The room was small but I would not call it cramped, the rough spun blanket and the hard mattress is better than stinking cells and wet dungeons any day.
It has been a night since 'the Gods have favoured me' as the septon put it.
Truly it did seem that way.
I had fought against not just any man but someone who had seen wars, someone whose work is to train men in swords, he had spent his life around men and arms and I came out of the battle with but scratches on the knees, which were self inflicted if anything and a bruise on my arm from taking the blows through the shield.
To be honest, if he had worn armor, then it would have been my defeat from the very beginning, it would have been a fool's move to even go against it but he didn't, because of two reasons.
It is dictated by the Faith that trials must be fair to both the accuser and the accused, so a trial by combat should be done so fairly, since I was not wearing any armor, he shouldn't either, but this was such a false line and it could have been neglected by a knight as the Faith doesn't commands over them.
But the second reason held over the first, he underestimated a green boy like me.
It was a high risk, high reward strategy and I am so glad it paid off.
Who said it was hard to become a knight in Westeros, you just need to have luck and a sword.
There was a knock on the door, pulling me out of the reverie.
"Who is it?" I asked standing up from the bed.
The wooden door swung open slowly, a girl, older than me by a few years by her looks, stepped in with a polite grace.
"Milord, Lady Oakheart has hosted a banquet at the Great hall, she has called for you to join."
She slowly walked ahead and placed a set of clothes on a table by the window.
"What do they call you?" I asked as I slowly began to walk over towards her.
I could see her hesitate, as if she had been thrown into the cold sea and her mind didn't know what to do, I saw her gulp and turn around, her face now pointed at the stone floor.
"Daria, milord." She replied hastily.
"Daria, that's a pretty name," I smiled as I saw her cheery lips curve up slightly, her timid eyes slowly looking back up, I shook my head as I leaned myself against the table and took a look at the clothes she placed. "I'm no Lord, only a Ser."
The clothes were dull green and brown but they had better stitches than the ones I wore, a flowery pattern along the neck and long lines in crossing patterns.
"You may leave now, Daria."
Daria curtsied once and turned toward the door, her steps light and careful on the stone floor.
She had almost reached it when she paused, one hand resting on the iron latch.
She glanced back, cheeks faintly flushed in the wavering light. "Is… is that all, Ser? The new tunic has side laces, and the doublet ties at the back, they can be stubborn if you're not used to them. I could help you change, if it pleases you."
I weighed the offer for a heartbeat, my shoulders still carried the dull ache from yesterday's shield work, and the garments looked well made, with more ties and eyelets than the rough traveler's garb I was accustomed to, besides, there was no harm in practicality.
"I would appreciate it, Daria," I said, offering her a small nod.
She stepped forward again, steadier now, and busied her hands with unfolding the undertunic while I pulled the worn shirt over my head.
The rough linen caught briefly on a fresh scab near my shoulder; I tugged it free with a muffled grunt, when the shirt dropped to the floor, I stood bare-chested in the chill of the small chamber.
Daria's fingers paused on the clean linen.
[Shirtless Henri Image]
She did not flinch or avert her eyes, instead her gaze moved slowly across the map of scars that covered my torso, arms, and back.
Old lines from whips and knives, puckered burns, the long jagged slash from collarbone nearly to navel, the fresh bruise from Ser Calen was only a faint purple bloom on my arm amid the older marks.
She must have seen them before, of course, the whole yard had.
I gave a low chuckle. "You can admire me later, lass. I've no wish to keep the lady of the castle waiting."
Her face bloomed scarlet. "Forgive me, Ser,"
She whispered, snatching up the undertunic and stepping close.
Her hands were quick and cool as she helped me into it, then the heavier green-and-brown tunic.
She tugged the laces tight with practiced flicks, smoothed the embroidered collar, adjusted the cuffs. When she stepped back, she gave a small, satisfied nod.
"You look proper now, Ser, like you belong at table."
"My thanks, Daria." I buckled on my sword belt, the same plain longsword that had won me knighthood and gestured toward the door. "After you."
She slipped out ahead of me, and I followed her down the short corridor before she peeled away toward the servants' stair.
Old Oak seemed to breathe in every stone, the passage I walked was broad, I remembered being dragged through here by chains.
The walls hung with ancient tapestries of green leaves and golden acorns, faded now to muted olive and dull gilt.
Iron sconces shaped like spreading branches held torches that hissed and popped; their light threw long shadows across flagstones worn concave by centuries of Oakheart boots.
Arrow-slits pierced the outer wall at intervals, offering glimpses of moonlit orchards where apple trees stood, their blossoms pale in the dark.
A short flight of stairs brought me past an open gallery, suits of old plate stood there on wooden frames, green-enameled breastplates chased with golden oak leaves, helms crested with acorn finials.
Their empty visors seemed to follow me, judging the upstart who now claimed a place among them.
The noise of the Great Hall reached me long before I saw it, booming laughter, the metallic clink of cups, a lutist sawing at a jaunty reel beneath the din, men's voices rose in boast.
The moment I stepped through the wide double doors, the clamor stuttered.
Conversations faltered mid-sentence and heads turned, a thickset man with a bushy red beard glanced up, saw me, and nudged his companion hard enough to slosh wine over the rim of his cup.
A few eyes narrowed, some curious, most of them cold but the noise did not die entirely, but it no longer filled the space the way it had.
I kept my chin level and walked forward.
At the high table, beneath a carved canopy of intertwining oak branches, sat Lady Oakheart, the years had honed rather than softened her; she was pretty in a severe way, dark hair streaked with silver, bound in a simple net of gold wire and beside her sat Lord Arlyn, Heir.
Wine had flushed his cheeks, but his eyes were sharp, and fixed on me with undisguised distaste.
I halted before the dais and made a proper bow, right fist over heart. "My lady, my lord, I thank you for your hospitality."
Lady Arwyn inclined her head. "Ser Henri, the Seven have smiled upon you, it appears."
"It appears they have." I said with a polite smile.
"Join the men at the feast. There is meat and wine enough for all who keep the peace beneath my roof."
Her voice was even, almost warm and Arlyn said nothing, his knuckles whitened around his goblet, but he kept his silence.
I bowed again and moved to one of the lower tables where a place had been left conspicuously open.
A serving boy set a trencher before me without meeting my eyes: roasted capon glazed with honey and rosemary, a wedge of sharp white cheese veined with blue, dark bread still steaming from the ovens, a bowl of stewed plums fragrant with cinnamon and clove, a flagon of summer red followed, its color deep as spilled blood.
I ate slowly, tasting each bite, the capon fell tender from the bone, the skin crisp and sweet; the plums burst tart and warm across the tongue.
The wine rolled smooth over the palate, tasting of blackberries and new oak, fine fare—far finer than any I had known in the weeks of wandering.
Yet every mouthful felt observed.
The eyes never left me for long, a grizzled man-at-arms two benches down stared openly, scarred lip curled in contempt, another, younger, whispered to his neighbor; both laughed low and bitter.
Friends of Ser Calen, no doubt—men who had sparred with him at dawn, drunk with him at dusk, followed him into border skirmishes along the Mander.
Now their master lay in the keep with a slash through his chest, and here sat the green boy responsible.
I kept my gaze on my food, on the candle flames, on the lutist's nimble fingers.
I knew better than to say something, it was better to let them stare and let them hate.
Hate could not undo a trial by combat.
The feast dragged on and the men grew louder as the wine sank lower in the flagons, then quieter as heads began to nod.
Lord Arlyn rose abruptly, swaying, muttered something thick to his mother, and lurched toward a side door.
Two retainers hurried to steady him; he shook them off with an irritable gesture and disappeared.
Lady Arwyn watched him go with an unreadable expression. A few minutes later she stood.
"My thanks to all who have shared bread and salt tonight," she said, her voice carrying without effort. "I retire now, may the Mother send you gentle dreams."
She left by the same door her son had taken, her guards falling in behind like shadows.
The hall quieted further, without noble eyes to restrain them, the atmosphere shifted—edges sharpening, a few men whispered amongst and one of the younger guards cracked his knuckles slowly, deliberately.
I pushed my trencher away and rose.
There was no sense waiting for wine-soaked courage to turn into steel.
I had won my life once already; I would not test my favour with the Gods twice under the same roof.
So I walked out, hand near but not on my sword hilt.
Behind me the murmurs swelled again, but no boots followed. Not bold enough yet.
I had nearly reached the corridor leading to my chamber when a stooped old woman in dark wool stepped from a shadowed alcove, holding a single rushlight.
"Is that you, Ser Crent?" Her voice rasped like dry leaves.
I stopped. "Aye."
"Lady Oakheart bids you attend her, she would speak with you alone."
My pulse quickened. "Now?"
"Now, ser."
I studied her seamed face, she seemed to hold no malice, only wrinkles.
Still, a private summons from the lady, after her son had stormed off drunk and furious, after her master-at-arms had been wounded on my blade… it could be mercy, reward, or a quiet end in some forgotten stair.
"Lead on," I said.
She turned without another word and started down a narrow passage I had not noticed earlier.
We crossed a small inner court where night-blooming jasmine clung to trellises, its scent heavy on the warm air, then passed beneath an arched doorway into a round tower keep.
A spiral stair wound upward, lit only by the old woman's flickering rushlight and the occasional wall cresset.
I climbed with care, one hand trailing the cold stone wall, the other resting on my sword.
Each turn of the stairs felt like a new chance for a man and blade to come out of the dark.
But no ambush waited.
The stair opened onto a wide, roofless platform ringed by a low battlement.
Stars burned cold and bright overhead, no pattern I recognized and no constellations I've known.
A single tall torch stand flared near the center, casting restless gold across the stones.
Lady Oakheart stood near the parapet, her back to me, gazing out over the dark expanse of orchards and the distant silver gleam of the Mander.
She turned as my boots grated on the stone.
"Ser Henri," she said quietly. "Thank you for coming, I've had a few questions for you."