Chapter 10

  There was still more than an hour before dawn when I made my way toward where Smoker was being housed, in one of the smallest of the hastily-erected stables that rose near the tiltlanes.

  A veritable town had been built along the northern walls of Lannisport for this tourney. Lower and upper stands for the joust with separate ones for the melee grounds, stables, forges, the maesters’ tent; and that’s without counting the thousands of small tents and campfires dotting the land around the city.

  Having run from Casterly Rock, which sat to the north of Lannisport, I had to weave my way through the tent city filled with passed out freeriders, still-rallying hedge knights, and the true winners of the night still skulking their way from one campfire to the other, looking for their next customer. Many a coin had made their way into a prostitute’s hands last night.

  No one gave me more than a passing look, as I made sure to wear what could pass for a hedge knight’s unwashed leathers. No cloaks and shadowy cowls, no sir. Blending in with the locals and acting like you belong wins you the day. Anything to avoid blowing my cover as the mystery knight before the big reveal tomorrow.

  Or today, I suppose, though that reveal would come in a different kind of battlefield and a much tougher opponent. Tywin Lannister’s office seemed a more daunting arena than the tiltlanes.

  What I didn’t expect when I arrived at the stables, however, was having one of those passed out drunks slobbering all over Smoker’s hay pile. With the dim light of a small torch I lit once I pulled my way into the stall, the drunk looked like a large blob of a man scrunched up in the fetal position.

  Pointing to the drunk, I looked at Smoker in askance, and the horse let out a soft neigh, which surprised me. He didn’t usually get along with strangers. I would’ve expected him to have stomped the guy’s brains out by now.

  Shrugging, I was about to kick-awake the sleeping man when a sort of passing familiarity to his face made me pause. Was that…

  “Pate?”

  Pulling my torch closer, I recognized the streak of blotchy pimples on his face and sighed. I shook him instead of kicking him awake. My temporary squire squealed in fright, fell to the hay-strewn dirt floor, and it took him a moment to calm himself.

  “Why are you sleeping here, Pate?” I asked once he’d settled down.

  “Uh, for the horse, milord,” he said, blinking against the torchlight. “I thought since you were the mystery knight, someone could, ye know, do something to it.” He wrung his hands like a child caught sneaking candy.

  Did he think I’d be upset that he’d gone above and beyond his duty to care for my horse? If anything, I should be thanking him. I had clearly not thought this through as much as I should’ve. Without Smoker, I doubt I could’ve gotten as far as I did in the lists, and much less win it all. Against guys like Dayne, Barristan, and the Prince, every little edge mattered, and my connection with Smoker was one such edge.

  “Has anyone tried anything, then?”

  He shook his head fiercely. “No, milord. Just some curious littl'uns came ‘round yesterday, some of the old Lanna’s get. She’s a washerwoman I know. Good folk, them, I swear. They just wanted to see the horses more than anything.”

  I didn’t know whether to be amused or terrified that the smallfolk were so easily panicked whenever they dealt with nobles. Complete and utter social inequality would do that, I supposed. I’d gotten used to it over the many years of my life here, but it could still jar me sometimes.

  “It’s alright.” I gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder. “Think nothing of it. I’m taking him out for a ride but I should be back before sunrise. Keep taking care of him and I’ll reward you once the tourney’s done, that good?”

  “Yes, milord.” He nodded even more fiercely.

  Holding onto Smoker’s lead, I was about to make my way out of the stall when I paused. “How old are you again, Pate?”

  “I turn three and ten next moon.” He sounded defensive, then seemed to catch himself and added, “milord.” His throat bobbed.

  My eyebrows rose until they nearly hit my hairline. Bloody hell. He was making me feel like an old fart at fifteen. Still, he was twelve and already nearly as tall as I was, and I was plenty tall. What kind of monster would he grow up to be?

  I knew the answer to that, at least. If I had any say in it, he would grow up into my monster. A less rabid, more skilled Gregor Clegane.

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  I said my goodbyes to my future giant and stepped out of the stables and mounted Smoker, clicking my tongue to make him take off.

  It took us nearly fifteen minutes at a trot, vaulting over a few drunks and even a hedge knight rutting on a whore, before we finally hit an open field where we had the freedom to pick up some speed. We went around a couple times, just feeling each other and the slight ocean breeze on our faces. Smoker’s pale mane drifted with the wind, hot breath lightly misting with the morning cold.

  I wasn’t trying to get some last minute runs in the tilt here, practicing my couching, the strength behind my thrust, or the firmness of my shieldhand. I didn’t even bring a lance with me. I was confident enough in my handiwork to not need the practice for my part of the show, but a lance is not a horse, and Smoker needed to get his blood flowing if I wanted him in top shape.

  Having a go at the jousting lanes with all my equipment would’ve also defeated the purpose of coming down here incognito. Considering there were only four men still on the run for the ultimate victory in the tourney, one wouldn’t need to stretch their imagination to make the connection with the mystery knight.

  Princes and kingsguard knights didn’t practice at strange hours of the morning amidst the commons.

  So I kept our practice light, just a man going for a ride with his horse. At a glance, no one would recognize me without my armor on and Smoker without the special barding I had commissioned for my stint as mystery knight.

  When we paused after a few sprints, I slid down from the saddle to feed Smoker an apple. He plucked it from my hand expertly and neighed in happiness, stomping his hooves on the churned grass.

  “How are you feeling, bud?” I asked him, raking a hand through his hair. “Ready for tomorrow? For the big day?”

  Another stomp on the ground served as my answer. I smiled at him, and he nudged me with a head twice the size of my own.

  “Good, that’s good.” Patting him down a final time, I jumped atop his saddle and used my knees to guide him for another round. “Let’s go again, Smoker. Make it count this time. Me and you, you and me. We can do it.”

  We set off again, slowly picking up speed until we were riding hard, and before I noticed, I felt it. My vision narrowed, the thrumming of my breath became a distant drum, and suddenly we were no longer man and horse but one creature, our thoughts synched, our purpose singular.

  I knew that if I thought he should jump, even without nudging him with my knees or using his bridle, Smoker would follow the command. There was more to it, more to this connection, like a pulling just at the edge of my grasp that I couldn’t quite reach, then it all slipped away not even fifteen seconds after it started, and I let out a deep exhale. We slowed to a canter, then a trot, until we were finally just walking around the thigh-high grass and the wildflowers.

  It hadn’t even been a year since I started to feel a supernatural connection to Smoker whenever I fell into absolute focus atop him. I was sure I had to be some kind of warg or skinchanger, though I had never managed to fully slip into Smoker’s mind.

  I didn’t know if I even wanted to try it, really, at least not now a day before the finals. Actually, I didn’t want to accidentally fry Smoker’s brain on his worst day when he’s irritated and chomps at my fingers, and I certainly didn’t want to do it now.

  I needed to start small first. Some kind of rat or a bird. I’d been hesitant to try this gift out. Thoughts on the absolute horrors that magic could bring about in worlds like this sketched me out, but the time was coming when having a skill like warging could be the difference between life and death for me or for those I cared about. Rebellion and war loomed on the horizon, and I had to be ready for it in whichever way I could.

  But even beyond warging, I knew there had to be some kind of magic in me. No one should be as strong, quick, and skilled as I was. Especially at fifteen. Combat came to me as easily as hunting came to a bird of prey, like some kind of primal instinct that was slowly building me up into a killing machine.

  Though the Tarths were no Starks or Targaryens, there were some indications that some kind of magic might run through our veins. There was Ser Duncan the Tall, whose shield even now hung in the armory at Evenfall Hall. Father wasn’t quite sure how he was related to us, but him being somewhere up our family tree was likely.

  In this world, it was said Ser Duncan could easily best all other six of Aegon the Unlikely’s kingsguard by his lonesome when they practiced at the Red Keep. And during the Fourth Blackfyre Rebellion, he’d outfought two dozen knights of the Golden Company before slaying Daemon III Blackfyre. It was hard to tell tale from truth with things like this, and it was clear he wasn’t some kind of magical being, not at face value, but no normal man could do that.

  There were others too, the world filled with legends about great warriors said to be the equals of small armies. A living example was Ser Barristan Selmy, who some sixteen years ago charged and killed two dozen men of the Golden Company before slaying the also obscenely strong Maelys Blackfyre.

  Then there were the other legends surrounding Tarth. Back home, everyone from the lord to the lowest of the farmers would tell you of their long and storied heritage coming back to Galladon of Morne, the so-called Perfect Knight.

  The tales about him differed depending on who told it. To some, he’d been a legendary hero who killed a wild dragon with nothing but his sword, which then became so powerful no other sword or shield could stop its blows. Then, with the coming of the Andals, Galladon of Morne became a knight with a sword named Just Maid, a gift to him from the Maiden herself. It was said Just Maid only came out of its sheath three times for as long as Galladon lived, and only to fight against the enemy gods of the Seven.

  So if you believed the stories, my namesake was either a dragonslayer or a godslayer. Not a bad reputation if you asked me. Many a Tarth lord had ventured to the ruins of Morne in search of his famed sword, only to find nothing but piles of rocks and a hamlet or two which may or may not have been withholding their meager taxes.

  Still, I wanted to check it for myself. The fact I was here in this world was proof enough that base reality wasn’t as grounded as it seemed.

  After a few more sprints where Smoker and I tried and mostly succeeded in linking up again, I dropped him back off with Pate and returned to my rooms at Casterly Rock. I couldn’t hold the connection for more than twenty seconds at a time, but for now it would have to be enough. Anything else would have to wait.