Chapter 3: The Road to Ruin
Three hours of riding before Rider finally let himself stop.
His ass hurt. His thighs screamed. His hands were blistered from gripping the reins. Turns out being a twelve-year-old prince meant zero experience with long-distance horseback riding.
Young Rider had riding lessons—gentle canters around the castle grounds.
Not "fleeing for your life through the night" experience.
He stopped in a small clearing off the main road, tied the horse to a tree, and collapsed against a log.
The adrenaline was wearing off. Reality was setting in.
I just ran away from home. From the castle. From Father.
I'm twelve years old, alone, in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but stolen supplies and a horse that's probably going to dump me in a ditch by morning.
---
Rider pulled out the leather pouch Mira had given him. Inside were three small vials of something that looked suspiciously like poison, a folded parchment in Queen Selyse's handwriting detailing "household arrangements" (code for murder orders), and a small note in a different hand.
He unfolded it by moonlight.
> Your Grace—
If you're reading this, you survived the first night. Good.
The Grey Waste is two hundred miles north—three weeks if you follow the main road.
Don't. Take the forest routes. Slower, but safer from the Queen's hunters.
She will send people after you.
Fort Despair is marked on the attached map.
The commander there is Captain Brutus Kane—former soldier, exiled for striking a noble.
Hates nobility but respects strength. Show weakness and he'll throw you to the wolves. Show strength and you might survive.
— M
Attached was a crude map showing faint forest trails branching off the main northern road.
Great. Assassins, cursed ruins, and a commander who hates nobles. Fantastic.
---
Rider's stomach growled. He pulled out the food he'd stolen—bread, cheese, dried meat, and a waterskin. Enough for maybe a week if he rationed carefully.
Three weeks of travel. One week of food. Math was not on his side.
He ate sparingly, drank less, and tried to recall everything young Rider knew about wilderness survival.
Answer: almost nothing.
Princes didn't camp. They stayed in castles, inns, and pavilions with servants.
I'm so screwed.
The horse whinnied softly. Rider looked at her—a chestnut mare, young and nervous.
He'd grabbed the first horse he could find in the chaos.
"We're both in over our heads, aren't we?" he muttered.
The horse didn't answer. Horses never did. Disappointing.
He tried to sleep. Failed. Every sound felt like assassins creeping closer.
At dawn, he gave up on rest, mounted up, and continued north.
---
Day 2
The forest route was exactly as unpleasant as expected.
Narrow trails barely wide enough for a horse. Branches slapping him in the face. Roots trying to trip the mare every ten steps. And bugs. So many gods-damned bugs.
Medieval life was disgusting—no bug spray, no sunscreen, no convenience stores with air conditioning.
But the forest was safer than the main road. Fewer people. More places to hide.
He saw only two travelers that day: a woodcutter who ignored him and a merchant who eyed the horse but backed off when Rider's hand went to the knife at his belt.
Fake confidence. Project strength. Corporate survival skills translate surprisingly well to medieval murder-roads.
By evening, his food was half gone, and water was low. He found a stream at sunset—cold, fast-moving, probably safe. Probably.
He filled the waterskin, let the horse drink, and made camp in a hollow between two rocks.
No fire. Fire meant smoke. Smoke meant visibility. Visibility meant death.
He ate cold cheese and stale bread, shivered in the dark, and wondered if running had been the right choice.
Too late now. Forward was the only option.
---
Day 4
Rain started that morning—cold, miserable, soaking-through-everything rain.
The forest trail turned into a mud river. The horse slipped twice. Rider nearly fell off three times. Everything was wet, cold, and thoroughly miserable.
This is why people invented roofs. And civilization.
He'd run out of bread. The cheese was moldy. Only dried meat remained.
I need to hunt.
Except he had no bow, no traps, and no idea how to catch anything.
Princes didn't hunt for food; they hunted for sport—with servants doing all the real work.
Useless. Completely useless.
By midday, the horse went lame. A stone bruise. Not serious, but bad enough.
Fantastic. Now I'm walking.
He led the mare slowly through the mud and fog, shivering and half-starved.
This is it. I'll die of exposure before any assassin finds me.
Then he smelled smoke.
Woodsmoke. Cooking fire. Civilization.
---
He followed the scent to a clearing—three men around a fire, roasting something that might once have been a rabbit.
They looked up. Rough faces. Scarred hands. Weapons visible.
Bandits, probably.
The largest—bearded, scar across his cheek—grinned.
"Well, well. What do we have here? A lost little lordling?"
Oh shit.
"I'm not a lord," Rider said carefully. "Just a traveler heading north."
"With a horse? Expensive saddle, clean clothes under all that mud…" The man's grin widened. "You're absolutely a lord. Or a lord's son. Either way, you've got coin."
"I don't. I'm heading to the Grey Waste. Fort Despair. There's no coin there."
"Grey Waste?" another laughed. "No one goes there. You're either lying or insane."
"Or exiled," said the third. "Exile's the only reason nobles go north."
The bearded man stepped closer. "Exile, huh? What'd you do, little lord—steal from Daddy? Kill someone important?" He reached for Rider's horse. "Give us the horse and whatever coin you've got, and maybe we let you live."
Rider's hand tightened on his knife. Small. Pathetic. But it was all he had.
"I can't give you the horse," he said.
"Need her? Boy, you're walking anyway. Horse is lame." The man drew a dagger. "So here's how this works—"
"Do you know what's in the Grey Waste?" Rider interrupted.
The man blinked. "What?"
"Valyrian ruins. Dragon breeding chambers. Treasure. Maybe dragon eggs."
Silence.
"Dragon eggs?" one scoffed. "Children's tales."
"Maybe," Rider said. "Or maybe everyone's too scared to check. I'm going there anyway. You could come with me. Share the treasure. Better odds than robbing travelers for bread."
The bearded man stared, then burst out laughing. "You've got balls, I'll give you that. Most nobles would be crying by now."
"I'm not most nobles."
"Clearly." He sheathed his dagger. "Name's Garros. That's Finn and Kev. We're deserters from the king's army. Wanted men with nowhere to go."
"Rider," Rider said. He didn't mention Draymore.
"Exiled prince, huh?" Garros grinned. "What'd you do to piss off Daddy?"
"Survived too long," Rider said simply. "Stepmother wanted me dead."
Finn whistled. "Royal drama. Classic."
"So let me get this straight," Garros said. "You're a runaway prince heading to the most cursed wasteland in the kingdom, looking for mythical dragons, and you want us to help?"
"Yes."
Garros laughed again. "Stupidest plan I've ever heard. I'm in. Finn? Kev?"
Finn shrugged. "Better than starving."
Kev nodded. "If there's treasure, I'm in."
Holy shit. That worked.
"Good," Rider said. "Then we head north together. Safety in numbers."
---
Day 10
Traveling with deserter-bandits was both better and worse than being alone.
Better: they knew how to hunt, trap, and find safe camps. Rider ate cooked meat for the first time in days.
Worse: they were loud, crude, and suspicious of him. Especially Finn.
"So explain again," Finn said around a mouthful of squirrel, "why a prince knows about Valyrian ruins?"
"Maester Colwyn taught me history," Rider replied. "The Grey Waste was once called Dragon's Rest."
"And you just happened to study that before being exiled?" Kev asked.
"I study everything," Rider said. "Knowledge is survival."
Garros laughed. "Paranoid kid. I like it. Paranoid people live longer."
But Rider could feel them watching him—measuring him. Waiting to see if he was worth keeping alive.
---
Day 11
They were ambushed at dawn.
Five men—armed, armored, trained.
Queen's hunters.
An arrow whistled past Rider's head. Garros shoved him down.
"GET DOWN!"
Chaos. Steel on steel. Screams.
Garros met the first soldier head-on, cutting him down. Finn took an arrow in the shoulder but kept fighting. Kev hurled his axe into a man's chest.
Two left. Both coming for Rider.
He threw dirt in one's eyes, slashed a leg.
The other grabbed him from behind. "Got him! The prince is—"
Garros's sword burst through the man's chest. Silence.
Five bodies. Three deserters and one shaking twelve-year-old still standing.
Garros wiped his blade. "Someone really wants you dead, little lord."
"Apparently." Rider looked at the corpses. "Thank you."
"Don't thank us yet. More will come." Garros kicked a body. "Royal guard uniforms. Your stepmother sent her best."
Rider stared north. "Then we move faster."
Garros grinned. "Stubborn bastard. Fine. Pack up. Fort Despair or bust."
---
Day 21
Three weeks after fleeing Castle Stormhearth, Rider finally saw it.
The Grey Waste.
The green forest faded into grey ash. Dead trees. Empty horizon. A wasteland under a poisoned sky.
And there it was—Fort Despair. Crumbling walls, broken towers, smoke from distant fires. A graveyard pretending to be a fortress.
"Home sweet home," Garros muttered.
They approached the gate. A man emerged—tall, scarred, grey-bearded, wearing battered armor.
"Garros," the man said flatly. "You're supposed to be dead."
"Got better," Garros replied. "Captain Kane. Still running this shithole?"
"Someone has to." Kane's eyes moved to Rider. "And who's the kid?"
"Prince Rider Draymore," Rider said before Garros could speak. "Exiled from Stormhearth. Appointed governor of this territory. Here to take command."
Silence.
Then Kane laughed. Long and hard. "Governor? You? You're twelve."
"I'm aware."
"Let me guess. Daddy didn't like you. Stepmother wanted you gone. Politics and bullshit." He spat. "Welcome to Fort Despair, Your Grace. Where princes come to die slowly instead of quickly."
"I'm not planning to die," Rider said. "I'm planning to survive. Rebuild. Make this place livable."
"With what?" Kane asked. "We've got fifty soldiers, two hundred starving civilians, and supplies for a month. What are you going to do—command the wasteland to bloom?"
"No," Rider said calmly. "I'm going to explore the Valyrian ruins beneath this fort and find what everyone thinks is impossible."
Kane studied him, then actually smiled. "You're serious."
"Completely."
"Kid, those ruins are death traps. Fifty men have gone down. None came back."
"Then I'll be the fifty-first."
Kane barked a short laugh. "You've got balls, I'll give you that. Stupid, shiny balls. Welcome to Fort Despair. Try not to die in the first week—we've got a betting pool going."
"I'll disappoint you," Rider said dryly.
He walked through the gate.
Garros leaned to Kane. "Kid survived assassins, hunters, and the Grey Waste. Might last longer than six days."
Kane watched Rider disappear into the fort.
"Maybe. Long enough to be interesting—or dead. Probably both."