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As Limosa and Godwyn left, and the guard, muttering at the bother this was causing, arranged to chain Evan as he'd been instructed, Eryk Bolton squatted on his haunches to watch, at a prudent distance, as a man might choose to watch a mad dog being chained - but close enough for speech.

If Evan noticed the chaining of his legs, he gave no sign - his eyes stayed closed, and he continued to recline as if he didn't have a care in the world. Even after the guard finished, and moved off with a grumble, there was silence in the tourney field, broken occasionally by the grunts and chatters of labourers across the way, setting up tents, lists, and the seating for tomorrow.

After a long while, Evan spoke, without opening his eyes. "Are you still here?" he said mildly. "Don't you have someone you ought to be sucking up to somewhere?"

"Why?" said Eryk. "So that you can annoy them all over again and make them realise how loathsome the name of Bolton is? I'm not surprised you abandoned it. A shame you couldn't abandon the behaviour that went with it - for you've done your best to destroy me too.

"But - who knows? I think you might have found me an ally, too. Do you want to die, by the way?"

At that, Evan pushed himself up on an elbow, and blinked a couple of times before replying. He wore a wry smile, as if not quite sure how to phrase what he was about to say. "I think you've forgotten who you're talking to," he began dryly. "You should probably save your tragic noble act for someone who doesn't actually know you. Someone who doesn't know, for instance, that you don't care a whit for anyone besides yourself, and would happily sell out your own mother for even a trivial gain. Or someone who doesn't know that you didn't give a damn about the Bolton name, much less its reputation, till you stood a chance of benefiting from pretending that you do."

He nodded his head towards the castle. "Luckily for you, the Hardys are terrible judges of character, and will happily coddle all sorts of vipers to their bosom. Perhaps your virtuous act of wanting to redeem the Bolton name in their eyes by disavowing the vile Ser Herys and that sellsword who says such wicked, wicked things might work on them. I'd even be prepared to wish you luck with it, except for the fact that you want to sell your lies in my skin. It might be a name I left behind once, but that doesn't make it yours to sully. It's been years since I was at the Dreadfort, but it looks like I remember its principles better than you do. A man wears his name like a skin. Be sure you are worthy of either before you wear them." Momentarily, Evan's eyes glittered darkly.

He seemed to notice the chains again, and lay back with a sigh. "Anyway, say your piece and be done. Don't waste your breath with your feeble act - I know exactly what you are and what you stand for, and the principles of Bolton behaviour aren't among them. Don't bother whining at me about me trying to destroy you either - tell it to someone who cares. You want to know if I want to die? Is that a threat? Don't be ridiculous - I'm far more useful to you alive till tomorrow, and we both know it. Or are you trying to show concern? Spare me - even at your most virtuous, you're terrible at faking concern. There's nothing more you have to offer me. My fate is now in my own hands, more or less, and that's just how I like it. So say your piece and be done. If you want to taunt me a little, go ahead. I'll even pretend to be angry for you so you feel better."

"I don't intend to waste my breath taunting you," said Eryk. "I'll admit I'll be interested to see if over these last years you've gained enough stomach for the fight to stand your ground rather than running away at the first opportunity. But my plans are rather more wide-ranging than yours. I'm offering you a last chance - your freedom to go to the Wall or the Free Cities or the seven hells if you wish. Or you can take the chance to be ridden underfoot so that the virtuous Hardies can convince themselves justice has been served while our father smiles behind his hand."

He rose to his feet. "Whichever you prefer."

Evan took a deep breath, like he always did when thinking hard, before letting it out explosively. "Well now," he began, slowly. "Maybe your act is getting better - I almost thought for a moment you were offering me a chance at freedom. Or maybe it's just my wishful thinking; I've worn chains too long already, I think." He looked out wistfully towards the treeline - it had only been a day, but it seemed to have gone on for months, and there were places he had to go to. "At any rate, luckily I'm not as stupid as you think I am. I don't know what your far-ranging plans might be, but it's pretty obvious that once I'm dead, your theft of my name becomes all the more murky and hard to decipher. Maybe that's your motivation." He shrugged. "Who knows."

"No doubt the Hardys would also be ecstatic if I were to escape," Evan continued. "That way they get to hunt me down and shoot me down like a dog, rather than taking the chance of me winning in single combat. One more wicked, wicked person out of the way, no risk to themselves, and congratulations all around. How splendid. So you want to offer me the chance to face down a party of armed men at once, unarmed, instead of taking my chances in armed single combat? So I escape, and anyone can come after me in any numbers they like and kill me as a public service? Or I can fight tomorrow, armed, against just one person, and if I win, unlikely as that may be, I get to walk away totally free. Your offer is - most kind, but I think I'll pass."

He gave a sad smile, and folded his hands across his stomach. "There's a terrible irony in it, don't you think? They made me a prisoner because I killed a man they considered lower than dirt, who they'd happily have killed themselves, even though they didn't know him at all. And tomorrow, I'm going to kill someone they hold very dear, and they're going to let me walk free because of it."

"I wouldn't be so sure you'll be the one walking away," said Eryk. "They're putting up Ser Godfrey - he's one of the Stark's bannerknights, and you know Lord Stark would have the best. But I wasn't offering to help you escape. Of course, running away is what your mind turns to at once, isn't it? Always your solution when things got disagreeable.

"I was offering you freedom. But it all depends what you really want - and how much you're prepared to risk to get it."

He looked at his brother intently. "How much do you want him dead? How much do you want Father dead or is it all still talk and flight with you?"

"See, that's another difference between you and I," Evan said, rather more benignly than he felt. "I don't want him dead. I might hate him, but he is still my father, and I am the one who has wronged him, not the other way around. You, on the other hand," and he waggled a finger, "have stolen my name to perpetrate some tawdry little sham, and you should probably count yourself fortunate that these chains prevent me from showing you just how much talk I am." He smiled humourlessly. "Besides, it is the Hardys who hold me prisoner, and unless you carry a lot more favour with them than I think you do, I doubt very much you can conceive of any scenario where they'll just let me walk free."

"You underestimate me, brother," said Eryk. "But then, you always did. I know the one thing that will make them turn their rage from you, and towards the one they perceive as the real enemy of their house - Father."

Evan looked like he wanted to spit. "See what I mean about them being willing to coddle all kinds of vipers?" He swallowed, with some effort, and continued. "Maybe I do underestimate you, halfbreed. I do, however, know you well enough to know that I want no part of your little schemes. It's no great feat to get the Hardys to hate my father more. They'll hate anyone for the pettiest of reasons, particularly him - I just heard it from the horse's mouth. If you want him dead for your own reasons, and you obviously do, then you'll do it without me. I'm sure the Hardys will be all too happy to oblige you. I just told you, I'm not the one who wants him dead here. Leave me out of this."

Eryk smiled. "Oh, certainly, if I can. I want no-one as unreliable as you involved if I can avoid it. But, alas for me - I suspect I may need you to play a part anyway. But no matter. Who was this horse's mouth who hates our father for such petty reasons? Not Lord Hardy, I assume? He seems in his dotage."

But Evan had already reclined again, and turned his head away with deliberation. "This conversation is over," he said blandly. "I really don't think we have anything more to discuss."

"As you please, brother," said Eryk. "As you please. Shall I tell Father that you want a word?"

That made him pause, and though he did not look back, Evan's eyes snapped open, unfocused, as he lost himself in thought. He hadn't yet allowed himself to confront the idea of talking to his father again, but now that it was right in front of him, so to speak, it sent an unpleasant chill down his spine. One might have thought that after four or more years, there'd be a lot to say, but Evan wasn't sure there was. Meaningful familial discussions had never been a feature of his family, even in better times, but fortunately, one could always count on Ser Herys to start some sort of violent argument or the like to forestall such discussions. In some ways, it had made things easier.

Now, though, he felt he should probably say something. But what? 'I'm sorry' didn't seem enough, nor would it make a lick of difference. Besides, after four long years, a simple apology would have been spat back in his face by even the most forgiving of men. Maybe that was what he needed, though. Maybe he needed to go through the ritual of trying to apologise, and having it rejected, so as to tie up loose ends like that before it all ended tomorrow. Would it make him feel better? Evan doubted it. But it almost seemed proper, somehow, that it should be that way.

He shook his head. Proper or not, some wounds were still too raw to be picked at, even after four years. Maybe it was cowardice again, but he knew he couldn't face his father, even now, not now. He turned with a snide comment on his lips, but he was already alone, save for the distant and bored-looking guard, and the approaching sunset.

As Evan lay in the tournament field, he was aware of an individual close at hand giving a polite cough to attract his attention.

When he looked up, he could see a man at arms, wearing livery that proclaimed him a guard belonging to the personal train of a Stark bannerknight - in this case, by the Hardy insignia, Ser Godfrey. Clearly Ser Godfrey's squire, or something very close to that position.

By his side stood a nervous looking Garyn.

Evan raised an eyebrow, but the half-smile on his face showed that a day in irons had mellowed him somewhat. "Well," he said slowly, considering the younger man. "Well indeed. I'd say it suits you, but that wouldn't exactly be true." His tone held no rancour; unusual, given the past couple of days. "Still, it's not bad if you were planning on dressing up as a toy soldier."

Garyn twisted the hem of his surcoat in his hands. "I was wondering if you'd - if you'd - "

" - changed my mind about seconding me," Evan finished for him, and his eyes grew more serious. "By all means. Second me if you will. But be aware that you have other duties and loyalties now. The Hardys see things in black and white - if you are not their loyal boon companion, you are their enemy. Remember that - you may well be held accountable for anything I do tomorrow. It's not right or fair, but that's how it is here."

Garyn nodded nervously and plucked at his jerkin. "I haven't taken any vows or anything yet ... but ... "

The other man, Der Godfrey's presumed Squire, interrupted.

"Ser Godfrey wishes to know whether you will require any gear for tomorrow's combat. Do you have your armour with you at the inn? If not, he has instructed me to send the armourer to see that you are properly equipped."

Evan gave him a considered smile, and folded his hands across his belly, taking his time before replying. "Well then. It's to be a tilt, is it?" Stone-faced, the squire gave no reply - he had the look of someone who had been carefully instructed to say only what was necessary, no more. "I have a little brigandine back at the inn, but surely it is not Ser Godfrey's intent to joust against a man dressed in leathers with a fully tipped lance. No?" Again, there was no reply, and Evan smiled dryly. "Thought not."

"Well," he continued, shrugging noncommittally, "I suppose I will need something in the way of a breastplate - I'm sure you'll have something lying around that can be bent a little to fit me. Some pauldrons as well, and something for the legs - mail and greaves at least, I should think. And a helm, with a visor, something to keep the lance splinters out." He frowned, and tapped his lips with one long finger. "And, of course, a shield. Does that about cover it? Or me, as the case may be?"

"I'll send the armourer to you," said the squire briskly. "He'll see your needs are met."

With a nod he departed, leaving Garyn alone with Evan.

The prospective squire regarded his quondam leader dolefully.

Evan pinched at the bridge of his nose and sighed, as the weight of the last few days began to catch up with him more and more. He felt Garyn's eyes on him still, and ground his teeth momentarily. "Garyn," he said patiently, trying not to snap, "you are going to be a Hardy's man now, and should probably start acting like one. Which means you don't owe me anything any more, particularly not after tomorrow morning. If I may give a word of advice, though..." He pressed his lips together and looked up. "You really need to grow some spine. Looking hangdog wins you nobody's respect. If you need someone to tell you what to do, ask them. If you have something to say, say it. But be enough of a man to make these decisions for yourself."

"It may win no respect," said Garyn, looking doleful, "but Stavro said it was what I had to do. He said it would make people accept me all the sooner."

"Is that right," came the indifferent reply. "Well, Garyn, let me tell you different. I can't imagine anyone being anything but irritated with a moping boy standing around mournfully, for whatever reason. Particularly not in my current situation." He raised his chained wrists, then let them fall to his lap again. "Now, I obviously am not in a position to give you any orders. So if you have something to say, or ask, do so. Anything but just standing there with that look on your face."

Garyn drew a deep breath. "I just wanted to know if I could get you anything. A rug, or something, if they're keeping you out here all night."

The guard snickered.

Evan's lip curled, and he glanced upwards at the sinking sun, and the rapidly-lengthening shadows that lanced across the tourney field. "No, I think they'll be - " he began to say, before the guard's snicker stopped him, and he gave a deep sigh, before lying back on the grass again. "Yes," he said at length. "Yes, a rug, or something, would be great."

"I could speak to them," said Garyn. "Tell them that they must treat you well ... their honour depends on it. But I'll bring the rug too."

And so saying, he turned to set off across the darkened field.