Dawn after the feast broke pale and cold over the Stonehelm.
Mist rolled inland from the Sea of Dorne, a gray shroud that muffled the cries of gulls and turned the torches along the riverbank into dull red eyes.
Dramon stirred awake in the narrow bedchamber lent to him by the Swanns. His temples throbbed faintly from the mead, but his mind felt clear, too clear mayhaps. The faint smell of cinnamon and spiceflower still clung to him, it brought the memories of previous night to the fore.
He turned, but the other side of the bed was empty.
Only a ribbon lay there, forest green, tied in a loose knot. The faintest trace of her warmth lingered in the sheets.
For a while he simply sat, elbows on the thighs, staring at that ribbon. The night before drifted back to him - her laughter, how she pursed her lips in order to not to show any weakness, her face at the height of the ecstasy, before all her sweet voice.
He stood up and splashed large amount of water into his, letting the cold water wash the sleep from his eyes. In the mirror of the basin, his reflection looked older than he remembered.
You've no time for softness, he told himsef. A man who wishes to rise must keep walking.
The green ribbon he folded carefully tucking it into his vest. Then he pulled on his boots, belted his sword, and stepped out.
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The keep's corridors were eerily silent, save for a few servants sweeping up wilted garlands. Outside, the courtyard lay drenched in morning dew. Dramon paused beneath the black & white banners of House Swann, watching them sway gently in the morning sea breeze.
A knight in the Swann colors approached Dramon. "Goodman Dramon, I've been sent by the heir to fetch you."
"Please wait a moment, ser. I'll get ready properly."
The knight led Dramon through castle's corridors, after a while he finally led him into a luxurious room with thick ebony door reinforced with carved metal decorations.
As the ebony doors opened, the opulence laid bare before Dramon. As luxurious as a prince's room, it was decorated with numerous hunting trophies - taxidermied heads of various animals, including the black bear, numerous weapons crafted by master artisans, vast furnitures expertly crafted and carved.
"Please, Ser Dramon, make yourself comfortable." Donnel invited him while he lay in his bed and a scantily clothed women slept in his arms.
"Ser Donnel, I'm no knight. Please call me by name."
"You jest, Dramon. You may not be a knight now, but will become one soon. There is no harm in calling you ser..... But let me come to why have I called you. You have given up your game to me, which allowed me to gain some reputation. My conscience wouldn't allow me to not to rewards you. Ask, I'll grant it whatever it may be."
A flash of doubt creeped into Dramon. What actually did the heir wanted? Did he think I'll become his vassal? Thought Dramon. He banished any thought from his head and asked.
"I would like to be rewarded monetarily, Ser. An amout you deem it sufficient."
Donnel muttered something inaudible, possibly a curse or complaint. "I'll pay you a dozen golden dragons. If I recall this should make your earnings here reach 20 gold dragons. A substantial sum even for a knight retinue." Donnel picked up a fine clothed bag which ringed with the sound of gold and threw towards Dramon. Dramon caught it and quickly gave his thanks and left.
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Dramon left the castle in search of his companions. Down by the river, bargeman were already hauling empty casks from last night's revel. One of the hailed him.
"You're the Rainwood lad, aren't you? The who nearly beat all the knights bloody."
Dramon gave a tired smile. "Nearly doesn't mean I actually did, goodman."
The man chuckled. "I suppose so, but it win you fame. The kind of fame that will make you fortunes."
"I hope for it too, friend" Dramon walked on, his boots crunching the gravel.
By the time he reached the inn where his companions stayed, the sun was climbing through thin mist, painting the roofs pale gold. Through open window came Olynd's laughter and Derrin's booming voice arguing about something trivial.
He pushed open the door to find them already awake - Olynd mending a fletching, Derrin gnawing on bread, Lanner hunched over parchment as always. The smell of broth and sandalwood incense filled the room.
"Morning sire," Lanner greeted without looking up. "Do you wish to share anything?"
"Did it reach your ears?" Dramon said dryly, sitting at the table. "I had no choice use bandit subjugation as a excuse to buy some time."
Silent descended into the room. Even Derrin looked up from his bowl.
Dramon took a long breath. "Ser Herbert Bolling spoke to me last night. His lands have been plagued with bandits these few months. He wants us to join him and his men to root them out in the red mountains."
"Bandits? That's a far cry from jousting rings and wine." Aden grimaced.
"Aye," Olynd said, eyes glinting. "A finer test of our steel."
Lanner put away the parchment carefully. "Bolling's offer sounds convenient - too convenient. If bandits were ordinary twenty knights could handle them. Why fo you think he is requisitioning outside help?"
Dramon met his gaze. "While I can't completely rule out it being a trap, if you consider the terrain of Red Mountains why they can't deal with a big bandit group becomes clear."
Greg curiously asked, "What does it makes clear?"
"What is the advantage of a knight compared to bandit? His training, teamwork, armour, weapon, and most importantly his stead.
Red mountains take away the knights ability to freely maneuver by restricting horses, thereby making the knights incomparably slower than the bandits. If knights ditch their armour to gain on the bandits, it sacrifices another advantage of knights.
Next teamwork, while it is true that a household's knights trained to fight together is a formidable foe, the bandits are also forced to work together just to keep themselves alive. As long as a bandit group stay together for some time they'll form their own teamwork and squad tactics; couple this with bandits superior knowledge of their own terrain, it is no-brainer that they have been having a tough time. I don't know whether us joining will be enough."
Derrin stood up and looked around the table. "We left home to make our names. Tourneys give fame; battles give power. I say we take this offer."
No one argued. Even Lanner, after a pause, nodded slowly. "Then I'll see Bolling sign something binding before we march. I'd rather not bleed for empty promises."
Dramon's mouth curved into faint smile. "Do that, we leave by noon."
When he stepped outside again, the sun had burned away the mist. The castle walls gleamed white against the sea, and banners snapped sharply in the wind. Yet beneath the brightness, he could still feel the ache of something unspoken—a ribbon folded inside his coat, a whisper of warmth already fading with the tide.
The road calls again, he thought, tightening his gauntlet straps. Let's see where it leads this time.