Before another word could be spoken, a great shadow fell across Ser William, and its arms closed about his shoulders. Lord Robert Baratheon hauled him into a crushing embrace, his laughter booming across the camp.
"Will!" Robert roared, squeezing hard enough that Donnel feared ribs might crack. "You've come. By the gods, am I glad to see you again, brother."
The last time Donnel had seen him had been at Winterfell, when Lord Rickard had hosted the feast celebrating Robert's betrothal to Lyanna Stark.
Even then Robert had seemed larger than life. Now he seemed larger still. Broad as an ox. Thick through the chest and shoulders. His black beard had grown fuller, and his blue eyes shone with the sort of reckless joy only Robert Baratheon seemed capable of carrying into a war.
A great warhammer hung across his back. Donnel doubted he could even lift the thing. Yet Robert carried it as casually as another man carried a sword. This is the man Lyanna is to wed, a worthy match indeed.
Robert finally released Ser William.
Ser William laughed as he adjusted his cloak and rubbed at his shoulder. "I can see that, you big bastard," he said. "You near crushed the wind out of me. Where's Ned?"
For all Robert's size, Ser William still stood taller. Lord Manderly and his other sons were much the same. Manderlys seemed built from larger stock than other folk.
Lord Jon Arryn answered before Robert could. "The harbor was sealed off," he said, "We sent him north across the Fingers. From there he'll sail north, toward White Harbor."
The smile faded from Ser William's face, and his brow furrowed at once. "That was dangerous, my lord."
His voice remained respectful, though concern lingered beneath it. "The three sisters are thick with turncloaks and smugglers. If the Sistermen catch him, they may sell him to the dragons as soon as they know who he is."
Every northern sailor knew the Sistermen's treachery, how their loyalties shifted with the tide. Lord Stark alone amongst them would be dangerous indeed.
For a moment, nobody spoke as everyone understood the gravity of the danger. The wind stirred the banners overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a horn sounded from the city walls.
Then Robert snorted loudly and said. "Damn it, Will, don't scare us now. We had no choice but to send him away."
The young lord tucked his antler helm beneath one arm and added, "We didn't know you'd come so fast, Will. By the time we saw sails on the horizon, Ned must have already been halfway through the fingers."
"He'll be safe enough," Lord Horton Redfort added. "The man could walk through a market naked and somehow no one would notice him."
A few nearby knights chuckled. Lord Royce frowned at the words, as did Donnel.
He wasn't as close to Eddard or Brandon as he was with Benjen or Lyanna. Brandon was always the lord's heir, his future liege, so there was always that distance. Benjen was his closest friend, and Lyanna was something else.
When Donnel went to foster at Winterfell, Eddard had already gone to Eyrie. So they hadn't seen each other very much except for when he came home. After Ser William took Donnel as his squire four years ago, he started learning more about Eddard Stark, as Ser William spoke of him and Robert Baratheon, often and very fondly.
Eddard Stark was his cousin and now his lord. Donnel would not accept any slight to him. Still, he had to keep his mouth shut here. For these were noble lords of great houses, and he was still just a squire.
Jon Arryn spoke again before anyone could say anything else, "What is done is done," he said, "No use dwelling on choices already made."
Ser William exhaled through his nose. "Then we pray Ned passes unseen," he said.
Jon Arryn added softly, "He always did have a talent for being invisible even among a crowd."
"Aye, that's our Ned," Robert barked a laugh and clapped his helm. "Seven hells, I remember a feast at the Eyrie. I spent half the time looking for him, only to find he was sitting beside me the whole bloody time."
"That was because you drank enough ale for six men, Robert," Ser William replied dryly. "It was a miracle that you could still see."
That only made Robert laugh harder. The lords nearby began laughing along, even Donnel found himself smiling too. It felt strange. Only an hour ago, he had stood amidst piles of corpses, and now he stood among men laughing together as if they were in a feast rather than in the midst of a battle.
Perhaps that was why men followed these heroes. Not because they were fearless. Because they made others forget what fear was.
Robert suddenly seized his antler helm and slammed it onto his head. The great black antlers rose above the crowd at once. The stag lord mounted his horse in one swift movement. "Enough talk now," he said, voice booming once more.
Robert drew up his warhammer and said, "Let's give these bastards hell."
Around him, men moved at once. Reins were gathered, saddle straps checked, shields lifted from the ground. Steel rasped softly as swords slid back into scabbards and axes were hooked to belts. The camp that had been filled with laughter only moments before became filled with purpose again.
As the men moved to their horses once more, Lord Arryn's voice cut through the clatter of steel and hooves. "William."
Ser William turned back at once to face him. "Yes, my lord."
"Show mercy if you can," Lord Arryn said. His words were measured, but there was weight beneath them. "The men within those walls are still my people."
Donnel watched Ser William closely then. He had heard his knight speak of Jon Arryn often, of the man who had fostered him, guided him, shaped him, but this was the first time Donnel had seen that bond laid bare. Arryn did not speak as a lord issuing a command, but as a father asking a son.
Ser William inclined his head. His voice, when he answered, was warm. "Of course, my lord. Half the men at the western gate had laid down their arms when they saw the battle was lost. They remain as our prisoners now. We'll take surrender where it's offered, I give you my word."
Lord Arryn's noble sternness softened into something like relief. "It is truly good to see you again, son," he said.
The words were spoken quietly.
"Though I confess," Lord Arryn continued sadly, "I would have preferred our reunion take place beneath a roof and over a cup of wine rather than before a battlefield. But we have no choice. I do not think there will be better days ahead, not for quite a while."
Ser William's mouth curved into a faint smile as he swung fully into the saddle, "Do not worry, Jon, we shall make them better," he said. "By each new day's end, with each new victory."
Donnel mounted after him, settling his reins with hands that felt steadier than they had any right to be. Ahead of them, Robert Baratheon was already astride his horse, restless as a storm held too long.
"Let's ride!" Robert bellowed, dropping his visor. The shout rolled through the host like a spark to dry tinder. Hooves struck the earth, banners lifted, and the line began to move. Then suddenly it vanished into darkness.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
And Donnel woke with a start. For half a heartbeat, he was still there. The echoes of hooves and shouting faded into the quiet dark of the manse.
Donnel sat upright in bed, breathing heavily. As the soft hush of the city seeped in through the shutters, the distant call of a watchman, the low rumble of carts, and the smell of King's Landing claimed him again. A pale grey light crept through the cracks as dawn slowly approached. The city was only waking.
His linen shirt clung damply to his skin. Sweat covered his brow despite the cool morning air. Donnel swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a long while, elbows resting upon his knees, letting the dreams loosen its grip.
It had been Gulltown again. His dreams often led him to past battles, of Gulltown, or of the bells, or the Trident, or the scarlet fires of the sack.
Gods, he hated going back to them again. But dreams were cruel that way. They always brought him back to those who were long gone. Back to voices he would never hear again. They gave back what waking life no longer could, but only for a moment, and only to steal them away once more when morning came.
Donnel rubbed at his eyes. He was no green boy of seven-and-ten now. No squire clutching a shield on borrowed courage and trying to hide shaking hands behind it. He was no longer desperate to prove himself worthy of the spurs he had not yet earned. Two-and-thirty namedays sat upon his shoulders now, each one heavier than the last.
The boy who had followed Ser William through Gulltown had become Captain Donnel Locke, commander of Arthur's household guards and sworn shield to the last living scion of the man he had served so long ago. The man he owed his life to, he owed everything to.
Today, Donnel had a different duty than being a knight's squire and a more important one. Arthur carried too many burdens already, and keeping himself alive should not fall among them, too.
Donnel scrubbed a rough hand through his beard. His fingers brushed old scars hidden beneath it. He had not dreamed of Ser William in moons, not like this. Wine kept such ghosts at bay. A cup or three before bed dulled the sharper edges of memory. Faces became blurred. Voices faded. Tonight, there had been no wine and no mercy. The old dreams had swallowed him whole.
Donnel rose from the bed; the wooden frame creaked softly beneath his weight. He reached the window and pushed the shutters open wider. Cool morning air drifted inside and clung to his skin.
King's Landing stretched before him beneath a pale grey sky. Dawn had come, though the sun had yet to fully rise above the horizon. The city looked almost peaceful at this hour. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys. Fishermen were already making for the river docks. A baker's boy hurried through the street carrying a basket of fresh goods.
It would not last. By midday, the heat would settle over the city like a damp cloak. The streets would fill with noise, filth, and sweat.
Donnel rested a forearm against the windowsill. Beyond the city walls lay the Blackwater Rush, sluggish and brown as it wound its way toward the sea. Even from here, he could see its waters catching the first traces of morning light. It was a poor thing compared to the cold seas of home.
His eyes lingered upon the waking city for a moment longer before Donnel looked away. These old dreams always ended the same way, with this silence that followed. Yet for all the hurt they had brought him, he could never truly hate them. For a few precious moments, they gave him back what the years had stolen.
Donnel let out a long breath. Then his eyes settled upon the shield hanging from the wall. The morning light had finally reached it. He could see the Bronze crossed keys in a field of deep purple, with a white ironwood tree rising above them. The paint had faded in places now. Time had cracked parts of it. Yet the shield remained his most treasured possession.
Lyanna had painted it for the tourney. Donnel stepped closer and noticed the tree was not quite straight. One side leaned slightly more than the other. The roots twisted together awkwardly near the bottom.
No herald would have approved. Lyanna had not cared, and neither did he.
The great tourney at Harrenhal. Donnel had been younger then, scarcely more than a boy, standing stiff while she worked the brush, her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration. Lyanna sat cross-legged beside the shield, paint staining half her fingers. "Hold still," she had ordered. "Or I'll paint a donkey instead of a tree."
"You already have." He had answered.
That earned him a fierce punch. The memory remained as clear as yesterday. Donnel smiled as he could still hear her laughter. Still see the stubborn look she always wore whenever someone told her what she could not do. Lyanna Stark had never listened to anyone when she had made up her mind. Not even to the gods.
Donnel's smile slowly faded. He wished, not for the first time, that he might go back to Winterfell, as it had been, before fires, madness, and crowns. Back when his greatest concern had been whether Ser William would notice a poorly polished breastplate. Or before that, when he had merely been a page running around the castle with Benjen and Lyanna.
As Ser William's squire, he had risen before dawn each morning. There had been horses to tend, armor to clean, swords to sharpen. Endless duties, or so it had seemed at the time. Gods, how he had complained. Donnel thought, smiling.
Now he would have gladly traded half his years to spend one more morning in those stables with her. WithLyanna. The name settled heavily in Donnel's chest. She came to him more often than Ser William did, in waking thought as much as in dreams.
Donnel wondered if that would ever change. He had loved her. There was little use lying to himself now. The years had stripped away many things, but not that truth. He had loved her quietly. Hopelessly. Knowing all the while how foolish it was.
He was Donnel Locke, an eighth-born son with no lands to inherit and no great destiny awaiting him. A household knight at best. An honorable life, perhaps, but not the sort sung of by singers. His love had no place in her life. Not when she was promised to Robert Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End. Lord of laughter and thunder.
The match had been right in every way that mattered. Everyone could see it. Robert loved her, and Lyanna belonged to him, even if she had not loved him. Their story would have been for the songs. And Donnel never hated Robert for it. They were made for each other, and he prayed for them. Yet the gods had taken her all the same.
Donnel stood quietly before the shield, watching the pale morning light creep across its painted surface. How different would the world have been if Lyanna Stark had lived? The question had haunted him for years. If she had lived, she would have been queen by now. Queen Lyanna Baratheon.
The thought felt strange and familiar all at once. He could almost see it.
Robert upon the Iron Throne, loud and restless as ever, with Lyanna beside him, rolling her eyes at half his boasts and correcting the other half. The court would have feared her sharp tongue more than any lord's sword. A faint smile touched Donnel's lips. Aye, she would have made them all miserable.
The thought pleased him more than it should. King's Landing would never have tamed her. The city would have bent around Lyanna Stark long before she bent around it. She would have ridden when she wished, hunted when she wished.
Lyanna would've commanded the king and his knights, lords, septons, and smallfolk alike when she wished. And Robert would have loved her all the more for it. Mayhaps the realm would have been better for it.
Or Mayhaps not, the Seven Kingdoms had a way of finding new troubles no matter who sat the throne. Still, Donnel allowed himself that small heresy, that the realm might have shone brighter beneath Lyanna's smile than beneath Queen Cersei's pride and fury.
And he, too, would have another life then, one Donnel never spoke of to anyone. It was a foolish dream, a wishful dream of his for when the night was too dark.
In that life, Lyanna became queen. And Donnel wore white. A Kingsguard cloak draped across his shoulders, the white enamel plate gleaming beneath the sun.
He imagined himself standing behind the Iron Throne as court assembled. Watching over her as she moved through crowded halls. Riding beside her progress. Guarding her children, growing old beneath a white cloak while she ruled beside Robert. Loving her from afar, as he always had.
Donnel laughed softly under his breath. Gods. What foolishness.
He was two-and-thirty years old, yet some part of him still carried dreams better suited to a green boy of fifteen. Even then he had known nothing would ever come of it. Nor had he wanted it to. Lyanna deserved better than to be a stolen prize and have a dishonorable love.
Donnel would sooner have cut off his own head than dishonor her. If that life had ever come to pass, he would have remained what he had always been. A loyal sword. Nothing more. Nothing less.
But such thoughts were ashes now. The dead remained dead. The years remained lost. And Lyanna Stark remained beyond his reach forever.
Donnel stepped closer to the shield. His hand rose and rested lightly against its worn wooden edge. The paint beneath his fingers was rough with age. Older now than Lyanna had ever been allowed to become. That thought hurt more than he expected.
"I wish you were still here," he said softly, to the room, to the memory, to the long-dead girl who had once laughed brightly beneath the winter sky.