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Tom was a peasant.
Just like many others scattered across the land, villages, and muddy roads of Westeros, he was the sort of man no lord would ever notice unless he failed to pay his taxes or got in the way of a charging horse.
He lived in a small thatched hut on the outskirts of a modest village near the kingsroad, and many distances away from King's Landing.
Every morning before the sun fully rose, Tom was already in the fields, back bent under the weight of a wooden plow or a heavy sack of seed, his callused hands gripping tools worn smooth by generations before him.
The soil was stubborn, the weather fickle, and the taxes never seemed to grow lighter, but he worked without complaint, for it was the only life he had ever known.
When the day's labor ended and his muscles burned with exhaustion, Tom would wash the dirt from his face in a bucket of cold water, kneel beside the simple seven-pointed star carved into the wall of his hut, and pray.
He prayed to the Father for justice, to the Mother for mercy on his aging parents, to the Warrior for strength to endure another season, and so on and so forth. And just like every other smallfolk, he hoped the gods were listening to their prayers.
In the evenings, when the fire crackled low and the stars wheeled overhead, Tom allowed himself to dream.
He imagined finding a good, sturdy wife, perhaps the miller's daughter with the kind eyes and strong hands, or the weaver's girl who always smiled at him when he brought grain to the village.
He pictured a modest wedding under the heart tree or in the local sept, then a small home filled with the sound of children laughing.
He dreamed of having a son to help him in the fields one day, a daughter to brighten the long winters, a family of his own to protect and provide for.
That was all he truly wanted in life, nothing grand. Nothing that would ever shake the thrones of the highborn or draw the eyes of kings and queens. Just a simple life, earned through honest sweat, blessed by the Seven, and shared with someone who would grow old beside him.
Tom was ordinary in every way that mattered, and he was perfectly happy to be. He knew his place in the world, accepted it without bitterness.
Of course, even Tom had heard the tale of the Blessed Prince.
It was one of the most popular stories the bards liked to tell and sing about as they passed through villages, their lutes and voices carrying the miracle from the Riverlands to the Reach and beyond.
Tom had first heard it from a traveling singer who had stopped at the village inn for a night of ale and coin.
The bard had stood on a table, eyes bright with dramatic flair, and told how the queen's firstborn son had died in her arms, stone cold, no breath left in his tiny chest.
Like moths drawn helplessly to a flame, the tale never failed to gather a crowd of listeners who leaned in close, hanging on every word, drinking it in with a faith so complete it left no room for doubt.
How the Queen had prayed with a broken heart to the gods for her son. And how the Seven themselves had appeared in the birthing chamber as seven figures of pure, faceless light.
They had touched the dead babe, and the child had drawn breath once again.
But the gods had not stopped there. They had marked the boy with divine eyes, impossibly blue, shimmering with constellations, eyes that could make grown men tremble and women weep with awe.
The bard had sung of it with such passion that even the hardest farmers in the village had fallen silent, tankards forgotten in their hands.
Some had crossed themselves with the seven-pointed star. Others had converted and sent prayers of thanks to the gods who still cared enough to intervene in the world of men, and for the Blessed Prince who would one day bring an era of prosperity.
For how could a prince, touched by the gods themselves, do anything less than reshape the very world in his wake?
Tom himself believed every word.
How could anyone not? The tale had spread too far, too consistently, carried by too many different mouths for it to be mere fancy. Even the king himself had supposedly sworn it was true, and what peasants could tell the king he was wrong?
Whenever a new bard or traveler passed through, Tom made sure to buy them a drink in exchange for the latest verses.
He especially liked the parts where the prince, still only a child of seven namedays, performed miracles, crafting powerful swords that no ordinary blacksmith could ever hope to make, and standing in the Great Sept bathed in holy light while the gods themselves spoke to him.
It gave Tom hope.
If the Seven could reach down and save a dead babe, perhaps they were watching the smallfolk, too. Perhaps one day they might ease the burden of life, send rain at the right time, or keep sickness from his door.
So every night, after his simple prayers, Tom added one more quiet request to the gods.
"Watch over the Blessed Prince," he would whisper into the darkness. "Keep him safe. Let him grow into a great and just king."
But of course, Tom had also heard about the war looming on the horizon.
The Ironborn had rebelled, crowning Balon Greyjoy king of the Iron Islands and raiding the western coasts. Worse still, the bards now sang of a terrible kraken summoned by the Drowned God, a sea monster that had torn Lord Tywin Lannister's fleet apart at Lannisport as if the ships were children's toys.
Then came the most stirring part of the tale: during the prince's audience with the Seven in the Great Sept of Baelor, the gods had spoken clearly.
They would bestow their divine favor upon the realm, but only if the Blessed Prince himself marched to war… and the Prince, without hesitation, accepted their decree.
The news had moved Tom and many of his fellow villagers deeply.
A boy of only seven namedays, willing to ride to war against reavers and a monstrous kraken for the sake of the realm? It was almost too much to comprehend.
Many in the village had wept openly when the traveling singers told it. Some had fallen to their knees right there in the muddy square and prayed for the prince's safety and his swift victory.
That was why, when their lord's call to arms finally came, Tom and every other able-bodied man in the village answered without hesitation.
They gathered in the lord's courtyard, awkward in the basic leather armor and simple spears or axes handed out by the castle steward. No one complained. They were smallfolk, after all; this was their part to play.
As they stood waiting for orders, the sound of horns echoed across the fields, clear, bright, and commanding. Guards on the wall began shouting excitedly.
"Royal banners! The King and Prince approaches!"
The entire yard erupted with excitement. Knights straightened, servants paused in their tasks, and peasants like Tom felt their hearts leap into their throats.
He was especially excited at the announcement. This meant he would finally see the Blessed Prince in person!
The great gates creaked open after some time and preparation.
Everyone quickly fell into position, bowing low as the royal party rode in with all their glory. King Robert led the column on his massive warhorse, but it was not the king who captured every eye.
It was the figure riding beside him who was taller than any boy of seven namedays.
Despite being clad head to toe in imposing armor and a flowing crimson cape trimmed with golden fur, there was no doubt in anyone's mind who he was.
The beautiful red cape billowed like a banner of war, and the armor itself seemed to radiate quiet power, intimidating yet mysteriously beautiful, etched with faint glowing lines that hinted at holy favor.
The Blessed Prince.
Even without seeing his face or those divine eyes, the smallfolk knew. Whispers rippled through the ranks like wind through wheat as they stared at the prince blessed by the gods in wonder.
"It's him!"
"The Blessed Prince who came back from death…"
"Look at that armor, by the gods! The Seven walk with him!"
Tom stared, transfixed, his simple spear forgotten in his grip. His chest swelled with a strange mixture of awe, reverence, and admiration.
Here was the boy whom the gods had personally saved, now riding to war for them.
The prince sat straight and regal in the saddle, the crimson cape fluttering behind him as though the very wind itself paid homage.
Tom felt hot tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he looked upon the prince in all his beautiful glory, and he knew he was not the only one.
If a boy blessed by the Seven was willing to fight for the realm, then the least a simple peasant like him could do was stand ready to follow.
And for the first time in his otherwise unremarkable life, Tom felt it, felt himself standing at the edge of something vast and undeniable.
As if, at long last, his existence held weight… as if his life, in that moment, was worth all the hardship and suffering.
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He had long since lost track of how many days or weeks they had been riding as the sun simply rose and fell without mercy, but one truth stood above all others…
His everything, especially his ass, hurt.
Not a dull ache, not some minor discomfort, no, this was a deep, soul-crushing agony that made every step of the horse feel like a stab with a bloody knife!
By the time this was all over, he swore on everything he held dear that he was going to learn how to fly because fuck this shit!
He could only pity what the people who didn't have a horse were currently going through because, damn, this march to war sucked!
He relaxed against a comfy chair offered to him by the lord of the castle, having already given and gotten his due respects. He then left the rest of it to his father, and his father left it to his Hand.
Truly, like father, like son.
He watched the preceding silently while the men talked business among themselves. Discussing tactics and any news they may have gotten.
Uncle Jaime stood by his side, ever the silent shadow in white armor, though today the Kingslayer looked far too relaxed and smug for someone who had just endured the same endless ride.
He had spent a lot more time with his uncle throughout the journey, and he found the man to be actually really fun to talk to. A lot better than the groveling maesters and radical septons.
The prince shifted in his seat, wincing as fresh pain shot up his spine, and turned to his uncle with a pained sigh.
"Uncle, traveling on horseback is absolute torture," he complained, voice low enough that only Jaime could hear. "My body feels like it's been tenderized by a dozen angry blacksmiths. How are you sitting there looking as though you just woke up from the best nap of your life?"
Jaime glanced down at him, one golden brow arched in that signature Lannister smirk.
"Careful, my prince~" Jaime teased, voice smooth and laced with amusement. "Keep whining like that and people might think the Blessed Prince of the Seven Kingdoms is softer than a pillow. I've seen you take hits without shedding a single tear, yet on a march in the saddle have you ready to cry mercy?"
The prince shot him a flat look from beneath the crimson blindfold, though the corner of his mouth twitched in reluctant amusement.
"I see someone wants to eat only salted jerky for the rest of the war. Say goodbye to my delicious meals from now on, uncle."
Jaime let out a short, genuine laugh, the sound warm. He leaned slightly closer, voice dropping to an amused murmur.
"Perhaps I simply have better padding in certain areas, nephew. Or perhaps some of us are built for long rides." His green eyes glinted with mischief. "Unlike certain divine princes who complain about their royal backside."
The prince groaned theatrically and shifted again, trying, and failing, to find a comfortable position.
"Traitor. Here I thought family was supposed to show sympathy. Instead, you're mocking my suffering. Mark my words, when I finally make a better way to travel, I'll be sure your horse carries the roughest, most miserable saddle in all the Seven Kingdoms while everyone else enjoys the fruits of my brilliance."
Jaime's smirk widened at his grumbling, clearly enjoying himself far too much.
"I look forward to it, my prince. Until then, try not to fall off tomorrow. It would be terribly embarrassing if the gods-blessed boy who returned from death was undone by a saddle sore."
The prince huffed, but there was no real heat in it. The familiar banter with his uncle was one of the few things making this miserable march bearable.
Still, as the ache in his backside throbbed in protest, he silently renewed his vow.
As soon as he had the chance, he was inventing better ways to travel. Anything to never have to endure this torture ever again.
The meeting continued in the lord's solar, with Robert and his commanders discussing supply lines, possible landing points near Pyke, and how best to coordinate with the Lannister and Stark forces.
The prince sat quietly listening while occasionally speaking to Jaime.
Then the doors burst open with a loud slam, interrupting the discussions and getting everyone's attention.
A messenger, breathing hard, rushed into the room, his face pale with urgency. He dropped to one knee, chest heaving.
"Your Grace!" he gasped out with as much respect as he could. "Urgent news from the Riverlands!"
Robert's head snapped up as he slammed his cup down, the easy camaraderie of moments ago vanishing.
"Spit it out, man!" The king ordered with fury.
The messenger swallowed hard, voice stuttering under the weight of every eye in the room.
"S-Seagard has fallen, Your Grace! The Greyjoys took it by surprise, using their monster. Lord Jason Mallister captured. And… and L-Lord Stannis Baratheon… he was taken hostage during the assault, trying to defend Seagard."
Silence crashed over the solar like a physical blow.
The prince felt the air leave the room as he frowned at the sudden wave of dark aura that now covered the room.
Stannis, his uncle, the grim, iron-willed man who had captured and held Dragonstone, was now a prisoner of the Ironborn?
Robert's face went from flushed to thunderous in a heartbeat. His massive fist slammed onto the table, making maps and goblets jump.
While he may not care a lot for his brothers, the mention of Stannis as a prisoner still struck deeper than any flesh wound.
"Stannis?!" he roared, voice shaking with fury. "Those squid bastards have my brother?!"
The messenger could only nod miserably, eyes fixed on the floor.
The prince sat very still, mind racing behind the crimson blindfold as he clicked his tongue at the terrible news.
They had taken Seagard, and Stannis was now their hostage; if the Ironborn had taken him alive, they clearly intended to use him as leverage… or worse.
Robert was already on his feet, bellowing orders that shook the rafters.
"Send ravens to every loyal house to get their asses here now! If those iron cunts think they can hold my brother with that oversized squid, they're going to learn what it means to piss off the Baratheons!"
The prince watched the chaos unfold around him, one hand resting calmly on the arm of his chair.
The war had just become far more personal. While he was not as close to his other uncle as he was with Jaime, Stannis was still family.
And he fucking loves his family, whether it was this life or the last one, it doesn't matter.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, the quest window pulsed with cold, mocking clarity.
He still had a kraken to kill.
And now, it seemed, he had even more reason to see this war through to the end.