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It is the year 187 AC, King Daeron II reigns from King's Landing.

You are Edric Flowers, bastard son of Garlan Clover, Lord of the Rose Hall and bannerman of Lord Leo Tyrell, Lord Paramount of the Mander and the Reach.

And you are face down in the dirt, the knee of Samwyle Tarly, heir to Horn Hill, lodged in your back.

But all of you gape now at the mystery knight in red plate armour, and the black sword held in his steel grip.

Blackfyre.

"Your Grace," the old squire behind him hisses.

"Easy now Gwayne," the 'knight' said back to him.

Could it be him? Could it truly be Daemon Blackfyre himself? Not in your wildest dreams had you imagined meeting him, not like this. Though you barely had wits in your head, you stared, blood beginning to crust on your face, your open wound bleeding into the grass. You felt none of it, pain a distant thing at who was in front of you.

"Get off him," the prince said.

They rushed to do so, all fight lost from them in shock.

Gormon sheathed his sword and went to a knee. "Forgive me," he said, "If I knew it was you...I didn't mean to insult you..."

But the mystery knight ignored him, stepping over to where you lay. Getting up was a struggle, bleeding as you were, with dirt and grass glued to your chest by blood. You tried your hardest to stand but the strength was sapped from you. No, you had to stand. In front of 'him', you had to find your feet. He sheathed the black sword for which he was named and kneeling beside you, helped you to your feet.

"Valiantly done," he said, and his praise meant more to you then any prize. Hurt and exhausted, you struggled against tears as he gently lifted you from the earth. He didn't carry you, only walked you. "One against six, and most older and bigger, with you near the victor, valiant indeed."

"My prince..." you said, tears thick in your eyes.

"Whoever you think I might be," he said, "Here I am only the Knight of the Backwater Rush. No more, no less. Do you understand?"

You nodded, mute for all the pain and emotions at war within you.

Chestnut trotted over to you, snuffing at your hair to see if you were well. The soulful brown eyes of the gelding shone in concern, his mouth badly sawed from where he fought his bit to get to you. You pet his nose with a blood stained hand. Good horse, you thought. He may not be a warhorse, but he was a good horse.

"The boy needs a maester," the old squire said, checking your wound, "See here, the bone stopped the blade but it still cut deep. A lucky lad, another inch deep and it would have proved fatal."

"It will leave a scar worthy of his deeds," the knight said, and your breath deepened in pride. You'd wear the scar proudly from now on.

He helped you up into Chestnut's saddle while his squire fetched your sword, wiped it clean of grass and blood before handing it up to you.