Looking out my window, the castle was still draped in darkness despite the early hour. The eastern sky was just beginning to lighten, that deep blue-black that came before true dawn. A few stars still clung stubbornly to the fading night.
My eyes felt heavy, gritty like someone had rubbed sand in them. My left calf was cramping, a dull persistent ache that made me want to stretch it out and massage the knot. I let out a yawn so wide my jaw cracked.
I had not gotten a good night's sleep.
Turned out that getting a crack-like dose of visions and prophecies before going to bed was not conducive to restful slumber. Who knew?
My dreams had been filled with fire and ice in equal measure. Dragon breath hot enough to melt stone. Frozen corpses shambling through blizzards. That tower of dark stone rising impossibly high, its angles wrong in ways that hurt to remember. Aegon and his sisters standing on this very hill, talking about secrets that predated their conquest.
And through it all, Melisandre's red eyes watching me. Quaithe's mask appearing in shadows. The glass candle pulsing with that terrible warmth.
I'd woken up around fourth bell, heart racing, sheets soaked with sweat despite the summer warmth. Had lain in bed for a couple hours hoping sleep would return. No deal. My mind kept churning, replaying the visions, trying to make sense of what I'd seen.
Eventually I gave up. Might as well start the day early.
And if there was one group of people I needed to meet today that I knew were early risers, it was the Kingsguard.
After splashing cold water on my face—which helped with the exhaustion about as much as pissing on a forest fire helped put it out—and dressing in a simple linen shirt and dark breeches, I headed out toward the White Sword Tower.
A distant rooster was just now starting its call, the sound carrying across the castle grounds.
The Red Keep at this hour was a different place than during the day. Sparse. Quiet. Almost peaceful, if you ignored the underlying tension that seemed to permeate the very stones.
No nobles wandered the corridors yet. Just stern-faced guards at their posts, standing rigid in Targaryen colors. A few servants hurried past carrying linens or buckets, eager to finish their tasks and disappear before the castle properly woke.
And they all looked at me.
The guards tracked me with their eyes as I passed, expressions carefully neutral but assessing. Measuring. The servants glanced up, then quickly away, but not before I caught the mixture of emotions on their faces.
Approval and wariness in equal parts. Respect tinged with fear.
The stories had clearly made their rounds around the castle already. Though I shouldn't have expected anything different. Yesterday I'd technically defied the king in front of half the court, stolen a Kingsguard's sword, and killed a man mid-execution. Then I'd talked my way out of it and walked away not only unpunished but praised.
That kind of thing didn't stay quiet.
Some of the guards nodded as I passed, acknowledgment of a sort. Others just stared, like I was a curiosity in a menagerie. One servant actually pressed herself against the wall as I walked by, as if afraid I might suddenly burst into flames or start killing people at random.
I tried to ignore it all. Kept my eyes forward, my pace steady. Just a man walking through the castle on legitimate business.
The White Sword Tower rose in the eastern part of the Red Keep, built against the outer wall. It was a slender structure, four stories tall, made of the same pale red stone as the rest of the castle but somehow distinct. Set apart. A tower within a fortress, home to men who were meant to be above ordinary concerns.
There were no sentries posted outside.
It was strange seeing an entrance unguarded, but I supposed it was a matter of pride for the Kingsguard. They didn't depend on regular men-at-arms or, gods forbid, the gold cloaks. They were the finest warriors in the Seven Kingdoms. They protected themselves.
Still, the thick oak door was iron-banded and locked tight.
I knocked. Waited. Knocked again.
No response.
I knocked harder, the sound echoing in the quiet morning. Once. Twice. Three times. Four.
My hand was still raised mid-knock when the door swung open.
And I found myself face to face with absolutely the wrong person.
I'd hoped for Ser Barristan Selmy. We'd met, and had formed a sort of silent but respectful rapport over our brief interactions. Or even Ser Arthur Dayne. At least I could say I'd crossed lances with him at Lannisport, had some shared history even if it was just us trying to knock each other off horses.
One of the two who'd stood outside the king's solar when I first arrived wouldn't have been so bad either. And I'd heard good things about Ser Oswell Whent, who apparently had a sense of humor unusual among the white cloaks.
But Ser Gerold Hightower, commonly known as the White Bull and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, did not share Ser Oswell's rumored amiable nature.
Nor did I expect Whent to look at me like I'd stolen his lunch money in front of the whole school. Which is kind of what I had done to Ser Gerold, the modern equivalent of stealing a Kingsguard's sword in front of his king and his peers and half the realm.
"Ser Gerold," I said, trying for a respectful tone. "Uh. I came to get the sword."
His face darkened further. Actually darkened, like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
He wasn't wearing the whites of his office. Just a shirt rolled up at the sleeves, revealing forearms that looked like they'd been carved from oak. His fingers gripped the doorframe, and I swear I heard the wood creak under the pressure. They were stained black with ink, like he'd been writing.
He looked like a man who'd just been interrupted in his work by the last person he ever wanted to see this early in the morning.
"Not your sword, ser," I corrected quickly. "My sword. The one Ser Barristan took from me in the great hall. That sword. Not yours."
The words tumbled out faster than I intended. I was starting to sweat.
He did not stop staring at me. Not once. His eyes, pale blue, sharp as dragonsteel, narrowed with an intensity that made me want to take a step back.
And though I was a tall man, taller than most, Ser Gerold Hightower stood less than two inches shorter than me and built like the animal he was named after. A bull. All muscle and power and contained violence.
His visible forearms were thick and corded, each muscle defined beneath sun-darkened skin. His neck was like a marble pillar, supporting a head that looked like it could headbutt through a door. Legs like the trunks of old-growth trees.
These days, I'd bet on myself against any man on principle alone. I'd fought too many real fights, killed too many men who'd wanted to kill me. But I'd be a fool to underestimate an old goat still playing a young man's game.
Ser Gerold Hightower hadn't lived to be well into his fifties by being a pushover.
He released the doorframe, slowly and deliberately, then stepped out of the tower. His fists were balled up at his sides like iron hammers and I took an instinctual step back. Couldn't help it. My heart started to race.
Was I really about to fight the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard right here and now? In the middle of the Red Keep at dawn?
Clout I might have had with the king, but I'd already probably spent more than my fair share of it yesterday. And even if I hadn't, I didn't think Aerys Targaryen would side with me if I killed his Lord Commander.
But instead of swinging at me like I'd imagined, Ser Gerold turned right and strode away.
"Follow me, Tarth," he said. Not loud or angry. Just a command stated flatly, as if certain I'd follow.
I stood there for a moment, considering my options.
I could refuse. Turn around and go back to my chambers. Pretend this never happened and try again later when someone more reasonable was on duty.
But I was a knight, damn it. And if I had the balls to steal this man's sword and disobey a king in front of half the court, I shouldn't be hesitating about following Gerold Hightower now.
Did I feel a little hot around the collar as I started walking? Did I keep one eye on my surroundings like I expected the other Kingsguards to jump me like some street gang?
Perchance.
It wasn't the gallows Ser Gerold took me to, though. Just a small courtyard tucked behind the White Sword Tower and what looked like an old stable that hadn't seen a horse in decades. Maybe since before the Dance of Dragons.
The place was sparse and still half-wreathed in shadows. The sun was only now poking up in the east, painting the top of the Red Keep's towers gold while leaving everything below in gloom.
There was a fountain in one corner that looked to have dried up during the reign of Jaehaerys. And I didn't mean Aerys' father. An old bent willow tree whose limbs scraped the cobblestones when a breeze rolled in. And a simple weapons rack tucked against the back of the tower, holding training swords and other equipment covered in more cobwebs than polishing wax.
This was a forgotten corner of the castle. A place no one came anymore.
Perfect for what, exactly?
Ser Gerold stopped and turned around when he reached the center of the courtyard. He rolled his shoulders, loosening them. Cracked his neck with a sound like breaking branches.
"What's this, Lord Commander?" I asked.
"We are going to fight, you and I."
I sighed. Of course. Of course that's what this was.
"Lord Commander," I said, trying to sound reasonable. "Ser Gerold. I just want my sword back. I didn't mean any disrespect yesterday—"
"I'm not asking, Tarth. I'm going to fight you." He settled into a stance, weight balanced. "You would be wise to fight back."
Sucking in a breath, I felt irritation flare hot in my chest. Things could never be simple, could they? Never just a polite conversation and an exchange of property. Always had to be a fucking production.
I cracked my own neck. Flexed my arms and shoulders. I was feeling like shit. My muscles were sore from yesterday's marathon sparring session. My head ached from lack of sleep and too many visions. My left eye still felt gritty and dry.
Maybe a little spar would set me straight. Just to humor the old man if nothing else. Work out some of the tension that had been building since I woke from those nightmares.
I turned and started toward the weapons rack.
Ser Gerold clicked his tongue. "No swords."
I stopped. "What?"
"You heard me." His expression was hard, unyielding. "Unfortunately, there's one reason why I can't cripple you. And if we used swords, I'd cripple you. So no swords. Fists only, boy."
Boy?
I felt my pride flare up like someone had thrown oil on a fire. I respected the old man—respected his reputation, his skill, his position. But he was twenty years too old to think I was someone he could cripple at will.
Glowering, I nodded and rolled my sleeves up. If the old bull wanted a brawl, I'd give him a brawl.
"Don't look so glum now." There was something like amusement in Ser Gerold's voice. "You were asking for this yesterday in the yard, were you not? Challenging any Kingsguard to test yourself against them?"
I shrugged. "Wanted to test myself against the best."
"And who said you were even worthy to try our blades?"
I couldn't help the smirk that crossed my face. "Worthy enough when I tested it in the great hall, Lord Commander."
I used the title mockingly. Let him hear the disrespect in it.
"Brat," Ser Gerold growled.
Then he closed the distance.
What followed was brutal. Vicious. The kind of fight that left marks you'd be explaining for weeks.
It started with Gerold throwing a straight right that would have taken my head off if it connected. I slipped it, barely, felt the wind of it pass my ear. Responded with a jab to his ribs that landed solid. He grunted but didn't even flinch, just came back with a left hook that caught me on the jaw and made my vision spark.
We traded blows like that for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes. Gerold had power on me, and a thicker skull, and decades of experience fighting men who wanted him dead. But I was younger, faster, and those two inches were coming in clutch now.
I took a shot to the chest that drove the air from my lungs, left me wheezing. Responded with a kidney shot that nearly folded the old man, made him grunt in actual pain. His lip split when my elbow caught him on the follow-through. My nose started bleeding when his forehead cracked into my face.
Upper cuts and jabs and wild haymakers when we got tired and sloppy. Clinching and breaking and circling each other like dogs.
Somewhere in there, Gerold measured me up properly. I could see it in his eyes, the moment he realized I actually knew how to fight. That this wasn't just some lordling who'd learned proper swordwork and thought he was a warrior.
He growled something that might have been approval or might have been a curse.
We kept going. Both refusing to fall even as we hunched over in pain, faces swelling, blood dripping from split lips and broken noses.
"Stand still, coward!" Gerold barked when I dodged three punches in a row, dancing out of range.
"Not my fault your old man reflexes can't keep up," I shot back, breathing hard.
"I'll be keeping up with little brats like you when I'm so old I can't even wipe myself," he snarled, coming at me again.
"That why you took so long to answer the door?" I grinned through bloody teeth. "Had someone wiping you up in your tower?"
That earned me a punch to the gut that made me see stars. Worth it.
We kept fighting. Kept trading blows and insults in equal measure. My knuckles were raw and bleeding. So were his. One of his eyes was starting to swell shut. I could taste copper in my mouth every time I breathed.
Finally, Ser Gerold stepped back. Raised a hand. Called it.
"Aye," he said, breathing hard. "That's a proper fight, that."
I chuckled, though it came out as more of a wheeze. "Who knew an old Reach flower like you knew how to swing like a man."
"Don't confuse me for a Tyrell, boy."
He let out a final breath, then straightened up. Just like that, as if he suddenly felt no pain or discomfort. As if we hadn't just spent the last however-long beating the shit out of each other.
Old men. Built different.
He waved at me. "Now come."
This time I followed without hesitation. Whatever test this had been, I'd apparently passed.
He led me toward the rookery, which was close enough to the White Sword Tower that we didn't run into anyone on the way. A good thing too, since it would be an awkward scene to explain—a bloodied and bruised Lord Commander of the Kingsguard escorting an equally bloodied and bruised young knight to see the maesters at dawn.
My face was going to look like hell by the time the sun was properly up.
xxx
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