History was one sequel after another; occasionally, the authors took too closely to the books of the past as they wrote the wars and wages of the present. Some histories loomed large, casting indomitable shadows across aeons, while others remained only footnotes, if, indeed, they remained at all. The book which had shaped the dawning age like no other was still fresh, ink having barely the time to dry on its page. A Flight Through Ashes: A History of the Restoration of House Targaryen, by Maester .
The young princeling had little need to consult the history books to learn of the reign of Daenerys I. She was still reigning when he'd been old enough to take to the sparring yards. But little … was prone to these little divergences; where one way had been easier and quicker, he'd often take the harder, slower path. That had endeared the two, early on.
The Prince Aemon he'd met was a clumsy, bookish, and unimpressive creature of eight years. They met on a sunny day; the southern heat was unbearable beneath the steel plate of the tourney-goers, and so the squires were busy tending to their masters. Ser Garmund Hightower was a more resilient man than most, however. He treated Amaury well, and often gave him some freedom between the lists. It was while basking in that freedom that he stumbled upon the young prince's cortege, and the course of his life was changed for the worse.
Amaury was well older, stronger, taller, and smarter besides. By ten and three he'd suffered the worst of his family's lows. His home at Brightwater had been snatched from his father—then late-father—and his house, however proud and vast it may have once been, was little more than a shattered glass pane with fragments here or there to be stepped upon by the arrogant lords empowered by the return of dragons. The old Lord Alester Florent had picked the wrong side, years upon years ago, and his offspring paid his price generations after.
The Dornish sun did not treat Targaryens tenderly, Amaury remembered. They weren't in Dorne, but its sun reached as far as Ashford without question. If not for his name, his guard, and the red blazoned dragon of three heads sewn into his gambeson, Amaury would have found him entirely unremarkable. He'd have been the type to be kicked around by the harder squires, and ignored by the kinder ones. Sweating and stammering to Ser Lewys Lychester, who shone in the bright sun with the white radiance of the Kingsguard, Amaury had only stopped when he recognized his master Ser Garmund at the prince's tail, helm beneath his arm with sweat-matted blond hair set loose. Had he missed the competition? Instinctively, Amaury ran to join his side. He hadn't thought twice of the impulse; a squire's impulse, and regretted it as soon as he began.
At first, one of the men of the cortege turned. Then, he'd said something of a warning—whatever it was, Amaury was set on his master, and heard nothing of it, nor would he have thought it directed at him. Then, the warning became a shout. When Amaury realized he'd come too close to the prince, one of the royal guards had his hand around the young squire's throat. Only then did the words begin to make sense.
"What do you think you're doing, little rat?" the man spat, his gloved fingers not quite tight enough to choke, but too tight to escape. "This is the prince's guard. Who are you?"
"I..." little Amaury stammered; now was his time to look foolish. It wasn't easy speaking through a gloved hand around your throat, eyes darting back and forth between the dozen armored, angry men before you.
"Hired, you reckon?" another man's voice asked.
"Maybe. Not the first time a princeling was attacked in these bloody Reach tourneys," the first one said, his grip now tightening. "I asked you a question, boy. Who are you?"
"My other squire," Ser Garmund said suddenly, shouldering through the crimson-blazoned guard. "Unhand him. Gods, unhand him."
The guard did. Amaury was then on the ground sputtering for air. Everything had moved so quickly; then, Ser Garmund had a hand on his shoulder, then he had gently pulled him back up.
"What were you doing?" he muttered, averting his eyes from the row of bewildered, glaring crimson guards. Amaury felt that all eyes were on him.
"Finding you, ser," Amaury replied softly. "I saw you and… I just…"
"No matter," he interrupted. "You charged the prince's escort. Apologize, Amaury."
Suddenly, the squire realized that the prince's eyes were on him too; two tiny grayish eyes, wide and confused, barely peering through the dozen men that encircled him, overshadowed him. He could scarcely see the boy's face.
"I… didn't mean to, ser," Amaury protested with a whisper.
"You are in my service," Ser Hightower said sternly. "You will make it right. Apologize."
Slowly, Amaury turned in full to the Targaryen guard, now an impenetrable formation of armored men. One curious eye could be made out through the mass of steel and scarlet. The squire turned to the white knight, who stood outside the circle and looked on the affair almost lackadaisically.
"I am very sorry, ser," he said, falling to his knees and bowing his head as low as it would without touching dirt. "I meant no harm."
"Naturally," Ser Lewys replied. "Just a bit foolhardy is all. My prince," he called.
The mass opened up a little, and little Aemon could be seen in full; besides his pale hair, he was no more remarkable than from afar, but a strange look covered his face. "You still didn't say your name."
Amaury lifted his head. "Amaury Florent, my prince."
"Florent," he repeated. "Ser Lewys, who are the Florents?"
As the Lychester began his answer, Amaury's blood rushed to his face in even greater embarrassment.
"An old house, my prince, though they are no longer landed. Theirs was Brightwater Keep, north of Oldtown."
"Who are the lords of Brightwater Keep today?" Prince Aemon asked on, while Amaury began thinking up prayers for the gods to extricate him from this terrible situation.
"That would be Lord Ryam Blackbar, my prince."
Amaury dipped his head back down at the name. He felt that he was probably red-faced now, though he knew not whether with shame or anger. Perhaps both. A moment of silence drew on. There was distant bustling of a crowd closer to the tourney ground.
"Amaury Florent," the prince said. "Get up."
He did.
"You are Ser Garmund's squire?"
Amaury had never met such a petulant child before, and he'd even met the brat Alekyne Tyrell. "Yes, my prince," he said, hoping for the whole affair to end swiftly.
"Then we shall be friends," Aemon said at once, breaking into a queer smile. "Tell him, Ser Garmund."
"Well…" his master began slowly, placing a gloved hand again on Amaury's shoulder. "I'd have waited until after the tourney, Amaury, but you changed those plans." He then gestured toward Prince Aemon, who was then standing with an expectant, innocent grin, his small eyes of gray now shining purple.
"At Her Grace's behest, I've taken on Prince Aemon. He'll be your junior squire."
That was over twenty years ago, now, Amaury recalled, the heat of a newer, hotter sun bearing down on him. As he looked indifferently upon the bustling commotion of distant city of Lys on the sun-specked horizon, his weight rocking with the current of the sea against the ship underneath him, he thought of Oldtown. All the years he spent trekking back and forth betwixt its old, white alleyways, from its highest and finest quarters to its deepest, lowest wards. He once had range of motion; he once had freedom. But as he neared the ancient, cosmopolitan Free City of the Lysene, he reminded himself that neither was his any longer. Now, all he had was duty.
"We shall be friends," little Aemon had said with the purest of smiles. Days later, when they'd parted again for Oldtown and were joined in company, he made an even greater promise. "You can have Brightwater Keep again, you know; one day, when I am king."
Brightwater Keep, Amaury thought, pulling back his tussled, windswept hair of graying red. Once, I'd have fought wars for that alone. But now… Would you have given me Lys, Aemon?
He spent the rest of the short voyage awaiting port, in quiet thought, his right hand fiddling with the pommel of a blade older than him. The sun still felt Dornish. Amaury still lived.
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