiff in trying to contain a visible reaction. Lord Tyrion tilted his head as though considering the notion, while Prince Oberyn merely smirked. It was the decision the Red Viper had been hoping for, especially since Princess Arianne showed little affection for Aegon during her last visit to the capital.

“A wise decision,” Lord Arryn said, inclining his head. “By marrying Aegon to Rhaenys, no House will be able to accuse the Crown of playing favorites.”

Rhaegar supposed that was one way to look at it.

“But it will do nothing to strengthen the Crown either,” Lord Tyrion replied. “Your Grace, I fear it comes down to me to say it, but this will not be a popular decision. Not with the nobles, and I imagine even the smallfolk might complain. Your father’s… condition has cast a pall over the tradition of wedding brother to sister. And we must also take the High Septon’s reaction into account.”

Rhaegar retained his stoic expression as he regarded the Dwarf of Casterly Rock. Many in his court mocked him, some even scorned him, but Rhaegar found him invaluable. Lord Tyrion had understood from the first that Rhaegar had brought him onto his Small Council so he might be used against Lord Tywin, and he played that role diligently. But that also meant Tyrion enjoyed the luxury of telling Rhaegar the truth without fear of consequences, knowing that Rhaegar couldn’t get rid of him so easily because his value went beyond merely appeasing the Westerlands.

“I have already spoken to the High Septon, Lord Tyrion,” Rhaegar replied. “He has given his blessing.” The High Septon needed some convincing, of course, but it was nothing a substantial amount of gold couldn’t solve.

“Oh, I see,” Lord Tyrion said.

Rhaegar’s mother had once told him that a King must have the last domino set up before he tips over the first one, and it was a lesson Rhaegar remembered well. More importantly, it was a lesson he’d succeeded in teaching his son as well. As Rhaegar looked between the faces of the men present, he watched them realize that the matter was already settled.

“What about you, Lord Tarly?” Rhaegar asked. “What will the Reach say about this?”

“Nothing good, I’m afraid.” Lord Tarly rolled his shoulders as though bracing himself for what he had to say next. “House Tyrell will take this news ill, it seems to me. The Queen of Thorns has long hoped to see Margaery as the next Queen.”

Yes, and seeing my son get strangled by the vines. It was a big part of the reason why Rhaegar had accepted Aegon’s little scheme.

“But they won’t do anything,” Lord Tyrion replied, regarding Rhaegar with narrowed eyes, as though he was re-evaluating something. “Two of their bannermen sit on the Small Council, their third son is a member of the Kingsguard, and Prince Jaehaerys is married to Lynesse Hightower. One might almost call them greedy for wanting more.”

Lord Tarly conceded the argument with a nod. The man was a dangerous foe in battle, but he’d been whipped so many times in these chambers by Lord Tyrion, he always preferred to retreat rather than give battle.

“And Lord Tywin?” Rhaegar asked. “What will he say?”

The Imp grinned as he scratched his chin. “He will say Your Grace is a fool, wasting a golden opportunity. But then he, too, will remember that he has one son on the Kingsguard and one on the Small Council, and that will put his complaints to bed. Yes, Your Grace, I would say you’ve wrapped us all in a neat little bow.”

“If you only count the Kingdoms that remained loyal during the Rebellion, Your Grace,” Lord Arryn butted in. “It’s another matter when it comes to the rest.”

“Should His Grace reward traitors with a marriage to the future King?” Lord Tarly demanded. He’d never been fond of the Falcon Lord, and that was unlikely to change. His antipathy aside, Lord Tarly had stumbled onto the crux of the issue – Rhaegar couldn’t give the rebels a Queen, but it would be unwise to give either the Lannisters or Tyrells one as well. Thus, Rhaenys.

“Perhaps not,” Lord Arryn conceded. “But some effort must be made, Your Grace. Princess Daenerys’ betrothal to Ser Edmure would have made for a fine beginning, but since the Princess has decided against it, we must come up with a different plan.”

“Why?” Lord Paxter asked. “Lord Stark will never rebel, not while Lyanna Stark’s son breathes, and the Vale follows your lead, Lord Arryn. So unless you consider yourself a traitor, that leaves the Riverlands and the Stormlands, and they won’t go to war on their own.”

“Lord Redwyne is correct,” Lord Tyrion said. “Ser Edmure is too weak to rebel. And lest we forget, Lyanna Stark’s son rid him of nearly all the traitors in his land. Stannis Baratheon is a different matter, however.”

Rhaegar’s heart jumped at the mention of Daeron. His fool-hardy, stubborn son… The King shook his head. He and Jaehaerys had gotten along well their entire lives, but when his little brother returned to the capital without Daeron in tow, Rhaegar thought to send him to the Wall. It took the combined efforts of Elia and Jon to calm him, only for Jaehaerys to reveal all that had happened during the Tourney at Wayfarer’s Rest and the part Daeron played in it. He’s just like Lyanna. Rhaegar felt a sharp sting of longing and pain in his heart. What did the boy look like? Did he go to sleep cursing Rhaegar’s name or did he not care at all? Better yet, why won’t he come home?

Winterfell had been the lad’s home his entire life, Rhaegar understood that, but surely he was curious about the other half of his family as well. The Royal family was certainly curious about him. Aegon, Rhaenys, and Daenerys would pester Rhaegar for news every so often, especially since the tale from the Riverlands reached their ears. They’d all grown up on the stories of a boy they considered a sibling, one who lived far away, but one who would one day return.

“Stannis Baratheon is dutiful,” Lord Tarly said, forcing Rhaegar to leave his thoughts behind. “He’ll never rebel, not even for Robert.”

Rhaegar might’ve said that Stannis had rebelled for Robert once, but he found he agreed with Lord Tarly. He’d had his doubts in the past, but since Stannis threw Robert Baratheon’s envoy into his dungeons and sent a messenger to the capital informing Rhaegar of the event, most of them had been allayed.

“Your Grace might be interested to know that there has been news about… Lyanna Stark’s son,” Prince Oberyn said with a sly look. That’s what they all called him: Lyanna Stark’s son. They couldn’t call him ‘the King’s son’, because it would be assumed they meant Aegon, and no one dared to call him ‘the King’s bastard’, at least not in Rhaegar’s hearing, so they were left with little choice.

A lifetime at court had prepared Rhaegar for such moments – his expression didn’t change in the slightest as he said, “What kind of news?”

“From the Reach, Your Grace. It is why I was late to answer your summons.” Prince Oberyn swirled the wine in his cup. “If Your Grace can recall, I told you about a bandit in the Reach that Lord Greenwood and Lord Meadows were having trouble with.”

“I recall, yes, what about him?”

“Well, it seems Daeron Snow took service with Lord Greenwood to help him hunt down this outlaw, Your Grace.”

“Ah, did the boy slay the rogue himself, then?” Lord Tyrion asked, never one to put much stock in tales of glory and heroism.

“Not quite. You see, it turns out that the bandit was none other than Lord Arwyn Greenwood, the rightful Lord of Greenwood Castle. He had been robbed of his birthright by his younger brother, with the help of Lord Meadows, of course. Your son learned of this, Your Grace, and he also learned that Lady Dyanna Greenwood was being held imprisoned in the castle.” Prince Oberyn grinned, as though something about the tale amused him greatly. “He saved Lady Dyanna with the help of his squire, then found the bandit and joined forces with him. It is said that your son led the party that infiltrated the castle and opened the gates for Lord Arwyn. And during the fighting, he also slew Ser Casper Lynch in single combat, Your Grace.”

Lord Tarly sat up as though he’d been struck. “Ser Casper Lynch, you said?”

Prince Oberyn bowed his head. “Yes, my Lord.”

“Who was he?” Lord Tyrion asked Lord Randyll.

“A dangerous man.” Lord Tarly stared at the Red Viper as though he had to rearrange some opinions about Daeron. “A very dangerous man.”

Lord Redwyne bobbed his head. “It’s true.”

Rhaegar could only sit there and keep his mask in place. The boy seemed intent on finding danger! Did he want to get himself killed, was that the reason why he kept risking his life? Oh, how many times Rhaegar had wanted to send out men and have the lad dragged to the capital, by the ear if need be. It had been Elia who had talked him out of it, telling him that nothing good would come of it, but Rhaegar still felt tempted. I suppose the temptation is gone now. If the reports of the boy’s martial prowess were to be believed, the little bugger would slay the men sent after him with his left hand and continue on his merry way.

“Oh, and one more thing, Your Grace. The reason why I’ve learned about this story so quickly: Lord Arwyn has sent a letter to you, explaining what happened. Only he knows it was your son who helped him, the rest of the people believe it was the work of Ser Ryam of White Tree. In the letter, Lord Arwyn officially thanks Daeron Snow for his invaluable help and swears the eternal allegiance of Houses Greenwood and Meadows to the Crown.”

That blasted name again, Rhaegar thought with no small amount of fury. Was the boy ashamed of his Targaryen blood that he went to such great lengths to hide it? Then another thought occurred to Rhaegar, one that threw a bucket of cold water over the fire of his anger. Houses Meadows and Greenwood could field an army of five thousand, and Daeron had secured their loyalty to the Crown. Did the boy risk his life because he believed he would not be welcome in the capital? Was he trying to prove that he wasn’t a threat to Aegon, but a loyal servant?

Seven Hells. Rhaegar could go mad trying to figure out what went on in that thick northern head. “I understand,” Rhaegar said with a deep sigh. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Prince Oberyn.”

“You’re very welcome, Your Grace.”

“It seems the boy has the makings of a great knight, Your Grace.” Lord Tyrion raised his cup in a toast. “Songs will be sung in his honor… or at least they would be if any word of his deeds was allowed outside these chambers.”

“Which it is not,” Rhaegar ground out. “Not until he comes to the capital.” Then he can have all the songs he likes. Rhaegar felt a headache coming on. “That will be all for this evening. Preparations for the Royal wedding will begin to take place immediately. Thank you for coming, you’re dismissed.”

One by one, the councilors stood up, bowed to Rhaegar, and left the Small Council chambers. All except for Jon Connington. “That went better than I thought,” the Hand of the King said in his gruff voice.

“We mustn’t get our hopes up,” Rhaegar replied. “They didn’t have an angle now, but that doesn’t mean they won’t find one.”

Jon nodded thoughtfully, then said, “It’s not too late, you know. You don’t have to let Aegon get his way this time.”

“I know,” Rhaegar replied. But he wanted to. Aegon wasn’t one for jousting or any of the knightly arts, and he did like his wine a tad bit much, often joining Prince Oberyn and Lord Tyrion for their drinking games, but there was no denying that the boy had a good head on his shoulders. Courtly schemes were his bread and butter, and he’d successfully outmaneuvered Rhaegar to the fullest – Aegon bedded Rhaenys, effectively ruining her chance of marriage, then told Rhaegar about it, along with all the reasons why marrying Rhaenys was the wisest course of action. We’ll see if he’s right, Rhaegar thought. More importantly, Aegon will see. The young man had to start learning about the consequences of royal decisions at some point.

Rhaegar stood from his chair, nodded to Jon, and left. Ser Arthur and Ser Jaime fell into step with him when he emerged from the Small Council chambers, and they accompanied him to his chambers at the top of Maegor’s Holdfast. The halls of the Red Keep were deserted at this time of night, with most of the courtiers asleep in their rooms, so Rhaegar was left to brood on his thoughts without interruption. He thought of Aegon, so clever and determined, and Daeron, somewhere in the Seven Kingdoms, undoubtedly riding straight toward more danger. And then there was Rhaenys, his willful daughter – it didn’t surprise him that she wanted to be Queen. The poor girl believed that was the only way she could be free to pursue her interests, and she refused to be convinced otherwise. She’ll learn the hard way now.

When they reached the door to his chambers, Rhaegar told his sworn protectors, “I shan’t be going anywhere for the rest of the night.”

“Understood, Your Grace,” Ser Arthur said, his voice hollow beneath his helm. He took his place on one side of the door, Ser Jaime on the other.

Inside his chambers, Rhaegar finally allowed his mask to drop – he exhaled, tired to his bones, his face showing the many stresses he’d survived over the day. Elia was already asleep in the bedroom to his right, the outline of her body visible under the sheets, but Rhaegar didn’t want to go to bed quite yet. There was a flagon of Arbor Gold on the table in the middle of the room, and he went over to sit down and pour himself a cup. The sour liquid filled his mouth and washed away the bad taste left behind by the council meeting. Rhaegar tried to think about his son’s wedding and tried to predict how the Realm might react to the news, but his thoughts inevitably strayed back to Daeron.

“Houses Greenwood and Meadows officially thank Daeron Snow for his invaluable help and swear eternal allegiance to the Crown...” Rhaegar trailed off, then started chuckling. Gods help him, but he’d truly been blessed with headstrong children. Still, if Lyanna were still alive, she’d be bursting with pride, and she would’ve been the first one to tell Rhaegar to leave the boy alone so he might carve his path.

I suppose I can do that, Rhaegar thought. He wanted Daeron at court, by his side, so he may teach him and watch him grow. Rhaegar wanted Daeron and Aegon to become friends, so they would learn to trust each other and work together. But that could wait. If the lad had to wander the Seven Kingdoms some more, then let him wander.

Rhaegar could be patient.

Chapter Text

“Bloody Stormlands,” Ser Tybolt said. “It wouldn’t stop raining here even if the Seven themselves demanded a drought.”

Daeron huddled under his cloak and kept his mouth shut. He might’ve scolded Ser Tybolt for his sour disposition on any other day, but they had spent the last week riding through the Rainwood, and it had rained every single day. In the evenings, they went to sleep soaked through and woke up every morning to find the situation hadn’t improved in the slightest. Daeron had spent so many consecutive days dripping wet that he had begun to fear his bones would soften. The only upside to the dreary days was that Daeron didn’t have to fear Jayson would catch a chill and die – the boy seemed completely unbothered by the cold. The day before, he’d even taken to whistling as they rode along another forest path, though he quickly gave it up after Ser Tybolt began threatening him with bodily harm.

“Do you think we’ll be there soon, Ser?” Jayson asked, his voice entirely too cheerful.

Daeron gave him the side eye. “Tell me, lad, how much of the Seven Kingdoms have I traveled before I met you?”

The boy blinked at him, though it was impossible to tell if it was from confusion or the water dripping down his face. “None, Ser. Apart from the North.”

“So, when it comes to the South, I’ve seen exactly as much as you have?”

The boy had the good sense to be wary. “Yes, Ser.”

“How in the Seven Hells am I supposed to know how long it’ll take us to get there better than you, then?” Daeron demanded loudly, though he immediately regretted it.

Especially when Ser Tybolt started laughing. “Careful now, Your Grace, keep up that kind of talk and you’ll become a sour old man like me.”

“Zip it,” Daeron said, not in the mood for teasing. “And no more of this ‘Your Grace’ business. You don’t know who might be listening.” Ser Tybolt had taken to calling him that when they were alone on the road, claiming the entire time that he accepted Daeron’s heritage even if Daeron himself didn’t. It didn’t matter how many times he was told that bastards don’t receive royal titles.

“Who might be listening?” Ser Tybolt made a show of looking around. “Even the squirrels are too smart to be out in this rain. There’s no one here but us – no one else is dumb enough to go chasing pirates in this weather!”

“You mean heroic enough?” Jayson asked, looking between Daeron and Ser Tybolt as though trying to assess his chances of cheering them up.

“Shut it,” Daeron and Ser Tybolt said in unison, though the boy didn’t seem even remotely disheartened to hear it.

They rode on in silence after that, the pitter-patter of rain the only sound accompanying them on their journey. The Rainwood certainly earned its name, as far as Daeron was concerned. It was a thick forest, the trunks of various trees pressed so close together that not much light made it past the canopy. That meant the forest gave the people passing through the sense as though the grey light of early dawn lasted forever. The trio had seen the occasional buck and squirrel, but for the most part, the Rainwood seemed empty, as though they were the only people for a thousand leagues. Part of the reason why Jayson’s constant questioning about when they would reach their destination annoyed Daeron was because he felt as though the damned forest would never end.

Luckily, they rode around a bend in the trail and came upon a fork in the road, one Daeron had long anticipated. It meant they couldn’t be further than five leagues from Ashcart Keep. But with the split in the path, they also came upon a grizzly sight that was becoming oddly familiar – a half-rotten body hung in a crow cage from an old oak tree. Its eyes, cheek, and mouth were gone, the skin all but shriveled, but there was one distinguishing marker: the Seven-Pointed Star that hung from the neck of the dead man.

“Ah, look, another one.” Ser Tybolt shook his head while Jayson made the sign of the Seven in the air. “I hope Princess Rhaenys’ cunny is sweet since so many men have to die for Prince Aegon to taste it.”

Daeron’s fingers itched for the handle of his blade, but he kept quiet. This was hardly Ser Tybolt’s first provocation since the marriage between Daeron’s half-brother and half-sister was announced about two moons earlier, though seeing the corpses tended to push Daeron to the limit.

When the news of the impending Royal wedding broke, many in the Seven Kingdoms erupted in outrage, especially those from the Kingdoms that had hoped for a Royal match. Daeron had heard tales that Lady Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden wept for a fortnight when news reached her.

However, it was the reaction of the Faith that had caused the most consternation – it was said King Rhaegar had convinced the High Septon to uphold the Doctrine of Exceptionalism, only for some of the Septons to declare the High Septon a heretic and break away from the Faith. These rogue priests went around the Realm, preaching treason, and Daeron had no doubt the corpse in the crow cage had been one of them. Though these zealots were few, and they’d found little support among a populace that had little desire to spark a religious war, Ser Tybolt was still correct – a lot of men died so the Crown Prince could marry his sister, fuelling the whispers of discontent around the Kingdoms.

“They preach treason,” Daeron said. “They call for a Holy War against the Crown.”

“Aye,” Jayson said. “Targaryens have always wedded brother to sister, everyone knows that.”

“Robert Baratheon’s drooling as he’s hearing these stories, I’ll tell you that much,” Ser Tybolt said. “If he decides to cross the water, Prince Aegon may very well come to wish he’d fucked a woman with an army of her own.”

Daeron ran a hand through his soaked hair, and for a moment, it felt as though the trees on both sides of the path might start closing in on him until he suffocated. “If he comes, the Royal Army will throw him back into the water.”

“Is that so? Will His Grace do it himself?” Ser Tybolt cackled. “Rhaegar’s been sitting on his royal rump these past seventeen years, getting softer by the day. What d’you think Baratheon’s been doing?”

Killing. The Stag had crafted a legend in Essos, one to match all the stories told about him in Westeros, where many still regarded him as the greatest warrior the Realm had ever seen. Daeron could almost see Baratheon coming down the path toward him, those antlers on his helm, holding his warhammer high in the air, ready to attack.

It was another day before it stopped raining, mere hours before the trio reached the edge of the Rainwood. They rode out of the forest and onto a cliff that overlooked Cape Wrath and the Narrow Sea. The waves crashed against the rocks some two hundred feet below, the smell of the sea strong in the air, and when Daeron felt a ray of sun on his face, he immediately declared they were done riding for the day, though they still had a good two hours of daylight ahead of them.

“Get a fire going,” he told Jayson. “I want to know what it feels like to be warm again.”

The boy did as he was bid while Daeron and Ser Tybolt unloaded the supplies from their mule and pitched a pair of tents. Then they dragged a log from the forest, sat down on it, and stared out at the sea in silence as Jayson steadily fed the fire.

“Give me that wine from the Weeping Town,” Ser Tybolt said.

Daeron handed him the skin with a warning. “It’s the last we have.”

“No matter.” Ser Tybolt drank deeply, then wiped his mouth. “Pevensey village can’t be more than two leagues away from here. We’ll buy some more there.”

Conscious of the weight of his pouch, Daeron didn’t say anything. The three of them didn’t have more than one gold dragon put together, but they’d hopefully find service when they reached Pevensey. The pirates had been raiding the coast of the Stormlands quite a lot, so there was bound to be some wool merchant who would require hired swords to protect his property and his wealth.

Daeron sighed, more tired than he cared to admit, and held up the palms of his hands to the fire, hoping to warm up a little quicker. He gladly accepted Ser Tybolt’s offer of wine when the older knight had quenched his thirst and was only too happy to let Jayson go back into the forest to hunt for rabbits. Daeron gave him a longbow and three arrows and sent him off, while Ser Tybolt fetched a lance from the mule and grinned at him.

Over the past few moons, Ser Tybolt had stopped demanding they spar every time they stopped and instead began focusing on Daeron’s jousting. That meant Daeron was forced to tilt at trees every chance he got, but it also meant that he could no longer ride up and down the Seven Kingdoms in peace. Ser Tybolt corrected his posture and technique every time fatigue or a lack of focus pushed him into making a mistake. The constant sniping was like a rash Daeron couldn’t get rid of, but he couldn’t deny that his jousting had improved, and he sat a horse far better than he ever had before.

Daeron stood from the log and was about to go get his armor when he heard the sound of a horse’s hooves. He looked at Ser Tybolt, and they both snapped to attention, reaching for their swords. A rider emerged around a bend, but he was all alone. The man was a formidable knight –  broad-shouldered and tall, he sat a magnificent black warhorse. His armor was plain steel, but one that had seen much use if its assortment of dents and scratches was of any indication, and a yellow-and-black cloak hung from his shoulders. He was the type of knight one might expect to find at the head of a host, leading troops into battle, not riding along the Stormlands’ coast on his own.

The knight had noticed Daeron and Ser Tybolt, but he made no reaction. He didn’t seem threatening, and he didn’t seem to think Daeron and Ser Tybolt could threaten him, either. It wasn’t until he reined up in front of the campfire that Daeron felt Ser Tybolt stiffen beside him as recognition bloomed on the mounted knight’s face.

“Ser Tybolt,” the knight said in a deep, strong voice. The voice of a battlefield commander, as Uncle Ned would say. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“I could say the same, Ser Richard.”

The knight regarded him for a long moment. “Have you come to kill me?”

Daeron raised an eyebrow and looked at Ser Tybolt in hopes of finding some clues. “I have not.” The older knight placed a hand on the pommel of his sword. “How about you? Looking to settle old scores?”

“Can’t say I was planning on it,” Ser Richard replied.

The two men stared each other down with such intensity, Daeron was tempted to take a step back and get out of the way. Then he had a better idea. “An old companion of yours, Ser?” he asked Ser Tybolt.

Without taking his eyes off the knight, Ser Tybolt replied, “That’s not how I would characterize it, no.”

Finding Ser Tybolt hadn’t improved matters much, Daeron looked to the knight next. “Do forgive my friend here, Ser Tybolt’s manners leave much to be desired. What is your name, Ser?”

The knight wrenched his eyes off Ser Tybolt with considerable difficulty and looked at Daeron. “My name is Ser Richard Lonmouth, at your service. And might I have yours?”

Daeron’s stomach jumped into his throat at those words. Ser Richard Lonmouth had been his father’s squire and long-time companion. Why would he be riding alone in the Stormlands? Daeron hoped his thoughts hadn’t shown on his face, but he bowed his head just in case and said, “Ser Ryam of White Tree. A pleasure to meet you, Ser.” Daeron gestured to the fire Jayson had started. “You’re welcome to share our fire, if you like. It’s been a while since we’ve been dry, so I imagine it must be the same for you.”

Ser Richard looked at the fire in question, then Ser Tybolt, as if to make sure the man wouldn’t murder him for trying to get warm. “That would be most welcome, thank you.”

Quite proud of himself for his diplomatic abilities, Daeron sought to put the nail in the coffin of any potential violence. He plucked the skin of wine straight from Ser Tybolt’s fingers and offered it to Ser Richard. “A sip of wine, maybe? This is Weeping Town’s finest.”

Ser Richard looked at the skin of wine as though he couldn’t imagine it could hold the finest of anything. He took it, though, and drank deeply from it. “Thank you, Ser,” he said as he handed it back.

Daeron noticed the man studying his face as he did so, however, and quickly bent down to place the skin on the ground and prod the fire. Ser Tybolt was watching this entire scene play out quietly, though Daeron could hear him grinding his teeth.

“Have we met before, Ser?” Ser Richard asked.

Daeron looked up at him. “I don’t believe so, no. Would you like to sit down? My squire should be back soon with a rabbit or two, then we can roast it and have ourselves a meal.”

“That… would be quite lovely, yes, thank you.” Ser Richard bowed his head, then went to hobble his horse and gather his supplies. He took off the saddle as well and placed it on the ground by the fire then sat down, while Ser Tybolt stood in place the entire time, staring at him.

“Ser Tybolt?” Daeron asked with a meaningful look. “Won’t you sit down, eh?”

“Uh, yes, yes.” Ser Tybolt sat on the log next to Daeron, then went right back to staring at their guest.

Ser Richard cracked a slight smile and said, “So, Ser Tybolt, what brings you to the Stormlands?”

“I’ve been pardoned,” Ser Tybolt blurted out, as though he’d been waiting for the opportunity.

“Yes, I heard. How’d you manage that?”

Sensing he was being mocked and understanding his behavior had given Ser Richard the initiative, Ser Tybolt cleared his throat and said, “Killed the right people.”

Ser Richard huffed. “I suppose I could have guessed.”

“And you?” Ser Tybolt returned. “Last I heard, you were flying high in King Rhaegar’s court. What in the Seven Hells are you doing here?”

“Crashing, I suppose,” Ser Richard said with a wry smile, though Daeron spied an unmistakable tinge of bitterness in his eyes.

“I always told you he’d get sick of your moralizing ways sooner or later,” Ser Tybolt said, not unkindly.

Ser Richard turned his gaze away from them and to the fire. “His Grace didn’t make me leave. I left on my own.”

“Ahh,” Ser Tybolt said as if everything suddenly made sense. “Has the love affair come to an end, then?”

Ser Richard regarded him with hooded eyes, then looked away. Daeron saw the man wouldn’t reveal much more while Ser Tybolt seemed interested in little else, if his stupid grin was anything to go by, so Daeron said, “And what brings you to the Stormlands?”

“Pirates,” Ser Richard said. “They’ve been raiding up and down the coast for moons.”

Daeron thought that might complicate matters, seeing as they had come to the Stormlands for the same reason. “Have you sworn your sword to Lord Ashcart?”

“I swear my sword to no man,” Ser Richard replied with a noticeable edge to his voice. “I serve the people of Stormlands, whose husbands and brothers will get murdered and whose wives and daughters will be taken off into slavery.”

“We are headed to Pevensey ourselves,” Daeron said. “And for the same reason, though we hoped to swear our sword to Lord Ashcart or some merchant in need of help.”

“Lord Ashcart will certainly have need of them. They say he’s spread too thin, trying to keep all his towns and villages protected.”

“There are so many attacks?” Daeron asked. Normally, the pirates liked to spread their attacks to ensure they weren’t so predictable. One day they’d strike in the Stormlands, the next day they’d hit Dorne, always keeping their foes guessing about where they might show up next.

“Yes,” Ser Richard said, frowning at the fire. “It’s as though they are… probing, somehow. I’d never heard of anything like it.”

“What of his liege lords?” Ser Tybolt spoke up at last. “Does Rain House send no help?”

A dark look came into Ser Richard’s eyes. “There is a feud between the Houses. Lady Jocelyn takes care of her part of the coast and the rest be damned.” The knight shook his head. “No wonder they call her the Ice Lady.”

“I remember Lady Jocelyn. I saved her father’s life at Summerhall.” Ser Tybolt chuckled at the memory. “He got stuck in the mud and Cafferen nearly took his head.”

Daeron doubted Ser Richard cared much for tales of treacherous heroism. “What kind of a feud?”

“Apparently, Lord Ashcart and Lady Jocelyn were once in love, but then he went and fathered a bastard on a common born girl, and now Lady Jocelyn wouldn’t mind seeing his head on a pike.” Ser Richard shrugged. “Or something along those lines. These nobles rarely need much of an excuse in my experience..”

Ser Tybolt snorted and grabbed the skin of wine Daeron had stolen from him. “Come now, Dickie, the pirates are a scourge, to be sure, but that doesn’t mean they’re a real threat.” Ser Tybolt drank deeply then burped. “The day the Royal Navy musters, their raiding will come to an end.”

Ser Richard watched him with quiet eyes. “Perhaps.”

Wondering what the man knew that they didn’t, Daeron said, “You disagree, Ser?”

Ser Richard looked him right in the eye, and for some reason, Daeron felt fear go up his spine like a knight climbing a ladder. “It feels… different. These are no common pirates, they’re more disciplined than that. There’s more power behind them than anyone would like to admit, and they’re focusing on the Stormlands for some reason.”

That didn’t sound right to Daeron. “I’ve heard they’re raiding as far north as the White Harbor.”

“Yes, and as far south as Starfall,” Ser Richard repeated the words they’d all heard many times over the past few moons. “But they behaved as pirates during those raids. Surprised the foe, took everything that wasn’t nailed down, disappeared before anyone could retaliate.”

“And in the Stormlands?”

“I’d heard they waited around, killing all the able-bodied men until the garrisons from nearby keeps reacted.”

That got Ser Tybolt’s attention. He leaned closer in interest. “They’re assessing their strength.”

“Aye,” Ser Richard said, but he looked as though it galled him to agree with Ser Tybolt about anything.

Daeron looked between the two of them, confused. “But why?”

Ser Richard shrugged. “Might be they’re hoping for more. They sent an attack against Pevensey village the other day. Technically, the village answers to Lord Ashcart, but he doesn’t have the men to protect it. If he joined forces with Rain House he would, but I heard a detachment of their men stood on the other side of the river as the attack was taking place and did nothing.”

“Meaning that if the pirates figure this out, they’ll realize this is their wedge into the Stormlands,” Ser Tybolt said and drank some more wine. “A perfect opportunity for you to play the hero, I should imagine.”

Ser Richard ignored the jibe and looked at Daeron. “They take Pevensey, they can sail up the Lonely River, all the way to Beestown. That’s a town in its own right, and rich from the wool trade. If the pirates realize it’s up for the taking, they’ll come in numbers.”

Daeron leaned back, his eyes bright with realization. “And then it’ll take the power of Storm’s End to dislodge them.”

“Aye, and a thousand dead,” Ser Richard said with a grim voice. “That’s why I’m headed to Pevensey myself.”

Daeron took a moment to process this bleak prediction, then looked at Ser Tybolt. “I do believe we picked the right time to visit the Stormlands, Ser.”

The older knight rolled his eyes.

Chapter Text

Jayson returned with a pair of rabbits a few hours later, proud as a peacock, though he quickly blanched when he learned that none other than Ser Richard Lonmouth would be joining them on their journey to Pevensey. The boy seemed to know more about the history between Ser Richard and Ser Tybolt than Daeron did, but Daeron bid him to keep his mouth shut. The boy could reveal everything he knew in due time.

They spent the night on that cliff, lulled to sleep by the music of crashing waves, though Daeron suspected he and Jayson were the only ones who got any real rest. Ser Tybolt and Ser Richard probably slept with one eye open, considering how stiffly both men moved in each other’s presence. Daeron found he cared very little – the rain had been replaced with the biting wind, so he was too busy huddling under his cloak, looking up at the clear black sky and the thousands of stars that shone brighter than he ever remembered.

The next morning, after they had their breakfast of salted beef and half-rotten apples, Daeron pried the story out of Jayson as they mounted their horses and began their journey to Pevensey.

“They fought a duel, the two of them, Ser. At Harrenhall,” Jayson whispered to him, leaning closer on his palfrey so they wouldn’t hear. Ser Richard rode ahead of them, Ser Tybolt behind them, but they both seemed so distracted by their thoughts that neither of them noticed anything suspicious.

“A duel?” Daeron asked. “Over what?”

“A woman. Lady Bethany Redwyne, Ser. I heard they were both in love with her and wanted to fight for the right to court her.” Jayson looked around to make sure neither of them had heard him. “It’s said they would’ve killed each other if it wasn’t for King Rhaegar, Ser. He heard of the duel and put a stop to it.”

“All right.” Daeron tried to wrap his head around the story. “By why would they hate each other after that?”

“Well, before the King intervened, Ser Richard had managed to wound Ser Tybolt.” The boy winced. “You know he takes these things personally, Ser.”

Daeron did know that. Even during their spars, Ser Tybolt made it his mission to avenge every hit Daeron landed on him. “And they’ve never seen each other since then?”

“Twice, I think. The first time at Summerhall, and then again at the Stoney Sept.”

“Oh.” Daeron could only imagine how the antipathy between the two men might’ve grown with the help of a civil war. No doubt they’d slain each other’s friends, only to then watch helplessly as King Rhaegar negotiated a truce that robbed them of the chance to get revenge.

Daeron kept a close eye on the two of them from that point on, always making sure to ride between them as they followed the trail that led them along the cliffs. A view of the crashing sea and the Estermont Island kept them company on their journey until the land began to drop toward the sea and they reached the mouth of the Lonely River. There they found Pevensey village.

The village was located at the mouth of the river, hugging its southern bank, stretching to the sea. It could boast a dozen buildings, the chimneys spewing smoke into the sky, and a wooden keep that sat on a small hill, overlooking the area.

Daeron and his companions crossed a stone bridge to reach the village and rode straight into its heart, the village square. They passed an inn with a flaming foot painted on a sign, a blacksmith’s forge, and a dyer’s shop. The people seemed friendly enough, nodding at them as they passed or at least watching them ride by with polite interest.

“Here to fight the pirates?” a man pushing a baker’s trolley down the muddy street called to them.

“Here to kill the pirates,” Jayson shouted back, to the amusement of everyone who overheard him.

When they reached the village square, they saw a pair of riders surrounded by a crowd of villagers. One of the riders seemed to be no more than a boy, looking up at the man beside him as he addressed the people. Daeron and his companions must’ve arrived for the tail-end of the speech, as the people began to disperse just as they reached them.

The other rider was a man grown, and he only had one eye, the other having been sown shut. He wore soot-grey armor, a grey cloak, and a wild boar’s tusk hanging on a silver chain around his neck. Lord Ashcart had long back hair that framed his narrow, pock-marked face, but when he noticed Ser Richard and Ser Tybolt, his smile lit up his features and seemed to dispel the gloom Daeron had initially sensed.

“Is that you, Ser Richard, or is my eye deceiving me?” Lord Ashcart asked.

“’Tis not, Lord Ashcart,” Ser Richard replied, his tone indulging.

“Well met, Ser,” Lord Ashcart replied, with a friendly enough smile. “Have you come to lend your sword to our cause?”

Ser Richard bowed in the saddle. “I have come to help the people of these lands, aye.”

Lord Ashcart smiled brightly and looked around at the backs of the retreating villagers as though hoping one of them might’ve overheard the good news. “Those are glad tidings indeed, Ser, and we’ll be happy to have you.” Lord Ashcart then took in Daeron and Ser Tybolt. “And who are these companions of yours, if I may ask?”

“This is Ser Tybolt Smallwood.” Ser Richard gestured to his right. “And this is Ser Ryam of White Tree, and his squire, Jayson.”

“Ser Tybolt Smallwood, you say,” Lord Ashcart replied, far more jovial in his response than Daeron was used to. “An honor to meet you, Ser, truly. And you as well, Ser Ryam. We have heard the tales of your exploits in the Greenwood. To have warriors of such renown fighting with us will double the courage of every fighting man, I have no doubt.”

Daeron did his best to stop himself from raising an eyebrow at the honeyed words and succeeded. Better a Lord that flattered too much than a Lord who was a right cunt. He and Ser Tybolt both bowed in their saddles but said nothing.

“This is my natural-born son, Lyonel,” Lord Trystane said, smiling proudly at the lad next to him. The boy couldn’t have been more than twelve years old, but already he resembled his father in most ways – he had the same long hair, and the same long face, but there was a hint of mischief in his eyes that was missing in his father.

“Good to meet you, lad,” Ser Richard said, the rest of them echoing the sentiment.

The boy chirped a greeting in return, but it was clear he was too awe-struck by the presence of such legends to manage more than a couple of words.

“What is the situation here, if I may ask?” Ser Richard said, taking in the various preparations taking place to ready the village for a potential attack. A group of peasants were drilling with pikes on the other end of the square, an old stout knight shouting at them the entire time. A group of men stood in front of a barn, hammering out stakes of wood, while a score of men-at-arms patrolled the edges of the village.

“We are in dire straits, I fear,” Lord Ashcart replied, looking around anxiously. “I’ve lost a great many of my men to raids over the past couple of moons. I can barely muster twenty of my household knights and as many squires and men-at-arms. I’ve called up my levies, but they are green and need training. It’ll be some time before they are ready.”

Ser Tybolt leaned forward in his saddle and said, “And you are certain the pirates will attack again?”

“What’s to stop them?” Lord Ashcart spread his arms. “We are exposed, but then mayhaps they don’t know it.”

“What of Storm’s End? Rain House? They offer you no aid?” Ser Tybolt asked.

Lord Ashcart clenched his jaw and looked away, as though he was tempted to set aside his jovial personality where Storm’s End was concerned. “Lord Stannis keeps his ships close and refuses to send reinforcements, and I cannot say why. As for Rain House…” Lord Trystane looked at Ser Tybolt and Daeron noticed a spark of interest in his eyes. “I suppose we shall see. Either way, if you good knights want to help, I would happily accept your service.”

“What would you have us do?” Ser Richard asked.

“Train. Advise. Command. Pick your option,” Lord Ashcart said. “But mayhaps we can discuss that tomorrow. First, I’ll have Brenda over at the Hot Foot prepare you a hot meal and find you some bed to rest on, what do you say?”

Daeron’s stomach growled at those words, and he figured he knew the answer.

They sat in front of the fire in the common room of the Hot Foot Inn, sharing a cup of ale. The Brenda Lord Ashcart had mentioned turned out to be a buxom lady of around sixty years, though she moved with the vigor of a woman half her age. With dirt-brown hair and a sharp tongue, Brenda was wholly unimpressed when she learned the kind of great knights she would host under her roof. Instead, she complained about the last-minute arrangements and all the feed their warhorses would undoubtedly consume. But even though she kept ordering them about and shooing them out of the way, there was no doubt that the stew she had served them was one of the finest Daeron had ever tasted, and the ale wasn’t trailing far behind.

Now, as the hour of the bat approached, the common room, previously occupied by two dozen men, was all but empty. They’d send Jayson to sleep earlier, but Daeron sat across the fireplace from Ser Richard, Ser Tybolt by his side, while some of the villagers and men in Lord Ashcart’s service sat along the benches. The light of the fire played on their faces, most of the men weary from days of traveling and fighting, their faces smudged with dirt and sweat.

Daeron had his sword in his lap as the men talked, as did Ser Tybolt. The older knight always insisted they inspect and sharpen their weapons before a potential fight, and today was no different, though they had no idea when the pirates might attack.

“… of the matter stands, Robert would never have allowed the Stormlands to fall so low, beggin’ your pardon for sayin’ so, Ser,” a free-rider in Lord Ashcart’s service said to Ser Richard, wary of the man who’d so famously chosen to remain loyal to King Rhaegar even when the most of the Stormlands and his entire family had joined the rebellion.

“You can’t blame Lord Stannis,” Brenda said from her place in the corner of the room where she was knitting some socks. “He’s always lived in Lord Robert’s shadow. No matter what he does, people like you will say Robert would’ve done it better.”

“That may be, but at least Lord Robert would have fought,” the free-rider shot back. “Lord Stannis sulks in Storm’s End and helps no one. No wonder the people call him the False Stag.”

Daeron slid his whetstone down his blade and regarded the free-rider wearing boiled leather and an assortment of daggers on his swordbelt. Daeron didn’t like his words, but he couldn’t deny that a lot of people were repeating them. This wasn’t the first time Daeron had heard Lord Stannis referred to as the False Stag. The name had been given to Robert’s younger brother immediately after the end of the Rebellion when he accepted King Rhaegar’s pardon and swore fealty to the Crown instead of following Robert into exile. But back then this title was used only by Baratheon loyalists, and even then in whispers. Few would have dared to call Lord Stannis the False Stage out loud in those days, but a few moons of constant harassment from the pirates had removed such constraints from people’s tongues.

Brenda seemed to have a great deal she wanted to say in response to the free-rider’s words, and some of the other men in the room were queuing in line behind her, but then Ser Richard put the matter to bed as he said, “Lord Stannis is doing his very best, I assure you. He would not be biding his time if he didn’t have a good enough reason.”

That put the matter to bed, not because the people in the common room agreed with Ser Richard, but because disagreeing with him would mean coming too close to the line that separated a harmless conversation from treason.

The remaining guests split into groups then, talking among themselves, and Daeron took the opportunity to ask some questions of his own. “Ser Tybolt said you were high in King Rhaegar’s court once.”

Ser Richard looked into his cup and, before he took a sip, said, “Aye, I was.”

Daeron stared at him. For all the tales of his prowess and his mighty reputation, the knight had terribly sad eyes. “Why’d you leave?”

Ser Richard lowered his cup. “I suppose it wasn’t what I had expected.”

It was clear that Ser Richard thought Ser Tybolt would try to mock him for his words, but Ser Tybolt seemed to be on his best behavior. He kept his mouth shut and focused on honing his blade.

Daeron, meanwhile, saw that he would have to get information out of the knight the hard way, and found he didn’t mind in the slightest. “And what did you expect?” he asked, trying not to sigh.

Ser Richard regarded him for a few moments, and he must’ve seen sufficient resolve in Daeron, for he said, “When Rhaegar took the Throne, we were full of hopes, all of us who’d fought for him. After years of Mad Aerys’ misrule, here was finally a King who could bind the Realm together. All the finest knights in the Realm had gathered around him—” Ser Richard ignored Ser Tybolt’s grunt. “—and all the finest minds. It seemed as though we had a chance to rebuild the Seven Kingdoms, make them better.”

Daeron could almost see the picture the knight had painted. Of course, it had a lot to do with the fact that he’d spent much of his childhood wondering about the court of King’s Landing, where the Sword of the Morning and Ser Barristan Selmy walked the ramparts together, where the Knight of Flowers and Prince Aemon the Dashing sparred in the courtyard, where King Rhaegar and his Hand ruled over the Seven Kingdoms with wisdom and grace.

“What happened?” Daeron asked, though he didn’t want to know. Not truly.

“Greed. Vanity. Lust for power. Take your pick. Instead of building a new Realm, we spent our days soothing the pride of half-wit Lords so they wouldn’t stab us in the back the first chance they got. And when we tried to make changes, the courtiers and the servants and the lordlings, they played their little games until everything was upside down and we could hardly remember what we tried to accomplish in the first place.” Ser Richard snorted, then shook his head. “For fifteen years, I tried to help the Seven Kingdoms, tried to make them a little better. And in the end… I accomplished nothing, because that’s how people work. So finally, I decided that if I couldn’t improve matters, I could at least try to help the smallfolk. And it’s hard to do that from the Red Keep, I’m afraid.”

“Who would’ve thought,” Ser Tybolt said, giving his sword one last lick with the whetstone. “You became a member of court, me an exile, and somehow you’re the more hopeless of the two.”

“I’d noticed that myself,” Ser Richard said, and his face softened this time when he looked at Ser Tybolt. “How’d you manage that?”

“Hell if I know,” Ser Tybolt said, though Daeron noticed the older knight glanced at him as he said it.

Strangely warmed by the idea that Ser Tybolt might’ve grown less cynical in his company, Daeron wanted to—

Ding.

Ding.

Ding.

By the time of the third bell, Daeron was on his feet, as were Ser Richard and Ser Tybolt. The village bell had been rung. Brenda, who’d started snoring in the corner of the common room, was on her feet, much like the rest of her guests, though most of them were half asleep or half drunk.

“Go wake Jayson, now!” Ser Tybolt said. “I’ll get our armor.”

Daeron didn’t need to be told twice. He jumped over the table and raced up the stairs. The inn had three stories, and Brenda had given Jayson and Daeron the chambers at the very top when she learned they didn’t have any famous names and hadn’t accomplished any famous deeds. Daeron didn’t have to run all the way up, however. Jayson ran into him halfway to the second floor, already wearing his boiled leather over the shirt of chainmail they’d bought him a few moons ago when he disarmed Daeron in a spar for the first time.

“What is it? Is it an attack?” Jayson asked, breathless.

“I think so,” Daeron said, grabbed the boy by the shoulder, and dragged him downstairs to get out of the way of the other guests who’d woken up and were trying to get out into the open.

When they came into the inn’s common room, it was crowded with people, all of them clamoring for information. Ser Tybolt stood by the door, staring out as he helped Ser Richard put on his chainmail. It seemed he was returning the favor, for he’d already put on his own. He spotted Daeron coming down the stairs and threw him Daeron’s chainmail, saying, “You’re not going anywhere until you put that on!”

“Here, help me, quick!” Daeron told Jayson and went down on one knee in front of the boy. They managed to get the shirt of mail over his head, and then Jayson worked the straps with practiced efficiency. They could hear screams and shouts outside, and what might’ve sounded like fire, but Daeron couldn’t be sure.

Some of the men in the common room armed themselves with whatever they could get their hands on, from maces and swords to common kitchen knives and pitchforks from the stables.

Once Jayson had finished with the chainmail, Daeron thought that might be enough, but Ser Tybolt had other ideas. “Now the breastplate!” It seemed even the older knight didn’t expect them to waste time putting on shoulder guards and vambraces, but a breastplate could very well be the difference between life and death, so Daeron didn’t object. His right hand in a fist, he nearly scratched his knuckles bloody, trying to keep still as Jayson worked the straps on his breastplate, hands shaking like crazy.

“Done!” the lad cried out, and the next moment he was handing over Daeron’s shield and sword, grabbing his blade as well.

Daeron put a hand on his shoulder. “You make way for the forest, you hear?” The boy nodded. “Not the keep, the forest. If you run into any villagers on the way, you take them with you. You run into any pirates, you gut the bastards, you understand?” The lad had been patiently learning the sword for the last couple of moons, but he was still far from proficient, so Daeron figured a bit of encouragement would do him good.

Pale and terrified, Jayson nodded hurriedly, gripping his sword with both hands.

“Good, now go.”

As the boy ran out of the inn, Daeron turned to Ser Tybolt and Ser Richard, who’d just finished putting on each other’s armor, though neither man seemed particularly pleased to have been forced into the activity.

“Let’s go,” Ser Richard said and gestured for them to follow him.

Since the inn was more on the landward side of the village, they didn’t see any men or fighting when they first emerged, but they could hear shouting in the distance, and an orange glow filled the darkness above the village that suggested the pirates had set fire to the houses. The three knights ran in the direction of the fighting, and as they turned the corner onto a street that ran directly to the village square, they ran into a group of pirates.

Two of them had skin as dark as the night, and Daeron noticed a painfully blue mustache on another one, while the fourth had his face hidden behind a helm. When they spotted Daeron and his companions, they immediately roared out a challenge and attacked.

The man with the helm came after Daeron, wielding a poleaxe. He raised it high in the air and brought it crashing down on Daeron, who raised his shield to block the strike. The axe glanced off the shield into the ground, and then Daeron swung at the pirate’s hands as the man tried to recover. He fully expected the damned savage to block the strike, but instead, his blade bit into his arm.

The pirate cried out in pain, dropped the poleaxe, and faced Daeron as if he meant to tackle him, but instead, he only opened himself up for the next attack. A swing opened his gut, and as he fell to the ground to try to keep his guts from spilling free, Daeron took his head.

Looking around, Daeron got to see Ser Richard and Ser Tybolt put the finishing touches on the fourth pirate, having already slain the other two. When the blue-mustache man collapsed, gurgling blood, Ser Tybolt looked at him, and shouted, “Come on, we have to push forward.”

They ran toward the village square, where the fighting seemed to be the thickest, Ser Richard leading the way. Then, all of a sudden, a man came hurtling out of an alleyway. He slammed into Ser Tybolt, who was running behind Ser Richard and sent him crashing to the ground. The pirate must not have seen Daeron, for he pivoted to attack Ser Richard from behind, but all it got him was Daeron’s sword through the back. Daeron heard the pirate exhale his last breath when he kicked him off his sword.

Helping Ser Tybolt get back on his feet, they ran forward again and reached the edge of the village square. Half the houses seemed to be on fire, the orange flames lighting up the night. Sporadic fighting filled the open ground, some men fighting in groups, some alone, with no discipline or organization.

“We need to gather the men!” Ser Tybolt shouted to them.

“Look!” Daeron pointed in the distance, where a group of riders carrying torches rode up the small incline toward the keep. In the darkness, they looked like tiny orange ants, swarming the keep, and it didn’t take long for the wooden walls to go up in flames when they started throwing the torches.

“Not our problem!” Ser Richard said. “Stay together and bring men to our side!”

The three of them charged the group of fighters closest to them. A pair of villagers with axes and pikes, along with a man-at-arms wearing the silver spear of house Ashcart on his surcoat, fought three pirates. Daeron, Ser Tybolt, and Ser Richard slammed into them, taking them unawares, and cut them down in no time.

“With us!” Ser Richard commanded the stupefied men they’d saved. “Come with us!”

The man-at-arms quickly got his bearings, but the two villagers needed another moment. The larger of the two, a giant of men with a shaggy beard who wielded an axe, grabbed his compatriot and pushed him forward.

Ser Richard quickly identified the next group to attack, and they advanced along the edge of the square toward a dozen fighters engaged in an all-out melee. “Ser Tybolt, take the left,” Ser Richard commanded. “You lot, with me!”

The villagers went with Ser Richard while Daeron and the man-at-arms went with Tybolt. They flanked the pirates and went to work. Daeron killed the first one with a blow to his exposed head, then cut off the arm of the second one who wheeled to meet him, finishing him off with a thrust through the throat. Ser Tybolt had cut down two more, leaving nothing for the man-at-arms, as they quickly met Ser Richard in the middle.

Now, they had the numbers. There were more than a dozen of them and they could pick their battles since most of the fighting across the square involved one or two warriors from either side. “Dickie, take half of them and sweep the south side, I’ll take the north!” Ser Tybolt commanded.

Ser Richard nodded, pointed to the men he wanted with him, and ran off. Daeron followed Ser Tybolt the other way, advancing right behind him and watching over the knight’s shoulder as Ser Tybolt cut down two men who came at him before Daeron could even think to help. With every little victory, their wave of men grew, making it all but impossible for small groups of pirates to fight back. They realized the same thing and one of them began calling for his men to converge on him.

The pirates started breaking off their fights, panic in their eyes as they backtracked, watching the incoming wave of men, and they quickly saw the wisdom of their leader’s orders. Ser Tybolt and Ser Richard, as though they shared a brain, screamed out at the same time, “Charge the bastards, don’t let them organize!”

Daeron and the rest of the men immediately broke into a run, chasing down the fleeing pirates before they could join the rapidly growing formation at the edge of the square. Daeron slammed into one pirate, sending him stumbling to the ground, but didn’t stick around to finish him off, instead trusting the men behind him to do so. He tripped another man and also kept running, his eyes on the wall of pirates waiting for him some thirty feet ahead.

Daeron’s heart beat so fast he thought he might be flying, and not a single coherent thought went through his mind. Daeron knew it was dangerous to charge a mass of men on foot like that, let alone slam into their midst, but the idea to stop never occurred to him – he raised his shield in front of him and threw himself at a pirate wearing a sunlight yellow cloak. Daeron’s elbow screamed at the impact, but he’d created a small dent in their lines. Immediately slashing at the man to his right, he expected his blade to hit chainmail only to be rewarded with a spray of blood as he opened the pirate’s neck almost to the bone.

Sensing danger ahead, he thrust forward blindly and skewered the yellow-cloaked pirate. Someone from his left came at him at the same instant, and Daeron might’ve been killed were it not for the fact that the rest of the men slammed into the pirates then, and the huge man with the axe took the pirate’s head.

Wanting to thank the man, Daeron instead had to contend with another attacker. This one screamed like a wildling, wielding a mace in each hand as though he were imitating a windmill, striking one blow against Daeron’s shield after another. The initial attack surprised Daeron, so he gave some ground, timed the pirate’s strikes, and struck out. He cut off the pirate’s right arm with the first slash, then put his sword through his face with the second.

Looking around, Daeron had only one thought: They’re screwed. The pirates had tried to form a line, and they’d succeeded, but Ser Tybolt led his men straight at them, and then Ser Richard came around and hit their flanks. To the right of Daeron, the famed knight was hacking and slashing his way through their line as easily as if he were cutting a path through some vines in the forest.

“Back to the ships!” Daeron heard the pirate leader scream. “Back to the ships!”

The soldiers and villagers cried triumphantly at those words and redoubled their efforts to slaughter every pirate within arm’s reach. They chased them through the streets of the village, cutting down every man they could, and it wasn’t until they came within sight of the ships on the beach that they were forced to end their pursuit, as they came within range of the pirate bowmen who rained arrow shafts down upon them. Daeron barely brought up his shield in time – two thuds, not far apart, told him that had been a wise decision.

“Stay back!” Ser Tybolt thundered from somewhere to his left. “Don’t advance any further!”

Daeron and the rest of the fighters were forced to watch, helpless, as the pirates pushed their ships back into the sea and boarded them in a half-panicked frenzy. There were three ships and around a hundred raiders in total. As Daeron watched the vessels disappear into the darkness, he couldn’t help but grin. “Ha! We beat them bloody!” he cried.

Ser Tybolt appeared by his side. “Fool! They got what they wanted.” The knight grabbed Daeron by the shoulder and forced him to turn around.

The sight that met Daeron would come to mind every evening for years to come, for the entire village of Pevensey burned. He saw the roof of one house collapse, while the wall on another fell over as though someone had tipped a domino. The bells were still ringing, though it seemed to Daeron that with an even greater intensity, as the people formed human chains from the well in the square to the various buildings that might still be salvaged, passing buckets of water up and down the line.

Daeron’s smile withered, his swords and shield clattered to the ground, and he ran forward to help.

Chapter Text

By the time the fires died down, there was little left of the village of Pevensey. Daeron, Ser Tybolt, and Ser Richard helped the villagers fight the flames throughout the night, but a wind had come from the sea and fanned the flames until the blaze began leaping from one house to the next. When the grey dawn finally arrived, Pevensey was a pile of smoldering rubble, and the smoke filled the sky above the Stormlands.

Daeron’s face and armor were as dark as night from the ash and soot when he stumbled to the well and received a bucket of water to wash up. Cupping his hands, he splashed water at his face, then watched it trickle down his armor like a black snake. When they pushed the pirates back to the beach, Daeron had thought they had won, and the memory of his naivete felt like a searing hot brick in his chest. They’d routed barely a third of the pirate force, the part that had been sent to distract them. The rest freely burned and pillaged Pevensey, stealing anything that wasn’t nailed down and raping the women before dragging them back to their ships. Daeron had heard that some fifty women were missing, and another dozen children, though they expected to find some of them amid the rubble.

Ser Tybolt stumbled to the well, his face as black as Daeron’s, and helped himself to some water. He drank with the thirst of a man who’d been stranded at sea for three days, then upended a bucket of water over his hand to wash away the soot. Daeron watched him shake his head like a dog, sending black droplets flying in every direction and said nothing.

When Ser Tybolt noticed Daeron standing there, he took another sip of the water and asked, “What?”

Daeron kept staring at him and shrugged.

“You think this is the worst you’ll ever see?” Ser Tybolt approached him and put his hands on Daeron’s shoulder. “This is nothing, you hear me? Worse things happen every day.” When Daeron still wouldn’t respond, Ser Tybolt slapped him. “I’m talking to you, Ser!”

“They were helpless,” Daeron croaked, and it surprised him to hear how much his throat hurt, how hoarse his voice sounded. He’d been shouting all night.

Ser Tybolt inclined his head. “Most people are. But crying about it won’t help them none.” The older knight looked around. “Come with me.”

Ser Tybolt dragged Daeron behind him to the end of the ruined village, where a group of people had gathered around something. Daeron followed Ser Tybolt in a daze, but when the crowd parted enough to offer him a glimpse of Brenda the Innkeeper, he snapped back into the present. The old woman stood behind a kettle, stirring whatever was inside with a big spoon, and filling the plates of the survivors who’d come for a meal. Her face was grim but determined, and though her eyes bore testimony to what had happened, there wasn’t the slightest bit of desperation in her. She would fight on, and damn the rest.

“See that?” Ser Tybolt asked. “She lost everything last night, and look at her now. If she ain’t feeling pity for herself, then you got no reason to pity her, yeah?”

Daeron swallowed, suddenly realizing how foolish he’d been. “Yeah,” Daeron croaked again. He cleared his throat. “I understand.”

“Good.” Ser Tybolt did something entirely unlike him – he smiled at Daeron in understanding. “Now, let’s go eat something, we’ll need our strength, ‘cause something tells me those fuckers will come back.”

After eating their fill and ensuring no survivors were buried under the rubble, Daeron threw himself in the Lonely River to wash up. It was a grey day, and the gale was still blowing from the sea, but he couldn’t care less. Daeron dragged Jayson with him and the two stripped down to their breeches and waded into the slow-running river.

Jayson had also endured quite the ordeal over the course of the night. Daeron had meant for him to run to safety, maybe corral one or two of the villagers on the way, but Jayson took it upon himself to get everyone he could out of the village. In the end, that amounted to around two dozen old men and women who might’ve been killed if they remained in the village or went to seek the sanctuary of the keep. In doing so, however, Jayson had drawn the attention of the pirates, and when Daeron went searching for the boy after they’d put out the flames, he found the boy with a faraway look in his eyes and blood on his sword. One of the village elders told Daeron that the boy had decapitated a pirate who came running at them.

As they swam against the current to keep in place, Daeron watched the boy and found there was precious little he could say to him. Ser Tybolt had already offered his gruff comfort, which probably did more to soothe Jayson than anything Daeron could say. And besides, there was nothing for it – they’d all gone through the same thing, and no amount of honeyed words would improve matters.

When they’d washed away the last of the soot, blood, and dirt from the night, Daeron dragged Jayson out of the water and they dried up with the help of some blankets before they put their clothes back on. Daeron touched his shoulder and looked the boy in the eye. “You alright?”

Jayson swallowed and squared his shoulders, and Daeron knew he had become a man. “Yes, Ser.”

As they returned to the small camp that was forming on the edge of the village, they found Lord Ashcart and his son talking to Ser Tybolt and Ser Richard. His Lordship had been halfway to Beestown when he heard of the attack, and by the time he returned, the damage had already been done. Now he looked around the remnants of his village and kept running a nervous hand through his hair, while his son watched him and nibbled on his lip.

“… for help,” he said to Ser Tybolt. “I’ve already sent messengers to Lady Jocelyn as well as Storm’s End and Summerhall, but I cannot say if they will be heeded. And if they are, if they will muster quickly enough.”

Ser Richard spat to the side. “They won’t.”

“That’s why I need your help, Sers.” Lord Ashcart leaned forward in his saddle, beseeching. “I’ve already sent word for my levies to gather at Beestown, but I need men to train them, men to lead them. I’ve talked to the villagers, I know what you did last night, and I’m afraid I have further service to ask of you.”

“Small good it did the village,” Ser Richard said.

“Much good it did the villagers,” Lord Trystane shot back. “You saved dozens. Maybe the pirates would have slaughtered them in detail if it wasn’t for you. Even your boy saved more than two dozen, I’ve heard.”

Daeron smiled at Jayson who stood by his side – it was clear the boy was fighting the urge to look at the ground, but he managed to keep his chin up and meet Lord Trystane’s gaze.

“We will help you,” Ser Tybolt said. “But when do you plan to move these people upriver?”

“Immediately. I’ve already given the orders.” Lord Ashcart pointed to one of the few wagons that survived the fires. The villagers were piling it high with what remained of their personal effects. “We will move out within the hour.”

“Very well then,” Ser Tybolt said, grinning at Daeron and Jayson. “I hope you two weren’t planning on getting any rest. Get your horses and let’s go.”

Beestown was located some three leagues upriver from Pevensey. Sitting on the southern end of the Lonely River, Beestown had the Rainwood to guard its back. The tall oaks and sycamores gave the impression as though the town had a roof over its head, though it was big enough to boast some three dozen houses, including a sizeable tavern for all the travelers that passed through. A large stone bridge connected the town to the north bank and Rain House to the north.

Beestown was a trading town and it thrived on the woodland sheep that grazed in the surrounding forest. The wool they produced was known throughout the Seven Kingdoms as the finest a man could find on this side of the Narrow Sea. Daeron would have liked to visit the village on any other day, and might’ve even stood mesmerized when the forest path in front of him cleared to afford him his first glimpse, but on that day, all he felt was sweet relief.

It was no small thing to move the survivors of Pevensey upriver, dragging their remaining possessions and dignity in tow. Some two hundred people, old men and young mothers with babes still at their breasts, trudged on foot while mules pulled wagons loaded with their belongings. Some left behind their dead sons and husbands, and wept with every step they took, while Daeron saw some young boys walk with their fists clenched, black rage in their eyes.

As they traveled, Daeron talked to many of them, and heard their stories. There was a young woodcutter named Rafe. A copper-haired youth, a few years older than Daeron, he revealed the pirates had raped both his sisters while he was away fighting, then took them away on their boats. “They’ll have them in Lys pleasure houses by the end of the moon, I know it,” the young man said, a blank look in his eyes. One thing was certain, Rafe’s axe would be changing vocations, for the young man had little interest in felling trees. That first evening as they made camp about halfway to Beestown, Daeron bid Rafe to get his axe and showed him the basics, from how he should set his feet before a strike to how to best recover after a swing. A lifetime of swinging at trees had taught him the rest, so Daeron had little doubt he would prove a terror in battle soon enough.

They reached Beestown at noon on the third day of their travel. The sun was shining from a clear blue sky for a change, and nothing but a gentle breeze ruffled their hair as they entered the town. The townsfolk came out to see them move through the streets, watching the people who’d invaded their town with quiet resentment, though Daeron also spied open terror in their eyes as they wondered at the monstrous force that had pushed these people upriver.

Lord Ashcart’s levies had already gathered on the outskirts of the town. There couldn’t be more than one hundred and fifty of them in all and they had set up a patchwork of tents in the space between the townhouses and the treeline about a hundred yards away. When Daeron and the rest rode into the camp, they came out of their tents and watched them carefully, the men’s eyes taking in their armor, their shields, and their swords.

Lord Ashcart had commanded that the Beestown tavern and inn should be set aside for the old men, women, and children from Pevensey, while the able-bodied men would have to join the levies and sleep in the camps.

After they had set the men to putting up their tents and digging latrine ditches in the forest, Ser Tybolt and Ser Richard bid Daeron to join them in the command tent Lord Ashcart had prepared ahead of time.

It wasn’t anything like the tent Daeron remembered when he went to surrender his horse and armor to Prince Jaehaerys. There was no opulence, only moist grass for a floor and a command table in the middle of the space.

“We’re giving you thirty men,” Ser Richard said the moment Daeron stepped through the door. Ser Tybolt stood leaning against the table, munching on some nuts, and he didn’t seem to appreciate that Ser Richard was including him in the statement. Their amicable cooperation only extended to the field of battle.

Daeron thought he misheard. “Sorry, what?”

“Thirty men,” Ser Richard repeated, his expression blank, as though commanding Daeron to get used to the new reality, and quickly. “It’s your job to train them. Then it’ll be your job to lead them in battle when the pirates return.”

“If the pirates return.” Suddenly, it was far more important to Daeron that the pirates stay away from Beestown.

Ser Richard kept his blank expression, then looked down at a crude drawing of the city and said, “When they return, it’ll be your job to hold the southern side of the city. I want you to train those men with spears and shields. They need to be able to hold the line against anything that comes their way.”

Daeron did not know what to make of it. He’d always known he would command men in battle someday. Uncle Ned had prepared him for it, trained him for it, but Daeron had always assumed that he would be a man grown by the time such a responsibility would be placed on his shoulders. Or that he’d at least feel like a man grown.

Thinking of Jayson and how the boy had dealt with having to shoulder a greater burden than he was ready for, Daeron squared his shoulders and nodded. “Who will I be commanding?”

“The twenty men from Pevensey. Then we’re giving you another then from this lot here, feel free to take your pick of them,” Ser Richard said.

The men from Pevensey knew him and had seen him fight. Undoubtedly that would make it a little easier for them to accept the orders of a young man of seven-and-ten. Smart. “Very well, I’ll go talk to them now.”

Daeron turned and stepped out of the tent, Ser Tybolt following after him. “Any advice?” Daeron asked him.

Ser Tybolt threw a nut in his mouth and said, “Figure it out.” Daeron watched him walk away and he couldn’t help but grin. Trust the man to make matters simple.

Jayson was waiting for Daeron at the hitching rail with both their horses and Daeron quickly mounted up. “Where are we going, Ser?”

“I’ve been given command of thirty soldiers.” Daeron spurred his horse into a trot and they rode between the tents to the far end of the camp. The ground had already turned to mud from all the men trodding on the wet grass, and the haphazard layout of the tents and campfires told him no true commander had overseen the erection of the camps. No doubt they dug their latrines right next to their tents, too. It turned out he wasn’t far wrong in that regard.

The men from Pevensey were at the very edge of the camp, hugging the treeline, and when Daeron reached them, they were in the process of setting up their tents. They were making the same mistake as the men from Beestown, so Daeron called out, “Stop that!”

The ringing of hammers ceased and heads looked up at Daeron on his horse. The men had seen him with Lord Ashcart, they knew he was a knight, so Daeron had no problem explaining to them how to set up their tents and where to dig the latrines. The men listened to his words, then brought down the tents and started all over again. It was a good beginning, but it was the ten men from Beestown who would be the real test.

“Come,” Daeron told Jayson and they rode to the nearest clump of tents. Some fifteen men were moving altogether, most of them sitting around a fire. When they saw Daeron approach, they got to their feet.

“You men, you’re coming with me. I need ten of you,” he told them. “Bring down two of the tents and set them up next to that lot there.” Daeron pointed at the men from Pevensey.

The men exchanged looks. “Who are you?” one of them asked, a big, burly fellow with a bald head.

Daeron shifted in his saddle and glowered down at the man. “My name’s Ser Ryam of White Tree. I’m your commander. Now do as I say – bring down those tents and set them up again over there.”

The men – woodcutters by the look of them, so not to be trifled with – exchanged looks, but did as they were bid. It wasn’t Daeron’s commanding presence that made them play along though. They were used to listening to orders, common men like that, and they knew the consequences of disobedience. They muttered under their breath and even glared at Daeron as the outsider that he was, but they did as they were told. It was a small victory, but a good beginning, so Daeron wouldn’t complain.

It wasn’t until the following morning that Daeron’s men had their camp in order, their tents set up, and they were ready to begin training. Ser Richard and Ser Tybolt had ordered the rest of the levies to bring down their tents and set them up in an ordered fashion, so Daeron’s men resented his orders a little less and even took some pride in the fact that they were the first to get their camp in order.

Their good cheer didn’t last long, for Daeron had them up at first light, and standing at attention. There were thirty-five of them in all – the ten Beestown men Daeron had picked had friends who couldn’t stand to be parted from them, so Daeron let it stand – and they were a mixed lot. Ten shepherds, fifteen woodcutters, two blacksmith’s apprentices (one from Pevensey and one from Beestown), a dyer’s apprentice, while the rest were fishermen. Daeron had them stand in two rows so they could all hear him and he could spare himself the hassle of marching up and down the line like some rooster and had Jayson stand beside him, doing his best to appear stern.

Among the thirty-five were six brothers, ranging from the ages of thirty-five to eight-and-ten, all of them spitting images of each other. When they stood in a row, anyone could see the developmental process of their family line. They were the Wright boys and they did everything together, so Daeron didn’t have to learn their names. He would call, “Wright!” and all of them would come.

One of the woodcutters was the bearded giant who’d wielded the axe during the fighting at Pevensey. Daeron learned his name was John and that he had lost a son during the fighting, which made him very eager to have another go at the pirates.

Then there was Sam the Suckler, the ill-tempered man who’d talked back at Daeron when he called up the Beestown men. He’d earned the name by refusing to be weaned as a child. One of the men told Daeron the fucker had been in a bad mood ever since.

“Listen up!” Daeron called, to startle awake any man who might think to sleep on his feet. “We are here to teach you to fight with spears in a shield wall. That means—”

“But, Ser, most of us are woodcutters, Ser,” the youngest of the Wright brothers said, a youth with an abundance of pimples that would soon give way to pockmarked cheeks, if his brothers were of any indication. “We know our way around an axe. Shouldn’t we be using it instead of spears?”

There were some mutters of agreement from the men.

“Axes are good in a fight, aye,” Daeron said. “But spears and shields are for when you need to win a battle because when the cavalry comes down on you, your axes won’t do you a lick of good, you understand?”

The young Wright blushed and nodded, and it seemed Daeron had convinced the rest as well, for the mutters quickly ceased. But then Daeron, high on another victory, said, “Anyone got any other questions?”

Sam the Suckler stepped forward. “Aye, I ‘ave a question. We’re most of us men grown. Why would any o’ us follow a pup like you into battle?”

Daeron stiffened at another challenge from the man. It wasn’t because Sam the Suckler was intimidating but because it was a fair question. Why should they follow him into battle and listen to his commands, when some were twice his age, with children of their own? The obvious answer was that Daeron was a knight, their appointed commander, and they were duty-bound to listen to him. But Daeron remembered Uncle Ned saying that a man who had to pull rank to get his soldiers to obey would never earn their loyalty or their trust.

John the Woodcutter stepped forward then and slapped Sam the Suckler in the back of his head. “Fool,” he said, pointing at Daeron. “I seen that man cut down a dozen pirates at Pevensey like he was hacking at branches.”

Sam the Suckler went to respond, though his argument would probably have more to do with the slap than Daeron’s exploits at Pevensey. So Daeron raised a hand and said, “Enough.”

Sam the Suckler rounded on him, his entire head reddening, from his scalp to his jaw. “He hit me!”

Daeron regarded him coolly, doing his best Ned Stark impression. “Make me repeat myself, I dare you.”

Sam went to say something, but at the last moment, the words lodged in his throat and he looked away.

“D’you want to live, Sam?” Daeron asked him, conscious of the other thirty-four men and how closely they were watching him.

Sam mumbled something.

“I asked you a question, I expect you to look me in the eye when you answer.”

Sam looked up, his black eyes hostile, and said, “Aye, Ser.”

“D’you want to keep Beestown from getting burned to the ground?”

“Aye, Ser.”

“It won’t happen with you questioning my every order. It won’t happen with you refusing to do as you’re told,” Daeron said. “I wouldn’t argue with you in the forest about which trees are ripe to be brought down because that’s your domain. But war is mine. Most others knights would have you whipped for insubordination and be done with it, but I’d rather you understood.” Daeron turned and looked around, meeting the gazes of the men. “If the pirates come back, you’ll all have to fight as one. You stand alone, you’re dead already, I might as well gut you now and spare the pirates the trouble. But if you learn to fight together and you listen to my commands, then this shield wall will become impregnable, and we’ll gut those bastards and throw them into the river.”

“I like the sound of that!” John the Woodcutter yelled, nodding enthusiastically.

Then one of the men yelled, “Beestown!”  and threw up a hand, and quickly the rest took up his shout.

“Beestown! Beestown! Beestown!”

When the shouts died down, Daeron smiled at Sam the Suckler, and said, “How about it, Sam? You want to gut the bastards?”

Sam stared at him for a few beats, as though making up his mind, and then Daeron saw the anger bleed from his eyes. “Aye, Ser. That I do.”

Chapter Text

Daeron spent the next two days training the men, teaching them how to form a shield wall and how to hold it, showing them how to march in formation and deploy for battle. Since Beestown was surrounded by the Rainwood, shields, and spears were not hard to come by, so Lord Ashcart quickly equipped all the levies, the shields bearing the silver spear on a black field that was the sigil of his House.

Daeron and Jayson then went about showing the men how best to thrust and recover, how to block strikes with their shields and then find gaps with the tips of their spears. “They get past the tip of your spear, and you’re dead!” Daeron repeated so many times he heard the phrase in his dreams. He only hoped his men did too.

On the second day, once the men had developed a general understanding of what was expected of them, Daeron had Jayson armor him from head to toe, then grabbed a tourney sword and began testing the shield wall. He used every trick he knew to get past their spears and in among them, where he delivered stinging blows to the men’s shoulders and torso so they would remember their mistakes.

After they got the hang of that and routinely repulsed Daeron’s attempts, he and Jayson mounted their horses and set about charging the shield wall. The men formed up in two ranks, all of them as stiff as dead men, and the first time Daeron and Jayson charged them, they broke and got out of the way.

“The horse won’t charge a solid wall!” Daeron shouted at them. “Show some balls, hold the line, and you’ll live. But if you flinch, any one of you, you’re all dead.”

It took two more attempts for the men to understand – on the fourth charge, the men held, Dawn skidded to a halt at the last moment and nearly threw Daeron. When he finally got his horse under control, Daeron started laughing. “Aye, that’s the way to do it.” It pleased him to see the men smiling back at him as they clapped each other on the back.

Daeron drilled them for the rest of the day until they were all bone-tired and sore. They lasted longer than most raw recruits would have – being woodcutters for the most part – but he still pushed them to the very limit.

That evening, after most of them had passed out in their tents, Jayson included, Ser Tybolt showed up as Daeron sat at the campfire. The knight had been drilling his own men, though Daeron had heard he didn’t have quite so much trouble getting them to listen. The recruits heard his name and started falling over each other for the chance to be the first to obey his orders.

Ser Tybolt came into the light of the fire, a skin of wine in his hand, a chicken leg in the other, and said, “How goes it, Ser Ryam?”

Daeron was munching on some salted beef, and his mouth watered at the sight of the chicken leg. “Well enough.”

Ser Tybolt noticed him looking and handed over the chicken leg. “I brought this for you.”

Daeron didn’t know how famished he’d been for some good meat until he snatched the leg from Ser Tybolt’s fingers and bit into it as though he were some common fieldhand who hadn’t been properly fed in a moon.

“Someone’s hungry,” Ser Tybolt chuckled as he sat down by the fire next to him. Daeron didn’t bother answering – he stripped the chicken leg of its flesh with desperate urgency until there was nothing left.

“Here, something to wash it down.”

Daeron took the proferred skin of wine, but this time he took his time as he drank, the worst of his hunger finally sated.

“How are the recruits?” Ser Tybolt asked.

“Another couple of days and they might hold their own in battle,” Daeron said.

Ser Tybolt frowned at him. “I’ve seen them hold that shield wall after only three days, you’re doing very well. So why do you sound as though someone’s spit in your wine.”

Daeron couldn’t rightly say, though he knew Ser Tybolt had the truth of it. For the past two days, a sense of unease had been growing inside him, a pressure on his shoulders that increased almost imperceptibly. Daeron didn’t know what it was until the words came spilling out of him. “They listen to my commands, Tybolt.”

“The disloyal bastards, you should have them flogged.”

Daeron regarded him with a deadpan look.

“Alrigh’, alrigh’, why’s that a problem?”

“What happens when we go into battle, huh? When I give an order and they follow it without question, and it gets one of them killed? Or all of them?”

Daeron looked at Ser Tybolt for answers and found the truth in his eyes, a truth Ser Tybolt had no problem voicing. “It will be the same as it was after Pevensey stopped burning. You’ll go on.”

“And that’s it? That’s all?”

“Would you die for the North? To protect Winterfell?” Ser Tybolt asked.

“Of course I would,” Daeron said with some heat to his voice. What kind of a question was that?

“Don’t these men have the right to do the same?” Ser Tybolt regarded him with a sympathetic look. “They are not helpless sheep that you’re leading to the slaughter. They are men grown, and every one of them has to make that choice for themselves.”

“Aye, but it’s still me who’s giving the orders. Still me who might get them killed for nothing.”

“True enough,” Ser Tybolt conceded. “But that is the reality of who you are, lad. The weight of your family history. You’re the son of the King whether you like it or not, and this is far from the last time you’ll have the power of life and death over other men, far from the last time you’ll lead men in battle, I promise you that much.”

That was the truth of it, Daeron supposed, and much like Jayson had to accept what had happened to him at Pevensey, Daeron figured the same was true of him. He vowed he would do his very best to keep his men alive, then put the matter to the side.

Then he looked at Ser Tybolt. The two hadn’t been alone since Ser Richard joined them, so Daeron didn’t have the chance to ask about their feud. “You and Ser Richard seem to have a history.”

Ser Tybolt looked into the darkness. “Aye, we’ve known each other since childhood.”

“Really?” Jayson hadn’t mentioned that. “Why did he assume you’d come to kill him the second he laid eyes on you, then?”

Ser Tybolt seemed sad for the first time since Daeron had met him, as though some curtain had been pulled to the side. “That’s a long story.” Daeron wanted to object, but Ser Tybolt beat him to it. “Come, Lord Ashcart said he wanted to talk to us.”

Thinking it might be better to let matters lie for the moment, Daeron swallowed his protests and followed Ser Tybolt through the camp. The tents were all arranged in neat lines now, and as they walked past them, Daeron heard the men snoring as they slept. The few knight’s tents were filled with the sounds of men drinking, even the occasional moan.

Lord Ashcart had his pavilion by the edge of the town, with two guards standing outside the entrance. Ser Tybolt and Daeron were familiar faces, so they immediately stepped aside when they approached.

“Ah, Ser Tybolt, Ser Ryam, please, come in,” Lord Ashcart said. He was sat behind a desk, a thin roll of parchment in his hand. To his left, Ser Richard stood, grim and stern in his armor, his hands behind his back.

“You wanted to see us, my Lord?”

“I did, yes.” He flapped the parchment through the air. “I have sent for help from Rain House and Storm’s End, as you know, and I have received my replies.”

“What do they say, my Lord?” Ser Tybolt asked.

“Storm’s End won’t send help. Lord Stannis does not think another pirate attack will happen here. Lightning doesn’t strike in the same place twice, and all of that.” Lord Ashcart glanced at Ser Richard at that.

“They will come for Beestown, my Lord,” Ser Richard replied, his grim expression replaced with that of a man who desperately wanted people to heed his warnings. “It’s too rich and too lightly defended.”

Lord Ashcart sighed. It seemed he shared Ser Richard’s misgivings. “Well, Lord Stannis disagrees.”

“And Rain House?” Ser Tybolt asked.

Lord Ashcart seemed to slump a bit at that. “Lady Jocelyn won’t send help.”

Daeron felt a spike of annoyance at that. “Does she not know the threat we face?”

“I fear… it’s more complicated than that.” Lord Ashcart grimaced, and his fingers went to his missing eye. “Lady Jocelyn and I… we were close once, but I’m afraid I made some mistakes and we’ve since fallen out. She rather hates me now, and I think that’s what is guiding her decision.”

Ser Tybolt and Daeron exchanged a look. “How can we help?” Ser Tybolt asked.

“You can’t,” Ser Richard stepped in, then turned to Lord Ashcart. “Lord Trystane, please. Let us not waste any more time and energy on this. I’ve seen how long it takes for people like this Lady Jocelyn to let go of their grudges. We’ll be better served seeing to our defenses.”

“That may very well be the case, but we have to try,” Lord Ashcart returned. “She has almost two hundred knights and men-at-arms in her household alone. And this is where you come in, Ser Tybolt. I remember her telling me a story about how you saved her father’s life at Summerhall.”

“Aye, my Lord. I did.”

“That’s why I was hoping you and Ser Ryam here might be my envoys to Rain House. With you there, maybe she’ll forget her hatreds for long enough to remember the smallfolk and how many lives she can save.”

“I… I cannot promise it will work, Ser.”

“Pevensey and Beestown lie on our borders and are technically disputed territories. House Wylde has long claimed them. At the moment, I control them, but that may very well change. If Lady Jocelyn ever wishes for them to become hers, she has to defend them.”

Lord Ashcart seemed willing to sacrifice his power to protect the people. Daeron’s esteem of the man instantly rose a little.

Ser Tybolt inclined his head. “I will, Ser.”

“What of our men?” Daeron asked. “What will happen to them while we’re away?”

“My knights will continue their training while you travel, but they’ll give up command when you return from your journey, I promise you, Ser.”

Daeron tried to draw comfort from those words, confused the entire time. Why would he worry about losing his command, when he’d been fretting about getting his men killed the entire day? Surely having someone else take over should have brought him relief.

I may not think I’m suited for command, Daeron realized. But I don’t seem to trust anyone else to do it, either.

The journey to Rain House was necessary – they needed Lady Jocelyn’s men if the pirates attacked – but when he returned, Daeron would resume his command and lead his men when the pirates came. He just had to pray they didn’t attack while he was away.

Ser Tybolt, Daeron, and Jayson set out at first light the next morning. Lord Ashcart had provided them with all the provisions they would need, even a spare change of clothes for their audience with Lady Jocelyn, and they loaded those provisions onto their mule. Then they mounted their horses – Daeron would leave Honor behind and ride Dawn for the journey – and set off.

Ser Richard argued against their journey to the last, trying to convince them again and again to settle for sending a raven. “I need you here, commanding,” he repeated over and over. “You’ll never see make these nobles see sense.”

Ser Tybolt ignored him for the most part, but by the time they set off, Daeron had had about enough of the man’s cynicism.

“Tell me something, Ser,” Daeron said, looking down at Ser Richard from his horse. “You say you spent fifteen years trying to help the Realm and achieving nothing.” Ser Tybolt and Jayson wheeled their horses around to listen to the conversation.

Ser Richard straightened his shoulders as though he were faced with a terrible accusation. “That’s right, Ser.”

“And you had nothing to show for all your efforts?”

“Nothing that I could see, no.”

“Alright, then, here’s my question: what if someone else had been in your position, someone who wasn’t the least bit interested in doing good? Or, here’s another one, what if the position had been filled by someone actively looking to harm the Realm? What would the Seven Kingdoms look like then?” Daeron saw his words hit their mark with Ser Richard. The knight’s expression rippled for a moment as though someone had slapped him. Daeron smiled pleasantly and said, “Food for thought.”

Putting the spurs to his horse, Daeron rode off, leaving the town behind him and entering the Rainwood. The forest was dry for the first time that Daeron had seen, the sunshine piercing the thick canopy, and it allowed Daeron to admire the beauty of the ancient trees, their trunks covered in moss, while the ground was covered in a thick layer of leaves.

When Ser Tybolt and Jayson caught up to him, Ser Tybolt was still chuckling. “That’ll make that fucker’s mind churn for a while yet, I promise you.”

“If you say so,” Daeron replied. “What happened between the two of you? Jayson says you’re pissed because Ser Richard stole your Lady and wounded you in a duel.”

Ser Tybolt looked at Jayson, while the boy looked at Daeron, betrayal in his eyes. Daeron merely shrugged back – Ser Tybolt needed a little sting to reveal the true story, and Daeron’s tactics quickly paid off.

“Is that what the little bugger said?” No doubt the lad would’ve received a clout in the ear if he’d been within arm’s reach. “That we hate each other because of Bethany Redwyne?”

“That’s what everyone says,” Jayson replied, his voice sullen.

Ser Tybolt shook his head, as though he couldn’t believe the stupidity of some people. When he found Daeron was still looking at him expectantly, the knight sighed and said, “Ser Richard was fostered at Acorn Hall, the two of us grew up together. We were the best of friends – he was closer to me than my brother.”

“Really?” Jayson squeaked. “I never heard that.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” Ser Tybolt said. “Those were the best of times, though. Richard and I, we were both wild young men, and talented… yes, we had talent to spare. We used to fight in squire’s tourneys and beat the piss out of every squire we came across just for fun. We’d hunt and fight and get drunk, and it seemed nothing could stand in our way. But we were also competitive, too. I was the better fighter of the two, but Richard, so handsome and chivalrous, he was better loved. Even my father preferred him to me, no matter how hard I tried.

“Well, one day we visited King’s Landing. A tourney was being held for the Mad King’s nameday, though he wasn’t quite so mad then. We entered the squire’s melee and won, and… Prince Rhaegar noticed Richard and took him to squire. He never even spared me a look, though we’d won the fight together and agreed that it was Richard’s turn to take the champion’s purse. With the snap of his fingers, Rhaegar took him away, and I returned home to Acorn Hall on my own.”

Ser Tybolt looked for a moment as though he was wrestling with some dark memory, and three times he opened his mouth to speak but snapped them shut again. Finally, he continued, “I did everything I could to get to King’s Landing myself, so we might find a place at court together. For a year I tried, and finally, I managed to become a squire to Lord Symon Staunton, who was Master of Laws on the Mad King’s Small Council.

“I came to King’s Landing, thinking all would be as it once was, though both of us had many duties to attend to. But suddenly Richard would not see me. I was too coarse, too rude – he couldn’t have me embarrassing him in front of the Crown Prince, he said. So he stayed away, but he also made sure the rest of the young Lords who’d gathered around the Prince would keep their distance. Connington seemed to despise me before he ever laid eyes on me, the same with Myles Mooton, and none of the Kingsguard ever so much as glanced my way, though I was one of the best swords around.

“But Lord Staunton saw my worth. He supported me throughout, even made sure I was sent to help subdue the Kingswood Brotherhood, while Richard had to stay behind with the Prince. I slew a dozen men during the last fight, but Jaime Lannister crossed swords with the Smiling Knight as a squire and survived, so the glory rightfully went to him. I didn’t mind, because I’d earned the notice of Ser Barristan the Bold. He knighted me after the battle, and told me he’d recommend me for the Kingsguard if I wished it.

“A couple of years went by and Richard and I practically became strangers, though we saw each other every day. I won a couple of tourneys, and I always took great pleasure in unhorsing the bugger. In turn, he made sure I couldn’t rise in the court, always blocking me from important positions and assignments with the help of the Prince. But then Ser Harlan Grandison died, and Ser Barristan came around offering me the position. I thought I’d won, that I finally got past Ser Richard. My appointment was supposed to have been announced at the Tourney at Harrenhall, where I would take the oath of the Kingsguard with half the Realm looking on. It was supposed to have been the proudest day of my life.

“You both know the story of what really happened. I didn’t care about the Mad King’s schemes, I blamed Richard. I was convinced he’d foiled me yet again. That evening at the feast, I got horribly drunk, and that’s when I spotted Bethany Redwyne. I’d heard whispers that Ser Richard had been courting her, that he was desperately in love with her. I figured they were true – Ser Richard had always been a romantic, always an idealist. He liked to put people on a pedestal and worship them, the same way he had with Rhaegar. But I also saw instantly that Bethany Redwyne wasn’t who Richard thought she was. He probably saw the Maiden reincarnate, but I saw a lusty wench who made eyes at half the knights at the feast. So I made my move, danced with her in front of Ser Richard the entire night, and took her to bed.

“Afterward, I wandered the camp, drunk, and ran into him walking with Ser Myles Mooton. I rounded on him, accused him of standing in my way, and called him a false friend and a traitor. He was more worried about me causing a scene than he was about answering my accusations, so that’s when I told him that he should look for Bethany Redwyne in her tent, though he might find her missing her maidenhead.

“He challenged me to a duel then and there. He probably thought I’d fight him in the morning, but I just drew my sword and went at him while Ser Myles ran for help. We fought, screaming at each other the entire time. We almost killed each other half a dozen times, but then Prince Rhaegar showed up and put a stop to it. I left for Acorn Hall the next morning, and we didn’t speak again until the other day.”

Daeron watched Ser Tybolt and saw the pain that was evident in every movement of his body. “You didn’t see him that entire time?”

“I saw him at Summerhall, but Robert routed the loyalist before I could reach him. And I saw him again at the Stoney Sept when Robert surrendered. But we didn’t speak then. He only stared at me from a distance, standing by Rhaegar’s side, as he always had.”

When Ser Tybolt finished his story, the Rainwood felt oddly quiet around them, as though the knight’s voice had taken up so much space that the birds in the trees and the murmuring brooks couldn’t fill. In the end, Daeron said, “I’m sorry, Ser.”

Ser Tybolt grunted in response but didn’t say anything. They rode on in silence after that.

Chapter Text

The trio reached Rain House as dusk was falling on the land. Made of dark grey stone, the castle had been built where the cliff jutted out of the land like an overlong arrow. The castle’s main tower stood at the very tip, some two hundred feet high, and overlooking the sea. The curtain walls spread from it, hugging the cliff's edge, with two more guard towers at each corner. Potential attackers could only attack one side of the triangle, by far the shortest side, as the walls couldn’t be more than a hundred feet across. The banners of House Wylde – a blue-green maelstrom on a gold field – flapped on the guard towers, while a larger one flapped proudly at the very top of the main tower.

“You’d need a dragon to take that,” Ser Tybolt said the second they laid eyes on the keep.

Daeron couldn’t help but agree as they rode up to the gates. A well-provisioned garrison could hold the castle against any attack until the Long Winter came. Daeron felt glad to have been sent as an envoy rather than a soldier.

“Who goes there?” the guards called.

“Ser Tybolt Smallwood,” Ser Tybolt answered. “And Ser Ryam of White Tree. Here to seek audience with Lady Wylde.” They’d agreed beforehand that they wouldn’t mention Lord Ashcart until they gained an audience, and it had been Daeron’s idea not to change into more appropriate clothes – let Lady Jocelyn see them in their armor, mud and all, and realize they didn’t have the time to prance around in costumes.

“Wait here,” one of the guards called, and wait they did. Normally, the gates of the castle would have been kept open, with the guards posted outside. It was a testament to the fear that pervaded the kingdoms that the noble Houses took such precautions. The trio sat their horses as time crawled by until finally, the portcullis came up, the gates opened, and they were waved through.

The eyes of everyone in the courtyard quickly turned to Ser Tybolt, Daeron, and Jayson as they entered the castle. Daeron spotted some men with bows in their hands, shafts sticking out of a pair of targets ahead of them. The men-at-arms seemed to be in the middle of their training, for they stood in three rows, carrying their shields and their swords, all of them in fighting stances.

Daeron had expected Lady Jocelyn to come to meet them, or one of her household knights, but instead a Maester shuffled forward. An old and balding man, the Maester walked hunched over, as though the weight of his chain was slowly pulling him to the ground.

“Ser Tybolt, what brings you to Rain House?” the Maester asked, peering up at them.

“We’ve come seeking an audience with Lady Wylde, Maester. Is she available?” Ser Tybolt asked, shifting in his saddle.

“Well, she’s just sat down for dinner, I believe. I will take you to her.” The Maester turned around and began shuffling to the main tower while they dismounted their horses and handed off the reins to the stableboys who came running.

With a few quick steps, they caught up to the Maester. “Might we have your name, Maester?” Daeron asked.

“Orwyle,” the man replied, glancing at him. “And yours?”

“Ser Ryam of White Tree,” Daeron said, then he pointed over his shoulder. “And this is my squire, Jayson Smallwood.”

“Pleasure to meet you all,” Maester Orwyle said, though he did not deign to look at Jayson. “I’m afraid to say you won’t find what you’re looking for here today.”

“What do you mean?” Ser Tybolt asked.

“You’ll see.” The Maester led them up the stairs and into the main tower of Rain House. Statutes of two prancing stags stood on each side of it, and when they stepped into the entrance hall, they found the high walls covered in huge tapestries depicting the martial history of House Wylde through half a dozen battles Daeron could not name.

The Maester led them on into the great hall. It was a circular room, the banners of House Wylde hanging from the rafters, and the old man led them between the long tables to the dais, where a young woman sat with a boy beside her. There was no one else in the hall, not even guards, so it was not hard to assume the young woman in question was Lady Jocelyn, the Ice Lady herself. She had beautiful, almond-shaped eyes the color of tree bark, and black hair that fell past her shoulders in wavy curls. Lady Jocelyn wore a golden dress, with black mealstroms stitched into the fabric, and she had an assortment of documents spread on the table before her, apparently explaining their meaning to her son.

“Maester Orwyle,” she said in a warm voice, regarding the trio with a warm smile. “Who have you brought before us?”

“Ser Tybolt Smallwood, my Lady.” Ser Tybolt chose to speak for himself. “And Ser Ryam of White Tree and his squire, Jayson Smallwood.”

Maester Orwyle shuffled on and went to take his seat on the dais beside his Lady.

“Ser Tybolt Smallwood?” Lady Jocelyn repeated, and her smile grew. “You are most welcome here, in my father’s hall, Ser. House Wylde has not forgotten the service you did us at the Battles of Summerhall.”

“I thank you for your words, my Lady.” Ser Tybolt bowed. “Your father was a great man. I was most sad to hear of his passing.”

“You bought him nine years, Ser. Few have ever given me greater gifts.”

It surprised Daeron to hear that a young woman such as Jocelyn should be called the Ice Lady, for she seemed the embodiment of warmth and kindness. It wasn’t her words – Daeron had seen plenty of soft-spoken snakes during his travels – but the look in her eyes that seemed to suggest they were all most welcome.

“As you say, my Lady,” Ser Tybolt replied and bowed again.

Lady Jocelyn then took notice of Daeron and Jayson before her gaze went back to Ser Tybolt. “But I do not imagine you’ve come all this way to reminisce on old glories, Ser.”

“No, my Lady,” Ser Tybolt said.

Lady Jocelyn nodded and looked to her left. “Marya, take Benjen, please, He’s late for his sparring lesson.” A serving woman materialized from somewhere to the left and hurried to the dais. She took Benjen by the hand and led him away, while the boy complained the entire time. Only when the doors closed behind them did Lady Jocelyn look to them again and say, “What would you like to speak of, Ser?”

“Beestown, my Lady,” Ser Tybolt replied.

“Beestown?” she asked, tilting her head as though she didn’t recognize the word. “You are seeking Lord Ashcart then, I’m afraid. Beestown is within his domains.”

“I know, my Lady. I’ve come to ask your help with defending the town.”

That kindness Daeron had seen seemed to start leaving Lady Jocelyn, as though someone had pricked her and the warmth was leaking out of her. “You’ve come to ask? Or have you merely come on behalf of Lord Ashcart?”

“Which option’s more likely to make you give Beestown the aid it needs, my Lady?” Ser Tybolt asked, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips.

Lady Jocelyn laughed out loud at that, but it was not an entirely pleasant sound. It reminded Daeron of the laughter of nobles in the Westerlands who had a fully armored knight duel a bear. With every strike the knight delivered, they laughed just like Lady Jocelyn.

“My Lord Father never mentioned your tongue was as deft as your blade, good Ser,” Lady Jocelyn said. “But I’m afraid neither option will get you your reinforcements. Lord Ashcart is the master of Beestown. ‘Tis his duty to defend it, not mine.”

“Lord Ashcart faces overwhelming odds, my Lady. The pirates attacked in numbers. They’ve burned Pevensey to the ground, left behind half a hundred dead, and took as many into slavery.”

Lady Jocelyn blanched at those words, but that’s when Maester Orwyle stepped in. “We have heard these horror stories before, good Ser,” he said as though he were tired of dealing with men spouting fairytales. “Even if they are true, it’s all the more reason for my Lady to keep her knights and men-at-arms close to home, so she may protect her lands.”

“They are true, Maester, every last one,” Ser Tybolt replied, far more calmly than Daeron might have. “And the pirates are taking advantage of this feud between your Houses. They know you are too strongly positioned here to attack, and they know you won’t come to Lord Ashcart’s aid. This is an opportunity you’ve given them.”

“I’ve given them?” Lady Jocelyn demanded, the last of the warmth gone. “It is not my fault if Lord Ashcart cannot protect his lands.”

“What of your claim to Beestown and Pevensey?” Jayson spoke up, his voice firm. The boy did not fear an audience with a noble Lady as he once might have.

Lady Jocelyn blinked. “My claim?”

“Aye, Lord Ashcart told us Pevensey and Beestown are disputed lands,” Ser Tybolt continued. “If you wish to enforce your claim, you must defend them, is that not so?”

Lady Jocelyn chuckled again, as though she were in on some joke the rest of them were too daft to understand. “Beestown and Pevensey were disputed territories, once upon a time. King Rhaegar settled the matter at the end of the Rebellion, after Lord Ashcart’s father refused to answer Robert Baratheon’s call to arms, and mine did. Lord Ashcart merely wants to pretend as though the matter was still open so I might rush in to help him defend his lands.”

Daeron looked at Ser Tybolt. That had been the last arrow in the knight’s quiver, and it had missed its mark. There seemed to be too much they did not know and understand of the history between the two Houses to succeed, though it was doubtful that they would have fared any better if they knew everything. Lord Ashcart’s hopes seemingly rested entirely on the history that Lady Jocelyn and Ser Tybolt shared.

Thus, Daeron figured they had only one card left to play. “What of the smallfolk, my Lady?” he asked. “Will you truly let them get slaughtered in their hundreds?”

“My duty is to my people, Ser,” Lady Jocelyn replied, with steel in her voice.

“Aye, but you can save the people of Beestown as well, my Lady,” Daeron replied, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. “With a flick of your fingers, you can do it. But instead, you’d rather hold onto some pointless little feud with Lord Ashcart?”

Lady Jocelyn’s face went blank, and then she said in a deadly whisper, “Pointless little feud?”

Daeron saw his mistake. “My Lady, I only meant that the lives of the smallfolk a more important than—”

“Pointless little feud?” Lady Jocelyn repeated, this time raising her voice. “Get out! Now!”

“My Lady—”

Lady Jocelyn smiled almost savagely as she said, “Leave, Ser, before I have you thrown out. And tell Lord Ashcart that a man who cannot protect his lands is no man at all!” She stood from the dais and made to leave.

“They’ll be slaughtered, my Lady,” Daeron called after her. “Women, children, everyone!” She looked over her shoulder at him as she left, and Daeron thought he saw a flicker of hesitation, but it was gone before it could sprout roots.

Maester Orwyle was standing in front of them then, herding them out, shaking his head the entire time. “That was most foolish, Ser, most foolish!”

“Foolish?” Daeron asked, his ire truly raised. “She’s consigning hundreds to the Seven Hells, and for what? Because she had a falling out with a childhood friend?”

“A falling out?” Orwyle asked, looking at Daeron as though he were mad. “Childhood friend? Lady Jocelyn and Lord Trystane were in love when children. It was Trystane who taught her how to fish and how to hunt. He even saved my Lady from a wild boar one day in the Rainwood. Lord Wylde had no male heirs of his own body, and when he saw how much my Lady loved Lord Trystane, he quickly arranged for their houses to be joined.” Maester Orwyle didn’t falter in his step as he spoke, guiding them through the entrance hall and into the courtyard. Darkness had fallen upon the land, and only the torches on the walls lit up their way.

“So what went wrong then?” Jayson asked, watching the Maester wide-eyed.

“Lord Trystane’s true colors came out, that’s what went wrong. A few moons before the wedding was to take place, he bedded some serving girl and got her pregnant with a bastard. He tried to hide the entire affair, but Lady Jocelyn found out all the same. The poor girl was inconsolable, especially when her Lord father called off the wedding.”

“A sad tale,” Ser Tybolt said, “but no reason for such drastic action.”

“Who said it was over?” the Maester asked when they reached the stables. “Lord Wylde betrothed and married my Lady to Lord Edgar Estermont. He was a soft-bellied, bookish sort of man, but my Lady came to love him with all her heart and bore him a son. Lord Ashcart didn’t much care for that. It seems to me he realized what a folly he’d made. As the Master of Rain House, he would have become a Major Lord of the Stormlands, so he wanted my Lady back, thinking she couldn’t possibly love a man like Lord Edgar. When the Greyjoys rose in rebellion, Lord Stannis called the banners and the evening before they were to set off, he held a feast for all his vassals at Storm’s End. Lord Trystane was there, as was Lady Jocelyn. She and Lord Edgar had come to see off their men, though Lord Edgar had no intention of fighting. Lord Trystane confronted her when she was alone, professed his love, and tried to get her back. When my Lady refused him, he grew wroth, and for the rest of the night, he mocked Lord Edgar, calling him a craven and a weakling in front of the entire Stormlands. ‘A man who cannot protect his lands is no man at all!’ he declared.”

The Maester regarded the trio with sad eyes. “Lord Edgar was determined to defend his honor, and so the next morning he declared that he would sail with Lord Stannis after all, and fight the Krakens. A week later, he was dead.”

Now Daeron finally saw the full picture. No wonder Lord Ashcart believed Ser Tybolt was his best hope. “And Lady Jocelyn holds Lord Ashcart responsible,” Daeron concluded.

The Maester shook his head, smacking his lips. “Lord Ashcart was far from the only one who’d made the same comment, Ser. And Lord Edgar brought everything he needed for a campaign with him to Storm’s End. I believe he meant to set sail with Lord Stannis the entire time, but Lady Jocelyn won’t hear of that. She holds Lord Ashcart entirely responsible for her husband’s death, and who can blame her?”

The stableboys brought out their horses and handed them the reins. With a wave of his hand, Maester Orwyle commanded the guards to open the gates. “Now, begone with you, good Sers, and don’t come back.”

None of the trio had anything to say to that. They mounted their horses and rode out of the castle without looking back, the weight of their failure slowly settling on their shoulders. As they entered the Rainwood once more, the trees sinister in the darkness, Daeron and Ser Tybolt exchanged looks. Daeron found no answers in the older knight’s eyes.

“Bugger,” he said and rode on.

They didn’t pause to rest until they returned to Beestown. Daeron let Dawn guide the way and happily fell asleep in the saddle, Ser Tybolt and Jayson by his side also taking every opportunity they could get for some shut-eye.

The Rainwood was an intimidating enough place during the day, so Daeron made sure to look as little to the left and the right as he could during the night, focusing solely on the path ahead of him. The leagues disappeared beneath the hooves of Dawn, each of the trio in their world. They spoke very little, thinking instead of the fight ahead and what might be done about it. At least that’s what went through Daeron’s mind. A hundred times he went over the coming battle, trying to come up with a scenario that had a favorable ending for the people of Beestown. The problem was that he didn’t know the pirates’ strength, their objective, or when they might strike. How much time did they have to prepare and what were they preparing for? A large-scale raid or a small-scale invasion?

When Daeron tired of guessing, he replayed the conversation with Lady Jocelyn. Ser Tybolt had done a pretty good job of talking to her at first. It was Daeron who had roused her temper fully and sent her over the edge. Guilt swamped him at that, so Daeron said to Ser Tybolt, “I’m sorry for my manner, Ser. I should not have behaved like that. I ruined our chances, I’m afraid.”

“You didn’t,” Ser Tybolt replied, as though he’d been puzzling over the same question. “She was never going to give us what we wanted. At least you reminded her of the consequences of that decision.”

“But she loathes us now.”

Ser Tybolt shrugged. “Telling people an uncomfortable truth is never going to make you popular. But it still has to be done sometimes.”

Daeron took some solace in that, sitting a little straighter in his saddle. Mayhaps they really did the best they could. But did that mean that their cause had been doomed from the very beginning?

The trio returned to Beestown in the morning, having ridden all night. Lord Ashcart and Ser Richard rode out to meet them at the bridge into the town. But when Lord Ashcart saw they were alone, with none of Lady Jocelyn’s men in company, his face fell. His Lordship looked down as though he was gathering strength for what was to come, and Daeron saw he started fingering the tusk he wore on a silver chain.

“She will not come, then?” Lord Ashcart asked. Beside him, Ser Richard seemed sad, but he did not look like he meant to remind anyone of his prediction.

“No, my Lord. She won’t,” Ser Tybolt replied.

Lord Ashcart nodded, resigned. “We must all pay for our mistakes, one way or another, it seems.” He wheeled his horse around and rode back into town, the rest of them following. After Ser Richard had given them updates on what had happened in their absence – nothing at all, as it turned out – the trio rode into camp and went in search of their tents so they might get some much-needed rest.

Daeron found his men in the midst of a drill, a nasty-looking knight screaming at them. They smiled and saluted Daeron when he rode past, some of them even going so far as to hail him. The knight cursed them at first, but when he spotted Daeron, he bit his tongue.

“How are they faring, Ser?” Daeron asked him from his horse.

“They are an unruly mob, not fit to hold a shield, Ser.” The knight had angry welts all over his face, which undoubtedly contributed to his sour disposition.

“Are they? Then it should come as a relief that they are no longer your problem. I shall resume my command. You are free to leave and do as you please.”

“But Lord Ashcart—”

“—gave you this command only until my return.” Daeron offered the knight a sickly-sweet smile. “As evidenced by our conversation, I am back.”

The knight had a lot more he wanted to say, but that would mean going against Lord Ashcart. So he looked down and said, “Yes, Ser.” Then he made himself scarce.

Daeron’s men watched him leave with grins on their faces, Sam the Suckler in particular. It seemed he had found himself a new commander to hate, and Daeron couldn’t thank the knight enough for making Daeron look so good by comparison. “Report to Ser Richard, see if he has any tasks for you. If not, you have the rest of the morning off. But if I hear one whisper of you causing trouble, there’ll be hell to pay.” The men bobbed their heads, obedient as little boys, promising to be good. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been riding for a day and a night, so I’m going to get some sleep.”

Chapter Text

Daeron didn’t rise from his cot until the early afternoon, and then, after he had his lunch, he quickly made up for lost time with his recruits. He had them march in column and deploy for battle a dozen times, then had them practice with their spears until he was satisfied that all of them were bone tired and had their hands covered in blisters.

“What if the pirates come, Ser?” one of the Wright brothers asked. “Won’t we be useless in a fight, tired as we are?”

Daeron cracked a grin. “There are sentries all along the Lonely River, down to Pevensey. If the pirates come, you’ll have half a day to get your rest. So get to marchin’.”

The young man lowered his head and did as he was told, while the rest of the men shared jokes at his expense. But Daeron knew the same thoughts had been bouncing around their heads and it seemed they felt better knowing that Daeron wasn’t tiring them out before a big fight.

In the evening, Lord Ashcart invited Daeron to eat with him, Ser Richard and Ser Tybolt as well. His Lordship’s tent had been expanded in Daeron’s absence and the sides of it raised so they could feast in the open. Daeron was invited to sit to Lord Ashcart’s right, Ser Tybolt to his left. Ser Richard was also invited, along with a few of the favored knights in Lord Ashcart’s household.

“Ah, Ser Ryam,” Lord Ashcart said, “Please, take a seat. We have beef-and-barley stew, bacon, some black sausages, and delicious ale to wash it down.” The Lord smiled almost apologetically. “Not a great feast, I grant you, but it will have to do.”

“Well, it smells delicious, my Lord. Thank you for inviting me.” Daeron sat down and filled his bowl with stew and gladly accepted Lord Ashcart’s offer to pour him some ale.

“Ser Tybolt tells me you didn’t leave Rain House on the best of terms with Lady Jocelyn,” Lord Ashcart said.

Ser Tybolt dipped some brown bread in his stew and watched Daeron, saying nothing.

“No, my Lord. I’m afraid I angered her with my words.” Daeron grabbed a wooden spoon and started eating. He had to blow on it, the stew was so hot, but after the first taste, he couldn’t get enough. The rich flavor filled his mouth then warmed his belly, and Daeron sighed happily at the sensation.

“No great accomplishment, I assure you,” Lord Ashcart said with a light laugh. “Even as a girl, Jocelyn had a fearsome temper.”

Daeron glanced at the tusk on his chain. “Her Maester told us you saved her from a wild boar when you were children.”

Lord Ashcart looked down at his necklace as though he’d forgotten it was there. “True enough. That was a long time ago, though.

Daeron nodded, knowing not to push any further. “As you say, Ser.”

Ser Tybolt stepped in then, offering his report on the progress of his men and suggesting they might have a moderate chance of holding their own in battle if the pirates gave them another couple of days to train them. There was some guessing on whether or not the pirates would, but Daeron did not partake. He lived in anticipation of the signal that the pirates had sailed up the Lonely River, and he rather believed it would happen sooner rather than later. If the pirates wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to sack Beestown, they had to move quickly, or there would be no point to it.

“Your men are also doing well, I heard.” Lord Ashcart looked at Daeron and pulled him back into the conversation.

“Yes, my Lord, quite well. They still need more training before they’ll be ready for battle, though.”

“Ah, but simply getting such stubborn men to accept your command so eagerly is an achievement, good Ser.” Lord Aschart shook his head and took a sip. “I must admit, when Ser Tybolt told me to give you the command, I had some reservations, but you’ve proven me wrong, Ser. Quite wrong.”

Daeron looked at Ser Tybolt. The older knight hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort to him. No doubt it was another part of his plan to make Daeron accept his name and legacy. “I’m happy to be of service, my Lord.” Daeron figured that was a more diplomatic response than sticking his tongue out at Ser Tybolt.

The evening progressed from that, and Lord Ashcart drank greedily, always calling for his squire to refill his cup the second he emptied it. His Lordship seemed to have a thirst, which surprised Daeron, considering the man had seemed so in control on all other occasions.

One by one, his knights excused themselves, until only Daeron, Ser Tybolt and Ser Richard remained at the table. They discussed the battle ahead, the possible scenarios, and the necessity of denying the pirates a chance to land on the south bank of the river and thereby forcing them to cross the bridge.

“If we do that, we’ll bottleneck’em,” Ser Tybolt said. “I’ll like our odds then.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Lord Ashcart said and burped. He was properly drunk now, Daeron saw. “Tell me, what did Lady Jocelyn look like?”

“Look like, my Lord?” Daeron asked, fearing that they’d crossed over into perilous territory, though he didn’t know exactly how.

“Yes, how did she look like?” Lord Ashcart swayed in his seat. “Still as strong as she once was? Still as fierce?”

Ser Tybolt and Daeron exchanged a look. “Aye,” they said in unison.

Lord Ashcart chortled. “She always was. Beautiful, too. And I know you’ve learned of the damage I’ve caused her and her House, I can see it in your eyes.”

Daeron looked down at the table. He wouldn’t lie. “Her Maester told us, aye.”

“I was proud and vain as a young man. Never spared a thought for anything, just charged ahead. I had to see my father murdered by those bloody Krakens and lose an eye trying to avenge him before I learned my lesson.” Lord Ashcart smiled bitterly. “It was too late by then, of course.”

“We all make mistakes, my Lord,” Ser Tybolt said. “Trust me, I would know.”

“I suppose you would,” Lord Ashcart replied, looking between Ser Tybolt and Ser Richard. “You two were close once if the stories are to be believed. What happened?”

It was obvious those weren’t the mistakes Ser Tybolt had been referring to, so the two knights could do nothing but exchange an awkward glance at the mention of their feud. “A long story, my Lord,” Ser Richard said, his voice like sifting gravel. “And one that’s full of folly.”

Something about Ser Richard’s words must’ve rubbed Ser Tybolt the wrong way, for he said, “And whose folly might that be, Ser?”

Ser Richard looked at Ser Tybolt. “Come now,” he said, glancing at Lord Ashcart, embarrassed. “No need to open old wounds.”

“Not to worry, I’m just curious.” But his tone suggested otherwise as all the anger that had been bubbling inside him for a day came spilling out. “Because it sounds to me like you hold me responsible for all our troubles, when you spent years blocking my rise, then acted surprised when I took my revenge.”

“Blocking your rise?” Ser Richard asked, his eyebrows as high as his hairline. “Is that what you believe, Ser?”

“Aye, that’s what I believe,” Ser Tybolt shot back, the anger clear now. “Do you deny you poisoned Prince Rhaegar against me, and all the young knights at court?”

Ser Richard tilted his head, as though he couldn’t quite grasp what he heard. “You—You think I poisoned the Prince against you? It was the Prince who ordered me to stay away from you!”

Ser Tybolt didn’t seem to know what to make of that. “Why would he do that?” he asked, his anger forgotten.

“It was well-known you’d done your best to become a squire for a member of the court, but Lord Staunton was one of Prince Rhaegar’s biggest opponents. The Prince believed he may try to use you to spy on him, and since you never hesitated to show your ambition, Rhaegar ordered me to stay away. I wanted to explain it to you, but I was forced to snub in you public before I had a chance to explain myself in private, and did you ever agree to meet with me afterward? No, you preferred to resort to those silly japes of yours, trying to make me look like a fool in front of the Prince, and digging your hole deeper with every word.”

“For a year I tried to come to court, all so we could be reunited. For a year I lied and cheated and deceived so that I might once again be in the company of the man I considered my brother in all but name. So, yes, I lashed out and mocked you, but you responded in kind! Both in words and actions!” Ser Tybolt shouted.

Ser Richard stared at Ser Tybolt with a queer expression, and Daeron knew it had never occurred to him what Ser Tybolt might have done in order to come to court. “What did you expect me to do?” he finally said. “Sit there and take it, become the butt of every joke? I had to defend my honor, and that of my House.” Ser Richard glared at Ser Tybolt, his eyes burning with anger he must’ve held back for decades. “You mocked me, you tried to turn the Prince against me, and you cozied up to one of his greatest rivals, and then you were surprised that the Prince wouldn’t accept you into his inner circle?”

“I— You—” Ser Tybolt went red in the face, then looked at Daeron with an expression of rage and eyes full of sorrow. Not knowing what else to say, the knight threw down his cup and said, “I don’t have to listen to this.” With that, he stood and marched off into the night, leaving an exhausted-looking Ser Richard in his wake.

When the sound of Ser Tybolt’s footsteps retreated, Lord Ashcart said, “You might not understand why now, Ser, but I envy you and Ser Tybolt both.”

Ser Richard met Lord Ashcart’s eye. “Why’s that, my Lord?”

His Lordship looked into the darkness after Ser Tybolt and said dreamily, “For years I’ve wished Jocelyn could shout at me like that. Gods, I’d like nothing better, even if I never saw her again afterward.”

The next two days passed in a state of constant tension. If Ser Richard was correct, and the pirates were indeed coming, then they wouldn’t put off the attack for much longer, so every loud sound that came from Beestown caused men to look up, anxious faces waiting for the bells to start ringing again.

Daeron spent his days drilling the recruits. Ser Tybolt was stewing over the words he’d exchanged with Ser Richard, and Daeron knew better than to bother him. That was a wound that would take a while to heal, so Daeron focused on his men, and on a couple of occasions, he even had the chance to spar with Jayson and practice the joust. Other than that, Daeron kept his blade sharp and his armor at the ready, but the ringing of the bells wouldn’t come, no matter how much he began to wish for it.

On the third day, in the early hours of the morning, Jayson rushed into his tent and woke him.

“Is it the pirates? Do they come?” Daeron asked, quickly putting on his tunic.

“No, Ser, it’s Lady Jocelyn. They say she’s riding up the river with her retinue,” Jayson said.

Daeron sat back down on his cot and pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, trying to calm his beating heart. He noticed the pitter-patter of rain against his tent, the dull grey light spilling through the flaps of his tent. It seemed the Stormlands were due for another storm. How dull.

“Let’s go see what this is all about, then,” Daeron said, though he already knew it had to be good news. There could be no other explanation for why Lady Jocelyn had come all this way – if she was riding upriver, then she had gone to see Pevensey for herself, and that must’ve done more to persuade her of Beestown’s need than anything Daeron could say.

Jayson had already brought Dawn, allowing Honor to rest after yesterday’s riding, and they both mounted up and headed toward Lord Ashcart’s command tent. They found His Lordship standing outside his tent, pale as death, and seemingly at a loss about what to do. “You got her to go see Pevensey, didn’t you, Ser?” Lord Ashcart asked.

Daeron bowed in the saddle. He wore a black doublet and a thick cloak, but water trickled down his face and it seemed a man could drown while standing on land. “It seems so, my Lord.”

“If she sees me, I fear all her goodwill will evaporate, Ser.”

“I doubt that, my Lord.”

“Will you go see her, Ser? Just to make sure we don’t risk too much?” Lord Ashcart seemed no older than his son, terrified and nervous at the prospect of meeting a comely maiden.

“Alright, my Lord,” Daeron replied. “But I have one request.”

“What is it?”

Daeron rode closer until he had His Lordship at his hip. Then he bent down, reached for his necklace, and ripped it off his neck. “Come, Jayson,” he said, giving Dawn the spurs. “Let’s go.”

They rode through Beestown, the mud splashing from the hooves of their horses. Only a few desperate souls could be seen wandering the alleys of the town, while the rest preferred to stay inside. Daeron saw the orange-yellow glow in dozens of windows and was half tempted to get himself seated next to a fireplace and find some warmth as well.

Lady Jocelyn and her men, Maester Orwyle included, met her at the middle of the bridge across the Lonely River, the waters churning underneath. She had her black hair in a braid and was soaked to the bone, but being a Stormlander, this reality didn’t seem to bother her. She regarded Daeron with sad eyes when he reined up a few feet in front of her. “I saw Pevensey.”

Daeron nodded in understanding. “I thought you might.”

“I still do not think I should give you my men. I need to protect my lands, and there’s no guarantee they will attack here again. Lord Stannis doesn’t think so. Why do you?”

“A great knight guaranteed it.”

“And who might this great knight be?”

“Ser Richard Lonmouth.”

Now it was Lady Jocelyn’s turn to look like a frightened little girl, while her knights and men-at-arms muttered behind her back. “I can’t give you my men, Ser,” she repeated.

Then why have you come all this way? Daeron had no fear that she would let the people of Beestown get slaughtered. She had too much heart for that, no matter how much she tried to hide it. So Daeron didn’t say anything, he just stared at her.

“Would he not come?” Lady Jocelyn asked, looking over Daeron’s shoulder. “Would he not come to see me?”

“He fears his presence might convince you not to send help, my Lady,” Daeron said. He grabbed the tusk necklace from his sleeve. “But he wanted me to give you this.” Daeron threw the necklace.

Lady Jocelyn snatched it out of the air with a frown, but the moment she saw what it was, her face crumbled in grief. She looked up at Daeron, and it might’ve been tears that poured down her cheeks or maybe it was just rain. She didn’t say anything else – Lady Jocelyn turned her horse around and rode away.

It was evening, a day after Lady Jocelyn’s visit, and Daeron sat by the fire alone. He had Beestown to his left, the Rainwood to his right, and the Lonely River right in front of him, flowing lazily toward the sea. Jayson had caught him a rabbit, so Daeron was roasting it and drinking some ale as he enjoyed the view. He liked listening to the sounds of the river and the forest – neither had any clue that a small army of pirates was coming their way, so Daeron enjoyed the reminder of peace they carried.

It was a rare moment spent alone. Daeron had sent Jayson into town so the blacksmith could mend his chainmail, whereas Ser Tybolt still kept his distance, focusing on training his men. Daeron’s mind started wandering through his memories and inevitably returned to the day when he seized the opportunity to take to the road and live as a hedge knight. He’d seen more than half the Realm since then. The Reach, the Riverlands, and the Westerlands. The Vale of Arryn was still a mystery, as well as the sands of Dorne, but mayhaps he’d get a chance to see both if he survived the coming fight. And Daeron knew it was coming, no matter what anyone said. He could feel it in his bones.

“Mind if I join you?” a voice asked from the darkness.

Daeron shifted on the log and found Ser Richard standing before him. The knight wore his full armor – Daeron had begun to suspect the knight slept in it – and his yellow cloak streamed from his shoulders, though it was soiled with mud and dirt. “Of course, Ser, be my guest.”

“I thank you.” Ser Richard sat on the log next to Daeron and offered him a skin of wine.

Daeron accepted the gesture and took a small sip, but he had no interest in getting drunk. He handed it back. “Thank you, Ser.”

“My pleasure.” Ser Richard took it back, the flames of the fire playing in his eyes. “You look a lot like him, you know?”

Daeron was surprised to discover the revelation didn’t bother him in the slightest. Mayhaps Ser Tybolt’s methods were working after all. “Do I?” he asked. He figured there was no point in pretending as though he didn’t understand what Ser Richard meant.

The knight bobbed his head. “You don’t have the coloring, obviously, and you take after your Lady mother in some of your features as well, but the mannerisms…” Ser Richard looked at Daeron as though he thought him a fascinating puzzle. “Uncanny.”

“If you say so, Ser.” Daeron stood and grabbed the skewer off the fire. The rabbit had begun to smell so well, it made his mouth water.

“You have no interest in meeting your father?” Ser Richard asked as Daeron bit into his dinner.

“I do,” Daeron said after he swallowed. “Eventually I suppose.”

“He wants to meet you,” Ser Richard replied. “I couldn’t tell you how many evenings I spent in his company when all he could talk about was you and your Lady mother. Especially when Lord Eddard sent progress reports.”

That was hard for Daeron to picture. “Truly?”

“Truly. I remember the time he learned you’d helped protect Lady Stark from some wildling attackers. I’ve never seen Rhaegar so proud in my life.”

Daeron took another bite of the rabbit and remembered the incident. They’d been traveling through the Wolfswood after their visit to Deepwood Motte when the wildlings came on them. One had broken through to Lady Catelyn, and would have killed her if Daeron hadn’t put a sword through his face. It had been his first kill. He could still remember the look on Lady Catelyn’s blood-splattered face.

Daeron looked at Ser Richard then. “What are you trying to say, Ser?”

The knight smiled unapologetically. “I understand what you’re doing, traveling the kingdoms. I even respect it. But you should know that it’s hard for me to imagine how much pain it’s causing Rhaegar. He wants you home, in the Red Keep. It’s one of the few things he’s ever truly wanted.”

“I—I will consider it,” Daeron said, though he wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth. Could he live in the Red Keep, surrounded by the sprawling city? There were times when Winterfell had felt cramped to him, and that was with the understanding that he could ride out of the castle and go racing through the fields and the forests whenever it pleased him. Daeron doubted that life at court would offer him the same privilege. The question of his father, however… Daeron had never truly considered how the King might’ve reacted to his decision to live as a hedge knight. Based on the tales he’d heard of the man, Daeron had always pictured him as a stoic man, aloof from the world around him. Perhaps that’s what made it so hard to imagine that Rhaegar might desperately want Daeron in the capital, that he might’ve even become wroth at Prince Jaehaery for letting Daeron go.

The approach of footsteps interrupted his musings. Ser Tybolt walked into the light of the fire then, looking as skittish as a young fawn. Ser Richard jumped to his feet at the sight of him, and the two men regarded each other for a long moment. “Ser Tybolt,” Ser Richard said.

“Ser Richard.” Ser Tybolt looked at Daeron and back at his old friend. “Mind if I join you?”

For a moment, Daeron didn’t know which way Ser Richard would lean, but then the knight smiled, a true smile, the first Daeron had seen from the man. “Of course, please.” He gestured for Ser Tybolt to take a tree stump and sat back down himself.

Daeron looked down to hide his smile. It seemed the two men had turned the page. “So,” Ser Tybolt said, “talking about the fight to come?”

“No,” Ser Richard replied, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Talking about how you ended up traveling the Seven Kingdoms with the son of a King.”

For a moment, utter surprise was etched into every wrinkle on Ser Tybolt’s face, but then the knight grinned. “What can I tell you, the lad has an eye for quality.”

“The bugger’s always done things like this, you know,” Ser Richard told Daeron. “He once got himself appointed as a squire to the Blackfish simply because he was the first lad Ser Brynden noticed after his squire broke his arm falling off a horse.” Ser Richard and Ser Tybolt both started chuckling. “We were ten years old and the Blackfish was the greatest hero any of us had ever seen. Gods, I was so jealous, I wanted to strangle him.”

“As I recall, you did try to strangle me at the feast that night,” Ser Tybolt replied.

“How many times did I tell you, that was a spirited hug, nothing more,” Ser Richard said, waving him off.

“Attempted murder,” Ser Tybolt mouthed at Daeron, who could only listen to their banter and grin.

They spent the rest of the evening like that, the two knights regaling Daeron with stories of their youth, him listening, grateful for any opportunity to get his mind off of the trouble ahead.

Chapter Text

Daeron dreamed that he stood in an open field, the entire Royal Family arrayed before him, from Queen Rhaella all the way down to Prince Jaehaerys’ little children. They had their shining silver-gold hair and purple eyes, they wore the red dragon of House Targaryen on their chest, and they judged him.

In his dream, Daeron tried to explain he was no threat, tried to tell them of all he had done for the Crown, but with every word he spoke, their gazes turned more hostile. King Rhaegar said something then, something Daeron couldn’t hear, and then the rest started shouting words that were lost in the wind, but Daeron felt their rage, their resentment. They did not want him, they did not need him, they would rather—

“Daeron! Daeron!” Ser Tybolt’s hurried whispers woke him. He had a hand on Daeron's shoulder, gently nudging him.

“Wha—What is it?” Daeron asked, both his eyes nearly glued shut. The older knight swam in his vision.

“The pirates have sailed up the Lonely River,” Ser Tybolt said, his voice as calm as if he were telling him that breakfast would be served an hour later this morning. “Get dressed, get ready. We have to go.”

Daeron jumped out of bed, his movements hurried and his breathing erratic, but then he reminded himself that he had time. It would be hours before the pirates reached them, there was no need to panic. Or, at least, he could panic later, because if he kept it up the entire time they waited for the assault, he would have no energy left for the fighting.

That discovery worked better than Daeron had thought. His movements slowed, his breathing eased, and he found he could focus on the task at hand. First, he took a sip of water from the skin he kept by his cot, then he put on his tunic, followed by a leather jerkin. Daeron just finished buttoning it up when Jayson appeared at the entrance to his tent, looking half asleep, and helped him put on his armor.

They started with his legs – Daeron had always hated barbatons for their poor grip – and worked their way up. Greaves, poleyns, and cuisses took care of the lower part of his body, then they moved on to the chainmail, a skirt of lobstered steel, and the breastplate. Jayson worked with practiced efficiency, clasping the gorget in record time and doing about as well in putting on the pauldrons. Finally, the vambraces and the gauntlets took care of Daeron’s hands, while he meant to strap his helm to his saddle until the fighting began.

Daeron walked out of his tent to find Honor already waiting for him. It was dark out – Daeron suspected he hadn’t gotten more than five hours of sleep – and most of the camp was still asleep. Daeron could hear the buggers snoring and fucking. No doubt Ser Tybolt wanted to let the fighting men rest while he summoned the commanders for the final meeting.

Daeron looked at Jayson. He expected to find him scared, but the boy seemed resigned in a grim sort of way. “Go get yourself something to eat, and make sure you eat it all, even if you don’t feel like it. Then come find me.”

“Yes, Ser.” The boy ran to his horse, mounted it, and rode off.

Daeron climbed onto Honor then, the great warhorse calm and steady beneath him. He took solace from the fact that he’d been riding a beast that had seen it all before and survived. As Daeron spurred Honor forward and felt the wind caress his cheeks as he rode between the tents, he wondered at what the day ahead would bring, and what he might do if he survived it.

I’ll go see Father, Daeron thought. The idea came to his mind unbidden, but once there, Daeron found he did not want to fight it. He wanted to meet his father. And wasn’t it strange that the very word sounded strange to him. ‘Father’. It had always been ‘His Grace’ or ‘King Rhaegar’, as though Daeron had no right to claim the King as his father when he’d been born on the wrong side of the sheets. But he is my father, and I want to meet him, shake his hand, mayhaps even hug him if he’ll let me. All the reasons Daeron had come up to stay away from King’s Landing suddenly sounded silly, the work of a boy with an overactive imagination and quite a bit of pride.

Screw that, I’m not hiding anymore. Daeron rode even faster after that, and when he reached the command tent, he almost vaulted off and handed the reins to one of Lord Ashcart’s servants.

“Ser Ryam,” Lord Ashcart said when Daeron welcomed him into the tent. Ser Richard and Ser Ryam stood around the table, but no one else. It seemed Lord Ashcart had chosen to place his trust in a select few men. “Be welcome. If you’d like some food and water, help yourself.” Lord Ashcart gestured to the table laden with all manner of food. “In the meantime, I’ll lay out the situation as it stands. Agreed?”

“Aye, my Lord.” Daeron grabbed himself some bread and sausages, poured a cup of water, and snatched an especially ripe apple for good measure. Undoubtedly he ought to eat more than that, but he figured even that much was an optimistic expectation.

“The fire signal reached us about half an hour ago, which means the pirates will be here around noon. We don’t know their strength, I’ve sent out scouts, but let’s assume it will be a force as large or larger than the one we faced at Pevensey.”

“My gold is on much larger,” Ser Richard said.

“Agreed.” Lord Aschart looked down at the map of Beestown and the Lonely River. “We’ve made the south bank as unappealing as we could. Stakes in the ground, caltrops in the water, they will not want to land there, we all agree about that, do we not?”

“Aye,” the three knights said in unison. The pirates would know that Lord Ashcart wanted them to land on the north bank, and while one should never do what the enemy wants, the south bank offered too many perils for the pirates to force the matter. They would have to land on the north side and take their chances with whatever Lord Ashcart had planned.

As it turned out, that was quite a bit. “I’ve had all the carpenters building catapults this past week. They’ve only completed one, but we shall be able to bruise them a little as they go up the river. The north bank is also littered with caltrops for almost half a mile downstream, so they shall lose some men there as well. We shall meet them as they land, with our infantry and our archers, but not our entire strength. I imagine their numbers will be too great to risk it.”

“Agreed,” Ser Richard said. “What is the final count on our forces?”

“One hundred spearmen, fifty archers, and twenty knights.” Lord Ashcart gulped down his cup of water and slammed it back on the table. “Ser Richard, I want you and your knights to meet the pirates on the bank. Then, as more land, I want you to give ground in good order and slowly retreat to the bridge.” Lord Ashcart pointed to the stone bridge across the river, the only way for the pirates to reach the town if they landed on the north bank. “That’s where we will hold them. We’ll turn the bridge into a bottleneck, where their numbers will not matter. Then we’ll rotate our troops to keep them fresh and hope for the best.”

The three knights stared down at the map, trying to picture the battle in their minds, trying to watch it unfold to see if Lord Ashcart had missed anything. Daeron didn’t think so.

“What of Lady Jocelyn?” Ser Tybolt asked. “Have you had any word?”

“No.” Lord Ashcart’s hand went to where the tusk necklace once hung, only to grasp empty air. “Mayhaps she will come, mayhaps not. We must act as though we are alone.”

“All right,” Ser Tybolt said.

“Any other thoughts, good Sers?” Lord Ashcart asked, spreading his arms in welcome.

Daeron exchanged looks with Ser Richard and Ser Tybolt. Neither had any ideas to share. “It seems you’ve covered everything, my Lord,” Daeron said.

“Let’s hope so.” Lord Ashcart smiled tiredly. “I wish you all the best of luck. Let’s make these pirates rue the day they sailed up the Lonely River.”

The night turned to morning, and the morning lasted an age.

After the meeting with the principal commanders, Daeron went to take command of his men. He let them sleep until dawn, then had Jayson rouse them with a hunting horn. One by one, they came stumbling out of their tents, but when they saw Daeron mounted atop Honor in full armor, the sleepiness left them. Alert and terrified, they ate their breakfast (a bowl o’ brown) and waited for Daeron to give the order to move out. When the signal came that the pirates were less than an hour away, the men grabbed their shields and spears and followed Daeron through Beestown and to the bridge.

The town was deserted. Lord Ashcart had ordered that all civilians that weren’t necessary for the defense of the town should move inland, toward Mistwood. The pirates wouldn’t be taking any slaves back to Essos this time, and since most of the wealth of the town left with the population, they wouldn’t be taking much gold either.

They’ll find death here, and not much more, Daeron thought, looking up at the sky. It was a grey sort of day. A low overcast hung over the Stormlands, draining color from the world, but there was nary a breeze, and it didn’t seem like it would rain for the rest of the day. Daeron was thankful for that small blessing.

Ser Tybolt, Ser Richard, and Lord Ashcart were already in position with their men when Daeron arrived. Ser Tybolt and Lord Ashcart, each in command of around fifty men, hid their men in the streets of Beestown, so the pirates wouldn’t see them as they sailed up the river. Ser Richard, on the other hand, in command of twenty knights, hid his troops in the tree line on the north bank. They would fall upon the pirates the second their feet landed on Stormland soil.

Daeron sat his horse, Jayson by his side, the rest of the men in formation behind him. Ser Tybolt’s men were ahead, while Lord Ashcart’s were closest to the bridge. All the infantrymen had been ordered to keep quiet and still, so to Daeron it looked almost as though they were clay soldiers, filling the streets of an abandoned town. It was eerie – no movements in the windows, no chatter from the tavern, no sounds in the streets and alleys. All minds seemed to be exclusively focused on the river they could not see, picturing their foe sailing up the river.

Not knowing how much time had passed, Daeron chose to put on his helm anyway and fastened it tightly. His shield and his sword he would leave alone until he caught sight of the enemy. That helped him waste no more than a minute, so Daeron then tried to remember everything Uncle Ned and Ser Tybolt had ever told him of battles. Uncle Ned had always urged him never to advance too far and leave himself exposed, while Ser Tybolt liked to say that one must only focus on killing the man in front of him and forget about the rest. Daeron still wasn’t sure if he’d been joking about that.

Turning in his saddle, Daeron examined his men. Some had been issued helms, though the blacksmith couldn’t make enough for them all, not nearly, and Lord Ashcart didn’t have enough of them in his armory. It was better than nothing though. The faces he could see were grim and expectant. They might piss themselves in fear and throw up from the nerves, but they would fight, Daeron knew, and that was about as much as any commander had the right to expect from his men.

Turning ahead, Daeron thought of the pirates and their numbers. There were only one hundred and fifty men to defend Beestown. What if the pirates showed up with three hundred? It wasn’t impossible, especially when one considered the wealth and reputation of the town. With odds of two to one, experienced savages against fieldhands and woodcutters with a week of training behind them, how long could they last? Daeron saw himself drowning in the Lonely River, being hacked to pieces, and then the next vision had him below deck in chains, off to be sold in the slave markets of Essos.

Don’t think about it, Daeron told himself. Uncle Ned often repeated that the closer one approached disaster, the more discipline one must show, so as to keep from brooding on it for too long. We have good men and good commanders, Daeron told himself. They would make the pirates bleed for their audacity, and who gave a damn about the rest.

As if trying to see if Daeron was honest in his resolution, a sound reached them between the houses. It was little more than a faint murmuring at first, but it grew steadily until Daeron could hear the shouting of men, the splash of their oars as they dipped in water, the churning of the hulls as they cut their way up the river.

Ser Tybolt whistled and drew his attention. He was mounted next to Lord Ashcart by the bridge, together with another man, and he waved at Daeron to join them. “Wait here,” Daeron told Jayson and rode forward, the men parting to let him pass. The river was out of his sight right up until the moment he reached the bridge.

Then he saw it. Not three or four ships, but a dozen of them, and more coming around the last bend of the river. And their sails… The pirates of the Narrow Sea liked their black sails, people from the Wall to Dorne knew that, but these were no pirates. Their attacking ships had yellow sales featuring a prancing stag. Daeron could only stare as fear gripped his spine and shook him – Robert Baratheon had returned to the Seven Kingdoms.

Chapter Text

“How many?” Daeron asked, though his heart was beating so hard, he feared he would not hear the answer. He counted thirteen ships sailing up the river – they would be landing soon – but more were coming up the bend because the Lonely River was wide enough to allow three ships at most to sail side by side.

“A hundred ships in all, Ser,” the man who’d been talking to Ser Tybolt and Lord Ashcart replied. Daeron assumed he was one of the scouts who’d been sent out.

“An invasion,” Lord Ashcart breathed, then shook his head and seemed to get himself together. “Our plan stays the same. We bleed them here, stall them as long as we can. Storm’s End is coming, I do no doubt it. The King is coming. We need to buy them as much time as we can.”

“A few days at sea?” Ser Tybolt said, scratching his beard. “Their legs will be soft, and they’ll have been puking their guts out. Aye, we can bite a chunk out of them.”

“What do we tell the men?” Daeron asked. Most of them didn’t know what they were facing and probably wouldn’t know until the enemy came down on them. Gods, Daeron thought at the reminder. Robert Baratheon with the might of the Golden Company behind him.

“Nothing, there is no time.” Ser Tybolt waved him off. “We have to fight, there’s all there is to it.”

“Alright.” Daeron made to wheel his horse around but Ser Tybolt stopped him.

“Stay here with us,” the knight said. “You need to see what’s going on.”

“The ships are in range,” Lord Ashcart said, looking toward a steeple in the middle of the town where a man was waving at him. His Lordship waved back and the catapult on the south bank fired its first rock. Daeron didn’t see where it launched from because of the houses, but he saw the rock emerge above the roofs and arc its way downriver. It hit the mast of the first ship in line, and Daeron heard the snap over the water, followed by the screams and shouts of the men aboard.

“They need about a minute to reload,” Lord Ashcart said.

They watched the ships sail further up the river. The north bank opened up some twenty yards beneath the bridge, the perfect area to go for a swim or land a ship, and the bank continued for half a league downriver. The leading ships would go as far up the Lonely River as they could to make room for the ships behind. Daeron tried to picture them, a half a league worth of ships, and all the men that would spill onto the shores. But that means it will take time for them to concentrate their forces. They’ll attack us piecemeal, so their numbers will matter even less.

The three of them watched as the leading boat, broken mast and all, turned for the north bank and came ashore, its prow cutting through the sand. The next boat came ashore right beside it, and on they went as a second stone went flying through the air, crashing onto the deck of another ship.

The men of the leading boat jumped over the railings and onto the beach, holding swords and spears, with battle cries on their lips. Lord Ashcart’s bowmen, stationed on the bridge so they could take the attackers in the back, unleashed their first volley and brought down a dozen men. The shouting and screaming filled the air in earnest then, and Daeron saw blood color the water around the hull of the first boat.

The survivors of the first volley and the men who came up behind them formed up on the beach, facing the bridge and the archers. There must’ve been around fifty of them, their number growing steadily, when the second barrage of arrows fell on them and Ser Richard attacked with his men from the forest. They came sprinting down the bank toward the attackers, the knights leading the way with their longswords and axes. Ser Tybolt’s prediction of soft knees and empty bellies proved true, because Ser Richard’s men ran over the attackers, quickly cutting down anyone who was spared by the arrows. The bowmen on the bridge and the soldiers who could see the action started cheering at the small triumph, shouting, “Beestown!” but Lord Ashcart and Ser Tybolt quietened them with a few shouted curses. Then they turned their eyes back to the battle to see what would happen next.

Ser Richard’s yellow cloak was visible through the chaos of the fighting. As the knights cut down the last of the men who’d formed up on the beach, the soldiers on the ships responded. Bowmen stepped to the railing and began firing down on the knights. Ser Richard bellowed, “Shields! Shields!”, his strong voice carrying over the water, and the knights quickly formed a shield wall to defend from the archers. As if to lend a hand, another boulder came flying through the air and struck the deck of the first ship. The floor beneath the bowmen seemed to give way and they disappeared from view.

Ser Richard’s shouted command got his men moving again – they remained in formation as they walked up the short hill, off the beach, and back to higher ground. “They’ll have to form up,” Daeron said.

“Aye,” Ser Tybolt replied. They both stood in their saddles, straining to see what force might be gathering further down the riverbank, hidden from their view by the ships. They got their answer a little while later when a group of some thirty to forty men, all fighters of the Golden Company, attacked Ser Richard and his men. Ser Richard kept his knights in good order, maintaining the formation, but the weight of their numbers began to show. Ser Richard had to keep giving ground to avoid being outflanked, and with every moment, more Golden Company fighters came running forward. Lord Ashcart’s archers on the bridge rained arrows down on them and kept them from growing too bold, but Ser Richard had no choice. A lesser commander would’ve seen his men flee under pressure, but the knights maintained discipline as they pulled back.

When they were no more than twenty yards from the bridge, Ser Tybolt looked at Daeron and said, “Go to your men. We’ll let you know when to move forward.”

“Aye, Ser.” Daeron gave Honor the spurs and rode through the lines. But as he passed the soldiers, he could hear them talking to each other, could hear the undisputable sound of discontent.

“Wha’s happnin’ there?” one man called out to him.

“They says it’s Rober’, Rober’ Baratheon!” called another.

“But why should we figh’ ‘im, he’s our Lord, ain’t he?”

Daeron reigned up when he heard such talk. The men looked up at him, expecting answers, and when Daeron glanced toward Ser Tybolt, he saw the older knight was too preoccupied with the battle to notice the trouble brewing at his back. Up and down the street, it seemed all one hundred pikemen stared at Daeron.

Talk to them like men, Daeron thought. It worked with Sam the Suckler, it could work again. “It is Robert Baratheon who sails against us,” Daeron called. Immediately the murmurs spread. These men had been raised on the stories of the legendary warrior. How could they stand against him? “I know many of believe you owe him your allegiance, that he is your rightful Lord.”

The murmurs stopped, their full attention once again on Daeron. “But I ask you this: does a Lord not have the duty to protect his people?” Daeron shouted at the top of his lungs, the sounds of fighting growing ever louder. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the battle had reached the bridge. “Robert Baratheon sent pirates to burn down Pevensey, and take its people into slavery. He sent pirates all over the Stormlands, killing men and raping women. Do you think he’ll spare you if you drop your weapons?”

The murmurs changed their tune now, more worried and angry than rebellious.

“This is a man who’ll sell your wives into slavery, then turn around and demand your allegiance,” Daeron shouted. “So I ask you: will you give it to him?”

“No!” came the answer of the men. Their shout was so loud that Daeron flinched, and even Honor shied away from the noise.

“Then hold that spear of yours tight and gut the fucker if you see him!” Daeron kicked Honor again and rode toward his unit while the soldiers laughed and cheered him as he passed. Well, that’s one crisis averted.

“Thank the Gods, Ser, I was worried there for a moment,” Jayson said when Daeron reached him, looking over his shoulder. No doubt the boy had heard some troubling things from the men who’d do anything to avoid the fight.

“It’s all right, lad.” Daeron wheeled his horse about and stood up in the saddle to see better. Ser Richard had given up more than half the bridge, and the archers had already pulled back. They split in two and stood on both sides of the bridge so they could loose arrows at the sellswords’ unprotected flanks. Lord Ashcart raised his sword high in the air and Daeron saw the pikes come down over the shield wall that had formed at the mouth of the bridge.

As he watched Ser Richard and his men complete their retreat and slip through the lines of Lord Ashcart’s men, Daeron thought it might be a good idea to get his weapons ready. He put his left arm through the straps of his shield and drew his sword, resting it on his right shoulder. “Get ready now, men.” They were some fifty yards away from the fighting, the long alley stretching ahead of them.

Lord Ashcart’s pikemen seemed to have survived the initial shock of combat. Daeron saw the line wobble then hold, the second line of men eagerly thrusting with their pikes while the first held the shield wall. The archers behind them loosed their arrows at will, aiming blindly at the warriors on the bridge, and Daeron could only wonder how many losses the Golden Company had already suffered.

But how long can we hold them? These were highly trained, highly disciplined sellswords. They would keep coming until the line broke. They are holding so far, though. There’s something to be said about that. Daeron turned in his saddle and looked over his men. “See that? They’re holding!” he called. “Those boys are holding!” Maybe when their turn came, his men would hold the line out of simple pride.

Daeron strained in his saddle to get a better look. The two forces pushed at each other, the screams of men and steel filling the air, but there seemed to be no movement on either side. A good sign. The fighting continued like that, the sellswords trying everything in their power to break down the shield wall, but they didn’t seem to be having any success.

They’ll have to bring the cavalry. Daeron’s thought quickly proved prophetic. The sellswords broke off the fight and retreated back down the bridge, harried the entire way by the archers. Lord Ashcart took that opportunity to switch out the troops; his spearmen pulled back, and Ser Tybolt’s took their place. Fresh men. Excellent. That left Daeron’s men second in line, and they advanced some thirty yards to take their position.

Daeron had a much better view of the battlefield then. The Golden Company must’ve left more than a hundred dead men behind on the bridge, but they were re-forming on the other bank. A good chunk of the invading army seemed to have disembarked from the boats, for there were hundreds upon hundreds of men just within Daeron’s line of sight. But at the start of the bridge, the cavalry had begun preparing for a charge.

We can hold them here, Daeron thought with breathless excitement. The bridge didn’t allow more than three men to ride abreast. If the shield wall held, they could plug the bridge like a bottle. But would it hold?

Lord Ashcart came riding up to Daeron. His Lordship was out of breath but seemed unharmed, the sword in his hand free of blood. “Be ready, Ser Ryam,” he told him. “If we’re lucky, they’ll have to charge many times. We’ll switch out our troops in between if we can, but your men must advance quickly.”

“Aye, my Lord, we will.” Daeron stood up in his saddle. “Are they looking for other ways to cross?”

“No, not yet.” Lord Ashcart shook his head, then reached down his saddle for a skin of water. “But they will if the bridge doesn’t open up soon for them, I’m sure.” Lord Ashcart poured some water into his mouth.

“Will we be given enough warning?” Daeron asked.

“I have men on the lookout, and I’ve set Ser Richard’s men to the task. If they try to go for the southern bank, we’ll send those knights to intercept them while we retreat.”

Yes, Daeron thought, because that will be their only option. “I understand, my Lord.”

“Very good. Best of luck to you, Ser.” Lord Ashcart clapped him on the shoulder, then rode off.

Daeron shifted in his saddle, glanced at Jayson’s pale face, and ordered the boy to drink some water. Then he looked over his shoulder at his men, and called out, “Be ready now, it won’t be long!” They showed no visible reaction to his words, but they heard him.

A thundering of hooves drew Daeron’s attention back to the bridge and his breath jammed in his throat. The Golden Company’s cavalry charged the shield wall at full speed. Their golden armor shone even in the dim light, their lances tipped with golden banners. They rode ten ranks deep, screaming the entire time, and as they came closer, Daeron heard them call, “Beneath the gold, the bitter steel!”

A shiver went through him at those words, and then the mounted knights crashed into the shield wall. One rider went flying into the ranks of the pikemen, while another’s horse reared and threw its rider. The knight fell over the edge of the bridge and into the river below. The knights behind them slammed into their compatriots – Daeron could hardly make any sense of the chaos, it was nothing but a maelstrom of gold, blood, and horse flesh, with a cacophony of blood-curdling screams to accompany it.

How in the world did Ser Tybolt stop that? Daeron wondered. Highly trained troops might’ve stopped the charge, but surely not these men.

The few surviving knights whose horses had survived wheeled around and retreated down the bridge. The archers loosed arrows at their backs, so in the end, only one rider reached the other side. The men around Daeron erupted in cheers, hooting and hollering at their foes, and this time none of the commanders did anything to stop them. Even Daeron raised his sword in the air, shouting, “Ser Tybolt!” with the rest of them.

They knew their rest wouldn’t last long, though. A fresh batch of horsemen had formed in a column, and at the sound of a horn, they charged. Again the earth shook under the weight of the horses, and again the knights of the Golden Company found nothing but disaster at the end of the bridge. This time, Daeron managed to spy Ser Tybolt’s tactics – his men were aiming to kill the horses, and the strategy was paying off handsomely. Not particularly chivalrous. Ser Tybolt wasn't one to give a shit, and Daeron found that neither did he. Let the fuckers fight on foot if they could.

When the knights of the Golden Company pulled back the second time, Lord Ashcart started screaming, “Ser Ryam. Now.”

“Advance men, advance!” Daeron shouted and spurred Honor forward. Ser Tybolt’s men got out of their way, standing to the side while Daeron’s soldiers moved in to take their positions. Daeron shouted instructions at his men – about six men had to stand shoulder-to-shoulder to cover the mouth of the bridge, so their ranks only went five men deep. As they maneuvered into place, Daeron kept sneaking glances at the force on the other end of the bridge, but when he saw they hadn’t reformed, his eyes fell on the carnage they left behind.

The bodies of men and horses clogged the bridge. A pool of blood seemed to be spilling in every direction as though someone had dropped a pitcher of wine, covering the corpses of men and the severed limbs and bits of flesh they left behind.

Tearing his eyes away from the scene, Daeron looked across the river. He had a view of the ships as well, and the full reality of their situation hit him. Hundreds of men were mustering, all the way down the bank, as far as he could see.

Seven Hells. But they could only cross over this bridge, a pathway that was rapidly becoming clogged with their own dead men and horses. How in the world are they supposed to charge over this? Their commanders must’ve come to the same conclusion, because the mounted knights had pulled back to make room for the footsoldiers to form up in number. There had to be around three hundred hundred of them, armed with swords, axes, and golden shields. Their commanders arranged them in a column and with another blast of the trumpet, they advanced again.

“Easy now, men,” Daeron shouted. Gods, he could feel their unease. “It doesn’t matter how many there are, they can’t all fit through this gap!”

The stone bridge shook as the sellswords marched forward in lock-step, but they didn’t get much farther than halfway before another horn sounded through the air. This one was different, a hunting horn rather than one for war, its sound deeper, the blast longer. Daeron looked around for the source, but then he saw movement in the treeline on the northern bank. A long line of mounted knights emerged, carrying the blue-green banners of House Wylde. With another blast of the same horn, those knights charged down the hill towards the amassing forces of the Golden Company who never expected to find themselves under attack.

The footsoldiers who’d headed toward Daeron paused their advance, and then at a shout from their commander, they turned around and marched back down the bridge, to aid their comrades who were about to be hit from behind. That offered Daeron the opportunity, but he commanded footsoldiers, they’d never catch them. But Ser Richard can.

Before he heard Ser Tybolt’s screams and saw Lord Ashcart waving at him, Daeron was already shouting at his men to get the fuck out of the way. Wide-eyed, they obeyed without question and split in two, each half hugging the edge of the street as Ser Richard formed his mounted men and charged forward.

They flashed past Daeron and Jayson, Ser Richard leading the charge. His yellow cloak streamed behind him as he held his longsword high in the air, shouting, “Attack!”

I will never forget this, Daeron thought as he watched them flash by. Not for as long as I live.

Ser Tybolt and Lord Ashcart reached Daeron moments after the last of Ser Richard’s men went by. “Let’s go after them, let’s go after them!” Daeron shouted. His blood was singing in his veins, he felt more like an animal than a man, one who’d caught the scent of prey and wanted to pounce.

“What?” Lord Ashcart asked, looking to Ser Tybolt.

“Let’s push them in the water.” Daeron pointed his sword at the knights of House Wylde just as they crashed into the rapidly forming ranks of the Golden Company. “That’s two hundred knights, let’s smash them.”

Lord Ashcart said, “They’ve got the numbers, Ser, they’ll—”

Daeron cut him off. “Bugger your numbers, let’s beat them bloody and retreat if they restore order!”

Daeron looked between the two of them, pleading for them to listen. The picture was so clear in his mind, so obvious. They had to do it. They wouldn’t stand a chance if they sat back and waited for the Golden Company to come again.

“Alright, do it!” Ser Tybolt said, suddenly animated. “Take them, take them, take them! I’ll be right behind you.”

Daeron didn’t need anything else. “Form up!” he shouted at his men, and they jumped into action, seemingly sensing the opportunity to attack. “At the double-time, advance!”

They ran forward, stumbling over the corpses of horses and men, but they kept their cohesion, Daeron right after them, spurring them on. Ser Richard had caught the Golden Company infantry right at the end of the bridge and bloodied them hard, while the knights of House Wylde were sowing chaos among the rest of the Golden Company forces. The sellswords lost all cohesion, hundreds of them slain in the initial charge, and now Daeron could see the knights of House Wylde had gotten in among the soldiers, and were slashing and stabbing down at them.

We have to form a perimeter, we have to push them downstream. Let Ser Richard and House Wylde sow chaos while their men formed up. But we need to be quick. Daeron kept shouting at his men to keep up the pace, riding right on their heels.

“You stay right by my side,” he yelled at Jayson and the boy nodded quickly, then started shouting at the men himself.

When they reached the other end of the bridge, the riverbank before them was a mess of chaos. Open melee fighting had begun, and if the Golden Company sellswords didn’t wear gold, it would have been impossible to distinguish friend from foe.

“Form a line! Form a line!” Daeron shouted at the men. They’d done the maneuver dozens of times, and their work had paid off. One man positioned himself at the very end of the bridge, and he played the role of the anchor. The rest of the column unfurled like a flag, their shields and spears at the ready. Ser Tybolt was right behind them with his men, and Lord Ashcart after him. They added to his line until they covered the entire width of the riverbank, with the treeline covering one flank and the river the other.

Daeron fidgeted the entire time as he waited, with nothing to do but watch the fighting ahead of him. Take it slow, take it slow, he told himself. Only a fool would charge into the chaos on his own.

But when the formations were ready, Daeron saw Ser Tybolt shout the command some thirty yards away, and Daeron repeated it. “Pikes at the ready! Advance!”

They went forward step by step, careful to make sure their line didn’t fracture at any point. Daeron rode back and forth, checking to see if any gaps were forming, yelling at the men. Lord Ashcart’s archers advanced behind the shield wall. They’d dropped their bows and drawn their hammers and their short swords, ready to make short work of anyone who got past the shield wall.

When the line reached the edge of the melee, they took the sellswords wholly by surprise. They seemed to have been so caught up in the chaos, they barely noticed the threat. Daeron’s soldiers killed a dozen with thrusts through their backs, took a step forward, and did it again.

We have to keep up the pressure, Daeron thought, acutely aware of how exposed they were. Baratheon had the numbers and the training, but they were disorganized and fatigued after a long journey at sea. But they won’t stay disorganized for long. A commander would take them in hand soon, and once order was re-established, they would roll over Daeron’s shield wall like a wave.

“Keep pushing!” Daeron screamed at his men and heard Ser Tybolt shouting the same command. Some of the sellswords began attacking the line, but not in big enough numbers to make a difference, and the archers waited eagerly for the few who made it through.

Even a few of their own knights, the ones who’d been freed of their opponents by the advancing shield wall, were allowed to pass through the lines. Daeron directed them to the left, screaming, “Go protect the flanks!” Whether mounted or on foot, they all obeyed his command and went to the aid of Lord Ashcart.

Standing up in the saddle, Daeron saw the invaders forming up a couple of hundred yards away, beyond the chaos of melee fighting. They’ll destroy us, Daeron saw. There was nothing they could do against such numbers. We took a bite out of them, though.

“Daeron!” Ser Tybolt came riding up to him, his helm covering his face.

“What do we do?”

“Either we pull back, or we attack,” Ser Tybolt said as he reined up beside Daeron, lifting his visor to suck in deep breaths. “But that means leaving all our knights behind.”

“Screw that!” shouted none other than Sam the Suckler. “We ain’t running. Let’s go at them!”

The rest of the men in the shield wall raised their voices in agreement, shouting, “Beestown! Beestown!”

Ser Tybolt grinned, looking half-mad as far as Daeron was concerned. “Order your men forward when I tell you. Give it all you got. Survive.” Then the older knight snapped shut his visor again and rode away, twirling his sword as he shouted at the soldiers to get ready.

Daeron watched him go, then looked at his men. Sellswords fell before them like logs, and they seemed to be chomping for the chance to attack. “Leave! Now!” Daeron told Jayson, and for once the boy didn’t argue. “You ride straight for Mistwood and tell them what has happened here, you hear me?”

“Y—Yes, Ser. I will, I promise.” The boy nodded, but he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the carnage ahead of him.

“Go. Now!” Daeron slapped the boy’s horse with the flat of his blade and watched him ride away, then shifted in his saddle, hefted his shield, and got ready. To his left, Ser Tybolt had delivered the same command to Lord Ashcart, and Daeron saw him raise his sword in the air.

“Charge!” Daeron roared, raising his sword. The men broke formation and ran forward, slamming into the men of the Golden Company who were dueling their knights. Daeron kicked Honor into motion, found a gap among his men, and charged past them. A knight armored in gold had forced his foe onto one knee and was about to deliver the killing blow when Daeron rode past him, cutting off his sword hand. The blood splattered across his breastplate, a fresh scream erupted behind him, but Daeron rode on, into the throng of men.

A commander met him then, mounted on a horse. Daeron reined up and Honor reared, but Daeron took advantage. He stood in his saddle, and as Honor came back down, Daeron struck with the weight of man and horse behind the blow. Ser Tybolt’s tutelage had paid off. The commander lost his grip on his sword and didn’t bring his shield up in time to deflect Daeron’s sword thrust through the neck. The knight fell from his saddle, gurgling blood. Daeron pushed on in search of his next opponent.

Time seemed to thicken and flow slower from that point – Daeron killed a dozen footsoldiers and cut down another three mounted knights. They moved slowly, their attacks predictable, the gaps in their armor too large. Daeron’s sword ran red with blood from tip to the hilt, his armor covered in so many splatters that he could taste the blood on his tongue. Even when a spear-wielding sellsword killed Honor and sent him crashing into the dirt, Daeron didn’t lose his rhythm. Finding his footing in no time, he slew the spearman and went on fighting.

On foot, the fighters seemed even slower. Their war cries and their bold charges hid their lack of skill. They put too much weight behind their swings, they thrust as though they were jousting – Daeron waited for mistakes and found them in their dozens, carving them up and leaving them dying in his wake. The entire time, all he could think of was that Ser Tybolt would not approve of such men.

But then one knight appeared before him, and from his stance, Daeron recognized him as a challenger. The foe’s first swing was probing, measured, and he quickly followed it up with another perfect thrust. Daeron deflected the attack, and probed his defenses himself, then found himself giving ground as the knight unleashed a vicious combination. Long moons of Ser Tybolt’s tutelage ensured Daeron didn’t come close to losing his balance – he hit the knight with his shield to buy himself some room, and then they re-engaged. Daeron’s foe kept on the attack, and soon Daeron noticed a pattern in his strikes. He began every advancing combination with a right swing, then flowed into a left swing, and a thrust. When he repeated the attack for the third time, Daeron deflected the two swings, then stepped out of the way of the thrust. At his foe’s most vulnerable moment, as he extended to complete his thrust, Daeron slashed down at his wrists. The knight’s gauntlets saved his hands, but he dropped his sword with a cry of pain. Daeron slammed the pommel of his sword in his helm to daze him, and as he staggered back, Daeron brought his blade down on his head with full force, splitting his helm open and killing him instantly.

Daeron looked around the battlefield. It seemed that for every friend, six foes in golden armor swarmed around him. In this storm of gilded steel, however, Daeron noticed a man in dark armor. It was the color of obsidian, plain steel without a carving or a surcoat to cover it, just like Daeron. The knight was a giant of a man, with but two identifying features – the antlers on his helm and the warhammer in his hands.

The warrior stood but twenty yards away, and Daeron charged forward. Shoving one sellsword out of his way and slaying three more who wouldn’t listen to reason, Daeron suddenly found himself face-to-face with Robert Baratheon.

“Come to die?” Baratheon boomed and swung his hammer sideways with freakish speed. Daeron barely jumped out of the way, but Baratheon was on him in the next moment, raising his hammer high and bringing it down. Daeron jumped out of the way of that strike too, but then Baratheon slammed the hilt of his weapon into Daeron’s shield and sent him stumbling to the side.

Seven Hells, Daeron thought as he regained his footing, bracing himself for another attack, remembering everything Ser Tybolt had told him about what it was like to fight Robert Baratheon.

The Stag came at Daeron with his hammer raised and brought it down on him, but this time Daeron was ready. He stepped out of the way, the head of the hammer hitting the dirt beside him. Robert kept one hand on his weapon and tried to backhand him with the other, but Daeron ducked under the swing and thrust forward at the exposed part of Robert’s underarm. He found a spot free of plate, and pierced the chainmail, stabbing through the muscles of his upper arm. Robert Baratheon roared in pain and struck out on instinct, punching Daeron in the helm.

Daeron staggered away – his visor had hit him in the mouth, he could taste blood, and Baratheon was on him. Daeron couldn’t get out of the way of the next swing and had to take it with his shield – the wood split in half under the force of the blow, and Daeron cried out as his left forearm cracked. He struck out on instinct and dented Robert’s vambraces.

I still have my feet, and my sword arm, Daeron thought as he rid himself of his ruined shield and stood in front of the panting Robert Baratheon. Thinking of Lord Arwyn Greenwood, Daeron thought: And I have my tongue as well.

“My name is Daeron Snow!” he shouted at the Stag. “I am the son of Lyanna Stark!” Then Daeron attacked, holding his left hand to his chest while he unleashed a blistering combination. Most of his strikes found a home, denting Baratheon’s shoulder guards and scratching his breastplate, forcing him on the back heel.

“You bastard!” Baratheon screamed and countered with another mighty swing.

Daeron rolled under it and found himself at Baratheon’s back. His left arm exploded in pain, but he swung for the back of Robert’s knee with the right. The Stag’s fighting instincts weren’t legend for nothing, however – Robert rolled his hips and Daeron struck the armored side of his knee instead.

Baratheon slammed his fist into Daeron’s helm again, and this time his legs gave out. Daeron fell to the side, his left arm limp from the pain, and it was all he could do to roll over and meet his end head on. Robert Baratheon grabbed his war hammer and advanced to finish him off.

Only then one of Robert’s own sellswords slammed into him, pushed himself off of Robert, and kept running toward the boats. Before Daeron could make sense of it, another dozen men streamed past, shouting, and carrying Robert Baratheon away like a river.

“No!” The Stag tried to push past them to get at Daeron, but there were too many, all soldiers in golden armor, pushing to get away like animals caught in a trap.

One of them grabbed Baratheon, a commander, and started pulling him toward the ships, screaming, “We have to go, Robert, we have to go!”

“No!”

Some of them even tripped over Daeron and he quickly found his feet and his sword to avoid getting trampled. Baratheon was carried away, reaching over his men as though he meant to climb over their heads to get at Daeron, while the rest of the sellswords ran past him as though they couldn’t see him.

Daeron spun on his heel, expecting a foe to come at him from every direction, but none did, and it wasn’t until Daeron felt the ground shake beneath his feet that he began to wonder at the cause of their panic.

A war horn pierced the air, the deep sound rattling his bones, and Daeron turned to find hundreds of mounted knights charging down the riverbank. Their lances carried the banners of a dozen Houses, and at their head rode a knight clad in armor as white as freshly fallen snow, wielding a sword that gleamed like a star.

House Targaryen had come.

Chapter Text

Daeron sat at the top of the northern bank of the Lonely River, with the treeline right at his back. He still had his sword in his hand – it was covered in blood from the tip up to Daeron’s elbow – and he kept his left hand pressed to his chest, though he could hardly feel the pain anymore. I imagine I’ll pay for it later.

It was late in the afternoon, and the light was falling, but the ships burning down the river provided them with plenty of light. Robert Baratheon’s invading forces, after getting bruised by the defenders of Beestown, shattered under the weight of the cavalry charge led by Ser Arthur Dayne. Almost a thousand mounted knights had come down on the invaders and pursued them down the river. They hunted down hundreds of sellswords, taking some captive, and slaying most. Daeron had heard the Crown learned of the invasion late, and even then they hadn't known where Robert Baratheon's forces would make landfall. A knight in the service of Prince Jaehaerys had told him they'd been riding for the past three days after reports finally arrived that Baratheon was headed for Beestown.

Baratheon kept them guessing until the end. Thank the Old Gods and the New we delayed him. Word had it Stannis Baratheon had believed Robert would make straight for Storm's End, which is why the man had kept his troops so close to home. 

It turned out well enough in the end. Most of the invasion force never even got the chance to land, and Daeron heard reports that they’d been seen heading back out to sea. Robert Baratheon had escaped with them, but he’d left thousands of his men behind. It’ll take him a long time to recover.

Daeron looked over the corpses that littered the northern bank. Men moved among them, collecting armor and looting the bodies of any valuables. Even a few Silent Sisters and Maesters walked up and down the bank, searching for men who could still be saved and marking those who were beyond help. Their moans and pleas were loud, but after an entire day of screaming, Daeron could barely hear them.

“A man came running to me to tell me a story,” came Ser Tybolt’s voice. Daeron looked up to find the older knight covered in blood and mud, but Daeron could tell he was unharmed because the fucker was grinning. “He said that my companion, that Ser Ryam of White Tree, he cut a red path through the ranks of the Golden Company to get at Robert Baratheon.

“Lord Ashcart didn’t believe the man. ‘Ser Ryam wouldn’t do something so stupid,’ His Lordship said. But I set him right. I said to him, ‘No, my Lord, you don’t understand. This is exactly the kind of stupidity my northern friend excels at.’ And wouldn’t you know it, I was correct.”

Daeron couldn’t help but smile. “Are you alright, Tybolt?”

“Never better.” Ser Tybolt thumped his blood-splattered breastplate to prove it. “Nothing like a good battle to remind you that life is sweet.”

“Tell that to them.” Daeron nodded to the field of corpses.

Ser Tybolt scrunched up his nose as though he didn’t like the smell of that proposal. “I prefer not to talk to the dead, myself.” The knight approached Daeron and plopped down on the grass next to him. “What about you, as healthy as a newborn?”

Daeron held out his limp arm, wincing. “Baratheon broke my arm, I think.”

“Rude of him.”

“I know.” Daeron bobbed his head. “To be fair, I did tickle him under his armor a bit.”

“Then I can understand where he was coming from.” Ser Tybolt started laughing and slapped Daeron on the back, oblivious to the pain he caused. “How in the world did you survive, lad? I must’ve trained you better than I thought.”

“You didn’t,” Daeron returned, deadpan. “He would’ve killed me if his men didn’t get in the way, running for their lives. I was lucky.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Ser Tybolt tsked and shook his head. “I don’t know why you’re looking so glum. You won a great battle today.”

“I won a great battle?” Daeron looked at the older knight to see if he was taking the piss. “What the fuck did I do that you didn’t?”

“Ah, but it’s not what you did, it’s who you are.” Ser Tybolt looked into the distance and mimicked a dreamy girl, saying, “The son of King Rhaegar and his northern love, fighting off the brute who’d tried to get in the way of true love.” Ser Tybolt looked at him and grinned. “The singers will eat it up, lad.”

Daeron looked down and ran his hands over the blades of grass. He figured this was one of those hard truths that he shouldn’t bother arguing about, but his gut churned with disgust. “We lost most of our men, Ser Tybolt.” Three of the Wright brothers were dead, the pimply youngest one among them, along with Sam the Suckler and John the Woodcutter, the man who’d saved Daeron’s life at Pevensey.

“Aye, but they died like heroes. The people of Beestown will sing of them for years to come. And when their children grow, they’ll tell them their fathers died fighting alongside the son of a King.”

That wasn’t much, as far Daeron could see, but it was about the only thing he could hang his hopes on. So that’s what he did, and he felt some of the weight lift off his chest.

“There they are, Ser! Right there!”

Ser Tybolt and Daeron looked up at the sound of Jayson’s high-pitched voice and found him standing some twenty yards away, a white knight of the Kingsguard by his side.

“And here comes the real world,” Ser Tybolt said. He laid a hand on Daeron’s shoulder and said, “I want you to know, Daeron, it’s been one of my life’s great privileges to ride with you.”

Daeron didn’t like the sound of that. “What are you talking about?”

Ser Tybolt frowned. “You’ll go to King’s Landing now. Our adventures are over.”

“Oh, forget that, you’re coming with me. You think I’m facing the Court of Dragons without you there?” Daeron clouted him in the ear. “Don’t you even think about it. You’re going to King’s Landing.”

Ser Tybolt had some choice words he wanted to share in response to that act of cheekiness, but he had a problem – Jayson had reached them by then, and with him came none other than Ser Arthur Dayne, the hilt of his greatsword poking over his shoulder.

Daeron got to his feet, careful not to jostle his left hand too much. “Ser Arthur,” he said and bowed his head. In the process, Daeron also noticed that he was covered in blood and mud from his neck to his boots, and in no state to meet a knight of Ser Arthur’s stature.

“Ser Daeron, I’ve been looking all over for you,” Ser Arthur returned. The legendary knight had a long, stern face, his eyes as pale as lilac, and he stood a head taller than Daeron. His white armor sported no markings except for a falling star that was engraved into his chestplate. “Are you wounded?”

“No, Ser,” Daeron replied, ignoring the flash of pain in his arm that called him a liar.

“His Grace hasn't arrived yet, but I feel he'd want you looked over by a Maester and given every comfort. Will you come with me?” Ser Arthur asked, gesturing toward Beestown, most of which was occupied by the knights of the army.

Daeron sighed in relief. It was good that he didn’t have to face his father in such a condition. “Yes, Ser. I will.”

Daeron had gotten a bath and a visit from the Maester who quickly set his arm and created a sling for him. Daeron even received fresh clothing – boots made of supple black leather, the insides of them lined with wool, a pair of trousers, and a grey doublet. Then Ser Arthur ordered him to get some rest, and Daeron only thought to argue until he saw the featherbed Ser Arthur had provided him at Beestown’s largest inn.

Then, the next morning after they’d broken their fast, Ser Arthur returned with three horses in tow, claiming the King had arrived with the main army. Together they rode out to meet the King, Ser Tybolt and Jayson following along. King Rhaegar set up his tent in the middle of the field, surrounded by the flower of Stormlands’ chivalry. A hundred tents seemed to have sprouted up in a few hours, but the King’s black pavilion towered over them all, the banner of House Targaryen hanging from the top.

As they rode between the tents sporting the banners of a dozen Houses, from the black owl of House Mertyns to the white-and-black swans of House Swann, some of the knights emerged to watch them pass.

They didn’t say anything, but Daeron could feel their eyes on him, saw them take in his appearance, his wounded arm, and Ser Tybolt behind him. Soon, they came to line the path to the King’s pavilion, and while Daeron found their silence unnerving, he was too tired and too hurt to care. And his mind was focused on meeting his father besides.

A couple of pages ran up to them and held the horses steady while Daeron dismounted with a groan. His arm still throbbed in pain, but Daeron gritted his teeth and trudged forward. Lord Ashcart and Lady Jocelyn exited the pavilion as Daeron approached, both of them pale but determined. Their eyes widened when they noticed Daeron and they both bowed their heads. “Ser Daeron,” Lord Ashcart said and there was no familiarity in his eyes as he stopped to hold open the flaps of the pavilion for Daeron.

Steeling himself for what was to come and finding it a bit ridiculous that it scared him more than the battle, Daeron stepped inside. King Rhaegar’s pavilion had more space inside than the common rooms of most taverns. A large bed had been placed in the corner, with blood-red curtains, while the ground had been covered in thick Myrish carpets. A table had been set in the middle of the room, and four men sat around it with cups of wine in their hands. When they laid eyes on Daeron, they all jumped to their feet.

“Daeron!” the King exclaimed.

He stood at the head of the table, wearing a black doublet with traces of the Targaryen red in the stitching and the lining. With a sword at his hip and a golden crown on his brow, Daeron couldn’t help but feel Rhaegar looked exactly what a King ought to look like – tall, strong, and exuding an unyielding sense of authority.

“Your Grace,” Daeron said, bowing his head. “I apologize for being late, I’m afraid—”

“Nonsense!” the King said as he stepped around the table and approached Daeron. Rhaegar looked at him as though he wasn’t sure how to proceed. Then his shoulders eased, he spread his arms, and enveloped Daeron in a gentle hug, careful not to jostle his wounded forearm. “My son. You’ve no idea how long I’ve wished to meet you.”

Daeron swallowed as he looked him in the eye. “Me too, Your—” Bugger that. “Father.”

Something seemed to ease in the King’s eyes. He put a gentle hand on Daeron’s shoulder and smiled. “Come, take a seat, there’s much to discuss.”

Daeron allowed himself to be led to a chair at Rhaegar’s right, and as he went, he remembered his companions. “That is Ser Tybolt, father, my companion. And my squire, Jayson Smallwood.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Jayson,” King Rhaegar said as he took his seat. “And good to see you again in better circumstances, Ser Tybolt. Please, both of you, join us.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Ser Tybolt bowed his head, then led Jayson to the table, though they both sat as far from Rhaegar as they could get.

“This is Lord Stannis Baratheon, Daeron.” Rhaegar gestured to the stern-faced man with piercing blue eyes and a balding head. “And this is the Lord Commander of my Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy. You just missed Jaehaerys, but I think you’ll get a chance to talk to him soon.”

Daeron inclined his head. “An honor to meet you both, my Lords.”

“And Ser Richard, I believe you know.”

Daeron smiled at the yellow-cloaked knight and was surprised to see Ser Richard return it.

“The honor is ours, Ser Daeron,” Ser Barristan said. The knight had long silver hair, and his face bore evidence to the many years he’d seen, but in his white armor, with those steely eyes, Daeron had trouble thinking of a man he’d have liked to encounter less on the battlefield. Maybe Ser Arthur.

“Indeed,” Lord Stannis added, though his expression suggested he didn’t mean it. The Lord of Storm’s End watched Daeron with an assessing gaze, as though he was at that very moment weighing his worth as a man.

“I must admit,” Rhaegar said, chuckling, “when Jaehaerys came to King’s Landing and told me you’d decided to take to the road as a hedge knight, I did not anticipate the Realm would see quite so many benefits from his decision.”

“Aye, the tale of your deeds during the battle is all anyone can talk about. Not to mention that it was your lad Jayson who’d guided our cavalry to the battlefield.” Ser Barristan bobbed his head in approval. “Good job sending him, he saved us loads of time.”

Daeron looked at the boy, but he seemed to have gone back to staring at his feet. The boy hadn’t told Daeron about the role he played in the battle, though Daeron supposed he hadn’t really had the chance. “I’m glad he was helpful, Ser, but I did not send him—”

“You fought my brother?” Lord Stannis interrupted him. “Are those rumors true?”

Daeron blinked, wondering at Lord Stannis’ sentiments. Did he despise his brother or the King who’d made him fight against Robert? “I did, my Lord.”

Lord Stannis’ eyes bore into him. “And wounded him too?”

Daeron didn’t shy away from the man’s gaze. “I did.”

“Then you have done more for this Realm than I ever could,” Lord Stannis said. Daeron had no idea what the man meant, and he watched him as Lord Stannis stood from his chair and said, “If you should ever find yourself in need of assistance, the gates of Storm’s End will always be open to you.” Lord Stannis bowed to the King and left the pavilion.

Daeron watched him go, wondering if any man had ever managed to make an offer of hospitality and help sound so desperately grim.

“You must excuse Lord Stannis,” Rhaegar said, a smile tugging at his lips. “What he lacks in good cheer, he more than makes up for with his unyielding loyalty.”

Daeron figured that was one way to explain it. “As you say, Your—father.”

Rhaegar smiled openly now and looked to the rest of the men in the tent. “Would you mind giving me and Daeron a moment? I fear we have plenty to talk about.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan climbed to his feet, Ser Tybolt and Ser Richard right behind him. Together with Jayson, they filed out of the pavilion, the boy smiling encouragingly at Daeron before he left.

When they were alone, Rhaegar walked to a tray and poured them both a cup of wine. When he handed one to Daeron, he said, “Ser Barristan was correct, you’ve done well here, Daeron. Your mother would be very proud.”

Daeron felt heat rise in his cheeks and when he wanted to come up with a courteous reply, he found no words waiting for him. “I—” No one had ever said that to him, he realized. “T-Thank you,” he said finally. “That means a lot.”

Rhaegar nodded in acknowledgment and sat back down. “You should get ready. They shall sing of your deeds from Dorne to the Wall.” Seeing the look on Daeron’s face, Rhaegar peered at him and added, “You don’t like it?”

Daeron bit his lip as he tried to put his thoughts into words. “The way Ser Barristan spoke, it was as though I’d won the battle single-handedly. As though Lord Ashcart had nothing to do with it, or Ser Tybolt, or Lady Jocelyn with her knights.”

Rhaegar smiled indulgently. It startled Daeron to see it was the same smile he’d seen on Uncle Ned’s face when he heard Robb express a slightly amusing opinion that would have to be corrected. Daeron had never imagined he’d see Rhaegar look at him the same way.

“Tell me, Daeron, what do you know of the War of the Ninepenny Kings?”

Confused by the question and wondering if this was some sort of trick, Daeron shrugged and said, “I know Ser Barristan Selmy cut a bloody path to Meleys the Monstrous and killed him in single combat.”

“Precisely,” Rhaegar said. “So should Ser Barristan feel bad for all the men whose names aren’t mentioned in the songs?”

“Ah,” Daeron said, inwardly quite pleased to have heard the first lesson from his father. “I understand.”

“Very good, because this isn’t merely a matter of personal preference. The future of the Crown is at stake, which is why I have already sent out dozens of singers to spread the tale around the kingdoms. Before the moon is out, every man, woman, and child in the Seven Kingdoms shall know of what you accomplished here.”

To hear that the tale would serve a purpose greater than simple glory hunting put the rest of Daeron’s qualms at ease. If the King required the tale to help him strengthen the Crown, then Daeron would play along gladly. “I understand.”

“Good.” Rhaegar set down his cup and took a deep breath. “Now, I’m afraid there is one last question I must ask you before I allow you to get some rest.”

“I will come with you to the capital, Father,” Daeron said, having expected the question. “You need not worry.”

Rhaegar exhaled as though he’d been holding his breath for hours and nodded, enthusiasm shining in his eyes. “I am very glad to hear it, Daeron.” He reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “I know I haven’t been the father you deserved. I allowed my impulses to give you a lesser rank in life than is your right, and I have allowed politics to keep you away from me for your entire life. But if you’ll let me, I’d like to spend the rest of my days trying to make up for all the time lost.”

Daeron stared into his father’s eyes. He felt as though an avalanche of everything he’d ever hoped to hear had descended upon him, and it seemed as though his lips formed a smile on their own as he replied, “I’d like that too, Father. I’d like that very much.”

Chapter Text

“Aegon?”

“Huh?” Prince Aegon blinked and returned to the present. “I apologize, I drifted off for a moment there.”

His companions, sitting along the makeshift table they’d set up under the tree, smiled in understanding, but Aegon saw the concern in their eyes. He’d been drifting off a lot over the past couple of days, they seemed to be thinking, but none of them wanted to name the cause.

“I was just telling our resident snake here that Prince Oberyn doesn’t have the slightest chance of winning the tourney for your wedding,” Renly Baratheon said with that easy smile of his, lounging in his chair as he winked at Quentyn Martell. “What do you think, Your Grace?”

Aegon’s smile was a mirror image of Renly’s. He’d watched the Baratheon knight smile and mastered the same expression like an apprentice actor learning from a master, though Aegon hadn’t become conscious of it until recently. “I’d say a wise man should never rule out the Red Viper,” Aegon said. It was the answer they all expected, and once again, Aegon was reminded of an actor repeating his lines. His companions went back to arguing over the knights who would enter the lists, debating the strengths and weaknesses of each man, coming to no conclusions but enjoying every second of the fruitless process.

Aegon looked up at the canopy of the old oak they’d chosen to have their lunch under. The tree towered over others in the Red Keep’s Godswood, providing them with plenty of shade from the hot summer sun that beat down on King’s Landing from a cloudless sky. A sparrow sat on one of the branches, looking around in apparent curiosity, before he launched himself into the air and zipped through the Godswood as Aegon’s gaze returned to his companions.

All of his best friends sat along the table the servants had set up. Renly and Quentyn, of course, the former a broad-shouldered knight with coal-black hair and easy grace, the latter a rigid and insecure youth who only seemed comfortable when he had a spear in his hand. Renly wore a black doublet embroidered with stags and a golden dueling cape, taking careful sips of wine. Quentyn, who sat across the table from him, wore a red-and-gold tunic, his black mustache as elaborately trimmed as ever, though his square-shaped face and reserved manner would never allow him to become dashing.

The rest of the men at the table watched Renly tease and joke with Quentyn, occasionally joining in. There was Garlan Tyrell, the greatest warrior among them, though his modesty meant he always remained to the side. Tommen Lannister was the newest acquisition to the group – golden-haired like the rest of his family, he was cautious with his words and slow to smile. His brother Joffrey had died moons earlier in some freak accident, or so the official story claimed. Few believed it since Lord Tywin reportedly confined Lady Cersei to her chambers afterward and sent Tommen to the capital to keep him as far away from his mother as possible.

The final two men present were Ser Robar Royce and Ser Clement Celtigar. Ser Robar was a formidable knight in his own right and one of Aegon’s prized acquisitions since he hailed from the Vale, while Ser Clement was the third son of a minor Lord and thus seen as the least of Aegon’s companions, a fact he seemed incapable of forgetting for even a moment.

In the olden days, Aegon would have liked nothing better than to spend the entire day in the shade of the tree with his friends, drinking wine, eating everything within reach, and jesting until the early hours of the morning. He might’ve asked Uncle Oberyn to join them, just so he could laugh at his friends as they tried to gather the courage to ask him for another story from his travels. Or he might’ve invited Lord Tyrion along and watched the Imp bring each one of his friends down a peg with his quick wit, placing quiet wagers about which one of them would dare retaliate against the (official) Heir to Casterly Rock.

Aegon grabbed his cup of wine and took a sip to wash away the bitter taste in his mouth. Looking over his friends, chortling without a care in the world, Aegon couldn’t help but wonder which of them could truly be relied upon. They all seemed formidable – such illustrious names, such magnificent armor, and to hear them speak, one might be forgiven for thinking Aegon had surrounded himself with a circle of warriors that could easily push his father’s Kingsguard to the brink.

And yet… After Aegon announced his intention to marry Rhaenys and the Realm erupted in outrage, with zealots running wild and spreading discord, not one of his noble companions had a single piece of advice to offer. It was the first time Aegon had truly miscalculated and found himself in dire need of a friend who might offer a fresh perspective on the subject, but none of the men in his circle had anything substantial to offer. They mocked the zealots, declared them traitors, and then asked the servants for some more wine.

As a man who prided himself on making useful friendships, the experience left Aegon reeling. How was he to rule the Seven Kingdoms if the two tools he relied on for control – his charm and his gift for political games – could fail so spectacularly?

Aegon hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since that dreadful realization sunk in. As a Crown Prince, he’d always believed he could either pacify or outmaneuver his potential enemies. The ability to forge strong and lasting bonds was what made a good King, he’d told himself, but he’d never truly considered the possibility of an enemy who couldn’t care less about gold and welcomed death. People said the zealots were the exception, not the rule, but Aegon figured that an enemy who was determined to overthrow him would behave in much the same way, immune to any overtures from House Targaryen and interested only in killing or being killed.

For moons, Aegon had scrambled to find a solution that might restore his confidence and give him the chance to go back to doing what he did best – navigate the political arena in the service of the Seven Kingdoms. Aegon had begun to fear that an answer would never come, but then Robert Baratheon invaded the Seven Kingdoms with the might of the Golden Company at his back, and the truth about Aegon’s little brother and his glorious deeds finally came to light.

The tale of what had happened at the Battle of Beestown had already spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms, though the King and his army had not yet returned to the capital. Daeron Snow and his company of heroes held back an entire invasion force with a few hundred men, people said. And though they’d expected to fight pirates, not a single one of them ran when Robert Baratheon himself landed on their shores with thousands of bloodthirsty mercenaries at his back. When the messenger King Rhaegar sent to Court regaled them with the story of how Daeron, upon seeing the battle was lost, cut a bloody path straight to Robert Baratheon, the courtiers hung onto his every word and the noble Ladies present gasped in fright.

“For near an hour they danced, our brave lad and the monstrous invader. ‘Tis said the ground shook every time Robert Baratheon swung his warhammer while Ser Daeron wielded his blade with such speed, the soldiers of both armies could hear it whistling as it sliced through the air. And when at last Ser Daeron gained the upper hand and wounded Baratheon, punching through the Stag’s armor and drawing blood, our mighty host appeared in the distance and drained the last ounce of bravery from the foul barbarians. Robert Baratheon was the first to flee, pushing past his men to save himself, scared witless at the thought of facing Ser Daeron the Stormbreaker with the Royal Army at his back!”

The Court had erupted in applause when the messenger finished the tale. Lords and knights applauded, cheering openly, while the Ladies of the Court fanned themselves from the sheer thrill of the story and offered prayers to the Warrior to protect Ser Daeron the Stormbreaker as he shielded Westeros from evil.

Aegon had stood at the foot of the Iron Throne and watched the nobles celebrate, but his mind was far away. He sensed his father’s influence in the story the messenger had told and did no doubt that Rhaegar had sent mummers and singers across the Seven Kingdoms to spread the tale of Daeron’s heroics. As an accomplished singer himself, Rhaegar grasped the power of stories far better than most of the Kings who’d come before him, and it was a lesson he’d passed down to his son.

Whether or not the story was exaggerated and embellished mattered little to Aegon, however. The bones of it were true – his little brother had stood against thousands with nothing but a few hundred peasants, then dueled Robert Baratheon and lived to tell the tale.

Ever since that day, Aegon had thought of little else but his brother and his accomplishments. Aegon had few illusions regarding his martial prowess – he wouldn’t disgrace himself, as Ser Arthur reported to his father – so it became instantly clear to him that what he needed, more than anything else, was a warrior who could supplement his skills in the political arena. A man Aegon could rely on to deal with the enemies who wouldn’t listen to reason.

And Daeron is that man, Aegon thought, once again looking over his friends around the table. Not a single one of them could be relied on to the same extent. They’d give their lives to protect their honor and fend off accusations of cowardice, but how many would fight and win in the service of the Crown?

Not a single one. Daeron was the true steel, and they all knew it. Ser Garlan, Ser Robar, and Prince Quentyn seemed curious about him, but the rest of Aegon’s friends and the great majority of the young nobles at Court were overcome with jealousy. The only reason they did not allow their antipathy to show was because Aegon had rebuked Ser Clement after the young knight suggested Daeron was reaping more glory than a bastard should.

I must keep them close, each and every one of them is useful, but I must never make the mistake of thinking that their friendship keeps me safe. Aegon reached out, snatched an apple off a tray, and bit into it with a satisfying crunch. He listened to Ser Garlan humbly deflect Renly’s praise of his swordplay, before Ser Clement suggested that Ser Jaime Lannister was sure to win the joust, which once again set the men off, bickering about this and that.

All of a sudden, Aegon had had enough. Setting down his cup and throwing away the apple, he stood from his chair before he consciously processed what he was trying to accomplish. The rest of his friends jumped to their feet as well, watching curiously, so Aegon smiled and said, “Forgive me, I’m afraid I have to take my leave early today, there’s something I must do.”

Before Renly could question him in jest, as he often liked to do, or Ser Clement offered to accompany him, Aegon spun on his heel and walked away, down the path that led through the Godswood and back toward Maegor’s Holdfast.

Prince Lewyn, clinking in his Kingsguard armor, fell into step behind Aegon. “Going somewhere, nephew?”

“Yes,” Aegon said and continued down the path with hurried steps.

“Would you happen to know where?”

Aegon could hear the amusement in his great-uncle’s voice and looked over his shoulder to find him smiling at Aegon, each line on his sunkissed skin visible. “I—I’ll tell you when we get there.”

Prince Lewyn, uninterested in chasing glory, had been left behind at the Capital, along with Prince Aemon and Ser Jonothor, while King Rhaegar took his deadliest swords with him to battle. At that moment, Aegon wished his father had taken them all – the bastards all knew him and his vices too well, so there was no hiding from them. Prince Lewyn undoubtedly believed Aegon was headed toward his chambers, seeking Rhaenys’ comfort, or toward the chambers of some other wench who’d recently caught his interest.

For a moment, Aegon considered the possibility but quickly dismissed it. It was a solution to his problems that interested him, not an escape from them, and his feet seemed to know where he’d find the help he needed. Aegon walked past the men-at-arms standing guard at the entrance to Maegor’s Holdfast and rushed down the hallway, the cool stone offering a blessed reprieve from the afternoon heat. Both the servants and the nobles were few and far between, so Aegon only had to endure one mind-numbing conversation with Lord Charlton before he could continue on his way, up the stairs toward the quarters of the Royal Family. Before Aegon knew it, he was knocking on the door of Daenerys’ chambers, Prince Lewyn still right behind him.

A maid opened the door, blanched, and said, “How may I help you, Your Grace?”

“Is my aunt within?”

“Let him in, Tanselle,” came Daenerys’ soft voice.

Aegon stepped inside and found Daenerys seated around a table, with most of the young Ladies of the Court in attendance. They seemed to be enjoying a similar gathering as the one Aegon had hosted in the Godswood, and they all jumped to their feet and curtsied when they laid eyes on Aegon.

Daenerys alone remained seated. Looking resplendent in an azure dress, her silver-gold hair falling past her shoulders in thick ringlets, Daenerys’ lilac eyes sparkled as she regarded him with a faint smile. “What can I do for you, Your Grace?”

“I—uh, I was hoping to have a word,” Aegon said, a bit embarrassed. Daenerys was shouldering Rhaenys’ load by hosting this little gathering since Queen Elia had invited Rhaenys to spend the day with her in the Kingswood.

“Of course,” Daenerys said, her voice as pleasant as ever. “Ladies, I hope you’ll forgive me, but we’ll have to continue this conversation another time.”

“Of course, Princess,” Lady Margaery said. She curtsied for Aegon again, her doe eyes full of unspoken thoughts, and led the way out of the room, the rest of the ladies right on her heels.

When the last of them left and the maid closed the door behind them, Aegon went to take a seat across the table from Daenerys. She took a single grape from the platter and bit into it delicately, saying, “How can I help you, nephew?”

Aegon grabbed a pitcher of wine and filled up a random goblet one of the Ladies had left behind on the table. “Tell me, what do you think of Daeron?”

“The nephew I’ve never met?” Daenerys raised an eyebrow. “Can’t say I have an opinion.”

Aegon regarded her frankly. “You know what I mean.”

Daenerys sighed as though bored and shifted in her seat. The only daughter of the Mad King was a stunning woman in every sense of the word, from her looks to her effortless grace and charm. Where Rhaenys’ beauty had a hint of danger to it due to her extensive martial training, Daenerys could gather an army simply by suggesting the sight of it would please her. The Princess was hardly unaware of her power, of course, and so she always maintained an air of cool detachment, inviting people to creep closer and beg for her attention.

“It seems he’s a great warrior,” Daenerys said, staring at the ceiling in boredom. “Or so your father’s singers would have us believe. I don’t know how that makes him any different from that gaggle of knights you surround yourself with.”

“Daenerys, he faced off against the Golden Company with a few hundred men and survived.”

“So he’s better at it than your friends,” Daenerys said with a roll of her eyes. “Another man who can swing a stick and probably never shuts up about honor and chivalry is hardly shocking.”

Aegon regarded her with a deadpan look. This wasn’t the Daenerys he knew. “What’s gotten into you?”

Daenerys looked at him, and for a moment it seemed as if she might burst. Then she breathed out and put a hand to her forehead, saying, “I’m sorry, it’s just… Lady Margaery’s been after me again, dropping hints about how I’ll soon be betrothed to her beloved brother Willas.”

Aegon couldn’t help but crack a smile. “Well, at least he’s not another man who can swing a stick and never shuts up about chivalry, right?”

Daenerys glared at him, then rose from her chair to pace about the room. The balcony door behind her was thrown open and a slight breeze helped keep the worst of the heat at bay as Aegon watched Daenerys fret. “What in the Seven Hells am I going to do, Aegon?” Daenerys asked. “I’ve already rejected one match that Rhaegar had arranged for me, he won’t allow me to reject another. Especially if it means appeasing the Tyrells or Lannisters.” At this, she turned to glare at Aegon again, holding him entirely responsible for the problem.

Aegon threw up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, though it didn’t help that he was smiling. “But I told you to pick a husband soon or one would be chosen for you.”

“Yes,” Daenerys said, leaning over the table to drive home the point. “But you didn’t tell me why.”

“Listen, Dany, I’m sorry, but I really do need your help with Daeron.”

“What help?” Daenerys demanded. “Why’d you need me to help you assess a man I’ve never met, Aegon?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean then?”

“I need to know…” Aegon trailed off, his throat suddenly tight. He coughed to clear his airways. “I need to know if you think he can help cover up my weaknesses.”

Daenerys stopped pacing and faced Aegon, suddenly unsure. “Aegon…”

“I’m no great warrior, Daenerys, not like father. I may be able to lead an army, but my prowess will never inspire a song or make soldiers love me. But Daeron might and Father knows it too.” After getting the words out, Aegon found himself breathing heavily, but feeling ten stone lighter.

Daenerys regarded him with a look of sympathy as she sat back down. “You think that’s why Rhaegar’s spreading the tale of Daeron’s deeds far and wide?”

“Of course. It’s why he’s wanted Daeron to come to the capital. You saw what the was like when Uncle Jaehaery returned alone, he almost strangled him.”

Daenerys huffed in amusement and conceded the point. “But if you don’t mind Daeron taking such a role, what’s the problem?”

“The problem is that we need to bind him to the family, make him—” Aegon’s eyes went wide as he stared at Daenerys.

“What?” she asked, frowning.

“I wanted to ask father to legitimize Daeron, make him a true Targaryen,” Aegon said.

Dany shrugged. “I suppose that would bind him to the family and make the northerners happy in the process. But it would also spread whispers about another Daemon Blackfyre.”

“Not if we cemented the bond with a marriage. Perhaps to a beautiful young princess who’s sick of fools and wants, above all, to remain at the capital.” Aegon could feel the shit-eating grin on his face, the type that was wholly unbecoming of a Crown Prince.

Daenerys paused for but a moment and then hummed at the thought of it. As far as Aegon was concerned that was a good sign, since she’d rejected every other proposal that had been put in front of her in the past out of hand.

Looking up, Dany said, “He might be ugly.”

“Oh, please, no dragon is ugly.”

“What if he really does talk about honor all the time?”

“You don’t have to listen!”

“What will the Lannisters and the Tyrells say?”

That was a problem, but Aegon figured they’d come up with a solution eventually. “I don’t know. Maybe we’ll give them Viserys, that ought to sour them on the whole idea of marrying Targaryens.”

Dany stared at him for a beat, then burst out in laughter. Aegon soon joined until Dany’s chambers rang to the sounds of their chortling. It had been a while since he’d had a proper laugh, and he had to admit that the thought of Tywin Lannisters being driven mad by Aegon’s proud and impulsive Uncle almost made him want to suggest the match the first chance he got.

“Admit it, this doesn’t sound bad,” Aegon said when they finally stopped laughing. “If he’s an idiot, you’ll have him wrapped around your finger within a fortnight, and if he’s not, even better. In both cases, you get to remain in the capital, the center of the world for as long as you live.”

Daenerys bit her lip and blushed, embarrassed to have her vanity brought up so openly and yet quite pleased with the picture Aegon had painted. He’d always suspected it was going away from the capital and into obscurity that Daenerys objected to, not the prospective grooms, and it seemed he was correct.

“Does that mean you’ll help?” Aegon asked, though he already knew the answer.

“The legitimization shouldn’t be too difficult. Rhaegar’s probably been thinking about ways to justify it for years. And when it comes to the marriage, well… if Rhaegar won’t go for it, I’m sure I’ll find a way to persuade Daeron directly.” Daenerys’ smile was pure allure and mischief.

Poor Daeron, Aegon thought, smiling. He’s gonna dream about the days when Robert Baratheon was his biggest problem.

Chapter Text

The city of King’s Landing first appeared in the distance like a mirage. The towers of Red Keep glinted in the early morning sun, and as the column rode on, the city’s walls began to reveal themselves, stretching along the north side of the Blackwater Rush.

Daeron couldn’t take his eyes off it. He’d never imagined a city could be so big, that it could hold so many buildings. It seemed to be trembling with energy, as though every one of the people who lived there ached to get out.

“You’ll never get tired of the sight, I promise you,” King Rhaegar said, riding beside him. In his black armor, a magnificent red cape flowing from his shoulders, Daeron’s father looked like a knight from legend, his cautious eyes watching his seat of power as he rode.

“How many people live here?”

“Half a million.”

Daeron tried to picture half a million people. He tried to imagine all the beds they slept in, all the houses they’d built, and all the food they ate, but quickly gave it up. Looking at the open fields of wheat and corn that stretched across the flat fields to the west of the capital, Daeron tried to calculate how many mouths they could feed, and for how long.

His father caught his look. “It’s a constant worry,” Rhaegar said. “During the summers, there’s enough food to go around, most of the time. But winters are always difficult.”

Daeron recognized the strained look in his father’s eyes. It was the same one he’d seen in Uncle Ned’s gaze whenever mention of the winter came up. It was a burden neither man could ever put down, and after years of carrying it, the weight of it was starting to show.

The road they followed took them past a small village. All the residents came running out of their huts when they saw their approach, lining the path as they rode by, shouting their praises to the King and House Targaryen. But, every once in a while, Daeron would hear his name called out as well.

It was a familiar sight by now. The trek from the Stormlands to the capital had taken them nearly two moons, and they’d received the same welcome in every village and town they passed through. The King had to stop at most large castles to visit with the local Lords and hear their voices, but Daeron didn’t mind the nuisance. His father kept him close at all times, mining him for details about his travels, while Daeron got to know him better and better each day. Daeron doubted the same would be the case once they reached the capital since a King’s duties often pulled him in many different directions, so he made sure to appreciate every moment.

“What will happen now?” Daeron asked as they left the village behind and his gaze returned to the city in the distance.

“You will take your place at my court,” his father replied.

Daeron saw the King’s lips twitching from the corner of his eye. He’d come up with two dozen different ways to ask his father what his plans were over the past couple of weeks, but the man stubbornly refused to tell him.

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“I don’t know, it’s just something one says, I suppose.”

Daeron rolled his eyes, even as he heard a bark of laughter from behind. He looked over his shoulder to glare at ser Tybolt, and then even ser Arthur and ser Barristan when he caught them trying to contain their laughter. “Is there some jape you’d like to share with the rest of us, good sers?”

“No, ser,” ser Barristan replied.

“None whatsoever,” ser Arthur added.

Daeron was about to tell ser Arthur he still had some spinach in his teeth when his father said, “Daeron, let me put it this way – I have plans for you. Great plans. But every King knows better than to give voice to his schemes, lest he finds them all undermined before he’s finished the sentence. So I will need you to be patient, and I will need you to be careful.”

Daeron shifted in the saddle. His father had made many cryptic warnings over the past few days, and he felt the coming responsibility like an arrow flying his way. But it was the last part that piqued his interest. “Careful? Is there danger?”

“There always is, in places of power. You’ve made quite the name for yourself over the past year, and while many will praise you, there will be others who will resent it. Apart from your Uncle Eddard and Stannis Baratheon, all the Great Lords of the Realm will attend the wedding. So you must always be on your guard, am I understood?”

His father’s voice carried the iron of command, so Daeron knew better than to argue. Not that he’d want to. Uncle Ned often spoke to Robb the same way, when he would charge his son with some duty relating to the survival of their family. Daeron could scarcely believe he’d found himself in the same position. “Yes, father. I promise.”

“Very good. Today, you meet the rest of the family. Tomorrow, the wedding festivities will begin. When that’s concluded, you will be told what you need to know.”

Daeron wondered what that could be, but his mind wouldn’t supply the answers. He’d always imagined he’d live a life without purpose in the capital, too highborn to do a commoner’s profession and too much of an embarrassment to be entrusted with any real responsibility. And yet, since the Battle of Beestown, every time he talked to his father, he got the distinct sense that he was needed. Daeron couldn’t say what for, but he could feel all the words that remained unspoken.

Whatever it is, I won’t let him down, Daeron promised himself. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe his father’s plans involved nothing but titles and honors. More likely than not, there would be more hard fights ahead, but he would do his duty. It was what Uncle Ned had taught him.

Keeping such thoughts firmly in mind as they rode on, Daeron hardly noticed King’s Landing’s famous city walls creeping ever closer. And then, before he knew it, they were an arrow’s flight from the gates, and the magnitude of the capital finally became abundantly clear.

The walls had to be a hundred and fifty feet of grey stone, and at least thirty feet thick by the look of them. He could see the guards’ heads through the crenels above, but they were like little dots, hardly visible. You couldn’t take this city, not with a hundred thousand men. Forget ladders, you’d need siege towers and trebuchets and enough men to surround King’s Landing on all sides, and while Dealan didn’t know how long the city walls were, he could easily picture them stretching around the capital for miles and miles.

As they approached the city gates, a party of horsemen rode forward, all of them knights in splendid silver armor with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen on their chests. “Your Grace, all has been prepared for your arrival,” the leader of the knights said as he reined up in front of them. “Our men shall escort you through the streets.”

“Lead the way, ser Uller,” King Rhaegar said and gave his permission to proceed with a gesture.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Signaling to the men on the walls, the gates of the city slowly creaked open, revealing a mass of people on the other side. They were all cheering and shouting, waving the banners of House Targaryen, filling the air with rose petals and grain.

His father regarded him with a smile. “Are you ready?”

Daeron shifted in his saddle. “Yes, father.”

“Very well.” Looking over his shoulder, Rhaegar examined the column of horsemen behind him, pronounced himself satisfied with a nod, and called out, “We ride!”

Daeron was still dizzy from the crowds and the cheers when the column passed under the portcullis of Red Keep. His ears were ringing, his heart pounded as though he’d just been in a battle, and the thunderous roars he could still hear beyond the castle walls made him feel as though some great beast was closing in on him.

In the villages, they had called out the King’s name, but the citizens of King’s Landing had focused almost entirely on him. Women threw him flowers, men clapped and called out his name when he rode past, all of them clamoring for the chance to touch him, pat him on the back, and thank him for saving them from Robert Baratheon. One woman had held up her baby and asked Daeron to bless him. He had looked to his father for any clues, but the King merely watched him with a proud smile on his face, and said nothing. So Daeron did his best to stay calm and play his part.

And it’s not over yet. The column passed through the tunnel and rode into the outer bailey, where the entire court of King’s Landing waited for them. All the noble Lords and glittering Ladies, the bold knights (who’d missed the battle), and young squires. They erupted in applause when they laid eyes on the King, but this was a more muted version of the celebrations in the city, without shouting and cheering, Maegor’s Keep looming behind them.

King Rhaegar led the column to the middle of the courtyard, where a young man stood at the head of the gathering. A young woman, brown-skinned with thick black curls, wearing more jewelry than Daeron had ever seen, stood to his right. The Crown Prince, and Princess Rhaenys. By her side, Queen Elia stood. A bit pale where her daughter seemed to be glowing, her cheeks seemed a little hollow, but her smile was true when she looked at the King.

As Daeron dismounted his horse, he took a moment to observe his half-brother. Wearing a black doublet with black trousers and a red dueling cape, he had the look of a man who’d feel most comfortable in a tavern or a library. Taller than Daeron (that much was plain at first glance), he had his father’s silver hair, but not his stern features or his sharp eyes. Instead, Crown Prince Aegon regarded the procession with a happy smile, as though everything about it pleased him greatly.

King Rhaegar dismounted his horse and approached Aegon, pulling him into a hug, before he moved on to his wife, kissing the Queen’s hand as the courtiers applauded. Daeron suddenly felt like a stranger. He looked around, hoping beyond hope that he might find an avenue of escape, but then he heard: “Daeron!”

The clapping stopped, and suddenly it was quiet enough to hear a cat scampering up the battlements. The courtiers exchanged looks, and then, as Daeron approached the royal family, the whispering started.

Aegon was watching him intently, as was Queen Elia. Fighting instincts kicked in, and Daeron kept his back straight and his chin up as he came to stand by the King.  “Allow me to introduce my wife, Queen Elia,” his father said.

“Your Grace.” Daeron bowed his head. “It is an honor to meet you.”

The Queen’s eyes seemed strangely focused, as though she was trying to take in all of him at once. “The honor is mine, ser.”

Her kindness did much to reassure Daeron, and he faced his half-brother with a little more confidence. “And this is your brother, Crown Prince Aegon,” the King said.

“Your Grace,” Daeron said, bowing his head again. “It is an honor—”

“Oh, forget that,” Aegon cut him off, grinning. “Come ‘ere!” He spread his arms, and before Daeron knew it, Aegon embraced him as though they were old friends.

The courtiers around them erupted in applause. Daeron tensed for a beat, but then Aegon clapped him on the back and took a step back, turning to the crowd. “The Hero of Beestown!” he called out, to more cheers. “The Stormbreaker himself!”

It was all Daeron could do to keep the stupid look off his face as the Crown Prince, the man Daeron had always imagined would hate him for being alive, showed him off to the court of King’s Landing. But why?

“Brother, I’d like to introduce you to your half-sister and my betrothed, Princess Rhaenys.”

The Princess smiled courteously enough as she held out her hand, but with no real warmth. Daeron duly bent down to kiss it. “An honor to meet you, Princess.”

Her nod was like a pat on the back, congratulating him for doing this little thing correctly. For some absurd reason, Daeron felt like smiling. She might be the first honest person I’ve met so far.

“And this is our aunt, Princess Daenerys.” Aegon gestured to a young woman Daeron hadn’t noticed until that point.

She had silver-gold hair that seemed almost pure silver when she turned her head, and mischievous lilac eyes that pinned Daeron to the spot when their eyes met. The Princess curtsied for Daeron, looking at him the entire time as though they were the only two people in the castle. “A pleasure to meet you, ser Daeron.”

Daeron blinked, tongue-tied, and remembered himself only when a few seconds of uncomfortable silence passed. “The pleasure is mine, Your Grace.”

“There you go, now I’m sure you’re all very tired and hungry, so let’s get you all settled in, shall we?” Aegon declared.

This was met with a murmur of approval from the knights. Serving girls rushed forward to hand the men cups of wine and hand out loaves of bread, while stewards offered to show them to their quarters. Daeron took the opportunity to tear his eyes away from the Princess and look around for any signs of ser Tybolt and Jayson. They were nowhere to be found. They’d probably taken the opportunity to make themselves scarce. It almost made him jealous.

“Come, Daeron, let us take you to your quarters. I’ve made a solemn vow to not pester you for details from the battle for the rest of the day.”

Everyone within earshot laughed at the Prince’s jape, but Daeron could only muster a weak smile. Aegon was performing for the crowd, it was as though the two of them were actors on a stage, but nobody had told Daeron the words he was supposed to say. So he followed his half-brother, encouraged by the King’s nod of approval, and walked with him up the serpentine steps toward Maegor’s Holdfast.

Aegon kept chattering and making jokes until they reached the drawbridge. That’s when most of the courtiers fell behind, and suddenly the expression on Aegon’s face changed entirely.   

“I’m sorry about that,” he said the second they were out of sight of the courtiers. “Half of them were convinced I’d try to strangle you for winning so much glory, so I had to put on a proper show.”

Daeron hadn’t considered that. “I, uh—I understand, Your Grace—”

“No need for that, I already told you. You can call me Aegon.”

Daeron followed him up the grand staircase to the second floor. “As you say… Aegon.”

The Prince nodded as though, after many moons of trying, Daeron had finally learned to pronounce some foreign word correctly. “Are you tired?”

Daeron blinked, surprised at the candid tone. “I’ve had worse.”

Aegon looked him up and down, and Daeron was suddenly keenly aware of the mud on his boots, the scratches on his breastplate, even the broken strap on his vambrace that hung loose. “I imagine you’ve had, yes.”

Princess Rhaenys and Princess Daenerys walked behind him, and when the former spoke up, it was almost as though Daeron had a tiger stalking him. “Did you enjoy the ride through the city?” Rhaenys asked. Beside her, Daenerys bit her lip to keep from smiling.

“I, uh—It was… unexpected, Your Grace.”

“Unexpected?” Princess Rhaenys asked, narrowing her eyes. “It’s only right for the people to celebrate their hero, is it not?”

“Ah, well… A lot of people fought in the battle, Your Grace.”

“So you are one of those humble men?” Princess Rhaenys raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “How boring.”

Prince Aegon chuckled at that. “You’ll have to forgive her, Daeron. She expected a boisterous knight who’d go on and on about his great deeds.”

“A man should know when to play his part,” Princess Rhaenys said, staring at Daeron as though challenging him to gainsay her.

And what part is that? Daeron wanted to ask. But this was the capital, and the woman would one day rule as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Daeron figured it might be better to learn to bite his tongue. “As you say, Princess.”

Princess Rhaenys stared at him for a beat and Daeron could see the disappointment in her eyes, as though he’d failed her final test. Then she took Daenerys’ arm, and the two of them veered off down a different hallway.

Aegon watched them go, then offered another apologetic smile, but Daeron saw that he too had hoped for more. But what could that be? Surely they didn’t want a swaggering knight who’d regale the entire court of King’s Landing with the tale of the battle the moment he dismounted his horse?

Daeron didn’t get a chance to ask these questions. After they climbed another set of stairs, Aegon said, “My chambers are a floor higher. This woman here will show you to your rooms.” He gestured to a serving girl standing by the wall. “You can get some rest today, but I hope we’ll get a chance to talk more tomorrow.”

“Of course, Your—Aegon. It would be a pleasure.”

His half-brother bobbed his head, and continued up the staircase, a couple of guards trailing after him. The servant girl, meanwhile, bowed to Daeron, and guided him down the wide hallway, adorned with more tapestries and stone busts.

They took one right and two lefts, yet Daeron was reasonably sure he wouldn’t be able to find his way back. But those concerns fled his mind when they reached a dead end and the serving girl opened the door for him. “His Grace instructed us to prepare a hot water bath for you, and have some clothes laid out. If there is anything you need, ring a bell inside and we will come.”

“Thank you.”

The serving girl bowed and departed, leaving Daeron all alone in the hallway, his new chambers waiting on the other side of the open door. He hesitated for a short moment. Then he swallowed his nerves, eased his shoulders, and stepped through.