Gyles IV

The road was barely visible under the recent snowfall, little more than a snaking indent across a large expanse of frozen fields. Gyles shifted, uncomfortable after crouching back on his heels for such a long time. The cold has robbed me of nearly all available foliage with which I may conceal myself. However, it did not look as though he need worry about potential foes observing him. Beyond the small copse of trees in which Gyles hid, the snowy fields around the road were long and flat. If there was anyone around here, I would have seen them by now.

Standing, Gyles made his way to Evenfall, untying his mount and hopping into the saddle. Evenfall enjoyed the cold even less than Gyles did. And I enjoy it about as much as a wart on the arse. Gyles rode away from the copse of trees, back in the direction of some low hills that were covered in snow. The winter snows had the habit of coating anything lying beneath the open sky. Including me. It had become a habit of his to wake with a small layer of freezing, soaking snow atop him. It was a miracle that Gyles and most of the others in the group had not fallen sick, despite being constantly half-frozen and huddling in front of fires to warm themselves after a day spent riding through accumulating snow drifts.

Trying to find shelter beneath trees was even worse than sleeping under the open sky. Many of the branches had grown brittle in the winter's cold, and were then laden with the weight of freshly-fallen snow. Some branches eventually snapped under the weight, dumping their soaking, freezing burdens on those unlucky enough to be sitting below. The dry, arid heat of the grassy plains south of Yronwood was little more than a half-forgotten memory to Gyles in the face of such relentless, miserable chill.

As he crested one of the low hills, Gyles took a moment to survey the group below. Our merry band falls somewhat short of the expectations of all the songs and stories. Such tales oft lauded the exploits of great heroes and the tightly-knit groups of followers that aided them in their quests. Gyles and his comrades rode to rejoin the forces of Queen Rhaneyra that Ser Torrhen assured them all would be found in the Riverlands. It was a rather vague mission, and one that looked less and less likely to succeed as their supplies dwindled and the snows continued with increasing frequency.

None of us look particularly heroic either, Gyles thought with a grim smirk. Hunched and huddled beneath sodden cloaks atop their mounts, the members of the party lacked the self-assured and proud countenances of the seasoned adventurers that the bards loved to sing about. He began to ride down the hill towards the group's unofficial leaders, who had arrayed themselves at the party's front after sighting Gyles at the hill's top.

Reining up in front of them, Gyles regarded each in turn. At the center of the three was Ser Torrhen Manderly. With the hood of his fur-lined blue-green cloak pulled up, Ser Torrhen looked utterly miserable. The air misted before his plump and ruddy face, and his normally well-styled mustache had grown unchecked into a bristling, drooping mass of hair perched atop his upper lip.

The Lady Mysaria looked as though she fared little better. Beneath the black hood of her own cloak, her pale face was nearly perpetually flushed red from the cold. She spoke little, but it was not hard to notice the frustration and anger of the Queen's mistress of Whispers by her overall demeanor. The Lady Mysaria thinks that we move too slowly. Though she hadn't said anything of the sort, Gyles suspected that she wished to abandon the men who had fallen sick during the trek north. Due to their infirmity, the group had to move at a much slower pace, lest the few ailing knights, men-at-arms, and gold cloaks who had taken sick fall from their saddles into the snow and freeze to death, forgotten and left behind. Methinks that the Lady Mysaria cares not how many of us survive the journey, so long as she remains amongst the living.

Ser Willam Royce, like many in the group, had chosen to remove the helm of his armor, so that the chilled metal would not be constantly resting against his head. Royce's curly auburn hair was matted and wet from the constant snowfall, and his grey eyes seemed to constantly be on the horizon. The heir to Runestone was convinced that the Usurper's forces were sure to be on the party's heels, and did not wish to be caught unawares. "Let them come," Gyles had heard the knight say often, "and we will show them the fate that befalls traitors."

Gyles lifted the visor of his own conical helm, and pulled his silk scarf down beneath his chin (which he had wrapped about his head and face for added warmth), so that his voice could be heard clearly. "The terrain beyond these hills is quite flat and exposed. We will be visible to any and all from a long ways off." Gyles sighed, his breath misting in the air. "However, any possible assailants will also be easily visible to us. Methinks that any malcontents who catch sight of our party will think better of assailing us."

Ser Willam nodded, and Lady Mysaria inclined her head slightly in acknowledgement of Gyles' words. Ser Torrhen sat in silence for several moments, mulling over Gyles' words. As he always does. The stout knight of House Manderly was a man that seemed to loathe the unexpected. He looks thrice at any path that lies before him, considering every possible outcome of whatever action he plans on taking.

Gyles could tell that Ser Torrhen misliked the terrain ahead, and how it would expose himself and the party to watching eyes. Or dragons. It had been common knowledge at the Red Keep that the traitorous Prince Aemond One-Eye was the terror of the Riverlands, descending without warning and laying waste to whomever had the gross misfortune of being his chosen target. However, the alternative was a lengthy detour that would only further add to the distance between the party and Maidenpool.

Ser Torrhen eventually raised his eyes to meet Gyles. "Thank you, Ser," the knight huffed. "It seems to me that we must take the road ahead, without further delay. We simply don't have enough supplies to take a longer, safer route." The Lady Mysaria and Ser Willam nodded in agreement with Ser Manderly's words, and Gyles gave the knight a nod of his own.

"I understand, Ser," Gyles said evenly. "I will rejoin the ranks of the party." Ser Torrhen nodded distractedly, seemingly already considering whatever future danger lurked at the periphery of his mind's eye.

Ser Jarmen's cough had grown worse. The aged knight coughed violently, nearly jarring himself from the saddle. I know not what will happen if Ser Jarmen becomes unable to travel. Gyles feared that the ancient knight would tell the party to go on without him. A request that Lady Mysaria would only be too happy to agree to. Gyles' hands tightened on his reins. To hell with her. I'll stay with Ser Jarmen, even if no-one else will.

However, Gyles knew he would not be alone if such a reality came to pass. Ser Horton, Tristifer, and Joss Oat would stay as well, I'm certain of it. Since the night they had spent trading tales around their campfire shortly after departing King's Landing, the four men had become the nearest thing to boon companions that Gyles had since his exile from Dorne. "Will you be alright, Ser?" Gyles asked Ser Jarmen.

Ser Jarmen turned in his saddle to give Gyles a wan grin. "I'll be well enough, thank you." The old knight loudly cleared his throat. "I nearly became a white cloak of the Kingsguard under the King Viserys! If I'm to be laid low, 'twill not be because of a cough." Ser Jarmen chuckled. "I've faced much greater dangers in my life than this."

Gyles nodded at the knight. Conversation seemed to help the coughing abate, so Gyles considered what to say in order to keep Ser Jarmen talking. "A 'white cloak', you say?" Gyles began, grinning halfheartedly. "That seems dreadfully impractical. After one battle, or a spilled goblet of wine, you'd no longer be able to claim such a title."

Ser Jarmen chuckled. "Mayhaps you are right, Ser Gyles. It was certainly never a distinction that I sought, nor accepted." Ser Jarmen was silent for a moment, and his grin twisted into a slight frown.

Gyles wanted to kick himself. Damn it. The Prince. Gyles should have known better. Any mention of the Kingsguard was sure to remind the elderly knight of his former benefactor, the long-dead Prince Aemon. Though Ser Jarmen claimed to have made his peace with the Prince's death, thoughts of the slain Prince of Dragonstone still greatly saddened him.

Gyles opened his mouth in the hopes of changing the topic of conversation once more, but was preempted by Ser Jarmen. "I should have accepted it," the old knight muttered. "The white cloak. I thought myself unworthy, after Prince Aemon died." Ser Jarmen looked aside at Gyles sadly. "So I refused."

Gyles was unsure of what to say, but he needn't have worried, for Ser Jarmen continued to speak. "Unfortunately, there were men far more unworthy than I who gladly accepted the White Cloak after I refused it." Ser Jarmen's eyes were cold, and hard.

Gyles had never seen such an angry expression on the knight's visage before. Mayhaps I thought him incapable of even feeling hatred towards another. "Who accepted the cloak?" Gyles queried, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Ser Jarmen nearly spat out the name as he uttered it. "Ser Criston Cole." The look of anger melted away from Ser Jarmen's face, leaving only sadness in its wake. "Make no mistake. Ser Criston was an outstanding choice, and would undoubtedly have joined the Kingsguard's ranks later, even if I'd accepted the cloak when King Viserys offered it to me." Ser Jarmen closed his eyes and sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "But he would not have been Lord Commander at the time of the King's death. Had I accepted the cloak, I have little doubt that I would have been Lord Commander when King Viserys passed."

Ser Jarmen smiled sadly. "By the war's beginning, Ser Criston was a hateful man. It was no secret in the King's court that the bond Ser Criston once had with his charge, the Princess Rhaenyra, had withered and died. He was only too happy to crown the Prince Aegon King, so long as it meant that the Princess Rhaenyra might be denied her father's throne."

Ser Jarmen shook his head. "Were I Lord Commander, I would have done everything in my power to prevent the fruition of such a scheme. Alas, I was not, thanks to my own many mistakes. I could only stand and watch in dismay as Prince Aegon was crowned, powerless and trapped along with all the other supporters of the rightful Queen in King's Landing."

The aged knight regarded the grey horizon that stretched out before the party for a moment, as though searching for a specific landmark that was only just beyond perception. "Those of us who refused to bend the knee to Prince Aegon, and renounce our vows to King Viserys that we would see his daughter crowned, were largely killed for it. Lord Caswell, Lord Merryweather, and even the pious Lady Fell, kin to the Kingsguard knight Ser Willis, were all beheaded." Ser Jarmen shook his head morosely. "They kept their vows, and were beheaded for it. I was the only one of the lot who was spared the headsman's block, though not for lack of effort by the Queen Alicent and Ser Criston to convince the Prince Aegon to put my head on a spike amongst the others."

The elderly warrior smiled sadly. "The Prince Aegon was always fond of me, you see. When he was a young lad, it was I who helped him to mount his first pony, and train him to ride at rings in the Red Keep's yard. He preferred to see me bend the knee, rather than lose my head. I was forced to watch each and every one of the Queen Rhaenyra's supporters beheaded, before it was my turn to be dragged to the block. The Prince gave me one final chance to bend the knee, and be accepted into his service."

Ser Jarmen frowned sadly. "Of course, I refused him. I told him that I had vowed to the former King to do all that I could to see that the Princess Rhaenyra followed him to the Iron Throne. I had accepted the consequences such a decision would have, and prepared to meet my death. However, I was not killed. The King was enraged, and ordered that I be thrown into the Black Cells, to be forgotten and rot in the dark."

Gyles watched as Ser Jarmen brushed some snow absentmindedly from his horse's mane. "Though Prince Aegon wore the Conqueror's crown, and bore Blackfyre on his hip, I couldn't help but in that moment see him for what he truly was, a spoilt young man, still half a boy, that had just been told 'no' for one of the first times in his life."

Gyles snorted darkly. "The Usurper sounds like just the kind of man to inspire confidence and rally support to his cause." He chuckled half-heartedly, hoping that his attempt at levity would raise Ser Jarmen's spirits.

Ser Jarmen grinned, but there was little conviction to it. "The Prince Aegon had little chance to become a worthy monarch, considering those that surrounded him in his youth and wielded the most influence over him. His father, the King, doted on him and rarely refused him anything. He was weaned on the Queen Alicent's ambition and vitriol as much as that of the milk of his wet nurse." Ser Jarmen frowned again. "And as he trained the Prince at arms, Ser Criston Cole did all that he could to stoke the resentments of the Prince Aegon and his brothers towards the Princess Rhaenyra and her children."

Ser Jarmen gave Gyles a wan smile. "I promise you, Ser, that there is a point to all of my ramblings. The Prince Aegon is a weak man, prone to cruelty and vices. But I don't believe that he must needs have ended up that way. Had I accepted the white cloak, and been the man to train and mentor him through his youth, I could have tried to teach him a better way."

The aged knight coughed, and shook his head. "Prince Aemon's way. I allowed the loathing and pity that I felt for myself after the Prince Aemon's death to cloud my motivation, and judgement. By the time I eventually made my peace with his death, I realized just how much of my life, and the opportunities within it, had been allowed to be ignored and fall to the wayside."

Ser Jarmen pointed an armored finger at himself for emphasis. "With a white cloak about my shoulders, I could have done much good for the Targaryens, who have given me so much, and for their Realm. With a white cloak, I could've done so much more to preserve the Prince Aemon's legacy, and the Realm that should have been his to rule."

For a moment, Ser Jarmen and Gyles continued to ride along the snow-covered road in silence, as winds whistled mournfully about the members of the party and their mounts. The winter sun was getting low in the western sky, with all the orange-red appearance of a blood orange plucked from a Dornish grove.

Ser Jarmen spoke once more, quietly, but with a strong certainty. "Do not make the mistakes that I have made, Ser," the ancient knight said. "When opportunities arise, you must needs try to take them." Ser Jarmen looked east, towards the rapidly-approaching darkness of night. "There is ambition enough amongst the evil men and women of this world to doom us all. However, when power is placed in the hands of the righteous, evil can be averted, and the better nature of men is encouraged."

"It 'appened nearby," muttered Tristifer of Oldstones, as he tried to warm his hands with the meager flame of their cookfire. Gyles considered the Riverman's words. The Butcher's Ball. A stunning victory for the forces of the Queen, and had permanently ended any threats that lay to the north of King's Landing, save Aemond the Kinslayer. I had thought the war nearly a foregone conclusion when I heard the news. Back then, the Usurper was missing, and the Queen's dragonriders dominated the skies. With the loss of another Green army, it appeared that all that was left for Rhaenyra to do was to subjugate the Reach and the Stormlands.

I had expected to march. With the Queen's dragons at their back, the forces amassed in King's Landing would have been more than enough to break the Queen's foes, and end the war for good and all. And yet all we did was sit, and allow yet another opportunity to be missed. The dragonriders Ulf White and Hugh Hammer had turned traitor not long after, destroying the most experienced army that the Queen had in the field, along with the town of Tumbleton. We have suffered misfortune after misfortune, Gyles thought with frustration. When will we have the chance to turn things around?

Joss Oat spat into the snow. "Ser Criston Cole is in the seventh 'Ell, where 'e belongs." The grizzled man-at-arms nodded up at the sky. "The Kinslayer will be next, Gods willin'."

Tristifer shrugged his shoulders at Joss' words. "Mayhaps. The only thing that I'm certain about is that Criston Cole was left dead and broken in the dirt, along with the rest o' his army." The freerider rubbed his nose. "Many o' the men of our army had wanted to cut off the Kingmaker's head, and carry it on a pike south with us." Tristifer shook his head. "The old northern lord convinced us otherwise. 'Leave 'im to rot,' he said, 'let the bastard's story end here, as a broken corpse in the dirt, just like any other.'"

Tristifer shrugged again. "Seems fittin' to me. For all his fame, Ser Criston ended his life no better than a simple farmer." Ser Tristifer stared darkly into the campfire. "Plenty o' those lyin' forgotten around the Realm, left to rot without a proper burial."

Gyles nodded at Tristifer's words. Plenty indeed. Men like Mors. He wondered what had become of his squire's body. Is it crowfood? Buried in a pit or burned on a pyre with hundreds of other corpses? Or thrown into the Blackwater, and carried out to sea? None of those possibilities made him feel any better about the fate of his loyal squire. Mors deserved better than that. Gyles grimaced. Mors deserved better than me.

Gyles watched as Ser Jarmen reached around the fire to place a hand on Tristifer of Oldstones' shoulder. "Their struggles are over," the old knight said kindly. "It is left to those of us still living to carry on. It may seem little consolation, but you must needs find some solace in that truth."

Ser Jarmen looked for a moment at Tristifer, then to Gyles, and then to Ser Horton. Does he see the ghosts that surround us all, and haunt us? The friends who followed us into our follies and died for it?

Ser Jarmen sighed, his breath misting in the air. "In the end, the decisions we make for ourselves are our own. The good and the bad, the victories and the defeats that we each experience in our lives. The only truly regrettable death is one that is directly caused by the mandate of another, in which one is robbed of the chance to determine their own fate."

Ser Jarmen regarded the crackling flame as he continued to speak, as small glowing specks of ash occasionally danced brightly into the winter night, before drifting to the snowy ground beyond to silently extinguish. "Our fates are ours to determine. Each choice, each decision, will in its own way lead us to the end of our lives, whenever and however it occurs." Ser Jarmen smiled kindly. "When we lose those who are close to us, it is too easy to ask ourselves what we did wrong, and for regret to sink its claws into our hearts and minds and consume us."

Though the world beyond him was cold and dark, Ser Jarmen's warm smile was easily seen in the fire's light. "If a person's life is freely lived, and the most important choices that they make are their own, what cause is there for grief beyond the initial pain of loss? A life lived on one's own terms is a life well-lived, I say."

Gyles nodded at Ser Jarmen's words. Mayhaps he is right. No-one ordered Mors to come along with me, he made that choice himself. At every twist and turn of our journey, he could have chosen to leave, yet he still stayed with me. Mors himself had told Gyles that his own luck had finally run out.

Gyles didn't fully agree with his loyal squire. My luck is now our luck, Mors. You used the last of yours to ensure that I didn't lose the last of mine. The road ahead was long, and dangerous. Ultimately, it was Gyles' choice to continue taking it. Gyles looked around the fire at his companions. Ser Jarmen, Tristifer of Oldstones, Ser Horton Cave, and Joss Oat. Where will the road lead us? There was no way to definitively answer such a question. And yet, thanks to the words of Ser Jarmen, Gyles now found an odd sense of peace within the depths of such uncertainty.

The palisade was wooden, and simple. Several thin plumes of smoke rising from behind it promised that whatever structure sat behind the wall was still inhabited. A short road branched off of the main one in the direction of a wooden gate that made up part of the palisade. In contrast, the main thoroughfare continued onward, spanning a bridge over a small ravine, and traveling into a forest that had been made relatively sparse due to the winter's cold.

Despite the reservations of the Lady Mysaria and several others, the decision was made to send several riders up to the palisade, and investigate who was currently staying within its confines. It is risky, but we have little choice. Our supplies are nearly exhausted, and this place is our best chance for finding more. Gyles watched as the walls of the palisade grew ever larger in his vision as he, Ser Willam Royce, and Ser Maric Massey approached it. Besides, any sentry on the wall worth his salt would have seen our party by now. There was no way we could have passed by this place unnoticed.

Above the gate, a soaked and ragged standard hung limply from a wooden pole that was secured on the portion of the palisade's walkway that ran above the gate. It depicted three golden cobs of corn, atop a field of wavy green and mud-brown stripes.

Two sentries stood on either side of the standard. One was thin enough to be a scarecrow, with straw-like yellow hair sticking haphazardly out from beneath a dented, conical metal cap. The other sentry was as fat as his fellow sentry was thin, with a bald head and a flushed face. As he tilted his face down further and further to regard the approaching horsemen, more and more chins seemed to appear over his neck.

"Who goes there?" called the scarecrow suspiciously.

Not to be outdone, his hefty comrade called out shortly after. "Friend or foe?" the fat man added with no small amount of consternation.

Ser Willam reined up his horse before the gate. "Friend," the knight said with a charming smile. "I am Ser Willam Royce, of Runestone," the Valemen continued courteously, "and I am accompanied by Ser Maric Massey of Stonedance, and Ser Gyles Yronwood of Yronwood."

"And what might your business at Corn Cob Hall be, Ser?" a new voice asked. A third man had appeared atop the palisade. The two sentries both quickly bobbed their heads in deference to the newcomer. Resting his hands on the edge of the palisade, the man leaned forward. He wore a shirt of mail, and above it, a doublet with a sigil that matched the standard above the gate. The lord of this place?

"Our party is traveling north," Ser Willam said cautiously. "And we need extra provisions for the road. We hoped that you could spare some. We are about the business of House Targaryen. Would this be possible, Ser…?" Ser Willam trailed off, expectantly awaiting an answer from the knight atop the palisade as to the nature of his identity.

"Ser Jaehaerys Corne," the knight atop the palisade stated evenly. "My uncle, Ser Roger, is the ruler of these lands. As his heir, I rule his lands in his stead while he is away." The man stopped to consider Ser Willam's words for a moment. "The business of House Targaryen, you say?" the knight inquired. "Are you men of Aegon or Rhaenyra?"

Ser Willam looked insulted at the mere suggestion of serving beneath the Usurper's banner. "The Queen of course!" the heir to Runestone answered.

For a moment, Ser Jaehaerys considered the knights arrayed before him in stony silence. A moment later, a cordial smile appeared on his face. "In that case," the knight began, "you and your party are welcome within my walls. Any friend of the Queen is a friend of House Corne!"

Gyles felt a sense of relief. Thank the Gods. Anywhere is better than the cold of the road. Mayhaps we'll even get a real meal for the nonce! Something about Ser Jaehaerys' overly warm reception felt a little peculiar to Gyles, but he disregarded the feeling. It's just my frozen nerves. The warmth of a fire will do wonders for us all. Turning their mounts around, Gyles, Ser Willam, and Ser Maric began to make their way back to the party to deliver the fortuitous news.

Though it was simple fare, warm barley bread had never tasted so good to Gyles. The main hall of House Corne's seat made up most of the structure of the main building. With the exception of a few outbuildings, a small forge, and a stable, little and less was contained within the wooden palisade's confines. The main table, which sat slightly elevated above the rest of the tables in the hall, was spacious enough to accomodate Ser Jaehaerys Corne and all the members of the party. As the meal drew to its close, many of the smallfolk who had eaten their meals at lower tables in the hall had already left, filtering away to other sections of the main building, or out of the hall's doors into the night beyond.

The members of the party and Ser Jaehaerys had been joined at the high table by four additional knights and a squire, who had already been under the employ of Ser Jaehaerys. Though Gyles knew nothing of the man, Ser Janos of Sour Hill was apparently a tourney knight of some note in the Crownlands, Riverlands, and Stormlands. The middle-aged knight was accompanied by his four sons, of which the three eldest, Ser Donnel, Ser Wyman, and Ser Elys, were already newly-made knights themselves. The youngest son, Samgood, squired for his father and brothers. As Ser Jaehaerys explained it, Ser Janos and his sons had spent the majority of the war within the walls of Corn Cob Hall, helping to protect it while war raged not far beyond its walls.

Beyond the barley bread, some hearty stew was consumed, along with a roast pig and several chickens. Ser Jaehaerys' smallfolk had also eaten well. While some of the smallfolk had torn into their food with abandon, others only picked at their food as though they barely had an appetite at all. The whole situation still felt very odd to Gyles. Not overtly threatening, but exceedingly strange.

Such oddities had not been missed by Ser Torrhen Manderly either. "Surely, Ser," the northern knight began in a courteous tone, "feasts of this magnitude are not possible in order to have enough provisions to survive the winter?"

Ser Jaehaerys paused for a moment, and a small grimace flitted across his face before it returned to a relatively passive expression. "You are correct, Ser," the heir to Corn Cob Hall responded. "But I mean to keep my smallfolk in high spirits. I fear that there will be little occasion for joy in the coming days." Ser Jaehaerys looked out across the hall, watching as a few quiet servants walked amongst the lower tables, clearing the detritus of the night's meal from their surfaces. There was a slightly distant look in his eye, and Gyles had seen its like before. It is the look of a person who is remembering better days. Days gone by, that are ne'er to return.

For a moment, there was naught but silence amongst those who sat at the high table. Before anyone could ask Ser Jaehaerys to elaborate further, the knight of House Corne continued to speak: "This seat will be attacked soon. I'm certain of it. Tomorrow, in two days, mayhaps three. But soon."

Gyles sat for a moment in confusion. By whom? If House Corne supports the Queen, then what Green force could be anywhere near enough to attack so soon? After the Fishfeed and the Butcher's Ball, the Usurper has few men to rely upon north of his capital.

"Who means to attack you, Ser?" asked Ser Morgon Banefort, the former squire of the Lord Commander of the Queensguard.

"Rabble," was Ser Jaehaerys' response. The knight's expression twisted into a bitter frown. "Nay, worse than that. Bandits, and thieves. Those who have chosen to take their plunder from those who already have little and less." The heir to Corn Cob Hall shook his head. "Men who marched with armies that no longer exist, under banners that no longer fly."

Gyles looked around the table. The faces of the men that sat around it ranged from anger, to consternation, and even surprise. "Surely, such rabble can be readily turned aside!" exclaimed Captain Balon Byrch of the Gold Cloaks.

Ser Jaehaerys nodded slightly. "Mayhaps," the knight muttered. "As I understand, these brigands all answer to the same robber knight. A godless scoundrel by the name of Bryard Bones." Ser Jaehaerys waved a hand in the direction of the great hall's exit, and the outside world beyond. "A roving band of them approached our walls recently, making outrageous demands. Far more than we were able to give." The knight's fist clenched on the tabletop. "Nay, far more than we were willing to give to those carrion!"

The knight of House Corne sighed. "They promised vengeance, and blood. They will return, I'm sure of it. From the amount of men I was able to observe from atop the gate, I have little doubt that me and mine are outnumbered. As well, my smallfolk are largely untrained. Nearly any man that could fight, much less hold a weapon properly, already marched south with my uncle Roger to defend the Queen's rights."

Ser Jaehaerys pressed a hand to his furrowed brow, with a despondent expression upon his face. "I have sent ravens to the other landed knights and lords whose lands abut my own. There has been no response. Though I hate to think in such a way, I can only fear the worst. The other landed knights and petty lords' lands are as modest in size as mine, and similarly as weak in manpower. I fear that those who live to the north have already been forced to submit to these bandits, or worse. Those to the South have already been ravaged by the soldiers of whichever monarch they chose to throw their support against." Ser Jaehaerys' tone had grown almost despondent. "There will be no outside help, no aid. Our only hope is to hold the walls against the bandits."

The heir to Corn Cob Hall looked around the table's occupants. "With Ser Janos and his sons, me and mine stand a chance against these brigands. With the help of your party… Well, needless to say, our chances would be much better."

Gyles frowned. I feared that he would ask for such a boon. We already have a mission. Who will get the crucial information that we carry to the Queen's forces further to the north if we are all slaughtered by a band of vagabonds? The table was silent. Amongst its occupants, there were clearly several individuals who wished to speak up, but temporarily held their tongues.

Ser Jaehaerys Corne gave his new guests a curt nod. "Please," the knight began, "make use of this hall, if you have matters that you must needs discuss. I fully appreciate the magnitude of the boon which I am asking of you all." Standing, he began making his way further back in the hall, in the direction of a small set of double doors. "If you should choose to leave, we will not impede you. But be warned. The road ahead is long, and fraught with danger." Ser Jaehaerys shook his head bitterly. "It is in the winter's cold that we must all reap what this war has sown."

It surprised Gyles little and less that the Lady Mysaria was the first member of the party to speak in vehement defiance of the idea of remaining and helping to fight the approaching bandits. "This is not our fight," the Queen's Mistress of Whispers hissed angrily. "The brigands that Ser Jaehaerys described allowed him the opportunity to reach an accord with them. He claims that the price was too steep." Lady Misery frowned. "Methinks it was not what the bandits demanded that proved too much, but rather Ser Jaehaerys' own pride."

She jabbed a finger angrily against the tabletop for emphasis. "We all serve the Queen Rhaenyra, and we must needs consider what is truly best for her cause. Any action that could likely prevent us from reaching our ultimate goal is one that should be avoided. Ser Jaehaerys is responsible for the livelihoods of himself and his smallfolk. He made his choice, and the consequences of such a decision are not ours to bear!"

Captain Garth nodded silently in agreement with Mysaria's words, as well as Ser Harmon of the Reeds and Ser Maric Massey. Much and more of the party, however, seemed unconvinced. Ser Torrhen looked torn, and the stout knight chewed on his lower lip as he considered the situation the party faced. Gyles sympathized with the Manderly knight's indecision. Methinks that most of us realize that the best decision is to leave, as the Lady Mysaria suggests. However, such truths remain ugly no matter how one tries to justify them. Ser Jaehaerys took us beneath his roof, and fed us. What kind of knights would we be to leave him and his smallfolk in their hour of need?

Stifling a cough, Ser Jarmen stood. "I must disagree with you, Lady Mysaria. Methinks that this fight has everything to do with the Queen Rhaenyra, and the good of her cause. We abandoned King's Landing, for we all understand that there was little and less that we could do for the Queen and her cause there." Ser Jarmen swung his right arm wide, gesturing widely at the hall about him. "That is not the reality here. By staying and helping Ser Jaehaerys and his smallfolk fight off these bandits, we can, and should, make a difference here."

Ser Jarmen was silent for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. "Many of you know me as a man of honor. I have done the best that I can throughout my long life to earn such a reputation, and uphold it." The aged knight smiled sadly. "I have heard it said that such ideals make for good songs and stories, but not for good soldiers, or victories. They would say that while it is honorable to stay and fight, it is not wise. What good does staying and fighting do for the Queen's cause?"

Ser Jarmen smiled. There was a strength to the smile, indicative of the conviction that burned within the ancient man's grey and wiry frame. "Ser Jaehaerys and his smallfolk are the Queen's people, as we all are. The foes of the Queen's people are her enemies as well. If we will not defend her cause here, then for what reason do we all continue to ride north?"

Ser Jarmen looked around the table, into the eyes of each and every member of the party. "We all bent the knee to the Queen, and we all swore her vows of fealty. We've all made good on these self-same vows before. Now is our chance to prove our devotion to her cause." For scarcely over a minute, the table was silent as each and every member of the party considered Ser Jarmen's words.

After a moment, Ser Rayford Lothston stood with a nod. "Right, then," the red-haired knight said simply. "We stay and fight. Any who will not stay and defend this seat are free to leave, and continue north. But you will ride alone." The former captain of the guard at the Red Keep nodded at Ser Jarmen. "Let us fetch Ser Jaehaerys. We must needs prepare for when these bandits come."

As Ser Rayford exited the hall to fetch its master, Gyles sat for a moment in contemplation. Many of the other members of the party got to their feet, and made to follow Ser Rayford out of the hall. Accompanied as she always was by her silent Lysene sellsword, Lady Mysaria sat in stony silence, but said no more.

Gyles couldn't help but grin. May the Seven bless you, Ser Jarmen, Gyles thought with growing mirth. For methinks even they are in awe of you.

Gyles heard the approach of the bandits before he saw them. They approached on foot, and the clanking of their weapons and armor was unmistakable over the mournful whistle of the winter winds. Crouched in the ravine that was situated slightly to the north of Corn Cob Hall, Gyles waited in silence. Though dawn had recently broken, the rising sun on the eastern horizon still left much of the world in shadow. Tristifer was right.

As the party's best tracker, the Riverman had spent the past two days taking turns with Gyles watching the northern road through the forest for the bandits' approach. It had been Tristifer who had finally seen them, and rode back in haste to warn the defenders of House Corne's seat. Half of the party remained within the keep's wooden walls, mounted on their horses and hidden from view.

Under the leadership of Ser Rayford Lothston, Gyles and the other half of the party had slipped out of a postern gate on foot and descended into the ravine that abutted Corn Cob Hall's northern wall. Traveling west along the ravine, they took up positions beneath the sizable old stone bridge that spanned it. Thanks to the winter's cold, the large stream that normally ran along the bottom of the ravine had become a solid, albeit slightly slippery path to walk upon.

An ambush. The brigands expected their foes to be frightened smallfolk, with very few knights and true warriors to stiffen their ranks. A mistake that they will dearly pay for, Gyles thought grimly. Small streams of dust trickled down upon Gyles and his comrades as the bandits tramped across the bridge above them. Gyles noticed that Ser Jarmen had covered his mouth with his kerchief, so that the trickling streams of dust would not bring about a bout of his relentless cough.

They didn't even bother to send scouts ahead of their main force. Gyles shook his head. Though they had once been soldiers beneath the banner of one lord or another, the bandits had little mind for tactics or strategy. They think only of plunder, and rape. Like carrion crows that picked scraps from the corpses of a battlefield, bandits picked from the scraps that wars left in their wake. When all the lords, knights, and soldiers are dead, who will protect their people? Gyles frowned. No one. And with time, the farmers, their wives, and children will be dead too. From sword and flame, or from an empty belly, as the cowards and cutthroats steal their last scraps of bread.

Gyles' fist clenched. These brigands have grown complacent. Easy victory after easy victory has made them unwary. As the thumping footsteps grew more distant, Gyles began to ease his sword quietly within its scabbard. They'll pay.

Gingerly, Gyles began to crawl up the ravine's southern slope, in the shadow of the bridge. Digging his mailed fists into the freshly fallen snow and the rotting forest detritus beneath it, Gyles crawled further and further upward. The pungent aroma of the chilled forest floor filled Gyles' nostrils, all wet mold and dead leaves. Near the crest of the ravine's slope, Gyles waited a moment. He listened as the heavy footsteps grew more and more distant as the bandits approached Corn Cob Hall's main gate.

The bandits even chose the time of their attack poorly, Gyles mused. As they approached the keep's main gate from the east, the rising sun would be in their eyes. Fools. Gyles pulled his sword the rest of the way out of its scabbard, clutching it tightly in his hand. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his face from the dirt and snow of the slope and peered above the edge of the ravine.

Atop the gate, Ser Jaehaerys stood proudly in his full plate armor, beneath the banner bearing the sigil of his House. "Leave now, knaves!" Ser Jaehaerys called menacingly, his hand resting on his sword hilt. "I will offer you succor but once!"

In response to the knight of House Corne's words, a rumbling, menacing laugh burst forth from the sizeable horde of men arrayed before the gate of Corn Cob Hall. A particularly burly and large brigand stepped forward, still chuckling darkly. "Thankee, Ser! I haven't had a good fucking laugh like that'n in some time!" the man bellowed. "Methinks I'll reward you. Mayhaps I'll kill ya first, so's ya don't have to watch us make an example of yer keep and people."

The bandit chuckled mockingly. "You and yours can't hope to defeat us. Go on, Ser, and open yer gates." The brigand's next statement was devoid of mirth, and full of cold intent. "The longer it takes for us ta get in, the longer you and yours are going to suffer."

Ser Jaehaerys stared coldly down at the bandits before him. "So be it," the knight said. "Open the gates."

The timber gates swung inwards, and a column of mounted warriors surged forward through them with the crashing, clattering rumble of roaring thunder. For a moment, the bandits stood still, confused by the sudden change of events. Then the killing started. The large bandit, the one that had shouted at Ser Jaehaerys, collapsed in a bloody heap as a vicious swing of Ser Morgon Banefort's flail reduced his head to shattered chunks of bone and brain.

To their credit, most of the bandits came to their senses after only a few moments of dumbfounded indecision as their fellows were hewn down around them. Shouting, they attempted to tighten ranks and fight back as the mounted column wheeled around for another attack. With Ser Jaehaerys at their head, a group of screaming smallfolk charged forth from the gate as well, clutching whatever weapons or sharp farming implements that they thought to use. The bandits fought like cornered animals, trying desperately to regain the initiative.

By the time Gyles and the rest of the party attacked them from behind, it was far too late. The first bandit to see the ambush turned to regard Gyles and his comrades just a moment too late. As he opened his mouth to shout a warning, Gyles forced the point of his sword through the bandit's neck. Rather than a shout, only a stream of frothy red blood poured forth from the man's lips. With a vicious tug, Gyles wrenched his sword free of the bandit's neck and turned to face another attacker.

This bandit wielded a sword, and wasted little time in swinging it in a vicious overhead swing, slightly angled so as to cut into Gyles' neck. Gyles knocked the attack aside with his shield, and riposted with a quick forward jab. However, this bandit was no novice fighter, and wore only a tattered cloak and leathers, allowing for much quicker movement. He leapt to the side, avoiding Gyles' attack entirely.

As men fought and died around them, Gyles and the bandit paced in a small semicircle before each other, each waiting for the other to make a move. The bandit was breathing heavily, and his eyes were wide with anticipation. Gyles was close enough to the brigand that he could see the frozen snot in his beard. He's too fast, Gyles thought with frustration. He sees my moves and reacts to them before I've even fully made them.

Then the solution came to him. With a swift kick, Gyles sent a clod of dirty snow into the bandit's face. Cursing and stumbling backwards, the bandit flailed his sword desperately in front of himself as he tried to wipe the snow from his eyes. Gyles was not a man to miss an opportunity, however, and struck low with a wide slash as he used his shield to deflect the brigand's sword.

The bandit fell to his knees as his innards spilled forth into the trampled, sludgy snow of the battlefield. In the cold, Gyles could see steam rising from them as the man dumbfoundedly grabbed at his guts with increasingly erratic movements, trying desperately to force them back into his belly. Gyles left him there as he turned to face yet another foe.

This brigand was big, burly, and carried a large two-handed axe. In a moment, Gyles realized that he was in danger. His reach is too long. If I allow him to attack first, I'll never get a swing in edgewise. Without wasting another moment, Gyles sprinted forward at the man, leading with his rounded shield.

The man tried to attack, but the hasty swing only scraped halfheartedly for a moment on the rim of Gyles' shield before he slammed into the bandit, knocking them both to the ground. They both rolled and tumbled in the freezing snow for a moment, trying to extricate themselves from the other. Gyles yanked his left arm free from the arm straps of his shield, in order to move more quickly. Scrabbling to his feet, Gyles spent a breathless moment searching for his sword on the ground. After a moment, his fist closed around its hilt, and Gyles turned and swung his sword at the bandit, more out of instinct than any sort of formal training.

However, he swung truly, for his sword sliced cleanly into the bandit's neck as he attempted to pull a dirk from his belt, crouched on one knee. As blood sprayed forth from the wound, the bandit fell face-first into the snow without another sound.

Breathing heavily, Gyles looked up. About ten feet away was a brigand, and in his hands was an ornate crossbow. A Myrish crossbow. Was he originally a mercenary? The errant thought suddenly meant little and less as Gyles realized that the crossbow was aimed at him. He went to raise his shield, only to realize that he'd discarded it only moments before. With such a short distance between them, Gyles knew that the crossbow bolt would punch through his armor like a knife through silk.

Gyles had heard that when a person was about to die, their life flashed before their eyes. For him, it wasn't so. His mind was blank with startlement, and sudden fear. In the moment before the crossbowman fired, Gyles took in a final, ragged breath. Shit.

The bolt whistled forth, and punched deep. It took Gyles a moment to realize that it had not struck him, however. Ser Jarmen Follard fell to one knee, pressing the point of his sword into the ground and leaning against its hilt for support. Ahead of them both, the crossbowman was quickly cut down by Ser Horton, yelling wildly.

Dropping his sword, Gyles rushed forward and caught the aged knight before he collapsed into the snow. A quick glance showed that Ser Jarmen's shield had been nearly hacked to kindling on his shield arm, rendering it useless.

"Truly, Ser, I am in your debt!" Gyles exclaimed breathlessly. He examined Ser Jarmen, hoping that the bolt had not struck him in a way that would prove worse than a flesh wound. With growing dismay, Gyles realized that the bolt had struck deep into Ser Jarmen's upper breastplate, above his left breast. His heart.

"Ser Jarmen?" Gyles asked, with a growing sense of dread. Clutching the visor of the elderly knight's helm, Gyles lifted it, and looked upon his face. Ser Jarmen's face was calm, nearly completely serene in countenance. The old knight did not hear the sounds of battle dying down around him, nor see the last of the bandits being hewn down by the victors.

Ser Jarmen had died before Gyles reached his side.