Voices of the Innocent

Chapter 7 –

Caelum whimpered, his hands pressed tight against his ears as if they could block out the world.

Meredith sat close, her fingers running through the boy's hair, trying to lull him to sleep "Caelum shhh," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly, "Focus on just my voice…. Breathe. Close your eyes… breathe and focus on just my voice."

His sobs were muffled against the covers, his small body trembling. 

Cursed. 

Luke knew the Gods had cursed Caelum, destroyed his health, weakened his lungs, and tortured his very existence.

But this?

He watched from the shadows, unable to shake the sickening coldness that had settled in his bones. 

This was not sickness, not some strange ailment... something far darker. 

Dark Magic. Sorcery.

His little brother. Sweet, innocent, Caelum with dreams of being a Knight, of helping the weak, of protecting the innocent.

Cursed by the gods with vile magic.

Caelum's cries slowly subsided, replaced by ragged breaths. Sleep finally claimed him – a tortured, restless sleep filled with flinches and the occasional choked sob. 

He watched as Meredith finally lulled him to sleep.

Sleep held Caelum in its uneasy grip, but Meredith felt no such reprieve. She turned to Luke, her eyes pleading. He couldn't see the tears under her eyes, or the trembling of her hands, but the desperation in her voice was clear. "We have to help him, Luke."

His voice, usually full of warmth and wry humor, held a cold edge now. "The Seven-Pointed Star teaches, 'You shall not suffer the dark magicks to exist.'" He paused, then continued, a tremor running through his words, "The gods have cursed him with magicks.."

Meredith's mouth went dry. "Luke, what are you saying? You… You wouldn't… don't tell me y-you mean to kill him!"

He recoiled as if struck. "What?" 

Caelum whimpered at the increased noise, and Luke took in a harsh gulp of air, lowering his voice, glancing at his sleeping brother with a mix of tenderness and despair. "No! Gods, Mary, no! Never!"

"But then…." Her voice trailed off

"I don't…" Luke ran a hand through his hair, his frustration evident. "Caelum doesn't deserve this. I love him like my brother, Mary. But what can we do? You think I don't want to protect him? I don't know how!"

A flicker of hope sparked in Meredith's eyes. "Maybe Lady Alerie, or Lady Olenna… they've seen so much, perhaps they can help?"

Luke shook his head, desperately. "No. We keep this to ourselves, Mary. Do you truly believe they'll help? He's not some… some curiosity to them. He's…." His gaze fell back on Caelum. "The power in him, it's… Too dangerous. The Tyrells, kind as they may be, would sooner lock him away than risk a simple farm boy holding their secrets in the palm of his hand."

Meredith's brows furrowed. "But they're noble, Luke. Surely, they would understand, they would…"

"Understand?" Luke cut her off, his voice laced with a bitter cynicism. "They would understand that the Seven curse magic, that they swore oaths against it. They'd understand that the Seven have cursed him with magicks that pain and revile him. Even in his sleep. They would kill him, and then call it a kindness." His voice cracked as the reality sank in, a cold fist squeezing his heart. "We can't tell anyone, Mary. Please."

"But Willas and Garlan... they're his friends," she protested, a shaky note in her voice. "Lady Olenna, Lady Alerie they wouldn't do something so... so unforgivable."

Luke's gaze held a weary understanding that made Meredith's protest seem painfully naive. "They won't see his friendship with the little lords, Mary. If they know, they'll lock him away before Willas and Garlan even know Caelum is gone. Power, secrets, fear...those are the currencies they deal in, not the fickle friendships of children."

His words cut deep, but a flicker of defiance rose within her. "Still, the sept here in Harrentown... surely they would understand it's not his fault..."

"The sept?" Luke's voice rose a notch, a stark contrast to the hushed tones of the room. "Didn't you hear the stories, Mary? The scriptures? If anyone was going to see a demon and not a suffering boy, it would be them!"

"But there must be someone..." she whispered more to herself than Luke. "Ser Vortimer Crane, he's honorable, he wouldn't… Or Ser Quentin, a Tyrell himself, surely he…"

Luke burst out, a harsh edge to his voice he seldom directed at Meredith, "Mary, open your eyes! Stop being a naive girl. Haven't you learned anything at all?"

He took a harsh breath, trying to soften his tone, but the desperation remained. "Don't you remember, Mary? No knight came to help your father on the road, not when the bandits came. When they arrived, they watched as he died while they pandered to the unhurt lordling bastard. And Ser Quentin, a Tyrell himself, did he stand by my father after my father saved his life? No, he tossed him aside the moment the deed was done. Ser Quentin became a Knight in the war, for the deeds my father did, taking them for his own. As far as Ser Crane sees me, I'm no more than a stable boy to order around, not someone whose words hold any value. This isn't some tale where knights and septons rescue those in need, Mary," he said, his voice rough. "We're on our own in this, and the sooner you accept that, the sooner we can figure out how to keep Caelum safe."

Meredith's chin jutted out, a single tear trailing a defiant path down her flushed cheek. Despite the tremble of her lip, her eyes blazed. "Luke, how can you say that? Your master is Ser Crane himself! You're his page..."

"I know what I am, Mary," Luke interrupted, his own frustration rising. "I know the look in his eye when he addresses me. To him, I am just a stable hand with the fancy title of being his page. An up-jumped peasant boy. You don't know Ser Crane, not the way I do. I won't become a Knight, not because of Ser Crane. If I will, it will be of my own damned merit. The village doesn't know a damned thing!"

Meredith's tears spilled over. "I don't believe you!" she choked out. "All my life I've dreamed… Knights are good and noble, and true! You'll see, one day..."

"Mary, please," he said, softer this time. "We have to be smarter than this. Swear to me, not on my life, but Caelum's, that you'll never breathe a word of this."

"Maybe… we could ask Septon Mattheus?" It was a whisper, barely audible, as though even suggesting it was dangerous.

Luke shook his head slowly. "We can't risk it. Mattheus is kind, I'll give him that, but he's also a septon. The words of the Seven are his law, and that law says …" he couldn't bring himself to repeat the scripture again.

Meredith's voice rose in a desperate cry, "Then what do you want to do, Luke? Just… just watch as he suffers? I won't let that happen! I can't! Not when I thought... hoped he was getting better!"

Luke choked back a sob, "I don't know, Mary, I don't know." A thought, an old memory, flickered in his mind. "But…my mother, your Aunt Marna…they've always said Caelum was different. 'Blessed' they called him." His voice grew quieter with each word, the absurdity of it all hitting him.

Meredith nodded slowly, her gaze fixed on the slumbering Caelum with a mix of worry and a flicker of dawning comprehension.

Luke scoffed, a harsh, bitter sound. "Uncle Harlon and Aunt Elyna, I could understand. Their own child – of course, they'd see him as a blessing. Especially after, ...after their losses." His voice trailed off; he didn't need to remind Meredith of the tiny unmarked graves beside their little farmhouse. "But my own mother? Aunt Marna? They're…practical, sensible women. They know something… we need to know what."

Meredith met his gaze. "They see things in him, Luke. Things I don't understand. I don't see the blessing," she admitted, "just this...magic."

Luke's eyes were haunted, his expression troubled. "Magic," he whispered, then louder, as if the word itself caused pain, "Magic is a sword without a hilt. It will hurt him, Mary. More than we can even imagine."

Meredith nodded, the gesture small but resolute. "Which is exactly why we need help. Someone wiser, someone with knowledge, if not the Tyrell Lords or Ladies, and not Ser Crane or Ser Quentin, then another knight maybe, if not a Septon… or … or a maester?"

"Gods damn it, Mary!" Luke's voice rose with a frustration he'd been struggling to contain, "What part of 'keeping quiet' don't you understand? We find someone, and they'll either try to lock him up or kill him. Heresy, they will call it. Heretic he will be. There is no in-between!"

Meredith flared back, "And just what do you propose instead? Teach him this magic yourself? Dabble in the dark arts to 'save' him?"

"If I have to!" Luke shot back, then lowered his voice, a new determination in his eyes. "At least we can teach him control, focus. You've been doing it with him... focusing his mind on just your voice. I can do that."

She scoffed, "How? You already think you won't become a proper Knight! Now you're an expert on magic?"

Luke's anger ignited, his fists clenching. "Damnit, Mary, I'll do anything! I'm already working myself to the bone trying to become a knight. I made a promise to Caelum, and I won't break it, not like…not like…" He choked on the words, Uncle Harlon's promise kept ringing in his ears.

Meredith's tone was sharp, dripping with scorn. "Yet you don't trust your own abilities. Parmen Crane, now, he'd know what to do. He'd…"

A flicker of hurt masked by rage crossed Luke's face. "You think I'm jealous? Is that it, Mary? Do you think I am not trying? You can't see the truth enamored that you are with the pretty lordling?"

"At least he'll be a knight!" Her words stung.

Luke's voice was cold, filled with a fury meant to wound. "Fine, then go to your precious Parmen, or Ser Whoever-the-Gods-Damn-Hell pleases you! But you will not say a word about Caelum. You won't be the reason he ends up dead!"

Meredith's voice was cold, edged with a bitterness Luke had never heard from her. "Fine. Who needs you anyway?" She stood abruptly. "But if Caelum is hurt more than he already is, Luke, when we could have pleaded for help…. Gods help me, I'll kill you myself."

"I will expect you to," he replied wearily. "Now, I'll stay with Caelum. Try to teach him… whatever I can about focus, about… control. Keep a close watch." He paused. "You should go, Mary. Get back to your duties. That privy excuse won't hold Lady Alerie forever."

Meredith wiped at a stubborn tear, then asked, "Are you sure, Luke? You need to get back to Ser Crane too."

"Ser Crane can go to the pits of seven hells. He will be glad I am away, he can put all his focus on his son. I'll have learnt my place finally." His gaze met hers, filled with a resolve that belied the fear gnawing at his heart. "Don't worry about Caelum, Meredith. I made him a promise, remember? I was going to be his knight, him my squire. I…I'll teach him what I can, protect him however I can." His voice grew softer, a desperate plea. "But Mary…promise me. Don't tell anyone. Not yet. Not until we get home, until we can find some answers, from his parents, from… from our own."

Meredith nodded, then turned and left the room. As the door creaked shut, she whispered, "On Caelum's life, Luke. I swear it. I love that boy too. I won't tell a soul."

Alone now, Luke watched Caelum's troubled sleep. How could this child, sweet and trusting, be a knight when the gods themselves seemed to war against him? He'd brought Caelum here, to the heart of the tourney, to show him the harsh reality, the blood and sweat it took. He'd hoped to break Caelum of his childish dreams, but... not like this. Never like this.

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Every footstep boomed like a giant was stomping closer. Every shout, every laugh felt like a spear jabbing his ears. 

"Caelum?" Luke's voice pierced the noise, not sharp, but soft like it was when the foals got spooked. "It's too much, isn't it?"

Tears pricked Caelum's eyes, but he just nodded, clutching Luke's hand tight. It wasn't just loud, it was too much.

Like everyone at the tourney was whispering their secrets right into his ears, all at the same time.

Luke gave his hand a squeeze and led him away from the worst of the crowds. Down an alleyway, the noise softened a bit, like a roaring waterfall turning into a rushing river. Still bad, but...he could almost breathe again.

"Caelum, buddy," Luke knelt down so they were eye to eye, his own face a mix of worry and determination. "It's like…like there's a whole angry crowd inside your head, right?"

Caelum nodded, tears threatening to spill over now. Luke got it, always did, even though Caelum wasn't sure how to make the words explain it right.

"Remember our game, back at the inn?" Luke's smile was a bit shaky, a flicker of doubt along with the hope. "M-maybe... maybe we could try a big version? See if... if that helps?"

Caelum nodded, wincing at the pain in his head. "A-alright"

"We'll try!" Luke pointed towards a stall where sparks flew and metal clanked with rhythmic thuds. "Hear that blacksmith? Can you...maybe...hold onto just that sound? Push all the others away, just for a little bit?"

Caelum closed his eyes, scrunching his face up with how hard he tried. The clang…clang…clang was loud, but for a moment, the world tilted, and it was the only thing he could hear. Then a dog barked somewhere close, and the world crashed back, noisy and horrible again. A whimper escaped him. He couldn't do it. Not for long enough.

Luke's guiding hand disappeared for a moment, and Caelum was alone. The blacksmith's clang-clang-clang was his anchor...but it was starting to fray. Another sound snagged at him, a murmur that cut through the chaos like a sharp knife.

"...the King, have you seen him? Withered like an old corpse..." A woman's voice, hushed and fearful.

Then another, stronger, booming from somewhere close to the tourney grounds. "Jousting commences! Lord Tyrell of Highgarden against the fearsome Knight of Skulls!" The roar of the crowd drowned out whoever answered.

And then, a different kind of roar. Laughter, deep and rough like a bear, laced with words so foul Caelum didn't even understand them fully but knew they were bad. He'd heard men like that back in the village, after too much ale.

"...Princess Elia with child again, bless her..." That was softer, a woman. But then, like a needle on a spinning record, the whispers went dark again, "Ser Jaime, youngest Kingsguard ever... Gone, like the wind... to the capital."

"…. Another dream, my King? ... " A rough voice said, followed by the clanging of metal on stone.

Moans drifted on the wind, women crying out; some in joy, others in pain, and the rhythmic clapping. He desperately tried to quieten the noise.

Each new sound stabbed at his focus, fraying the blacksmith's rhythm until it snapped, and the roaring storm filled his head once more.

A hand touched his shoulder—Luke, back beside him. The worry on his face deepened. "Caelum, it's too much here." His voice was barely audible over the din. "Let's… try something else, alright?"

He sounded scared. Not just for Caelum, but scared of... something else. 

Caelum couldn't blame him; the swirling, whispering voices were terrifying. He was terrified too.

Luke led him away, further yet from the tourney and the heart of the market. As they walked, Luke spoke, his voice gentle, "Think of it like a storm, Cael. And you're at the very center. We need to build… like, a shelter inside your head. You ready to try again?"

Luke's grip tightened on Caelum's hand, and the gentle pressure was enough to draw him out of the swirling storm of voices. He blinked, and Luke's worried frown swam into focus.

With every effort, the roaring crowd in his head seemed to grow louder, like an angry sea crashing against a crumbling cliff. His skull throbbed in time with the pulsing beat of it all, a drum he couldn't stop.

"...Pia they called her, pretty..." A man's voice, rough and leering, floated out of nowhere, then was drowned out by the sharp crack of a lance and a cheer that made Caelum's eardrums ache. 

"Garlan's tunic has a stain, Meredith. Would you get a replacement dear? And clean this one." That was Lady Alerie, her voice echoing in Caelum's head along with a splash of water. But it barely registered before his own sister's voice, usually so cheerful, cut through him with a whispered plea, "..Seven above, if this is a curse, take it away..."

"...Ser Vortimer unhorsed him! Now Reach's master at arms against Ser Quentin his student in all but name... " The tourney herald's voice boomed like thunder, followed by another wave of screams that sent a sharp pain through Caelum's temples.

The moans and grunts and laughter from the far edge of town were worse, a jumble of sounds that painted images in his mind he desperately wanted to erase. He tried to focus, to build Luke's 'shelter', but it was like building sandcastles in a hurricane.

Then came the hot, wet trickle down his nose. A whimper caught in his throat, and he wiped at his face with a shaking hand. Red streaked his fingers.

"Caelum!" Luke's alarm broke through the storm. "We need to go. Somewhere quieter." He pulled Caelum along, his voice tense, barely a whisper. "Just a little further, buddy. Hold on, alright?"

They left the alleyways and noisy streets behind, venturing into open fields beyond the town. Here, the sounds softened into a dull roar. Luke halted by a lone oak tree and knelt, meeting Caelum's teary eyes.

"Okay," he said, his voice steadier now, "let's try again, but different this time. Instead of building a whole shelter... pick just one sound. My voice, okay? Hear just me, push everything else away."

Caelum squeezed his eyes shut, trying to follow. 

"Caelum, listen," Luke began, soft but insistent. "Remember that story about Ser Arthur Dayne? How he fought

off an entire band of brigands, all by himself…"

Luke's voice, steady and familiar, wove a tale of bravery and honor. But whispers snaked around the edges of his focus, slithering past the shield.

"...Lady Shirey Whent, Queen of Love and Beauty!" A man's voice, boasting and proud. And the distant roaring cheer of a crowd.

Then a different voice cut through Luke's story, "...just flowered ones, be gentle, gods…". It was followed by laughter, rough and ugly, and then a woman's tearful sob that made Caelum's stomach twist.

The shield in his mind quivered.

"...find that Pia wench, she's newly flowered", they said "show 'er a real man..." Footsteps and more rough laughter, moving away, growing fainter,

but still a jagged crack in the shelter Luke's voice had become.

He pressed his hands against his ears, but the voices kept coming, swirling and whispering. Luke's story lost its shape, replaced by the relentless hum of the world. He focused harder, more desperately on Luke's voice.

"…. The sword of the morning was brighter than the sun itself." He was saying. His voice had become clear, the rest a dull echo in the reaches of his mind.

Finally, Caelum gulped, and with a small shaky voice, he said, "Luke... I can only hear you."

Luke knelt closer, "That's it, Caelum, perfect! You did it!" Relief washed over his face, mixed with lingering concern. "Now, let's try something else. You focus on my voice, then pick another voice…anyone talking in the town. Keep everything else out, and tell me…what are they saying?"

Caelum shivered. The thought of reaching out into that swirling chaos again – it made him want to curl up in a ball and shut everything out, forever. He bit his lip, then forced himself to lift his head.

"It's...scary," he admitted in a whisper, "What's wrong with me, Luke? Why are all the voices in my head? Why have the Gods cursed me?"

Luke's hand settled on his shoulder, warm and reassuring. "I don't know, Caelum. But it's not your fault. I swear, we'll figure it out…together. You're not alone in this. The Gods… they … they have something in mind for you. They have given you this magic, for what I do not know. But I will help you master it. I swear it. But… you must promise me, something. Never. Ever. Tell anyone that you can do this. Magic isn't something they will

love. Promise me Caelum!"

"Alright, I promise. I won't tell anyone." he managed, voice trembling a little. 

The sun was higher in the sky now, casting long afternoon shadows.

With a shuddering breath, he reached out to the voices. It felt like wading into an icy river, the current of voices trying to drag him under. He clung to Luke's words as an anchor, and slowly, the background roar dimmed a fraction.

Voices swam in and out of focus. A woman chattering angrily about a broken pitcher... a blacksmith cursing as his hammer slipped... then, the herald's booming announcement: "The day's jousting is ended! But the festivities are not at an end, Lord Whent has arranged for the most delicious spread imaginable, fit for our King and Queen herself!"

Then, another voice clearer, louder "...that Pia, works at the buttery, doesn't she? Too pretty for the buttery that one." A man's voice, rough and leery.

"Well, she'll serve a knight just fine, won't she? Pretty little thing... a proper whore in the making, we'll show her the proper way to make coin." Another voice laughed. 

They were far, somewhere towards the castle, and the words sent a jolt of fear through Caelum.

"No!" The word burst from him, and he was running before Luke could even react. 

Fear propelled him forward, a frantic need to protect this Pia, even though he had no idea who she was.

"Caelum! Wait!" Luke was calling after him, his voice strained with worry.

"No time!" Caelum shouted back, his breath hitching in his chest. "They'll hurt her!"

The voices in his head were clearer now. His focus entirely on her. He could hear them getting closer to the castle, their banter echoing off the

ancient stone walls.

"Cael, please!" Luke was gaining on him, fear and anger mixing in his voice. "You don't know what you're running into!"

Caelum didn't stop, his small feet moved with surprising dexterity as he made a mad dash for the giant castle in the distance.

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Every stride echoed Caelum's frantic words in Luke's head – they'll hurt her. 

Fear and guilt warred within him. He didn't want Caelum running into a danger he was not supposed to witness.

"Caelum! Stop!" His voice was a hoarse rasp, but the boy surged onward, a streak of white linen amidst the swirling crowd. It was late afternoon, and the tourney-goers were returning, making the chase even more treacherous.

Luke dodged around a startled merchant and nearly tripped over a squalling child. "Seven Hells..." he gasped, shoving past a pair of gossiping women. 

An image of Caelum grabbed, pulled into the shadows, made his stomach clench. 

"Please, gods, don't let him draw attention." He prayed as gave chase.

The boy was impossibly fast for his size, weaving through the crowd with desperate agility. 

Luke willed himself to match the pace, his heart threatening to hammer its way out of his chest. They'll hurt her. Who was "they"? How many? What kind of monsters attacked helpless girls in the middle of a tourney? A cold fury mingled with his fear, a determination to protect this unknown girl, whoever she was.

And then, an almost unbearable thought struck him. What if ...what if this was why the gods had touched Caelum with their awful gift? Had they cursed him, so he could be their eyes and ears in the darkness? So, he could hear the cries that others couldn't?

He rounded a corner, breath burning in his lungs. Ahead, Caelum darted under the raised arm of a knight, barely avoiding a collision. The sight sent a jolt through Luke – knights meant they were getting closer to Harrenhal itself, to prying eyes, to more danger. If someone of rank caught Caelum now, their secret might not remain hidden for long.

A flicker of white near the looming castle walls caught Luke's eye - Caelum! The boy was heading toward a squat stone building, set a little apart from the main bustle of the castle grounds. The buttery, of course. 

Isolated, away from the castle. Close enough for constant supplies of butter to the castle and the town itself.

Caelum skidded to a halt just outside the rough wooden door. He tried the door, but it wouldn't budge, he darted around the side of the building, frantically searching for an entrance. Luke's insides twisted – he was almost there.

"Caelum! Stop!" His voice was breathless, barely above a whisper. The boy whirled, his eyes impossibly wide in his small, flushed face.

"Luke," he gasped, "I can hear them! The bad men... they're in there." His voice was laced with a terror that made Luke's throat tighten. He knelt, placing a hand on Caelum's trembling shoulder.

"Tell me, Cael," he said, keeping his tone low and urgent, "what did you hear? What makes you think someone is being hurt?"

Caelum shivered, his words tumbling out in a rush. "Voices... rough voices, and a girl crying... and...and laughing..." His voice choked on a sob. "They said they would... they said..."

He couldn't finish. But Luke didn't need him to. The fury that had been simmering within him exploded into icy resolve.

"How many men, Cael?" He had to know. Every detail mattered now.

Caelum blinked back tears, then seemed to focus. "Two," he said, his voice a little stronger.

Luke nodded, his mind racing. "Caelum, I need you to be brave. Can you find a guard? A knight? Anyone who can help? And please …. Do not tell them what you can hear! Swear on the Gods! On your Ma!" his harsh tone seemed to scare the younger boy.

Caelum gulped and nodded "I will not tell anyone! I swear on my Ma!" then spun and darted away, back towards the castle. 

Relief washed over Luke, quickly replaced by a grim determination. He turned towards the buttery, his heart pounding a battle rhythm in his chest.

The wooden door was no match for Luke's desperate strength. It splintered easily, the sound muffled by the cruel laughter he heard inside. 

He took a steadying breath, then stepped into the dim interior.

A wave of nausea washed over Luke as he crossed the threshold. The laughter inside was even worse than he'd feared - coarse, taunting barks punctuated by a girl's choked sobs. He heard fabric ripping, and a sickening, "Enjoy this, little dove... we will give you good coin for this!"

His heart twisted, bile burning in his throat. 

He couldn't think about what else Caelum might be hearing, what horrors his sensitive ears were being subjected to. 

Not now. Focus, action, that was all that mattered.

Eyes frantically scanning the dimly lit room, Luke sought any kind of weapon. There – the corner where by the churned cream. 

He lunged for a short, heavy knife lying abandoned on the table. It wouldn't be much, but it was better than his bare hands.

Fingers closing around the smooth wooden hilt, he crept deeper into the buttery. The weeping grew louder, the men's taunts

more vile with each step. 

Then, the sight hit him like a physical blow.

The girl, no older than Meredith herself, was pinned to the floor, her simple dress torn from her shoulders. Two figures, guards from the castle, their backs to him and their armor discarded. Their discarded swords lay just out of Luke's reach at the far end of the room.

They loomed over her. One held her wrists, his grip bruisingly tight. The other... the other was fumbling with the fastenings of her skirt, a lustful sneer on his face. 

A strangled cry tore from Luke's throat. 

He charged, driven by a surge of white-hot rage. The man holding the girl never saw him coming. The knife plunged into the soft flesh below his skull, a sickening squelch echoing in the room. The girl's scream pierced the air as the man collapsed.

The other man whirled, eyes widening in a flicker of surprise, then rage. Luke spun, and lunged across the room to reach

the discarded swords. He had no other way of fighting off the larger man.

The force of the tackle sent Luke sprawling across the blood-slick stone. His head bounced painfully, and the man's knee came down hard on his chest, forcing a choked gasp from his lungs. The world spun, disorienting.

"Why!?" The man roared, his face inches from Luke's. Wild eyes, spittle flying from his lips. "Why did you kill Theo? Who the Seven Hells are you?"

Fingers gripped Luke's throat, the man's breath, hot and foul, washing over him. The girl's sobs, piercing and terrified, echoed against the buttery walls.

"You're her lover boy? Is that it?!" The man's voice was a mocking growl. His grip tightened, squeezing the life from Luke. "Gonna die for her, are you? Well, too late! You're dead, and I'll have her on your corpse!"

Each word was a nail in Luke's coffin.

Blackness crept into the edges of his vision. He tried to fight, to twist free, but the man's weight was crushing, his strength overwhelming.

"Just a bit of fun," the man hissed, his face contorted in a grotesque leer. "Should've left us to it, boy. Now Theo's gone... the sweet little dove will die too... "

The words barely registered in Luke's fading mind.

Through the swirling darkness and the pounding in his ears, Luke's gaze locked onto the girl. Her eyes were wide pools of terror, her trembling fingers clutched at the remnants of her dress, trying to cover her broken innocence.

The man's taunts echoed, muffled and distant. "No hero, you are... just a whelp... too late..." His grip tightened, each agonizing breath feeling like his last.

Then, a miracle. A new voice cut through the roaring in his head, clear and cold as winter steel. "That is confession enough, I should think."

The man's head snapped back, his grip loosening in surprise. Then his head was gone. Blood spattered Luke's face, the warm wetness somehow worse than the icy darkness that was claiming him. The man's body slumped beside him, utterly lifeless.

Luke blinked, disoriented. A figure materialized before him, armored in white, a longsword in hand. It dripped crimson. Long grey hair spilled out from beneath the helmet, framing a wisened face filled with a warrior's grim determination.

A strong hand hauled Luke to his feet, a gasp tearing from his burning lungs. 

The man stepped forward, his longsword a beacon in the dim buttery. He turned towards the girl, and her flinch tore at what remained of Luke's heart.

"Little one," the knight said, his voice surprisingly gentle, "It's over. No one will hurt you now."

He knelt, and Luke watched with mingled wonder and fear as the girl slowly uncovered her tear-streaked face. The knight's smile was a tentative thing, but it seemed to do more to calm her than a thousand reassurances would.

"I am Ser Barristan Selmy, of the Kings Guard," he said turning to Luke. "A child, mayhaps of six name days stumbled his way to me, begging for help as I was returning from the tourney grounds. He collapsed soon after, near screaming about this place... and... and clutching his head..." He hesitated, a shadow crossing his face.

"Caelum!" Luke's cry was ragged, the name ripped from the depths of his terror. Did the Knight know?

Ser Barristan looked at him, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "So that was the boy's name. I...well, I sent him towards the castle with one of the Tyrell maids, a woman named Meredith. She said she knew the boy. I did not fully believe his words, I confess... thought it the ramblings of a feverish mind..."

Luke sagged with relief. "He's my little brother."

Barristan nodded, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Then your little brother has not only saved your life today, but also helped an old knight regain a semblance of honor. " he trailed off, his face darkening for a moment, then almost inaudibly he whispered, his eyes staring at the weeping girl hauntingly "… at least here I can do a Knight's duty. I am so sorry, my Queen ."

The words hung heavy in the aftermath of the violence. Luke, trembling but regaining his composure, followed behind the Kingsguard as they led the whimpering girl out of the buttery, into the fading light of the afternoon.

"Little one," he said turning to the trembling girl, "do you have family? Someone you can turn to?"

Pia, still trembling, shook her head, tears spilling fresh from her wide eyes. A sob caught in her throat, choking the words she might have spoken. "I am Pia, Ser Knight"

"Pia," Barristan continued, his gaze softening, "you will come with me, then. To King's Landing. It's a long and fraught journey, child, but I shall see you safely there. We will find you a better place, a better way. Perhaps as a septa, under the protection of the Faith."

Pia, exhausted and overwhelmed, could do little more than nod. A flicker of gratitude shone in her eyes, a tiny beacon of hope in the midst of her despair.

With a gentle hand, she turned to Luke, the boy who had risked everything for her. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I... I don't know what would have happened..."

"Pia, those men are dead. And soon, I will rid their taint from the place as well. No one shall know of the events of the buttery, if that is what you wish." 

Barristan Selmy turned his attention to Luke. "And your name, young man? You have the heart of a true warrior. You will protect her innocence won't you."

"Luke, ser," he replied, bowing slightly. "I am a page Ser. I won't tell anyone."

The Kingsguard nodded. "A page, you say? You show great promise, Luke. You will make a fine knight yourself, one day."

Barristan placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, his touch surprisingly gentle for such a battle-hardened warrior. "But do not lose heart. Chivalry is not merely about the skill of the sword, but about the choices you make when no none is watching."

Luke felt his heart swell. 

Maybe, his mother was right. Caelum was blessed. And this was the will the Gods had for him.

x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x

(A/N) Barristan Selmy is being a little hypocrite.

This was a dark chapter to write. I hope I covered all my bases, and loose ends in this one. Barristan will handle the dead bodies, Pia goes to become a Septa (I feel like i need to justify this. He feels guilty about not doing anything for Rhaella when Aerys violates her, so this is his way of doing something about it), and our story continues.