Prologue
Dabed raced the smell of rain on the air, hoping to rake out the last stall in time to watch the storm arrive. There was only one horse in the stable today, a messenger's black courser, sleek and spirited. She had nipped at him when he first came to rub her down, but had calmed. A hard afternoon's ride with a storm at their back had left horse and rider both relieved to reach The Broken Yoke.
The air was getting close, Dabed thought the storm was a half hour away at most. Anyone coming up the road after it broke would be drenched and cross and not likely to tip him. Dabed would have twice as much to do putting away their horses and tackle, but he didn't mind. The rain woke all the smells of the country. The straw and cedar plank barn and the black churned fields offered up their scents in anticipation of summer rain.
Patting the courser's nose, Dabed climbed to the hay loft, swung open the second-story door they used to load hay, and sat with his legs dangling. He had learned many useful things in his short life, though how long that life had been he could not guess. He knew that it was better not to be seen by those set above him in life. He knew he had seen nine name days since he learned to count, maybe thirteen or fourteen in all. And he knew that it is better to see things coming, and so he watched the western sky darken, watched the road for riders.
A fitful breeze rustled the trees along the River Road, stretching into the lowlands before him. The air carried the smell of rain and faint rumble of thunder. The black snorted in her stall at the sound. This was Dabed's place in the world. It was not a fine room in the highest castle, but here he could see for miles. He thought any orphan stable boy would envy him the view.
Uncle Mellet called Myck and Ronnet for dinner. Dabed knew it meant he should go too, though Mellet never actually called him.
Dabed's mother had stumbled into the common room one day ten years before, half dead of fever, barely aware of the silent starving toddler clutching her skirt. Mellet had cared for them both at great expense to himself, or so he said, until she died in the night having never spoken a word in explanation. "Just like her to come here and die on my doorstep, leave another mouth to feed," Mellet liked to say, as often as he could. As soon as Dabed was big enough to lift a saddle and reach a horse's neck to brush it, he had slept in the stable, and they were all happier for it.
Ronnet had been a baby when Dabed arrived, and only knew life with a brother and cousin. He treated Dabed with the same benign neglect as Mellet, but Myck had been four and seemed to blame Dabed for the death of their mother, though that had been months before Dabed's arrival. Dabed sometimes wondered why Myck didn't blame Ronnet, whose birth had torn and bled her to death. He had learned not to voice those thoughts, and also how to curl into a ball with his arms over his face when they beat him.
Not that Dabed was a weakling. He'd had his man's growth, and was just a little shorter than his uncle. Like Myck, he tended toward fat when times were good, but lacked Myck's muscle. All the other boys in town teased Dabed, but he could keep up with any one of them in a race or a fight. His cousins had picked on him often enough that Dabed could probably have fought any two at a time, although he knew that always meant taking as many bruises as he gave out, and much worse once he fell down or cried for mercy. So Dabed tried not to fight, and since talking to other boys usually led to fights, he tried not to talk either.
Color erupted from the horizon, dappling the undersides of the clouds in fuchsia and orange and the deepest violet. Dabed froze and watched, hardly breathing. Beyond the ploughed field more lay fallow, weedy grass shone in imitation of the sky and seemed to dance. He realized that the rain was already falling there, and spotted the rain itself as the squall slid toward him, a curtain of crystal slivers flashing orange in the sun. Thunder rolled again, though gently, and the patter of warm raindrops in the yard's dust reached his ears, and then the stable's thatch roof seemed to sigh with the rain, and he sighed with it. The sun slid quickly past the gap it had shone through, like when Ronnet had shown Dabed a bright clear stone he'd found in the river, hiding it from Myck lest he steal it and toss it into the bushes. Dabed's mouth quirked. The thought of Mellet and the rest, intent over their stew as the world gifted this vision to him, felt a little like a repayment. Bruises healed, but this sunset was unique, and his alone.
But there was someone else out there. As Dabed finally tore his eyes away from the horizon, which was quickly turning from violet to nearly-black blue, he saw a horse. The horse's head was low and the rider bent forward in obvious misery. The horse ambled along the road from Casterly Rock, just passing the spot where it bent east and approached Oxcross. The Broken Yoke was the first shelter the rider would have seen for some thirty leagues, so he would surely stop for the night. He would track mud and rain into the common room and the horse would need rubbing down. Dabed sighed and closed the door and climbed down from the loft. Mellet wouldn't be happy to hear that a traveler was coming so late, but he'd be somewhere between angry and violent if Dabed didn't warn him. Also, Dabed would probably only have a few minutes to eat before the rider arrived. He dashed across the yard through the rain, slinked across the common room trying not to eye the messenger where he stared into a mug of Mellet's ale, and slipped into the kitchen.
"Like as not some bloody lordling, what'll blame me for the bloody rain and his ruined bloody boots," Mellet grumped when Dabed told him. He waved Dabed to the stew pot and went out into the common room to greet the rider. Dabed gulped straight from the dipper, sucking in air to cool the scalding carrot and turnip and beef, waiting to hear Mellet's honeyed Innkeeper Voice greeting the newcomer. He looked over to the table where Myck and Ronnet ate out of wooden bowls. Myck gave his usual glare, but Ronnet tossed Dabed an end of bread. Dabed scooped out the middle and ladled more stew into the crust and took it out to the stable with him, hunching over it has he crossed the yard again. It was darker now and the warm summer rain had found its pace, a steady patter that would soak the fields but not cut deeper ruts in the road. A good rain.
Dabed stood against the southwestern corner of the stable under the eaves, slurped at his stew, and listened for the telltale clink of tackle or snort of a sodden horse. He'd finished the stew and begun eating the trencher itself when he finally wondered why the rider hadn't come yet. He moved around the corner into the shadow and waited for his eyes to adjust while he chewed. The Broken Yoke wasn't fancy and the rain not cold, but Dabed couldn't imagine a rider who would pass an inn they saw at nightfall as a storm broke. Maybe some messenger on urgent business, but the rider Dabed had seen had not been keeping an urgent pace. Dabed was chewing the last bite of his bread when his eyes finally adjusted enough, and he realized that he could see an outline against the fading gray of the western horizon. The horse was stopped, and as Dabed stared, the rider slumped further and fell with an audible clatter. The horse whickered in surprise and confusion.
"Uncle Mellet! He's hurt!" Dabed shouted over his shoulder as he jogged out of the yard and down the lane toward the dark form. They had stopped where the lane leading to the inn joined the River Road, not fifty yards from the stable. The rider was a dark mass of sprawled legs and soaked cloak in the thickening road mud. Dabed patted the horse's nose so it wouldn't nip at him or kick when Dabed tried to help the rider. It snorted; to Dabed's ear it seemed to welcome help.
Dabed bent to the rider, pulled the cloak away and shifted the sword on the man's hip to roll him onto his back. The man was big, his leather tunic fine and supple. "Ser! Are you hurt?" Dabed asked loudly, but the man didn't react. His face and hair were caked with the mud he'd lain in, but as the rain began to rinse it away Dabed could see an ugly dark gash on the man's forehead, with a jagged flap of skin folded back toward the man's right ear. The blood that drenched the right side of the man's face cracked and flaked away in places, but the gentle rain would not wash it away completely. The wound would need cleaning soon, if the man hadn't already bled to death.
"The idiot fell?" Dabed hadn't noticed Mellet approach. He stood and scowled over Dabed's shoulder at the fallen man.
"Hit his head I guess, but it doesn't look like the fall did it," Dabed said. He looked for other obvious wounds but couldn't find any.
"That's good," Mellet said. Dabed looked at his uncle in surprise. "If that idiot got hisself hurt on our land, like as not he'd blame us. Let's get him inside." Mellet scowled at the inconvenience but bent to take the man's legs. Dabed grabbed the man's shoulders and all three groaned, the rider in pain and Dabed and his uncle at the weight. The man was definitely alive, but he was well over six feet and had to weigh twenty stone with his gear. Dabed let him down to another whimper, and unhooked the man's cloak and sword belt and with difficulty he and Mellet dragged the man as far as the yard.
Mellet yelled "Ronnet! Go for Gwendel, tell 'er to bring 'er things. Myck, gitchyer fat arse out here'n carry!" Mellet's fine innkeeper voice always disappeared when he yelled.
They got the man into the common room and laid him out on the end of the one long table. The messenger helped too, and was the first to notice that the man's leathers were dyed a deep red and that his hair was a sodden mop of golden curls. "A Lannister, or maybe a Rayne." Either way, likely more important than all of them together.
"Dabed, get his things," Mellet snapped without looking away from the unconscious man. Myck poked the scabbed wound on the man's head and Mellet slapped his hand away, but a thin stream of blood ran into the man's hair. Dabed took a lantern and walked back out into the rain and found the horse still at the crossroads, nose down and ears back, though one swiveled toward Dabed as he approached. Dabed gathered the sword and cloak and took the horse's reins, now conscious of how big it was. The last destrier he'd seen had nearly broken his arm with a bite, so Dabed kept his hands away. The horse came calmly, though, with nothing but a few snorts. Dabed led the stallion into a stall and took off the saddle and sodden blanket. There were plenty of people to help the rider, so Dabed gave his attention to the man's posessions. He rubbed the horse down and gave it fodder and then cleaned the tackle. Not a rich saddle, but the rivets were steel with not a trace of rust. He hung it up and then remembered the sword.
He dried the scabbard and drew the sword, meaning to dry it too. It was heavy and felt awkward in his hands. He supported the flat of the blade with one hand to hold it still enough to inspect it. He found himself looking into his own reflection, distorted and doubled across the fuller. Castle-forged steel, well-polished and maintained and with an edge that seemed to sing. The crossguard and pommel were unornamented rounded flairs of steel, the hilt wrapped tightly in leather worn smooth by use. Dabed had dreamed of winning glory with a sword like any boy, but this was the first he had ever held. Suddenly feeling very young, Dabed sheathed the sword and brought everything back inside.
He found Gwendel bent over the man, pressing a bandage on the head wound. The man moaned softly but still seemed to sleep. Dabed stayed back and watched. There were other, bigger people to help. Gwendel had Mellet and Myck shift the man around to remove his clothes. With his tunic and shirt off, they finally saw the second wound, a little slit in the middle of the man's shoulder blade. Splintered wood and steel poked out, and there was a visible lump under the skin beside it.
"Arrow," Gwendel said, "probably stuck in the shoulder blade and shattered when he fell. I'll have to get the pieces out. Keep him up on his side." Gwendel wasn't educated like a maester, but she had learned of herbs and sewing wounds from her mother and grandmother. She mostly birthed calves and sewed cuts, but when she wasn't around people said she'd followed the Targaryen host against the rebellion some twenty years before and had seen and treated wounds that would make any grown man faint to see.
Gwendel dug out the pieces she could find, but cursed at one stuck in the bone. She pulled at it with her fingers and a set of little steel tongs, but only yielded more frustration and moans from the man. "That'un'll have to stay," she said, and packed the hole with an oily paste she dug from a jar in her bag. She bandaged the shoulder and they took off his pants and checked for more wounds. Gwendel smeared more paste into the head wound and sewed it shut. A little more paste went on a cut on the man's knee, probably from the fall from his horse, and told them to dry him off and wrap him in a blanket in front of the fire. Then she left, telling them to fetch her if there was any change. The others trickled away to bed, but Dabed watched the man some time longer. The Lannister slept fitfully, with his face screwed up in pain or hatred. He shivered and didn't seem to know where he was.
Dabed had thought of himself as happy, with his horses and his view and a full belly every night. The soldiers who had passed through town before had been as far from him as the stars, but this one lay naked before the fire sweating and shivering. He was human, a weak man on the edge of death, but he fought visibly against the fever, fierce in his fever dreams. To Dabed, the ferocity was other, alien, and he studied the man into the night, looking for the source of the fury.