Barrowton, The North, Westeros
Midday, 298 AC
The man looking at him was of middling height, solidly built, with the broad set of shoulders common to those accustomed to bearing heavy loads and spending long hours in the saddle. Close-cropped black hair was already silvering at the temples, framing a sharp, high-cheekboned face. A calm, watchful gaze completed the severe picture.
Dark eyes looked on without fear, reflecting a cold assurance found in men who know how to kill and therefore feel no haste to do so. The stranger wore a traveling cloak the color of a storm cloud and a leather jerkin reinforced with steel plates; at his belt rested a sword with a plain crossguard. Over his shoulder peeked the rim of a shield, marking him as a seasoned fighter.
Aerindir did not hurry to answer, studying his counterpart in silence. The man noticed how the elf's hand had settled on the sword hilt and raised the corner of his mouth almost imperceptibly.
"Save your steel, ser" he said in a calm, slightly gravelly voice. "I don't kill for free, and certainly not at midday. Too hot for dancing."
"Who are you?" Aerindir's voice was level, but taut. "And how do you know about... the disfigurement?"
The man gave a quiet grunt.
"The port is a small place, and rumors fly faster than the gulls. Last night in the tavern they were whispering about a golden-haired madman seeking death in the Sunset Sea. I'm a curious man. Thought I'd have a look - see whether it was a hero from the songs or a client for the Silent Sisters." He tilted his head, studying Aerindir. "So far I lean toward the first, though I haven't ruled out the second."
Aerindir kept his silence. His gaze grew heavy and pressing, but the stranger seemed only amused by it.
"I'll be honest" the warrior continued, his tone turning a shade more serious. "Yesterday I was on the wharf. I saw your exchange with the sailor. And then the wind played a cruel trick on you. The hood slipped for only an instant... but my eye is sharp. I saw, shall we say... something seldom found among the sons of the North, or of Westeros as a whole. Too sharp an edge for a human breed."
Aerindir's jaw tightened.
"After that, I had a few words with that sailor."
"I told him to keep silent" the elf said quietly. A cold threat slid through his voice.
The knight merely grunted with philosophical calm.
"The loyalty of a port rat costs exactly as much as you pour him, ser. Silver rings louder than honor, especially when the belly's empty." He gave an approving nod at Aerindir's leather headband. "Still, you've since corrected the mistake. Impressive look. One might take you for a highborn man... or for a sellsword from Essos."
Aerindir took a step forward, his hand still on the hilt.
"What do you want?"
The mockery vanished from the stranger's eyes. He straightened, and in the movement there was a flash of noble bearing that no worn leather could conceal.
"My manners seem to have rusted on the road - forgive me." He extended his hand in a firm, confident gesture. "Ser Bors Blackmorn. Hedge knight."
Aerindir looked at the outstretched palm, weighing and assessing. There was no falsehood in this man. At last he clasped it.
"Aerindir."
"Aerindir" Bors repeated, as though testing the name on his ear. "A handsome name. But you are not from Westeros - that much is plain."
"From far away" the elf said curtly.
"As are we all" Bors observed philosophically, folding his arms. "So why do you need to go west, Aerindir? That sailor said you want to cross the Sunset Sea. I've met men who seek death in wine, in battle, or in women's beds. But you're the first in my memory who wants to drown in a legend."
Aerindir paused for a moment.
"I am searching for home" he said, meeting the knight's eyes steadily. "And it is there. Beyond the sea."
Bors let out a low whistle of surprise.
"Home beyond the edge of the world? Bold. Even reckless. As far as I know, there's nothing out there but water and storms. Even the Ironborn, who have salt where their brains should be, won't venture that way."
"I have no other path."
The knight looked at him carefully, and in his dark eyes a flicker of respect appeared.
"You've no shortage of resolve, that's certain. But you've picked a wretched place for it." Bors swept a hand across the grey, fish-reeking wharves. "All you'll find here is fear, Aerindir. No captain will take your gold - dead men have no use for it."
Aerindir gave a short nod. The knight's words merely spoke aloud what he already knew.
"I can see that. This city is a dead end."
"If you truly need a ship" Bors lowered his voice, "you need White Harbor."
Aerindir raised his gaze to the sun standing at its zenith and for a moment sank into his thoughts.
A knight. Vilar used to say that not all of them are honest. This one, though... more curious than mercenary.
"I thank you, Ser Bors" the elf said. "You have only confirmed what I already knew."
He turned and made to leave. Time waits for no one - neither for ordinary men nor for those far older than the race of men. Bors opened his mouth to add something, but seeing the indifferent calm of the departing elf, he merely gave himself a crooked smile.
"Good luck to you, Master Aerindir" he called after him. "I hope what you seek in the west is worth dying for."
The elf paused for an instant, half turning. The river wind stirred the russet fur on his cloak.
"It is worth everything" he answered quietly.
Then he walked on along the old cobblestones, without looking back.
* * *
Aerindir walked the crooked streets of Barrowton, where every stone seemed to remember someone's last breath.
This knight... is he dangerous?
The elf weighed the threat on the scales of his long experience. Bors was a warrior - that much was plain without words. In the relaxed gait, in the way his hand rested habitually on the pommel of his sword, in the pale scars standing out sharply against his skin. If this man had meant to attack or rob, he would not have wasted time on conversation in the port beneath the noonday sun, with dozens of casual witnesses about.
No. Not an enemy. But not a friend either. Simply a mortal gnawed by boredom and bursting with curiosity.
A dangerous combination. In the world of men, that most often turns into a knife in the back or unnecessary questions that must later be paid for in blood. Aerindir sighed heavily. The lesson Vilar had taught was cruel and written in blood. Trust in this world was a luxury the elf could not afford.
His feet carried him of their own accord to the River Breeze. The inn greeted him with its thick, stale air - smells of old ale, fried onion, and greasy meat, with hearth smoke seemingly ground into the very walls. Behind the counter the innkeeper idly dragged a grimy rag across the boards.
"Lunch?"
The elf gave a short nod and lowered himself onto the hard bench by the window. The murky, fly-specked glass made the world outside dull and blurred, but through it the grey rooftops crowding together were still visible. Beyond the city buildings the backs of the ancient barrows rose heavily. A grim place. A city where the living stood watch over the sleep of the dead.
Perhaps in White Harbor I'll have better luck...
There the chances of success were far greater. Bors's words had only strengthened his conviction that he had lingered in this crypt too long.
After a time the serving girl banged down before him a bowl of steaming chicken, chunks of dark bread, and a clay mug in which ale the color of old copper foamed. Aerindir nodded his thanks and set to eating. Between swallows of the bitter drink an unexpected thought caught up with him.
I am already growing accustomed to their food. To this sour, heavy swill. To the coarse, greasy fare that sits in the stomach like a stone but holds your strength till sunset.
A strange feeling. Only a few moons ago the smell alone would have revolted him; now it was simple necessity. He ate slowly and steadily, lifting his gaze from time to time to the inn's patrons. In the corner someone slept drunkenly, forehead pressed to the table. At the next table several sailors argued about something of their own, waving mugs and shouting over one another. An utterly ordinary day, with its ordinary people and their familiar, predictable lives.
When lunch was done, Aerindir left a silver coin on the table and climbed the creaking staircase to his room. Packing took little time. Purse, a few bundles of hardtack, apples, and dried meat, along with flasks of water and ale, went quickly into the saddlebag. He slung the bow and quiver over his back with a practiced motion, then paused at the door and looked the room over carefully. No trace or scent remained, and the elf thought that was exactly as it should be.
The sun had already passed noon, but enough light remained before dusk. The perfect time to leave. Pulling up his hood and adjusting the belt with sword and dagger, he left the inn and headed for the stable.
* * *
The stable smelled of hay, dung, and old leather. It was quiet - broken only now and then by the shifting of hooves and the lazy snort of animals. Patches stood in her stall, unhurriedly chewing oats, but at the sight of Aerindir she raised her head and pricked her ears.
"We have a long road ahead today" the elf said softly, approaching and running his palm gently along her neck.
The mare nuzzled trustingly into his shoulder while Aerindir calmly set to work. The saddle settled into its familiar place on the horse's back, the girth was drawn snug, the saddlebags took their position. Last to be secured at the saddle were the bow and quiver.
By the door stood the stablehand - a tousle-haired boy with a freckled face. He watched, leaning on a pitchfork. In his gaze was cautious respect: it was not often that highborn gentlemen handled the tack themselves, and with such skill at that.
At last the boy could not hold back.
"You..." he sniffed. "Must ride a lot, m'lord."
"Why do you say that?" Aerindir answered, checking the girth.
The boy shrugged.
"Well... you can tell. You do it all yourself. Saddle... straps..." He waved a hand. "Other lords can't do that. They just shout: 'Hey, you! Bring it! Tighten it!'"
He caught himself and added quickly:
"Not that I'm complaining, m'lord."
"Understood" Aerindir replied calmly.
The boy shifted awkwardly from foot to foot and scuffed the straw with his boot.
"Are you... going far?" he asked cautiously. "If I may..."
"To White Harbor. How many days' ride?"
The stablehand brightened at once.
"Oh! Far." He scratched the back of his head. "Well... if you don't ride the mare into the ground... twelve days. Maybe thirteen."
The boy waved toward the gate and went on explaining.
"Road's simple. First you'll come to Goldgrass. The Stouts' castle. You'll ride right past it... then it's straight on. The road leads itself from there." He suddenly leaned closer and dropped his voice. "Only don't ride at night, m'lord."
"Why?"
"Well... wolves. And... all sorts of people." He sniffed again. "Daytime's fine. Lady Dustin hangs bandits quick. But at night..." He grimaced. "At night it's better to find an inn."
"I will be careful" Aerindir nodded, tying the last knot.
The elf swung into the saddle in one fluid motion. Patches shifted beneath him, feeling the rider's weight and the readiness for the road.
"Thank you for looking after her" he said, looking down at the stablehand, and flicked him a silver coin.
The boy caught the silver stag deftly. His eyes went round at such generous pay for simple work.
"Thank you, m'lord! Safe travels!"
Aerindir touched the reins, and Patches, her hooves ringing crisply on the wooden planking, made for the stable exit and the road that lay ahead.
* * *
Aerindir rode out of Barrowton at a walk, weaving between laden carts, peasants, and servants who thronged the street. People followed him with wary, appraising looks. A tall rider in a black cloak with russet fur at the collar, a leather band on his head, a sword at his belt. A highborn lord or a dangerous sellsword. No one ventured to bar his path or call out. In his bearing was a force that made the crowd part of its own accord.
He passed beneath the arch of the wooden gate. Two guardsmen in worn mail, weary and indifferent, watched him go, leaning on their spears. To them he was merely another shadow departing their grey world.
Beyond the walls the city's constriction dissolved at once into the spacious breath of the plain. A broad, well-worn road ran eastward, cutting through a rolling steppe scattered with ancient burial mounds. After a hundred paces Aerindir drew the reins. Patches halted obediently. He turned in the saddle.
Barrowton lay behind him, like a sullen growth upon the body of the earth. Here his hope of a swift path home had died. Here he had encountered a fear stronger than gold. And here too, amid all the greyness, he had gained new weapons and a new guise.
The first human city on my road.
Aerindir touched his heels to the horse. Patches tossed her head, flicked her ears, and moved forward, breaking into a light, sweeping trot. The road beckoned eastward. A pale sun stood at the zenith, flooding the plain with cold light, and the wind no longer smelled of port rot. Now it brought the bitter scent of heather, dust, and the promise of a long journey.
* * *
After two hours' riding the hills finally parted, revealing Goldgrass. It was a modest castle, but sturdy. A low wall encircled a yard crowded with stables, smithies, and a keep - squat and square. Above it a banner stirred lazily in the wind: chevron rafters in red-brown and gold, interlocking in a strict pattern.
Aerindir recalled the stablehand's words back in Barrowton.
So these are the Stouts. The house that holds these lands.
By the castle gate, where the road widened into a small trampled clearing for travelers and wagons, he spotted a solitary figure. A wizened old man with a grey beard sat on a folding stool beside a weathered cart. On the boards lay parchment scrolls, battered books, and several yellowed sheets held down by stones against the wind.
I need a map of this world... to understand where I am riding.
He drew the reins, guiding Patches toward the cart. The mare snorted, shifting her hooves in the dust. The old man raised his head, peering at the rider with faded, watery eyes from beneath bushy brows.
"Maps, milord?" he creaked in a voice like the rustle of dry leaves. "Chronicles? Genealogies of the great houses? I have everything that might occupy a noble gentleman on a long journey..."
"I need a map" Aerindir dismounted without releasing the reins. "Not of these surroundings. Of the entire continent. Westeros."
The old man perked up; his gnarled fingers, spotted with age, scurried across the scrolls.
"Oh, grand plans, I see. All of Westeros on a single sheet... A rarity in these parts. Most folk don't poke their noses beyond the next village."
He rummaged in the cart and produced a tightly rolled scroll bound with a darkened leather cord, then carefully unfurled it on the wooden counter.
"The work of a maester from Oldtown, may the gods rest his soul. The ink hasn't faded and the parchment is dense. Everything's here: the Kingsroad running from King's Landing to the very Wall... cities, rivers, the castles of the great lords..."
Aerindir leaned over the map. It was drawn more roughly than elven charts, but with enough detail to keep him from wandering blind through this hostile land.
"How much?" he asked, raising his gaze.
"Six silver" the old man squinted, appraising the expensive cloak and the buyer's bearing. "For preservation and accuracy like this... not a copper less, milord."
Aerindir did not haggle. Knowledge of the road ahead was worth more than silver.
"Here." He counted out the coins and set them on the counter. "If the map is true, it is worth the price."
"True as death, milord" the old man smirked, tucking the silver into his sleeve and wishing him a safe journey.
Aerindir rolled the map carefully, slipped it into a leather tube, and stowed it in the saddlebag. In one motion he mounted Patches and, without a backward glance at the castle, rode on. Goldgrass fell behind - small and already unimportant - when the corner of his eye caught movement.
His hearing, sharper than any man's, picked up the rhythmic beat of hooves long before the rider became clearly visible. Someone had ridden out of the Goldgrass gate behind him, moving unhurriedly but with purpose. Aerindir turned his head slightly, not slowing the mare's even pace. A hundred paces back he could make out a lone figure on a sturdy dark bay horse: a grey cloak, a calm seat, and a shield at his back.
He recognized him instantly.
Bors.
The knight rode steadily, neither trying to close the gap nor falling behind. He simply followed the same road, keeping his distance, like a chance fellow traveler - or a hunter unwilling to startle his quarry.
The elf frowned. Coincidence? Or deliberate pursuit?
He drew the reins gently, halting Patches in the middle of the road. He turned her broadside so he could see the approaching rider, and let his hand rest on his thigh, near the sword hilt.
Bors, seeing he had been spotted, did not slow. On the contrary, he gave his horse a light spur, closing the distance with confidence, and within moments drew level with the elf, easing his bay to a walk.
"Good day, Aerindir" he said calmly, with the same easy half-smile as at the port.
The elf did not return the greeting. His hand shifted closer to the hilt.
"Are you following me, Ser Bors?" he asked evenly, and in that calm there was more menace than in any shout.
Bors raised his hands in a peaceable gesture, shaking his head.
"On my honor - nothing but a happy coincidence." He patted his saddlebags. "I'm bound for White Harbor. My business in Barrowton is finished. Delivered Lord Manderly's parcel to Lady Dustin, collected the receipt, and now, praise the Seven, I'm free as the wind over the hills."
Aerindir said nothing, drilling his gaze through the man in search of the slightest trace of falsehood, guile, or hidden malice. Bors met the look openly, even with a hint of languid ease, then added more quietly, leaning in the saddle with a confidential air.
"And to be honest, I'm glad to put the place behind me." He cast a brief glance over his shoulder, toward the grey walls they had left. "Dreary hole. Lady Dustin... a woman with ice water for blood. And the city itself reeks of damp and old bones. Those barrows..." He gave a visible shudder. "They breathe a grave's chill even at noon."
Aerindir slowly relaxed his hand. In the knight's words rang a genuine distaste for the place, one any living creature could understand.
"What does 'hedge knight' mean?" he asked, choosing to change the subject but not lowering his guard. "Where... I come from, there is no such title."
Bors took up the conversation readily.
"It means my castle is the saddle and my lands are the road beneath the hooves" he explained with bitter irony. "We serve whichever lord has gold and need of sharp swords. A month, a year, one campaign. As long as the coin jingles in the purse. Then the contract ends, and we're free to seek a new master." He smirked. "Some would call us sellswords in spurs. But we hold our vows: protect the weak, keep our honor, and stay true to the one whose salt we eat. While we serve, we are knights - not outlaws."
Aerindir nodded, accepting the explanation.
"But you have a family name. Blackmorn. Do you have lands of your own?"
The smile slid from Bors's face, and in his dark eyes a shadow passed for a moment - thick and heavy.
"Once" he answered hollowly, staring at his horse's mane.
A pause hung between them, broken only by the beat of hooves in the dust and the rare sigh of wind through dry grass. Bors shook his head as if swatting a fly, and raised his gaze to the elf again. The shadow in his eyes remained, but his voice returned to its former steadiness.
"So where are you bound, ser? East as well, to the sea?"
Aerindir hesitated, weighing whether to speak the truth or lie - but they were already on the same road, and no other existed here.
"Yes" he said shortly. "To White Harbor."
Bors's face brightened, as though he had won a throw of dice.
"Is that so?" He grinned. "Then, Aerindir, fate itself brings us together. Why not share the road?"
His offer was a sound one.
"It's eleven days to the Harbor, at least. For a lone traveler that's deadly dull... and not exactly safe. The road these days crawls with deserters and scum. But two of us..." He touched the hilt of his sword meaningfully. "Any rabble will think three times before tangling with two heavy blades."
Aerindir did not answer at once. He studied Bors carefully - the weathered face, the creases around his eyes, the calm hands of a fighter - while inside him a quiet, fierce struggle raged.
Do not trust.
The lesson of Vilar still bled in his memory. Betrayal. A blade in the back. The merchant too had seemed harmless, had smiled and shared bread. And then sold his life for gold. Men lie and betray - it is their nature.
But if Bors had wanted to kill or rob him, he would not have ridden up openly, in full view of the Stouts' castle. And the road could indeed be dangerous. Aerindir did not know these lands. Bors surely did.
Sometimes, to survive, you must take the risk.
Aerindir looked Bors straight in the eye. The ice of grey elven eyes met the coal of dark human ones.
"If you betray me, Ser Bors" the elf said quietly, without anger but with a chilling cold in his voice, "I will kill you. Swiftly. But I will kill you."
Bors neither flinched nor looked away. He stopped smiling and nodded with utter gravity.
"Fair enough. I will not betray you, Aerindir. You have my word as a knight. And that still counts for something in this world."
The wind whispered through the dry grass, and in the distance above a hilltop a bird of prey cried sharply, as though confirming that the words had been spoken and heard. At last Aerindir gave a barely perceptible nod and straightened in the saddle, squaring his shoulders.
"Very well. We ride together."
Bors exhaled and smiled with genuine relief - the relief of a man who would not have to be bored on the road.
"Excellent!" He shifted his grip on the reins. "Then onward. There's still time before dark - we can make it to the Grey Hillock inn."
Aerindir touched his heels to Patches; the mare obediently moved forward, settling into a steady, sweeping stride. Bors fell in beside him, slightly to the right. They rode eastward, two riders beneath the pale, indifferent sky of the North. Behind them lay grim Barrowton and Goldgrass; ahead stretched a long, unknown, and possibly dangerous road. But now Aerindir was no longer alone on it.
* * *
For the first few miles they rode in silence. Bors was in no hurry to fill the quiet with words, giving his companion time to grow accustomed to a stranger's shoulder beside him. The elf simply rode and looked around - at the withered grass, the barrows, and the long shadows stretching from them to the east.
The sun was sinking slowly toward the west, flooding the horizon with a sickly gold. It was there, toward that very West, that Aerindir's soul strained - there, perhaps, lay the path home. Or perhaps there waited only the abyss. The same one that had once swallowed him and spat him out here, into this grey, cold world of men. He shook his head, trying to drive away the encroaching gloom.
"Aerindir" Bors broke the silence at last. His voice was not loud but carried clearly above the whistle of the wind. "May I ask a question? Not from idle curiosity - just to understand who I'm sharing the road with."
The elf turned his head slightly toward him, not slowing Patches' even pace.
"Ask."
"You said your home is in the west" Bors gazed ahead, only occasionally glancing at his companion. "But every sailor in the North knows that to the west there is only the Sunset Sea: endless, empty, without a single scrap of land. How can there be a home?"
He thought for a moment, rubbing his chin.
"Maybe you're from some islands out west? They say someone discovered something once... lands of some sort, beyond the edge of the charts. But I don't know for certain whether that's true or just ale fermenting in the sailors' heads."
Aerindir was quiet, choosing words this mortal could understand.
"My home... lies farther than any of your cartographers have drawn" he said at last. "Beyond the sea. Beyond the horizon. Where the last rays of the sun go out."
Bors frowned, and a deep crease appeared on his forehead.
"Sounds like a tale. For thousands of years ships have sailed west, and not one has returned. We call it the edge of the world, Aerindir - but no one has ever called the edge of the world home. And I certainly didn't expect to meet someone who claims to have come from there."
"I know" Aerindir answered quietly, and in his voice sounded an ancient sorrow. "For you it is death. For me it is hope. I have no choice but to believe."
Bors looked at him for a long time, trying to glimpse behind the calm eyes any hint of a lie.
"What drives you so far?" he asked, more gently now. "Duty? A broken oath? Debts? Or..." the knight hesitated, "is someone waiting for you there?"
Aerindir did not answer at once. Before his mind's eye, brighter than the grey day and the smoke of any campfire, rose faces: brothers-in-arms in shining helms, his mother singing by the hearth, and his sister who had sailed back across the sea to Aman. All of them remained behind the veil of this world, and he did not know whether they still mourned him or had long since given up, believing him lost beneath the waves.
"Many" he said at last, and his voice had gone hoarse. "Many are waiting. Or were. I do not know how much time has passed for them."
Bors nodded with understanding. He had not grasped the full depth of what was said, but he had caught the essential thing - the pain of loss. As a warrior he knew what that was, and he respected another's scars. He did not press further.
They rode on, and silence settled over them again like a cloak. Now it was different: lighter, free of the prickly caution that had bound them at the start.
* * *
An hour passed. Talk of the Sunset Sea had long since died away like smoke from a spent fire, and silence had become their third companion once more. The sun sank lower, and shadows from the rare, wind-twisted trees reached across the road like black fingers.
Bors, it seemed, had grown tired of hearing nothing but hoofbeats and the whistle of wind. He coughed, clearing his throat, and spoke with a note of good-natured irony.
"You know how to keep a silence, Aerindir. An admirable quality in a scout... and a rather poor one in a traveling companion." He gave a crooked half-smile, adjusting the glove on his hand. "Eleven days of staring contests with the horizon is too harsh a trial. Since we've trusted each other with our backs, it might be well to know who exactly rides alongside - beyond a name and a destination."
Aerindir glanced at him sidelong, without turning his head.
"What do you wish to know?"
"Nothing special" Bors shrugged, and the leather of his armor creaked softly.
He fell silent, gazing at the road ahead, and realizing the elf was in no rush to open up, decided to take the matter into his own hands.
"Allow me to begin, then. I told you I'm a hedge knight. But I didn't tell you how I sank to such a life. It's a long story, but it explains why I sleep under the stars instead of in an ancestral hall with tapestries and goblets. Care to hear it?"
Aerindir considered for a moment. The stories of men had always struck him as short and cruel, yet in them an ember of life invariably glowed.
"Yes, Bors" he answered quietly. "Tell me. The road is long, and night is near."
Bors settled more comfortably in the saddle, easing his back.
"Well then, I'll start from the beginning." He cleared his throat, coughing away the road dust. "My grandfather was a simple man, with no great name or title. The son of a blacksmith at Crow's Nest in the Stormlands. He was called simply Artur. No surname, no byname - just calluses from the hammer and a strong arm."
Aerindir listened in silence, swaying gently in time with Patches' stride.
"About a hundred years ago" Bors continued, and warm notes of pride entered his voice, "the First Blackfyre Rebellion began. Have you heard of it?"
"No" Aerindir admitted honestly. "I do not know your wars."
"Ah, right - you're from far away" the knight nodded. "In short: Daemon Blackfyre, a king's bastard, decided the crown would sit better on his head than on the lawful heir's. He raised an army of disgruntled lords, sellswords, and assorted rabble, and a bloody fratricidal war began."
He fell silent for a moment, gazing at the dusty road as though seeing the shadows of the past upon it.
"My grandfather was young then - barely past his second decade. He joined the levies of his own accord, not because a lord commanded it. And so..." Bors smirked, and there was something boyish in it, "fate decided to play a joke. It happened the day before the great Battle of the Redgrass Field, when the armies were just converging and the air trembled with tension. Grandfather found himself at a stream - whether to fetch water or relieve himself, the story doesn't say."
The knight paused deliberately, drawing out the moment for effect.
"And he saw a rider. Enormous, in gleaming plate, with a fireball on his shield. It was Ser Quentyn Ball, called Fireball. A legend of the age and master-at-arms of the Red Keep, who had taught kings to hold a sword. He was terrifying in battle - they said no steel could kill him. But thirst torments heroes too. Ser Quentyn dismounted at the stream to drink. And took off his helm."
"A foolish mistake" Aerindir said quietly. "Fatal carelessness."
"Fatal indeed" Bors nodded. "Grandfather didn't know who it was. He simply saw an enemy commander and, hiding in the bushes, drew the string of his plain hunting bow."
Bors made a gesture with his hand, miming the flight of an arrow.
"Straight through the throat. The great Fireball, terror of the tourney grounds, died choking on water and his own blood, never living to see the greatest battle of his life. Killed by a blacksmith's boy shaking with fear in the reeds."
Aerindir listened attentively. In his world, heroes fell in single combat with monsters; here a great warrior was undone by a sip of water.
"But the loyalists of King Daeron learned of it" Bors's voice grew more serious. "Ball's death was a blow to the rebels before the battle even began. They lost their finest commander. And when the war ended, the king rewarded my grandfather."
"With what?" the elf asked.
"Land" Bors answered simply. "A scrap of land in the south, near the Dornish Marches. And a small castle that was more of a fortified tower with a palisade - smaller than the Goldgrass we just passed. Nothing grand, but his own. The king gave my grandfather the right to choose a name, and he called himself Artur Blackmorn, after the Dark Wood that grew near that tower."
He fell quiet, gazing into the distance, and his eyes grew damp.
"Grandfather used to say it was the best day of his life. When the herald read the decree, and he - Artur-son-of-a-blacksmith - became Artur Blackmorn, knight and landholder. He wept openly. Right there, before the whole court."
Aerindir nodded slowly, and in that nod there was more than simple agreement.
To find a place you can call your own... Even if it is only a scrap of earth, even if no stars of Aman sing above it but only crows circle and the wind howls... It is a good feeling. Rare and almost forgotten. Men cling to such crumbs as though their whole lives depend on them - and perhaps they do.
He had noticed the device on the shield at Bors's back some time ago, but had been waiting for the right moment.
"And the arms?" he asked, nodding at the shield behind his companion.
"Ah, yes!" Bors reached back with animation, unstrapped the shield, and turned it toward the elf.
On a field of near-black, scored with scratches and dented by blows, stood a grey owl. Wings spread wide, talons thrust forward. Its slightly open beak and eyes - two golden circles embroidered in gold thread - stared out with a piercing, living intensity, as though the bird were watching every movement.
"The Grey Owl" Bors said with pride. "Grandfather chose it himself. The owl sees in the dark, hears what is hidden from others, and strikes without a sound."
Aerindir studied the arms closely. It was plain, slightly rough work, far from the elegance of elven craftsmanship - but in that roughness lay an important meaning he understood better than most. It was a symbol meant to remember who you are and where you came from.
"A worthy choice" he said with sincerity, without a trace of condescension. "It speaks more of you than any words could."
Bors gave a brief, warm smile and returned the shield to its place at his back. He was quiet for a moment, looking at the road ahead, and his face slowly darkened.
"Thank you. Grandfather died when my father was thirty, so I never knew him - only from stories told by the hearth."
"Your father inherited the lands?"
"Yes. Father was a good and fair man. He cared for the smallfolk, judged honestly. Kept the roads in order and didn't let bandits run wild. We lived modestly but with dignity, and no one went hungry under his roof."
Bors tightened his grip on the reins, and the leather of his gloves stretched taut.
"And then Robert's Rebellion came."
Aerindir said nothing. He had already heard that name: the name of the king who now ruled this continent - the one Vilar had called the Usurper.
"The Mad King Aerys against the young Lord Robert Baratheon" Bors continued quietly. "It was a great war that split the Seven Kingdoms from sea to sea. And my father..." He swallowed hard. "Father chose the wrong side."
"The Targaryens?" Aerindir asked.
"Yes" the knight confirmed softly. "He was a man of honor, true to his oath and the Crown. A good man - but, unfortunately, a poor politician."
He fell silent for a time, and in the stillness that followed there was nothing but the whistle of wind and the steady beat of hooves on dry earth. Aerindir did not hurry him.
"Father died at the Trident. In the very battle where Prince Rhaegar fell beneath Robert's hammer. He was left lying in the river mud. I was fourteen then, at the castle with my mother, when the news came."
Aerindir said nothing, picturing a boy whose world collapses in an instant.
"Do you know what's funniest?" Bors said suddenly, with a bitter smirk. "Many great lords were for the Targaryens too, right up to the very end. The Tyrells besieged Storm's End, and the Martells stood at the Trident... But they sensed which way the wind was blowing in time, and bent the knee. They were rewarded and left with their titles. While my father was simply killed. That's the only difference between the loyalty of the rich and the poor: for one it's political wisdom, for the other it's a death sentence."
The knight spat on the road, as though trying to rid his mouth of a bitter taste.
"The victors were not merciful" he went on, his voice turning hollow. "Robert Baratheon forgave the great lords. Old Tywin the Lion actually betrayed the king he'd served as Hand - yet his daughter ended up queen. Gold forgives absolutely everything, Aerindir. But small fry like us were cast out as an example to others. The castle was seized, the lands given to loyalists. And we were thrown out the gates with whatever we could carry in our hands."
"What became of you?" the elf asked quietly, feeling the weight of this injustice.
"An old knight took me on as a squire - Ser Harwin of the Reach. He was stern and taciturn, but just. Ser Harwin became a father to me and taught me everything: how to hold a lance, how to care for armor, and above all, how not to break under fortune's blows."
"A wise teacher" Aerindir observed.
"Yes. Without him I'd have been done for. I'd have turned outlaw or simply starved in a ditch." Bors sighed heavily. "Mother... she didn't survive it all. The shame, the poverty, and her husband's death broke her, and she faded within half a year. The healers said it was fever, but I know her heart simply gave out."
The silence grew thick and heavy. Aerindir looked at Bors, noting the hard lines of his cheekbones in which old pain had set, and he understood that loss - when you lose not just those close to you, but the very foundation of your life.
"I am sorry" he said quietly. And the words were not empty courtesy.
Bors gave a short nod, accepting the sympathy.
"Thank you." He straightened in the saddle, shaking the weight of memory from his shoulders. "Ser Harwin dubbed me knight when I turned eighteen. He gave me a horse, old armor, and this shield with the owl, which he himself had commissioned restored. He held out a purse of silver and said: 'Go, Ser Bors. You're a knight now. Serve with the sword, live with honor - and you'll eat. And if not, then at least you'll die with clean hands.'"
"And you left."
"Yes. Since then I've been a hedge knight. I serve those who pay and do not betray - a year here, two there. Lord Rowan, Lord Tully, and many others... Now I serve Lord Manderly in White Harbor. Good service and honest pay: escorting caravans and chasing bandits."
"You are the last of the Blackmorns?"
Bors nodded slowly, gazing at the sunset.
"The last. No brothers, no sisters. No distant kin left either. Just me." He slapped the palm of his hand against the shield. "Me and this grey owl."
Aerindir was silent a moment, watching the road receding into the dusk.
"War takes more than lives" he said quietly. "It erases names, tears down homes, and steals the future. I understand your loss, Bors - far more closely than you can imagine."
In his voice sounded such a bottomless, ancient grief that the knight looked at him carefully, seeing in the elf's eyes the reflection of something greater than merely human sorrow.
"You lost your home too?" he asked, almost in a whisper.
Aerindir nodded, still not looking at his companion.
"Yes. Not just a home - my entire world."
He fell silent, making it plain he would say no more, and Bors, with the tact of an old soldier, did not press.
"Then we are both exiles, Aerindir" the knight said simply. "Though from different shores."
"Yes" the elf echoed. "Exiles."
They rode on, and the beat of hooves remained the only sound in the gathering dusk. Now the silence between them was different: not wary, but binding.
* * *
The crimson sun, weary and heavy, had sunk to the very edge of the world, and the air had turned noticeably colder in anticipation of the coming night. The stillness was broken only by the steady beat of hooves. The riders had begun climbing a low hill when the quiet was suddenly torn by a sound - a thin, piercing cry, full of desperation, that choked at once into sobbing, its echo wandering among the roadside slopes.
Aerindir and Bors drew rein together.
"Ahead" the elf said shortly, his calm face tightening in an instant.
He narrowed his eyes, looking at a cart and a cluster of people two hundred paces ahead, where in the slowly settling dust there was some kind of wrong movement. Elven eyes, keen even in the thickening dusk, seized on the essential at once: two men had broken away from the group. One was a bearded brute in a filthy jacket; the other was lean and wiry. They were dragging a young girl toward the roadside bushes as she struggled desperately, her feet plowing furrows in the dust.
By the cart a woman writhed - her mother, most likely, who had just been roughly shoved aside. The other bystanders - among them an old man clutching a horse's mane and a man with a wooden face - had only drawn their heads between their shoulders in cowardly silence and turned away.
"Bastards" Bors spat.
There was no hesitation in his voice. The knight wasted no time talking to Aerindir. He drove his spurs into his bay; the horse snorted and surged forward, rapidly building speed. In Aerindir's chest a cold, furious fire kindled; he sent Patches into a gallop, not a stride behind his companion.
They covered the distance in moments. The thunder of hooves sent the people by the cart scattering in terror. The bearded man, still guffawing, was already hauling the girl into the tall grass when Bors descended upon them.
The knight reined in at the last instant; the bay reared, becoming a dark silhouette against the sunset sky. Powerful hooves churned the air directly above the heads of the assailants, forcing the bearded man and his lean accomplice to recoil and release their prey. The girl, sobbing, immediately crawled away, burrowing into the dust.
Bors steadied his horse with a single pull of the reins and now towered above the two figures frozen in the dirt. His face had become a motionless mask of stone. His eyes were cold as ice on the Shivering Sea.
"Let her go" he said.
The voice was not loud, but it cracked across their ears like the lash of a whip.
The bearded man, shaking his heavy head, stared up at the rider with bleary eyes in which the fumes of wine were plainly battling the remnants of reason.
"What's it to you, ser?" he growled with drunken insolence, reaching again to grab the girl's hem. "Ride on your way. We'll sort this out ourselves..."
Bors did not waste words. In one fluid motion he slid from the saddle. His boots struck the ground with a dull thud, and in the same instant steel rang. The sword left the scabbard with that particular sound which alone was enough to freeze the air in dead silence.
"I will not repeat myself" Bors said quietly, taking a step toward them. "You have two breaths to take your paws off her. On the third, I take your hand."
The lean one, proving far more sober than his companion, hiccuped nervously and immediately released his grip, stumbling backward.
"We... we didn't mean nothing... just having a laugh, m'lord!"
"A laugh?" Bors took another step and now loomed over the bearded man with his full, formidable mass. "I see tears and I see a mother thrown in the dirt. I see two wretches who decided there's no law on the road."
The bearded man went visibly pale. The drink was leaving his head with alarming speed, giving way to animal terror before the cold gleam in the knight's eyes.
"Forgive us..." he mumbled, loosening his grip and hastily backing away. "The drink went to our heads... we didn't know what we were doing..."
The girl darted to her mother at once, helping her rise. Bors slammed the sword back into its scabbard with a sharp click.
"If I learn" he said slowly, hammering out every word, staring the bearded man straight between the eyes, "that you have touched her or any other woman in these lands again... I will turn my horse around. I will find you, and I will hang you from the first branch I see. Do you understand me?"
"Understood, ser! We all understand!" The brute shook his head violently, pressing it into his shoulders. "I swear by the gods, old and new!"
Bors turned away from them as though they had ceased to exist, and looked at the women, whose faces were still pale with the shock of what they had endured. His stern bearing softened slightly.
"Are you hurt?"
The girl could only nod mutely, hiding her face against her mother's chest. The woman, hastily brushing off her soiled skirt, bowed low.
"Gods bless you, good ser..."
Bors raised his gaze. In the distance on the road two riders had appeared, and on their lances the last rays of sunset caught the flutter of pennants bearing the red-and-gold chevrons.
"A Stout patrol" the knight said to the woman, pointing at the approaching soldiers. "Wait for them and ask them to escort you to the village. And keep well away from those two, if you value your lives."
The woman nodded quickly, hurrying her daughter away from the drunks, while the rest of the travelers hastened after them, careful not to meet the grim rider's eyes. The bearded man and his lean companion remained standing in the road dust, not daring to raise their heads.
Bors wheeled and swung back into the saddle just as easily. His jaw was still clenched with barely spent anger. Aerindir, who had watched the scene in silence from the side, touched Patches forward and drew level with him as they moved on, leaving behind the cart and the people milling by the road.
For a time Bors held a grim silence, while hooves steadily counted off the miles.
"Craven dogs" he spat at last, not looking at the elf. "Show them steel and they tuck their tails at once."
Aerindir studied the knight's stern profile, and his thoughts turned involuntarily to recent events.
Vilar had sold him for profit. The captains at the port had refused out of fear. And the sailor had traded his secret for a handful of coins.
But this man was different. Bors had come to the rescue at the risk of his own life, drawing his sword for a peasant girl he had seen for the first and almost certainly the last time. The knight's anger had been real and pure - free of any pretense or self-interest.
"You did right, Ser Bors" Aerindir said quietly, breaking the twilight stillness.
The knight only glanced at him briefly. In that glance the elf read the weariness of a man who knew all too well the price of honor in this cruel world.
"It was a duty, Aerindir" the knight answered simply, though his voice still vibrated with steel.
"I suspect that few of those who bear swords in this world share your view" the elf observed, and in his words sounded the quiet sorrow of a being who had witnessed too many betrayals.
"Then they've no right to call themselves knights" Bors said sharply, and spat into the roadside dust, expressing all his contempt for such men. "Spurs, a title, and arms on a shield don't make you a knight. Only deeds."
Aerindir nodded slowly, acknowledging the hard truth of those words.
"Deeds" he echoed.
Perhaps in this world of darkness there is light after all. Dim, rare - but there.
They continued on into the deepening dark, each sinking into his own thoughts, while the steady beat of hooves carried them ever farther.
* * *
The day had nearly died, yielding at last to the cold northern night. After a time Bors broke the silence again, as though wanting to scatter the dark thoughts left by the encounter with the roadside drunks.
"Now, what was I saying... Ah yes, and that's how I became what I am" he said with a mirthless smirk, adjusting his sword belt. "A hedge knight. My home is wherever they pay in ringing coin. This past year I've been serving Lord Manderly honestly."
"And what brought you to Barrowton?" Aerindir asked; his voice in the night air sounded clear and low. "You mentioned some errand."
"That's right" Bors nodded, gazing ahead at the darkening road. "Delivering a parcel for Lady Dustin."
"And you were not curious what was inside?" the elf inquired, with the faintest shadow of a smile.
Bors gave a short laugh.
"Lords don't care for servants who poke their noses where they don't belong, Aerindir. The curious don't live long, and I'm rather fond of my life, I confess. Delivered it and done."
Aerindir nodded silently, acknowledging this simple, brutal wisdom.
For a time they rode on in full silence, until ahead, in the thickened dusk, the warm yellow lights of an inn flickered into view, promising travelers shelter and a hot meal.
Bors turned in the saddle, his gaze fixed on his companion. Unconcealed curiosity showed in his eyes.
"Your turn now. I've told you a fair amount about myself." He squinted, but there was no threat in it - only the straightforward wish to know who shared his road. "Where did you come from, Aerindir? And don't say 'far away.'"
Aerindir did not answer at once, staring at the grey ribbon of road.
What should he say? Tell him that he is an elf of the Noldor? Speak of the radiance of the Trees, whose light had long since faded in his world? Of battles against the spawn of true darkness, or that he holds the rank of captain of the guard of the High King?
Bors might think him a madman fit for chains, or simply laugh at the invention.
Memory helpfully supplied Aerindir with the image of Vilar: his welcoming smile and broken bread, followed only by steel and dead bodies on a blood-soaked clearing. He remembered too the sailor's face at the port, who had sold a stranger's secret for a pitiful handful of coins.
Yet looking at the knight, the elf saw something different: Bors's rough features breathed weariness, but in them there was not a shadow of baseness. The hedge knight spoke openly and honestly, not trying to seem better than he was - while Aerindir himself still hid behind a reliable but cold mask of a foreigner.
Trust in these lands can be a mortal risk. But total solitude may prove an even swifter death.
The elf drew a deep breath, making a decision that could change everything.
"Very well, Bors" he said quietly, and though his voice sounded weary, it had found its firmness. "I will tell you. But first you must understand: this is a story that is difficult to believe. It may sound to you like the ravings of a madman."
Bors merely grunted in reply, adjusting his grey cloak.
"I survived the Greyjoy Rebellion and watched men cling to life with their guts spilling out, while others died from a pinprick" the knight said, looking at the elf seriously, and in his eyes the first stars were reflected. "I've seen maesters try to cure ulcers with prayers and whores fight braver than lords. So if you can surprise me - good. And if not - even better."
Aerindir nodded and turned his gaze westward, where the last crimson of the sunset was dying.
"I am Aerindir of Tirion, which was raised upon the hill of Túna" he began, and in his voice emerged the deep, melodious intonations of an ancient tongue unknown to these lands. "I belong to the people of the Noldor, and in my world I held the rank of captain of the Guard of the Silver Light, at the court of the High King Gil-galad."
He paused, letting the names hang in the cold night air. Bors blinked several times in bewilderment, and across his face passed a range of expressions - from genuine confusion and an effort to place these names somewhere in the geography of known lands, to utter bafflement.
"Tirion?" The knight scratched his stubbled chin, puzzled. "Strange name for a city. In Westeros that's what they call people. Take the youngest son of Lord Tywin Lannister, for one. And Gil-galad... sounds like the name of some prince from Lys or Myr. So you served in one of the free orders across the Narrow Sea? But what is this 'Silver Light'? I confess I've never heard of anything like it."
Aerindir smiled sadly. To Bors, the name of one of the greatest elven strongholds and the name of a king were merely an empty string of foreign sounds.
"My home does not lie beyond the Narrow Sea, nor in the lands of Westeros, Bors" he said, and his voice became like the rustle of leaves. "My realm lies beyond any map you have ever seen. There the stars burn with a different flame, and the land itself knows neither withering nor decay."
The knight looked at him long and searchingly. The meaning of these words slipped beyond his understanding, but he clearly caught in them the bitter longing of an exile for a lost paradise.
"These are not riddles" Aerindir added quietly, seeing his companion's confusion. "It is the plain truth. But it holds too much to unravel in a single evening."
Bors was silent another moment, slowly digesting what he had heard, then nodded, accepting the rules of this strange game.
"All right. It sounds beautiful, even if bloody confusing." He waved a hand toward the approaching lights that beckoned with their warmth. "Tell me the rest some other time. Right now my stomach's stuck to my backbone and demands its share of ale and roast."
Aerindir gave a short nod, inwardly grateful to the knight for neither laughing nor tapping his temple - for accepting the confession with equanimity.
"Yes, let us go" he agreed, and they turned their horses toward the warmth of the inn.
Two riders and two exiles. One had lost an ancestral castle and a name; the other had lost an entire world beyond an endless ocean. Behind them lay a long day and a city of the dead; ahead stretched the considerable road to White Harbor. Aerindir did not know where it would lead, but for the first time in a long while the cold, alien sky of Westeros did not feel quite so endlessly lonely.