The Fair Maiden

Written with Beren, whoever he is.

“Higher!”

Bonifer grunted loudly as the flat of Varus’ blade slammed into his ribs. His entire body ached, covered with bruises from his daily sparring sessions with the captain of his household guard. The aging knight, on the other hand, showed no ill effect from the exercises, walking without pain when Bonifer was forced to move gingerly.

“You’re leaving your arm too low, raise it,” Varus commanded, whacking Bonifer crisply in his side.

“But I’m tired, we’ve been going too long,” Bonifer whined, barely parrying Varus’ next swat.

“Do you think your enemies will care if you’re tired? Do you think they’ll stop and ask if you want a nap, or a cool sip of water? No, they won’t. Tired or well rested, if you keep your sword that low, they’ll kill you all the same.”

Bonifer struggled for breath, the sweat beading on his forehead. The sun beat down mercilessly upon the small party. Shade was difficult to come by here in the Reach, large fields spreading out in every direction. What few trees were there were rarely large enough to shield the entire party, small though it may be.

More concerning than the trees, however, were the fields. The crops, normally so bountiful and famously lush, looked as if they were in dire straights. Large, ugly, swathes of wheat and barley were dead or dying, hideous bruises on the landscape. Bonifer had seen the sickly crops in every field since departing Horn Hill.

“I’ve had enough, Varus. I want to rest for awhile, and then get moving again.”

The knight sized up Bonifer, his sword still held at the ready.

“How do you expect to be worthy of that sword you wear so boldly on your hip, if you aren’t willing to put the time in to make use of it?”

Bonifer frowned, looking away from Varus. His cheeks flushed red, due in equal parts to exhaustion and embarrassment.

“Another time,” he insisted, and this time the old knight nodded.

“As you wish, my lord.”

It had been less than a week since they’d left Horn Hill. Less than a week of dusty road in the day, dried meat in the evenings, and hard ground at night. Bonifer missed his feather bed, though he’d never admit this to anyone. Men were supposed to enjoy the outdoors- the rugged, wild forests; the crisp, fresh air; the feel of a horse beneath and a sword against the hip.

“I miss my feather bed,” Beren told him when he plopped down beside his friend, weary from his sparring.

The bard had sought refuge under a sickly looking apple tree whose gnarled branches were bare, even this late in the summer. He had his lute in his lap, and was toying with the pegs.

“I miss my bed, and my clothing, and my chamberpot, and Hycae. When will we reach Oldtown, Bon?”

Bonifer wasn’t really sure.

“Soon,” he said, because it seemed right.

“I wonder if the Lady Ashara will let me play for her court. I’ve never played at the Hightower, you know. Highgarden was the greatest castle I’ve ever performed in.”

I wonder if she will see us at all, thought Bonifer. He had defended her husband against the throne, as was his duty, but the way he heard the stories told, the two were on opposing sides, and hers had won the war.

“Her court would be lucky to hear your songs,” he told his friend, plucking a piece of dried grass from the dirt and splitting it along its spine, trying not to think of the Lady Hightower’s court. “And so would Lady Ashara.”

“I wonder if she has feather beds.”

Their progress was slower than it should have been. Gerold had burned the forests and fields along the roads on his flight back to his father, when he was a Prince and not a consort. He had burned the forests and thrown the wreckage onto the roads, and when the Lannister host came through they’d done only enough repairing to let their horses pass. In some places, that meant that half the path was still blocked by debris.

There were few men willing to go near ashes left by King Gylen’s son.

The one good thing about their journey thus far was that it hadn’t rained. On the sixth day of their trip, it looked as though it might, but Ser Varus maintained that the weather would hold. A poor thing for the lands surrounding them, the parched flatland looked like it had gone several weeks without water. Withered bushes appeared sporadically along the narrow dirt road, although it bore the appearance of a game trail that had been repurposed for farmers carts.

“It’ll pass right over us,” the old knight assured them, gazing up at the dark clouds in the sky from atop his mount. “Rain over Ashford, maybe.”

“And now the rains, weep o’er-”

“Don’t start,” Bonifer warned his friend.

“Why not? It’s a good song, steeped in historical significance.”

“I don’t like the Lannisters. You shouldn’t sing a Lannister song.”

“What about a northern one, then? North of the neck is a land made of snow! Where the-”

“I don’t want to hear about shivering Northmen either, Beren.”

“Well, what song would you like to hear then? I know one about an irritable lordling, who snaps at his friend when he’s only trying to help lighten the mood and pass the time on a lengthy journey in search of adventure.”

“I’m not in the mood for music, I just want to ride quietly for a little while.”

Beren threw his head back and began to sing, “Oh there once was a warrior named-”

“Help! Help!”

“-Bonifer the Brave who went riding to-”

“Stop singing. Did you hear that?”

“Hm?” Beren ceased his song and looked at Bonifer curiously.

“That sound. Did you hear it?”

Bonifer drew the reins and their party came to a halt. Ser Varus frowned in the direction of the hillside to the east, and lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the sun.

“No, I didn’t hear anything. Are you having a go at me? Well, it won’t work. I’ve been practicing this song for ages and-”

“Help!”

Bonifer straightened in the saddle.

“There it was again! A woman’s voice, calling for help!”

“I don’t hear anything a jealous lordling who wants to-”

“Beren, I’m being serious. Someone is calling for help,” Bonifer said, snapping at the bard.

“Well, where is this maiden calling from?”

“If you’d stop talking, maybe we could figure that out.”

“HELP!”

Beren snapped to attention, searching for the source of the noise. Before Bonifer could dismount from his horse, a boy came charging down the narrow road.

“Help!” he cried, waving his arms over his head. “Sers, help! My sister!”

“Alright, calm down,” said Bonifer when the boy got close enough to talk to. “What happened to your sister?”

He was a skinny lad, no older than ten if Bonifer had to guess. His pants were stained and rolled to his knees and his feet were bare, but his shirt looked cleaner than his face, which was streaked with mud.

“She’s fallen,” the boy explained, breathless.

“Fallen?” echoed Beren, leaning forward in the saddle with interest.

“Down the well. Over there.” The boy, still panting, turned and pointed over the hill behind him. “Can you help her?”

Beren looked to Bonifer and raised an eyebrow, before turning to address the boy.

“Is she pretty?”

“Stop, Beren. Of course we’ll help get her out.”

Dropping from their mounts, the group took a moment to lash their horses to a nearby tree. Bonifer left a single guard to watch them. The rest might be needed to pull the girl out, he thought as they started the short walk off the trail.

They trudged across the dusty ground, stomping through the tall yellow grass that poked at their breeches. The hill itself didn’t rise too far off the ground, a minor bump on the landscape.

“Our first adventure! This will make a great song,” Beren whispered to Bonifer as they went. “A valiant young lord rescuing the beautiful common girl from danger? She’ll look into your eyes and you into hers and you’ll both fall madly, and deeply-”

“No we won’t. We’ll pull the girl from the well, and be on our way.”

When they finally crested the top, the boy pointed to a rocky area on the far side. “The well is over there, sers.”

When they reached the bottom, Bonifer could see why the girl fell. The well was little more than a hole in the ground, the lowest of walls preventing someone from tumbling in. Bonifer could hear splashing from the bottom, but when he looked in, he could only faintly see the girl.

“I tried to help her, but I’m not strong enough,” said the boy, gesturing to his attempt to rescue his sister. A length of rope had been tied off to one of the larger rocks, but the small boy lacked the strength required to pull his sister up.

“Beren, Varus, grab ahold. Help me pull her out.”

“Me?” The bard looked dumbfounded. “But I’m not-”

“What’s your sister’s name?”

The boy stared blankly at Bonifer for a moment.

“Alia,” he said after a moment’s hesitation.

“Alia,” Bonifer said, turning to call down the well, “if you can hear me, hang on to the rope. We are going to pull you out.”

“‘Course I can hears you! It’s a fuckin well, and it’s not deep. I didn’t fall into nothing!”

The men pulled- Beren, too- and with Varus aiding them they were able to lift the girl to freedom.

Much, as it turned out, to Beren’s dismay.

She was not a comely lass. In fact, she was downright homely. Perhaps seven stone soaking wet (as she was, in her tattered gown that might not have been brown at one point), the girl was pox-marked and frumpy, her hair matted and crooked cut, as though someone had sheared it off at the bottom with a man’s razor.

The bard did nothing to hide his disappointment.

“Oh,” he said, and Bonifer elbowed his friend sharply in the ribs.

“Thank you, sers!” said the boy. “My mum always said that knights were shits, but I knew you’d help me, I just knew it!”

“Do you think his mum is pretty?”

“You’re quite welcome,” Bonifer said, ignoring the bard. He began walking back to the horses without so much as a farewell, eager to lead Beren away before he could offer any more commentary or questions.

“That was a suitable adventure, I suppose,” his friend said as he hurried to catch up. “I think I could write a decent song, if I change just a few key details, and-”

“Let’s just never speak of this again.”

“I don’t plan to. I will sing. Oh, there once was a lordling named Bonifer the Brave! He went riding from Horn Hill to Oldtown, that knave!”

Bonifer sighed, and trained his gaze on the skies as he walked back to the road.

It was going to be a long journey.