On the third day after they left Highgarden, the Roseroad stretched through the autumn morning light like a pale green ribbon edged in gold.
The carriage wheels rolled over the smooth stone paving, making a monotonous, rhythmic sound.
Gerion Lannister rode at the head of the column, his crimson cloak stirring gently in the breeze. His gaze kept sweeping the dense woods on either side of the road...
It was a little too quiet there.
Leon sat beside the window of the second carriage, his fingers rubbing unconsciously.
On their last night before leaving Highgarden, Willas Tyrell had privately sent someone to deliver a copy of a waterway map of the Reach, accompanied by a single sentence:
"Sometimes, the direction of the current deserves more attention than the current itself." That map now lay at the bottom of his luggage.
Tyrion sat opposite him, deftly whittling a piece of wood with a small knife.
"What do you think that last look from the old Queen of Thorns meant?"
He asked without looking up, "I wager she was calculating how many rose branches she would need to turn us into fertilizer."
"She was calculating the risks."
Leon watched the shadows of trees race past the window. "I made her notice something she shouldn't have... a Lannister who can see beneath appearances. That unsettles her."
Thea rode beside the carriage, light leather armor replacing her cumbersome plate, her longsword hanging at the most convenient spot on her waist.
Her gaze never stopped moving: the angle at which the treetops swayed, the timing of distant birds taking flight in alarm, the marks left by crushed gravel on the road.
Rosso, Melon, and Alyn followed behind Thea, each riding a pony.
After the trials of their recent days, the three boys were no longer as green as when they had first left Casterly Rock.
Rosso especially so. His eyes were as keen as a hawk's, and he could always sniff out signs of danger before it struck.
"The bend ahead," he suddenly urged his horse forward to ride beside Gerion. "Birdsong has dropped by seventy percent in three minutes. It's too quiet."
Having spent so much time with Leon, even their thinking and manner of speech were becoming increasingly like his.
Gerion drew rein and raised a hand to signal the convoy to halt.
At that very instant, Leon's [Eye of Insight] roared to life without warning.
The world abruptly shattered and reassembled before Leon's eyes.
Every detail was broken down, analyzed, and connected, forming a transparent web of information:
Thirty yards into the woods on the left, five luminous outlines, adult male builds, muscle tension at 89%, ready for combat.
Three carried one-handed swords, one held a bow with an arrow nocked, and one carried a short-handled axe.
They stood in a fan formation, evenly spaced: a standard small-squad ambush formation.
But there was one anomaly:
The archer's gaze rested not on Gerion or Thea, but on the second carriage.
Their target was not the entire convoy, but a specific target.
All this information flooded Leon's consciousness in less than two heartbeats.
He shoved the carriage door open, his voice calm yet carrying an unquestionable force:
"Five men. Thirty yards to the left, surrounding us in a fan formation. We're the targets."
Almost simultaneously, a bowstring twanged in the woods.
An arrow cut through the air.
Thea had already drawn her sword.
Rather than attempt to block it, she spurred her horse forward and struck the middle of the arrow's shaft hard with the flat of her blade.
With a sharp clang, the arrow veered off course and embedded itself in a roadside tree, its fletching still trembling.
"Defensive formation!" Gerion roared, drawing his longsword. "Protect the carriages!"
But the attackers moved faster.
Five figures burst from the woods without shouts or warnings, only the hiss of blades slicing through the air.
They wore the standard garb of Riverlands bandits: ragged leather armor, covered faces, and mismatched weapons.
But... there were contradictions:
Their footwork was trained, and their formation remained intact as they charged.
Their blades were well maintained, without a trace of rust in the morning light.
And their eyes held not the greed of plunderers, but the coldness of men carrying out a task.
"They're not bandits." Leon spoke rapidly, his mind racing through the torrent of information. "They're testers."
"Testing what?" Tyrion was already crouched in the carriage doorway, clutching three clay pots.
They contained the "improved" alchemical gunpowder he and Leon had secretly prepared over the past two days.
"Testing us."
Leon fixed his gaze on the leading attacker. "Second from the left, weight on his right foot, downward slash in three seconds. Tyrion, the ground three feet in front of his right foot."
There was no time to explain, no time for questions.
Tyrion did not even nod. He pulled the cork from a clay pot, lit the fuse with a firelighter, and hurled it with all his strength.
The clay pot traced a parabola through the air.
The attacker moved exactly as the [Eye of Insight] had predicted:
He pushed off with his left foot, shifted his weight onto his right, and raised his longsword above his shoulder: the standard opening stance for a full-force downward slash.
His right foot was about to land-
The clay pot struck the ground in front of his foot first.
A deep boom rang out, like a muffled roar from the earth.
Orange-red flames erupted with thick smoke and dirt, the blast throwing the attacker bodily backward.
The fragments were not lethal. Leon had adjusted the formula for shock rather than injury.
But the sudden explosion, flames, and thunderous noise disrupted every attacker's rhythm.
"Now!" Leon's voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
Thea moved.
She ignored the enemy who had been blasted off his feet and instead charged diagonally to the right. The archer was nocking his second arrow, his movements briefly arrested by the explosion.
In those mere 1.5 seconds of hesitation, Thea's horse was already upon him.
Her sword flashed like a silver crescent. A precise thrust drove into the gap beneath the armpit of his leather armor, pierced through, and withdrew.
The archer staggered backward, his bow and arrow falling from his hands as blood welled between his fingers.
But the other three had already recovered.
They were all veterans. After their brief shock, they quickly reformed, one engaging Thea while two rushed straight for the carriage.
Rosso and Melon tried to intercept them, but the attackers' swordsmanship far surpassed anything boys their age could handle.
Melon's sword was easily knocked aside, and he fell backward.
Rosso was comparatively clever. Instead of meeting them head-on, he charged with his horse, forcing one attacker to dodge sideways, but it only bought a few seconds.
Those few seconds were enough.
Leon's [Eye of Insight] ran at full power.
Agony exploded in his temples, and warm blood streamed from his nose.
The world became a slow-moving chess game in his eyes, every person's movements broken down into trajectories, speeds, and probabilities:
The attacker engaging Thea would feint high with his next strike, then sweep low, with an 87% chance of success.
Of the two charging the carriage, the one on the left would arrive first, his sword tip aimed beneath the carriage doorframe to force out those inside; the one on the right would follow half a step later, ready to finish them off.
The distribution of gravel, the position of the carriage wheels, the angle of the morning light, even the movement of the air...
Every variable was integrated.
"Thea, duck, turn, and slash his left knee." Leon's voice was growing hoarse, each word like swallowing broken glass. "Tyrion, another pot, three feet in front of the carriage's right wheel... now!"
Thea did not hesitate.
The instant her opponent thrust his longsword, she suddenly ducked. Instead of retreating, she cut forward, her sword turning with her body, its edge slicing precisely across the back of the attacker's left knee.
The attacker screamed and dropped to one knee.
At the same time, Tyrion threw his second clay pot.
He had already lit the fuse and smashed the pot directly onto the designated spot.
Inside was his mixture of saltpeter, sulfur, and finely ground iron slag.
Sparks burst out in an instant.
The second explosion was fiercer than the first, sending iron slag flying.
The two attackers charging the carriage were forced to stop abruptly and roll for cover.
One was half a beat too slow. Several fragments of iron slag embedded themselves in his arm and the side of his face. He grunted, his movements faltering.
Gerion finally broke free of his entanglement, his longsword flashing like golden lightning as it pierced the man's back.
Three of the five were down.
Of the remaining two, the one knocked down by the blast struggled to his feet, while the one with the wounded left knee tried to rise and flee.
Thea kicked the wounded man over and pressed her sword tip to his throat.
Gerion held his longsword against the other man's neck.
From beginning to end, the fight had lasted no more than two minutes.
Silence returned to the woods, broken only by the horses' uneasy whinnies and the wounded men's panting.
Leon slumped onto the carriage step, blood dripping from his nose onto his clothes and forming dark red spots.
The backlash from overusing the [Eye of Insight] swept over him like a tide. Darkness crept around the edges of his vision, and his ears rang incessantly.
It was probably his body's age; it still could not sustain a load above an index of five.
But he forced himself to hold on. He could not pass out yet.
Tyrion crouched beside him, a small hand pressed against his shoulder, his voice unusually tense. "Your nose is bleeding again."
"A very small price," Leon said hoarsely, wiping away the blood with his sleeve and looking at the subdued attackers, "compared with our lives."
Gerion had already torn off both men's masks.
Both were strangers, around thirty years old, with cold, hard eyes that showed no fear even at swordpoint.
Typical mercenaries or private soldiers, but without the bearing Riverlands bandits should have had.
"Who sent you?" Gerion's voice was like a Westerlands winter.
Both men remained silent.
Thea pressed her sword tip down slightly, drawing a line of blood across the wounded man's throat. "Answer."
The wounded man gritted his teeth, veins bulging on his forehead, but still said nothing.
Leon struggled to his feet and walked over to them.
Though he had overexerted himself, he could still catch subtle physiological reactions:
The man on the left had shown a momentary contraction of his pupils at the question, his heartbeat accelerating. The man on the right had stopped breathing for half a beat.
"Your mission wasn't to kill." Leon spoke slowly, his voice soft with weakness, yet every word clear. "If this were an assassination, the first arrow should have been poisoned, or aimed at the horses to create confusion.
"If this were a robbery, you wouldn't have sent only five men, nor attacked just after the convoy left Highgarden's jurisdiction. That would make it easy to draw pursuers."
He paused, observing their reactions.
"Someone wanted to confirm something," Leon said softly. "To confirm whether my eyes... my pulse... were that legendary ability."
The attacker on the right jerked his head up, astonishment flashing in his eyes...
It lasted only an instant, but it was enough.
Gerion stepped closer. "Who?"
The attacker's lips moved.
He stared into Leon's pale violet eyes, forcing broken words from his throat. "The mirror... shattered... the reflection remains..."
Before his words had faded, his body suddenly began convulsing violently.
The poison had been hidden in his teeth.
The other man collapsed almost simultaneously.
Gerion cursed and withdrew his sword, but it was too late.
Thea crouched to examine the bodies, then suddenly murmured, "Oh?"
Using her sword tip, she lifted the torn leather armor's lining on the man to the left, exposing a small patch of skin beneath his collarbone, where a design had been tattooed:
A dagger piercing an oak leaf, with three cracks along the leaf's edge.
"Is that..." Tyrion leaned closer, narrowing his mismatched eyes. "The Kingswood Brotherhood's mark? I've seen the 'oak-leaf dagger' in the maester's tower records. It's a tattoo they use internally to identify core members."
Gerion's expression darkened. "The Kingswood Brotherhood? Those forest bandits? Since when have they had trained deathsworn like these?"
"Not ordinary bandits." Leon stared at the mark. "Someone hired them, or... someone has infiltrated them."
Rosso found a small object on another corpse: an iron badge with three indistinct letters engraved on the back-K.
"Casterly Rock?" Tomak guessed.
"No." Tyrion took the badge and turned it over for a few seconds. "This is Lysene craftsmanship. The letters are a Valyrian abbreviation... 'Kaeble'? A name? Or..."
"Whatever it is," Gerion closed his fist around the badge, "someone has gone to great lengths to keep us from learning the truth."
He ordered the bodies buried and the convoy to move on.
But everyone knew this was only the beginning.
The convoy set off again, the mood somber.
Leon leaned against the carriage wall with his eyes closed.
His nosebleed had stopped, but his temples still throbbed.
His fingers unconsciously clenched his clothes, his knuckles white.
Tyrion noticed something was wrong. "What are you thinking about?"
Leon was silent for a long time.
"I'm wondering," his voice was very soft, almost drowned out by the wheels, "what exactly are my eyes?"
Tyrion froze for a moment.
"Mother's eyes were purple."
Leon opened his eyes and watched the shadows of trees race past the window. "So were Prince Rhaegar's. But mine... are paler, colder.
"Maester Loomis said that before Mother died, she kept repeating 'flames of gold and purple' and 'the mirror shattered, the reflection remains.' Now those assassins were saying the same things."
He paused.
"What if my eyes... really didn't come from Mother?"
Tyrion's expression changed. "You mean-!"
"I don't know," Leon cut him off. "I don't know whether I'm the curse of House Lannister, or... something else."
His voice remained calm, but Tyrion saw his hands trembling slightly.
It was caused by the rush of blood.
Real fear, buried deep in his heart, rose to the surface for the first time.
Could it be... that I'm not a Lannister...?
"No matter who you are," Tyrion suddenly took his hand and squeezed it hard, "you're my brother."
Leon froze, then turned to look at him.
"Yes! You'll always be my brother."
The light from outside the window reflected in Tyrion's mismatched eyes. There was no hesitation, no wavering.
"...Mm." Leon nodded gently.
But the unease did not fade. It was merely pushed back into the depths of his heart, lying dormant for now.
The carriage continued east.
Toward evening, they stopped to replenish their supplies in a small village called Tumbleton.
Gerion personally led men to stand guard, while Thea never left Leon's side.
Tyrion slipped into the village's only smithy amid the bustle and traded a few silver coins for a bag of iron nails and a small packet of sulfur.
When he returned to the carriage, he lowered his voice and said to Leon:
"The more I think about that 'oak leaf and dagger' mark, the less it adds up. The Kingswood Brotherhood operates deep in the Kingswood, hundreds of miles from here. They have no reason to come so far to ambush us, unless..."
"Unless someone paid them," Leon finished. "Or those men weren't really members of the Brotherhood at all, and were just using the mark to mislead us."
"Which do you think it was?"
Leon did not answer.
He looked toward the faint outline emerging on the eastern horizon: the walls of King's Landing.
"Perhaps both," he said. "Perhaps someone wants the king to think that other powers besides him are interested in 'purple eyes.' Perhaps someone wants to stir up more chaos."
Tyrion followed his gaze.
"Rhaegar's wedding is still a year away," he said. "Until then, we'll be targets for a great many people."
"So before then, we need to learn how to be targets."
Leon turned and walked toward the carriage, his steps steadier than before.
But Tyrion saw it...
The instant his brother turned, he unconsciously raised a hand and touched the corner of his eye.
Those pale purple eyes were becoming more and more dangerous.
The convoy set off again, heading north at full speed through the night.
Outside the window, the hills gradually fell away, and the lights of King's Landing merged into a hazy glow in the distance.
Leon closed his eyes. The lingering echoes of [Eye of Insight] still whispered in his mind.
He remembered the mark on the assassin's body.
Remembered those fragmented last words.
Remembered his mother's dying murmurs.
Golden and purple flames.
The mirror was broken, but the reflection remained.
If my eyes really are some kind of evidence... if I really shouldn't exist...
He pushed those thoughts back into the deepest recesses of his heart.
Now isn't the time for fear.
The road ahead was long, and a storm was coming.
And at the center of that storm, an answer awaited him.
Perhaps it was the truth. Perhaps it was the abyss.
Either way, he could not turn back.