You stared at Mace Tyrell, a look of utter contempt planted firmly on your face, and nodded at Fossoway as he adroitly guided his liege lord away.
Robert Baratheon shook his head, a clearly disappointed expression on his face. "You should have kicked his ass."
"He's not worth it," replied, eyes fixed on the staggering Lord Paramount. Never Kings. "Just a limp flower begging to get plucked. No honor or sense in that victory."
"No honor," agreed Robert with a snort, "but plenty of fun. You need to loosen up, or you'll get all puckered tight like Stannis. You can certainly hold your liquor, and it'd be a shame if we don't go drinking after this."
You paid him little attention. There was something far more spectacular than anything Robert Baratheon was saying occurring before you.
Ser Lewyn and Ser Arthur circled one another. Their plate shimmered in the torchlight, and the greatsword, Dawn, seemed to glow in Dayne's hand. All eyes were fastened on them. The members of the Kingsguard were amongst the greatest knights of the realm, and both Dornishmen upheld the martial reputation of their order.
"They're amazing," Gerold breathed beside you.
You nodded, "Especially, Ser Arthur."
When you'd seen Ser Barristan fight against the bandits in King's Landing, you thought he was undoubtedly the greatest fighter you'd ever seen in your short life, however the Sword of the Morning seemed a match for his paramount skill. The deftness of his parries, the speed of his ripostes, the precision of his cuts was like watching something out of a story book. Only in your dreams had you fought that well, and the way he was beating the Martell across the sparring circle bespoke of a startling ferocity.
Gerold turned you, his expression uncertain. "Do you… do you think that could be me one day?"
Robert snorted from your other side, "And give up women for a fancy white cloak? You're young still, boy. You don't know what you'd be giving up."
You remained silent for a moment…
[] Encourage Gerold to pursue the White Cloak. He's a second son, a skilled fighter already with much potential yet to be reached, and a member of your family on the Kingsguard would bring great prestige to House Lannister.
[] Discourage Gerold from pursuing the White Cloak. You would not deny him a wife or children, or House Lannister of his loyalty and talents. Perhaps, he could earn a lordship of his own instead of becoming a glorified bodyguard.
***
The next day you rode out with Lord Crakehall and his grandson Merrett at the head of a detachment of scouts.
"You were wise to avoid giving too fierce a scolding to Tyrell," offered the towering lord. "Makes the man look like twice the ass, to pick a fight with a boy ten years his junior, and for the younger to look the greater."
You nodded tiredly. Crakehall had come along on your father's orders. To be certain you had disappointed him somewhat with the fathering of little Owain, but you definitely weren't in need of a babysitter.
The thick-faced Frey boy mumbled something under his breath, and his grandfather gave him a swift clout behind his ear, sending him near tumbling from his horse.
"Speak openly or don't speak at all boy. No man of my blood will be known as Merrett the Mumbler!"
The Frey boy nursed his bruising ear and shot you a venomous glare, but in the end said nothing. Crakehall snorted. "It's been too long since I was on the march. All day in the saddle makes my arse hurt. It's a young man's game. Like that business with Roxton. Fine work, that."
You opened your mouth to respond, but whatever you had planned to say was drowned out by a great cry from behind you. Then several more cries followed, and you turned around in your saddle.
Many of your men had arrows jutting from their bodies, and a handful had fallen from their mounts. More arrows shot from the surrounding foliage. The men of the scouting force pulled out swords and other weapons. Then they charged out of the clearing towards their hidden attackers. Before they met the treeline, they were met by a sizeable force armed with castle-forged steel and armored in fine mail, and wearing the green and brown of the Kingswood Brotherhood.
They clashed for long moments. Metal rang through the forest. Men died. Some well. Some badly.
More arrows rained down from within the treeline, and the royalist forces looked as if they were going to break.
"None so Fierce!" Lord Crakehall roared, and the ground quaked as he led his charger into the fray. You and Merrett were only a half stride behind him, and then you plunged into the traitorous scum. Your lance felled two men before it snapped and you found Lionheart in your hand. You laid about you. Your horse reared up and smashed a bandit wielding a glaive with its iron shod hooves.
You fought and you fought and fought. Blood stained your gilded armor, and your arm was getting tired. Still, they came.
An arrow crashed into your mount's head, and the stallion went down bonelessly. Instinctively, you rolled free, and came to your feet. A diagonal slash cut a burly man cleanly in two. An arrow clanged uselessly off your shield.
The towering form of Lord Crakehall was suddenly next to you. The man fought furiously, and each blow of his two handed axe shattered a shield, a sword, or a foeman.
"My lord, go!" Crakehall said, as he gestured at his mount.
Without hesitation, you moved. In two heartbeats you had slung yourself on the back of the mount, and…
[] You ride with all haste for the main body of scouts. They are at most 10 minutes away. You can reach safety, and organize a proper offensive.
[] You ride away, and collect those men who had fled. Lead them back into the fray to keep Lord Crakehall from being overwhelmed.
[] You wade back into battle. Atop your mount, your blade may yet turn this into a victory. You will not leave Lord Crakehall behind.
