Ser Harlan’s job was three days of riding escort for a wool merchant, quiet roads, uneventful, the merchant preferring silence to conversation.
Alex used the time to read.
Slowly.
Still slowly.
The shorter of his two story books was worn soft at the spine from handling, and he was on his third read of it because certain passages in the longer one still defeated him badly enough to be more frustrating than useful.
On the second day the merchant glanced over at him.
“How old are you?” “Eight,” Alex said, without looking up.
“Can’t be many hedge knight’s boys who read on horseback.” “Probably not.” The merchant seemed to consider whether to continue the conversation.
He decided against it and looked back at the road, which Alex appreciated.
Mikal said nothing about it the whole ride.
On the way back, once the merchant had paid and they were alone on the road, he glanced over once.
“The book.” “Yes.” “You bought it near Oldtown.” “Two of them.” “With the coin from the small jobs you were doing for that maester’s apprentice.” It wasn’t a question.
Mikal had clearly known the whole time.
“Yes,” Alex said.
His father nodded once and looked back at the road.
That was all.
They spent two days settling things before leaving.
Lodging paid, a note left for Edwyn, Mikal’s horse checked over by the man in the village who knew horses better than the blacksmith did.
On the last evening Alex sat by the window of their room while Mikal cleaned tack downstairs, and he wrote.
He had a small piece of parchment and a stick of charcoal and he wrote out what he knew, the sequence, the shape of it, as plainly as his still-clumsy letters allowed.
Lannisport tourney.
Happening now.
He stopped.
Started the next line.
Duskendale.
Don’t know when.
Lord does something stupid.
King gets taken.
Aerys gets worse after.
He sat looking at that for a moment.
The fog around Duskendale’s timing was thick, he didn’t know if it was one year away or three.
He didn’t think it had already happened.
News of a captured king would have been everywhere, the kind of story that reached even small inns between nowhere and nowhere.
But he couldn’t be certain.
He wrote the last line.
Tourney of Harrenhal.
After Duskendale.
This is the one that matters.
He folded the parchment and put it at the bottom of his pack.
What came after Harrenhal he didn’t need to write down.
They left on the fifth morning.
Good roads west, pale sky, easy pace.
Mikal rode without hurry.
Alex rode beside him and read in the stretches where the road was smooth enough to manage it.
“You’re going to fall off,” Mikal said.
“I haven’t yet.” “First time for everything.” Alex turned a page.
“If I fall I’ll make sure to land on the book.” Mikal made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh.
“Very considerate.” They stopped at midday to water the horses at a stream cutting across the road.
While the horses drank Mikal picked up a stone from the bank and turned it over once before dropping it.
Alex had noticed he did this when he was about to say something.
“The first bet,” Mikal said.
“The one you didn’t tell me about.” Alex looked at him.
“Yes.” “You weren’t sure I’d agree.” “No.” “So you did it and proved it worked first.” “Yes.” Mikal was quiet.
Not angry, whatever that had been, it had clearly passed.
“And then you told me because you’d already proven it.” “Yes.” His father nodded slowly.
The horses lifted their heads from the water.
“You’re careful about how you say things,” Mikal said.
“How you time them.” Alex said nothing.
“Your mother was the same.” He picked up the reins.
“Not a complaint.
Just true.” They rode on.
The Reach spread wide around them under the pale sky and Alex put his book away and let himself just ride for a while, watching the road and thinking about nothing in particular.
Three weeks to Lannisport.
Enough time to think on the way.
He usually had enough time to think.