Chapter 1: Rest in the Kingswood

Crownlands / Kingswood / Afternoon

The afternoon sun filtered through the dense canopy of the Kingswood, casting a dappled pattern of light and shadow on the forest floor. The air was thick with the earthy scent of pine and damp leaves, the sounds of rustling foliage and the occasional chirp of a distant bird filling the quiet.

Lucan Farrow knelt beside his horse, Buck, a sturdy chestnut destrier with a white blaze running down the center of his face. The horse's deep brown eyes watched Lucan patiently as the young man poured water from a skin into a wide wooden bowl. Lucan ran a hand through his tousled dark hair, which fell in uneven strands around his face. His cheeks were rough with a day's worth of stubble, and a faint line of sweat glistened at his brow. He was young, in his early twenties, but his expression held the kind of weariness that only a life on the road could carve into a man.

Lucan was no knight in shining armor—far from it. He didn't even own armor. His leather jerkin, worn and cracked from years of use, hugged his frame, and his woolen pants, though sturdy, were frayed at the edges. The leather riding boots he wore had seen better days, scuffed and mud-stained from weeks of travel across the Crownlands. A simple sword hung at his side, its hilt plain but functional, and a dagger, concealed at the small of his back, was tucked into a special sheath for quick access.

Lucan moved with a quiet confidence, though there was a roughness to him—a man still finding his place in the world. He wasn't like the knights of song and story, the kind who gleamed with polished steel and rode under banners of noble houses. No, Lucan was something else. A wanderer, a hedge knight without a lord or castle to call home. His strength didn't come from lineage or wealth, but from his determination to survive, to do what needed to be done in a world that had little regard for honor or chivalry.

Buck snorted softly as Lucan fed him a handful of oats, the horse's strong jaws grinding the grain with a steady rhythm. Lucan patted Buck's flank affectionately, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Eat up, old boy," Lucan murmured, his voice low and rough from days of solitude. "We've still got miles to go before we reach King's Landing."

The journey had been long, and the road unforgiving. For days, Lucan had traveled through the Crownlands, avoiding the main roads when he could. The lawlessness that had followed the great war had left much of Westeros in disarray, and the roads were no exception. Bandits roamed freely, preying on the weak and the unwary. Lucan had seen the aftermath of their raids—burned-out villages, travelers stripped of everything they owned, and worse.

He shook his head, trying to push the grim thoughts from his mind as he led Buck toward a small clearing beneath a large oak tree. The spot was quiet, the soft rustling of leaves overhead providing a peaceful backdrop. He dropped down into the grass, resting his back against the rough bark of the tree. His body ached from the long days in the saddle, but there was a contentment in the solitude, in the simplicity of life on the road.

Lucan's hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, his fingers tracing the worn leather grip. It was a habit, a comfort, though he hoped he wouldn't have to use it today. The Kingswood was vast, and though it was often used by travelers heading to King's Landing, it wasn't free from danger. Bandits, wild animals, and the occasional desperate man looking to make his fortune—there were plenty of reasons to stay alert.

He closed his eyes, letting the steady rhythm of Buck's munching and the soft rustling of the forest lull him into a rare moment of peace. Tomorrow, they would continue toward the capital, but for now, Lucan allowed himself a brief rest.

The road was long, and though Lucan preferred the solitary life of a wanderer, even he had to admit that the weight of the sword at his side was a constant reminder that peace, like everything else, was fleeting.

But for now, in the quiet heart of the Kingswood, Lucan let himself rest, unaware that the peace of this moment would soon be shattered by a fateful encounter that would change his path forever.

Crownlands / Kingswood / Afternoon

Lucan's eyes snapped open to the sharp clatter of metal striking metal. His body tensed immediately, the tranquility of the Kingswood shattered by the unmistakable sounds of a fight. The clash of swords, the panicked whinnies of horses, and the shouts of men cut through the forest, growing louder by the second.

He pushed himself upright, his senses on high alert. The quiet hum of nature had been replaced by chaos. Buck, still hitched to a nearby tree, pawed nervously at the ground, his ears flicking toward the source of the noise. Lucan gently patted the horse's neck to calm him, though his own heart had begun to race.

The Kingsroad lay just beyond the trees, not far from where Lucan had chosen to rest. He glanced in the direction of the sounds, then back at Buck. He couldn't take the horse with him—it would draw too much attention. Besides, he needed to move quietly if he was going to figure out what was happening. Leaving Buck hitched under the shade of the large oak, Lucan moved silently into the thicket, his movements practiced and deliberate.

His leather jerkin creaked softly as he crouched low, slipping through the underbrush. The trees of the Kingswood were thick here, their branches intertwining above to form a dense canopy that filtered out much of the afternoon sunlight. Shadows danced across the ground as Lucan crept closer to the noise, his hand instinctively finding the hilt of his sword. He didn't draw it yet, not until he knew what he was dealing with.

As he reached the edge of the treeline, he peered through the thick foliage. The sight that met him made his pulse quicken.

A caravan, adorned with banners bearing the colors of House Bywater, had been attacked. The fretty blue on white, with three silver fish on a blue chief was unmistakable—a noble family from the Crownlands. Lucan's mind flashed back to his days as a young squire, learning the heraldry and histories of the noble houses of Westeros. His old mentor, a grizzled hedge knight, had drilled the importance of recognizing such symbols into him. "Know the banners," the knight had said, "for they tell you who commands and who to avoid." House Bywater, though not as powerful as the great houses, was still a name that commanded respect.

The caravan, consisting of several carriages and a handful of Bywater guards, was now under siege. Bandits, their ragged forms clashing with the noble colors of the caravan, moved swiftly through the scene, attacking with brutal precision. Lucan recognized the uneven odds immediately, his gaze darting between the overwhelmed guards and the advancing bandits. Though the lessons of heraldry had once felt like the idle ramblings of an old knight, they had prepared him for moments like this. Even now, Lucan's mind worked to recall more about the Bywaters—important allies of the crown, with a history of loyal service. This was no mere merchant train. This was a noble family in danger.

And Lucan knew what his old master would say now: "A true knight does not wait for the odds to be even."

Lucan's eyes darted across the scene, quickly assessing the situation. The guards, outnumbered and caught off guard, were struggling to defend the caravan from the bandits' relentless assault. Steel clanged against steel as the guards fought valiantly, but the bandits were many, their crude weapons gleaming in the patchy sunlight that filtered through the trees.

One of the carriages lay overturned in the middle of the road, its horses long since fled in terror. The other carriages were surrounded, the Bywater guards forming a loose defensive ring around the remaining wagons, but they were faltering. A group of bandits had already broken through the defenses, cutting down one of the guards and pushing deeper into the caravan.

Lucan's grip tightened on his sword hilt as he surveyed the scene. His instincts screamed for him to intervene, but he hesitated. The bandits were many, and though he had skill with the blade, he was still young, and less experienced than he would have liked to admit. This was no tavern brawl or one-on-one fight. This was a full ambush, and there were lives at stake—more than just his own.

His eyes narrowed as he focused on the bandit leader, a rough-looking man barking orders from the back of the group. Lucan's gaze lingered on the man for a moment, taking in the sheer brutality of the scene. The bandits showed no mercy, cutting down anyone in their path. The Bywater guards fought desperately, but it was clear they were outmatched.

From his hidden vantage point, Lucan's thoughts raced. He could remain in the safety of the trees, wait for the bandits to finish their assault, and slip away unnoticed. It would be the smart move. He owed nothing to these people—they didn't know him, and he didn't know them. For all he knew, the caravan's contents could be nothing more than gold and trinkets.

But something in the back of his mind gnawed at him. He had been raised to believe in something more, taught as a young squire that knights were meant to protect the innocent, to stand up when others could not. And though Lucan wasn't wearing shining armor or riding under a noble banner, that ideal was still buried somewhere deep within him.

He couldn't just stand by and do nothing.

Lucan's jaw clenched, his decision made. He would intervene—but smartly, strategically. Charging headlong into a bandit ambush wasn't going to save anyone. He needed to pick his moment, strike from the shadows.

With a final glance at the scene unfolding before him, Lucan shifted back into the cover of the trees, moving parallel to the Kingsroad, his eyes scanning for the perfect opportunity to strike.

The caravan was still under siege, but Lucan Farrow, inexperienced as he might be, was about to make his presence known.

Crownlands / Kingsroad / Afternoon

Lucan crouched low in the brush, his gaze fixed on the scene unfolding before him. The House Bywater banner fluttered violently in the breeze, its fretty blue on white and three silver fish proudly displayed even amidst the chaos. Captain Jory and the Bywater guards were valiantly trying to hold off the ambush, their swords flashing in the dappled light that filtered through the canopy of the Kingswood. But even from his vantage point, Lucan could tell they were hopelessly outnumbered.

The sound of steel clashing, men shouting, and horses shrieking in terror filled the air. Lucan's breath caught in his throat as he watched the battle intensify, his hand instinctively tightening around the hilt of his sword. His mentor's voice echoed in his mind: "There are moments where you choose—stand or walk away." And yet, the scene before him was anything but simple.

Captain Jory stood at the forefront, a seasoned warrior in the service of House Bywater. His sword cut through the air with precise, powerful strokes, felling two of the Blackbriar Bandits with a single swing. But for every bandit that fell, it seemed two more appeared, slinking from the forest's shadows with bloodlust in their eyes. Harlan Greaves, the leader of the bandits, loomed at the edge of the fray, watching with a cold, calculating gaze. His scarred face betrayed no emotion as he barked orders to his men.

Lucan's heart raced as he watched Captain Jory pivot to block a blow aimed at one of his guards. The captain fought with a kind of fierce, desperate courage that Lucan had seen only in the most seasoned warriors. But even Jory, with all his skill, couldn't change the inevitable.

Suddenly, with a brutal cry, Harlan surged forward. He swung a broad-bladed axe at Jory with deadly precision. Jory deflected the first blow, but the force of it staggered him. He barely had time to recover before Harlan swung again, this time catching Jory across the side. The captain gasped, blood spilling down his armor as he collapsed to the ground.

Lucan's gut twisted as he watched Captain Jory fall, his life draining away on the dusty Kingsroad. For a moment, the world seemed to slow. Lucan's mentor had always spoken of moments like these, of life and death balanced on a knife's edge. "This is what it means to be a knight," the old knight had said. "The decision to intervene or to walk away will haunt you, whichever path you choose."

Lucan inhaled sharply, pushing the memory aside as his eyes darted back to the battle. With Captain Jory's death, the Bywater guards began to falter, their formation breaking as the bandits pressed their advantage. In the midst of the chaos, Lord Jacelyn 'Ironhand' Bywater and his son, Ser Theo, charged into the fray on horseback, determined to turn the tide.

Lord Jacelyn, true to his name, fought with the determination of a man who had faced countless battles. His iron hand, a remnant of some long-past conflict, swung his sword with unwavering precision. Lucan could see the fury in the lord's eyes as he cut down bandit after bandit, rallying the guards around him.

Ser Theo, younger and perhaps less seasoned, fought just as bravely beside his father. His sword sang through the air as he fended off a bandit who had cornered one of the guards. But Theo's lack of experience showed in the way he moved—reckless, eager to prove himself. As he lunged forward to strike down another bandit, an arrow whistled through the air and embedded itself in Theo's shoulder. He cried out, his sword falling from his hand as he tumbled from his horse.

"Theo!" Lord Jacelyn roared, his voice filled with the unmistakable fear of a father watching his son fall. He spurred his horse forward, slashing at the bandits who surrounded Theo, buying his son precious time.

Lucan's heart pounded in his chest. He could see the pain etched on Ser Theo's face as he struggled to stay conscious, blood pouring from the wound in his shoulder. Lord Jacelyn, eyes wide with urgency, barked an order. "Flee, Theo! Get to King's Landing! Warn the king!"

Theo hesitated for only a moment before he managed to pull himself onto his horse, clutching his shoulder as he kicked the beast into a gallop. Lucan watched as Ser Theo rode away, disappearing down the road toward King's Landing, his figure swaying in the saddle as the blood loss took its toll.

The Bywater caravan was now in dire straits. With their captain dead and their lord fighting alone, the guards were barely holding back the tide of bandits. Lucan's mind raced as he weighed his options. He had seen enough battles to know this one was almost lost. Yet part of him burned with the need to intervene, to honor the lessons drilled into him as a young squire. His mentor's voice echoed again, "A knight fights, even when the cause is hopeless."

Just as he was about to make his decision, Lucan's attention was drawn to the last carriage in the line. The door had swung open, and a figure had emerged—Lady Alys Bywater, though Lucan didn't yet know it was her. The young woman peered out, her expression filled with both fear and determination.

"Alys, get back inside!" Lord Jacelyn bellowed, his voice hoarse with desperation. He swung his sword again, cutting down a bandit as he struggled to make his way toward the carriage. "Before—"

Before he could finish, a bandit appeared behind him and delivered a savage blow to his head with the hilt of his sword. Lord Jacelyn crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Lucan's breath caught as he watched the bandits closing in around the caravan, their victory all but assured. His sword hand twitched, but still, he hesitated. The choice was his—intervene now, or wait for the right moment. Either way, Lucan Farrow was about to throw himself into the fray.

Crownlands / Kingsroad / Afternoon

Inside the cramped confines of the carriage, Lady Alys Bywater sat stiffly, her back pressed against the fine upholstery, trying her best to stifle a sigh. Across from her, Lady Casella Bywater, her mother, sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes fixed on her daughter with the intensity of someone who had delivered this lecture countless times.

"…and as the future queen, Alys, you must remember your duties. Your marriage to King Edric will bring stability to the Six Kingdoms. This isn't just about you," Lady Casella said, her voice stern yet laced with the affection of a mother trying to mold her child into something greater.

Alys's dark eyes flicked to the side, gazing out the window at the trees blurring past. The Kingswood was dense, its thick canopy casting dappled shadows over the road. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, though it was an effort. Casella's words were nothing new. They had been drilled into her since the moment her engagement had been secured. Duty, obligation, sacrifice—all things Alys had heard too many times to count.

"And as your mother, I must ensure you understand," Lady Casella continued, her voice sharp with authority. "Your life belongs to more than just yourself now. Your duty is to the realm. To Edric."

Alys bit her lip and tried not to flinch at the mention of her betrothed. Edric Baratheon—the king of the Six Kingdoms, chosen by the Great Council. He was kind, strong, and, by all accounts, an ideal match for her. She had felt a connection with him when they first met, a spark even. But now, as the weight of her impending role settled on her, that spark felt distant, almost unreachable.

"I know, Mother," Alys replied quietly, though her heart wasn't in it. Her mind drifted away, wishing for a moment of peace. Or adventure—anything but the endless weight of responsibility looming over her future.

Suddenly, a loud commotion erupted from outside the carriage—shouts, the clanging of metal, and the panicked neighing of horses. Alys's heart jolted. She whipped her head toward the window just as the carriage lurched to a halt, the jarring movement throwing her slightly off-balance.

"What's happening?" Lady Casella asked sharply, her voice now tinged with fear. But Alys wasn't listening. She had already moved to the carriage window, her fingers gripping the frame as she pushed herself up to peer outside.

Her breath caught in her throat.

The Bywater caravan had been ambushed. Bandits, clad in tattered leather and armed with brutal-looking weapons, swarmed the guards. Captain Jory, their loyal captain, fought valiantly, but he was outnumbered. Her father, Lord Jacelyn Bywater, was in the thick of the battle, his iron hand swinging with deadly precision, but even he could not hold them back forever.

Alys's pulse quickened as her eyes scanned the scene, her heart clenching when she saw Ser Theo, her brother, wounded and being ordered to flee. Her gaze then landed on her father as he struggled to move toward the carriages. His voice cut through the chaos, "Alys! Get back inside, before—"

He never finished the sentence. A bandit struck him from behind, and he crumpled to the ground.

"Father!" Alys screamed, her voice tearing through the air. Panic surged through her veins as she watched her father fall, and for a moment, everything else disappeared. Her scream, however, had drawn unwanted attention.

The bandits turned toward the Bywater carriage, eyes gleaming with malicious intent. They had spotted her.

"Alys!" Lady Casella's voice snapped her out of her stupor. "What's happening? What do you see?"

Alys turned from the window, her face pale, her heart hammering. "They've captured Father… They've killed Captain Jory. Mother, we're surrounded!"

For a brief moment, Lady Casella's face contorted with fear, but then it was replaced by a steely resolve. She reached across the narrow space between them and grabbed Alys's arm, her grip surprisingly strong. "You must flee," she whispered urgently, her eyes wide with desperation.

"What?" Alys asked, bewildered.

"You must jump," Lady Casella commanded. "Leave us. You must escape. They cannot capture the future queen of the Six Kingdoms."

Alys's mind reeled, but there was no time to argue. The bandits were closing in on the carriage, and Lady Casella's urgency was palpable. "Mother, I can't leave you—"

"Jump!" Lady Casella hissed, pushing her toward the carriage door.

With one last look at her mother, Alys steeled herself. She could hear the bandits outside, their voices growing louder. If she stayed, they would capture her—and the consequences of that were unthinkable. Without another word, she yanked the door open and leaped into the dense thicket of grass and undergrowth beside the road.

The ground rushed up to meet her as she tumbled into the foliage, the rough brush scratching at her skin and pulling at her clothes. She gasped as she hit the ground, the impact knocking the wind out of her, but she forced herself to roll away, her body moving instinctively as she scrambled deeper into the cover of the trees.

As she lay there, panting, she heard voices—bandit voices.

"She's run off into the woods!" one of them shouted.

"After her!" Harlan Greaves barked. "She's the prize!"

The sound of footsteps crashing through the brush reached her ears, and Alys's heart leaped into her throat. They were coming. She forced herself to her feet, her body trembling with adrenaline as she began to move. She had to keep going, deeper into the Kingswood. She couldn't let them catch her.

Back in the treeline, Lucan watched it all unfold. His pulse quickened as he saw the young woman leap from the carriage and disappear into the woods. His decision was made.

As Harlan's men gave chase, Lucan's hand moved to the hilt of his sword. "Now's the time." He moved stealthily through the trees, positioning himself to intercept the bandits. He would not stand by and watch her be hunted like prey.

This was the moment he'd been waiting for.