Finally, the Maester permitted Alyx to see him before his next dose of milk of the poppy. When she entered the solar, the robed man placed a small vial on the bedside table and bowed, leaving them privacy.

  “I feel so much regret,” Alyx whispered, her eyes downcast and heavy with guilt. "I should never have suggested—"

  "It was… my choice…" Braxter’s words were slow, thick with the syrup of the poppy. But he managed a weak laugh, trying to straighten his back against the pillows. The effort cost him a sharp intake of breath and a pained groan.

  Alyx rushed to adjust the bolsters behind him.

  Braxter took a moment to let the world stop spinning before opening his eyes. "A fighter’s heart," he murmured, turning his gaze to her. "This is the price of having one."

  Alyx could not meet his eyes. "I hold myself to blame, My Lord."

  "One might say I deserved what befell me, and they would not be so wrong." Braxter was still able to laugh, although stiff. "Free yourself of this burden, Lady Alyx. Tell me, how have events unfolded since I fell? I have heard no news while I was lying here."

  "I do not know much," Alyx said. “I rushed immediately after you to the manor yesterday. But I wasn’t allowed in for a visit. Yet… the others of unsettling events.”

  “How so? Please, Tell me.”

  “I am unsure, My Lord. They talk of the cruelty of Aerion, Valarr’s cousin."

  “The Brigthflame?”

  "I believe that is what they call him, yes." Alyx nodded. "But after yesterday's clash with Valarr, I imagine you would not welcome ill words regarding Maekar's line."

  "Talk to me. I want to hear.

  Alyx sighed. "Elissa was watching the jousts. She told me Aerion challenged Humfrey Hardyng and killed his horse by thrusting his lance through the mare’s neck. Elissa is certain it was done with intent. I believe it might be true since I heard Aerion committed another act of cruelty.

  Braxter’s face darkened. "To kill a horse in the lists… that is the mark of a craven. What is the other event you speak of?"

  "Last night, there was a puppet show in the camp. Verona was there. It depicted a knight slaying a dragon, and Aerion apparently took offense. He assaulted the puppeteers with his men-at-arms." Alyx’s voice trembled. "Verona said… she said he broke the finger of a defenseless girl who was doing nothing but begging for mercy. It is… vile, My Lord. Utterly, horribly vile."

  She took a breath to steady herself. "Verona told me that the crowd watched in fear, no one helped them… except for a hedge knight. A tall man—Ser Duncan the Tall Verona named him. He attacked Aerion to save the girl. He struck the Prince and beat him into the mud.”

  Braxter closed his eyes, absorbing the news. "Madness," he whispered. "To strike the blood of the dragon… the man is dead."

  "Most say the same."

  "Aye. A hand for a hand, a life for a tooth." Braxter winced as a spasm of pain shot through his shoulder. "Valarr broke my arm, but at least he fights with honor. He is certainly the better Prince.”

  "He seemed a serene young man to me, capable of kindness. But on that field… I saw the Targaryen fury. He lost himself. His lance struck you high, My Lord. A hand's breadth higher and it would have been your throat." She shuddered. "They say Targaryens are closer to gods than men, but I see no godhood in such lack of restraint."

  “I do not know,” Alyx doubted. “He seemed a serene young man to me, capable of kindness. But on that field... I saw it, I saw the dragon, and the sight was not so nice. He lost himself. His lance struck you high, My Lord. A hand's breadth higher and it would have been your throat. Even I can tell how dangerous that strike was." She shuddered. "They say Targaryens are closer to gods than men, but I see no godhood in their lack of restraint."

  "The dragon is indeed fearsome. Highborn speak with respect, but they are alien to most folks.” Braxter sighed, his eyelids drooping as the poppy milk began to pull him under. "But do not judge them all by Aerion’s madness, or Valarr’s danger. Baelor Breakspear is the finest man to ever sit the Iron Throne, even if he only sits the steps as Hand. If there is justice, he will see it done."

  He reached out, his uninjured hand finding Alyx’s with a weak, feverish grip.

  "Go, Lady Alyx. Do not linger in this sickroom.”

  "My Lord… I must tell you. The events of yesterday startled us. We are thinking of leaving early."

  Braxter pulled his hand back, eyes open in a mix of disappointment and surprise. "Early?"

  “Yes, by tomorrow morning.”

  “To where?”

  "Oldtown. We have business to pursue. But, My Lord, this does not mean we reject your offer. We plan to split. Daleria will accept your invitation and travel to Beachcastle soon. I will trade in Oldtown. Should all go well, I may join you later."

  "My Lady, I need you for my dealings with Dorne. Daleria is sharp, yes, but she is not who I seek."

  "I must see Oldtown, My Lord. I think this is better for our business, as well. Let me see the greatest port in the Reach, and I will return with purpose." Alyx smiled gently. "I think you should take your leave early as well. I know there is still trade to be made, but little time is left anyway. I presume you will be taking the road, no matter even if the Maester says you should just lie and rest. So I hope the road treats you well.”

  "Pah, I am not ill!" Braxter grinned through a wince. "What is a single arm? I can ride."

  Alyx chuckled, hand covering her mouth. "Please, take a wagon."

  Braxter smiled back at her, his gaze warm. “Thank you, Lady Alyx, for you helped me so much through this occasion.”

  “Oh, but you helped me.”

  Braxter shook his head slowly, a kind gesture of disagreement mixed with letting go. “I will think about leaving tomorrow. Will Daleria be joining me?”

  "You should talk with her yourself on that matter. I believe she will have a stay at Beachcastle soon but she may or may not be traveling with your entourage from Ashford. I will send her to you this afternoon."

  “Very well.”

  “I shall take my leave then. Rest well, My Lord.”

  “Take care of yourself, Alyx.”

  Alyx walked the dirt road by the Ashford Meadow, hands clasped demurely, but her mind was a storm.

  Robin, Elissa, and two of Glasser men trailed behind her, hauling crates. Alyx wanted to add a hand to transfer, but they all refused.

  "They say he found only five," Robin said quietly.

  “I pity the man.” Arlent grunted. “It is only a matter of time now before they take him.”

  Robin nodded. “The sun is already visible."

  They were speaking of the trial of seven. Alyx had not known such a thing existed until Daleria explained it. Apparently, the hedge knight—Ser Duncan the Tall—had demanded trial by combat. But Aerion had invoked an ancient rite, making it seven against seven. If Duncan could not find six knights to stand with his cause, he would lose his life.

  They were passing the lists when a hush fell over the crowd. They stopped to watch.

  Ser Duncan rode his warhorse along the viewing stang, a lonely figure in patched armor. He pleaded his case to the knights.

  She watched as he asked the help of the Grey Lion of the Lannisters, who did not deign to answer. He asked the Harper Lord Pearse Caron, the old knight Gawen Swann, but they ignored him, talking amongst themselves as if he were a ghost.

  Alyx’s heart bled as he begged Ser Otho Bracken. "In the names of the old gods and the new. My cause is just," the hedge knight cried.

  “That may be true, but it is not my cause.” The brute of Bracken replied, turning his face.

  Ser Duncan visibly sank in his saddle. His shoulders slumped. He wheeled his horse, pacing back and forth before the heartless nobility.

  "HAS HONOR DESERTED THE NOBLE HOUSES OF WESTEROS?!" he shouted so suddenly. "ARE THERE NO TRUE KNIGHTS AMONG YOU?!"

  His fury boomed across the entire meadow.

  And only silence answered.

  This is it, Alyx thought. His pleas were not going to be answered.

  But then came a voice.

  “I will take Ser Duncan’s side.”

  Heads turned. A figure approached on a black stallion.

  Alyx’s eyes widened. He was wearing black armor, with red enamel crest upon his helm with its three roaring heads.

  Valarr?!

  Most gasped like Alyx. Lord Ashford was just as shocked. “Prince Valarr?”

  “No.” The black knight lifted his visor. “I did not think to enter the lists at Ashford, My Lord, so I brought no armor. My son was good enough to lend me his.” Prince Baelor smiled almost sadly.

  A murmur rolled through the meadow like wind through wheat. Men stared, mouths agape, as if a legend had stepped down from a tapestry and into the dust.

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  Aerion and accusers stared in confusion. Prince Maekar spurred his horse forward. "Brother, have you taken leave of your senses?" He pointed a finger at Ser Duncan. "This man attacked my son."

  “This man protected the weak, as every true Knight must,” replied Prince Baelor. “Let the gods determine if he was right or wrong.”

  He turned his horse and trotted to the south end of the field.

  The crowd immediately surged toward the stands.

  “Shit, we have work.” Robin looked at the crate.

  "I’ll take Alyx to the stands," Elissa said, dumping her box onto Arlent’s stack. "You finish this and bring Daleria and Verona. They’ll want to see this."

  The men grumbled, but Elissa was already moving.

  "I am not sure about this…" Alyx murmured as Elissa pulled her along. "This might not end in justice."

  "Let us see what the world has to offer, then." Elissa grinned.

  Half an hour later, the stands were groaning under the weight of the spectators. Daleria and the others somehow made it, squeezing beside Alyx.

  “This is very exciting,” Verona whispered, clutching her chest. "But it will be violent…"

  "It will be," Robin agreed.

  “I hope Ser Duncan wins,” Verona said.

  Alyx looked at Daleria. "The crowd seems keen on Prince Baelor's side."

  “He is well-received for the most part. Ser Duncan’s cause is sympathetic, as well.”

  “Do you think he can win?”

  “We shall see."

  The lines formed. Duncan the Tall was flanked by Prince Baelor and Ser Lyonel Baratheon, the Laughing Storm. Another big name among their ranks was Ser Humfrey Hardyng, seeking vengeance from Aerion.

  The other defenders were Raymun Fossoway, a squire knighted only moments ago; Humfrey Beesbury, Hardyng’s brother-in-law; and Robyn Rhysling, the stubborn old knight.

  Against them on the sight of the accusers, stood the might of the dragon: Prince Maekar, and his sons Daeron and Aerion. There was Steffon Fossoway, Raymun's cousin and the knight who he served. Alyx heard he changed sides, detestable man.

  The remaining three were of the Kingsguard: Ser Willem Wylde, Ser Donnel of Duskendale, and Ser Roland Crakehall. The white swords; they were formidable foes.

  The horn sounded, low, long and mournful.

  All fourteen horses surged forward and the earth shook. The galloping was intense; lances pointed and about to strike. Alyx couldn’t do anything but close her eyes as the violence boomed with the clash.

  Steel screamed against steel as lances shattered. Alyx felt the vibration travel through the wooden stands, through her bones, into her chest. When she dared open her eyes, the field was chaos.

  Duncan was down, his horse suffering on its knees, unable to lift the man. Baelor faced the three Kingsguard alone; the White Cloaks seemed hesitant to strike the Hand.

  Humfrey Beesbury fell with a violent strike. Humfrey Hardyng was clinging to his saddle, blood already staining his surcoat.

  “This already isn’t going well…” Alyx murmured in fear.

  Baelor galloped past, sweeping a Kingsguard from his saddle with the shaft of his lance. The Laughing Storm struck another down. Then Baelor clashed with his brother Maekar, the two princes locked in a deadly dance of lance against lance.

  The crowd watched in intense focus as Baelor finally wiped his brother from his saddle.

  “He is fucking awesome…” Elissa murmured in awe.

  The third of the Kingsguard was fending off Robin Rhysling, distracted. Daeron was struck.

  Aerion thundered toward Duncan, his lance striking true. The impact sent Duncan’s longsword spinning away into the mud. The hedge knight fell hard.

  Aerion wheeled his horse with a shriek of metal and triumph, his laughter sharp and unhinged. He did not look back at Duncan as the hedge knight struggled in the dust, gasping, his hands and knees failing him.

  “Finish him!” someone shouted from the crowd.

  Alyx felt sick.

  Aerion dismounted in a single motion, drawing his spiked morningstar. He walked toward the dizzy Duncan and swung his weapon toward his head. The spikes tore chunks from Duncan’s helm.

  Alyx winced, about to jump at Daleria in fear again. But she held herself, choosing to turn her face away from the brutality instead.

  The last she looked, she could see Aerion laughing with his arms wide open, looming over a bruised and injured man. She closed her eyes, hating it.

  But then, Elissa pulled her arm. “Look!”

  Alyx couldn’t believe her eyes, then, seeing Ser Duncan on top of Aerion, brawling him down.

  “How…” Alyx muttered.

  “Aerion got too close, the fool!”

  “He got him… come on…” Verona was focused.

  Aerion tried to respond Duncan with his shield, hitting Duncan's head. But the hedge knight was a giant, stronger and heavier than his foe. He grabbed the Prince’s wrists, twisting until the straps broke. Then he brought the shield down on Aerion’s helm. Again. And again. Smashing the enamel flames, battering the dragon into the mud.

  Alyx would never thought she’d wince for that beast. The dragon’s flames shattered and shattered before Duncan could run out of blows, battering his head mercilessly.

  Aerion finally stopped grabbing his useless morningstar, clawing for the poniard at his hip. He got it free of its sheath, but when Dunk whanged his hand with the shield, the knife flew off into the mud.

  Everywhere else steel clashed against steel. Raymun and his cousin were swinging against each other in front of the viewing stand: their shields ruined from all the strikes. One of the Kingsguard was carrying a wounded white knight from the field. They both looked alike in the white armor and battered state. The third of the white knights was down.

  The Laughing Storm was fighting with Prince Baelor against Prince Maekar. Mace, battle-axe, and longsword were clashing against each other, steel ringing with each strike. Maekar was taking three blows for every one he landed.

  “This is over soon,” Elissa said.

  Daleria nodded as Ser Duncan was dragging Aerion through the ground.

  Duncan hauled him up. “Tell him!” He roared, shaking the bloody Prince.

  Aerion Brightflame spat out a mouthful of mud and blood. “I withdraw my accusation.”

  Lord Ashford raised his hand.

  Then the horn blew long and final.

  The sound rolled across the meadow, and with it came a collective exhale. Steel lowered. Horses slowed. Men who had been killing moments before stood blinking in the sunlight, as if waking from a feverish dream.

  “It’s… it’s done?” Verona whispered, her voice fragile.

  Alyx closed her eyes, taking in the weight of the moment. All the violence made her shiver.

  “Welcome to Westeros, one might say.” Daleria mused.

  "That was incredible!" Elissa exclaimed as they left the stands.

  “It was a tragedy.” Alyx’s voice was lower.

  “Come on, you can’t deny the thrill.”

  Daleria only watched Alyx closely, eyes fixed. “You saw something today,” she said. It was not a question.

  “I did.” Alyx exhaled slowly. “I saw men living to break each other. I saw a prince laugh while smashing another man’s skull. I saw people cheering death.”

  “Justice confuses people, Alyx.” Daleria went ahead. “Violence does not.”

  For a moment, Alyx could’ve sensed even Elissa ashamed for herself. She was a storm, both outside and inside. One day she would burst, another she would wane.

  They veered from the mass, walking behind stacks of people watching the scene beneath a tree. There was lying Ser Duncan the Tall, some men tended to him. Some faces around him were cheering, some were down.

  “Ser Beesbury is dead.” a man nearby said.

  “I heard a knight talking; he was certain Hardyn could not last the day.”

  Alyx’s heart sank. Good men, they were, now dead for a game of pride.

  Then she noticed her group halting, heads turning to the scene as a knight in black, Baelor, approached where Ser Duncan was lying injured. His arms were flailing in front of him, his steps slow and strange. His helm was a ruin: the scarlet dragon on top if had lost a head, both wings and its tail.

  “Your Grace,” Duncan coughed, “I am your man. Please. Your man.”

  “My man.” Baelor put a hand on Raymun’s shoulder to steady himself. “I need good men, Ser Duncan. The realm…” His voice was oddly slurred, barely able to speak.

  Ser Duncan seemed tired, struggling to even stay awake. “Your man…” he mumbled.

  The Prince slowly shook his head. “Ser Raymun… my helm, if you’d be so kind. Visor… visor’s cracked, and my fingers… fingers feel like wood…”

  “At once, Your Grace,” Raymun called the bulky blacksmity Steely Pate for help. They combined their efforts to take off the battered helm.

  When the helm came free, a red mass of blood poured from it, and the whole crowd gasped.

  “Gods be good. Oh gods oh gods oh gods preserve… ” Pate murmured, backing away.

  Someone screamed high, adding more to the horror. Half his head was… pulp.

  And then, Baelor fell.

  Duncan caught him, “up,” he said, “up, up, up…”

  People rushed to help the dying man.

  Alyx immediately grabbed Daleria's arm. “Dally!” She urged. “C-can you help him? Please!”

  Daleria only stared, taking a long moment.

  Then came a sigh.

  “To everything there is a cost, Alyx. And in life, there is loss. I am against trying.”

  Alyx couldn’t believe her ears. She stared at Baelor’s motionless form, his brutally smashed face. This… was a great man. Perhaps the only man with such greatness.

  “Dally…” Her tone was pleading. “We… we cannot lose him. We need him."

  A beat, Daleria was thinking as she stared so directly. Then, she shook her head. “The risk is too high.”

  "Let it be," Verona whispered, tugging at Alyx. "We have no part in this."

  “But…”

  “We stayed far longer than we should have, anyway,” Robin muttered.

  Elissa nodded firmly. “Let people not stare.” She took Alyx’s wrist and dragged her. They moved as one, then, climbing the steep dirt road to move away from the scene.

  Alyx looked back. She saw Ser Duncan faint, and Prince Valarr fall to his knees beside his father’s body, a wail of grief rising from his throat.

  It was truly a tragedy.

  And tragedy was an easy find in this land.

  Prince Valarr, stood vigil at the foot of the bier while his father lay dead. Lords and Ladies were passing slowly, offering condolences and prayers. Alyx was amongst them.

  “Breakspear was the best of them…”

  “The realm has lost its shield…”

  “The gods are cruel…”

  She saw Ser Duncan stopping to offer awkward sympathies.

  Prince Valarr blinked cool blue eyes at him and said, “My father was only nine and-thirty. He had it in him to be a great king, the greatest since Aegon the Dragon. Why would the gods take him, and leave you?” He shook his head in utter frustration. “Begone with you, Ser Duncan. Begone!”

  Wordless, Ser Duncan could only limp away. A silence fell. Alyx approached in that silence.

  “My Prince.” She bowed her head. “Once a man said to me that if there is justice, Breakspear will see it done. I see the truth in his words now. The world lost a great man.”

  Valarr was silent with eyes downcast all day. But he lifted his eyes for Alyx, and perhaps for the first time he truly saw a face today.

  “The gods are truly cruel, then, Lady Alyx.”

  Alyx smiled bitterly and knowingly. “We live in a cruel world. But I hope you will be merciful to it still. I will pray for the world to do the same to you.”

  They locked eyes for a moment—a shared recognition of loss. Then Alyx bowed and withdrew.

  Later that day, the sky was darkening into night as Alyx and her friends gathered in front of the manor. Joined by Vanea’s men, they were preparing for their departure tomorrow.

  Alyx stood before Robin and a number of men, watching the final crates being loaded.

  “I hope your preparations are going well.”

  Alyx turned to see Braxter, his arm in a sling.

  "My Lord? Should you be walking?"

  “I am well enough.” He smiled weakly. “And I considered your words. I will be leaving tomorrow.”

  “Let our entourages join together, then,” Daleria joined them with a smile.

  Hoofbeat was heard then. They turned to see a group of riders approaching.

  Prince Valarr.

  He halted his horse before them, his eyes met Alyx’s before turning to Braxter.

  “Lord Glasser, I see you stand."

  "Thank the gods," Braxter chuckled darkly. "You downed me well, Your Grace."

  Valarr nodded solemnly. "I came to offer sympathies. And… an apology."

  He dismounted with a fluid grace, eyes meeting Alyx for a moment again with a sad smile.

  He sighed, then, approaching Braxter. “I believe the gods may be punishing me for what I did to you.” He closed his eyes.

  Alyx felt the loneliness in him in that moment.

  “I never meant to break your arm, Lord Glasser,” he said, his voice low. “I rode as I was taught: hard, focused, without mercy. That is the dragon’s way.” He paused. “Today I learned what that way costs.”

  Braxter regarded him for a long moment, then gave a short breath of laughter that tugged painfully at his ribs. “If the gods wished to punish you, they chose poorly. I still have my life."

  Alyx couldn't believe her ears. This was a Prince he was talking to. A prince fresh in grief. Was this grudge talking? At this point, Alyx had enough reasons to believe that Braxter was an emotional man.

  Valarr flinched, just barely.

  “I would trade places with him if I could,” he merely said.

  No one answered that. Some truths did not ask to be contradicted.

  Alyx stepped forward before she could think better of it. “Grief might be the most painful thing in this world, My Prince. It is a long, long suffering." She smiled gently. “But we must let it be a reminder of what we loved. Of what we are still capable of losing.”

  Valarr studied her then, not as a prince studies a subject, but as a man studies another who has dared speak plainly to him. The torchlight caught the silver in his hair, dulled now, almost colorless.

  “You speak as if you have lost much, Lady Alyx.”

  “I have lost enough to know that cruelty does not heal it,” she replied.

  For a heartbeat, Valarr seemed almost young. Then the mask returned.

  “I will ride at first light,” he said, turning slightly toward Braxter. “My father’s body must be returned to King’s Landing.”

  Then, he turned to Alyx. “I hope to see you again, My Lady. Would you consider court?”

  Alyx shook her head in an instant. “It is not a place for me.”

  “I see.” Valarr took a moment, hesitating before inclining his head. “Send a word if you ever need a Prince’s help, then.”

  “I will remember it.” Alyx smiled.

  Valarr nodded slowly. Then, he mounted without ceremony and rode off, his men following in silence. The sound of hooves faded into the dark like a thought one wishes to hold but cannot.

  “He looked broken,” Verona whispered, making Alyx jump appearing suddenly.

  “He is,” Daleria said. “Broken men are dangerous.”

  Alyx looked at Braxter then.

  It was just her luck, she thought, to find only broken men.