The Riverlands: High Heart.
A towering hill in the Riverlands, nestled between Riverrun, Harrenhal, and Pinkmaiden Castle. Halfway up the hill, a group of three banners bearing the red dragon pitched camp.
"Kermit, it's your turn to play," said one of the tentmates as the three half-grown boys sat in a circle, playing cards.
The red-haired boy whose name was called looked torn, his eyes darting back and forth between the other two.
"Hurry up and play, we're going to eat dinner soon," Baelon urged with a smile, nudging his new friend.
"Yes, yes, play," chimed in the other boy, a short one with black hair and dark eyes, his face breaking into a bashful smile. If you looked closely, you could see that beneath the harmless doll-like face, there was always a hint of restlessness.
"Don't rush me, Ben!" Kermit threw a card down and kicked his best friend.
Benjicot yelped in pain and innocently hid behind the heir prince.
"Don't bully him, you sly fish," Baelon teased, clearly fond of the introverted Benjicot, as he playfully chided Kermit, who shared his interests.
Of the three boys, the eldest was already nineteen. His grandfather had been the late Lord Tully, and his father, Elmo Tully, was now the current Lord of Riverrun.
Benjicot, standing next to Baelon, was no slouch either. He hailed from the ancient House Blackwood, his father being Samwell Blackwood. He was two years older than Baelon and had just turned twelve that year.
As the three finished their round of cards, Harwin Strong, known as the "Breakbones," lifted the tent flap and laughed, "Time to eat, boys."
"Okay," Baelon said, rising and clapping his hands. He took the lead as Kermit followed on the left. "I'll go find Oscar. We'll continue playing cards later," Kermit added.
Oscar was his younger brother, who had just turned sixteen. Their father, Elmo Tully, had left orders that Kermit was to make friends with the heir prince. However, Kermit thought it unnecessary—the heir prince was certainly worth befriending. Oscar would agree.
...
That night.
The moon shone brightly, though dark clouds veiled much of the sky. Inside his tent, Baelon lay with his head resting on someone's thigh, drifting into a deep sleep. The boys had played late into the night, and after dinner, they had gone hunting together. Exhausted, they fell into slumber quickly.
Whoosh.
A cool night breeze swept through the tent, brushing against Baelon's cheeks like a gentle hand. He frowned, turning over to avoid the draft coming from the entrance.
But that wasn't enough.
Suddenly, the air around him felt unnaturally still. Baelon stirred, opening his eyes groggily, his senses tingling with unease.
"..."
His vision was still blurry, but an odd murmur echoed in his ears. The sound was both near and distant—loud and soft, thick and thin—like the whispers of 10,000 voices all at once.
"What's that noise?" Still half-asleep, Baelon sat up, rubbing his eyes, and climbed out of the tent.
"Quack, quack, quack..."
Complete silence greeted him, save for the rasping call of a lone crow perched high in the treetops. The world around him felt distant, as if he were walking between dreams and reality.
Compelled by something he could not name, Baelon began to move, stepping slowly up the hill, unaware of how much time had passed.
At last, his surroundings opened up, revealing a strange sight. At the top of the mountain stood 31 weirwood stumps, arranged in a perfect circle—an eerie, ancient altar.
"Run, someone is coming..."
"Someone, with a sword..."
"..."
As soon as Baelon took in his surroundings, the whispers in his ears grew louder, as if they were being screamed.
Whoosh.
The next moment, a piercing night wind blew, completely dispelling his sleepiness. In the distance, through the darkness, clusters of firelight suddenly appeared.
"Who's there? And who are you?" Baelon called out.
He couldn't open his eyes against the wind, so he shielded his face with his arms, peeking through the gaps. Torches and figures were gradually approaching the foot of the mountain.
Tapping, tapping, tapping...
Light footsteps sounded behind him. Baelon quickly turned, eyes wide. In the dark, the stumps of the Weirwoods, arranged in a circle, resembled wordless tombstones, giving off an eerie, strange atmosphere.
A short figure flashed past and disappeared behind one of the stumps. Baelon rubbed his eyes hard, making sure he wasn't mistaken. I saw it, he thought. That figure was definitely not human.
Less than four feet tall, it was covered in green bark armor, wearing a helmet inlaid with large antlers. In its hands, it held a spear made of stone and wood, primitive and unadorned.
Hum...
Before Baelon could open his mouth, the whispering in his ears vanished. He strained to listen for those inexplicable sounds again, but all he could hear was the howling of the night wind and the chirping of insects.
"What was that... a half-human?" Baelon wondered, his heart racing. Despite his youth, he had always harbored fantasies of seeing a Grumpkin. But that... that couldn't be a Grumpkin. They don't have the magic to disappear into Weirwood stumps... do they?
"Who else is coming?" Baelon whispered, confused. He quickly turned his gaze back to the fire at the foot of the mountain. It was dense, like ants swarming.
He remembered his father's mission. From the Kingsroad to Harrenhal, Riverrun, and Crow's Wood... Tonight we pass through High Heart, and tomorrow morning, we'll head for Pinkmaiden Castle.
"No, they're coming for me!" Baelon suddenly realized, a shiver running down his spine. He turned and bolted toward the camp halfway up the mountain, shouting all the while to alert the soldiers on patrol.
...
It was the middle of the night.
"Kill! The eldest son of the Dragonlord is at the top of the mountain!"
"Cut off the heir prince's head and teach that shit-for-brains king a lesson!"
...
The night wind howled, shaking the flames of the bonfires scattered in the darkness. It was unclear how many were in the chaotic army that charged up High Heart, hacking and slashing indiscriminately at the combined forces of the royal guard and the Knights of the Riverlands. The defenders numbered less than a hundred and were on the verge of collapse.
Inside the tent, Baelon was panting alongside the other boys.
"Prince, you must evacuate through the back of the mountain," Lyonel said gravely, unsheathing his long-unused two-handed sword.
"Who are they?" Baelon asked, still relatively calm despite the chaos. He noticed the attackers had an accent from the Riverlands.
Lyonel's voice was deep. "They are those who oppose your father."
After saying this, Lyonel lifted the tent's curtain and locked eyes with Samwell Blackwood, who stood guard at the entrance.
"What can I do for you, my lord?" Samwell asked, his eyes steady and his posture as straight as a sword.
Lyonel did not hesitate. "Protect the prince. I've already sent a raven to Harrenhal for reinforcements," he said solemnly.
"Don't worry," Samwell responded without hesitation. He entered the tent, grabbed the dazed Baelon by the arm, and tossed a long sword to his son, Benjicot.
"Give me a sword," Kermit demanded, grimacing as he thought of his father leading the resistance outside. His own sword was still in his tent, and he stood weaponless.
Samwell glanced at him, then drew a dagger from his belt and tossed it to the boy. "Follow me."
...
The group rushed out of the tent, weaving through the war-torn camp and escaping down the back of the mountain. Behind them, the sounds of fighting and screams echoed through the stillness of the midnight air.
Baelon glanced back hastily at the circle of Weirwood stumps at the mountain's peak, his heart still pounding with shock. Someone's trying to kill me... yet someone—something—warned me, he thought, breath quickening.
"There are people here! Follow me!" Samwell shouted.
Several soldiers with strange accents charged at them, drawing their bows and firing without hesitation.
Clang! Clang! Samwell swung his long sword, deflecting the arrows.
Despite the darkness, their archery was first-rate—far more accurate than anything Baelon had seen in the Riverlands. Who are these men? Baelon wondered. His sharp eyesight caught a detail—the soldiers' boots were caked with a thick layer of salt, hardened from years at sea.
Whoosh!
An arrow flew past, grazing Baelon's cheek and leaving a bloody cut.
"Protect the Prince!" Samwell bellowed, charging ahead with his sword raised. Kermit followed closely, hurling his dagger, which struck a soldier in the thigh.
A brutal melee ensued.
"This one has silver hair!" one of the attackers yelled.
Two soldiers were blocked, while two others charged straight at the boys. Oscar was struck by an arrow and fell to the ground, screaming in pain.
"Cut off his head, and we'll get paid!" one soldier snarled, slinging his bow and drawing a serrated knife.
"You're Ironborn!" Baelon muttered, retreating slowly, his eyes wide with realization.
"So what?" The Ironborn laughed maniacally, licking his cracked lips.
"No more talk. Just do it," the second Ironborn growled, stepping forward with sinister intent, eager to claim his prize.
Baelon's breath was ragged as he gripped Dragon Claw hilt strapped to his back. Just one opening, he thought, waiting for the moment to strike.
"Say goodbye to your king, boy," the Ironborn sneered, extending his filthy hands—fingernails caked in dirt—towards Baelon.
It was a critical moment.
"Get out of the way, you stinking fish-eating Ironborn!" Benjicot, who had been trembling, suddenly snapped. His face went pale, but his eyes flared with a near-mad, red glow as he charged forward.
As soon as the shout left his mouth, Benjicot hurled a stone and leapt.
Bang!
The Ironborn swung his sword to block, but the next second, the stone smashed into his head, leaving his cheek a bloody mess mixed with brain matter. Benjicot rolled across the ground, a curved knife lodged in his shoulder blade. Despite the injury, he sprang up like a wounded beast.
"Damn you, Ironborn!" he spat, blood dribbling from his mouth. His baby face twisted into a fierce expression, a bloodthirsty grin curling at the corners.
Like a monster unleashed after too long in chains, Benjicot lunged at another Ironborn soldier.
"Freak boy," the Ironborn muttered, shocked, scrambling to grab his bow and arrow.
Pop—
A sharp sword pierced his groin. With a brutal twist and tug, Baelon removed the root of his agony.
"Ahhh!" The Ironborn's eyes bulged, his scream echoing as blood spilled.
Without hesitation, Baelon drove Dragon Claw blade into the man's tilted chin. Blood sprayed as the water-rippled blade sliced through bone, protruding from the back of the soldier's skull.
"Let's go help Lord Sam," Baelon called out to Benjicot, his voice trembling as he took in his first kill.
"No!" Benjicot's eyes widened as he yanked Baelon, dragging him further down the mountain.
"What are you doing? We have to help!" Baelon protested, panic rising in his chest.
"No!" Benjicot growled through gritted teeth, panting hard. "We need to get to Harrenhal." His eyes were still wild with rage, but somehow, he'd regained his senses.
Baelon struggled, breaking free from Benjicot's grip. He took advantage of the darkness, slipping into the undergrowth and heading downhill.
Glancing back, he saw the fire spreading across the hilltop. The distant clash of steel on flesh still echoed in the night.
Then, through the smoke, a tiny flicker of fire appeared in the distance. The whinny of a warhorse followed, and at the front of the approaching cavalry, Baelon spotted a silver trout banner, rippling with red and blue stripes.
As the first light of morning broke through, dispersing the cold and dark clouds of the night, Baelon stood transfixed. He swallowed, trying to moisten his dry throat.
Reinforcements had arrived.
...
A month later.
King's Landing, Dragonpit.
"Roar!"
Syrax crouched low, stretching its neck as a deafening roar reverberated through the cavernous pit.
"Quiet, Syrax," the Dragonkeepers murmured, gathering on either side of the massive golden beast, their hands outstretched in calming gestures. Syrax, emotionally sensitive, trembled but gradually lowered its head, the roar subsiding into a deep growl.
A short distance away, in the shadows of a dark dragon pit...
Cough...
Rhaegar emerged, covered in dust, coughing as he shielded his nose and mouth with his hand.
"How was it?" Rhaenyra asked, crouching beside the pit, her voice laced with nervous anticipation.
"Good," Rhaegar panted, a grin spreading across his face. "Six eggs in total, and two have already cracked."
(Word count: 2,092)