A/N: Hello everyone! I hope you are all staying safe and healthy out there. We hope that you enjoy the latest update to the story, and as always, comments/thoughts are appreciated.
Gyles III
Throughout all his life, Gyles had never known such cold. It was a bitter and tireless thing, sinking its teeth through armor, clothing, and skin, until it settled into one's bones. Is it possible for shivers to jostle a man from the saddle? Gyles wasn't certain, but he was confident that if it had not happened before, he was soon to be the first example of such a phenomenon.
The snowfall had been light, and the party had so far been fortunate to not have it impede their journey. The snowfall would disappear as quickly as it began, and it had yet to begin accumulating on the ground. Instead the ground was merely hard and cold, covered in dead yellow and brown grasses, the last vestiges of a summer long past. Gyles had never seen anything like it before in all his years in Dorne. The tallest peaks of the Red Mountains were covered in snow, but Gyles had never touched it, nor watched flakes of it lazily descend from the sky.
What struck Gyles the most about the snowfall was its silence. The coming of winter was not heralded by thunder like a summer storm, nor howling winds. Nay, winter came with a whisper, as it spread its cold tendrils across the land. The members of the party were largely garbed in the cloaks and capes they had worn when they rode out to fight the rioters in the streets of King's Landing days before. A scant lucky few had found and taken winter cloaks as they searched buildings near to the Iron Gate for supplies before fleeing the city. Gyles was not one of them. He shifted in Evenfall's saddle as he pulled his sand-colored silk cloak tighter about himself, but the sodden fabric provided his freezing body little succor.
If Ser Harmon of the Reeds was to be believed, the party had recently passed the town of Duskendale on its trek north. On old Ser Jarmen Follard's suggestion, the group had decided to ride for the town of Maidenpool. With luck, they would be able to make contact with the two dragon riders that remained to the Queen, her consort Prince Daemon and the Lady Nettles, one of the dragonseeds. Oddly, Ser Torrhen Manderly and Lady Mysaria had seemed hesitant about such a proposition. However, the northern knight and mistress of whispers eventually acquiesced to the will of the group when it became clear that they largely agreed with Follard's suggested course of action.
Without any means of knowing just how much of the roads and seats north of King's Landing the Greens controlled, the party did its best to avoid large thoroughfares like the Rosby Road and Kingsroad. Ser Harmon of the Reeds had proved an invaluable asset to the party in this regard. Born in Harrentown, the hedge knight knew the back roads and paths within the Riverlands and Crownlands like the back of his hand, and had allowed for the party to make its journey in relative secrecy. So far, no trouble had befallen them, but Gyles refused to let himself fall into any sense of complacency. The last time I allowed myself to think I knew what the future held for me, I watched a city burn, nearly died, and lost my faithful squire and only friend.
Gyles did not currently ride among the main body of the party, however. He was scouting ahead of it, along with a lowborn Riverman named Tristifer of Oldstones, who had proven to be an expert tracker with sharp eyes and quick reflexes. The party had quickly learned to trust the man's "instincts", as he described them. So far, it had steered them clear of potential danger multiple times. It is almost uncanny, the way the man seems able to sniff out danger. Gyles frowned beneath his helm. No, not sniff. It's as though he sees the danger long before it is even upon us, from a perch high amongst the clouds.
He had temporarily broken away from the quiet Riverman in order to chase down a deer that he spotted amongst the largely leafless trees. It was a small, emaciated creature, but it would still provide the party with meat that wasn't cold and salted for at least one night on their miserable journey north. Atop Evenfall, Gyles had eventually felled the beast with a shot from his recurve bow. A difficult shot, even for a man of my talent, Gyles thought with a small amount of pride. It was the first time in a long while that he had felt any sense of pride in his actions. After draping the deer across Evenfall's hindquarters and securing it in place, he had begun to search for his fellow scout.
A short time later, as Gyles guided Evenfall through the sparse and desiccated remains of a thicket, he noticed that Tristifer of Oldstones had stopped his old grey stot at the thicket's edge. Guiding his sand steed up alongside the Riverman, Gyles peered through brittle thorny tangles of brush to a small clearing that lay not far beyond. It took but a moment for Gyles to see what the Riverman next to him was regarding.
A small group of people in tattered rags huddled around a campfire, shivering in the bitingly cold winter air. A dull orange glow illuminated some of their faces, and it seemed as though the people leaned so close to the flame that they were in danger of being consumed by it. Tired, gaunt faces stared expressionlessly into the flames. The people around the fire were pale and emaciated, and the skin seemed to hang off their bones as loosely as their grey discolored rags did. Like tiny grey moths flitting about the flame of a torch.
After a moment, Gyles realized that they were all chewing on a meager meal of charred meat, ripping it in greasy chunks from flame-blackened bone. The bones were unlike that of any animal Gyles had seen before, and he assumed that they must have resorted to slaughtering some sort of pack animal for sustenance. Gyles whispered as much to Tristifer of Oldstones. The man regarded him morosely for a moment, before shaking his head.
"Any pack animal these poor souls had would've been slaughtered for sustenance long ago," the free rider said quietly. "The meat they eat now is only the sort one could stomach if they were truly starving to death."
Gyles stared at the man in confusion for a moment, before the cold realization set in. No, it can't be. Surely it can't. Looking back to the small group huddled about the fire, he saw something else illuminated by the dim firelight. A short distance away from the group was a pile of discolored rags, much like the ones the people around the fire wore. These rags contained no person, however, and lay crumpled upon the brittle dead grass, stained with blood.
Revulsion washed over Gyles in such an intense wave that he jerked back as though he'd been struck. Gods, no. By the Mother, how could they? Yanking back his visor, Gyles leaned over the side of his saddle and retched up his meager breakfast onto the forest floor. Shaking, he forced himself to regard the group huddled around the campfire once more. None of the people around the fire talked nor moved, and the fire reflected dimly off of dull eyes devoid of any sort of life or emotion. The only thing they did was eat, chewing slowly and silently. These people died a long time ago, but they've yet to realize it.
Gyles couldn't bear to watch any longer. "Please, Tristifer," he began, his voice strained, "let us be gone from here." With an expression that was as disturbed as Gyles felt, Tristifer of Oldstones nodded his agreement. It was then that Gyles remembered the deer. Pulling it from where it had been draped across Evenfall's hindquarters, with Tristifer's help he heaved the dead creature beyond the twisted thorny confines of the thicket's brush into the clearing, in sight of the people around the fire. Without a single glance backward, Gyles and Tristifer both quickly mounted their horses and rode away into the gloom.
What am I doing here? It wasn't the first time that Gyles had found his mind consumed with doubt about his current situation. Feeding Evenfall another clump of dead grass from the palm of his hand, Gyles looked back from the picket line of horses towards the rest of the party. They had found enough kindling to start three campfires, and members of the party had begun to gather around each, eating what meager rations they had been allotted for the night's supper.
Some rations are better than none, Gyles thought gravely. Thoughts of the group of smallfolk that he and Tristifer of Oldstones had stumbled upon had plagued his mind the entire day. Are we to end up like them too? Ser Torrhen says we must continue north to reach the Queen's allies, but does not know just how far that is. Our own supplies have begun to dwindle, and there is little food to be found from the surrounding countryside.
Shivering in the cold as the last bit of grey daylight seeped out of the darkening sky, Gyles grimaced. It matters naught what I think. They listen to my scouting reports, and then act as though I don't exist. Gyles' mailed fist clenched. He had tried to offer his thoughts on what the party's next actions should be, but it had become clear all too quickly that the advice of a Dornishman meant little and less to the soldiers and knights of the North, Vale, and Riverlands. Even the Lady Mysaria exerts some influence over the party. The members of the party had quickly coalesced around Ser Torrhen Manderly and Ser Willam Royce as its leaders, and none had questioned their decisions and orders. Though it seems to me that Ser Willam largely follows whatever decisions Ser Torrhen makes.
Every night when Gyles found himself leaning against some log or stump, shivering beneath his damp silk cloak as he tried to sleep in the biting cold, he wondered if he might freeze to death while he slept. If I were to die, would they even bother to bury me? Or would they simply take my supplies and horse and move on? Gyles thought he knew the answer to such a question, and such thoughts did nothing to improve his morale.
What am I doing here? The nagging thought had returned, an increasingly uncomfortable itch in the back of his mind that would not leave him. The Queen I swore my sword to is imprisoned. In truth, Gyles had no way of knowing if she still even drew breath. Her war is not mine own. The fate and honor of House Yronwood does not depend upon which dragonlord sits that thrice-damned Iron Throne. Gyles had fought and bled for no obvious reward, and now found himself trudging north to an uncertain fate.
I lost Mors for this useless conflict. Gyles' squire had even less reason than him to get himself involved in the wars of the dragonlords. Mors was no exile. He could have lived out the rest of his days in Dorne. He accompanied me to help me, and I repaid his devotion and kindness by getting him killed. Gyles felt a burning anger beginning to grow in his gut. These people couldn't care less about Mors and I. Mors died for them and I've bled for them, and still they treat me as more of an annoyance and possible threat than an ally.
Enough! Gyles glared in the direction of Ser Torrhen Manderly and Ser Willam Royce. There they sat around the largest of the three campfires, surrounded by the majority of the party's members. There they conversed and planned, preparing for the next day's journey. I tire of this cold, and the disrespect. I swore no vow of fealty to Torrhen Manderly. Let them march north and freeze to death for all I care. Gyles had made his decision. As soon as the members of the party settled in for the night, Gyles would mount Evenfall and ride for Duskendale. I've enough coin left to me for passage across the Narrow Sea. I'll sign myself to a Free Company. At least there I'll be paid for my services and efforts, if nothing else.
Gyles nearly jumped out of his skin when the voice spoke up to his side. "The night will grow only colder out here alone with naught for company but shadows, Ser. Come, join us at the fire."
The knight standing before Gyles was an old man, with a long white beard that reached far down his breastplate. He had removed his helm. Only a few wisps of white hair remained atop his scalp, and his face was lined and wrinkled. He regarded Gyles with kind eyes. Ser Jarmen Follard, Gyles realized. During his time in the Red Keep, it had not taken Gyles long to hear of the ancient knight. The man had a legendary reputation among the Red Keep's denizens, and had been a sworn knight of the Targaryen family for near on fifty years, as Gyles had heard.
Gyles considered the man's offer for a moment. I suppose it would seem suspicious for me to refuse. With a nod and a cordial enough grin, Gyles acquiesced. "Very well, Ser Jarmen," Gyles began, "I suppose a little warmth would be to my benefit."
Following the elderly knight, Gyles soon found himself sitting upon a damp tree stump before the smallest of the three fires that the party had started. Unsurprisingly, the fewest amount of men sat about it. Glancing around, Gyles recognized a few of the men around him. To Gyles' right, Ser Jarmen had taken a seat before the fire, and across from Gyles sat Tristifer of Oldstones.
To Gyles' left was a man-at-arms in a frayed black gambeson, with a red three-headed dragon patch sewn above his heart. The man-at-arms had removed his dented kettle helm, which sat between his feet. Beside Tristifer of Oldstones sat a large man in heavy iron plate. Tied about his shoulders was a large black bear pelt, and he possessed a wild bushy brown beard that was streaked with grey. He regarded Gyles with a friendly expression, and laughing eyes that seemed full of mirth.
"Come, friend, and join us at the fire," the man in the bear pelt rumbled. "Tis enough warmth to go 'round." Chuckling at his own attempt at a jape, the large knight continued. "I don't believe we've been properly acquainted. I am Ser Horton Cave, the Knight of the Deep."
When the knight extended his hand, Gyles returned his handshake, and nearly gasped in pain as the knight grasped his hand in a crushingly strong grip. Looking up, Gyles saw that the knight had been watching for a reaction, and began to roar with laughter at whatever expression he saw upon Gyles' face. "Well met!" the man laughed, "tis not many who can withstand my greeting!"
Trying not to let his feelings of annoyance show upon his face, Gyles nodded at the man, before beginning to speak. "The Deep? Forgive me, Ser, but I have not heard before of your House or seat."
The knight in the bear pelt gave Gyles a friendly smile. "Not many have," he began, "tis on Crackclaw Point. Many forget we Clawmen exist until they meet us on the field of battle. I assure you, friend, that they don't forget about us after that!" The knight once again roared with laughter. Mayhaps the pelt he wears across his back is his own, Gyles mused, for this knight surely roars like a bear.
Turning to the man-at-arms next to him, Gyles spoke. "I believe I have not yet made your acquaintance either."
Looking at Gyles with slightly surprised brown eyes, the man-at-arms quickly nodded and inclined his head in respect. "Seven blessings upon ye, Ser," the man-at-arms began, "I am called Joss Oat."
Smiling, Ser Jarmen Follard interjected. "You have not yet told us where you hail from, Ser. By your armor, however, I don't doubt that you call the sands of Dorne home."
Looking at his face, Gyles searched the knight's expression for the hint of hidden hostility that he had learned to expect from nearly every acquaintance he had made north of the Red Mountains. He was surprised to see that Ser Jarmen's face contained none, however. His kind smile was a genuine one.
It took Gyles a moment to realize he had not yet spoken, and he cleared his throat in slight embarrassment. "You are correct that I am from Dorne, Ser," Gyles began, "I am Ser Gyles Yronwood, of Yronwood castle. It lies at the Boneway's southern end."
Ser Jarmen nodded, still smiling. "Well met. It seems to me that all of us could do with a bit more of that Dornish sun right about now. I fear that my old bones may never feel warm again!" The aged knight chuckled, before it lapsed into a hacking cough. After several moments, Ser Jarmen spat out some phlegm and sat back up straight. "Forgive me. I caught a cough after the Prince Aegon threw me in the Black Cells, and it has never taken its leave of me."
At the mention of the Usurper, Joss Oat grunted in anger. "Would that we lot already had an army at our backs. Our Queen and her children need us, and yet we can do naught but ride further and further away from 'em."
With that sobering thought, Gyles and the other men sat around the fire in silence for several moments. Gyles wasn't sure what to say. Much of this party is but the tiny remnant of the mounted column that Queen Rhaenyra sent out to bring order to her city. Gyles frowned bitterly. And what a fine job we did. Rode into a trap, and allowed the Queen and her family, as well as her keep, to be captured in our absence. Gyles did not doubt that the other men around the fire were thinking much the same thing. None had the courage to say that plain truth out loud, however.
Staring morosely into the flames, Tristifer of Oldstones spoke up. "There was an army," he began. "Rivermen and Northmen, we had fought together from the war's start. The hosts of Jason Lannister and Criston Cole couldn't stand before us. To Tumbleton we had marched. Another battle there was to be. This time, it was the Usurper's supporters from the Reach. Outnumbered as we were, we remained confident as ever. 'Tis the last fight, boys,' we had told each other, hoping it to be true."
Tristifer sighed sadly, before continuing. "My village sits beneath the ruins of an ancient castle. Oldstones, it's called. Twas the seat of River Kings of old, House Mudd. They ruled 'afore the Andals came, and lost their realm after they arrived. But our village survived the Andals. Ours is old blood, and mine own ancestors claim descent from the Mudds. Mine was a quiet life 'afore the war began. I thought it boring, and wanted to claim myself glory, like my ancestors long 'afore me."
The free rider laughed, but there was no mirth in it, and it sounded more like a harsh cough than an expression of happiness and joy. "I convinced most o' the men and boys of the village to follow me to war. 'Come with me!' I said, 'the bards have need of more heroes to sing about.'" Tristifer shook his head. "And follow me they did. We were all fools. War ain't no song, and the lot of us learned that soon enough. Half of the men and boys that followed me died in the first fight at the Red Fork. Sharpened sticks and rusty dirks make for a poor weapon against knights in plate."
Taking a moment to compose himself, he continued after a brief pause, his voice thick with emotion. "We weren't soldiers. We were farmers, and innkeeps, and smiths. But we learned to be. It was that, or die. By the Fishfeed, tweren't naught but five o' us left. Beron the tanner took an arrow to the throat, and Jyck the smith's apprentice a spear to the gut. Me, Pate the innkeep's boy, and Sour Rob were all that remained. We survived the fight against Criston Cole and his men, but Sour Rob died o' camp fever on the road to Tumbleton."
Rubbing his nose, the man continued to speak, as he stared expressionlessly into the crackling flames of the fire. "When we made it to Tumbleton, Pate the innkeep's boy told me that he had a good feeling, as though things were 'bout to start changing soon." Tristifer smiled mirthlessly. "Tis a funny thing, that. Plenty of the village boys were tall, and strong. Pate was short and fat. Lots o' boys in the village spent their free time running about and wrestling. Pate baked bread and swept floors. Yet when war came, tweren't the tall and strong boys that survived. Twas Pate. He kept his wits about him, he learned, and he lived. I s'pose you never know who the true survivors are until you're knee deep in the mud and blood of the battlefield."
Tristifer looked up to regard the men around the fire. "One night, our leader, Ser Garibald Grey, approached us and told us he needed one o' us to ride to King's Landing, and ask for the Queen to send us some o' her dragonriders to help defend Tumbleton. Even in peace, a wise man stays wary on the roads. In wartime, traveling alone on the roads can easily mean death. None o' us wanted the task, so we drew straws o' hay to see which o' us would be making the journey. I drew the short straw, so I saddled up my horse and prepared to leave at first light that next morning."
The free rider looked at the ground and closed his eyes, before sighing and continuing his story. "Pate came to me that dawn, and wished me well on my journey. 'You'll make it, Tristifer,' he said to me. When I asked him how he could be sure, he looked me right in the eye as he answered. 'We've made it this far,' he said, 'and at least one o' us has to make it home in the end.'"
Letting out a ragged sigh, he continued: "I made it to King's Landing without a scratch, and the Queen sent some o' her dragonriders to defend Tumbleton. The lot of us know what happened then." Tristifer wiped at a single tear that ran down his dirt-stained cheek. "And to think that I thought Pate the lucky one out o' the two o' us."
Holding his hands out in front of himself, he examined them in the light of the fire. "Mayhaps I'm cursed," the free rider muttered. "I brought many o' the men and boys o' my village to fight in the war, and watched em' die, one by one. Mayhaps tis my punishment, to live with the guilt o' their deaths weighing heavy on my soul. I can never return to my village, not now, not alone. I promised them that their husbands, fathers, sons, and brothers would return laden with riches and glory. I couldn't bear to face them now."
Tristifer fell silent, and there was naught but the sound of crackling flame in Gyles' ears for several moments. Gyles was stunned at the Riverman's tale. I carry the guilt of Mors' death with me, yet this man bears the weight of the deaths of most of the menfolk of his village. Gyles wondered what gave Tristifer the strength to keep fighting, keep moving on. Mayhaps it isn't the strength to move on, Gyles thought. Mayhaps all that is left for him is to run from the grief and pain.
Ser Horton Cave cleared his throat, and Gyles looked to him along with the other men around the fire. For all the joviality and mirth that the Clawman had shown not too long before, he seemed much more subdued in disposition. "You're not the only man here that bears the guilt for leading good men to their deaths," the burly landed knight began. "I marched from Crackclaw Point with the Lords Crabb and Brune. Each of us had one hundred men at our backs."
He cracked his knuckles and sighed, breath misting in the winter air. "I lost men helping to retake Rook's Rest from the Greens, and even more trying to kill the Usurper's dragon. It was wounded, you see, and unable to fly. Lord Mooton wanted to kill it, and I volunteered to help him. We thought that we could finish it off with our numbers. What man wouldn't want to be known as a dragonslayer? Instead, the damned beast burned Lord Mooton, and a good amount of our men before we finally gave up."
Cave smiled sadly. "Those of us that remained still had fight left in us, however. We marched to King's Landing, and swore ourselves to the Queen's cause after she took the city. I suppose I thought that we would avenge our fallen by defeating the Queen's enemies in the field of battle, winning her the war. Instead, the last of my men died during those Gods-forsaken riots in the city."
Ser Horton sighed, his breath shaking the whiskers about his mouth. "Thoughts of home are what maintain my spirit, and give me the courage to fight on. I've a good wife, and strong sons who will carry on my legacy one day. And I have a daughter." He smiled wistfully, before patting a leather pouch on his belt. "Whenever I'm away, she writes me letters, you see. Within them are no matters of great import. She simply writes about home, and our family. When I return home, she gives them all to me, and I read them." Cave grinned. "They remind me of who and what I fight for. When I read them, I'm able to remember the man I was before I left. Reading them reminds me that I'm naught but a mortal man, and yet gives me the strength to see my journeys through to their end."
The pelt-clad knight let out a morose chuckle. "I suppose I will have plenty of reading to do when I finally get home. I've never been apart from my family and home for so long."
The men around the fire sat in silence for a while, considering Ser Horton's words. Eventually, Ser Jarmen Follard turned to regard Gyles with a friendly expression. "Tell me, Ser Gyles," the aged man began, "why did you swear your sword to the Queen?"
Gyles was unsure of how to answer him. Twould not be knightly to tell him the truth. The desire of power and influence is not a particularly noble aim. As he hesitated, Ser Jarmen chuckled softly as he examined Gyles' face. Ser Jarmen then closed his eyes for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. With a smile, he spoke. "Personally, I joined the court of King Jaehaerys, the first of his name, in the pursuit of comely maids."
Ser Jarmen laughed at Gyles' surprised expression. "Surprised? I was once a young man, as you are. The great beauty of the days of my youth was the Princess Viserra Targaryen. Truly, in all my years, I've never seen so great a beauty as her. I was a skilled young knight with ambition, and I knew I would never inherit my family's seat. The line of succession was a long one, and I was nearly at the end of it. So I rode for King's Landing, and with my skill at arms won myself a place in the King's retinue. In the days of the Old King, that was no small feat. The realm was at peace, and there were many skilled knights to go round. Only the best had the chance to serve at the King's court."
The ancient knight crossed his arms across his chest with a smile. "There was to be a large tourney to celebrate the King's nameday, and I had decided that it would be my chance to woo the Princess Viserra. Surely, I thought, winning such a grand tournament and crowning the Princess the Queen of Love and Beauty would win her heart. It did in all the stories, after all. So I trained and trained, and when I was nearly falling from the saddle with exhaustion, I trained even more. The day of the tourney finally arrived, and I felt I was ready. I was one of the court's newest additions, and desperately wanted to make my name known."
Tapping his mailed fingers on his knee, he seemed lost in memory. "The tourney had drawn in knights from all across the Realm. My first challengers fell before me with hardly any effort on my part. I unhorsed one hedge knight without even breaking a lance!" Ser Jarmen grinned. "It was only late in the tournament that all the training I had done saved me. I broke ten lances against Ser Robin Shaw of the Kingsguard before finally unhorsing him. After that joust, I had won the adoration of the common people in attendance. I was a young dashing knight from a minor Crownlands house, and the only challenger left who was not either a member of the Kingsguard or the Royal Family."
Ser Jarmen tapped a mailed finger to the side of his head for emphasis as he continued to speak. "I did not let such praise get to my head, however, and I stayed focused on my goal. I was going to win, and I was going to crown Princess Viserra the Queen of Love and Beauty. My next opponent was Ser Ryam Redwyne of the Kingsguard, a most formidable opponent. Though I broke sixteen lances upon him and was nearly unhorsed twice, I managed to prevail. The Prince Aemon Targaryen had defeated his younger brother, the Prince Baelon, and was to be my final challenger." Ser Jarmen chuckled. "I was so focused on my goal that I barely took notice of all that I'd achieved. I was to ride against the Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Seven Kingdoms, and yet all I could seemingly focus on was the Princess Viserra, sitting amongst her family in the Royal Box!"
By this point, Gyles and the other men about the fire had been completely enthralled by Ser Jarmen's tale. Members of the party at the other two fires had begun to overhear, and a few had walked over, standing behind Gyles and the others as Ser Jarmen continued to speak. "The Prince Aemon and I broke thirteen lances against each other. On the thirteenth lance, we both unseated t'other. Standing from the dust, we both drew our swords and began to duel amongst the lists, in order to determine the tourney's winner. To this day, I have ne'er faced a finer swordsman. I was later told that the Prince and I's song of steel lasted for near on ten minutes, neither one of us giving an inch of ground."
Ser Jarmen smiled wistfully. "I eventually forced the Prince to yield, but twas a close thing. The Prince accepted his defeat with grace, and congratulated me on my skill at arms. I thanked him with the utmost courtesy, but my eyes were set only upon the sole prize I coveted. The crowds roared my name, and the nobles clapped at the fine display of chivalry. The moment couldn't have been more perfect. With the Crown of Love and Beauty, I mounted my horse and approached the Royal Box. There the Princess Viserra sat, looking more a goddess than mortal woman. I was nearly shaking in my stirrups from the anticipation of it all. Twas there that I crowned her, waiting for my ambitions to finally succeed in a moment worthy of story and song."
The aged knight grimaced. "The Princess Viserra accepted the crown with all the grace and politeness expected of a Princess, but no more. She barely even looked at me. Twas then that I saw she had eyes only for the Prince Baelon, and not the landless knight of minor nobility before her. She accepted the crown as though it were some paltry gift. I realized then that even the possibility of myself crowning someone else had not ever crossed her mind. I was merely another handsome face bearing a crown of flowers for her to wear, as so, so many had done before."
The old man laughed bitterly. "I had achieved all that a man of my ambition should have wanted. I had made a name and reputation for myself, and sat atop a large enough pile of coin from all the ransomed steeds and armor of my opponents that I could've lived easily for the rest of my days. Instead, I was frustrated and discouraged. I wasted all of my coin on whores, gambling, and drinking. If I couldn't have my princess, I would have only the best women, wines, and foods that the city of King's Landing had to offer. My coin vanished as quickly as morning dew at sunrise."
Ser Jarmen closed his eyes and paused, before a smile came to his face. "It was as I was drinking away the last of my coin that the Prince Aemon found me, months after the tourney. He told me that he had been greatly impressed by my skill at arms, and valor. He offered to make me his sworn sword, and accompany him back to the island of Dragonstone. I could hardly refuse him, even if I had wanted to." Ser Jarmen paused. "I nearly did reject his offer. Somehow, I had it in my mind that if I stayed in the city just a little while longer, fought well in just one more tourney, that I would become worthy of the Princess Viserra. Alas, I did not stay. I accompanied the Prince Aemon back to Dragonstone as his sworn shield."
Though quite a crowd had gathered round by this point, Ser Jarmen smiled directly at Gyles as he continued to speak. "Twas on the island of Dragonstone that I became a man worthy of my knighthood. The Prince Aemon saw my potential, and altered the course of my life for the better. I learned there to temper my ambition with humility, and to take pride in my achievements, rather than do naught but yearn for more. Most importantly, however, the Prince taught me to have a care for others. I had spent all my years looking at people and wondering what it was they could do for me. Prince Aemon taught me to look upon others and think about what I could do for them."
Ser Jarmen smiled. "Tis only a callous man and a fool that will tell you that an act of kindness pays no amercement. You cannot make men love you, follow you, die for you, with coin. That kind of loyalty is only bought by showing those who follow you that their best interests are also your own, and that you will sacrifice your own interests in favor of theirs. Prince Aemon knew these things. Methinks he always knew them. What an heir to the Realm the King Jaehaerys had!"
A dark frown enveloped Ser Jarmen's face. "Twas not long after the Prince's thirty-seventh nameday that dire news came to Dragonstone's shores. Myrish pirates had taken over the eastern half of the isle of Tarth, and Lord Tarth was in desperate need of assistance. The Prince agreed without hesitation to come to their aid. It was arranged that the Prince's goodson, Lord Corlys Velaryon, would sail his fleet to Tarth, and that Prince Aemon would offer aid from atop his dragon, Caraxes. As his sworn sword, I was to fly with the Prince to Tarth atop Caraxes."
He sighed and looked at his feet. "Before the Prince and I departed, his only child, the Princess Rhaenys, informed him that she was with child. Twas to be the Prince Aemon's first grandchild, and he was overjoyed at the news. Off we flew to Tarth, and all the Prince seemed able to talk about was how excited he was to hold his grandchild in his arms when he returned. A glorious battle with dastardly pirates, and the fame that it would win him, meant little and less to the Prince. His mind wasn't on the pirates, it was on his return home, to his beloved wife and daughter."
Ser Jarmen regarded the flames of the campfire mournfully. "To describe Lord Tarth as relieved by the Prince's arrival would be a gross understatement. The man nearly prostrated himself in thanks before the Prince when he landed Caraxes at Lord Tarth's encampment in the mountains of the island. I was at the Prince's side the entire time. As the Prince and Lord Tarth planned on how to rid the island of the Myrish pirates, I stayed alert, watching the surrounding forest for every moment, any possible sign of danger."
The light of the fire reflected brightly off of Ser Jarmen's eyes. "Twas evenfall, and Lord Tarth's men were starting fires, preparing for the night ahead. I had watched the forest for hours, and seen no sign of danger. According to Lord Tarth, the pirates were far down the mountainsides. I saw a man-at-arms struggling with some firewood, and stepped away from the Prince's side for but a moment in order to help the man with his burden. Moments later, I heard a crash, and panicked shouts. When I turned back, I saw the Prince laying there on the ground, a crossbow bolt through his neck."
Ser Jarmen's eyes welled with unshed tears, and he spoke as though in a trance. "I rushed to my Prince's side, and cradled him in my arms as he choked on his own blood. 'Please, my Prince, what can I do?' I begged him. The Prince had no answer. He merely thrashed in my grasp, gurgling and struggling to breathe. 'Please my Prince, you have to live!' I begged him. 'Think of your grandchild!' The Prince did not seem to hear me, and he ceased his struggling. 'Your grandchild!' I screamed at him, again and again. 'Your grandchild!'."
Tears ran freely down the old knight's cheeks, and the crowd that had gathered round to hear his tale was completely silent. "There was naught anyone could do. Prince Aemon died there, in the mountains of Tarth. He never saw his granddaughter, nor the grandson born after her. In the time after his death, I wanted to be punished for my failure. I begged the Prince's widow, the Lady Jocelyn, to release me in disgrace from her service. She didn't. The Lady Jocelyn and the Princess Rhaenys both told me that the Prince's death was no one's fault but that of the pirates."
Wiping some of the tears from his cheeks, he continued. "I wanted the Royal Family, Prince Aemon's family, to hate me as I much as I hated myself for his death. When Ser Ryam Redwyne died early in the reign of the King Viserys, the King offered me a white cloak of the Kingsguard. I refused it. How could I accept such a position? Would that he had offered me a blood-red cloak instead, so that all in the Realm would see my failure, and the blood of the Prince that stained my hands!"
Ser Jarmen closed his eyes. "If I had not left his side, the bolt would have struck and killed me instead. Every time some tragedy has befallen the Royal Family, and every time I see the devastation wrought by this war, some part of me wishes to wonder if it could not all have been prevented had I died in the mountains of Tarth instead."
The old knight opened his eyes then, and regarded all who had gathered around him while he told his tale. Gyles was surprised to see that the entire party was standing around their fire. Ser Torrhen Manderly, Ser Willam Royce, the Lady Mysaria, all stood in silence as Ser Jarmen spoke. "I have learned to ignore such thoughts, however. I did not die at Tarth. As much as it pained me, I eventually accepted the Prince's death for what it was, and that I could not have known to prevent it. All that I can do now is honor the Prince by living by the principles he taught me. What it means to be a good knight, and what it means to be a good man."
Ser Jarmen looked to the night sky above. "The Gods have seen fit to give me many years of life, so I do what I can with the time I've been given. I wasted too much time wallowing in self-pity. I spent so much time regretting the Prince's death that I didn't honor him by being the knight I should have been."
Looking from Tristifer of Oldstones, to Ser Horton Cave, and then to Gyles, he added: "Bearing the weight of others' deaths is the heaviest burden one can carry. The pain never goes away, but it lessens with time. If you live as long as I have, you'll realize there is naught you can do in the end but learn to forgive yourself, and let your actions henceforth honor those that you lost. It is either that, or go mad with guilt."
It did not take long after Ser Jarmen had finished speaking for the party to turn in for the night. Several watchers were posted to stand first vigil against possible danger. Throughout the camp, hardly any words were spoken. Leaning against a stump before the fire's dying embers, Gyles shivered in the cold. In the dark and shadow, he could barely make out the picket line of horses at the camp's edge.
The words he had heard spoken in the evening had given Gyles much to consider. He realized just how petty and hollow his previous achievements had been. What does my knighthood mean to me? Until tonight, it had meant status, wooing women, outfighting opponents, and commanding respect. How little that all truly means. Honor wasn't winning archery contests or jousting. Honor is accompanying an exiled fool in his misadventures north of the Boneway, when you could just as easily have never left home.
Gyles Yronwood, an anointed knight and member of an illustrious House that traced its lineage to time immemorial, had been put thoroughly to shame by the example of his squire's unwavering faithfulness and loyalty. I will not flee from this journey and the hardships that are surely ahead. Gyles had sworn his sword to Queen Rhaenyra out of a lust for power, prestige, and influence.
Ever faithful, his squire Mors had joined him, fighting and dying for a cause in a war that neither he nor Gyles had any reason to be fighting for. I will continue to lend my sword to this fight, whether I live to witness an end to the bloodshed, or die trying. Not for the dragonlords, not for myself, but for Mors. My honor is forfeit until I've seen this war through to its conclusion.
Gyles looked to the sky above, and the stars that shone in the blackness of night. He remembered his squire's last words. Are these still the same stars that shine over Dorne? If they were, mayhaps they'd borne witness to his vow. He hoped they did.