They were nearing the coast of Tarth. From the rail, Thoros watched the island rise from the morning mist, green hills rolling down to bright blue waters that shimmered like cut gems. The sailors called it the Sapphire Isle, and for once he thought the name sailors gave was no lie.
Thoros had long ago wished to see it, back when he first arrived in this foreign land, when dragons still ruled the land. Today the wish was granted in a manner he would never have chosen, aboard a war fleet, going to fight under the banners of the crowned stag, toward a holy war, for some foreign faith he did not believe in.
The ships they sailed in flew beneath the Merman's banner, blue and green like the ocean itself. He had sailed before: cogs packed with sweating merchants, galleys reeking of oarsmen, lumbering carracks that groaned like old men in heavy seas. Yet none like the ones he was sailing upon now.
Caravels, the sailors called them. White Harbor's native craft. They were not quite a cog nor quite a galley but something in between. They cut through the water swift and sure, their high sterns and narrow hulls gliding over waves rather than fighting them.
Even in rougher swells they did not break or slump, only leaned and ran as if eager for the horizon. Be it shallow water or deep waves the ships moved with such swiftness, Thoros wondered if it were crafted by true Mermans themselves. The Manderly sailors moved about them with easy confidence, proud and disciplined.
Merfolk's ships, Thoros thought, chuckling to himself. Built by men who claim they wereborn beneath the waves.
Thoros took a swallow from a skin that held more water than wine and grimaced at the betrayal. A red priest sailing to aid a holy war of the Seven, there was a jest in that somewhere, though he could not find it.
He would not have come at all if not for fate and a little bit of debt.
A lot of debt in truth, Rot in a dungeon, or serve at the wall, those had been the choices laid before him, after he failed to pay his coins. As he was about to choose the dungeon, then Lord Arthur's steward had magically appeared, a man whose name he had forgotten by now. The man with his earnest eyes and courteous manners agreed to pay what Thoros owed, only if he met the Merling lord's demands.
Thoros was to guide them, advise them, and lend whatever knowledge of Essos and the Stepstones he possessed. That was all. The young lord had given his word that he would not be forced to fight.
Kindness from a noble lord is either blessing or curse, Thoros mused. Often both.
Yet he had no choice but to agree to the demands. The steward smiled and immediately paid what was owed as though it were no more than a tavern tab.
Truth be told, Thoros would not have minded fighting in the Stepstones. Burning steel against pirates, bleeding them from their bones was honest work. He would have gladly killed those who fought only for plunder and prayed upon the weak. He fought against the Ironborn in the Greyjoy rebellion for that same cause.
A familiar voice cut through his thoughts.
"There you are, priest. Why are you sulking here?"
Thoros turned to see the half-giant Galladon knight approaching along the deck, blue linen surcoat snapping in the sea wind, marked with the seven-pointed star and the merman's trident. Without the full armor he looked younger, though no less solid.
Thoros remembered him first in steel, helm and shield shining in a Flea Bottom alley when holy rage ran hottest. Since then, through shared cups, stories, and sparring sessions, the two had become unlikely companions.
A northern knight sworn to the holy order of Saint Davos, and Thoros of Myr, priest of a foreign fire god. Stranger pairings had existed, but not many.
"Sulking?" Thoros said grinning. "I was merely admiring the view. Can a man not contemplate the beauty of this wonderful world without being accused of misery?"
"Of course he can," Darius smirked, resting his arms on the rail beside him and glancing toward Tarth. "When he does not look like you while sightseeing. You look like a man sentenced to death or worse, a marriage."
The knight boomed with laughter.
Thoros laughed along and said, "Whether marriage will be a sentence or not depends on the bride, my friend, if she is all sermons and no sins, then death would be preferable."
Darius laughed again, "Aye, that's hardly any man's taste."
Thoros leaned on the rail, watching sunlight break across the waters. "Tell me, Darius," he added, voice lighter, "when this holy war is done, will your gods be satisfied?"
"The war again," Darius said, sighing, "Do you not have any other questions, priest?"
Thoros answered mildly. "I am merely curious, my friend, after all I am… was a priest of a faith, yet I never fought for it."
Darius laughed, "You are fighting now aren't ya, sailing along with us lot."
Thoros laughed and replied, "You lot are sailing to defend your faith. I sail to avoid the dungeons. In the eyes of the Gods one of us is admirable, the other pitiable."
Darius snorted. "I thought you said you're here because Ser Arthur had personally asked you for it."
"I merely said because he had purchased my debts and gained dominion over me," Thoros said, smiling crookedly. "So like a whore I must work hard to please my lord and earn my keep. It is a distinction every honest man understands."
Darius barked in laughter, "A red priest whore, wouldn't that be a sight."
"They are more common than you know, my friend," Thoros said softly.
The knight smiled looking at the island, "Still, you came. You could have fled in the night. I doubt Ser Arthur would have sent his knights to find you."
"Run away and miss such a fine island with an even finer company?" Thoros replied laughing. "I may be an ingrate, but I am not a fool."
"You'll like Tarth." Darius laughed as he rested his hands upon the rail and studied the island rising ahead, its steep green heights ringed by bright waters. "It is something else. Elder brother Halrick says the title I bear belonged to a hero who lived in this isle, Ser Galladon of Morne. The Perfect Knight."
Thoros arched a brow. "What makes him so perfect?"
A door creaked behind them and Halrick emerged from the cabin, robes stirring in the wind. The older priest carried himself with the patient calm of a man long accustomed to explaining faith to men who preferred wine.
"He was a man of valor and virtue, one without sin," Halrick said, smiling faintly. "Would you like to hear his tale, Thoros of Myr?"
"Why not?" Thoros leaned upon the rail, already amused. "Who doesn't love a good tale?"
Halrick clasped his hands before him. "Long ago, the Seven above were undecided upon who was the most chivalric knight in the realm. Each named a champion of their own, yet the Maiden declared only Ser Galladon could be the greatest among them. To settle the matter, the Seven set a trial."
The wind tugged at the sails as the ship cut through the water, and even the sailors nearby slowed their work to listen.
"The Maiden forged a sword of great beauty and power with the aid of the Smith and the Warrior. The Father buried it deep within a stone upon an isle of a lake, so that only the hilt would remain bare. Then the Stranger, the Mother, and the Crone laid their spells upon it, that only the truly worthy could draw it forth. Champions came, renowned warriors, giants, even angels, yet none could move the blade."
Darius listened with quiet reverence. Thoros listened with a half-smile.
Halrick continued, voice steady against the sea wind. "The Maiden then clothed herself in mortal flesh to guide Galladon to the stone. Even as a mortal her beauty was such that no man could refuse her."
Thoros chuckled. "I'd like to see a woman like that."
Darius frowned at him while a few sailors laughed into their hands.
Halrick paid them no mind. "The Maiden set a trial. She placed herself in peril, surrounded by fiends, her garments near torn away. Ser Galladon rescued her and defended her honor, yet never once did he overstep his bounds. Only then did she lead him to a stone beside a lake where the sword lay waiting. Ser Galladon drew it forth with ease and was named the greatest knight by the gods themselves."
Thoros fell silent wondering how many wars had been fought for tales just like that one, and how many men had died trying to live up to them. He certainly knew of one of them, "There is a special sword in my faith too," he said, voice soft, "Lightbringer it is called, a blade of living flame, wielded by Azor Ahai, the hero of the Dawn. I wonder if Ser Galladon's sword bears a name as well?"
"It does, priest," Darius said, a faint smile touching his lips. "It is called the Just Maid. It was said that, no sword, shield, nor armor could halt a blow struck by it."
Halrick added softly. "And for that reason Ser Galladon drew it but thrice in all his life, for he believed, to use such a weapon against mortal men would be unjust."
"One of those times was to slay a dragon," Darius added smiling, pride plain in his voice.
Thoros studied the young knight, he did not boast when he spoke, he truly believed. There was comfort in such faith, a comfort he had once known the same. Though those memories were now worn thin around the edges.
Only thrice, he mused silently. A weapon too mighty for common battle,hadthereeverbeensuchaweapon.
Thoros wondered whether Azor Ahai himself would have done the same, kept Lightbringer sheathed save for dire need. Or perhaps heroes only learned restraint after the songs were written about them. If Lightbringer toohad come from divine hands, then no Nissa Nissa would haveneededtobeburned upon a blade.
Thoros wondered, not for the first time, whether his own faith demanded harsher truths than the others. The Seven had gentle tales, maidens, perfect knights, blessed blades drawn without terrible sacrifice.
Yet he shook the sweet thoughts away.
The world was cruel, Thoros reminded himself. The gods only reflect it.
His was a god of flame against the darkness, not pretty comfort built upon lies. And he preferred it that way, for the night is dark and full of terrors.
They made harbor before midday.
The Sapphire Isle proved no sailor's boast once seen from shore. Pale stone cliffs rose above the water, crowned in green, and below them spread a broad strand alive with banners, wagons, horses, and men.
Thoros expected confusion, the shouting and shoving that always marked an army's landing upon a ground, but what he found instead was order. Rows of tents had already been raised in careful lines. Trenches for latrines lay dug well away from the cookfires. Barrels of water stood covered, guarded even, and long tables served as food stations where stewards handed bread and salt meat to arriving men.
Near the rear, racks of spears and spare shields marked armories, and beside them stood canvas shelters marked with seven-pointed stars and green scarves for the healers.
Thoros watched with a thoughtful smile. This Manderly boy wages war as a merchant keeps accounts.
A guardsman in a blue surcoat bearing the merman called out above the clamor, "Soldiers form a line and march behind your leaders in an orderly fashion towards the camp grounds!"
The words carried across the harbor,
He continued, "My noble lords, please send your captain or squire to receive a guide who'll guide you and your men to the designated tents!"
Another herald stepped forward with a parchment and shouted again.
"We must remember, we are guests here receiving Lord Tarth's hospitality and safety, also Lord Baratheon's." The voice sharpened, "We must keep the king's peace. Any man who breaks it shall be executed!"
Thoros glanced toward the harbor where the fleet still rocked gently, retinues from the ships descending and merging like streams joining a river. A hedge knight found himself marching beside a marcher lord's spearmen. A red priest found himself marching beside a holy septon.
Two companies were made with fifteen hundred men to a company. And two commanders to lead them
Thoros saw one of them standing at harbor, Ser Symond Templeton, the Knight of Ninestars, a lean man with a large beak nose and a black pointed beard. He spoke with his men with a courteous manner that did not quite soften the hard look in his cold blue eyes. Three hundred men he had brought from the Vale, their surcoats stitched with the black pointed stars upon a field of gold.
"The noble lords are invited to dine in Lord Tarth's hall, while the soldiers will be provided refreshments here tonight. After setting up your men and grounds, you shall make for Evenfall Hall on the morrow." The herald shouted again. The men cheered at that.
Darius came to stand beside him, "Don't look so disappointed, priest."
He stood in full armor now, his blue plate catching the high sun so that it gleamed like still water. In one arm he carried a great box bound in iron, held as easily as another man might hold a loaf of bread. His mace, made of white steel, hung at his hip. The shield upon his back shone faintly even in the light. It held a pale radiance that never quite faded. The soldiers and even the nobles stole glances when they thought him unaware.
He had told Thoros once that the light came from the gods, that the Warrior blessed the weapon after trials where only the pure of heart and faith survive. Each Galladon chose either blade or shield, and once chosen it could serve no purpose but the defense of the meek and innocent. Darius had chosen the shield after his trials.
"I'm only surprised, my friend," Thoros replied. "Never seen such a well behaved army before."
Darius laughed, "The war hasn't started yet my friend."
He watched a boy no older than ten being shown where to tether his lord's horse while a grizzled serjeant waited patiently instead of cuffing him aside.
"It seems your Lord Arthur intends this war to be fought with patience," Thoros muttered with a laugh.
Darius laughed following his gaze, "Aye and discipline too. The boy would get a smack in his ears the next time."
"If he survives til then," Thoros murmured.
Darius replied, "Don't be so gloomy, priest, the gods are on our side."
Thoros forced a smile, "I pray that they are," thinking what power will the seven have across the sea?
Darius laughed, "Enough talk, come now priest, follow me."
Thoros frowned. "To where? Aren't we supposed to form a line and find our tents?"
"Our tents are right there, priest," Darius said, pointing across the ordered lanes of canvas toward a large pavilion of blue and white set near the heart of the grounds. Its guy ropes were staked deeper than the others and the banner bearing the merman with the trident stirred above it.
"But we need to deliver this box and that cart first." He gestured toward a wagon nearby, laden with chests bound in iron and tarred leather.
Servants hurried to them with two horses already saddled. Thoros mounted with a grunt, the stiffness of the voyage still in his joints. Darius swung up beside him, still keeping the box cradled in his arms.
Thoros asked, "Would you not put that in the cart?"
Darius replied smiling, "No, It shall be upon my person at all times. Those were the orders."
They set the horses to a slow walk as men hauled the cart into motion ahead of them. Thoros watched it for a time before speaking. "Forgive my forwardness but what's in the box?"
Darius laughed, easy. "Haven't the faintest idea!"
The priest believed him. Darius was a man who obeyed first and wondered after, if at all. Thoros could not tell whether such obedience sprang from loyalty or faith, and he wondered if the knight himself knew the difference.
Thoros found himself thinking whether Darius would ever refuse those who commanded him, or even ask why.
The thought left him feeling hollow. Once, he had possessed that same certainty. When the fire had spoken clear enough and then he did not question the flame. Now he searched embers for meaning and found only smoke.
Thoros asked, "Where are we going then?"
"To Evenfall," Darius replied. "Lord Tarth's seat. We are to deliver these to his halls."
"How far is the ride?"
"Two days' ride away but with the cart it'll take us three."
"Very well then." Thoros exhaled, watching the camp recede behind them, shrinking toward the shore. He had hoped for rest before the Stepstones called them back to salt and blood, yet the road promised no such mercy.
They rode three days along the winding roads of Tarth, beneath green hills and pale cliffs that caught the sun like polished bone. On the third day the noble companies who had departed a day after finally closed the distance, banners appearing between the trees one by one until the road filled with bright silk and brighter voices.
Thoros saw mostly youths among them, well-born boys with smooth cheeks and clean armor, laughing too loudly, boasting of feats not yet done. They rode as if bound for a tourney field rather than the Stepstones.
War, Thoros knew, cured such cheer swiftly enough.
Near midday they halted beside a lake fed by a white ribbon of falling water spilling from the mountain above. The horses were led down to drink while squires splashed their faces and cursed the cold. The air smelled of wet stone and pine. Evenfall Hall lay only hours away.
After watering his horse, Thoros settled himself upon a broken log, stretching sore legs and letting the breeze dry the sweat beneath his robes. He had nearly dozed when a shadow fell across him.
A handsome youth approached, golden hair, blue eyes, and a smile too easy for a battlefield. One eye wandered slightly, never quite fixing where the other did. Thoros knew who it was, Ser Cletus Yronwood, heir to a great marcher seat, and the commander of the Dornish host that sailed with them. Though the boy looked more suited to a maiden's favor for a tourney than leading scores of men to their death.
"I couldn't believe them at first but now that I see you I wonder," Cletus said with a laugh, "What's a red priest doing fighting in a holy war of the seven?"
Thoros laughed along, warm and harmless. "Forgive me, my lord, but you were misinformed. I am not fighting, I'm merely in service to Lord Arthur."
He kept his tone light. Young nobles were quick to offense and quicker to remember slights, and Thoros had no wish for a quarrel. Another young man approached Thoros. His voice carried a thin edge of mockery, proud and careless both, the sort of tone only the noble-born possessed.
"You mean to say, Ser Arthur took you into his service for your ragged robes not your fiery swords. Is he stupid?"
Thoros studied him a moment, tall and lean, a comely face made sharper by blue-green eyes, sandy hair falling to his shoulders. The man wore soft brown wool trimmed in sandsilk, Dornish fashion plain enough to feign modesty and rich enough to betray it.
Before Thoros could reply, another youth spoke up beside the comely one. He was shorter, broad through the chest, olive-skinned and solemn, with the earnest stiffness of a boy raised on duty more than laughter.
"Don't be offensive, Gerris, Ser Arthur is our commander ordained by the King as his second," the boy said.
"Apologies, my prince," Gerris answered with a sly smile, inclining his head just enough to satisfy courtesy without surrendering pride. "I only meant, there must be a reason why our commander took this drunken excuse of a priest on this venture, if not for fighting."
Cletus barked a laugh. "Aye, Quentyn, you must admit, either Ser Arthur did this as a jest, or a test."
Thoros inclined his own head politely. So that is him. Prince Quentyn Martell, Prince Doran's firstborn son.
Thoros had seen Prince Oberyn depart King's Landing when they were boarding the caravels. The prince of Dorne stood lithe as a curved blade and smiled twice as dangerously. This prince was quieter, dimmer, heavier in the shoulders, his expression earnest and dull where his uncle's had been sharp and ferocious.
If Oberyn was the viper of Dorne, this one was the frog. Thoros thought to himself.
He spread his hands in a gesture of peace. "My noble lords give me too much importance. I assure you, I am no test of courage nor wit. Ser Arthur requires a guide for matters beyond Westeros, and I have wandered more roads than most sober men remember. That is my purpose here, is all."
Gerris snorted softly. "Wandered from winesink to winesink, by the look of you."
"True enough," Thoros said amiably. "A man learns many tongues in taverns and among whores. I personally prefer the whores."
The youths laughed at his jest.
Cletus said, "You have fought before though. They say you rode in tourneys and battles both."
"Rode in what? The whores or the barrels?" Gerris mocked.
"I merely survived them, my lord, by lord of light's grace," Thoros offered gently.
Cletus grinned. "Will your lord help you survive this war too, priest?"
"I wonder why would a priest of the heathen gods be a part of the Merman's retinue," Gerris smirked, "Are you working as a spy here, priest?"
Heavy boots pressed the grass behind them, yet none had heard the approach, only Thoros saw him.
"Thoros of Myr here is serving our king like all of us and that is all one needs to know," Darius spoke, his voice deep and commanding. "I hope my noble lords remember that we all are striving for a common cause."
The youths started as if a shadow had spoken. Darius stood there in his heavy blue Galladon plate, tall enough to shame tower over them, yet he had come upon them quieter than a cat in snow.
"By the gods!" Quentyn muttered, hand half rising toward a sword he did not draw.
Gerris eyed the armor, then the faint light playing across the shield, "We know who we serve. What of you?"
"Aye, who are you, ser?" Cletus asked, squaring his shoulders.
Darius drew the shield round and strapped it upon his arm. Pale light shimmered across its surface, soft as dawn upon water. "I am a Galladon of White Harbor. I serve the gods, my order, and House Manderly. Every man here will be tested during the wars to come, whether they be Thoros of Myr or the Prince of Dorne. All of us will answer to the gods for the choices we shall make when the bells toll. Those of you who are good shall be rewarded and the wicked will be punished."
The young nobles became silent staring at the blue knight and his shining shield.
"Let fear rule the heart of only those who do not serve for they shall fall when the hour is darkest. Blessings be upon you my lords." Darius said and then added, " Come along priest."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Enjoying the story? You can read chapters up to 7 weeks ahead of everyone else and support the story on Patreon. The story is up to chapter Seventy-Six on Patreon.
patreon(dot)com/KSR_TBP
Replace the (Dot) with a .
Also come hang out on Discord: https://discord.gg/w3EWNyH2c
(Let me know if the discord link doesn't work)