Somewhere in the column, Marek knew Jason was riding with them. As squire to Ser Manfrey Santagar, who held command of the rear guard, he would be everywhere the knight was. As for Marek, he was alongside Ser Jared who had personally requested him for the campaign. Five hundred made for a quick march, he had found when they crossed the Red Mountain pass and were through the Prince's Pass within a fortnight. With the Red Mountains behind, they were able to make good time despite the baggage train, camp followers, footmen, archers and the hundred knights in tow. They were not cumbersome and gluttonous so as to not eat the countryside bare.

Ser Jared had been given command of the outriders, a dozen knights and a fifty mounted lancers. He surmised that they most likely did not need them but was not about to take chances. They passed orchards, farmlands and inns, nestled in small outcroppings amongst the soldier pines and sentinel trees. Most of the locals welcomed them and threw garlands as they passed, praising them and shouting encouragement. King Aerys had announced the campaign to all corners of the realm, to declare that outlaws and robber knights would not be tolerated.

Marek had never seen the king but had listened to enough of the stories around Swordhall; his father Marten had fought alongside him and the Lord Hand in the War on the Stepstones, and made a good account of himself. At the end of the fighting, he had seen Lord Tywin bestow the knighthood upon the Crown Prince and knew there was never a closer pair of friends.

'A good king protects the realm', he had heard Lord Criston say, 'and King Aerys is doing just that.' Marek did not know what made a good king but this seemed to make sense.

For days they followed the road north and then when the column reached Bitterbridge, they turned east for the Kingswood. Few villages were mapped and as a result, the column would stumble onto small communities, hesitant to welcome the presence of an army. It was another fortnight and two days of rain before they arrived at the royal hunting ground.

In a clearing off the road, a small but fortified camp was readied. Stakes had been planted on the perimeter and soldiers patrolled them. At the entrance sat the royal banner of House Targaryen, the red three headed dragon on a black field. The column proceeded through and dispersed to take what room remained in the camp.

Several tents were erected in the center, banners flying above. Marek spotted several he knew; Crakehall, Brax, Vikary, Connington, Grandison, Fell and Corbray. Above the largest of the tents was the pure white banner of the Kingsguard.

Ser Jared dismounted and Marek did the same, taking both horses away. As a squire, it fell to him to ready the tent, clean Ser's armor and weapons as well as his own. Spotting his brother leading his horse to the other end of the camp, Marek lowered his head and sullenly walked on.

He had not meant to anger his brother and estrange him, he had simple done what he thought was right. The honor of one's house came before all else, did it not? Such a lesson he had gleamed from their father with their upbringing, such as it was. Why couldn't Jason see that as well? As he staked the ground for the tent, a shadow fell over him. He looked up to see a bullnecked and thickset boy in a blue and grey surcoat, displaying the Twin Towers of Frey. With a face that was weak-chinned and stringy brown hair, Marek immediately took a dislike.

"You are in my way, young Frey." He said to him.

"And are you going to move me, boy?" snarled the Frey, bringing himself closer to Marek. He stood half a head taller and had hands like two great hams.

"If I must." Marek thrust the last stake in the ground when the Frey heaved the stake up and tossed it away in one swift movement.

"Fetch it back." Frey pointed to where it landed, a good ten feet away.

"Might I have your name?" Marek stood up. The big squire laughed, spittle spraying as he did.

"You must be a recent arrival or you are just as stupid as you look. Merrett Frey, scion of Lord Walder—" Marek smashed his fist into mouth, splitting his lip. Following with an uppercut that caught him in the nose, he drove the big Frey back. Finally, Merrett managed a respite and charged, knocking him down and landing on his chest. Raising his hands to deflect the heavy blows, Marek's forearms took the brunt until Merrett slowed for a mere moment. Grabbing his meaty right forearm, Marek twisted and rolled, coming on top of the Frey, pinned his arm and smashed his elbow to his face.

The next punch was directly between his eyes, which then rolled over white. It was not the first time he was thankful for his evenings as a deckhand, learning to fight the way native to the gutters and winesinks of the world. He left Merrett Frey dazed on the ground and his knuckles were scraped and bloody.

"I cannot say I have ever seen someone bested in such a fashion. Nor was someone so deserving as our dear Merrett." Said a golden haired squire in red and gold finery. He sat on a crate, finishing off an apple before tossing it away. His eyes were a pale green and flecked with gold, set in a flawless handsome face.

"He will be wanting more before long, his sort always do." Marek replied, approaching the squire.

"You did not learn to fight like that under good Ser Jared, nor any knight." The golden boy stood and was of a height with Marek.

"Sailors and deckhands who wanted to best a boy and earn some coin. Paid for my supper every night, it did." Marek offered his hand. "Marek Severus." The golden boy took it and shook strongly.

"Jaime Lannister." He smiled brilliantly.

The following morning a light rain had begun to fall. Having already been up before most of the camp, Marek quietly set about preparing both food and Ser Jared's armor; a dark steel breastplate, greaves, pauldrons and lobstered gauntlets with a shirt of ring mail that was freshly scoured. The great destrier, a beast called Hammer was awaiting Marek as he secured the saddle. The routine was almost second nature as he had done it countless times both in Starfall and on the road to the Kingswood. In a way, he took comfort in the routine, the security of the familiar surroundings.

Looking back over the previous two years, he had taken to his training well and it was showing. His wiry arms grew lean, his chest and shoulders had broadened and hours in the saddle had given him legs of iron. Constant practice in the yard had melted his stomach to reveal the muscles underneath, the envy of the serving women at Starfall.

Likewise, his brother had changed considerably when he caught a glimpse of him. Jason had hardened both body and mind and had let his beard grow out and shortened his hair as if in answer to his brothers' clean shaven and neck length hair. From the talk around the camp, Jason had begun the campaign by dueling three knights and besting them all, ransoming them back their horses and armor. Even his master, Ser Manfrey did little to curtail him and did not dare seem to trouble him with his duties.

As he saddled Hammer, the camp was alive with activity and the word was on everyone's lips; they were marching today. Arthur Dayne himself would be leading the column deep into the Kingswood to root out the Brotherhood while Ser Barristan brought a second force from King's Landing. Between them, the outlaws would be crushed. It seemed a good plan to Marek, who was determined to learn all he could about campaigning from the greatest knights in the realm. This was history, and Marek Severus would claim his place in it.

Then the trumpets blew and the drums began to beat, heralding the column to form. Ser Jared appeared, clad in his gleaming plate and mail. His sword pommel glittered with a large emerald, cut the shape of a seven-pointed star. His piety was well known, especially before battle.

"Has the Warrior blessed you with strength for the coming days, lad?" he asked as he took Hammer's reigns.

"I would not know, Ser. The Seven have never truly played a part in life." He admitted, feeling uncomfortable.

"Perhaps you should beseech them so they will, Marek. The Seven are the guiding hand by which he strive for victory in battle, contentment in life and peace in our dying breaths." He raised his bushy eyebrows as if to emphasize his meaning.

"I can promise you I will not be praying to anyone with my dying breath, only shouting that I will not be alone in my death." He turned for his own horse before Ser Jared could reply. Swinging himself into the saddle, he guided the horse into the gathering column of horses, pikemen, archers and outriders. At the head appeared Arthur Dayne, clad in gleaming white plate mounted on a snow white destrier. Over his shoulder peaked the hilt of Dawn, the famous greatsword carried by every previous Sword of the Morning.

"Men, today we ride not for ourselves but for the people of the realm." His voice carried across the mass array of men, earning instant silence. "Our duties are not just to our houses or our lords but to the ones we pass on the roads everyday; the farmers in their fields and the smiths in the forge. The fishers on their boats and the women in the homes, for them we ride. For them," he raised his pure white shield up, "We fight!" the resulting cheered carried throughout the forest, echoing leagues in every direction.

Marek added his voice to the roar, shouting himself hoarse. As if one great big beast, the column lurched forward and off into the dark, boding forests of the Kingswood.

It was hours later when they approached the village. It was small, no more than a dozen houses and abandoned. Ser Jared held command of the outriders, Marek at this side. The knight motioned for them to sweep into the village and begin the search. A rider was sent back to the column to inform Ser Arthur where he would deploy his host accordingly.

When an arrow flew by Ser Jared's mount, he shouted and ripped his sword from his scabbard. More arrows shot by, one taking a rider in the chest and his horse in the flank. One sprouted from a man's throat, blood seeping as he gurgled and fell backwards. Marek had been snatching sleep in the saddle when his mount reared up and nearly threw him

Ahead, a half dozen haggard men in boiled leather rushed from an empty sept, sporting fire hardened spears and pikes. Ripping his blade from its sheath, Marek put his spurs to his horse and joined in the charge. He snapped the visor of his helm down, narrowing his vision.

"Starfall!" Shouted Jared as he cleaved through a man's helm, crunching the cheap iron and skull beneath it. More cries went up as battle was joined, and Marek smelled the coppery blood in the air. Steel kissed and men screamed from fury and pain, swore at their foe and called for their mothers. A spear jabbed up at Marek and he swung his blade, chopping the shaft in half but he did not stop to finish him. He kept riding as an arrow shot past him and another punched into his saddle, just inches from his leg. He saw a destrier kick a man in the face, reducing it to a red ruin. A knight was pulled off by three screaming bandits who fell on him with hoes and spears. Marek turned for the three and charged, sword raised above him. They turned at the last moment as he roared.

"Bastards!" he scattered them as he charged, joining their comrades in the bloody battle. He dismounted to check the wounded knight, a man he knew to be Ser Aron Yronwood. He was bleeding from multiple wounds, blood darkening his silver plate and black mail. Yet, he was still alive. As Marek went to drag him to safety, something told him to turn and he pivoted, turning away a bloodied spear A bandit whose face was blackened with soot spat at him and thrusted the razor sharp spearhead for his throat

Marek swung upwards and splintered the shaft then savagely kicked the bandit in the chest. He then buried two feet of steel into his belly, bringing him close enough to smell his hot, stale breath. The bandits blue eyes hardened then rolled up, all life sapping from in mere moment. My first, he thought as he wrenched the blade free, the steel dripping with gore. A scream alerted him back to the fight and a hammer glanced off his pauldron, pain lancing into the shoulder. A great swell of man was bearing down on him, arms thick with muscle with a tangled red beard, eyes blazing in fury.

Sidestepping another blow, Marek chopped the shaft, taking the hammer and hand with it. As the outlaw screamed out in pain and grabbed his spurting stump, Marek opened his throat to the bone with a clean slice of his blade. Around him, the battle had turned against the outlaws, losing their momentary surprise. Most of the knights were still mounted while some had joined the fray on foot, blades swinging and axes felling their foemen at will. A dozen outlaws were already dead, blood pooling around their corpses.

From the woods came a disheartening cry as more outlaws appeared, this band better armed then their former. Iron and steel breastplates graced several of them, and castle forged steel swords waved over their heads. Mounted on a blood bay was a woman, young and fair with a bow and quiver. The White Fawn, Marek remembered the talk from the camps. He watched as she nocked and loosed an arrow, taking a knight in the throat. Her comrades charged the tired knights.

A white shadow appeared behind a house, flashing pale and then a streak of red. Arthur Dayne and his men finally reached the village and joined the battle. Dawn flashed, a sliver of sunlight and an outlaw fell cut down to the breastbone. Remembering the wounded Ser Aron, Marek sheathe his sword and with every ounce of strength, hefted him on the back of his horse and gave it slap with the flat of his hand. It galloped off back to their lines, safe from battle. Marek pulled his bloodied sword once more and charged headlong for the nearest bandit without a thought. The blood was on him, the battle fever it was called and nothing had ever felt better in his life.

He hamstrung an outlaw, turned a sword from another and killed him with a thrust to the chest. The steel parted the boiled leather and came away bloody. More arrows filled the air as the White Fawn loosed more, felling a man with every shot. She was still mounted when Marek charged for her.

"Fawn!" he shouted. "Your death is here!" She smiled and turned her horse away. A shadow fell over him, and the sword followed with it. Marek's blade flew up to meet him, turning it away then followed with a thrust and cut. The outlaw was tall and deathly gaunt, a dirtied red scarf wrapped around his long neck. His eyes were two dark bits amidst a sallow, tight face, the skin drawn and leathery. A mane of straw colored hair fell to his shoulders, dirty and unkempt.

"Oswyn Thrice-Hanged?" queried Marek as he circled him. The outlaw nodded.

"The Stranger be damned, death has a name." he feigned a thrust then cut for Marek's neck. His blade leapt to meet it, the steel ringing loudly. They parted and kissed again, then Marek swept aside the blade to deliver a vicious strike for his unarmored head. Though tall and gaunt, the robber knight was deft, dancing backwards before renewing his attack. Half a dozen blows came and went, each impact jarring through Marek's arm and shoulders. Growing heavy in his hands, his sword was slower with each parry and strike. He needed an opening or else this was his end, in the Kingswood at the hands of a shameless robber knight.

Taking advantage of the reprieve, Marek renewed his attack, striking high then left then right. The robber knight was forced back as the young squire matched blow for blow, ignoring the jarring in his arms. Sweat beaded down his back and chest, the plate and mail heavy and slick. Oswyn parried the incoming strike and pirouetted out the way and aimed for Marek's back.

Turning on his heel, Marek's steel turned away the blade and the surprise on his face was the moment he needed. He hamstrung the bandit, dropping him to one knee as blood poured from the unprotected joint. As Oswyn fell, Marek brought his blade up and with his remaining strength, took the robber knights head off with a single sweep. The headless corpse jerked then toppled, the head rolling away in a spray of dark blood.

When the trumpets blew, Marek found himself propped against a tree. His sword was at his feet, bloodied and nicked. Men lay dead all around him, bandits and soldiers alike. Horses were ownerless and some were dying, their horrific screams worse than any man. Broken spears jutted from the ground and corpses all around, and arrows poked up like wood and feather flowers. Blood and shit hung in the air, mingled with stale sweat and smoke. He watched a wounded bandit skewered in the back as he pleaded for help and felt nothing for him. The thundering of hooves brought Marek from his daze as fresh men arrived to the field. Unbloodied and clean, their swords sheathed and spears upright.

Amidst the chaos, the proud figure of Ser Arthur Dayne walked like a ghost. His greatsword was bloody and his once white, scaled armor was dented and spattered with blood. Picking up a fallen banner, he raised it and stuck it in the ground, displaying the snowy field of the Kingsguard. The cheer was deafening

"The singers never talk of this part, the corpses in the dirt and blood in the air. " A voice said above him. Marek looked up into the strong blue eyes of Ser Barristan Selmy, his white armor dirtied and bloodied. His light blonde hair was matted with sweat, his helm hanging from his swordbelt. The famed knight picked up Marek's blade and offered it, hilt first. Pulling himself up, Marek took it and sheathed it.

"A knight's blade is his life, squire. Though the battle may be done and the foe vanquished, never leave it far from your hand." he said not unkindly. Marek only nodded and after a moment, found the strength to answer.

"Thank you, Ser. It was said that my father holds you high regard." Was all Marek could think of.

"And who is your father, young squire?" asked Selmy.

"Marten Severus, Warlord of House Severus. You and he fought together on the Stepstones, bloodied the Golden Company and won everlasting glory." He watched the knight consider this for moment before answering.

"Short of the Kingsguard, there was never a finer sword, your father. From what I saw, his skill passed to you. What is your name?"

"I am Marek and nothing was passed to me, Ser. All that we have, we have earned. Nothing was given and so nothing can be taken." Marek replied fiercely, echoing his father's words. This seemed to please Ser Barristan and he nodded.

"Wise words, young Marek. You gave a good account off yourself here and you risked your life to defend a wounded knight. Bold and courageous, the makings of a true knight." he smiled tiredly. Marek was stunned into silence; the greatest warrior in all the Realm had praised him and all he could offer in return was a mute's reply.

Luckily, he was saved by the call of trumpets and horns. Marek followed the knight's eyes to where a pair of men-at-arms were escorting a peasant from the center of the village to where Ser Arthur sat on a tree stump. "Prepare yourself for another lesson and come. You will see the strength of these bandits wither away." Nodding, Marek could barely contain the excitement of not only meeting Barristan the Bold but speaking with him and receiving his praise. What Father would say, he thought before dismissing it, knowing he would likely say nothing. Falling into step next to Ser Barristan, he tried to ignore the looting already taking place.

Men-at-arms and levies in varied colors and badges rifled through the dead, taking anything they deemed valuable. Fingers were relieved of rings, charms and baubles were stuffed quickly away and the dead left with nothing.

"Ser, is right to loot the dead?" Marek asked. Wearily, Ser Barristan shook his head.

"This is the way of war and has been since the days of the First Men. These men have shed blood and claim their reward. It is likely all they will get for service in this campaign. The high lords receive the glory and the lion's share of the plunder while the fighting men take what they can carry." Out of the corner of his eye, he spied his brother Jason, plate and mail bloody from battle, relieving a bandit of silver studded belt and the inlaid sheath along with it. He stopped and raised his eyes to his twin and only scowled, before returning to his spoils.

Marek felt shame for offending his brother and the realization that Jason hated him. They had never felt this way about one another, but was it too late? Try as he might, he could not see any way to appease Jason and bring them back to their former affections, not without compromising his own achievements in the yard and in battle. The shame melted away and anger replaced it, a hot fury that rose and would not be placated.

Very well, brother. You want your glory everlasting? Then you will have it.