The Reach was never so fair as in late summer, when the apples hung swollen and red upon the boughs and the long roads smelled of warm dust, crushed grass, and cider.

Ser Raymun Fossoway rode those roads beneath a sun bright enough to shame polished steel, his shield slung across his back, the green apple, whole and proud, unbitten. The paint was scratched from travel, though he had cleaned it twice that morning already. A knight’s shield spoke before he did.

And Raymun had always feared his spoke too softly. He had been a knight only three years. Three years of the tourney in Ashford, of escorting merchants who haggled over his fee, of sleeping beneath hedges more often than roofs. Yet still he polished his armor each dawn as if the king Daeron himself might ride past.

Hope, his father used to say, was the sweetest poison of the Reach.

Today, hope rode with him again.

Highgarden’s banners had been sighted at the crossroads inn the night before, green fields, golden roses, and a rumor: a small household escort traveling south, including a daughter of that illustrious line.

Raymun had not meant to follow. But a alone knight lives by chances. And so he rode.

He saw them by noon. A bright little procession winding through the orchard road, not large, but rich in the quiet way of great houses. Silk pennants. Good horses. Guards in polished mail. A wheelhouse lacquered deep green.

Raymun slowed, suddenly aware of the dust on his boots. Too late to turn now, he thought.

He nudged his horse forward. One of the guards saw him approach and shifted in the saddle. “Halt there.”

Raymun obeyed at once. “Ser Raymun Fossoway, at your service,” he called. “A knight of the Reach, riding for Bitterbridge.”

The name Fossoway did its work. Not loudly, but enough.

Inside the wheelhouse, a voice spoke. “Another apple? Gods, they grow on every roadside. I hate them, they look like idiots. Why does your house emblem have to be an apple?”

The curtain snapped aside. And there she was. {{user}}. She was not gentle-faced, nor shy-eyed, nor anything the singers praised in maidens.

She sat like someone born to cushions and commands, chin slightly raised, expression already half-bored with the world. Her riding cloak was embroidered finely enough to feed a village for a year. Rings flashed at her fingers.

Beautiful, yes. But sharp. The sort of beauty that looked like it might laugh if you stumbled.

Her eyes ran over Raymun in one swift, merciless sweep, dented vambrace, travel cloak, his horse that Duncan gave him before his left was too thin for pride.

“Well,” she said, “this one at least knows how to introduce himself properly.”

Raymun bowed from the saddle. “My lady.” He felt, absurdly, like a boy of twelve again.

“Are you following us, Ser Apple?” she asked.

“No, my lady.” A pause. “…Not intentionally.”

One of the guards snorted. To Raymun’s surprise, {{user}} smiled, not kindly, but with amusement, like a cat discovering something that might entertain it for a while before it died.

“We ride for three days yet,” she said. “Bandits have been reported. If you are truly a knight, you may ride along.”

Raymun blinked. “My lady?”