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Post by LiquidChicagoTed on Apr 16, 2024 14:48:43 GMT
Forum of Thrones, Book I
Prologue: Below him, the city
Eaton Maester Eaton awoke a few hours before sunrise, startled by the sound of someone banging at the doors of his chamber. He shivered. Winter was still far in warm Raylansfair and yet it was a cold night and somehow the Maesters blanket had slipped onto the floor during his sleep. Eaton sat up, as quick as his old bones allowed and winced. It was his ninth autumn. His ninth winter approached. And Eaton remembered. Back in his youth, a lifetime ago, Eaton had used to make fun of an old man, who had always been sitting at the same spot at the stairs of the sept in his village of Stonebridge. Gisburn had been his name. Gisburn Mills. But Eaton and his friends, being the cruel kids they always have been, they called him Geezburn. Geezburn... Gisburn had been blind, half-deaf and from what Eaton could tell, never even noticed the childrens’ mockery. Still, it was an old shame and Eaton did not even know why he remembered it now. Making fun of Geezburn had been his favourite part of the day and, at least until he got to feel old age himself, one of the few fond memories from his childhood. For five years Eaton and his friends had tormented the poor man. Then, one day, Gisburn did not appear on his usual spot. The stairs of the Sept had been empty. Gisburn had been seventy and five years old when he died, seven years younger than Eaton was now, twenty years younger than he felt today. He had left no family to bury him and no friends to mourn him, but still he could have never felt so alone as Eaton did right now. He shuffled to the door and with every step he felt the weight of his age pulling him down. He knew what happened, even before he opened that door. He knew it and sorrow befell him. There was only one person in Raylansfair who had a knock like this. And there was only one reason why this person would ever wake him up in the middle of the night. Eaton arrived at the door as a man in his early eighties, but when he opened them he felt way over a hundred years old. The man who had knocked on his door held a torch in his hand and Eaton had to narrow his eyes for a moment before examining the nightly visitor. Harris Flowers, Lord Raylans castellan stood before him, a giant of a man, built like a warrior but with the keen eyes of a scholar, green as the meadows of Reach in the summer. His long brown beard showed signs of grey and fine wrinkles could be seen around Harris’ eyes. Still, the man looked like a boy compared to Eaton, who was a hunched figure, almost two feet shorter than him. Eaton was completely bald, had been for two decades now, and there were days where he envied Harris’ full hair. Still, the other man was pleasant company and Eaton held him in high regards. Usually, his eyes were full of laughter, but today Harris was dead serious, his glance as sharp as Valyrian steel. He didn't even need words. Eaton understood. "Is anyone with him?", he asked and for a moment he was shocked over how old his voice sounded. Rough, brittle, almost like paper. Not for the first time during the last weeks, Eaton asked himself how long he had left. There were days where he almost felt the Strangers’ cold breath on his neck. Harris nodded. "The boy looks after him. But he’s getting weaker" Harris paused a moment as his voice cracked. Eaton knew how hard this had to be for the castellan. "He... Septon Corbin already gave him the last rites..." Harris sighed and for a moment looked away. Eaton saw tears in the other man's eyes. "He asked for you, Maester. Only you", the castellan answered. Eaton had to gulp. "Did he say anything about... you know?" Harris shook his head. "Not one word. But he will tell you. He has to tell you" Eaton nodded in agreement and stepped out of his chamber. In that moment, Harris grabbed his arm, his voice sounded sharp as a blade, just for one moment. "One more thing Eaton... Remember that you are the only one in the room... The only one who will hear his final words" Eaton frowned as he heard this. He already suspected that Harris would make such an offer. Never before had he thought that he could ever feel repulsed by a man whom he had known for fifty years. Harris had been raised in this keep, Eaton had taught him how to read, how to speak with eloquence and all matters of statesmanship. It did not surprise him, but it pained him that Harris would speak these words out aloud. "I won't do that, Harris", he said, trying to break loose from the stronger man's grip. For a moment Harris' hand around his brittle arm felt like iron as he pulled Eaton closer. "I trust that you'll do what is best for the House”, the castellan growled. “Don't let loyalty and friendship towards a single person blind you to what is at stake here" For a moment it seemed as if Harris wanted to say something else, but then his sharp glare disappeared, replaced by one of shame. His grip got weaker and Eaton finally broke free. "Eaton... I am sorry. It was not my intention to imply..." Harris' words were merely a whisper. Eaton could tell that the man was filled with sorrow. Just like himself. But deep inside of him, Eaton felt something else. Fury. With an anger he hadn't felt for decades he looked into Harris' eyes. "I always do what is best for this house!", he hissed. With these words he turned around, leaving the castellan alone in the hallway. As fast as his brittle bones allowed, Eaton walked through the hallway, then stepped through the third door on his left, out onto the wall and into the cold night. For a moment he paused, recovering his breath. As he looked down the wall he saw the lights of Raylansfair at night. Below him, the city. He had always loved those lights. Even though Raylansfair was nowhere close to Oldtown or Highgarden in terms of size, it was still a large city and for Eaton, it would always be the most beautiful city in the Reach. He looked over to the port and to the old lighthouse on the cliffs above. Next to the port was the oldest building of the city, the great archive of Raylansfair, with its countless books and scrolls, detailing the history of Westeros. According to some rumours, the archive contained hidden rooms, filled with ancient scrolls, written by Garth the Greenhand, supposedly even Bran the Builder and Durran Godsgrief, detailing the history of the Age of Heroes, including the Long Night. According to other rumours, ancient spells were hidden in the archive, the same spells that protected Storms End from the wrath of the gods, the same spells that built the Wall. According to some rumours, there were hidden tombs in this archive, tombs that were built by the gods themselves, tombs that whisper at night, telling secrets from the dawn of life itself. Eaton smiled at that thought. As a young man, he had spent months in the archives’ basement, searching for ancient scrolls. Once he had even found a scroll written in the strange language of the Asshai'i. When he had finally managed to translate it, he found out that it had been nothing more than a mere trade contract, over nine hundred years old, signed by an ancient Lord Raylan and an Asshai'i merchant with an unpronounceable name. Ancient, but its age made it no more valuable. Eaton smirked, as he realized that he and that dusty, long-forgotten slip of paper had that much in common. He had never found ancient secrets or tombs of the gods or scrolls from the Age of Heroes. But it was a pretty thought, always had been. The Citadel in Oldtown was envious of these rumours. They gave Raylansfair a right to exist. House Raylan had written and recorded history for thousands of years. And history was everywhere in the city, everywhere in the kingdom, everywhere in the continent. History written by the Raylans. Countless times the Citadel had tried to buy the archive, for it had long eclipsed even those of Oldtown with how extensive it had become. Countless times, Lord Raylan had denied, for it had been the one thing giving Raylansfair a reason to exist. In one particular case the Gardener King had to settle a near-armed conflict between the two parties. All had been written down, contained in the archives. Eaton had studied these books and scrolls and decades ago he understood the power House Raylan wielded. Whatever might happen, decades from now when people wanted to learn more about it, even the Citadel’s very own, they’d read through history written by House Raylan. There was an account written by Maester Rendon of Raylansfair over four hundred years ago. It told the tale of a noble house, the Bennicks of Bennicksford, who got into a fight with the Raylans over territory. Maester Rendon wrote about this fight completely neutral. His successor, Maester Ker, on the other hand wrote a different account on the Bennicks. His tale made them responsible for countless atrocities, for the rape of children, cannibalism, even dark magic. His version had survived in better condition, a copy even found its way into the Citadel. Eaton had made the effort to decipher Rendon’s scribbled notes, but all of his contemporaries were more familiar with Ker’s tale. Who then had the power to decide the truth? Who, if not the one who writes history? Today Bennicksford was an irrelevant coastal village. No one remembered the Bennicks. No one, but the ones familiar with the works of Maester Ker. The Raylans had always written history to their favour, they were still writing it to this day. This was their privilege. And a very clever Lord Raylan had always been able to lead this house to glory. Eaton knew that Harris was right when he said that only he would ever hear the last words of his friend. Only he would know the name. It was up to him to name the future Lord of Raylansfair, the one who could lead the house to glory. Eaton shivered, not only because of the cold. He paid a last look to the beautiful city and continued his way over the walls to the great tower. When he had been younger, far younger, the tower had been full of life. The old Lord Esrick Raylan and his family lived there. Two sons, Robert and Trystane, and one daughter, Morna. Eaton still remembered the feasts Lord Esrick had hosted. As a young man he had once danced with Morna and lost his heart to her. Eaton remembered when she had gotten engaged to Lord Buckley, remembered her tears of joy on that day and how her happy smile had felt like a dagger in his heart. He still felt that injury. And Eaton remembered when she had died, crushed by a horse on her wedding day, having barely reached her nineteenth nameday. Lady Raylan died shortly after her, followed by the grieving Lord Esrick. Eaton remembered how Robert became Lord. A proud man, a strong man, ready to lead his dwindling family through all hardships. Then, just a few years later Trystane Raylan got captured by the Ironborn during one of their many raids. Eaton remembered when Harren Hoare, then prince and now the King of the Isles and the Rivers had sent Trystane’s severed head back to Robert. Eaton remembered how that had changed the young Lord, the last of his house. The Maester entered the tower. For the past forty years the tower had been silent, almost lifeless. Lord Robert never married, never had any children, refused any match the maester had sought to make, never showed any interest in the maidens at court, not even the loose women in the streets. He rarely spent his days in the tower, instead he had always been brooding over maps, planning his vengeance on the Ironborn who killed his brother. The only thing he had left. He never went through with any of these plans. And now Robert Raylan, the last of his line, was about to die, almost as old as his maester and not even the kindest historian would remember it as a life well-lived. Eaton sighed and entered the tower. Two guards greeted him with silent nods. With shaky feet Eaton climbed the last few stairs up to Lord Robert’s chamber. The door was open and Eaton could see the young Dairon, his assistant and eventual successor as Maester, a boy of barely eighteen years, thin, almost fragile, with short red hair, green eyes and too many freckles to count. Behind him, in the large bed laid Lord Robert, a gaunt man with pale skin, covered in sweat. His brittle, white hair and the blind eyes were enough for Eaton to see that this man was in his final hours. The chamber reeked of Lord Robert’s excrements ever since he got too weak to leave his bed. Even though the door to the balcony was open, it was oppressively hot and Eaton noticed the small stove burning day and night. "Maester Eaton!", Dairon exclaimed. The boy's face lit up when he saw Eaton and even Lord Robert managed to smile as he heard the familiar name. Eaton grabbed the boy by the arm. "Have you done everything I told you, boy?", he asked with a stern tone. Dairon nodded "Yes Maester! I gave him everything you said and I did not give him the Milk of the Poppy even when he demanded” A cough followed and they both turned around as they heard Lord Robert's croaky voice, almost too quiet for Eaton’s old ears. "That boy has been very rude to an old man, dear friend. He refused to ease my pain, said I need to stay awake... I would punish him myself, but alas, I can already hear the Stranger approaching. Make sure to chastise him on my behalf, Eaton..." Eaton gave Dairon an approving look. The boy had only followed his orders. He was intelligent enough to understand the importance of the situation, what was at stake here and what orders he should follow. He would make a good Maester, one day. Probably soon. "Leave us alone, Dairon. Make sure none can disturb us!", he ordered. The boy nodded and left the room, closing the heavy door behind him. Robert gave his old friend a kind smile. "All these years, Eaton. I wasted all these years with the Ironborn scum. And for what? Halleck Hoare died in his bed an old man and his rotten son still prospers, his line black of heart" Eaton stepped forwards and grabbed Robert's hand, gently holding it and feeling tears welling up in his eyes. "I'm afraid, Eaton”, Robert gasped and his blind eyes widened. “When Harren Hoare attacks the Reach, he will do so by the sea. He will attack Raylansfair first. I must prepare… we must be ready!" Eaton sighed. "Mylord, you are going to die...", he said, simply so that he could say something. So that he could fill the silence. In all his life he had never felt so powerless before, not even when Morna Raylan had been lying on his table, her bones crushed by a horse, begging him to end her life. Between the whispers, she had told him a truth that made his heart bitter even now. That she would have said yes if only he had asked her. That for him, she would have never even gotten onto that horse. That was the last she had said before the screaming began, as he tried, with blurry eyes, to save the life of the only woman he ever loved. A better maester, someone older and wiser could have saved her, one more concerned with those he loved than with memories of past glory, one with more links in silver than copper. Now his friend, his oldest and best friend, was about to die and Eaton was once more too weak to prevent it and now too old as well. Robert laughed, a terrible sound that soon became a cough. "I know, you old fool. I can feel the illness. When I woke up yesterday, I was blind. Today I can hardly raise my hand... It is over, Eaton. At least for me..." He closed his eyes and panic overcame Eaton. As loud as his old voice allowed, he began to scream "Mylord! Mylord! Robert! You can't sleep now. You need to tell me..." Robert opened his eyes again and gave him a weak smile. "And what does that matter to me? The new Lord Raylan will not be from my blood. This family is finished. Trystane should have been lord, with his fondness for merriment, instead of the dour fool that I was..." Eaton let out a frustrated groan. He knew Robert was stubborn as a mule, but he was also a good man and his best friend. He loved this house, he loved this city, he loved the lights at night and he would never let this house die… "Robert, you know that you must name your successor! Tell me and I will give you the Milk" This lightened up Lord Robert's face. "Ah yes, sweet milk. Milk of the Poppy” He paused and his smile grew thinner, but entirely honest. “Fine, if you need to know, then I will tell you what I had been thinking of, but do not complain to me afterwards. I am going to dictate you something. Write it word for word. Then put my seal on it..." Relief overcame Eaton. He grabbed a scroll and a quill and began to write. Robert started to dictate, at first in a hushed voice, but soon stronger as if these words forced their way out of him. And Eaton wrote. He wrote it word for word. Soon he realised what he was writing. "Mylord are you sure about this?" Robert nodded. “I told you not to complain!”, he hissed in return. "Never before, in all my life I was more certain about something... Write, old friend. Write history..." He murmured and closed his eyes. Eaton looked at the document in his hands. Harris' words came to mind. And his own. "I always do what is best for this house...", he mumbled. For a short moment he glanced at the oven, but then, in complete silence he grabbed Lord Robert's seal and put it onto the document. This was it. What should he do now? In his hands, he held the doom of House Raylan. Loyalty. His next step would decide where his loyalty lied. Was he loyal to Robert Raylan, his friend? Or was he loyal to House Raylan, the house that he loved, to Morna’s house? He took a step towards the oven, still holding the document with one pale, shaky hand. It would be easy. No one would ever know. No one except for himself. He would be the only one that had to live with this. The sound of Robert coughing made him turn around. His friend opened his eyes "I think I don't need... the milk... old friend", he murmured, raising his hand, waving Eaton closer. He opened his mouth and Eaton almost had to put his ear on his friend's mouth to be able to understand his last words. "You are my brother... now and forever... but we both know you it should have been your name on that list instead of that leech…”, he rasped. “Morna... she had always been fond of you, you know that? You and her… that would have been the future of my house, the one I always longed for. Now…" Robert opened his eyes widely. "I am afraid, Eaton..." Then, only silence. Eaton waited for a good minute before moving, as soon as his hands were no longer trembling. He closed his friend’s eyes and finally, for the first time in many decades, he was able to cry.
Hours must have passed, it almost sunrise and Eaton was still sobbing next to Robert's dead body. He cried over his old friends death, he cried over his own helplessness, he cried over the shame of what he had almost done and more than that, he cried over a life never lived, a life that could have been. Then, he became painfully aware of one more thing, but before he could do anything about it, a knock on the door startled him. "Come on in, whoever it is...", he said, praying for Harris, or for Leonard or Lucas maybe, for any knight still as loyal to this dead house as he would always be. Instead, Dairon walked in, almost too shy to glance at Lord Roberts body. Eaton looked at him, his eyes reddened from crying. "Maester... I... I am sorry", Dairon stuttered, but Eaton cut him off. "I know, boy. Listen..." A quick glance to the doors of the balcony. It was almost dawn. And this glance confirmed his suspicions.There was only one moment for him to make a bold plan. He handed Dairon the scroll. "This is not safe here. You have to bring it to Oldtown. Give it to Archmaester Quent and to nobody else!" Dairon looked at him, slightly confused. "Maester, do you feel alright?" Eaton shook his head. "No... but that is not the matter. We are both in grave danger, boy. This needs to reach Oldtown and Quent and swiftly so. Fetch a horse from the stables. You will be gone before news of our lord’s death breach this room" The boy looked confused, slightly overwhelmed and Eaton could not blame him. But he took the scroll, ever loyal. "I will bring this to Oldtown, you can trust me Maester. I... I give you my word" In that moment he almost seemed like a man, not the boy he was. Eaton gave him a soft pat on the shoulder and a big smile. "Good boy. Now leave. Leave as soon as possible" Dairon gulped. "May the gods be with you, old and new, Dairon. Should you succeed, you will fulfil an old mans dying wish..." Two old men's dying wishes, he corrected himself in his head. Two old men's dying wishes and the doom of a noble house. Dairon nodded and took the scroll. "I will come back, Maester, I promise!", he exclaimed. Eaton simply looked at him. He wanted to say so much. Words he had only ever spoken out aloud in his mind. Words that had defined him, words he had lived by and which he had to tell someone before he... He wanted to say so much, but he was running out of time. And it mattered less than his loyalty. "Close the door on your way out, boy. And don't tell anyone!", he merely muttered The boy left the room and Eaton stood up. With stiff limbs he walked to the balcony, out into the night, leaning onto the solid railing. Below him were the lights of Raylansfair. So beautiful. Above him, the morning sky, where black became blue. It was his favourite time of the day. "For how long have you been standing there?“, he asked the figure he had spotted moments ago, the one that had listened at least to his conversation with Eaton. "Not long" The voice was soft, but undoubtedly male. Eaton turned around. Slowly. The man was tall and well-built. He wore a cloak and a hood and beneath, Eaton could see only a hint of his face. Plain, clean-shaven, but with brutish features and a messy scar that had claimed one eye. The Maester noticed the dagger in the man's left hand and winced. He knew what this man was here for, but not why, nor why he had been waiting for so long. "Will you kill the boy once you're done with me?" Eaton felt his heart beating faster as he spoke those words out aloud. His own death left him strangely calm, but the boy... It was not fair. Slowly, the stranger shook his head. Relieve overcame Eaton. "Why should I? He is not part of the contract" A paid killer! Now that was interesting. "But I am..." the Maester stated. The stranger nodded. "My employer respects your loyalty and dedication to your city. You deserve a quick death, but we need you dead regardless. We need the chaos you’d prevent" He pointed at the bed, at the dead Robert Raylan. "He had to pass first though..." Eaton winced. Now it made sense. All this time he tried to cure an illness. All this time he was wrong. "You poisoned him..." The stranger nodded again. "It was part of the contract. And it was inconspicuous. A natural death, or so it will seem. Just an old man passing away in his bedchamber. I never got to ask him one crucial question, but I will ask you…" He took a step forwards, playing with the dagger in his hand, a dangerous weapon with a double-edged blade, created only for one purpose. To kill, by any means necessary. "Maester Eaton, how do you want to die?". Eaton snorted. "You are awfully civil for a paid killer” This time it almost seemed as if the cloaked stranger gave him a smile. "Why shouldn't I?”, he replied “I'm going to kill you, Eaton. There is no need in being rude" The stranger took a step forwards. Eaton glanced down. Below him, the city. The stranger followed his gaze. "That is a deep fall. Not what I would choose, but the sight is amazing. There are worse deaths" The Maester looked at his dead friend. Lord Robert had been a good man, a just man and he did not deserve this fate. "Obviously", Eaton murmured. "What would you do if I try to fight you? What would you do if I cry for help?" The stranger shrugged. "I will kill you. Slowly. Then I will kill the boy" Eaton closed his eyes for a moment. "And if I let it happen?", he asked. For a moment it seemed as if the stranger was smiling. "The boy gets to live" In speaking these words he confirmed what Eaton had hoped for. He had not been there to hear Robert’s final words. He had no idea what was in that envelope. The Maester turned around and leant as much against the railing as he could. Below him, the city. "Morna always loved this view'' His voice was little more than a hushed whisper. He felt the stranger's hand on his shoulder. "She had a good taste then...", he whispered softly, but meaninglessly. A single tear found it's way out of Eatons reddened eyes and he knew he had no more to give. "Who hired you?", he demanded to know. The stranger approached him until his mouth was next to Eatons ear. He whispered one name, then another, then a third and the maester’s eyes widened. Before he could say anything else, he felt a shove, soft but determined. He did not resist. Eaton closed his eyes only for a second, before opening them, taking in this final view. He felt the wind on his face and he felt light, almost like a bird. The pain in his limbs was gone and there was no fear in his heart. Below him the city. Above him the blue morning sky. The city came closer... End of Prologue: Below him, the city |
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Post by LiquidChicagoTed on Apr 17, 2024 19:33:09 GMT
Act I: A Fate Uncertain
Chapter I: Dark, Wings, Dark Words
Lucas It was early in the morning when Lucas Flowers entered the Great Hall. On ordinary days, the servants would have prepared breakfast by now, hard-boiled eggs, bacon, loafs of bread and more honey than a man could ever eat and sweet apricots from the Arbor. On ordinary days, the hall would be filled with laughter, filled with people, from the lowest servant to Lord Raylan himself. But today, the Great Hall was silent and bleak. Three people sat on the table of honour, their facial expressions ranging from gloomy to stern. On ordinary days, Lucas would have avoided the company of two of them. Septon Corbin, a balding, pudgy man of about forty years, with puffy eyes and the dolorous look of a man who thought of himself as holier than the rest, sat to the right. Across the Septon sat Halla Peddle, the housekeeper, iron-fisted ruler over a few dozen servants, a stern and skinny old woman, always armed with a pinched mouth and a fearsome glare. Even though she was a common woman, few people dared not to address her as 'Lady Halla'. Between them sat Harris Flowers, castellan and now acting Lord of Raylansfair. His face was frozen, his usual gentle smile gone. He looked up as Lucas entered the Hall. "Ser Lucas, I am glad you're here...", he said, his voice muffled by his unkempt beard. He had the pale skin of a man who hadn't slept all night, as well as deep, dark circles under his eyes. Unlike the other two, Lucas had always liked Harris. The man was a bastard, much like himself. Born as the illegitimate child of Lord Robert's trusted childhood friend, Harris had it a bit better than most bastards. He had grown up at a court, all but raised by a lord who valued his heritage instead of giving him contempt, but nonetheless he was free of any arrogance. And despite his advanced age, Harris was a strong fighter and worthy of respect. "Come closer, grab a seat. We have something to talk about", he growled. Lucas took a step towards the table and bowed before them. "Ser Harris, Septon Corbin, Lady Halla, how may I serve you?", he intoned. Harris made a hand gesture and Lucas realised that there was another person in the room, a thin, brown-haired girl with a timid look on her face, probably around his age. One of the servants, he had seen her around but never caught her name. "Ser Lucas is hungry, girl. Go, bring him a glass of wine and something to eat", Harris demanded. The girl winced, almost as if Harris startled her, made a curtsey and scurried to the kitchen. "I'm not...", Lucas started, but the girl was already gone. "I'm not hungry...", he added in a low tone, before grabbing a seat opposite of Harris. His stomach rumbled. Lady Halla shook her head with disdain. "She's that Harking girl m'lords. Jenna Harking. Good for nothing and far too thin for my liking" Harris shrugged. "I'm afraid we are not here to talk about the Harking girl", he sighed, shutting her down at once. He bent forwards and looked Lucas right in the eyes. "What I'm about to tell you now will stay between the four of us, do you understand?" His eyes were dead serious and Lucas could not blame him. He had not seen the body of the old Maester Eaton, who had been discovered in the courtyard at dawn, but he heard the servants talk as they always did. It was rumoured that Eaton, himself old and sickly, had thrown himself off the tower after Lord Raylans death. It was also rumoured that young Dairon, his apprentice, was missing. At that moment Harris looked over Lucas' shoulders. "Ah, hurry girl and then leave us alone", he growled. Lucas turned around and saw the servant, now carrying a cup of wine and a small bowl, filled with bread, honey and cold meat from the day before. Lucas' stomach rumbled again as he gazed upon the food. "Thank you, Jenna", he spoke, while giving the girl a grateful smile and her eyes widened in surprise as he addressed her by name. She hastily placed the bowl before him and made a curtsey again, before she turned around and rushed out of the hall. "What did I say? She's far too timid for a servant", Lady Halla complained. Lucas glanced after the girl, before reaching for a slice of bread. Harris cleared his throat "Lucas, what have you heard about last night?", he asked. Septon Corbin raised his head, his puffy eyes now looking directly at Lucas, but he remained quiet. "Not much. They say Lord Raylan is dead. They say the grieving Maester Eaton took his own life. And they say Dairon is gone", Lucas answered, before drinking a sip of wine. Harris was still looking at him, almost as if he expected something else. It was a test, he realised. "You don't believe he killed himself, do you?", Lucas added and immediately knew that this was the correct answer. Harris' expression softened ever so slightly. "Good boy. I knew you were the right man to approach. No, I do not believe Eaton jumped, not by his own volition at least. And I do not believe Lord Raylan died of a natural cause either. He had been spry until a few months ago and then he began to just... wither" He paused for a moment, before reaching for the wine, a look of concern on his face. When he continued, his voice was low. "Eaton was a good friend and Lord Robert an even better one. I owe them everything. I owe it to them to find a good successor for his House. And I especially owe them to find their killer and bring him to justice" "And what do you want from me, Ser Harris?", Lucas asked, even though he already suspected the answer. His heartbeat quickened and he clenched one fist over the table. Harris paused for a moment, before leaning closer, giving him a long, stern look. "I need you to find the one who did this, Ser Lucas", he revealed calmly "I admit, I ask for much. We have almost no leads and no suspects either. But if you do this, for me, for Raylansfair, know it will not be in vain" Lucas' eyes widened. He was a knight of Raylansfair and there were only a handful of them left as is. And yet, he was but the most recent addition to the court of House Raylan, with others having served alongside Harris for years. "I must ask, Ser… why me?", he mumbled. "You could send for Ser Darren or Ser Ilhan perhaps, or…" Harris cut him off. "I called for you because this is a delicate matter and you are one of the few honourable men left in this keep and I know you would do anything to solve this case", he explained. "I trust you, but only a few of the others" Lucas moved one hand through his blonde hair, before clutching the back of his head, overwhelmed with what Harris just asked of him. His lord has been murdered. And he, Lucas Flowers, the Bastard of Vyrwel, should find the killer. He met Harris' gaze. The castellan had just called him one of the few honourable men left in this keep. That raised the question, was Harris himself one of these honourable few? And what about Septon Corbin and Lady Halla? Lucas sighed. There was no point in asking himself such a question now. Harris was the acting lord of Raylansfair until a proper successor would be found. His superior. More importantly, out of all the knights at court, he was by far the most devoted to Raylansfair. "Do you have any idea where I should start, Ser Harris?" Finally Harris' usual gentle smile appeared on his face. "Good lad. We knew we could trust you with this. As I said, we have no real lead, except for Dairon. He was the last person to see both men alive. Lady Halla found out that a horse in the stables is missing, together with some supplies from the kitchen. The gatekeeper saw him leaving shortly before dawn. He moved south. Right now, Dairon is the only one who may know more about this" Lady Halla cleared her throat "He is a suspect. We expect you to bring him back, so Harris can question him", she said, without a hint of empathy in her voice. "As it stands, I do not believe he left by coincidence the very same night our lord and the good maester were killed!" Lucas let out a sigh. Dairon was a gentle soul, not a killer by any means. Lady Halla spoke harshly, but at the same time, he agreed that the boy was their only real lead. At least the only lead they had right now. But perhaps there was something they had missed so far. "Ser Harris, I will need to have a look at Lord Raylans chamber first", he brought up. "Maybe the killer made a mistake. Maybe I can find a lead" Harris narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure about this, boy? Dairon is our best lead and every moment we waste is a moment he gets farther away. Besides, I already had a look through the chamber myself" His voice changed subtly and Lucas took note of it. Harris was usually a man of integrity, but right now much was at stake. He could not afford ignoring his growing concerns. "My decision stands, Ser Harris. You gave me the order to find whoever murdered Lord Raylan and Maester Eaton and I intend to do everything to fulfil your expectations", he explained as calmly as possible, though his free hand was trembling ever so slightly. "I need to take another look. Besides, two heads are better than one, right?" The look Harris gave him could best be described as frosty and the sudden shift in the knight's tone surprised him. Septon Corbin however nodded. "I agree. I don't want to question your competence Harris, but he is right", he stated and his support came as a surprise to Lucas. "Besides, for all I know that Dairon boy is not an experienced rider. He won't come far until he has to make a break. A knight such as Ser Lucas can catch up to him in no time" Harris nodded slowly and reluctantly. "So be it. I have a guard positioned in front of the chamber. Tell him I sent you. But… be swift, Lucas. Every minute you waste will be another minute Dairon has to get away and with him the last person to see both men alive" Lucas saluted. "I won't disappoint you, Ser Harris" With these words, he turned around, walking out of the hall and starting to make his way to the great tower. Harris' frosty reaction to a reasonable request struck him as odd. It was almost as if the castellan had something to hide. But what? Was Harris behind the murder of Maester Eaton? No, Lucas was certain this couldn't be it. Harris had been good friends with Eaton. He had served Lord Robert for his entire life and he was fiercely loyal to House Raylan. But why did he react the way he did? As he reached the courtyard, his gaze fell upon the spot where Maester Eaton had been found. Servants had removed his body, but a horrid stain remained, sending shivers down the young knight's spine. Eaton had always been kind to him. To everyone. And despite his age, there had been life left within him. He glanced up to the keep's tower, a huge, fortified structure where Lord Robert had dwelled almost all by himself. And this time, he felt a sting in his heart as he remembered the day he arrived at Raylansfair in the middle of a storm, soaked to the bone, a disgraced exile who had already been turned away at Honey Holt and Brightwater Keep. A man whose own father, the noble Lord Leo Vyrwel, had disowned him. His own half-brother had conspired against their father, only to blame it all on Lucas once his schemes failed. And after all, who would believe the word of a bastard? Who, but the Lord of Raylansfair, who had taken him into his hall and then his household… ...a kind, almost fatherly smile, bright eyes, the hair still thick but completely white, a gentle voice, a man who wanted to hear what really happened, a man who promised help, a good man.......until the lord got sick, only a few months after they had first met. By then, Lucas had become a trusted knight in service to House Raylan. He had started to become friends with Harris, he had often conversed with Maester Eaton, he learned to fear Ser Ilhan and Lady Halla. He had always been quick to make new friends and Raylansfair was no different. But unlike the other places he had visited in his young life, Raylansfair already felt like a home to him. And he would do whatever it took to keep it safe. With determined steps he took the stairs up to the Great Tower and entered it. The tower... He had rarely been there in the past weeks. He knew the lord's chambers were located on the second highest floor. The highest floor hadn't been used for decades and contained the chambers of Lord Roberts' parents. Opposite Robert's chamber were the similarly locked and abandoned chambers of his brother and sister. Two floors below that was Harris' chamber, the only other person who actually slept in the tower. Even before Lord Robert's death the Tower had felt more like a tomb. Now it felt like an entire graveyard. With a slightly uneasy feeling, Lucas took the steps up towards Lord Raylans floor. "My my, look who's there! What are you doing here, Flowers?", a familiar voice called him out as he reached the top of the stairs. Seven Hells, why him? In front of Lord Raylans chamber stood Ser Leonard Constantine, one of the few people in Raylansfair whom Lucas hadn't warmed up to yet and one of the few other knights left in the keep. The smallfolk called him 'Ser Leonard the Stately', for his full brown hair and his handsome features. The man was a few years older than Lucas, an experienced knight and even more important, a well-travelled and connected envoy between House Raylan and the other noble houses of Reach, a man with a silver tongue and enough wit to hide it when necessary. It came as a surprise that Harris would send someone like Leonard to guard a dead men's room when any ordinary guard would have sufficed. "Ser Harris sent me. I am allowed to have a look through Lord Raylan's chambers", Lucas said. He knew that Leonard would not be standing there if Harris didn't trust him. The question remained though, could he trust Harris? Right now, the castellan was the most powerful man in the keep and if his past had taught him anything, it was that those with power often had the most to hide. "And what do you hope to find here, digging through a dead man's belongings, Flowers?", Leonard scoffed. "Perhaps you need a bedpan or a fresh set of sheets?" Lucas rolled his eyes. That biting sarcasm was one of the many reasons why he rather avoided Leonard's presence. But now wasn't the time to get into an argument with him. "Listen, Lenny... I'm not here to start a fight with you. I have to go into that room now, or do you want to make another witty line?", Lucas said and for a moment he saw Leonards face drop. It was an open secret that he hated being called like that. Usually, Lucas would be above pettiness, but with this man, it was well-earned. Leonard mustered him calmly and coldly for a second, before he took a step sideways. "Sure Flowers, have a look... Do whatever you fucking want. I'm here to keep the rabble out, not a fellow knight", he mumbled. Lucas finally stepped inside the room. And was greeted by a terrible stench. Of course, they had moved Lord Raylans body to the Sept, but it has been rumoured that the dying lord barely had any control over his bladder in his final days. On top of that, it smelled like death. Lucas looked around. For a Reachlord, Robert Raylan lived with few luxuries. The bed was huge and it surely had been very expensive once, but now it was worn and old. The small oven was still warm from the fire that had been kept burning day and night during the lord's illness. The doors to the balcony were open. The balcony.... The place where Maester Eaton had died. Lucas and Eaton had talked a lot during the past months. The Maester had been a wise man, a selfless man, but sometimes there had been this look in his eyes that made him seem to be the saddest man Lucas ever knew. He sighed. The good Maester was gone. Robert Raylan was gone too. "Robert the Revered", he had been called by the smallfolk, a quite fitting name for him. A war hero, someone who cared for his people. Lucas had only heard stories, but six years ago he personally led a charge against Ironborn raiders despite his age. Thanks to the lord's bravery, the Ironborn had inflicted only minor casualties amongst the townsfolk, but suffered heavy losses themselves. He had even slain the Ironborn captain in single combat and sent his head back to Harrenhal. And yet, this proud, unbroken man had wasted away from an illness mere years later. Lucas' gaze fell onto the small desk, where ink and paper lay scattered. The inkpot was still open and had obviously been used recently. Lucas took a step closer and looked at the paper. Yes, something has been written here, very recently. Stains of ink could be seen on the quill. Maybe Maester Eaton had written something on this day, something he should not have. Maybe that was the reason he had to die. And maybe Lucas could be able to trace this last writing. Now all he needed was a pen and the sheet of paper on top to trace the imprints of Maester Eatons final message. The pen was easily found under the writing desk. Lucas smirked. Usually he preferred to meet his enemies in single combat. But this... The killer had made a mistake and using this mistake felt like the right thing to do here.. As soon as he started to trace, his joy turned into disappointment and he let out a frustrated groan. There were no imprints on the topmost sheet of paper. Of course somebody had taken it. Just then, a loud knock startled Lucas and he turned around, facing the door. Leonard Constantine entered the room. "A word, Flowers?", he said and seemed to hesitate until Lucas gave him a reluctant nod. "I know we're not the best of friends. Might be my fault for all I know, but who cares? Sometimes shit like that just comes out of my mouth" He sighed. "But that's not the point now. I must tell you something" Lucas narrowed his eyes. Was that an apology? Why now? "What do you want, Leonard?", he asked. Leonard shrugged. "Trying to aid you, I guess. I know you were fond of Lord Robert. So was I. He was a good man and he did not deserve that fate... and Maester Eaton too. They say the Maester killed himself, but I'm not stupid and neither are you. We both know Eaton would never do that. So, I want to bring the killer to justice just as much as you want. And I might have a lead, if you're willing to work with me" Lucas snorted. "Are you proposing an alliance between us, Leonard?", he asked. "Thought you didn't like me" Leonard shrugged again. "I don't, but does it matter, Flowers? But you are devoted to this house and that's something I can at least respect. I know you want to find the truth", he clarified and Lucas could at least understand this sentiment. "All I can tell you is that Harris was in here. Earlier this morning, before he placed me here. Thought I wouldn't find out, but one of the servants saw him. He took some things from Lord Raylans chamber. Now, I know that guy is a fierce knight and a good castellan, but I don't trust him. Never did. And you shouldn't trust him either" Lucas took a deep breath. So, Leonard was distrustful of Harris too. But for all he had heard of him, that was nothing unusual. "What do you suggest, Leonard?", he asked. "That I spy on the castellan?" Despite his own suspicions, that would be a big step to take and he was not sure if Leonard, of all people, was the one whose aid he wanted to accept. And yet, as much an arse as he was, he was an honest arse. He let out a sigh. "I… do share your sentiment. Harris might be a lead" The other knight gave Lucas a small grin. "Harris took that stuff into his own chamber. I bet he had a good reason for that. Probably tries to cover something up", he explained. "Right now we're the only people in this tower. My plan would be that one of us goes into that chamber, while the other remains on lookout. What do you say?" Lucas looked the other man straight in the eye. As an envoy, Leonard was a smooth talker. Was he honest this time, or was that just part of a scheme? And could Lucas just ignore him after what he had just learned? Harris had been here, he had taken something from the chamber and he did not mention it before. Clearly he was hiding something. If working with Leonard was the only way to uncover the truth, then it was a price he found himself willing to pay. He reluctantly extended a hand and Leonard raised an eyebrow. "I don't like you", he spoke. "But I can't afford not to trust you. Let's uncover the truth, together" A smirk flashed across Leonard's face and he shook his hand briefly, but earnestly. "Maybe you're not a dead loss after all", he replied. "Together, Flowers" To be continued
I think I will use this space to give long-time readers a brief overview of what I changed in this part beyond generally fixing some spelling and grammar errors to the best of my abilities. First, I slightly expanded the conversation between Lucas and Harris. I also made some adjustments to Lucas' initial conversation with Leonard. Now, Len is a bit more respectful to the late Lord Raylan, but still harsh towards Lucas to keep in line with his personality. Leonard is also not apologizing to Lucas after the scene in Lord Raylan's chambers, but still trying to make up with him in order to help him in the investigation. I slightly expanded on Leonard's reasoning for suggesting that Lucas searches Harris' chambers. |
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Post by LiquidChicagoTed on Apr 18, 2024 20:12:46 GMT
Torvin They called it ‘The Hall of the Hundred Hearths’. Torvin had counted them and found out there were not more than thirty-five. Right now almost a thousand men had gathered around them and still the hall wasn't even remotely crowded. Two dozen Riverlords, their entourage, over fifty captains of the Iron Fleet and their crew. And Harren Hoare. The King himself sat on his massive throne made of solid stone, far bigger than his ancestral throne in Orkmont, above him, carved in the solid stone, the sigil of House Hoare. Torvin had always found that this sigil was fitting for Harren Hoare. It was arrogance personified, still depicting lands that had been lost to other Houses several hundred years ago. The grape clusters of Arbor, the green pines of Bear Island, the black ravens of Oldtown and finally the longships of the Iron Islands. All bound… with chains of iron, as the Hoare words said. An elaborate sigil, meant to instil awe. For Torvin it showed everything House Hoare had lost in the past thousand years. Building Harrenhal had bled the Riverlands dry, a monument to Harren’s hubris. The King wasn't loved, not even by his captains. He instilled fear in most people who saw him. He was a monster. But every time Torvin looked at the scars in Harrens face, he was reminded that monsters could be killed. Right now, Harren was a small figure, hundreds of feet away. Torvin wasn't afraid of him. There were few things he had ever been afraid of and no mere man could ever compare to them. Typically, a gathering of such a size in the largest hall this side of the Narrow Sea would have been a lively place.Torvin preferred smaller gatherings and open skies to this packed hall of stone, but there were days when even he could not deny the allure of a crowd, of merriment and good company. Today, he’d find no merriment here though and the company was as grim as he himself, for today was the king’s court day. “NO! Please your grace, I'm begging you! Mercy!“ The gaunt man fell onto his knees, tears running down his face, his eyes wide with fear. Murmurs from the attending Riverlanders, the lords and their entourages, confirmed some sympathy for his plight. Among the Ironborn, he saw different reactions. Some seemed to be indifferent, some even seemed to enjoy what would follow. Torvin was not among that crowd. He shook his head and sighed. It had been an ordinary case. The man was one of the workers, one of the men who had been forced to work on Harrenhal, the grandest keep in the world. He had stolen a loaf of bread and as per custom, he now had the choice between losing a hand or being sent to the wall. It had been an ordinary case, at least until the man had started to protest against what he saw as injustice. And that was the biggest mistake he could have ever made. Nobody called Harren Hoare unjust. Slowly, the king rose from his throne, glaring down at his prisoner with the pitch black eyes that had become characteristic for his line. Harren wasn't the tallest man in the kingdom, nor the strongest, even if his girth gave him an impressive presence. But he was with certainty the most iron-willed man in the kingdom, and a cruel and bloodthirsty bastard as well. Torvin thought that without any remorse. He knew some people who were afraid of Harren the Black, up to the point where they wouldn't even dare to have bad thoughts about him. But Torvin saw him for what he truly was. A short man, muscular, but also starting to become fat, with black hair, but balding, a raider long past his prime. He was wearing blackened armour and atop his head his crown, a thick golden circlet with four long, pointy spikes.Two deep, old scars over his left cheek and mouth showed that he was not invincible. He was not immortal. Of course, the peasants were well-advised in being afraid of him. Harren Hoare was a man ordinary people should be afraid of. But they should be able to think about him however they wanted to. “Mercy? Now you dare ask me for mercy?“ The King of the Isles and Rivers had a harsh and hoarse voice. He grabbed the poor man by the throat and delivered a hard blow with his armoured glove into his face. “Come on, ask me again, this time without your fucking teeth!“, Harren growled and lessened his grip around the man's throat, who immediately sank onto all fours, spitting a mixture of blood and shattered teeth. “For your insolence, you will be flayed“, he simply stated, before turning around, walking back to his throne and leaving the bleeding and weeping man on his floor. “Please, your grace... Please, send me to the wall. I choose the wall...“, the man sobbed. Harren didn't even turn around. “You choose the wall?“ His voice sounded dangerously calm this time and he glanced over his shoulder, his expression as unmoving as the stone around them. “Fine then... You all heard it. This little bastard chose the wall! I can't deny him this right, mylords...“ He paused for a moment and looked over the attending noblemen and his captains. Torvin winced as Harren looked him straight in the eye, before his black gaze wandered over to the next of his captains, to Durren Stallhart whose own expression was unreadable beneath his dark eyes and the thick moustache. The old Simon Vessels meanwhile caught Harren’s gaze and reciprocated with a cruel smirk. “The wall it shall be..”, Harren mumbled, before he raised his voice again. “Nail him to Harrenhal’s northern wall, then proceed with the flaying“ This sentence caused a commotion in an instant. A few of his captains cheered loudly, Vessels, Volmark and Orkwood among them, whereas the gathered Riverlords yelled among each other in protest. For a short moment, their wild voices even managed to drown the man's panicked pleas for help, until Harren spoke again. “And bring me his annoying tongue. I can't stand this little fuck and his whining...“ With a frown on his face, Torvin looked around the crowd until he saw his brother. Garthon was clearly disgusted by what just happened and he wasn't the only one. Some of the noblemen left the room. Harren never forced anyone to attend his court sessions, which was among the best things that could be said about him. “Your Grace!“ Torvin looked up at the man who just called. Every person in the room did the same, including Harren Hoare, who watched the man with his dark eyes. He was a tall man, lean, with short auburn hair and a well-kempt moustache. He wore a tabard striped in red and blue with a silver trout on it. Torvin sighed. This was one of the Riverlords. He wasn't the first to speak up against Harren Hoare and he wouldn't be the last. Harren narrowed his eyes. “Lord Edmyn Tully...“, he stated without raising his voice above a whisper, his expression making it clear how little he wanted to speak to one of his Riverlander vassals now. The king had always ruled through fear, with them in particular, but Torvin knew that this was a double edged sword. Fear was all he had to offer them now for the moment he showed weakness, they’d surely turn on him as some had tried in the past. “Do you have anything of value to add?” “Your grace, this is not just! The man pleaded to be sent to the Wall and the Night’s Watch needs recruits. It is his right as per ancient tradition“, Tully said while maintaining eye contact with the king. Hoare took a few steps closer to Lord Tully. Torvin gulped. He had seen the look in King Harrens eyes. Rarely had he been in a mood as foul as today. “Let me tell you one thing Tully! My brother won't get any recruits from me…”, he grunted without even trying to lower his voice “And you... You dare to tell me what is right and what is wrong, you fucking fishlord?“ A few Riverlords gasped audibly and Torvin could see how Tully narrowed his eyes. The Riverlord even placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by the king’s guards. Torvin clenched his fists. Should Harren and the mightiest of his Riverlander vassals come to blows in the Great Hall, Greyjoy and her men would have her work cut out for her tonight. “What did you say, your grace?“, Tully asked, his voice calm, but stern. Harren started to laugh. It was a terrible sound, more befitting to a roaring bear. “I called you a fucking fishlord!”, he growled loudly, as he approached Tully without even an ounce of fear. “A stupid little Rivercunt, whose daughters are not even worthy enough to become my lowest captain's salt wife...“ With that he looked straight at the lord, while giving him a devious grin. “Come on Tully, we both know what you want to do now. You wouldn't be the first to try it. But think about what happens if you fail.Think about what I will do to your family...“ Harrens voice lowered while he looked around, from Edmyn Tully to Tytos Bracken, then the mousy Arrec Mallister, the only man not to meet his gaze in return. Slowly, Tully moved his hand away from the hilt. King Harren grinned and grabbed the Riverlord by the shoulders “Clever little trout... You may leave this hall now”, he growled and this time his voice was lower, so low that Torvin barely understood the words that followed. “But Edmyn.... Never dare such a thing again if you are not willing to go through with it...“, he whispered. “And do remember… I am in control here” With that, he released the man from his grip. Tully breathed heavily, but Torvin could see the fury in his glare as he looked at Harren. Without another word, the Riverlord turned around. “Family, Duty, Honor...“, Harren scoffed at the Lord, while Tully stepped out of the hall. “It is in your words, Tully. Honor always comes last for you, you fucking trout!“ Before he walked back to his throne again, he glanced at his gathered lords, the Riverlanders and his Iron Fleet captains and their entourage. “With chains of iron I have bound this land and with chains of iron I shall hold it!”, he proclaimed and his men, especially the Ironborn raised a fist into the air. “With Chains of Iron!”, they yelled. A cruel grin flashed over Harren’s scarred face, as he sat down on his throne. “That’s right”, he growled towards the eastern side of the hall, where most of his Riverlander vassals had gathered. “It is up to you, mylords of yellow mud, to decide how tight these chains shall be. Bring in the next supplicants!” Torvin closed his eyes for a moment, unable to hold back the concern that plagued him. The king was perfectly willing to kill his underlings for any wrong word. How long would it be until he would kill one of his captains? Torvin wondered if he himself would be safe from Harren’s cruelty, being one of his lower captains. He wondered if Garthon would be safe. And he looked after Lord Tully, who had just left the great hall, accompanied by his entire entourage of knights and servants. The Riverlord was brave. Maybe too brave for his own good. But perhaps he was one of the few that could actually protect Torvin and Garthon from Harren Hoares wrath, should anything ever happen. At that moment, Harrick, the king’s youngest son, presented a territorial dispute between two farmers. Torvin started to walk towards the doors. He had little interest in the cruelties the King of the Isles and Rivers could think of, had little interest in how Harren Hoare made a mockery out of court sessions. It was a show of strength that was lost on Torvin. Maybe he should talk to Lord Tully. Hear what he had to say about this. About halfway to the door someone grabbed him by the arm. Garthon looked at him, visibly worried. His brother was a bit shorter than the hulking Torvin, with the same dark hair, but where Torvin wore a mighty beard, he was clean-shaven. Garthon had always been the charming brother, the one who cared how his manners affected others. Some considered him half a Greenlander for it, but Torvin knew his brother and how he fought at sea. There was iron in both of the Breaker brothers, but Garthon’s was of a different kind. “What are you doing brother?“, Garthon demanded to know, as he dragged his brother out of the hall and down one of the more quiet hallways that led from it. He was visibly shaken by what his king had just done. Torvin sighed. “I have to talk to Lord Tully. I saw the look in his eyes. If the Riverlord is planning something, I need to know...“ Garthon shook his head “No, you don't. For once, don’t get us into any trouble. Harren Hoare is no man you want against you. He looked at you, you know that? As you walked towards the door. As if he’s daring you to make a mistake“ “And what should I do in your opinion, brother? Shall I just wait until Black Harren makes a move against his own men? Take a guess whom he’ll off first“, Torvin growled. Though he had been careful, never outright showing his disdain for the wanton cruelty of his king, he could not shake off the feeling that things would not go well for much longer. Harren was growing too desperate to control his bannermen for that. “I need to think of Clarisse as well now. She’ll give birth soon. Do I want my child to grow up in Harren Hoare’s realm?” Garthon shrugged. “It might be better not to draw his attention to your woman then”, he spat. “The king can do as he likes. He does not need a reason and you know that. Try to get into his favour. You want to lead our family to glory? Then stick with the king. The Lord of Riverrun might make his move, he’ll fail and then he’ll die. And House Tully will become another House Faron and all who aided him will rot down in the dungeons. Come on brother, you are smarter than that...“ Slowly, Torvin shook his head. “I'm sorry brother. I have to do this'', he mumbled. Garthon looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “This is madness, brother... Don't let the Riverlord drag you down with him...“, he muttered with great concern. Torvin shook his head. “Don't worry brother. The king won't hurt us, I'll make sure of that...“, he said. Garthon seemed unconvinced. A short nod and then he stepped aside. “Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you”, he hissed. “Hear him out and then no more!” With these words, they separated. The giant hallway in which Torvin stood now was completely empty. But he had an idea where Lord Tully could have gone. He turned to the right and with quick steps he walked down the hallway. What was he doing? By the Drowned God, what was he thinking? He wasn't afraid of Harren Hoare. But he knew he should be. He knew what Harren Hoare was capable of. Being afraid would be a wise thing to do. A cowardly thing to do. And Torvin breaker had never been a coward. He was a raider and a killer, yes, but he had never feared his enemies, nor degraded them as Harren did with his. He was a weak king, relying on Hardhand’s legacy, no man worth following in his own right. When turned left to the next corridor, he saw the man he was looking for, heading towards his quarter. “Lord Tully!“, Torvin shouted. The Riverlord turned around, his face still showing barely contained anger, his fingers trembling with rage. His blue eyes looked over Torvin. “Yes Ironborn? How can I help you? Or are you just here to mock me?“ Edmyn Tully's voice oozed disdain. Torvin took a few steps closer. “I'm not here to provoke you, Lord Tully. What you did in the Hall was a very brave thing to do“, he said, trying to calm the Riverlord down. Tully did not seem to be convinced. “Don't try to flatter me, Ironborn. It was a stupid thing to do. We both know my emotions got the better of me“, he scoffed, before letting out a sigh. “But I guess there's no point in turning back now. You have an advantage, Ironborn. You know my name, but you haven't told me yours“ Torvin gave him a heartfelt smile “Torvin Breaker, Captain of the Behemoth“, he introduced himself. Tully narrowed his eyes. “Breaker? I have heard this name. Your great-grandfather slew Peyton Mallister during the siege of Seagard, right?“ Torvin gave him an approving look. For a Riverlord, Edmyn Tully knew a great deal about the Ironborn. “You're right, Mylord. And one of Walder Bracken’s archers put an arrow through his eye at Fairmarket“, he answered Tully's face softened considerably. “I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, Captain Breaker. What do you want?“, he asked. Torvin closed his eyes for a moment. This was it. The moment of truth. “You did a brave thing in the Great Hall, regardless of how wise it was. Defying the king like this… few man have the guts to challenge him and live“ Tully snorted. “Bravery... I'm not a coward, Captain Breaker, but this had nothing to do with bravery. Standing for justice shouldn't be seen as an act of bravery. It should be common sense. It was the only honourable thing to do. Seeing the other Riverlords so indifferent... it made me angry, Captain Breaker. Honour is in the Tully words. It is one of the three pillars my family is founded on. I won't look away while Harren Hoare does as he likes. You can go tell him that. That's what you're here for, right?“ Torvin gave him a gruff smile. “I don’t mean to rat you out”, he stated. “That’d be the same as killing you myself” He shook his head and placed one closed fist on his chest. “Honor, Lord Tully. That is why I'm here”, he clarified. “My family had once been powerful and respected. Harwyn Hoare listened to my great-grandfather's advice. My father, on the other hand, was a drunkard and a sycophant. He destroyed the family, took our honour and left me and my brother with nothing but a despised name and a lone old longship. Now it is up to me to restore our honour. And just like you, I refuse to look away. Harren Hoare is not only a tyrant to the Riverlords, but to his captains as well. Not all of us are like him“ He paused and clenched his fists, so hard that his palms began to ache, as he fully realised how freely he had just spoken these words from the heart. By the drowned God what was he doing? If anything, Lord Tully looked genuinely baffled. “I did not expect to hear such words from an Ironborn. I claim to be good at seeing people's true intentions. And it seems we have something in common, Captain Breaker“ Torvin nodded. “Your words, Lord Tully. We both would do everything for our families. We both struggle with our duty. And we value honour above all other virtues. Yes, we have something in common. The only question is, are you willing to go as far as I am to protect those I love?“ Tully was silent for a moment. His face dropped. As he answered, his voice was quieter than before “Bloody Brandon Frey tried to be on good terms with the king. He made generous gifts and contributed a great deal to the building of this...“ He made a disgusted face “... this monstrosity. He even invited Crown Prince Harmund to be his guest at the Twins. As a show of gratitude, Harmund raped his daughter. Out of fear for his son Adrew, who is the king’s squire, Lord Frey has kept silent about this, but young Adrew told me a fortnight ago. The king's sons are every bit as monstrous as the king himself and they might grow into even worse men. How much worse can it get for good men in these wicked lands?” He looked Torvin straight in the eye and the Ironborn noticed something in Tully's steely gaze. This trout had the heart of a lion! “You ask me how far I am willing to go, Captain Breaker? I have a daughter as well! If it keeps her safe, I will fight Harren Hoare till it snows in Dorne. The real question here is, how far are you willing to go?“ Torvin looked out of a window, down onto Harrenhals courtyard. Ten thousand men were stationed at the castle and with every day there were more coming. Harrens sons were on their way to the castle. The last of its five towers was almost finished. The largest castle in Westeros. An impregnable fortress. A monument to Harren Hoares megalomania and all his sins. A castle built on blood. Harren Hoare was a danger to the whole kingdom. But more importantly, he was a danger to everyone close to him. A danger to the Riverlords. A danger to his captains. A danger to Garthon. A danger to Torvin’s beloved and their unborn child. He wasn't afraid of Harren Hoare, even though he knew he should. Not for himself at least. “Come first snow, I will be a father”, he revealed. “My rock wife dwells on Pyke, safe for now, but I cannot say for how much longer. He extended a hand and without hesitation, Edmyn Tully grabbed it firmly. Torvin looked him in the eye, this lord of trouts, the greatest among the Riverlords. And he knew, there would be no way back now. Not until the tyrant was gone. To be continued
I know I said no major changes and I stick by that, but I did some pretty big changes to this part, showing more of Torvin's character and established already that he is a family man expecting his first child, making his decision to turn on Harren Hoare more believable and giving him a better motive than just an ominous feeling that Harren could be a threat to Garthon. The meat of the part is still the same, most of it remains unchanged, but some things are rearranged and, as I said, a couple smaller and larger additions, including mentions of some Ironborn and Riverlander lords who won't appear until much later. Enjoy! |
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Post by LiquidChicagoTed on Apr 19, 2024 23:06:26 GMT
Jaron Ah, Oldtown… Jaron looked down at the oldest city in Reach. He had been here before, two times with his mentor Ser Matthos. Today marked the first time he entered the city completely on his own. A long line of carts moved down the hill that led to the city's northern gate, a constant flow of people entering and leaving this steaming moloch of a city. Jaron gave his horse the spurs and moved past the carts and other peasants. A knight, such as he was, did not need to wait. He remembered what Matthos once told him. Oldtown had been built by the First Men, even before the Andal Invasion, many thousand years ago. According to Matthos, Oldtown was also the largest city in Westeros, with people from all over the continent, from Essos and even the Summer Isles travelling here, to trade their goods or to find work and opportunity. As a result, Oldtown contained at least a shrine for every god man ever worshipped. During his first visit, Jaron had seen the imposing Starry Sept, seat of the High Septon himself. Only a few streets later he had seen a building dedicated to the Red God, next to it a smaller building with blackened walls, dedicated to the goat-headed god the Qohoriks worshipped, while on the streets a tanned beggar sold trinkets blessed by Mother Rhoyne. Of course there was also the Citadel, the greatest trove of knowledge in all Westeros and the famous Hightower that towered over the city, visible for many miles to all sides, lighting the way for ships from all over the world. It took him quite a while to enter the city, even on horseback. The broad street leading to the northern gate was almost completely blocked by carts. A few men from the city watch were trying to maintain order, but still it was a chaotic mess. Jaron moved his horse towards the watchman who stood nearest to the gate. The man looked up. “Name and reason for entering the city?“, he growled. “My name is Ser Jaron the Bastard. I am a hedge knight, looking for work“, Jaron answered. Yes, he was a bastard. It never bothered him, in fact it had been his nickname for years. Most used it as an insult, but for Jaron it simply stated his heritage. The son of a whore and a high lord. At least that’s what his mother used to say, even if took the name of his father to her grave. “A bastard knight, eh?”, the guard chuckled, though there was no hint of amusement in his tone, more of the general contempt Jaron had expected. “Forgive me then for waylaying you. It is my duty to ask questions. Commander Mullendore’s orders” Mullendore? That was one of the Marcher houses, if Jaron was correct. That meant he was not the kind of man Jaron wanted to anger. “Wouldn’t want to stand in the way of your duties then”, he replied dryly. “May I enter the city?” The watchman nodded and signalled for Jaron to enter the city. As he rode past him, the man gave him a look of disdain, which Jaron ignored. He was used to people looking down on bastards and even on hedge knights, seeing them as little more than vagabonding peons. But if worse came to worst, they were needed. A travelling knight, fighting highwaymen, helping those in need. It was a beautiful ideal. And at least his late mentor had always upheld it. Now it was up to Jaron to continue his legacy. Where he saw Oldtown, he did not only see the largest and most dangerous city in the Reach, but he saw an opportunity. An opportunity for glory and heroism, for fame and fortune. Maybe even win a princess’ favour. He smiled at this thought and continued his way into the city and into the bulk of people. During his first visit, Oldtown had overwhelmed him, during his second it had disgusted him. Now, during his third visit, he took a moment to overlook the sight in front of him. A long, straight road, wide enough for ten men to ride side by side, led past rows of four-storied brick buildings. In the far distance, the massive Hightower. Hundreds of people crossed this road, either into the same direction as him, down towards the central parts of the city, or past him and into the numerous smaller streets and alleyways that led away from the main street. A few other riders on horseback were there, also ox-wagons and even a closed carriage, all slowly making their way through a sea of people. Jaron slowed down more and more and soon found himself forced to dismount, leading his horse by the reins and towards his destination. It did not take him long to find the tavern he was looking for. The Drunken Septon was one of the city's lesser known inns and off the main street, but a place where a man could sleep safe and sound for a reasonable price. They also had a stable. First time they had been here, Ser Matthos had found a decent job escorting a merchant to Highgarden, a task that had brought them both within spitting distance to the Gardener king himself. The second time they had found gritty but well-paid work with a small sellsword group for a few months. And now it was up to Jaron to find work, preferably the kind that brought him glory, but right now he was not adverse to coin either. His armour was worn and needed to be fixed by a capable blacksmith and with a bit of luck he would get the money for that from his next contract. “Greetings young traveller, welcome at the Drunken Septon. How can we help you?“ The innkeeper, a stout and cheerful woman in her late forties greeted him with a motherly smile and Jaron gave her a friendly nod. She did not remember him. Of course not. During his last visit, he had been a boy of fifteen years. Now, he was a man grown. In the past three years he managed to grow a stubble. He also got significantly taller. The only thing that did not change was that he still wasn't very muscular, much to his chagrin, his build leaner than that of most knights he had met. “Pleasant day, good woman. My name is Ser Jaron the Bastard. I'm looking for a bed to sleep in and a good meal. And my horse needs a place in your stables“, he answered her before sitting down at a small table. The inn was not very well-visited now at noon, only a few regulars gathered around the tables and one or two men who seemed like travellers, not the wealthy kind, more like blades for hire. He sat there, watching the inn and resting his legs after the long journey from the Marches, his first without Ser Matthos to guide him. It took the innkeeper not more than fifteen minutes until Jaron had a warm bowl of soup standing in front of him. His horse had been accommodated in the stables and he was looking forward to sleeping in a warm bed for once. Immediately, Jaron started to dig in, his stomach rumbling with hunger. It was a decent broth, served with a slice of fresh bread and he was starved. Just then, a commotion caught his attention, as the innkeeper rushed towards a new arrival at the door, a young, dirty boy, one of the many street kids that lived in this city. “How often have I told you thieving urchins to stay away from this tavern!“, she started to rant. The urchin winced for a moment and gave her a pleading look. He was a small boy, maybe around ten years old. He had the dark skin of a sandy Dornishman, maybe a bit lighter and was incredibly dirty. Even though he had nothing against poor children, Jaron understood the woman. The boy opened his teary eyes wide and the innkeeper sighed. “Fine... Fine, let me see if I can find some of yesterday's leftovers for you. But don't you dare steal anything! And don't bother the knight!“, she said before turning around and walking into the kitchen. The urchin looked at Jaron, while the hedge knight looked back. A friendly smile appeared on the boy's face and he came closer. “Are you really a knight?“, he asked, his voice curious but confident. Jaron snorted, amused by the excitable look on the kid’s face and his utter lack of fear. “There are days where I'm not so sure about that myself, little boy... Are you really a thieving urchin?“, he answered. However, he gave him a nod. “Ser Jaron the Bastard”, he introduced himself and the boy’s smile widened. The boy’s smile grew wider. “Then you are indeed the man I’ve been looking for all day”, he proclaimed, before he took a slight bow. “I am a bastard too. My name is Himani Sand“ He looked at Jaron and the Hedge Knight felt the sudden urge to put a hand on his purse. “I was told you deliver a message from the Burned Man. He sends his deepest condolences for the death of Ser Matthos the Kind” Jaron looked at the urchin in astonishment, his own smile gone in an instant. Ser Matthos had been dead for almost a year now and before that he had been a hedge knight of little renown. How did an urchin in Oldtown knew about him? And who was the Burned Man? Jaron had not seen much of the world yet, but he knew that such a name spelled trouble. “Who is the Burned Man and what does he want from me?“, Jaron asked, still baffled. Himani shrugged, as he took the free chair next to Jaron without even asking. “He is a well-respected businessman in the city!”, he claimed with a tone that told Jaron all he needed to know. So, they were talking about a criminal, one of Oldtown’s crimelords who had been a nuisance the first time he had been here and a menace the second time. Just then, the boy’s gaze darted towards the kitchen the same moment when the innkeeper came back. “I told you not to bother the knight!“, she shouted and began to approach them sternly, but she stopped when Jaron raised his hand. “It's all fine, good woman. The boy just wants to ask me a few questions“ He glanced at Himani, whose expression remained friendly and curious, but this time he saw the street-wise cunning behind the boy’s dark eyes. The innkeeper's wife nodded. “Alright then, I guess. But a word of advice! Stay away from the Oldtown urchins, good Ser. They mean nothing but trouble… this one in particular“ With these words she turned around and walked back to the counter. Jaron pulled Himani closer. “I'm asking you again. What does this Burned Man want from me?“, he asked, this time slightly impatient. “And how… how does he know about Ser Matthos?” His voice nearly grew louder as he said this last sentence, only to calm himself as he realised that he was nearly shouting at a child. Himani still had a genuinely cheerful smile on his face. “You should ask him yourself. The Burned Man wants to meet you and you should follow this invitation. It means money...“ With these words, Himani raised his left hand and revealed a golden coin, which he placed in front of Jaron. As Jaron took the coin, he quickly realised that it was a Stormlands coin. Not only that, it was one of his own, his last golden coin. How did he...? Himani seemed to notice the look on his face and bursted into laughter. “Don't worry Ser Jaron. I only took this one coin. And I gave it back. But the Burned Man won't be so kind if you let him wait. Follow me now and meet him. Or stay here and miss this chance. It's up to you...“ Jaron looked at his warm meal. Someone who called himself ‘Burned Man’ always meant serious business and probably trouble. On the other hand this was more than a coincidence. Quite a few of his mother’s stories had started that way. They brought with them the opportunity to achieve fame and fortune and the hand of a princess, he thought. And yet, he remained hesitant, for he knew the other stories as well, the ones he had experienced himself, full of disappointments and deprivations. He remembered Ser Matthos and he knew that these stories often ended in the death of the hero. “I don't think I have much of a choice in this, have I?“, Jaron said with a sigh. Himani gave him a bright smile. “Not if you're as clever as Ser Matthos!“, he said cheerfully and without even the hint of a threatening expression on his face. If anything, this boy seemed genuinely happy about this meeting. And yet, his words spoke a different language. Just what did he just imply about Ser Matthos? Jaron looked at the innkeeper's wife with an apologising look. “Good woman, I am afraid I won't have time to eat this meal. Please, take care of my horse, I'll be back soon”, he told her. “If you leave me some leftover dinner, I’ll make it worth your coin” He glanced at Himani. “And you… lead the way, I guess” With these words he stood up. Himani was already walking to the door and Jaron hurried after the urchin. Was it really wise to follow this blasted boy? Probably not and yet here he was, quickly stepping out of the inn. Himani waited for him at a corner. It was the early afternoon by now, the sun was burning down on this afternoon and the streets were crowded. “You don't need to worry about pickpockets, Ser Jaron“, Himani said, as if he had read Jarons thoughts. “Most of them know you're with me. I will warn you about the ones who don't“ With these words he continued to walk down the streets, the hedge knight followed him closely, always one hand on his purse. Jaron didn't know Oldtown very well and soon he was completely lost. The only thing he could tell was, that Himani lead him closer to the sea. The Hightower, lighthouse and seat of House Hightower, visible from every point in the city, came consistently closer, until Himani finally left the smaller roads and stepped onto Oldtown’s main street. From here, the Hightower could be seen directly, without any buildings partially blocking the view. Even though it wasn't the first time Jaron had seen the Tower, he was taken aback for a moment by how tall it really was. Ser Matthos had once told him that it was the tallest building in Westeros, even taller than the Wall. Its foundations had been built by ancient men or even older things, if Matthos could be believed. Himani followed the main street for a while and for a short moment Jaron actually suspected that the boy was going to lead him to the tower himself, or at the very least to one of the fancy mansions that surrounded it. But finally the boy took another turn into a smaller side road that led down to the port. Here, the smell of the sea mingled with the stench of the city. While the main street was crowded with people, this side street was almost empty and not nearly as luxuriously built. During this time of the day, the Hightower cast a shadow over this part of the city, leaving it in a sombre and eerie twilight. Some of the city's poorer citizens obviously came here to cool down from the hot autumn sun and they had to step over several sleeping men. Finally, Himani stopped in front of a small, two-storied building. Jaron noticed a crude drawing next to the door, looking like a woman with wings and a tail. “We're here, Ser Jaron. It's time to meet the Burned Man“, Himani said, almost with awe in his voice. Jaron gulped, his gaze fixed on the drawing of the winged woman. “One question Himani…”, he stuttered, his voice a bit thinner than usual now that he came closer to their destination. “Why is he called “Burned Man“?“ Seven Hells why did he ask that? He did not want to know that! Himani smiled. “You will see, Ser Jaron“, he said in an ominous tone. Right... As if that made it any better. Jaron always had a good imagination, but right now he was cursing it. The urchin stepped to the door and knocked on it. After a few moments, Jaron could hear the door getting unlocked. A young woman stood in the doorframe, a pale girl, probably in Jaron’s age with long and very dark brown hair and oddly red highlights, wearing a sleeveless purple dress. She gave Jaron a hesitant, distrustful look, but seemed to calm down as soon as she saw Himani. “Did anyone follow you?“, she asked. Jaron noticed the hint of an accent in her voice. It sounded foreign, maybe from the Free Cities, maybe even Ghiscari, though he had heard that accent only once before. The boy shook his head and the girl let out a sigh of relief. With a hand gesture she waved Jaron and Himani into the house, the Burned Man’s house. Jaron was a bit disappointed for a moment once his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The Burned Man's house looked like a completely ordinary commoner's house, maybe mildly better furnished, with the three of them finding themselves in a medium-sized square room covered in dark wood. The girl stepped next to him and grabbed him by the arm. “If you want to leave, now is your last chance“, she said with a calm, but stern tone. Jaron looked at the door and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to leave. This wasn't right. This would not end well. But Ser Matthos was involved in this. The man had raised him since he had been twelve years old and so far Jaron thought of him as the best man he had ever met. The Matthos he knew would never get involved with someone that shady. Jaron had to find out what was going on here. He owed his mentor that much. Besides, the great heroes in the stories never ran away from anything. “Well, I won't leave... Sorry, I don’t think I got your name“, Jaron said, giving her a smile that was meant to be charming, though given her aloof expression it clearly lacked something. Himani, who had placed himself on a wooden chair close to the door almost too tall for him, let out a bright laugh. “That's because she hasn't told you, silly Ser Jaron. Go on, m'lady, tell him your beautiful name“, he said while his little legs dangled in the air. The girl rolled her eyes at him but followed it by a brief and gentle smile at the boy, a surprisingly delightful sight. Her smile faded the moment she looked back at Jaron. “The Wise Masters never gave me a name, so the Burned Man saw fit to correct their mistakes. He calls me Harpy, after the noble Harpy of Yunkai”, she told him “I am his handmaiden and confidante“, she answered with a calm voice. Harpy? Now that was a... charming name. He was in the shabbiest neighbourhood of Oldtown, together with a smartass street urchin and a Ghiscari girl who was named after a monster, waiting to meet a Burned Man. The door started to get more and more appealing. “With your curiosity sated, Ser Jaron, please follow me. The Burned Man is in a meeting right now, but I'll show you our waiting room“, Harpy said, prompting Himani to stand up from his chair and rush into her way. “Wait! I did my part, m'lady Harpy. Where's my reward?“, he asked loudly. Harpy sighed, opened a small purse on her belt and handed him a few silver coins. The boy's smile was actually almost contagious, all circumstances considered and Jaron found himself smirking briefly despite his nervousness. “Thanks m'lady Harpy. Give my regards to the Burned Man“, the urchin said and turned to Jaron. “He isn't bad, the Burned Man. He is into some shadier stuff, yes, but thanks to him I have something to eat for the next week. Many of us would have been dead without his work. Give him a chance and you won't regret it!“ With these words, he left the room, stepping out of the door, which Harpy closed and locked behind him. “So you and Himani got along?“, the girl asked. “Sorry we had to send him, but our regulars are busy” This time, Jaron had to suppress a grin, for he had seen the boy taking her entire purse while she had not been looking. “Yes, I think I like him...“, Jaron said with a smirk. Harpy raised an eyebrow, before her hand moved to her belt. To his surprise, her expression was not the least bit angry, bit rather mildly annoyed and she even shook her head as she glanced at the main door. “You do? The Burned Man thinks he is annoying. But he gets the job done. He’s a good kid“ Jaron noticed her behaviour growing a little calmer around him now. She even made an expression that slightly resembled a smile, before turning around and moving towards one of the doors. “You can stay here. As soon as he has time for you, I'll be back“, she said before turning around and walking towards another room. Jaron looked after her. By the Seven, what was he doing here? He slowly went into the room and was instantly greeted by the smell of alcohol. The room wasn't very big, but surprisingly luxurious. It was decorated in a style that did not seem to be Westerosi. Bright tapestries in red and yellow were dominating the room. A small table stood in its centre, full of bottles. And on a large seat cushion in the corner of the room sat a mountain of a man, a mass of muscles and fat, with the dark bronze skin of the Ghiscari. He was bald, but sported a bushy black beard with a thick moustache and a unibrow. His massively muscled arms were covered in rather obscene tattoos and as soon as he saw Jaron he gave him a wide smile. “Well, hello there!“, he shouted with a thick Ghiscari accent and raised a bottle of wine. “You're waiting for the Burned Man? Come over, grab a seat and drink with me!“, he shouted. Jaron winced at this loud voice, but the man grinned widely and cheerfully. Jaron came closer. Slowly. Carefully. That man was obviously a drunkard, but he seemed to be no threat. Still, Jaron instantly tensed up. His mentor had found death at the hands of a drunkard during what should have been a harmless brawl. “What is your name, boy?“, the Ghiscari asked before raising his bottle again.“Ah, but let me introduce myself first. I have the honour of being Bakr mo Azar al-Astapori, merchant from Astapor, the great red city in Slaver's Bay!” Slaver's Bay... Jaron had heard only bad stories about it and about the Ghiscari that dwelled there. Was this man a slaver? Weren't slavers supposed to mean-looking brutes? A brute, yes, but beyond that this man looked more like a dolt. And his smile seemed to be genuine. Well, being polite could only help his situation. “Ser Jaron the Bastard, hedge knight“, Jaron introduced himself and the other man handed him a bottle of some strong-smelling liquid. “The Burned Man speaks with my partner Abbas right now. I don't like this kind of backroom talking, so I opted to wait here and enjoy the generosity of our host and his wine cellar. Now, if only Harpy could come again. I think she wanted to give me a massage, the Yunkish way, if you know what I mean...“, Bakr said. He wiggled his thick unibrow and broke out into a joyful laughter. He seemed genuinely friendly, but Jaron remained on edge and not just because of the alcohol in his breath. Ser Matthos hated the Ghiscari of Slaver's Bay with a passion. According to him they were all greedy and lying opportunists. “Ah, it is good to drink with new blood!”, Bakr exclaimed while taking a big sip from his bottle. “So, Ser Jaron, why are you here?” Jaron shrugged. “To be honest, I have no idea. This Burned Man wants to meet me for some reason...“, he answered. A question found its way into his mind again and he cursed himself for having to ask it. “Bakr... Why do they call him the “Burned Man“?“, he blurted out. Seven Hells, now he asked. The last he wanted to hear about was such an undoubtedly gruesome tale, but curiosity got the better of him “Well, it's actually a funny story, you know? He wasn't always the Burned Man. Harpy knew him before. He might have a real name, can you imagine that?“, Bakr started to tell and Jaron couldn't stop himself from listening with clenched teeth. Rescue came in the form of Harpy, who opened the door again, interrupting Bakr in his tale. “The Burned Man is ready to see you, Ser Jaron“, she said with a slight smile. “He is most pleased about your swift arrival and sends me to relay his gratitude for your patience” As Jaron was about to stand up in relief, Bakr grabbed his arm. “You haven't even drunk anything with me! Shame...“, he exclaimed, sounding slightly disappointed. His face brightened up as he saw Harpy. “Lady Harpy! Came to give me that massage?“, he asked with a lecherous smile. Jaron saw Harpys face and tried hard to choke his laughter. He failed, which resulted in a cold glare from the girl. After a moment, Bakr joined him with his own boisterous and jovial laughter. “See you around Jaron!“, he said, giving his attention to another bottle of wine. Harpy shivered as they left the room. “Sorry for leaving you with this... charming brute in there. He and his partner work with the Burned Man on something“, she said with an apologetic look. “Not the company I’d have chosen, but Arkan trusts them for whatever reason” She led Jaron to another door, behind it a small corridor. What it lacked in luxury, this house more than made up for in size. Just then, a man walked down the corridor and came closer. At first, Jaron thought it had to be the Burned Man. Then, he realised it was another Ghiscari, a bit smaller than Bakr, but still very tall. His head was shaved and he had a beard not less impressive than Bakrs, albeit his was better maintained. The man took a small bow before Jaron and Harpy. “Ah... another guest in the Burned Mansion“, he said with a soft and calm voice, slightly chuckling over his terrible joke. His accent was far less noticeable than Bakr’s and his tone more confident. “My name is Abbas zo Prezn al-Yunkari, merchant and business partner of the Burned Man“ His dark eyes looked directly at Jaron, who felt slightly uncomfortable. “Ser Jaron the Bastard...“, he muttered, momentarily unsure if he should extend a hand for the Ghiscari to shake. Harpy, her fists clenched, quickly stepped past this man. Abbas' thin mouth formed a cold smile, his dark gaze fixed on Jaron. “Glad to make your acquaintance, Ser Bastard. It has been a few years since I last saw a knight in these hallowed halls“, he said before walking past them. “But don’t let me stop you. I am sure we will be seeing each other around” Then, he was gone and Jaron looked at Harpy, quite puzzled. “And who was that?“, he asked. Unlike Bakr, who had something genuinely likeable about his demeanour, this man had been cold and his dark gaze remained with Jaron even after he had left. Harpy glared after this man. “One of the Burned Man’s friends from across the Narrow Sea. Bakrs partner. More of an arse“, she was quick to answer, without giving any more details. Another door was opened. Another room entered. This time, it was only scarcely illuminated. The room contained a large table, two chairs and three men. Two of them were tall and well-built men with the dark amber skin of the Dothraki. They stood behind a chair, in which a small man of about forty years sat. He looked completely and frighteningly ordinary. His short dark hair was kempt back, he was clean shaven and even paler than Harpy. His blue eyes were narrowed and he had the facial features of a man from the Free Cities. No burn scars anywhere on his face, in fact he could almost be considered handsome. When the man put his hands on the table, Jaron winced. Now he knew without a doubt that he was speaking to the Burned Man. The left hand was crippled and twisted, completely black like charcoal, with two fingers entirely missing. His right hand wasn't in a much better shape. While it still had the colour of flesh, it was horribly scarred. Two fingers seemed to be completely immobile as he raised his hand. “Ser Jaron. I'm glad you had the time to meet me...“, the Burned Man said, while waving for Jaron to come closer. “Welcome in one of my townhouses” His voice was a deep, melodic baritone. Jaron took a step closer and noticed that Harpy stood right behind him. Even though she could probably be pleasant company, he felt rather threatened by her closeness. “You're likely asking yourself why I have asked you to come...“, the baritone voice said. “Allow me a few words” With his right index finger, the Burned Man tapped on the wood of his table, a strangely melodic sound. Tap. Tap. Tap. “You're likely asking yourself what a man like Ser Matthos the Kind had to do with someone like me...“, he began. “How would I even know your noble and kind mentor?” Tap. Tap. Tap. “People are so quick to confuse a kind man with a good man. I can assure you, the venerable Ser Matthos was in many ways not a good man...“ With these words, the Burned Man stopped tapping and looked Jaron right in the eye. “He was flawed, but he had his decent sides” The Hedge Knight felt anger in an instant, but what stopped him from acting on it was the thought of the two Dothraki behind the Burned Man. And Harpy, right behind him. They had not disarmed him, but neither did they need to. “Ser Matthos was the best man I ever knew. He was honourable, brave and dutiful“, Jaron blurted out, while looking at him with growing anger. “I will not stand for slander against him!” The Burned Man smiled. It was a completely cold smile, without any joy in it. “Honour. The good man's disease. Bravery. The stupid man's disease. Duty. The blind man's disease. I have little use for any of them. The fact is, that Ser Matthos was indeed a kind man, well-loved by anyone he met. Even I have been fond of him. This did not prevent him from borrowing a lot of money from me. In the good old days, before he took a squire, he even worked for me. Now he is dead without ever repaying his debts. And I know, I won't get my coin back from you, the poor hedge knight that you are“ The Burned Man leant forwards and Jaron took a step closer, Harpy still right behind him. The Dothraki didn't even move a single muscle. Only as he was looking down, Jaron noticed that he had his hand on the hilt of his sword. “You are lying...“, he sputtered, as he forced himself to calm down. And yet, he had always despised men who slandered his mentor. Those were disgusting lies. The Burned Man did not try to justify what he said. He just smiled. “I know people like you. You are infected with bravery and honour and maybe even a bit of duty. That is a dangerous combination. Nothing good ever comes out of it. I could show you proof but even then you’d rather choose to believe I forged it. But I know what people like you truly desire...“ He gave a sign with his somewhat good hand and Harpy moved past Jaron and next to the him. With expert moves, she helped him up and he gave her a soft, almost tender look, which she reciprocated with a smile. Jaron realised that the man could hardly stand alone. The Burned Man followed Jarons shocked gaze and smiled. “The Wise Masters did this to me, when I tried to do something brave. I hold no grudge against them, for I consider it a fair exchange. Besides, a grudge is a terrible thing to hold, sometimes even worse than bravery...“ With Harpy’s help, the Burned Man took a few steps closer, until he was able to look Jaron right in the eye. The Hedge Knight noticed that the Burned Man would have been very tall and very handsome, if it wasn't for his injuries. “What do you want from me?“, Jaron asked. He tensed up as the Burned Man put his right hand, his good hand up and patted him on the shoulder. “You lost your mentor and I do not intend to mock him, or his memory. Ser Matthos might not have been a good man, but then again, none of us are. He was better than most, I can assure you that...“, he said, with an almost fatherly voice. “He wanted something from me once and I think you are after the same. It is always the same with you lot” With these words, he leant closer. As he spoke directly in Jarons ear, he was almost whispering.“You want the world. You want to be the greatest knight that ever was. You want to win the heart of a fair princess... I can't give you anything like that. But I can bring you on a way, where you might be able to gain them on your own. All you need to do is work for me and repay your mentor’s debts” Jaron gulped. As he looked the Burned Man in the eyes he was expecting to see a sign of mockery or madness. Instead he saw the sanest, calmest man he had ever met and not even a hint of the malice he had been certain to see. “What do you want me to do? I have no coin to repay you...“, Jaron said. The Burned Man gave him a short, almost sincere smile. “No. But you have talent. During my last meeting with him, a few years ago, your mentor spoke highly of you. A true knight in the making. Though I rarely deal with men of such nobility, I might have use for you in the things to come“ Jaron noticed that he was trembling. With excitement? With fear? He could not tell. This was an opportunity, alright, not like the stories he had sought, but it was nonetheless the one he found himself in. But still, one question remained. “Why me?“, he asked. The Burned Man grinned. “Why not? You are not in any way more special than anyone else, Ser Jaron. But Matthos believed in you. And I believe in Ser Matthos' judgement. I am willing to give you a chance. Should you succeed, you will be rewarded. The Burned Man's word has great influence in this part of the world and with a letter of recommendation from me, you could find work at any court from here to Casterly Rock. Besides, you would have cleared the name of your mentor” He shrugged, or at least he tried to. A part of his shoulder was not moving at all. “Of course, you are also free to go now. I would be disappointed. And I'm sure Ser Matthos would be disappointed too. But still, I will not hold it against you...“ Jarons closed his eyes. This was it. The opportunity. But he always hoped for an opportunity a bit more... honourable. This man... He knew people like him. They were like wolves, and people like Jaron were the prey. Should he really get involved with this man? Still, this was the opportunity, perhaps the only one he’d ever get. And then there was the little thought in his head, still telling him that everyone who ever did something shady like this in his stories would wind up dead. But so did the brave, honourable and dutiful people outside of the stories. And Jaron knew, as he looked this man into his dark eyes, that he would accept his offer. For the memory of a mentor and for the greatness ahead of him. For the chance to become more than a wandering knight for hire. But he also knew, without a doubt, that he would do this in his own way. With honour and bravery, as Matthos had taught him. To be continued
You know, I have always been fond of Jaron's storyline, but I reread his early parts and oh boy, do they need the rework! I distinctly remember that back in the day many readers actually named him as their least favourite Chapter 1 PoV and coming back to it I can understand why. I hope this new and polished version of the part will be more to your liking, this is definitely the part I had to work on the most, but I am happy with the results, to the point where this is certainly the definitive version of Jaron's storyline. Highlights include a lot more context, added reactions, a slight shift in personality for Harpy, Jaron and the Burned Man to be more in line with their later traits and a brief early mention of everyone's favourite, Commander Mullendore. Enjoy! |
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Post by LiquidChicagoTed on Apr 21, 2024 0:45:23 GMT
Lyria It wasn't even noon, but the damn bells from the Sept already started to get on Lyria’s nerves. From the small window in her forge’s storage room, she could see the roof of the Sept of Raylansfair. It was a sunny day. No man deserved to die on a sunny day, no matter who he was. Not even Lord Robert Raylan. Lyria closed her eyes for a moment and thought back to another sunny day and to another dead man, one whose absence she felt even now, a loss greater than that of the lord She had hardly known Lord Raylan, the man who had been her lord for all of the thirty and eight years of her life. From what others have spoken about him, he was a decent man, generous to his friends and popular with the smallfolk. A decent man, but obsessed with vengeance and a terrible lord, at least from her point of view. A man who had spent his days brooding in his castle, while the smallfolk struggled from day to day. A man who had valued the deaths of his enemies more than the lives of his people. Now that she thought about it, Lord Robert the Revered hadn’t been that good a lord. For some reason most of the smallfolk loved the man, but then again, most of them haven't lost as much as Lyria did to the newly deceased’s pointless decisions. She let out a groan and turned away from the window. The day was still young and there was work to do. And without her daughter around, it would likely take the whole day to finish her commissions. Rosalie, her only child, was young and full of life, rarely taking anything seriously. Nominally her mother’s apprentice, she was barely a help at the forge. For Lyria, that was her biggest regret, that she had failed to pass on her passion for blacksmithing. Her daughter had talent but she wasted it, instead she rather fooled around with her friends. Things had been different when her husband had still been alive. It had been six years, but for Lyria it was already a lifetime. There were days where she missed him more than she could ever put into words, days where she still found tears for the man she had lost. On other days it was easier, mostly the days where Rosalie actually spent time with her. But these days were getting rarer and rarer. One day, her daughter would get married, would move out from their small house and one day the good days would be gone completely. Any mother should look forward for her daughter’s joy, but Lyria felt dread at the thought of being left alone by the only family she had left. Lyria took a deep, calm breath when she heard the doorbell ringing. Someone had just entered her forge's main room. Maybe a customer. Maybe Rosalie. Whoever it was, he or she should never see her like this. She blinked away the tears and put up her usual resolute face. Then she put down the hammer and walked into the main room. Usually it was Rosalie's job to talk to the customers. Her daughter was charming, easy on the eye and Lyria knew that at least two boys from the neighbourhood had a crush on her. But the girl was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a man had entered the forge and Lyria hoped deeply that he was but a customer. For a moment she regretted not taking the hammer with her. The man was about her height but far thinner, had blonde bedraggled hair and a scruffy appearance, like a vagabond, with a long brown overcoat covering most of his body. His skin was pale, almost as if he had never seen the sun in all his life and though he could have looked decent with some grooming his unkempt appearance filled her with uneasiness. His eyes were downright unnerving. A cold gaze, bare of any emotion. Years ago, she had seen a similar stare in the eyes of the most dangerous man she had ever met. Strangely, this man did not seem to be dangerous. His stare was empty, dead even. And there was nothing to fear about dead things, as Lyrias grandmother had used to say. “Can I help you?“, she began, forcing her tone to be as polite as possible. Aside from his dead stare, there was nothing threatening about this man. While she felt uneasy around him, she could not deny a strange pity at his bedraggled appearance. And she wanted him gone as quickly as possible. The man gave her a short, joyless smile. “Perhaps, good woman. I'm looking for the blacksmith Mettel. Your... husband, I assume?“, he said with a raspy voice, while eyeing her left hand. Even years after his death, Lyria still wore the wedding ring, a simple iron band, completely unassuming and easily overlooked. She found it odd that the stranger took note of it. “My husband... I'm sorry, you're wrong on that. I am the blacksmith. My husband died six years ago“, Lyria answered, slightly perplexed by his perceptiveness. The stranger gave her a smile that seemed to be slightly warmer than before. “My deepest condolences“, he spoke. Lyria realised the man hadn't blinked once since the conversation began and his gaze had not faltered. Dealing with his stare proved difficult, but Lyria managed to withstand the urge to break eye contact. “You're the blacksmith“, the stranger then stated, almost as if he was slightly disappointed. Lyria nodded. “I am and I can assure you, I am even better than my late husband was”, she claimed and it was no empty boast. Her husband had been a decent blacksmith, but Lyria had worked harder than ever since he died. “What did you say was your name again?“ The strangers smile disappeared. “Wolfius Woodbark“, he told her. Lyria managed to suppress a confused smile that almost forced its way to her lips. “Wolfius Woodbark... What are you, a Northerner?“, she said, not without a hint of amusement in her voice. Wolfius Woodbark… Seven Hells, what kind of a name was that? Woodbark did not seem to be amused. “Do I look like a Northerner?“, he asked and for a short moment his calmness faded, replaced by a certain confusion. “But maybe you can help me, Blacksmith Mettel, yes?“ “It's Lyria. Lyria Mettel”, she clarified. “And I can help you if you tell me what you need. All for a price, of course“ The stranger had an odd way of speaking and there was definitely something off about him, but she would not condemn him right away, nor dismiss his coin, if he had any to begin with. Right as she said this, Wolfius opened his coat, revealing two daggers, one of them long and curved, carried in a worn leather sheath, the other one clearly in a finer sheath. He drew the fine dagger, presenting it to Lyria, while still looking directly in her eyes. It was a well-crafted weapon, double-edged and sharp, something a commoner could barely afford. How a man such as Woodbark came into the possession of such a fine weapon she did not know and she’d rather not think about it too much. “This weapon belongs to a good friend. Unfortunately, the blacksmith who forged the weapon made a mistake with the hilt. He forgot to add the sigil of my friend's house”, Wolfius explained “What I need you to do is, you need to reforge the hilt. And this time, add this seal“, While he spoke, he pulled out a small sheet of paper. Lyria looked over the sheet. The seal was complicated, as if four different sigils were put together. Two silver chains forming a cross. In the four spaces between the chains were four different things depicted: A pine, a grape cluster, a raven and a longship. “I've never seen a seal like this in all my life“, Lyria mumbled, her eyes darting over the elaborate seal. “What house does this seal belong to?” Wolfius answered with a cold smile and this time, she saw a cunning look in his eyes which she previously hadn’t noticed. “My friend would like to reward you with this, if you don't ask any questions“, he explained. While saying these words, he pulled out a small purse. Lyria glimpsed at a sizable amount of gold coins. “No questions and this shall belong to you” At that moment, the doorbell rang again. Lyria looked over Wolfius' shoulder and saw that her daughter entered the forge. Rosalie came after her father in looks, thankfully, with her blonde hair contrasting her mother’s black. At least for Lyria her daughter would always be the prettiest girl in Raylansfair and judging the reactions men gave Rosalie, she wasn't the only one who thought so. Woodbark also had a reaction, albeit not the one Lyria expected. He began to grin, this time even showing some sort of emotion, though he remained difficult to read. “Oh Blacksmith Mettel, whom do we have there?“, he exclaimed before taking a gallant bow in front of Rosalie, his eyes not once looking away from her. “My name is Woodbark. Wolfius Woodbark. It's a pleasure meeting you, young lady“ Rosalie looked at the man for a moment, then she glanced at her mother in confusion before bursting out in a hearty laugh. “Wolfius Woodbark? Is that your real name?“, she managed to utter, not even noticing that Wolfius' smile had vanished. For just a second, his expression seemed as dangerous as his eyes had suggested, before his usual calmness returned. “It is… my name“, the man mumbled before turning his direction at Lyria again. His expression had shifted briefly and he still had not managed to fully return to the eerie calmness he had shown before. “So, Blacksmith Mettel... I expect we have an agreement? I pay in advance“ Lyria looked at the purse filled with gold hands. That was definitely shady business and the way this man just looked at her daughter sent cold shivers down her spine. But would a man like Woodbark even accept a “No“ as an answer? Maybe he would get aggressive if she declined. And the money would be enough to feed herself and Rosalie for a year. Maybe she could buy a cart, so that she could sell her goods in the surrounding villages. Yes, she could need the money… Lyria closed her eyes. By the Seven, why was she even considering this? “Yes, Wolfius. We have an agreement...“, she muttered before taking the purse Woodbark offered her. The man had started to smile again, his cold, lifeless smile. This time it was directed at Rosalie. The way he looked at her daughter... Lyria felt anger inside of her. That was the look she’d bash a man’s head in for. But she had left the hammer in the backroom. And besides that, she was no killer. She had only ever taken one life. And that could hardly count as murder, since the man she had killed had hardly been a human being to begin with. Wolfius on the other hand... She was not sure what to make of him. Was he crazy, or just eccentric? Was he dangerous? Woodbark took a step closer. “I'm going to need the dagger next week, Blacksmith Mettel...“, he said, his voice trembling in anticipation and his unnerving gaze now resting on her again. “Seven days. Can you make this?“ At least he was no longer focused on Rosie. Woodbark did not seem to look her straight in the eye. Of course, his stare was focused on her, but he seemed to look at a point between her eyes or slightly above them. She noticed again that he hadn't blinked once since he started the conversation. His cold gaze shifted from her to Rosalie, who stood in the corner, a bit confused by his demeanour. “Seven days, Wolfius. It won't be easy, but I will make it. Come here again in seven days and I will give you the dagger“, Lyria finally said. She was a bit relieved that she managed to say it, but on the other hand she was worried. This man would come to her forge again. She would have to speak to him again. And the worst part would be, he would meet Rosalie again. Wolfius' grin was unsettling and Lyria did not manage to look at him any longer. “Very good, Blacksmith Mettel... Seven days and then you shall receive the rest of your payment... But remember, don't tell anyone. It will be… our little secret“, he said, before taking an elegant bow in front of Rosalie. “We will meet again“ With these words, he finally left the forge. Lyria felt relief overcoming her. She noticed she had almost held her breath in the last moments. Rosalie looked at her, visibly and understandably confused. “So... what was that all about?“, she asked, more amused than unnerved by this encounter. AThat had always been the biggest issue with Rosalie's behaviour. She never took anything seriously. She never understood danger. Lyria gave her daughter a soft smile. Usually she found it hard to show emotion when dealing with other people. But with Rosalie it was different. “I don't know, Rosie... I guess it was a customer“, she answered. “He paid well, so I’ll do as he says. If he causes any trouble, he gets the hammer” Rosalie looked at the door, waiting for a moment, before she began to giggle. “Wolfius Woodbark... Is that really supposed to be a name? What sort of madman goes by that?”, she chuckled. Lyria remembered what Wolfius said “Might not be his real name, to be honest.”, she admitted. Much as she understood her daughter’s amusement, she could not share it, not after his unnerving mannerisms “And Rosie... This is no man you want to make fun about, trust me“ Rosalie stopped giggling and looked at her mother, this time a little bit more serious.“Do you think he is dangerous? Is he a criminal?“ Her blue eyes were filled with anticipation. Rosalie loved stories like this. She was interested in at least one of the village boys because he claimed that he once fought a highwayman to the death. But Wolfius was not like the men from her stories. Lyria was silent for a moment. Was Wolfius dangerous? She couldn't tell. When she had looked him in the eyes, she had seen something she did not like. But he seemed to be broken. Yes, she was afraid of him. But she also felt pity. “I don't know if he is dangerous... But he has this look in his eyes. I don't think we should provoke him“, she finally answered and her tone grew sterner. “Say Rosie, where have you been all morning? I could have used your help!“ Rosalie shrugged. “Spend all morning at the sept”, she moaned. “Septon Corbin gave a really boring sermon about the mercy of the Seven. Do you even know that the old lord is dead? Robert Raylan, died without issue or so they say. Guess that means the keep’s up for the taking“ Lyria gave her a tired nod.“Richard came by earlier. He already knew it from his daughter”, she explained. “Besides, nobody could have missed the damn bells all morning long“ Rosalie smiled. “Oooh, you saw Richard earlier, huh? Is he courting you?“, she said with a slightly mocking voice. Lyria looked at her with a mixture of annoyance and anger. Richard Harking had been a family friend for years. He was a decent man, hard-working and strong as well as a widower and father to a daughter in Rosalie’s age. At the same time, he held great respect for her late husband, likely too much to ever even entertain such an indecent idea. Besides, she wasn't interested in a new relationship. Malcolm, her husband, had been her only love, at least until Rosalie was born. For years it was only the three of them. Until the Ironborn took him. For a moment, Lyria had to close her eyes. No, she wasn't interested in a relationship. And she highly doubted that this was Richard's intention. Rosalie, completely misreading the situation as always, let out a bright laugh.“Oh, you should have seen how your face just dropped, mother. Priceless! I'm just teasing you. Harking is too nice to go after a widow“, she said and immediately her smile stopped as she realised what she just said. “Shit, I… mother, I didn’t….“ Lyria knew she should have been angry at what her daughter just said, but she wasn't. She took a step forward and gave Rosalie a hug. “I miss father...“, Rosalie said and Lyria could see tears in her daughter's eyes. She herself did not cry. She was unable to cry with other people around. Not even with Rosalie. “Shh Rosie. I miss him too...“, she mumbled. Rosalie calmed down quickly. That girl couldn't stay sad for long. “Have you been here the whole day?“, she asked. When Lyria nodded, Rosalie put up a shocked face. “Mother have mercy, you need to get out of this blasted house for once. We will go to the market square right now!“ With these words she grabbed her mothers hand and pulled her out of the forge. Lyria did not resist. She knew Rosalie was right. She had to get out sometimes.There was much work to do still, but Wolfius had left them a generous amount of coin, enough for her to justify closing shop early today. And she could use some distraction for once. Maybe it was time to meet new people. Rosalie came after her father in these regards, as she did in most things. It was easy for her to make new friends, whereas Lyria struggled with such connections. Aside from an old widow who lived down the street and occasionally Richard Harking there were no friends in her life to speak of. And Richard had his farm to tend to, so he was rarely around in the city. They walked down the small road from the forge, down to the market square, a central point in the city. From there it was only a short walk to the sept and an even shorter one to the docks. Raylansfairs largest tavern, ‘The Tapping Pony’ was located there, as well as several stores. A cobbled street led up to the hill upon which the castle of Raylansfair was located, the keep and last line of defence against the Ironborn incursions that sometimes got past the Shield Islands. It had been a small blessing to the people here that Harren Hoare spent more and more resources in his war against the Rock, for ever since the Ironborn incursions had gotten less. The last of them happened six years ago… Before long, they reached the market square of Raylansfair, one of the finer parts of the city. It was always well-populated, especially during these hours, but today it was downright crowded, perhaps a result of the ill news that had spread from the keep. It did not take long until Rosalie saw familiar faces in the crowd, a group of her friends. With a benign smile, Lyria allowed her to let go of her arm and the girl vanished in the crowd, leaving her alone once again. But while few of these people were friends of hers, Lyria knew many. She was their blacksmith after all. As such, she looked around for a familiar face… Briefly, in the crowd, she spotted dirty blonde hair, pallid skin, dead eyes, staring at her, vanishing into the crowd just as she had seen him. Or at least thought she had seen him. Lyria tensed up, realising that her encounter with this odd little man had shaken her more than expected. In this moment, she felt a hand on her shoulder and nearly flinched. As she turned around, her surprise quickly gave way to relief as she noticed one of the few people she was actually happy to spend time with, Richard Harking in the flesh. He was a somewhat ragged man with unkempt brown hair and plain, practical clothes. In contrast, his beard was always neatly combed. He had a friendly smile on his face and though she knew him stern and determined, he smiled often when in company. “Seven Hells, Richard, you want to scare me to death?”, she scolded him, but a smile found its way onto her face. “I almost did not recognize you outside of your forge, Lyria! It is good for you to get some sunlight for once”, Richard replied, his voice deep and firm. “Must have been one hell of a day for you to take a break before noon” “Guess you can say so…”, Lyria sighed. “Rosie convinced me, but she didn’t have to try hard” She shook her head, but before she could tell him anything else, Wolfius’ warning rang through her head. She should not tell anyone. For now, much as this odd encounter had shaken her, this was what she would do. Wolfius had not actually harmed anyone, so she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt for now. “Did anything happen?”, Richard asked. “You do seem a bit shaken” He had always been a good listener, a friend to herself and to her late husband, even to Rosalie in his own way. And yet, she had seen him angry once, only once, had seen how viciously he protected those he cared for. Wolfius had not done anything, not yet. She did not want to worry Richard with such nonsense. “It’s nothing”, she replied and her smile returned, albeit by force. “It is good to get out of the forge for once and today’s as good a day as any. Care for a stroll, friend?” She offered him one arm and he took it gallantly. “Besides, how is Jenna doing? The recent events must have been hard on her, the poor thing”, she added, casually moving away the conversation from the unpleasantness that had brought her here to begin with. And yet, as she and Richard began to stroll over the square, Lyria could not shake off the feeling that someone kept watching her…. To be continued
Lucas Accompanied by Leonard, Lucas descended down the stairs. It was an odd alliance he found himself in, side by side with a man he never got along with. Leonard was not the worst company he ever had, but the knight’s sharp tongue did him no favours. From the moment they had met, there had been a certain animosity and Lucas suspected that his half-brother’s lies had something to do with it. Until today, he never would have thought that they’d ever work together and yet here they were. The two knights stopped when they arrived on the second floor. Decades ago, this floor contained the chambers for the maester, the master-at-arms and the castellan. But for many years, Harris had been the only one who preferred to have his chambers in this tomb of a tower, with even the ailing Maester Eaton having moved to a smaller chamber in the main keep. His door was closed, but as one swift check of the handle proved, unlocked. Leonard positioned himself next to the door, his expression stern. “Good luck in there, Flowers”, he growled. “If you need to stay in the chamber, I'm going to knock on the door once. If it is safe to come out, I'm going to knock again, you got that?“ “Got it. And Leonard... don't make me regret this!“, Lucas answered before entering the chamber. He had never been to Harris' chamber before and had been unsure what to expect. The castellan was obviously a very orderly person and his chamber was surprisingly modest. Immediately to his right, there was a small fireplace, while to his left stood Harris' small bed, behind it a large shelf full of books and scrolls. Besides that, the room contained a wardrobe, a small table and a chest. Lucas immediately started to have a look around. The fireplace was dark and cold and the bed was oddly untidy, which made sense, given that Harris had likely found no sleep last night. At first he took a closer look at the table. An empty glass was located there, next to a bottle of wine, half empty. A map of the larger area around Raylansfair was spread across the rest of the table. Several locations had been marked. Lucas had put in some effort into getting to know the area and as such he recognized a couple of spots, There was the old mill east of Raylansfair, a building that had been abandoned about fifty years ago, and Tomard’s Tower, a ruined guard tower located at the western coast, that had been destroyed by the Ironborn about a hundred years ago. Why would Harris mark these on a map? The chest attracted Lucas' attention next. He reached down to open it, only to find it locked. Of course it was locked. And Lucas would definitely not waste any time in searching for the key. Harris was not the type of man to leave his keys lying around for everyone to find. Instead, Lucas started to look at the bookshelf. Truly important documents were likely to be located inside the chest, but maybe the shelf contained at least something of value for his investigation. He quickly looked over the titles. Maester Tygett’s complete history of Reach. Maester Hollens' description of Valyrian war strategies. A short essay about the religions of Volantis. A travelogue about a journey to a place called Qarth written by a Pentoshi scholar. On a good day, Lucas would have asked the castellan to borrow one or two of those books, but right now one were of interest to him. Lucas looked down in frustration, his fists clenched as he realised the problems this could cause. He just burgled his way into a knights chamber, on Leonard’s word alone. He should have followed Dairon hours ago. Now the boy could be anywhere in the South... Except... Lucas remembered that Dairon once mentioned that he had family in Oldtown. Maybe he was seeking refuge with them. Or maybe he was fleeing back to the Citadel. Even if he just wanted to go into hiding, the winding streets of Oldtown would be his best bet. Just as he was about to leave, he turned around again. This time, he spotted something. A small, crumpled sheet of paper, lying under the bed, as if somebody had read it, before tossing it away with no time to properly dispose of it yet. He walked towards the bed, reached down and grabbed it. Yes, this was definitely a sheet of parchment from Lord Robert’s chambers, he recognized the material from the scattered papers in the lord’s chamber. Obviously, Harris had a similar idea. The paper was already traced. It was a letter from Lord Raylan, written by Maester Eaton. Lucas recognized the small, tidy handwriting. Addressed to Manfred Hightower, Lord of Oldtown. Lucas started to read... His eyes widened as he realized what he was reading. “No... No this can not be...“, he mumbled in shock. This was impossible! Why would his lord ever write this? Now it made sense to him that Harris would hide this. But did that mean that he was behind the assassination of Lord Raylan and Maester Eaton? Harris was a man who would do anything to keep the house safe. This last wish was a danger to Raylansfair unlike anything he had ever imagined. But would the castellan stoop so low as to kill to protect the city? Lucas sighed. This actually raised more questions than it answered. He had to show this to someone. Someone with influence in the castle. Someone who was not Harris, because with this he had just gained a motive. As far as Lucas was concerned, Harris was now a suspect. Most importantly, he needed to show this to someone who could stop the lord’s last wish and there was only one man left in the keep whom he was willing to trust with this. With trembling hands Lucas stepped out of the chamber, only to be greeted by Leonard Constantine. “What have you found, Flowers? You look... distraught...“, the other knight remarked as soon as Lucas stepped out of the chamber. “I’ll tell you later, Leonard…”, Lucas mumbled, his tone betraying how nervous he felt right now. By the gods, in the wrong hands this could be the end of the house he had grown to love. “I need to show this to Ser Ilhan...“ Leonard shot him a brief, amused smirk. “You actually want to speak with the Impaler? That bad, huh?”, he remarked, but his smirk faded the moment he saw how dead serious Lucas was. “Well, I'm not stopping you. In fact, I'm going to accompany you to Ser Ilhan. And then you can tell us both what you have found there. I think you owe me that much!“ Lucas shrugged. “Do I? I don't think I owe you, but you can accompany me. I am not in the mood to fight you now...“, he said and for a moment he was surprised how bleak his voice sounded. Leonard seemed to notice that too and thankfully remained quiet, simply following Lucas out of the tower. Ser Ilhan. He had to show this to Ser Ilhan. House Raylan never had many knights sworn to its name. Currently there were about five knights in service to House Raylan and about a hundred permanent men-at-arms. In times of war, House Raylan could raise an army of almost a thousand men from the smallfolk. Training them and keeping the men-at-arms in shape was the duty of Ser Ilhan Lagoon, a Dornishman and veteran of countless battles, who had somehow found his calling at the court of a Reachlord. He was a brave man and even more important, he was fiercely loyal and no friend to Harris Flowers. Unfortunately, he was also deeply unpleasant company. His cruel and merciless drill had turned away many promising recruits and Lucas himself wore bruises from his sparring matches against the brutal master-at-arms. Countless slain foes in past wars have earned him the moniker ‘The Impaler’ and he wore it with pride. And yet, he was loyal and Lucas would trust him with his life. After the departure of Ser Darren Tallwood, who had left the court with Lord Robert’s approval just a few months ago, Ilhan was the only other knight left in Raylansfair and the only one Lucas could trust with this. Finding Ser Ilhan was not difficult. As always around noon, he stood on the courtyard, supervising a group of new guards, half a dozen of them having gathered in front of him. He was about forty years old and an impressive sight, one of the tallest men Lucas knew, with the olive skin of a salty dornishman and a completely hairless head. Though the spear was his favoured weapon, he was armed with a wooden training sword right now and shouting orders at a hapless young guard. “Not like this, you filthy maggot!”, he roared. “You call that a strike? Do you know what happens if you try to strike an enemy like this?“ Right after these he attacked the boy with a swift and fierce strike to the head, which knocked his opponent to the ground. The boy was wincing in pain and clearly bleeding, but Ilhan delivered two more strong blows to his back. “Try this in actual combat and you’ll die if your enemy is even a little bit smarter than you! And I can assure you, there are a lot of people smarter than you!“, Ilhan shouted, before looking at his group of intimidated recruits. “Next one! Come on, attack me! Land one blow on me, I dare you! Show me that you're worth more than this boy!“ “Ser Ilhan!“, Lucas called the Master-at-arms, putting an end to this display before one of his poor recruits could even think of attacking the Impale. Ilhan turned around, his hard gaze softening only slightly as he spotted the two knights. “Ser Lucas, Ser Leonard! I am quite busy with these worthless new recruits! Make it quick!“, he shouted over the courtyard. Lucas and Leonard quickly came closer and Ilhan lowered his sword, his gaze briefly falling onto the injured recruit. “Alright maggots, you get a short break. Somebody should get this one to the mae.... Ah shit, just get him some water, clean his wound, that has to be suffice“ He then turned his attention to Lucas and Leonard. “I hope you interrupt my training session for good reason“, he said with a grunt. “We are sorry for that, Ser Ilhan. I can assure you, this is something you want to know!“, Lucas spoke. “I… have found something. Something of great importance. You must…” Before he could continue, with his hand still clenched around the paper in the pocket of his coat, he heard another voice calling out for them. “Lucas! There you are, boy. I thought you wanted to investigate the lord’s chambers!“, Harris shouted from the distance. Seven Hells! Leonard grabbed Lucas by the shoulder. “You should have seen how your face just dropped, Flowers. If he takes note of it, we’re in trouble”, he whispered “So leave the talking to me… Both turned to Harris, who approached them from the great hall. Ilhan muttered something unintelligible and gave the boys a glare, but took a short, stiff bow in front of Harris. “Your acting Lordship...“, he said, his voice as venomous as the blades of his people. “This training session is becoming decidedly too crowded for me” He and Harris were bitter rivals, stemming from the time where Harris managed to defeat and humiliate Ilhan in front of a group of recruits during a training session. In return, Harris gave him only the faintest of nods. “Impaler”, he growled. “Still torturing our finest, aren’t you? I told you to go easy on them. We need men who want to fight for this city because they love it, not because they fear you” Ilhan crossed his arms, ready to reply with sharpness, but this time, Leonard interjected. “Greetings, Ser Harris“, the other knight bega, before taking a graceful bow. “It is good that you are here, for I must tell you something of great importance” Lucas took a sharp breath as he realised how easy it would be for Leonard to turn on him right now, to ingratiate himself with the acting lord. Harris gave him a slightly surprised look, thankfully not noticing Lucas’ uncomfortable expression. “I am surprised to see you here, Ser Leonard?”, he greeted him. “Your orders were to guard the lord’s chambers” Leonard nodded. “I did just that until Ser Lucas arrived to have a look through them… with your approval, as I have heard”, he began and Lucas tensed up. Briefly, the other knight caught his gaze and an amused smirk flashed over his face. “I have come to a decision. I see it as my duty to do whatever I can in uncovering the truth behind the deaths of Lord Raylan and Maester Eaton. As such, once Flowers followers after Dairon I want to accompany him” Lucas gave him a short, surprised look, but his uneasiness left him in an instant as he realised that Leonard just ignored an opportunity to turn on him. But why would he want to come with him? It would undoubtedly be a long journey and neither considered the other pleasant company. If it were up to him alone, Lucas would have left on his own. Ser Ilhan scoffed. “If you’ll excuse me, I really need to get back to turning maggots into men”, he hissed. “You boys interrupted me, told me there’s something bloody important you need to tell me. So, what was it?” He looked at the two knights and so did Harris, who crossed his arms, one eyebrow raised. Lucas hesitated. Usually he considered himself quick of wit, but he was a man of honour, not a born liar. Coming up with something on the spot to avoid revealing his suspicions towards Harris in front of the man himself proved harder than it first seemed. Again it was Leonard who came to the rescue. “We wanted to get in on the sparring”, he spoke and his tone was positively disarming, enough for Harris’ expression to soften immediately. “Ser Lucas was hoping you could show him a few new tricks with the sword, maybe a quick duel. It could be dangerous on the road south and we wanted to make sure that we’re ready” For the first time in what seemed to be ages, Ilhans face lit up. “A sparring? Lucas, you little shit, why didn't you tell me immediately? Those tricks you learned in Essos, they could be valuable for my recruits!“, he said while patting Lucas on the back. Lucas barely suppressed a baffled expression, but he shot Leonard a grim glare. The other man met his stare and smirked with infuriating smugness. For what it was worth, Harris calmed down and even got a good chuckle out of this. “Now that could be quite educational. I think I'll be watching you. But after that, you really need to get going!”, he stated. “And I mean it, no more wasting time” He gave Leonard a nod. “Ser Leonard, I approve of your request. Saddle the horses, I’ll have a servant pack your belongings, enough for two weeks on the road” Leonard took another bow in front of the knight. “As you command, mylord”, he confirmed. With these words, he reached down and picked up a wooden training sword, the one Ilhan’s recruit had dropped earlier. With a shit-eating grin on his face, he handed it over to Lucas, hilt first. “And here’s one for you, Flowers. Good luck. A few more rounds with Ser Ilhan will surely do you well” As he left, Lucas took a deep breath to calm his anger. While Leonard was obviously getting a twisted glee from having pitted him against the Impaler, he had to compliment his sharpness. Now, uncomfortable as this sparring session would be, he had an opportunity to tell the master-at-arms, if not for Harris who had remained nearby. But the moment the acting lord could excuse himself, Lucas would share his suspicions with the dornishman. Ser Ilhan flashed him a blood-thirsty grin. “Good lad, Flowers. You’re brave, I like that”, he growled as he pointed the wooden sword at the knight. “Now, shall we begin?”
To be continued
In Lyria's storyline in this chapter I slightly expanded on her interaction with Wolfius who should now come off as a slightly different vibe of utterly creepy. I also added more internal thoughts to Lyria as a character and I made relatively large additions to her conversation with Richard, because in the original it was just him awkwardly asking her questions, now it is more of a proper conversation. For Lucas' part, I made some enhancements to the meeting with Ser Ilhan, giving Ilhan a bit of an increase in screentime and making Leonard's move a bit clearer. As a result of me rewriting this part to account for Lucas' choice to take Leonard with him, that one super crucial choice you made all those years ago, I also now essentially made it Harris' decision born from Leonard flat out forcing his way into Lucas' investigation, a very Leonard move to make. |
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Post by LiquidChicagoTed on Apr 21, 2024 23:08:49 GMT
Marak With a boisterous grin, Marak slammed his mug on the table, while eyeing the barmaid. “More ale, wench!“, he yelled, his voice easily carrying over the noise of several dozen drunken men. The barmaid, a voluptuous blonde, probably one or two years younger than him, looked over and gave him a wink, before turning to the innkeeper. Marak leant back and began to count. That was his seventh, no eighth mug of ale. Together with the room he had rented for the night... Seven Hells! Much to his dismay, Marak just realised he could only afford two more mugs, maybe three if he got lucky with the dice. At least he was certain that today was his lucky day. He looked over and eyed his opponent, one of the local farmers, a short man with a nasty look on his face. “Your move“, his opponent stated. Marak gave him a devious grin. The stupid farmer hadn't even noticed that the dice were biased. He threw them again. The dice showed a five and a six and Marak’s grin widened. The farmer muttered a curse and took the dice. They had been quite expensive in Storm's End, appearing completely ordinary until thrown in a certain way. The craftsman, a slimy man from Myr, even called them fool-proof. And Marak knew he was no fool. “Mother's saggy tits“, his opponent cussed. The dice showed a four and a two. The farmer looked at Marak and his glare alone could have been enough to make Maraks evening. But he intended to end it several pennies richer and with the barmaid in his bed. “Six“, the farmer exclaimed, quite unnecessarily. At that moment, the barmaid came back, a full mug of ale in her hand. Marak’s grin grew more lecherous as he alternated between ogling her and the ale she carried with her. “He's paying, honey“, he said and the barmaid gave him a bright and beautiful smile in return. His opponent threw his hands in the air. “Seven Hells, what is your secret, Ironborn?“, he asked, with barely constrained frustration. Nonetheless, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a copper coin, which he pushed into the barmaid’s hand. “It's the scars. And the beard... Face it mate, I'm more handsome than you“, Marak said, while giving the barmaid a light smack on the butt. She let out a surprised squeal, but he was certain she enjoyed it. No woman could resist Marak’s charm in the end! “What? What are you... Damn you Ironborn, that was not what I meant“, the farmer exclaimed, his tone angrier than before, not that his opinion mattered. “Nobody can be that lucky!“ Marak shrugged and drank a deep gulp from his jug before answering. “Today is just my lucky day I guess“, he chuckled in a merry tone. Too late did he notice that his opponent's face had turned slightly red. “Bullshit! Fuck this game, fuck your lucky day and fuck you, you cheating son of a whore!“, the farmer exclaimed and before Marak could react, the man had grabbed the dice off the table. Marak put his beer down and felt the anger growing inside of him “What did you call me?“, he asked, calmer than usual, his fists already itching for a good fight. He had been drinking this entire evening and he was ready for proper entertainment. The farmer met his gaze with equal fury. “Oh, you understood me very well the first time. I called you a cheating son of an Ironborn whore!“ He almost screamed the last words and the men on the surrounding tables got silent. Marak gently stroked his red beard. “You have three seconds to give me back my dice and leave this tavern”, he growled. “Or else I'm going to split your skull and piss on your brain, you Stormlander scum!“ As he looked to his left, he realised that he just said something very, very stupid. “You just called him Stormlander scum?“, one of the other men said, a hulking giant of a man. A hulking giant of a Stormlander scum in a Stormlander tavern. The farmer grinned as he saw unexpected allies. “You want your dice back, you fucking cheat? First you better give me my copper back!“, he exclaimed while throwing the dice across the room and, according to the startled shouts, right into someone's beer. “Who was that!“, someone screamed. The farmer grinned as Marak stood up. The giant on the table next to him stood up too and the Ironborn realised that the other man was almost as tall as he himself was. Few people were, but they bred them differently here in the Marches. Just then, the door got pushed open and for a second, the sound of rainfall outside drowned out all hostilities, as Marak and his would-be opponents glanced at the newcomer. It was a figure clad in a thin red dress, too thin for this chilly night. When she removed the hood, Marak realised she was a woman, beautiful and exotic, with olive skin and long hair of an oddly dark red colour. Immediately, his grin returned. Screw the tavern wench! The lady in red was his new goal for the night. And what a goal she was! The Ironborn licked his lips while the woman looked over the tavern guests, her gaze briefly finding his. He had to impress her somehow. Maybe if he… The punch caught him off-guard while he was drooling over the woman and almost sent him to the ground. His opponent, the huge Stormlander scum, had made the first move and was preparing for another. This time, Marak saw it coming and hit first. He managed to hit his opponent in the stomach, followed by another hit to the chin that sent the man to the ground. A quick glance to the door showed him that the lady in red now had her attention directly on him. Surely she was impressed by what a fine specimen he was! Then, three men stood up two tables over, glaring at him in anger. The farmer he played dice against also got up from his chair. “The Ironborn cheated. He stole my money!“, he screamed. And then seven hells broke loose. Marak kicked the first of his opponents in the groin but received a nasty blow to the chin for his troubles. Another man got a little bit too cocky and grabbed a chair, only for Marak to effortlessly pull it out of his hands and deliver a quick punch to the face. Just as he was about to beat another man, he took a heavy kick in the back enough for him to stumble forwards. The farmer was there and while Marak still struggled to regain his footing, the small man delivered a brutal kick right between Marak’s legs. Tears welled up in the Ironborn’s eyes. Cursing the drowned god, he went down, clutching his groin in agony. “Stop it!, an odd, melodic voice intoned, as the four men around him began kicking him. “I told you to stop it!” But they did not stop as over and over again, the men stomped at him, until finally one of them got his head and darkness overcame the Ironborn.
Marak awoke with a thumping headache. The taste of blood lingered on his tongue and he felt sore all over. He blinked, letting out a groan as he reached for his face, feeling the swollen bruise on his cheek. But the street he found himself in seemed familiar. He was alive, it was still night and he was still in Blackhaven, the stinkiest village in the Stormlands. He was lying on the street, his back hurt like hell, he was covered in bruises. Nothing out of the ordinary. But he could move his feet, which was a good thing. With a loud moan he got onto all fours, then onto his knees. No, nothing broken, nothing sprained. He had lost his dice and his coin, but at least he still got his... “Shit!“, he screamed. His axe was gone. He bought the axe the last time he was in Pyke. It was a piece of home. The last piece of home he still had. A sudden move in the corner of his eye startled him. The lady in red stepped out of the darkness and into the moonlight. In her hands, she held his axe, a weapon way too large for her delicate frame. It looked quite ridiculous. And undeniably hot. With relief Marak noticed that the kick in his crotch hadn't caused permanent damage. “It appears you lost something, tough guy“, the woman said, while examining his axe. Her voice was sweet as honey and strangely melodic. “This is a fine weapon, one tried and tested in combat” Marak struggled back onto his feet, towering over her as he took one step towards her. “And it appears you found it for me, sweet lady“, he grinned. The moment he reached for the axe, the woman took a step backwards. She perked her eyebrows. “Found it? For you? No, you're mistaken in both cases“ Her voice had a slightly mocking tone and Marak noticed an accent. That lady was clearly from one of the free cities. Pentosh? Qohor? By the drowned God, he hoped not. Qohorik girls were all crazy and not in a good way. Braavos. Yes, that accent sounded faintly Braavosi. "Are you a Braavosi girl? Can’t quite place that accent“, he spoke, trying to get her to lower her guard. He grinned as he thought about the last Braavosi girl he had. Braavosi girls were great, albeit that one girl from Lys had been even better, more flexible where it mattered. The lady in red caught him staring at her body and gave him a sharp glare. “Eyes up here...“, she ordered and to his own surprise, Marak found himself following this order. There was something about her tone that made it clear to him he should better obey. “My name is Noelle of Braavos”, she introduced herself and raised an eyebrow “Originally from Asshai, to satisfy your curiosity“ Marak took a step backward and held his breath, cursing the moment he laid eyes upon this woman. Asshai. That was not good. “You're a witch!“, he exclaimed. He had heard all kinds of stories from Asshai-by-the-shadow, even spoke to some men who had claimed that they had visited it once. All of the tales had painted it as a place he never wanted to visit and its people as those he never wanted to meet, no matter how hot they were. The lady in red seemed slightly disappointed by his reaction. “I am as much a witch as you are not a savage drunkard”, she explained. “Behold, brute, for I serve the one true god!“ While she spoke these words, she had a delighted expression in her green eyes Marak looked at her, now visibly confused. “You serve the Drowned God?“, he uttered. The drowned priests he knew were all zealous, older men, quite mad as well. Though he gave lip service to the Drowned God, he was no praying man and he did not like the direction this conversation was heading. Noelle snorted with frustration, but he spotted a hint of amusement in her voice as well. “I'm talking about the Lord of Light, you oaf“, she explained. He gave her a confused look and she sighed. “His name is R'hllor. The one true god. He who gave us life. He who gave us warmth. He who gave us fire“ She raised the axe. “And he who owns your axe...“, she added with a slight smile. Marak sighed, as he took another step towards her. He was tired, injured and broke and he would not entertain a madwoman, no matter how good she looked in this moonlight. “Listen lady, I don't know of any gods named Roller...“, he began “R'hllor!“, Noelle corrected him with a slight hiss. His words seemed to have hit a sore spot, for she was genuinely displeased for a second, but Marak did not care in the slightest. The Ironborn rolled his eyes. “Whatever his name is... Listen lady, could you just give me my property back?“, he asked, now slightly irritated. Whoever this Lord of Light was, this Noelle lady was definitely a maniac. The last person he had seen with a look like this had indeed been a Drowned Priest. Noelle let out a mocking laugh. “Your property?”, she exclaimed. “These peasants from the tavern, the ones that beat you senseless, they took it as payment. I bought it from them, so it is mine by right. And everything that is mine belongs to Him“ As Marak took a step forward to simply take the axe, Noelle did something he did not expect. She handed him the axe. He grabbed it, but she still kept her hands around the hilt “If you take this weapon, you will work for me. You had ten men against you and managed to send four of them to the ground before you got overpowered. The Lord of Light has a need for men like you“, she said. “Has he? Well tell your lord he has an excellent taste, but unless he’s a buxom wench, he’s really not my type“, Marak scoffed, before he had to gulp under her intense glare. The look this priestess had just given him… something about it scared him. “You are a mercenary, aren't you? Then I am hiring you. You will get your axe back, a chance to repay your debts to me and you will get an additional reward“, she said with a voice as cold as ice. “Remember, I could have left you here in the gutter. I stayed, because I want to give you a chance” Marak let out a sigh, but this time he knew he had no real choice. He would work for this woman, but for a reward and not just because she was still just barely his kind of crazy. “Fine, mylady... I will work for you and your Rollmop”, he confirmed. “ What do you want me to do?“ Noelle’s expression was stony, for some reason, but then she forced herself to give him a slight smile. “Have you ever heard of a city named Raylansfair?“, she asked. “Because that’s where we’re needed” Marak thought hard about it. Raylansfair… no, that did not ring a bell with him. “Can't say so. Is that a Vale city? I never had a girl from the Vale, so I don't know much about…”, he began. Noelle interrupted him with a wide smile on her face. “It is in the Reach. We live in great times, brute. The lord has shown me a vision in the flames”, she began and just by her tone, he knew she was about to preach. “His Chosen One will soon arrive in this heathen kingdom and he will take what is rightfully his, with Fire and Blood. And I shall be...“ This time, Marak interrupted her. “Whatever... Listen, I don't need all the details. I don't need to know about chosen ones, albeit the part with the fire and blood sounded cosy”, he was quick to say. “Just tell me what I need to do...“ He spoke the last part a bit slower, to make sure this crazy lady understood. Noelle stopped, quite baffled at his rudeness. “I need to get to Raylansfair. It can be dangerous to go alone, for the night is dark and full of terrors…”, she explained to him. “I also need muscle to help me with my duty. That’s where you’ll come in“ Marak thought about that for a moment. Working for an insane lady who worshipped a Rollmop... eh, he had done worse. She did give him his axe back. And Seven Hells, she was hot! “Lady Noelle, I accept your offer! I will do what you command... anything you command, if you get what I mean”, he intoned “But you mentioned... a certain reward. Well, rest assured, dear priestess, I already have something in mind...“ With this last words he gave her a suggestive smile. She did not smile back. “I am not a whore and I will not sleep with you”, she clarified, to his unending disappointment. “You can choose between two rewards. One would be money, the reward of a thug, the kind you’ve fought for all our life. But I could also give you the wise man's reward. I could show you the truth...“ With these last words, the strange look in her eyes returned. Marak gulped. Gold or the truth? He liked gold. But the way the priestess said this, it sounded like she would be disappointed in this choice. Maybe he still had a chance if only he took the less lucrative option for once. Finally, his curiosity got the better of him. “This truth... what would it be?“, he asked. Noelle gave him an approving look. “The Lord of Light has given us many gifts, but the most valuable is fire, the essence of R'hllor”, she explained. “You will look into the fire under my guidance and the fire will look into you. And if the Lord of Light deems you worthy, you will see something“ Marak looked at her, quite confused. This was not a real explanation. “So my payment for being your bodyguard from here to Reach is that I get to look into a little campfire?“ That was not impressive, not at all. Maybe he should have just taken the gold, or even better, maybe he should have minded his own business and not gotten involved in any way with this priestess and her rollmop. But it was a bit too late for that. By now, Marak had given her his word and it would be bad for his reputation if he were to go back on it now. Noelle seemed to be indignant by these words. “You make it seem like everyone could do this. I assure you, it is an art which even among my people few ever truly master“, she said, her voice sounding slightly offended. “Do you want to see the truth or not?“ Marak shrugged. Now, if she was offering he wouldn't decline. On the other hand, the small possibility that she could try to curse him was still slightly repelling him. He took a deep breath. He had iron in his blood and blood on his hands. He would not back out of this. He was definitely not scared by a single woman. “Show me the truth, Lady Noelle!“, he exclaimed. The Red Priestess gave him a pleased smile. “This will be interesting, for both of us. I'm not sure what you will see. If you even see something. The Red God favours only a few. There are days where even I don't see his ways“, she explained. Now that was certainly encouraging! She turned around.“Come with me, tough guy!“, she commanded him and Marak followed her, like a trained dog. Blackhaven wasn't a large village, even though the marcher lords of House Dondarrion had their seat there, in the dark keep atop the hill. But she led him deeper into the village instead. It did not take long until Noelle reached a small house, a dark and abandoned building with a leaky roof and a half-open door. “This is where I stay for the night“, she explained. Marak let out a small chuckle. “You sleep in that house all on your own? Aren't you afraid of bandits or worse?“, he asked. “Seriously, what if I am the most dangerous man you have ever met?” Noelle raised an eyebrow and looked at him, slightly surprised. “I always forget that I am not in Braavos anymore. It is true that the night is dark and full of terror, but they who walk with the Lord of Light shall fear no darkness“, she explained. “Besides... dealing with these things is part of your job now, isn’t it?“, she added with a slight smile. “I trust that you won’t try anything indecent” Without another word, she entered the house, Marak right behind her. The Ironborn was slightly surprised that the abandoned house was actually neatly illuminated once he stepped inside. The windows were darkened, but Noelle had put many candles inside. A small brazier was located on a table in the centre of the room, warming this run-down building quite pleasantly. “I need you to sit in front of the brazier. Just relax. You don't have to fear the fire. Only ever fear the cold“, Noelle said before grabbing a bottle from the table. She poured its content, an oily fluid, into the brazier. Marak gulped. He had never experienced witchcraft before, but that surely felt like it. Nonetheless, he did as he was told and sat down in front of the brazier. The flames were warm and gentle, almost inviting and the light they cast upon the room was oddly comforting. Noelle walked behind him and when he felt something on his back, he noticed that she had knelt down directly behind him and grabbed him by the shoulder. He could feel her warmth. By the drowned god, it was a cold night and she was only wearing this thin dress. She shouldn't be warmer than him, but somehow she was hot to the touch! The whole situation was a bit uncomfortable for Marak, who hadn’t ever been that close to a woman without trying to kill her or fuck her or the former after the latter. “I told you to relax...“, she softly whispered in his ear. And in this moment, Marak wanted to do nothing more than to relax. It should have been easy. The candle light was nice. It was warm. And Noelle could have certainly been pleasant company, if it weren't for her crazy talks and the fact that something was very off-putting about her. She began to whisper something, strange words he did not recognize. Was that the language of the Asshai'i? It sounded oddly relaxing. He saw one of her hands moving into his field of sight, throwing something into the brazier. A darting flame shot up to the ceiling, almost scorching Maraks beard and in this moment he understood what Noelle was saying. “Look into the flames, Marak“, she whispered. And he looked. At first he saw nothing, but bright flames, brighter and sharper than before, all warmth gone from them. Noelle began to speak in Asshai'i again, a melodic, almost singing sound. Marak looked deeper into the flames, until his eyes hurt and until he saw black shadows dancing in the corner of his eyes. And then he saw… ...fire...
...a field of flowers, some bright and beautiful, some black and twisted, a swarm of black and orange butterflies flying over them, destroying them, leaving only the rotten ones behind...
...a red lion fighting a serpent at rainfall, the lion wounding the serpent, the serpent wounding the lion “Your line ends today!“, screams the serpent and plungs its teeth into the lion...
...a winged woman on a yellow mountain, holding a golden whip, screaming for vengeance...
...lions and stags and squids and falcons fighting over a golden book, tearing it asunder, burning it to the ground...
...a man wearing a bloody black crown, crying over four dead bodies, watching the sunrise...
...a silver-haired man standing next to a winged shadow, the shadow spitting fire and burning, burning, burning everything...
...an endless wasteland, two armies fighting, a silver sun moving across the sky burning everything in its path, one of the seven hells itself, until the silver sun falls from the sky and leaves only ruins and dead bodies, everything fallen...
...everything falls, everything breaks, castles breaking, smallfolk breaking, dragons breaking, crowned men breaking, a broken man on a throne of swords, everything consumed by the fire, an old king with a mad gaze, burning them all, mauled by a lion, but still everything burns, consumed by fire, red fire, green fire
...and finally he saw himself, standing aboard of his ship, only days after he had drowned his father. He had felt good in these days. He was a captain, a feared raider and finally free from the man who had tormented him all his life. And he was boozy like he had never been before. Yes, he had murdered his father for a ship. And he felt no regret, at least not in this moment, not in this stormy night, for that man had it coming. Life was simple, life was good. Except... His brother... he knew the truth...
...Marak saw himself getting pushed overboard, in his drunken rage he grabbed his brother and dragged him off with him. Marak saw himself, how he pushed his brother under the water, to keep afloat himself, but also in a murdering fit of rage… ...Rage… ...and he flipped around, grabbing the Red Priestess by the neck with his left hand and starting to choke her. “What have you done to me?“, he screamed at the top of his lungs, tears of rage flowing down his face. He did not want to think about that, about the terrible things he had seen, he did not want to relive these memories. He wasn't ashamed of what he had done and he did not want to be ashamed. But she… she had made him remember! Noelle gasped and wheezed and winced, while Marak was choking her, choking the life out of her sorry throat. Yes, now he was in his element. Killing was something he was good at. Breaking her, killing her, that was all he had ever been good at, that was all he would ever be, a brutal, merciless killer. This was his life and she would curse the moment she had stepped into it! “What have you done!“, he screamed again. She had bewitched him, she had cursed him, she made him see all this, these dreams of fire, these things he did not want to regret! He saw tears in her eyes, tears and an expression that surprised him so much that he loosened his grip on her neck. It was only a moment of hesitation, but it was enough for him to realise what he was doing. “Fuck!”, he exclaimed, as he let go of her. The priestess sank onto the ground, clutching her throat, as she coughed and wheezed and gasped for air, tears of exhaustion streaming down her face, her green gaze never once leaving his as he towered above her. And yet, for some reason she was not afraid. If anything, he had seen understanding in her eyes and pity. “I know you are confused, tough guy...“, she started, but Marak interrupted her. “It's Marak! Call me ‘tough guy’ one more time and I will break your fucking neck!“, he roared and it was no empty threat. He looked at the brazier, still burning, but with ordinary flames now. It was over. The witch's curse was broken. Noelle coughed. “What have you seen, Marak?“, she asked. Her voice was hoarse and her face was almost as red as her robe. Still, Marak felt compassion and curiosity in her words. By all that was good in this world, why wasn’t she afraid of him? Everybody was, they always had been afraid of him, the brute of Pyke. “You know what I have seen. What you have made me see!“, he said, but he did not have the strength to scream again. Instead he felt tears flowing down his face as he dropped to his knees in front of her, exhausted and tired. What had this woman done to him? Noelle shook her head. “The Lord of Light showed you these things. I only helped you in recognizing them…”, she explained to him. “And I have not been privy to the same vision. Tell me, what have you seen?“ Marak took a deep breath. “Dying people. Dead people. Flowers and Lions and Serpents. Dying kings. A broken king. And I saw fire. Fire, burning everything, destroying and breaking... I saw my past...“, he said weakly. To his surprise, Noelle gave him a weak, but sincere smile. “The Lord of Light has given you a gift, Marak”, she spoke and her expression grew bewildered, but at the same time overjoyed despite her situation. “He has shown you the future. I was not expecting this, to be honest. Not from you. You need to tell me everything. It could be important“ Marak closed his eyes. He was confused. And he was angry. Never before had he felt such a need to break something, to destroy something, to kill something. To burn something. He opened his eyes again. And started to tell her everything.
Lucas “Come on Flowers, you haven't spoken in hours. Still mad about that?“, Leonard said while looking at Lucas. Lucas sighed and rubbed his bruises. He had taken a good beating from Ser Ilhan after Leonard had tricked him into a sparring match. And even though they had only been fighting with training swords, Lucas was cluttered with bruises. Ser Ilhan had shown no restraint and he had enjoyed every moment of it. At least Lucas had managed to deliver a fierce blow to Ser Ilhans left arm. The master-at-arms' riposte had almost knocked him out though. The worst part however was that there had been no time to inform Ser Ilhan of what he had just found out. Harris had always watched them. And after the fight the acting lord had insisted that Lucas and Leonard would leave immediately and go after Dairon, with Ilhan himself excusing himself after thanking Lucas for a decent sparring match. Somehow Lucas understood why Harris would hide the sheet of paper. Should Ser Ilhan or any other good and true man learn about this, they would try everything to fulfil Lord Robert’s last wish. Ser Ilhan was loyal to the House, but always to the old lord first. Septon Corbin and Lady Halla did not care for the well-being of the house as long as they could keep their posts. Only Harris would put his personal feelings below his loyalty to House Raylan. A small part inside of Lucas understood him, even agreed with this particular decision. But what about Maester Eaton? The old Maester had known their late lord the longest, even longer than Harris. Would he betray his friend like this? And would Harris be able to kill Eaton and Lord Robert? Lucas had always felt respect for Harris, but if the castellan was behind this, he could never forgive him. And the fact remained that he had the most to lose. He had motive and opportunity. But first they had to find Dairon. Harris had given them the two fastest horses in Raylansfair and had urged them to move immediately. They had been riding the whole day, until nightfall, when they made a camp near the road. Leonard took care of the fire, while Lucas was resting his maltreated bones. He was torn. Harris had never been anything but a decent and respectable man. On top of that, Lucas was loyal to House Raylan and until a new Lord of Raylansfair would be chosen, likely by King Mern himself, Harris was the acting Lord of Raylansfair. But still... he had to find out what Harris did. How he was involved in all this. “Hey Flowers! You hear me? Or are we into ignoring each other again?“, Leonard exclaimed, leading Lucas to look up. Leonard gave him a slight smile “You know I had to do it, don't you? It seemed to be the right thing at that moment, to get Harris off our backs“, he said. Lucas shook his head. “I know. You did right. Still doesn't mean I'm not mad at you... Lenny“, he sighed. He was not mad at Leonard, more annoyed and perhaps a tiny bit angry, but he could understand him. Leonard gave him a short glare, but then let out a short laugh. “Ah, come on Flowers. And I was starting to think you might not be that bad after all”, he spoke. “I gave you a good excuse when you needed one. Next time, you can speak for yourself” “That's not it... I mean, yes I am pretty mad about that. The Impaler is a mean teacher“, he said, while clutching a particularly bad bruise on his right shoulder. “And he enjoyed it as well, the chance to beat a knight instead of his green recruits” Leonard gave him a really wicked smile. What a bastard! “If it's not that, then why are you so silent?“, he asked and his smile faded ever so slightly. “Is everything alright, Flowers? Come on, we’re in this together!” Lucas closed his eyes. Now or never. Could he really trust Leonard? The other knight had proven himself to be a valuable ally. Without his help, he wouldn't have found the sheet. But could he trust him enough for such knowledge? What he had found wasn't meant to fall into the wrong hands. But whose hands were the wrong? Ser Harris would ignore the sheet, ignore Lord Raylans last will, perhaps even destroy it. Lord Hightower would gladly oblige. But what was the best cause of action here? Then there was Dairon. The boy was a suspect in a murder case he most certainly had no hand in. He was on the run, they had found out that much. A farmer had seen him in the early morning hours, riding south like there was no tomorrow. A patrol had spoken to him and noticed the boy was suspiciously nervous. He had said that he needed to get to Oldtown. And it was very likely he had the sheet of paper with him, containing Lord Robert Raylans last wish. Lucas highly doubted that Dairon killed Maester Eaton. But what if Eaton told him something, something that cost him his life? Something that prompted Harris to call for a hunt on the poor boy? Or what if it was even worse? What if there was more than one person involved? Harris, maybe Lord Hightower, maybe even more… And yet, telling nobody was beyond risky. Should anything happen to him, his knowledge would be lost and it would only be Dairon and Harris who knew the truth. He had to tell someone. And right now, Leonard was the only one available. He took a deep breath. If he was wrong about trusting Leonard, then was about to doom himself and doom Raylansfair with it. “It is about what I found in Harris' chambers...“, he said. Leonard looked up, visibly interested in this. “So now you're telling me? Why the sudden change of heart?“, he asked. “Are we partners after all?” Lucas shook his head. “I had no change of heart. I wanted to tell Ser Ilhan. But I won't speak to him for days, if not weeks. And should anything happen to me, he has to know. Someone else has to tell him“, he answered and gave Leonard a stern look. “That someone will be you, if all goes wrong” The other knight nodded in agreement. “You can trust me, Lucas. I swear it, to all of the gods, should something happen to you, I'll be the one to give your message to Ser Ilhan“, he answered. Lucas thought about that for a moment. Leonard wasn't a man who gave promises like that easily. He was a skilled talker, but not a liar. In fact, Leonard had never once lied to him. “I have found a traced sheet of paper in Harris' chamber. It was written by Maester Eaton, the night he and Lord Raylan had died“, he finally started to explain and took out the sheet of paper from his pockets. “I'm going to read it to you, okay?“ Leonard gave him a short nod. Lucas cleared his throat.
“To Lord Manfred Hightower, Lord of Oldtown,
So many years have passed since we last talked, my former friend. You wanted to buy the archive on behalf of your citadel. Once again. I rebuffed you. Once again. You got angry. I got angry. We both said things we shouldn't have. Once again. Let me make one thing clear: I will never forgive the things you said about Morna and Trystane. Our bond is broken. But I am dying, Manfred, and I am weak. Too weak to even write my own last will. The Faith told us to forgive our enemies before we die. So, that's what I will do. I will forgive what you said about me. And I hope that you can forgive what I said about you. I apologise on behalf of Trystane for humiliating you on Tarly’s Tournament. I apologise on behalf of Morna, for mocking you on King Gardeners summer ball. I apologise, for my stupidity and my pride poisoned my heart. And in turn I wish that you will help me. My house has few friends, but many enemies. And not all of them have been civil such as you, more a rival than a true enemy. No, we have enemies, Manfred, ruthless and wicked beasts. I'm not just talking about the Ironborn here. I'm talking about the other Lords of the Reach. I'm talking about forces in your own city. People seeking to destroy not only my house, but the whole kingdom. I am not powerful enough to stop them. And House Raylan isn't powerful enough to defend itself against them. But you would be, Lord Hightower. And this is why I want to name you Lord of Raylansfair. I am the last Raylan, my line ends with me. I want you to take the blasted archive. Take it to the Citadel and keep it safe. Or even better, burn it to the ground. I should have done that years ago. There won't be a new Lord Raylan. I wish for my town nothing more but to stay beneath notice. I want House Raylan to be gone. My line has been dying for the last forty years. It is time it comes to an end. I am not asking for anything more, Manfred. Destroy House Raylan if you must, but keep my people safe“
Lucas looked at Leonard, who just sat there, in complete shock. “Manfred Hightower… would have ruined this city and our lord knew it”, the other knight finally managed to stutter. “Why in all the Seven Hells did he want to destroy his own house?“ End of Chapter I: Dark Wings, Dark Words
Next time on Forum of Thrones:
“This is my choice, brother. This won't affect you, so stay out of it!“, Torvin growled. Garthon looked at him with cold rage and disappointment. “You say it won't affect me? Have you forgotten all the things I already had to do for you? In the end it is always me! It is always me, fixing the broken mess you caused with your damned pride! And you... you don't even care. You will kill the both of us and your girl and it won’t even matter to you as long as you can restore our fucking honor!“
The Lion of Lannister looked at him with a stony face. “We need to hold Lord Raylan to the promise he gave us. We need his troops in the war to come!“, he said with a stern face. Willfred looked at the king in confusion. They were the knights of the Rock after all, proud and fearless and they would never bow to the Ironborn beasts. “Your grace, I don't understand. Is the war really so bad that we need the troops of such a small house?“, he asked. Loren sighed. “I'm afraid it is even worse...“, he mumbled with a sorrowful expression on his face. “Let me tell you the truth, red lion”
“I'm glad you are here to help me, Ser Jaron. I must admit, I am in no way a good man. But there are people fighting over this city, fighting over this kingdom, who are far worse than anything you can imagine. My enemies and, if you consider yourself a true knight, yours as well'', the Burned Man whispered, still shivering from the pain. “For these people, no sacrifice is too much, no depravity too far to reach their goals. I despise bravery. It is the root of mankind’s greatest griefs. But even I can't let my enemies win. I'm afraid it takes a brave man to stop them. Brave… such as the man you always wanted to be”
Richard looked over at the other table. The man was pallid, with bedraggled blonde hair and dead grey eyes. Richard had never seen him before. And he did not like the way this man was looking at the barmaid. Right at that moment, the stranger turned his head and looked at Richard, with a cold smile, a smile so bare of any emotion that the farmer shivered.
“Mylord Royce, this Raylansfair lies at the other end of Westeros. Is it really that important?“, Maya asked, looking at her lord in disbelief. Lord Royce let out a loud laugh, not a jovial one, but one full of mockery. “Sweet child, we couldn't care less for Raylansfair...“, he said, while giving her his wicked smile. “Not for the city at least. But the Queen Regent has a need for its greatest treasure. For that which lies buried beneath in the archives, for that which will protect our borders and keep us safe for generations to come”
“Jaron the Bastard?“, the tall man asked with a crude smile, while he was drawing his sword. Jaron turned around and saw two other men blocking the alleyway. “There has been some talk on the streets. People say you work for that burned cripple now... That was the wrong choice, Bastard...“
Jenna stopped dead in her tracks. This was wrong. It would get her into trouble. But curiosity always got the better of her. She heard the two men arguing. Ser Ilhans voice was distinctive, too loud even in this secluded room. And... was that Ser Harris? Lord Harris, she corrected herself. He called himself a lord now, if only because no one was left to challenge him. “Who gave you the right to decide this on your own, Harris Flowers?“, Ilhan shouted. For a short moment there was silence, but then Jenna heard Harris speaking. “I am the acting lord, Ser Ilhan, so I alone decide”, he growled. You will never speak to me like that again, do you understand? I am the Lord of Raylansfair, and this city is mine!”
Forum of Thrones, Act I, Chapter II: Broken Vows; Coming Soon!
Marak's storyline remains virtually unchanged aside for some better descriptions. However, Noelle is now no longer calling him a tough guy in every other sentence, which I am certain you will agree is an improvement over her earlier rather stilted dialogue. |
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