Year 276 AC | Westeros, The Stormlands.
Ser Arlan Longshanks
The mud of the Stormlands was thick, black, and clung to one's boots like the stubbornness of its lords—or so the old Ser Robert Storm used to say. Now Arlan, nicknamed "Longshanks" by his mentor due to the unnatural length of his legs, felt every step like a battle against the ground itself. He stood nearly seven feet tall and was barely seventeen years of age; a giant of broad shoulders and a young face, yet possessed of a strong jaw.
Behind him, the sky was uncertain, though he knew not if it foretold the coming storms that gave the realm its name. He feared he would find no shelter if that were the case. But Arlan did not look at the sky. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, toward his destination: Storm's End.
There, the event that had the entire kingdom on edge was to be held: the tourney to celebrate the betrothal between the Crown Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, and Lady Betha Baratheon, the only daughter of Lord Steffon.
Arlan swayed gently, his hands holding the reins of the two horses he had inherited from Ser Robert: Tornado, the black stallion he rode, and Ash, a white mare. The steel sword clattered at his waist, a constant reminder of the old knight.
.
Two Days Ago.
The sound of the shovel hitting the stony earth was the only requiem. Arlan's arms were numb, but he did not stop until the pit was deep enough. Behind him, beneath a tree and wrapped in a tattered old grey cloak, lay Ser Robert Storm. The old knight looked small now, stripped of the dented armor he had worn with pride for years.
Ser Robert was not a knight of the songs. He was a seasoned bastard born in the waning days of a storm, a veteran who had given his youth and part of his sanity to the Stepstones during the War of the Ninepenny Kings.
He had found Arlan three years after that conflict—a lanky, orphaned boy chasing a chicken in a burned village to survive. The boy had run toward an old shield, one far too large for any child, but at his age and height, it served to protect him. He had looked at the old knight with fear that first time.
"What does it mean to be a knight?" Arlan had asked that night, the first night they shared a piece of hard bread.
"A knight is not merely one who carries a sword, lad," Robert said with wisdom. "Anyone can kill. A true knight is he who protects those who cannot even hold a knife. A knight is a walking promise."
"I would like to be a knight," Arlan had uttered, his gaze fixed on the sparks of the campfire. "So that other children... don't have to go through what I did," he whispered with a cracking voice.
His mother had been a washerwoman, and his grandfather worked the fields. His village was small, but he had been happy with the little they had... until that night.
For seven years, Robert was his father, his teacher, and his moral compass. He taught him to care for the horses before himself, to polish metal until he could see his reflection in it, and, above all, to understand the weight of the oaths he would one day take.
"Swear it, Arlan," Robert whispered on his deathbed, under an oak tree that barely shielded them from the drizzle. "Swear that you will protect the weak. That you will allow no harm to come to a woman or child in your presence. Swear that honor will be your only coin... your honor... your soul... that is the only thing you take to your grave."
Arlan had sworn it, his voice breaking. And when the last breath escaped the old man's chest, Arlan took his mentor's heavy sword and, in a gesture of clumsy but solemn ceremony, tapped his own shoulders. There were no kings, no holy oils, no septons. Only the wind and the promise of a dead man.
Robert died as he lived: without complaint, succumbing to a fever that devoured his lungs beneath that oak.
Arlan finished covering the body. He took his master's sword—which Robert had bequeathed to him before falling into his final sleep—and drove the point into the ground as he knelt before it.
"You are Ser Arlan now," he told himself, though the words felt hollow in the vastness of the woods. "May the Seven judge you justly, Ser Robert. You were more of a father than the one I never knew."
.
A distant flash of lightning pulled him back to the present. Arlan pulled the reins of his traveling companions.
"Easy, Tornado," he whispered, patting the neck of the great warhorse Robert had ridden in a hundred tourneys. The animal neighed, recognizing the voice of its new master. Ash followed her master in silence.
They were warhorses, animals that had seen the worst of man, and now they depended on a boy who was only just learning how to be a man.
Arlan sighed, feeling the weight of loneliness. He did not know what path fate held for him. He could remain a hedge knight, sleeping under the stars with an empty stomach, or perhaps, if luck smiled upon him in the lists, some lord might see his worth and take him into his service.
Upon reaching the outskirts of Storm's End, the sight took his breath away. The tourney grounds were a wound of color upon the green grass. The fresh wooden palisades smelled of resin, and the stands were already being adorned with the colors of a hundred different houses. Beyond, the field for the melee was being leveled by dozens of workers.
Arlan headed to the common stables. The smell of dry straw and manure offered a comforting familiarity.
"Take good care of them," he told the stable boy, handing over a couple of copper coins that pained his purse. "Give them some hay and a few apples."
Later, he sought out a tent where they served stew to men-at-arms. He ate in silence, watching the high-born knights pass by with their engraved armor and shining shields. He had only his height and the teachings of a dead bastard.
Suddenly, a sound tore through the air: trumpets. They were long, made of polished gold, and their call was a command.
"They are coming!" someone in the crowd shouted.
The smallfolk crowded the sides of the kingsroad like a human tide. Thanks to his imposing stature, Arlan did not have to struggle to see. Over the heads of the others, he watched the procession with interest.
To his eyes, everything seemed to slow down for a moment: the banners of the three-headed dragon, red upon a field of absolute black, fluttering to the rhythm of the horses' hooves.
Then, the blinding glint of the sun on white. The Kingsguard, their white cloaks flowing like swan wings and armor that seemed made of pure light, surrounded the retinue in two rows to protect the royal family.
In the center, atop a horse black as night, rode King Aerys II Targaryen. His golden crown with ruby points flashed, though his face seemed sunken in shadows—a mask of severity and distrust. Beside him rode Prince Rhaegar, handsome and distant, with an expression of melancholy that did not seem to belong to a groom interested in his betrothal.
But it was the next group that caught Arlan's attention. Among the horses, he could distinguish the younger Prince. His horse went slower; in fact, he slowed to a crawl upon entering the aisle of the crowd. For a brief moment, Arlan could have sworn his eyes met those of the boy of thirteen name-days. Prince Daeron, the Young Targaryen, did not look at the crowd with the King's clear distrust, nor with his older brother's melancholy; he had a more relaxed gaze, a pleasant smile on his face as he waved and took an apple from a little girl.
That was how he had always imagined a Royal Prince to be—close to his people... just as the stories said King Aegon V had been when he was "Egg," the squire to Ser Duncan the Tall.
Arlan stood firm, his hand resting on the pommel of Ser Robert's sword. As the royal cavalry passed, the wind brought a breeze while the crowd began to disperse. In that moment, Arlan became more aware of where he stood. He had no lands, not much gold, nor a royal lineage. He had only his master's sword, his height, and the stubborn hope that, in a world of kings and men of power, an honest man could make a difference.
He adjusted his cloak with a sigh and turned to merge into the crowd. The Longshanks knight was ready to take his place in history, even if he did not yet know what it was.
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Written by me, translated by AI. Let me know if you find any errors.