Chapitre 4: Sheltered Truths
The sharp clanging of dull steel rang through the training yard of Highgarden. Luke's arm trembled as he steadied himself for the next blow.
He saw it coming, but his arms did not have the strength to block effectively. The weak attempt at a dodge was easily bypassed by the smirking figure of Parmen Crane, as a blow landed under Luke's ribs finally knocking the wind from his lungs, and throwing him to the ground.
"Get up, boy!" He heard Ser Vortimer shout.
It had been stupid in hindsight. He should have stuck to learning the forms. Picking up a live blade and swinging it around in the yard was a dumb decision.
Especially when the daughters of Ser Crane had been watching.
He hadn't been trying to gain their attention. That would be fanciful indeed, not that he had managed to do so in the slightest, flopping about with the sword that he was.
"On your feet!" the lordling, Parmen Crane jeered.
Luke tried to get up again, but his side throbbed with pain.
"What, peasant? Too busy mooning over my sisters to even lift your sword? Mayhaps when you've learned to hold it steady, they might spare you a pitying glance."
He heard soft chuckling from the people around him.
"Want to be a Knight, do you?" The older boy he heard the boy ask.
A flush of shame hotter than any battle wound colored his face. "I-I..." his voice stammered, then failed him under the weight of Parmen's mockery.
"Of course you do, dung shoveler. Knights with their shining armor, their tales of valor... easy to forget they bleed red, just like you." He stepped closer, the training sword twirling menacingly in his hand. "But some pigs were never meant to fly, boy. Squire is all that you could ever be. Then again, mayhaps you'll win a few tourneys by shoveling dung onto the field so your opponent's horse slips. That's the only way a peasant like you could beat a true knight."
His voice caught in his throat. Tears stung his eyes. He couldn't say anything to the boy of higher birth.
"That's enough, Parmen!" Ser Crane's voice boomed through the yard. "The boy's done for today. Igor, see to him...and then get scrubbing mulberry boy! I want her mane softer than the maiden's cunt!" The knight's tone was stern, but the hint of a smirk lingered on his lips.
Luke felt his humiliation deepen. He knew that stable work was in for him till the memory of the day was lost from everyone's heads.
Cleaning a knight's sword, brushing their horse, and learning the basics of swordsmanship. That was the work of a page.
But he knew he should forget touching a sword for a week at least.
He bowed his head, unable to meet anyone's gaze as Igor shuffled him away.
He refused to cry, head bowed in embarassment, he saw a stable hand named Igor approach, "C'mon then," Igor said gruffly, placing a hand on Luke's shoulder. "Ribs ain't nothin' a bit of rest and some salve won't fix."
He let Igor lead him away. He'd patch his wounds and carry out his duties with the same diligence as always.
Parmen was right, of course. He'd never be a knight.
He'd been lucky to be taken as a page because his father guarded Lord Tyrell's solar and had saved Ser Quentin Tyrell during the war of ninepenny kings some years before he had been born, before Ser Quentin had been a knight.
The village thought he would become a Knight. But that was far from the truth. There would be no Knight in Mander Bank's village.
The only way to knighthood for him was through tourneys. And those were expensive to take part in, difficult to reach, and if he managed that, difficult to win.
'Heh, how will Caelum even manage?' he thought ruefully, as Igor applied coltsfoot sap to his ribs.
He hadn't wanted anything to do with the boy. But his mum had insisted the day after the Night of the Fallen Star. She truly believed the little boy to be blessed by the seven.
But then he'd spent a week by his side, helping the boy's father at the farm. He had been born cursed. Bleeding with every breath he took, wheezing painfully.
He had thought he would die. He'd pitied him then, helped the boy's mum take care of him while she brewed her ale, cooked the food, or did some other chore.
Weeks blurred into months, yet the boy clung to life, and surprisingly the boy clung to life as stubbornly as a weed between cobblestones.
Watching him grow, suffering with the curse, but smiling like the bloody sun all the same made him come to love the boy like his own brother.
"That should take care of that," Igor said, as he finally finished applying the salve. The wound still stung and looked purple all over. "Big lumbering balls of steel you must've had. Eyein' Ser Crane's girls like that. When the man was but yards away from you."
Luke winced, less at the bruise than at Igor's words. "Wasn't eyeing anyone," he mumbled, the familiar sting of shame washing over him again. "Just... lost my footing."
Igor snorted. "With both feet planted like an oak? You swung yer sword for the ladies' attention, sure as a rooster's crow at dawn," Igor finished, a teasing grin splitting his bearded face. "Don't fret none, lad. Can't blame ya for lookin' where ya shouldn't. Beauty has a way of making a man do foolish things. But enough talk, get to scrubbing Ser Crane's horse, lad. Your Da' will come get yer come nightfall. At the castle sept, if I remember correctly, he'd said. "
As the balding, yellow-toothed man left the stable handing him a coarse brush, and a stool to sit.
Brushing the coarse brush through its mane, he thought of his little brother. He would never be a knight. That was reality, harsh though it may be.
The boy was too pure, naïve, forgiving. Even after the whispered curses the village spat at him, jealous of his father's star-blessed wealth, he never held malice in his heart. The only time he'd seen the boy truly angry was when old Crofton had jeered at his mother.
The man had taken a beating by Jerren and Uncle Harlon, for it. But the boy's ire then was truly something to behold.
Even if he managed to overcome the curse of the star, and gained the strength of a man, Luke knew in his heart that he would never truly be able to become a knight. Knights were born, not made.
The only way to become a knight, for low born like them was for some lord to take pity like Lord Quentin had done with him, after his father had saved his life, or by winning a tourney besting lords and knights of higher standing.
Easier said than done. Men died in tourneys as easily as hogs succumbed to spring rot.
But convincing him to abandon that path was like trying to stop the Mander from flowing to the sea. Caelum had the stubbornness of a thousand mules, fueled by a heart as bright as the star they said cursed him.
Brushing Mulberry's coarse mane, Luke couldn't shake the memory. It was as vivid as the purple bruise on his ribs.
"I won't give up, Luke," Caelum would say. Not the weak, wheezy voice of a sickly child, but the one he carried in his heart. Chin jutting out, those startling blue eyes blazing. "Knights help people. I can do that!"
Luke's grip on the brush tightened. If only wishing could make it so. Caelum, cursed from birth, clinging to life with a stubbornness that defied the gods themselves. A flicker of his spirit was stronger than any knight at Highgarden.
"Dreaming about highborn maidens again, lad?" Igor's gruff voice startled Luke out of his thoughts. He couldn't meet the stable hand's eyes. He was checking the mane of the horse with a critical eye.
"Wasn't... no maidens," he gritted out with clenched teeth
Igor snorted, a sound like an old mare clearing her throat. "Whatever you say. She's almost done. Finish up and go wait for yer Da' at the sept."
Nodding he finished the last few strokes of the brush on the horse' shiny mane, and bid the balding man goodbye.
He tried to shake his thoughts, and forget about his little brother but he just couldn't.
Old Septon Mattheus had tried, he taught him about the sacrifices of being a knight in as kind a way as he could for a boy just four, but Caelum had come out for it more resolved than ever before. Enamored, and enraptured with the idea of the ideal knight.
The man couldn't do more. Refused to even. Said such pure souls need not be tarnished so quickly.
He couldn't ever say no to his eager bright blue eyes. Neither could Luke, or Mary really.
Sometimes he wondered why Uncle Harlon indulged his dreams.
The man was a simple farmer, a quiet man who loved his family fiercely. He'd seen his brothers die chasing the fleeting glory of knighthood, understood the harsh reality of their lowborn status. Yet, when Caelum's eyes shone with that stubborn hope, Harlon never quite extinguished it.
He hoped he didn't have to do it himself. He couldn't bear the thought. He'd made the boy a promise, one he didn't know how he was going to keep.
He would try of course, but he'd only let Caelum become a Knight if he knew the boy had the strength to survive.
He prayed to the Gods above that they bestowed another miracle on the kind boy, he couldn't bear to see his spirit crushed.
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The Mander Hills Inn pulsed with a life that wasn't hers.
Tankards clattered, rough voices clamored for more ale, and the greasy scent of mutton stew hung heavy and oppressive.
A calloused hand snaked around Meredith's waist. She stiffened.
"Easy there, sweetling," the village guard drawled, his breath a foul mix of wine and onions. "Just admiring the view."
A flicker of resentment sparked in Meredith's eyes. Drunk guards were the worst.
Her voice held a sharper edge when she replied, "Then consider admiring while you clean that mess." She shoved a damp rag into his hand. He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest.
"Feisty," he remarked, wiping up the spill with exaggerated care. "Innkeeper's daughter got a sting to her, eh?" His gaze swept over her, taking in her worn dress, the smudge of grease on her cheek.
A calculation flickered in his eyes.
Before the exchange could escalate, a heavy hand landed on the guard's shoulder. "That's enough, Steffon," a gruff voice cut in. "We still need to eat here, remember? Don't want those doors barred to us on account of your wandering hands. Head to the brothel in the castle if you'd like, there's no whores here."
Steffon shot a sullen look at the other guard, then turned back to Meredith.
"She isn't pretty enough anyway," he said mockingly and followed the other man outside.
As the two guards moved away, a flicker of relief mixed with lingering anger coursed through Meredith.
She snatched up a stack of grimy plates, the weight a burden heavier than usual.
Weary guardsmen slumped in their seats, their eyes as lusterless as tarnished silver. Yet, even in their weariness, there was a hint of status, a sense of being above the merchants and common folk.
"Dreaming again, are we, little bird?" Jerren's gruff voice cut through her thoughts. He leaned against the worn bar, his form tall almost a man grown that he was. A scowl marred his dirt-streaked face. "Are you alright? What happened?"
Meredith scowled back. "Dreams are better than the pigs in this pigpen!"
Meredith's hands trembled as she gripped the plates. The words "not pretty enough" echoed in her ears, a cruel barb sharper than any groping hand.
A hot wave of humiliation washed over her, mingling with the simmering rage. She wanted to scream, to fling those grimy plates at the retreating guards, to shatter the false sense of superiority they carried with them.
"Pigpen pays for your bread," Jerren countered, his voice flat. "Best remember that, dreamer. Now, go on. Now get, mum needs your help."
Stiffly, she turned away and headed toward the kitchen.
Someday, her knight would come for her. Dashing, and gallant. To steal her away and make her a noble lady of the realm just like in the tales her Dad used to tell her before he died.
He'd been in killed by an arrow during a raid along the Mander by highwaymen.
Meredith blinked away the memory of her father, the defiant image of her knight faded with him too.
"Mum, I am here.," she said.
She piled the dirty dishes into a basin, ignoring the way her worn dress snagged on a chipped edge.
"Oh, Mary, leave the dishes on the floor. I'll get them" her mother offered, as she carried in a pale of water. The greying old woman spotted their empty dried kegs of Ale and said, "The ale's running low, and the rush is done. Jerren!"
Her brother emerged from the shadows of the common room, wiping his hands on his grimy tunic. "What now, Mum?" he grumbled. "I am late for the farm!"
Her mum plopped the pale of water on the floor, beside where she had dropped the dirty dishes.
"Meredith is coming with you." Marna she said, wiping the sweat off her forehead. "The crowd is nearly gone, I can handle the rest. The Ale is running dry, and we'll need a fresh supply. Mary, tell dear Elyna to send a fresh delivery come morn. And say hi to Caelum for me, would you?"
The mention of visiting Caelum significantly brightened her day. She loved the little guy, like she was no longer the youngest in the family. Like her own little guy to cuddle and coddle.
A couple of minutes later, she joined Jerren by the front door.
"Best hurry then, dreamer," Jerren said as he waited for her having cleaned his face and arms from the grime he'd collected from cooking all the stews that day.
The pies were her specialty, none could bake them better than she could, except her mum. Mayhaps she would bake one for Caelum when he arrives with his father on the morn with the Ale.
"You never did tell me what happened, you know," Jerren commented as they strolled across the village past the sept and toward the star-struck farm.
"Just a drunk guard being a lout," she muttered, brushing past him. "Don't worry, I can handle it."
Jerren's face twisted slightly, but he let out some air later as he kicked a rock across the road. "Don't worry about them. Uncle Toman did say that we can talk to him should any thing happen, doesn't he know some knight up in the castle?"
She doubted the man could be of much help. Drunks did what drunks did. Only a knight would be able to save her. She tried to stop herself from getting lost in her dreams of knights again before her brother caught her.
But by the knowing look in his eye, he had caught her.
Meredith tried to focus on the familiar path leading to Harlon's farm, but her brother's teasing echoed alongside her every step.
"Dreaming of knights eh?" He grinned nudging her with his elbow "Best keep your eyes on the road, dreamer, lest you trip and land in a cowpat, and make yourself unpresentable for the knight that comes for your hand." Jerren chuckled.
A flush heated Meredith's cheeks. "Shut up! she said with clenched teeth, refusing to admit that, yes, a gallant knight had indeed flitted through her mind.
As the farmstead came into view, her heart quickened. Not with visions of grand rescues, but at the sight of Caelum. Her little ball of sunshine.
"Shouldn't be doing that," Jerren grumbled, "He's too weak…"
Her patience snapped. "He's not!" she fired back. "Leave him alone, Jerren! He has more strength in him than you can even know!"
"Fine, fine." Jerren held his hands up in surrender. "Don't need you biting my head off just for stating the truth. You and your soft spot for—"
He cut himself off abruptly as they reached the field, Harlon meeting them with a raised eyebrow. Meredith's face burned, unsure if Harlon had overheard Jerren's teasing.
"Meredith!" Caelum's voice broke through the tension, his smile as bright as ever. "Look, Father taught me how to spot stubborn weeds!" He held up the basket as evidence, his slight frame straining with the effort.
"Yeah, he's growing into a fine strong lad!" the boy's father chuckled ruffling his hair. The flush on Caelum's face was enough to wash away any lingering bitterness of the day from her face.
A wave of awkwardness washed over Meredith, the older man was someone she respected immensely.
"Is… is Elyna around? I wanted to send her well wishes from Mum, and, well, the ale order..." she stuttered a little.
Harlon's face softened. "She's in the cottage, turning a stew," he replied, a twinkle in his eye. "The smell alone would make your mother proud, I reckon."
"Oh, well, I have a message from mum, I'll go see her." Meredith could feel her cheeks warming, but the prospect of seeing Elyna was a welcome distraction from the lingering tension. She turned to Caelum then, "And then we can play a while till nightfall."
"That would be lovely, Meredith," Harlon offered a genuine smile. Then, he turned to Caelum. "Lad, you've earned yourself a break. Why don't you get cleaned up and spend some time with your friend."
Caelum's face lit up like a summer sunrise. "Really, Father? Can I?"
"Run along now," Harlon chuckled, tousling his son's hair playfully.
"Come on, Meredith!" Caelum grabbed her hand, a warm tug that chased away the lingering discomfort. "Wait for me! I'll show you the best spot to pick wildflowers!" He dashed towards the cottage, leaving Meredith breathless with his boundless energy.
"Don't work him too hard, Harlon," Jerren called out as he followed the other men into the field. "Not all of us are blessed with such strength." His words were meant to be teasing, but Meredith caught a hint of pity beneath the lighthearted tone.
Left alone, Meredith smiled after Caelum. A moment of normalcy amidst uncertainty. "Of course, I'll wait, I will be with your mother once I deliver mother's order." she called out.
She strolled towards the cottage, the scent of simmering stew tickling her senses. Inside, she found Elyna bustling around the hearth, her cheeks flushed with warmth. "Elyna!" Meredith exclaimed, "Your stew smells amazing!"
"Mum sends her regards," Meredith continued, stepping into the warmth of the cottage. "And..." she hesitated for a moment, unsure how to phrase the ale order without sounding too demanding. "Well, the inn's barrels are running low, and Mum was hoping you could send a fresh delivery up come morning?"
Elyna's smile was warm and reassuring. "Of course, dear. Harlon and Caelum will load the cart first thing. Now, don't stand there on ceremony! Sit, let me get you a cup of water."
Meredith perched herself on a stool by the hearth, the cozy atmosphere a welcome contrast to the inn's bustle. As Elyna poured the water, they chatted about village gossip, the weather, and the upcoming harvest. There was a comforting ease in Elyna's presence, a shared understanding of the rhythms of their small world.
After a few minutes, Caelum burst back into the cottage, his face scrubbed and his hair still damp. "I'm ready!" he announced, bouncing with barely contained excitement.
"Wonderful!" Meredith jumped to her feet. "Now, let's see… what adventures shall we have today?"
"Knights!" Caelum declared without hesitation. "I'll be the brave knight, and you..." he paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face.
A gentle laugh escaped Meredith. "I'll be the maiden waiting for her knight then?"
Caelum considered this, his small brow furrowed in concentration. Finally, a smile bloomed on his face. "You can be the brave maiden, kidnapped by an evil dragon!" His eyes glittered with the thrill of his own story. "And I'll come to rescue you!"
"Oh, all right," Meredith chuckled, unable to resist his enthusiasm. "But this maiden won't wait just anywhere. Up in the loft, I think! The dragon will find me there."
With a whoop of delight, Caelum dashed out of the cottage, leaving Meredith to follow at a more leisurely pace. Every step into this world of play felt like shedding a layer of worry and discontent.
As she climbed the ladder into the loft, the scent of sun-dried grass and a hint of horses a soothing balm, she finally let herself believe, just for a little while, in brave knights, fierce dragons, and the sweet joy of being rescued.
She knew that grown up, her little ball of sunshine would be the most charming of knights if the seven sent star's blessing continued to heal him as it was. She would have to carry a big stick to beat off the grasping noble ladies who would vie for her little brother's hands. She couldn't wait.
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A heavy scent of old parchment and burning beeswax hung thick in the hushed hallway outside their father's solar. Willas wriggled closer to the heavy oak door, his heart pounding a rhythm of anticipation.
They were hidden well behind the curtains that covered the window that adorned the walls from the highest wing of the castle, looking at the buildings beneath. The briar city labyrinth looked beautiful from so high above.
They had their ear pressed tightly to the door just beside the window, which led into their father's solar.
Beside him, Garlan giggled, a barely contained bubble of excitement.
"He'll be mad," Garlan whispered, his eyes wide. "Mother said we were to be with Anya today."
Willas snorted. "And Mother thinks we are with Anya," he countered. "Plus she also said that we're supposed to learn more from father. This is learning dear brother o' mine."
Garlan nodded his head slightly, and giggled again "Can you hear anything?" he whispered
Willas put his small finger to his lips and shushed him.
He pressed his ear closer, a faint murmur of voices coming through the wood.
A shadow loomed, and Willas whirled around. Toman of Mander Banks village, marched towards them, a frown creasing his brow. Disaster!
"Young lords," Toman said, his voice surprisingly gentle for such a large man. "What brings you out here? You're supposed to be with Anya."
Garlan gulped, looking ready to bolt, but Willas stepped forward. It was time for desperate measures. "Please," he pleaded, widening his eyes for good measure. "We heard Father speaking inside. We want to listen. Just for a moment?" He cast a hopeful glance at the solar door.
Toman paused, his bushy scruffy blonde eyebrows drawing together. Then, to Willas' astonishment, a slow grin spread across the guard's face. "Just a moment, eh?" He winked a flicker of mischief in his eyes. "And not a word to anyone, especially your mother. Be quick about it now."
A surge of relief flooded Willas, followed by a jolt of excitement. They'd done it! With a gleeful grin, he and Garlan darted back to the door, pressing their ears close once more.
Now, tantalizing fragments reached their ears. "Yes, Maester... name day celebration," they heard their uncle Quentin. "Princess Rhaenys..."
"Tourney?" Garlan breathed, his eyes lighting up.
Willas nodded, a thrill coursing through him.
"...Lord Whent… Shircy Whent... Harrenhal... my lord?" Another voice, this one unmistakably Maester Lomys' followed by their father's booming reply. "House Tyrell will attend, of course..."
They exchanged excited glances, barely stifled giggles bubbling up.
A Tourney! And they were going!
They couldn't wait. There'd be all sorts of battles, knights from all over the realms battling in the melee, the joust and so much more!
Their whispered cheers were a little too loud. A sharp gasp cut through their excitement, followed by the rustle of heavy skirts and the rapid click of shoes on stone.
"Young lords!" The familiar voice of Anya, filled with a mix of exasperation and alarm, pierced the air.
Willas and Garlan froze, hearts pounding. They'd been caught! In their scramble to escape, Willas tripped over his own feet, knocking Garlan aside. They tumbled towards the solar door, and Toman tried to make a grab for them but failed as they fell on the door as it swung inside.
Inside the solar, the voices fell silent. "Willas? Garlan? Where is Anya?"
"I am sorry m'lord. They had asked to let them listen; I indulged their fancy in this matter" Toman said as he bowed his head.
Their father stared at him for a moment, they watched their uncle trying to hold in a laugh. Even Maester Lomys was hiding a smile.
After a moment, their father smiled too, and as he was about to say something, Anya came blundering into the solar behind them.
She swooped down upon them, her normally composed face flushed with a mix of fury and relief. "My lords, whatever possessed you to run off like that?" she fussed, straightening their tunics and hastily smoothing their hair.
His cheeks burning, Willas mumbled an apology, struggling to find an excuse that wouldn't get them into even more trouble. Thankfully, Father came to their rescue.
"No harm done, Anya," Lord Tyrell chuckled. "Boys will be boys. Best send them on their way now. I have important matters to attend to. Toman, see them out."
The guard bowed his head "Yes, m'lord"
The maid bowed, but her glare towards the brothers promised a different sort of attention later. "Come along now, young lords," she said, herding them away from the solar. "To the sept, if you please. Some prayers and begging for forgiveness from the Seven will clear your conscience."
As they were marched down the corridor, Willas caught his brother's eye. Garlan's face still held a trace of worry, but beneath it, the spark of excitement about the tourney remained undimmed.
Anya marched them towards the sept, her every step radiating disapproval. The weight of their punishment – an hour of prayers to atone for their disobedience – weighed on Willas, but couldn't completely snuff out his excitement.
As they skirted the bustling training yard on their way to the sept in the by the inner wall of briar city, the familiar sounds pulled at his attention like a magnet: steel ringing against steel, grunts of exertion, and the sharp commands of instructors.
"Come on," he whispered to Garlan, barely containing a grin. "Just for a moment..."
Without waiting for his brother's reply, Willas steered them towards the edge of the yard. They skirted the outer circle, eyes glued to the whirlwind of activity within. Squires clashed with blunt swords, sweat gleaming on their brow. Guardsmen, faces hardened with experience, practiced complex maneuvers with deadly efficiency. And at the far end, archers loosed their arrows with fluid grace, their targets barely a blur of motion.
Willas felt a familiar thrill course through him. Their eavesdropping earlier had ignited a spark; now the sight of these warriors only fueled it. What would it feel like, to command such skill, such power?
Lost in his musings, he didn't notice the tall figure approaching until a stern voice boomed out across the yard.
"Lord Willas! Lord Garlan!"
They startled, turning to find Ser Vortimer Crane, the castle's Master-at-Arms, marching towards them.
"Would you like to try your hand, Lord Willas? You're plenty old enough" the large man asked.
Anya who had come searching for her wayward lords, again, her lips pursed. "My lord, they need to go to the sept…"
Before she could continue, Ser Vortimer held up a hand, silencing her. "A brief delay won't hurt, I'm sure," he said, his gaze settling on Willas. A glint of amusement softened his stern features. "You'll be of age for training soon enough, young lord. Perhaps a taste of the blade would stir your blood?"
Willas's eyes widened. An opportunity like this was something out of his wildest dreams! "I... I would be honored, Ser!"
Anya sputtered in protest, but Ser Vortimer waved her off with a dismissive chuckle. "Nonsense, woman. We all know the lords of Highgarden were born to the saddle and the sword. Let the boy have his lesson!"
He beckoned Willas into the yard, then turned and shouted, "Parmen! Fetch a wooden sword for the young lord!"
With trembling hands, Willas grasped the wooden sword. It felt heavier than he imagined, yet thrillingly solid. Ser Vortimer stood before him, his weathered face transformed by a teacher's patience.
"First, the stance," he boomed. "Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent. Balance is key." Willas tried to imitate his stance, feeling the unfamiliar alignment of his body.
"Now, the thrust," Ser Vortimer continued. "Extend your arm, blade forward, step with your dominant foot. It's about speed and precision."
Parmen, standing nearby, demonstrated the jab, his movements sharp and purposeful. Willas attempted to mirror them, but his thrusts were clumsy, his steps stumbling. Ser Vortimer chuckled, a low rumble that held no mockery.
"It takes time, young lord. Even the mightiest oaks were once acorns. Let's try a block now. Raise your sword high, parry your opponent's blow."
Round after round they practiced – thrusts, blocks, and simple footwork. Each movement was a tiny victory, a step closer to the warriors he so admired. Beside him, Garlan watched in wide-eyed awe, declaring, "I'm going to a be a knight! And win all the tourneys in the Seven Kingdoms!"
Finally, after three rounds of practice, Ser Vortimer called a halt. "Enough for today. You show promise, young lord." He clapped Willas on the shoulder, the praise making his chest swell with pride.
Anya, though still clearly disapproving, couldn't entirely hide the flicker of surprise on her face. With a sigh of resignation, she ushered them away. "Come, young lords. We've dallied long enough. The sept awaits."
As they walked, their earlier punishment forgotten, Willas felt a new energy coursing through him. The sept might promise stillness and prayer, under the watchful eyes of the Seven who are one, but his thoughts were now aflame with visions of future training sessions, the taste of steel, and the roar of a crowd cheering his name.
Anya nudged them towards a row of empty pews. "Now, remember, young lords," she instructed with a stern frown, "an hour of sincere prayer to atone for your disobedience."
They knelt obediently, doing their best to focus on the words of prayer. Yet, the excitement of the day buzzed relentlessly within them. Once Anya was satisfied, and had disappeared back into the castle, Willas leaned towards Garlan.
"Can you believe it?" he whispered. "Knights, and jousts, and... everything!"
Garlan grinned, his eyes gleaming. "We have to go, Willas, we must to the tourney!" he declared, his voice swelling in dramatic emphasis.
Just then, a boy near the altar let out a stifled grunt. He turned, and their eyes met.
The only other occupant of the sept was a boy, perhaps the same age as Parmen, hunched near the altar. His form was almost hidden in the bench at the fore of the Sept. His presence was missed by all the new occupants of the Sept.
His ragged clothes and his face dirty. His matted scraggy blonde hair was a mess. The boy was clutching his side, a flicker of pain passing across his features.
"What tourney?" he asked, his voice a little pained.
Willas and Garlan exchanged a confused glance. They hadn't even noticed him before! "The tourney at Harrenhal," Willas answered slowly. "To celebrate the princess's name day."
The boy's brow furrowed. "Harrenhal? That's…. in the riverlands, isn't it?" He shook his head.
A flicker of an idea sparked in Willas' mind. He leaned forward, an air of importance settling around him. "Who are you, anyway?"
The boy smiled, though it seemed a little pained as he clutched his rib again. "Oh, I'm Luke," he muttered. "Luke from the village by the river."
Garlan, ever eager and open-hearted, chimed in with a friendly smile. "I'm Garlan Tyrell. He's my brother, Willas."
Luke's eyes widened in surprise. Then, as if realizing his earlier boldness, a flush crept up his neck. "Didn't mean to pry, my lords," he muttered, averting his gaze. "Apologies."
Willas waved him off. "No bother at all, Luke. Say, are you okay?"
"Oh, yeah. I'm fine" Luke echoed with a wry twist of his lips. "I'm Ser Crane's page, and practice was a bit harsh today."
"Well," Garlan began, "Ah, Ser Vortimer is so strong! I'm sure you'll be a knight big and strong like him."
Luke shifted uncomfortably, his wince becoming more pronounced. He looked at Garlan for a moment, and it almost seemed as though he was looking at him and seeing someone else. He smiled "As you say, my Lord."
Willas then asked "You said your name was Luke? Is your father perhaps Toman from the Mander banks village, the guard?"
Luke's eyes grew wide. "Aye, he's my father. You know him?"
"He let us listen in on Father's meeting!" Willas exclaimed. "The whole reason we got in trouble. You should come with us to the tourney!"
"My lord, I would love to" Luke admitted, "but I am just a page. We can't fight tourneys."
"Of course!" Garlan piped up. "The whole household, practically!"
"Well, neither can we silly" Garlan piped in, "But there will be so many knights there, in the melee, the jousts, and in archery. It will be fun!"
"Yeah, I was too young to go to the tourney in the storm lands, but I've heard a lot of good fighters show up there!" Willas added in. "And considering House Tyrell will be there, your father will be joining us as our guard. You can come with him!"
Luke hesitated, and then he asked "Do … do you think I can bring more people with me?"
Willas titled his head to the side, a frown etched on his face "How many people?"
Luke looked determined all of a sudden "Two…. Just two." He replied.
Willas and Garlan nodded a little confused by his sudden shift in tone "two is fine, most squires end up bringing some family along anyway. You'll have to bring your own horse though."
Luke nodded, eyes set. "I-I think I will come."
The three new friends cheered, and as they continued talking about the tourney and all they were going to see there.
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État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone