Donnel dressed slowly, mindful of pulling along his ribs where the physician had wrapped three times over. The cuts from the streets had begun to knit; the salves stung less now, and the bruising had faded from deep purple to sickly yellow. He could move without wincing, which was blessing enough.
The city's heat crept in through the shutters, thick and damp, nothing like the clean bite of White Harbor winds. King's Landing never truly cooled, even at dawn. The city already stirred, carts on cobbles, gulls crying over the river, and the faint stink of fish drifting up from the wharves.
When Donnel reached the lower hall the servants were already about their work, carrying bread, watered wine, and porridge for the household. A pair of Manderly guards nodded to him as he passed.
"Mornin' captain." One looked at the bandage beneath his tunic and smirked. "You still going strong?"
"For now," Donnel said, grinning. "Disappointing for you lot, I know."
The man laughed and returned to his post.
Arthur had told him the morning after the skirmish that he need not attend Marie anymore. The girl herself had insisted on it. She had stood straight despite the bruise along her brow and told him plainly he was no nursemaid and she no cripple. Donnel had found himself smiling at that.
Donnel had come to like the girl. Marie was brilliant and capable. She spoke plain, looked a man in the eye, and held herself straighter than half the highborn ladies he had seen at court. There was gentleness in her, too, though she hid it beneath her stubborn pride.
From Chataya, Donnel had learned that Marie was no whore, even if the brothel's roof had sheltered her from birth. The Summer Islander woman had come herself to the manse to thank him, tall and graceful in bright silks that caught the shape of her womanly curves in the light. She came with her other daughter, Alayaya, more beautiful and hungrier still.
Donnel still felt that heat crept up his neck during that visit.
"In my country," Chataya had told him in her soft, lilting tongue, "the sharing of flesh is a prayer. A gift freely given, freely taken."
"A prayer I've never been devout at, my lady," Donnel answered, shifting like a green squire at her gaze, his face reddened like an apple.
Chataya only laughed, low and warm. Alayaya stepped nearer, bold and sensual.
The girl brushed her fingers along his thigh. "You protected our sweet Marie, and for that we only wished to give thanks."
Donnel had refused them twice and more firmly the third time. Yet later, alone, he had cursed himself. Not for refusing, that was right, but because some foolish part of him had not wished to refuse at all. He was a knight grown, not a green boy any longer. Yet a man could be iron in duty and still made of blood.
Arthur, of course, had found great humor in it. "You slew five men alone in the street yet cowered before those two beauties," the boy had said, grinning over his cup. "Seven save us, Ser Donnel, shall I fetch the physician to examine you again?"
"I've no wish to wake with regrets, that's all," Donnel muttered.
"You've saved both Marie and Hugh, in my books, you won your battle," Arthur replied softly. "After such a battle, a man earns a cup of wine and a warm bed after such work."
Prince Oberyn, who had been staying at the manse then as Arthur's guest, had claimed both women for his company that night, in the end. Laughing as though the world existed only for his delight, it irked Donnel more than he wished to admit. Still he had been grateful for the escape.
Donnel's thoughts went back to that night outside the manse again, when the torches burned low, and the noise of the city seemed far away. Before he was about to escort the girl back to her home. Marie had looked at Arthur's windows as if he were there.
Donnel had seen that love before, young and hopeless, still true as the dawn. Not many find such love in their lifetime. Not many can embrace that warmth. Yet she had stepped back from it all the same.
A noble girl, Donnel thought sadly. Strong enough to know that such dreams must die before they can poison the waking.
Had she been born beneath a banner instead of a brothel's boards, things might have been different. The boy would have smiled easier, laughed more. They could have been happy. Yet that wasn't the world they lived in.
Alas, for their world was built on such divisions. Even Knights did not wed whores' daughters, and heirs least of all.
Donnel paused beside the courtyard arch, watching the morning light creep over the stones. For a heartbeat, he remembered the word that was spoken, Daughter, he had called her then. To fool the boy Hugh, to protect him. She played along for the mission.
His father had tried to betroth him once, a proper match, a nobleborn girl from the younger branches of the Flints of Widow's Watch. Donnel had refused and ridden south instead, chasing war, duty, and ghosts. He had never thought on it much afterwards. And his father had long since given up on trying to find a wife for him.
Yet sometimes Donnel wondered if he had married someone, mayhaps there might have been a girl like Marie, waiting in some hall in the North, dark-haired and sharp-tongued, calling him father and scolding him for his beards, scars, and rough hands. The thought came gentle and left the same way, like snow melting under the sun.
That was only a wishful dream in the end, for only the gods could say what paths a man lost when he chose another.
Arthur was already gone from the manse now, called to the Red Keep before dawn. The king had named him second in command for the coming holy war, a heavy burden for shoulders still young, though the lad bore it straighter each day.
Donnel remembered last night's events, they had supped with Lord Stark since dusk when word came that his younger daughter was missing. By Arthur's leave Donnel gathered twenty men and found Jory waiting in the yard, already belted for work. The servants also whispered of an urgent council meeting besides.
They searched the alleys first, then the markets, then the wine sinks and places where smallfolk children slept beneath carts. King's Landing did not yield its secrets kindly. Twice they chased false trails, once a fishmonger swore he'd seen a northern girl near the Mud Gate, another time a baker's boy claimed she'd gone to the river.
Near midnight they came at last toward the Red Keep's gate, where a pair of guards had gathered around some ragged boy. When Donnel went closer to enquire he spotted the grey eyes beneath the dirt.
Donnel stopped the guards and crouched before the child and lowered his voice. "My lady."
Arya Stark froze. Beneath the grime and tangled hair the likeness struck him hard, the same long face, the same stubborn jaw, the same defiant gaze he remembered from years long gone. He gave her his cloak and brought her back to the Tower of the Hand where Jory all but sagged with relief.
Later, as Donnel and Arthur rode back to the manse, the boy spoke in a low voice.
"A black brother came," Arthur said. "Lady Stark seized the Imp at the crossroads inn."
Donnel exhaled slowly. "Gods! On what charge?!"
"She claimed Tyrion ordered Bran's death," Arthur's mouth tightened. "When I asked Lord Stark why she would make such a claim, he gave no clear answer."
Donnel was surprised at that, "He did not know?!"
"Mayhaps, or mayhaps they are hiding things from me, I will find the truth soon enough," Arthur replied firmly.
Donnel frowned at that. It was clear that Arthur felt hurt by the mistrust Lord Stark had placed upon him.
Arthur declared angrily, "Gods! How could she take such a foolish decision! Tyrion is no bandit to be arrested in a tavern. The lions will not swallow that insult meekly."
The word would have spread through the city like wildfire by now. Donnel thought as he walked. King's Landing had never lacked a hunger for fire, and now it has new cinders.
When Donnel got outside, he found Sergeant Tristan leaning beside the gate, helm tucked beneath his arm while he watched the yard with patient boredom. The man turned at the sound of boots and broke into a grin.
"Captain, you're finally here," Tristan called, "I was near to sending a boy with a bucket. Thought we might wake you the old way."
Donnel snorted. "You tried that once. I recall breaking your nose for the trouble."
"Aye," Tristan said smiling. "And the master-at-arms clouted both our ears after." He looked lost in memory for a while and added, "Been some years since we were green enough to sleep through a horn."
"Years enough" Donnel returned the look with a faint smile. "And we've no need of such lessons anymore."
"No," Tristan laughed. "Thank the gods!"
"What orders do we have?" Donnel asked.
Tristan replied, "We're to see some nobles safe to the ships. Lord Arthur's already sent half the fleet ahead."
"So soon?" Donnel frowned.
"Our lord wastes no hours. All ships are bound for Tarth through Driftmark. The first ships mayhaps already reached the island. We'll travel with the rest." Tristan informed him.
War again, Donnel thought, thrice now in his lifetime. This war somehow felt heavier than the ones before, for reasons he did not know, and wished not to find out.
They rode down through the waking streets toward the harbor, hooves striking stone damp with morning mist. Salt hung thick in the air long before the sea came into view. Gulls wheeled overhead, crying for scraps as dockhands shouted and lines were hauled taut.
The fleet filled the water like a small forest of masts.
Carracks stood tallest among them, broad-bellied and high-castled, their banners snapping in the sea wind. Galleys lay lean and oared between them, ready for speed and ramming both, while the caravels sat low upon the water, narrow and quick, their lateen sails furled tight as sleeping wings. They were not proud ships to look upon, yet they moved like wind once loosed. White Harbor's coin had been built on such hulls.
The sight tightened something in his chest. He remembered the man who first spoke of them inside New Castle's hall, years ago beside a hearth bright with pinefire, a clever voice yet nervous, full of plans of tides and trade winds. The Manderly's had grown richer for it.
Barney had followed him everywhere after they rescued him from the butchered city. He was only a boy back then still he was clutching his younger sister close to him with one soot-blackened hand and a small dagger in another. The boy had seen his whole family die in front of him, slaughtered by Lanniser soldiers.
Ser William spoke gently to calm him and his sister. Donnel had carried them to the ships through streets that stank of smoke and corpses. The boy had found a new home in the north and he had found a little brother.
And now Barney lay in the ground in a foreign city, a man grown with two little boys of his own.
Donnel's jaw hardened. He had not been there when the blades found him. Had not stood between death and the lad he once hauled from ruin. The thought gnawed worse than any wound. Once he would have fought in this war only to keep Arthur alive. Duty had been reason enough. But now there was another.
His hand rested upon the flanged head of his morningstar where it hung at his saddle. Whoever had done it would answer in bone and blood, he would see to that and the gods could judge the rest.
Donnel turned to Tristan. "Who rides with Arthur?"
"Ten guards under Tom," the sergeant said. "And the Hound."
Donnel's brow creased. "I do not like that creature near him. Clegane knows nothing of honor."
"No, he does not," Tristan agreed easily, "But he is a killer worth having. When blades come out, men care less for honor than for which side still stands after."
"Arthur needs a protector, not a killer," he muttered, voice low enough for only Tristan to hear.
Tristan chuckled, the sound rough and easy. "Our young lord beat the Mountain, Captain. If anyone needs protecting, it's the fools who'd dare try to strike him."
Donnel's jaw tightened. He knew Tristan spoke the truth, yet it offered no comfort. "Arrows can fell the strongest fighter, Tristan. Steel, flesh, even the best training… it cannot grant the gods' favor."
"Aye," Tristan said with a shrug, eyes on the horizon where the sails caught the wind, "but Clegane's kept the crown prince safe for years. If anyone can stand between a threat and our young lord, it'll be him. That one knows what death looks like."
"Mayhaps," Donnel said, voice low. "Still… I would sooner trust a weaker man than a Lannister butcher."
Tristan gave a thin smile. "The dog serves the lions no longer."
"We shall see," Donnel said, "For the time being keep him under close watch."
"Aye, captain."
Donnel kept his gaze on the bustling deck, eyes tracing the lines of soldiers boarding the carracks and galleys. Arthur's southern admiral, Lord Velaryon, paced the wharf with his usual air of calm authority, ensuring that every rope, every plank, every man was in his proper place. Half of the fleet, under command of Velaryon's baseborn brother, had already departed. Their ships cut through the waters like blades, carrying men who had no knowledge of the north and even less loyalty to it.
The vanguard was a strange, motley thing. Six thousand Men in total. Soldiers from the Riverlands, Crownlands, and Stormlands; men from the Reach, Vale, and even Dorne. Sellswords in steel and leather, men whose swords had known more coin than honor. Only the Manderly men were truly northern, sworn to Arthur, and all of them loyal. Donnel's jaw tightened. Holy wars, he thought, were the southerners' game.
The north fought for its people, for honor, and for home. Yet here they were, and he would see it done.
Donnel stood a step behind Ser Wendel, close enough to hear yet far enough to remain as a guardian ought, present but unseen. The harbor wind tugged at cloaks and banners alike, carrying the smell of pitch and sea salt across the crowded quay.
Lord Monford Velaryon walked over, hands clasped behind his back and asked, "Who do we have left, ser?"
Ser Wendel did not need to consult the list. "Lord Dondarrion, Clifford Swann and the Redwyne twins, my lord. Their men are still coming down from the city. Not far now."
Velaryon gave a small nod. "Very well. Did Arthur say when the king and his men will join us?"
"He did," Wendel answered. "The king's men are still being gathered. They'll board soon enough, a day or two at most."
"And the king himself?" Velaryon's silver brows lifted slightly. "I suppose he will travel on Lord Arthur's ship."
"Aye," Ser Wendel said. "Unless he chooses to sail from Dragonstone with his brother's fleet."
Velaryon snorted softly. "Very unlikely, ser. Lord Stannis and King Robert can scarce share a table, let alone a voyage. I do not see His Grace going out of his way and seeking Stannis when he's in a merry war-making mood. Lord Stannis would pour cold water on it and call it duty."
Ser Wendel's mustache shifted with the hint of a smile. "Can't imagine that would go well."
The murmur along the quay shifted as a column came down the street from the city, banners snapping in the morning wind, the forked purple lightning stood proud upon black. The men marched in ordered ranks, boots striking stone together. Knights rode at the fore in polished mail, men-at-arms behind them, and further back a line of lean archers bearing tall yew bows from the Dornish Marches. Even the sellswords kept step, which told Donnel their paymaster kept a tight hand on purse and discipline alike.
Lord Beric rode ahead of them, the young red haired lighting lord, his starry cloak stirring behind his saddle. His voice carried genially. "A fine day, is it not, Ser Wendel? The winds would surely favor our sails."
Ser Wendel showed his broad teeth in answer. "Aye, my lord. And I see you've brought a proper company."
Beric inclined his head. "Why cross half the world with a handful? My cousin Manfred and I will command them ourselves. God's glory deserves more than token steel."
"Well said, my lord." The new voice came from the pier to their right. Ser Clifford Swann approached with his own retinue gathering behind him, his Swann banners black and white, seemed near lord Beric's men. Marchers most of them, with hard faces and harder bones.
Swann's mouth curved faintly. "Though numbers seldom matter if they tuck tail at the first sight of blood, won't you agree? Oh, brave, Lightning lord!"
Several of Swann's men laughed. Dondarrion's men bared their teeth in anger.
Lord Beric's smile held, though it tightened at the corners. "We shall see who runs when the hour comes, ser."
Clifford shrugged lightly. "Mayhaps the one whose house began with a runner."
The laughter grew louder now. Donnel saw Beric's shoulders stiffen in the saddle. His hand drifted near his sword hilt, not grasping, but close enough to threaten.
Men nearby turned their heads. Rivalries were common among marcher lords, yet steel drawn before embarkation would sour the whole venture. Donnel shifted his stance beside Ser Wendel, watching both retinues. One insult more and pride might outweigh sense.
Ser Wendel's voice cut across, "Enough, Ser Clifford. You are not here to fight amongst yourselves. Remember your duty. This is war, not a tourney."
Lord Beric's gaze lingered on Swann a heartbeat longer before he let out a slow breath. "A fair word, ser. I've no wish to spill stormlander no matter how foul it may be." Dondarrion's men laughed this time.
But Clifford only laughed, resting a hand upon his sword pommel as if it were some jest. "Aye, ser Wendel, you speak wisely. We'll keep it civil, won't we, Dondarrion?"
Beric regarded him steadily. "Mind yourself and we will have no cause for trouble."
Ser Wendel stepped between their gazes with the ease of a man long used to quarrelsome bannermen. "That will do. We've ships to fill and a tide to catch. Move along."
Swann dipped his head in something that might have been respect, though the smile never left his lips. He turned and strode back toward his men, laughter trailing after him as they followed. Beric watched them go a moment before exhaling through his nose.
Nearby, Lord Velaryon muttered something sour about marchers under his breath and stalked off toward the piers, already shouting for lines to be hauled and gangplanks set straight. Sailors sprang to motion at once.
Donnel shifted his weight, Pride, he thought, would be as dangerous as any blade once they crossed the water. Arthur would have a hard road ahead keeping so many highborn swords pointed the same way.
Ser Wendel turned toward him. "Ser Donnel, see Lord Beric and his company to their ships." Then, turning towards Beric, he added, "My apologies for the disturbance, my lord."
Beric waved it aside. "No need for that, Ser. Swanns are ever the same, too much fluttering of feathers." His knights laughed loudly behind him.
Donnel inclined his head. "This way, my lord."
Donnel walked at the head of the column with his own guards fanned about the marcher lord's company, keeping the flow of men from clogging the quay. Ropes creaked, gulls cried overhead, and the smell of pitch and salt hung thick upon the morning air.
Lord Beric slowed as they passed the outermost pier. His gaze fixed upon the great hull lying beyond the rest, white-painted timbers gleaming pale against the green water.
"By the gods," he said, stopping short. "Look at that one." He pointed toward the towering vessel whose carved prow rose above the lesser masts. "How many men would fit in that, you suppose?"
Donnel opened his mouth, but another voice answered first.
"A carrack commonly carries two hundred, my lord."
The speaker stood just behind them, a small boy, no more than ten or eleven, pale-haired with peculiar eyes that seemed purple beneath the sunlight. He watched the ships with earnest interest, hands clasped behind his back as though he belonged among the captains or admirals.
Beric laughed. "And how would you know that, Ned?"
Donnel's brow creased at the name. Ned, like lord Stark, who was this boy? he wondered.
"I heard it from Sarella," the boy replied, smiling faintly. "She said Lord Manderly's flagship is twice the size of a common carrack."
Beric followed his gaze again to the towering ship. The Mermaid's Tears rode high and proud, her triple masts webbed in rigging, her hull wide enough to swallow longboats whole.
"Twice the size?" the lord said. "Then that leviathan must hold five hundred."
"Near enough," Donnel said at last. "Four hundred fighting men besides crew, when provisioned proper. More if the sea is kind and the voyage short."
The boy studied him with open curiosity. "Have you sailed aboard her, ser?"
"Aye," Donnel answered, sighing. "More times than I ought to."
"I've never sailed before," a nearby knight muttered to his companion. "Don't think I'd like it."
"You'd like it less once the waves grow," Donnel said thinking back to his own learnings . "Keep your feet wide and your stomach empty before we leave harbor."
The knight and the child nodded solemnly, as though committing the counsel to memory. Donnel studied the child a moment longer before speaking.
"Forgive my ignorance, my lord," he asked carefully, "but who is this lady Sarella, that she should know so much of Lord Manderly's ships?"
The pale-haired boy brightened at once. "Oh, Sarella is Prince Oberyn's daughter. She told me she visited White Harbor once. She said the weather was dreadful but the ships were very fine."
The answer sat strangely with him, Prince Oberyn had not ever been through the city whilst he served there. Still, children only repeated what they were told, and the Dornishmen were fond of wandering.
Lord Beric chuckled beside them. "We ought to see it ourselves someday. What say you, Ned?"
The boy's eyes lit. "I would like that very much. I want to meet Ser Arthur too. May I, my lord?"
Beric laughed. "Why not? You may ask Ser Donnel here, he's Ser Arthur's sworn sword after all."
The boy turned to him at once, hopeful and earnest. "If it pleases you, ser… would you introduce me?"
Donnel gave him a small smile. "It would be my honour to present you to Ser Arthur, my lord. Though I must beg pardon, I do not know what name I am to give him."
Lord Beric gave a bark of laughter. "Gods, where are my manners? Ser Donnel, may I introduce you to my squire and nephew-by-law, Edric Dayne, Lord of Starfall."
Dayne, Ser Arthur Dayne's kin, The Sword of the Morning's blood. Donnel wondered what the meeting would bring. Old wounds did not always fade, however honourable the men who bore them. Yet the child seemed untroubled. Perhaps he lay no blame towards the Manderly's for the death of his uncle like Arthur didn't for his father's. It was an honorable duel which claimed their lives. And honor would keep the peace.
"I shall tell him," Donnel said at last, "that the lord of Starfall seeks his company. Ser Arthur values honor above all things. You will find him a gentle man, my lord."
Edric nodded gravely, as though he had been granted a boon.
Donnel guided them to the waiting boats, where oarsmen steadied the craft against the tide. Lord Beric clasped his forearm in farewell before stepping down, and the boy followed, careful in his footing. He remained upon the pier until the boat pushed off and joined the slow scatter of vessels upon the grey water.
Only then did he turn away. A flash of colour hurried through the press of sailors and porters, bright silks out of place among tar and wool. The dark-skinned woman moved quickly, skirts gathered, near stumbling as she forced a path toward him. Chataya of the Summer Isles.
By the time she reached him she was breathless, her composure broken for once. Donnel caught her lightly by the arms to steady her. "My lady, what brings you here?"
"Marie!" she managed between breaths. "She is in trouble."
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