The sun hung low over the crags of the Prince's Pass, painting the ravine in bleeding gold. Wind howled between the rocks like a warning whispered by ghosts. Maeron rode at the head of the small column, his six sworn companions close behind.
They had not spoken much that morning. Tension was a silent companion. Even the horses seemed to tread more carefully.
"Riders two miles ahead," called Ser Derren Fell from the rear. "Smoke rising from behind the stone ridge."
Maeron raised a hand. The line halted.
He drew a shallow breath and scanned the terrain. The path narrowed ahead, hemmed by jagged cliffs on one side and a steep drop on the other. A perfect place for an ambush—he'd seen it before. Not in this life, but in another. His heart beat calmly.
"Swann," he said quietly. "Take the ridge. See what lies above the smoke. Penrose with him."
"Aye," the two riders said without question, already dismounting.
"Toyne," Maeron continued, "circle left and wait for a signal. If you hear shouting, ride hard into the pass and split them from behind."
"And if I see arrows before I hear shouting?"
Maeron turned his golden-amber gaze on him. "Then avenge us."
Ser Toyne grinned and vanished into the rocks.
Only Ser Derren Fell and the Emberwake sword brothers remained at his side now. The moment stretched.
"We move," Maeron said, and nudged his horse forward.
---
The smoke thickened as they approached. It wasn't the clean burn of campfire or cookfire. It smelled of oil, meat, and blood.
A cart was overturned in the center of the pass, wheels still spinning. One horse lay dead in its traces, the other still bucking in panic. Three corpses in peasant garb lay sprawled nearby—two men, one woman.
And standing around them were six armed men with mismatched gear and cruel eyes. Bandits. The kind that haunted the Marches like flies on rot.
Maeron stopped ten paces away.
"Stormlands riders," one of the bandits sneered. "Lord Caron already sent his lapdogs?"
"We're no dogs," Ser Fell said, resting his hand on his sword. "And you're about to learn why."
"Seven against six," one of the others laughed. "Hardly fair. For you."
Maeron dismounted in silence.
He stepped forward alone, hands empty.
"I am Maeron of House Emberwake," he said, his voice calm and measured. "Lay down your arms and your lives will be spared. Resist, and we end you."
The bandits blinked.
Then burst out laughing.
"The boy wants to play war!" one hooted. "Maybe we'll send his bits back to his mother in a sack!"
The man stepped forward with a heavy sword and murder in his eyes.
Maeron moved.
In one fluid motion, he unsheathed his blade and swept it low. The bandit's leg came out from under him in a spray of blood. The man hit the ground screaming—until Maeron ended it with a second strike, fast and clean.
For a moment, the other bandits froze.
Then chaos erupted.
Steel clashed. Shouts echoed in the narrow pass. Ser Derren roared as he engaged two at once. One of the Emberwake swords took a spear through the side, but dragged the man who struck him down into the dirt.
Maeron moved through it like water.
Each movement came to him before it was needed. A step back, a parry, a downward strike—he didn't think, he *remembered*. The sounds around him dulled, like the world had narrowed to blade, breath, and blood.
Another bandit lunged with a dagger. Maeron pivoted and caught the man's wrist mid-thrust. He twisted, disarmed, and drove his pommel into the man's temple. The bandit crumpled without a sound.
From the cliffs above, the shrill whistle of Ser Swann's signal cut through the chaos.
Seconds later, Ser Toyne and the rest rode in from behind.
It was over in moments.
When the dust cleared, five bandits lay dead. One crawled away, wheezing and clutching a ruined leg. Maeron walked up to him, sword still in hand.
"You'll ride to Blackhaven," he said. "Tell them House Emberwake answered. Tell them we are not forgotten. Do you understand?"
The bandit nodded, blood leaking from his mouth.
Maeron looked down at him for a moment.
Then turned away.
---
They burned the bodies in the old style—stacked on a pyre, facing west with stones laid over their hearts. The bandits, too. Death was still death, and Maeron could not forget the feel of warm blood on his fingers.
Ser Derren approached as the sun dipped low.
"You killed three of them," he said. "You're not like other boys."
"I'm not like other boys," Maeron said softly. "But I'm still learning."
"You've got a gift," Derren said. "Like your father. I remember him in the Marches. Calm in chaos. Quick hands. Cold eyes. You've got all that. And more."
Maeron didn't answer.
He wasn't sure what to say. The truth was more complicated than blood or inheritance.
Inside him, something stirred.
He hadn't just fought like a seasoned knight—he *was* one. Somewhere deep in his bones, Calrian still lived. And not just him. Something older. Something waiting.
---
They returned to Storm's Heart a week later. Lord Caron had sent word of thanks, but the real response came in the form of a raven from Storm's End itself.
Lord Orys Baratheon had heard of the boy knight who dispatched a bandit ambush with barely a scratch. A child of a minor house who fought like fire.
Elira read the letter aloud with careful composure.
"House Emberwake is summoned to attend Lord Baratheon's court within the moon's turn. To stand in witness, and in judgment, as new bannermen are appointed to the eastward frontier."
Her voice betrayed nothing. But her eyes gleamed.
"Your father once rode beside Lord Orys," she said. "Perhaps it is time his son stood beside him too."
Maeron said nothing. He watched the flames in the hearth flicker and sway toward him again, as if eager to leap free.
He wondered what they saw in him.
---
That night, Maeron stood alone in the family crypt.
Stone effigies of Emberwake men lined the hall, most without names. The bloodline was old, but history had not always remembered them.
At the far end stood Calrian's likeness—bronze armor carved in miniature, sword resting across his lap. The phoenix crest half-melted by fire.
Maeron knelt before him.
"I remember you," he whispered. "I *am* you."
There was no reply, but the air seemed to thrum with recognition. Not warmth, but acknowledgment.
Maeron stood slowly and looked down at his own hands.
He knew what he was now.
But no one else could.
Not yet.