No matter how many times he called for the System, silence answered him back.
Twig frowned to himself. If my mission wasn't just to win the tourney… then what does it mean to "prove the true worth of a knight"?
Before he could think further, Madrik — his young squire — ran up to him, glowing with excitement. "Ser Monde! Will you teach me to fight like that? Like when you faced all those other knights?"
Twig turned from the stands, his voice calm.
"Yes, I'll teach you. Don't worry."
"Really? You mean it? When do we start training?" the boy asked, eyes shining.
Twig hesitated. If he's my squire, and I'm his knight… then it's my duty to train him. Could that be it? Maybe that's what the mission means — to guide him, to make him ready.
But before he could say another word, a familiar voice called out.
"Ser Monde Rouster! Who would've thought — the champion of the melee himself!"
It was the same captain of the guard who had allowed him into the tourney. He approached with a wide grin and a glint of genuine respect in his eyes.
"Well, looks like the man everyone doubted is now the hero of the day," the captain said.
Twig smiled slightly. "I suppose surviving with my head still attached is victory enough — especially considering what you first said about me, Captain."
The man laughed heartily. "Hah! You're the champion now — no need to call me captain. My name's Gelton."
"Gelton, huh? A pleasure to meet you properly, Gelton. So then, what brings you here?"
Gelton folded his arms, still smiling. "Well, Ser Monde... someone very important wants to meet you."
Twig raised a brow. "Someone? And if I refuse? Must I really accept this invitation?"
Gelton gave a chuckle but answered firmly. "You don't have much choice, champion. The one asking to see you is the king himself. And trust me — refusing His Majesty's summons wouldn't end well."
Twig blinked, caught off guard. "The king… wants to talk to me? Oh, great. What now?"
He sighed inwardly. Maybe this is part of the quest. Maybe the king has something I need to complete it.
"Very well, Gelton. Lead the way. We shouldn't keep His Majesty waiting."
He straightened his back, his tone respectful but steady.
"Oh, and my squire," he added, glancing at Madrik. "He comes with me. I won't leave him alone in this crowd."
Gelton looked at the boy, sizing him up.
"No problem," he said after a moment. "As long as he stays quiet and doesn't cause trouble before the king, he can come."
Twig nodded in thanks, and together they followed Gelton down a narrow passage behind the stands. It led to a stone staircase climbing up toward the royal pavilions.
Madrik's eyes darted around, nervous, taking in the golden banners and armored guards.
"Easy, boy," Twig muttered quietly. "Keep your head up. Stay calm. Courage — remember?"
Before they could enter the noble tier, another figure appeared — an older man in white armor, bald head, his beard thick and gray.
"I'll take it from here, Captain," the man said with quiet authority.
Gelton bowed his head. "Ser Harrold... an honor."
Harrold Westerling gave a brief nod. "From here on, I'll escort them to His Majesty."
The Lord Commander turned to Twig, his deep voice both stern and courteous.
"So, you're the knight they call Ser Monde Rouster, then?"
Twig inclined his head. "Yes, that's my name. And you must be Ser Harrold Westerling."
The older knight smiled faintly. "Indeed. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ser Rouster."
"The pleasure is mine," Twig replied, matching his respectful tone.
They exchanged nods, then continued through the corridors toward the royal hall. Madrik trailed behind, walking carefully, trying not to draw attention among the richly dressed nobles.
At last, they arrived before King Viserys.
Twig stopped several paces away, straightened his posture, and bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty," he said with calm composure. "You summoned me. How may I serve?"
Viserys smiled warmly. "Ah, Ser Monde Rouster. It's an honor to finally meet you. We all witnessed your feats in the arena — your skill is truly extraordinary. You bested the finest knights of the realm with grace and restraint. Remarkable."
Twig bowed again. "Your words honor me deeply, Your Majesty. To have my strength recognized by the King himself gives my victory greater meaning."
Viserys chuckled. "Polite and skilled. You're quite the knight, Ser Rouster. But tell me — where did you learn such mastery? I was told you're a hedge knight, not sworn to any house. Did you train under some renowned master? How did you come by such might?"
Twig froze. He hadn't expected that question. Great. What do I even say now?
After a pause, he spoke quietly. "Your Majesty, all I know of knighthood and swordsmanship was taught to me by my master — a great man who is no longer with us."
"Ah," Viserys said thoughtfully. "So you were a squire once, under this master? What was his name? Perhaps I've heard of him."
Twig lowered his gaze. "I doubt it, Your Majesty. His surname was Rouster as well. But his first name… I never knew. I only called him 'Master.' He gave me this name — Monde Rouster — as a gift, not as a lineage. I have no noble blood."
"I see," said the king, leaning back. "So your master was a hedge knight too. Fascinating… for someone to have taught you so well, he must've been extraordinary."
"I believe he was," Twig replied sincerely. "He never spoke of where his strength came from — only of what it meant to use it rightly. He taught me that a knight's duty is not power, but restraint. Not pride, but purpose."
Viserys studied him for a long moment, then smiled faintly.
"You seem an honorable man, Ser Rouster. Strong, but humble. I could use more men like you."
He leaned forward.
"Tell me, would you serve in my Kingsguard? Protect the crown and the realm?"
Twig blinked. The offer stunned him. The Kingsguard? Me?
For a moment, he hesitated, feeling the weight of the words. Then he exhaled slowly.
"Your Majesty," he said softly, "forgive me... but I cannot accept."
The king's brows rose. A flicker of surprise — and mild irritation — crossed his features.
"You refuse?" he asked slowly. "You call it an honor and yet decline? Explain yourself, Ser Rouster."
Twig kept his tone even. "Your Majesty, I mean no disrespect. But before I swear myself to any house or ruler, I must fulfill a mission I was given long ago."
"A mission?" Viserys repeated, curiosity piqued. "And what mission could outweigh serving your king?"
Twig's gaze softened. "It's not one I fully understand, sire. My master told me that one day, I must prove the true worth of a knight. But to do that, I must first discover what that worth truly means."
Silence filled the hall.
Viserys regarded him carefully, then gave a small, amused smile.
"So, you must find the meaning of knighthood before you can prove it? An intriguing riddle, Ser Rouster."
He turned to one of the knights standing nearby — a tall, dignified older man with silver hairs and a calm expression.
"Ser Ryam Redwyne," said the king, "tell me, in your eyes, what is the true worth of a knight?"
The older knight pondered quietly for a moment, then answered in a voice deep and steady.
"Your Majesty, that is no simple question. But if I may offer my view — a knight's true worth lies in his word. His oaths define him. To keep his promises — to his king, his house, or his cause — that is honor. When he fulfills what he has sworn, only then can his worth be measured."
Viserys smiled broadly. "Well spoken, Ser Ryam. Indeed — today was meant only to celebrate my son's birth, yet it has turned into a day of insight."
He looked again at Twig, admiration in his eyes.
"Thanks to our champion, this day became more than a spectacle. It became a reflection on what knighthood truly means — strength, yes, but also virtue."
The king raised his goblet high.
"Let it be remembered — the day a nameless knight reminded us all what honor looks like."
He lowered the cup, his tone softening.
"It's a shame you cannot join my Kingsguard, Ser Rouster. But I respect your path. May your search lead you to the truth you seek."
Twig bowed deeply. "Thank you, Your Majesty. Perhaps one day, when I've fulfilled my mission, I may serve you — freely and completely."
Viserys nodded, satisfied. "Then may the Seven guide you, Ser Monde Rouster. And may fate bring you back to King's Landing when the time is right."
An attendant stepped forward, carrying a small leather pouch stamped with the royal seal. He presented it to Twig.
"The king's prize," he said. "A reward worthy of the champion."
The coins inside jingled heavily — gold dragons, more than enough for many months of comfort. Twig accepted them silently and bowed once more.
Then, with Madrik at his side, he turned and left the hall.
As they walked through the long corridors of stone, the cheers of the tourney still echoed faintly in the distance. But in Twig's mind, only one thought remained:
What does it truly mean… to be a knight of true worth?