A star born child sent amidst the lowest class of the living in the turmoil of Westerosi society. Bringer of Hope and Despair in equal measure, will he lose his heart in the treacherous evils of the world, or will his nature prevail for Hope and Dawn to shine a new in the world?
A Song of Sun and Stars (Man of Steel x ASOIAF)
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A Storm Brings a Star
The night was dark and stormy. Thunder crackled and lightning illuminated the vast reaches of the farmland outside the beautiful castle walls of Highgarden. The village streets were empty, and the market had a shallow stream flowing through its muddy streets. No soul had dared tread out in the violence of the storm that was threatening to besiege the generally quiet unseeming village.
Amidst the powerful storm, within a modest farmhouse nestled in the heart of the Reach, a distance away from the rest of the village, a young woman of honey blonde hair labored under the dim glow of a single lantern. Her husband, dark of hair, and of storm lander eyes, paced just outside the birthing room, his footsteps a rhythmic echo of his mounting worry. Within, the air was charged with tension, as two midwives, attended to the pained woman with practiced hands and soothing words.
"Stay strong, Elyna. You're doing well," The elder midwife encouraged, her voice a steady presence in the fraught room.
"I can't... I don't know if I can do this," Elyna gasped, the pain etching lines of worry and exhaustion across her face. "It's … too much."
"You have the strength within you, Elyna. For your child, for Harlon, you can do this," The other midwife soothed, offering a cloth dampened with cool water to Elyna's forehead.
"Is the child visible Serra?" Elyna dimly heard, as the edges of blackness threatened her vision and her consciousness. Pain wracking her entire body.
"Just the beginnings of the head." Serra replied, as she prepared for the baby. "Push! Elyna! Just a little more!"
Outside, the weary farmer stopped pacing and leaned against the wall, trying to will the pain away from his wife with desperate prayer, his forehead pressed close to the door, clinging to every sound. "Elyna, my love, I'm here. You're not alone," he whispered, as if his words could bridge the gap between them.
Elyna, showing ungodly will summoned her remaining strength for another push, Marna holding her hand, running soothing circles into her back along with a gentle firm push.
"Yes! We're nearly there!" Serra cheered, as she seemed to ready herself for the arrival of a new life. "One last push! Elyna. You're so strong!"
Harlon heard a heart-wrenching wail, as he closed his eyes unable to hear his wife suffer through such pain yet again. "Oh, Seven help her. Please!" He prayed to the gods above for strength, for his wife and child.
The screams of his wife tore at his heart, a sound he'd heard twice before, yet it stabbed his heart like shards of demonic ice.
But the foreboding silence that followed chilled his very soul.
"Why... why isn't my baby crying?" Elyna's voice broke through the silence, as she tried and failed to heave herself to sit at the birthing table.
She gazed at the woman who now held the still form of her babe in her arms, tears forming in her dark eyes. The midwife attempted to flip the babe over, slapping at his back with gentle strength.
It was to no avail.
The midwives shared a sorrowful look before Marna took a deep breath, preparing to deliver the news. "Elyna, my dear," she began, her voice soft but firm, "your son... he didn't make it. I'm so, so sorry."
A heart-wrenching cry escaped Elyna, a sound of pure anguish that finally shattered what remained of Harlon's heart from outside the room. The door swung open as he entered, his face pale, eyes searching for the child he'd dreamed of holding.
"What... What happened? Why is Elyna crying?" Harlon stammered, his voice cracking under the strain of sudden fear.
Marna gently placed a hand on his shoulder. "Your son was stillborn, Harlon. Despite Elyna's strength, he didn't survive the birth."
Harlon's knees weakened, and he sank beside the bed, taking Elyna's hand in his sobs wracking them both. "This can't be happening. Not again," he murmured, tears streaming down his face as he turned to Elyna. "I'm so sorry, my love. I'm so sorry."
Elyna sobbed hoarsely, clinging to her husband's hands as though it was the only thing keeping her sane.
"We can… try again." She sobbed, grasping at whatever hope she could.
Serra, her eyes filled with empathy, interjected softly, "Elyna, it's not safe. Another birth... you might not survive. This last one took too much from you."
"No, we can't give up. There has to be a way," Elyna protested, his voice a mixture of despair and defiance, despite the slur forming in her voice.
"She's lost too much blood." Marna's voice was firm, as she firmly picked Harlon off on to his feet and pushed him away. "We need to contain it, do you have the tincture of poppy seeds ready?"
"Yes, I do." Serra replied, as she readied the wooden spoon and attempted to feed it to the crying bleeding woman.
Elyna proved too stubborn, even in her slurred semi-conscious state, and violently shook her head. "No! We will try again! …… We have to, we always wanted a family!" She slurred defiantly.
Harlon gulped. His beautiful, strong, willful wife was doing everything she could. He couldn't lose her, and yet he had to break her heart.
"Elyna, my love, I can't lose you. Not for anything," Harlon whispered, as he stepped back to hold her hand, his voice breaking like his shattered heart. He took the wooden spoon from Serra and attempted to feed it to her.
Elyna, tears streaming down her cheeks, looked into Harlon's eyes. "But our dreams, Harlon... our family..."
"Our family is you and me, Elyna. We are enough," Harlon whispered, finally succeeding in feeding her the tincture that finally lulled her asleep.
All he could do was sob, as the body of his son was placed gently in his arms, his beautiful peaceful face all he could have asked for.
Yet another child lost to him. Another babe they would have loved, but the Gods were cruel to him.
As the storm outside raged, mirroring the tumult in their hearts, Harlon clung to the body of his son, as the two women in the room cleaned up the sleeping form of his wife.
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It was a couple hours later that the midwives finished their task, and joined Harlon and the wrapped form of the stillborn babe.
"Rowan." He said, as they approached. "That's what we had settled upon for the name of a boy. Strong with his roots in the Earth, yet reaching for the very stars he'd have been."
"It is a beautiful name" Marna replied, as she watched the man. His sadness was so palpable.
"Three times we have tried to bring new life to the world." He said, as though he hadn't heard her at all. "Three times the Gods have taken the life away from us before it could even breathe. Why are the Gods so cruel to us? What have I done that has wronged them so?" He sobbed as he finally looked at the two women standing by him.
They had no reply to give.
"Are you certain that we can't try again?" He finally asked, breaking the silence.
They didn't know how to say this kindly. Their faces must have shown, as his body slumped. The clothed form of the baby cradled in his arms shaking due to his sobs.
"Stay the night." He whispered quietly, pain raw in his voice. "The storm outside …… is too dangerous. You won't be able to make it to the village safe."
"Thank you, Harlon." Serra replied, "You should go to your wife, she will wake in the night. She'll want you there."
He took a deep breath, willing strength into his body that he didn't have. "The cots are prepared for you by the fire." He said and finally took heavy steps back to the birthing room where his wife lay asleep.
It was an hour into the stormy night, that felt like all eternity to Harlon as he cradled his silent boy in his arms, that Elyna stirred from a fitful sleep, her eyes blinking open to the dimly lit room, where shadows danced with each flicker of the lantern. The storm's fury outside mirrored the tumult in her heart, a prelude to the awakening of her deepest fears. Harlon, ever attentive, was immediately by her side, his presence a steady comfort in the midst of chaos.
"Elyna, you're awake. Here, you need to drink," Harlon said softly, helping her sit up with one arm while offering a cup of water with the other. His voice was lulling her out of her blackening slumber.
Elyna's gaze, clouded with confusion and pain, slowly focused on Harlon as she sipped the water. The reality of their situation, the reason for her exhaustion and the underlying sorrow, came crashing back. "Our son... where is he? Is he..." she couldn't finish, her voice trailing off into a whisper, fear and hope warring within her.
Harlon's eyes, filled with a sorrow too deep for words, met hers. "He's here, with us," he said, his voice breaking as he gently placed their stillborn son in her arms. The little bundle, so still and quiet, lay wrapped in a soft blanket, a stark contrast to the storm's violence outside.
Elyna took their son into her arms, cradling him gently, her fingers trembling as she touched the delicate fabric. "Oh, my sweet boy," she murmured, tears spilling over, tracing paths down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry we couldn't keep you safe."
Harlon wrapped his arms around both Elyna and their son, his own tears mingling with hers. "This isn't your fault, Elyna. You fought with every ounce of your strength. He knew love, even if only for a brief time. He knew our love," Harlon reassured her, his voice thick with emotion.
"But why? Why did this happen? All we wanted was family, and the Gods stole from us a third time" Elyna sobbed, her heart aching with a loss so profound it threatened to engulf her.
"We may never understand why, my love. But in this moment, we have each other, and we have him. He'll always be a part of us," Harlon said, holding them closer, as if his embrace could shield them from further pain, his wife sobs and tears drowning beneath the thunder of the storm outside.
"Why us?" Harlon whispered into the silence that followed Elyna's tears. "What have we done to deserve the Gods' ire? To be tested so, again and again?" His voice carried a mix of anger and despair, a challenge to the heavens for the injustices they endured.
Elyna, clutched their son a little tighter, raised her tear-streaked face. "I …. I am so sorry" she sobbed.
"Are we so unworthy of happiness? Of the joy of holding our child, watching him grow?" His voice rose, a crescendo of grief and accusation. "What sin have we committed to be punished thus?"
The room seemed to close in on them, the walls bearing witness to their anguish. "Three times. Three times we've been given hope, only to have it ripped away before it could even take its first breath," He raged at the Gods, as though trying to will them into existence, his wife's grief fueling his anger further.
His face etched with lines of sorrow and resolve, took Elyna's hand in his, squeezing it as if to impart some of his strength to her. He gazed at the cold form of their son. He seemed as though he was just asleep.
"So beautiful" He murmured.
"It feels as though the Gods mock us with their silence. But we mustn't lose faith. Perhaps... perhaps there's a reason, a purpose we're yet to understand." Elyna prayed and hoped.
"But what purpose justifies this pain?" Harlon countered; his eyes pained gazing out the wooden window of the room into the heart of the stormy sky "How do we justify this to our hearts? To hold our son, knowing we'll never hear his laugh, never see his smile?"
The storm outside was their only answer.
But then, a moment later, a sudden, blinding light tore through the darkness, a harbinger of change. It was as if the very sun had descended upon their farmland, illuminating the night with an intensity that bordered on the divine. Elyna, still confined to the birthing bed by her own body's betrayal, turned her face away from the window, squinting against the unexpected brightness that filled the room.
"Harlon..." she whispered, her voice laced with awe and a tremor of fear, "what is that light?" Her pale, exhausted face was washed in the unnatural glow, casting long shadows that danced across the walls, as the man moved to the open wooden window fighting against the blinding glare.
Before Harlon could respond, the serene moment shattered. A sound, deep and resonant, followed the light—a noise so powerful it seemed to vibrate through the very foundations of their home. Elyna flinched, the sudden cacophony wracking her already aching body with a new wave of pain. She grimaced, clutching the lifeless form of Rowan closer to her chest as if to shield him from the unseen force that invaded their moment of mourning
"It's... I don't know. Something from the skies," Harlon said, his voice filled with a mixture of wonder and concern. He stood frozen, staring out into the night, trying to discern the source of the disturbance amidst the continuing storm.
Then, as quickly as it had arrived, the light receded, leaving them in the soft, comforting gloom of their lantern-lit sanctuary. But the peace was short-lived; another loud noise, this one sharper, more immediate, pierced the night. They felt rather than saw the impact as something massive struck their field, the sound accompanied by a distant glow that spoke of fire catching on the rain-soaked crops.
"FIRE! By the Gods!" Harlon whispered, as his eyes took in the scene outside his apprehension and despair quickly turning to terror.
Elyna's breath hitched in her throat, her heart pounding against her ribs. "Harlon, the fields..." she gasped, terror lending her voice a strength it hadn't possessed moments before. She clutched the dead form her son even tighter into her heaving pained bossom
Harlon rushed back to the bedside, his expression torn between the need to protect his family and the urgency the situation demanded. "I have to see what it is, Elyna. If the crops are ablaze, I need to put it out before it spreads," he said, determination steeling his voice despite the evident risk.
"No, please," Elyna begged, her eyes brimming with fresh tears. "Don't leave us, Harlon. It's too dangerous. The storm hasn't passed, and now this... whatever it is. The Gods can't take you too!" Her grip on Rowan tightened, as she stretched an arm to grasp Rowan, a physical manifestation of her fear of being left alone, of losing another piece of her heart.
Harlon knelt beside the bed, his hand gently covering hers and their son's. "I must, Elyna. For our farm, for our future. I'll be cautious, I promise you." His gaze held hers, conveying a silent vow to return to her side.
With a final, lingering kiss atop the brow of his wife and dead son, Harlon stood, squared his shoulders against the weight of his task, and stepped out into the room rushing toward the field, leaving Elyna in the lantern's dim light. The room seemed to close in around her, the shadows now menacing in their dance.
In the renewed tumult of the storm and the chaos unfurling outside, Harlon, propelled by a mix of determination and urgency, nearly forgot about the presence of Marna and Serra in his home. As he seized a coat from the wall, ready to confront whatever had landed in his fields, the midwives emerged from the shadows of the hallway, their faces etched with concern and fear, roused by the unnatural light and the earth-shaking noise.
"Marna, Serra," Harlon acknowledged, his tone commanding and worried, his gaze fixed on the door whipped by wind and rain. "Stay here. Go back to Elyna; she shouldn't be alone right now."
"But Harlon, what was that light? That sound?" Marna asked, her voice trembling, a reflection of the fear that gripped them all. The normalcy of their earlier duties had been shattered, leaving them adrift in the night's madness.
"It's something in the field... a fire, I think," Harlon said, his words rushed, his mind already racing ahead to the flames threatening his land. "I have to go—see what it is, try to contain it before it spreads."
Serra stepped forward, her brow furrowed with worry. "You can't go alone, not into this storm. It's too dangerous," she protested, her instinct to protect clashing with the knowledge of Harlon's resolve.
Harlon met her gaze, his own set with a fierce determination. "I must. The Gods have already taken my children from me. I can't let them take away my farm. The harvest is soon, and I can't face Lord Tyrell with a burnt farm." he said firmly, as he finally grabbed the tarp off the cot they had been using, the decision made, irrevocable. "Keep Elyna safe. Comfort her. That's all I ask."
Without waiting for further objections, Harlon turned on his heel, the coat now a scant protection against the elements. As he opened the door, the howl of the wind and the fury of the rain greeted him, a herald of the battle to come.
"Stay inside!" he called over his shoulder, his voice barely carrying over the storm's roar. "I'll return as soon as I can."
With that, Harlon plunged into the night, leaving Marna and Serra staring after him, their worry for both Harlon and Elyna mingling with a deep, unsettling dread for what the dawn might reveal. The midwives exchanged a glance, a silent agreement passing between them. They turned back towards Elyna's room, their steps quick and purposeful, ready to offer whatever comfort they could in the long, dark hours ahead.
The fire had spread in small patches at the far edges of the farm. The deer hide tarp that he'd torn off the cots he'd shared with the midwives was a great tool for putting them out. The returning rain was starting to take care of the rest.
"At least the Seven haven't cursed me so thoroughly to rob me of all the farm yet." He thought bitingly.
As he slowly took measured steps toward the edge where the star, for what else could it be, had struck, the rain lashed against him with a ferocity that seemed personal, as if the heavens themselves bore a grudge against him. He trudged forward, each step a battle against the mud that sucked at his boots, putting out small patches of still blazing fire, and with every gust of wind that buffeted him, a storm raged within him as well.
"Why?!" Harlon railed internally, his heart a cauldron of tumultuous emotions. "Why us, why my family?" The question was a blade, slicing anew through the grief that had settled in his soul. "We've toiled, we've prayed, we've done nothing but live humbly under your skies. And yet, you take from us, mercilessly." His anger at the gods was a torrent, unchecked and raw. "If this is a test, then damn your tests!" he declared into the howling wind, the words torn away as soon as they left his lips.
The farm, his year's work was now cut by a third. His liege lord would have his hide, should they find him at fault for this.
And there, at the far edge of the farm, was a sight that stole the breath from his lungs—a giant crater, carved into the earth as if by the fist of some vengeful deity. It was vast, easily a dozen paces wide, and so deep that the bottom was swallowed by shadows even the storm's frequent lightning couldn't illuminate fully. Around its edges, the earth was scorched, blackened as though dragon fire had danced there, but the relentless rain had quenched the flames, leaving behind only the smell of wet ash and a smoldering ruin.
Harlon approached the crater's edge cautiously, his heart pounding in his chest, not from the exertion but from the sheer incomprehensibility of the scene before him. Peering into the abyss, he spied an object unlike anything he had ever seen—a stony object, silver-like in its make. Ethereal with a light of its own, he had no words for it.
It was large, larger than a cow but smaller than a wagon, with a surface that gleamed dully in the intermittent lightning, made of a material that was neither wood nor metal, something foreign and smooth. And slivery chunks of it littered the blackened ground around the crater.
"A Star?" Harlon muttered to himself, bafflement overtaking his initial apprehension. "A fallen star?" The idea was fanciful, something out of the stories told around the hearth on winter nights, yet how else could he explain this anomaly?
Compelled by a mix of curiosity and apprehension, Harlon descended into the crater, his steps cautious on the slippery slope. As he neared the strange object, its surface was cool and oddly comforting to the touch, unlike the biting cold of the rain that drenched him. It was seamless, with no apparent door or opening, yet it pulsed with a soft light that seemed to beckon him closer.
Suddenly, as if responding to his presence, a portion of the star shifted, retracting silently to reveal an interior bathed in a soft, otherworldly glow. Harlon gasped, the deer skin tarp falling from his hands, stepping back instinctively, his mind struggling to grasp the unfolding miracle.
From within the light, the cry of an infant pierced the storm's din—a sound so achingly familiar and yet so utterly alien in this context. Harlon's heart, so recently heavy with loss, surged with an inexplicable mixture of hope and fear.
"By the Seven..." he whispered, his earlier rage forgotten in the face of this bewildering wonder. "A babe? Here?" His mind reeled at the impossibility, at the divine irony of finding a child amidst the wreckage of his dreams.
Tentatively, driven by a force he couldn't name, Harlon approached the open star again. Inside, swaddled amidst the soft stone, as foreign as the vessel that contained it, lay an infant, its eyes wide and tearful, but unharmed by its celestial journey.
Harlon reached out, his rough farmer's hands trembling as they cradled the child. Lifting the babe from its cradle of stars, he marveled at the warmth of its skin, the vitality of its cries—so vibrant against the night's despair.
"The Seven sent you to me?" he murmured, not expecting an answer, his voice a mix of awe and gentle reassurance. "Are you the answer to our prayers little one?"
The babe sniffled in his arms, the wail of storm weakening around them, as though the heavens themselves protected the babe. He scrambled back for the tarp he'd dropped earlier in his astonishment, and gently wrapped the babe in the wet and soot laden cloth.
Clutching the child close, Harlon looked up at the stormy heavens, no longer with anger, but with a dawning sense of wonder and purpose. Perhaps this was the sign he had pleaded for, a gift from the gods, or maybe a chance to mend the gaping wound in his and Elyna's hearts.
"The Storm is no place for a babe like you." He finally said, silently marveling at the child from the Gods themselves.
As he trudged up the crater, the storm finally lessened to gentle calming rain. The fires started by the babe's arrival long dwindled. With a final look into the crater his heart set in stone.
"The Gods have personally answered our prayers." He whispered. "You shall be our son, our star."
With a determined heart, he begun trudging back through the muddy field. Light of heart, joy brimming in his heart anew.
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Elyna lay in the dimly lit room, the storm's fury a distant echo compared to the tempest in her heart. Atop her breast, the still form of her son, Rowan, wrapped in a soft blanket, served as a cruel reminder of what she had lost. Marna and Serra, the midwives who had been with her through the ordeal, sat quietly nearby, their faces etched with compassion and sorrow.
As another clap of thunder shook the farmhouse, Elyna's gaze drifted toward the window, the flashes of lightning illuminating the relentless downpour that obscured the fields beyond. Despite the pain that wracked her body and the heaviness in her soul, a restless energy spurred her to action. With a determined, albeit shaky, effort, she pushed herself upright, ignoring Marna's gentle protest.
"I need to see," Elyna insisted, her voice barely above a whisper but laden with a desperate need to connect with the outside world, to somehow bridge the distance between her and Harlon.
"You need to rest, Elyna" Marna chided, but Elyna wouldn't waver.
"My Husband is out there, and my heart ….. I need to see. Please" She pleaded, cradling her son closer.
"Let me help you," Serra offered, moving to support Elyna as she swung her legs off the bed. Every movement was agony, yet driven by an inner strength she scarcely knew she possessed, Elyna made her way to the window, leaning heavily on Serra.
"Thank you," Elyna said softly to the dark haired, kind hearted woman.
Outside, the storm raged, a chaotic dance of wind and rain. Fires, small beacons of light in the darkness, flickered in the distance, their glow battling against the onslaught of the rain.
"Harlon is out there," Elyna murmured, her eyes straining to make out any sign of her husband in the tumultuous night. "He went to... Gods, its so dark."
"The fires are dying down, Elyna," Marna said, joining them at the window. "The rain is quenching them. Harlon will be alright. He's strong, and the gods watch over the brave. You need the bed."
"No. ….. I can't!" She pleaded.
Marna sighed, conceding the fruitless battle, "The Gods will watch over him, don't worry 'lyna"
"But why would the gods watch over us?" Elyna's voice cracked with a mixture of grief and bitterness. "They took my son.... They've taken and taken and taken. All my children are with them!"
Serra squeezed Elyna's shoulder reassuringly. "Sometimes, the gods' plans are beyond our understanding, but they also provide us with strength when we least expect it. Harlon will be alright, the fires are all dead."
As they stood together, the storm began to subside, the once fierce winds and torrential rains easing into a gentle drizzle. The fires that had dotted the edge of their vision slowly extinguished, leaving behind only darkness and the promise of dawn.
Time passed, each moment stretching into eternity as Elyna, supported by the midwives, waited for any sign of Harlon. The silence of the aftermath was a stark contrast to the chaos that had preceded it, a quiet that was both comforting and unnerving.
Eventually, the storm started to lessen as a soothing rain replaced its fury.
"In some time, the first lights of the sun should return, and all will be clear Elyna," Serra commented, as they sat by the open window gazing into the drizzling darkness. "You need not worry."
"Thank you, Serra, Marna" Elyna finally said breaking her gaze from the dark drizzling abyss. "For all that you did for me, and my husband tonight."
"Always dear, and should you need a quiet ear, you can always come to my lodge by the Mander hills," Marna replied.
"And mine too, we're always been friends, Elyna. Mine and my husband's home will always be open to you." Serra reassured.
The words finally soothed her soul. The pain of the loss of her child would remain but dulled forever. She would recover, despite the cruel God's never granting her children ever again.
The silent drizzle of the rain was now comforting. The patter was a gentle reminder that Harlon would return any moment soon. She gazed down at the body of her son in her arms.
"You'll stay won't you?" She asked. At their questioning gazes she elaborated, "For the funeral, I mean?"
Sadness and pity filled their eyes, "Of course, dear. As long as you need us."
Elyna smiled into the comforting silence that followed.
The comforting patter of the rain had settled into a soothing rhythm when the sound of the door creaking open shattered the quiet. Elyna, still cradling Rowan, turned toward the sound, her heart leaping into her throat. Harlon stood in the doorway, drenched and shadowed, yet there was an unmistakable aura of wonder and urgency about him. In his arms, wrapped against the chill of the night, was a bundle—a cry, soft yet insistent, emanated from it, piercing the heavy air of the room.
"Harlon!" Elyna gasped, her weariness forgotten in the wake of his unexpected return. The midwives, equally startled, rose to their feet, their eyes wide with surprise and curiosity.
Harlon, his eyes meeting Elyna's, crossed the room in strides, a look of awe mixed with an intense, profound joy illuminating his face. "Elyna, my love," he began, his voice brimming with emotion, "the gods...they've answered us. Not in the way we dared hope, but they have sent us a miracle."
Elyna, bewildered, could only stare as Harlon gently placed the infant in her arms. The warmth of the child against her own skin, the strength of its cries, brought a rush of emotions she couldn't name. "Harlon, what...where did this child come from?"
Harlon shared then, his voice steady but filled with the wonder of what he had witnessed. He spoke of the blinding light that had torn through the darkness, of the crater it had left at the edge of their farm, and of the miraculous discovery of the child within what seemed to him a chariot from the heavens. "I found him there, alone, untouched by the fire or the fall. It's as if...as if the heavens themselves have given us a second chance," he finished, his gaze locked with Elyna's, seeking understanding, perhaps even acceptance.
Elyna, cradling the infant, felt a surge of wonder, disbelief, and a burgeoning hope that bloomed within her heart. "A child from the stars?" she whispered, her voice tinged with awe. The babe, sensing the warmth of her embrace, quieted, its cries subsiding into soft coos.
Marna and Serra, having listened to Harlon's tale, exchanged looks of disbelief and awe. "A fallen star brought him?" Marna murmured, her skepticism warring with the evidence before her eyes.
Serra, ever the heart of compassion, smiled softly. "Perhaps the gods have more plans than we can fathom. This child...he is meant for you, Elyna, Harlon. A blessing from the storm."
Elyna, meeting Harlon's gaze, saw the truth and conviction in his eyes. "Then he is ours," she said, a decision made not just with her mind but with her heart. "Our son."
Harlon, relief, and joy evident in his expression, nodded. "We must keep his origins a secret, please! We can't lose him" he implored, turning to the midwives. "To the village, to anyone, he's our son, borne from your loins, of my blood. That's all anyone needs to know."
"E-even from …." Serra gulped, the sheer weight of the request bearing on her shoulders "Even from Lord and Lady Tyrell?"
"Please!" Harlon begged, dropping to his knees in front of the two ladies. "I can't lose him."
Elyna too then joined, hope finally blooming in her chest. "I beg this of you. Serra, Marna. Help me keep this star child safe!"
"This is dangerous," Marna paced the room, her gaze locked on the boy in Elyna's arms "People will ask questions. All of Highgarden would have seen that brilliant light and the falling star. There's sure to be a party traveling down here after morn if not after first light."
"We can hide him, he'd be our son." Harlon responded beseechingly, pleading to her senses "The village guards knew Elyna was heavy with child, it would not be difficult."
"The Gods have finally answered our prayers, Marna." Elyna pleaded, tears forming in her eyes. Desperate hope warred in her eyes
"And what if they find this, piece of the star in your field? They will ask questions about what was inside." Marna replied, even though her heart had started to soften.
"Harlon and I can take the cart and bring it back here, bury it beneath the trees outside," Serra interjected.
At the grateful look Elyna sent her way she said "You're almost like a sister to me, Elyna. Your son will grow old with mine. I will help."
"Be quick then," Marna finally said, Marna nodding in agreement. "First light of the day is nearly upon us. Make haste. Let Elyna nurse the babe by her breast till then, she's just birthed, she'd have milk a plenty."
In the quiet that followed, the four of them considered the infant—a boy touched by the heavens, brought to them by a night of tempest and wonder. "Let's name him," Harlon said, breaking the silence. "A name that will remind us of this night, of the miracle he represents."
After a moment, Elyna spoke, her voice clear and strong despite the exhaustion that clung to her. "Let's call him Caelum. After the very stars that birthed him for us."
"Caelum," Harlon repeated the name a perfect echo of their newfound hope. He bent and kissed Caelum's brow and then his wife, and finally Rowan's still pale brow and turned to Serra. "I'll get the bulls and cart ready. It looked like a weighty thing, can you fetch the spade from the barn?"
As the two left, Elyna looked at the babe attached now to her chest. The God's had taken three sons from her, and in return had granted a babe that fell from the heavens themselves. She would love him, cherish him with all her heart for while the Gods were cruel, their mercy was rare yet bountiful indeed. She would not be the one to squander it so lightly.
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Amidst the powerful storm, within a modest farmhouse nestled in the heart of the Reach, a distance away from the rest of the village, a young woman of honey blonde hair labored under the dim glow of a single lantern. Her husband, dark of hair, and of storm lander eyes, paced just outside the birthing room, his footsteps a rhythmic echo of his mounting worry. Within, the air was charged with tension, as two midwives, attended to the pained woman with practiced hands and soothing words.
"Stay strong, Elyna. You're doing well," The elder midwife encouraged, her voice a steady presence in the fraught room.
"I can't... I don't know if I can do this," Elyna gasped, the pain etching lines of worry and exhaustion across her face. "It's … too much."
"You have the strength within you, Elyna. For your child, for Harlon, you can do this," The other midwife soothed, offering a cloth dampened with cool water to Elyna's forehead.
"Is the child visible Serra?" Elyna dimly heard, as the edges of blackness threatened her vision and her consciousness. Pain wracking her entire body.
"Just the beginnings of the head." Serra replied, as she prepared for the baby. "Push! Elyna! Just a little more!"
Outside, the weary farmer stopped pacing and leaned against the wall, trying to will the pain away from his wife with desperate prayer, his forehead pressed close to the door, clinging to every sound. "Elyna, my love, I'm here. You're not alone," he whispered, as if his words could bridge the gap between them.
Elyna, showing ungodly will summoned her remaining strength for another push, Marna holding her hand, running soothing circles into her back along with a gentle firm push.
"Yes! We're nearly there!" Serra cheered, as she seemed to ready herself for the arrival of a new life. "One last push! Elyna. You're so strong!"
Harlon heard a heart-wrenching wail, as he closed his eyes unable to hear his wife suffer through such pain yet again. "Oh, Seven help her. Please!" He prayed to the gods above for strength, for his wife and child.
The screams of his wife tore at his heart, a sound he'd heard twice before, yet it stabbed his heart like shards of demonic ice.
But the foreboding silence that followed chilled his very soul.
"Why... why isn't my baby crying?" Elyna's voice broke through the silence, as she tried and failed to heave herself to sit at the birthing table.
She gazed at the woman who now held the still form of her babe in her arms, tears forming in her dark eyes. The midwife attempted to flip the babe over, slapping at his back with gentle strength.
It was to no avail.
The midwives shared a sorrowful look before Marna took a deep breath, preparing to deliver the news. "Elyna, my dear," she began, her voice soft but firm, "your son... he didn't make it. I'm so, so sorry."
A heart-wrenching cry escaped Elyna, a sound of pure anguish that finally shattered what remained of Harlon's heart from outside the room. The door swung open as he entered, his face pale, eyes searching for the child he'd dreamed of holding.
"What... What happened? Why is Elyna crying?" Harlon stammered, his voice cracking under the strain of sudden fear.
Marna gently placed a hand on his shoulder. "Your son was stillborn, Harlon. Despite Elyna's strength, he didn't survive the birth."
Harlon's knees weakened, and he sank beside the bed, taking Elyna's hand in his sobs wracking them both. "This can't be happening. Not again," he murmured, tears streaming down his face as he turned to Elyna. "I'm so sorry, my love. I'm so sorry."
Elyna sobbed hoarsely, clinging to her husband's hands as though it was the only thing keeping her sane.
"We can… try again." She sobbed, grasping at whatever hope she could.
Serra, her eyes filled with empathy, interjected softly, "Elyna, it's not safe. Another birth... you might not survive. This last one took too much from you."
"No, we can't give up. There has to be a way," Elyna protested, his voice a mixture of despair and defiance, despite the slur forming in her voice.
"She's lost too much blood." Marna's voice was firm, as she firmly picked Harlon off on to his feet and pushed him away. "We need to contain it, do you have the tincture of poppy seeds ready?"
"Yes, I do." Serra replied, as she readied the wooden spoon and attempted to feed it to the crying bleeding woman.
Elyna proved too stubborn, even in her slurred semi-conscious state, and violently shook her head. "No! We will try again! …… We have to, we always wanted a family!" She slurred defiantly.
Harlon gulped. His beautiful, strong, willful wife was doing everything she could. He couldn't lose her, and yet he had to break her heart.
"Elyna, my love, I can't lose you. Not for anything," Harlon whispered, as he stepped back to hold her hand, his voice breaking like his shattered heart. He took the wooden spoon from Serra and attempted to feed it to her.
Elyna, tears streaming down her cheeks, looked into Harlon's eyes. "But our dreams, Harlon... our family..."
"Our family is you and me, Elyna. We are enough," Harlon whispered, finally succeeding in feeding her the tincture that finally lulled her asleep.
All he could do was sob, as the body of his son was placed gently in his arms, his beautiful peaceful face all he could have asked for.
Yet another child lost to him. Another babe they would have loved, but the Gods were cruel to him.
As the storm outside raged, mirroring the tumult in their hearts, Harlon clung to the body of his son, as the two women in the room cleaned up the sleeping form of his wife.
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It was a couple hours later that the midwives finished their task, and joined Harlon and the wrapped form of the stillborn babe.
"Rowan." He said, as they approached. "That's what we had settled upon for the name of a boy. Strong with his roots in the Earth, yet reaching for the very stars he'd have been."
"It is a beautiful name" Marna replied, as she watched the man. His sadness was so palpable.
"Three times we have tried to bring new life to the world." He said, as though he hadn't heard her at all. "Three times the Gods have taken the life away from us before it could even breathe. Why are the Gods so cruel to us? What have I done that has wronged them so?" He sobbed as he finally looked at the two women standing by him.
They had no reply to give.
"Are you certain that we can't try again?" He finally asked, breaking the silence.
They didn't know how to say this kindly. Their faces must have shown, as his body slumped. The clothed form of the baby cradled in his arms shaking due to his sobs.
"Stay the night." He whispered quietly, pain raw in his voice. "The storm outside …… is too dangerous. You won't be able to make it to the village safe."
"Thank you, Harlon." Serra replied, "You should go to your wife, she will wake in the night. She'll want you there."
He took a deep breath, willing strength into his body that he didn't have. "The cots are prepared for you by the fire." He said and finally took heavy steps back to the birthing room where his wife lay asleep.
It was an hour into the stormy night, that felt like all eternity to Harlon as he cradled his silent boy in his arms, that Elyna stirred from a fitful sleep, her eyes blinking open to the dimly lit room, where shadows danced with each flicker of the lantern. The storm's fury outside mirrored the tumult in her heart, a prelude to the awakening of her deepest fears. Harlon, ever attentive, was immediately by her side, his presence a steady comfort in the midst of chaos.
"Elyna, you're awake. Here, you need to drink," Harlon said softly, helping her sit up with one arm while offering a cup of water with the other. His voice was lulling her out of her blackening slumber.
Elyna's gaze, clouded with confusion and pain, slowly focused on Harlon as she sipped the water. The reality of their situation, the reason for her exhaustion and the underlying sorrow, came crashing back. "Our son... where is he? Is he..." she couldn't finish, her voice trailing off into a whisper, fear and hope warring within her.
Harlon's eyes, filled with a sorrow too deep for words, met hers. "He's here, with us," he said, his voice breaking as he gently placed their stillborn son in her arms. The little bundle, so still and quiet, lay wrapped in a soft blanket, a stark contrast to the storm's violence outside.
Elyna took their son into her arms, cradling him gently, her fingers trembling as she touched the delicate fabric. "Oh, my sweet boy," she murmured, tears spilling over, tracing paths down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry we couldn't keep you safe."
Harlon wrapped his arms around both Elyna and their son, his own tears mingling with hers. "This isn't your fault, Elyna. You fought with every ounce of your strength. He knew love, even if only for a brief time. He knew our love," Harlon reassured her, his voice thick with emotion.
"But why? Why did this happen? All we wanted was family, and the Gods stole from us a third time" Elyna sobbed, her heart aching with a loss so profound it threatened to engulf her.
"We may never understand why, my love. But in this moment, we have each other, and we have him. He'll always be a part of us," Harlon said, holding them closer, as if his embrace could shield them from further pain, his wife sobs and tears drowning beneath the thunder of the storm outside.
"Why us?" Harlon whispered into the silence that followed Elyna's tears. "What have we done to deserve the Gods' ire? To be tested so, again and again?" His voice carried a mix of anger and despair, a challenge to the heavens for the injustices they endured.
Elyna, clutched their son a little tighter, raised her tear-streaked face. "I …. I am so sorry" she sobbed.
"Are we so unworthy of happiness? Of the joy of holding our child, watching him grow?" His voice rose, a crescendo of grief and accusation. "What sin have we committed to be punished thus?"
The room seemed to close in on them, the walls bearing witness to their anguish. "Three times. Three times we've been given hope, only to have it ripped away before it could even take its first breath," He raged at the Gods, as though trying to will them into existence, his wife's grief fueling his anger further.
His face etched with lines of sorrow and resolve, took Elyna's hand in his, squeezing it as if to impart some of his strength to her. He gazed at the cold form of their son. He seemed as though he was just asleep.
"So beautiful" He murmured.
"It feels as though the Gods mock us with their silence. But we mustn't lose faith. Perhaps... perhaps there's a reason, a purpose we're yet to understand." Elyna prayed and hoped.
"But what purpose justifies this pain?" Harlon countered; his eyes pained gazing out the wooden window of the room into the heart of the stormy sky "How do we justify this to our hearts? To hold our son, knowing we'll never hear his laugh, never see his smile?"
The storm outside was their only answer.
But then, a moment later, a sudden, blinding light tore through the darkness, a harbinger of change. It was as if the very sun had descended upon their farmland, illuminating the night with an intensity that bordered on the divine. Elyna, still confined to the birthing bed by her own body's betrayal, turned her face away from the window, squinting against the unexpected brightness that filled the room.
"Harlon..." she whispered, her voice laced with awe and a tremor of fear, "what is that light?" Her pale, exhausted face was washed in the unnatural glow, casting long shadows that danced across the walls, as the man moved to the open wooden window fighting against the blinding glare.
Before Harlon could respond, the serene moment shattered. A sound, deep and resonant, followed the light—a noise so powerful it seemed to vibrate through the very foundations of their home. Elyna flinched, the sudden cacophony wracking her already aching body with a new wave of pain. She grimaced, clutching the lifeless form of Rowan closer to her chest as if to shield him from the unseen force that invaded their moment of mourning
"It's... I don't know. Something from the skies," Harlon said, his voice filled with a mixture of wonder and concern. He stood frozen, staring out into the night, trying to discern the source of the disturbance amidst the continuing storm.
Then, as quickly as it had arrived, the light receded, leaving them in the soft, comforting gloom of their lantern-lit sanctuary. But the peace was short-lived; another loud noise, this one sharper, more immediate, pierced the night. They felt rather than saw the impact as something massive struck their field, the sound accompanied by a distant glow that spoke of fire catching on the rain-soaked crops.
"FIRE! By the Gods!" Harlon whispered, as his eyes took in the scene outside his apprehension and despair quickly turning to terror.
Elyna's breath hitched in her throat, her heart pounding against her ribs. "Harlon, the fields..." she gasped, terror lending her voice a strength it hadn't possessed moments before. She clutched the dead form her son even tighter into her heaving pained bossom
Harlon rushed back to the bedside, his expression torn between the need to protect his family and the urgency the situation demanded. "I have to see what it is, Elyna. If the crops are ablaze, I need to put it out before it spreads," he said, determination steeling his voice despite the evident risk.
"No, please," Elyna begged, her eyes brimming with fresh tears. "Don't leave us, Harlon. It's too dangerous. The storm hasn't passed, and now this... whatever it is. The Gods can't take you too!" Her grip on Rowan tightened, as she stretched an arm to grasp Rowan, a physical manifestation of her fear of being left alone, of losing another piece of her heart.
Harlon knelt beside the bed, his hand gently covering hers and their son's. "I must, Elyna. For our farm, for our future. I'll be cautious, I promise you." His gaze held hers, conveying a silent vow to return to her side.
With a final, lingering kiss atop the brow of his wife and dead son, Harlon stood, squared his shoulders against the weight of his task, and stepped out into the room rushing toward the field, leaving Elyna in the lantern's dim light. The room seemed to close in around her, the shadows now menacing in their dance.
In the renewed tumult of the storm and the chaos unfurling outside, Harlon, propelled by a mix of determination and urgency, nearly forgot about the presence of Marna and Serra in his home. As he seized a coat from the wall, ready to confront whatever had landed in his fields, the midwives emerged from the shadows of the hallway, their faces etched with concern and fear, roused by the unnatural light and the earth-shaking noise.
"Marna, Serra," Harlon acknowledged, his tone commanding and worried, his gaze fixed on the door whipped by wind and rain. "Stay here. Go back to Elyna; she shouldn't be alone right now."
"But Harlon, what was that light? That sound?" Marna asked, her voice trembling, a reflection of the fear that gripped them all. The normalcy of their earlier duties had been shattered, leaving them adrift in the night's madness.
"It's something in the field... a fire, I think," Harlon said, his words rushed, his mind already racing ahead to the flames threatening his land. "I have to go—see what it is, try to contain it before it spreads."
Serra stepped forward, her brow furrowed with worry. "You can't go alone, not into this storm. It's too dangerous," she protested, her instinct to protect clashing with the knowledge of Harlon's resolve.
Harlon met her gaze, his own set with a fierce determination. "I must. The Gods have already taken my children from me. I can't let them take away my farm. The harvest is soon, and I can't face Lord Tyrell with a burnt farm." he said firmly, as he finally grabbed the tarp off the cot they had been using, the decision made, irrevocable. "Keep Elyna safe. Comfort her. That's all I ask."
Without waiting for further objections, Harlon turned on his heel, the coat now a scant protection against the elements. As he opened the door, the howl of the wind and the fury of the rain greeted him, a herald of the battle to come.
"Stay inside!" he called over his shoulder, his voice barely carrying over the storm's roar. "I'll return as soon as I can."
With that, Harlon plunged into the night, leaving Marna and Serra staring after him, their worry for both Harlon and Elyna mingling with a deep, unsettling dread for what the dawn might reveal. The midwives exchanged a glance, a silent agreement passing between them. They turned back towards Elyna's room, their steps quick and purposeful, ready to offer whatever comfort they could in the long, dark hours ahead.
The fire had spread in small patches at the far edges of the farm. The deer hide tarp that he'd torn off the cots he'd shared with the midwives was a great tool for putting them out. The returning rain was starting to take care of the rest.
"At least the Seven haven't cursed me so thoroughly to rob me of all the farm yet." He thought bitingly.
As he slowly took measured steps toward the edge where the star, for what else could it be, had struck, the rain lashed against him with a ferocity that seemed personal, as if the heavens themselves bore a grudge against him. He trudged forward, each step a battle against the mud that sucked at his boots, putting out small patches of still blazing fire, and with every gust of wind that buffeted him, a storm raged within him as well.
"Why?!" Harlon railed internally, his heart a cauldron of tumultuous emotions. "Why us, why my family?" The question was a blade, slicing anew through the grief that had settled in his soul. "We've toiled, we've prayed, we've done nothing but live humbly under your skies. And yet, you take from us, mercilessly." His anger at the gods was a torrent, unchecked and raw. "If this is a test, then damn your tests!" he declared into the howling wind, the words torn away as soon as they left his lips.
The farm, his year's work was now cut by a third. His liege lord would have his hide, should they find him at fault for this.
And there, at the far edge of the farm, was a sight that stole the breath from his lungs—a giant crater, carved into the earth as if by the fist of some vengeful deity. It was vast, easily a dozen paces wide, and so deep that the bottom was swallowed by shadows even the storm's frequent lightning couldn't illuminate fully. Around its edges, the earth was scorched, blackened as though dragon fire had danced there, but the relentless rain had quenched the flames, leaving behind only the smell of wet ash and a smoldering ruin.
Harlon approached the crater's edge cautiously, his heart pounding in his chest, not from the exertion but from the sheer incomprehensibility of the scene before him. Peering into the abyss, he spied an object unlike anything he had ever seen—a stony object, silver-like in its make. Ethereal with a light of its own, he had no words for it.
It was large, larger than a cow but smaller than a wagon, with a surface that gleamed dully in the intermittent lightning, made of a material that was neither wood nor metal, something foreign and smooth. And slivery chunks of it littered the blackened ground around the crater.
"A Star?" Harlon muttered to himself, bafflement overtaking his initial apprehension. "A fallen star?" The idea was fanciful, something out of the stories told around the hearth on winter nights, yet how else could he explain this anomaly?
Compelled by a mix of curiosity and apprehension, Harlon descended into the crater, his steps cautious on the slippery slope. As he neared the strange object, its surface was cool and oddly comforting to the touch, unlike the biting cold of the rain that drenched him. It was seamless, with no apparent door or opening, yet it pulsed with a soft light that seemed to beckon him closer.
Suddenly, as if responding to his presence, a portion of the star shifted, retracting silently to reveal an interior bathed in a soft, otherworldly glow. Harlon gasped, the deer skin tarp falling from his hands, stepping back instinctively, his mind struggling to grasp the unfolding miracle.
From within the light, the cry of an infant pierced the storm's din—a sound so achingly familiar and yet so utterly alien in this context. Harlon's heart, so recently heavy with loss, surged with an inexplicable mixture of hope and fear.
"By the Seven..." he whispered, his earlier rage forgotten in the face of this bewildering wonder. "A babe? Here?" His mind reeled at the impossibility, at the divine irony of finding a child amidst the wreckage of his dreams.
Tentatively, driven by a force he couldn't name, Harlon approached the open star again. Inside, swaddled amidst the soft stone, as foreign as the vessel that contained it, lay an infant, its eyes wide and tearful, but unharmed by its celestial journey.
Harlon reached out, his rough farmer's hands trembling as they cradled the child. Lifting the babe from its cradle of stars, he marveled at the warmth of its skin, the vitality of its cries—so vibrant against the night's despair.
"The Seven sent you to me?" he murmured, not expecting an answer, his voice a mix of awe and gentle reassurance. "Are you the answer to our prayers little one?"
The babe sniffled in his arms, the wail of storm weakening around them, as though the heavens themselves protected the babe. He scrambled back for the tarp he'd dropped earlier in his astonishment, and gently wrapped the babe in the wet and soot laden cloth.
Clutching the child close, Harlon looked up at the stormy heavens, no longer with anger, but with a dawning sense of wonder and purpose. Perhaps this was the sign he had pleaded for, a gift from the gods, or maybe a chance to mend the gaping wound in his and Elyna's hearts.
"The Storm is no place for a babe like you." He finally said, silently marveling at the child from the Gods themselves.
As he trudged up the crater, the storm finally lessened to gentle calming rain. The fires started by the babe's arrival long dwindled. With a final look into the crater his heart set in stone.
"The Gods have personally answered our prayers." He whispered. "You shall be our son, our star."
With a determined heart, he begun trudging back through the muddy field. Light of heart, joy brimming in his heart anew.
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Elyna lay in the dimly lit room, the storm's fury a distant echo compared to the tempest in her heart. Atop her breast, the still form of her son, Rowan, wrapped in a soft blanket, served as a cruel reminder of what she had lost. Marna and Serra, the midwives who had been with her through the ordeal, sat quietly nearby, their faces etched with compassion and sorrow.
As another clap of thunder shook the farmhouse, Elyna's gaze drifted toward the window, the flashes of lightning illuminating the relentless downpour that obscured the fields beyond. Despite the pain that wracked her body and the heaviness in her soul, a restless energy spurred her to action. With a determined, albeit shaky, effort, she pushed herself upright, ignoring Marna's gentle protest.
"I need to see," Elyna insisted, her voice barely above a whisper but laden with a desperate need to connect with the outside world, to somehow bridge the distance between her and Harlon.
"You need to rest, Elyna" Marna chided, but Elyna wouldn't waver.
"My Husband is out there, and my heart ….. I need to see. Please" She pleaded, cradling her son closer.
"Let me help you," Serra offered, moving to support Elyna as she swung her legs off the bed. Every movement was agony, yet driven by an inner strength she scarcely knew she possessed, Elyna made her way to the window, leaning heavily on Serra.
"Thank you," Elyna said softly to the dark haired, kind hearted woman.
Outside, the storm raged, a chaotic dance of wind and rain. Fires, small beacons of light in the darkness, flickered in the distance, their glow battling against the onslaught of the rain.
"Harlon is out there," Elyna murmured, her eyes straining to make out any sign of her husband in the tumultuous night. "He went to... Gods, its so dark."
"The fires are dying down, Elyna," Marna said, joining them at the window. "The rain is quenching them. Harlon will be alright. He's strong, and the gods watch over the brave. You need the bed."
"No. ….. I can't!" She pleaded.
Marna sighed, conceding the fruitless battle, "The Gods will watch over him, don't worry 'lyna"
"But why would the gods watch over us?" Elyna's voice cracked with a mixture of grief and bitterness. "They took my son.... They've taken and taken and taken. All my children are with them!"
Serra squeezed Elyna's shoulder reassuringly. "Sometimes, the gods' plans are beyond our understanding, but they also provide us with strength when we least expect it. Harlon will be alright, the fires are all dead."
As they stood together, the storm began to subside, the once fierce winds and torrential rains easing into a gentle drizzle. The fires that had dotted the edge of their vision slowly extinguished, leaving behind only darkness and the promise of dawn.
Time passed, each moment stretching into eternity as Elyna, supported by the midwives, waited for any sign of Harlon. The silence of the aftermath was a stark contrast to the chaos that had preceded it, a quiet that was both comforting and unnerving.
Eventually, the storm started to lessen as a soothing rain replaced its fury.
"In some time, the first lights of the sun should return, and all will be clear Elyna," Serra commented, as they sat by the open window gazing into the drizzling darkness. "You need not worry."
"Thank you, Serra, Marna" Elyna finally said breaking her gaze from the dark drizzling abyss. "For all that you did for me, and my husband tonight."
"Always dear, and should you need a quiet ear, you can always come to my lodge by the Mander hills," Marna replied.
"And mine too, we're always been friends, Elyna. Mine and my husband's home will always be open to you." Serra reassured.
The words finally soothed her soul. The pain of the loss of her child would remain but dulled forever. She would recover, despite the cruel God's never granting her children ever again.
The silent drizzle of the rain was now comforting. The patter was a gentle reminder that Harlon would return any moment soon. She gazed down at the body of her son in her arms.
"You'll stay won't you?" She asked. At their questioning gazes she elaborated, "For the funeral, I mean?"
Sadness and pity filled their eyes, "Of course, dear. As long as you need us."
Elyna smiled into the comforting silence that followed.
The comforting patter of the rain had settled into a soothing rhythm when the sound of the door creaking open shattered the quiet. Elyna, still cradling Rowan, turned toward the sound, her heart leaping into her throat. Harlon stood in the doorway, drenched and shadowed, yet there was an unmistakable aura of wonder and urgency about him. In his arms, wrapped against the chill of the night, was a bundle—a cry, soft yet insistent, emanated from it, piercing the heavy air of the room.
"Harlon!" Elyna gasped, her weariness forgotten in the wake of his unexpected return. The midwives, equally startled, rose to their feet, their eyes wide with surprise and curiosity.
Harlon, his eyes meeting Elyna's, crossed the room in strides, a look of awe mixed with an intense, profound joy illuminating his face. "Elyna, my love," he began, his voice brimming with emotion, "the gods...they've answered us. Not in the way we dared hope, but they have sent us a miracle."
Elyna, bewildered, could only stare as Harlon gently placed the infant in her arms. The warmth of the child against her own skin, the strength of its cries, brought a rush of emotions she couldn't name. "Harlon, what...where did this child come from?"
Harlon shared then, his voice steady but filled with the wonder of what he had witnessed. He spoke of the blinding light that had torn through the darkness, of the crater it had left at the edge of their farm, and of the miraculous discovery of the child within what seemed to him a chariot from the heavens. "I found him there, alone, untouched by the fire or the fall. It's as if...as if the heavens themselves have given us a second chance," he finished, his gaze locked with Elyna's, seeking understanding, perhaps even acceptance.
Elyna, cradling the infant, felt a surge of wonder, disbelief, and a burgeoning hope that bloomed within her heart. "A child from the stars?" she whispered, her voice tinged with awe. The babe, sensing the warmth of her embrace, quieted, its cries subsiding into soft coos.
Marna and Serra, having listened to Harlon's tale, exchanged looks of disbelief and awe. "A fallen star brought him?" Marna murmured, her skepticism warring with the evidence before her eyes.
Serra, ever the heart of compassion, smiled softly. "Perhaps the gods have more plans than we can fathom. This child...he is meant for you, Elyna, Harlon. A blessing from the storm."
Elyna, meeting Harlon's gaze, saw the truth and conviction in his eyes. "Then he is ours," she said, a decision made not just with her mind but with her heart. "Our son."
Harlon, relief, and joy evident in his expression, nodded. "We must keep his origins a secret, please! We can't lose him" he implored, turning to the midwives. "To the village, to anyone, he's our son, borne from your loins, of my blood. That's all anyone needs to know."
"E-even from …." Serra gulped, the sheer weight of the request bearing on her shoulders "Even from Lord and Lady Tyrell?"
"Please!" Harlon begged, dropping to his knees in front of the two ladies. "I can't lose him."
Elyna too then joined, hope finally blooming in her chest. "I beg this of you. Serra, Marna. Help me keep this star child safe!"
"This is dangerous," Marna paced the room, her gaze locked on the boy in Elyna's arms "People will ask questions. All of Highgarden would have seen that brilliant light and the falling star. There's sure to be a party traveling down here after morn if not after first light."
"We can hide him, he'd be our son." Harlon responded beseechingly, pleading to her senses "The village guards knew Elyna was heavy with child, it would not be difficult."
"The Gods have finally answered our prayers, Marna." Elyna pleaded, tears forming in her eyes. Desperate hope warred in her eyes
"And what if they find this, piece of the star in your field? They will ask questions about what was inside." Marna replied, even though her heart had started to soften.
"Harlon and I can take the cart and bring it back here, bury it beneath the trees outside," Serra interjected.
At the grateful look Elyna sent her way she said "You're almost like a sister to me, Elyna. Your son will grow old with mine. I will help."
"Be quick then," Marna finally said, Marna nodding in agreement. "First light of the day is nearly upon us. Make haste. Let Elyna nurse the babe by her breast till then, she's just birthed, she'd have milk a plenty."
In the quiet that followed, the four of them considered the infant—a boy touched by the heavens, brought to them by a night of tempest and wonder. "Let's name him," Harlon said, breaking the silence. "A name that will remind us of this night, of the miracle he represents."
After a moment, Elyna spoke, her voice clear and strong despite the exhaustion that clung to her. "Let's call him Caelum. After the very stars that birthed him for us."
"Caelum," Harlon repeated the name a perfect echo of their newfound hope. He bent and kissed Caelum's brow and then his wife, and finally Rowan's still pale brow and turned to Serra. "I'll get the bulls and cart ready. It looked like a weighty thing, can you fetch the spade from the barn?"
As the two left, Elyna looked at the babe attached now to her chest. The God's had taken three sons from her, and in return had granted a babe that fell from the heavens themselves. She would love him, cherish him with all her heart for while the Gods were cruel, their mercy was rare yet bountiful indeed. She would not be the one to squander it so lightly.
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A Lie writ in Stone
The soft downpour of the rain quietened their movement through the muddy field as Harlon and Serra made their way through the softened earth, a strong bull pulling a wooden cart behind them slowly. The night was dark, with the stars blocked by darker clouds above yet they knew dawn was not far from the horizon. The smell of burnt soot and ember-covered crops was slowly being washed away by the scent of drizzling rain.
As they arrived at the edge of the crater, its vastness stretched before them, a gaping maw in the edge of the farmland, like the fist of an angry god punched into the very earth, the remnants of the storm seemed to linger around its depths.
Serra, her gaze fixed on the darkened pit and the silver-like shard that lay within, broke the silence with a voice filled with wonder and a hint of disbelief.
"I thought you were touched by madness, Harlon, bringin' a babe from the storm," Serra whispered, her gaze locked on the star shard. "Figured you'd found a forsaken child, not...not something heavenly like this."
Harlon, standing beside her, shared the awe, his eyes reflecting the soft silver light that the star seemed to radiate an otherworldly glow. "I had thought myself mad when I first heard his cries too," he responded, his voice carrying a mixture of reverence and humility. "Thought that the Gods taunted me with that which I cannot have. Yet, I don't pretend to know what it all means, Serra, only that... mayhap the Gods are finally showing my family a speck of mercy. And I'll not squander such a blessing."
They descended into the deep slightly water-logged crater, approaching the glowing star that rested midst the cool pond formed by the collecting rain water.
"Truly, the heavens have heeded your prayers," Serra said as they neared the divine object. She stared at the faint intricate marks on the outer shell of the star, light being the brightest silver therein. She stretched her hand and caressed the markings on the ethereal object almost reverently "To think, I'd hold a piece of the Maiden's light in my hands, her very star and flesh, it's a grace I never dreamed to behold."
"It's cool to the touch," Harlon said, surprised as he gazed at the opening in the object where his son was borne. Taking his spade, he made his way through the shallow pool of water and finally shattered the reverie they'd mesmerized themselves in by wedging the spade beneath the silver belly of the large starry vessel.
"And very heavy." He observed as the object groaned under the support of the makeshift lever.
The serene spell that had been cast on Serra also finally broke, as she nodded and said "I… I'll get the cart ready."
Harlon groaned under the effort, clearly straining himself as he finally gave a mighty push on the lever, and the star was finally tipped out of the wedge it was buried beneath and tipped on its side.
Finally, Harlon began the task of rolling the divine object up the slopes of the crater and onto the waiting cart. The wooden structure of the cart groaned under the enormous weight but held firm. Once the shard was securely in place, he paused, taking a moment to catch his breath and share a look of accomplishment with Serra.
"Quickly, the rain has stopped, and the cover of the dark will be gone in time." He said as he helped Serra up into the back of the cart, and began walking back to his barn, cart in tow.
As she settled into her seat beside the cool glowing piece of a star, Serra glanced a final time into the giant crater. She noticed silvery pieces of glowing rock still wedged and littered around the blackened and burnt hole.
"There's still shards of the star littered around everywhere." She pointed out to Harlon, sounding troubled.
The man paused, his gaze worried as he pondered the problem, and then sighed "There's nothing to it now. We must trust in the Gods to watch our backs. Even in this lie." He paused "Besides, no one looking for answers would stake a wager at the shard carrying a babe. At best they'd think the rock burnt midst the brilliant fire. The shattered pieces that lay about will give that theory substance. It's not the flash of lightning that reveals truth, but the shadow it casts.' Let them chase shadows while we protect the light."
"Y-you mean to mislead Lord Tyrell when his party arrives?" Serra stammered, a little shaken by the implication of his words.
Harlon finally gazed back at her, and stared hard into her dark eyes "For my son? Yes, yes I will do all that I must. And more if the Gods ask it of me. After years of toil and tears, with naught but sorrow and my dear Elyna's health worsening to show for it, this mercy from the heavens is a gift I will not squander"
Serra gulped her worry down and turned away seeing the strength of the man's conviction written plain in his eyes. It was admirable in truth, the lengths a man would go to for the family he loved. She hoped she could do right by the God-borne child if the Gods demanded a trial from her too.
"The gods watch over fools and children, they say. But which are we, Harlon?" She wondered finally.
"A bit of both, I reckon. But it's for my son, for Caelum. For him, I'd walk through the Stranger's gate and back."
It was clear to her that little Caelum was meant for greatness. No heaven-blessed, fruit of the Gods would live a life unremarkable. And she had a part to play in his tale. She and her husband were devout followers of the Seven, and clearly, the Seven had greatness writ behind the blessing that Caelum brought to the family of little means in the humble heart of the reach.
She gazed at the opening in the star, the womb that birthed the child from the heavens. It looked pure, soft. Bathed in rays of silver hues.
As Harlon guided the bull and cart back through the muddy field to the barn, she reached forth and traced her hand through the soft material that layered the inside of the star.
"I never imagined a star to be so …… soft." She whispered. "The maiden's womb this is. Your son birthed by a piece of the Maiden herself. Pure and gentle, he will be. Just like her."
"I am truly blessed," Harlon smiled softly, "Though the price the Gods demand for such a blessing is a cruel, ugly thing."
Serra hummed her agreement, as she continued to trace her hand through the insides of a star, when she something cool and brittle grazed her fingers.
Holding back a gasp, she fished the small object out to find a crystal of unknown make, that shone light of its own. No larger than the palm of her hand. The edge of the crystalline object was marked by a faint symbol, a faint letter. One she did not recognize, unlearnt in her letters that she was.
"Harlon, see here," Serra beckoned, her hand trembling as she held out the crystal. "Found it within. It's unlike any thing I have laid eyes on, even in the wealth of Highgarden and the castle, marked with signs unknown."
Harlon slowed the cart and leaned closer, his eyes narrowing as he examined the crystal and the symbol. "I don't recognize the lettering, not that I would know much in truth." He admitted, "It's beautiful, though, isn't it? A smaller star unto itself."
"Do you think it's important?" Serra asked, her gaze shifting between the crystal and Harlon.
"Hard to say," he pondered, a furrow in his brow. "But it lay with my son, with Caelum. Mayhap a sign, or gods' own gift, akin to the boy himself."
Serra nodded, the weight of their secret and the potential significance of the crystal settling over her. "You should keep it safe then, with little Caelum … as a remembrance of the blessing that the seven have granted you."
Harlon considered this for a moment, the cart moving once more as he guided the bull forward, as he gazed at his beautiful wife, his two sons, living and dead, cradled in her arms standing beside the elder greying Marna. "No, not just yet. It's not the time for the boy to know his true beginning... The Gods entrusted him to me, and as his father, I'll decide when he's ready to bear such a burden."
Serra thought over his words and worried that Harlon may be trying to hide Caelum behind his duties of fatherhood. But she did not comment. He was right, Caelum was young. Greatness would follow him regardless of his father's insistence on delaying it.
"As you say, Harlon." She replied, as the cart finally stopped in front of the barn.
Under the gray light of the slowly setting moon, filtering through the remnants of the dispersing cloud, Harlon approached Elyna as she stood with Marna's help, cradling both Rowan and Caelum in her arms.
"Gods, Elyna, you shouldn't be out here, not so soon," Harlon fretted, his gaze lingering on the lifeless form of Rowan before meeting the peaceful face of Caelum, asleep in her embrace. And then wandering over the beautiful form of his wife, taking her honey-blonde hair that looked almost silver like the star under the slowly creeping moonlight.
Her face a portrait of mixed emotions—grief, wonder, and a fierce resolve—looked up at him. "I needed to see for myself, Harlon. To lay eyes upon the star... our blessing," she said, her voice steady despite the visible effort it took to stand there.
Harlon watched as she and Marna approached the cart, gaze locked on the load it carried.
"Please, Elyna. Don't strain yourself further. Sit, Caelum is still a babe and needs his sleep." He pleaded.
She relented under his pleading gaze, taking her seat on the soft ground beneath the shadow of the barn.
Marna, after having helped the poor woman settle down said, "I…. had doubts, had thought you were fooled, and some forsaken child was saved from a fiery death by you and the Gods' plans. But seeing this... it's…. I have no words, Harlon. The Gods have indeed marked your family for something grand."
Harlon sighed, the weight of their situation pressing down on him. "Let's get the star buried then, beneath the trees there. It's best hidden away," he said, glancing towards a spot by the barn that seemed suitable for their task.
"I'll help dig," Serra offered immediately, rolling up her sleeves, her earlier awe replaced by a practical determination.
"You don't need-
"More hands will get the work done quicker. Dawn is almost upon us. No doubt the entire village will come asking questions soon after." Marna said, grasping a shovel.
"I… I don't want" Harlon tried to protest.
"You think I am too old?" Marna teased, as she raked her shovel marking a spot a few feet into the shade of the tree, and began digging "I've hauled more pails of water, sloshed more floors, and cleared heavier pigsties at the inn than you've seen stars fall, Harlon."
Harlon's worry found a voice again, "But you've both been up all night, and—"
"And nothing," Marna cut him off with mock severity. "A little dirt won't kill us. Now get digging"
Quickly, under the efforts of the three, a pit deep enough to hold the celestial object was made, just as the moon's first lights of the sun started to brighten the far horizon behind the distant castle of Highgarden.
Finally, with significant effort, he rolled the celestial star into the pit with the help of Marna and Serra.
It was then Elyna spoke, her voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried a profound strength. "Harlon, I wish for Rowan to be buried with the star. In the heavens' embrace, ensuring his place among the Gods. Let's send Rowan to the arms of the Mother, cradled by the light of this star. May the Father judge him kindly, and may the Crone guide him wisely on his journey to the stars."
The simple request struck Harlon deeply, tears welling up in his eyes as he nodded silently, overcome by a rush of love and sorrow. He gathered the still form of his trueborn son from her, still wrapped in the soft blankets that Elyna had sewn for his birth.
"So beautiful you would have been," he said, placing a kiss on the babe's brow "Know that you were loved, my dear Rowan."
He gently placed the babe in the cradle midst of the star, and Serra placed the beautiful crystal back where it belonged, in the arms of the tiny still babe.
As though the star knew it was time for it to return to eternal slumber, the opening brightened, a soft breeze came forth and the star closed in on itself covering the babe in its protective embrace.
"Father Above, grant him passage by the star to the seven heavens above." Marna prayed for the boy. "Let the star be his vessel unto peace and the Mother's embrace. O' , Warrior, watch over his family, and the brother he leaves behind, lend Caelum your strength. O' Smith, forge his path with courage. And to the Stranger, we offer Rowan, not with fear, but with trust in your mercy. O' merciful Stranger, grant him mercy now that he has accepted your gift, let him pass to the seven heavens without judgment for he is pure, true, and good."
Tears fell from Harlon's eyes, as he gazed at the shining star beneath the earth. In his heart, he thanked the Seven for the blessing they had granted him, and begged forgiveness for whatever sin he had committed that they demanded the life of true born son in return for one of their flesh.
He slowly began shoveling the earth close, prayer still on his lips.
As the first shovelful of earth was returned to the hole, Elyna prayed tearfully, saying goodbye to her beautiful son. Pleading forgiveness for failing him so thoroughly, and pledging in her heart that she would love the fruit of the sacrifice he had given with all her heart.
With the grave filled and their prayers offered, the group stood in silent vigil, the air around them filled with the potent sense of an ending and a beginning intertwined.
"Thank you," Harlon whispered to them all, his voice thick with emotion. "For everything."
Elyna, holding Caelum now more tightly, added, "Our family owes you more than words can say. This secret, this miracle... we can't thank you enough for what you're doing for us."
"Always, Elyna, Harlon." Serra replied, smiling softly "The Seven's blessings are not to be taken lightly, and we will do our part so that they may grant us succor when greatness comes for little Caelum in time."
"Yes," Harlon whispered, gazing at the steadily rising son "in time…"
As they turned to head back to the warmth of the farmhouse, the first rays of the sun broke through the clouds, a new day dawning, full of promise and mystery, the memory of the night's miracle sealed beneath the earth and in their hearts.
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Maester Lomys stumbled out of his quarters scrambling to reach the chambers of Lord Tyrell and his Lady Wife. He had been awake all night due to the violent roars of the thunderstorm, reading a tome while waiting for slumber to overtake him.
He had just been on the verge of dozing off when a violent roar, louder than any sound of thunder almost deafened his ears. He had almost called the guards to raise the alarms, believing them under attack before a glance out his window revealed no armies and a distant start falling from the sky.
"Maester Lomys! What news do you bring?" He heard faintly his ears ringing from the reverberating noise that the star had made through the castle upon impact in a distant field. He turned to face the voice, eyes straining to take in the form of his questioner. It took him a moment to recognize Ser Quentyn Tyrell already clad in armor, hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. "I have called the men at arms to gather Ser Crane to rouse and ready the men, but we need your insight into the matter prior.
"Ser Quentyn, I am afraid you may have to belay the command in truth" he replied as the words finally caught up to him. "There is no army marching on Highgarden, rather a star seems to have fallen in a distant field by the village on the shore of the Mander."
Ser Quentyn slumped in relief, but still held a wary gaze "Are you certain maester? A star?"
"Indeed, Ser. I saw it fall with mine own eyes," he admitted "I was awake you see, in my study. Reading a tome while awaiting slumber. The violent sound caught me unawares, and I scrambled for the window and far in the distance, the brilliant star was descending onto the lands. Tore up a field in the distance by my measure, and lay fire to crops a plenty."
"It is as you say then," Ser Quentyn acquiesced in relief "Mace won't be convinced so readily, however. Lady Olenna was wroth worry and he would want to make certain regardless."
"Yes, I do believe he would," the young Maester mused "Little Willas, and Garlan would have had their sleep disturbed, and I don't think Lady Alerie would be in the best of spirits. I should go and check their health, should the sound have hurt their hearing. If Ser Crane is preparing the men at arms as you say, then Lord Tyrell is aware of the matter already I presume?"
"Indeed, Ser Crane must have readied the men already, and joined Lord Tyrell awaiting his command."
"Then we must make haste, Lord Tyrell would check on his sons before issuing any order." Lomys theorized, "likely the Lord and the Master at Arms await us there. Come, we must make haste.
It took them a while to make their way through the hubbub of rushing men, preparing for battles in various states of readiness before they reached the Lords by
Mace Tyrell looked weary and shook. His brown hair, unkempt, and the slight beginnings of a protruding gut clear signs of unease. He was kneeled down in front of his sons. Willas barely two name days old was sobbing into the crook of his neck, while Garlan an infant in truth lay cradled in his arms.
Lady Alerie Tyrell, her nightgown a whisper of silk, knelt beside her sons. Her whispered comforts, barely audible, fluttered like leaves in the wind, her hair untamed and wild from the night's haste.
It was the Lord of Highgarden that spotted them first.
"Maester! Ser Crane has the men ready, but I would have your insight before making any measure to counter an attack." He said making a remarkable effort to stay focused on the task at hand, while comforting his sons.
The young maester suddenly beset with the steely gaze of the Lord of the Castle, and his Lady mother gulped down his nerves before replying with the slight bow of his head and steadied his voice, mindful of the urgency in Lord Mace's query and the keen intellect of Lady Olenna, whose sharp eyes missed little. "My lord, the disturbance was no attack but a celestial event. A star, it seemed, fell from the heavens, landing near the village Manderbanks Village by the Mander. Its descent was marked by the light that split the night and the roar that followed. I witnessed it myself from the tower."
Lord Mace Tyrell, showed his skepticism, exchanged a glance with his mother. Lady Olenna, ever nodded slightly, her grey hair ruffled and unkempt due to the sudden disturbance. "A star, you say? And here we were, fearing an attack. This will be a tale for the bards, no doubt. But, Maester, are you certain of what you saw? A star falling from the sky is no common matter."
"Indeed, my lady, I am certain," Lomys replied, his confidence bolstered by the knowledge that such events, though rare, were not unheard of in the annals of history. "The phenomenon was unmistakable. A star has fallen in the fields not far from the castle, My Lady."
Mace Tyrell pondered this, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Then we must see this for ourselves. We shall ride out at first light to inspect the site. It could be an omen, or simply a curiosity, but it must be investigated."
Lady Olenna, who had been silent, spoke again, her voice carrying the weight of her years and experience. "Indeed, Mace. You may need to send a rider down early to allay the panic in the village that would spread by the noise alone, same for the keeps within the walls of the castle."
Turning to Ser Quentyn, Lord Mace issued his command. "Inform Ser Crane the men at arms will not be needed for defense but ready a small party for our journey at dawn. And ensure the villagers are not unduly alarmed. We will need their cooperation. And ready a rider for the village, he is to take a few men from the city watch to the village to maintain order."
"As you command, my lord," Ser Quentyn replied, bowing before departing to carry out his orders.
"Mace, let me put the boys back to bed." Lady Alerie interjected softly, "Their sleep has been disturbed and they need not be troubled further."
"You're right my love." Mace looked a little abashed, having forgotten his sons that were still in his arms.
"There is no fighting, Papa?" The little lord, Willas asked, rubbing the tears straining down his cheeks.
"Not today, my brave boy." The Lord replied surprisingly gentle, "Go with your mother, and get back to bed. There will be no bad men tonight."
The boy sniffled, and nodded "Be safe, Papa."
It was clear, that the man loved his boys as his eyes practically melted as he handed Garlan over to his mother, and watched them walk away to their chambers.
"Dawn is almost upon us." He said, as soon as they were out of ear shot "I want the men readied, and fed by first light. I will join them personally. Your insight will be appreciated too Maester."
Understanding the polite order for what it was, Lomys bowed "Of course, my Lord." And he quickly returned to his study to prepare for the journey down.
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As the first light of dawn stretched its fingers across the land, Lord Mace Tyrell, flanked by Ser Quentyn and Ser Crane, led a party of twenty men toward the village. News of the celestial event had stirred the community into a restless fervor, and riders dispatched earlier had managed to bring a semblance of order, but the air still thrummed with anxious speculation.
They were joined by a wheelhouse, that carried Olenna and Alerie Tyrell, alongside the lord's two sons. Maester Lomys rode just behind his Lord, on a horse no less sturdy than that of the men at arms.
Upon their arrival, they found the villagers clustered in the central square, their faces etched with a mix of fear, curiosity, and awe. Questions were flowing like arrows in a skirmish, voices overlapping in a cacophony of concern and incredulity.
"What does it mean?"
"Will we be safe?"
"The sound… o' Gods the sound."
"Gods have mercy on us, the storm…"
The villagers pleaded for reassurance, their eyes searching the faces of the riders who tried to maintain order in the village.
Ser Vortimer Crane's loud voiced boomed over the gathered crowd "Silence! I command silence in the name of the King Aerys Targaryen, the second of his name! King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and the Protector of the Realm. You are in the presence of Lord Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Mander, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach, Warden of the South, and head of House Tyrell and he commands you maintain the King's peace!"
Lord Tyrell raised his hand for silence, and the crowd gradually stilled noticing the heavily armed guard that followed their lord into the village. Many in the crowd, bowed their heads in deference, and some even kneeled in the Lord's presence "We have come to ensure your safety," he announced, his voice steady and reassuring. "You need not worry. Who among you can guide us to where the star has struck?"
"A Star, m'lord?" A croaky voice broke the silence, "Tis was the wrath of the gods, it was. My old bones saw it true. Fell in ol' Harlon's field it did. The Gods curse him all the more, took his two sons, and now he is gone in truth too!"
A murmur quickly spread through the village on that proclamation. And the noise began to reach a din.
"Poor Harlon."
"His wife was a sweet thing…"
"The gods cursed him in true…"
"… couldn't birth a babe for true."
"O Stranger have mercy, my Serra was there last night…."
"Silence!" Ser Quentyn roared over the voices. "Do not speak with out your Lord's leave!"
The crowd was quick to quieten down at the threat.
"Do you speak for the village then?" Mace questioned the old man.
"I do. M'lord, names Crofton of the old greensfield." The old man replied, his back straightening somewhat at the attention. "The thunder came from the direction of Harlon's field. Harlon of the farmhouse he is. Lives in the farmhouse he built by the edge of his farm. Or used to at least. Dunno if he survived."
"Then show my men to this farm house, Crofton. We shall see the matter for what it is in truth." Mace finally ordered after some deliberation.
Curiosity proved a powerful lure, and a significant number of villagers, emboldened by the presence of armed guards, decided to follow. In their minds, the protection of the lord's men was enough for curious villagers to venture together to the farm.
"My lord, shall I have them disperse?" Ser Crane asked, noticing the crowd following the party.
Lady Olenna interjected before the Lord of Highgarden could reply "No need, Mace. There is no threat, and it would be a good thing for these men to see their lord for once with their own eyes."
The Lord of Highgarden seeing the curious gaze of his son Willas watching him, smiled akin to a flower in bloom, as he ruffled his chest to appear as magnanimous as he could.
The old Lady just rolled her eyes, as the ever enlargening party was guided by the old village head at the fore.
The procession to Harlon's farm was a sight to behold—a mix of armed nobility and common folk, all united by a common thread of curiosity and concern. The fields, usually quiet at this hour, buzzed with the sound of dozens of feet trudging through the dew-soaked earth, each step taking them gradually changing the atmosphere from that of fear, to increasing wonder and excitement.
And what a wonderous sight it was. Burnt crops of wheat and soot laden barley encircled a gigantic chasm, at least twelve feet and equally deep, like the mark left by the fist of an angry god. The land covered in scorched earth, black as though dragon fire danced around in the night. Water glistened in the center, cool and serene. And in the midst of this fiery cool miasma. Silver ethereal stone painted the blackened land, shining a light purely of its own.
"By the Seven!" Alerie Tyrell breathed, from where she watched sat inside the wheel house. "They look so beautiful."
"Yes, yes. It is very pretty," Olenna Tyrell agreed "Mace be a dear and get a guard to bring me a piece of the rocks."
The Lord of Highgarden nodded, and said "You heard my mother. Ser Crane, gather the largest chunk you can find."
The knight in question spurned his horse into a slow trot and approached the crater, slowly.
"And Quentyn, head to the farmhouse at the far end. Find Harlon? Was it?" At the nod from Old Crofton "Find Harlon if he is still alive. And bring him to me."
"Yes m'lord." He said bowing, and he spurned his horse at a steady pace setting for the wooden house in the distance.
It took a while for Ser Crane to gather a silvery rock the size of his head, and bring it back to the party horse trodding slowly behind him.
"It's cool to the touch, my Lord." The knight observed as he handed the large piece to the plumpening Lord of Highgarden.
Taking the piece in his hands, the Lord traced the intricate markings on its surface with his finger. Marveling at the light that emanated from it.
"A piece of a star. By the Gods" he murmured, his words sending a ripple of excited murmurs through the guards and the crowd that had followed them in their curiosity.
"A star! The Seven bless these lands."
"O, Father Above, please grant us bountiful harvests."
"Blessings of the Seven, in truth"
Many proclamations were made, before the Lord of Highgarden turned to the learned man in their midst.
"Maester Lomys, what do you make of this?" He said, handing the glowing piece of rock to the man in grey.
The Maester stared in awe at the shimmering object, "I… I do not know, my lord. The only other piece of stars having fallen were from Dorne, in Star Fall. House Dayne's ancestral sword Dawn, is said to have been forged with a piece of a fallen star."
Mace was quick to get excited, but before he could comment Ser Quentyn returned atop his horse, bringing a dark-haired man, along with three women and a babe.
"My Lord, this is Harlon of the Farmhouse." He announced.
The man in question bowed his head in deference. "M'Lord, I am Harlon, this is my wife Elyna." He said pointing at the strawberry blonde woman by his side who tried a curtesy, that she'd seen done inside the walls of Highgarden, but failed due to the babe in her arms "And my son, Caelum. The others are midwives from the village, Serra and Marna"
The two women also mimicked a curtesy.
Lord Mace Tyrell, his interest piqued, turned his full attention to Harlon. "Tell me, what transpired here last night."
Harlon gulped, the weight of the task and the curious audience listening to his every word weighed on his shoulders, began to spin his tale, "It was amidst the birth of my son, my lord. The sky tore open with a roar louder than any storm I've ever heard, and fire rained down upon our fields." He paused, the memory vivid in his eyes. "Something from the heavens itself fell into our farm. I did what I could to quench the flames, to save what was left of our livelihood."
Mace nodded thoughtfully, absorbing Harlon's tale. "It is as you say then. We shall see to it that these celestial stones are collected and brought to Highgarden," he declared, turning to address those gathered. "Highgarden has been blessed by the Seven themselves. House Tyrell will have a sword to rival Dawn itself!" He announced.
The men at arms gathered around, cheered for their lord, and spurned by the rapid cheering the villagers shared their joy too. And in the midst of them all, the farmer breathed an unseen sigh of relief.
Maester Lomys seized the moment to make a request. "My lord, might I request a few samples for the Citadel? This is a rare opportunity for study."
After a moment's consideration, Mace relented. "Very well, Maester Lomys. Take what you need for your studies, but ensure the rest is secured for Highgarden."
Mace then proclaimed, "From these remnants of the heavens, we shall forge a blade to rival Dawn itself. Wisteria, it shall be called. For the moon light it reflects, and the stars from which it is made, a symbol of our house's resilience and grace."
Lady Olenna, seizing an opportunity, noticing the gathered crowd "And let us not forget the plight of our dear Harlon here, whose fields have been scorched by this celestial gift. How shall he pay his taxes now, Mace?"
Her words, sharp yet not without kindness, prompted Mace to think. This was an opportunity to show grace "In light of these extraordinary circumstances, I pardon Harlon two seasons of taxes."
The crowd murmured in approval, and awe at their liege lord's generosity. "Furthermore," Mace continued, turning his gaze to the infant in Elyna's arms,
"For your son, Caelum Starborne." To the astonishment of all, he then drew two shining pieces of gold from his purse and tossed them to Harlon. "For the upkeep of your family and the restoration of your farm," he stated, his gesture underscoring the magnanimity of House Tyrell.
The villagers, witnessing their lord's benevolence, erupted into cheers. Harlon, overwhelmed, could only nod his gratitude, clutching the gold as if it were the very stars that had fallen to his field. This was a year's worth in earnings at least. His son was already a blessing from the Seven, granting him a favor after after favor from the Gods themselves.
As the party prepared to depart, the air was alight with whispers of Wisteria, the sword that would be forged from the stars.
Highgarden would buzz with tales of the event for years to come with tales of the sword Wisteria, and in annals of history the legend of Caelum Starborn had begun.
As they arrived at the edge of the crater, its vastness stretched before them, a gaping maw in the edge of the farmland, like the fist of an angry god punched into the very earth, the remnants of the storm seemed to linger around its depths.
Serra, her gaze fixed on the darkened pit and the silver-like shard that lay within, broke the silence with a voice filled with wonder and a hint of disbelief.
"I thought you were touched by madness, Harlon, bringin' a babe from the storm," Serra whispered, her gaze locked on the star shard. "Figured you'd found a forsaken child, not...not something heavenly like this."
Harlon, standing beside her, shared the awe, his eyes reflecting the soft silver light that the star seemed to radiate an otherworldly glow. "I had thought myself mad when I first heard his cries too," he responded, his voice carrying a mixture of reverence and humility. "Thought that the Gods taunted me with that which I cannot have. Yet, I don't pretend to know what it all means, Serra, only that... mayhap the Gods are finally showing my family a speck of mercy. And I'll not squander such a blessing."
They descended into the deep slightly water-logged crater, approaching the glowing star that rested midst the cool pond formed by the collecting rain water.
"Truly, the heavens have heeded your prayers," Serra said as they neared the divine object. She stared at the faint intricate marks on the outer shell of the star, light being the brightest silver therein. She stretched her hand and caressed the markings on the ethereal object almost reverently "To think, I'd hold a piece of the Maiden's light in my hands, her very star and flesh, it's a grace I never dreamed to behold."
"It's cool to the touch," Harlon said, surprised as he gazed at the opening in the object where his son was borne. Taking his spade, he made his way through the shallow pool of water and finally shattered the reverie they'd mesmerized themselves in by wedging the spade beneath the silver belly of the large starry vessel.
"And very heavy." He observed as the object groaned under the support of the makeshift lever.
The serene spell that had been cast on Serra also finally broke, as she nodded and said "I… I'll get the cart ready."
Harlon groaned under the effort, clearly straining himself as he finally gave a mighty push on the lever, and the star was finally tipped out of the wedge it was buried beneath and tipped on its side.
Finally, Harlon began the task of rolling the divine object up the slopes of the crater and onto the waiting cart. The wooden structure of the cart groaned under the enormous weight but held firm. Once the shard was securely in place, he paused, taking a moment to catch his breath and share a look of accomplishment with Serra.
"Quickly, the rain has stopped, and the cover of the dark will be gone in time." He said as he helped Serra up into the back of the cart, and began walking back to his barn, cart in tow.
As she settled into her seat beside the cool glowing piece of a star, Serra glanced a final time into the giant crater. She noticed silvery pieces of glowing rock still wedged and littered around the blackened and burnt hole.
"There's still shards of the star littered around everywhere." She pointed out to Harlon, sounding troubled.
The man paused, his gaze worried as he pondered the problem, and then sighed "There's nothing to it now. We must trust in the Gods to watch our backs. Even in this lie." He paused "Besides, no one looking for answers would stake a wager at the shard carrying a babe. At best they'd think the rock burnt midst the brilliant fire. The shattered pieces that lay about will give that theory substance. It's not the flash of lightning that reveals truth, but the shadow it casts.' Let them chase shadows while we protect the light."
"Y-you mean to mislead Lord Tyrell when his party arrives?" Serra stammered, a little shaken by the implication of his words.
Harlon finally gazed back at her, and stared hard into her dark eyes "For my son? Yes, yes I will do all that I must. And more if the Gods ask it of me. After years of toil and tears, with naught but sorrow and my dear Elyna's health worsening to show for it, this mercy from the heavens is a gift I will not squander"
Serra gulped her worry down and turned away seeing the strength of the man's conviction written plain in his eyes. It was admirable in truth, the lengths a man would go to for the family he loved. She hoped she could do right by the God-borne child if the Gods demanded a trial from her too.
"The gods watch over fools and children, they say. But which are we, Harlon?" She wondered finally.
"A bit of both, I reckon. But it's for my son, for Caelum. For him, I'd walk through the Stranger's gate and back."
It was clear to her that little Caelum was meant for greatness. No heaven-blessed, fruit of the Gods would live a life unremarkable. And she had a part to play in his tale. She and her husband were devout followers of the Seven, and clearly, the Seven had greatness writ behind the blessing that Caelum brought to the family of little means in the humble heart of the reach.
She gazed at the opening in the star, the womb that birthed the child from the heavens. It looked pure, soft. Bathed in rays of silver hues.
As Harlon guided the bull and cart back through the muddy field to the barn, she reached forth and traced her hand through the soft material that layered the inside of the star.
"I never imagined a star to be so …… soft." She whispered. "The maiden's womb this is. Your son birthed by a piece of the Maiden herself. Pure and gentle, he will be. Just like her."
"I am truly blessed," Harlon smiled softly, "Though the price the Gods demand for such a blessing is a cruel, ugly thing."
Serra hummed her agreement, as she continued to trace her hand through the insides of a star, when she something cool and brittle grazed her fingers.
Holding back a gasp, she fished the small object out to find a crystal of unknown make, that shone light of its own. No larger than the palm of her hand. The edge of the crystalline object was marked by a faint symbol, a faint letter. One she did not recognize, unlearnt in her letters that she was.
"Harlon, see here," Serra beckoned, her hand trembling as she held out the crystal. "Found it within. It's unlike any thing I have laid eyes on, even in the wealth of Highgarden and the castle, marked with signs unknown."
Harlon slowed the cart and leaned closer, his eyes narrowing as he examined the crystal and the symbol. "I don't recognize the lettering, not that I would know much in truth." He admitted, "It's beautiful, though, isn't it? A smaller star unto itself."
"Do you think it's important?" Serra asked, her gaze shifting between the crystal and Harlon.
"Hard to say," he pondered, a furrow in his brow. "But it lay with my son, with Caelum. Mayhap a sign, or gods' own gift, akin to the boy himself."
Serra nodded, the weight of their secret and the potential significance of the crystal settling over her. "You should keep it safe then, with little Caelum … as a remembrance of the blessing that the seven have granted you."
Harlon considered this for a moment, the cart moving once more as he guided the bull forward, as he gazed at his beautiful wife, his two sons, living and dead, cradled in her arms standing beside the elder greying Marna. "No, not just yet. It's not the time for the boy to know his true beginning... The Gods entrusted him to me, and as his father, I'll decide when he's ready to bear such a burden."
Serra thought over his words and worried that Harlon may be trying to hide Caelum behind his duties of fatherhood. But she did not comment. He was right, Caelum was young. Greatness would follow him regardless of his father's insistence on delaying it.
"As you say, Harlon." She replied, as the cart finally stopped in front of the barn.
Under the gray light of the slowly setting moon, filtering through the remnants of the dispersing cloud, Harlon approached Elyna as she stood with Marna's help, cradling both Rowan and Caelum in her arms.
"Gods, Elyna, you shouldn't be out here, not so soon," Harlon fretted, his gaze lingering on the lifeless form of Rowan before meeting the peaceful face of Caelum, asleep in her embrace. And then wandering over the beautiful form of his wife, taking her honey-blonde hair that looked almost silver like the star under the slowly creeping moonlight.
Her face a portrait of mixed emotions—grief, wonder, and a fierce resolve—looked up at him. "I needed to see for myself, Harlon. To lay eyes upon the star... our blessing," she said, her voice steady despite the visible effort it took to stand there.
Harlon watched as she and Marna approached the cart, gaze locked on the load it carried.
"Please, Elyna. Don't strain yourself further. Sit, Caelum is still a babe and needs his sleep." He pleaded.
She relented under his pleading gaze, taking her seat on the soft ground beneath the shadow of the barn.
Marna, after having helped the poor woman settle down said, "I…. had doubts, had thought you were fooled, and some forsaken child was saved from a fiery death by you and the Gods' plans. But seeing this... it's…. I have no words, Harlon. The Gods have indeed marked your family for something grand."
Harlon sighed, the weight of their situation pressing down on him. "Let's get the star buried then, beneath the trees there. It's best hidden away," he said, glancing towards a spot by the barn that seemed suitable for their task.
"I'll help dig," Serra offered immediately, rolling up her sleeves, her earlier awe replaced by a practical determination.
"You don't need-
"More hands will get the work done quicker. Dawn is almost upon us. No doubt the entire village will come asking questions soon after." Marna said, grasping a shovel.
"I… I don't want" Harlon tried to protest.
"You think I am too old?" Marna teased, as she raked her shovel marking a spot a few feet into the shade of the tree, and began digging "I've hauled more pails of water, sloshed more floors, and cleared heavier pigsties at the inn than you've seen stars fall, Harlon."
Harlon's worry found a voice again, "But you've both been up all night, and—"
"And nothing," Marna cut him off with mock severity. "A little dirt won't kill us. Now get digging"
Quickly, under the efforts of the three, a pit deep enough to hold the celestial object was made, just as the moon's first lights of the sun started to brighten the far horizon behind the distant castle of Highgarden.
Finally, with significant effort, he rolled the celestial star into the pit with the help of Marna and Serra.
It was then Elyna spoke, her voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried a profound strength. "Harlon, I wish for Rowan to be buried with the star. In the heavens' embrace, ensuring his place among the Gods. Let's send Rowan to the arms of the Mother, cradled by the light of this star. May the Father judge him kindly, and may the Crone guide him wisely on his journey to the stars."
The simple request struck Harlon deeply, tears welling up in his eyes as he nodded silently, overcome by a rush of love and sorrow. He gathered the still form of his trueborn son from her, still wrapped in the soft blankets that Elyna had sewn for his birth.
"So beautiful you would have been," he said, placing a kiss on the babe's brow "Know that you were loved, my dear Rowan."
He gently placed the babe in the cradle midst of the star, and Serra placed the beautiful crystal back where it belonged, in the arms of the tiny still babe.
As though the star knew it was time for it to return to eternal slumber, the opening brightened, a soft breeze came forth and the star closed in on itself covering the babe in its protective embrace.
"Father Above, grant him passage by the star to the seven heavens above." Marna prayed for the boy. "Let the star be his vessel unto peace and the Mother's embrace. O' , Warrior, watch over his family, and the brother he leaves behind, lend Caelum your strength. O' Smith, forge his path with courage. And to the Stranger, we offer Rowan, not with fear, but with trust in your mercy. O' merciful Stranger, grant him mercy now that he has accepted your gift, let him pass to the seven heavens without judgment for he is pure, true, and good."
Tears fell from Harlon's eyes, as he gazed at the shining star beneath the earth. In his heart, he thanked the Seven for the blessing they had granted him, and begged forgiveness for whatever sin he had committed that they demanded the life of true born son in return for one of their flesh.
He slowly began shoveling the earth close, prayer still on his lips.
As the first shovelful of earth was returned to the hole, Elyna prayed tearfully, saying goodbye to her beautiful son. Pleading forgiveness for failing him so thoroughly, and pledging in her heart that she would love the fruit of the sacrifice he had given with all her heart.
With the grave filled and their prayers offered, the group stood in silent vigil, the air around them filled with the potent sense of an ending and a beginning intertwined.
"Thank you," Harlon whispered to them all, his voice thick with emotion. "For everything."
Elyna, holding Caelum now more tightly, added, "Our family owes you more than words can say. This secret, this miracle... we can't thank you enough for what you're doing for us."
"Always, Elyna, Harlon." Serra replied, smiling softly "The Seven's blessings are not to be taken lightly, and we will do our part so that they may grant us succor when greatness comes for little Caelum in time."
"Yes," Harlon whispered, gazing at the steadily rising son "in time…"
As they turned to head back to the warmth of the farmhouse, the first rays of the sun broke through the clouds, a new day dawning, full of promise and mystery, the memory of the night's miracle sealed beneath the earth and in their hearts.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
Maester Lomys stumbled out of his quarters scrambling to reach the chambers of Lord Tyrell and his Lady Wife. He had been awake all night due to the violent roars of the thunderstorm, reading a tome while waiting for slumber to overtake him.
He had just been on the verge of dozing off when a violent roar, louder than any sound of thunder almost deafened his ears. He had almost called the guards to raise the alarms, believing them under attack before a glance out his window revealed no armies and a distant start falling from the sky.
"Maester Lomys! What news do you bring?" He heard faintly his ears ringing from the reverberating noise that the star had made through the castle upon impact in a distant field. He turned to face the voice, eyes straining to take in the form of his questioner. It took him a moment to recognize Ser Quentyn Tyrell already clad in armor, hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. "I have called the men at arms to gather Ser Crane to rouse and ready the men, but we need your insight into the matter prior.
"Ser Quentyn, I am afraid you may have to belay the command in truth" he replied as the words finally caught up to him. "There is no army marching on Highgarden, rather a star seems to have fallen in a distant field by the village on the shore of the Mander."
Ser Quentyn slumped in relief, but still held a wary gaze "Are you certain maester? A star?"
"Indeed, Ser. I saw it fall with mine own eyes," he admitted "I was awake you see, in my study. Reading a tome while awaiting slumber. The violent sound caught me unawares, and I scrambled for the window and far in the distance, the brilliant star was descending onto the lands. Tore up a field in the distance by my measure, and lay fire to crops a plenty."
"It is as you say then," Ser Quentyn acquiesced in relief "Mace won't be convinced so readily, however. Lady Olenna was wroth worry and he would want to make certain regardless."
"Yes, I do believe he would," the young Maester mused "Little Willas, and Garlan would have had their sleep disturbed, and I don't think Lady Alerie would be in the best of spirits. I should go and check their health, should the sound have hurt their hearing. If Ser Crane is preparing the men at arms as you say, then Lord Tyrell is aware of the matter already I presume?"
"Indeed, Ser Crane must have readied the men already, and joined Lord Tyrell awaiting his command."
"Then we must make haste, Lord Tyrell would check on his sons before issuing any order." Lomys theorized, "likely the Lord and the Master at Arms await us there. Come, we must make haste.
It took them a while to make their way through the hubbub of rushing men, preparing for battles in various states of readiness before they reached the Lords by
Mace Tyrell looked weary and shook. His brown hair, unkempt, and the slight beginnings of a protruding gut clear signs of unease. He was kneeled down in front of his sons. Willas barely two name days old was sobbing into the crook of his neck, while Garlan an infant in truth lay cradled in his arms.
Lady Alerie Tyrell, her nightgown a whisper of silk, knelt beside her sons. Her whispered comforts, barely audible, fluttered like leaves in the wind, her hair untamed and wild from the night's haste.
It was the Lord of Highgarden that spotted them first.
"Maester! Ser Crane has the men ready, but I would have your insight before making any measure to counter an attack." He said making a remarkable effort to stay focused on the task at hand, while comforting his sons.
The young maester suddenly beset with the steely gaze of the Lord of the Castle, and his Lady mother gulped down his nerves before replying with the slight bow of his head and steadied his voice, mindful of the urgency in Lord Mace's query and the keen intellect of Lady Olenna, whose sharp eyes missed little. "My lord, the disturbance was no attack but a celestial event. A star, it seemed, fell from the heavens, landing near the village Manderbanks Village by the Mander. Its descent was marked by the light that split the night and the roar that followed. I witnessed it myself from the tower."
Lord Mace Tyrell, showed his skepticism, exchanged a glance with his mother. Lady Olenna, ever nodded slightly, her grey hair ruffled and unkempt due to the sudden disturbance. "A star, you say? And here we were, fearing an attack. This will be a tale for the bards, no doubt. But, Maester, are you certain of what you saw? A star falling from the sky is no common matter."
"Indeed, my lady, I am certain," Lomys replied, his confidence bolstered by the knowledge that such events, though rare, were not unheard of in the annals of history. "The phenomenon was unmistakable. A star has fallen in the fields not far from the castle, My Lady."
Mace Tyrell pondered this, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Then we must see this for ourselves. We shall ride out at first light to inspect the site. It could be an omen, or simply a curiosity, but it must be investigated."
Lady Olenna, who had been silent, spoke again, her voice carrying the weight of her years and experience. "Indeed, Mace. You may need to send a rider down early to allay the panic in the village that would spread by the noise alone, same for the keeps within the walls of the castle."
Turning to Ser Quentyn, Lord Mace issued his command. "Inform Ser Crane the men at arms will not be needed for defense but ready a small party for our journey at dawn. And ensure the villagers are not unduly alarmed. We will need their cooperation. And ready a rider for the village, he is to take a few men from the city watch to the village to maintain order."
"As you command, my lord," Ser Quentyn replied, bowing before departing to carry out his orders.
"Mace, let me put the boys back to bed." Lady Alerie interjected softly, "Their sleep has been disturbed and they need not be troubled further."
"You're right my love." Mace looked a little abashed, having forgotten his sons that were still in his arms.
"There is no fighting, Papa?" The little lord, Willas asked, rubbing the tears straining down his cheeks.
"Not today, my brave boy." The Lord replied surprisingly gentle, "Go with your mother, and get back to bed. There will be no bad men tonight."
The boy sniffled, and nodded "Be safe, Papa."
It was clear, that the man loved his boys as his eyes practically melted as he handed Garlan over to his mother, and watched them walk away to their chambers.
"Dawn is almost upon us." He said, as soon as they were out of ear shot "I want the men readied, and fed by first light. I will join them personally. Your insight will be appreciated too Maester."
Understanding the polite order for what it was, Lomys bowed "Of course, my Lord." And he quickly returned to his study to prepare for the journey down.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
As the first light of dawn stretched its fingers across the land, Lord Mace Tyrell, flanked by Ser Quentyn and Ser Crane, led a party of twenty men toward the village. News of the celestial event had stirred the community into a restless fervor, and riders dispatched earlier had managed to bring a semblance of order, but the air still thrummed with anxious speculation.
They were joined by a wheelhouse, that carried Olenna and Alerie Tyrell, alongside the lord's two sons. Maester Lomys rode just behind his Lord, on a horse no less sturdy than that of the men at arms.
Upon their arrival, they found the villagers clustered in the central square, their faces etched with a mix of fear, curiosity, and awe. Questions were flowing like arrows in a skirmish, voices overlapping in a cacophony of concern and incredulity.
"What does it mean?"
"Will we be safe?"
"The sound… o' Gods the sound."
"Gods have mercy on us, the storm…"
The villagers pleaded for reassurance, their eyes searching the faces of the riders who tried to maintain order in the village.
Ser Vortimer Crane's loud voiced boomed over the gathered crowd "Silence! I command silence in the name of the King Aerys Targaryen, the second of his name! King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and the Protector of the Realm. You are in the presence of Lord Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Mander, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach, Warden of the South, and head of House Tyrell and he commands you maintain the King's peace!"
Lord Tyrell raised his hand for silence, and the crowd gradually stilled noticing the heavily armed guard that followed their lord into the village. Many in the crowd, bowed their heads in deference, and some even kneeled in the Lord's presence "We have come to ensure your safety," he announced, his voice steady and reassuring. "You need not worry. Who among you can guide us to where the star has struck?"
"A Star, m'lord?" A croaky voice broke the silence, "Tis was the wrath of the gods, it was. My old bones saw it true. Fell in ol' Harlon's field it did. The Gods curse him all the more, took his two sons, and now he is gone in truth too!"
A murmur quickly spread through the village on that proclamation. And the noise began to reach a din.
"Poor Harlon."
"His wife was a sweet thing…"
"The gods cursed him in true…"
"… couldn't birth a babe for true."
"O Stranger have mercy, my Serra was there last night…."
"Silence!" Ser Quentyn roared over the voices. "Do not speak with out your Lord's leave!"
The crowd was quick to quieten down at the threat.
"Do you speak for the village then?" Mace questioned the old man.
"I do. M'lord, names Crofton of the old greensfield." The old man replied, his back straightening somewhat at the attention. "The thunder came from the direction of Harlon's field. Harlon of the farmhouse he is. Lives in the farmhouse he built by the edge of his farm. Or used to at least. Dunno if he survived."
"Then show my men to this farm house, Crofton. We shall see the matter for what it is in truth." Mace finally ordered after some deliberation.
Curiosity proved a powerful lure, and a significant number of villagers, emboldened by the presence of armed guards, decided to follow. In their minds, the protection of the lord's men was enough for curious villagers to venture together to the farm.
"My lord, shall I have them disperse?" Ser Crane asked, noticing the crowd following the party.
Lady Olenna interjected before the Lord of Highgarden could reply "No need, Mace. There is no threat, and it would be a good thing for these men to see their lord for once with their own eyes."
The Lord of Highgarden seeing the curious gaze of his son Willas watching him, smiled akin to a flower in bloom, as he ruffled his chest to appear as magnanimous as he could.
The old Lady just rolled her eyes, as the ever enlargening party was guided by the old village head at the fore.
The procession to Harlon's farm was a sight to behold—a mix of armed nobility and common folk, all united by a common thread of curiosity and concern. The fields, usually quiet at this hour, buzzed with the sound of dozens of feet trudging through the dew-soaked earth, each step taking them gradually changing the atmosphere from that of fear, to increasing wonder and excitement.
And what a wonderous sight it was. Burnt crops of wheat and soot laden barley encircled a gigantic chasm, at least twelve feet and equally deep, like the mark left by the fist of an angry god. The land covered in scorched earth, black as though dragon fire danced around in the night. Water glistened in the center, cool and serene. And in the midst of this fiery cool miasma. Silver ethereal stone painted the blackened land, shining a light purely of its own.
"By the Seven!" Alerie Tyrell breathed, from where she watched sat inside the wheel house. "They look so beautiful."
"Yes, yes. It is very pretty," Olenna Tyrell agreed "Mace be a dear and get a guard to bring me a piece of the rocks."
The Lord of Highgarden nodded, and said "You heard my mother. Ser Crane, gather the largest chunk you can find."
The knight in question spurned his horse into a slow trot and approached the crater, slowly.
"And Quentyn, head to the farmhouse at the far end. Find Harlon? Was it?" At the nod from Old Crofton "Find Harlon if he is still alive. And bring him to me."
"Yes m'lord." He said bowing, and he spurned his horse at a steady pace setting for the wooden house in the distance.
It took a while for Ser Crane to gather a silvery rock the size of his head, and bring it back to the party horse trodding slowly behind him.
"It's cool to the touch, my Lord." The knight observed as he handed the large piece to the plumpening Lord of Highgarden.
Taking the piece in his hands, the Lord traced the intricate markings on its surface with his finger. Marveling at the light that emanated from it.
"A piece of a star. By the Gods" he murmured, his words sending a ripple of excited murmurs through the guards and the crowd that had followed them in their curiosity.
"A star! The Seven bless these lands."
"O, Father Above, please grant us bountiful harvests."
"Blessings of the Seven, in truth"
Many proclamations were made, before the Lord of Highgarden turned to the learned man in their midst.
"Maester Lomys, what do you make of this?" He said, handing the glowing piece of rock to the man in grey.
The Maester stared in awe at the shimmering object, "I… I do not know, my lord. The only other piece of stars having fallen were from Dorne, in Star Fall. House Dayne's ancestral sword Dawn, is said to have been forged with a piece of a fallen star."
Mace was quick to get excited, but before he could comment Ser Quentyn returned atop his horse, bringing a dark-haired man, along with three women and a babe.
"My Lord, this is Harlon of the Farmhouse." He announced.
The man in question bowed his head in deference. "M'Lord, I am Harlon, this is my wife Elyna." He said pointing at the strawberry blonde woman by his side who tried a curtesy, that she'd seen done inside the walls of Highgarden, but failed due to the babe in her arms "And my son, Caelum. The others are midwives from the village, Serra and Marna"
The two women also mimicked a curtesy.
Lord Mace Tyrell, his interest piqued, turned his full attention to Harlon. "Tell me, what transpired here last night."
Harlon gulped, the weight of the task and the curious audience listening to his every word weighed on his shoulders, began to spin his tale, "It was amidst the birth of my son, my lord. The sky tore open with a roar louder than any storm I've ever heard, and fire rained down upon our fields." He paused, the memory vivid in his eyes. "Something from the heavens itself fell into our farm. I did what I could to quench the flames, to save what was left of our livelihood."
Mace nodded thoughtfully, absorbing Harlon's tale. "It is as you say then. We shall see to it that these celestial stones are collected and brought to Highgarden," he declared, turning to address those gathered. "Highgarden has been blessed by the Seven themselves. House Tyrell will have a sword to rival Dawn itself!" He announced.
The men at arms gathered around, cheered for their lord, and spurned by the rapid cheering the villagers shared their joy too. And in the midst of them all, the farmer breathed an unseen sigh of relief.
Maester Lomys seized the moment to make a request. "My lord, might I request a few samples for the Citadel? This is a rare opportunity for study."
After a moment's consideration, Mace relented. "Very well, Maester Lomys. Take what you need for your studies, but ensure the rest is secured for Highgarden."
Mace then proclaimed, "From these remnants of the heavens, we shall forge a blade to rival Dawn itself. Wisteria, it shall be called. For the moon light it reflects, and the stars from which it is made, a symbol of our house's resilience and grace."
Lady Olenna, seizing an opportunity, noticing the gathered crowd "And let us not forget the plight of our dear Harlon here, whose fields have been scorched by this celestial gift. How shall he pay his taxes now, Mace?"
Her words, sharp yet not without kindness, prompted Mace to think. This was an opportunity to show grace "In light of these extraordinary circumstances, I pardon Harlon two seasons of taxes."
The crowd murmured in approval, and awe at their liege lord's generosity. "Furthermore," Mace continued, turning his gaze to the infant in Elyna's arms,
"For your son, Caelum Starborne." To the astonishment of all, he then drew two shining pieces of gold from his purse and tossed them to Harlon. "For the upkeep of your family and the restoration of your farm," he stated, his gesture underscoring the magnanimity of House Tyrell.
The villagers, witnessing their lord's benevolence, erupted into cheers. Harlon, overwhelmed, could only nod his gratitude, clutching the gold as if it were the very stars that had fallen to his field. This was a year's worth in earnings at least. His son was already a blessing from the Seven, granting him a favor after after favor from the Gods themselves.
As the party prepared to depart, the air was alight with whispers of Wisteria, the sword that would be forged from the stars.
Highgarden would buzz with tales of the event for years to come with tales of the sword Wisteria, and in annals of history the legend of Caelum Starborn had begun.
The Ideal Knight
Everyone knew that he was cursed. He knew that too. He couldn't breathe without hurting, he heard things no one else did, and he saw things that weren't there. The Gods had cursed him, they whispered. That a cursed star had fallen on his father's farm when he was born, granting them great wealth but cursing him with ill health.
Star cursed they called him. When they thought his father wasn't listening. His Ma called him blessed, but he didn't feel particularly blessed. He wasn't like the other boys in the village. Luke was smart and agreeable, and he helped Aunt Serra with her chores so often. It was easy to know why Aunt Serra loved him so much. He'd be a big true knight, they said. Uncle Toman worked as a castle guard and knew the Lord Commander. It would be easy for him.
He wanted to be a knight too. But he couldn't.
His Ma and Pa loved him too, he knew that. But he wanted to do more to help them out.
But he couldn't. Couldn't even help Pa carry the tools back from the farm without falling into fits of angry coughs. Couldn't help grinding the barley for the Ale without feeling dizzy. Couldn't go with Pa to the castle on the seventh day to help sell Ma's Ale. Couldn't help the men work the fields either.
Septon Mattheus said he wasn't cursed. He was a kind man and helped his Pa so very much. He was kind to everybody in the village.
"Caelum! You're falling behind!" He heard Luke call for him. "Stop moping! She'll catch us otherwise!"
"Right!" He called back "I'm almost there!"
"The Dark Sorceress Meredith will be looking for us by the river" Luke whispered as he finally caught up to the older boy, a big grin clear on his face. "So, Ser Starborn, where shall we set up our ambush?"
Despite himself, Caelum's heart started pumping "We can lay and wait by the broken crossing! She'll never expect us there!"
The older boy ruffled Caelum's hair "As you say, Ser Knight! We shall vanquish the evil sorceress and cleanse the kingdom from her evil magicks! To the tower!" He pointed his wooden stick to the east, looking as gallant as a knight would look.
Luke would make a perfect Knight.
They slowly made their way across the short field, towards the gentle river that flowed west. He loved coming here. Especially with Luke and Meredith.
It was quiet, away from the whispers of the village.
"Prepare your sword, Ser Starborn" He heard Luke say, his tone hardening "I fear the foul sorceress has scried out our plan."
Oh no! They were going to get caught before they were ready. But a knight faces all challenges head-on. He could do this.
From behind the giant bushes by the flowing stream, she emerged. The evil sorceress with her staff in hand, her foul magicks helping her turn the ambush they were setting around on them, no doubt.
She cackled, her brown hair bouncing and swaying in the wind, as she caught sight of them "Thought to set an ambush for me, did you? Thought you'd catch me unawares! Not today! I am the Greatest Witch in the Seven Kingdoms. You lowly hedge knights are no match for me!"
"Be careful, Ser Starborn. Her mud cakes are vile magicks. If she slings them at you run." He said as he prepared to swing at the evil witch "And remember to close your mouth!"
"There is nowhere to run, warrior!" She replied throwing the sludgy ball of mud at them. Terror filled Caelum's heart as saw that it was coming right at him "My magicks will show you no mercy!"
He dodged and made to run for the broken tower, from where he could aid Ser Luke in battling the evil witch.
"Make haste for the tower, Ser Starborn! I will hold her off." He heard Luke say, "Find the staff of destiny inside, with it we can lay waste to her magicks at last!"
Another ball came for him as he ran as best as he could for the broken door in the abandoned tower of the crossing.
He could hear the evil witch laughing as she fought with the Gallant knight, as he finally reached the tower and its safety.
Before he could make his way up the tower, his lungs felt like they caught fire, as bouts of cough escaped his throat.
'Not again!' he thought furiously as he worked hard to get them under control 'They'll stop if they hear me like this!'
With tremendous effort, he calmed his breathing down and controlled his coughs till it was down to just some soreness in his throat, and itchiness in his lungs.
Steeling his nerves, he began to climb the rotten old steps in the tower, to where the Staff of Destiny awaited him.
'I can do this!' he affirmed in his mind. 'I am Ser Caelum Starborn. Ser Luke the Gallant is counting on me!'
With measured steps, as he fought to control his breathing, he made his way up the short broken tower.
The view from the top was magnificent. The morning sun shone brightly unto vast stretches of the green lands of the Reach. The flowers around the large fields bloomed under its welcoming rays. And the river glistened amber like it was made of pure golden honey.
He loved coming to the river.
In the corner of the top of the tower, lay the staff that beckoned him. Long, wooden, with flowing ridges. It was imposing. Larger than him in truth.
And it was heavy too. He lifted the heavy staff with tremendous strength with one hand, his wooden sword in the other, and looked down at the two figures battling beneath the tower.
"At last!" he cried. He felt triumphant, he had done it "Surrender, evil witch! I have the staff of Destiny now! Your magicks are of no use to you anymore."
Meredith had a look of horror on her face, as she staggered away from the tower, the gallant knight's sword pointed at her throat "No! I surrender! I surrender! Do not use that staff, please!"
"Well, Ser Luke. Looks like the foul sorceress has surrendered. Sieze her staff. And throw the mud cakes in the river." He commanded in as powerful a voice as he could muster. Then he scrunched his nose "They stink"
Luke chuckled as he bowed slightly "As you say, Lord Commander! Come witch, you have lost. Your evil will terrorize the land no more!"
As the boy moved to collect the staff from her, Caelum felt the wood of the floor beneath him groan ominously, and before he could react it gave in as he plummeted down the two stories of the tower to the bottom floor.
Dimly he heard Meredith scream "Caelum! Oh no!"
The posts that held the floor up as support had broken away too and he missed them just narrowly as he fell.
He was scared, the ground was coming up too quickly. He would die. He didn't want to die. The staff and sword he had been playing with still clutched tightly in his hands, he closed his eyes and prayed to the Gods desperately.
And then, within the next moment, he felt himself touch the ground. No pain. As though he had been a feather. His heart hammered in his chest.
Coughs poured out of his mouth; his chest felt like it was on fire. His throat felt sore, and constricted again as his breathing became more erratic and gasping.
Strong hands grasped him and made him sit. Another pair rubbed at his back as Meredith whispered "Thank the Gods, you're unhurt. Breathe, Caelum. Slowly." She repeated.
Again, with tremendous will and force, he controlled his breathing again. Taking steady long breaths between the coughs. Willing the pain away as much as he could.
"At least there is no blood." He heard Luke say.
"Luke!" Meredith admonished, "That is what you're worried about?"
"I mean the coughs!" Luke replied hurriedly "I'm glad he's unhurt from the fall. And he's no longer bleeding from the coughs, which means he is getting better."
Reluctantly, Meredith agreed.
"Well, that's enough adventure today, I should think." Luke declared, at last, trying to bring some levity. "The evil witch was caught, and the evil vanquished. Ser Starborn's legend grows yet again!"
"Yes, you should clean up in the river. Septon Mattheus will tan your hide if you go for your lessons dirty again." Meredith said as she helped Caelum to his feet. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine. It's okay, I didn't hurt. Felt like I was light as a feather in truth." He admitted chuckling a little, and scratching his dark hair.
Meredith searched the young boy's stormy blue eyes for deception, and finding none nodded relieved "Go on then, get cleaned up. I'll ready your clothes. It's almost noon, and Septon Mattheus will want you early at the Sept, you don't want to be late."
"Awww," Caelum whined slightly, his pain forgotten as he dreaded the lessons the Septon had in store for him.
"I should be off too. My father's taking me to the castle." Luke said at length when they reached the banks of the river. "Ser Vortimer Crane wants me early today."
"You will make a brilliant knight!" Caelum declared as Meredith helped unstring the knots on his tunic, and then his face fell "But, then you won't have time to play with us.
The older boy kneeled in front of him "Hey, don't worry. I'll still play with you as often as possible. And who knows, once I become a knight, I'll take you on as my squire. If you promise to get better for your Ma."
"You will?" Caelum asked shyly.
"Of course! I promise. But you must promise that you will try your best to get better." He said smiling "Will you?"
"I promise! I will be the most gallant knight of the seven kingdoms!" he declared.
Meredith chuckled slightly as she finally managed to unlace the knots on his tunics, and removed the dirty cloth from his torso "Ser Starborne, the smelliest knight of them all! Come then Ser Starborne, into the river with you unless you're okay with that title!"
"Why you!" Caelum shouted, as his face reddened under her teasing. Once he was only in his breeches he huffed past her and plunged into the river, making sure to splash the older girl of three and ten with as much water as he could.
He would become the most noble of knights. He would fight this curse, and soar higher than it limited him to. And show everyone who called him a curse that he was not one.
After the day's adventure, as Luke took his leave for the castle where he worked as a page for the master-at-arms of the castle, Meredith helped Caelum clean up by the river. Amidst the gentle splashing, Caelum's heart wavered between doubt and hope.
Could he, sick that he was, truly aspire to knighthood?
Yet, the warmth of the sun and Meredith's encouraging smile kindled a small flame of hope within him. Cleaned up, both him and Meredith slowly returned to the village.
Dreading the boring lessons that Septon Mattheus has in store for him, he bid goodbye to Meredith as Aunt Marna greeted her at the door of her inn.
"Mum! I'm home!" Meredith said as she gave her a hug.
"Ugh, you're dirty, Mary!" The old woman wrinkled her nose "And drenched! Get cleaned up, Jerren needs your help in the kitchens. The midday rush will be here soon."
Aunt Marna worked the Mander Hills Inn, with her son and daughter, Jerren and Meredith.
"I wouldn't have been drenched, if some little rascal didn't dirty all my clothes!" Meredith huffed.
Her mother chuckled amusedly, her eyes twinkling as she smiled at the younger boy.
"Off with you, lad. You don't want to be late for the lessons. Your Ma will worry otherwise." She said, guiding him away from the wroth girl "Study well, dear!"
Chuckling, and laughing quietly to himself, he bid her goodbye and made his way toward his boring lessons.
"Playing knight again, were you?" Septon Mattheus was waiting for him at the door. The greying old man chuckled as he led him into the small sept, and to his Solar within.
The Sept was beautiful. Seven figures representing the Gods welcomed him within, their eyes kind and merciful. The sept was thankfully empty, as most of the village milled about their business.
The Old Septon handed him some parchment. It was a boring lesson on the history of the Seven Kingdoms, and the Legend of House Gardener and Tyrell. "Your father and his brothers loved to play Knight too. Never took to his lessons well, your father, found them dull. You're like your uncles in that regard, they too found them dull but at least they learned."
They sat in the old man's solar, where he took his lessons. It was a shabby room, lit dimly by the fires, from the open window. The window gave a clear view into the Sept attached outside. It was generally peaceful inside, the stone statues of the Seven granted a serene calm and safety that was found nowhere else in the village.
"Did you know my father well, when he was young?" He found himself asking.
The kind old Septon chuckled, scratching his short grey stubble. His eyes twinkled as he spoke "Know him? I practically raised the lad. Thick as thieves they were, playing Knight throughout the village, running ramshod all over. Gave a terrible time to your Grandpa."
He knew his uncles had been knights that travelled the Kingdoms, while his Pa took care of the farm. They had lost their lives as heroes in the War of the Nine Penny Kings.
The old man saddened a little "Alas, the war robbed you of their joy. They would have loved you in truth." He shook his head, breaking his reverie "Tell me, Caelum. What are the qualities of a Good Knight?"
Caelum had memorized the oaths of a knight by heart. As practice for when he took those oaths himself. "In the name of the Warrior, a knight must be brave. In the name of the Father, knights must be Just. In the name of the Mother, Knights must defend the young and innocent, and in the name of the maid…"
"They must protect all women. You know the oath well." The Septon said, smiling amusedly at him "But what does that mean to you."
Caelum tried to think. The Oath was sacred, it was what it was. Something that was to be followed if he wanted to be a knight and live like a respectable person.
The septon chuckled, as he headed to the window that looked into the sept. "Justice, it is the aspect of the Father. To be Just is to be fair, to hold the scales between your own desires and the needs of others. Bravery, the aspect of the Warrior, is not only about facing your foes in battle but also about facing your own fears. To defend the innocent, in the name of the Mother, means more than just physical protection; it's about ensuring safety, offering comfort, and fostering growth. And to protect all women, as the Maiden asks, extends to honoring their choices, their strengths, and their contributions. Each aspect is a guide, not just a rule, shaping you into a knight worthy of the title, in action and heart."
The virtues of Justice, Bravery, Protection, and Honor were not just lofty ideals meant for those born to knighthood; they were principles that anyone could live by, including himself.
"True valor lay not in the glory of battle but in the quiet strength to face each day with a heart full of hope and a will to do good." The septon said, gazing out the window at the imposing figures of the Gods.
The Septon turned back from the window, his gaze settling on Caelum with a mixture of fondness and seriousness. "So, being a knight isn't just about the strength of your arm or the sharpness of your sword. It's about the strength of your character, your willingness to do what's right, even when it's the hardest path to follow. Remember, my boy, the truest strength lies within."
Caelum didn't know what to say.
"But there is more. Those are but four of the virtues our Gods have made sacred." He said, as his gaze turned stern "I know the words the village whispers behind you. They hurt don't they?"
Caelum nodded, his throat tight with unspoken emotions.
"Yes," he admitted, the word barely a whisper. "It feels like no matter what I do, I'll always be... cursed."
The Septon's gaze softened. "Being different isn't a curse, Caelum. It's a challenge, one you are already mastering. The Seven have also taught us about Mercy, Generosity, Nobility, Faith, and Hope. These virtues are just as important. Mercy shows us to be kind, even to those who harm us. Generosity teaches us to give, expecting nothing in return. Nobility isn't about birthright; it's about acting with dignity and honor. Faith is trusting in the Seven, in the good in this world, and in yourself. And Hope... Hope is perhaps the most powerful of all. It's believing in a brighter tomorrow, even in the darkest of times."
The Septon leaned forward, placing a hand on Caelum's shoulder. "You, Caelum Starborn, are filled with these virtues, more than you realize. You may never be a Knight. But that shouldn't stop you. You can still be good, still be of service to your mother and father, and to your Lord. And if the Gods do smile at you once more, as they did them on their farm, then you'll have the chance to do even greater things. Remember, greatness doesn't come from titles or swords; it comes from our actions and the choices we make every day."
Caelum looked up, the uncertainty that had clouded his eyes beginning to clear. "But how can I prove myself if I'm not strong enough if I'm always... so weak?"
"The strongest metal is forged in the hottest fire, Caelum. Your trials, your struggles, they're not burdens; they're opportunities to grow stronger, to become more resilient. And being different? That's your fire. Use it to forge your path, to show kindness, courage, and integrity. That will be your proof." He said, "You continue to work the farm, bring pride to your Ma, and that will be enough. You don't need to face the world to earn respect, to show that you're good. All you need to do is to make your Ma proud and it will be enough."
Caelum's heart swelled with a mix of hope and determination. "I will, Septon. I'll be more than what they whisper. I'll be someone they respect, not for my might but for my heart."
"And that, my boy, will make you greater than any knight." The Septon's voice was firm, his belief in Caelum unwavering. "Now, let's return to our lessons. There's much to learn, lessons of valor, chivalry and knightly conduct can wait."
With a nod, Caelum turned back to his studies, the words of the Septon igniting a spark within him. He might face challenges, but he would not be defined by them. Mayhap he could be a knight in spirit if not in title.
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Olenna Tyrell huffed as she swirled the glass in her hand.
The feast looked like it was going to be delicious, and the Sept of Baelor was lavishly adorned for the night. The large pie was yet to be brought in, and the banquet promised to be exquisite, awaiting the grand pie's entrance.
Meanwhile, the nobility of the realm mingled, engaging in their usual intrigues and offering overzealous congratulations to the royal newlyweds, each word heavier with insincerity than the last.
It was everything she liked about court, and
But the splendor of the setting did nothing to lift her mood.
The wedding of Prince Rheagar to the Dornish was inevitable, she knew. Elia Martell was beautiful enough, fit for the role as any maiden of proper standing would be.
At least it wasn't Cersei Lannister. The King had truly burnt all bridges there as thoroughly as he could.
Sad for the lion that shat Gold, but better for House Tyrell.
But a royal wedding did not mean she had to sit and take the subtle jabs thrown at the expense of House Tyrell with no reply.
"No sword at your hip still, I see Lord Tyrell." Prince Oberyn remarked sly swirling the wine in his cup. "What was it called again? Wisteria I believe?"
Her poor son blustered and slightly reddened at the remark.
House Tyrell had paid a handsome sum to scores of smiths from all over the seven kingdoms to forge the sword, but the damned rock would not suffer even a scar to its surface in truth.
"Yes, well. Dawn is truly a testament to house Dayne's ancestral talent in smithing." Her son replied eventually "If it truly is made of star metal that is."
She hoped she did not need to intervene. They did not need to cause offence to the eventual queen's family so soon after the wedding.
"I see that you do in fact have your own thorns" Thankfully the Dornish prince did not seem offended at all, by the amusement clear in her eyes "Though if Arthur hears that remark, I wager he'd come seeking retribution for his honor, Lord or no."
"If he does, at least I will finally get my chance to see Dawn up close at last and compare the make of the sword to that of the star that fell in my back garden." The tension had finally bled, and Mace seemed to be back in his element.
She was proud of him. Slow that he could be sometimes, he shined best in the formalities of courtly proceedings. These verbal spars were not his best quality, yet he managed admirably.
They were joined eventually by the newest Princess of the realm.
"Oberyn, tell me you're not annoying the lords of our realm" She said as she approached the silver prince of the realm, by her side.
Prince Oberyn's smile widened "Good brother! Please tell my dear sister that I am merely making friends."
Rhaegar smiled amusedly "Elia, worry not. Oberyn must simply be ensuring our guests feel the warmth of Dornish hospitality."
"Besides," he continued with a light chuckle, "it's a rare feast that isn't enlivened by a bit of spirited conversation, wouldn't you agree?"
"Spirited conversation, I am sure." Elia chuckled wryly, she shook her head then "The pie is almost here, brother. I want you by my side, as we cut it open."
And yes, she could see as the servants carried a large metal encase plate and placed it at the center of the table.
"See, Doran is already there," Elia said as she took her brother's hand and headed to complete the night's ceremony.
"Mother, will you stay with Willas and Garlan?" Mace asked worried as he prepared to join the festivities, "Arryk and Erryk will be more than enough to guard them, but my heart would be calmer if you were with them tonight."
She smiled and nodded, this was the perfect chance to wrap some poor servant away from everyone else and gather some more gossip of the red keep.
"Of course, Mace. Come children, we can go chase down the grape juice from the servants." She replied as she herded her dear boys away from the party that would no doubt soon devolve into a mess when the bedding began.
"But Gran! I wanted to see the birdies!" Garlan whined as he looked forlornly as the covering of the pie was removed showcasing a delicate cage holding beautiful live songbirds, tallows, and all the other feathered avians one could find.
"There will be a better view from afar, the birds won't stay there all the time." She ensured "Plus, it will seem better with a tankard of fruit juice in hand."
Sufficiently bribed, she led the boys a little ways away from the rest of the ceremony roping a fidgety serving girl of five and ten to stay behind as her chosen source of city gossip.
Getting the poor girl drunk was easy enough to loosen her lips, some convincing and honeyed concern was all it took for her to accept the offered wine.
The tale she wove on the other hand was another matter.
Red priests sighted at court. The smell of burnt flesh in the dragon pit. She refused to name the King at all, fear truly etched on her face.
It painted a dark picture, one she no doubt had to work around. It was no secret that their once charming king was now growing paranoid. Looking at shadows and finding enemies where there were none. The defiance of Duskendale and house Darklyn's treachery no doubt fueling it to greater heights.
It was a mess. One she hoped didn't come to bite House Tyrell in the future should they continue to show loyalty to the Royal family as they were. But there was nothing to it, hopefully madness will take the King, and Prince Rhaegar will succeed the Iron Throne as soon as fate allowed.
The Gods flip a coin when a Targaryen is born, madness was writ for the King, likely not for the Prince.
Princess Elia and Prince Rhaegar cut the pie and released the colorful birds, the bards began the song for the bedding to begin.
The celebration gained a new rowdy fervor as the lords and ladies clamored for the royals singing heartily.
"The Queen took off her sandal, the King took off His crown" They sang.
She hoped that the rumors were all that they were. House Tyrell was loyal to the Iron throne, and so they would remain.
Her little boys marveled at the truly delightful spectacle beside her, but Olenna's mood plummeted even further.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
Caelum returned to the farm, having finished his lessons with the Septon as quickly as he could. He saw in the distance, his father readying the tools to build a new wooden boundary for their farm, after the old fence had withered away.
"Papa," he began, his voice steady despite the lingering tightness in his chest. "I want to help in the fields today."
His father turned to him not surprised, but a little weary all the same. "Caelum, you know you don't have to. The air's still cool, and I wouldn't want you—"
"I insist," the boy of just four, almost five name days cut in, a determined glint in his eye. "I may not be strong like my uncles but I can do this, I have to try. Please."
The older man studied his son for a long moment, in the end, he nodded, a reluctant smile breaking through. "Alright, but at the first sign of a cough, you're coming back inside. Agreed?"
"Agreed," Caelum replied, the promise swelling in his chest like a banner unfurled against the wind.
Together, they made their way to the fields, the afternoon earth warm underfoot. Caelum took to the simpler tasks, his movements measured and careful to avoid overexertion. Yet, even as he worked, a question, as persistent as the weeds they pulled, gnawed at him.
"Pa," he said, during a brief respite under the shade of the large oak beside their barn, "do you think... could I ever be a knight, like my uncles?"
His father's hands stilled, and he looked at Caelum, really looked at him, as if seeing not just the boy before him but the man he might become. "Caelum," he started, his voice tinged with a sadness borne of love and harsh truths, "your uncles were born into a world of steel and glory, but that path... it's fraught with dangers, hardships you—"
"But I've learned from Septon Mattheus," Caelum interjected, his voice rising with the tide of his conviction. "He says being a knight isn't just about battles and bravery. It's about character, about being just, and kind, and protecting those who can't protect themselves. I... I believe I can be that, even if I'm not strong."
"Caelum, my star," his father continued, a softness entering his voice as he reached out to place a hand on Caelum's shoulder, grounding him. "Your heart is perhaps the bravest I know, and your spirit, the kindest. It's true, being a knight is about more than just strength of arms .... it's about the strength of character. And in that, you are already much closer to knighthood than many who bear the title."
He paused, glancing towards the horizon where the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. "But knighthood... it's also a life of service, of sacrifice. It demands more than just the willingness to do good .... it demands everything of you, sometimes even the ultimate price. Can you live with that? Can you give that?"
Caelum felt the weight of his father's words, the gravity of the life he dreamed of. He knew the stories, the songs sung of knights and their valorous deeds, but he also knew the tales less told ... of loss, of the heavy burden carried in the name of honor and duty.
Caelum took a deep breath, feeling the cool evening air fill his lungs, mixing with the warmth of his resolve. "I've thought about it a lot, Pa. About the sacrifices and the service. I know it won't be easy, and I know it might cost me everything. But if I can stand up for just one person, make a difference in just one life, wouldn't it be worth it? I will have proved to the village that I am not a curse, Septon Mattheus says that the greatest deeds often come from the humblest beginnings."
He paused, gathering his thoughts, his eyes reflecting the determination that had taken root within him. "And... I made a promise to Luke. He said he'd take me as his squire, if he becomes a knight and if I can get stronger. It's a promise I intend to keep, not just to him but to myself."
His father's expression softened, the lines of worry and contemplation easing as he listened to his son's words. It was clear that Caelum's determination was not born of fleeting whims but of deep-seated conviction and a desire to forge his own path.
"Caelum, my star, you are not a curse. Never say that. You were a blessing that the Gods have given to me and your Ma. Your courage and your will to do good in the face of your own challenges... " his father said, his voice laden with emotion. "If this is your dream, and you hold it so dearly, then I have no right to stand in your way. But becoming a knight, it's a long and perilous journey, one that will test you in ways you can't yet imagine. I lost my brothers on this path….."
He looked out towards the fields, their work for the day nearing its end, the shadows growing longer with the setting sun. "If in three years, you have grown stronger, if you have worked hard and still hold this dream close to your heart, then I will do everything in my power to help you become a squire. Whether it's with Luke, if he has become a knight, or with another who sees the strength and valor in your heart."
Caelum's eyes shone with a mixture of gratitude and renewed purpose. "Thank you, Papa. I won't let you down. I'll work hard, every day. I'll get stronger, and I'll show everyone that my spirit is as strong as any knight's."
His father pulled him into a hug, a silent pledge of support and belief in his son's dreams. "I know you will, Caelum. You've already shown me the strength of your heart. Just remember, it's not the sword that makes the knight, but the courage and the honor within. Stay true to yourself, and you'll find your path."
As they parted, the last light of the day fading into twilight, Caelum felt a sense of purpose like never before. He would get better, he already was. He no longer bled when he coughed, and he could control his breathing much better than before.
His Ma no longer worried as much as she used to. He would become a true knight. The most noble of them all.
He was not cursed, nay. The Gods had given him a blessing in the form of this challenge, one he will fight, be better, and grow stronger by it.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
Star cursed they called him. When they thought his father wasn't listening. His Ma called him blessed, but he didn't feel particularly blessed. He wasn't like the other boys in the village. Luke was smart and agreeable, and he helped Aunt Serra with her chores so often. It was easy to know why Aunt Serra loved him so much. He'd be a big true knight, they said. Uncle Toman worked as a castle guard and knew the Lord Commander. It would be easy for him.
He wanted to be a knight too. But he couldn't.
His Ma and Pa loved him too, he knew that. But he wanted to do more to help them out.
But he couldn't. Couldn't even help Pa carry the tools back from the farm without falling into fits of angry coughs. Couldn't help grinding the barley for the Ale without feeling dizzy. Couldn't go with Pa to the castle on the seventh day to help sell Ma's Ale. Couldn't help the men work the fields either.
Septon Mattheus said he wasn't cursed. He was a kind man and helped his Pa so very much. He was kind to everybody in the village.
"Caelum! You're falling behind!" He heard Luke call for him. "Stop moping! She'll catch us otherwise!"
"Right!" He called back "I'm almost there!"
"The Dark Sorceress Meredith will be looking for us by the river" Luke whispered as he finally caught up to the older boy, a big grin clear on his face. "So, Ser Starborn, where shall we set up our ambush?"
Despite himself, Caelum's heart started pumping "We can lay and wait by the broken crossing! She'll never expect us there!"
The older boy ruffled Caelum's hair "As you say, Ser Knight! We shall vanquish the evil sorceress and cleanse the kingdom from her evil magicks! To the tower!" He pointed his wooden stick to the east, looking as gallant as a knight would look.
Luke would make a perfect Knight.
They slowly made their way across the short field, towards the gentle river that flowed west. He loved coming here. Especially with Luke and Meredith.
It was quiet, away from the whispers of the village.
"Prepare your sword, Ser Starborn" He heard Luke say, his tone hardening "I fear the foul sorceress has scried out our plan."
Oh no! They were going to get caught before they were ready. But a knight faces all challenges head-on. He could do this.
From behind the giant bushes by the flowing stream, she emerged. The evil sorceress with her staff in hand, her foul magicks helping her turn the ambush they were setting around on them, no doubt.
She cackled, her brown hair bouncing and swaying in the wind, as she caught sight of them "Thought to set an ambush for me, did you? Thought you'd catch me unawares! Not today! I am the Greatest Witch in the Seven Kingdoms. You lowly hedge knights are no match for me!"
"Be careful, Ser Starborn. Her mud cakes are vile magicks. If she slings them at you run." He said as he prepared to swing at the evil witch "And remember to close your mouth!"
"There is nowhere to run, warrior!" She replied throwing the sludgy ball of mud at them. Terror filled Caelum's heart as saw that it was coming right at him "My magicks will show you no mercy!"
He dodged and made to run for the broken tower, from where he could aid Ser Luke in battling the evil witch.
"Make haste for the tower, Ser Starborn! I will hold her off." He heard Luke say, "Find the staff of destiny inside, with it we can lay waste to her magicks at last!"
Another ball came for him as he ran as best as he could for the broken door in the abandoned tower of the crossing.
He could hear the evil witch laughing as she fought with the Gallant knight, as he finally reached the tower and its safety.
Before he could make his way up the tower, his lungs felt like they caught fire, as bouts of cough escaped his throat.
'Not again!' he thought furiously as he worked hard to get them under control 'They'll stop if they hear me like this!'
With tremendous effort, he calmed his breathing down and controlled his coughs till it was down to just some soreness in his throat, and itchiness in his lungs.
Steeling his nerves, he began to climb the rotten old steps in the tower, to where the Staff of Destiny awaited him.
'I can do this!' he affirmed in his mind. 'I am Ser Caelum Starborn. Ser Luke the Gallant is counting on me!'
With measured steps, as he fought to control his breathing, he made his way up the short broken tower.
The view from the top was magnificent. The morning sun shone brightly unto vast stretches of the green lands of the Reach. The flowers around the large fields bloomed under its welcoming rays. And the river glistened amber like it was made of pure golden honey.
He loved coming to the river.
In the corner of the top of the tower, lay the staff that beckoned him. Long, wooden, with flowing ridges. It was imposing. Larger than him in truth.
And it was heavy too. He lifted the heavy staff with tremendous strength with one hand, his wooden sword in the other, and looked down at the two figures battling beneath the tower.
"At last!" he cried. He felt triumphant, he had done it "Surrender, evil witch! I have the staff of Destiny now! Your magicks are of no use to you anymore."
Meredith had a look of horror on her face, as she staggered away from the tower, the gallant knight's sword pointed at her throat "No! I surrender! I surrender! Do not use that staff, please!"
"Well, Ser Luke. Looks like the foul sorceress has surrendered. Sieze her staff. And throw the mud cakes in the river." He commanded in as powerful a voice as he could muster. Then he scrunched his nose "They stink"
Luke chuckled as he bowed slightly "As you say, Lord Commander! Come witch, you have lost. Your evil will terrorize the land no more!"
As the boy moved to collect the staff from her, Caelum felt the wood of the floor beneath him groan ominously, and before he could react it gave in as he plummeted down the two stories of the tower to the bottom floor.
Dimly he heard Meredith scream "Caelum! Oh no!"
The posts that held the floor up as support had broken away too and he missed them just narrowly as he fell.
He was scared, the ground was coming up too quickly. He would die. He didn't want to die. The staff and sword he had been playing with still clutched tightly in his hands, he closed his eyes and prayed to the Gods desperately.
And then, within the next moment, he felt himself touch the ground. No pain. As though he had been a feather. His heart hammered in his chest.
Coughs poured out of his mouth; his chest felt like it was on fire. His throat felt sore, and constricted again as his breathing became more erratic and gasping.
Strong hands grasped him and made him sit. Another pair rubbed at his back as Meredith whispered "Thank the Gods, you're unhurt. Breathe, Caelum. Slowly." She repeated.
Again, with tremendous will and force, he controlled his breathing again. Taking steady long breaths between the coughs. Willing the pain away as much as he could.
"At least there is no blood." He heard Luke say.
"Luke!" Meredith admonished, "That is what you're worried about?"
"I mean the coughs!" Luke replied hurriedly "I'm glad he's unhurt from the fall. And he's no longer bleeding from the coughs, which means he is getting better."
Reluctantly, Meredith agreed.
"Well, that's enough adventure today, I should think." Luke declared, at last, trying to bring some levity. "The evil witch was caught, and the evil vanquished. Ser Starborn's legend grows yet again!"
"Yes, you should clean up in the river. Septon Mattheus will tan your hide if you go for your lessons dirty again." Meredith said as she helped Caelum to his feet. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine. It's okay, I didn't hurt. Felt like I was light as a feather in truth." He admitted chuckling a little, and scratching his dark hair.
Meredith searched the young boy's stormy blue eyes for deception, and finding none nodded relieved "Go on then, get cleaned up. I'll ready your clothes. It's almost noon, and Septon Mattheus will want you early at the Sept, you don't want to be late."
"Awww," Caelum whined slightly, his pain forgotten as he dreaded the lessons the Septon had in store for him.
"I should be off too. My father's taking me to the castle." Luke said at length when they reached the banks of the river. "Ser Vortimer Crane wants me early today."
"You will make a brilliant knight!" Caelum declared as Meredith helped unstring the knots on his tunic, and then his face fell "But, then you won't have time to play with us.
The older boy kneeled in front of him "Hey, don't worry. I'll still play with you as often as possible. And who knows, once I become a knight, I'll take you on as my squire. If you promise to get better for your Ma."
"You will?" Caelum asked shyly.
"Of course! I promise. But you must promise that you will try your best to get better." He said smiling "Will you?"
"I promise! I will be the most gallant knight of the seven kingdoms!" he declared.
Meredith chuckled slightly as she finally managed to unlace the knots on his tunics, and removed the dirty cloth from his torso "Ser Starborne, the smelliest knight of them all! Come then Ser Starborne, into the river with you unless you're okay with that title!"
"Why you!" Caelum shouted, as his face reddened under her teasing. Once he was only in his breeches he huffed past her and plunged into the river, making sure to splash the older girl of three and ten with as much water as he could.
He would become the most noble of knights. He would fight this curse, and soar higher than it limited him to. And show everyone who called him a curse that he was not one.
After the day's adventure, as Luke took his leave for the castle where he worked as a page for the master-at-arms of the castle, Meredith helped Caelum clean up by the river. Amidst the gentle splashing, Caelum's heart wavered between doubt and hope.
Could he, sick that he was, truly aspire to knighthood?
Yet, the warmth of the sun and Meredith's encouraging smile kindled a small flame of hope within him. Cleaned up, both him and Meredith slowly returned to the village.
Dreading the boring lessons that Septon Mattheus has in store for him, he bid goodbye to Meredith as Aunt Marna greeted her at the door of her inn.
"Mum! I'm home!" Meredith said as she gave her a hug.
"Ugh, you're dirty, Mary!" The old woman wrinkled her nose "And drenched! Get cleaned up, Jerren needs your help in the kitchens. The midday rush will be here soon."
Aunt Marna worked the Mander Hills Inn, with her son and daughter, Jerren and Meredith.
"I wouldn't have been drenched, if some little rascal didn't dirty all my clothes!" Meredith huffed.
Her mother chuckled amusedly, her eyes twinkling as she smiled at the younger boy.
"Off with you, lad. You don't want to be late for the lessons. Your Ma will worry otherwise." She said, guiding him away from the wroth girl "Study well, dear!"
Chuckling, and laughing quietly to himself, he bid her goodbye and made his way toward his boring lessons.
"Playing knight again, were you?" Septon Mattheus was waiting for him at the door. The greying old man chuckled as he led him into the small sept, and to his Solar within.
The Sept was beautiful. Seven figures representing the Gods welcomed him within, their eyes kind and merciful. The sept was thankfully empty, as most of the village milled about their business.
The Old Septon handed him some parchment. It was a boring lesson on the history of the Seven Kingdoms, and the Legend of House Gardener and Tyrell. "Your father and his brothers loved to play Knight too. Never took to his lessons well, your father, found them dull. You're like your uncles in that regard, they too found them dull but at least they learned."
They sat in the old man's solar, where he took his lessons. It was a shabby room, lit dimly by the fires, from the open window. The window gave a clear view into the Sept attached outside. It was generally peaceful inside, the stone statues of the Seven granted a serene calm and safety that was found nowhere else in the village.
"Did you know my father well, when he was young?" He found himself asking.
The kind old Septon chuckled, scratching his short grey stubble. His eyes twinkled as he spoke "Know him? I practically raised the lad. Thick as thieves they were, playing Knight throughout the village, running ramshod all over. Gave a terrible time to your Grandpa."
He knew his uncles had been knights that travelled the Kingdoms, while his Pa took care of the farm. They had lost their lives as heroes in the War of the Nine Penny Kings.
The old man saddened a little "Alas, the war robbed you of their joy. They would have loved you in truth." He shook his head, breaking his reverie "Tell me, Caelum. What are the qualities of a Good Knight?"
Caelum had memorized the oaths of a knight by heart. As practice for when he took those oaths himself. "In the name of the Warrior, a knight must be brave. In the name of the Father, knights must be Just. In the name of the Mother, Knights must defend the young and innocent, and in the name of the maid…"
"They must protect all women. You know the oath well." The Septon said, smiling amusedly at him "But what does that mean to you."
Caelum tried to think. The Oath was sacred, it was what it was. Something that was to be followed if he wanted to be a knight and live like a respectable person.
The septon chuckled, as he headed to the window that looked into the sept. "Justice, it is the aspect of the Father. To be Just is to be fair, to hold the scales between your own desires and the needs of others. Bravery, the aspect of the Warrior, is not only about facing your foes in battle but also about facing your own fears. To defend the innocent, in the name of the Mother, means more than just physical protection; it's about ensuring safety, offering comfort, and fostering growth. And to protect all women, as the Maiden asks, extends to honoring their choices, their strengths, and their contributions. Each aspect is a guide, not just a rule, shaping you into a knight worthy of the title, in action and heart."
The virtues of Justice, Bravery, Protection, and Honor were not just lofty ideals meant for those born to knighthood; they were principles that anyone could live by, including himself.
"True valor lay not in the glory of battle but in the quiet strength to face each day with a heart full of hope and a will to do good." The septon said, gazing out the window at the imposing figures of the Gods.
The Septon turned back from the window, his gaze settling on Caelum with a mixture of fondness and seriousness. "So, being a knight isn't just about the strength of your arm or the sharpness of your sword. It's about the strength of your character, your willingness to do what's right, even when it's the hardest path to follow. Remember, my boy, the truest strength lies within."
Caelum didn't know what to say.
"But there is more. Those are but four of the virtues our Gods have made sacred." He said, as his gaze turned stern "I know the words the village whispers behind you. They hurt don't they?"
Caelum nodded, his throat tight with unspoken emotions.
"Yes," he admitted, the word barely a whisper. "It feels like no matter what I do, I'll always be... cursed."
The Septon's gaze softened. "Being different isn't a curse, Caelum. It's a challenge, one you are already mastering. The Seven have also taught us about Mercy, Generosity, Nobility, Faith, and Hope. These virtues are just as important. Mercy shows us to be kind, even to those who harm us. Generosity teaches us to give, expecting nothing in return. Nobility isn't about birthright; it's about acting with dignity and honor. Faith is trusting in the Seven, in the good in this world, and in yourself. And Hope... Hope is perhaps the most powerful of all. It's believing in a brighter tomorrow, even in the darkest of times."
The Septon leaned forward, placing a hand on Caelum's shoulder. "You, Caelum Starborn, are filled with these virtues, more than you realize. You may never be a Knight. But that shouldn't stop you. You can still be good, still be of service to your mother and father, and to your Lord. And if the Gods do smile at you once more, as they did them on their farm, then you'll have the chance to do even greater things. Remember, greatness doesn't come from titles or swords; it comes from our actions and the choices we make every day."
Caelum looked up, the uncertainty that had clouded his eyes beginning to clear. "But how can I prove myself if I'm not strong enough if I'm always... so weak?"
"The strongest metal is forged in the hottest fire, Caelum. Your trials, your struggles, they're not burdens; they're opportunities to grow stronger, to become more resilient. And being different? That's your fire. Use it to forge your path, to show kindness, courage, and integrity. That will be your proof." He said, "You continue to work the farm, bring pride to your Ma, and that will be enough. You don't need to face the world to earn respect, to show that you're good. All you need to do is to make your Ma proud and it will be enough."
Caelum's heart swelled with a mix of hope and determination. "I will, Septon. I'll be more than what they whisper. I'll be someone they respect, not for my might but for my heart."
"And that, my boy, will make you greater than any knight." The Septon's voice was firm, his belief in Caelum unwavering. "Now, let's return to our lessons. There's much to learn, lessons of valor, chivalry and knightly conduct can wait."
With a nod, Caelum turned back to his studies, the words of the Septon igniting a spark within him. He might face challenges, but he would not be defined by them. Mayhap he could be a knight in spirit if not in title.
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Olenna Tyrell huffed as she swirled the glass in her hand.
The feast looked like it was going to be delicious, and the Sept of Baelor was lavishly adorned for the night. The large pie was yet to be brought in, and the banquet promised to be exquisite, awaiting the grand pie's entrance.
Meanwhile, the nobility of the realm mingled, engaging in their usual intrigues and offering overzealous congratulations to the royal newlyweds, each word heavier with insincerity than the last.
It was everything she liked about court, and
But the splendor of the setting did nothing to lift her mood.
The wedding of Prince Rheagar to the Dornish was inevitable, she knew. Elia Martell was beautiful enough, fit for the role as any maiden of proper standing would be.
At least it wasn't Cersei Lannister. The King had truly burnt all bridges there as thoroughly as he could.
Sad for the lion that shat Gold, but better for House Tyrell.
But a royal wedding did not mean she had to sit and take the subtle jabs thrown at the expense of House Tyrell with no reply.
"No sword at your hip still, I see Lord Tyrell." Prince Oberyn remarked sly swirling the wine in his cup. "What was it called again? Wisteria I believe?"
Her poor son blustered and slightly reddened at the remark.
House Tyrell had paid a handsome sum to scores of smiths from all over the seven kingdoms to forge the sword, but the damned rock would not suffer even a scar to its surface in truth.
"Yes, well. Dawn is truly a testament to house Dayne's ancestral talent in smithing." Her son replied eventually "If it truly is made of star metal that is."
She hoped she did not need to intervene. They did not need to cause offence to the eventual queen's family so soon after the wedding.
"I see that you do in fact have your own thorns" Thankfully the Dornish prince did not seem offended at all, by the amusement clear in her eyes "Though if Arthur hears that remark, I wager he'd come seeking retribution for his honor, Lord or no."
"If he does, at least I will finally get my chance to see Dawn up close at last and compare the make of the sword to that of the star that fell in my back garden." The tension had finally bled, and Mace seemed to be back in his element.
She was proud of him. Slow that he could be sometimes, he shined best in the formalities of courtly proceedings. These verbal spars were not his best quality, yet he managed admirably.
They were joined eventually by the newest Princess of the realm.
"Oberyn, tell me you're not annoying the lords of our realm" She said as she approached the silver prince of the realm, by her side.
Prince Oberyn's smile widened "Good brother! Please tell my dear sister that I am merely making friends."
Rhaegar smiled amusedly "Elia, worry not. Oberyn must simply be ensuring our guests feel the warmth of Dornish hospitality."
"Besides," he continued with a light chuckle, "it's a rare feast that isn't enlivened by a bit of spirited conversation, wouldn't you agree?"
"Spirited conversation, I am sure." Elia chuckled wryly, she shook her head then "The pie is almost here, brother. I want you by my side, as we cut it open."
And yes, she could see as the servants carried a large metal encase plate and placed it at the center of the table.
"See, Doran is already there," Elia said as she took her brother's hand and headed to complete the night's ceremony.
"Mother, will you stay with Willas and Garlan?" Mace asked worried as he prepared to join the festivities, "Arryk and Erryk will be more than enough to guard them, but my heart would be calmer if you were with them tonight."
She smiled and nodded, this was the perfect chance to wrap some poor servant away from everyone else and gather some more gossip of the red keep.
"Of course, Mace. Come children, we can go chase down the grape juice from the servants." She replied as she herded her dear boys away from the party that would no doubt soon devolve into a mess when the bedding began.
"But Gran! I wanted to see the birdies!" Garlan whined as he looked forlornly as the covering of the pie was removed showcasing a delicate cage holding beautiful live songbirds, tallows, and all the other feathered avians one could find.
"There will be a better view from afar, the birds won't stay there all the time." She ensured "Plus, it will seem better with a tankard of fruit juice in hand."
Sufficiently bribed, she led the boys a little ways away from the rest of the ceremony roping a fidgety serving girl of five and ten to stay behind as her chosen source of city gossip.
Getting the poor girl drunk was easy enough to loosen her lips, some convincing and honeyed concern was all it took for her to accept the offered wine.
The tale she wove on the other hand was another matter.
Red priests sighted at court. The smell of burnt flesh in the dragon pit. She refused to name the King at all, fear truly etched on her face.
It painted a dark picture, one she no doubt had to work around. It was no secret that their once charming king was now growing paranoid. Looking at shadows and finding enemies where there were none. The defiance of Duskendale and house Darklyn's treachery no doubt fueling it to greater heights.
It was a mess. One she hoped didn't come to bite House Tyrell in the future should they continue to show loyalty to the Royal family as they were. But there was nothing to it, hopefully madness will take the King, and Prince Rhaegar will succeed the Iron Throne as soon as fate allowed.
The Gods flip a coin when a Targaryen is born, madness was writ for the King, likely not for the Prince.
Princess Elia and Prince Rhaegar cut the pie and released the colorful birds, the bards began the song for the bedding to begin.
The celebration gained a new rowdy fervor as the lords and ladies clamored for the royals singing heartily.
"The Queen took off her sandal, the King took off His crown" They sang.
She hoped that the rumors were all that they were. House Tyrell was loyal to the Iron throne, and so they would remain.
Her little boys marveled at the truly delightful spectacle beside her, but Olenna's mood plummeted even further.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
Caelum returned to the farm, having finished his lessons with the Septon as quickly as he could. He saw in the distance, his father readying the tools to build a new wooden boundary for their farm, after the old fence had withered away.
"Papa," he began, his voice steady despite the lingering tightness in his chest. "I want to help in the fields today."
His father turned to him not surprised, but a little weary all the same. "Caelum, you know you don't have to. The air's still cool, and I wouldn't want you—"
"I insist," the boy of just four, almost five name days cut in, a determined glint in his eye. "I may not be strong like my uncles but I can do this, I have to try. Please."
The older man studied his son for a long moment, in the end, he nodded, a reluctant smile breaking through. "Alright, but at the first sign of a cough, you're coming back inside. Agreed?"
"Agreed," Caelum replied, the promise swelling in his chest like a banner unfurled against the wind.
Together, they made their way to the fields, the afternoon earth warm underfoot. Caelum took to the simpler tasks, his movements measured and careful to avoid overexertion. Yet, even as he worked, a question, as persistent as the weeds they pulled, gnawed at him.
"Pa," he said, during a brief respite under the shade of the large oak beside their barn, "do you think... could I ever be a knight, like my uncles?"
His father's hands stilled, and he looked at Caelum, really looked at him, as if seeing not just the boy before him but the man he might become. "Caelum," he started, his voice tinged with a sadness borne of love and harsh truths, "your uncles were born into a world of steel and glory, but that path... it's fraught with dangers, hardships you—"
"But I've learned from Septon Mattheus," Caelum interjected, his voice rising with the tide of his conviction. "He says being a knight isn't just about battles and bravery. It's about character, about being just, and kind, and protecting those who can't protect themselves. I... I believe I can be that, even if I'm not strong."
"Caelum, my star," his father continued, a softness entering his voice as he reached out to place a hand on Caelum's shoulder, grounding him. "Your heart is perhaps the bravest I know, and your spirit, the kindest. It's true, being a knight is about more than just strength of arms .... it's about the strength of character. And in that, you are already much closer to knighthood than many who bear the title."
He paused, glancing towards the horizon where the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. "But knighthood... it's also a life of service, of sacrifice. It demands more than just the willingness to do good .... it demands everything of you, sometimes even the ultimate price. Can you live with that? Can you give that?"
Caelum felt the weight of his father's words, the gravity of the life he dreamed of. He knew the stories, the songs sung of knights and their valorous deeds, but he also knew the tales less told ... of loss, of the heavy burden carried in the name of honor and duty.
Caelum took a deep breath, feeling the cool evening air fill his lungs, mixing with the warmth of his resolve. "I've thought about it a lot, Pa. About the sacrifices and the service. I know it won't be easy, and I know it might cost me everything. But if I can stand up for just one person, make a difference in just one life, wouldn't it be worth it? I will have proved to the village that I am not a curse, Septon Mattheus says that the greatest deeds often come from the humblest beginnings."
He paused, gathering his thoughts, his eyes reflecting the determination that had taken root within him. "And... I made a promise to Luke. He said he'd take me as his squire, if he becomes a knight and if I can get stronger. It's a promise I intend to keep, not just to him but to myself."
His father's expression softened, the lines of worry and contemplation easing as he listened to his son's words. It was clear that Caelum's determination was not born of fleeting whims but of deep-seated conviction and a desire to forge his own path.
"Caelum, my star, you are not a curse. Never say that. You were a blessing that the Gods have given to me and your Ma. Your courage and your will to do good in the face of your own challenges... " his father said, his voice laden with emotion. "If this is your dream, and you hold it so dearly, then I have no right to stand in your way. But becoming a knight, it's a long and perilous journey, one that will test you in ways you can't yet imagine. I lost my brothers on this path….."
He looked out towards the fields, their work for the day nearing its end, the shadows growing longer with the setting sun. "If in three years, you have grown stronger, if you have worked hard and still hold this dream close to your heart, then I will do everything in my power to help you become a squire. Whether it's with Luke, if he has become a knight, or with another who sees the strength and valor in your heart."
Caelum's eyes shone with a mixture of gratitude and renewed purpose. "Thank you, Papa. I won't let you down. I'll work hard, every day. I'll get stronger, and I'll show everyone that my spirit is as strong as any knight's."
His father pulled him into a hug, a silent pledge of support and belief in his son's dreams. "I know you will, Caelum. You've already shown me the strength of your heart. Just remember, it's not the sword that makes the knight, but the courage and the honor within. Stay true to yourself, and you'll find your path."
As they parted, the last light of the day fading into twilight, Caelum felt a sense of purpose like never before. He would get better, he already was. He no longer bled when he coughed, and he could control his breathing much better than before.
His Ma no longer worried as much as she used to. He would become a true knight. The most noble of them all.
He was not cursed, nay. The Gods had given him a blessing in the form of this challenge, one he will fight, be better, and grow stronger by it.
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Sheltered Truths
The sharp clanging of dull steel rang through the training yard of Highgarden. Luke's arm trembled as he steadied himself for the next blow.
He saw it coming, but his arms did not have the strength to block effectively. The weak attempt at a dodge was easily bypassed by the smirking figure of Parmen Crane, as a blow landed under Luke's ribs finally knocking the wind from his lungs, and throwing him to the ground.
"Get up, boy!" He heard Ser Vortimer shout.
It had been stupid in hindsight. He should have stuck to learning the forms. Picking up a live blade and swinging it around in the yard was a dumb decision.
Especially when the daughters of Ser Crane had been watching.
He hadn't been trying to gain their attention. That would be fanciful indeed, not that he had managed to do so in the slightest, flopping about with the sword that he was.
"On your feet!" the lordling, Parmen Crane jeered.
Luke tried to get up again, but his side throbbed with pain.
"What, peasant? Too busy mooning over my sisters to even lift your sword? Mayhaps when you've learned to hold it steady, they might spare you a pitying glance."
He heard soft chuckling from the people around him.
"Want to be a Knight, do you?" The older boy he heard the boy ask.
A flush of shame hotter than any battle wound colored his face. "I-I..." his voice stammered, then failed him under the weight of Parmen's mockery.
"Of course you do, dung shoveler. Knights with their shining armor, their tales of valor... easy to forget they bleed red, just like you." He stepped closer, the training sword twirling menacingly in his hand. "But some pigs were never meant to fly, boy. Squire is all that you could ever be. Then again, mayhaps you'll win a few tourneys by shoveling dung onto the field so your opponent's horse slips. That's the only way a peasant like you could beat a true knight."
His voice caught in his throat. Tears stung his eyes. He couldn't say anything to the boy of higher birth.
"That's enough, Parmen!" Ser Crane's voice boomed through the yard. "The boy's done for today. Igor, see to him...and then get scrubbing mulberry boy! I want her mane softer than the maiden's cunt!" The knight's tone was stern, but the hint of a smirk lingered on his lips.
Luke felt his humiliation deepen. He knew that stable work was in for him till the memory of the day was lost from everyone's heads.
Cleaning a knight's sword, brushing their horse, and learning the basics of swordsmanship. That was the work of a page.
But he knew he should forget touching a sword for a week at least.
He bowed his head, unable to meet anyone's gaze as Igor shuffled him away.
He refused to cry, head bowed in embarassment, he saw a stable hand named Igor approach, "C'mon then," Igor said gruffly, placing a hand on Luke's shoulder. "Ribs ain't nothin' a bit of rest and some salve won't fix."
He let Igor lead him away. He'd patch his wounds and carry out his duties with the same diligence as always.
Parmen was right, of course. He'd never be a knight.
He'd been lucky to be taken as a page because his father guarded Lord Tyrell's solar and had saved Ser Quentin Tyrell during the war of ninepenny kings some years before he had been born, before Ser Quentin had been a knight.
The village thought he would become a Knight. But that was far from the truth. There would be no Knight in Mander Bank's village.
The only way to knighthood for him was through tourneys. And those were expensive to take part in, difficult to reach, and if he managed that, difficult to win.
'Heh, how will Caelum even manage?' he thought ruefully, as Igor applied coltsfoot sap to his ribs.
He hadn't wanted anything to do with the boy. But his mum had insisted the day after the Night of the Fallen Star. She truly believed the little boy to be blessed by the seven.
But then he'd spent a week by his side, helping the boy's father at the farm. He had been born cursed. Bleeding with every breath he took, wheezing painfully.
He had thought he would die. He'd pitied him then, helped the boy's mum take care of him while she brewed her ale, cooked the food, or did some other chore.
Weeks blurred into months, yet the boy clung to life, and surprisingly the boy clung to life as stubbornly as a weed between cobblestones.
Watching him grow, suffering with the curse, but smiling like the bloody sun all the same made him come to love the boy like his own brother.
"That should take care of that," Igor said, as he finally finished applying the salve. The wound still stung and looked purple all over. "Big lumbering balls of steel you must've had. Eyein' Ser Crane's girls like that. When the man was but yards away from you."
Luke winced, less at the bruise than at Igor's words. "Wasn't eyeing anyone," he mumbled, the familiar sting of shame washing over him again. "Just... lost my footing."
Igor snorted. "With both feet planted like an oak? You swung yer sword for the ladies' attention, sure as a rooster's crow at dawn," Igor finished, a teasing grin splitting his bearded face. "Don't fret none, lad. Can't blame ya for lookin' where ya shouldn't. Beauty has a way of making a man do foolish things. But enough talk, get to scrubbing Ser Crane's horse, lad. Your Da' will come get yer come nightfall. At the castle sept, if I remember correctly, he'd said. "
As the balding, yellow-toothed man left the stable handing him a coarse brush, and a stool to sit.
Brushing the coarse brush through its mane, he thought of his little brother. He would never be a knight. That was reality, harsh though it may be.
The boy was too pure, naïve, forgiving. Even after the whispered curses the village spat at him, jealous of his father's star-blessed wealth, he never held malice in his heart. The only time he'd seen the boy truly angry was when old Crofton had jeered at his mother.
The man had taken a beating by Jerren and Uncle Harlon, for it. But the boy's ire then was truly something to behold.
Even if he managed to overcome the curse of the star, and gained the strength of a man, Luke knew in his heart that he would never truly be able to become a knight. Knights were born, not made.
The only way to become a knight, for low born like them was for some lord to take pity like Lord Quentin had done with him, after his father had saved his life, or by winning a tourney besting lords and knights of higher standing.
Easier said than done. Men died in tourneys as easily as hogs succumbed to spring rot.
But convincing him to abandon that path was like trying to stop the Mander from flowing to the sea. Caelum had the stubbornness of a thousand mules, fueled by a heart as bright as the star they said cursed him.
Brushing Mulberry's coarse mane, Luke couldn't shake the memory. It was as vivid as the purple bruise on his ribs.
"I won't give up, Luke," Caelum would say. Not the weak, wheezy voice of a sickly child, but the one he carried in his heart. Chin jutting out, those startling blue eyes blazing. "Knights help people. I can do that!"
Luke's grip on the brush tightened. If only wishing could make it so. Caelum, cursed from birth, clinging to life with a stubbornness that defied the gods themselves. A flicker of his spirit was stronger than any knight at Highgarden.
"Dreaming about highborn maidens again, lad?" Igor's gruff voice startled Luke out of his thoughts. He couldn't meet the stable hand's eyes. He was checking the mane of the horse with a critical eye.
"Wasn't... no maidens," he gritted out with clenched teeth
Igor snorted, a sound like an old mare clearing her throat. "Whatever you say. She's almost done. Finish up and go wait for yer Da' at the sept."
Nodding he finished the last few strokes of the brush on the horse' shiny mane, and bid the balding man goodbye.
He tried to shake his thoughts, and forget about his little brother but he just couldn't.
Old Septon Mattheus had tried, he taught him about the sacrifices of being a knight in as kind a way as he could for a boy just four, but Caelum had come out for it more resolved than ever before. Enamored, and enraptured with the idea of the ideal knight.
The man couldn't do more. Refused to even. Said such pure souls need not be tarnished so quickly.
He couldn't ever say no to his eager bright blue eyes. Neither could Luke, or Mary really.
Sometimes he wondered why Uncle Harlon indulged his dreams.
The man was a simple farmer, a quiet man who loved his family fiercely. He'd seen his brothers die chasing the fleeting glory of knighthood, understood the harsh reality of their lowborn status. Yet, when Caelum's eyes shone with that stubborn hope, Harlon never quite extinguished it.
He hoped he didn't have to do it himself. He couldn't bear the thought. He'd made the boy a promise, one he didn't know how he was going to keep.
He would try of course, but he'd only let Caelum become a Knight if he knew the boy had the strength to survive.
He prayed to the Gods above that they bestowed another miracle on the kind boy, he couldn't bear to see his spirit crushed.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
The Mander Hills Inn pulsed with a life that wasn't hers.
Tankards clattered, rough voices clamored for more ale, and the greasy scent of mutton stew hung heavy and oppressive.
A calloused hand snaked around Meredith's waist. She stiffened.
"Easy there, sweetling," the village guard drawled, his breath a foul mix of wine and onions. "Just admiring the view."
A flicker of resentment sparked in Meredith's eyes. Drunk guards were the worst.
Her voice held a sharper edge when she replied, "Then consider admiring while you clean that mess." She shoved a damp rag into his hand. He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest.
"Feisty," he remarked, wiping up the spill with exaggerated care. "Innkeeper's daughter got a sting to her, eh?" His gaze swept over her, taking in her worn dress, the smudge of grease on her cheek.
A calculation flickered in his eyes.
Before the exchange could escalate, a heavy hand landed on the guard's shoulder. "That's enough, Steffon," a gruff voice cut in. "We still need to eat here, remember? Don't want those doors barred to us on account of your wandering hands. Head to the brothel in the castle if you'd like, there's no whores here."
Steffon shot a sullen look at the other guard, then turned back to Meredith.
"She isn't pretty enough anyway," he said mockingly and followed the other man outside.
As the two guards moved away, a flicker of relief mixed with lingering anger coursed through Meredith.
She snatched up a stack of grimy plates, the weight a burden heavier than usual.
Weary guardsmen slumped in their seats, their eyes as lusterless as tarnished silver. Yet, even in their weariness, there was a hint of status, a sense of being above the merchants and common folk.
"Dreaming again, are we, little bird?" Jerren's gruff voice cut through her thoughts. He leaned against the worn bar, his form tall almost a man grown that he was. A scowl marred his dirt-streaked face. "Are you alright? What happened?"
Meredith scowled back. "Dreams are better than the pigs in this pigpen!"
Meredith's hands trembled as she gripped the plates. The words "not pretty enough" echoed in her ears, a cruel barb sharper than any groping hand.
A hot wave of humiliation washed over her, mingling with the simmering rage. She wanted to scream, to fling those grimy plates at the retreating guards, to shatter the false sense of superiority they carried with them.
"Pigpen pays for your bread," Jerren countered, his voice flat. "Best remember that, dreamer. Now, go on. Now get, mum needs your help."
Stiffly, she turned away and headed toward the kitchen.
Someday, her knight would come for her. Dashing, and gallant. To steal her away and make her a noble lady of the realm just like in the tales her Dad used to tell her before he died.
He'd been in killed by an arrow during a raid along the Mander by highwaymen.
Meredith blinked away the memory of her father, the defiant image of her knight faded with him too.
"Mum, I am here.," she said.
She piled the dirty dishes into a basin, ignoring the way her worn dress snagged on a chipped edge.
"Oh, Mary, leave the dishes on the floor. I'll get them" her mother offered, as she carried in a pale of water. The greying old woman spotted their empty dried kegs of Ale and said, "The ale's running low, and the rush is done. Jerren!"
Her brother emerged from the shadows of the common room, wiping his hands on his grimy tunic. "What now, Mum?" he grumbled. "I am late for the farm!"
Her mum plopped the pale of water on the floor, beside where she had dropped the dirty dishes.
"Meredith is coming with you." Marna she said, wiping the sweat off her forehead. "The crowd is nearly gone, I can handle the rest. The Ale is running dry, and we'll need a fresh supply. Mary, tell dear Elyna to send a fresh delivery come morn. And say hi to Caelum for me, would you?"
The mention of visiting Caelum significantly brightened her day. She loved the little guy, like she was no longer the youngest in the family. Like her own little guy to cuddle and coddle.
A couple of minutes later, she joined Jerren by the front door.
"Best hurry then, dreamer," Jerren said as he waited for her having cleaned his face and arms from the grime he'd collected from cooking all the stews that day.
The pies were her specialty, none could bake them better than she could, except her mum. Mayhaps she would bake one for Caelum when he arrives with his father on the morn with the Ale.
"You never did tell me what happened, you know," Jerren commented as they strolled across the village past the sept and toward the star-struck farm.
"Just a drunk guard being a lout," she muttered, brushing past him. "Don't worry, I can handle it."
Jerren's face twisted slightly, but he let out some air later as he kicked a rock across the road. "Don't worry about them. Uncle Toman did say that we can talk to him should any thing happen, doesn't he know some knight up in the castle?"
She doubted the man could be of much help. Drunks did what drunks did. Only a knight would be able to save her. She tried to stop herself from getting lost in her dreams of knights again before her brother caught her.
But by the knowing look in his eye, he had caught her.
Meredith tried to focus on the familiar path leading to Harlon's farm, but her brother's teasing echoed alongside her every step.
"Dreaming of knights eh?" He grinned nudging her with his elbow "Best keep your eyes on the road, dreamer, lest you trip and land in a cowpat, and make yourself unpresentable for the knight that comes for your hand." Jerren chuckled.
A flush heated Meredith's cheeks. "Shut up! she said with clenched teeth, refusing to admit that, yes, a gallant knight had indeed flitted through her mind.
As the farmstead came into view, her heart quickened. Not with visions of grand rescues, but at the sight of Caelum. Her little ball of sunshine.
"Shouldn't be doing that," Jerren grumbled, "He's too weak…"
Her patience snapped. "He's not!" she fired back. "Leave him alone, Jerren! He has more strength in him than you can even know!"
"Fine, fine." Jerren held his hands up in surrender. "Don't need you biting my head off just for stating the truth. You and your soft spot for—"
He cut himself off abruptly as they reached the field, Harlon meeting them with a raised eyebrow. Meredith's face burned, unsure if Harlon had overheard Jerren's teasing.
"Meredith!" Caelum's voice broke through the tension, his smile as bright as ever. "Look, Father taught me how to spot stubborn weeds!" He held up the basket as evidence, his slight frame straining with the effort.
"Yeah, he's growing into a fine strong lad!" the boy's father chuckled ruffling his hair. The flush on Caelum's face was enough to wash away any lingering bitterness of the day from her face.
A wave of awkwardness washed over Meredith, the older man was someone she respected immensely.
"Is… is Elyna around? I wanted to send her well wishes from Mum, and, well, the ale order..." she stuttered a little.
Harlon's face softened. "She's in the cottage, turning a stew," he replied, a twinkle in his eye. "The smell alone would make your mother proud, I reckon."
"Oh, well, I have a message from mum, I'll go see her." Meredith could feel her cheeks warming, but the prospect of seeing Elyna was a welcome distraction from the lingering tension. She turned to Caelum then, "And then we can play a while till nightfall."
"That would be lovely, Meredith," Harlon offered a genuine smile. Then, he turned to Caelum. "Lad, you've earned yourself a break. Why don't you get cleaned up and spend some time with your friend."
Caelum's face lit up like a summer sunrise. "Really, Father? Can I?"
"Run along now," Harlon chuckled, tousling his son's hair playfully.
"Come on, Meredith!" Caelum grabbed her hand, a warm tug that chased away the lingering discomfort. "Wait for me! I'll show you the best spot to pick wildflowers!" He dashed towards the cottage, leaving Meredith breathless with his boundless energy.
"Don't work him too hard, Harlon," Jerren called out as he followed the other men into the field. "Not all of us are blessed with such strength." His words were meant to be teasing, but Meredith caught a hint of pity beneath the lighthearted tone.
Left alone, Meredith smiled after Caelum. A moment of normalcy amidst uncertainty. "Of course, I'll wait, I will be with your mother once I deliver mother's order." she called out.
She strolled towards the cottage, the scent of simmering stew tickling her senses. Inside, she found Elyna bustling around the hearth, her cheeks flushed with warmth. "Elyna!" Meredith exclaimed, "Your stew smells amazing!"
"Mum sends her regards," Meredith continued, stepping into the warmth of the cottage. "And..." she hesitated for a moment, unsure how to phrase the ale order without sounding too demanding. "Well, the inn's barrels are running low, and Mum was hoping you could send a fresh delivery up come morning?"
Elyna's smile was warm and reassuring. "Of course, dear. Harlon and Caelum will load the cart first thing. Now, don't stand there on ceremony! Sit, let me get you a cup of water."
Meredith perched herself on a stool by the hearth, the cozy atmosphere a welcome contrast to the inn's bustle. As Elyna poured the water, they chatted about village gossip, the weather, and the upcoming harvest. There was a comforting ease in Elyna's presence, a shared understanding of the rhythms of their small world.
After a few minutes, Caelum burst back into the cottage, his face scrubbed and his hair still damp. "I'm ready!" he announced, bouncing with barely contained excitement.
"Wonderful!" Meredith jumped to her feet. "Now, let's see… what adventures shall we have today?"
"Knights!" Caelum declared without hesitation. "I'll be the brave knight, and you..." he paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face.
A gentle laugh escaped Meredith. "I'll be the maiden waiting for her knight then?"
Caelum considered this, his small brow furrowed in concentration. Finally, a smile bloomed on his face. "You can be the brave maiden, kidnapped by an evil dragon!" His eyes glittered with the thrill of his own story. "And I'll come to rescue you!"
"Oh, all right," Meredith chuckled, unable to resist his enthusiasm. "But this maiden won't wait just anywhere. Up in the loft, I think! The dragon will find me there."
With a whoop of delight, Caelum dashed out of the cottage, leaving Meredith to follow at a more leisurely pace. Every step into this world of play felt like shedding a layer of worry and discontent.
As she climbed the ladder into the loft, the scent of sun-dried grass and a hint of horses a soothing balm, she finally let herself believe, just for a little while, in brave knights, fierce dragons, and the sweet joy of being rescued.
She knew that grown up, her little ball of sunshine would be the most charming of knights if the seven sent star's blessing continued to heal him as it was. She would have to carry a big stick to beat off the grasping noble ladies who would vie for her little brother's hands. She couldn't wait.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
A heavy scent of old parchment and burning beeswax hung thick in the hushed hallway outside their father's solar. Willas wriggled closer to the heavy oak door, his heart pounding a rhythm of anticipation.
They were hidden well behind the curtains that covered the window that adorned the walls from the highest wing of the castle, looking at the buildings beneath. The briar city labyrinth looked beautiful from so high above.
They had their ear pressed tightly to the door just beside the window, which led into their father's solar.
Beside him, Garlan giggled, a barely contained bubble of excitement.
"He'll be mad," Garlan whispered, his eyes wide. "Mother said we were to be with Anya today."
Willas snorted. "And Mother thinks we are with Anya," he countered. "Plus she also said that we're supposed to learn more from father. This is learning dear brother o' mine."
Garlan nodded his head slightly, and giggled again "Can you hear anything?" he whispered
Willas put his small finger to his lips and shushed him.
He pressed his ear closer, a faint murmur of voices coming through the wood.
A shadow loomed, and Willas whirled around. Toman of Mander Banks village, marched towards them, a frown creasing his brow. Disaster!
"Young lords," Toman said, his voice surprisingly gentle for such a large man. "What brings you out here? You're supposed to be with Anya."
Garlan gulped, looking ready to bolt, but Willas stepped forward. It was time for desperate measures. "Please," he pleaded, widening his eyes for good measure. "We heard Father speaking inside. We want to listen. Just for a moment?" He cast a hopeful glance at the solar door.
Toman paused, his bushy scruffy blonde eyebrows drawing together. Then, to Willas' astonishment, a slow grin spread across the guard's face. "Just a moment, eh?" He winked a flicker of mischief in his eyes. "And not a word to anyone, especially your mother. Be quick about it now."
A surge of relief flooded Willas, followed by a jolt of excitement. They'd done it! With a gleeful grin, he and Garlan darted back to the door, pressing their ears close once more.
Now, tantalizing fragments reached their ears. "Yes, Maester... name day celebration," they heard their uncle Quentin. "Princess Rhaenys..."
"Tourney?" Garlan breathed, his eyes lighting up.
Willas nodded, a thrill coursing through him.
"...Lord Whent… Shircy Whent... Harrenhal... my lord?" Another voice, this one unmistakably Maester Lomys' followed by their father's booming reply. "House Tyrell will attend, of course..."
They exchanged excited glances, barely stifled giggles bubbling up.
A Tourney! And they were going!
They couldn't wait. There'd be all sorts of battles, knights from all over the realms battling in the melee, the joust and so much more!
Their whispered cheers were a little too loud. A sharp gasp cut through their excitement, followed by the rustle of heavy skirts and the rapid click of shoes on stone.
"Young lords!" The familiar voice of Anya, filled with a mix of exasperation and alarm, pierced the air.
Willas and Garlan froze, hearts pounding. They'd been caught! In their scramble to escape, Willas tripped over his own feet, knocking Garlan aside. They tumbled towards the solar door, and Toman tried to make a grab for them but failed as they fell on the door as it swung inside.
Inside the solar, the voices fell silent. "Willas? Garlan? Where is Anya?"
"I am sorry m'lord. They had asked to let them listen; I indulged their fancy in this matter" Toman said as he bowed his head.
Their father stared at him for a moment, they watched their uncle trying to hold in a laugh. Even Maester Lomys was hiding a smile.
After a moment, their father smiled too, and as he was about to say something, Anya came blundering into the solar behind them.
She swooped down upon them, her normally composed face flushed with a mix of fury and relief. "My lords, whatever possessed you to run off like that?" she fussed, straightening their tunics and hastily smoothing their hair.
His cheeks burning, Willas mumbled an apology, struggling to find an excuse that wouldn't get them into even more trouble. Thankfully, Father came to their rescue.
"No harm done, Anya," Lord Tyrell chuckled. "Boys will be boys. Best send them on their way now. I have important matters to attend to. Toman, see them out."
The guard bowed his head "Yes, m'lord"
The maid bowed, but her glare towards the brothers promised a different sort of attention later. "Come along now, young lords," she said, herding them away from the solar. "To the sept, if you please. Some prayers and begging for forgiveness from the Seven will clear your conscience."
As they were marched down the corridor, Willas caught his brother's eye. Garlan's face still held a trace of worry, but beneath it, the spark of excitement about the tourney remained undimmed.
Anya marched them towards the sept, her every step radiating disapproval. The weight of their punishment – an hour of prayers to atone for their disobedience – weighed on Willas, but couldn't completely snuff out his excitement.
As they skirted the bustling training yard on their way to the sept in the by the inner wall of briar city, the familiar sounds pulled at his attention like a magnet: steel ringing against steel, grunts of exertion, and the sharp commands of instructors.
"Come on," he whispered to Garlan, barely containing a grin. "Just for a moment..."
Without waiting for his brother's reply, Willas steered them towards the edge of the yard. They skirted the outer circle, eyes glued to the whirlwind of activity within. Squires clashed with blunt swords, sweat gleaming on their brow. Guardsmen, faces hardened with experience, practiced complex maneuvers with deadly efficiency. And at the far end, archers loosed their arrows with fluid grace, their targets barely a blur of motion.
Willas felt a familiar thrill course through him. Their eavesdropping earlier had ignited a spark; now the sight of these warriors only fueled it. What would it feel like, to command such skill, such power?
Lost in his musings, he didn't notice the tall figure approaching until a stern voice boomed out across the yard.
"Lord Willas! Lord Garlan!"
They startled, turning to find Ser Vortimer Crane, the castle's Master-at-Arms, marching towards them.
"Would you like to try your hand, Lord Willas? You're plenty old enough" the large man asked.
Anya who had come searching for her wayward lords, again, her lips pursed. "My lord, they need to go to the sept…"
Before she could continue, Ser Vortimer held up a hand, silencing her. "A brief delay won't hurt, I'm sure," he said, his gaze settling on Willas. A glint of amusement softened his stern features. "You'll be of age for training soon enough, young lord. Perhaps a taste of the blade would stir your blood?"
Willas's eyes widened. An opportunity like this was something out of his wildest dreams! "I... I would be honored, Ser!"
Anya sputtered in protest, but Ser Vortimer waved her off with a dismissive chuckle. "Nonsense, woman. We all know the lords of Highgarden were born to the saddle and the sword. Let the boy have his lesson!"
He beckoned Willas into the yard, then turned and shouted, "Parmen! Fetch a wooden sword for the young lord!"
With trembling hands, Willas grasped the wooden sword. It felt heavier than he imagined, yet thrillingly solid. Ser Vortimer stood before him, his weathered face transformed by a teacher's patience.
"First, the stance," he boomed. "Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent. Balance is key." Willas tried to imitate his stance, feeling the unfamiliar alignment of his body.
"Now, the thrust," Ser Vortimer continued. "Extend your arm, blade forward, step with your dominant foot. It's about speed and precision."
Parmen, standing nearby, demonstrated the jab, his movements sharp and purposeful. Willas attempted to mirror them, but his thrusts were clumsy, his steps stumbling. Ser Vortimer chuckled, a low rumble that held no mockery.
"It takes time, young lord. Even the mightiest oaks were once acorns. Let's try a block now. Raise your sword high, parry your opponent's blow."
Round after round they practiced – thrusts, blocks, and simple footwork. Each movement was a tiny victory, a step closer to the warriors he so admired. Beside him, Garlan watched in wide-eyed awe, declaring, "I'm going to a be a knight! And win all the tourneys in the Seven Kingdoms!"
Finally, after three rounds of practice, Ser Vortimer called a halt. "Enough for today. You show promise, young lord." He clapped Willas on the shoulder, the praise making his chest swell with pride.
Anya, though still clearly disapproving, couldn't entirely hide the flicker of surprise on her face. With a sigh of resignation, she ushered them away. "Come, young lords. We've dallied long enough. The sept awaits."
As they walked, their earlier punishment forgotten, Willas felt a new energy coursing through him. The sept might promise stillness and prayer, under the watchful eyes of the Seven who are one, but his thoughts were now aflame with visions of future training sessions, the taste of steel, and the roar of a crowd cheering his name.
Anya nudged them towards a row of empty pews. "Now, remember, young lords," she instructed with a stern frown, "an hour of sincere prayer to atone for your disobedience."
They knelt obediently, doing their best to focus on the words of prayer. Yet, the excitement of the day buzzed relentlessly within them. Once Anya was satisfied, and had disappeared back into the castle, Willas leaned towards Garlan.
"Can you believe it?" he whispered. "Knights, and jousts, and... everything!"
Garlan grinned, his eyes gleaming. "We have to go, Willas, we must to the tourney!" he declared, his voice swelling in dramatic emphasis.
Just then, a boy near the altar let out a stifled grunt. He turned, and their eyes met.
The only other occupant of the sept was a boy, perhaps the same age as Parmen, hunched near the altar. His form was almost hidden in the bench at the fore of the Sept. His presence was missed by all the new occupants of the Sept.
His ragged clothes and his face dirty. His matted scraggy blonde hair was a mess. The boy was clutching his side, a flicker of pain passing across his features.
"What tourney?" he asked, his voice a little pained.
Willas and Garlan exchanged a confused glance. They hadn't even noticed him before! "The tourney at Harrenhal," Willas answered slowly. "To celebrate the princess's name day."
The boy's brow furrowed. "Harrenhal? That's…. in the riverlands, isn't it?" He shook his head.
A flicker of an idea sparked in Willas' mind. He leaned forward, an air of importance settling around him. "Who are you, anyway?"
The boy smiled, though it seemed a little pained as he clutched his rib again. "Oh, I'm Luke," he muttered. "Luke from the village by the river."
Garlan, ever eager and open-hearted, chimed in with a friendly smile. "I'm Garlan Tyrell. He's my brother, Willas."
Luke's eyes widened in surprise. Then, as if realizing his earlier boldness, a flush crept up his neck. "Didn't mean to pry, my lords," he muttered, averting his gaze. "Apologies."
Willas waved him off. "No bother at all, Luke. Say, are you okay?"
"Oh, yeah. I'm fine" Luke echoed with a wry twist of his lips. "I'm Ser Crane's page, and practice was a bit harsh today."
"Well," Garlan began, "Ah, Ser Vortimer is so strong! I'm sure you'll be a knight big and strong like him."
Luke shifted uncomfortably, his wince becoming more pronounced. He looked at Garlan for a moment, and it almost seemed as though he was looking at him and seeing someone else. He smiled "As you say, my Lord."
Willas then asked "You said your name was Luke? Is your father perhaps Toman from the Mander banks village, the guard?"
Luke's eyes grew wide. "Aye, he's my father. You know him?"
"He let us listen in on Father's meeting!" Willas exclaimed. "The whole reason we got in trouble. You should come with us to the tourney!"
"My lord, I would love to" Luke admitted, "but I am just a page. We can't fight tourneys."
"Of course!" Garlan piped up. "The whole household, practically!"
"Well, neither can we silly" Garlan piped in, "But there will be so many knights there, in the melee, the jousts, and in archery. It will be fun!"
"Yeah, I was too young to go to the tourney in the storm lands, but I've heard a lot of good fighters show up there!" Willas added in. "And considering House Tyrell will be there, your father will be joining us as our guard. You can come with him!"
Luke hesitated, and then he asked "Do … do you think I can bring more people with me?"
Willas titled his head to the side, a frown etched on his face "How many people?"
Luke looked determined all of a sudden "Two…. Just two." He replied.
Willas and Garlan nodded a little confused by his sudden shift in tone "two is fine, most squires end up bringing some family along anyway. You'll have to bring your own horse though."
Luke nodded, eyes set. "I-I think I will come."
The three new friends cheered, and as they continued talking about the tourney and all they were going to see there.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
A/N: Well, this was a fun chapter. Damn character interactions are tough. Anyway, hope this story doesn't seem like it's moving too fast or anything.
He saw it coming, but his arms did not have the strength to block effectively. The weak attempt at a dodge was easily bypassed by the smirking figure of Parmen Crane, as a blow landed under Luke's ribs finally knocking the wind from his lungs, and throwing him to the ground.
"Get up, boy!" He heard Ser Vortimer shout.
It had been stupid in hindsight. He should have stuck to learning the forms. Picking up a live blade and swinging it around in the yard was a dumb decision.
Especially when the daughters of Ser Crane had been watching.
He hadn't been trying to gain their attention. That would be fanciful indeed, not that he had managed to do so in the slightest, flopping about with the sword that he was.
"On your feet!" the lordling, Parmen Crane jeered.
Luke tried to get up again, but his side throbbed with pain.
"What, peasant? Too busy mooning over my sisters to even lift your sword? Mayhaps when you've learned to hold it steady, they might spare you a pitying glance."
He heard soft chuckling from the people around him.
"Want to be a Knight, do you?" The older boy he heard the boy ask.
A flush of shame hotter than any battle wound colored his face. "I-I..." his voice stammered, then failed him under the weight of Parmen's mockery.
"Of course you do, dung shoveler. Knights with their shining armor, their tales of valor... easy to forget they bleed red, just like you." He stepped closer, the training sword twirling menacingly in his hand. "But some pigs were never meant to fly, boy. Squire is all that you could ever be. Then again, mayhaps you'll win a few tourneys by shoveling dung onto the field so your opponent's horse slips. That's the only way a peasant like you could beat a true knight."
His voice caught in his throat. Tears stung his eyes. He couldn't say anything to the boy of higher birth.
"That's enough, Parmen!" Ser Crane's voice boomed through the yard. "The boy's done for today. Igor, see to him...and then get scrubbing mulberry boy! I want her mane softer than the maiden's cunt!" The knight's tone was stern, but the hint of a smirk lingered on his lips.
Luke felt his humiliation deepen. He knew that stable work was in for him till the memory of the day was lost from everyone's heads.
Cleaning a knight's sword, brushing their horse, and learning the basics of swordsmanship. That was the work of a page.
But he knew he should forget touching a sword for a week at least.
He bowed his head, unable to meet anyone's gaze as Igor shuffled him away.
He refused to cry, head bowed in embarassment, he saw a stable hand named Igor approach, "C'mon then," Igor said gruffly, placing a hand on Luke's shoulder. "Ribs ain't nothin' a bit of rest and some salve won't fix."
He let Igor lead him away. He'd patch his wounds and carry out his duties with the same diligence as always.
Parmen was right, of course. He'd never be a knight.
He'd been lucky to be taken as a page because his father guarded Lord Tyrell's solar and had saved Ser Quentin Tyrell during the war of ninepenny kings some years before he had been born, before Ser Quentin had been a knight.
The village thought he would become a Knight. But that was far from the truth. There would be no Knight in Mander Bank's village.
The only way to knighthood for him was through tourneys. And those were expensive to take part in, difficult to reach, and if he managed that, difficult to win.
'Heh, how will Caelum even manage?' he thought ruefully, as Igor applied coltsfoot sap to his ribs.
He hadn't wanted anything to do with the boy. But his mum had insisted the day after the Night of the Fallen Star. She truly believed the little boy to be blessed by the seven.
But then he'd spent a week by his side, helping the boy's father at the farm. He had been born cursed. Bleeding with every breath he took, wheezing painfully.
He had thought he would die. He'd pitied him then, helped the boy's mum take care of him while she brewed her ale, cooked the food, or did some other chore.
Weeks blurred into months, yet the boy clung to life, and surprisingly the boy clung to life as stubbornly as a weed between cobblestones.
Watching him grow, suffering with the curse, but smiling like the bloody sun all the same made him come to love the boy like his own brother.
"That should take care of that," Igor said, as he finally finished applying the salve. The wound still stung and looked purple all over. "Big lumbering balls of steel you must've had. Eyein' Ser Crane's girls like that. When the man was but yards away from you."
Luke winced, less at the bruise than at Igor's words. "Wasn't eyeing anyone," he mumbled, the familiar sting of shame washing over him again. "Just... lost my footing."
Igor snorted. "With both feet planted like an oak? You swung yer sword for the ladies' attention, sure as a rooster's crow at dawn," Igor finished, a teasing grin splitting his bearded face. "Don't fret none, lad. Can't blame ya for lookin' where ya shouldn't. Beauty has a way of making a man do foolish things. But enough talk, get to scrubbing Ser Crane's horse, lad. Your Da' will come get yer come nightfall. At the castle sept, if I remember correctly, he'd said. "
As the balding, yellow-toothed man left the stable handing him a coarse brush, and a stool to sit.
Brushing the coarse brush through its mane, he thought of his little brother. He would never be a knight. That was reality, harsh though it may be.
The boy was too pure, naïve, forgiving. Even after the whispered curses the village spat at him, jealous of his father's star-blessed wealth, he never held malice in his heart. The only time he'd seen the boy truly angry was when old Crofton had jeered at his mother.
The man had taken a beating by Jerren and Uncle Harlon, for it. But the boy's ire then was truly something to behold.
Even if he managed to overcome the curse of the star, and gained the strength of a man, Luke knew in his heart that he would never truly be able to become a knight. Knights were born, not made.
The only way to become a knight, for low born like them was for some lord to take pity like Lord Quentin had done with him, after his father had saved his life, or by winning a tourney besting lords and knights of higher standing.
Easier said than done. Men died in tourneys as easily as hogs succumbed to spring rot.
But convincing him to abandon that path was like trying to stop the Mander from flowing to the sea. Caelum had the stubbornness of a thousand mules, fueled by a heart as bright as the star they said cursed him.
Brushing Mulberry's coarse mane, Luke couldn't shake the memory. It was as vivid as the purple bruise on his ribs.
"I won't give up, Luke," Caelum would say. Not the weak, wheezy voice of a sickly child, but the one he carried in his heart. Chin jutting out, those startling blue eyes blazing. "Knights help people. I can do that!"
Luke's grip on the brush tightened. If only wishing could make it so. Caelum, cursed from birth, clinging to life with a stubbornness that defied the gods themselves. A flicker of his spirit was stronger than any knight at Highgarden.
"Dreaming about highborn maidens again, lad?" Igor's gruff voice startled Luke out of his thoughts. He couldn't meet the stable hand's eyes. He was checking the mane of the horse with a critical eye.
"Wasn't... no maidens," he gritted out with clenched teeth
Igor snorted, a sound like an old mare clearing her throat. "Whatever you say. She's almost done. Finish up and go wait for yer Da' at the sept."
Nodding he finished the last few strokes of the brush on the horse' shiny mane, and bid the balding man goodbye.
He tried to shake his thoughts, and forget about his little brother but he just couldn't.
Old Septon Mattheus had tried, he taught him about the sacrifices of being a knight in as kind a way as he could for a boy just four, but Caelum had come out for it more resolved than ever before. Enamored, and enraptured with the idea of the ideal knight.
The man couldn't do more. Refused to even. Said such pure souls need not be tarnished so quickly.
He couldn't ever say no to his eager bright blue eyes. Neither could Luke, or Mary really.
Sometimes he wondered why Uncle Harlon indulged his dreams.
The man was a simple farmer, a quiet man who loved his family fiercely. He'd seen his brothers die chasing the fleeting glory of knighthood, understood the harsh reality of their lowborn status. Yet, when Caelum's eyes shone with that stubborn hope, Harlon never quite extinguished it.
He hoped he didn't have to do it himself. He couldn't bear the thought. He'd made the boy a promise, one he didn't know how he was going to keep.
He would try of course, but he'd only let Caelum become a Knight if he knew the boy had the strength to survive.
He prayed to the Gods above that they bestowed another miracle on the kind boy, he couldn't bear to see his spirit crushed.
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The Mander Hills Inn pulsed with a life that wasn't hers.
Tankards clattered, rough voices clamored for more ale, and the greasy scent of mutton stew hung heavy and oppressive.
A calloused hand snaked around Meredith's waist. She stiffened.
"Easy there, sweetling," the village guard drawled, his breath a foul mix of wine and onions. "Just admiring the view."
A flicker of resentment sparked in Meredith's eyes. Drunk guards were the worst.
Her voice held a sharper edge when she replied, "Then consider admiring while you clean that mess." She shoved a damp rag into his hand. He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest.
"Feisty," he remarked, wiping up the spill with exaggerated care. "Innkeeper's daughter got a sting to her, eh?" His gaze swept over her, taking in her worn dress, the smudge of grease on her cheek.
A calculation flickered in his eyes.
Before the exchange could escalate, a heavy hand landed on the guard's shoulder. "That's enough, Steffon," a gruff voice cut in. "We still need to eat here, remember? Don't want those doors barred to us on account of your wandering hands. Head to the brothel in the castle if you'd like, there's no whores here."
Steffon shot a sullen look at the other guard, then turned back to Meredith.
"She isn't pretty enough anyway," he said mockingly and followed the other man outside.
As the two guards moved away, a flicker of relief mixed with lingering anger coursed through Meredith.
She snatched up a stack of grimy plates, the weight a burden heavier than usual.
Weary guardsmen slumped in their seats, their eyes as lusterless as tarnished silver. Yet, even in their weariness, there was a hint of status, a sense of being above the merchants and common folk.
"Dreaming again, are we, little bird?" Jerren's gruff voice cut through her thoughts. He leaned against the worn bar, his form tall almost a man grown that he was. A scowl marred his dirt-streaked face. "Are you alright? What happened?"
Meredith scowled back. "Dreams are better than the pigs in this pigpen!"
Meredith's hands trembled as she gripped the plates. The words "not pretty enough" echoed in her ears, a cruel barb sharper than any groping hand.
A hot wave of humiliation washed over her, mingling with the simmering rage. She wanted to scream, to fling those grimy plates at the retreating guards, to shatter the false sense of superiority they carried with them.
"Pigpen pays for your bread," Jerren countered, his voice flat. "Best remember that, dreamer. Now, go on. Now get, mum needs your help."
Stiffly, she turned away and headed toward the kitchen.
Someday, her knight would come for her. Dashing, and gallant. To steal her away and make her a noble lady of the realm just like in the tales her Dad used to tell her before he died.
He'd been in killed by an arrow during a raid along the Mander by highwaymen.
Meredith blinked away the memory of her father, the defiant image of her knight faded with him too.
"Mum, I am here.," she said.
She piled the dirty dishes into a basin, ignoring the way her worn dress snagged on a chipped edge.
"Oh, Mary, leave the dishes on the floor. I'll get them" her mother offered, as she carried in a pale of water. The greying old woman spotted their empty dried kegs of Ale and said, "The ale's running low, and the rush is done. Jerren!"
Her brother emerged from the shadows of the common room, wiping his hands on his grimy tunic. "What now, Mum?" he grumbled. "I am late for the farm!"
Her mum plopped the pale of water on the floor, beside where she had dropped the dirty dishes.
"Meredith is coming with you." Marna she said, wiping the sweat off her forehead. "The crowd is nearly gone, I can handle the rest. The Ale is running dry, and we'll need a fresh supply. Mary, tell dear Elyna to send a fresh delivery come morn. And say hi to Caelum for me, would you?"
The mention of visiting Caelum significantly brightened her day. She loved the little guy, like she was no longer the youngest in the family. Like her own little guy to cuddle and coddle.
A couple of minutes later, she joined Jerren by the front door.
"Best hurry then, dreamer," Jerren said as he waited for her having cleaned his face and arms from the grime he'd collected from cooking all the stews that day.
The pies were her specialty, none could bake them better than she could, except her mum. Mayhaps she would bake one for Caelum when he arrives with his father on the morn with the Ale.
"You never did tell me what happened, you know," Jerren commented as they strolled across the village past the sept and toward the star-struck farm.
"Just a drunk guard being a lout," she muttered, brushing past him. "Don't worry, I can handle it."
Jerren's face twisted slightly, but he let out some air later as he kicked a rock across the road. "Don't worry about them. Uncle Toman did say that we can talk to him should any thing happen, doesn't he know some knight up in the castle?"
She doubted the man could be of much help. Drunks did what drunks did. Only a knight would be able to save her. She tried to stop herself from getting lost in her dreams of knights again before her brother caught her.
But by the knowing look in his eye, he had caught her.
Meredith tried to focus on the familiar path leading to Harlon's farm, but her brother's teasing echoed alongside her every step.
"Dreaming of knights eh?" He grinned nudging her with his elbow "Best keep your eyes on the road, dreamer, lest you trip and land in a cowpat, and make yourself unpresentable for the knight that comes for your hand." Jerren chuckled.
A flush heated Meredith's cheeks. "Shut up! she said with clenched teeth, refusing to admit that, yes, a gallant knight had indeed flitted through her mind.
As the farmstead came into view, her heart quickened. Not with visions of grand rescues, but at the sight of Caelum. Her little ball of sunshine.
"Shouldn't be doing that," Jerren grumbled, "He's too weak…"
Her patience snapped. "He's not!" she fired back. "Leave him alone, Jerren! He has more strength in him than you can even know!"
"Fine, fine." Jerren held his hands up in surrender. "Don't need you biting my head off just for stating the truth. You and your soft spot for—"
He cut himself off abruptly as they reached the field, Harlon meeting them with a raised eyebrow. Meredith's face burned, unsure if Harlon had overheard Jerren's teasing.
"Meredith!" Caelum's voice broke through the tension, his smile as bright as ever. "Look, Father taught me how to spot stubborn weeds!" He held up the basket as evidence, his slight frame straining with the effort.
"Yeah, he's growing into a fine strong lad!" the boy's father chuckled ruffling his hair. The flush on Caelum's face was enough to wash away any lingering bitterness of the day from her face.
A wave of awkwardness washed over Meredith, the older man was someone she respected immensely.
"Is… is Elyna around? I wanted to send her well wishes from Mum, and, well, the ale order..." she stuttered a little.
Harlon's face softened. "She's in the cottage, turning a stew," he replied, a twinkle in his eye. "The smell alone would make your mother proud, I reckon."
"Oh, well, I have a message from mum, I'll go see her." Meredith could feel her cheeks warming, but the prospect of seeing Elyna was a welcome distraction from the lingering tension. She turned to Caelum then, "And then we can play a while till nightfall."
"That would be lovely, Meredith," Harlon offered a genuine smile. Then, he turned to Caelum. "Lad, you've earned yourself a break. Why don't you get cleaned up and spend some time with your friend."
Caelum's face lit up like a summer sunrise. "Really, Father? Can I?"
"Run along now," Harlon chuckled, tousling his son's hair playfully.
"Come on, Meredith!" Caelum grabbed her hand, a warm tug that chased away the lingering discomfort. "Wait for me! I'll show you the best spot to pick wildflowers!" He dashed towards the cottage, leaving Meredith breathless with his boundless energy.
"Don't work him too hard, Harlon," Jerren called out as he followed the other men into the field. "Not all of us are blessed with such strength." His words were meant to be teasing, but Meredith caught a hint of pity beneath the lighthearted tone.
Left alone, Meredith smiled after Caelum. A moment of normalcy amidst uncertainty. "Of course, I'll wait, I will be with your mother once I deliver mother's order." she called out.
She strolled towards the cottage, the scent of simmering stew tickling her senses. Inside, she found Elyna bustling around the hearth, her cheeks flushed with warmth. "Elyna!" Meredith exclaimed, "Your stew smells amazing!"
"Mum sends her regards," Meredith continued, stepping into the warmth of the cottage. "And..." she hesitated for a moment, unsure how to phrase the ale order without sounding too demanding. "Well, the inn's barrels are running low, and Mum was hoping you could send a fresh delivery up come morning?"
Elyna's smile was warm and reassuring. "Of course, dear. Harlon and Caelum will load the cart first thing. Now, don't stand there on ceremony! Sit, let me get you a cup of water."
Meredith perched herself on a stool by the hearth, the cozy atmosphere a welcome contrast to the inn's bustle. As Elyna poured the water, they chatted about village gossip, the weather, and the upcoming harvest. There was a comforting ease in Elyna's presence, a shared understanding of the rhythms of their small world.
After a few minutes, Caelum burst back into the cottage, his face scrubbed and his hair still damp. "I'm ready!" he announced, bouncing with barely contained excitement.
"Wonderful!" Meredith jumped to her feet. "Now, let's see… what adventures shall we have today?"
"Knights!" Caelum declared without hesitation. "I'll be the brave knight, and you..." he paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face.
A gentle laugh escaped Meredith. "I'll be the maiden waiting for her knight then?"
Caelum considered this, his small brow furrowed in concentration. Finally, a smile bloomed on his face. "You can be the brave maiden, kidnapped by an evil dragon!" His eyes glittered with the thrill of his own story. "And I'll come to rescue you!"
"Oh, all right," Meredith chuckled, unable to resist his enthusiasm. "But this maiden won't wait just anywhere. Up in the loft, I think! The dragon will find me there."
With a whoop of delight, Caelum dashed out of the cottage, leaving Meredith to follow at a more leisurely pace. Every step into this world of play felt like shedding a layer of worry and discontent.
As she climbed the ladder into the loft, the scent of sun-dried grass and a hint of horses a soothing balm, she finally let herself believe, just for a little while, in brave knights, fierce dragons, and the sweet joy of being rescued.
She knew that grown up, her little ball of sunshine would be the most charming of knights if the seven sent star's blessing continued to heal him as it was. She would have to carry a big stick to beat off the grasping noble ladies who would vie for her little brother's hands. She couldn't wait.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
A heavy scent of old parchment and burning beeswax hung thick in the hushed hallway outside their father's solar. Willas wriggled closer to the heavy oak door, his heart pounding a rhythm of anticipation.
They were hidden well behind the curtains that covered the window that adorned the walls from the highest wing of the castle, looking at the buildings beneath. The briar city labyrinth looked beautiful from so high above.
They had their ear pressed tightly to the door just beside the window, which led into their father's solar.
Beside him, Garlan giggled, a barely contained bubble of excitement.
"He'll be mad," Garlan whispered, his eyes wide. "Mother said we were to be with Anya today."
Willas snorted. "And Mother thinks we are with Anya," he countered. "Plus she also said that we're supposed to learn more from father. This is learning dear brother o' mine."
Garlan nodded his head slightly, and giggled again "Can you hear anything?" he whispered
Willas put his small finger to his lips and shushed him.
He pressed his ear closer, a faint murmur of voices coming through the wood.
A shadow loomed, and Willas whirled around. Toman of Mander Banks village, marched towards them, a frown creasing his brow. Disaster!
"Young lords," Toman said, his voice surprisingly gentle for such a large man. "What brings you out here? You're supposed to be with Anya."
Garlan gulped, looking ready to bolt, but Willas stepped forward. It was time for desperate measures. "Please," he pleaded, widening his eyes for good measure. "We heard Father speaking inside. We want to listen. Just for a moment?" He cast a hopeful glance at the solar door.
Toman paused, his bushy scruffy blonde eyebrows drawing together. Then, to Willas' astonishment, a slow grin spread across the guard's face. "Just a moment, eh?" He winked a flicker of mischief in his eyes. "And not a word to anyone, especially your mother. Be quick about it now."
A surge of relief flooded Willas, followed by a jolt of excitement. They'd done it! With a gleeful grin, he and Garlan darted back to the door, pressing their ears close once more.
Now, tantalizing fragments reached their ears. "Yes, Maester... name day celebration," they heard their uncle Quentin. "Princess Rhaenys..."
"Tourney?" Garlan breathed, his eyes lighting up.
Willas nodded, a thrill coursing through him.
"...Lord Whent… Shircy Whent... Harrenhal... my lord?" Another voice, this one unmistakably Maester Lomys' followed by their father's booming reply. "House Tyrell will attend, of course..."
They exchanged excited glances, barely stifled giggles bubbling up.
A Tourney! And they were going!
They couldn't wait. There'd be all sorts of battles, knights from all over the realms battling in the melee, the joust and so much more!
Their whispered cheers were a little too loud. A sharp gasp cut through their excitement, followed by the rustle of heavy skirts and the rapid click of shoes on stone.
"Young lords!" The familiar voice of Anya, filled with a mix of exasperation and alarm, pierced the air.
Willas and Garlan froze, hearts pounding. They'd been caught! In their scramble to escape, Willas tripped over his own feet, knocking Garlan aside. They tumbled towards the solar door, and Toman tried to make a grab for them but failed as they fell on the door as it swung inside.
Inside the solar, the voices fell silent. "Willas? Garlan? Where is Anya?"
"I am sorry m'lord. They had asked to let them listen; I indulged their fancy in this matter" Toman said as he bowed his head.
Their father stared at him for a moment, they watched their uncle trying to hold in a laugh. Even Maester Lomys was hiding a smile.
After a moment, their father smiled too, and as he was about to say something, Anya came blundering into the solar behind them.
She swooped down upon them, her normally composed face flushed with a mix of fury and relief. "My lords, whatever possessed you to run off like that?" she fussed, straightening their tunics and hastily smoothing their hair.
His cheeks burning, Willas mumbled an apology, struggling to find an excuse that wouldn't get them into even more trouble. Thankfully, Father came to their rescue.
"No harm done, Anya," Lord Tyrell chuckled. "Boys will be boys. Best send them on their way now. I have important matters to attend to. Toman, see them out."
The guard bowed his head "Yes, m'lord"
The maid bowed, but her glare towards the brothers promised a different sort of attention later. "Come along now, young lords," she said, herding them away from the solar. "To the sept, if you please. Some prayers and begging for forgiveness from the Seven will clear your conscience."
As they were marched down the corridor, Willas caught his brother's eye. Garlan's face still held a trace of worry, but beneath it, the spark of excitement about the tourney remained undimmed.
Anya marched them towards the sept, her every step radiating disapproval. The weight of their punishment – an hour of prayers to atone for their disobedience – weighed on Willas, but couldn't completely snuff out his excitement.
As they skirted the bustling training yard on their way to the sept in the by the inner wall of briar city, the familiar sounds pulled at his attention like a magnet: steel ringing against steel, grunts of exertion, and the sharp commands of instructors.
"Come on," he whispered to Garlan, barely containing a grin. "Just for a moment..."
Without waiting for his brother's reply, Willas steered them towards the edge of the yard. They skirted the outer circle, eyes glued to the whirlwind of activity within. Squires clashed with blunt swords, sweat gleaming on their brow. Guardsmen, faces hardened with experience, practiced complex maneuvers with deadly efficiency. And at the far end, archers loosed their arrows with fluid grace, their targets barely a blur of motion.
Willas felt a familiar thrill course through him. Their eavesdropping earlier had ignited a spark; now the sight of these warriors only fueled it. What would it feel like, to command such skill, such power?
Lost in his musings, he didn't notice the tall figure approaching until a stern voice boomed out across the yard.
"Lord Willas! Lord Garlan!"
They startled, turning to find Ser Vortimer Crane, the castle's Master-at-Arms, marching towards them.
"Would you like to try your hand, Lord Willas? You're plenty old enough" the large man asked.
Anya who had come searching for her wayward lords, again, her lips pursed. "My lord, they need to go to the sept…"
Before she could continue, Ser Vortimer held up a hand, silencing her. "A brief delay won't hurt, I'm sure," he said, his gaze settling on Willas. A glint of amusement softened his stern features. "You'll be of age for training soon enough, young lord. Perhaps a taste of the blade would stir your blood?"
Willas's eyes widened. An opportunity like this was something out of his wildest dreams! "I... I would be honored, Ser!"
Anya sputtered in protest, but Ser Vortimer waved her off with a dismissive chuckle. "Nonsense, woman. We all know the lords of Highgarden were born to the saddle and the sword. Let the boy have his lesson!"
He beckoned Willas into the yard, then turned and shouted, "Parmen! Fetch a wooden sword for the young lord!"
With trembling hands, Willas grasped the wooden sword. It felt heavier than he imagined, yet thrillingly solid. Ser Vortimer stood before him, his weathered face transformed by a teacher's patience.
"First, the stance," he boomed. "Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent. Balance is key." Willas tried to imitate his stance, feeling the unfamiliar alignment of his body.
"Now, the thrust," Ser Vortimer continued. "Extend your arm, blade forward, step with your dominant foot. It's about speed and precision."
Parmen, standing nearby, demonstrated the jab, his movements sharp and purposeful. Willas attempted to mirror them, but his thrusts were clumsy, his steps stumbling. Ser Vortimer chuckled, a low rumble that held no mockery.
"It takes time, young lord. Even the mightiest oaks were once acorns. Let's try a block now. Raise your sword high, parry your opponent's blow."
Round after round they practiced – thrusts, blocks, and simple footwork. Each movement was a tiny victory, a step closer to the warriors he so admired. Beside him, Garlan watched in wide-eyed awe, declaring, "I'm going to a be a knight! And win all the tourneys in the Seven Kingdoms!"
Finally, after three rounds of practice, Ser Vortimer called a halt. "Enough for today. You show promise, young lord." He clapped Willas on the shoulder, the praise making his chest swell with pride.
Anya, though still clearly disapproving, couldn't entirely hide the flicker of surprise on her face. With a sigh of resignation, she ushered them away. "Come, young lords. We've dallied long enough. The sept awaits."
As they walked, their earlier punishment forgotten, Willas felt a new energy coursing through him. The sept might promise stillness and prayer, under the watchful eyes of the Seven who are one, but his thoughts were now aflame with visions of future training sessions, the taste of steel, and the roar of a crowd cheering his name.
Anya nudged them towards a row of empty pews. "Now, remember, young lords," she instructed with a stern frown, "an hour of sincere prayer to atone for your disobedience."
They knelt obediently, doing their best to focus on the words of prayer. Yet, the excitement of the day buzzed relentlessly within them. Once Anya was satisfied, and had disappeared back into the castle, Willas leaned towards Garlan.
"Can you believe it?" he whispered. "Knights, and jousts, and... everything!"
Garlan grinned, his eyes gleaming. "We have to go, Willas, we must to the tourney!" he declared, his voice swelling in dramatic emphasis.
Just then, a boy near the altar let out a stifled grunt. He turned, and their eyes met.
The only other occupant of the sept was a boy, perhaps the same age as Parmen, hunched near the altar. His form was almost hidden in the bench at the fore of the Sept. His presence was missed by all the new occupants of the Sept.
His ragged clothes and his face dirty. His matted scraggy blonde hair was a mess. The boy was clutching his side, a flicker of pain passing across his features.
"What tourney?" he asked, his voice a little pained.
Willas and Garlan exchanged a confused glance. They hadn't even noticed him before! "The tourney at Harrenhal," Willas answered slowly. "To celebrate the princess's name day."
The boy's brow furrowed. "Harrenhal? That's…. in the riverlands, isn't it?" He shook his head.
A flicker of an idea sparked in Willas' mind. He leaned forward, an air of importance settling around him. "Who are you, anyway?"
The boy smiled, though it seemed a little pained as he clutched his rib again. "Oh, I'm Luke," he muttered. "Luke from the village by the river."
Garlan, ever eager and open-hearted, chimed in with a friendly smile. "I'm Garlan Tyrell. He's my brother, Willas."
Luke's eyes widened in surprise. Then, as if realizing his earlier boldness, a flush crept up his neck. "Didn't mean to pry, my lords," he muttered, averting his gaze. "Apologies."
Willas waved him off. "No bother at all, Luke. Say, are you okay?"
"Oh, yeah. I'm fine" Luke echoed with a wry twist of his lips. "I'm Ser Crane's page, and practice was a bit harsh today."
"Well," Garlan began, "Ah, Ser Vortimer is so strong! I'm sure you'll be a knight big and strong like him."
Luke shifted uncomfortably, his wince becoming more pronounced. He looked at Garlan for a moment, and it almost seemed as though he was looking at him and seeing someone else. He smiled "As you say, my Lord."
Willas then asked "You said your name was Luke? Is your father perhaps Toman from the Mander banks village, the guard?"
Luke's eyes grew wide. "Aye, he's my father. You know him?"
"He let us listen in on Father's meeting!" Willas exclaimed. "The whole reason we got in trouble. You should come with us to the tourney!"
"My lord, I would love to" Luke admitted, "but I am just a page. We can't fight tourneys."
"Of course!" Garlan piped up. "The whole household, practically!"
"Well, neither can we silly" Garlan piped in, "But there will be so many knights there, in the melee, the jousts, and in archery. It will be fun!"
"Yeah, I was too young to go to the tourney in the storm lands, but I've heard a lot of good fighters show up there!" Willas added in. "And considering House Tyrell will be there, your father will be joining us as our guard. You can come with him!"
Luke hesitated, and then he asked "Do … do you think I can bring more people with me?"
Willas titled his head to the side, a frown etched on his face "How many people?"
Luke looked determined all of a sudden "Two…. Just two." He replied.
Willas and Garlan nodded a little confused by his sudden shift in tone "two is fine, most squires end up bringing some family along anyway. You'll have to bring your own horse though."
Luke nodded, eyes set. "I-I think I will come."
The three new friends cheered, and as they continued talking about the tourney and all they were going to see there.
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A/N: Well, this was a fun chapter. Damn character interactions are tough. Anyway, hope this story doesn't seem like it's moving too fast or anything.
Tourney awaits
"It's too soon," Harlon said, his voice thick with concern. "He's a boy, Luke. Barely six name days. Still too young for all that..."
Luke could taste the frustration rising in his throat. "Just one tourney, Uncle Harlon! He needs to see it, to understand the world beyond your fields, beyond this village."
"I know." Harlon sighed, running a hand through his graying hair. "It's still too soon!"
Harlon met Luke's gaze, his eyes hard, "He's strong, Luke. Stronger than we give him credit for. But a Great tourney like you're suggesting Harrenhal is going to be? Knights and Lords from all over the realms?... The King himself in attendance? ... it's... overwhelming, even for seasoned men."
Serra knew that Harlon was not blind to the realities of the world. The man had lost his family to war that had no part in the reach. His brothers were knighted for the war, by Lords not their own, for a war their liege had no hand in, and died in service to a liege that didn't even remember their name.
She knew that he meant to hide the boy behind his shield of fatherhood. Even now, the young star was off at the Sept receiving tutelage in numbers and letters from the Septon in the village.
Luke leaned forward, driven by a desire he could barely put into words. "That's the point," he said, his voice filled with earnest conviction. "He needs to see it all, the good and the bad. Needs to open his eyes to the truth, his childish ideals will see him killed. When he knows, and witnesses the truth with his own eyes…."
Harlon's eyes darkened "You think my son will break, seeing the violence, the depravity, and senseless deaths that the Knights indulge in? I thought you knew him, now I think you don't know him at all."
Luke's fingers tightened around the edge of the table. The accusation stung, but he wouldn't back down. "I do know him," he insisted, "and I know that the truth will set him free. Free from chasing a foolish dream that will only hurt him."
"And what truth is that, Luke?" Elyna's voice held both weariness and a flicker of anger. "That knights are all brutes? That there's no honor left in the world? Caelum sees goodness in everything, he has a quiet strength in him. He will be a knight worthy of the title! He will change the world!"
Luke met Elyna's defiance head-on. "Mayhap, if he had the strength of arms to go with it, or the birth of a lord to aid him," he conceded, "But it's a world for hard men, not dreamers. A world where birth determines his worth. Caelum doesn't have that hardness in him. His goodness will be his downfall on that battlefield, childish dreams aside, his sickness alone will make certain that he will never be a Knight!"
Harlon surged to his feet, seeing the younger boy of four and ten shrink, he swallowed harshly and sat back down. "You promised him," he said with quiet calm, his voice measured. "You promised Caelum you'd be his knight, give him a chance he'd never have otherwise."
Luke winced, a wave of shame washing over him. The promise had been made when he couldn't refuse the boy's eager blue eyes, a pledge born of love and admiration for the little boy who saw him as a hero.
"And now you're taking that away from him too?" Harlon pressed. His voice wasn't harsh, but the accusation cut Luke to the core. "Not content with shattering his dream, you'd break his trust as well?"
Luke looked away, unable to meet Harlon's eyes. "It's not like that," he began, but the words felt hollow even to his own ears.
Despair settled over him, suffocating the last flickering embers of defiance. "I will not break the promise," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "because I'll never be a knight."
Elyna gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Harlon's gaze snapped to his, a mix of surprise and dawning realization mirroring her own.
"Ser Crane..." Luke swallowed, the words he'd held back for so long spilling out in a choked rush, "...he won't have me. A page is what I am, a squire I may become, but a knight? That's a dream best forgotten." His voice trailed off into a bitter silence.
"But why, Luke?" Elyna's voice held a pleading note, "You're strong, skilled..."
He cut her off, a harsh edge to his voice he couldn't control. "To be a knight, I must win a tourney and impress better men than I. For that, I neither have the money, nor the standing. Ser Crane won't lend me the coin to participate... the dream is over."
Serra could see the realization dawn on her face – that Luke's determination stemmed not just from a protective desire, but from his own bitterness and crushed ambition.
Luke's broken confession echoed in the charged silence. Serra's heart twisted for her son, but underneath the worry was a flicker of defiant hope. This was his blind spot, born of his own pain.
Serra moved to stand beside Luke, her touch on his shoulder gentle but firm. "This isn't just about strength of arms, Luke," she said, her voice quiet but filled with conviction.
"I don't want to see him die," he muttered, his voice choked with despair, "I can't do that to him, Mother, not like this."
Serra's heart ached for her son, the despair in his voice cutting deeper than any sword. "And do you think death on a battlefield is the only kind he could face?" she asked softly, her voice laced with a quiet strength, as she moved to kneel beside him.
Luke looked up, a flicker of confusion replacing the anguish in his eyes.
"Caelum has fought for every breath since the day he was born," she continued. "He knows struggle in his very bones. Don't you see, Luke? That fight, that spirit... it's the most powerful weapon he could carry."
She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in. "And you, my son," she said, her voice softening, "You underestimate yourself. You may not see the path laid before you, but that doesn't mean it's not there."
Luke scoffed, the bitterness returning to his voice. "And what path is that, Mother? One paved with broken promises and a master who sees me as nothing more than a stable hand despite being his page?"
Serra gently touched his shoulder. "Your heart is strong, Luke. There's a fire in you, a desire to protect, to fight for what you believe in. That's a kind of strength those knights may never know. In the name of the Mother, A Knight must protect the innocent, and you're trying to protect Caelum. Seeking to break him is the wrong way to do it."
Harlon watched the exchange, conflict still visible in his features. His heart ached for the boy sitting in front of him. Luke… so full of youthful fire, and now crushed under the weight of his own unfulfilled dreams.
Harlon didn't entirely disagree with Luke's arguments, the dangers were real. But the spark of determination in Serra's eyes, the way she believed in his Caelum, and in her own son.
He did not want his son to see the truths of this world so soon, but they were right. He will not be able to shelter him forever.
A flicker of memory crossed his face, a fleeting image of his brothers – bold young men cut down before their prime, knighted for a war that wasn't theirs. They'd chased glory, and found only dust. But Caelum...
"He's not like the rest of us, Luke," Harlon admitted, the words heavy in the charged silence. "There's a light in him...a stubbornness that goes beyond mere boyhood spirit. Maybe...maybe he won't wilt when he sees the world as it truly is."
He sighed, the image of his lost brothers fading, replaced by the clear, determined gaze of his son. "He wants this, Luke. And perhaps..." his voice trailed off, then he looked at his wife. Elyna, as always, seemed to read his thoughts. "He will change the world. Elyna, she is right. And you will see it too."
Silence followed his declaration. He watched the young boy look at him wearily, his mother's hand held tightly in his own.
"Luke" Harlon finally said after a long pause, his gruff voice hard, determined. His eyes bore into those of the boy in front of him "You swear to me. By the Seven, by your own life, that no harm will befall my son on this journey?"
Serra answered before Luke could fully comprehend the question. "He will, Harlon. Toman will be there, guarding Lord Tyrell. He will keep Caelum safe."
Harlon continued to stare at Luke, unyielding.
Luke swallowed hard, the weight of the promise settling on him like a knight's armor. "I swear it," he finally said, his voice low and solemn. "By the Seven, on my life... he will be safe."
He hesitated, then continued, a flicker of sheepishness replacing the despair. "I...I had thought... it might be wise to include Meredith. I had met the young Lords, Lord Willas and Lord Garlan. About the same age as Caelum. A familiar face for Caelum... and it could be a chance for her as well. Perhaps, if she serves well, a position in the castle, tending to Lord Tyrell's young sons..."
Harlon raised an eyebrow, a knowing glint in his eye. "Not just thinking of Caelum, are you?"
Luke flushed slightly, then met Harlon's gaze with surprising steadiness. "She deserves a chance too, Uncle. She can leave the inn, work at the castle, and earn more coin. And...it could help Caelum, seeing a familiar face, someone to ease his way into this cruel world."
Harlon gave a low chuckle, a hint of his former gruffness returning. "Clever boy," he said, a grudging admiration in his voice. "Always a plan, eh?"
Luke shrugged, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Someone has to."
He turned to Elyna, the question clear in his eyes.
Elyna bit her lip, worry warring with the fierce pride shining. Finally, she nodded, a shaky "Yes, our boy is going to change the world"
Harlon sighed a heavy sound that spoke of the internal battle he'd just fought and lost. A moment passed, the silence thick with unspoken feelings.
"Very well," he finally said, the words raspy in his throat. "It seems my son is going on a grand adventure." He managed a wry smile. "Show him then. But it is your eyes that will be opened. Wiser he may become, but the truth of this world is something he will decide." Harlon said determinedly, looking out of the window of his farmhouse at his field.
The sun was setting slowly into the distance, the sky slowly reddening.
He paused, his weathered gaze resting on Luke's face. "And Luke...when the time comes, and I know it will, when you set out to make that oath a reality, to fight in tourneys should you need it, you'll take my horse, Thunderbolt for the journey. And an extra purse of coin, from Caelum and me. That way, your promise to him doesn't weigh down a man's spirit along with my boy's dream."
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
The scent of horses and woodsmoke mingled with the sharp tang of polished steel. Meredith bit back a yawn, her fingers moving deftly as she smoothed the silken cloak.
"Careful with that fold, child," Lady Alerie's voice, though soft, carried a note of command. "Willas won't notice the wrinkles, but he needs to look his best.." She leaned closer, her perfume a heady mix of rose and jasmine, almost overwhelming Meredith. "And remember the honeyed figs for Garlan. He has such a sweet tooth, Seven bless him."
Meredith nodded quickly, hands fumbling slightly with the cloak. "Yes, my lady. I'll see to it right away." The words felt stiff, formal. She did not want to cause offense to the lady so soon into her work.
Lady Alerie gave a satisfied nod, her gaze sweeping over Meredith. "See that you do, girl. Remember, you represent House Tyrell now. But no need to be stiff, you're part of the household now."
The dismissal was clear, though not unkind. Meredith dipped into a hasty curtsy, heart pounding. She turned and curtseyed again to Lady Olenna, who was sat by the fire in the large tent watching her hawkishly. She quickly made her retreat.
A wave of dizziness washed over her, not just from the cloying perfume, but from the weight of those final words. She was no longer just a girl from the inn; every wrinkle she smoothed, every word she spoke, now carried the burden of an entire noble house.
Despite the mundane tasks, a thrill of excitement still coursed through Meredith. Weeks ago, she scrubbed floors and dodged drunks at the inn; now, she tended to young lords... and her dear little brother.
Luke had convinced her mother to let her join him and Caelum to go the Grand tourney at Harrenhall, alongside Lord Tyrell's party. Her mother had been easy to convince, the work he had gotten for her as a maid looking after the little Lords Willas and Garlan paid good coin, better than the inn work she did in the village.
The sweet boy had done it for her, she knew. She had fretted to him during their little plays with Caelum, about the increasingly disgusting groping hands at the inn that disturbed her. And he had somehow managed to find her this job as a result.
She got to spend more time with her little brother too as a result, Luke somehow miraculously knowing the little Lords of Highgarden personally, making an introduction between her ball of sunshine and the lordlings immediately favorable, that they had become fast friends in truth.
She had originally worried that Lady Tyrell, especially Lady Olenna would take offense at someone of their low birth befriending her grandsons, but the older woman had not spoken a word on the matter and instead had actually encouraged the friendship.
She was glad, she couldn't be happier.
They were on the road, on their way along the Rose Road to Kings Landing and then to High Garden. Along with the party of nearly three hundred, consisting of guards, knights, servants, and lords from all over the reach who were looking to go the Grand Tourney of Harrenhall to win glory.
Her gaze, drawn by the sounds of clashing steel, wandered away from the tents. Just beyond the bustle of the camp, a group of knights sparred in a makeshift training yard. The gleam of armor, the fluid power of their movements, held her transfixed.
Sunlight flashed blindingly off Ser Quentin Tyrell's polished breastplate as he lunged, his practice sword a blur of motion. Ser Vortimer Crane, older and perhaps a touch slower, parried the blow with a grunt. Steel clashed against steel, the sharp ring echoing through the camp. They circled each other, each breath measured, each movement fueled by years of discipline.
Ser Quentin, with his golden brown hair and confident grin as he deflected a blow, was like a hero straight out of the stories she'd heard.
A warmth spread through her cheeks, a mix of awe and something more...fluttery.
Maybe...maybe a knight like him could look at her, a simple maid, and see something more. Could she be the brave and beautiful lady he'd rescue from some terrible danger? The one he'd dedicate his victories to? The very absurdity of the thought made her giggle softly, the sound mingling with the clash of steel.
"Did you see that?" A boy, younger than Caelum by her measure, bounced excitedly beside Meredith. "My father's the best, isn't he?"
Meredith blinked, pulled from her daydreaming. "Oh...yes," she managed, "Your… father?"
The boy beamed. "Ser Quentin Tyrell, cousin to Lord Mace himself!" He paused, then leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He doesn't like to say it but he's the best Knight in the seven kingdoms!"
Meredith nodded, struggling to place the names in the vast web of Tyrell relations.
Her disappointment was immediate and surprisingly sharp. So Ser Quentin was married, had a family...of course he would be.
Her gaze instinctively slid back to the sparring yard.
There was a solidity to Ser Vortimer Crane, a quiet strength that appealed to her in a way Ser Quentin's youthful flamboyance didn't. He was tall, comely, and strong, and if she remembered correctly Luke was a page to the Knight himself.
The Knight deflected Ser Quentin's latest charge with an ease born of experience, his weathered face a mask of concentration.
"I'm sure you will be a big strong knight like your father when you grow up." She offered.
The boy beamed, clearly delighted, then promptly forgot about Meredith as he launched into an excited recap of the sparring match. She kept nodding at his increased commentary on the fight.
The men continued the spar, and a small crowd of Knights gathered to watch. Far in the distance, she saw Luke standing and watching hawkishly at the display, beside him was another boy, dressed in a battle-ready tunic. He was highborn if the surcoat stitched to his tunic, was any measure.
When she saw that the boy was looking right at her, her face flushed uncontrollably.
The highborn boy in the distance was definitely watching her. The surcoat looked to be that of birds, cranes she realized, on a crest. The surcoat of House Crane.
Her gaze couldn't help but drift back to Ser Vortimer. The fight was nearing its end, Ser Quentin Tyrell was matching Ser Crane blow for blow, and the spar was nearing its end. Ser Crane made to bind the younger Tyrell knight's sword, his sword flashing. But the cousin to their liege proved too quick and countered disarming Highgarden's master at arms in a swift flurry of blows.
The camp cheered, and her gaze returned to the highborn boy who was clearly Ser Crane's son. His gaze hadn't left her even then. He was watching her, and her face grew hotter still.
He wasn't smiling, but there was a focus in his eyes, an intensity that held her transfixed. For the first time, a small, almost smile touched his lips.
A thrill shot through Meredith, a mix of surprise and a fluttering excitement she couldn't quite name. His interest was unexpected, and flattering. The son of a powerful knight noticing her, a simple maid... it was like something out of the stories her father used to read her.
"Well fought, my Lord," Ser Vortimer's voice sounded, thick with a weariness he couldn't quite conceal. "You're sure to make a good showing in the melee."
He extended a hand to Ser Quentin, who grasped it with a grin.
"It was your training Ser, I am sure had you been younger you would have bested me" Ser Quentin replied, shaking the older knight's offered hand.
"Yeah, right. No one can beat my dad" Olymer Tyrell scoffed beside her, though he had a big grin on his face.
She smiled at the innocent boy, and looked back across the camp. The highborn son of the Knight was now slowly making his way toward her.
Her heart quickened.
But before he could reach her, Anya's voice called her "Meredith! There you are! You need to head to Lord Willas and Lord Garlan. The little lords need his honeyed fig." She said, as the older maid approached.
Meredith's stomach knotted. Duty, as always, came first. Yet, as she glanced back towards Parmen, the flicker of disappointment in his eyes was clear. A pang of guilt mixed with a strange frustration warred within her.
"Of course, Anya," she managed, the words feeling heavy. She offered the boy beside her a quick, apologetic smile. "Forgive me, young lord. My duties call." With a final glance in Parmen's direction, she turned and hurried after Anya.
As she walked, the weight of Parmen's gaze lingered on her shoulders.
"Meredith, focus!" Anya's sharp voice jolted her from her thoughts. "Lord Willas is playing knight with Lord Garlan, Caelum is with them. You know how to look after children better than I, so please give these figs to Lord Garlan, and watch over them for the time being. I need to prepare dinner for the little lords."
She shook off her reverie and made her way to the clearing where the children were playing.
The closer Meredith drew to the clearing, the clearer the sounds of chaos became. Shrill yells, the rhythmic clash of sticks, and occasional peals of laughter all mingled together in a symphony of childish battle.
Her dear Caelum had made fast friends with the sons of Lord Mace Tyrell, after Luke had introduced them.
How Luke knew the Lord's children, she didn't know.
It was good for Caelum, she mused. Getting to know children his own age, after the whispers of him being cursed by the stars, the children back home had been a little hesitant to approach her little brother. Though he had managed to make a few friends there as well.
"Stand fast, Ser Garlan! The bandits are upon us!" A high-pitched voice pierced the air, and Meredith couldn't help but smile. That was definitely Lord Willas, his dramatics as boundless as his energy.
"Aye, my lord! I shall vanquish them all!" chirped a smaller voice, presumably Garlan. She could picture him now, tiny chest puffed out, wielding his stick-sword with more valor than precision.
Before the game could go much further, she interjected, "Lord Garlan, I have brought figs that your mother sent for you," she said, her voice soft.
"Leave them there, in the corner. I'll take them later" the little lord responded before refocusing his attention on the game.
Willas merely grunted in response, far too preoccupied with giving orders to acknowledge the offering.
Before she could even take a step back, a small voice called out, "Meredith! Come play princess!" Caelum stood at the edge of the makeshift battlefield, his stick-sword held awkwardly at his side. His blue eyes, so like her own, were wide and hopeful, and she found she couldn't refuse him.
A pang of hesitation pricked at Meredith's heart. "Oh, Caelum," she began, hesitantly, "I don't think I should intrude. I need to..."
Just then, Lord Willas' booming voice cut through the air. "Perfect!" he declared, stomping his foot for emphasis. "You'll be the princess in need of rescuing! Caelum shall kidnap you, and Ser Garlan and I – the bravest knights in all the kingdoms – will fight to save you!"
Meredith glanced around the clearing, half-expecting Anya's disapproval to descend at any moment.
Yet, there was no sign of the older woman, just the wide, expectant eyes of the children. And Caelum... her sweet brother looked so hopeful, a fleeting respite from the cough that often wracked his small body. He was, at least in this moment, just a boy with a wooden sword and dreams of grand adventure.
"Very well," she relented, a reluctant smile playing on her lips. If her duties were to include playing princess for these rambunctious lords, then so be it. "But be gentle with your captive, brave kidnapper!"
She settled down on a fallen log, trying to play the part of a distressed damsel with a touch of humor. As the boys launched into their
chaotic "rescue mission", complete with clumsy sword fighting and over-the-top declarations, Meredith's heart swelled.
"Yield, bandit!" Willas bellowed, his stick-sword raised high.
"Never! The princess is mine-" A sharp cough cut through Caelum's laughter. Hot stab of pain clear in his chest.
Meredith's smile faltered, her eyes instantly drawn to her brother. He doubled over, small fists clutching his chest.
"Caelum?" Her voice held a thread of worry.
Willas and Garlan froze, their battle forgotten.
But Caelum, with the stubborn resilience of a true bandit, straightened with a gasp. "I'm fine, I'm fine!" he insisted, his usual grin a touch shaky. "Don't stop on my account. The princess is mine!"
Meredith hesitated, her gaze flickered between Caelum's determined expression and the worry etched on Willas and Garlan's small faces.
For a moment, the weight of responsibility pressed heavily upon her.
But seeing the resolve, and quickly resumed state of their game, her worry subsided. Laughter and merriment of the children replaced it.
There was only laughter, the thrill of the game, and a fierce love that made her willing to be a princess, a villain, or anything at all if it meant seeing that spark of joy in her brother's eyes.
Her heart swelled, as she fully embraced the childish wonders and began to play alongside the boys in true. All thoughts of her would be knightly courtier forgotten in the pure joy of her brother's laughter.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
The campfire hissed within the spacious tent, its flickering light casting dancing shadows on the canvas walls. Meredith's voice rose and fell, weaving a tale for the children. "The brave knight, Ser Florian, stood before the monstrous dragon. Its breath was like a furnace blast, its claws sharp as scythes. But Florian was undaunted, for he bore the Sword of Starlight, forged by the children of the forest themselves..."
Willas gasped, clutching the edge of his makeshift seat cushion. "Did it breathe fire, Meredith? Real fire?"
"The hottest fire you can imagine!" Meredith confirmed, her eyes twinkling.
Garlan snorted. "No one can fight dragons."
"Can too!" Willas retorted, shoving his brother playfully.
Olenna watched from her seat near Lady Alerie, a flicker of amusement tugging at her lips.
Meredith was a good addition to their household. Lowborn, and young enough with no mind for games that her work allowed. And skilled in taking care of children, keeping them enraptured and entertained to boot.
Mayhaps, she will become a permanent retainer for House Tyrell in the future.
"...and with a mighty cry," Meredith continued, "Ser Florian plunged the Sword of Starlight deep into the dragon's heart. Light exploded forth, blinding the beast, and with a final roar, it crumbled to ash!"
The boys erupted in cheers, but Caelum, the farmer's son, remained quiet. He sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes wide and fixed on Meredith, a longing in his gaze that tugged at Olenna's heartstrings.
"M-Meredith?" Caelum's voice was barely above a whisper. "Can you... tell another story? Please?"
Willas and Garlan, ever ready for more tales, joined in. "Yeah, Meredith! One more!"
Meredith smiled, her eyes warm. "Alright, but just a short one. It's getting late."
Olenna watched the peasant boy's face light up. An addition to Meredith in truth, and the page of their master-at-arms, Luke if she remembered
correctly.
Seems the boy wanted to see a tourney, and the page took the opportunity presented to him by her grandsons. Sharp that one.
Such an earnest child, Caelum was she mused.
He wore his heart on his sleeve, completely unprepared to face the practiced smiles of highborn heirs.
Such openness would be a vulnerability in the harsh reality of court, but for Willas and Garlan... it could be a valuable lesson. A lesson in learning of the life of their eventual responsibility.
And mayhaps, should he recover fully, there was more for him here than just friendship. Perhaps a guardsman loyal to Willas with a true heart... yes, or even a knight, if the gods were truly kind.
A loyal knight with no lands of his own, and gratitude to House Tyrell, that would provide a perspective that her Garlan couldn't, that of the small folk and the commonly forgotten would help Willas when he eventually took on the title of Lord of Highgarden.
Olenna's gaze lingered on the boy. Caelum Starborne.
Star cursed, some said.
She cared not. He was a friend to her grandchildren now, and should that friendship lead to something beneficial to them, she didn't mind.
Mayhaps she may even have Maester Lomys look over the boy's illness once they returned, if he proved as useful as she thought he could be.
The maid he had come with was proving her worth already. Anya was overworked with the children, and underprepared for them as it is.
"And so, the clever farm girl said," Meredith chirped, her voice turned high and squeaky, "'Ser Grumpkin, ser, would you like a nice, shiny lace for your coat? It's the very latest fashion in the King's court!"
The boys giggled. Even Caelum, with his eyelids as heavy as stones, managed a grin.
"The Grumpkin, he grumbled and snarled," Meredith's voice boomed, deep and gruff. "'Lace are for women! I want a juicy princess!'"
Willas squirmed in his seat. "But princesses are too smart for Grumpkins!"
"Exactly!" Meredith winked. "So the farm girl, she tricked that grumpy grumpkin, by telling him the lace was that of a princess' gown, and tied it to the giant grumpkins tail. He need only get a smell of its scent to find his princess, so he was tricked into chasing his own tail 'round and 'round, till he got so dizzy he plopped right into the river! Splash!"
Caelum's yawn was so wide, it nearly swallowed his whole face. His eyes fluttered shut, then snapped open again. "He...he drowned?" The worry in his voice was faint, but real.
Meredith's smile softened. "Not at all! Grumpkins may be grumpy, but they can swim like fish. He just learned his lesson, and went grumbling back under his bridge."
Willas and Garlan sighed with relief. Even in the flickering firelight, Olenna could see the beginnings of sleepiness tugging at their young
faces.
"Bedtime, my lords," Anya's practical voice cut through the cozy atmosphere. "Those stories can wait for another night." She smiled at Meredith. "You've done a fine job tiring them out, girl."
Lady Alerie stood, her needlework complete, a beautiful tunic for Garlan in the colors of House Tyrell with subtle Hightower colors hidden in them. "Come, Willas, Garlan. Time for sleep so you can be strong and brave like the knights in Meredith's stories."
The boys obediently scrambled to their feet, though Willas couldn't resist one last plea. "Just one more story, Mother?"
Lady Alerie chuckled. "Not tonight dear. Now, goodnight to you all." With a final warm glance at Olenna, she ushered the boys out of the tent.
Meredith soon followed as she curtsied, and Caelum attempted a clumsy bow—more a half-hearted dip, really— before scrambling after them.
A smile touched Olenna's lips as she watched them go.
Those were an addition to their household that she needed to know more about. If only to satiate her curiosity as to their nature in private.
Olenna rose and discreetly followed them out of the tent.
The night air was crisp, the stars glittering overhead. Caelum stood beside Meredith, both looking towards the section of the camp where the servants' tents were clustered.
"Thank you, Meredith," the boy murmured, his voice thick with sleep. "For the stories."
"You're most welcome, Caelum," Meredith replied, her voice soft. "Sleep well, and perhaps tomorrow, there'll be tales of princesses and hidden treasure! And games of all sorts once the party stops to rest when it needs it again."
Caelum nodded, a wide smile spreading across his face. Then he was off, his thin legs carrying him with surprising speed towards his humble abode for the night.
The boy stayed with one of their guards, Toman if she remembered correctly. And his son, Luke. The one who had arranged the maid, and the boy's arrival in their household.
The night air carried Meredith's soft goodbye, and silence descended upon the space between two tents.
Olenna, cloaked in the shadows, watched as Meredith turned towards her own small shelter, by her charges as her duties required. Willas and Garlan would need her aid come morn to get ready for further travel as the party would move along the road to their destination.
A flicker of exhaustion dimming the warmth in her brown eyes.
As she approached the small tent beside her own Grandchildren, a figure was waiting for her – Luke, the master-at-arms's page.
A lanky lad with a shock of sandy blonde hair and cerulean eyes.
"Meredith," he spoke quietly, "All well? The lords seem happy enough with you."
A relieved smile spread across Meredith's face. "Yes, they're sweet boys. And Lady Alerie seems pleased, which is all that matters, really."
"Good," Luke nodded, a hint of his own satisfaction in his voice. "The old maid, Anya, is less of a grump, too. You've lightened her load a fair bit." His gaze softened. "Is it... do you find it comfortable here?"
Meredith hesitated, then gave a small nod. "It's hard work, and I miss my mum, and Jerren sometimes. But… they're good people. And the children," a genuine fondness warmed her voice, "I like them, truly."
Meredith stifled a yawn. "Caelum's tucked in for the night. Must be sound asleep with your father by now." She gave Luke a tired smile. "Thank you for checking in."
Luke nodded, his expression softening. "No trouble at all. Glad you're settling in well, then."
The moment was interrupted by a new presence. A shadow broke the pool of firelight, revealing the figure of Parmen Crane, heir to Red Lake.
Ah, Luke," Parmen greeted with a friendly smile,"Off to practice your swordsmanship under the moonlight?" His voice was teasing.
Luke offered a stiff nod. "My duties are my own, Lord Parmen."
Parmen chuckled, and this time, his gaze slid past Luke and landed on Meredith. "And who might this be? I don't believe we've been formally introduced."
A flush touched Meredith's cheeks. She dipped into a clumsy curtsy. "My lord, I'm Meredith. Maidservant to the young lords."
Parmen's eyes gleamed with interest. "Meredith," he murmured, the name rolling off his tongue like a sweet wine. "A lovely name for a lovely face. I noticed you at the tourney today. Your stories captivated the young ones."
Olenna, observed from the shadows.
Parmen Crane, squire to Quentin Tyrell. His father had been angling a fosterage for Willas or Garlan at Red Lake. A fosterage they were not going to be getting. They had been given honors enough, master-at-arms at Highgarden was enough for House Crane, more would not be granted to them.
"If the lady wishes to retire..." Luke began, his tone wary.
Parmen cut him off, his smile never faltering. "The lady wishes to speak with me. Don't you, my dear?" He turned his attention back to Meredith, warmth radiating from him.
The tension in the air thickened slightly. Luke's knuckles whitened on the hilt of his practice sword, but his expression remained carefully neutral.
The boy had no desire for the maid in truth, Olenna could see. He may be able to charm a pretty recently flowered maid, but she was of more experienced stuff. He was looking to anger the lowborn Page, one who had seemingly tried to charm the heir of Red Lake's sisters if the rumors from the training yard had been accurate. The maid was a pretty addition to that end.
And she had no desire to lose a good maid so soon due to the actions of a grasping lord's heir.
Before either young man could speak further, Olenna's crisp voice cut through the night. "Meredith!" She emerged from her vantage point, her presence radiating quiet authority. "Lady Alerie has finished the tunics. I need you to fold them and prepare the young lords' travel clothes for the morn."
Meredith, startled, turned startled at the sudden emergence of the old matriarch. "Of course, my lady." She curtsied to Parmen, a touch of confusion in her eyes. "Good night, my lord." Finally she turned to Luke and smiled "Good night, Luke" and quickly took her leave into the tent she had been assigned.
Olenna turned her gaze to the two boys. "Lord Parmen," she said by way of greeting, her tone confused, "Have you perhaps lost your way? Your father's tents are a ways that way." Her gesture was dismissive as she indicated in the opposite direction of the way he had arrived.
The boy spluttered, and looked a bit shamed as he quickly took his leave.
With a final look, she turned to Luke. "Toman is expected expect you early, Mace plans to leave early in the morn. The horses will need readying for the day's ride."
The young page bowed low, a small smile on his lips "As you say, my lady." And he too was gone.
Her task done, her maid secure, Olenna patted herself on the back and quickly retreated into her tent where slumber awaited her.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
Luke could taste the frustration rising in his throat. "Just one tourney, Uncle Harlon! He needs to see it, to understand the world beyond your fields, beyond this village."
"I know." Harlon sighed, running a hand through his graying hair. "It's still too soon!"
Harlon met Luke's gaze, his eyes hard, "He's strong, Luke. Stronger than we give him credit for. But a Great tourney like you're suggesting Harrenhal is going to be? Knights and Lords from all over the realms?... The King himself in attendance? ... it's... overwhelming, even for seasoned men."
Serra knew that Harlon was not blind to the realities of the world. The man had lost his family to war that had no part in the reach. His brothers were knighted for the war, by Lords not their own, for a war their liege had no hand in, and died in service to a liege that didn't even remember their name.
She knew that he meant to hide the boy behind his shield of fatherhood. Even now, the young star was off at the Sept receiving tutelage in numbers and letters from the Septon in the village.
Luke leaned forward, driven by a desire he could barely put into words. "That's the point," he said, his voice filled with earnest conviction. "He needs to see it all, the good and the bad. Needs to open his eyes to the truth, his childish ideals will see him killed. When he knows, and witnesses the truth with his own eyes…."
Harlon's eyes darkened "You think my son will break, seeing the violence, the depravity, and senseless deaths that the Knights indulge in? I thought you knew him, now I think you don't know him at all."
Luke's fingers tightened around the edge of the table. The accusation stung, but he wouldn't back down. "I do know him," he insisted, "and I know that the truth will set him free. Free from chasing a foolish dream that will only hurt him."
"And what truth is that, Luke?" Elyna's voice held both weariness and a flicker of anger. "That knights are all brutes? That there's no honor left in the world? Caelum sees goodness in everything, he has a quiet strength in him. He will be a knight worthy of the title! He will change the world!"
Luke met Elyna's defiance head-on. "Mayhap, if he had the strength of arms to go with it, or the birth of a lord to aid him," he conceded, "But it's a world for hard men, not dreamers. A world where birth determines his worth. Caelum doesn't have that hardness in him. His goodness will be his downfall on that battlefield, childish dreams aside, his sickness alone will make certain that he will never be a Knight!"
Harlon surged to his feet, seeing the younger boy of four and ten shrink, he swallowed harshly and sat back down. "You promised him," he said with quiet calm, his voice measured. "You promised Caelum you'd be his knight, give him a chance he'd never have otherwise."
Luke winced, a wave of shame washing over him. The promise had been made when he couldn't refuse the boy's eager blue eyes, a pledge born of love and admiration for the little boy who saw him as a hero.
"And now you're taking that away from him too?" Harlon pressed. His voice wasn't harsh, but the accusation cut Luke to the core. "Not content with shattering his dream, you'd break his trust as well?"
Luke looked away, unable to meet Harlon's eyes. "It's not like that," he began, but the words felt hollow even to his own ears.
Despair settled over him, suffocating the last flickering embers of defiance. "I will not break the promise," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "because I'll never be a knight."
Elyna gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Harlon's gaze snapped to his, a mix of surprise and dawning realization mirroring her own.
"Ser Crane..." Luke swallowed, the words he'd held back for so long spilling out in a choked rush, "...he won't have me. A page is what I am, a squire I may become, but a knight? That's a dream best forgotten." His voice trailed off into a bitter silence.
"But why, Luke?" Elyna's voice held a pleading note, "You're strong, skilled..."
He cut her off, a harsh edge to his voice he couldn't control. "To be a knight, I must win a tourney and impress better men than I. For that, I neither have the money, nor the standing. Ser Crane won't lend me the coin to participate... the dream is over."
Serra could see the realization dawn on her face – that Luke's determination stemmed not just from a protective desire, but from his own bitterness and crushed ambition.
Luke's broken confession echoed in the charged silence. Serra's heart twisted for her son, but underneath the worry was a flicker of defiant hope. This was his blind spot, born of his own pain.
Serra moved to stand beside Luke, her touch on his shoulder gentle but firm. "This isn't just about strength of arms, Luke," she said, her voice quiet but filled with conviction.
"I don't want to see him die," he muttered, his voice choked with despair, "I can't do that to him, Mother, not like this."
Serra's heart ached for her son, the despair in his voice cutting deeper than any sword. "And do you think death on a battlefield is the only kind he could face?" she asked softly, her voice laced with a quiet strength, as she moved to kneel beside him.
Luke looked up, a flicker of confusion replacing the anguish in his eyes.
"Caelum has fought for every breath since the day he was born," she continued. "He knows struggle in his very bones. Don't you see, Luke? That fight, that spirit... it's the most powerful weapon he could carry."
She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in. "And you, my son," she said, her voice softening, "You underestimate yourself. You may not see the path laid before you, but that doesn't mean it's not there."
Luke scoffed, the bitterness returning to his voice. "And what path is that, Mother? One paved with broken promises and a master who sees me as nothing more than a stable hand despite being his page?"
Serra gently touched his shoulder. "Your heart is strong, Luke. There's a fire in you, a desire to protect, to fight for what you believe in. That's a kind of strength those knights may never know. In the name of the Mother, A Knight must protect the innocent, and you're trying to protect Caelum. Seeking to break him is the wrong way to do it."
Harlon watched the exchange, conflict still visible in his features. His heart ached for the boy sitting in front of him. Luke… so full of youthful fire, and now crushed under the weight of his own unfulfilled dreams.
Harlon didn't entirely disagree with Luke's arguments, the dangers were real. But the spark of determination in Serra's eyes, the way she believed in his Caelum, and in her own son.
He did not want his son to see the truths of this world so soon, but they were right. He will not be able to shelter him forever.
A flicker of memory crossed his face, a fleeting image of his brothers – bold young men cut down before their prime, knighted for a war that wasn't theirs. They'd chased glory, and found only dust. But Caelum...
"He's not like the rest of us, Luke," Harlon admitted, the words heavy in the charged silence. "There's a light in him...a stubbornness that goes beyond mere boyhood spirit. Maybe...maybe he won't wilt when he sees the world as it truly is."
He sighed, the image of his lost brothers fading, replaced by the clear, determined gaze of his son. "He wants this, Luke. And perhaps..." his voice trailed off, then he looked at his wife. Elyna, as always, seemed to read his thoughts. "He will change the world. Elyna, she is right. And you will see it too."
Silence followed his declaration. He watched the young boy look at him wearily, his mother's hand held tightly in his own.
"Luke" Harlon finally said after a long pause, his gruff voice hard, determined. His eyes bore into those of the boy in front of him "You swear to me. By the Seven, by your own life, that no harm will befall my son on this journey?"
Serra answered before Luke could fully comprehend the question. "He will, Harlon. Toman will be there, guarding Lord Tyrell. He will keep Caelum safe."
Harlon continued to stare at Luke, unyielding.
Luke swallowed hard, the weight of the promise settling on him like a knight's armor. "I swear it," he finally said, his voice low and solemn. "By the Seven, on my life... he will be safe."
He hesitated, then continued, a flicker of sheepishness replacing the despair. "I...I had thought... it might be wise to include Meredith. I had met the young Lords, Lord Willas and Lord Garlan. About the same age as Caelum. A familiar face for Caelum... and it could be a chance for her as well. Perhaps, if she serves well, a position in the castle, tending to Lord Tyrell's young sons..."
Harlon raised an eyebrow, a knowing glint in his eye. "Not just thinking of Caelum, are you?"
Luke flushed slightly, then met Harlon's gaze with surprising steadiness. "She deserves a chance too, Uncle. She can leave the inn, work at the castle, and earn more coin. And...it could help Caelum, seeing a familiar face, someone to ease his way into this cruel world."
Harlon gave a low chuckle, a hint of his former gruffness returning. "Clever boy," he said, a grudging admiration in his voice. "Always a plan, eh?"
Luke shrugged, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Someone has to."
He turned to Elyna, the question clear in his eyes.
Elyna bit her lip, worry warring with the fierce pride shining. Finally, she nodded, a shaky "Yes, our boy is going to change the world"
Harlon sighed a heavy sound that spoke of the internal battle he'd just fought and lost. A moment passed, the silence thick with unspoken feelings.
"Very well," he finally said, the words raspy in his throat. "It seems my son is going on a grand adventure." He managed a wry smile. "Show him then. But it is your eyes that will be opened. Wiser he may become, but the truth of this world is something he will decide." Harlon said determinedly, looking out of the window of his farmhouse at his field.
The sun was setting slowly into the distance, the sky slowly reddening.
He paused, his weathered gaze resting on Luke's face. "And Luke...when the time comes, and I know it will, when you set out to make that oath a reality, to fight in tourneys should you need it, you'll take my horse, Thunderbolt for the journey. And an extra purse of coin, from Caelum and me. That way, your promise to him doesn't weigh down a man's spirit along with my boy's dream."
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
The scent of horses and woodsmoke mingled with the sharp tang of polished steel. Meredith bit back a yawn, her fingers moving deftly as she smoothed the silken cloak.
"Careful with that fold, child," Lady Alerie's voice, though soft, carried a note of command. "Willas won't notice the wrinkles, but he needs to look his best.." She leaned closer, her perfume a heady mix of rose and jasmine, almost overwhelming Meredith. "And remember the honeyed figs for Garlan. He has such a sweet tooth, Seven bless him."
Meredith nodded quickly, hands fumbling slightly with the cloak. "Yes, my lady. I'll see to it right away." The words felt stiff, formal. She did not want to cause offense to the lady so soon into her work.
Lady Alerie gave a satisfied nod, her gaze sweeping over Meredith. "See that you do, girl. Remember, you represent House Tyrell now. But no need to be stiff, you're part of the household now."
The dismissal was clear, though not unkind. Meredith dipped into a hasty curtsy, heart pounding. She turned and curtseyed again to Lady Olenna, who was sat by the fire in the large tent watching her hawkishly. She quickly made her retreat.
A wave of dizziness washed over her, not just from the cloying perfume, but from the weight of those final words. She was no longer just a girl from the inn; every wrinkle she smoothed, every word she spoke, now carried the burden of an entire noble house.
Despite the mundane tasks, a thrill of excitement still coursed through Meredith. Weeks ago, she scrubbed floors and dodged drunks at the inn; now, she tended to young lords... and her dear little brother.
Luke had convinced her mother to let her join him and Caelum to go the Grand tourney at Harrenhall, alongside Lord Tyrell's party. Her mother had been easy to convince, the work he had gotten for her as a maid looking after the little Lords Willas and Garlan paid good coin, better than the inn work she did in the village.
The sweet boy had done it for her, she knew. She had fretted to him during their little plays with Caelum, about the increasingly disgusting groping hands at the inn that disturbed her. And he had somehow managed to find her this job as a result.
She got to spend more time with her little brother too as a result, Luke somehow miraculously knowing the little Lords of Highgarden personally, making an introduction between her ball of sunshine and the lordlings immediately favorable, that they had become fast friends in truth.
She had originally worried that Lady Tyrell, especially Lady Olenna would take offense at someone of their low birth befriending her grandsons, but the older woman had not spoken a word on the matter and instead had actually encouraged the friendship.
She was glad, she couldn't be happier.
They were on the road, on their way along the Rose Road to Kings Landing and then to High Garden. Along with the party of nearly three hundred, consisting of guards, knights, servants, and lords from all over the reach who were looking to go the Grand Tourney of Harrenhall to win glory.
Her gaze, drawn by the sounds of clashing steel, wandered away from the tents. Just beyond the bustle of the camp, a group of knights sparred in a makeshift training yard. The gleam of armor, the fluid power of their movements, held her transfixed.
Sunlight flashed blindingly off Ser Quentin Tyrell's polished breastplate as he lunged, his practice sword a blur of motion. Ser Vortimer Crane, older and perhaps a touch slower, parried the blow with a grunt. Steel clashed against steel, the sharp ring echoing through the camp. They circled each other, each breath measured, each movement fueled by years of discipline.
Ser Quentin, with his golden brown hair and confident grin as he deflected a blow, was like a hero straight out of the stories she'd heard.
A warmth spread through her cheeks, a mix of awe and something more...fluttery.
Maybe...maybe a knight like him could look at her, a simple maid, and see something more. Could she be the brave and beautiful lady he'd rescue from some terrible danger? The one he'd dedicate his victories to? The very absurdity of the thought made her giggle softly, the sound mingling with the clash of steel.
"Did you see that?" A boy, younger than Caelum by her measure, bounced excitedly beside Meredith. "My father's the best, isn't he?"
Meredith blinked, pulled from her daydreaming. "Oh...yes," she managed, "Your… father?"
The boy beamed. "Ser Quentin Tyrell, cousin to Lord Mace himself!" He paused, then leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He doesn't like to say it but he's the best Knight in the seven kingdoms!"
Meredith nodded, struggling to place the names in the vast web of Tyrell relations.
Her disappointment was immediate and surprisingly sharp. So Ser Quentin was married, had a family...of course he would be.
Her gaze instinctively slid back to the sparring yard.
There was a solidity to Ser Vortimer Crane, a quiet strength that appealed to her in a way Ser Quentin's youthful flamboyance didn't. He was tall, comely, and strong, and if she remembered correctly Luke was a page to the Knight himself.
The Knight deflected Ser Quentin's latest charge with an ease born of experience, his weathered face a mask of concentration.
"I'm sure you will be a big strong knight like your father when you grow up." She offered.
The boy beamed, clearly delighted, then promptly forgot about Meredith as he launched into an excited recap of the sparring match. She kept nodding at his increased commentary on the fight.
The men continued the spar, and a small crowd of Knights gathered to watch. Far in the distance, she saw Luke standing and watching hawkishly at the display, beside him was another boy, dressed in a battle-ready tunic. He was highborn if the surcoat stitched to his tunic, was any measure.
When she saw that the boy was looking right at her, her face flushed uncontrollably.
The highborn boy in the distance was definitely watching her. The surcoat looked to be that of birds, cranes she realized, on a crest. The surcoat of House Crane.
Her gaze couldn't help but drift back to Ser Vortimer. The fight was nearing its end, Ser Quentin Tyrell was matching Ser Crane blow for blow, and the spar was nearing its end. Ser Crane made to bind the younger Tyrell knight's sword, his sword flashing. But the cousin to their liege proved too quick and countered disarming Highgarden's master at arms in a swift flurry of blows.
The camp cheered, and her gaze returned to the highborn boy who was clearly Ser Crane's son. His gaze hadn't left her even then. He was watching her, and her face grew hotter still.
He wasn't smiling, but there was a focus in his eyes, an intensity that held her transfixed. For the first time, a small, almost smile touched his lips.
A thrill shot through Meredith, a mix of surprise and a fluttering excitement she couldn't quite name. His interest was unexpected, and flattering. The son of a powerful knight noticing her, a simple maid... it was like something out of the stories her father used to read her.
"Well fought, my Lord," Ser Vortimer's voice sounded, thick with a weariness he couldn't quite conceal. "You're sure to make a good showing in the melee."
He extended a hand to Ser Quentin, who grasped it with a grin.
"It was your training Ser, I am sure had you been younger you would have bested me" Ser Quentin replied, shaking the older knight's offered hand.
"Yeah, right. No one can beat my dad" Olymer Tyrell scoffed beside her, though he had a big grin on his face.
She smiled at the innocent boy, and looked back across the camp. The highborn son of the Knight was now slowly making his way toward her.
Her heart quickened.
But before he could reach her, Anya's voice called her "Meredith! There you are! You need to head to Lord Willas and Lord Garlan. The little lords need his honeyed fig." She said, as the older maid approached.
Meredith's stomach knotted. Duty, as always, came first. Yet, as she glanced back towards Parmen, the flicker of disappointment in his eyes was clear. A pang of guilt mixed with a strange frustration warred within her.
"Of course, Anya," she managed, the words feeling heavy. She offered the boy beside her a quick, apologetic smile. "Forgive me, young lord. My duties call." With a final glance in Parmen's direction, she turned and hurried after Anya.
As she walked, the weight of Parmen's gaze lingered on her shoulders.
"Meredith, focus!" Anya's sharp voice jolted her from her thoughts. "Lord Willas is playing knight with Lord Garlan, Caelum is with them. You know how to look after children better than I, so please give these figs to Lord Garlan, and watch over them for the time being. I need to prepare dinner for the little lords."
She shook off her reverie and made her way to the clearing where the children were playing.
The closer Meredith drew to the clearing, the clearer the sounds of chaos became. Shrill yells, the rhythmic clash of sticks, and occasional peals of laughter all mingled together in a symphony of childish battle.
Her dear Caelum had made fast friends with the sons of Lord Mace Tyrell, after Luke had introduced them.
How Luke knew the Lord's children, she didn't know.
It was good for Caelum, she mused. Getting to know children his own age, after the whispers of him being cursed by the stars, the children back home had been a little hesitant to approach her little brother. Though he had managed to make a few friends there as well.
"Stand fast, Ser Garlan! The bandits are upon us!" A high-pitched voice pierced the air, and Meredith couldn't help but smile. That was definitely Lord Willas, his dramatics as boundless as his energy.
"Aye, my lord! I shall vanquish them all!" chirped a smaller voice, presumably Garlan. She could picture him now, tiny chest puffed out, wielding his stick-sword with more valor than precision.
Before the game could go much further, she interjected, "Lord Garlan, I have brought figs that your mother sent for you," she said, her voice soft.
"Leave them there, in the corner. I'll take them later" the little lord responded before refocusing his attention on the game.
Willas merely grunted in response, far too preoccupied with giving orders to acknowledge the offering.
Before she could even take a step back, a small voice called out, "Meredith! Come play princess!" Caelum stood at the edge of the makeshift battlefield, his stick-sword held awkwardly at his side. His blue eyes, so like her own, were wide and hopeful, and she found she couldn't refuse him.
A pang of hesitation pricked at Meredith's heart. "Oh, Caelum," she began, hesitantly, "I don't think I should intrude. I need to..."
Just then, Lord Willas' booming voice cut through the air. "Perfect!" he declared, stomping his foot for emphasis. "You'll be the princess in need of rescuing! Caelum shall kidnap you, and Ser Garlan and I – the bravest knights in all the kingdoms – will fight to save you!"
Meredith glanced around the clearing, half-expecting Anya's disapproval to descend at any moment.
Yet, there was no sign of the older woman, just the wide, expectant eyes of the children. And Caelum... her sweet brother looked so hopeful, a fleeting respite from the cough that often wracked his small body. He was, at least in this moment, just a boy with a wooden sword and dreams of grand adventure.
"Very well," she relented, a reluctant smile playing on her lips. If her duties were to include playing princess for these rambunctious lords, then so be it. "But be gentle with your captive, brave kidnapper!"
She settled down on a fallen log, trying to play the part of a distressed damsel with a touch of humor. As the boys launched into their
chaotic "rescue mission", complete with clumsy sword fighting and over-the-top declarations, Meredith's heart swelled.
"Yield, bandit!" Willas bellowed, his stick-sword raised high.
"Never! The princess is mine-" A sharp cough cut through Caelum's laughter. Hot stab of pain clear in his chest.
Meredith's smile faltered, her eyes instantly drawn to her brother. He doubled over, small fists clutching his chest.
"Caelum?" Her voice held a thread of worry.
Willas and Garlan froze, their battle forgotten.
But Caelum, with the stubborn resilience of a true bandit, straightened with a gasp. "I'm fine, I'm fine!" he insisted, his usual grin a touch shaky. "Don't stop on my account. The princess is mine!"
Meredith hesitated, her gaze flickered between Caelum's determined expression and the worry etched on Willas and Garlan's small faces.
For a moment, the weight of responsibility pressed heavily upon her.
But seeing the resolve, and quickly resumed state of their game, her worry subsided. Laughter and merriment of the children replaced it.
There was only laughter, the thrill of the game, and a fierce love that made her willing to be a princess, a villain, or anything at all if it meant seeing that spark of joy in her brother's eyes.
Her heart swelled, as she fully embraced the childish wonders and began to play alongside the boys in true. All thoughts of her would be knightly courtier forgotten in the pure joy of her brother's laughter.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
The campfire hissed within the spacious tent, its flickering light casting dancing shadows on the canvas walls. Meredith's voice rose and fell, weaving a tale for the children. "The brave knight, Ser Florian, stood before the monstrous dragon. Its breath was like a furnace blast, its claws sharp as scythes. But Florian was undaunted, for he bore the Sword of Starlight, forged by the children of the forest themselves..."
Willas gasped, clutching the edge of his makeshift seat cushion. "Did it breathe fire, Meredith? Real fire?"
"The hottest fire you can imagine!" Meredith confirmed, her eyes twinkling.
Garlan snorted. "No one can fight dragons."
"Can too!" Willas retorted, shoving his brother playfully.
Olenna watched from her seat near Lady Alerie, a flicker of amusement tugging at her lips.
Meredith was a good addition to their household. Lowborn, and young enough with no mind for games that her work allowed. And skilled in taking care of children, keeping them enraptured and entertained to boot.
Mayhaps, she will become a permanent retainer for House Tyrell in the future.
"...and with a mighty cry," Meredith continued, "Ser Florian plunged the Sword of Starlight deep into the dragon's heart. Light exploded forth, blinding the beast, and with a final roar, it crumbled to ash!"
The boys erupted in cheers, but Caelum, the farmer's son, remained quiet. He sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes wide and fixed on Meredith, a longing in his gaze that tugged at Olenna's heartstrings.
"M-Meredith?" Caelum's voice was barely above a whisper. "Can you... tell another story? Please?"
Willas and Garlan, ever ready for more tales, joined in. "Yeah, Meredith! One more!"
Meredith smiled, her eyes warm. "Alright, but just a short one. It's getting late."
Olenna watched the peasant boy's face light up. An addition to Meredith in truth, and the page of their master-at-arms, Luke if she remembered
correctly.
Seems the boy wanted to see a tourney, and the page took the opportunity presented to him by her grandsons. Sharp that one.
Such an earnest child, Caelum was she mused.
He wore his heart on his sleeve, completely unprepared to face the practiced smiles of highborn heirs.
Such openness would be a vulnerability in the harsh reality of court, but for Willas and Garlan... it could be a valuable lesson. A lesson in learning of the life of their eventual responsibility.
And mayhaps, should he recover fully, there was more for him here than just friendship. Perhaps a guardsman loyal to Willas with a true heart... yes, or even a knight, if the gods were truly kind.
A loyal knight with no lands of his own, and gratitude to House Tyrell, that would provide a perspective that her Garlan couldn't, that of the small folk and the commonly forgotten would help Willas when he eventually took on the title of Lord of Highgarden.
Olenna's gaze lingered on the boy. Caelum Starborne.
Star cursed, some said.
She cared not. He was a friend to her grandchildren now, and should that friendship lead to something beneficial to them, she didn't mind.
Mayhaps she may even have Maester Lomys look over the boy's illness once they returned, if he proved as useful as she thought he could be.
The maid he had come with was proving her worth already. Anya was overworked with the children, and underprepared for them as it is.
"And so, the clever farm girl said," Meredith chirped, her voice turned high and squeaky, "'Ser Grumpkin, ser, would you like a nice, shiny lace for your coat? It's the very latest fashion in the King's court!"
The boys giggled. Even Caelum, with his eyelids as heavy as stones, managed a grin.
"The Grumpkin, he grumbled and snarled," Meredith's voice boomed, deep and gruff. "'Lace are for women! I want a juicy princess!'"
Willas squirmed in his seat. "But princesses are too smart for Grumpkins!"
"Exactly!" Meredith winked. "So the farm girl, she tricked that grumpy grumpkin, by telling him the lace was that of a princess' gown, and tied it to the giant grumpkins tail. He need only get a smell of its scent to find his princess, so he was tricked into chasing his own tail 'round and 'round, till he got so dizzy he plopped right into the river! Splash!"
Caelum's yawn was so wide, it nearly swallowed his whole face. His eyes fluttered shut, then snapped open again. "He...he drowned?" The worry in his voice was faint, but real.
Meredith's smile softened. "Not at all! Grumpkins may be grumpy, but they can swim like fish. He just learned his lesson, and went grumbling back under his bridge."
Willas and Garlan sighed with relief. Even in the flickering firelight, Olenna could see the beginnings of sleepiness tugging at their young
faces.
"Bedtime, my lords," Anya's practical voice cut through the cozy atmosphere. "Those stories can wait for another night." She smiled at Meredith. "You've done a fine job tiring them out, girl."
Lady Alerie stood, her needlework complete, a beautiful tunic for Garlan in the colors of House Tyrell with subtle Hightower colors hidden in them. "Come, Willas, Garlan. Time for sleep so you can be strong and brave like the knights in Meredith's stories."
The boys obediently scrambled to their feet, though Willas couldn't resist one last plea. "Just one more story, Mother?"
Lady Alerie chuckled. "Not tonight dear. Now, goodnight to you all." With a final warm glance at Olenna, she ushered the boys out of the tent.
Meredith soon followed as she curtsied, and Caelum attempted a clumsy bow—more a half-hearted dip, really— before scrambling after them.
A smile touched Olenna's lips as she watched them go.
Those were an addition to their household that she needed to know more about. If only to satiate her curiosity as to their nature in private.
Olenna rose and discreetly followed them out of the tent.
The night air was crisp, the stars glittering overhead. Caelum stood beside Meredith, both looking towards the section of the camp where the servants' tents were clustered.
"Thank you, Meredith," the boy murmured, his voice thick with sleep. "For the stories."
"You're most welcome, Caelum," Meredith replied, her voice soft. "Sleep well, and perhaps tomorrow, there'll be tales of princesses and hidden treasure! And games of all sorts once the party stops to rest when it needs it again."
Caelum nodded, a wide smile spreading across his face. Then he was off, his thin legs carrying him with surprising speed towards his humble abode for the night.
The boy stayed with one of their guards, Toman if she remembered correctly. And his son, Luke. The one who had arranged the maid, and the boy's arrival in their household.
The night air carried Meredith's soft goodbye, and silence descended upon the space between two tents.
Olenna, cloaked in the shadows, watched as Meredith turned towards her own small shelter, by her charges as her duties required. Willas and Garlan would need her aid come morn to get ready for further travel as the party would move along the road to their destination.
A flicker of exhaustion dimming the warmth in her brown eyes.
As she approached the small tent beside her own Grandchildren, a figure was waiting for her – Luke, the master-at-arms's page.
A lanky lad with a shock of sandy blonde hair and cerulean eyes.
"Meredith," he spoke quietly, "All well? The lords seem happy enough with you."
A relieved smile spread across Meredith's face. "Yes, they're sweet boys. And Lady Alerie seems pleased, which is all that matters, really."
"Good," Luke nodded, a hint of his own satisfaction in his voice. "The old maid, Anya, is less of a grump, too. You've lightened her load a fair bit." His gaze softened. "Is it... do you find it comfortable here?"
Meredith hesitated, then gave a small nod. "It's hard work, and I miss my mum, and Jerren sometimes. But… they're good people. And the children," a genuine fondness warmed her voice, "I like them, truly."
Meredith stifled a yawn. "Caelum's tucked in for the night. Must be sound asleep with your father by now." She gave Luke a tired smile. "Thank you for checking in."
Luke nodded, his expression softening. "No trouble at all. Glad you're settling in well, then."
The moment was interrupted by a new presence. A shadow broke the pool of firelight, revealing the figure of Parmen Crane, heir to Red Lake.
Ah, Luke," Parmen greeted with a friendly smile,"Off to practice your swordsmanship under the moonlight?" His voice was teasing.
Luke offered a stiff nod. "My duties are my own, Lord Parmen."
Parmen chuckled, and this time, his gaze slid past Luke and landed on Meredith. "And who might this be? I don't believe we've been formally introduced."
A flush touched Meredith's cheeks. She dipped into a clumsy curtsy. "My lord, I'm Meredith. Maidservant to the young lords."
Parmen's eyes gleamed with interest. "Meredith," he murmured, the name rolling off his tongue like a sweet wine. "A lovely name for a lovely face. I noticed you at the tourney today. Your stories captivated the young ones."
Olenna, observed from the shadows.
Parmen Crane, squire to Quentin Tyrell. His father had been angling a fosterage for Willas or Garlan at Red Lake. A fosterage they were not going to be getting. They had been given honors enough, master-at-arms at Highgarden was enough for House Crane, more would not be granted to them.
"If the lady wishes to retire..." Luke began, his tone wary.
Parmen cut him off, his smile never faltering. "The lady wishes to speak with me. Don't you, my dear?" He turned his attention back to Meredith, warmth radiating from him.
The tension in the air thickened slightly. Luke's knuckles whitened on the hilt of his practice sword, but his expression remained carefully neutral.
The boy had no desire for the maid in truth, Olenna could see. He may be able to charm a pretty recently flowered maid, but she was of more experienced stuff. He was looking to anger the lowborn Page, one who had seemingly tried to charm the heir of Red Lake's sisters if the rumors from the training yard had been accurate. The maid was a pretty addition to that end.
And she had no desire to lose a good maid so soon due to the actions of a grasping lord's heir.
Before either young man could speak further, Olenna's crisp voice cut through the night. "Meredith!" She emerged from her vantage point, her presence radiating quiet authority. "Lady Alerie has finished the tunics. I need you to fold them and prepare the young lords' travel clothes for the morn."
Meredith, startled, turned startled at the sudden emergence of the old matriarch. "Of course, my lady." She curtsied to Parmen, a touch of confusion in her eyes. "Good night, my lord." Finally she turned to Luke and smiled "Good night, Luke" and quickly took her leave into the tent she had been assigned.
Olenna turned her gaze to the two boys. "Lord Parmen," she said by way of greeting, her tone confused, "Have you perhaps lost your way? Your father's tents are a ways that way." Her gesture was dismissive as she indicated in the opposite direction of the way he had arrived.
The boy spluttered, and looked a bit shamed as he quickly took his leave.
With a final look, she turned to Luke. "Toman is expected expect you early, Mace plans to leave early in the morn. The horses will need readying for the day's ride."
The young page bowed low, a small smile on his lips "As you say, my lady." And he too was gone.
Her task done, her maid secure, Olenna patted herself on the back and quickly retreated into her tent where slumber awaited her.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
A World Too Big
He was glad they had left the capital city behind, even if he did not get to see much of it at all.
The first glimpse of King's Landing had been like nothing Caelum had ever imagined. From their vantage on the high road, as they left the Kingswood Forest, the city spread out like a giant, glittering anthill, consisting of massive buildings, manses, and winding alleys, some towers even piercing the sky.
Larger and more expansive than the Briar, the labyrinth city between the two outer walls of Highgarden.
He'd gasped and wowed at the marvel as it slowly approached behind the giant river gates, across the glistening waters of the Blackwater Rush.
Buildings crowded against each other in a riot of colors, their roofs jumbled like mismatched tiles. And below it all, coiling like a lazy serpent, was the Blackwater Rush, its surface flashing silver in the sun.
But his wonder had soon faded to disgust.
"Ugh," Garlan had groaned, his face had been pinched into a mask of revulsion. "What is that smell?"
The city smelled worse than his farm's pigsty in midsummer, was louder than a crowing rooster at dawn, and was more crowded than the Mander Hills Inn on market day.
Lady Olenna had snorted at her grandson. "Don't let it turn your stomach too much, boys. You get used to it. Or you get a perfumer." She had sniffed with disgust and then fished a small bottle from her sleeve. "Rose water," she offered. "A splash on your sleeves, and collars can work wonders."
Willas had accepted it gratefully, while Garlan, less concerned with propriety, had simply pinched his nose shut. And had asked Meredith to close the curtains of the wheelhouse they were traveling in.
Caelum, however, hadn't been troubled by the smell alone. It was the noise that had made his heart pound and his teeth ache.
The closer they drew, the louder it became – a cacophony of shouts, hooves on cobblestones, the relentless clang of smiths' hammers. It was like all the sounds in the world had been fighting for space inside his head. Tears had pricked at his eyes, and he fought the urge to clamp his hands over his ears.
A wave of dizziness had washed over him, the world spinning, and he for a moment he felt he had seen ghosts, and bones in the carriage with them. It was growing too much. His skull had pulsed with every heartbeat, the world a blur of shouts and colors.
"Caelum?" Willas' voice sounded strangely muffled, as if from underwater. "You all right? You don't look so good…"
He hadn't wanted to seem like a baby, especially not with Willas and Garlan watching.
He had tried to keep his composure, as he shifted in Meredith's lap uncomfortably. With great strength, he had managed a nod "I'm fine, just … tired"
Meredith had noticed his pallor. "Here, Caelum," she'd said, pressing a handkerchief into his hand. The scent of the rose water Lady Olenna had given them clung heavily to it. "Block your nose, it might help with the smell."
He'd mumbled a thank you, too embarrassed to explain that it wasn't the smell, but the… everything.
He wanted to ask for quiet, for silence, but his tongue felt too thick and heavy in his mouth.
Then came the final blow.
As their carriage rumbled through the bridge toward River Gate as it swung open to let them in, the iron hinges groaned in protest, a screech that sliced through his skull like a hot knife. The world tipped sideways and then went dark.
The last thing he heard, as if from a great distance, was Meredith's alarmed cry. "Caelum!"
It had been embarrassing.
He had awoken in a soft bed, inside Meredith's tent. The party having left the city behind a day ago.
But he was glad the city was behind them now.
A wave of shame washed over him as memories of his embarrassing collapse flooded back. He'd fainted... in front of his friends. In front of kind Lady Alerie, and old Lady Olenna. And in front of Meredith.
Worse, Meredith had not left his side for long, he had been a distraction to her job, one that Luke had gotten for her after she'd complained about the idiot patrons back at her Ma's inn.
And it wasn't even the smell as everyone assumed. That had troubled almost the entire party, but no one had complained about the noise.
And he couldn't come to tell them in his shame.
They'd all been bothered by that, but only he had been brought to his knees by something as simple as some loud noise.
"Caelum?" Meredith's voice, soft and laced with concern, broke through his thoughts. "How do you feel?"
"I'm okay, Mary. Like I said, I was tired" he didn't want to tell her the truth. "I'm sorry"
Meredith's brows furrowed in confusion. "Sorry for what, Caelum?"
"For… for causing trouble," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze. "For taking you away from your job." He felt heat rising in his cheeks, and knew he was probably as red as a boiled lobster.
Meredith's expression softened. "Oh, Caelum," she breathed, reaching out to smooth a lock of hair from his forehead. "Don't you ever say that. Lady Olenna didn't mind, and Anya took over for the day. The city was… overwhelming. Any grown man could have fainted after that smell, I should have known it would have been worse for you."
Her words, meant to reassure, only made him feel worse. The smell hadn't been the cause, yet he didn't want to tell her that the noise had been the true cause.
"And besides," Meredith continued, her brown eyes warm, "it wasn't any trouble. Lady Alerie and Lady Olenna insisted you rest. And don't you worry about Lord Willas and Garlan, they were more concerned about you. The servants at the Red Keep took care of everything, I wasn't away from my duties for long. Luke helped when I was needed to look after the little lords."
Caelum felt a fresh surge of guilt. Not only had he fainted, making a fool of himself, but he'd also worried Luke, and his friends.
And worst of all, he'd distracted Meredith who clearly had plenty to do tending to his friends.
"I should have been stronger," he muttered, the words catching in his throat. "I didn't mean to cause so much trouble for Luke..."
Meredith gently brushed a strand of hair back from his face. "Luke isn't troubled," she reassured him. "He was worried, sure, but he understands. And as for me, well, Willas and Garlan are good company. They're waiting for you in the tent with Lady Alerie, and Lady Olenna. "Should I tell them you're awake?"
Caelum swallowed hard. He dreaded facing Willas and Garlan after making such a spectacle of himself.
He couldn't bear the thought of their pity or, worse, their laughter.
"No! I mean... I should go to them," he stammered, heat rising to his cheeks.
Meredith gave him a gentle smile. "They'll be happy to see you, Caelum. They were worried about you."
Her kind words only deepened his embarrassment. "I'm fine," he insisted.
Sensing his hesitation, Meredith placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It's all right to feel a little shaken up," she said. "Anyone would be, after what happened. Lord Willas and Lord Garlan, they're good children, they understand. They're your friends."
He nodded but couldn't meet her eyes. With Meredith's help, he sat up, the world swaying slightly.
Together, they made their way through the camp to the larger, lavishly decorated tent that served as the lords' private quarters. He avoided looking at the people and guards that milled about, afraid he would see mockery in their eyes.
The guards were quick to make way from him, and Meredith as they approached.
"-you need to look your best, Willas, Garlan. And be on your best behavior" He heard Lady Alerie's stern voice coming from the tent. "All the lords and ladies of the realm will be there. If you promise, you can ride into the keep alongside your father."
As they entered the tent, the conversation ceased abruptly. Lady Alerie looked up at them, surprise replacing her sternness. Lady Olenna's shrewd gaze flicked between them; her lips pursed in thought.
Willas and Garlan, immediately abandoning their discussion with their mother and rushed to his side. "Caelum!" they chorused, genuine relief washing over their faces.
"You're awake!" Willas exclaimed. "Mother said you were just tired, but you slept for almost a whole day!"
"Are you feeling better?" Garlan asked, his eyes wide with concern.
Caelum managed a weak smile, avoiding Lady Alerie's gaze. "Yes, much better," he said.
"You're sure you're all right?" Garlan pressed, a touch of worry lingering in his voice. "You look a bit...green around the gills still."
Willas nodded in agreement, his concern furrowing his brow. "Yeah, I wish Maester Lomys were here, he'd know what was wrong with your breathing. Maybe there's a maester at Harrenhall..."
"No, no, really, I'm fine," Caelum insisted, the attention making him squirm. "It was just the city. It was a bit much for me, that's all."
Willas placed a comforting hand on Caelum's shoulder. "Well, next time, you better have that kerchief ready and doused in Grandma's rose water. You gave us quite a fright!"
"He should wear one around his neck at all times!" Garlan declared a mischievous glint in his eye that helped dispel the tension. "Like how knights wear their lady's favor. Maybe it'll ward off bad smells, and he can smell like a flower at all times. Then he'd be called Ser Caelum Starborne, The Flower Knight!... when you become a knight that is."
A chuckle escaped Caelum despite his embarrassment. Their concern was so genuine, and a bit of teasing felt normal, a welcome relief after his humiliating episode.
"Maybe not around my neck," he managed, a real smile beginning to form. "But I'll definitely remember the rose water."
"Well, seeing that he is getting better" Lady Olenna's voice cut through the conversation, reminding him that he was still in their presence making him flush red "Meredith, dear I think you can return to your duties again."
Meredith gave him a reassuring nod before addressing the Tyrells. "My apologies, Lady Alerie, Lady Olenna," she said, inclining her head slightly. "I will return to my duties immediately."
A prickle of guilt returned, but before he could apologize. Lady Alerie was already addressing her sons.
"Very well, boys," she said, the stern notes in her voice softening. "Now that Caelum is recovering, you can go and play yourselves. But remember, I don't want to see a single speck of dirt on your tunics before we depart."
Willas and Garlan beamed, their worries seemingly forgotten. "Thank you, Mother!" they chorused, practically bouncing with excitement.
Her gaze lingering on them fondly, Lady Alerie then turned her attention back to business. "Now, let's see. Meredith, ensure the boys have something suitable for the ride into Harrenhall. I want them to look their best. After all, the eyes of the realm will be upon them!" A hint of pride, a subtle warning mixed into her tone.
Willas puffed out his chest, a determined glint in his eyes. "We won't disappoint you, Mother! We promise to behave like proper lords."
Garlan, rarely to be outdone, echoed the sentiment. "Yes, Mother. Just wait, everyone at Harrenhall will be talking about how well-behaved we are, and then they will make us Knights!"
Lady Alerie smiled, a touch of amusement softening her features. "I have no doubt they will. Now, off you go. And remember," she raised a finger in playful warning, "your promise for the honor of riding into Harrenhall alongside your father!"
"We won't forget!" The boys declared in unison, then dragging Caelum alongside them, they scampered out of the tent, excitement radiating off them.
Willas turned back, his enthusiasm overflowing. "Caelum, when we get to Harrenhall, you should ride too! There are always extra horses. Luke could share his with you!"
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
Even days later, with the bustle of the tourney now thrumming all around him, Luke couldn't shake the memory of his first glimpse of Harrenhal.
The monstrous castle hadn't just appeared on the horizon; it had loomed, a vast shadow against the sky. It was as if some giant had scooped up a mountain and sculpted it into a fortress, the towers like gnarled fingers reaching for the clouds.
At first, it had all been a whirlwind of wonder.
The countless faces, so many accents he'd never heard before. Knights in gleaming armor strode past peddlers and mummers, and Luke's head swiveled like a wind vane trying to keep up. There was the sharp tang of horses everywhere, the mouthwatering scents of roasting meat, and a symphony of sounds that never truly ceased, even in the darkest hours of the night.
But even in all the wonder, and excitement of the tourney and the crowd that had gathered around them as the festivities of the first day were set to begin, he couldn't take his mind away from Caelum.
Something was wrong. He knew that in his heart. Meredith knew it too.
Caelum wasn't telling them something, was trying to hide his discomfort and trying to keep on a cheerful smile as though nothing was wrong.
But he'd known him for too long. Caelum had suffered enough through the years for him to know when something was wrong with him no matter how much he tried to hide it.
"Caelum, are you sure you're okay?" He asked the boy as he settled in the stands beside him.
They were seated in the crowds waiting for the festivities to begin after the King and the royal family arrived. Meredith hadn't been able to join them, as she had to stay by the little lords' side while they spent time with other highborn lordlings of the realm.
"Y-yeah. I'm fine…. There's nothing wrong with me." Caelum winced as he said.
Luke sighed, the sound heavy despite his young age. He'd tried to let it go, to simply enjoy the spectacle around them, but concern gnawed at him like a stubborn itch.
"Caelum," he pressed, a note of pleading in his voice, "Come on. We both know somethin' ain't right. What's botherin' you?"
Caelum looked away, the cheerful smile slipping from his face for a second. But then the smile returned full force, it was clear he was not going to get answers from his little brother soon.
Sensing his friend's retreat, Luke decided to change tactics. A sudden grin spread across his face. "Hey, bet you can't see a thing over the heads of all these big folk, can you?"
Caelum squinted, craning his neck. "Not much," he admitted with a slight pout followed by another wince. "The banners are blocking half the field already. And the people are too tall"
Luke chuckled. "Well, how's this then?" He leaned in conspiratorially. "What if I gave you a boost? A proper lookout post, fit for a hero!" He puffed out his chest with exaggerated pride.
Caelum's eyes widened, a flicker of his usual spark returning. "You mean... on your shoulders?"
"The tallest tower in the whole of Harrentown!" Luke declared, already swooping down and placing the boy on his shoulder "C'mon, up you go! Just mind you don't kick me in the ears on the way up, yeah?"
Caelum wriggled with excitement, his earlier worries momentarily forgotten as he settled onto Luke's shoulders. His view transformed, the sea of heads now spreading out beneath him. "Wow!" he breathed, "I can see everything! Even the far end of the lists!"
Luke grinned up at him, the weight of his friend a comfortable burden. Just then, a hush began to fall over the crowd.
Whispers rippled like a wave, necks craned, and bodies shifted for a better look at the King's box.
"What is it?" Caelum asked, his voice barely above the growing silence. "Is something happening?"
"Shhh!" Luke hissed playfully, but his eyes were also fixed on the royal enclosure. "The trumpets are about to sound. That means the King's here!"
A fanfare erupted, a cascade of brass that seemed to tear through the air itself. Caelum flinched, a jolt going through him like a lightning strike. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, the sound echoing in his skull even as it faded.
"Gods, that was loud!" Caelum hissed under his breath, his hands reflexively going to his ears though a thrill of excitement buzzed beneath his words. Luke unable to see his brother's discomfort tried to ask again, but couldn't with the increased fervor of the blaring sound.
But as the trumpets ceased, an unexpected hush descended upon the crowd. It wasn't true silence, but a shift, a change in texture. The roar of voices became a low thrum, punctuated by the rustle of silks and the jingle of bridles as the royal retinue made its entrance.
The herald's voice cut through the stillness, clear and booming. "Behold! His Grace, Aerys of House Targaryen, Second of His Name! King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men! Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm! By his side, his beloved wife, Queen Rhaella!"
Below, a figure emerged onto the balcony. He wasn't clad in shimmering gold like the Prince; his robes were a dull velvet, and his crown a simple circlet of tarnished gold. The man within looked frail, withered. His once-famous Targaryen hair hung in lank strands, his beard untrimmed. Deep lines etched his face, and his eyes held a strange, darting glint.
A wave of gasps rippled through the crowd at the sight of the King.
Luke oblivious to his friend's discomfort gestured. "Look! There's the Queen!" he whispered.
Caelum followed his gaze. Queen Rhaella was a study in contrasts to her husband.
Where he was frail, she stood tall, her back regal despite the worn lines of her face. There were hints of a beauty that must have once been breathtaking, a gentle kindness in her eyes that seemed at odds with the haunted look in the King's.
The herald's voice rose again, "His Royal Highness, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, Dragon Prince, Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne!"
The crowd erupted in cheers as the silver-haired prince stepped into view. "The Prince looks amazing!" Luke breathed, his eyes wide.
Caelum nodded, the unease he'd felt towards the King replaced by a different kind of awe.
Rhaegar was undeniably handsome, his armor gleaming like moonlight on water. There was a grace to his movements, and poise befitting royalty.
"And at his side," the herald continued, "Princess Elia Nymeros Martell, Princess of Dorne, and their daughter, the Princess Rhaenys!"
A slender woman with olive skin and large, expressive eyes stood beside Rhaegar. She wore the flowing silks of Dorne, and her smile, though warm, held a hint of reserve. A small girl, her mother's miniature, clung to her hand.
There was a gentle curve to Princess Elia's belly, confirming the whispers abound the crowd earlier. That of the imminent arrival of another Royal heir.
A roar erupted from the stands as Rhaegar and his family acknowledged the crowd with regal nods. The noise seemed to swell, wave upon wave of cheers crashing down upon them.
Atop his shoulder, Caelum flinched with each echoing shout, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Caelum," Luke shouted above the din, oblivious to his friend's struggle, "Look! They're bringing out the knights! Isn't that Ser Arthur Dayne? I heard he's the best in the whole kingdom! And his sword is made from Star Metal, like the one that fell on your Pa's farm!"
The herald raised his hand once more, and a hush fell over the crowd, thick and expectant. His voice boomed out, amplified by years of practice.
"Lords and ladies, knights and commons, hear ye! Let the games begin!" Another roar from the crowd, a wave that threatened to crash down upon them Caelum squeezed his eyes shut briefly, but Luke was too enraptured to notice.
"Ten days of glory await!" the herald continued. "Seven days of jousts, a melee fit for the Age of Heroes, trials of skill for axe, for bow, for nimble feet and sweeter voices yet! Yet all this is but a prelude, for Lord Walter Whent, in his surpassing generosity, offers a victor's purse three times greater than any bestowed in living memory!"
A collective gasp rippled through the stands, followed by cheers and shouts of disbelief.
"But why, you ask," The herald's voice grew sly, a grin audible beneath the formality, "Why such largesse, such spectacle worthy of kings? The answer, my friends, lies with the most precious jewel of Harrenhal!" He paused with a flourish, "Lord Walter, in celebration of his maiden daughter's name day, offers this tourney! Let the greatest knights of the realm vie for the favor of the Lady Shircy, one of the fairest of flowers in all the Seven Kingdoms!"
The crowd went wild. Amidst the frenzy, Luke could hear girls giggling, men shouting ribald suggestions.
Unwilling his eyes strained to the Tyrell box in the distance, he could already imagine Meredith's sigh, a part of him wished he could see her face more clearly.
Luke's eyes strained toward the far corner, a few paces beside and beneath the royal box. Meredith was standing behind the little lords of the Tyrell household, as they cheered along with the jeering crowd.
He was glad she was enjoying herself too. As though she could hear his thoughts, she turned and looked right at him from across the stands and smiled at him.
The herald's voice boomed once more, demanding silence. "Before the tourney commences on the morrow, glad tidings for all the realm to enjoy! A new brother joins the ranks of the Kingsguard, sworn to protect His Grace with his very life!"
The crowd stirred, buzzing with curiosity. Luke felt a jolt of surprise. He'd heard whispers that one of the legendary knights had perished.
"At just five and ten, one of the finest Knights of the Seven Kingdoms. The savior of Lord Sumner Crakehall from the atrocious Big Belly Ben. The vanquisher of the psychotic Smiling Knight. Raised to knighthood for valor and glory unmatched by Ser Arthur Dayne himself!" the herald announced. The crowd gradually grew excited. "Ser Jaime Lannister, the Golden Lion, youngest knight in the realm! The Golden Lion!"
A ripple of gasps and applause spread through the crowd. Luke knew the name well, the boy wonder, the pride of Casterly Rock. Whispers of his legend were rife in Harrentown, as Luke had heard over the days he had spent there.
Then King Aerys emerged from the shadows of his box, a twisted, gleeful smile on his face. It was a smile that made Luke's skin crawl, a far cry from the gentle serenity he'd seen in the Queen. The King raised a hand, and a hush fell over the crowd.
A young man with the unmistakable golden hair of his House Lannister appeared in the elevated box. He seemed no older than six and ten.
Jaime Lannister moved with the easy stride of one born to privilege, yet there was no arrogance in his bearing, only a quiet determination. He knelt before his King, head bowed.
The King's voice rasped out, a chilling but clear for all to hear in the stands "Ser Jaime Lannister, do you swear before the eyes of gods and men, to renounce all claims to lands and titles, to take no wife, father no children, and live and die at your King's command?"
"I swear it," Jaime answered, voice clear and strong.
King Aerys cackled, the sound echoing strangely across the vast tourney grounds. "Then take your vows, be my Knight, my servant closer than your father before you!"
Stepping forward was Lord Commander Hightower, the White Bull, every inch the legendary warrior.
He placed a sword on Jaime's shoulder, his voice a rumble. "In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women."
"I swear it," Jaime answered, voice clear and strong. "From this day, to the end of my days! I swear it!"
The White Bull raised his sword again and touched it to each of Jaime's shoulders. "Arise, Ser Jaime, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms."
As Jaime rose, a roar unlike anything Luke had ever heard erupted from the crowd, a thunderous wave of approval washing over them. Caelum let out a sharp cry, his hands clamping over his ears as his entire body flinched violently.
Shocked, Luke felt his friend twist in his grasp, then with surprising strength, Caelum pushed himself off, landing in a crouch at Luke's feet. Before Luke could react, the smaller boy was already scrambling away, weaving through the crowd with panicked speed. Tears streaked his face, visible even at a distance.
"Caelum! Wait!" Luke yelled, shoving his way through the startled spectators. He vaulted over a low barrier, legs pumping as he sprinted after his friend.
The tourney, the knights, even the Kingsguard...all were forgotten in an instant as worry for Caelum consumed him, as he gave chase after his little brother as he ran away from the stands toward the quiet of Harrentown.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
Meredith forced a smile, clapping politely with the other ladies as the herald's voice boomed forth the news of Jaime Lannister's elevation to the Kingsguard. Her eyes, however, were strained towards the opposite end of the stands, where she'd spotted Luke and Caelum amidst the throngs of commoners.
"When I grow up, I'll be just like him!" Young Garlan Tyrell puffed out his chest, his voice filled with childish bravado. Beside him, Willas nodded sagely, a determined gleam in his eye.
"He must be so brave," Willas added. "Strong too, and true – just like the stories tell!"
The crowd erupted in another roar of cheers, and Meredith felt her heart clench. Across the field, she saw Caelum's small face contort in pain. He covered his ears, his eyes squeezed shut in anguish.
A moment later, he wrenched himself away from Luke and disappeared into the crowd.
Panic surged through her. "My lady," Meredith began, turning towards Lady Alerie Tyrell, her voice strained. "I must...I need... the privy, with all due haste."
Lady Alerie gave a sympathetic smile. "Of course, dear child. Don't worry, the excitement of the day affects us all."
But it was Lady Olenna, whose words snaked out to catch Meredith off-guard. "Such a handsome young man, isn't he? It's not just the privy that calls to a maiden in the face of such chivalry." A knowing smile flickered across her wrinkled face. "I remember that feeling well."
Meredith felt her cheeks flush, but with a hurried curtsy, she slipped away, the Queen of Thorns' laughter echoing uncomfortably behind her. But her misunderstanding helped her leave quicker all the same.
With a final glance across the chaotic stands, Meredith turned and fled.
Each stride took her further from the tourney grounds, the triumphant cheers and booming trumpets fading into a muffled thrum. The road swirled with dust kicked up by her frantic feet, the scent of horses and sweat a harsh contrast to the perfumed air of the Tyrell ladies.
Skirting the massive outer wall of Harrentown, she ran on, the weight of worry a heavy stone in her chest. Ahead, she glimpsed the flicker of Luke's tunic and a flash of his dirty blonde hair, a beacon leading her deeper into the maze of silent houses.
Caelum, a small, panicked blur, moved with surprising speed for one so young.
"Caelum! Wait!" Luke's voice, breathless and sharp, sliced through the quiet. "Please, Caelum!"
The town seemed to hold its breath. Not a dog barked, not a single cry of a child broke the eerie stillness. Harrentown's inhabitants were swallowed whole by the spectacle outside their walls, leaving Meredith feeling strangely alone in this pursuit.
The inn loomed into view – black walls with Tyrell banners beneath House Whents own, indicating the inn was for the servants that served the Tyrell party as they arrived.
She knew this place. She'd visited Luke the day they had arrived, dropping Caelum in his care. He wouldn't be allowed in the castle with the other lordlings present.
It was the best the Tyrells could offer Luke and Caelum, while she and the young lords resided in the relative comfort of the castle.
Her heart hammered as she watched Caelum dart through the open doorway, followed moments later by Luke.
"Caelum! Luke!" she called, following them inside.
The inn was empty too, save for the old innkeeper, who looked to have just been broken out of his slumber.
Ignoring the wide-eyed stare of the startled innkeeper, Meredith dashed up the narrow, creaking stairs, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Luke was already there, pounding on the rough wooden door of their shared room.
"Caelum!" Luke's voice held a desperate edge. "Caelum, open up! Please! tell me what's wrong!"
He turned as she approached, his usual easygoing expression etched with worry. "Meredith? What are you doing here?"
"I saw him run from the stands," she gasped, catching her breath. "Made an excuse... the privy... followed you." Her gaze was laser-focused on the door.
Luke opened his mouth to speak, but Caelum's voice cut through the silence, muffled and thick with tears. "Go away! Just...go away. I'll be fine!"
Meredith's heart twisted in her chest. She knelt, her voice a gentle counterpoint to Luke's urgency. "Caelum, it's Meredith. I'm here too. Please, honey, let us in."
A strangled sob was the only reply.
Then, in a small, trembling voice that filled her with a mix of dread and protectiveness, Caelum spoke, "The world...it's just too big."
Luke's brow furrowed. "What do you mean, Cael? We don't understand."
"The noise," Caelum choked out. "I can hear...everything. Even now, with the door closed. The tourney..." his words dissolved into another broken sob.
A cold wave of shock washed over Meredith and Luke. They exchanged a wide-eyed look.
Steeling herself, Meredith reached for a comforting image, a sliver of the familiar to ground Caelum in this whirlwind of fear. "Caelum," she began, her tone soft but firm, "listen to me. Pretend we're back on your father's farm. It's a quiet summer day, just the way you like it. I'm hiding somewhere, right in the middle of the field. Can you see it?"
She heard him sniffle. "Y-yes. I see it."
"Good. Now, remember our game?" A faint flicker of hope ignited within her. "You have to find me. Don't let the bird songs or the rustle of leaves distract you. Can you hear my voice, Caelum? Just mine? Can you do that for me?"
Silence hung heavy in the air for what felt like an eternity.
Then, the door creaked open, revealing Caelum's tear-streaked face. He launched himself forward, burying his face in Meredith's skirts and hugging Luke and her tightly. His small body trembled as his sobs echoed through the narrow hallway.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N) Well, that was a good exercise in writing. Speech writing is damned hard.
The first glimpse of King's Landing had been like nothing Caelum had ever imagined. From their vantage on the high road, as they left the Kingswood Forest, the city spread out like a giant, glittering anthill, consisting of massive buildings, manses, and winding alleys, some towers even piercing the sky.
Larger and more expansive than the Briar, the labyrinth city between the two outer walls of Highgarden.
He'd gasped and wowed at the marvel as it slowly approached behind the giant river gates, across the glistening waters of the Blackwater Rush.
Buildings crowded against each other in a riot of colors, their roofs jumbled like mismatched tiles. And below it all, coiling like a lazy serpent, was the Blackwater Rush, its surface flashing silver in the sun.
But his wonder had soon faded to disgust.
"Ugh," Garlan had groaned, his face had been pinched into a mask of revulsion. "What is that smell?"
The city smelled worse than his farm's pigsty in midsummer, was louder than a crowing rooster at dawn, and was more crowded than the Mander Hills Inn on market day.
Lady Olenna had snorted at her grandson. "Don't let it turn your stomach too much, boys. You get used to it. Or you get a perfumer." She had sniffed with disgust and then fished a small bottle from her sleeve. "Rose water," she offered. "A splash on your sleeves, and collars can work wonders."
Willas had accepted it gratefully, while Garlan, less concerned with propriety, had simply pinched his nose shut. And had asked Meredith to close the curtains of the wheelhouse they were traveling in.
Caelum, however, hadn't been troubled by the smell alone. It was the noise that had made his heart pound and his teeth ache.
The closer they drew, the louder it became – a cacophony of shouts, hooves on cobblestones, the relentless clang of smiths' hammers. It was like all the sounds in the world had been fighting for space inside his head. Tears had pricked at his eyes, and he fought the urge to clamp his hands over his ears.
A wave of dizziness had washed over him, the world spinning, and he for a moment he felt he had seen ghosts, and bones in the carriage with them. It was growing too much. His skull had pulsed with every heartbeat, the world a blur of shouts and colors.
"Caelum?" Willas' voice sounded strangely muffled, as if from underwater. "You all right? You don't look so good…"
He hadn't wanted to seem like a baby, especially not with Willas and Garlan watching.
He had tried to keep his composure, as he shifted in Meredith's lap uncomfortably. With great strength, he had managed a nod "I'm fine, just … tired"
Meredith had noticed his pallor. "Here, Caelum," she'd said, pressing a handkerchief into his hand. The scent of the rose water Lady Olenna had given them clung heavily to it. "Block your nose, it might help with the smell."
He'd mumbled a thank you, too embarrassed to explain that it wasn't the smell, but the… everything.
He wanted to ask for quiet, for silence, but his tongue felt too thick and heavy in his mouth.
Then came the final blow.
As their carriage rumbled through the bridge toward River Gate as it swung open to let them in, the iron hinges groaned in protest, a screech that sliced through his skull like a hot knife. The world tipped sideways and then went dark.
The last thing he heard, as if from a great distance, was Meredith's alarmed cry. "Caelum!"
It had been embarrassing.
He had awoken in a soft bed, inside Meredith's tent. The party having left the city behind a day ago.
But he was glad the city was behind them now.
A wave of shame washed over him as memories of his embarrassing collapse flooded back. He'd fainted... in front of his friends. In front of kind Lady Alerie, and old Lady Olenna. And in front of Meredith.
Worse, Meredith had not left his side for long, he had been a distraction to her job, one that Luke had gotten for her after she'd complained about the idiot patrons back at her Ma's inn.
And it wasn't even the smell as everyone assumed. That had troubled almost the entire party, but no one had complained about the noise.
And he couldn't come to tell them in his shame.
They'd all been bothered by that, but only he had been brought to his knees by something as simple as some loud noise.
"Caelum?" Meredith's voice, soft and laced with concern, broke through his thoughts. "How do you feel?"
"I'm okay, Mary. Like I said, I was tired" he didn't want to tell her the truth. "I'm sorry"
Meredith's brows furrowed in confusion. "Sorry for what, Caelum?"
"For… for causing trouble," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze. "For taking you away from your job." He felt heat rising in his cheeks, and knew he was probably as red as a boiled lobster.
Meredith's expression softened. "Oh, Caelum," she breathed, reaching out to smooth a lock of hair from his forehead. "Don't you ever say that. Lady Olenna didn't mind, and Anya took over for the day. The city was… overwhelming. Any grown man could have fainted after that smell, I should have known it would have been worse for you."
Her words, meant to reassure, only made him feel worse. The smell hadn't been the cause, yet he didn't want to tell her that the noise had been the true cause.
"And besides," Meredith continued, her brown eyes warm, "it wasn't any trouble. Lady Alerie and Lady Olenna insisted you rest. And don't you worry about Lord Willas and Garlan, they were more concerned about you. The servants at the Red Keep took care of everything, I wasn't away from my duties for long. Luke helped when I was needed to look after the little lords."
Caelum felt a fresh surge of guilt. Not only had he fainted, making a fool of himself, but he'd also worried Luke, and his friends.
And worst of all, he'd distracted Meredith who clearly had plenty to do tending to his friends.
"I should have been stronger," he muttered, the words catching in his throat. "I didn't mean to cause so much trouble for Luke..."
Meredith gently brushed a strand of hair back from his face. "Luke isn't troubled," she reassured him. "He was worried, sure, but he understands. And as for me, well, Willas and Garlan are good company. They're waiting for you in the tent with Lady Alerie, and Lady Olenna. "Should I tell them you're awake?"
Caelum swallowed hard. He dreaded facing Willas and Garlan after making such a spectacle of himself.
He couldn't bear the thought of their pity or, worse, their laughter.
"No! I mean... I should go to them," he stammered, heat rising to his cheeks.
Meredith gave him a gentle smile. "They'll be happy to see you, Caelum. They were worried about you."
Her kind words only deepened his embarrassment. "I'm fine," he insisted.
Sensing his hesitation, Meredith placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It's all right to feel a little shaken up," she said. "Anyone would be, after what happened. Lord Willas and Lord Garlan, they're good children, they understand. They're your friends."
He nodded but couldn't meet her eyes. With Meredith's help, he sat up, the world swaying slightly.
Together, they made their way through the camp to the larger, lavishly decorated tent that served as the lords' private quarters. He avoided looking at the people and guards that milled about, afraid he would see mockery in their eyes.
The guards were quick to make way from him, and Meredith as they approached.
"-you need to look your best, Willas, Garlan. And be on your best behavior" He heard Lady Alerie's stern voice coming from the tent. "All the lords and ladies of the realm will be there. If you promise, you can ride into the keep alongside your father."
As they entered the tent, the conversation ceased abruptly. Lady Alerie looked up at them, surprise replacing her sternness. Lady Olenna's shrewd gaze flicked between them; her lips pursed in thought.
Willas and Garlan, immediately abandoning their discussion with their mother and rushed to his side. "Caelum!" they chorused, genuine relief washing over their faces.
"You're awake!" Willas exclaimed. "Mother said you were just tired, but you slept for almost a whole day!"
"Are you feeling better?" Garlan asked, his eyes wide with concern.
Caelum managed a weak smile, avoiding Lady Alerie's gaze. "Yes, much better," he said.
"You're sure you're all right?" Garlan pressed, a touch of worry lingering in his voice. "You look a bit...green around the gills still."
Willas nodded in agreement, his concern furrowing his brow. "Yeah, I wish Maester Lomys were here, he'd know what was wrong with your breathing. Maybe there's a maester at Harrenhall..."
"No, no, really, I'm fine," Caelum insisted, the attention making him squirm. "It was just the city. It was a bit much for me, that's all."
Willas placed a comforting hand on Caelum's shoulder. "Well, next time, you better have that kerchief ready and doused in Grandma's rose water. You gave us quite a fright!"
"He should wear one around his neck at all times!" Garlan declared a mischievous glint in his eye that helped dispel the tension. "Like how knights wear their lady's favor. Maybe it'll ward off bad smells, and he can smell like a flower at all times. Then he'd be called Ser Caelum Starborne, The Flower Knight!... when you become a knight that is."
A chuckle escaped Caelum despite his embarrassment. Their concern was so genuine, and a bit of teasing felt normal, a welcome relief after his humiliating episode.
"Maybe not around my neck," he managed, a real smile beginning to form. "But I'll definitely remember the rose water."
"Well, seeing that he is getting better" Lady Olenna's voice cut through the conversation, reminding him that he was still in their presence making him flush red "Meredith, dear I think you can return to your duties again."
Meredith gave him a reassuring nod before addressing the Tyrells. "My apologies, Lady Alerie, Lady Olenna," she said, inclining her head slightly. "I will return to my duties immediately."
A prickle of guilt returned, but before he could apologize. Lady Alerie was already addressing her sons.
"Very well, boys," she said, the stern notes in her voice softening. "Now that Caelum is recovering, you can go and play yourselves. But remember, I don't want to see a single speck of dirt on your tunics before we depart."
Willas and Garlan beamed, their worries seemingly forgotten. "Thank you, Mother!" they chorused, practically bouncing with excitement.
Her gaze lingering on them fondly, Lady Alerie then turned her attention back to business. "Now, let's see. Meredith, ensure the boys have something suitable for the ride into Harrenhall. I want them to look their best. After all, the eyes of the realm will be upon them!" A hint of pride, a subtle warning mixed into her tone.
Willas puffed out his chest, a determined glint in his eyes. "We won't disappoint you, Mother! We promise to behave like proper lords."
Garlan, rarely to be outdone, echoed the sentiment. "Yes, Mother. Just wait, everyone at Harrenhall will be talking about how well-behaved we are, and then they will make us Knights!"
Lady Alerie smiled, a touch of amusement softening her features. "I have no doubt they will. Now, off you go. And remember," she raised a finger in playful warning, "your promise for the honor of riding into Harrenhall alongside your father!"
"We won't forget!" The boys declared in unison, then dragging Caelum alongside them, they scampered out of the tent, excitement radiating off them.
Willas turned back, his enthusiasm overflowing. "Caelum, when we get to Harrenhall, you should ride too! There are always extra horses. Luke could share his with you!"
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Even days later, with the bustle of the tourney now thrumming all around him, Luke couldn't shake the memory of his first glimpse of Harrenhal.
The monstrous castle hadn't just appeared on the horizon; it had loomed, a vast shadow against the sky. It was as if some giant had scooped up a mountain and sculpted it into a fortress, the towers like gnarled fingers reaching for the clouds.
At first, it had all been a whirlwind of wonder.
The countless faces, so many accents he'd never heard before. Knights in gleaming armor strode past peddlers and mummers, and Luke's head swiveled like a wind vane trying to keep up. There was the sharp tang of horses everywhere, the mouthwatering scents of roasting meat, and a symphony of sounds that never truly ceased, even in the darkest hours of the night.
But even in all the wonder, and excitement of the tourney and the crowd that had gathered around them as the festivities of the first day were set to begin, he couldn't take his mind away from Caelum.
Something was wrong. He knew that in his heart. Meredith knew it too.
Caelum wasn't telling them something, was trying to hide his discomfort and trying to keep on a cheerful smile as though nothing was wrong.
But he'd known him for too long. Caelum had suffered enough through the years for him to know when something was wrong with him no matter how much he tried to hide it.
"Caelum, are you sure you're okay?" He asked the boy as he settled in the stands beside him.
They were seated in the crowds waiting for the festivities to begin after the King and the royal family arrived. Meredith hadn't been able to join them, as she had to stay by the little lords' side while they spent time with other highborn lordlings of the realm.
"Y-yeah. I'm fine…. There's nothing wrong with me." Caelum winced as he said.
Luke sighed, the sound heavy despite his young age. He'd tried to let it go, to simply enjoy the spectacle around them, but concern gnawed at him like a stubborn itch.
"Caelum," he pressed, a note of pleading in his voice, "Come on. We both know somethin' ain't right. What's botherin' you?"
Caelum looked away, the cheerful smile slipping from his face for a second. But then the smile returned full force, it was clear he was not going to get answers from his little brother soon.
Sensing his friend's retreat, Luke decided to change tactics. A sudden grin spread across his face. "Hey, bet you can't see a thing over the heads of all these big folk, can you?"
Caelum squinted, craning his neck. "Not much," he admitted with a slight pout followed by another wince. "The banners are blocking half the field already. And the people are too tall"
Luke chuckled. "Well, how's this then?" He leaned in conspiratorially. "What if I gave you a boost? A proper lookout post, fit for a hero!" He puffed out his chest with exaggerated pride.
Caelum's eyes widened, a flicker of his usual spark returning. "You mean... on your shoulders?"
"The tallest tower in the whole of Harrentown!" Luke declared, already swooping down and placing the boy on his shoulder "C'mon, up you go! Just mind you don't kick me in the ears on the way up, yeah?"
Caelum wriggled with excitement, his earlier worries momentarily forgotten as he settled onto Luke's shoulders. His view transformed, the sea of heads now spreading out beneath him. "Wow!" he breathed, "I can see everything! Even the far end of the lists!"
Luke grinned up at him, the weight of his friend a comfortable burden. Just then, a hush began to fall over the crowd.
Whispers rippled like a wave, necks craned, and bodies shifted for a better look at the King's box.
"What is it?" Caelum asked, his voice barely above the growing silence. "Is something happening?"
"Shhh!" Luke hissed playfully, but his eyes were also fixed on the royal enclosure. "The trumpets are about to sound. That means the King's here!"
A fanfare erupted, a cascade of brass that seemed to tear through the air itself. Caelum flinched, a jolt going through him like a lightning strike. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, the sound echoing in his skull even as it faded.
"Gods, that was loud!" Caelum hissed under his breath, his hands reflexively going to his ears though a thrill of excitement buzzed beneath his words. Luke unable to see his brother's discomfort tried to ask again, but couldn't with the increased fervor of the blaring sound.
But as the trumpets ceased, an unexpected hush descended upon the crowd. It wasn't true silence, but a shift, a change in texture. The roar of voices became a low thrum, punctuated by the rustle of silks and the jingle of bridles as the royal retinue made its entrance.
The herald's voice cut through the stillness, clear and booming. "Behold! His Grace, Aerys of House Targaryen, Second of His Name! King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men! Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm! By his side, his beloved wife, Queen Rhaella!"
Below, a figure emerged onto the balcony. He wasn't clad in shimmering gold like the Prince; his robes were a dull velvet, and his crown a simple circlet of tarnished gold. The man within looked frail, withered. His once-famous Targaryen hair hung in lank strands, his beard untrimmed. Deep lines etched his face, and his eyes held a strange, darting glint.
A wave of gasps rippled through the crowd at the sight of the King.
Luke oblivious to his friend's discomfort gestured. "Look! There's the Queen!" he whispered.
Caelum followed his gaze. Queen Rhaella was a study in contrasts to her husband.
Where he was frail, she stood tall, her back regal despite the worn lines of her face. There were hints of a beauty that must have once been breathtaking, a gentle kindness in her eyes that seemed at odds with the haunted look in the King's.
The herald's voice rose again, "His Royal Highness, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, Dragon Prince, Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne!"
The crowd erupted in cheers as the silver-haired prince stepped into view. "The Prince looks amazing!" Luke breathed, his eyes wide.
Caelum nodded, the unease he'd felt towards the King replaced by a different kind of awe.
Rhaegar was undeniably handsome, his armor gleaming like moonlight on water. There was a grace to his movements, and poise befitting royalty.
"And at his side," the herald continued, "Princess Elia Nymeros Martell, Princess of Dorne, and their daughter, the Princess Rhaenys!"
A slender woman with olive skin and large, expressive eyes stood beside Rhaegar. She wore the flowing silks of Dorne, and her smile, though warm, held a hint of reserve. A small girl, her mother's miniature, clung to her hand.
There was a gentle curve to Princess Elia's belly, confirming the whispers abound the crowd earlier. That of the imminent arrival of another Royal heir.
A roar erupted from the stands as Rhaegar and his family acknowledged the crowd with regal nods. The noise seemed to swell, wave upon wave of cheers crashing down upon them.
Atop his shoulder, Caelum flinched with each echoing shout, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Caelum," Luke shouted above the din, oblivious to his friend's struggle, "Look! They're bringing out the knights! Isn't that Ser Arthur Dayne? I heard he's the best in the whole kingdom! And his sword is made from Star Metal, like the one that fell on your Pa's farm!"
The herald raised his hand once more, and a hush fell over the crowd, thick and expectant. His voice boomed out, amplified by years of practice.
"Lords and ladies, knights and commons, hear ye! Let the games begin!" Another roar from the crowd, a wave that threatened to crash down upon them Caelum squeezed his eyes shut briefly, but Luke was too enraptured to notice.
"Ten days of glory await!" the herald continued. "Seven days of jousts, a melee fit for the Age of Heroes, trials of skill for axe, for bow, for nimble feet and sweeter voices yet! Yet all this is but a prelude, for Lord Walter Whent, in his surpassing generosity, offers a victor's purse three times greater than any bestowed in living memory!"
A collective gasp rippled through the stands, followed by cheers and shouts of disbelief.
"But why, you ask," The herald's voice grew sly, a grin audible beneath the formality, "Why such largesse, such spectacle worthy of kings? The answer, my friends, lies with the most precious jewel of Harrenhal!" He paused with a flourish, "Lord Walter, in celebration of his maiden daughter's name day, offers this tourney! Let the greatest knights of the realm vie for the favor of the Lady Shircy, one of the fairest of flowers in all the Seven Kingdoms!"
The crowd went wild. Amidst the frenzy, Luke could hear girls giggling, men shouting ribald suggestions.
Unwilling his eyes strained to the Tyrell box in the distance, he could already imagine Meredith's sigh, a part of him wished he could see her face more clearly.
Luke's eyes strained toward the far corner, a few paces beside and beneath the royal box. Meredith was standing behind the little lords of the Tyrell household, as they cheered along with the jeering crowd.
He was glad she was enjoying herself too. As though she could hear his thoughts, she turned and looked right at him from across the stands and smiled at him.
The herald's voice boomed once more, demanding silence. "Before the tourney commences on the morrow, glad tidings for all the realm to enjoy! A new brother joins the ranks of the Kingsguard, sworn to protect His Grace with his very life!"
The crowd stirred, buzzing with curiosity. Luke felt a jolt of surprise. He'd heard whispers that one of the legendary knights had perished.
"At just five and ten, one of the finest Knights of the Seven Kingdoms. The savior of Lord Sumner Crakehall from the atrocious Big Belly Ben. The vanquisher of the psychotic Smiling Knight. Raised to knighthood for valor and glory unmatched by Ser Arthur Dayne himself!" the herald announced. The crowd gradually grew excited. "Ser Jaime Lannister, the Golden Lion, youngest knight in the realm! The Golden Lion!"
A ripple of gasps and applause spread through the crowd. Luke knew the name well, the boy wonder, the pride of Casterly Rock. Whispers of his legend were rife in Harrentown, as Luke had heard over the days he had spent there.
Then King Aerys emerged from the shadows of his box, a twisted, gleeful smile on his face. It was a smile that made Luke's skin crawl, a far cry from the gentle serenity he'd seen in the Queen. The King raised a hand, and a hush fell over the crowd.
A young man with the unmistakable golden hair of his House Lannister appeared in the elevated box. He seemed no older than six and ten.
Jaime Lannister moved with the easy stride of one born to privilege, yet there was no arrogance in his bearing, only a quiet determination. He knelt before his King, head bowed.
The King's voice rasped out, a chilling but clear for all to hear in the stands "Ser Jaime Lannister, do you swear before the eyes of gods and men, to renounce all claims to lands and titles, to take no wife, father no children, and live and die at your King's command?"
"I swear it," Jaime answered, voice clear and strong.
King Aerys cackled, the sound echoing strangely across the vast tourney grounds. "Then take your vows, be my Knight, my servant closer than your father before you!"
Stepping forward was Lord Commander Hightower, the White Bull, every inch the legendary warrior.
He placed a sword on Jaime's shoulder, his voice a rumble. "In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women."
"I swear it," Jaime answered, voice clear and strong. "From this day, to the end of my days! I swear it!"
The White Bull raised his sword again and touched it to each of Jaime's shoulders. "Arise, Ser Jaime, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms."
As Jaime rose, a roar unlike anything Luke had ever heard erupted from the crowd, a thunderous wave of approval washing over them. Caelum let out a sharp cry, his hands clamping over his ears as his entire body flinched violently.
Shocked, Luke felt his friend twist in his grasp, then with surprising strength, Caelum pushed himself off, landing in a crouch at Luke's feet. Before Luke could react, the smaller boy was already scrambling away, weaving through the crowd with panicked speed. Tears streaked his face, visible even at a distance.
"Caelum! Wait!" Luke yelled, shoving his way through the startled spectators. He vaulted over a low barrier, legs pumping as he sprinted after his friend.
The tourney, the knights, even the Kingsguard...all were forgotten in an instant as worry for Caelum consumed him, as he gave chase after his little brother as he ran away from the stands toward the quiet of Harrentown.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
Meredith forced a smile, clapping politely with the other ladies as the herald's voice boomed forth the news of Jaime Lannister's elevation to the Kingsguard. Her eyes, however, were strained towards the opposite end of the stands, where she'd spotted Luke and Caelum amidst the throngs of commoners.
"When I grow up, I'll be just like him!" Young Garlan Tyrell puffed out his chest, his voice filled with childish bravado. Beside him, Willas nodded sagely, a determined gleam in his eye.
"He must be so brave," Willas added. "Strong too, and true – just like the stories tell!"
The crowd erupted in another roar of cheers, and Meredith felt her heart clench. Across the field, she saw Caelum's small face contort in pain. He covered his ears, his eyes squeezed shut in anguish.
A moment later, he wrenched himself away from Luke and disappeared into the crowd.
Panic surged through her. "My lady," Meredith began, turning towards Lady Alerie Tyrell, her voice strained. "I must...I need... the privy, with all due haste."
Lady Alerie gave a sympathetic smile. "Of course, dear child. Don't worry, the excitement of the day affects us all."
But it was Lady Olenna, whose words snaked out to catch Meredith off-guard. "Such a handsome young man, isn't he? It's not just the privy that calls to a maiden in the face of such chivalry." A knowing smile flickered across her wrinkled face. "I remember that feeling well."
Meredith felt her cheeks flush, but with a hurried curtsy, she slipped away, the Queen of Thorns' laughter echoing uncomfortably behind her. But her misunderstanding helped her leave quicker all the same.
With a final glance across the chaotic stands, Meredith turned and fled.
Each stride took her further from the tourney grounds, the triumphant cheers and booming trumpets fading into a muffled thrum. The road swirled with dust kicked up by her frantic feet, the scent of horses and sweat a harsh contrast to the perfumed air of the Tyrell ladies.
Skirting the massive outer wall of Harrentown, she ran on, the weight of worry a heavy stone in her chest. Ahead, she glimpsed the flicker of Luke's tunic and a flash of his dirty blonde hair, a beacon leading her deeper into the maze of silent houses.
Caelum, a small, panicked blur, moved with surprising speed for one so young.
"Caelum! Wait!" Luke's voice, breathless and sharp, sliced through the quiet. "Please, Caelum!"
The town seemed to hold its breath. Not a dog barked, not a single cry of a child broke the eerie stillness. Harrentown's inhabitants were swallowed whole by the spectacle outside their walls, leaving Meredith feeling strangely alone in this pursuit.
The inn loomed into view – black walls with Tyrell banners beneath House Whents own, indicating the inn was for the servants that served the Tyrell party as they arrived.
She knew this place. She'd visited Luke the day they had arrived, dropping Caelum in his care. He wouldn't be allowed in the castle with the other lordlings present.
It was the best the Tyrells could offer Luke and Caelum, while she and the young lords resided in the relative comfort of the castle.
Her heart hammered as she watched Caelum dart through the open doorway, followed moments later by Luke.
"Caelum! Luke!" she called, following them inside.
The inn was empty too, save for the old innkeeper, who looked to have just been broken out of his slumber.
Ignoring the wide-eyed stare of the startled innkeeper, Meredith dashed up the narrow, creaking stairs, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Luke was already there, pounding on the rough wooden door of their shared room.
"Caelum!" Luke's voice held a desperate edge. "Caelum, open up! Please! tell me what's wrong!"
He turned as she approached, his usual easygoing expression etched with worry. "Meredith? What are you doing here?"
"I saw him run from the stands," she gasped, catching her breath. "Made an excuse... the privy... followed you." Her gaze was laser-focused on the door.
Luke opened his mouth to speak, but Caelum's voice cut through the silence, muffled and thick with tears. "Go away! Just...go away. I'll be fine!"
Meredith's heart twisted in her chest. She knelt, her voice a gentle counterpoint to Luke's urgency. "Caelum, it's Meredith. I'm here too. Please, honey, let us in."
A strangled sob was the only reply.
Then, in a small, trembling voice that filled her with a mix of dread and protectiveness, Caelum spoke, "The world...it's just too big."
Luke's brow furrowed. "What do you mean, Cael? We don't understand."
"The noise," Caelum choked out. "I can hear...everything. Even now, with the door closed. The tourney..." his words dissolved into another broken sob.
A cold wave of shock washed over Meredith and Luke. They exchanged a wide-eyed look.
Steeling herself, Meredith reached for a comforting image, a sliver of the familiar to ground Caelum in this whirlwind of fear. "Caelum," she began, her tone soft but firm, "listen to me. Pretend we're back on your father's farm. It's a quiet summer day, just the way you like it. I'm hiding somewhere, right in the middle of the field. Can you see it?"
She heard him sniffle. "Y-yes. I see it."
"Good. Now, remember our game?" A faint flicker of hope ignited within her. "You have to find me. Don't let the bird songs or the rustle of leaves distract you. Can you hear my voice, Caelum? Just mine? Can you do that for me?"
Silence hung heavy in the air for what felt like an eternity.
Then, the door creaked open, revealing Caelum's tear-streaked face. He launched himself forward, burying his face in Meredith's skirts and hugging Luke and her tightly. His small body trembled as his sobs echoed through the narrow hallway.
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(A/N) Well, that was a good exercise in writing. Speech writing is damned hard.
Voices of the Innocent
Caelum whimpered, his hands pressed tight against his ears as if they could block out the world.
Meredith sat close, her fingers running through the boy's hair, trying to lull him to sleep "Caelum shhh," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly, "Focus on just my voice…. Breathe. Close your eyes… breathe and focus on just my voice."
His sobs were muffled against the covers, his small body trembling.
Cursed.
Luke knew the Gods had cursed Caelum, destroyed his health, weakened his lungs, and tortured his very existence.
But this?
He watched from the shadows, unable to shake the sickening coldness that had settled in his bones.
This was not sickness, not some strange ailment... something far darker.
Dark Magic. Sorcery.
His little brother. Sweet, innocent, Caelum with dreams of being a Knight, of helping the weak, of protecting the innocent.
Cursed by the gods with vile magic.
Caelum's cries slowly subsided, replaced by ragged breaths. Sleep finally claimed him – a tortured, restless sleep filled with flinches and the occasional choked sob.
He watched as Meredith finally lulled him to sleep.
Sleep held Caelum in its uneasy grip, but Meredith felt no such reprieve. She turned to Luke, her eyes pleading. He couldn't see the tears under her eyes, or the trembling of her hands, but the desperation in her voice was clear. "We have to help him, Luke."
His voice, usually full of warmth and wry humor, held a cold edge now. "The Seven-Pointed Star teaches, 'You shall not suffer the dark magicks to exist.'" He paused, then continued, a tremor running through his words, "The gods have cursed him with magicks.."
Meredith's mouth went dry. "Luke, what are you saying? You… You wouldn't… don't tell me y-you mean to kill him!"
He recoiled as if struck. "What?"
Caelum whimpered at the increased noise, and Luke took in a harsh gulp of air, lowering his voice, glancing at his sleeping brother with a mix of tenderness and despair. "No! Gods, Mary, no! Never!"
"But then…." Her voice trailed off
"I don't…" Luke ran a hand through his hair, his frustration evident. "Caelum doesn't deserve this. I love him like my brother, Mary. But what can we do? You think I don't want to protect him? I don't know how!"
A flicker of hope sparked in Meredith's eyes. "Maybe Lady Alerie, or Lady Olenna… they've seen so much, perhaps they can help?"
Luke shook his head, desperately. "No. We keep this to ourselves, Mary. Do you truly believe they'll help? He's not some… some curiosity to them. He's…." His gaze fell back on Caelum. "The power in him, it's… Too dangerous. The Tyrells, kind as they may be, would sooner lock him away than risk a simple farm boy holding their secrets in the palm of his hand."
Meredith's brows furrowed. "But they're noble, Luke. Surely, they would understand, they would…"
"Understand?" Luke cut her off, his voice laced with a bitter cynicism. "They would understand that the Seven curse magic, that they swore oaths against it. They'd understand that the Seven have cursed him with magicks that pain and revile him. Even in his sleep. They would kill him, and then call it a kindness." His voice cracked as the reality sank in, a cold fist squeezing his heart. "We can't tell anyone, Mary. Please."
"But Willas and Garlan... they're his friends," she protested, a shaky note in her voice. "Lady Olenna, Lady Alerie they wouldn't do something so... so unforgivable."
Luke's gaze held a weary understanding that made Meredith's protest seem painfully naive. "They won't see his friendship with the little lords, Mary. If they know, they'll lock him away before Willas and Garlan even know Caelum is gone. Power, secrets, fear...those are the currencies they deal in, not the fickle friendships of children."
His words cut deep, but a flicker of defiance rose within her. "Still, the sept here in Harrentown... surely they would understand it's not his fault..."
"The sept?" Luke's voice rose a notch, a stark contrast to the hushed tones of the room. "Didn't you hear the stories, Mary? The scriptures? If anyone was going to see a demon and not a suffering boy, it would be them!"
"But there must be someone..." she whispered more to herself than Luke. "Ser Vortimer Crane, he's honorable, he wouldn't… Or Ser Quentin, a Tyrell himself, surely he…"
Luke burst out, a harsh edge to his voice he seldom directed at Meredith, "Mary, open your eyes! Stop being a naive girl. Haven't you learned anything at all?"
He took a harsh breath, trying to soften his tone, but the desperation remained. "Don't you remember, Mary? No knight came to help your father on the road, not when the bandits came. When they arrived, they watched as he died while they pandered to the unhurt lordling bastard. And Ser Quentin, a Tyrell himself, did he stand by my father after my father saved his life? No, he tossed him aside the moment the deed was done. Ser Quentin became a Knight in the war, for the deeds my father did, taking them for his own. As far as Ser Crane sees me, I'm no more than a stable boy to order around, not someone whose words hold any value. This isn't some tale where knights and septons rescue those in need, Mary," he said, his voice rough. "We're on our own in this, and the sooner you accept that, the sooner we can figure out how to keep Caelum safe."
Meredith's chin jutted out, a single tear trailing a defiant path down her flushed cheek. Despite the tremble of her lip, her eyes blazed. "Luke, how can you say that? Your master is Ser Crane himself! You're his page..."
"I know what I am, Mary," Luke interrupted, his own frustration rising. "I know the look in his eye when he addresses me. To him, I am just a stable hand with the fancy title of being his page. An up-jumped peasant boy. You don't know Ser Crane, not the way I do. I won't become a Knight, not because of Ser Crane. If I will, it will be of my own damned merit. The village doesn't know a damned thing!"
Meredith's tears spilled over. "I don't believe you!" she choked out. "All my life I've dreamed… Knights are good and noble, and true! You'll see, one day..."
"Mary, please," he said, softer this time. "We have to be smarter than this. Swear to me, not on my life, but Caelum's, that you'll never breathe a word of this."
"Maybe… we could ask Septon Mattheus?" It was a whisper, barely audible, as though even suggesting it was dangerous.
Luke shook his head slowly. "We can't risk it. Mattheus is kind, I'll give him that, but he's also a septon. The words of the Seven are his law, and that law says …" he couldn't bring himself to repeat the scripture again.
Meredith's voice rose in a desperate cry, "Then what do you want to do, Luke? Just… just watch as he suffers? I won't let that happen! I can't! Not when I thought... hoped he was getting better!"
Luke choked back a sob, "I don't know, Mary, I don't know." A thought, an old memory, flickered in his mind. "But…my mother, your Aunt Marna…they've always said Caelum was different. 'Blessed' they called him." His voice grew quieter with each word, the absurdity of it all hitting him.
Meredith nodded slowly, her gaze fixed on the slumbering Caelum with a mix of worry and a flicker of dawning comprehension.
Luke scoffed, a harsh, bitter sound. "Uncle Harlon and Aunt Elyna, I could understand. Their own child – of course, they'd see him as a blessing. Especially after, ...after their losses." His voice trailed off; he didn't need to remind Meredith of the tiny unmarked graves beside their little farmhouse. "But my own mother? Aunt Marna? They're…practical, sensible women. They know something… we need to know what."
Meredith met his gaze. "They see things in him, Luke. Things I don't understand. I don't see the blessing," she admitted, "just this...magic."
Luke's eyes were haunted, his expression troubled. "Magic," he whispered, then louder, as if the word itself caused pain, "Magic is a sword without a hilt. It will hurt him, Mary. More than we can even imagine."
Meredith nodded, the gesture small but resolute. "Which is exactly why we need help. Someone wiser, someone with knowledge, if not the Tyrell Lords or Ladies, and not Ser Crane or Ser Quentin, then another knight maybe, if not a Septon… or … or a maester?"
"Gods damn it, Mary!" Luke's voice rose with a frustration he'd been struggling to contain, "What part of 'keeping quiet' don't you understand? We find someone, and they'll either try to lock him up or kill him. Heresy, they will call it. Heretic he will be. There is no in-between!"
Meredith flared back, "And just what do you propose instead? Teach him this magic yourself? Dabble in the dark arts to 'save' him?"
"If I have to!" Luke shot back, then lowered his voice, a new determination in his eyes. "At least we can teach him control, focus. You've been doing it with him... focusing his mind on just your voice. I can do that."
She scoffed, "How? You already think you won't become a proper Knight! Now you're an expert on magic?"
Luke's anger ignited, his fists clenching. "Damnit, Mary, I'll do anything! I'm already working myself to the bone trying to become a knight. I made a promise to Caelum, and I won't break it, not like…not like…" He choked on the words, Uncle Harlon's promise kept ringing in his ears.
Meredith's tone was sharp, dripping with scorn. "Yet you don't trust your own abilities. Parmen Crane, now, he'd know what to do. He'd…"
A flicker of hurt masked by rage crossed Luke's face. "You think I'm jealous? Is that it, Mary? Do you think I am not trying? You can't see the truth enamored that you are with the pretty lordling?"
"At least he'll be a knight!" Her words stung.
Luke's voice was cold, filled with a fury meant to wound. "Fine, then go to your precious Parmen, or Ser Whoever-the-Gods-Damn-Hell pleases you! But you will not say a word about Caelum. You won't be the reason he ends up dead!"
Meredith's voice was cold, edged with a bitterness Luke had never heard from her. "Fine. Who needs you anyway?" She stood abruptly. "But if Caelum is hurt more than he already is, Luke, when we could have pleaded for help…. Gods help me, I'll kill you myself."
"I will expect you to," he replied wearily. "Now, I'll stay with Caelum. Try to teach him… whatever I can about focus, about… control. Keep a close watch." He paused. "You should go, Mary. Get back to your duties. That privy excuse won't hold Lady Alerie forever."
Meredith wiped at a stubborn tear, then asked, "Are you sure, Luke? You need to get back to Ser Crane too."
"Ser Crane can go to the pits of seven hells. He will be glad I am away, he can put all his focus on his son. I'll have learnt my place finally." His gaze met hers, filled with a resolve that belied the fear gnawing at his heart. "Don't worry about Caelum, Meredith. I made him a promise, remember? I was going to be his knight, him my squire. I…I'll teach him what I can, protect him however I can." His voice grew softer, a desperate plea. "But Mary…promise me. Don't tell anyone. Not yet. Not until we get home, until we can find some answers, from his parents, from… from our own."
Meredith nodded, then turned and left the room. As the door creaked shut, she whispered, "On Caelum's life, Luke. I swear it. I love that boy too. I won't tell a soul."
Alone now, Luke watched Caelum's troubled sleep. How could this child, sweet and trusting, be a knight when the gods themselves seemed to war against him? He'd brought Caelum here, to the heart of the tourney, to show him the harsh reality, the blood and sweat it took. He'd hoped to break Caelum of his childish dreams, but... not like this. Never like this.
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Every footstep boomed like a giant was stomping closer. Every shout, every laugh felt like a spear jabbing his ears.
"Caelum?" Luke's voice pierced the noise, not sharp, but soft like it was when the foals got spooked. "It's too much, isn't it?"
Tears pricked Caelum's eyes, but he just nodded, clutching Luke's hand tight. It wasn't just loud, it was too much.
Like everyone at the tourney was whispering their secrets right into his ears, all at the same time.
Luke gave his hand a squeeze and led him away from the worst of the crowds. Down an alleyway, the noise softened a bit, like a roaring waterfall turning into a rushing river. Still bad, but...he could almost breathe again.
"Caelum, buddy," Luke knelt down so they were eye to eye, his own face a mix of worry and determination. "It's like…like there's a whole angry crowd inside your head, right?"
Caelum nodded, tears threatening to spill over now. Luke got it, always did, even though Caelum wasn't sure how to make the words explain it right.
"Remember our game, back at the inn?" Luke's smile was a bit shaky, a flicker of doubt along with the hope. "M-maybe... maybe we could try a big version? See if... if that helps?"
Caelum nodded, wincing at the pain in his head. "A-alright"
"We'll try!" Luke pointed towards a stall where sparks flew and metal clanked with rhythmic thuds. "Hear that blacksmith? Can you...maybe...hold onto just that sound? Push all the others away, just for a little bit?"
Caelum closed his eyes, scrunching his face up with how hard he tried. The clang…clang…clang was loud, but for a moment, the world tilted, and it was the only thing he could hear. Then a dog barked somewhere close, and the world crashed back, noisy and horrible again. A whimper escaped him. He couldn't do it. Not for long enough.
Luke's guiding hand disappeared for a moment, and Caelum was alone. The blacksmith's clang-clang-clang was his anchor...but it was starting to fray. Another sound snagged at him, a murmur that cut through the chaos like a sharp knife.
"...the King, have you seen him? Withered like an old corpse..." A woman's voice, hushed and fearful.
Then another, stronger, booming from somewhere close to the tourney grounds. "Jousting commences! Lord Tyrell of Highgarden against the fearsome Knight of Skulls!" The roar of the crowd drowned out whoever answered.
And then, a different kind of roar. Laughter, deep and rough like a bear, laced with words so foul Caelum didn't even understand them fully but knew they were bad. He'd heard men like that back in the village, after too much ale.
"...Princess Elia with child again, bless her..." That was softer, a woman. But then, like a needle on a spinning record, the whispers went dark again, "Ser Jaime, youngest Kingsguard ever... Gone, like the wind... to the capital."
"…. Another dream, my King? ... " A rough voice said, followed by the clanging of metal on stone.
Moans drifted on the wind, women crying out; some in joy, others in pain, and the rhythmic clapping. He desperately tried to quieten the noise.
Each new sound stabbed at his focus, fraying the blacksmith's rhythm until it snapped, and the roaring storm filled his head once more.
A hand touched his shoulder—Luke, back beside him. The worry on his face deepened. "Caelum, it's too much here." His voice was barely audible over the din. "Let's… try something else, alright?"
He sounded scared. Not just for Caelum, but scared of... something else.
Caelum couldn't blame him; the swirling, whispering voices were terrifying. He was terrified too.
Luke led him away, further yet from the tourney and the heart of the market. As they walked, Luke spoke, his voice gentle, "Think of it like a storm, Cael. And you're at the very center. We need to build… like, a shelter inside your head. You ready to try again?"
Luke's grip tightened on Caelum's hand, and the gentle pressure was enough to draw him out of the swirling storm of voices. He blinked, and Luke's worried frown swam into focus.
With every effort, the roaring crowd in his head seemed to grow louder, like an angry sea crashing against a crumbling cliff. His skull throbbed in time with the pulsing beat of it all, a drum he couldn't stop.
"...Pia they called her, pretty..." A man's voice, rough and leering, floated out of nowhere, then was drowned out by the sharp crack of a lance and a cheer that made Caelum's eardrums ache.
"Garlan's tunic has a stain, Meredith. Would you get a replacement dear? And clean this one." That was Lady Alerie, her voice echoing in Caelum's head along with a splash of water. But it barely registered before his own sister's voice, usually so cheerful, cut through him with a whispered plea, "..Seven above, if this is a curse, take it away..."
"...Ser Vortimer unhorsed him! Now Reach's master at arms against Ser Quentin his student in all but name... " The tourney herald's voice boomed like thunder, followed by another wave of screams that sent a sharp pain through Caelum's temples.
The moans and grunts and laughter from the far edge of town were worse, a jumble of sounds that painted images in his mind he desperately wanted to erase. He tried to focus, to build Luke's 'shelter', but it was like building sandcastles in a hurricane.
Then came the hot, wet trickle down his nose. A whimper caught in his throat, and he wiped at his face with a shaking hand. Red streaked his fingers.
"Caelum!" Luke's alarm broke through the storm. "We need to go. Somewhere quieter." He pulled Caelum along, his voice tense, barely a whisper. "Just a little further, buddy. Hold on, alright?"
They left the alleyways and noisy streets behind, venturing into open fields beyond the town. Here, the sounds softened into a dull roar. Luke halted by a lone oak tree and knelt, meeting Caelum's teary eyes.
"Okay," he said, his voice steadier now, "let's try again, but different this time. Instead of building a whole shelter... pick just one sound. My voice, okay? Hear just me, push everything else away."
Caelum squeezed his eyes shut, trying to follow.
"Caelum, listen," Luke began, soft but insistent. "Remember that story about Ser Arthur Dayne? How he fought
off an entire band of brigands, all by himself…"
Luke's voice, steady and familiar, wove a tale of bravery and honor. But whispers snaked around the edges of his focus, slithering past the shield.
"...Lady Shirey Whent, Queen of Love and Beauty!" A man's voice, boasting and proud. And the distant roaring cheer of a crowd.
Then a different voice cut through Luke's story, "...just flowered ones, be gentle, gods…". It was followed by laughter, rough and ugly, and then a woman's tearful sob that made Caelum's stomach twist.
The shield in his mind quivered.
"...find that Pia wench, she's newly flowered", they said "show 'er a real man..." Footsteps and more rough laughter, moving away, growing fainter,
but still a jagged crack in the shelter Luke's voice had become.
He pressed his hands against his ears, but the voices kept coming, swirling and whispering. Luke's story lost its shape, replaced by the relentless hum of the world. He focused harder, more desperately on Luke's voice.
"…. The sword of the morning was brighter than the sun itself." He was saying. His voice had become clear, the rest a dull echo in the reaches of his mind.
Finally, Caelum gulped, and with a small shaky voice, he said, "Luke... I can only hear you."
Luke knelt closer, "That's it, Caelum, perfect! You did it!" Relief washed over his face, mixed with lingering concern. "Now, let's try something else. You focus on my voice, then pick another voice…anyone talking in the town. Keep everything else out, and tell me…what are they saying?"
Caelum shivered. The thought of reaching out into that swirling chaos again – it made him want to curl up in a ball and shut everything out, forever. He bit his lip, then forced himself to lift his head.
"It's...scary," he admitted in a whisper, "What's wrong with me, Luke? Why are all the voices in my head? Why have the Gods cursed me?"
Luke's hand settled on his shoulder, warm and reassuring. "I don't know, Caelum. But it's not your fault. I swear, we'll figure it out…together. You're not alone in this. The Gods… they … they have something in mind for you. They have given you this magic, for what I do not know. But I will help you master it. I swear it. But… you must promise me, something. Never. Ever. Tell anyone that you can do this. Magic isn't something they will
love. Promise me Caelum!"
"Alright, I promise. I won't tell anyone." he managed, voice trembling a little.
The sun was higher in the sky now, casting long afternoon shadows.
With a shuddering breath, he reached out to the voices. It felt like wading into an icy river, the current of voices trying to drag him under. He clung to Luke's words as an anchor, and slowly, the background roar dimmed a fraction.
Voices swam in and out of focus. A woman chattering angrily about a broken pitcher... a blacksmith cursing as his hammer slipped... then, the herald's booming announcement: "The day's jousting is ended! But the festivities are not at an end, Lord Whent has arranged for the most delicious spread imaginable, fit for our King and Queen herself!"
Then, another voice clearer, louder "...that Pia, works at the buttery, doesn't she? Too pretty for the buttery that one." A man's voice, rough and leery.
"Well, she'll serve a knight just fine, won't she? Pretty little thing... a proper whore in the making, we'll show her the proper way to make coin." Another voice laughed.
They were far, somewhere towards the castle, and the words sent a jolt of fear through Caelum.
"No!" The word burst from him, and he was running before Luke could even react.
Fear propelled him forward, a frantic need to protect this Pia, even though he had no idea who she was.
"Caelum! Wait!" Luke was calling after him, his voice strained with worry.
"No time!" Caelum shouted back, his breath hitching in his chest. "They'll hurt her!"
The voices in his head were clearer now. His focus entirely on her. He could hear them getting closer to the castle, their banter echoing off the
ancient stone walls.
"Cael, please!" Luke was gaining on him, fear and anger mixing in his voice. "You don't know what you're running into!"
Caelum didn't stop, his small feet moved with surprising dexterity as he made a mad dash for the giant castle in the distance.
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Every stride echoed Caelum's frantic words in Luke's head – they'll hurt her.
Fear and guilt warred within him. He didn't want Caelum running into a danger he was not supposed to witness.
"Caelum! Stop!" His voice was a hoarse rasp, but the boy surged onward, a streak of white linen amidst the swirling crowd. It was late afternoon, and the tourney-goers were returning, making the chase even more treacherous.
Luke dodged around a startled merchant and nearly tripped over a squalling child. "Seven Hells..." he gasped, shoving past a pair of gossiping women.
An image of Caelum grabbed, pulled into the shadows, made his stomach clench.
"Please, gods, don't let him draw attention." He prayed as gave chase.
The boy was impossibly fast for his size, weaving through the crowd with desperate agility.
Luke willed himself to match the pace, his heart threatening to hammer its way out of his chest. They'll hurt her. Who was "they"? How many? What kind of monsters attacked helpless girls in the middle of a tourney? A cold fury mingled with his fear, a determination to protect this unknown girl, whoever she was.
And then, an almost unbearable thought struck him. What if ...what if this was why the gods had touched Caelum with their awful gift? Had they cursed him, so he could be their eyes and ears in the darkness? So, he could hear the cries that others couldn't?
He rounded a corner, breath burning in his lungs. Ahead, Caelum darted under the raised arm of a knight, barely avoiding a collision. The sight sent a jolt through Luke – knights meant they were getting closer to Harrenhal itself, to prying eyes, to more danger. If someone of rank caught Caelum now, their secret might not remain hidden for long.
A flicker of white near the looming castle walls caught Luke's eye - Caelum! The boy was heading toward a squat stone building, set a little apart from the main bustle of the castle grounds. The buttery, of course.
Isolated, away from the castle. Close enough for constant supplies of butter to the castle and the town itself.
Caelum skidded to a halt just outside the rough wooden door. He tried the door, but it wouldn't budge, he darted around the side of the building, frantically searching for an entrance. Luke's insides twisted – he was almost there.
"Caelum! Stop!" His voice was breathless, barely above a whisper. The boy whirled, his eyes impossibly wide in his small, flushed face.
"Luke," he gasped, "I can hear them! The bad men... they're in there." His voice was laced with a terror that made Luke's throat tighten. He knelt, placing a hand on Caelum's trembling shoulder.
"Tell me, Cael," he said, keeping his tone low and urgent, "what did you hear? What makes you think someone is being hurt?"
Caelum shivered, his words tumbling out in a rush. "Voices... rough voices, and a girl crying... and...and laughing..." His voice choked on a sob. "They said they would... they said..."
He couldn't finish. But Luke didn't need him to. The fury that had been simmering within him exploded into icy resolve.
"How many men, Cael?" He had to know. Every detail mattered now.
Caelum blinked back tears, then seemed to focus. "Two," he said, his voice a little stronger.
Luke nodded, his mind racing. "Caelum, I need you to be brave. Can you find a guard? A knight? Anyone who can help? And please …. Do not tell them what you can hear! Swear on the Gods! On your Ma!" his harsh tone seemed to scare the younger boy.
Caelum gulped and nodded "I will not tell anyone! I swear on my Ma!" then spun and darted away, back towards the castle.
Relief washed over Luke, quickly replaced by a grim determination. He turned towards the buttery, his heart pounding a battle rhythm in his chest.
The wooden door was no match for Luke's desperate strength. It splintered easily, the sound muffled by the cruel laughter he heard inside.
He took a steadying breath, then stepped into the dim interior.
A wave of nausea washed over Luke as he crossed the threshold. The laughter inside was even worse than he'd feared - coarse, taunting barks punctuated by a girl's choked sobs. He heard fabric ripping, and a sickening, "Enjoy this, little dove... we will give you good coin for this!"
His heart twisted, bile burning in his throat.
He couldn't think about what else Caelum might be hearing, what horrors his sensitive ears were being subjected to.
Not now. Focus, action, that was all that mattered.
Eyes frantically scanning the dimly lit room, Luke sought any kind of weapon. There – the corner where by the churned cream.
He lunged for a short, heavy knife lying abandoned on the table. It wouldn't be much, but it was better than his bare hands.
Fingers closing around the smooth wooden hilt, he crept deeper into the buttery. The weeping grew louder, the men's taunts
more vile with each step.
Then, the sight hit him like a physical blow.
The girl, no older than Meredith herself, was pinned to the floor, her simple dress torn from her shoulders. Two figures, guards from the castle, their backs to him and their armor discarded. Their discarded swords lay just out of Luke's reach at the far end of the room.
They loomed over her. One held her wrists, his grip bruisingly tight. The other... the other was fumbling with the fastenings of her skirt, a lustful sneer on his face.
A strangled cry tore from Luke's throat.
He charged, driven by a surge of white-hot rage. The man holding the girl never saw him coming. The knife plunged into the soft flesh below his skull, a sickening squelch echoing in the room. The girl's scream pierced the air as the man collapsed.
The other man whirled, eyes widening in a flicker of surprise, then rage. Luke spun, and lunged across the room to reach
the discarded swords. He had no other way of fighting off the larger man.
The force of the tackle sent Luke sprawling across the blood-slick stone. His head bounced painfully, and the man's knee came down hard on his chest, forcing a choked gasp from his lungs. The world spun, disorienting.
"Why!?" The man roared, his face inches from Luke's. Wild eyes, spittle flying from his lips. "Why did you kill Theo? Who the Seven Hells are you?"
Fingers gripped Luke's throat, the man's breath, hot and foul, washing over him. The girl's sobs, piercing and terrified, echoed against the buttery walls.
"You're her lover boy? Is that it?!" The man's voice was a mocking growl. His grip tightened, squeezing the life from Luke. "Gonna die for her, are you? Well, too late! You're dead, and I'll have her on your corpse!"
Each word was a nail in Luke's coffin.
Blackness crept into the edges of his vision. He tried to fight, to twist free, but the man's weight was crushing, his strength overwhelming.
"Just a bit of fun," the man hissed, his face contorted in a grotesque leer. "Should've left us to it, boy. Now Theo's gone... the sweet little dove will die too... "
The words barely registered in Luke's fading mind.
Through the swirling darkness and the pounding in his ears, Luke's gaze locked onto the girl. Her eyes were wide pools of terror, her trembling fingers clutched at the remnants of her dress, trying to cover her broken innocence.
The man's taunts echoed, muffled and distant. "No hero, you are... just a whelp... too late..." His grip tightened, each agonizing breath feeling like his last.
Then, a miracle. A new voice cut through the roaring in his head, clear and cold as winter steel. "That is confession enough, I should think."
The man's head snapped back, his grip loosening in surprise. Then his head was gone. Blood spattered Luke's face, the warm wetness somehow worse than the icy darkness that was claiming him. The man's body slumped beside him, utterly lifeless.
Luke blinked, disoriented. A figure materialized before him, armored in white, a longsword in hand. It dripped crimson. Long grey hair spilled out from beneath the helmet, framing a wisened face filled with a warrior's grim determination.
A strong hand hauled Luke to his feet, a gasp tearing from his burning lungs.
The man stepped forward, his longsword a beacon in the dim buttery. He turned towards the girl, and her flinch tore at what remained of Luke's heart.
"Little one," the knight said, his voice surprisingly gentle, "It's over. No one will hurt you now."
He knelt, and Luke watched with mingled wonder and fear as the girl slowly uncovered her tear-streaked face. The knight's smile was a tentative thing, but it seemed to do more to calm her than a thousand reassurances would.
"I am Ser Barristan Selmy, of the Kings Guard," he said turning to Luke. "A child, mayhaps of six name days stumbled his way to me, begging for help as I was returning from the tourney grounds. He collapsed soon after, near screaming about this place... and... and clutching his head..." He hesitated, a shadow crossing his face.
"Caelum!" Luke's cry was ragged, the name ripped from the depths of his terror. Did the Knight know?
Ser Barristan looked at him, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "So that was the boy's name. I...well, I sent him towards the castle with one of the Tyrell maids, a woman named Meredith. She said she knew the boy. I did not fully believe his words, I confess... thought it the ramblings of a feverish mind..."
Luke sagged with relief. "He's my little brother."
Barristan nodded, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Then your little brother has not only saved your life today, but also helped an old knight regain a semblance of honor. " he trailed off, his face darkening for a moment, then almost inaudibly he whispered, his eyes staring at the weeping girl hauntingly "… at least here I can do a Knight's duty. I am so sorry, my Queen ."
The words hung heavy in the aftermath of the violence. Luke, trembling but regaining his composure, followed behind the Kingsguard as they led the whimpering girl out of the buttery, into the fading light of the afternoon.
"Little one," he said turning to the trembling girl, "do you have family? Someone you can turn to?"
Pia, still trembling, shook her head, tears spilling fresh from her wide eyes. A sob caught in her throat, choking the words she might have spoken. "I am Pia, Ser Knight"
"Pia," Barristan continued, his gaze softening, "you will come with me, then. To King's Landing. It's a long and fraught journey, child, but I shall see you safely there. We will find you a better place, a better way. Perhaps as a septa, under the protection of the Faith."
Pia, exhausted and overwhelmed, could do little more than nod. A flicker of gratitude shone in her eyes, a tiny beacon of hope in the midst of her despair.
With a gentle hand, she turned to Luke, the boy who had risked everything for her. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I... I don't know what would have happened..."
"Pia, those men are dead. And soon, I will rid their taint from the place as well. No one shall know of the events of the buttery, if that is what you wish."
Barristan Selmy turned his attention to Luke. "And your name, young man? You have the heart of a true warrior. You will protect her innocence won't you."
"Luke, ser," he replied, bowing slightly. "I am a page Ser. I won't tell anyone."
The Kingsguard nodded. "A page, you say? You show great promise, Luke. You will make a fine knight yourself, one day."
Barristan placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, his touch surprisingly gentle for such a battle-hardened warrior. "But do not lose heart. Chivalry is not merely about the skill of the sword, but about the choices you make when no none is watching."
Luke felt his heart swell.
Maybe, his mother was right. Caelum was blessed. And this was the will the Gods had for him.
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(A/N) Barristan Selmy is being a little hypocrite.
This was a dark chapter to write. I hope I covered all my bases, and loose ends in this one. Barristan will handle the dead bodies, Pia goes to become a Septa (I feel like i need to justify this. He feels guilty about not doing anything for Rhaella when Aerys violates her, so this is his way of doing something about it), and our story continues.
Meredith sat close, her fingers running through the boy's hair, trying to lull him to sleep "Caelum shhh," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly, "Focus on just my voice…. Breathe. Close your eyes… breathe and focus on just my voice."
His sobs were muffled against the covers, his small body trembling.
Cursed.
Luke knew the Gods had cursed Caelum, destroyed his health, weakened his lungs, and tortured his very existence.
But this?
He watched from the shadows, unable to shake the sickening coldness that had settled in his bones.
This was not sickness, not some strange ailment... something far darker.
Dark Magic. Sorcery.
His little brother. Sweet, innocent, Caelum with dreams of being a Knight, of helping the weak, of protecting the innocent.
Cursed by the gods with vile magic.
Caelum's cries slowly subsided, replaced by ragged breaths. Sleep finally claimed him – a tortured, restless sleep filled with flinches and the occasional choked sob.
He watched as Meredith finally lulled him to sleep.
Sleep held Caelum in its uneasy grip, but Meredith felt no such reprieve. She turned to Luke, her eyes pleading. He couldn't see the tears under her eyes, or the trembling of her hands, but the desperation in her voice was clear. "We have to help him, Luke."
His voice, usually full of warmth and wry humor, held a cold edge now. "The Seven-Pointed Star teaches, 'You shall not suffer the dark magicks to exist.'" He paused, then continued, a tremor running through his words, "The gods have cursed him with magicks.."
Meredith's mouth went dry. "Luke, what are you saying? You… You wouldn't… don't tell me y-you mean to kill him!"
He recoiled as if struck. "What?"
Caelum whimpered at the increased noise, and Luke took in a harsh gulp of air, lowering his voice, glancing at his sleeping brother with a mix of tenderness and despair. "No! Gods, Mary, no! Never!"
"But then…." Her voice trailed off
"I don't…" Luke ran a hand through his hair, his frustration evident. "Caelum doesn't deserve this. I love him like my brother, Mary. But what can we do? You think I don't want to protect him? I don't know how!"
A flicker of hope sparked in Meredith's eyes. "Maybe Lady Alerie, or Lady Olenna… they've seen so much, perhaps they can help?"
Luke shook his head, desperately. "No. We keep this to ourselves, Mary. Do you truly believe they'll help? He's not some… some curiosity to them. He's…." His gaze fell back on Caelum. "The power in him, it's… Too dangerous. The Tyrells, kind as they may be, would sooner lock him away than risk a simple farm boy holding their secrets in the palm of his hand."
Meredith's brows furrowed. "But they're noble, Luke. Surely, they would understand, they would…"
"Understand?" Luke cut her off, his voice laced with a bitter cynicism. "They would understand that the Seven curse magic, that they swore oaths against it. They'd understand that the Seven have cursed him with magicks that pain and revile him. Even in his sleep. They would kill him, and then call it a kindness." His voice cracked as the reality sank in, a cold fist squeezing his heart. "We can't tell anyone, Mary. Please."
"But Willas and Garlan... they're his friends," she protested, a shaky note in her voice. "Lady Olenna, Lady Alerie they wouldn't do something so... so unforgivable."
Luke's gaze held a weary understanding that made Meredith's protest seem painfully naive. "They won't see his friendship with the little lords, Mary. If they know, they'll lock him away before Willas and Garlan even know Caelum is gone. Power, secrets, fear...those are the currencies they deal in, not the fickle friendships of children."
His words cut deep, but a flicker of defiance rose within her. "Still, the sept here in Harrentown... surely they would understand it's not his fault..."
"The sept?" Luke's voice rose a notch, a stark contrast to the hushed tones of the room. "Didn't you hear the stories, Mary? The scriptures? If anyone was going to see a demon and not a suffering boy, it would be them!"
"But there must be someone..." she whispered more to herself than Luke. "Ser Vortimer Crane, he's honorable, he wouldn't… Or Ser Quentin, a Tyrell himself, surely he…"
Luke burst out, a harsh edge to his voice he seldom directed at Meredith, "Mary, open your eyes! Stop being a naive girl. Haven't you learned anything at all?"
He took a harsh breath, trying to soften his tone, but the desperation remained. "Don't you remember, Mary? No knight came to help your father on the road, not when the bandits came. When they arrived, they watched as he died while they pandered to the unhurt lordling bastard. And Ser Quentin, a Tyrell himself, did he stand by my father after my father saved his life? No, he tossed him aside the moment the deed was done. Ser Quentin became a Knight in the war, for the deeds my father did, taking them for his own. As far as Ser Crane sees me, I'm no more than a stable boy to order around, not someone whose words hold any value. This isn't some tale where knights and septons rescue those in need, Mary," he said, his voice rough. "We're on our own in this, and the sooner you accept that, the sooner we can figure out how to keep Caelum safe."
Meredith's chin jutted out, a single tear trailing a defiant path down her flushed cheek. Despite the tremble of her lip, her eyes blazed. "Luke, how can you say that? Your master is Ser Crane himself! You're his page..."
"I know what I am, Mary," Luke interrupted, his own frustration rising. "I know the look in his eye when he addresses me. To him, I am just a stable hand with the fancy title of being his page. An up-jumped peasant boy. You don't know Ser Crane, not the way I do. I won't become a Knight, not because of Ser Crane. If I will, it will be of my own damned merit. The village doesn't know a damned thing!"
Meredith's tears spilled over. "I don't believe you!" she choked out. "All my life I've dreamed… Knights are good and noble, and true! You'll see, one day..."
"Mary, please," he said, softer this time. "We have to be smarter than this. Swear to me, not on my life, but Caelum's, that you'll never breathe a word of this."
"Maybe… we could ask Septon Mattheus?" It was a whisper, barely audible, as though even suggesting it was dangerous.
Luke shook his head slowly. "We can't risk it. Mattheus is kind, I'll give him that, but he's also a septon. The words of the Seven are his law, and that law says …" he couldn't bring himself to repeat the scripture again.
Meredith's voice rose in a desperate cry, "Then what do you want to do, Luke? Just… just watch as he suffers? I won't let that happen! I can't! Not when I thought... hoped he was getting better!"
Luke choked back a sob, "I don't know, Mary, I don't know." A thought, an old memory, flickered in his mind. "But…my mother, your Aunt Marna…they've always said Caelum was different. 'Blessed' they called him." His voice grew quieter with each word, the absurdity of it all hitting him.
Meredith nodded slowly, her gaze fixed on the slumbering Caelum with a mix of worry and a flicker of dawning comprehension.
Luke scoffed, a harsh, bitter sound. "Uncle Harlon and Aunt Elyna, I could understand. Their own child – of course, they'd see him as a blessing. Especially after, ...after their losses." His voice trailed off; he didn't need to remind Meredith of the tiny unmarked graves beside their little farmhouse. "But my own mother? Aunt Marna? They're…practical, sensible women. They know something… we need to know what."
Meredith met his gaze. "They see things in him, Luke. Things I don't understand. I don't see the blessing," she admitted, "just this...magic."
Luke's eyes were haunted, his expression troubled. "Magic," he whispered, then louder, as if the word itself caused pain, "Magic is a sword without a hilt. It will hurt him, Mary. More than we can even imagine."
Meredith nodded, the gesture small but resolute. "Which is exactly why we need help. Someone wiser, someone with knowledge, if not the Tyrell Lords or Ladies, and not Ser Crane or Ser Quentin, then another knight maybe, if not a Septon… or … or a maester?"
"Gods damn it, Mary!" Luke's voice rose with a frustration he'd been struggling to contain, "What part of 'keeping quiet' don't you understand? We find someone, and they'll either try to lock him up or kill him. Heresy, they will call it. Heretic he will be. There is no in-between!"
Meredith flared back, "And just what do you propose instead? Teach him this magic yourself? Dabble in the dark arts to 'save' him?"
"If I have to!" Luke shot back, then lowered his voice, a new determination in his eyes. "At least we can teach him control, focus. You've been doing it with him... focusing his mind on just your voice. I can do that."
She scoffed, "How? You already think you won't become a proper Knight! Now you're an expert on magic?"
Luke's anger ignited, his fists clenching. "Damnit, Mary, I'll do anything! I'm already working myself to the bone trying to become a knight. I made a promise to Caelum, and I won't break it, not like…not like…" He choked on the words, Uncle Harlon's promise kept ringing in his ears.
Meredith's tone was sharp, dripping with scorn. "Yet you don't trust your own abilities. Parmen Crane, now, he'd know what to do. He'd…"
A flicker of hurt masked by rage crossed Luke's face. "You think I'm jealous? Is that it, Mary? Do you think I am not trying? You can't see the truth enamored that you are with the pretty lordling?"
"At least he'll be a knight!" Her words stung.
Luke's voice was cold, filled with a fury meant to wound. "Fine, then go to your precious Parmen, or Ser Whoever-the-Gods-Damn-Hell pleases you! But you will not say a word about Caelum. You won't be the reason he ends up dead!"
Meredith's voice was cold, edged with a bitterness Luke had never heard from her. "Fine. Who needs you anyway?" She stood abruptly. "But if Caelum is hurt more than he already is, Luke, when we could have pleaded for help…. Gods help me, I'll kill you myself."
"I will expect you to," he replied wearily. "Now, I'll stay with Caelum. Try to teach him… whatever I can about focus, about… control. Keep a close watch." He paused. "You should go, Mary. Get back to your duties. That privy excuse won't hold Lady Alerie forever."
Meredith wiped at a stubborn tear, then asked, "Are you sure, Luke? You need to get back to Ser Crane too."
"Ser Crane can go to the pits of seven hells. He will be glad I am away, he can put all his focus on his son. I'll have learnt my place finally." His gaze met hers, filled with a resolve that belied the fear gnawing at his heart. "Don't worry about Caelum, Meredith. I made him a promise, remember? I was going to be his knight, him my squire. I…I'll teach him what I can, protect him however I can." His voice grew softer, a desperate plea. "But Mary…promise me. Don't tell anyone. Not yet. Not until we get home, until we can find some answers, from his parents, from… from our own."
Meredith nodded, then turned and left the room. As the door creaked shut, she whispered, "On Caelum's life, Luke. I swear it. I love that boy too. I won't tell a soul."
Alone now, Luke watched Caelum's troubled sleep. How could this child, sweet and trusting, be a knight when the gods themselves seemed to war against him? He'd brought Caelum here, to the heart of the tourney, to show him the harsh reality, the blood and sweat it took. He'd hoped to break Caelum of his childish dreams, but... not like this. Never like this.
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Every footstep boomed like a giant was stomping closer. Every shout, every laugh felt like a spear jabbing his ears.
"Caelum?" Luke's voice pierced the noise, not sharp, but soft like it was when the foals got spooked. "It's too much, isn't it?"
Tears pricked Caelum's eyes, but he just nodded, clutching Luke's hand tight. It wasn't just loud, it was too much.
Like everyone at the tourney was whispering their secrets right into his ears, all at the same time.
Luke gave his hand a squeeze and led him away from the worst of the crowds. Down an alleyway, the noise softened a bit, like a roaring waterfall turning into a rushing river. Still bad, but...he could almost breathe again.
"Caelum, buddy," Luke knelt down so they were eye to eye, his own face a mix of worry and determination. "It's like…like there's a whole angry crowd inside your head, right?"
Caelum nodded, tears threatening to spill over now. Luke got it, always did, even though Caelum wasn't sure how to make the words explain it right.
"Remember our game, back at the inn?" Luke's smile was a bit shaky, a flicker of doubt along with the hope. "M-maybe... maybe we could try a big version? See if... if that helps?"
Caelum nodded, wincing at the pain in his head. "A-alright"
"We'll try!" Luke pointed towards a stall where sparks flew and metal clanked with rhythmic thuds. "Hear that blacksmith? Can you...maybe...hold onto just that sound? Push all the others away, just for a little bit?"
Caelum closed his eyes, scrunching his face up with how hard he tried. The clang…clang…clang was loud, but for a moment, the world tilted, and it was the only thing he could hear. Then a dog barked somewhere close, and the world crashed back, noisy and horrible again. A whimper escaped him. He couldn't do it. Not for long enough.
Luke's guiding hand disappeared for a moment, and Caelum was alone. The blacksmith's clang-clang-clang was his anchor...but it was starting to fray. Another sound snagged at him, a murmur that cut through the chaos like a sharp knife.
"...the King, have you seen him? Withered like an old corpse..." A woman's voice, hushed and fearful.
Then another, stronger, booming from somewhere close to the tourney grounds. "Jousting commences! Lord Tyrell of Highgarden against the fearsome Knight of Skulls!" The roar of the crowd drowned out whoever answered.
And then, a different kind of roar. Laughter, deep and rough like a bear, laced with words so foul Caelum didn't even understand them fully but knew they were bad. He'd heard men like that back in the village, after too much ale.
"...Princess Elia with child again, bless her..." That was softer, a woman. But then, like a needle on a spinning record, the whispers went dark again, "Ser Jaime, youngest Kingsguard ever... Gone, like the wind... to the capital."
"…. Another dream, my King? ... " A rough voice said, followed by the clanging of metal on stone.
Moans drifted on the wind, women crying out; some in joy, others in pain, and the rhythmic clapping. He desperately tried to quieten the noise.
Each new sound stabbed at his focus, fraying the blacksmith's rhythm until it snapped, and the roaring storm filled his head once more.
A hand touched his shoulder—Luke, back beside him. The worry on his face deepened. "Caelum, it's too much here." His voice was barely audible over the din. "Let's… try something else, alright?"
He sounded scared. Not just for Caelum, but scared of... something else.
Caelum couldn't blame him; the swirling, whispering voices were terrifying. He was terrified too.
Luke led him away, further yet from the tourney and the heart of the market. As they walked, Luke spoke, his voice gentle, "Think of it like a storm, Cael. And you're at the very center. We need to build… like, a shelter inside your head. You ready to try again?"
Luke's grip tightened on Caelum's hand, and the gentle pressure was enough to draw him out of the swirling storm of voices. He blinked, and Luke's worried frown swam into focus.
With every effort, the roaring crowd in his head seemed to grow louder, like an angry sea crashing against a crumbling cliff. His skull throbbed in time with the pulsing beat of it all, a drum he couldn't stop.
"...Pia they called her, pretty..." A man's voice, rough and leering, floated out of nowhere, then was drowned out by the sharp crack of a lance and a cheer that made Caelum's eardrums ache.
"Garlan's tunic has a stain, Meredith. Would you get a replacement dear? And clean this one." That was Lady Alerie, her voice echoing in Caelum's head along with a splash of water. But it barely registered before his own sister's voice, usually so cheerful, cut through him with a whispered plea, "..Seven above, if this is a curse, take it away..."
"...Ser Vortimer unhorsed him! Now Reach's master at arms against Ser Quentin his student in all but name... " The tourney herald's voice boomed like thunder, followed by another wave of screams that sent a sharp pain through Caelum's temples.
The moans and grunts and laughter from the far edge of town were worse, a jumble of sounds that painted images in his mind he desperately wanted to erase. He tried to focus, to build Luke's 'shelter', but it was like building sandcastles in a hurricane.
Then came the hot, wet trickle down his nose. A whimper caught in his throat, and he wiped at his face with a shaking hand. Red streaked his fingers.
"Caelum!" Luke's alarm broke through the storm. "We need to go. Somewhere quieter." He pulled Caelum along, his voice tense, barely a whisper. "Just a little further, buddy. Hold on, alright?"
They left the alleyways and noisy streets behind, venturing into open fields beyond the town. Here, the sounds softened into a dull roar. Luke halted by a lone oak tree and knelt, meeting Caelum's teary eyes.
"Okay," he said, his voice steadier now, "let's try again, but different this time. Instead of building a whole shelter... pick just one sound. My voice, okay? Hear just me, push everything else away."
Caelum squeezed his eyes shut, trying to follow.
"Caelum, listen," Luke began, soft but insistent. "Remember that story about Ser Arthur Dayne? How he fought
off an entire band of brigands, all by himself…"
Luke's voice, steady and familiar, wove a tale of bravery and honor. But whispers snaked around the edges of his focus, slithering past the shield.
"...Lady Shirey Whent, Queen of Love and Beauty!" A man's voice, boasting and proud. And the distant roaring cheer of a crowd.
Then a different voice cut through Luke's story, "...just flowered ones, be gentle, gods…". It was followed by laughter, rough and ugly, and then a woman's tearful sob that made Caelum's stomach twist.
The shield in his mind quivered.
"...find that Pia wench, she's newly flowered", they said "show 'er a real man..." Footsteps and more rough laughter, moving away, growing fainter,
but still a jagged crack in the shelter Luke's voice had become.
He pressed his hands against his ears, but the voices kept coming, swirling and whispering. Luke's story lost its shape, replaced by the relentless hum of the world. He focused harder, more desperately on Luke's voice.
"…. The sword of the morning was brighter than the sun itself." He was saying. His voice had become clear, the rest a dull echo in the reaches of his mind.
Finally, Caelum gulped, and with a small shaky voice, he said, "Luke... I can only hear you."
Luke knelt closer, "That's it, Caelum, perfect! You did it!" Relief washed over his face, mixed with lingering concern. "Now, let's try something else. You focus on my voice, then pick another voice…anyone talking in the town. Keep everything else out, and tell me…what are they saying?"
Caelum shivered. The thought of reaching out into that swirling chaos again – it made him want to curl up in a ball and shut everything out, forever. He bit his lip, then forced himself to lift his head.
"It's...scary," he admitted in a whisper, "What's wrong with me, Luke? Why are all the voices in my head? Why have the Gods cursed me?"
Luke's hand settled on his shoulder, warm and reassuring. "I don't know, Caelum. But it's not your fault. I swear, we'll figure it out…together. You're not alone in this. The Gods… they … they have something in mind for you. They have given you this magic, for what I do not know. But I will help you master it. I swear it. But… you must promise me, something. Never. Ever. Tell anyone that you can do this. Magic isn't something they will
love. Promise me Caelum!"
"Alright, I promise. I won't tell anyone." he managed, voice trembling a little.
The sun was higher in the sky now, casting long afternoon shadows.
With a shuddering breath, he reached out to the voices. It felt like wading into an icy river, the current of voices trying to drag him under. He clung to Luke's words as an anchor, and slowly, the background roar dimmed a fraction.
Voices swam in and out of focus. A woman chattering angrily about a broken pitcher... a blacksmith cursing as his hammer slipped... then, the herald's booming announcement: "The day's jousting is ended! But the festivities are not at an end, Lord Whent has arranged for the most delicious spread imaginable, fit for our King and Queen herself!"
Then, another voice clearer, louder "...that Pia, works at the buttery, doesn't she? Too pretty for the buttery that one." A man's voice, rough and leery.
"Well, she'll serve a knight just fine, won't she? Pretty little thing... a proper whore in the making, we'll show her the proper way to make coin." Another voice laughed.
They were far, somewhere towards the castle, and the words sent a jolt of fear through Caelum.
"No!" The word burst from him, and he was running before Luke could even react.
Fear propelled him forward, a frantic need to protect this Pia, even though he had no idea who she was.
"Caelum! Wait!" Luke was calling after him, his voice strained with worry.
"No time!" Caelum shouted back, his breath hitching in his chest. "They'll hurt her!"
The voices in his head were clearer now. His focus entirely on her. He could hear them getting closer to the castle, their banter echoing off the
ancient stone walls.
"Cael, please!" Luke was gaining on him, fear and anger mixing in his voice. "You don't know what you're running into!"
Caelum didn't stop, his small feet moved with surprising dexterity as he made a mad dash for the giant castle in the distance.
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Every stride echoed Caelum's frantic words in Luke's head – they'll hurt her.
Fear and guilt warred within him. He didn't want Caelum running into a danger he was not supposed to witness.
"Caelum! Stop!" His voice was a hoarse rasp, but the boy surged onward, a streak of white linen amidst the swirling crowd. It was late afternoon, and the tourney-goers were returning, making the chase even more treacherous.
Luke dodged around a startled merchant and nearly tripped over a squalling child. "Seven Hells..." he gasped, shoving past a pair of gossiping women.
An image of Caelum grabbed, pulled into the shadows, made his stomach clench.
"Please, gods, don't let him draw attention." He prayed as gave chase.
The boy was impossibly fast for his size, weaving through the crowd with desperate agility.
Luke willed himself to match the pace, his heart threatening to hammer its way out of his chest. They'll hurt her. Who was "they"? How many? What kind of monsters attacked helpless girls in the middle of a tourney? A cold fury mingled with his fear, a determination to protect this unknown girl, whoever she was.
And then, an almost unbearable thought struck him. What if ...what if this was why the gods had touched Caelum with their awful gift? Had they cursed him, so he could be their eyes and ears in the darkness? So, he could hear the cries that others couldn't?
He rounded a corner, breath burning in his lungs. Ahead, Caelum darted under the raised arm of a knight, barely avoiding a collision. The sight sent a jolt through Luke – knights meant they were getting closer to Harrenhal itself, to prying eyes, to more danger. If someone of rank caught Caelum now, their secret might not remain hidden for long.
A flicker of white near the looming castle walls caught Luke's eye - Caelum! The boy was heading toward a squat stone building, set a little apart from the main bustle of the castle grounds. The buttery, of course.
Isolated, away from the castle. Close enough for constant supplies of butter to the castle and the town itself.
Caelum skidded to a halt just outside the rough wooden door. He tried the door, but it wouldn't budge, he darted around the side of the building, frantically searching for an entrance. Luke's insides twisted – he was almost there.
"Caelum! Stop!" His voice was breathless, barely above a whisper. The boy whirled, his eyes impossibly wide in his small, flushed face.
"Luke," he gasped, "I can hear them! The bad men... they're in there." His voice was laced with a terror that made Luke's throat tighten. He knelt, placing a hand on Caelum's trembling shoulder.
"Tell me, Cael," he said, keeping his tone low and urgent, "what did you hear? What makes you think someone is being hurt?"
Caelum shivered, his words tumbling out in a rush. "Voices... rough voices, and a girl crying... and...and laughing..." His voice choked on a sob. "They said they would... they said..."
He couldn't finish. But Luke didn't need him to. The fury that had been simmering within him exploded into icy resolve.
"How many men, Cael?" He had to know. Every detail mattered now.
Caelum blinked back tears, then seemed to focus. "Two," he said, his voice a little stronger.
Luke nodded, his mind racing. "Caelum, I need you to be brave. Can you find a guard? A knight? Anyone who can help? And please …. Do not tell them what you can hear! Swear on the Gods! On your Ma!" his harsh tone seemed to scare the younger boy.
Caelum gulped and nodded "I will not tell anyone! I swear on my Ma!" then spun and darted away, back towards the castle.
Relief washed over Luke, quickly replaced by a grim determination. He turned towards the buttery, his heart pounding a battle rhythm in his chest.
The wooden door was no match for Luke's desperate strength. It splintered easily, the sound muffled by the cruel laughter he heard inside.
He took a steadying breath, then stepped into the dim interior.
A wave of nausea washed over Luke as he crossed the threshold. The laughter inside was even worse than he'd feared - coarse, taunting barks punctuated by a girl's choked sobs. He heard fabric ripping, and a sickening, "Enjoy this, little dove... we will give you good coin for this!"
His heart twisted, bile burning in his throat.
He couldn't think about what else Caelum might be hearing, what horrors his sensitive ears were being subjected to.
Not now. Focus, action, that was all that mattered.
Eyes frantically scanning the dimly lit room, Luke sought any kind of weapon. There – the corner where by the churned cream.
He lunged for a short, heavy knife lying abandoned on the table. It wouldn't be much, but it was better than his bare hands.
Fingers closing around the smooth wooden hilt, he crept deeper into the buttery. The weeping grew louder, the men's taunts
more vile with each step.
Then, the sight hit him like a physical blow.
The girl, no older than Meredith herself, was pinned to the floor, her simple dress torn from her shoulders. Two figures, guards from the castle, their backs to him and their armor discarded. Their discarded swords lay just out of Luke's reach at the far end of the room.
They loomed over her. One held her wrists, his grip bruisingly tight. The other... the other was fumbling with the fastenings of her skirt, a lustful sneer on his face.
A strangled cry tore from Luke's throat.
He charged, driven by a surge of white-hot rage. The man holding the girl never saw him coming. The knife plunged into the soft flesh below his skull, a sickening squelch echoing in the room. The girl's scream pierced the air as the man collapsed.
The other man whirled, eyes widening in a flicker of surprise, then rage. Luke spun, and lunged across the room to reach
the discarded swords. He had no other way of fighting off the larger man.
The force of the tackle sent Luke sprawling across the blood-slick stone. His head bounced painfully, and the man's knee came down hard on his chest, forcing a choked gasp from his lungs. The world spun, disorienting.
"Why!?" The man roared, his face inches from Luke's. Wild eyes, spittle flying from his lips. "Why did you kill Theo? Who the Seven Hells are you?"
Fingers gripped Luke's throat, the man's breath, hot and foul, washing over him. The girl's sobs, piercing and terrified, echoed against the buttery walls.
"You're her lover boy? Is that it?!" The man's voice was a mocking growl. His grip tightened, squeezing the life from Luke. "Gonna die for her, are you? Well, too late! You're dead, and I'll have her on your corpse!"
Each word was a nail in Luke's coffin.
Blackness crept into the edges of his vision. He tried to fight, to twist free, but the man's weight was crushing, his strength overwhelming.
"Just a bit of fun," the man hissed, his face contorted in a grotesque leer. "Should've left us to it, boy. Now Theo's gone... the sweet little dove will die too... "
The words barely registered in Luke's fading mind.
Through the swirling darkness and the pounding in his ears, Luke's gaze locked onto the girl. Her eyes were wide pools of terror, her trembling fingers clutched at the remnants of her dress, trying to cover her broken innocence.
The man's taunts echoed, muffled and distant. "No hero, you are... just a whelp... too late..." His grip tightened, each agonizing breath feeling like his last.
Then, a miracle. A new voice cut through the roaring in his head, clear and cold as winter steel. "That is confession enough, I should think."
The man's head snapped back, his grip loosening in surprise. Then his head was gone. Blood spattered Luke's face, the warm wetness somehow worse than the icy darkness that was claiming him. The man's body slumped beside him, utterly lifeless.
Luke blinked, disoriented. A figure materialized before him, armored in white, a longsword in hand. It dripped crimson. Long grey hair spilled out from beneath the helmet, framing a wisened face filled with a warrior's grim determination.
A strong hand hauled Luke to his feet, a gasp tearing from his burning lungs.
The man stepped forward, his longsword a beacon in the dim buttery. He turned towards the girl, and her flinch tore at what remained of Luke's heart.
"Little one," the knight said, his voice surprisingly gentle, "It's over. No one will hurt you now."
He knelt, and Luke watched with mingled wonder and fear as the girl slowly uncovered her tear-streaked face. The knight's smile was a tentative thing, but it seemed to do more to calm her than a thousand reassurances would.
"I am Ser Barristan Selmy, of the Kings Guard," he said turning to Luke. "A child, mayhaps of six name days stumbled his way to me, begging for help as I was returning from the tourney grounds. He collapsed soon after, near screaming about this place... and... and clutching his head..." He hesitated, a shadow crossing his face.
"Caelum!" Luke's cry was ragged, the name ripped from the depths of his terror. Did the Knight know?
Ser Barristan looked at him, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "So that was the boy's name. I...well, I sent him towards the castle with one of the Tyrell maids, a woman named Meredith. She said she knew the boy. I did not fully believe his words, I confess... thought it the ramblings of a feverish mind..."
Luke sagged with relief. "He's my little brother."
Barristan nodded, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Then your little brother has not only saved your life today, but also helped an old knight regain a semblance of honor. " he trailed off, his face darkening for a moment, then almost inaudibly he whispered, his eyes staring at the weeping girl hauntingly "… at least here I can do a Knight's duty. I am so sorry, my Queen ."
The words hung heavy in the aftermath of the violence. Luke, trembling but regaining his composure, followed behind the Kingsguard as they led the whimpering girl out of the buttery, into the fading light of the afternoon.
"Little one," he said turning to the trembling girl, "do you have family? Someone you can turn to?"
Pia, still trembling, shook her head, tears spilling fresh from her wide eyes. A sob caught in her throat, choking the words she might have spoken. "I am Pia, Ser Knight"
"Pia," Barristan continued, his gaze softening, "you will come with me, then. To King's Landing. It's a long and fraught journey, child, but I shall see you safely there. We will find you a better place, a better way. Perhaps as a septa, under the protection of the Faith."
Pia, exhausted and overwhelmed, could do little more than nod. A flicker of gratitude shone in her eyes, a tiny beacon of hope in the midst of her despair.
With a gentle hand, she turned to Luke, the boy who had risked everything for her. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I... I don't know what would have happened..."
"Pia, those men are dead. And soon, I will rid their taint from the place as well. No one shall know of the events of the buttery, if that is what you wish."
Barristan Selmy turned his attention to Luke. "And your name, young man? You have the heart of a true warrior. You will protect her innocence won't you."
"Luke, ser," he replied, bowing slightly. "I am a page Ser. I won't tell anyone."
The Kingsguard nodded. "A page, you say? You show great promise, Luke. You will make a fine knight yourself, one day."
Barristan placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, his touch surprisingly gentle for such a battle-hardened warrior. "But do not lose heart. Chivalry is not merely about the skill of the sword, but about the choices you make when no none is watching."
Luke felt his heart swell.
Maybe, his mother was right. Caelum was blessed. And this was the will the Gods had for him.
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(A/N) Barristan Selmy is being a little hypocrite.
This was a dark chapter to write. I hope I covered all my bases, and loose ends in this one. Barristan will handle the dead bodies, Pia goes to become a Septa (I feel like i need to justify this. He feels guilty about not doing anything for Rhaella when Aerys violates her, so this is his way of doing something about it), and our story continues.
Small Deeds, Great Purpose
A knot of panic twisted in Meredith's stomach as she watched Caelum lying on the simple bed in her cramped quarters in the castle.
His small body seemed swallowed by the rough blankets, and his face was pale tussled with a tangled mop of wet dark hair.
She'd watched from the edge of the crowd, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm, as he darted towards the Knights returning from the tourney.
Fear had spiked through her – why was he running? Where was Luke? Then, the sickening sight of him collapsing, his hands clutching his head, the silent screams he'd been trying to make, pleas he'd made at the feet of Ser Barristan Selmy.
Only by the grace of the Seven had Lady Olenna and Lady Alerie been focused on the High Lords, oblivious to her frantic scramble through the throng.
Thank the gods she'd been returning early to clean Lord Garlan's tunic...
Anger bubbled beneath the surface of her panic.
Luke! Where was he? How could he let Caelum run off like that? Had he gotten Caelum hurt? She knew what could happen when Caelum was overwhelmed.
A flicker of gratitude cut through her worry. If not for Ser Barristan Selmy... the old knight could easily have dismissed Caelum as a raving child. But he hadn't. Instead, he'd knelt, asked questions, and whatever Caelum had said... it must have been enough.
Meredith's hands clenched into fists. She'd warned Luke, begged him to understand the dangers. Begged him to understand that they needed help, that they were in over their heads.
Magic is a sword without a hilt, he had said.
It scared her that her little Caelum was cursed with magicks that he had no idea how to control.
That was why she'd been insistent, they needed someone to help Caelum with whatever magicks he now possessed.
But Luke wouldn't listen.
He'd promised to be careful, to keep Caelum safe. Yet here they were, with Caelum unconscious, and Luke... who knew where he was? Was he hurt too?
A heavy sigh escaped her. Anger would solve nothing.
Right now, it was Caelum who needed her, not her fruitless rage.
Taking a deep breath, she sat by the bed, gently brushing the hair back from his forehead. "Caelum, honey," she murmured, "please wake up. Please be alright."
A gasp tore from Caelum's lips, ripping Meredith from her worried thoughts. His eyes snapped open, wide and frantic. "Luke!" he cried, a tremor in his voice. "Is he...is he okay?"
Meredith's heart lurched. "Caelum, honey, what happened? Where's Luke? Are you hurt?" She reached out to him, a mix of concern and a desperation for answers bubbling within her.
However, Caelum seemed to register nothing she said. His gaze darted past her, unseeing, and his face went slack with a sudden, stillness.
Meredith watched, her stomach twisting with a fresh wave of fear.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. His shoulders slumped, and the manic edge of his panic faded. Her questions still hung in the air, unanswered.
Then, as if a switch had been flipped, Caelum's face burst into a wide, joyous smile. He flung himself at her, wrapping his thin arms around her neck in a fierce hug.
Meredith froze for a moment, her brow furrowing in confusion.
But even through her worry, the sheer relief radiating from him was undeniable. A small, cautious knot of worry loosened in her chest.
"I'm okay, Mary!" he declared, burying his face in her shoulder. "And Luke's okay too!"
Confusion swept over Meredith. One moment Caelum had been frantic for Luke, the next, he beamed with unadulterated joy. "Caelum, love, what happened?" she asked gently, "Why did you think Luke was hurt? And why did you faint? Where was he?"
A flicker of mischief danced in Caelum's eyes. "He was teaching me, Mary! About the magic, just like you back at the inn. He figured out how I can focus, and I heard someone, they were gonna get hurt, so I ran to help!"
Meredith's heart lurched again.
Of course. The magic.
It was a curse that Luke had foolishly decided to teach Caelum to control on his own. She was about to voice her concerns when Caelum continued, his voice tumbling out in a rush.
"Luke tried to stop me, but I ran away, and he caught up at the buttery, and he told me to find help for this person while he stayed behind, and…"
Meredith latched onto that, her worry for Luke bubbling through the boy's rambling story "Luke…is he alright?"
Caelum beamed. "Yes! He saved her, Mary! And the Good Knight helped too! He thinks Luke will be a great knight someday!"
Meredith's mouth fell open. The Good Knight?
Could Caelum mean…Ser Barristan Selmy himself?
She knew Luke had everything it took to be a good Knight. If only the idiot boy believed that too.
"Caelum, who was getting hurt?" she pressed.
"I can't tell you," Caelum replied, his expression taking on a stubborn set. "Luke just promised the Good Knight he wouldn't. It's a secret, to protect her. So, no one will know what happened at the buttery."
Then another concern caught up to her, as her confusion slowly faded away.
"Caelum," she began, her voice sharper than she intended, "What were you thinking? You could have gotten terribly hurt!"
Caelum flinched slightly, but there was a stubborn tilt to his chin. "But Mary, what else was I supposed to do? Let her get hurt? I couldn't."
Meredith's heart ached. He was just a child, and the world already burdened him with choices no child should bear. "Caelum, honey, you're not responsible for saving everyone. It's a good heart you have, but…"
"The Gods gave me this magic," he interrupted, his small voice trembling slightly. "I don't want it to be a curse, Mary. If I can, if I can hear... then I have to help."
Another wave of worry swept over Meredith. His kind heart could be his downfall. But then, something else struck her. He knew about Luke's promise, despite Luke being nowhere nearby.
"Caelum," she said slowly, a new thought dawning, "are you… can you still hear Luke? Does this magic mean you have control now? Did Luke manage to teach you something?"
Caelum's face lit up like a sunrise. "He did, Mary! Luke figured it out. He helped, just like you back at the inn. Now I can shut it all out, the voices, all of it. And I can kinda focus on one voice if I try real hard."
Relief crashed over Meredith stronger than any anger, tears pricking her eyes. Caelum was cursed with this extraordinary power, but it seemed the gods were showing mercy too.
"Caelum, honey," her voice was thick, "you must promise me. No listening to what others talk about, and no running off into danger."
He blinked, then nodded solemnly. "But, Mary, my magic helped Luke save someone today! How can I not do that?"
"Magic is dangerous, sweetling," Meredith said, her voice firm. "Look what already happened to you today. Promise me, Caelum, promise me you won't listen to it unless Luke is there with you. Because if he hadn't been…" She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
"But I wasn't!" he exclaimed.
"You could have been hurt! Think how that would have hurt your Ma?! Aunt Serra! Me!" She exclaimed.
He murmured finally. "Okay, Mary, I promise. No magic unless Luke's there to help me."
Meredith smiled a genuine one this time.
Her anger had faded, she couldn't bear to see him hurt.
She'd have words with Luke later, very strong words indeed.
But for now, Caelum was safe, and it seemed that Luke had succeeded in what he had set out to do after all.
Caelum's stomach growled, reminding her that Caelum had just tired himself out of a harrowing ordeal.
"Well, I'm sure all that bravery has made you hungry. Would you like some food?" A flicker of hope crossed her face. Maybe she could get something from the feast for him.
Caelum perked up. "Can I... can I go see Willas and Garlan? Down at the feast?" His eyes were wide, filled with a childlike longing that wrenched at her heart.
A pang hit Meredith. The feast was meant for the highborn lords and ladies of the realm, not a servant girl and her little charge.
And with the way the day had gone... well, another noisy crowd might be too much for Caelum.
"Caelum," she said, her voice gentle but firm, "I don't think such a crowd is good for you right now. And Lord Willas and Garlan would be busy with the other lords of the realm. You need to master your magic, so you can stand crowds again before you go somewhere like the feast." She forced a smile, "Remember, you fainted earlier. That wasn't fun, was it? You can play with Lord Willas and Garlan again once you have mastered your magic."
Caelum nodded, a hint of disappointment shadowing his bright eyes. "But if you're worried about me telling them, Mary, I won't tell Willas and Garlan about it. I made a promise to Luke I won't!"
She winced.
She longed for help, for someone wise and knowledgeable about this magic, but a part of her echoed Luke's warning.
This was dangerous, and she'd promised to keep it secret too.
Maybe it was better this way until they could get home, get answers from her mum, and Uncle Harlon, and Aunt Elyna.
A warm smile spread across her face. "Caelum," she said, "I am so proud of you. For helping someone today, and for keeping your promises. I wasn't worried you'd break them, of course."
"How about this? We have some food, a feast fit for a hero, and then later, we'll go find Luke at the inn, and then the both of you can tell me all about your daring rescue." She said distracting the boy from trying to head down to the feast.
It seemed to have worked, as another large smile plastered on the boy's face, his blue eyes sparkling as he nodded.
"Stay put, love," Meredith instructed as she rose, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. A pang of guilt touched her as she saw the flicker of disappointment in Caelum's eyes, but it was quickly replaced by the promise of food and seeing Luke.
As she stepped into the bustling corridor, her thoughts were a whirlwind. Anger at Luke warred with a newfound pride for the boy who, despite his frustrating stubbornness, had managed to teach Caelum something so vital. Luke just didn't see it in himself, did he? And oh, he was right about the secret. Magic was terrifying, even wondrous magic.
She didn't think Lady Olenna, or Lady Alerie or even Lord Mace would hurt Caelum should they find out about his magic. They would have helped. But Luke was right to keep it secret.
Magic did scare her. It did hurt Caelum. But Luke had managed in the end to teach Caelum some control over it.
The sounds of the feast washed over her as she neared the great hall. Laughter, chatter, and the lively music of a dozen instruments filled the air.
"... Seven pairs I sold to the starry sept, and for seven thousand dragons a piece! I had almost written off the rocks at that point in truth!" Lord Mace Tyrell's booming voice echoed through the doorway.
"A grand bargain indeed, my lord," came the reply of some Lord she didn't recognize. "Shame that Wisteria couldn't be forged. It would have made a remarkable addition to House Tyrell's glory"
Squaring her shoulders, Meredith slipped through the feast unnoticed.
She made her way through to the table where the food had been placed, trying to ignore the conversation around her.
"… we'll be good brothers Ned! Cheer Up!" A lord was boisterously laughing as he dug into the roasted meats set on his table.
The man he was talking to smiled slightly, though Meredith felt he was annoyed and a little exasperated in truth "Robert, you didn't tell me you haven't even spoken to …."
She refocused on the task at hand, trying to make her way to the back where Anya was seated, making sure the older maid did not notice her at the feast.
Servants were expected here, after all. Deftly, she pilfered generous portions of roasted fowl, sweet cakes, and even a few slices of the rich venison pie the lords were being served.
A small smile played on her lips. Her Caelum deserved a proper feast for his bravery.
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Dawn painted the eastern sky in streaks of soft orange and pink, a promise of a new day. But as Luke led Caelum away from the sprawling encampment of Harrentown, the air held the echoes of the previous day's revelries. The smell of stale ale and woodsmoke hung heavy, a stark contrast to the fresh scent of dew-kissed grass that lined the dirt path.
Luke glanced sideways at Caelum. Even the light of the new day couldn't chase the shadow of Meredith's worry from his small face.
She'd given Luke a piece of her mind when delivering Caelum to the inn earlier – not as harshly as he perhaps thought she would have been, but clear enough that she was terrified of what had almost happened.
They reached an open clearing, a distance away from the bustle of the town and the tourney. Taking shade under a giant oak, Luke turned to his little brave brother.
Luke cleared his throat. "Meredith was right, you know," he began, keeping his voice low. "Running off like that... you could have easily gotten hurt, or worse …." He trailed off.
Caelum's chin jutted out in a familiar display of stubbornness. "But I heard... The Gods have given me this magic for a reason. And I don't want it to be a curse anymore! I heard the men …" He swallowed his small voice firm. "She was going to get hurt! I had to do something."
"And you did," Luke said quickly. "You're the bravest person I know, Cael." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "But even knights don't just charge into battle blind. They have a plan, and they listen to their squires – those they trust to help them."
Luke nudged him gently. "Septon Mattheus always says the gods give us gifts, our arms, our legs, our eyes, everything is a gift from the gods to us, and it's up to us how to use them, right?" He smiled faintly. "This... hearing of yours - it's a mighty powerful gift. Magic. But like a sword without a hilt, it can hurt you if you're not careful. Just as easily as it can hurt others if used unwisely."
He paused, letting the words sink in. "And sometimes, Cael," Luke continued, a touch of weariness lacing his voice, "the bravest thing we can do is wait. Figure things out. See if there's a way to help without getting ourselves hurt even worse."
"Then what should I do? Ignore everything?" A touch of defiance echoed in Caelum's voice. "How can I do that, Luke? Knights don't ignore people in need!"
Luke sighed inwardly. He understood the boy's earnestness, felt a pang of pride even. But this wasn't about bravery alone, it was about survival. "A true knight protects the innocent, Caelum," he said, meeting the child's gaze. "But to protect, you have to be able to protect. Rushing in, getting yourself hurt... well, who's left to help anyone then?"
He reached out, gently turning Caelum to face him. "Sometimes, the smartest thing a knight does is stay his blade. Listen. Watch. See if there's a way to tilt the scales in a battle without throwing himself in blind." A shadow crossed Luke's face. "Believe me," he added, his voice barely above a whisper, "I learned that the hard way yesterday."
Caelum stared up at Luke, his brow furrowed in a mixture of confusion and determination. "But what if they need me, Luke? What if I'm the only one who can hear them?" His voice trembled slightly. "Wouldn't that make it my duty?"
Luke felt a pang of sympathy. He knew that unshakable belief in 'right and wrong' – it was what drew him to the boy like a moth to a flame. Yet, it was that very same spark that could consume Caelum if not guided carefully. He had set out to break such notions in this tourney, but after yesterday…
Now, he realized Caelum would do whatever was in his power to do the right thing. He had the heart of a True Knight, and it now fell on Luke's shoulder to make certain the boy didn't get himself killed.
"Duty's a tricky thing, Caelum," he said, his voice softening. "The world's a big place. More trouble in it than any one knight, any hundred knights, could set right."
A flicker of discomfort crossed Caelum's face and he nodded hesitantly.
"Could you have stopped those men, all by yourself? Fought them, bested them?" Luke pressed gently.
Caelum stared at the ground, his small form drooping in defeat. "...No," he whispered.
Luke knelt, leveling his gaze with the child's. "You have courage, Caelum, more than most men twice your age. But you're no god. And your magic, mighty though it seems..." He hesitated, searching for the right words. "It's a tool, a weapon even, but it has its limits. But just like a knight with his sword, you need to learn when to wield it, and when to hold back."
A flicker of frustration danced in Caelum's eyes, but his chin remained tilted upwards stubbornly. "But isn't that what a knight strives for, Luke? To protect those who cannot protect themselves? Isn't that what you want, someday?"
Luke bit back a sigh. The boy's earnestness was like a balm, and yet it ached with a bittersweet pang of his own youthful dreams. "Yes," he admitted, "that is the noble ideal." He ran a hand through his hair. "But ideals are one thing, Caelum, and the world... the world's another. Some people, they..." He struggled for words, not wanting to shatter the boy's innocence entirely.
"They're what?" Caelum asked, the question barely a whisper.
Luke hesitated, "Sometimes, some people are beyond saving. And sometimes, even the strongest knight, the one with the sharpest sword and the bravest heart, can't save everyone. We can only try our best." He paused, remembering the weight of Ser Barristan's gaze upon him, the quiet respect offered despite Luke's foolish gamble.
"But we did save Pia yesterday!" Caelum retorted, clenching his fists "That has to mean something!"
"Maybe...," he began slowly, "it's about the trying. Protecting those we can, making the world a bit brighter where we can reach. We managed to save Pia, not because of our strength but out wits. It was Ser Barristan who did most of the fighting. And for the rest," his voice hardened slightly, "well, maybe we learn when to stand back, sharpen our sword, use our wits instead of our sword, and the next time make certain you're even stronger."
Caelum chewed his lip thoughtfully, the disappointment fading. A hint of determination remained. "I guess," he mumbled, scuffing his toe in the dirt. "But... maybe when I'm better, stronger with the magic..." There was that stubborn glint back in his eyes, defiance mingling with hope.
Luke grinned, seeing that spark of courage rekindling. "Always charging in, eh?" He paused, and his voice gentled. "Listen, Caelum, about what I said before... about becoming a knight... my promise.. One day, I will be a knight, and you'll be my squire."
Caelum's eyes widened in surprise, the lingering disappointment replaced by awe.
Luke continued, his tone serious now. "But for that to happen, you need to trust me. Trust that I've got your back, even when I tell you to wait. This magic of yours, well, it makes you strong...in a way. But it can hurt you too, if you don't learn to control it."
"Like yesterday," Caelum whispered, nodding slowly. "I got so overwhelmed..."
"Exactly," Luke affirmed. "So, what say we work on that? Right here, right now?" He nudged Caelum towards the clearing. "Less noise out here, remember? Good place for practice. Think you can focus? Prove to me you're ready to learn some real knight stuff, eh?" There was a playful challenge in his tone now.
Luke gestured towards the sun-dappled clearing. "So, tell me, Caelum. Just like yesterday... what can you hear?"
Caelum closed his eyes, a determined crease furrowing his brow. The distant sounds of the tourney and town swirled around him - a blacksmith's hammer, laughter from a tavern, a hawker's cry. It was still noisy, but somehow less overwhelming than before.
"It's better," he admitted, a note of surprise in his voice. "I can pick things out, like... a dog barking, and someone singing way off in the distance." He opened his eyes, a spark of excitement replacing his earlier hesitancy.
Luke smiled. "Good lad! Now, remember how I told you knights need to focus? Let's try that. The tourney... can you tune it out? Pretend it's not even there."
Caelum screwed up his face in concentration. The distant clash of steel and the roar of the crowd seemed to fade, replaced by a sharper, closer sound: a rhythmic squeaking from the direction of the town. "There's a cart," he said, "Old wheels, I think. And... someone's shouting orders at a horse."
"Excellent!" Luke said, nodding encouragingly. "Now, point your ears that way, towards the town. Block out the rest. What can you hear?"
A cacophony of sounds washed over Caelum. A woman haggling over the price of vegetables, children shrieking with playful laughter, a cobbler humming a tuneless song. It was dizzying at first, then a single sound pierced the jumble. A man's grunt, harsh and strained. "Like... someone lifting something heavy," Caelum ventured. "And a woman's voice, maybe giving instructions."
"Keep listening," Luke urged. "Can you tell what he's lifting? What sort of place it is?"
Caelum furrowed his brow, focusing harder. The strained grunts grew more frequent, alongside the sound of wood scraping against wood. And then, the woman's voice became clearer, laced with a coarse laugh. A knot formed in his stomach as more sounds began to filter through... giggles, a low groan, and suddenly a gasp.
"Luke?" Caelum's eyes sprang open, wide with a mixture of confusion and revulsion. "I...I think something bad is happening. It sounds like...women getting hurt!"
"Wait!" Luke's voice snapped Caelum out of his horrified trance. A strong hand gripped his shoulder, holding him back. "Caelum, listen to me. Not every cry is a cry for help."
Caelum shook his head frantically, his voice choked. "But, Luke, they're hurting! I heard..." He swallowed hard, unable to put the sounds into words.
"Tell me what you heard," Luke insisted, his tone urgent but still gentle. "Tell me exactly."
Caelum's face flushed, his eyes darting away in shame. "They... the women, they were making noises like Pia... when those men... and there were groans, like when someone's in pain..." His voice trailed off, choked with a sob.
A flicker of comprehension crossed Luke's face, followed by a pang of regret. This was the world's cruelty, the ugliness he'd hoped to shield Caelum from just a little longer.
"Caelum," he began, crouching down beside the boy. "Those women... they're not like Pia. They work in... a place called a brothel. Men come there, and the women... well..." He swallowed, searching for the right words. "They do things with the men. Things that sometimes hurt, but the women, they..."
He trailed off, not able to say it straight out. Instead, he said, "They have to do it, Caelum. It's the only way they can earn coin, buy food."
Caelum stared at him, eyes wide with a new kind of horror. "But that's wrong!" he choked out. "We have to help them!"
Luke's heart ached. "We can't, Caelum," he said, his voice thick with a bitter truth he himself struggled to accept. "These women, they... they chose this life. Or maybe they had no choice at all. But either way, it's how they survive." He sighed. "Some men are cruel, yes. But if we rush in, thinking we're saving them... sometimes it'll make things worse. It's not like fighting bandits, Caelum. This... this is something even knights struggle with."
He reached out, gently squeezing Caelum's shoulder. "Not every battle can be won, little brother. And not every person can be saved, as much as we wish it were so."
A heavy silence settled between them. Luke knew the weight of Caelum's disappointment was a burden even a child could feel. He ruffled the boy's hair gently.
"Caelum," he began, his voice low, "the world is a messy place. Sometimes, there are things even the strongest knights can't fix. Those women..." He paused, searching for the right words. "They made a choice, a hard one, but a choice nonetheless. It's not a life I would wish on anyone, but it's the life they know."
Caelum kicked at the dirt, a scowl etched on his face. "But it's wrong, Luke! Shouldn't someone help them have a better choice? The maiden charges Knights to protect all women!"
Luke let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. The boy's earnestness was like a double-edged sword – noble, but painfully naive. He had to tread carefully, lest he shatter Caelum's ideals entirely.
"The Maiden teaches us mercy, compassion," Luke said slowly, weighing his words. "But mercy doesn't come in one size, Caelum. Sometimes, the kindest thing we can give is... space. The space to live life, even when that life looks... different from our own."
Caelum's frown deepened. "Even if it's bad? Even if they're not happy?"
Luke nodded. "Sometimes, yes. We all walk our own paths, Caelum. Some are smooth, some are rocky. Some even seem to lead in circles." A wry smile touched his lips. "We might offer a hand, share a cup of water, but we cannot force someone to walk a different path than their own."
"But the Oath," Caelum insisted, the words tumbling out, "To defend the young and the innocent and the helpless, and the weak... The Maiden wouldn't want women just left to suffer!"
Luke's gaze softened. "And she doesn't, Caelum. But the world... it's rarely as simple as the stories we tell. Those women, they are weak, in a way. Life has beaten them down, taken their choices. But they're not helpless. They've found a way to fight back, to survive." He hesitated. "And sometimes, the truest kindness, the most knightly thing we can do, is to..."
He struggled for the right words, then settled on, "Respect their choices, even when we don't understand them. Honor their strength, even if it looks twisted to us."
Caelum remained silent for a long moment, processing the weight of Luke's words. Finally, he wiped his eyes with a grimy sleeve, a flicker of determination battling the frustration in his gaze. "Alright," he mumbled, his voice thick, "I guess I can't save everyone. But maybe... maybe I can learn to fight the right battles."
Luke squeezed Caelum's shoulder reassuringly, letting the silence between them hold the weight of a battle hard fought, but not yet won.
This struggle, against the complexities of the world, was one that might go on within Caelum for a long time to come.
"That's the spirit, Caelum," Luke finally said, a genuine smile warming his face. "Come on, let's get back to your practicing magic. There are enough battles you can win to keep you busy for a lifetime."
He stood, extending a hand to Caelum. "Now then, that brothel... unpleasant as it is, you have to ignore those too. Can you push those sounds away; pretend they don't exist?"
Caelum looked uncertain for a moment, the pain still lingering in his eyes. But then, he squared his shoulders with a determined little nod. Closing his eyes once more, he focused.
At first, the cacophony from the town washed over him, threatening to overwhelm. Luke could see the strain on his face. But then, slowly, the grunts and giggles from the direction of the brothel started to soften, receding like a wave pulling back.
"Good," Luke encouraged. "Keep at it, Caelum. Now tell me, ignoring the brothel, what else do you hear coming from Harrentown? I want specifics."
Caelum's concentration wavered briefly as he cast off the fading whispers of the brothel, but he managed to hold the focus. Luke saw the tension ease from his brow as he surveyed the soundscape once more.
"Two people..." he murmured, "arguing. A man and a woman." He strained, then tilted his head slightly. "About an animal... something that's gone missing... a goat, I think."
"Excellent work!" Luke praised, his tone taking on a playful edge. "Alright, Caelum, consider yourself officially tasked: find that missing goat. Where is it? What else can you learn about the situation?"
Caelum closed his eyes, the furrow in his brow deepening. "Hard to say...sounds like they're by one of the market stalls. Maybe a vendor? The man is shouting that the woman must have let it loose, while she's yelling about it being his job to watch over the livestock..."
A low chuckle escaped Luke. "Sounds like a spat between husband and wife, and their missing dinner." He winked. "Let's see if you can pinpoint their location any closer... think you can manage heading into town while using your magic? Remember, you need to know how to hide that you're using it."
A flicker of hesitation crossed Caelum's face as Luke proposed venturing back into the town. It wasn't the fear of the tourney crowds, but a deeper unease. "But Luke..." he trailed off, those wide eyes searching desperately for reassurance. "What if... what if the noises get too much for me again?"
Luke crouched down until their gazes were level, his hand coming to rest gently on Caelum's shoulder. "I know it was hard before, Caelum. But you did it. You pushed back against the noise, and found what you needed." He smiled, a touch of pride in his eyes. "Every time you focus like that, it gets a little easier. Like practicing with a sword – eventually, it will be as easy as your heart beating."
Caelum chewed his lip, considering. Finally, he managed a small, determined nod. "Alright," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "Let's go."
With gentle encouragement from Luke, they set off towards the market square, the bustle a steady hum in the background. Luke kept close, one hand lightly at the small of Caelum's back, a word of support or a reminder to focus murmured when it looked like the boy was faltering.
As they drew nearer to the market stalls, Caelum kept his focus fixed on searching for the bickering couple and the wayward goat. The man's voice grew louder, laced with flustered anger "...careless woman, worth my whole week's earnings, that goat..." while the woman retorted sharply, "...your responsibility, too busy gawking at those tourney knights..."
Caelum pointed toward the sound from where he heard the goat with a triumphant grin. "There!"
The scene that unfolded before Luke and Caelum was straight out of some farcical mummer's play. The goat, with an air of supreme indifference, perched atop the slanted roof of the couple's stall. It was not just munching on the straw hats anymore, but had apparently discovered a stash of feed bags the man had stored there. Grain spilled in a golden cascade, attracting a delighted flock of pigeons that squabbled and flapped around her hooves.
A stifled laugh bubbled up in Caelum's throat even as Luke nudged him with an elbow, the merest quirk of a smile playing on his lips. Taking a step forward, they addressed the still-squabbling couple.
"I think we've found your goat," Luke said, raising his voice above the man's bluster and the woman's exasperated sighs.
The man whipped around, the short ladder still clutched awkwardly in his hand. He sputtered, "Where? That blasted creature, I'll turn her into stew..." But his voice trailed off as he followed Luke's pointed finger upwards.
The woman, however, threw back her head and laughed, a clear, ringing sound that cut through the chaos. "Well, I'll be! Harold, you lummox," she gasped between peals of laughter, "You were looking for her on the ground?" Tears of mirth streamed down her face as she pointed a shaking finger at the rooftop scene.
The man, now a deep shade of crimson, could only manage a strangled, "Roof hatch... must've left it open..." He then seemed to deflate, the anger leaving his stance as he muttered something about fetching the ladder from the back.
The woman, catching her breath, fixed her gaze on Luke and Caelum with genuine gratitude. "Bless you both! You've saved our hides. Harold here," she gave him a playful shove, "was about to accuse every passerby of stealing that goat. Probably would've started a brawl by sundown!"
As the man sullenly trudged off, muttering under his breath, the woman offered Luke and Caelum a warm smile. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a handful of copper coins. "Here now, lads, take something for your trouble. A bit of supper for being such clever eyes!"
Luke gently shook his head, deflecting her offer with a smile. "It was no trouble at all. Glad to be of service." With a nod and a wink at Caelum, he turned to leave.
"Now then," Luke said as they walked away, the sounds of the market buzzing around them, "Let's see if those ears of yours can pick up another interesting voice. There's a whole town full of conversations happening – keep your focus, and tell me what you hear."
Caelum nodded, closing his eyes for a moment as he sifted through the babble of voices. The task felt easier now, as if pushing through a soft curtain rather than a heavy door. Luke watched him, a flicker of pride in his eyes at the boy's focused determination.
Then, that focus snapped. Caelum's eyes flew open, and he tugged on Luke's sleeve. "Luke! Someone's crying... a child, I think. Sounds scared." He looked around, brow furrowed, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound.
The child's sobs were soft, a hiccuping gasp swallowed by the market din, but Caelum's ears were attuned to the sound now. "Over there," he whispered urgently, pointing toward a narrow alleyway that snaked between a baker's stall and a looming pile of crates.
Luke crouched down, his voice a steady murmur beside Caelum. "Good work. Now, let's go slow, alright? We don't want to startle them."
They approached cautiously, Luke taking the lead. The alley was dim, the usual market bustle muted. As they rounded a bend, the cries became clearer, accompanied by small, desperate snuffles. And there, curled into a shadow beside a stack of flour sacks, was a child.
He couldn't have been more than a year or two younger than Caelum himself, grubby knees poking out from patched breeches, tear streaks staining his round cheeks. His eyes, wide and panicked, locked onto theirs with a flash of fear that quickly dissolved into fresh tears.
"Hey there," Luke said gently, kneeling down. "It's alright. What's your name, little fellow?"
The boy only whimpered, clutching the corner of a tattered blanket. But then Caelum stepped forward, his voice surprisingly firm. "Don't be scared," he said, "I'm Caelum, and this is Luke. Can you tell us what's wrong?"
Perhaps it was the sight of another child, or the gentle tone, but something seemed to ease the boy's terror. He scrubbed his eyes with a grubby fist and stammered, "M-mama….lost her…."
"Lost your mama," Luke echoed. "Well, no wonder you're upset. But we're going to find her, I promise. Do you remember how you got separated?"
The child nodded, lip trembling. "I...she told me to stay, but I saw...a puppy..." He sniffed, a great, shuddering sob escaping him. "I just followed for a little..."
Suddenly, Caelum's eyes went wide. "A puppy? Was it brown, with a white patch on its nose?" His voice was filled with excitement.
The boy sat up a little straighter. "Yes! You saw it?"
"Just a little while ago," said Luke, a grin playing on his lips, "Being chased by a very flustered baker!" He stood. "Come on, let's go see if we can't find that pup – and your mama."
And so, the unlikely trio went searching – Luke with his long strides, Caelum scampering to keep up, and the little boy, wide-eyed and hopeful, clutching Luke's hand.
Turns out, the boy's mother was searching for him by the stall too. The reunion by the baker's stall was filled with relieved tears and scoldings, which only turned to laughter as the errant puppy was retrieved from beneath a cart, tail wagging furiously.
As the grateful mother fussed over her now-giggling child, Luke winked at Caelum. "That," he said softly, "is what knights do. We find the lost, protect those who need it. Chivalry, valor and saving those in despair have their moments, but this? The little things? This is what truly matters."
Over the next three days, Luke's training with Caelum took on a different flavor. Yes, there was still focus, honing his senses to block some sounds and find others amidst the chaos. But Luke taught him other things too – to observe his surroundings, to be aware of himself within the crowd, how to hide his magic amidst the crowd.
All the while they helped wherever they could in the town. Lost children, distracting drunk guards, helping hurt animals.
At night, back at the inn, he shared simple breathing exercises to calm a racing heart or find focus when noise threatened to overwhelm.
They'd sit quietly, Luke speaking of times knights must wait patiently – listening at doors, or watching through the night.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N) Half the stuff Luke's saying, he's pulling out of his ass. Dude's trying to do right by Caelum somehow. Hope it wasn't too wise for him. I was trying for a mix of cynicism and Knightly ideal desires.
His small body seemed swallowed by the rough blankets, and his face was pale tussled with a tangled mop of wet dark hair.
She'd watched from the edge of the crowd, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm, as he darted towards the Knights returning from the tourney.
Fear had spiked through her – why was he running? Where was Luke? Then, the sickening sight of him collapsing, his hands clutching his head, the silent screams he'd been trying to make, pleas he'd made at the feet of Ser Barristan Selmy.
Only by the grace of the Seven had Lady Olenna and Lady Alerie been focused on the High Lords, oblivious to her frantic scramble through the throng.
Thank the gods she'd been returning early to clean Lord Garlan's tunic...
Anger bubbled beneath the surface of her panic.
Luke! Where was he? How could he let Caelum run off like that? Had he gotten Caelum hurt? She knew what could happen when Caelum was overwhelmed.
A flicker of gratitude cut through her worry. If not for Ser Barristan Selmy... the old knight could easily have dismissed Caelum as a raving child. But he hadn't. Instead, he'd knelt, asked questions, and whatever Caelum had said... it must have been enough.
Meredith's hands clenched into fists. She'd warned Luke, begged him to understand the dangers. Begged him to understand that they needed help, that they were in over their heads.
Magic is a sword without a hilt, he had said.
It scared her that her little Caelum was cursed with magicks that he had no idea how to control.
That was why she'd been insistent, they needed someone to help Caelum with whatever magicks he now possessed.
But Luke wouldn't listen.
He'd promised to be careful, to keep Caelum safe. Yet here they were, with Caelum unconscious, and Luke... who knew where he was? Was he hurt too?
A heavy sigh escaped her. Anger would solve nothing.
Right now, it was Caelum who needed her, not her fruitless rage.
Taking a deep breath, she sat by the bed, gently brushing the hair back from his forehead. "Caelum, honey," she murmured, "please wake up. Please be alright."
A gasp tore from Caelum's lips, ripping Meredith from her worried thoughts. His eyes snapped open, wide and frantic. "Luke!" he cried, a tremor in his voice. "Is he...is he okay?"
Meredith's heart lurched. "Caelum, honey, what happened? Where's Luke? Are you hurt?" She reached out to him, a mix of concern and a desperation for answers bubbling within her.
However, Caelum seemed to register nothing she said. His gaze darted past her, unseeing, and his face went slack with a sudden, stillness.
Meredith watched, her stomach twisting with a fresh wave of fear.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. His shoulders slumped, and the manic edge of his panic faded. Her questions still hung in the air, unanswered.
Then, as if a switch had been flipped, Caelum's face burst into a wide, joyous smile. He flung himself at her, wrapping his thin arms around her neck in a fierce hug.
Meredith froze for a moment, her brow furrowing in confusion.
But even through her worry, the sheer relief radiating from him was undeniable. A small, cautious knot of worry loosened in her chest.
"I'm okay, Mary!" he declared, burying his face in her shoulder. "And Luke's okay too!"
Confusion swept over Meredith. One moment Caelum had been frantic for Luke, the next, he beamed with unadulterated joy. "Caelum, love, what happened?" she asked gently, "Why did you think Luke was hurt? And why did you faint? Where was he?"
A flicker of mischief danced in Caelum's eyes. "He was teaching me, Mary! About the magic, just like you back at the inn. He figured out how I can focus, and I heard someone, they were gonna get hurt, so I ran to help!"
Meredith's heart lurched again.
Of course. The magic.
It was a curse that Luke had foolishly decided to teach Caelum to control on his own. She was about to voice her concerns when Caelum continued, his voice tumbling out in a rush.
"Luke tried to stop me, but I ran away, and he caught up at the buttery, and he told me to find help for this person while he stayed behind, and…"
Meredith latched onto that, her worry for Luke bubbling through the boy's rambling story "Luke…is he alright?"
Caelum beamed. "Yes! He saved her, Mary! And the Good Knight helped too! He thinks Luke will be a great knight someday!"
Meredith's mouth fell open. The Good Knight?
Could Caelum mean…Ser Barristan Selmy himself?
She knew Luke had everything it took to be a good Knight. If only the idiot boy believed that too.
"Caelum, who was getting hurt?" she pressed.
"I can't tell you," Caelum replied, his expression taking on a stubborn set. "Luke just promised the Good Knight he wouldn't. It's a secret, to protect her. So, no one will know what happened at the buttery."
Then another concern caught up to her, as her confusion slowly faded away.
"Caelum," she began, her voice sharper than she intended, "What were you thinking? You could have gotten terribly hurt!"
Caelum flinched slightly, but there was a stubborn tilt to his chin. "But Mary, what else was I supposed to do? Let her get hurt? I couldn't."
Meredith's heart ached. He was just a child, and the world already burdened him with choices no child should bear. "Caelum, honey, you're not responsible for saving everyone. It's a good heart you have, but…"
"The Gods gave me this magic," he interrupted, his small voice trembling slightly. "I don't want it to be a curse, Mary. If I can, if I can hear... then I have to help."
Another wave of worry swept over Meredith. His kind heart could be his downfall. But then, something else struck her. He knew about Luke's promise, despite Luke being nowhere nearby.
"Caelum," she said slowly, a new thought dawning, "are you… can you still hear Luke? Does this magic mean you have control now? Did Luke manage to teach you something?"
Caelum's face lit up like a sunrise. "He did, Mary! Luke figured it out. He helped, just like you back at the inn. Now I can shut it all out, the voices, all of it. And I can kinda focus on one voice if I try real hard."
Relief crashed over Meredith stronger than any anger, tears pricking her eyes. Caelum was cursed with this extraordinary power, but it seemed the gods were showing mercy too.
"Caelum, honey," her voice was thick, "you must promise me. No listening to what others talk about, and no running off into danger."
He blinked, then nodded solemnly. "But, Mary, my magic helped Luke save someone today! How can I not do that?"
"Magic is dangerous, sweetling," Meredith said, her voice firm. "Look what already happened to you today. Promise me, Caelum, promise me you won't listen to it unless Luke is there with you. Because if he hadn't been…" She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
"But I wasn't!" he exclaimed.
"You could have been hurt! Think how that would have hurt your Ma?! Aunt Serra! Me!" She exclaimed.
He murmured finally. "Okay, Mary, I promise. No magic unless Luke's there to help me."
Meredith smiled a genuine one this time.
Her anger had faded, she couldn't bear to see him hurt.
She'd have words with Luke later, very strong words indeed.
But for now, Caelum was safe, and it seemed that Luke had succeeded in what he had set out to do after all.
Caelum's stomach growled, reminding her that Caelum had just tired himself out of a harrowing ordeal.
"Well, I'm sure all that bravery has made you hungry. Would you like some food?" A flicker of hope crossed her face. Maybe she could get something from the feast for him.
Caelum perked up. "Can I... can I go see Willas and Garlan? Down at the feast?" His eyes were wide, filled with a childlike longing that wrenched at her heart.
A pang hit Meredith. The feast was meant for the highborn lords and ladies of the realm, not a servant girl and her little charge.
And with the way the day had gone... well, another noisy crowd might be too much for Caelum.
"Caelum," she said, her voice gentle but firm, "I don't think such a crowd is good for you right now. And Lord Willas and Garlan would be busy with the other lords of the realm. You need to master your magic, so you can stand crowds again before you go somewhere like the feast." She forced a smile, "Remember, you fainted earlier. That wasn't fun, was it? You can play with Lord Willas and Garlan again once you have mastered your magic."
Caelum nodded, a hint of disappointment shadowing his bright eyes. "But if you're worried about me telling them, Mary, I won't tell Willas and Garlan about it. I made a promise to Luke I won't!"
She winced.
She longed for help, for someone wise and knowledgeable about this magic, but a part of her echoed Luke's warning.
This was dangerous, and she'd promised to keep it secret too.
Maybe it was better this way until they could get home, get answers from her mum, and Uncle Harlon, and Aunt Elyna.
A warm smile spread across her face. "Caelum," she said, "I am so proud of you. For helping someone today, and for keeping your promises. I wasn't worried you'd break them, of course."
"How about this? We have some food, a feast fit for a hero, and then later, we'll go find Luke at the inn, and then the both of you can tell me all about your daring rescue." She said distracting the boy from trying to head down to the feast.
It seemed to have worked, as another large smile plastered on the boy's face, his blue eyes sparkling as he nodded.
"Stay put, love," Meredith instructed as she rose, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. A pang of guilt touched her as she saw the flicker of disappointment in Caelum's eyes, but it was quickly replaced by the promise of food and seeing Luke.
As she stepped into the bustling corridor, her thoughts were a whirlwind. Anger at Luke warred with a newfound pride for the boy who, despite his frustrating stubbornness, had managed to teach Caelum something so vital. Luke just didn't see it in himself, did he? And oh, he was right about the secret. Magic was terrifying, even wondrous magic.
She didn't think Lady Olenna, or Lady Alerie or even Lord Mace would hurt Caelum should they find out about his magic. They would have helped. But Luke was right to keep it secret.
Magic did scare her. It did hurt Caelum. But Luke had managed in the end to teach Caelum some control over it.
The sounds of the feast washed over her as she neared the great hall. Laughter, chatter, and the lively music of a dozen instruments filled the air.
"... Seven pairs I sold to the starry sept, and for seven thousand dragons a piece! I had almost written off the rocks at that point in truth!" Lord Mace Tyrell's booming voice echoed through the doorway.
"A grand bargain indeed, my lord," came the reply of some Lord she didn't recognize. "Shame that Wisteria couldn't be forged. It would have made a remarkable addition to House Tyrell's glory"
Squaring her shoulders, Meredith slipped through the feast unnoticed.
She made her way through to the table where the food had been placed, trying to ignore the conversation around her.
"… we'll be good brothers Ned! Cheer Up!" A lord was boisterously laughing as he dug into the roasted meats set on his table.
The man he was talking to smiled slightly, though Meredith felt he was annoyed and a little exasperated in truth "Robert, you didn't tell me you haven't even spoken to …."
She refocused on the task at hand, trying to make her way to the back where Anya was seated, making sure the older maid did not notice her at the feast.
Servants were expected here, after all. Deftly, she pilfered generous portions of roasted fowl, sweet cakes, and even a few slices of the rich venison pie the lords were being served.
A small smile played on her lips. Her Caelum deserved a proper feast for his bravery.
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Dawn painted the eastern sky in streaks of soft orange and pink, a promise of a new day. But as Luke led Caelum away from the sprawling encampment of Harrentown, the air held the echoes of the previous day's revelries. The smell of stale ale and woodsmoke hung heavy, a stark contrast to the fresh scent of dew-kissed grass that lined the dirt path.
Luke glanced sideways at Caelum. Even the light of the new day couldn't chase the shadow of Meredith's worry from his small face.
She'd given Luke a piece of her mind when delivering Caelum to the inn earlier – not as harshly as he perhaps thought she would have been, but clear enough that she was terrified of what had almost happened.
They reached an open clearing, a distance away from the bustle of the town and the tourney. Taking shade under a giant oak, Luke turned to his little brave brother.
Luke cleared his throat. "Meredith was right, you know," he began, keeping his voice low. "Running off like that... you could have easily gotten hurt, or worse …." He trailed off.
Caelum's chin jutted out in a familiar display of stubbornness. "But I heard... The Gods have given me this magic for a reason. And I don't want it to be a curse anymore! I heard the men …" He swallowed his small voice firm. "She was going to get hurt! I had to do something."
"And you did," Luke said quickly. "You're the bravest person I know, Cael." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "But even knights don't just charge into battle blind. They have a plan, and they listen to their squires – those they trust to help them."
Luke nudged him gently. "Septon Mattheus always says the gods give us gifts, our arms, our legs, our eyes, everything is a gift from the gods to us, and it's up to us how to use them, right?" He smiled faintly. "This... hearing of yours - it's a mighty powerful gift. Magic. But like a sword without a hilt, it can hurt you if you're not careful. Just as easily as it can hurt others if used unwisely."
He paused, letting the words sink in. "And sometimes, Cael," Luke continued, a touch of weariness lacing his voice, "the bravest thing we can do is wait. Figure things out. See if there's a way to help without getting ourselves hurt even worse."
"Then what should I do? Ignore everything?" A touch of defiance echoed in Caelum's voice. "How can I do that, Luke? Knights don't ignore people in need!"
Luke sighed inwardly. He understood the boy's earnestness, felt a pang of pride even. But this wasn't about bravery alone, it was about survival. "A true knight protects the innocent, Caelum," he said, meeting the child's gaze. "But to protect, you have to be able to protect. Rushing in, getting yourself hurt... well, who's left to help anyone then?"
He reached out, gently turning Caelum to face him. "Sometimes, the smartest thing a knight does is stay his blade. Listen. Watch. See if there's a way to tilt the scales in a battle without throwing himself in blind." A shadow crossed Luke's face. "Believe me," he added, his voice barely above a whisper, "I learned that the hard way yesterday."
Caelum stared up at Luke, his brow furrowed in a mixture of confusion and determination. "But what if they need me, Luke? What if I'm the only one who can hear them?" His voice trembled slightly. "Wouldn't that make it my duty?"
Luke felt a pang of sympathy. He knew that unshakable belief in 'right and wrong' – it was what drew him to the boy like a moth to a flame. Yet, it was that very same spark that could consume Caelum if not guided carefully. He had set out to break such notions in this tourney, but after yesterday…
Now, he realized Caelum would do whatever was in his power to do the right thing. He had the heart of a True Knight, and it now fell on Luke's shoulder to make certain the boy didn't get himself killed.
"Duty's a tricky thing, Caelum," he said, his voice softening. "The world's a big place. More trouble in it than any one knight, any hundred knights, could set right."
A flicker of discomfort crossed Caelum's face and he nodded hesitantly.
"Could you have stopped those men, all by yourself? Fought them, bested them?" Luke pressed gently.
Caelum stared at the ground, his small form drooping in defeat. "...No," he whispered.
Luke knelt, leveling his gaze with the child's. "You have courage, Caelum, more than most men twice your age. But you're no god. And your magic, mighty though it seems..." He hesitated, searching for the right words. "It's a tool, a weapon even, but it has its limits. But just like a knight with his sword, you need to learn when to wield it, and when to hold back."
A flicker of frustration danced in Caelum's eyes, but his chin remained tilted upwards stubbornly. "But isn't that what a knight strives for, Luke? To protect those who cannot protect themselves? Isn't that what you want, someday?"
Luke bit back a sigh. The boy's earnestness was like a balm, and yet it ached with a bittersweet pang of his own youthful dreams. "Yes," he admitted, "that is the noble ideal." He ran a hand through his hair. "But ideals are one thing, Caelum, and the world... the world's another. Some people, they..." He struggled for words, not wanting to shatter the boy's innocence entirely.
"They're what?" Caelum asked, the question barely a whisper.
Luke hesitated, "Sometimes, some people are beyond saving. And sometimes, even the strongest knight, the one with the sharpest sword and the bravest heart, can't save everyone. We can only try our best." He paused, remembering the weight of Ser Barristan's gaze upon him, the quiet respect offered despite Luke's foolish gamble.
"But we did save Pia yesterday!" Caelum retorted, clenching his fists "That has to mean something!"
"Maybe...," he began slowly, "it's about the trying. Protecting those we can, making the world a bit brighter where we can reach. We managed to save Pia, not because of our strength but out wits. It was Ser Barristan who did most of the fighting. And for the rest," his voice hardened slightly, "well, maybe we learn when to stand back, sharpen our sword, use our wits instead of our sword, and the next time make certain you're even stronger."
Caelum chewed his lip thoughtfully, the disappointment fading. A hint of determination remained. "I guess," he mumbled, scuffing his toe in the dirt. "But... maybe when I'm better, stronger with the magic..." There was that stubborn glint back in his eyes, defiance mingling with hope.
Luke grinned, seeing that spark of courage rekindling. "Always charging in, eh?" He paused, and his voice gentled. "Listen, Caelum, about what I said before... about becoming a knight... my promise.. One day, I will be a knight, and you'll be my squire."
Caelum's eyes widened in surprise, the lingering disappointment replaced by awe.
Luke continued, his tone serious now. "But for that to happen, you need to trust me. Trust that I've got your back, even when I tell you to wait. This magic of yours, well, it makes you strong...in a way. But it can hurt you too, if you don't learn to control it."
"Like yesterday," Caelum whispered, nodding slowly. "I got so overwhelmed..."
"Exactly," Luke affirmed. "So, what say we work on that? Right here, right now?" He nudged Caelum towards the clearing. "Less noise out here, remember? Good place for practice. Think you can focus? Prove to me you're ready to learn some real knight stuff, eh?" There was a playful challenge in his tone now.
Luke gestured towards the sun-dappled clearing. "So, tell me, Caelum. Just like yesterday... what can you hear?"
Caelum closed his eyes, a determined crease furrowing his brow. The distant sounds of the tourney and town swirled around him - a blacksmith's hammer, laughter from a tavern, a hawker's cry. It was still noisy, but somehow less overwhelming than before.
"It's better," he admitted, a note of surprise in his voice. "I can pick things out, like... a dog barking, and someone singing way off in the distance." He opened his eyes, a spark of excitement replacing his earlier hesitancy.
Luke smiled. "Good lad! Now, remember how I told you knights need to focus? Let's try that. The tourney... can you tune it out? Pretend it's not even there."
Caelum screwed up his face in concentration. The distant clash of steel and the roar of the crowd seemed to fade, replaced by a sharper, closer sound: a rhythmic squeaking from the direction of the town. "There's a cart," he said, "Old wheels, I think. And... someone's shouting orders at a horse."
"Excellent!" Luke said, nodding encouragingly. "Now, point your ears that way, towards the town. Block out the rest. What can you hear?"
A cacophony of sounds washed over Caelum. A woman haggling over the price of vegetables, children shrieking with playful laughter, a cobbler humming a tuneless song. It was dizzying at first, then a single sound pierced the jumble. A man's grunt, harsh and strained. "Like... someone lifting something heavy," Caelum ventured. "And a woman's voice, maybe giving instructions."
"Keep listening," Luke urged. "Can you tell what he's lifting? What sort of place it is?"
Caelum furrowed his brow, focusing harder. The strained grunts grew more frequent, alongside the sound of wood scraping against wood. And then, the woman's voice became clearer, laced with a coarse laugh. A knot formed in his stomach as more sounds began to filter through... giggles, a low groan, and suddenly a gasp.
"Luke?" Caelum's eyes sprang open, wide with a mixture of confusion and revulsion. "I...I think something bad is happening. It sounds like...women getting hurt!"
"Wait!" Luke's voice snapped Caelum out of his horrified trance. A strong hand gripped his shoulder, holding him back. "Caelum, listen to me. Not every cry is a cry for help."
Caelum shook his head frantically, his voice choked. "But, Luke, they're hurting! I heard..." He swallowed hard, unable to put the sounds into words.
"Tell me what you heard," Luke insisted, his tone urgent but still gentle. "Tell me exactly."
Caelum's face flushed, his eyes darting away in shame. "They... the women, they were making noises like Pia... when those men... and there were groans, like when someone's in pain..." His voice trailed off, choked with a sob.
A flicker of comprehension crossed Luke's face, followed by a pang of regret. This was the world's cruelty, the ugliness he'd hoped to shield Caelum from just a little longer.
"Caelum," he began, crouching down beside the boy. "Those women... they're not like Pia. They work in... a place called a brothel. Men come there, and the women... well..." He swallowed, searching for the right words. "They do things with the men. Things that sometimes hurt, but the women, they..."
He trailed off, not able to say it straight out. Instead, he said, "They have to do it, Caelum. It's the only way they can earn coin, buy food."
Caelum stared at him, eyes wide with a new kind of horror. "But that's wrong!" he choked out. "We have to help them!"
Luke's heart ached. "We can't, Caelum," he said, his voice thick with a bitter truth he himself struggled to accept. "These women, they... they chose this life. Or maybe they had no choice at all. But either way, it's how they survive." He sighed. "Some men are cruel, yes. But if we rush in, thinking we're saving them... sometimes it'll make things worse. It's not like fighting bandits, Caelum. This... this is something even knights struggle with."
He reached out, gently squeezing Caelum's shoulder. "Not every battle can be won, little brother. And not every person can be saved, as much as we wish it were so."
A heavy silence settled between them. Luke knew the weight of Caelum's disappointment was a burden even a child could feel. He ruffled the boy's hair gently.
"Caelum," he began, his voice low, "the world is a messy place. Sometimes, there are things even the strongest knights can't fix. Those women..." He paused, searching for the right words. "They made a choice, a hard one, but a choice nonetheless. It's not a life I would wish on anyone, but it's the life they know."
Caelum kicked at the dirt, a scowl etched on his face. "But it's wrong, Luke! Shouldn't someone help them have a better choice? The maiden charges Knights to protect all women!"
Luke let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. The boy's earnestness was like a double-edged sword – noble, but painfully naive. He had to tread carefully, lest he shatter Caelum's ideals entirely.
"The Maiden teaches us mercy, compassion," Luke said slowly, weighing his words. "But mercy doesn't come in one size, Caelum. Sometimes, the kindest thing we can give is... space. The space to live life, even when that life looks... different from our own."
Caelum's frown deepened. "Even if it's bad? Even if they're not happy?"
Luke nodded. "Sometimes, yes. We all walk our own paths, Caelum. Some are smooth, some are rocky. Some even seem to lead in circles." A wry smile touched his lips. "We might offer a hand, share a cup of water, but we cannot force someone to walk a different path than their own."
"But the Oath," Caelum insisted, the words tumbling out, "To defend the young and the innocent and the helpless, and the weak... The Maiden wouldn't want women just left to suffer!"
Luke's gaze softened. "And she doesn't, Caelum. But the world... it's rarely as simple as the stories we tell. Those women, they are weak, in a way. Life has beaten them down, taken their choices. But they're not helpless. They've found a way to fight back, to survive." He hesitated. "And sometimes, the truest kindness, the most knightly thing we can do, is to..."
He struggled for the right words, then settled on, "Respect their choices, even when we don't understand them. Honor their strength, even if it looks twisted to us."
Caelum remained silent for a long moment, processing the weight of Luke's words. Finally, he wiped his eyes with a grimy sleeve, a flicker of determination battling the frustration in his gaze. "Alright," he mumbled, his voice thick, "I guess I can't save everyone. But maybe... maybe I can learn to fight the right battles."
Luke squeezed Caelum's shoulder reassuringly, letting the silence between them hold the weight of a battle hard fought, but not yet won.
This struggle, against the complexities of the world, was one that might go on within Caelum for a long time to come.
"That's the spirit, Caelum," Luke finally said, a genuine smile warming his face. "Come on, let's get back to your practicing magic. There are enough battles you can win to keep you busy for a lifetime."
He stood, extending a hand to Caelum. "Now then, that brothel... unpleasant as it is, you have to ignore those too. Can you push those sounds away; pretend they don't exist?"
Caelum looked uncertain for a moment, the pain still lingering in his eyes. But then, he squared his shoulders with a determined little nod. Closing his eyes once more, he focused.
At first, the cacophony from the town washed over him, threatening to overwhelm. Luke could see the strain on his face. But then, slowly, the grunts and giggles from the direction of the brothel started to soften, receding like a wave pulling back.
"Good," Luke encouraged. "Keep at it, Caelum. Now tell me, ignoring the brothel, what else do you hear coming from Harrentown? I want specifics."
Caelum's concentration wavered briefly as he cast off the fading whispers of the brothel, but he managed to hold the focus. Luke saw the tension ease from his brow as he surveyed the soundscape once more.
"Two people..." he murmured, "arguing. A man and a woman." He strained, then tilted his head slightly. "About an animal... something that's gone missing... a goat, I think."
"Excellent work!" Luke praised, his tone taking on a playful edge. "Alright, Caelum, consider yourself officially tasked: find that missing goat. Where is it? What else can you learn about the situation?"
Caelum closed his eyes, the furrow in his brow deepening. "Hard to say...sounds like they're by one of the market stalls. Maybe a vendor? The man is shouting that the woman must have let it loose, while she's yelling about it being his job to watch over the livestock..."
A low chuckle escaped Luke. "Sounds like a spat between husband and wife, and their missing dinner." He winked. "Let's see if you can pinpoint their location any closer... think you can manage heading into town while using your magic? Remember, you need to know how to hide that you're using it."
A flicker of hesitation crossed Caelum's face as Luke proposed venturing back into the town. It wasn't the fear of the tourney crowds, but a deeper unease. "But Luke..." he trailed off, those wide eyes searching desperately for reassurance. "What if... what if the noises get too much for me again?"
Luke crouched down until their gazes were level, his hand coming to rest gently on Caelum's shoulder. "I know it was hard before, Caelum. But you did it. You pushed back against the noise, and found what you needed." He smiled, a touch of pride in his eyes. "Every time you focus like that, it gets a little easier. Like practicing with a sword – eventually, it will be as easy as your heart beating."
Caelum chewed his lip, considering. Finally, he managed a small, determined nod. "Alright," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "Let's go."
With gentle encouragement from Luke, they set off towards the market square, the bustle a steady hum in the background. Luke kept close, one hand lightly at the small of Caelum's back, a word of support or a reminder to focus murmured when it looked like the boy was faltering.
As they drew nearer to the market stalls, Caelum kept his focus fixed on searching for the bickering couple and the wayward goat. The man's voice grew louder, laced with flustered anger "...careless woman, worth my whole week's earnings, that goat..." while the woman retorted sharply, "...your responsibility, too busy gawking at those tourney knights..."
Caelum pointed toward the sound from where he heard the goat with a triumphant grin. "There!"
The scene that unfolded before Luke and Caelum was straight out of some farcical mummer's play. The goat, with an air of supreme indifference, perched atop the slanted roof of the couple's stall. It was not just munching on the straw hats anymore, but had apparently discovered a stash of feed bags the man had stored there. Grain spilled in a golden cascade, attracting a delighted flock of pigeons that squabbled and flapped around her hooves.
A stifled laugh bubbled up in Caelum's throat even as Luke nudged him with an elbow, the merest quirk of a smile playing on his lips. Taking a step forward, they addressed the still-squabbling couple.
"I think we've found your goat," Luke said, raising his voice above the man's bluster and the woman's exasperated sighs.
The man whipped around, the short ladder still clutched awkwardly in his hand. He sputtered, "Where? That blasted creature, I'll turn her into stew..." But his voice trailed off as he followed Luke's pointed finger upwards.
The woman, however, threw back her head and laughed, a clear, ringing sound that cut through the chaos. "Well, I'll be! Harold, you lummox," she gasped between peals of laughter, "You were looking for her on the ground?" Tears of mirth streamed down her face as she pointed a shaking finger at the rooftop scene.
The man, now a deep shade of crimson, could only manage a strangled, "Roof hatch... must've left it open..." He then seemed to deflate, the anger leaving his stance as he muttered something about fetching the ladder from the back.
The woman, catching her breath, fixed her gaze on Luke and Caelum with genuine gratitude. "Bless you both! You've saved our hides. Harold here," she gave him a playful shove, "was about to accuse every passerby of stealing that goat. Probably would've started a brawl by sundown!"
As the man sullenly trudged off, muttering under his breath, the woman offered Luke and Caelum a warm smile. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a handful of copper coins. "Here now, lads, take something for your trouble. A bit of supper for being such clever eyes!"
Luke gently shook his head, deflecting her offer with a smile. "It was no trouble at all. Glad to be of service." With a nod and a wink at Caelum, he turned to leave.
"Now then," Luke said as they walked away, the sounds of the market buzzing around them, "Let's see if those ears of yours can pick up another interesting voice. There's a whole town full of conversations happening – keep your focus, and tell me what you hear."
Caelum nodded, closing his eyes for a moment as he sifted through the babble of voices. The task felt easier now, as if pushing through a soft curtain rather than a heavy door. Luke watched him, a flicker of pride in his eyes at the boy's focused determination.
Then, that focus snapped. Caelum's eyes flew open, and he tugged on Luke's sleeve. "Luke! Someone's crying... a child, I think. Sounds scared." He looked around, brow furrowed, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound.
The child's sobs were soft, a hiccuping gasp swallowed by the market din, but Caelum's ears were attuned to the sound now. "Over there," he whispered urgently, pointing toward a narrow alleyway that snaked between a baker's stall and a looming pile of crates.
Luke crouched down, his voice a steady murmur beside Caelum. "Good work. Now, let's go slow, alright? We don't want to startle them."
They approached cautiously, Luke taking the lead. The alley was dim, the usual market bustle muted. As they rounded a bend, the cries became clearer, accompanied by small, desperate snuffles. And there, curled into a shadow beside a stack of flour sacks, was a child.
He couldn't have been more than a year or two younger than Caelum himself, grubby knees poking out from patched breeches, tear streaks staining his round cheeks. His eyes, wide and panicked, locked onto theirs with a flash of fear that quickly dissolved into fresh tears.
"Hey there," Luke said gently, kneeling down. "It's alright. What's your name, little fellow?"
The boy only whimpered, clutching the corner of a tattered blanket. But then Caelum stepped forward, his voice surprisingly firm. "Don't be scared," he said, "I'm Caelum, and this is Luke. Can you tell us what's wrong?"
Perhaps it was the sight of another child, or the gentle tone, but something seemed to ease the boy's terror. He scrubbed his eyes with a grubby fist and stammered, "M-mama….lost her…."
"Lost your mama," Luke echoed. "Well, no wonder you're upset. But we're going to find her, I promise. Do you remember how you got separated?"
The child nodded, lip trembling. "I...she told me to stay, but I saw...a puppy..." He sniffed, a great, shuddering sob escaping him. "I just followed for a little..."
Suddenly, Caelum's eyes went wide. "A puppy? Was it brown, with a white patch on its nose?" His voice was filled with excitement.
The boy sat up a little straighter. "Yes! You saw it?"
"Just a little while ago," said Luke, a grin playing on his lips, "Being chased by a very flustered baker!" He stood. "Come on, let's go see if we can't find that pup – and your mama."
And so, the unlikely trio went searching – Luke with his long strides, Caelum scampering to keep up, and the little boy, wide-eyed and hopeful, clutching Luke's hand.
Turns out, the boy's mother was searching for him by the stall too. The reunion by the baker's stall was filled with relieved tears and scoldings, which only turned to laughter as the errant puppy was retrieved from beneath a cart, tail wagging furiously.
As the grateful mother fussed over her now-giggling child, Luke winked at Caelum. "That," he said softly, "is what knights do. We find the lost, protect those who need it. Chivalry, valor and saving those in despair have their moments, but this? The little things? This is what truly matters."
Over the next three days, Luke's training with Caelum took on a different flavor. Yes, there was still focus, honing his senses to block some sounds and find others amidst the chaos. But Luke taught him other things too – to observe his surroundings, to be aware of himself within the crowd, how to hide his magic amidst the crowd.
All the while they helped wherever they could in the town. Lost children, distracting drunk guards, helping hurt animals.
At night, back at the inn, he shared simple breathing exercises to calm a racing heart or find focus when noise threatened to overwhelm.
They'd sit quietly, Luke speaking of times knights must wait patiently – listening at doors, or watching through the night.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N) Half the stuff Luke's saying, he's pulling out of his ass. Dude's trying to do right by Caelum somehow. Hope it wasn't too wise for him. I was trying for a mix of cynicism and Knightly ideal desires.
Northern Friendship
A grin plastered on his face, Caelum hopped from one cobblestone to the next, narrowly avoiding a puddle of questionable origin. "Bet I can hear farther than you can see, Luke!" he chirped, eyes sparkling with mischief.
Luke chuckled, ruffling Caelum's hair. "Bold claim, Caelum. Care to wager a honey cake on that?"
Caelum's eyes crinkled with laughter. "Only if I win two!" He tilted his head, closing his eyes in concentration. The usual cacophony of the market dwindled, replaced by a faint singsong melody and the rhythmic squeak of a wheelbarrow.
A satisfied smile spread across his face. "An old woman by the baker's, humming to herself! I think her cart's stuck." He bolted towards the scent of fresh bread, Luke trailing with an amused sigh.
Sure enough, they found a stooped figure wrestling with a stubborn cartwheel. Wrinkles crinkled the corners of her eyes as she struggled, a melody escaping her lips in short, breathless hums.
"Need a hand, Grandma?" Caelum called out, skipping towards her.
The woman paused mid-grunt, surprise softening her features. "Bless your heart, young one! Just this pesky wheel... won't hold its place."
Luke stepped forward, his long strides quickly bridging the distance. With a practiced heave, he reattached the wheel, tightening a few spokes for good measure. The old woman clapped her hands, relief flooding her face.
"Well now, that's the kindest help I've had all day!" she chuckled. "What might your names be?"
"I'm Caelum," he declared proudly, a hand resting on his hip. He gestured to Luke, "And this is my friend, Luke!"
The woman's eyes warmed at the introduction. "Well then, aren't you a lucky lad!" She fished a still-warm apple pastry from her basket. "Here now, a reward for kindness."
Caelum accepted the treat, his grin impossibly wide. "Kindness?" he echoed, licking his fingers. "It was nothing!"
Just before they turned to leave, Caelum caught a flash of worry in her eyes as she glanced at her remaining stock. "Ma'am," he piped up, "if we can help you sell those, we wouldn't mind!" An eagerness filled his voice as he nudged Luke. "What do you say?"
Luke met the woman's grateful gaze and smiled. "Sounds like a plan to me."
For the next hour, Caelum's cheerful voice rang amidst the market clamor, enticing passersby with promises of the "sweetest tarts in all of Harrentown!" Luke, with an amused twinkle in his eye, bantered with potential customers, ensuring the old woman got a fair price for her goods. By the time her basket was empty, the warm glow of the afternoon sun had settled over the market square.
The woman wiped her brow with a flourish, offering them each a heartfelt hug. "May the Seven bless you both, kind lads. A bit of good fortune goes a long way."
With full bellies and hearts to match, Luke and Caelum waved goodbye, ready to resume their adventure. Days like this had become their routine. After that first chaotic day at the tourney, Luke had steered them towards the quieter corners of Harrentown. They'd chased runaway piglets, soothed a scared kitten, even helped a flustered scribe find his misplaced inkpot. It was far from the knightly battles Caelum had initially imagined, but the joy in his eyes shone brighter with each act of kindness.
"Alright, Caelum" Luke said, breaking into Caelum's thoughts, "where to next?"
Caelum hummed thoughtfully, closing his eyes in focus once more. It was a game now, testing his powers for good. The familiar buzz of the market surrounded them: a blacksmith hawking his wares, a mother scolding a giggling child, the jovial laughter of a tavern crowd. Ordinary sounds of ordinary lives. He listened closely, searching...
And then it came: a grunt of exertion, sharp and strained, followed by the hollow clang of steel on steel. It emanated from the direction of the tourney grounds, cutting through the usual festive clamor.
A flicker of unease crossed Caelum's face. The tourney grounds... the crowds, the noise... memories of that overwhelming first day threatened to creep in. But then he straightened, a determined glint in his eyes. He'd come a long way since those first overwhelming moments. He wouldn't let fear stop him now.
"Luke," he said, his voice steady, "Someone's struggling. Sounds like a fight."
Something else snagged his attention then, muffled beneath the clash of steel and taunting words.
"...think you can fight a knight, mud-dweller?" A voice sneered, followed by the clang of steel.
"Go crawl back to your ditches, frog-eater!" Another voice joined the fray.
A loud vibrating clang and another grunt. "...bet you northerners can't even hold a proper sword!"
"Luke," Caelum said, unable to mask the urgency in his voice, "Three people are attacking someone, near the tourney grounds, by the preparation camps I think." He pointed towards the sounds of struggle, his gaze meeting Luke's. "We have to help!"
Luke's brow furrowed. "A fight?" Concern etched his voice. He probed further "Can you tell more, Caelum? How many are fighting? Are they using weapons?"
Caelum focused harder, straining to parse out details through the chaos. "Three against one, Luke. It sounds like... like swords, but practice ones, maybe." He hesitated, then added, "And they're being mean. Calling him names…" He winced as another insult pierced the din.
Luke knelt beside the boy, a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "The tourney grounds, Cael... it's going to get louder there soon, more crowded. The jousts for the day are about to begin soon. Are you sure you're ready for that?" He didn't doubt Caelum's courage, only his ability to handle the strain from the noise, after his earlier struggle.
Caelum met Luke's gaze, determination burning in his own blue eyes. "The other boy... he needs us, Luke. I can do this." His small voice was unwavering. "I have already managed controlling what I hear, I will be fine!"
A flicker of pride warmed Luke's gaze. This boy with his oversized heart never ceased to surprise him. "Alright then," he said, rising to his feet. "Lead the way, brave knight."
They hurried towards the edge of the tourney grounds, near the encampments of the High Lords of the realm and the Knights they accompanied prepared for their fights.
The sounds of the fight growing clearer with each step.
Luke glanced at the sky; the crowds would soon thicken as the day's jousts drew closer.
He could feel Caelum's focus intensify beside him, a small hand gripping his sleeve as they neared the edge of the tourney grounds.
With each step closer, the chaos of the tourney grounds intensified. The clang of armor, the neighing of horses, the roar of the assembling crowd – a cacophony that threatened to overwhelm. Yet Caelum pressed forward, his small hand tight in Luke's larger one.
As they passed through a section of the encampment, Luke's gaze snagged on a tourney sword propped against a tent. He needed to be ready for a fight.
He couldn't hear the fight as Caelum did, but he saw the unwavering determination in those young eyes.
With a swift motion, he snatched up the sword, its familiar weight settling in his hand.
Ahead, he caught sight of Ser Vortimer Crane, resplendent in polished armor.
A sneer twisted in Luke's gut.
The knight was a brute, his son Parmen no better – a fact that stung more with each passing day.
Parmen stood nearby, assisting another knight on his horse, Ser Quentin Tyrell.
A knot formed in Luke's stomach as he spotted a familiar figure near the Tyrells, Meredith. Her gaze fixed on Parmen. Her recent coldness towards Luke cut deeper in that moment.
They had spoken in just clipped words when she had come to the inn to drop Caelum off after the incident at the buttery. She had done most of the talking, her words cutting, but not quite accusatory when they had spoken.
Beside her, young Willas and Garlan cavorted with other highborn children. Luke tightened his grip on the sword.
Now was not the time.
They pushed on, Caelum guiding them with deft precision.
Finally, they broke through the last of the tents into a clearing, a little ways into the forest behind the encampments. The clearing sat just far enough from the main encampments that the clash of steel and roar of the crowds faded, replaced by an uncanny quiet.
It was the perfect place for an ambush, Luke realized, a chill running down his spine.
And there they were. A lone figure, short even for his age, stood with his back against a tree.
Despite his tattered green tunic and mud-streaked leggings, the boy held himself with a strange dignity that stood in stark contrast to the trio surrounding him.
His face was that of a Northerner, Luke realized.
"...think yourself a warrior? Not even a proper sword!..." A sickening thud followed, then a grunt of pain from the lone figure.
"...go back to your swamps, frog-eater! This is a tourney for knights!" Another jeer sliced through the air.
Luke held Caelum back, a protective hand on the boy's shoulder. His gaze swept the clearing, assessing the situation. The outnumbered boy was a flash of weathered green amidst his attackers. Despite their taunts, he was surprisingly skilled. A parry here, a quick sidestep that turned one squire's blow against another – the boy was good.
Yet, there were three of them. Fatigue was setting in, each deflection a fraction slower. A clumsy swipe forced him back a step. A cruel shove sent him stumbling, nearly tripping him to the ground.
The squires were quick to seize their advantage. They closed in, jeers turning to triumphant smirks. The boy, back against the tree now, raised his practice sword. It was defiance, not bravado, in this uneven fight.
"Luke, we have to help!" Caelum's voice trembled, urgency lacing his words.
Luke squeezed Caelum's shoulder, his voice low. "Stay close, Caelum. Keep your eyes open. And if anything happens…" He unbuckled the hunting knife at his own belt, thrusting it towards the child. "Take this."
And then he charged.
His bellow split the air. The squires, surprised by the sudden intervention, whirled around.
Their taunts died as they registered this new challenger, a tourney sword gleaming in his hand. His voice cut across the clearing, "Three against one? That's a craven's fight."
A flicker of uncertainty clouded their arrogance. Then, one sneered, "Look here! The mud-boy found himself a champion! A Reacher, from the looks of him, a little farmhand, is that all you could find?"
Luke's lip curled. "I am a page," he retorted, his eyes narrowing. "It seems you boys haven't learnt your numbers. What? Your knight doesn't know his either? Can't even win a three-on-one, against one younger and shorter than you to boot?" He flicked his sword in mocking emphasis.
The northern boy, startled by Luke's sudden intervention, snapped a grateful nod in his direction. Then his gaze darted past Luke and widened in alarm. "Behind you!" he shouted, his voice hoarse.
Luke felt his heart stop.
Caelum. In his haste to help, he'd moved too close to the fray. The youngest squire, seeing a chance to break them up, lunged forward with a vicious grin.
Caelum reacted with surprising agility. He ducked and darted, barely evading the clumsy swipe of the tourney sword. But he couldn't avoid the mad grab that the squire made.
He was caught around the neck. Luke's heart thumped in his chest.
Caelum had dropped the hunting knife in his haste.
"Lookie here, the numbers are three on three me thinks… well, three on two and a haAAAAA" He screamed, his grip on Caelum loosening as Caelum bit down on his arm with surprising strength. "Sunova! I'll kill you, ya little rat!"
Luke breathed a sigh of relief.
The northern boy surged forward, pushing Caelum roughly behind him. "Get back, child!" he snapped over his shoulder, his voice strained with exertion. "This isn't your fight!"
They resumed their defensive stance, their backs pressed close, the clearing now a whirlwind of flashing steel and desperate grunts.
One of the squires, eyes narrowed in rage, charged towards them. His sword whipped through the air, aimed at the boy's shoulder.
"You little rat!" He spat, "Bet those swamp-dwellers taught you to bite, eh?"
Luke surged forward, intercepting the blow. "Watch your tongue, squire," he hissed, "Or I'll cut it out myself."
Just then, a new voice, sharp and clear, cut through the chaos.
"What's this? Three grown men against one, and a child?!" The voice was undeniably feminine, laced with contempt.
Then a blur of brown and steel charged into the clearing. A girl, small yet with the bearing of a warrior, met the squires' surprised gape with a defiant glare.
With a quick twist of her wrist, she disarmed the man who had been aiming for Caelum's head, the same one who Caelum had bit. "Lord Reed is my father's bannerman!" she declared, brandishing her practice sword. "You'll answer for this!"
The confrontation ground to a stunned halt. Even amidst the ringing of steel and the boys' ragged breaths. Luke felt surprise that the boy who he had been helping was a Lord in truth.
Clearly, the idiot squires realized that too.
A flicker of recognition shot across the eldest squire's face. In a hissed whisper, he choked out, "That's Lady Stark…" Panic laced his voice. "Milady, a misunderstanding, truly… we meant no harm… My Lord… we're sorry!"
Too late. Lady Stark wasn't one for parleys, it seemed.
She charged, her cry of "Craven! The lot of you!" echoing through the trees.
Practice sword flashing, she unleashed a whirlwind of fury.
Luke watched in a strange mix of admiration and awe. This small slip of a girl, no older than he was, was a force to be reckoned with.
The eldest squire fumbled to raise his own weapon, eyes widening as she closed in. "Didn't mean nothing by it, Lady Stark... we'll be leaving now..." he stammered, a desperate edge to his voice.
But retreat wasn't going to be easy.
Lyanna pressed them hard, footwork surprisingly deft.
Each parry forced them to stumble back. A startled yelp pierced the air as her practice sword found its mark, a stinging blow across a squire's knuckles.
Seeing their disadvantage, not wanting to fight a noble lord and lady, the squires broke and ran.
Curses mingled with panicked gasps as they scrambled into the undergrowth.
Lady Lyanna didn't give chase.
Instead, she raised her sword with a defiant tilt of her chin. "Tell your masters a she-wolf sent you running!" Her voice rang out, a final triumphant farewell.
Only then did she turn. Luke saw the fire in her eyes soften, a flicker of concern replacing her earlier fury. "Lord Reed…" she began, and he saw the surprise register on her face, "...are you well? They didn't hurt you, did they?"
The fury faded from Lyanna Stark's face, and Luke seized the opportunity. He rushed to Caelum, relief washing over him as he saw the boy was unharmed, save for a few scrapes. A flicker of defiance still burned in Caelum's eyes, but they softened when Luke crouched beside him.
Meanwhile, Lord Reed, the boy who had been so outnumbered, bowed awkwardly to the girl. His voice, hoarse with exertion, held a distinct Northern burr. "Lady Lyanna, my thanks ... I owe you a debt."
Then his gaze fell on Luke and widened in recognition. "And you," he stumbled, a flush creeping up his neck, "you both risked much today. My deepest gratitude."
Luke felt an answering flush on his own face. "It was the right thing to do, my lord," he managed, feeling every bit the farm boy at that moment.
Lyanna turned her attention to Caelum, a smile tugging at her lips. Luke saw a warmth there that hadn't been present during the fight – this girl, a warrior in one moment, could be so very young the next.
"And who might you be, little one?" she asked, her voice softening. "You fought bravely for your friend."
"I am Caelum, milady," he beamed up at her, as though he wasn't even winded by the fight they'd been involved in "This is my brother, Luke!"
Lyanna beamed down at him, and Luke glimpsed something like fondness in her gaze.
He hadn't felt that from anyone, other than Meredith and their families.
"Well, Caelum," she said emphatically, "Both of you have been aiding my father's bannerman, a debt the Starks do not forget. Come, you must join us in my father's tent. Rest, perhaps… and food!" The latter seemed to be a particular point of emphasis, and a grin flashed across her face.
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The smell of freshly brushed wool and a hint of lavender filled the air as Meredith deftly fastened Willas' tunic. The young lord squirmed slightly, impatience battling the need to stand perfectly still. His enthusiasm for the upcoming jousts mirrored the thrum of anticipation throughout the encampment.
"Just a moment more, my lord," Meredith murmured, her fingers smoothing an errant wrinkle. "Wouldn't want to arrive at the viewing stand in disarray."
From the other side of the tent, five-year-old Garlan bounced beside his mother, Lady Alerie. "Will dragons come out next?" he asked, his eyes wide with wonder. "Do you think the Prince will joust today?"
Lady Alerie laughed, a warm, rich sound that belied the worry lines etched around her eyes. "Perhaps, Garlan. Now, hold still while Meredith works her magic."
Meredith smiled, but her focus drifted towards Lady Alerie and her grandmother, Lady Olenna, seated nearby on embroidered cushions. Their voices were a quiet hum, the cadence familiar, as she fastened the strings on Lord Garlan's tunics.
"...a shame, truly," Lady Olenna was saying, "the way the King seemed to ignore his own kin. One would think Princess Rhaenys..."
"...hush, Mother," Lady Alerie chided gently, "not with the children present." But her gaze darted towards the tent flap, as if ensuring they were truly alone.
Olenna waved a dismissive hand, the glint of her rings catching the dappled sunlight. "Bah! Mace has placed our most trusted guard outside, girl. No need to fret over little ears." A thin smile curled her lips. "Besides, it's the talk of the realm, no doubt the children have heard whispers."
Lady Alerie sighed, her hand reaching instinctively for Willas. "Perhaps, but…" Her voice trailed off, the worry evident in the gentle creases around her eyes.
Willas, sensing the shift in mood, tugged playfully at his tunic. "Mother, are we visiting the Dornishmen today? Will I meet Princess Arianne again?"
Lady Alerie's features softened. "Indeed we are, my love. Princess Arianne is a lovely girl, you have made a great friend, after the tourney." she replied, the fondness in her voice easing some of the earlier tension.
Lord Willas had made fast friends with the chubby little girl, and Meredith had even joined them in play alongside Princess Arianne's cousin Tyene Sand.
"Speaking of the Dornish. It seems the wolves have decided to wander out of their lair this season." Olenna Tyrell commented as she inspected Willas and Meredith's work on dressing him up.
"The Starks?" Lady Alerie's voice carried a hint of disbelief. "Surely they hold no fondness for the heat of Dorne..."
"The quiet wolf, it seems, finds allure in the southern fire, my dear," Olenna chuckled, her eyes glinting with a amusement. "Or perhaps it's a play for power. One Stark strengthening ties with the Riverlands, the other with Dorne... ambitious for a brood best known for their furs and ice."
"It could have just been a dance, mother." Lady Alerie suggested.
"I don't think so, Eddard Stark, the one they call the Impassioned Wolf or some such romantic nonsense. Saw him myself, deep in conversation with Ashara Dayne." She leaned back, a sly smile teasing her wrinkled lips. "Though truth be told, it was rather more than just conversation. Sparks were flying, my dear."
With Garlan looking sharp in his miniature version of the Tyrell rose colors, Meredith announced, "The young lords are ready for the tourney, my ladies."
Lady Alerie's smile held a mixture of pride. "Wonderful, Meredith. Now, if you'll excuse us, would you be so kind as to check on the baskets of fruit and refreshments meant for the boys? The excitement of the tourney always puts a fire in their bellies."
"Of course, my lady," Meredith curtsied and took her leave. As she stepped out of the tent, the sounds of the tourney grounds washed over her – the clatter of armor, the neighing of horses, and the anticipatory roar of the crowd.
Lord Mace Tyrell, a figure of imposing girth crowned with a tumble of brown curls, was fixed in earnest conversation with Ser Quentin, who sat astride a magnificent chestnut stallion. The young knight's lance was firmly in hand, his jaw set in grim determination as his father offered last-minute counsel.
Nearby stood Ser Vortimer Crane and his red-headed son, Parmen.
Upon noticing Meredith, Parmen's lips curved into a smile that sent a flutter of warmth through her. She returned the gesture shyly, the blush deepening on her cheeks.
"...a question of control, my boy. The lance finds its mark not through brute strength, but precision," he advised, his voice thick with the confidence of experience. "Remember, the tilt is half the battle. Unhorse your foe, and victory is yours."
Ser Vortimer Crane added his own insights, his tone seasoned with the weight of many tournaments. "Stay loose, Ser Quentin. Breathe, feel the rhythm of your horse. You've trained for this – now let the instincts take over."
Parmen broke from his father's side, that disarming smile aimed in her direction. But as if summoned, a flash of emerald silk caught his eye.
A young lady, perhaps her own age, beckoned with a playful tilt of her head. Her name if she recognized her dress correctly was Lady Eleonora Ashford.
Eleonora Ashford's presence wasn't a surprise – many highborn ladies craved the excitement of the joust and a good vantage point – but the way her eyes sparkled with mischief as they settled on Parmen made Meredith's fingers tighten.
"Ser Parmen," Eleonora said her voice a sweet contrast to her bold green gown, "would you be so kind as to escort me to the viewing stands? My father has secured us excellent seats..."
Parmen hesitated. His gaze darted in Meredith's direction, but only for a fraction of a second. Then, he flashed Eleanor a smile that held both charm and warmth. "Lady Eleonora, I would be honored. It's been far too long since we've shared a proper conversation."
The twist of disappointment in Meredith's chest surprised her with its sharpness. He hadn't been cruel, hadn't mocked her.
In truth, it was her own girlish fantasy that dissolved under the weight of their unequal stations. Part of her berated herself for the foolishness, the rest...the rest simply ached.
She still hoped that he would come to choose her over the Highborn ladies of the realm.
Meredith turned away and continued towards the open kitchens. She squared her shoulders against the faint sting of Lady Eleonora's laughter as it drifted behind her.
The bustle of the kitchen encampment offered a welcome distraction. Anya greeted her with a warm smile as Meredith approached.
"There you are, dearie! The basket's nearly ready. Just adding those lovely little honeyed fig rolls Lord Garlan is so fond of. Can you get the spiced biscuits Lady Alerie requested, they're on the table?" Anya's voice was a comforting balm, her focus on the task at hand drawing Meredith back into the practical reality of her role.
The task of retrieving the spiced biscuits became a blur of motion. Meredith's fingers moved with rote efficiency, her mind a whirlwind behind the facade of composure. The image of Parmen walking beside Eleonora, the easy charm of his smile, burned in her thoughts.
Anya's chatter faded in and out as Meredith went through the routine. It always struck her how little those of higher station saw the world beyond their own circles. Anya worried about the quality of the rolls, the right balance of sweetness to please young Lord Garlan.
Movement in the distance, a flicker of movement where the forest thinned near the edge of the encampment, broke her from her reverie. It was a distraction she welcomed, anything to erase the sting in her heart.
For several heartbeats, she couldn't place the figures emerging from the trees.
Then, a familiar lean stride and a flash of dirty blonde hair sent a jolt through her.
Luke.
And beside him, Caelum, his pale face seeming to glow amidst the green.
Meredith's stomach lurched. What had brought them back so soon? Surely, Luke wasn't foolish enough to bring Caelum into the heart of a massive tourney when he was still learning to control his magic...
Her unspoken question was answered as two more figures followed the boys.
A girl, undeniably Northern with her dark, flowing hair and a wolf sigil proudly pinned to her grey cloak.
The way Caelum hovered near, speaking in animated tones that Meredith couldn't hear, made her feel irritated.
The other boy, dressed in simple, earth-toned tunics, held himself with a wild sort of grace that spoke of a life lived beyond the confines of castles and walls.
A pang she refused to name shot through her as she watched Luke, place himself between his brother and the Stark girl. But then the girl smiled at something Caelum said, and a shy smile crept onto Luke's face as he replied.
The sight was so unexpectedly sweet, so innocent, that a knot of tension Meredith hadn't realized she was carrying unraveled slightly.
Jealousy still simmered beneath the surface – of the Stark girl's easy way with the boys, of... of something else she didn't recognize– but the anger she'd carried for Luke, his recklessness earlier, began to ebb.
He could hardly be called a fool when he clearly had managed to succeed at what he had set out to do.
Suddenly, Meredith couldn't bring herself to be angry at him anymore.
Anya's voice pulled her back to the present. "Dearie, are those biscuits ready? Lady Alerie will be waiting." The older woman's brow was furrowed with the focus of someone balancing a precarious task.
Meredith blinked, then shook off the last vestiges of her daydreams. "Of course, Anya." Bustle and purpose became her shield once more.
The tourney, with its clash of ambition and fleeting fancies, could wait. Here, in the reality of spiced biscuits and apple rolls, was where she was needed, and perhaps, for now, that was enough.
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The heavy flap of the tent barely muffled the growing roar of the slowly filling tourney grounds.
Lyanna strode in, her boots scuffing the packed dirt floor.
Lord Howland trailed behind, his tunic streaked with mud, followed by her new friends, Luke and Caelum.
Luke seemed a little wary of meeting her family, she had thought she had succeeded in calming the boy down, but clearly, she had been wrong.
The little one, Caelum on the other hand was watching her wide-eyed, like she hung the stars in the sky. He was adorable.
"Well, sister, did you leave enough trees standing for the rest of us to practice?" Came the teasing voice of her elder brother. "Did you cool off enough?"
"There aren't trees here enough for that," Lyanna retorted, a touch of a smile fighting through the lingering scowl. "That oaf, Robert will need to beg before I forgive him." She reached for Benjen then, pulling him into a brief but fierce hug. His warmth eased a fraction of the tightness in her chest. She needed to forget about the oaf, and the dishonor he had already shown to her with the bastard he'd gotten back in the Vale.
Her words, however, had her father's eyebrows climbing towards his hairline.
No doubt the 'oaf' referred to her betrothed, hardly respectful, but he chose to address Howland first. "My Lord Reed," the surprise in his voice was faint but unmistakable, "I had not realized you were at Harrenhall at all." Then, a flicker of concern shadowed his face as he noted the state of the other man's clothing. "You are unharmed, I trust?"
Lord Howland smiled. "A few bruises and a torn tunic, nothing more, my lord. I'd ventured to the Isle of Faces, thought to catch this famed tourney on my return North. Seems three young squires from the south found my travels and stature... inconvenient."
The older boy stepped forward then, a slight bow acknowledging Lord Rickard's authority. " Lady Lyanna... and these young gentlemen, Luke and Caelum" he gestured towards Luke and Caelum, "proved more than capable of driving those scoundrels off. I owe them my thanks."
Brandon's eyes danced as they swept over Luke and Caelum, the teasing grin back in full force. "Well now, did you hear that? Come on then, little kiddos, can you even swing a practice sword?"
Lyanna bristled, loyalty to her companions flaring hotter than any leftover anger towards Robert. "Better than some sothern knights, I wager! Don't underestimate Caelum. I saw him nearly bite off one of those fools' whole hand off, I swear it!"
Her father's lips twitched, appraising her new friends.
With a curt nod, he addressed the boys directly. "Luke. Caelum. You have my gratitude, and that of House Stark, for coming to Lord Reed's aid. Should you ever find need within my power to grant, consider it offered."
Luke flushed, the wariness in his eyes turning to bashfulness. "My lord... We, uh, we just did what was right." He nudged Caelum forward. "He was the one... the one who saw them first, wanted to help..."
Caelum, simply beamed up at Lord Stark. "It was the right thing to do!" he declared, his cheeks as bright as the Stark banner fluttering above. "We were happy to help!"
Lyanna felt a rush of warmth for the boys.
So different in temperaments, yet both with earnestness to be honorable, the pampered squires they'd faced lacked. They were just like Ned.
Which reminded her…
"Where's Ned?" she demanded, tilting her chin.
A knowing smirk spread across Brandon's face. "Where do you think, little sister? Sparring practice, perhaps? Or maybe..." his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "practicing his sweet words with a certain Dornish lady?"
Lyanna's cheeks burned. Not just with embarrassment, but a hot spike of envy she couldn't fully explain.
Ned, quiet and responsible Ned, got to write his own story, to feel the flutter of a heart not bound by duty.
"Don't be crass," she snapped, but it lacked conviction. If only for a day, a tourney, a chance meeting in the woods, she would swap her wolf skin for the fiery freedom Brandon teased of.
To make her own choices, carve her own path... it felt as distant and impossible as a dragon soaring over the Wall.
"Brandon, Lyanna," her father cut in, his voice was calm but held an undeniable edge, "That will be enough." A swift glance was directed towards Brandon, a silent rebuke at his son's tactlessness in front of both a bannerman and unknown guests.
Turning back to his daughter, he spoke with a firmness she rarely faced. "Go and get a change of clothes, Lyanna. The jousts will soon begin. And before you ask," he held up a hand to forestall the inevitable protests, "Lord Reed will have a seat of honor among our kin. No need to worry for his comfort."
Lyanna's chin jutted out in a familiar display of defiance. "Thank you, Father," she said through gritted teeth, "but I invited Luke and Caelum to join us as well."
"Those boys..." her father began, clearly searching for the right balance of authority and reason, "They are no doubt brave, but not suitable company for..."
"You don't get to choose my friends, Father!" Lyanna cut him off, the fiery spirit he'd raised now a wildfire. "you've already decided my betrothed, oaf that he is, but you don't get to choose my friends... not anymore!"
Rickard stood his ground, but a flicker of uncertainty passed through his eyes.
Brandon, wore a grin that spoke of amusement, she knew he had her back should she need it.
Even little Benjen looked at Lyanna with awe bordering on fear.
Finally, Lord Rickard spoke, his voice lowered. "Very well. They will sit with us." It was a concession, not surrender. "But, daughter," his tone brooked no argument, "this ends here. Such displays will not be tolerated anymore."
With a curt nod and a barely muttered, "As you wish, Father," Lyanna spun toward the protesting Luke and the bewildered Caelum. "Come on, both of you!"
Outside the tent, Luke spluttered, "B-but Lady Lyanna, you're going to get dressed and we .."
"Not that!" Lyanna cut Luke off mid-protest, throwing him an apologetic glance before her eyes found Caelum's. Her cheeks flushed.
Caelum, however, just looked adorably baffled.
She calmed herself, as they reached her tent.
"I need your help, both of you." Her voice took on a conspiratorial tone as she dropped to a crouch. "I'm going to sneak into the tourney. As a 'Mystery Knight'."
Luke sputtered again, this time a mix of shock and exasperation. "Lady Lyanna, you... you can't! Tourneys are dangerous! And... and..." He stumbled for words, a sense of protectiveness he likely hadn't even recognized in himself rising to the surface.
Caelum, on the other hand, piped up, "Why?" His big eyes sparkled with more excitement than concern.
Lyanna knelt in front of him, her eyes meeting his with fierce determination. "Those bullies who attacked Lord Reed... those squires," she spat the word, "These southern Knights, they talk of chivalry, but they act with no honor. I want to show them what true valor means."
"We're from the South too you know," Luke said, getting himself under control. "Heck both of us want to be knights!"
"Ughh" Lyanna groaned "obviously, you're different! You'll be great knights I am sure. Now are you two helping me or not?"
Luke and Caelum shared a look.
Caelum gained a mischievous look on his face, and she knew she had all the help she was going to need.
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(A/N) Lyanna Stark is 14 here. This was a fun chapter. Almost a character study into her.
Luke chuckled, ruffling Caelum's hair. "Bold claim, Caelum. Care to wager a honey cake on that?"
Caelum's eyes crinkled with laughter. "Only if I win two!" He tilted his head, closing his eyes in concentration. The usual cacophony of the market dwindled, replaced by a faint singsong melody and the rhythmic squeak of a wheelbarrow.
A satisfied smile spread across his face. "An old woman by the baker's, humming to herself! I think her cart's stuck." He bolted towards the scent of fresh bread, Luke trailing with an amused sigh.
Sure enough, they found a stooped figure wrestling with a stubborn cartwheel. Wrinkles crinkled the corners of her eyes as she struggled, a melody escaping her lips in short, breathless hums.
"Need a hand, Grandma?" Caelum called out, skipping towards her.
The woman paused mid-grunt, surprise softening her features. "Bless your heart, young one! Just this pesky wheel... won't hold its place."
Luke stepped forward, his long strides quickly bridging the distance. With a practiced heave, he reattached the wheel, tightening a few spokes for good measure. The old woman clapped her hands, relief flooding her face.
"Well now, that's the kindest help I've had all day!" she chuckled. "What might your names be?"
"I'm Caelum," he declared proudly, a hand resting on his hip. He gestured to Luke, "And this is my friend, Luke!"
The woman's eyes warmed at the introduction. "Well then, aren't you a lucky lad!" She fished a still-warm apple pastry from her basket. "Here now, a reward for kindness."
Caelum accepted the treat, his grin impossibly wide. "Kindness?" he echoed, licking his fingers. "It was nothing!"
Just before they turned to leave, Caelum caught a flash of worry in her eyes as she glanced at her remaining stock. "Ma'am," he piped up, "if we can help you sell those, we wouldn't mind!" An eagerness filled his voice as he nudged Luke. "What do you say?"
Luke met the woman's grateful gaze and smiled. "Sounds like a plan to me."
For the next hour, Caelum's cheerful voice rang amidst the market clamor, enticing passersby with promises of the "sweetest tarts in all of Harrentown!" Luke, with an amused twinkle in his eye, bantered with potential customers, ensuring the old woman got a fair price for her goods. By the time her basket was empty, the warm glow of the afternoon sun had settled over the market square.
The woman wiped her brow with a flourish, offering them each a heartfelt hug. "May the Seven bless you both, kind lads. A bit of good fortune goes a long way."
With full bellies and hearts to match, Luke and Caelum waved goodbye, ready to resume their adventure. Days like this had become their routine. After that first chaotic day at the tourney, Luke had steered them towards the quieter corners of Harrentown. They'd chased runaway piglets, soothed a scared kitten, even helped a flustered scribe find his misplaced inkpot. It was far from the knightly battles Caelum had initially imagined, but the joy in his eyes shone brighter with each act of kindness.
"Alright, Caelum" Luke said, breaking into Caelum's thoughts, "where to next?"
Caelum hummed thoughtfully, closing his eyes in focus once more. It was a game now, testing his powers for good. The familiar buzz of the market surrounded them: a blacksmith hawking his wares, a mother scolding a giggling child, the jovial laughter of a tavern crowd. Ordinary sounds of ordinary lives. He listened closely, searching...
And then it came: a grunt of exertion, sharp and strained, followed by the hollow clang of steel on steel. It emanated from the direction of the tourney grounds, cutting through the usual festive clamor.
A flicker of unease crossed Caelum's face. The tourney grounds... the crowds, the noise... memories of that overwhelming first day threatened to creep in. But then he straightened, a determined glint in his eyes. He'd come a long way since those first overwhelming moments. He wouldn't let fear stop him now.
"Luke," he said, his voice steady, "Someone's struggling. Sounds like a fight."
Something else snagged his attention then, muffled beneath the clash of steel and taunting words.
"...think you can fight a knight, mud-dweller?" A voice sneered, followed by the clang of steel.
"Go crawl back to your ditches, frog-eater!" Another voice joined the fray.
A loud vibrating clang and another grunt. "...bet you northerners can't even hold a proper sword!"
"Luke," Caelum said, unable to mask the urgency in his voice, "Three people are attacking someone, near the tourney grounds, by the preparation camps I think." He pointed towards the sounds of struggle, his gaze meeting Luke's. "We have to help!"
Luke's brow furrowed. "A fight?" Concern etched his voice. He probed further "Can you tell more, Caelum? How many are fighting? Are they using weapons?"
Caelum focused harder, straining to parse out details through the chaos. "Three against one, Luke. It sounds like... like swords, but practice ones, maybe." He hesitated, then added, "And they're being mean. Calling him names…" He winced as another insult pierced the din.
Luke knelt beside the boy, a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "The tourney grounds, Cael... it's going to get louder there soon, more crowded. The jousts for the day are about to begin soon. Are you sure you're ready for that?" He didn't doubt Caelum's courage, only his ability to handle the strain from the noise, after his earlier struggle.
Caelum met Luke's gaze, determination burning in his own blue eyes. "The other boy... he needs us, Luke. I can do this." His small voice was unwavering. "I have already managed controlling what I hear, I will be fine!"
A flicker of pride warmed Luke's gaze. This boy with his oversized heart never ceased to surprise him. "Alright then," he said, rising to his feet. "Lead the way, brave knight."
They hurried towards the edge of the tourney grounds, near the encampments of the High Lords of the realm and the Knights they accompanied prepared for their fights.
The sounds of the fight growing clearer with each step.
Luke glanced at the sky; the crowds would soon thicken as the day's jousts drew closer.
He could feel Caelum's focus intensify beside him, a small hand gripping his sleeve as they neared the edge of the tourney grounds.
With each step closer, the chaos of the tourney grounds intensified. The clang of armor, the neighing of horses, the roar of the assembling crowd – a cacophony that threatened to overwhelm. Yet Caelum pressed forward, his small hand tight in Luke's larger one.
As they passed through a section of the encampment, Luke's gaze snagged on a tourney sword propped against a tent. He needed to be ready for a fight.
He couldn't hear the fight as Caelum did, but he saw the unwavering determination in those young eyes.
With a swift motion, he snatched up the sword, its familiar weight settling in his hand.
Ahead, he caught sight of Ser Vortimer Crane, resplendent in polished armor.
A sneer twisted in Luke's gut.
The knight was a brute, his son Parmen no better – a fact that stung more with each passing day.
Parmen stood nearby, assisting another knight on his horse, Ser Quentin Tyrell.
A knot formed in Luke's stomach as he spotted a familiar figure near the Tyrells, Meredith. Her gaze fixed on Parmen. Her recent coldness towards Luke cut deeper in that moment.
They had spoken in just clipped words when she had come to the inn to drop Caelum off after the incident at the buttery. She had done most of the talking, her words cutting, but not quite accusatory when they had spoken.
Beside her, young Willas and Garlan cavorted with other highborn children. Luke tightened his grip on the sword.
Now was not the time.
They pushed on, Caelum guiding them with deft precision.
Finally, they broke through the last of the tents into a clearing, a little ways into the forest behind the encampments. The clearing sat just far enough from the main encampments that the clash of steel and roar of the crowds faded, replaced by an uncanny quiet.
It was the perfect place for an ambush, Luke realized, a chill running down his spine.
And there they were. A lone figure, short even for his age, stood with his back against a tree.
Despite his tattered green tunic and mud-streaked leggings, the boy held himself with a strange dignity that stood in stark contrast to the trio surrounding him.
His face was that of a Northerner, Luke realized.
"...think yourself a warrior? Not even a proper sword!..." A sickening thud followed, then a grunt of pain from the lone figure.
"...go back to your swamps, frog-eater! This is a tourney for knights!" Another jeer sliced through the air.
Luke held Caelum back, a protective hand on the boy's shoulder. His gaze swept the clearing, assessing the situation. The outnumbered boy was a flash of weathered green amidst his attackers. Despite their taunts, he was surprisingly skilled. A parry here, a quick sidestep that turned one squire's blow against another – the boy was good.
Yet, there were three of them. Fatigue was setting in, each deflection a fraction slower. A clumsy swipe forced him back a step. A cruel shove sent him stumbling, nearly tripping him to the ground.
The squires were quick to seize their advantage. They closed in, jeers turning to triumphant smirks. The boy, back against the tree now, raised his practice sword. It was defiance, not bravado, in this uneven fight.
"Luke, we have to help!" Caelum's voice trembled, urgency lacing his words.
Luke squeezed Caelum's shoulder, his voice low. "Stay close, Caelum. Keep your eyes open. And if anything happens…" He unbuckled the hunting knife at his own belt, thrusting it towards the child. "Take this."
And then he charged.
His bellow split the air. The squires, surprised by the sudden intervention, whirled around.
Their taunts died as they registered this new challenger, a tourney sword gleaming in his hand. His voice cut across the clearing, "Three against one? That's a craven's fight."
A flicker of uncertainty clouded their arrogance. Then, one sneered, "Look here! The mud-boy found himself a champion! A Reacher, from the looks of him, a little farmhand, is that all you could find?"
Luke's lip curled. "I am a page," he retorted, his eyes narrowing. "It seems you boys haven't learnt your numbers. What? Your knight doesn't know his either? Can't even win a three-on-one, against one younger and shorter than you to boot?" He flicked his sword in mocking emphasis.
The northern boy, startled by Luke's sudden intervention, snapped a grateful nod in his direction. Then his gaze darted past Luke and widened in alarm. "Behind you!" he shouted, his voice hoarse.
Luke felt his heart stop.
Caelum. In his haste to help, he'd moved too close to the fray. The youngest squire, seeing a chance to break them up, lunged forward with a vicious grin.
Caelum reacted with surprising agility. He ducked and darted, barely evading the clumsy swipe of the tourney sword. But he couldn't avoid the mad grab that the squire made.
He was caught around the neck. Luke's heart thumped in his chest.
Caelum had dropped the hunting knife in his haste.
"Lookie here, the numbers are three on three me thinks… well, three on two and a haAAAAA" He screamed, his grip on Caelum loosening as Caelum bit down on his arm with surprising strength. "Sunova! I'll kill you, ya little rat!"
Luke breathed a sigh of relief.
The northern boy surged forward, pushing Caelum roughly behind him. "Get back, child!" he snapped over his shoulder, his voice strained with exertion. "This isn't your fight!"
They resumed their defensive stance, their backs pressed close, the clearing now a whirlwind of flashing steel and desperate grunts.
One of the squires, eyes narrowed in rage, charged towards them. His sword whipped through the air, aimed at the boy's shoulder.
"You little rat!" He spat, "Bet those swamp-dwellers taught you to bite, eh?"
Luke surged forward, intercepting the blow. "Watch your tongue, squire," he hissed, "Or I'll cut it out myself."
Just then, a new voice, sharp and clear, cut through the chaos.
"What's this? Three grown men against one, and a child?!" The voice was undeniably feminine, laced with contempt.
Then a blur of brown and steel charged into the clearing. A girl, small yet with the bearing of a warrior, met the squires' surprised gape with a defiant glare.
With a quick twist of her wrist, she disarmed the man who had been aiming for Caelum's head, the same one who Caelum had bit. "Lord Reed is my father's bannerman!" she declared, brandishing her practice sword. "You'll answer for this!"
The confrontation ground to a stunned halt. Even amidst the ringing of steel and the boys' ragged breaths. Luke felt surprise that the boy who he had been helping was a Lord in truth.
Clearly, the idiot squires realized that too.
A flicker of recognition shot across the eldest squire's face. In a hissed whisper, he choked out, "That's Lady Stark…" Panic laced his voice. "Milady, a misunderstanding, truly… we meant no harm… My Lord… we're sorry!"
Too late. Lady Stark wasn't one for parleys, it seemed.
She charged, her cry of "Craven! The lot of you!" echoing through the trees.
Practice sword flashing, she unleashed a whirlwind of fury.
Luke watched in a strange mix of admiration and awe. This small slip of a girl, no older than he was, was a force to be reckoned with.
The eldest squire fumbled to raise his own weapon, eyes widening as she closed in. "Didn't mean nothing by it, Lady Stark... we'll be leaving now..." he stammered, a desperate edge to his voice.
But retreat wasn't going to be easy.
Lyanna pressed them hard, footwork surprisingly deft.
Each parry forced them to stumble back. A startled yelp pierced the air as her practice sword found its mark, a stinging blow across a squire's knuckles.
Seeing their disadvantage, not wanting to fight a noble lord and lady, the squires broke and ran.
Curses mingled with panicked gasps as they scrambled into the undergrowth.
Lady Lyanna didn't give chase.
Instead, she raised her sword with a defiant tilt of her chin. "Tell your masters a she-wolf sent you running!" Her voice rang out, a final triumphant farewell.
Only then did she turn. Luke saw the fire in her eyes soften, a flicker of concern replacing her earlier fury. "Lord Reed…" she began, and he saw the surprise register on her face, "...are you well? They didn't hurt you, did they?"
The fury faded from Lyanna Stark's face, and Luke seized the opportunity. He rushed to Caelum, relief washing over him as he saw the boy was unharmed, save for a few scrapes. A flicker of defiance still burned in Caelum's eyes, but they softened when Luke crouched beside him.
Meanwhile, Lord Reed, the boy who had been so outnumbered, bowed awkwardly to the girl. His voice, hoarse with exertion, held a distinct Northern burr. "Lady Lyanna, my thanks ... I owe you a debt."
Then his gaze fell on Luke and widened in recognition. "And you," he stumbled, a flush creeping up his neck, "you both risked much today. My deepest gratitude."
Luke felt an answering flush on his own face. "It was the right thing to do, my lord," he managed, feeling every bit the farm boy at that moment.
Lyanna turned her attention to Caelum, a smile tugging at her lips. Luke saw a warmth there that hadn't been present during the fight – this girl, a warrior in one moment, could be so very young the next.
"And who might you be, little one?" she asked, her voice softening. "You fought bravely for your friend."
"I am Caelum, milady," he beamed up at her, as though he wasn't even winded by the fight they'd been involved in "This is my brother, Luke!"
Lyanna beamed down at him, and Luke glimpsed something like fondness in her gaze.
He hadn't felt that from anyone, other than Meredith and their families.
"Well, Caelum," she said emphatically, "Both of you have been aiding my father's bannerman, a debt the Starks do not forget. Come, you must join us in my father's tent. Rest, perhaps… and food!" The latter seemed to be a particular point of emphasis, and a grin flashed across her face.
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The smell of freshly brushed wool and a hint of lavender filled the air as Meredith deftly fastened Willas' tunic. The young lord squirmed slightly, impatience battling the need to stand perfectly still. His enthusiasm for the upcoming jousts mirrored the thrum of anticipation throughout the encampment.
"Just a moment more, my lord," Meredith murmured, her fingers smoothing an errant wrinkle. "Wouldn't want to arrive at the viewing stand in disarray."
From the other side of the tent, five-year-old Garlan bounced beside his mother, Lady Alerie. "Will dragons come out next?" he asked, his eyes wide with wonder. "Do you think the Prince will joust today?"
Lady Alerie laughed, a warm, rich sound that belied the worry lines etched around her eyes. "Perhaps, Garlan. Now, hold still while Meredith works her magic."
Meredith smiled, but her focus drifted towards Lady Alerie and her grandmother, Lady Olenna, seated nearby on embroidered cushions. Their voices were a quiet hum, the cadence familiar, as she fastened the strings on Lord Garlan's tunics.
"...a shame, truly," Lady Olenna was saying, "the way the King seemed to ignore his own kin. One would think Princess Rhaenys..."
"...hush, Mother," Lady Alerie chided gently, "not with the children present." But her gaze darted towards the tent flap, as if ensuring they were truly alone.
Olenna waved a dismissive hand, the glint of her rings catching the dappled sunlight. "Bah! Mace has placed our most trusted guard outside, girl. No need to fret over little ears." A thin smile curled her lips. "Besides, it's the talk of the realm, no doubt the children have heard whispers."
Lady Alerie sighed, her hand reaching instinctively for Willas. "Perhaps, but…" Her voice trailed off, the worry evident in the gentle creases around her eyes.
Willas, sensing the shift in mood, tugged playfully at his tunic. "Mother, are we visiting the Dornishmen today? Will I meet Princess Arianne again?"
Lady Alerie's features softened. "Indeed we are, my love. Princess Arianne is a lovely girl, you have made a great friend, after the tourney." she replied, the fondness in her voice easing some of the earlier tension.
Lord Willas had made fast friends with the chubby little girl, and Meredith had even joined them in play alongside Princess Arianne's cousin Tyene Sand.
"Speaking of the Dornish. It seems the wolves have decided to wander out of their lair this season." Olenna Tyrell commented as she inspected Willas and Meredith's work on dressing him up.
"The Starks?" Lady Alerie's voice carried a hint of disbelief. "Surely they hold no fondness for the heat of Dorne..."
"The quiet wolf, it seems, finds allure in the southern fire, my dear," Olenna chuckled, her eyes glinting with a amusement. "Or perhaps it's a play for power. One Stark strengthening ties with the Riverlands, the other with Dorne... ambitious for a brood best known for their furs and ice."
"It could have just been a dance, mother." Lady Alerie suggested.
"I don't think so, Eddard Stark, the one they call the Impassioned Wolf or some such romantic nonsense. Saw him myself, deep in conversation with Ashara Dayne." She leaned back, a sly smile teasing her wrinkled lips. "Though truth be told, it was rather more than just conversation. Sparks were flying, my dear."
With Garlan looking sharp in his miniature version of the Tyrell rose colors, Meredith announced, "The young lords are ready for the tourney, my ladies."
Lady Alerie's smile held a mixture of pride. "Wonderful, Meredith. Now, if you'll excuse us, would you be so kind as to check on the baskets of fruit and refreshments meant for the boys? The excitement of the tourney always puts a fire in their bellies."
"Of course, my lady," Meredith curtsied and took her leave. As she stepped out of the tent, the sounds of the tourney grounds washed over her – the clatter of armor, the neighing of horses, and the anticipatory roar of the crowd.
Lord Mace Tyrell, a figure of imposing girth crowned with a tumble of brown curls, was fixed in earnest conversation with Ser Quentin, who sat astride a magnificent chestnut stallion. The young knight's lance was firmly in hand, his jaw set in grim determination as his father offered last-minute counsel.
Nearby stood Ser Vortimer Crane and his red-headed son, Parmen.
Upon noticing Meredith, Parmen's lips curved into a smile that sent a flutter of warmth through her. She returned the gesture shyly, the blush deepening on her cheeks.
"...a question of control, my boy. The lance finds its mark not through brute strength, but precision," he advised, his voice thick with the confidence of experience. "Remember, the tilt is half the battle. Unhorse your foe, and victory is yours."
Ser Vortimer Crane added his own insights, his tone seasoned with the weight of many tournaments. "Stay loose, Ser Quentin. Breathe, feel the rhythm of your horse. You've trained for this – now let the instincts take over."
Parmen broke from his father's side, that disarming smile aimed in her direction. But as if summoned, a flash of emerald silk caught his eye.
A young lady, perhaps her own age, beckoned with a playful tilt of her head. Her name if she recognized her dress correctly was Lady Eleonora Ashford.
Eleonora Ashford's presence wasn't a surprise – many highborn ladies craved the excitement of the joust and a good vantage point – but the way her eyes sparkled with mischief as they settled on Parmen made Meredith's fingers tighten.
"Ser Parmen," Eleonora said her voice a sweet contrast to her bold green gown, "would you be so kind as to escort me to the viewing stands? My father has secured us excellent seats..."
Parmen hesitated. His gaze darted in Meredith's direction, but only for a fraction of a second. Then, he flashed Eleanor a smile that held both charm and warmth. "Lady Eleonora, I would be honored. It's been far too long since we've shared a proper conversation."
The twist of disappointment in Meredith's chest surprised her with its sharpness. He hadn't been cruel, hadn't mocked her.
In truth, it was her own girlish fantasy that dissolved under the weight of their unequal stations. Part of her berated herself for the foolishness, the rest...the rest simply ached.
She still hoped that he would come to choose her over the Highborn ladies of the realm.
Meredith turned away and continued towards the open kitchens. She squared her shoulders against the faint sting of Lady Eleonora's laughter as it drifted behind her.
The bustle of the kitchen encampment offered a welcome distraction. Anya greeted her with a warm smile as Meredith approached.
"There you are, dearie! The basket's nearly ready. Just adding those lovely little honeyed fig rolls Lord Garlan is so fond of. Can you get the spiced biscuits Lady Alerie requested, they're on the table?" Anya's voice was a comforting balm, her focus on the task at hand drawing Meredith back into the practical reality of her role.
The task of retrieving the spiced biscuits became a blur of motion. Meredith's fingers moved with rote efficiency, her mind a whirlwind behind the facade of composure. The image of Parmen walking beside Eleonora, the easy charm of his smile, burned in her thoughts.
Anya's chatter faded in and out as Meredith went through the routine. It always struck her how little those of higher station saw the world beyond their own circles. Anya worried about the quality of the rolls, the right balance of sweetness to please young Lord Garlan.
Movement in the distance, a flicker of movement where the forest thinned near the edge of the encampment, broke her from her reverie. It was a distraction she welcomed, anything to erase the sting in her heart.
For several heartbeats, she couldn't place the figures emerging from the trees.
Then, a familiar lean stride and a flash of dirty blonde hair sent a jolt through her.
Luke.
And beside him, Caelum, his pale face seeming to glow amidst the green.
Meredith's stomach lurched. What had brought them back so soon? Surely, Luke wasn't foolish enough to bring Caelum into the heart of a massive tourney when he was still learning to control his magic...
Her unspoken question was answered as two more figures followed the boys.
A girl, undeniably Northern with her dark, flowing hair and a wolf sigil proudly pinned to her grey cloak.
The way Caelum hovered near, speaking in animated tones that Meredith couldn't hear, made her feel irritated.
The other boy, dressed in simple, earth-toned tunics, held himself with a wild sort of grace that spoke of a life lived beyond the confines of castles and walls.
A pang she refused to name shot through her as she watched Luke, place himself between his brother and the Stark girl. But then the girl smiled at something Caelum said, and a shy smile crept onto Luke's face as he replied.
The sight was so unexpectedly sweet, so innocent, that a knot of tension Meredith hadn't realized she was carrying unraveled slightly.
Jealousy still simmered beneath the surface – of the Stark girl's easy way with the boys, of... of something else she didn't recognize– but the anger she'd carried for Luke, his recklessness earlier, began to ebb.
He could hardly be called a fool when he clearly had managed to succeed at what he had set out to do.
Suddenly, Meredith couldn't bring herself to be angry at him anymore.
Anya's voice pulled her back to the present. "Dearie, are those biscuits ready? Lady Alerie will be waiting." The older woman's brow was furrowed with the focus of someone balancing a precarious task.
Meredith blinked, then shook off the last vestiges of her daydreams. "Of course, Anya." Bustle and purpose became her shield once more.
The tourney, with its clash of ambition and fleeting fancies, could wait. Here, in the reality of spiced biscuits and apple rolls, was where she was needed, and perhaps, for now, that was enough.
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The heavy flap of the tent barely muffled the growing roar of the slowly filling tourney grounds.
Lyanna strode in, her boots scuffing the packed dirt floor.
Lord Howland trailed behind, his tunic streaked with mud, followed by her new friends, Luke and Caelum.
Luke seemed a little wary of meeting her family, she had thought she had succeeded in calming the boy down, but clearly, she had been wrong.
The little one, Caelum on the other hand was watching her wide-eyed, like she hung the stars in the sky. He was adorable.
"Well, sister, did you leave enough trees standing for the rest of us to practice?" Came the teasing voice of her elder brother. "Did you cool off enough?"
"There aren't trees here enough for that," Lyanna retorted, a touch of a smile fighting through the lingering scowl. "That oaf, Robert will need to beg before I forgive him." She reached for Benjen then, pulling him into a brief but fierce hug. His warmth eased a fraction of the tightness in her chest. She needed to forget about the oaf, and the dishonor he had already shown to her with the bastard he'd gotten back in the Vale.
Her words, however, had her father's eyebrows climbing towards his hairline.
No doubt the 'oaf' referred to her betrothed, hardly respectful, but he chose to address Howland first. "My Lord Reed," the surprise in his voice was faint but unmistakable, "I had not realized you were at Harrenhall at all." Then, a flicker of concern shadowed his face as he noted the state of the other man's clothing. "You are unharmed, I trust?"
Lord Howland smiled. "A few bruises and a torn tunic, nothing more, my lord. I'd ventured to the Isle of Faces, thought to catch this famed tourney on my return North. Seems three young squires from the south found my travels and stature... inconvenient."
The older boy stepped forward then, a slight bow acknowledging Lord Rickard's authority. " Lady Lyanna... and these young gentlemen, Luke and Caelum" he gestured towards Luke and Caelum, "proved more than capable of driving those scoundrels off. I owe them my thanks."
Brandon's eyes danced as they swept over Luke and Caelum, the teasing grin back in full force. "Well now, did you hear that? Come on then, little kiddos, can you even swing a practice sword?"
Lyanna bristled, loyalty to her companions flaring hotter than any leftover anger towards Robert. "Better than some sothern knights, I wager! Don't underestimate Caelum. I saw him nearly bite off one of those fools' whole hand off, I swear it!"
Her father's lips twitched, appraising her new friends.
With a curt nod, he addressed the boys directly. "Luke. Caelum. You have my gratitude, and that of House Stark, for coming to Lord Reed's aid. Should you ever find need within my power to grant, consider it offered."
Luke flushed, the wariness in his eyes turning to bashfulness. "My lord... We, uh, we just did what was right." He nudged Caelum forward. "He was the one... the one who saw them first, wanted to help..."
Caelum, simply beamed up at Lord Stark. "It was the right thing to do!" he declared, his cheeks as bright as the Stark banner fluttering above. "We were happy to help!"
Lyanna felt a rush of warmth for the boys.
So different in temperaments, yet both with earnestness to be honorable, the pampered squires they'd faced lacked. They were just like Ned.
Which reminded her…
"Where's Ned?" she demanded, tilting her chin.
A knowing smirk spread across Brandon's face. "Where do you think, little sister? Sparring practice, perhaps? Or maybe..." his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "practicing his sweet words with a certain Dornish lady?"
Lyanna's cheeks burned. Not just with embarrassment, but a hot spike of envy she couldn't fully explain.
Ned, quiet and responsible Ned, got to write his own story, to feel the flutter of a heart not bound by duty.
"Don't be crass," she snapped, but it lacked conviction. If only for a day, a tourney, a chance meeting in the woods, she would swap her wolf skin for the fiery freedom Brandon teased of.
To make her own choices, carve her own path... it felt as distant and impossible as a dragon soaring over the Wall.
"Brandon, Lyanna," her father cut in, his voice was calm but held an undeniable edge, "That will be enough." A swift glance was directed towards Brandon, a silent rebuke at his son's tactlessness in front of both a bannerman and unknown guests.
Turning back to his daughter, he spoke with a firmness she rarely faced. "Go and get a change of clothes, Lyanna. The jousts will soon begin. And before you ask," he held up a hand to forestall the inevitable protests, "Lord Reed will have a seat of honor among our kin. No need to worry for his comfort."
Lyanna's chin jutted out in a familiar display of defiance. "Thank you, Father," she said through gritted teeth, "but I invited Luke and Caelum to join us as well."
"Those boys..." her father began, clearly searching for the right balance of authority and reason, "They are no doubt brave, but not suitable company for..."
"You don't get to choose my friends, Father!" Lyanna cut him off, the fiery spirit he'd raised now a wildfire. "you've already decided my betrothed, oaf that he is, but you don't get to choose my friends... not anymore!"
Rickard stood his ground, but a flicker of uncertainty passed through his eyes.
Brandon, wore a grin that spoke of amusement, she knew he had her back should she need it.
Even little Benjen looked at Lyanna with awe bordering on fear.
Finally, Lord Rickard spoke, his voice lowered. "Very well. They will sit with us." It was a concession, not surrender. "But, daughter," his tone brooked no argument, "this ends here. Such displays will not be tolerated anymore."
With a curt nod and a barely muttered, "As you wish, Father," Lyanna spun toward the protesting Luke and the bewildered Caelum. "Come on, both of you!"
Outside the tent, Luke spluttered, "B-but Lady Lyanna, you're going to get dressed and we .."
"Not that!" Lyanna cut Luke off mid-protest, throwing him an apologetic glance before her eyes found Caelum's. Her cheeks flushed.
Caelum, however, just looked adorably baffled.
She calmed herself, as they reached her tent.
"I need your help, both of you." Her voice took on a conspiratorial tone as she dropped to a crouch. "I'm going to sneak into the tourney. As a 'Mystery Knight'."
Luke sputtered again, this time a mix of shock and exasperation. "Lady Lyanna, you... you can't! Tourneys are dangerous! And... and..." He stumbled for words, a sense of protectiveness he likely hadn't even recognized in himself rising to the surface.
Caelum, on the other hand, piped up, "Why?" His big eyes sparkled with more excitement than concern.
Lyanna knelt in front of him, her eyes meeting his with fierce determination. "Those bullies who attacked Lord Reed... those squires," she spat the word, "These southern Knights, they talk of chivalry, but they act with no honor. I want to show them what true valor means."
"We're from the South too you know," Luke said, getting himself under control. "Heck both of us want to be knights!"
"Ughh" Lyanna groaned "obviously, you're different! You'll be great knights I am sure. Now are you two helping me or not?"
Luke and Caelum shared a look.
Caelum gained a mischievous look on his face, and she knew she had all the help she was going to need.
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(A/N) Lyanna Stark is 14 here. This was a fun chapter. Almost a character study into her.
The Prince's Gambit
The cheers still pounded in Lyanna's ears, a hollow echo against the roar of panic in her blood.
How had this happened?
One moment, she was basking in the thrill of victory, feeling strong and defiant beneath the ill-fitting armor.
The next, the King's words had cut through the crowd's noise like an icy wind. "That man laughs at me?!," Aerys had rasped, his voice madness-tinged, "The Knight of the Laughing Tree is my enemy. Unmask him!"
Now, hunched in the dimness of her tent, the euphoria had turned to ash.
Luke fumbled with the buckles of her borrowed breastplate, his hands shaking.
"Faster," she hissed, the word catching in her throat. "If they find me…." She couldn't finish the thought.
The consequences of being unmasked were too terrible to contemplate.
"It'll be alright, my lady," Luke said fiercely. "We'll find a way to hide you…"
Caelum burst in, his eyes wide. "They're coming!" he blurted. "Two riders – the Dragon Prince and another Kingsguard. Ser Arthur, I think."
Lyanna's heart hammered against her ribs.
Every clank of metal, every rustle of fabric felt deafening. "Not enough time…" she choked out.
Luke's face was pale as he shoved the breastplate aside. "The surcoat, at least. Maybe hide the shield… here, under the bedroll…" His movements were frantic, desperate.
"No point. They'll know. There's nowhere to hide a shield like this one" She admitted, her tent wasn't as large as her father's and brothers'.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel outside, drawing closer with every heartbeat.
Lyanna whipped around, searching for a weapon, something, anything to defend herself with. But her hands found only the rough canvas of the tent apart from a muddied tourney sword.
The Prince would escort her to the King, and she would be killed.
Despair washed over her, and then, a flicker of defiance sparked.
She was Lyanna Stark, a wolf of the North. She wouldn't cower, not even before royalty. Let Rhaegar come. She'd face him down, armor or no.
The tent flap was thrust aside, and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen stood framed in the fading light.
"Announcing His Grace, Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone!" Ser Arthur Dayne's voice cut through the charged silence of the tent.
Lyanna dipped into a hasty bow, her movements stiff beneath the weight of the prince's gaze.
Luke dropped to his knees instantly, tugging Caelum down beside him. The little boy, eyes wide, fumbled but managed a clumsy curtsey.
Rhaegar stepped into the tent, and the fading light caught on the polished rubies of his breastplate. Ser Arthur remained outside, a silent sentinel. The prince's eyes swept over the scene: the half-discarded armor, her muddied sword still clutched in her hand, and finally settling on Lyanna herself.
She met his gaze squarely, chin lifted.
No matter how frightened she was, no one would ever call her meek.
A long moment stretched between them. Then, something flickered in Rhaegar's violet eyes – surprise, perhaps even a hint of amusement.
"My lady," his voice was low, soft, "It seems we caught you at a… rather inconvenient moment."
Heat flooded her cheeks. She'd been focused on the danger, not the impropriety of her half-undressed state.
"My prince," Lyanna managed, cursing the tremor in her voice, "I… I was cleaning my armor. Your arrival was… unexpected."
His lips twitched, a hint of a smile breaking through the regal composure. "As was your appearance on the lists today. The Knight of the Laughing Tree has taken the tourney by storm."
"Only by luck, my prince," she deflected, her mind racing.
Was he playing a game with her? He knew she was the Knight of The Laughing Tree, her armor had seen to that.
"Luck rarely lasts this long" Rhaegar countered, stepping closer. "Ser Arthur speaks highly of your skill."
Lyanna's fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword, a useless gesture she knew. "Ser Arthur is too kind."
"I find myself in agreement with Ser Arthur," the Prince said, his voice a soft rumble, "Your skill on the lists was no mere accident."
Lyanna felt a flicker of pride she couldn't entirely suppress. Then, reality crashed back down. Today's victory might as well be a death sentence.
Rhaegar's gaze shifted towards the two boys still kneeling before him. "And who might these young gentlemen be?" he asked, his tone curious.
"My friends, your Grace," Lyanna answered, her voice steadier now. "This is Luke, and young Caelum."
"Rise, both of you," he said gently. "I would make the acquaintance of the Lady Lyanna's companions."
Scrambling to obey, Luke and Caelum stood.
Luke kept his eyes respectfully downcast but Caelum couldn't hold back his open curiosity, studying the prince with undisguised awe.
Lyanna's voice, when she found it, was surprisingly steady. "Do you mean to take me to the king, your Grace?"
Part of her longed to fling herself at his mercy, to beg for understanding.
But the Stark blood in her veins demanded she stand tall, even in the face of potential execution.
Rhaegar laughed, a low, rich sound that was startlingly at odds with the tension in the air. "The king, my lady? And lose a warrior as beautiful and skilled as yourself?" He paused, his gaze meeting hers again. "I cannot say you are my enemy, not with such a display on the lists today." Then, with a quirk of his lips, he added, "Though I will take your shield, if only to show my father that his Knight of the Laughing Tree has been found."
Warmth flooded Lyanna's cheeks, making her forget the chilling fear. "You flatter me, Prince Rhaegar," she managed, her words tinged with a defiance that was more bravado than truth.
"Flattery? Perhaps a touch," he conceded with a smile that took years off his face. "Your horsemanship, however… that was no act. Tell me, my lady, did you ride often in these…," he gestured at the Stark colors she still wore, "...wild Northern lands of yours?"
Lyanna couldn't help but smile back. "Ride? I practically lived on horseback," she declared.
Perhaps this prince wasn't what she had expected.
Rhaegar's gaze shifted to Luke, who still stood rooted to the spot. "And what of your companion? Did he share in these adventures, Lady Lyanna?"
Luke stammered a bit, caught off guard. "N-no, your Grace," he began. "We… I came from the Reach, with the Tyrell men. My brother and I, we… we wanted to see the tourney."
The prince tilted his head, his silvery hair catching the last rays of the setting sun. "The Reach? A far journey to watch men fight. Was it worth the risks?"
"I hope for a knighthood someday, your Grace," Luke replied, his voice stronger now. "My brother too."
Rhaegar considered him for a long moment.
Then, his smile returned. "Perhaps a chance to practice those skills will come sooner than you think,"
He turned back to Lyanna, a glint in his eye that made her heart skip a beat. "I find myself… intrigued, Lady Lyanna. Would you honor me with your company? A ride, perhaps? Or if you prefer, mayhaps a friendly spar to settle this debate on your skill with a lance."
Overwhelmed with a mix of relief and a completely different kind of nervousness, Lyanna felt her cheeks flush again. "It… it would be an honor, your Grace."
Rhaegar inclined his head, then gestured towards her shield. "I shall keep this as proof that the Knight of the Laughing Tree has been found. Now, my lady, I suggest you finish what you were so rudely interrupted from."
He turned towards Luke and Caelum, his princely bearing back in place. "Give your lady privacy, Luke, Caelum. Rest assured; no other will come searching for her tonight. I shall see to it that this pursuit ends here, with this shield."
Luke bowed respectfully, first to the prince, then to Lyanna. "As you say, your Grace. My lady," he added, a touch of formality creeping back into his voice, "Good night, your Grace, my lady."
With a gentle nudge towards Caelum, he turned towards the tent flap, clearly eager to be gone.
Lyanna's heart ached a little at their departure. "Wait!" She called her voice softer now. "Thank you, both of you. For today… for everything" She hesitated, then added with a playful touch, "Come find me tomorrow. I'm sure my brother Ned would love to meet the both of you."
Rhaegar narrowed his eyes at the offer, but quickly schooled his features.
Caelum finally finding his voice, shyness at meeting the prince still lingering said "We would love to, Lady Lyanna!"
With another hasty bow, the boys were on their way toward their beds at the inn in Harrentown.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
Night had fully descended, casting long shadows that danced with the flickering light of their lantern.
The path back toward Harrentown was familiar by now, but the air crackled with a different sort of energy.
Caelum couldn't stop chattering, his voice a near breathless rush.
"...did you see his armor, Luke? And the rubies, they were like fire! And his hair, it was like… like the sun coming out... silver "
Luke chuckled, the sound warm in the cool evening. "Easy there! You didn't even manage a single word in his presence, and now you can't stop talking about him."
Caelum's cheeks burned a deep red. "I… I didn't know what to say! He's the prince, Luke. The prince!"
As they neared the outskirts of Harrentown, the forest by the tourney grounds started to thin, Caelum's exuberance faded a little. "Do you think… do you think the prince really meant it? That no one else will search for Lady Lyanna?"
Luke placed a reassuring hand on the younger boy's shoulder. "The Dragon Prince gave his word, Caelum. If he says the search is over, it is."
Despite Luke's confident words, a flicker of doubt remained in Caelum's eyes.
He kicked at a stray pebble, sending it skittering into the darkness. "But what if… what if there are some who don't listen? Lady Lyanna is still in danger... the king could …"
They had reached a clearing, a brief stretch of open ground between the tourney encampments and Harrentown proper.
Luke stopped, a thoughtful frown on his face. Then, he crouched, placing a hand on Caelum's shoulder.
"You're still worried, aren't you?" he asked softly.
Caelum nodded, a single tear escaping to track down his cheek. Luke gently brushed it away.
"Alright then," Luke said with a determined gleam in his eye. "There's one way to ease your mind. Why don't you focus on the camp, try and find her voice. See if she is alright?"
A spark of excitement replaced the worry in Caelum's eyes. "Really?" he whispered. "You think I should?"
Luke nodded, his own eyes gleaming with a determined sort of mischief. "You've been practicing. And you're going to worry about her otherwise. No harm in it."
Caelum closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He enjoyed using his magic, it let him hear the sounds of the world, with Luke's help he had a connection with the world that he couldn't describe.
The sounds of the night swirled around him - the chirp of crickets, the distant rumble of wagons on the road, even the soft rustle of Luke's tunic as he shifted his stance.
Then, he reached out with his senses, focusing on the tourney encampments, imagining the clusters of tents aglow with lantern light.
A cacophony of voices washed over him. Boisterous laughter clinked against cups in a nearby inn. Two stablehands bickered over a missing curry comb. He heard snatches of conversations, snippets of songs... and then:
"...arrangements have been made?" That smooth, melodic voice again. Rhaegar.
Caelum pressed harder, focusing like a hawk on a distant field mouse.
"As you commanded, Your Grace," Ser Arthur's familiar, respectful timbre. "The men have been compensated generously. These boys will not see another dawn."
A pause hung in the air, heavy and foreboding. Then, Rhaegar spoke again, his voice tinged with...uncertainty? "I can sense your hesitation, old friend. Something troubles you."
"With your permission to speak freely, my King?" Ser Arthur asked softly.
"We are not merely King and knight, Arthur. We are friends. Your counsel is always valued."
Ser Arthur's next words were laced with a strange kind of pleading. "They are children, Your Grace. Men to scare them away, hide with their retinue, and not mingle in the nobility any further would have sufficed. This...is it truly necessary?"
Rhaegar's response was slow, and measured. "Lady Lyanna is no meek maiden, she will not leave well enough alone. This prophecy... it demands actions, she will be lost to the Baratheon soon, and I cannot allow that to happen. And for it to work as foretold, she must come willingly. These boys, Arthur... they are a distraction, a hindrance. I do not have the luxury to be kind to them, she will leave soon. She is the Knight I saw in my dreams, and she will soon be gone, the dragon must have three heads, and she will be the key to Visenya. The children must die for that to happen, if I have to gain her affection in such short a time, I cannot have her heart to a Reacher farm boy instead."
"….. As you say, my King." Ser Arthur Dayne sighed as their conversation petered out of Caelum's hearing.
The coldness in the prince's voice sent a shiver down Caelum's spine.
He gasped, his eyes flying open. He grabbed Luke's arm, his small fingers digging in with the strength of terror. "Luke, we have to..."
But his warning was lost. From the shadows behind them, two figures lunged.
It was desperation and luck that helped Luke push Caelum behind him, taking a cutting blow to his shoulder.
The attackers' weaponry gleamed dully in the lantern light they carried at their hip. Long knives, wickedly curved, spoke of experience that Luke lacked. He felt the icy grip of fear in his gut, but there was no time for hesitation.
"Behind me!" he barked at Caelum, shoving the smaller boy back.
His shoulder screamed in protest as one of the men slashed out, the long blade barely missing its mark.
"We've been paid good coin, boys," the attacker rasped, a leer twisting his features. "Young as you are, maybe if you give up now, we'll keep it quick and painless, eh?"
They were knights, their armor dull, better armed than Luke himself.
Luke spat on the ground, then raised his tourney sword, far too blunt an instrument for this deadly fight.
"Who sent you?" he demanded despite the fear in his voice. "Why?!"
The men merely laughed, circling their prey.
Then, Caelum's voice rang out, high and clear above the din.
"Prince Rhaegar! He paid them! He wants us dead!"
Luke's blood ran cold. He staggered as the other attacker lunged, the dull blade grazing his side.
He swung wildly, adrenaline coursing through his veins, his vision blurring. He had to hold them off, give Caelum time to run.
"Go!" he shouted, parrying another blow. "Run, Caelum!"
But instead of the sound of retreating footsteps, he heard a gasp.
He risked a glance. Caelum stood rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed on Luke, the small hunting knife Luke had gifted him earlier clutched in a trembling hand.
"They were right about kids," one of the attackers sneered. "Don't know when to lower your head and die. Shoulda just given up. Easier for everyone. That one knows more than he should, he dies first!"
Luke roared, desperation lending him a momentary advantage.
Yet, his injured shoulder throbbed, his movements grew sluggish. A well-placed kick sent him sprawling, his sword flying from his grasp.
Caelum screamed, lunging forward with wild abandon. His knife found its mark – the attacker's leg. But the man merely grunted, backhanding him with enough force to send Caelum flying.
"Sorry, kid," the attacker with the injured leg growled, raising his blade above a gasping Luke.
Then the world erupted in crimson.
Twin beams of searing hot fire shot from Caelum's eyes, igniting the man's sword arm in a crackling blaze of fire.
He screamed, dropping the weapon as his clothes caught alight. His partner staggered back, eyes wide with horror.
Ignoring the pain in his own eyes, and the fear etched in his heart, Luke snatched up the discarded weapon and lunged. His heart was a frenzied drumbeat in his ears as the first man collapsed, writhing in agony.
The other attacker shrieked, "D-Demon child! Seven help me! Demon!" and turned to run.
Luke surged to his feet, a wounded animal driven by the primal need to protect.
He didn't think, he merely acted. The sword pierced flesh, and the second scream was cut short.
Luke staggered forward, his legs wobbling beneath him. Caelum lay in a crumpled heap, his small body wracked by tremors. His shoulder throbbing, and bleeding.
He whimpered, his hands still clamped tightly over his eyes. A faint crimson glow pulsed from beneath his eyelids, sending a fresh wave of terror through Luke.
"Caelum!" His voice cracked with a mix of fear and urgency. "Caelum, look at me!"
He knelt beside the smaller boy, trying to pry his hands away.
But Caelum didn't open his eyes. Instead, he let out a scream, a raw, animalistic sound that tore at Luke's heart.
"I can't… make it stop!" Caelum sobbed, his voice choked. "It hurts, Luke! Make it stop!"
Luke's heart hammered against his ribs. His shoulder screamed at him, blood trickled down his arm onto Caelum's forehead.
He had no answers, no soothing words. Only a desperate need to protect, to do something. He scooped Caelum up, uncaring of his own injuries, and stumbled away from the attacker's body that still twitched in its death throes.
The world spun around him – the clearing, the lingering stench of burning flesh.
It was all too much.
Caelum whimpered, the crimson glow behind his eyelids intensifying. Then, as abruptly as it had started, his body went limp.
He slumped in Luke's arms, unconscious.
Fear warred with desperation inside Luke. What had just happened? What was wrong with Caelum? And the attackers… Caelum had screamed that Prince Rhaegar had sent them…
He shuddered, the image of the men he'd slain flashing before his eyes.
Tears welled up, hot and bitter. He sank to his knees, Caelum's weight a terrible burden in his arms.
The inn, the tourney grounds, even Harrentown itself – none were safe. Not anymore. The very prince who'd promised protection had become their hunter.
A sob escaped his throat. Then, as the full weight of their situation crashed down on him, a new resolve took root. He couldn't give up, not for his own sake, and certainly not for Caelum's.
The gods had given Caelum another terrible curse it seemed, just when they needed it.
He prayed silently, a desperate plea to understand their designs.
Why grant such terrible magic to a boy so young?
Carefully, he laid Caelum down before returning to the gruesome scene of their fight.
With trembling hands, he doused the corpses with oil from the Knight' lanterns, then set them ablaze.
The smell of burning hair mingled sickeningly with the woodsmoke.
He didn't linger. Picking up one of their swords –, he hoisted Caelum onto his back.
The forest stretching before them offered no guarantee of safety, but it was better than waiting for dawn and the inevitable questions.
With a last, haunted look back at the clearing, Luke plunged into the darkness, a frightened boy bearing an even more frightening burden.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
Dawn painted the old-growth forest in hues of soft gold and silver. A dappled light filtered through the ancient canopy, casting long shadows upon the moss-covered ground. Birdsong filled the air, a joyous chorus that did little to ease the tension in Luke's heart.
Before him lay the God's Eye, a vast inland sea ringed by ancient trees.
Its surface shimmered like molten glass, the first rays of the morning sun reflecting off its still waters. A whisper of mist rose from the water, adding an ethereal quality to the scene.
Luke himself was a mess. Strips of his tunic, torn and bloodstained, were wrapped haphazardly around his shoulder and hip, crude bandages against the gashes he'd taken during their desperate fight.
His face was drawn, exhaustion etched beneath his eyes. He sat hunched on a fallen log, the sword he'd taken from the dead knight gripped tightly in his good hand.
His gaze, however, wasn't on the water, but on the small figure lying still in the shade of a great oak. Caelum.
Fear, a cold knot in his gut, battled with a fierce protectiveness.
The memory of Caelum's crimson-eyed scream, the terrible power that had saved them… Luke had no name for it.
Magic?
A curse?
Whatever it was, it terrified him.
Why would the gods grant such power to a child, one so gentle and kind?
And why had the Prince – the Prince – wanted them dead?
A sharp twinge in his shoulder pulled him back to the present.
Pain mingled with terror.
What if they weren't alone?
He strained his ears, listening beyond the birdsong, searching for any sign of pursuit.
A soft moan escaped Caelum's lips, breaking the stillness of the morning. He stirred, his small brow furrowing beneath sweat-dampened hair. Luke scrambled to his side, his heart pounding with a mixture of relief and dread.
Caelum's eyes fluttered open, and a whimper of fear ripped from his throat. He jerked back from Luke, scrambling away with a terrified cry.
"Luke... " His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. "I can't see… the world, it's all a blur... like... like shadows, and … "
Luke's relief at Caelum's awakening evaporated, replaced by a fresh wave of panic. The crimson glow was gone from Caelum's eyes, his eyes back to his clear blue, but something else was terribly wrong.
"Caelum, it's alright," he tried to soothe, his voice trembling. "Focus on me, on my voice…"
Caelum blinked rapidly, then flinched, his small body trembling.
He stared at Luke, tears welling up in his wide, terrified blue eyes.
"Your skin..." he choked out, "bones... I can see your bones, Luke! And your heart, it's… it's like a lump..."
Luke's stomach lurched. What new horror was this? Instead of the fiery crimson he feared, Caelum's blue eyes held a far more unsettling clarity. He knelt beside the boy, carefully avoiding eye contact.
"Caelum... c-can you see other things?" his voice faltered. "Is it just me, or…"
"The trees…" Caelum whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears. "They glow inside, and… and the leaves are like shadows. I -I can see the island there. Everything… there's so much."
Luke's mind raced. Visions, curses, monstrous powers… He was a simple farm boy, not some wise sage!
A dull throb pulsed in his shoulder, a reminder of his own wounds, but Caelum's terror outweighed any pain he felt.
"Can you close your eyes?" he gently suggested. "Maybe… maybe if you rest, things will make more sense later."
Caelum whimpered, shaking his head. "I can't. The shapes are still there, even behind my eyelids. It's like the world is under water, Luke, and it's only in my eyes."
He reached out a trembling hand, blindly fumbling for Luke's arm.
Luke flinched but didn't pull away. Caelum's fingers, tiny and cold, clutched onto his sleeve with desperate strength.
"Make it stop," he begged, his voice breaking. "Please, Luke, make it stop…"
Luke swallowed hard, his own fear threatening to choke him. But beneath that fear, a newfound resolve took hold. He was all Caelum had.
"Alright," Luke said, his voice steadier than he felt. "We'll figure this out. Together."
Luke took a shaky breath, desperately trying to project calm. "Caelum, can you see… uh…" His gaze fell on a gnarled root protruding from the ground. "Can you see that root, the big one there?"
Caelum whimpered again, his eyes darting as if searching. "Yes… sort of. Like… a burning line against the darkness."
"Okay, good," Luke said, his voice slightly higher than usual. Fear gnawed at his insides. How was he supposed to fix this? What did he even know of eyes and sight? He thought back to a calf born with clouded eyes, the old healer's mutterings…
"Try… try squinting," he ventured, uncertain. "Like when the sun is too bright."
Caelum scrunched his face, and then a frustrated sob escaped his lips. "It hurts! And everything just… glows brighter."
Luke's heart sank. Another idea sprang to mind – a trick to see better at dusk. He hesitated; it felt cruel to experiment on Caelum like this. But desperation clawed at him. "Close your eyes, tight," he said. "Now, open them just a sliver… let just a bit of light in."
A small gasp. "The shapes... they're sharper, but still too bright."
Tears pricked at Luke's own eyes. He was failing. The gods, if they even existed, offered no guidance. He thought of his mother, her gentle hands soothing scraped knees and fevered brows. What would she do?
A memory struck him. Summer nights, lying in the hayloft, staring up at the stars. He'd blink, once, twice, and the faintest stars would appear, then vanish.
"Caelum," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Can you… can you try blinking? But really slow. Just one blink."
Caelum did, his expression one of strained concentration. Seconds passed. Then, his shoulders slumped. "It didn't work. It's still…"
He didn't finish the sentence. Luke's own hope was a dying ember. Yet, it was Caelum's broken voice that sparked one last, desperate idea.
"Wait," Luke said, urgency cutting through his fear. "Blink once, but don't open your eyes. Just… just feel the darkness."
Silence, then a quiet, wondering, "It's… not as awful anymore."
Luke's heart leapt. He ignored the sharp twinge in his shoulder, the throb in his side. "Again," he urged, his voice trembling with a mix of hope and fear. "Close them, tight. Now, one slow blink, then hold... just hold in the darkness."
Caelum obeyed, a tiny tremor running through his body.
With each passing second, Luke dared to believe they weren't lost in the terrifying expanse of Caelum's strange new sight.
"It's working..." Caelum's voice was barely above a whisper. "It's...fading. The brightness is going away!"
"Good! That's good," Luke's praise was a choked sob of relief. He kept his voice gentle. "Another one. Slow blink, then hold the darkness, Caelum."
Over the next hour, their routine took shape.
Blink and hold.
Rest.
Blink and hold.
With each repetition, the burning clarity Caelum described would diminish, leaving behind a calmer sight, closer to the world they knew.
Finally, Caelum gasped. "Luke... It's gone. I can see normally."
Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm Luke, but he forced himself to remain vigilant. "Are you sure? Look at a tree... a rock... anything. Are things... normal?"
Caelum blinked several times, his gaze darting around him. "Yes," he said, his voice still shaky, but wonder replacing the terror. "Just… normal. Like before."
"And me?" Luke held his breath. "Can you… Look at me, Caelum. Can you still see… see inside me?"
For a long moment, Caelum didn't answer. He turned his face away, avoiding Luke's eyes. Then, he whispered, "I… I see you, Luke. Not like before. And… you're hurt. Your shoulder, it's all red and swollen."
"I'm fine!" Luke tried to reassure his little brother. Ignoring the stinging pain in his shoulder.
A sharp gasp pierced the air – Caelum's.
"You're not fine!" His voice rose, a tremor of panic edging into it. "Your sleeve…it's red, there's blood...and the strip of tunic, your shoulder…" His gaze darted back to Luke, and for the briefest flicker, the terrifying clarity returned to his eyes. "It's cut, Luke. Badly. I can see…"
"Caelum, stop," Luke interrupted, his tone gentle but firm. He couldn't let Caelum fall back into that nightmare of sight. "Look around. Is it… is it like before? Can you see me normally?"
Caelum blinked rapidly, then a shaky nod. "Y-yes. Just the cut. And I think… I think there's a gash on your side too."
A jolt of pain shot through Luke as he shifted his weight. He'd forgotten about the other wound. "Please, Caelum, it's not so bad. We…"
"Meredith!" Caelum exclaimed, his small voice ringing with sudden determination. "She can help! She knows herbs and healing, and she's good..." His voice faltered. "She's back at the tourney…"
A chilling wave of memory washed over him. The clearing shrouded in twilight, the lantern's glow, the long glint of blades emerging from the shadows.
"Luke!" Caelum shrieked. His voice cracked with fear and confusion. "The men …the knights! They attacked us, Luke!"
His voice dissolved into a strangled sob.
He buried his face in Luke's tunic, tiny hands clenching with desperate, bruising force. Luke winced at the pressure on his wound by his side. "Why, Luke? Why would knights do that? We didn't do anything!"
Then, a whispered accusation cut through the air: "I heard them, before... with my ears. That knight... Ser Dayne! He paid them. And the prince…"
"Why?" The question echoed in his own heart.
It was absurd.
Caelum was a farm boy, he himself just a page no threat to anyone.
Maybe… maybe the prince thought they would tell someone about Lady Lyanna?
But why? The prince had promised that no one would pursue Lady Lyanna anymore. He had laughed with them. Called them his friends.
Why were they being hunted like wild animals by the prince and his catspaw knights?
Caelum's sobs quieted, leaving a hollow silence. Then his voice, small and broken, pierced the air. "He said...the prince...it was about a prophecy. About the dragon, needing three heads..."
Luke felt as if the very ground tilted beneath them. The dragon was the sigil of House Targaryen. Prophecies… those were tales for old women and fools.
Yet the prince, the heir to the Iron Throne...
Caelum's words rushed out in a torrent. "...and Visenya, Luke, his dream... the prince thinks Lady Lyanna… that she's the key..."
It was madness, the ramblings of fevered minds.
But the look in Caelum's eyes...he had heard this, truly heard it with those strange, terrible ears of his.
Caelum's sobs escalated into full-fledged wails. He pounded his small fists against Luke, as if pummeling away the injustice of it all. "Knights! They're supposed to be…be good. Like in the stories…" He choked on a sob. It was the cry of lost innocence, the death knell for a child's faith in the world.
Luke wrapped his arms around Caelum, pulling him close despite the jolt of pain it sent through his shoulder.
His own dream, the dream of knighthood, of noble deeds, already felt tainted, less bright.
He had brought Caelum this far from the Reach to show him that reality, but he never expected something like this.
After saving Pia he had accepted that Caelum would become a Knight, the Gods favored him. He would be a great knight, mayhaps the Greatest of them all.
He no longer wanted that dream shattered.
"I don't know, Cae," Luke murmured, the words laced with a bitterness unfamiliar even to himself. "Those men... they weren't knights. Not really. They were just...the prince's dogs. Men do terrible things sometimes, for gold, for power..."
His voice trailed off. Apologies bubbled up in his throat, unsaid. He'd brought Caelum here, wanting to show him the harsh reality behind the tales of chivalry. But this darkness...it was too much, too soon for those bright, trusting eyes.
Luke swallowed hard, pushing back the despair that threatened to engulf him. Caelum wouldn't break. Not now, not ever. "But listen," he continued, his voice low and urgent, "that doesn't mean there aren't good knights. And you, Caelum... "
He held Caelum at arm's length, looking him in the eye. "You were so brave yesterday. When those men came at us, you stood in front of me. Used that… that fire of yours. They should fear you, Cae. Because one day, you will be the kind of knight those stories are written about."
It was a promise as much as a plea.
The world was a cruel place right now, and the gods seemed to have a twisted sense of humor.
But Caelum... with his strange, terrifying gifts and his stubbornly pure heart... he was the spark of hope Luke clung to.
A memory unfurled in Caelum's mind – the blinding crimson light, the men's screams, the smell of burning hair. He gagged, bile rising in his throat.
"Luke, I ... did I…" He couldn't bring himself to finish the question. The thought of himself capable of such violence... it was monstrous.
"No," Luke said, his voice firm. "Caelum, you didn't kill anyone. One had a bad burn on his arm, but he was alive. I finished him." His tone softened. "I know it's scary, and I don't understand it either... but sometimes, it's... it's okay to fight back. You will be a knight, and taking a life, it will be necessary especially to protect those you love and the innocent. But it's not time yet for you. Lighten your heart."
Tears welled up in Caelum's eyes, but this time they were tears of relief. He clung to Luke with renewed strength, burying his face against his brother's shoulder.
For a long while, they simply sat there, Luke murmuring quiet reassurances, the sun dappling the forest floor as it crept towards noon.
The sun climbed higher, painting the lake's surface a shimmering gold. Luke shifted, his own wounds throbbing, but the urgency he felt was stronger than the pain.
"Caelum," he said, choosing his words carefully, "do you think you could do that again... the fire, from your eyes? But...but smaller. Just a little bit. It might help us figure out how it works."
Caelum shuddered, hugging himself tightly. "It was scary, Luke. I don't…" His voice trembled.
Luke squeezed his brother's thin shoulder. "I know. I'm scared too." His words hung heavy in the air. The image of those men blistered by Caelum's uncontrolled power was etched in his mind. "But, Cae, what if you hurt someone without meaning to? What if we can make it stop… or make it less dangerous..."
Caelum stared at him, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. It wasn't just about power anymore, but about safety, for them both. "It happened... when I wanted the sword in that man's hand to go away," he whispered. "Because he was going to hurt you..."
Luke swallowed hard. So it was tied to his will, his emotions. "That's why we need to try, Cae," he said gently. "So you can learn to control it."
Caelum nodded, a determined spark returning to his gaze. He turned towards the lake, fixing his stare on its placid surface. Luke watched, heart pounding, as Caelum's eyes began to glow. This time, the crimson light was softer, not the fiery blast of the night before.
He held his breath as a wisp of steam curled from the water. "It's working," he whispered in awe.
"But... I can do more," Caelum said, brow furrowed in concentration. "Like… like I did before." His voice trembled with a mix of determination and fear.
With a gasp, he intensified the focus, and the soft glow became a blazing crimson beam that lanced into the water. The lake roiled, and an instant later, a billowing cloud of steam erupted from the spot.
Caelum cried out, clutching at his eyes. "It stings!" His voice cracked. "Like last night…my eyes, they felt like they were on fire."
Luke was at his side in a heartbeat, a mix of raw awe and chilling fear coursing through him. The sheer power was staggering. But so was the cost to Caelum, to this small boy with a heart too big for the world's cruelty.
And yet, as he held his trembling brother, one thought echoed in Luke's mind.
If such power existed, perhaps its rightful wielder was Caelum, and Caelum alone. One thing he knew very well, the Gods had chosen their champion well.
Luke winced as a fresh wave of pain shot through his shoulder. Catching himself, he tried to hide it, but Caelum was already looking at him with concern.
"We should go back, Luke," Caelum said, his small voice tight with worry. "You need help. Meredith can fix you..."
Luke placed a hand on Caelum's shoulder, his touch gentle. "Wait," he said quietly. A flicker of worry danced in his eyes. They'd escaped into the forest, but if anyone had followed their tracks... "Caelum, can you try... using your ears again? Listen for anyone searching for us."
He knew it was a long shot. If someone was on their trail, they'd have been caught already. But the fear lingered - could they truly return to Harrentown? Would the prince send more killers for them?
Understanding the gravity of the situation, Caelum nodded.
His eyes closed, and his brow furrowed in concentration. For several long minutes, only the rustling of leaves and the distant cries of birds disturbed the quiet.
Luke felt his own heart pounding in his chest, the dull ache of his wound reminding him of their vulnerability.
Yet, Caelum's expression slowly shifted, a flicker of surprise replacing the strain.
He opened his eyes, a mix of confusion and relief in their blue depths. "I hear them," he whispered, pointing towards the direction of the tourney grounds. "Sounds from the town... people wondering about those knights, the ones we… the ones you fought. Most think it was thieves and bandits."
He paused, then added hesitantly, "Others… servants, I think, from the big castle… they're whispering, afraid it was the king, some madness, burning people in the night…"
Caelum's voice trailed off, the words hanging in the air. Luke felt a chill run down his spine – King Aerys's reputation for cruelty was well known.
But why would anyone think… He swallowed hard, pushing the horrifying images from his mind.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Caelum spoke again. His voice trembled slightly. "I found them, Luke. The prince… and the knight, Ser Arthur."
"The prince…" Caelum's words were barely audible. "H-he said… we survived. That you were clever, Luke, using their own lantern fire against them…" His voice grew stronger with a note of reluctant admiration. "He said you'd make a good knight someday."
Luke felt a strange mix of pride and bitterness twist within him.
Prince Rhaegar, the very man who'd tried to have them killed, now spoke of his bravery.
"My lord," Caelum recounted Ser Arthur's words verbatim, "do you wish for more men to be sent? The boys won't have gotten far…"
The prince's reply was slow, considered. "No. They'll be frightened, wounded perhaps. They won't dare return to the tourney, and they certainly won't seek out the Stark girl again. Besides," a cold edge crept into his voice, "they've no way of knowing it was I who gave the order. They'll run blindly, but they will be fools to return to the camp, the knights would not have died without spilling something of the gold they received."
"And the girl, my lord?" Ser Arthur's voice held a hint of concern.
"Lady Lyanna will be watched more closely now. Her father is no fool, he won't risk her leaving the camp or the castle after this… this attack. Not without a guard" The prince's tone was dismissive. "A pity. But she will wait for me. I will meet her again at the castle, I am to sing tonight."
Caelum relayed the conversation with chilling clarity. As he finished, Luke let out a shaky breath he hadn't realized he was holding. They were off the hook, for now. Just… mice, as the prince had said.
Caelum's worry shifted. "But, Luke, what about Lady Ly-"
"She'll be fine," Luke cut him off gently, though his heart wasn't entirely in the reassurance. "Lyanna Stark is a highborn lady. Her family, her brothers, they'll protect her. The prince, even he wouldn't dare to openly harm someone like her." He hoped his voice sounded more convincing than he felt.
"We have to tell her!" Caelum exclaimed.
"Tell her what?" Luke replied calmly "Think Caelum, think. All we have is proof using your magic. And I will die before someone finds about your powers before you are capable of defending yourself. This is the prince of the realm you want to take on. Your powers, they are strong. But we do not need to make the enemy of the realm. Lady Lyanna will be fine, the Gods watch over you, they will watch over her too."
He could see Caelum was not satisfied, but he would not let Caelum run off with some foolish notion of saving Lady Lyanna.
He hoped her family would be able to save her in truth.
The image of Caelum's blazing eyes, of those men writhing in agony, flickered through his mind.
Could they even be considered boys anymore, after what they'd endured?
For now, the best they could do was disappear as the prince wished, fading into the vastness of the realm.
Reassured that they would not be harmed further, Luke grasped the forgotten sword, and with Caelum's help made his way back out the forest to their inn in Harrentown.
No doubt people will ask questions, but he supposed he would let the whispers of bandits and thieves attacking lend him aid in the matter.
He did not intend to tangle with the Prince any further.
Meredith would find them later at the inn, and he will have all the help he would need.
Caelum was his only concern till then.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x -------
(A/N) The Prince is mad definitely. I don't know if I wrote a powerful groomer well enough. Ser Arthur Dayne totally drank his kool aid. The other kings guard did too, most of them.
How had this happened?
One moment, she was basking in the thrill of victory, feeling strong and defiant beneath the ill-fitting armor.
The next, the King's words had cut through the crowd's noise like an icy wind. "That man laughs at me?!," Aerys had rasped, his voice madness-tinged, "The Knight of the Laughing Tree is my enemy. Unmask him!"
Now, hunched in the dimness of her tent, the euphoria had turned to ash.
Luke fumbled with the buckles of her borrowed breastplate, his hands shaking.
"Faster," she hissed, the word catching in her throat. "If they find me…." She couldn't finish the thought.
The consequences of being unmasked were too terrible to contemplate.
"It'll be alright, my lady," Luke said fiercely. "We'll find a way to hide you…"
Caelum burst in, his eyes wide. "They're coming!" he blurted. "Two riders – the Dragon Prince and another Kingsguard. Ser Arthur, I think."
Lyanna's heart hammered against her ribs.
Every clank of metal, every rustle of fabric felt deafening. "Not enough time…" she choked out.
Luke's face was pale as he shoved the breastplate aside. "The surcoat, at least. Maybe hide the shield… here, under the bedroll…" His movements were frantic, desperate.
"No point. They'll know. There's nowhere to hide a shield like this one" She admitted, her tent wasn't as large as her father's and brothers'.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel outside, drawing closer with every heartbeat.
Lyanna whipped around, searching for a weapon, something, anything to defend herself with. But her hands found only the rough canvas of the tent apart from a muddied tourney sword.
The Prince would escort her to the King, and she would be killed.
Despair washed over her, and then, a flicker of defiance sparked.
She was Lyanna Stark, a wolf of the North. She wouldn't cower, not even before royalty. Let Rhaegar come. She'd face him down, armor or no.
The tent flap was thrust aside, and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen stood framed in the fading light.
"Announcing His Grace, Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone!" Ser Arthur Dayne's voice cut through the charged silence of the tent.
Lyanna dipped into a hasty bow, her movements stiff beneath the weight of the prince's gaze.
Luke dropped to his knees instantly, tugging Caelum down beside him. The little boy, eyes wide, fumbled but managed a clumsy curtsey.
Rhaegar stepped into the tent, and the fading light caught on the polished rubies of his breastplate. Ser Arthur remained outside, a silent sentinel. The prince's eyes swept over the scene: the half-discarded armor, her muddied sword still clutched in her hand, and finally settling on Lyanna herself.
She met his gaze squarely, chin lifted.
No matter how frightened she was, no one would ever call her meek.
A long moment stretched between them. Then, something flickered in Rhaegar's violet eyes – surprise, perhaps even a hint of amusement.
"My lady," his voice was low, soft, "It seems we caught you at a… rather inconvenient moment."
Heat flooded her cheeks. She'd been focused on the danger, not the impropriety of her half-undressed state.
"My prince," Lyanna managed, cursing the tremor in her voice, "I… I was cleaning my armor. Your arrival was… unexpected."
His lips twitched, a hint of a smile breaking through the regal composure. "As was your appearance on the lists today. The Knight of the Laughing Tree has taken the tourney by storm."
"Only by luck, my prince," she deflected, her mind racing.
Was he playing a game with her? He knew she was the Knight of The Laughing Tree, her armor had seen to that.
"Luck rarely lasts this long" Rhaegar countered, stepping closer. "Ser Arthur speaks highly of your skill."
Lyanna's fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword, a useless gesture she knew. "Ser Arthur is too kind."
"I find myself in agreement with Ser Arthur," the Prince said, his voice a soft rumble, "Your skill on the lists was no mere accident."
Lyanna felt a flicker of pride she couldn't entirely suppress. Then, reality crashed back down. Today's victory might as well be a death sentence.
Rhaegar's gaze shifted towards the two boys still kneeling before him. "And who might these young gentlemen be?" he asked, his tone curious.
"My friends, your Grace," Lyanna answered, her voice steadier now. "This is Luke, and young Caelum."
"Rise, both of you," he said gently. "I would make the acquaintance of the Lady Lyanna's companions."
Scrambling to obey, Luke and Caelum stood.
Luke kept his eyes respectfully downcast but Caelum couldn't hold back his open curiosity, studying the prince with undisguised awe.
Lyanna's voice, when she found it, was surprisingly steady. "Do you mean to take me to the king, your Grace?"
Part of her longed to fling herself at his mercy, to beg for understanding.
But the Stark blood in her veins demanded she stand tall, even in the face of potential execution.
Rhaegar laughed, a low, rich sound that was startlingly at odds with the tension in the air. "The king, my lady? And lose a warrior as beautiful and skilled as yourself?" He paused, his gaze meeting hers again. "I cannot say you are my enemy, not with such a display on the lists today." Then, with a quirk of his lips, he added, "Though I will take your shield, if only to show my father that his Knight of the Laughing Tree has been found."
Warmth flooded Lyanna's cheeks, making her forget the chilling fear. "You flatter me, Prince Rhaegar," she managed, her words tinged with a defiance that was more bravado than truth.
"Flattery? Perhaps a touch," he conceded with a smile that took years off his face. "Your horsemanship, however… that was no act. Tell me, my lady, did you ride often in these…," he gestured at the Stark colors she still wore, "...wild Northern lands of yours?"
Lyanna couldn't help but smile back. "Ride? I practically lived on horseback," she declared.
Perhaps this prince wasn't what she had expected.
Rhaegar's gaze shifted to Luke, who still stood rooted to the spot. "And what of your companion? Did he share in these adventures, Lady Lyanna?"
Luke stammered a bit, caught off guard. "N-no, your Grace," he began. "We… I came from the Reach, with the Tyrell men. My brother and I, we… we wanted to see the tourney."
The prince tilted his head, his silvery hair catching the last rays of the setting sun. "The Reach? A far journey to watch men fight. Was it worth the risks?"
"I hope for a knighthood someday, your Grace," Luke replied, his voice stronger now. "My brother too."
Rhaegar considered him for a long moment.
Then, his smile returned. "Perhaps a chance to practice those skills will come sooner than you think,"
He turned back to Lyanna, a glint in his eye that made her heart skip a beat. "I find myself… intrigued, Lady Lyanna. Would you honor me with your company? A ride, perhaps? Or if you prefer, mayhaps a friendly spar to settle this debate on your skill with a lance."
Overwhelmed with a mix of relief and a completely different kind of nervousness, Lyanna felt her cheeks flush again. "It… it would be an honor, your Grace."
Rhaegar inclined his head, then gestured towards her shield. "I shall keep this as proof that the Knight of the Laughing Tree has been found. Now, my lady, I suggest you finish what you were so rudely interrupted from."
He turned towards Luke and Caelum, his princely bearing back in place. "Give your lady privacy, Luke, Caelum. Rest assured; no other will come searching for her tonight. I shall see to it that this pursuit ends here, with this shield."
Luke bowed respectfully, first to the prince, then to Lyanna. "As you say, your Grace. My lady," he added, a touch of formality creeping back into his voice, "Good night, your Grace, my lady."
With a gentle nudge towards Caelum, he turned towards the tent flap, clearly eager to be gone.
Lyanna's heart ached a little at their departure. "Wait!" She called her voice softer now. "Thank you, both of you. For today… for everything" She hesitated, then added with a playful touch, "Come find me tomorrow. I'm sure my brother Ned would love to meet the both of you."
Rhaegar narrowed his eyes at the offer, but quickly schooled his features.
Caelum finally finding his voice, shyness at meeting the prince still lingering said "We would love to, Lady Lyanna!"
With another hasty bow, the boys were on their way toward their beds at the inn in Harrentown.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
Night had fully descended, casting long shadows that danced with the flickering light of their lantern.
The path back toward Harrentown was familiar by now, but the air crackled with a different sort of energy.
Caelum couldn't stop chattering, his voice a near breathless rush.
"...did you see his armor, Luke? And the rubies, they were like fire! And his hair, it was like… like the sun coming out... silver "
Luke chuckled, the sound warm in the cool evening. "Easy there! You didn't even manage a single word in his presence, and now you can't stop talking about him."
Caelum's cheeks burned a deep red. "I… I didn't know what to say! He's the prince, Luke. The prince!"
As they neared the outskirts of Harrentown, the forest by the tourney grounds started to thin, Caelum's exuberance faded a little. "Do you think… do you think the prince really meant it? That no one else will search for Lady Lyanna?"
Luke placed a reassuring hand on the younger boy's shoulder. "The Dragon Prince gave his word, Caelum. If he says the search is over, it is."
Despite Luke's confident words, a flicker of doubt remained in Caelum's eyes.
He kicked at a stray pebble, sending it skittering into the darkness. "But what if… what if there are some who don't listen? Lady Lyanna is still in danger... the king could …"
They had reached a clearing, a brief stretch of open ground between the tourney encampments and Harrentown proper.
Luke stopped, a thoughtful frown on his face. Then, he crouched, placing a hand on Caelum's shoulder.
"You're still worried, aren't you?" he asked softly.
Caelum nodded, a single tear escaping to track down his cheek. Luke gently brushed it away.
"Alright then," Luke said with a determined gleam in his eye. "There's one way to ease your mind. Why don't you focus on the camp, try and find her voice. See if she is alright?"
A spark of excitement replaced the worry in Caelum's eyes. "Really?" he whispered. "You think I should?"
Luke nodded, his own eyes gleaming with a determined sort of mischief. "You've been practicing. And you're going to worry about her otherwise. No harm in it."
Caelum closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He enjoyed using his magic, it let him hear the sounds of the world, with Luke's help he had a connection with the world that he couldn't describe.
The sounds of the night swirled around him - the chirp of crickets, the distant rumble of wagons on the road, even the soft rustle of Luke's tunic as he shifted his stance.
Then, he reached out with his senses, focusing on the tourney encampments, imagining the clusters of tents aglow with lantern light.
A cacophony of voices washed over him. Boisterous laughter clinked against cups in a nearby inn. Two stablehands bickered over a missing curry comb. He heard snatches of conversations, snippets of songs... and then:
"...arrangements have been made?" That smooth, melodic voice again. Rhaegar.
Caelum pressed harder, focusing like a hawk on a distant field mouse.
"As you commanded, Your Grace," Ser Arthur's familiar, respectful timbre. "The men have been compensated generously. These boys will not see another dawn."
A pause hung in the air, heavy and foreboding. Then, Rhaegar spoke again, his voice tinged with...uncertainty? "I can sense your hesitation, old friend. Something troubles you."
"With your permission to speak freely, my King?" Ser Arthur asked softly.
"We are not merely King and knight, Arthur. We are friends. Your counsel is always valued."
Ser Arthur's next words were laced with a strange kind of pleading. "They are children, Your Grace. Men to scare them away, hide with their retinue, and not mingle in the nobility any further would have sufficed. This...is it truly necessary?"
Rhaegar's response was slow, and measured. "Lady Lyanna is no meek maiden, she will not leave well enough alone. This prophecy... it demands actions, she will be lost to the Baratheon soon, and I cannot allow that to happen. And for it to work as foretold, she must come willingly. These boys, Arthur... they are a distraction, a hindrance. I do not have the luxury to be kind to them, she will leave soon. She is the Knight I saw in my dreams, and she will soon be gone, the dragon must have three heads, and she will be the key to Visenya. The children must die for that to happen, if I have to gain her affection in such short a time, I cannot have her heart to a Reacher farm boy instead."
"….. As you say, my King." Ser Arthur Dayne sighed as their conversation petered out of Caelum's hearing.
The coldness in the prince's voice sent a shiver down Caelum's spine.
He gasped, his eyes flying open. He grabbed Luke's arm, his small fingers digging in with the strength of terror. "Luke, we have to..."
But his warning was lost. From the shadows behind them, two figures lunged.
It was desperation and luck that helped Luke push Caelum behind him, taking a cutting blow to his shoulder.
The attackers' weaponry gleamed dully in the lantern light they carried at their hip. Long knives, wickedly curved, spoke of experience that Luke lacked. He felt the icy grip of fear in his gut, but there was no time for hesitation.
"Behind me!" he barked at Caelum, shoving the smaller boy back.
His shoulder screamed in protest as one of the men slashed out, the long blade barely missing its mark.
"We've been paid good coin, boys," the attacker rasped, a leer twisting his features. "Young as you are, maybe if you give up now, we'll keep it quick and painless, eh?"
They were knights, their armor dull, better armed than Luke himself.
Luke spat on the ground, then raised his tourney sword, far too blunt an instrument for this deadly fight.
"Who sent you?" he demanded despite the fear in his voice. "Why?!"
The men merely laughed, circling their prey.
Then, Caelum's voice rang out, high and clear above the din.
"Prince Rhaegar! He paid them! He wants us dead!"
Luke's blood ran cold. He staggered as the other attacker lunged, the dull blade grazing his side.
He swung wildly, adrenaline coursing through his veins, his vision blurring. He had to hold them off, give Caelum time to run.
"Go!" he shouted, parrying another blow. "Run, Caelum!"
But instead of the sound of retreating footsteps, he heard a gasp.
He risked a glance. Caelum stood rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed on Luke, the small hunting knife Luke had gifted him earlier clutched in a trembling hand.
"They were right about kids," one of the attackers sneered. "Don't know when to lower your head and die. Shoulda just given up. Easier for everyone. That one knows more than he should, he dies first!"
Luke roared, desperation lending him a momentary advantage.
Yet, his injured shoulder throbbed, his movements grew sluggish. A well-placed kick sent him sprawling, his sword flying from his grasp.
Caelum screamed, lunging forward with wild abandon. His knife found its mark – the attacker's leg. But the man merely grunted, backhanding him with enough force to send Caelum flying.
"Sorry, kid," the attacker with the injured leg growled, raising his blade above a gasping Luke.
Then the world erupted in crimson.
Twin beams of searing hot fire shot from Caelum's eyes, igniting the man's sword arm in a crackling blaze of fire.
He screamed, dropping the weapon as his clothes caught alight. His partner staggered back, eyes wide with horror.
Ignoring the pain in his own eyes, and the fear etched in his heart, Luke snatched up the discarded weapon and lunged. His heart was a frenzied drumbeat in his ears as the first man collapsed, writhing in agony.
The other attacker shrieked, "D-Demon child! Seven help me! Demon!" and turned to run.
Luke surged to his feet, a wounded animal driven by the primal need to protect.
He didn't think, he merely acted. The sword pierced flesh, and the second scream was cut short.
Luke staggered forward, his legs wobbling beneath him. Caelum lay in a crumpled heap, his small body wracked by tremors. His shoulder throbbing, and bleeding.
He whimpered, his hands still clamped tightly over his eyes. A faint crimson glow pulsed from beneath his eyelids, sending a fresh wave of terror through Luke.
"Caelum!" His voice cracked with a mix of fear and urgency. "Caelum, look at me!"
He knelt beside the smaller boy, trying to pry his hands away.
But Caelum didn't open his eyes. Instead, he let out a scream, a raw, animalistic sound that tore at Luke's heart.
"I can't… make it stop!" Caelum sobbed, his voice choked. "It hurts, Luke! Make it stop!"
Luke's heart hammered against his ribs. His shoulder screamed at him, blood trickled down his arm onto Caelum's forehead.
He had no answers, no soothing words. Only a desperate need to protect, to do something. He scooped Caelum up, uncaring of his own injuries, and stumbled away from the attacker's body that still twitched in its death throes.
The world spun around him – the clearing, the lingering stench of burning flesh.
It was all too much.
Caelum whimpered, the crimson glow behind his eyelids intensifying. Then, as abruptly as it had started, his body went limp.
He slumped in Luke's arms, unconscious.
Fear warred with desperation inside Luke. What had just happened? What was wrong with Caelum? And the attackers… Caelum had screamed that Prince Rhaegar had sent them…
He shuddered, the image of the men he'd slain flashing before his eyes.
Tears welled up, hot and bitter. He sank to his knees, Caelum's weight a terrible burden in his arms.
The inn, the tourney grounds, even Harrentown itself – none were safe. Not anymore. The very prince who'd promised protection had become their hunter.
A sob escaped his throat. Then, as the full weight of their situation crashed down on him, a new resolve took root. He couldn't give up, not for his own sake, and certainly not for Caelum's.
The gods had given Caelum another terrible curse it seemed, just when they needed it.
He prayed silently, a desperate plea to understand their designs.
Why grant such terrible magic to a boy so young?
Carefully, he laid Caelum down before returning to the gruesome scene of their fight.
With trembling hands, he doused the corpses with oil from the Knight' lanterns, then set them ablaze.
The smell of burning hair mingled sickeningly with the woodsmoke.
He didn't linger. Picking up one of their swords –, he hoisted Caelum onto his back.
The forest stretching before them offered no guarantee of safety, but it was better than waiting for dawn and the inevitable questions.
With a last, haunted look back at the clearing, Luke plunged into the darkness, a frightened boy bearing an even more frightening burden.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
Dawn painted the old-growth forest in hues of soft gold and silver. A dappled light filtered through the ancient canopy, casting long shadows upon the moss-covered ground. Birdsong filled the air, a joyous chorus that did little to ease the tension in Luke's heart.
Before him lay the God's Eye, a vast inland sea ringed by ancient trees.
Its surface shimmered like molten glass, the first rays of the morning sun reflecting off its still waters. A whisper of mist rose from the water, adding an ethereal quality to the scene.
Luke himself was a mess. Strips of his tunic, torn and bloodstained, were wrapped haphazardly around his shoulder and hip, crude bandages against the gashes he'd taken during their desperate fight.
His face was drawn, exhaustion etched beneath his eyes. He sat hunched on a fallen log, the sword he'd taken from the dead knight gripped tightly in his good hand.
His gaze, however, wasn't on the water, but on the small figure lying still in the shade of a great oak. Caelum.
Fear, a cold knot in his gut, battled with a fierce protectiveness.
The memory of Caelum's crimson-eyed scream, the terrible power that had saved them… Luke had no name for it.
Magic?
A curse?
Whatever it was, it terrified him.
Why would the gods grant such power to a child, one so gentle and kind?
And why had the Prince – the Prince – wanted them dead?
A sharp twinge in his shoulder pulled him back to the present.
Pain mingled with terror.
What if they weren't alone?
He strained his ears, listening beyond the birdsong, searching for any sign of pursuit.
A soft moan escaped Caelum's lips, breaking the stillness of the morning. He stirred, his small brow furrowing beneath sweat-dampened hair. Luke scrambled to his side, his heart pounding with a mixture of relief and dread.
Caelum's eyes fluttered open, and a whimper of fear ripped from his throat. He jerked back from Luke, scrambling away with a terrified cry.
"Luke... " His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. "I can't see… the world, it's all a blur... like... like shadows, and … "
Luke's relief at Caelum's awakening evaporated, replaced by a fresh wave of panic. The crimson glow was gone from Caelum's eyes, his eyes back to his clear blue, but something else was terribly wrong.
"Caelum, it's alright," he tried to soothe, his voice trembling. "Focus on me, on my voice…"
Caelum blinked rapidly, then flinched, his small body trembling.
He stared at Luke, tears welling up in his wide, terrified blue eyes.
"Your skin..." he choked out, "bones... I can see your bones, Luke! And your heart, it's… it's like a lump..."
Luke's stomach lurched. What new horror was this? Instead of the fiery crimson he feared, Caelum's blue eyes held a far more unsettling clarity. He knelt beside the boy, carefully avoiding eye contact.
"Caelum... c-can you see other things?" his voice faltered. "Is it just me, or…"
"The trees…" Caelum whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears. "They glow inside, and… and the leaves are like shadows. I -I can see the island there. Everything… there's so much."
Luke's mind raced. Visions, curses, monstrous powers… He was a simple farm boy, not some wise sage!
A dull throb pulsed in his shoulder, a reminder of his own wounds, but Caelum's terror outweighed any pain he felt.
"Can you close your eyes?" he gently suggested. "Maybe… maybe if you rest, things will make more sense later."
Caelum whimpered, shaking his head. "I can't. The shapes are still there, even behind my eyelids. It's like the world is under water, Luke, and it's only in my eyes."
He reached out a trembling hand, blindly fumbling for Luke's arm.
Luke flinched but didn't pull away. Caelum's fingers, tiny and cold, clutched onto his sleeve with desperate strength.
"Make it stop," he begged, his voice breaking. "Please, Luke, make it stop…"
Luke swallowed hard, his own fear threatening to choke him. But beneath that fear, a newfound resolve took hold. He was all Caelum had.
"Alright," Luke said, his voice steadier than he felt. "We'll figure this out. Together."
Luke took a shaky breath, desperately trying to project calm. "Caelum, can you see… uh…" His gaze fell on a gnarled root protruding from the ground. "Can you see that root, the big one there?"
Caelum whimpered again, his eyes darting as if searching. "Yes… sort of. Like… a burning line against the darkness."
"Okay, good," Luke said, his voice slightly higher than usual. Fear gnawed at his insides. How was he supposed to fix this? What did he even know of eyes and sight? He thought back to a calf born with clouded eyes, the old healer's mutterings…
"Try… try squinting," he ventured, uncertain. "Like when the sun is too bright."
Caelum scrunched his face, and then a frustrated sob escaped his lips. "It hurts! And everything just… glows brighter."
Luke's heart sank. Another idea sprang to mind – a trick to see better at dusk. He hesitated; it felt cruel to experiment on Caelum like this. But desperation clawed at him. "Close your eyes, tight," he said. "Now, open them just a sliver… let just a bit of light in."
A small gasp. "The shapes... they're sharper, but still too bright."
Tears pricked at Luke's own eyes. He was failing. The gods, if they even existed, offered no guidance. He thought of his mother, her gentle hands soothing scraped knees and fevered brows. What would she do?
A memory struck him. Summer nights, lying in the hayloft, staring up at the stars. He'd blink, once, twice, and the faintest stars would appear, then vanish.
"Caelum," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Can you… can you try blinking? But really slow. Just one blink."
Caelum did, his expression one of strained concentration. Seconds passed. Then, his shoulders slumped. "It didn't work. It's still…"
He didn't finish the sentence. Luke's own hope was a dying ember. Yet, it was Caelum's broken voice that sparked one last, desperate idea.
"Wait," Luke said, urgency cutting through his fear. "Blink once, but don't open your eyes. Just… just feel the darkness."
Silence, then a quiet, wondering, "It's… not as awful anymore."
Luke's heart leapt. He ignored the sharp twinge in his shoulder, the throb in his side. "Again," he urged, his voice trembling with a mix of hope and fear. "Close them, tight. Now, one slow blink, then hold... just hold in the darkness."
Caelum obeyed, a tiny tremor running through his body.
With each passing second, Luke dared to believe they weren't lost in the terrifying expanse of Caelum's strange new sight.
"It's working..." Caelum's voice was barely above a whisper. "It's...fading. The brightness is going away!"
"Good! That's good," Luke's praise was a choked sob of relief. He kept his voice gentle. "Another one. Slow blink, then hold the darkness, Caelum."
Over the next hour, their routine took shape.
Blink and hold.
Rest.
Blink and hold.
With each repetition, the burning clarity Caelum described would diminish, leaving behind a calmer sight, closer to the world they knew.
Finally, Caelum gasped. "Luke... It's gone. I can see normally."
Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm Luke, but he forced himself to remain vigilant. "Are you sure? Look at a tree... a rock... anything. Are things... normal?"
Caelum blinked several times, his gaze darting around him. "Yes," he said, his voice still shaky, but wonder replacing the terror. "Just… normal. Like before."
"And me?" Luke held his breath. "Can you… Look at me, Caelum. Can you still see… see inside me?"
For a long moment, Caelum didn't answer. He turned his face away, avoiding Luke's eyes. Then, he whispered, "I… I see you, Luke. Not like before. And… you're hurt. Your shoulder, it's all red and swollen."
"I'm fine!" Luke tried to reassure his little brother. Ignoring the stinging pain in his shoulder.
A sharp gasp pierced the air – Caelum's.
"You're not fine!" His voice rose, a tremor of panic edging into it. "Your sleeve…it's red, there's blood...and the strip of tunic, your shoulder…" His gaze darted back to Luke, and for the briefest flicker, the terrifying clarity returned to his eyes. "It's cut, Luke. Badly. I can see…"
"Caelum, stop," Luke interrupted, his tone gentle but firm. He couldn't let Caelum fall back into that nightmare of sight. "Look around. Is it… is it like before? Can you see me normally?"
Caelum blinked rapidly, then a shaky nod. "Y-yes. Just the cut. And I think… I think there's a gash on your side too."
A jolt of pain shot through Luke as he shifted his weight. He'd forgotten about the other wound. "Please, Caelum, it's not so bad. We…"
"Meredith!" Caelum exclaimed, his small voice ringing with sudden determination. "She can help! She knows herbs and healing, and she's good..." His voice faltered. "She's back at the tourney…"
A chilling wave of memory washed over him. The clearing shrouded in twilight, the lantern's glow, the long glint of blades emerging from the shadows.
"Luke!" Caelum shrieked. His voice cracked with fear and confusion. "The men …the knights! They attacked us, Luke!"
His voice dissolved into a strangled sob.
He buried his face in Luke's tunic, tiny hands clenching with desperate, bruising force. Luke winced at the pressure on his wound by his side. "Why, Luke? Why would knights do that? We didn't do anything!"
Then, a whispered accusation cut through the air: "I heard them, before... with my ears. That knight... Ser Dayne! He paid them. And the prince…"
"Why?" The question echoed in his own heart.
It was absurd.
Caelum was a farm boy, he himself just a page no threat to anyone.
Maybe… maybe the prince thought they would tell someone about Lady Lyanna?
But why? The prince had promised that no one would pursue Lady Lyanna anymore. He had laughed with them. Called them his friends.
Why were they being hunted like wild animals by the prince and his catspaw knights?
Caelum's sobs quieted, leaving a hollow silence. Then his voice, small and broken, pierced the air. "He said...the prince...it was about a prophecy. About the dragon, needing three heads..."
Luke felt as if the very ground tilted beneath them. The dragon was the sigil of House Targaryen. Prophecies… those were tales for old women and fools.
Yet the prince, the heir to the Iron Throne...
Caelum's words rushed out in a torrent. "...and Visenya, Luke, his dream... the prince thinks Lady Lyanna… that she's the key..."
It was madness, the ramblings of fevered minds.
But the look in Caelum's eyes...he had heard this, truly heard it with those strange, terrible ears of his.
Caelum's sobs escalated into full-fledged wails. He pounded his small fists against Luke, as if pummeling away the injustice of it all. "Knights! They're supposed to be…be good. Like in the stories…" He choked on a sob. It was the cry of lost innocence, the death knell for a child's faith in the world.
Luke wrapped his arms around Caelum, pulling him close despite the jolt of pain it sent through his shoulder.
His own dream, the dream of knighthood, of noble deeds, already felt tainted, less bright.
He had brought Caelum this far from the Reach to show him that reality, but he never expected something like this.
After saving Pia he had accepted that Caelum would become a Knight, the Gods favored him. He would be a great knight, mayhaps the Greatest of them all.
He no longer wanted that dream shattered.
"I don't know, Cae," Luke murmured, the words laced with a bitterness unfamiliar even to himself. "Those men... they weren't knights. Not really. They were just...the prince's dogs. Men do terrible things sometimes, for gold, for power..."
His voice trailed off. Apologies bubbled up in his throat, unsaid. He'd brought Caelum here, wanting to show him the harsh reality behind the tales of chivalry. But this darkness...it was too much, too soon for those bright, trusting eyes.
Luke swallowed hard, pushing back the despair that threatened to engulf him. Caelum wouldn't break. Not now, not ever. "But listen," he continued, his voice low and urgent, "that doesn't mean there aren't good knights. And you, Caelum... "
He held Caelum at arm's length, looking him in the eye. "You were so brave yesterday. When those men came at us, you stood in front of me. Used that… that fire of yours. They should fear you, Cae. Because one day, you will be the kind of knight those stories are written about."
It was a promise as much as a plea.
The world was a cruel place right now, and the gods seemed to have a twisted sense of humor.
But Caelum... with his strange, terrifying gifts and his stubbornly pure heart... he was the spark of hope Luke clung to.
A memory unfurled in Caelum's mind – the blinding crimson light, the men's screams, the smell of burning hair. He gagged, bile rising in his throat.
"Luke, I ... did I…" He couldn't bring himself to finish the question. The thought of himself capable of such violence... it was monstrous.
"No," Luke said, his voice firm. "Caelum, you didn't kill anyone. One had a bad burn on his arm, but he was alive. I finished him." His tone softened. "I know it's scary, and I don't understand it either... but sometimes, it's... it's okay to fight back. You will be a knight, and taking a life, it will be necessary especially to protect those you love and the innocent. But it's not time yet for you. Lighten your heart."
Tears welled up in Caelum's eyes, but this time they were tears of relief. He clung to Luke with renewed strength, burying his face against his brother's shoulder.
For a long while, they simply sat there, Luke murmuring quiet reassurances, the sun dappling the forest floor as it crept towards noon.
The sun climbed higher, painting the lake's surface a shimmering gold. Luke shifted, his own wounds throbbing, but the urgency he felt was stronger than the pain.
"Caelum," he said, choosing his words carefully, "do you think you could do that again... the fire, from your eyes? But...but smaller. Just a little bit. It might help us figure out how it works."
Caelum shuddered, hugging himself tightly. "It was scary, Luke. I don't…" His voice trembled.
Luke squeezed his brother's thin shoulder. "I know. I'm scared too." His words hung heavy in the air. The image of those men blistered by Caelum's uncontrolled power was etched in his mind. "But, Cae, what if you hurt someone without meaning to? What if we can make it stop… or make it less dangerous..."
Caelum stared at him, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. It wasn't just about power anymore, but about safety, for them both. "It happened... when I wanted the sword in that man's hand to go away," he whispered. "Because he was going to hurt you..."
Luke swallowed hard. So it was tied to his will, his emotions. "That's why we need to try, Cae," he said gently. "So you can learn to control it."
Caelum nodded, a determined spark returning to his gaze. He turned towards the lake, fixing his stare on its placid surface. Luke watched, heart pounding, as Caelum's eyes began to glow. This time, the crimson light was softer, not the fiery blast of the night before.
He held his breath as a wisp of steam curled from the water. "It's working," he whispered in awe.
"But... I can do more," Caelum said, brow furrowed in concentration. "Like… like I did before." His voice trembled with a mix of determination and fear.
With a gasp, he intensified the focus, and the soft glow became a blazing crimson beam that lanced into the water. The lake roiled, and an instant later, a billowing cloud of steam erupted from the spot.
Caelum cried out, clutching at his eyes. "It stings!" His voice cracked. "Like last night…my eyes, they felt like they were on fire."
Luke was at his side in a heartbeat, a mix of raw awe and chilling fear coursing through him. The sheer power was staggering. But so was the cost to Caelum, to this small boy with a heart too big for the world's cruelty.
And yet, as he held his trembling brother, one thought echoed in Luke's mind.
If such power existed, perhaps its rightful wielder was Caelum, and Caelum alone. One thing he knew very well, the Gods had chosen their champion well.
Luke winced as a fresh wave of pain shot through his shoulder. Catching himself, he tried to hide it, but Caelum was already looking at him with concern.
"We should go back, Luke," Caelum said, his small voice tight with worry. "You need help. Meredith can fix you..."
Luke placed a hand on Caelum's shoulder, his touch gentle. "Wait," he said quietly. A flicker of worry danced in his eyes. They'd escaped into the forest, but if anyone had followed their tracks... "Caelum, can you try... using your ears again? Listen for anyone searching for us."
He knew it was a long shot. If someone was on their trail, they'd have been caught already. But the fear lingered - could they truly return to Harrentown? Would the prince send more killers for them?
Understanding the gravity of the situation, Caelum nodded.
His eyes closed, and his brow furrowed in concentration. For several long minutes, only the rustling of leaves and the distant cries of birds disturbed the quiet.
Luke felt his own heart pounding in his chest, the dull ache of his wound reminding him of their vulnerability.
Yet, Caelum's expression slowly shifted, a flicker of surprise replacing the strain.
He opened his eyes, a mix of confusion and relief in their blue depths. "I hear them," he whispered, pointing towards the direction of the tourney grounds. "Sounds from the town... people wondering about those knights, the ones we… the ones you fought. Most think it was thieves and bandits."
He paused, then added hesitantly, "Others… servants, I think, from the big castle… they're whispering, afraid it was the king, some madness, burning people in the night…"
Caelum's voice trailed off, the words hanging in the air. Luke felt a chill run down his spine – King Aerys's reputation for cruelty was well known.
But why would anyone think… He swallowed hard, pushing the horrifying images from his mind.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Caelum spoke again. His voice trembled slightly. "I found them, Luke. The prince… and the knight, Ser Arthur."
"The prince…" Caelum's words were barely audible. "H-he said… we survived. That you were clever, Luke, using their own lantern fire against them…" His voice grew stronger with a note of reluctant admiration. "He said you'd make a good knight someday."
Luke felt a strange mix of pride and bitterness twist within him.
Prince Rhaegar, the very man who'd tried to have them killed, now spoke of his bravery.
"My lord," Caelum recounted Ser Arthur's words verbatim, "do you wish for more men to be sent? The boys won't have gotten far…"
The prince's reply was slow, considered. "No. They'll be frightened, wounded perhaps. They won't dare return to the tourney, and they certainly won't seek out the Stark girl again. Besides," a cold edge crept into his voice, "they've no way of knowing it was I who gave the order. They'll run blindly, but they will be fools to return to the camp, the knights would not have died without spilling something of the gold they received."
"And the girl, my lord?" Ser Arthur's voice held a hint of concern.
"Lady Lyanna will be watched more closely now. Her father is no fool, he won't risk her leaving the camp or the castle after this… this attack. Not without a guard" The prince's tone was dismissive. "A pity. But she will wait for me. I will meet her again at the castle, I am to sing tonight."
Caelum relayed the conversation with chilling clarity. As he finished, Luke let out a shaky breath he hadn't realized he was holding. They were off the hook, for now. Just… mice, as the prince had said.
Caelum's worry shifted. "But, Luke, what about Lady Ly-"
"She'll be fine," Luke cut him off gently, though his heart wasn't entirely in the reassurance. "Lyanna Stark is a highborn lady. Her family, her brothers, they'll protect her. The prince, even he wouldn't dare to openly harm someone like her." He hoped his voice sounded more convincing than he felt.
"We have to tell her!" Caelum exclaimed.
"Tell her what?" Luke replied calmly "Think Caelum, think. All we have is proof using your magic. And I will die before someone finds about your powers before you are capable of defending yourself. This is the prince of the realm you want to take on. Your powers, they are strong. But we do not need to make the enemy of the realm. Lady Lyanna will be fine, the Gods watch over you, they will watch over her too."
He could see Caelum was not satisfied, but he would not let Caelum run off with some foolish notion of saving Lady Lyanna.
He hoped her family would be able to save her in truth.
The image of Caelum's blazing eyes, of those men writhing in agony, flickered through his mind.
Could they even be considered boys anymore, after what they'd endured?
For now, the best they could do was disappear as the prince wished, fading into the vastness of the realm.
Reassured that they would not be harmed further, Luke grasped the forgotten sword, and with Caelum's help made his way back out the forest to their inn in Harrentown.
No doubt people will ask questions, but he supposed he would let the whispers of bandits and thieves attacking lend him aid in the matter.
He did not intend to tangle with the Prince any further.
Meredith would find them later at the inn, and he will have all the help he would need.
Caelum was his only concern till then.
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(A/N) The Prince is mad definitely. I don't know if I wrote a powerful groomer well enough. Ser Arthur Dayne totally drank his kool aid. The other kings guard did too, most of them.
The Pen is mightier than the sword
Meredith fussed over Luke, her movements deft as she cleaned his wounds and applied soothing salves.
Caelum, perched on a nearby stool, remained silent, his bright blue eyes wide and haunted.
Meredith's brow furrowed in worry as she noticed his unusual stillness. "Caelum, honey –"
Luke cut her off with a pained sigh. "It's alright, Meredith. He saw..." His voice trailed off, then he gritted his teeth and continued, "... they attacked us. Give him time, Meredith. We… " He swallowed hard. "Caelum saved me. He… he did something, with his eyes, and the men…more magic. He spewed fire from his eyes…. Please, give him time."
Meredith's gasp echoed in the silence.
She'd heard rumors when she had left the tourney encampments, whispers of knights found charred by the tourney grounds. Whispered accusations flew of the King's madness, while some blamed bandits and thieves.
But to find out from Luke, to know her boys had been at the heart of it...
"Fire?" she whispered; her voice barely louder than a breath.
Shock mingled with dreadful fear.
The Prince of the realm wanted her boys dead.
Caelum's new terrifying power scared her even further. It was hard to believe.
Luke nodded grimly. "From his eyes, Meredith. He… burned them." He closed his eyes for a moment as if reliving the horror. "He saved my life."
Caelum shifted uncomfortably. "I just wanted them gone… so Luke wouldn't be hurt."
She did not know what to think. It beggared belief.
She had hoped that they would not fall into further dangerous situations, prayed to the Seven for some help with her little brother's magic.
Instead, a larger danger loomed over them now, and more terrifying magic had been cursed onto Caelum.
A wave of nausea washed over Meredith.
Magic.
Fire.
The prince's assassins... This was no longer the realm of farm work and childhood mischief. Her boys were in a perilous world of princes and prophecies, a world she had no inkling of how to navigate.
Yet, forcing herself to breathe, she refocused on the task at hand.
The poultice to prevent infection in Luke's shoulder needed warmth to infuse properly.
Her gaze flicked to the inn's hearth – a few measly embers, barely enough to boil water. A trip downstairs for more firewood would be necessary.
Luke seemed to read her thoughts. "Caelum," he began, his voice cracked with pain his shoulder sent through him, "we need that poultice warm. Do you think you could try… using your magic to heat it?"
Meredith started to protest.
Asking a child, a frightened child, to summon the terrible power that had saved them... it seemed cruel.
But before she could voice her anger, Luke continued.
"It might help, Cael. You need to learn how to ... how to control it." He winced. Guilt for asking it if Caelum was clearly written in his cerulean eyes.
Caelum took a shuddering breath and nodded.
Meredith saw a flicker of determination in his eyes, replacing some of the earlier fear. "Can you... can you put that bowl on the table, Meredith?" He gestured towards the wobbly piece of furniture near his stool.
"Are you certain, Caelum?" Meredith's voice was thick with worry.
He nodded again. "Luke's right. I have to learn. Or I might hurt myself... or someone else..."
Swallowing down her fear, Meredith placed the bowl where Caelum indicated.
A terrifying awe clashed with her instinct to hide away Caelum, to protect him for everything that would hurt him warred within her.
Just months ago, her deepest prayers to the Seven were for his health. To take away the curse they had placed on his health.
It seemed the Gods had chosen to give him that health, along with a curse far more terrifying than the last.
Caelum closed his eyes, a visible tremor running through his small body. Then, in a terrifying echo of the previous night, his eyes snapped open, glowing crimson. A soft beam of blazing heat lanced from them, perfectly centered on the bowl.
The mixture warmed instantly. Meredith fought back a cry of alarm.
Whatever this was, it wasn't just some trick of the light.
Her mind whirled, searching desperately for a solution, a way to protect both Luke and Caelum thrust into a world they were all ill-equipped to handle.
With trembling hands, Meredith checked the now-warm poultice, its herbal scent sharp against the lingering metallic tang in the air. She turned to Luke, and slowly untied the torn tunic sleeve he had tied to his shoulder to close the wound.
For the first time noticed the true ugliness of his wound - not a clean gash, but a jagged tear where the knight's sword had failed to bite cleanly through muscle.
A fresh wave of anger and fear washed over her.
"Lie still," she instructed, her voice steadier than she felt.
Gently, she pressed the poultice into place, her gaze flicking between Luke's pain-etched face the horrifying cut on his shoulder.
Luke, wincing, continued his tale. "Caelum... he used his magic too much, I think. Passed out right there in the clearing. I… I had no choice, Meredith." His voice dropped. "I burned those men. Burned their bodies and dragged Caelum further into the woods."
Meredith gasped, a hand flying to her mouth.
She understood why he did it. But it was horrifying nonetheless.
"Why?" Her voice cracked. "Why would the prince want you boys dead?"
Luke took a shaky breath. "Caelum… he overheard them. The prince and Ser Arthur Dayne. He…" He paused, the words lodged in his throat. Then continued slowly, "The prince, he talked about… about prophecy. Visenya… something about Lady Lyanna being the key…"
"The prince thinks that she considers me to have her heart." Luke's voice held a mix of bitterness and disbelief. "That I'm some… distraction for her."
A flicker of jealousy, as swift and unexpected as a summer storm, sparked within Meredith.
Lyanna... the beautiful and spirited she-wolf. Had she truly captured Luke's heart?
But she shoved the feeling aside. It was absurd, a highborn lady and a farm boy - a foolish, fleeting fancy. Just like her and Parmen Crane.
Caelum finally spoke, his soft voice heavy with urgency. "We have to warn her, Meredith. Somehow. Tell Lady Lyanna about the prince…"
Luke's voice broke the oppressive silence, laced with a weary finality. "No. No, Cae. We talked about this – we can't make ourselves enemies of the whole kingdom." His eyes met Caelum's, a silent plea for understanding. "You're just a child. They'll kill you."
Caelum's chin lifted, defiance blazing in his eyes. "I can't just do nothing, Luke! I have to help!"
"And how?" Luke's voice rose, frustration finally breaking through. "We can't even get close to her! And we have no proof, none except…" He gestured vaguely towards Caelum, the word 'magic' left unspoken.
He knew he was being cruel, but terror for his brother warred with the cold logic of their situation. "They saw how those men died. They'll call you a demon, Cae. Everyone will!"
"I know!.... I – I heard what that Knight called me last night." Caelum admitted, his voice cracking in pain "I understand that others will do the same… and I promised already on Ma, that I am not telling anyone about my magic. I'm not going to do that, but I still must help!"
Meredith, her heart aching, tried to intervene. "Caelum, honey, listen to Luke. He's right. You're just one small boy. It's...it's not your job to save everyone."
But Caelum's stubbornness flared. "I hear them," he whispered, his eyes looking somewhere far away. "Hear them when they're scared, or hurt, or need help. What kind of person would I be if I just ignored it all?" A spark of anger mingled with the pleading in his gaze. "I said I wanted to be a knight, didn't I? Knights help people. Always."
Meredith's throat tightened.
Oh, this sweet child, cursed with a terrible gift, and yet his heart beat true as any knight's.
Luke sighed, the sound heavy in the small room. "Caelum, think. We have nothing, no proof. Even if, by some miracle, we reached Lady Lyanna, she'd never believe us without something to show. And if word of this, of your accusations, reached the prince…" He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
Execution for treason, or worse….
"I know." Caelum's voice was small, the defiance starting to waver under the weight of their reality. "I'm not stupid, Luke. You taught me to think. Just…just give me time." He turned away, a small, trembling figure retreating into himself. "I turned my eyes away from the brothels, you said there was nothing I could do, that I have to give them space. But this… there's a way. There has to be." He closed his eyes, a single tear escaping. "I just need to find it. I can't ignore this just because I'm too craven to find out what could happen to me."
"Brothels?" Meredith's voice was sharp, her protective instincts surging to the fore. "What's he talking about, Luke?"
Luke hesitated, glancing at Caelum's hunched form. "He... he hears things, Meredith. Everything. When we were in the town..." He swallowed the image of his little brother's wide, haunted eyes after the first time it had happened. "Those places, with the women... Caelum can hear everything."
Caelum shifted slightly, but didn't turn around. "I didn't go in," he mumbled. "You said to give them space, that we couldn't help, and I understood. But this…this is different." His voice trembled with a mix of desperation and stubborn resolve. "We're just being cravens, too scared to do anything!"
"Cae..." Luke began, his voice heavy with frustration and fear, "you don't get it! This isn't just about you getting hurt. It's me, it's Meredith, it's our parents, your parents, the Tyrells... The prince would drag everyone connected to us into this!"
Caelum's retort died on his lips.
He stared at the floor, his small hands clenched into fists.
Meredith saw it then, the way his shoulders slumped, the flicker of despair that replaced the fiery determination.
This wasn't just about Caelum's desire to be a hero.
He truly couldn't bear the thought of all those lives ruined because of him.
Her heart went out to him.
Caelum, so desperately wanting to do right, to live up to what he saw as the oath of a true knight.
He'd already done it, time and again in Harrentown, using his strange powers to help – finding the lost child, saving that girl at the buttery, saving Lord Reed… All small acts, but each born from his good heart and bolstered by the uncanny curse the gods had bestowed upon him.
"Luke…" Caelum's voice was barely a whisper, laced with guilt. "You always tell me to be brave, to help those in need…"
Meredith finished applying the poultice on Luke's shoulder and turned to look at her little brother "Luke won't let either of you go back to Harrentown. You know that. And I won't let you either." She looked at them both, her chin lifted. "But I know you, Caelum. I know that heart of yours, and it will drive you to do something, even if it's dangerous. You want to do the right thing. Well, maybe we've been thinking about this all wrong. Neither of you can go near that tourney, but… I still can."
Luke's hand shot out, halting Meredith mid-motion. "No," he said, his voice thick with a protectiveness that bordered on desperation, "you can't. Meredith… those men were meant for us, the prince wouldn't hesitate sending more for you should he find out! This isn't your fight. If you get hurt, I couldn't…" He trailed off, the thought too painful to voice.
"Our only concern is Caelum," he continued, squeezing the boy's shoulder in a silent plea for understanding. "The gods can watch over Lady Lyanna. And even if, somehow, you did reach her, she has no reason to believe you. They'd drag you before the king... accuse you of slander…"
Meredith moved to undo the bindings around Luke's hip, preparing to apply the poultice there. The wound wasn't as deep as the one on his shoulder.
"Luke... look at him." Her voice was soft, yet firm. "Caelum will do something reckless, you know he will. If I can, I'll guide him, help him. The gods clearly intend their magic to work through him - he's their champion now. You helped him these past days, now let me bear some of the burden."
Luke's eyes were troubled. "Meredith, I... I don't want to see you hurt." The admission hung heavy in the air, his heart aching for the girl who'd cared for him and Caelum with unwavering devotion.
A bittersweet warmth flickered in Meredith's chest.
"I can't stay here forever, Luke. I came because Willas and Garlan would be with the Dornish princess and her... cousin. I'm not needed for their meals today, but tonight's feast… " She shook her head, not needing to finish the thought. "I have to be at Harrenhal either way. I could take this chance, try to pass a warning to Lady Lyanna."
Luke winced as the poultice touched the raw gash on his hip. "And what good will that do? She still won't believe you..."
Caelum, who'd been silent, perked up. "She doesn't have to! Just… know there's a chance it could be true."
Luke scowled. "That just throws you into the dragon's maw, Meredith! And Lady Lyanna –" He rubbed his face in frustration. "From what I've seen, she's bold. If she even considered your words true, wouldn't she confront the prince? Put herself in even more danger?" His voice softened, despair warring with the urge to simply shut this all down. "Gods, I can't believe we're even having this conversation…"
Meredith's mind was already working, frantically searching for another option.
Then, it struck her. "I don't speak to Lady Lyanna in person. A letter… I could pass one discreetly."
Luke paused, Caelum brightening considerably.
He sighed. "If we're doing this… Lady Lyanna is the wrong person. She won't keep quiet, she'll act, and then she's truly in the prince's crosshairs. A letter, but not to her. One to her father, Lord Rickard, or… or her brothers. No name, just… what we know."
He rubbed his forehead, exhaustion warring with a flicker of desperate hope. "By the conversation Caelum described last night, the prince, he was wary of Lord Stark. He wouldn't dare move rashly if the Starks knew of his… intentions."
Luke met Meredith's eyes, "If we do this, that's it. That's all I'll allow. Are you… can you even pass a letter discreetly?"
With practiced hands, Meredith finished dressing the wound on Luke's hip, her movements gentle yet efficient.
She gathered the used poultices and herbs. "The feast," she murmured, as if to herself, "that's where there'll be an opportunity. The prince is meant to sing... the lords will be gathered. It can be done."
Luke sighed, the sound heavy with weariness as it filled the small room.
Luke's sigh, the sound heavy with weariness as it filled the small room, transformed into a ragged cough.
His gaze settled on Caelum, warmth mingled with a familiar worry tightening his chest. "Caelum, I love you. You know that. And your heart... it's the heart of a true knight. But you can't rush into everything, fire blazing." He reached out, squeezing Caelum's shoulder. His touch felt icy against the boy's skin. "You've got to learn to use this too."
He tapped his temple. "Think, plan, weigh the dangers - otherwise…" He choked back the rest, the image of his brother's small body lying twitching clutching his pained eyes too vivid still etched in his mind.
A silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft crackling of the inn's hearth.
Meredith looked between her two boys, her heart caught in a strange mix of pride and fear.
Luke was right. He had always been right.
Caelum's bravery was a double-edged sword.
Recklessness could do more harm than good.
And yet, how could she stifle the very thing the gods had seemingly chosen for him, the thing that burned so brightly within his young soul? Their terrible curse seemed to be guiding him towards a destiny she couldn't fathom.
She placed a hand on each of their hands.
"We'll figure this out," she said, her voice quiet but strong. "Together. Luke teaches you how to use your mind, and I'll help you with…" She hesitated, unsure how to phrase the next part, "… with the rest. And Caelum, you'll listen. That's the most important part."
She didn't offer false promises, empty assurances.
They were walking a precipice now, caught between the monstrous power of the kingdom and the terrifying potential within a boy of five name days.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
The feast hall pulsed with life with vibrant tapestries, gleaming armor, and the savory scent of roast boar hanging heavy in the air.
Meredith, tucked in a shadowed corner, kept a watchful eye on Lord Willas and Lord Garlan. Now, they were engaged with the chubby Princess Arianne and her dusky-skinned companion, her bastard cousin, Tyene Sand, whispers and giggles filling the air.
"I saw a real dragon!" Arianne declared, her eyes round. "Or...nearly real. Father said it was just a tapestry, but it moved, I swear it!"
Willas scoffed. "There are no dragons left, Princess. Not since the Doom."
Garlan's eyes widened. "What about the ones they say the prince keeps? I heard they're beneath the castle!"
Tyene giggled, revealing a gap where a tooth was missing. "Those are just stories to scare naughty children. Like the tale of the Night's King..."
Across the hall, Lord Mace Tyrell, his jovial face flushed with wine, held a goblet aloft in a jovial toast to Oberyn Martell. "Convey my congratulations to Prince Doran, on the birth of his son."
Oberyn smiled, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. "I will, Lord Mace. They named him Quentyn, you know."
Lord Mace smiled his cheeks red with wine. "I am touched, Prince Oberyn. Quentin will be thrilled when he hears of this."
At the center of the hall was Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, seated on a raised dais. Harp in hand, he looked unbearably handsome, the picture of a noble prince.
Internally, she seethed. Those graceful hands had signed a death warrant for her two boys.
She turned her attention to the far end of the hall.
Princess Elia, delicate and pale, was seated with the Queen and a Kingsguard knight – Ser Lewyn Martell, if Meredith wasn't mistaken. Did she know, Meredith wondered, about her husband's twisted designs for another woman?
Lady Alerie and Lady Olenna were hovering near her, trying to engage them in conversation.
Meredith shifted in her seat, the worn fabric scratchy against her skin.
Across the vast hall, Lady Lyanna Stark sat surrounded by her family, her fierce elder brother Brandon, the quieter Benjen Stark just a few years younger than her, and that hulking storm of a man, Robert Baratheon.
Even Lord Rickard Stark, usually stoic and imposing, seemed slightly less severe beside his spirited daughter.
Her fingers brushed against the parchment hidden in her blouse - Luke's desperate scrawl, the warning they hoped would reach Lord Rickard. If only there were a way to pass it without drawing suspicion...every watchful eye in this place seemed fixated on Prince Rhaegar.
The thought of him brought her gaze back to Lyanna Stark.
Could this girl truly have her heart set on Luke?
The difference in their stations was a chasm too wide to bridge. And Luke...he didn't love Lady Lyanna, not like... Meredith cut the thought short.
There was no room for foolishness of the heart in their situation.
Lady Lyanna's attention, however, seemed entirely captured by the prince. A strange, captivated look filled her eyes, mirroring the melancholy that hung heavy in the air as Rhaegar's song began.
A hush fell over the feast. His voice, though not particularly strong, carried a haunting beauty that pierced the boisterous atmosphere of the hall.
"Beneath this crown, a restless heart beats,
Bound by duty, yet yearning to be freed.
A captive spirit, trapped in gilded cage,
While dreams take flight on an unseen stage."
Tears welled in Lady Lyanna's eyes, her small hand clutching at her skirts.
Beside her, Robert Baratheon shifted uncomfortably, his large hand hovering, then retreating awkwardly.
Meredith's own heart twisted.
The song... it was dangerous.
A siren's call to a young and ardent heart.
"Through shadows I walk, though light seems so near.
A whisper of hope, a melody I long to hear.
Though paths diverge, and fate may twist and turn,
This flame within ice, forever it shall burn."
A heavy silence hung in the hall, people enraptured by the hauntingly beautiful music from the harp.
Meredith fought back a shiver.
The prince was more than a handsome face and a skilled hand with the harp.
He was a strategist, every word calculated, every gesture a piece on a dangerous board.
And it seemed Lady Lyanna was poised to fall straight into his gambit.
Meredith stifled a sigh, feigning mild embarrassment. "My apologies, Anya. A touch of nerves, I think. I need to use the privy again." In truth, her bladder was the least of her worries. The parchment tucked beneath her bodice felt heavier with each passing moment.
Anya, her attention hopelessly captivated by the Prince's song, waved Meredith off with a dismissive hand. "Drink less water, girl. You'll be running to the privy all night," she chided, her eyes never leaving the raised dais.
"Just a moment then," Meredith murmured, edging away from the table.
The hall throbbed with life – the clinking of goblets, bursts of boisterous laughter, and the lingering melody of Rhaegar's song.
Each vibrant thread seemed to tighten the noose around her neck. She needed fresh air, a moment's respite from the suffocating splendor.
Anya narrowed her eyes, just as she stood to leave, but then a sly gleam entered them. "Or perhaps a turn about a certain handsome knight in training?" She nudged Meredith playfully. "I've seen you watching Parmen Crane, lass."
A blush, thankfully genuine this time, crept up Meredith's cheeks. "Don't be ridiculous, Anya!" she stammered, a welcome distraction from her true purpose. "I'll be back before you miss me."
Slipping away, she navigated the crowded hall, grateful for her plain servant's garb that rendered her practically invisible.
The corridors beyond were mercifully dim and quiet, a stark contrast to the overwhelming sensory assault of the feast. Here, amongst the shadows and stone, the desperate urgency of her mission pulsed through her.
Lord Stark's chambers were well-marked. All High Lords of the realm were given chambers to reside inside the castle for their stay. The Kings quarters being the largest.
The guards from each house guarded the section that Lord Whent had granted to them.
Lord Whent had done his best to make the sprawling fortress comfortable for his noble guests. Tapestries softened the harshness of the walls, and braziers warded off the ever-present damp chill.
Each of the Great Houses had been assigned a section, often an entire tower, with guards posted outside to maintain both privacy and security.
The quiet hum of voices drifted from one of the chambers within the Tyrell section - a murmur of conversation, accompanied by the sound of clapping flesh, moans and grunts were clear from one of the chambers.
They were supposed to be empty.
Meredith hesitated.
Her path to the Stark quarters lay directly ahead, but the urge to linger, to eavesdrop shamelessly, find out who occupied the rooms.
A tremor ran through her as a familiar voice, tinged with a breathlessness that sent a pang of jealousy through her, cut through the stillness.
Lady Elianora Ashford.
Meredith swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to hurry past, but a sharp intake of breath from within the chamber halted her in her tracks.
"For a moment, I thought your heart was set on that lowly servant girl," Lady Ashford was saying,. "That Meredith. I see I was mistaken"
"A passing fancy," Parmen Crane's voice cut in, a grunt accompanying his words. "She was pretty enough, but not worth my time."
Relief washed over Lady Ashford, followed by a throaty moan. "I know what you were truly after," she purred. "That page... what's his name... Luke. You wanted to teach the boy his place for daring to... to charm your sister."
Parmen's response was a surprised bark of laughter. "And why are you here then, bouncing on my cock?"
A giggle, a sharp slap, another moan. "Because I like you, Parmen Crane. And with our families likely to soon be joined... well, now you don't need to wet your delightful cock with some servant…." She trailed off, her words replaced by a sigh of pleasure.
Meredith stood frozen, a wave of nausea washing over her.
Her cheeks burned, tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
All along, it had been a game to him. A cruel way to wound Luke through her foolish heart.
Just as Rhaegar was playing Lyanna, Parmen had toyed with her.
Wiping away a traitorous tear, Meredith forced herself onwards.
Luke's words echoed in her head, "Think, plan, weigh the dangers…" She had work to do.
Her heartbreak could wait.
The sounds of passion pursued Meredith as she fled the Tyrell quarters, a bitter echo of her own shattered illusions.
Approaching the Stark section, she braced herself for the usual sight of guardsmen posted outside their designated chambers.
Yet, strangely, the corridor lay empty. Where were Lord Rickard's men?
Unease mingled with a flicker of opportunism. Her task might just be easier than anticipated.
With hurried steps, she moved deeper into the Stark territory, the direwolf banner marking the entrance to their designated quarters.
Several rooms branched off from the main hallway, and logic dictated that the largest would belong to the Lord of Winterfell himself.
A gasp tore from Meredith's throat, the sound swiftly muffled by her hand. Her eyes darted towards the room, the heavy wooden door barely concealing the sounds emanating from within.
"Oh, Seven... Ned, don't stop!" A feminine voice, breathless and laced with urgency, shattered the corridor's silence. "Faster! I'm – I'm so close..." Her words dissolved into a sharp cry, the muffled sounds of a body striking the bed reaching Meredith's ears.
Her cheeks burned crimson.
Was the entire castle of Harrenhal engaged in a... grand orgy? First Lady Ashford and Parmen, now this – and the woman, no doubt Lady Ashara Dayne, had screamed Ned! Of all the luck…
A strangled laugh threatened to escape her lips.
Meredith bit it back, a wave of giddy absurdity washing over her.
Her entire world seemed to be consumed by the clandestine affairs of men thinking with their cocks.
The Prince, Parmen Crane and now Lord Eddard Stark.
"Gods save me..." she muttered under her breath.
Cheeks flaming, she quickly scanned the remaining doors.
Surely Lord Rickard's chambers couldn't be far from... Ned's. Her mission, however urgent, could wait a few more scandalous moments.
There!
The largest chamber, its door slightly ajar.
A flicker of triumph mingled with her apprehension as her eyes fell on a stack of letters bearing the Stark sigil, resting upon a roughly hewn table.
She thanked the seven for Lord Eddard Stark thinking with his cock too, clearly the man had sent the guards away to maintain his privacy.
Heart pounding, she retrieved the parchment from her bodice.
Luke's desperate scrawl, their plea hidden within, felt almost too fragile for the weight it bore.
With trembling hands, she placed it prominently upon the center of Lord Stark's bed, ensuring it would be impossible to miss. If their words carried any power, if her delivery was timely, then perhaps… just perhaps… a glimmer of hope still remained for Lyanna Stark.
Her task complete, breath held in a silent prayer, Meredith crept back out into the corridor. It was time to return to the feast, to Willas and Garlan, to the dangerous game she played under the watchful eye of royalty.
Her heart might be bruised, but it wasn't broken.
Not yet.
Not while Luke and Caelum needed her.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
A tense hum crackled through the tourney grounds. Beneath the vibrant banners and boisterous cheers, an undercurrent of anticipation pulsed through the air as the final joust approached.
Rickard Stark, usually an imposing figure, sat uncharacteristically still beside his sons, Brandon and young Benjen.
A Stark should always be in Winterfell.
He had not planned to come south to the tourney truly. But changing fortunes in the South demanded his attention. House Tyrell and its allies had gotten their hands on wealth that strengthened them too much.
This new wealth quite literally falling from the heavens in their backyard.
Lyanna and Lady Ashara Dayne stood a short distance away, conversing quietly while pointedly ignoring the man standing awkwardly beside them.
Eddard Stark between them, seemed just as uncomfortable.
"Who do you think will be the victor, my love?" Robert Baratheon's booming voice cut across their conversation, attempting to draw Lyanna's attention.
His attempts were met with stony silence as Lyanna openly turned her back on him, instead engaging Ned and Ashara with an animated question.
"...so, where were you two last night? Missed you both dreadfully at the feast," she asked, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "You missed the prince's song. It was so beautiful. You would have loved it."
Brandon, never one to miss a chance to poke fun at Robert, couldn't contain his laughter. "Ah, Baratheon," he chimed in, clapping Robert on the shoulder. "Perhaps if you hadn't been so busy fathering bastards, my sister's forgiveness might be more readily earned."
Robert's face flushed crimson, his attempt at a jovial response dying on his lips.
Eddard's gentle cough and Ashara's hastily stifled giggle only served to deepen Robert's discomfort.
The tension around Rickard seemed to ease momentarily, replaced by a flicker of amusement in his usually stern eyes.
Yet, beneath the surface merriment, Rickard's thoughts were a tempest. The letter, its shabbily scrawled words burned into his memory, lay heavy in his pocket.
Treason.
That was the only word fit to describe the accusation hurled at the crown prince.
"Forgive the lack of formality, I write to you with a warning, and I beg forgiveness for maintaining my anonymity, my life has already been threatened.
Rhaegar Targaryen is not the man he seems.
Madness stirs in his blood, a twisted belief in a prophecy I do not know the words of.
I Know only this – he sees in your daughter Lyanna the key to fulfilling it. A mother for the third head of the dragon, for Visenya. Protect your family, Lord Stark. Your daughter's life may depend upon it."
The letter still burned a hole in Rickard's mind, despite his attempts to dismiss it as madness, a cruel jape at best.
His men, questioned after its discovery, had sworn ignorance.
Yet, a niggling suspicion remained; Ned, usually so dutiful, had apparently dismissed them before retiring for the night.
Rickard scowled. The boy was no fool, and his involvement with the Dornish Lady Ashara was an open secret.
He'd kept the letter from his sons. Brandon's fiery temper would ignite all too easily, Ned would demand impossible justice, and Robert Baratheon... the man had fiery temper to match Brandon's in truth.
"Just a scurrilous rumor," Rickard muttered, forcing his thoughts away. It was madness to give credence to an anonymous note. The final joust was about to begin, and the crowd was thrumming with anticipation.
Ser Barristan Selmy, the very image of knightly honor, faced the man accused of madness - Rhaegar Targaryen. Lyanna and Ashara squealed in delight, their voices rising above the din.
"The prince will take the day!" Lyanna declared, her cheeks flushed with excitement. "Did you see his skill yesterday, Lady Ashara?"
Ashara nodded, her eyes locked on the prince. "Ser Barristan is formidable, but Prince Rhaegar... he has a fire, a grace that cannot be denied."
Ned, ever the realist, tempered their enthusiasm. "Experience is a weapon too, ladies. Ser Barristan will not go down easily." He might have added that a prince didn't always fight with the same desperation as a knight who needed victory for his livelihood.
Robert Baratheon, nursing his wounded pride, grumbled something unintelligible under his breath. Rickard turned his attention back to the field. Ser Barristan sat astride his mount, a figure of grim determination.
Far in the stands, a young girl, pretty as some would describe her cheered the loudest for the Knight.
The girl... Rickard frowned. The knight was never seen without her, a small, dark-haired child no older than Lyanna. Some whispered she was his paramour, but Rickard knew better. The man loved her like a daughter.
It brought a rare smile to his face – a bit of genuine happiness amidst all this courtly falsity.
The tension coiled through the air, a sharp intake of breath before the final act. A hush fell over the tourney grounds as the herald's voice boomed through the stands.
"Lords and ladies, knights and commons!" he proclaimed, his voice amplified by the stillness. "Behold, the ultimate contest! Our valiant Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, faces the legendary Kingsguard knight, Ser Barristan Selmy! Let honor and glory be their guides!"
A roar erupted from the crowd, a thousand voices merging into one thunderous wave of noise. Lyanna clasped Ashara's hand excitedly, her eyes sparkling. "Oh, it will be magnificent!" she breathed. Robert Baratheon grumbled under his breath, but even his sulking couldn't dampen the contagious anticipation.
The two contestants appeared at opposite ends of the field. Ser Barristan, astride his destrier, was the embodiment of a seasoned warrior, his armor gleaming, his lance held steady. Across from him, Prince Rhaegar sat tall in the saddle, his silver armor reflecting the sunlight, transforming him into a figure both beautiful and menacing.
The signal was given - a blast of trumpets that sent a shiver down Rickard's spine. The knights lowered their lances, spurs dug into their horses' flanks, and they charged. The earth trembled beneath thundering hooves, the air crackled with the promise of a mighty clash.
Time seemed to slow. Rickard saw the split second before impact, the lances aimed true. And then, a blur of white and silver as the knights met in a splintering explosion of wood and steel. The crowd gasped, a single, collective sound in the sudden silence.
Ser Barristan, for all his legendary prowess, was thrown from his saddle, his body tumbling in the dirt. Rhaegar, lance miraculously still intact, circled back, a triumphant victor. And then, the noise returned with a vengeance as the spectators found their voices, cheering their prince, the dragon of the realm.
The crowd erupted in cheers, a wave of sound crashing over Rickard like the icy waters of the North.
A roar erupted from the crowd, a thousand voices raised in triumph for their beloved prince. "The Dragon prevails!" the herald's voice boomed once more. "Victorious, Rhaegar Targaryen! Now, let us witness as our gallant prince bestows the crown of Love and Beauty upon his chosen Queen!"
Another cheer rose from the stands as the herald placed a delicate wreath made of blue winter roses upon Rhaegar's outstretched hand.
Rickard watched, his unease replaced by relief, as the prince wheeled his horse around, the crown held aloft.
Towards Princess Elia he rode, her pale face a mask of strained composure. Her pregnancy clearer now, after the days of the tourney. Her daughter Rhaenys sat upon her lap, clapping heartily with the crowd.
The letter was a jape then.
But the white destrier didn't stop.
Rhaegar continued past Princess Elia, past her stricken expression and the silent shock emanating from the royal enclosure.
Onwards he rode, towards the Stark contingent. His violet eyes, usually veiled and melancholic, burned with a purpose that chilled Rickard to the bone.
The lance dipped, and the crown of winter roses settled gently into Lyanna's lap.
A gasp, deafening in its shared nature, swept over the tourney grounds, followed by absolute, disbelieving silence. Lyanna stared, wide-eyed, at the flowers, the vibrant blue a stark contrast to her paled cheeks. Brandon's face flickered with shock and outrage, Ned's face went deathly pale, and even Benjen, too young to fully grasp the implications, looked stricken.
The shattering of the stillness came from an unexpected source. Robert Baratheon's laughter, harsh and grating, broke the tension. "See, my lady? Even the prince cannot deny your beauty! A compliment, a tribute!" His words hung heavy in the air, false joviality thinly masking the simmering anger beneath.
Rickard's heart pounded like a war drum in his chest. The Gods were cruel indeed. The letter had been prophecy, not treason. Here, in front of half the realm, was the proof. But what could he do? Accuse the prince of madness? Of scheming to steal his daughter? The kingdoms would mock him. War was unthinkable, yet submission equally impossible.
"Old Gods," he whispered, a ragged prayer escaping his lips," guide me. Show me a way to save her."
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N) Kal El is never going to not try and help. But our boy is learning to use his head. People fuck a lot, especially when drunk.
Caelum, perched on a nearby stool, remained silent, his bright blue eyes wide and haunted.
Meredith's brow furrowed in worry as she noticed his unusual stillness. "Caelum, honey –"
Luke cut her off with a pained sigh. "It's alright, Meredith. He saw..." His voice trailed off, then he gritted his teeth and continued, "... they attacked us. Give him time, Meredith. We… " He swallowed hard. "Caelum saved me. He… he did something, with his eyes, and the men…more magic. He spewed fire from his eyes…. Please, give him time."
Meredith's gasp echoed in the silence.
She'd heard rumors when she had left the tourney encampments, whispers of knights found charred by the tourney grounds. Whispered accusations flew of the King's madness, while some blamed bandits and thieves.
But to find out from Luke, to know her boys had been at the heart of it...
"Fire?" she whispered; her voice barely louder than a breath.
Shock mingled with dreadful fear.
The Prince of the realm wanted her boys dead.
Caelum's new terrifying power scared her even further. It was hard to believe.
Luke nodded grimly. "From his eyes, Meredith. He… burned them." He closed his eyes for a moment as if reliving the horror. "He saved my life."
Caelum shifted uncomfortably. "I just wanted them gone… so Luke wouldn't be hurt."
She did not know what to think. It beggared belief.
She had hoped that they would not fall into further dangerous situations, prayed to the Seven for some help with her little brother's magic.
Instead, a larger danger loomed over them now, and more terrifying magic had been cursed onto Caelum.
A wave of nausea washed over Meredith.
Magic.
Fire.
The prince's assassins... This was no longer the realm of farm work and childhood mischief. Her boys were in a perilous world of princes and prophecies, a world she had no inkling of how to navigate.
Yet, forcing herself to breathe, she refocused on the task at hand.
The poultice to prevent infection in Luke's shoulder needed warmth to infuse properly.
Her gaze flicked to the inn's hearth – a few measly embers, barely enough to boil water. A trip downstairs for more firewood would be necessary.
Luke seemed to read her thoughts. "Caelum," he began, his voice cracked with pain his shoulder sent through him, "we need that poultice warm. Do you think you could try… using your magic to heat it?"
Meredith started to protest.
Asking a child, a frightened child, to summon the terrible power that had saved them... it seemed cruel.
But before she could voice her anger, Luke continued.
"It might help, Cael. You need to learn how to ... how to control it." He winced. Guilt for asking it if Caelum was clearly written in his cerulean eyes.
Caelum took a shuddering breath and nodded.
Meredith saw a flicker of determination in his eyes, replacing some of the earlier fear. "Can you... can you put that bowl on the table, Meredith?" He gestured towards the wobbly piece of furniture near his stool.
"Are you certain, Caelum?" Meredith's voice was thick with worry.
He nodded again. "Luke's right. I have to learn. Or I might hurt myself... or someone else..."
Swallowing down her fear, Meredith placed the bowl where Caelum indicated.
A terrifying awe clashed with her instinct to hide away Caelum, to protect him for everything that would hurt him warred within her.
Just months ago, her deepest prayers to the Seven were for his health. To take away the curse they had placed on his health.
It seemed the Gods had chosen to give him that health, along with a curse far more terrifying than the last.
Caelum closed his eyes, a visible tremor running through his small body. Then, in a terrifying echo of the previous night, his eyes snapped open, glowing crimson. A soft beam of blazing heat lanced from them, perfectly centered on the bowl.
The mixture warmed instantly. Meredith fought back a cry of alarm.
Whatever this was, it wasn't just some trick of the light.
Her mind whirled, searching desperately for a solution, a way to protect both Luke and Caelum thrust into a world they were all ill-equipped to handle.
With trembling hands, Meredith checked the now-warm poultice, its herbal scent sharp against the lingering metallic tang in the air. She turned to Luke, and slowly untied the torn tunic sleeve he had tied to his shoulder to close the wound.
For the first time noticed the true ugliness of his wound - not a clean gash, but a jagged tear where the knight's sword had failed to bite cleanly through muscle.
A fresh wave of anger and fear washed over her.
"Lie still," she instructed, her voice steadier than she felt.
Gently, she pressed the poultice into place, her gaze flicking between Luke's pain-etched face the horrifying cut on his shoulder.
Luke, wincing, continued his tale. "Caelum... he used his magic too much, I think. Passed out right there in the clearing. I… I had no choice, Meredith." His voice dropped. "I burned those men. Burned their bodies and dragged Caelum further into the woods."
Meredith gasped, a hand flying to her mouth.
She understood why he did it. But it was horrifying nonetheless.
"Why?" Her voice cracked. "Why would the prince want you boys dead?"
Luke took a shaky breath. "Caelum… he overheard them. The prince and Ser Arthur Dayne. He…" He paused, the words lodged in his throat. Then continued slowly, "The prince, he talked about… about prophecy. Visenya… something about Lady Lyanna being the key…"
"The prince thinks that she considers me to have her heart." Luke's voice held a mix of bitterness and disbelief. "That I'm some… distraction for her."
A flicker of jealousy, as swift and unexpected as a summer storm, sparked within Meredith.
Lyanna... the beautiful and spirited she-wolf. Had she truly captured Luke's heart?
But she shoved the feeling aside. It was absurd, a highborn lady and a farm boy - a foolish, fleeting fancy. Just like her and Parmen Crane.
Caelum finally spoke, his soft voice heavy with urgency. "We have to warn her, Meredith. Somehow. Tell Lady Lyanna about the prince…"
Luke's voice broke the oppressive silence, laced with a weary finality. "No. No, Cae. We talked about this – we can't make ourselves enemies of the whole kingdom." His eyes met Caelum's, a silent plea for understanding. "You're just a child. They'll kill you."
Caelum's chin lifted, defiance blazing in his eyes. "I can't just do nothing, Luke! I have to help!"
"And how?" Luke's voice rose, frustration finally breaking through. "We can't even get close to her! And we have no proof, none except…" He gestured vaguely towards Caelum, the word 'magic' left unspoken.
He knew he was being cruel, but terror for his brother warred with the cold logic of their situation. "They saw how those men died. They'll call you a demon, Cae. Everyone will!"
"I know!.... I – I heard what that Knight called me last night." Caelum admitted, his voice cracking in pain "I understand that others will do the same… and I promised already on Ma, that I am not telling anyone about my magic. I'm not going to do that, but I still must help!"
Meredith, her heart aching, tried to intervene. "Caelum, honey, listen to Luke. He's right. You're just one small boy. It's...it's not your job to save everyone."
But Caelum's stubbornness flared. "I hear them," he whispered, his eyes looking somewhere far away. "Hear them when they're scared, or hurt, or need help. What kind of person would I be if I just ignored it all?" A spark of anger mingled with the pleading in his gaze. "I said I wanted to be a knight, didn't I? Knights help people. Always."
Meredith's throat tightened.
Oh, this sweet child, cursed with a terrible gift, and yet his heart beat true as any knight's.
Luke sighed, the sound heavy in the small room. "Caelum, think. We have nothing, no proof. Even if, by some miracle, we reached Lady Lyanna, she'd never believe us without something to show. And if word of this, of your accusations, reached the prince…" He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
Execution for treason, or worse….
"I know." Caelum's voice was small, the defiance starting to waver under the weight of their reality. "I'm not stupid, Luke. You taught me to think. Just…just give me time." He turned away, a small, trembling figure retreating into himself. "I turned my eyes away from the brothels, you said there was nothing I could do, that I have to give them space. But this… there's a way. There has to be." He closed his eyes, a single tear escaping. "I just need to find it. I can't ignore this just because I'm too craven to find out what could happen to me."
"Brothels?" Meredith's voice was sharp, her protective instincts surging to the fore. "What's he talking about, Luke?"
Luke hesitated, glancing at Caelum's hunched form. "He... he hears things, Meredith. Everything. When we were in the town..." He swallowed the image of his little brother's wide, haunted eyes after the first time it had happened. "Those places, with the women... Caelum can hear everything."
Caelum shifted slightly, but didn't turn around. "I didn't go in," he mumbled. "You said to give them space, that we couldn't help, and I understood. But this…this is different." His voice trembled with a mix of desperation and stubborn resolve. "We're just being cravens, too scared to do anything!"
"Cae..." Luke began, his voice heavy with frustration and fear, "you don't get it! This isn't just about you getting hurt. It's me, it's Meredith, it's our parents, your parents, the Tyrells... The prince would drag everyone connected to us into this!"
Caelum's retort died on his lips.
He stared at the floor, his small hands clenched into fists.
Meredith saw it then, the way his shoulders slumped, the flicker of despair that replaced the fiery determination.
This wasn't just about Caelum's desire to be a hero.
He truly couldn't bear the thought of all those lives ruined because of him.
Her heart went out to him.
Caelum, so desperately wanting to do right, to live up to what he saw as the oath of a true knight.
He'd already done it, time and again in Harrentown, using his strange powers to help – finding the lost child, saving that girl at the buttery, saving Lord Reed… All small acts, but each born from his good heart and bolstered by the uncanny curse the gods had bestowed upon him.
"Luke…" Caelum's voice was barely a whisper, laced with guilt. "You always tell me to be brave, to help those in need…"
Meredith finished applying the poultice on Luke's shoulder and turned to look at her little brother "Luke won't let either of you go back to Harrentown. You know that. And I won't let you either." She looked at them both, her chin lifted. "But I know you, Caelum. I know that heart of yours, and it will drive you to do something, even if it's dangerous. You want to do the right thing. Well, maybe we've been thinking about this all wrong. Neither of you can go near that tourney, but… I still can."
Luke's hand shot out, halting Meredith mid-motion. "No," he said, his voice thick with a protectiveness that bordered on desperation, "you can't. Meredith… those men were meant for us, the prince wouldn't hesitate sending more for you should he find out! This isn't your fight. If you get hurt, I couldn't…" He trailed off, the thought too painful to voice.
"Our only concern is Caelum," he continued, squeezing the boy's shoulder in a silent plea for understanding. "The gods can watch over Lady Lyanna. And even if, somehow, you did reach her, she has no reason to believe you. They'd drag you before the king... accuse you of slander…"
Meredith moved to undo the bindings around Luke's hip, preparing to apply the poultice there. The wound wasn't as deep as the one on his shoulder.
"Luke... look at him." Her voice was soft, yet firm. "Caelum will do something reckless, you know he will. If I can, I'll guide him, help him. The gods clearly intend their magic to work through him - he's their champion now. You helped him these past days, now let me bear some of the burden."
Luke's eyes were troubled. "Meredith, I... I don't want to see you hurt." The admission hung heavy in the air, his heart aching for the girl who'd cared for him and Caelum with unwavering devotion.
A bittersweet warmth flickered in Meredith's chest.
"I can't stay here forever, Luke. I came because Willas and Garlan would be with the Dornish princess and her... cousin. I'm not needed for their meals today, but tonight's feast… " She shook her head, not needing to finish the thought. "I have to be at Harrenhal either way. I could take this chance, try to pass a warning to Lady Lyanna."
Luke winced as the poultice touched the raw gash on his hip. "And what good will that do? She still won't believe you..."
Caelum, who'd been silent, perked up. "She doesn't have to! Just… know there's a chance it could be true."
Luke scowled. "That just throws you into the dragon's maw, Meredith! And Lady Lyanna –" He rubbed his face in frustration. "From what I've seen, she's bold. If she even considered your words true, wouldn't she confront the prince? Put herself in even more danger?" His voice softened, despair warring with the urge to simply shut this all down. "Gods, I can't believe we're even having this conversation…"
Meredith's mind was already working, frantically searching for another option.
Then, it struck her. "I don't speak to Lady Lyanna in person. A letter… I could pass one discreetly."
Luke paused, Caelum brightening considerably.
He sighed. "If we're doing this… Lady Lyanna is the wrong person. She won't keep quiet, she'll act, and then she's truly in the prince's crosshairs. A letter, but not to her. One to her father, Lord Rickard, or… or her brothers. No name, just… what we know."
He rubbed his forehead, exhaustion warring with a flicker of desperate hope. "By the conversation Caelum described last night, the prince, he was wary of Lord Stark. He wouldn't dare move rashly if the Starks knew of his… intentions."
Luke met Meredith's eyes, "If we do this, that's it. That's all I'll allow. Are you… can you even pass a letter discreetly?"
With practiced hands, Meredith finished dressing the wound on Luke's hip, her movements gentle yet efficient.
She gathered the used poultices and herbs. "The feast," she murmured, as if to herself, "that's where there'll be an opportunity. The prince is meant to sing... the lords will be gathered. It can be done."
Luke sighed, the sound heavy with weariness as it filled the small room.
Luke's sigh, the sound heavy with weariness as it filled the small room, transformed into a ragged cough.
His gaze settled on Caelum, warmth mingled with a familiar worry tightening his chest. "Caelum, I love you. You know that. And your heart... it's the heart of a true knight. But you can't rush into everything, fire blazing." He reached out, squeezing Caelum's shoulder. His touch felt icy against the boy's skin. "You've got to learn to use this too."
He tapped his temple. "Think, plan, weigh the dangers - otherwise…" He choked back the rest, the image of his brother's small body lying twitching clutching his pained eyes too vivid still etched in his mind.
A silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft crackling of the inn's hearth.
Meredith looked between her two boys, her heart caught in a strange mix of pride and fear.
Luke was right. He had always been right.
Caelum's bravery was a double-edged sword.
Recklessness could do more harm than good.
And yet, how could she stifle the very thing the gods had seemingly chosen for him, the thing that burned so brightly within his young soul? Their terrible curse seemed to be guiding him towards a destiny she couldn't fathom.
She placed a hand on each of their hands.
"We'll figure this out," she said, her voice quiet but strong. "Together. Luke teaches you how to use your mind, and I'll help you with…" She hesitated, unsure how to phrase the next part, "… with the rest. And Caelum, you'll listen. That's the most important part."
She didn't offer false promises, empty assurances.
They were walking a precipice now, caught between the monstrous power of the kingdom and the terrifying potential within a boy of five name days.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
The feast hall pulsed with life with vibrant tapestries, gleaming armor, and the savory scent of roast boar hanging heavy in the air.
Meredith, tucked in a shadowed corner, kept a watchful eye on Lord Willas and Lord Garlan. Now, they were engaged with the chubby Princess Arianne and her dusky-skinned companion, her bastard cousin, Tyene Sand, whispers and giggles filling the air.
"I saw a real dragon!" Arianne declared, her eyes round. "Or...nearly real. Father said it was just a tapestry, but it moved, I swear it!"
Willas scoffed. "There are no dragons left, Princess. Not since the Doom."
Garlan's eyes widened. "What about the ones they say the prince keeps? I heard they're beneath the castle!"
Tyene giggled, revealing a gap where a tooth was missing. "Those are just stories to scare naughty children. Like the tale of the Night's King..."
Across the hall, Lord Mace Tyrell, his jovial face flushed with wine, held a goblet aloft in a jovial toast to Oberyn Martell. "Convey my congratulations to Prince Doran, on the birth of his son."
Oberyn smiled, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. "I will, Lord Mace. They named him Quentyn, you know."
Lord Mace smiled his cheeks red with wine. "I am touched, Prince Oberyn. Quentin will be thrilled when he hears of this."
At the center of the hall was Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, seated on a raised dais. Harp in hand, he looked unbearably handsome, the picture of a noble prince.
Internally, she seethed. Those graceful hands had signed a death warrant for her two boys.
She turned her attention to the far end of the hall.
Princess Elia, delicate and pale, was seated with the Queen and a Kingsguard knight – Ser Lewyn Martell, if Meredith wasn't mistaken. Did she know, Meredith wondered, about her husband's twisted designs for another woman?
Lady Alerie and Lady Olenna were hovering near her, trying to engage them in conversation.
Meredith shifted in her seat, the worn fabric scratchy against her skin.
Across the vast hall, Lady Lyanna Stark sat surrounded by her family, her fierce elder brother Brandon, the quieter Benjen Stark just a few years younger than her, and that hulking storm of a man, Robert Baratheon.
Even Lord Rickard Stark, usually stoic and imposing, seemed slightly less severe beside his spirited daughter.
Her fingers brushed against the parchment hidden in her blouse - Luke's desperate scrawl, the warning they hoped would reach Lord Rickard. If only there were a way to pass it without drawing suspicion...every watchful eye in this place seemed fixated on Prince Rhaegar.
The thought of him brought her gaze back to Lyanna Stark.
Could this girl truly have her heart set on Luke?
The difference in their stations was a chasm too wide to bridge. And Luke...he didn't love Lady Lyanna, not like... Meredith cut the thought short.
There was no room for foolishness of the heart in their situation.
Lady Lyanna's attention, however, seemed entirely captured by the prince. A strange, captivated look filled her eyes, mirroring the melancholy that hung heavy in the air as Rhaegar's song began.
A hush fell over the feast. His voice, though not particularly strong, carried a haunting beauty that pierced the boisterous atmosphere of the hall.
"Beneath this crown, a restless heart beats,
Bound by duty, yet yearning to be freed.
A captive spirit, trapped in gilded cage,
While dreams take flight on an unseen stage."
Tears welled in Lady Lyanna's eyes, her small hand clutching at her skirts.
Beside her, Robert Baratheon shifted uncomfortably, his large hand hovering, then retreating awkwardly.
Meredith's own heart twisted.
The song... it was dangerous.
A siren's call to a young and ardent heart.
"Through shadows I walk, though light seems so near.
A whisper of hope, a melody I long to hear.
Though paths diverge, and fate may twist and turn,
This flame within ice, forever it shall burn."
A heavy silence hung in the hall, people enraptured by the hauntingly beautiful music from the harp.
Meredith fought back a shiver.
The prince was more than a handsome face and a skilled hand with the harp.
He was a strategist, every word calculated, every gesture a piece on a dangerous board.
And it seemed Lady Lyanna was poised to fall straight into his gambit.
Meredith stifled a sigh, feigning mild embarrassment. "My apologies, Anya. A touch of nerves, I think. I need to use the privy again." In truth, her bladder was the least of her worries. The parchment tucked beneath her bodice felt heavier with each passing moment.
Anya, her attention hopelessly captivated by the Prince's song, waved Meredith off with a dismissive hand. "Drink less water, girl. You'll be running to the privy all night," she chided, her eyes never leaving the raised dais.
"Just a moment then," Meredith murmured, edging away from the table.
The hall throbbed with life – the clinking of goblets, bursts of boisterous laughter, and the lingering melody of Rhaegar's song.
Each vibrant thread seemed to tighten the noose around her neck. She needed fresh air, a moment's respite from the suffocating splendor.
Anya narrowed her eyes, just as she stood to leave, but then a sly gleam entered them. "Or perhaps a turn about a certain handsome knight in training?" She nudged Meredith playfully. "I've seen you watching Parmen Crane, lass."
A blush, thankfully genuine this time, crept up Meredith's cheeks. "Don't be ridiculous, Anya!" she stammered, a welcome distraction from her true purpose. "I'll be back before you miss me."
Slipping away, she navigated the crowded hall, grateful for her plain servant's garb that rendered her practically invisible.
The corridors beyond were mercifully dim and quiet, a stark contrast to the overwhelming sensory assault of the feast. Here, amongst the shadows and stone, the desperate urgency of her mission pulsed through her.
Lord Stark's chambers were well-marked. All High Lords of the realm were given chambers to reside inside the castle for their stay. The Kings quarters being the largest.
The guards from each house guarded the section that Lord Whent had granted to them.
Lord Whent had done his best to make the sprawling fortress comfortable for his noble guests. Tapestries softened the harshness of the walls, and braziers warded off the ever-present damp chill.
Each of the Great Houses had been assigned a section, often an entire tower, with guards posted outside to maintain both privacy and security.
The quiet hum of voices drifted from one of the chambers within the Tyrell section - a murmur of conversation, accompanied by the sound of clapping flesh, moans and grunts were clear from one of the chambers.
They were supposed to be empty.
Meredith hesitated.
Her path to the Stark quarters lay directly ahead, but the urge to linger, to eavesdrop shamelessly, find out who occupied the rooms.
A tremor ran through her as a familiar voice, tinged with a breathlessness that sent a pang of jealousy through her, cut through the stillness.
Lady Elianora Ashford.
Meredith swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to hurry past, but a sharp intake of breath from within the chamber halted her in her tracks.
"For a moment, I thought your heart was set on that lowly servant girl," Lady Ashford was saying,. "That Meredith. I see I was mistaken"
"A passing fancy," Parmen Crane's voice cut in, a grunt accompanying his words. "She was pretty enough, but not worth my time."
Relief washed over Lady Ashford, followed by a throaty moan. "I know what you were truly after," she purred. "That page... what's his name... Luke. You wanted to teach the boy his place for daring to... to charm your sister."
Parmen's response was a surprised bark of laughter. "And why are you here then, bouncing on my cock?"
A giggle, a sharp slap, another moan. "Because I like you, Parmen Crane. And with our families likely to soon be joined... well, now you don't need to wet your delightful cock with some servant…." She trailed off, her words replaced by a sigh of pleasure.
Meredith stood frozen, a wave of nausea washing over her.
Her cheeks burned, tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
All along, it had been a game to him. A cruel way to wound Luke through her foolish heart.
Just as Rhaegar was playing Lyanna, Parmen had toyed with her.
Wiping away a traitorous tear, Meredith forced herself onwards.
Luke's words echoed in her head, "Think, plan, weigh the dangers…" She had work to do.
Her heartbreak could wait.
The sounds of passion pursued Meredith as she fled the Tyrell quarters, a bitter echo of her own shattered illusions.
Approaching the Stark section, she braced herself for the usual sight of guardsmen posted outside their designated chambers.
Yet, strangely, the corridor lay empty. Where were Lord Rickard's men?
Unease mingled with a flicker of opportunism. Her task might just be easier than anticipated.
With hurried steps, she moved deeper into the Stark territory, the direwolf banner marking the entrance to their designated quarters.
Several rooms branched off from the main hallway, and logic dictated that the largest would belong to the Lord of Winterfell himself.
A gasp tore from Meredith's throat, the sound swiftly muffled by her hand. Her eyes darted towards the room, the heavy wooden door barely concealing the sounds emanating from within.
"Oh, Seven... Ned, don't stop!" A feminine voice, breathless and laced with urgency, shattered the corridor's silence. "Faster! I'm – I'm so close..." Her words dissolved into a sharp cry, the muffled sounds of a body striking the bed reaching Meredith's ears.
Her cheeks burned crimson.
Was the entire castle of Harrenhal engaged in a... grand orgy? First Lady Ashford and Parmen, now this – and the woman, no doubt Lady Ashara Dayne, had screamed Ned! Of all the luck…
A strangled laugh threatened to escape her lips.
Meredith bit it back, a wave of giddy absurdity washing over her.
Her entire world seemed to be consumed by the clandestine affairs of men thinking with their cocks.
The Prince, Parmen Crane and now Lord Eddard Stark.
"Gods save me..." she muttered under her breath.
Cheeks flaming, she quickly scanned the remaining doors.
Surely Lord Rickard's chambers couldn't be far from... Ned's. Her mission, however urgent, could wait a few more scandalous moments.
There!
The largest chamber, its door slightly ajar.
A flicker of triumph mingled with her apprehension as her eyes fell on a stack of letters bearing the Stark sigil, resting upon a roughly hewn table.
She thanked the seven for Lord Eddard Stark thinking with his cock too, clearly the man had sent the guards away to maintain his privacy.
Heart pounding, she retrieved the parchment from her bodice.
Luke's desperate scrawl, their plea hidden within, felt almost too fragile for the weight it bore.
With trembling hands, she placed it prominently upon the center of Lord Stark's bed, ensuring it would be impossible to miss. If their words carried any power, if her delivery was timely, then perhaps… just perhaps… a glimmer of hope still remained for Lyanna Stark.
Her task complete, breath held in a silent prayer, Meredith crept back out into the corridor. It was time to return to the feast, to Willas and Garlan, to the dangerous game she played under the watchful eye of royalty.
Her heart might be bruised, but it wasn't broken.
Not yet.
Not while Luke and Caelum needed her.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
A tense hum crackled through the tourney grounds. Beneath the vibrant banners and boisterous cheers, an undercurrent of anticipation pulsed through the air as the final joust approached.
Rickard Stark, usually an imposing figure, sat uncharacteristically still beside his sons, Brandon and young Benjen.
A Stark should always be in Winterfell.
He had not planned to come south to the tourney truly. But changing fortunes in the South demanded his attention. House Tyrell and its allies had gotten their hands on wealth that strengthened them too much.
This new wealth quite literally falling from the heavens in their backyard.
Lyanna and Lady Ashara Dayne stood a short distance away, conversing quietly while pointedly ignoring the man standing awkwardly beside them.
Eddard Stark between them, seemed just as uncomfortable.
"Who do you think will be the victor, my love?" Robert Baratheon's booming voice cut across their conversation, attempting to draw Lyanna's attention.
His attempts were met with stony silence as Lyanna openly turned her back on him, instead engaging Ned and Ashara with an animated question.
"...so, where were you two last night? Missed you both dreadfully at the feast," she asked, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "You missed the prince's song. It was so beautiful. You would have loved it."
Brandon, never one to miss a chance to poke fun at Robert, couldn't contain his laughter. "Ah, Baratheon," he chimed in, clapping Robert on the shoulder. "Perhaps if you hadn't been so busy fathering bastards, my sister's forgiveness might be more readily earned."
Robert's face flushed crimson, his attempt at a jovial response dying on his lips.
Eddard's gentle cough and Ashara's hastily stifled giggle only served to deepen Robert's discomfort.
The tension around Rickard seemed to ease momentarily, replaced by a flicker of amusement in his usually stern eyes.
Yet, beneath the surface merriment, Rickard's thoughts were a tempest. The letter, its shabbily scrawled words burned into his memory, lay heavy in his pocket.
Treason.
That was the only word fit to describe the accusation hurled at the crown prince.
"Forgive the lack of formality, I write to you with a warning, and I beg forgiveness for maintaining my anonymity, my life has already been threatened.
Rhaegar Targaryen is not the man he seems.
Madness stirs in his blood, a twisted belief in a prophecy I do not know the words of.
I Know only this – he sees in your daughter Lyanna the key to fulfilling it. A mother for the third head of the dragon, for Visenya. Protect your family, Lord Stark. Your daughter's life may depend upon it."
The letter still burned a hole in Rickard's mind, despite his attempts to dismiss it as madness, a cruel jape at best.
His men, questioned after its discovery, had sworn ignorance.
Yet, a niggling suspicion remained; Ned, usually so dutiful, had apparently dismissed them before retiring for the night.
Rickard scowled. The boy was no fool, and his involvement with the Dornish Lady Ashara was an open secret.
He'd kept the letter from his sons. Brandon's fiery temper would ignite all too easily, Ned would demand impossible justice, and Robert Baratheon... the man had fiery temper to match Brandon's in truth.
"Just a scurrilous rumor," Rickard muttered, forcing his thoughts away. It was madness to give credence to an anonymous note. The final joust was about to begin, and the crowd was thrumming with anticipation.
Ser Barristan Selmy, the very image of knightly honor, faced the man accused of madness - Rhaegar Targaryen. Lyanna and Ashara squealed in delight, their voices rising above the din.
"The prince will take the day!" Lyanna declared, her cheeks flushed with excitement. "Did you see his skill yesterday, Lady Ashara?"
Ashara nodded, her eyes locked on the prince. "Ser Barristan is formidable, but Prince Rhaegar... he has a fire, a grace that cannot be denied."
Ned, ever the realist, tempered their enthusiasm. "Experience is a weapon too, ladies. Ser Barristan will not go down easily." He might have added that a prince didn't always fight with the same desperation as a knight who needed victory for his livelihood.
Robert Baratheon, nursing his wounded pride, grumbled something unintelligible under his breath. Rickard turned his attention back to the field. Ser Barristan sat astride his mount, a figure of grim determination.
Far in the stands, a young girl, pretty as some would describe her cheered the loudest for the Knight.
The girl... Rickard frowned. The knight was never seen without her, a small, dark-haired child no older than Lyanna. Some whispered she was his paramour, but Rickard knew better. The man loved her like a daughter.
It brought a rare smile to his face – a bit of genuine happiness amidst all this courtly falsity.
The tension coiled through the air, a sharp intake of breath before the final act. A hush fell over the tourney grounds as the herald's voice boomed through the stands.
"Lords and ladies, knights and commons!" he proclaimed, his voice amplified by the stillness. "Behold, the ultimate contest! Our valiant Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, faces the legendary Kingsguard knight, Ser Barristan Selmy! Let honor and glory be their guides!"
A roar erupted from the crowd, a thousand voices merging into one thunderous wave of noise. Lyanna clasped Ashara's hand excitedly, her eyes sparkling. "Oh, it will be magnificent!" she breathed. Robert Baratheon grumbled under his breath, but even his sulking couldn't dampen the contagious anticipation.
The two contestants appeared at opposite ends of the field. Ser Barristan, astride his destrier, was the embodiment of a seasoned warrior, his armor gleaming, his lance held steady. Across from him, Prince Rhaegar sat tall in the saddle, his silver armor reflecting the sunlight, transforming him into a figure both beautiful and menacing.
The signal was given - a blast of trumpets that sent a shiver down Rickard's spine. The knights lowered their lances, spurs dug into their horses' flanks, and they charged. The earth trembled beneath thundering hooves, the air crackled with the promise of a mighty clash.
Time seemed to slow. Rickard saw the split second before impact, the lances aimed true. And then, a blur of white and silver as the knights met in a splintering explosion of wood and steel. The crowd gasped, a single, collective sound in the sudden silence.
Ser Barristan, for all his legendary prowess, was thrown from his saddle, his body tumbling in the dirt. Rhaegar, lance miraculously still intact, circled back, a triumphant victor. And then, the noise returned with a vengeance as the spectators found their voices, cheering their prince, the dragon of the realm.
The crowd erupted in cheers, a wave of sound crashing over Rickard like the icy waters of the North.
A roar erupted from the crowd, a thousand voices raised in triumph for their beloved prince. "The Dragon prevails!" the herald's voice boomed once more. "Victorious, Rhaegar Targaryen! Now, let us witness as our gallant prince bestows the crown of Love and Beauty upon his chosen Queen!"
Another cheer rose from the stands as the herald placed a delicate wreath made of blue winter roses upon Rhaegar's outstretched hand.
Rickard watched, his unease replaced by relief, as the prince wheeled his horse around, the crown held aloft.
Towards Princess Elia he rode, her pale face a mask of strained composure. Her pregnancy clearer now, after the days of the tourney. Her daughter Rhaenys sat upon her lap, clapping heartily with the crowd.
The letter was a jape then.
But the white destrier didn't stop.
Rhaegar continued past Princess Elia, past her stricken expression and the silent shock emanating from the royal enclosure.
Onwards he rode, towards the Stark contingent. His violet eyes, usually veiled and melancholic, burned with a purpose that chilled Rickard to the bone.
The lance dipped, and the crown of winter roses settled gently into Lyanna's lap.
A gasp, deafening in its shared nature, swept over the tourney grounds, followed by absolute, disbelieving silence. Lyanna stared, wide-eyed, at the flowers, the vibrant blue a stark contrast to her paled cheeks. Brandon's face flickered with shock and outrage, Ned's face went deathly pale, and even Benjen, too young to fully grasp the implications, looked stricken.
The shattering of the stillness came from an unexpected source. Robert Baratheon's laughter, harsh and grating, broke the tension. "See, my lady? Even the prince cannot deny your beauty! A compliment, a tribute!" His words hung heavy in the air, false joviality thinly masking the simmering anger beneath.
Rickard's heart pounded like a war drum in his chest. The Gods were cruel indeed. The letter had been prophecy, not treason. Here, in front of half the realm, was the proof. But what could he do? Accuse the prince of madness? Of scheming to steal his daughter? The kingdoms would mock him. War was unthinkable, yet submission equally impossible.
"Old Gods," he whispered, a ragged prayer escaping his lips," guide me. Show me a way to save her."
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N) Kal El is never going to not try and help. But our boy is learning to use his head. People fuck a lot, especially when drunk.
No worries, Lord Rickard Stark. Caelum Starborn will not let that happen on his watch and it would be interesting to see how the story diverged because it would feel pointless if Kal-El didn't change anything despite his presence and actions, and it looked like he's just there for the ride of the events that led to Robert's Rebellion.
Anyway, this crossover is great so far and I will be watching for more of it with great interest.
Legacy
Highgarden shimmered in the distance, its towers like gilded spires reaching towards the heavens.
A familiar warmth washed over Meredith. "Almost home," she breathed, the words laced with both weariness and anticipation.
Inside the open wheelhouse, Lord Willas fidgeted, his eyes fixed on the ever-nearing castle. "I can't believe we're back already," he said, excitement clear on his young face.
Lady Olenna, her sharp eyes twinkling with amusement under her snowy white hair, chuckled softly. "Patience, my dear. You can send your letters to your friend soon enough." Seeing the boy's face flush, she added, "Now, now, Princess Arianne is a remarkable friend indeed."
Willas squirmed in his seat with ill-concealed excitement.
Meredith couldn't blame him.
Lord Willas and Lord Garlan had spent almost every moment in the castle alongside the Dornish princess and her bastard cousin, playing games and getting her to tell them stories.
She wished Caelum could have joined them, maybe that way his experience at the tourney wouldn't have been as perilous as it turned out to be.
"Willas told her that he'd send her letters using hawks" Garlan whispered conspiratorially to Caelum seated beside him, "She didn't believe hawks could send letters. It's going to be hilarious watching Willas try and teach a hawk how to carry letters!"
Caelum flashed a wide grin at the thought, happy to see his friend squirm in discomfort. "Are you sure they can do that?"
"I don't know, okay!" Lord Willas reddened slightly "She'd been saying that Dorne can make use of Eagles to send their letters, I thought we should have something like that too!"
"Can Dorne use eagles to send their letters?" Caelum couldn't help but ask.
"I don't knowww" Willas whined "Maybe?"
Lady Alerie chuckled amusedly, her palor seemed much healthier now that they were returning to Highgarden. "The Dornish do not use Eagles for their letters Willas, Princess Arianne was teasing you."
Willas looked affronted at that revelation, but then a mischievous look settled on his face "Then … if I do succeed in getting Hawks to take my letters, she'll have to be true to her word and send her own by Eagle. I can't wait! Gran, do you think Maester Lomys can help me train some hawks?"
Lady Olenna chuckled at the boy's enthusiasm "I am sure he will help. But remember, you need to learn to manage your time now, child. Your lessons at the yard will begin soon. Mace has arranged Ser Vortimer Crane to begin your training in a moon's turn."
Garlan shifted nervously at that, "C-can I join too?" he asked.
Lady Alerie chuckled at his eagerness to enter the training yard "Not just yet, Garlan. Another year or so and I am sure your training will begin soon too. You need to focus on your riding practices."
"Awwwww!" the boy whined, "But then I'll be doing my lessons all on my own!"
"Now, now, Garlan," Lady Olenna chided "Willas is going nowhere, he will still be able to play with you when you're both done with your lessons."
"But…but if he'll be training he'll get tired!" Garlan whined, his lower lip trembling with the threat of tears. "He won't have the energy to play!"
Willas patted Garlan's shoulder reassuringly. "Don't worry, Garlan. I'll always have time for you. Besides," he added, a mischievous glint in his eye, "Mayhaps, I can help you practice too, once I learn everything."
Garlan considered this, his pout slowly fading.
While still dejected, there was the tiniest glimmer of hope in his eyes.
Lady Olenna, observing the exchange with a knowing smile, decided to intervene.
Turning to Meredith, she remarked, "It seems young Caelum's health has improved drastically, aside from that…unfortunate incident on the ship, of course." Her gaze fixed on the young maid. "Not a single cough, and he even manages to keep pace with my grandsons. After King's Landing, I had entertained the idea of a check-up with Maester Lomys upon our return, but clearly, there's no need."
She paused and then mused "Perhaps he might even benefit from joining Garlan in his lessons? Just a bit of extra riding practice, and perhaps some of the lessons too, Garlan sure will appreciate a friend there."
Meredith felt astonished.
A warmth suffused Meredith's cheeks at Lady Olenna's words.
"My lady," she stammered, "your generosity… I don't know how to thank you."
Caelum too realized the kindness the old woman was showing him . "Thank yoy, my lady! I'll be a good riding partner, my lady! I promise!"
Lady Alerie sighed, a touch of weariness marring her delicate features. "It seems at least one good thing emerged from that disastrous tourney," she murmured. "After that…spectacle by Prince Rhaegar, the Lords of the realm were eager to be gone. The Starks left within hours, I hear, Lord Rickard seemed froth with the Prince. Rumor has it Lord Rickard has moved up Lady Lyanna's betrothal - she is to wed before her six and tenth name day, barely a moon after her brother Brandon's own wedding."
Meredith felt a jolt, relief and a pang of sadness warring within her.
So, their letter had worked.
Lord Stark, was clearly taking swift action to shield his daughter from the prince's machinations.
Caelum too seemed to be holding in a sigh of relief.
She was happy for him, he deserved some reprieve after the harrowing ordeal at the tourney.
He hadn't truly taken ill aboard the ship on their return, instead, he had been a delight, helping Luke take care of her when illness caused by the sea claimed her.
Instead, the poor boy had shut himself in her cramped cabin aboard the large merchant vessel that Lord Mace had hired in haste to leave Harrenhal as swiftly as possible along the Blackwater rush to Kings Landing.
Caelum had instead been flustered by the constant sounds of horny travelers that tended to spend their time fucking like rabbits. While he could ignore the noises during the day, he didn't have the control required to do so at night.
She pitied him, but she was glad he was no longer troubled by the sounds as they did when the magic had reared its ugly head in him.
Their arrival at Kings Landing had quietened all her worries finally. She had assumed the city would remain too much for him, but Luke had done a remarkable job at teaching Caelum to block out the sounds that reached his ears.
Garlan fairly bounced with excitement "This is going to be amazing!" he exclaimed, his earlier dejection entirely forgotten. "We'll explore the whole castle, you and me! I'll show you the Briar City, and..."
Caelum, finally having gotten the reassurance that their attempt to save Lady Lyanna had worked, radiated a quiet excitement.
His eyes were bright. "Thank you so much, Garlan," he said, while he was undoubtedly thrilled, he had learned to temper his enthusiasm, "I can't wait to learn to ride. And to see the Briar City... that sounds amazing!"
Lady Olenna observed the exchange, a knowing smile playing on her lips.
Turning to Lady Alerie, she remarked, "This… unfortunate incident with the Prince has certainly shaken up our courts. Poor Princess Elia, such a sweet girl...to be humiliated so publicly. There will be a rift between her and Rhaegar, mark my words."
Lady Alerie nodded, a frown creasing her brow. "It is a sad state of affairs. I worry for the Princess... and what this means for the realm as a whole."
"Indeed." Lady Olenna's eyes took on a steely glint. "Write to Gerold, dear. Instruct him to observe the situation closely. If there is a rift in the crown, if it jeopardizes any alliance with Dorne, we must be prepared to handle the fallout."
Meredith was happy to be away from the complexities of those of higher birth. She was happy to be returning home.
To the warmth of her mother's inn, to see Jerren's teasing smiles and quiet comfort. Away from the nasty schemes of lords and ladies, knights and maidens.
She was happy that Caelum was away from it all too. Safe at home.
Home.
The word echoed in her mind, promising the sweet scent of rain on freshly tilled earth, her mother's weathered hands, and the familiar ache in her bones after a hard day's work.
Soon, she mused as the procession crossed the gates of the castle into the Briar proper, and the scent of the city's markets, of the grain and flowers wafted to her nose, she finally felt at peace.
Soon, she would have answers about Luke and Caelum, about the strange magic, the blessing that they had believed to have always been a part of him, that had finally bloomed among the dangers of Harrenhal.
And then, perhaps, they could finally find peace within the protective walls of Highgarden, and the reach.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
Lyanna's sobs wracked her body, a primal cry of despair that echoed ominously through the ancient Godswood. She had come here to be away from her father, and elder brother.
Her father had announced that her wedding had been moved up.
He had seen her laughing with the Prince after the feast. The Prince had spoken to her alone again, asked about her promise to ride with him.
Seeing as her 'friends' had decided to not show up, she had ridden with him the next morning before the final jousts, and her father had found out.
Her tears fell, hot and unrestrained, carving paths through the dust that clung to her travel-worn dress.
She knelt before the Heart Tree, its carved face gazing down with implacable silence.
Benjen huddled beside her, his boyish face etched with worry. "Lya," he murmured, his voice hesitant, "Please… Father has his reasons. Brandon's wedding, the alliance with the Riverlands…"
"Don't!" Lyanna shrieked, swiping at the tears ineffectually. "Don't pretend to understand! It's not fair, Benjen! I hate him for this!"
Her voice cracked on the last word, the injustice of it all a knot in her chest.
Father had rushed them away in the night, sparing her from the whispers at Harrenhal. He wouldn't speak a word to any of them, but she could see he was wroth and scared at the same time.
But the stain of Robert's betrayal stung even deeper. She had been ready to forgive him. All high lords have bastards, she knew.
That oaf!
To spend the day at a whorehouse after that…that spectacle the Prince had made of her... and now, she was to be his reward?
His wife?
Benjen's gentle touch, the only thing tethering her to sanity, faltered. "Lya, please…" he pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe… maybe there's something we don't see…"
"Don't see?" she spat, her eyes flashing with desperate anger. "What is there not to see, Benjen? That Robert is an oath breaker, unfit to even tread the same ground I walk on? That Brandon..." She trailed off, a familiar ache throbbing in her chest.
She wailed, the words twisting into a bitter cry. "Robert, the prince, Brandon… even Father! They all just take what they want, and we..." her voice choked with a sob, "... we are left to bear the shame. All men are the same!"
Benjen winced, a flicker of hurt crossing his young face.
Yet, love for his sister overrode any offense. "Lya, that's not true…" He reached out tentatively, his hand hovering in the air as if afraid to touch her. "We can ask Father again. He has to have a reason for this…"
Lyanna scoffed, brushing away a fresh wave of tears. "Ask him? I did! The moment he announced it in his solar. He just stared at me, for a long moment and said he couldn't. Brandon asked too, but he just wouldn't say!"
A hollow laugh escaped her lips. "Do you think he even cares about my happiness? It's alliances, duty… that's all that matters."
Benjen's voice was barely a whisper now. "I don't know how to help, Lya." Despair laced his words, the helplessness of a child in the face of forces he didn't comprehend.
Lyanna's tears subsided, replaced by a coldness that chilled her to the bone. "Did you know, Benjen?" Her voice was low, almost dangerous. "Did you know that Brandon... that he's been sleeping with Lady Barbrey Ryswell? Or should I say Barbrey Dustin now?"
Benjen's eyes widened in shock. "Lya...you shouldn't speak of such things. Brandon wouldn't!".
"Why not?" Lyanna spat, her anger reigniting. "He's a man, he can do whatever he wants. Fuck whoever he wants. I'm a woman, meant to be quiet and obedient? Ned was meant to marry her at first, you know. But Brandon couldn't keep his cock in his breeches, and now she's married to Lord Dustin."
Benjen's head was spinning. His brother, the strong and honorable Brandon, capable of such… such deceit?
"Lya...no." Benjen's voice trembled. "You must be mistaken. Brandon wouldn't… he couldn't…" He sounded desperate, clinging to his image of his brother, the strong, honorable protector.
Lyanna's eyes blazed with icy fury. "Mistaken? Oh, sweet, naive Benjen. Do you wish to see for yourself? To face the truth?" Venom dripped from her every word. "The proof is tucked away in Brandon's chamber. A love letter, Benjen. Filled with their filthy plans. They write of… of how they'll meet next time he journeys to Barrowtown."
Benjen's face paled. His world was tilting on its axis. "But… Maester Walys… the ravens... He checks all the messages."
A bitter laugh escaped Lyanna's lips. "Oh, Benjen, do you think Brandon is a fool? The messages come disguised, hidden amongst the tax, delivered in the marked head crate of lumber from the Rills. I saw it myself," Her voice softened then, a hint of pleading in her tone. "I wouldn't lie about such a thing, little brother. Not to you."
The silence that fell between them was thick with unspoken questions.
If Lyanna was telling the truth… then the Starks.
Suddenly, even the ancient Heart Tree seemed to offer no solace, its red eyes like weeping wounds.
Lyanna watched her brother's face, the innocence of childhood crumbling before her eyes.
A strange, twisted satisfaction twisted within her. "It doesn't matter," she declared, her voice brittle. "He's a man, isn't he? It's what they do. Robert, the prince... they all want what they want, and they take it."
Benjen swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously.
Yet, in that moment, a flicker of something cold and calculating appeared in his eyes. "It'll be fine, Lya," he said, his voice steadier than she expected. "Father will …."
Something inside Lyanna snapped.
Ignore her?
Dismiss her pain as a mere political inconvenience?
"Father will do nothing!" Lyanna hissed, her frustration boiling over. "He got rid of the friends I had made at Harrenhal, I had awaited Luke and Caelum, but they never came, and I am sure it was father that got rid of them. He won't tell me why he brought up my wedding. Brandon knows, but will he share the reason with me? No! He follows me around like a hawk, a warden keeping an eye on a dangerous captive."
She paused, catching her breath, seeing the fear flicker in Benjen's eyes. "Princess Elia...she seems so sweet," Lyanna murmured, the words laced with quiet venom, "Much like Lady Ashara. And what does that matter? The Prince still wants to wet his cock in my cunt. Let him I say!"
Benjen gasped "Lya! You can't mean that!"
A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "Brandon tried it with Lady Ashara too, you know? Despite knowing she held Ned's heart. One betrothed woman wasn't enough, he had to try his hand at another." Her voice dripped with contempt. "Lady Ashara denied him, of course, so like a good brother, he played matchmaker to bind her to Ned. Now she avoids him whenever possible, despises him for the attempt."
She took a ragged breath, pacing before the Heart Tree.
The envy for Ned burned beneath her anger, an invisible fire eating away at her. "Even Ned…" Her voice was barely a whisper now. "He gets to marry Ashara. A marriage for love, I am happy for him. And you, Benjen, even you'll likely have that choice one day. But me?" She turned, her eyes blazing. "I'm a bartering chip, a pawn in their game."
Benjen shifted uncomfortably, a mixture of pity and confusion in his eyes. "Lya, there must be a way to…" he trailed off, his young voice failing to find the words to fix this, to fix her.
Lyanna cut him off. "And the prince. No different, Benjen. Just another man content to dishonor his wife." A twisted smile touched her lips. "He wants me, you know. After the final joust, the way he looked at me... the way he spoke to me that night..."
"Lya, no," Benjen protested, but his voice lacked conviction.
He'd seen it too.
A terrible thought blossomed in Lyanna's mind.
Taking a step closer, she whispered, "What does it matter, Benjen? If Robert strays, why should I be any different? Lady Barbrey beds Brandon while married, Brandon tries to dishonor his own betrothed... why must I alone carry the burden of purity?" She reached out, her hand closing gently around Benjen's. "It's not fair, little brother. And you can help me."
Her touch was like ice, and Benjen flinched, yet a strange spark had ignited in her eyes.
A blend of fear, guilt, and something else - a dangerous fascination.
"Help?" Benjen echoed, a tremor in his voice.
Lyanna's smile was a predator's, both beautiful and terrible. "Yes, Benjen. You heard me. The prince wants me, wants to dishonor his wife... and I…" Her voice softened. "If I am to be bound to Robert, I may as well take something for myself first. At first, I considered...someone lowborn. Maybe... I had thought it would have been that Reacher, Luke to take my maidenhood, he was sweet enough, brave enough to take on three squires older than him to save a random boy he knew nothing of, but father had him run off. He had been against them interacting with me all along. But now..."
Her gaze drifted away, as if seeing something just beyond Benjen's gaze. "That seems...beneath me now. If the prince, the heir to the Iron Throne, wants to sully his marriage bed, then he can have my virtue."
She squeezed his hand, her voice sharp once more. "But the choice will be mine, Benjen. Do you understand? You will help me. Tell the prince that I am... interested. That I long to meet him."
Benjen's mouth worked, words struggling to form.
He was still a child, barely on the cusp of manhood, he realized the injustice that was thrust on his sister, but he didn't know if he could do this.
"Lya, I don't know... This is dangerous. Father could..."
Lyanna cut him off with a dismissive wave. "Father will know nothing…. Brandon will know nothing. " She leaned closer, her eyes blazing. "And I will marry Robert. I will play my part. I will be his wife. But my maidenhead? That, my darling brother, will belong to a dragon. If Brandon can have an affair behind his betrothed's back, if Robert wants to sully our bed, I can have one too."
Benjen's eyes widened, a mixture of awe and terror battling within him.
"How..." he stammered, finally finding his voice. "How will we contact the prince?"
Lyanna smiled.
The hardest part was done; the seed of rebellion had been planted. "Don't you see, Benjen?" she whispered. "Brandon's not the only one that can send letters in secret."
She knew she was corrupting him, using his love for her as a weapon.
But a reckless thrill coursed through her veins. If Robert wanted to dishonor her, she would repay him in kind.
The Prince would be the best way to do it, she would fuck a better man behind Robert's back.
The Prince was likely doing it with other women anyway.
Princess Elia should return the favor, an eye for an eye.
Benjen swallowed hard, a knot forming in his stomach.
Lyanna's plea, her desperate defiance, burned in his ears. His fingers tightened around her hand, wanting to pull back, to shout a refusal.
But when he looked at her, the Lyanna who took riding on her horse, hugged him every morning, helped him pour flour on Brandon's head flashed before him for an instant.
Yet, beneath the fury, he saw a flicker of the vulnerability she'd desperately tried to hide. He couldn't be the one to break her further.
With a trembling hand, he squeezed Lyanna's back.
It was a silent promise, a betrayal of everything he knew was right. He would never be the same boy again.
"I'll do it," his voice rasped, barely a whisper. "I'll help you, Lya." Lyanna's eyes flashed with a terrible triumph, but even as she smiled, he noticed a subtle tremble in her hand.
Was that a fleeting hesitation?
A sliver of doubt about the path she'd chosen? It disappeared, replaced by a mask of icy resolve that chilled him.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
Elyna held her breath as Caelum shut his eyes tight.
The hearth fire crackled, casting dancing shadows across the worn stone walls of Harlon's farmhouse.
Tonight, within the familiar comfort of the flickering light, the world itself seemed to tilt on its axis.
Meredith's account of the tourney – the prince's scandal, the jousts and Caelum's awakening of his magic – still swirled in her mind.
But it was Luke's quieter moments, the awed whispers of saving Luke's life from the Prince's assassins, of the Prince's supposed madness; or Caelum saving a lost child or facing down bullies much older than he, that had set her heart pounding with a mixture of pride and fear.
A soft, warm glow began to emanate from Caelum's closed eyelids.
Elyna gasped, clutching Harlon's hand.
Then, his eyes snapped open, and twin beams of searing red light shot out, striking his bowl of stew that had grown cold during the retelling.
Caelum looked at his parents "See, Ma? It's real."
Harlon squeezed her hand, his voice rough with emotion. "Yes, son, we do see."
A gasp of wonder escaped both Marna and Serra.
Marna reached out a tentative hand towards Caelum, her weathered face alight with awe. "Bless you, child," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "The tales were true...the Maiden has marked you for greatness."
Serra nodded, tears brimming in her eyes. "I always knew," she murmured, a hint of pride in her voice. "From the moment the star fell, bringing you to us...there was something special about you, Caelum."
Luke frowned, shifting uncomfortably. "Knew what, Mother? What star?" His protective instincts flared, a sense of foreboding settling over him.
There was something his mother, all of them, weren't telling him, they needed their answers now.
Harlon cleared his throat, his usually steady voice tinged with a hint of tension. "Now, now, Serra. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. The boy's only just come into his own."
Serra shook her head, a stubborn glint in her eye. "No, Harlon. Don't you see? The Gods have deemed the time is right. We cannot hide the truth any longer, not from him."
Elyna's heart pounded against her ribs.
She watched Caelum, her precious son, as a flicker of fear crossed his young face.
He was too young to face his divine destiny.
Harlon's jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek.
Anger flashed in his eyes, but he swiftly tamped it down. With a weary sigh, he turned to Luke.
"Luke, my boy," he said, his voice gruff but laced with affection, "I charged you with a task – to keep Caelum safe. You did that and more, that scar on your shoulder …. You went beyond any friend's, no any brother's duty. For that, I'll be eternally grateful."
A rush of warmth flooded Elyna as she looked at Luke and Meredith. "We thank you both, from the depths of our hearts," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "Teaching him, watching over him….you've given us back our son, a stronger boy than ever before."
Serra scoffed, a touch of disapproval twisting her lips. "Toman should have been there too, doing his part. Not leaving it all to the children."
Luke shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Father couldn't risk leaving Lord Tyrell's side, Mother. You know how it is – duty above all." He paused, his gaze turning serious as it fixed on Harlon, Elyna, and the others.
"But there's something I still don't understand," Luke said, his voice thick with confusion. "Why...why did you think Caelum was blessed? I mean, he was…sickly for so long. We both know the village whispers…they called him cursed."
A flicker of unease crossed Caelum's face. "Please, Father," he whispered, his small voice barely audible above the crackling hearth. "Tell me."
The silence that followed seemed to stretch on forever. Harlon looked torn, the love for his son battling against some deeper, unspoken fear.
"Luke," he finally began, his voice strained, "you are right. The Gods, they have chosen Caelum. He walks a path none of us could have imagined. But the blessing…that came before the power. When he was no more than a babe…"
Harlon hesitated, as if the words themselves were a burden.
Elyna reached out, placing her hand gently over his. They had kept this secret for so long, borne its weight together, but the time for hiding was clearly at an end.
A tremor passed through Elyna's body as she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "We've told you of two sons…" she began, a catch in her throat, "two that came before …and were lost to us... in truth there were three."
Luke, Meredith, and Caelum exchanged confused glances.
They'd always known about Caelum's stillborn brothers, a tragedy the family had grieved together.
But a third?
Elyna continued, her eyes glistening with tears. "The night you came to us, Caelum… it was the same night I bore our third son, Rowan. Stillborn, like his brothers…"
Her words hung heavy in the silence.
Caelum's face had gone pale, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and disbelief.
Harlon took over, his voice low and strained. "Marna and Serra were there…they saw it all." He swallowed hard. "We'd lost all hope. Elyna, she... they said she wouldn't survive another birth. And Rowan...I thought my world had shattered."
Elyna choked back a sob. "It felt like I would die too…truly die that night. But then, as if the Gods themselves heard our anguish…a star fell. Right there, in our field…" Her voice caught, but she pressed on. "Everyone saw it, the whole village. The Tyrells, they came, took the pieces…but they never realized, never saw…"
"Saw what, Mother?" Caelum whispered, his voice trembling.
A strange, almost hysterical note had crept into his tone, the shock beginning to give way to something akin to panic.
Marna stepped forward, laying a gentle hand on Caelum's shoulder. "The star, child…it wasn't just a rock. It was…a vessel. And inside…"
Serra finished her thought, her own voice filled with awe. "…inside was you, Caelum. A babe, small and perfect, sent by the Maiden herself."
The room seemed to spin around Caelum.
His breath came in ragged gasps.
It couldn't be true.
This was some… cruel joke, a nightmare he would soon awaken from.
A surge of protective anger coursed through Luke. " What kind of a jape is thus?" he spat, his voice tight with fury. "Why torment Caelum with … this – this cruel jape?!"
Meredith was already beside Caelum, her arm tightening around him in a gesture as much defiance as comfort.
She shot Harlon and Elyna a withering glare, her usual gentleness replaced by a fierce protectiveness.
Harlon knelt before Caelum, his weathered face etched with a mix of sorrow and resolve. "Caelum, son," he said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands, "this is no joke. The truth…it's harder to believe than any tale."
Caelum shook his head frantically, tears streaming down his face. "No!" he sobbed. "I love you, Ma, Pa. I don't want…I don't want to be some …. some star child!"
A fresh pang pierced Elyna's heart.
"Caelum," Harlon sighed, "it's better I show you. It's the only way you'll understand." With a nod towards Luke, he said, "Help me, Luke. Bring the spades."
Luke hesitated, his jaw clenched.
She could see the anger still simmered in his eyes, but a flicker of reluctant agreement softened his expression.
As they made their way towards the barn, a sense of oppressive dread washed over the group.
Caelum's sobs grew louder, and it was all Elyna could do to comfort him.
Inside the barn, Harlon pointed towards a spot in the earthen floor. "It was just outside, once," he explained, his voice strained. "After… after you came…well, we were blessed with good fortune. I had this built, to keep the place safe."
Caelum's cries were growing more hysterical with each passing moment.
Meredith murmured soothing words, her voice shaking slightly despite her brave front. "It's okay, little brother," she whispered, "I'm right here."
Elyna reached out to Caelum, a silent plea in her eyes.
But he shrank away, burrowing deeper into Meredith's embrace.
A silent sob escaped her lips as she watched her son recoil from her touch.
Serra and Marna shared a look of anguish, placing comforting hands on Elyna's shoulders.
Luke's spade striking the earth with grim determination. Caelum watched, his body trembling, a mix of fear, despair, and a strange, terrible awe washing over him.
Suddenly, Luke's spade hit something solid with a jarring thud. "Found it," he grunted, kneeling and brushing away the dirt to reveal a shimmering, almost silvery surface hidden beneath.
Caelum stared as if transfixed, dread pooling in his chest.
The star… his cradle… the harbinger of a destiny he never asked for. From the cursed of the village to the blessed.
He had wanted to be True Knight. Live a respectable life, show the village that he was no curse. He had not wanted this.
Harlon worked swiftly, his hands trembling slightly as he cleared the dirt away from the smooth, star-like object. When it was fully exposed, its polished surface gleamed dully in the lantern light.
He turned to Caelum, his voice trembling. "You came to us in this, child. Birthed by the Maiden herself, delivered from the heavens. Now… now it holds our Rowan. A final resting place, a testament..."
"Why?" he sobbed, his small body wracked with anguish. "Why me? What do the gods want from me?"
Harlon knelt before him, his eyes filled with a love that battled against the profound sorrow of this moment. "Caelum, you are my son. You will always be my son, truly. You're a blessing the Seven granted to Elyna and me. You will always be my son." He paused, a flicker of doubt crossing his face. "But…the Gods have woven another thread into your tale. They have given you a purpose only you can walk, you were sent here for a reason. Beyond what I can understand"
"I don't want a purpose!" Caelum wailed, finally burying his face in Elyna and Harlon's shoulder as they knelt beside him. "All I want is you, Ma, Pa, I want Luke, Meredith. To be your son, their friend. I want to be a good knight…I don't want blessings," his voice choked with disgust, "or grand purposes!"
A flicker of hope ignited in Elyna's heart as Caelum finally accepted her touch. "You will always be my son," she whispered fiercely. "And the greatest knight this realm has ever seen, I have no doubt. Your heart…it would have led you there anyway, blessings or no."
Across the barn, Meredith and Luke watched, a sense of awe finally displacing their initial fury.
The proof lay before them – otherworldly and undeniable.
Silently, they made a vow, otherworldly or not, Caelum was their little brother.
Caelum pulled away slightly, his eyes flicking towards them, a flicker of wariness replacing some of the despair. "I don't want to lose you…" he whispered.
Luke knelt, a gentle smile softening his stern features. "And you won't, little brother. We'll forge that knightly path together, make sure you're the finest warrior anyone's ever seen. I'll be there every step of the way."
Meredith nodded in agreement, her voice thick with emotion. "And so will I. Always."
Relief washed over Caelum as he rushed into their arms, the warmth of their embrace a balm against the chilling cosmic truth laid bare before him.
A sense of peace descended over the barn. Marna and Serra exchanged relieved smiles. This might not be the life any of them had imagined for the child they all loved, but love itself would remain their guiding star.
Caelum, now reassured of the one thing that truly mattered, cautiously approached the vessel, a strange mixture of trepidation and curiosity warring within him.
The silence within the barn deepened as Caelum neared the star. It was as if the vessel itself sensed his presence, a subtle shift in the air hinting at something extraordinary about to occur.
Suddenly, the star seemed to split along invisible seams, its polished surface separating into sections that glided open with an eerie sound, like petals of a strange, metallic flower.
Gasps echoed within the barn as the interior was revealed. There, nestled in a bed of shimmering silver fabric lay Rowan, Caelum's stillborn brother. He looked impossibly small, perfectly formed, and heartbreakingly peaceful. It was as though he merely slept.
Elyna and Harlon's tears flowed freely, a bittersweet joy mixing with their grief. This was their child, whole and beautiful, preserved forever within this celestial cradle. Marna and Serra wept softly, their hands clasped together in shared sorrow.
Luke gently squeezed Caelum's shoulder in silent support. The look in his friend's eyes was unreadable – a mix of awe, bewilderment, and a hint of understanding beginning to dawn.
Caelum reached out, his hand trembling as it hovered over Rowan's tiny cheek. "I'll keep them safe," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Our Ma and Pa. May you rest well in the Maiden's embrace."
At his words, something astonishing occurred. A clear crystal tumbled from Rowan's small hand, landing gently at Caelum's feet. With a final, soft sigh, the star closed once more, encasing Rowan again in its protective shell.
Bending, Caelum picked up the crystal.
It was smooth, warm to the touch, and faintly luminescent.
Caelum had seen first hand the madness that divine fates and Prophecy wrought. He wanted no part in it. The madness prophecies and grand purposes brought were not what he wished for himself.
He would be a Good Knight.
The purpose the Gods had in mind for him can go to the pits of Seven hells.
As he turned it over in his hand, he noticed a symbol etched faintly upon one side.
A single, elegant letter… it looked almost like an 'S'.
He would take this purpose and bend it to fit his own.
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(A/N) Rickard hasn't told Lyanna of the letter. Ned doesn't know either. Ned has gone back to the Vale. I always wondered what led Benjen to want to join the Night's Watch. Either way, canon is already fucked.
More A/N Lyanna here is grieving. She's essentially gaslighting Benjen to help her.
Edit: There was a redundant passage in Lyanna's scene. I also added more clarity to why Caelum dislikes the notion of being sent from the Gods.
A familiar warmth washed over Meredith. "Almost home," she breathed, the words laced with both weariness and anticipation.
Inside the open wheelhouse, Lord Willas fidgeted, his eyes fixed on the ever-nearing castle. "I can't believe we're back already," he said, excitement clear on his young face.
Lady Olenna, her sharp eyes twinkling with amusement under her snowy white hair, chuckled softly. "Patience, my dear. You can send your letters to your friend soon enough." Seeing the boy's face flush, she added, "Now, now, Princess Arianne is a remarkable friend indeed."
Willas squirmed in his seat with ill-concealed excitement.
Meredith couldn't blame him.
Lord Willas and Lord Garlan had spent almost every moment in the castle alongside the Dornish princess and her bastard cousin, playing games and getting her to tell them stories.
She wished Caelum could have joined them, maybe that way his experience at the tourney wouldn't have been as perilous as it turned out to be.
"Willas told her that he'd send her letters using hawks" Garlan whispered conspiratorially to Caelum seated beside him, "She didn't believe hawks could send letters. It's going to be hilarious watching Willas try and teach a hawk how to carry letters!"
Caelum flashed a wide grin at the thought, happy to see his friend squirm in discomfort. "Are you sure they can do that?"
"I don't know, okay!" Lord Willas reddened slightly "She'd been saying that Dorne can make use of Eagles to send their letters, I thought we should have something like that too!"
"Can Dorne use eagles to send their letters?" Caelum couldn't help but ask.
"I don't knowww" Willas whined "Maybe?"
Lady Alerie chuckled amusedly, her palor seemed much healthier now that they were returning to Highgarden. "The Dornish do not use Eagles for their letters Willas, Princess Arianne was teasing you."
Willas looked affronted at that revelation, but then a mischievous look settled on his face "Then … if I do succeed in getting Hawks to take my letters, she'll have to be true to her word and send her own by Eagle. I can't wait! Gran, do you think Maester Lomys can help me train some hawks?"
Lady Olenna chuckled at the boy's enthusiasm "I am sure he will help. But remember, you need to learn to manage your time now, child. Your lessons at the yard will begin soon. Mace has arranged Ser Vortimer Crane to begin your training in a moon's turn."
Garlan shifted nervously at that, "C-can I join too?" he asked.
Lady Alerie chuckled at his eagerness to enter the training yard "Not just yet, Garlan. Another year or so and I am sure your training will begin soon too. You need to focus on your riding practices."
"Awwwww!" the boy whined, "But then I'll be doing my lessons all on my own!"
"Now, now, Garlan," Lady Olenna chided "Willas is going nowhere, he will still be able to play with you when you're both done with your lessons."
"But…but if he'll be training he'll get tired!" Garlan whined, his lower lip trembling with the threat of tears. "He won't have the energy to play!"
Willas patted Garlan's shoulder reassuringly. "Don't worry, Garlan. I'll always have time for you. Besides," he added, a mischievous glint in his eye, "Mayhaps, I can help you practice too, once I learn everything."
Garlan considered this, his pout slowly fading.
While still dejected, there was the tiniest glimmer of hope in his eyes.
Lady Olenna, observing the exchange with a knowing smile, decided to intervene.
Turning to Meredith, she remarked, "It seems young Caelum's health has improved drastically, aside from that…unfortunate incident on the ship, of course." Her gaze fixed on the young maid. "Not a single cough, and he even manages to keep pace with my grandsons. After King's Landing, I had entertained the idea of a check-up with Maester Lomys upon our return, but clearly, there's no need."
She paused and then mused "Perhaps he might even benefit from joining Garlan in his lessons? Just a bit of extra riding practice, and perhaps some of the lessons too, Garlan sure will appreciate a friend there."
Meredith felt astonished.
A warmth suffused Meredith's cheeks at Lady Olenna's words.
"My lady," she stammered, "your generosity… I don't know how to thank you."
Caelum too realized the kindness the old woman was showing him . "Thank yoy, my lady! I'll be a good riding partner, my lady! I promise!"
Lady Alerie sighed, a touch of weariness marring her delicate features. "It seems at least one good thing emerged from that disastrous tourney," she murmured. "After that…spectacle by Prince Rhaegar, the Lords of the realm were eager to be gone. The Starks left within hours, I hear, Lord Rickard seemed froth with the Prince. Rumor has it Lord Rickard has moved up Lady Lyanna's betrothal - she is to wed before her six and tenth name day, barely a moon after her brother Brandon's own wedding."
Meredith felt a jolt, relief and a pang of sadness warring within her.
So, their letter had worked.
Lord Stark, was clearly taking swift action to shield his daughter from the prince's machinations.
Caelum too seemed to be holding in a sigh of relief.
She was happy for him, he deserved some reprieve after the harrowing ordeal at the tourney.
He hadn't truly taken ill aboard the ship on their return, instead, he had been a delight, helping Luke take care of her when illness caused by the sea claimed her.
Instead, the poor boy had shut himself in her cramped cabin aboard the large merchant vessel that Lord Mace had hired in haste to leave Harrenhal as swiftly as possible along the Blackwater rush to Kings Landing.
Caelum had instead been flustered by the constant sounds of horny travelers that tended to spend their time fucking like rabbits. While he could ignore the noises during the day, he didn't have the control required to do so at night.
She pitied him, but she was glad he was no longer troubled by the sounds as they did when the magic had reared its ugly head in him.
Their arrival at Kings Landing had quietened all her worries finally. She had assumed the city would remain too much for him, but Luke had done a remarkable job at teaching Caelum to block out the sounds that reached his ears.
Garlan fairly bounced with excitement "This is going to be amazing!" he exclaimed, his earlier dejection entirely forgotten. "We'll explore the whole castle, you and me! I'll show you the Briar City, and..."
Caelum, finally having gotten the reassurance that their attempt to save Lady Lyanna had worked, radiated a quiet excitement.
His eyes were bright. "Thank you so much, Garlan," he said, while he was undoubtedly thrilled, he had learned to temper his enthusiasm, "I can't wait to learn to ride. And to see the Briar City... that sounds amazing!"
Lady Olenna observed the exchange, a knowing smile playing on her lips.
Turning to Lady Alerie, she remarked, "This… unfortunate incident with the Prince has certainly shaken up our courts. Poor Princess Elia, such a sweet girl...to be humiliated so publicly. There will be a rift between her and Rhaegar, mark my words."
Lady Alerie nodded, a frown creasing her brow. "It is a sad state of affairs. I worry for the Princess... and what this means for the realm as a whole."
"Indeed." Lady Olenna's eyes took on a steely glint. "Write to Gerold, dear. Instruct him to observe the situation closely. If there is a rift in the crown, if it jeopardizes any alliance with Dorne, we must be prepared to handle the fallout."
Meredith was happy to be away from the complexities of those of higher birth. She was happy to be returning home.
To the warmth of her mother's inn, to see Jerren's teasing smiles and quiet comfort. Away from the nasty schemes of lords and ladies, knights and maidens.
She was happy that Caelum was away from it all too. Safe at home.
Home.
The word echoed in her mind, promising the sweet scent of rain on freshly tilled earth, her mother's weathered hands, and the familiar ache in her bones after a hard day's work.
Soon, she mused as the procession crossed the gates of the castle into the Briar proper, and the scent of the city's markets, of the grain and flowers wafted to her nose, she finally felt at peace.
Soon, she would have answers about Luke and Caelum, about the strange magic, the blessing that they had believed to have always been a part of him, that had finally bloomed among the dangers of Harrenhal.
And then, perhaps, they could finally find peace within the protective walls of Highgarden, and the reach.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
Lyanna's sobs wracked her body, a primal cry of despair that echoed ominously through the ancient Godswood. She had come here to be away from her father, and elder brother.
Her father had announced that her wedding had been moved up.
He had seen her laughing with the Prince after the feast. The Prince had spoken to her alone again, asked about her promise to ride with him.
Seeing as her 'friends' had decided to not show up, she had ridden with him the next morning before the final jousts, and her father had found out.
Her tears fell, hot and unrestrained, carving paths through the dust that clung to her travel-worn dress.
She knelt before the Heart Tree, its carved face gazing down with implacable silence.
Benjen huddled beside her, his boyish face etched with worry. "Lya," he murmured, his voice hesitant, "Please… Father has his reasons. Brandon's wedding, the alliance with the Riverlands…"
"Don't!" Lyanna shrieked, swiping at the tears ineffectually. "Don't pretend to understand! It's not fair, Benjen! I hate him for this!"
Her voice cracked on the last word, the injustice of it all a knot in her chest.
Father had rushed them away in the night, sparing her from the whispers at Harrenhal. He wouldn't speak a word to any of them, but she could see he was wroth and scared at the same time.
But the stain of Robert's betrayal stung even deeper. She had been ready to forgive him. All high lords have bastards, she knew.
That oaf!
To spend the day at a whorehouse after that…that spectacle the Prince had made of her... and now, she was to be his reward?
His wife?
Benjen's gentle touch, the only thing tethering her to sanity, faltered. "Lya, please…" he pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe… maybe there's something we don't see…"
"Don't see?" she spat, her eyes flashing with desperate anger. "What is there not to see, Benjen? That Robert is an oath breaker, unfit to even tread the same ground I walk on? That Brandon..." She trailed off, a familiar ache throbbing in her chest.
She wailed, the words twisting into a bitter cry. "Robert, the prince, Brandon… even Father! They all just take what they want, and we..." her voice choked with a sob, "... we are left to bear the shame. All men are the same!"
Benjen winced, a flicker of hurt crossing his young face.
Yet, love for his sister overrode any offense. "Lya, that's not true…" He reached out tentatively, his hand hovering in the air as if afraid to touch her. "We can ask Father again. He has to have a reason for this…"
Lyanna scoffed, brushing away a fresh wave of tears. "Ask him? I did! The moment he announced it in his solar. He just stared at me, for a long moment and said he couldn't. Brandon asked too, but he just wouldn't say!"
A hollow laugh escaped her lips. "Do you think he even cares about my happiness? It's alliances, duty… that's all that matters."
Benjen's voice was barely a whisper now. "I don't know how to help, Lya." Despair laced his words, the helplessness of a child in the face of forces he didn't comprehend.
Lyanna's tears subsided, replaced by a coldness that chilled her to the bone. "Did you know, Benjen?" Her voice was low, almost dangerous. "Did you know that Brandon... that he's been sleeping with Lady Barbrey Ryswell? Or should I say Barbrey Dustin now?"
Benjen's eyes widened in shock. "Lya...you shouldn't speak of such things. Brandon wouldn't!".
"Why not?" Lyanna spat, her anger reigniting. "He's a man, he can do whatever he wants. Fuck whoever he wants. I'm a woman, meant to be quiet and obedient? Ned was meant to marry her at first, you know. But Brandon couldn't keep his cock in his breeches, and now she's married to Lord Dustin."
Benjen's head was spinning. His brother, the strong and honorable Brandon, capable of such… such deceit?
"Lya...no." Benjen's voice trembled. "You must be mistaken. Brandon wouldn't… he couldn't…" He sounded desperate, clinging to his image of his brother, the strong, honorable protector.
Lyanna's eyes blazed with icy fury. "Mistaken? Oh, sweet, naive Benjen. Do you wish to see for yourself? To face the truth?" Venom dripped from her every word. "The proof is tucked away in Brandon's chamber. A love letter, Benjen. Filled with their filthy plans. They write of… of how they'll meet next time he journeys to Barrowtown."
Benjen's face paled. His world was tilting on its axis. "But… Maester Walys… the ravens... He checks all the messages."
A bitter laugh escaped Lyanna's lips. "Oh, Benjen, do you think Brandon is a fool? The messages come disguised, hidden amongst the tax, delivered in the marked head crate of lumber from the Rills. I saw it myself," Her voice softened then, a hint of pleading in her tone. "I wouldn't lie about such a thing, little brother. Not to you."
The silence that fell between them was thick with unspoken questions.
If Lyanna was telling the truth… then the Starks.
Suddenly, even the ancient Heart Tree seemed to offer no solace, its red eyes like weeping wounds.
Lyanna watched her brother's face, the innocence of childhood crumbling before her eyes.
A strange, twisted satisfaction twisted within her. "It doesn't matter," she declared, her voice brittle. "He's a man, isn't he? It's what they do. Robert, the prince... they all want what they want, and they take it."
Benjen swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously.
Yet, in that moment, a flicker of something cold and calculating appeared in his eyes. "It'll be fine, Lya," he said, his voice steadier than she expected. "Father will …."
Something inside Lyanna snapped.
Ignore her?
Dismiss her pain as a mere political inconvenience?
"Father will do nothing!" Lyanna hissed, her frustration boiling over. "He got rid of the friends I had made at Harrenhal, I had awaited Luke and Caelum, but they never came, and I am sure it was father that got rid of them. He won't tell me why he brought up my wedding. Brandon knows, but will he share the reason with me? No! He follows me around like a hawk, a warden keeping an eye on a dangerous captive."
She paused, catching her breath, seeing the fear flicker in Benjen's eyes. "Princess Elia...she seems so sweet," Lyanna murmured, the words laced with quiet venom, "Much like Lady Ashara. And what does that matter? The Prince still wants to wet his cock in my cunt. Let him I say!"
Benjen gasped "Lya! You can't mean that!"
A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "Brandon tried it with Lady Ashara too, you know? Despite knowing she held Ned's heart. One betrothed woman wasn't enough, he had to try his hand at another." Her voice dripped with contempt. "Lady Ashara denied him, of course, so like a good brother, he played matchmaker to bind her to Ned. Now she avoids him whenever possible, despises him for the attempt."
She took a ragged breath, pacing before the Heart Tree.
The envy for Ned burned beneath her anger, an invisible fire eating away at her. "Even Ned…" Her voice was barely a whisper now. "He gets to marry Ashara. A marriage for love, I am happy for him. And you, Benjen, even you'll likely have that choice one day. But me?" She turned, her eyes blazing. "I'm a bartering chip, a pawn in their game."
Benjen shifted uncomfortably, a mixture of pity and confusion in his eyes. "Lya, there must be a way to…" he trailed off, his young voice failing to find the words to fix this, to fix her.
Lyanna cut him off. "And the prince. No different, Benjen. Just another man content to dishonor his wife." A twisted smile touched her lips. "He wants me, you know. After the final joust, the way he looked at me... the way he spoke to me that night..."
"Lya, no," Benjen protested, but his voice lacked conviction.
He'd seen it too.
A terrible thought blossomed in Lyanna's mind.
Taking a step closer, she whispered, "What does it matter, Benjen? If Robert strays, why should I be any different? Lady Barbrey beds Brandon while married, Brandon tries to dishonor his own betrothed... why must I alone carry the burden of purity?" She reached out, her hand closing gently around Benjen's. "It's not fair, little brother. And you can help me."
Her touch was like ice, and Benjen flinched, yet a strange spark had ignited in her eyes.
A blend of fear, guilt, and something else - a dangerous fascination.
"Help?" Benjen echoed, a tremor in his voice.
Lyanna's smile was a predator's, both beautiful and terrible. "Yes, Benjen. You heard me. The prince wants me, wants to dishonor his wife... and I…" Her voice softened. "If I am to be bound to Robert, I may as well take something for myself first. At first, I considered...someone lowborn. Maybe... I had thought it would have been that Reacher, Luke to take my maidenhood, he was sweet enough, brave enough to take on three squires older than him to save a random boy he knew nothing of, but father had him run off. He had been against them interacting with me all along. But now..."
Her gaze drifted away, as if seeing something just beyond Benjen's gaze. "That seems...beneath me now. If the prince, the heir to the Iron Throne, wants to sully his marriage bed, then he can have my virtue."
She squeezed his hand, her voice sharp once more. "But the choice will be mine, Benjen. Do you understand? You will help me. Tell the prince that I am... interested. That I long to meet him."
Benjen's mouth worked, words struggling to form.
He was still a child, barely on the cusp of manhood, he realized the injustice that was thrust on his sister, but he didn't know if he could do this.
"Lya, I don't know... This is dangerous. Father could..."
Lyanna cut him off with a dismissive wave. "Father will know nothing…. Brandon will know nothing. " She leaned closer, her eyes blazing. "And I will marry Robert. I will play my part. I will be his wife. But my maidenhead? That, my darling brother, will belong to a dragon. If Brandon can have an affair behind his betrothed's back, if Robert wants to sully our bed, I can have one too."
Benjen's eyes widened, a mixture of awe and terror battling within him.
"How..." he stammered, finally finding his voice. "How will we contact the prince?"
Lyanna smiled.
The hardest part was done; the seed of rebellion had been planted. "Don't you see, Benjen?" she whispered. "Brandon's not the only one that can send letters in secret."
She knew she was corrupting him, using his love for her as a weapon.
But a reckless thrill coursed through her veins. If Robert wanted to dishonor her, she would repay him in kind.
The Prince would be the best way to do it, she would fuck a better man behind Robert's back.
The Prince was likely doing it with other women anyway.
Princess Elia should return the favor, an eye for an eye.
Benjen swallowed hard, a knot forming in his stomach.
Lyanna's plea, her desperate defiance, burned in his ears. His fingers tightened around her hand, wanting to pull back, to shout a refusal.
But when he looked at her, the Lyanna who took riding on her horse, hugged him every morning, helped him pour flour on Brandon's head flashed before him for an instant.
Yet, beneath the fury, he saw a flicker of the vulnerability she'd desperately tried to hide. He couldn't be the one to break her further.
With a trembling hand, he squeezed Lyanna's back.
It was a silent promise, a betrayal of everything he knew was right. He would never be the same boy again.
"I'll do it," his voice rasped, barely a whisper. "I'll help you, Lya." Lyanna's eyes flashed with a terrible triumph, but even as she smiled, he noticed a subtle tremble in her hand.
Was that a fleeting hesitation?
A sliver of doubt about the path she'd chosen? It disappeared, replaced by a mask of icy resolve that chilled him.
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Elyna held her breath as Caelum shut his eyes tight.
The hearth fire crackled, casting dancing shadows across the worn stone walls of Harlon's farmhouse.
Tonight, within the familiar comfort of the flickering light, the world itself seemed to tilt on its axis.
Meredith's account of the tourney – the prince's scandal, the jousts and Caelum's awakening of his magic – still swirled in her mind.
But it was Luke's quieter moments, the awed whispers of saving Luke's life from the Prince's assassins, of the Prince's supposed madness; or Caelum saving a lost child or facing down bullies much older than he, that had set her heart pounding with a mixture of pride and fear.
A soft, warm glow began to emanate from Caelum's closed eyelids.
Elyna gasped, clutching Harlon's hand.
Then, his eyes snapped open, and twin beams of searing red light shot out, striking his bowl of stew that had grown cold during the retelling.
Caelum looked at his parents "See, Ma? It's real."
Harlon squeezed her hand, his voice rough with emotion. "Yes, son, we do see."
A gasp of wonder escaped both Marna and Serra.
Marna reached out a tentative hand towards Caelum, her weathered face alight with awe. "Bless you, child," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "The tales were true...the Maiden has marked you for greatness."
Serra nodded, tears brimming in her eyes. "I always knew," she murmured, a hint of pride in her voice. "From the moment the star fell, bringing you to us...there was something special about you, Caelum."
Luke frowned, shifting uncomfortably. "Knew what, Mother? What star?" His protective instincts flared, a sense of foreboding settling over him.
There was something his mother, all of them, weren't telling him, they needed their answers now.
Harlon cleared his throat, his usually steady voice tinged with a hint of tension. "Now, now, Serra. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. The boy's only just come into his own."
Serra shook her head, a stubborn glint in her eye. "No, Harlon. Don't you see? The Gods have deemed the time is right. We cannot hide the truth any longer, not from him."
Elyna's heart pounded against her ribs.
She watched Caelum, her precious son, as a flicker of fear crossed his young face.
He was too young to face his divine destiny.
Harlon's jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek.
Anger flashed in his eyes, but he swiftly tamped it down. With a weary sigh, he turned to Luke.
"Luke, my boy," he said, his voice gruff but laced with affection, "I charged you with a task – to keep Caelum safe. You did that and more, that scar on your shoulder …. You went beyond any friend's, no any brother's duty. For that, I'll be eternally grateful."
A rush of warmth flooded Elyna as she looked at Luke and Meredith. "We thank you both, from the depths of our hearts," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "Teaching him, watching over him….you've given us back our son, a stronger boy than ever before."
Serra scoffed, a touch of disapproval twisting her lips. "Toman should have been there too, doing his part. Not leaving it all to the children."
Luke shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Father couldn't risk leaving Lord Tyrell's side, Mother. You know how it is – duty above all." He paused, his gaze turning serious as it fixed on Harlon, Elyna, and the others.
"But there's something I still don't understand," Luke said, his voice thick with confusion. "Why...why did you think Caelum was blessed? I mean, he was…sickly for so long. We both know the village whispers…they called him cursed."
A flicker of unease crossed Caelum's face. "Please, Father," he whispered, his small voice barely audible above the crackling hearth. "Tell me."
The silence that followed seemed to stretch on forever. Harlon looked torn, the love for his son battling against some deeper, unspoken fear.
"Luke," he finally began, his voice strained, "you are right. The Gods, they have chosen Caelum. He walks a path none of us could have imagined. But the blessing…that came before the power. When he was no more than a babe…"
Harlon hesitated, as if the words themselves were a burden.
Elyna reached out, placing her hand gently over his. They had kept this secret for so long, borne its weight together, but the time for hiding was clearly at an end.
A tremor passed through Elyna's body as she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "We've told you of two sons…" she began, a catch in her throat, "two that came before …and were lost to us... in truth there were three."
Luke, Meredith, and Caelum exchanged confused glances.
They'd always known about Caelum's stillborn brothers, a tragedy the family had grieved together.
But a third?
Elyna continued, her eyes glistening with tears. "The night you came to us, Caelum… it was the same night I bore our third son, Rowan. Stillborn, like his brothers…"
Her words hung heavy in the silence.
Caelum's face had gone pale, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and disbelief.
Harlon took over, his voice low and strained. "Marna and Serra were there…they saw it all." He swallowed hard. "We'd lost all hope. Elyna, she... they said she wouldn't survive another birth. And Rowan...I thought my world had shattered."
Elyna choked back a sob. "It felt like I would die too…truly die that night. But then, as if the Gods themselves heard our anguish…a star fell. Right there, in our field…" Her voice caught, but she pressed on. "Everyone saw it, the whole village. The Tyrells, they came, took the pieces…but they never realized, never saw…"
"Saw what, Mother?" Caelum whispered, his voice trembling.
A strange, almost hysterical note had crept into his tone, the shock beginning to give way to something akin to panic.
Marna stepped forward, laying a gentle hand on Caelum's shoulder. "The star, child…it wasn't just a rock. It was…a vessel. And inside…"
Serra finished her thought, her own voice filled with awe. "…inside was you, Caelum. A babe, small and perfect, sent by the Maiden herself."
The room seemed to spin around Caelum.
His breath came in ragged gasps.
It couldn't be true.
This was some… cruel joke, a nightmare he would soon awaken from.
A surge of protective anger coursed through Luke. " What kind of a jape is thus?" he spat, his voice tight with fury. "Why torment Caelum with … this – this cruel jape?!"
Meredith was already beside Caelum, her arm tightening around him in a gesture as much defiance as comfort.
She shot Harlon and Elyna a withering glare, her usual gentleness replaced by a fierce protectiveness.
Harlon knelt before Caelum, his weathered face etched with a mix of sorrow and resolve. "Caelum, son," he said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands, "this is no joke. The truth…it's harder to believe than any tale."
Caelum shook his head frantically, tears streaming down his face. "No!" he sobbed. "I love you, Ma, Pa. I don't want…I don't want to be some …. some star child!"
A fresh pang pierced Elyna's heart.
"Caelum," Harlon sighed, "it's better I show you. It's the only way you'll understand." With a nod towards Luke, he said, "Help me, Luke. Bring the spades."
Luke hesitated, his jaw clenched.
She could see the anger still simmered in his eyes, but a flicker of reluctant agreement softened his expression.
As they made their way towards the barn, a sense of oppressive dread washed over the group.
Caelum's sobs grew louder, and it was all Elyna could do to comfort him.
Inside the barn, Harlon pointed towards a spot in the earthen floor. "It was just outside, once," he explained, his voice strained. "After… after you came…well, we were blessed with good fortune. I had this built, to keep the place safe."
Caelum's cries were growing more hysterical with each passing moment.
Meredith murmured soothing words, her voice shaking slightly despite her brave front. "It's okay, little brother," she whispered, "I'm right here."
Elyna reached out to Caelum, a silent plea in her eyes.
But he shrank away, burrowing deeper into Meredith's embrace.
A silent sob escaped her lips as she watched her son recoil from her touch.
Serra and Marna shared a look of anguish, placing comforting hands on Elyna's shoulders.
Luke's spade striking the earth with grim determination. Caelum watched, his body trembling, a mix of fear, despair, and a strange, terrible awe washing over him.
Suddenly, Luke's spade hit something solid with a jarring thud. "Found it," he grunted, kneeling and brushing away the dirt to reveal a shimmering, almost silvery surface hidden beneath.
Caelum stared as if transfixed, dread pooling in his chest.
The star… his cradle… the harbinger of a destiny he never asked for. From the cursed of the village to the blessed.
He had wanted to be True Knight. Live a respectable life, show the village that he was no curse. He had not wanted this.
Harlon worked swiftly, his hands trembling slightly as he cleared the dirt away from the smooth, star-like object. When it was fully exposed, its polished surface gleamed dully in the lantern light.
He turned to Caelum, his voice trembling. "You came to us in this, child. Birthed by the Maiden herself, delivered from the heavens. Now… now it holds our Rowan. A final resting place, a testament..."
"Why?" he sobbed, his small body wracked with anguish. "Why me? What do the gods want from me?"
Harlon knelt before him, his eyes filled with a love that battled against the profound sorrow of this moment. "Caelum, you are my son. You will always be my son, truly. You're a blessing the Seven granted to Elyna and me. You will always be my son." He paused, a flicker of doubt crossing his face. "But…the Gods have woven another thread into your tale. They have given you a purpose only you can walk, you were sent here for a reason. Beyond what I can understand"
"I don't want a purpose!" Caelum wailed, finally burying his face in Elyna and Harlon's shoulder as they knelt beside him. "All I want is you, Ma, Pa, I want Luke, Meredith. To be your son, their friend. I want to be a good knight…I don't want blessings," his voice choked with disgust, "or grand purposes!"
A flicker of hope ignited in Elyna's heart as Caelum finally accepted her touch. "You will always be my son," she whispered fiercely. "And the greatest knight this realm has ever seen, I have no doubt. Your heart…it would have led you there anyway, blessings or no."
Across the barn, Meredith and Luke watched, a sense of awe finally displacing their initial fury.
The proof lay before them – otherworldly and undeniable.
Silently, they made a vow, otherworldly or not, Caelum was their little brother.
Caelum pulled away slightly, his eyes flicking towards them, a flicker of wariness replacing some of the despair. "I don't want to lose you…" he whispered.
Luke knelt, a gentle smile softening his stern features. "And you won't, little brother. We'll forge that knightly path together, make sure you're the finest warrior anyone's ever seen. I'll be there every step of the way."
Meredith nodded in agreement, her voice thick with emotion. "And so will I. Always."
Relief washed over Caelum as he rushed into their arms, the warmth of their embrace a balm against the chilling cosmic truth laid bare before him.
A sense of peace descended over the barn. Marna and Serra exchanged relieved smiles. This might not be the life any of them had imagined for the child they all loved, but love itself would remain their guiding star.
Caelum, now reassured of the one thing that truly mattered, cautiously approached the vessel, a strange mixture of trepidation and curiosity warring within him.
The silence within the barn deepened as Caelum neared the star. It was as if the vessel itself sensed his presence, a subtle shift in the air hinting at something extraordinary about to occur.
Suddenly, the star seemed to split along invisible seams, its polished surface separating into sections that glided open with an eerie sound, like petals of a strange, metallic flower.
Gasps echoed within the barn as the interior was revealed. There, nestled in a bed of shimmering silver fabric lay Rowan, Caelum's stillborn brother. He looked impossibly small, perfectly formed, and heartbreakingly peaceful. It was as though he merely slept.
Elyna and Harlon's tears flowed freely, a bittersweet joy mixing with their grief. This was their child, whole and beautiful, preserved forever within this celestial cradle. Marna and Serra wept softly, their hands clasped together in shared sorrow.
Luke gently squeezed Caelum's shoulder in silent support. The look in his friend's eyes was unreadable – a mix of awe, bewilderment, and a hint of understanding beginning to dawn.
Caelum reached out, his hand trembling as it hovered over Rowan's tiny cheek. "I'll keep them safe," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Our Ma and Pa. May you rest well in the Maiden's embrace."
At his words, something astonishing occurred. A clear crystal tumbled from Rowan's small hand, landing gently at Caelum's feet. With a final, soft sigh, the star closed once more, encasing Rowan again in its protective shell.
Bending, Caelum picked up the crystal.
It was smooth, warm to the touch, and faintly luminescent.
Caelum had seen first hand the madness that divine fates and Prophecy wrought. He wanted no part in it. The madness prophecies and grand purposes brought were not what he wished for himself.
He would be a Good Knight.
The purpose the Gods had in mind for him can go to the pits of Seven hells.
As he turned it over in his hand, he noticed a symbol etched faintly upon one side.
A single, elegant letter… it looked almost like an 'S'.
He would take this purpose and bend it to fit his own.
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(A/N) Rickard hasn't told Lyanna of the letter. Ned doesn't know either. Ned has gone back to the Vale. I always wondered what led Benjen to want to join the Night's Watch. Either way, canon is already fucked.
More A/N Lyanna here is grieving. She's essentially gaslighting Benjen to help her.
Edit: There was a redundant passage in Lyanna's scene. I also added more clarity to why Caelum dislikes the notion of being sent from the Gods.
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You will regret that Lyanna. It will trigger the events that led to Robert's Rebellion, starting with your father Lord Rickard burned to death while your eldest brother Brandon strangled alive trying to save him in front of the Mad King Aerys Targaryen.
And then you will be locked up at the Tower of Joy where you end up dying to give birth to Jon Snow while Ned Stark and his group almost died fighting Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower and Oswald Whent who ensure no one rescues you.
Thus begins the journey of Caelum Starborn to become Super Knight of Planetos.
Time to grow up, Princess
Chapter 13 –
Rickard Stark was no fool.
He knew his daughter did not want to marry her betrothed, Robert Baratheon.
He knew that forcing her marriage sooner on her would make her despise him more than she already did. But he had no choice.
Rickard stared sternly at his daughter, met by a defiant glare that was the very mirror of his own stubborn will.
Beneath the surface defiance, he saw a flicker of something else…fear, perhaps? Or the wounded pride of a she-wolf cornered.
A pang of sympathy warred with his mounting frustration.
At least she has a spine, he mused grimly.
Pity the brains to go with it seem to have gone missing.
The solar felt charged with a volatile energy.
Benjen fidgeted beside Lyanna, teary-eyed and pale, his small hand a vise-like grip on hers. Brandon stood stiffly near the hearth, his jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. The ancestral portraits that lined the walls seemed to watch the scene unfold with silent judgment.
Rickard placed the damning letter on the heavy oak desk.
Two parchments, one bearing Benjen's hasty scrawl and addressed to Lady Ashara, the other…that one bore the weight of a thousand poor decisions.
"Lyanna," he began, his voice deceptively calm, "I believe you have some explaining to do."
Lyanna glared back, defiant, but a flicker of uncertainty danced in her usually bold eyes. She clutched Benjen's hand, her knuckles white, her attempt at bravado cracking slightly.
Brandon shifted his stance, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
"You sought an audience with the Crown Prince," Rickard continued, his tone hardening. "Care to shed light on why you would dishonor your House, dishonor your betrothed, in such a reckless manner?"
The defiance in Lyanna's eyes flared into outright anger. "Dishonored?" she spat, her voice rising. "Dishonored by whom? Father, everyone seems determined to shame me before I even leave Winterfell!"
She wrenched her hand free from Benjen's grasp, trembling slightly. "Robert," she hissed, the name dripping with venom, "my oaf of a betrothed! He can't even wait until our wedding night to whore around, to parade his bastard before the realm! And you expect me to bear it with a smile?"
Rickard leaned back on his chair, the lines on his face etched deeper by the weight of his daughter's words. "If you felt slighted by Robert's actions, Lyanna, there are honorable ways to address those grievances. Running off to the Crown Prince…a married man…." His voice sharpened. "Do you even grasp the danger you've courted?"
Lyanna's voice cracked, tears of fury blurring her defiant gaze. "Don't you see, Father? They all do it! Robert, Rhaegar…even Brandon!" Her words hung heavy in the air, the accusation ringing clear.
Brandon stiffened, shock replacing the anger in his eyes. "Lyanna–" he began, but she cut him off.
"Robert won't keep to our vows! The prince won't either!" Her voice rose to a near shriek. "And Brandon, the dutiful son, he beds Lady Barbrey, the wife of his good-friend, Lord Willam, a man he calls his own foster brother! And Ashara…he tried to charm her at the tourney, knowing full well Ned set his heart on her!"
The solar fell into a stunned silence.
Rickard stared at Brandon, his face hardening into a mask of icy displeasure.
Brandon shifted, guiltily in his place not meeting Lyanna's vicious accusatory glare "H-how?"
"You're not as discrete as you think you are, dear brother!" Lyanna smiled nastily "The letters you received from her, hidden oh so secretly with the lumber crates. I know everything!"
"L-lyanna … I" Brandon spluttered.
"Enough!" Rickard shouted. He was glad he had dismissed Rodrik and the guards for the morning. "I will discuss Brandon later!"
Right now, Lyanna remained the wildfire threatening to consume them all.
Focusing back on his daughter, Rickard spoke, his voice laced with a weariness that cut deeper than anger. "Lyanna, even if you sought…petty revenge…there were other paths. Why the Crown Prince?"
Lyanna's anger flared anew. "Other paths? I tried, Father! The Reach boy at the tourney…he would have gladly taken my maidenhead! Robert would have been none the wiser. And then I would have married the lumbering oaf!" Her eyes glittered with fresh tears. "But you drove him away, and the others! Frightened them all off!"
Rickard blinked in confusion. "I did no such thing, child. If they chose to distance themselves, that was their decision."
Lyanna scoffed, disbelief twisting her features. "And why would they do that? Unless they were warned off…"
"Enough of this madness!" Rickard's voice echoed in the room. "Lyanna, there were a hundred young lords at Harrenhal. Tell me, why fixate on a married man with a kingdom hanging by a thread on his shoulders? A prince who dishonored you, dishonored his wife before the whole realms? What did you intend to happen? Be his secret whore? Did you think he would have set aside his wife for you, are you that starry-eyed, Lyanna!"
Lyanna's defiant words, spoken with such bitter conviction, hung in the air like a poison mist. "At least with the prince," she scoffed, "it would have been my choice. One night, and then Robert gets what he thinks he bargained for. He would have been none the wiser."
Rickard's shoulders slumped. A deep, weary sigh escaped him. He stared past his children, as if seeing ghosts flicker amongst the portraits of their ancestors. "Lyarra…" he whispered, his voice barely audible, "forgive me."
The weight of failure settled upon him.
He'd raised his daughter as he had his sons – granting her freedoms, teaching her of honor, assuming that was enough.
He loved Lyanna fiercely, but he never truly understood her as Lyarra would have.
He was a warrior, a Lord, not a father in the way a young girl needed.
Gathering his resolve, Rickard reached for a heavy scroll upon his desk.
He pulled free a smaller, folded parchment tucked within and slid it across the polished wood towards Lyanna. "This was on my bed the day before the last joust, back in Harrenhall," he said, his voice flat.
Lyanna's brow furrowed as she opened the note. Her initial scoff transformed into a gasp of shock and then a bitter laugh.
"So the prince wants to father a bastard on me? Not exactly news, Father," she said, venom lacing her words. "I'm not a fool – I would have taken moon tea, disposed of the evidence. But…" Her voice caught, a hint of hurt edging its defiance. "...it seems you don't know me at all, do you? Don't trust me even an inch with my own life."
Rickard met her accusing stare with a somber gaze. "You are right, Lyanna. I don't know you. Not as I should." His voice carried the weight of years of regret. "But I am learning. When you laughed with him at the feast, when I discovered you'd snuck off to ride with the prince before the jousts… I thought the letter was a cruel jape, but seeing you smile with the prince, openly insult Lord Baratheon? It seems my instincts weren't wrong."
A flash of pain crossed Lyanna's face, cutting through the defiance.
It wasn't his lack of trust in the prince that truly stung, it was his lack of faith in her.
The hurt in Lyanna's eyes sparked into renewed defiance.
"Is that all you see, Father?" she spat. "Some scheming harlot whispering in the prince's ear? Do you truly believe that's what I want?"
Her voice rose, laced with bitter envy. "Why does Ned get to choose his bride? Ashara, with her laughing violet eyes and gentle heart… And Brandon, free to tumble any woman he pleases, putting horns on his betrothed even before they wed! Robert beds whores and fathers bastards dishonoring me before half the realm, yet I'm to keep my vows and smile sweetly?"
She sank back into her chair, a mix of exhaustion and despair washing over her. "Even Benjen…he will get to choose his bride too, but me? I'm just a pawn, to be bartered away for your damned alliances!"
Was this all jealousy then? She was jealous of Ned.
He truly did not know his daughter at all.
'I am so sorry, Lyarra' Rickard swore.
"Enough!" Rickard's voice cut through the air like a blade.
His face was stern, the mask of the father replaced entirely by the hardened visage of the Lord of Winterfell.
"Enough." He repeated. He looked at all three of his children now, pinning them under his gaze "You have spoken enough, now you will listen."
Rickard fixed his icy gaze on Lyanna. "An affair with the Crown Prince," he said, his voice low and measured. "Do you truly believe this would be a victory, a defiance of Robert? No, girl. The moment word spread–and spread it would, for the prince has no care for his wife's honor, or yours–you would be branded a whore across the Seven Kingdoms."
He paused, letting the harshness of his words sink in. "Rhaegar would make certain everyone knew of your…dalliance. He craves your submission, the very thing you refuse Robert. With a bastard in your belly, he would bind you to him, whether you bore a crown or not."
Lyanna scoffed, disbelief battling with a flicker of fear in her eyes. "He wouldn't…"
"And why not? Lyanna, open your eyes! The Targaryens are not like us. The King…the whispers of his madness, they're no longer just whispers. He delights in burning men alive for his twisted pleasure. It had been just rumors until Harrenhall, but the murder of those Knights? It was unquestionably the King himself!"
Rickard's voice took a dark turn. "The prince's madness is different, but just as dangerous. He believes in mad prophecies, believes he must father a child on you, to complete the set of three. You are but a means to an end, a pawn in his deluded game. Whatever scheme you had decided to cook up, in your petty revenge on Robert, you would have been a pawn all the same."
"This alliance. Stark, Tully, Arryn, and Baratheon. This was meant to protect House Stark from the devolving madness of the Targaryens. They have shown themselves to be no friend to the North, or any house for that matter. They levy taxes with unreasonable rates, call House Stark loyal dogs in the midst of court, treat us nothing more than savages of the realm. And you wanted to lay with one of them!" He jeered.
"You didn't think about the Baratheons did you? I had thought you were no fool," Rickard continued, his voice laced with a warning, "The Baratheons have risen in rebellion for less. Lord Lyonel Baratheon declared independence for the very same reason, leading to a blood rebellion from the Storm Lands. Robert holds his honor lightly, true, but he is a proud man to his core. Do you think he'd suffer the humiliation of knowing the Crown Prince had bed his bride?"
He let a grim silence settle. "This is not a game, Lyanna, you're courting war. The peace your grandfather bargained for would shatter, placing us all in danger."
Turning back towards her, he softened his tone slightly. "I secured you a powerful match, child. Lord of one of the Great Houses, ruler of a vast domain…and he already worships the ground you walk on. Mold him, bend him, as you see fit…but from a position of power, not as some disgraced outcast."
Lyanna paled, the full weight of the potential consequences crashing down on her. "He…he would never have found out," she stammered weakly, "I would have been careful…"
Rickard shook his head, a mix of pity and exasperation in his eyes. "At Storm's End, surrounded by Robert's men? You think none of them would have whispered in his ear, seeking favor? Robert's an oaf, but he's no fool, Lyanna. The truth always has a way of finding the light."
A flicker of desperation crossed Lyanna's face. "But I wouldn't have been happy!" she cried out. "Isn't that what you want, Father? For your children to find happiness?"
Her defiance wavered, replaced by a deep-seated longing. "All the freedom in the world, and for what? I wanted to choose for myself, just once…"
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. "You raised me like Ned, like Brandon, but I…I'm not them. Should I have asked your permission to breathe, Father? Is there a list of approved breaths I should have consulted?"
Rickard sighed heavily. The echo of Lyarra's accusing words – forgive me – rang through his mind. He was a warrior, a Lord, but here, in this moment, he was failing as a father. "I raised you as I knew how, Lyanna, with honor, and with strength." He paused, choosing his words with care. "It seems I was wrong. Your brothers may have chafed under their limits, but you craved them, and I was blind to it."
A heavy silence fell over the solar. Rickard stood slowly, reaching for a worn leather sack beside his desk. He tossed it at Lyanna's feet with a thud. "A thousand gold dragons," he said, his voice flat. "Enough to start a new life far from here."
His gaze hardened. "You want freedom, Lyanna? Here it is. That is enough gold to hold you over for the rest of your life, take a ship to the free cities. Braavos would grant you all the freedom and safety you need. We can annul your betrothal. You renounce the Stark name, sail for Braavos, and live as you please." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "But you leave alone. Your actions have consequences, and you must bear them on your own."
Lyanna stared at the sack, a storm of emotions warring within her.
Here was the freedom she desperately craved.
Yet, when she spoke, she did not have the strength to claim it. "I …. I am sorry, father" she finally stammered, as the full weight of her reality came crashing down on her shoulders.
Rickard's frown deepened. "I thought as much," he said with a touch of grim satisfaction. "You desire the trappings of freedom, Lyanna, but not the burden that comes with it. Duty...it's a heavy word, I know."
He leaned forward, his voice softening but still firm. "Yes, your duty is to wed, to bear Robert Baratheon's heirs. It's not fair, not as nan's tales would have it. But we don't live in those tales, child. We live in a world of hard choices. It's past time you grew up."
The air in the solar crackled with a different sort of tension as Rickard turned his icy gaze onto Brandon.
For all his faults, Brandon had always met his father's stare with a mix of defiance and boldness.
Now, guilt and shame twisted his features, and he avoided Rickard's eyes.
"Brandon," Rickard began, his voice deceptively calm, "look at me. I raised you to be bold, not a craven."
A muscle twitched in Brandon's jaw, but he slowly lifted his gaze to meet his father's.
"What Lyanna said..." Rickard paused, gauging his son's reaction. "About Lady Dustin…is it true?"
The color drained from Brandon's face.
No words were needed; the guilt written across his features was answer enough.
"By the gods..." Rickard breathed, a wave of disgust washing over him. "You dishonored Lady Dustin, the wife of a bannerman you call your foster brother? And Lady Ashara…" his voice rose, laced with a fury that cut deeper than any physical blow. "You thought to take your own brother's love after bedding his previous intended? What sickness has addled you?"
Brandon opened his mouth as if to reply, then visibly deflated. "I…I love Barbrey," he mumbled, the words lacking any real conviction.
Rickard scoffed. "Love? You would'nt fill your belly at a brothel every new moon if it was truly love. Nay … that was Lust with a petty twist, nothing more."
He stared at his son, this boy-turned-man who embodied everything he'd tried to teach and everything he seemed to have failed at. "Answer me this, Brandon – was it worth it? Was a few nights of pleasure worth betraying your honor? Betraying Eddard so thoroughly? Should I write to him, detail exactly what you have done? Tried to do?"
The mention of Ned sent a fresh surge of shame through Brandon. He paled and stammered out, "Father, I…I'm sorry. I never meant…" His words trailed off, choked with a guilt that was all too real, yet still tinged with a lingering desire to defend himself.
Rickard stared at him in disgust. "Sorry? You think this was a moment's weakness, easily forgiven with those empty words? I barely recognize my own children anymore."
His gaze turned ice-cold. "Tell me, is there a bastard growing in Lady Dustin's belly?"
Brandon shook his head frantically. "No," he gasped out, "no, she…she took moon tea, I swear."
Rickard's anger deepened. "You think that absolves you? Barbrey Dustin is playing a dangerous game, and you, with your lust-addled brain, are her unwitting pawn. She may desire a Stark heir, Brandon. One that would give her claim to Winterfell itself, should our alliance falter."
Brandon stammers "Barbrey… she- she wouldn't! I know her!"
He leaned closer, his voice a chilling whisper. "And when you tire of her, and a new woman fills your eye, what then? When she realizes that you could never be with her? Do you think she will meekly step aside? No, she'll use that child against you, against House Stark. She will cry 'rape', drag House Stark's name through the mud, and bugger us for all we are worth! Which, by the looks of you is not going to be much in the near future."
Brandon's stuttered attempts at defending Barbrey's honor died on his lips as the full weight of Rickard's words crashed down upon him.
A flicker of doubt, a sliver of fear, pierced through the haze of lust and youthful defiance.
"Father… I" he began, but Rickard cut him off with a raised hand.
"Silence!" Rickard's voice thundered in the silence. "I thought I'd raised you better than this, Brandon. Honor isn't some pretty word you wear on tourney day and discard in a woman's bedchamber."
Finally, Rickard's attention was drawn towards Benjen.
The youngest Stark huddled near Lyanna, his usually innocent face pale, and eyes blotched with tears.
"Benjen…" Rickard began, but Lyanna interrupted.
"Don't, Father!" she cried out. "Please, I roped him into this mess. He didn't know, didn't understand what I was plotting."
Rickard stared at his daughter, then back to his youngest son. A weary sigh escaped him. He realized that while Benjen was the least culpable, the boy still needed to learn a harsh lesson.
"It's true, Lyanna used you," Rickard said, his tone softening slightly. "But a blind man stumbles into danger as easily as a scheming one. Open your eyes, Benjen. See the consequences of your actions...or rather, how Lyanna's actions could have tangled you in a web not of your own making. Your actions, had you not been caught, had Brandon not been watching the both of you like a hawk would have inevitably led us to war"
'It still might' Rickard sighed internally.
Rickard's gaze softened slightly as he looked at Benjen. "The truth is, son," he said, "your sister's reckless scheme could have brought war upon us all. The Targaryens are mad, and Robert… Had we been caught…."
He didn't need to finish the sentence.
The images flashed through his mind – Winterfell ablaze, his children dead, the legacy of his ancestors reduced to ashes.
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Rickard turned his attention to the task of meting out punishments.
This wasn't justice, not truly, but it was the only means he had to restore some semblance of order to his shattered world.
"Lyanna," he began, his voice stern once again, "you will remain in Winterfell until your wedding day. No more schemes, no more attempts to flee. And your marriage to Robert Baratheon will take place here, after Brandon's. You will not be permitted to ride any longer. You will stay in your chambers for a moon at the least, leaving only for food, and other needs. Nothing else. Maester Walys will try and teach you how to rule as a proper lady of the realm, if that doesn't work, I will summon Lady Mormont take you for a fosterage, she will come here. You will no longer leave Winterfell till you are married to Lord Baratheon."
Lyanna nodded meekly.
Tears streamed down her face, but her defiance seemed to have finally broken.
Rickard felt a pang of guilt, knowing he wasn't endearing himself to his daughter, but this was how things had to be.
He turned to Brandon, his anger rekindled. "You will never see Lady Dustin again. One more whisper of you near her, of even stepping foot near Barrowtown, or another woman who is not Catelyn Tully, and you will forsake Winterfell. You will take the fucking Black. Ned will become Lord Stark, at least I can rest assured he hasn't dishonored House Stark like you have. I will not see our house fall to ruin because of your lusts."
Brandon nodded, shame washing over him.
Rickard knew he'd have to keep a close eye on his eldest son.
He truly had not known his own children.
Finally, he looked at Benjen, the boy who was both the least and most troubled by all this.
"Benjen," he said gently, "You will stay clear of your sister. You will not speak to her, try to interact with her in any manner. From now on, double your lessons with Maester Walys. Learn of statecraft, of the burdens of ruling. The future of our house may depend on it."
Benjen gave a small nod. "Yes, Father."
Dismissing his children, Rickard sighed and leaned on his seat. He stared out the window of his solar at the sun in the distant horizon, across winter town.
War had seemed unthinkable to him. Now he realized it was only inevitable.
But, House Stark would not be the one to ignite the fires of War.
Nor would it submit to the madness of the Crown.
The Prince would not stop his attempts at getting his daughter.
The King's madness would not cease, House Stark, the North, and its allies would continue to be robbed for all its worth.
The Southern Houses were strengthening ties, reforging alliances.
House Tyrell now rivaled House Lannister in wealth, if not surpassed them entirely.
Already having sold seven pairs of a fallen star to the starry sept, and they had more rocks of similar value in reserve.
House Lannister was looking to reforge alliances with House Targaryen, though it seemed unlikely.
House Martell was scrambling to renew their reputation after the Prince's open dishonoring of his wife. They were already making headway for an alliance with the Tyrells. The Lannisters would soon join their fray.
House Targaryen's allies were circling despite the insults the house levied on all the great houses.
He prayed to the Gods for hope in the wars he knew were about to come.
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Sunlight battled its way past the heavy velvet drapes, painting a jagged stripe of warmth across the worn oak desk.
Garlan Tyrell, heir to the finest wines and sweetest fruits in Westeros, was losing the battle with boredom.
"Three plus three, my lord," Maester Lomys droned, his quill scratching dryly against the parchment. "Can you tell me the answer?"
Garlan stifled a yawn, eyes wandering to the sparrows flitting among the roses outside the window. "Um… five?"
Caelum, his attention half on the lesson, and half on the distant chattering of animals far away near the flowing river Mander, blurted out, "Six, Maester!"
Lomys clucked his tongue, an amused quirk to his lips. "Correct, Caelum. Perhaps we can move on to something a bit more challenging. Any suggestions, Lord Garlan?"
Garlan scowled. "Not more numbers, Maester. Please."
His gaze landed on the Maester's thick chain – bronze, silver, an odd black iron … and one shimmering silver link. "Ooh! Maester" he pointed, "Is that a Valyrian steel link? Can we learn some magic instead!"
Caelum leaned forward, the simple sums and animals forgotten.
For the first time today, he wasn't gazing wistfully at the window, but fully focused on the Maester and that single, gleaming link.
Maester Lomys chuckled, a touch of fondness in his voice. "Magic, Lord Garlan? Alas, those are tales for children. What we learn at the Citadel are the higher mysteries, the knowledge that shapes the world."
Caelum leaned further forward, his fascination overcoming his usual shyness. "But, Maester... is it true, is there magic that let a man know of things leagues away, or set things ablaze with just his gaze?"
The old Maester's smile faded slightly. "The higher mysteries often involve sacrifice, Caelum. Blood, or life... or something more precious still. And to learn those…" he paused, "…dark arts, The Citadel has forbidden the practice of such knowledge, or the practice of the art itself."
Garlan, momentarily intrigued, piped up, "Must've been fun, eh, Maester? All that magic stuff?"
Lomys shook his head. "I preferred the study of healing, the mending of bodies. Now," he clapped his hands lightly, "back to our numbers. Unless either of you wish to join the ranks of the hedge knights who can barely count their own coin?"
Caelum remained fixated on the Valyrian steel link, his mind churning.
Had the Citadel the answers?
Could those mysteries explain why the gods burdened him with this strange power?
Garlan, oblivious to Caelum's turmoil, leaned over and whispered, "That Valyrian steel, it's pretty, isn't it?"
Caelum nodded absently, his mind worlds away.
"Father's going to get us Valyrian swords! One for Willas, one for me." Garlan puffed out his chest. "Strongest metal there is, you know? Maybe I'll let you use it when we're knights together!"
The Maester, surprisingly attentive to their whispering, cut in sharply, "Lord Garlan, Caelum – focus, please! Or I shall start giving you extra reading to for the night."
Then, with a sigh, he softened his tone. "Valyrian steel is indeed a marvel, Lord Garlan, but no longer the pinnacle of metals. That honor now belongs to the star metal, found after the great star fell a few years back." His eyes twinkled, as he looked straight at Caelum. "It even glows with its own light! But it's stubborn, refuses to yield to our forges. A pity, for a sword of such metal, would have surely added to House Tyrell's glory."
Caelum's heart skipped a beat.
The entire star, glowing in the darkness of the barn... his secret, and the weight of the destiny it brought with it burned in his mind.
Garlan, noticing Caelum's distant look, nudged him with an elbow. "Hey! If they ever do make a star-sword... you could use it! I will have Valyrian Steel, and you can be Ser Caelum Starborne, the Starwielder!"
"A-ah! That would be the dream wouldn't it?" Caelum stammered.
Internally, Caelum recoiled at the very thought.
His magic was to be learned, mastered, so he would cause no harm, be a great knight, save people's lives, not to lead armies.
But the destiny that the Gods had designed for him was not his.
He fingered the cool crystal star shard around his neck, hidden beneath his tunic, the strange 'S' symbol etched upon it flashing in his mind.
Maester Lomys sighed, the weight of teaching two distracted boys settling heavily on his shoulders. "Very well then," he conceded. "If daydreams are more appealing than knowledge, I shall give you a task to occupy your minds. Learn your sums, and by tomorrow be prepared to recite the lineage of the Ninepenny Kings, from Maelys the Monstrous to the fall of his wretched band."
With a final warning glance, he dismissed them. "And don't be late for your riding lessons! You have a realm to rule someday, young Garlan, it would be unseemly to fall from a horse."
Garlan let out a whoop of delight, momentarily forgetting his fascination with swords and magic.
Caelum, swept along by his friend's infectious energy, found a flicker of his own enthusiasm returning.
The weight of destiny forgotten, at least for now.
They scampered down the castle corridors, the echo of their laughter bouncing off the ancient stones. As they reached the stables, the tangy smell of hay and horses filled the air.
Wilbert Orme, the stable master, stood waiting, his weathered face creased in either a smile or a scowl – it was always hard to tell with Wilbert.
His stable hand Igor held the reigns to the two destriers that were awaiting them.
"M'lord Garlan, Caelum" he grunted, a rough bow accompanying the greeting. "The Horses are saddled. Let's see what those fancy lessons are doin' for ye."
With Wilbert's gruff guidance, they revisited how to tighten their stirrups, swing effortlessly onto the saddle, and sit with the proper posture.
Then, with a final check on their mounts, they were off, trotting through Highgarden's sprawling grounds and eventually towards the Briar City.
"So," Garlan puffed out, struggling slightly to keep his horse steady, "you think that Maester was mad about us not paying attention?"
Caelum chuckled. "A little, I suppose. But he knows you'll charm your way out of extra lessons with Lady Olenna!"
Garlan grinned, his eyes sparkling. "Don't worry, Caelum! If Maester Lomys gives you a hard time, I'll smooth it over with Grandmother. She likes you too, you know."
Caelum felt a warmth spread through him. "Thanks, Garlan." Despite their differences, there was a genuine bond between them.
As they passed through the massive gates of Highgarden, the Briar City unfolded before them. A chaotic tapestry of narrow streets, sun-baked brick houses, and bustling markets, it stretched between the castle's outer two walls. The maze-like city never failed to make Caelum feel a mix of awe and unease – there were so many places to get lost in.
Wilbert Orme led them through the winding streets, his gravelly voice barking instructions. "Keep those heels down, Lord Garlan! Back straight, Caelum, let the horse guide you!"
Both boys struggled to maintain the perfect posture Wilbert demanded, Garlan occasionally sliding down in his saddle with a giggle.
Suddenly, Caelum's ears twitched. Over the din of the market, a faint cry pierced the air. "Help! Thief! Guards!" It was barely audible to a normal person, but to Caelum it rang as clear as a bell.
Keeping his face carefully blank, he feigned panic. "My horse! He's bolting!" With a sharp pull on the reins, seemingly accidental, he turned his horse and raced towards the source of the cry.
Wilbert bellowed after him, "Caelum! Control that beast!" He spurred his own horse, Garlan close behind, struggling to keep his seat but grinning from ear to ear.
Caelum's heart pounded.
He couldn't reveal the true reason for his abrupt change of direction.
Yet, he also couldn't not help when he'd someone cry for help.
A flash of movement in an alleyway caught his eye.
A man, clutching a bulging purse, sprinted for the shadows. Just behind, another man waved his arms frantically, shouting for the guards.
Sweat prickled Caelum's brow as he feigned a struggle with the reins. "Whoa there!" he shouted, his voice a believable mix of worry and effort. "Steady, boy, steady!"
Underneath the act, he carefully steered his horse, subtly cutting off the fleeing thief's route into a shadowed alleyway. Just as Wilbert and Garlan thundered up beside him, he let out a gasp of relief.
"Whoa!" he managed, "Finally got him under control!"
With a bellow of "Not so fast, thieving scum!", Wilbert was off his horse and after the thief. The much older man moved with a speed that belied his weathered appearance, tackling the surprised thief in a cloud of dust.
Garlan, gasping for breath, managed to squeak out, "Wow, Caelum! You... you led us right to a thief! That was –" He searched for words, "– like the most fabulous luck I have ever seen! That was the most exciting thing ever! You found adventure faster than Willas ever does! I can't wait to tell him!"
Caelum chuckled amusedly, patting the horse he had been riding.
The magic that the Gods had cursed him with, was useful to help people in need. That he would not deny.
But, the destiny that came with it?
That was his and his alone to carve for himself.
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(A/N) Well, that finally settles that.
Rickard Stark is not an idiot. He was forewarned, and as they say, forewarned is forearmed.
He did a shitty job of raising his children, like Ned did a shitty job of raising his too.
This seemed a bit necessary. Lyanna was never going to take her wedding being preponed well. Further, she was being groomed by Rhaegar at the tourney, and the man was succeeding.
She needed her eyes opened, for there to be any effect on her whatsoever. She didn't grasp the true consequences of her actions, she would have been okay being labeled a whore, but that's all she thought it would amount to. She was essentially saying damn the consequences.
Anyway, I will not be uploading for close to a week. I have an exam coming Sunday. I needed to close this before I took a break. Hopefully, see you all next week!
Rickard Stark was no fool.
He knew his daughter did not want to marry her betrothed, Robert Baratheon.
He knew that forcing her marriage sooner on her would make her despise him more than she already did. But he had no choice.
Rickard stared sternly at his daughter, met by a defiant glare that was the very mirror of his own stubborn will.
Beneath the surface defiance, he saw a flicker of something else…fear, perhaps? Or the wounded pride of a she-wolf cornered.
A pang of sympathy warred with his mounting frustration.
At least she has a spine, he mused grimly.
Pity the brains to go with it seem to have gone missing.
The solar felt charged with a volatile energy.
Benjen fidgeted beside Lyanna, teary-eyed and pale, his small hand a vise-like grip on hers. Brandon stood stiffly near the hearth, his jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. The ancestral portraits that lined the walls seemed to watch the scene unfold with silent judgment.
Rickard placed the damning letter on the heavy oak desk.
Two parchments, one bearing Benjen's hasty scrawl and addressed to Lady Ashara, the other…that one bore the weight of a thousand poor decisions.
"Lyanna," he began, his voice deceptively calm, "I believe you have some explaining to do."
Lyanna glared back, defiant, but a flicker of uncertainty danced in her usually bold eyes. She clutched Benjen's hand, her knuckles white, her attempt at bravado cracking slightly.
Brandon shifted his stance, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
"You sought an audience with the Crown Prince," Rickard continued, his tone hardening. "Care to shed light on why you would dishonor your House, dishonor your betrothed, in such a reckless manner?"
The defiance in Lyanna's eyes flared into outright anger. "Dishonored?" she spat, her voice rising. "Dishonored by whom? Father, everyone seems determined to shame me before I even leave Winterfell!"
She wrenched her hand free from Benjen's grasp, trembling slightly. "Robert," she hissed, the name dripping with venom, "my oaf of a betrothed! He can't even wait until our wedding night to whore around, to parade his bastard before the realm! And you expect me to bear it with a smile?"
Rickard leaned back on his chair, the lines on his face etched deeper by the weight of his daughter's words. "If you felt slighted by Robert's actions, Lyanna, there are honorable ways to address those grievances. Running off to the Crown Prince…a married man…." His voice sharpened. "Do you even grasp the danger you've courted?"
Lyanna's voice cracked, tears of fury blurring her defiant gaze. "Don't you see, Father? They all do it! Robert, Rhaegar…even Brandon!" Her words hung heavy in the air, the accusation ringing clear.
Brandon stiffened, shock replacing the anger in his eyes. "Lyanna–" he began, but she cut him off.
"Robert won't keep to our vows! The prince won't either!" Her voice rose to a near shriek. "And Brandon, the dutiful son, he beds Lady Barbrey, the wife of his good-friend, Lord Willam, a man he calls his own foster brother! And Ashara…he tried to charm her at the tourney, knowing full well Ned set his heart on her!"
The solar fell into a stunned silence.
Rickard stared at Brandon, his face hardening into a mask of icy displeasure.
Brandon shifted, guiltily in his place not meeting Lyanna's vicious accusatory glare "H-how?"
"You're not as discrete as you think you are, dear brother!" Lyanna smiled nastily "The letters you received from her, hidden oh so secretly with the lumber crates. I know everything!"
"L-lyanna … I" Brandon spluttered.
"Enough!" Rickard shouted. He was glad he had dismissed Rodrik and the guards for the morning. "I will discuss Brandon later!"
Right now, Lyanna remained the wildfire threatening to consume them all.
Focusing back on his daughter, Rickard spoke, his voice laced with a weariness that cut deeper than anger. "Lyanna, even if you sought…petty revenge…there were other paths. Why the Crown Prince?"
Lyanna's anger flared anew. "Other paths? I tried, Father! The Reach boy at the tourney…he would have gladly taken my maidenhead! Robert would have been none the wiser. And then I would have married the lumbering oaf!" Her eyes glittered with fresh tears. "But you drove him away, and the others! Frightened them all off!"
Rickard blinked in confusion. "I did no such thing, child. If they chose to distance themselves, that was their decision."
Lyanna scoffed, disbelief twisting her features. "And why would they do that? Unless they were warned off…"
"Enough of this madness!" Rickard's voice echoed in the room. "Lyanna, there were a hundred young lords at Harrenhal. Tell me, why fixate on a married man with a kingdom hanging by a thread on his shoulders? A prince who dishonored you, dishonored his wife before the whole realms? What did you intend to happen? Be his secret whore? Did you think he would have set aside his wife for you, are you that starry-eyed, Lyanna!"
Lyanna's defiant words, spoken with such bitter conviction, hung in the air like a poison mist. "At least with the prince," she scoffed, "it would have been my choice. One night, and then Robert gets what he thinks he bargained for. He would have been none the wiser."
Rickard's shoulders slumped. A deep, weary sigh escaped him. He stared past his children, as if seeing ghosts flicker amongst the portraits of their ancestors. "Lyarra…" he whispered, his voice barely audible, "forgive me."
The weight of failure settled upon him.
He'd raised his daughter as he had his sons – granting her freedoms, teaching her of honor, assuming that was enough.
He loved Lyanna fiercely, but he never truly understood her as Lyarra would have.
He was a warrior, a Lord, not a father in the way a young girl needed.
Gathering his resolve, Rickard reached for a heavy scroll upon his desk.
He pulled free a smaller, folded parchment tucked within and slid it across the polished wood towards Lyanna. "This was on my bed the day before the last joust, back in Harrenhall," he said, his voice flat.
Lyanna's brow furrowed as she opened the note. Her initial scoff transformed into a gasp of shock and then a bitter laugh.
"So the prince wants to father a bastard on me? Not exactly news, Father," she said, venom lacing her words. "I'm not a fool – I would have taken moon tea, disposed of the evidence. But…" Her voice caught, a hint of hurt edging its defiance. "...it seems you don't know me at all, do you? Don't trust me even an inch with my own life."
Rickard met her accusing stare with a somber gaze. "You are right, Lyanna. I don't know you. Not as I should." His voice carried the weight of years of regret. "But I am learning. When you laughed with him at the feast, when I discovered you'd snuck off to ride with the prince before the jousts… I thought the letter was a cruel jape, but seeing you smile with the prince, openly insult Lord Baratheon? It seems my instincts weren't wrong."
A flash of pain crossed Lyanna's face, cutting through the defiance.
It wasn't his lack of trust in the prince that truly stung, it was his lack of faith in her.
The hurt in Lyanna's eyes sparked into renewed defiance.
"Is that all you see, Father?" she spat. "Some scheming harlot whispering in the prince's ear? Do you truly believe that's what I want?"
Her voice rose, laced with bitter envy. "Why does Ned get to choose his bride? Ashara, with her laughing violet eyes and gentle heart… And Brandon, free to tumble any woman he pleases, putting horns on his betrothed even before they wed! Robert beds whores and fathers bastards dishonoring me before half the realm, yet I'm to keep my vows and smile sweetly?"
She sank back into her chair, a mix of exhaustion and despair washing over her. "Even Benjen…he will get to choose his bride too, but me? I'm just a pawn, to be bartered away for your damned alliances!"
Was this all jealousy then? She was jealous of Ned.
He truly did not know his daughter at all.
'I am so sorry, Lyarra' Rickard swore.
"Enough!" Rickard's voice cut through the air like a blade.
His face was stern, the mask of the father replaced entirely by the hardened visage of the Lord of Winterfell.
"Enough." He repeated. He looked at all three of his children now, pinning them under his gaze "You have spoken enough, now you will listen."
Rickard fixed his icy gaze on Lyanna. "An affair with the Crown Prince," he said, his voice low and measured. "Do you truly believe this would be a victory, a defiance of Robert? No, girl. The moment word spread–and spread it would, for the prince has no care for his wife's honor, or yours–you would be branded a whore across the Seven Kingdoms."
He paused, letting the harshness of his words sink in. "Rhaegar would make certain everyone knew of your…dalliance. He craves your submission, the very thing you refuse Robert. With a bastard in your belly, he would bind you to him, whether you bore a crown or not."
Lyanna scoffed, disbelief battling with a flicker of fear in her eyes. "He wouldn't…"
"And why not? Lyanna, open your eyes! The Targaryens are not like us. The King…the whispers of his madness, they're no longer just whispers. He delights in burning men alive for his twisted pleasure. It had been just rumors until Harrenhall, but the murder of those Knights? It was unquestionably the King himself!"
Rickard's voice took a dark turn. "The prince's madness is different, but just as dangerous. He believes in mad prophecies, believes he must father a child on you, to complete the set of three. You are but a means to an end, a pawn in his deluded game. Whatever scheme you had decided to cook up, in your petty revenge on Robert, you would have been a pawn all the same."
"This alliance. Stark, Tully, Arryn, and Baratheon. This was meant to protect House Stark from the devolving madness of the Targaryens. They have shown themselves to be no friend to the North, or any house for that matter. They levy taxes with unreasonable rates, call House Stark loyal dogs in the midst of court, treat us nothing more than savages of the realm. And you wanted to lay with one of them!" He jeered.
"You didn't think about the Baratheons did you? I had thought you were no fool," Rickard continued, his voice laced with a warning, "The Baratheons have risen in rebellion for less. Lord Lyonel Baratheon declared independence for the very same reason, leading to a blood rebellion from the Storm Lands. Robert holds his honor lightly, true, but he is a proud man to his core. Do you think he'd suffer the humiliation of knowing the Crown Prince had bed his bride?"
He let a grim silence settle. "This is not a game, Lyanna, you're courting war. The peace your grandfather bargained for would shatter, placing us all in danger."
Turning back towards her, he softened his tone slightly. "I secured you a powerful match, child. Lord of one of the Great Houses, ruler of a vast domain…and he already worships the ground you walk on. Mold him, bend him, as you see fit…but from a position of power, not as some disgraced outcast."
Lyanna paled, the full weight of the potential consequences crashing down on her. "He…he would never have found out," she stammered weakly, "I would have been careful…"
Rickard shook his head, a mix of pity and exasperation in his eyes. "At Storm's End, surrounded by Robert's men? You think none of them would have whispered in his ear, seeking favor? Robert's an oaf, but he's no fool, Lyanna. The truth always has a way of finding the light."
A flicker of desperation crossed Lyanna's face. "But I wouldn't have been happy!" she cried out. "Isn't that what you want, Father? For your children to find happiness?"
Her defiance wavered, replaced by a deep-seated longing. "All the freedom in the world, and for what? I wanted to choose for myself, just once…"
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. "You raised me like Ned, like Brandon, but I…I'm not them. Should I have asked your permission to breathe, Father? Is there a list of approved breaths I should have consulted?"
Rickard sighed heavily. The echo of Lyarra's accusing words – forgive me – rang through his mind. He was a warrior, a Lord, but here, in this moment, he was failing as a father. "I raised you as I knew how, Lyanna, with honor, and with strength." He paused, choosing his words with care. "It seems I was wrong. Your brothers may have chafed under their limits, but you craved them, and I was blind to it."
A heavy silence fell over the solar. Rickard stood slowly, reaching for a worn leather sack beside his desk. He tossed it at Lyanna's feet with a thud. "A thousand gold dragons," he said, his voice flat. "Enough to start a new life far from here."
His gaze hardened. "You want freedom, Lyanna? Here it is. That is enough gold to hold you over for the rest of your life, take a ship to the free cities. Braavos would grant you all the freedom and safety you need. We can annul your betrothal. You renounce the Stark name, sail for Braavos, and live as you please." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "But you leave alone. Your actions have consequences, and you must bear them on your own."
Lyanna stared at the sack, a storm of emotions warring within her.
Here was the freedom she desperately craved.
Yet, when she spoke, she did not have the strength to claim it. "I …. I am sorry, father" she finally stammered, as the full weight of her reality came crashing down on her shoulders.
Rickard's frown deepened. "I thought as much," he said with a touch of grim satisfaction. "You desire the trappings of freedom, Lyanna, but not the burden that comes with it. Duty...it's a heavy word, I know."
He leaned forward, his voice softening but still firm. "Yes, your duty is to wed, to bear Robert Baratheon's heirs. It's not fair, not as nan's tales would have it. But we don't live in those tales, child. We live in a world of hard choices. It's past time you grew up."
The air in the solar crackled with a different sort of tension as Rickard turned his icy gaze onto Brandon.
For all his faults, Brandon had always met his father's stare with a mix of defiance and boldness.
Now, guilt and shame twisted his features, and he avoided Rickard's eyes.
"Brandon," Rickard began, his voice deceptively calm, "look at me. I raised you to be bold, not a craven."
A muscle twitched in Brandon's jaw, but he slowly lifted his gaze to meet his father's.
"What Lyanna said..." Rickard paused, gauging his son's reaction. "About Lady Dustin…is it true?"
The color drained from Brandon's face.
No words were needed; the guilt written across his features was answer enough.
"By the gods..." Rickard breathed, a wave of disgust washing over him. "You dishonored Lady Dustin, the wife of a bannerman you call your foster brother? And Lady Ashara…" his voice rose, laced with a fury that cut deeper than any physical blow. "You thought to take your own brother's love after bedding his previous intended? What sickness has addled you?"
Brandon opened his mouth as if to reply, then visibly deflated. "I…I love Barbrey," he mumbled, the words lacking any real conviction.
Rickard scoffed. "Love? You would'nt fill your belly at a brothel every new moon if it was truly love. Nay … that was Lust with a petty twist, nothing more."
He stared at his son, this boy-turned-man who embodied everything he'd tried to teach and everything he seemed to have failed at. "Answer me this, Brandon – was it worth it? Was a few nights of pleasure worth betraying your honor? Betraying Eddard so thoroughly? Should I write to him, detail exactly what you have done? Tried to do?"
The mention of Ned sent a fresh surge of shame through Brandon. He paled and stammered out, "Father, I…I'm sorry. I never meant…" His words trailed off, choked with a guilt that was all too real, yet still tinged with a lingering desire to defend himself.
Rickard stared at him in disgust. "Sorry? You think this was a moment's weakness, easily forgiven with those empty words? I barely recognize my own children anymore."
His gaze turned ice-cold. "Tell me, is there a bastard growing in Lady Dustin's belly?"
Brandon shook his head frantically. "No," he gasped out, "no, she…she took moon tea, I swear."
Rickard's anger deepened. "You think that absolves you? Barbrey Dustin is playing a dangerous game, and you, with your lust-addled brain, are her unwitting pawn. She may desire a Stark heir, Brandon. One that would give her claim to Winterfell itself, should our alliance falter."
Brandon stammers "Barbrey… she- she wouldn't! I know her!"
He leaned closer, his voice a chilling whisper. "And when you tire of her, and a new woman fills your eye, what then? When she realizes that you could never be with her? Do you think she will meekly step aside? No, she'll use that child against you, against House Stark. She will cry 'rape', drag House Stark's name through the mud, and bugger us for all we are worth! Which, by the looks of you is not going to be much in the near future."
Brandon's stuttered attempts at defending Barbrey's honor died on his lips as the full weight of Rickard's words crashed down upon him.
A flicker of doubt, a sliver of fear, pierced through the haze of lust and youthful defiance.
"Father… I" he began, but Rickard cut him off with a raised hand.
"Silence!" Rickard's voice thundered in the silence. "I thought I'd raised you better than this, Brandon. Honor isn't some pretty word you wear on tourney day and discard in a woman's bedchamber."
Finally, Rickard's attention was drawn towards Benjen.
The youngest Stark huddled near Lyanna, his usually innocent face pale, and eyes blotched with tears.
"Benjen…" Rickard began, but Lyanna interrupted.
"Don't, Father!" she cried out. "Please, I roped him into this mess. He didn't know, didn't understand what I was plotting."
Rickard stared at his daughter, then back to his youngest son. A weary sigh escaped him. He realized that while Benjen was the least culpable, the boy still needed to learn a harsh lesson.
"It's true, Lyanna used you," Rickard said, his tone softening slightly. "But a blind man stumbles into danger as easily as a scheming one. Open your eyes, Benjen. See the consequences of your actions...or rather, how Lyanna's actions could have tangled you in a web not of your own making. Your actions, had you not been caught, had Brandon not been watching the both of you like a hawk would have inevitably led us to war"
'It still might' Rickard sighed internally.
Rickard's gaze softened slightly as he looked at Benjen. "The truth is, son," he said, "your sister's reckless scheme could have brought war upon us all. The Targaryens are mad, and Robert… Had we been caught…."
He didn't need to finish the sentence.
The images flashed through his mind – Winterfell ablaze, his children dead, the legacy of his ancestors reduced to ashes.
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Rickard turned his attention to the task of meting out punishments.
This wasn't justice, not truly, but it was the only means he had to restore some semblance of order to his shattered world.
"Lyanna," he began, his voice stern once again, "you will remain in Winterfell until your wedding day. No more schemes, no more attempts to flee. And your marriage to Robert Baratheon will take place here, after Brandon's. You will not be permitted to ride any longer. You will stay in your chambers for a moon at the least, leaving only for food, and other needs. Nothing else. Maester Walys will try and teach you how to rule as a proper lady of the realm, if that doesn't work, I will summon Lady Mormont take you for a fosterage, she will come here. You will no longer leave Winterfell till you are married to Lord Baratheon."
Lyanna nodded meekly.
Tears streamed down her face, but her defiance seemed to have finally broken.
Rickard felt a pang of guilt, knowing he wasn't endearing himself to his daughter, but this was how things had to be.
He turned to Brandon, his anger rekindled. "You will never see Lady Dustin again. One more whisper of you near her, of even stepping foot near Barrowtown, or another woman who is not Catelyn Tully, and you will forsake Winterfell. You will take the fucking Black. Ned will become Lord Stark, at least I can rest assured he hasn't dishonored House Stark like you have. I will not see our house fall to ruin because of your lusts."
Brandon nodded, shame washing over him.
Rickard knew he'd have to keep a close eye on his eldest son.
He truly had not known his own children.
Finally, he looked at Benjen, the boy who was both the least and most troubled by all this.
"Benjen," he said gently, "You will stay clear of your sister. You will not speak to her, try to interact with her in any manner. From now on, double your lessons with Maester Walys. Learn of statecraft, of the burdens of ruling. The future of our house may depend on it."
Benjen gave a small nod. "Yes, Father."
Dismissing his children, Rickard sighed and leaned on his seat. He stared out the window of his solar at the sun in the distant horizon, across winter town.
War had seemed unthinkable to him. Now he realized it was only inevitable.
But, House Stark would not be the one to ignite the fires of War.
Nor would it submit to the madness of the Crown.
The Prince would not stop his attempts at getting his daughter.
The King's madness would not cease, House Stark, the North, and its allies would continue to be robbed for all its worth.
The Southern Houses were strengthening ties, reforging alliances.
House Tyrell now rivaled House Lannister in wealth, if not surpassed them entirely.
Already having sold seven pairs of a fallen star to the starry sept, and they had more rocks of similar value in reserve.
House Lannister was looking to reforge alliances with House Targaryen, though it seemed unlikely.
House Martell was scrambling to renew their reputation after the Prince's open dishonoring of his wife. They were already making headway for an alliance with the Tyrells. The Lannisters would soon join their fray.
House Targaryen's allies were circling despite the insults the house levied on all the great houses.
He prayed to the Gods for hope in the wars he knew were about to come.
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Sunlight battled its way past the heavy velvet drapes, painting a jagged stripe of warmth across the worn oak desk.
Garlan Tyrell, heir to the finest wines and sweetest fruits in Westeros, was losing the battle with boredom.
"Three plus three, my lord," Maester Lomys droned, his quill scratching dryly against the parchment. "Can you tell me the answer?"
Garlan stifled a yawn, eyes wandering to the sparrows flitting among the roses outside the window. "Um… five?"
Caelum, his attention half on the lesson, and half on the distant chattering of animals far away near the flowing river Mander, blurted out, "Six, Maester!"
Lomys clucked his tongue, an amused quirk to his lips. "Correct, Caelum. Perhaps we can move on to something a bit more challenging. Any suggestions, Lord Garlan?"
Garlan scowled. "Not more numbers, Maester. Please."
His gaze landed on the Maester's thick chain – bronze, silver, an odd black iron … and one shimmering silver link. "Ooh! Maester" he pointed, "Is that a Valyrian steel link? Can we learn some magic instead!"
Caelum leaned forward, the simple sums and animals forgotten.
For the first time today, he wasn't gazing wistfully at the window, but fully focused on the Maester and that single, gleaming link.
Maester Lomys chuckled, a touch of fondness in his voice. "Magic, Lord Garlan? Alas, those are tales for children. What we learn at the Citadel are the higher mysteries, the knowledge that shapes the world."
Caelum leaned further forward, his fascination overcoming his usual shyness. "But, Maester... is it true, is there magic that let a man know of things leagues away, or set things ablaze with just his gaze?"
The old Maester's smile faded slightly. "The higher mysteries often involve sacrifice, Caelum. Blood, or life... or something more precious still. And to learn those…" he paused, "…dark arts, The Citadel has forbidden the practice of such knowledge, or the practice of the art itself."
Garlan, momentarily intrigued, piped up, "Must've been fun, eh, Maester? All that magic stuff?"
Lomys shook his head. "I preferred the study of healing, the mending of bodies. Now," he clapped his hands lightly, "back to our numbers. Unless either of you wish to join the ranks of the hedge knights who can barely count their own coin?"
Caelum remained fixated on the Valyrian steel link, his mind churning.
Had the Citadel the answers?
Could those mysteries explain why the gods burdened him with this strange power?
Garlan, oblivious to Caelum's turmoil, leaned over and whispered, "That Valyrian steel, it's pretty, isn't it?"
Caelum nodded absently, his mind worlds away.
"Father's going to get us Valyrian swords! One for Willas, one for me." Garlan puffed out his chest. "Strongest metal there is, you know? Maybe I'll let you use it when we're knights together!"
The Maester, surprisingly attentive to their whispering, cut in sharply, "Lord Garlan, Caelum – focus, please! Or I shall start giving you extra reading to for the night."
Then, with a sigh, he softened his tone. "Valyrian steel is indeed a marvel, Lord Garlan, but no longer the pinnacle of metals. That honor now belongs to the star metal, found after the great star fell a few years back." His eyes twinkled, as he looked straight at Caelum. "It even glows with its own light! But it's stubborn, refuses to yield to our forges. A pity, for a sword of such metal, would have surely added to House Tyrell's glory."
Caelum's heart skipped a beat.
The entire star, glowing in the darkness of the barn... his secret, and the weight of the destiny it brought with it burned in his mind.
Garlan, noticing Caelum's distant look, nudged him with an elbow. "Hey! If they ever do make a star-sword... you could use it! I will have Valyrian Steel, and you can be Ser Caelum Starborne, the Starwielder!"
"A-ah! That would be the dream wouldn't it?" Caelum stammered.
Internally, Caelum recoiled at the very thought.
His magic was to be learned, mastered, so he would cause no harm, be a great knight, save people's lives, not to lead armies.
But the destiny that the Gods had designed for him was not his.
He fingered the cool crystal star shard around his neck, hidden beneath his tunic, the strange 'S' symbol etched upon it flashing in his mind.
Maester Lomys sighed, the weight of teaching two distracted boys settling heavily on his shoulders. "Very well then," he conceded. "If daydreams are more appealing than knowledge, I shall give you a task to occupy your minds. Learn your sums, and by tomorrow be prepared to recite the lineage of the Ninepenny Kings, from Maelys the Monstrous to the fall of his wretched band."
With a final warning glance, he dismissed them. "And don't be late for your riding lessons! You have a realm to rule someday, young Garlan, it would be unseemly to fall from a horse."
Garlan let out a whoop of delight, momentarily forgetting his fascination with swords and magic.
Caelum, swept along by his friend's infectious energy, found a flicker of his own enthusiasm returning.
The weight of destiny forgotten, at least for now.
They scampered down the castle corridors, the echo of their laughter bouncing off the ancient stones. As they reached the stables, the tangy smell of hay and horses filled the air.
Wilbert Orme, the stable master, stood waiting, his weathered face creased in either a smile or a scowl – it was always hard to tell with Wilbert.
His stable hand Igor held the reigns to the two destriers that were awaiting them.
"M'lord Garlan, Caelum" he grunted, a rough bow accompanying the greeting. "The Horses are saddled. Let's see what those fancy lessons are doin' for ye."
With Wilbert's gruff guidance, they revisited how to tighten their stirrups, swing effortlessly onto the saddle, and sit with the proper posture.
Then, with a final check on their mounts, they were off, trotting through Highgarden's sprawling grounds and eventually towards the Briar City.
"So," Garlan puffed out, struggling slightly to keep his horse steady, "you think that Maester was mad about us not paying attention?"
Caelum chuckled. "A little, I suppose. But he knows you'll charm your way out of extra lessons with Lady Olenna!"
Garlan grinned, his eyes sparkling. "Don't worry, Caelum! If Maester Lomys gives you a hard time, I'll smooth it over with Grandmother. She likes you too, you know."
Caelum felt a warmth spread through him. "Thanks, Garlan." Despite their differences, there was a genuine bond between them.
As they passed through the massive gates of Highgarden, the Briar City unfolded before them. A chaotic tapestry of narrow streets, sun-baked brick houses, and bustling markets, it stretched between the castle's outer two walls. The maze-like city never failed to make Caelum feel a mix of awe and unease – there were so many places to get lost in.
Wilbert Orme led them through the winding streets, his gravelly voice barking instructions. "Keep those heels down, Lord Garlan! Back straight, Caelum, let the horse guide you!"
Both boys struggled to maintain the perfect posture Wilbert demanded, Garlan occasionally sliding down in his saddle with a giggle.
Suddenly, Caelum's ears twitched. Over the din of the market, a faint cry pierced the air. "Help! Thief! Guards!" It was barely audible to a normal person, but to Caelum it rang as clear as a bell.
Keeping his face carefully blank, he feigned panic. "My horse! He's bolting!" With a sharp pull on the reins, seemingly accidental, he turned his horse and raced towards the source of the cry.
Wilbert bellowed after him, "Caelum! Control that beast!" He spurred his own horse, Garlan close behind, struggling to keep his seat but grinning from ear to ear.
Caelum's heart pounded.
He couldn't reveal the true reason for his abrupt change of direction.
Yet, he also couldn't not help when he'd someone cry for help.
A flash of movement in an alleyway caught his eye.
A man, clutching a bulging purse, sprinted for the shadows. Just behind, another man waved his arms frantically, shouting for the guards.
Sweat prickled Caelum's brow as he feigned a struggle with the reins. "Whoa there!" he shouted, his voice a believable mix of worry and effort. "Steady, boy, steady!"
Underneath the act, he carefully steered his horse, subtly cutting off the fleeing thief's route into a shadowed alleyway. Just as Wilbert and Garlan thundered up beside him, he let out a gasp of relief.
"Whoa!" he managed, "Finally got him under control!"
With a bellow of "Not so fast, thieving scum!", Wilbert was off his horse and after the thief. The much older man moved with a speed that belied his weathered appearance, tackling the surprised thief in a cloud of dust.
Garlan, gasping for breath, managed to squeak out, "Wow, Caelum! You... you led us right to a thief! That was –" He searched for words, "– like the most fabulous luck I have ever seen! That was the most exciting thing ever! You found adventure faster than Willas ever does! I can't wait to tell him!"
Caelum chuckled amusedly, patting the horse he had been riding.
The magic that the Gods had cursed him with, was useful to help people in need. That he would not deny.
But, the destiny that came with it?
That was his and his alone to carve for himself.
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(A/N) Well, that finally settles that.
Rickard Stark is not an idiot. He was forewarned, and as they say, forewarned is forearmed.
He did a shitty job of raising his children, like Ned did a shitty job of raising his too.
This seemed a bit necessary. Lyanna was never going to take her wedding being preponed well. Further, she was being groomed by Rhaegar at the tourney, and the man was succeeding.
She needed her eyes opened, for there to be any effect on her whatsoever. She didn't grasp the true consequences of her actions, she would have been okay being labeled a whore, but that's all she thought it would amount to. She was essentially saying damn the consequences.
Anyway, I will not be uploading for close to a week. I have an exam coming Sunday. I needed to close this before I took a break. Hopefully, see you all next week!
So Lyanna's gonna be forced to marry a man who's never gonna actually love her? Cause at the end of the day he's not gonna change just cause he's married. More than likely he's gonna do the same thing he did with Cersei. With Lyanna being who she is, Robert is probably gonna get castrated.
Other question is where the heck is the super strength and super speed? Dudes not a kryptonian from any verse that I know, he should've had increased strength and speed from the get go. Even if his powers hadn't kicked in, he would still be stronger than any kid based on his physiology alone. By 6 he should be able to lift a horse at least.
Other question is where the heck is the super strength and super speed? Dudes not a kryptonian from any verse that I know, he should've had increased strength and speed from the get go. Even if his powers hadn't kicked in, he would still be stronger than any kid based on his physiology alone. By 6 he should be able to lift a horse at least.
Chloe Sullivan
Subdefective
- Location
- 1630 Revello Drive, Sunnydale CA
I may be relying too much on Smallville here, but perhaps the implication is that Caelum is sickly from all the kryptonite fragments around his hometown.
Superman usually has to be within a certain range for it to actually affect him though. I would think that any fragments would be underground, so the area that it does affect wouldn't be anywhere strong enough to hurt him.
Also kryptonite shouldn't even exist since it was something that was made cause of the world engine in man of steel.
Arimai
Curmudgeon
Within one meter to be debilitating. One and a half meter to three meters it causes minor dizziness depending on the distance. Beyond that they have no effect. There isn't any here, neither Kryptonian fragments or the world engine followed the vessel
Sunny Days
Chapter 14 – draft
The late afternoon sun painted the fields in hues of amber and gold.
Harlon knelt patiently beside Caelum, carefully demonstrating how to scatter the tiny seeds in the freshly tilled earth. "Let them fall evenly down the rows, don't let them form lumps, see?" he explained, his rough farmer's hands surprisingly gentle. "Each one needs a bit of space to grow strong."
Caelum nodded, intently mimicking his father's motions.
He had been helping his father increasingly after his return from the tourney, seeing as he no longer got sick from exertion.
Usually, he'd be peppering Harlon with questions about the different crops, or making up silly songs about turnips and beets, or knights and dragons.
Today, though, a quietness hung about him.
Harlon's brow furrowed slightly. His little star hadn't wasn't showing his usual enthusiasm since returning from Highgarden the previous evening.
Something was clearly weighing on his mind.
"You alright, little one?" he asked, a touch of concern in his voice. "Not much chatter coming from you today."
A flicker of unease crossed Caelum's face. He scooped up a handful of seeds, letting them trickle through his fingers.
"Pa," he began hesitantly, "yesterday.... at the castle, after my lessons, Lord Mace summoned Garlan to the hall, I went along with him." His voice lowered. "Some bandits were being sentenced."
Harlon nodded in understanding, his mind running rapidly to understand what Caelum may have witnessed.
The Tyrells were just, but justice could be harsh in these lands.
A pang of gratitude washed over him – the kindness shown to his son, allowing him to witness the ways of nobles, was a rare gift for a farmer's boy.
And the gods knew, Caelum was a bright lad.
Caelum swallowed hard, remembering the grand hall and Lord Tyrell's booming voice as he pronounced the men's fate. "The knights found them hiding near the Mander, Father," he continued, keeping his voice low. "They'd been stealing from travelers returning from the Crownlands. Had been doing it for two moons now."
Harlon listened intently, his weathered face a mask of thoughtful concern. Times were tough, and desperate men sometimes turned to desperate measures.
Caelum's voice dropped even further, a tremor edging into it. "But... I heard them, Pa. With my... magic" He bit his lip, eyes darting to distant figure of Jerren, then rushed on. "The bandits. Most of them... they only did it because their families were starving. They had children to feed."
Caelum's hands clenched around the seeds. "Lord Mace... he was merciful, sort of. He gave the bandits a choice. Take the black, serve at the Wall, or... or be executed." He swallowed hard. "Most of them chose the Wall, Pa. But their leader...he didn't. He said he had no one to go back to, and took...the other choice."
Caelum looked up at his father. "But why, Pa? Why would they steal when they could find honest work? And why did Lord Mace send them North? Won't they just cause trouble there too?"
Harlon sighed, the weight of the world pressing down upon his shoulders. This wasn't a conversation about farming, or even right and wrong. This was about the muddy gray areas of survival.
"Son," he began, his voice low and steady, "sometimes, work isn't easy to come by. Especially for those without land, or a trade. Hunger makes a man blind, makes him see only what his children need, not the harm he causes others."
He sighed, running his hand through the grains he was planting in his field, and said "The earth is capable of providing for all its creatures. The Seven are merciful to all life that thrives on it, from the smallest of ants to the largest of beasts. They all have enough food to sustain themselves."
"The problem, son," He said, looking his son in his eyes "Is people always have a problem with sharing. Everyone is too busy with holding on to what they have, or craving what others possess. My brothers, your uncles, they fought as knights in the war on the ninepenny kings. The tales at the inn, and the songs will tell you that it was a war against a band of monstrous tyrants, bent on ruling most of the known world."
Caelum nodded and asked "Maelys the monstrous and his band of nine wanted to carve a kingdom each for themselves from the known world, surely he would be someone you could consider evil. Maester Lomys had me recite the history when I first learned it."
Harlon smiled, feeling proud of his son, but then his gaze turned somber "Yes, he probably did. But in my eyes, your uncles died protecting the lands of a lord who did not even remember their names. They certainly did not fight for the Tyrells. They fought to protect the lands of a lord who gave them no recognition, except a knighthood for agreeing to fight in their name. Even then, they were traveling Hedge Knights."
Harlon's gaze fell on Jerren, working diligently a few rows away. Jerren, too, had lost family to bandits years back. Yet he'd built a life here, with their small community.
"Those bandits," he said, his voice thoughtful, "they weren't so different from Maelys, in a way. Desperate to provide for their own, just like your uncles were protecting their lord's lands against Maelys. Everyone's fighting for something, or someone."
Caelum's eyes widened.
Maelys the Monstrous, the villain from Maester Lomys' lessons, equated with hungry farmers?
The world spun around him. "But... are they all evil then, Pa? Those who take what isn't rightfully theirs?"
Harlon sighed. "Evil's a strong word, son. There are actions that are truly evil, Maelys' desire for his house, house Blackfyre, wasn't evil, it was natural. The way he went about trying to achieve it? Taking what isn't his, killing and torturing those who stood in his way, that is evil. And yes, there are men who delight in causing pain, men who live to see the world burn, who truly deserve that title. But most times..." He trailed off. "Most times, things aren't so clear-cut."
Then, a spark of mischief lit his eyes. "So, what about Lord Mace then? Was his judgment... just?" He tossed the question back to Caelum.
Caelum stared at the ground, kicking up a small cloud of dust. "I... I don't know, Pa. It seems right, in a way. Sending those men away. But... would their families have food now? Is a lifetime of servitude to the wall justice for their crime? I don't know."
Harlon's face softened.
He reached out, ruffling his son's hair. "You've got a good heart, little star. And a sharp mind too. Questions are more important than answers sometimes."
He stood, stretching his aching muscles. "Look," he gestured towards the sacks of seed waiting nearby, "not all these seeds will grow into strong crops. Some never sprout, and some wither before they bloom. But they all deserve a chance, don't you think? My brother used to tell me, give a man a fish he may eat for a day, but should you teach a man to fish, he will eat for a lifetime. Perhaps, of those men who were truly desperate, they would have been better served if they were taught a trade. But then, the question becomes, how do you separate the desperate from the vile and evil?"
Caelum nodded slowly, his brow creased in thought.
Then, a question formed, hesitant but insistent. "Pa... is there a way? Maybe a way to make sure...no one needs to want for anything?"
Harlon was taken aback. It was a question born of a child's pure heart, yet touched upon a longing that had plagued philosophers and kings alike. He pondered for a long moment.
"Son," he began, a wistful smile playing on his lips, "men will always crave something. Wealth, land, power... maybe even something beyond our understanding. Even Death, the great leveler, the stranger, only truly ends desire when a man draws his final breath. These are questions for wiser men, for lords and maesters, perhaps even Septon Mattheus himself."
Caelum's shoulders slumped slightly. But then, a flicker of determination crossed his face. "The gods cursed me with this," he confessed, voice barely above a whisper, "this...magic. But maybe... maybe there's a way I can help men like those bandits too. I used to think bandits were just... bad men that knights fought, and that was that."
Harlon's heart ached. "Curse, little star?" He knelt down, looking his son squarely in the eye. "You aren't cursed. You're different, aye. That made you a frail child, made the village whisper. And now..." he paused, searching for the right words, "now that that difference has become strength, it might set your feet on a path few others could walk. But it is your path."
"Those gifts you hear and see things others can't," he continued gently, "they're not from some angry god, not after your Ma and I prayed so hard for a child. No, the Seven sent you to us for a reason. Your magic lets you see a man's true heart, the good and the bad mixed together. It makes you the kind of person who sees a need and wants to fix it, even if you don't know how yet. And perhaps, just perhaps, the world is in need of such a man right now. One who can set aside his own needs, and try to help, as you already have before."
Was that his destiny then? Was that the purpose the seven had for him?
He didn't think so.
It was a good path, he realized, one he could follow as a knight.
It would be the purpose he chose for himself.
A determined light glimmered in Caelum's eyes. "Yes, Pa," he nodded, standing a little taller, "I think so. Maybe... maybe I could go to Oldtown, to the Citadel."
Harlon paused, hoe in hand, a flicker of confusion crossing his weathered face. "The Citadel, Caelum? What brought this on?"
Caelum looked sheepish. "I... I overheard Lord Mace the other day. He was talking about finding a fosterage for Willas in a few years. And Garlan too, soon after..." He glanced away. "And there's Luke, of course. He's not a knight yet, but he will be soon, he could go with me."
"But why the Citadel?" Harlon pressed gently.
Caelum's face flushed. "Maester Lomys said they have writings on magic, the higher mysteries. I... well, I want to see if anyone else has had this..." he gestured vaguely at himself, "...this gift? And how... how they dealt with it."
Harlon pondered this. Then, a question came to him. "Did you ask your friends what it takes to go to the Citadel, son?"
Caelum nodded. "I asked Maester Lomys, and Garlan too. The Maester said you need a lord to sponsor you, or... a hundred silver pieces. He also said that vows of the citadel will not suit me, but I don't want to take the vows there. Lots of boys from the seven kingdoms go there to forge links for select studies, I could go there too! And Garlan..." he trailed off, "well, he said I want to be a knight, and the Citadel's not for warriors, so why go there at all?"
He looked up at his father, a flicker of doubt clouding his face. "I don't want to ask Lord Mace, Pa. They're kind enough already. I wouldn't want to... to take advantage."
Harlon smiled, a mix of pride and worry swirling within him. "You've got a good heart, little one. But those silver pieces... I'm not sure your Pa's pockets are that deep." He sighed. "But let's see, let's see what can be done."
Harlon hesitated "I-I don't think I have that much silver at hand, Caelum" He said. Seeing the disappointment on his son's face, something the boy worked really hard to hide he said "But perhaps, in time I can save some up to send you there. Mayhaps you can take some your Ma's ale there to earn some coin from the ale to pay for admission to the citadel."
The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the field as father and son watched it set over the glimmering Mander. Harlon glanced back at the unfinished rows. "That's enough for today, I reckon," he said. "We can pick this back up tomorrow after you've had more time with those books of yours." He called over to Jerren, "Jerren! Head on back to the house now. Supper's on us tonight!"
Turning back to Caelum, he was astonished to see his son, seven-name days old, hoisting a sack of grain almost as big as himself.
With a strength that seemed impossible, Caelum heaved it onto the cart.
He smiled.
Caelum was troubled with his gifts, they had hurt him at the tourney, and frightened him.
He had desired to be Knight to show the village he wasn't cursed, something he never had been.
And perhaps, just perhaps, the seven wouldn't be so cruel to him from now on with whatever else they had written for him.
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The afternoon sun dappled through the leaves of the pear trees, casting playful patterns of light and shade upon the brothers.
Willas, tall for his nine name days, stood with a poise beyond his age, a leather gauntlet shielding his arm. A magnificent hawk, feathers the color of polished bronze, perched upon it, its sharp gaze sweeping the orchard.
Garlan, two years younger and a good head shorter, waddled beside him with less grace. "I honestly didn't think it possible, Willas," he grumbled, his cheeks already flushed with exertion. "Hawks are for hunting, not playing raven."
Willas gave a soft laugh, he lifted his free hand in a silent signal, "patience is a virtue, as Maester Lomys is always reminding us."
Garlan scoffed and flopped dramatically onto a mossy stone. "Maester Lomys likes the sound of his own voice too much. I'd rather have another slice of Meredith's lemon cake." A wistful sigh escaped him, and he patted his belly, showing a hint of roundness.
A shadow swept across the sunlit grass.
Willas' eyes gleamed. "Ah! Here she comes." He whistled, a sharp, piercing sound that cut through the orchard's stillness. The hawk launched itself into the air with a powerful beat of its wings, soaring in narrowing circles.
Garlan squinted, momentarily forgetting his disdain. "I still don't see –"
Suddenly, the hawk shot downwards like a feathered arrow, landing with practiced ease on Willas' outstretched arm. Garlan gasped, scrambling to his feet. "How did she…? Is that… a letter?"
There, tied to the hawk's leg with a thin leather strap, was a small parchment scroll.
Willas untied it with practiced fingers, a triumphant smile lighting up his face.
"It worked!" he exclaimed. "See, Garlan? Maester Lomys was right. With the proper training, even a creature of the wild can become a most reliable messenger."
Garlan grudgingly nodded, unable to entirely hide his admiration. "Wow! Are you going to send her to Princess Arianne?"
Willas chuckled, gently placing the hawk on Garlan's outstretched, slightly pudgy, arm.
The girl bobbed her head, her fierce yellow eyes studying the younger boy. "Her name is Sunflash," Willas explained. "A gift from Uncle Garth, along with her siblings. Treat them well, and they might just let you be their friend, too. I'll write a letter to Princess Arianne tonight! She'll be forced to send one back by eagle soon!"
Lady Olenna, her grey hair shimmering in the dappled light, leaned back with a contented sigh. "Meredith's hand with pastry remains as deft as ever," she remarked.
Beside her, her daughter-in-law, Lady Alerie, nibbled daintily on her cake, her gaze fixed upon her sons in the sun-drenched orchard.
A smile tugged at her lips, a gentle echo of Willas' own. "He's come so far," she murmured, a touch of wistfulness in her voice. "So self-assured…and to think, not long ago he was a little boy playing behind my skirts. Now, he is slowly able to command the presence of knights much older than himself in the yard. Ser Crane has done a fine job training him."
Olenna followed her gaze, observing the hawk perched on Garlan's outstretched arm.
The boy still had the soft roundness of childhood, but there was a spark in his eyes, pride and admiration of his elder brother "A good sign," Olenna mused. "Willas inspires his brother, not resentment. He'll need that strength and loyalty when the time comes."
Alerie's smile faded slightly. "The time for…?"
Olenna set her half-eaten cake aside, her expression turning serious. "My dear, you know as well as I that Willas won't stay a boy under the shade of these pear trees forever. Mace has been wise to hold off as long as he has, but the day for fostering draws near." She paused, her tone softening. "It breaks your heart, I know. It broke mine too, with Mace himself."
A shadow of sadness flickered across Alerie's face. "I worry, of course," she confessed, her voice barely a whisper. "The houses would use this opportunity to whisper in his ears, play their games. I can't help but worry."
Olenna reached out, her wrinkled hand covering Alerie's. "A mother's fear is the fiercest creature of them all, Alerie," she said, her voice laced with understanding. "But Willas is no helpless babe, and we Tyrells are no pawns. We play the game, and we play it well."
Alerie leaned forward, her eyes sharp once more. "Tell me, which of the Houses have shown interest in fostering my Willas?"
"Crane... Chester... Fossoway… Tarly… Florent… even my own maiden House, House Redwyne. They all have shown some desire to foster Willas." The old
"Which of these houses do you think is suitable for Willas, mother?" she hesitated, searching for the right words, "I am almost certain Mace is looking to betroth Willas to the Dornish princess, so a house where there isn't ambition for marriage I think."
Olenna's shrewd eyes held a mix of understanding and calculation. "Let us consider each… House Crane, for all they boast of honor, are as stiff-necked as their sigil. A good place to learn swordsmanship, perhaps, but not the arts of court. Plus, House Crane has been given ample reward for service. Ser Crane is master at arms, and his heir is here with him in the heart of the reach. House Crane's daughters are frequent visitors to the castle as well, so not them. They will not be rewarded with a fosterage."
She clucked her tongue dismissively. "The Chesters are too close in proximity. Even fostered away, Willas would remain under our thumb. No true test for him, and the old wolf Chester might try to wheedle closer ties."
"The Florents…" She paused, thoughtfully. "Their ambition is strong, stronger even than their ancestral claim. It could be a good home for Willas, but they also possess ambition. Not them either."
"The Fossoways…" she frowned. "Janna would see Willas grow well in her house, but Jon would look for another marriage between Tyrells and Fossoways. Perhaps, Garlan in a few years will be fostered there, not Willas."
"Tarly…" Olenna mused, her eyes distant. "Strong stock. Randyll Tarly is no fool, and your Willas possesses a mind as well as martial strength, Mace certainly wants to see him Knighted soon. Sooner than he should be, I think. The Tarly's will certainly aid Willas in achieving that at the least, but I don't think I want to feed into Mace's unhealthy one-sided competition with the Lions. He wants Willas knighted earlier than Jamie Lannister. Willas is good, but Jamie Lannister is a prodigy that even I could recognize. Not the Tarly's either."
Finally, she turned her attention fully to Alerie. "Which leaves…Redwyne. My maiden household. Distant enough to grant Willas room to grow, wealthy enough to ensure comfort, and possessing a cunning fox, Paxter, at its head." A ghost of a smile passed her lips. "Mina has just given birth to twins, Horas and Hobber. There isn't a worry for an angle of marriage, Mina loves her nephew truly, and Willas will delight over his cousins."
Alerie let out a sigh, part relief and part resignation. "The Arbor it is, then," she said softly. A wave of sadness washed over her. "But it will be so…difficult…to see him so far from home."
Olenna reached out and placed a comforting hand over Alerie's. "My dear girl, do not fret so. Soon, your mind and heart will be occupied with another one your own babes," she said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "And I suspect that once you're chasing after another child, you'll find less time to mourn Willas' absence."
Alerie blushed, a gentle glow suffusing her cheeks. She tentatively patted her still-flat stomach. "A girl, I hope," she confessed, her voice a hopeful whisper. "Though... Mace does yearn for another son."
Olenna laughed, the sound surprisingly hearty. "Mace yearns for enough knightly sons to field an entire jousting team! Don't you worry your head over his dreams. And besides, there's Garlan."
Alerie sighed, but a fond smile touched her lips as she watched her younger son struggling to mimic Willas' practiced movements with the hawk. "Yes," she agreed, "there's Garlan. He too, will leave for fostering in a few years."
Olenna nodded, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied the boy. "He showed scant interest in his lessons with Maester Lomys," she mused. "I suspect his young friend Caelum's presence was the only thing keeping him anchored. Now, separated from his companion in mischief, I fear he might run wild."
A flicker of mischief danced in Alerie's eyes as she recalled numerous instances of Garlan and his lowborn friend stumbling into scrapes. "Indeed," she chuckled. "The boy has an uncanny knack for finding trouble and dragging my Garlan into it. Whether it's discovering secret passages or uncovering a rogue kitchen maid, or a thief in the briar, or whatever else ne'er-do-wells there may be in the briar, they leave a trail of chaos behind them, and Garlan's guards often have to pick up their paces to capture whatever miscreant the boy stumbles upon."
Olenna hummed in agreement. "Speaking of Caelum, the boy has a fine mind. He'd make a good knight, mind you, and a loyal one to boot. His uncanny ability to stumble upon miscreants aids him well. But…" she paused, "Maester Lomys told me the boy has been inquiring about the Citadel. It baffled me in truth. The boy has the brains for it, no doubt. Mayhaps he is looking to learn more to aid his father at the farm, I do not know."
Alerie frowned, concern briefly shadowing her face. "Caelum? Garlan, I fear will be greatly disappointed to lose his friend." Worriedly, she asked, "Did he… perhaps mention any requests of Garlan? Seeking aid to reach the Citadel perhaps?"
Olenna gave a dry chuckle. "The boy inquired about the requirements, yes, but I doubt he has the gall to use his friendship with your sons as leverage." She leaned back thoughtfully. "Had he asked in earnest, I have no doubt Willas or Garlan would have offered anything he needed."
The question hung in the air, unspoken but clear. Alerie looked to Olenna, her eyes pleading. "Will… will we help him?"
Olenna weighed her words carefully. "A good, loyal knight will serve Willas' interests better than a stifled scholar. The boy has the potential to serve the Tyrells well as a sword and a shield." A glint entered her eye. "He could be a… useful ear to the ground in the Tyrell household. But the Citadel? He'll wither there, even if he does not intend to bind himself entirely to a maester's vows. He'll make a good knight, Ser Crane will make sure of it, if he does join the yard."
As they nibbled on the last crumbs of cake and sipped the mellow Arbor Red, Olenna's keen eyes drifted across the orchard.
"Speaking of Ser Vortimer," she began casually, "Tell me, Alerie, have you noticed Luke lately? Ser Crane's page?"
A flash of confusion crossed Alerie's delicate features. "The boy who introduced us to Meredith and Caelum? I believe so… though, he hasn't been the same since the Harrenhal tourney." She hesitated. "He's grown somewhat… withdrawn. Ser Vortimer's remarks about the boy's absence were sharp, especially in front of the other squires."
Olenna's frown deepened. "He's skilled with a blade, from what I hear. Disarmed Ser Crane's heir Parmen last week, wouldn't you know it? Yet, that old crane won't give the boy an ounce of credit."
Alerie shook her head, a note of sympathy entering her voice. "He tried to charm Ser Vortimer's daughter when the Ser Crane's daughters last rode here. A clumsy attempt, from what I gathered. Perhaps this is…retribution." She shrugged delicately. "If Ser Vortimer won't have him, my husband has no shortage of knights to choose a new squire from. Quentin would be a fine choice, I think. The boy deserves a reward if purely for introducing Meredith to the household, and Caelum to Garlan."
Olenna smiled faintly, a spark of approval gleaming in her eyes. "Indeed, he does. Both of them have proven good influence on the boys. We shall see if Ser Crane continues to ignore the boy's talents. He would make a good knight, with a good head on his shoulders someday."
"He's just like Gerold used to be in that regard." Alerie mused "Sharp minded, he would make a good knight truly."
She leaned forward, "Has there been any…whispers from the capital? Has Gerold sent any ravens?"
Alerie's voice dropped into a hushed tone, mirroring the shift in their conversation. "Gerold has written," she revealed, "though even his usually keen eye seems at a loss. The Prince and Princess…" she paused as if savoring the bittersweet tang of court gossip, "they seem to have reached a… fragile accord, for the time being. The birth of their son, Aegon on Dragonstone, seems to have brought some measure of peace."
A wistful sigh escaped her. "Yet, only days afterward, the Prince gathered his companions – Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent, and a few guards – and rode off. None know his destination, or even his purpose."
She toyed with her Arbor Red, her eyes clouded with a hint of concern. "And stranger still… word has reached us that Eddard Stark journeyed to visit Ashara Dayne, the Princess' lady-in-waiting. A brief visit, no more than a day, and then they both vanished." Alerie looked up at Olenna, a touch of worry in her eyes. "What does this all mean, Lady Olenna?"
She set her cup down with a decisive clink. "The tension between the Prince and Princess eased…that much is good. But this reckless excursion…" Olenna shook her head in disapproval. "The Prince would be wise to shore up alliances, Prince Doran did not take his crowning of Lyanna Stark as the Queen of Love and Beauty at Harrenhal well. Neither did Rickard Stark. Brandon Stark's wedding to Catelyn Tully is in a moon, and Lyanna Starks own wedding to the Baratheon heir is in a moon's turn after. Their swift departure from that tourney was the only thing that saved the Stark girl from being labeled as the Prince's whore. There were enough lords who had seen the girl laugh with the Prince at the feast before the crowning, and some even say they had rode together before the jousts."
"As for the Quiet wolf, it seems I was right in my deduction that there had been sparks flying between Ashara Dayne, and Eddard Stark. Though why Rickard Stark allowed it to go as far as it has I don't know. There has been no talk of betrothal yet. It's a curious fascination. A scandal in the making of its own to be sure." Olenna shook her head at the idea.
Her gaze settled on the figures of her grandchildren in the orchard.
The Targaryen, The Starks, The Daynes… she did not understand which way the winds were blowing.
"There's a storm brewing under those stoic northern faces, and it's not just the chill of winter." Of that she was certain.
A shadow flickered across her face, then vanished just as quickly. "It will all be revealed in time, Alerie," she murmured, a comforting touch in her voice despite the underlying tension.
The games in King's Landing would continue to play out, the pieces moving, alliances shifting...
Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she watched Willas sending his hawk aloft, its dark shape silhouetted against the blazing sunset.
House Tyrell would bide its time, and watch as the pieces fall in place after the winds have settled.
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(A/N) I couldn't focus just on studying. Ended up writing a short chapter.
I seem to have flamed a lot of people with my blithe remark about Eddard being a poor parent. I think he succeeded as a parent to teach his children honor, morals, and make them well adjusted individuals. But the man clearly suffers from PTSD, he fostered none of them. That is what I was alluding to.
Similarly, Rickard didn't Foster Benjen after Lyarra's death either.
The late afternoon sun painted the fields in hues of amber and gold.
Harlon knelt patiently beside Caelum, carefully demonstrating how to scatter the tiny seeds in the freshly tilled earth. "Let them fall evenly down the rows, don't let them form lumps, see?" he explained, his rough farmer's hands surprisingly gentle. "Each one needs a bit of space to grow strong."
Caelum nodded, intently mimicking his father's motions.
He had been helping his father increasingly after his return from the tourney, seeing as he no longer got sick from exertion.
Usually, he'd be peppering Harlon with questions about the different crops, or making up silly songs about turnips and beets, or knights and dragons.
Today, though, a quietness hung about him.
Harlon's brow furrowed slightly. His little star hadn't wasn't showing his usual enthusiasm since returning from Highgarden the previous evening.
Something was clearly weighing on his mind.
"You alright, little one?" he asked, a touch of concern in his voice. "Not much chatter coming from you today."
A flicker of unease crossed Caelum's face. He scooped up a handful of seeds, letting them trickle through his fingers.
"Pa," he began hesitantly, "yesterday.... at the castle, after my lessons, Lord Mace summoned Garlan to the hall, I went along with him." His voice lowered. "Some bandits were being sentenced."
Harlon nodded in understanding, his mind running rapidly to understand what Caelum may have witnessed.
The Tyrells were just, but justice could be harsh in these lands.
A pang of gratitude washed over him – the kindness shown to his son, allowing him to witness the ways of nobles, was a rare gift for a farmer's boy.
And the gods knew, Caelum was a bright lad.
Caelum swallowed hard, remembering the grand hall and Lord Tyrell's booming voice as he pronounced the men's fate. "The knights found them hiding near the Mander, Father," he continued, keeping his voice low. "They'd been stealing from travelers returning from the Crownlands. Had been doing it for two moons now."
Harlon listened intently, his weathered face a mask of thoughtful concern. Times were tough, and desperate men sometimes turned to desperate measures.
Caelum's voice dropped even further, a tremor edging into it. "But... I heard them, Pa. With my... magic" He bit his lip, eyes darting to distant figure of Jerren, then rushed on. "The bandits. Most of them... they only did it because their families were starving. They had children to feed."
Caelum's hands clenched around the seeds. "Lord Mace... he was merciful, sort of. He gave the bandits a choice. Take the black, serve at the Wall, or... or be executed." He swallowed hard. "Most of them chose the Wall, Pa. But their leader...he didn't. He said he had no one to go back to, and took...the other choice."
Caelum looked up at his father. "But why, Pa? Why would they steal when they could find honest work? And why did Lord Mace send them North? Won't they just cause trouble there too?"
Harlon sighed, the weight of the world pressing down upon his shoulders. This wasn't a conversation about farming, or even right and wrong. This was about the muddy gray areas of survival.
"Son," he began, his voice low and steady, "sometimes, work isn't easy to come by. Especially for those without land, or a trade. Hunger makes a man blind, makes him see only what his children need, not the harm he causes others."
He sighed, running his hand through the grains he was planting in his field, and said "The earth is capable of providing for all its creatures. The Seven are merciful to all life that thrives on it, from the smallest of ants to the largest of beasts. They all have enough food to sustain themselves."
"The problem, son," He said, looking his son in his eyes "Is people always have a problem with sharing. Everyone is too busy with holding on to what they have, or craving what others possess. My brothers, your uncles, they fought as knights in the war on the ninepenny kings. The tales at the inn, and the songs will tell you that it was a war against a band of monstrous tyrants, bent on ruling most of the known world."
Caelum nodded and asked "Maelys the monstrous and his band of nine wanted to carve a kingdom each for themselves from the known world, surely he would be someone you could consider evil. Maester Lomys had me recite the history when I first learned it."
Harlon smiled, feeling proud of his son, but then his gaze turned somber "Yes, he probably did. But in my eyes, your uncles died protecting the lands of a lord who did not even remember their names. They certainly did not fight for the Tyrells. They fought to protect the lands of a lord who gave them no recognition, except a knighthood for agreeing to fight in their name. Even then, they were traveling Hedge Knights."
Harlon's gaze fell on Jerren, working diligently a few rows away. Jerren, too, had lost family to bandits years back. Yet he'd built a life here, with their small community.
"Those bandits," he said, his voice thoughtful, "they weren't so different from Maelys, in a way. Desperate to provide for their own, just like your uncles were protecting their lord's lands against Maelys. Everyone's fighting for something, or someone."
Caelum's eyes widened.
Maelys the Monstrous, the villain from Maester Lomys' lessons, equated with hungry farmers?
The world spun around him. "But... are they all evil then, Pa? Those who take what isn't rightfully theirs?"
Harlon sighed. "Evil's a strong word, son. There are actions that are truly evil, Maelys' desire for his house, house Blackfyre, wasn't evil, it was natural. The way he went about trying to achieve it? Taking what isn't his, killing and torturing those who stood in his way, that is evil. And yes, there are men who delight in causing pain, men who live to see the world burn, who truly deserve that title. But most times..." He trailed off. "Most times, things aren't so clear-cut."
Then, a spark of mischief lit his eyes. "So, what about Lord Mace then? Was his judgment... just?" He tossed the question back to Caelum.
Caelum stared at the ground, kicking up a small cloud of dust. "I... I don't know, Pa. It seems right, in a way. Sending those men away. But... would their families have food now? Is a lifetime of servitude to the wall justice for their crime? I don't know."
Harlon's face softened.
He reached out, ruffling his son's hair. "You've got a good heart, little star. And a sharp mind too. Questions are more important than answers sometimes."
He stood, stretching his aching muscles. "Look," he gestured towards the sacks of seed waiting nearby, "not all these seeds will grow into strong crops. Some never sprout, and some wither before they bloom. But they all deserve a chance, don't you think? My brother used to tell me, give a man a fish he may eat for a day, but should you teach a man to fish, he will eat for a lifetime. Perhaps, of those men who were truly desperate, they would have been better served if they were taught a trade. But then, the question becomes, how do you separate the desperate from the vile and evil?"
Caelum nodded slowly, his brow creased in thought.
Then, a question formed, hesitant but insistent. "Pa... is there a way? Maybe a way to make sure...no one needs to want for anything?"
Harlon was taken aback. It was a question born of a child's pure heart, yet touched upon a longing that had plagued philosophers and kings alike. He pondered for a long moment.
"Son," he began, a wistful smile playing on his lips, "men will always crave something. Wealth, land, power... maybe even something beyond our understanding. Even Death, the great leveler, the stranger, only truly ends desire when a man draws his final breath. These are questions for wiser men, for lords and maesters, perhaps even Septon Mattheus himself."
Caelum's shoulders slumped slightly. But then, a flicker of determination crossed his face. "The gods cursed me with this," he confessed, voice barely above a whisper, "this...magic. But maybe... maybe there's a way I can help men like those bandits too. I used to think bandits were just... bad men that knights fought, and that was that."
Harlon's heart ached. "Curse, little star?" He knelt down, looking his son squarely in the eye. "You aren't cursed. You're different, aye. That made you a frail child, made the village whisper. And now..." he paused, searching for the right words, "now that that difference has become strength, it might set your feet on a path few others could walk. But it is your path."
"Those gifts you hear and see things others can't," he continued gently, "they're not from some angry god, not after your Ma and I prayed so hard for a child. No, the Seven sent you to us for a reason. Your magic lets you see a man's true heart, the good and the bad mixed together. It makes you the kind of person who sees a need and wants to fix it, even if you don't know how yet. And perhaps, just perhaps, the world is in need of such a man right now. One who can set aside his own needs, and try to help, as you already have before."
Was that his destiny then? Was that the purpose the seven had for him?
He didn't think so.
It was a good path, he realized, one he could follow as a knight.
It would be the purpose he chose for himself.
A determined light glimmered in Caelum's eyes. "Yes, Pa," he nodded, standing a little taller, "I think so. Maybe... maybe I could go to Oldtown, to the Citadel."
Harlon paused, hoe in hand, a flicker of confusion crossing his weathered face. "The Citadel, Caelum? What brought this on?"
Caelum looked sheepish. "I... I overheard Lord Mace the other day. He was talking about finding a fosterage for Willas in a few years. And Garlan too, soon after..." He glanced away. "And there's Luke, of course. He's not a knight yet, but he will be soon, he could go with me."
"But why the Citadel?" Harlon pressed gently.
Caelum's face flushed. "Maester Lomys said they have writings on magic, the higher mysteries. I... well, I want to see if anyone else has had this..." he gestured vaguely at himself, "...this gift? And how... how they dealt with it."
Harlon pondered this. Then, a question came to him. "Did you ask your friends what it takes to go to the Citadel, son?"
Caelum nodded. "I asked Maester Lomys, and Garlan too. The Maester said you need a lord to sponsor you, or... a hundred silver pieces. He also said that vows of the citadel will not suit me, but I don't want to take the vows there. Lots of boys from the seven kingdoms go there to forge links for select studies, I could go there too! And Garlan..." he trailed off, "well, he said I want to be a knight, and the Citadel's not for warriors, so why go there at all?"
He looked up at his father, a flicker of doubt clouding his face. "I don't want to ask Lord Mace, Pa. They're kind enough already. I wouldn't want to... to take advantage."
Harlon smiled, a mix of pride and worry swirling within him. "You've got a good heart, little one. But those silver pieces... I'm not sure your Pa's pockets are that deep." He sighed. "But let's see, let's see what can be done."
Harlon hesitated "I-I don't think I have that much silver at hand, Caelum" He said. Seeing the disappointment on his son's face, something the boy worked really hard to hide he said "But perhaps, in time I can save some up to send you there. Mayhaps you can take some your Ma's ale there to earn some coin from the ale to pay for admission to the citadel."
The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the field as father and son watched it set over the glimmering Mander. Harlon glanced back at the unfinished rows. "That's enough for today, I reckon," he said. "We can pick this back up tomorrow after you've had more time with those books of yours." He called over to Jerren, "Jerren! Head on back to the house now. Supper's on us tonight!"
Turning back to Caelum, he was astonished to see his son, seven-name days old, hoisting a sack of grain almost as big as himself.
With a strength that seemed impossible, Caelum heaved it onto the cart.
He smiled.
Caelum was troubled with his gifts, they had hurt him at the tourney, and frightened him.
He had desired to be Knight to show the village he wasn't cursed, something he never had been.
And perhaps, just perhaps, the seven wouldn't be so cruel to him from now on with whatever else they had written for him.
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The afternoon sun dappled through the leaves of the pear trees, casting playful patterns of light and shade upon the brothers.
Willas, tall for his nine name days, stood with a poise beyond his age, a leather gauntlet shielding his arm. A magnificent hawk, feathers the color of polished bronze, perched upon it, its sharp gaze sweeping the orchard.
Garlan, two years younger and a good head shorter, waddled beside him with less grace. "I honestly didn't think it possible, Willas," he grumbled, his cheeks already flushed with exertion. "Hawks are for hunting, not playing raven."
Willas gave a soft laugh, he lifted his free hand in a silent signal, "patience is a virtue, as Maester Lomys is always reminding us."
Garlan scoffed and flopped dramatically onto a mossy stone. "Maester Lomys likes the sound of his own voice too much. I'd rather have another slice of Meredith's lemon cake." A wistful sigh escaped him, and he patted his belly, showing a hint of roundness.
A shadow swept across the sunlit grass.
Willas' eyes gleamed. "Ah! Here she comes." He whistled, a sharp, piercing sound that cut through the orchard's stillness. The hawk launched itself into the air with a powerful beat of its wings, soaring in narrowing circles.
Garlan squinted, momentarily forgetting his disdain. "I still don't see –"
Suddenly, the hawk shot downwards like a feathered arrow, landing with practiced ease on Willas' outstretched arm. Garlan gasped, scrambling to his feet. "How did she…? Is that… a letter?"
There, tied to the hawk's leg with a thin leather strap, was a small parchment scroll.
Willas untied it with practiced fingers, a triumphant smile lighting up his face.
"It worked!" he exclaimed. "See, Garlan? Maester Lomys was right. With the proper training, even a creature of the wild can become a most reliable messenger."
Garlan grudgingly nodded, unable to entirely hide his admiration. "Wow! Are you going to send her to Princess Arianne?"
Willas chuckled, gently placing the hawk on Garlan's outstretched, slightly pudgy, arm.
The girl bobbed her head, her fierce yellow eyes studying the younger boy. "Her name is Sunflash," Willas explained. "A gift from Uncle Garth, along with her siblings. Treat them well, and they might just let you be their friend, too. I'll write a letter to Princess Arianne tonight! She'll be forced to send one back by eagle soon!"
Lady Olenna, her grey hair shimmering in the dappled light, leaned back with a contented sigh. "Meredith's hand with pastry remains as deft as ever," she remarked.
Beside her, her daughter-in-law, Lady Alerie, nibbled daintily on her cake, her gaze fixed upon her sons in the sun-drenched orchard.
A smile tugged at her lips, a gentle echo of Willas' own. "He's come so far," she murmured, a touch of wistfulness in her voice. "So self-assured…and to think, not long ago he was a little boy playing behind my skirts. Now, he is slowly able to command the presence of knights much older than himself in the yard. Ser Crane has done a fine job training him."
Olenna followed her gaze, observing the hawk perched on Garlan's outstretched arm.
The boy still had the soft roundness of childhood, but there was a spark in his eyes, pride and admiration of his elder brother "A good sign," Olenna mused. "Willas inspires his brother, not resentment. He'll need that strength and loyalty when the time comes."
Alerie's smile faded slightly. "The time for…?"
Olenna set her half-eaten cake aside, her expression turning serious. "My dear, you know as well as I that Willas won't stay a boy under the shade of these pear trees forever. Mace has been wise to hold off as long as he has, but the day for fostering draws near." She paused, her tone softening. "It breaks your heart, I know. It broke mine too, with Mace himself."
A shadow of sadness flickered across Alerie's face. "I worry, of course," she confessed, her voice barely a whisper. "The houses would use this opportunity to whisper in his ears, play their games. I can't help but worry."
Olenna reached out, her wrinkled hand covering Alerie's. "A mother's fear is the fiercest creature of them all, Alerie," she said, her voice laced with understanding. "But Willas is no helpless babe, and we Tyrells are no pawns. We play the game, and we play it well."
Alerie leaned forward, her eyes sharp once more. "Tell me, which of the Houses have shown interest in fostering my Willas?"
"Crane... Chester... Fossoway… Tarly… Florent… even my own maiden House, House Redwyne. They all have shown some desire to foster Willas." The old
"Which of these houses do you think is suitable for Willas, mother?" she hesitated, searching for the right words, "I am almost certain Mace is looking to betroth Willas to the Dornish princess, so a house where there isn't ambition for marriage I think."
Olenna's shrewd eyes held a mix of understanding and calculation. "Let us consider each… House Crane, for all they boast of honor, are as stiff-necked as their sigil. A good place to learn swordsmanship, perhaps, but not the arts of court. Plus, House Crane has been given ample reward for service. Ser Crane is master at arms, and his heir is here with him in the heart of the reach. House Crane's daughters are frequent visitors to the castle as well, so not them. They will not be rewarded with a fosterage."
She clucked her tongue dismissively. "The Chesters are too close in proximity. Even fostered away, Willas would remain under our thumb. No true test for him, and the old wolf Chester might try to wheedle closer ties."
"The Florents…" She paused, thoughtfully. "Their ambition is strong, stronger even than their ancestral claim. It could be a good home for Willas, but they also possess ambition. Not them either."
"The Fossoways…" she frowned. "Janna would see Willas grow well in her house, but Jon would look for another marriage between Tyrells and Fossoways. Perhaps, Garlan in a few years will be fostered there, not Willas."
"Tarly…" Olenna mused, her eyes distant. "Strong stock. Randyll Tarly is no fool, and your Willas possesses a mind as well as martial strength, Mace certainly wants to see him Knighted soon. Sooner than he should be, I think. The Tarly's will certainly aid Willas in achieving that at the least, but I don't think I want to feed into Mace's unhealthy one-sided competition with the Lions. He wants Willas knighted earlier than Jamie Lannister. Willas is good, but Jamie Lannister is a prodigy that even I could recognize. Not the Tarly's either."
Finally, she turned her attention fully to Alerie. "Which leaves…Redwyne. My maiden household. Distant enough to grant Willas room to grow, wealthy enough to ensure comfort, and possessing a cunning fox, Paxter, at its head." A ghost of a smile passed her lips. "Mina has just given birth to twins, Horas and Hobber. There isn't a worry for an angle of marriage, Mina loves her nephew truly, and Willas will delight over his cousins."
Alerie let out a sigh, part relief and part resignation. "The Arbor it is, then," she said softly. A wave of sadness washed over her. "But it will be so…difficult…to see him so far from home."
Olenna reached out and placed a comforting hand over Alerie's. "My dear girl, do not fret so. Soon, your mind and heart will be occupied with another one your own babes," she said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "And I suspect that once you're chasing after another child, you'll find less time to mourn Willas' absence."
Alerie blushed, a gentle glow suffusing her cheeks. She tentatively patted her still-flat stomach. "A girl, I hope," she confessed, her voice a hopeful whisper. "Though... Mace does yearn for another son."
Olenna laughed, the sound surprisingly hearty. "Mace yearns for enough knightly sons to field an entire jousting team! Don't you worry your head over his dreams. And besides, there's Garlan."
Alerie sighed, but a fond smile touched her lips as she watched her younger son struggling to mimic Willas' practiced movements with the hawk. "Yes," she agreed, "there's Garlan. He too, will leave for fostering in a few years."
Olenna nodded, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied the boy. "He showed scant interest in his lessons with Maester Lomys," she mused. "I suspect his young friend Caelum's presence was the only thing keeping him anchored. Now, separated from his companion in mischief, I fear he might run wild."
A flicker of mischief danced in Alerie's eyes as she recalled numerous instances of Garlan and his lowborn friend stumbling into scrapes. "Indeed," she chuckled. "The boy has an uncanny knack for finding trouble and dragging my Garlan into it. Whether it's discovering secret passages or uncovering a rogue kitchen maid, or a thief in the briar, or whatever else ne'er-do-wells there may be in the briar, they leave a trail of chaos behind them, and Garlan's guards often have to pick up their paces to capture whatever miscreant the boy stumbles upon."
Olenna hummed in agreement. "Speaking of Caelum, the boy has a fine mind. He'd make a good knight, mind you, and a loyal one to boot. His uncanny ability to stumble upon miscreants aids him well. But…" she paused, "Maester Lomys told me the boy has been inquiring about the Citadel. It baffled me in truth. The boy has the brains for it, no doubt. Mayhaps he is looking to learn more to aid his father at the farm, I do not know."
Alerie frowned, concern briefly shadowing her face. "Caelum? Garlan, I fear will be greatly disappointed to lose his friend." Worriedly, she asked, "Did he… perhaps mention any requests of Garlan? Seeking aid to reach the Citadel perhaps?"
Olenna gave a dry chuckle. "The boy inquired about the requirements, yes, but I doubt he has the gall to use his friendship with your sons as leverage." She leaned back thoughtfully. "Had he asked in earnest, I have no doubt Willas or Garlan would have offered anything he needed."
The question hung in the air, unspoken but clear. Alerie looked to Olenna, her eyes pleading. "Will… will we help him?"
Olenna weighed her words carefully. "A good, loyal knight will serve Willas' interests better than a stifled scholar. The boy has the potential to serve the Tyrells well as a sword and a shield." A glint entered her eye. "He could be a… useful ear to the ground in the Tyrell household. But the Citadel? He'll wither there, even if he does not intend to bind himself entirely to a maester's vows. He'll make a good knight, Ser Crane will make sure of it, if he does join the yard."
As they nibbled on the last crumbs of cake and sipped the mellow Arbor Red, Olenna's keen eyes drifted across the orchard.
"Speaking of Ser Vortimer," she began casually, "Tell me, Alerie, have you noticed Luke lately? Ser Crane's page?"
A flash of confusion crossed Alerie's delicate features. "The boy who introduced us to Meredith and Caelum? I believe so… though, he hasn't been the same since the Harrenhal tourney." She hesitated. "He's grown somewhat… withdrawn. Ser Vortimer's remarks about the boy's absence were sharp, especially in front of the other squires."
Olenna's frown deepened. "He's skilled with a blade, from what I hear. Disarmed Ser Crane's heir Parmen last week, wouldn't you know it? Yet, that old crane won't give the boy an ounce of credit."
Alerie shook her head, a note of sympathy entering her voice. "He tried to charm Ser Vortimer's daughter when the Ser Crane's daughters last rode here. A clumsy attempt, from what I gathered. Perhaps this is…retribution." She shrugged delicately. "If Ser Vortimer won't have him, my husband has no shortage of knights to choose a new squire from. Quentin would be a fine choice, I think. The boy deserves a reward if purely for introducing Meredith to the household, and Caelum to Garlan."
Olenna smiled faintly, a spark of approval gleaming in her eyes. "Indeed, he does. Both of them have proven good influence on the boys. We shall see if Ser Crane continues to ignore the boy's talents. He would make a good knight, with a good head on his shoulders someday."
"He's just like Gerold used to be in that regard." Alerie mused "Sharp minded, he would make a good knight truly."
She leaned forward, "Has there been any…whispers from the capital? Has Gerold sent any ravens?"
Alerie's voice dropped into a hushed tone, mirroring the shift in their conversation. "Gerold has written," she revealed, "though even his usually keen eye seems at a loss. The Prince and Princess…" she paused as if savoring the bittersweet tang of court gossip, "they seem to have reached a… fragile accord, for the time being. The birth of their son, Aegon on Dragonstone, seems to have brought some measure of peace."
A wistful sigh escaped her. "Yet, only days afterward, the Prince gathered his companions – Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent, and a few guards – and rode off. None know his destination, or even his purpose."
She toyed with her Arbor Red, her eyes clouded with a hint of concern. "And stranger still… word has reached us that Eddard Stark journeyed to visit Ashara Dayne, the Princess' lady-in-waiting. A brief visit, no more than a day, and then they both vanished." Alerie looked up at Olenna, a touch of worry in her eyes. "What does this all mean, Lady Olenna?"
She set her cup down with a decisive clink. "The tension between the Prince and Princess eased…that much is good. But this reckless excursion…" Olenna shook her head in disapproval. "The Prince would be wise to shore up alliances, Prince Doran did not take his crowning of Lyanna Stark as the Queen of Love and Beauty at Harrenhal well. Neither did Rickard Stark. Brandon Stark's wedding to Catelyn Tully is in a moon, and Lyanna Starks own wedding to the Baratheon heir is in a moon's turn after. Their swift departure from that tourney was the only thing that saved the Stark girl from being labeled as the Prince's whore. There were enough lords who had seen the girl laugh with the Prince at the feast before the crowning, and some even say they had rode together before the jousts."
"As for the Quiet wolf, it seems I was right in my deduction that there had been sparks flying between Ashara Dayne, and Eddard Stark. Though why Rickard Stark allowed it to go as far as it has I don't know. There has been no talk of betrothal yet. It's a curious fascination. A scandal in the making of its own to be sure." Olenna shook her head at the idea.
Her gaze settled on the figures of her grandchildren in the orchard.
The Targaryen, The Starks, The Daynes… she did not understand which way the winds were blowing.
"There's a storm brewing under those stoic northern faces, and it's not just the chill of winter." Of that she was certain.
A shadow flickered across her face, then vanished just as quickly. "It will all be revealed in time, Alerie," she murmured, a comforting touch in her voice despite the underlying tension.
The games in King's Landing would continue to play out, the pieces moving, alliances shifting...
Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she watched Willas sending his hawk aloft, its dark shape silhouetted against the blazing sunset.
House Tyrell would bide its time, and watch as the pieces fall in place after the winds have settled.
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(A/N) I couldn't focus just on studying. Ended up writing a short chapter.
I seem to have flamed a lot of people with my blithe remark about Eddard being a poor parent. I think he succeeded as a parent to teach his children honor, morals, and make them well adjusted individuals. But the man clearly suffers from PTSD, he fostered none of them. That is what I was alluding to.
Similarly, Rickard didn't Foster Benjen after Lyarra's death either.
Although Rhaegar would get Lyanna with the aid of Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower and Oswald Whent: all three dangerous Kingsguard members who took out most of Ned Stark's party with Howland Reed surviving.
Gerold Hightower wasn't with him, Arthur Dayne and Whent yes they were dangerous taking out most of Eddard's 7-8 party but they aren't Dúnedain/Boromir material taking out dozens of Uruk-hai stronger than men while having arrows in his body all on his own ( Give my boy his armor and a sword normal or not like Glamdring and his going to work) especially if most of them are men who have nothing to lose but everything to gain for their families if they die defending Lyanna (Old Greybeards/winter wolves)
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True, it sucks that Game of Thrones omitted Gerold Hightower when they adapt the Tower of Joy flashback. But of course, in this story, he can show up with Rhaegar to try take Lyanna by force. Of course the Winter Wolves will put up a hell of a fight against a bull, a bat (Oswald Whent) and the Sword of the Morning.