South of the Neck, where the Kingsroad wound its way toward the capital, the Wendwater River flowed northward to empty into Blackwater Bay. Near its mouth, on the eastern bank, lay the unremarkable fishing village of Strand. More than three hundred souls called this place home, eking out their living through net and plow, dutifully paying their taxes to the collectors sent by House Mallister, their days marked by the steady rhythms of sun and tide.
For fourteen-year-old Quell, however, such a life held little appeal.
He sat upon a scarred and weathered rock atop the cliffs, facing the churning white waves that crashed against the shore below. Puffing out his narrow chest, he spoke with all the conviction youth allows.
"One day, I'll wear bright armor that gleams in the sun," he declared. "I'll ride a fine courser that's never pulled a plow or carried sacks of grain. I'll wield a steel sword forged in a proper castle smithy, and become the finest knight in all the Seven Kingdoms!"
He turned to fix his gaze upon the girl who sat beside him, his eyes full of earnest hope.
"I won't be like Ser Jon, who does nothing but ride about collecting rents and squeezing coppers from poor folk like us. When war comes, I'll go to the battlefield and fight with real swords and spears, like a true knight ought to do."
Quell's face flushed slightly, though his dark skin concealed much of the change. "To my mind, only a true knight deserves a girl like you, Jeyne. What a beautiful name you have—just like the Jeyne from the stories, the one from Stonehedge."
The sea breeze blew strong and salt-laden, forcing Jeyne to constantly smooth her long brown hair with slender fingers. She merely smiled in response to his declarations.
Quell stared dreamily at the girl who had captured his heart.
Throughout the entire village, Jeyne was the most sought-after maiden. Boys in their teens and twenties, even married men with children of their own, took special notice when she passed. Her every smile, every movement seemed to possess a singular charm, bringing the most vibrant colors to their drab village, giving the young men their most beautiful dreams, waking each morning with renewed purpose.
Quell took particular pride in having persuaded Jeyne to join him alone on the cliffs—an achievement none of his rivals could claim. Though she had not yet accepted his suit, simply sitting here beside the girl of his dreams, occasionally feeling her fluttering brown hair brush against his cheek or nose when the wind shifted, was enough to sustain his happiness for a week or more.
His confidence ran deep.
Jeyne's father had proclaimed that only a knight would be worthy of his beloved daughter, and whoever first earned his spurs would win her hand. The other village boys were cowards, Quell thought contemptuously. They spent their days at sea casting nets or in the fields behind plows, knowing only the ways of fish and soil. None would dare to fight with sword in hand. Knights? They wouldn't even allow themselves to dream of such glory!
Though Quell himself had lived much the same existence until now, he had formulated a plan.
The present moment offered a golden opportunity. Lord Renly of the Stormlands had turned traitor against the King in King's Landing and was gathering an army to seize the Iron Throne. Surely the King would require many men—thousands upon thousands—to defend his rightful claim.
Quell had resolved that within days he would journey north to King's Landing and offer his service to the crown. The King was lord of all Seven Kingdoms and would surely triumph over Lord Renly in the south. Once a few good battles had been fought, and Quell himself had taken a few enemy heads, knighthood would follow as naturally as dawn follows night.
Were not the stories filled with such examples?
The Battle of the Trident, the Battle of Summerhall, the Dance of the Dragons, the Ragefire—how many common men had risen to fame in such conflicts? How many legends had been born from humble beginnings?
No one in the village would truly miss him. His uncle, the only one who showed him any real kindness, had departed on a trading vessel several days past and would not return for months. Quell needed only to gather some dried food, and he could leave whenever the mood took him.
He had announced his intentions to everyone who would listen, hoping both to attract companions for the journey and to win admiration for his courage.
Unfortunately, neither aim had been realized.
The adults had shown no interest whatsoever, responding with derisive laughter and contemptuous glances. A few of his friends had been momentarily swayed by his bold talk, but their parents had quickly dragged them home, administering beatings and harsh scoldings for entertaining such foolish notions.
Quell found their reactions puzzling. Everyone's response to news of the war seemed entirely at odds with the tales of glory and adventure he had heard all his life.
Especially among the village elders.
Upon learning that Lord Renly had raised his banners in rebellion, the old men had shown not excitement but terror. They spent their days scanning the horizon, questioning every passing traveler or merchant for fresh tidings, as though expecting armies to descend upon them at any moment.
How could any army possibly take notice of a place as insignificant as Strand?
Quell felt certain of this, at least. Strand was utterly unremarkable, trading only with a handful of neighboring villages and towns. The merchants who occasionally passed through expressed nothing but disappointment, lamenting that they had wasted their time in a place that offered neither goods worth purchasing nor customers with coin to spend.
Though Quell himself had traveled little, he had grown weary of everything Strand represented.
Life here was too quiet, like a stagnant fish pond with an untroubled surface. Draw closer, and the stench of rotting seaweed and dead fish assaulted the nostrils. Beneath the surface, half-dead creatures lay motionless at the bottom, devoid of thought or purpose, merely waiting to be plucked out and consumed.
And he could not even claim a place among such creatures.
Quell understood little of the wider world, but he knew well enough that an orphan without the support of adults could never truly prosper in such a village.
He owned no land, possessed no fishing boat, and had no proper trade.
The villagers all labored from dawn to dusk merely to feed themselves; none could afford to hire additional hands. Only in larger settlements would someone like him find opportunity.
Yet until now, he had lacked the means to leave. He wandered the beach each day, gathering odd shells, crabs, and small fish, then begging the use of someone's hearth to cook his meager findings.
When truly desperate, he might shelter at his uncle's house for a few days, enduring the cutting remarks and cold glances of his uncle's wife, a woman who had never shown him a moment's kindness.
Such a life was barely worth living. Only Jeyne's presence made the cold village bearable.
Quell shifted slightly, moving closer to the girl he loved—just a little closer.
Jeyne had never scorned him for being an orphan. Her smile had sustained him through these difficult years, giving him reason to continue struggling against the hardships of his existence.
If for no other reason than to win her hand, Quell was determined to become a knight.
Jeyne finally broke her silence. "The wind grows stronger. I should return home—my mother has tasks for me to complete before nightfall."
Quell leapt to his feet at once. "I'll accompany you."
Though he dwelled in an abandoned hut at the cliff's edge, he always insisted on escorting Jeyne to her home, one of dozens nestled in the village below—a proper dwelling with no drafts, a small barn, and even a fish tank.
As they walked together through the village, people smiled and chuckled in a manner Quell found infuriating. Some even called out mockeries like "True Knight" or "Pure Jeyne" as they passed.
Quell paid them no heed.
As they approached Jeyne's house, a tall, thin figure emerged slowly from a neighboring doorway. The man turned to regard Quell, his eyes cold and searching, as though examining not a person but some curious object.
Quell recognized him at once. This gray-haired man in his well-worn wool robe was a wandering septon who had arrived in the village several days past.
Many village children had received their formal names from this old man's lips, while others had confessed their sins and sought his blessing. Septons also presided over weddings. Quell had sometimes imagined his own glorious marriage to Jeyne, though by that blessed day, this particular septon would likely have moved on to other villages.
One peculiarity struck Quell as strange: though the old septon had granted formal names to so many, he permitted others to address him only as "Sparrow."
Sparrow—such a simple, common word for a man of the Faith.
Buzzzzz
A sudden commotion arose from the village entrance, a chaos of voices carried on the sea wind.
Quell raised his head, straining to hear more clearly.
The Sparrow clasped his hands in fervent prayer: "Mother, have mercy upon us. Bless this village—or at the very least, bless this child."
Quell stared at the Sparrow in confusion, unable to comprehend the sudden urgency in the old man's manner.
What peril could possibly threaten a place as insignificant as Strand?
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