Chapter 5: The Trial By Combat
Lannisport / City Square / Morning
The early morning sun cast a pale light over Lannisport's city square, where anticipation buzzed in the air like a live wire. The square had been transformed overnight into a makeshift fighting arena. Wooden barriers had been erected, roping off the center where the combat would take place, and a small stage had been built at the far end for the presiding officials. Merchants, commoners, and nobles alike were already gathering, eager to witness the spectacle of trial by combat.
The crowd spilled into the square from every street, a patchwork of brightly colored garments, from the rich velvet of nobles' cloaks to the roughspun tunics of common folk. Children weaved through the throng, trying to get a better view, while vendors shouted about their wares—hot pies, fresh bread, and cheap ale.
At the center of the square, Ser Lucan Farrow stood motionless, the weight of the moment pressing down on him like the heavy armor he wore—hardened leather and chainmail that had seen countless battles. His sword, resting at his side, felt like an extension of him, ready and waiting. The roar of the crowd blurred into a distant hum, swallowed by the sharp focus of his thoughts. Every breath was steady, but his heart pounded with the quiet certainty of what lay ahead. This was more than just another fight—this was the kind of moment that defined a man.
Twitch stood beside him, wide-eyed as he took in the spectacle. The boy had insisted on coming, despite Lucan's warnings that it might be too much for him. Now, Twitch's nervous energy radiated in every glance, his fingers fidgeting with the edges of his tunic as he watched people push toward the front of the crowd, eager to see the trial.
"They're really all here to see you fight," Twitch muttered, half to himself.
Lucan nodded, his gaze sweeping over the gathering crowd. "It seems so. Word spreads quickly in a city like this."
Twitch's eyes darted around the square. "And Fumbles… he's going to be alright, isn't he?"
Lucan laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "That's what we're here for. To make sure he gets a fair trial."
The murmur of the crowd suddenly quieted as Laswell Lannister, Magister of Lannisport, took his place on the raised platform at the edge of the square. He was an imposing figure, draped in fine robes of deep crimson, the golden lion of Lannister emblazoned on his chest. His graying hair and beard gave him an air of stern authority, and his sharp eyes scanned the gathered crowd before settling on Lucan.
"Citizens of Lannisport," Laswell's voice boomed across the square, commanding the attention of all present. "We are gathered here to bear witness to a trial by combat, an ancient and honored tradition where the gods shall decide the guilt or innocence of the accused."
His gaze swept over the crowd as he continued. "Fumbles the Mummer stands accused of theft. Ser Lucan Farrow has agreed to fight in his stead. If Ser Lucan is victorious, Fumbles will be declared innocent of these charges. Should he fall… then guilt shall be upon the mummer."
A murmur rippled through the crowd, a mixture of excitement and tension.
Laswell raised a hand, silencing the whispers. "Ser Titus Lantell, the accuser, has called for trial by combat. But, due to circumstances beyond his ability"—Laswell's gaze flicked toward a visibly hungover Ser Titus, standing near the front—"he has chosen Ser Maron Talbert to be his champion."
The crowd shifted as Ser Maron Talbert strode into the center of the square, his broad shoulders and imposing figure cutting through the sea of onlookers. The brute of a man was clad in heavy, weathered armor, his face marked by the scars of countless battles. His cold eyes locked onto Lucan with a grim determination.
Twitch swallowed nervously. "That's the one who's fighting you?"
Lucan nodded, sizing up his opponent. Ser Maron Talbert was known for his brutal fighting style—no mercy, no finesse, just raw strength. But Lucan knew that a fight wasn't won by strength alone. He would need to be swift and precise.
Laswell's voice rang out again. "May the gods bear witness to this trial. Let the combatants take their places."
Lucan stepped forward into the cleared space at the center of the square. The crowd pressed closer, a hum of excitement and tension filling the air as they watched the two knights prepare. He drew his sword, the familiar weight of the blade steadying him as he turned to face Talbert, who had already unsheathed his own weapon, a heavy greatsword that gleamed menacingly in the light.
For a moment, the world seemed to narrow down to just the two of them—Lucan and Talbert—standing across from each other, the crowd's cheers fading into the background. Twitch watched from the sidelines, his small frame tense with worry, while Fumbles stood further back, wringing his hands as he glanced between Lucan and the towering form of Ser Maron.
Laswell raised his hand. "Begin!"
Talbert wasted no time, charging forward with a roar that echoed through the square. His greatsword came down in a wide arc, aimed directly at Lucan's head. Lucan sidestepped just in time, the blade missing him by inches and crashing into the dirt with a heavy thud.
Lucan countered with a quick strike of his own, his sword flashing as it slashed toward Talbert's side. But the brute was fast, faster than Lucan expected. Talbert turned and deflected the blow with a resounding clang, his greatsword sweeping upward in a vicious strike aimed at Lucan's midsection.
Lucan leapt back, his boots kicking up dust as he narrowly avoided the blow. The crowd gasped at the near miss, their eyes glued to the clash of steel.
"Come on, Lucan!" Twitch shouted from the sidelines, his voice almost lost in the din of the crowd.
Lucan stayed light on his feet, circling Talbert, watching for an opening. The brute was powerful, but Lucan knew his advantage lay in speed and precision. As Talbert lunged forward again, Lucan darted to the side, bringing his sword down in a sharp slice across the other knight's arm. Talbert grunted in pain, but the strike didn't slow him.
Instead, Talbert turned with a savage growl, swinging his greatsword in a wide arc. Lucan barely managed to raise his blade in time, the force of Talbert's attack reverberating through his arms as their swords clashed once more.
The crowd was on edge, watching every move, every strike. Sweat trickled down Lucan's brow, but his focus remained sharp. He needed to wear Talbert down, to keep moving, to stay ahead.
Laswell Lannister observed from his platform, his expression unreadable as the trial unfolded before him. The crowd leaned in, their excitement mounting with every clash of steel, their shouts growing louder with each passing moment.
Lucan knew the fight was far from over, but as he danced out of range of Talbert's heavy swings, he could see the brute tiring. His strikes were slower now, more labored. Lucan pressed his advantage, moving in quickly to land another strike, this time catching Talbert's leg. Blood seeped from the wound, staining the dirt beneath their feet.
The crowd roared with approval, but Lucan didn't let his guard down. He had seen fights turn in an instant. Twitch was at the edge of the barrier, fists clenched, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hope.
Talbert, bloodied and furious, raised his greatsword for one final, desperate swing. Lucan saw the opening and moved in swiftly. With a well-timed thrust, his sword found its mark—Talbert staggered, his grip faltering as he fell to one knee.
The crowd fell into a stunned silence, the sound of Lucan's blade slicing through the air the only noise. Talbert's greatsword clattered to the ground, his body slumping in defeat.
Laswell Lannister stood, his voice ringing out over the crowd. "The trial is over! Ser Lucan Farrow is victorious!"
A cheer erupted from the onlookers, nobles and commoners alike, their voices filling the square with the sound of celebration. Twitch leapt into the air, pumping his fists, while Fumbles collapsed in relief, tears of gratitude in his eyes.
Lucan sheathed his sword, his breath coming in steady gasps as he looked down at the fallen knight. He had won. Justice had been served, and Fumbles would go free.
The cheers of the crowd swelled, but Lucan's focus remained on his defeated opponent. Maron Talbert's pride may have been wounded, but the gash on his shoulder bled freely, darkening the edges of his armor.
With a gesture of respect, Lucan extended a hand toward Talbert. "Here," he said, his voice calm but firm. "Let me help you up."
Talbert looked up at him, surprise flickering in his eyes. His jaw tightened, his pride clearly still fighting against the pain, but after a beat, he accepted Lucan's outstretched hand. With a grunt of effort, Lucan pulled the larger knight to his feet.
Talbert stood, unsteady at first, his face pale beneath the grime and sweat. His wounded shoulder sagged, and blood seeped through his armor, but he gave Lucan a nod of acknowledgment—grudging respect between two warriors who had given their all in combat.
"You fought well," Lucan said quietly, his eyes meeting Talbert's. "But that shoulder needs tending to."
Lucan turned to the watching crowd, his gaze finding Laswell Lannister on the raised platform. The magister's sharp eyes were already fixed on the combatants, his expression unreadable beneath his gold-threaded robes.
"Magister Lannister!" Lucan called out, his voice cutting through the noise of the cheering crowd. "Ser Maron requires a healer."
Laswell stood from his seat, raising a hand to quiet the crowd, his gaze sweeping over the square with measured authority. "A maester shall tend to him," Laswell declared, his voice carrying across the square. He turned and gestured to the side, where a man clad in the robes of a maester stepped forward.
The maester, gray-haired and stooped with age but quick on his feet, moved toward Talbert with an air of practiced calm. His chain of office clinked softly as he approached, his eyes scanning the wound with an experienced gaze. He carried a satchel filled with vials and bandages, and as he reached Talbert, he gave a respectful nod to Lucan before focusing on his patient.
"Let me see the wound, ser," the maester said, his voice low but authoritative. Talbert grimaced as he removed the damaged pauldron, revealing the gash Lucan's blade had left on his shoulder.
Lucan stepped back to give the maester space, watching as he began to clean the wound with swift, efficient movements. The crowd, though still murmuring with excitement, slowly began to disperse, their thrill from the combat giving way to the bustle of daily life once more.
Twitch, who had sprinted down from the stands, stood beside Lucan, his face flushed with excitement. "You did it, Lucan! You really did it!" he shouted, his voice bubbling with pride. The boy's eyes flicked nervously to Talbert's injury but then returned to Lucan, admiration shining through his young face.
Lucan smiled down at Twitch, his muscles aching but his spirit light. "We did it together, Twitch," he said. "You kept the crowd on my side."
Twitch puffed up with pride, glancing toward the wounded Ser Maron. "Is he gonna be alright?"
Lucan nodded. "He'll be fine. A wound like that hurts, but he'll recover."
The maester worked quickly, his hands steady as he applied a poultice and began to bind Talbert's shoulder with clean bandages. Lucan watched quietly, knowing the battle could have ended differently, but grateful it had not come to a fatal conclusion.
Laswell Lannister, satisfied with the proceedings, stepped forward, his voice once again booming over the crowd. "Justice has been served this day. Ser Lucan Farrow, in victory, you have upheld the honor of the accused. Let all know that Fumbles the Mummer is innocent of the charges brought against him."
The crowd cheered again, and Lucan felt a weight lift from his shoulders. Fumbles, standing a little ways off, looked as if the tension had drained from his body. He raised his hands in exaggerated, joyous gestures, his painted face still bearing its comical expression, but there was a glint of gratitude in his eyes as he looked toward Lucan.
Twitch tugged at Lucan's sleeve, grinning up at him. "So, what now? Can we get something to eat?"
Lucan chuckled, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder as they turned to leave the square. "I think we've earned it."
Fumbles, standing off to the side with wide, tear-filled eyes, threw his hands up in exuberant celebration. He bounced on his toes, his painted face stretched into an exaggerated grin, and rushed forward toward Lucan.
"Fumbles knew it! He knew you'd win, Ser Lucan!" he shouted, throwing his arms around Lucan's shoulders in a dramatic hug, nearly knocking him off balance. "You've saved Fumbles from certain doom!"
Lucan chuckled, patting the mummer on the back as the rest of the Motley Foolery troupe approached, beaming. Tilly Twirl leaped into a joyful spin, her bright skirts twirling, while Mira Silentveil offered a graceful bow in Lucan's direction. Even Juggler Jon tossed a few colorful balls into the air, earning applause from the jubilant crowd.
Amid the celebration, however, Ser Titus Lantell stood rigid near the edge of the square, his face twisted in fury. His champion had been defeated, his attempt to humiliate Fumbles had backfired, and now, all of Lannisport bore witness to his disgrace. His eyes, once so smug and self-assured, were now narrowed in a glare of bitter contempt as he watched the mummers and the townspeople cheer Lucan's victory.
With a sharp huff of breath, Ser Titus turned on his heel, storming away from the square with his cronies, Lorent Lanny and Jaremy Lannett, trailing behind him like scolded dogs. Titus' face was flushed, and his movements were stiff, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
Twitch, perched on a barrel near the front of the crowd, spotted Titus's retreat and cupped his hands around his mouth. "Wanker!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the noise of the square.
The insult hung in the air for a moment, then a ripple of laughter spread through the crowd. Other townspeople, emboldened by Twitch's boldness, took up the cry.
"Wanker! Wanker! Wanker!" The chant grew louder and louder, the word rolling through the square like a tidal wave, directed squarely at Titus and his cronies as they fled.
Titus's face turned an even deeper shade of crimson, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked as though he might shatter his teeth. Lorent and Jaremy exchanged uneasy glances but kept their heads down as the crowd's mocking chant followed them out of the square, echoing through the streets of Lannisport. The jeering only seemed to intensify, and Titus's retreat quickened as he tried to escape the humiliation now branded upon him.
Lucan, watching the scene unfold, allowed himself a small smirk of satisfaction. Titus had made his bed, and now he was forced to lie in it. The crowd's taunts faded into the background as Fumbles and the rest of the troupe gathered around Lucan, their spirits high with relief and gratitude.
"Tonight, the Motley Foolery performs in your honor, Ser Lucan!" Fumbles declared dramatically, throwing his arms wide. "We shall fill the streets with laughter and joy, thanks to you!"
The townspeople cheered once more, eager to join in the promised festivities. Lucan's tired smile widened as Twitch bounded up to his side, his face flushed with excitement.
As the square slowly began to empty and the celebratory buzz drifted through the streets, Laswel Lannister approached Lucan with a nod of approval. "You've done well today, Ser Lucan," the magister said, his tone measured but respectful.
Lucan nodded in return, his body aching but his spirit light. "Thank you, Magister," he replied.
Laswel glanced toward the direction where Titus had disappeared, a faint smile playing at his lips. "It seems my nephew, Ser Titus has earned himself a new title today," he said dryly.
Lucan couldn't help but chuckle. "It suits him," he replied, watching as the last of the crowd trickled away, still murmuring about the spectacle they had witnessed.
As the sun began to dip lower in the sky, Lucan, Twitch, and the jubilant mummers made their way out of the square. The promise of celebration hung in the air, and though the day had been long and grueling, Lucan felt a sense of peace settle over him.
For now, at least, justice had prevailed.
Lannisport / Fairgrounds / Evening
The fairgrounds of Lannisport were bathed in the warm, flickering glow of lanterns as the sun dipped below the horizon. A cool evening breeze swept through the air, carrying with it the scent of roasted meats and sweet spiced wine. The square, which had been a stage for tension and trial just hours before, was now filled with the sounds of laughter, clapping, and music as the Motley Foolery troupe prepared their performance.
Tents and stalls were draped with colorful banners, and small fires dotted the fairgrounds, casting long shadows. The townspeople gathered in droves, eager for an evening of celebration after the intensity of the trial by combat. Children ran between stalls, clutching sweet treats, while vendors called out their wares. But all attention was focused on the raised platform at the center, where the troupe had set up their stage.
Ser Lucan Farrow stood near the back of the crowd, his arms crossed and a tired but contented smile on his face. He could feel the warmth of the fair's energy seeping into his bones, easing the tension left over from the day's battle. Twitch, who was practically bouncing with excitement, stood beside him, his eyes wide as he watched the stage being prepared.
"Are you ready, Ser Lucan?" Fumbles called out from the center of the stage, his voice booming with exaggerated flair. The mummer's face was painted with even more color than usual, his grin as wide as ever as he raised his hands to the crowd. "Tonight, the Motley Foolery performs for you, the hero of the hour! We shall make the fairgrounds ring with laughter and joy!"
The crowd roared in approval, and Lucan gave a small, humble wave, though his smile grew a little wider.
Twitch tugged at Lucan's sleeve, his eyes shining with excitement. "I've never seen a show like this before! Do you think they'll let me help?"
Lucan chuckled. "You never know with Fumbles. Just stick close, and maybe you'll get your chance."
As if on cue, Fumbles gestured grandly toward the side of the stage. "And now, without further ado, let us begin with a dazzling display of magic!" The crowd hushed in anticipation as Morthas the Enchanter stepped forward, his midnight-blue robes shimmering in the lantern light, his fingers moving with practiced precision.
Morthas began to weave his hands through the air, conjuring small bursts of flame that flickered and danced above his palms. The crowd gasped in awe as the flames twisted into the shapes of birds, then burst apart into glowing embers that hung in the air before dissipating. With a sly grin, the enchanter pulled out a small coin from behind a child's ear, tossing it into the crowd, where it seemed to vanish into thin air.
Twitch watched with wide-eyed wonder, his fingers itching to grab one of the coins that seemed to flicker in and out of existence. "How does he do that?" he whispered to Lucan, his voice filled with awe.
"That's the magic of the fair," Lucan replied, giving Twitch a playful nudge. "Just let yourself believe in it for a while."
As Morthas continued his tricks, Tilly Twirl spun onto the stage, her brightly colored skirts flaring out as she performed acrobatic flips and somersaults. She moved with a dancer's grace, leaping and twirling through the air, her feet barely seeming to touch the ground. The crowd cheered wildly with each daring flip, and even Lucan found himself caught up in the excitement of her performance.
From the side, Mira Silentveil moved with a different kind of grace, her pantomime both haunting and beautiful as she acted out an old tale of love and loss without a single word. Her expressive movements drew gasps from the audience, and for a moment, even the youngest children in the crowd were silent, captivated by her silent performance.
Twitch's eyes sparkled as he watched the performance. Lucan couldn't help but smile at the boy's enthusiasm.
Fumbles, never one to be outshone, leaped onto the stage with his usual exaggerated flair. "And now, for the grand finale—Fumbles himself!" he bellowed, pulling out a handful of brightly colored handkerchiefs from his sleeve and tossing them into the air. As the handkerchiefs fluttered down, Fumbles caught them with exaggerated movements, his face twisted into a comically serious expression that had the crowd roaring with laughter.
Fumbles gestured toward Lucan with a flourish. "But wait! A hero such as Ser Lucan deserves a partner in crime! Twitch, lad, come up here!" He pointed toward Twitch, who blinked in surprise, his mouth hanging open.
"Me?" Twitch squeaked.
Lucan nudged him forward with a grin. "Go on. Looks like you're about to become part of the show."
The crowd cheered as Twitch scrambled up onto the stage, his excitement palpable. Fumbles draped an oversized mummer's hat on Twitch's head, the brim falling over his eyes. "Now, lad, let's see if you can juggle, eh?" Fumbles handed him a small ball, winking at the crowd.
Twitch beamed, though his attempt to juggle was more fumbling than juggling, earning good-natured laughs from the crowd. Fumbles exaggerated his own "mistakes," dropping handkerchiefs and pretending to trip over Twitch's feet, making the boy giggle as the audience roared with delight.
The rest of the troupe joined in for the finale, with Tilly flipping across the stage, Fumbles tossing objects in every direction, and Mira performing her graceful pantomime to the crowd's cheers. It was chaotic, joyful, and infectious, and Lucan found himself laughing along with the townspeople, the tension of the day finally slipping away.
As the performance came to a close, the crowd erupted into applause, their cheers ringing through the night air. Fumbles took a dramatic bow, pulling Twitch into a deep, theatrical flourish beside him.
"Thank you, Lannisport! And thank you, Ser Lucan Farrow, our brave hero!" Fumbles shouted, his voice filled with genuine gratitude. The townspeople echoed his cheers, calling Lucan's name as the troupe bowed together.
Lucan stood at the edge of the stage, watching the mummers celebrate with the crowd, feeling a warmth he hadn't experienced in a long time. He glanced down at Twitch, who was beaming from ear to ear, the oversized mummer's hat still perched crookedly on his head.
"You're a natural," Lucan said, ruffling the boy's hair as Twitch climbed down from the stage.
Twitch grinned up at him, his cheeks flushed with excitement. "That was the best night ever! Do you think I could be a mummer one day?"
Lucan laughed, glancing at Fumbles, who was busy entertaining the crowd with more exaggerated bows. "If you stick with them long enough, I'd say you've got a good chance."
As the evening wound down and the crowd began to disperse, Lucan felt a deep sense of contentment settle over him. He had fought for justice and found something more—laughter, camaraderie, and maybe even a bit of magic. For now, that was enough.
And as Twitch tugged at his sleeve, eager to talk about every moment of the performance, Lucan smiled, ready to enjoy the night's celebration and whatever adventures lay ahead.
Lannisport / The Lion's Den Inn / Night
The inn was a refuge from the lively chaos of the fairgrounds, its low ceilings and dim lighting creating an intimate space where the crackle of the hearth competed with the murmur of patrons. Lucan Farrow sat at a corner table, slumped against the back of his chair, his muscles aching from the day's exertions. The warm glow of the fire reflected off the polished wooden walls, casting long shadows over his weary frame. A mug of ale sat in front of him, half-drunk, while a plate of simple fare—bread, stew, and cheese—rested between him and Twitch.
The boy, still buzzing from the excitement of the evening's festivities, tore into the bread with eager hands, though his wide eyes never strayed far from Lucan. Twitch's admiration was obvious, and Lucan couldn't help but notice the boy's nervous glances, as though he were afraid Lucan might disappear at any moment.
"You were amazing out there," Twitch said between bites, his voice filled with awe. "I've never seen anything like it. You fought like a real hero."
Lucan chuckled, though the weariness in his voice was unmistakable. "I'm no hero, Twitch. Just a man doing what needed to be done."
Twitch's expression grew serious. He leaned in closer, his elbows resting on the table. "But you are a hero, at least to me. I've never had anyone stand up for me or help me like you did for Fumbles. You saved him… and you didn't even have to."
Lucan looked down at his plate, his thoughts drifting. He wasn't sure if he felt like a hero. His path had been filled with choices, some honorable, others not, and the weight of his past always seemed to follow him, no matter how far he traveled. But Twitch's words stirred something in him, a reminder of the boy he had once been—lost, alone, and searching for someone to guide him.
Twitch fidgeted in his seat, his face growing more serious. "I don't have anywhere to go, Lucan, you know. Nobody to look after me." His voice softened, almost a whisper now. "I was thinking… maybe I could come with you?"
Lucan's heart clenched. He looked up at the boy, seeing the pleading in his eyes. "Twitch… the road is no place for a boy. It's dangerous. There's no telling where it will lead, and you've seen firsthand that fights don't always end the way they did today."
Twitch's gaze dropped to the table, his shoulders slumping. "I know. But I've got nowhere else. There's no one waiting for me. I can't go back to being… nobody."
The words hung in the air, heavy with the kind of loneliness Lucan knew all too well. He studied the boy, seeing the determination in his small frame and the echoes of his own younger self—desperate for purpose, for a place to belong. Lucan sighed, running a hand through his hair as he leaned forward.
"Alright," Lucan said softly, his tone giving way to understanding. "You can come with me. But you'll have to listen, stay out of trouble, and learn the ways of the road. It's not an easy life."
Twitch's eyes lit up, hope returning to his face. "I'll do anything you say, Ser Lucan. I swear it."
Lucan smiled faintly, though the weight of the responsibility he had just accepted settled over him. "Then it's settled."
The two fell into a quiet rhythm, the soft clinking of mugs and low conversations from other patrons filling the silence between them. Lucan's mind wandered, still thinking about the fight, about the people who had watched, and the weight of the path he was now forging for both him and Twitch.
Just as Lucan took another sip of ale, the heavy door of the tavern creaked open. A familiar figure stepped inside, his presence commanding attention. Ser Maron Talbert, still bearing the marks of their earlier fight, approached Lucan's table with measured steps. His shoulder was tightly bandaged, but he moved with the dignity of a knight who had been bested in honorable combat.
Lucan looked up, meeting Maron's eyes. For a moment, neither of them spoke, but there was an unspoken respect between them. Maron's gruff voice broke the silence.
"You fought well today, Farrow," Maron said, nodding toward the empty chair beside him. "With honor. You've earned your victory."
Lucan inclined his head, gesturing for Maron to sit. "You were a worthy opponent, Ser Maron. There's no shame in yielding when the fight's done. Join us for a drink?"
Maron hesitated for only a moment before accepting the invitation, easing himself into the chair with a grunt. Lucan signaled the innkeeper, who quickly brought another mug of ale to the table. The firelight flickered across Maron's scarred face as he took a long drink, then set the mug down with a satisfied sigh.
As the tension between them eased, Maron leaned in, lowering his voice slightly. "I wanted to tell you about something… something you might be interested in. There's word of a grand melee, declared by King Edric Baratheon himself. It's to be held in King's Landing. Knights from all over are flocking there, noble and common alike. The winner will be showered in gold, or named to the King's court. But the finest knight of them all… he'll be offered a place in the Kingsguard."
Lucan's brow furrowed, his mind immediately jumping to the mention of King's Landing. A memory stirred—Alys Bywater, the king's betrothed, now his queen. The girl he had rescued in the Kingswood, the woman he had shared a stolen moment with beneath the stars. He could still feel the weight of her hand in his, her voice soft in his ear as they hid from the bandits that had sought to claim lips…
He hadn't thought of Alys in months, but hearing about King's Landing and the melee brought her back to him, as if no time had passed at all.
"The King's Melee," Lucan murmured, his thoughts drifting. "And the victor joins the Kingsguard."
Maron nodded. "It'll be fierce competition, but for a man like you, Lucan, it's a chance to make your mark. Plenty of glory to be won."
Twitch, wide-eyed, looked between the two knights. "Are you going to do it, Lucan? Compete in the melee?"
Lucan stared into his mug, his fingers tracing the rim as memories of Alys, the Kingswood, and the danger they had faced together flickered through his mind. Could he return to King's Landing? Could he face her, knowing the life she now lived as queen?
"I don't know, Twitch," Lucan said quietly, though his heart was already pulling him in that direction. "But I think it's time I find out."
Maron raised his mug, offering Lucan a nod of respect. "Whatever you decide, you've earned my respect, Ser Lucan Farrow. I'd fight alongside you any day."
Lucan clinked his mug against Maron's and took a deep drink. The road ahead was uncertain, but for the first time in a long while, Lucan felt a pull—toward King's Landing, toward his past, and maybe toward something greater.
For now, though, he was content to sit in the warmth of the tavern, surrounded by new friends, and savor the quiet moments of victory before the journey began once more.