Percy and Arianne said their goodbyes privately and extensively ahead of time, so when the morning to depart came, Percy could focus wholly on the final preparations.
The group turned out to be surprisingly big, although Percy was told it was medium-sized for a tourney like this. There were twelve servants making the trip, fifteen men-at-arms from the Martell Garrison, three knights other than Percy, and exactly one Tyene Sand.
Tyene was already atop her horse by the time Percy finished checking on those packing the food. She was wearing a somewhat ordinary dress, made of heavy fabric and colored a dull gold like the sand outside the walls.
"Good morning Ser Jackson," Tyene said.
Percy stopped alongside her horse, a sturdy mount by Sand Steeds' lithe standards.
"Is that what you're going to call me from now on?" Percy asked.
"It wouldn't be polite to refer to you otherwise," Tyene said. "Certainly not after you worked so hard for the title."
She looked so innocent that if Percy never stepped foot inside her bedroom, he would've believed she was a real Septa, devout and earnest to the core.
"Working your wiles again, Tyene?" asked a man's hale voice.
What could be considered the heart of the group was approaching them. While most of the servants were for handling chores, and the men-at-arms served as protection, these were the people who would stay close to Percy.
First, there was the man who'd spoken. His complexion was the lightly-tanned hue of a Salty Dornishman, with bright white teeth that he showed when he smiled. Andrey Dalt was a second son of House Dalt, a knight in his own right, and one of Arianne's closest friends. The same age as Tyene, growing up with her and the princess at the Water Gardens, which explained the easy way with which he teased her.
"You make it seem as if I'm laying a trap," Tyene said. "I only act as I wish to, being true to myself."
"And therein lies the danger," Andrey — or 'Drey' — said.
Tyene looked at him for a moment, then faced Percy.
"I hear that Ser Dalt will be taking part in the tournament," she said. "The two of you will train in the yards before it begins, surely."
"Probably," Percy said.
Tyene leaned against her saddle, smiling sweetly. "Then when the time comes, do give him a good strike to the head. That much will be fine. There isn't much to damage."
"Aha!" Drey said. "It's as I said!"
"You speak too much," said the third knight of the group.
Tomar Toland's red hair stood out compared to Drey's more ordinary dark locks. He was handsome, tall, and skinny, with a wingspan that could catch you off guard when he swung his sword. Beside him, his older sister had a similar build. Valena's face had changed in subtle ways since she and Percy met, and she wore her hair longer now, with a single ringlet that ran across the back of her head.
Both of the siblings were being loaned to Percy in a way. Tomar was one of Nymeria's closest guards. Sending him was something close to an apology, acknowledging that while she couldn't go, she wished Percy the best. Valena was coming under Arianne's orders.
"Tomar, do you bear me some kind of grudge?" Drey asked. "I don't think I beat you so badly when we last sparred."
"You bested me once," Tomar half-growled, "after I had won the first three. Then you excused yourself and hid amongst the servants for the last week, refusing to face me again!"
"If you'd seen the servant I was hiding with, you'd have done the same," Drey said shamelessly. "Cheer up! Women love a man who can lose with dignity. I'd know."
Percy mostly ignored them. They hadn't noticed yet, and it probably wouldn't have changed their behavior if they did, but they weren't the only ones who approached.
Percy stepped sideways and shook hands with the man coming toward him. "Ser Manwoody," he said.
"Ser Jackson," the man returned.
His voice was naturally gravelly, as if it was being strained through his thick gray beard. Almost as broad as he was tall, Myles Manwoody stood at five feet and five inches, with wide shoulders and huge muscles. He had three scars on his face, two on his forehead and one that strayed dangerously close to his left eye.
Tomar and Drey were as green as Percy. Drey had been to two tourneys, apparently, which he bragged about to no end. Tomar had been to one. Myles Manwoody had been to eleven, a number that was only so low because of his disdain for them. The brother of the Lord of Kingsgrave, he fought in the Battle of the Trident. He killed five enemy knights in the field despite being on the losing side, a feat only known because his brother Dagos spread the story across Dorne. Myles never spoke a word about it, and when asked directly, would only say, "The Warrior favored me that day."
His grip was as firm as Percy's when they shook.
"The ship is ready," Myles said. "It waits."
"The provisions are all in place. Everyone is gathered." Percy nodded. "Good. Let's go!"
He found Nymor, his favorite mount, and climbed on. The others all took to horseback as well, including Myles Manwoody, who had a black horse built the same as him— squat and powerful. Percy was sure it wasn't a Sand Steed.
"Go!" Ser Manwoody barked, his voice filling everyone's ears almost effortlessly.
The group churned forward and left the grounds of the Sand Ship.
While Percy had a count of all those in his group, from the soldiers to the servants, there was another group traveling with them. Six total, three appeared to be knights, all bearing the same crest. Against a purple background, a shooting star crossed paths with a longsword.
The smallest member of this group was a boy of ten, who quickly drew his horse alongside Percy's.
"I saw your bout!" he said.
Percy was confused until he recognized him. The kid had been amongst the spectators when he fought with Oberyn. Percy remembered seeing him briefly, especially because of his eyes. They were such a dark blue, they almost looked purple like Dyanna's.
"You were incredible!" said the boy. "Watching your sword was like witnessing lightning! When you swung, I could hear the air hum, and when Prince Martell attacked, you didn't allow a single strike to slip through—"
Percy cleared his throat.
"I appreciate compliments," he said, "but before we get to them, what's your name?"
"Edric Dayne!" the boy said. "You can call me Ned! I mean, if you want to, Ser."
"From Starfall?"
"The heir to it," Ned said, torn about whether he wanted it to sound like the boast it was. "One day, I wish to be a knight like you."
"I've been a knight for about a week. You must know knights who've done more than me."
"Only because they're older," Ned insisted. "None of them are half as good as you are. I know you'll win the Harvest Tourney this year!"
Percy shrugged. "I'm better in a melee than a joust, so we'll see."
Even though he trained both, swordfighting was something Percy knew inside and out. It was in his blood. Jousting, on the other hand, he was less of a prodigy at. He and his horse could move as one, he had more than enough strength, and he could take a hit, but the technique just didn't flow. It was hard to explain. At least he wasn't hopeless at it, like a bow and arrow.
"You're just being modest," Ned said.
"We'll see." Percy wasn't sure what to expect from knights outside of Dorne. Oberyn spoke highly of some, while giving a scathing report on most. "If I remember right, Ned, it's one of your ships that we'll be sailing on."
Ned beamed, both from pride and the fact that Percy used his nickname.
"It is, Ser!" Ned said. "We sailed here on the same vessel, my father and I! It's a carrack taller than these houses, big enough to hold everyone here, mounts and all!"
"Well, I'd hope it would be," Percy said.
Ned remembered that carrying this group was its purpose and developed a blush. He went on more quietly.
"We came to Sunspear on business, and my father brought me for the first time. I got to meet the prince."
He was talking about Arianne's youngest brother, Trystane, rather than Quentyn, the middle child fostered by House Yronwood. Trystane was less than half Arianne's age. Percy hadn't interacted with him much, only enough to get the impression he was a good kid.
"How was that?" Percy asked.
"He made me play Cyvasse with him," Ned said. "But he wasn't very good. Oh! I also got a new sword."
Ned looked sideways, over to the man who was undoubtedly his father. All of the Daynes had the pale skin and features of the Marcher Lords, who they were much closer related to than the rest of Dorne. Lord Dayne had black hair and outright purple eyes. Looking at him made Percy's heart pang, reminding him of lessons held where ariver met the sea. Attached to Lord Dayne's belt were two swords, one fit for an adult and another forged for smaller hands.
"I told him I could carry it. I said I would be careful. He didn't let me," said Ned.
"I got a new sword too." Percy patted the hilt of his own blade. His armor, lance, and shield for the tourney were all being moved in carts hitched to the horses of servants, but his sword stayed with him.
"I watched when you drew it. It's the second best blade I've ever seen," Ned said. "One day, I'll have one just as good! Or even better…"
"You have to become a knight first."
"I'll be a squire before that," Ned said. "I'm old enough. My father told me so last month."
He stared at Percy, eyes lingering, until the port became visible.
"There!" Ned said. "I told you the ship is beautiful!"
Like he told Percy, it was a carrack fit for the open ocean, tall and four-masted with a high and rounded stern. In his chest, Percy felt a tug on his heart. He was biologically predisposed to appreciate good ships when he saw one. And this? It was a beauty.
"Ned, how long is the journey to Starfall?"
"Five days," Ned said. "Although we'll be going straight to Oldtown. That adds a day."
Percy patted his head, which, worryingly, made Ned look resolved not to bathe his head for the next month.
"If we have time, and your father agrees, I'll give you some tips on how to swing that new sword of yours."
"Promise?" Ned asked.
"Cross my heart."
Ned squinted at him, not understanding what that meant, but grasping enough from the context to grow excited. He rode his horse over to his father so quickly that he almost bundled over one of the knights traveling with them. As the group rode down the hill outside Sunspear, following the sloping road toward the docks, Ned was already begging for his father's permission, doing all kinds of gestures to emphasize the importance of what he was asking.
Lord Dayne said something to quell his son. A moment later, his eyes met Percy's, bright purple— a splash of color against the browns and oranges of the rocky coast.
Percy smiled. Lord Dayne offered a cordial nod, averting his eyes. Stroking the side of Nymor's neck, Percy made the willful mount shake his mane, briefly haunted by how familiar those eyes had been.
He hadn't heard a single thing about Dyanna since the day they parted on the dock. She believed with every fiber of her being that they would meet again. Percy hoped she was right. His teacher usually was.
"I hope you're well," he said.
"Who?"
Tyene had ridden closer to him, overhearing what he muttered. Percy met her interest with a simple smile.
"An old friend."
O-O-O
"You're swinging with your arm! Get your body behind it, Ned!"
Sweating, shirtless so as not to dirty the one he usually wore, Ned took a big step and swung his sword, putting everything above the waist into the strike, grunting with exertion.
Instead of parrying Percy moved sideways, completely out of the way. Ned came through and toppled, landing on his chin on the ship's deck. Bored men-at-arms and sailors without a current job shouted encouragement or laughed, both of which made Ned blush. He scrambled into a crouch, dragging the blunt sword he was using, struggling against its weight. It was for grown knights that would be training for the tourney, not ten year olds.
"You got too much of your body behind it that time," Percy said. "Strong swings are good, just not too strong. It's about balance. Balance of the sword, and balance of you."
Ned got up, hefting his weapon. "I'd be doing better if I could use my sword."
"And you'd have lost a finger by now, falling with a blade that sharp," Percy said flatly. "I told your father he'd get you back in one piece."
"You get live steel when you grow something it can shave! That's why my master always said," Drey called out where he leaned against one of the masts, drawing laughter from the men watching.
"I know the sword is too heavy for you," Percy told Ned. "It's meant for an adult. You won't perform as well using it, but that doesn't change the principles. Again. This time, try to follow my sword with your eyes."
Ned nodded. In an instant, he swallowed the embarrassment that had been building. Percy almost let out a low whistle. He wouldn't have been able to do that at Ned's age.
They came together, Ned acting more cautiously this time, while swinging his sword in stronger strokes than he first had. Percy slowed himself down, moving somewhere between half and full-effort. Ned's eyes flickered. He struck, aiming well, and found a gap that Percy left on purpose. After waiting long enough for Ned to get excited, Percy jerked the hilt of his sword, hitting the flat of Ned's dull blade to turn the blow into an errant one. While the sailors cheered and jeered, the fighting men fell silent, grappling with the precise timing of what Percy just did.
"Better!" Percy said. "C'mon, Ned!"
Ned let out a brief roar, hauled his sword around, and went for another go.
It was their sixth day at sea. What began as a favor for a cute kid and a way to kill time had turned into part of Percy's routine. It wasn't just that Edric had a good attitude. He was genuinely talented, comparable to some of the youngest children of Athena or Ares.
Unfortunately, while he had the skills, there was no way he could match a demigod's freakish stamina. Grown warriors in Westeros were better than mortals back home, but the people here were still bound by things like strength and muscle mass. No eleven year old would be ripping the horn off a bull and goring it any time soon. Percy caught Ned after he parried a blow, seeing the boy's legs give out.
"I can still go," Ned said.
"You can barely stand up," Percy said. "That was good, Ned. Call it quits while you're ahead."
Ned lifted his head, blonde hair turned shaggy with sweat. "But today is the last day!" he said, blinking in a way that suggested he was trying not to cry.
Heavy footsteps beat the deck next to them.
"The body's call takes no answer but yes, Lad," Myles Manwoody said. "Well fought. Rest."
The old knight liked to talk without unnecessary words. He made most things sound like a command, and his commands were only ignored by fools. Ned stumbled upright on his own, insisting on dragging the blunt training sword with him. He sat down close to Drey's feet and laid the sword across his lap.
"You teach well," Ser Manwoody said.
"I had an amazing teacher," Percy said. "All I do is my best to be like him."
"As it goes," Ser Manwoody said.
He wasn't a man bothered at all by silence. He said nothing, looking at Percy. His eyes were like little dots of coal. Ocean-faring birds let their calls loose while the ship rolled over waves. Percy waited. Ser Manwoody never took long to get to the point.
"Fight?" he asked.
One thing Percy had noticed about him, he never used the word spar.
"If you're willing, gladly," Percy said.
He'd sparred with Drey, once, and only because passing men-at-arms grabbed the Dalt knight and forced him not to make an escape. The match hadn't lasted long enough for Percy to have fun. Drey was outmatched and spent the whole time looking for a chance to concede.
While some had tried, the soldiers were weaker than Drey, even the experienced ones. The training nobles underwent from a young age simply put them on another level.
Most often, Percy found himself facing Tomar. He was better than Drey, both his skills — by a small margin — and his attitude, where the real gap lay. Tomar thanked Percy after each match, soon learning from him almost the way that Ned had been.
Sometimes, Myles Manwoody watched. This was the first time he offered to fight.
The old knight went into the crowd and returned with his weapon, retrieved from where had been resting against the edge of the ship. The hammer, twice the weight of the sword Ned had been fighting with, was carried easily once the knight had two hands on its shaft.
Neither he nor Percy were dressed in serious armor. They took stock of each other. Ser Manwoody grunted.
"Halfway try to kill me," he said.
In other words, half-effort. No broken bones, nothing serious, stay fit for the tourney.
"Got it," Percy said.
Myles Manwoody didn't circle, the way Percy and Oberyn did during their duels. He stepped forward, pulled his hammer back, and swung. The blow was fast and accurate. Straightforward, and enough to send a soldier straight to his grave if he took it unguarded.
For Percy, who regularly faced Oberyn's spear, the hammer crawled toward him. He stepped aside without breaking a sweat. The blow he tried to return, Ser Manwoody caught with the middle of his shaft.
Percy let his sword glance off, like rain from a slanted roof, and offered a low stab. Ser Manwoody slammed the shaft down, beating away the stab. When Percy tried to duck behind him, he jammed the butt of his hammer toward Percy's ankle, a move done quick enough that Percy was nearly caught.
Nearly, because his reaction time wasn't just for show. Percy danced past that blow, swinging the flat of his blade at the knight's back. Percy was too fast, and this time, his blow landed, giving Ser Manwoody a bruising thwap! across the blades of his shoulders. Despite the power in the swing, it didn't move Ser Manwoody by so much as a step.
"Fast," Manwoody complimented. "Good bout."
More than a few of the ones watching were disappointed by how fast it ended. They should have stopped and thought about what they were watching.
"You're used to fighting in full plate," Percy said. "If your back was covered in armor, it wouldn't have been open."
Ser Manwoody shrugged. He set his hammer down, holding it upright with one hand, and used the other to knock on his own knee. "I was slow twenty years ago. Strike first, strike hard, strike true." He shrugged. "Warrior willing, that's the end of them."
Myles Manwoody wasn't slow, no matter what he said. He was fast in all the ways he had to be. On the field of the Trident, garbed in plate mail, it was no wonder five knights' last memories were of his hammer bearing down. Percy lowered his sword.
"Are you going to compete in the tourney?"
"For what?" Ser Myles said. "Fighting for sport is a young lads game. The taste is wrong."
He didn't explain what he meant, hefting his hammer and wandering off through the crowd.
"And so, another bright eyed young competitor falls short, and the champion remains crowned," said Drey. "Doesn't it grow boring, beating men black and blue one after another?"
"It's satisfying, actually," Percy said. "Especially when I get a hold of one of the loud ones."
"If I'm not mistaken, it feels like you mean me," Drey said. "Though it greatly burdens my heart, I'll have to politely decline your invitation. Or, have you not noticed? I wouldn't blame you, focused as you were on beating old Manwoody's back."
Dalt raised his arm, pointing starboard off the deck.
A long and blurry shape had appeared, featuring mottled greens that were alien to Dorne's coastline. Land had been sighted. Other ships sailed the waters around them in greater numbers than they'd seen yet, coming and going from the entrance of a bay.
Somewhere, just out of sight beyond that, lay Oldtown, the most populous city on the continent. Again, Percy was reminded of Dyanna's lessons, this time bringing a smile to his face.
It was time to get a taste of the Reach.