Despite the fleeting moment of levity that a shining, good-humored knight brought to the depressed residents of the Tower, the news that Morgan brought was grim.

Only a few hours later, when dawn rose, Tristan was summoned to his father’s seat at the end of the Hall. It was empty now, no trace of Morgan or his crowd of admirers.

There was a shadow over the old man’s eyes, and the lines of his face seemed even deeper. He searched his Tristan’s for a moment before curling his lip at him in disgust at whatever he found there. Tristan’s stomach dropped.

Bran helped him with his armor. Piece by piece the dark, burnished steel was carefully tied to him. Tristan threw his cloak over his shoulders and clasped it tight at his throat.

The men against them felt possessed—unlike Tristan, they fought like they had a purpose, an ideal, though whatever that was Tristan could only guess. It fueled their rage, driving their swords into Tristan's cavalry with rabid ferocity, merciless. The half-starved soldiers from the Tower under Tristan's command were ripped to pieces in front of him.

They managed to hold out for a day and night, and another dawn rose from behind the fog, illuminating the bog with weak, diluted light. Tristan's sword felt far too heavy for him.

With wide eyes, he surveyed the battlefield. Men lay face down in the snow, crushed beneath their horses, some already sinking into the mire, their stiff limbs reaching, still struggling. Their bodies were pushed deeper as yet more enemy soldiers rushed towards them, unending.

“Agh!”

Beside him, Bran dropped his sword, clutching at his face. Blood rushed between his fingers, the man couldn’t see the soldier in front of him, sword raised above his head—

Tristan turned his horse, the man's arms were level with him, too easy: they dropped onto the ground, still holding the sword. His head followed.

“Go!” Tristan croaked, fighting back bile. Bran just blinked at him through the blood matting his eyelashes, stunned.  “This is hopeless. Tell my father, this is—get help!”

Bran stuttered, his wide eyes bright from below the dark red covering his face. He had caught the sword from scalp to lip. If anything, sending him away would guarantee that the man would live, at least.

“But, my Lord—what about you—” 

Tristan jumped down from his horse and grabbed him by the front of his breastplate, pushing him up into the saddle and shoving the reins against his hands.

“Please! Just go!”

Bran’s eyes finally hardened and he nodded, once and sharp, and turned the horse towards the Tower. One made to go after him, but didn’t get far. Tristan kicked the back of his knees in as he passed and brought his sword down hard on the top of his skull as he stumbled.

Tristan wiped at his mouth. He’d bitten through his lip.

Earn it, his father had said when Tristan had still been a child, Prove to me that you are worthy of this, and he had gestured to his crown, the dull and dented iron that pressed against the old king's hair so heavily. In a certain light, the metal gleaned a dull, rusty red.

And it didn’t matter if he did or did not, because Tristan knew better than anyone that he wasn’t worthy. He was too cowardly, too quiet, too self-absorbed, too wrapped up in his own misery.

He was already twenty-five, another heir was on the way, and Tristan had long run out of chances to grow into anything more than what he was: Weak. His father would not send any relief.

It was a good plan. Apparently, filicide required such a more subtle, plotting hand than simple poison. Tristan regretted skipping all the meals he had shied away from.

Tristan swallowed, stomach churning. He had to keep going, at least, until the rest of the men from the Tower had a chance to escape. He staggered to his feet and gripped the hilt of his sword. An enemy soldier charged at him, his face twisted in fury and determination.

Their swords connected with an echoing clang. Tristan’s arms shook with the effort of keeping him away, until the soldier pulled back to kick him squarely in the stomach. Tristan fell back into the muddy slush, the air knocked out of him.

The soldier raised his sword above his head and Tristan’s mind flashed to the image of Death, with its hands gleefully raised in dance. He flinched away.

The blow never came. Tristan peered up and saw that the man had frozen, and his eyes had rolled back into his skull. As he crumbled to the side, someone stepped forward from behind him, his sword dripping with blood, his armor so light it blended with the fog.