He buried the guards on the banks of the river. The ground was hard and dry since the Riverlands hadn't seen any rain in a moon, but he could smell a storm on the wind, so Daemon worked through the evening, choking on the rising dust until he created a pit, six feet wide and six feet deep.
The corpses of Stark men laid about the small forest trail, the bandits mixed in among them. Daemon stripped the Stark guards of their armor and their swords, and piled the equipment between two fir-trees, then dragged their bodies and laid them into the pit. The bodies of the ragged outlaws he left lying where they fell.
The murmuring of the river sounded in his ears as he filled the pit and when he was finished, he staggered down the riverbank, falling to his knees before he dunked his face in the water, the red dust of the rich soil dispersing like a cloud downstream.
He sat back on his haunches, the cold water dripping down his face, and stared into the distance. Storm clouds were brewing on the horizon and the first flashes of lightning crackled across the sky. It'll be a long night, Daemon thought. Best I get moving.
He picked up a couple of stones and piled them atop the pit to mark the grave, then stood up straight and put his hands behind his back. ''I'm sorry you're dead, sers.'' He said and swallowed. ''I shouldn't have insisted we take the long way. I should've let you take me down the Kingsroad.'' They might've been in King's Landing by now if Daemon hadn't insisted on avoiding his royal father for as long as possible.
''Ser Ronnel, you first taught me how to fletch arrows. And Ser Daryn, thank you for that trick with a dagger. I already beat Robb with it once.'' He hadn't known the other two that well. ''The Old Gods keep you.''
They'd been good men, all of them. ''We'll get him to King's Landing, m'lord, nothing but death can stop us.'' they had told Uncle Ned before they departed Winterfell. Well, a dozen bandits and an ambush in the forest proved the truth of their words. They'd fought well; each took at least two men into the grave with him, but in the end Daemon was the only one left standing while Ser Ronnel gasped his last breaths, holding onto his guts though they insisted on spilling out of his body.
Daemon approached the horses he'd tied to the trunk of an old oak. He had two horses to pick from now, and a mule that carried their supplies. Ser Ronnel's blood-red palfrey had bolted in the chaos along with the gold Uncle Ned had given them for the journey. That left Daemon's black palfrey, Honor, and a white destrier Ser Daryn called Dawn. I could use him for Tourneys and battle, Daemon thought. It was certainly big enough and Ser Daryn often mentioned its speed and strength.
The armor was another issue. He couldn't use his own. His black breastplate was engraved with the heads of dragons and wolves, the helm shaped in the form of a snarling direwolf's head. Even his sword was too fine a blade for the hedge knight he meant to become: a longsword polished to perfection, the grip inlaid with silver and a cross-guard made of dragon heads.
He bent down to pilfer through the pile of equipment and pieced together a set from the armor of the guards instead. Ser Ronnel was about his size, so he took his plain, soot-grey chest plate, his visored barbute helm, the skirt of lobstered steel, but kept his own chainmail, shin-guards and his black surcoat. Ser Ronnel preferred a greatsword, so he had to take Ser Daryn's weapon, a longsword, no wider than half his palm at the cross-guard. Daemon took a couple of experimental swings. Mikken's work.
He loaded the armor of his choice onto the mule and put his new sword in the scabbard. The rest of the armor he threw in the river because it would attract too much notice if he was seen trying to sell it.
The purses of silver he saved for last. He didn't have his own, since Uncle Ned didn't expect he'd need it, and the other three had painfully little coins to share between them: some three silvers and twenty jots. Enough to keep me fed for a week, but no more.
He could get on the horse, ride to King's Landing, meet his father for the first time and the entire Dragon family. He could do it. And then what? He'd spend the rest of his life in that bloody castle as the King's bastard, fighting off suspicions of treachery because his mother named him 'Daemon' with her dying breath.
Or he could get on that same horse and ride wherever he damn well pleased. When people thought of the dragons, they imagined silver hair, purple eyes, and beauty to inspire a song. Daemon had dirt-brown hair and purple eyes so dark they looked black to all but those who knew what to look for. People told him he'd inherited his sire's sharp features, but even that was a blessing. If he resembled Ned Stark too much, some might notice and start connecting the dots. No, Daemon thought he'd inherited just enough from each side of his family to ensure he resembled neither.
Yes, it could work, he nodded to himself. And there was a tourney over at Wayfarer's Rest.
He'd been riding for a couple of days when he came upon the light of a campfire in the forest. The rain had been falling steadily the entire time and it turned the roads to mud. His clothes were soaked all the way through, his tunic sticking to his skin, and he tried to keep from shivering as he navigated the roots and the puddles to keep Honor from stumbling. He dismounted some twenty paces from the fire and approached on foot, hands in the air.
The smell of a crackling rabbit met him on the wind as he came closer. ''Ho, there,'' he called out as he stepped into a small clearing, his hands in the air. ''I am a lone traveler and I was wondering if I might share your fire.''
A man stood up at his approach, no more than a year or two older than Daemon, a young boy by his side. His hand went to the hilt of his sword only to relax when he saw the palms of Daemon's hands. The fire burned between them and in the flickering light Daemon saw the soggy blond hair, his black cloak fastened at the shoulder by a silver broach, and a yellow surcoat hung over his chainmail, with brown acorns arranged on it. The young lad beside him wore a plain brown doublet and a black cloak, his long brown hair glued to the sides of his face. Across the fire from them, an older man sat, a grizzled knight by the look of it. His eyes were shrouded in darkness, but the man seemed short and barrel-chested, with shaggy brown hair and a thick beard.
''By all means, join us, friend.'' The young man gave him a nod. His nose seemed to have been broken a number of times and his thin eyebrows lent a certain sharpness to his gaze. ''We've got some rabbit meat and bread if you'd like it.''
''Much obliged.'' Daemon nodded. He moved back and pulled a skin of wine off the mule. ''Some wine?''
''That would be lovely.'' The man gave a nod and sat back down. They'd each built a shabby lean-to for themselves with what looked like their horse-blankets to spare them the worst of the rain.
''My name is Ser Ryam of White Tree,'' Daemon told him as he approached. He'd come up with the name in advance. ''Might I have yours?'' He handed the man his skin of wine then returned for a blanket of his own so he might create his own lean-to.
''Ser Jojen Smallwood, at your service.'' The young knight bowed his head. ''And this is my squire, Jayson.''
''Pleasure to meet you both.'' Ryam nodded and looked to the older man expectantly.
''Ser Tymon of the Laughing Ridge.'' The knight grunted and took a swig of Daemon's wine when Ser Jojen handed it over.
''A pleasure to meet you, Ser.''
Daemon unfolded a blanket, took a pair of pegs they normally used for tents, and drove them into the earth by the tree next to Jojen. He secured the blanket by the ground, then secured it on the trunk by slamming his dagger through it into the bark of the tree. With that done, he returned to his horses and his mule, pulled down the saddle from Honor, unloaded his mule, and hobbled them both. With that done, he sat down on the roots and faced Ser Jojen and his squire. ''Smallwood, you said?'' He held his hands to the fire and his eyes lingered on the rabbit. ''You wouldn't happen to be related to Lord Theomar Smallwood, would you?''
The young knight gave a faint smile. ''He is my father. Jayson here is my cousin on my mother's side.''
''And you?'' The young lad asked. His hair was brown and he lacked a chin like many young lads do when they grow too much in too short a span of time. ''Where you from?''
''Watch your tongue, brat.'' Jojen gave the boy a good-nature cuff around the ears. ''This is a knight you're speaking to.'' He faced Daemon with a sheepish smile. ''Forgive the boy, I don't beat him as much as I should.''
''That's quite alright. And I come from White Harbor.'' Daemon replied with an indulgent smile and took back the skin of wine when Ser Jojen offered it. The bitter liquid splashed over his tongue and warmed him up a bit.
''A Northman? What brings you down south?'' Ser Tymon seemed puzzled.
''My father was landed knight sworn to Lord Manderly, but he died recently and after my older brother inherited, I figured it was time for me to move on.'' Daemon was quite proud of the story he concocted; most southerners didn't have a good grasp of northern affairs and weren't liable to gainsay him.
''Aye, I can understand that.'' Ser Jojen nodded in sympathy. ''Myself I am only the third son of Lord Smallwood. That's why me and Jayson here snuck off. We're going to the tourney at Wayfarer's Rest, see.''
''Truly?''
''Yes, I mean to be a champion there.''
Ser Tymon snorted. ''You and every other pimply lad within fifty leagues.''
Ser Jojen shot him a nasty look. ''And what tourneys have you won, good Ser?''
''Few enough.'' The knight conceded and prodded the fire with a stick. ''But I've won my fair share of ransoms, aye, that I have.''
''I'm going that way myself.'' Daemon butted in. ''Mayhaps we should share the journey. The roads aren't as safe as they used to be.''
The young knight and his squire exchanged a look. ''We'd be happy to share the road with you, Ser Ryam.''
''They say there's going to be rich prizes for the winners, you know.'' The boy Jayson gushed, squatting by the fire as Ser Jojen carved a strip of flesh from the rabbit. ''Lady Vance's eldest daughter has come of age, so she's promised to give a hundred gold pieces to the winner and fifty to the man who comes in second.''
''Aye, might be the winner gets her maidenhead as the prize as well, to hear folks tell it.'' Ser Tymon gave a toothy grin in the dark.
''Truly?'' A hundred gold pieces would put his worries about gold behind him for a year, though winning a ransom or two would be enough. ''The Riverlands will descend on the castle, then?''
''Undoubtedly,'' Ser Jojen grimaced. He reached into a bag by his side and pulled out three loaves of bread, handing one to Ryam and the other to his cousin. Ser Tymon had some bread of his own.
Daemon reached to his belt and pulled out his dagger, hewed the loaf in half with three strokes, and reached out with the bottom half to let the squire place three strips of meat on it. The grease ran down his chin and dripped onto his surcoat as he took a bite.
''A strange way to find a husband, my father says.'' The boy commented in-between bites.
''Your father likes to gossip too much.'' Ser Jojen said with a grin. ''Though he's not wrong in this case.''
Daemon had to agree. ''Surely a daughter of a House as prominent as House Vance should have suitors aplenty?''
''She should,'' Ser Tymon spoke up. ''But Lady Marianne Vance's a strange woman, vicious and half-mad, some say.''
''And what does Lord Vance say?''
''Lord Karyl Vance's a young man. 'Twas the old man that Lady Marianne was married to. She was his second wife and she bore him two daughters and a son. 'Tis said she won't let Lord Karyl near them.''
''Lady Marianne was born a Blackwood, wasn't she?'' The squire asked.
Ser Tymon paused in his chewing and nodded. ''Aye, that she was.''
That piece of information seemed to hold some significance, though it was entirely lost on Daemon.
''The Blackwoods were at the Stoney Sept with Robert Baratheon when King Rhaegar appeared with the Royal army.'' Ser Jojen explained. ''Lord Blackwood preferred exile rather than bending the knee to the Dragons. Lady Marianne never forgave the Tullys, the Arryns, and the Starks for abandoning him.'' Ser Jojen said the last part in a reluctant voice.
Daemon nodded in understanding and tore off another piece of bread. The tale of how King Rhaegar broke the rebel alliance by returning his mother to the Starks was well-known.
The conversation tapered down after that and the four unlikely companions curled up under their lean-to's and tried to get some rest. Daemon sat with his back leaning against the trunk, the light of the fire flickering in his eyes as he stared into the dark forest for a long time after the other three had gone quiet.
He didn't rightly recall when sleep took him, but he was woken by a gentle nudge of the foot. He blinked and looked up to find Ser Tymon staring down at him. ''Wake up. We leave in fifteen minutes, best you get ready.''
The clouds had cleared in the night and though the roads remained bogs of mud, Daemon stared up at the sky to soak in the sunshine and savor the warmth as it seeped down to his bones. The lush greenery of the forest surrounded them on both sides and a pleasant breeze moved through their hair as birds sang and chirped in the distance. The land seemed to be bursting with life; Daemon spotted a pair of deer watching them from the trees, bold as brass, and looked up to find a squirrel scampering over the branches above, tracking their progress.
Ser Tymon kept quiet most of the time as they rode while Ser Jojen nodded along at Jayson's excited babbling.
''… and Ser Marq Piper's coming, they say he overthrew four of the Freys during the last Tourney at Riverrun.'' The boy exclaimed.
''Not much of a feat, if ye ask me.'' Ser Tymon rubbed his chin through the beard.
Daemon snorted and shot the knight a grin.
The squire didn't take well to that. ''Well, he broke six lances against the Knight of Flowers at the tourney in King's Landing!''
''Aye, and landed on his arse on the seventh.'' The knight shifted in his saddle and flicked the reins of his horse. ''Spare me the tales of green knights and their sticks. Ser Arthur Dayne's still the greatest knight in the realm and these boys will fall before him like wheat before a scythe if ever they meet!''
''In a swordfight, perhaps,'' Ser Jojen said in a quiet voice, but they all gave him their full attention, Daemon noted. ''In a joust, Ser Loras is above and beyond the rest of them.''
Ser Tymon made a face and spat to the side.
''Come now, Ser Tymon,'' Daemon spoke up. ''Even in the North, we hear that Ser Loras is Leo Longthorn reborn.''
Ser Tymon pursed his lips and clenched his jaw, then a reluctant smile broke over his face. ''Alrigh', alrigh', the little flower can joust, I'll give him that much.''
The four of them laughed.
''Are any of these champions expected at the Tourney?'' Daemon asked as they came upon a merchant by the side of the road, barking orders at his two boys who were trying to lift the cart so he might reattach the wheel.
''I doubt it,'' Ser Jojen shook his head, eyes on the boys. ''Lord Brynden Blackwood's sure to come, though. Same for Ser Patrek Mallister and other knights of the Riverlands.''
Daemon hummed and they rode on in silence. The journey took them through villages and small towns, full of thatched roofs and cobbled market squares. Vast fields of wheat and barley stretched to both sides of the road, the men at work pausing to watch them pass, shielding their eyes from the sun with their hands. They had to drag Ser Tymon on when he wanted to stop at the first brothel on the way, a painting of a dancing maiden above the door, and let each other know with nothing but the looks in their eyes that their purses would prefer dinner in the forest when they stumbled upon an inn.
On the third day, they arrived at Wayfarer's Rest. Spotting it in the distance, Daemon could admit it made for a formidable sight. The castle stood atop a cliff, the Red Fork flowing some three hundred feet beneath its walls. Shaped like an arrowhead, the curtain walls hugged the edge of the cliff and its main tower stretched high into the sky, providing a commanding view of the lands to the west up to the Golden Tooth.
A sea of colorful tents had sprung up in the field before the castle. The banners of its owners fluttered in the wind and Daemon recognized the pink dancing maiden upon a blue field of the Pipers, the silver eagle of the Mallisters, the red salmon of the Motoons, the plowman of the Darrys, and the white weirwood surrounded by black ravens of House Blackwood. The flower of the Riverlands had come to the tourney.
The cluster of pavilions was split in half by the tourney ground where the carpenters were hard at work erecting palisades and the stands for the commoners and the nobles, and on the other side of the lists, the merchants and tradesmen plied their wares.
''That's more like it,'' Ser Jojen murmured beside him with a slight smile and spurred his horse forward. ''Where shall we set up camp?''
Daemon felt shame rise up in him as he followed. Ser Jojen undoubtedly had a pavilion of his own and meant to join the ranks of noble knights whereas Daemon would have to settle for sleeping under the open skies. ''I think we must part ways here, Sers.'' he told them.
''Why?'' Ser Jojen turned his mount around. ''Where are you going?''
''I don't have a pavilion, Ser.'' Daemon nodded to the tree line in the distance. ''The leaves shall be my tent.''
''They shall be ours as well, Ser.'' Ser Jojen nodded and Jayson grinned beside him. ''We shall make camp together.''
That threw Daemon off. ''But—But surely…''
''There's no shame in sleeping in the hedges, Ser.'' Ser Tymon said, wheeling his horse about. ''All the cunts I've ever met sleep on featherbeds.''
Ser Jojen cracked a grin. ''And I suppose I should've explained myself better. My Lord father wasn't much enthused at the idea of me attending this tourney, so Jayson and I… well, I suppose we ran away.''
''And Ser Tymon?'' Daemon glanced at the old knight.
''Ser Tymon's a knight in my father's service. He decided to come along.'' The look on his face suggested Ser Jojen did not necessarily appreciate the gesture.
''Someone's got to make sure you two get yourself killed.'' The older knight laughed.
Ser Jojen glowered at him. ''We didn't have time to pack a pavilion, so we shall be joining you in the hedges, if you don't mind.''
''Not at all, Ser.'' Daemon nodded, his heart lifted by the prospect of some company.