Tristan heaved the chest in both hands. It had taken him a long time to work the fingers of his claw around one side handle and by them he had realised it was a bad idea, but he had started by then, and he wasn't going to give up. Nevertheless, his left wrist was burning as he approached the purple pavilion of House Mallister. The white eagle flew overhead and Patrek Mallister's armour was on a stand outside. His squire was shining it with polish. The guardsman outside made to stop him. "I wouldn't try," Tristan warned. "I am having a bad day. Is ser Patrek inside?"
"He is my prince but-"
Tristan shouldered past him and through the entrance. "Ser Patrek," he called.
Three people turned to look at him, but none were ser Patrek. Jason Mallister turned to him, as did Barbrey Dustin and Rodrik Ryswell. "Prince Tristan, was there a problem with the ransom for my arms and armour?" He said, bristling, but nodding at the chest in Tristan's arms. Tristan had found it waiting for him in his tent.
"None at all, my lord. But I also need to ransom my own arms and horse. Is ser Patrek here?"
Jason's expression relaxed as a voice came from behind him. "I hear my name and come as summoned," ser Patrek grinned from the back of the pavilion.
"Ah ser Patrek, your prize for vanquishing me in the lists," Tristan said. He knew it would be a bad idea to compete, but Dom, Cley and Daryn were all riding and they insisted. Bastards.
Patrek took the chest gracefully and thanked Tristan for it. As he took the ransom back to the rear of the pavilion, Tristan shook out his left hand.
"War galleys can come later, for now focus on longships, I would meet the scattered raiders from the iron islands ship for ship before attempting to overpower them."
When Patrek returned, Tristan asked him for a private word and they left the tent. "What was that about longships?"
"My father is already at work as Lord Admiral. He is instructing the other lords of the west coast to build longships rather than war galleys." Tristan asked why. "Longships are quicker and easier to build, war galleys might overpower longships, but right now the iron islands are still in turmoil, at most the raiding parties are a clutch of longships. My father has determined that it is preferable to content with the ironmen on equal footing for now, rather than give them more weeks to raid the coast while we build up our galleys. That can come later."
"He works quickly," Tristan commented.
Patrek leant in and spoke quietly. "In truth, we have known for some time. King Robb informed my father the day after you and he rejoined us, but only made the announcement at the wedding, where he intended to fill out what is left of his council."
Tristan wondered if Robb had done the same with Wyman Manderly. With their vital strategic positions, Manderly and Mallister were key players in Robb's Kingdom, it was why he had sent Jason and Wyman's sons to King's Landing with Tristan. Had he given them their titles before the announcement to keep them sweet while he made other decisions, before granting them with full splendour at the wedding celebrations?
"What was it you wanted to discuss, my prince? More than my father's longships, I presume?"
Tristan laughed. "Yes, more than that. I wanted to ask you about the paired melee tomorrow."
"I was surprised not to see you in the melee today."
Tristan tapped his head. "I woke up ringing like a bell, thanks to that blow you gave me. Worry not, it was worse yesterday, and tomorrow I should be fit as Shield here," he reached down and patted Shield's head. "But I wondered if any had asked for your sword as yet?"
"No one yet," Patrek replied. Robb had ordered the paired melee himself. Commanding that fifty pairs of men would fight, each pair would comprise one warrior of the north and one of the riverlands. He had given them a day to find their partners.
"Then I would be the first. Would you do me the honour of fighting as my companion in the melee?"
Patrek grinned again. "Nothing would please me more than to fight at your side. Although, I would ask one thing in turn. You are friends with Domeric Bolton, are you not?"
"Closer than friends, I hold him as much a brother to me as Robb or Bran."
"Like as not I will face him on the last day. Is there any advice you might give?"
Tristan laughed. "I'm afraid I have no advice for you, I haven't once out-horsed Dom in any capacity. A thousand naked maidens couldn't distract him when his mind is set on the horse." Tristan had thought of those past days together much recently, just two sons of the north riding among the hills and rills and dales of the north. His laugh died as he remembered that those days were gone now, lost like sand in a storm.
He leant on the side of the bridge and looked out at the slowly flowing waters of the trident, lazily pushing south, and sighed. He wished his life were as slow and lazy as that river right now. He thought back over everything that had happened since the fateful raven had arrived a world ago, telling them that their father was a prisoner of the new King Joffrey. He had ridden from Winterfell to Riverrun by way of battle along the green fork. From there he had gone to the Reach to negotiate before racing back north to repel the ironmen and recapture Winterfell, then he had come south with a claw instead of a hand and ridden into the Reach again, this time with sword instead of a branch of peace. Back again he had ridden to Riverrun for the one moment of calm on the God's Eye to soothe the tumult of his broken mind, and once again to war. Then he had ridden across the Riverlands, repelling the Mountain at Maidenpool, ironmen on Cape Eagle, the rebellion of the Handless and bands of outlaws and broken men. Then he had ridden into the mouth of the lion with a smile and soft spoken words to find a king dead and now had ridden back to see his brother married. And even now he wasn't done. Robb needed him to remain here to help patrol the Trident until Moat Cailin was completed. And gods alone knew how long that would take.
"How long has it been since I could just stop?" he muttered.
"I wouldn't know the answer to that, my prince."
He jumped. He hadn't heard anyone approach, and Shield hadn't made a noise.
He turned and bowed his head. "Lady Wynafryd," he said.
Wynafryd Manderly was in a fine dress of sea green and white that left her shoulders bare. Her long brown hair was braided over one shoulder. She was as lovely as ever. "You rode well in the tourney," she said, taking a place beside him. Tristan noted three Manderly men-at-arms were keeping a distance, close enough to watch, too far to hear.
"Is your uncle well?"
She laughed. "Yes, he is well, complaining that tourneys are becoming too much for him these days. He said he was almost inclined to let you keep the armour rather than ransom it. More use for silver than arms now the war is over."
"He served well in the war, so did your father." At Greenhall, Wendell had broken a line of Tyrell spearmen with a well-timed charge of Manderly Lancers, and at Bitterbridge, Wylis' footmen had closed the trap around the Lannisters in the southern village.
"A thousand years before Aegon's conquest, the Tyrells opposed us under the rule of the Gardener Kings and drove us into exile. My sire and uncle were the first of our house to war in the Reach since that day. They can both hang up their arms with honour. Unlike you, it seems."
"For now at least." He sighed.
"Well, at least when you do, you can do it in your own hall." She nudged him with her shoulder. "It was well earned, Lord of Moat Cailin, and a princely seat. Although I was a little disappointed when it was granted to you." That took Tristan aback, and he couldn't find any words to respond. Wynafryd giggled. "And speechless too, is this really the man who swept me off my feet?" She took his claw in her hand, working her fingers into his with little effort.
"Why were you disappointed?" He asked, feeling the warmth of her grip through his glove.
She squeezed his hand. "I am the second in line to White Harbour and my mother is too old to expect any more children. I must find a husband who is willing to allow the Manderly name to pass on. I will not lie. I had hoped for a prince."
"Me?"
"Had you never considered it, in our time together?"
Tristan shook his head. "I was a simple youth. When I first saw you, I wanted a beautiful woman out of her dress, I didn't think beyond that. And when you were out of your dress, I didn't think of much at all."
She laughed again, it was a sweet, high sound, filled with the pleasures of life and one he hadn't appreciated before. When they'd first met at Hornwood, he had liked her laugh because it was a mark of victory, he had achieved something, gotten one step closer to seeing her out of her clothes. He didn't appreciate it for what it was.
Wynafryd had come to visit Daryn's mother, a Manderly by birth. It was chance that he had been visiting Daryn at the same time. Two days of hunting, and he finally got her. When she left Hornwood, she left him with a chaste kiss and a whispered promise of more, and there had been more. Once in White Harbour, once again in Hornwood and once under the stars along the White Knife river. "If I had been wiser, I would have pursued your hand, not just your body."
"If I had been bolder, I would have asked myself," she replied. "But I missed my chance to have you as my husband." She sounded distant, remorseful. "So much has changed," she said quietly. "I didn't see the war and yet I know it in truth. There's no going back to the days before, is there?"
Tristan shook his head. "No."
She squeezed his hand. "Well, if I can't have you as a husband, I will at least have you as a lordly neighbour… and a friend?"
He squeezed her hand back. "Friends, good and true. And who knows, perhaps our children will marry each other."
"Perhaps, but that is someways off, neither of us are yet married."
"No, but Robb has instructed me to find a bride, here in the Riverlands."
"Now that is curious. Grandfather thinks that it would please the king for me to find a bridegroom from the Riverlands as well."
"When did he tell you this?"
"Yesterday. The Queen came to us and asked me to be one of her ladies. Grandfather agreed. He thinks she hopes to wed me to one of her brothers."
"As long as it's a full brother. Ser Perwyn and ser Olyvar are men of honour, and so far down the line of succession that there would be no concerns of inheritance. And your children would be cousins of the future king. But if they are not to your liking, there are other sons of the Trident who are noble and courageous. If you are joining the court, you will see many of them among Robb's protectors."
"Prince Tristan!" They both turned at the call. Two of the Bracken sisters were coming from the west, clutching bunches of river flowers in their hands.
"Catelyn!" Bess said from behind. "They are clearly talking."
"Oh hush, Bess, I was just saying hello," Catelyn Bracken replied, flicking her brown hair back over her shoulders. "After all, we haven't seen Prince Tristan in so long."
"My ladies," Tristan introduced Catelyn and Bess to Wynafryd, who asked them about the flowers.
"They grow better on the other bank," Catelyn explained, showing the different stems, with leaves of yellow and violet.
"We're collecting them for Jayne," Bess explained. She squatted down beside them and ruffled Shield's ears.
"How is she?"
"Improving, ow!" Shield nipped her hand.
"Shield!" Tristan reprimanded his wolf.
"It's no matter," Bess said, scratching Shield under the jaw instead. "He's just showing me what he likes, aren't you?"
He left Bess to shield and returned to Wynafryd and Catelyn. "You rode well on the first day, my prince," Catelyn said. She touched his hand gently. "If you wish it, you may have my favour for the paired melee tomorrow."
"I thank you, my lady, but I have already pledge to bear my sister's favour, and there is no telling Arya 'no' when she insists." In truth he had asked Arya for it. Since he had become a lord, many women asked him to wear their favour. But Tristan had no idea who would make an ideal wife for him, so had declined them all, claiming Arya's favour as an excuse.
"Ah, a pity. But there are other favours I could bestow, if you wish to ask me," she said huskily and he admired her boldness. She bid him farewell and called on Bess to follow her, who said goodbye to Tristan, Wynafryd and Shield in turn before hurrying after her sister.
"Another one of yours?" Wynafryd asked, an eyebrow raised. She knew he had had other lovers in the past.
"No. She just very… forward."
"That she was, I almost admire it." Tristan sighed. The world was so much simpler when he and Wynafryd were fucking. No worrying about favours in tourneys.
A horn sounded from the tourney fields, loud and clear in the bright air. "I thought there were no more tourney events today." Wynafryd said.
"There aren't." Tristan replied.
At the tourney field, which had been cleared following the melee, Robb was stood on his dais, his crown on his head, his wolf at his feet and his wife at his side. Before them knelt three men in shaggy furs and around them a crowd had gathered. "They are the sons of Lord Ryswell," Wynafryd whispered, and named them each in turn, Roger, Rickard and Roose.
"Do you deny the charge placed before you?" Robb demanded in the cool voice of a King.
Robb took Wynafryd's hand and shouldered his way through to Daryn who was looking on grimly, arms folded. "What happened?"
"Lord Ryswells sons, they were all unhorsed on the second day. Seems they were bloody fools enough to rob a local sept in order to pay the ransom for their arms." He explained how the Septon had come to the king and pled his case, Robb had sent men to investigate and found the treasures of the sept among the wealth paid to their victors. Lord Ryswell was present himself, looking thunderous, but whether it was at his sons or their judge, Tristan couldn't tell. Behind Robb, Olyvar was holding Ice at the ready, surely Robb didn't intend to kill them?
The three sons confessed and Robb pronounced his sentence. The ransoms paid were to be returned to the sept. The Ryswell sons would repay their ransoms with gold and silver, and they would pay the same sum to the sept as punishment. He assigned Lyle Slate and ser Damon Paege of his household warriors to ensure that it was done.
But there was no celebration, as the crowd dispersed and Tristan's farewell to Wynafryd and Daryn was cool. Had Robb just made himself an enemy in House Ryswell? And Lady Dustin was their sister, as was Dom's mother, and he knew Dom was at least cordial with his maternal relatives.
But Tristan couldn't think on that, he had to prepare for the melee tomorrow.
He hadn't expected the chain. Neither had Patrek or any of the other thirty-eight competitors. They had stood in a wide circle, under their banners, armour donned and blunted weapons ready, when Robb had made the announcement and the squires had stepped forward with heavy iron chains. Each pair was to be bound together by a chain that would stretch to three feet between them, and if the chain was broken, that pair was out. So that was why shields were not permitted.
Tristan scanned his opponents and grinned. "Why are you smiling?"
"Look at Smalljon and Black Walder," Tristan said. The two of them looked most displeased. Tristan counted the pair of them as the most dangerous on the field, but now Smalljon's greatsword would be as great a danger to his companion as it was to any other. Still, it would split their chain all the same.
Robb called out that in the burning of a candle, the melee would begin. All pairs went to their final preparations, some knelt to pray, others gave a final stretch or a swing of their weapons through the air. "Quickly, Patrek, listen here," Tristan urged. "We must watch those with axes and hammers most, these chains look tough enough to survive a blow from a sword, but the weight of those weapons will break them easy as a clay pot."
Patrek nodded, raising his visor and scanning the opponents. Tristan had already noted the most dangerous. "Patrek, we must work together. One of us must focus all else on defending the chain, the other must attack."
"Which are you?"
"I'll attack. You still have the use of both hands, that makes it easier for you to defend. Protect our chain above all else, I'll look for an opening to strike."
He nodded. Tristan drew his sword and sucked in a breath. He held his longsword one handed. Now more than any time since his maiming he missed his bastard sword which he could wield with two hands. The chain was on his left, his weakened side. Trust him. Patrek gave a final note. "You command, I'll go where you follow."
Tristan nodded. Patrek defends, he leads and attacks.
"Begin!" Robb called.
"Hold," Tristan said as the nineteen other pairs of fighters charged forwards. It was a shambolic storm as they tore into the dusty field, kicking up dust and dirt as swords and axes sang off plate and helm. One pair was already sprawled, Harmond Umber charged too quickly with his battleaxe raised and dragged Olyvar Frey to the ground. "Go!" They charged, keeping apace. Harmond brought his axe down, aiming for the chain, but Patrek checked the blow, and Tristan cut, the chain jarred under the impact but didn't break, he struck again, and this time Olyvar's sword blocked him. From the corner of his eye, Tristan saw Harmond's blows fall and Patrek's rise and he struck again for the chain. But as Olyvar's blade rose to defend it he flicked his wrist and struck Olyvar's helm once, twice, he flicked his wrist again and the chain shattered under his sword. Harmond and Olyvar fell apart, cursing.
Others had fallen, limping away, casting aside broken chains or dragging limp comrades. The combat in the field raged. He saw Daryn part a chain with his axe, only for Black Walder to slip behind his companion and shatter Daryn's in turn. Like boulders in a stormy sea, Tristan and Patrek rolled in. They fought together, Patrek the shield and Tristan the sword. Blows rained on all sides, Tristan met some, felt others on his plate and struck where he could, severing another chain with an overhead cut, and one with an upward slash. They fought, retreated, rested and fought again, and every time the fought, the field thinned, the dust settled and the grand melee descended into a field of paired combats. By now the initial clumsiness was gone and the trained combat skill of all the fighters was brought to bear.
And only the best remained. Tristan hadn't been certain all tourney. He hadn't been certain on competing in the jousts, he hadn't been certain that Robb had made the right choice making him a lord and giving him a castle. But this day, Robb had given him a gift.
Smalljon and Black Walder were a storm within a storm, Tristan noted as he watched them demolish the defences of Marq Piper and Harrion Karstark. Lucas Blackwood's swordword was an artwork of finesse, and Robbett Glover's strikes were magnificent. This was the ultimate test of a warrior, his ultimate test. This was everything he had trained for his entire life. No more commanding in the place of betters, no more passing out justice, determining right and wrong, only the sword in the hand, the edge of the blade, no concern but where to strike and when, how a great opponent might be brought low.
He fought against warriors of the riverlands and the north, and for all of Robb's ideas about forging bonds in battle for his new kingdom, here in the dirt, Tristan knew the truth, this was about who fought the best, who was the better master of their skills. And so he fought them all, his sword chipping and it broke chain and battered armour. My life, my purpose, all in one moment.
The others recognised him as the threat and came, one after the other. Blackwood and Glover came first, and the others fell back, for breath or pause, it mattered not. Tristan struck out and their defences flashed with brilliant skill as the two of them fought to repel him. Such was his ferocity that even Patrek joined him, having no attacks to repel himself. The bladework was sublime, They met every attack, checked every thrust and cut until there was an opening. Patrek's blade hooked the chain and Tristan's hammered it in a single heartbeat that shattered it all.
Two more pairs came and were felled in turn. Patrek was breathing heavily behind him, and Tristan's enclosed helm was hot with his own breath.
Smalljon and Black Walder slammed into them. The two had overcome the hindrance of Smalljon's blade with aggression, and now Tristan's arm was shuddering and faltering. The ferocity was pure and beautiful and left Tristan's arm numbing and throbbing. Smalljon was striking for the chain while Black Walder attacked Tristan, his sword flashing, Tristan met it, countered it, loved it, turning away six or seven blows that might have killed him in a true battle. And he laughed. He laughed as he fought, he laughed as he battled, he laughed as he engaged in the ultimate test of skill.
He laughed as his sword broke.
Black Walder and Smalljon both took advantage and struck at him, dealing him blows to body and head, the half of his sword that remained wasn't enough, he wasn't enough.
He fell to his knees, grunting in pain. But even the pain was perfect.
"Up!" He heard Patrek cry. "Up!"
He saw the moment, Black Walder and Smalljon both struck for the chain, Patrek's sword alone wouldn't be enough. He lunged, using the half of his sword that remained to block their attack a hair away from his chain. He held fast. "Patrek, strike now!" Patrek swished his sword back and around and cleaved through the chain, sending links scattering into the air. Tristan surged to his feet and slammed into Black Walder, driving him to the earth.
He gasped and fell to his knees. No, no no. He wrenched off his helm sucking in hot air and clamping his hands over his ears. Don't cheer, I don't want to hear! But the sound broke through his gauntlets and he heard them, the cheers and the trumpets and the declaration of victory. No. Patrek was trying to pullhim to his feet, but he bowed his head, his hand and claw grasping at the dirt, his shoulders shaking and salt on his lips. "Tristan?" Patrek asked, kneeling beside him, the chain still holding them together.
"Don't…" he whispered, weeping. "Don't let it end… I don't want it to end…"
His tent was cold, and Tristan was alone with his bruises. Elmar was back at the Twins after having spent the evening with Arya. Tristan had retired early, finding no joy after the tourney was gone, none of the gold he had received would bring it back.
The basin's water was dirty when he was done washing the grime and sweat from his skin and he took it outside. He didn't want it stinking up his tent in the night. The crisp evening air still warm on his shirtless body, he took the basin to the river and poured it out into the green water, watching the dirty water filter and flow away. He looked up at the Twins, and the lights shining from every window. Robb was up there, celebrating his new kingdom. Tristan couldn't be there, not after today.
He trudged back to his tent, but stopped up short when he saw who was outside. "Wynafryd," he breathed.
She wore a heavy cloak over her dress and her familiar braid was hung over one shoulder. She held up a bottle. "Shall we?"
Tristan nodded and gestured for her to enter his tent.
"Your squire isn't here?"
"No."
She nodded. "Good," and poured them both a drink.
They drank their first two cups in silence and when he held his out for a refill she asked. "Why did you weep?"
She hadn't been the first to ask, Dom, Daryn, Cley, Robb, Elmar, Sansa, Arya, Patrek and his mother, all asked, but Wynafryd asked with wine, so he didn't tell her it was the emotion of battle and nothing more.
"I remembered what was," he said. "And I wished I was back there, when the world was fair and simple."
"And you didn't have to worry about politics and brides." He nodded and took another swig from his cup.
"And now I do, and I can't go back."
Wynafryd put her cup down. "Perhaps you can, just for tonight." She reached up and unfastened her cloak, letting it tumble to the ground. Her body was as beautiful as Tristan remembered, filling out her dress with soft and slender curves.
"Your father-"
"Thinks I am praying."
"The queen-"
"Has no need of me tonight." She sat down next to him on the bed and took his hand in hers. "I don't like the new world, how the war has changed everyone," she said as she nuzzled his cheek, pressing soft kissed to his face. "I am exactly the wrong age. The younger ladies in the queen's entourage speak with excitement of what will come, they will experience this world to its full, by their youth, they missed the responsibility of war. The old are ready to hang up their husband's swords and rest their feet by the fire. But I missed the war. As a woman I couldn't fight in it, but I was not a wife to help her husband's household while he is away, nor was I betrothed to wait for my beloved. When my daughters ask what I did during the war, what will I tell them except that I did nothing."
"What I did during the war… doing nothing is not so terrible a thing."
"It will be, when my children are old enough to ask, doing nothing in the war will be the worst of sins, I fear, although it was no choice of mine."
Tristan turned his head and rested his forehead on hers. "You can stay?"
"I mean to."
"Then let us go back to a fairer time." He kissed her.
Wynafryd wrapped her arms around him. The kiss was fierce, passionate, as it had been before. Her fingers ran through his hair and scratched at his scalp. He groaned, pawing at her chest and she gasped in pleasure as he pushed her to the bed. They pulled at their cloths, casting them aside before he lay flush against Wynafryd and they wrapped their arms around each other. She whispered her pleasure in his ear as he thrust into her again and again, moaning. "Look… look at me," she gasped. He leant up and looked down at her. She was beautiful. With an unexpected twist of her lips she spun them around so that she was on top. She sat up, tracing her nails down his chest and getting off him before working her way down, kissing his chest, finding every scar she could. She took his claw and kissed it softly before going lower and taking him in her mouth.
He gasped, her mouth was hot, her tongue wet and slithering around him. She kept him hard and brought him to the edge before pulling away. She wiped her mouth and grinned, before reaching up and undoing her braid, letting her brown hair tumble around her. "Come back!" He snatched for her and she came, lying on top of him. Her hair fell around them, separating them from the world. Her mouth was a hair's breadth from his own, her beath sweet, her eyes loving as they shone with tears. They shared soft kisses as she reached down and took him in her hand, pumping him gently. Alone in a cocoon of her hair, they fucked as they had in days before, and when they were close, they kissed fiercely, swallowing each other's sounds so that no one else could hear them.
She rolled off him a tangled mess as they both panted for breath. He rolled up and brushed the hair out of Wynafryd's face where it had fallen across her. "Good?"
She nodded, grinning drowsily. "Very." She reached out and pointed to the blanket. He handed it to her but she grabbed his wrist and pulled him on top of her, resting his head on her chest and wrapping her arms around him.
"What-" She flung the blanket over them, tangling their legs together beneath it as she stroked his hair, kissing his head softly. "This isn't like you," he whispered.
"Do you want me to stop?"
He nuzzled deeper, breathing in the scent of her, feeling the tears return, knowing that this was just another taste of what was lost, but despairing at the thought of losing it.
They stayed together, not speaking, not looking ahead, just relishing the moment and mourning the past.
He found his friends along the riverbank. A heron was flying along the water, the tips of its wings leaving ripples where they kissed the surface.
"Finally he joins us!" Daryn tossed Tristan a waterskin as he joined them on the bank.
"The brother of the king was needed," Tristan said. Behind them was a great commotion as the tourney stands were being dismantled. Robb had to discuss his orders one last time and he had to assemble his warriors. "What are we discussing?"
"How Dom intends to spend his champions' money."
"And all their ideas seem to involve gifts," Dom said quietly, smiling.
"For us?"
"For the Queen," Cley said.
"Dom's Queen of Love and Beauty," Daryn chortled. "I didn't think he had it in him to crown the new queen, some might see that as bold, crowning the king's new wife with a garland of river lilies."
Tristan grinned. "Come now, Daryn, you know it was the only choice he had."
"Far from it, there were a hundred fair maids in the crowd to choose, and most weren't someone's wife, or your queen."
"Yes, so many to choose from," Dom said dryly.
"Why was it his only choice, Tris?"
"Well, Dom is already betrothed to Teora Redfort. To crown another maiden would be an insult to her, and he has no mother or sister to crown in her place. The queen was therefore the best choice to not cause a stir." Dom's words had been courteous as any story of gallantry as he lay the crown in the queen's lap from the tip of his lance.
Despite Tristan's explanation the teasing continued for some time, and then they spoke on other matters, betrothal offers for Tristan and Cley, when they would be allowed to visit Tristan as Lord of Moat Cailin and more besides until the air grew dark. They did not speak of what was to come. That once again Tristan would remain in the south while they returned north.
"So, have you had any other thoughts on your house name, Tristan?" Cley asked.
Tristan shook his head. "I thought I would just do it like the Karstarks, but the Trisstarks sounds like some foreign snake has a cold."
Once again, they made suggestions, Daryn listing colours, Dom listing deeds and weapons.
"I think Dom has it!" Cley said excitedly.
"Shieldstarks?" Tristan asked.
"Moat Cailin is the shield of the north," Daryn pointed out.
"No no no," Cley said. "Not Shieldstarks, but that name… well, it's obvious isn't it, it couldn't be anything else."
He pointed and they followed his finger to where Shield was sitting on the ground, his eyes following the heron that stil flapped on the water. They looked at each other and said together. "Direstark."
