Evening had settled over Strand, and most of the village folk had returned from their labors, weary after a day of toil upon sea and soil. They anticipated nothing more than a simple meal and well-earned rest.
Without warning, the world they knew shattered.
Several hundred knights thundered into the village, their steel-shod destriers trampling the packed earth between the stone and wooden hovels. The modest fence that encircled Strand—meant to keep livestock in rather than danger out—became not protection but prison, trapping the villagers within.
When the first few who attempted flight were caught and bloodied by lances and leather whips, none dared approach the perimeter again.
After the brief chaos subsided, the villagers huddled together like sheep in a storm, listening with dread to a single commanding voice that carried across the village square.
"In the name of Renly of House Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I deliver this decree to all subjects:"
The knights drew closer, forming a ring of steel around the frightened smallfolk.
"Joffrey Waters, the false king who now usurps the Iron Throne, is the product of incest between Queen Cersei and her brother, Ser Jaime Lannister. This pretender conspired with House Lannister to murder both King Robert and Duke Stannis."
Murmurs spread through the crowd, quieting only when a knight's sword hissed from its scabbard.
"His actions violate all morality. He rules with arbitrary power, belittles nobility, and harms the common folk. His sins are beyond forgiveness."
Quell listened, wide-eyed, as the pronouncement continued.
"Though the truth stands revealed, he remains unrepentant, falsely claiming kingship, hungry for power and position. The Seven Kingdoms have risen in response, forming a mighty host of one hundred thousand that shall soon march upon King's Landing to overthrow this false king's tyranny."
The man who spoke wore gleaming armor but no helm, allowing Quell to see his face clearly.
The knight's hair was black as a raven's wing, his skin dark and weathered, though not by sea and salt as was common among the fisherfolk. Beneath him stood a stallion of purest black, the kind of magnificent beast Quell had dreamed of riding when he became a true knight.
Upon the knight's left arm rested a kite-shaped shield painted with gold lacquer, its center dominated by a proud black stag. No other symbols or patterns adorned it.
A black stag—was that the king's emblem? Or King Renly's? Quell's understanding of such matters remained rudimentary at best.
"In order to restore proper law and enforce justice," the knight continued, "a military levy is hereby imposed upon all subjects of the Crownlands. None shall disobey!"
From his right hand dangled a dark red sack, which he shook once, allowing its contents to tumble forth. A furry ball rolled across the muddy ground, coming to rest near the front rank of villagers.
Quell stared at the object for several heartbeats before his mind comprehended what his eyes beheld. His heart seemed to stutter within his chest, his thoughts evaporating like morning dew.
All around him, villagers screamed and scrambled backward, as though the thing might somehow rise up and attack them.
A human head.
The black-haired knight guided his horse forward, deliberately driving its hooves into the mud, crushing the severed head further into the mire.
"House Mallary has defied this decree and blindly pledged allegiance to the false king," he announced. "Thus all its titles, territories, and subjects are forfeit. Every knight in its service has been brought to the king's justice—including the one who claimed lordship over your village!"
Quell gazed numbly at the ruined face in the mud, its expression frozen in death, eyes dull and clouded. Despite the damage, he recognized Old Jon—or was it Old John? He had been the only knight Quell had ever known, collecting taxes and settling petty disputes in Strand for as long as any could remember.
What was Old John's family name? Quell could not recall, though the man must surely have had one, being a knight with Strand as his fief.
It hardly mattered now. Old John had a wife and two daughters but no sons. Women could not inherit knighthoods—the village would be granted to some new lord to oversee.
Quell and Jeyne, along with many others, stared at the black-haired knight with uncertainty. Would this man become their new overlord? Would he dwell in Lord Mallary's modest keep?
Might Lord Robb Mallary—or was it Rosa?—fight to defend his holdings? The lord had always lived in King's Landing, serving at the royal court. Surely he would take action once he learned what had transpired here.
But several hundred knights in steel plate represented a force many times greater than anything House Mallary could muster.
And King Renly commanded a host of one hundred thousand! How many knights would that include? Could it be that the king—the one in King's Landing—would be defeated, and Renly would claim the Iron Throne?
Quell wavered in his plans. Perhaps he should seek to join Renly's forces instead?
The black-haired knight dismounted with practiced grace. "Tonight, I will lodge in your village," he announced. "Serve us well. Provide supplies and obey King Renly's commands, and your past transgressions may yet be forgiven."
At some unspoken signal, hundreds of knights dismounted, removing helmets and setting aside shields. They began issuing orders, demanding the villagers feed their mounts, prepare meals, make ready beds, and perform countless other tasks.
The atmosphere in Strand grew less tense, if not precisely relaxed.
Everyone fell into familiar patterns of service, though weariness from a day's labor made the additional work doubly exhausting. Yet this exhaustion carried a strange comfort—at least it proved the knights still required their services, suggesting they would not be slaughtered out of hand.
Though they would surely lose much of their meager property, their lives would be spared. In war, what more could simple folk hope for when confronted by hundreds of armed knights?
Quell had intended to remain close to Jeyne, to guard her as a true knight would. Instead, a gruff order directed him to the village storehouse, where he spent hours loading wheat and cured meat onto the carts that had accompanied the knights' arrival. Only when darkness fell was he finally released from this duty.
Staring at the heavily laden carts, Quell felt his desire to join an army grow even stronger. Such abundance of food! Enough to feed a man for years!
He thought of his constant hunger, of the cold eyes of villagers who never offered him a complete meal. Today, with merely a few words, these knights had claimed an entire storehouse of provisions, and none dared refuse them. How satisfying that power must be!
As if sent by the Seven themselves, Quell spotted two familiar faces among the throng—Bass and Beck, orphans like himself from a neighboring village.
Though they wore no armor, they carried lances and shields and even wore surcoats emblazoned with the black stag. They strode along the village path with newfound arrogance, as though they owned the very ground beneath their feet.
Hope swelled in Quell's breast.
He approached them, offering flattery and praise he had never before deigned to speak, before finally expressing his desire to join their company.
The two seemed to relish his unaccustomed deference. They thumped their chests proudly and led him toward their captain—the black-haired knight who had spoken earlier.
Their path led to Jeyne's house.
The captain and several knights were enjoying a sumptuous meal—freshly stewed fish, grilled fillets, and barley soup—while Jeyne's family attended them with nervous obsequiousness.
Quell had taken only a few steps toward the gathering when he heard Jeyne's father speak words that froze the blood in his veins.
"Sir, the night grows cold. Perhaps my little girl might warm your bed this evening. A small contribution to King Renly's cause, if you will."
Quell's mind seemed to explode in white noise, his feet rooted to the ground as his eyes sought Jeyne's face.
She stood with head bowed, silent as stone.
Refuse! Quell screamed in the silence of his mind. Jeyne, don't yield! Don't fear him! He's no true knight!
The black-haired man set down his knife and fork, regarding Jeyne with the casual appraisal one might give a horse at market. "Are you untouched, girl?"
Quell's muscles tensed, rage flooding through him like wildfire. Even without a blade, he would tear this man's throat with his teeth!
Before he could move, a familiar, sweet voice answered softly: "Please forgive me, sir. Jeyne was once... imprudent."
Quell's throat constricted. What did that mean?
The black-haired captain's lips curled into a smile. "I've no taste for used goods," he said, indolent with wine and power. "But the young men might not be so particular. What say you, lads?"
The knights around the table chuckled, exchanging knowing glances.
One set down his soup bowl with deliberate care. "Captain, I've had my fill of food. Brothers, I'll go first and test the wares for you, shall I?" His laughter rang harsh and unpleasant in the warm air of the cottage.
Standing just seven or eight paces away, Quell watched helplessly as this man brazenly wrapped his arm around Jeyne's waist. The knight's hands wandered freely over her body as he guided her toward the inner chamber, his coarse jests mixing with her soft, fearful protests.
From behind the rough wooden door came Jeyne's trembling cries.
The black-haired captain barely glanced up from his meal. "Sweet as a song," he remarked lightly, reaching for his wine.
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