THE BLACK BAT IN WHITE

The sound of merry laughter was ahead of him on the garden path. Joy or sorrow, trouble or triumph, I have felt out of place here, Ser Oswell thought. And soon I will be gone from here. He would not miss Highgarden, nor Oldtown, either. He had seen too much the dagger beneath the smile, the rot behind the vaunted age.

Oswell shook his head. He shouldn't let bitterness consume now. Not when he was seeing some of the few he cared for in this wretched place. The music of a lute deftly played reached his ears, and then a woman began to sing. "Will you unkind thus reave me, of my heart, of my heart and so leave me? And so leave me? Farewell! Farewell! And yet before we part, o cruel! Kiss me sweet, kiss me sweet, sweet my jewel!"

As he came closer he saw it was Falena Lothston singing as Uthera Ruari played her lute. Ladly Lothston was clad in black, silver and gold, while Uthera wore a cloth of silver blouse, and a black and red dress, joined by a sea-green sash. Falena's dark blue eyes were fixed on the Lysene, who looked back devotedly with her violet ones. "Hope by disdain grows cheerless, fear does love, love does fear, beauty peerless, beauty peerless!" sang Lady Lothston, "Farewell! Farewell! And yet before we part, o cruel! Kiss me sweet, kiss me sweet, sweet my jewel!"

The king lay nearby, his head in Obara's lap, while Aesnyth Waeyte sat beside them both, her hand on Viserys', while she leaned her head on Obara's shoulder. Ser Barristan loomed over them, like some mighty giant from a tale. Some of the other children were here as well… and Lady Alerie Tyrell, Janna Fossoway and Ashara Dayne, the Princess Daenerys and Maegary Tyrell before them, with a few other young babes dawding around. Ser Oswell came before Viserys, and bowed. "Your Grace," he said.

The boy's eyes cracked open, and gazed on him with, if it wasn't exactly devotion, a certain fondness. "Ser Oswell," he said. "You leave tonight, then?"

"Gladly," answered Ser Oswell.

"If no delays can move you, life shall die, death shall live, still to love you! Still to love you!" sang out Falena. "Farewell! Farewell! And yet before we part, o cruel! Kiss me sweet, kiss me sweet, sweet my jewel!"

Viserys righted himself with Obara and Aesnyth's help. "Then go with my blessing, good knight," said Viserys, placing a little hand on Oswell's shoulder. "Give aid to my friends and woe to my foes."

Aesnyth nodded eagerly. "The Black Goat strides with you," she said. "Always with you. At your back, at your side, in front of you, in all directions at once."

Ser Oswell puzzled that one out as Falena sang again. "Yet, be you mindful ever, heat from fire, fire from heat, none can sever! None can sever! Farewell! Farewell! And yet before we part, o cruel! Kiss me sweet, kiss me sweet, sweet my jewel!"

"Is… is that supposed to cheer me?" asked Ser Oswell.

The Qohorik nodded. "Yes! Yes!" She spread her arms wide. "You are a good man, Ser Oswell. The Black Goat will keep you from harm as long as He is able, and when He cannot, you will be with Him, in the land where all the just go, forever and ever and ever and ever." Oswell must have started at that, for she leaned forward and grabbed his arm. "So know no fear, Ser Oswell. You will not die, until you do, and then, you will not die in truth. Be brave! Be bold! The Goat will only take you when He takes you!"

"True love cannot be changed, though delight from desert be estranged!" came Lady Lothston's voice. "Be estranged! Farewell! Farewell! And yet before we part, o cruel! Kiss me sweet, kiss me sweet, sweet my jewel!" Uthera finished the tune, to the applause of much of the audience.

Ser Oswell coughed and looked at little Aesnyth. "So… what you are saying is that I will only die when I die?" The girl nodded. "And this is… a comfort."

She nodded again. "It is this way for every soul that walks the world, Ser Oswell. Our common fate. Our shared heritage." The girl was smiling for once, and in that moment, Oswell could see why the king fancied her and not the other Essosi maids who'd come to the court. "There is no way out. There is no escape. There is only what is. When you accept that, fear dies, and courage is born. And then, then you are immortal."

Oswell took a deep breath and looked away. Such a strange lot, the Qohorik. "I thank the lady for her… kindness." Aesnyth gave a solemn nod, and then stepped back, taking the king's hand. Not for the first time, Oswell wondered how it might be, to have a Qohorik as a queen. The Seven Kingdoms could do worse, he decided. Unlike many of her fellows from Essos, she was pleasant to the servants, and did things like insist that her leftover food be given to the poor and needy.

Mayhaps people would find the Black Goat less fearsome, with such a gentle messenger, he thought. He saw the girl's servant then, doing a surprisingly good job at remaining inconspicuous for such a large… man, Oswell supposed. The creature nodded politely at Oswell, and gave something that looked like a smile. Or mayhaps they wouldn't.

"I wish I could go with you," said Barristan quietly.

"As do I," said Viserys suddenly. Everyone looked at the young king. "I… All these brave men are fighting for me, and I'm…" He bit his lip nervously. "I'm just staying here, and going to parties, and… and…"

Barristan put a hand on Viserys' shoulder. "Your people need you here now, Viserys. Need you safe, and learning to rule, so they know there's a Targaryen king when the war's over, who will rule the realm as it ought to be."

Uthera nodded, putting down her lute. "Don't be so quick to wish to be on the battlefield, Your Grace. I've seen bloodshed, and well, it is not a thing to wish for." She gave a shudder.

"Strange talk from a noblewoman of Lys," said Janna Fossoway lightly.

The Lyseni girl gave a crooked smile. "Our city and the places around it are not so carefree as people imagine. Especially for the daughter of a great house, whose father stood at its head, ere he died…" She picked up her lute and strummed it idly. "Truth be told, this has been a welcome respite."

"I am glad you have gotten it," said Lady Alerie to Uthera. "And gladder still to have heard you. You play the lute so well. And such sad, sweet songs."

"Too sad and sweet, for my liking," noted Ashara Dayne. "Do you Lysene have any love songs that do not compare it to pain?"

Uthera leaned back and closed her eyes. "That makes me wonder if the lady has ever been in love."

Ashara took the time to stroke the head of a small, black-haired babe that crawled up to her. "Perhaps not," she asked. "Have you?"

"Oh, yes," whispered Uthera. "With a childhood friend. Our parents used to leave us together, to increase the bond twixt our families." She chuckled. "It worked well. Oh, so very well. I remember the moment I'd begun to yearn for my friend. Like a dagger in my heart, it was."

Alerie smiled at the girl. "And did you speak to your friend of your affection?"

The Lyseni girl's eyes cracked open, and she turned her head towards Falena. "Oh, yes. And discovered my love was returned."

Janna chuckled. "I'm surprised he let you slip away here, this young treasure."

"Oh, there is much of my love that would surprise you," said Uthera, her hand briefly resting on Falena's.

Ashara Dayne raised an eyebrow and then turned at the sound of riders. "I believe you have another admirer to deal with at the nonce," she said softly.

Uthera winced. "Oh, by the Seven Hells…"

Lord Monford Velaryon rode up, with Martyn Mullendore and Lucyaen Tregaelyen beside him, and Lucyaen's sister Dalia and the Tyroshi maids Arethusa Pendaerys, Maegra Orthys and Yrabel Haen behind. "Lady Ruari," he stated, in tones of silky elegance. "My companions and I are riding the grounds. Young Mullendore here knows them well, and tells us there's a lovely folly built by Longthorn to view. Would you perhaps accompany us?"

"Follies on the grounds is more your interest than mine, Lord Monford," replied Uthera with a forced smile.

There was a bit of laughter from the others, including Martyn Mullendore and Dalia Lucyaen. Monford seemed unperturbed by it. "Well, perhaps if you come with us, you might acquire such an interest," he said.

What little feigned pleasantness on the Lysene's face was draining quickly. "You've no horse for me to ride upon," she said flatly.

Monford offered her his hand. "You may ride on mine, with me," he declared grandly.

Uthera pinched her nose and groaned. "Mother, have mercy." Falena Lothston, Oswell noted, was glaring at the Velaryon with an expression that the knight thought could kill in the right circumstances. "Lord Monford, hear me now, and hear me straight – I have no interest, no inclination, not even the faintest stirring of desire to do anything with you that involves riding, in any way, shape or form." She leaned forward. "Have I made myself clear?"

Monford continued to smile at her. "Methinks the lady knows not what she wants."

The king coughed at that, as Uthera's face fixed into a snarl. "Lord Velaryon," he said, "I feel the Lady Ruari has made her…"

Lord Velaryon gave a dismissive laugh. "My king, you are young and do not understand the ways of a woman's heart. Years will teach you that when the stubborn creatures say no what they…" Suddenly his horse reared all at once, and Monford was sent toppling to the ground. Uthera laughed uproariously, while Falena looked on with a satisfied look on her face. Monford's companions rushed down to assist him. "I am fine, I am fine," he muttered as Lucyaen and the Tyroshi righted him, the ladies cooing all the while. "Merely a tumble. I am fine."

"Quite the tumble, Lord Monford," said Uthera, looking fondly at Falena, who grinned at her. "Perhaps you should take it as a warning."

"Indeed," said Lucyaen Tregaelyen, glaring at the Lyseni maiden. "There are all sorts of lessons to learn here, about nature." His scowl grew deeper. "And the unnatural."

Urethra gave the Pentoshi a pretty smile. "Are you going to school Lord Velaryon about that uncle of yours and all his fondness for lemurs, Tregaelyen?"

Lucyaen gave a frustrated growl. "You, Lady Ruari, are a trull!" he spat out.

"You wish, Tregaelyen," said Uthera, crossing her arms. "And rest assured, you could not afford me if I were." The Pentoshi snarled, and then went back to helping Monford Velaryon limp away. "I do not like how he hangs about this court, and men like the Lord Velaryon," she said. "My mother has a saying, 'Be wary of all Pentoshi, and be double wary of the sons of their princes'." She sighed. "That bunch spend their lives looking to avoid the knife that took their fathers. And Lucyaen has not the coin to dodge service."

Ashara glanced at her. "The son of a Prince may not be a Prince in turn, or so I heard."

"For one year or one reign," said Uthera flatly. "Whiche'er comes first. Well, the situation was such when Laeyus Tregaelyen was chosen that the man chosen just before him fled the city and became a sellsword. It says something that he lives still but Laeyus got his throat slit within five months. And the man after him lasted only three. The next man, a Narratys, had a better time of it, but Lucyaen's mother took him and his sister from the city to see her people in Tyrosh just as things started to turn." Uthera shrugged. "They've never returned, because the moment they do, one of the other forty families would give them an invitation that could not be refused without dire consequences, and then Lucyaen and Dallia would be a pair of honored guests, until the next election was held. And the Lots of Pentos are a tricksy thing, lords and ladies. Oh such a tricksy thing. As I said, he wants coin to keep him from the chair, and he hasn't got it. And that makes him a dangerous man, for all he's a preening fop."

A grim silence was falling over the company. Janna Fossoway frowned. "Perhaps we should listen to another song. Something stirring, and bold." She looked at Uthera and Falena. "Do you perhaps know one of the songs of Ser Barristan's great battle with Maelys the Monstrous?"

Falena's eyes went wide at that, and Uthera scowled. "That is not…" spat out the Lysene. She shook her head, and gestured to Lady Lothston. "Her father was Maelys' man. It is not a song she likes to sing on." Falena turned to Uthera and gave her a sympathetic glance.

"If I may speak," said Barristan, "I've no hunger to hear songs of my own deeds. They turn things done in the heat of battle into strange things I do not recognize."

Uthera nodded at that. "Nobly said."

"He admired you greatly," said Falena, smiling, "and held you one of the greatest of all knights alive."

"Your father?" asked Barristan, puzzled.

"Well, him too," replied Falena. "But I spoke of Maelys."

Ser Barristan nodded at that, and Oswell thought he saw pain in his sworn brother's eyes. "Ser Oswell?" came a voice. Oswell turned and saw Garse Flowers standing there. "The Lord Seneschal wishes to see you, ere you depart."

Oswell nodded at that. "Very well."

Falena Lothston stood suddenly. "Ser Oswell… could we speak briefly, before you go see the Lord Seneschal?"

"A knight has an obligation to pay heed to a fair maid," he answered. Falena nodded at that, and walked towards a tree. Oswell followed her.

Falena looked at him for a moment, and took a deep breath. "I wish to thank you for keeping your tongue…"

"As I said," noted Oswell, "there's no harm in you or Ruari, so far as I can see, and it would be… no knightly thing, to betray your confidence."

"And I thank you for seeing that," said Falena. "We… we are friends, are we not, Ser Oswell?"

Oswell considered that. "So far as I have friends in this place, aside from my Sworn Brothers, yes, you are among them, Lady Falena."

She laughed. "I am glad. Is that not a strange thing, a Lothston and a Whent friends?" She looked at him pointedly, her dark blue eyes seeming almost to shine in the tree's shadow. "And yet it has happened." She raised an arm, and then as he watched, tore off a sleeve. "Here. Wear this."

Oswell's eyes went wide. "Lady Lothston, a knight of the Kingsguard…"

"Come now, Ser Oswell," she said with a smile, turning to look on Uthera, who'd apparently found some other tune to play on her lute. "You know my affections do not that way lie." She turned back to him, and offered him the favor. "This is for friendship, Ser Oswell. For friendship, and wounds being healed, and quarrels mended. Small things, but also great ones."

Ser Oswell found he could say nothing, and simply took the cloth, then tied it around his left arm. "I… thank you, Lady. This is…" He shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and then turned back to the group. Falena sat back down next to her lady, and Oswell followed along with Garse Flowers, who said nothing.

They left the garden swiftly, and went down a dark hall, then another, then another. He wondered how Garse could keep track of it all, but somehow the lad did. He wondered what it felt like for the young man, the Lord Seneschal's natural son, to walk these halls. His mother was an innkeep's daughter, I hear. Better born than his half-brother, a scullery maid. Still, Garth Tyrell looked after his sons. In his own fashion.

"What business has the Lord Seneschal with me?" asked Oswell.

"I do not know, Ser," replied Garse softly. "The Lord Seneschal asks things of me. I do not ask things of him."

Ser Oswell stared at him. "You must surely have some idea…" he began.

"Must I?" answered Garse. He reached a richly furnished door with a strange sigil that Oswell did not know on it, a red rose whose thorns wept blood. He suddenly wished he was in his armor, but then reminded himself how foolish that would be. There's no foe here and in this heat I'd bake alive. Garse rapped lightly on the door.

"Enter," came the Lord Seneschal's rich voice. Garse opened the door, then motioned for Ser Oswell to go in. Oswell took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

He looked about the chamber, as Garse entered himself, and shut the door. It was a vast room, filled with books and scrolls. Garth Tyrell sat at a table in the center, the remnants of a great meal before him. Typical, Oswell thought to himself. Every place and every time, Garth the Gross indulges himself in his pleasures. The man was drinking from his favorite goblet, a large thing, and well gilded, while thumbing through a book. A pair of scales were beside him for measuring of some sort, a knife with a jeweled handle and a slender ebony rod lying next to them. "Ser Oswell," said the Lord Seneschal. "So good of you to join me before setting out for the eastern marches."

"I am at your service, Lord Seneschal," said Oswell. "As I am at the king's."

Garth grinned at that, his thick fleshy lips spreading wide to reveal his teeth, which were very white and straight to Oswell's surprise. "And what a joy it is to have such a valiant knight, who has done such great deeds." He set the goblet down, and stood to his feet. "Why, two Ninepenny Kings slain…"

"That was my brother, Lord Seneschal," said Ser Oswell softly.

"Indeed," drawled Garth, stepping around the table. "My apologies. A common mistake, I suspect." He was suddenly at Oswell's side. He moved with a startling speed when he wished to, it occurred to Oswell.

"Lord Seneschal…" Oswell's mouth felt dry. "I do not know why you have asked me here, but I have come. And if it is simply to bandy words and insult my honor, well…" He took a deep breath. "Listen, I did no great deeds in the Fifth Blackfyre Rebellion, but, it is not like you killed some Ninepenny King."

To his surprise, Garth burst out laughing, and even Garse chuckled. "I'll not argue that," said the Lord Seneschal at last. He peered at Oswell, eyes narrowed. "You hold me in little esteem, Ser Oswell. You think me a plotter, and a villain, and a wastrel. No?"

Oswell managed a nod. "I'll not deny it, Lord."

Garth leaned forward. "Well, I think even less of you, Ser Oswell. You're a swollen tick who's fed on his brother's reputation. I could think of six knights who deserved old Gwayne Gaunt's place more than you, and that is without much effort. Give me time, and the list might stretch to sixty. When men speak of what has gone wrong with the Kingsguard, most of the realm thinks of the Kingslayer, but I, I think of you." Oswell felt a pain in the pit of his stomach to hear this. There was a terrible honesty in Garth's face as he spoke, all pretense of sympathy dropped, leaving only contempt, and that somehow made it worse. "So, you do not like me, and rest assured, I do not like you. Let us begin this conversation with truth. It's a better starting point than most." A venomous smile came to the Lord Seneschal's face. "Enjoying the king's garden party, were you?"

"It… it was pleasant," Oswell muttered.

"Very good. Very good. It is good to enjoy the society of those dear to us," said Garth. He shook his head. "Ahh, it brings to mind my days at the Citadel, when I would go out to the taverns with my close companions. Ahh, Marwyn, Gorys, Parytes, and dear, dear Qyburn. Such fond friends we all were. The hours we spent debating the ways and whys of things. And now…" The man gave a shrug with his massive shoulders. "Me where I am, Gorys and Parytes both dead, Qyburn stripped of his chain, and Marwyn, alone out of all us an archmaester." He turned back to Ser Oswell. "So ended those dreams. You've heard I was expelled, have you not?"

Oswell gulped. "I heard such tales, Lord Seneschal."

"Most of them give you reasons, and those reasons were lies, Ser Oswell," whispered Garth. "I am a greedy, gluttonous man, ser. For many things, but for knowledge, most of all. There are doors and paths that are kept shut from students at the Citadel, but I… I cozened ways to travel the paths and then tried to force open the doors." He shuddered. "I would be dead if I were not who I am. Both from the trying, and from what the Maesters would have done if I had not been of my rank. As it was…" He shook his head. "They cast me out, and I was glad to go. I had learned my lesson, but with temptation all around me… I suspect I would have unlearned it, and that… that would have been a grave thing." He took one huge, shuddering breath. "As I said, Gorys and Parytes are both dead."

The room was silent then, silent as a tomb. Garth turned to him, all good cheer. "But look at me, distracting us both with talk of the dreary, long-ago past. When I have things of the vibrant, recent past to talk of." He turned away, and paced around the room. "You and Ser Arthur were with Prince Rhaegar when he stole away the Stark girl, were you not?"

Oswell's blood went cold. "I… this is common knowledge, Lord Seneschal."

Garth nodded. "And afterwards, the three of you went off to a little tower in Dorne. Time passed… much time, Ser Gerold joined you there, the Prince came to King's Landing again, then to the Trident where things went as they went. More time passed and you Sworn Brothers came to the Reach and pledged your swords for Viserys. And where, where did fair Lyanna Stark go?" The man turned, smiling at him.

"I… why should I know?," spat out Oswell. "Or tell you if I did." He fidgeted. "Which I do not."

Garth chuckled at that. "You are a bad liar, Ser Oswell. And so to spare us both the pain of your bad lying, I will simply state the facts we both know. Lyanna went to Oldtown and left on a boat to Braavos. With a child. A little baby boy. Rhaegar's little baby boy."

Oswell's skin felt clammy. He turned to Garse, not knowing why, and the look on the boy's face chilled him, for he was watching Ser Oswell as if he were a beast being dressed for the table, and smiling. The student, watching the master at work, he thought, suddenly. Oswell turned back to Garth. "How… how…?"

"I have my sources, my methods, and my ways," said Garth. He laughed. "Many of which I've made myself. But come, it's no great matter, this embarrassing little bastard being…" He paused grinning. "Ahh, but that's the problem is it not? The boy's not a bastard. There was a wedding…"

Oswell knew his eyes went wide at that. Garth continued calmly. "A wedding of the Old Faith, before a heart tree. Quite valid – his great-grandfather had such a marriage, after all. Oh, one could try to protest on the matter of poygamy – but alas, the Targaryens have never formally renounced their right to plural marriages. Nor for that matter has the Old Faith ever denied their validity, in so much as it has the ability to. It is simply, in both cases, a practice that has fallen to the wayside." He chuckled. "Quite a conundrum, that."

Ser Oswell felt empty. "I… he… we… it…" he babbled.

Garth was staring at him with something that looked like sympathy. "I have been trying to understand how it was you squared sending away Rhaegar's heir. The answer I see, at least in your case, is 'badly'." The man strode forward. "So, Viserys was here, he was recognized, Aerys had all but named him heir, and you… well, Ser Gerold I suspect, you and Ser Arthur are good little whitecloaks who do what you're told… but you made your choice. And then… you tidied up the loose ends. With the maid doubtless telling herself you were doing her and her son a favor." Garth stood before him, eyes boring into Ser Oswell's, and it struck him how tall the man was.

"It… it was duty," he squeaked out.

Garth nodded at that. "Ahh. I see. Yes. Yes. That is what I should have expected from you." There was a sudden flash and then Ser Oswell was on the ground, the side of his face aching as it had been struck by a stone. He slapped me, Oswell thought dimly. He slapped me.

"Gods, I am tired of listening to you Kingsguard speak of duty," came Garth's voice, loud as the Father above. "The king sets the realm ablaze, you do nothing, and that is your duty. He beats his wife savagely, you do nothing, and that is your duty. He butchers whole families on mad whims, you do nothing and that is your duty! Every atrocity, every crime, the answer is do nothing, in the name of duty!"

"We… we do not judge him…" spat out Ser Oswell, head still ringing from Garth's blow. He tasted blood on his tongue. Mother's Mercy, did he loosen a tooth…?

"No, you simply judge everyone else," drawled Garth. "And judge yourselves fine, fine men for your leal service. Oh, some of you permit yourselves a doubt every now and then – you fairly stink of it, Whent – but in the end, you are good and honest and brave, and a man such as I… well I am wicked, and deceitful and cowardly."

Garth let loose a yawn that became a belch, then glanced down at Oswell again. "Garse, do be a good lad and assist Ser Oswell. I fear I have unsteadied him worse than I planned." Oswell felt the lad's heavy hands on his arms, holding him with a very sure force. "I really do forget my own strength at times. Is he ready to get up yet?" asked Garth.

"I do not think so, Lord Seneschal," answered Garse.

Garth gave a satisfied nod. "Well, whenever he is, do what you must." Garth leaned back against his table. "So to continue this little lecture… you may think me a monster, Ser Oswell. And you would be absolutely right. But I am an honest monster, and you, Ser Oswell – along with the White Bull, and yes even your sparkling Sword of Morning – you are all false men." The words sunk into Oswell's skull, all the deeper because he had thought things like this. "I pity Ser Barristan, you know," continued Garth. "A fine man. He could have likely done great things, had he not fallen in with you. And perhaps he will still. He has years ahead, and the world's a shifty thing."

"I… Lord Seneschal…" sputtered out Ser Oswell, "I regret much of my actions…"

"Ahh, good," said Garth. "You can speak. I was worried I'd broken your skull. I have had that happen in the past. Most unfortunate."

Garse leaned in close to Oswell's ear. "He really has," he whispered. "And it really is unfortunate. And unpleasant."

"Are you feeling ready to stand…?" asked Garth. Oswell shook his head. "Very well. Lie there for the moment. You've time. Now as to these regrets…" The man gave a sharp intake of breath. "Well, piss on your regrets, ser. Regrets are easy. Regrets are cheap. They accomplish nothing, save allowing you to feel sorry for yourself. You need to act, and I'm all but certain you do not know how to." He gave a wistful sigh, and Ser Oswell felt the hideous feeling of being pitied by Garth Tyrell. "Only one of you has, and you all spit on him."

Oswell was puzzled at that, but then he realized what the Lord Seneschal meant. "You… you mean the Kingslayer?" he said.

Garth smiled and nodded to himself. "I think he's ready to get up, Garse." Oswell felt himself hefted up by the lad. He could break my arms like snapping twigs if he cared to, he thought to himself. Garth regarded him for a moment, grinning ear to ear. "Yes, Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer. There's the whitecloak for me. Did what had to be done. Despite the cost. He did it, ser."

"He killed the king!" Oswell shouted, and was surprised what a howl he made.

"Yes, he killed the murderous lunatic that you lot left him alone with for months upon months," said Garth. "A youth, practically a boy, your 'sworn brother', and that's how you all served him. How kind. How brave. How noble. How honorable. How nice." The indignation radiated off the Lord Seneschal like heat off a stone. "I can see how you sent Rhaegar's wife and child out alone in the world to suffer by themselves. It must be second nature at this point. To do the easy thing, at no true cost to yourself, and call it duty."

The Lord Seneschal leaned forward. "But Jaime Lannister is not like that. He did the hard thing. And he paid the price. Paid it readily. That's an honorable man, Ser Oswell. Not you, or the White Bull, or the Sword of Morning doing whatever it is he does that makes all swoon and declare him the living embodiment of knighthood for some strange reason. That's a man who does his duty." Ser Oswell gripped his left arm with his right hand, and wondered why, then realized he was touching Lady Lothston's favor. "Tell me, Ser Oswell… if things had gone differently, and say, Lord Stark had come to the Tower of Joy, what would you have done?"

"Followed our orders," muttered Ser Oswell. "Protected Rhaegar's son."

"From his own uncle," said Garth, the contempt drifting back into voice. "Gods, what a bloody mess that would have been. We should be thankful it didn't happen. We'd as like get more songs praising the three of you for your loyal service as you tried to end your misguided lives while taking lives with more promise along with you to the Stranger."

Ser Oswell tried to think of something to say to this and could come up with nothing. "So… what now?" he asked.

Garth gave a massive shrug. "You get on with your duties in the east, and I will get on with my duties here. You will not speak of this because that is your duty, because neither of us wishes to deal with the result of Rhaegar's folly and because this has all been one long exercise in shame for you." He shook his head. "When you get to the east, best pray to the Seven and hope They listen. Ser Tytos can outfight, outhink and outlead you, I'm afraid. Of course, he's rather famously devout as well, so perhaps prayer isn't much of an option either. In which case, well, it is bad to be you, Ser Oswell. Or more bad than it is usual. Which is very bad indeed."

Ser Oswell nodded absently at this. Somehow all the insults aimed at him seemed not to matter."You… you do Rhaegar wrong… He did not do this idly. There… there was a prophecy…"

"There are tomes upon tomes and scrolls upon scrolls of prophecies, Oswell," drawled Garth as he sat back down. "One can reach all sorts of mad conclusions from them. I'd say 'ask Septon Murmison', but as he's been quite dead for over two centuries, he can't say much." He chuckled. "Though the method of his death is quite an eloquent answer. No, at the root of it all, Oswell, is a very old story. A young man with a wife who he'd done his duty by and who'd done her duty by him began to have that terrible destroying realization that neither of them particularly loved each other. And then he met an even younger girl who simply adored him, and his blood turned to smoke, along with all his good sense." He shrugged. "It is a sad tale, in truth, made sadder by all the death and misery it's spread in its wake."

"You… Lady Lyanna was… is no dreaming girl, Lord Seneschal," Oswell heard himself saying. "At Harrenhal… the Knight of the Laughing Tree…"

The man snorted at that. "Yes, I rather suspected that was the case. I do hope the boy inherits good sense from his grandmothers, as he's not getting it from his parents, and he's not getting it from his grandfathers either." Garth peered at him closely. "Speaking of which, I will need to know what to call the lad, for my own purposes. Now, considering his half-siblings, I'm fairly certain Rhaegar thought he had a Visenya, and well, that didn't happen, so… what did his mother name him…?"

Garth clicked his tongue and tapped his fingers on the table. " 'Jaehaerys', perhaps? A good name, his grandfather's name, and Rhaegar would have so dearly loved to recall the Conciliator…" He shook his head. "No, no, Rhaegar did not name the lad, and a young lass with a head filled with grand adventure, she'd not choose that as a name…"

The Lord Seneschal shut his eyes. "Perhaps 'Daeron'? Most boys dreaming of being the Young Dragon, and there's a sort of girl that dreams of riding alongside him, of sharing his adventures, and unlocking that bold heart. Something tells me Lyanna was such a sort…" His eyes opened and he gazed at Oswell. "No, no, not Daeron. That was the dream of her girlhood, and the boy is the dream of her young womanhood. Hmmm. Was it 'Aemon'? No, no, she's not the sort to swoon for the Dragonknight. 'Baelor'? Oh, don't be absurd. To her, that name means 'the Blessed' not 'Breakspear'. 'Daemon'? Oh, of course not that. No chance of that one. Don't know why I even considered it." Garth stared at him and then began to chuckle. "Oh, Gods. Oh, Gods, I have it. It is mad, but I have it. She named him 'Rhaegar', didn't she?"

Oswell said nothing, but he felt his face grow pale. Garth threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, that is it, that is it!" He pounded the table. "I can scarce believe it, and that makes me believe in it full! That dear, brave, silly girl! Rhaegar! She named the lad for his father!" He wiped a mirthful tear from his eye. "Rhaegar. Ahh, what a world. What a world."

"You already knew," Oswell muttered weakly.

"Mmmm, you'd like to think that," said Garth, grinning. "And failing that, you'd like to think I pulled the name out of your head with some spell. I didn't, ser. You're that easy to read." He shook his head. "Rest assured, if I was trusting in my sources, I'd think the boy's name was Rodrik, but, well, I thought that an alias…"

"There… there was no ambition meant in it," Oswell sputtered.

"Oh, that I also believe," said Garth, chuckling. "But try to get the world to believe it if they should find out." He shook his head. "Ahh, Gods, I'm starting to see why the Prince fell in love with her."

Oswell's face felt wet. He idly thought he was bleeding from some cut, but then realized it was tears. I'm weeping. I'm weeping because I've feared myself a fraud, and this horrible man has shown me this is not only the case, but I'm more of a fraud than I dared think in even my worst moments. "You'll… you'll not tell…"

"I said I wouldn't, and for the moment, that's true," replied Garth simply. "It might not always be, but for now… Viserys is king, named by his father in perhaps the one case where the fool struck on the right course of action almost by chance. Little prince Rhaegar would muddy things if he were known about at the moment, so I will keep my peace." He gave a shrug. "If circumstances change, then I will change with them. You'll get no grand oaths with me, knight. They're folly through and through. I keep myself free to take what I see as the best course. That's how I flourish."

Oswell managed a dull nod at that. "Yes, yes, I see…"

"Good," cooed Garth. "Garse, see him out. I fairly certain he's not going to keel over dead, so we're spared that trouble. Then when you're done, pour me some more wine. I find that all this pomposity has given me a thirst of equal magnitude." Garse Flowers nodded, and pulled Oswell to the door, then opened it. The lad released him, then shuffled to his father's side.

Oswell was about to go through the door when a horrid thought occurred to him. He turned to see Garse pouring wine into his father's golden goblet, as Garth gripped it surely. Oswell watched, his mouth dry, and then at last managed to speak. "You'll… you'll not kill the young prince?," he asked. "His life is safe?"

Garth raised one eyebrow, as his son stopped pouring. "Kill him?" he said. "Why should I do that?" Oswell saw, idly that the Lord Seneschal was running his thumb over the goblet in a way that seemed strangely intimate to the knight's eyes. "He's a little boy." A ghastly smile came over Garth's face, as Garse Flowers chuckled. "And little boys, ser, they die so easily. Why bother?" Garth raised his goblet to his lips, and drank.

Oswell's stomach lurched, and he left the chamber. He felt cold and alone, and his hand gripped Lady Lothston's favor as if it were a holy relic. The halls are dark, he noted idly. He hadn't realized the halls of Highgarden could get so dark. But then, he'd like been blind to it, while imagining he could see.

Author's Note: Uthera and Falena's duet is another John Dowland song. What can I say? The man fits the pair.