starry nite

Nyrene listened to the dawn breaking, eyes wide awake and waiting for the world around her to grow from faint shadows and light the first day of the tourney.

Endrew breathed faintly from his cot as she turned her head to the side, barely making out the hidden form of the boy huddled deep under the covers. His brown hair peeked from the edges of the thin fabrics, the streaks of gold shivering while their tiny tent froze under the wings of the Nightingale flying high above.

She went to push herself upright, peel her sweaty form away from the stifling cloak before a sudden wave of nausea reared from the pit of her stomach, sending Nyrene retching over the side of her cot.

— And if it wasn't for the fated placing of a pail, her night of misfortune would have been sure to continue.

Yet as the ales, the wines and delights of the banquet surged from her mouth, her pathetic gasps were not the only ones born from a drink. The spluttering not only from the stale knots in her gut.

It was her own foolishness that seared toxic up her throat.

For how can one truly drown an unsinkable plight? Find any serenity in a scornful pilgrimage through a castle?

Up until Ashford, the lips around a goblet proved successful. Ignoring a prince usually worked— and all met with bandaged absolution come the light of the morn. Or a plunge into a river.

Or bucket.

Or whichever vessel carried her next into the new day, dragging her back to normality.

Yet now…she felt strange.

Different.

…Almost vindicated.

All the questions that lay unanswered, the emptiness in wandering the lands now granted redemption. Steadily tearing larger into her morning— while her gut attempted to continue its quest of purge to the pail below.

Foolish. Foolish. Foolish.

Echoes of Nyrene's painful groans flooded throughout the wooden tub, the vile sloshes eventually ceasing as she turned her head. Slowly, cautiously, she checked over the thankfully still sleeping boy as another wave of guilt churned from within her stomach.

Her young squire had waited up for her in the late hours, startled by her stumbling through the flaps and the kicking of their belongings. Slurring curses in broken mutters, failing to untie the tangled mess of her dress— and while her inebriation dampened the once slumbering peace of the tent, Endrew had simply sat and watched from his corner. One hand resting under his head, quietly waiting until he was summoned for help.

Taking the well-worn steps over to the forlorn state of his knight, he'd tenderly waded through her familiar protests. Gently eased the waterskin between lips before throwing one of her arms over his shoulder to lift Nyrene from another of her drunken nights.

And long after he had helped her change, laying her under the bedding and retreating to his own cot, for hours she had lain in a shallow trance. Drinking in the darkness of the tent instead, watching the canvas rise and fall above her in mocking monotony.

Because over and over, the conversation with Baelor in the solar ran rampant in her head. All that he had said— confessed to her— she could barely hold together. Like smoke rippling between weary fingers in smiling escape, Nyrene struggled to find the warmth in the embers of the prince's validation.

…But even in her bleary haze, she still felt the words in his touch. The meaning in his lips on her own.

For in those welcoming moments, a small part of her had wanted it—cherished it.

The selfish desire to feel just that.

Wanted.

And the kisses of her folly now pillowed through the dim tent air with a hiss, as sure as the taste of scathing bile still danced menacingly upon her tongue.

Stranger's wives, send me your skills in silence, she thought, stumbling upright and pulling free her cloak from the cot. In a laboured swing she threw it over Endrew, tucking the fabric against his ears and dressing herself with the breeches and shirt found crumpled on the floor. Once her boots were tied in a clicking of joints, Nyrene picked up the soiled pail and dragged herself outside in a sorry sight.

Had the lands known they were to be met with the tragedy that escaped the tent, the laboured shuffle of a woman shown to harbour more than just a hangover— they might have lent a guiding hand. At least a silvery smile of encouragement, rather than that of a dank fog sought to only jeer as she passed.

Could the darkened forests instead, offer solidarity through their storm-beaten eye? Nay, they had all but turned away. Desolate. Disinterested. Unwelcoming.

The birds had yet to rise. The insects spun no motion across the meadows, and nor had the moon or sun offered any such merciful path.

No pity to be found from the freezing dews either, crawling high upon her knees as Nyrene bade her way in the murky undertow towards the river, ever cloaked in the bruising punishment.

Surely the waters would lap a soughing litany, offer the clarity she always sought— instead they were only still. Indifferent.

Of course it was a delusion, to seek comfort in the wake of a plight born of her own making— a delusion built on nothing but self pity and a heavily bruised ego. A desperation to leave the thoughts to fester in the pail on hand, when as yet nought but her conscience gave the loudest reminder of a stirring life.

—Along with her gut, as it sent another unsettling lurch in answer to the putrid waft of vomit seeping foul into her nostrils.

Foolish, she thought again, crinkling her nose as the contents were emptied, blooming beneath the still river-surface and sinking to their watery grave below.

Nyrene turned her head in disgust. As if she needed more reminders of how useless she fared, given she could barely deal with the night of drink and some form of the past often found numbed after a few sips. Peering high to where the mists parted for their makers, she took upwards instead, hands upon her hips and blinking to the skies in false worship given every single movement, sound and being seemed bent on hindering reprieve.

Surely there was one last act of grace to be granted from the unknown— but the distant horizons bled from a faint dark purple to a steadily lightening blue, forming only a savage mosaic of colour in the eyes of the prince.

And casting her into the endless loop of all she had failed to escape from in the twilight.

 I had a dream for the night, and that dream is not you.

She grunted harsh, baring her teeth and turning to strangle the pail below the river's depths.

Allegiance to which god now, pray tell?

"Not a dragon, least of all the lands I walk upon," she muttered aloud, cleaning the vessel in a fumble of black marks and wet sleeves.

Likened to divine sarcasm or cruelty, a distorted portrait of the dawn drew forth and peered eerily from the surface of the waters. With eyes clouded in dark circles grown sunken from the sleepless night, Nyrene caught her frozen reflection in the warping ripples. Like a haunted painting of a wraith begging to enter its watery dominion.

Yet as she leant closer, a lonely ghost in the tease of the nearing daylight, her neck felt stark.

Bare.

Like a necklace worn for years had been seared free or stolen, leaving only a token weal from a touch that had trailed down her skin in lament before it vanished.

Nyrene rubbed at the spot uneasy. Not a dragon's touch, and the once more silent river greeted its wishful beggar in merely a tut upon the shore. No song of courage, nor a caress of a dampened finger leant to heal the faded scars peeled open in the Hour of Ghosts.

"Fucking Prince Baelor," she huffed, vanishing the image in a splash and making off towards the camp pen.

The horses were already awake to receive their master, Midnight nudging her chest with his heavy muzzle and rewarded with a feed of some of the small apples collected from the tent.

"Shh, aros," she pressed her forehead to his own, the destrier's chewing swaying her into the lull of when they'd take to the lists together.

She hadn't forgotten their sole purpose at Ashford, the awakened surge prickling down her limbs in anticipation. Muscles lying in wait for the ride, for the first jolt upon the horse's back. The stifling heat beneath a visor, and the arduous grunts in tussling knights.

Running her fingers through his mane as if in echoing the moments before a charge, Nyrene trailed her gaze over to what had beckoned them forth from across the Reach, the promise in victory heard clambering through the land.

To the training pens soon to house their mailed visitors, the silhouettes of the sleeping camps drifting in and out of the grey— and on to the skeletons of the barricades and stands in the far distance.

Crowds would flow lively through the mud and dust in cheers of marvel, or with heckles and insults at the lords charging down the tilts. Bellowing their praises, their screams— one of the more true forms of validation Nyrene yearned for, as sure as Midnight seemed to give a toss of his head in agreement.

Rewarding their preparation. Years of training, of suffering under the weight of steel and lance. Of dragging through their failures, riding the victories chiming to the north. The determination to succeed.

—The exact same determination the Prince had noted in the solar, what he helped feed her foundations with in the practice yards at Kingsgrave. Upon the sandy dunes they would escape to, clashing swords before the rocky and reddened riverbeds left dry and wanting after many moons without rain.

Nyrene shrugged her shoulders in discomfort, attempting to focus on the task at hand in the makeshift horse yard.

Reminiscing on memories did not make them real, as much as reminiscing on keeping the horses alive would hold true in thought.

Hoisting the forgotten pail toward the rest of the steeds, she kicked out at the stones met underfoot as she stomped through the small area, growing more irritated the more she followed the routine.

Her learnings would come from what she wished to know, as much as they had over the coursing years— and not from someone who wanted to let her in on their secrets. To ease their own conscience. Asking for forgiveness, altering a history that was now apparently not so much a gripe on her part.

She almost spilt most of the waters as she slammed the bucket down, twisting it into the dirt while Tyner gave a resounding snort from nearby. Could she ignore all he had said? Retain all that she'd formed of her hidden life— or grant all that he sought?

Resentment or resonance? What a plague, she thought, brows furrowing hard.

To grant forgiveness towards a prince who'd apparently missed her, willing to unravel all that had knotted between them in merely one sitting across flames.

—Especially towards a man who should have made it known to her well before the eve of the most important tournament she had ever attended.

Who of course, had no knowledge of her participating in.

Nyrene coughed harsh as the sinking of teeth into rotten fruit cramped at her emptied stomach. "You poor dears," she spluttered, sharing the rest of the half with the palfrey.

There were more real issues to deal with, bathed in survival and the pending meals of each day. More so than the luxuries in feelings from a Targaryen. A leader of the Realm, mighty when compared to her own standing.

Because what did it cost him? For if she were the one to truly open up all that she held, to delve into what she wanted. To risk in honesty…the lies…the consequences…

In a jolting shake, she continued the tipping of fresh grass for their horses. Obeying the cogs of her routine as they commanded attention for the coming day.

Foolish.

The sack of fruit soon sat emptied in an abysmal symbol of burlap, the tools for mucking their horses now wielded.

Firewood collected in a rough pile, waterskins refilled in offering to her squire.

And the distant castle continued sitting morose upon the hill, shaking the last few shackles of the night. Greying winds whistling through the tops of its dark spires, failing to lick the first of the sun's rays as it glared at all below.

"Cease the night, or the King will part," Nyrene sang to Endrew's steed, Urien, lifting at his hoof with a tap of her iron pick. "Golden fetters will chain their cries, lament their love in foolish art—"

"The damage marked all, not just yourself,"

Nyrene faltered in song as the memory of Baelor's voice hit her hard in the chest.

A cold, sobering realisation.

She carried on her work in a scoff, for while she was reluctantly beginning to accept his sorrow at her isolation, the part Baelor played in the betrayal as a friend— she'd largely done enough to avoid the more vivid, reddened memories of the Rebellion.

Even without the revelation of his spoken failures.

"Marked all, he said. Fucking understatement, Baelor," she muttered, flicking more dirt from the hooves as her hands began trembling in the tight grip of iron.

She had done enough in her lasting plans of ignoring the visions, casting herself blind if all other senses betrayed her.

Except when they had infused as one at the banquet.

"I trust the liquor is causing you to speak as such, is that it?"

Nyrene shot a twisted glare at the empty apple sack, her tongue still tingling in the horrid taste of the fruit and ears ringing at the brazen reading of her antics.

Of course he would be the one to utter such a pointed comment.

Shine a light upon her dubious gambles in drink. The half-truthful tales whispered, the search to abandon herself in the mass drunkenness of others. Disapproval in one, simple remark.

"The liquor only encourages what is already there."

Her remembered reply caused a harsh burst in laughter, a bitter sound of triumph breaking through the muted meadow. For she had kept what he spoke of bottled ever since the horn had signalled the end of their war, bloodied corpses and debilitating desperation wearied the hearts and souls of all.

Surely the prince wasn't that disconnected.

Or mayhaps he was, as simple as it were to place all fault on Baelor— even if she knew he wasn't the true source.

Because he had always been the easiest to point a finger at, the dragon and his house threading the shadows of her resulting ruin.

Forcing a lonely hand to keep the war-torn venom from truly poisoning everything she held, leaving her to contain the bitterness towards her forgotten knight— and all that had perished in the name of Targaryen. Repressing rancour for all others like herself that felt neglected by a family who called them loyalists, unveiled in the wake to be a stark one-sided relationship.

But now…now after everything…

"Your survival of the bloody affair…It would be dishonest to say it did not pain me to experience."

Baelor Breakspear Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone. The heir to the clinging might of his house— to the Iron Throne— was no longer a distant figurehead of blame.

But rather just a man.

One she began to ponder with unease, who might now be beyond reproach.

"Will you come to me if it happens again?"

Nyrene hurled a foreign curse aloud in frustration, kicking the muck from beneath her feet as the crows awakened to laugh from the distant forest, the snort of the nearby mule, Derwen, echoing their taunt.

Baelor had no right to dismantle all that she had, daring to use only a night's confession to embalm them in a cloud of forgiveness.

For she had created a life without him— despite him.

And for years.

Had taken what she needed in order to survive on her own, to survive for her squire sleeping peacefully in her tent.

Because it was not enough, surely not.

Not enough to begin what she needed.

Or was it?

Urien's startling neigh broke her from under the shadow of the dragon dancing in and out of the grains of her deliberations. Nyrene shushed the horse, picking with a more gentle hand at his hoof in her work of repentance, the guilt of her sloppy night of drink mixing uncomfortably with the reckoning of her gloomy past.

Because unfortunately, after the events of the solar, the path seemed clear enough through the tarnished thoughts. Her lost pieces, whispered in the voice of the prince, were finally falling into place— even if it granted a strange alleviation.

To then focus on her squire, and the tourney that lay ahead.

Reaching acclaim, earning coin.

A beneficial quest. A more tender nature given to the skittish horses as they'd bore witness to the result of her back and forth confusions.

A tender nature towards mucking my squire's steed, she thought, grunting and picking another stone from Urien's hoof, soothing the horse in more song.

"My maddening hush I swing to ye…"

Nyrene's ears pricked up as the melody of her river-tongue was cut short. She spun to spot the intruder of their camp, startling Urien from her grasp.

Rightly so, for there, standing statuesque and barefoot in the grasses, a man leant against a wooden staff. Peering across the small enclosure with an expression of mild interest— if it were not hidden within the greying-red beard nor the patch of leather strapped diagonally across his face.

"Who the f— how long have you been spying—" Nyrene snapped, brandishing the metal pick in front of her and catching sight of the sword strapped to the stranger's side. "—Ser. Forgive me. The dimness of the dawn has sent paranoia in my loneliness."

He slowly nodded, taking her up and down. "You whisper to your horses a ballad of the south, born from a tale of the fall of a King." The one-eyed knight seemed to pay no heed to her curse, nor the hurried apology.

"Aye," she replied lukewarm, despite his indifference. "It is an old ballad. None remember who first sang it, nor who the King was."

"The bones of these lands remember. Even if only his skull is plastered upon banners." He continued making his way forth, though seasoned as he appeared he seemed to hold no ill-will towards the woman; rather, he fared to be merely passing through their camp.

"Different tongues may whisper it," he started again.

Nyrene narrowed in on the slowly approaching man, subtly circling foot to keep her distance. "What tongues may that be, ser?"

"The gods listen to the whispers."

"Aye, they preside over us all."

"They remember the fall of an old King."

"Watch and listen to a soldier's song from their believers— whether they march under a skull or not," she reasoned, shrugging her shoulders. "If I asked the gods, old and new, they'd surely only lend me their silence."

He paused for a moment in mulling her reply, and knowingly said, "Songs are not a reward of service, nor mortality a prize guaranteed. Nor do the gods grant any when it is a command."

Nyrene drew closer, purposefully edging towards the side of his covered eye, and handing over the newly grabbed waterskin in offering. "The gods have already made their decision and left. Mayhaps survival is the broadest term that covers melodies— and prayers."

She picked at his attire while he drank, water trickling silver through his beard like rain through a warned sunrise. Castle-forged steel sword, a simple though well made doublet. A quiet bearing of nostalgia about his shoulders.

Yet he walked barefoot, stripped of superficial luxuries and grounding him in the offerings of the earth.

"When did you learn it?"

What an odd question to be asked.

"Young," Nyrene replied, taking in how the horses seemed to relax in the man's presence. "Like all children who find themselves amongst what they don't know."

She twisted the pick in her grasp, and said quietly, "You are a man of strong faith, ser,"

He nodded. "Aye. As all in these lands are. Reaching far into the south."

And he merely narrowed the single eye slightly, if not for a spot of suspicion caught flashing through the weathered lines in his skin.

"Faithful troops did not create the ballad I sing," she said, pensive in thought, reaching for the skin as he handed it with a mutual nod. "Some would say it a prayer— if it not one for the Seven. A memory of a maiden's voice serves before a charge."

The stranger grunted a reply in a picking of stones with his staff, and a glide of grey through the long grasses. Nyrene went back to her tending of Urien, keeping the passing man well in her eyesight and tapping at the horse's hoof again.

He soon stopped his walk to cast more intrigue. "The Seven present in many forms. Whether you've an eye to spot their divinity or not. What else are the believers coaxed to sing?"

His voice was gruff, yet not unkind. More so there was a touch of wilderness about him, as though each sentence was dragged from a slow exhale of heavy history.

She twitched her lips, flicking harder the stone in Urien's shoe.

"The Maiden who hid in the meadows," she offered in a sly plant from below the horse's flank. "Lying in wait for dreams to take flight."

"Aye," he replied, "Seven nights-full but why?"

Nyrene almost dropped the pick as the returning verse caught her off guard. She cautiously peered up at him, the morning breeze shivering down her spine as the words unravelled easy in untouched memory.

"The men are already put to right, the old and the wise tread first in a sigh," she uttered low, almost in a trance, the two strangers continuing on with the makeshift sermon of timeworn faiths.

"If not where to go, protected then and a life breathed full."

"Seven nights-full but why?"

The one-eyed wanderer studied her for a moment longer, finishing the tune before taking his leave again. "Weighed and judged all the same is the toll."

And just as he reached the edge of the pasture, Nyrene whispered softly to his retreating back.

"Seven nights-full but why? When the Stranger arrives we are nought but bound to die."

He halted and fully turned to her then, offering a stiff wave of his staff in her direction. "Not all know of the ending verse, just as not all sing a fabled King's end. To sing both is peculiar."

She deflected his suspicion in a raise of a marked hand. "They're all battle songs, ser."

"Not all in the name of the Warrior," he squinted closer, the sunrise finally glowing gold across his features in hallowed light. "Yet hope is a step into worship, and how it falls is a mystery solved by only those in the unknown."

"I don't know what that means, ser."

The old knight grunted, offering a last parting word before he were to disappear into the gathering light.

"My maddening hush I swing to ye, dead in the ruins of where I once caught thee."

And he continued on, leaving the disgruntled woman to fathom his cryptic lines amidst the remnants left from her cryptic dawn.

The sun headed fast to its furthermost point in the sky, Nyrene and Endrew collapsing exhausted at the training they'd embarked on throughout the morning. Most of it had passed by in a blurring dance of Endrew suffering under the weight of Nyrene's blows, and his knight barely offering a grunt as she collided harder and harder upon his wooden shield.

The pair took their rest beneath a rustling poplar tree, its leaves clapping high above in the wind as she helped dislodge the heavy targe from her squire's forearm.

"Getting better," she rasped, sipping again at the wineskin and pushing down the still lingering nausea. "If your guard doesn't drop when you swing."

Endrew gave a sheepish nod, laying his wooden sword next to her own and massaging at the points where he caught his knight's blows. He wiped at his sweaty brow, the hair pushed away from his features showing clear the boy's face that was oftentimes hidden below his long fringe.

Nyrene frowned, cocking her head to the side as she raked her eyes all over him. Hair dripping in sweat, hems riding up his calves and an ill-fitting shirt.

What a sight to behold.

"Off with you to the river— now," she grunted, swinging her wooden sword in his direction like a spear of truth, and quickly standing to tower above him. "Then we're cutting your hair— don't give me that look."

Endrew groaned and ducked from the hand reaching out to pull at the few strands atop his head, though he did not miss the nudge in foot from Nyrene as he scarpered from the dirt in a tumble.

"And don't think I won't catch you signing at my back, boy. I've eyes everywhere, now hurry on."

She made quick work of their instruments in wait, packing them away and securing the tools in a bundle of heavy wool and rope. Many were worn and old, some relics of when she had trained with Roy over a decade earlier. Dents spread sporadically upon the squire's shield like crude shadows of a sundial, the weathered oak clinging to its sturdy might beneath the peeling leather and worn studs.

Nyrene stuffed the bundled gear to the back of the pavilion, searching for any lasting scraps of food.

Frail tools, scarce meals. Ill-fitting garments. Worn canvas. How much more?

She continued grumbling to herself in pacing through the tent. Endless lists, endless worries. Every copper or stag spent scarce enough to drag any one person to fall before a lord in nought but rags.

Nyrene stopped dead in her tracks as she spotted the green fabric of the dress lain against the lumps of plated steel.

"The morrow can't come soon enough," she grated, throwing a glare at the once beautiful garment and popping the cork of the wineskin open.

After a while of the sun burning sweat and tears from her eyes, Endrew finally arrived back to camp in sodden footsteps and a swirl of dripping hair, greeting his knight who was sitting on an upturned pail and drinking her fermented meal.

"Took you long enough," she berated, motioning him closer with her wine as he scuttled past into the tent. "If you don't get out here fast, I'll slice your hair in your sleep— drunk or not," she threw the last threat to the canvas.

The silvery glint of her knife shone bright in the late morning sun as she unsheathed it from her waist, the faint carvings still visible even with the numerous years of use. She twirled it between fingers in wait, picking at her nails and humming lightly.

Roy's blade had also met her hair, many times over at that. Sometimes with care, sometimes rushed. Sometimes in the peace of the sun, or quickly cut in the silence of night.

She pulled the braid over her shoulder, measuring how far it fell to her waist. How long had it been since the ceremony preparing for war, or hiding in valleys and towns from steel-wrapped men? Oftentimes only the beauty of freedom was granted by a shortened crop, rather than a bleak existence of enticing locks and perfumed inns.

What a fine luxury in choice.

In the dull reflection of the blade, she fixed the messy pieces of hair slicked across her forehead, carefully smoothing the dark strands poking loose.

…The way they would curl so easily between fingers, if a hand were to snake around her waist, run up her back...

The blade held midair as the moment of longing peered uncomfortably in return— before she hastily dropped the knife with a snort.

Ought to chop it when next I meet the Stranger, she thought. Or give it to the rivers.

A dark smirk graced her lips, disappearing as Endrew exited the tent in a scuffing of boots in the dirt.

"Pick up your feet— or I'll lop them off, too," she barked.

Within a few groans, swatting of hands and a concentrated brow, Endrew brushed off the pieces of cut hair littering his face and neck, appearing substantially neater than the dust-covered mess he apparently now wished to now live in.

"We're not finished. To the market with you," Nyrene ordered, checking off one part of her mental list and eyeing the poor boy up and down. "No more hem to let loose in your garments— and you didn't think to tell me? On you go. Search for a tidy stall to spend my remaining coin."

The knight and squire soon made their way through the bustling market town, surveying the booths and waiting on Endrew's selection. He was hesitant at first, constantly checking over his shoulder at Nyrene whenever he spied an item. Veering off from her hovering nearby, or quickly stretching a few paces ahead to better peruse the wares without suffering from the backlash of her stare.

She soon tossed the coin purse in his direction after pocketing a few coppers, following the scent of burning meats and stale liquors instead of the nervous lad she had constantly chewed at all morning.

She grumbled even more on her lonesome, pushing through the rough cloth into the nearby alehouse and making her way over to the bar. Scores of patrons were already packed throughout the tent, some singing cheery folk songs or feasting on thick pasties of minced mutton. Nyrene elbowed her way through, greeting the tapster with a nod.

"Ale or a meal?" he asked in a toss of a dirtied cloth over his shoulder. "Or both?"

"Any other barrels?" She leant with one elbow on the woodwork, spotting the image of a red apple tucked below. Nyrene pointed at the chestnut-coloured stave. "Is that the Fossoway cider?"

"Aye, 'tis."

"Pour us one."

She grimaced as another loud cheer from the carousers signalled their next song, and once handed the tankard she stomped outside in search. To where she took seat on one of the nearby benches, and the muddied path ahead was plagued with horses, mules and carts passing her by.

The cider sank cool and sweet down her throat as she sipped and watched, a far cry from the tartness of the apples she fed her horses in the morn— and making note to let Raymun know just how well she was able to stomach the liquid, considering her sickly endeavours of the evening before.

I pay for a drink when I could just as well ask, she thought, baring her teeth and blinking back the light of the blazing sun. An Ashford banner rippled and snapped above the nearest patrol in its own painted rise, the steady hum of the passing tourney goers swallowing the lonely patron gulping the soothing liquid.

Coin for drink in a rattle of copper against wood.

Coin for the women flirting their way through silks and sailcloth.

Coin for the men hushed beneath market shadows.

Coin for the musicians, the beggars, the bookmakers.

Coin gifted for the feasting lords, the chivalrous knights.

Did any earn? Did many steal? Or was it all based on thievery, taken from the twisted tapestry of roads scored across Westeros?

Nyrene crinkled her nose in disdain, raising the tankard and drinking away the troubling thoughts.

The more she sipped, the more she watched in growing resentment as the crossing heraldries of the noble houses scorned her in gilded audacity. Even some of the townsfolk fared better in their colourful wardrobe, Nyrene casting an uneasy look down at her own wear.

How many more loops of a darning needle could it bear? Would the salvaging of her old dresses survive before a forced decline into rags? All rough-spun, stained, littered in holes.

Rugged.

—Or begging.

The image of a bedraggled Endrew, young and sickly sank her further into the lament over the state of their affairs. The mule would be sold first, mayhaps the squire's palfrey. What would come next, her armour? Last would surely be her sword— though it would be wielded to the end in tasting the familiar scent upon its blade.

Nyrene finished the rest of her drink, eyeing with envy the nearest walking lord donning the embroidery of a Tully fish.

How their lives would fare in the employ of another, where they were not to worry over fickle burdens like funding simple garments. Coin earned— or won. Even mayhaps stolen once again, only now under the guise of tattered cloth and tarnished steel.

Coin, coin, coin. That's all the world knows— or doesn't know.

Endrew suddenly appeared at her side in a nudge, the newly purchased clothing draped on his arm.

"All done?" she asked in a slight run of her words.

He nervously handed her the shirt and breeches, turning away to hide the sulk about his face. She tucked the tankard beneath her armpit, running fingers over the materials inspecting the dull brown and cream shirt.

Worsted, but suitable enough for many moons in wear. Breeches were well enough in length, too.

They'll do.

She held the piece of wool in front of her, spying the light peeking through where it had thinned and holding out her arm.

"The rest of the coin," Nyrene began, returning him his clothing— and the mild breeze wafting across her empty, outstretched palm caused her to snap towards her subdued squire. "Where's the— what happened?"

Endrew shied away in a nervous nod, signing into the air— though little attention was paid to the message as Nyrene already slotted together what had transpired in her absence.

"Where is he?" she hissed between teeth, gripping the mug fast and marching off in the direction of his timid point.

Foul squanders in coin, aye.

"Let that be a lesson to you, En."

The pair made quick work from the clothing merchant's stall, weaving through the overhangs and tent pegs, Nyrene soon turning to him once they were sure to be lost in the crowd.

"Don't give up what is yours so easy," she said in a wince, shaking her fist loose.

And keep your pouch heavy, she added in thought, the coin purse nudging her waist in agreement.

A group of Ashford guards were spotted along the path as they continued hurrying forth, their cluster of urgent voices carried on the breeze as Nyrene nudged Endrew to veer off centre. The boy yelped in surprise as he tripped on one of the ropes strung across, tumbling to the ground in a cloud of dust and hemp. Without breaking stride, Nyrene tugged him upwards under his arm, pushing him into the shadows between stalls.

She cautiously peered from behind the wall, shielding him from view and scanning the guards shifting further away. Atop the many dotted heads, the large frame of her camp neighbour was seen trudging in their direction.

"Ser Duncan is coming, mayhaps we use him as cover," she whispered, retreating in a turn and brushing off Endrew's remaining dirt. "You alright, En?"

-"My knees are not"- he signed with a groan.

Nyrene snorted, eyeing around the corner again. "Aye, let's make out into the open now."

Hand firmly clasped on his shoulder, she timed their walk into the open and led them both into the path of the towering knight.

"Ser Duncan." Nyrene pushed a smile as he reached them, fisting the still damp droplets sitting on her cuff. She shot the tiny boy to his side a knowing look, as he himself, gave a grin.

"And his squire."

"Lady Nyrene, Endrew," Dunk started in a wave, "How are you faring? I did not see you leave the banquet last night, m'lady. Lord Baratheon was most unhappy."

She carefully looked beyond him, spying no rippling white suns upon orange. "I'm sure the stag lord still lives." She knitted her brow in surveying his tall stature, releasing Endrew's shoulder to shield her eyes as she craned upwards. "I'm surprised to see you standing with a lot more vigour. May just be able to out drink a full blooded Dornishman yet."

He awkwardly cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck and gesturing forth at Egg. "I—er. Thank you? We've—We're to take to viewing the many festivities of the tourney before it begins tonight. Would you both like to join us?"

She glanced at Endrew's sign of plead, his once sombre expression turning to excitement at the idea.

"Aye, take him with you," she relented, readjusting the stolen tankard beneath her armpit and handing over a few coppers from the bag. "I'm off for a drink."

"Then what's that?" Egg asked, pointing a finger at her vessel.

Nyrene squeezed tight around the iron-scented oak, covering it with her palm and turning away.

"Empty," she simply said, already beginning to disappear into the swathes of people. "I'll meet you three in an alehouse most like."

The drinking tent she indeed soon returned, if only to swap the blood-stained tankard with a freshly filled one, before making off on a mission of her own.

Turning to the east, she made her way forth in the direction the nearby women had spoken of from across the bar. "Aye, over where the golden haired lords are training," one whispered excitedly to the other. "I'll give 'em 'till midday before they seek us out," her red-haired companion returned with a laugh. "Mayhaps we'll find the mystery knight, I heard he's quite the sight." She leant in close with a breath of excitement. "Do you think it gold that chimes in the bells upon his steed?"

Nyrene had failed to hide the noise behind her scarf in making out of the tent, and away from their returning puzzled looks.

Alas, I can't fault their fantasy.

Drums and flutes pounded in the distance as she continued following the dirt trail, chewing her newly bought pasty and paying no heed to the passing villagers until she reached the training meadow. Differing clouds of woodsmoke and grit wafted through the air in muddied sunlight while she scoured the large field, leaning on the barriers and picking closely at the tourney participants.

A flock of black ravens was sent tumbling easy into the dirt, a golden goose was wrestling with their younger squire. The Brute of Bracken stood like a daunting dark horse to the far side, leaning against the opposite fence and watching whom she recognised was her newly acquainted apple lord, and their cousin— who sent Raymun soaring painfully into the dirt with a few hacks and shoves.

Even from the distance she could hear Ser Steffon's berating voice, the cruel laughter and wicked taunts echoing loud across the pen. Raymun brushed himself off and caught sight of the lone watcher woman, and while the red-headed cousin drank from his waterskin, he made his way over to her.

"Sound effort," Nyrene nodded, handing the red squire her half eaten pasty.

He took a bite, pushing the sweat and grime from his hair and mumbling through the mouthful of food. "My cousin likes to put us through the paces."

"You mean he bullies you. That's not training."

Raymun shrugged. "Pity he isn't to ride against the lords this evening, I'd like a break in duties."

"I should wish to see him against the likes of Lyonel," she replied in longing. "See him fight in the same behaviour."

"Aye, better in a list than a training yard. I've already spoken to Dunk of my cousin's tactics— or antics."

"Dunk may be slow, but if he didn't catch that I'm not sure what he could. Ah, would I like to meet your cousin instead," she finished quietly, Raymun downing some of Nyrene's ale.

"Would you?" he asked her in a brushing of crumbs from his padded doublet, and handing the drink back.

Nyrene returned coy. "Your charming cousin lying in the dirt after being bested by a woman? Oh aye, many a good coin could come from that. "

"I have no doubt of your spirit. But he's a talented fighter, I'm not sure how long you'd fare."

"Even talent can fall hard," she offered, before the sound of lords donned in burgundy and green was heard tussling close by.

Both Nyrene and Raymun paused to watch the two locked in the melee spreading from the field. The knights grew visibly laboured the more they caught each of the heavy blows— despite the quickness in footing from the Lord Estermont, whom Nyrene recognised by the turtle embroidered upon his surcoat. In a burst he managed to pivot and kick his larger foe off balance, sending him careening into the fence in a whirl of wine-coloured dust.

Nyrene rode the violent swell of the timber as it shuddered up her arms, and still focusing on the sight of the yielding lord, she continued, "Depends on how you do the pushing."

"If I'm not mistaken, I'd take you for a knight yourself."

She turned to catch Raymun looking her over with newfound interest, and merely waved off the squire. "Endrew can barely hold the weight of a sword before I am tasked with training my knight— and we don't intentionally hurt one another, either."

"Oh, aye. Can't say the same 'bout my own training with Steffon."

"You know you can hold your own?" Nyrene asked in a raise of a brow.

He shrugged disgruntled, as if he'd long often toiled over the idea. "Aye, I know I can. Or I wish I will, at some point."

"Any knight can be picked apart. Your cousin likes to swing hard when he feels an upper hand, I caught that much." She reached across and nudged his shoulder. "His swings he hopes gives little time for much else. Have stern belief, face his verbal lashings later."

Raymun grinned. "You're perceptive. Mayhaps there is a truth to your wants."

"There's a reason why I'm standing at this fence scouting the enemy," she said, as Ser Steffon was seen marching over. "And now they've been sighted, I shall take my leave. Scouts are not a vanguard— unless you would like me to make short work of your cousin with my tongue instead?"

"Your tongue may be your downfall, Nyrene." Raymun shook his head in disapproval.

"Already happened, learnt nought from it," she tossed back in her leave, beginning to melt into the rest of the spectators dotted along the edges of the field.

"—Talking to a lady of the tourney rather than undertaking your duties are we, Raymun?"

Though she had made a short distance, she still heard the thinly veiled insult before she was lost to the passing crowds.

Scouted my next challenging I have, Ser Steffon.

Nyrene found the rest of her company at the fabled puppet show, drawn to the steady beat of a drum and collective gasps in awe floating through the brightly coloured pavilions. Silent on the outskirts, she spotted the two squires sitting near the front enthralled while her nudge in Dunk's side drew a rather humorous reaction, as he turned startled at her quiet meet.

"Good show?" she asked low.

"Aye, Tanselle is a talent," he quietly whispered back, the pale blue eyes widening even more as they trailed after the woman in question.

Nyrene faltered in reply, caught momentarily awestruck at the puppeteer who almost seemed to radiate their own glow of blue and green. Twirling the strings of the puppet knight with ease and sweeping it in the air across the front row.

"She's— stunning."

"—For Symeon, eyes full of icy secrets, swept his staff at the rows of men— spinning it forth like it were tethered to his very limbs. Folly came to those who dared drew their sword in his den! For he may be blind thought weakened in sight, his blades at both ends seek only to strengthen his plight."

Nyrene whistled loud between her teeth atop the noise of the audience clapping in cheer, as Tanselle finished the first act. She patted Dunk's shoulder before the second half of the performance could start, catching his lingering look of delight.

"I'll wait for you lot outside, lad."

"Are you sure you would not like to stay?"

"Nay, I feel strangely out of place here— considering these are my people," she smirked, shifting to leave the stricken man.

After the show came to a close, the two knights followed the heels of their squires as they were led to another attraction— one being a boisterous wrestling pen where shirtless men were seen rolling in the muds to the cries of many an onlooker.

Nyrene shook her head at Endrew as they approached. "Nay, 'tis a bent gamble— rather spend my coin elsewhere. Enjoy the free entertainment, instead."

"To the alehouse?" Dunk offered, and they left the two boys spectating the dirtied participants.

"Tell me again about your Ser Arlan," Nyrene later asked Dunk, lying next to the lad upon a bench as they tracked their cheering squires down the slope of the hill.

He took a large sip of his drink, swallowing deeply while his mind wandered towards answer.

"What is it you wish to know?" he asked.

Nyrene grunted, waving her own ale in his direction. "Anything, Dunk. Anything that comes to mind about him. Keep me from my own silent wanderings."

"I'll tell you he was a dogged fighter. Taught me sword and lance, and what he lost in skill he made up for in determination." He took another steady sip. "I suspect it be the reason he lived so long.

"There wasn't many a coin earned with Ser Arlan. Lived harsh most times, usually only warming his feet in front of a fire beneath the great, open sky. A quiet contentment wherever he was— or at least that was what he showed me."

"Sounds similar to my own," she hummed aloud, turning her head on the wood, her thoughts leading to Ser Roy.

"Your own?"

Nyrene froze in scanning the wrestling pen, quickly conjuring a story that would cover her own slip in history.

"I travelled with a knight once." She leant up to take a hefty gulp of her ale. "He was a hedge knight, too."

Dunk gave a nod in understanding, much to her relief.

"Oh aye. What was his name?"

"His name was Ser Roy of Sherrer. Just a wanderer. He too, did not want for much at all," she sighed back onto the bench. "He taught me a lot the short time I was with him."

"Ser Arlan taught me the values in being a knight. He always said to protect the weak and innocent. What it is to be humble and to seek nought acclaim even when a knight acts so. He just— got on with it. No doubt about it at all."

She didn't answer for a while, merely looked up to watch his eyes fade into the memories of his master. Great fondness radiated off of him, from the way he shrugged in his own agreement, to the way his large hands swallowed his mug at the pains in thought.

He still cared deep for his Ser Arlan, the man's influence left well beyond the grave.

"Sounds like he indeed, was a knight in the truest sense," Nyrene softly smiled upwards. "I can't say the same for many around here," she finished in a mutter, hearing Dunk's awkward chuckle.

"None of that, Nyrene. They're all knights for a reason. Many of them our betters."

The woman's eyes crinkled at the corners at remembering the Fossoway cousin, and craning a head in the direction of the drunken lords singing their crude ballads under the covers of the nearby alehouse.

"You mean the ones who rebuffed your same tale? When was the last time they acted so?"

"Who?"

"The lords here. Tourneys aren't what makes a knight."

Dunk stayed quiet in thought for a moment, then said, "These not a reason, I guess."

Nyrene scoffed. "You don't think so? Don't be so naive, Dunk. Here at this tourney, many are being swindled under their very noses— or they turn an eye to their women and drink instead."

"Have my eyes always been this hidden?"

"Surely not, only here. There's always been an under current, as you well know— and I've seen it thrice today." Nyrene yawned loud. "You'd think they'd remember what it was to live during darker days."

"One day may be darker than another's," he replied low.

She shielded her eyes as the sun burnt a yellow circlet above Dunk's head, and spoke earnestly to him over the revelry of the crowds.

"Ah, Ser Duncan. Your knight did indeed, bring you up well. You hold true to that."

His blue eyes lit up and washed over her in gratitude, before they lowered to disappear into the depths of his ale. Nyrene thinned her lips in sympathy at the younger lad.

"Do you miss him?" she asked.

"Aye, I do," he murmured, "I only hope that how I fare in the lists does him proud. Wherever he is. Or— I know where he is— I meant that—,"

Dunk grumbled under his breath as Nyrene sent a clumsy flail of her hand to his arm in reassurance, patting the coarse cloth.

"I know what you meant. I buried Ser Roy next to the waters in the Riverlands," she said, leaning up on one elbow.

"Ser Arlan faces the sunset, it was as much as what I could do for him. After everything he did for me."

The two resumed watch of their squires and the never ending wrestling match, nearing ever closer to the bottom of their tankards. The glimpse in the relationship with Dunk and his knight sent an odd surge in Nyrene's chest, one of recognition but also solidifying just how close they truly were in shared experiences. Despite his Ser Arlan showing teachings of what it meant to be a true knight— and living by it— little was known of the man by the noble lords at Ashford.

—Many he had served over the course of his life.

Sharing memories of the two knights continued to beat the painful truth of their exploits. That it wasn't enough to just live or serve— that it wasn't enough to just be honourable.

Living poor with honour wasn't a strong case for survival.

Living without acclaim left a legacy of only mud and death under the lonely banner of leaves and stars.

"At least all that was good about him is remembered by you," she began again, after allowing him to mull over his own memories.

Dunk sighed in reluctance. "Aye, I hope I remember his training come the tourney."

"Whether you do or you don't, I'll be there to support you." Nyrene fell back down again, tucking one arm behind her head and closing her eyes to the sunlight. "I don't think my mystery knight will mind."

She heard Dunk scoff, the deep swallow of another mouthful of ale. "He better not, or else I may find myself on his opposite at the tilt."

"I highly doubt that," she half sang, the light swimming across her lids. Nyrene twirled the signal of fortune above her chest. "Agree to support each other, Dunk?"

"Aye, that I can toast." He clinked her fingers with his own cup.

The woman quickly succumbed to dozing in the sun, the drunken lords and excessive shouts of the village a disjointed lullaby as all the drink began fulling soothing her over. She heard the large lad leave for a few minutes, returning with fresh ales as he went to hand her the rest of the coppers she'd given him earlier.

Nyrene drowsily swatted above her head. "Keep the coin for the next round. I shan't wish to move from this spot."

Dunk sat down in a heavy sigh, and she took a long stretch that almost sent him spilling his drink.

"Oi, caref—"

"—What a day," she interrupted, slurring her words and flexing her wrists above in a loud clicking of joints. "Drawn rather lovely now. Your squire has a sound mind for ideas."

Dunk scoffed in disapproval. "He speaks too brazenly for his own good."

"Ah, leave him be."

"Makes me think a lot more— that my brain hurts just thinking about that."

"He is a bit of a thinker." Another loud yawn fell from her lips, reared deep from her chest. "You learn to love them at your side. Roads get too silent, and the horses don't speak back. Nay, you'll grow to love his chatter."

"If he ain't gettin' a clout round the ear," Dunk returned disgruntled.

"Do what you must, he'll soon fall in. Not all squires know their way around, even if they've been in service far longer." Nyrene shifted her head on the bench in comfort. "Endrew dropped every plate when he began strapping it to our knight. Now he can catch and throw as well as any man bred for war."

"At least he's a quiet worker."

"Doesn't stop his gripes— nor my own discipline."

"Do you beat him? Or—or does—?" Dunk's question trailed off.

"Nay, we do not," Nyrene sighed. "He bears the brunt of my tongue, however. Pity the boy sometimes."

"Ser Arlan used to beat me. Was called for."

"I think us all were beaten. Love bathed in violence is how the world seems to work." She pulled one leg up in a stretch across her knee, voice growing quieter and more laboured. "But aye, Egg's too loud— no fault of your own, ser. Mayhaps you'll love that too— as much as what I love this sun and ale."

Nyrene soon fell back into her napping on the bench, Dunk sipping his tankard with only small gulps and soft sighs heard between them. Overcome with exhaustion as she'd rekindled the honest freedoms the roads and tourneys awarded wherever she and Endrew went. The life of the small-folk as they celebrated in their towns before the bleeding of sword and lance, and the full labours of a tourney knight.

No binds of a royal chain, nor yet a lord holding them ransom— pending her success on the morrow, that was. Instead, she was held fast by the anticipation of the awaiting tilts, and feasting on the fleeting delights of all of what the festivities could bring.

And sharing drunken histories with the tall lad sitting next to her.

"Lady Nyrene," Dunk began into their silence, and she grunted out of her nap for him to go on.

"Have you been in love?"

Nyrene shot her eyes open, cursing to the blinding light as the sudden question sobered her like a cold plunge into the castle well. She pushed up from her perch, better able to address the lad in disbelief.

"Are you drunk already?"

"What? No, I just—"

"—Why do you want to know?" she asked, quirking a brow before lying back down.

"Curious, 'tis all."

"This doesn't have to do with a certain puppeteer?"

"What?" she heard Dunk splutter into his cup.

"You be careful, boy, in that your ale isn't spat on me," Nyrene warned from below. "You've nought had many in the ways of women in your life, have you?"

Dunk grumbled above her, feeling him shuffle awkwardly in his seat.

"Stop moving and let me rest sound while I toil over how best to answer you. Moment's peace, I have not," she muttered, tilting forward to sip at her drink and swallowing with a hiss. "If this turns my day bitter again, you'll feel my wrath, Ser Dunk. Now; are you asking about feelings, or asking how to lay with a woman?"

"Forget that I asked at all," he groaned.

She settled her arm back behind her head, closing her eyes to the tankard balancing atop her chest.

"If you want to know how it feels— it's awful," she grunted, the ale threatening to spill over the edges. "Makes you hesitate— and you can't hesitate when you've granted yourself a purpose. Especially in a world like ours. It'll eat you quick."

His silence caused her to peel one eye open, and she glanced upwards to the downtrodden sight of Dunk staring into his tankard.

Lies or truth?

Nyrene sighed in reluctance.

"It feels—nice. You feel alive," she said stiffly through teeth. "Like your heartbeat and the rhythm of the universe are one, and the centre of your universe isn't— isn't a blackened void— but a person. Everything else just…quietens. You feel—incomplete, when they're not there. Like a part of your soul is missing— well, so I've heard," she finished bitterly.

For the first time since her day under the sun, Nyrene's thoughts unfortunately strayed to that of the prince sitting in the castle high above them.

—To her other feelings, the ones she'd pushed deep down since the solar. The ones she had pushed away for years, slapping her in shame as she'd forced them to grow silent. Now given an opportunity to rear themselves into plain view; all the self blame, the self distaste— her care towards the prince. What she'd come to terms with long ago, clinging to them like a lifeline.

For only now to learn, according to the man, it was not all what it seemed. That he reciprocated all that she once ran from in the Reach.

And she yearned for the lie, even as hope quenched the thirst for the truth.

"I think I have been," Dunk admitted, pulling Nyrene towards the present.

"Oh?"

"Years ago."

"How lucky," she replied dry.

"Did they return it?" he asked.

Nyrene shuffled once more in discomfort, the wood digging hard into her back. "Who said I was in love?"

Dunk hummed awkwardly into his ale while she twitched her nose.

"You don't love someone in order for them to love you back. 'Tis a cursed thought. But it's a special feeling, what I do know. That fickle thing the bards sing of— rather it come from a jester, myself."

Nyrene leant up again, swirling the contents of her cup and swallowing harsh the gulp as the remnants trickled down her chin. She wiped it with her sleeve, lazily peering across at the pensive knight.

"Go on, then."

"What?" Dunk sounded a nervous chuckle.

"Ask your next question. You were going to ask me if I've been broken hearted."

"I wasn't—wait, you— but—"

"—I've lived a great deal of life, Ser Duncan."

She lowered her tankard into the dirt and played with the stitching on the boot tucked upon her knee again.

"I may have been," Nyrene continued easy. "Can turn you cold— and quick. Feels like a waste of time, too." She blew at the fallen strands of hair sticking to her face. "What do you do with it? It was all meant for one person, and that person is now gone."

"Did— did they die?" he asked hesitantly.

Nyrene snorted quietly over her cup as she reached down for its aid. "Aye."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

Dunk paused, then, "Did you tell them?"

"It most like wouldn't have mattered," she replied in a sigh.

Would it?

"What did you do?"

"Quite intrigued, aren't you?"

Dunk grumbled again as a crowd of drunken patrons passed them by, skimming through the row of benches in wafts of stale sweat and ale. Nyrene crinkled her nose in distaste, and carried on.

"Mourned. Mourned it all— it's all you can do," she laughed bitterly, shifting herself again on the bench. "Death is certain, love not so much. So I mourned the love like it were one and the same. Made it easier."

She took another sip. "Whatever is left you learn to give to others."

"Did you give it to Ser Roy?"

"Not in the way that you think, Dunk, nay. More so it turned into caring for Endrew," Nyrene spoke to the skies above, to the clouds drifting across in silvery wisps as the town continued murmuring around them.

"What were they like?" he asked another, growing rather quiet.

Lie.

"He was— kind. At first," she started hesitantly, strangling the tankard in her grasp. "We met young, he was an older boy— very exciting for a fresh faced girl. Tall, he was. Broad— Handsome."

Nyrene sniggered in order to steady the crack in her voice, the smile not quite reaching high upon her face. "We crossed paths years later. Strange circumstance."

The sight of the young prince, lit by nearby flames as he sat bandaged and bruised flashed vividly before her eyes, and Nyrene hurriedly blinked the vision back.

"Very rarely did he rise in anger," she said, clearing her throat and swaying the tankard towards Dunk. "Merely calculated how best to dismantle it. Or dismantle one who attempted to oppose him. Oh, how lethal he could be with it.

"Talented in many things, he was. Smart. He radiated a certain wisdom about him that meant you naturally warmed in the presence of all that he had to offer. It was— irritating how righteous someone could be, even if his mistakes weren't— well. They weren't as horrid as what I've seen along the roads."

A final shout in victory distracted them both as the wrestling pen spilled over in muddied men and drunken spectators. Nyrene kept her eyes fixed on the tussles, drawing softer in voice as a smile ghosted upon the edges of her lips.

"Incredible memory— a trait he used with glee whenever he reminded me of my own mistakes. Or failures…or anything really, that could garner a rise. But, he remembered. Many things— many things that made you feel seen."

She exhaled slowly, falling in defeat of the bittersweet memories.

"But he became cruel. Cold. A nastiness overtook him, and finally the veil fell. And later— so did he."

Truth?

"Gods, I sound like a melancholic bard."

Dunk squirmed nervously to her side. "I'm not sure what is better, to have them alive or dead."

"Neither."

"I'm not sure it's as lovely as what I thought."

"It is. But it's a risk all the same. It can be the greatest risk in the world, and can still cause a chill in the heart. But nay, to love, Dunk, means you exist. And for someone to make you feel like you exist, well. That can mean all the difference."

Lies and truth die to the mercy of want. Disgusting.

"It does sound enticing," Dunk replied after a while.

"It's shit."

"What?"

"I'm drunk."

He laughed then— a deep, genuine laugh that softened the tension growing within her. Nyrene smiled to herself, reaching up again to nudge him.

"Off with you, Dunk. Go enjoy yourself instead of listening to my drunken talk."

"Still sounds like poetry to my ears, Nyrene."

"Nay, there are others who can describe it better. Besides, how do you know what I speak of is the truth?"

Dunk shot her a worried look, pushing up from the bench. "I'll be— I'll see to Egg. Ser Lyonel is ordering a rope be thrown across the pen."

"They may soon seek you out for what they're planning, if you're not quick. Buy Endrew another ale with the coin while you're at it."

Dunk left her then, Nyrene slipping easily into a reverie on the prince. Drifting off to the memories of escaping castle walls, swinging swords atop the rocky and barren dunes...

Lift your feet quicker, he would say, the glare of the burning sun lighting one eye in an entrancing purple-blue haze, the other almost a bronze melt of warmth. And she'd wrestle the sunken boots free like they were drawn thick in mud, or coated in heavy plates to land a blow against the fluid twirl of his blade.

Their horses, grazing in the swaying tawny grass, would scarper from the quickening storms blowing over the ranges. And once wrestled and safe, Nyrene would whisper to them in ancient tongue. What do those words mean? the prince had asked, and they traded the phrases of their lineage like a forbidden ritual, sheltered from the dry heats and grainy winds.

Existing in their own world, wrapped in a safe cloud.

Well before bitter resentment and pained acceptance sent her on her way.

When the marks of war could not be heard crooning across the mountain ridges, and where the harsh realities of their fates had yet to reach the pair.

What a time it once was, to naively love a prince.

Was it a truth, or a lie?

Ringed fingers clinked sharply against the tankard resting upon her chest, Nyrene snorting awake and jolting the cold contents to spill across her lap into the dirt.

"Well met, Lady Nyrene," came Lyonel's humoured voice from above.

She cursed under her breath, brushing off the last droplets of ale. "Be gone with you, Lyonel, you thief of happiness."

"No love lost— your drink was piss," he berated, handing her a goblet of wine instead to replace the one spilt in the dirt.

She sipped at the sweet vintage, blinking upwards as Lyonel's shadow continued to tower over her. "There's a storm brewing in my skies."

"Are you merry again, Nyrene?"

"I'm always merry," she grunted.

"I beg to differ."

"Will you be sober for your tourney this evening?"

Lyonel shoved Nyrene's legs aside and welcomed himself to sit upon the bench. "What makes you think I'm not already?"

She squinted at the fresh wine in his grasp, earning a loud laugh that echoed down the slope of the hill. Nyrene shrank back as the noise hit sharp in her ear.

"Only to swirl the tastes of mud out of my teeth," he defended. "I'm sure you've a remedy?"

"Push off, Lyonel," she said, taking another sip of wine. "I was having a lovely time in the sun, and now that you've arrived it has disappeared behind the clouds."

"So zesty."

"Must I continuously be plagued by knights today," Nyrene grumbled.

Lyonel nudged her foot in mock disapproval. "Come now, Dunk is a fine fellow."

"He's green as anything."

"Yes. That too."

Nyrene gave a snort and clasped both hands around the goblet, leaning on her knees. "He asked me about love earlier," she muttered in distaste.

"I wager it be because you are the only woman in his life," Lyonel replied in a chuckle, and pushed her further across the bench again as he went to lie down. He brought one foot up, balancing it atop his knee as he spoke to her through the bouncing cross of limbs. "What did you say?"

"Do you mind, my lord?"

"Not in the slightest. So— you spoke to Dunk about love and women?"

She awkwardly rubbed the nape of her neck, twirling a hand around the long weave of her hair. "Aye. Why it was me he chose…And mayhaps now I be the only one he will know for a while."

"He's a bit young for you, is he not?"

Nyrene punched the knee bobbing far too close to her head. "Gods, Lyonel— that was not what I meant."

"Ah," he raised back up with an excited gleam in his light, brown eyes. "So you spoke to him of a sombre tale?"

She snorted, and resumed playing with the tuft of hair at the base of her braid. "Only the usual telling. How awful and wasteful it is to love."

Lyonel hummed in thought. "I beg to ask the question now, for my own ears. Have you?"

Nyrene side-eyed the lord next to her.

"Wouldn't you like to know. Only weapon you shall have is a tourney lance."

He threw up his hands in exasperation, quickly standing again and waving a finger accusingly at her. "Picking information from you is like flicking hidden stones from my horse's shoes."

"A task I embarked on this morning, funnily enough. When was the last time you worked yours?"

Lyonel merely ignored her taunt. "You really are in a sour mood."

"You waged a war on my rest."

"And I presented a peace offering."

"Historically, this would not work," she countered. Standing up to stretch and twist her back, she asked to the slightly cocked head of dark curls, "What's your real reason for making my acquaintance? Or are you truly just wanting to pick me apart, the same as every other man I've encountered today?"

He appeared offended. "Can't a lord befriend someone he sees a similarity to? You do have a familiar look to my own lands."

"What— black of hair? I think that is all we share, Lyonel. I'm not a traitor to my kind," Nyrene grunted once more into the wine reclaiming her lips.

"Built strong like our women. You love a drink— and have a penchant for wit in order to deflect."

"All traits of your lands, are they?"

"Mayhaps," he replied slyly.

"I see where this is going."

Lyonel gave an exaggerated shrug, turning momentarily serious. "How are you faring in drowning your sorrows?"

"Leave me be, Lyonel."

"You left the banquet rather early."

"Not early enough to escape—"

"Makes sense, considering who our noble guests were—"

"—the impending illness of drink—"

"—Exactly that. I'm merely looking after my goods."

Nyrene froze, her voice tight. "What in seven fucking hells did you call me?"

"Careful now, you speak to a Lord of the Stormlands."

She blinked a few more times, regaining composure to heed her own caution. "Who speaks of himself in the third person. Your hubris is showing."

"Ah, take a breath, Nyrene. You forget to breathe when you're prickly— and my prickly token of luck may be in need soon, even if I recruit Dunk to my side. Come now." He tugged her in the direction of the muddied pen, where many were already standing on either side of the rope in wait.

"Carry a trinket like everyone else, Lyonel," Nyrene grunted, pulling him to a stop and throwing a glare. "I've spotted many other fineries in your embellishments." She reached over and flicked a finger at his one gold earring.

"Since you've made your presence known in my circle, I've had a merry time at this tin-pot tourney," Lyonel reasoned in a growing smile. "I intend for it to continue."

"Your circle? Be gone with you."

"At least participate in my game," he nodded down the slope. "I need muscle on my side."

"Dunk is over that way," she gestured with a thumb over her shoulder, "and if you offer coin, I'm sure my squire will help— in which case I will watch. You however, may be drunk atop your horse tonight— if you've more mud in your teeth by the sun's end."

Lyonel sounded a disapproving tut, "So sour."