The torches flickered and wavered against the walls of the city as Ser Donnel Locke guided the small column of twenty men through the narrow streets. Ten marched on foot, poles bearing flames, the rest rode behind, hooves clattering against the worn stone. Donnel's eyes never strayed far from Arthur. The young lord rode ahead, a noble figure in a black doublet threaded with silver, a merman gripping a trident embroidered across his chest. Every movement nearby caught Donnel's attention, every shadow was a possible blade.
"You fret too much, Donnel," Arthur said, voice light and warm, drifting over the clatter of hooves. "The ride is short. The watch is everywhere. There is no danger here."
Donnel's lips tightened. "The watch," he said, "and their commander, Janos Slynt? They could not protect an egg from a chicken. Gods know they would not keep you safe if a dagger fell from shadowed hands."
Arthur laughed then, a bright, ringing sound that scattered some of the night's tension. "You are not wrong," he said, "Still, we could have brought fewer men tonight. Nothing waits for us here."
"There is danger everywhere," Donnel said, "In taverns, in narrow alleys, behind doors that appear locked. The world is full of blades that will strike for coin, for spite, or for sport. A young lord alone is temptation itself."
Arthur tilted his head slightly, a smile playing at his lips, "Even so, I am no longer a boy, Ser Donnel. And I have weathered worse than these streets."
Donnel's jaw tightened. "And you are no fool, if you were you'd know that experience is no shield against an arrow."
Arthur sighed then, long and dramatic, "You are fearsome company, Ser Donnel," he said, his words laced with amusement.
"And you, young man, are a foolish one," the knight muttered and sighed. "But 'tis my duty to watch over you."
Arthur's laugh rang again, low and warm. "And I would have it no other way, Oh, Donnel the vigilant!"
"You seemed… distant at the feast," Donnel said, his voice low, "You were quiet. Far quieter than a man who had just won the tilts and crowned the princess."
"I was no quieter than you, Donnel," Arthur said, eyes straight ahead.
"I had duty there," Donnel replied, "You were supposed to enjoy your victories."
Arthur gave a slow, rueful smile, "I did, until they began speaking of my father." he said. "I do not mind the tales, Donnel. I would hear of my father from all who knew him. I only wish… I only wish he were still here."
The words hung in the night air, Donnel's heart clenched with a quiet ache, one that had visited him many times in long nights since Ser William's passing.
"Aye," Donnel muttered quietly. "I know."
"I feel their absence," Arthur said quietly, almost to himself. "I have felt it every day."
Donnel's hand rested lightly on the boy's shoulders, "They watch over you from the stars, Arthur." he said, "As they always have. And I… I stand here with all that is left of me, and more."
Arthur gave a quiet grateful smile. "And I am lucky for it, Donnel," he said softly.
Donnel rode ahead of the men, as the street opened into the courtyard. Halder, the steward, was waiting at the gates, cloak drawn against the chill, bowing low. "My lord, welcome home,"
Arthur handed the reins of his mount to a stable hand. "See the men readied and the wagons packed. I'll have gifts for my kin, as promised." his voice light but carrying command. His eyes lingered a moment at the gates, "Goodnight, Donnel," he said softly. "Sleep well. We sail soon."
Then, as quickly as he had come through the gate, he turned and passed inside, leaving a quiet melancholy in his wake.
Donnel's eyes followed him until the heavy doors closed, then shifted to the men, "Ser Tristan," he called, motioning to the senior knight-sergeant, "The column moves at first light. Prepare horses for the knights, and sergeants."
Ser Tristan inclined his head, "It shall be done, Captain."
Once the orders were issued, Donnel moved among the night watches, inspecting the men with a sharp eye. He knew each of these men, their strengths and weaknesses, their temperaments. Their lives were his responsibility, and failure was a thought he would not entertain. No man would falter under his watch.
Satisfied at last, Donnel entered his quarters and unbuckled his sword belt, though his thoughts clung stubbornly to the night past. Despite himself, he moved toward the window, drawn by a weight he could neither name nor resist.
Below, in the courtyard, Arthur sat once more, the same as the night before, fingers dancing lightly across the strings of a lute. The melody was softer, a golden thread woven into the hush of the evening as Arthur's voice spun of longing and memory. Donnel leaned closer, careful that the shutter made no sound. A man in his station had no business spying on his charge, but he watched all the same.
Arthur's eyes lifted as he sang. Donnel followed the gaze.
There, framed in the soft glow of stained glass and moonlight, stood a figure at Arthur's balcony. A girl, no older than Arthur himself, her hair pale gold like starlight, her skin as fine as porcelain. She watched him with a look that teetered between sorrow and something like love.
She wore no jewelry, no silks, just a simple blue dress that fluttered slightly in the breeze. Yet she had the bearing of a lady born, and more than that a mystery about her, like a story half-whispered and half-hidden.
Donnell's heart stirred with unease. He had not seen her before. And he made it his duty to know who walked within the walls of Arthur's house. But this girl… she had come and gone like a shadow. Was she the one whose favor Arthur wore? The one Donnel had glimpsed this morning, fading into nothing like a dream?
A tryst, he realized. Or something deeper. Arthur had never been one for brothel girls, never let the court's temptations snare him. If he sang for her, it was not lust that moved him. It was love.
And that frightened Donnell more than any assassin's blade.
A noble girl? Perhaps. A bastard of some high house? Or worse, a daughter promised to someone else?
The risks curled in his gut like bad wine. Yet he saw the way Arthur smiled at her when the last note fell still. It was a smile that did not belong to the courts or crowds. It was the smile of a man who had found something the world might not let him keep.
Donnell stepped back from the window, silently. He would say nothing. Not yet.
Let the boy tell it in his own time. If it was a secret, it was not his to spill. But his duty would not waver. No matter the girl or the risk, he would guard Arthur's heart as fiercely as his life.
He closed the shutter, drew the bolt, and laid down in the quiet dark.
Dawn came slow, dragging Donnel from uneasy sleep. His bones ached as they ever did, stiff with the years. He sat up in the dark, listening. No song this morning, only the faint creak of birds and the muffled voices below.
Donnel dressed as he always did, piece by piece, mail on first, heavy on the shoulders, then the boiled leather with its steel plates. He buckled on his swordbelt last, the weight familiar as breath. A man who swore to guard another's life had no right to meet the morning unarmed. His mind already turning to the day's duties.
Donnel came to Arthur's chamber and found a different man at the door. The guard straightened, helm tucked beneath his arm. Lenny, broad-shouldered, soft-faced, scarcely twenty, from some fishing hamlet in the Rills. The boy gave a stiff salute, too quick by half.
"Ser Donnel," he said, voice eager and uncertain.
Donnel's eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?"
The lad shifted, color rising in his cheeks. "Sergeant Woolfield placed me here, ser."
Donnel's frown deepened. "Where is Micah?"
"Ah… he's taken ill, ser." Lenny rubbed the back of his neck. "The shits. Few of the men have it. They're laid up in the barracks. Sergeant Woolfield set me here in his stead."
A chill stirred Donnel's gut. Sickness that struck sudden and all at once was no small thing. It stank of negligence—or worse.
"And Lord Arthur?" Donnel asked.
"In the gardens, ser," Lenny answered, grateful for the change of subject. "Down early to spar, he was."
The boy's shoulders eased once the words were out, as if some unspoken test had passed. Donnel held his stare a heartbeat longer, then gave a short nod."Keep your eyes sharp," he said.
"Yes, ser."
Donnel left him there, striding down the stairwell. He pushed through the barracks door and found Ser Tristan waiting. His second straightened at once, helm tucked beneath his arm, sword at his hip.
"Ser Donnel," Tristan said, offering a salute crisp enough, though Donnel marked the unease in his eyes.
Donnel wasted no time. "How did Micah and the others come by this sickness? And how many are there?"
Tristan's jaw worked as if he chewed on the words before spitting them out. "Five, ser. It started in the night. Stomachs turned, runs after. Bad enough they couldn't stand to their posts."
"Five?" Donnel's voice came low, dangerous. "And how did five men take ill together?"
Tristan hesitated. That was answer enough.
"Out with it."
The older knight cleared his throat. "After Lord Arthur's victory at the lists, he gave them five gold dragons apiece. Told them to celebrate the day. Some went to the taverns in town. Wine, meat, women… come morning, they were struck. I thought—"
"You thought," Donnel cut in, the words sharp as steel, "to keep it from me?"
Tristan flinched. "My lord bid me say nothing, ser. I only—"
"You answer to me," Donnel barked, and his voice filled the chamber, ringing against stone. "When I give a rule, it is iron. Did you think I set them only for sport? When we are away from home, the guard does not carouse. They keep their posts."
Tristan dropped his gaze. "Aye, ser."
Donnel's hands curled tight around the edge of his belt. Arthur's generosity was a fault that would see them all undone.
"Those men will take lashes," Donnel said, "After they've strength enough to stand, they'll feel the whip. Let them learn that a soldier's folly is a captain's shame, and a captain's shame is a lash upon his back."
Tristan nodded stiffly. "As you say, ser."
Donnel turned on his heel and strode towards the garden. Sunlight struck his eyes, beyond the hedges he heard the clack of wooden swords, shouts muffled by the garden walls.
The ring of wood on wood drew him past the hedges, into the training yard at the garden's heart. Four men were circling Arthur, each with a blunted sword in hand, sweat glistening on their brows. The boy danced among them, quick and sure, his blade a flicker of light in the morning sun.
Donnel leaned on the rail and watched, saying nothing.
Arthur parried one blow, spun to catch another, then slipped past a third to strike clean at the fourth. One man down. Another followed, the boy's stroke knocking the sword from his grasp. A twist, a feint, a thrust, and the third staggered back, winded. The last man pressed him hard, but Arthur turned aside the attack with a speed that left the knight sprawling.
Donnel's mouth pressed tight, though pride stirred in his chest despite him. Better, perhaps, than his father was at such a young age, he thought. Talent was both a blessing and a peril.
Arthur's eyes found him then. The boy's smile broke across his face, careless, charming, "Ser Donnel!" he called, sweeping sweat from his brow. "You've come to see me thrash your men again."
The knights saluted Donnel, sheepish in their defeat. Donnel gave them leave with a curt nod. "Go. Leave us."
They scattered, grateful enough. Donnel did not speak again until the yard was theirs alone. Then he fixed Arthur with a stare sharp as the edge of a drawn sword.
"Why did you go over my head?" he asked, voice low but iron-bound. "And give such a careless command?"
Arthur blinked, "What command?"
"Gold," Donnel said, "Five dragons apiece, and leave to spend them. Men lie abed this morning with their bowels spilling."
Arthur's smile faltered. "I… I thought to reward them. For the tourney." He dragged a hand through his damp hair. "It was a mistake, then."
"It was," Donnel said.
Arthur's lips thinned. "Will they be well?"
"Aye, healers say they'll mend in time."
His face softened, "Then I am sorry, Donnel. Truly. I should have spoken to you first. Next time, I will."
Donnel studied him a moment longer, then let his shoulders ease. "So long as you learn from it. You must be more careful, lad. A lord makes enemies without trying, and you have more than most."
Arthur nodded, sober now. "I will remember." His eyes flicked upward, thoughtful. "Who's been set to my chamber door?"
"Lenny," Donnel answered.
Arthur's grin returned, "Good. I like Lenny. He always makes an awkward jest after he salutes."
Donnel frowned. "He doesn't do it with me."
"Of course not," Arthur said, the laughter already in his voice. "Have you looked at yourself? No man with sense would jest with you, Donnel."
Arthur fell into step beside him as they left the gardens, wooden sword still in hand. Sweat clung to the boy, but his stride was light, as if the morning's sparring had only roused him further. Donnel's own boots sounded heavier, his mail whispering with every turn of the stairs.
"Are the preparations complete?" Arthur asked as they climbed.
"They are," Donnel said. "The men are ready. The sick ones will remain here until they're fit, then take passage on the next ship bound for White Harbor."
Arthur gave a brisk nod. "Good. I'll be with King Robert for luncheon."
Donnel grunted assent. "Then I'll see the men set for escort."
"Not so many as last time," Arthur said, half a smile tugging at his mouth. "I would not have His Grace think I come bristling with spears at every turn."
Donnel's jaw tightened, though his tone stayed even. "I'll think on it."
They reached the second floor of the manse, the hall washed in the pale light of morning. Arthur paused before his chamber door. "Join me for breakfast after I've had a bath," he said.
"As you wish," Donnel answered.
Arthur pushed open the door, greeting the guard outside with his usual warmth. Lenny straightened, hand raised in salute, and muttered a jest awkward and timid,
"Morning, my lord… what… what does a Lannister do… shit debts," he said, "Ohh… pardon me lord, they would be shit gold… no, no… pay debts.."
Arthur laughed, but the boy's smile was faintly forced. Donnel noticed the interaction, and frowned. Not every one was made for jests. He decided to have a talk with Lenny later. He watched Arthur vanish within, then turned to his own chamber down the hall. Yet unease gnawed at him, coiling low in his gut. Men falling sick without warning. Men falling sick without warning. What if these are not coincidences?
Donnel bolted from his chamber, to check on the boy again. His hand went for the hilt of his sword as he reached Arthur's door, senses sharpened. Lenny was nowhere to be found. He found it locked from the inside.
"Lenny!" he barked, but no answer came.
Donnel's mind raced, each scenario sharper than the last. The boy in danger. The guard compromised. Something is amiss. He struck the door with his shoulder, then his boot, the lock yielding with a shudder. The door splintered under his blows. He kicked it open fully, sword hand ready and burst into the chamber.
Arthur stood at the far side, Valyrian steel sword Nightfall in hand, its tip leveled with a figure who should have been nothing more than a loyal footman. But it was not Lenny. The man stood stiff, unnatural, a grim mask over the familiar features. Every instinct Donnel had honed in decades of watch and war screamed at him.
"Welcome, Donnel," Arthur said, voice calm, almost casual, though the steel in his hand gleamed like a promise of blood. "I was wondering how long it would take you to notice. I'm glad to see you are still sharp as ever."
Donnel barked. "What is happening? Who is this?" His eyes flicked to the door just as the other guards arrived, drawn by the noise. He signaled with a sharp gesture to hold their ground.
Arthur's eyes never left the figure. "I am asking him the same question," he said evenly, "for it is plain he is not Lenny."
Donnel's mind sharpened, turning over the possibilities in an instant. Poisoned, replaced, a spy… Assassin.
Arthur's next words carried the weight of a man who had seen death too young. "I noticed it immediately, as I greeted him at the door. His stance, his glance… slightly wrong. An assassin, who thought to take me unawares."
Donnel's chest tightened. He had faced brigands, cutthroats, men who lived by steel and treachery alike. But Arthur's presence, calm and dangerous with Nightfall in hand, forced him to reckon with the impossible: the boy could see death coming and meet it without flinching.
The man who had once been Lenny stepped forward, voice low, almost sibilant.
"A man is no one," he said.
Donnel froze, eyes narrowing. "What—"
Arthur's gaze sharpened. "A Lorathi? Is that… glamor I see over your face, assassin?"
The man tilted his head, curious, "A boy knows death's face? A man is impressed."
Donnel felt a cold pulse along his spine. Glamor. The magic of disguise he had heard whispered in fearful tales. Faceless men. If Arthur had been marked by such a creature, it was by the gods grace alone he still drew breath.
Arthur's lips curved in the faintest ghost of a smile. "I knew as much. You overplayed your part. Poor Lenny. I hope you gave him a merciful end."
"All gifts are merciful," the man said, voice low and strange, carrying weight as if from another world entirely. "The red god takes them from life's suffering to his gentle embrace."
"Who spoke my name?" Arhur asked calmly.
"A man does not ask. A man only pays what is due."
Donnel's hand tightened on his sword. "Arthur… we need to kill him now. It's a miracle you survived."
The man's gaze fixed on Arthur. "A boy sees death. A boy cheats death. A boy stinks of death. A man knows."
Donnel's stomach twisted.
The slightest curve appeared on Arthur's lips as he said, "To hire a Faceless Man…The Sealord must be desperate indeed."
The man said, "Gift comes not from desperation, but sacrifice."
Arthur's eyes narrowed, "And what sacrifice," he asked, "is worth my life?"
"A man does not know," the assassin replied, "Only the red god knows."
Arthur's lips curved, ghostlike calm, "Your mission failed. You failed."
The man's head tilted, almost in amusement. "A boy would not live forever. A man did not fail. The Red God would take a boy's life when it is due."
Donnel's blood roared. "Enough!" he barked, voice cutting through the chamber like a blade. "Arrest this man! Execute him."
"No," Arthur said, "Send him to the Black cells."
Donnel's jaw clenched. "Arthur, you're makin—"
Arthur interrupted, sharp, unyielding. "Now."
The man's eyes flicked from Donnel to Arthur, a ghost of a smile tracing his lips. "A boy lets a man live… why?"
Arthur's gaze held steady, "A man can ask his god."
The assassin inclined his head once, almost in deference, before the guards stepped forward to take him away. The man was gone, but the weight of the encounter pressed against the walls, in the air itself.
Arthur turned to Donnel untroubled, "Come now, Donnel. We have breakfast waiting."
Donnel lowered his blade, voice hushed as he muttered to himself, "By the gods… he's gone mad…"