A Song of Sun and Stars [Man of Steel x ASOIAF]

Chapter 24 –

Till the bitter end.

That was the reality of the man they were directly fighting. It had become clear to them that Stannis Baratheon would fight to the bitter end if he had to.

And Luke hated every moment of it.

He hated everything to do with this damned war in truth. The lie on which the war was built was discouraging enough, seeing the depravity and desperation that war brought onto men and women churned uglier in his gut.

He thought himself cruel because it was witnessing that brutal depravity that numbed him to his own father's death. What was his loss to the suffering he'd witnessed since?

Standing in the smoldering ruins of the Felwood forest village, he didn't think he could be disgusted any further.

That was a feeling that he had repeated to himself many times throughout the course of the war.

He had seen brutality, depravity, and insanity from both sides in the war. It had been evident ever since the Battle of Ashford, where he had been Knighted, for all the little good it did to his heart. It didn't bring his father back to life.

The Storm Landers had brutally culled the men, raped the women in the little time they had at the castle and its surrounding village during their siege.

It became clearer still seeing the brazen razing of towns such as this, by the men in the army of the Reach.

Homes reduced to charred skeletons, fields of grain torched to ash, and the stench of death clung to the air like a curse.

The Reach's army had looted them of every morsel of food that had survived the fire that Stannis Baratheon's slowly retreating army had set on their own crops.

The fields surrounding the Felwood now resembled a wasteland.

Even more horrifying was the rape of smallfolk violated by the Reach's soldiers - men, women, and even children.

He had seen enough violence, enough bloodshed, but this... this was a new depth of depravity.

It was a violation of the most innocent, the most vulnerable, and it filled him with a disgust that gnawed at his very soul.

It was a violation that he didn't think he would be able to rend from his mind, because all he saw every time he saw those men in the camps was the horror at the idea that it could have been his village, his mother… Meredith.

Seeing that had been the first time he had made use of his position as a proper Lord of the Reach, and punished the rapists among the men that Lord Tyrell had granted him to command as part of his Light Cavalry. Something his actions at Ashford had apparently deemed him worthy of.

He had taken swift and brutal action, ordering the perpetrators stripped off their manhood, eunuchs for the rest of their lives, and imprisoned alongside the captured Stormlanders.

It was a harsh punishment, one that had earned him the scorn and disapproval of some of the highborn lords.

"They're just peasants, my lord," one lord had sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "Let the men have their fun. It's a soldier's right."

"This is war," another had chided. "You were smallfolk yourself not too long ago. So it is no small wonder you feel for them. But you are a Lord now, and will soon have to watch over your own demesne. You need to learn to look at things from a bigger perspective. These things happen, don't let that blind you to what is necessary in war."

"Don't be a fool," a third had warned. "These harsh punishments will only breed resentment. We need the men focused on the fight, not nursing their wounded egos and grudges."

But there were also those who stood by him.

Lord Ashford, a man who understood the true cost of war, had offered his silent support. The man had lost his firstborn heir in the defense of the castle, before Luke and the armies of the Reach had arrived to relieve the castle from the siege.

He had become one of Luke's staunchest supporters

And even the stern Lord Randyll Tarly, known for his harsh discipline, had grudgingly admitted that Luke's actions were just.

The most surprising of them all had been Parmen Crane. The Knight, now the Lord of Red Lake, had become almost like an ally, if not a friend to Luke. He did not know how to feel about that.

The man had been quickly wed to his betrothed, Lady Elionora Ashford, after the battle. A rather somber affair, the woman had lost her elder brother mere weeks prior. And Parmen had lost his father just two days before the wedding.

His reverie was broken by a voice calling his name. "M'lord," the voice, a young man's, said "the last of the Stormlanders have fled. Shall we give chase?"

Luke turned to see his squire, a boy named Armen who had asked to train under him after witnessing his leadership at Ashford. The thought that he now had a squire still felt strange.

"No, Armen," Luke said, shaking his head. "We'll return to camp. Pressing further towards the Bronze Road will only lead us into an ambush. Stannis is not so foolish as to leave his rear unguarded."

Jon nodded, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. "Yes, my lord," he said, then turned to relay the order to the rest of the light cavalry.

"One more thing, Jon," Luke added, his voice firm. "Keep an eye out for any stragglers, friend or foe. And leave the peasants be. Take no more than a third of the grain from what remains of their fields, enough to sustain our army, but leave them enough to survive the winter."

Armen saluted, a gesture he'd picked up from the knights. "As you command, m'lord."

Luke watched his men gather, their horses snorting and pawing at the scorched earth.

My Lord. Another change in the way people addressed him. Under the numb sensation of the war, it was a surprisingly pleasant feeling. He had not expected to ever be anything more than a squire, Knighthood had been his dream, but becoming a landed lord of a demesne of his own was a strange yet pleasant feeling.

Under the setting sun, Luke and his light cavalry returned to the main camp, their saddlebags laden with salvaged grain.

For weeks, the Reach's forces had been locked in a grueling campaign against Stannis Baratheon's stubborn defenders. It was a war of attrition, fought amidst the rugged hills and dense forests surrounding the ruined castle of Summerhall.

There were no grand sieges or pitched battles here. Instead, it was a relentless dance of skirmishes and ambushes.

The Stormlanders used their knowledge and familiarity with the terrain to their advantage, striking from the shadows and vanishing into the tangled wilderness.

The Reach's forces suffered heavy losses in the initial weeks.

But Lord Randyll Tarly had effectively taken charge of the Reach's war effort, and adapted their strategies.

He divided their forces into smaller, more mobile units, mirroring the Stormlander's tactics.

They learned to fight fire with fire, utilizing scouts and skirmishers to anticipate ambushes and counterattack with swift, decisive strikes.

The Stormlanders were worn down by the constant harassment.

Finally, after weeks of relentless pressure, the Stormlanders began a slow retreat towards the heart of their homeland. The Reach's forces, cautious of a trap, advanced cautiously, securing each foothold before moving on. They had broken through the Stormlander's first line of defense, the Felwood forests.

The familiar chaos of the camp washed over Luke as he and his men rode in. Tents, a patchwork of canvas and hide, stretched across the ravaged landscape, their silhouettes stark against the fading twilight.

Smoke from countless cooking fires mingled with the metallic tang of blood and sweat, a grim symphony that had become the soundtrack of his life. Horses whinnied and stamped, their flanks slick with sweat, while men, their faces etched with the weariness of war, went about their duties with a practiced efficiency.

"Armen," Luke instructed, his voice hoarse from shouting orders and the lingering grief for his father, "See that the grain and any other food we found is delivered to the cooks and quartermasters."

"Yes, m'lord," Armen replied, dismounting with practiced ease. He relayed the order to the other men, who quickly dispersed, their burdens heavy but their steps lightened by the promise of sustenance.

Luke, his own stomach growling with hunger, dismounted as well, his legs stiff and aching. He would see his uncle Harlon later, the man had lost his left arm at Ashford but refused to abandon the fight, choosing instead to serve as a cook for the army.

With a final nod to his men, Luke and Armen made their way towards the war tent, a large pavilion that served as the nerve center of the Reach's command. The guards outside snapped to attention, saluting smartly as Luke approached.

"Welcome back, m'lord," one of them greeted him.

Luke nodded, offering a curt smile.

He ducked under the flap of the war tent, stepping into the dimly lit interior. Lord Everard Ashford was the first to spot him.

"Ah! Lord Brightshield!" Lord Ashford greeted him warmly, a stark contrast to the grim atmosphere that permeated the tent. "You are just the man we were hoping for."

Luke's eyes swept across the faces assembled around the war table. Lord Randyll Tarly, seated beside Lord Mace Tyrell, his expression a mask of calculated indifference. Lord Mathis Rowan, his brow furrowed in thought, and Lord Jon Fossoway, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by a grim frown. Ser Baelor Hightower, Lord Moribald Chester, and a handful of other bannermen completed the somber tableau.

Lord Mace Tyrell turned to Luke, his voice a rumble that belied the tension in his eyes. "Tell me, Lord Brightshield," he began, "what news have you from your skirmish?"

"The Stormlanders have fled the Felwood, my lord," Luke replied, meeting the Highgarden lord's gaze. "They're retreating deeper into the Stormlands, towards the Bronze Road. I suspect they're making for either the Bronze Gate or Storms End itself."

Mace Tyrell stroked his beard thoughtfully, his eyes darting to Lord Randyll Tarly as if seeking confirmation. "A full retreat," he mused. "Perplexing, indeed. I had thought Stannis wouldn't yield so easily, not with the tenacity he's shown thus far. An ambush perhaps?"

Lord Mathis Rowan, the grizzled Lord of Goldengrove, nodded in agreement. "An ambush is a possibility, my lord," he said, his voice grave. "The Bronze Road is a natural chokepoint. They could be luring us into a trap, hoping to catch us between the Bronze Gate and the Red Mountains."

A flicker of satisfaction crossed Lord Mace's face. "Then we know what the enemy intends," he declared, a hint of triumph in his voice.

But before he could continue, Lord Randyll Tarly, ever the pragmatist, cut him off. "Stannis is not laying a trap, my lord," he said, his voice a low rumble that commanded attention. "He's retreating to Storms End."

The interruption clearly irked Mace Tyrell, but he held his tongue, his eyes narrowing as Lord Tarly continued.

Luke, finding a seat beside Lord Ashford and Parmen Crane, exchanged a brief nod with the latter before turning his full attention to Lord Tarly.

"Our scouts report that the main Stormlander force has split," Tarly explained. "The bulk of their army is now marching through the Kingswood, towards King's Landing."

"King's Landing?" Mace Tyrell spluttered, his face a mask of disbelief. "But why? And who is leading them?"

Lord Tarly paused, his eyes meeting Mace Tyrell's with an unnerving intensity. "I believe," he said slowly, "that it is Lord Robert Baratheon."

A chorus of confused murmurs erupted around the table. "Impossible!" one lord exclaimed. "Robert Baratheon couldn't have arrived to take command. Not with our blockade at Shipbreaker's Bay and our army blocking the land route."

"Indeed," Lord Tarly agreed, his voice calm. "But it seems Lord Robert sailed from White Harbor after the royal fleet was destroyed in the North, and apparently used a smuggler's vessel from Tarth to evade our blockade. Stannis was forced to retreat from Summerhall when the bulk of his force was made to redirect to meet with Robert Baratheon, as they march to the capital."

Lord Rowan, after a moment of contemplation, broke into a jovial smile. "Well then," he declared, "that means Stannis is all on his own at Storm's End. We should march on the castle and finish this rebellion once and for all."

A wave of uncertainty washed over Lord Mace Tyrell's face. "Is that truly wise?" he questioned. "Storm's End is a formidable fortress. A siege could drag on for months, if not years."

Lord Jon Fossoway, the portly Lord of Cider Hall, vehemently shook his head. "Laying siege to Storm's End is folly," he proclaimed. "Stannis has scorched the earth in his retreat since Summerhall. A prolonged siege will cause to reach deep into our larders, if only someone" He sneered at Luke. "had not overreached with handling his men, we'd still have a good enough morale to make them stay for that siege."

Luke bristled at the implied accusation, but before he could retort Parmen Crane cut in.

"If the men under my command had behaved in such a manner, I'd have dealt with them the same way, as Ser Brightshield did," Parmen Crane interjected, his voice sharp and unwavering. "We are leading an army, not a band of rapists. If these men want to slake their lusts, they can visit the whores in the villages, or they could have indulged themselves back at Summerhall."

Luke was grateful for the support.

A tense silence settled over the tent. Lord Fossoway's face reddened with anger, but he held his tongue, perhaps sensing the disapproval in the eyes of his fellow lords.

Lord Ashford added his support. "Lord Crane speaks true. Discipline is the cornerstone of a strong army. We cannot allow our men to terrorize the people here, we are not Iron Born. Regardless we do not need to be called philanderers and rapists, should the war's end fall in the rebel's favor."

Lord Randyll Tarly nodded in agreement. "Unruly soldiers are a liability," he said. "They undermine our authority and weaken our cause. Ser Brightshield's actions, though harsh, were necessary to maintain order and uphold the honor of the Reach."

Mace Tyrell, visibly uncomfortable with the confrontation, shifted in his seat. He was not a man who relished conflict, especially among his own bannermen. "Ser Brightshield's actions were... perhaps a bit extreme," he conceded, his voice hesitant. "But I cannot fault his intentions. We must maintain discipline and ensure that our men conduct themselves with honor."

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the assembled lords. "The matter is settled," he declared, his voice firm. "We will not tolerate such behavior in our ranks. Now, let us return to the matter at hand."

"Apart, from the unnecessary accusations, Lord Fossoway's words carry wisdom, but we cannot ignore Stannis Baratheon entirely. He has proven himself a cunning and dangerous adversary," Lord Tarly reminded them. "Even with a reduced force, he could harry our rearguard and disrupt our supply lines if we leave him unchecked."

Silence descended upon the tent as the lords pondered the dilemma. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows that danced upon the faces of the men, highlighting the tension and uncertainty in their eyes.

Finally, Mace Tyrell spoke, his voice resolute. "We will divide our forces," he declared. "Lord Tarly, you will take a portion of our army and pursue Robert Baratheon to King's Landing. I will remain here with the rest, laying siege to Storm's End and keeping Stannis occupied."

A sense of finality hung in the air as Lord Tarly concluded the meeting. With a curt nod, he dismissed the council, and the lords began to disperse, their faces etched with the weight of their upcoming tasks.

Luke rose from his seat, a wave of relief washing over him as he followed Lord Ashford and Ser Parmen Crane out of the stifling tent.

"My lords," he began, his voice slightly hesitant, "I am grateful for your support. It means more than you know."

Lord Ashford clapped him on the shoulder with a gruff chuckle. "Don't mention it, lad," he said. "You did what was right, and any man who claims otherwise is a fool."

Parmen Crane offered a curt nod, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Indeed," he agreed. "Honor and discipline are not to be taken lightly, even in the chaos of war."

The awkwardness between them was palpable, a remnant of their past animosity. But beneath it, Luke sensed a newfound respect, a mutual understanding forged in the crucible of battle.

Before they could continue, a voice called out, "Ser Brightshield!"

They turned to see Ser Fenton Sloane, a respected knight and bannerman of House Tyrell, approaching them with a measured stride.

"Ser Sloane," Luke greeted him, bowing his head slightly.

"I've been watching your progress with interest, Ser Brightshield," the knight said, his voice deep and resonant. "Your actions at Ashford, Summerhall, and now Felwood have proven your worth. You were rightly raised to knighthood and granted lordship over your village."

Luke felt a surge of warmth at the praise. "Thank you, Ser Sloane," he replied, his voice humble. "I merely did my duty."

Ser Sloane smiled, his eyes twinkling with a hint of amusement. "Duty is one thing, Ser Brightshield, but skill and courage are another. I understand Lord Mace intends to offer you the position of Master-at-Arms at Highgarden, a position once held by your mentor, the late Ser Vortimer Crane."

There had been rumors of the same, but Lord Mace had not made them known to him yet. The Master-at-Arms was a prestigious position, one of great honor and responsibility. "I am... humbled, Ser Sloane," he managed, his voice thick with emotion. "If I am granted that honor, I will strive to honor Ser Vortimer's legacy and serve House Tyrell to the best of my ability."

Ser Sloane nodded approvingly. "I have no doubt you will, Ser Brightshield." He paused. "And as a fellow lord and Knight of the Reach, I have a proposition for you."

Luke raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"My daughter, Jeyne," Ser Sloane continued, "is comely and of age. I believe she would make a fine match for someone of the skill and stature, such as yourself. In joining our houses, I would gladly provide you with the men and coin necessary to raise and maintain your castle, ensuring the prosperity of your new demesne."

Luke hesitated, the weight of the proposition pressing down upon him.

Marriage?

He hadn't even considered it. It felt like a lifetime ago that he was a simple squire, dreaming of knighthood.

Now, with a lordship and a potential position at Highgarden on the horizon, marriage seemed like a natural next step.

Yet, it was overwhelming.

He had expected to be noticed by the other lords of the Reach, to earn their respect through his actions on the battlefield.

Lord Quentyn Tyrell, for instance, often sought him out for sparring sessions and shared meals with him and Harlon, even when Luke chose to sit down for meals with the men rather than Lords as he really should.

But this... this was different.

"Ah, Ser Sloane, would that I had another daughter, I would have offered Luke her hand in marriage too. This is a very shrewd move, this man is certainly skilled and resourceful. His house is no doubt to rise soon in the Reach" Lord Ashford chuckled.

This was getting out of hand. He didn't really want to entertain marriage proposals, he had no idea who the person he would be wedding would be like at all. And wedding a noble lady was far from what Luke had envisioned for himself in truth, it was all a little too much.

Before he could fumble for a polite rejection, Parmen Crane stepped forward. "Alas, Ser Sloane," he said, "I believe Ser Brightshield's heart is already spoken for. There's a young woman back in his village, Meredith, if I recall correctly. They grew up together, and I believe he intends to make her his bride."

Luke's heart skipped a beat at the mention of Meredith's name. He hadn't thought of her in that way, not truly. But the idea, planted by Parmen's words, bloomed in his mind like a wildflower in springtime.

Ser Sloane seemed taken aback. "Meredyth?" he inquired. "A noblewoman from Highgarden?"

He paused, his eyes narrowing in thought. "Wait," he said, "that was the name of your sister, Ser Crane. Is Ser Brightshield betrothed to your sister? Ser Vortimer must have had remarkable faith in Luke indeed if he had been willing to let Luke wed his daughter before he was raised to the stature he is at now."

Parmen let out a hearty laugh, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "No, no, Ser Sloane. Ser Brightshield is not betrothed to my sister. His heart belongs to a girl from his village, a serving maid to Lord Willas and Lord Garlan at Highgarden like himself."

Ser Sloane's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "A serving maid?" he repeated, incredulous. "But surely, now that you've been raised to lordship..."

Luke met his gaze steadily. "Meredith is indeed a serving maid, my lord," he acknowledged. "But she is kind, strong, and resourceful. I have known her ever since I was a child..."

"Ah," The Knight cut in, his surprise melted into a knowing smile, "love. A powerful force indeed." He sighed, a hint of disappointment in his voice. "It's a pity, Ser Brightshield. I had hoped to join our houses. But I understand the call of the heart."

He extended his hand to Luke. "Nevertheless, I would still like to offer my support. An alliance between our houses could be mutually beneficial. In return for grain and lumber from your village, and no tolls for caravans from my town crossing the Mander, I would be willing to send gold and men to help you raise your castle in your village after the war."

Luke shook his hand, a wave of gratitude washing over him. "Thank you, Ser Sloane," he said. "Your generosity is most appreciated."

As Ser Sloane departed, Luke turned to Parmen, a question burning in his eyes. "Why did you..."

Parmen shrugged, a hint of a smirk on his face. "Oh come now, did you think I didn't know of your feelings for the girl" Luke just stared blankly at the man, as Parmen chuckled "I would know, she is comely too. No wonder you were so possessive of her when I teased her all those years ago."

He wanted to correct Parmen that there hadn't been anything of the sort at the time. Meredith was just a friend that he cherished dearly, and he didn't think she would appreciate roping her in to this mess without asking her at least.

She may not even like him that way at all.

But for the life of him, he couldn't make himself actually speak and correct the mistake. He didn't know why.

x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x

The waning sunlight dappled through the leaves, casting long, ethereal shadows across the crystal-clear stream. Caelum stood knee-deep in the cool water, his gaze fixed on the shimmering forms darting beneath the surface. His magical sight, a blessing and a curse, allowed him to see through the rippling current, revealing the intricate details of each fish as it swam by.

With a swift, practiced motion, his hand plunged into the water, his fingers closing around a silver-scaled trout.

He lifted it out of the stream, a triumphant smile briefly gracing his lips before turning into a grimace. The trout's spine, a grotesque mockery of its natural form, protruded from its back, bent and broken under the force of Caelum's grip.

"Tch, I swear to the Seven, I need to get this right! Damn it!" He sighed and tossed the trout into the straw basket resting on the riverbank. It joined a growing collection of similarly deformed fish, each one a testament to his struggle for control.

Months had passed since that fateful night at Qyburn's manse, months spent in this secluded clearing, wrestling with the monstrous strength that lurked within him.

He straightened, his gaze sweeping across the familiar landscape.

The sun, a fiery orb sinking towards the horizon, painted the sky in hues of orange and crimson. It was time to return to the ramshackle shelter he had painstakingly constructed over the past months.

The shack, a testament to his newfound patience and perseverance, stood nestled amongst the trees, a crude monument to his exile.

Its walls, fashioned from rough-hewn logs, were uneven and scarred, bearing witness to the countless times he had misjudged his strength and splintered the wood.

The roof, a patchwork of leaves and branches, leaked during heavy rains, but it provided adequate shelter from the elements.

Inside, the furnishings were sparse and utilitarian: a bed fashioned from a pile of furs, a crude table hewn from a fallen log, and a few stools crafted with meticulous care to withstand his unintentional clumsiness. A small hearth, built with stones gathered from the riverbed, provided warmth and a flickering light during the long, solitary nights.

Caelum's life in the woods had been a stark contrast to the vibrant tapestry of the Citadel, and his stay at the Learned Anchor.

He missed the intellectual stimulation of the maester's lessons, the camaraderie of his fellow acolytes, and the comforting presence of his friends, Pylos, Yandel, and Fern.

His absence from the Citadel had been explained away by Marwyn as a prolonged illness, a mysterious affliction that required isolation and rest. Caelum knew that his friends had inquired about him, their concern a constant pang of guilt in his heart.

He had also been spared the scrutiny and suspicion that had followed the incident at the manse. The rumors of the "Demon of Honeywine," a fiery demon who had emerged from the inferno, had spread like wildfire through Oldtown. He had kept an ear out listening to all the ridiculous rumors people spoke of him.

Literally in fact, he would spend his nights in the shack alone, listening to gossip from the city, keeping his focus entirely on talk in the Citadel alone, trying desperately to listen to information on the war, a habit he hadn't been able to rid himself off entirely.

He did manage to stop himself from listening in on people's lives as they went about their day, he didn't think they would appreciate someone like him listening on their every waking moment, neither did he appreciate the headache he had to suffer if he ever tried.

He still shivered from the events from Harrenhall sometime, he did not want a repeat of that,

Thanks to the Sept's constant sermons and the Citadel's influence, the whispers in the city of the 'Demon' had gradually faded, replaced by the more mundane tales of Qyburn's twisted experiments shared with ale and a chuckle in the taverns and inns of Oldtown.

The priests of the Red Temple, however, remained vigilant.

They believed that their "Bringer of Cataclysm," had stepped foot in Oldtown. Their agents scoured the city and the surrounding countryside, but even that had faded since.

Caelum picked up the basket of fish, its weight a mere trifle to him now, as he set off to return to his shack.

Caelum made his way back to the shack, his footsteps heavy with the weight of another failed attempt at fish-wrangling. He deposited the basket of mangled trout by the door and stepped inside the dimly lit dwelling.

With practiced ease, he lifted a bundle of firewood from the corner and carried it outside. He laid the wood on the stone-paved porch and knelt beside the basket of fish. One by one, he skewered them, his movements now precise and deliberate, a far cry from the clumsy fumbling of his earlier months in exile.

When the last fish was secured on a skewer, Caelum turned his attention to the wood. A crimson glow emanated from his eyes, and a thin beam of fire shot forth, igniting the kindling with a satisfying whoosh. The flames licked at the dry wood, sending sparks dancing into the twilight air.

Caelum carefully seasoned the fish with a blend of herbs and spices that Marwyn had procured from the city. He then held each skewer over the fire, the heat searing the flesh and releasing a tantalizing aroma that filled the clearing.

Hours later, as the first stars began to twinkle in the darkening sky, Caelum sat by the fire, savoring the fruits of his labor. The fish, though slightly misshapen, were surprisingly delicious, the crispy skin giving way to tender, flavorful meat.

His magical hearing, always on high alert, picked up the distant rumble of wheels and the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

Marwyn had returned.

Moments later, the Archmaester emerged from the treeline, his cloak billowing in the night breeze. His face, illuminated by the flickering firelight, bore a weary expression, but a hint of anticipation gleamed in his eyes.

"That smells delicious, boy," Marwyn said, his voice approving. He settled himself beside Caelum, reaching for one of the cooked fish.

"Thank you, Maester Marwyn," Caelum replied, offering him a skewer. "How was your trip to the city?"

Marwyn took a bite of the fish, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Eventful," he said after a moment. "Maester Ebrose was despondent at the Myrish merchants failing in accurately building the contraption he had described to them. He had wanted to see those tiny creatures you spoke to him about, he truly believes in the idea of creatures that small perhaps do exist, even without knowing you can actually see them with your magical vision."

Caelum smiled, "Yandel must have been overworked again negotiating with the Myrish. What sort of device did they give him?"

"They brought him a pair of lens glasses," Marwyn explained, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Two pieces of curved glass, each encased in a metal frame, connected by a bridge that rests on the nose." He rummaged through the satchel he had laid beside him and produced the curious device. "They call them 'near-eyes'," he said, holding them out for Caelum to inspect.

Caelum took the near-eyes, turning them over in his hands. The glass lenses, though slightly warped and imperfect, were surprisingly clear. He held them up to the firelight, watching the flames distort and magnify as he moved the lenses.

"They're practically useless," Marwyn grumbled. "All they do is make things appear slightly larger than they truly are. Ebrose ended up with a whole shipment of these monstrosities."

Caelum, however, saw potential in the seemingly flawed invention. "I don't think they're as useless as you believe, Maester Marwyn," he said, a thoughtful expression on his face. "The ability to see things larger than they are... it could be helpful for those with nearsighted vision."

Marwyn paused, his brow furrowing as he considered Caelum's words. A slow smile spread across his face, a spark of intrigue in his eyes. "An interesting thought, boy," he said, nodding approvingly. "Perhaps there is a use for these near-eyes after all."

He leaned back, his mind racing with possibilities. "Archmaester Theron was furious about the wasted gold on this shipment from Myr," he mused. "But if these near-eyes can truly aid those with poor vision, we could sell them to lords, knights, and perhaps even the smallfolk."

Caelum nodded, a wave of relief washing over him. "And how was Fern today?" he asked, his voice laced with a hint of nervousness. "How is she doing with her lessons as your apprentice?"

Marwyn chewed thoughtfully, as he returned the near eyes to his satchel. His eyes narrowed as he examined the fish in his hand. "Interesting," he mused, "these fish are still all misshapen and damaged."

Caelum's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "I'm still working on it," he mumbled, looking away.

Marwyn chuckled, his voice reassuring. "Chin up, boy, it's progress, much better than just a week ago" He took another bite of the fish, savoring the flavor. "As for Fern," he continued, "she's a bright girl, eager to learn. A skilled scribe, but a bit too eager for magic. She has fanciful notions of casting spells and wielding arcane powers." He shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Magic doesn't work that way, I'm afraid. It's a subtle art, a dance with the unseen forces that govern our world."

Caelum listened intently, absorbing Marwyn's words. "But she's learning," the archmaester added, "and she has a natural talent for medicine and healing. If she were allowed, and didn't need the disguise as 'Nerf' at the Citadel, she'd make a fine maester."

"Do you think she could take her links soon?" Caelum asked, his voice laced with hope. "If she were allowed, that is."

Marwyn stroked his chin thoughtfully. "She's certainly a quick learner," he admitted. "But the gold link or the red gold link? I don't know. Those require years of dedication and experience. However, for the silver link in medicine and healing, she's undoubtedly ready. As for the Valyrian steel link for the arcane mysteries, she's more than capable."

Caelum sighed. Marwyn had taken on the mantle of his tutor in the woods, diligently imparting the knowledge Caelum had missed during his exile. Had he been able to return to the Citadel, he would have already taken his tests.

Marwyn the said in High Valyrian, his voice rich and resonant. "I believe you are ready too."

Caelum's eyes widened in surprise "Do you truly think so?" He replied in kind.

Marwyn nodded, a satisfied smile gracing his lips.

Then, his voice shifted, the guttural sounds of Dothraki filling the air. "Let's test your Dothraki" he said, "What are the treatments accepted by the citadel for treating infected wounds. And then to provide yout own understanding of how to treat such wounds."

Caelum responded in kind, his Dothraki flowing smoothly. "The maesters of the Citadel teach bloodletting, amputation, or nettled wine and poultices for infected wounds." His voice hardened slightly, "But bloodletting is a waste, it only scratches the surface. I would use a poultice of milk of the poppy and bread mold."

Marwyn nodded in approval, then his voice shifted into a sibilant whisper, "How would you treat a broken bone?" he asked in Asshai'i, his eyes gleaming with a challenge.

"That depends on the location of the break," Caelum replied in the same tongue, his tone measured and confident. "For a simple fracture of a limb, I would set the bone, immobilize it with a splint, and administer milk of the poppy for pain. For a compound fracture, where the bone pierces the skin, I would cleanse the wound with boiled water and honey, set the bone, and apply a poultice of willow bark and comfrey to promote healing. In severe cases, such as a shattered bone or a break in the spine, I would consult with a more experienced healer, as these injuries require specialized knowledge and techniques."

Marwyn's lips curled into a satisfied smile. He switched to Qartheen, his voice taking on a melodic lilt. "How would you treat a blow to someone's head?"

Caelum responded in the same flowing tongue, "A blow to the head can cause headache, dizziness, puking etc for several weeks. In severe cases, the citadel believes bloodletting may be necessary to reduce pressure on the brain. I don't think that is necessary, Rest is more than enough."

Marwyn's smile widened. He then spoke in Lazhareen, his voice taking on a sing-song quality. "Tell me, Caelum, how are goods taxed in the Seven Kingdoms?"

Caelum paused, gathering his thoughts. He replied in Lazhareen, "Taxation in the Seven Kingdoms is a complex matter, varying depending on the status of the individual and the nature of the goods. Peasants typically pay a tithe to their lord, a tenth of their crops or livestock. Nobles are exempt from most taxes, but they are expected to provide military service to their liege lord. Knights, who are sworn to a lord's service, are also exempt from taxes. Merchants pay tariffs on goods imported or exported from a city or region. Lords collect taxes from their subjects and are, in turn, taxed by the crown. The crown's share of the tax revenue varies depending on the specific law and the needs of the realm. In times of war, such as the current conflict, taxes are often increased to fund the war effort. In some cases, taxes may even be doubled."

Marwyn's smile deepened, the lines around his eyes crinkling with genuine pleasure. He switched to the guttural tones of Ibbenese, "You've learned well enough for a silver link, boy. Ebrose wouldn't deny you that. And the Valyrian steel link is yours for the taking – the Citadel's teachings on the matter are a sham anyway. If anyone deserves it, it's you." He paused, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "But the yellow gold link, for money and accounts... that's a different beast altogether. How would you manage the coffers of a lord like Leyton Hightower?"

Caelum furrowed his brow, deep in thought. "It depends on the state of House Hightower's finances after the war," he replied in Ibbenese, his voice measured and careful. "I'd wager their coffers are lighter than they'd like, but the people of Oldtown have been burdened with heavy taxes. I wouldn't advise squeezing them further. Instead, I'd recommend a gradual reduction of taxes, but not to pre-war levels. We need to replenish the coffers, but we also need to keep the smallfolk content."

Marwyn's smile widened, and he switched back to the Common Tongue. "Good enough for me," he declared, a hint of pride in his voice. "You've proven your knowledge and understanding. Ebrose would be a fool to deny you your silver link."

Caelum nodded, a wave of relief washing over him. But then, his smile faltered, a shadow of sadness clouding his eyes. "I wish I could take the tests officially," he sighed. "I miss my friends. I miss the Citadel."

Marwyn's eyes twinkled. "Then it's settled," he said, rising to his feet. "You're ready to return to Oldtown."

Caelum's head shot up, his face alight with joy. "Really?" he exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement. "Can we go now? I want to see Pylos and Yandel and Fern!"

Marwyn chuckled, "Did you think I wouldn't let you return? You can handle something as delicate as a fish without crushing it now. If you pay attention, your strength won't be an issue any longer."

Caelum whooped with delight, his heart soaring with anticipation. But then, Marwyn's next words brought him crashing back down to earth.

"Of course," Marwyn said, his voice taking on a more serious tone, "that means you'll never be a knight. The moment you pick up and swing a sword, your strength will be exposed."

Caelum's elation evaporated, replaced by a bitter disappointment.

He had forgotten about that. Marwyn had always been adamant that Caelum shouldn't hide his strength, but Caelum couldn't bear the thought of being labeled a monster, a demon.

He was already haunted by the guilt of what he had done to Ser Elmar. Moreover, revealing his true abilities could put his family in danger. They had sacrificed a lot, lied to Lord Mace on the night he had been sent to the world, should that be revealed, he didn't know what Lord Mace would do to his family. The man had already unnecessarily dragged his father, a farmer into a war, for a tax that would have been a pittance to a man as wealthy as him.

Even if he did understand why the man did it, it still felt like a betrayal, and unnecessarily cruel.

"I know," Caelum said quietly, his voice heavy with regret.

Marwyn scoffed. "I still don't understand why you'd want to be a mere knight anyway," he said, his tone dismissive. "There's so much more you could be doing. You haven't even seen the world, boy. With your magic, you shouldn't chain yourself to some lord's service."

Caelum bit back a retort. He knew Marwyn was right, in a way. He had witnessed firsthand the cruelty and corruption of men like Lord Leyton Hightower and the madness that had consumed Prince Rhaegar. He had heard the chilling pronouncements of the Red Priests, their prophecies of doom and destruction.

The thought of returning to Oldtown, of seeing his friends again, should have filled him with joy. But now, it was tinged with a bitter awareness of the sacrifices he had made, the path he had chosen.

He had given up his dream of knighthood, his desire to serve and protect, for the sake of secrecy and self-preservation.

He didn't know if he had made the right decision at all.

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(A/N) I apologize for the delay. This had been ready about a week ago, but the file got accidentally corrupted.

Anyway, this is a little quieter chapter.

Also, to that one guest guy in the reviews, you know who you are, I have deleted your reviews. Pedophilia is not okay. And I am not going to write any form of smut.

Do not ask me to have Caelum fuck anybody, even if they get into a relationship. That's unnecessary. Both Caelum and Fern are kids, and Margaery is likely a literal baby. It's gross.

Moving on.

Book 1 has maybe 4 chapters left, likely less.

Gosh, I hope the strategy planning in Luke's section made sense.

Also, as for Luke's lands and castle, I have chosen to grant Luke his own village and the surrounding farm land. In the first chapter, and the subsequent few, I had made clear that the village was half a day's ride from the castle.

It's visible in the far distance, but not like a walk away.

Luke's land would thus be the same distance Castle Cerwyn is from Winterfell. Luke is essentially House Cerwyn of the Reach now. Plus, he will be taking over as Master at Arms at the castle.

Hope that was enjoyable!