There was no grandeur in my departing, no fanfare of trumpets or gathered household to see me off. No one had come forth to announce it, and truthfully, no one had cared much.
Well… that would be a lie.
I turned my head in the saddle and looked back toward Old Oak.
The keep rose against the pale morning sky like a sleeping giant and from one high window a single figure stood framed in the opening, blonde hair catching the first light, unmistakable even at this distance. Daria.
I do not think she loved me, perhaps it was only pity, or simple humane kindness, or the memory of a night shared but at least she cared enough to watch me go.
Not for long, though, even before Pastel had carried me halfway down the winding castle road, the window was empty again. She had turned away.
I faced forward once more, fingers tightening on the reins. A quick jerk, and Pastel picked up her pace into a smooth, ground-eating trot.
A sigh slipped out of me as I reached down to pat the sleek black neck.
"The road's long and tiring, Pastel," I murmured. "You and Gilde are the only company I've got now, best make the most of it."
Pastel flicked an ear back at the sound of my voice but kept her steady stride.
Gilde plodded behind us on the lead rope, placid as ever, his broad back laden with my new armor, pressed steel plates, well-forged and fitted properly.
The stable master had called him a charm of luck: two battles survived, an arrow once buried deep in his haunch that should have ended him, yet he always brought his rider home. Lady Arwyn had suggested him as part of my gift. I accepted without hesitation. It would have been churlish to refuse the only noble in the Reach who held a good opinion of me.
A stableboy had let slip that the men who arrested me had sold Shitfoot, the swaybacked, foul-tempered gelding who carried me all the way, no chance of buying him back, and no great loss if there had been.
He was a bad horse but he had been mine.
The purse at my belt was heavier than it had been in months.
Fifteen gold dragons and a handful of silver and copper besides, enough to buy a decent plot of land almost anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms, build a stead, hire laborers, and settle into the quiet life of a landed yeoman or small farmer. Retire young, grow fat, die old in a feather bed.
I did not want it.
I had been given a chance to be something more than mediocre. I meant to take it. I would live the best life I could claw out of this world, or die trying.
"What are we to do, Pastel?" I asked the mare.
She answered the only way she knew how: a soft, rumbling neigh that vibrated through my thighs.
I glanced back at Gilde. "You speak sense, Gilde, Highgarden's a big place, men would know of the tourneys in the Reach or the Westerlands, heard they reward better than most, we could try our hand."
Gilde plodded on without comment, but I took his steady gait for agreement.
"Well then," I said aloud, grinning despite myself. "Highgarden it is."
Pastel lengthened her stride beneath me, as though she approved.
—----
Three days since we left Old Oak.
I had made camp each night beneath ancient weirwoods or sprawling oaks, kindled small fires, and lived off what the Reach offered so freely: rabbits in snares, fish from streams when I could be bothered, berries and wild onions when the mood took me.
The countryside rolled gently and green, dotted with small villages where I bought bread and ale when I passed through, but mostly I kept to the lesser paths.
Tonight the moon hung fat and silver overhead, turning the leaves to pale.
I crouched beside the fire, turning a hare I had snared at dusk on a greenwood spit. Fat dripped and hissed into the flames; the smell of roasting meat curled into the cool night air.
Pastel and Gilde grazed a pace off, hobbled loosely.
"You two are the best listeners I've ever had," I told Pastel's dark silhouette. "Never interrupt, never argue, never tell me I'm a fool. If only women were half so agreeable."
Pastel lifted her head, ears pricked, then dropped it again to crop grass.
"See? Perfect."
I prodded the hare with my knife. Nearly done.
Then—a scream.
It was loud and raw and unmistakably human. It sliced through the quiet like a blade.
I shot to my feet, hand already reaching for the sword scabbarded across Gilde's packs.
Steel rasped free in one smooth motion, my heartbeat thudding, I scanned the trees.
The scream came again, it was closer now, edged with terror.
I hesitated only a heartbeat.
Should I walk away, and whatever was happening would happen without me. Step in, and I might find myself bleeding out beside strangers for no good reason.
But I had never been good at walking away.
I snatched a burning brand from the fire, raised it high, and started into the woods.
The undergrowth clawed at my legs; branches snagged my cloak. I moved carefully, torch held low to shield the flame, sword in my off-hand.
Then came another scream, it was shorter, more desperate and it guided me forward.
After perhaps two hundred paces the trees thinned. I crouched at the edge of a small clearing and saw it.
Tents torn apart like clothes, one still smoldered, orange flames licking up canvas.
A carriage lay on its side in the center, wheels shattered, harnesses empty, the horses long fled or dead.
There were bodies everywhere but I saw no banners, no house sigils, no livery that marked them as highborn or sworn men. Just travelers, merchants maybe, or a small hunting party.
I edged closer to the nearest collapsed tent. Inside, a man lay on his back, chest ripped open by a single massive claw mark. Ribs splayed like broken fingers, entrails glistening dark.
Two more bodies sprawled nearby, throats torn, limbs at unnatural angles.
All the wounds were from an animal.
A beast, I thought at once. A big one.
Another scream, it came closer and it was frantic.
I moved from shadow to shadow until I reached the far side of the clearing, there, in a narrow tongue of open ground between the trees, the scene played out.
Two men still stood, blades drawn, chests heaving. Blood streaked their faces and arms and before them reared a monster.
A great grizzled bear, brown fur matted black with gore, there were fifteen arrows or more jutted from its back and flanks like cruel quills; sword-cuts wept red across its shoulders and haunches, yet it still stood and it was towering, roaring, eyes mad with pain.
One man shouted something wordless and lunged, the bear rose onto its hind legs, gods, it was enormous, upright it stood taller than two men, claws spread wide as dinner plates.
The man's sword flashed but too slow.
The bear's paw descended in a blur; claws sheared through mail and flesh like parchment.
The man came apart in two ragged halves, blood spraying black in the moonlight.
The second man seized the opening.
He drove his longsword deep into the bear's side, twisting it cruelly.
The beast bellowed, a sound that shook leaves from the branches and staggered back.
The man pressed forward, thinking the fight won.
He was wrong.
The bear wheeled with impossible speed for something so wounded.
Massive jaws closed around the man's neck and shoulder in a single crunch, blood fountained.
The man screamed once, loud and in terror then went limp.
The bear shook him like a rag doll before dropping the body and limping away, it seemed proud even in death.
It made it perhaps thirty paces before its legs buckled. It slumped to the forest floor with a heavy groan, sides heaving.
I waited in the bushes, torch guttered low, sword ready. Long minutes passed. The bear whined, low, piteous but it did not rise.
I stepped out slowly.
The bear's black eyes found me. It tried to stand, legs trembling, then collapsed again.
A long, rattling whine escaped its throat.
I knelt a careful distance away, drew my short dagger.
"You fought well," I said quietly. "But it's done."
I pressed the point between its eyes, right at the brow ridge and drove hard.
The bear stiffened once, then went still.
It was a mercy.
I pulled out the blade and wiped it on the grass, when another whimper came.
My hand flew to my sword as I spun.
From the undergrowth stumbled a shape no bigger than a large hound: brown fur, round ears, wide eyes. A cub. It was still young, perhaps half a year.
It nosed at the great corpse, licking desperately at the muzzle, nuzzling the huge paws but the mother did not stir.
The cub saw me and froze, hackles rising, tiny teeth bared in a snarl that would have been comical if not for the blood on the ground.
I sheathed the longsword, crouched low, and extended a hand.
"Easy," I murmured. "Your mother's gone and the woods are no place for a lone cub."
It growled, backing behind the body, but did not flee.
I moved closer by inches, the cub snapped at my fingers, more bravado than threat; its milk teeth barely pricked.
I scratched gently behind one ear. It flinched, then leaned, almost imperceptibly into the touch.
"Should I take you?" I asked.
No answer, of course.
I rose, crossed to the overturned carriage, and found a coil of rope among the wreckage.
When I returned, the cub followed at a wary distance, sniffing the air.
While I was rearing the rope, I peeked inside the carriage and I let out a long breath. "Your mother had her revenge, little one, they can rest now."
Inside the carriage laid four small bear cubs, beheaded, skinned, their pelts hung like grisly trophies from the rafters.
Fresh kills, I would say from the dripping blood, a hunting party, then, they had taken the mother's children and the mama bear came back for them.
I searched the tents quickly, a few hunting spears, a dented helm, some coin purses, nothing worth carrying.
The draft horses were gone, spooked into the woods or dead somewhere out of sight.
I looped the rope gently around the cub's hips, not a proper collar, but enough to guide him.
He tugged once, then trotted after me.
Back at camp, Pastel spotted us first. She snorted, eyes rolling white, and sidled away as far as her hobbles allowed.
Gilde merely lifted his head, took one look at the cub, and stepped back a cautious pace.
"Quiet girl," I told Pastel, keeping my voice low and even. "He won't hurt you… I think, I won't let him hurt you, alright?"
I settled by the fire again, tore a haunch from the roasted hare, and tossed it toward the cub.
He sniffed, backed away, growled low in his throat.
"What, you need a noble feast now?" I snorted. "Eat it or not. I don't care."
The cub huffed, circled the meat twice, then snatched it and retreated to the edge of the firelight to gnaw.
I watched him eat, firelight dancing across his fur.
"What should I call you, then?" I asked the night.
The cub looked up, ears twitching.
"Talen," I decided. "Yeah. That's a good name."