Daemon stumbled back to their camp, his armor caked in dirt and dust. His hip ached from where he hit the ground and he had to focus on undoing his armor to keep the shame from rising on his face. One tilt, I managed one tilt. He shook his head and pulled on the strap on his shoulder, throwing the blasted piece of metal to the ground.
''Are you going to be alright, Ser?'' Jayson asked him, jumping from one foot to the other.
''I'll be fine.'' Daemon said and exhaled deeply. ''You go on and help Ser Jojen.'' The boy had been kind enough to help Daemon off the field.
''Yes, Ser.'' The boy nodded and made to go. ''You almost had him, Ser. He almost went down, I saw him sway in the saddle.''
Daemon gave a grateful nod and went to work on his breastplate. Slowly taking off one piece of armor after another, he piled it all on the ground by the tree, grabbed a skin of water and drank it until the last drop. I'm never getting drunk again, he vowed, not that it mattered. It had already cost him. The two silvers in his purse wouldn't be enough to ransom back his armor and horse; worse yet, the Prince would know his face so if he ran to the safety of King's Landing, the Prince could tell the Royal family all about how the King's bastard had shamed himself in front of the entire Realm.
He leaned against the tree and slid to the ground. What other option do I have? He could escape, but that would make his humiliation all the worse if his true identity ever got out. Ransoming his horse meant that dreams of a knighthood disappeared, but perhaps he could find service as a man-at-arms for a Lord or the city guard of King's Landing, or better yet, Lannisport?
Bahh, who am I fooling? The Night's Watch presented a much better opportunity. It had been his plan for the longest time. Serving at the Wall was an honorable calling, a place where no one would care whose bastard he was. Even as he left Winterfell, Daemon thought it the best option, only… I wanted to see the world first. He never imagined he'd see so little of it.
Dabbing his eyes, he looked about to see if there were any witnesses and blew out his nose. Right, he sniffled. Let's get it over with. He stood up, draped his cloak about his shoulders and attached his armor to the saddle of Dawn. ''I'm sorry, girl.'' He led her back to the Tourney grounds. ''Looks like you'll be getting a new owner again, but this one will treat you far better than I could, I promise. The Royal stables are a wondrous place, people say.''
Dawn had no answer so the two of them made their way among the tents, careful to keep as much distance from the lists without appearing suspicious; Daemon had little wish to stumble across mocking knights and swaggering squires.
Prince Jaehaerys' tent was hard to miss; made of blood-red silk, with a Targaryen banner flapping off the top, it was by far the biggest tent in the camp. Daemon tied Dawn to the hitching rail out front and approached the two men-at-arms who stood guard in front of the entrance. ''Is Prince Jaehaerys within?'' he asked.
''Who's asking?'' Asked the one to the left, a bearded man wearing a half-helm with a nasal guard.
''Ser Ryam of White Tree. I'm here to deliver my horse and armor.''
The two guards exchanged a look and then the one on the left slipped inside. He returned moments later and led Daemon into the tent.
The interior was one fit for a Prince. A sprawling four-poster bed dominated one side of it, the silk curtains hiding the featherbed mattress. On the other side he found Prince Jaehaerys sitting behind a round table, a silver cup in his hands, a knight next to him. His armor had been reassembled and placed on a stand, scrubbed to a dull shin. A black longbow made of dragonbone black as the night and a quiver of arrows sat on a stand to the left of the table, the Prince's squire sitting behind it, honing his master's longsword.
''Ah, Ser Ryam,'' Prince Jahaerys said and rose. ''Come, come.'' He gestured to a chair.
''Your Grace,'' Daemon bowed and sat down, taking the opportunity to examine his Uncle. Prince Jaehaerys wore a black doublet embroidered with a dragon in silver stitch. Unlike most Targaryens, he kept his hair short and parted in the middle, the silver strands falling down to his brows, much like Aegon the Dragon's had in all his portraits. But where the Conqueror had the strong jaw and the stern expression of a fearsome warrior, Prince Jaehaerys' features were smooth. He had the face upon which anger and hatred would look foreign. With a start, Daemon realized the Prince couldn't be older than four-and-twenty.
''You rode well, Ser Ryam.'' Jaehaerys complimented as he regained his seat with an encouraging smile.
The man to his left snorted. A broad-shoulder brute by the look of him, he wore a sable cloak over a brown tunic, his black hair tied up in a ponytail.
''Come, Silveraxe, don't insult my guest.''
But Silveraxe wasn't so easily dissuaded. ''How old are 'ya, pup?''
That rankled. ''Six-and-ten.'' Daemon bit out.
At this, Prince Jaehaerys raised an eyebrow. ''It's treason to lie to your Prince, you realize this?''
Daemon looked down to hide his blush. ''Four-and-ten.'' He whispered.
That got the two men laughing. ''Your first tourney?'' Jaehaerys inquired as he took a sip of from the cup.
''Yes, Your Grace.''
''A bit young to be an outlaw,'' Silveraxe mused. ''where'd you steal the armor, boy?''
''I didn't steal it.'' Daemon returned hotly. ''I earned my spurs.''
''Where?'' Prince Jaehaerys pressed on.
''In… In the North. I'm from the North, Your Grace. White Harbor.'' Daemon clenched and unclenched his fists, his palms slick with sweat.
Prince Jaehaerys regarded him for a long moment, and Daemon thought about revealing everything, only the opportunity passed and the Prince said, ''As you say.'' Jaehaerys rolled his shoulder where Daemon's lance had struck him. ''Now I imagine you've come here to settle the ransom, yes?''
''Yes, Your Grace, but…''
''Lucas, bring our guest some wine, will you?'' The Prince interrupted him.
''Aye, the lad looks like he needs it,'' Silveraxe grumbled. ''Have you seen a ghost, boy, is that it?''
''No, I'm quite alright.'' Daemon tugged on the collar of his tunic. ''And I'll have to refuse the wine, Your Grace, I fear I've no taste to it.''
''Nonsense.'' Silveraxe waved him off and stood up. ''It'll make you feel better.''
''No, no, I really—'' but then Silveraxe was pushing the cup into his hands and the Prince raised his own. Daemon had no choice but to drink. A whiff of the sweet aroma of the Arbor Gold was all it took. Prince Jaehaerys toasted the glory of the King the same moment as Daemon puked under his table.
The two jumped from their seats and backed up, their expressions mingling fury with nausea.
''Gods, boy,'' Silveraxe exclaimed, ''what's the matter with you? You sick?''
''No,'' Daemon kept his head bowed and wiped his mouth and sleeve of his tunic. ''I'm just…'' His own puke cut him off.
''Hungover. Ha!'' Silveraxe began laughing.
''Your Grace,'' Daemon hiccuped. ''I'm very sorry.''
''That's quite alright.'' Prince Jaehaerys said with a look of distaste. ''Lucas, get a bucket of water, will you?''
''Yes, Your Grace.'' The boy laid the Prince's sword on the stand and ran out of the tent.
All Daemon wanted to do was disappear. Get rid of the horse, get rid of the armor, and find a way to Castle Black. ''Your Grace, I came because I can't afford a ransom. My horse is outside, Dawn's her name, she's a fine horse, and I attached my armor to it. With your leave…'' He rose from his seat and only the courtesies drilled into his head by the Lady Catelyn kept him from bolting out of the tent.
''Calm down, Ser, calm down. You're hardly the first knight to joust after a night of drinking, especially ahead of his first tourney.''
''You might be the first to puke under the table of a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, though.'' Silveraxe supplied.
Lucas returned with the bucket of water and splashed it under the table, dispersing the worst of the smell. The squire looked Daemon's way and shook his head, then ran out to refill the bucket.
''As I recall, I drank on the same day,'' Silveraxe reported with a grin.
Prince Jaehaerys ignored his friend. ''Who is it that got you drunk?''
''Ser Marq Piper and his cousins, Your Grace,'' Daemon said with a frown. He suspected there might be more to the question, but it was not as though he was telling on them for committing some terrible deed.
The Prince and Silveraxe exchanged a look and grinned.
''Your Grace?''
''It is a noble tradition for veteran knights to try and get younger knights drunk before their first tourney. Though I daresay, it rarely works as well as it worked on you.''
Daemon looked down, his face red hot.
''As for your ransom, Ser, I shall have to refuse it. I want to foster nothing but goodwill among my competitors, so you are free to keep your armor and horse.''
''That… That is very chivalrous of you, Your Grace. Thank you.''
The Prince gave a faint nod. ''Away with you, Ser. And try not to drink next time.''
''I won't, Your Grace. I promise I won't,'' Daemon said and walked out of the tent with what little dignity remained to him.
He walked through the camp like a rabbit, chased by the foxes of his shame. He heard sporadic sounds of splintering lances followed by the cheers of the crowd, but Daemon paid them no mind. He returned to the edge of the forest; Ser Jojen and Jayson had still not returned, which had to mean they still waited for Jojen's first tilt. Hopefully, he does better than I. The young knight had shown him more kindness than he deserved.
He tied Dawn against the tree and patted her neck, grateful for some small bit of relief. Then he dug through Honor's saddlebag until he found a couple of pieces of salted beef wrapped in a rag. Sitting down and leaning against the tree, he chewed on the beef, ripping pieces of it with his teeth, and stared off into the forest. The sun trekked across the sky and he might've fallen asleep a couple of times. Jayson returned to their camp as dusk began to fall over the grounds.
''How did Ser Jojen fare?'' Daemon asked as the boy approached. By his breathless grin and ecstatic manner, he divined the answer.
''He won his first tilt, Ser, against Ser Ryam Frey. And then he had the second one almost immediately against Ser Marq Piper and won that, too. You should've seen it, Ser, he was marvelous.''
Aye, I should have, Daemon berated himself. He should've gone to cheer on the young knight rather than sitting under a tree, waiting for his head to recover from the night before. ''What will happen now?''
''The knights who've competed have been invited to a feast at the castle. Ser Jojen sent me to come and get you.''
The boy was itching to be off, but Daemon followed with some reluctance. The Great Hall of Wayfarer's Rest would undoubtedly offer opportunities to worsen his humiliation, but it would also offer a hot meal. At that reminder, Daemon resigned himself and followed the boy. Daemon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, could think about his reputation. Ser Ryam of White Tree had to accept a warm meal where he could find it.
Their path took them through the castle gates and into the outer courtyard where four tables had been prepared for the squires' feast. Jayson led him on, through the gates of the main tower and into the great hall. It was half as big as that of Winterfell; the knights and the Lords that had come for the tourney crowded the benches. The most important guests took the dais at the end of the hall, with Prince Jaehaerys taking the seat to Lord Karyl's right and Ser Edmure taking his left. The banners of House Vance hung from the rafters, a quartered coat of arms depicting two black dragons on a white field and two golden eyes in a golden ring on a black field.
Jayson paused at the entrance and his eyes sought out Ser Jojen among the canopy of heads until he pointed to the left and led Daemon to his place.
''Ah, Ser Ryam!'' Ser Jojen stood up, a breathless smile on his face. ''Good of you to join us. We were just talking about you.''
''Sers.'' Daemon nodded his head to the knights who sat in Jojen's immediate vicinity and immediately recognized Ser Marq, his cousin Ser Harmon and Ser Lyman, the men who'd gotten him drunk the night before.
''Ser Ryam.'' Ser Marq stood up to shake his hand. ''I'd like to apologize for our actions the night before. It's an old tradition, I hope there are no hard feelings between us.''
''It's quite alright.'' Daemon took a seat next to Jojen when the young knight slid to the side to make some room for him. ''It's my fault I fell for it.''
Ser Marq nodded and sat down.
''You made a good showing, still,'' Ser Lyman encouraged with his gruff voice. ''Prince Jaehaerys has been complaining about his shoulder hurting from the blow you struck him.''
''Aye,'' Ser Harmon echoed him. ''and how many men can say that?''
Daemon huffed. They were trying to make him feel better for his loss, and perhaps themselves for the role they played in it. He appreciated it all the same. ''I thank you for your kind words.'' Daemon looked about the hall. ''Any other notable matches today?''
''Ser Robin, that's the Vance's Captain of Guards, he overthrew three men today, Ser Patrek Mallister among them.'' Ser Lyman told him.
''And hasn't stopped bragging since he got off his horse.'' Ser Harmon added, his mouth twisting in displeasure. ''A bigger cunt you're unlikely to ever meet.''
Ser Jojen snorted. ''Do I smell a bit of a history there?''
''The man's a traitor. They say he was with Blackwood at the Stoney Sept but snuck out of town when the Royal army approached rather than face them.''
The rebellion again, Daemon noted. It seemed to be all anyone could talk about in the south, though fourteen years had passed.
''Why'd Lady Marianne take him in her service then?'' Ser Jojen frowned at the new piece of information.
''Traitors flock together, always have.'' Ser Harmon shrugged.
Daemon cast his eyes across the hall in search of Lady Marianne and her Captain. He found her at the edge of the dais, ignored and forgotten, wearing a silver dress. She pursed her lips in a thin line and seemed to twitch every time laughter came down the dais to her, Lord Karyl laughing at another one of Ser Edmure's jokes.
''And what about Ser Edmure? How did he fare?'' Daemon asked absent-mindedly as his eyes fell on Lady Stark's younger brother. He had Robb's auburn hair and the same sharp jaw-line, but Daemon thought his smiles came too easily, and that cup of wine in his hands needed to be refilled far too often. Lady Stark had a quality about her, something that whispered of a steel resolve that is not to be tested. By comparison, Ser Edmure seemed like a lout and a fool. That Prince Jaehaerys sat next to him with a stony expression and refused to partakes in the back-and-forth between Lord Karyl and Ser Edmure told Daemon everything he had to know.
''Silveraxe Fell threw him on his first tilt.'' Ser Marq replied to Daemon's question with a hint of hesitation. ''Ser Edmure was never one for jousting.''
The feast began in earnest after that. The servants brought out a roasted boar with an apple in its mouth for the dais. The guests of honor would gorge themselves on a pheasant swimming in buttery gravy, sweet melons from the Reach, and the finest Arbor Gold to wash it all down.
Below the dais, the servants laid out fried chickens, cooked ham, ripe cheese, and flagons of ale. They brought out smoking loaves of bread, straight from the oven, and bowls of cooked potatoes. In Winterfell, Uncle Ned would lay out such a feast only on Harvest Days, but here in the south, such fare seemed ordinary and casual. With a happy sigh, Daemon dug in and ate the food that was offered with gusto.
''Ah.'' Ser Lyam muttered with a grin in-between bites. ''You can always depend on the Vances to feed you well.''
Daemon hummed in agreement along with the rest of them and swallowed down another bite of the chicken. It had been a week since he'd had such a full meal and nearly a moon since he'd eaten so well.
''Do you know who you'll be jousting against tomorrow?'' Daemon asked Jojen after he'd had his fill.
''Prince Jaehaerys.'' Ser Jojen replied with a brittle grin. ''There's only five of us left, today's jousting went by quicker than most expected.''
Daemon went over the numbers. Of course. Three matches, and half the competitors were eliminated with each one. ''Who's the fifth lance?'' He asked. In such tourneys, when the number of competitors boiled down to an uneven number, the fourth and the fifth lances had to joust for their place in the semi-finals, their places determined by the Master of the Games based on their performance.
''Silveraxe Fell. He'll be jousting against Ser Brynden Blackwood and the winner will go against Ser Robin in the semi-finals.'' The young knight tapped his fingers on the table. ''You've jousted against the Prince – any advice you might share?''
Daemon munched on some bread to buy himself the time to think. ''His technique is perfect. And he sits a horse well.''
Ser Jojen nodded; he knew these things already.
''But there's no trickery to it. He'll go through a man before he dances around him.''
''What do you mean?''
Daemon shrugged. ''You're going to have to take a risk. It's the only way.'' He might've done the same if he stayed on his horse long enough to heed his own observations. Four victories and I might've been in the final.
Ser Jojen bobbed his head with a thoughtful look on his face. ''I'll think about it, thank you.''
Daemon wanted to say some more words of encouragement, but he spotted Ser Robin make his way up to the dais and whisper some words to Lady Marianne. She gave a firm nod, got up, and the two of them left through the door to the side of the hall together.
It must be something to do with his plans, Daemon thought, and every muscle in his body clenched. I should go after them, but then again that could be dangerous. He huffed. Bastard or not, Daemon was raised by Ned Stark, and duty was not something that was taken lightly by the Lord of Winterfell. Though he did not know the exact nature of their plan, it had to involve harming Ser Edmure and the Royal Family – his family.
''I'll be right back.'' He told his companions. Daemon made his way down the table and approached the door. Conscious of the risk, he stepped through, hoping he did not attract too much attention, and emerged in a dark and dank hallway, lit only by the torches that lined the walls.
Daemon crept forward on the balls of his feet, ears pricked for any sounds of conversation. They probably went to her private quarters. Still, he moved forward some twenty feet where he was presented with a choice: left or right.
Old Gods guide me, he prayed and went right. It stood to reason they'd want to move further away from the entrance. With every step he remained on-guard; if a sentry or anyone else should catch him, he had to appear casual, lost. The torches lighted the way for him, the lights flickering over the tapestries that lined the walls. Daemon made two more turns, guessing the way every time, until he came across a pair of voices.
''…will it happen?''
''Tomorrow.'' The second voice belonged to Ser Robin.
''Ser Brynden's agreed to his part?'' Lady Marianne asked in a cool voice.
Daemon crept closer to the door. I've forgotten they mentioned Ser Brynden last night.
''Happily,'' Ser Robin replied. ''he will inform the Prince of their treason during the feast after the final.''
''And you are certain the Prince will believe him?''
''Why would he not? Who's to gainsay Ser Brynden?''
Daemon leaned against the wall and tried to piece together the puzzles as quickly as Ser Robin supplied them. Caught up in his thinking, he failed to notice that the following silence lasted a number of seconds. Before he knew it, the latch on the door descended, and with a creak, the door opened. Thinking quickly, Daemon threw himself at the door, then staggered back with a howl.
He heard a grunt on the other side and as he fell on his ass, the large form of Ser Robin snatched a torch off the wall and waved it in his face.
''Ah, Ser, don't you know to open doors a bit less violently?'' Daemon asked, rubbing his forehead where he got hit.
''You!'' Ser Robin thundered. ''What are you doing here, eavesdropping on us?''
''Eavesdropping?'' Daemon demanded with equal outrage. ''I'm trying to find the privy, the only thing I was listening for was the sound of men shitting themselves.'' He got off the stone floor and dusted himself off. That's when he pretended to notice Lady Marianne. ''M'lady.'' He bowed low. ''I am truly sorry if I have inconvenienced you.''
The same sharp features that lent Lady Marianne beauty in the broad daylight made her seem sinister in the faint light of the torch. She stared down at him with a hard expression, half her face hidden in darkness. Daemon felt himself being weighed and tested; he must've done well, for something in her expression eased and she said, ''That's quite alright, Ser Robin. This young man's gotten lost.''
Ser Robin backed down when half a second earlier he seemed ready to cave Daemon's face in.
''Thank you, m'lady,'' Daemon said. ''Might either of you point me in the direction of the privy, perhaps? I feel like a fool stumbling down one hallway after another.''
''It's back the way you came.'' She nodded down the hallway. ''Take the first right and then the first right again.''
''Unless that's something too hard for a half-wit to remember.'' Ser Robin snarled.
''Thank you for your kindness, m'lady.'' Daemon ignored him, turned around, and followed her orders. He had to fight himself to keep from looking back; something about her easy dismissal of him rubbed him the wrong way, and he walked away, certain that she planned to loose a crossbow bolt into his back the moment he relaxed.
The tension in his shoulders eased when he turned the corner and he tried to exhale in relief without making too much noise. Daemon went to the privy – to ensure he kept up appearances – then returned to the great hall with all speed.