Chapter 7: Who is he?
…
Maria POV
I followed the boy out of the room, my heart pounding with each step. Freedom felt closer with every movement, but it was still unreal, like a distant dream. I glanced at the boy—this strange, calm lad who was buying my freedom. In my hand, I gripped the pouches of gold coins he had given me.
Who was he? He told me he was close to my daughter, but hadn't explained their relationship or even shared his name with me. The mystery of him gnawed at me as I stared at his back, his tall frame moving with a purpose far beyond his years.
"Oh my, that was quite quick, wasn't it?" a familiar voice interrupted my thoughts. Madam Allayne.
Hatred surged through me as her voice cut through the air. Madam Allayne—one of the most vile women I had ever known. She was the reason I had been forced to let go of my daughter, the one who had warned me that Alicent would come to harm if I didn't give all my attention to the men who visited the brothel.
A cruel smirk played on her lips as she turned her gaze to Richard. "So, how was it? Isn't she one of the best?" she said in a fake tone, her cold eyes flicking toward me before turning back to the boy with a false smile.
Richard's expression didn't change. Calm and composed, he motioned for me to hand over the coin pouches. "I'm buying Maria's freedom from this establishment," he said, his voice steady.
Madam Allayne took the pouches from him, her fingers brushing over the leather as if she were already imagining how to spend the coin. She weighed it in her hand, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. After a moment, she gave a curt nod. "Nice doing business with you, kind sir," she said, offering a mocking curtsy.
I could hardly believe it. I was free. Free from Madam Allayne and the horrors of that place. A flood of happiness surged through me, and for a moment, I wanted to run out of the brothel and never look back. But then I looked down at my clothes—it was quite revealing, not something I could wear in the streets of Lannisport without drawing attention.
Richard, as if sensing my hesitation, turned to Madam Allayne. "She'll need better clothes," he said, his tone firm yet calm.
The madam nodded without a word and motioned for one of the girls to fetch something more appropriate. As we waited in that suffocating silence, memories began to flood back—years of broken promises, of hollow nights, of longing for a freedom that had seemed impossible. And now, standing here, waiting for a new dress, it all felt too surreal. Was I really free? Or was this just another cruel twist of fate?
I glanced at the boy again. He had kept his word, and somehow, in this brief time, I trusted him. But I still didn't know why. What did my daughter mean to him?
The girl returned with a simple dress and a black cloak, and I put them on quickly, not wanting to linger any longer in that place. Without another word, we left the brothel and stepped out into the bustling streets of Lannisport.
The city was alive with noise—merchants shouting, horses clattering on cobblestones, the salty breeze from the harbor carrying the smell of fish and seaweed. I took a deep breath, letting the air fill my lungs. *I was free at last.*
Richard led the way through the winding streets, and I followed silently, my mind still spinning. He moved with such purpose and confidence, his eyes constantly seem to always be scanning the surroundings. How could a boy like him—so young—carry himself with such confidence? And where had he gotten the money to buy my freedom?
Curiosity got the better of me. I quickened my pace, walking beside him now. "What is your name, sir?" I asked, trying to sound respectful.
"Richard," he answered simply, without hesitation.
"And how did you come by so much coin? Are you by chance from a noble house?" I pressed, eager to know more.
He shook his head. "No, I don't have any parents. I wouldn't know." His voice was cold, shutting down the conversation. I realized I had touched a sore subject, so I quickly changed course, asking instead about my daughter.
He told me bits and pieces about Alicent as we walked, but I could sense he was holding something back. Still, it was more than I had known before, and for now, it was enough. As we left the wealthier part of Lannisport behind, I noticed a change. The streets were dirtier, the people poorer—but it was better than the rumors had told. The slums weren't what I had expected, it was bustling with markets and teeming with business. I also noticed that there were children everywhere, watching us from the corners with curious eyes.
Richard stopped in front of one of the children, a ragged boy sitting hunched on the cobblestones, his face streaked with dirt. Without a word, Richard crouched down beside him, leaning close to whisper something in the boy's ear. After that Richard slipped a few coins into his hand. The boy looked up, awe shining through his grime, before bowing low in reverence, then retreating back into the shadows.
It wasn't a singular act. As we walked through the streets, Richard repeated this with several other children—small gestures, a few quiet words, and the same awestruck reaction every time. Each child bowed low, their eyes wide with wonder, before melting back into the crowd.
I watched it all unfold, my curiosity gnawing at me like a restless beast. This was no ordinary boy, that much was clear. But the way the children treated him—with such respect, as though he were a figure of legend—it made me question everything I thought I knew about him. Who *was* he, really? And why did the streets bow before him like he was something more than flesh and bone?
We stopped by a food stall, the scent of roasted chicken thick in the air. Richard handed me a kebab, his expression calm, almost unreadable. "You must be hungry," he said, his voice soft, a faint smile touching his lips. He moved to pay the vendor, but the man shook his head vehemently.
"No need, sir," the vendor stammered, eyes cast down. "It's on the house, always."
As we passed by other stalls, the pattern repeated. Each vendor refused his coin, bowing deeply, their respect palpable, almost unsettling. This was no simple act of courtesy. It was reverence, born from something deeper, something unspoken.
With each interaction, a sense of awe stirred within me. I had never seen anything like it. Who was this boy, really? How had he earned the respect of these people—the forgotten, the overlooked, the children who lived in the cracks of the city?
The more I watched him, the more questions filled my mind. Richard was unlike anyone I had ever known. He moved with a purpose, as if every step, every gesture, was part of a grander scheme that only he could see. And as I walked beside him, I couldn't shake the feeling that he was the key to something far larger than I could yet understand.
After what felt like hours of walking, we finally reached a large mansion tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. The stone walls were worn and weathered by time, giving the place an unremarkable appearance. Yet, it stood in stark contrast to the brothel I had just left behind.
Richard stepped forward and knocked on the heavy wooden door. After a brief pause, a small slit in the door slid open, revealing a pair of eyes peeking out. Richard leaned in, whispering something I couldn't hear. The door creaked open, and we stepped inside.
As we entered, the young man on the other side gave a familiar bow toward Richard, a sign of respect that I had seen too many times to ignore. His eyes then shifted to me, widening in surprise.
"Welcome, Lady Maria," the lad said, his voice filled with a strange mixture of familiarity and awe. I couldn't place his face, but he clearly knew me.
We walked further into the mansion, and the warmth of the place hit me immediately, as did the low hum of voices and laughter. We emerged into a large atrium, and there I saw them—children, dozens of them, moving about with purpose, carrying chairs, utensils, and trays of food. They appeared to be preparing for some kind of celebration, a feast.
As soon as they saw Richard, they all bowed, offering him the same deep reverence I had witnessed earlier from others. It was becoming increasingly clear that Richard was no ordinary boy in these streets.
I followed him up a grand staircase, trying to take in the mansion's interior. The inside was much cleaner, far more comfortable than the worn exterior had suggested. The further we walked, the more questions piled up in my mind. Throughout the hallways, people greeted Richard with the utmost respect, calling him "sir" or "milord." It didn't make sense—he had told me he wasn't part of any noble house, so why was he being treated like this?
What surprised me even more were the children. As we passed, several younger ones glanced at me and whispered, "That's Alicent's mother."
The words sent a jolt through me. I had to hold back my surprise. How did they know I was Alicent's mother? And was this boy, Richard, behind all of it? Was this his plan from the very beginning?
As my thoughts raced, a sudden memory struck me. Today was Alicent's namesday—the day she was born. Could they be preparing a feast in her honor?
Two teenagers stood guard by a set of large double doors. With a nod from Richard, they opened the doors, and what I saw inside took my breath away.
The room beyond was vast, like a ballroom from the fairytale I used to read in my younger years. Long tables were arranged meticulously, filled with food, drinks, and plates, all prepared for the feast. There were countless people—children, teens, and even some adults—gathered around the tables. At a glance, there could have been as many as a hundred people in the room.
The walls were adorned with elegant decorations, ornaments that gave the room a sense of grandeur. It felt like stepping into a royal banquet, far removed from the world I had known.
At the high table, sitting in a place of honor, was Alicent. She looked older now, more mature than the last time I had seen her, but her face still held the warmth and kindness I remembered. She was deep in conversation with two older girls, laughing and smiling, oblivious to the world around her.
My eyes welled up with tears as I stood frozen in the doorway. After all these years of separation, here she was, right in front of me.
The room slowly filled with murmurs as the crowd noticed Richard and me standing at the entrance. Alicent caught wind of the change in the atmosphere, her laughter faltering. She glanced around in confusion before her eyes landed on me.
Our eyes met.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Her face shifted from confusion to shock, and then, as recognition dawned, tears welled in her eyes. She pushed herself back from the table, her chair scraping against the floor as she rose. Without a word, she ran toward me.
I didn't know what had gotten into me, but I ran too, closing the distance between us. When we were close enough, I barely had time to open my arms before she threw herself into them. Suddenly, we were both crying, holding each other like we were the only ones left in the world. All the pain, the uncertainty, the loneliness—it melted away in that one moment. It was just us, mother and daughter, reunited after what had felt like a lifetime of loss.
The sounds of clapping filled the air around us. I didn't know who started it, but soon, the entire room was celebrating our reunion. Their cheers and applause echoed through the hall, but all I could focus on was the warmth of my daughter in my arms.
Through my tears, I glanced up and saw Richard standing quietly nearby, his arms clapping as he watched us with a small smile. He didn't say anything, didn't need to. He had already given us the greatest gift anyone could—a chance to find each other again.
The world had tried to tear us apart, but against all odds, we had found our way back to each other. For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt the weight of the years lift, leaving behind only the hope of what might come next.
…
Richard POV
Several weeks later
I was sitting in my solar, going over the family ledgers, when a knock came at the door.
"Enter," I called, not bothering to look up. The numbers before me demanded attention, each coin accounted for, each deal noted in careful ink. But when the door creaked open, I glanced up and saw Laenor step in.
Tall, black-haired, with eyes sharp as a hawk's. At seventeen, he was already a made man, quick with a blade and quicker with his wits. A street thief before, much like I once was. Behind him followed an older man, hunched from years of labor. His hands were rough, like knotted wood, and his skin bore the burn marks of the forge.
Corlos. I remembered him well enough. He had one of the lucky faces I recognized—one of the few to walk away with a pouch of my coin after the purge. He limped as he stepped forward, dragging his right leg, the years not having been kind to him.
"Sit," I said, gesturing to the chair before my desk.
Corlos hesitated before lowering himself into the seat. His face was drawn, etched with a weariness that spoke of more than just long hours at the forge.
"What's troubling you, Corlos?" I asked, folding my hands together, my gaze fixed on his.
He didn't answer immediately, just shifted in his seat, as if the weight of the words to come were too much to bear. Finally, he spoke, voice rough like the iron he shaped.
"Ser Gwent," he spat the name like a curse. "A hedge knight. Came to my shop for a blade, said he needed something strong for the tourneys. Should've known he was trouble the moment he walked in." He paused, knuckles white as he gripped the armrests of the chair. "But coin's been scarce. So I didn't say no."
I didn't speak, just let the silence stretch as he gathered himself. I'd dealt with knights like Gwent before—brutes wrapped in steel who thought they were untouchable. They took what they wanted and left ruin in their wake.
Corlos's voice wavered as he continued, each word heavy with shame. "He set his eyes on my daughter... knocked me out cold, and when I woke... she'd been..." His voice trailed off, but I didn't need him to finish. I could see the pain written across his face, the humiliation that burned in his eyes.
I leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk. "And what do you want, Corlos?" I asked quietly. We both knew the answer, but I needed to hear him say it.
"Blood," he hissed, the fire behind his words unmistakable. "I want him dead. I want him to feel what she felt. I want his bones left for the crows, his name forgotten."
His fury was raw, a father's rage. But beneath it was something else—desperation. He wasn't just seeking vengeance. He was grasping for some semblance of control, trying to reclaim whatever pieces of his life Gwent had shattered.
I nodded slowly. "I'll see it done," I said, my voice measured, calm. "But there's a price."
Corlos's brow furrowed, but he didn't speak. He knew as well as I did that nothing came without a cost.
"I need your craft," I continued. "Teach my boys the art of smithing. Show them how to turn iron into armor and weapons. Your skills are worth more than you think."
He hesitated, his eyes flicking between me and Laenor, who stood by the door like a shadow. After a long pause, he nodded. "If it means seeing that bastard in the ground, I'll do it."
I reached across the desk and clasped his hand. His grip was strong, his palm rough and calloused, but there was something in the way he held it—a promise of loyalty, of a man who had nothing left to lose.
Laenor stepped forward, ever the sharp one. "What do you need me to do?" he asked, always direct, always prepared for the next task.
I allowed myself a small smile as I rose from my seat. "Don't worry," I said, smoothing the front of my tunic. "Ser Gwent is already a dead man. He just doesn't know it yet."