The column of Vale knights came to a halt at an inn called Two Crowns. Named in honor of King Jaehaerys the Conciliator and Good Queen Alysanne after the two had stayed a night, it rose three stories above the kingsroad, its walls and turrets and chimneys made of white marble that glimmered in the fading sunlight. Its south wing overlooked the waters of the Trident flowing east to Saltpans, with half the rooms built over the river. A large stable and forge were attached to the north side, the steely ring of a hammer steady over the river's rush, while the noise from the inn filled their ears even before they crossed the sturdy bridge.
By the time Willam reached the inn's yard, he saw clear that there were likely no rooms to be had, the stables with not a stall to spare, many guests and travelers seen through the windows. Some of the stableboys looked their way, but he waved them off and turned to join some of their outriders, reining up beside Ser Wyl Waynwood. The knight was a cousin to Lord Waynwood, a better horseman than he was swordsman, though he shared the family's long face and insistence on ceremony. "Any luck?" Willam asked him.
"They've not a room available."
"Pity, but not unexpected." It was here that the kingsroad broke off into three; the river road running west across the Riverlands to the Westerlands and Casterly Rock, the high road running east through the Mountains of the Moon to the Bloody Gate and beyond, and the kingsroad itself heading north through the Twins and beyond to the snowy North. Half the realm traveled the kingsroad, and near every inn they had come across was packed with travelers heading home from the Heir's Tourney.
Willam joined Wyl and the outriders in bearing the news, turning Honor about as the rest of the Vale knights made their way up the road to the inn.
Their host was some two hundred strong, though their numbers had swelled with freeriders, camp followers, and other hangers on since they left King's Landing. The command belonged to Ser Leowyn Corbray, an uncompromising knight when it came to enforcing discipline on the march, who they all agreed was the best amongst them for the role. He had set Ser Wyl Waynwood forth with the outriders, Ser Oswin Breakstone with the baggage train, and Ser Patrek Hersy to police the many followers they had attracted. All throughout the realm the Vale knights were known to be chivalrous and honorable, and it would be unbecoming for a Vale host to be disorderly, especially with their most precious cargo. The champion's purse was some twenty thousand golden dragons packed into four massive ironwood chests, and Aegon had entrusted them to see every single piece safely to the Vale. Willam had tasked the Royce men-at-arms who had accompanied them to that task, the wagon that bore the chests guarded day and night, separate from the rest of the baggage train.
The Dragonkeepers rode behind the Royce contingent, all twelve men astride white palfreys shining in their black steel plate and scaled armor. By decree of King Viserys, they were tasked with the upkeep and defense of the she-dragon Dreamfyre and her lair, though Willam had no idea as to how they would go about that. The lands around Runestone were not mountainous, nor were there any large caves to be had, but that seemed to not bother Ser Aethon Velaryon at all. The captain of the Dragonkeepers attending Dreamfyre was a distant cousin of Lord Corlys. He had joined the Dragonkeepers early, his knowledge of the Valyrian tongue vital to the task, and his disdain for the sea made him ill-suited for a family known for their sailors.
When the column reached Two Crowns in force, Ser Wyl spoke quick words with Ser Leowyn, and Willam left them to find the lads. Down the line he passed Ser Godric Belmore bearing the Arryn falcon standard, and Ser Ben Coldwater with the royal three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Past them were others of the Vale, noble heirs and lordlings with their esquires, hedge knights and retainers, men-at-arms ahorse and on foot. He saluted Ser Oswin as he rode past and wheeled Honor about beside the wagon bearing Aegon's gold. Driving the horses was Ser Jaime Hunter, and beside him sat Corwyn Corbray, with Royce men-at-arms riding on either side.
"Any rooms?" Jaime called.
"None," Willam said, and he watched as Corwyn made a face.
"I would have hoped to sleep on an actual bed before we hit the high road." Jaime shook his head. "The mountain clansmen will no doubt be watching us all the way."
"This many men riding together? They'd be idiots to attack us."
"I pray it so, but sometimes the gods are not kind."
Ser Aethon was speaking quietly to one of his men, the Valyrian making not a lick of sense to Willam's ears, and behind them was the lads; Kyle Woodhull looked ready for a hot meal and made it known aloud, Andrew Hardyng favored him a nod and an unreadable expression, his squire Pate Stone yawned into his hand, and Robert Redfort seemed lively as ever as he made up for the rest of them in speaking to their newest member about the apples. "… all rotten to the core, every one of them! You'd only need one look to see it for true. Damn that merchant to seven hells, robbing me of that silver stag… but he did give us a wealth of laughs when we had half the party throwing apples at each other. We looked like a bunch of Fossoways by the end of it!"
Robert laughed, and Willam chuckled at the memory of that day as he rode beside the Marcher knight. Ser Criston Cole was a quiet man, and soft spoken in his words when he did speak. His pale green eyes were inquisitive and saw all, his manner friendly, his faith a sure thing though he cared not that Pate was a bastard. He did not boast of his skill of sword and shield, not even during nights around the cookfire when many came to ask about how he had bested Prince Daemon Targaryen in the melee, only telling how it went. Even now, listening to Robert prattling on about his apples, he does not seem to regret his decision.
The idea of inviting the Marcher knight into the Royce household had been Willam's in truth, but Aegon had been the one to voice it aloud, after they had spent away half the night talking about the skill of those who had taken part in the melee. Of those who had made it to the final seven, Criston Cole was not wholly unique. A knight from a lesser house, and a second son to his steward father, he was destined for nothing but a life of service to the Dondarrions of Blackhaven as a household knight. His armor in the melee had bespoken of no great wealth, yet his skill at arms was undeniable, and Aegon always did have a good eye for swordsmanship.
When they decided to ask him on, Willam had sought out Ser Criston with a letter written in Aegon's own hand sealed in wax bearing his personal arms. "A spar," Aegon explained. "To get a true measure of the man. I never did get to cross swords with him during the melee." He found the man in a sea of pavilions from the Stormlands and the next day at the crack of dawn, he watched the two spar. It was fair to say that they were evenly matched, his cousin smiling as they fought. Willam joined in on the second round, and had they been using live steel, he would have died three deaths to the one he dealt. After that the offer had been made, to leave service with Lord Dondarrion and to join the Royces of Runestone, to see the Vale in all its glory and natural beauty, to do some good.
Ser Criston asked for time to think on the offer, and they had left him with parting words. "You're an ambitious man," Aegon said. "I think you'll do great things in the Vale. Truly." The answer came two days later. And here he rides. Willam glanced at their newest companion. A dangerous man with a sword and shield, expected of a Marcher knight dealing with Dornish raids, and no doubt he's got some Vale chivalry in him.
That night they made camp beside the rushing waters of the Trident. Packed with travelers heading west and north, not a single room was to be had in Two Crowns, and as the sun went down over a hundred tents rose around the inn along the river's banks. Ser Leowyn set sentries around the baggage train, and Willam saw that the carriage bearing the gold was properly guarded, Jaime volunteering to take the first watch with some of the Royce knights and men-at-arms. They did not expect trouble along the kingsroad with a column of such size, but twenty thousand golden dragons was nothing to sniff at. It was best to not take chances.
When it came time to eat the evening meal, the inn's lack of rooms did not mean lack of food, and Willam found himself sat around a cookfire with the lads eating from trenchers of bread filled with roast game dripping with juices and browned onions, a skin of wine passed between them. Robert set to the meal lustily as Andrew ate with more grace, and Kyle looked sullenly down at the food, while Corwyn and Pate sat off to the side speaking with some of the other squires. Ser Criston was quiet with his meal, while two fires over Jon Lynderly, called the Little Viper, struck up "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" with some of the Snakewood men, and then Robert was chuckling.
"Oh, sweet she was, and pure and fair!" he sang, and then nodded to himself. "I'd like to find myself a maiden fair one of these days. A lusty wench who knows her way around a bed."
"You're speaking of two different women," said Andrew.
"I doubt I'll even find one," Kyle muttered.
"Ah, one'll come around eventually," Robert said, belching. "And I'm sure you've got your eye on one or three pretty ladies, no? We've all got one that's caught our fancy. Tell him true, Willam, there's a maiden in the Vale for all of us, we've just got to find 'em. Willam."
Willam raised the wine skin in salute and said, "I'll drink to that." The thought of seeing sweet Elinor again had a smile pulling at his lips, and Robert barked a laugh.
"She got a name?"
"You already know her name."
"Ah! But our Marcher knight doesn't know it."
Willam looked to Criston, and the older knight simply shrugged, a hint of a smile to his lips. Robert will make a Vale knight of him yet. "Elinor," he said, and the heir to the Redfort cheered at her name.
Then his attention was on the knight sitting beside him. "Andrew," Robert said, nudging him with an elbow, nearly spilling some roast game from his trencher. "Come on, I know you've got one."
"Fancy yourself a lovesick romantic now, Robert?" Andrew had the faintest of grins. "I shall say our beautiful Lady Jeyne Arryn."
Willam joined Robert in groaning, Kyle pulled himself from his sullenness and his half empty trencher to snort, while Ser Criston looked on with confusion written across his face. "Gods be good, you and everyone else in the Vale," Robert said, waving his fork about, while Willam leaned over to the Stormlander and explained. "It is true that our Lady Jeyne is beautiful, but every unwed lordling in the Vale is vying for her hand, for with her comes the Eyrie," he said, and then turned to the rest of them and raised his voice, "It's also not an answer since Andrew has never once made a gesture for Lady Jeyne's affections."
"What of you, Ser Criston?" Kyle said. "You're handsome enough."
"Unfortunately, there is none," said Ser Criston Cole. "But mayhaps there will be someone in the future."
Robert turned to Kyle as the wine skin found its way into his hand. "Should I even ask?"
"Up yours, Robert."
"Ha!" Robert finished off the last of his meat and began chewing away his trencher. "Now, we all know Jaime is married to his sword and his chivalry. It's why we call him Ser Warrior, Criston. Because he's so strict about duty, and sometimes I think he's more serious about it than Aegon is about the Seven-Pointed Star."
Andrew shrugged with his hand, while Kyle scoffed and said, "I've never seen Jaime so much as look a woman's way. At least Aegon seems to notice them, like when we were at Longbow Hall for the name day of Jaime's little sister. I remember that Aegon danced half the night away with… with… gods, what was her name? She was one of Jaime's cousins from the Fingers."
"Wendeyne," Willam said, when the memory came to his mind. A year older than Aegon, Wendeyne Hunter was a willowy beauty with dreamy eyes, and she had danced with his cousin for more than a dozen songs, the two of them smiling at each other like idiots through it all. Willam was pretty sure those two had shared some kisses as well. But the wine had truly flowed that night, and it had been one of the rare times when Aegon indulged in a cup or two of wine, and Willam hadn't stayed awake to see the end of it. But he doesn't fancy her, he thought, shaking his head. Not like he does Jeyne.
"To Wendeyne!" Robert cheered as he raised the wine skin in salute. "You almost cracked our Bronze Egg's magic armor." Then a chunk of bread snapped against the back of his head, and they all turned to see Jaime frowning at them with another piece ready to launch, while Jon Little Viper had moved on to "The Dornishman's Wife."
"I thought it was Princess Rhaenyra?" called Pate from the huddle of squires, and they all left Jaime to his watch. "She went to visit Aegon's pavilion before the melee."
"No," Willam said. "Not the princess."
"I remember the prince wearing a strip of blue silk knotted around his arm," Criston said. "Was it truly Lady Jeyne Arryn's honor?"
"Aegon doesn't like being called a prince," Robert said, as Willam shrugged and said, "I believe it was."
His cousin had never said so aloud, but Willam knew. The detour they had made up the Giant's Lance to the Eyrie on their way to King's Landing had not been for nothing. He thought of the special made warhelm fanned by its falcon's wings safely stowed in the baggage train. A gift for his future son. The idea of Aegon wedding any other lady seemed preposterous.
"I'd wager gold that by the time we return to the Vale the two of them will be betrothed," Kyle said sullenly. "But I haven't got any."
"And if you did?" asked Robert. "No one would take that bet. They'd have to be an idiot."
"I can think of a few," Andrew said.
"Agreed," Willam added as he stood from his seat, and that was the end of that.
Afterward, he sought out a few hours of sleep in his tent, wrapped up in his blankets as a woman's voice from a tavern window sang the rousing words of "Seven Swords for Seven Sons," and then the loving "Two Hearts that Beat as One," with an accompanying singer's woodharp. He dreamed of his sweet Elinor walking the halls of Runestone with a basket or a bundle in her arms, and how she would smile when she saw him, returning home after winning glory on the field of battle.
Come dawn, the songs had ceased, but the smell of burnt bacon was in the air. He broke his fast on them beside the lads, a sleepy Andrew having taken the second watch from Jaime, while the heir to Longbow Hall was well rested like he hadn't spent half the night awake. He had even gotten in a light spar with Ser Joseth Stone. When Pate asked how he was still so full of energy, Jaime had simply grinned. "My faith grants me all that I require."
When the column of Vale knights left Two Crowns striking east upon the high road, they did so with a few more to their numbers, including hedge knights and freeriders of the Riverlands, and one especially noted singer, who called himself Illifer the Illustrious. He was Braavosi with a voice like honey, in the bastard Valyrian of Myr he sang "The Seasons of My Love," and none but the Dragonkeepers could understand his words. Willam listened as they rode, to the sad songs and the bawdy ones, the ballads from the Dornish marches and the ones from across the Narrow Sea, and he added his voice to the ones he knew.
Days came and went as they traveled, bright and sunny the first, then cloudy and dark the next, and all the while the column kept its pace. Willam spent some days riding with the lads, hearing more about the tales Ser Criston had of the Dornish marches and the sandy raiders, and spent others with Ser Aethon Velaryon and the Dragonkeepers, learning of what exactly a dragon needed protecting from. "Princess Aerea Targaryen stole away from Dragonstone upon the back of Balerion the Black Dread. She vanished for more than a year, not seen by anyone, only to return to King's Landing and die shortly after. The Dragonkeepers were founded soon after by King Jaehaerys. We ensure that the dragons are protected, and that keep away those foolish enough to approach them."
Soon the foothills and forests rose around them, the Mountains of the Moon standing indomitable on the horizon with its white capped peaks. It was here that the high road grew dangerous, with the mountain clansmen hiding in the many caves of the foothills, watching and waiting to molest any under-defended travelers. Living amongst shadowcasts and the trees, they were the descendants of the First Men who had refused to submit to invading Andals after the Battle of the Seven Stars, where the First Men kings fell to the Andal knights. Divided as they were vicious, the mountain clans fought amongst themselves as much as they did against the knights of the Vale of Arryn, and they were a constant threat that many a Lord of the Eyrie had failed to deal a death blow.
He could not shake the feeling that there were eyes upon them, hidden in the trees of the foothills, while the column made its way up the narrow stony road. Wyl Waynwood and his outriders had been sent forth, while Oswin Breakstone kept a tight guard of the baggage train, and Leowyn Corbray had them riding in full plate. The weight of steel bore heavy on them all, "Do you fear that they'll attack us?" Willam asked him the day he chose to ride at the head.
"Any man not afraid of the high road is soon to be a dead man." Ser Leowyn looked over his shoulder at the knights and wagons and hangers on behind them. "We ride with merchants, women, and good castle-forged steel. Be it Moon Brothers or Stone Crows or Howlers, one of the clan chiefs will try us."
"Surly not. They'd have to be true fools to attack."
"The mountain clans are savages who don't even believe in the right gods." Ser Leowyn spat. "Nor have they bent the knee to the Eyrie and the Iron Throne, with Aegon the Conqueror and his dragon not enough to move their legs."
"Mayhaps our Aegon will prove different."
"A second Field of Fire?"
Willam looked about the wild foothills and the tall trees, and he shrugged. "More like Foothills of Fire, or mountains." But he reckoned that would only come to pass if the many clan chiefs could gather as one host without killing each other first. The seven hells would sooner freeze over.
"Riders!" came a shout, and their eyes turned up the high road.
It was one of Wyl Waynwood's outriders, riding hard for them with his sword drawn, the ring of steel apparent in the air. He looked haggard. There was blood splattered on his face, his blade dripping red.
For a long moment, the entire column stilled, and then everyone was moving as news ripped through them faster than a raven could fly. Men were reaching for their weapons, knights wheeling about their mounts, merchants and camp followers scrambling for cover amongst the wagons. "Protect the baggage train!" Ser Leowyn shouted, and Ser Oswin Breakstone leapt into action calling forth his men, while more of Wyl Waynwood's outriders raced towards them, and following behind were the clansmen.
They bore no banners, sounded no horns, only the sound of horses thundering down the stone road and the uneven hills, all lean dark men in boiled leather wielding all manner of weapons: longswords, lances, axes, spiked clubs, daggers, and cudgels. Willam drew Lamentation as he reined Honor to face the oncoming foe. His blood was burning through him, muscles tense and ready to go, fear lost to him. The horses pulling the carriages were frightened, pounding the road beneath their hooves and throwing their heads back, the battle cries of knights and clansmen joining them.
Ser Leowyn shouted, "Let them come!" and swung his palfrey to face them. Willam let out a wordless shout as the charges met, swinging Lamentation into the face of his foe, as the sounds of battle roared all around him. Honor screamed as he propelled forward, and Willam took the burned head clean off as he went, blood spilling every which way as it toppled to the ground. He rode about and saw the chaos before him. The mountain clansmen were Burned Men, each warrior be they man or woman armored in rusty mail and stolen weapons, a part of their body burned off to show their courage. Ser Oswin hammered away at a clansmen wearing a horned helm, their horses dancing around each other trading kicks. The outriders charged down the stone road slashing at all they passed, while Ser Wyl Waynwood took the arm of a clansmen who looked to be no older than fifteen, and the hedge knight beside him was knocked from his mount and had his skull crushed by a warhammer. Down the column, he saw merchants and women huddling atop the carriages, throwing everything and anything at the clansmen. Some of the horses bolted, taking the carriages with them, and they ran aground in the trees around them, while Ser Oswin's knights struggled to keep a solid defensive formation.
Willam put to heel and Honor raced forth down the line, skirting by a hundred different battles between clansmen and knights. The Royce men were in a circle around the carriage bearing the gold, shields huddled close as spears and swords licked out to draw blood, and the Dragonkeepers stood firm beside them, Ser Aethon Velaryon barking orders in Valyrian. Willam swung at clansmen close enough to taste Valyrian steel, and barely missed the incoming head of an axe from one ugly Burned Man. Upon the carriage was Kyle with a bow in his hands and a quiver full of arrows hanging around an arm. He loosed them with startingly speed, though only half of them found a home in clansmen flesh, the others landing amongst the trees and dirt.
"Come on you fuckers!" roared Robert as he swung his sword. The knight was unhorsed, fighting in the vanguard with the Royce skirmishers, while a handful of Redfort men-at-arms were guarding his flanks. They had amassed quite a sum of bodies, though more clansmen were ready to meet them.
In a lull around the other side of the carriage, Willam reined up beside the men-at-arms. "Where are the others?" he shouted to no one in particular, not finding the rest of the lads, nor the Marcher knight.
"Ser Jaime went down line, and the squires followed," called one of the Royce men, and another said, "Ser Darnold Grafton took an arrow to the neck."
And he commands the rearguard. Willam thanked the men and spurred Honor on, leaving the gold in their capable hands. Things ran fast after that. The air was filled with screams of the dying, heavy with the scent of blood and shit, and chaos reigned at the rear of the column. Jaime was organizing a command with Ser Criston at his back, while Corwyn and Andrew pulled a wounded knight in Belmore purple to safety, and Pate was clutching a spear like a drowning man, blood running down his face, yet he stood his ground. There was a score of dead around the last carriage, many unarmored, the remaining men-at-arms wearing various different colors fighting in loose formation, while the clansmen they fought were bigger and meaner. Moon Brothers. Willam ran down one and raked the face of the next with Lamentation, nearly losing grip of his blade as Valyrian steel sliced through flesh and caught on bone. Jaime gave a shout as he surged forth, men-at-arms at his back, and death was met out to all who came.
They cut down foes left and right, and then Willam found himself falling from his saddle, Honor screaming as he went down. His grip of Lamentation failed, the blade clattered to the stony high road, lost in the chaos, and he nearly had his leg crushed under his horse's weight. "You won't be dying on your knees this day." Hands found their way around his arms, and soon after Willam was standing again, a sword pressed into his hand. He didn't know the man who helped him, but he thanked him, and then reeled back as an arrow sprouted through his right eye.
"For the Eyrie!"
Their charge happened all at once, Jaime leading with sword and shield, and Willam yelled as he hefted his new weapon right into the face of the nearest Moon Brother. Ripping the shield from the dead man's hands, he threw it at his oncoming foe, then caught him with a thrust through a weak spot in his rusted mail. The blade burst from his back covered in blood. Near him was Ser Criston, locked in a guard with a Moon Brother, and Willam came up and opened the clansman's throat. Together they fought their way to Jaime, saving young Pate from losing his head to a deadly swing of an axe, leaving its wielder with an open stomach, clutching at his guts in the dirt. "Shield wall!" Jaime shouted to those men-at-arms that remained with shields intact. "I want a shield wall at the last wagon!" Then they heard the blast of a horn in the distance along with the thunder of hooves and the renewed clash of steel.
At that the clansmen were in retreat, leaving their dead behind, and Willam watched them go. The wounded and dying were scattered about, screaming or moaning in their pain. Gods be good. He idly thought of how easy killing came when the foe was clansmen, when he almost froze during the melee against a fellow knight. It was a queer thought. The tiredness started to creep in, and for all that it felt like they had been fighting for half the day, scarcely an hour had passed.
"Cowards," one of the men spat, while others attended to the wounded, and dealt with the dying mountain clansmen that remained. Willam went to find his sword. He saw Pate staring at his hands, covered in blood, and squeezed his squire on the shoulder and told him not to think too hard on it. "Your first battle is always going to be a shocker. We'll get some wine in you, and everything will be fine."
His horse Honor had shockingly survived with but only a couple of scrapes and scratches. Willam rubbed his neck and then returned to his search, leaving Pate to care for the animal. Some of the bodies he passed had belonged to the hangers on, the merchants who thought it safe to travel with such a large party, and the camp followers who thought to make some coin off the many knights of the Vale. A few looked too young by far, their wounds grievous.
"Willam," called Andrew, holding Lamentation aloft in his hands.
"You have my thanks," he said, taking the blade in hand, cleaning the blood and gore, and sheathing the blade.
"This is not what I expected when you spoke of the Vale's beauty," said Ser Criston when he joined their little huddle. His armor was dented and there was blood running down his arm, his face slick with sweat as he removed his helm. Those pale green eyes were alive with energy. "Though I now see what Aegon spoke of when he said to do some good. These… mountain clansmen, they are nothing more than brigands, undisciplined in their attack, and wanton in their killing. Not even the Dornish are like this, and they're Dornish."
"And I have to wonder…" Willam looked at the corpses around them. "These are Moon Brothers, but at the head of the column we were fighting Burned Men. The clans don't work together like this, not these two. Something is amiss here."
"Aye," Jaime called to them. "But that is a matter for another time. We have wounded to care for."
The few that could be saved were loaded onto the wagons, while those that could not had their pain taken away, and those clansmen left behind had their heads struck from their shoulders for their crimes. Ser Darnold Grafton, who held command of the rearguard, died of his wounds. Corwyn had tried to save him, but the arrow had dug deep, and the man had lost too much blood. Pate looked white as a sheet, and Willam scrounged up a wine skin and gave some to the lad, and then had some himself to steel his own nerves. The others were in better health, their wounds not lethal, while many of the men-at-arms walked away with a few broken bones and cuts and scratches.
When the riders came down the length of the column, they had taken care of their own, and Willam watched as they reined up with a weariness in his bones. The knights had the Arryn falcon on their surcoats, sky-blue capes at their shoulders, polished warhorns on slings, all of them only slightly bloodied by battle. The foremost among them had a fine suit of steel plate and a warhelm with falcon wings fanning out on either side, his cape more refined than the others, and his horse was a black charger. His helm matches the one for Aegon's future son. The knight surveyed them all, and then said, "Who has command here?"
"I do. Ser Jaime Hunter."
"The battle is done. We are to make haste for the Bloody Gate, taking all viable arms and armor with us as we leave. There is no time to bury the dead, gods forgive us."
"And you are?" Willam asked, though he knew who they were speaking with.
"I am Ser Joffrey Arryn," the knight said, removing his warhelm to reveal that familiar face. A shock of Arryn blond hair matted down by the steel, blue eyes like a clear sky, and a grim set to his expression. "The son of Ser Osric Arryn, the Knight of the Bloody Gate."