Trace

Even from a distance, our destination was unmistakable.

High Heart, that venerable, ancient hill.

Lord Elmo shifted in his saddle, "We're not going there, are we?"

I chuckled, "You disapprove?"

"The smallfolk think it's haunted. Maester Quincy said so."

"All the more reason to visit then."

The summit of High Heart proved an incredible camping spot. Thirty-one enormous round stumps encircled its crown, remnants of an ancient grove of Weirwoods tended to by the children, some wide enough to accommodate a king-sized bed.

As the men set up camp, my gaze was fixed to the east. For miles around, nothing but flat grasslands stretched out.

We spent the day idling about the camp, merely there out of obligation to witness High Heart in its glory.

What a sight it was. Clouds wafted below us like wandering sheep. A gentle breeze cooled our skin, the azure sky seemingly watched over by Macumber himself.

Nightfall cast our campfire as a beacon amidst the surrounding darkness. In the distance, scattered glows from distant villages resembled flickering candles in a phantom dance of lights.

Captain Asher approached me. "A great spot, my Prince. Twould alert us to any approaching party."

"Agreed."

I took a deep breath, savoring the evening air, noticing Asher standing there, gawking.

"Something on your mind, Captain?"

Asher winced, "No sir, not at all. I've just always wondered what you see when you look out there."

I raised a brow, "Whatever do you mean?"

"Sometimes when the lads are sparring," Asher said, "Or during the march, you have this look... the same when you greet the smallfolk or write your letters. There's a smile."

It dawned on me that after shedding blood, sweat, and tears together, this was the first time Asher, as rigid as he had ever been, took the chance to broach a personal topic with me.

For a moment, I pondered Asher's words.

"There's much to smile for. You, for instance, how you are with the men. It's clear you care deeply for our comrades. Your pride in our army discipline... I've seen many soldiers inspired by your example."

Asher gave me a puzzled, yet kindly expression, urging me to elaborate. I laughed before giving him my honest answer.

"We've traveled much of Westeros, the lot of us. Many nights, I find a quiet spot in camp and soak in the country."

I gestured to the vast black expanse of the Riverlands below, where the grass failed to reflect the starry sky. But amid that darkness were stars of distant villages.

And that smile came to me. "Even now, when I close my eyes... I can imagine the hum of families at supper, their talk of dreams, wishes, and happenings."

Sometimes, the weight of an entire kingdom sobers me to ironic laughter. Other times, it's how insignificant it all feels — be it with the stroke of a pen or a swoop of dragon fire — how easily it could disrupt all those lives.

"Gone with barely a trace, much like these Weirwoods here," I whispered my mind.

Asher squinted, even more perplexed. "Huh?"

To spare him confusion, I redirected the conversation to tasks and duties.

"Are the horses tended to?" I asked.

Asher snapped back to soldier mode, "Grazing as we speak, my Prince."

"Good."

Our camp had a central fire surrounded by many smaller ones. We sat at Weirwood stumps, using them as tables.

There was wine and ale, only as much as any man cared to carry. Camping without tents or wagons, we slept with boots on, eyes fixed on the stars, using our saddles as pillows.

Cast iron woks sizzled all around. Thinly cut lamb stir-fried in lard alongside carrots, onions, diced garlic, sliced leeks, sprinkled with thyme and rosemary. The coarse salt melted into the juices, rendering the meat tender in its buttery goodness.

Meanwhile, Evelyn made a salad of thinly sliced onions and cucumbers bathed in a potent, vinegary red wine. It was a piquant salad that induced heartburn, yet our faces twisted in sour pleasure all the same.

After satisfying our hunger, our group settled into murmurs. Occasionally, one fireplace would erupt in laughter, sparking a chain reaction throughout the camp.

People wandered from fire to fire, helping themselves to hot drinks and burnt sausages, bantering with whoever crossed their path.

It must have been close to midnight, the camp immersed in a timeless haze when I wandered.

To my surprise, I found young Lord Elmo sharing a fire with none other than Chit Chattington!

Sari Sicai was sharpening his blades, Zane close by.

Not to mention Dirty Douglas and Ivan the Slinger, among the grungiest as far as the streets of King's Landing were concerned.

The young heir apparent to the Riverlands was surrounded by a band of rogues! I had to intervene. What would his lady mother think?!

"Evening, lads," I greeted them, "Behaving appropriately, I presume?"

"I was just recounting our adventures to the young Lord," Chit said proudly.

Douglas scoffed, "All yer made-up stories."

"I'm as decorated as any soldier here!"

"Yes, I saw how you panicked in the Kingswood. Decorative then, weren't ya?"

I ignored their banter. "What are you doing?" I asked, as Lord Elmo inspected some Rhaenari equipment. Sari's whetstone continued to scrape against steel like a sharp heartbeat.

Zane rubbed his neck, "The lad wanted to check out our gear. Apologies, Prince, I saw no harm in it."

"Not that it mattered," said Sari, "He couldn't even lift the shield off the ground."

The men laughed at that.

"Hey!" protested Lord Elmo, "It's not my fault. Why is it so heavy?"

"Crossbows pack a mighty punch," I explained, "And what of Summer Islanders, those famed archers with goldenheart bows? Reports indicate their white swan ships can shoot at other ships from 600 feet away.

"Even the Dornish yew cannot match such distance. Bows made of dragon bone or Weirwood are rarer still, but that's unimportant. We prioritize troop safety. Hence, we continually review our gear designs. The shield is no exception."

My purple eyes twinkled as I saw them reflected in Lord Elmo's. For a moment, I recalled a conversation with Nissan from my distant prison days, his spiritual values intriguing me then.

But I didn't speak of light or oneness, rich seas or honeyed forests or sunshine or stretching~

I spoke of war. Logistics and supply lines. Of industry and engineering. Mines and roads. Pasture and farmland. And beneath that surface, these words lay the cold thought of a winter that may not come.

"That said," I teased the young Lord, "These shields are especially heavy. We're marching through friendly lands, after all. Why not subject ourselves to the burden of steel? Bahaha!"

My laughter boomed. Few joined in, but most groaned. My men had attuned their ears to my voice, accustomed to my commanding tone on the battlefield.

But I knew my Rhaenari bore no grudge. We prided ourselves on hard work. Our heavy shields were seen as a challenge. Not one man dared to complain, not when their Prince marched alongside and carried the same weight.

As the clamor subsided, Elmo piped up, "Might I have one of those black daggers?"

The request elicited disgust from the men. Even I struggled to maintain a composed, politically astute demeanor. "These dragon glass daggers are reserved for those who've traversed our path and sworn our words. It signifies one as Rhaenari.

"The gravity of such an item is beyond your grasp. It's not that we'd object to your joining our ranks, but there's a reason why you don't hear tales of lords forsaking their birthrights to enlist in the army."

"There's a first time for everything," Zane chimed in. "That's what mum always said."

Chit, unable to resist, added, "That was her plea to the Seven, 'Let today be the day my son finally says something clever!'"

"My point exactly," I interjected, speaking over their bickering. "This isn't a place for lords and ladies, not without proper training."

Lord Elmo embraced the challenge with childlike confidence, "I can train harder than anyone!"

Sari Sicai scoffed, "Sure you can."

"Why not walk before you run?" I advised, raising diplomatic hands. "You are the heir to the Riverlands. Do all you can to absorb knowledge in your studies with your maester. Eventually, your father will introduce you to governance. You'll shadow him, listen during meetings, and grasp the responsibilities of stewardship.

"If you're prudent, you'll appreciate the rich history of this place: the Riverlands! Can you sense it, Elmo? That tingling in the air? Similar to the Reach, but something here is different.

"I sensed it upon our arrival. From the Stormlands to the Reach, the Westerlands, and now here… each region possesses its climate and mythical quality. This is an ancient land. Our years are but specks of sand compared to the earth Westeros."

My rambling successfully silenced young Elmo.

Suddenly, it struck me that Sari, usually aloof, lacked context about our journey. I steered the conversation elsewhere.

"Ah, I see. You aren't familiar with these lands or why High Heart is so significant."

Sari shrugged, "I care little for stumps."

"Yet, it's worth knowing," I persisted, catching the young Lord Elmo's eager gaze, ready for a story.

So that's precisely what I did, much to Sari's displeasure.

"The history of the Riverlands began with the arrival of the Andals. They crossed the Narrow Sea, quickly conquering the Vale. These invaders claimed the Vale and sought dominance across the continent.

"They sailed their longships up the Trident's three branches, fighting in bands led by 'chieftains,' later named kings by septons. They gradually encroached upon the many petty kings whose lands bordered the rivers.

"Songs from that era echo tales of death, where old kings perished and dynasties crumbled one by one.

"The Fall of Maidenpool and the death of its boy king, Florian the Brave, Fifth of That Name.

"Or the Widow's Ford, where Lord Darry's sons valiantly battled Andal warlord Vorian Vypren and his knights, only to succumb after a day and a night, slaying hundreds.

And tale of the White Wood, where children of the forest reportedly emerged from a hollow hill, sending a horde of wolves against the Andal camp beneath a crescent moon.

"Then the Battle of Bitter River, where Brackens of Stone Hedge and Blackwoods of Raventree Hall united, shattered by the charge of 777 Andal knights bearing the seven-pointed star of the Faith upon their shields.

"The Andals viewed the old gods of the First Men and the children of the forest as demons, desecrating weirwood groves with steel and fire, destroying the great white trees, and hacking their carved faces.

"High Heart held special significance, crowned by ancient giant weirwoods, home to the children and their greenseers.

"When Andal King Erreg the Kinslayer besieged the hill, the children defended it, summoning clouds of ravens and wolf armies. But neither tooth nor talon matched the steel of the Andals, who slaughtered greenseers, beasts, and First Men, raising a hill of corpses beside High Heart.

"Some accounts suggest the children abandoned these lands before the Andals arrived. Regardless, the grove was destroyed.

"And now, only these stumps remain where once the weirwoods stood. Now, they serve as our dinner tables on a night camping with the boys. Pfft!"

Yawns became more frequent, and we retired to rest, leaning our saddles against the firewood stumps and laying our heads. Above, occasional shooting stars streaked the skies, prompting awe from the camp, soon transitioning into snores as we drifted asleep under the starlit sky.

Dawn approached, but at that moment, it hardly mattered.

'No rest for the wicked,' as the saying goes. I couldn't agree more.

Just before dawn, a mad, lunatic shriek erupted from camp, rudely awakening us all.

Upon discovering the culprit, we found Gorgous George curled up, fetal-like, near his saddle, head against the weirwood stump.

Evelyn shrugged, offering a comforting pat on George's shoulder.

When someone inquired about George's distress, all he could muster was, "I had a nightmare!"

Oddly enough, everyone began to nod in agreement.