“Trust me, Egg,” Daeron whispered. “He has more honor in his little finger than most have in their whole soul.” “How would you know?” A fair question. One Daeron could only partially answer, but he would try and do so honestly. “We have spoken, back at the inn. Trust me, Egg. You will do no better.” Egg hummed. “I do not trust you,” he said, finally, another well-placed dagger right to the heart but a blow Daeron still could not claim unjustified. “And a hedge knight is not precisely what I was hoping for in a knight master.” Daeron laughed. Truly, he could do nothing else, not after knowing that within three days, Aegon would be so devoted as to inspire even Daeron. “He may not be what you were hoping for, but what you need rarely is.” “You sound like Aemon,” Egg said. “I will take that as a compliment.” “You should.”

“See to Constance, Egg,” Daeron said, heading to the fire. “Who?” Oh. He had forgotten, in that single second, that Egg would not know- Anything. About these several weeks spent together. Egg would not keep a single memory, even if Daeron did manage to break whatever curse this was. He would not remember their times in the field, or the tourney grounds where Daeron had lifted him up into his arms on instinct he thought he’d lost, keeping him safe from harm, or how proud he had been to be Daeron’s squire. Just for a moment. Instead, he’d just end up back here, nose wrinkled at the sight of a wineskin in his lēkia’s hand, not caring to see beyond that, having only ever been perpetually disappointed in his eldest brother. And Daeron could not even blame him. “The horse,” he answered, voice cracking.