The morning had broken warm and bright over King's Landing, but within the perfumed halls of Chataya's brothel the air felt close, thick with rose-oil and rising tempers. Outside, the city was already stirring for the tourney, the distant rumble of smallfolk streaming toward the lists, the clamor of sellswords wagering on half-heard rumors. Archery first, then the great melee. The day promised blood, spectacle, and noise.
Her task weighed colder than steel in her mind, Hugh must not ride today. One way or another, he had to be taken to Arthur's manse. If he entered the lists, he would die, killed conveniently, publicly, his silence purchased in blood. Without him, Baelish's tale would tighten around Arthur's neck like a noose.
And besides Hugh, there was still the quiet rot in the crown's ledgers they needed proof of. Baelish's mischief hid behind ink and numbers, but the truth was there somewhere, buried.
Yet at that moment, none of it mattered, for Marie stood facing Chataya, with her hands on her hips like a chastened apprentice, and the madame's smile was the thin, patient sort that promised no victories for Marie.
"I do not require any men-at-arms, mother," Marie said, keeping her voice low, even as frustration tightened her throat. "The mission calls for subtlety, not brute force."
Her gaze flicked to the man beside Chataya. Ser Donnel Locke.
He had to duck slightly just to stand beneath the carved lintel. A grizzled bear of a knight, broad-shouldered, thick-armed, with a bramble of brown beard streaked with old snow and eyes like winter steel. His cloak was plain, patched, road-worn, yet he carried himself with the quiet dignity of a man used to command.
Marie's stomach tightened. Gods, why him of all people?
Chataya lifted her chin. "You are being stubborn, daughter. The task requires a knight, and I have brought one. You have no choice but to accept."
"But—" Marie began.
"No buts," Chataya said sharply, clicking her tongue. "If you do not agree, I shall send someone else. Someone far less capable. And then you may explain to lord Arthur why the mission failed."
Marie opened her mouth, closed it again, fuming.
Donnel cleared his throat. "Fear not, child," he rumbled, voice deep as gravel. "I shall be silent as a shadow."
His attempt at reassurance might have worked… had it not come from a man built like a timbered hall. Marie almost laughed at the absurdity, but bit it back. Shadows did not cast so large.
Chataya laughed richly, clapping her hands. "See? He's already learning." She gave Donnel an approving look. "Ser Donnel is loyal, discreet, and knows how to follow orders."
Marie clenched her jaw. "A knight at my back draws attention."
"A dead girl draws more," Chataya replied. "Do not test me in this."
Donnel bowed his head. "I am not here to hinder you, my lady. Only to keep your skin whole."
Marie wondered if he knew of her and Arthur… whether he meant to warn her off him, not that it would be necessary. But his weathered face betrayed nothing. He knows. Gods, he must know. Or I'm a fool.
Marie looked between them, the implacable mother and the immovable knight, and knew she was beaten.
She exhaled slowly. "Very well," she said. "But he follows my lead."
Donnel bowed stiffly. "As you will, my lady."
Marie pinched the bridge of her nose. "Fine. Let us go, then, we're losing daylight."
Chataya stepped forward, smoothing down the sleeve of Marie's cloak, though her eyes lingered on Donnel instead. "Pray keep my daughter from harm, ser, and I shall personally reward you for it."
A flush of red climbed Donnel's cheeks. "It… it will not be necessary, my lady. It is my duty."
Alayaya's voice purred from the corner, "I can be part of the reward too, ser. Should you desire."
If Donnel had gone red before, he went near scarlet now. The poor man nearly choked on his own breath.
Marie groaned. "Come, ser," she said sharply. "Before they decide to flay you out of your garbs."
Donnel stumbled after her like a man fleeing a battlefield.
Outside, the morning sun had grown stronger, turning the cobblestones of the Street of Silk to gleaming gold. Smallfolk and lordlings alike streamed toward the tourney grounds, banners snapping overhead in bright colors. Marie mounted her mare in one smooth motion. Donnel, still flustered, climbed onto his destrier.
"We'll find Ser Hugh near the tourney grounds," Marie said as she drew up her hood. "Let me do the talking."
Donnel adjusted his saddle strap, still pink around the ears. "As you say, my lady."
She shot him a quick look. "And stop calling me 'my lady.' I am no such thing."
"You act the part well enough," Donnel said before he could stop himself. Then froze, as though afraid she was gravely offended.
"You have your sword, ser, and I have mine," Marie snorted as she nudged her mare forward.
He hesitated to speak as if wishing to apologize, then fell in beside her. Marie kept her hood low as they rode, her mare weaving deftly between fishmongers, sellswords, and drunken smallfolk making for the tourney grounds.
"Did Baelish truly kill Lord Arryn?" Donnel asked at last, his voice low.
Marie did not turn. "We suspect as much. But suspicion alone is not enough. That is why we need Ser Hugh. If he knows something, he may speak it, if we can keep him alive."
Donnel grunted. "I met the lad once. Back when he was still squiring for Lord Arryn." A faint snort escaped him. "Bold and brash."
"That describes most knights, ser," Marie replied, guiding her horse around a wagon laden with ale barrels.
Donnel huffed. "Aye, you're not wrong, gods save us from green boys playing at war." He caught up to her side. "So what do we know for certain?"
Marie eased her mare into a slower pace as the road narrowed. "Two things. One is that Baelish is trying to lay Lord Arryn's death at the feet of several parties. House Lannister and…" She let her gaze flicker his way. "…and Ser Arthur."
Donnel's jaw tightened. "That rat bastard." He spat into the dirt. "Lord Stark would never believe Arthur had aught to do with this."
"He might not," Marie said quietly. "But are you willing to take that chance?"
Silence stretched between them as they passed through the Lion Gate, the stench of the city and the cries of smallfolk sweeping over them. At last Donnel answered, voice rough, "No…. and what's the other thing?"
Marie leaned forward, lowering her voice as a pair of gold cloaks passed them. "We are certain Lord Baelish has been stealing from the crown. And we have an informant within his circle, someone ready to give us proof."
Donnel turned his head slightly, brow furrowing. "And who's that?"
"I cannot tell you, ser," she replied, firm but not unkind. "Not yet. But you will know soon enough. After we deal with Ser Hugh, we'll seek them out."
Donnel accepted this with a grunt, though she could feel the weight of questions pressing behind his silence.
The tourney field sprawled before them in a riot of color and clamor, trumpets blaring, silk banners snapping in the wind, the scents of horse, trampled grass, and roasted almonds coiling together beneath a bright spring sun. Donnel guided her with sure strides, the crowds parting around his broad frame like river water about a stone.
"Hugh will be near the Vale tents," he murmured.
Marie inclined her head, letting the hood of her cloak shadow her face as they wound past the great houses' pavilions, Arryn sky-blue, Royce bronze and black, Redforts, and many others. Mens' eyes followed her, curious or covetous or merely watchful, but they slid off Donnel's armored bulk soon enough.
Beyond the proud silk of noble banners lay the leaner sprawl of hedge knight camps: patched canvas, dented helms, the smell of boiled leather and cheap ale. Donnel slowed near an unmarked tent where a young man knelt, checking the straps on a plain breastplate.
Donnel stepped forward. "Ser Hugh? Lord Jon Arryn's squire?"
The boy did not turn. His voice was brisk and proud. "Aye, that's me. Who seeks me?"
"I am Ser Donnel Locke, sworn shield to Ser Arthur Manderly."
That earned a reaction. Hugh straightened and pivoted quickly, respect flickering across his face. "Ser Donnel… I remember you. We met a few years back."
Sandy-blonde hair, square jaw, and hard edges, Hugh of the Vale. Not a handsome boy, but one with earnestness etched too plainly into his features, like a squire still wearing the shape of a man he hoped to become.
"Aye, lad." Donnel clapped his shoulder, gentle despite the man's size. "Glad you still recall. How fares your mother?"
Hugh managed a small, honest smile. "I'd never forget, ser. You taught me to spar for three days straight, damn near broke my arms." A faint laugh. "My mother is well. And Ser Arthur, how does he fare? Will he compete for honors again?"
"Aye, he will," Donnel replied, pride warming his tone. "Seems you've the same notion."
Hugh colored, glancing at his dented shield propped against a post. "Aye, ser. I… I mean to win." His hand tightened on the straps of his armor. "For Lord Arryn. For my mother. I would show the realm my worth."
His voice wavered between boyhood and ambition, hope stretched thin over something harder. Marie watched him quietly, marking the way he held himself, the earnest gleam in his eyes, too open, too trusting for King's Landing. Too easy to kill. The kind of boy ambitious men would use as a stepping stone.
Donnel scratched his beard. "Pray tell me this, why didn't you leave with the rest of Lord Arryn's household? Return to the Vale?"
Hugh stiffened. "I told you. I wish to win glory in the tourney." His tone was firm, but there was a hollow edge beneath it, pride stretched thin over fear.
Marie stepped in softly, "Forgive me, ser… but I believe what Ser Donnel meant was if you sought a place of true honor, why not stay at young Lord Robert Arryn's side? You might have risen high in time, perhaps even become his sworn sword."
Hugh blinked, startled by her voice, his gaze swinging toward her, "Pray tell… who might you be, my lady?"
Marie parted her lips to answer, "I am—"
Donnel cut clean across her. "She's my daughter."
Marie's surprise flared hot beneath her skin, but she kept her face smooth.
Hugh brightened, his expression softening into something polite and boyish.
"Ah! Forgive me, ser, truly, I did not know you had a daughter. And such a beautiful young lady besides." He bowed to her, all gallantry and unearned confidence. "It is an honor to meet you, my lady."
Marie dipped her head with grace, as any knight's daughter might. "Thank you, ser. I am pleased to see the tales of Vale courtesy were not lies after all."
Hugh flushed again, deeper this time, and smiled as though she had given him her hand already.
Let him be charmed. It'll be easier, she thought.
"Ser," Hugh began, earnest as a septon at prayer, "I did not join Lady Lysa's household because… well, I was no longer welcome there. After Lord Jon's death, she dismissed me. Sent me away with little more than my clothes and a cot for the night."
Marie saw Donnel's jaw tighten.
Hugh went on, voice dipping, "I had nowhere to go, no names, no coin, and no station. Then, one day, His Grace sent for me and knighted me. It was the happiest day of my life. He also gave me a purse that Lord Arryn had left behind for my keeping." He swallowed hard. "I meant to ride to the Vale. To see my mother. Give her some of it, at least."
His hands curled at his sides, not in anger but frustration. "But Lord Baelish forbade it, said Lady Lysa had ordered me to stay out of the Vale entirely." His brows drew together, confused even now. "I… never understood it. Lady Lysa was never warm to me, true, but—"
"But to exile a boy her husband raised?" Donnel muttered. "I am sorry to hear that, lad."
Hugh shrugged, trying for nonchalance and failing. "I am sorry too, ser, but it is done."
Marie let silence sit for a heartbeat before she asked again, "If it pleases you, ser… pray tell, how came you to be Lord Arryn's squire in the first place?"
Hugh blinked, then smiled, softly, the memory clearly dear to him. "Lord Arryn himself called for me," he said. "After the Greyjoy Rebellion. Said he knew my father, though I never knew the man myself."
Marie felt it then, a familiar ache between her ribs. She masked it quickly, letting only the gentlest sympathy touch her voice. "So he was more a father to you than your own, then."
"Aye," Hugh whispered. "He was. Lord Arryn gave me everything I have," His jaw clenched. "And for that, I shall honor him all my life. I swear it."
Donnel's voice softened, gentled by something like pity. "That is a noble way to live, lad. Tell me, have you ever competed in a tourney before?"
Hugh straightened, "No, ser. I have not. But I know how to ride. And hold a lance."
Donnel let out a sigh so heavy it might've been torn from him. "It's not the same thing. Out there, men will come at you full tilt, and some of them mean to break more than splinters." His gaze grew grim. "And in battle, those men are the ones who'll kill you."
It landed as poorly as expected.
Hugh's cheeks flushed a stormy pink. "Are you saying I'm incapable, ser?" His voice tightened. "I shall show you my skill if you doubt it."
"I'm saying you're still only a boy," Donnel replied, patience thinning. "And this field is too hard for you."
Wrong words. All wrong. She thought.
Hugh's jaw set like stone. "Ser Donnel, I respect you, but do not insult me so. The knight you serve is younger than I, and he won the last tourney. If he can win, so can I."
Marie closed her eyes briefly. Seven help me. This is exactly why I wished to come alone.
She stepped forward smoothly before Donnel could make matters worse. "My father meant no slight, ser Hugh," she said, voice soft as velvet. "He only worries too much. As fathers often do."
It was a strange thing, calling ser Donnel that, strange, and unexpected.
Hugh's shoulders eased. "Aye," he murmured, drawing a breath. "I thank you, my lady." His gaze flicked to Donnel. "And you, ser. Yet there's nothing to fear. I shall do my best. Lord Arryn would expect no less."
Donnel let out a long breath through his nose, half weariness, half relief. Marie caught his eye briefly, then spoke again, "Ser Hugh," she began, "you may be wondering why we sought you out so suddenly. To answer plain, it concerns Lord Arryn's last wish."
Both men stiffened. Donnel blinked in surprise, and Hugh's brows knit together, unsure, wary, hopeful.
"What wish?" he asked. "I know of no such thing."
Marie smiled gently. Lie softandsmooth, as though the whispers themselves becomes the truth.
"It was written in his will," she said, "the one known only to King Robert."
Donnel, to his credit, followed her lead without missing a beat. "Aye."
"Ser Arthur sent us to bring you its contents," Marie added as she reached into her cloak and produced the letter. Arthur's seal catching the sunlight like a shard of ruby glass. She held it out with both hands, as though bearing some holy relic.
"Per Lord Arryn's wishes," she said, "Lord Arthur grants you a holdfast in his lands. You shall serve him there as his sworn knight. Two hundred and forty gold dragons a year in income."
Hugh's mouth fell open. He took the letter, eyes racing across the lines.
Marie could almost feel the shock radiating off him. Most landed knights in Westeros prayed for half such a boon. Many lived on cracked walls, muddy fields, and danced between the thin lines of past glory and the upcoming ruin. But this was enough to build a life, to marry, to hold men in one's service. More than enough for a mother in the Vale to live without fear of hunger.
"Do my eyes deceive me," Hugh whispered, voice trembling, "or is this true?"
"All true, ser," Marie said warmly, "but this gift shall be granted upon fulfilling a condition."
Hugh's fingers tightened around the parchment. "What condition?"
Marie drew a steadying breath. Arthur had believed coin and land would be enough. Perhaps for most men, they would be. But not for this one. Hugh's pride was too sharp, his longing to prove himself too raw. Gold could lure him, but honor could command him.
"Lord Arryn," she began, "had one final wish before death claimed him. He meant to make a pilgrimage to the hills of Andalos, to honor the Seven who guided his long and faithful life. But his illness struck too swiftly. So in his will, he named seven knights to make that journey in his stead. Seven knights for the Seven."
She paused, watching him. Hugh's breath had gone still.
"You," she said, "were chosen as the seventh."
The young knight stared at her, as though the ground itself had shifted beneath his feet. A pilgrim's quest, sacred and solemn, tied to the man who had been father, liege, and salvation all at once.
"Lord Arthur had decreed if you fulfill this charge," Marie finished, "the holdfast shall be yours in perpetuity."
For a long moment, Hugh said nothing. When at last he spoke, his voice was low and earnest. "I would be honored to fulfill this quest," he said. "Reward or none."
Donnel's stern face cracked into a rare smile. "Good lad. Then come. We've no time to waste."
"Now?!" Hugh blinked, startled.
"Aye, lad," Donnel said, his voice gruff with the weight of command. "You must leave now and make ready. You'll ride as part of Lord Arthur's guard."
Hugh shifted uncertainly. "But… what of the tourney?"
Marie answered before Donnel's patience frayed further. "A small sacrifice, ser, and there shall be greater ones in the years ahead."
Donnel snorted. "There'll be time enough for pageantry. This is duty calling, boy. Will you answer?"
Hugh straightened, jaw set with youthful resolve. "Aye, ser. I will."
They watched as he gathered his few belongings, a modest chest, a set of armor, newly forged, still smelling of Tobho Mott's forge. When Hugh mentioned his unfinished payment, and wished to talk to the blacksmith before he left. To gain an extension. Donnel opened his mouth to oppose, but Marie stepped in smoothly.
"Lord Arthur will see it paid," she said.
Hugh blinked, stunned, then bowed his head in gratitude. They went to the street of silk and concluded the payment. Night deepened as they made their way toward Arthur's manse. The city torches glowed red along the streets, casting long shadows that clung to the walls like lurking hands. Marie felt a prickle in her spine.
Hugh rode to her right, stealing glances he thought subtle, quick flicks of the eyes that darted away whenever Donnel looked his way. Marie pretended not to notice. Men often looked so when caught between admiration and fear of another's authority. But there was earnestness in Hugh's gaze, too, unpolished and honest. She almost pitied him for it.
Marie allowed herself a brief satisfaction; the young knight would live, and their mission would continue. Baelish's schemes, as venomous as they were, would be denied this time. But the prickling feeling grew sharper. Donnel stiffened, sensing it before she did, shadows moving with purpose behind them.
They turned onto a narrow lane where the lamps burned low. Then, without warning, shapes surged from the darkness. Five men, cloaked and armed, stepping from the alleys like shadows made flesh. One tossed a torch before their mounts. Flames roared up in a sudden hungry gasp.
The horses shied, hooves striking stone, snorting steam into the cold air. Marie's own mount reared in terror. She felt herself yanked from the saddle, hitting the ground with a thud that sent the wind rushing from her lungs. Pain spread in her shoulder, sharp and immediate.
Donnel's boots hit the cobbles with the sound of a hammer, and the glint of steel met the torchlight. "Stay behind me, girl!" he barked, voice calm but hard, measured with the precision of one who had faced death often.
Marie rolled to her side, hands finding stones and grit, ready to scramble to her feet. One of the brigands, taller than the rest, trained a crossbow on their flank. Its dark wood gleamed wickedly.
Donnel was already in motion. A dagger left his fingers, and she saw the man crumple, a wet gasp escaping his throat. Hugh scrambled to his feet, fumbling for the hilt of his sword, hands trembling.
One of the brigands lunged at her, another to Donnel's side. She rolled instinctively, clutching the rough stones of the street, her skirts brushing the cobbles. Donnel's mace arced through the torchlight, crushing a man's skull instantly. The sound of his bones crushing echoed in the alley.
Two more surged at Donnel, forcing him back, the makeshift shield of splintered wood he had picked up, kept taking blows that would have shattered lesser men. Sparks flew where the metal struck, and he grunted with effort, bashing one across the legs, then over the head. The other, a brute with anger in his eyes, writhed as Donnel's mace found him in a way that left him keeling, gasping.
Marie's pulse was a drumbeat in her ears. As more assailants emerged from the dark, silent and intent. She watched Hugh strike down one with desperate force, his youth clashing with fear.
"Boy, stay close!" Donnel barked, his voice rough with exertion.
The clash became a violent rhythm. Donnel's shield and mace, blocking and striking, parrying and bashing. Hugh fought alongside him, the boy's blade flashing in torchlight, striking true more by luck than skill. Marie moved behind them, her hands clenched, ready to fight if needed.
Then she saw it, Donnel faltering, a red stain spreading across his surcoat. One of the brigands had found an opening, slashing at his side. He reeled, his knees buckling. The man advancing on him raised a sword high, and instinct overtook thought.
"Father!" Marie's voice rang out. She seized a heavy cobblestone, hurling it with every ounce of strength. It struck the man in the side of the head, staggering him, buying Donnel the fraction of a heartbeat he needed.
Hugh, breath ragged, took a step forward. "Stand, ser!" he shouted, pressing his advantage. He swung with precision, fueled by anger and fear. One brigand attacked him from behind, wounding the young knight.
Donnel caught his breath, sweat and blood mingling on his brow. He glared at the remaining attackers, fury burning behind the pain.
"I have had enough of you pests!" he growled.
With a mighty heave of his mace, he struck the nearest man across the shoulders, sending him stumbling into the wall. The last of them froze, glancing at the fallen bolted into the darkness, leaving the alley silent but for the ragged breathing of the survivors.
Marie slid to the ground beside Donnel, her skirts dusted with grit. "Are you… Are you hurt badly?" she asked quietly, keeping her voice even.
Donnel grunted, testing his side. He muttered, "Nothing I cannot bear."
Marie nodded, her sharp green eyes sweeping the shadows. "We are not safe yet."
"Aye," Donnel grunted, voice rough with pain. "Let's move!"
Marie mounted her horse with ease, graceful despite the pain. Donnel rose behind her, leaning slightly on his mace for support, and the wounded Hugh got on his mount as best as he could. She kept her gaze sharp, scanning the dark for movement, listening for the scrape of boots or the whisper of cloaks.
As they entered the manse, the guards moved swiftly, taking Hugh inside. Marie watched the gates clanging closed behind them. Hugh limped, pale, clutching his side, but his eyes had the fire of determination. She knew he would recover. He must. Hugh had a role to play yet, and she would see that he did.
Donnel stood tall, though the stiff curve of his back and the blood on his tunic betrayed his strength. His dark eyes met hers, unwavering, and he said in a low, warm voice, "Let's go, little lady. I must keep my vow."
Marie hesitated, a flicker of worry brushing across her mind. "You need to rest, ser. I can go on my own."
He laughed, a rough, hoarse sound, yet it held warmth. "I once fought two days with an arrow through my testicle. I can deal with this pain."
Marie arched an eyebrow, though a smile threatened her lips. "That's a lie, right?"
Donnel feigned horror, placing a hand upon his chest. "How dare you, my lady? A knight never tells lies."
Marie allowed herself a laugh, light and fleeting. "Sure, and a whore never counts her coins."
The old bear of a man laughed louder, the sound echoing through the courtyard, and Marie found herself caught in the echo, a strange warmth threading through her chest despite the chill of the night.
"Fuck, that hurts," Donnel muttered, wincing. "Come, child, let's get you home."
"The team melee must be over by now, I wonder who won." He said as they walked their mounts slowly, side by side. Donnel paused for a moment, gaze falling to the manse where Arthur's absence left a quiet emptiness.
"Would you like to see him?" he asked, and the question hovered like a torch flame in the dark, tender but dangerous.
Marie's heart stilled for a fraction of a heartbeat. The thought had flickered before, unbidden, to see him, to speak with him, to hold him a while. But she pushed it back as deep as she could.
She had wished to kiss him again, kissing him felt like kneeling at the altar of the gods, a place she could not enter for she was a wretch. Yet for one blissful brief moment, their kiss, his lips, tasted more like salvation to her than a thousand winters at the altar of the gods.
But, no, Marie had no place by his side anymore. She never did. She would no longer be his friend, not in the way that had mattered, and he could never be her lover. Her pride, her shame, her love, all demanded that she remain distant. That she remains hidden from him.
"I'll always see him, ser, but he doesn't need to see me." she replied, softly and deliberately.
Donnel's broad shoulders sagged just a fraction, and his eyes, shaded with sorrow and understanding, met hers. "Aye," he said quietly, "that'll be for the best."
Marie offered the faintest of smiles, brief and bright. "Come, oh, brave father! Escort me to my home."
He returned her smile, low and genuine, and dipped into a bow. "As you command, lovely daughter."