281 AC, early spring, deep in the Kingswood.
Inside the carriage, Leon spread out a map.
The most direct route from the Wendwater to Harrenhal ran east along the northern edge of the Kingswood, through the tributaries of the upper Blackwater Rush, and into the heart of the Riverlands beside the Gods Eye.
The entire journey would take about seven days.
But the northern edge of the Kingswood... that was Kingswood Brotherhood territory.
"Ser Selmy," Leon asked through the carriage window, "has the Kingswood Brotherhood been active lately?"
Barristan rode closer, his voice very low:
"More rampant than before. Last winter was cold, and many deserters and refugees fled into the Kingswood, swelling the brotherhood's ranks. They usually dare not attack armed convoys, but..."
He glanced at the carriage and its guards. "There aren't many of us, and we look like a wealthy target."
He paused, then suddenly added, "But you need not worry too much, my lord. As far as I know, the Kingsguard have also been operating in this area lately."
Something stirred in Leon's mind. "The Kingsguard?"
"Ser Gerold Hightower is leading them himself." Barristan looked toward the distant tree line. "With luck, we might run into them."
Leon turned those words over in his mind.
Barristan would not casually reveal the Kingsguard's movements.
What was he hinting at?
"Then let them come." Oswell's voice carried from ahead, tinged with a certain suppressed excitement. "My sword hasn't tasted real blood in a long time."
Leon leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.
[Eye of Insight] operated at low capacity, beginning to analyze all the information he knew:
House Whent was holding a tournament-
Attempting to revive the family's prestige, which had languished ever since Harren the Black's downfall, show the Seven Kingdoms that Harrenhal remained a seat of power worthy of awe, and compete with the Lannisters in wealth and glory.
The Mad King was forcing all the great nobles to attend-
It was not merely for the spectacle. Aerys wanted to gather every lord in one place and see their loyalty or betrayal with his own eyes.
Was it as the rumors claimed, that Prince Rhaegar was secretly sponsoring it to overthrow his father's rule and replace the regime?
By specifically demanding Leon's presence, he was also treating the "purple-eyed miracle" as a kind of exhibit, flaunting his progress in investigating the "secrets of dragons" before the entire continent.
Tywin's warning to "see everyone clearly"-
Meant his father foresaw that this tournament would become a stage where the great houses realigned, tested one another, and forged alliances.
Stark, Baratheon, Tully, Arryn, Tyrell... all the players would be there.
The wheels rumbled.
The carriage entered a secluded path along the edge of the Kingswood, and the light abruptly dimmed.
Towering ancient trees screened the early spring sky, letting through only scattered patches of light.
The carriage suddenly jolted.
Sandor's low growl came from the driver's seat. "Something's following us."
At first, Leon had only a vague sense of it: shadows occasionally flickered between the trees where none should have been, and distant flocks of startled birds took flight in directions that did not match the wind.
But as the sky darkened, those shadows drew closer and became clearer.
Thea reined in her horse and drew her longsword. "At least fifteen, possibly more. Skirmish formation. Experienced."
"The brotherhood," Oswell confirmed, his sword already drawn. "They're waiting for nightfall."
Barristan gave the order. "Guards, tighten up. Bring the carriages together. Light torches. Don't give them the advantage of a night attack."
The guards hurried to light their torches, marking out a circle of wavering light in the thickening dusk.
But that light also exposed their position.
The first arrow shot out of the darkness and buried itself in the carriage wall, its fletching quivering.
"Left!" Thea shouted sharply, spurring her horse toward the source of the arrow.
Sandor leaped straight down from the driver's seat, his greatsword dragging along the ground, like a wild bear charging into the undergrowth.
Fighting erupted in an instant.
Figures poured out of the woods.
Their clothes were ragged, their weapons a jumble, but their movements were vicious. They were hungry men, and hunger made men fearless.
Leon stayed inside the carriage, but activated [Eye of Insight] at full power.
The world slowed before his eyes, streams of data surging:
Three men on the left, armed with chopping blades, their footwork disorderly but their coordination practiced: one feinting, two attacking from the flanks.
An archer hid behind a tree ahead and to the right, nocking his second arrow, his target Barristan's horse.
Directly behind... five men, silent, moving more professionally, not ordinary bandits.
"Thea, behind the second tree on the left flank!" Leon pushed open the carriage window and shouted.
Almost the moment she heard him, Thea twisted aside. An arrow that should have pierced her ribs skimmed past her leather armor.
She threw a dagger backhanded, and a muffled grunt came from behind the tree.
Sandor swung his greatsword amid the crowd.
There was no technique, only brute force. One downward stroke cleaved through a man and his crude wooden shield together.
Blood sprayed, and he let out a low, almost delighted roar.
Barristan and Oswell stood back to back, their white cloaks swirling in the firelight and bloody gleam.
Their swordsmanship was on another level:
Precise, efficient. Every thrust struck a vital point, every parry was just right.
The brotherhood's men fell before them like stalks of wheat.
But there were too many.
And that silent group of five was closing in on the carriage.
The carriage rocked violently amid the melee.
[Eye of Insight] flowed through his mind like ice water, resolving the chaos outside into clear trajectories:
Three men on the left were trying to circle behind, the archer on the right had been pinned down by Thea, but the real threat was directly ahead-!
Two brotherhood members cut down a guard and lunged straight for the carriage door.
Leon drew a short sword from beneath his seat. It was light, suited to his build.
The door was slammed open.
A face covered in dirt and scars poked inside, greed gleaming in its eyes.
The man saw Leon's fine clothes and the seemingly valuable luggage inside the carriage.
Then he saw Leon's eyes.
Pale purple, like two cold gemstones in the shadows of the carriage.
The man froze for a moment.
In that instant, Leon's short sword thrust out.
Not a slash, but a thrust, aimed at the gap at the neck of the leather armor...
Uncle Kevan had taught him that a dwarf's disadvantage in height could be offset by attacking low and thrusting at close quarters.
The point pierced flesh. Not deeply, but enough to hurt.
The man screamed and recoiled.
But a second and a third were already crowding into the doorway.
I couldn't stay inside and wait to die.
Leon pushed open the opposite door, his small body shooting like an arrow from a bow, and instantly rolled beneath the carriage.
Mud and shredded grass covered his clothes, but his field of vision abruptly widened.
He saw the two men's boots approach the door and heard their heavy breathing.
Now.
Leon slid out from beneath the carriage and drove his short sword upward into the back of the first man's knee.
The point pierced flesh and struck bone.
The man screamed and fell to his knees. Leon did not pull out the sword, instead drawing the spare dagger strapped to his calf in the same motion and spinning to slash at the second man's ankle.
Kevan had taught him that a dwarf's battlefield was down on the ground, in the blind spots of his enemies' vision.
The second man reacted faster, lifting his foot for a vicious kick.
His sole scraped Leon's shoulder, leaving a burning pain.
But the kick also threw the man off balance. Leon seized the opening and drove his full weight into the side of his supporting leg.
The man fell.
Leon pounced, stabbing his dagger toward the man's throat-only to stop an inch short.
Not out of pity.
[Eye of Insight] was flashing furiously: the sound of something cutting through the air came from behind him to the right.
He ducked sharply. A rusty chopping blade skimmed his scalp, shearing off several strands of platinum hair.
"Whew... too close..." Leon's face was pale.
The third attacker had a brutish face, his eyes gleaming with bloodlust.
Leon rolled away from the second stroke, his short sword already pulled free from behind the first man's knee.
He did not get up, but stayed close to the ground and thrust at the attacker's calf.
The man raised his foot to stamp down with a savage grin, only to step into a shallow hole hastily dug in the mud, which Leon had rapidly scraped out with his sword pommel as he rolled.
An instant off balance. Enough.
Leon sprang up like a hunting leopard, driving his short sword into a gap in the leather armor beneath the man's ribs.
The sharp pain distorted the attacker's movements.
Leon did not linger. He pulled his sword free and retreated swiftly, simultaneously throwing the dagger at his waist toward the face of a fourth bandit about to lunge from the side.
The dagger spun through the air, its cold gleam making the man instinctively turn his head and raise his guard.
In that blink of an opening, Leon had already picked up a fallen short spear and thrust with all his strength.
The spearhead entered through the collar of the leather armor, piercing the soft tissue beneath the collarbone.
The fourth man's eyes widened, as though he could not believe this childlike dwarf could inflict such a wound.
Leon let go and backed away, breathing hard.
The rough spear shaft had rubbed bloody marks into his palm, and his shoulder throbbed, but his mind was unusually clear.
Four men. One dead, three wounded.
[Eye of Insight] delivered a dispassionate assessment:
First kill in actual combat. Physiological nausea suppressed by adrenaline.
Movement efficiency: 78%, but insufficient force output. Greater reliance on terrain and timing required.
Mental state... frighteningly stable.
He wiped the flecks of blood from his cheek. In the firelight, his pale purple eyes reflected the fallen enemies and the burning woods.
So this was what taking a life felt like.
Nothing sacred, nothing glorious, just a way to survive.
His heart raced, but his hands were steady.
The smell of blood entered his nostrils, and a wave of nausea churned in his stomach. He forced it down.
He lowered his gaze to his sword hand.
It was trembling slightly, not from fear, perhaps from the fatigue of overworked muscles.
I killed someone.
He thought. One. Maybe two.
I should feel something. Fear? Guilt? Remorse?
He remembered Uncle Kevan's words: "On the battlefield, mercy is the first thing that ought to die."
Just then, a clear, ringing cry came from the woods.
It was not the brotherhood's howling, but something brighter and sharper.
Then hoofbeats approached like thunder.
Snow-white cloaks unfurled in the firelight.
Three riders. All clad in white.
At their head rode an older knight, gray-haired, his face stern as carved stone. Even in the dim light, the longsword in his hand shimmered with the luster of black steel.
And its master was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Gerold Hightower.
To his left, a middle-aged knight urged his horse over the undergrowth, his white cloak streaming like wings.
He had dark hair and a face so handsome it seemed almost unreal. The longsword in his hand likewise shone with a pale luster.
Dawn, forged from a fallen star. Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.
On the right was Ser Jon Darry, silent and steady, his swordplay like a mountain.
Apart from Ser Harlan Grandison, who had passed away in his sleep, and Prince Lewyn Martell, who was guarding the queen, all five Kingsguard were now present.
Like a pure white blade, they plunged into the melee.
The situation reversed in an instant.
Arthur Dayne did not even dismount.
He swung his sword from horseback, his movements flowing like a dance. Wherever Dawn's sweeping arcs passed, weapons broke and bodies fell.
He did not kill, only struck wrists with the flat of his blade and knocked the backs of knees with his pommel, his precision breathtaking.
Gerold Hightower charged straight at the five silent professionals.
His sword was heavier, weightier, every swing carrying the force of thunder.
Two men tried to attack him together, and he spun, severing their weapons. A third struck from behind, and he smashed the man's collarbone with a backhanded blow of his pommel.
But stubborn resistance remained amid the chaos.
Three brotherhood veterans formed a small formation with their backs to a huge tree, holding shields and spears, and actually held off the attacks of two Kingsguard for a time.
Just then, another rider charged out of the woods.
The hoofbeats rang out, rapid and clear...
Behind the Kingsguard's pounding hooves, the sound should have been drowned out, but Leon's ears caught it.
Gold armor, a white cloak covered in stitch marks, its hem spattered with mud, and golden hair like molten gold in the firelight.
He was far younger than the Kingsguard, his face still carrying the keen edge of youth, but his swordsmanship already bore the mark of a master-simple, swift, lethal.
Jaime Lannister.
He did not join the Kingsguard, but charged straight toward the enormous tree.
His longsword traced golden arcs, his cuts and thrusts precise, slipping through a gap between the shields to pierce a man's wrist.
Amid the scream, a gap opened in the shield formation.
But the other two reacted swiftly, thrusting their spears at Jaime together.
He parried one spear, but the second was already beneath his ribs-
"Duck!"
A familiar voice came from the side.
Jaime ducked instinctively as a small figure rolled beneath his horse's belly, sweeping a shortsword upward to slice cleanly through the second spear's wooden shaft.
It was Leon.
The brothers did not even have time to exchange a glance.
The attacker with the broken spear furiously drew a short blade and lunged at Leon. Jaime leaned from his saddle and slashed downward, forcing him back.
Meanwhile, Leon had circled behind the tree and drove his shortsword into a joint along the lower edge of another man's shield.
This was a weak point Thea had taught him.
Leather snapped. The shield tilted.
Jaime seized the opening and urged his horse forward, knocking the man over with its shoulder. Thud! He hit the ground heavily.
Seeing this, the last man turned to flee into the deep woods.
Leon had already anticipated his route. He scooped up a handful of sandy dirt and flung it into the man's eyes.
The man staggered, clutching his eyes. Jaime leaped from his horse and struck the back of his neck with his sword pommel, clean and efficient.
A brief silence...
The brothers looked at each other across the fallen enemies.
Jaime panted, his golden hair sticking to his temples.
He looked at Leon's bloodstained face and still-calm violet eyes, then at the bandit on the ground whose collarbone Leon had pierced. His expression shifted from shock to a complicated sort of understanding.
"You..." Jaime began, his voice a little dry. "Mother told me to protect our family, but it seems..."
"I learned to protect myself," Leon said softly, bending to pull his shortsword from the enemy's body. Droplets of blood ran down its spine.
At that moment, the exhilaration of killing finally began to recede.
Leon felt a wave of weakness spread from his knees to his waist, his arms so sore and limp he could barely hold his sword.
But he did not show it.
He straightened and met Jaime's gaze.
Jaime fell silent for a few seconds, then suddenly grinned...
It was a smile of a brightness rare in Leon's memory, belonging to an elder brother rather than a knight.
"Then we brothers," Jaime shook the blood from his sword and stood beside Leon, back to back, "will protect the honor of House Lannister together."
Leon did not answer.
He merely turned slightly, giving Jaime's back firmer support.
At that moment, the clamor of the battlefield seemed to fade away.
He felt Jaime's warmth, smelled the mingled sweat and rust on him, and heard his rapid but strong breathing.
So this is what brothers are, Leon thought.
Not the "curse" Father called me, not the "monster" in Cersei's eyes. Someone you can fight beside.
Arthur Dayne reined in nearby. He had seen everything.
The Sword of the Morning's gaze lingered on the brothers, resting a moment longer on Leon in particular. Then he gave a slight nod, as though acknowledging something, before turning to attack another knot of fighters.
The battle continued, but in that corner, the golden lion's brothers stood shoulder to shoulder.
One stood tall as a spear beneath the blazing sun, the other small as a short blade in the shadows, yet together they formed a domain that no one could easily breach.
"By the king's command, we are purging the bandits of the Kingswood!" Jon Darry's voice rang out. "Those who surrender will be spared!"
Only then did the Brotherhood begin to scatter.
They dared attack a convoy guarded by ten men, but not face five Kingsguard.
Oswell drove his sword through the chest of the last bandit still resisting.
By the time the body fell, the battle was all but over.
Firelight flickered over the wreckage strewn across the ground.
The smell of blood mingled with earth and sweat, spreading through the late-spring night.
Gerold Hightower dismounted and walked toward the carriage.
His gaze first swept over Barristan and Oswell, and he nodded slightly before it settled on Leon, who had just emerged.
"Leon Lannister." His voice was low, carrying the authority of one long accustomed to command.
"That is me. Thank you for your aid, sers."
"This was not aid," Gerold said. "His Grace received intelligence that the Kingswood Brotherhood has frequently been attacking travelers bound for Harrenhal of late.
"He specifically ordered me to lead a force to eliminate them, keep the roads clear, and ensure people reach Harrenhal safely."
Arthur Dayne approached as well.
He was younger than Leon had imagined, no older than thirty, but the light in his eyes suggested a veteran of a hundred battles.
His gaze settled on Leon's face, lingering for a moment on those pale violet eyes in particular.
"Your guards are excellent," Arthur said, his voice gentle, utterly unlike the god of slaughter he had been on the battlefield. "Especially that woman warrior, and that big boy."
Thea bowed slightly. Sandor merely grunted, wiping the blood from his greatsword.
"Are you bound for Harrenhal?" Jon Darry asked.
"Yes. By His Grace's command."
"Good, then." Gerold Hightower turned. "We will escort you to the shores of the Gods Eye. His Grace said that you must remain safe until the tourney begins."
Another order.
Leon lowered his head. "As you command."
The Kingsguard began clearing the battlefield, collecting weapons and dealing with the wounded and the dead.
Barristan and Oswell went over to help, speaking quietly.
Arthur Dayne did not leave at once.
He crouched beside a corpse and used the tip of Dawn to lift the man's collar.
Below the collarbone, a tattoo of an "oak leaf and dagger" stood out plainly.
"A core member of the Brotherhood," Arthur said, a hint of thoughtfulness in his voice. "But their equipment and training are unlike those of ordinary deserters and displaced peasants."
He turned the man's palm upward and pointed to the calluses between his thumb and forefinger. "These are marks left by years of holding a sword. He was a professional soldier."
Gerold Hightower came over, his gaze grave. "And their objective was very clear." He looked toward the carriage. "They were not here to rob us. They were after someone."
Leon's [Eye of Insight] instinctively swept over the bodies.
On one seemingly ordinary corpse, he caught something unusual. A corner of the purse at the man's waist showed a special kind of leather, gleaming dark red in the firelight.
"Ser," he said. "That purse."
Arthur walked over and lifted the purse with his sword tip.
He opened it. Besides a few silver coins, there was a letter inside. Parchment, with no wax seal, but folded with particular care.
Arthur unfolded the letter and scanned it quickly. His expression changed.
"What does it say?" Gerold asked.
Arthur looked up, his gaze sweeping over everyone present before finally settling on Leon.
"The letter mentions a name," he said. "Simon Toyne."
The air seemed to freeze.
Oswell's head snapped up. "'Toy's' bastard? That legendary leader of the Brotherhood?"
"Yes." Arthur handed the letter to Gerold. "It says Lord Toyne ordered them taken 'alive, especially the violet-eyed one.' The reward is... five thousand gold dragons."
Leon felt everyone's eyes settle on him.
Simon Toyne.
The legendary leader of the Kingswood Brotherhood, bastard son of "Toy," a marcher lord on the Dornish border, who had supposedly vanished after the War of the Ninepenny Kings and was believed dead by many.
But he was not dead. He was still deep in the Kingswood, still commanding his brothers.
And he wanted Leon.
Why?
Leon recalled Loomis's words: some flames burned in more than one place.
Gerold folded the letter and tucked it into his tunic. "His Grace must hear of this."
He turned toward Leon, his gaze deep. "Young Lord Lannister, from this moment on, the Kingsguard will take direct responsibility for your safety. Until you set foot inside Harrenhal."
Leon said nothing. He merely nodded.
The alarm in his heart had not subsided.
He leaned against the carriage's inner wall and closed his eyes. The aftereffects of [Eye of Insight] still echoed through his mind.
Simon Toyne.
The name lodged like a thorn in his consciousness.
"Are you all right?" Jaime's voice came from outside the carriage window.
Leon opened his eyes.
Jaime rode alongside the window, his golden hair stirring in the night breeze.
"I'm fine."
Jaime was silent for a while, then suddenly said, "You just... killed someone. Your first time?"
Leon nodded.
"How did it feel?"
Leon thought for a moment and answered honestly, "I didn't feel much of anything."
Jaime froze for a moment, then smiled.
It was not that bright smile, but something more complicated, tinged with bitterness.
"I threw up the first time I killed someone," he said. "When we were wiping out the remnants of House Tarbeck. I cut down the first man, turned around, and vomited inside my armor. Uncle Kevan said it was a good thing."
"A good thing?"
"It meant I was still human." Jaime looked out into the darkness ahead. "If killing makes you feel nothing, then you're no longer human."
Leon remained silent for a long time.
He recalled how he had been just moments earlier-the icy calm, the precise calculations, the indifference to death.
Was I... too calm...?