They had been calling themselves sellswords for the last sixteen days, and Howland was beginning to understand why real sellswords drank so much. It wasn't a pleasant lifestyle.
The hardest part about playing smallfolk, he had decided, was not the accent or the dress but the little things. A nobleman rode differently than a hired blade, even when he tried not to. A man raised in a marsh did not stop watching the reeds just because the reeds had changed into scrub and thorn. Yet somehow they had passed through the Reach and into the Prince's Pass with little more trouble than suspicious stares and a few privacy bribes.
The land itself was the strangest part. The Neck was wet breath, green rot, hidden channels, and mud that pulled at the boots of strangers. The Prince's Pass was all hard edges. Red stone and pale dust. Dry wind that tugged the spit from your lips.
There were no reeds to hide behind, no pools black enough to swallow a man whole, and yet the land hid danger still. The pass wanted to kill carelessness as surely as the bogs did.
Shadowcats in the rocks. Vipers beneath warm stones. Bandits prowling the passes for an easy mark.
Howland rode his marsh pony up a stony rise and paused there, letting the little mare catch her breath. Ned came beside him on his gelding, regal in the saddle even in rough wool and dirt-browned leather. They had left their better cloaks behind. Dawn still rode wrapped in plain oilcloth at Howland's side, looking like kindling if one did not know how many lives had bled from its edge.
Below them, the land opened at last.
The Torrentine ran bright and fast through the south like a cut in the earth. Sunlight struck the water and made it flash silver-white. Beyond it, Howland could see groves of green clinging stubbornly to the banks and, farther off, a pale tower rising where stone met river and sky.
Starfall.
Stark saw it in the same breath.
"Ashara," Ned whispered.
Longing filled his face so plainly that Howland almost looked away. Then Ned touched his heels to his horse. The gelding sprang forward, stones skittering under its hooves.
"Careful," Howland called. "We're not there yet."
Ned did not slow. "We're already in Dayne lands. The danger is behind us now."
That was true enough, but Howland disliked truth when it was used as an excuse to be foolish. He clicked to his pony and followed, the mare choosing her footing with the good sense gods had denied many men.
They had gone no more than a quarter mile down the slope when movement broke from a fold in the red stone ahead.
Riders.
Not many. Only five, coming hard from the shade of a low ridge with the sun at their backs. Their banner snapped once in the dry wind: a black sword beneath a falling star on purple.
"Halt, rebels!" one of them shouted, voice still high enough to crack. "Our edge is the peak!"
"Our edge is the peak!" the others echoed, and drew steel for the charge.
Ned checked his horse at last, but only enough to turn into them rather than be taken broadside. His hand went to Ice. Howland's own fingers found the coiled net tied behind his saddle.
There was no time for speeches. Howland untied the bindings, and threw.
The net opened clean in the hot air and dropped over the two riders on the left just as their horses came into range. One mount screamed and reared; the other crashed shoulder-first into it. Both men went down in a tangle of curses, rope, and flailing legs.
Ned met the center rider with less finesse and more certainty. He swung Ice not with the edge but with the flat, and the greatsword struck the man square in the chest with a clang that would have rattled teeth from here to Dorne's coast. The rider flew from the saddle and landed in a burst of dust.
The remaining pair hauled hard on their reins, caught between courage and the sudden discovery that their enemy might be made of sterner stuff than expected.
Howland did not give them time to choose.
He drove his pony forward, frog spear leveled, then twisted in the saddle and dropped clean to the ground beside the horse of the loudest rider. The spearhead kissed mail at the throat before the boy could lift his blade properly.
An open-faced helm revealed the leader was a boy indeed. The cheeks were too smooth. The eyes too naive.
"Move and I'll make your voice lower forever," Howland said.
The other Dayne men reined up at once.
"My lord!" one shouted. "Yield! We yield!"
Ned had turned his horse by then, breathing hard but grinning despite himself, a grin gone quickly when he saw how young the captive truly was.
"Howland," Ned asked, "who have we caught."
The boy raised his hands from his sword belt and removed his half-helm. "I am the Darkstar," he said, with all the dignity he could muster. "And I am of the night!"
For a heartbeat Howland simply stared.
Then, despite everything, his mouth twitched.
The child could not have seen more than ten namedays. He was an extremely handsome youth with Valyrian cheekbones and silver hair, split at the middle with a black streak.
Howland felt a sudden, sad fondness for him. Children from great houses were always doing their best to grow into legends as their bodies struggled to keep up.
He lowered the spear a finger's breadth. "That's quite the title young man. Do you have any other names I might know?"
The boy's chin came up another inch. "I am Gerold Dayne of High Hermitage. My cousin is the Sword of the Morning and one day I will wield Dawn just like him."
Ned dismounted, sheathing Ice behind his back.
"We're not your enemies," Ned said, voice gentler now. "The war is done. We're bound for Starfall."
The boy's eyes narrowed. "To sack it."
"No," Howland said. He reached back and tapped the oilcloth bundle at his saddle. "To return something that belongs there."
The younger Dayne's eyes flicked to the wrapped sword and widened despite himself.
"Arthur fell at the Trident," Ned said. The words came slower now, heavier. "We bring Dawn home."
The boy's face changed at that. The practiced arrogance slipped. Grief looked out, naked and young.
"He promised to teach me the blade." he muttered sadly. "I wanted to squire for him one day."
One of the older riders bowed his head.
The little lord swallowed once, hard, and then seemed to remember he had an audience. "He was the finest knight in the world," he said, anger and pride warring in his voice. "One day I'll be just as great."
Howland stepped back and lowered the spear entirely. "Then start by staying alive long enough to finish growing."
The boy glared at him, but without much force this time.
Ned bent to offer him a hand up from the saddle. The boy hesitated, then took it. His fingers were small inside Ned's calloused grip.
Ned nodded. "Well then, Gerold Dayne of the night. If you mean to protect your liege, you may do it usefully and escort us to Starfall."
That landed better than Howland expected. The boy's shoulders squared again, but now with purpose instead of theater.
"I can do that," Gerold said quickly. Then, catching himself: "If I choose."
Ned's mouth twitched. "Of course."
Howland went to cut the net free from the fallen riders. One of them had rope burns up both cheeks and looked offended by the existence of bog tactics. Howland did not apologize. The crannogs had survived too long to be ashamed of what worked.
Within a short while they were mounted again and moving together into the Torrentine river valley, the black sword and star lifting in the hot wind.
Leading the group was young Gerold, with his eyes on the distant sky. Every so often he glanced back at the wrapped sword on Howland's pony as if he could feel its pull through cloth and leather.
Ned rode behind him while staring longingly at the southern horizon, dreaming of love.
"Watch for snakes on the path," Lord Reed reminded the daydreamers. "It is said the bite of a mountain viper can bring down an elephant."
"I was weaned on venom, crannogman. Any viper that takes a bite of me will rue it." Darkstar boasted.
Howland sighed with exasperation and rode on.