The cold water woke him with a jolt, drenching him to the bone. Jason stood over him, empty pail in hand and a lazy smile on his face.
"Welcome back, brother. It seems you won." He helped him up, ignoring the pain in his face. Marek put a hand to his cheek and came away with water and blood.
"A scar, most likely. Perhaps this will earn you that knighthood, maybe the Lady Ashara will grant you the spurs herself." Jason sourly.
The remark make Marek feel shamed, oddly enough. He wiped the blood on his trousers and turned for his mount.
"The lady Ashara will nothing of this, Jason. Promise me." He said angrily. Though he had won, Marek knew it had been in poor circumstances. Around him, the knights and squires who had witnessed it nodded in approval; he had knocked the arrogant squire down and won his first duel. Ser Manfrey was beaming and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Well done, lad. I daresay he will not challenging anyone in the yard for a time." Then a realization dawned on him.
"Did I kill him?" he asked, aghast. Manfrey laughed.
"No but he will carry that scar on his belly for the rest of his days. Though I think you will bear one as well, lad. Not to worry, the girls love a man with a scar on his face." He handed him a cloth to hold to his face.
"Who hit me?" asked Marek, the back of his head a dull ache. He had a feeling he already knew.
"Ah, your brother. When it seemed that you were about to kill Morrigen, he stepped in with your discarded shield and wacked you but good. Just a bump, I wager. You will not be going the way of Baelor Breakspear." He laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. He could not share in the jest as Jason was not with him, having left on his mount rather suddenly. Despite the pain, he grabbed and mounted his own horse to follow him.
He caught up with him back in the yard, devoid of all occupants. Jason angrily dismounted and confronted Marek as he climbed off.
"You're a fool! What madness possessed you to a duel?" he shouted.
"Me, a fool? If Morrigen had the slightest sense in that thick head, he would not have dared to call me out. Besides, I won, dear brother. What has angered you so?" he was genuinely confused.
"Yes, you won. How honorable for you, now all the talk will be of how you bested the bully of the yard and won your first duel. Word will no doubt reach Father and what will he say?" Jason was red in the face and neck, angrier than Marek had ever seen him.
"Most likely he will say "Why did I not kill him, for the slight on our honor?" I defended him as well as myself. Can you not see that?" Of course he did, Marek realized. Jason was angered because it was Marek, the younger by a half a minute, who defended the family. "Jason, I never th—" he began.
Jason pushed him.
"No, you never think! You always do whatever you damn well please and bugger the consequences! Dancing with the Lady Ashara, jesting and carousing those Martells and then slighting me to curry favor with Father. Train and earn your spurs with someone else, for you are no brother of mine." He stormed off into the keep, leaving Marek silent and bewildered.
For days afterwards, Marek did not see his brother. The only word he had of him was what he would gleam from the other squires and knights, about how well he rode or how he bested some foe in the yard. Angered by Jason's words, he did not seek him out and threw himself into the sword and horse. Ser Jared Santagar had not only been drilling him in the sword but the mace and axe, morningstar and lance. He contemplated writing a letter to Father but ultimately decided against it; the quarrels of his children held no interest to him, only their success in their training.
Hours in the yard had strengthened his body and the Dornish sun had streaked his hair golden. At times, he didn't recognize himself as he battered one opponent to the next. In a match against Ser Jared, he bested him in mere moments and was the talk of the keep. His father could never be counted on to be proud but Jason always could, offering a jest or a grin of approval.
Now, his companions were the bruises and welts raised from the yard. When he fell asleep that night, wineskin in hand, he dreamt of a shrouded woman being fetched from the sea. Only the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs were heard, and every time he called out, Marek tasted only blood.
Lord Criston had returned sometime in the night and a servant woke him. Marek quickly dressing himself, he hurried to the solar where the Lord awaited him. Surrounded by his knights and attendants, Criston made a grim looking figure. In the corner, he spied Jason but did not meet his eyes.
"..root these outlaws wherever they hide." Said one knight.
"So the King has commanded. A force is to be raised at once, from the Stormlands, Westerlands and here. Make no mistake, the Kingswood Brotherhood are a formidable one."
"Har! They are brigands, my Lord. We will sort them out in good order."
"Who will have the command, my Lord?" asked Ser Jared, eyes ringed by dark bags.
"Ser Gerold Hightower himself, along with Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan Selmy." Replied Lord Criston. A murmur went through the room.
"It would seem the King takes this threat quite seriously, enough to warrant the three best swords of the Kingsguard." Said Jared, scratching his beard.
"Indeed, he would. Outlaws that close to the capital makes them all uneasy. Our force will be five hundred levies with one hundred knights. The ravens will be dispatched in the morning and preparations will begin at dawn. Dismissed." Criston waved them away and they filed from the chamber. Marek remained against the wall as the room emptied. He did not see Jason anywhere.
"Do not think I cannot see you, young Marek. Come closer, sit." Criston beckoned to a chair. He did as he was bid.
"Thank you, my Lord." He replied.
"Ser Jared has told me only good tidings of you and your brother. I expected nothing less. Now, this business with Jaremy Morrigen. Did he draw his steel first?" he leaned his close, his purple eyes afire in the candlelight. Marek nodded.
"Then good, you were within your rights to accept the duel. Well fought, from what I understand. However, you must know that every action, from the lowest innkeep to the highest lord has equal consequence."
"But I beat him, bloodied and sent Morrigen running. What else could come from this?" Marek said.
"Retribution. His father is Lord Brynden Morrigen, vain and proud where slights are concerned. Do not think you have heard the last of this duel, young Marek. Heed this warning, not just in this but for all things. What we do in life carries down through the years and ages. Take for instance, the period of history we call The Blackfyre Rebellions. What started as a mere recognition of skill began the greatest threat to the realm we have ever known.
"Aegon the Unworthy, in all his mistakes and gluttony, did what he thought was right. Gifting the sword of the Targaryen kings to a man best suited to wield it, Daemon Waters. What were his true intention, none may say and all will speculate. This one moment, this simple action would plague the realm for nearly six decades. The lesson is that a snowfall may start an avalanche; just a duel may start a war." Silence filled the chamber, and Lord Criston leaned back.
"You and your brother will be accompanying Ser Jared and their host to the Kingswood. All your skills you have learned will be put to the test. A knight is no true knight until he has tasted of war, know this. Are you ready, young Marek?"
"I am, my Lord." He replied simply. Criston turned to this parchment and quill.
"We shall see." With a wave of his hand, Criston dismissed him and Marek found himself striding back to his chambers. A sense of both elation and distress overcame him as he prepared his travel clothes for the next day. He chose a subtle crimson and black doublet with the sword and skull badge of his house embroidered in silver thread a loose pair of cotton breeches and his favored pair of boots gifted from a Braavosi captain he once knew. Then came his sword and belt, his prized possession. The day he forged it had been the proudest of his life at that point and he relished the scrape of steel on leather as he drew it. Its blade was as wide as palm across with three full incisors, its crossguard of simple steel and a hilt of tooled red leather. The pommel was weighted lead, rounded off to balance out the heavy steel. When the blade was in his hand, there was no man he needed to fear.
When he rode out tomorrow, Marek would put the sword and his skills to the ultimate test.
He would be going into battle for the first time.