A Muddy Legacy

The Renaissance Begins

Tristifer moved through the familiar drills with little thought, his strikes against the straw dummy quick and precise. The repetition was almost meditative—an action so well-practiced that it required no effort, allowing his mind to drift as he followed the routine ingrained in every Man-at-Arms during training.

Tension hung heavy in the castle. Only a day ago, word had spread of a royal caravan ambushed on the road. At dawn, Ser Roger Hogg, the Knight of Sow's Horn, had ridden out to his liege, Lord Hayford, hoping to have him mediate the matter and smooth things over with the King.

Rumors of the King's increasing instability had spread like wildfire since the Defiance of Duskendale three years ago. Initially, they had been little more than hushed whispers in the darkest corners of dingy inns and alehouses, but in recent moons, the talk had grown bolder, more insistent.

Just a moon ago, in his usual spot at The Hog, Tristifer had overheard a vivid account of the King's rapidly deteriorating hygiene. According to the gossip, he looked less like a Targaryen monarch and more like a beggar from Flea Bottom draped in fine silks. Some even went so far as to claim that the true King had been replaced by a lowborn imposter.

The stories of how the King had died and was being covered up—whether trying to resurrect dragons or falling at the hands of the Darklyns during the Defiance—were equally outlandish and fantastical.

Tristifer put little stock in the wilder rumors, but the sheer volume of them—and their strange consistency regarding the King's filth and his apparent mental decline had piqued his curiosity.

No one knew how the King would react to the ambush. Tristifer had ridden out as part of a brief expedition to track down the culprits, but after finding little evidence, the Captain had called off the search and ordered the men back to the castle. Since then, the guard had been drilling relentlessly.

For what, Tristifer wasn't sure. Did the Captain truly expect them to stand against the King's men if they arrived?

Most of the garrison were second sons of local farmers—hardly the type to risk their lives for a mere knight's cause. They sought little more than steady wages and the chance to wield a sword, maybe fight a bandit or two, not to defend Ser Roger Hogg against the King's Men or worse a Kingsguard.

These drills Tristifer now did were little more than glorified cardio and a way to familiarize oneself with a blade, but he didn't mind. The rest of the men were probably in the mess hall breaking their fast.

It wasn't even a thing about improvement considering the doubtful developments he could gain, but rather something to do while he was feeling restless as he was now. If Tristifer had wished to improve his skills with the sword then he would've dueled Addam.

The bastard was his equal in age, and they had grown up together at the mill owned by Tristifer's uncle. Addam had been sent there as a ward at the behest of his father, Ser Roger, who had wanted his only son—bastard or not—close at hand.

Now, with Lady Jeyne's pregnancy, it remained to be seen whether Addam would hold any place in his father's plans at all.

Despite not sharing blood, they had become brothers in all but name. Tristifer had lost his parents to a sickness no one had bothered to name. They had been merchants, traveling from town to town across the Crownlands and Riverlands, but he had been too young to remember much of them.

After their passing, his grandfather had taken him in, honoring a promise made to Tristifer's father before his own death. Together, they had found shelter under the roof of Tristifer's uncle—his mother's brother—who did it as a final favor to his sister.