After they had brushed down the horses and had them watered and fed, Daemon helped Jojen dig a fire pit while Jayson wandered into the forest in search of wood and kindling. Ser Tymon sat leaning against a tree, sharpening his sword and drinking his wine, ignoring Daemon's and Jojen's entreaties for help.
''Three battles in a single day, can you imagine it?'' Ser Tymon regaled them with the tales of Robert Baratheon. Seeing Ser Jojen roll his eyes, Daemon guessed it was not the first time the old knight had told this story. ''Robert was a warrior without equal in the Seven Kingdoms. With his warhammer in hand, no man could stand against him.''
''A great warrior and a traitor.'' Ser Jojen shot back.
''Pahh,'' Ser Tymon snorted. ''How can a man be a traitor with a madman on the Iron Throne.''
Daemon paused in his digging to look at the old knight. ''A madman King Rhaegar deposed.''
''Aye,'' Ser Jojen nodded. ''And still Baratheon did not yield.''
''Deposed him, aye, that much he did.'' Ser Tymon spat to the side and took another sip of the wine. He's drunk. ''By sneaking through the Red Keep and slaying his opponents. The King can say what he likes. There was no honor in it.''
Much and more had been said of King Rhaegar's methods since the end of the rebellion, and Daemon had heard many echo Ser Tymon's words. After he learned of the gruesome murders of Rickard and Brandon Stark, the Crown Prince had raced back to the capital. The nobles and the smallfolk alike thought he meant to raise an army and march against the rebel forces sprouting around the kingdoms, but the Silver Prince had other ideas. With the Kingsguards loyal to him, he snuck through the Red Keep and slew his father's lickspittle lords and toadies, beginning with none other than Lord Varys.
''It is hard to prevent a plot when it is never spoken aloud.'' The Prince was reported to have said right before Ser Oswell Whent slit Lord Varys' throat. By the morning, the Captains of the City watch loyal to King Aerys along with half the Small Council were either dead or in the Black Cells, and the Mad King was shipped off to Dragonstone where he would spend the short remainder of his life.
Some Lords supported Rhaegar's actions wholeheartedly. Even Uncle Ned, never a great admirer of the King, told Daemon that Rhaegar's decision to trigger the Night of the Hidden Draggers was the wisest choice his father had ever made.
Daemon narrowed his eyes at the old knight and meant to tell him as much. ''He had a war to prevent, Ser.''
''A war to prevent, he says,'' Ser Tymon snorted. ''How can you prevent a war when half a dozen battles had already been fought, when thousands of men had already laid down their lives?''
''A war to stop, then.'' Ser Jojen countered.
''Mayhaps, aye. But methinks he'd never have stopped it if Lord Stark wasn't such a craven and Jon Arryn had something other than water running through his veins.'' The old knight cackled.
Daemon jerked, his pick in hand, but Ser Jojen's hand on his arm stopped him. ''Easy, Ser, he's drunk. He don't mean nothing by it.''
''Lord Stark is an honorable man,'' Daemon growled at the knight.
''Aye,'' Ser Tymon's cackles grew louder in the face of Daemon's rage. ''An honorable man. King Rhaegar returns him his sister, despoiled and with a bastard in her belly, and the fool forgets all about getting justice for his father and brother. Sounds like a weak man to me.''
Daemon threw down his pick and stepped out of the pit to face the knight.
''Ser Tymon!'' Ser Jojen barked. ''Take a walk.''
''Are you going to fight me, lad?'' Ser Tymon ignored him and offered Daemon an ugly grin. ''D'you know how many green boys like you I've put into the ground?''
''Ser Tymon!''
''That's all right.'' Daemon waved him off and tore his eyes away from the old knight. ''I'm the one who's leaving.'' He grabbed his sword belt and threw his cloak over his shoulders.
'Tha's right, run away, just like the rest of you northerners.''
Daemon threw one last scorching look over his shoulder but walked on. The sun had begun to set over the tourney grounds in the front of the castle and with his heart pounding in his head, Daemon trudged across the meadow towards the stalls of the merchants and the traders.
There was a Myrish man, selling spyglasses and rugs, a Tyroshi cloth merchant whose fabrics were of colors Daemon had never seen before. Blacksmiths peddled their armor, some of it covered in intricate engravings, shaped in the forms of wild beasts and chased with silver and gold, while others sold armor as plain as Daemon's own. But it was when he noticed an old man with a stack of shields on his stand that Daemon stopped. He'd been forced to throw the shields of his Stark guardsmen into the river – they all sported the direwolf of Winterfell – and needed another for the tourney.
''Something caught your eye, young Ser.'' The owner, a hunched old man with a white beard and deep lines running across his face, spoke up when he saw Daemon looking.
''I am in need of a new shield.'' Daemon approached him.
''Then you've come to the right place. Tommard's my name.'' The old man bobbed his head. ''Shields I have, and plenty of 'em. How much would Your Lordship want to pay?''
''A silver,'' Daemon murmured. ''And I'm not a Lord.''
''No? You certain?'' Tommard eyed him from beneath his brow.
Daemon gave him a hard look.
''For a silver, you can pick through these, Ser, they're lined with iron so they won't splinter as easily as the rest. Do you have a sigil in mind?''
''No, and no time to have one painted either.''
The old man nodded and proceeded to sift through the shields as though they were pieces of parchment, showing off the many sigils he'd created. There was a blood-red sword on a white field, a bouquet of golden roses upon a red field. Spears and lightning bolts, mountain lions and trout, crossed axes, and the glowing sun. But it wasn't until they came upon a shield that bore the painting of a white weirwood tree on a grey field that Daemon bid him halt.
''What is this?''
''A northerner ordered it some moons ago, but never showed up to collect it.'' Tommard ran his hands over the paint.
''I am of the North as well,'' Daemon said as he examined the wood for any cracks or splinters and the iron for rust. He found none. ''I will take it.'' He slung the shield over his back and gave the old man his silver. ''Thank you.''
Tommard bobbed his head. ''Come find me if you need another.''
Daemon nodded, feeling a bit better as if he'd acquired the final piece of his costume. He forgot about Ser Tymon's insults and decided to wander through the camp; the first of the cookfires had begun sprouting and knights and their squires sat around on buckets or their blankets, drinking ale and jesting. He heard all sorts of noises coming from the various tents, laughed when he saw two knights wrestling in the dirt, and passed a group of squires singing a bawdy tune.
''You, Ser. Yes, you, come 'ere, we are in desperate need of assistance.'' A young man called through the flap of a blue tent, the maiden of the Piper's on the banners before the entrance.
''Me?'' Daemon approached, wary. ''How may I help you?''
''Come inside, come.'' The man held the flap open for him. He had a tousled mane of blond hair, a square chin, and a cape hanging from his shoulder, a cape the same color as the tent. Ser Marq Piper, then.
Inside the tent, a pair of knights stood around a table, the light of the candles flickering on their faces as they argued. ''Enough now, '' Ser Marq commanded. ''We need an outsider's ruling, and I've found one.'' He turned to Daemon. ''What's your name?''
''Ser Ryam of White Tree,'' Daemon told him. ''Pleasure to meet you, Sers.''
''And what's this whelp supposed to do?'' asked one of the men, a tall muscular knight with stern features.
''He will give the ruling and we will all promise to abide by it, agreed?''
The two knights exchanged looks and murmured their assent, though neither seemed happy about it.
''Now, then, Ser Ryam, was it? Have you ever played dice? Excellent! Tell us, then, good Ser, if the dice should fall off the table, does the throw still count? Ser Lyman here seems to think it does.'' He gestured to the knight who had spoken.
''No, of course not.'' That had been the rule among the guardsmen at Winterfell.
''Careful now, lad,'' Ser Lyman growled. ''I've challenged men to duels for such lies before.''
Daemon peered at him. ''And that has helped you keep the dice on the table?''
The men went silent.
''Bold this one, isn't he?'' Ser Lyam looked around. Then he barked, ''I like it.'' and the men erupted in laughter. ''All righ', all righ', here's your bloody gold, won't no one ever call me a cheat.'' He slammed a pair of golden dragons on the table so hard a cup of wine spilled.
''If that is all, I will leave you to it.'' Daemon nodded and made to leave.
''What? No, no, have a drink with us.'' Ser Marq grabbed him by the arm and pushed a cup of wine into his hands. ''I am Ser Marq Piper, Ser Lyman's my cousin, and this here is Ser Harmon Rivers.''
''Well met.'' Daemon nodded as he took a sip of the sweet wine and felt it warm up his insides.
''Looking to enter the lists?'' Ser Harmon spoke up as he collected his gold. He had a cropped head of brown hair, ugly boils that peppered his face, and beady eyes. The hilt of a greatsword peeked over his shoulder, his brigandine studded with iron tips.
''For a certain.'' Daemon nodded. The Tourney offered him a chance at freedom, though he did not know how good that chance was. In Winterfell, he was far and away the best sword and rider, and Ser Rodrik often praised his talent with the sword and lance. But he did not know how he would fare against these southern knights; their tales of battle and glory seemed twice as grand as those of the northern warriors and Daemon assumed at least some of them must be true. Uncle Ned, as it happens, never appreciated the sentiment.
''Strenght to your arm, then.'' Ser Harmon gave him a firm nod.
Ser Marq disregarded their conversation entirely and chose to launch them on a tale of large bosoms and shapely behinds, both of which he'd glimpsed the last time he visited a brothel. Daemon thought his language disrespectful and coarse as he finished his first cup, but by the end of the third, he was laughing along with the rest of them.
The stories told about the maiden daughters of their fellow bannermen made him wonder if he hadn't misjudged the daughters of northern Lords when they visited Winterfell, and he tucked away a few of the tricks Ser Marq used to drive Lord Bracken's second daughter Barbrey wild.
They made him blush when they asked about his own exploits in the brothel and guffawed when Daemon admitted he'd never visited. ''The soul of chivalry and honor, this one.'' Ser Lyman had laughed and clapped him on the back so hard Daemon staggered into the table. ''You should go before it's too late. Your wife won't appreciate a fumbling boy, lad.''
I'll never have a wife, Daemon repeated that old promise but nodded amiably for the knight's convenience.
It was some hours later that he staggered out of the tent half-drunk and tried to find his way back to the forest. A number of times his feet carried him west when he should've gone north and, surrounded by tents on all sides, he peered at the stars, one eye closed so he might see better until he found the Ice Dragon and regained his bearings.
It was after he'd puked his guts out into one of the buckets that laid abandoned by a cook-fire and made a quick getaway that he stumbled onto a conversation from one of the tents. Daemon wanted to quench his thirst in a barrel of water, but the voices from inside drew his ear.
''… not only the Prince is coming, but now I've received word Ser Edmure's coming as well!'' He heard a thick, hoarse whisper, its owner clearly trying to contain his panic.
''You blind fool,'' The other man said. This one's voice was smooth and elegant, so calm it set Daemon's teeth on edge. ''Can't you see, but this is perfect!'' The voice hissed. ''We can use Ser Edmure, stupid as he is. The King hasn't trusted him since the Princess broke their betrothal and with the Prince to witness it, the traitors will end up helping us in our task!''
Prince? Daemon wondered, half-panicked. What Prince? And what traitors are they talking about?
There was a beat of silence from the tent. Then the first man spoke up hesitantly, ''And what of Lord Karyl?''
''Lord Karyl will fall in the same swoop, don't you worry. This is a great stroke of luck that fell into our lap and I for one don't intend to waste it.'' A sound of footsteps followed that declaration and Daemon heard the flap of the tent pulled to the side. For reasons he could not divine, he crouched behind the barrel of water and kept in place until the man disappeared into the darkness. And then, gently – slowly – he crept away, moving among the tents. When he reasoned he'd gone far enough, he took off and returned to the forest as quickly as his legs could carry him.
Next morning he woke up with a pitiful groan, his mouth as dry as the sands of Dorne, and the taste of acid hovering at the back of his throat. Ser Tymon met this sight with a boisterous laugh. ''There goes the drinking hero.'' He grinned down at Daemon. ''Here, have some of this.''
Daemon snatched the skin of water and, propping himself up to lean against a tree, he swallowed down huge gulps of the liquid. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic and though the world still seemed a bit wobbly, he felt much better.
''Better?'' Ser Tymon asked.
''Better.'' Daemon nodded and took another sip to make sure.
Ser Tymon crouched next to him and said in a quiet voice, ''Listen, lad, what I said yesterday…''
''It's fine.'' Daemon waved him off. ''No harm done.''
Ser Tymon watched him for a few beats to make sure, then gave a nod and stood back up. ''You drink the rest of it. I'll go get us some bacon to put on the fire.''
Ser Jojen came out of the woods with Jayson in tow a few minutes later, a stack of kindling in his arms, while Jayson carried the wood. ''Did he apologize?'' Ser Jojen asked as he laid out the firewood at the bottom of the pit.
''Aye.'' Daemon nodded.
''Good, that's good.'' He took Jayson's firewood and stacked it up. ''His mouth gets away from him sometimes when he's drunk.''
''He does it a lot.'' Jayson bobbed his head knowingly. ''He doesn't normally apologize though.'' A bright grin suddenly illuminated his face. ''You must've scared him when you gave him that look.''
Daemon huffed. ''I doubt it.'' He said, though he didn't know which look Jayson was referring to.
''His brother was with Lord Blackwood at the Stoney Sept.'' Ser Jojen moved to explain. ''Tymon calls him an idiot when he's sober, but when he starts drinking…''
Daemon nodded in understanding and Ser Jojen, confident that Daemon understood, piled the kindling at the bottom of the pit and started a fire. Ser Tymon returned a little later with the food and they watched strips of bacon sizzle at the bottom of the pot until they became hard and crisp. They had ten, thick pieces each and some bread to go along. The greasy pork helped settle Daemon's stomach.
He felt halfway human by the time he finished, though he stank of sweat accumulated over the previous nights, and his hair had turned into a matted mess. The river flowing some two hundred yards away lent itself nicely to his problem. ''I'm going for a swim,'' he told his new friends.
''A swim? But the Red Fork must be freezing right now!'' Ser Jojen exclaimed.
Daemon shrugged. ''A hot-spring compared to the rivers in the North, I'm sure.'' He and Robb had been swimming in them since they were children.
Ser Jojen took this into consideration and nodded. ''Better you than me. When you come back, we'll go to enter our names into the lists together.''
Daemon left all his clothes but his tunic and his breeches behind and undressed on the riverbank. Wayfarer's Rest loomed above him to the south; the cliff it stood upon jutted out of the landscape like a tooth, but to each side of it the ground slowly leveled off.
The water made his muscles clench up when he first waded into it, but with deep breaths, Daemon forced himself to relax and wade into it until it reached up to his neck. The current seemed gentle enough, but he'd heard many tales of treacherous rivers, so he kept close to the shore, his feet firmly on the ground. The temperature of the water sent his blood racing through his veins and dispersed the worst of the fog that hung over his mind. What better day to get drunk for the first time, he chided himself. What was I thinking? Perhaps it would be wiser to avoid entering the lists; surely he couldn't hope to compete in such a state? But he needed the ransoms and some might name him craven if he tried to avoid it.
Mussing up his hair, Daemon walked out of the water and sat down on the smooth, round pebbles the littered the riverbank. He lounged under the sun, waiting to dry off and hoping his queasiness might disappear.
The nervousness that sat in the pit of his stomach like a stone did not help. Those voices last night said the Prince was coming, he thought. They also spoke about using traitors and Ser Edmure, but Daemon's memory was shrouded in a mist, and he couldn't rightly recall what he'd heard. One man said they'd take care of Lord Karyl, but what did that mean?
And what were the odds that the Prince might recognize him? Had anyone even taken note of his disappearance? The Starks will think me dead, he realized with a start and cursed himself for his selfishness. It never even occurred to him to leave some sort of message, something to allay their fears.
Not that he could do anything about it now. The Maester of Wayfarer's Rest might allow him to send a raven to Winterfell if he identified himself, but that would destroy his hopes of maintaining the ruse. With a tired sigh, Daemon got up and got dressed. I chose my path, now I have to live with it.
''There you are.'' Ser Jojen nodded when Daemon returned, his brown cloak thrown over his shoulders. ''Here, take your shield and let us go.''
The camp had woken up from its night stupor. Squires ran about, fetching breakfast for their masters, scrubbing their chainmail in barrels of sand or brushing down their mounts. The people who'd come to witness the tourney trickled towards the lists, taking their places behind the wooden fences. They found the Master of the Games, a thin, weaselly-looking fellow, beneath the viewing box constructed for the nobles, with a sheet of parchment on a small table in front of him and a quill at the ready.
''Ser Jojen Smallwood,'' Ser Jojen told him, pulling his yellow shield from his back to showcase his sigil. ''Here to enter the Tourney.''
The Master of the Games gave the shield a glance, nodded, and jotted down the name.
''And Ser Ryam of White Tree,'' Daemon repeated Ser Jojen's actions.
''Ser Ryam?'' The Master gave a frown. ''Can't say I've ever heard of—''
''No need.'' Ser Jojen interrupted him. ''I vouch for him.''
The man didn't seem to appreciate it; he narrowed his eyes at the two of them, then looked back to where a knight dressed in all black stood in the box. ''Ser Robin,'' he called.
''Yes, Boros, what is it?'' The knight replied in a bored air, though his voice sounded eerily familiar to Daemon. He had black hair and sharp features, perfectly suited for looking down his nose at people, helped all the more by his formidable height. Daemon wagered Ser Robin to be four heads taller than him.
''This lad here claims to be a knight.'' The Master of the Games nodded in Daemon's direction.
The knight eyed him up and down and his lips twisted in displeasure. ''Be gone with you fool, we've no need of your rabble here.''
This is him. This is the man from last night.
Ser Jojen stepped in front of Daemon then. ''This man is Ser Ryam of White Tree and, as I've already said, I vouch for him.''
''I have little care for the assurances of some pup.''
''I'm sure my father, Lord Smallwood, would like to hear about that. Now enter my friend into the lists, Ser Robin, or you'll have some explaining to do.''
Daemon saw Ser Robin's hand twitch for his sword, but then he gave a smile that was all teeth. ''Enter the boy, Boros, maybe seeing him fly from the saddle will amuse our Lady.'' With a flap of his cloak, he left.
The Master of Games didn't appreciate it, but jerked his head in a grudging approximation of a nod, and wrote down Daemon's made-up name.
''Why did you do that?'' Daemon asked him as they walked away. ''You don't owe me anything.''
Ser Jojen shrugged, a bright smile on his face as he exchanged nods with the knights they passed, every one of them familiar to him. ''You're right, of course. But I have a great feeling about you and I always trust my feelings,'' he said with a hesitant smile that reminded Daemon of Bran. ''And it'd be a shame if you were excluded from the tourney before I found out why.''
''Well, I can't speak for your feelings, but thank you, Ser.''
''Quite alright,'' Ser Jojen waved him off as they trekked back to the forest. ''The Prince Jaehaerys arrived in the night, did you hear? And Ser Edmure Tully as well.'' The young knight had a look of giddy excitement on his face, though he did his best to restrain it.
''Does the Prince mean to compete?'' He asked Jojen.
''So they say. He's a formidable warrior in his own right. He overthrew the Red Viper of Dorne, the Sword of the Morning, and Ser Barristan Selmy at the last Tourney before falling to the Knight of Flowers.'' Ser Jojen grimaced at that. ''Of course, he's always been in the shadow of his older brothers.''
Daemon could understand that. Queen Rhaella had borne King Aerys five children; King Rhaegar was the first, Prince Daeron came second and Prince Jaehaerys third. The Queen had a number of miscarriages between their births, so nearly fifteen years separated the birth of Rhaegar and Jaehaerys, five more before Prince Viserys came shrieking into the world, and another six before the birth of Princess Daenerys.
King Rhaegar had always been the favorite of the smallfolk as the Crown Prince, Prince Daeron the bold knight who'd earned the epithet 'the Dashing' during the waning days of King Aerys' reign, while Prince Jaehaerys had been little more than a boy. That is why the masses often forgot all about him, though he was Lord of the rebuilt Summerhall and the hero of Pyke.
Jayson and Ser Tymon waited for them as they returned to their camp and they went about putting on their armor together, double-checking the straps on the breastplates, the shoulder guards and the vambraces. Jayson helped where he could and when they were finished, Daemon stood clad in steel from neck to knees, holding his helm beneath his arm as he led Dawn towards the tourney grounds.
All the competitors, some forty by Daemon's estimate, gathered at one end of the lists and together, two by two, they marched down the field past the viewing box to greet the Lord and his noble family. Lord Karyl sat in the place of honor wearing a simple black doublet. His brown hair fell to his shoulders, a thick mustache above his upper lip, but a slight frown marred his face as he watched them pass.
His stepmother, the Lady Marianne, was a tall woman, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, wearing a deep green gown, but to Daemon she seemed held back, dismissive of the knights, throwing looks Karyl's way full of thinly-veiled derision. Daemon tried to get a good look at her children, the two girls and the young boy who sat beside her, but he'd marched past them by that point.
At the end of the lists, the knights gave the reins of their horses to the stable-boys in Lord Vance's service and arranged themselves in a crescent line, where they would wait until their turn was called.
The smallfolk in the audience swelled in numbers and their cheering sent spikes of pain through Daemon's head. Sweat poured down his face in spite of the relatively cool spring morning. With queasy eyes, he watched Lord Vance stand from his seat and give the command to begin the tourney.
''Welcome, welcome, to the tourney in honor of our Lady Sabatha's nameday.'' The herald called, dressed in the livery of House Vance. The smallfolk cheered the young lady who blushed in her place. ''Our first two competitors for the day are Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, Lord of Summerhall and Ser Ryam of White Tree.''
Daemon felt bile rise up his throat and swallowed heavily to keep it down. His heartbeat sped up, his hands became clammy, and his wooden fingers couldn't grab the straps of his helm for the life of him. With a deep breath, conscious of the hundreds of pairs of eyes on him, he pulled the helm down on his head and mounted Dawn when the stableboy brought it forth. I'm jousting against the Prince! And my head's still spinning! If Daemon lost the fight, his dreams of vagabond-knighthood would come to a swift end.
He glanced at Prince Jaehaerys, clad in midnight armor with a silver dragon on his breastplate, his helm fashioned in the shape of a dragon's head. Taking a deep breath, he rode to the other end of the lists where a young boy met handed him a lance. Having something to hold helped keep his hands from shaking.
Dawn beneath him was restless and agitated; Daemon patted its neck and whispered soothing words until it calmed down. Then, with a final look at the speculative gazes aimed his way, he slammed down his visor and waited for the herald's call. Three trumpets sounded and on the other side of the field, Prince Jaehaerys sprang into motion. Daemon dug his spurs into the horse's flank and Dawn advanced. They built speed slowly – Daemon allowed Dawn to speed up in rhythm – as he lowered his lance and placed it in the cradle.
The graphite fist that tipped his lance aimed directly at Prince Jaehaerys' heart. Daemon felt weak and soft, though he flew down the field, taking gasping breaths, choking behind the visor. He closed his eyes for a moment in an attempt to stop the world from spinning and opened them at the last second; the point of his lance struck Prince Jaehaerys in the shoulder but the Prince's own hit his breastplate clean.
Daemon's saddle slipped beneath and the dirt ground rushed up.