"A room without books is like a body without a soul."
― Marcus Tullius Cicero
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Sunlight spilled across my face, warm and insistent. I turned away from it, clinging stubbornly to my dream, one in which I stood victorious after a tourney, a garland of flowers heavy around my neck and a bountiful number of beautiful women vying for my attention. I had taken ten lances with Lord Baelor and broken every one of them.
It had been a very good dream.
I kept my eyes shut, smiling faintly, until a shadow fell over me, blotting out the warmth. The air seemed to cool all at once.
I cracked one eye open.
Ser Alekyne stood over me in full armour, his silhouette framed by the morning light. His helm was off, yet the stern set of his face alone was enough to scatter the last remnants of my fantasy.
I shot upright at once. "I'm up, I'm up," I said quickly, scrambling to my feet and nearly tangling myself in my blanket. I straightened and threw my arms out to either side. "See. Standing."
He gave a short nod and was already turning away, as though my awakening had never been in doubt.
"So," I said, rubbing sleep from my eyes, "where are we headed now? Another town, or maybe even a tourney?"
He produced a folded map from somewhere near his waist. I suspected his arse. The thought made me snort before I could stop myself.
Ser Alekyne's eyes lifted at once, sharp and knowing. The scowl that followed told me he had guessed exactly where my thoughts had gone.
"Bitterbridge," he said, studying the map. "A decent town." He traced a line with his finger, then folded the parchment and stowed it in the pouch at his horse's saddle. "We will get what we need there and move on."
"And if there happens to be a tourney?" I asked, unable to keep the eagerness from my voice.
He grunted. "Then we will attend it."
I pumped my fist in the air and grinned as I buckled my dagger at my belt. Energy surged through me as I set about breaking camp. I rolled my bedroll tight, pressing my knee into the fabric to force the air out before tying it with a cord. The blanket followed, folded neatly and bound with knots I had practised until my fingers knew them better than my own name.
I gathered the cooking pot, wiped soot from its rim with a scrap of cloth, and secured it to the pack frame. The fire pit was nothing but ash and cold stones now. I scattered the embers with my boot and kicked dirt over them until nothing glimmered. The smell of damp earth rose as I worked. No trace left behind. Ser Alekyne had drilled that lesson into me early.
I hoisted the packs onto the pack horse's back, tightening the straps until the load sat firm and balanced. The horse flicked an ear but did not protest. Once all was secured, I swung myself onto my own mount with Ser Alekyne's steadying hand at my arm.
I heard him sigh as I settled into the saddle, likely already tired of my morning energy. I was far too lively for someone who had been dragged from a pleasant dream.
As he mounted his horse, he glanced toward me before setting off. I nudged my own horse into motion, one hand on the reins and the other guiding the pack horse along beside us.
We set off at a steady pace. The sun sat higher in the sky now, though it had not yet reached midday. That was good. It meant I still had plenty of time to enjoy its warmth before the cold nights returned.
I never understood how the northerners endured such bitter weather.
I looked ahead at Ser Alekyne, his cloak flowing behind him in the calm wind, and wondered what he thought of the cold. He likely saw it as nothing more than a mild annoyance. Perhaps he even welcomed it. No, that seemed impossible. Who could enjoy the cold?
Certainly not me.
I'll be a good knight, I thought, nodding to myself. Good enough to be taken in by some southern house. That way, I would never have to worry about freezing my balls off in miserable temperatures. If I were lucky, perhaps even the Lannisters would notice me.
I scoffed softly. Who am I kidding? I doubted I would ever be skilled enough to wear their colours.
At best, I might serve House Rowan, if fortune smiled on me. And I was lucky, I reminded myself. Otherwise, I would never have been squired under Ser Alekyne, who was without question one of the finest knights I had ever seen, yet strangely unaligned with any house.
That thought lingered uncomfortably. If a man like him had never been claimed by a lord, what chance did I have? Likely none at all. I doubted I would ever reach even half his skill.
He rode tall and unshakable, as though nothing could ever unhorse him. Yet I had heard the stories whispered in inns we passed through. Tales of a knight bearing an eagle upon his shoulders, black and white feathers streaming above his helm, unhorsed only after taking seven lances from Prince Baelor himself.
It seemed impossible.
Whenever I asked him about it, he only grunted and said he had been inexperienced, that it had been his first joust. The thought left my eyes wide with wonder. His first joust, and he had already achieved that. What would the next bring? Would he unhorse Prince Baelor himself?
I was so lost in my thoughts that I nearly missed his voice.
"What has you so entranced?" Ser Alekyne asked, glancing back at me as his horse rose and fell with its trot. "If it is about that tourney, I will speak to you about it tonight, before you sleep."
My grin spread wide. "You would really?"
I leaned forward over my horse's neck in excitement, nearly losing my balance. I could feel the animal's irritated awareness beneath me, but I paid it no mind.
Yet my question went unanswered, cut short by a desperate shout.
"Me lord!"
The cry came from the roadside, raw and strained, meant to halt us where we rode. "Please, spare me a moment of your time!"
Our horses slowed, hooves crunching against packed dirt before coming to a stop. Ser Alekyne looked down at the man who had called out, his face unreadable beneath the morning light.
"You need not call me lord," he said calmly. "Ser Alekyne will do."
His gaze shifted briefly to me before returning to the peasant. "What is it you require help with?"
The man stared up at him, eyes wide, clearly shaken by the correction. "Me lor… Ser," he stammered. "I have been challenged to a trial by combat, but I am no warrior. I am only a frail old man."
He clasped his hands together, fingers trembling as he bowed his head. "Please, be my champion. I will pay, of course."
I studied him more closely. He was thin to the point of gauntness, fingers long and bony, knuckles swollen from years of work. Dirt clung stubbornly to his skin, ground into the lines of his face. His clothes hung loose on his frame, patched so many times they looked more stitch than cloth. He was every inch a rural commoner.
Ser Alekyne was silent for a long moment.
"What is the cause of this trial by combat?" he asked at last.
"The thieving bastard stole my sheep," the man said quickly. "Claimed they were his own. He took my meat and my milk, Ser. Without them, I do not know if my family will survive the season."
Ser Alekyne did not hesitate.
"I, Ser Alekyne of House Dostoyevsky, will serve as your champion."
He pressed his gauntleted fist against his chest, steel whispering against steel.
"In return," he continued, "you will offer my squire and me a place to rest and dine. We have no need of coin."
The peasant's breath hitched. Relief washed over his face as he bowed again and again, gratitude spilling from him in hurried words.
I watched Ser Alekyne from atop my horse, my heart pounding with excitement and something heavier beneath it. This was knighthood, was it not? Standing for the helpless.
Our horses started forward once more. Instead of continuing toward Bitterbridge, we followed the peasant as he led us off the main road and onto a narrow path. The grass here grew taller, brushing against the horses' legs. A place to rest and dine beneath a roof was rare enough to feel like a fortune.
"Squire boy," the peasant whispered as he walked alongside me, glancing nervously toward Ser Alekyne. "Is this lord of yours a good fighter?"
I considered him for a heartbeat before a wicked idea took hold.
"No clue," I said lightly. "He has lost every joust he has ever ridden."
I shrugged and nudged my horse forward, leaving the man to trail behind as I caught up to Ser Alekyne.
I imagined the peasant's heart sinking at the thought. Hiring a hedge knight without a single victory to his name. I chuckled at the thought, as it was only one loss and it was to the prince himself. So I doubt this opponent would be much.
Probably just another peasant with borrowed armour and a blade. They always chose swords for some reason, even when a spear or a polearm would serve them better.
"Do you think this opponent will be anything special?" I asked.
Ser Alekyne gave a quiet chuff and shook his head. "If he is a peasant, it will be like sending a pig to the butcher."
"And if he is a knight like you?"
"He would still be useless," Ser Alekyne replied. "There are not many good knights left."
I nodded. It was true enough. Knights were plentiful, but competence was rare. And if the man were any good, he would not be fighting for a peasant as his champion, not like my Ser was.
"What is your name, lad?" the peasant asked, scratching at his head. "Feels wrong calling you lad if you and your Ser are going to be staying under my roof."
"Ethan," I replied. "My name is Ethan."
He smiled and nodded. "Garrett. Garrett of Barleyholt."
He looked ahead as the path opened into rolling fields of yellow grain, wheat swaying gently in the breeze. "We have arrived. Welcome to Barleyholt. A village not even worth marking on a map."
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And with that ladys and gentlemen, the chapter comes to a close.
Please, as usual, give me any tips and tricks on how to improve this fanfiction. If you are wondering what era the Characters are in, then hints will soon be provided.
As such, please have a good rest of your day/night.
Tac Out