296 A.C, Brynden
Chaser was the name of the gray pony he rode. Though it hardly answered to the name. It was quite a stubborn creature and often stirred off-road to eat at the greens to the sides. But still, it was far better than walking on foot. His legs felt a comforting relief, the soreness had lessened over the days. Chyswyck Summerchild also treated Brynden less like a squire and more like an equal. They would converse from time to time, not too much nor too little. Most importantly, Chyswyck did not ask many questions. He seemed perfectly content with the presence of a traveling companion.
The young knight now hummed the tunes of a sad song Brynden had never heard before. It was droll and had nearly a hundred verses. The song spoke of an old dying king, named Harrag, who regaled his heroic deeds to his two young sons as he lay on his deathbed. He conquered shores, tamed a snow bear, rode a centaur, and shattered armies. It sang of courage, it sang of love, but most of all it sang of lost ambitions, of a story long past, of a people who lost their ways. Harrag, Harrag, Harrag. Brynden did not remember a King Harrag, the history before Aegon's Conquest maintained largely murky to him, too many petty kings and too many petty kingdoms for him to count.
They aimed to travel a week down south, to Fairmarket, a small town that rested on the Blue Fork. House Smallwood was a minor lordly House serving under House Vance. Their sigil was of a bright yellow field with six acorns forming the shape of an upturned triangle. Not particularly noteworthy, the most famous among the Smallwoods once served as Hand of the King for Jaehaerys the Conciliator.
The current Lord of Smallwood, Theomar, and his lady wife, Ravella, bore two children, one son and one daughter. Unfortunately for the son, he died of something many years back at the tender age of seven, and his daughter became the new heir to his seat.
Now that his daughter was of an age to marry, the lord announced a jousting tourney for all the unwed second sons and unlanded knights under the age of five and twenty to Fairmarket. The winner shall take her hand in marriage, and their children will inherit the lands of Smallwood. Quite a fairytale, Brynden couldn't really fathom how this was a good idea. The young lady heir may have to marry some random hedge knight. Perhaps the lord enjoyed a good joust and needed an excuse to host a grand one. Very strange.
Whether they will take the Smallwood name or the name of the winning Jouster, that was not known to Brynden nor Chyswyck. Maybe Lord Theomar will marry again and have more sons. A civil war between the Smallwoods, now that would be interesting. A Dance of the Acorns, the singers shall call it. Brynden could already think of the words, There once was a land of deer and hare, with a lady fair as the heir... He chuckled to himself. Somewhere in there was a joke about small woods.
"What is on your mind?" Asked Chyswyck, the Ser. On his palfrey, he was placed a head higher than Brynden.
" Some minor musings, good Ser."
Ser Summerchild nodded, accepting it as an answer. The young knight had a naive mind, a kind heart, and a loose pouch. Whenever they passed roaming beggars and starving smallfolk, he would always pass them a few coppers. A true knight! They would call him, and he would smile his charming smile.
They ate their dried meats and occasional hot heals from inns on the way. In the evenings, they sparred. Chyswyck with a dulled blade and Brynden with a heavy wooden stick. Chyswyck would win most, but one among ten, Brynden could sneak in a jab or two.
Young Lady Carellen Smallwood was said to be a great beauty by the words of Chyswyck. whether that was true, Brynden shall have to attest in person. There were many stories of lords singing flowery words about their daughters' looks to secure a marriage.
The funny little story of Ser Jocelyn Erenford came to mind. Supposedly, the lord of Charlton had commissioned a painting of his eldest daughter. Ser Jocelyn, the heir to Erenford and an untested youth, had fallen in love with her painted visage at first sight. He asked for her hand, and her father consented. On the day of the marriage, Jocelyn saw her. And it was told that during the bedding ceremony, the bride did not cry, but the groom did.
" Do you plan to marry the Lady Smallwood if you were to win the Tourney?" He asked the young knight.
" Perhaps, though I'd wish to travel more after our betrothal, I have only visited two of the seven Kingdoms of course. I'd hope that the lord shall allow it. But perhaps I shalln't, for a wedded knight hardly makes a good song." One, Brynden corrected in his mind, the Riverlands were not considered a kingdom.
" You can always promise your hand, and come back after the seat passes to her." He added.
" That would be apt," Chyswyck replied.
All the second sons of the Riverlands would flock to this Tourney, that was to be sure. Sprinkled in with some hedge knights from all over, and perhaps a mystery knight or two to swoon the young maiden. A perfect tourney for a couple of Ser Freys, Brynden expected to see at least some of his cousins there.
Who were the other Freys that no longer resided at the Twins? He tried to recall. There was Emmon, a Bronze Frey, and his four sons by his Lannister Wife. There was Luceon, a Swann Frey, who served at the Great Sept of Baelor as a septon of great importance. He was part of the Most Devout, a council of the highest-ranking clergymen for the faith.
Little Wendel, the nineteenth son of Walder, was a page in Seagard. Willamen, who studied at the Citadel in Oldtown.
Last but not least there was Aegon the younger, nicknamed Bloodborn. He was the first son of Aenys, who himself was the third son of Walder. Aegon was banished much like Brynden, last he heard Aegon Bloodborn was a robber knight near Wendish town.
For how many Freys there were in this world, there really weren't that many outside of the Twins. He doubted his half-Lannister cousins would care to aid him. A man of faith like Luceon had to abandon his Frey name when he dedicated himself to the Seven, at least he should, the Freyness may not leave him. Bloodborn did not seem particularly a family man, and the rest were all too young. He guessed he really did have to survive on his own, at least for a while.
The ride was peaceful for another two days, then a harsh rain beset them. Brynden's thin cloak had done nothing but worsen his condition. It wrapped around his frame and trapped him in a prison of wet cloth. He could not imagine Chyswyck fared any better. The so-called road had also become muddy and hard to tread for the horses. Their progress slowed considerably.
" Brynden! Do you see some light a league or two in front?" Brynden squinted his eyes and looked.
" Indeed, Ser Chyswyck. "
" We should make for it, and seek refuge from this blasted rain."
A small mill it turned out to be. An old miller, Collum, and his mute nephew lived within. They were welcomed in warmly for the night and a few bowls of old stew. At the cost of listening to old Collum. It appeared the miller yearned for people to converse with. A fair request, anything was better than riding in that cold, freezing rain.
They sipped their stew, and old Collum spoke. " Big rain tonight wasn't it? Aye, haven't seen anything like it for years. Years I tell ya! Last time it rained this hard, oh, Old Tommy's bride had run off on him. Quite the scandal that. But not his first wife, mind ya, who died from a flux, his second wife she was. Anyways, on that rainy day, she ran off on him with a young fella… What was his name again? Pat, Pate, Pete or Peyton? Starting with P, that I'm sure with. Or was it? Well, the young fella, whose name escapes me, well he done seduced old Tommy's wife, and they ran off that night, aye, never to be seen again, left the sheep and pigs all for Tom to take care of, heartless, heartless, Truly heartless it was. Speaking of sheep, Donnie's sheeps got all snatched up one night by them wolves in the woods, his chickens too I think. Devastated he was. Those beasts shall face no mercy when they run into old Collum, I tell ya! I got me a sheep as well once, an old ewe, and every moon I would make some cheese from her milk. Oh, how good it tasted. But two Valemen came and took her right in front of me eyes, one tall fella and one short fella, though the tall fella was not taller by much, a inch perhaps, maybe two. Anyways, they each had a shank, waved it around they did. And the taller fella, though not by much, well he had the bright idea of tying me and me nephew to the pole right there. And the shorter fella, or was it the taller one? Well he done carried the sheep and a sack of wheat I milled that day. For two days we was tied together, til I ground the ropes down and freed ourselves. You can still see the scars on me wrists right over here. " He pointed at the pinkish indents around his left wrist.
Perhaps riding in the rain was more preferable to this.
" It is very kind of you to accept us as your guest then," Chyswyck said.
" Now Why is that, young knight?" The old man seemed perplexed at the sudden interruption, unused to the fact that this time, someone spoke back.
" Well, it is very kind of you to welcome us in when two fellows have robbed you before."
" Right, right. Aye, That's that heart of gold o' mine you see. Me mother who passed, seven bless her soul, Well… she always said to me, Collum, You have a heart o' gold, that you do. When you've wealth enough to put food in your mouth and a roof over your head. Help the ones in need. Poor poor women, passed from the spring sickness a long time ago. Devastating it was, whole villages gone in a fortnight. Lords or farmers, knights or fishers, the spring sickness took all. Aye, I remember the old lord also died from it."
" The old Lord Smallwood?" Brynden asked. He was glad that was finally information that could be of use to him.
" I know not the lord's name. Just know not to look him in the eyes and not speak until spok'n to. Never seen him meself actually. But every other moon, his taxman comes and takes three sacks of grain. Before this lord, there was another, and another before him. It matters not to me… Three sacks of grains, that's all I know… "
The miller continued to ramble on, but from the drawn-out monologues, there was some useful news. They were a day's away from Fairmarket if they rode fast, two days if they kept their usual pace. It looked like the rain did not slow them by much.
Soon as they finished their lukewarm stews, they excused themselves to the barn, where hays of stack made their bed. Usually not his choice of sleeping quarters, but at this very moment, the comfort offered to him felt better than his old bed in the Twins. He took out the lock of his mother's hair from his pouch, remembering his promise to Big Walder. He really should return to the twins sometime in the future, just to save the Freys from themselves.
Again, he tried to piece together the mystery of the young knight, Ser Chyswyck Summerchild. " Do you have a sigil, Ser Chyswyck?" Brynden asked as he removed his soaked tunic.
" My father was a household knight of House Mallister, he bore the purple eagle of Seagard, but had no sigil of his own."
" And you have no wish to serve Lord Mallister like your father?"
The young knight's voice hesitated. " He passed a few months ago, and I've always had a dream of being a wandering Hedge knight myself. So when his armors, arms, and horses were passed to me, I decided to leave the service of Lord Mallister, and travel across the seven Kingdoms to see all the sights and wonders, win the occasional jousts, and crown the occasional beauties."
A lovely story it was, but the facts spoke against the young knight's words. His armor looked too polished and new for it to have been passed down from his father, a Mallister knight who probably fought in the Greyjoy rebellion. And it looked more expensive than what a household knight could afford, knights of the Twins certainly could not.
Seven Copper stars was a silver stag, seven stags was a moon, and thirty moons was a dragon. Ser Chyswyck had a pouch full of dragons. Chyswyck was more like the son of a lord than a son of a household knight.
" Do you intend to make your own sigil then?" Brynden tried his best to squeeze the water out of his cloak.
Chyswyck had removed his armor and placed them gently on the ground. " Why not? But I shall not choose it now. My sigil shall be what I make of myself. If I slay ten mountain lions, then it shall speak of that. If I cross a hundred rivers, then it shall speak of that. If I win a thousand battles, then it shall speak of that. My sigil shall be my story, my song. And I wish one day the bards shall sing of it as often as they sing of Florian and Jonquil. That is my intent, young Brynden." A knight and a fool then. The naivety and the riddle of Ser Chyswyck shall wait, for now, sweet slumber embraced him.
…
If Chyswyck remembered right, the tourney would be in three days, and so they trotted at a gentle pace. The nearer they were to Fairmarket, the more travelers they saw. A small mummers' crew with their donkeys and wagons, a septon and his bare-footed followers, a small family in their cart filled with fresh produce. Chyswyck and Brynden were greeted by each and every one of them. It seemed like in peacetime, knights were worshiped and admired instead of feared. A small girl stood in awe of Chyswyck in his polished armor, the knight then flicked her a copper.
Another day's ride put them closer to Fairmarket, mere hours away. It was then they saw a young woman by the side of the road. She wore a simple dress of bright yellow, decorated with shapes of oak nuts. though the edges were slightly dirtied. She was pretty in a traditional sort of way, but a small black spot between her cheek and eye gave her an alluring air. Next to her, was a freshly dead horse. A damsel in distress, are we still in Westeros? She stood dignified even though she seemed utterly helpless.
" Greetings, Young knight." The woman waved at them.
" My lady." Ser Chyswyck bowed lightly from his horse.
Brynden cut in. " I have to ask my lady, by your dress, are you perchance Lady Carellen of House Smallwood?"
The young woman smiled, a roguish smile. She lowered her head slightly in a nod, confirming, her silver earrings glinted in the fresh morning sun.
" My darling horse has departed from this earth, unfortunately. But my father is in need of my presence in Fairmarket. Would the kind knight help a dame in need?"
" Of course, my lady. Has the lord not assigned you with any guards?" The young knight asked.
She smiled again, this time sheepishly. " You must keep this a secret, but I have snuck out on my own. I was in need of some fresh air from all the crowds."
" You should be more careful next time, my lady. A woman of your status could be in great danger if you run into dishonest folk. You can take my squire's horse." Ah, the gallantry of knights at the cost of their squires, ever so chivalrous. Thank you, Ser.
" You will need to take the side saddle off my horse then." She gestured to her dress. After some effort, they were able to unclasp the saddle from the dead creature and put on chaser, the horse whined. " Thank you, kind knight. May I inquire your name?"
" Ser Chyswyck Summerchild, of Seagard. And this is my squire, Brynden," and so the party of two became a party of three.
" The reputation of Lord Theomar precedes him, my lady." Brynden said. He wanted to find out more about this Lord Smallwood.
" Oh? All good things I hope." the lady said, in a bright, japing tone.
" The men we've crossed paths with spoke of his fairness, the women spoke of his gentleness, and the children spoke of him as a great knight."
She held her palm in front of her mouth and chuckled lightly, on her wrist was a jeweled bracelet. " He's just and gentle, that's for sure. Though I do not know of that last part. He was injured in some battle years ago and could no longer ride a horse, but he always fancied a good tourney, or a melee, or a duel between knights, or a story, or a song, or a good cup of wine… Oh, and he loves paintings too."
…
Fairmarket was an ancient town that dated before Aegon's Conquest, most likely older than the Twins. He pictured a place where merchants from all over the seven Kingdoms bargained and traded. It was slightly disappointing with its faded streets and rustic wooden houses with white roofs. The tourney seemed to have turned the town around though, with crowds of people laughing and drinking in the middle of the day.
There were two inns in Fairmarket, the Gentle Lady and the Fair Wench. The Gentle Lady, as it turned out, was fully occupied with the households of House Smallwood. When they arrived at the Gentle Lady, Carellen leaped off from the horse cleanly.
" Thank you, Ser Chyswyck, I will be in debt to you." She curtsied.
" Nothing of the sort, my lady. If you truly wish to thank me… may I carry your favor in the tourney?" Brynden could hear a slight shake in his voice. Too soon, young man, too soon.
She smiled her roguish smile. " Perhaps later." She went into the inn.
The Fair Wench was also filled to the brim, with knights, squires, and their servants. After asking aloud the third time, a Dornish merchant by the name of Hugor was willing to share his room with them at the cost of a stag a day.
They entered the tourney grounds south of the town. The jousting fields and the viewing platforms were already set up, with some knights already practicing their couches.
Brynden could see sigils of many houses, some even from outside of the Riverlands. There was the black and gold of House Templeton who hailed from the Vale. The pink of House Dunn, the blue of House Buckler, the green of house Meadows. Compared to those, Chyswyck's bland steel armor blended into the background. There were more attendees than Brynden expected, perhaps the presence of fathers and uncles added to the count, but there were perhaps a hundred knights in attendance.
The tent by the east of the grounds was that of the Master of the games. A fat man with a fancy black doublet sat at his desk and ate whole slices of what looked to be some kind of fruit pie. He finished it with a swig of pungent-smelling wine.
" You are here for the tourney?" The man's droopy eyes looked up to the pair who came into his view.
" Whatever else would a knight and his squire do within these ten leagues? Aye, my good man, we are here for the tourney." Chyswyck walked closer.
" Your name, Ser?"
" Ser Chyswyck Summerchild, of Seagard."
The master of the games looked through the parchment on his hand, his finger navigating from the top to the bottom. " You are not on the list."
" The list?"
" Aye, all the contestants of the tourney are preordained."
" All invited by Lord Smallwood?" Chyswyck questioned, his brows slightly creased.
The man had another bite of his pie " The lord steward gave me the names, I put them on the lists, and that's that. If you've any issues, speak with him. "
" That we shall." They walked out of the tent and returned to the town. The lord steward resided in The Gentle Lady with the rest of the Smallwood households. As they got on their horses, Brynden spotted something.
By his southwest, he saw the pavilion of the Freys, along with their banner. Two blue towers over a gray field. He wondered which of his cousins were knighted, unwed, and under the age of five and twenty. Steffon the sweet; he was a Bronze Frey and grandson of Stevron. Robert Frey, one of the big-boned pig Freys, who was named after the King. Perwyn and Benfrey, the two eldest of the pretty Freys… Who else…
The one who exited the Frey pavilion was none of the four. This man was wiry, lean, and tall. He was black of hair and black of beard. His eyes were that of a jackal, cunning and spoke of a great hunger, for lust, for gold, for power. Black Walder.
Notes:
Hello there, so I finally solved the plot knots and was able to come up with logical ideas that fit the narrative. Hopefully, you enjoyed this chapter. Feel free to give me some thoughts, opinions, and ideas. This chapter got really big so I cut it in half and this is the first part. The second part might be out within the next few weeks (depending on irl stuff).
My question is can you figure out where Chyswyck is really from?