A stench of wet hay, horses, and their manure clung to the walls of Red Keep stables, and it grew more pungent by the day as knights and their attendants arrived in response to the call to arms issued by the king. Coursers, chargers, palfreys and destriers filled the pens which lined the stables, all tended by grooms and stablehands handpicked by the king's master of horse.

This was not a place for any lord or a knight of rank to linger, and yet the sight of King Aegon and Lord Commander Duncan dressed as smallfolk were a common enough sight in the pens that most grooms just left them be while staying well enough away. And as the Lord Commander watched his king rub down a docile palfrey with a handful of hay; Dunk couldn't help but feel nostalgic for the bygone days where the two of them roamed the Seven Kingdoms as knight and squire.

Though he's nearing sixty and the sun streaked hair of his youth turned white long ago, he nonetheless looked as formidable as when he cut down the third Daemon Blackfyre at Wendwater Bridge or won a hard-fought trial by combat with Lyonel Baratheon after his daughter was slighted by Egg.

Dunk still stood unbowed close to seven feet and able to humble any young knight who thought to gain renown by besting him. Though he may suffer an occasional pain of the joints or of an injury that never properly healed, none can doubt his place by his king's side.

He looked on as his former squire tends to a horse like he did when he was but a knight of the hedges. Dunk stifled a laugh as the ruler of seven kingdoms; with thousands of banner men at his beck and call, who put down rebellions of overeager lords, would be usurpers and ruled with a stern and steady hand, but given the chance he'll still nuzzle a horse as he did when he was a child.

"Things were much simpler then, weren't they Egg?" He said to his king who now wore a dirtied tunic and mud soiled trousers. "No easily slighted lords to please, no worries about succession, and most of all, no damnable courts to hold."

"Were it up to me we'd still be among the hedges old friend." Even as Egg celebrated fifty one name days himself a moons turn ago and being a man grown with grandchildren, Dunk at least expected twould curb some of his graces commendable yet naive actions. He was a prince of the blood, he'll never be of rid of that.

"I very much doubt that " Dunk shook his head with a laugh. "Betha would take offense on that Egg"

The King of the seven kingdoms shuddered, Betha Targaryen formerly of house Blackwood, who depending who you ask, a spirited woman Egg chose for himself, or the other way around. "Gods I still remember what she said after our wedding."

"About giving her and her future children a proper keep to live in?"

"No after that."

Dunk knit his brows. "I can't seem to recall."

"Good" Egg smirked.

Egg let out a laugh which in turn made Dunk laugh; soon both were lost in their memories and laughter. But underneath it all a tension clung between them and Dunk worried for his friend.

He remembered him as he faced with his first rebellion as Aegon fifth of his name; the Reynes overreached themselves for the first time, and again when Daemon the Third landed in Massey's Hook, when his own children nearly fractured the realm by disregarding their betrothals, and now his son is beset by rebels eager for his head.

Oh he'd managed to shake some sense back to his royal head in the past, for instance, during Lord Lyonel's rebellion it took a very angry Queen Betha, a cudgel, and rope. But this time he'd looked more tired and troubled than before. And her grace herself retreated to the godswood, hoping the Old Gods hear her prayers through oak rather than weirwood.

And Egg wasn't the same bright eyed prince with boundless energy chosen by a council of old men. Now he was now an old man himself with a back bowing with the wieght of kingship.

"You're a good girl aren't you?" Egg said as he gave the horse an apple.

The palfrey snorted and shook it's head, Egg took a step back and laughed. "It looks like Chauncy here is about fed up listening to old men reminiscing the past."

"Or perhaps she didn't want to hear your exploits in High Hermitage."

"Quiet you, or d'you want for cousin Mychel to know!" Egg hissed.

Another earnest laugh cracked through Dunk's stoic facade and his former squire laughed along with him. But their laughter was followed by a tense silence, the spell of their nostalgia finally broken.

"You're all clean now girl." Egg patted Chauncy on the back and walked out of the pen and Dunk followed him.

Egg's foreboding words made Dunk worry, he knows Egg is prone wallow in melancholy often. "I know what you think of me Dunk, hells I know what the rest of the realm thinks of me."

"And that is?"

"That I am not meant to sit in the Iron Throne."

"That's nonsense-"

"Whilst in his cups a bard once called me; Aegon the Unlikely straight to my face. And I could've fault him for saying so."

"Yes I remember, that was on our third march to Castamere wasn't it?" Said Dunk trying to deflect the coming argument.

But none came, instead Egg gave a dismissive shrug. "It was the second, and old Tygett Reyene in turn used it as an insult ever since."

"If this is about comments of some drunken singer decades past and a lord that's been dead for half that long-"

"Oh Dunk this is so much more than that."

"How so?"

"Has not Jaehaerys become is more vocal in the small council?"

"And that is why you doubt?" "Because your son takes part in giving you council?"

"That and he seems to be in the same mind as Tully."

"I don't understand."

"For all Roberts faults, he's a bloody good spymaster."

A light of realization dawned upon the elderly knight. "You had your own council spied on again?" The sheer indignation on his voice took him Egg aback. "You swore to no backstabbing in your council."

"Twould be arrogant of me to not partake in a custom that precededs Old Valyria."

Dunk couldn't believe what he heard. The tasks he undertook in Eggs early reign still made his stomach turn, the chaos succeeding Lord Lyonel's failed rebellion was the last time the Kings Guard was used for subterfuge and skullduggery.

"I worry as an old man can Dunk." Egg sighed "What would happen if I were to die right this moment and Jaehaerys would be crowned king?"

"He'll be just as capable as you." Dunk answered almost immediately.

Egg gave him a briefst of smiles and sighed again. "Though I appreciate the compliment old friend, what would my son do to my reforms regarding the common folk?"

"He's had sympathies with the lords in the past, but that hardly means-"

"He would!" Egg exclaimed and both stopped "We've both known him since childhood, but I know his heart as only a father would."

Dunk kept his tounge knowing it was not his place to argue about relations between a father and son. Jaehearys was never eager for sparring practice like his brother Duncan, nor did he show any desire in being a knight like Daeron. Instead the boy preferred to regail in the glories of old Valyria, the conciliator, and of the Conqueror and his sister wives.

"I know he deals with Tully and Tyrell behind my back!" Egg said with bitter humor "At least he has a knack for leading men!"

"Egg calm down."

"I will not!" He shouted. "Stranger take you! I will not!"

Dunk taken aback by the outburst gave brief pause and then knelt before his king on the hay. "Apologies your grace, I was out of line."

Purple eyes stared down on him, they were once bright and filled with hope. Now the young king that knighted him was gone, in his place a bitter old man whose eyes were glazed over with cynicism.

"Your Grace, Lord Commander." A voice came from outside. A young page ran towards them before remembered his manners and knelt.

"What is it lad?" King Aegon turned to the page.

The boy clearly nervous started to stutter. "Prince… er I mean, Ser Duncan the small has arrived to city and is being led here, your grace."

"And why wasn't I informed?!" Aegon bellowed in his stern royal voice that did little to ease the lad who easily quivered at his sovereign's anger.

Ser Duncan turned to his King, caught off guard by the outburst. There was a look of shame on Aegons face.

"The king merely worries for his children lad, he meant you no I'll." Dunk said as a amicable hedge knight.

"Prince Jaehearys took upon himself to welcome Ser Duncan's retinue." The messenger gave a brief pause to see how his king would take the news of the princes independence. Thankfully King Aegon did not he did not let on and urged the boy to continue.

"They should arrive within the hour, your grace."

His king looked at him with a defeated stare and made an attempt in words, but instead he turned and continued his way out.

"As I've said old friend." Egg said "I am weary of this."

As the last arrow was removed from his back, Ser Jeremy Norridge bit down on the thick piece of leather. This was the result yet another raid on Prince Daerons' army; if one would call this ragged band of knights from the Reach, Riverlands, and Hedges, along with men-at-arms, and Outriders an army. He looked at the tattered rags that saved him from a potentially mortal wound; it was once the gambeson he wore under his armour.

Ser Jeremy thought back on the attack, it occurred whilst the prince and some knights prepared to strike an enemy encampment near the riverbank; little did they know that it was a trap laid by the increasingly devious rebels. Thankfully he wore a thick enough aketon to stop the broad tipped arrows from doing anything more than digging into his back.

Prince Daeron on the other hand was only protected by plate up to his waist and was in the process of putting on his cuirass when a call of alarm was raised and immediately joined the sortie, but the enemy came prepared and arrows rained down on them.

The other knights managed to form a wall of shields and men in armour, only to be taken from their flanks by men with bill hooks and poll axes.

Some who fully donned armour shook off the volleys and met the flanking rebels with steel, but others unarmoured or half equipped like the prince were struck down; a reach knight bearing an unfamiliar coat of arms shielded him from the initial barrage of arrows only to be shot through the eye, the grizzled man at arms lifted his shield bearing the sigils of house Lolliston as more arrows struck his mail hauberk, and most poignant to the knight; a young squire that cried on the ground as he struggled for breath with an arrow to the throat.

"That boy must've been same age as Prince Aerys, what in the name of the Mother was he doing in combat?" he thought as the sharp pain on his back slowly eased to a dull throb.

More fell as Daeron rallied them to his unfurled banner which the prince held himself. Jeremy remembered the faces of the men under fire, how they looked at their Prince waving the dragon banner in one hand and a war hammer in the other, fighting as they did, on foot for their last mounts were long dead.

The very image of a Targaryen Prince.

He also remembered the unarmoured man wielding a maul striking Daeron square on the chest, and instead of a demoralizing as when banner falling would do, the knights launched into frenzy at their attackers driving them back to the treeline.

Though the raid caught them unawares and ill equipped for combat; the knights made short work of the attackers, slaying some and driving off the others, and from what he heard, more than a few prisoners.

"Uh...I'll be covering your... wounds with poultices to stop the bleeding, my lord." The young Acolyte stammered. His predecessor, Maester Gavin died on a previous raid as did many of the other healers until all that was left with any healing knowledge was a young acolyte to the Citadel that tended the ravens that had long been shot down by the rebels. "T'would be... unpleasant..."

Jeremy merely shook his head. "Get on with it Osbert, the men need me."

Osbert gave him a weak smile and reached for bandages and small copper conainer. "Just so my lord!" As he opened it Jeremy visibly winced at the fiery stench that assaulted his nose. "Myrish fire ser, reserved for such wounds to your person."

The maester in training dabbed a small amount of the substance on the bandage, and if the knight wondered why it would be named as "Myrish Fire" the searing pain that seemed to blanket the entirety of his back as if it were poked by a red hot iron rod was answer enough. Jeremy could swear he smelled burnt flesh as Osbert treated the other arrow wounds, screaming like a man possessed each time.

As the searing pain of the Myrish Fire made proper rest impossible, Ser Jeremy rose from his tent some time after a brief dreamless sleep, courtesy of a potent mixture of milk of the poppy. His mind was addled and felt like he'd been in the cups for near a fortnight ago.

As he went outside, Ser Jeremy found the camp bustling with activity; donkeys and pack horses about with their groomsmen and stable boys, smiths sharpened the dull edges of blades and repaired armour, camp followers and washer women took care of the knights in their charge with food and tended to their clothes.

No sooner than he'd went outside there came a shout. "Mother have mercy, mi'lord!" Jeremy turned to see a plump woman bringing him a fur trimmed robe. "Gods above, we may be on the march for more than a moons turn, but we mustn't forget common decency mi'lord!"

She wore a hood that revealed only her face and a muddy dress stained with fresh blood.

"Beggin' your pardon mi'lord for how I look." She bowed. "That beardless young'in in the maesters robe needs all the healin' hands he can get."

"Never you mind that goodwoman." Ser Jeremy replied. "So long it saves lives."

"Just so, mi'lord, just so." The woman nodded. "Now if you'd be excusing me mi'lord, Ser Myles is in need of a hot compress."

"Before that, how is his grace?"

"Very fortunate that a wooden maul hit him instead of smithing hammer. A few bruises and mayhap a cracked rib." Jeremy winced at the mention of an injured rib with memories of a misplaced strike during practice.

The woman in turn tried to reassure him with a caring smile. "Worry not mi'lord I've seen worse when my eldest girl fell from a tree."

"Then I'll only ask where might his graces tent pavillon be?" Ser Jeremy looked around for a red three-headed dragon of house Targaryen. "It was supposed to be near here."

"You be needing to go in the very middle of the camp then mi'ord, on count of those rebels you all and prince Daeron be fighting."

"How so?"

"One of those wretchs hid under, a dead outrider aiming to kill his grace! Father Preserve me, talking about such things irks me so mi'lord."

"Then be on your way good woman."

She gave a polite bow and waded through the mud.

The guards around the royal pavillon were on alert even as some of them were sporting new wounds earlier in the day. A ring of carts formed a palisade around it with men armed with bows ready to shoot within.

"Who goes there?!" One of them shouted.

"I am Ser Jeremy Norridge, companion to the prince!" He said as he dug his heels in the mud. "For sevens sake lower your bows, I am no threat!"

One of the smaller carts was pushed to the side making a gap in the measly fortifications, a man emerged with his sword drawn and easily as tall as himself but twice as large. His armor was little more than boiled leather and an iron halfhelm, he also lost his left eye quite recently, leaving the right to glare at him.

"I be Darren Rivers ser and forgive fer bein rude, but ya don't look like much of a knight." He said gesturing at his attire, and Jeremy could agree that a simple wollen cloak and breeches wasn't an image of a knight, but he'd sooner be dammed to the seven hell's than be kept from the prince by some brutish bastard from the riverlands.

"By the gods Rivers!" He exclaimed. "I am a knight! I've fought alongside his grace since Tumbleton!"

"I've been with the prince since he passed through Vance lands." Darren countered and pointed to his injured eye. "And I got this from the whoreson that tried to kill him just this day, and I'd rather loose the other one than let another rebel through."

"I was at that battle! I'm wounded as you are!"

Darren still persisted in asking benign questions until a scrawny looking man at arms whispered something in the bastards ear.

"Why do maidens run from a prince?" He asked Jeremy.

He let out laugh at the joke. "If he comes bearing a bag of frogs."

Darren nooded and stepped aside while he gestured him inside. "Come in Ser, and hope you'd understand our caution."

Jeremy glared at him and tried to find the strength to be angry at the man, but he decided against it. Daeron comes first. "I am sure his grace appreciates your dedication."

"And I you, Ser." He answered "And I you."

Daerons tent was what one could expect a princes tent should be, large and luxurious; fine we'll oiled linen covering a velvet interior, likely lined with freshly bundeld rushes.

Two men guarded the tent while a few others gathered around a fire nursing some sort of porridge. As he approached the tents guards nodded at him in recognition, to which answered in kind.

As Ser Jeremy entered, a pungent smell of incense greeted him and the sight of his mighty dragon prince fiddling with the straps of a breastplate.

A bloodied bandage crudely wrapped around his graces forehead, it was covered by his long silver hair. He wore only his breeches revealing a body tempered by squirehood and war.

"Can I offer my assistance?" He said, making it quite clear he was stifiling a laugh.

The prince raised his hands in surrender and winced. "You were always better than me with armour." Daeron tossed the breast plates to him.

"Then may you never have the proficiency." Jeremy smirked.

The steel in the breastplate looked worn though well maintained, but the leather strings and straps fastening it to the gambeson was nearly rotted through.

"The Warrior above, this is why some knights have squires." He said. "That Meadows boy would've done a fine job."

A fourth son of a second son, Lymond Meadows was an average looking lad of four and ten with a head of unruly brown hair. "He was a green boy even amongst other squires." Daeron got up with wheeze of pain and made his way to a wine jug. "He froze in Tumbleton and got killed."

"Then why not take another one?" Jeremy said. "Surely there would be many lordlings that want to squire for a prince."

Daeron's face twisted with rage at that remark making Jeremy shrink back. "I was supposed to die in Tumbleton!"

"I don't understand..."

"When I faced that wall of pikes after falling from my horse I felt no knightly pride nor any sense of achievement." He ranted. "I felt fear that I would die a failure."

"You are no failure." said Jeremy but no resonance was in voice.

In a quiet motherhouse within the lands of House Bracken, Minisa sat alone in it's modest common hall nervous, for today was when her father was coming to visit her after twelve long years.

She lived here with only dour septas and books for company, she had been but a maid of six-and-ten with a child in her belly when her enraged father all but exiled her to this place. And as the eldest child and only daughter of their family no vows of serving the seven were in store for her. But as she neared thirty, Minisa offt wonders has her father a plan for her or just hid his shame.

The light of the mid-morning sun filled made the hall as bright as library where she reads hours on end. One of her favorite books is a chronicle on the life King Benedict first of his name of House Justman, a book which she read for the fifth time. The part when Bernarr Blackwood and Alys Bracken fell in love and sired Benedict in a moonlit night with a lone weirwood as witness made her soon as maid and to this day still never fails to make her smile.

She found solace in those stories as childbirth was nothing like it was in the book. For bringing forth her own boy was hard fought, and nearly cost both their lives. But the cry of her little Benedict made the days long struggle melt away. The tuft of black hair on his head and warm hazel eyes was the very image of his father and her love and seeing grow like a weed everyday made her banishment tolerable.

That is until Ben was judged by the mother-superior and the other septas old enough to leave the motherhouse to a proper orphanage. Oh how she pleaded, begged, and appealed the Mother's Mercy and the Father's Justice, when that didn't work Minisa made an enemy of Mother Ysilla that day.

A voice jolted her from her melancholy and a dark haired girl no older than her ran in as if she were possed. Bethany was her name and was a bastard of some lord and some milkmaid. Her blonde hair was showing through her septas hood and she struggled through her long loose fitting dress as she ran.

Minisa smiled at one of her few friends in this detestable place.

"Seven Heavens Bethany!" She said. "Why are you running as if chased by a grumpkin?"

Her friend stared at her and began sobbing and promptly ran away.

"Was she scolded by mother superior again?" Mini wondered.

That question was soon answered by a man who entered the room.

Minisa immediately felt her blood turn to ice and legs turn to mush. Every breathe was a struggle as her vision narrowed, this was what she both dreaded and longed for so many years.

To the rest of the Seven Kingdoms he was Lord Alvyn Bracken Lord of Stonehenge; but to Mini, he was her father. A hard man that exiled her at ripped her babe from her chest.

"Father?" Was all she could say.

"There you are!" Lord Alvyn smiled.

She resisted the urge to cower before her father and kept a steady gaze on him, Minisa then stood with a practiced elegance drilled into her by old septas and gave this man a courtly curtsey. "It's good to see you father."

Her lordly father merely answered with a grunt and came closer.

He put his large burly hands on Minisa's shoulders and stared down on his daughter. The the stonefaced Lord of Stonehenge's expression softened. "It's been far too long sweetling, forgive me." She was astonished; not by his words but the sincerity in his voice.

The very fact that he would ask forgiveness now made her weep bitterly and turn away. "How could he come now and expect anything but scorn." She thought.

It took quite awhile until she calmed down enough and be reminded of propriety. They sat down together and talked for some time; she recounted her years in the motherhouse, while he recounted how the family was faring. "By the Gods! Clearance has been wed!"

"Aye and by a Darry no less." Lord Alvyn said. "Took a lot of me to get a fair dowry."

Although Minisa was genuinely happy that her father came and wanted to bring her back, not once in their conversation was her being brought out of the motherhouse.

"Mayhaps I would now truly be trained as a septa." she thought.

Lord Alvyn slowly rised offered to take her hand. "It's time you meet your betrothed."

The words struck Minisa hard nd offhandedly took his hand. "Father what's happening?!" She managed to say.

"Hush Mini you would meet him soon."

A sense of dread washed over Minisa as her father led her to the courtyard. He used the same words when she was noticed being with child. She wanted to run, but couldn't find the strength to do so, she missed so much being free to roam the forest and not wake before dawn to pray.

Mayhaps even there was an accord with Ben's father and they would marry. But as the sun passed midday, her hopes were dashed at the riding on a huge Black Destrier.

A Silver - Haired youth dismounted from the warhorse and walked up to them. Kind purple eyes gazed upon her, making Mini blush.

"My lady." said the man whilst taking her hand and kissed it.

"May I know your name ser?"

"Prince Maegor Targaryen, my lady."