Chapter Text
The familiar scent of trees wafted through the open windows, along with the chorus of robins and thrushes.
Cassander Peake did not know how long he lay there, no longer sleeping but not fully awake either, sprawled across his bed, naked as the day he was born, listening to the dawn chorus. Autumn had only just begun, so it was still warm enough for him to sleep uncovered by sheets or night attire.
Finally, he pulled himself out of bed with a groan. At thirty, he was already feeling the weariness of age. Injuries took longer to heal, aches happened for seemingly no reason, and he saw far more silver in his hair than he liked to see.
Beside him, his lady wife stirred, but turned over with an irritable grunt. Cassander heeded her no more than a fly.
The Lord of Starpike and Whitegrove took a deep breath of fresh air as he stepped outside onto the balcony. His chambers were atop the highest tower of Whitegrove, so he did not worry about anyone seeing his nakedness. Thus he was free to gaze out at the myriad of colours which dawn painted across the sky. The wind was a strong breeze, so that he could hear the loud flapping of House Peake's banner above him. Two black castles on an orange field, one for each of the great castles that House Peake owned.
Both these castles lay in the hotly contested region of the Dornish Marches, which had seen countless battles and skirmishes between the kingdoms of Dorne, the Stormlands, and the Reach. Most of it consisted of grasslands and moors amidst the Red Mountains which proved Dorne's best defence against their neighbours.
On the western marches, however, the foothills of those mountains were covered with thick forests. House Tarly, fellow marcher lords, had established the castle of Horn Hill amongst these beautiful surroundings. House Peake had to content themselves with the southernmost part of these forests, where Whitegrove stood.
Their primary castle, Starpike, had been constructed on a massive plateau which overlooked a low plain to the south and west with mountains to the north and west. No man could cross that terrain undetected, and woe betide any army that tried to besiege the castle. Some said that Starpike's position, rising up like a mountain in its own right, had inspired House Peake's family name.
For his part, Cassander had always had an affinity for Whitegrove. The Peakes had seized this second great castle during the Age of the Hundred Kingdoms. House Aumale, another ancient marcher house, had foolishly tried to rule the marches and force their authority upon their neighbours. After two centuries of strife, the last self-styled Marcher King had breathed his last at the feet of Urrathon Peake, who was thereafter known as 'Shieldsmasher.'
That was a long time ago, of course. The Andals had made their mark upon Westeros for thousands of years. The hundred kingdoms of that bygone age were whittled down to nine or ten, with none more powerful than the Reach.
Cassander's tranquility was broken by someone rapping on his chamber door.
Sella was stirring again, grumbling in a low undertone. With one last glance at the sunrise, the marcher lord went back inside and drew a robe over his shoulders. "Who is it?"
"My lord?"
"Just a moment," Cassander replied, even as he turned to his wife and gave her a meaningful glance. She did not meet his gaze, but sat upright on the bed, wrapping herself in the bedsheets. Only then did Cassander open the door, holding it just slightly ajar just in case.
His squire stood before him in the corridor. Gedwyn Manderly had only just reached the age of manhood, and he still retained a boyish appearance about him. The wispy brown whiskers on his cheeks only enhanced rather than undermine this impression.
All the same, Cassander liked him well enough. The lad was eager to learn, and he took his duties seriously. Why else would he have arrived before his wife's ladies-in-waiting? He knew his master's habits well enough to know that he would be awake with the dawn.
Gedwyn gave a respectful bob of his head. "Breakfast will be ready soon, my lord."
"Thank you, lad. Go and summon my wife's handmaids, will you?"
"Already done, my lord."
"Good," Cassander remarked. "See that our wheelhouse is prepared, then break your own fast."
Gedwyn nodded his head before hurrying away.
Cassander had been warned against taking a Manderly boy for his squire. His brother, his uncle, his cousins, all had turned their noses up at the idea of Gedwyn. They clung to old memories of a feud which had lasted generations.
For his part, Cassander had always been baffled by his family's hatred for House Manderly, even when the Manderlys showed similar contempt for the Peakes. Both these ancient houses claimed descent from the High King of the First Men, which meant that they were distant kinsmen. Instead, their mutual hatred for each other had led to many quarrels, at least two of whom had threatened to tear the Reach apart. Only the Gardener kings had been able to keep them in check, and only just barely.
Nobody could agree when Peake and Manderly had first begun to quarrel, or why. Cassander sometimes wondered if it was simply because they were so different. House Peake were of the marches and the mountains, whilst the Manderlys were of the sea, and the great river which had given them their name. While both took great pride in knighthood, it was trade which made Manderly powerful, whilst the Peakes had earned their position through war.
For his part, Cassander had seen little good in continuing such ill feelings. He had offered to take Gedwyn as a squire in good faith. In return, Lord Manderly had offered to foster Cassander's eldest nephew, Lorimar. It had been agreed that he would go to Dunstonbury in two years, after his eighth birthday.
The servants had long grown accustomed to their lord's habits. Cassander's breakfast was already on the head table when he entered the great hall: eggs and bacon, sausages, two kinds of freshly baked bread, a pot of honey, three apples, and lemon water to wash it all down.
"My wife will be joining me soon," he told the servants when he stood behind his chair and did not touch the food. It irked him to have to wait, but it would have been discourteous to tuck in before Sella sat down.
Eventually, Sella entered the hall, accompanied by her ladies-in-waiting. They had the decency to wish Cassander good morning before taking their seats. Sella simply nodded as she sat down in the empty chair to his left.
"When shall we depart?" She asked him as she watched him take his own seat.
"After everyone is fed," Cassander replied. "On that note, did you see if Sagramor and the others were rising?"
"I doubt they will be much longer. But was it truly necessary for us to leave so soon?"
"Of course! Horn Hill is three days from here, and four if we tarry!"
"As you say," Sella acquiesced. Cassander felt a niggling suspicion that she was withholding some thought, but his wife's countenance betrayed nothing. He focused on spearing a sausage with his knife.
"Still, I doubt they had a peaceful sleep last night. I heard them squabbling again through the wall." She said this as if Cassander hadn't also heard their voices.
Cassander sighed through his nostrils. Gods be damned, must she really do this? "Did it disturb your sleep overmuch?"
"I'm surprised that it did not disturb yours."
"What exactly does that mean?" Cassander already knew the answer to that question, but he was determined not to let her know that her salvos were finding a target.
Sella was only too happy to oblige. "It means that you made a mistake, husband. It means that the servants will have yet more stories to spread behind your back."
"I appreciate your concern for me," Cassander observed dryly, but also quietly as a servant pour more water into his tankard. "But mayhaps you should be concerned about how you inspire stories of your own."
Her piercing blue eyes met his brown ones. "Rest assured, my lord, I have nothing to hide."
Gods be fucking damned! "It was for the best," Cassander reminded her. "Sagramor needed to wed again. His children need a mother."
"If only you'd found one for them," Sella retorted before turning away to focus on her food.
Cassander bit back his anger. Although he understood that this talk of his brother's family had been a pretense, it occupied his thoughts far more than he wished to admit.
Florence Ball was a beautiful young woman, and the daughter of one of the oldest houses in the Reach. Unfortunately, there had been whispers of a soiled reputation, and a scandal which had required moon tea to undo. Cassander hadn't doubted that those rumours were true. Why else were her parents content for their eldest daughter to be the second wife of a second son?
Sagramor had been most unwilling to accept, and had quarrelled fiercely with his elder brother. Even after two years, he was still solemn and bitter with grief, and he did not wish to marry again.
Cassander had, of course, argued that he might learn to love Florence, and that the children needed a new mother in place of the one they had lost. When Sagramor had not been persuaded, he'd spoken the hard truth of their situation. House Ball had offered their ancestral kinsmen a very generous dowry, and House Peake was in no position to turn it down.
The most bountiful lands of Westeros had once been four different kingdoms embroiled in rivalry and war. Then, by their indomitable will, the Gardener Kings had united them into the Kingdom of the Reach.
Still, House Peake had not thrived as they should. The Tarlys held the most fertile land amongst the marcher lords, and they were more than capable of holding it. True, many had settled on Peake lands, despite the dangers of incursions and raids. Their descendants had multiplied and grown accustomed to the trials and tribulations of the marches. But it had not resulted in great wealth for House Peake. That could only be obtained through their prestige.
Thus, Cassander could live with his brother struggling through a loveless marriage with a woman who was only ten years older than his eldest son. Sagramor will learn to live with it too, he thought resolutely. If I can endure such a marriage, then so can he.
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One benefit to the Dornish Marches was the perpetual mildness of its summer climate. It was never too hot or sweltering. One could almost always expect a nippy breeze during the day. Thus, Cassander often eschewed the wheelhouse to ride on horseback in the open.
Sella deigned to hide from the sun, along with their daughter Gladys. With them were Sagramor's wife, his sons, and a wet nurse. Sagramor himself was riding his pale grey courser, brooding in silence. Around them were fifty knights and men-at-arms guarding another thirty servants.
The journey to Horn Hill was slow, due to the poor quality of the pathway. Previous lords of House Peake and Tarly had arranged for a dirt path to link their castles. Gravel had been added at various parts to prevent the paths from becoming overgrown with new vegetation. Still, it was a poorly-kept path, and their wheelhouse sometimes became stuck.
By the second day, Cassander was desperate to stave off his feelings of frustration and impatience. Seeking a distraction, he maneuvered his horse so that he rode alongside Sagramor. "Shall we give Lorimar a horse?"
"He is too young," Sagramor answered tersely.
"Then why not take him onto your own horse? Surely he's not too young for that."
Sagramor grimaced at his elder brother. "By all means, tell me what is best for my son. You seem to take such joy in it."
Gods be fucking damned… With difficulty, Cassander forced himself to speak softly, but his voice was thick with rage. "Must we go on retreading this muddy ground? We were both fostered as boys!"
"Not at Dunstonbury," Sagramor rejoined.
"His aunt will be there," Cassander pointed out. Florence's younger sister, Elinor, had married Lord Manderly's eldest son, Perwyn, earlier that year.
"An aunt by marriage," Sagramor observed sullenly. "An aunt whom he has not seen more than five times in his life!"
"And whose fault is that?" Cassander shook his head. "I swear, if a man should ever cut your throat, I wouldn't know if yellow or black bile should spill out!"
"Next time you want to gamble with our foes," Sagramor stormed, "Use one of your own sons as a bargaining chip!"
So wroth was he that Cassander contemplated putting his mailed and leather-clad fist through his brother's teeth. Instead, he spurred his horse to leave Sagramor alone, riding to the head of the column instead.
He said little else to anyone in his family. Only his daughter seemed to regard him with any sort of affection, but she was a maid of thirteen, and it would not do to have her riding out beneath the summer sun. Besides, there were several dangers which might befall them.
Thus, three days went by slowly, where Cassander was left to stew in self-pity, resentment, and longing for their journey to end.
Finally, with the third sunset beginning across the sky, one of the knights leading the procession gave a shout. Cassander sighed with relief as the castle of Horn Hill appeared on the horizon.
Like Whitegrove, Horn Hill had been built amongst forested hills, atop an elevation cleared of trees. Red archers on green fields flew from every tower and along the parapets, as if they were the castle's garrison.
A wide plain known as Garth's Green had been cleared before the castle, linking up with a walled village and several acres of farmland. At present, Garth's Green was filled with tents. Lord Gyles Tarly was hosting a great hunt on his lands, and many guests from the southern Reach had come to take part. The most prestigious of these guests was rumoured to be King Cleoden IV of House Gardener, King of the Reach.
Cassander marvelled at the sight of all those tents, as well as the multitude of banners flying above them. Aside from the green hand of Gardener, he could also see the red fox of Florent, the orange butterflies of Mullendore, the yellow hives of Beesbury, the blue whale of Mangan, the purple spiral of Loyrud, the black vair of Voclain, the white-and-green merman of Manderly, the burgundy grapes of Redwyne, and the white tower of Hightower. A dozen lesser houses were also present, contributing to the myriad of heraldry.
Men hailed House Peake as they rode along. The Tarly smallfolk were well familiar with the black castles on orange, but they were no strangers to the other guests either. Six Peake maidens had gone on to become Queens of the Reach, and many a song had been written about House Peake's exploits.
One man in particular caught his attention. He was short of height but burly in build, wearing a tunic of copper and blue, calling Cassander's name at the top of his lungs.
"Cley!" Cassander held up his hand in recognition of Lord Cleyton Shermer. As boys, they had been foster brothers in Highgarden for eight years. Cleyton had married Cassander's sister seven years before. More than ever, he felt closer to Cleyton than Sagramor.
With little regard for his entourage, the marcher lord slid off his horse and walked towards the stout lord with outstretched arms. "How does Rebecca fare?"
"She's well as ever! Turns out she's got another loaf in her oven!" Laughing, Cleyton seized him and embraced him with a joyous ferocity. "Gods, you're looking old! Is that a silver streak in your beard already?"
"More than one, I'll warrant," Cassander answered ruefully. "Are we the last to arrive?"
"Aye," Cleyton affirmed. "Old Jon Kymar plodded in just before you did. I was beginning to think you might have been ambushed by Dornishmen."
Cassander was astonished. "I thought we would be earlier than most."
"Earlier than Lord Hightower, you mean?"
Sighing, the marcher lord shot a resentful glance at the Hightower banners, flying far in the distance, not far from the Gardener tents.
It was an old dispute. The Hightowers and Peakes had spent several years squabbling over an estate which lay on the border between their lands. The estate had belonged to a landed knight whose parents had blood ties to both houses, and he had died childless. It was a valuable stretch of farmland, and the knight had also discovered a sizable deposit of marble before dying without an heir. Cassander and Felix Hightower were both determined to get their hands on the estate.
"Do let me guess," Cassander mused angrily. "Lord Felix has been whispering lies into the king's ear?"
To his surprise, Cleyton chuckled. "Not unless His Grace can hear him all the way from Highgarden! It seems that King Cleoden's taken ill."
"Again?" Cassander shook his head despairingly, but he knew better than to speak his thoughts aloud. "May the gods be merciful."
"Don't fret," Cleyton reassured him. "Prince Vigo and Prince Orbert are here in the king's stead."
Cassander brightened at that wonderful news. During their years in the Gardeners' court, the two men had grown up alongside Vigo Gardener, a second cousin of King Cleoden. Boisterous, fit, and brave, Vigo had become a robust and celebrated knight. It had been Vigo, in fact, who had initiated Cassander into the Order of the Green Hand.
As for Orbert, he was ten years younger than Cassander, but the marcher lord could not think of a more fitting young man to be the crown prince. He was insightful, droll, and very adept at arms. It was widely said in the king's court that Orbert was his grandfather reborn, and sure to paint the Dornish mountains with a second coat of red paint.
"There's something else," Cleyton suddenly whispered. "I bring you greetings from Rosamund."
Cassander felt as though his heart had leapt into his throat, stifling the dozen questions which were on the tip of his tongue.
"Come to my tent during the feast. Rebecca and I will keep your family busy."
"Brother?"
Sagramor was sitting atop his horse, gazing resentfully at the two men. "Pleasant as this is, should we not present ourselves before the king and Lord Tarly?"
"Very well," Cassander remarked, doing his best to sound casual. He patted Cleyton on the shoulder before remounting his horse with Gedwyn's proffered help.
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By the time Cassander made his excuses to make for the privy, the sun had surrendered the sky to the moon. A cloudless day had given way to a cloudless night so that the silver orb shone down upon the dark earth.
The camp had become much quieter, given that the nobles and knights were feasting in Horn Hill, along with their families. A few hundred were still in camp, huddled around dozens of fires. Cassander shirked them as he made for Cleyton's personal tent.
He was restless, quivering with anticipation. He'd hoped that she would be waiting for him in Cleyton's tent, but he was disappointed. Thus, he lit a candle and waited for Rosamund to arrive.
Time seemed not to pass as he tried to read a book in Cleyton's possession, then simply began pacing the narrow space when he gave up trying to read in the faint light.
Finally, the tent flap was pulled aside. Cassander gave a start at the sudden movement, then balked as someone wearing a septa's robes entered.
Before he could open his mouth, the woman threw back her hood to reveal her face.
"Cassander," Rosamund exclaimed softly. Even in the meagre candlelight, there was no mistaking the look of joy which lit up her rosy face.
He said nothing; he was tongue-tied at the sight of his beloved.
She undid the front of her septa's robes and let them slide down her form, revealing that she wore not a stitch beneath it.
His throat was dry as he gazed upon Rosamund's nakedness. She had always been a buxom lady, but motherhood had accentuated her curves. Her plump breasts hung delightfully downward, resting atop her protruding belly. Her black hair was set in a long, tight braid which she'd coiled about her neck like a necklace. By contrast, the black hair between her legs was wild and untamed.
He had longed for this encounter; he'd seen her in his sleep, and imagined what he would do with her when he was awake. Now that he was finally face-to-face with Rosamund, he felt utterly paralyzed. He could scarcely breathe, let alone step forward.
It was she who moved first, undressing him with trembling hands as their lips locked together. Her tongue frantically found his, twisting and curling with a fervour which Cassander had never encountered with any other woman. His hands squeezed her breasts until she moaned aloud, even as she freed his erect manhood from his breeches.
"Rosamund," he gasped as he gasped for air and pulled her to the bed. "Gods be good, how I've missed you!"
"Take me, then," Rosamund pleaded as she positioned herself on all fours. "We haven't much time, darling."
Cassander knelt behind her and positioned himself so that the tip of his cock touched her warm, quivering flaps. After a moment's hesitation to hear her plead his name a second time, he thrust himself forward, until his sword was sheathed up to the hilt. He covered her mouth with his hand as a soft cry left her.
Soon, their bodies were moving together, jerking forward with every fierce lunge Cassander made. His front slapped against her round buttocks. Their breathing soon turned harsh and ragged. Cassander felt herself tighten against his shaft, and it took all his effort not to scream with joy and relief when he lost control.
As he spurted inside her, Rosamund let out a shrill cry into his hand. Cassander forced himself to continue slamming himself forward, until she screamed once more. Her body quivered against his.
Cassander sighed with relief as he slumped against her. Releasing her mouth, he stroked her shoulder instead. It took him a moment to realise that her shoulders were shaking again.
Realisation jolted him, and he sat up. "Rosa? What's wrong?"
"It hurts," came her reply, so quiet that Cassander barely heard it. "It hurts so much."
Cassander understood what she meant, and he felt his own joy give way to melancholy. "If it wasn't for my child," he admitted hoarsely, "I would live for nothing else in life except to see you again."
He had first become acquainted with Rosamund at Highgarden. Autumn had begun, and King Garth the Painter was determined to celebrate it. At eighteen, Cassander had entered the squires' tourney, eyeing the first prize of a knighthood.
Rosamund Roxton had drawn his eye from the minute he noticed her, even as he'd prepared for his first turn at the lists. When he'd left his opponent sprawled in the dirt, he'd sent his horse trotting back just to see whether she was applauding him. So eager was he to see her smile that he'd very nearly forgotten to hail his betrothed.
His father had arranged the match when Cassander was fifteen. Sella Piney was a promising bride, whose family was an ancient house with ties to the Gardener kings. Their lands formed the Reach's north-easternmost territory, going so far as the Blackwater Rush. Moreover, Sella herself was deemed a graceful and well-mannered woman; she had served as a lady-in-waiting to King Garth's niece for six years, and she had learned all the right lessons of courtly etiquette.
None of it had mattered to Cassander once he'd laid eyes upon Rosamund. Not only was she beautiful, she'd also proved to be charming and witty. She was everything which Sella was not, but that unfortunately extended to her family name and family fortune. Nobody would have sneered at House Roxton, but they were indisputably a younger house, formed when the Andals had come to the Reach. The First Men may have abandoned the old ways, but they still took a fierce pride in their legacy and lineage.
Even if she had been a Gardener, though, Cassander's father would never have permitted Rosamund to usurp Sella as his son's betrothed. If a man wished to offend such a noble house as House Piney, they had better have a damn good reason; love was certainly not one of them.
And so Cassander had said nothing to his father, had been gallant and courteous to Sella, had wed her in Starpike, and thought longingly of Rosamund whilst bedding his bride.
A few weeks after his wedding, Sella had demanded to know who Rosa was, as he'd whispered that name in his sleep several times. He'd told what he'd hoped was a convincing lie, but Sella had been cold with him ever after.
As for Rosamund, she had done all she could to arrange a wedding to Cassander's neighbour, Lord Tarly, who lived so close to Whitegrove. Cassander had lost count of the times that they'd met whilst riding or hunting, the quick trysts in strangers' castles, largely with Cleyton Shermer's help, who'd always known of their secret affair.
Now they lay in his bed, shaking with joy and grief alike.
"I think he suspects me."
The words were spoken in a voice which was taut with fear, as if it dreaded to give voice to them in the first place.
Cassander felt himself grow alarmed. "Who?"
"Nestor."
He was her eldest son, a brash man of seventeen. As befitting a marcher house, especially House Tarly, young Nestor had grown up fast. As a frequent visitor to Horn Hill, Cassander was quite familiar with Nestor. He'd slain his first man at fourteen, whilst he'd been a squire to a marcher knight riding against Dornish raiders. Cassander did not doubt that Nestor would be unforgiving of his mother cuckolding his father.
The marcher lord tried to stay calm as he gazed at Rosamund. "Has he said anything to you?"
"No," she admitted.
"Good! He would not stay silent if he knew something was afoot. He's too much his father's son."
Rosamund made a face. She had always hated Gyles, just as Cassander had come to loathe Sella. However, she quickly gave in to fear again. "That is what I keep telling myself, but Cassander… gods, if you could see the way he glances at me! When I tried to leave the table tonight, I spoke of a pain in my stomach. He escorted me to my chambers and went to fetch a maester. That was why I took so long to join you. I had to wait until he went back to the feast."
Cassander felt an icy hand grip his heart. "Did he have you followed, then?"
"I don't know. I left through the servants' staircase, so nobody will have seen me leave."
Common sense grappled with desire and longing within Cassander, but he forced himself to speak the last words which he wanted to utter. "In that case, we should go back. Your husband might retire early for the night."
For a moment, Rosamund was silent, looking at him with what appeared to be resentment. Then, she wept afresh. "I have to see you again soon. Mayhaps during the hunt tomorrow?"
"Aye," he whispered. "We can find ourselves a quiet place amongst the trees." He kissed her tear-stained cheek tenderly.
"Until then," Rosamund sobbed, even as she quickly stood up and put on the septa's robes. Cassander turned his face from her to hide his own tears as they broke through his composure at last.
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If Sella suspected his tryst, she had made no mention of it. Nobody had asked him anything when he returned to the feast, and Cassander did his best to appear as though all was well.
The following day, after a late breakfast in Horn Hill, the princes, nobles, knights, and all their squires had remained in the great hall whilst the servants cleared the tables. Lots were drawn to determine who would hunt together. Usually, it was done by random choice, but in practice, the hosts of such hunts often tipped the scales in their own favour, as did members of the royal family.
Therefore, it was no surprise to Cassander that he, his brother, and Cley Shermer were assigned to a group which included Prince Vigo and Prince Orbert Gardener. Rounding out their hunting party were Ser Edmund Tyrell, Ser Perwyn Manderly, and Lord Walder Coucy.
Orbert and Vigo did not bother to conceal their preference of Cleyton and Cassander.
"Will you return to Highgarden soon?" Vigo asked him as they prepared to set out.
"At some point," Cassander promised. "I will need to resolve matters with the Hightowers first."
Vigo waved his arm dismissively. "I've spoken to my cousin about the matter. You need not lose any sleep over that." Prince Orbert nodded in affirmation of Vigo's claim.
"My thanks," Cassander replied, even as he glanced to his right. Less than ten metres away, Felix Hightower was mounting his courser. He was too far away to have heard Vigo, though Cassander was tempted to laugh in the arrogant bastard's face.
Elsewhere, Cassander could just make out Lord Gyles Tarly and his son Nestor, speaking to Lords Florent and Kullut. He couldn't see Rosamund, try as he might.
Unfortunately, someone else met his eye instead. Like most Tarlys, Nestor's countenance was naturally set in a frown, but there seemed to be an uglier expression on his face when he glanced back at Cassander. He pretended to look past Nestor, as if his gaze was wandering aimlessly.
Soon, the call was made for the royal hunt to begin. More than six hundred assembled men, women, and children entered the forest, preceded by several huntsmen and their hounds.
Prince Orbert was especially eager to proceed. "Lord Tarly's men scouted a bear," he revealed eagerly to his companions. "They're saying it's a big one, too!"
"No sign of the maiden fair?" Ser Perwyn japed loudly. His brother Gedwyn was the only one who laughed. Cassander politely stretched his lips in acknowledgment of the attempt at humour.
"How does your family fare?" Cassander asked Prince Orbert.
"As well as can be expected," answered the prince. "My brother has been sent away to the Citadel."
That was no surprise to Cassander. Prince Perceon had always been a weak boy of frail disposition. In that, he was his father's son, for he was regularly ill and shirked the outdoors as often as he could.
"I don't imagine he'll appreciate those musty libraries," japed the crown prince. "Poor fellow will be sneezing his maester's vows!"
Cassander snorted with laughter, as did Vigo and Cleyton.
"May the Crone gift him with great wisdom," Lord Coucy urged piously.
"Just so," Prince Orbert agreed. "We all thought it was for the best. Except Edmund, of course."
Cassander glanced over at Ser Edmund Tyrell, already a steward to the Gardeners at twenty-six. The marcher lord had never cared for the Tyrells. They had always been presumptuous for their station, even before Edmund's grandfather had wedded King Mern VI's youngest daughter.
Still, Cassander had to credit Edmund for knowing his place on this hunt. The steward held his tongue, speaking only when spoken to, and keeping to the middle of the column.
Meanwhile, the women and children rode near the rear with the supplies. Sella and Florence looked sour, clearly unhappy to be a part of this hunt. The only one who looked more bitter was, oddly enough, Elinor Manderly. She and her sister seemed to be in a stiff competition over who could ignore the other with more silent vitriol. Gods help us, Cassander thought despairingly. May we make camp soon and leave these troubles behind.
Thankfully, things remained civil for the rest of the journey to the first campsite. Cassander kept company with Vigo, Cleyton, and Orbert as the tents were pitched and fires were lit. Then, at Lord Gyles' signal, the hunting parties set out to find the great bear.
Due to the nature of the beast they were hunting, it was decided that the men would march on foot. The only horse they brought was a pack animal with food and water supplies on its back.
Ancient trees loomed up over him; their trunks were so big that it would take twelve men to fully encircle them. These were few and far between, however. Generations of men had culled the forest, taking trees and dragging them away, allowing new trees to take their place.
Sometimes, they passed a forest giant which had collapsed without the aid of men's axes. These fallen tree trunks left Cassander feeling most uneasy. Bears were not to be trifled with, and he had no wish to be surprised by one.
Prince Orbert, who'd brought along his own huntsman and a brace of hounds, led the party up a ridge that others eschewed. "This bear won't be looking for a fight," the crown prince declared. "Bears only fight when they're cornered."
It was a slow progress, thanks to the steep slope and treacherously large roots. Thankfully, Cassander and the others were armed with spears, which served well as walking-sticks.
Thanks to the thick canopy of leaves, the hunting party marched in nigh-complete shadow. Only a few scattered flashes of sunlight managed to break through the broadleaf barrier. All the same, Cassander found himself sweating profusely. "Gedwyn?"
"Aye! Aye, my lord!" The squire suddenly appeared before him.
"Get me a drink, will you?"
Gedwyn dutifully ran back to the horse, took a flask, opened it, and brought it back to Cassander with a small nod of his head.
It was smaller than Cassander had expected, but the water had been flavoured with the juice of some fruit. It made for a very refreshing drink as he pressed onward, listening to a song that Cleyton was singing "Iron Lances" under his breath.
On they went, watching the hounds stalking ahead of them, sniffing the ground for some sign of the bear. The sounds of other hunting parties had faded away, and Cassander began to feel very alone in the forest.
Ser Perwyn Manderly was speaking with Prince Vigo on some matter, though he spoke too quietly for Cassander to overhear. Prince Orbert began singing alongside Cleyton.
Suddenly, the hounds began baying, fighting against their leashes whilst the huntsmen took out horns and began to blow. Cassander heard those calls repeated faintly, but he didn't know if those were echoes or responses. Even if it was the latter, the marcher lord knew that reinforcements were too far away to make a difference.
To prove his point, a huge shape suddenly reared up from thick brambles in a nearby clearing. Its fur was light-brown and shaggy, its jaw was long and full of teeth, and its limbs were thicker than a man's torso.
"Gods be good," Ser Perwyn cried out behind Cassander. Before him, Prince Orbert raised his spear and gripped it in both hands. Edmund Tyrell had seized a bow and was preparing to loose an arrow at the bear. No need to aim, you fool. Only a blind man could miss that monster.
The bear seemed to stand two metres tall when it arose on its hind legs. A guttural roar left its open maw, and its long claws flashed in the sunlight.
Cassander felt fear rising within him, but it was quickly clear to him that something was terribly amiss. His terror felt remote, as though from behind a great curtain of fog in his mind. His reflexes had always become heightened during such distress, but now he was struggling to grip his weapon. Moreover, he felt dizzy and lightheaded. What's going on?
"Mind its front," Prince Vigo cried out, but Cassander no longer saw him.
The bear fell back onto all fours and let out a low growl. The small, dark eyes seemed to be fixed on Cassander, but it did not charge.
The marcher lord slowly tried to aim his spear so that the point would plunge down its throat. Come to me, then. Cassander glared warily as he tried to focus on the bear's face. Come to me, you whoreson.
Worse than the bear was his own state. He was feeling sluggish and slow; his feet were becoming lead, and his vision was blurring.
The bear suddenly let out a terrible cry, even as an arrow was embedded into its shoulder. Cassander faintly heard Edmund curse aloud. He was of a mind to mock the man, but his tongue felt numb inside his mouth. Without warning, Cassander suddenly lurched toward the ground and retched onto his own knees.
"My lord! My lord!"
It was Gedwyn. Cassander turned to look for his squire, blinking rapidly. He saw the boy running towards him, mouth and eyes wide open in terror. Before Cassander could respond, something else had slammed into him.
He could barely conceive of the bear's presence, even as he felt the monster's claws slash at his armoured chest. He smelled the bear's hot breath against his face, just before those jaws closed around the top of his skull. He didn't feel its teeth, thanks to his helm, but the pressure of its bite and the closeness of the bear made him scream in a shrill voice.
Distantly, Cassander heard others shouting, including his brother, but he couldn't glean any words over the bestial snarls filling his ears. His screams became shrill as several sharp points stabbed his face. Darkness and agony became his world, and he could no longer open his eyes. Nor could he tell whether he or the bear was screaming louder.
Rosamund… oh gods, please, let me see Rosamu-