The Boneway
Clang. Clang.
The sound rang inside Criston's helmet.
He raised his shield again.
The blow struck hard enough to jar his shoulder.
Clang.
Criston stumbled back half a step, boots scraping over loose stone. Dust kicked up around his ankles. He tightened his grip on the sword and tried to breathe.
He had trained for this.
For days, he had swung a sword until his arms burned. Raised a shield until his shoulder ached. Learned where to place his feet. Learned how not to flinch when steel came at his face.
But training had never smelled like this.
Sweat. Dust. Blood. Shit. Hot metal.
His helmet made the world narrow. He could see only what stood in front of him. A slash of yellow cloth. A flash of teeth. A curved blade coming too close.
Criston jerked his shield up.
Clang.
The strike glanced away.
He swung back.
Too wide.
The Dornishman slipped aside, but his foot caught on a stone. Criston saw the stumble before he understood it. He thrust forward with both hands.
The blade went in.
Not deep. Not clean.
The man gasped and grabbed at the sword. Criston panicked and shoved harder. The Dornishman fell backward, dragging the blade with him until Criston ripped it free with a wet pull.
Schlk.
The man hit the ground and did not rise.
Criston stared at him. For a heartbeat.
Then someone screamed nearby, and the battle rushed back in.
Men roared on every side. Shields slammed. Horses shrieked. Steel scraped against steel. Purple-black surcoats pushed against yellow Dornish cloth in the narrow stony pass.
Criston sucked air into his lungs.
Too much.
Too fast.
Inside the helmet, all he could smell was his own breath. Hot and sour. Trapped against his face.
He looked for Ser Arlan.
Ahead? Behind?
Gone.
The knight had ridden forward on his horse. Or fallen back. Criston could not tell. There were bodies and men and dust between them. There was no time to care.
His heart hammered against his chest.
Boom.
Boom.
A shout came from his left.
Criston turned on instinct.
A spear thrust toward him.
He threw up his shield.
Thud.
The spearhead slammed into the wood and stuck for half a breath before pulling free.
Criston staggered.
The Dornishman came at him again.
"Die, storm boy!"
The spear flashed.
Criston blocked.
Thud.
Again.
Thud.
Again.
Thud.
The force ran up his arm each time. His shield felt too heavy. And his hand was slick with sweat. It almost slipped loose after the fourth strike.
Criston clenched harder.
He tried to swing around the shield.
His sword cut empty air.
The Dornishman stepped back and jabbed again.
Criston barely caught it.
Clang.
The spearhead scraped across the rim of the shield and glanced off his helmet with a ringing sound that made white sparks burst behind his eyes.
He gasped.
The man shouted again and drove forward.
Criston gave ground.
One step.
Another.
His heel slipped on loose scree.
He caught himself just in time.
The Dornishman was older than him. Broad-faced. Bearded. One ear was missing. His teeth were bared as he breathed. His eyes were wide and furious.
He looked like he hated Criston.
Not House Dondarrion. Not Stormlanders.
Him.
Criston's own breath rasped inside the helmet.
The Dornishman's chest rose and fell just as hard.
For a moment, both of them only stared.
Then the man screamed and thrust again.
Criston screamed too.
He shoved the spear aside with his shield and struck back with everything he had.
Hours Later.
Criston sat on a lichen-crusted boulder at the edge of the encampment, his back pressed against the raw stone of the pass.
Steep walls of red and grey rock rose around them. Heat clung to the stones. Dust moved in thin sheets whenever the wind slipped through the pass.
All around him, the men of House Dondarrion lay scattered across the narrow, uneven ground.
Knights in dented mail sat with their helmets beside them, mud caked up to their elbows. Archers leaned against their packs with broken nails and bloody knuckles. Foot soldiers sprawled wherever there was room, some asleep, some staring blankly at nothing. A few still had blood drying on their faces.
Dornish blood, maybe. Their own, maybe.
It was hard to tell anymore.
The air smelled of sweat, horse, dust, and blood.
Criston looked down at himself.
His surcoat had been black and purple that morning. The colors of House Dondarrion. Now it was stiff with dirt and brown stains. His hands rested on his knees.
They were trembling.
Not from cold. The Boneway was warm enough to make his skin itch beneath the grime.
But his mind kept slipping back.
The roar in his ears. The press of bodies. The shield on his arm, too heavy and too slick with sweat. The face of a Dornish spearman with one ear missing. The man had kept coming even after Criston had struck him.
Even after the blade had gone in.
Criston shut his eyes.
It did not help.
A crunch of boots on scree made him open them again.
Ser Arlan came toward him, chewing slowly, a small leather pouch of dried nuts in one hand. He looked tired. Dirt marked his boots. Dried blood darkened one sleeve.
He bent, picked up the pitcher near Criston's feet, and shook it.
Empty.
"Nothing," Ser Arlan said around a mouthful.
Criston looked up.
Ser Arlan held the pitcher out to him. "Go fill it. Water cart's at the rear, by the supply waggons."
Criston took it.
"Yes, ser."
Ser Arlan cracked another nut between his teeth. He did not ask if Criston was hurt. He did not ask why his hands were shaking.
Criston pushed himself upright.
His legs felt strange.
Too light at first. Then too heavy.
He swayed once and caught himself with one hand against the boulder.
Ser Arlan had already turned away.
Criston started walking.
The pitcher swung from his hand, knocking lightly against his thigh. He kept his eyes forward as he moved through the camp.
Men lay everywhere.
One groaned as a man tied a strip of cloth around his arm. Another sat with his head bowed, both hands pressed over his face. A knight cursed softly while someone worked at a dent in his breastplate with a hammer. Somewhere nearby, a man was praying under his breath.
Criston walked past them.
The encampment thinned toward the rear, where the wounded had been laid out near the supply waggons.
He meant to keep walking.
Then a stretcher passed in front of him.
Two men in blood-spattered aprons carried it between them. Their faces were dull with exhaustion.
On the stretcher lay a boy.
Criston stopped.
The boy's face was grey. His eyes were half-closed. His mouth hung open as if every breath had to be dragged out of him. A soaked bandage covered his middle, but blood still worked through it in a slow, dark pulse.
The men lowered the stretcher to the ground near the others. One of them glanced at the wound, then looked away.
"Leave him there," he muttered.
"Next one," said the other.
They turned and hurried back the way they had come.
Criston stared.
He knew that face.
"Alek?"
The boy's eyelids fluttered.
Criston nearly dropped the pitcher. He caught it at the last moment, set it down hard beside him, and dropped to his knees near the stretcher.
"Alek."
The boy's lips moved.
Criston leaned closer and took his hand.
It was cold. Too cold.
Alek's eyes shifted toward him. For a moment, recognition passed through them.
"Can't…" Alek breathed.
Criston tightened his grip. "Don't talk."
Alek swallowed, and his face twisted with pain.
"Can't be a knight now."
Criston's throat closed.
Alek's gaze drifted down toward his stomach, then back to him.
"He made me…" His voice broke into a wet cough. Blood threaded at the corner of his mouth. "Made me go first."
Criston went still.
Alek's fingers twitched weakly inside his hand.
"He stayed back." His breath hitched. "Said it was… my chance."
Criston could not speak.
He only held his hand tighter.
Alek stared past him then, not at Criston anymore. His lips moved once, but no sound came.
His chest rose.
Fell.
Then did not rise again.
Criston stayed there.
The camp moved around him. Men shouted somewhere. A horse stamped and blew hard through its nose. Armor clinked. Someone groaned.
Criston heard all of it from far away.
He did not weep.
His jaw locked.
His green eyes burned.
Rage twisted inside him, tangled with grief until he could not tell one from the other.
Then a voice carried across the camp.
Loud.
Mocking.
"Another one. That's the third squire I've lost in this fucking skirmish."
Criston looked up.
A knight stood a short distance away, speaking to another man. Broad shoulders. Forked beard. Long nose. His sword belt hung loose at his hip, and blood speckled the edge of his mail.
He gestured toward Alek's body with irritation.
"Useless," the knight said. "Couldn't even last proper long."
The other knight gave a rough laugh.
Criston's hands curled into fists.
For one moment, he only stared.
The knight's head turned.
His eyes landed on Criston.
Criston dropped his gaze, avoiding the knight's eyes. His heart hammered hard against his ribs.
He felt the knight's look pass over him.
Then the man turned away, still chuckling.
Criston remained kneeling for another breath.
Then he looked down at Alek one last time.
The slack mouth.
The still chest.
The hand he had been holding.
Criston slowly pulled his own hand back.
It was not shaking anymore.
He picked up the pitcher and stood.
The walk to the water cart felt longer than it should have.
A pock-faced quartermaster stood beside the heavy cask on wooden wheels. He took the pitcher from Criston, filled it without a word, and shoved it back into his hands.
Criston carried it back through the camp.
Ser Arlan sat where Criston had left him, chewing from the pouch.
He looked up as Criston approached.
"Took you long enough."
Criston held out the pitcher.
Ser Arlan took it, drank deeply, then lowered it.
The smack came without warning.
His hand struck the back of Criston's head hard. Enough to make his teeth click.
"A cripple could crawl faster."
Criston's head dipped from the blow.
He did not answer.
Ser Arlan thrust the pitcher back into his hands, then jerked his chin toward a battered longsword propped against a rock. The blade was dull with dried filth.
"Now go clean my sword," he said. "Properly. No streaks."
Criston looked at the sword.
Then at the ground.
"Yes, ser."
He took the blade carefully and walked toward the washing barrel near the waggons.
Kingswood
Sunlight broke through the branches in shifting patches, falling across horsehide, polished buckles, and the spearheads carried by the guards behind them. The air smelled of damp earth, crushed grass, and old bark. Somewhere deeper in the trees, a bird called once, then went silent.
Viserys rode near the front, laughing at something Lord Taron Arryn had said.
Lord Taron rode beside him, relaxed in the saddle, his cloak stirring lightly with the movement of his horse. The two men spoke easily, as though the day had been arranged for their pleasure alone.
Lady Rhea rode near them.
She wore her hunting leathers, her hair bound back, her posture straight and controlled. She was the lone lady among a party of men, guards, and lordlings.
And she looked as if she would rather have ridden into the forest alone.
Her face had remained stiff since they left the road.
Lord Taron glanced her way and smiled.
"I hope Lady Rhea does not mind that we joined her hunt," he said. "Seeing you ride toward the Kingswood stirred my own desire for a hunt."
Viserys smiled as well. "Yes. I hope you do not mind our joining you."
Rhea turned her head slightly.
Her smile appeared. Polite. Thin. False.
"No, of course not," she said. "Perhaps all you men can learn a thing or two from me."
Viserys laughed.
Taron chuckled with him. "A fair warning, then."
Rhea's smile faded as she faced forward again.
Viserys adjusted his reins. "Coming to King's Landing and not hunting in the Kingswood at least once would be a great shame."
Taron dipped his head. "Agreed."
A little behind them, Aegon and Daemon rode side by side.
Aegon held his reins loosely, watching the exchange with mild amusement. Daemon did not share it.
His mouth was set in a hard line. Every now and then, his gaze shifted toward Rhea. Sharp. Hostile. The kind of look meant to cut from a distance.
Rhea did not give him the courtesy of noticing.
That seemed to sour him further.
Aegon saw it and smiled wryly to himself.
The party moved deeper into the trees. The road narrowed into a hunting path, and the guards behind them spread out as best they could. Branches brushed against shoulders. Hooves pressed soft marks into the earth.
After some distance, Rhea slowed her horse.
She turned in the saddle.
"Well," she said, her voice carrying clearly, "this lady enjoys a hunt on her own."
Viserys blinked.
Taron's brows rose faintly.
Rhea continued before either of them could answer.
"Let us meet at dusk and compare our game."
She did not wait for permission.
With a firm kick, she guided her horse off the path and rode into the trees, choosing a narrower trail that vanished between oak trunks and heavy brush.
For a moment, the men watched her go.
Viserys glanced at Taron.
Taron returned the look.
The Arryn lord shrugged, smiling.
"Well," he said, glancing once toward Aegon and Daemon, "let us begin our own hunt, now that the lady has abandoned us."
A few of the men snickered.
Daemon did not.
He watched the direction Rhea had taken, his eyes narrowed.
After a moment, he pulled lightly on his reins.
"I think I shall see after my wife," he said.
His voice carried a lazy humor that did not quite reach his face.
"Make sure she is the one hunting, and not the one being hunted."
He chuckled at his own words.
Before anyone could answer, Daemon kicked his horse forward and rode after Rhea.
Viserys gave a small shrug, as if husbands chasing wives through forests were no concern of his, then faced Taron again.
"Shall we?"
Taron smiled. "Lead on."
The party began to move again.
Aegon remained in place for a moment.
He looked down the path ahead.
Then toward the narrow trail where Rhea and Daemon had disappeared.
He sighed quietly.
Would it be wise to leave Daemon alone with Rhea in the forest?
***
📜 Milestones:
150 Power Stones → +1 Chapter
***
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