In the year 284 AC, Ser Emond rode back into the lands of Three Towers at the head of his men.
The war had not been won, but not a single soldier from Three Towers had died on campaign.
Lord Horton declared a feast inside the castle to celebrate his heir’s safe return and ordered food distributed to the smallfolk as well.
The castle and the town below it erupted in long-awaited joy.
After the feast, Ser Emond was summoned alone to his father’s solar.
The large room felt dim despite the afternoon light.
Lord Horton stood with his hands clasped behind his back, pacing in tight circles, face dark as a thunderhead.
Emond sat in a chair, his own expression equally grim.
Horton stopped abruptly and wheeled around.
“You reckless fool!
You nearly started a duel with House Hightower in the middle of a war—over a woman!
Do you have any idea how thin our blood has become?
It’s just the two of us left.
If something had happened to you out there, what would become of this family?
Who would I pass it to?” His voice shook the rafters.
The muscles in his jaw twitched with rage.
Emond shot to his feet, face flushing dark red.
“Father, we’re already blood enemies with the Hightowers!
They deliberately humiliated our house by pawing at my betrothed right in front of me.” He saw his father’s expression ease slightly and pressed on.
“And if you truly believe the family is too small, why not acknowledge my brother’s son?
Bring him into the family.
At the very least bring him back inside these walls and raise him properly.
He carries Cotoin blood.” Horton gave a cold snort and turned his head away.
“Absolutely not.
That boy is a bastard.
I will not let a baseborn whelp stain this family’s honor.” He exhaled heavily, then fixed Emond with a flat stare.
“I’m handing you the day-to-day running of the castle and the domain.
How you manage it is your affair.
But deciding who gets added to this family is not your right.
Not while I still draw breath.” He flicked his sleeve in dismissal and looked away.
Emond’s fists clenched.
He bit down hard on whatever he wanted to say, then dropped back into the chair with a heavy sigh.
When they finally left the solar, Ser Emond’s face was thoughtful.
The campaign had cost Three Towers nothing in lives, yet it had gained them nothing of value either.
He had hoped his service would be enough to ask Lord Mace Tyrell to settle the old border dispute with House Hightower over two villages.
The war had ended too quickly.
The matter was left hanging, and now the two houses were open enemies.
He summoned his personal servant.
“While I was gone, what’s been happening in the domain?” The man bowed his head.
“My lord, the usual matters—taxes, disputes, the ironborn raids along the coast.
Nothing out of the ordinary until recently.” Emond listened in silence, nodding occasionally, brow furrowing at certain points.
Then he asked, “What about the woman and boy outside the castle?” The servant hesitated.
“They’ve been quiet enough, my lord, but…” “Spit it out.” “My lord, for some time now a very fine salt—better than anything most smallfolk can afford—has been appearing in the domain.
My inquiries point to your brother’s bastard.
Gavin Flowers.” Emond’s interest sharpened.
“Does my father know?” “No, my lord.
You told me to keep an eye on the woman and her son, so I waited for your return rather than act.
Selling salt without license violates domain law.” Emond relaxed.
As the second son he had never expected to inherit Three Towers or its title.
His father had sent him to Highgarden as a squire in his youth.
After he earned his knighthood he had served as a captain in Lord Tyrell’s household guard.
Six years ago a single raven had upended everything: his brother was dead, and Emond was suddenly the heir.
The Tyrells had even arranged a match with a distant kinswoman of their own house.
He had gained a future he had never been meant to have, and lost the brother who should have lived it.
Guilt had made him quietly protective of the woman his brother had loved and the bastard son left behind.
He thought for a moment, then decided.
He would see the boy himself—and bring both mother and son back inside the castle where they belonged.
The next day Elisse was working at the army camp.
Gavin stayed home and cooked the midday meal.
Flames roared in the hearth, smoke curling through the small room as he turned the food in the pan with practiced ease.
A knock sounded on the weathered door.
Gavin wiped his hands and went to open it.
A man dressed in the fine clothing of a noble stood outside.
Gavin offered a polite bow.
“Good afternoon, my lord.
How may this one serve you?” Emond studied him with sharp eyes.
“Do you know who I am?” He didn’t wait for an answer.
“Never mind.
You’re only a child.
Where is your mother?” “Lord Emond, my mother is still at the camp washing clothes.
She should be home soon.” Emond raised an eyebrow.
“You know my name?” “I saw you the day you returned, my lord.
Outside the castle.” “Returned in triumph?” Emond gave a short, humorless laugh.
“I marched in circles and came home with nothing to show for it.
No honors.
No glory.” “My lord,” Gavin said at once, voice clear and steady, “you may not have returned covered in glory, but the loyalty you showed by giving everything you had is worthy of respect.” Emond stared at him for a heartbeat, then threw his head back and laughed.
The flattery had landed well.
He also noted that the six-year-old answered without hesitation or childish stumbling.
The boy was clever.
More than that, there was no fear in his eyes—the wary, downcast look most smallfolk wore when speaking to nobles.
Gavin met his gaze calmly, almost thoughtfully.
This one might be worth shaping, Emond thought.
He asked, “Little Gavin, do you know who your father was?” “I’ve heard the stories, my lord.
People talk.
My mother has told me as well.” Emond’s gaze sharpened.
“Do you hate House Cotoin, boy?”