The inn's common room fell silent for a few seconds.
The leader stared at Aegon, his hand resting on his sword hilt. "I asked you a question. White-haired boy, what's your name? Where are you from?"
Aegon set down his bread and brushed the crumbs of flour from his fingertips.
"Targaryen. From the Crownlands."
It was as though a layer of air had been sucked out of the room.
The men drinking at the next table froze. The bald man's mouth hung open, his cup suspended in midair. The bearded man's eyes went wide, the heavy flesh of his face going rigid.
The five Squires froze for a moment as well.
Then their leader laughed.
It was not a sneer, but the genuine laughter of someone thoroughly amused.
He glanced back at his companions, and they joined in, their shoulders shaking.
"Targaryen?" The leader repeated the surname as though savoring a joke. "You're a Targaryen?"
One of the men behind him clutched his stomach. "Then where's your dragon? Hidden in the stables outside?"
The laughter grew louder.
Once the leader had laughed his fill, he wiped the corners of his eyes and looked at Aegon again, amusement still lingering on his face. "Boy, you said it yourself. Don't change your story when we bring you before Lord Tywin."
He drew his sword.
The other four followed suit, the scrape of metal especially grating in the common room.
The men at the next table scrambled to their feet and stumbled toward the corner. The innkeeper crouched behind the counter, only half his head showing.
Arya spun around, her chair scraping the floor again. She rushed to Aegon in two strides and shoved him hard. "Have you gone mad?"
Aegon's shoulder rocked under her shove, but he did not move.
"Isn't your