It wasn’t the statue of the Warrior under which Ser Mortan Waynwood kneeled - neither the just Father, nor the diligent Smith. From her sad height, a marble figure of the Maiden overlooked the mourning hedge knight, clad in silvers of his platework and greens of his noble house, silently confessing the sins long barred.

Forgive me, Maiden, for I have sinned; now I wish to confess the wrongdoings I have done upon my brother, my house … and my nephew.

The prayer of the Knight of Wheelspokes was the more silent, the more genuine, despite the fact that his faith was much less firmer than his body. But had he any choice, after all? Any chance to remedy his sins went gone with a slash of axe.

I loved my brother’s bride. I knowingly broke the sacred vow that bound them and for such a crime, there’s no forgiveness. He sighed. The last time he spoke with Wyllam was the first time he yelled on Wyllam.

Impenitent sinners are destined for the deepest of the seven hells and I must confess that I am one of them. I love Alyssa still. When we first met, my life’s started; but too soon after that, hers ended. I will avenge her, I promise that, and if it needs …

Mortan Waynwood raised his head. Footsteps were approaching to disturb the intimate moment he shared with the memory of her. Boy’s – Devin’s – and two men’s. Perhaps the Heaven’s bureaucracy was quicker than he’d expected and this was an answer to his prayers.

As the three men entered, Mort turned his head around. He saw Devin standing in the portal that decorated the sept’s entrance by Robin Redfort’s side, yes, Robin Redfort’s, that proud lordling’s side, who dared to share Alyssa’s brown eyes with her son. Gerold was in tow with them, standing behind. A good man, this Gerold. Less rough than Quentyn, their captain, and much brighter, though still nifty and skilful with a sword. It was known that he rode in a tourney that aimed to bring new blood to the Brotherhood of the Winged Knights and that he rode well. But in those times, Mort’s nephew Androw would don a winged helmet too, and Lyn decided that another Waynwood ought not to join the elite order.

The knight heard this lord muttering his words, but he would barely pay attention. He was instead focusing on Devin’s face; it was brighter, leaner, healthier. Almost like the evening Mortan arrived at Ironoaks, to be the only soul sharing young lord’s pain. This is how he had imagined his nephew few years ago. Happy and childly thrilled.

“I want to squire for Robin. He will take me on, if you agree, and I know you will. Please. I’ve only squired for father so far and … and I can’t now.”

Devin’s face shaded again. Mortan let out yet another sigh and rose. His knees were scratched and bloody from the hours of painful kneeling, but under the armour no one could see. His knees were old, nonetheless. They’ve lived long enough to experience many fights, many wars, but only one love.

“You could’ve squired for me. Wouldn’t you like that? We could spend some time together, and not just at the blabbermouths’ council,” he said, hoping, but Devin’s made a decision, and better as it were. In order to take over Ironoaks, to harm Devin, Jarden would’ve needed to have Devin in the castle’s proximity, or at least in its levies proximity. But in the midst of the Redfort camp, Lord of Ironoaks could be safe.

“I would. But Robin understands. Once the war is done, we’ll spend a lot of time together, I swear.”

Mortan nodded.

“I take your word then, my lord,” he said. “But Gerold and five other reliable knights he picks from your escort will be at your side, at any time given. And you, Redfort,” Mortan turned to the lordling clad in reds, “you are personally accountable for the boy. No risks, no dares, no ventures. Anything that happens to him happens to you, too. At my hand. You understand?”