The Dark Knight of the Seven Kingdoms (ASOIAF/Batman)

[Serpentguy]

In 274, after a tourney in Harrenhal, Lord Thomas and Lady Martha of House Wayne are ambushed by a highwayman, murdered by the infamous Smiling Knight. The only survivor, and the last progeny of his house, is eight-year-old Bruce Wayne, a child left orphaned by the brutal crime.

In the wake of his parent's deaths, Lord Bruce Wayne is fostered at Storm's End, to be raised by Lord Steffon Baratheon, alongside his second son Stannis…

_________________

Chapter 1
A Dark and Terrible Night

274 AC

It was a grim and stormy day; the sky spitting rain down upon the twisted and deformed black towers of Harrenhal, the wind screeching over the ghostly courtyards, and the stomping of the smallfolk's cheers as the lances clashed.

Even the despite the poor weather, the smallfolk were in force surrounding the jousting yards. Hands clapped and feet stomped as the horses charged. Bruce's heart was in his mouth every time the lances clashed – sharp wood snapping against steel, riders charging together.

Crash. The sky spat and hissed, the lances cracked like lightning, and the thunder of applause rolled over the yard.

Bruce stared at the shields; he saw the black bat of House Wayne, colliding against the skulls and lips of House Lonmouth. Richard Lonmouth was a young man who rode a fierce black stallion, snapping lance after lance against his father's shield with furious intensity.

Lord Thomas Wayne rode beautifully – holding his shield with such poise and skill that even Richard's furious charge broke against it. Richard Lonmouth was vibrant and passionate, but Lord Wayne met him with skill and calm.

The smallfolk were chanting Lord Wayne's name – "Wayne, Wayne, Wayne!" crying in the air – but all Bruce could feel was pure fear.

Above him, the cloudy skies cracked.

He rides too hard, too reckless. The heir to House Lonmouth was not a knight, only a squire – but he was the squire to the crown prince and had much to prove. Richard Lonmouth was a young man of seventeen desperate to earn accolade, and he rode dangerously fast. He was pushing his horse harder and further than what was safe for either rider, slamming his lance each time with fury.

Richard Lonmouth was not holding back, and Lord Wayne was not a young man. All it would take was a single slip, a single blunder of his shield, and Lord Wayne would fall…

Every time they clashed, the image of his father crashing to the ground flashed before Bruce's eyes. Sharp lances danced in the air before him.

Bruce was trembling with fear. The ruins of Harrenhal, once his family's seat, were laughing at him.

By the time Lord Wayne finally stopped, it was for a minor break to re-shoe his horse. The crowd was eager to see a victor, they were still chanting anxiously. As he removed his black helmet – a helm adorned with the wings of a bat – his father was panting, but still grinning.

"He strikes well, for a young lad," Lord Wayne laughed, jumping down as a page took his horse. "Quickly now, either fetch a farrier or a new horse."

His smile faded as soon as he lay eyes on his eight-year-old son. Bruce was standing stiff, trembling. "Bruce," his father said softly, kneeling down. "What's wrong?"

Bruce didn't want to admit it, he didn't want to say the words, he didn't want to feel so helpless, but… "I'm scared," he muttered quietly, shaking.

Lord Wayne looked at his son, and there wasn't a hint of judgement in his eyes. His stern and strong gaze turned soft. "There's nothing to be scared about, my boy."

Bruce knew that. But he also knew that his father very rarely participated in jousts, and Lord Wayne was not as practiced as he appeared. Bruce knew that one knight had already very nearly died by Lonmouth's lance when the over-zealous squire charged too hard. He knew that jousting was dangerous, and that Lord Wayne's horse had already lost one shoe.

He knew that the ruins of Harrenhal were cursed, and that House Wayne had suffered in these ruins.

All of thoughts passed through Bruce's mind in those the moments of silence, as the father reassured his son.

"My lord!" a page called for his father. "Your horse is ready for you!"

Thomas Wayne pursed his lips, and glanced down at his son. The boy was scared, unable to even look up every time his father rode.

"I resign," Lord Wayne said finally. "I must forfeit this match, I'm afraid. Please, give my congratulations to Ser Richard – he rode spectacularly."

Bruce's eyes widened in surprised. The others looked shocked too, and a groan of disappointment echoed around the crowd as the news spread. A few tried to protest, but Lord Wayne simply shrugged, and he took his son's hand. He chose his son over any joust.

His mother rushed through the stands to see him, pulling her dress up as she strode over the muddy ground. "Bruce!" she said, concern spreading over her features. "What's wrong?"

Bruce squirmed, but Lord Wayne only smiled and shook his head. "No, it was me, Martha," his father lied. "That last tilt strained my side, I didn't want to risk another."

"Oh." His mother blinked. "What a shame, I thought you had him!"

"Well, it was only a joust." His father shrugged, glancing down at Bruce. "Not really worth anything important."

Bruce stared at down at the mud, his face red with shame. I shouldn't be scared, he cursed himself, I shouldn't be…

The crowds were still roaring, so much noise and chaos, and with twisted ruins of Harrenhal all around him…

The next joust was already taking to the tilts; Lord Steffon Baratheon was matched against Lord Jason Mallister in the finals, much to the excitement of the crowds. The grounds outside of Harrenhal were heaving and roiling with motion.

Bruce took a deep breath. He had never been comfortable with crowded spaces, and it was all so loud and busy…

His father whispered words to his mother, as he unstrapped his armour. "Come on," Lord Wayne said softly, taking his son's hand. "Let's get away from all the noise. And let's get out of the rain."

Bruce only nodded, still blinking repeatedly as the rain washed down his face.

The tourney at Harrenhal was a small one, all things considered; a tourney held by House Whent in celebration of the birth of Edmure Tully. The young newborn heir was not present, nor was mother, the daughter of House Whent who was left bedridden after childbirth. House Whent was not a rich house and the tourney was a modest affair, but many of the major houses of the riverlands were present – with Lord Hoster Tully and his daughters taking seats of honour at the front of the stands, and there were a forest of banners flying the trout of Riverrun.

House Wayne of Wayne Manor only had a single banner – the black bat on purple flapping over a small pavilion, understated to the back of the ground. Lord Wayne had only brought a small escort; he preferred a private affair with him and his family.

Bruce knew that his father was contemplating arranging a betrothal between him and one of Tully girls – Lysa and Catelyn, two squabbling children of nine and six – which had made Bruce so nervous he hadn't even been able to look either of the girls in the eye. Catelyn Tully was a restless and vibrant young girl, clutching her sister's hand constantly, with barely even a second look for Bruce.

House Wayne was a small but old and rich house of the riverlands, the sister-branch to House Lothston back in the days of a Thousand Kings in Westeros. When House Lothston ruled, once House Wayne had served as castellans of Harrenhal, before the curse of Harrenhal had destroyed Lothston and half-destroyed Wayne.

House Wayne used the same black bat on their sigil as House Lothston had; but after the infamy of Lady Danelle Lothston, the Mad Witch, House Wayne had fallen into decline and disrepute as well.

Bruce was the heir to Wayne Manor, but he knew that he was not what they wanted him to be. He was a small child of a slight build. A frail heart, the maester had diagnosed him, before his father dismissed the man from their service. Bruce grew up the only child in Wayne Manor; an only child in a recluse family and isolated lands.

He was uncomfortable among strangers, nervous around children his own age, and anxious near large crowds. Introverted, as his father said, but his mother just named him quiet.

"It's alright, Bruce," his father whispered in his ear, and shuffled him away from the stands. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

And yet I still feel scared.

Bruce was a winter child. He had been born in a long winter, as the snows hissed and raged outside the walls of the manor.

Bruce knew the reason that they had taken him to the tourney at Harrenhal; his parents wanted him to interact more, to draw him out of his shell. They had made a point of introducing him to other young heirs of the riverlands; Lysa and Catelyn Tully, young Patrek Mallister, Marq Piper, Karyl Vance, the Darry brothers, more Freys than he could count, even the snivelling little ward Petyr Baelish. They had been planning more and more journeys to towns and cities, gently trying to integrate Bruce among the other nobility. Bruce understood the need; rationally he could accept the necessity.

And yet, irrationally, the sight of Harrenhal and centuries old scorch marks left by dragonfire sent shivers down Bruce's spine.

Find yourself, Bruce thought to himself. That was something his mother used to say, when she stroked his hair; when you feel the panic attacks coming, try to find yourself.

Bruce was most comfortable, most at peace, in the forests and the woods, walking through the quiet foliage and brambles. He liked walking through the trees and over the streams that surrounded the countryside around Wayne Manor. His most peaceful memories were of being alone in the forest, with nothing but quiet and calm…

Perhaps that was why his father held his hand and walked him away from the tourney grounds at Harrenhal, into the woods. His parents were beside him, trying to soothe his fears.

Yet they didn't find any peace in the trees. Instead, there was only a man with a sword, and a mad, maniac smile. He was clad in a dark green cloak, hiding among the shadows.

Everything seemed to slow down – the world seemed to freeze – as the smiling man stepped out from the trees. Bruce stared in quiet fear, yet time seemed to turn so slowly that he could watch every droplet of rain falling from the sky, could feel every splash of water dripping the muddy leaves.

"Gold or your life," the man said, as he drew his blade. His steel glinted as brightly as his grin. "Hand it over."

Bruce didn't hear the next words. It all blurred together in the sheer frenzy of the moment.

Lord Wayne tried to protest. His father didn't have his sword on him, but he moved forward to cover his wife. Moved to protect her, to shield Bruce. There was screaming, a scuffle…

His mother was holding onto Bruce, trying to hold on…

The blade flashed in the rain. Lightning cracked.

He saw his father – so tall and proud and strong – fall as the red blood plumed out of his chest.

His mother was screaming, right up until the sword slashed a bloody grin across her neck. The pearls around her neck fell to the muddy ground, blood spilling out into the rain.

Bruce didn't scream. He couldn't scream, he couldn't move, he couldn't breathe…

Two slashes of a sword, and everything he had ever known ended just like that.

He remembered the man's laughter – his maniac, mocking laughter – as he picked up the scattered pearls and robbed his mother's corpse of its finery. The murderer looked down on the eight year old boy and tutted, before pocketing his plunder and striding away.

He was grinning. All of Bruce's memories of that moment had blurred and faded, but he remembered the grin. The smile and the laughter as sharp as a blade…

Bruce was left kneeling in the woods, rain pouring all around him, surrounded by his parent's corpses…

________

Later…

"By the Gods…" Lord Hoster's Tully's face was pale as the news came in. The maester shuffled his little girls to their rooms; Lysa weeping and Catelyn trying to protest. The whole castle was talking about it, the whispers sweeping through the corridors while the rains howled outside. "Any update on the fiend?"

"None, I'm afraid," the captain of his guard, Ser Robin Ryger, said grimly. "We think he was a highwayman lingering just out of the grounds, waiting for an easy target among the guests."

All eyes around him were grim in the torchlight. The hallway silenced as they watched Ser Desmond Grell carrying the limp and pale shape of the eight-year-old Bruce Wayne in his arms.

"How could this happen?" Lord Walter Whent demanded, shifting and pacing. "On my grounds?!"

"We only found him past dusk," Ser Robin explained, with a grimace. "We thought the Waynes simply took their absence early – House Wayne has always been a bit queer like that. It was dusk when the men-at-arms finally came across the bodies."

"Then the boy?" Lord Tully asked, aghast.

"He was out there for at least half a day," the knight admitted. His armour was slick with sweat and mud, a perturbed expression across his features. "Bruce was kneeling by their bodies until after nightfall, the corpses were stone cold when we found them. Come dusk, the bats had been stirring around him, drawn by the blood, and the child was just kneeling there…"

"By the Gods…!"

"Severe shock," Maester Tothmure explained, lingering by to Lord Whent's side. "And hypothermia – the boy was delirious as they brought him in. But otherwise unharmed."

Lord Tully rubbed his eyes. "Of all the despicable…"

A Whent man-at-arms moved and bowed before Lord Whent. "My lord," the knight muttered, pale faced. "I must offer my–"

"Your apologies?" Lord Walter Whent bellowed. He was normally a meek and generous man, and Hoster had never seen Lord Walter so furious. "You allowed a murderer onto my grounds! To ambush two noble guests – guests under my hospitality! And you offer apologies??" The man bristled. "Where was the perimeter, where were guards?"

"He crept through!" the Whent man protested. "There was naught–"

"Two people are dead! Parents! A mother and a father!" Lord Whent snapped. "You dare to give excuses…?"

"We have sent ravens as far as Oldstones," Ser Robin said, trying to calm the lord. The Whent man shuffled backwards, running out of sight. "Every watchman in the realm will be looking for this fiend."

"You have every man in my escort to aid the search," Lord Tully promised, nodding at Ser Robin.

"And mine too," a loud voice boomed. Lord Tully turned to see Lord Steffon Baratheon – a hulking man with dark hair and hard eyes. "Bring out the hounds and track this cutthroat. I shall lead the hunting parties myself!"

Lord Baratheon of Storm's End had been a surprise guest at the tourney; he had been on his way to Riverrun when he heard that Lord Tully was at Harrenhal. Lord Baratheon was a large, broad-shouldered man with a powerful voice, whose thick arms were shaking with rage.

"My lord, the man has half a day's headstart, and with the rain–" a man-at-arms protested.

"Does it look like I care for excuses?" Lord Baratheon growled. "I will ride out and hang this murderer! I will drag this murderer to gallows!"

"Lord Jason is gathering knights to lead a search," Lord Tully soothed. "Let us join the efforts together, coordinate the search."

Lord Baratheon only nodded, his face still twisted in anger. "It seems that the tourney must be postpo–" Ser Robin said to Lord Whent, but the lord only nodded, waving his hand dismissively.

"Yes, yes," Lord Whent muttered, still pacing, visibly shaken. "Forget the blasted tourney – the Others take this fiend… to murder the parents before the boy's very eyes??"

"The boy," Lord Jason Mallister said, walking up to stand by Hoster. He seemed uncharacteristically nervous, wearing his indigo armour lined with silver, with his eagle-winged helmet under his arm. "Bruce. He is the last scion of his house, is he not…?"

"He is," Lord Tully answered. "His father was a good man." Lord Baratheon nodded in agreement, and Hoster looked to him. "Did you know Lord Wayne, my lord?"

"I did," Lord Baratheon replied darkly. "We fought together on the Dornish marches, against the Ninepenny Kings. My own father fell against Maelys the Monstrous, and lay wounded in my arms. It was Lord Wayne who came to me on the battlefield, to try and stop the bleeding."

Yes, that was like the man. Lord Thomas Wayne had been a good rider, but he had not been much of a warrior. He rarely entered the tilts, he even rarer held a sword. And yet, nevertheless, they had all gone off to war together against the Golden Company and the last Blackfyre pretender. Hoster had gone for blood and glory, but Lord Wayne had gone to save lives.

House Wayne had been recluse, aye, but always loyal to a fault.

"That sounds like him. He was a good man," Lord Tully repeated. He was pacing too. "He was a healer. Others chuckled at him for such, but Lord Wayne… he laughed along as well. He enjoyed stitching wounds rather than inflicting them…"

Lord Steffon nodded grimly. "Aye. He tried to help my father." There was a flicker in the lord's voice. "The blade was too deep, but he tried."

Hoster took a deep breath. Lord Thomas Wayne was a secluded but well-liked figure. For many smallfolk who could not afford a surgeon, Wayne Manor kept its doors open for any who needed aid. Lord Thomas had been considered as something of eccentric among the highborn, for providing free medicine and treatment from his own manor. For such a man to be murdered over a few pearls and silk…

"Thomas trained as a maester in Oldtown, once," Hoster remembered, mumbling with shock, "but he had to abandon his chain when his brother died in the Red Spring. He was the last of the line himself, so the Citadel released Thomas of his vows to take lordship of Wayne Manor…"

His voice trailed off. Has there ever been a family more cursed than the Waynes? Hoster thought grimly.

The lords stood in silence, shaken at the news of two grisly murders. The thought of the pale and cold child lingered in the air between them. Harrenhal's maester scuffled off to see to the boy, and from outside they could still hear the raindrops tapping off the roof of the keep.

"The child," Lord Whent said finally. "What must happen to him?"

Hoster blinked, forcing himself to focus. "He must be fostered somewhere, he has no kin that I know of. His lands must be placed under custodianship," Lord Tully said after a long pause. He took a deep breath. "I am his family's lord paramount, I will–"

"No," Steffon Baratheon said, his voice turning low as he placed a large hand on Hoster's shoulder. "I was but a boy when my father lay in the arms bleeding out in the sands, his gut slashed open. There was fighting all around us, it was the middle of the battle, but Thomas Wayne still risked life and limb to come to my aid, he tried to stitch up my father's wound. It was…" The Lord of Storm's End sighed, shaking his mane of dark hair. "Lord Wayne was a good man, a great man, and I would see the same kindness repaid to his child. I would foster Bruce Wayne in my own home."

 

[Serpentguy]

Chapter 2
At Home with the Baratheons

275 AC, Storm's End

"Bruce!" Lord Steffon Baratheon shouted, banging on the door. It was early morn, but the sound of the lord's voice echoed through the stone corridors of Storm's End. "Bruce bloody Wayne!"

He tried the handle again, and it was jammed. The lord rasped his knuckles against the oak, and then slammed his shoulder against the door. It didn't even budge.

"My lord…!" Maester Cressen called. The maester was a balding man with round shoulders, his chain swinging like a pendulum from his neck as he scuffled up the stairs. Whenever the lord started shouting his charge's name, the maester had learnt from experience that he needed to move fast. "My lord, what is it?"

"He barricaded the door," Steffon said incredulously. He tried to force the handle again, but it didn't budge. "He barricaded the bloody door!"

There was a pained look across the maester's face. "My lord, perhaps if we could reason with hi–"

"Did you know about this?" the lord demanded.

"No, my lo–"

"How did he even barricade it?" Steffon demanded. The door wasn't even shifting, no matter how hard the large man shoved. "Does he have a bloody granite slab behind here?"

"I cannot say, but–"

"Harbert!" the Storm Lord boomed through the sleepy castle. It was only the very early hours of the morn. "He's barricaded the bloody door!"

Ser Harbert Baratheon, the castellan of Storm's End, was a gnarly and worn old man himself, but his leathery hands were still strong. He was a man nearing seventy himself, with a thick, mangy beard and a crooked back. Ser Harbert was the uncle of Lord Steffon, the youngest brother to the late lord Ormund, and even despite his age he still bore the Baratheon size and strength. His boots clattered over stone, pushing his way through the corridor.

"He what?" Ser Harbert demanded, looking confused. The keep was stirring; with men-at-arms, stewards and guests moving to see what the commotion was about.

"He barricaded the door!" Steffon snapped at his uncle. "Bruce locked himself in his room."

"Barricaded with what?" Harbert pushed forward to try and shove the door himself.

"As if I bloody know!" Lord Steffon snapped.

"My lords–" Cressen pleaded.

"Bruce!" Ser Harbert pounded against the wood. "Do you hear this? You open this door right now!"

There was no response but deathly silence. Lord Baratheon was stomping in anger, his hands clenched. "What do you want to do?" the castellan asked.

"I will not have that boy disregard my rule under my own roof!" Steffon boomed, seething with fury. "Get that bloody door open!"

"Aye, I'll have some of the boys break down the door soon enough," Harbert agreed. "Jommy! Merrick! Get something to ram it!"

The maester could have groaned. It had been over a year since Bruce Wayne arrived at Storm's End, and it had been a stressful year. All down the hallway, men-at-arms were rushing to try and break down the young lord's door.

The doors of Storm's End were built to be tough. Everything in the castle was old, thick and strong; the doors were all very hard oak, and the walls were solid stone over three feet thick. Storm's End had been constructed for stability, like a block of granite. Still, there was no doubt in Cressen's mind that if they wanted through, they would get through. The guards would fetch battering rams to break it down if they must.

Still, Cressen grimaced as Ser Harbert started bellowing orders. "My lord, perhaps–"

"And you!" Lord Baratheon shouted, turning on to Maester Cressen. "I made a promise that the next time Bruce Wayne acted out, I would put him in the stocks for a day. I will not back down on that promise."

"My lord," Cressen said soothingly. "Bruce has been with us for a year and a half now, I think I can safely say that escalating punishments are not effective."

"He will learn to respect my authority, Cressen," Lord Steffon growled. "I will not suffer such in my own castle."

From behind him, there were the shouts of men-at-arms, a haggle of men trying to force through the doorway. "We need a ram!" Ser Harbert bellowed. "Chop down a tree if need be, fetch something to break it down."

"My warhammer," Lord Steffon ordered. "Use my warhammer."

"Perhaps understanding and kindness instead might–" Cressen begged.

"There has been kindness for over a year!" Steffon bristled, raising his voice. "I feel like I have been very understanding, have I not?"

"You have, my lord," Cressen admitted. Steffon was a strict father to his own sons, but with Bruce Wayne he had been very… lax. Cressen had begged that the boy needed his own space and time to come to terms with his losses, and Lord Baratheon had allowed Bruce that. They had even given Bruce his own quarters at the far side of the drum tower of the keep, so the boy might keep his privacy.

Perhaps that had been a mistake, Cressen allowed, as he stared at the barricaded door with quiet dismay.

"Aye, too much kindness, I think," Steffon grumbling, glaring at the door frame. "The boy refuses to join us for meals – fine, the kitchens leave food outside his door. The boy refuses to join the master-at-arms in the yard, refuses drills and spars – alright, then, he'll get his space instead. Even when he starts stealing from the castle and from the forge – fine, I'll forgive that. I have not chided him or disciplined him for any of those delinquent acts, have I, Maester Cressen?"

"You have not," Cressen conceded. The men-at-arms were fetching axes and hammers, squeezing through the tight stone corridors.

"Space and freedom, you call it," Lord Baratheon shook his head. "I name it unruliness. No – where I draw the line, what I refuse to allow – is when we have noble visitors approaching and the boy stays trapped in that lair! He will be in attendance when the crown prince arrives, do you understand?"

Curse the gods, Bruce, Cressen thought with a sigh. "Yes, my lord."

"If the soft hand doesn't work," Steffon warned, "then I will apply the heel instead."

Ser Harbert stood in position, while men-at-arms readied axes. "Last warning, boy," Ser Harbert shouted. "If I have to destroy this door to get to you, then you will spend a whole day in the stocks!"

There was no reply. Cressen rubbed his eyes tiredly. He felt sorry for Bruce, he truly did, but Lord Baratheon would not back down…

Then, there was the sound of something being poured, a slow trickle of liquid. The whole corridor froze, as a pale white substance oozed out slowly from beneath the door frame. It flooded slowly over the solid stone floor, the men-at-arms stepped back as it crept beneath their boots and into the channels of the stone slabs.

Everybody stared at the bottom of the doorway. From the other side of the door, Bruce kept on pouring the liquid. Men looked around at each other, confused.

The liquid was followed by a small slip of parchment, soaked in the fluid and pushed underneath the door. Cressen hesitated, but then stepped forward and bent down for it.

It was written on charcoal, in Bruce's smooth handwriting.

"Leave the door alone," Cressen read out loud from the soaked, oily parchment, "or else I will set it on fire."

There was a long moment of silence in the hallway. All eyes turned down to the liquid that was flooding outwards. The men-at-arms took a few steps backwards, and suddenly they were all looking at lot more nervous.

"That is lamp oil," Cressen said finally. "Bruce must have a container of lamp oil in there."

"Lamp oil? How the bloody hell did he…?" Steffon's voice tailed off, then ordered a man to run up to the castle storerooms and check.

The man came back quickly, panting out of breath. Four barrels of lamp oil had indeed vanished during the night.

Bruce must have stolen them and carried them to his room. Cressen knew of those barrels; the oil burnt fast and smokeless, ideal for a poorly ventilated castle like Storm's End. They bought it in big, heavy barrels, extracted from whale blubber and sold in bulk by Ibbenese whalers. Bruce must have carried them up four flights of stairs, Cressen realised, a boy of ten, how could he have even…?

"Get those torches away from the door," Cressen said suddenly, looking down at the pool of liquid and stepping back. "Quickly, move the open flames away."

"Is the boy mad?" a man-at-arms looked around with confusion. "He's going to light a fire here?"

Storm's End didn't have many windows. Durran had built the walls without any structural weaknesses. The walls were thick, the corridors narrow, and a fire could blaze inside the keep like in a forge.

"He's bluffing," Ser Harbert said firmly. "He wouldn't dare."

Oh no. "My lords," Cressen begged. "Please do not turn this into a standoff."

"I will break through that door, maester," Ser Harbert bristled.

"Can you do it before Bruce lights a match?"

"He is in that room." Ser Harbert shook his head. "The walls, floor and ceiling are all solid stone. He'd burn to death himself if he lit that match, or the smoke would get him." The old knight turned and raised his voice. "Do you hear me, boy? You'd burn to death yourself!"

Bruce, why do you have to turn everything into a fight? "Let us not force him into a corner, ser," Cressen begged. "That might not end well for any of us."

"He's bluffing!" Harbert shouted. "We cannot let the boy force us around like this, we need to show a strong hand."

Lord Steffon didn't look so sure. Cressen turned to the Lord of Storm's End, pleadingly. "Please, my lord," Cressen begged, "if there's one thing that we can say with certainty, it's that threats and ultimatums do not have the desired effect with Bruce. He does not respond well to escalation."

Steffon was quiet, simmering for several heartbeats, and then he looked between Cressen, the barricaded door, and then at the puddle of lamp oil on the floor. Finally, the lord relented. "Fine. If that is how the boy wants to play it," he grumbled, and turned to Ser Harbert. "We'll starve the lad out – there's no point in damaging a perfectly good door. Absolutely no food or drink is getting through here, and I want a guard on this door at all hours of the day. If he tries to sneak out, you do not let him back in, do you understand?"

"Yes, my lord," a man-at-arms said, with a bow.

"And the next time Bruce Wayne tries to play silly buggers with me," Steffon warned, looking at Cressen, "I'll move his bed into the bloody dungeons and I'll lock him up in the cells."

"I understand, my lord." Cressen bowed. Lord Steffon was a good man, but he had a temper on him; he would calm as soon he was given a chance. "Bruce will yield quickly, I'm sure he will," he lied.

Cressen was a man of learning; his chain had links of almost every metal but Valyrian, and yet nothing in all his studies had taught him how to handle this. Why did nothing in the Citadel prepare me for raising problem children?

The Lord of Storm's End only grunted, already turning to walk away. "And Harbert!" Steffon boomed at his uncle. "We need have a talk about the quality of guardsmen you keep in this castle. Are our men-at-arms blind? How could they let a ten-year-old boy steal four barrels of lamp oil unnoticed??"

A few of the men flinched, stepping away quickly as the lord barged through. Cressen was already feeling tired. Dammit Bruce, why must everything be a fight with you?

Bruce Wayne was a smart boy, but he had never learnt how to concede.

The maester saw a small figure watching quietly from the far side of hallway. The boy was a child of twelve, but he already stood over a head taller than Bruce. Stannis' shoulders were straight, his head raised, and his eyes watched the scene with quiet amazement.

Cressen smiled, and lowered his voice slightly. "It's alright, Stannis," Cressen soothed. "Nothing is going to happen with Bruce – some boys just feel the need to act out."

Stannis frowned. The child never said a word as he looked at Cressen, his jaw tensing. Still, that look in his eyes spoke volumes; 'I never acted out' his expression said.

Then, Stannis turned and walked away without a word.

Cressen sighed, rubbing his eyes. Why did no one in Citadel teach me how to care for problem children? he cursed, as he had many times. Of all the learned men in the world… why is that something that nobody has quite figured out?

_____

"I swear by the gods," Lord Baratheon grumbled at the dining table as he gulped down a large mug of apple juice. "I have besieged actual castles that have fallen easier than that boy's bedchambers."

The lord's family was gathered around the dining table, breaking their fast as the rains swept in the black skies outside. Lord Baratheon and his wife sat at the head of the stone table, with Ser Haraden at their right, and young Stannis sitting upright next to his mother. Cressen took the maester's seat, at the far end of the table.

"He still has not come out?" his wife, Cassana Baratheon, asked, her brow tightening in concern as she smeared butter on a pastry. "It has been over a day."

"He must be dying of thirst in there," Lord Baratheon muttered, shaking his head. "He's so stubborn he could die locked in those chambers."

"I think not," Maester Cressen admitted, from the far side of the table. The maester sat on the lord's table, but he did not eat. "It has been raining non-stop over the cape for days, and Lord Wayne does have a window. He could likely gather water from outside, if he needed."

Lord Baratheon's eyes widened. "The window," he said with a quiet curse. "Could he climb out the window? Hells, could we get a man through?"

"It is not likely, my lord," Maester Cressen warned quickly. Durran had built his castle to be strong, stout and smooth; there were no gutters or gargoyles on the drum tower of Storm's End. There was nothing to grip – the walls were so smooth there was barely even a notch between the stones. "Bruce is five levels up, and the arrow slits are too tight for a man to fit through. A boy of Bruce's size might, if he squeezed, but there is still no traction to be had on any of the stones outside."

Ser Harbert nodded in agreement. "You cannot climb the walls of this castle," he agreed. "The stones are too smooth and too hard. But say the word and we'll break that bloody door down."

"No," Steffon ordered, shaking his head but still looking worried. "We'll wait him out if we must."

"He could starve in there," Cassana warned. The lady sighed. "He might starve himself out of pure stubbornness. I feel for that boy, I truly do."

"He has food. I saw Bruce stealing bread from the kitchens four nights ago," young Stannis said dutifully. "He was smuggling them up to his room in the middle of the night."

"Aye, he hoards everything, that one." Ser Harbert shook his head. "We should never have let it get so bad."

Cressen looked at Stannis, his gaze flickering. "Stannis, I know that you and Bruce were close…"

"We aren't close," Stannis objected. "He has barely said a dozen words to me, nor me to him. He has been under our roof for over a year and I've hardly seen him."

That made Cressen feel so sad. He had high hopes that Stannis and Bruce might befriend each other. A foolish hope, admittedly.

Stannis shook his head. "Lord Wayne shouldn't defy our father so," the boy said surely. "He disrespects our hospitality."

"He is grieving, Stannis," Cressen insisted. "His parents died."

"That is no excuse." Stannis' voice was firm.

Crssen's eyes glanced to Lord Baratheon. Steffon had been furious in the morning, but as the day had gone on the lord's rage had turned more to concern. Cressen knew that one of the main reasons that Steffon had wanted to take Bruce as a ward was to give some companionship to his son Stannis. They were both damaged children, in their own way.

Stannis was the second son of Lord Steffon, but he may as well have been an only child. His elder brother, Robert, was being fostered at the Eyrie with Lord Arryn, and only returned to Storm's End infrequently. Stannis and Robert were estranged brothers that rarely saw each other.

Even Lord Baratheon himself was close friends with both Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King, and King Aerys Targaryen. The lord's duties regularly took him back and forth between Storm's End and King's Landing, leaving little time for his child. His family was very often elsewhere, and rarely by Stannis' side.

For so much of his childhood, Stannis had grown up alone in Storm's End. It was a large, strong and majestic castle, but not a warm one. Not a good place to make a home. Stannis had been raised more by his great-uncle, Ser Harbert, and the master-at-arms, Ser Manfred Swann. Stannis had grown up stiff and solemn and quiet.

A companion his own age would do wonders, Cressen had insisted to the lord, many times. I fear Stannis spends too much time around Harbert and the guardsmen, and not playing as a child should.

But while Stannis was quiet and dutiful, Bruce was rebellious. Stannis was mindful and humourless, while Bruce just felt… angry.

There was a quiet pause over the table. Ser Harbert reached for another pastry.

"I do not know what to do with him," Lord Steffon said finally, his voice low. He looked between Harbert and Cressen. "Tell me straight; did I do Bruce a kindness by bringing him into my family? Or would he have been better off elsewhere?"

"That is not for me to say, my lord," Ser Harbert said stiffly, but his expression clearly said; 'No.'

Ser Harbert had never wanted Bruce as a ward at Storm's End. He belongs in the riverlands, Ser Harbert had argued at the time, and the Waynes are ill-fated – they carry the curse of Harrenhal with them.

"I believe you did, my lord," Cressen insisted. "It is just a difficult time for any child; Bruce is grieving still."

"Aye, well…" Lord Baratheon shook his head. "He grieves and broods more locked in his room like that. I try to remove him from his chambers, and he does something like this."

"He is but a child."

"I cannot recall Stannis ever throwing a tantrum," Steffon noted, and his second son just nodded. "And Robert would shout and protest, but he would never brood. I am lord of the stormlands, and being made a fool of. How long before my own bannermen start laughing in their cups that even a child can defy my own rule so easily?" There was no reply. "Prince Rhaegar himself is visiting in two days, and yet I must explain to the crown prince – 'I'm sorry, you cannot step in that wing of the castle, because my ward is threatening to burn it down'!"

"He needs discipline in his life, Steffon," Harbert insisted. "Leaving him to grieve like this is to enable him. Give him a strong hand. The boy is old enough, and his own father was soft."

"Lord Wayne was patient," Cressen insisted. "And understanding."

"Soft, I call it," the old man objected. "Have Bruce in the yard, force him to do drills. Have him squire for a noble knight. Force him to clean armour, sharpen blades, and spar with sticks."

"Bruce doesn't like sparring," Stannis noted. "He refuses to even pick up the sword. Ser Manfred threatened to whack him with flat of it, but he wouldn't even grip the handle."

Cressen remembered that incident well. The master-at-arms had never encountered a student as difficult as Bruce. Even when they physically forced him to grip the tourney sword, and swung his own arm for him, the little child fought back and resisted as hard as he could.

Bruce refused all swords, refused to even touch one. The first time they had tried to force him to, the boy had suffered a panic attack.

"My lord…" Cressen said hesitantly. "I do not believe that Bruce is fit for the martial arts."

"He is young, and healthy," Harbert argued.

"But the issue is the mentality," Cressen shook his head. "Bruce favours books over blades, I think. He is a sharp lad. Stubborn, but clever. His own father studied at the Citadel – have you considered that Bruce may wish to follow suit?"

"The Citadel?" Ser Harbert's voice was aghast. "The boy is the last scion of an ancient house. A small house, aye, but the Waynes are wealthy and of unquestioned nobility. There'll be no shortage of noble lords looking to match their daughters to the boy. You would give all that away for a chain?"

"I would pick the boy's happiness," Cressen argued. "I do not believe that Bruce will ever be happy as a knight."

"And he would be happy in servitude, maester?" Harbert scowled. "Remember your place."

"Enough of this," Lord Steffon snapped firmly. "I promised the crown that I would ensure House Wayne's lands and standing are kept to good order, I will not see a noble house dissolved and the heir given to a maester's vows." He paused, reaching a decision. "No, the boy's losses are tragic, but the child has wallowed in grief for far too long. He would be well-served as a squire – perhaps it is even a matter that Prince Rhaegar could assist with."

Cressen would have objected, but he no place to protest. Harbert was glaring at him. Still, there was a chill of quiet fear… Steffon might give Bruce to a hard-handed and strict knight, Cressen considered, yet the child did not respond well to authority, and he was so stubborn he would never back down. Bruce would break before he bent.

"I will tolerate the boy's delinquency no more," Lord Baratheon warned, looking firmly at the maester. "My stance has not changed; Bruce Wayne will be in attendance when the crown prince visits us, and I will burn all of that trash the boy hordes in his chambers."

Cressen had to concede. "Yes, my lord."

The maester ate the rest of the meal in unhappy silence.

There was another argument at the dining table around him, this time between Stannis and his great-uncle. A familiar argument, one that had been waging for months; over Stannis' goshawk, a hunting bird that Stannis had found injured. Cressen himself had helped the boy nurse the hawk back to health over a year ago now. Stannis named the bird Proudwing, but during his last visit his brother Robert had mocked it as Weakwing. Ser Harbert insisted that the bird would never fly higher than the treetops, and that Stannis was making a fool of himself, but the boy refused to abandoned Proudwing.

Ser Harbert threatened that if he didn't not get a better bird, then he would no longer take Stannis on any more hawking trips. That caused the child's jaw to clench and simmer in silence, but he refused to leave the table. Stannis was glaring at his great-uncle angrily, waiting for his father's permission to stand up and leave.

Stubborn children, Cressen thought, and stubborn fathers. Was there any more dangerous a combination?

After the unhappy meal, Stannis left for the yards and Lord Baratheon to prepare the household, while Cressen walked back to the stairs, and up towards the lord's quarters. Two guards greeted him outside the hallway to Bruce's room.

"Maester," one of the men-at-arms said with a nod. "The lord ordered that the boy should have no visitors."

"I am here to check on my charge," Cressen replied, his voice hard. "Move aside."

The lamp oil over the hallway had already been wiped up, and the maester moved to sit down against on the stone against the door. His hip ached as he lowered himself to the ground. There was a long moment of silence, the old maester resting backwards against the barricaded door.

"Bruce," Cressen said finally, keeping his voice low. "I am not here to ask you to open up, but… can I at least hear your voice? I want to know you're alright in there."

There was no reply. Cressen sighed.

"I know that you're hurting," he tried, "and I know that you're scared. You didn't want to be here, you didn't choose any of this. It wasn't your fault, but you saw it and… well, you feel like you don't have any control. You're hurting, Bruce, I know you are."

There was only silence. "And I wish I knew what to say to make it better," Cressen admitted. "I wish I knew what medicine to give. I can name every organ and every humour… every malady of the flesh… I trained as a physician, as a healer… I want to help, but this?" He shook his head. "I do not know how to cure grief. I do not know where to begin. With this I am as lost as you are."

If it were a wound, he would have stitched it. A severed arm he could cauterise. But how do you cauterise missing parents?

"I just want you to know… just know that there are people who are trying to help." He took a deep breath. "I want to help."

The only sound was the distant rumble of the rains, a low hum through the thick stone of Storm's End. Still, Cressen didn't move. He stayed sitting on the cold stone floor, and settled in for a long night.

It was early the very next morn when finally Cressen heard the sound of wood shifting. He heard the sound of hammering, of a boy determinedly knocking the nails out of wood. The door rumbled.

And finally, the door pushed open. Lord Wayne didn't say a word. He just stood in the doorway, eyes cast downwards, wearing ragged and muddy clothes. Bruce Wayne was dark haired and slight of build, with wide eyes for a young boy and heavy circles under his cheeks. He was ten years old, but short for his age. The boy looked gaunt and weary.

Cressen sighed. The men-at-arms grabbed the boy roughly, and Bruce didn't even try to resist.

Ser Harbert came up the stairs first, half-sneering, half-seething as he stomped. "Boy!" the castellan boomed. "Do you have any idea what a bloody headache you've caused?"

"Ser…" Cressen said with sigh. Bruce Wayne didn't reply. He didn't even meet any of their eyes. Ser Harbert stormed into the room triumphantly, and then stopped.

The room was bare. The chambers were fairly small and cramped, but they were nearly completely empty. Bruce had dismantled the four-poster frame of his bed, in order to use the wood to barricade the door. There were splinters and nails left littered around the stone floor.

But there was more missing too. Even the furniture, the cabinets and Bruce's chest were all gone. The last time Cressen had been in this room the walls and floor had been thick with the assorted items that Bruce had scavenged. There had been everything from strips of wood, to stolen tools, to cutlery and lengths of rope, and the many, many scraps of parchments and chalk that had been spewed everywhere. Bruce had taken to pinning parchment up onto his walls, scrawling shapes in chalk in patterns that Cressen couldn't make sense of it. Ser Harbert had spoken the truth; Bruce was a hoarder.

Two nights ago, the room had been a mess. But now, it was all barren and empty.

It took a few heartbeats to realise what was missing. The castellan blinked.

There are no barrels of lamp oil either, the maester noted suspiciously. Ser Harbert looked around, and then frowned in confusion. "Where's the rest of it?" he demanded. "Where's all the boy's junk gone?"

"It was empty when he unlocked the door, ser," Cressen replied.

"Did he throw it out of the window?" Ser Harbert demanded, looking to the shuttered arrow slit. Bruce's chamber overlooked the inner courtyard, above the smithy and the arrow range.

"Half of his clutter wouldn't have fit through that window, ser," Cressen said. "The cabinets and furniture most certainly wouldn't have." But perhaps a little boy could have, if he had peeled off the bars.

The window was a slender notch through the thick stone built for bowmen, so thin that only a slimmer of light came through even when they weren't shuttered. Cressen could hear the rain pounding outside.

"Then where did it all go?" Harbert demanded, looking to Bruce. The little boy never said a word. "What did you do with it, boy?"

The castellan threatened that he would spend days in the stocks unless he answered, but Bruce didn't even meet his eyes. Ser Harbert slapped him over the ear, and the boy didn't flinch.

You couldn't discipline a boy like Bruce Wayne. It was like trying to discipline a brick wall. He didn't react; it felt like there was nothing there.

Even when Ser Harbert slapped him, there was no anger, no pain, nothing.

Ser Harbert groaned, marching off find the lord. Cressen looked at Bruce, trying to measure his behaviour. The head steward was quite upset to find that the barrels of lamp oil had vanished; "Such oil is expensive," the steward protested, "and we were already running low on it! And the bed – look at what he did to the bed!"

When pushed, Bruce apologised to Lord Baratheon. Bruce said all of the courtesies, he repeated his lines, and they all felt completely hollow. They demanded answers from him, and Bruce gave nothing but silence.

He doesn't cry, Cressen noted. Bruce had spent days crying when he had first arrived in Storm's End, but now he didn't cry at all. There was nothing but resigned stoniness. As reserved as the bat on his sigil, Cressen thought.

Lord Steffon looked like he was at his wit's end. The lord shouted at Bruce, he smacked him, he threatened him, but Cressen strongly suspected that Bruce would do it all again if the boy felt he needed to. Come dusk, the Lord of Storm's End was left kicking the walls with irritation, and confusion about what to do.

By nightfall, Bruce was placed in the chambers next to Stannis' – under guard, even – but Cressen walked into talk to him. The boy was sitting on the edge of his bed, his shoulders completely stiff.

There was a long moment of silence. Cressen inspected him. His clothes had been muddy when he opened the down, Cressen remembered. Now how could he have muddy clothes while locked in his room for days?

"What did you do with the lamp oil, Bruce?" Maester Cressen asked finally.

The child didn't reply. The maester sighed, and then walked over to sit on his bed too. "I'm not angry," he admitted. "I'm just trying to understand."

There wasn't a word. Cressen scratched his head. "I think…" the maester mused. "I think that you couldn't actually carry the lamp oil back to your room – the barrels were too heavy for you to lift up the stairs." He paused. "But you didn't actually need to steal them, you only needed us to think that you did. So instead, you rolled the barrels and then dumped them somewhere? What, did you empty the contents down the drain, and then discard the empty barrels?"

No response. "But you did take just a saucer of oil for yourself," Cressen continued. "Just so you had something to pour under the doorway as proof. Make us think you had the full barrels."

Finally, Bruce reacted. He gave a quiet nod. "Yes," the child admitted lowly.

Clever boy. It had been a bluff, but a well-prepared one. It was a small relief to know that Bruce hadn't actually been prepared to burn down the castle, at least.

"As for the other things… hmm…" Cressen rubbed his whiskers. "Lord Baratheon threatened to clean out your chambers for the prince's visit, so you moved to protect everything you had. You needed to find a way to stash it somewhere. You barricaded your door, but I don't think any of your belongings were actually in the room when you sealed it."

Not a twitch. "Instead, you first moved all of your stuff into one of the nearby chambers during the middle of the night, and then your barricaded your door as a distraction," Cressen continued. "We were so busy trying to break through the door that nobody even thought to check any of the other rooms.

"But, while everyone was distracted with your locked door, it meant the hallways were empty enough to smuggle your items out of the drum tower altogether. You must have set up a rope between yours and one of the adjacent windows, so you could climb between them." Climbing out of a narrow window over a sixty foot drop, in stormy weather, no less. The boy was brave. "And then you snuck around to move whatever is was you were moving. When you were done, you climbed back into your room and opened the door. Am I close?"

"Close," Bruce replied simply. No more clarification than that. Still never met his eyes.

So what did he hide, and where did he hide it? Bruce must have known that he wouldn't be able to avoid the punishment. Barricading his room had been naught but a stalling tactic, a distraction, while he smuggled his belongings to safety.

"So what was so important that you were willing to risk two days in the stocks to protect?" Cressen asked finally.

Bruce just stared at the ground. "No…" Cressen said slowly. "Or what did you have that you were so afraid that we were going to take it away?"

His jaw clenched slightly. "I wasn't afraid," Bruce muttered, and there was something like iron in his voice.

"No," Cressen agreed. "You weren't afraid."

They both said together in silence, listening to the rain pouring outside.

"I've been asking around the castle," Cressen continued after a long pause. "Trying to find just what exactly you were hoarding in your room. You've been snatching bits and pieces from the kitchens, the servants, the storerooms. I think you've been deliberately filled your chambers with junk, so it wouldn't be as obvious what you were really doing. Did you have something else hidden beneath the junk?"

No comment from Bruce, but the boy was listening intently. "But you've taken quite a few ends from the library, and the lord's study. Parchment, and maps in particular. You stole copies of letters that I logged for the lord – invitations to events that have been happening between the westerlands and the stormlands," Cressen mused. "You were trying to gather information, weren't you, Bruce?"

The maester kept his voice calm. "You could have just asked, Bruce. Nobody is keeping anything from you."

"I'm sorry," Bruce said, but it was a totally automatic response. Bruce had learned how to apologise on reflex.

"And what of the other things?" Cressen pressed. "You stole tools from the smithy, a few odds and ends from the yards. Scraps of wood, rope, some nails. Two training swords went missing, pieces of cutlery, some scrap metal from the forge.

"A guardsman misplaced his knife," Cressen continued, probing for a reaction. "First arrows have been disappearing from the range… and then bowstrings."

There wasn't a word from Bruce, but his shoulders were stiff. The boy was glaring at the floor. "Bruce Wayne," the maester said slowly, "have you been trying to build your own crossbow?"

For a while, it didn't seem like Bruce was going to respond. Then, the boy opened his mouth and said lowly, "I'm going to kill him, maester. I'm going to find and I'm going to kill the Smiling Knight."

Cressen sighed. In the boy's eyes, there was no fear, and there was no grief. There was nothing but cold, determined rage.

 

[Serpentguy]

Chapter 3
The Dragon and the Bat

The Smiling Knight. That was the name that bards placed had upon him, as cruel as it was. The Smiling Knight – that might have been a chivalrous name, a name that could fit into a song. The wanted posters had vague descriptions of his features, but every witness told of his same mad smile. The man would smile maniacally as he killed.

It had been too dark, Bruce couldn't visualise the man's face clearly – but he remembered the laugh. That laughter haunted his dreams every night.

The murder of Lord and Lady Wayne had been the first crime to the Smiling Knight's name; the crime that turned him from a common outlaw to the most wanted fiend in the realm. In the week after the tourney at Harrenhal, Ser Henry Vance had managed to chase the Smiling Knight down, and yet the Smiling Knight had slew him, his squire, and a barkeep who tried to intervene.

Ever since that day, there had been more crimes to the Smiling Knight's name. The Smiling Knight killed Ser Edric Ryger in single combat, and then he kidnapped the young Lady Stokeworth and ransomed her back to her family for a small fortune. Two hedge knights attempted to stop him, but they were both cut down. He was said to be a mad man with a blade, a fury that no knight could stand against. Reportedly, the Smiling Knight had even been spotted around Riverrun, stalking Lady Tully and her newborn son.

His crimes had been growing steadily in daring as his name rose in infamy. The Smiling Knight hadn't been a big man; he had been slim and short, but the man was insane and knew no fear. He was a mix of chivalry, madness and brutality, a man who could swing his sword through innocents and laugh…

Two bodies, failing to the leaves in the rain…

Bruce had never known such raw, unyielding rage before. It was anger so cold it chilled him to the bone. It was all he could think about, all he dreamt about, all he could even concentrate on. Every thought he had, it all came back to that man, to that night.

It wasn't a desire, it was an obsession.

How to find the Smiling Knight, how to track him, how to beat him how to kill him. How to make him feel it, make him feel the pain of your entire life falling around you, make you watch the flash of the blades and your mother screaming wordlessly as she fell…

Even the very thought was enough to make Bruce shudder.

I'm going to kill him. I will kill him.

Every hour of every day was spent plotting ways of finding and killing the Smiling Knight. Eventually, Bruce evaluated his options, and he chose a crossbow. Bruce wanted to pull the trigger, he wanted to put a bolt through the man's head. Lord Steffon wouldn't have entrusted such a weapon to a small boy, so Bruce set about taking methods into his own hands.

He filled his room with every scrap of intelligence he could find, parchments and letters from across the realm. He pinned them all to his walls, and he tried to find a pattern. He scrounged weapons, he stole supplies, he planned it all with meticulous focus and fury. I am to going to kill him.

I need to kill him.

All he needed was a chance, one shot with a crossbow, and Bruce would pull the trigger.

__________

It was a wet and damp day when they saw the Targaryen banners flapping along Cape Duran. The whole castle seemed to be in an uproar; the cutlery polished to perfection, every pillow fluffed and cleaned, the rooms prepared twice over. The household staff seemed to be marching more strictly than the guardsmen as they went through their rounds, and Ser Harbert stood on the walls in the drizzling rain while a squad of trumpeters stood ready to announce the crown prince's arrival.

Bruce lingered away from it all; he stood atop the battlements of the drum tower, watching the red and black flags fly above the cavalry on the hills. From his perch, it all looked so… distance. The convoy of knights was so small, so insignificant.

Still, he knew that he would have to be in the courtyard along with House Baratheon as they greeted the prince. Steffon would insist on it, and it could become awkward if Bruce challenged the lord any further.

"Prince Rhaegar Targaryen!" Bruce overheard one of the serving girls giggle. "They say he's gallant, so handsome, and could sweep a maiden off her feet with his music. Gods, do you think he'll bring his harp?"

Bruce crept down the servant's stairs, trying to stay unnoticed. Everybody was in a frenzy with the news of the crown prince arriving. It seemed like there was no more popular man in the realm.

Bruce's very first sight of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was of a tall, handsome young man with bright silver hair riding through the gates. He sat stiff and upright on a glorious white horse. The prince was young, yet he held himself like a man much older.

The crown prince rode a great white stallion bearing drape of velvet red, while Rhaegar himself wore black silk and a thick wool cloak – the three-headed red dragon of his house embroidered on his chest. He stood strong and tall, his eyes bright purple and a smile splitting his face as he rode through the gates.

And the convoy he brought with him were all clad in shining steel, even in the damp air. They came with a retinue of a hundred men, but the crown prince and his companions rode ahead through the gates of Storm's End. Each of them were young knights and first-born sons of noble house, looking bright and proud and chivilrous.

Bruce had to hide the scowl from his face with the sight. He knew the type, he knew of knights such as them.

Trumpets blared, and every head in the courtyard bowed before the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

"My lord!" Prince Rhaegar called, grinning despite the drizzle in the air. His voice was sharp and clear. "It has been too long – the capital has sorely missed your presence."

"Your Grace," Lord Steffon replied as he bowed, laughing himself. "Aye, but the capital doesn't have this gorgeous stormland weather to offer you."

"Gorgeous indeed," the prince chuckled, with a glance upwards at the overcast skies. "But a bit of rain makes the destination feel finer, don't you think?"

He is young, Bruce realised quietly. The prince looked only around seventeen or eighteen. Young and handsome, and unbetrothed. He dropped down from his horse, to greet Lord Baratheon warmly.

"It is good to see you again, Your Grace," Lord Steffon lowered his head again, while Lady Cassana curtsied before him. Bruce stood in the wings away from the Baratheon family, watching quietly.

"Please, my lord," Prince Rhaegar insisted, motioning at the yard. "Rise, there is no need to linger on formalities between us. My father is not here."

His companions were all youthful too. Bruce saw a young man with thick curly red hair and fierce eyes – Jon Connington, staying closely by the prince's side. He rode alongside Rhaegar's squires; Richard Lonmouth and Myles Mooton. The prince wasn't even a knight – he was only a squire himself to Ser Arthur Dayne – but even the squire had squires.

And the Kingsguard… Prince Rhaegar came with three of the white cloaked knights himself. They were tall and broad figures, as noble as any Bruce had ever seen. Ser Barristan the Bold, and Ser Oswell Whent. Bruce's eyes turned towards the third figure with silver blond hair and pale eyes – a man without the beauty of the prince but instead with something harder in his gaze. A murmur ran through the crowd as the knight trotted through the gates.

Ser Arthur Dayne, Bruce thought, the Sword of the Morning. No other man in the realm was so distinguished.

Ser Barristan was strong-jawed with broad shoulders, while Ser Oswell had a grim and hardened face. Still, it was Ser Arthur that caught the most attention – he was an ageless figure with pale purple eyes, and hair so blond he could have been a Targaryen himself. Something about the Sword of the Morning sent shivers down Bruce's spine; there was a quiet presence to him, a strength that seemed to emanate…

Every man in the castle was present in the courtyard, staring at the royal procession filtering through the gates.

"I half-expected Robert to be with you," Lord Steffon noted.

"I hoped he would be," Rhaegar replied with a soft sigh. "I do miss Robert's company, I had intended to travel down together with him. And yet I hear that Robert has decided to stay in the Eyrie for another hunting season instead."

Steffon scoffed. "That boy. He sees more of Jon Arryn than he does of me, it's a wonder he ever returns."

Rhaegar helped his squires dismount, turning to greeting the rest of the household politely. "And you must be Stannis," Rhaegar greeted, as Stannis bowed. Bruce bowed as well. "I do not think we have had the pleasure."

"We have, Your Grace," Even as a child of twelve, Stannis' voice was strong and stiff. "Four years ago, we were introduced when my father took me to the capital."

"We did? Forgive me, I cannot recall," Rhaegar's voice sounded genuinely apologetically. "It is pleasure to be reacquainted, regardless. I hear you enjoy hunting, Stannis, do you take after your brother?"

"He does," Lord Steffon laughed, "but not as skilled. Stannis would spend more time plotting out the route than actually riding it. Every time Robert comes back he hunts half the boar in the woods, yet I don't think Stannis is as capable."

Through the corner of his eye, Bruce watched for any twitch in Stannis' expression. He saw none.

"Well, it would be remiss of me not to enjoy the woods of Cape Wrath, perhaps we could hunt together, Stannis?" Rhaegar said with a smile. Stannis didn't return one, but he bowed.

"Are you here for long, Your Grace?" Lady Cassana asked. "The stormlands may be lacking in clear skies, but we have hospitality to share. It is an honour to entertain you here."

"The honour is all mine, my lady," Rhaegar replied, the image of all courtesy. "But I'm afraid I have so much before me, I fear I have little time to linger under your roof. We are headed towards Griffin's Roost for the Harvest Feast; Lord Connington has requested aid from the crown to settle a property dispute with House Morrigen." He nodded towards Jon Connington, who nodded back. Jon Connington only had eyes for the prince, Bruce noted.

"Let us get out of the rain, Your Grace," Ser Oswell Whent noted. "Better to warm up by the fireplace, and continue inside."

"A grand idea, I think." The knights of the Kingsguard dismounted and stood close to the prince, their cloak and armour white and gloriously even despite the splattering of mud. Bruce's eyes were peeled on Ser Arthur Dayne, watching his gaze closely.

Ser Arthur Dayne looked to the corners, Bruce noted. He had narrow eyes that scanned his surroundings cautiously. Most knights walked with their heads held so high that they were oblivious, but Ser Arthur had a different feel to him. Even while everyone was else was chatting and making conversation, Ser Arthur stood guarded.

The greatsword across the Sword of the Morning's back rippled in the faint light, as smooth as moonlight. A sword that looked finer than Valyrian steel…

He was still staring at the sword, as Prince Rhaegar moved over to Bruce, looking down solemnly.

"Your Grace," Bruce said in a low voice, bowing.

"At ease," Rhaegar's voice softened, his voice turned more solemn. "You must be Lord Bruce Wayne of Wayne Manor. It is good to put a face to the child I have heard so much about. The whole realm mourns your parent's loss, my lord."

There were a few eyes looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to return the greeting. He ignored them. Bruce just lowered his head. "Thank you, Your Grace," Bruce replied automatically.

Steffon folded his arms. "Forgive him, Your Grace – he's a quiet child."

"There is nothing to forgive, my lord." Rhaegar replied, a still solemn smile hovering around his lips as he looked down at Bruce. Bruce didn't raise his gaze. "I was a quiet child myself – I drove Arthur here to frustration as he tried to teach me lance and sword." He looked to the Kingsguard, and the Sword the Morning only nodded. "And yet I came into my own, I have no doubt that Bruce will do as well. We all have a purpose in this life."

He extended his hand to Bruce. Prince Rhaegar was tall, so tall he loomed over the Bruce. Bruce took the hand shook in a gentle, comforting grip.

Even when Rhaegar moved to greet Ser Manford Swann, there were others looking back to Bruce. They walked across the line, introducing themselves to the household one by one. Jon Connington gave Bruce the same sympathies.

Richard Lonmouth was next, looking down at Bruce sadly. "I knew your father only briefly, but it was an honour to cross lances with him." Richard Lonmouth was a tall and grim-faced young man, but his voice sounded pained. "I was the last to face him before he died, and I shall never forget that. Lord Thomas was as fine a rider as any I have ever known, and a truly chivalrous man."

"Thank you, my lord," Bruce replied impassively. They are all going to insist to console me, wouldn't they? he thought quietly. The whole realm felt 'sorry' for him.

Bruce didn't care – the thought of all those sympathies, it was just… annoying.

There were times that it felt like they wanted him to break down into tears, or to show weakness. They wanted him to act the scared, hurt little boy they thought he was. Bruce refused to indulge them.

"I pray to the Father for the chance to see justice done for that crime," Richard Lonmouth continued. "I wish I could done something that night."

But you didn't, did you? Every knight at Harrenhal had vowed to chase down the murderer – they had each made a big scene of it too – but only half a dozen or so had even put a token effort into chasing the Smiling Knight. Bruce had heard the same declarations over and over again, until he became numb to them. For a knight, promises of justice and valour were more important than actions.

It had been at Harrenhal when Bruce realised the type of that institution that knighthood truly was. It was all bright, shiny and completely hollow.

"We must move on, there is business to discuss," Jon Connington said, looking to Rhaegar.

"Aye." Rhaegar nodded, looking to Lord Steffon. "To the Great Hall?"

"One moment, if I may," Ser Arthur Dayne said suddenly, as he stepped forward. His pale eyes turned to look down at Bruce. "My lord. I wished to offer my own condolences for your losses."

"Thank you, my lord," Bruce said again.

"The man who murdered them is of vile a fiend as any I have ever known," the Sword of the Morning said grimly. "A madman that targets women and children without remorse. Such a fiend cannot be allowed to roam."

Slowly, Ser Arthur Dayne unhooked the sheathed greatsword from his back, and the metal of Dawn rippled in the dim light. For a such a glorious blade, it felt sublime, undecorated and understated. Ser Arthur held the sword low, bowing his head. The whole courtyard hushed, every gaze staring at the knight.

"I made a vow before the Iron Throne, a pledge on my honour and my duty," the Sword of the Morning declared, "and I wish to repeat the same vow before you personally, my lord. I will bring the Smiling Knight to justice – that is my duty as a true knight of the realm."

Ripples through the courtyard, a few of the Baratheon men staring with shock as Ser Arthur lowered his head. Bruce could imagine women swooning and knights jealous with awe. Like something out of fairy tale, Bruce thought numbly; the brave and true knight Ser Arthur Dayne, pledging himself to hunt down the madman. The smallfolk would swoon for the noble and just hero.

It would be something that would fit into a song, Bruce thought. His fists clenched.

They were all looking at him, waiting for a response from Bruce. Ser Arthur Dayne – the Sword of the Morning himself – was kneeling before Bruce in the muddy ground, his sword Dawn offered before him. Bruce didn't react, he didn't accept the vow, he just stood like a statue.

The silence stretched on. They were expecting Bruce to react; to burst into tears, to offer thanks, or to even just nod his head. Lord Steffon would likely chide Bruce for being so discourteous, but Bruce didn't even twitch. He was a statue.

The image of that slicing sword flashed through his eyes.

After a moment of confused silence, Prince Rhaegar placed a hand on Ser Arthur's shoulder. "Excuse us, we must–"

"Whose justice, ser?" The words came from Bruce's throat before he could even stop them. He just interrupted a prince, but he couldn't bring himself to care. His gazed fixed on Ser Arthur's; pale violet eyes against dark brown. "To whose justice will you bring him to?"

They all turned to stare, some mouths agape. Bruce's tone was suddenly cold. Ser Arthur hesitated. "Will it be the crown's justice?" Bruce demanded lowly. "The lord paramount's? Your own? Who judges what punishment my parent's deaths are worth, ser?"

"Justice of what is fair and true, my lord." Ser Arthur's voice didn't sound angry, his tone just turned gentle. "I will bring the Smiling Knight to face penance for crimes, in the sight of gods and men. On my honour."

"I do not care for your honour," Bruce replied. "And I do not care for justice. I just want to see that man dead. Rather than your vow, I would place value in you bringing me his head, ser."

Lord Steffon was staring at him in quiet horror. Ser Arthur didn't seem to know how to react, and even the crown prince seemed stunned.

There was silence for a few long heartbeats.

Bruce blinked, and then pulled back on his armour. "My apologies, ser," Bruce apologised, lowering his head again to cover his face. Like a cowl. "I spoke out of turn."

There wasn't a twitch on his face. The boy's expression was stone. All eyes were on him, but Bruce pretended like he couldn't feel them.

Prince Rhaegar looked to Lord Steffon. "… Um, shall we convene in the hall, my lord?" the prince said finally.

_____________

I shouldn't have burst out like that, Bruce cursed himself afterwards. They were all looking at him queerly, and Bruce had drawn attention to himself when he would rather try to stay unnoticed. As soon as the guests retired, Lord Steffon or Ser Harbert would likely scold him.

And yet, still, all of those apologies had just been so infuriating. If vows were deeds then there would be no murderer left walking the realm. They were all hollow.

I don't want Ser Arthur Dayne to kill the Smiling Knight, Bruce thought. I don't want there to be big duel of chivalry that the smallfolk will swoon over. It didn't belong in a song, he didn't want to glorify it. The Smiling Knight didn't deserve chivalry, and he didn't deserve a legacy.

I want to do it myself.

Bruce had no illusions. Honour and justice had nothing to do with it, he just wanted to the murder the man.

The meal was friendly, with comfortable chatter between guests. Ser Barristan the Bold greeted Ser Manfred Swann warmly – the knight of the Kingsguard himself had once squired for the elderly master-of-arms at Storm's End. Bruce noted that Jon Connington was slightly chilly towards Lord Steffon, but the crown prince and the Lord of Baratheon were on good terms with each other.

They served whole roasted boar, with dumpling and cranberry and gravy sauces over the main table of the great hall. There were smoked parsnips glazed with honey, and thick pastries still steaming from the ovens.

The knights and lords all sat around the granite table, with Lord Steffon at the head and the crown prince in a seat of honour. The dining hall was filled with comfortable relaxed chatter as the stewards served platters of food. They served a lavish four course meal, plus wine and pastries.

At one point, the conversation turned towards Prince Rhaegar's lack of a bride – to which Lord Steffon teased the crown prince relentlessly, but the crown prince suddenly turned uncomfortable. It was Jon Connington that cut in quickly, to change the subject.

Bruce said next to Stannis, but neither boys said a word. They were the two youngest at the table.

"Tell me, Stannis," Myles Mooton said finally, sitting across from the children. "I hear you have talent with a blade. Are you on your way to becoming a knight?"

"He has been squiring for my uncle, Ser Harbert, for the last three years now," Lord Steffon explained, nodding at his son. "The boy is decent, but my uncle is getting old. I feel it would be good for some younger blood to help Stannis earn his spurs."

"Aye, I hear Robert squired for Ser Denys Arryn, if I recall?" Myles Mooton said.

"And knighted after only a year." Lord Steffon's voice was proud. "Robert is a strong lad, he earned his spurs quickly. I am so very proud."

Bruce noticed that Stannis was sitting a bit straighter in his chair. "A squireship is important," Prince Rhaegar agreed, from the head of the table. "Even princes must polish armour and brush horses once in a while. I have been squiring for Ser Arthur ever since I learnt how to ride."

"And what a chore that was," Ser Arthur Dayne said dryly, a soft smile on his lips.

"What of you, Bruce?" Ser Oswell Whent asked, looking at him with a frown. "You have any interest in working towards knighthood?"

None at all, he thought, but Bruce didn't reply. "I feel like working as a squire would be good for him too," Lord Steffon said, his voice turning a bit harder. "The boy is sharp and fast, but he needs a mentor to drive a bit more will and discipline into him. Both the boys do, in fact." Both Bruce and Stannis turned to look at the lord. "Since taking Bruce as a ward, I've started to wonder… hmm, maybe Storm's End isn't the best place for either children."

"I would agree," Prince Rhaegar said with a nod. "Travelling at a young age is good for the soul. I heard delightful stories of my grandfather's travels as a boy."

"I know that Lord Lannister's eldest son, Jaime – he is of an age with Bruce," Jon Connington noted. "He has started to look for squireship for his eldest too."

"It could well be that Jaime Lannister ends up as a squire for the prince too," Myles Mooton laughed. "I have no doubt that the Hand is eager to see both of his children at court."

"I think not," Rhaegar chuckled. "I am already breaking the rules taking two squires, without spurs of my own."

"Most knights would have knighted you by now, though," Lord Steffon noted.

"Most knights aren't the Sword of the Morning," Rhaegar replied, looking to Ser Arthur with a smile. "Ser Arthur has high standards, that not even a prince is above."

Ser Arthur smiled, but didn't reply. The jest was good-natured, and Rhaegar scratched his chin still looking to Bruce. "But," the prince continued. "I could perhaps convince a Kingsguard to take a squire, Bruce." Rhaegar looked to Ser Oswell Whent with a pointed stare. "If you could withstand his dour face, of course."

Ser Oswell didn't sound so keen, but he nodded. "Aye," the knight said slowly, looking to Bruce. "I could stand having a new squire – been a while since I've had one to yell at. The last one I had only lasted a year."

There were a few chuckles. It was a kind offer, but tactfully phrased as a joke. There was no malice in it, but Bruce still didn't want to leave Storm's End. It would be inconvenient to relocate. Bruce smiled woodenly, forcing himself to reply. "That is very kind, Your Grace," the boy replied after a few heartbeats. "But at the wishes of the lord of the house?"

Lord Steffon nodded. "Thank you for the offer, Your Grace, but I must consider it."

"Of course." Rhaegar nodded. "Whatever is best for Bruce, and however I can assist."

Ser Oswell looked slightly uncomfortable with the proposal, but he didn't protest. The knight looked to Bruce, his eyes narrowing somewhat. "So, Bruce," Ser Oswell Whent said finally. "I hear that your family has a Valyrian steel blade."

"It does, ser," Bruce replied politely. "Our ancestral blade. The blade is called Nightwing."

Nightwing was a blade that had said over the mantle of Wayne Manor for as long as Bruce could remember it – the blade that had been with House Wayne for centuries. It was a small blade, more of a short sword, but it was pitch black with a wicked edge to it. An unadorned black pommel and a crossguard curved like a crescent moon, half the size of a longsword.

"A blade that is not with us, unfortunately," Lord Steffon replied. "It is still in Wayne Manor, under the custodianship of the castellan – one Ser Alfred, if I recall. A fine sword, certainly."

So far as Bruce knew, his father had never even wielded the sword. It was a decoration over the hearth more than anything of use.

Richard Lonmouth looked surprised. "Truly?" He blinked. "Forgive me, my lord, but I never considered House Wayne distinguished enough to own such a blade."

"Oh, House Wayne has a history to it," Ser Oswell replied. "Houses Lothston, Wayne and Whent all come from the same line. Wayne was the oldest of them."

"Yes," Rhaegar said. "I read that the Waynes were the Kings of the Saltpans, back in the age of the thousand kings of Westeros, and they made their fortune in furs, silver and river trade. House Wayne owned the castle that stood before Harrenhal; they led the resistance against the ironborn and they were nearly destroyed for it. Harren the Black tore down their castle and built Harrenhal in its place."

Bruce blinked, surprised that the crown prince knew so much. The guests turned to Rhaegar. "The histories say that during the ironborn occupation, Bruce," Rhaegar noted, "that your family led the resistance against the Hoare Kings."

"As you say so, Your Grace." Perhaps House Wayne had tried to resist, but Harren the Black had crushed them stem and root, and enslaved the survivors as thralls to build Harrenhal. By the time Aegon arrived, the Waynes were as good as gone.

"House Wayne owned Harrenhal themselves for a time after the Conquest, but Aegon IV favoured House Lothston over them; Wayne was stripped of much of its lands and status to raise Lothston up instead," Rhaegar continued. Two of Aegon's mistresses were from Lothston; their house did very well under Aegon the Unworthy's regime. "Wayne became retainers to Harrenhal instead, but they still lost over half their lands again during the rebellion of the Mad Witch Lothston."

"Aye, I remember. I read it in the White Book," Ser Arthur Dayne nodded grimly. "A foul business, that. Mad Danelle Lothston brought terror to riverlands, and Ser Duncan the Tall himself had to ride to stop her."

"My father fought in that war," Ser Oswell Whent noted. "As did Bruce's grandfather, I believe."

Yes, on opposite sides. His father had told him the tale with sadness. Bruce's grandfather had died in the war at Harrenhal, roped into the Lothston's rebellion against the crown.

That had been how House Whent earned Harrenhal and its lands, Bruce thought. House Whent had been a sworn house to Lothston too, but House Whent sided with the crown while Wayne stayed loyal to their overlord.

"House Wayne has more history than it does power, Your Grace," Bruce said quietly. Where once Wayne had ranked alongside the houses like Mudd, Justman and Teague – most certainly greater than Tully – now they had been reduced to a footnote. "The sword Nightwing is naught but a legacy of that."

There was a quiet pause over the table. Father always said that Wayne had happily conceded Harrenhal, Bruce thought to himself, but the curse of Harrenhal still haunts my family.

"You undersell your legacy. Valyrian swords are a remarkable prestige; treat yours kindly, Bruce, for it is one of the few," Prince Rhaegar said, filling the silence. "Even the greatest houses in the realm are lacking them. My own family once had seven named Valyrian swords, and yet we had lost four during our efforts to salvage the Doom, along with four dragons. We lost another sword when Rhaenys died in Dorne, never to be recovered; and even the two remaining ones vanished over the years – Blackfyre was lost to the pretenders, and Dark Sister was lost beyond the Wall." Rhaegar shook his head. "Ever since, my family has cursed our carelessness, as none can replace historic swords like those."

"Lord Tywin feels the same," Lord Steffon agreed. "They lost the sword Brightroar four hundred years ago, but Lannister still mourns it now. Even all the wealth in Casterly Rock cannot convince an old and minor house to part with their ancestral blade."

The talk was polite and friendly, idle chatter as they feasted on boar. The conversation turned towards House Lannister, and affairs of the Hand of the King. There was a discussion over turned to Tywin's newborn child – a deformed, cursed babe that killed his wife in childbirth. A few seemed amused by the great Lord Lannister's dwarf of an infant, but Lord Steffon spoke grimly of 'Tywin's Bane' and Rhaegar tried to change the subject.

There was word from King's Landing, news of another clash between Aerys and his Tywin. Queen Rhaella was said to have had another miscarriage – the young Prince Jaehaerys born weak and died less than a year old – to which turned the mood sombre. There had been four stillbirths and miscarriages in a row now; nobody expected that the queen would be able to birth anymore children. Lord Baratheon insisted on pressing Rhaegar on his yet undetermined betrothal, to which the prince laughed but smiled somewhat awkwardly as he tried to deflect.

Rhaegar was not what Bruce expected. He had expected a young prince stuffed up on his own chivalry and status. He expected someone obnoxious and stiff like Jon Connington. Rhaegar was not that; the prince was friendly and thoughtful as he spoke. There was knowledge and kindness in his words, but occasionally there were solemn silences over the dining table as Rhaegar paused.

The conversation turned to the prince's purpose in the stormlands, to the dispute between Connington and Morrigen. Bruce didn't take part in the conversation, but he listened closely. "House Morrigen overextends itself, surely," Jon Connington proclaimed, looking between Lord Steffon and the prince. "The Old Crow goes too far – clearly infringing on our territory."

"Lord Morrigen says the opposite," Lord Steffon noted, taking a large bite of boar. "He says that the griffins have even been hiring brigands to ambush their caravans."

Jon Connington flustered, but Lady Cassana stepped in. "Please, my lords," she soothed. "Let us not talk business at the dining table."

Despite her words, there was still muttering on the dispute. As the servant's took the meat away and the meal moved on to the savoury, Prince Rhaegar and Lord Steffon were hunched over the end of the table, muttering in quiet words.

It was only slowly that Bruce started to notice something flittering around the table. Occasionally, he felt Rhaegar's violet eyes turn towards him in quiet contemplation.

Jon Connington said something about 'Westhearth Hall' being a source of the disagreement, to which a few gazes darted towards Bruce.

Something was wrong, he thought. There is something they aren't saying.

Bruce measured the expressions of Ser Barristan, Ser Oswell, and Ser Arthur through the corner of his eyes. Why did the prince need three Kingsguard with him, Bruce thought slowly, if he is only here to resolve a minor land dispute between Connington and Morrigen?

Still, it was the things they didn't mention that caused Bruce to observe a bit more intently. One time, Myles Mooton moved to say something about civil unrest in the stormlands, yet Ser Arthur Dayne shook his head fractionally to silence him.

Bruce didn't react visibly, but his eyes narrowed. He was keen enough to pick up on the little pauses, on what was left unspoken. It was all the little silences, the glances towards him, or the way his name would pop up in casual conversation.

The conversation had turned towards Bruce at several times, he observed. It had been the very the first thing that Ser Arthur mentioned when they came into the yard. Ser Arthur, Ser Oswell and Richard Lonmouth all had a vested interest in the Smiling Knight.

The deduction was obvious. Something that the adults in the room knew, that they were trying to keep out of his earshot.

After the feast, the stewards served sweet pastries and toffees and then wine for the adults. By that point, Bruce's suspicions were nearing certainty. It was already late, the guests were all stuffed from a large feast. Ser Oswell Whent moved to stand up, and Lord Steffon declared that it was time for the children to retire. Both Stannis and Bruce were stiffly walked out of the room, and noble guests retired to the lord's solar.

Bruce was quiet as he ran through all the talk in his head. They have another matter to discuss that they don't want the staff and retainers to hear. The crown prince and his companions had deliberately skittered around a certain topic while Bruce had been in the room.

They were trying to protect me, to keep me away from something that concerns me. Was it something to do with my custodianship, or Wayne Manor? Perhaps. Adults often felt the need to withhold subjects from children's ears.

Bruce ran through all the possibilities, yet there was already one conclusion it he felt confident about; there was some matter involving the Smiling Knight, and they did not want the grieving child to hear it.

"Settle down early for night," Ser Harbert told him and Stannis, as they walked back to their chambers. "The crown prince intends to go riding around the cape at dawn, the lord wants you two to join him."

"What of the Kingsguard?" Bruce asked suddenly. "Will the Kingsguard be leaving along with the crown prince, or will they be setting off earlier on another task?"

"I do not know their plans," Ser Harbert replied, stiffly. "Now off to bed, boy."

Ser Harbert was a poor liar.

Stannis frowned at him as they went off to their quarters. Bruce closed his door behind him, but didn't go to his bed. He stood in his chambers and he considered his options.

The Smiling Knight. Perhaps Ser Arthur intended to hunt the Smiling Knight. If that was true, Bruce needed to find out quickly.

He stood perfectly still, quietly formulating a plan. He was calm, he was deliberate, and he focused on what was necessary.

It was dusk outside, and Bruce set to work.

He stuffed his bed with a decoy of pillows, waited for the guards rounds to change, and then snuck out of his chambers. He had already plotted all the means to creep through the wing of the keep months ago. Bruce strode straight through the stone corridors, keeping his footsteps silent and swift.

If the crown prince came to the stormlands for another reason, Bruce considered, he must have alerted Steffon to it via raven. There must be a letter detailing such.

Maester Cressen had difficulty with his hip, and so the maester's quarters were on the second floor. It was as close to the ground as Cressen could take, to limit the number of stairs. All letters from the rookery were sent to the maester to catalogue. In the past, Bruce had stolen copies of letters during the steward's rounds, but for some important messages the maester took them directly to the lord.

Still, Bruce considered, any letter that arrived, there would be a copy of it in the maester's archives. It was standard practice for a maester to log and copy everything for prosperity.

Accessing Cressen's quarters was more difficult, though. The door was bolted with a strong iron lock, and only the maester and Lord Baratheon himself had a key. Bruce might have been able to break through with time, but the corridor too heavily patrolled, and Bruce couldn't rush sneaking through the main hall, regardless.

No, I cannot access through the door. Instead, Bruce went to the library on the third floor, and he crept among the bookshelves in the dark. There was a length of rope he had hidden behind the shelves, specifically for this eventuality. He had already planned his route, he had his tools.

He had been planning ways to sneak out from Storm's End for months.

Preparation was everything. The door was inaccessible, there was only one way for him to get in to the maester's chambers. The window.

Outside, Bruce could hear the rain pounding. The splatter of raindrops against the stone was as fast as his heartbeat. There was a crack of thunder, a storm circling over Shipbreaker Bay.

I just need to climb down, he told himself. I've scaled the tower before.

Except this time he had no guide rope to carry him, and he had never scaled the tower in the rain. There was a brief hesitation, but he knew he had to move fast. Cressen might retire for the night at any moment.

Bruce wrapped the rope around his waist, but it was still a thirty foot drop down the smooth walls of the drum tower. He had a small knife to lever open the shutters, and then he held it in his teeth as his fingers roamed the edge of the frame. Bruce had to peel back the frame of the shutters just to squeeze, grimacing as the window flapped in the wind. Bruce was slender, but he still had suck in his gut to push through.

Suddenly, the rainwater splashed in his face, and he felt the stone shaking in the force of the wind. He gasped, fingers clutching the edge so tightly.

Even despite everything, the sight of such a vertical drop caused his breath to freeze. It was a black abyss outside, the skies rumbling against his face. It took slow, practiced movements as he dragged his legs out. Fumbling fingers threaded the safety rope around the edge of the shutters, but horsehide rope was stiff and elastic. If he fell, the rope around his waist might cut him in half rather than save him.

Or maybe I will just be left dangling, hanging off the drum tower, bouncing in the wind. Rope or not, it would likely be certain death.

The last time Bruce had made such a climb, there had been a guide rope already fastened and prepared in place. Now, he had nothing but a flimsy rope around his waist, and a knife gripped between his teeth.

I need to jump to the window on the upper floor. If he missed his target or slipped, the hard rope would snap his spine in half.

It was over twenty feet to the other window, slightly to the left. He needed to lever himself down as far as he could, and then jump. He could use the knife in his teeth to peel through the shutters from the outside.

If I miss my grip, if my fingers slip…

All of the possibilities raced through his head. Bruce had a good imagination. He knew exactly how much it would hurt.

There wasn't much time now. Cressen would be with the lord and prince, and the maester's quarters deserted. But as soon as the maester retired for the night and returned to his room, Bruce would lose his chance.

If he didn't do it, though, he might miss his chance to kill the Smiling Knight altogether.

The sight below was bone-shaking. Lightning cracked, his breaths hoarse. Find yourself, Bruce thought. Find yourself.

Bruce took a deep breath, clutched the rope tightly, and started to lever his body backwards. Vertigo spun around him, the wind causing his body to tremble. I am not scared, I am not scared…

The last time he had given in to fear, his parents had died. Bruce refused to let that happen again, refused to be weak.

Wind and rain howled around him. The darkness was everywhere, he couldn't even see his target. His shoes pressed against smooth stone, his hands clenching at nothing.

I am not allowed to be scared.

His hands were soaked, fingers threatening to slip. One jump, he told himself. One jump, and grab the bars of the window…

It was so black. What if I've misjudged the distance? What if the rope isn't long enough? What if my feet slip…?

If he fell, he was dead….

I will not be scared.

Bruce took a deep breath, swing his body like a pendulum, and he jumped.

Heart nearly stopped, body thudding against stone, frantic hands clawing for leverage on smooth surface…

Wind nearly took him, bouncing against the stone. He was falling, flailing, grasping…

And his fingers found a grip, his arms lurched. Bruce was gasping for breath, dangling from the walls of Storm's End. The wind and rain howled around him, cutting him to the bone.

Ser Harbert thought that climbing the drum tower was impossible, Bruce recalled. He had been determined to prove the old knight wrong.

The knife was still in his mouth, his teeth clenched so hard it hurt. Bruce needed to focus, he needed to still his trembling hands. There was no time; he had to peel open the shutters from the outside.

Bruce squeezed his legs into the crevice of the window, and he set to work chiselling with his blade. Slow, forceful strokes into the mortar, carving away the edges of hard-wooden shutters. He didn't need to pull them off, he just needed to cut far enough to break the latch.

Every heartbeat, every gust of wind felt nerve-wracking.

By the time he finally crawled through the window and into the stone tower, Bruce was shivering cold and soaking wet. Water soaked over the carpet and the wind scattered the parchments on the maester's desk, but Bruce didn't care. When Cressen returned, he would assume that the winds had broken open the latch, and the rains had soaked his desk.

Bruce had to move fast. He was already rummaging through the papers and letters, moving with practiced efficiency. He had studied Cressen's archiving system – it was arranged by both date and location. Bruce would be looking for a recent letter, one hailing from King's Landing…

It didn't take long before he found the letters marked with the royal seal of House Targaryen. The letter that the crown prince sent.

I was right, Bruce thought quietly, staring at the parchment. I knew they were keeping something from me.

'My Lord of Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands,' the letter read. 'I hope this missive finds you well.

'Steffon, it will be good to see you again. I mean to travel to you before the end of the moon – it has been too long since I've visited Storm's End. I will be bringing a royal escort of a hundred men and bearers, a dozen knights, and three Kingsguard, but I mean to travel swiftly down the kingsroad.

'I fear it may only be a short stay under your roof, however, as the dispute between Griffin's Roost and Crow's Nest must be resolved. As I'm sure you are aware, Lords Connington and Morrigen are at each other's throat, and my father tasks me with resolving the issue. I will, of course, wish to discuss these matters with you in person regarding your bannermen.

'In particular, the issue arises regarding lands that were formerly sworn to Westhearth Hall, lands that were reallocated with the dissolution of House Toyne. The decree was made under Aegon IV, yet, as with many of his decrees, the wording is ambiguous. Both Connington and Morrigen have claims to the land under Aegon's royal proclamation, and they threaten force unless the other evicts. It falls to the crown to resolve such an issue.

'This situation is made all more troubling, however, with the lingering presence of the last of House Toyne. Although he has been stripped of his lands for his family's crimes, the exile Simon Toyne – known as the 'Heartless' – still haunts his ancestral territory. This is worrisome, and I'm advised that it requires a swift resolution.

'Simon Toyne is a traitor, a brigand and a rebel. He has taken advantage of the dispute, and I feel that both Connington and Morrigen harbour suspicions that the Heartless works for the other. In truth, Simon Toyne harbours no loyalty except to himself, and to the Black Dragon.

'Simon Toyne has been growing in boldness recently, sowing dissent among the smallfolk and gathering outlaws and bandits around to him to harry the rightful lords.

'Most notably, our master of whisperers gives reports of a man fitting the Smiling Knight's description. In the past, the Smiling Knight has worked alone, but it does appear this new fiend is moving away from the riverlands, and joining Simon Toyne's circle of miscreants.

'We have reliable testimonies that the Smiling Knight has been meeting with Simon Toyne over the course of many moons. They sailed south together down the Wending Water, and have been lingering around the Kingswood.

'I tell you this out of warning, for the Smiling Knight has been well-known to target women and children of noble birth. Panic is unnecessary, but wariness would be prudent.

'Between the Smiling Knight, Simon Toyne and his brigands, the crown fears that these outlaws aim to start an uprising. I shall be heading towards Griffin's Roost to resolve the lords' squabbles, while travelling with me Ser Arthur Dayne will track these outlaws and assess the threat that they pose.

'Your assistance and discretion in this matter is much appreciated.

'As an aside, I am also eager to meet your ward. The news of the tragedy that befell the Waynes has been circulating throughout the capital, and I wish to reassure the young scion that the King's Justice shall not allow the murderer to escape. Ser Arthur is intent on seeing justice done.'

It was signed Crown Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen. Bruce read the letter three times, absorbing every word.

The Smiling Knight. The Smiling Knight was in the stormlands.

Bruce's hands tightened.

_______________

Bruce was gone the very same night. He ransacked the maester's quarters of everything of use. He took the letters and he took maps.

His escape plan had been planned and rehearsed for months, and then refined and perfected. He had mapped out every inch of the route from the drum tower to the gates, and how to sneak out in the middle of the night. There had been so many dry runs and contingency plans that it reached the point of paranoia.

Lord Baratheon wouldn't have allowed Bruce to leave, yet Bruce refused to be powerless. The prince's presence was a good opportunity; it meant that there were so much activity and unfamiliar faces in Storm's End that the guards wouldn't be so quick to react.

Bruce had lost control of his life when his parents died. With two swipes of a sword, the Smiling Knight had stolen his control, robbed him of any power. Bruce's world, his security, his family, had been shattered in a single moment.

He had been shipped off and sent away, and Bruce had been left helpless. Bruce needed to take that control back.

I will kill him.

Bruce snuck through the yards under cover of darkness towards the supplies he had buried. All of his gear had been prepared and then hidden – buried beneath the pig sties at the back of the stables. Months of work, just to prepare for a signal night; Bruce had maps of the stormlands that he memorised, a pack of rations and water, a handful of silver coins, and two sharpened daggers.

But his crowning achievement was the crossbow – a makeshift hunk of coiled wire and barbed arrows. He had used a shortbow as a frame and fletched it down on to the wooden support himself. He had used salvaged iron forks and cutlery to build the loading mechanism. It was a crude and ugly device, Bruce admitted, but it could still fire a barbed arrow through a skull.

His crossbow wasn't as good as a professional weapon, it wouldn't have the same range as an expert craftsman's work. Still, Bruce's crossbow was smaller and lighter than the bulky things the Baratheon men carried. His was easier to hide, and it didn't take much strength to aim and fire.

A weapon designed for a child.

Bruce knew that he would never defeat the Smiling Knight in a duel. Bruce didn't care to try either. Instead, all he needed was to get up close and undetected, and to pull the trigger.

Only one shot with the crossbow, that was all he needed. The Smiling Knight would die an unglorified, brutal death.

Bruce strapped his weapons to his chest, and pulled on a black cloak to hide the shape of them. He also had a dark cowl, to hide his face from any who might recognise him.

Bruce was already running to the stables, moving with quick, purposeful steps. He had his own key to the lock, ransacking the horsemaster's stable bags. He already picked his horse, a familiar brown mare, and he set about saddling up.

If they caught him trying to run way, perhaps Lord Baratheon really would put him in the stocks. Lord Steffon would be in a fury when it was discovered that Bruce was missing.

Not that it mattered. Bruce had no intention of coming back. There was nothing for him here.

No fear, Bruce told himself, no fear.

He could see the torches across the gates of Storm's End. The patrols would swap shortly with the hour of the bat. That was the time to move, to ride out through the gates before any could stop him.

There was a sudden light cutting through the gloom, a lantern illuminating through the crack of the door. Bruce flinched with the light, quickly jumping into the horse's saddle. His legs were too short to reach the stirrups, he had to lever himself into position.

The figure outside must have heard the movement. Bruce saw the door open, and Stannis was there – staring with a frown in the gloom. He must have realised I wasn't in my room.

The two boys looked at each other. Stannis folded his arms. "What are you doing?" Stannis demanded.

"Stealing your horse," Bruce replied.

"I'm going to raise the alarm," Stannis warned.

"I'm still stealing your horse," Bruce said simply, as he kicked the mare into a fast trot. He didn't look back.

As soon as he slipped through the postern gate and onto the muddy road, he broke into a gallop. If there was an alarm raised behind him, he didn't hear it.

There was absolutely no plan for Bruce beyond killing the Smiling Knight.

Prince Rhaegar was right. We all have a purpose in life.

 

[Serpentguy]

Chapter 4
The Day They Hanged Black Robin

It was a cold and rainy day. Bruce ate beneath a hedge on the outskirts of a fishing village, taking care to avoid the main roads. He wrapped himself up tightly in his cloak, inspected his maps, and then set off east towards the hills of the stormlands. He rode his mare slowly over the dirt path, taking care to keep his eyes peeled over the horizon.

The stormlands was different to the riverlands. Bruce had grown up along the Trident, in the countryside north of the Saltpans. Wayne Manor sat on the very edge of the riverlands, so close it was nearly into the Vale. It was an old stone country house, sheltered by the oak forest and cradled into the highlands leading towards the mountains. The forests around the manor had been tame, thick and comforting.

The stormlands felt more jagged than that; the landscape itself earned its name. The mountains of the stormlands – the Thunder Peaks – were barely even mole mounds compared to the height of the mountains of Vale, but they were sharp and jagged rocks protruding over the horizon.

The land itself felt wild and untamed.

It was Bruce's first time ever travelling through this land alone. He gone riding with the castle guard, he was vaguely familiar with the lands around Storm's End – and one time he travelled with the lord as far as Griffin's Roost, for a feast for Ronnet Connington's birth. He had never travelled alone before.

The thought might have been scary, but Bruce refused to feel fear.

The River Slayne fed down the mountains to the west, he thought to himself. Griffin's Roost is to the south, and the Crow's Nest is further south than that – perched on the side of the mountains overlooking the rainwood. Cape Wrath was far to the east, and the kingswood was to the north.

The letter from the prince, Bruce thought quietly, said that the Smiling Knight had reportedly met up with Simon Toyne. If they had been following the Wending Water, then they could be heading towards Fawnton and the Reach, or maybe around to Summerhall.

The Wending Water cut through the kingswood, but then dissipated into rapids as it passed the kingsroad. The message from Rhaegar said that Simon Toyne had been travelling down the Wending Water, and Bruce found other messages warning Bronzegate and Felwood to be alert.

But those ravens had been nigh a month ago, Bruce thought, and House Toyne's lands were closer to the rainwood. They had been moving south together, and Bruce could guess where they were headed.

The seat of House Toyne, Westhearth, was a ruin occupied by belligerent House Morrigen men, but the crown had feared that the Heartless was sowing dissent among the smallfolk in the area.

Bruce knew the name – Simon Toyne, 'the Heartless' was an infamous outlaw in his own right. House Toyne of Westhearth had once been a very prominent name in the stormlands, until a knight of House Toyne bedded a mistress of Aegon the Unworthy. The king had the knight ripped apart limb by limb, and the cousins of House Toyne had declared vengeance – murdering Aemon the Dragonknight himself during their attempted regicide.

The outrage that followed had damned House Toyne. The Dragonknight was a well-loved figure, and King Aegon IV brought ruin to the entire family.

That was the last of House Toyne, and ruin of Westhearth. Simon's father had attempted reconciliation with the crown, but Simon himself had attempted rebellion by joining behind the Black Dragon. They were crushed by House Baratheon, and Simon Toyne was left shamed and exiled.

The Heartless, they called him. The man who lost the heart of House Toyne. Even now, Simon Toyne still haunted the realm, trying to gather support in his personal war against the crown.

If the Smiling Knight was looking for protection and Simon Toyne looking for allies, it made sense that they would join together.

Bruce looked through his maps as he sat in the saddle, plotting out a route over the farmer trails marked in faint chalk. He set his horse into a slow amble, heading south. He passed a farmer and his cart carrying turnips, but the neither the boy nor the farmer even glanced at each other.

Bruce had been following the Smiling Knight movements for a long time; there was a certain method to his madness. The Smiling Knight had a trend, Bruce noticed, a preferred set of targets. The Smiling Knight would target large houses, but then shift his gaze to smaller ones. All the noble families he had targeted fit a certain pattern; all of them houses with young children, especially daughters. The more isolated the better.

Houses Grandison, Swann or Penrose could continue that pattern. It was unlikely the man was targeting Storm's End, however.

Perhaps this is just a waystop? What if he is fleeing altogether, to head towards Dorne or across the narrow sea?

No, the Smiling Knight took refuge in audacity. He had built up his reputation in the riverlands and the crownlands, the man wouldn't abandon that.

When Ser Vance confronted the Smiling Knight at Lord Harroway's Town, it had been outside the ferry. His sightings followed the fork of the Trident too. Bruce theorised that the Smiling Knight quite regularly took ferries and barges down the river; it was how he preferred to move.

That said, he seemed to avoid open ships and coastal towns like the plague. He never even stepped near to larger places like Duskendale or King's Landing – docks would be too risky for him, and the Smiling Knight took shelter in small villages instead. The man liked to keep his options open, liked to strike out in any direction. Bruce had already marked all of the likely crossing points along the river, and the villages with their own stables. It gave Bruce a fairly good indication of where to start looking.

I know that he's in the area. I know how he likes to work. That's enough.

What else do I know? If the Smiling Knight came by ferry, he would need a horse. If he was in unfamiliar land, he would stick close to Simon Toyne's gang. If the Heartless was truly looking to make a statement, the striking out against the gentry would be a good one.

Did the Heartless recruit the Smiling Knight to kidnap a lord's wife or child? Is Simon Toyne looking for the men to pull off an ambush?

The River Slayne, Bruce decided, looking at the pinpricks of small villages around the river. Good money that he'd be in the area – it was a good distance between Grandview, Stonehelm and Crow's Nest. It fed out into the Sea of Dorne – a stream of villages that sprouted out around the trout in the river. Goods odds that the Smiling Knight is in the area, and if not then at least I might be able to scout out which boat he is liable to use. Bruce could wait, gather information, be patient.

He dug the spurs into his horse, heading up towards the mountain road. The rains still splattered from the sea, and the scent of manure filled the dirt track. Cabbage and corn grew in endless rows either side of the road.

He ate in his saddle during the day. At dusk, Bruce came towards a small village of shepherds and cow farmers over the highlands, and two gruff watchmen standing on post asked him where he was heading. Bruce replied that he was an apprentice farrier, looking to meet up with his master. He asked for directions to Grandview, to which the guards pointed out the road and Bruce thanked them gratefully.

Bruce scouted out the tavern briefly – asking if any stranger came by ("might be my master or his colleagues came through here," Bruce said) – but there was little luck. It had been an unlikely place for the Smiling Knight to stop by, but Bruce kept his eyes peeled for any sign.

Rather than the tavern, Bruce slept in the outgrowth, in the hills, with his back against an outcrop and his horse fastened to a tree. He slept in the mud with his hood over his head, and the crossbow in his hands all night.

It was an uncomfortable night, but Bruce feared he might be too clean. He wanted to make sure he looked muddy, worn and tired – so that nobody would mistake him for a highborn. He tried to put a tremor in his voice too, to hide his rivermen accent.

Bruce needed to blend in, to disappear into the background. He needed to become invisible.

The next morning, in the second village he came he told the same story – except he asked for directions to Crow's Nest. Bruce told the local innkeeper that he had gotten lost from the directions, that his master was a farrier who recently took a job working for a merchant that owned a ferry around the Slayne. "But I cannot recall which town, ser," he explained, "so do you happen to know of which villages have stables and ferrystops? It was a smaller village, I think."

An old and friendly pig farmer quite helpfully pointed Bruce towards which villages he should look in.

Bruce also expressed concern over bandits in the area, and the old man warned him of where to stay away from.

He was just a little boy. He asked questions, and a people pointed him to nearby inns and taverns. Nothing but a lost apprentice, stumbling around the countryside.

Bruce knew that he needed to move fast; before the Baratheon men came looking for him, before the outlaws got spooked by the prince's presence.

On the third day, he finally reached the River Slayne, a wide and slow water moving the valley, with a faint haze of mist over the water. Grandview stood atop the cliffs – a stout black castle over the waterfall, looking out across the valley.

The road through the Thunder Peaks was sharp and treacherous, but well-worn with caravan markers and traveller waystops. The cliffs were a solid drop into to the river, and Bruce saw the black lion of house Grandiose flapping over the hills.

Twice, he passed mounted guards patrolling the ridge, but Bruce kept his head down and nobody looked twice. The lord's men were out in force, securing the trade roads. The Black Lion was on high-alert, it was said.

The mountain path was busier here – traders and caravans moved up and down, and watchmen outposts every league.

The next village that Bruce came to was a larger one; with its own pier and great river sloops docked in the currents. It was a heaving trade village, and twice Bruce passed shepherds herding flocks of sheep to market. There were three taverns in the village, but Bruce still kept his distance from the gates. The village had a small keep in it, so therefore it would have a ravenry. The local lord might have already received a letter from Storm's End, and so Bruce didn't want to go near.

His maps were filled with sketches and markings, making notes as he went and tried to plot out every possible route. 'You must be methodical, Bruce', his father had once told him, while teaching Bruce to stitch. His father had loved needlework, he had loved stitching idly next the fireplace while Bruce sat in his laps. 'Just like anything else – take a big task and make it smaller. Handle it knot by knot, working through every single thread. Patience is the source of all skill'.

The Smiling Knight had been south, Bruce assumed that he still would be. Bruce made good progress, but tried to plot out every road and inn. Now where would a man like the Smiling Knight choose to hole up?

The Smiling Knight was mad and daring – he was audacious in how he hid. He wore a mask during his crimes, but few people had ever even seen his face. He was in a new land, and the infamous outlaw had no reason to hide in a cave, Bruce decided. The Smiling Knight would pick an inn.

Still, the inns that Bruce saw were too well-travelled, too many guardsmen and knights passing through. Bruce kept close to the Slayne, travelling through the backroads to search for another. The hills made travelling hard, his mare struggling slightly across the gravelly paths.

His supplies were running low, he had to ration his meals. Bruce had some silver, but he didn't want to spend it – a young boy purchasing travelling supplies was a trail that the Baratheon men might follow him by. His mare was well-trained and as hardy as any stormland's breed, but she was still running haggard.

Finally, he saw the edge of the rainwood, and the great forests of oak and pine stretching out along Cape Wrath.

He could see the Crow's Nest looming over from the hills. It was a small keep with wooden walls rather than stone, but the perch of House Morrigen was high enough to be visible from leagues around. House Grandiose had been out in strength, but he saw few men-at-arms bearing the black crow on the roads.

Bruce spent a long time deliberating on whether to head south to Stonehelm, or to try and cross the river to Summerhall. There was no good option and few decent leads, but then he met a tradesman who gave him a warning.

"Be careful if you're heading west," a tradesman warned, after Bruce asked him for directions on the road. "Brigands have been haunting the west path; heartless men have been hunting crows for weeks."

His heart could have skipped. "Brigands?" Bruce squeaked, trying to make his voice sound scared. "This close to the castle?"

The man nodded grimly. "Aye – the attacked two caravans in the last moon. The crows been pecking this land to shreds, but I hear farmers are sheltering outlaws in their huts. Folk around here still have good memories of black hearts, and they blame the fat dragon more than the Toynes. Ever since the Old Crow took over this land, taxes have been doubled." He tutted. "Just watch yourself, lad – take the south path rather than the west."

Bruce nodded. "Thank you, I will."

He waited until the man was out of sight, and then Bruce headed down the west path.

Brigands. Simon Toyne's men, must be; and the news that they were being sheltered by the smallfolk gave Bruce hope. Maybe if they were being sheltered, perhaps they wouldn't be as hard to find as Bruce had expected? He had seen these lands – he could easily imagine the outlaws taking shelter in basements and stables every time the lord's men-at-arms passed through. The more caravans that were stolen, the harder the lord's men tried to search, the more ruthless the lord's sanctions became, and then the more motivated the smallfolk became to trust the outlaws instead. Stirring up dissent.

The scuffle between crow and griffin had caused trouble, the smallfolk were unhappy, and the Heartless' outlaws were taking advantage. It was a cycle that kept on escalating.

The guards might never be able to find outlaws, but nobody would try to hide from a little boy. Bruce had a freedom of movement that a sworn sword or a knight did not.

His instinctive thought was to search for hideouts in the woods and hills. Perhaps hidden in the rainwood, or a base in a cave on the cliffs? Still, then he started to wonder. The bandits needed a place closer to the main roads and settlements; they needed a recluse place but still very near to the smallfolk who supported them, a place from which they could drum up support. Simon Toyne wanted a rebellion, not a few caravans of goods.

They aren't hiding anywhere, but they must be close to the villages.

Bruce turned around, and headed east back towards the river and the larger towns.

He made a mark of all the taverns, inns and winesinks in the area on his map, and started ticking them off one by one. After a pause, he started to consider brothels and whorehouses too. Too populated, too close to the merchant piers, too far from the road…

It left him with a list of half a dozen potential places. Even brigands need to sleep, he told himself. I need only find out where.

He set about scouting them out, but his head whirring with plans. How can I track them? Perhaps I can let myself be ambushed by them, let them steal a few coins and follow them? Could I tail one of the caravans and hope they attack? Could I set a trap, or approach a conspirator?

What if I say my parents were killed by Lord Morrigen's men? Would the Heartless try to recruit me?

Bruce needed an identity, something to disguise himself with. He needed to get close to them, to hit them where they slept…

It was noon, the sun was bright in the sky and his eyes were weary from travelling all night. His horse trotted over a stream, passing through woods of willows by the river's edge, when suddenly–

"HaaHaahaAhaHHAaaAaahA!"

Bruce froze in his saddle, his mare neighed and tottered. His blood turned cold. He knew that laugh. It was close.

He was approaching a small inn – a cottage of thatch and small outbuildings, with the sign saying 'The Bee and Honey'. The laughter rolled through the woods, cutting through the sounds of distant voices.

Bruce pushed the horse forward softly, and he caught sight of a gaggle of figures around the water's edge, huddled together while three of them pissed into the river. It was a competition to see who could piss the furthest; they were all chuckling, but one man laughed the loudest.

Bruce couldn't see any faces – he wouldn't have recognised the face regardless – but he knew that laugh instantly. The sound sent tremors down his spine.

He pushed his mare, urging his horse to turn around and trot away. He left before anyone even noticed him. Bruce's shoulders were trembling.

It was him. The Smiling Knight was here.

Over a week after he left Storm's End, and Bruce finally found his mark. Bruce had stumbled upon the man as he pissed.

They were laughing – a group of young men laughing and chuckling together, right out in the open. The tavern was at the very outskirts of the villages, but they were still pissing before all the fishing vessels in the water. And the Smiling Knight had friends, his friends…!

Bruce pulled himself away into the fell behind the inn, stumbling off into the muddy brambles and taking deep, deep breaths. The sound of laughter echoed in his head, the ground rumbling around him.

So much fear, so much rage.

His hands clenched so tight his fingernails bit into his palms. Focus, Bruce ordered to himself. You know what you need to do.

I need to be certain.

There could be no rash action, no uncertainty. Bruce needed to scout out the location, needed to plan.

He tethered his horse to a tree and crawled closer towards the inn, watching and waiting from the woods. It was noon, but Bruce would do nothing until the hour of the bat. He would wait until dusk and the cover of night. He just laid in the foliage and waited; watching everyone coming and going.

It was a small inn and taverns; a single cottage for the innkeepers and a few outbuildings were guests slept. There were fishing rafts moored to the muddy bank, and ferns and scattered around the grounds. There were beehives in the far field, and an old man ambling around the buzzing. Bruce saw barrels stacked towards the back of the building, and a pantry from which an old matronly woman trekked back and forth. Over the day, Bruce counted eight men who went to use the latrine by the river – all of them gruff figures in leather and hide – and a young girl. Cheap ale and salted trout was served inside, and when the sun was high there were a gaggle of men drinking ale outside on the grass beneath the willows. Bruce didn't dare get close enough to see their faces, but he heard them.

It was an inn for hedge knights and outlaws. Quiet and out of the way, and by the river. It matched the criteria Bruce had been searching for.

He tried to estimate how many there were. At least a dozen patrons, plus the innkeeper's family. There was one motherly woman and a young girl of six or seven, but the rest seemed to be men. The youngest men were barely adults, the oldest were grizzled figures.

Twice, Bruce heard that laughter from inside – the sound that caused his body to clench – but as night fell the sounds became more muted. The matronly women, the barkeep, she came outside to light the torches on the porch. Bruce was a shadow in the trees in the dark.

Bruce couldn't see the man who laughed, he had been able to make out a face. Still, he knew he would know him when he got closer. He didn't know the Smiling Knight's face, but the memory of those green eyes and raucous voice had haunted Bruce. As soon as I see those eyes.

The boy slowly notched the bolt into his crossbow, gingerly pulling back on the wire and hooking it in place. The wood groaned as he tightened it, latching the bolt in place. The bowstring was taut, ready to release at a single twist of the lever. One shot, he thought. I won't get another.

Bruce had practiced. He could reliably hit a target the size of an apple nine times out of ten from over fifty yards. Still, do I want to take the one out of ten chance?

It was too far from the hedges to the door to reliably make that shot, even in the Smiling Knight did step out. Bruce would have to wait until the Smiling Knight came out, try to recognise him, and then try to get closer to shoot him. What if the Smiling Knight or one of the others noticed the Bruce holding with the crossbow? What if Smiling Knight was moving too fast, or he came out another door? What if Bruce missed his chance?

All of the doubts past through his head, trying to size up the scene. How to commit this murder.

So much preparation, so much time devoted to this moment…

Focus, Bruce insisted. No fear, not here.

No, Bruce decided, the only reliable way to kill the Smiling Knight was to catch the man off-guard, to take him by surprise. I need to attack him when is was sleeping, or eating, or taking a piss. Can I set up an ambush by the latrine, or maybe by one of the outbuildings? How can I pinpoint where he is?

It was already dusk. Bruce's hands were twitching, his head clouding with rage as he tried to focus.

One shot, he told himself. The Smiling Knight didn't know he was here, the man had no reason to be alert. That was the greatest advantage Bruce had. Bruce had one shot.

He looked down at his weapon, and hesitated.

The crossbow was too dangerous, too easy to go wrong. I cannot get close enough with it, he decided. A boy sneaking a crossbow under his arm was too dangerous. Bruce coulnd't afford to take that risk.

Rather, Bruce could hide the loaded crossbow outside as a backup plan, but a blade was a more sure-fire weapon.

Bruce drew a knife from his hip, staring at the dull steel in the faint moonlight. The inn was open all hours, he could hear patrons drinking rowdily at the tables. There was a faint splatter of rain in the air, giving Bruce a reason to pull down his cowl over his head.

I could walk straight into that tavern, he thought, feeling numb with fear. Nobody would look twice at the muddy and downtrodden apprentice, coming in late to escape the rain and looking for a room to stay. Bruce was but a small child – and men tended to underestimate children.

Bruce could walk straight past the Smiling Knight's table, and Bruce doubted he would even be given a second glance. Would a man like the Smiling Knight even recognise the same boy he had seen for a single night, nearly two years ago?

Bruce doubted it. Bruce couldn't even recognise himself, sometimes.

I can't kill the Smiling Knight until I pinpoint where he is. I need to actually be inside the tavern to do that.

All the possibilities, the different scenarios, rehearsed in his head. Bruce would be damp and wearing his cloak, very easy to hide a weapon beneath it. He was already shivering with cold, and Bruce wouldn't have to fake the fear. He'd be wide-eyed and trembling as he walked into the tavern, desperate for shelter. Bruce would have a blade up his sleeve, and all it took was a single stab. Nobody would expect a child to lunge randomly with a knife.

The Smiling Knight must be confident that nobody knows his face, if he's eating in a tavern like this. His guard would be down, Bruce could get in close.

And perhaps I'm mistaken, Bruce considered. He couldn't dismiss the possibility; perhaps it had been someone else's laugh. Until he walked into the tavern and looked the Smiling Knight in the eyes, he couldn't know for sure.

If the Smiling Knight was sitting down on a chair, then Bruce would stab him in the back of the neck, in the curve of the spine. If the Smiling Knight was standing up, then Bruce would aim for the blood vessels in the groin and thigh. Either one of those strikes would be deadly; Bruce had been researching the major veins and arteries that a murderer should target. A quick cut with a sharp knife could do it.

Just for added certainty, Bruce smeared his knife in muddy water and horse dung, to be sure that the wound would end up infected. A slow death for the man, as he bled out on the tavern floor. An infected wound, a painful end.

The fear made his stomach tremble. After a moment's pause, Bruce pulled down his breeches, and urinated onto his knife.

If there was any disturbance, any at all, Bruce would turn and run out of the front door, and hide in the woods. If he couldn't recognise the man or he was mistaken, then Bruce would stay for a night and leave early next morning, no suspicion. Just an apprentice looking for his master.

In the worst case, and Bruce's surprise attack failed and he was unsuccessful in delivering a mortal wound in a single stab. In that case, Bruce could only run – he would dart out the front door, and he would pick up his loaded crossbow hidden by the bushes. The men would follow him, enraged, and they would be caught off-caught again when the child held a crossbow pointed upwards at the first man through the door. It would be a second chance, a contingency plan, to put a barbed bolt through that man's skull at close range.

There was no escape plan after that. If the Smiling Knight truly had friends, it would be certain death for Bruce. It was doubtful that brigands would drop him off to the watchmen, more likely that Simon Toyne would just cut his throat and dump him in the river. Bruce didn't care.

The memory of his mother's scream as she fell…

I will see that man dead. No fear, not here.

His hands weren't trembling any more. Instead, Bruce analysed and rationalised and rehearsed the situation so many times he took all the emotion out of it. He just felt numb as he pulled the cloak over his shoulders, and the hood down over his face. The dagger fit neatly into his hand, into the long sleeves.

The rain pounded from the night sky, splashing into muddy puddles around him. Torches and bodies rippled from inside his tavern, and Bruce was trembling as he stepped towards the porch of the tavern.

He heard singing. A tavern song. Men inside were singing 'The Day They Hanged Black Robin', in loud, drunken tones.

"The day they hanged Black Robin," the revellers chanted drunkenly, "the air was clear and still. The day they hanged Black Robin, the autumn ground was chill!"

It was a sad song for a tavern. A song for outlaws.

The wooden floors were smeared with mud as Bruce pushed opened it. A bell rang on the door's hinge, causing Bruce to flinch. An old man sat by the doorway smoking a pipe – staring at Bruce curiously as the boy staggered through, water dripping from his close. Act scared, Bruce thought, act helpless.

A few eyes turned to stay at him as he staggered in, his cloak drenched wet.

"Excuse me," Bruce whispered to the barkeep, eyes wide with a stutter in his voice. "Excuse me. My horse went off the path… got caught in the rain…"

"Oh, you poor child," the barkeep, the heavyset matronly woman tutted, fussing over him. "Come on now, get your cloak off. Lets get you warmed up over the fire."

She grabbed an old blanket folded over the hearth, holding it for him. Bruce stammered, his eyes flickering on the room.

"Stonehelm," Bruce muttered, eyes darting around the inside of the tavern. Need to count them, to plan for every man. "I need to get to Stonehelm, my master was waiting for me."

"In the morning, child." She shuffled him towards a large stone hearth at the back of the cottage, and Bruce heard the raucous laughter of some of the patrons. "Come, let me get you a warm cup of milk, you're shivering…"

"The smallfolk gathered in the square," the singers cried, stomping their feet as a drumbeat. "the gallows there were set. The smallfolk gathered in the square, the women never wept…"

Bruce was counting the men, trying to assess them with every step. Four men in the front room, another six in the table at the back. Three sitting down, seven with tankards in their hands and two that looked severely drunk. There was laughter, a gaggle of men playing marbles over a table top, and then…

He saw the barkeep's daughter – a young girl with wide-eyes and ponytails in her blonde hair. She was clutching a shaggy teddy bear in her hands, watching Bruce from behind the counter. Bruce knew that the old man – the barkeep's father, he suspected – would be behind back.

He stepped through the tavern. His eyes focused on another two men sitting by the far corner, huddled over a mug of mulled wine. One of the man was a broad and stocky figure with a shaved head, a red and broken nose, and bruised circles under his eyes. He was muscled with a cleft jaw; a strong body type that seemed built for breaking bones. Facing him, sitting with his back to Bruce, the other man was short and sinewy. He had light blond hair, a scar across his cheek, but Bruce couldn't get close enough to make out his face…

The eyes. I need to see the eyes.

The matron was tugging at him, holding his shoulders. Bruce pretended to be dazed. "Come on, my child," the barkeep offered, "Let's get you out of those wet rags…"

"The Gods above all knew his crimes, the lord read off his list," came the tavern song. "The Gods above all knew his crimes, the men's hands balled to fists."

Then he heard the men's voices, even over the sound of the singing.

"The Crow Lord has been tearing this place apart. Him and the griffins – ruling like tyrants," said the man with the broken nose, sitting across from the blond-haired figure. Bruce could barely focus on the words. "I need a man of your talents…"

"His legs they kicked they jerked then slowed, the crowd not once did cheer. His legs they slowed then finally stopped, the crowd not once did jeer…"

"Take a seat over here, my dear," the barkeep motioned to Bruce. "Ignore this lot, let's get you warmed up. I'll fetch you some porridge, on the house…"

Bruce blinked, trying to focus as he stepped through the tavern. He had never known so few steps to take so long…

"I'll never mourn Black Robin, he killed my boy of four," the song went, voices turning strangely muted and mournful in Bruce's pounding ear. "The day they hanged Black Robin, my son came home no more…!"

Then, the blond-haired man spoke. Bruce recognised the voice, even when it wasn't laughing. It was a high-pitched and crackling voice, nauseous and shrill.

Even the sound of his voice caused Bruce's head to spin.

"… tis a new world, Simon," the Smiling Knight was saying, a chuckle in his voice as he raised a mug. "Outlaws are the new kings, and everybody loves a renegade."

It was him.

There was still half a dozen yards between them. Too much. The Smiling Knight would react if Bruce tried to jump the distance. The barkeep was trying to herd him towards the fire, but Bruce needed to approach the table. I need to get closer, I need to…

I need to trip.

Without a second thought, Bruce tripped over his own feet. He made a show of it too, collapsing and stumbling face-first into the wooden floor. Behind him, the music halted and the whole tavern jeered with laughter. The barkeep tried to catch him, pulling at his shoulder, but Bruce tumbled. "Oh my poor child!" she soothed, but there was a chuckle in her voice as well.

He heard the sound of high-pitched laughter, a sound as sharp as a blade. The Smiling Knight was laughing too…

"I'm sorry," Bruce muttered, while he stumbled as if dazed, pulling himself to his feet. Four steps. Three steps. Two… "I'm sorry…"

The Smiling Knight turned on his barstool. Bruce caught sight of the man's eyes; wide bulbous green eyes. Eyes that had haunted Bruce for years.

It was him.

Kill him.

Bruce's hand lashed out, stabbing forward with all the rage he had. One second the boy was resting against the wall, and then the next there was a knife in his grip and his arm lunged. There was no warning, none. The laughter stopped, his heart was racing and Bruce couldn't hear a thing except the pounding in his ears.

The image of a sword flashing through the night sky…

Bruce felt his hand jar, his knife stabbing into a heavy leather collar.

The blade pierced, but not deep enough.

Oomph. A hand lashed out, slamming against Bruce's jaw. The boy tottered back, but he never even felt the blow.

The woman was screaming. There was blood.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" the Smiling Knight roared, blood splattering from his shoulder.

The man had good reflexes. A knife that should have cut open his throat had only hit his shoulder.

A heavy boot sent Bruce crashing into the table, the world spinning. He heard laughter – a sharp crackle of laughter splitting the air. "AHaaAhHaaHHaahhAhaahaAhAaahAA!"

He's laughing, Bruce thought. I stabbed him, and the Smiling Knight's instinctive response was to laugh.

The Smiling Knight looked down at the blade sticking out of his shirt, and he howled like it was an absolutely hilarious sight. All cheer vanished, Bruce heard blades being drawn.

"Bloody hell, brat!" the bulky man with the broken nose shouted, pulling a dagger out of his belt. "What the hell are you–"

Run.

The knife had failed. Need to run.

Bruce was already on his knees, and scrambling away over the muddy floor. The door. Run.

"Stop that boy!" the man roared. "Stop him!"

The old man tried to tackle him, but Bruce dived through his legs. The little girl sitting on the counter shrieked. There were bodies flailing behind him, trying to jump after him, but Bruce twisted and leapt upwards with all the agility he had…

The boy was quick and agile, and the men cumbersome and slow.

One of the patrons tried to rush for the door, but he was too slow. Bruce was already diving outwards into the night. "Get him!" the man boomed behind him. "Don't let him–!"

The boy landed into the muddy gravel with a painful oomph, his fingers scrambling and pulling himself away. The bushes.

Bruce heard the shriek of laughter from behind. The Smiling Knight was still laughing, even as he jumped to his feet and gave chase.

The crossbow. Bruce hands were already lunging for the weapon, right where he had buried it in the bushes by the porch. He felt his fingers grip the wood, the frantic eyes glancing behind him.

The moment seemed to pause. The men were spilling out of the doorway, rushing around the corner, but Bruce had the crossbow. His eyes scanned the scene, searching for green eyes in the frantic torchlight…

He saw them in a heartbeat. A head jutting out of the doorway, scarred face split madly by a grin. In the gloom, his skin seemed ghostly white. Bulbous green eyes, mocking him. His hands snapped and he pulled the trigger.

The sound of the bowstring split the air.

Everything went hush.

And suddenly there was an arrow twanging in the wooden doorframe, right next to a man's skull. The arrow came so close it slid against the Smiling Knight's face, slicing a shallow scratch from his lip to ear on his left cheek.

"Bloody hells!" the Smiling Knight laughed in the stunned silence, as if it was the funniest thing he had ever seen. "HhaAh! That could have killed me!"

In the dark, the wound across his cheek made his smile look like a bloody smirk. Even if it had just been an inch to the side…

Bruce faltered, his hands freezing with pure terror. One shot. I missed.

The boy turned to run, splashing through the mud. He wasn't fast enough. The man lunged the distance, and suddenly a heavy boot slammed Bruce's back. The mud squelched beneath him, and the pain rocketed through his spine.

"You couldn't even let a man have a drink in peace, boy?" the Smiling Knight mocked, with a quiet wince as he pulled the knife from his shoulder. "Didn't your pa ever teach you kindness for strangers, kid?"

"What is going on?" Simon Toyne bellowed, pushing out through the doorway with a double-handed sword in his grip. "What's happening, where are–"

"There could be more of them, is this–"

"An ambush!" a brigand cried. "An ambush!"

Bruce tried to claw up, but suddenly a boot stamped on his back. His whole body oomphed, the breath squeezed from his chest. "Don't be a fool," the Smiling Knight mocked, casually stamping Bruce into the ground.

"Are we under attack–?

"What do you reckon?" the Smiling Knight laughed. "Do you think the Old Crow has so few men that they've started to hire children? HhhHHaAaHhhaAh!"

"Who sent you, boy?" Simon Toyne demanded, stomping barefoot through the mud. "Who sent you?"

Bruce could do nothing but crawl, his jaw clenched. The Smiling Knight finally removed his foot, and air rushed into the boy's screaming lungs. Need to run, need to–

He tried to scramble to his feet, and suddenly the Smiling Knight's boot whacked him to the ground. His whole skeleton jarred, the pain…

"Who sent you? Why are you?" the Heartless boomed at Bruce. His head went black, the panic…

"So walk me through the plan here, boy," the Smiling Knight's voice echoed through his screaming skull. "How did you think this was going to go? Seriously, what was the plan to get away here – were you going to stab all of us to death by yourself?"

Simon's gaze flickered. The Smiling Knight was the shorter and leaner of the two, but Simon still held looked cautiously. "Your wounds…"

"I've had deeper scratches shaving," the man chuckled, as he looked around the dark woods. He didn't even seem to notice the blood oozing from his face and shoulder. "But this boy is alone. If he had any backup, they'd be here by now."

Bruce tried to scramble to his knees, but once against the boot thudded against his shoulder. Despite himself, a sharp scream broke through his throat.

"Who are you working for?" a voice demanded. "Who are you working for, boy?"

"Cut off the brat's head!" a cry came. More footsteps were stomping out of the tavern, all of them drawing swords. "Dump him in the river!"

He couldn't see anything, but he heard a woman voice split through the night. "Don't hurt him, Simon!" the barkeep called, her voice breaking. "You promised that you'd do none of that, not in my tavern!"

"Get inside, Rosie!" Simon boomed. "Get inside and shut the door!"

The brigands had to force the woman back inside. Bruce heard the shriek of a little girl. The Heartless drew his blade, glowering down at him. "I don't appreciate anyone trying to kill my friends, boy," the man warned. "You shouldn't have come here."

Bruce was trapped, surrounded. But I have a second dagger, he realised. I have another dagger under my tunic.

There was chuckling in his ear. The Smiling Knight lowered his head, snorting in the air, while Bruce was curled into the mud, wheezing and clutching his chest. "Brave little boy, aren't you?" the Smiling Knight said, bloody lips curling. "You a proper little knight – going to kill all the baddies?"

Bruce's hand reached for his second dagger. As he pretended to wheeze and sputter, his fingers curled around the handle.

The Smiling Knight leaned in mockingly, and a cry broke Bruce's lips as arm shot upwards. The blade was in his hand, stabbing for the Smiling Knight's chest. Kill him, need to kill him…

He had hoped it might catch him off-guard again, but the Smiling Knight was too fast. He grabbed Bruce's wrist, and squeezed. "Fool me once," the madman chuckled, and the blade fell from Bruce's fingertips.

The backhanded blow rocked Bruce's skull. Blood in his mouth, vision blurring.

"He's not after us," the Smiling Knight decided, turning towards Simon. "He was targeting me. You got a score to settle with me, have you, kid?"

Bruce couldn't breathe. Beefy hands grabbed his neck, and suddenly Simon Toyne was lifting him upwards. The Smiling Knight's head cocked, squinting to try and look at him at him in the gloomy torchlight.

"I know you," he said softly. "By the Stranger, I do know you."

"What the fuck is he?" Simon demanded. "And should I be worried?"

"AaHaaHhaAahHhHaAh!" The Smiling Knight laughed – loud, raucous laughter that stirred the trees. "Are you kidding? This is Bruce Wayne, Lord of Wayne Manor! Oh, now that is absolute gold!" His voice broke, expression mixed between surprise, glee and awe. "That is gold!"

He raised his hands, cheering to the night. "Come on, let's give him an applause! Lord Bruce Wayne – ten years old, here for justice, vengeance! Here to kill the dastardly criminal, and avenge his family! Now isn't that just beautiful – give it up for the lil' dark knight!"

The crowd stirred. Simon's grip on Bruce's throat hesitated. The Smiling Knight was howling with laughter as he paced. "Drop him, Simon," he ordered. "I want to deal with this myself."

"If he found us, there could be more–"

"Drop him, Simon," the Smiling Knight hissed, still grinning like a maniac.

Simon the Heartless' eyes flickered, but he let Bruce flail to the mud. His eyes were wide and frantic, his heart beating in his chest. He stared upwards, and dozens of hardened men, murderers and brigands, surrounded him with angry eyes.

His knife was lying in the mud.

No fear, Bruce insisted. No fear, not her–

He lunged for his blade, and yet a boot crashed into his stomach. The air whooshed from his lungs, pain shooting through his gut.

"… Two years ago," the Smiling Knight explained, giggling mirthfully. "I killed this boy's parents. Right in front of him, I did. I cut open the father's neck, and stabbed the mother right through the heart. I can only assume you want revenge, is that right, Bruce?"

Bruce didn't reply. His jaw clenched, hands shaken. "I suppose I can't judge for that," he mused. "All men have right to vengeance. All boys have too. And, come on, got to give him kudos – that was a pretty good attempt." The Smiling Knight's ran his hands over the scratch – the scar – on his cheek, motioning for the others to agree. Simon Toyne stood stonily, glaring. "I've known proper knights who never even got that close – hells, I'm going to be tensing every time a little boy passes me by, from now on."

There were a few dry chuckles. This was a game, a joke to him. Bruce couldn't even see straight through all the rage clouding his vision. "You killed my parents," Bruce wheezed. "You killed them."

"He talks. You're right," the Smiling Knight agreed. "I did. That was me."

Kill him. Kill him… need to…

There must be a way, some chance. Even just to put a dagger through his foot, to cut a vein at the ankle…

"Are you alone?" Simon Toyne demanded, but Bruce couldn't care. "Who's searching for you?"

His attention, his fury, was only for the Smiling Knight. "I'm going to kill you," Bruce vowed, even as he lay shivering in the mud and cold. "I'm going to, I will…"

"So I see. You got guts, kid. Do you want to have a look at them? Want me to open them up to inspect?"

There was another chuckle. "Your plan was pretty smart too, in a suicidal type way," the Smiling Knight mused, he looked down at the crossbow, lying in the mud. "The crossbow – nice touch." His boot stamped onto the device, cracking the wood and then kicking it away. "But a knife in the back is a coward's weapon, kid. If you really want revenge, Bruce, if you really want to gut me – you need a sword for that one."

There was a pause. Slowly, dangerously, the Smiling Knight drew his blade. "Here," he offered. "Take mine."

The sword splattered into the mud before him. Bruce's eyes widened, turning upwards to stare at the bulbous green pupils looking down.

The Smiling Knight was a young man. Bright green eyes and light blond hair, with a chin and cheekbones that could have been handsome, if not for the crisscross of pale scars that left his skin almost milky white. His face was twisted by his grin.

Simon Toyne looked worried, stepping in over him. "What are we doing, we need…" his voice hesitated. "We could ransom the boy; he's worth a lord's fortune."

Bruce stared down at the blade as if it were a trap. "Not this one," the Smiling Knight shook his head. "He's not worth anything. No parents, no family, no care. There's nothing in him but fury – just the look at the anger in his eyes. That is beautiful. If we sell him away, he's just going to come right back to us, I think."

Bruce slowly moved to reach for the blade, but Simon Toyne stomped on the hilt, pressing it into the wet earth with his bare feet. "This is pointless," the Heartless warned.

"Pointless?" the Smiling Knight teased. "Have you no romance? The boy came all this way, let's give him his chance."

Simon Toyne didn't shift, and Bruce squirmed backwards, glaring upwards. His body was smeared with thick, black mud. "Fair is fair, Simon," the Smiling Knight said, tone turning dangerous. "Let him have that sword. What do you think, Bruce? Do you want the sword?"

The only sound from Bruce were his wheezes through pained breaths. "I want to hear you say it, Bruce," the Smiling Knight insisted. "Let me hear you say it."

I will kill you, I will kill you… His jaw clenched. "Yes," Bruce wheezed. "I want the sword."

"And never let it be said that I'm not chivalrous," the madman giggled. "Now step back, Simon. Let the knight have his sword."

There was disapproval in Simon's eyes, but he stepped away quietly. He was scared. Even Simon Toyne the Heartless was hesitant to challenge the Smiling Knight.

Bruce pulled himself to his knees. The bandits all stepped back four paces, watching the scene quietly. A murderer's game.

I could run, Bruce thought. Maybe I could run for the woods, try to lose them in the trees…

But the Smiling Knight was standing right there, unarmed, and Bruce had a sword.

His hands were trembling, his body gasping and shivering for breath. Bruce could feel blood on his lips, his whole body screaming…

The Smiling Knight didn't have another sword. He was unarmed, standing defenceless. Bruce's fingers curled around the smooth, well-worn hilt.

"Go on. Skewer me, if you can," he offered. "I don't like killing those who can't defend themselves. Except for your mother, Bruce, but that was something of an off-day for me…"

The scream broke Bruce's lips, pure wordless fury slipping from his throat. The memory of that blade flashing through the sky, replayed over and over before his eyes.

His fingers gripped tighter around the plain leather handle. It was a dull iron sword, unadorned with a nicked edge, but still sharpened. A cheap and unremarkable sword, slightly rusted – the sort that any farmer would own.

"Come on!" the Smiling Knight taunted, laughing maniacally. "Swing it, Bruce. You got a sword, I don't. And yes – in case you're wondering," his smile twisted further, "that is the very same blade I used to cut down your folks."

The same blade that had haunted his dreams. It was in his hands…

Bruce snapped. There was nothing in that moment but rage, and the image of the blade cutting through his father. Two strokes, two slashes in a single moment…

Mud, tears and rain dripped down his face. The cry broke his throat, and suddenly he was reliving it. He had the sword in his hand, and he was lunging. "You killed them!" Bruce roared. "You killed my–"

Oomph.

It was too fast. The Smiling Knight's boot knocked him down. "Come on, Brucy!" he taunted. "You can do better."

Bruce lunged again, swinging like a madman. "Kill you!" Bruce screamed. "Kill you!"

The Smiling Knight swatted the sword away, and his knuckles rang against Bruce's skull.

The boy dropped, and he heard a few chuckles of laughter from the bandits. His vision was swirling, his head spinning.

Need to… Need to…

Bruce lunged. the Smiling Knight sidestepped, and knocked him to the ground with bored kick. Something cracked.

He couldn't even stand up. He was a squirm wreck, trying desperately to pull the blade from the mud…

A vision flashed before his eyes. For a moment, he was back in the woods of Harrenhal, trying to lift his father's corpse from the mud…

He saw bats fluttering around him, shrieking in his ears, taunting him.

Bruce wailed, tears filling his eyes, crying like a wounded animal. There was blood seeping down over his eyes.

He couldn't feel his arms. His eyes glanced downwards, and his left wrist was bent backwards. It looked painful. Bruce's arm had snapped, and he hadn't even felt it.

He could feel nothing but a chilly numbness.

They were laughing at him. The Smiling Knight looked down at him, and for a heartbeat his eyes seemed strangely sane. "But that's secret, boy," he muttered. "It's not about the sword."

There was a pause, and the Smiling Knight knelt down into the mud besides him.

"You killed… you killed my parents…" he gasped, struggling to breathe. Head was spinning, his hands were numb, he couldn't even feel the pain.

"They got themselves killed," the Smiling Knight scoffed, lowering his voice slightly. "Your old man was a fool, Bruce. A brave fool, aye, but I guess that's where you get it from." He tapped Bruce's cheek, trying to rouse the boy. There was nothing but mud and blood. "I was never interested in your parent's lives – I tried to take you."

There was no reaction, but there was something in the man's tone… something twisted and mocking, something that sent chills down Bruce's spine. Bruce's gaze flickered. What?

"I didn't care for silk or pearls," the Smiling Knight said lowly, chuckling under his breath. "I wanted a ransom, I wanted some of that Wayne silver for myself. I would have taken you, and your folks would have paid through the teeth to get you back. No corpses, no fuss, no blood – just coin. That's all it was to me, that's all it needed to be.

"I wanted a payday, not a murder."

Bruce couldn't even his head, but he heard the sneer in the man's voice. "Nobody needed to die. Except your mother refused to let you go, and your father tried to be a brave man. They tried to charge me, but I was holding the sword. They killed themselves."

Did they? Bruce couldn't remember, the scene had blurred in his memory. All he could focus on was the sword slashing downwards, and his parent's screams.

What words had the Smiling Knight said before…?

He walked away, Bruce thought slowly. The reason that the highwayman had walked away and left Bruce alive that night – his parents were already dead, and there had been nobody left to ransom. He intended to kidnap me.

Slowly, the man leant backwards, until they were both lying in the mud next to each other. Bruce was staring straight into mad green eyes, the rain dripping down his vision.

The Smiling Knight even sounded wistful. "But," the outlaw chuckled, "I suppose I've got to thank you, kid. I mean, at the time – I thought that night was a disaster. I was hunted across the realm, I thought I was doomed. And yet…" He pursed his lips. "And yet that night – it made me. Actually made me, brand new person. That night was the best thing that had ever happened."

If Bruce had the strength left to scream, he would have. All that came out was a strained growl. "I killed over a dozen common men, and nobody gave a crap," the man said wistfully. "I stole hundreds of purses, who cares? But then two proper nobles die, and suddenly I'm the most wanted man in the realm. They'll be telling stories about me, whispering my name in every tavern in the land – hells, this is my career now, this is my life. And I love it. I love it, I really do. I've got to thank you for that Bruce – because of you, because of your parents, I'm the Smiling Knight."

The Smiling Knight moved closer, whispering in Bruce's ear, "nobody cared who I was, not until I swung that sword."

Bruce tried to grope for the blade in the mud, but the Smiling Knight gripped his hand. "Tis a new world, Bruce," he said, the laughter rising again. "And I'm hardly what you'd call a religious man, but I got admit; meeting you again – now, here – well, it feels like an act of the gods. Feels special." He gave Bruce's fingers a squeeze. "Let's give the bards something to make a song about, shall we?"

With that, the Smiling Knight pulled himself off the muddy ground, and picked up his sword. There was rain in the air, a faint drizzle splashing over the puddles.

"Come back when you can swing a sword properly – if you still want your revenge, I'll be waiting for you, I promise that I will," the man whispered, still speaking softly. "But just take my advice; learn about fear. Fear is good, kid, fear keeps you alive."

Bruce gave no reply but a whimper, struggling to move. His vision was black, he could barely even make out the words through the sound of his blood in his ears. "Take my sword too," the Smiling Knight offered, placing the blade back into Bruce's trembling hands. "Hope you use it."

All around him, the men were muttering, not sure what was happening. The Smiling Knight only laughed; his voice was dramatic, overly dramatic – like it was some theatre to him, some pantomime.

"Show's over, folks!" the Smiling Knight called. "Lord Bruce has got to leave now, and I've got to finish my ale."

"What are you talking about?" that was Simon Toyne's voice, outraged. "He's seem our faces. We cannot let the boy walk out of here."

"Oh, Bruce is not going to be walking away anywhere," the Smiling Knight chuckled. "But I'm not going to let you kill him, either."

Those were the last words Bruce heard, and then the boot slammed into his chest. Oomph – the whack of solid kick against the small boy.

It was followed by a second and then a third. Bruce was curled onto the floor, and the Smiling Knight kept on kicking him. Bruce couldn't scream, he couldn't do anything.

The only sound was that maniac laughter echoing in his ears…

"HhaHhaaaHhaHaaHhaAaaHaaHhaHhhHaAhaaHaaHhaHhAahhHaAh!!!"

The Smiling Knight kept Bruce alive, but he beat the boy to an inch of his life. Broke his arm, cracked his ribs, his legs, his teeth…

Everything went black.

He dreamt of bats, flapping around his parent's bodies.

His vision came back woozily. He felt rocking, and the creaking of a wooden wheel. It was morning, faint sunlight on his face as his bruised and bloody eyes flickered open.

He was on a cart, being pushed by a single donkey. He could see the sun flickering through the leaves above him, but Bruce couldn't feel his limbs.

He could feel nothing but pain.

"I'm sorry, milord," a female voice gushed. There was a fat figure standing over him, a woman's hands wrapping rough bandages around him. The barkeep from the tavern – Rosie. "I was never a part of their lot, I swear it by the old gods and the new. They were just patrons, customers, I let them stay at my inn. Simon promised me and my daughter that there'd be none of his stuff in my tavern – just ale and rest only, but… never wanted any of this, never wanted that madman under my roof. Please, milord, try to tell that to the great lords when they find you. Try to explain. I'm sorry."

She didn't want him to bleed out, but she wasn't brave enough to cart him into the centre of the village. Instead, Rosie the barkeep dumped Bruce by the side of the dirt road, and then she very quickly walked away.

The Bee and Honey will be long deserted by the time the watchmen find me, Bruce thought foggily, and then he blacked out again.

Strangely, in his foggy dreams, he heard singing. A tavern song echoing around the blackness of his nightmares…

The day they hanged Black Robin,
the air was clear and still.
The day they hanged Black Robin,
the autumn ground was chill.
The smallfolk gathered in the square,
the gallows there were set.
The smallfolk gathered in the square,
the women never wept.
The Gods above all knew his crimes,
the lord read off his lists.
The Gods above all knew his crimes,
the men's hands balled to fists.
His legs they kicked they jerked then slowed,
the crowd not once did cheer.
His legs they slowed then finally stopped,
the crowd not once did jeer.
I'll never mourn Black Robin,
he killed my girl of four,
The day they hanged Black Robin,
my son came home no more.

…

Voices whispered around him, a faint susurrus of noises through a spinning, delirious head.

"… Boy… call for…" a voice muttered. "It's him, isn't it?"

"The raven said… Bruce. Bruce Wayne."

A hand was on his shoulder, trying to rouse him. Everything was screaming, there was nothing but pain.

"By the Seven…" the voices blurred.

Somebody was carrying him, strong hands hoisting him up from his feet and shoulders. Bruce could have screamed, but he could only gasp. "His arm is broken… his ribs likely too…"

"Look at his face… what happened…?"

"Bruce…!"

"Is it him, is this the boy you were looking for?"

Bruce's eyes flickered against the light, trying to focus anything through the blurry shapes. He could barely even squint through swollen, bruised cheeks.

Pale blue eyes were staring down at him. A young boy's face, with pursed lips and a hard gaze.

"It's him," Stannis Baratheon said. "Get him to the maester. Let's get him home."

 

[Serpentguy]

Chapter 5
The Knight


He felt everything. He felt the shudder of a cart beneath him, the rattle of heavy wheel clattering over the cobbled stones. He felt beefy hands gripping his body, he felt men heaving him up onto a cold stone slab.

It hurt so much that Bruce might have screamed, but instead his jaw just tensed. He could barely move. He saw blurring torches, of moving bodies, of the world spinning as they carried him off the cart.

"By the Gods… Bruce…" That was Maester Cressen's voice. He saw the figure running, he even heard the jangle of his chain, but Bruce couldn't make it out details through his heaving vision. "How long has he been unconscious?"

"A few hours," Stannis replied. Stannis had been keeping by Bruce's side constantly. "He's been failing in and out, I think. I brought him back as quick as I could."

"You did well, my boy… Yes, you…" Maybe the maester's voice trailed off, or maybe Bruce couldn't focus on the words. "… Curses, Bruce."

"Get him down to the infirmary," another voice ordered. "Lift him – gently."

The beefy hands gripped his legs and shoulders again, hoisting him upwards. He felt men walking carrying him up steps, his head rattling with every step. I never heard my skull rattle before, he thought vaguely. Bruce tried to squirm, trying to move.

"His arm…" Stannis' voice muttered, striding next to him.

"Broken at the wrist, I need a splint…" Cressen was wheezing as he scampered up the stairs. "Milk of the poppy for the pain. We need water, warm water, and cleansing whiskey."

"I'll have the servants boil the kettles."

"Bandages, where are the…?"

"And cut those dirty clothes of him," the maester ordered. "Everyone else, clear the room."

He dropped onto a hard-wooden bed. Bruce stirred slightly, struggling to make sense of it all. Bodies were moving all around him, yet the world kept on spinning and gagging.

Bruce gagged with pain as rough hands gripped his tunic and tore it off. Through blurred eyes, his chest looked red and black. Large, painful and oozing welts covered his chest and sides – Bruce could still see the footprint of Smiling's Knight's boot stamped onto his skin.

"Gods… how…" Voices blurred. "What happened to…?"

"I cannot say," Cressen replied. "If there's bleeding of the organs…" A hand fluttered, someone slapping gently against his cheek. "Bruce, Bruce are you wake? Can you reply?"

Yes, I can. Bruce tried to speak, but ended up gargling something that should have been words, and he felt blood dripping from his lips.

There were bandages being wrapped tightly, stinging pain, and rough hands tugging and pulling at him. He felt some liquid soak his body, and suddenly he was thrashing and wincing. It was like his skin was on fire.

"Stay still, Bruce," Maester Cressen ordered. The maester was fastening a wooden splint on to his broken wrist, wrapping it tightly. "Where is the milk of the poppy?"

"Coming, maester, I'll…"

Bruce felt his jaw open, and then a rough hand jammed straight down in his mouth. A man's fingers were crawling around, inspecting his throat. The movements were practiced, curt but brutal. "No blockage of the throat, no phlegm from lungs…" Cressen muttered as he inspected. Bruce gagged into the hand, and he felt something dislodge from his mouth. Cressen scooped up the bloody gloop with his fingers. "And his baby teeth have come loose. There's a fracture on the jaw, I think, but with care it should heal."

"Will he recover?" a deeper voice demanded. Lord Steffon, Bruce realised.

"I… it is dangerous to speak in certainties," the maester replied hesitantly. "But he is young and healthy, he stands a good chance. If we set the bone properly, I think it seems a clean break." The maester's hands were groping his body, twisting and probing at every joint. Bruce tried thrash, but he could only squirm. Fingers squeezed his shoulder, and pain spasmed down his body. "And… curses, the shoulder is dislodged. Where is the milk of the poppy?"

A patter of footsteps was running. "I have it here, maester."

"We need to question him, maester," another voice interjected, Bruce couldn't place it.

"Not tonight, ser – the health of my charge comes first." Cressen shook his head. "I cannot set the bones properly while he is squirming around. He needs relief from the pain, and rest to recover."

The milk. Bruce remembered the last time he had been given milk of the poppy – after his parent's deaths. The maester at Harrenhal had thought Bruce had been hysterical, so they forced the milk down his throat to calm him down. Bruce had tried to fight it, but the milk had dragged him into a lull and he had suffered intense, vivid fever dreams.

Bruce still trembled at the thought of the nightmares that had plagued him, over and over for those nights at Harrenhal. He dreamt of bats, every single night – with such intensity it had been maddening.

The thought of experiencing something like that again…

"No…" Bruce gargled, trying to protest. "No…" No milk of the poppy, please no.

He didn't want to be unconscious, he didn't want to fall asleep. Bruce tried to squirm, but strong hands gripped his skull, levering his jaw open. He felt the touch of a ceramic jar at his lips, and then there were rough fingers forcing a thick paste down into his throat.

Bruce tried to gag, tried to squirm, tried to scream…

"Sleep, Bruce," the maester's voice echoed. "Sleep."

…

In his dreams, he heard the Smiling Knight's laughter.

…

His consciousness returned slowly. Everything was dazed, foggy and blurred. His muscles were so heavy he couldn't move them. Bruce could hardly even feel them.

Bruce lay in the bed and tried to focus. Bit by bit, he tried to regather his thoughts.

The memories…

He shuddered, as all the memories hit him. Slowly, he started to feel the pain again – but this time it was more a dull ache rather than an intense shrieking from his bones.

After a while, he became aware of noises. There were voices yelling in the distance, but Bruce couldn't quite make them out through the stone walls. Bruce was returning to consciousness, but he lay with eyes closed and he pretended to be asleep.

It was easier that way. Bruce just didn't want to face anybody, not least himself.

Everything hurt. It was such a dull, deep and aching pain that Bruce couldn't even pinpoint where it was coming from. His whole body was screaming at him, so loud that he turned deaf and numb to it.

As he lay in bed, he tried to count his injuries. His left arm was snapped out of shape, so badly that Maester Cressen had suffocating it tightly under a splint and a tight leather belt. His right shoulder was out of place. His knees were screaming too. He knew that he had bruises across his body that had turned black, and it hurt when he breathed.

His mouth was filled with blood, and he could feel the jagged gaps in his mouth where the Smiling Knight's boot had knocked out four of his teeth out and cracked three others. His baby teeth had only just been starting to fall out, but even the newer ones starting to protrude from his gums were also cracked. He'd likely have a chipped smile for the rest of his life.

More reason not to smile, he supposed.

There was nothing to do but lay in his bed, replaying those moments on loop in his head.

The thought of that boot crashing into him, the crack as it hit his skin over and over…

Bruce didn't want to go to sleep, and he didn't want to wake up. Sleep would give him no relieve either. He could still hear it, feel it, echoing in his skull. Crack. Crack. Crack.

The morning light was filtering through the infirmary, stinging against his shut eyelids. Then, Bruce heard the door opening. He heard the sound of a man walking softly into the room, and shutting the door behind him.

It was a definitely a man's steps; Bruce could hear the tap of heavy boots, and his gait was smooth and purposeful, but otherwise Bruce didn't open his eyes to look.

There was soft oomph as the figure dropped on to the seat by Bruce's beside. Maester Cressen, Bruce thought. Or possibly Stannis. They had been taking turns sitting by his bedside.

There was a long silence. Bruce kept his eyes closed, even though he knew the figure was looking down at him.

And then, Bruce heard something chime. He heard the chiming of a harp's strings. It was soft and brittle in the quiet room. The sound was sweet and careful, the sound of slow fingers dancing over the strings.

Bruce recognised the tune. It was The Mother's Hands, but it was being sung without words. Nothing but the strings of the harp. A slow and gentle song, like a lullaby.

The curiosity got the better of him. Slowly, finally, Bruce's eyelids flickered open, wincing at the light stung his tender pupils. Despite himself, his head was spinning, and even his thoughts felt foggy and blurred.

A man with silver hair was sitting over him, looking down. "Ah. You're awake."

The prince. Rhaegar Targaryen was sitting by his bedside, with a harp in his hands. "At ease, Bruce," Rhaegar said softly, placing his harp on the table. "I'll fetch you some water."

The prince. Why is the prince here? Why was he playing music? Bruce knew he should bow, that he would be in more trouble if he didn't show respect…

Still, Bruce tried to move, and all that happened was an agonising jolt of pain through his limbs. His shoulder jammed, the joint screaming. The infirmary was spinning. "Easy, Bruce. Easy."

There was water, Rhaegar was holding a cup to his lips. Is this a dream? Bruce thought foggily. Why is the prince serving me water? His roaming eyes scanned the empty room. He recognised the room; it was the lord's infirmary, on the lower levels of Storm's End; a wide and empty chamber filled by six stone beds and a large hearth. There were bandages all around him, vials of sweetwine and milk of the poppy, but Bruce's eyes turned to settle on the harp resting on the table.

Rhaegar must have followed his gaze. It was a small harp; gilded in gold, but well-worn and smoothed by regular fingers.

"I was once told that my music was so beautiful that it could raise the dead and cure ailments," the prince said with a light smile. "Personally, I think that was a load of horseshit myself, but I saw no harm in testing the hypothesis."

Bruce didn't know how to react. His memories were so blurry. He knew that they rode him back to Storm's End, he knew that Cressen had been treating his injuries, but the sight of Rhaegar startled him.

"Where…" Bruce grimaced, his throat so raw it hurt. "Where…?"

"Lord Steffon is breaking his fast upstairs," Rhaegar explained. "The maester was writing letters, but he'll want to speak to you. Do you remember what happened, Bruce?"

Bruce's head sagged backwards into the pillow. "… There was a tavern. The Bee and Honey, by the Slayne…"

"Ah yes, I heard of it." Rhaegar nodded. "Arthur tracked the trail down to there as well; a haunting place for brigands, he said. The Kingsguard have already led watchmen against the place."

Oh. "How long was I out?" Bruce wheezed.

"Three days, Bruce," Rhaegar said softly. "The maester gave you milk of the poppy, to let you rest. Who did this to you?"

The image of those burning, mad green eyes flashed before his vision. Bruce's ears were ringing, a high-pitched squeal that echoed through his skull like laughter.

Bran stared down, and he saw his reflection in the water. The bruises around his eyes were so dark that his face looked black.

"Some thug," Bruce muttered after a pause. "Just a thug."

"I see," Rhaegar said, nodding. "I will go inform the lord and the good maester, they shall want to–"

"No," Bruce said quickly. Rhaegar raised his eyebrow. "I just… let them break their fast. I would have some quiet for a while."

The prince paused. Bruce knew that his tone was too blunt, that he no right to make demands of a prince. A prideful man would have bristled, but Rhaegar just hesitated, and then nodded. "As you wish, Bruce. I understand."

There was a pile of bloody rags and dirty sponges by his bedside, Bruce noted. He had been caked in mud when they brought him in, but the maester must have washed him down to tend to all his injuries. The wool bandages felt suffocating. His whole body felt raw, it was hard to focus.

Milk of the poppy, Bruce realised. It had faded, but it left everything dazed. Bruce didn't like not being able to think.

"I am fond music in the morning," Rhaegar explained, motioning to his harp. "I was searching for a place to play where I wouldn't be disturbed. To be honest, I did not expect you to wake. Crowds are all well and good, sometimes, but other times I just want to play by myself."

"I'm sorry, Your Grace," he muttered.

Rhaegar shook his head. "I am not the one who deserves an apology."

Bruce's jaw clenched. His gums were still bleeding from where his teeth were knocked out. He took a deep breath, and it hurt when he breathed. "What happened?"

"Lord Steffon was quite distraught when he found you missing, he raised a hunting party to search for you," the prince said. "Several parties, actually. I lingered and offered my guard to assist the search. It was young Stannis who found you – bloodied and unconscious by the side of the road. You were carted back to Storm's End."

Lord Steffon. The Lord of Storm's End would likely be raging in fury. Bruce had snuck out, nearly got himself killed, and caused a massive disruption to everyone around him. Ser Harbert would likely demand that Bruce should be expelled for this. Bruce would not be able to protest.

I never wanted to come back. He had wanted to kill the Smiling Knight and then die. That had been the only thing he imagined himself doing.

Rhaegar was looking at him intently. "Was it Simon Toyne's gang that did this to you, Bruce?" the prince pressed. "Was it the Heartless?"

Bruce nodded stiffly. "Try to collect your thoughts," Rhaegar said. "Ser Arthur will wish to speak to you; whatever details you can give on their numbers, their associates, even their faces – it would all be helpful. Can you do that, Bruce?"

He nodded again. He kept his gaze fixed on the wall, avoiding eye contact. He had failed, he knew he had. "They've already ran, haven't they?"

"That is what Ser Arthur reports," Rhaegar nodded. "But there is none better than the Sword of the Morning at shining light into dark places. Arthur will find them, I'm sure."

The prince is a poor liar, Bruce noticed.

The prince picked up his harp from the table, pulling himself up from the armchair. "I understand why you did it, Bruce," Rhaegar soothed. "We found the maester's quarters ransacked, well, it was fairly easy to put together your intentions. You found my letter, and you set off after the Smiling Knight."

The prince paused, nodding. "Steffon was in a fury at your actions," he admitted, "but I understand – I know what it's like to have a duty. Some of us have a purpose, something that we can't shake and that others don't understand." There was an edge to his voice. "Even if we must die for our cause, that is our duty, our sacrifice. Normal people don't understand, they can't see…"

Bruce hesitated. A flicker past across his eyes, glancing up towards Rhaegar. 'Normal people'? Bruce thought quietly.

"Others will say that you were foolish, or reckless, or arrogant," Rhaegar said finally, with a grimace. "But I think you're brave, Bruce."

Rhaegar left the room, and Bruce was left staring at the wall. The air was stiff. The prince was wrong.

It wasn't brave. Nothing about what he did was brave. The Smiling Knight could have killed him. I had been trying to die.

The words that the madman had whispered to him haunted his mind. Echoing in his ears, over and again. Come back when you can swing a sword properly, he had whispered, if you still want your revenge, I'll be waiting for you. I promise that I will.

Bruce remembered how it had felt when he clutched the Smiling Knight's blade. He remembered that fury, that crazed anger…

Take my advice; learn about fear. Fear is good, kid, fear keeps you alive.

Bruce didn't know what was worse; that he had failed to kill the murderer, or that the murderer wanted him to try again. The Smiling Knight had tried to turn it into some sort of game, a show.

He looked down at his reflection in the cup. His face was left swollen, bloody red and beaten black.

The infirmary felt dead, like a crypt. He didn't know why, but suddenly there were tears in his eyes. They stung against his gashes, oozing down his cheeks.

For the first time in over a year, Bruce broke down into tears.

…

Lord Baratheon was furious. His jaw was trembling and he was booming with rage. "Boy, what in the god's name is wrong with you?" Steffon shouted. "To go out there yourself? They could have dropped you dead in a ditch and we would never even find your body!"

Bruce didn't reply. He was still lying in the bed, staring at his toes. Three of his toes were broken and mangled, along with his ankle. "And on the crown prince's visit??" the lord screamed. "Are you trying to make a fool of me, to shame my house? The prince himself was delayed because of you – I've had every lord under in my realm looking for you! You ran off and got yourself half-killed, and left this family looking like bloody fools! What is wrong with you, boy??"

I could make a list, but how long do you have? "I am sorry, my lord," Bruce replied quietly.

"'I am sorry', he says! 'Sorry'!" Steffon snapped. The lord was pacing, and then his foot crashed out, his boot colliding with the bedside table. Pots and pans clattered to the stones, clashing the like bells. "I am sorry that I ever took you under my roof, boy!"

Bruce didn't react. The lord stared at him and screamed wordlessly, clutching at his hair, before storming from the room. The maester had a pained expression on his face, but Lord Steffon snapped at him and Cressen followed out of the door.

Stannis stood by his bedside. The two boys looked at each quietly. It felt like they both wanted to say something, but neither of them knew what.

After a long pause, Stannis just nodded and left the room too, leaving Bruce in quiet.

Lady Cassana arrived not long afterwards to bring Bruce a bowl of soup, and he thanked her gratefully. "My husband was truly distraught when you went missing, Bruce," she said to him softly. "We didn't know where you went. He was so very…" Her voice trailed off slightly. "Well, we are trying to look after you, my child, but by the gods you don't make it easy."

I know. Bruce just nodded, keeping his face blank. Bruce knew that they were trying to do what was best for him; trying to care for him, trying to console him, trying to protect him. A normal child would have appreciated and reciprocated that care, but Bruce didn't think he was normal.

There was something damaged in him. His body might heal, but Bruce didn't know how to fix the other wounds he carried around.

There was a long silence. Bruce considered his options silently. "Thank you for your hospitality, my lady," Bruce said after a pause. "I can return to Wayne Manor, if Lord Baratheon wishes it."

"You are our ward. Lord Baratheon swore to the crown that he would keep you safe."

Maybe I don't want to be saved. Bruce left the thought unspoken.

"Get better, my child," the lady said softly. "Nothing is over, and nothing is broken that cannot heal. We're here for you."

Lady Cassana kissed him on the forehead as she left. Somehow, the act of affection felt more painful than all the screaming and shouting in the world. Bruce could handle the threats and he could remain stoic to the pain, but it was the kindness that felt crippling.

Bruce shuddered, feeling his bones aching. What do I want? he thought quietly. What do I want to do with my life? What happens now?

The Smiling Knight had wanted him to chase him. The man could have killed Bruce, but he chose not to. Bruce spent the entire day, sitting in his bed, and obsessing over that decision. Why had the Smiling Knight left me alive? I stabbed him, I scarred him, but why had he refused to kill me?

There was only one answer that Bruce came to; it would have been unfulfilling. The Smiling Knight wanted it to be dramatic. Like something out of a song – the child growing up obsessed with vengeance, the epic crusade that consumes a lifetime.

The Smiling Knight had a death wish too.

… I don't want to be like the Smiling Knight.

As dusk fell, Maester Cressen returned to inspect him; placing an itchy poultice on his wounds and rewrapping his bandages. "Can I walk?" Bruce asked. He could barely move his legs through the heavy bandages and splint on his ankle. "I would like get out of bed, please."

"Not yet," the maester replied. "Your knees are swollen and your ankle fractured. I do not want you out of bed until the swelling eases, and we can assess the damage."

Bruce grimaced, but he nodded. "Will I need crutches?"

"Perhaps. In the short term, definitely." He glanced at him, a wrinkle creasing his brow. "Although perhaps we must consider manacles instead," his voice grew bitter, "mayhaps chains are the only means to keep you contained."

"Maester, I…" Bruce started, and then his throat jammed. Cressen looked at him. "I…"

He couldn't say the words. The maester didn't speak either, as he rewrapped Bruce's broken arm.

Cressen cared about him, and it must have hurt him when Bruce disappeared. It was a strange thought; to think that other people cared about Bruce's life more than he did.

The maester tried to give Bruce a thimble of milk of the poppy for the pain, but Bruce only pretended to drink it. He didn't like the milk, it left his thoughts blurry when he'd prefer to think.

He didn't want to hide the pain either; he wanted to feel it, to remind himself of where he had failed.

It was early next morn, when Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy returned to Storm's End. Bruce heard it from his room, when the two knights rode through the courtyard.

Bruce knew it from their very return this quickly; Ser Arthur Dayne hadn't been able to track the outlaws. Simon Toyne had gone to ground somewhere, disappeared. Perhaps they were being sheltered by some upset farmer, or maybe they had vanished into the caves of the rainwood. Either way, they had cut ties and ran from the prince's knights.

Even after everything, there was still a hint of relief in Bruce's body. A small part of Bruce couldn't help but be grateful that he might still have a chance to kill the Smiling Knight himself. That is a foolish thought, he scolded himself. And yet still…

He remembered being face down in the mud, as the Smiling Knight laughed.

A foolish thought, he insisted.

Come noon, he heard the footsteps walking up the steps, and he tensed as he recognised the quiet jingle of armour outside his door. Ser Arthur Dayne entered the infirmary without a word, his cool eyes gazing towards Bruce.

"Lord Bruce," Ser Arthur said finally, closing the door behind him. "I am glad you are well."

His voice was cool and passive, rather than glad, Bruce noticed. "Ser Arthur," Bruce nodded. "Do you wish to question me on the brigands?"

"You are the only one who has seen them, my lord." Ser Arthur didn't take the chair, he stood standing at the foot of Bruce's bed. "What do you remember of them – their numbers, their names, appearances even?"

Bruce took a deep breath. "There were eleven men, ages between fifteen and fifty. Simon Toyne – he was likely the oldest. He had a bald head, broken nose, a heavy man. He stood taller than you, probably wider too." Ser Arthur just nodded. "The others – there were three men that were playing marbles, another four that were singing. Bad singers. The first of the four had a large stomach, missing his front teeth…"

Bruce described every detail he could remember. He had spent half a day scouting out that tavern, obsessing over the details within. All of those memories came easily, even the smaller details. Ser Arthur asked the occasional questions, but mostly just let Bruce speak.

"And the Smiling Knight?" Ser Arthur asked lowly. "How do you describe him?"

The image of that man's grin flashed before him. "He was short, young. Around twenty, maybe. Maybe less. Green eyes, blond hair – he had old scars across his face, mostly faded."

"Pox scars?"

Bruce shook his head. "No, they looked from a knife. The cuts of a razor. Very old scars, very pale. There is a fresh one on him, though; a scar across his cheek." Bruce motioned to where the crossbow bolt had cut him. "And a wound in his shoulder where I stabbed him. I didn't hear his real name, none spoke it."

Ser Arthur asked more questions, quizzing Bruce on the minute details. "Did they say anything, give any hint to their location or their plan?" Ser Arthur asked. "Or was there any one with them who looked out of place – someone dressed more finely, perhaps?"

Bruce shook his head. He made special note of all the questions Ser Arthur asked, and that last one stuck out. The knight had little idea where to look, Bruce noted, he was probing. Searching for leads.

"Is this going to help catch them?" Bruce asked in the end, when his throat was hoarse and he ran out of things to say.

"Perhaps." The knight didn't nod. "It will all be useful to the hunting parties."

Bruce paused. "But not to you," he noted. "You won't be part of the hunting parties."

"Most likely not. I must return to the capital with the prince," Ser Arthur replied. His face was guarded, his voice level. "The king agreed to allow three of his Kingsguard to hunt Smiling Knight while escorting the prince to Griffin's Roost, but King Aerys will not be without his Kingsguard for long. I do not have my liege's permission to stay for an extended hunt."

So you're leaving. Running. Ser Arthur didn't have the time to stay and fulfil his promise. Bruce's eyes narrowed. "And then who will lead the search?"

"A knight sworn to Baratheon will have to take over upon my departure, I presume. Lord Steffon was quite insistent that Toyne's gang would not escape justice."

Bruce digested those words slowly. They were said without confidence, his tone had an edge of doubtfulness. "And are you going to assure me that they won't let the Smiling Knight escape?"

"No." Ser Arthur shook his head. "Truthfully, I suspect that Simon Toyne's gang has already slipped through the net."

If not for his broken wrist, Bruce would have clenched his fist. "You're giving up."

"No. Just realistic. With time, perhaps I could achieve more – but my place is by liege's side. I must leave the hunt of the Smiling Knight to another."

He was resigned. "And you don't think they will succeed, do you?"

"I think that Simon Toyne knows these lands too well. The efforts of the lords of the stormlands are doing naught to ease the smallfolk's dissent, either." There was a brief pause, a slight frown lining his face. "I had hoped to ambush the outlaws, to end the matter quickly, but that hope has been scattered and my advantage lost."

Bruce caught the knight's gaze. The reason Ser Arthur was keeping his voice so cool, his manner so detached. The boy bristled. "You're blaming me."

"I'm not going to coddle you, Bruce, and I don't think you want my sympathy." Ser Arthur cocked his head. "So yes, you do have a large portion of responsibility."

The statement was met by dead silence for several long heartbeats. "I tried to kill him. I almost did." I did more than you did.

"To 'try to' do something is not succeed. And to fail is to beget further loss. You risk your enemy recovering, you risk your enemy taking retribution." Ser Arthur shook his head. "I have no qualms about your intention, but did you ever even consider asking for help?"

"Help." He said that word like it was an alien concept.

"If there had been support with you that night," Ser Arthur said slowly, "then you would not have ended up in that bed, and Smiling Knight would not have escaped. That is very much your fault for sneaking off and running ahead."

Bruce looked at him like he was mad. Help?! "Would you have allowed it?" Bruce growled. "They would have kept me locked up, they would have sealed me in the chambers, I had to…!"

"Perhaps, yes. Or perhaps not. If I thought it would have helped you find resolution, I would have allowed you to squire for me during the campaign. I would have allowed you that chance to see justice done." He cocked his head, his pale gaze measuring Bruce up. "But you didn't want to see it done – you want to sacrifice yourself. This was not my fault, this was your own. No, Bruce, I have very little sympathy for young fools that jump off the cliff themselves."

Bruce open his mouth to object, but his protests fell silent against the knight's gaze. "You didn't act," he said finally, feeling himself shake. "You were too busy with speeches, promises, and feasts…"

I needed to do it myself. I needed to… How dare he try to pin this on me? "You didn't do a thing," Bruce growled. "You were doing nothing, and all the while…!"

"All the while the outlaws had no idea we were coming?" Ser Arthur raised his eyebrow. "By the River Slayne, on a ferrystop. We had his location, we knew where he'd be lurking. I would have tracked them in the exact same way that you did," Ser Arthur said simply. "Except I could have killed them. And yet because of you, the outlaws were spooked and they went to ground. They know they have the crown's attention now, they will be more cautious in the future. I have no idea when or where they will pop up again.

"And that is on you, Bruce; because of you, the Smiling Knight lives to kill another day."

The air went dead. Bruce's eyes twitched.

He's right, Bruce realised numbly. He didn't want to admit it, but it was true. There was a chance and I ruined it.

I needed to do it myself, Bruce tried to insist. I needed to kill him.

Except…

Long silence. Ser Arthur stood and waited patiently for the boy's reply. It took a long time for Bruce to gather his thoughts.

"What happened to the barkeep?" Bruce asked finally. "The woman – Rosie, that was her name. She owned the tavern, what happened to her?"

Bruce caught the surprise across those pale eyes, and a flicker of something else too. "She was hung," Ser Arthur replied, his voice turning grim. "Lord Morrigen's men raided the inn before I did. They put the place to the torch, and the woman was hung from a willow tree – she was executed for harbouring criminals under her roof."

That caused Bruce to sit up straighter. He stared into Ser Arthur's eyes and he knew there was more.

"And her daughter?" Bruce asked lowly. "She had daughter, maybe five or six years old."

Ser Arthur's jaw tensed. "She was executed too," he admitted. "The men-at-arms drowned her in the river."

Bruce remembered that girl. The girl with pigtails in her blonde hair. He didn't say anything, but his bruised stare spoke volumes. He glared, accusing.

"It was not my doing," Ser Arthur said finally, shifted somewhat. "It was over by the time I arrived."

"And they drowned her."

"I'm told that they caught her watching, hiding in the bushes," Ser Arthur admitted. "They might have hung her, but she squirmed. The men drowned her in the river instead. The entire family was put to death – Lord Morrigen wished to make an example of what happens to those who harbours brigands."

An example. Now wasn't that a joke? Even Ser Arthur looked abashed, but he didn't lower his gaze.

Ser Arthur didn't try to lie about it, at least. Other adults tried to lie, but Bruce could always tell.

Bruce's gaze stared numbly at the Sword of the Morning. All the accusations fell flat unspoken, the only thing that Bruce truly wanted to know… "And will you do it anything about it?"

"I will report the matter to the crown prince, and it'd be for him to decide which action to pursue. If Rhaegar feels compelled, he will request that the king bring the lord to court on the matter."

And perhaps men will fly. Nobody would fuss over one dead barmaid's daughter, Bruce had no doubt. By law, the family were criminals and Lord Morrigen had just been executing his rights as lord.

Even if, by some surreal fluke, the prince actually decided to raise the matter to the crown's justice, Lord Morrigen would simply blame some serjeant or officer and claim the order didn't come from him. There'd be no action taken against the lord himself. A lord was as good as untouchable regarding local jurisdiction.

But if it had been a highborn daughter, Bruce thought slowly, or a highborn son left orphaned in the woods… well, suddenly that would be a fuss. A highborn child was important. Why is one child's suffering a tragedy, but another child's fate completely inconsequential?

"Lord Morrigen will go completely unpunished." Bruce tensed so tightly it hurt. "Is that not part of a knight's vows – to protect women and children?"

"That family harboured the murderer who killed your parents. The mother sheltered him in her inn," Ser Arthur scolded, bristling. "The lord's judgment was harsh, but… Crime must have a price, and it is the lord's duty to uphold its punishment."

"The girl was six."

Ser Arthur did not reply to that for several heartbeats. "Yes," he agreed after a long pause. "And it was unjust, I cannot rightfully dispute that. If I had been there I would not have allowed it."

Bruce might have scoffed, but it hurt when he breathed. What use is forbidding something, he thought, if you don't punish the deed when it happens? A little girl was dead, but none would act. It would be problematic to punish a high lord over such a trivial matter.

Bruce remembered what the smallfolk said. The Old Crow ruled like a tyrant. It was Lord Morrigen's oppression that had given birth to outlaws and the traitors in the first place. How was that just? How was that right?

How could the knight judge him, when allowing something like that?

"And that's the problem I have with knights. You claim to honour what is right, but you don't. Not really." Bruce bit his lip. "You make promises that you can't keep. You don't serve what is just, you serve what is convenient."

"I…" Ser Arthur looked caught off-guard. This wasn't the conversation he had been expecting to have. "I would like to be able to object," he conceded. "I want to be able to deny such. And if you made that accusation against other knights, I have no doubt that'd many would be insulted. Appalled, perhaps." He shook his head. "But I cannot be. I have been doing this for many years, Bruce, and you're right – there have been many, many times that I've been forced to compromise my sense of justice to uphold my vows. There have been… decisions that my liege has made that I have not agreed with, but I follow all the same."

He hesitated, gaze flickering. "Why?" Bruce said stubbornly. "They're wrong, you know that they are."

"I do the best that I can, Bruce." There was a quiet scoff. "Not even the Sword of the Morning is flawless."

"And yet it is my actions that you judge."

"No," Arthur replied dourly. "I lament my own decisions more than anybody does. You have no idea the deeds I regret."

The boy hesitated, looking up. Ser Arthur spoke with care and honesty, lowering his voice. Bruce could see it in his eyes, that flicker of regret.

"But judgement is good, Bruce," the knight said with a sigh. "Take the failure on the chin, and carry it with you. Learn how to grow from it."

Bruce didn't reply. Ser Arthur moved closer, and for the first time Bruce saw those eyes soften. "Then do better. If you believe there is a problem with knights, then find a means to improve it," Ser Arthur said quietly. "Nothing would make me happier to see you as a better man than I am – I think that is what being a true knight is about."

For several heartbeats, silence reigned. Bruce averted his gaze first. Ser Arthur nodded.

Other people tried to lie, tried to comfort him. It always felt hollow. Ser Arthur spoke the truth.

"Thank you," Bruce said quietly. "For not coddling me."

For the first time, Ser Arthur smiled. It was a soft smile, one that looked unfamiliar on his lips. "I hope that you recover, Bruce Wayne," the Sword of Morning said. "I look forward to seeing the man you grow up to be."

"What is to me happen to me now?" Bruce asked.

"Now? Whatever you choose, I imagine. If you choose to jump off that cliff again, I don't believe anyone could stop you. Go and be the martyr, if you wish." He shook his head. "But I would rather see what you might achieve as a crusader, instead."

"You expect to me to forget what happened? To forget my parents?"

"Forget? Never. Take them with you, always. Just do better the next time, Bruce, that's all I ask." He paused slightly, his hand moving to the sword in his belt. "And speaking of…"

Ser Arthur unfastened the sheathe of the blade. Bruce frowned. "I do not want another vow from you, ser."

"You will not get one," the knight scoffed, as he drew the blade. "This is yours, I believe."

The sword was grey iron and slightly rusty. It was too poor a sword to belong on a Kingsguard's belt. At first, Bruce was confused, but then he recognition clicked.

His eyes widened in shock, face turning pale. The sword…

"You had it on you when they found you, I'm told. You left it behind, but I thought to return it," Ser Arthur said, dropping the blade by Bruce's bedside. "I was unsure if you still had use of it."

He remembered the Smiling Knight, placing the sword in his broken hands. The sword that killed my parents.

Bruce didn't reply, he couldn't. His eyes were fixed on that sword. Ser Arthur looked down, and frowned. "I was not sure if you still had use for it," Ser Arthur said carefully, "but it is your decision to make."

The boy's hands started to tremble. He remembered what it had been like to wrap his hands around that hilt.

It is only a sword, Bruce told himself. A cheap sword too; it was a poor man's blade and there were a thousand more just like it. Nothing remarkable, nothing special.

And yet…

Two bodies falling into the rain. Bruce saw the sword flash, over and over.

It's not really about the sword.

The silence stretched uncomfortably long. Ser Arthur left the blade leaning by his bedside. The Sword of the Morning just nodded.

"I will leave you in peace," Ser Arthur said finally, turning to walk away. His armour chimed with every step. "I wish you well, Lord Wayne."

It was only when he was gone and the door shut behind him, that Bruce's body finally sagged. He collapsed into the pillow staring at the ceiling. The sword was lying right next to him, but he couldn't bring himself to touch it.

My choice, the boy thought. My choice.

________

Prince Rhaegar and his companions left for Griffin's Roost early the next morning. They had already been delayed, but they still had to see to House Connington's land dispute. The household gathered in the courtyard to bid the prince off, but Bruce couldn't attend. He was still bedbound, still stewing and still wrapped in bandages.

It was a week later when Bruce finally managed to stand on his own, and the maester declared his knees strong enough for light exercise. Clean breaks, the maester had declared, and they're set to heal well. They didn't feel clean to Bruce, though he didn't protest the diagnosis.

Maester Cressen stuck by Bruce's side, helping to lever the boy out of bed, even despite all the aches and pains. The maester offered him a touch of milk of the poppy to take the edge off, but Bruce refused.

Slowly, awkwardly, he finally found himself hobbling up from the bed. His whole body was shaking, pale and weak. His head spun, but the maester was there to keep him upright.

"I'm sorry, maester," Bruce whispered. Cressen didn't react, but he nodded. He took Bruce back into the bed, to help him rest.

"There are people around you who do care, Bruce," Cressen said softly after a while. "I know it's not always easy to let them in, but it will be easier when you do."

The maester bid him goodnight. Bruce spend the time thinking about his future. What he wanted to do with it. He kept the Smiling Knight's sword tucked under his mattress.

Finally, Bruce managed to walk on his own. They gave him a crutch, and freedom to practice by himself. It was another two days before he finally managed stairs. Another one until he made a decision.

Bruce left his room at dusk, stepping out of the infirmary when the corridors were quiet. He hobbled with a crutch under one arm, and the iron blade cradled in the other. Bruce held the Smiling Knight's sword gingerly, inspecting every inch of the rough iron.

He walked straight to the outer walls, and the solid cliffs overlooking Durran's Point. Below him, he heard the faint buzz of the waves washing against the cliffs. The narrow sea stretched out before him, but the immense walls of the castle were deserted.

The fading sunset turned the sky red like blood. Bruce spent a long time staring at the iron sword in his hands.

The Smiling Knight wanted me to have this, he thought. He wanted to me to use it.

After a long pause, Bruce gripped the blade tightly, and he hurled it off the walls with all the strength he could muster. Bruce didn't even hear the splash as it landed in the waters below.

The boy turned and hobbled away.

Perhaps the blade might wash onto the beach sometime, or perhaps it would spend a millennium rusting away under the bay. It was an unimportant sword, regardless.

He didn't know if he could ever actually be free of the nightmares, but he knew he wanted to try.

The next morning, Bruce limped through the grounds, searching the outbuildings. The stables and the sparring yard was empty, but Bruce finally found Stannis in the hawkery. The older boy was tending to a frail goshawk sitting on the mews, carefully and quietly feeding the hooded bird strips of meat. Bruce knocked as he entered.

Stannis turned, stood up, and kept his expression still. Bruce hesitated slightly as he approached. "Lord Bruce," Stannis greeted woodenly.

"Stannis," Bruce replied awkwardly, and he limped closer. On the mews, the goshawk cawed for more food restlessly.

Neither of them spoke. Bruce grimaced. Somehow, walking to his death or jumping from the tower had been a lot less difficult than even just saying the words…

"Thank you," Bruce said finally. "I want to thank you for saving my life. I'd likely be dead if you hadn't have found me."

"I only joined the search party," the older boy replied stiffly. "There were plenty others that could have found you." There was a pause. "And what happened with my horse?"

"I… I do not know." I left her tied up behind the tavern. Perhaps one of the outlaws took her? "… I'm sorry."

"She was a grand horse. Thoroughbred Arlanic courser, a pure stormlands breed."

"I'm sorry," Bruce repeated. He blinked, unsure what to say next. "I shall find you another?"

"Will you steal that one that too?" Was that a jest? It was hard to tell.

"I'm not quite sure what else to say," Bruce conceded. "Except I'm sorry."

"Hm." Stannis' eyes narrowed, looking between Bruce's crutch and his bandaged arm. "Do you mean to do it again?"

"Not right now. I shall see how I feel on the morn."

There was no reply for a good few heartbeats. "That was a jest," Bruce clarified.

"I am aware."

"Yes," Bruce nodded. He had to stop himself from apologising again, else he'd sound like a fool. "Right."

It seemed like neither boy knew what to say. "Did you find what you were looking for?" Stannis asked finally. "Are you satisfied?"

"I did not." Bruce shook his head. "But I don't think that I want to keep on chasing it either." Not right now, at least. "I want… I want something else with my life." Still trying to figure it out, he admitted quietly, but this feels like progress.

Stannis stood stiff and awkward. The boy held himself like a man much older, but for a moment he looked unsure. "Your business is your business," Stannis replied after a while.

"Of course." Bruce looked at him curiously. "Did you raise the alarm?" Bruce asked finally. "That night, did you…?"

"I did," Stannis replied. "Nobody is above the rules, Bruce. Not even you."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Good."

Gods, am I doing this right? Letting people in, was how the maester had phrased it. With Stannis, it felt like more like trying to pry open the door. And yet, still, Stannis was perhaps the only person in the castle that Bruce felt some companionship with. The only other who walked around wearing armour.

It felt like it was something that Bruce needed to do. Another little wound to patch up.

"Your raptor," Bruce said after a pause, pointing towards the bird.

"Proudwing," Stannis said firmly.

"Proudwing," Bruce repeated. "Do you wish to go hunting together sometime?"

"Do you know anything of hawking?"

"I do not. But I can learn."

Stannis peered at him suspiciously. He nodded, but his jaw tightened as well. "Don't feel obliged to make amends," the older boy said finally, as he turned towards the door. "It will not make a difference, and I do not need the companionship."

Still, Stannis walked slow enough that Bruce could keep pace on his crutch. "I'm well aware."

Bruce spent the rest of the day with Stannis, helping to tend to the hawkery and his hunting raptors. Proudwing was missing feathers and with a wounded joint, but Bruce helped him tend to the joint.

Ser Harbert had assured Stannis repeatedly to abandon the bird, but Bruce insisted that he should not. Towards dusk, after an entire day of trying to patch up an agitated hawk, Stannis admitted that the goshawk would never fly above the treetops. "Then he must learn to hunt from below," Bruce replied.

As night fell, it helped Bruce make a decision he had hardly even realised that he was contemplating.

He returned to the drum tower, and painfully hobbled up the stairs to the lord's solar. He found Lord Steffon in his seat, with Lady Cassana and Ser Harbert perched on the other side of the desk. Bruce knocked as he entered.

"My lord," Bruce greeting, bowing in the doorway. "I wanted to apologise."

"Aye." Lord Steffon narrowed his eyes. Ser Harbert gave a quiet scoff. "And are you sorry?"

"I am." Sorry, disappointed, angry, confused – Bruce's feeling were all over the place. "I regret… well, I regret all of it."

The eyes were on him, measuring him up. Bruce might have floundered under the stares. He grit his jaw, and he felt the spiking pain from his aching jaw. "And," Bruce sighed. "And I was wondering if the offer of squireship was still applicable?"

That was the start of a lengthy conversation, but Bruce only really remembered the conclusion of it. The prince party would be leaving from Griffin's Roost in a fortnight, and they would be stopping by Storm's End for a single night on the return journey. It was for Bruce to make amends.

________

Bruce healed well. His legs were stiff and the cramps and aches faded slowly, but Bruce abandoned the crutch at the end of the first week. His front teeth were chipped, and when he opened his mouth he could see a missing incisor on his bottom jaw. When he was older, Cressen offered, he might have false tooth implanted. Bruce had just nodded.

Bruce spent the fortnight recovering with light exercise, plenty of rest, and preparing himself for what must be done. He also sketched up a few redesigns of his crossbow.

The prince returned towards the end of the moon – apparently the negotiations between Connington and Morrigen had been a bitter disappointment. He heard that Lord Connington had tried to order his son Jon to remove himself from the prince's circle, which ended up as a furious argument between the lord and heir. All the while, House Morrigen remained belligerent.

News came through patchily of the hunting parties through the rainwood. Ser Arthur was to linger for as long as he could to hunt down Simon Toyne's brotherhood, but there had been little success. The brigands remained elusive, and Ser Arthur was beginning to suspect that they had fled north instead.

Perhaps that was why prince's party seemed in dour spirits as they filed through the gates of Storm's End once more. Bruce hardly even saw Prince Rhaegar – he was rushed through the keep and was locked in some urgent matter with Lord Steffon.

Still, it was another that Bruce who needed to beseech. As the castle rippled with the prince's return, he found the two Kingsguard breaking their fast by the stables, chewing on dried meat and sitting on stools as they guarded the prince's destrier and saddlebags.

Ser Barristan and Ser Oswell were huddled together speaking in murmured words, but Bruce lipread the word 'Connington' being mentioned frequently.

The boy walked straight for Ser Oswell Whent, trying his best to keep the lurch out of his steps. He bowed before the pair of them.

"Lord Bruce," Ser Barristan greeted, nudging the other knight. "You heal well."

"Sers," Bruce kept his head noble. Stay respectful, Steffon had ordered of him. "Good tidings, noble knights."

"Aye, we'll see about that." Ser Oswell muttered, his eyes narrowing.

"You come with business?" Ser Barriston asked.

"Or do you mean to steal this horse next?" Ser Oswell added.

Bruce kept his head lowered, hiding a grimace. "I come for Ser Oswell, sers," he admitted, turning to face the grim-faced man. "I… I wish to offer myself as your squire, ser. I hoped you could take me under your tutelage."

Ser Oswell wiped his lips, cleaning the dried meat from his mouth. "Is that so?" the knight mused. "Why?"

Outside of the dining table, all of the forced politeness was gone. Ser Oswell's voice was sharp and dry. "I mean to earn my spurs, ser; to work towards the vows of knighthood."

"Is that what you want, is it?" Ser Oswell demanded, and Bruce nodded. "You know that the prince hounded me to take you as a squire for months. 'It is only proper', Rhaegar said, 'the last of House Wayne should have a suitable knighthood, and Whent and Wayne have long history together'. Those were the Lord Baratheon's words, no doubt – the lord wanted you squired to the Kingsguard and he pressured Rhaegar to see it done. So I agreed then because I could hardly refuse." Bruce didn't reply. Ser Oswell cocked his head. "But then after the stunt you pulled on our last visit, the prince turned to me and said – and I quote – 'Alright, I understand if you do not wish to take the boy'."

Ser Barristan looked uncomfortable, shuffling away slightly on his stool. Bruce kept his voice level. "I understand, ser." He paused. "How may I convince you to give you to change your mind?"

"Start by giving me a reason," Ser Oswell said sharply. "Why do you want to be a squire?"

"To become a knight."

The knight scoffed. The sharp, indifferent sound spoke volumes of what he thought of that reason. He leant back on his seat, and Bruce noticed that his white cloak bore a fastener shaped like yellow bat. "I don't like squires," Ser Oswell said dismissively. "To me, squires are weeping, unruly and aggravating little brats that aren't worth the time I give them. Matter of fact, I dislike squires so much that I try to beat the unruliness out of them, to maybe turn them into something worthwhile. Is that you, Bruce?"

Bruce didn't reply. He wasn't sure if either a yes or a no answer was appropriate.

"If you want an easy knighthood," Ser Oswell continued, "then find someone else. I've got no doubt that there'll be no shortage of knights who will give you spurs for nothing more than a pat on the head from Lord Baratheon. Hells, it seems like for a bit of silver, any fool can become a knight these days." Ser Oswell shook his head. "That's not me. If you want me to give you my sword, then I expect you to work and bleed and suffer for it."

Good. Bruce could handle some suffering, and he needed a goal. He needed something to drive him. "I understand, ser."

"And you want this?" he pressed.

"Yes, ser."

"Don't lie, Bruce – I saw your face during the dinner," the knight scoffed. "I saw your expression when Rhaegar brought it up. You had absolutely no interest in being a knight. So why the change of heart?"

There was a pause, a length of silence waiting for a response. Bruce's face twitched. He could lie, but if Ser Oswell refused him now…

"Because there are always going to be bad people in the world," the boy said finally. "And because somebody has to even the scales."

It was met by quiet. Ser Barristan and Ser Oswell looked at each other. There was a silent exchange of unspoken words which Bruce couldn't pick up on. Ser Barristan seemed to have an approving look.

"My last squire really did quit, you know," Ser Oswell said after a long pause, turning back to Bruce. "I had him running laps of the walls carrying saddlebags, the boy didn't last a month. You squire for me and you'll be scraping off rust and polishing armour till you bleed."

"Fine."

"And I expect you to clean all the stables," he added, "picking up manure and all. Emptying chamberpots and wiping up filth."

"Fine."

"With no disobedience?" His eyes narrowed. "I heard what you're like, I've heard the castle nattering about it. I won't be tolerating any disrespect, boy."

"None," Bruce agreed.

"Ok." Ser Oswell still seemed cautious, but he seemed to relent. With a sigh, he stood up from his stool, and his hand moved to the sword on his belt. "Lets give this shot. First thing first, I like to test my squires. Pick up a sparring sword, then, let's get a taste of your mettle."

"No."

The knight bristled. "Boy, what did I just–"

"I'll do all the chores," Bruce decided firmly. "I'll do the exercises, the cleaning, the duties, fine. But I won't be swinging a sword. I don't like swords."

He looked down at him in quiet dismay. "And what sort of bloody knight doesn't have a sword?" Ser Oswell scoffed.

Bruce did not reply. My sort, he thought to himself.

 

[Serpentguy]

Chapter 6
Fall Down!

276 AC, King's Landing.

King's Landing was a different breed of city. Bruce had never been in a city so big, he had never seen a castle like the Red Keep.

The Red Keep made Wayne Manor look like a decrepit cottage. Harrenhal had been far bigger, of course, and Storm's End was stouter and stronger, but the Red Keep was busier and more frenzied, chaotic and grand. It loomed over the city and shone ruby red in the morning sun, and yet at every hour it seemed like Red Keep was heaving with activity. The gates were hardly ever shut, and every morning the castle was filled with nobles and knights, merchants and guards bustling towards the king's court. It was the centre of activity, the hub of the kingdom.

From Aegon's High Hill, King's Landing stretched for as far as the eye could see. It was a forest, Bruce had thought, a forest of stone and thatch.

At Wayne's Manor, Bruce used to be able to sleep until noon. There was no sleeping late at the Red Keep. Instead, every morning the great bell tower chimed and men were stomping through the quarters calling for attention.

"Rounds," the crier shouted, ringing a bell as he strolled. "Rounds!"

The routine was everything around here. The Kingsguard moved about their duties with hardened precision, and their squires were expected to do the same.

And every morning, Bruce grumbled. He was often awake late at night; he was not one to enjoy waking up at dawn. Every morning, he woke to see Stannis staring down at him disapprovingly.

"Up, Bruce," the older boy ordered. "Ser Oswell and Ser Harlan will be waiting for us."

Ser Oswell won't have time for us, Bruce thought, and Ser Harlan hardly has the wits to care. Still, he just grumbled, his shoulder still aching as he pulled himself up from the cot.

"What news of the queen?" another squire, young Raymun Darry, a boy of eight, asked. "I heard that she's to give birth any day now."

"The babe won't survive," an older boy, Robin Hollard, scoffed. Robin was older, nearing thirteen, with a lanky build and sharp eyes. "Everybody knows that the babe is dead in the womb, just like all the others were."

"None of that now," Desmond Darry, Raymund's older brother, chided. Desmond was the oldest of the bunch, nearing sixteen and a man grown. "I'll have no talk of the queen's pregnancy. The Grand Maester said babe looked healthy, and we all wish Queen Rhaella the best."

Pycelle had also warned that Rhaella could not have another babe several times in the past. The king had insisted on another child, though, even despite six stillbirths and dead newborns, and the strain it took on his queen. Shaena, Dareon, Aegon and Jaehaerys had all been born frail and died young, and nobody expected this next birth to be any different.

And yet still, the whole castle felt tense as the squires dropped out of their bunks. The High Septon was said to be coming to the castle to pray for a healthy prince, and the Grand Maester had ordered constant bedrest and supervision for the queen. King Aerys was tense, the Kingsguard would be on high alert, and the crown prince had seemingly disappeared.

Bruce had seen Rhaegar ride out of the gates last night, after an argument with the king and as soon as his mother started to go into labour.

A few of the younger boys thought that Rhaegar had left on a quest to find a blessed relic to protect his mother in childbirth, but personally Bruce thought that the prince just wasn't good at handling tense, emotional moments in his family. Rhaegar had chose to leave to avoid it, rather than suffer through it.

As the squires stepped out of their quarters, he saw a line of septas ringing bells, parading up the road to the keep from the city below.

They said that autumn was upon them, but the sun still felt blisteringly hot as the squires dressed, washed, clad themselves in leathers and then marched out into the courtyard. There were two dozen of them, all marching out of the lower quarters for one task or another. Bruce kept to Stannis' side, and most of the others gave them a wide berth.

Bruce was healing well. There was hardly even a lurch in his step any more as he stepped down from the barracks. Ser Oswell had decided a week past that Bruce was fit for sparring with the group.

Ser Oswell rarely trained Bruce personally. It had happened maybe twice in the months that he had been here. He had learnt that the Kingsguard were far too busy to tend to their squires themselves; the Lord Commander, Ser Gerold Hightower, had four squires himself, while Prince Lewyn Martell had six. It was a mark of prestige to squire for the Kingsguard, and thus it was expected that the knights each took several.

Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Harlan Grandison were something of an irregularities among the white cloaks for only having one squire each.

For Ser Oswell, it was said that his personality put lords off. The knight was too blunt-tongued and too dark-humoured for noble lords to trust their sons to his care. Bruce had only been named to Ser Oswell for the relationship between Wayne and Whent, and because Lord Walter Whent had insisted that his brother Oswell take Bruce on.

For Ser Harlan, they all knew the knight was infirm. The knight of House Grandison could barely lift himself out of bed on a morn, let alone ride a saddle. Ser Harlan's days of riding or fighting were well behind him, and Bruce knew that they sniggered at Stannis for squiring to such an elderly knight.

Still, Lord Steffon had wanted Stannis to go to the capital along with Bruce, and Ser Harlan Grandison had been an acclaimed warrior in his youth – a man knighted by Duncan the Tall himself during the Third Blackfyre Rebellion. But Kingsguard served for life, and now Ser Harlan was nearing eighty. His sworn brothers supported him, but Ser Harlan had little need of Stannis as a squire. It was more political than practical.

The group of squires gathered in the wards and waited, until one of the king's pages delivered the news. As expected, the Kingsguard were on duty around the king and queen, they would have little time for their squires today. They rarely had time for their squires at the best of times, but the boys were still expected to train in the grounds. A few of the other boys groaned, but both Bruce and Stannis kept the displeasure off their faces.

"Will it be Ser Willem?" Raymun Darry asked hopefully while they walked to the training yards.

I doubt it, Bruce thought, but he kept quiet. "Ser Willem went riding with the prince," Stannis replied grimly.

A quiet groan filled the air. If their knights had dismissed them and if the master-at-arms was preoccupied, they all knew who would take his place.

The wards were filled with some of the most highborn children of the realm; Stannis Baratheon, three Darry brothers, Gerold Grafton, Lyn Corbray, Moryn Tyrell, Garth and Gunthor Hightower, Desmond Redwyne, Gerold Dayne, Anders Yronwood, Agar Wyl, Errick Hayford, Garse Goodbrook, Bryce Caron, Balman Byrch, Renfred Rykker, Robin Hollard and his cousin Dontos, and Tomas Darklyn all stood beside Bruce. They were aged between seven and fifteen, all squires to some important knight in the capital.

And they all stiffened as they saw short and lean man trekking through the wards, his face curled in a permanent scowl.

"Stand straight!" Ser Alliser Thorne ordered. "Shoulders up, feet forward. At least try to look like you mean it."

Ser Alliser Thorne was a serjeant under the master-at-arms of the Red Keep, and everybody knew that Ser Alliser wanted the job above. Ser Willem Darry was a good man, but it seemed like more and more Ser Alliser took command of training the younger boys instead.

While their knights were preoccupied, that left the squires in the care of the likes of Ser Alliser.

The knight was a sinewy man with a cruel tongue, who carried a wooden stick in one hand and a bag of training swords in the other. "Well?" Alliser snapped. "What are you waiting for? Pick up sword and take position. What were we learning the other day?"

"Parrying, ser," Anders Yronwood said stiffly. The fifteen year old Yronwood heir stood stiffly, his shoulders already broader than the knight's.

"Parrying," Ser Alliser scoffed. "Aye, as if I don't have more anything important than teach you parrying. Hold your sword forward. Gatehouse, you pair with Tall Tower over there. Short Tower, you're with the Sour Grape."

At his command, Anders Yronwood and Garth Hightower turned to face each other, while Gunthor Hightower joined with Desmond Redwyne. Young Gerold Dayne (the "Sword of Stupid") was paired with Bryce Caron ("Wonder Boy"), while Lyn Corbray ("Killer") was paired with Tomas Darklyn ("Mommy Boy"), and Robin Hollard ("Tweedledee") was paired with his meeker cousin Dontos Hollard ("Tweedledum"). Ser Alliser had names for them all.

"Laughing Twins!" Ser Alliser jeered at Stannis and Bruce. Both boys just stared back stoically. "You're sparring together, take position."

Stannis picked up a training sword, but Bruce didn't. Stannis never said anything, but he looked irritable.

Ser Alliser was already walking between them, whacking ankles and wrists with the flat of his stick. "Move your feet apart, Stump," he snapped at Errik Hatford, a heavyset boy. "He may be as slow as a snail," Ser Alliser sneered at pot-bellied Balmon Byrch, "but try not to look so gormless when he hits you."

Gerold and Bryce were already sparring with each other, two young boys whacking sticks. "Parry," Ser Alliser hissed. "Do know that word means?" The boys hesitated, and Gerold was glaring. Ser Alliser shook his head. "By the gods, how did I ever get stuck training the likes of you miserable lot?"

"You cannot talk to us like that," Gerold bristled, stuffing his chest out. He was young, a boy of seven with bright silver hair. "I will be the next Sword of the Morning."

The knight only barked with laughter. "And snarks and grumpkins will fly," he sneered. "You're the son of a cousin who fucked a fishwife, 'Dayne' – you've never even stepped foot in Starfall, have you?" The young boy glared, his face turning red. "Ser Arthur may have taken you as a squire, but make no mistake – you're little more than a bastard."

Ser Alliser likes his cruel taunts, Bruce thought silently. For some men, cruelty was the only way they could think.

Stannis was standing in position, holding himself stiff with his sword outstretched. Bruce copied the stance without the sword, all the while Ser Alliser slowly strolled towards them.

"Don't," Stannis whispered to Bruce, but he pretended not to hear. Bruce's eyes narrowed on Ser Alliser.

"Congratulations. Between the two of you, you might have the wits to match a fencepost," Ser Alliser sneered at Anders and Garth. "I've known walls that could react faster than you two. Now hold the sword straight, keep your elbows in. Bend your knees, step… lunge." The wooden swords clanked together. "Again."

Everybody else was sparring, but Bruce still hadn't picked up a training sword.

Ser Alliser moved towards the back of the group, and his gaze slowly turned toward Bruce. His lips curled. "You. Bruce Wayne."

"Yes ser." Bruce kept his voice level.

"You don't have a sword, Bruce Wayne," he sneered.

"Yes ser."

"Pick up a practice sword, boy."

"No ser."

The knight cocked his head. "Boy, this is sword training," Ser Alliser said slowly, speaking as if Bruce was slow. "You need a bloody sword."

"No ser."

Stannis grimaced. A few of the boys scuffled, turning to stare at him. Ser Alliser's eyes bulged. "Are you trying to be funny, lad?"

"No ser," Bruce replied. "I don't make japes, ser. I don't hold swords either."

"Boy…" Ser Alliser raised his wooden stick warningly. Bruce didn't even flinch.

The knight's lips twisted. There was a pause, a moment of consideration.

"Fine. If Lord Bruce here thinks he's too good to hold a sword…" Ser Alliser sneered. "Cobray, Darklyn, step forward. You too Hollard. Not the fat Hollard," he sneered at eleven year old Dontos, "the talented Hollard."

Lyn Corbray and Tomas Darklyn hesitated, but they broke from their spar. Robin Hollard walked towards him too, leaving Dontos stepping back with his head hung. Lyn and Tomas were both tall and strong boys of fourteen, while Robin was twelve and somewhat podgy, but still tall.

Ser Alliser gave Bruce a look that said 'are you sure you want to challenge me?'. Bruce kept his head raised and his gaze firm.

"Lord Wayne here," Ser Alliser said slowly, "clearly thinks he doesn't need to learn how to use a sword. Is that right, boy?"

Bruce paused for a bit, and then he gave a curt nod. "I don't like swords," he repeated. He paused. "Respectfully, ser."

Alliser's face twitched. Bruce knew the knight's sort; Ser Alliser didn't like to be challenged, didn't like to feel out of control.

"Ser?" Tomas Darklyn said cautiously, looking down at Bruce. Fourteen years old, Bruce had seen him spar frequently enough. He was matched often with Lyn – Tomas was the stronger of the two, but Lyn was faster and more relentless. Robin was the weakest out of the three, but the most creative and unpredictable in a fight.

All three were much bigger and stronger than Bruce.

"This is a spar, "Ser Alliser ordered. He threw a wooden sword at Bruce's feet, and then turned to look to the other three. "If the bat boy thinks himself so good…" Ser Alliser spat. "… then I want you three to hit him until he thinks to pick up that sword."

Tomas, Lyn and Robin all looked at each other, holding their wooden swords doubtfully.

Bruce looked down at the sword on the ground, and then nudged it to one side with his foot. After a pause, Bruce raised his fists. He heard laughter from the crowd of squires, mocking voices. Stannis didn't laugh.

Ser Alliser meant to shame him, Bruce knew. It was an approach that Ser Alliser used frequently enough; pick one boy to put in the front of the group, and bully him to submission as an example to the others.

The other three boys held wooden sticks. Lyn will attack first, Bruce thought. He's too eager, he'll want the first blow. Tomas will be second, but he'll strike hard. Robin will flank me, wait for his chance, but he'll hit multiple times…

They won't work together so well, they'll clash with each other. Get in close, keep low…

"Hit him," Ser Alliser ordered. "Make him pick it up."

I won't.

Feet stepped forward. Bruce crouched low, stepping forward as soon as the first sword raised. Bodies surged, and wooden sticks whooshed. Stay low, keep limber. Press close to them, turn their reach into a disadvantage…

Lyn Corbray was first. The boy cackled as he swooped in and swept the wooden stick down. Bruce was already moving.

Bruce dodged the first strike, but there was no chance at dodging the second. Tomas was lunging. Bruce took the painful oomph with his shoulder, trying to twist around. He was trying to steer Tomas and Lyn into each other, but then Robin caught his ankle with the wooden edge.

Pain shot up his leg. Bruce didn't fall, but he stumbled. Robin was already striking him again.

"Pick it up boy!" Ser Alliser guffawed, kicking the wooden stick back to him. "Parry."

The second blow should have hit Bruce's chest, but his reflexes made it miss and graze his hip. Bruce tried to power through, but then…

Whack. Whack. Whack.

Pain. Bruce took the first three strikes and stayed standing, but then a solid lunge across the temple from Tomas knocked him down to the stones. Bruce felt blood on his brow, his knees scraping across the stones. Tomas backed away, but Robin didn't. The younger boy kept on hitting, and then Lyn raised his stick too.

The other boys were laughing. Bruce was left gasping, struggling to recover.

"Alright, that's enough!" Ser Alliser snapped. "Get off him, you two. Get off!"

Robin was chuckling, lingering for another whack. Bruce gasped, but he couldn't curl up on the ground. Focus. Focus.

The other squires were looking at him like Bruce was a fool. Three big boys ganged up on him, hitting him with sticks, but Bruce didn't even go for the practice sword. Stannis had his arms folded.

"Back off, you three!" Ser Alliser ordered, shuffling them away. "Leave little lord on the ground…"

He could still feel the broken edge of his front tooth. The Smiling Knight had hit harder than these three ever could.

The boys stepped away, but Bruce raised his hand. "I'm not done," Bruce said suddenly. "I'm not done."

The laughter hesitated. Ser Alliser's eyes flickered, but Bruce pulled himself off the ground. "This spar isn't over until I concede," Bruce insisted. "I haven't conceded."

Robin guffawed with laughter, spinning his stick. "What do you think you're doing?" Robin mocked. "Bat boy–"

His voice cut off, as Bruce's knuckles collided with his nose. It was a weak punch, but it caught the other boy by surprise.

Robin staggered in shock. Bruce heard Dontos giggle.

Bodies crashed together. Bruce's knee slammed into Robin's chest, and then he was shoving him backwards. Robin stumbled into Tomas, and then Bruce was turning onto Lyn. He kicked off from the other boy, swinging his fist straight for Corbray's chin.

It didn't work. Lyn had smooth reflexes, instead the wooden point jabbed into Bruce' chest. Even through Bruce's leathers, it was a hard blow. It hurt like a punch to the gut, but Bruce didn't fall.

"Basta–" Robin hissed, blood bursting from his nostrils. Bruce twisted, trying to parry, but then Tomas…

Whack. Whack.

Stannis groaned quietly. A few of the boys winced. The edge of Tomas' stick had smeared a bloody gash over Bruce's cheek.

Lyn's whack collided against Bruce's tender shoulder, and the pain caused him to shudder.

Bruce staggered, but he didn't fall. "I don't concede," Bruce muttered quietly.

Tomas and Lyn shared a glance. Tomas was pulling back on his blows, but Lyn's strikes seemed to be growing in fury. Slowly, Bruce raised his hands, taunting them to step forward.

"Boy…!" Ser Alliser growled.

"I haven't conceded," Bruce insisted. "It's against the rules of engagement to break a spar before concession, ser."

Ser Alliser didn't know what to do. Bruce could see the doubt in his eyes; this lesson is becoming bloody, Alliser was thinking, but to stop it now would be to let the disrespectful boy win.

Tomas looked momentarily hesitant, but Lyn and Robin were angry. "Come on," Bruce challenged. "Fight."

Lyn stabbed in. Bruce took the blow with his arm, and shoulder barged through it. He slammed into the other boy with all his weight, jamming his elbow in. Lyn's lost his footing, tumbling backwards, but then Tomas' swing…

Whack.

Bruce landed on the floor, but recovered smoothly. He rebounded back up again, his body twisting. Robin was on his feet too, bringing the stick down in a double-handed strike. Bruce dodged the first blow, but the second one hurt. Still, Bruce managed to grab a hold of the end of it, managed to yank hard. Robin tumbled down as well, wrestling and thrashing.

The two boys rolled. Robin was stronger, but Bruce had the momentum. He had better form, managed to press harder, almost managed to squirm away. Bruce nearly found an upper hand, until Lyn kicked him in the face. That caused his vision to blur, caused his nose to burst.

Ser Alliser was looking nervous. The knight could have ended the 'spar' at any time, but he didn't. Bruce hadn't conceded, and Alliser wanted Bruce to learn his lesson.

And I am. I'm learning.

"You kick like a girl," Bruce spat, "and I don't concede."

Lyn screamed. Robin tried to tackle him, but Bruce sidestepped and twisted the attack around.

Robin was too impulsive, and Lyn overreached himself. Bruce managed to disarm both of them, he might have found the upper hand against the two of them – but Tomas was different. The Darklyn squire was the best out of the bunch; he held himself well, and his strikes…

The wooden stick was like a lash. Bruce ducked between his arms, but the solid whack…

Bruce tried to recover, but then Tomas was on him with blow after blow.

"Fall down!" Tomas snapped, with another hard whack. "Stay down! Stay down!"

Bruce didn't. He got up every single time, muttering with every wheezy breath. "I don't concede. I don't."

This is all just practice, after all. He knew that he was at an unwinnable disadvantage, but this was what he needed to learn.

"Fall down!" Tomas snarled.

No. It was pure stubbornness, but Bruce kept on trying to press forward. Tomas kept on hitting him, and for a second the other boy's normally calm composure threatened to break.

The memory of being in the mud, while the Smiling Knight kept on kicking him, flashed before Bruce's eyes. Don't fall. I won't fall.

It was only when Tomas' stick broke against Bruce's shoulder that the fight finally seemed to die out. Tomas looked at the broken training sword, and then at Bruce's bloody face, and then he conceded.

Robin was howling with rage, Lyn was seething, but Tomas just seemed confused.

By the end of it, Bruce was a bloody mess, but it was the other boys that had to concede first. Bruce took everything they had and still managed to stand up after it.

"Goddammit Bruce," Stannis muttered under his breath, shaking his head. Nobody else seemed to know what to say.

The training session seemed to fizzle out after that, while Bruce was keeled over and coughing blood. Ser Alliser seemed at a loss, blinking repeatedly. Both Robin and Lyn had taken their fair share of bruises, but Bruce had been left beaten raw.

It was only noon, but Ser Alliser just called off the training and swept away.

"Why did you do that?" Tomas frowned, looking confused. He brought Bruce a soaked rag for his bruises. "I didn't want to hurt you, all you had to do was concede."

Bruce didn't reply, but he held no resentment. It was worth it just to see Ser Alliser taken down a few pegs. Bruce had no regrets. The bruises felt good for the soul.

Still, Stannis and Tomas both had to help carry Bruce back towards the barracks.

Come evening, the Kingsguard finished their rounds, and Ser Oswell was in a fury when he saw Bruce's state. The knight bristled, demanding to know what had happened, and then eventually grabbed Bruce's by the wrist and dragged him before Ser Alliser.

"What do you call this?" Ser Oswell demanded at the serjeant. "You were supposed to train them, not beat them bloody!"

Ser Alliser bristled. "It was his own bloody fault!" the knight protested. "The brat refused to didn't pick up a sword! It was disrespect!"

Ser Oswell looked incredulously. "And so you set three thugs to beat on him, you bloody fool?" Ser Oswell snapped. "Would have you had him lashed if he didn't get on a horse? Is that your level of competence, ser?"

"It was his own bloody fault!" Alliser Thorne snapped. "All he had to do was fall down, and it would have stopped!"

"You're meant to be their tutor, you fool! Is this lesson you want to die on, ser?"

It nearly came to blows between them, but then Ser Willem Darry had to step in. Ser Alliser was red-faced and abashed, but he refused to back down. That only made Oswell angrier.

In the end, it was decided that Bruce would not be taking lessons with the group any more, and that he was exempt from sparring. "Gods forbid you ever teach them with live steel," Ser Oswell fumed. "The boy would be dead by now."

Still, Ser Oswell dragged his squire away, and it was only as he called for the maester that the knight turned to yell at Bruce too. "And you, boy," Ser Oswell snapped. "What the fucking hell were you thinking? Did you want to spend another four weeks in the infirmary bed? Or do you just want to be crippled altogether, and not have to do a damn thing?"

Bruce repeated his apologies, which only seemed to make Oswell more infuriated. Ser Oswell punished Bruce too – ordering that Bruce would be polishing helms while all the others were sparring with swords. Bruce didn't mind that.

The Grand Maester was with the queen, but there was a young apprentice who treated and wrapped Bruce's cuts. Bruce took the chance to learn everything he could of the poultices and medicines that the maesters used, and to slip a few small vials into his pockets.

Come dusk, Bruce was finally free to limp back to his cot. The other squires were staring at him like he was strange. Bruce didn't mind that either. Stannis was waiting for him, with a heavy disapproving frown on his face.

"Why did you do that?" Stannis demanded. "You knew exactly what would happen, why did you do it?"

"Honestly?" Bruce said with a sigh. "I just wanted to escape from future lessons."

He winced as he levered himself into his cot. Bruce closed his eyes, and he was already replaying that scene in his head. He reimagined every movement, every strike and dodge, slowly trying to map out everything that went wrong.

I could have had them. If I had been a bit faster, a bit smoother, then I might have…

His bloody lips tightened, as he silently rehearsed everything that he would do better the next time. As he slept, he dreamt about fighting.

In the morning, he was awoken by the news swirling around the keep. The queen had suffered a long and difficult pregnancy, but it was over. Viserys Targaryen had just been born, and was said to be healthy.

_________

Two months later…

"Come up, come up! Come one and all! Are you blessed by lady luck?" Jack-Be-Lucky laughed, his gold tooth glinting in the sunlight. "Do you have the skill? Do you have the cunning? Your fortunes await, come one, come all!"

Jack-Be-Lucky was one of the most exuberant men Bruce had ever seen. They called him the Dockside Prince, or the Mud Market Millionaire, or the King of the Balls. Bruce knew that Jack had made up half his names himself, that he had fabricated his whole image. Jack's Gambling Den had been around for half a decade, but it had moved from alleyway to alleyway. Every time the watchmen shut one down, Jack would pick another street and set up shop.

The man dressed himself in a mix of extravagant and vagrant. Jack-Be-Lucky was barefoot, but he wore half a dozen chains of thick fake gold dangled from his neck. His cloak was stained and moth-bitten, but it was trimmed in velvet. He wore a wide, immensely floppy hat, decorated in everything from flowers to trinkets to fishbones. He was around sixty years old, and Jack-Be-Lucky pinned colourful items and trinkets on to his ragged attire, making him look like some brightly colourful bird.

There were many swindlers along the docks, but Jack-Be-Lucky was one of the greatest. It was all part of his image; that of an eccentric vagrant who had made his fortune and then lost it several times over.

The man was fascinating to Bruce.

"In honour of new prince!" Jack-Be-Lucky announced. "All slips are half price! To celebrate little Viserys Targaryen, half price, right here! Twice the reward and half the risk!"

Prince Viserys had been born several weeks ago, but the babe had only been anointed in the Great Sept two days ago. The ceremony had been an unspoken indication that the babe was now expected to survive; Viserys had been born healthy while all others had been weak. In the Red Keep, they celebrated with a feast of honey roast and fish glazed with saffron, but on the dockside it was half a day off for the workers, and an excuse to get drunk.

All around Bruce, the docks heaved. Sailors from the Fire Wyrm and the Dragonlord had just returned to port and got their payslips, and Jack-Be-Lucky was just getting started. 'His' alleyway was decorated in tinsel and makeshift banners, and shapes were painted on the walls, and arrows on the cobbles. Jack stood in the tide of bodies, laughing and cheering.

"Come, come!" Jack laughed. "One hundred gold dragons are up for grabs, anyone of you will take it home!"

Bruce knew that there wasn't really one hundred dragons. Jack-Be-Lucky ran his enterprise on less than ten, and no gambler had ever walked away with more than one. It was still a fortune, though; most swindlers dealt with coppers and silvers, but Jack-Be-Lucky used gold.

Bruce also knew that Jack-Be-Lucky wasn't really from Flea Bottom as he claimed, he actually hailed from Lorath. There was no trace of anything foreign on his accent, though, the man must have learnt how to remove all evidence of his home tongue. Still, Bruce found out when he eavesdropped upon 'Jack' speaking fluently to a group of Lorathi money tenders. Bruce hadn't been able to understand the words, but that had been the moment he figured out that Jack-Be-Lucky was a lot less fortuitous and lot more calculating than he appeared.

Bruce had spent the last two months prowling the dockside, absorbing everything he could. On a good day, the wharves were lined with trader's stalls, fishmarkets, apple carts, begging vagrants, with pickpockets and pursesnatchers aplenty. King's Landing's piers were filled with everyone from preaching red priests to halfpenny whores. There were hedge wizards that claimed supernatural powers, and pyromancers that held bright and fiery shows using burning powders.

Every day, the gold cloaks forced dozens off the wharves, but every day more came back to peddle their trade.

There was no shortage of scammers that hid coins under cups, or penny fortune tellers that read palms on the waterfront, but Jack and his gambling den was nothing short of legendary.

Bruce had found himself entranced by the place, trying to figure out how it worked.

Drunken revellers and sailors were already milling into the alleyway, while Jack laughed and danced in the street. People were cheering, while stalls sold cups of bitter ale and Jack laughed and laughed. Every night was a celebration in Jack-Be-Lucky's alleyway. Bruce joined the crowd, following the flow.

A large man caught sight of the boy, and raised his hand to block him. "No street trash allowed," the bouncer warned.

Bruce's face was smeared with mud, his face hidden under a cheap half cap. Bruce lifted a bunch of grimy papers from his pocket. "Messenger, m'lord," Bruce explained, pointing at the crowd.

The man grumbled, but moved inside. "Deliver and get out."

It never ceased to amaze Bruce how easily he could transform into a lowborn urchin. All it took were some mud-smeared clothes and a bit of an edge in his voice, and Bruce Wayne vanished. He could pass straight by highborn knights, men who had even met him, but they would never even look down on a street urchin. And as a messenger – the messenger boys and runners went everywhere in the city. All it took was a bundle of papers and a stolen cap, and Bruce discovered he could sneak all the way into Maegor's Holdfast itself.

The alleyway was heaving, but Jack had four men who were assigned to crowd control. Few people even realised that they worked for Jack – the bouncers tried to disguise themselves as patrons – but Bruce made note of each of them. He scanned each of them one by one, trying to judge how alert they were.

At the centre of alley, Jack had used pig's blood to paint his game board. It could have been a witch's circle, some magical ceremony to achieve miracles. "Turn silver into gold," as Jack advertised it.

"Get you slips!" an older man shouted, peeling off scraps of muddy parchment marked chalk. "Get your slips, place your bets!"

Few of the patrons could read, but they doodled shapes on the walls and parchment with chalk. There were ten areas of the board – marked by doodles as sword and shield, arrow and bow, star and crown, helm and bowl, tower and keep – with each area designated further by a number of dashes. The wheel itself was made out of stones stacked onto the cobbles and scraps of wood, forming a makeshift ring smeared in cheap paint. It was large enough for a man to run circles inside.

The rules were simple: the announcer would stand in the cross outside of the wheel, and they would throw seven stone balls into the ring. Men would place bets, and they would win a pot of the gold if the balls came to a stop in the right area. Other gambling dens relied on sharing from a combined pool, but Jack was different; Jack promised a fixed amount of coin to everybody who won. The more balls you got right, the more you won.

"My lucky boys!" Jack laughed, dancing on the spot as he swaggered backwards and forth. "Are you ready to win? One hundred coins right here, right now, someone will be walking away with it!"

There was an art to it, Bruce considered. People laughed at the brightly dressed old man making a fool of himself – but, at the end of the day, those same people were giving the fool their money.

With great exuberance, Jack-Be-Lucky pulled a hefty leather bag out of his overcoat, and the poured into the centre of the ring. The coins chunked – most were silver, but there were a few gold mingled between them. It was a big pile of coins.

The first time he had seen this setup, Bruce had thought Jack-Be-Lucky a fool. Every section on the ring was weighted equally, and potentially there truly was a large amount of money up for grabs. With most games you were guaranteed to lose, but more men walked out ahead with Jack than any other. Any experienced sailor knew the odds, they all knew the cons, but even the most suspicious could be intrigued by Jack's game. Men liked to jape that Jack-Be-Lucky was the worst swindler around.

The others swindlers on the dockside had been simple to decipher; Bruce had realised that the cups were rigged, the dice were weighted, and the fortune-tellers were simply smooth talkers. They all played on the same vice, that same desire for fortune. Jack-Be-Lucky portrayed his game as truly fair.

It was only the longer that Bruce stared that he realised the best swindler was one who disguised himself as the worst.

There was a… an equation to it. Jack-Be-Lucky allowed himself to lose, he frequently gave out chunks of silver, but he brought in gold. He hid his calculating nature under the flamboyance. He lost the small numbers, and his men hedged the bets when it came to the big ones.

Any experienced sailor should have known better, but what really fooled them was the pretence of fairness. Lady Luck rules this game, as Jack claimed, we worship her with every roll. It was a round board, and seven stones that would bounce around the ring several times. They would roll and clatter like marbles. Surely it was completely random where they landed?

But the more he looked, the more convinced that Bruce became that Jack-Be-Lucky knew exactly where the stones would land. There was technique to his throw, a measured perfection to movements. Jack hid it under the eccentricity, but it was skill.

There was so much skill it looked like magic.

Jack had probably spent his entire life rolling marbles, Bruce considered. It must have taken a thousand, ten thousand, a million rolls – millions of attempts of trial and error – before Jack became as good as he was. Every throw, every single day… it was pure perfection. What sort of accuracy was required to bounce a marble off a dozen walls, but still hit his target?

On the front of it, it appeared simple, but Bruce was learning to appreciate the complexities hidden beneath.

A maze of chalk marks and shapes smeared the walls. It looked like gibberish, but it was all a pattern. All of that bets were hidden on the walls. The patrons picked how many they wanted to wager on, and the bookies gave them their odds. Bruce found himself staring at it, entranced. The alleyway was heaving, voices were singing in crude vocals, men were stumbling – but there was a pattern to it. An order.

It was a way to make men believe.

"Throw the ball!" the crowd was chanting, while Jack-Be-Lucky laughed, skipped and danced. "Throw the ball! Throw the ball!"

The whole air was tingling, that mood felt infectious. Even despite himself, Bruce could feel his heart racing and the excitement tingling on his skin.

Bruce had learnt more in one outing on the streets of Flea Bottom than he did from a hundred days of Ser Thorne's tutelage.

Bruce's eyes scanned the crowd, measuring each step between them. Bruce's eyes narrowed on Jack-Be-Lucky's pockets, and on every man he brushed against. He to time the moment right. "Are you ready?" Jack was laughing. "Are you ready to win?"

Bruce caught glimpse of the exchange; he saw the flurry of hands as Jack discreetly picked something up from one of his men, and brushed the object into his overcoat. Jack didn't break stride, but Bruce saw the other men – the bookies and bouncers – preparing for the game.

A good hundred sailors filled the alley, the air stinking of cheap ale. Now, Bruce thought, I need to move now.

He took a deep breath, and shoved his way forward. Bodies crashed and heaved, Bruce was nearly crushed, but he forced his through and dangled a scrap of paper in the air.

"Message for you, m'lord!" the boy shouted. "Message!"

Jack-Be-Lucky swaggered through to Bruce, grinning brightly as he took the paper. "Henrik on Pigrun says ten on crown, twenty on star," Bruce lied. "Straight up on bow."

"Ah, thank you, my boy!" Jack laughed, marking the parchment and signally over to his bet-makers. "Take this back to Henrik now, and may Lady Luck smile upon you!"

Some of Jack's regulars made their bets by messenger, Bruce had learnt. Jack flicked Bruce a halfpenny, and the boy caught the small coin easily from the air. "Much obliged, m'lord."

Jack-Be-Lucky had sharp instincts, Bruce noted, but he was old and his eyesight was failing. Jack lifted the parchment up to the sky to inspect it in the faint sun, and Bruce saw his chance. The boy let a man in the crowd shove him forward, stumbling slightly on the cobbles, and his shoulder brushed against Jack's coat. Bruce's hand was in and out in an instant.

Still, he wasn't as smooth as he thought. Jack's hand shot downwards. "Apologies, m'lord," Bruce bowed, as he scampered away.

Jack's hand was in his pocket, frowning, but the old man relaxed slightly as he realised there was nothing missing.

Bruce tried desperately to keep the anxiety out of his face. The cap helped – it helped to hide his expression, to stop people seeing his emotions. Focus.

Others had tried to steal from Jack before, it rarely went well. Jack's men were sharp to pickpockets, and the pile of coins were in the centre of the ring – none but Jack was allowed within ten paces. Nobody could sneak away with coin if nobody could come close. Occasionally some drunken fool would try to grab and run with a handful of coins, but Jack's men patrolled both exits to the alleyway, and Jack ensured that the crowd itself reacted very poorly towards any who tried to steal 'their' money.

Stealing a coin or two from the revellers was fairly easy, but Jack was the greatest thief of them all. He ensured that men kept on giving their coin away, and kept on coming back.

The only way to actually beat him, Bruce had decided weeks ago, was to beat the game.

"Are you ready?" Jack roared. "This is your time, this is your moment! One of you will not have to come back to the ships ever again, perhaps you will never have to row another day in your life! Your fortune is waiting right here, will our lady bless you to take it? Do you have the lady's kiss?"

Bruce stared around the alley, waiting for the moment. The men were stomping their feet. With great exuberance, Jack raised seven stone marbles in his hands, holding them above his head.

"Throw the balls!" the crowd chanted. "Throw the balls!"

In Bruce's hand, there was an eighth stone ball hidden in his grip.

Bruce had only started to figure out the game when he realised that the balls were slightly different. They all looked smooth, but they were different stone. Some of the balls were heavier, others lighter. Bruce had spent a fortnight watching him roll before he figured out the system.

How did Jack know where he needed to land the balls?

The bookies took the bets, while Jack worked the crowd. On some days, the bets was fairly well spread around on the board, but Jack only made a profit when the bets were weighted at one edge of the wheel. If sailor bet his life savings, or a bunch of rowers grouped together for a chance at the big fortune, then that was a payday for Jack.

The bookies passing out slips made note of exactly where the balls shouldn't land, and they swapped the stones out to pass that information to Jack. They used the weighted stones as a discrete signal.

Today, the three hundred plus crews of the Fire Wyrm and the Dragonlord came back from patrol around the arm of Dorne – two big ships of the royal fleet. The seamen all had three months of copper in their pouches, and this was their first shore leave in a long time. There were more than just rowers in the crowd – Bruce saw bosuns, serjeants, quartermasters and coxswains present. This was a big night for Jack-Be-Lucky.

The man was laughing as he rolled the balls into ring, bowling them one by one.

And, if I'm right, Jack-Be-Lucky can never actually afford to lose.

The stones bounced. Bruce didn't even blink.

"Star!" Jack called, both hands in the air. Screaming as he announced the results. "Sword! Tower! Sword! Sword! Castle! And wheel! Raise your parchments, my lucky folk, raise them high! Are you blessed??"

The crowd roared. Jack didn't realise, but Bruce saw one of the bookie's eyes widening in shock.

"I won!" a man shouted suddenly. "Three swords, I won!"

Jack was clapping. "Congratulations, my man. Congratual–"

"I won too!" another voice called, a figure shoving his way forward. "Castle, tower, sword, I won!"

"I won!" a man roared. "I got four! Star, castle, tower, sword!"

Bruce saw Jack-Be-Lucky's eyes flicker. Others were cheering, but Jack's clapping stopped. Voices were clamouring. The bookies looked panicked.

It was simple, really; switch one of the balls, and suddenly it lands in the wrong place. Jack had been doing this game for a long time, he had become slack. It had taken Bruce nearly a fortnight to figure out how Jack used the balls, and another fortnight to plot the most critical moment to switch them.

It was all a pattern.

More and more were shouting up – half a dozen men were pushing their way to the centre. "All seven!" a voice screamed. "I got all seven, all seven! A hundred gold!"

That caused Jack to flinch. No one was ever supposed to get all seven right. Bruce could have grinned.

The bodies surged forward, stamping through the ring. Jack looked panicked. Bruce took a deep breath, waiting for his chance.

Men were trying to hold the crowd back, but they were coming in from all sides. They were clamouring, shouting, waving slips of parchments. Jack's facade flickered for a moment, but he tried to recover.

"Hold on, hold on!" Jack-Be-Lucky protested. "We don't appreciate cheats round here; get your paper to a bookie, we don't want no fakes–"

Bruce took his shot. He lined up his aim, and he threw the stone in his hand with all the strength he had. He had good aim. Bruce was aiming for the forehead, but the stone collided against Jack's nose with a painful crack. Blood spurted, and suddenly Jack-Be-Lucky was falling backwards.

One good throw of a stone, and all the order was gone.

The crowd went wild. A few of the bookies were already turning and running. The bouncers didn't realise how bad things were going, they were still trying to restrain the crowd. Bruce heard the scuffles, the grunt of fists and elbows…

The first man broke through the ring, diving at the pile of coin. Another man grabbed him, dragging him backwards, but hands were flailing. Kicking and screaming.

A bit of gold dangled before them, and a crowd became a mob.

Now.

Bruce dived in, leaping over a man and kicking off a wrestling body. His feet were smooth, he was fast. The boy slid across the painted cobbles, and his hand stretched out to grab a hold of as many coins as he could carry.

The boy crashed straight into the pile of coins. Silver filled his fingers, but he held three heavy gold coins between his teeth.

"Boy!" a man gasped. "Don't you dare–"

Bruce's hands were only big enough to grab a quarter of the pile, and he kicked the rest of the coins and sent them all scattering. The air glittered silver, and every hand jumped for the raining money.

The man tried to catch him, but Bruce slid right through his legs.

His hands were clenched to his chest, but coins still dripped through his fingers. Bruce was already running. Behind him, the alleyway exploded into a riot. Bruce was in and before anyone could even react properly.

Snatch and run.

Footsteps pounded. He saw daggers flourishing, drunken sailors spilling blood. Bruce knew it was dangerous, but at that moment he felt nothing but pure exhilaration. There was no fear, there was nothing but purpose.

There was nothing but feet pounding over cobbles.

Heavy footsteps, lumbering men were chasing after him. Perhaps they were Jack's thugs, or perhaps just patrons who realised what Bruce had done. Either way, he couldn't allow them to catch him.

"Boy!" a man howled. "Stop, you rat!"

The men were bigger, they had longer legs and better stamina. They would catch Bruce in a straight line, but the boy could beat them around corners. Bruce already had five different escape routes planned out, and he chose the best without even a moment's pause.

He darted into an alleyway next to a cooper's shop, where a pile of scrap wood was piled halfway up the wall. The men scattered after him, but Bruce was already jumping onto a broken crate, kicking off the bricks, and scaling up the wall. Bruce was on the tiled roofs and scattering across it before any of them could blink.

"Bloody hell…!" he heard a man gasp.

He was twenty foot off the ground and sprinting across slick, treacherous tiles. None of them men tried to climb after him.

It had taken fourteen falls before Bruce perfected that move, and another two dozen before he had been able to do it with his hands full. During his rehearsals, a few passers-by had stopped to laughing at the boy repeatedly falling off the wall. They wouldn't be laughing now.

He scattered across three rooftops before stopping and doubling back. Bruce dropped back down on the other side of the alleyway, taking a moment to hide the coins under his tunic. His clothes were smeared with the cheap paint Jack had used – painting himself muddy blue and black.

Thirty-seven silver stags, Bruce counted, and three gold dragons. He had inadvertently grabbed a few copper stars too, but it was a good haul by any standard. Bruce had learnt how pickpockets kept coins hidden under their elbows as they walked, he copied suit.

Bruce kept on running until he was three streets away, before finally stopping to pant behind a tanner's shop. His body was jingling, the coins were hard to balance under his armpits. I should have brought a satchel, Bruce cursed. Or maybe a belt with pouches would be better, but trying to carry so many coins without pockets had been an oversight. Stupid.

He took a long deep breath. He was trembling with elation. I did it. The biggest swindler on the dockside was ruined, and Bruce had three and a half gold dragons under his shirt. I did it, I…

"Oi!" a sudden voice called, footsteps in the alleyway. "Sewer rat!"

The boy could have groaned. I should have kept running until I was five streets away.

He stepped out from enclave, and there were two bodies walking down the street. Bruce turned, and he saw another two walking form the other end. All four were too short to be adults.

"We saw you stealing from Jack's," the boy noted, eyes narrowing. "Nice job. Except you're on Howler's turf, rat."

All of the boys were dressed in muddy clothes, and they each had a red sliver crudely stitched onto their jerkins.

He might have cursed. Of all the people to get caught by, the street gangs were worse than the guards.

In King's Landing, there were gangs of orphans and street urchins so ruthless they could put mercenaries to shame. There were twelve year olds with multiple gang hits to their name, fighting over every corner of the city.

The urchins made their business in minor crimes; stealing apples from carts and picking purses. The messenger boys all paid tithes to them, the pickpockets stole at the gangs' command. For a bunch of starving orphans, slivers of food and copper coins was big business. The urchins scurried through King's Landing like rats.

And Bruce knew that he blended in with them.

Bruce looked between the four of them, trying to measure the way they walked. The most confident had a swagger in his step, the others dragged their feet. One leader, he decided, and one sycophant standing close. The leader spoke first and walked with a swagger, but the smaller boy stuck close and kept nodding. On the other side of him, there was one chunky boy with the look of a bruiser, and another skinny kid with narrow eyes.

"What are you, a mute, street rat?" the boy sneered. "We ain't seen you on these streets before. Howler, you know the name?"

Bruce considered his options. He could try to deny it, but that would just be silly – his armpits were jangling with coins.

"This is Ferret's territory, ain't it?" Bruce said finally, mimicking their accent. "I'm tight with Ferret," he lied. "You mess with me and Ferret gets upset."

The leader bristled. "Ferret has from Dick's Bend to Mud Hook," the boy snapped. "Howler owns Fisher's Wharf right down to Coddy Way."

"Well, he said that Docket Square was his too."

"Fuck Ferret!" the boy snapped. "Scrawny fucking bugger. This is Howler's street, and no pickpocket or pursecutter works in Howler's street, without giving Howler his due." The boy pointed at himself.

"Take that up with Ferret," Bruce retorted.

The boy drew an edge from his belt. It wasn't a dagger, but it was a sharpened wooden spike. Like a stake. "I'm taking it up with you," he growled.

"Are you going to hand over what you grabbed?" the small boy next to him sneered, grinning like a monkey. "Or is Howler going to need to get nasty?"

I'm surrounded, Bruce considered. Four vs one; two in front, two behind. One wielding a sharp edge, but the others could have knives too. They were all gearing up for a fight, and the ones behind were trying to creep forward as if Bruce was about to sprint away.

He might have tried to run, but running away from urchins was different to outrunning guards. These boys likely knew all of the shortcuts and odd corners that Bruce did. The gold cloaks were heavy and dim, but any boy who roamed the streets needed to be fast.

No, Bruce decided, I won't be able to outrun them. And I would just tire myself out trying.

After a brief pause, he made his decision.

Bruce sighed. He had hoped it wouldn't come to this, but he refused to back down. This is practice, he told himself, just practice. No matter how much it hurt, he had to remember that.

The boy turned to face Howler, and slowly flexed his arms. "Let's just get this over with."

"Fucking street rats…" Howler snarled, as Bruce took a step towards him. "Are you dim, rat? There's four of us."

"For now," Bruce agreed. "But when I take you down, there's only going to be three. And I'm pretty sure the last two will run away."

That was met by snorting laughter. The boys behind Bruce kept on trying to creep forward. "No respect," Howler grumbled. "No fucking respect."

Four against one. Their ages thirteen to ten; two of them are bigger than me, one smaller. need to take down the leader, but the muscle isn't going to let me get close…

Bruce broke into charge, but then he heard the others lunging. As predicted, the ones behind him attacked first. Bruce heard the flop of their sandals as they jumped. Bruce flinched, twisted, and charged straight at the biggest boy.

Two targets. Bring them low quickly. Can't let them gang up; I need to be the one to set the tempo…

Fighting was all about control. The person who set the pace of the battle had the momentum.

Bruce shoulderbarged straight into him, taking the boy by surprise. It was like ramming a brick wall, but it caused him to stumble. Coins scattered out from beneath Bruce's shirt, but he raised his hand and slammed his fist into the boy's nose.

It might have hurt Bruce's knuckles more than it hurt the other boy. There was a stunted scream, more of shock than pain.

Control the fight. Turn it around.

The boy tried to thrash, tried to kick back, but Bruce dodged under his flailing arm and pushed close. Use his size against him. The boy tried to kick up with his knee, but Bruce swept in and grabbed his foot. There was a brief struggle, but gravity took hold and suddenly the larger boy was tumbling backwards.

A scream split behind him. Howler roared like a madman as he charged in, but Bruce caught a handful of silver stags from under his shirt and threw the coins at the boy's face. Use the distraction, control it…

Four against one. One of them is already down, and the little kid is hanging towards the backwards. He needed to play the odds; turn it from four, down to three, down to two, down to one.

Bruce's fist were curled, lunging at Howler. Take down the leader. Knock the leader down and the rest will-

Oomph.

A fist went straight to his jaw. Bruce recovered well against the first blow, but then the second…

Hands yanked his hair, trying to tear him down. Bruce staggered, but tried to recover. Then there was a third punch. And then the fourth…

"Fall down!" the other boy snapped. The fourth boy – the skinny boy with dark hair. "Fall down!"

Bruce didn't. He tried to raise his hands to defend, but he knew he was on the losing foot from the first hit. For a lanky boy, his hits were wickedly sharp.

"Fall down or I'll knock your fucking head off," the boy warned. His build was lean, but his eyes were dark.

"Try it," Bruce spat. "Give it your best–"

Oomph. The sixth punch caused his jaw to rattle.

Still, Bruce lasted until ninth punch before he finally staggered. He managed to land two blows of his own, before finally Howler caught him from the side with an sharp uppercut.

"Fall down!" the boy snarled as he punched, and Bruce finally did.

Coins chimed and scattered as he hit the cobbles. The silver poured out from beneath his shirt. Bruce grabbed a handful and threw them backwards while he squirmed, but the boys just brushed them off. The last boy – the one that stood back – was already racing to pick up all the silver.

Bruce squirmed on his stomach, as if trying to crawl a way. "Keep hitting him, Bronn," Howler ordered. "Fucking street rats should learn some respect."

The skinny kid – Bronn – complied. He bent over Bruce, and pounded the boy's face in with a sharp whack. Bruce gagged, wheezing. "You could have just fallen down," the boy muttered.

I know, Bruce thought, but he didn't dare reply.

Across from him, the heavy boy was already picking himself up off the ground. Silver poured out of Bruce's shirt, which Howler scooped up eagerly. The boy's eyes were gleaming at the sight of so many coins. Bruce kept his lips sealed and his jaw clenched. Blood was pouring from his nose.

"If you had a paid your dues, known your place," Howler snapped, spitting down onto Bruce's bloody head, "then you'd have hand over my share and I'd have let you kept half. But since you made us work for it?"

Howler picked out a single grimy silver coin, and dropped it down next to Bruce. "That's all you get, rat," Howler growled. "Remember this, and give Ferret the message. I'm the top dog in these streets."

Bruce didn't reply. "What's the matter?" the little boy sneered, spitting down on Bruce as well. "No smart ass reply?"

He gave none. Howler clicked his fingers, and turned to walk away. "C'mon, boys," he ordered. "We got ourselves a payday."

They walked away, along with twenty-six silver coins. Bruce's breaths were wheezy, breathing through a bloody nose.

"Stupid Ferret…" Bruce heard them mutter. "Disrespect…"

"Bloody kid broke my nose…"

"He can take a punch that one," the dark-haired boy complained, as he rubbed his bloody knuckles. "Goddamn, he sure can take a punch…"

Bruce kept lying on his back in the alleyway, staring up at the sky until they were gone. The bruises across his left eye were so thick he couldn't see through it. The alleyway was deserted – the only thing around was the stink of the tanner's shop.

And finally, Bruce opened his mouth, and he nearly gagged as he pulled the three bloody gold coins from his teeth.

As Bruce had been squirming on the ground and throwing silver, they never even noticed him hide the golden coins in his mouth. Bruce sighed, scooped up the three gold and one silver, and then limped away.

He headed straight towards the Sept of Willem on the Street of Flour, where the septas held a donation pool towards food and clothing for the city's orphans. Bruce dropped the three gold coins into the charity box and then limped away without anyone noticing.

He used the silver coin to buy himself replacement clothes, then he washed the blood off his face. It was dusk by the time he returned to the Red Keep.

The guards wouldn't have opened the gates for him, but Bruce knew exactly where to climb over the walls unnoticed. His knuckles were bleeding, making the climb more difficult as blood seeped into the horsehair rope.

Overall, Bruce considered, not a bad day. But room for improvement tomorrow.

_________

"Where is that boy?" Ser Oswell demanded, storming through the barracks. "Bruce bloody Wayne!"

Stannis tensed. A few of the other squires grimaced as they heard the knight's voice, but men screaming after the missing boy was not an unusual occurrence. "You. Darklyn!" the Kingsguard demanded. "Have you seen my wretched squire?"

"I have not, ser," Tomas replied dutifully. "He was assisting the grand maester with sorting papers, was he not?"

"And the Grand Maester said that he was sweeping the dungeons," Oswell fumed. "The guardsmen claim he never left the gates, but he's not in this bloody castle!"

Stannis was not surprised. Bruce had spent a long time searching for secret ways in and out of the keep, but not even Stannis was sure exactly how he did it. Bruce had a way of finding all the nooks and crannies. If Bruce wanted to escape, Stannis wasn't sure if any castle in the realm could hold him.

"Stannis!" Ser Oswell turned and snapped at him. "Stannis, where has Bruce gone?"

"I do not know, ser," he replied honestly. He and Bruce had quickly established a 'don't ask, don't tell' rule regarding the activities Bruce did outside the keep.

"Of all the bloody…" Ser Oswell groaned, pacing the barracks. "I'm already late, and I'll be damned if I'm going to wear grimy plate because of that wretched squire. My armour needs polishing, and my bloody squire is missing!"

The barracks stunk of polish and oil. All of the squires had been working since noon to polish their knight's armour into a shine. Stannis' hands were aching from polishing Ser Harlan's armour until it gleamed, and a few of the boys were still wiping helmets even in their bunk beds, but Bruce Wayne had been missing all day. The procession would leave the keep at first light in the morning, and it was already the hour of the bat.

"I'm sure that Bruce is on top of it, ser."

"Well, you tell Bruce that I'll have him in chains if he doesn't show up for rounds quickly," Ser Oswell warned. "He got chores to do, and I won't tolerate it."

Behind the knight's back, Stannis saw Bruce's head appear from the outside. The boy looked in through the window, glanced around the barracks, and then promptly disappeared. Bruce was climbing the walls again, Stannis thought sourly.

Ser Oswell didn't notice it, but Stannis sighed.

"I would check the armoury, ser," Stannis said dutifully.

"I've just came from the bloody armoury."

"I would check again."

Ser Oswell's eyes narrowed.

Sure enough, as they approached they saw the flickering candlelight under the doorframe. Bruce had turned sneaking in and out into an art form, and Ser Oswell looked infuriated as he charged through the door. "Boy!" he boomed. "What the bloody…"

The knight's voice trailed off as he saw Bruce sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, with a white shield across his lip, a rag in his hand, and a bucket of polish by his side. Bruce's face was baring fresh bruises and cuts; two black eyes, a swollen lip, and bloody brow.

Stannis's jaw tensed. He gave Bruce a quiet look that said 'Again, Bruce? Really?'

Ser Oswell sighed. The knight was not surprised, only exasperated. "And what happened to you this time?"

"I fell off a wall, ser," Bruce replied, keeping his voice respectful.

"Aye?" Ser Oswell rolled his eyes. "How many times?"

Bruce shrugged. "Lost count, ser."

"Boy, I swear…!" The knight took a deep breath, regathering himself. "We're setting off at first light, boy, the king demands everything must be perfect – and my armour is still a bloody mess."

"It's done, ser," Bruce said promptly. "Three coats, on and off, circular wipes. Wax for the steel, and oil for the shine."

Bruce pointed to the corner of the room, where a set of ceremonial plate armour for the Kingsguard stood gleaming. It was smooth white steel, with the black bat of Whent on the buckle and cloak clasp. Ser Oswell sagged.

Stannis was willing to bet that the armour hadn't been like that an hour ago. "I washed your cloak as well," Bruce added. "The cotton cloak – fresh water only, with soap, hand-washed and dried."

There was no hint of smugness in Bruce's eyes, but he sat straight and attentive.

"Well, my destrier needs brushing down, her feed–"

"All done," Bruce said. "Supplies packed, horse clean. I've been feeding her carrots, ser."

There was a long pause. The knight seemed to deflate somewhat. "My sword," Ser Oswell said finally.

"Fresh from the whetstone, sharpened hilt upwards," Bruce replied. "Across the grain, inch and a half at the base. The hilt has been polished, and I had the pommel refitted as you requested, ser."

"My saddle is tearing at the hems."

"I stitched it myself, ser. Bit of a tear on the girth, I sewed it up. Double thread."

Ser Oswell looked like a man who had just realised that all the cups were rigged. "Then pack the bloody saddlebags, dammit!" he growled. "I've got new drapes and lances for the tourney, and I expect that each one has to be…" His voice trailed off as he looked at Bruce's expression. The knight sighed, rubbing his eyes. "… It's all done, isn't it?"

"Yes ser," Bruce said with a sad nod.

"By the gods, boy, I swear… I swear…" Ser Oswell waggled his finger and shook his head, but he didn't seem to know how to finish that sentence. Instead, he just growled and turned to stomp out of the armoury.

The door slammed behind him. Stannis and Bruce were left standing in silence. There was pause, but then Bruce returned to polishing the shield.

After a few heartbeats, Stannis moved to sit down on the floor next to him.

"How did you polish his armour so quickly?" Stannis asked finally.

"Oh, I bought him another set."

"You did what?"

"I found the armoursmith who made his original," Bruce admitted. "And commissioned the exact same again. So now every time Ser Oswell needs it cleaned urgently, I just swap between them. He hasn't realised yet."

"That…" That was both impressive and disturbingly efficient. "That must have cost a fortune."

Bruce only shrugged.

A decent set of plate armour cost about eight gold dragons, Stannis considered. The type of commissioned high-quality armour that a Kingsguard would wear would cost at least four times that. That was a lot of money to pay just to save several hours work, but Bruce didn't even seem bothered.

There was a pause, and Stannis narrowed his eyes as he inspected the other boy.

Bruce struggled to sleep during the night, Stannis thought. The boy still suffered terrible night terrors; sleep was difficult for him. Staying awake most of the night and distracting himself in the day was the only way Bruce had found to ease it. Bruce was the sort to constantly look for solutions, and he didn't lack for wits.

Stannis motioned at his bloody face. "And who was it this time?"

"Just some street urchins. My own fault."

Stannis raised an eyebrow. "I went for the big one first," Bruce explained dourly. "He was the heaviest, the thickest muscles, I thought he was the greatest threat – so I tried to take him down first. But it turned out that the big one was slow, but the skinny one, he was fast. The skinny one caught me with a hook as soon as the other fell. I shouldn't have made the assumption, should have prioritised differently." Bruce shook his head. "It was my own fault. I made a mistake and suffered for it."

"You're going to get yourself killed."

"Probably," Bruce admitted.

Stannis' eyes narrowed. "And for what? A handful of coins?"

"I don't care about the money. The money is just a way to keep count."

"Then report these men to the city watch and be done with it," Stannis said, the irritation in his voice clear.

"You know why I don't," Bruce retorted. "They are practice."

Stannis rolled his eyes. A distraction more like, he thought with a quiet scoff. "I don't care if you want to steal from swindlers and thieves," the boy said stiffly. "But if you ever cross the line to breaking the law, I won't protect you anymore, Bruce."

"Noted," Bruce said dryly. The cut above his brow was weeping, dripping blood down his cheek.

"And if any of the knights ask," Stannis added, "I refuse to lie for you."

"Never expected you to."

"And sooner or later," Stannis said coolly, "someone is going to knock you down so badly you won't be able to get back up."

There was a pause, a quiet consideration. "I don't mind losing," Bruce said with another shrug. "It happens. I've got no regrets, I don't mind taking a fall."

Bruce turned towards him, his eye hard. For an eleven year old boy, Bruce had the gaze of one much older. "But I never lose the same way twice. I learn from my mistakes, I don't make them again." Bruce gave a quiet nod. "Sooner or later, I'm going to run out of mistakes to make."

The only reply was a gentle scoff from Stannis.

They sat in silence for a bit. Stannis had never been comfortable with how Bruce chose to spend his days and nights, but it was Bruce's business and Stannis knew the younger boy was too stubborn to change. Then again, perhaps Bruce thought the same about Stannis too.

"Try to get some sleep, at least," Stannis said finally, after a long pause. "We'll be leaving at first dawn."

"Will do," Bruce said, but it was a lie. Stannis knew that it was.

"The king and the prince will both be there," Stannis added, "and they say Aerys is obsessed – there can be no slack in the procession. He might have you flogged if you fall asleep on your horse."

"I will be fine," Bruce sighed. "Fresh and early, to set off for this tourney."

It would be the second tourney Bruce ever attended. The Hand of the King had chosen to host lavish tourney in celebration of Prince Visery's birth, and it seemed like half the realm would be in attendance. The keep was roiling, every knight and squire was eager with anticipation, and they were all preparing to set off west.

The tourney at Lannisport promised to be a grand affair.

________________________________

Author Notes
Till next chapter... "The Banefort Knight"

 

[Serpentguy]

Chapter 7

The Road to Lannisport

There were fireflies buzzing over the weedy waters of the Blackwater Rush, and herons waddling in the waters. The sound of crickets chirped across the camp, while men-at-arms hammered banners into the ground. Fishing barges floated down the river, carrying supplies for the convoy all the way from the city, while the royal procession oozed along the gold road.

Bruce had soon learnt that travelling with a king was no casual affair. Aerys had brought with him at least five hundred men – from household guards to stewards to jesters – with another five hundred knights of the realm gathering with them to compete at Lannisport. It seemed like every day more and more lords and ladies, knights and squires were joining their host as crept up the gold road.

The royal wheelhouse made slow progress – the king would only travel in the morn and rest in the afternoon. And King Aerys would not step foot out of his carriage unless the camp was already established, fortified and waiting for him, which meant that every campsite on the gold road had to be prepared and settled at least a week in advance. All around them, traders, peddlers and merchants with oxen came and went, but the king made slow progress.

The gold road was always moving. The road felt like a beating vein of Westeros, with caravans constantly moving back and forth. There were more watchtowers and outposts along it than any other road Bruce had ever seen, and villages every league. The watchmen were in constant patrol – the paths were cobbled and beaten smooth. The most well-travelled road in Westeros, Bruce was told, and a king's ransom of trade flowed from Lannisport to King's Landing on a weekly basis.

They held feasts every other day, the camp was constantly heaving with mock competitions, and lords met to gaggle and chatter like children. For many lords, it was a grand, leisurely outing, but for the court's stewards and the guards it was a stressful time. The Kingsguard was run haggard catering for the king's constant demands.

"The tourney will be over and done with before we even lay eyes on the Sunset Sea at this rate," Bruce heard a man-at-arms complain once. "A snail could outpace that blasted wheelhouse."

"Perhaps that's the point," another replied. "His Grace expects Lord Tywin to wait for him."

In the distance, the hills of the west loomed over the horizon. They were due in Deep Den in a week, but they had only just crossed the Blackwater Rush.

The camp was constantly hectic. All around him, the field of banners wafted in the air, with mules, oxen and horses shuffling around the camp. The air stunk of smoke and dung.

Bruce sat by the edge of the riverbank, a needle and thread in his hands as he stitched a sigil of firefly onto white cotton. His lips were pursed, his legs crossed, delicately weaving the red thread to form the veins on the wings.

Across from him, an arrow collided with a painted target on a tree trunk. "Nice shot!" a young boy laughed. "Right in the mark!"

"Aye, it's easy if you creep forward a few paces," another squire chided. "Don't think I can't see you shuffling forward when you fire."

The boy blustered. "I did not! I can outshoot you from any distance."

There was another twang. Thirteen-year-old Balon Swann stood smugly, landing his arrow cleanly from twice their distance. "No fair!" another squire shouted. "A gust of wind…!"

"Please, let's see you beat this!" Balon mocked, already taking a step backwards and notching another arrow.

There were two dozen of them, all squires, all shooting arrows into trees. Stannis was with them, practicing with his crossbow, but the Baratheon boy was the quietest of them all. They were all young highborn or squires to important knights, all of them competing to see who had the finest bow and the keenest aim.

Bruce sat away from them, more focused on the needlework in his hands.

"Just you watch!" Preston Greenfield laughed, readying a crossbow. "There will be a competition for squires at Lannisport too, and I shall bring home the gold!"

His bolt thudded through oak, a few inches below the mark. Still, Prester sneered at Stannis, but the other boy didn't rise. Prester was using a compound bow versus Stannis' plain oak one, Bruce noted. The bolts had much more weight behind them, but he struggled to pull it back properly. Bruce didn't take part, but he inspected them through the corner of his eye. Poor technique, Bruce decided.

Personally, Bruce favoured Balon Swann to win. The young marcher son was as skilled with a bow as any adult. The group had all been practicing for weeks, eager to win acclaim at Lannisport.

Bruce shunned such things. He preferred needlework, or watching the fireflies on the riverbank. When Bruce did choose to practice, he preferred to do so at night.

Still, slowly people started to notice him. Preston nudged Hendry Bracken, Merrett Frey and Eric Vypren, sniggering and pointing towards Bruce. The boy didn't react, but he saw the attention turning towards him.

"Oi!" Preston laughed. "Bat boy! Are you stitching?"

There was no reply. Bruce stifled an exasperated sigh. "Stitching?" a voice taunted. Merrett Frey, a big, heavy and dumb boy. "What, is he a girl?"

"Aw, is he going to stitch a favour?" Hendry Bracken guffawed. "What, do you want some knight to wear it? Why not wear a dress and cheer him on as well?"

It was met by laughter, more people turning towards him. Bruce didn't look up. Slowly, Preston swaggered towards him. Bruce rolled his eyes, slowly hiding his needlework under his belt and averting his gaze. "Well?" the other boy demanded, grinning. "Let me see it."

Bruce didn't reply, keeping his eyes wary. You're going to snatch it off me and throw it in the river. Bruce knew Preston's type; his intentions weren't even hidden.

"What sort of man stitches?" a squire laughed. "That's woman's work."

"Let me see it," Presten insisted, shoving Bruce with his foot. The boy kept on sitting on the grass. "Come on. Show me."

"Leave him alone," Tomas Darklyn said suddenly, with a frown on his face. "Come on, get away from him."

The other boys were giggling. "I know that one," Bryce Caron laughed. "He doesn't even swing a sword."

"Aww… poor little lady. Is he too scared to fire a bow as well?"

Preston frowned, looking irritated. He kicked Bruce harder, but the boy still didn't react. Bruce kept his eyes low, not even looking up. There were sniggers behind him, egging the other boy on. "Show me!" Preston snapped, and then slowly raised his crossbow. "I said show me!"

"Oi!" Thomas shouted. "Come on, it ain't worth it."

The bolt levelled at Bruce threateningly. Bruce paused, measuring Preston's expression.

After a moment, Bruce simply closed his eyes, and lay back on the grass. The other boy was above him, crossbow pointed down, but Bruce just stared blankly up at the sky. The other squires hollered with laughter. Bruce heard the mechanism click.

"Leave him alone." That was Stannis' voice, and Bruce knew there was another crossbow in his hands, pointed at Preston. "Walk away. Now."

Preston snorted. "You're an awful shot, Baratheon. I only want to see what the little Wayne is stitching."

Do not point a weapon that you're not prepared to use, Bruce thought quietly. Preston Greenfield was full of bluster and cruelty – he was a boy who thought himself a man, trying to show off to his friends.

Bruce didn't open his eyes. "Look at me, Wayne!" Preston screeched, but Bruce didn't.

But slowly the sniggers started to fade. Stannis was holding his crossbow too, and, unlike Preston, Stannis didn't make threats. There was a moment of hesitation, a few boys starting to shift uncomfortably. Finally, Preston shrugged, and tried to sneer it off as jape.

"Fucking craven," Preston snapped, spitting on the grass and finally walking away. "You craven, too scared to even look at me."

Bruce kept his eyes closed. The other boys returned to their target practice, with Preston and Stannis sharing a long, foul look as they past.

"He could have shot you," Stannis said disapprovingly to Bruce. "He was holding a loaded crossbow right at your head."

Could have, Bruce thought, but didn't. Preston Greenfield was a craven at heart. "It's fine," Bruce replied with a sigh.

Stannis looked confused, walking towards Bruce. "I don't understand you," Stannis said with a frown, dropping his crossbow on the grass. "You fight everybody, Bruce. Every time you go out you come back with bruises. So why wouldn't you fight back when someone is threatening to kill you?"

Bruce opened his eyes, shrugging. "Didn't see any point. If I challenged Preston here, he'd blustered. Maybe I'd win, maybe he would, but he'd definitely want a rematch. He'd start to feel like he has something to proof. He'll come back with his cronies and try to make my life hard. I just don't want the trouble."

"So instead you lie down? Show your stomach?"

"Might as well." Bruce nodded. "He wants to be challenged, wants the chance to assert himself. Show your belly and he loses interest quickly."

"You're wrong." Stannis shook his head, jaw clenching. "If a thug threatens you, they'll keep threatening you until you deal with them. Surrendering to a tyrant is the worst possible treachery."

"If he was a true threat," Bruce replied softly, "then he wouldn't have threatened at all."

No, Bruce was far more inclined to lie down and close his eyes. He didn't have anything at stake, and he didn't mind if a thug spat on him. If Preston kept on being bothersome, Bruce would rather take care of the problem at night, while the other boy was sleeping. Remove the audience and then I'd see the boy's true colours.

Stannis sat with him on the grass, looking over the gentle water. Across from them, the squires were still practicing archery. The silence stretched onwards.

Casually, Bruce took out his needlework and showed it to Stannis. "It's good," the older boy agreed.

"I was stitching it for Lady Cassana," Bruce explained, "maybe for the nursery."

"Aye." Stannis shifted, looking uncomfortable at the prospect. Stannis had a new sibling on the way. They had received word only recently, but Stannis might not even be back for the birth. His mother wrote that they were thinking of Renly if it was a boy, or Jocelyn for a girl. In her letter, Lady Cassana admitted that she was praying for a girl.

Bruce was an only child. The idea of a brother or sister was fascinating to him, but he didn't understand why Stannis seemed so reserved about it.

"Did your mother teach you to stitch?" Stannis asked after a time, still looking at the stitching of the firefly.

"My father." Bruce shook his head. "My father was the one who liked to sew on an evening."

Bruce's fondest memories were of stitching in his father's lap, in his armchair by the roaring hearth. Stannis frowned, looking at Bruce queerly. "Then what did your mother do?"

Bruce looked back at the other squires, but they were starting to moving away. Bruce reached for Stannis' crossbow, picking it up and smoothly twisting the lever. He raised it, aimed, and pulled the trigger all in a smooth motion. The bowstring twanged.

The bolt hit straight into the centre of the target, dead on through the cross on the tree trunk. "My mother liked to hunt pheasants on the grounds," Bruce explained, dropping the crossbow back down.

Stannis blinked. "If you're good at archery," he said finally, "then why don't you practice?"

"Oh, I do." Bruce had taken care to practice rigorously. "I just don't in front of others."

The other boy frowned. "What's the pointing in being good at something if everyone knows that you're good at it?" Bruce said with a shrug.

Stannis didn't seem to know how to reply to that. "And that was your mother? Your mother taught you to shoot like that?"

Bruce nodded. Stannis seemed uncomfortable with the thought of women firing crossbows, he noticed. Bruce didn't mind the question, but he was glad Stannis chose not press him. Bruce's childhood still felt like tender, fragile memories.

Thomas Wayne had been a second son sent off to train as a maester, a healer. Martha Wayne grew up on fishing barges half her life; she used to wear breeches, sail ships and hunt as well as anyone. Bruce's father shunned violence, but his mother had been magic with a carving knife.

They had told Bruce the story before. His parents had met in Oldtown, but had been unable to marry. After his brother died and Thomas Wayne was expected to become lord, Thomas had only agreed to renounce his maester vows on the condition that he was allowed to marry Martha. When they wed, it had been something of a scandal as the son of an ancient house married a woodsman's daughter.

Stannis left to tend to the horses, but Bruce lingered by the riverbank, looking out over the water seeping down form the hills. He stared at the running water and thought of his family.

Come evening, he heard a horn blowing from the royal pavilion. The Kingsguard were calling their squires, and Bruce reluctantly pulled himself to his feet. As soon as he trekked through the grounds, he saw knights on horses striding through. Ser Oswell met him by the stables, with heavy bags under the knight's eyes.

"Boy!" Ser Oswell snapped at him. "Good, you have steady hands. Put this surcoat on, grab the silver goblet."

Bruce blinked. "Ser?"

"The royal cupbearers went to the wrong campsite," Ser Oswell said with a frown, already shuffling Bruce forward. "You need to stand in. Quickly now, to the kitchens, see the head steward."

Bruce pulled on the surcoat, with the Targaryen seal on the centre of it. All around him, knights were hurriedly wrangling squires and pages. "I'm to serve the king?"

"Just place the plates on the table and stand ready with the wine," Ser Oswell ordered, before glaring at him. "Do not look the king in the eye. And none of your tongue, boy."

The Kingsguard was nervous, Bruce noted. And stressed. The squire just nodded as he straightened the surcoat and strode quickly to the pavilion.

He saw the royal dining table being set – a great table of oak that had to be carted specially. Of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Gwayne Gaunt were placing the king's chair, a small throne marked by a crown. The head steward pushed a clay pot of wine into Bruce's hands. "Do not let any cup go empty," the man ordered. "Fill them up and keep them full. Do not say a word, be invisible."

The wine was Arbor Gold, he realised. You could feed and house an entire family for a year from the cost of the pot in Bruce's hands. The servants were all rushed and tense; Bruce kept a close eye on them.

He saw Stannis wearing another surcoat, placing silverware a top the silk tablecloth. Neither boys said a word. "The dumplings!" a servant cried in exasperation. "The bloody dumplings – why aren't they cooked yet?"

"Silverware! This silverware isn't polished properly!"

"Cupbearers! Get them ready!"

And then Bruce saw the royal wheelhouse creep open, and everything went hush. The knights all jumped to attention. Ser Gerold Hightower was at the front, a big and stiff man bowing low. the Lord Commander was a tall, formidable figure with a low voice. "Dinner is ready, Your Grace."

"And about time," the voice replied foully. "You make me wait a like peasant to be fed?"

"Forgive me, Your Grace, the supply train–"

"I care not for excuses," King Aerys Targaryen snapped. The king was barefoot on the grass, wearing a silk and lace robe draped around his body. "They are not tolerated. Just do your job." He snapped his fingers. "Wine. Now."

Bruce stepped forward, pouring the wine carefully into the silver goblet. Aerys snatched it off him, not even looking twice at the serving boy. "Where is my son?" the king demanded as he walked. "I commanded him to be here."

Ser Gerold bowed and promised to fetch the crown prince, to which Aerys rolled his eyes and scoffed.

It was Bruce's first time getting a close look at the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Bruce had seen the king before, but only from a distance or during court. Up close, Aerys Targaryen was a narrow-shouldered, shrewish man with a furrowed brow. His silver hair was shoulder-length beneath a gold and ruby crown, with a somewhat weedy voice. Bruce could see the similarities between him and his son; but Rhaegar was lean and tall, while Aerys was sagging with a bloated gut.

At the king's table, they served turkey, cheeses, honeyed bread, turnips and cabbages soaked in gravy. Aerys ordered another glass of wine before they even cut the meat.

Prince Rhaegar arrived and bowed before his father, to which Aerys gave a curt remark Bruce didn't catch. The table was reserved for the royal family, but the queen and the newborn prince had stayed behind in King's Landing. Queen Rhaella pampered Prince Viserys, it was said, and she refused to leave the Red Keep with him.

Instead, it was only father and eldest son while the servants readied a meal fit for half a dozen. It was more than any two people could eat – no doubt there were lords that would be eating leftovers.

The king was in a foul mood, air between them tense. Bruce helped to set the royal dishes, setting the dishes all the while Rhaegar and Aerys stewed at opposite ends of the table.

"Lord Lannister means to shame us," Aerys said finally. "He could have held this blasted tourney at King's Landing, but he'd rather I come to him."

For all the prince was usually polite and thoughtful, Rhaegar's eyes seemed strangely downcast. Bruce kept his head lowered and stood away from the table, but he listened intently. "You did not have to attend, father," Rhaegar replied.

"Oh aye, and wouldn't that have been grand? To let the great Lord Tywin play pretend and flaunt my absence." The king took a deep gulp of wine. "Tywin is not king, boy."

Boy. Rhaegar was seventeen, a man grown. Bruce noticed the prince's jaw tighten slightly.

"No, I name this tourney a sham," King Aerys continued. "Yet another means for Lord Tywin to puff up his own name. The Hand overreaches himself, I think."

"He honours Viserys' birth, father."

Aerys scoffed. "And is it a coincidence that he plans the blasted thing to land on the nameday of his own twins? The man could not be any more transparent."

"Father, please do not sour–"

"Sour? How could I be anything but sour? I am expected to crawl to Lannisport, camping in the middle of a field, served by incompetents." The king turned at cast a foul look at Bruce. "Boy!" he snapped, shaking his goblet wine. "Wine!"

Bruce rushed to refill him. That was the king's third glass already. The pot of wine was half empty.

The squire rushed to refill the pot from the tankard, and he saw Ser Oswell standing stiffly by the edge of the tent. All of the servants were standing tense.

Bruce passed by the knight as he hurried back. "His Grace seems at uneasy," Bruce asked, his voice a whisper. "Why?"

There was a hesitation. "Lord Tywin and King Aerys have a history together," Ser Oswell replied curtly. "Nothing more you need to know than that. Mind your tongue, keep your head low."

That was the second time Ser Oswell gave that warning, Bruce noted. The knight was genuinely scared that Bruce might speak out of turn, and scared of what King Aerys might do if he did.

On the royal table, the king and prince ate their meal in silence. After finishing a single course, Rhaegar asked for permission to leave, but Aerys refused him. "I think not. Sit by your father, boy." The king's eyes narrowed. "The gods know that I barely even see you these days."

"I have been busy, Your Grace."

"Busy?" Aerys took another deep gulp of wine. "Prancing around and wandering off, I name it. Your dilly-dallies grow tiresome."

That caused Rhaegar's to tense slightly. He was sitting straight in his seat. "Father, you grew up on tales of your grandfather's journeys," Rhaegar said careful. "Aegon travelled the realm, he claimed it made him a better king."

"'Better' king," Aerys scoffed. "A better fool, more like. Aegon the Unlikely was the worst kind of despot – a man that nearly tore the realm apart with do-gooder 'reforms'. That is the example you draw upon?"

"Please, father," Rhaegar pressed. "I'd only need a single ship, I could make the journey in a moon–"

"For the last bloody time, boy!" Aerys snapped, slamming his hand against the table. Silverware clanged. "You are not allowed to visit the Wall."

Rhaegar's face twisted. Aerys took another deep gulp of wine. "Of all the foolish thoughts that have gone into your head…" The king shook his head. "The Wall?"

"We have kin on the Wall." Rhaegar's was stubborn, insistent. "Aemon Targaryen. Your granduncle."

"An old man. A maester. He chose to leave the realm, and I'd leave him to his choice. Let him freeze."

"He's my blood, I would speak to him in person. We talk via ravens, there is wisdom in him," the prince objected. Aerys just rolled his eyes. "And what of Dark Sister? Our family's blade. I might recover it, I could bring it home with me."

"Folly." Aerys pffted. "You have my father's foolishness, boy. Ser Duncan the Tall searched for that blade himself, and came back empty-handed. No, House Targaryen has wasted enough trying to reclaim relics of the past."

"Brynden Rivers promised to return the blade to us at the end of his watch, it's still up there somewhere! Our blood is there. The Wall is calling me, Father, this is something I must do."

There it was again; that same fervour that Bruce had once glimpsed at Storm's End. Rhaegar seemed so passionate, so determined, but the king glowered. "I said no, boy."

"Father, this could be my quest!"

"Must I repeat myself?" Aerys nearly screamed, throwing his goblet on the grass. "I do not care about whatever idiosyncrasies have fallen into your head this time, you are not going north!"

Rhaegar looked fuming, but he held his tongue. They were both glaring at each, across the expanse of the dinner table. Aerys just scoffed, clicking his fingers. "Wine," the king ordered. "More wine."

Aerys grew more and more unsettled. Father and son stewed in stiff silence for a long time.

"I should never have allowed those books into your room," Aerys said eventually. "They filled up your head with 'prophecy' like a pigsty soaking up manure. I swear, prophecy is a curse upon our family – both my grandfather and my father fell victim to it." He shook his head, taking a deep gulp that spilled slightly onto his robes. "No, there is nothing up north except snow, wolves and half-traitorous savages, and no son of mine is setting foot in that land."

The crown prince was left glowering. King Aerys kept on drinking. The king still refused to grant Rhaegar permission to leave, even after they were done with the meal. Instead, Aerys snapped his fingers, calling for the court's jesters to amuse him. Dwarves, acrobats and jugglers stepped forward from the royal escort, the bells on their motley chiming in the still air.

Aerys greatly enjoyed fools and the like, he kept a troupe of them in court. Acrobats, tumblers and jugglers were favourites of his. There was an abnormally long and thin man contorted himself on the grass and stepped around on his hands, a quick-witted man in puffed up robes who pranced around singing, while two dwarves performed cartwheels over each other. They were all dressed in bright motley, red and green. Aerys giggled at the foolery, but Rhaegar didn't laugh. The prince was sulking in his seat.

"I mean to gift Tweedledee and Tweedledum to Lord Tywin," the king laughed, pointing at the two dwarves tumbling over each other. "To celebrate his own young son! Perhaps they have motley that little Tyrion might aspire to!"

"Father, that jest is poor taste," Rhaegar said dourly.

"No more than what Lord Lannister deserves. Tywin's Bane indeed."

Two fat fools chased each other across the grass, swatting each other with pig's bladders on sticks. Aerys called for more wine, although the king was spilling more and more of it down his chest. Bruce kept his eyes downwards as he filled the king's cup once more.

"Let us hold a tourney right here!" Aerys commanded to the fools in fits of laughter. "Take to the lists, there should be a joust!"

The fools compiled, splitting into two groups. They each took turns holding the pigs bladder and charging each other. They ran as if prancing on a horse, and each one tumbled the grass in extravagant displays. The king guffawed.

"You, Barristan the Bold!" Aerys demanded suddenly. "And Gwayne the Gallant. Will you not compete?"

Ser Barristan and Ser Gwayne looked uncomfortable, but they indulged their king. The two knights of the Kingsguard took the sticks, awkwardly charging to meet each other. It was stiff and shameful and the air was tense, but Aerys seemed to laugh. Ser Barristan was bright red-faced.

Around the campsite, Ser Gerold, Ser Arthur, and Ser Oswell stood stoically. The king ordered the other three knights to take the pig's bladder too, but they all refused to take part. The king blustered and yelled, but none of the other Kingsguard twitched.

Still, King Aerys grew more and more taken with the idea. He turned to the servants around him, pairing them off against his fools, harassing the servants into the mock games. Bruce saw it coming and managed to slip away discreetly, but Stannis wasn't so fast. The other boy caught the king's eye.

Stannis was tensed and furious as he was forced to 'joust' against a tumbling dwarf armed with a pig's bladder, while the king jeered, threw scraps from his plate at the squire, and mocked it as a poor show. Bruce had never seen Stannis so stiff.

Bruce started to understand why all the servants were so on edge. The king was a cruel drunk.

Aerys ordered more wine, but Bruce 'accidently' spilled the pot while pouring it. Arbor Gold splattered across the grass. The king demanded more, but Bruce decided it would be best to take his time fetching it.

As his jape of a tourney grew, Aerys looked back to Rhaegar, and sneered. "Come on, then," the king challenged to his son, extending the bladder on a stick. "You think you have a destiny, do you not? Why not prove your prowess as a knight?"

A deep scowl lined across the crown prince's face. "I am not a knight, Your Grace."

That caused Aerys to frown. He swayed on his seat slightly, before stumbling upwards. "Ser Arthur!" the king shouted. "Why is my son not a knight?"

The Sword of the Morning stood upright and stoic, his pale eyes devoid of emotion. "Your Grace?"

"Why is my son not a knight?" Aerys insisted. "Is that not your job – to grant him his spurs?"

"He is not ready, Your Grace."

"Not ready! He has been a squire for five years now," Aerys snapped. "Do you think him unworthy? Or do you think yourself so great that you can judge the blood of the dragon, Sword of the Morning?"

Ser Arthur paused for a long time, considering his words. "The crown prince is a fine horseman with all the makings of greatness," the knight said finally. "But is because of his status that I hold him to a higher standard than I would any other. I want Rhaegar to be the very best, and so I must raise the bar. He is not yet ready."

Aerys was unconvinced. He spat on the grass with a derisive scoff. "Foolishness. You have your duty, ser – I want my boy to be a knight. Now."

There were a few uncomfortable looks. "Father, please…" Rhaegar protested. "I am not ready to be a knight, I wish to earn my spurs with honour."

"Did you not hear me, boy? Are you deaf as well as moon-addled? I am king – I gave an order."

Rhaegar's shoulders were shaking. Ser Arthur raised his hand passively. "Your Grace," he said calmly. "We should discuss this in the morn–"

Aerys wouldn't hear it. "Do your duty, ser!" the king screeched. "Place your sword on his shoulders and say the damn words."

The whole pavilion froze. Bruce watched from the corner of the tents. Kings Aerys flickered between cheer and rage with frighteningly ease. "Father, don't–!"

"I will not go before the Lord Lannister with my prince as a squire!" the king hissed, staggering as he stepped towards Ser Arthur. "Lord Lannister shall have no reason to lord over me. Rhaegar will be a knight when he enters the lists, he will be regarded with full honours! Do your duty, Ser Arthur, else I'll find another who will."

Ser Arthur didn't react, but Rhaegar looked more and more angry. "I don't want to be a knight, not like this," Rhaegar snapped. "A knighthood should be a reward for gallantry, for a great deed, not a status. Let me go on a quest to earn my spurs, don't–"

"Are you questioning your liege's commands!" Aerys howled. "I am king. Mind your place, boy."

Rhaegar flustered like he had slapped. His face was bright red, his fists clenched. He looked ready to burst, but Ser Arthur stepped forward to place a hand on the prince's shoulder. Ser Arthur took a long breath. "Is this the king's command?" the knight asked quietly.

"It is." Aerys' voice turned cold. "Now."

Ser Arthur gently pulled Rhaegar backwards. "Gather yourself," Ser Arthur whispered to the prince. "We shall knight you on the hill. Take a deep breath, and then kneel."

Rhaegar's jaw was tensed, his face unhappy. Ser Arthur's was like stone. Aerys was just impatient. Slowly, Ser Arthur unhooked his sword, and Dawn rippled in the fading sunset. The king's mummers cheered.

"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave," Ser Arthur intoned. "In the name of the Father, I charge to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend…"

Rhaegar was knighted at dusk before a drunken king, while two dwarfs did cartwheels. In the capital, there would have been a noble ceremony and a feast for such an event. Here, Aerys just looked impatient, and motioned for the knight to get on with it. The prince was shaking with fury and shame.

"Rhaegar Targaryen," Ser Arthur continued solemnly. "Do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey and serve your people, your realm and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such tasks that the fates demand of you, however hard or humble they may be?"

"I do," the prince muttered. For a second, Bruce felt sorry for him. Rhaegar had wanted this to be an important and worthy moment, but instead his father just sneered.

"About bloody time," King Aerys scoffed, before tapping his goblet. "Now wine. More wine!"

Bruce filled up Aerys' cup with the last of the pot. As he past, there were emotions in Rhaegar's eyes that Bruce could hardly even describe. Rage, shame, anguish, hurt. He had never seen the prince's composure crack so badly.

Has there ever been a man so miserable with his knighthood?

As the squire returned to fill up the pot again, Ser Oswell grabbed him. "Go pour the rest of the barrel into the river," the knight whispered into the Bruce's ear. "If the king asks, you tell him that we ran out."

Bruce complied without question. The king had drunk too much already.

Dusk was falling. Aerys demanded more wine, but Bruce was already busy lifting the barrel of Arbor Gold and sneaking away. Whatever civility was left disintegrated completely after Bruce left.

By the time the squire returned, the meal had devolved into a screaming match between father and son. Ser Arthur and Ser Gerold were trying to defuse the situation, but King Aerys was drunk out of his mind, and Prince Rhaegar was bitter and hurt.

"– drunk and pathetic!" the prince was shrieking over the tents. "You are a weak king, father, no wonder Lord Tywin –"

He didn't hear that next bit. There was a sharp whack, like Aerys lashed out and slapped his son. Bruce broke into a jog, but other guests were rapidly trying to walk away.

Voices was shouting. Bruce couldn't make out the words, but then he heard Rhaegar's voice breaking. "– promised me, they said I was –"

The knights were trying to pull him back, but Aerys was stumbling and shrieking. "Promised?" the king choked. "I had to marry my bitch of a sister because of that bloody promise. I squirted you out into her dusty womb, and what a bloody miserable promise that was."

They were all rushing. Ser Arthur had to pull Rhaegar back, but the prince was angry. "Let us leave, Rhaegar," Ser Arthur ordered, but his charge was red-faced and shaking. "Please, just leave with me…"

Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell were both trying to pull Aerys back. Ser Barristan hesitated to the back, scared to lay hands on his king. "That's right, boy, walk away! Walk away!" Aerys howled. "You are not the one I wanted!"

Rhaegar was already leaving. The king tried to thrash away, stumbling drunk so badly he nearly toppled. The knights of the Kingsguard had to catch him, but Aerys was still screaming.

"Get off me!" he hissed. "Get off me! Do not touch me, I will have your hands!"

Neither Ser Oswell nor Ser Gerold reacted. The king tried to squirm away, squirming so badly he dropped to the grass and his robe fell open. The two knights had to hoist him from under the arms and carry him away, but the King of Seven Kingdoms was still thrashing and protesting feebly.

The ruby and gold crown clattered off his head and rolled by Bruce's feet. The clearing was still.

The king was so drunk that he was half-unconscious by the time that they got him into the royal wheelhouse. Bruce helped by picking up the king's crown and carrying it behind them. The crown was fake gold, Bruce noted, and glass rubies. No doubt the real one was hidden more securely, but for casual affairs the king wore the fake.

The knights took the king to bed, but Bruce heard him muttering under his sleep. "Joanna…" Aerys was murmuring. "… Joanna."

Ser Gerold locked the door behind them and stood guard stiffly outside the carriage. None of the knights made eye contact, the servants were already trying to clean up the mess and pretend it didn't happen.

So that is King Aerys Targaryen, Bruce thought with a sigh. King of Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm. Perhaps there was a reason few people were allowed to see the king up close.

It was only when they were alone that Ser Oswell turned to Bruce and finally spoke, keeping his voice low.

"You will speak of this night to no one," Ser Oswell ordered to his squire. "Not a word, do you understand?"

The boy nodded. "Yes, ser. I do."

There was a hesitation. The knight grimaced, but he took a deep sigh.

"His Grace is not normally that bad," Ser Oswell admitted after long pause. "The king has his moments, aye, but tonight was as bad as I've ever seen it. This affair in Lannisport… it has His Grace stressed."

"How much has His Grace been drinking?" Bruce dared to ask.

Ser Oswell shook his head grimly. "Too much."

Ser Oswell left to meet up with the white cloaks. Bruce lingered to help clean up the mess on the royal table. Aerys had spilled almost as much Arbor Gold as he drank. No one said, but from the posture of the servants, Bruce guessed this wasn't the first time such a thing had happened. Aerys was prone to his drunken tantrums, Bruce realised, but the white cloaks tried to hide them.

Prince Rhaegar had a… difficult relationship with his father. The crown prince rode off that very night. Bruce heard a few of the serving boys whisper that he had been weeping.

It was the hour of the bat when Ser Oswell finally found Bruce again. The camp was hushed and quiet, but Bruce was wide awake. "Boy," Ser Oswell ordered sharply to Bruce. "Follow me."

Bruce followed. Ser Oswell strode straight to his tent, and then sealed the cloth door behind them. They were alone, and Ser Oswell kept his voice low.

"I want you to stay on as His Grace's cupbearer, Bruce," Ser Oswell said finally. Bruce blinked. "Until we reach Lannisport at least. But from now on we must see about watering down his wine."

Bruce hesitated. "Watering it down," he repeated.

"Aye. Unnoticed, of course." Ser Oswell nodded. "You're a smart boy, Bruce. That is why I need your help; to serve wine when he demands, but to 'run out' when he's had too much."

There was a long pause. Bruce considered it quietly, thinking back to Aerys' drunken tantrum. "Is that not treason?" he asked finally. "To deceive the king?"

"We are sworn to protect the king. Sometimes that means protecting him from himself too, Bruce," Ser Oswell explained. "We serve, but we do not so it blindly – the king has a darker nature that must be tempered. We will serve him coloured water before we allow him drink himself to a stupor."

Bruce did not reply, but he nodded.

"Do not tell anyone else of this," Ser Oswell ordered. "I shall take full responsibility myself if discovered, I swear it."

"What of your sworn brothers?"

"My brothers are all good and true men, I would trust them with my life. But Ser Gwayne is too quick to agree, and Ser Barristan does not know how to challenge. I do not doubt their valour, but a true knight must do more than just obey."

"As you say, ser."

They stood in quiet for a long time. Bruce kept his eyes low as he contemplated it.

"This tourney in Lannisport is not in honour of Viserys' birth, is it?" Bruce asked finally. "Not really?"

"No," Ser Oswell admitted. "It is not. Lord Lannister has a young daughter, Bruce – a daughter your age – and Prince Rhaegar is unwed. Tywin means to host a lavish celebration, to convince the king to betroth Rhaegar to Cersei. Tywin has been trying to force the betrothal quiet aggressively, and His Grace has taken… poorly to the attempt."

Yes, Bruce could believe that. He had heard the rumours; Aerys grew stiffer and stiffer each day, and drunker and drunker on an eve. The closer to Lannisport they grew, the worst it became.

The Hand of the King was said to have taken too many liberties recently, and Aerys was left insecure.

But still, Bruce thought of the drunk and broken man, muttering that name under his breath as he was carried into bed.

"And why is the king so distraught?"

"Just the wine, nothing more," Ser Oswell explained. "Wine and old wounds."

_________________________________

Author Notes:

Well, I've changed my plan slightly for this story. Mostly because there are parts of the story I want to get to, but I quite like the main plot too. So instead I'll have my cake and eat it, and I've decided to start writing this story non-chronologically.

From now, since the premise is established and we know the characters, I'll be uploading a flashforward chapter after every other chapter, as for what that means, see below...

 

[Serpentguy]

Flashforward 1
The Hour of the Bat

280 AC, the Red Keep…

King Aerys Targaryen stumbled slightly over the Myrish rug as he retired to his bedchambers. His master of laws – the pathetic, snivelling Symond Staunton – continually tried to hound him over the justice that had been dispensed, but the king dismissed him with a snap.

At the doors of the royal chamber, two white cloaks stood and bowed, but Aerys' gaze was spinning so fast he didn't even notice who. It was late – well-past dusk and it was pitch black outside. The servants already had the fireplace burning in his chamber, but Aerys was exhausted. A long, stressful day of holding court.

The thought of the two screaming bodies, strapped to the rack as the goalers tightened the winch. The king had been watching the torture with wide eyes, listening their shrill screams limbs pop and crack…

They had been traitors. They had conspired with Darklyns and the Hollards, they had helped the Defiance at Duskendale. They claimed innocence, they wept and pleaded, but Aerys knew the truth.

Not even the children were innocent. They were all treasonous.

Duskendale had opened his eyes. For too long the king had been blind to the vipers around them, but now he saw them all. He heard their hissing in the crackle of flames.

Aerys locked the door behind him. No one was allowed into his room, not even his wife.

The king had gone unwashed for over a year now. He could not allow anyone to see him naked, exposed, not even the servants. His hair was overgrown and his cheeks unshaven – but no one had been permitted near him with a razor. Aerys did not trust any blade at his throat. Even his fingernails were overgrown, and the stench of damp and rot hung to him.

His skin was pale and bloated, with scabs across his wrists and ankles. Somehow, over two years later, the king looked in even worse shape than he had been when they released him from Duskendale.

He looked like a prisoner, a haunted and broken man. They had freed him from that castle, but Aerys had brought the cage with him.

The king stumbled, shoulders shaking with deep breaths. He keeled over the hearth and took deep breaths as he stared into the flames. The sound of children screaming echoed in his skull.

The room was hushed and silent. The only noise was the crackle of the fire. As he did every evening, the king stopped to stare, entranced, into the fire, trying to calm himself. Trying to reassure himself, trying to stop the night terrors…

Then, without a noise, the shadow dropped from the ceiling behind him.

The king didn't even react as the rope dropped around him. Suddenly, there were hands – black, inhuman hands – and the rope yanked.

Aerys tried to scream. A hand clamped over his mouth.

The king was suddenly thrashing, but the hands were too strong. Aerys had never been a fighter even in his prime, and two years of lethargy had left him as weak as an old man. He could not resist, could not fight, even as the rope–

His mind blurred. Assassin. Cutthroat. Shadow. There was someone in his room, in his chamber. The guards, the knights, the alarms. How did he get in, how did he sneak through…?

The guards. Where are the guards?

Aerys tried to scream, but he couldn't make any noise but a strangled gasp.

The door was sealed and Aerys couldn't make a noise. One hand clamped his mouth shut, and then another wrapped the rope upwards around his neck.

No, this was a nightmare. Just a nightmare… another bad dream… Wake up, wake up, wake up…

"Hello, Your Grace," a gravelly voice whispered, and strong hands yanked on the rope.

The rope was tied around his chest, around his throat, and around his mouth. With one good pull, Aerys was left hogtied, swinging off the ground, with his face staring straight into the fire.

Aerys felt the heat on his cheeks, the smoke in his eyes. He felt his limbs screaming. This wasn't a dream, this wasn't…

Black hands like talons grabbed him, forcing further and further into the fireplace.

With a smooth motion, the King of the Seven Kingdoms was left dangling over the fireplace. The rope was hooked over the mantelpiece and across the top of the four-poster bed. Those black hands were across Aerys' waist and pulling him backwards – the only thing stopping him from swinging straight into the fireplace. All the man needed to was let go and Aerys would swing forward.

The assassin was behind him, levering him closer the flames.

The flames, the heat, the smoke… the pain…

Through the corner of his eye, he saw its shadow. It had horns.

Not an assassin. A demon. A demon from seven hells come to torment him.

"We need to have talk, Aerys," the gruff voice whispered in his ear. "Do I have your attention?"

The king could have squirmed, but the rope cut into his throat. The demon was the only thing holding him up. All the demon had to do was release its clawed hand, and Aerys would be dead.

His whole life flashed before Aerys' eyes – and it was bitter and unfulfilled.

He couldn't breathe, he was left paralysed…

"I've been watching you. Watching for a long time," the voice continued. "First it was Darklyn and Hollard sons and daughters. The Dun Fort servants. Then the townspeople. The fisherman and his wife. Ser Ilyn Payne. Then Ser Richard's household. The messenger boy. And now the peddler's sons?"

The most powerful man in the realm was left hogtied with his face hanging in the flames. Helpless. Couldn't breathe, couldn't…

The voice was angry. "They were children, Aerys. You murdered children."

He tried to squirm, tried to thrash. The ropes creaked, and Aerys inched closer the flames…

"You think that a king cannot commit murder? You think that was justice?" the voice growled. "I think that I must teach you the meaning of the word."

He couldn't breathe, his vision was blurring. Finally, the demon slackened the ropes slightly, allowing for one breath of glorious air, but then they snapped tight again before the king could scream.

"Do you know what I think, Aerys?" the demon continued. "I think that you believe that you can do whatever you want. You learnt that you can do cruel deeds, evil deeds, but no one can touch you for it. No law can touch you. You think that you have nothing to fear."

Eyes bulging, ropes straining, and its lips whispered the words into the king's ear.

"But that's what I'm here for, Your Grace. I'm here to make sure you understand fear."

There was the sound of a trickle of piss dripping downwards. Aerys was shaking, his silks soiled.

The ropes creaked a bit closer, so close that ash was spitting into Aerys' face. The coals in the fireplace were crackling, and, casually, the demon fanned the flames a bit further. "I saved your life, Aerys. I can end it just as easily. This is your first and last warning – this is what will happen if your tyranny continues." The demon slowly drew a blade from its belt – a wickedly curved edge like a boomerang. "Do you understand? Nod if you understand. Nod."

Somewhere, in the part of his mind that wasn't overcome by primal panic, Aerys managed to nod. He was gaping, unable to breathe. The ropes were biting into his skin

Being strangled, dangling over the fire…

"So be a good king, Aerys. Be a kind king, a merciful one." the demon whispered, lifting his blade upwards. "… Because I will be back if you're not."

The blade slashed. The ropes snapped apart.

Thud. The king dropped painfully to the stones, air rushing back into his lungs.

And Aerys Targaryen screamed like he had never screamed before.

The shrill cry split the night apart. It was the hour of the bat, but suddenly the whole castle shot awake.

Bodies crashing against the door. Men trying to force their way through. The white cloaks were yelling. "Your Grace!" That was Ser Arthur's voice. "Your Grace! What happens, what happens…!"

The wood splintered. Aerys was broken down into hysterical screeching, and the demon – the demon was just standing there, clad entirely in black against the flames. It had a twisted metal staff in its hands, its shoulders crouched. its body tensing, staring at the doorway and preparing itself.

The door snapped. Men were bursting through, swords drawn. The demon never even hesitated…

Suddenly, it unhooked something from its belt. A bag of powders, black dust spilling outwards as it threw them into the fire. As soon as the dust hit the fireplace, the flames gushed, the fires spewing out thick black smoke across the chamber.

Everything was swallowed by black.

It happened in instant; the door broke open, black smoke was gushing out and the demon was running.

And it lunged straight through the white cloaks in a cloud of black. Men were coughing, stunned. It was through them before either knight had a chance to react.

Pyromancer dust, Ser Arthur realised suddenly as the black smoke hissed around them. It threw a bag full of pyromancer dust. The alchemists liked their little shows – it was a favourite among mummers. The shadow swept straight by them in blackness.

Men were running, screaming, coughing, but the Kingsguard ran straight towards their liege. Aerys was broken down into wailing sobs before the blackened fireplace.

The room was smeared in ash, hands tried to rouse him, but Aerys was left senseless with panic. "Your Grace!" Ser Arthur, the Sword of the Morning, tried to scream. "Your Grace, Your Grace, what happened…!"

Aerys couldn't even think, couldn't breathe.

The demon had left its knife behind – sharp metal stabbed into the wood of the mantlepiece. It was a curved metal blade, hooked and curved like none he had ever seen before.

Across the castle, the masked man was already flying through down the corridor. Gold cloaks were rushing in panic, there were knights rushing to intercept.

Ser Oswell was the first alert, sprinting down the other end of the corridor with his sword in the hand. He had been off-duty, but awake even despite the hour. He heard the footsteps, he heard the shouts and the screams, and then the black figure was running towards him.

The black shape had a weapon in his hands – an iron quarterstaff with a hooked end. A queer weapon, more like a club than an axe. But it was a man carrying it – a man of slight build wearing a full-face black mask.

"Stop!" the knight bellowed, blade swinging. "Stop!"

Swords lunged. Metal clashed together, but then masked man was diving and twisting around him, swooshing black cloak against white. He didn't even stop.

Ser Oswell tried to slash around but then–

Rope. In a single smooth motion, the masked man slung a rope around Ser Oswell's legs. The rope tightened, and suddenly the knight's feet were bound together. It was so perfectly practiced, so well-executed, Ser Oswell couldn't even…

The intruder was already running. The white knight toppled to the stones with his legs tied together.

Behind him, footsteps pounding. Ser Arthur and Ser Gerold were giving chase, but they were already out of breath. The intruder moved fast.

"What was that?" Ser Gerold boomed. "By all the hells, what was that??"

Ser Oswell was on the floor, stunned, struggling to unbind his legs. "I have no idea," he gasped.

Men were shouting, struggling to react. The Red Keep was the most secure castle in the realm, but the intruder never seemed to notice. The masked man pushed his way through three knights of the Kingsguard so easily it could have been rehearsed.

Ser Gerold stopped to help Ser Oswell to his feet, but Ser Arthur kept on running.

"Do let him escape!" Ser Arthur was bellowing. "Seal the gates! Seal the gates! Do not let him escape!"

The masked man had already reached the main staircase of the west wing. If the man stopped to breathe, Ser Arthur didn't see it. He heard voices – gold cloaks rushing up the stairs to see what the commotion was. "Block the stairs!" Ser Arthur shouted. "Block the stairs, do not let him get downwards–!"

Men were charging up with pikes and halberds, but as soon as Ser Arthur turned the corner, the masked man had vanished. Ser Arthur's eyes flailed, but then he saw movement on the level above.

The intruder was going downwards at all. He was climbing up. The man was hardly even using the steps – instead he was jumping across the handlebars of spiral staircase, rebounding off the walls…

He jumped and bounded up the inside of the staircase like a squirrel climbing a tree.

Ser Arthur could have gaped. His legs were running. Knights and men were flooding through the staircase, but then the knight heard the twang of a bowstring, he saw a rope…

A hooked rope fired upwards, clattering around the thick brazier hanging from the ceiling. Metal chimed, burning candles were falling downwards.

There was a crossbow built into the metal quarterstaff the man carried, Ser Arthur realised, there was a bolt mechanism built into the hooked end. It didn't fire a normal bolt either – the staff fired a grapnel with a rope trailing behind, Ser Arthur heard the clang as it wrapped around the chandelier, the man was jumping after it.

What sort of man would have such a device?

And suddenly the masked man was swinging upwards. A gold cloak tried to stop him, but the figure soared straight over the guard's head.

All around him, the gold cloaks were staring with shock, their jaws hitting the floor. He was up the staircase and out within two dozen heartbeats. "By the gods!" one of the men cried.

Ser Arthur had never seen the like of it. The way he moved – some sort of mummer? Was this an acrobat, playing some perverse game?

The knight had no chance to be amazed. Ser Arthur kept on running.

The intruder was running out on the very top of the holdfast. The night was dark and still, illuminated by a bulbous moon hanging over the city. From atop the Red Keep, a hundred thousand torches gleamed in King's Landing before like torches in the sky.

Men were running – many of them wearing still wearing nightclothes after they had just scrambled out of bed, but they all had swords in their hands. The ramparts were in uproar, and for a heartbeat Ser Arthur feared that black cloaked figure had vanished in the dark like a shadow. A phantom of the night.

"Over here!" a man cried – Ser Willem Darry, shivering half-naked in the cool air. "He's over here!"

Ser Arthur saw him. He saw movement in the black. The masked man was climbing up the west tower – the tallest tower of the Red Keep. He was scaling it from the outside, leaping from gutter to gargoyle, scrambling his way up the window frames. The man was lightly armoured in black leather and a long flowing cloak, using his staff to hook ropes across the edges with stunning grace.

The masked man wasn't wearing armour – he was wearing some sort of harness instead. He wore a full-face black mask, beneath a cowl with two pointed stubs rising from the forehead. There were metal edges on his wristbands that he used to hook against the stone as he scrambled upwards. There were ropes wrapped around his torso, and a dozen pouches strapped across his chest.

For a long time, Ser Arthur could only stare. The man was agile, incredibly so. A few of the gold cloaks were trying to climb after him, but none managed to clamber up the first ledge. A few of them were throwing spears, but the man skittered around the tiles. Spears clattered against stone, but the intruder was still climbing upwards.

"Fetch bows!" a man shouted. "Bows and arrows, shoot him down!"

"We got him!" Ser Willem proclaimed, wheezing out of breath. "We got him. There's nowhere to run from up there, he's not getting down."

Ser Arthur didn't reply. The masked man was climbing higher and higher, all the way to the rusted iron weathervane atop the tower. The man stood perched on the crest of the roof in the moonlight like some gargoyle, the wind sweeping his cape behind him.

The Sword of the Morning was well-travelled, well-experienced; he had thought he had seen it all – but he had never seen the likes of this.

He is skilled. Incredibly skilled, Ser Arthur thought. But what sort of skilled man climbs a tower just to die on it?

Gold cloaks were whirling javelins and stones, a few of them were notching crossbows. The intruder was adjusting his cloak, unwrapping the ropes from around his torso and propping his quarterstaff behind his back. The masked man was sitting several hundred feet in the air, bracing himself. Ser Arthur saw from the way he tensed, the way he moved.

"He means to jump," the knight gasped. Is the man a fool? "He means to jump…!"

Perhaps he was. He was at the highest peak in the city, at the centre of the Red Keep, but he was still readying to leap. His cloak swooshed in a gust of wind, and then he was running…

A gasp of shock fell across the roof as the man jumped, but he didn't fall.

"Seven save us…!" Ser Willem breathed in awe and fear.

The man's cloak was open wide, stiffer and larger than any normal cloak. They were all gaping upwards as they saw its shadow soar across the moon. It was gliding downwards straight over the walls and into the city below.

Bells were ringing, men were screaming and pointing…

And all of King's Landing stared upwards at the shadow of the bat across the moon.

____________________

Author Notes:

Keep an eye on the dates at the start of these flashforward chapters. The plot is all sketched out, I just might flicker around across it with flashforward stuff.

 

[Serpentguy]

Chapter 8
The Banefort Knight

Golden lions met them at the gates of Lannisport. Lord Tywin was waiting for them with huge banners flapping in the wind. A murmur went through the convoy as they crested the hill over the gold road, and they saw the city gleaming red in the sunset.

It was Bruce's first time seeing the Sunset Sea. The ocean was vast – a great expanse stretching for leagues on end, with tiny sails of ships peckered across the water. The city of Lannisport was snuggled across the hills and cliffs, and great spires of rock rising up from the water like teeth. The harbour was draped over half a dozen isles and inlets across the coast, joined by great stone bridges.

It's not as big as King's Landing, Bruce thought, but not far off either. The docks of Lannisport were bigger than those of the capital, and the waters were so much bluer.

To north, the shadow of the Rock stretched for leagues around. Bruce had heard it looked like a lion standing sentinel, but to him it was just an immense earthen stack jutting from the coast. Casterly Rock was a mountain – hundreds of feet high. Bruce couldn't even make out the castle that supposedly lay a top of it.

Bruce had never imagined a castle so big that it made Harrenhal look small.

Every inch of the westerlands were filled with rough, jagged hills and criss-crossing streams. Ever since Deep Down, Bruce hadn't even seen a league of flat ground. The hills weren't a quarter as tall as the peaks of the Vale, but they were sharp and jagged and filled with canyons. It was only as the gold road reached the coast that they saw acres of forests. There were plenty of small towns across the roads, and rich farmland everywhere Bruce looked. The air smelled of woodsmoke and earth.

And then there was Lannisport, the golden city. The stone walls did have yellowish tinge to them, and it seemed like half the buildings and towers were built of limestone.

The procession trekked down the road, and the fields were lined with smallfolk that wanted to see the king.

Bruce gently soothed his pony to be steady. The king was finally out of his wheelhouse – now that they were in sight of the city, he had chosen to mount a great white destrier, to meet Tywin Lannister on the road in full regalia. Bruce rode behind the Kingsguard, still wearing his cupbearer garb. The boy was so close that he could see king's horse twitching as Aerys dug the spurs in much harder than needed. The king was uncomfortable and unaccustomed to horseback.

Still, a fanfare of trumpets blasted, and regiments of knights in gilded armour took formation at the edge of the city. The king was a month late and the tourney had to be postponed for him, but Lord Tywin still met the royal procession with full honours.

Between Bruce and Ser Oswell, they had ensured the king remained mostly sober for the rest of the trip – but in his sobriety Aerys had turned tense, twitchy and nervous.

Lord Lannister himself was waiting for them on the road on a black horse draped red, with the lord himself wearing gold. King Aerys looked like a nervous squirrel buried under all his finery and riches, but Lord Tywin? Lord Tywin looked and held himself like a king. He was a tall and noble figure, sitting stiffly as he greeted the king.

Bruce didn't hear the words they met each other with, but both men were sitting stiff on their horses. The king shared some brief words with the Hand, before Aerys finally abandoned his horse and returned to his wheelhouse for the rest of the journey.

Bruce had never seen cobblestones so clean. It was like they had paved and polished the entire road just for the king's arrival.

The fanfare followed them into the city itself – trumpeters and drummers marching behind them. Lord Tywin had spared no expense. From the gates, men threw down a hail of confetti into the streets, and crowds of smallfolk were lining the road to cheer for them.

Lord Lannister led the way through the gates, and the crowd roared for him. When King Aerys' carriage rumbled through, it was a forced, barely enthusiastic cheer.

But when Rhaegar rode through at rear of the procession, the smallfolk went mad. Bruce had never heard people clap and cheer that loudly before. Privately, Bruce wondered whether or not someone had paid them to cheer so loud.

Lannisport was heaving. King's Landing might have been the biggest city, but Lannisport was the richest. The streets were clean, every road smooth and cobbled, and the watchmen stood like gleaming statues.

If this was the way that Lord Lannister ruled his kingdom, then Bruce could understand why Aerys felt so insecure.

As they rode into the Lion Plaza, they saw a shining figure of a young girl standing atop a platform, clapping her hands and staring downwards. She was pretty, with bright golden hair and a red silk dress, but she looked beautiful with the sunlight behind her.

Lord Tywin positioned her there deliberately, Bruce thought, so that every person in the convoy – especially the prince – would be looking up his young daughter.

Cersei Lannister's face was lit up, like she couldn't believe her eyes. She was staring down at the prince. Bruce looked up for a time, eyes narrowed, but nobody spared at a second glance to the young squire dressed in black.

Rhaegar, for his part, had a very stiff smile on his face. The crown prince made a handsome sight, but Bruce looked at his expression. The prince wasn't flattered or swooning at the smallfolk's elation, instead he just kept his face guarded and his smile waxy, like he was waiting for it all to be over.

Casterly Rock stood a mile outside of Lannisport, and Bruce he had been eager to see inside the mountain. You could see its shadow from anywhere in the city.

"Will we be hosted in the Rock?" Bruce asked eventually.

"I think not," Ser Oswell replied. "The Rock is too big and too much of a labyrinth. It is three times the height of Wall, Bruce, and the king won't want to deal with all those stairs. We'll be staying in the city, where the fun is."

That was unfortunate. Bruce would have to see if he could explore the castle by himself sometime. He spent a long time staring at the Rock in the distance, wondering if anybody could scale it.

Instead, the castle in Lannisport itself was the Pride Hall, squatting at the very centre of the city on a hill overlooking the wharves. Pride Hall was more like a palace than a castle – it was the Lannister summer home, and the seat of their branch family, House Lannister of Lannisport. It was a tall and proud structure of pale marble with ornate iron fences, and it seemed like every man and woman standing before it had yellow hair.

There were more branch families of Lannister than Bruce could even count. They had names like Lanny, Lannett, Lantell and Lanchester, and they were all gathered in the plaza.

The king and the high lords were granted chambers of honour inside Pride Hall, but the castle was not big enough to house all of the guests. Many of the lords and knights had already hired rooms in taverns in the city, but the king's serving staff were housed in a field of tents that was raised in the castle's grounds. Most knights had to bring their own pavilions. Bruce and Stannis were lucky; as squires to the Kingsguard themselves, they were assigned a narrow cot in one of the outbuildings of the castle.

While the prince was welcomed by crowds of minor nobles eager to introduce themselves, Bruce and Stannis were already working to unpack endless crate after crate of supplies, cloths, armour and finery.

The castle was so busy that the mounts were skittish. Mules were braying, and horses were trotting nervously at the unfamiliar stables. Bruce was good with horses; he spent much of his time stroking the horses one by one, whispering softly into their ear just to calm them.

He didn't want anything to do with bustle outside – loud spaces and lots of activity made Bruce uncomfortable – but the horses were fine. He could relax slightly when he was with horses.

And then a man in gilded armour and a red cloak rode into the stables. The knight brought his bay courser to a halt by digging in the spurs tightly. Bruce heard the way the horse shimmied in pain, and the boy tensed.

"Oi, page," the knight snapped at Bruce. "What are you waiting for? Tend to my horse."

Bruce could have bristled. He chose not to; instead he just lowered his head. "Forgive me, m'lord," Bruce said with a bow.

The knight shoved the reins in his hand. "See him washed and fed by the time I come back."

"Of course, m'lord," Bruce said meekly, patting the saddle down quickly. The horse tried to stir, but Bruce calmed him with a few soft touches.

"Useless boy," the knight scoffed, grabbing his horse by the ear and shoving it into the stall. "He needs a firm hand."

He was rough with his horse, too rough. Bruce lowered his head to keep his expression hidden. "Begging your pardon, m'lord."

The knight wore a red cloak, the same as the Lannister guards. But his armour was gilded and he was clearly highborn; the captain of the guard perhaps? He wore a shield of gold coins, the sigil of House Payne, on his cloak clasp.

"Lord Lannister requests the presence of one Lord Bruce Wayne," the captain said haughtily, causing the boy stiffen slightly. "Do you know where the young lord is?"

Bruce didn't look much like a lordling. The boy wore an unfastened cupbearer's tunic, dressed with a common scoif. Bruce's teeth were chipped, and he had been working to keep the highborn accent out of his voice.

He paused fractionally. "Aye." Bruce bowed. "Please wait here, m'lord, I shall fetch the lord for you."

"See that you do." the knight said, flickering a copper coin at the boy. He caught it and scurried away. "And make it quick."

Then, Bruce walked away and did not go back. He also helped himself to the silver from the captain's saddlebags, just because.

A few hours later, Bruce caught sight of the same captain wandering the grounds and searching for 'Lord Bruce Wayne'. Bruce slinked away and let the man search.

By evening, it was announced that they were holding a celebratory feast in the Lion Plaza, outside the cobblestones under the open air. Guardsmen sealed off the roads, and servants set tables out on the grounds around the great fountain. The yellow statue of King Lorean the First sat proudly in the centre.

The night was cool and dark, but they prepared flickering torches and braziers across the plaza, and tables to seat a thousand. Whole boars charred on fires, and servants ran rushed frantically to serve all of the guests.

Men were cheering, wine was flowing, and Lord Lannister had even bought in four different singer troupes, placing them at each end of the plaza. Tywin most have known of Aerys' affinity for jesters; it seemed like every juggler and fool in Lannisport was on display. Somehow, though, the king didn't seem amused.

It was extravagant and glorious, and come dusk the whole plaza was heaving. Half the knights will be drunk off their heads for the tourney in the morning, Bruce thought. Perhaps that was the point.

The king and the prince were given seats of honour and the red dragon of Targaryen was raised the highest. Still, Bruce noticed that the lion of Lannister was nearly just as high, and that the Lannister banner was better trimmed and more finely stitched.

The squires themselves were sat at the own table, on the fringe of the plaza. Bruce and Stannis stuck closely together between so many unfamiliar faces, but even the boys were given goblets filled with wine. The high table was stiff and formal, but at the tables of squires and pages there were cheering, laughing and fighting.

Already, an argument rose about who would win the tourney – with many from the capital insisting that Prince Rhaegar would be the champion, but Ser Arthur, Ser Barristan, or Ser Tygett Lannister were also favourites.

It was all loud, and cheerful and pleasant. Bruce knew that he should relax, but he couldn't. He sat stiffly and uncomfortably. His one reassurance was that Stannis sat just as stiff.

He didn't like loud spaces. Bruce was fidgety, feeling so alert and off-guard, trying to watch everything that was happening. It wasn't a panic attack, but it was the same coiling in his gut and shortness of breath.

Across from them, two of the older boys started wrestling on the cobblestones, but that stopped quickly as, from the high table, Lord Lannister raised his glass. The whole plaza froze as Lord Tywin's stood up on the dais.

"In honour of the king, Aerys Targaryen – his sons, his beautiful family," Tywin Lannister proclaimed. "They shall never have a stronger ally than Lannister. I dedicate this tourney and these games to the Targaryen reign – long may it prosper!"

"Long may it prosper!" the plaza chanted, and every man toasted.

King Aerys twitched slightly. He accepted Lord Tywin's toast, took a deep gulp of wine and then the king rose to make his own toast. Aerys' voice was so weedy that Bruce couldn't even hear the words from where he was sitting. Tywin's voice had been loud and clear, but the king's voice was half a mumble.

Bruce raised his glass, but he wasn't sure what the king had just toasted to. From the crowd, he heard the sound of sniggers rising after the lacklustre toast. Aerys twitched.

Tywin and Aerys sat next each other. From their appearance, it was hard to tell which was the king and which the servant.

Aerys took a gulp of wine. That is his second, Bruce thought. Bruce had grown used to counting how many glasses the king drank.

"The tourney," Stannis asked finally. "I hear they will hold competitions for squires as well. They will hold the minor for younger squires."

Bruce turned to him. "Truly?"

"Oh, not for the same stakes. The knights will be competing for a big pouch of gold, but the squires will be fighting for a pat on the head," Stannis scoffed. "The champion in the minor will be granted spurs."

Bruce thought back to Rhaegar's knighting 'ceremony', and how unhappy he was. The prince had likely wanted to earn his spurs after winning a tourney. "For what ages?"

"In the minor? Anyone younger than sixteen, I would guess." Stannis spoke like a much older boy sometimes. "The minor is meant for younger sons to prove their worth, oft it is their first taste of a tourney."

"Are you thinking of joining?"

There was a hesitation. "It would be expected of me," he said dourly. "Father would want me to. But I have no illusions, I'm not like to win."

Bruce didn't disagree. Stannis was steady on a horse, but hardly remarkable. He was decent with a shield but poor with a weapon. Stannis had good form and steady feet, but little ferocity. "What of you, Bruce?" Stannis asked, taking a sip of wine. "Will be you be competing?"

Bruce just shook his head. "No."

"You are an excellent shot, Bruce. You could likely win acclaim at the rounds."

"It's not worth the trouble, and I've got no wish of standing in front of the crowd," he replied, keeping his voice low. "I'm not interested in acclaim and I'm in no rush to earn my spurs."

Across the table, two boys barely older than they were gulped down glasses of wine in a drinking competition. Both Stannis and Bruce just watched. "Then mayhaps you're the only one," Stannis said. "The chance for acclaim is the only reason everyone is here."

He paused. "Nobody will be too interested in the minor in any case," Bruce said finally. "They are here for the main lists; they want to see the champion."

"Yes. But there are other games too. They are holding the melee on the first day, archery on the second and finishing with jousting on the third."

Bruce looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "And how many competitions will there be?"

"There will be two rounds for each; the lists and the open. The lists are for matched competitors only, and the open is for any knight on the day who wishes to compete," Stannis explained. "The lists have the highest pot, aye, but I heard it said that the open is the most challenging."

"Ah. So Rhaegar and the knights will be competing only in the lists?"

"Yes. Most knights will – definitely those of high birth," Stannis said, as he picked at his plate. The older boy was more familiar with tourneys. "But the open melee – that will be held first day, on the morning. They typically hold the open before anything else; it is for anyone wishes to truly prove themselves."

"Prove themselves? Why?"

"The melee is dangerous, Bruce. Few people die in jousts, but deaths happen quite regularly in the melee."

Perhaps that's why most highborn prefer the joust, Bruce mused. "I see." The boy nodded. "That's why there's three competitions, I suppose. The joust for those who want applause, the melee for those who want to fight, and the archery for everyone else."

"The archery does have a poorer reputation," Stannis agreed. The boy paused. "Robert always preferred the melee. My brother used to regularly win the minors in the Vale, and he was crowned champion of the open in Gulltown last year."

Ah. Bruce hesitated, measuring the expression in Stannis' eyes. "It's not a competition between you and your brother, Stannis," Bruce said finally.

"My father disagrees," he replied, jaw stiffening.

The very mention of his brother caused Stannis to sour, Bruce noticed. Stannis and Robert had a difficult relationship.

"What of mystery knights?" Bruce asked finally. "I've heard talk of them, are they common?"

"Oh yes." Stannis nodded. "Very common – you get a few of them at any tourney. The Dragonknight competed as mystery knight. As did Ser Duncan the Tall. And Ser Barristan himself, actually – he first competed at the age of ten at Blackhaven."

That caused Bruce to sit a bit straighter, his eyes flickering to where Ser Barristan the Bold sat. "Truly? Why?"

"Many reasons. Sometimes it's for popularity – the smallfolk love to guess at a mystery knight. Sometimes a certain knight would be unpopular at an event, but they wish to join regardless," Stannis explained. "And sometimes it's for less scrupulous reasons – some tourneys are for knights only, but any man can get around that by hiding their face and pretending to be one. Or maybe the man is outlawed or banned, but they still want to enter the lists."

The tone of Stannis' voice made it clear what he thought of that last group. "Is that legal?"

"Of course not. But mystery knights are popular regardless."

Huh. Bruce paused to consider that. "Everyone loves an outlaw," he said slowly.

Stannis raised an eyebrow, measuring his expression. "Should I be concerned, Bruce?"

"When have I ever given you reason to be concerned?"

The other boy scoffed. "Where is my horse, Bruce?"

Bruce stifled a chuckle. "At a certain point, you've got to stop bringing that up."

Stannis shook his head exasperatedly. Bruce tried to shrug it off a jape, but he couldn't help but wonder…

How difficult would it be to fashion a mask? he mused. And a suit of armour? A matching set of armour might be an issue, but Bruce could likely scrounge something up from the spare armoury. The Kingsguard's armoury had pieces to spare, but then finding a suitable horse would be more difficult. He knew that it was a foolish thought – Bruce's height and stature would quickly give him away, but the idea was still appealing.

He didn't care for the reward, but he was very much interested in the chance to test himself. It was something to be considered.

In the plaza, the food ran out quickly but the ale kept on flowing. The air was full of sounds of merriment, but Bruce caught sight of an argument rising on the high dais. He couldn't hear the words, but he saw the tense bodies and the sharp movements.

Eventually, towards the hour of the owl, Prince Rhaegar finally stood up. Lord Tywin raised his hand, and all noise stopped. The singers went hushed.

For a moment, Bruce thought that Rhaegar was going to make a toast, but instead the crown prince brought up his harp. He never said a word, he just settled down on a seat before the crowd and slowly fingered the golden harp.

The whole plaza froze as the prince's fingers started to play. Nobody dared to even mutter.

It was a long slow tune, but slowly rising in pitch. The strings danced under Rhaegar's fingers – no supporting instruments, no voices along with it, nothing but the stringing of the harp.

The sound made Bruce think of his mother. He took a deep breath.

On the high table, Bruce noticed Cersei Lannister crying, weeping quietly into her hands as she watched the crown prince. Next to her, the twin – Jaime Lannister – wasn't crying. The two siblings looked very much alike, but Cersei was weeping while Jaime sat stiffly and unhappily.

It took a while for Bruce to recognise the tune. Rhaegar was playing 'Sapphire Eyes' – a song of Symeon Star-Eyes. It was the song of a man from the age of Heroes who lost both his eyes to an evil king, yet he replaced them with sapphires. Symeon Star-Eyes, the blind man that was said to have a set about a hundred year quest to rid evil from the realm, and to restore justice and chivalry.

Normally it was a happy, upbeat song, but Rhaegar made it sad.

________

Bruce was up before dawn. It was a new city, unfamiliar streets, and Bruce wasted no time in scouting it out. He left the lordling's clothes in his bag, and instead he wore a grimy tunic inside out and a cap pulled heavily over his brow.

As he stepped out the castle, he heard mention that one Ser Ilyn Payne had been searching everywhere for Lord Wayne on behalf of Lord Lannister, but Bruce pretended not to notice. Ser Ilyn was cruel to horses, and that was reason enough for Bruce to make the captain's job difficult.

Bruce wasn't sure whether or not anyone would restrict them leaving into the city, but he climbed out over the fence just in case.

Lannisport was heaving. The whole city seemed excited and readied for the upcoming tourney, and Bruce past knights that were already suiting up in plate armour.

As he stepped out into the streets, he passed a chanting group of men cheering for a heavyset knight strolling down the street. The banners of House Crakehall fluttered above him, surrounded men-at-arms laughing and drinking.

"Make way for the upcoming champion!" a man cheered. "Make way for the Great Boar – Ser Roland Crakehall!"

Bruce sneaked out early, to patrol the wharves. It seemed like brothels were overflowing, and men were already setting preparations for the start of the games.

Bruce crept onwards, mapping out the streets and alleyways in his head. The jousts would be held on the fields outside the city, but it seemed like the melee was to happen in the city centre, by the docks.

The guards of Lannisport were a different breed. In King's Landing, the gold cloaks were barely-competent and wholly corrupt, but the City Watch of Lannisport actually seemed well-organised and trained. Bruce had to climb over two walls and creep across a rooftop, to sneak by the watchmen that were trying to keep the wharves clear of street urchins.

He saw the whores out in force; every brothel had its doors open, and Bruce saw several whorehouses that were offering special discounts for any competitor.

Crowds of bookies were already assembling, and the taverns were flooding out of their doors. There were too many patrons to be served; instead there were stalls set up on the street serving cheap ale.

Closer to the yard, there were seats reserved for any merchant or minor noble willing to pay for them, but the stands were already filling early with smallfolk that wanted the best view.

They were all ready for the tourney; the jousts would be the highlight, but on the first day it was the melee.

Bruce pushed closer to see the fighting grounds, and to watch the knights assemble. They were all big, burly men – Bruce may have mused on the idea of being a mystery knight, but the logical side of him knew that he wouldn't stand a chance in a brawl against men that size.

The melee would be held in an open plaza on the lower level on the dockside, it was like a cobbled yard right by the pier. On the upper level, they had built a stand for the king and the high lords to look down on the melee, while the steps were full of spectators. In the morn light, the shadows were long and it looked dark and foreboding – like a fighting pit in the ground.

The host had the right to decide the structure of the competition. Some melees were fought on horseback, others in paired groups. This one would be on foot, in a mass brawl. Bruce overheard a man comment that it was how Ser Tygett preferred to fight. Lord Lannister had arranged this open specifically to give his younger brother an advantage.

On the wharfside, two men were already duelling – competing in a mock fight to drum up support, and to persuade gamblers to bet on them. There were other men calling for sponsors – one grey-bearded man claiming to be 'Ser Morgan the Unstoppable' was standing on a box, shouting for patrons to pay the participation fee so he could compete. He promised the returns when he won. Others were promising the same.

The high knights ruled the lists, but the open was for everyone. Even a common soldier might win the open, take the pot of gold, and be set for life. Those sort of stakes caused the crowd to buzz.

Bruce could understand the thrill. The thought of putting on a mask and joining as a mystery knight…

Bruce pushed onwards – and he saw a large wall on the side of a warehouse scribbled with chalk. The bookies were out in force, scrawling names on the wall. Many men couldn't read, so they would doodle crude sketches of their sigils as well – along with tick marks to show their odds. Crowds were screaming, men pushing to the front to place their bets.

"Announcing! Ser Hosteen Frey has joined the open!" a man proclaimed. "Hosteen Frey – a bold young knight with two minors and a runner-up in an Oldstone's open to his name! Hosteen Frey, he fought Ser Patrek Mallister to a standstill, knighted by Lord Tully himself! Place your bets, gentlemen!"

Men scrambled, shouting numbers. Bruce saw coppers and a few silvers being pushed around. The announcer proclaimed each one that joined – even the really obscure knights that Bruce had never heard of, but he phrased them all like they were Maekor come again.

Bruce stared at it; counting the names on the wall, working out the numbers.

Near a hundred knights would be competing in the open melee; a hundred men charging against each other, and only the very best would be standing at the end.

Despite himself, Bruce felt his stomach twinge. He stared down at the pit, and wondered what it would be like to be part of a fight like that. Part of him was scared with the thought, but the other part wanted to find out.

Even if I don a suit of armour, Bruce told himself, I still have a child's build. They would laugh at me, not let me compete. Still, the temptation was there.

On the wall of bets, there was one name with more ticks mark next to it than any other. It was marked by a crude lion with a gaping maw.

"It's a sucker's bet," Bruce heard a bookie scoff. "Everybody knows that Ser Tygett Lannister will win the melee. Well, either him or Roland Crakehall."

"I would not be so sure. Ser Elys Westerling is a dark horse," his partner argued. "And I've heard strong praise for young Hosteen Frey too."

"What of the king's convoy? They brought some strong contenders…"

"Lannister is still the strongest bet," the man insisted. "This melee was built for Lannister – Tywin wants to see his brother hailed the champion."

Across from the betting pool, there was a line of enforcers collecting participation fees for any that were trying to go through. Bruce saw a full-helmed man in disjointed armour trying to haggle with the fightmasters, struggle to scrounge up the coin.

The man wore the hooded man of Banefort on his chest, but the armour didn't look like it really fitted him. His greaves and gauntlets looked too small, his hauberk looked too big.

Unless a lord declared for you, it was a fee of twenty silver to compete. That was a way of stopping the rabble from joining, and the coin would go to the winner's pot.

The Kingsguard would not compete in the open, and most highborn reserved themselves for the lists. There were more western knights than any other – but the majority were either hedge knights or sworn swords. A couple of landed knights, but very few lords or highborn sons.

Tygett Lannister and Roland Crakehall were easily the two competitors with the highest status. Both of them were renowned warriors fighting for the thrill of battle.

The open is a bloody melee, he realised. This competition was a pit. The jousts were safer and more rewarding. Only men who truly loved battle took part here.

Bruce watched the man arguing with the fightmaster – he kept his face hidden and his voice low. They were haggling over coins; the Banefort man had to pay in scraps of copper, trying to scrounging up the money. When he was still short of the full amount, it sounded like tempers were rising. At one point the man grabbed the fightmaster by the collar and tried to threaten him, but there were already bouncers to push him back.

Eventually, the fightmaster only agreed to let the man compete in return for parts of his armour to make up the difference; he had to sacrifice his belt, his gauntlets and armguards to pay the participation. The man with the Banefort sigil was trembling with rage, and a few of the spectators jeered and threw scraps of rotten food at him.

"We have three mystery knights in the open!" the bookie declared. "The Banefort Knight, the Black Lion, and the Sunset Soldier! Place your bets, gentlemen – do you want to take the gamble? Place your bets. Get them in before the bell rings!"

Above the stairs, the highborn stood on the upper pier looking. Bruce saw the king's stand; and he saw Aery's carriage rumbling into position. Bruce crept so close that he could hear the king grumbling about the poor quality of the satin chairs as he stepped out.

The crowd below cheered as they saw Lord Tywin, King Aerys and Prince Rhaegar taking the seats of honour.

In the yard, the knights were grandstanding, pacing. Some were flexing muscles, others swinging swords, and others laughing and calling for the crowd to chant for them. The whole place was heaving.

Bruce saw Ser Tygett Lannister – a lean and sharp man with vicious eyes and gilded armour. Ser Tygett didn't grandstand, but he was poised with his blade and wearing a gilded lion's head helmet.

"Announcing… Tygett Lannister, the Fierce Lion!"

The crowd roared for him, but Ser Tygett didn't smile. Up above, Bruce saw Tywin clap slowly for his younger brother, yet that only made the Ser Tygett's jaw clench. They had very different features to them; Tywin kept an impassive face and short cropped hair, but Tygett was shaved bald with a scar across his chin.

"Roland Crakehall, the Great Boar!" the man announced, and laughing knight of House Crakehall took to the yard.

Bruce's eyes gazed outwards, measuring the others. Some were confident, others were grandstanding, and a few looked like hardened veterans. There were also some younger men, that seemed like they were pissing themselves in fear. The crowds were cheering, mocking and howling all at once.

They all took position across each side of the square yard. Bruce noticed how Ser Tygett was given the corner, but the less experienced men were positioned on the flat.

Bruce saw him. A man of below average height in mismatched armour, holding himself stoically at the edge of the crowd. His face was kept sealed under a full helm, refusing to even lift the visor. Others were cheering or posing, but this one seemed nervous. He bore the hooded man of Banefort on the sigil on his chest, but he seemed uncomfortable in it. Twitching, out of place.

The mystery knight was at the very bottom of the queue. "And the Banefort Knight!" the man announced, and the knight staggered awkwardly as he tried to step down the stairs in heavy greaves. His armour didn't fit properly, it was rattling with every step.

In the crowd, men were laughing. Bruce just watched, creeping into the corner of the stands, in the shadows, so he could take it all in.

"Every single time you get some fool in armour thinking this is their big shot," a man-at-arms muttered next to Bruce. "Farmer's boy that hardly even know how to swing a sword. Mark my words, he'll be the first to fall."

Bruce didn't say a word, but he leaned over the balcony. His gaze lingered on the Banefort Knight, feeling a tingle down his spine. He noticed the way the Banefort Knight was trembling.

The fighters were wielding blunted edges, but they held oak swords with metal bands. Some were wielding maces or hammers, and they all held thick wooden shields that could bash a man down. Maybe they weren't fighting to kill, but the weapons were easily hard enough to crack skulls or break bones.

"You know the rules," the announcer declared, walking around the competitors. "You charge on the bell, you push your way to the other side. You touch the opposite wall, and then push back. You keep on going between wall to wall until there's no one left – absolutely no shirking from a fight. If we see any man trying to hide on the fringes, then you're out, understand?"

There were nods, but the cheer of the crowd didn't cease. The fightmaster was staring mostly at the younger men, the Banefort Knight included. "If your enemy falls down, you walk away," he continued. "If they drop their sword, you let them go. No hitting them on the ground, not hitting a man that can't out, or else you're disqualified.

"When they yield – the fight is over. That goes both ways too; if a man surrenders and then takes a cheap shot – that man will go to straight to the stocks. By the Maiden, you fight fair, understand?"

None replied. The fightmaster was walking circles of the yard. "May the Warrior bless your arms, may the Mother grant you mercy." He turned to look up at the royal stand. "By your lord's command?"

All eyes were on Lord Lannister, who merely nodded and motioned to the king. "Your Grace?" Tywin offered.

Aerys hesitated, and then stood up. The king clapped his hands, wheezy voice struggling to be heard. "Begin!" the king called.

The bell rang, a great metallic gong. The crowd was stomping and chanting, and the tide of bodies surged forward…

Crash. Shields crashed together, men were yelling…

Bruce saw Ser Tygett Lannister go straight for Ser Roland Crakehall, pairing off to fight each other. Roland was bigger, stronger and heavier, but Tygett was so much faster and more vicious. Blunted swords clashed, the crowd gasping with every blow.

"Lion!" they chanted for Ser Tygett. "Lion! Lion! Lion!"

Across the yard, the Banefort Knight took a mace to the shoulder and staggered unsteadily, to the roar of laughter.

Fighters were already breaking away into pairs; each one clashing with those pushing in the opposite direction. The Banefort Knight managed to charge, swinging his sword in a wide arc. He made it five steps before a Tully knight knocked him down. The blow took the Banefort Knight's legs away, and he fell backwards to the stones with a painful thud.

"And he is down!" a bookie laughed. "The Banefort Knight is the first to fall!"

But he wasn't. Bruce could see him groaning and shaking, but the Banefort Knight staggered to his feet again, hands still gripping his wooden sword. The man charged at Ser Hosteen Freys, trading blows frenzied blows. He was still fighting.

Across the yard, Ser Tygett and Ser Roland were locked in a dramatic duel, but the Banefort Knight seemed like he was flopping around by comparison.

Ser Hosteen was the bigger man, the stronger of the two. The Knight of the Crossing shoulder barged straight through the Banefort Knight, and he clattered to the cobbles. They announced that he was down again, but he was standing up once more.

A hedge knight tried to swing at the Banefort Knight as he was finding his feet, but the Banefort Knight replied by tackling him, armoured head first, into the ground.

The whole crowd gasped and winced as the hedge knight hit the ground, and the Banefort Knight was staggering upwards, swaying with every step.

The mystery knight touched the opposite side of the yard, and then turned around to do it again. The first fighters were being removed from the grounds.

Meanwhile, Ser Tygett was gaining ground against Ser Roland in a flurry of blows, but the Banefort Knight was making progress too.

No matter how hard they hit him, he kept on standing up. He didn't let go of his sword, like it was nailed to his hands.

First it was Ser Antario Jast, and then Ser Androw Farman. They were both stronger men, better with a sword, but the Banefort Knight screamed as he tackled them down. A wordless cry of fury broke from his faceless helm, swinging his sword like a club.

Then the Banefort Knight met Ser Hosteen Frey again. The mystery knight staggered as he Ser Hosteen's blunt sword crashed against his shield. Crash, crash, crash – until the shield scattered out of the Banefort Knight's grip.

Ser Hosteen didn't pull his blows. Bruce felt the crowd wince with every impact.

The smaller man was staggering, struggling to defend, but he didn't fall. Slowly, the crowd were starting to turn away from Ser Tygett's fight – more and more men were murmuring as they looked upon the mystery knight.

"Who is that man?" Bruce heard Prince Rhaegar ask, looking between Lord Tywin and the other knights. Lord Tywin didn't reply.

"Whoever he is, he's a poor knight," Ser Arthur said stiffly. "His defence is sloppy and he hardly knows what to do with the sword in his hand."

Bruce didn't disagree. There was another whack across the helmet that should have knocked him down. Ser Hosteen seemed to deflate slightly as the Banefort Knight pulled himself up once more.

"That's very true," Rhaegar muttered, "but he sure can take a hit."

That was one way to phrase it. Ser Hosteen was swinging so hard he was panting for breath; and the Banefort Knight was staggering backwards but he wasn't going down. The blunted sword clanged against the man's helm, ringing his skull like a bell, and he was screaming…

Thud. Suddenly, the Banefort Knight's fist crashed straight into the Frey's chin. He punched so hard that blood spurted from his knuckles.

The crowd was muttering. Bruce stared in shock. Does the man even feel pain?

They were both staggering. The Banefort Knight's helmet had spilt open under Hosteen's blows, blood pouring down his face. The helm was breaking around his skull.

Ser Hosteen finally collapsed first. He tried to resist, but the Banefort Knight kept punching. The fightmaster had to whistle to force the Banefort Knight to walk away.

Bruce could see the mystery knight's features; a blunt nose, dimples in his cheeks, and wide bloodshot eyes. On the lord's stand a man stirred, and then frowned with the sight of him.

"Ser Rogor!" the lord called suddenly. "That's your son, is it not?"

There were murmurs. Bruce turned around quickly, creeping for a closer look. There was a figure stepping up from the stands, limping towards the high lord's box. The man – Ser Rogor – was a large, gnarly aging man; heavily built with crooked back, and big meaty hands like hams. Bruce saw the man's eyes tighten.

"Impossible…" the old knight croaked.

"It is," the lord insisted. "I recognise him, your eldest. You brought him to the Harvest Feast… my word…!"

In the yard, it was Ser Elys Westerling, crashing down against the Sunset Soldier. The Westerling knight won, but then he came face to face with the Banefort Knight. This time, it was Ser Elys that was losing ground, falling back against pure frenzied rage.

Murmurs rising. On the stands, Bruce saw Ser Rogor stare with… he couldn't even decipher the emotion. Amazement? Shock? Horror?

"It is your boy, isn't it?" the lord pressed. Ser Rogor blinked, and then nodded.

Others were turning. Ser Rogor had the look of a landed knight; he wore the lion of Lannister on his cloak, but he was too tall, grim and poorly dressed to be a noble lord. Other men turned to look at him; even Lord Tywin twisted in his seat to frown.

"He joined without permission I take it?" Ser Oswell commented, looking between them. "Your son has poor form, but I cannot fault his resolve."

Ser Rogor gulped. "Forgive me, m'lords, I… I don't know how he… I didn't…"

Another western lord – Bruce never knew the names – frowned. "Wait – your boy? It cannot be."

"It is, I'm sure of it," the first lord insisted. "It shocked me too, but I remember him. He was tall at the Harvest Festival, but now…"

"That's impossible, surely not…!"

In the yards, the Banefort Knight screamed as he brought his sword down with a dull thump. Ser Elys crashed down to the ground. The murmurs were rising in the stands. From his seat, Prince Rhaegar looked confused.

"Forgive, my lords, but what is the issue?" the prince asked, frowning. "Your son is doing quite well."

All eyes turned to Ser Rogor. The knight floundered slightly. "He's…" He gulped. "Well, he's twelve years old, Your Grace."

Bruce blinked. What?

The platform was stunned, gaping. Some of them must have knew, but others were shocked. Prince Rhaegar's jaw dropped open. "That's twelve years old?"

"It's true, I know him…"

"Look at the size of him! Twelve years old??"

Twelve years old, but already as tall as a man grown. Bruce had thought the Banefort Knight of slightly below average height, but at twelve years old? How large will he be when he is fully grown?

"Impossible!" a lord cried. "I demand a septa's testimony!"

"It is true," Lord Tywin spoke suddenly, keeping his eyes peeled on the melee. "Ser Rogor has been a leal servant for a long time. His sons have both been pages at the Rock since very young. His family have always been very… big-boned."

The whole stands gaped, eyes turning to stare at the fight more closely. Competitors were falling like flies, there were few left – yet the Banefort Knight was still going strong.

Ser Rogor was flustering, hobbling before Lord Lannister. "Forgive me, my lord, I had no idea… I did not allow him to join, he must have stolen the armour…"

"The boy…"

"Clegane…!"

"It's a freak!"

"It's remarkable!" Rhaegar gasped.

In the pit, Ser Roland finally conceded to Ser Tygett, while the Banefort Knight powered through another a hedge knight by headbutting him until he dropped.

Bruce couldn't believe his eyes. Twelve years old? The man was a monster. That was only one year older than he was?

Even under the all blood dripping down his chin, Bruce could see the youthful features. Dimples in his chin, and a somewhat lanky build. The man – the boy – was tall and an early bloomer, already able to pass for an adult.

That was why he hid his face, Bruce realised. He wanted to compete in the open and not the minor – he wanted to fight.

Bruce looked down at the knights and fighters. They were all hardened men, and they were falling – overpowered by a boy a third of their age.

There were only two left in the yard, the final two still standing. Ser Tygett and the Banefort Knight clashed, and the crowd was going mad.

Bruce saw Lord Lannister purse his lips. All around the stands, people were turning to Ser Rogor, demanding questions. "Twelve years old?" a disbelieving lord insisted. "Are you sure? Have you miscounted?"

The smallfolk were chanting. Prince Rhaegar was on the edge of his seat, staring down entranced. "That's him," Ser Rogor murmured. "That's my eldest."

The blunted swords blurred. Both fighters had dropped their shields, fighting with a single blade. The Banefort Knight was swinging blindly, while Ser Tygett's blows never missed. The Fierce Lion was hitting three times for every one flailing swing, but the Banefort Knight still didn't drop.

"Fall down!" Ser Tygett screamed, wooden blade whirling. "Fall down!"

The Banefort Knight refused. He kept on pushing forward, still trying to power through. Not with speed or even strength, but just pure, unending grit.

Tygett was faster, but tiring. The duel with Ser Roland had drained most of his strength. Tygett's strikes were growing weaker, but somehow the Banefort Knight only seemed to get stronger. Every swing, every clash, became a little bit more powerful and little bit more ferocious. He was relentless, unmoving…

"Fall down!" Ser Tygett roared, bringing his sword against the boy's skull so hard it cracked.

In the crowd, the chants of 'Lion, Lion, Lion' slowly started to be drowned out. Men were roaring for the Banefort Knight instead. Even bloodied, beaten and in broken armour, the Banefort Knight kept on screaming.

The Fierce Lion was falling backwards, his blows more desperate, his breaths hoarser. Ser Tygett was running out of stamina, but the Banefort Knight didn't seem to know the meaning of the word.

He was a mountain.

Ser Rogor stared in shock, face bone white as he stared down at his son. "Gregor…!" he shouted. "Gregor!"

Ser Rogor didn't seem elated, or excited, or even angry. Instead, something in his eyes… for a moment, the father seemed scared.

Ser Tygett lashed out with all his strength. Finally, the wooden sword collided against Banefort's Knight's chest, and the sword snapped.

The twelve year old 'boy' howled. Ser Tygett went down, and quickly sputtered out a concession as the Banefort Knight raised his sword high.

Ser Tygett may have surrendered, but the older knight seemed mostly unharmed, while the Banefort Knight looked a bloodied, half-dead corpse. A revenant, fighting on against all injury. He was staggering, half-dazed, but he didn't drop.

The fightmaster rang the bell and announced the champion, but Bruce couldn't even hear the words. The crowd was screaming – hollering so loudly it was deafening. Even the prince was on his feet, clapping enthusiastically.

The smallfolk were chanting, their words slurring with noise. "Bane, Bane, Bane!" they howled. "Bane, Bane, Bane!"

Bloodied and beaten, Gregor Clegane roared.

 

[Serpentguy]

Flashforward 2
Welcome Home, Master Wayne

279 AC, the riverlands…

The autumn air was sharp and crisp as Bruce trekked through the muddy path. Apple trees lined the roadside, the muddy ground was dimpled by the heavy cart wheels, and black and red moss clung to the bark. Bruce slung his rucksack over his shoulder, pulling up the hem of his scarf to keep the chill off his cheeks.

He trekked alone, walking briskly and occasionally stopping to sleep under hedges. He rested mostly during the day and walked in the night, following the stars and moon. One time, he saw the light of torches patrolling the fields of grain, but they never saw him.

As he walked down the narrow road, he noticed the stump of a tree that had been filled by axes, and a broken cart littering the roadside. An old highwaymen trick – drop a tree to ambush a cart. Bruce spent some time counting the footprints around the ambush site. A small gang of bandits, he decided. Poorly organised too. They wore sandals and wielded cheap iron swords.

No doubt if the bandits saw Bruce walking alone, they would try to rob him. Under normal circumstances, Bruce might allow himself to be 'caught' by them.

Still, Bruce chose not to. It would have only been a distraction, and tonight Bruce couldn't let himself be distracted.

He knew these trees, he knew this road. The details had blurred, but he could remember them as clear as the scent of oak trees in the air. The memories were crawling over his skin.

Finally, he saw the old stone tower of Wayne Manor stretching over the distance. The faded gargoyles crawled atop of it, and the granite looked black in the red sunset. It looks so much smaller than I remember it, Bruce thought.

There was a time when Wayne Manor had been his world, but then he had seen Harrenhal, Storm's End, the Red Keep, Casterly Rock. It seemed like everything became larger the further away you went. Bruce had stood upon the Hightower of Oldtown, he had walked over the bridges of Pyke during a storm, he had ridden across the Red Wastes of Dorne. He was fourteen years old, but he had travelled well during his time in the king's court.

He had never realised how small his old home was before. Bruce spent a long time sitting on the hilltop, just staring at it.

He felt… he couldn't even begin to describe how he felt.

Six years, he thought. It has been six years since my parents set off for Harrenhal. It felt like a lifetime.

He had made good time, he was early. Bruce spent the entire day resting on the hillside, staring at his family's home, trying to figure out his head.

Bruce remembered his childhood well. They were his most vivid, happy and painful memories.

It was a dark night. He heard the bats rustling between the orchid trees, but they didn't bother him.

The next morning, he picked up his sack, and walked on down the apple road.

Bruce was expected. A figure was waiting for him by the black iron gates of Wayne manor, standing before iron bat on gate. Bruce felt his chest contract.

It was a single aging man – past sixty, but still broad-shouldered and strong. There were old scars across his chin, old laughter lines creasing his eyes and brow, and he had thick leathery hands crossed across his waist. His hands had been callused by gripping swords, but Bruce had only ever seen him holding serving knives. He was a hardened man that might have been more at home in boiled leather and ringmail, but he had settled into velvet and finery, dressed in black and white.

Ser Alfred of Pennytree was waiting for him, standing alone in the autumn air, looking uncomfortable. There was a long and pregnant pause as the young man trekked down the road. They both stared at each other.

Ser Alfred hadn't aged a day, Bruce thought. He looked exactly like the childhood figure who used to chide Bruce for dirty boots, or wrap a blanket around the boy whenever he fell asleep by his father's armchair.

Curiously, Bruce wondered whether or not the household knight would recognise him. It had been a long time and Bruce was not dressed as lordling – Ser Alfred would be well-justified in chasing the young vagrant away.

Still, as soon as their eyes met, Bruce saw the recognition in his gaze. Ser Alfred stiffened, hesitated, and then bowed.

"Welcome home, Master Wayne," he greeted.

Bruce didn't even know how to reply. 'Master Wayne' – that was the name that Ser Alfred had granted him since he was a babe. Throughout his childhood, the castellan had called him 'Master' They just stood in silence and stared at each other.

"It is Lord Wayne now," Bruce said finally.

____________

They walked across the grounds and paths that Bruce used to know. The household had all ready to meet them him in the courtyard, yet they all seemed shocked when Bruce walked in by himself. Servants and housekeepers stood out on the front porch to greet the returning lord, but there was a ripple of uncertainty as Bruce walked through instead.

The old stablemaster – Duncan – stepped forward to take Bruce's horse, but Ser Alfred just shook the man away. Bruce didn't have a horse.

Bruce kept himself stoic, eyes gazing around every little detail.

"When your raven said to expect you in ten days' time," Ser Alfred said finally, "we were expecting a convoy from the capital. Not a single boy on foot alone."

"I took the slow road home, Alfred."

"Indeed." He nodded. "It has been six years."

And I could never bear to come back here. The door had always been open for him, but Bruce had never wanted to return to a home without his parents.

Ser Alfred of Pennytree open the oak doors for him, and bowed. "Wayne Manor is just the way you left it, my lord."

There was no reply. Bruce stepped forward onto the bare stone floors. The stone was all black and grey, worn so smooth from time that it seemed like a solid lump of rock. Wayne Manor had always been old and grandiose, but it also seemed unfurnished. Everything was old oak and frayed, thick tapestries – dim light spilling through wide shuttered windows.

It wasn't a castle, Bruce thought, it had fences instead of stone walls. Wayne Manor had been built as a summer home, only renovated to be defendable in the last hundred years or so. It was not a true castle.

But it is an old place, Bruce considered. The manor was as old as Riverrun, but it had been rebuilt several times over. He doubted if there was anything in the main hallway more recent than the last half a century.

The people included, it seemed. There were over a dozen household maintaining the manor, but the youngest among them was at least forty years old. There were three cooks, four groundskeepers, the stablemaster, two old washerwomen, plus a handful of grizzled men-at-arms.

Bruce was slightly shocked when he realised just how many of the household were old men. The Red Keep had been a hub with a household of hundreds, but Wayne Manor felt like a crypt filled with old men.

"Bruce Wayne," a groundskeeper croaked, an old man with a hunched back. "I barely recognised you, look how you've grown."

He wasn't wrong. Bruce's growth spurt had come late, but it had hit hard. The boy was still lean, but scrawny arms were becoming thicker and his shoulders broad. He was rapidly growing taller, already filling out into a man's shape.

He greeted them – they all seemed friendly, but Bruce just felt uncomfortable. Out of place.

"Let us get your bags – your bag – unpacked," Ser Alfred offered finally, motioning to the stairs.

Bruce followed quietly, counting the steps he used to slide down. "What happened to the staff, Alfred?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

"They are still doing their jobs, my lord."

"I remember there being more of them."

In his youth, Wayne Manor has been more vibrant, more hectic. Now it felt deserted. Wayne Manor was not a big place, but only a dozen men for a manor this size?

Ser Alfred of Pennytree hesitated for a good few heartbeats. "Many of the younger boys and serving girls had to be let go, my lord. There was not a need for them."

Bruce paused, standing silent. He frowned at Ser Alfred, waiting for an explanation. "Lord Baratheon was appointed executor of your estate," Ser Alfred explained, "and I was granted a tithe from the vaults to maintain your lands. I was approved the coin to pay salaries, to hire tax collectors, and maintain the property and such. However, the estate has gone a long time without supervision, I was forced to make decisions myself."

"And Lord Steffon died," Bruce noted dourly.

"Indeed." Ser Alfred agreed, with a slight grimace. "After that unfortunate affair, the matter of custodianship became murky. Rather than maintain a full household, I chose to grant many of the men their severance, and to seal the gates. Wayne Manor has operated on a skeletal staff for some time now." He paused. "But rest assured, the grounds have been cared for and walls have been patrolled. Diligently."

Bruce chose not reply. They reached the clearing of the spiral staircase, and Ser Alfred led the way. The knight offered Bruce the lord's chamber, but Bruce just shook his head and walked towards his old room instead.

Ser Alfred tried to object, but Bruce wouldn't hear it. The lord's chamber was still his parent's room.

The castellan left a folded set of clothes – wool garments fit for a lordling – outside his door. Bruce hesitated for a long time before pulling into them.

They don't feel right. Bruce found that he felt most comfortable in boiled leathers and a dark cloak. Wearing finery just felt fake.

That evening, the staff served dinner in the great hall. The cook, Greta, served pheasant and roast parsnips, with honey and sliced apples. Bruce expected that everything on the plates had been grown in the manor's grounds.

He also suspected that this was the first time that anyone had used the main dining hall in six years. The staff all bowed too much and shuffled around him a bit too fast. Ser Alfred had requested a quiet meal, to discuss affairs with the lord.

The hall was wide and gloomy, but Ser Alfred lit the fire hearth. The flames crackled in the backdrop.

The black sword Nightwing hung over the mantlepiece. It was a short and curved blade with a serrated handle, resting on its oak stand. A piece of history, Bruce considered. In the first Blackfyre rebellion, Lord Mandon Wayne had once used Nightwing to duel Blackfyre itself on Redgrass Field.

So far as Bruce knew, the only time his father had ever wielded Nightwing was during one nameday feast, when they had needed a blade to carve to a particularly overcooked turkey. His mother hadn't been able to stop laughing, but his father had insisted on using the Valyrian steel sword to carve the meat. Bruce could still see the gouge it left in the wooden table top.

Bruce stared at the sword in quiet consideration. "You are very quiet, Lord Wayne," Ser Alfred said finally.

"What would you like me to say?" Bruce replied, more curious than irritated.

"Nothing, I suppose." Ser Alfred pecked at his plate, but he didn't eat much. The lord and the castellan sat at opposite sides of the table. "How was your journey?"

"Quite fine. The weather was lovely."

"Did you walk alone all the way from King's Landing?" Ser Alfred pressed. Bruce nodded, and the knight frowned. "It is not safe to travel about by yourself, Lord Wayne."

"It was quite alright."

"There is talk of bandits in the surrounding area," Ser Alfred insisted. "Some outlaws have been preying on peddlers from the Saltpans. What would you have done if they came upon you?"

"I would have felt sorry for the bandits." Bruce didn't look up, taking a small bite of parsnip.

Ser Alfred scoffed. "Arrogance rarely leads to longevity, my lord."

I was not being arrogant. Bruce thought, but he just nodded. Ser Alfred was staring at him, waiting for a reply. Bruce gave none.

In most cases, Bruce found that silence was the best answer.

"It was a foolish risk for a young lord," Ser Alfred said finally. "The roads are not safe. Talk to me next time, and I will arrange a suitable escort."

"My father used to hire men to patrol the roads," Bruce noted.

"He did," Ser Alfred agreed. "That was the first job your grandfather granted me. I spent most of my youth across the narrow sea – I was a soldier for hire looking to settle down roots, and I swore my sword to House Wayne. I started here as a common man, walking up and down the Wayne road ten times a day."

"Indeed." That had been over two decades ago – Bruce's grandfather hired him, but Lord Thomas had knighted him Ser Alfred for his skill and service. Later, Alfred had become castellan. Bruce took another bite of meat. "Then why did you get rid of the rest of the household?"

"Because I know soldiers and sellswords. Take it from a man who used to be one – any man willing to fight for coin is likely a treacherous sod," Ser Alfred explained dourly. "Every week I used to count out a pouch of silver and I stood in the hall and handed into the guards. But then the lord and lady died, affairs became stagnant, many of the guards became restless. They were men sitting in a deserted castle, guarding a vault of silver."

Bruce paused. "You feared that the men-at-arms could become treacherous?"

"I did. Once, Wayne Manor received caravans every morning, and then those dwindled away. This is an isolated manor, my lord, and all the staff knows of everyone's coming and going. What happens when those same men realise that they could just group up and take all the silver?"

Bruce kept quiet. Ser Alfred shook his head. "Men need consequences to keep them in line – a man could be as saintly as Baelor the Blessed so long as the community is watching, but put him in a deserted post and he shows his true colours. A man might commit any depravity, so long as he believes that no one will know. I chose to remove the guards before they became a problem.

"Instead, the household that remains are all proven and loyal, my lord. They all have family in nearby villages, they have all worked for your house for many years. They have their tasks and they have settled into Wayne Manor as a comfortable retirement. I chose to close the gates, to restrict access, and to keep your estate secure and withdrawn. I wanted to keep it safe."

Silence reigned over the table. "You are speaking very little, Lord Wayne. Do you think I've done wrong?"

"No. I trust your judgment in the matter." Bruce paused. "You didn't trust them."

"I trust very few men, my lord. I trust them even less as far as silver is concerned."

So it seems. "And what size household do you keep?" Bruce asked.

"Eighteen. Up to thirty on weekdays – there are local workers that we call in as needed."

"How many of those are soldiers?"

"About half."

"So then ten regular men?" Bruce asked, slowly looking up. "Ten to guard an entire castle?"

"I would rather have ten trusted veterans more than a hundred unruly enlisted men any day of the week, my lord." Ser Alfred nodded. "Ten men is more than adequate during peacetime – should matters come turbulent, I will recruit more."

"How many of those men are knights?" Bruce asked.

"Just me." He frowned. "Personally, I find that most 'sworn knights' aren't worth the price they place on themselves. Tis a useless designation, one that anyone can claim. A hardened guardsmen is oft more wry and dependable."

"Indeed." There was no emotion on Bruce's face. He sat straight in his seat. "And then what are you going to do about these bandits?"

"I will go into the village, round up a few local lads. There are a few retired sellswords that I've used before, and I could always get a few more from the ships at the Saltpans. Your parents left behind the silver to pay for it."

"And you pay them at your discretion?" Bruce wondered.

"I do."

"You have been managing the estate for a long time."

The statement was matter-of-fact, but perhaps Ser Alfred interpreted some reproach in his voice? The castellan hesitated, but he didn't bristle. "I assure you, Lord Wayne, that I kept pristine logs for every coin I have taken from your family's vaults," he said carefully. "I have paid every wage, including my own, but not a single penny is out of place. I have naught but loyalty for your family."

"I do not doubt it, ser." Although privately the question had crossed Bruce's mind. His father had thought very highly of Ser Alfred, but Bruce couldn't afford to trust anybody completely. "But I would like to see those logs, regardless."

"And I will never advise against diligence." Ser Alfred nodded, approvingly. "They will be in your study this evening."

Quietly, Bruce's measure of the castellan increased slightly. His father had thought him trustworthy.

Nevertheless, Bruce would go through every log and finance with a fine-tooth comb, just to be sure. Too many conmen relied on most highborn being too lazy to count their coppers properly, yet Bruce refused to be most highborn. He needed to know without a shadow of a doubt whether or not Ser Alfred could be relied upon.

"So tell me about the state of House Wayne," Bruce continued, as he took a gulp of apple juice. "How many men could you raise, and how long would it take?"

"I doubt if I'd need more than a few for those bandits, my lord."

"What if a few wasn't enough?" Bruce insisted. "How many?"

Alfred thought on it for a long moment. "Numbers are too oft misleading, my lord. Wayne Manor could easily pay for over five hundred men from the area to wear our flag, but they'd be utter shite – pardon my Braavosi. Fifty good men could break them." Alfred shook his head. "Skill matters more than anything. To gather a more formidable force… let us say that I could have fifty decent soldiers within a moon, and two hundred within two. Within three months, we could start training our local men, to turn them into something decent."

"So between five hundred and a thousand?" Bruce mused. "Within several months; some of them experienced men, many semi-trained?"

"That would be reasonable," Ser Alfred agreed. "But as an estimate only."

"And how long could we pay to keep them all?"

"Our coffers would run dry within a year if we had to maintain such numbers," Alfred admitted. "House Wayne is more than many minor houses, but we cannot compare to any great house." Ser Alfred inspected him. "Lord Bruce, where are these questions this coming from?"

"I just need to know." Bruce considered it for a while, adding up the numbers in his head. "And what if our hundreds of men weren't enough, and what if we didn't have the time to gather them?"

"Then I'd reach out to Whent or Tully. We have good relations with Royce in the Vale too. For anything more immediate, the local lords will come together too – Houses Roote, Cox and Harwick will all aid us." Ser Alfred nodded. "No matter how many bandits there were, I would deal with it – that's what your parents hired me."

They appointed Ser Alfred to fight for them, to lead their armies should the need arise. For most of his life, Alfred of Pennytree had been a hired killer. "And what if it was the crown that was marching on Wayne Manor? What would you do then?"

That caused him to fall silent. There was a long pause.

"Bruce," Ser Alfred asked finally, "what happened in the capital?"

Bruce's lips twitched, but it wasn't a smile. "You heard?"

"Rumours only, my lord. If you want to talk about it…?"

"I do not."

"Then let me rephrase," Ser Alfred insisted. "I would much appreciate knowing regardless."

"Indeed, ser." Bruce paused. "There was a falling out with the king. They dismissed me from his service."

"Why?"

"Call it a disagreement." That was understatement. King Aerys had been all too ready to hang Bruce for treason.

"That does not answer the question."

"You have not answered yours," Bruce retorted. "What would you do if the king chose to march on Wayne Manor? They come with overwhelming force, set to put this building to the torch. None of our allies support us. What happens next?"

Ser Alfred leant back in his seat, considering his options. There was silence for several heartbeats. "There are old tunnels beneath the castle – mine shafts that have long been forgotten about. Your ancestors have used them before. I would take anything valuable and hide in them." He motioned towards Nightwing. "I would collapse the tunnel behind me and emerge elsewhere. Perhaps we then make a deal with another house to shelter us, or perhaps choose exile across the narrow sea."

"You would hide in a cave while this manor burns."

"I would indeed," Ser Alfred said with a nod. "But why are you considering such circumstances?"

"Diligence. It is good to be prepared," Bruce replied. "But I would like you to start making preparations, ser. Discreet preparations, should matters become turbulent."

"Why, my lord?" Ser Alfred frowned. "Are you plotting rebellion against the crown?"

That depends on the crown, Bruce thought, but he let the words go unspoken.

Ser Alfred stared daggers. "My lord," he said carefully, "does this have something to do with Duskendale?"

"In a manner. I wish to ensure that House Wayne doesn't end up like House Darklyn."

Ser Alfred scratched his whiskers, inspecting the boy with sharp eyes. "What are you scared of, Bruce?"

"That… that is far too complex a question to answer, ser." Bruce had sharp eyes too. "Let us simply ensure that the tunnels never become necessary."

"Your turn to give answers. What happened in King's Landing, my lord?"

"A spider happened." Bruce's voice was curt. "It was made clear that I am not welcome in the king's court anymore."

"I heard talk of it. They say you defied the king."

"I questioned him. Aerys considers that as defiance more and more these days," Bruce said stiffly, but Ser Alfred was not so easily dissuaded. The castellan kept on pushing for answers.

It had been a messy affair. Aerys had made his declaration to the court, and it had been wrong. King Aerys had chosen punished an innocent while the guilty party roamed free – everybody knew that a blameless scapegoat was headed for the gallows. The whole court had been hushed silent, and yet Bruce's voice had been the only one to raise in objection. The only one who dared to challenge a king.

Bruce had done what even Rhaegar didn't dare to do – he had stepped in front of the Iron Throne and spoke out against the madness.

King Aerys had wanted to hang Bruce for what he did. That had been the Spider's influence, no doubt – the king was left entangled in a web of lies and rumours. All it took were a few words in his ear, and Aerys had become convinced that Bruce was part of some conspiracy.

Bruce had become a nuisance – the Spider had wanted to get rid of him.

Instead, it had been Bruce's age and status that had saved him. Prince Rhaegar himself intervened on Bruce's behalf, and even Tywin Lannister pushed against the king's decision. Bruce had enough support he avoided the gallows. Instead, King Aerys had resolved to shame Bruce instead. The young lord had been dishonourably discharged from the king's court.

Ser Oswell had been furious at him. Leave and don't come back, the knight had said, before slamming the door. Bruce's four year squireship had ended abruptly, with no spurs granted. It was a grim thought.

Across the table, Ser Alfred tried to press for more details, but Bruce did not give them.

"Do you think that the king is so upset that he would destroy your house, my lord?" Ser Alfred asked finally.

"I think the king is on a slippery slope, and men around him are pushing him down." Bruce shook his head. "I saw it myself. Tis only a matter of time before the master of whispers 'discovers' a letter leading implicating Wayne, or maybe a catspaw's confession, or maybe a dropped dagger. Aerys will be all too willing to jump to conclusions."

Ser Alfred paused for a long time. "My lord," he said carefully, "your family has had a long history of resisting tyrants."

"I am aware of its history," Bruce said, keeping his voice stiff. "Losing to tyrants, you mean."

"Surviving tyrants," Alfred insisted. "Victories come in many different forms. What are your words?"

"We are the night." Bruce muttered, shaking his head. "But those words are as dead as the men who coined them."

Most didn't know that House Wayne had any words, but they did. The words were written on their coat of arms beneath the bat of Wayne, but they were written black on black. It was a quiet little family jape – the words of their house weren't oft shared to outsiders.

Their family's words had been coined during the time House Wayne spent in hiding, leading a resistance against ironborn invaders. The ironborn had pulled Castle Wayne down brick by brick, but they found no bodies left behind in the rubble. Black words on black.

"Not dead," Ser Alfred said grimly. "You undersell your house's importance. Your family's importance, my lord."

"This house? This house feels like a weakness to me, ser." His voice grew somewhat bitter. "I consider Wayne Manor as a glaring vulnerability, a huge and exposed target that any could exploit. As Lord Wayne, I am limited." Bruce leant back in his chair. "Any enemies I make, any who wish to target me, they know exactly where I live – and you said it yourself how poorly defended this place is. These walls are archaic, the defences crumbling, and the guards understaffed. It is a problem, ser, and one which I do not know how to solve."

"Lord Wayne, this house has been burnt down more times than I can count," Ser Alfred retorted. "The last time was in the Dance of the Dragons, when Aemond Targaryen and Vhagar turned Wayne Manor into a smoking husk."

"I am aware, ser." In the Targaryen civil war, House Wayne had supported the blacks, and the greens had taken terrible retribution.

"Foolish smallfolk like to say your family is cursed," Alfred continued, "but your ancestors have survived everything from Harren the Black to Daemon bloody Blackfyre. House Wayne more than just the bricks and mortar, tis the legacy. I would have no qualms with letting this house burn down, so long as that legacy survives."

The legacy, Bruce thought. The legacy wasn't enough – surviving wasn't enough. Bruce wanted to fight.

They spent the all night talking across the table. They said in the dim, quietly discussing the affairs of the house and Wayne Manor. Throughout, Bruce's eyes constantly drifted to the empty seats – the seats that his parents used to fill. It was past the hour of the ghosts when they finally retired.

The next morning, Ser Alfred knocked on his door at first light, but Bruce was already gone. He had climbed out of the window to wander through the grounds instead.

Ser Alfred found him at the edge of the grounds, sitting on the bank overlooking the small stream running through the woods. Wayne Water, the small river was called – it joined the Trident at the Saltpans and then flowed into the Narrow Sea. A one time, there used to be barges up and down the stream to the old silver mines in the hills, but now there was naught but a broken, unused jetty.

"Lord Wayne," Ser Alfred bowed as he approached. "I must ask… what do you intend to do during to your time here?"

Bruce didn't turn around. "I have not decided, ser."

"Wayne Manor is not the liveliest castle, but we could see about addressing that," Ser Alfred pressed. "We could bring in more activities and company for a young lord."

"You need not bother on my account."

Ser Alfred hesitated. "We could find you another knighthood, Bruce," he said finally. "I would grant you spurs myself, if that's your wish."

Bruce shook his head. "I do not care about being a knight."

"Then what do you want?"

That… that was a difficult question. One which he had been struggling with for some time. Bruce did not reply.

"I do not want you to be unhappy, my lord," the castellan insisted.

"I know what I want to be, Alfred." I know what I want to do. "I just… I just don't know how to be it."

Ser Alfred didn't understand, but the old knight nodded. "If there anything I can assist with…"

"I know," Bruce said faintly. He still didn't turn around.

The boy was left in silence, watching the gushing waters over the rocks. He sat and he stared for a long time, in quiet consideration.

What do I want? he wondered. The answer came quickly; I want to return to the capital, and I want to deal with the Mad King.

It was everything else around that which quickly became more complicated.

If Bruce had his own way, Aerys would not have been able to exile him so easily. Bruce wanted to make his point heard.

Bruce didn't have a solution. He wasn't sure if a solution existed.

Perhaps this is how the Darklyns felt, he mused.

Instead, Bruce sat by the riverside, on the edge of the woods, staring out over the old memories. He remembered splashing in these waters, fishing in these waters, even sailing yachts down the water towards the Trident…

His mother had loved sailing. They used to own a sloop, and they would sail across the coastline of the Bay of Crabs – as far as the Whispers.

Slowly, Bruce walked down the riverside, reliving steps he used to walk.

On the docks, there a small sailing yacht was moored, rocking slightly on currents. It was a small and lean boat of yew and teak trimmings, with a single mast and a shallow enclave over the tilt. Sturdy and well-built, but unused. Bruce stared at it curiously.

It had a forward mast, Bruce noted, and a convex curve to the headsails. It was more a schooner design than a typical yacht. Most small vessels preferred a centre sail for stability, but his mother had always insisted that the headsails were better for turning into the wind.

He ran his finger over the rigging, inspecting the tarp. It was unused, but well-maintained. A good sailing boat for a single person, he designed, the design was exactly how his mother preferred.

Bruce frowned as he stared at the yacht, struggling to place it. The sails were dark grey, almost black.

He ran his fingers over the woodwork, feeling the emblem of a bat that had been carved there. It was a fine boat.

Bruce met Alfred again nearing dusk, as they ate the evening meal in the great dining hall. Bruce said in quiet contemplation.

"Alfred… that yacht on the water," Bruce asked finally, "who built it?"

____________

It took two days to find the records through his father's archive – until finally they found the scrap of parchment. His father had commissioned a sailing yacht shortly before he died – it had been meant as a surprise anniversary gift for his mother.

Bruce grew more and more curious.

There was no name marked in his father's log, only the initials; 'L.F.'

It took another three days to track the person down, but Bruce was persistent. He heard mention of an old groundskeeper that used to live in cottage by the water in Wayne Manor, a man who had left for Gulltown near five years ago. The groundskeeper was one of the many that had been laid off after his parents died.

The servants that Bruce talked said that the old man used to fly kites over his hut during strong winds. Bruce remembered the kites, but he could not recall the groundskeeper.

Bruce wanted to know. He packed supplies set off for Gulltown within a week.

Alfred would have insisted that Bruce took an escort with him, yet Bruce didn't care for the company. Instead, Bruce simply left a note for Alfred explaining he was leaving, and then climbed out of the window.

The young lord stole the yacht from the jetty and set sail in the middle of the night before anyone could stop him. By morning, he had already reached the Trident.

It was a very nice boat; swift even on the shallow waters.

There, he kept the coast on his left and sailed up the Bay of Crabs towards the headland. The mountains of the Vale pierced over the horizon, but the weather was smooth and the waters clear.

It Bruce's first time sailing by himself, but he quite enjoyed the calm of it all. He enjoyed watching the waves sweep by.

Seagulls perched on his mast, crowing curiously. Bruce watched them for a time, before shooting them down with a crossbow bolt. There was good eating on the bird.

He saw the sails on the horizon, and he followed the cogs coming and going across the narrow sea. It wasn't long before he saw smoke on the rocky coast, and the wooden walls of Gulltown came into view.

Gulltown was a heaving port city sitting in a wide natural harbour. It was a quarter the size of King's Landing, but the docks seemed just as boy. The air stunk of fish and smoke, as well as the pang of manure on the wind.

The sailing yacht was barely a tenth of the size of the large cogs rumbling into port.

Bruce had to pay two silvers to the dockmaster, but he haggled it down from five. The young man dressed himself a peddler, pretending to be looking for goods to trade.

Bruce quickly found his bearings, moving unnoticed through the bustle of the city. "I'm searching for a woodcarver," Bruce asked on the piers. "An old man – I think he sells kites?"

Eventually, he headed towards the outskirts of the city, towards the slums and farms scattered by the coast. He found the man he was search for in a small hut towards the sea, overlooking. It proved quite easy to track – there were cloth dragons flying in the wind over the hut, and a crowd of children staring entranced at the soaring kites.

Bruce stood at stared upwards, watching the gulls gliding alongside the kites of cloth and wood.

The kites were well-made, Bruce noted. They were light and well-stitched in a close thread – with soft wooden frame and they dangled on wool ropes and fluttered in the winds over the bay. The kite-maker did a good jump.

Bells jangled over the porch, the hut was covered in trinkets and odds and ends – most of them carved by hand. The kite-maker looked like he made a decent living selling his wares as novelties.

There were voices inside the hut; the sound of squabbling children arguing over kites. "Look, Father!" a young boy cried. "It's flying, it's flying! Can we get one, can we?"

Bruce lurked by the porch, watching as the little lordling pressured his parents into buying one of the bigger kites. They were petty lords from Gulltown and they held themselves stiff and with disdain, but the children were all staring entranced at the fluttering shapes.

Bruce understood why. They used to fly kites and lanterns over docks at King's Landing too, but none had been half as large as the ones fluttering over the kite-maker's hut. Bruce stood by the corner and watched cautiously, inspecting the craftsman's handiwork.

Finally, it seemed like the lord relented under his children's pestering.

"I can craft whatever shape you want, milord, that I can," a strong and croaky voice rumbled. "A silver chalice with wings? Of course – it'll be grand sight flying over your keep, I promise."

"Do so quickly," the lord said distastefully, dropping the silver coins onto the table. "Three days, no later. If you try to cheat me, peasant, and I shall have the guards drag you to the gallows."

"Perish the thought, milord, perish the thought." The voice was pleasant. "Is there anything else I can do for you, milord?"

Bruce waited outside the doorway. The little lordling waved as he left, but his parents didn't wave. The kite-maker was humming to himself, some tune that Bruce didn't recognise.

"I can you there, young man," the kite-maker called to Bruce. "I ain't blind yet. You can come forward."

Slowly, Bruce stepped inside the hut, walking between the clutter of junk and old carvings.

Bruce's first impression of Lucius Fox was that of an old Summer Islander with a crooked back hunched over the table top. The man had skin like beaten leather, heavy wrinkle grooving his face. And yet he was stitching; deftly wrapping wool thread around his fingers and spinning his needle with such practice that it seemed natural.

There was a brand on his neck; scars in the shape of a cross from a burning chunk of metal, decades ago. It had faded on rough ebony skin and his beard covered half it, but it was still visible. A slave's mark, Bruce thought.

"Do they all treat you like that?" Bruce asked quietly, looking at where the highborn had left.

Lucius only chuckled. "They do," he said with a smile creasing his face. "But they come back all the same. I make the best damn kites in the city – mine fly higher and better than any other in the west. When you're good at your job, you're always busy. Now what can I do for you, young man?"

"I think we know each other. You worked for my parents."

The old man paused, lowing his kite. There was moment as he shuffled forward on creaking bones, squinting in the gloom. Poor eyesight, Bruce guessed. "Bruce Wayne," Lucius breathed. "As I live and breathe."

Bruce didn't react, he just nodded. "Lucius Fox, yes?"

"Aye." He lowered his hands, leaning over the table. "Bruce. You were just a little tyke the last I saw you. By the Trees, it's been what… six years? Seven?"

"Forgive me, I cannot recall."

Lucius waved his hand. "Argh, you were just a boy. Look at how you've grown." He hobbled forward, stiff legs limping over creaking wooden planks. "I worked as a groundskeeper for your pa, and you… well," he chuckled, "you were always such a shy boy." Lucius looked amazed. "What on earth are you doing here, young lord?"

"About my parents," Bruce said stiffly. "You built them a boat."

"Aye." Lucius blinked. "That I did."

"It is a very nice boat."

"Well thank you." He nodded. "Your father wanted an anniversary gift for your mother, he hired me to carve it."

"But he didn't pay you." Bruce's eyes narrowed, and Lucius pursed his lips. "My father died before it was finished, and the whole commission was scrapped. I checked the records – it was as meant surprise so my father didn't log it, and then the castellan never knew he needed to pay you. We never gave you a single penny for that yacht."

Lucius raised his hands, a quiet grimace. "Aye, but it was a hectic time. The whole manor was reeling, I just fell through the cracks."

"You did. But you finished the boat anyways, and you did a very good job." His voice was suspicious. "Now what sort of boat-builder builds a boat that nobody pays him to?"

There was a long silence. Lucius seemed caught off-guard, and Bruce's voice came off as more accusatory than he intended.

"I'm not angry," Bruce admitted. "I'm just trying to understand. I cannot remember – which means my father must have kept it secret from me. What exactly did you do for my father?"

Lucius took a deep breath, soft eyes staring down at the boy. He dropped the fabric onto the table.

"Your folk were good people," the woodcarver said finally. "Aye, they died – but I finished the boat regardless. It was… call it a tribute to them. I wanted to honour them, so I made the best damn boat I could before parting ways. Exactly how your father wanted it."

Bruce stood in silence, measuring the man's expression. Lucius smiled softly. "I left on good terms, Bruce, your father gave me plenty. And you were a grieving boy, I wasn't going intrude on that."

After several heartbeats, Bruce reached around his waist and pulled out a pouch of coin, placing it on table. "Fifteen gold dragons," he offered. "For services well-deserved. It's a very nice boat."

Lucius blinked. "You travelled a long way just to pay me."

"You waited a long time to be paid."

Lucius smiled, and paused. "Did you sail the yacht here?" he asked.

"I did."

"How did it steer? Was the rigging too tight? I was never sure if I got the mast's balance right."

"It was perfect, very smooth on waves."

At that, Lucius laughed. The pouch of coins was left on the table. "Care to sit down, Bruce? I have a pot of brew boiling."

Bruce smiled softly, one of his rare smiles. "Thank you, much obliged."

The old man stood upwards, limping slightly with every step. His hands were smooth and deft, but the rest of his bones looked aching. "I'm just glad that someone finally got use out of the Batboat," Lucius said with a sigh. "Yew and teak – it was damn fine vessel."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "The Batboat?"

"My little name for it," Lucius laughed. "Your father wanted a ship for the family."

"And it was supposed to be a gift?"

"Aye, for the lady of the house. He wanted it to be perfect for Martha." Lucius sighed. "Twenty years, Bruce, they were married a long time."

Bruce didn't reply, but he nodded. His mother loved sailing, she wanted to take him sailing more often.

The silence stretched on for a long time, until finally Lucius broke it.

"I built it as a smuggler's ship, you know," the old man explained. "Hence the dark sails, low clearance – something lean and fast. It was meant to be a ship your mother would have appreciated from her old smuggling days."

At that, Bruce staggered. "My mother was a tradesman's daughter."

"She was. But sometimes the things she traded never strictly belonged to her." Lucius grinned toothily, dropping two wooden mugs on the table.

"She was a smuggler?" Bruce gaped, and Lucius only chuckled louder.

"Your pa told me the tale," he explained. "Oh, we laughed about that one – it was how they met, you know? He was in Oldtown, and she was sneaking goods past the port authority – selling hard liquors to Citadel's acolytes. So then, twenty years later, he got the idea to craft her the Batboat for their anniversary."

Bruce hardly knew how to reply. They never told me the full story, he realised. But my mother was a smuggler?? "You worked for them long?" he asked finally.

"For over ten years. Best damn job of my life. I heard it said that Westeros was the land of free men, but you know how many people around here want to hire a dark-skinned former slave with a crooked back?" Lucius took a deep gulp of dark tea. "I was off the ships, I barely spoke the Common, but your father patched me up and gave me a home."

"Why?"

"I was a ship-builder, Bruce. I've worked on everything from galleys to caravels to swan ships, from here to Meereen. I spent my life working the riggings," he explained. "And Lord Thomas knew expertise when he saw it."

"Expertise," Bruce repeated.

"Lord Thomas wanted to rebuild Wayne Trading Company. He wanted to get Wayne ships back on the water again. Your father set me up as a groundskeeper, but I worked more… well, call it a consultant."

The Wayne Trading Company. Bruce knew his history; House Wayne had started in silver and furs, at one point the Saltpans had been a trading hub. Their family used to own a fleet, but then their ships were demolished, stolen, or burnt by dragonfire. The Wayne Trading Company had been extinct for years.

Bruce sat stiffly, thinking back. "He never told me."

"You were a boy." Lucius sighed. "But your father had big plans, Bruce. The yacht was just a first, but your father hired me for my trade."

"And when they died?"

"Aye. Those plans fell apart. There was need no for me in your household any more, I parted ways."

Bruce sat stiffly, staring at the old man. "Can you tell me about my father?" he asked in a quiet voice.

Lucius did. Bruce barely said a word, but the man spoke about Thomas Wayne with clear respect. Lucius had a strong and clear voice, with an accent that Bruce couldn't even place. The man was a good storyteller.

He spoke of the early days, when he first crossed the narrow sea. Lucius had been a stranger in a strange land with a different skin colour, and then some drink had accused him of stealing a horse. The local watchmen had been all too ready to string Lucius up, but Lord Thomas had insisted on a fair trial.

His father had Lucius acquitted, but also bandaged his wounds and talked to him. "Your father was a clever man," Lucius said. "He spoke the Summer Tongue, the only Westerosi I know to learn it. We got talking in the language of my homeland; he asked me where I was from, I started to tell him about ships. After a while, he offered me a job."

They sat and talked for a long time. Bruce just wanted to learn more about his parents.

"You were a slave?" Bruce asked finally, motion at the old brand on his neck.

He nodded. "Sold when I was a child. Ghiscari traders pay well for Summer Islanders, or so I hear." Lucius chatted, amiably putting on another pot of tea. "And the Xho royalty was all happy to sell his own people for coin. You think Westerosi have it bad? Well, the princes of the Summer Isles were the most corrupt to ever wear a crown." Lucius shook his head. "I hear that things are different there now – there's been some uprising or something, but I don't want to go back."

"You don't have a Summer Isles' accent," Bruce noted.

"It wasn't my first tongue. I learnt the Ghiscari Trade Talk first," he explained. "I grew up on the oars of a slave galley, but then they promoted me to the rigging instead. Started learning shipcraft inside and out. Somewhere along the way I learnt how to build the things."

"And as a shipbuilder?"

"Runaway – the galley docked at Volantis and they loosened our collars while they went whoring. A bunch of us left and never went back." He sighed. "That was over fifty years ago now. But I knew my trade, I made a living."

Lucius motioned at the carvings – wood, rope and fabric. Lucius was an old craftsman with deft fingers and a sharp mind – there were some people who just seemed to radiate expertise. Bruce could understand why his father had been interested; Lucius had built everything from sails to kites to crossbows. He had spent time in Volantis, Myr, Lys and Braavos.

His workshop was filled with hand carvings and intricate stacks of woodwork. He built twisted devices of wood that would turn away when you tightened a rope – like clicking statues of men running or horses galloping. Every notch and gear were painstakingly carved. There were oddities that looked like sextants or queer sundials, and the ground was cluttered with half-built constructions.

Lucius even kept a small forge where he smelted tin and copper, as well glass-blowing equipment he had made himself. "I picked it up in Myr," he explained, holding up a clear glass bauble. "I collect sand from the beaches, blow into glass myself."

"You do all this?" Bruce asked, fascinated. "Why?"

"For some, it's about the why. For me, it's about the how," Lucius laughed. "This is my life, Bruce, it's what I love."

"Selling kites?"

"Building kites. Flying kites. The selling them is just a living."

They talked until evening. Lucius was a very easy man to talk to; he was softly spoken and easy to laugh, and Bruce saw the way the old man's eyes lit up when he spoke about his crafts. Bruce listened in rapt fascination, soaking it all in.

Lucius put on another a kettle. He told Bruce more; about the ships he helped build, the sights he had seen or the places he had travelled. In seemed like Lucius had an endless font of stories.

Towards dusk, Lucius took him towards the back of the cluttered cottage, to show him all the trinkets he had collected or crafted. There was Braavosian steel, Myrish crossbows, Lyseni knots…

Slowly, Bruce's attention turned towards a large structure hanging down off the ceiling. Lucius was rambling away about a metal thread, but Bruce's attention slowly turned away.

It was red and green and yellow. Bruce had never seen such a thing.

It looked like a bird – some long and spindly creature. A crane perhaps; a bird of wooden limbs and brightly coloured cloth.

It was as wide as a man, but then Bruce noticed the joints where it folded outwards. Wings.

There were cloth straps across the wooden frame, he noticed, and what looked like handlebars. It was hanging from the ceiling, dust covering the fabric. Whatever it was, it had stood untouched for a long time. Behind him, Lucius hobbled to his side, following the boy's gaze.

"What is that?" Bruce asked finally.

"That?" Lucius chuckled. "Little bit of history. That's called the Hawkwing."

The boy was staring, visualising it. It built from light wood and wool sheets, painted bright colours.

"It's a kite," Bruce realised. "A giant kite." A kite without the rope.

"Aye," the old man said fondly. "More or less."

There was a pause, as Lucius stepped forward to unhook it from the ceiling. There was a cloud of dust blowing off it. For something so large, it was surprisingly light.

Bruce stood quiet, looking at the old man for an explanation.

"Back in Lys, you see," Lucius explained, "I was signed up with a mummer's troupe. At first it was just building props, repairing stands – but that was around the time I started dabbling with kites too. It's the same principle as sails you see – a ship goes forward in the wind, a kite goes upwards. So I started making kites of my own, used them in mummer's show.

"Part of the show was to strap a little mouse onto one kite, wait for the heavy winds and then fly it over the cliffs. Later, a bright spark decided that a mouse was too small, they wanted me to fly a monkey instead," Lucius laughed. "So, well, I played around a bit, I built a big kite. Like any sail, it's all about weight and uplift – you need a strong frame, a very light silk sheet, and I managed to get a monkey to fly. Poor little monkey, never lasted long," Lucius tsked.

"But anyways, this magister was watching the show and he got really taken with the idea. The magister saw a monkey flying in a kite, and he said – 'wait, why can't you build a kite that's five times as big, and fly a man up there instead?'" He motioned to the Hawkwing. "The magister bought me from the mummer's troupe and commissioned me to build a kite large enough for a man to fly. He had heard all these stories of a city of winged men somewhere in the far east, he was convinced it was possible."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. He was staring down at the long and spindly structure. "This thing flies?"

"Well, glides," Lucius admitted. "If you got a strong wind and a big hill, sure, it flies for a bit. It's just a giant kite, Bruce, same principle. If you're light and moving forward, the wind hits the sail and takes you up."

"Where are the ropes?"

He shook his head. "Doesn't need any. The rope is extra weight, that's what holds a kite down. The idea with the Hawkwing was the man inside would steer." Lucius motioned to the frame. "Twist your weight, keep it steady going into the wind, and you're flying. Badly flying, but, well…"

Bruce was quiet for a long time, thoughts racing through his head. "And it can carry a man?"

"This one? No, this just a replica." Lucius tapped the wood. "More a decoration than anything. The frame is pinewood and the sails are cotton, far too heavy to carry anything more than itself. The real Hawkwing was the one I gave to the magister who commissioned it – that one had had a goldenwood frame, steel joints, and very fine silk for the sail. It needed to be lighter and smoother than anything – it was a damn good piece of craftsmanship, if I say so myself." He sighed. "But I never could get that damn steering system to work."

"But it worked?" Bruce insisted. He had never heard of such a thing before. "Did a man actually fly… well, glide using it?"

"Half," Lucius said with a grimace. "I lifted a sack of turnips as heavy as a man. The magister himself was too fat to fit on it. But if you were light enough? Sure, I reckon you could have soared."

"Could have?" Bruce repeated.

"Oh yes. The soaring is not really the problem, Bruce – it's the landing that's the bitch," he said with a bark of laughter. "It's one thing to fly a monkey on a kite, another thing to jump off a cliff yourself. But I did my job; I produced the Hawkwing over, and suddenly all that enthusiasm disappeared."

His voice turned slightly sour. "Nobody was willing to jump with nothing more than a bundle of silk keeping you up," Lucius explained. "But then the magister found a slave, and strapped the man into it. I kept on telling him that you needed to keep it balanced, but the poor sod kept on wriggling. The slave died hitting the water. The magister wanted to get another slave and try again, but I wanted nothing to do with him after that."

Bruce held the replica Hawkwing, trying to imagine how it worked. Folded up, he considered, it might be big enough for someone's back.

Lucius stared at it wistfully, while Bruce stayed quiet. "I keep this thing as a memento now. For the best really; that magister just wanted to be able to brag about having flying slaves. He paid a king's fortune to make the thing, but he couldn't even think of a use for it."

"Huh." Bruce couldn't pull his eyes away.

I can think of a use for it, Bruce considered.

Lucius saw Bruce's expression, and laughed. "It's just another novelty, nothing more. Like everything in here," the kite-maker chuckled. "Nobody would ever be brave enough to strap themselves into the damn thing."

"Huh."

The old man hobbled away, and Bruce walked after him. Still, his eyes kept on darting back to the red and green kite, his mind swirling with ideas…

There was a long moment of silence. It was dark outside, Bruce noticed. I've been here all day. Time seemed to fly.

Finally, Bruce gulped down the last of his tea. It was cold, but he never noticed.

"Would you like a job, Lucius?" Bruce said finally.

At that, the woodcarver burst out laughing. "I don't need no charity, Bruce," the old man chuckled, shaking his head. "I got my hands and my livelihood, I don't need a handout."

"Not offering one." Bruce motioned back towards the giant kite hanging. "How much would it cost to make a proper version?"

Lucius eyebrows raised, creasing his forehead. "You want to rebuild the Hawkwing?"

"I do." Bruce paused, looking at it. "… But maybe change the colour. I'm thinking black."