"I swear," Royce said, plucking a few notes on his harp to check the tuning, "if a flock of geese can defeat a dragon, I ought to compose a ballad praising their heroic deeds."
He cleared his throat and burst into song across the grassy field, white petals swirling through the air like snow.
"Oh mighty white goose, brave beyond all compare,
Unafraid of dragonfire, it conquered the dragon fair!
The great goose spreads its snowy wings, the cooks give it a bath—
Then into the pot it goes tonight, to celebrate our path!
Hey! Hey! Iron pot stew of goose!"
Laughter and sunlight filled the meadow.
But joy rarely lasted long.
A young soldier came sprinting across the grass, panic written across his face.
"Your Grace! Ser Royce! A group of strange people has appeared outside the castle gates!"
"Strange people?" Royce set down the harp and picked up the longsword lying on the ground, fastening it to his belt.
Rhaegar, who had been sitting on the grass, rose at once and followed him.
Before the Gold Road to the Westerlands had been completed, Harrenhal had become one of the most important stopping points in the region. Travelers could eat and drink freely here, Rhaena herself provided the food, and even stay the night. People from many lands had sung its praises.
But in the past two years, under the pressure of the Faith of the Seven's sermons and rumors, far fewer merchants passed through.
The soldier swallowed nervously.
"There are fourteen of them. We invited them inside to eat, but they refused. They just stand at the gate, staring at the merchants going in and out."
Royce frowned.
"Looking for trouble? Are they armed?"
"No weapons. They're all wearing tattered hooded robes… and they're barefoot."
That was why the soldier called them strange.
"Tattered robes… barefoot?" Rhaena's face suddenly drained of color. "Royce, take Rhaegar back to the castle immediately!"
Royce and the young soldier had not lived through those days. But she had.
She knew exactly what these people were.
Fanatics of the Faith.
Rhaegar did not move.
"Rhaena. I want to see them myself."
"No!" She grabbed his clothes and tried to drag him toward the castle. "They're murderers, madmen! They'll kill you! They'll even kill your dragon!"
"You cannot hide from this forever," Rhaegar said quietly as he pried her hands away. "I have to deal with it."
Her hands fell from his sleeves.
For a moment she stood frozen.
In all the years she had raised him, this was the first time Rhaegar had defied her advice—at a moment when death might truly be waiting.
Disbelief and sorrow filled her eyes.
Rhaegar gently lifted his hands and brushed the hair from her temples, wiping away the tears running down her cheeks with his thumbs.
Her once silver-gold hair had long since turned pure white. Faint wrinkles lined the corners of her eyes. Anyone who lived beside her could see it, but no one dared mention it.
In the softest voice he could manage, Rhaegar said:
"All these years, you protected me. But I'm nearly grown now."
"It's my turn to protect you… Grandmother."
"Rhaegar…" Rhaena had borne only two daughters, neither of whom she had raised herself. She had never imagined that the boy she raised with her own hands would change so much as he grew.
"The king wants me to be a shield," Rhaegar said.
"But I would rather be a sword."
Royce and the nearby soldiers nodded immediately.
Now that, they said, was the spirit of a true son of Westeros.
Rhaena cupped Rhaegar's face in both hands.
"Royce… you must protect him."
"You have my oath, Your Grace." Royce bowed. Then he turned. "Rhaegar, armor."
This lakeside field was Rhaegar's private training ground. On a wooden rack nearby hung various weapons and pieces of armor.
Two soldiers and a young boy named Zorro rushed over and helped him dress.
Rhaena owned no armor of her own. After Rhaegar's latest growth spurt she had commissioned a smith to craft this set specially for him. For now he had only finely forged steel greaves and vambraces.
He was growing too quickly. The most important piece, the steel breastplate, could not yet be properly fitted.
So for the moment he wore leather armor instead.
Two daggers were fastened to either side of his belt.
Finally he lifted a greatsword whose hilt reached his chest and shouted toward the distance:
"Tessarion! Dekurūbās! Come here!"
Tessarion, who had still been fleeing from an angry goose moments before, flapped its wings and hurried toward him, trying to leap onto him.
Rhaegar ducked beneath its wings.
Then he stepped forward.
With both hands gripping the greatsword, he swung upward in a brutal diagonal cut.
The leading white goose split cleanly in two from chest to tail.
"Tonight's stew!" he declared.
"Gaaah-!"
Blood and entrails splashed across the ground, sending the flock into frantic retreat.
Now emboldened, Tessarion strutted arrogantly after them, hissing and snapping at the fleeing geese.
Rhaegar watched the scene with a scowl.
"We can't keep raising it like this," he muttered. "Otherwise it'll grow into a useless creature."
Fully armed, he and Royce began running toward the castle gate.
Little Zorro grabbed a dagger and ran after them together with Tessarion.
Meanwhile three soldiers carried the dead goose while escorting Rhaena back toward the castle.
About two hundred meters from the castle walls ran the dirt road that every traveler had to take to reach Harrenhal.
Fourteen figures stood beside it.
Each wore a patched and ragged robe with the hood drawn low. Their hands were empty. Judging by their builds, there were both men and women among them.
They showed no expression.
They did not block the road.
They did not speak.
They simply watched every passerby with naked hatred.
These were the people standing before Rhaegar.
They made no attempt to hide their gaze. To them, anyone entering Harrenhal to eat and sleep was committing blasphemy against the Seven—and would surely suffer divine punishment.
"If you want food, go inside," Royce said, sword in hand, addressing the one who appeared oldest. "If not, leave."
The ragged man ignored him.
Instead he looked up toward Dreamfyre perched atop the tower… then toward Tessarion beside them.
"Wicked dragons."
His gaze shifted to Rhaegar.
"An incarnation of sin."
Royce's face twisted with anger.
"I offer you courtesy, and you insult the lord of this place?"
He drew his sword.
The ragged man remained perfectly calm.
"Whoever possesses dragons carries sin. Whoever carries sin deserves curses."
Royce bared his teeth.
"I hate word games."
The blade rose to the man's throat.
"Either you leave… or you die."
The ragged man did not move.
It was as if the sword did not exist.
The others behind him stood just as still, their eyes fixed with burning hatred upon Tessarion.
"Royce, calm yourself," Rhaegar said quietly, placing a hand on his arm and pressing the sword down.
Royce was, in truth, a calm and measured man. Rhaegar knew he only acted so fierce because duty demanded it.
"Tch."
Royce spat at the ragged man's feet and stepped back.
The robed figures glared with equal hostility.
Rhaegar studied them just as rudely, his gaze traveling slowly from head to toe.
Fourteen fanatics.
Against two men and a child.
Yet despite their advantage in numbers, and with their supposed enemy standing right before them, they had not made a move.
Strange.
Rhaegar lowered his eyes to their feet.
Every single one of them was barefoot. Their feet were filthy, cracked, and black with road dust.
"Where did you come from?" he asked.
"How long did it take you to get here?"
The robed man replied in a dull, distant voice.
"The gods guided our feet to measure this land."
It had been more than a year since the announcement of Baelor's marriage—and since word spread that Rhaegar had a dragon.
Only now had these people appeared at Harrenhal.
At last, Rhaegar knew Rhaena had been right about them.
Westeros was vast. Harrenhal lay roughly near the center of the continent. The North worshiped the Old Gods, while followers of the Seven lived mostly in the central and southern lands.
An ordinary traveler walking by day and resting by night could journey from Oldtown to Harrenhal in less than half a year, even across rough roads.
But these zealots had no shoes.
Judging from their ragged robes, they had no money either.
They had truly crossed half the continent barefoot, begging their way north.
Rhaegar's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword.
If that was true…
Then these fourteen were only the beginning.
More would come.
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