It was wet.
Endlessly, miserably wet. The ancient stone walls of the dungeon creaked under the weight of centuries, their surfaces slick with moss and spiderwebbed cracks that wept icy leaks like open wounds.
Rivulets trickled down in lazy paths, pooling on the uneven floor in shallow, filthy puddles that soaked into everything they touched.
The air hung heavy with the stench of horse shit, stale urine, and something rotting—maybe a rat, maybe a forgotten prisoner.
It clawed at my nostrils, a constant reminder that this was Westeros at its finest: grim, unforgiving, and utterly lacking in basic plumbing.
Chains longer than a man's height bound my wrists, dangling me just high enough that my toes scraped the ground in a futile bid for balance.
Every breath sent fresh spikes of pain through my ribs and up my throat, where bruises bloomed like ugly flowers from whatever 'welcoming committee' had worked me over.
They'd stripped me bare save for my breeches—small mercies, I suppose, sparing me the full humiliation of dangling like a plucked chicken in a butcher's window.
"Still breathing, I see. Thought the cold stones got you, lad?"
The voice rasped from the gloom across the cell, belonging to the old bastard with a beard like tangled wire and a grin missing half its teeth.
He chuckled at his own jest, phlegm rattling in his chest like dice in a cup. If my hands weren't chained and he hadn't looked like he'd shatter under a stiff breeze, I'd have helped him lose the rest of those teeth. Alas, chivalry was on hold.
Old Oak had looked so damn inviting from afar—lush green hills rolling like a tapestry, those massive oaks standing sentinel like they owned the place, banners fluttering with three green leaves on gold. The Reach's hospitality, right? Guess I'd managed to piss it off royally. Or maybe it was just me.
The plan had been flawless. Airtight. Until, of course, it exploded in my face like a wildfire in a hayloft.
"Look at those scars—nasty. Bastard must've been a slave from across the Narrow Sea."
Another voice slithered in, oily and mocking. I caught a glimpse of him: shaven face stretched tight over sharp bones, balding head gleaming under the faint torchlight. A raper, the whispers among the guards had said. Multiple counts, if the rumors held. Men like him always found their way to places like this, stinking up the air even more.
How the hell had it come to this? Dropped into this godforsaken world with a head full of meta-knowledge—plots, prophecies, the whole bloody song of ice and fire—and here I was, playing prisoner in a minor lord's basement. One wrong word, one forged letter too clever by half, and poof: instant dungeon crawler.
"I am no slave," I said, pitching my voice just loud enough to cut through the murk without shouting.
The cell fell into a hush for a moment, the kind that happens when everyone's waiting for the other shoe to drop. Then the chatter bubbled up again, low and speculative.
"Look at that," the raper chuckled, his laugh wet and ugly. "Was beginning to think they'd ripped his tongue out along with his dignity."
"Guess not," the old bastard wheezed, joining in like they were old drinking buddies. "But I wouldn't count on keeping it long. Heard he's a pretender—faked the sacred oath like some mummer's farce."
A third man stirred in the shadows—bearded, burly, with eyes that weighed you like a merchant appraising dubious coin. He fixed me with a judging stare, the kind that stripped away pretenses.
"I've seen many a knight in my days, lad," he rumbled, voice gravelly from years of... whatever hells he'd survived. "But none quite like you. How do they call you?"
Before I could spin a name—the heavy iron door at the top of the stairs groaned open. Boots thudded down the steps, echoing like thunder in the confined space. The cellmates tried to scramble back, chains clanking in futile protest, but there was no escaping the inevitable.
The guards poured in, clad in Oakheart green-and-gold, spears at the ready. Leading them was a man who screamed authority from every pore: tall and lean, with a beard streaked white down the middle like a lightning bolt through coal-black sides.
His grey hair was slicked back severely, a longsword hung at his hip in a well-oiled scabbard, and the sigil of House Oakheart—three oak leaves on a yellow field—adorned his cloak like a badge of unyielding pride. Lord of Old Oak, or damn close to it. The air thickened with his presence, the damp chill seeming to bow before him.
"Get these two to the cart!" he barked, his voice a whipcrack.
The soldiers hauled up my cellmates—the raper and the old bastard. The raper started blubbering immediately. "Mercy, my lord! Have mercy, I beg of you!"
"You'll find your mercy at the Wall, bastards!" The lord's boot lashed out, connecting with the raper's mouth in a spray of blood and spittle.
The man crumpled, gurgling, as the guards dragged him away.
The old one went quietly, compelled by some inner resignation, shuffling behind them like a ghost already halfway to the grave.
It wasn't long before their echoes faded, and the lord turned his attention to me. He stepped forward slowly, deliberately, his boots squelching in the muck.
"So. It was you," he said, his tone laced with controlled fury. "The one who came here pretending to be a knight."
I raised my head, meeting his gaze without flinching.
Pain be damned—eye contact was power here.
"I was not pretending, my lord."
He paused, drawing closer. His eyes roamed over my torso, lingering on the web of scars that twisted across my skin like a mad cartographer's map.
"It was one thing to pretend the sacred oaths," he growled, his glare sharpening as his eyes lifted to lock with mine. "But it is entirely another matter when you bring a letter from my dead brother."
Ah, yes. That was the exact moment my brilliant plan had imploded. The forged missive from the late Lord Talen—secrets whispered, alliances hinted at, all designed to get me through the gates. Too bad dead men tell no tales... or confirm forgeries.
"Lord Talen was alive when he sent me—"
I didn't get to finish. His palm cracked across my face, the impact ringing through my skull like a bell. Stars danced; blood welled on my tongue.
"Silence!" he roared, face twisting in rage. "You dare speak his name, mummer?"
He huffed, his hand dropping to rest on the scabbard, fingers twitching as if tempted to draw steel and end the charade right there. I could see it in his eyes, the calculation, the restraint barely holding.
"If it were up to me, you'd be a head on a spike by now, ravens feasting on your eyes." His voice curled with barely contained anger. "Be thankful my lady mother is as merciful as she is, for letting you draw breath this long."
The sword whispered free from its sheath, the cold metal edge pressing against my chest, right over my heart.
The point dimpled my skin, a hair's breadth from drawing blood.
His eyes traced my scars again, fascination warring with disgust.
"What are you?" he demanded, leaning in closer, his breath hot and laced with wine. "An assassin? Pit fighter? A sellsword? What are you?"
I opened my mouth, ready with something sharp, maybe a quip about being the ghost of his brother's regrets, but fate intervened.
The door groaned open again, and the guards returned, led by a knight in full plate, his helm tucked under one arm.
"My lord," the knight said, voice muffled by deference. "Lady Oakheart has called for the criminal."
"Your brother spoke of you often, Lord Arlyn."
I said it quietly, just loud enough to carry. He spun on his heel, eyes narrowing to slits of suspicion and something dangerously close to hope.
"What?" The word came out like a blade being drawn, cold, edged, ready to cut.
"He spoke of the honey pies you threw at each other as boys," I continued, watching his shoulders loosen the barest fraction despite himself. A flicker of nostalgia crossed his face, gone almost before it landed. "The time you beat him bloody in the yard with blunted steel, and the time he returned the favor. He laughed when he told it, said you still owed him a rematch."
For a heartbeat the grim mask cracked. Doubt warred with memory behind those eyes. Then the mask slammed back down.
The lord's jaw tightened, but he pulled the sword away, sheathing it with a hiss. "Take him!"
The guards surged forward, keys rattling as they unlocked my chains. My arms dropped like lead weights, pins and needles exploding through them as blood rushed back.
I hit my knees in the muck, gasping at the fresh wave of pain, but they didn't give me a moment to recover.
Rough hands hauled me up by the armpits, they hauled me through torchlit corridors, up winding stairs worn smooth by generations of Oakheart boots, and into the great hall.
It wasn't packed like a tourney crowd, but it didn't need to be.
The old court reeked of age and authority, massive oak beams blackened by centuries of smoke, walls veined with faint runes that might have been Rhoynar carvings or just very old graffiti, depending on who you asked.
The high seat loomed at the far end beneath a canopy of living oak branches trained through the stone, leaves still green even in winter. House Oakheart took their sigil seriously.
A low murmur rose as I was shoved forward.
"Look at him—mud to the eyebrows."
"Seven hells, those scars are cruel."
"Face has a touch of mirth though and his hair, Is he dragonseed perhaps?"
The whispers died the instant the woman on the high seat lifted one grey-streaked brow.
Lady Arwyn Oakheart. Brown hair pulled severely back, threaded with silver like frost on autumn leaves. Wrinkles etched by years of ruling, yet her posture was straight as a spear shaft. She wore green velvet slashed with black, the three oak leaves embroidered in gold thread across her breast. Regal. Unmoved. The kind of woman who could silence a room with a glance and had probably done it a thousand times.
The guards threw me down hard. My knees cracked against the flagstones; fresh pain lanced up my arms where the manacles bit.
They chained my wrists behind my back again, forcing me to kneel like a supplicant—or a condemned man.
I counted quickly: twelve guards lining the walls, swords and spears glinting in the torchlight. Their eyes never left me.
To one side stood a man in different colors—blue and red, a sigil of a silver helm with a crescent moon behind it.
Lesser house, probably a landed knight sworn to Oakheart. He held my pitiful belongings in gloved hands: a threadbare cloak, a plain longsword, not even valyrian, sadly, a small pouch of mixed coin, and the all-important parchment.
The hall waited.
"What is your name?" Lady Arwyn's voice cut through the hush like winter wind through branches.
I lifted my head, met her gaze.
No blinking. No flinching.
"My lady, I am Ser Henri Crent, knighted by your late son, Lord Talen Oakheart."
The name landed like a stone in still water. Ripples of outrage spread instantly.
"How dare he?"
"He's mad!"
"Say the word, my lady—"
A knight stepped forward, hand already on his sword hilt, ready to draw at her nod.
Lady Arwyn raised one hand. The hall stilled.
She studied me. No anger in those eyes. No obvious mercy either. Just judgement—heavy, experienced, the kind that had weighed smallfolk disputes, marriage alliances, and treason accusations for decades.
"You speak of my late son," she said at last. She gestured to the moon-helmed knight; he approached and placed the parchment in her outstretched hand. "And yet you bring a letter purporting to be from him."
She unfolded it carefully, eyes scanning the script. The court held its breath. Even the torches seemed to flicker quieter.
She read aloud, voice steady but carrying the faintest tremor beneath the steel:
[ To My Dear Mother, Lady Arwyn Oakheart
It is with a happy heart that I write this letter to you.
You often say that you found Father in the oddest of times and fell in love.
I have found my love in the oddest of places too, Mother.
I wish to wed Lady Ulaina of Myr. She is a maiden, born and raised noble, pure of heart and kind—a true beauty. I wish for your blessing. I am to set sail in a moon or half from Pentos.
I have sent this with Ser Henry Crent of Ramsgate. He squired for me through my journey and was knighted at the Stepstones by my own hand when he fought beside me against pirates.
He should reach you within a fortnight of when I write this. I will follow soon after.
I hope you agree to my decision, Mother. You will when you see her.
From your favourite son, Talen Oakheart ]
Silence swallowed the hall.
Lady Arwyn lowered the parchment. Her gaze returned to me. Lord Arlyn stood rigid behind my shoulder, face grim as granite.
"You squired for my son?"
"Yes, my lady." I nodded once.
"Do you understand why you stand accused?"
"The letter bears no seal of House Oakheart."
"Precisely." Her brows arched. "Anyone could forge parchment. Without the seal or other incontrovertible proof, I cannot accept this as my son's word. What more do you offer?"
I let my shoulders sag just enough. Let my eyes drop, not in defeat, but in something convincingly close to grief.
"I was knighted on a ship, my lady, surrounded by sailors and salt spray. Your son took me across Essos, the Free Cities, the Disputed Lands, the Stepstones. He was my lord. I fought with him. Fought for him. He was my friend." My voice roughened, just a touch. "All I have left of him is that parchment. I know little of courts and seals and noble proofs. I know only what I swore to him. If I have no more to offer… then I have nothing."
I finished by looking down, letting a glint of sadness and guilt show.
First rule of any court, anywhere: when placed under accusement, make yourself look like a wet, shivering puppy. People love feeling superior. They love feeling like saviors even more.
A maester in grey robes cleared his throat at Lady Arwyn's side. "Mayhaps he speaks honest, my lady."
Lord Arlyn snorted. "And if he does not? We let a pretender walk away acknowledged as a knight by House Oakheart?"
"How could we?" someone muttered.
"It would stain the banners forever."
"But if he does speak true—"
Voices overlapped, rising. Lady Arwyn listened, face impassive.
At last she raised her hand again. The hall quieted.
"This matter touches more than my judgement," she said. "It touches a knight's honor."
Her eyes settled on me once more, steady and unreadable. "Ser Henri Crent, if that is who you are, are you willing to put your truth to trial by combat?"
I smiled internally.
It went just as I expected.
The old medieval cheat code: when in doubt, let two men beat the honesty out of each other. Predictable. Reliable. And right now, very much in my favor.
I lifted my head, met her gaze squarely.
"I will, my lady."