The stay at the Roseroad inn was actually pretty decent, if you ignored the fact that my back looked as if it had lost a fight with a bag of angry cats and was now filing for divorce from the rest of my body.
I was working my way through what passed for a full meal in these parts: a thick slab of roasted meat swimming in grease and a hunk of crusty bread that could probably double as a weapon.
By medieval standards, this was five-star dining.
The innkeeper’s daughters kept stealing glances at me from across the room, giggling and whispering behind their hands every time I looked their way.
The innkeeper himself hovered nearby, clutching a rag like it was a security blanket, clearly waiting for any scrap of approval from the royal kid, which happens to be me.
Gwayne had stepped out to oversee the carriage preparations.
Apparently I was still too young to ride a horse on my own, so I was stuck under the watchful eye of Ser Martyn Morrigen, my official Kingsguard and sworn protector, hand-picked by my dear old father.
He was a funny-looking guy: short, stout, with a permanent bulldog frown and a balding pattern so aggressive it looked like his hair had personally offended him.
In another life, he could’ve been Danny DeVito’s long-lost cousin.
“I hope it is to your liking, my lord,” the innkeeper said, watching me with the fond, slightly nervous expression of a man who knew he was serving royalty but wasn’t entirely sure how not to fuck it up.
He hovered a little closer.
“I cooked it all myself, my daughters, they’re handy too, they help run the inn and take fine care of things.”
Before I could answer, Martyn stepped forward like a grumpy meat shield.
“Be quiet, man. He is no lord, he is a prince of the realm. You will do good to address him as your Grace.”
The poor innkeeper went pale, eyes wide with terror like he expected his head to roll across the floorboards any second.
Yikes.
The nobles in this world really were trigger-happy.
His daughters’ giggles died instantly, replaced by visible worry.
“Forgive me, Your Grace!” he blurted, bowing so low I thought his forehead might hit the table.
“I meant no disrespect. I was merely speaking my thoughts—”
I wiped my mouth with the silk cloth beside me and stood up, trying to scrape the worst of the grease off my fingers.
My god, if I ate like this every day, I was basically speedrunning liver failure and a heart attack by fifty.
The pan had probably never seen a proper cleaning since the Conquest.
Please, no traveler’s diarrhea.
That would be an undignified way to go out in any timeline.
“No need for apologies, good man,” I said, trying to sound as princely and gracious as possible.
I glanced at Martyn, then back at the innkeeper.
“The courtesy of nobles isn’t known by many smallfolk. No harm done.”
I reached into the small pouch at my side and pressed a gold dragon into the man’s palm.
“They have already been paid for, Your Grace,” Martyn said flatly.
The innkeeper’s eyes lit up with naked greed for half a second before he caught himself and tried to hand it back.
“It is true, Your Grace. There is no need—”
Bitch, you literally just pocketed it while saying that.
“That is for their services, Ser,” I replied with a small sigh, already turning away.
“This is for the gratitude.”
Gwayne appeared in the doorway just as I was leaving the table.
He gave Martyn a brief, unreadable look.
There was definitely some tension simmering between those two, the kind of old-couple energy that made me pray they wouldn’t start bickering mid-ambush or start saying bullshit rivalry lines while slaying enemies.
If there were any combo moves involved, it might be good to witness though.
“Your Grace,” Gwayne said, voice steady.
“If we leave now, we will reach Oldtown by nightfall.”
Translation: Shut the fuck up and get in the carriage, kid.
“As you say, Ser Gwayne.” I nodded and followed him outside.
Maester Marwyn was already settled inside the carriage, fanning himself with a cloth.
Oh god.
It’s gonna reek in there.
“Your Grace!”
One of the innkeeper’s daughters came running out of the inn, skirts hiked up, breathing hard.
Gwayne immediately stepped in front of me, one hand dropping to the pommel of his sword, shielding me from her like she might sprout fangs at any second.
“What is it?” he asked, voice sharp.
She skidded to a stop, chest heaving.
“I was-.. My father forbade me from speaking of it, but I must, Your Grace. A petition.” Her eyes kept darting back toward the inn.
“Please.”
I glanced up at Gwayne, completely lost.
Uh… what’s happening?
His brows knitted together and he slowly relaxed his grip on the sword.
“A petition, you say?”
“Yes, mi’lord.” She nodded quickly.
The silhouette of her father appeared in the doorway, hurrying toward us with a panicked expression.
“It concerns poachers, mi’lord,” the girl continued.
“They’re swindling us-”
“Stupid girl!” The innkeeper slapped her across the face and yanked her behind him.
“Do not mind her words, Your Grace. She’s lost her wits.”
The sharp crack of the slap made me flinch.
Gwayne’s fingers twitched back toward his sword.
For a moment the air felt thick, the rest of our retinue watching in silence from their horses.
“Speak true, man,” Gwayne said, his refined tone dropping into something rougher.
“Are there poachers on this road?”
The innkeeper swallowed hard, then gave a hesitant nod.
“It is true, mi’lord.”
“These lands are under House Beesbury,” Gwayne said.
“Why have you not taken your petitions to them?”
The innkeeper looked suddenly uneasy, twisting the rag in his hands.
“They… they are not taking any, mi’lord,” he answered meekly.
“What do you mean?” I asked, unable to help myself.
Gwayne shot me a quick sideways look but didn’t stop me.
The innkeeper swallowed.
“We have only heard rumors, Your Grace, they say Lord Beesbury has fallen gravely ill, his young wife, Lady Beesbury, has taken over his affairs, but… his heir is still an infant. She’s too busy for the likes of commonfolk. It has been months since anyone could bring a petition before her.”
“What of the house guards and patrolmen on the road?” Maester Marwyn asked, he had climbed out of the carriage, clearly driven by the commotion.
“And why are you even entertaining the likes of poachers? Are there no hunters left in Honeyholt?”
“Many have moved on to Hornhill and Highgarden, mi’lord,” the innkeeper replied, “There’s not much game to be had in these parts anymore and as for the guards, mi’lord… they have-”
“They take bribes, mi’lord,” the girl cut in, voice cracking with bitterness.
Tears welled in her eyes as she clutched her reddened cheek.
“These past few months they’ve grown lazy. I’ve seen it myself. They take a few coins or a wineskin and wave the poachers through. With so few hunters left, the bastards have grown bold. They charge thrice what the meat is worth now.”
A heavy silence fell over as the men shifted in their saddles, exchanging uneasy glances.
No one wanted to get tangled in this.
Gwayne glanced up at the sky, jaw tight.
The sun was already high, we were losing daylight and we needed to reach Oldtown before nightfall.
A smart man wouldn’t dare ambush a royal retinue… but this stretch of road didn’t seem to have many smart men.
“What you say is a serious accusation,” Gwayne said at last, his voice measured.
“This touches a Great House. Forgive me, but I cannot involve myself in these troubles.”
The innkeeper’s shoulders slumped in defeat.
“I understand, mi’lord,” he murmured.
“Forget you ever heard these pleas.”
The girl looked utterly disappointed too, her eyes downcast.
Gwayne turned away with a heavy sigh and gestured for the men to prepare to move out.
I could see the quiet frustration in the set of his shoulders.
He wasn’t happy about brushing them off.
I got it, though.
He was a Hightower.
My grandfather might have been Hand once, but he wasn’t anymore.
Stepping into House Beesbury’s lands would look like overreach, the kind of political headache that could ripple far beyond one roadside inn.
“Do you know how to hunt?” I asked.
The question landed like a rock in a quiet pond and everyone froze mid-motion.
Gwayne knelt quickly beside me, his voice low and urgent against my ear.
“What are you doing, Your Grace?”
I didn’t answer him.
Instead I kept my eyes on the innkeeper.
“I ask again, good man, do you hunt?”
The poor fellow blinked, confused, and actually pointed at himself as if there might be someone else standing behind him.
“Are you deaf?” Ser Martyn grunted, arms crossed and patience clearly gone.
“There’s no one else here.”
“Y-yes, Your Grace!” the innkeeper stammered.
“I mean… I used to hunt when I was younger, but not anymore.”
“Why do you ask, Your Grace?” Maester Marwyn inquired, stepping up beside me curiously.
“If I were to mention your troubles to Lord Ormund,” I said, trying to sound as princely as I possibly could, “I’m sure he would send a strongly worded letter to Honeyholt on your behalf.”
I let my voice drop a little colder.
“I would, of course, forget the unfortunate accusations you’ve made about the improper management of Beesbury lands. It is a grave mistake to speak ill of your noble lords.”
The words felt weirdly heavy coming out of my mouth.
Surreal didn’t even begin to cover it.
“Once the matter is dealt with,” I continued, “there should be fewer poachers troubling you. But with fewer hunters in the area, meat will grow scarce and more expensive. So I suggest you start training your daughters to hunt as well. An inn must be able to feed its guests, after all.”
Don’t I sound like an absolute badass right now?
Also this is what happens when you play way too much Catan.
I glanced around with a small, satisfied smirk.
Gwayne’s eyes had narrowed wildly while Martyn just looked plain quizzical, eyebrows raised.
Yep.
I overdid it.
I’m definitely getting yeeted into the equivalent of a psych ward the moment we reach Oldtown.
“It is a fair suggestion, Your Grace,” Marwyn replied, a pleasant smile touching his eyes even as he sounded mildly astonished.
The innkeeper bowed deeply, voice thick with gratitude.
“Thank you, Your Grace! You are the most courteous prince I have ever met.”
I chuckled and started walking back toward the carriage.
For maximum drama because that is what cool guys do, I called over my shoulder without turning around.
“I’m the only prince you’ve ever met, good man!”
I climbed back into the carriage, but right before I ducked inside, my eyes drifted toward the rear of our retinue.
There, lashed to a sturdy cart, was a heavy iron cage.
Inside it, a sleek blue figure lay curled quietly, scales catching the fading sunlight like sapphires dipped in shadow.
One of the dragon keepers standing guard by the cage noticed me staring.
He inclined his head respectfully and spoke in crisp High Valyrian, the words rolling off his tongue with practiced ease.
“Zh’e’zion dohaerās.”
Somehow, I understood it perfectly.
I climbed back into the carriage and dropped onto the bench with all the grace of a sack of potatoes.
The old Maester was giving me these long, thoughtful glances.
There was a small, knowing smile on his lips, it felt as if he was seeing me in a completely new light after my little moment.
I didn’t have the energy to care.
Instead, I curled up as best I could, pressing my forehead against the vibrating wooden wall and letting the constant rocking jostle me toward sleep.
It was the only reliable way I’d found to survive this godforsaken rickety ride, just close my eyes and hope the carriage didn’t rattle my teeth out before I passed out.
Wake me up when we get to Oldtown… or when the dragon starts eating someone.
Whichever comes first.