Destiny of Man
Chapter 8: Castle Steadfast
"For every hero that is honoured in song, a thousand heroes die alone, unsung, and unremembered."
Riverlands proverb
The clang of steel echoed through the air, producing a sweet song I had grown accustomed to and love as I darted forward and back, dancing in the unsteady tempo. Parrying the sword, I sidestepped Daemon who diverted his strike to slash at my feet – his own attack retaliation for me attempting to get past his impervious defence. For what was effortless for him was me barely missing the tip of his blade by a hair's breadth. I was panting as I gave up much-needed ground.
There was only so much I could give up without going past the limits of the 'training yard'. It wasn't a proper training yard you'd find in most castles but was instead some twigs and stones roughly serving as the boundary outside our camp in the hills of Yronwood. If you stepped over the boundary you were immediately out, so was it any wonder Daemon was pushing me back?
After riding long enough for my legs to ache and being covered in sweat and dirt, I felt more alive than I had in days. I didn't care my skin was itching, that my throat was as dry as sandpaper or my bones ached something fierce. I was having a blast with a lightness in my step and a giddy smile on my face. Sometimes when I lunged forward for an attack it even felt like I was flying . . . or at least what I assumed flying would be like. I'd never done it before; the Little Englander I was before finding myself in Westeros.
Me and Uncle Oberyn's other squire exchanged kisses. Steel kisses. Ones that clanged in the air as we tried to destroy the other. Well, I was trying to destroy him while Daemon was more relaxed and focused on the defence. If he switched tactics I'd be on the ground and he would be atop me, foot pressed against my chest and sword grazing my throat.
I stepped backwards, blinking sweat from my eyes. It ran down my forehead and settled in my eyelashes.
Daemon waited, changing his stance to appear more open in what was obviously a feint.
Was it a feint? If it was wouldn't he realise that, and I know I'd realised it so . . .
I was overthinking it, I decided. That wasn't the best thing to do when sparring with someone with swords, more so when that someone was a superior fighter, and especially not should the swords we were sparring with have an actual edge that could kill. That wasn't to say the sword in my hand couldn't kill someone already. They were steel and although the edge had been blunted, it could seriously hurt if I hit someone hard enough. Not to mention bash them in the head with the pommel or crossguard that weighed as much as any other sword.
Great, I was thinking too much again. I forced the thoughts from my head and tried to focus solely on my rival, Daemon, with his stupidly handsome face and expression that was as still and expressionless as stone. It was the face of a master swordsman, and he truly was a master swordsman. Despite his young age, he was becoming renowned as one of Dorne's finest blades and he wasn't even a proper knight though that might in fact change in a month or so. That was one of the reasons Oberyn was giving me every opportunity to spar against him in the hopes some of his skills might rub off on me.
So far that was failing.
Badly.
Blinking more sweat from my eyes, I foolishly took my eyes off Daemon to glance at my uncle who was watching in silence – his eyes not leaving me. Our eyes met and he barely noticeably shook his head. "Keep your eyes on the enemy," he ordered me without a single word leaving his lips.
I returned to Daemon. He was now on me. Lunging, his sword cutting through the air.
I didn't have time to raise my blade to meet his. Searing pain erupted through my side where the edge struck its mark. If it'd been a proper blade it would've gone right through me, cutting through the padded gambeson I was wearing, slicing the skin and passing through the fat and muscle underneath. Thankfully, it'd only leave a wicked bruise.
I yelped in pain, not at all dignified, and tried to back off but Daemon kept going, striking me again and again. For every parry I managed, he inflicted two wounds.
Oh, and by the way, he was being easy on me. That was the only way I was still on my feet.
I caught him in a sword lock as seen in the movies and tried to push him away but Daemon, being a true and honourable knight, punched me in the side of the head and sent me reeling.
The world seemed to spin around me.
I tried to step forward or back and almost lost my balance, staggering.
My chest erupted into scorching pain as a sword caught me in the open.
It was only by luck and maybe Rob giving me a helping hand that I wasn't on the ground. I stubbornly refused to do such a thing and used all my strength to find my balance – to avoid falling and forfeiting.
It was a hopeful dream and it's said plans fail at first contact with the enemy. Or, in my case, my skills just weren't enough to last long against someone several levels of skill above me. I barely recovered before being rewarded for my stubborn efforts with a stinging blow across the back, right on the spine that threw me forward, impacting the ground where I failed to break my fall with my hands and knees.
I let out the most pained groan I'd ever groaned.
It was then I realised I was crying and drooling, and maybe pouring snot as well. If an orifice could leak it probably was. No doubt an extremely dignified sight for a Prince of Dorne and a Targaryen who might someday be king of the largest (known) empire in the world.
I looked up at my rival who was grinning, his sword sharp against my throat. He had that stupid smug grin on his face. The kind of smug grin that'd send a roomful of girls into sighs. A Jaime Lannister smirk. Yeah, I was going to call it that. He was looking down at me with a Jaime fucking Lannister smirk, his entire body relaxed as if he hadn't been beating me into the dirt for the last half hour and finally wanted it over with after playing with his prey.
"Bending the knee for me already," there was some humour in his voice, a teasing that bordered on insolence. "The son of a prince submitting himself to a regular bastard." His breathing was regular. Steady. Nothing suggested he broke a sweat unlike me who was panting like a dog after a long run in the dead of summer. "Are you even sure the Red Viper's your father?"
"As certain as the stars and the sun appearing in the sky," I grimaced.
Daemon Sand smiled thinly, removed his sword from my coming Adam's apple and offered me a hand. I took it and he lifted me to my feet. "You did well, Qoren. For someone who hasn't used a sword much before coming to Westeros, you do show promise. Best concentrate and never let your eyes leave the enemy. Your first mistake. Also, your legwork could use improvement. I could've thrown you to the ground during the sword lock which you should never do."
"I know. I feel like I'll have a bruise to remember it by."
"Best keep that in mind when the bruise has gone as well. Though if you find yourself in such a position, snake a leg around mine and try to topple me over. Use my own strength against me. I'll show you how to the next time we train."
"I know how to topple people over. I've done it a few times in the Water Gardens. I use Father's own technique." I glanced at Oberyn, and he scoffed.
"There's a difference between playing in the Water Gardens and fighting against those who want to end your life," the older prince told me. "Your fall won't be broken by water, and you can expect to find your life remarkably shortened."
"I'll remember." Running a hand through my dyed black curls, I grew aware it was damp with sweat and sprinkled with sand. Was there anything worse than sand? It's itchy and rough and gets everywhere.
Despite his kind words, a look at Daemon said the bastard wasn't at all that impressed with me. I didn't know if Oberyn knew that Daemon knew. I doubted my uncle told him as to keep the least people in the know. If my princely uncle didn't that, then that was concerning for the Bastard of Godsgrace didn't take long to discover my secret. That had always been a worry and only cemented my fears that I wasn't the best at masquerading, well, anything.
After a couple more sparring matches we concluded training and to say the others treated me any gentler would be a complete and total lie. If anything, they treated me worse than Daemon had as a result. Doubtless, it was to beat some actual skill into me like how a blacksmith forged metal. And it truly felt like a blacksmith had taken a hammer to me.
But so far my progress with the blade was slow. Despite being given some training in the Water Gardens, I hadn't been that passionate of a student when it came to martial sports. My interests lie closer to history and political theory. Looking back, it was strange at the lack of attention given to my martial training. That wasn't to say I hadn't been trained in arms, but there was a night and day difference between my mentor's priorities. It was most certainly less than other boys my age, and especially so considering my assumed destiny was to conquer an entire continent.
Mayhaps Mother had something to do with that. She'd been very protective of me and Rhae and loved spoiling us. I hadn't complained at all at the moment but looking back it had clearly cost me.
Or maybe it was just me being shit at swordsmanship.
But that doesn't mean I can't try to alleviate that little problem though. I didn't have to be Oberyn or Daemon. I just needed to be better than the average Westerosi. Given that most had no knowledge of how to use the sword or have access to plate mail, I was at an advantage. That was assuming I sought out combat which I didn't. I preferred the idea of standing at the back and controlling armies like a chessboard rather than doing an Alexander the Great and leading from the front. Sure, such a thing was badass but also came with its own risks. And I don't want to be like Alexander with his delusions of grandeur which brought about either alcohol poisoning or poison poisoning. I had more to conquer than that Macedonian and I didn't know what would happen if I managed to succeed. I could suffer the same fate or an even worse one.
It all depended on what happened. It all depended on my actions and those around me. As with any leader.
The next day, standing before us was the stronghold of House Steadfast. It wasn't that impressive compared to some of the other castles we came across. It was a tower keep, rising from a rocky hill giving a clear overview of the three small villages it ruled over. A daub-and-wattle stable sat at the foot of the tower and there was one entrance which was a single door with a steep wooden stair that could be swung up like a drawbridge in times of trouble. The only way up the tower was a narrow circling dirt path that let attackers be felled by the handful of the tower's arrow slits. It was the kind of castle that existed to protect a prominent trade route and hinder an invading army rather than stop them.
I confess to underestimating how strong a castle could be – or overestimating now that I think about it – but I doubted Steadfast would be able to resist a determined attacker for long. Having been erected by the Yronwoods, I wondered if it'd been attacked by my family at some point and almost visualised Rhoynish and Martell soldiers armoured in suits of scales running up the hill with ladders in hand, falling to arrows and using grappling hooks to pull the stairs down.
That was my dramatic imagining of the moment. It was more likely Steadfast surrendered after sending a raven to their High King.
"M'prince," a man took the knee as we dismounted before the stables. "I didn't expect such 'onourable company."
He clearly hadn't been expecting us given the way he didn't like what he saw. I didn't know whether he was a hedge knight, the landed knight's son, or nephew or whatever, or whether he was a simple man-at-arms. I hadn't enough experience of the world to tell the difference between the lower classes of Westerosi society and he looked close to the bottom. He even smelled worse than me and I'd been riding and sweating without the fortune to bathe every day as was my custom back home. The kneeling man wore dull brown garbs darkened with sweat stains, brown breeches, and a shapeless roughspun tunic over a shirt of rusted mail that might be older than both my lives combined. His face was thick and winkled with a prominent brow, a large nose that reminded me of a pear that had shrivelled, and massive dark pores barely hidden under a messy brown beard.
"Who do we have the honour of speaking to?" Daemon Sand asked with clear arrogance which might've been unbecoming in any other part of the Seven Kingdoms considering his heritage.
"Ser Pate of Sandy Grove," the brown knight rubbed his hands on his dirty brown surcoat. "I'm a 'edgeknight by trade and 'ave taken service with Ser Lewyn Steadfast. Me and a couple others."
"Is Ser Lewyn hiring himself an army?" Prince Oberyn asked with a lazy drawl. "Should Lord Yronwood grow worried?"
"Is not 'is lordship who should be worried, m'prince," the knight spat. "Ser Steadfast 'as been encountering run-ins with a group of bandits over that ye ridges over there. Somewhere within the forest. They've been 'iding up there. Creeping out once darkness settles to raid Ser's grain and poach his game."
"I hope Ser Lewyn's going to deal with them soon and keep the king's peace." But which king Prince Oberyn was referring to was left in the air. "But before you do such a valiant deed, might you inform Ser Lewyn Steadfast of our arrival? We wouldn't mind taking shelter in his keep, not to mention being provided food and water for our horses. It's been a long ride from Sunspear."
"A long ride, aye," the hedge knight agreed. "Pray, follow me and I'll have one of the girls – the old one – give you salt and mead. Guest rights. Though I fear your escort might be too big for Ser's tower."
"We can squeeze. We're used to tight spaces."
We dismounted our horses but unlike the household guards and Prince Oberyn who headed straight inside where it was cooler and be given drinks, me and Daemon needed to tend the horses in the stable. It wasn't much of a stable either. There were inns we had visited that had more extensive accommodations for our mounts. But at least it had everything we needed.
"You do Prince Oberyn's horse," Daemon told me in a tone that permitted no refusal. "I'm going to treat mine and water the guards."
I turned to Bucephalus who was looking at me with eyes as dark as the pits of hell. Frankly, if the horse hadn't had a red mane and tail, I would've called him Shadowmare but having mare in the name wouldn't be accurate considering he was a stallion. A stallion my uncle was making a fair bit of coin from by selling its spunk to other horse breeders. Maybe Shadowstallion, I thought as I pulled out an apple and offered it in my open hand. No, that name sucks. Bucephalus is better. It's a nobler name and sounds far less cringe. Doesn't stop them from giving me the side eye though.
I soon found myself lost in thoughts as I tended Bucephalus, and he was thankfully used to me enough to do as I asked without much resistance. That was saying something for the horse almost bit my hand off when I was first introduced to him, and a couple other times when I hadn't been careful enough. Those had been some close calls and maybe Rob was still looking down upon me like some guardian angel because I was spared from a couple of broken ribs from Bucephalus' mighty kick.
He was no Traveller who was the perfect mount and did everything I wanted with no hesitation. That was a blessing. Raising his hooves, I used a hoof pick to remove stones, mud, and dirt and when that was done, I checked the shoes were in good condition. After riding close to twenty miles a day, they could easily get worn down. Keeping the feet clean also helped with preventing lameness as well as an assortment of hoof diseases such as thrush so horses needed to be cleaned every time they were ridden.
And all of this had to be done without fail. Uncle Oberyn was a true connoisseur of horseflesh and wouldn't be happy should I fail in this very important duty.
Treating the horse's feet was not the only duty I performed. Other duties involved checking the horse for lacerations, swelling and saddle sores, brushing the coat to remove the earth and double-checking for any skin conditions. Such duties would naturally fall upon the stablehand or stableboys of whatever keep we were in, but when a knight was in the field he seldom had all the amenities of a castle and its staff. That was when his squire came in. It was also good experience should one need to flee and being on the run on only your lonesome with a horse wasn't the best thing if you didn't know how to treat the bloody thing.
"That's a handsome creature," a voice said behind me.
I jumped out of my skin and almost fell directly into a bucket of feed. The voice became a giggle, and I spun around to look at a pink-faced girl with a dark ponytail and a wide-open smile across her face. She was thin with a lanky build and broad shoulders doubtless brought about by a life of manual labour.
"It is a rare specimen indeed," I told the girl with a grin.
"S-speci-men?" she looked at me quizzingly.
"A rare fine horse," I quickly corrected myself before glancing at Daemon who was giving me the side-eye. He was just finishing his horse and was non-verbally telling me to get back to work, and that talking to girls wasn't on my to-do list. Daemon might be my senior, but he wasn't my boss . . . okay, maybe he was but that didn't mean I was going to do as he said! "Might I ask your name, my lady?" I grinned and her cheeks turned from pink to a darker shade of red.
"W-Willow . . ."
"A nice name. One I'm sure—"
"No flirting with the smallfolk, Qoren!" Daemon barked from across the stable.
I almost rolled my eyes at that. Says the bastard who took his princess and more importantly my cousin's maidenhead. A part of me even felt like punching him for that if Arianne wasn't besotted with him and the fact he'd kill me if I stepped towards him with anything other than friendly intentions. If he could curb-stomp me in the training yard what could he do when he wasn't holding back?
"Don't listen to Daemon. He's got a massive spear up his arse. May I ask if you're in service to . . . who was it again?"
"Ser Lewyn Steadfast . . . Qoren is it?"
"Qoren Sand."
I stepped away from the stallion and performed an overdramatic bow which might be regarded as a sight unseemly considering she was likely a member of the smallfolk, and I was a prince. An undercover prince but a prince regardless. But I was in good spirits thanks to not being bitten or kicked or headbutted by my uncle's mount and it was the first time I'd spoken to anyone not from our little party.
And by Rob I was thankful!
There was only so much of Toren's talk of horsemeat I could take, Willam going on long tangents about how to best cut a goat and laddish Tommard listing all his conquests to the extent for everyone to question if his hand was his only companion. And of course, we endlessly rimmed him for it as all friends did.
"Bastard son and squire for Prince Oberyn of House Martell and apprentice to Daemon Sand of Godsgrace." I gestured with my head to where Daemon had been.
The girl smiled shyly and performed a curtsy. A rather hasty one where only half her body decided to follow. "I-it should've been me who curtsied to y-you . . . Y-your Grace—I mean m-my prince. I mean . . ." she slowly trailed off and looked like she wanted to hide. Willow bit her bottom lip like Els. "I-I am only a knight's daughter."
"A knight . . . are you a Steadfast?"
"I am—"
"Just call me Qoren. I'm merely a bastard. No grace nor prince."
"But-but you are the prince's son? Right?"
"He might be my father but that's it," I shrugged my shoulders then felt a nudge against my shoulder and turned to see Bucephalus looking at me. No doubt wanting another apple as a prize for common decency. I only did it to ensure his complacency and now the beast expected it as a given. Sighing, I picked up an apple from a saddle bag and handed it to the horse. That caused neighs from the other mounts all too wanting apples.
"They like you."
"They think I'm one of them. I certainly smell like it. That or they know I've got a couple of apples. Are you Ser Lewyn's daughter?"
"Granddaughter," she explained, "and his stablehand . . . we're only a poor knightly house so my grandfather can ill afford smallfolk for his stable. I don't mind. I like horses and yours are especially handsome creatures. This one more than the others."
She stared at Bucephalus and was wise enough to not try and pet him as if it were a dog on the street (which was also unwise). Bucephalus was a proper warhorse that'd bite and kick and stomp on anyone but its rider. It was said horses took after their riders and that seemed to be the case for Oberyn's mount. The stallion was extra savage, seemed to genuinely love fighting and, considering I didn't know the horse all that much, that was saying something spectacularly worrying.
"He does have a name. Bucephalus. It's a foreign name. From . . . somewhere far east. Somewhere around Essos. It means headstrong or something . . . or bull-headed. Can't really remember. It does fit him like a glove though."
"I'm sure he's a good horse."
"Only because you're a girl, and he likes girls. If you truly knew Bucephalus you'd be careful. I can't say that enough."
"I'll remember."
Smiling softly, I turned to the other horses waiting for me. Then I slapped my forehead.
I still had duties to perform as a squire and one thing Westerosi liked was diligence. As there was a difference between Ned Stark and the Lord of Winterfell, there was a difference between Uncle Oberyn and the Prince of Dorne. Oberyn might smile playfully at me talking to Willow and ask if I desired to bed her. The Prince of Dorne was more like to slap me in the back of the head and punish me for being slothful.
"Pray forgive me. If you may. I still have the rest of the horses to treat. My own first among them before the rest of our party."
"I'll help," she spoke up with much more confidence than before. "How many horses are there?" Then she paused. "Prince Oberyn's your father so surely he wants you to join him in my grandsire's keep. I can tend the rest of the horses myself . . ."
Using my looks and charm to get girls to work for me? Aegon Targaryen you smooth dog. "That I can't allow. It would be improper . . . though if you want to split the load . . ."
It turned out that having three people checking the horses made everything so much easier. Who'd have thought?
Willow was a good worker as well. Much better than me, but that might be because I tended to double and sometimes triple-check everything I did. They were the horses who'd bear our weight, so I had to ensure nothing was wrong with them. While we were doing that, I probed her about what was going on with Steadfast and she eagerly spilt the beans. The tower ruled over three villages, one of which was disputed territory with another landed knight by the name of House Hayworth whose banner was a black rattlesnake on a field of yellow. Disappointedly Hayworth's words weren't 'Don't Tread on Me,' but instead 'We Strike the Unwary.'
"What you're telling me is House Hayworth might be staging these attacks?" I asked as I combed the last horse's coat. "Why hasn't your grandsire informed Lord Yronwood? Surely he can't have two of his landed knights butting heads."
"His lordship's too busy," the girl shrugged. "Lord Anders is a lord and seldom concerns himself with landed knights such as us. It also isn't uncommon."
"But surely his duties are to enforce the king's peace?"
"What king is that?" the girl asked, folding her arms. "Baratheon? He's a usurper. The kingdom will never be safe if a false king is sitting on the throne."
If you believed in the divine right of kings, I mused.
As much as was said for Robert/Brobert/Bobby B Baratheon, he wasn't that bad a king to be truly honest. Oh, the man had his faults and plenty of them ranging from his whoring, rampant alcoholism, child abuse/neglect and raping Cersei on a few occasions when he decided to 'claim his rights' as a husband. But what man didn't occasionally rape his wife or beat them in Westeros? Okay, that was considerably worse than the others, and there were surely plenty of other bad things Robert had done as well. The shame about Robert was that if he was serious about his duties he could've made a halfway decent king. He was charismatic, a good general and a brilliant fighter which gave him plenty of support from his lords. He was merciful (provided you weren't Targaryen) and a decent enough judge of character such as distrusting the very lords he beat. Even his own council he acknowledged to be no more than flatters and thieves. Instead, he shirked his duties as king and left everything to his highly corrupt advisors without any oversight, not to mention letting the Lannisters walk all over him because he couldn't be bothered dealing with Cersei.
Robert is indeed his own worst enemy.
I didn't know what was going to happen with me, and whether I'd even become king. But I didn't expect it to be easy. Every action I'd take would have a positive and negative reaction. If I was merciful, I'd be seen as weak. If I'm tough, I'd be regarded as a tyrant. They might decide if I'm the former they'll try to walk all over me. If I'm the latter, they might decide to rise in rebellion for their freedom. I hoped I wouldn't be like Robert where I reach my peak during the rebellion and decline afterwards.
Such a thing couldn't happen. Not to Westeros. It needed stability.
I only hoped I could rise to the occasion and be the prince I was meant to be.
After finishing with the mounts, Willow led me and Daemon into the tower smelling of horses. My fellow squire wasn't impressed with me making friends. Not because he carried the standard Westerosi elitism (which he certainly did) though she was a member of the lower nobility, but because if I hadn't been speaking I'd have done more work. While he might be right about that, Daemon also didn't acknowledge or even thank me for getting an extra pair of hands to help out. Clearly inconsiderate. You could say he really was a bastard.
Impressively, Steadfast was bigger on the inside than it appeared. Daemon and I were given the quick rundown by Willow who explained the hill had been hallowed out for cellars and deep vaults, and above it hosted five floors. The upper three had stain-glass windows and balconies while the lower two had only arrow slits. It was also cooler inside with the walls plastered white or having faded paint that was once vivid and made to impress. There was an old woman on her hands and knees armed with soap and some remarkable elbow grease who paid us no mind. It was in the so-called great hall where we found members of our party and those of House Steadfast. It wasn't much of a great hall but more like a regular dining room with a single trestle table with benches on either side and a single chair that looked positively ancient. On the walls hung rusted weaponry and captured banners, prizes from war aeons ago, and histories only House Steadfast knew about.
Sitting in the chair was Ser Lewyn Steadfast himself. The man looked as much like a knight as Lord Walder Frey looked energetic. He looked like a grey-haired corpse who'd been pulled out of the cellar without so much as having the dust brushed off him. He had a crooked hunched back visible even as he sat, his parchment-thin skin was grey and translucent while his gaunt face made him the perfect Skeletor impersonator. There were also numerous sores and dark spots that only made it worse.
Grinning at me, Uncle Oberyn turned to his host and said, "These, Ser Lewyn, are both my squires. Daemon Sand, Bastard of Godsgrace and natural son of Ser Ryon Allyrion. And Qoren Sand, my own flesh and blood who I discovered upon visiting Lys and a lovely girl I met once who looked like a proper dragonlord."
"A son?" a much younger but still-aged knight asked. I assumed he was the knight of Steadfast's son. "Comely young lad. They both are. Fair of face. Let's hope you are fair of body as well. I wouldn't mind testing my skills against one of Prince Oberyn's wards, or the prince himself." He grinned, running his hand through his lank brown hair.
"I can spar with you, ser," Daemon agreed without hesitation. "So long as you yourself are talented with the blade."
"Isn't it bad sportsmanship for a knight to spar against a squire?" asked a woman who was older than the man. She had crow's feet in the corners of her eyes and a sharp nose. "I despair, brother. They have only just arrived and you're already challenging both to steel versus steel! I must apologise to you both. You just came in, doubtless tired, and you're already being accosted."
"It's perfectly alright," Daemon dipped his head. "I wouldn't mind accepting."
"You can later," Lewyn grimaced as he sat somewhat straighter, but that small action seemed to cause him immense pain. "You must forgive me. I am Ser Lewyn Steadfast, knight of Castle Steadfast. This is my daughter and heir, Alishia, and my youngest son Steffon." He gestured to both who spoke with a spotted hand.
Then he began to list the others already present. Several others were all grandchildren including Willow who was heir to his heir. Frankly, from the way he spoke of his daughter and granddaughter, you knew he'd rather they pack their bags and move to the local septry. Or at least be lower in the line of succession.
Some Andal sexism. Just beautiful.
I performed a bow as I'd been taught. It was expected for even princes to bow before their hosts though their bows were more like a slight bend of the back and dip of the head. Enough to show respect but not enough to appear submissive. I did the full bow, bastard that I was. "We are honoured for you hosting us, ser."
"Not as half as honoured as we are for hosting a Prince of Dorne and his party in these very halls," Alishia said with professional courtesy. "We host knights and travellers but seldom royalty. To say we're honoured would be understating it, my prince. If there's anything you wish of us, pray tell. We are here to see your needs are met."
Always dangerous words with Prince Oberyn Martell.
"Some wine wouldn't be unwelcome," my uncle said before turning his attention to the old man. "Ser Steadfast, you mentioned a little problem with bandits? How have they been troubling you, ser?"
"Raiding traders on the road, poaching game in my father's woods and generally causing chaos," Steffon answered. "They have only been getting worse of late. Before they mostly hid and only came out occasionally, but they've grown confident."
My uncle bobbed his head up and down, looking to be in a world of his own. "A tragedy."
"We ask that you assist us. As a Prince of Dorne, it is your duty to enforce the king's peace . . . the prince's . . ."
"Such is my duty," the Red Viper agreed, glancing at me with something in his eyes. A glitter. A spark. I didn't like it one bit. "One cannot permit bandits to commit crimes unanswered. It would soil the honour of Dorne to know honest merchants cannot trade and farmers cannot tend their fields without worrying for their lives. If it soils Dorne's honour, it will soil the honour of its ruling prince. That I cannot permit to happen. What can I do to assist in this matter?"
Then he grinned a sharp feral grin.
And it was at that moment I knew I'd have my first chance for combat.
