LYLE

The knight in shining armour levelled his lance, charged and dealt a mighty buffet to his foe. The foe, a quintain, span away.

"Well struck!" cried Ser Harrold Myatt. "The traitors will surely tremble before you when you are of an age to go to battle."

Lyle silenced him with a sharp glance. Shameless lickspittle. He disliked it when other knights came to watch the lessons, though of course they always did. "Your aim was off," he said. "See how swift the quintain span? That's because you hit the side of the shield, not the centre. Your arm wobbled again."

"Oh," said Prince Tommen Baratheon, his excitement fading from his face. "Was it closer than last time?"

"No," said Lyle. To soften his words, he added, "But you hit it harder than last time. That's good. You just need to keep a steady arm, so all that strength hits where it's needed."

The prince brightened. "I will, Ser Lyle."

"Your arm won't get any steadier by thinking about it. Again."

The prince tilted at the quintain half a dozen more times. By the end of that, a small armoury of tourney lances had built up beside them, but the sun was still quite high in the sky.

"Again."

"My arm is sore," complained Prince Tommen.

"I know," said Lyle. "In battle you'll be a bloody lot worse than 'sore', my prince; you'll be exhausted. You'll have to do it anyway."

The little boy sighed, but he said, "Yes, Ser Lyle," and Lyle gave him another blunted lance.

His blow was near to the mark this time, but too tentative. The helm and shield span around the wooden post to which they were attached, but weakly. Lyle feared he would never make a jouster of this plump, soft prince—far from the martial glory of his uncle the Kingslayer or his father the late king—but he had to try. He had been given the honour of this white cloak. The least that ought to be expected of him was a little patience.

"That'll do for the day, my prince," Lyle said at last, as the sun sank to touch the distant hilltops of the Tumbleton Heights to the west.

"Thank you," said Prince Tommen with a sigh. He did not call servants to help him dismount; by now he knew better than that. He had to do it himself. The prince was too small to swing down from a true warhorse, but his bay steed was only a yearling. Lyle called a passing servant boy to fetch a groom to take the bay to the camp's makeshift stables, and he stood there, waiting.

"I'm tired again," said the boy, "but not as tired as I was before. I think I'm getting better at this. Am I, Ser Lyle?"

"A little," Lyle said. "Slowly."

Prince Tommen seemed unaffected by that remark. "That's good. I don't think I'm much suited for fighting—" Lyle had to hold back a snort, for that was an understatement indeed— "but I have to be, I know that. Grandfather says so, though Mother never said so when I was with her—" The prince spoke of his queenly mother without tears or even interrupting the flow of his words, though he doubtless knew Lord Renly had probably killed her this morning. Strange, that. Other children would be dismayed and weeping at the loss of a mother. But I suppose Tommen Baratheon is a prince, thought Lyle, and princes are not like other children. "—but Grandfather says princes have to be commanders, and I'll have to fight for Joffy one day."

"Or for yourself, my prince," Lyle pointed out.

"No," said Tommen. "Joffy's alive." It did not sound like a statement of hope. The boy seemed oddly certain.

"We all wish it be so, my prince," said Lyle carefully, for he was not a man suited to being gentle, "but your royal brother was in King's Landing when it fell. He may be dead already."

"He isn't. Grandfather knows. Uncle Renly would be telling everyone Joffy's dead, so he's the only king, so it looks more like he's won already and nobody should try to fight him. And he isn't saying that. The message on the raven from King's Landing only said Mother and Uncle Kevan. So Joffy got away."

The prince of eight namedays did not seem especially thrilled about his brother's survival, either. He spoke it without inflection, as if it were common for him to discuss such things. Perhaps it is, Lyle thought, unease trickling down his back like cold water. He served the royal family and would do so faithfully—Kevan Lannister's words echoed in his thoughts, No matter what you need do, no matter who you need face, come blood, come battle, come the Others from the seven hells, you will keep him safe—but he was glad that he was not one of them.

"Grandfather tells me lots of things," Prince Tommen said. "I stay with him when he speaks to people, though it's always ever-so boring. There's lords and knights who talk and talk at him with all their silly ideas for what he should do, though he pretends to listen to them, then he explains to me afterwards why they're silly. There's all the servants too, for how he keeps the camp in order, and the captains of his companies for the siege. They're always complaining at him." The prince lowered his voice in a poor imitation of an older man whose voice had broken. "So-and-so got lots of arrows while my company is running short, I should get more. There needs to be more clean cloth for my part of the camp, not so-and-so's. And—so-and-so shouldn't—"

He went on, heedless of Lyle's lack of attention. Prince Tommen was bright-eyed and cheerful, and once he started speaking it would be a long time ere he stopped. Lyle stood there silently, half-listening, until the groom arrived for the horse. They departed then, heading for the tent they shared.

Prince Tommen stripped Lyle of his armour, acting as a squire, and then Lyle, who remembered his own days squiring for Ser Wendel Hawthorne, stripped the prince's. He had no squire himself. His duty as the prince's sworn sword, the only sworn brother of the Kingsguard who was present to guard the heir to the Iron Throne, precluded such distractions.

Once that was done, Tommen said brightly, "So we're going to supper."

"I'm afraid not, my prince."

"Why not? You always dine with me and Grandfather."

"Not tonight, my prince," Lyle told him. "If you recall, I'm to dine with my brothers." It had been Lyle's notion, in truth. A week ago, he had happened upon his elder brother Tybolt in the camp and briefly asked to speak sometime and suggested this date, for they had not spoken at length since Lyle left for King's Landing with Ser Kevan Lannister while Tybolt and Merlon had stayed with Lord Tywin's host, several moons past. He was not surprised that Prince Tommen had forgotten. It was easy to forget. Rather a lot had happened since then. It felt like a world away, but it had only been three days ago that a messenger had arrived from a small Lannister-held castle near this camp, bearing a message to Lord Tywin from King's Landing… from Renly Baratheon.

Tommen seemed daunted. "But who'll be with me then?"

Lyle had to restrain himself from uttering something foul. "My prince, I am sworn to keep you safe, but I don't do it every hour of every day. No man can. I sleep, and you've survived that. You're in a camp with thousands of men-at-arms of your mother's House, and you'll be in a tent with your lord grandfather, surrounded by more than a hundred of his trusted guards. You've nothing to fear."

"But what about going to and from Grandather's tent? His guards won't be with me there."

Lyle thought to remind him of the presence of his lord grandfather's host, saw the fear on Tommen's face, and decided it would do no good. Mayhaps he's more scared by his mother's death and King's Landing's fall than he let on. He sighed. "I'll walk with you to Lord Tywin's tent, and back again at the end of your dinner."

The boy's face shone. "Thank you, Ser Lyle."

So Lyle walked with the prince to his lord grandfather's tent, a gigantic and spectacularly gaudy pavilion of cloth-of-gold, the size of a small house. If a residence could speak, its every word would be of the wealth and glory of the Lannisters. He understood that the boy was afraid but it irritated him nonetheless. Lyle was a warrior, built for war. Few in the Seven Kingdoms were taller or stronger or more skilled with the sword. When he accepted Ser Kevan's invitation to join the esteemed order of the Kingsguard, he had counted it a dream come true. What more could a man aspire to, especially when he was a second son? He had thought he would be leading armies and fighting traitors and villains in the service of the king, not playing nursemaid to a plump boy.

Still, he had given his word to Ser Kevan, the best leader of men he had ever served under, as able a commander as his brother the Lord of Casterly Rock yet far warmer and better to his men. "No man will bow to a young girl on the Iron Throne. Should His Grace the King fall to a grisly end—and with his temperament I fear he may—Prince Tommen will be the last, best hope for the men of the west. And he is my great-nephew," Ser Kevan had said. "No matter what you need do, no matter who you need face, come blood, come battle, come the Others from the seven hells, you will keep him safe." Lyle had fallen to one knee and sworn that he would, and he meant to keep that oath.

Lyle left Prince Tommen inside and headed away, not to his own tent but to Ser Tybolt Crakehall's.

His elder brother's residence was magnificent, albeit overshadowed by Lord Tywin's. Above a veritable mosaic of stitched-together pieces of colourful cloth, the brindled boar banners of Crakehall flew everywhere. There were also Crakehall standards borne by some among the guards. He had ridden with these men, fought with these men, even lived with these men before the war; he was the second son of Roland, Lord of Crakehall, and they knew his name as he knew theirs.

Any other man, they might have turned away, but they let him in without question, and he pushed through the outermost flap of Tybolt's elaborate pavilion. He took off his muddy boots, as one was supposed to do before entering the main part of the tent, and made to enter until he heard a voice that was not one of his brothers'.

"—ant risk, but I do not think it is destined to failure."

"It is, ser," another voice said. This too was not either of his brothers; it sounded like Ser Petyr Turnberry. "The Trident is a strong defensive position, but not strong enough. With stakes and crow's-feet and fords well garrisoned and reserves well positioned, a host on the north side of it, such as our own, could defeat a more numerous enemy host seeking to cross… but not an enemy host this much more numerous. Lord Renly has more than thrice our numbers at the capital."

"Then what of Harrenhal?" said the first voice, which Lyle recognised as belonging to Ser Dennis Plumm. "Let him besiege us and his host will batter itself to pieces against its walls."

"But why would he attack?" said a new voice, that of Beardless Jon Bettley. "Spread about the north bank of the Trident, he must attack us, to prevent us from pillaging the northeastern riverlands. At Harrenhal he can besiege us with a host that has twice our numbers, then use the rest of his men to ravage the west. Ser Forley Prester's host would fight valiantly, I have no doubt, and yet they would be hideously outnumbered. We might keep our pride, ser, by that course. The price is that your lord father would lose his lands."

"Then we should move against the Boltons," declared Robert Brax, the young new Lord of Hornvale. "We've beaten Roose Bolton before, and now his men have spent about four moons starving in a siege which came upon them so suddenly that they had only a few days to prepare stores of food. They're weak and feeble, easy prey for a lion. We take those castles down, we secure dozens of highborn hostages, and thus we bring Lord Stark to a peace. Let him have his crown. What do we care for the north or the riverlands? The west is where our hearts lie. He might not wish to, but the wishes of his bannermen will force him to make peace and trade us the Kingslayer for their captured kin, especially as the ironmen are raping their way across the north. Doubtless the northern lords want to defend their lands as fiercely as we do ours. With that, we can get to the westerlands before Lord Renly, without bleeding ourselves white by a battle against a host that is of similar size to our own. That means we're no longer standing in the way, so Lord Renly and Lord Stark will be at war in truth, not only in name, and that will take up much of Lord Renly's host. It wouldn't even the odds—the usurper is stronger than us and Lord Stark as one—but it would help a great deal. As a cost we'll lose two kingdoms, but better two than all seven."

"But would Lord Stark ever accept such a peace?" said Ser Androw Kenning of Kayce. "Doubtless he hates House Lannister ever since his father's execution—damn the king for that folly—and he might prefer to give up his pretension to a crown and help Lord Renly destroy us, rather than keep his crown if it means working with us. If he does, we're doomed. And even if Lord Stark were willing, would Lord Tywin ever make the offer in the first place? He's a proud man, and ever since Lady Stark attacked his son he's held it an affront that she still breathes. It's been five days since the battle when the capital was lost, and he's made no sign of seeking terms with Lord Stark."

"It has its flaws," Lord Brax conceded. "But what better hope is there? We can't fight both wolf and stag with so few men left to us. That would be folly. We might as well tie the noose around our necks ourselves and save time."

"If we can't make peace with the Starks," said Ser Richard Hamell, "needs must we crush them ere they can join with Lord Renly. Facing those armies united truly would be tying the noose around our necks. From where are now, we can reach the westerlands before the southerners do. That may not put us in a superb position, but if we're there to defend our homes, by the seven hells it's better than the godsforsaken position we're in now."

"Lord Stark is a fearsome commander," Ser Ormund Banefort pointed out.

"He is," Ser Richard said, "but he's a man, not a god, and no man is invincible. That applies especially if the rumours are true that the riverlords have marched against his will and are no longer listening to his commands. A disunited foe is always preferable."

This evoked a general rumble of approval.

Then Tybolt spoke. "I think we are agreed, sers, my lords," said the heir to Crakehall. "We shall speak to Lord Tywin and make clear to him our position. But as Ser Androw wisely said, he is a proud man. More than a year ago, Lady Stark, that careless bitch, took captive his malformed, lesser-favoured son, alive, and we've all seen and had to endure the bloody bitter fruit of that deed. This morning, Lord Renly has cut off his golden daughter's head. It would be unwise for us to meet like this too frequently; it is best that we draw up our plans here and now. If he should once again ignore us, inflamed by his will for vengeance, what should we do then?"

"He's got us into this mess," said Ser Flement Brax hotly. "It's got him a crown for his grandson, though a crown too unsteady to keep. What has it got us? My lord father and many of our House's men dead in the utter horror that was the Battle of the Camps—a curse from all seven hells upon the Kingslayer's folly. My eldest brother Tytos captured by the Starks, then, after we ransomed him at great expense, sent to King's Landing with most of the Brax men-at-arms in this host, under Kevan Lannister. He served the Lannisters as master of coin and served them well, yet in that godsforsaken place the southerners killed him anyway. We were one of the mightiest Houses of the west and what now has become of us? Only Robert and I remain, and our men-at-arms number only a few hundred. If all of that was for nothing… if he can't get us out of this mess…"

"Hornvale does not stand alone," said Ser Androw. "Kayce stands with you. We did not suffer as badly as you to the Kingslayer's incompetence—we weren't unlucky enough to be tasked to provide many men for Ser Kevan's doomed host—but I lost my lord father in the Whispering Wood, a hostage of Lord Stark, along with many men good and true. Lord Tywin's ambition has brought the west blood, death and failure, worse than Lord Tytos ever did. It may well be that Casterly Rock soon has a lord whose name is not Lannister. If so, so be it. My lord father matters more."

"But what if we fail?" asked Ser Dennis Plumm. "The Lannisters have ruled for ten-thousand years. If Lord Tywin is resistant, he might yet pull through."

"The Lannisters ruled for ten-thousand years by being cunning and flexible," said Ser Merlon, the youngest of the Crakehall brothers. "Lord Tywin is neither. He is too proud to accept a lesser humiliation to avoid a greater one. Truth be told, he should have acknowledged that and granted Lord Stark his independence as soon as the Kingslayer was taken, instead of believing he could defeat both House Baratheon and House Stark. He tried to win the war on both fronts, stretching too thin, so he lost both of them. And there is a power that exists now that did not exist for almost all of those ten-thousand years—the Iron Throne. The Seven Kingdoms united. Lord Renly can bring the power of the whole continent to bear upon Casterly Rock, maintaining a long siege, which nobody could do before Aegon the Conqueror. The Targaryens proved that even the mightiest of all Houses can fall if the rest of the realm unites against it. What, then, of House Lannister?"

"Fairly spoken," Ser Dennis said with a sigh. "I hope it will not come to that, but if it does, you have my sword."

"Thank you, ser, and I also thank Ser Tybolt for hosting this occasion," said Lord Brax. "Given who arranged this supper of ours, and what fate has befallen my House, I doubt it shall surprise any of you to hear that I am committed."

"I know not whether I am lord or only knight, whether my lord uncle is dead or alive," said Ser Osbert Kyndall. "Either way, he is in King's Landing now, not the westerlands. That fact speaks of Lord Tywin's legacy with more eloquence than any mere words may possess. Let's hope he will see sense; but if he does not… well, some things need not be spoken."

"The old are too afraid of a glory that is past, quaking in their boots at memories of fear of Castamere," Jon Bettley proclaimed. "Now it falls to us to do what must be done. We will make Lord Tywin see reason, or if we cannot, he will learn through iron and fire that the humble beetle has sharp pincers and is not to be heedlessly stepped on."

"None can doubt my valour or my loyalty," said Ser Jaime Peckledon, who had lost a leg in the Battle of the Green Fork. "I have fought and bled for Lord Tywin. And yet my lord father has been in Stark hands ever since the Battle of the Camps, and now that all of our northern hostages belong to Renly, how can he be brought back? It is written in the Seven-Pointed Star that sons have duty to their fathers, and I am his only son. I will do what it takes to get him home. Whatever it takes."

"This is, of course, a last resort," said Ser Ormund Banefort.

"Of course," said Lord Brax, and others, including Tybolt and Merlon, echoed this.

"Good. My cousin Willem trusted the Lannisters blindly, and what did he get? He stood so high in Kevan Lannister's esteem as to be made master of laws, and yet they couldn't save him; he was taken captive by Lord Renly anyway. I will trust the Lannisters and follow them loyally, but not blindly. If the worst comes to the worst, and they are leading us to disaster…" There was a short silence. "My lord, I am with you. What must be done must be done."

The pledges went on, spilling from more and ever more mouths like a landslide gathering momentum as it swept down to kill those below. Tybolt's tent had many guests. Lyle recognised the voices, and the Houses of the men they belonged to. The Houses that were absent—Houses Doggett, Marbrand, Lydden, Moreland, Algood, Serrett, Falwell, Myatt, Ferren, Payne and more—were as important to notice as those that were present. Lyle realised that every single one of the Houses that had been invited had lost at least one close relative in the war—some in the Battle of the Green Fork, some in the Battle of the Banks, some in the Battle of the Blackwater, or any of countless other battles, but most of them in the catastrophic defeats of the hosts of Ser Jaime and Ser Kevan Lannister: the Battle in the Whispering Wood, the Battle of the Camps and the Battle of King's Landing. Lord Tywin had marched out of the westerlands with about forty-thousand men. There were a little fewer than fifteen-thousand here. Those lost men had Houses that had not forgotten them.

Lyle stumbled away, without his usual confident stride. His family's household guards did not challenge him. What have I heard? No, I know that, perfectly well. Let's not flee the question. What am I going to do about it?

It was not quite treason, he tried to tell himself. It was one short step away. Tybolt and his friends meant to betray Lord Tywin unless he carried out the war in the manner they wished. If they betrayed Lord Tywin, doom would doubtless also come to his grandson—not to the young king or Princess Myrcella, safely far away in Dragonstone and Dorne, but to Prince Tommen.

A stab of horror embedded itself in Lyle's chest.

Yet Tybolt was his brother, and was only doing as he thought best, to get their father back. They had spent their childhood together in Crakehall. Tybolt had helped teach him how to use a sword, though Lyle had greater skill with it now. Lord Tywin would surely react with death to any suggestion of treason. How could he betray his family?

he will be the last, best hope for the men of the west. And he is my great-nephew. No matter what you need do, no matter who you need face, he remembered, come blood, come battle, come the Others from the seven hells, you will keep him safe.

That is my choice.

He reached Lord Tywin's tent and waited patiently outside for another hour, until the guards allowed him in, at a signal from inside.

Lord Tywin was standing. "My grandson is tired, ser."

"I will take him, my lord," said Ser Lyle of the Kingsguard.

He would say nothing. He would hope that all went well between Lord Tywin and his bannermen. He would not needlessly aggravate the situation among the westerlords, forcing it to spiral into civil war. But if it were not well… well, his lord father had Tybolt and Merlon to look after him. Tommen had no children or mother or father or adult siblings. He had only Lyle. Lyle would take care of the boy and he would stay true to the oath he had sworn to Ser Kevan, no matter what the cost.

Prince Tommen went to sleep, watched over by his sworn protector. The next day passed without incident. So did the day afterwards, and then the day after that, as the camp gathered itself and prepared to depart, though nobody other than Lord Tywin yet knew where he planned to go. It was the day after that, a bright day with thick soft white clouds like lumps of flour and a golden sun shining, that Lord Tywin decided to inspect the prince's skill.

It was a day for the sword, though Prince Tommen was far too young to use anything but a wooden one. Lord Tywin seemed satisfied, or at least not openly contemptuous, of the advances the prince had made since he had arrived here. The plump little boy now had a little more strength of arm, a better stance and a slight degree of knowledge of how to dodge and feint and parry.

After he witnessed the prince's lesson, surrounded by more than a hundred red-cloaked men-at-arms with lion-shaped halfhelms, Lord Tywin called for the groom who had been standing there with his great black stallion. The Lord of Casterly Rock mounted swiftly and easily, still a man fit for battle despite his years, to make his way back to his tent.

The horse bolted.

It happened in an instant. One moment Lord Tywin was unsteadily in the middle of mounting, one leg over his great black stallion, the other in mid-air and not yet fully placed. The next, the warhorse tore away from the groom holding the reins with a burst of strength. His sudden motion hurled Lord Tywin off his back, to strike the dirt with a decisive snap. Around the Lord of Casterly Rock's neck there formed a red pool.

The stallion, apparently ignorant of what he had just done, stopped at a barrel of fresh apples and began to eat, a foot away from one of the Lannister household guards, bewildered and terrified.

For a few endless seconds, like an age, the crunching of the apple was the only sound.

"Oh gods," said one of them, breaking the spell of silence, and then there were others, a thousand exclamations of surprise and horror and dismay. Somebody cut off the head of the horse with a single powerful swipe of a sword. What were they to do? What could they do? How had this happened? How could it be, that Tywin Lannister was dead?

But Lyle's thoughts moved quickly and simply. Lord Tywin had ridden that thoroughbred black stallion for years, and he had never been so temperamental and unreliable. This was no natural death.

Lyle grasped Prince Tommen by the shoulders. The boy was staring and mumbling in shock. Giving up, Lyle picked him up and threw him over a shoulder. He had never been so grateful to be such a big man; men called him 'Strongboar' for House Crakehall's sigil and for that he was so broad and tall. With the sense of purpose as he marched and with the authority lent to him by his size and by the snow-white Kingsguard cloak that blew in the breeze behind his shoulders, stunned and horrified men flinched from his presence, clearing a path for him.

He fled towards the prince's tent.

"What is it, what's happened, what's happening, where are we going?" the boy called to him.

"Quiet!" Lyle hissed. "I've no idea how it could possibly be done, but your lord grandfather was murdered and I know who's responsible. There are those who don't trust him, who think the westerlands will lose this war and don't want to be on the wrong side of it. They've grown bolder than I thought possible for them to be, so early, so shortly after… I was wrong. I'm sorry." Oh gods, my brothers, beloved brothers, oh Father Above judge us all, how could you have worked with men so foul and evil as to arrange such treachery as this? "They'll doubtless come for you next, my prince, and the only thing they don't know is what I know of them. To spoil their plans I must move quickly. We have to go. We have to run."

Tommen Baratheon made no reply. He was trembling; his eyes were wet with tears.

"Oh Mother's love, I don't have time for this. My prince, where's your gold?"

"Gold?"

"Gold, my prince, the gold your lord grandfather left you, as your allowance. Where is it?"

"Here," Tommen said, crawling to a corner of his princely tent and picking up a sack from under a chair. Lyle took it; it was heavy. He looked inside.

"Bugger me with an axe!"

"What does that mean?" said Tommen curiously, while Lyle thought, Thank the gods for Tywin Lannister's extravagance.

"First bit of good news in this whole bloody mess," he muttered. "Right then, my prince, we've got to go. Stay inside. I'll be back soon."

He emerged from the tent and accosted a passing servant with a strong beefy arm. The news must have spread; the camp was already in chaos.

"What is it, ser?" snapped the man, his courtesy failing him. "Strongboar? If you haven't heard—"

"Sorry," said Lyle, and struck the serving man over the head with the flat of his sword. It was a solid blow. The man fell boneless to the dirt at once. Under other circumstances, somebody would have noticed and raised an alarm. Now the whole camp was consumed by panic. Order might later be restored, but for now he could get away with it.

Lyle quickly dragged the man into the prince's tent and stripped him of his clothes. He then took off his armour and fine, soft white cloak, unaided by the panicked prince, and put on the servant's patched, rough garb instead. He kept only his scabbard and his sword. With that, hunching his shoulders to hide his tremendous height, he ventured out again and found a serving boy, whom he grabbed by the ear. Soon this servant had also been divested of his clothes. Lyle felt a little guilty, but they were only servants, and besides, they would survive. Their lives were not in peril. The prince's was.

Lyle rushed back to Prince Tommen's tent. The boy was, at least, composed enough to undress and dress himself quickly, if motivated by sufficiently loud and angry shouting:

"It's your life, my prince! Hurry! Be quicker about it!"

Shortly afterwards, a tall serving man and a bald servant boy could be seen rushing through the camp. A scabbard containing a fine sword and a bag full of gold were hidden under Lyle's cloak. Tommen's locks of lovely golden hair, roughly shorn by a sword, lay in the same bag, as did Lyle's white cloak; if those things had been left in the tent, that would make it easier for the traitors to find them. The whole camp was in disarray. Nobody knew what to do or who should be giving orders. Some thought there were enemies in their midst (though, Lyle acknowledged, that might be partly his fault, as he might have been seen knocking over the two servants). Others thought there were traitors. Others, both. Others, nobody at all and everyone had better calm down and do what they say. In the absence of any enemies or obvious traitors openly raising arms in the camp, the latter group would probably come to dominate, led, of course, by the treacherous westerlords; Lyle had no doubt that the conspiracy had drawn up plans for the immediate aftermath of Lord Tywin's murder. By that time, the prince must be well away.

Thanks be to the gods, Prince Tommen was quiet and meek as they rushed out, paralysed in his thoughts by overwhelming fear. At last, as they neared the downstream edge of the camp, Lyle started eyeing merchants venturing into the camp, looking for one who could be surreptitiously used for a disguise. He found a single man with a wagon, of Essosi looks. Perfect.

Lyle pulled the olive-skinned stranger into an unoccupied tent, clapping a hand over the man's mouth so that he could not scream. "Deal for you," he muttered. "Give me and my son some clothes, keep very quiet, and it'll serve you well." With his left hand only, he opened his cloak and pulled out the bag of gold. "Five dragons." The clothes would be worth a small fraction of that amount; this was to help to motivate the trader, so that he made his decision quickly, without having to stop and think.

Only then did he release a hand from the trader's mouth.

"Very good, yes, of course," the trader babbled nervously, eyeing the large sword that Lyle had just partially removed from its scabbard with his now-free right hand.

"Now."

The Essosi trader provided the clothes.

"Now go back to the ships."

Lyle and Tommen, now looking like respectably clad travellers rather than runaway servants, headed to the edge of the camp, as far upstream as merchants' ships were allowed to go. Their new companion came with them, with his wagon. The wagon was crucial; it allowed Lyle and Tommen to appear to be a group of merchants who had been selling their wares in the camp.

After the lucky trader was given his gold and allowed to head away, while Lyle was looking for likely ships, the prince gathered his wits enough to whisper: "Ser Lyle, where are we going?"

"To the only place in all the Seven Kingdoms that still holds true to the king," Lyle said. "Dragonstone."