The morning after the celebrations, Damon found me behind the inn splitting firewood.
Or rather, pretending to split firewood.
Eight years under Damon's instruction had taught me many things.
How to ride.
How to fight.
How to clean armor until I hated steel.
Unfortunately, it had also taught Damon exactly how to tell when my mind was somewhere else.
"You've missed that knot three times."
I looked down at the log.
"...Have I?"
"Yes."
"I was thinking."
"I noticed."
He walked over, took the axe from my hands, and with one clean swing split the stubborn log neatly in half.
Show-off.
"You wanted something," I said.
"I did."
He leaned the axe against the chopping block.
"I'm riding back to Fairmarket tomorrow."
"I assumed."
"You aren't."
I frowned.
"...I'm not?"
"No."
That was unexpected.
"I spoke with Lord Lucias."
"And?"
"You have 3 weeks."
I blinked.
"...3 weeks?"
"Leave."
I simply stared.
"You've served House Vypren for eight years."
Eight years.
Long enough that Fairmarket had become home.
Long enough that Damon had become something more than the knight I'd once followed around carrying oversized shields.
Long enough that I sometimes forgot there had ever been another life.
"You've earned time with your family."
I laughed once.
Mostly from surprise.
"You convinced Lord Lucias to let me disappear for 3 weeks?"
"Yes."
"You?"
"Yes."
"The same Damon who once woke me before sunrise because I'd overslept?"
"You were late."
"By six minutes."
"Eight."
"I was twelve."
"You were lazy."
"I was exhausted."
"You were both."
I folded my arms.
"I think someone's replaced you."
"I assure you they haven't."
"I should have you checked."
The corner of his mouth twitched.
"I'll return in a 3 weeks."
"You trust me not to run away?"
"If you intended to run," he said, "you'd have done it years ago."
That...
was probably true.
He looked toward the inn where my mother was hanging fresh linens on the line.
"They deserve some time with you."
I followed his gaze.
For all the years I'd spent serving House Vypren, my parents had never once complained.
They had simply accepted that their son had found another life.
Perhaps they deserved these 3 weeks more than I did.
"...Thank you."
He waved the gratitude away.
"I expect you back."
"I'll be here."
"You'd better."
He mounted his horse.
"Oh."
"What?"
"If your mother succeeds in feeding you twice your weight..."
"She will."
"...don't expect Ser Harlan to go easy on you."
"I'll simply move slower."
"You'll move wider."
"I'll move happier."
"You already complain enough."
"I've had an excellent teacher."
"I'll pretend that wasn't aimed at me."
"It absolutely was."
This time Damon actually smiled.
Not the faint twitch that usually passed for amusement.
A genuine smile.
Then he wheeled his horse around and rode back toward Fairmarket.
I watched until he disappeared over the rise.
Being home again was...
Different.
Not because the inn had changed.
It hadn't.
The same weathered sign creaked above the yard.
The same stable smelled of hay and horses.
The same common room filled each evening with merchants, drovers, hedge knights, and travelers carrying more stories than truth.
The difference was me.
Father still handed me buckets without ceremony.
"A knight can shovel manure."
Apparently.
Mother still insisted I needed another helping at every meal.
Apparently.
Neither title nor sword protected me from either of them.
Willem enjoyed that immensely.
"I remember when you couldn't even lift a practice sword."
"I was seven."
"You cried."
"I was hit in the face."
"You still cried."
"I'll hit you in the face now."
"You'd never strike your own brother."
"I've become much less sentimental."
He threw an apple at me.
I caught it.
He looked disappointed.
Word spread quickly.
Faster than I'd expected.
Travelers passing through recognized the name before they recognized the face.
"That's the young knight from House Vypren."
"The one who helped clear the kingsroad."
"They say Ser Damon knighted him himself."
"They say he slew half the bandits."
"It was one."
"Stories grow."
By the end of the week I'd apparently killed anywhere between one and fifteen outlaws depending on who happened to be drinking.
I stopped correcting people.
The days settled into an easy rhythm.
Repair fences.
Help Father in the stable.
Fish with Willem.
Drink ale with travelers after sunset.
Listen.
Always listen.
The inn stood where half the Riverlands met.
News arrived here before it reached many castles.
Merchants spoke freely.
Soldiers even more so.
Every night someone brought another rumor.
Most were wrong.
Some weren't.
Near the end of the first week an old hedge knight stopped for the evening.
His armor had once been good steel.
Now it was mostly careful repairs.
He watched me carry two barrels inside.
"Recently knighted?"
I looked up.
"That obvious?"
"You still stand like a squire."
"I do?"
"You keep checking whether anyone needs something."
I hadn't noticed.
"You wait for older knights to speak first."
"...Habit."
"It fades."
"When?"
"When you stop expecting someone wiser to tell you what comes next."
I smiled.
"I'm beginning to suspect no one actually knows."
The old knight laughed.
"Now you're thinking like the rest of us."
Rain settled over the Riverlands during the second week.
Soft.
Steady.
Enough to turn the Kingsroad into deep brown mud.
Business slowed.
Mother called it a blessing because she could finally catch up on baking.
Father called it a curse because wet merchants complained twice as loudly.
Both were correct.
On the twelfth day the first real news arrived.
"The King has left Winterfell."
A trader from White Harbor brought that.
"He'll be heading south."
Another traveler confirmed it.
"The royal procession's moving slowly."
"Too many wagons."
"Too many nobles."
"Too much wine."
That sounded believable.
Every evening more details appeared.
Lord Stark was traveling with the King.
The Queen was impatient.
Prince Joffrey had nearly ridden his horse lame trying to race ahead of the column.
No one knew what was true.
Everyone claimed certainty.
Mother simply kept cooking.
"Kings get hungry too."
Three days later...
The crossroads trembled.
At first I thought it was thunder.
Then I felt it beneath my boots.
A distant rhythm.
Hundreds of hooves.
Father looked up from repairing a wagon wheel.
"...That's no merchant train."
Willem stepped outside.
Dust rose above the southern road.
More dust than I'd ever seen.
The first outriders appeared moments later.
Crowned stags on yellow cloaks.
Royal guards.
Behind them came more riders.
Then wagons.
Then knights beneath fluttering banners.
The procession stretched farther than the eye could follow.
House Baratheon.
House Lannister.
House Stark.
The Kingsguard in white cloaks.
Servants.
Pack animals.
Smiths.
Cooks.
Pages.
Squires.
It looked less like a traveling court than an entire kingdom on the move.
The captain of the outriders reined in before the inn.
"The royal party requires lodging for the night."
Father bowed immediately.
"The inn is yours, ser."
The captain nodded.
"His Grace will arrive shortly."
Silence settled over the yard.
Mother looked toward the kitchens.
Then at Father.
Then at me.
"We're going to need every pot."
Father sighed.
"And every barrel."
I looked south again.
The royal banners drew steadily closer.
Eight years ago I had stood in this same yard wondering whether my life would ever become interesting.
Now I stood there as a knight, watching the King of the Seven Kingdoms ride toward my childhood home.
Something told me the quiet weeks Damon had intended for me...
Had just come to a very abrupt end.
By sunset, the inn had ceased to be an inn.
It had become a small town.
The royal progress poured into the crossroads in a tide of banners, wagons, horses, servants, knights, ladies, smiths, cooks, and guards. Every room was claimed before the last of the outriders had even arrived. Tents sprang up in the surrounding fields while the stables filled beyond capacity.
Father took one look at the endless line of wagons and muttered, "I should have built a second stable."
Mother was already shouting orders before the first cook reached the kitchen.
"No, not there! Those pies are for the high table! Willem, stop staring and start carrying sacks! Talion, if you're going to stand around looking knightly, make yourself useful!"
"Yes, Mother."
Some things never changed.
Three weeks.
That was what Damon had given me.
Three whole weeks away from Fairmarket.
He had intended them as a reward.
Time with my family.
Time away from drills, patrols, and responsibility.
The first two weeks had been peaceful.
The third...
The third had become the busiest the inn had been since Robert's Rebellion.
I wasn't about to complain.
Not when the King himself was stopping beneath our roof.
The first royal wagons rolled into the yard shortly before dusk.
Servants hurried everywhere.
Some wore the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
Others bore the crimson lion of House Lannister.
Still others the direwolf of House Stark.
The realm truly had gathered in one place.
The inn was overflowing.
Not everyone could fit inside.
Many of the guards and men-at-arms made camp in the surrounding fields while the higher nobility occupied every private room the inn possessed. More tents sprang up around the crossroads before darkness settled, turning the familiar fields into a sea of canvas and campfires.
For all the bustle, the royal household was surprisingly orderly.
Everyone seemed to know where they belonged.
Everyone...
Except one young lady.
The next morning I was carrying a pair of water buckets toward the stables when a blur of grey darted beneath a wagon.
A heartbeat later two royal guards appeared.
"Lady Arya!"
One threw his hands into the air.
"Where has she gone now?"
"I told you to watch the paddocks."
"I was watching the paddocks!"
"Well she's clearly not in them."
I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing.
The guards hurried off in different directions.
Barely five breaths passed before the missing girl appeared beside the horse trough no more than ten feet away.
She couldn't have been older than nine.
Dark hair escaped from beneath her hood, and there was enough mud on her boots to suggest she'd already ignored several orders that morning.
She caught me looking.
"What?"
"I was wondering how you managed that."
"They're slow."
"They're wearing armor."
She shrugged.
"They're still slow."
I smiled.
"I suppose they are."
She looked toward the inn.
"Your family owns this place?"
"They do."
"The bread yesterday was good."
"I'll tell my mother."
"You should."
One of the guards shouted her name again somewhere behind the kitchens.
Arya rolled her eyes.
"They'll keep looking for another hour."
"You could save them the trouble."
"Where's the fun in that?"
Before I could answer she grinned, spun on one heel, and disappeared between two wagons as though she'd melted into the camp.
I understood immediately why the guards looked exhausted.
The royal procession remained at the crossroads until midday.
The baggage train departed first, followed by supply wagons and much of the household. The King intended to make good progress before nightfall, but moving so many people took time.
Travelers and locals alike gathered to watch the great procession prepare to leave.
Among them was the village butcher and his son.
The boy was perhaps twelve or thirteen, carrying a bundle wrapped in cloth beneath one arm.
Father noticed me watching.
"Mycah."
"The butcher's son?"
He nodded.
"Good lad."
Mycah stared openly at the glittering knights as they passed, his eyes wide with admiration.
I smiled despite myself.
I'd once looked at knights the same way.
The camp had thinned considerably when I decided to stretch my legs along the river.
The Trident flowed peacefully beside the road, its waters catching the afternoon sunlight. Away from the noise of the camp it was almost quiet.
Almost.
The sound of wood striking wood drifted through the trees.
"...And now you're the dragon!" a girl's voice declared.
"No," another protested. "I wanted to be the knight."
"You were the knight yesterday."
Curiosity got the better of me.
Following the sound, I came upon a small clearing beside the riverbank.
Arya Stark stood barefoot in the grass with a rough stick clutched in both hands like a longsword.
Opposite her stood Mycah.
He held another stick, though his stance suggested he had no idea what to do with it.
"No," Arya said impatiently. "You're holding it wrong."
She marched over, adjusted his grip, then stepped back.
"Like that."
"I still think I should be the knight."
"You are."
"But you said you're the knight."
"I'm the better knight."
Mycah frowned.
"That's not fair."
"It doesn't have to be."
She raised her stick.
"Come on."
He swung awkwardly.
She batted the blow aside with surprising speed.
"No, like this!"
She demonstrated a clean downward cut.
"My father says you have to use your feet."
"My father says don't hit customers."
Arya laughed.
"Your father's boring."
"My father makes sausages."
"That's useful."
I leaned against a willow tree, content simply to watch.
It reminded me of training with Damon years ago.
Though Damon had never declared himself a dragon.
Nor had he laughed nearly this much.
The children never noticed me.
They were too busy arguing over whose imaginary kingdom they were defending.
Then another voice broke the peace.
"What have we here?"
The laughter stopped instantly.
I straightened.
A blond boy in fine clothes stepped into the clearing with a polished sword hanging at his hip.
Prince Joffrey Baratheon.
Joffrey looked from Arya to Mycah, then at the wooden swords in their hands.
A slow smile spread across his face.
"Playing at knights?"
Mycah lowered his stick immediately.
Arya did not.
I felt my stomach tighten.
Something in the prince's expression reminded me of men I'd seen provoke dogs simply to watch them bite.
Without thinking, my hand settled lightly on the pommel of my sword.
I didn't draw it.
I prayed I wouldn't have to.
But every lesson Damon had taught me whispered the same warning.
Watch.
Wait.
Be ready.