The great hall filled quickly.
Household knights.
Men-at-arms.
Stablemasters.
Stewards.
Lady Lythene stood beside her husband with her usual effortless poise, dressed simply in deep green despite the gold chain resting at her throat. She looked as though she'd been expecting unpleasant news for weeks.
Perhaps she had.
Lord Lucias broke the seal himself.
His expression darkened as he read.
When he finally looked up, the hall had gone silent.
"Lord Jon Arryn is dead."
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Even I understood the weight of those words.
Jon Arryn.
Lord of the Eyrie.
Hand of the King.
The man who had raised Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark.
The man whose refusal to surrender two young lords had begun Robert's Rebellion.
Dead.
Lady Lythene crossed herself in the fashion of the Seven.
Several others followed.
Lord Lucias continued.
"The King rides north."
That earned murmurs.
"His Grace intends to journey to Winterfell personally."
The murmuring became louder.
"The kingsroad will carry much of the royal procession through the Riverlands."
Now everyone was paying attention.
Lord Lucias folded the letter carefully.
"The crown has requested every lord along the route ensure the roads are secure before the royal progress arrives."
Bandits.
Outlaws.
Broken men.
Men grown bold during years of peace.
They had always existed.
Now they had become everyone else's problem.
Lord Lucias's gaze swept across the assembled household.
"We have received reports of a sizable band operating west of Fairmarket near the old stone crossings."
I knew the place.
Everyone did.
Ruined watchtowers.
Dense woods.
Enough abandoned villages to hide fifty men.
"Caravans have disappeared."
"A pair of merchants were found murdered."
"A septon has gone missing."
His voice hardened.
"I will not have brigands embarrassing House Vypren while the King rides our lands."
Nobody argued.
That afternoon Fairmarket changed.
Armor came down from storage.
Smiths worked until after sunset.
The stable yard became controlled chaos.
Men checked saddle straps.
Fletchers counted arrows.
Ser Harlan drilled the men-at-arms until they could barely stand.
It felt...
different.
Not like a tourney.
Not like patrols.
Purpose settled over the castle.
Real purpose.
I found Damon in the armory sharpening his sword.
He always sharpened it himself.
"How many bandits?" I asked.
"Thirty."
I blinked.
"Thirty?"
"So we're told."
"I was expecting...six."
"They rarely stay six."
He tested the edge with his thumb.
Satisfied.
Returned to the whetstone.
"You worried?"
He looked up.
"No."
"Liar."
"They're bandits."
"Thirty bandits."
"They're undisciplined."
"They still have thirty chances to stab you."
"They'll have considerably fewer once we arrive."
I leaned against the doorway.
"You always become cheerful before fights."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
"I become focused."
"You smile."
"I don't."
"You smile with exactly one corner of your mouth."
"I've never done that."
"You are literally doing it now."
He stopped.
Realized I was right.
Immediately arranged his face back into its usual expression.
"...You're imagining things."
"I've trained under you for ten years."
"Eight."
"Close enough."
"You've become insufferable."
"I learned from excellence."
"I'll pretend that wasn't meant as a compliment."
"It absolutely wasn't."
That earned the smallest laugh.
Preparations continued for three days.
The fourth morning Damon called me into the training yard before sunrise.
Mist still clung to the grass.
Everyone else was asleep.
Except Damon.
Naturally.
He stood with two blunted swords planted in the dirt beside him.
One was mine.
The other...
was steel.
Real steel.
I frowned.
"Damon?"
He picked it up.
Held it across both hands.
"I've spoken with Lord Lucias."
My stomach tightened.
"...About what?"
"You."
That narrowed it down considerably.
"You're fifteen."
"I noticed."
"You've served House Vypren faithfully."
"I've also broken three shields, two windows—"
"Four."
"...Four windows."
"And Lady Lythene's favorite vase."
"That one was an accident."
"You tripped over your own feet."
"The vase attacked first."
His expression remained perfectly straight.
Somehow.
"I've watched you grow."
That caught me off guard.
Damon wasn't...
sentimental.
Not aloud.
"You've become capable."
He handed me the sword.
Its weight settled naturally into my grip.
"You fight well."
"I'm adequate."
"You've become modest."
"I've become realistic."
"You've become adequate enough to lie convincingly."
I smiled despite myself.
He continued.
"When this is finished..."
He nodded toward the woods beyond Fairmarket.
"...assuming you don't get yourself killed."
"I'll do my best."
"I intend to knight you."
Everything stopped.
The morning.
The wind.
My breathing.
"...What?"
"You heard me."
I stared.
Knight.
Me?
Talion Rivers.
Inn boy.
Bastard.
Found half-starved by a river.
"I—"
For perhaps the first time in my life...
I had nothing clever to say.
Damon watched me quietly.
"I spoke with Lord Lucias."
"And?"
"He agreed."
"But..."
I looked down at the sword.
"I'm a bastard."
"So?"
"So..."
I laughed once.
Brokenly.
"I thought..."
I didn't even know what I'd thought.
That I'd always remain a squire.
That bastards didn't become knights unless songs needed heroes.
That I wasn't...
enough.
Damon stepped closer.
"You've earned it."
Three simple words.
They struck harder than any practice blade.
"But not yet," he continued.
Reality returned.
"The bandits first."
I nodded.
"The bandits first."
"If you survive..."
"I intend to place a sword on your shoulder before the year is out."
A grin spread across my face.
Wide.
Hopeless.
Unstoppable.
Damon sighed.
"I preferred you when you were speechless."
"You'll never see that again."
"I was afraid of that."
"You realize this means you'll have to call me 'Ser Talion' one day."
"I'll call you an idiot until one of us dies."
"...That also sounds nice."
He shook his head.
"Get your shield."
"For training?"
"For training."
"I thought this was the emotional part."
"It was."
"It lasted thirty seconds."
"That was generous."
"You truly are ancient."
"I'm twenty-five."
"Practically fossilized."
He drew his practice sword.
"Guard."
I barely got mine up before he knocked me flat onto my back.
Again.
Lying in the dew, staring at the brightening sky, I couldn't stop smiling.
The bandits waited somewhere beyond the trees.
The King rode north.
Lord Jon Arryn was dead.
The realm, though none of us knew it yet, had begun to shift beneath our feet.
But for this one morning...
All I could think about was the promise Damon had made.
If I survived what came next...
I would rise from the dirt not merely as Talion Rivers.
But as Ser Talion.
If the Seven were willing.
And if Damon didn't kill me during training first.
We rode at first light.
Twenty-three men left Fairmarket that morning.
Lord Lucias remained behind to oversee the castle and the preparations for the King's passage, leaving command to Ser Damon. Ser Harlan rode at his side, as did twenty men-at-arms who had spent more years carrying steel than I had spent breathing.
And then there was me.
Still only a squire.
Not for much longer, if Damon had his way.
The morning air was cold enough to bite through wool, the mist hanging low over the Trident until horse and rider alike appeared little more than ghosts moving through pale water.
No one spoke much.
Men always grew quieter before violence.
Even I found little to say.
The bandits had chosen their ground well.
The old stone crossing lay half a day's ride west of Fairmarket where an abandoned watchtower overlooked a narrow stretch of road disappearing into thick woodland. Once, generations ago, the tower had guarded merchants traveling between villages.
Now ivy climbed its broken walls.
Half its roof had collapsed.
The villages were gone.
Only the road remained.
And those foolish enough to use it.
We found the first body before noon.
Merchant.
Middle-aged.
Three days dead.
His wagon had been stripped clean.
Ser Harlan climbed down from his horse first.
"They're getting careless."
Damon dismounted beside him.
"No."
He crouched beside the corpse.
His eyes traveled over the wounds.
"The body's visible from the road."
I joined them.
"They wanted him found?"
"They wanted people frightened."
He stood again.
"Fear keeps roads empty."
"And empty roads mean easier prey."
Damon nodded once.
"They're hunting."
That chilled me more than the morning ever had.
The tracks led north.
Broken branches.
Fresh horse droppings.
A snapped wagon wheel left discarded beside the road.
Our scouts returned shortly after midday.
"There," one whispered, pointing through the trees.
Smoke.
Thin.
Barely visible above the canopy.
Damon motioned everyone down.
We left the horses tethered nearly half a mile away.
The rest we crossed on foot.
Every step became quieter.
Slower.
Measured.
I had hunted deer before.
This felt similar.
Except deer rarely carried axes.
The camp sat in a clearing around the ruined remains of an old mill.
Nearly thirty men.
Just as the reports had claimed.
Some slept beneath patched tents.
Others sharpened blades.
Several laughed around a cooking fire where someone stirred stew that smelled considerably better than I expected bandits to manage.
Three captives knelt nearby.
Hands bound.
Merchants.
Alive.
One woman.
Two men.
My grip tightened around my shield.
Damon studied the clearing for nearly a minute without speaking.
Then he crouched beside Ser Harlan.
"Archers first."
Harlan nodded.
"Six."
"The men near the horses."
Another nod.
"No one reaches the woods."
They spoke quietly.
Efficiently.
Like men who had done this before.
I listened.
Learned.
Finally Damon looked toward me.
"You stay beside me."
"I can fight."
"You will."
"I've been training—"
"And you'll stay beside me."
His tone ended the discussion.
I hated when he used that tone.
Mostly because it usually meant he was right.
The signal came from a birdcall.
One sharp whistle.
Then—
Six arrows.
Almost together.
One bandit dropped before he even understood he'd been shot.
Another fell backward into the fire.
Chaos exploded.
"HOUSE VYPREN!"
The shout rolled across the clearing.
Steel came free.
Men surged forward.
The first impact sounded like a smith striking an anvil.
Shield met axe.
Sword met spear.
Someone screamed.
Training yards lied.
Real combat was louder.
Faster.
Ugly beyond description.
There were no neat exchanges.
No measured footwork.
Just confusion.
Mud.
Blood.
Men trying desperately to stay alive.
One bandit charged me almost immediately.
He couldn't have been more than twenty.
Missing three teeth.
Rust on his axe.
He shouted something I never understood.
My body moved before my mind.
Shield.
Step.
Sword.
Exactly as Damon had drilled into me a thousand times.
His axe slammed against my shield hard enough to numb my arm.
I nearly stumbled.
He swung again.
Too wide.
I stepped inside.
My blade caught him beneath the ribs.
There wasn't some glorious spray of blood.
Just...
resistance.
Warmth.
The look on his face.
Surprise.
He collapsed.
I stared.
I'd done it.
I'd...
Killed him.
"Talion!"
Damon's voice snapped me back.
Another bandit.
Behind me.
I spun barely in time.
Steel rang.
Damon caught the man's sword with his own before it reached my neck.
Then, in one smooth motion—
He opened the bandit's throat.
The man dropped.
"Eyes up!"
"Yes!"
My voice sounded distant.
My hands shook.
No time.
Another attacker.
Then another.
Everything blurred together.
Damon fought like a man born with a sword in his hand.
I'd seen him in tournaments.
Practice yards.
Patrols.
None of it compared.
There was no hesitation.
No wasted movement.
Every strike existed for a reason.
A shield bash.
A cut to the thigh.
A thrust beneath a raised arm.
Nothing fancy.
Nothing theatrical.
Just relentless efficiency.
Men died because Damon decided they would.
For one terrifying moment I understood why soldiers followed him.
The battle lasted perhaps ten minutes.
It felt like hours.
When the last surviving bandits finally broke for the trees, Ser Harlan's archers cut most of them down before they'd crossed twenty yards.
Three escaped.
Damon watched them disappear.
"Let them run."
Harlan looked over.
"They'll spread the story."
I understood.
Sometimes fear worked both ways.
Silence settled strangely after battle.
Not true silence.
Men groaned.
Someone cried for a maester.
The horses snorted nervously.
Flies had already begun to gather.
But compared to the fighting...
It felt impossibly still.
I looked down.
Blood covered my hands.
Not much.
Enough.
My first kill.
The dead bandit couldn't have been much older than Damon had been when we'd first met.
I expected triumph.
Pride.
Instead...
I felt tired.
Damon walked over.
He didn't ask if I was all right.
He already knew.
"You froze."
"For a moment."
"A dangerous moment."
"I know."
He nodded.
"You recovered."
"I almost got killed."
"You almost didn't."
That sounded very much like Damon.
He rested one hand briefly on my shoulder.
"You saved yourself."
I looked at the body.
"I killed him."
"You did."
"He wasn't..."
I struggled.
"He wasn't anyone."
"He chose this road."
"I know."
"You'll remember your first."
His voice had softened.
"So will I."
That surprised me.
"You remember yours?"
"I remember all of them."
For several seconds neither of us spoke.
Finally Damon looked toward the bound merchants.
"Come."
"Work."
Work.
There was always work.
The living still needed help.
The dead still needed burying.
And the road—
The road had to be made safe before a king came riding north.