The Knight

I found myself standing in a field, it was crowded. Mind you that it is not the normal sort of crowd. The crowd didn't consist out of the smallfolk a man would normally encounter in a village. This crowd was dead. If you would take a moment to take a whiff of air it would smell like death.

I don't know it for certain as my nose had been shattered by a particularly vicious strike. Not that I needed to smell it, my past experiences hinted towards the smell well enough. But even with a broken nose, I could smell it as clear as one would smell the piss and shit in King's Landing.

The once brilliant blue of the Trident's rivers had turned into a murky crimson. Limbs, hands, fingers, and arms drifted on the river's surface. It reminded me of a soup that I would have every once in a while when I was still a brat, minus the appendages though.

In the back of my head, I feared that I would grow used to such a horrifying sight. I was reluctant to admit to that weakness, but it scared me. I still remember it as clear as day. I've watched enough men die on the inside and I didn't plan to become one of them.

Those men often retreated to drinking themselves to an early death. It was frightening when I realized how it had killed uncle, Darrin. He who was more of a father than my than the one who sired me. I did as was expected of a spare. It is one of the worst decisions of my life, dismissing his changing persona as nothing to be concerned about.

Father was the one who said that there are only three sorts of people on the battlefield. The strong, brave, and cowardly. The brave would always die first and the strong and cowardly would survive. He said that there was no place for cowardly in his household, he saw them as a weakness.

Looking back at it I couldn't help but be resentful towards that poor excuse of a father. Dismissing his brother because he opted to run when faced with a foe in an unfavorable situation.

The 'lessons' that he instilled in me hindered me a lot in my life. It has only been recently that I've learned my truth. Growing up as a little boy I heard of the tales spun about my grand-uncle and I couldn't help but long for the same glory.

Later I would find out that the tales were not as truthful as I once thought. I didn't even encounter a distressed lady that was to be saved. The only princess I have caught sight of to this day is Elia Martell.

No one could deny her beauty, her fair and tanned skin in combination with that perfect figure was mouthwatering. The full lips and a button-like nose would still send shivers down my spine if I would spare her appearance a fleeting thought. I haven't been able to cross looks with her black eyes even though I lament much about the fact. It was foolish of me to think myself to be in love with a woman who is wed to the late prince. One cannot fall in love with an image of a woman.

My eyes snapped to my left as I felt something hit my right foot. I was still high on the post-combat adrenaline. Giving the object a good look I identified it to be a hand, a hand missing its index and middle finger. Gruesome, but nothing special on a battlefield.

Counting my blessings for the second time in the last five minutes as I tried to stand up, only to fall face first in a puddle of crimson. As I wiped my face clean I turned my head backward to see that I tripped over a decapitated arm. Again, nothing special on a battlefield.

Giving the gruesome sight another round of observation I couldn't help but wince at the number of men that were like me trying to walk back to camp. The number of live men stood in strong contrast to the numerous corpses lying around. I guessed that it would be at least 5 corpses to a man.

It is beautiful in a twisted way of thinking, I imagine that a grand painting would be made and displayed proudly in the Red Keep. History wouldn't pay attention to the tragedy that this skirmish truly is, tales of how Robert I Baratheon smashed Rhaegar Targaryen to hell would undoubtedly be spread. Few would know the truth of this event though, and I would be one of the few.

All of these carcasses were something special to someone out there, one could be a brother while the other could be a father. It didn't matter who they were anyway. That special someone would only hear the tales of their bravery as they followed their liege lord to death.

I was pulled out of my thoughts as a cold shiver ran down the back of my head. It was a feeling I and many of my household associated with The Stranger. It seemed quite fitting for this instance. Uncomfortably reminding me of how close I brushed death.

Wiping my sword as clean as I could of the blood I returned the castle-forged steel to its scabbard. It was a blade worth of his trust. Thunderclap was its name, the blade was a gift given to him by Beric Dondarrion as a wedding gift. A wondrous gift he said as he received it back then, and now, it was his most trusted companion to he takes to the battlefield.

And then suddenly a roar erupted from the other side of the battlefield. It inspired a whole lot of emotions, not that I was bothered to think too deeply of it. I was tired, simply tired.

A wife and a son awaited me, I reminded myself.

It was a lucky thought to have because most men nearby were dead or just shy of dying.

Pushing myself up I struggled my way towards our new king, Robert Baratheon, it was ridiculous that that oaf would be the next one on the throne.

Don't get me wrong but all the drama he, his betrothed, and Rhaegar caused didn't interest me anymore.

This king started a rebellion for his betrothed only to sleep with another wench every other night. Not to say that my marriage was all flowers and sunshine but if I did the same it would be detrimental to my already small household.

Camylle's family would see to that.

House Dondarrion was huge compared to House Selmy. It didn't matter how renowned my grand-uncle was, it wouldn't change the fact that he was technically a hedge knight that walked around in a white cloak.

To this day I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that I somehow charmed Camylle Dondarrion during one of the numerous feasts of Storm's End. Mayhaps it was my presentation of stoicism towards her, I remember being sour about a lost bet. How it had charmed Camylle in any way was weird. Mother told me that courting a maid was all about gentleness and subtlety.

Camylle however turned out not to be a flower from lush green lands, but a flower that flourished in Shipbreaker's Bay. The constant waves clashing had hardened and polished her. She had a certain playfulness that night, she enjoyed herself as she worked him into corners with her words.

"A man fights in plate armor with a sword, a woman uses her courtesy as a shield and wields words akin to a sword" She had said. "Armor is armor, a sword is a sword. Courtesy and words are nothing but that, courtesy and words." He had replied.

She had tsked at that and turned away, he had thought that to be the end of it. Only for his father to announce that Lord Dondarrion had sent a raven for him not even a fortnight later.

As a second son, I thought to be doomed to a life as an unremarkable hedge knight. But alas, life had this funny way of throwing surprises at you, be it pleasant or unpleasant.

Lor- no, King Robert's voice rumbled loud and angrily from his resting position.

"Can you inquire where she is already! Some of these good-for-nothing captives must know something, that fucking coward, such a lowlife doesn't even deserve death." Was spat into the sky with such venom you could confuse him for a Dornish.

His grace seemed quite eager to march on, but no matter how quick he would want his army to march, the corpses lying around camp needed to be disposed of, lest another disease shall break out.

I couldn't even care enough to feel anything at the way I was dismissed to the infirmary as soon as I checked in with an officer of my commander. Being dismissed as a fleeting thought was nothing new to me in my life. Mother favoring Arstan above me and father being too tired to have a brief moment with his spare.

When my son was born I vowed to raise him differently, Lyonel is his name. He is something special, I am sure of it. The way those keen blue eyes of his stared out to the world, taking his surroundings in with such curiosity. He had never seen a more intelligent child in his life. A bizarre thought to have about someone barely three-name days old, even if he is your son. Fatherly pride can only go so far before it becomes something darker, more twisted.

I could imagine the little runt in my mind. Not as clear as he would like, but it would suffice. The last time I saw him was about a year ago, then he still fitted snugly in the lower part of my arm.

The ravens he had received from Blackhaven indicated that the brat had grown a lot the last year. Camylle had written about how Lyonel could already formulate small sentences. It was written with so much glee that he almost smiled at it as he read the letter.

The letters offered me a form of escapism that did not go unappreciated, so I made sure to reply to each letter I was sent. I find writing tiresome since I am unfortunately not gifted with the skill of wordplay.

I let out a sigh of relief as I was helped on a cloth. The moment did not live long though as a sharp stab of pain traveled up from my right thigh. The nurse mumbled something about a knife, but I couldn't discern anything more of importance as she quickly pressed on the source of my pain.

Covering my right thigh proved untruthful as she quickly slapped my hand away. She proved to be a fiery woman not even a minute later as she threw a warm cloth in my face when I tried another time.

It felt really attractive to just take a nap. My eyelids felt heavy and above all, I was just really tired. Tired of fighting someone else's issues, tired of killing and aching to go home.

Raising my son and drinking a cup of Arbor Gold on a stormy day, yes, that is what I'll do.

What about another kid? A daughter sounded nice. Camylle had mentioned that she wanted one of each gender.

She would be beautiful, just like her mother. That curly blond hair would suit her face perfectly in combination with Camylle's bright blue eyes. Such a beauty she would grow into.

Yes, but first a nap. One cannot go about the process of making a daughter without any energy to speak of. A nap would suffice, yes a sound plan, one could go about and speak of it as foolproof.

A light feeling washed over me as I started to relax.

The shouts started to drown out.

And I, for the first time in recent memory, felt myself to be serene.

It was a magnificent feeling.

To just… let go.