Part 14 – The Long Road

Lancel (V) - November 25.

The first pink barely etched the sky as Vylarr cursed softly at the ten outriders as they left the night's cold camp to take point for the day's mile eating canter westward on the Gold Road. The tired, sore, mud splattered members of the Queen's guard showed their mettle by cheerfully muttering impolite comments on the dubious nature of their captain's lineage and whether his mother might have lain with creatures more commonly found in a barn. The tough man showed his appreciation for their rough humor by braying before moving to a set of five men, already mounted, detailed to act as the day's rear guard.

"Any of you arses gots som'in ta add to that?" he challenged with a gruff smile.

A few chuckled from within the copse they'd spent yet another fireless night's dismal camp. One hardy soul piped up. "Yer pa were man enuff, cap'n. Just yer mah dangl'd mor'en two teats from'er belly."

Vylarr snorted along in amusement with the rest until he slapped the hind quarter of the nearest mount; and off the lot of them trotted back toward the east on the road. Both this rearward group and the first one trotting ahead took along a spare horse for each man.

Lancel had observed the captain's coarse, lenient, yet strangely effective exercising of leadership while the Lannister scion saddled the mount he had chosen for the day. The saddle weighed significantly less than at the start of the journey six dawns earlier. The coins originally packed in his and his cousin Tyrek's saddlebags had all been spent the very first day, while the score plus two riders passed through the many villages and hamlets populating the Gold Road as it first flowed away from King's Landing. The money had garnered them a few extra horses and two weeks supplies. The teen swallowed hard, trying to dislodge a lump of uncooked oatmeal which had stubbornly lodged in his throat during what passed for the morning's breakfast.

He heard Vylarr call out firmly, "Are me soldiers ready?"

Lancel had helped feed and bed down Tommen and Myrcella the previous night, leaving Tyrek the chore of coddling them to readiness this morning. Prepping four horses in the pre-dawn seemed a gift compared to the work of cajoling the overtaxed bodies of the Prince and Princess into moving.

The two children gave weak, desultory responses to the captain.

"Not done rewrapping Tommen's legs yet," Tyrek answered with a muffled voice, his head bent close to the source of his struggles. "His thigh sores still ooze a bit of blood and puss."

"We got a quarter hour 'o so," said Vylarr resignedly. "Here, take a sip me brave Prince."

Without seeing, Lancel knew the lean, leathery man was offering one of the many nip bottles the captain secreted on his body.

"No. Don't wanna," whined Tommen. "Tastes yucky."

"Oh, that's cause it be physic water," the captain cajoled. "The yuck is the healin' power. Your legs'll hurt less, my Prince, if you take a sip."

Tommen whimpered. The teen rolled his eyes in disgust. 'Weren't for you ya little fucking cry baby, we wouldn't be running from death!' he raged to himself.

One of the point riders waited patiently by the side of the road, keeping a lazy eye on the Lannisters as they approached. The reins of two rundown chargers were tied around the pommel of the man's saddle. Flies buzzed about the nags, landing repeatedly on stripes of brown-red colors that Lancel quickly realized were splashes of blood.

"Two more free riders," the man grunted.

"Any trouble?" Vylarr asked coolly.

The guardsman shrugged. "Oswold lost some fingers."

"Anyone sees ya? The bodies covered up from vultures and ravens?"

The man scrunched up his face in disgust at the question even being asked.

"Good," said the captain, apparently satisfied with the professional tone of the rat faced man's non-verbal answer. "You keeping these two, or handin' them over?"

The first few horses to make up the group's pitiful remuda of nags, draft horses, and broken down old war horses were purchased with good Lannister gold. The next set of horses were cut out at night from the stables and fields of isolated manors owned by pauper or aging knights, with nothing more than dogs to keep watch over their pitiful property. And the last two days, since they crossed over the Tears of God's Eye, the outriders brought in the mounts from freeriders, hedge knights, and men-at-arms brave or desperate enough to listen to the call from King's Landing for the missing Tommen and Myrcella, but stupid enough to do so alone or in pairs or trios. These fools had lost their horses along with their lives.

The guardsman grinned wickedly. "You keep this shitten lot." He quickly unwound the reins from his saddle horn and passed control of the aged pair over to Vylarr. "Chk, chk, chk," the Lannister bannerman's teeth clicked and off his horse went to take him back to his comrades pacing two or three miles ahead of Lancel's group.

"That's the third group they've … today," said Tyrek with a nervous gulp. "Will there be more? What should we do?"

The evil in Vylarr's answering smile chilled Lancel blood. "Slaughter'em, young Ser. Send'em to the Seven Hells."

November 27.

A steady drizzle had dropped upon Lancel since midnight, spoiling his brief night's sleep and making his overburdened body even more miserable with every mile they slogged down the muddy, inundated Gold Road. As usual, ten riders stayed a league ahead to scout and act as decoys if necessary; and the five men to the rear watched for signs of pursuit.

"No hidin' our tracks today with this slop. Nor tomorrow neither, even were it to stop now," the captain complained, taking the Lannister cousins into his confidence.

"Maybe if we took to the countryside, like we did yesterday?" Lancel suggested.

"But the road curved away from the river then, cuz," Tyrek cut in. "Taking to the fields and woods was slower going, but saved us miles."

Lancel ground his teeth. 'Always cuz this or cuz that,' he churned inside. 'It never ends. He probably calls his cock cuz when he takes it out to piss. Why can't he just shut the fuck up!'

"That it did young Ser. But we're only two days from crossing the Rush now. Figure we just bolt for it best we can to leave the Crownlands and hope this soup keeps any tracking us dry inside a shepherd's hut or warm by a tavern fire. What says ya?"

Lancel watched Tyrek give a knowing nod of agreement in response. 'What do you know you little shit? Vylarr's the real leader here, anything he asks us is only courtesy cause we're Uncle Tywin's nephews. Hunh? What?'

PTANG!

Something hard and heavy smacked the metal cap sewn into Lancel's leather hood. Stars shot across his eyes and he swooned in his saddle.

"Get them!" "Grab the young'uns!"

"Bastards!" "Flee me soldiers! Flee!" "Watch it, watch it!"

Horses snorted and stamped their hooves. Metal clashed on metal. Lancel felt himself sliding off his saddle and he snatched hard at the pommel to stay upright. He watched as the man who'd lost three fingers, Fyrd was it? slid slowly off the back of his horse, a spear run through his middle. Lancel heard a whirling sound and felt a breeze of air near his face.

"Duck, cuz!" shrieked Tyrek.

Lancel slumped forward onto the neck of his mount. A chain and spiked ball whipped over him, one tine slicing into his ear, shredding the lobe. He pulled hard on the reins, his horse spun in the counter direction, away from the flail's carry through. Instinctively he tugged at his sword. His mount suddenly collided with the foe man's horse.

The freerider now beside him stunk of wet burlap and rusted iron. The ruffian lashed out with an elbow, hitting Lancel hard in the upper chest. The sword finally came free. Lancel awkwardly stabbed upward with the blade's dull point, no time to swing with the sharp edge, and the sword slipped up the partial sleeve of the coin fighter's hauberk.

"Auuugggg!" the brute screamed, but then the man stood straight up in his stirrups and brought the flail over the top of his head.

In desperation Lancel leaned forward into the attacker, clutching at the man's waist with one hand and driving the point of the sword further into the freerider's chest with the other.

THUNK!

His horse screamed in terror and pain, then for a moment the beast lifted Lancel into the air, standing only on its hind legs. The destrier's powerful motion jerked the ruffian not only out of the youth's grasp, but out of his own saddle. In the next five seconds the horse's hooves crushed several of the fallen brute's ribs.

"Help! Help!" screeched a high pitched voice. "Laaaaannncelllllll!"

The startled teen gasped for air. Blood pounded so hard through his veins his heart sounded like a hammer and anvil. 'Tyrek? Cuz?' he thought. 'There!' A thick sword beat again and again at the thirteen year old boy. Tyrek barely had the strength to defend against each hack with his own thin blade.

"Commmmiinnnnnngggg!" Lancel screamed. The damned horse wouldn't turn, just hopped almost side to side in the throws of its own agony. The thin armed teen yanked as hard as he could on the reins, turning the bit cruelly inside his maddened beast's mouth. Spurs repeatedly jabbed into the horse's flanks. The abused steed neighed bitterly, then pivoted and leapt forward. Lancel threw his sword far behind his head and swung around with every sinew in his spindly frame.

THWACK!

Tyrek's opponent crumpled, head half severed from his neck. An arterial gusher of blood flew into the air in one, two, three, four massive spurts.

His cousin looked at him in stunned amazement, face half ashen and half dripping crimson. Even through the pounding in Lancel's ears, he heard a groan and a wet gargle behind him; his head snapped around to look over a shoulder. Four brave Lannister men and seven freerider scum lay dead or bleeding their last on the sodden Gold Road. Besides himself and his 'cuz' the only other rider left was Vylarr, tugging hard to retrieve his sword from the chest of the last still mounted, though utterly expired, coin fighter.

Lancel's stomach churned. He realized his small clothes felt drenched, he shifted his ass in the saddle trying to find a more comfortable, drier position. "You alright Ty?" he asked without bothering to look at his cousin.

A weak sounding "yes," was his cuz's answer.

Blade finally free, Vylarr now stood in his stirrups. "Come back! Come back me soldiers!" he shouted. The man waved his arms in the air too, trying to get the attention of the rapidly fleeing figures of Tommen and Myrcella.

'They'll come back,' he told himself. He felt dizzy, tired, and exhilarated all at once. He looked back at Tyrek and saw the boy trying to wipe some of the gore off himself. "You look like a bleeding hemroid," he declared. "Did you kill any of them?"

Tyrek shook his head no and whispered back, "I feel sick. How about you?"

Lancel's mouth felt thick with bile as he tried to drag an answer out. "Ye … ye .. yes," he burped. Then the newly blooded warrior leaned over and vomited into the mud.

November 29.

'Mother nurture and protect me. Stranger come another day. Father judge me worthy. Warrior guard me. Crone light my path ...'

'What are you bothering with them for?' a golden, arrogant voice laughed at him. 'A Lannister makes his own fate.'

Lancel continued, ignoring the smug voice, 'Smith forge my heart strong. Maiden grant my dreams. Seven hear my call; do not let me fall. Armor me in my faith, keep me pious, save my soul from the evils of the world.' As he prayed these words, long memorized from the 'Seven-Pointed Star,' his ear throbbed and itched ferociously. Unthinking, a hand reached up and rubbed it, needles and daggers immediately sprang into the side of his skull. He gasped. Puss popped out of the puffed up, blackened flesh. A fat tear welled up in the bottom of his left eye. 'Stop blubbering like a lass, be a man,' a rough, petulant voice complained in disgust.

"Leave it alone, cuz," Tyrek called out. "It's all nasty and infected."

"Of course its gods damned infected!" Lancel snapped at his cousin. "I can tell. It's my fucking ear!" The split lower lobe hadn't been sewn shut until the night after the teen had killed his first man; first two men. The spirits the captain had liberally doused on the wound failed to burn all the corruption out. Now the bottom quarter of his left ear putrefied and the rest showed the world an inflamed red from the spreading infection. Lancel had felt woozy and hot all morning.

Tommen, riding a horse between the two, started crying at Lancel's violent outburst. The boy was unwell too, fighting infections on his own chaffed, sore stricken thighs.

Tyrek shot his older cousin an accusing look over the top of the boy's head.

"I want momma," the royal prince blubbered.

'Don't we all,' Lancel thought snidely, conjuring up an image of his golden haired goddess, though for the last week he no longer felt a stirring in his groin when his mind wandered back to Cersei. 'My savior,' the goddess had called him the night before this mad race started. 'You used me,' he accused her. A lion voice roared its amusement. 'She uses everyone.' 'Damned whore!' a bull stag warbled.

"We know Tom-tom, we know," soothed Tyrek. "But your Queen mother sent you and Myr-myr off to see Uncle Tywin, your grandpapa. In just two days we'll be on his lands. Then it's a warm castle, a soft bed, and kittens for all of us. Sound good, Tom-tom?" the thirteen year old cheerfully cajoled.

'If we're not dead first!' Lancel screamed in his mind. He used his anger for this unfair plight to fight back at the pain sweeping through his skull. He turned his ire towards his cuz, 'Always with the stupid nicknames.' He wanted to strangle Tyrek. Instead, he blinked hard and grimaced. The pain diminished a bit, but at least the twin voices shut up.

"There's the river again," Vylarr shouted out. From the crest of the hill they had reached, the fast moving waters of the rain swollen Blackwater Rush could be seen curving off from west to southeast. "Only a few more leagues till the ford, I think."

"But will we be able to cross with all of the last two day's rains?" asked Tyrek loudly.

"A troubling question, young Ser. Soon found out. At least it ain't rainin' now."

Two of the rearward riders came up on a gallop, their horses well lathered and blowing hard. Everyone's heads kept turning back to watch the duo approach, but Vylarr nevertheless kept the group moving forward, only accounting for the oncoming message by slowing their pace from a trot to a walk.

"Riders! Riders!" They shouted.

"How many?!" Vylarr cried back.

"Too fewkin' many!" "Two score!"

"Seven Hells! How far back?!" the captain demanded.

"Two miles." "Closing fast."

The pair finally came close enough shouting was no longer imperative.

"Where's Danwell and Gerold?" Vylarr asked.

"They had bows. They're gonna find a nice spot and try to drop a few before boltin' to swim the river. Hopefully a bunch will give'm a chase."

"What banners?" the captain queried.

"An argent and a sable swan counter charging on sable and argent background."

"House Swann!" burst Tyrek, nervous and excited.

"Balon Swann!" Lancel guessed. 'Aren't you a clever girl's tit,' the mean, drunk voice mocked.

"Clyffe?!"

"Yes, cap'n?"

"Take all the spare horses. C'mon dumb arses, move it! Start handing over reins. Head north, Clyffe."

"That won't fool'em!" the man protested.

"Probably not," Vylarr agreed. "But it'll save yer ugly neck, so shut up. Now after ten miles or so, cut most of the spares loose, except for four, then go find a place to swim the Rush. If any Stormlanders are followin', it maybe they think those four carry Lord Tywin's family. Faster everyone, move!" the captain roared.

The party sprang into action at their leader's command.

'Are you a lion, or a sheep?' the golden voice challenged.

"Where's the ford?" Tyrek gulped, staring at the fast flowing water.

"It's down there young Ser," the captain growled. "Just follow the slope and go across. See where the road goes up and out the other side, the beaten down path don't lie. So stick to it straight like!"

The first clash of arms reached Lancel's good ear. "It's too fast for Tommen and Myrcella," he declared. "Tyrek ride beside Myrcella, but to the downriver side. I'll do the same for Tommen."

Vylarr unleashed a foul curse. He pointed at sullen Happy Jack, "Go on the upstream side of the prince." He turned to look at the foul smelling Brown Bill. "You the same to the princess."

A scream rang across the open plain leading to the banks of the Blackwater Rush.

"Taking the lead, Captain?" Lancel asked expectantly. 'You're not,' the lion accused.

A terrible look spread across Vylarr's ugly small folk face. "No," he said determinedly.

The eyes of both Lannister youths shot wide in surprise. The sound of shouts, curses, hooves, and steel roiled up to them.

Vylarr looked straight at Lancel's face. "It weren't easy getting here. You done good, real good." He jerked a thumb behind him. "Those are my men. They needs me. Figure you can lead on from here, Ser."

"But … but you'll die too," Lancel gasped. 'Cause he's a man,' the stag answered approvingly.

"Stranger take me then," the captain answered tersely. Before the half deaf, slightly crazed, grimy blond could think of a response, the loyal bannerman tugged his reins and turned back toward the scrum of battle several hundred yards behind them.

Lancel glimpsed at a score of men hammering away with deadly blows at the ten Lannister guardsmen fighting the rear guard action. He watched Vylarr tug out three feet of steel and spur his steed quickly into a gallop.

"C'mon, cuz! Hurry!" Tyrek wailed. Tommen and Myrcella both started crying.

Lancel swallowed bile, then shouted. "Tommen stay close to me. Now come on. Everybody stick close like the Captain said." 'Useless cunt!' snorted the bull stag.

Six horses plodded down the slope, forming a very small column. 'Coward,' the supremely confident golden voice whispered. Soon hooves splashed into the rapid flow of the Blackwater Rush. 'Where you running to Lumpy?' the vicious, ugly voice called to him. The thrum of the water hid all but the loudest of blood curdling screams at his back.

Lancel heard a strange, slight voice croak, "Tyrek, take my place!" His horse somehow turned in the shallows and headed back towards the bank. 'Who has my reins?' the small, perplexed voice asked. 'Go fast. Fast!' the golden lion purred.

"Cuz … come back!" Tyrek shrieked, high pitched voice quivering and then breaking.

"I .. I can't!" a child-like voice anssered. 'Strike hard, crush them boy!' the snarling stag commanded.

The world spun before Lancel's eyes. His charger surged out of the water and took the gentle slope up the bank in leaps and bounds. He reached the crest, startled to find three riders almost on top of him. 'Kill!' cousin Jaime shouted. 'Kill!' gross Robert yelled. 'Fast!' 'Hard!'

His blade sliced half the face off the first man, before he could even start to raise the bow in his hands. Lancel's horse raced forward. He nudged her to the left, aiming to pass by the second bowman, already drawing back the string on his weapon. Lancel strained his arm and wrist to stop the sword's motion forward. 'Quicker!' 'Stronger!' the pair in his head chanted in counter point.

Lancel felt a warm wetness as his bladder let loose in his pants. "Die!" he screamed. The bow tracked him, deadly bodkin aimed for his heart. His blade swung back on the reverse cut. The archer screamed, wrist broken, bow string slashed. "Agghhhhhh!" he screamed in fear and elation. 'Blood!' 'Death!' the duet of mad voices sang.

The third rider lost his nerve, turning his horse away from Lancel's charge, and thus lost all chance of living. The reverse cut looped around, came back in an overhand arc, and fell straight down onto the fool's skull. Lancel had ridden well past the man-at-arms in Swann colors before the wretch's body slumped out of the saddle to tumble dead to the ground.

Ahead, the youth saw Vylarr trade sword strokes against the darting morning star of the argent and sable swanned knight. Bodies lay strewn on the field, riderless horses roamed free or bolted from the fray. Two other Lannister guardsmen still remained mounted and a third, on foot, tried to duck blows from a half dozen scum. A pair of foes spotted Lancel's sprinting horse and spurred out to greet him with mace and spear.

'Take the lance first,' the Lion of Lannister roared. 'The hammer, the hammer!' demanded the King. "SHUTTTTT UPPPPppppppppp!" the youth screamed even louder than the voices haunting him.

He split between the two riders. His wrist jerked up, blade catching below the spear point just enough to lift it over his shoulder and away from his neck. Then, whipping the sword with dazzling speed over the top of his mount's head, the blade slammed into the other's shoulder, bursting mail rings and slicing bone deep into meaty flesh. The bastard's aim was disrupted, but his mace still came down and it glanced off Lancel's knee. Snot gushed out the youth's nose as all the air exploded from his lungs. He wobbled in the saddle. Instinctively, his knees clutched inward. Lancel sucked in a mouthful, gasping in anguish from the torture he'd just placed his smashed joint under.

Swann's morningstar pummeled Vylarr's shoulder. The captain dropped his sword, reeling in the saddle. The knight lifted the spike club back, then spun his head to look for the beat of hooves almost atop him. Lancel ducked down as the man deftly reversed his blow with uncanny speed. The two horses slammed together. The morningstar missed, and Lancel pushed off with his uninjurred leg against the stirrup to drive a slender shoulder into Balon Swann's thick chest.

The knight teetered from the impact, desperate to stay mounted. Lancel leaned back to his rear, dropping his sword arm as far back as it could go and slung it forward in as mighty a chop his arms could muster. The morningstar clipped the blade on the arc down, but the sword still plowed down on the knight's wide, plated chest. Balon Swann grunted and wobbled further. Again Lancel cleaved with all the humble strength of his slight frame. The argent and sable swans crumpled like a felled tree and tumbled to earth.

The young Lion leaned way over, damaged knee screaming, to rest the tip of his sword against the knight's exposed cheek, pinking a splotch of blood. "Yield or die?!"

Dark brown eyes blinked, gazing up in confusion and surprise at Lancel.

"Yield or die, Ser!?"

"Yield, young Lannister. I … I yield."

"Call off your dogs, Ser Balon!"

"They … they are under the Hand's orders. I … I cannot," he stuttered.

Lancel pressed down on his blade. It sank all the way through the cheek, into the mouth.

"Truce!" bellowed the fallen knight, tongue scrapping against the point. "Truce!"

Lancel nodded in satisfaction and pulled back his sword. With his other arm, he dabbed at his mouth which tasted heavily of acid and phlegm . He felt like vomiting again.

December 10.

"Look, banners! Grand Uncle Kevan's coming! Grand Uncle Kevan's coming!" Myrcella's spritely, energetic voice called out from her seat on the wagon's front stoop, squeezed between the teamster and her pet guard, Happy Jack.

"Now, now, little princess, sit down," Happy Jack's deep bass murmured gently. "We'll have no mishaps today."

After two night's comfortable rest with Lord Harrold Osgold, a distant cousin of Lord Roland Crakehall's mother, in his motte-and-bailey inspired manor, and seven long days riding a large farm cart instead of straddling horse, the girl simply bubbled with her natural enthusiasm and good cheer. The strength of her aura so strong as to make the taciturn Happy Jack smile on occasion and hop about at her every whimsical request. Watching the hardened warrior flit through a field on break because the child had begged, 'Catch me a butterfly, brave Jack,' had brought one of the few smiles to Lancel's face the last half fortnight. Personally, the youth turned killer barely had the strength to sit up.

The slender young man remembered little of Osgold's hall, nor much of the two days it took to reach it after the battle at the ford. His fever had burned so fast the few remaining bannermen had had to tie him into his saddle for fear he'd fall out of it. He scratched at the stubble gracing the left side of his head, very careful not to touch the stitches or the still angry skin around it. At the manor, the local physic practitioner trimmed off his entire ear, all black mortified flesh; and then drained the bulging abscess beneath it. He could hear a little, but not well, out of the hole in the side of his skull now unadorned by an ear. He hoped most of his hearing would return once he no longer needed to pack that hole each day with clean cloth and foul smelling herbs. Lancel wondered what his father would think when he saw his hideous visage.

The party had learned the previous day, when it was visited by outriders from Deep Den, that Lancel's father Kevan, his cousin Jaime, and a growing host of Westerland lords and Lannister bannermen were already ensconced at the seat of House Lydden. So his father's arrival at what appeared to be the end of their flight was not truly a surprise.

"Ouch," he muttered. Tiny claws sprang through his pants, poking into the flesh of a thigh. The cautious hand stopped itching and swept down to gently pick up the offending kitten. Tyrek had in fact kept his promise to Lancel's cart-mate. "Here, Tomen," he said in a tired voice. "Lord Silverbell seems to have escaped you."

The young prince giggled and struggled up onto his knees, all the while clutching two other kittens. The boy hobbled clumsily across the hay flooring of the draft cart and retrieved his errant puss. Tommen had bounced back well from his travails, though not yet as vigorous as his sister. The soft flesh of the lad's upper legs would forever carry ugly scars thanks to the brutally hard flight from King's Landing. His saddle sores had also required draining and stitching from Osgold's healer, who Lancel acknowledged, based on the results so far, seemed to have known what he was doing. 'At least Tommen can hide his scars beneath pants. I'll need to grow my hair long,' he decided again; vanity poking at his disfigurement for the thousandth time.

A wave of release and exhaustion from the passing of this burden, the safe passage of his royal cousins, crashed over him. He closed his eyes. 'I'll see father soon enough.'

Lancel woke with a start. Vylarr barked curses at the escort "to straighten up." The tough bastard and his broken shoulder had ridden the first two days in the cart, but the inactivity burned at the man so he returned to the saddle; one arm for the reins and the other strapped to his chest.

"Grand Uncle Kevan," Myrcella squealed.

"Grand Uncle, Grand Uncle," Tommen joined in, standing by the edge of the cart wall jumping up and down, kittens temporarily forgotten.

The wagon slowed and jerked to a stop. The fifty or so odd numbered of the escort contingent brought their mounts to a rest too. Lancel squinted through the bright sunbeams from the west, light played off the pale yellow hair of his father's head and beard. He had arrived with a full squadron of knights.

"Captain Vylarr," called his father's commanding voice, rising above the racket on the road. "I understand Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella are with you?"

"They are, milord. And the privilege of bringing them to you under the command of your nephew, Ser Tyrek, and your son, Ser Lancel."

Tyrek, mouth gaping like a fool, nudged his horse alongside Vylarr's. "Uncle," his 'cuz' proclaimed with a damned, prideful grin.

"Glad I am to see you Prince Tommen, Princess Myrcella, nephew. Lord Tywin rejoiced too at word of your arrival in the Westerlands. But it appears to have been a difficult task." His father coughed slightly. "I do not see my son."

"Here, Grand Uncle! He's with me!" shouted Tommen.

The stern mask of a Lannister lord eased ever so slightly at the news. He started his horse over towards the cart and when he got closer he bowed to Tommen. "My prince; tonight at Deep Den we shall have a fine feast in your honor."

The boy found the idea more than agreeable and clapped his hands in delight. "And a joust too? Will grandpapa allow it? I'd like ever so much to see knights tilting. I could tell momma and poppa about it when we go back home. So can we?"

The hint of good humor in Kevan Lannister's face evaporated at the mention of Cersei. Balon Swann had brought with him word of her gruesome murder upon the Iron Throne by the hells damned Stag. The news had made Lancel weep like a child. The Stormlander knight had at least shown the Mother granted decency to say no word of it in front of Tommen and Myrcella. Clearly word of the tragedy had flown to the Westerlands by raven ahead of them.

"Of course we can, my prince," his father answered the orphan kindly. "Whatever, you … uh … wish. Lancel … are you … ?"

He had seen his father's eyes involuntarily widen when they'd caught sight of him; of his wound, the missing ear, the stitched together side of his head. Lancel gave a ghost of a smile. "I am … well, father. Truly. And near as pretty as the Hound."

The survivors of the Rush chuckled at his pluck.

"Oh Grand Uncle, you should have seen Lancel!" yelped Tommen, suddenly jumping again, arms swinging around in imitation of blades.

"Easy, Tommen, easy. Or you'll land on your cats," laughed Lancel.

A new voice broke in. "Your son is a doughty knight, Lord Kevan," proclaimed Balon Swann. Lancel had granted the knight parole to ride a horse into captivity on his vow to the Seven he would not try to escape. Now the strong, honorable man lightly spurred his mount from behind the wagon to present himself to the Lannister lord.

"Ser Balon?" his father asked in surprise.

"Aye. T'is me, milord. Ser Lancel slashed his way through half a dozen of my men to save your valiant Captain Vylarr and capture me single handedly. You have a lad to make any father proud."

A smile like none he'd ever before seen spread across his father's face and the man's chest puffed up in pride almost as large as his stout belly. "Clearly much has happened, I am eager to be told it."

Basking in the glow of paternal approval, Lancel swallowed hard and sniffled back tears. It would not do to shame his sire in his moment of fatherly triumph.

The main hall had Deep Den had been too loud and crowded for Lancel. Tommen had his feast. But it appeared with the number of lords; Crakehalls, Swyfts, Baneforts, Serretts, and Brooms already gathering at Lord Lewys Lydden's seat on the Gold Road that every night bore a strong enough a resemblance to a banquet that it easily passed the young princes inspection. No jousting, at least not inside the hall, but a few of the younger sons had donned plate and swung about at each other in a small melee with tourney swords. Tommen and Myrcella, sitting at the middle of the high table applauded happily at the display. Cousin Jaimes and Lord Lydden sat to Myrcella's side, while Lancel's father, Lancel, and the honored prisoner Ser Balon sat off to Tommen's side.

The smell from the arrival of the first course turned Lancel's stomach. He'd eaten little since the Rush, first because of his inflamed wound and then later from the nausea that rolled over him the many times he remembered the slaying and the maiming. His already slender frame had turned almost gaunt in the last ten day, but he couldn't find it in himself to fill his belly as he knew he should. So he quickly, yet politely excused himself, while for the third time in his hearing Ser Balon turned the Rush's scene of chaos and luck into a tale of Lancel's knight errantry for his father's pleasure. Off Lancel limped, broken kneecap still hobbling his pace, until he passed out of the brimming hall into the overflowing courtyard.

Lancel looked about in the torchlight. The modest Sept located within Deep Den's walls appeared a bastion of calm in all the clamor about him, making his choice to retreat to the solitude of the sanctuary obvious. He shuffled inside, finding a hundreds of candles illuminating the silence. The figures of the Seven painted on the seven walls appeared quaint in comparison to the perfect art found in Casterly Rock's sept or the Great Sept of Baelor. The men he'd killed were mundane, petty villains, nothing extraordinary about them except maybe their greed and lust. The simple feel to the sept appealed to Lancel. He picked up a candle and shambled in a circuit around the septagon, offering his humble obeisance to the Seven.

After completing the circle, Lancel mostly stared and prayed to the Mother, the Father, and the Crone. He prayed for Cersei. He prayed for Tommen and Myrcella. He even prayed for Joffrey. He prayed for himself and those he killed that they know peace. Sometimes his eyelids drooped low and he supposed he slept at those times. At last finding himself fully awake again, he started to hum a familiar tune, appropriately enough first learned long ago in a Sept. Eventually he crooned the words too; voice soft, off pitch, and mournful.

The Father's face is stern and strong, he sits and judges right from wrong.

He weighs our lives, the short and long, and love the little children.

The Mother gives the gift of life, and watches over every wife.

Her gentle smile ends all strife, and she loves her little children.

The Warrior stands before the foe, protecting us where e'er we go.

With sword and shield and spear and bow, he guards the little children.

The candles in the Sept flickered ever so slightly. Someone must have opened the door and entered.

The Crone is very wise and old, and sees our fates as they unfold.

She lifts her lamp of shining gold to lead the little children.

"Hello, Father," he said softly, sensing a presence right behind him.

The man lowered is bulk to kneel beside his son. "I did not know you as o'er religious before, Lancel," he said quietly.

"I had not yet killed a man, father. And now I might claim a half dozen. I find I'm no Jaime. I took no joy of it."

"Aye, killing is an ugly business. But you did your duty, son. Brought the little ones through. Be proud of that. Your uncle shall knight you for it when he arrives."

"Vylarr. Have him knight Vylarr. I couldn't have … none of us … not without … I pissed myself father. In wet small clothes I slew them," he warbled, full of shame and doubt.

Lancel grimaced when his father started to laugh at his confession. Then his father gently patted his head in reassurance.

"Yes, Vylarr too, assuredly. Now did I ever tell you of this Hedge Knight who rode with the Lannisters in the War of the Ninepenny Kings? No? Well I was a mere pimply squire then, full of myself. And with my sword I thought myself so good with, I might actually have nicked a fellow or two. Now this lowly knight by the name of Longshanks, he killed close to a score of men before a Blackfyre spear took him in the eye. And all the while we called this very brave man Shitter Longshanks. So be glad you only pissed yourself, there are always worse shames; and you could be dead."

Lancel nodded at his father's not unkind words. "There's going to be more killing isn't there? Uncle Tywin's forming an army here."

"Your Uncle Tywin already has an army. A raven just came in. Five days ago Addam Marbrand led ten thousand men out of Golden Tooth and routed the Riverland banners of Vance and Piper. The killing has already begun."

"Why the Riverlands?" Lancel asked confused.

"For Tyrion. Your uncle intended to teach the Tullys, Starks, and Arryns a lesson, but then word reached us of Cersei, gods bless her soul, Tywin shifted the plan. The Riverlands are now merely a clever diversion. Addam Marbrand wears Jaime's golden armor. And the banners flying above his forces galloping towards Riverrun show most of the Westerland Houses."

"And the main blow will go back down the Gold Road," said Lancel, realization dawning on him.

"Once the full host gathers here. Time enough for you to grow strong again. Gods, Lancel, you look all skin and bones."

"Yes. Yes, I'll have to. I'm going too, aren't I?" the youth whispered.