The invitation was hand-delivered in daylight, not because Cedric respected him, but because spectacle always landed better when no one could claim it whispered.
Thalric received it in the garden, where he had taken to walking between columns of dormant rosebushes and statues worn blind by rain. The footman bowed too deeply, eyes flicking upward once—as if to ask, Is it really you?—before withdrawing without a word.
The card bore the prince's seal: a hawk clutching a ribbon of ivy in its talons. The script read:
"You are cordially invited to the annual Huntsman's Assembly. Attendance is, of course, a matter of tradition—not utility."
Thalric stared at the ink until it bled into the midday haze.
He hadn't held a crossbow in this body.
He hadn't ridden in a week.
Cedric knew.
Good.
The woods behind Worthing estate were pruned for sport—cleared trails, strategically placed saltlicks, beasts bred as much for appearance as instinct. When Thalric arrived at the stables, the other guests had already mounted, dressed in a cacophony of velvet and polished brass.
Cedric dismounted to greet him.
"Brother," he said, all teeth and courtesy. "I see you remember how saddles work."
"I remember how traps are baited," Thalric replied.
Laughter from the group. But not joy.
Just relief. That this farce was still entertaining.
Cedric offered him a mount—a dappled grey mare with too much fire behind the eyes.
"Fast," he said. "Easily spooked. But loyal to a firm hand."
A test.
Thalric mounted slowly. No flourish. Just weight and control.
The game began with horns and idle boasts. They rode into the wild in pairs, then broke apart like shrapnel. Within the hour, Thalric found himself riding alongside House Bratheon's youngest son—a boy barely fifteen with more pins than scars.
"Did you really die?" the boy asked suddenly.
"No," Thalric said. "That would've been easier."
They rode in silence after that.
Two hours in, Cedric reappeared—alone—smiling as if nothing in the world had ever gone wrong.
"Care for a wager?" he asked, drawing alongside.
"I don't gamble," Thalric replied.
"No fun," Cedric sighed. "But necessary. You see, everyone here is watching. They've started to wonder if you're going to claw your way up the family tapestry or hang limply where you fell."
"I don't want your seat," Thalric said.
"No," Cedric said. "But you want something. And men who want things are dangerous."
Then he fired.
Not at Thalric. Not at any beast.
At a hanging bell strung from an old oak ahead—a challenge bell, used only when the quarry proved elusive.
The shot rang true.
"I win," Cedric said, as if the shot had ended something.
Thalric dismounted, knelt, and retrieved the bolt.
It had pierced straight through the bell—and embedded itself in the old oak's bark.
He held it up. Not threatening. Just visible.
"You missed," he said, and tossed it back to Cedric.
The prince caught it, brow furrowed.
"You hit the bell," Thalric said. "But you cracked the tree."
Cedric blinked, confused.
"You didn't win," Thalric said softly. "You broke something that remembers."
Then he turned his horse and rode away, slow and deliberate, while the wind rattled the cracked bell in his wake.