Welp, after a vacation in Brazil here's the new chapter.

Enjoy!

Robert

The clash of steel reverberated across the yard as soldiers sparred. The King's Party was soon to embark on its long journey towards the Vale.

Lord Dondarrion was walking his squire, young Ned Dayne, through his footwork. Barristan was also keeping busy - the Kingsguard had found himself a squire as well, a Maidenpool lad named Pate.

The boy'd done well enough against deserters set on looting his home - and with nothing but a crude shepherd's ax! With a proper weapon, the lad would become a monster.

"It feels more a tourney than a war-camp. You see it too - don't you, Robert?" Thoros seemed to have woken up early, his flask of wine ever-present in his left hand.

Robert shrugged. "War's still young. How fare things, my friend? You could try your luck with that lot, flaming sword in hand -"

Thoros laughed. "Mott's fury was something to behold, I'll tell you that. Qohori smithing ruined in a day - I wager he hated me more than he loved my coin."

Still, Thoros looked uncharacteristically troubled, and Robert had no patience for it. "Well? Out with it!"

Thoros visibly gulped, "It's... the flames, Robert -"

"Not more riddles," Robert grumbled, "You know me well, Thoros. Speak plain, and speak true."

"R'hllor strike me down if I speak false," the Red priest cursed. "You know why I came to Westeros in the first place, yes?"

Robert nodded. Something or other about the Red Priests wanting a slaver-hating king as patron - he never paid the matter much mind, and thankfully, neither did Thoros. The man certainly became more fun once he'd stopped preaching - something that was about to change, he sensed.

Thoros glanced left and right exaggeratedly, as if in a mummer's work, and Robert's exasperation mounted. He whispered, "Robert - I've seen you, in the flames."

Robert stared at him, baffled. "I thought the drink had long cured you of your septon-like nattering? Men see things when they're in their cups -" Thoros buried his face in his hands

"Nay, Robert - I've received a vision," he uttered, with not a hint of insincerity. "Not only one - mind you, every time I stare at the flames, I see… things yet to come. And I've seen you."

"Be you a seer, now?" Robert guffawed, then stopped - for his drinking friend looked truly pained. "No deity has ever come to my aid, and never will. The love of my life was raped and killed by a madman, I was horned by my wife and my crown fell off my head. If famine, and war, and suffering were not enough to move them, your gods aren't worth their weight in piss!"

"You'll understand in time, my friend." Thoros seemed unmoved by Robert's pleas. "For the night is dark, and full of terrors." Robert stared at the once perfectly sane man, as he took his leave, muttering under his breath.

Gods, I need a drink.

Lancel

Gods, his arse was sore. Riding was preferable to wearing out his boots, but Lancel was just getting used to a warm bed again.

The plan was to march northwards, avoiding the Kingsroad; they would cross the Fork near the Quiet Isle - and pray the septons took no umbrage - and then the Highroad would take them to the Vale.

Lancel was looking forward to the Quiet Isle. Many pilgrims to the holy place had changed their ways, some even taking the vows of the Begging Brothers after contemplation in the Quiet Septry. Lancel, however, could not - his King yet needed him.

"Water, squire!" Even if it is for the more menial things. Lancel did not mind - that he yet lived was a miracle, in and of itself.

The King drank as greedily as he had once drunk of his wine. "There's a chill in the air. Gods help us all if this'll drag on into winter."

Ser Barristan saw fit to jump in. "Mayhaps a campaign in the Crownlands might still be feasible?"

"This one's going to be different, Selmy." the King remarked grimly. "Like Ned said, a long summer means a longer winter... soon enough our cocks will freeze if we piss too long, I wager."

Now Lancel's King turned to him. "Have you ever seen a truly harsh winter, boy?"

Lancel wondered how to answer - without sounding like a dolt. "The Rock holds well during winter; the outer rooms are a bit chill, but our halls, with a bit of wood, are as hot as summer. Lannisport has enough space for peasants seeking to winter, and there's fish aplenty."

"I thought so," the King said, "Nothing like Shipbreaker's Bay, really. In winter there are cold winds and great hailstorms; the waters become utterly impassable. Then again, they're bad enough in summer, as my parents found out -"

Lancel heard of the story - though never from the King. Struck by lightning and then swallowed by the sea - Lord Steffon and his wife, Lady Cassana drowned in sight of Storm's End. A terrible fate, and an even worse sight.

"Your Grace!"

One of the scouts had ridden in while the King was reminiscing. Varlen, I think? "We found a village ahead, still intact by the looks of it."

The King nodded. "Aye, late enough in the day to camp." He tossed a pouch of coin carelessly to the scout, and commanded, "Hand it to the alderman, for his trouble."

The scout saluted and went off to his duties. "Thin line between generosity and foolishness, squire. I've stood on the wrong side of it in the past - no longer," the King growled. "Understand?"

Lancel could only nod, as the party made his way to rest.

The alderman's fuss was abruptly ended with the clinking of silver stags, and copper stars. After that, he made them thrice welcome, as King Robert snorted and ser Barristan frowned behind him.

The village was nestled in a gentle valley, its boundaries marked by low makeshift walls, over which the tips of thatched roofs peaked. A modest place, but with an inn and a septry - both of which would be welcome to the men.

The streets must be usually lively, but now hard glances were being traded with the soldiers - Lancel overheard two gruff men talking of 'outsider trouble' in hushed tones.

He bid his King a good eve at the inn, and decided to visit the local septry instead.

As Lancel entered, the boards beneath his feet creaked softly. It was dimly lit, with the only light coming from slender slits that let the moonlight in.

In the centre, there were seven wooden statues, set up in a circle - carved avatars of the Seven, painted with faded colours.

The Father, stern and just, stood tall and imposing.

The Mother, with arms outstretched, invited anyone to her embrace.

The Maiden... her face was carved with gentle features, representing the naivety and purity of the young.

The Crone, with a lantern hanging from a hook in her hand, offered her wisdom.

The Smith, strong and stalwart, carried his symbolic hammer.

The Warrior, who exuded strength and determination.

The Stranger -

There was a man kneeling before it. He reeked of wine.

His black robes were stained and unkempt. The Septon mumbled, gesticulating wildly at the statue.

Lancel could make no sense out of his ramblings, so he left the poor man to his devices. Instead, he kneeled before the Father and prayed.

I will uphold the will of the Seven. They are my refuge, and my fortress - in them, I will trust.

I shall not be afraid of the dark and long night, and neither of the evil that walks in the darkness.

For I will bathe under the light of the Seven.

They will aid and protect me. The Father's justice shall punish the wicked and those who defy the will of the Gods, the Smith will temper me for all future challenges.

They will guide and comfort me. The Crone shall be my light in all dark paths, and the Mother will embrace me in the harshest of times.

They will lend me their strength. In the name of the Warrior and the Maiden, I shall protect the innocent and the helpless.

And when the time comes, I shall heed the call of the Stranger. Without fear, I will accept death.

As the Seven Heavens await the worthy.

Screams of pain and death snapped Lancel out of his trance.

The door of the Sept slammed open, and two raiders walked in. One wore a chainmail byrnie and a stained scarf on his half-helm - Dornish?

The other was tall and gaunt. He had an odd beard dangling from a pointed chin, and wore an shirt sewn with every coin Lancel had ever seen - and a few he hadn't. His helm was shaped like a goat.

Seven Hells, that's Vargo Hoat. The Mummers must've fallen on this village!

"Thereth better be some bloody looth in here..." Vargo was shouting, and his blood boiled.

Lancel unsheathed his sword. "Hoat - you coward!"

The Goat stopped on his tracks. "Lannither... you're Lanthel, aren'th you?"

Lancel could not leave the Septry to be sacked; but he was mostly unarmoured save his breastplate. To go up against someone of Hoat's renown…

Still, that was no reason to crawl on his belly. "The only thing that matters is that your misdeeds will end here, scum!" But it was merely bluster, and Hoat looked like he knew it.

An odd shiiiing cut through the tension - it had come from the septon. Wait - a sword?

The septon took long and unsteady steps - a far cry from the glory days of the Faith Militant, Lancel supposed. As he approached, the Septon bellowed –

"REPENT, UNCOUTH INFIDEL! I AM THE HERALD OF THE WARRIOR - COME, AND BE PURGED BY THIS HOLY BLADE!"

Steel clashed.

The Goat barely parried two violent, overhead swings, as his companion attempted to cut down the Septon as he drunkenly weaved between the blows.

Lancel had to do something. Move, Lumpy... MOVE YOUR DAMNED LEG -

Lancel kicked the Dornishman in the ribs, and tried to thrust his own sword through his armpit. However, the scum clumsily deflected the swing, which clanked against the armour's gorget.

"Yer bastard!" He hissed, "You're going to pay for this!" His sabre swung low, but Lancel sidestepped just in time.

"Thimeon! Finith off the blothy pup alreathy!" Hoat shouted, narrowly avoiding a swift beheading as he rolled from the septon's swings.

"YOUR FIGHT IS AGAINST ME, GOATFUCKER!" The septon shouted, "COME MEET THE STRANGER!"

'If you can't gut your opponent, disarm the bastard.' the King's voice reverberated in his mind. Lancel's blade connected against his enemy's hand and turned on the vambraces, but the shock was enough to make the Dornishman drop his sabre.

Yes! This is it! Lancel rejoiced -

Suddenly, his world flipped upside down.

The bastard was on him, and Lancel was disarmed too. A gauntled fist came at his face, and Seven Hells!

Still, that was no reason to grovel. Lancel chuckled, "I've had better lickings from a pillow!"

The Dornishman was properly enraged. He raised his fist again, "Babe-killing fuck! I'm going to enjo-"

Lancel buried a dagger in his throat. The man clutched at his wound, and slumped over the side.

The Septon, however, wasn't doing all that well - Hoat managed to inflict many shallow cuts, but he seemed frustrated at his inability to down an unarmoured man.

"Fuck thith! To the grounth with you!" The wretch spat blood out of his mouth, and charged.

The two hit the ground hard, both their weapons lost and forgotten - just as Lancel took advantage of the distraction and cleaved the Goat's head clean off his neck. It rolled off, hitting the plinth of the Stranger's statue.

May he rot in the deepest pit of the Seven Hells.