|
|
Post by WildlingKing on May 30, 2019 9:44:50 GMT
Act II: Steel and Fire
Arthur I Thick fog and foul stench of death lingered in the air, faceless shadows moved all around Arthur, and all he could hear were the shrill sounds of steel clashing with steel and the crazed screams of pain. Clenching tightly to his shining sword he waded forward, every step feeling heavier than the last. He felt like he was suffocating inside his helmet, so he ripped it out of his head and tossed it onto the muddy ground. He took a deep gasp, but the bitter taste of the air merely made him fall on his knees. Turning his gaze down, Arthur saw a dead man lying on the mud. It was his friend and brother-in-arms, Ser Hallis Hardyng, an expression of horror frozen on his bloodstained face. As he put his shaking hand on his friend’s face, the ground began to tremble. He shifted his gaze up, seeing a giant with antlers approaching him through the battlefield. Arthur couldn’t move, the mud was swallowing him. The giant raised his warhammer, and as he brought it down lighting struck and blinded Arthur. Ser Arthur Arryn opened his eyes, sweating and shaking slightly in his bed. With a sigh he raised to a sitting position, feeling a faint pain on his lower back. He rested his forehead on his left hand, taking in a few deep breaths. He glanced towards the window of his chambers, seeing that it was not yet dawn. It had been years since he had last had nightmares about the Battle of Six Kings, but the message that had arrived from Stoney Sept yesterday had clearly resurfaced some painful memories. Sent by Ser Harrold Hill, it had summoned the Warrior’s Sons of Gulltown to aid their brothers in Riverlands to overthrow the rule of the Storm King, and instill a new king. As the captain of Gulltown’s chapterhouse, Ser Arthur would hold a council regarding the issue come the morrow. Since falling back asleep felt like a hopeless pursuit, Arthur decided to go for a walk. He didn’t bother to put on his armor, but still donned his rainbow cloak and strapped his sheathed sword on his belt. He grabbed and lit a lantern and made his way quietly to the cobbled streets of Gulltown. The chapterhouse was located on the High Street together with Gulltown’s grandest sept, just below the Grafton Keep and overlooking the rest of the port city tucked around the narrow bay. Gulltown was quiet and beautiful at night, and the sea glimmered slightly under the light of the moon and stars. In the distance far beyond the city walls to the east, north and west could be seen white and jagged peaks stabbing the indigo sky. With a tired sigh Arthur leaned on the stone railing of the High Street, below which was a nearly twenty feet drop to the tiled roofs of the lower streets. Gulltown had been a home to him ever since he first joined the Faith Militant at the age of twenty, over fifty years ago. During those fifty years he had defended Gulltown against Northmen during one of their last aggressions in the War Across the Water, traveled to Oldtown three times to give his oaths to the High Septon – the latest of those visits nineteen years ago when he was made a captain – and sixteen years ago he had fought beside the last Teagues against the Blackwood rebels and the Storm King. He had already thought himself old back then, but now he was on his early seventies and lacked any sense of adventure or hunger for glory he had once had. In truth Arthur had wished to live the rest of his days here in peace, away from the wars of Westeros. It seems the gods wish to test me once more. Seeing the first hints of dawn creep up to the eastern skies, Ser Arthur decided to make his way to the meeting hall of the chapterhouse. There he lighted candles around the seven granite pillars encircling the round room, and took his place in the middle, waiting for the knights of the Warrior’s Sons to come as invited. The first to arrive was Ser Eddard Egen, who had served in the Warrior’s Sons nearly as long as Arthur and was one of his seven lieutenants. He was a stout and broad man on his late sixties, with a frizzy grey-white beard and a thin hair in the same color. Arthur and Eddard had fought side-by-side in the Riverlands, together with Ser Hallis Hardyng who fell in the Battle of Six Kings. The three of them had known each other since childhood, and Arthur had considered Hallis the best friend he ever had. “Arthur, I thought you were still in bed when I didn’t see you at the mess hall,” Eddard said with a thin smirk, which Arthur reciprocated. “If only,” he responded calmly. “My days of oversleeping are firmly in the past, I’m afraid.” “Well, no matter how old you are you still need to eat,” Eddard remarked with a small chuckle, but in his green eyes was a look of genuine concern. “I will break my fast once the meeting is done, Ned,” Arthur promised to his friend. He had never had much of an appetite, which was perhaps the reason he had remained a lean man throughout his life, but during these past few years it had diminished even more. And now, with nightmares from sixteen years ago creeping into his mind again and making his stomach turn, Arthur could hardly even think about eating. Eddard looked like he was about to ask something, but just then the doors opened again and four more of Arthur’s lieutenants walked in. Ser Selmond Hunter was a dour and dutiful man on his early fifties, with a long and gaunt cleanshaven face, sharp blue eyes, a beak of a nose and slightly receding dark brown hair. There were rumors that he had ambitions of rising to the position of captain once the seat would become vacant, but that was something Arthur didn’t want to think about. Ser Lambert Stone was a tall and muscular man on his mid-thirties, with long and dark slicked-back hair, shadow of a beard, sharp facial features and sullen brown eyes. He had been born a bastard of some Royce knight, and had joined the Warrior’s Sons shortly after the last war in Riverlands. Ser Alan of the Fingers was a smiling and carefree man on his late twenties, with a short blonde hair, close-cropped beard across his strong jaw, broad face and small blue eyes. He had been a lowborn hedge knight before joining the Warrior’s Sons six years ago, and he was one of the most skilled with both sword and lance from the knights under Arthur’s command. Lastly, Ser Perros Hawick was a stern and humorless man on his early forties, with haggard face, bald head, bushy dark beard, one grey eye and a gruesome old scar running over where his left eye had once been. In his youth he had served the Teagues, but after their fall he had exiled himself to the Vale of Arryn and joined the Warrior’s Sons in Gulltown. They all gave Arthur a respectful bow. “Ser Arthur, may I ask what the cause for this meeting is?” Ser Selmond asked with a stale and formal tone. “You will learn soon enough, Ser Selmond,” Arthur answered smoothly. “Once all our brothers are present.” Knights poured in as small groups for the following minutes, until all hundred-and-four were present. Twenty years ago the chapterhouse of Gulltown had boasted nearly three hundred Warrior’s Sons, but the last war had heavily thinned their numbers. Only twenty-one out of the two hundred who had ridden to Riverlands sixteen years ago ever returned to Gulltown, and some of them did so as invalids no longer capable of fulfilling the duties of a knight. Among the last to enter the meeting hall were the freshest of Arthur’s lieutenants, Ser Gareth Grafton and Ser Osbert Shett. They were both young noblemen on their mid-twenties, born and bred in Gulltown. Gareth was a boyishly handsome, tall and thin fourthborn son of Lord Gulian Grafton, whereas his good friend Osbert was a robust and bearded second son of Lord Morgan Shett. They had both joined the Warrior’s Sons three years ago, neither had seen real war, and Arthur suspected they hadn’t given their oaths to the Faith Militant out of any genuine will to serve the gods, but rather in an attempt to find glory and status otherwise denied from them as fourth- and secondborn. However, Arthur had done his best to groom them to serve and command regardless of the purity of their motives – the Warrior’s Sons needed every knight they could get. “Let us begin with a short prayer,” Arthur announced to the hundred rainbow-cloaked knights surrounding him. “We ask the Father to judge us fairly,” he began, and the knights joined him in a choir. “We ask the Mother to grant us mercy. We ask the Warrior to give us the courage to be righteous. We ask the Maiden to protect the virtue of the innocent we guard. We ask the Smith to lend us his strength to fulfill our duties. We ask the Crone to show us wisdom in times of confusion. We ask the Stranger to keep us from untimely grave. We pledge our swords, and our hearts, for the Seven.” A short moment of silence followed the prayer, and Arthur let his gaze soar over the solemn faces of the knights under his command, while gently stroking his white as snow beard. The silence was broken by Ser Gareth Grafton, who stepped forward and gave Arthur a respectful nod before speaking up. “Ser Arthur, I believe you summoned us here to tell about the message you received yesterday.” “I haven’t forgotten, Ser Gareth,” Arthur responded with a thin smile, receiving some mild chuckles from the crowd of knights. He then pulled the piece of parchment from his satchel, once again laying his eyes on the crude handwriting of Ser Harrold Hill. “The message was sent by our brothers in Stoney Sept,” he announced with a loud and serious tone, handing the parchment to Ser Eddard Egen. “It is a call to arms, a plead for the Warrior’s Sons of Gulltown to join our brothers in Riverlands, to overthrow the godless rule of the Storm King and instill a new King of the Trident. A king named Lucifer Justman.” Arthur heard some gasps and confused murmurs from the crowd, and then Ser Lambert Stone spoke up. “The Justman line died out centuries ago,” he said with a frown. “Ser Harrold claims that the High Septon vouches for the legitimacy of this King Lucifer,” Ser Eddard said, having read the letter and now handing it to Ser Lambert who stood next to him. “Then there is no disputing it, His High Holiness is the gods’ voice on earth,” Ser Selmond stated with a decided tone. “Let us not forget what happened last time we marched to Riverlands,” said Ser Marston of Wickenden, one of the few veterans of the last war still amongst their ranks. “Not to mention back then we marched to support an unquestionably rightful king in his efforts to defeat a rebellion. Now Ser Harrold asks us to pledge our swords for some pretender none of us have even heard of before.” “The last war was indeed costly, and I too have my doubts about this supposed Justman king,” Arthur stated calmly, taking in a deep breath. “However, it is as Ser Selmond says. If the High Septon has deemed this King Lucifer legitimate and righteous, it is not our place to question his judgement.” “Justman or not, as the Warrior’s Sons we have a duty to back a king faithful to the Seven over the godless usurpers who now reign over the Riverlands,” Ser Perros Hawick declared with zealous wrath in his words. Arthur gave the one-eyed riverman a small approving nod, even if he suspected that Perros’ fervor was mostly fueled by his desire to avenge his former masters. “Ser Perros speaks truly,” Ser Eddard said sternly, now looking Arthur to the eyes. “We must answer this call. However, how many men shall ride, and who will lead them?” “I will lead,” Arthur declared, his words hollow and chills going down his spine as he spoke them. It brought him no joy or pride, but it had to be done. “It is my duty as your captain.” For a moment no one said anything, until Ser Gareth stepped forward again. “Ser Arthur, you have served the Faith Militant dutifully for a long time, no one can deny your valor and distinctive career, and because of that no one could blame you for passing this war,” the Grafton knight spoke with a polite tone. “It would be my honor to lead the Warrior’s Sons to this war in your stead.” Arthur narrowed his eyes and took a step closer to Gareth. “Do you believe me so old and weak that I can no longer raise my shield, Grafton?” he asked sternly. Gareth gulped and glanced around himself nervously, clearly surprised by Arthur’s response. “No, ser,” he then managed to mutter. “I am a knight still, and while my years of prime are certainly far behind, I assure all of you that I still have the strength and wits to fight and command,” Arthur bellowed with all the strength he could muster in his voice, drawing the full attention of every man in the room. “I will ride to Riverlands, and with me shall ride seventy-six knights of this chapterhouse. Ser Selmond Hunter, you will remain in charge here while we are gone. I and the rest of my lieutenants shall each choose ten knights to ride with us.” Ser Arthur Arryn drew his sword and raised it towards the ceiling of the hall high above him. “To war, for the Seven!” All hundred-and-four rainbow-cloaked knights also drew and raised up their swords. “For the Seven!” they roared in unison. |
|
|
|
Post by WildlingKing on Jun 2, 2019 20:48:26 GMT
Barron III It was a calm and cloudy afternoon, and Prince Barron Durrandon sat atop his horse on the northern banks of the Blackwater Rush, some forty miles to west from where the river met with Blackwater Bay. Quietly he watched as the knights, squires, freeriders, sellswords and infantrymen who had followed him from the Stormlands slowly but surely waded their way across the river. Blackwater Rush was a deep and swift river with treacherous currents, but in this spot a safe crossing was possible if slow for an army, so long as they wouldn’t be harassed. Meanwhile some of the noble lords and their closest servants along with certain arms, gear and equipment were brought over the river with a ferry. The troops led by the young Buckler brothers Robin and Barristan, as well as those led by Lord Hugh Hasty were already on the northern banks, while Lord Edgar Fell was currently leading his men-at-arms across the river. On the southern banks still were the troops of Lord Jaremy Errol, Ser Tyler Wendwater, Ser Yohn Farring and Lord Nestor Follard, as well as most of the hedge knights, freeriders and sellswords who had joined them during the march from Bronzegate to Blackwater Rush. Nigh three-thousand men strong they were now, but it still wasn’t enough – they needed the troops of Lord Darklyn and his vassals. During the Age of Heroes these lands had been ruled by Darklyn kings, but ever since the coming of the Andals they had been continually disputed between larger kingdoms. Sometimes the lords of Blackwater had bowed to River Kings and sometimes to Storm Kings, occasionally even to the Gardeners if some records were to be believed, but they were always on the fringes of whichever kingdom they belonged to, and mostly left to their own devices. Barron’s great-grandfather King Arlan the Avenger had been the one to bring Blackwater Bay under Durrandon rule once again, solidifying it by marrying his daughter Princess Aladale with the Darklyn lord. The grandson of that lord, Renly Darklyn, was now the Lord of Duskendale. That made him second cousin to Barron, but the Durrandon prince was unsure how much Lord Darklyn valued the kinship between them. Nonetheless Lord Renly had aided King Arlan in his conquest of Riverlands, by seizing Maidenpool and Harroway while the Storm King lifted the siege of Raventree Hall. Maidenpool had surrender at once, but the people of Harroway had been fiercely loyal to the Teagues, and Lord Renly had made them suffer for that loyalty. A bloody massacre had befallen the town as the Darklyn troops had sacked it, and it was said Lord Renly himself had been among the most enthusiastic in putting the townsfolk to sword and raping their daughters. Those events had given the man a dark reputation, as well as the moniker Butcher of Harroway. Barron turned around and rode to the camp they had began to erect to a field couple hundred yards north of the river, between the woods in the east and the rugged road in the west. That road would take them to Hayford, Rosby, Stokeworth, and finally Duskendale. Dismounting his horse, Barron saw Dowager Queen Shana approaching him. “Prince Barron,” she greeted him softly, to which he responded politely. “Your Grace.” “Would you join me for a modest lunch?” Shana asked, and Barron gladly accepted. They fetched mead and soup from one of the cookfires and sat down on some mossy rocks near the woods. “Where is Arya?” Barron asked, just a hint of concern in his voice. “She wanted to go explore the forest,” Shana answered with a carefree tone. “Worry not, I tasked five knights and their squires with guarding her.” “Knights you trust, I hope,” Barron said after taking a sip of the ale, to which Shana nodded calmly. “Of course.” For a moment they sat there in silence, just eating and listening to the sounds of the nature around them. Eventually Shana broke the silence. “Arya tells me you want us to stay in Duskendale until the war is done,” she said quietly. Barron nodded. “With thugs of Faith Militant about, travel won’t be safe in Riverlands,” he stated sternly. “And I would rather not bring Princess Arya anywhere near a battle. Or you for that matter.” “I understand,” Shana said with a sigh, a plaintive look in her eyes. “You’ve been by Brydan’s side all these years. Tell me, what kind of a man has my baby brother grown into?” Barron took in a deep breath, finishing his mead and putting down the mug before answering. “Brydan is smart, kind and eager to do his duty. He enjoys reading and riding, and though not a great warrior he can hold his own with a sword. However, I don’t think there is the kind of fire in him that Lord Roderick had. He will do his duty as Warden of Riverlands, and I believe he will do it well, but he won’t be as loved and respected by the river lords or the common folk as his father was.” Shana nodded to Barron’s words, a knowing look in her eyes. “Even when he was a kid, I could see Brydan was different from father,” she admitted calmly. “After the war, my greatest fear was that my uncles would push their authority over him, make him their puppet. I would often voice these concerns to Arlan, but he always assured me that you would make sure that wasn’t going to happen.” “And so I have, Your Grace,” Barron said with a small but proud smile. “I’ve kept both Ronas and Robert in line whenever they’ve attempted to overreach their influence. Against Ronas’ advice I also started to involve Brydan in council matters since he was no older than ten. The boy was eager to learn, and I saw no reason to not let him listen and learn as we governed the land. Like I said, I believe he will play his part well, even if he doesn’t have the makings of a king like his father did.” “As someone who sat beside a great king for nearly two decades, I will gladly give what advice I can to aid Lord Brydan,” Shana promised, her voice determined and in her green eyes an invigorated gaze. Barron smiled. Back in Storm’s End the Dowager Queen had told him she felt without a purpose after Arlan’s death, and the old prince was happy to see that she had now seemingly found one. Next day they continued their march and made it to the modest castle of Hayford, where Lord Ryger Hayford warmly welcomed, feasted and housed them for the night. In the morn they once again pushed on, now joined by Lord Ryger’s nineteen-year-old son and heir Ser Erwin Hayford, and thirty of Hayford’s knights, squires and mounted men-at-arms. It took half-a-day for them to reach Rosby. It was a stout dun-colored stone castle atop a low green hill, a small village stood at its feet, and all of it was surrounded by golden fields of wheat and barley, which swayed softly in the summer wind. Before reaching the castle they were approached by a small convoy of riders led by Ser Owen Rosby, a large bald man on his early forties, with a thick and bushy brown beard, round reddish face and the frame of a warrior. Owen had already been a fierce warrior sixteen years ago, and Barron could see by simply looking at the man that he had only grown stronger and fiercer since. “Your arrival is most welcome, Prince Barron,” Ser Owen told him with a deep bow. He then escorted Barron, Shana and Arya to the castle ahead of the rest of their host. At the courtyard they were welcomed by Lord Wallace Rosby himself, a wrinkled and corpulent man with a shaggy white beard that reached his chest and a mostly bald blotchy head with some few thin white locks of hair remaining. At the age of sixty-four he was three years Barron’s senior, but by the looks of them one could’ve thought they were separated by two decades. Barron remembered Wallace as a laughing and carefree drunkard, but right now he looked uncharacteristically stern. “Your highness,” the Lord of Rosby greeted them with a respectful bow. Then he took a step closer to Prince Barron. “Prince Barron, we should discuss in private,” he whispered with a serious look in his pale blue eyes. “Immediately.” “As you wish, Lord Rosby,” Barron agreed with furrowed brows, wondering what could be so urgent. “Lead the way.” Wallace and Owen led Prince Barron to the solar in the second floor of the keep, where they sat around a long table and Wallace commanded the servants to pour wine for all three of them. “I know you’ve come here because of the troubles in Riverlands, Prince Barron,” Lord Wallace said with a sigh, taking a first sip of the wine. “I have indeed,” Barron admitted sternly, shifting his gaze between the two Rosby men. “Your liege lord Renly Darklyn is a vassal of the Storm King, and now the Storm King requires his aid. The Faith Militant threatens the Riverlands, the Warrior’s Sons have crowned a pretender king in Stoney Sept, several river lords may be in league with them, and just recently the Poor Fellows took over Fairmarket,” he listed all the causes for concern, to which Wallace Rosby nodded understandingly. “I’ve heard of all this, yes,” he said, tapping his fingers nervously on the table. “However, Blackwater Bay has troubles of its own right now.” Barron narrowed his eyes and frowned, clenching his goblet tightly. “What kind of troubles?” he asked sternly. Lord Wallace gulped and turned his gaze down, considering his words for a moment before speaking up. “There is a… conflict, between House Darklyn and House Staunton.” Aggressively Barron gulped down the rest of his wine and thumped down the goblet. “A conflict,” he echoed with cold fury in his words. “Last I heard there was to be a wedding between the Darklyns and Stauntons.” “There was a wedding, your highness,” Owen said calmly. “Lady Emberlei, the granddaughter of Lord Renly, married Ser Jonos Staunton, the grandson of Lord Morgan Staunton. That was almost a year ago though. The year that followed hasn’t been kind.” “Some three months after the wedding Ser Merret Staunton, son and heir of Lord Morgan, died while crossing the Blackwater Bay,” Wallace started grimly. “Together with his wife Lady Genna he was sailing to Sharp Point to visit his father-in-law, Lord Devan Bar Emmon. However, in Gullet their ship was set upon by a pirate crew. Merret died protecting his lady wife, who was then captured by the pirates and ransomed for Lord Bar Emmon.” “So, pirates killed Ser Merret,” Barron said with a frown. “What does that have to do with Lord Darklyn?” “The captain of that pirate crew was a man who goes by the name Robin Darksails, an infamous bastard son of Lord Renly,” Wallace responded, a joyless smirk on his face. “He has been a nuisance on the Blackwater Bay for almost a decade now, but never before has he slain a nobleman like that. Lord Staunton of course demanded Lord Darklyn to pay reparations for what his bastard son had done, as well as to capture and bring the pirate to face justice. Renly however merely stated that he had disowned the bastard long ago and needn’t pay for his crimes, as well as noting that this particular crime happened on the waters of House Bar Emmon and not Darklyn’s. He even japed that Ser Merret had been a fool to throw away his life in combat when the pirates clearly just wanted to sell him for ransom as they did with Lady Genna. Safe to say Lord Morgan didn’t take the insult lightly, and holding Lord Renly’s granddaughter as hostage he felt safe sending his men to raid the Darklyn lands, claiming they were collecting a debt owed to him. Those raiding parties were led by Ser Egbert Staunton, Morgan’s second son, who eventually was ambushed and captured by Ser Edric Hollard, Lord Renly’s son-in-law. So, now Morgan holds Renly’s granddaughter, Renly holds Morgan’s son, and both refuse to budge. That is the stalemate we’ve been faced with for nearly half-a-year now.” “And none of you thought to report this to Storm’s End?” Barron asked with a frustrated tone. This was a mess, and the last thing he needed right now. “Lord Renly forbid us from doing so,” Wallace explained with a sigh, a tired and sheepish look in his old eyes. “He said there was no need to get the Storm King involved, and I am not a man to defy the orders of my liege lord.” For a moment no one said anything, as Barron silently pondered this situation and how to resolve it. With an ongoing conflict between Darklyns and Stauntons he couldn’t hope to amass any forces from these lands to march to Riverlands. “Crackclaw Point,” Barron suddenly spoke up, and the Rosbys gave him questioning looks. “The houses of Crackclaw Point, they’ve sworn to serve the Storm King as well, are they at all involved in this mess?” he asked sternly. Wallace shook his head, but the look in his eyes was a grim one. “Not this one, no,” he said with a sigh. “What do you mean ‘not this one’?” Barron asked tensely. “The houses of Crackclaw Point also have their issues with Lord Renly,” Ser Owen said dryly. “You see, a couple years back a Valyrian pirate lord named Aelor Celtigar settled on the Crab Isle. Crab Isle happens to also be claimed by House Crabb, and once this pirate lord began to build a fort on the isle Lord Crabb sent his men to fend him off. They failed to do so however, and in retaliation Aelor raided dozens of villages on the coasts of Crackclaw Point. Lords Crabb, Brune and Hardy then sent messengers to Duskendale, asking Lord Renly’s aid in driving Aelor Celtigar back to the seas he came from. Renly declined them however, most likely because Lord Celtigar has been paying regular and sizable tributes to him ever since first settling on Crab Isle.” Angrily Prince Barron stood up from his seat and slammed his fist on the table. “Damn Lord Renly and his follies,” he cursed furiously. “I will go meet the fool myself and put an end to this madness!” |
|
|
|
Post by WildlingKing on Jun 7, 2019 10:22:40 GMT
Ellyn III It was a cloudy morning, leaves of the godswood rustled in the wind, and Lady Ellyn stood once again before the dead heart tree. Lord Brydan had left yesterday, leading an army of nearly thousand men to retake Fairmarket. With Brydan had ridden three fourths of his household guards, including their captain Ser Dennis Deddings, some two-hundred levied troops from the Blackwood lands, Ser Emmon Shawney with the couple dozen men-at-arms he had brought with him when escaping from Fairmarket, Ellyn's uncle Ser Andar Tully with over three hundred swords and spears from Riverrun, Ser Horas Bracken with two hundred and fifty swords and spears from Stone Hedge, and Lord Tommen Wayn with nearly a hundred swords and spears from the Wayn Keep, as well as Ellyn's younger brother Errol and his friend Jon Bigglestone. Ellyn meanwhile had been left in charge of Raventree Hall, together with Ronas Blackwood, Ser Uthor Wayn, Maester Joseth and Olyvar Chambers. Sleeping alone in the bed she usually shared with her husband, Ellyn had again dreamt of the Old Gods, weirwoods, ravens and death. This time she had found Brydan's dead body leaning against the weirwood, a sword driven through his back and ravens pecking out his eyes. That was when she had woken up and felt drawn to the godswood again. "If there is something you want me to do, tell me," Ellyn demanded sternly from the white tree, staring into the red eyes of the ancient face carved onto it. There was no answer, but the wind. I'm a fool, Ellyn thought and shook her head. Her husband was riding to battle, and she was obviously concerned for him. It was only natural her dreams reflected this. "Please, old gods, allow Brydan to survive and come back safely," she prayed quietly. Ellyn heard approaching steps from behind her, knowing even without looking that it was Amabel Wayn coming for her morning prayer. "Have you seen dreams again, mylady?" the old woman asked calmly as she arrived at the weirwood. "No," Ellyn lied with a sigh, keeping her eyes on the heart tree. "I simply came to pray for my husband's safe return." For a moment the two of them stood there in complete silence, side-by-side before the eyes of gods. "Mylady," Amabel then spoke up, a concerned look in her eyes. "About that dream you had earlier…" "I do not wish to talk about it," Ellyn was quick to cut off the old woman. Amabel nodded humbly. "I understand, mylady, but these things should be taken seriously. It is in our dreams that the Old Gods…" "Did you not hear me, old hag?" Ellyn raised her voice now, glaring furiously at the old woman, who was startled by her harsh words. "Excuse me," Ellyn muttered and stormed out of the godswood before Amabel could speak up. As soon as she reached the inner courtyard, she regretted her behavior. She was a noble lady, and she was supposed to act with dignity and politeness towards every man and woman in the household. And worst of all, she recognized that her reaction had been spurred by fear. She feared that Amabel was right, that her dreams were a warning from the Old Gods that something terrible was to befall her husband. But what could I do about it?She spent most of the day that followed in her chambers, reading a book she had brought with her from Riverrun. It was a silly fairytale, about Florian the Fool and his beautiful maiden Jonquil. Ellyn had grown past believing in such stories years ago, but reading it took her mind off the stresses of the present and took her back to the lazy and careless days of her childhood in Riverrun with her friends and brothers. She was pulled back to the present from those memories four hours past noon, when Maester Joseth came to call her for a council meeting. The maester led her to the lord's solar in the third floor, where Ronas, Uthor and Olyvar were already waiting for them. Ronas was holding a letter in his hands, tossing it in front of Ellyn as she sat down. Wordlessly she opened the scroll, noticing it was a message from Trident Hall, written by Lord Robert Blackwood. "So, Lord Osmund Harroway is amassing troops in his town," Ellyn said as she had read the letter. "We should command Robert to attack and seize Harroway now, before Lord Osmund can join forces with the Faith Militant and Lucifer the Liar," Ronas spoke strictly, his tone authoritative and in his green eyes a stern glare. "Eliminating the threat in Harroway would benefit us greatly, my lady," Ser Uthor Wayn voiced his support for Ronas, his tone much softer. "But can Lord Robert muster enough men to take Harroway?" Maester Joseth asked with a concerned tone. "If he fails, Trident Hall will be left with weakened defenses. That is what they want, they want the castle that was once the seat of the Teague kings." "Robert will not fail," Ronas insisted stubbornly. "Besides, what do you think will happen to Trident Hall if we allow the Harroways to join forces with the Faith Militant and their false king?" "Perhaps we should wait until Lord Brydan returns from Fairmarket," Olyvar Chambers suggested calmly. "Then he can combine forces with those of Lord Robert, and they may seize Harroway's Town together." "That would improve our odds of succeeding," Uthor conceded, but Ronas shook his head furiously. "By the time Brydan is done with Fairmarket it might be too late," he argued angrily. "This is war, and you do not win wars with inaction. If we continue to watch meekly as our enemies keep assembling all around us, we are doomed. Maester Joseth, send a raven to Robert and tell him to seize Harroway as soon as he can." "Need I remind you that you are not the Lord of Raventree Hall, Ronas Blackwood?" Ellyn spoke up, keeping her voice calm but firm. "Nor are you the Warden of Riverlands. Brydan is, and while he is gone, he has trusted me to speak for him." Ronas narrowed his eyes and stared at Ellyn, anger and frustration oozing from his glare. "And do you oppose what I said, Lady Ellyn?" he asked tensely. "I do," Ellyn responded calmly. "You say that wars are not won with inaction, but more often than not they are lost with recklessness. With Lord Robert holding the Trident Hall we have a firm foothold in the eastern riverlands, a foothold I believe we should not be so eager to risk losing." "And what do you know of war, girl?" Ronas spat, not even attempting to veil his aversion towards her. "She is the Lady of Raventree Hall, Lord Ronas," Maester Joseth calmly but tensely reminded the man. "I do not claim to have any experience in war personally," Ellyn admitted calmly. "However, nor am I some foolish girl who knows nothing of what she speaks of. My lord father Everan Tully fought beside his lord father and your noble brothers in the last war, and he has told me about it many times. I was also tutored in history by Maester Norman in Riverrun, his lessons including many wars of the past. However, more importantly I think it would be improper of us to make such a crucial decision behind Lord Brydan's back. What I suggest instead is that we send a raven to Trident Hall and ask Lord Robert to muster his troops but stay put for now. We should also send a rider to bring this news to Lord Brydan in Fairmarket, so that he may make the decision of how to proceed himself. Do any of you object?" For a moment tense silence lingered in the room, until Ser Uthor Wayn broke it by clearing his throat. "I believe Lady Ellyn speaks wisely," the elderly master-at-arms stated calmly, and Maester Joseth and Olyvar Chambers were quick to voice their agreement. "So be it," Ronas said quietly, standing up from his seat and staring at Ellyn with cold and bitter eyes. "Let us pray you have not just doomed us, girl." With these words he stormed out of the solar. "Be patient with him, mylady," Maester Joseth said with a small sigh. "He wants what's best for this land and for your lord husband just as much as you do, he just…" "Doesn't like me," Ellyn concluded dryly. "Worry not, maester, I can cope with some mild disdain from our stubborn friend, so long as he remembers his place." Lady Ellyn spent the rest of the day in her chambers, bathing, reading and socializing with her handmaiden Tanya Lychester. She listened to her young friend talk about how she had helped the kennel master's daughter with taking care of a new litter of puppies, but her mind wandered to the war that was threatening to engulf the Riverlands, and the recurring nightmares about her husband dying. Thankfully there were no nightmares that night. The war however could not be forgotten, as shortly after noon Lord Petyr Mallister arrived at Raventree Hall with a convoy of half-a-dozen knights. Ellyn, Ronas and Maester Joseth welcomed the Mallister lord in the courtyard. Lord Petyr was a man on his late thirties, and a very average man in most regards. He was fairly short, didn't look particularly strong or imposing, had a plain and ordinary face, and the look in his blue-grey eyes was unassuming. His dirty blonde hair was cut short, and his weak jaw was covered by a short beard of a slightly darker shade. However, if there was anything exceptional about Petyr Mallister's appearance it was his extravagant attire. He wore a fine indigo velvet doublet slashed with silver satin, a silver eagle brooch, a cloth-of-silver cape lined with black fur that reached all the way to his black leather boots, moleskin gloves, dark satin breeches and a leather belt studded with silver and amethysts. He also carried in a jeweled scabbard by his hip, and in it a longsword with a guard decorated with amethysts and a silver pommel depicting an eagle's head. A wealthy man, Ellyn deduced from what she saw. After dismounting his grey destrier with a dark mane and approaching them, Lord Petyr fell on his knee and laid down his sword at Ellyn's feet. "I've come as summoned, to pledge my sword and service to Lord Brydan of House Blackwood, the Lord of Raventree Hall and the Warden of Riverlands under the Storm King." "You may rise, Lord Mallister," Ellyn ordered calmly, and so the man did. "As you can see Lord Brydan is not present at the moment, because…" "Because he is retaking Fairmarket," Petyr concluded with an affable smile. "I know, mylady. I sent a dozen of my knights to aid him, and an army to support his cause is amassing at Seagard as we speak. I intend to pledge my service to him in person when I get the chance, but I hoped for now it would suffice that I swear my allegiance in front of you, fair and gracious Lady Blackwood. As well as Lord Ronas of course," he bowed respectfully for both of them. Ellyn gave the man a polite nod, and Ronas grunted approvingly as well. "We are most pleased to accept your service, Lord Mallister," Ellyn said softly, giving him a sweet smile. "These are precarious times, and we will have need for every sword we can get." "Yes, I have been quite shocked by the suddenness of this conflict, mylady," Petyr spoke with a distressed tone, taking off his gloves and putting his sword back to its scabbard. "I was wondering if I could have a discussion with you in private, mylady. You are the one in charge here in the absence of your husband, are you not?" the Mallister lord glanced quickly at Ronas as he asked this. Ellyn gulped subtly as she saw the displeased expression on Ronas' face, but nodded regardless. "Yes, mylord," she answered tensely. "And yes, I would gladly discuss further with you in private. Would you follow me to the lord's solar?" Leaving Ronas and the maester behind, Lady Ellyn and Lord Petyr made their way to the solar and sat about the table. For a moment there was a tense silence between them, until Petyr chuckled awkwardly and spoke up. "I assumed you would have questions for me, Lady Blackwood." "And which questions did your lordship expect?" Ellyn asked smoothly, studying the man's face with her eyes. He seemed like a harmless man, polite and friendly, but Ellyn knew there was often more to a man than could be seen on the surface. And Lord Petyr Mallister had taken his sweet time to declare his support for Brydan in this emerging conflict, as well as absenting from his wedding with Ellyn earlier. "I thought you might want to know why it took this long for me to declare my support," Petyr suggested with a thin smile, looking slightly ashamed. "We had our doubts about your loyalty, suspecting that you might side with the Faith Militant," Ellyn stated truthfully. Lord Petyr gave her a humble nod. "And you were right to have those doubts, mylady," he confessed, taking in a deep breath. "My noble father remained loyal to King Humfrey in the last war when Lord Roderick Blackwood rose into rebellion, and he died fighting against King Arlan in the Battle of Six Kings. After that I had to watch as Durrandon banners were raised in Seagard, banners of a strange king from the other side of Westeros, a king who had killed my father. I am not a particularly faithful man, but I was raised in the light of the Seven. I have two beautiful young daughters, both flowered and suited to marry a high lord, yet Brydan or whoever advised him in the matter chose you instead. So, you may see why I was… tempted, to side against your lord husband in this war to come." "Indeed," Ellyn admitted calmly. "And what made you change your mind, mylord?" "Truth be told, it was this pretender king the Faith Militant has rallied around," Petyr responded sourly, his lips forming a thin smirk. " King Lucifer Justman, now that is truly ridiculous. He is a puppet of the High Septon and nothing more. I have no love for the Storm King, I admit that freely, but at least he won this land like a man, with steel and fire. The High Septon thinks he can weave his web across the kingdoms and be the sole ruler of Westeros, all while lurking in his Starry Sept safe from all the fighting. He is a spider with a crystal crown, not a man, and he will not rule over me." Ellyn smiled contentedly at the Mallister lord's words. "He will not rule over us," she said, and Petyr reciprocated her smile. |
|
|
|
Post by WildlingKing on Jun 26, 2019 13:33:44 GMT
Erich IV Nightsong was an ancient and strong castle, standing atop a hill with steep and rocky sides. The ancestral home of House Caron was protected by thick outer walls, on its southern and northern sides standing sturdy watchtowers known as the Singing Towers, watching over the vast plains and moors to the north and the imposing mountains looming in the south. At the shadow of the castle to its east was a small pond, and around it a little village. Near the village a war camp had been erected by the Caron men-at-arms, an army more than a thousand men strong if Erich had to estimate. Now they would be joined by the twelve thousand men strong host led by Prince Baldric Dondarrion. The Durrandon forces had split in Blackhaven, King Ormund leading the larger host of fifteen thousand men to the Boneway, with him the troops of houses Swann, Staedmon, Cole, Lonmouth, Dondarrion, Herston, Mertyns, Bolling, Wagstaff, Morrigen, Musgood, Swygert, Wensington and Connington. With Prince Baldric on the other hand would march the troops of houses Caron, Selmy, Trant, Toyne, Peasebury, Grandison, Cafferen and Horpe. Meanwhile the Stormlander fleet that would attack Dorne from the east had been assembled by houses Tarth, Estermont, Penrose, Rogers, Wylde, Kellington, Gower, Whitehead and Tudbury. As the troops and camp followers began to erect the camp, Erich rode up the winding pathway to Nightsong’s gatehouse with Prince Baldric and his small convoy of noblemen, including Lord Gregor Cafferen, Ser Raymont Horpe, Ser Ralph Horpe, Lord Larys Grandison, Ser Herbert Grandison, Ser Emerick Trant, Ser Arys Selmy, Lord Eddison Peasebury and Ser Samwell Toyne. In the courtyard they were welcomed by Lord Prestan Caron, his wife Lady Anya, and their two sons and two daughters, youngest of them a boy of five and the oldest of them a girl of fourteen. Erich knew that just two years ago there had been one more, a boy who would’ve by now been a young man of seventeen. The Caron family kneeled and bowed their heads humbly before Prince Baldric. “Nightsong is yours, my prince,” Lord Prestan spoke with a solemn tone. “Rise, Lord Caron,” the young prince commanded calmly, clearly doing his best to emulate the majesty and authority his grandfather had carried himself with. Baldric was not Arlan, not yet, but Erich thought he nonetheless did fine. Getting up on his feet again the Caron lord towered most other men around him, standing nearly seven feet tall. He was a man on his late thirties, but his bushy red beard streaked with grey made him look a decade older. “You have my sword, and the swords of every man under my command,” Prestan Caron promised, in his green eyes a fervent and determined look. “I have long awaited this day.” Lord Prestan Caron had lost more to the Dornishmen than most, even among those who lived in the marches. His eldest son Ronnal had died two years ago on the road to Blackhaven, ambushed by a band of Dornish raiders. Four years before that Erich had seen with his own eyes Prestan’s younger brother Ronard Caron fall in battle when they were defeated by the Dornishmen on the Boneway. Long before even that, when Erich had been just a young bastard boy in Griffin’s Roost and Dorne was yet to be united by Princess Nymeria, Prestan’s sister Kortney Caron had also died in Dorne. Of that story Erich had heard many versions, some in which King Albin the Mad of House Manwoody had tortured Kortney to death in the dungeons of Kingsgrave, others in which she had been captured and killed by some band of outlaws, and some even claimed she hadn’t died at all but joined these outlaws never to be seen again. Erich had worked for Lord Prestan a few times in the past, but he had never dared to ask him about his sister. That night Lord Caron held a feast for the noble lords and anointed knights of the host, or at least for as many of them as could fit the great hall of Nightsong. Prince Baldric sat on the high table together with the Caron family and lords Cafferen, Grandison and Peasebury. Erich on the other hand had to settle for a seat at the lower tables. He was still a bastard after all, and the prince didn’t need a bodyguard while feasting. Erich didn’t mind of course, he was used to dining in much lowlier places and company than this, and in truth he preferred his current company to those seated at the high table. To his left sat his old friend Ser Trystane Cole, and to his right Ser Merlon Storm, a young and boisterous bastard knight from Gallowsgrey. Directly opposed to them sat the Horpe brothers Raymont and Ralph, as well as the gallant and handsome Ser Arys Selmy. “So, how many Dornishmen has each of you good sers killed?” Marlon Storm asked with a grin on his broad and stubbly face, clearly already drunk from the wine. “Not enough,” Trystane grunted with a thin smile, to which Marlon howled with laughter. “And what about you, bastard of Griffin’s Roost?” he then asked from Erich. “I haven’t counted,” Erich responded nonchalantly. “Come on, give me a rough number,” Marlon demanded with a dumb grin on his face. “More than a hundred? Two hundred?” Erich took a long sip from his cup, looking Marlon to his brown eyes with a deadpan expression. However, before he could give his answer Ralph Horpe spoke up. “The bastard is half Dornish himself,” the younger and uglier Horpe brother stated coarsely, the thinnest of mocking smirks under his unkempt brown beard as he stared intensely at Erich. For a moment tense silence took over the table, even Marlon’s drunken grin vanishing. “Aye, I am a bastard son of a Stormlander princess and a Dornish prince. Perhaps you should call me Prince Erich, ser,” Erich said unashamedly and forced a brazen smirk on his face. He raised his cup for Ralph and gulped down the rest of his wine without breaking eye contact with the man. Raymont Horpe chuckled lightly at his words, which seemed to immediately relieve the tension around the table. “Apologies for my brother’s forwardness, ser. I’m sure he meant no disrespect.” “A man has no say in who sires them, only in what they make of themselves with their own actions,” Arys Selmy chimed in with a calm and collected tone. “And Ser Erich has certainly proven himself a true Stormlander with his actions.” “Aye, I’ll drink to that!” Marlon roared cheerfully and raised his cup once again. The conversation then shifted to other matters, but throughout the feast Erich noticed Ralph glaring at him. As the evening was coming to an end, Lord Prestan Caron stood up to hold a speech for them. Baldric is the one who should speak, Erich thought but held his tongue. He couldn’t blame the young prince for trusting a more experienced man with the task of rallying the men, but it was still a missed opportunity to establish his authority as their commander. “Knights of the Marches, knights of the Storm King,” Prestan Caron greeted them, just a hint of drunkenness in his words. “It has been an honor to host all of you here in Nightstong tonight, and it will be an even greater honor to once more march to war by your side, this time behind our young and bright Prince Baldric!” The crowd cheered, Erich among them. “I know there are many in this hall who have fought the Dornishmen before, many who have lost something to them. Well, now it is time to take back, to make them pay for all they’ve taken. I’ve lost a son, a brother and a sister to the Dornishmen, and more friends than I care to count. Long ago, when I was young and naïve, I allowed myself to hope that perhaps a Dorne united under Princess Nymeria would be more civil, less violent towards its neighbors. However, if anything the protection of that Rhoynar bitch has only made them more arrogant, more audacious in the atrocities they commit against us. After all, what does Nymeria care if her bannermen pillage our lands, murder our people and rape our women? Nothing. So long as these Dornish lords don’t oppose her she allows them to act like savages and thieves. Well, now we’ll make her care. We won’t bring just swords, spears and fire to her precious principality, WE WILL BRING THE FURY OF THE STORM!” The hundreds of knights in the hall all stood up from their seats and erupted into loud cheers, unsheathing their swords and pointing them towards the ceiling. “Ours is the Fury! Ours is the Fury!” they chanted in the night. The next day they began their march south to the Prince’s Pass, and Erich rode beside Prince Baldric once again. The weather was searing hot during their first day of marching, as the Dornish sun was blazing mercilessly from a clear blue sky. Summer was to end soon, and days like this almost made Erich wish for the long night of the legends. Baldric didn’t have much to say, and though he tried to veil it with a steely expression Erich could tell the boy was nervous. This was his first war after all, and he was in charge of some thirteen thousand men. The prince had been well trained and tutored in Storm’s End, Erich had no doubt about that, but even that couldn’t fully prepare you for war. “Scouts just returned, so far no sight of the Dornishmen,” Prestan Caron came to inform them a couple hours after noon. “Thank you, Lord Caron,” Baldric spoke stiffly, and with a respectful nod Prestan took his leave. “Nervous, my prince?” Erich asked quietly. Baldric took in a deep breath, before turning to look at him. “Slightly,” he admitted, forcing a thin smile on his face. “You have the best men that Stormlands has to offer around you,” Erich calmly reminded the young prince, who bridled at his words. “It’s not that I fear for my life,” he argued, a tense look in his blue eyes as he stared into the distance. “It’s precisely those good men around me, each of them has more experience than I. Yet somehow, I’m the one in charge here. I’m the one whose fault it will be if the fighting turns against us.” Erich nodded sympathetically to Baldric’s words. He couldn’t claim to have ever had such an enormous responsibility on his own shoulders, not to mention at such a young age. “Well, you’ve done well so far,” he encouraged the boy, who let out a nervous chuckle. “Thanks,” he said dryly. “But it’s not the courtesies and feasts that I’m nervous about. It’s the first battle, and I know it must be drawing near.” “Aye, the Dornish will have noticed us by now, and might attempt to fortify the Prince’s Pass,” Erich admitted calmly. “However, they’ll have to assemble in haste, and the Yronwoods and Wyls will be preoccupied with your father’s host in the Boneway. I’d be surprised if the Dornish manage to muster an army even third the size of ours here.” “But there will be more,” Baldric stated sharply. “Indeed,” Erich agreed, not seeing any benefit in cushioning it for the young prince. Dorne was a hard land to conquer, and Baldric shouldn’t expect no less. “The Daynes will march up the Torrentine and join with the Blackmonts, and Princess Nymeria will lead thousands more from the deserts, coasts and the Greenblood. However, perhaps our fleet will prove itself useful in keeping the Martells busy in the east.” “Do you think it was a good idea?” Baldric asked tensely. “Sending the fleet, I mean.” “Aye,” Erich responded with a raised eyebrow. “I’m a bit worried for the men on those ships, sure, but it should definitely buy us more time to seize control over the Red Mountains.” “It was my idea,” the prince said, just a hint of pride in his words. “I was the one who suggested it to Ormund.” Erich chuckled softly. “See, you’re already proving yourself a cunning commander, my prince.” The following days were no less harsh for the advancing Stormlander army, as the sun kept shining on them with a scorching heat. Erich could only imagine what it was like down on the deserts of Dorne right now. Last embers of a long summer, autumn will be here soon, he told himself as he once again swept a thick layer of sweat from his forehead. Towards the end of their fourth day of marching the scouts finally returned with news of enemy forces having been spotted, and shortly after the noon of the fifth day they saw the enemy. The Dornishmen had chosen their position smartly – where in most places the Prince’s Pass was at least a mile wide, the defenders had fortified a place where stony ridges from both west and east pushed deep into the pass, leaving a gap of merely hundred yards wide. There stood a line of spearmen, their round shields painted in the colors of houses Fowler and Manwoody, and in front of them a line of archers. A scout climbed atop one of the ridges to see how big of a force was behind those first lines of defend, and returned to report there was no more than four-thousand Dornishmen there in total, perhaps three hundred of them mounted. “We outnumber them three to one,” Lord Prestan Caron stated confidently as they began their war council. “They have chosen a good position, sure, but they cannot withhold our cavalry charging against their lines for long.” “Charging head on against a line of spearmen seems ill-advised,” said Lord Larys Grandison, a concerned frown on his fleshy face, burned red by the sun. “And what would be your suggestion, Lord Grandison?” the Caron lord asked frustratedly. “There is no flanking them, any attempt to climb over those ridges will end in catastrophe.” “I say we send our own infantry against them,” Raymont Horpe calmly joined the conversation. “We have more men, and more men means more strength. We can push them back from their position.” “You’ll be pushing until winter,” Prestan dismissed the idea harshly. “We must break through them fast, before more reinforcements arrive from south.” “And what if we charge against them with our cavalry and they refuse to break?” Ralph Horpe asked sharply. “With every failed charge more men and horses will die, and every failed charge will leave those that remain more weakened and fearful. If their line won’t break within the first few charges, you will have doomed us.” “It will break,” Prestan insisted, now turning towards Prince Baldric. “My prince, this is the action we must take. Give the command, and I will lead the charge myself.” “Give me a moment to think on it,” Baldric said with a subtle gulp, glancing at the lords and knights around him. “Go, I’ll call you back soon,” he commanded. With murmurs they walked away, and Baldric grabbed Erich from his arm before he could go. “I have an idea,” he said nervously. “But I want to hear your opinion first.” “Sure, let’s hear it,” Erich said. Baldric took in a deep breath before speaking up. “I was thinking that… perhaps we could send our infantry against them, as Ser Raymont suggests. However, instead of trying to push through, what if our men would slowly cede ground for the Dornish?” “What do you mean?” Erich asked with a confused frown, and now a thin smirk formed on the young prince’s face. “If our men will slowly back down against their pushing, the Dornishmen will move out of their gap without even noticing, leaving them vulnerable for cavalry charges from the flanks.” For a moment Erich said nothing, just studying the young prince’s face with his eyes. He has been well tutored indeed. “For this to work, the Dornish will have to fall for your trap,” Erich pointed out calmly. “There is no guarantee they will, my prince.” “I know,” Baldric admitted with a sigh. “This is why I wanted to ask you.” Erich scratched the stubble on his chin, considering the prince’s plan. Much would depend on how eager the Dornishmen would be to pursue the Stormlanders. “You should instruct the infantrymen to insult the Dornish defenders as they engage with them. Tell them to yell obscenities about this land, their women, their princess,” Erich advised. “It will make them more emotional, more likely to make a mistake,” he explained with a grin as he saw the confused look on the prince’s face. “Also, make sure they back down slowly. Too fast and the defenders will see what’s going on and cease to pursue, and there won’t be a second try with this trick.” “But if they are too slow, wouldn’t that also give the defenders time to realize what is happening?” Baldric asked sharply, to which Erich shrugged. “I suppose it’s about finding the sweet spot between too fast and too slow,” he said with a chuckle. Baldric however looked more concerned than amused. “Are you sure we should do this?” he asked quietly. “That is your decision to make, as the commander of this army,” Erich gently reminded the boy, but also gave him an approving nod. The war council was called back together, and Prince Baldric explained the plan for the lords and knights. Some of them looked impressed by it, others skeptical. None objected however, and so the plan was put to motion. Two thousand infantrymen led by Ser Ralph Horpe marched towards the defenders, protecting themselves from the volleys of arrows by forming phalanxes. Behind them a thousand Stormlander archers formed two lines, loosing their arrows on the Dornish. As the infantrymen led by Ralph got closer to the defenders, the Dornish archers retreated behind the spearmen. And so, the two infantry forces engaged, and the pushing began. Erich watched this all from a horseback some three hundred yards away from the fighting. Together with Prince Baldric, Ser Raymont Horpe and Ser Arys Selmy he led the left wing of the cavalry, which was some thousand men strong. On the other side the right wing of the cavalry was of similar size, led by Lord Prestan Caron, Ser Herbert Grandison, Ser Emerick Trant and Ser Samwell Toyne. Between them stood the three thousand infantry reinforcements led by Lord Larys Grandison. The rest five thousand troops acted as a rearguard, led by Lord Eddison Peasebury and Lord Gregor Cafferen. Sweating inside his helmet, Erich watched wordlessly as the two armies clashed, and listened to the screams and sounds of steel echo in the pass. He held tightly to his lance, his whole body feeling tense and the mount beneath him moving restlessly. It had been six years since he had been in a battle of this size, and those old memories did little to make him feel less nervous now. He glanced at Prince Baldric to his left, seeing a steely and focused expression on the young man’s face. My first duty is to protect him, to give my life to save his if needs be, Erich reminded himself. The Stormlander infantry had at first pushed the defenders back a bit, but now they had begun to slowly cede ground. Yard by yard, the Dornishmen pushed towards their own doom. However, they hadn’t come far enough yet to spring the trap. Erich heard someone say something behind him, he couldn’t make out the words, but they were followed with nervous laughter. He saw the prince muttering something to himself, perhaps praying. And all the while the defenders kept pushing further and further from their safe gap. Finally, after what felt like almost an hour, the horn was blown, and the Stormlander infantry began their retreat. Some of them received spears to their backs as they tried to run away, but they had done their job nonetheless – the Dornish defenders were about to be squished between a pincer of steel. Some of them tried to hastily form ranks against the approaching riders, while others tried to retreat to the gap. “STORM’S END!” Erich heard the young prince screaming beside him as they charged into the disorganized mass of spearmen. Clouds of dust, screams of pain and sounds of breaking bones filled the world for a few seconds, until they had charged through the men and turned around to face them again. The ground was littered with corpses and dying men, most of them wearing Dornish colors. Some had pursued after the retreating Stormlander infantry and were now being crushed by the reinforcements led by Lord Grandison. However, more had made their way back to the gap, and were now hastily trying to reassemble the defensive line with reinforcements of their own. “CHARGE!” Baldric commanded, pointing his lance towards the gap, and it seemed Lord Caron had the same idea. And so, the two cavalry wings joined into one massive charge, and crushed through the haphazard line on Dornish spearmen. What reinforcements were still left behind them quickly began to retreat towards south, as did their small cavalry. “Shall we pursue them, my prince?” Lord Caron rushed to ask, but Baldric shook his head. “No need to take the risk,” he said with a winded tone. “We have won a great victory here today!” “BALDRIC THE BOLD!” Yelled some knight, and soon they all began to chant it. “BALDRIC THE BOLD! BALDRIC THE BOLD!” Erich joined them as well, and he saw a wide grin forming on the young prince’s face. |
|
|
|
Post by edinosaur22 on Jun 26, 2019 19:33:41 GMT
So that's what became of Prestan, and those are three possible futures for Kortney, unless those are simply rumors. Now I feel curious about getting to know Ronard Caron since he will at least survive the events of Nymeria's War, possibly when the narration returns to Kortney's POV.
|
|
|
|
Post by LiquidChicagoTed on Jul 1, 2019 21:02:39 GMT
Erich continues to be my favourite PoV and I must say, it is not just because he gives the most Nymeria's War connections so far, even if I absolutely love how his parts give me more to speculate for how things will turn out in NW. His personality is highly enjoyable (and I can definitely see a hint of Jamison within him) and his parts feature the Stormlands, which are always my favourite region  Also, the battle here was superb. I got a weakness for battle scenes and you always nail them, so Erich + Stormlands + battle scene easily equals one of my favourite parts so far. May I also say, I really like how you do this, writing a story in the same world and canon, but decades later, and somehow without actually spoiling anything for NW. This one gave us a bit for Kortney and somehow, all three of these options are possible. Joining the outlaws sounds like it is the best possible ending for her, but we cannot be certain that she won't end up being killed by them. And while she just escaped Albin, his final defeat is implicitly still many chapters away, so who knows, he might get his hands on her once again  I am certain that, with choices making their return to NW in some capacity, this could mean that our choices will have some degree of influence on Kortney's final fate. It also means that her story is far from over, something I was not sure of after she didn't feature in the early parts of Book 2. |
|
|
|
Post by WildlingKing on Jul 2, 2019 2:10:04 GMT
Allyria I Something strange was going on in Sunspear, and no one seemed to have the time or interest to tell Princess Allyria Nymeros Martell what it was. Sure, she had heard the murmurs about a war, but against whom, and why? Six years ago, when she had been just a ten-year-old girl, there had been a war against the Storm King in the Red Mountains. Before that there had been an Yronwood rebellion, and even before that had been her mother’s war of conquest which had unified Dorne under the Martell banner. Allyria’s father, Prince Mors Martell, had died in that war, but she remembered nothing of those times. Princess Nymeria had closed herself inside the council room with her closest advisors every day for the past two weeks. Her consort and Allyria’s stepfather, Ser Davos Dayne, had rode to west with a hundred mounted knights almost a week ago. A couple days after that a longship with black sails adorned by white krakens had arrived at the docks of Sunspear, bringing with it a crew of pale and haggard foreigners clad in wool, fur and leather, with axes and swords of iron and steel hanging from their belts. Right now, Princess Allyria was sneaking through the gardens of the palace to get a glimpse of the captain of that crew, as well as the young man who followed him like a shadow. Quietly she stalked behind the cypresses next to a pool, on the other side of which some dozen yards away from her the two men sat on a stone bench with their backs towards her. Silently she turned one of her ears towards them and concentrated, struggling to make out their words. “…thinks it’s a waste of time,” said the younger man, a tall and broad-shouldered lad with dark brown hair that didn’t quite reach his shoulders, stubble beard, lean wolfish facial features and icy blue eyes. If Allyria had to guess, he was younger than twenty but still a man grown. “Well, when has Hakon ever been right?” the captain responded with a sharp smirk. He was a very pale man with long light gray hair, sharp blue eyes and chiseled facial features. Despite the color of his hair the man looked thirty years old at most. “You think Vyros’s plan will work?” the brown-haired man then asked, a frown on his face. For a couple seconds the gray-haired captain remained silent, stroking his clean-shaven jaw pensively. “I think it makes sense at the very least,” he finally said, his voice calm and nonchalant. “If his kingdom is to withstand the Valyrian fleets to come he will have to bolster his defenses and find as many allies as he can. There is no more room for petty rivalries. Dagaphos Bluebeard is in the pocket of the Tyroshi and will never share power with Vyros, but the Crimson Prince on the other hand…” “Is a leader of a slave rebellion, and extremely distrusting of any and all outsiders,” the younger man concluded with a cynical tone. “Spying on our guests, are you, little sister?” a warm female voice behind Allyria spoke, in Rhoynar rather than the common tongue, and immediately she spun around to face her older sister. Princess Sarella Martell was the eldest of the four daughters Princess Nymeria had had with Prince Mors, and the heir apparent to the Principality of Dorne. Having recently had her twenty-first nameday she was a beautiful young woman with olive skin, almond-shaped hazel eyes and dark wavy hair that nearly reached her waist when left untied. The crown princess was dressed in bright orange silks that elegantly fell over her perky breasts and swollen pregnant belly. A little less than a year ago Sarella had married Dywen Uller, the second son of Lord Desmond Uller, and after that it hadn’t taken long before she was with a child. She was expected to give birth within about a month. “No one tells me anything,” Allyria hissed, after glancing towards the two foreigners to make sure they hadn’t noticed her. “Who even are these people?” Sarella narrowed her eyes and studied Allyria’s face for a moment, before nodding to her understandingly. “Well, let me introduce you to them,” she said with a sly smirk, gesturing for Allyria to follow her as she started to make her way towards the guests. Seeing Sarella and Allyria approach them the two men stood up from their bench and bowed to them. “Your highness,” they both mumbled. “Mylords, this is my youngest sister, Princess Allyria,” Sarella introduced her with a sweet and polite tone. “Allyria, this is Lord Albion Greyjoy, the leader of the Outcast Company and captain of the Divider, and his second-in-command Fenris Snow.” “A pleasure to meet you, beautiful princess,” Albion spoke with a charming and polite tone. Fenris didn’t say anything, but he also gave her a respectful nod. Unsure what she was supposed to say, Allyria formed a bright smile on her face as she fumbled for words for a moment. “It is always exciting to meet visitors from faraway places,” she finally uttered. “I only wish our visit came in more pleasant circumstances,” Albion Greyjoy softly replied to her, a thin smile on his pale face. “Well then, time to go speak with Nymeria,” Sarella said, and began to lead them out of the gardens and back inside the palace. As they walked Allyria shot her sister with a questioning look, to make sure her presence was welcome, and Sarella gave her a reassuring nod. The entrance to the council room was guarded by two of Nymeria’s royal guards in their wine-red cloaks and gilded scale armors. One of them was Ser Samwell Dayne, a handsome dark-haired knight on his early twenties with attentive lilac eyes and thin lips that were seemingly stuck in a confident smirk. The other one was Ser Boran Sargen, an elderly knight who had served House Martell loyally for two decades before Allyria had even been born. He wasn’t particularly famed for his skills or any heroic feats, but for his long and unwavering service he had been granted the rank of commander. The guards let them past without questions, though Samwell did give Allyria a curious look. Just a couple days ago she had tried to pry from him what was going, but at least then the young knight had claimed to not know much more than she did. Inside the council room, Princess Nymeria sat on her majestic seat at the head of the long table. The ruling Princess of Dorne was nearing her fiftieth nameday and had given birth to five children, but somehow she still retained much of her grace and beauty. However, even more so than beautiful she appeared strong and regal, a golden circlet adorned with a single ruby resting on her head, her extravagant gown made of dark red silk adorned with yellow gold, and in her light brown eyes a determined look. Closest to Nymeria was seated the old Maester Olivar in his simple dark robes, who much like Ser Boran had served the Martells since the days they ruled nothing more than a small patch of land on the eastern coast of Dorne. In her childhood Maester Olivar had been like a father to Allyria, and as she had grown a bit older, he had tutored her in a wide range of subjects from reading and writing to history and mathematics. Then there was the mysterious Master Edd, the spymaster of Sunspear. He was an ordinary looking man dressed in simple and mundane clothes in the colors brown, grey and green, his bushy brown beard streaked with grey and his hairline receding. Allyria knew hardly anything about the man, though she did recall her mother once having called him her most valuable servant. A bit further from the Princess was seated Lady Julia Jordayne, a decently comely brunette noblewoman on her late thirties, and most importantly the royal treasurer of Sunspear. Allyria quite liked Lady Julia, having on few occasions spent time with her while visiting the markets of Shadow City or even Planky Town. Usually Ser Davos Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, would also take part in the council as the royal marshal, but in his absence the seat at the opposing end of the table from Nymeria was left empty. As the guests sat down near that end of the table, Allyria remained standing awkwardly under her mother’s strict and inquisitive gaze. “Allyria, what are you doing here?” Nymeria asked with a motherly and authoritative tone. “I saw her in the gardens and thought she should join us,” Sarella explained with her sweet and melodic voice as she took the seat next to Master Edd. “She is a woman grown after all, and your daughter. She deserves to know what is going on.” With a sigh Nymeria nodded to her eldest daughter’s words. “Fine, I will allow it,” she conceded. “Thank you, mother,” Allyria responded cheerfully, quickly taking a seat between Lady Julia and Albion Greyjoy. “Newest reports from the Red Mountains tell us that the Storm King has split his forces into two hosts, which now march down both the Boneway and the Prince’s Pass,” Nymeria began, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. “This would suggest their fleet has also most likely set sail.” “Indeed, Your Grace, we may have no more than some days left before the Stormlander fleet reaches our shores,” Master Edd spoke with utter calmness. Allyria’s eyes widened in shock – no one had told her about an approaching enemy fleet. The Martells didn’t have a fleet of their own, which made Allyria wonder how they could defend themselves against such an attack. “King Vyros’s fleet is assembling at the Broken Arm as we speak, Your Grace,” Albion Greyjoy spoke up as if to answer her thoughts, his tone as nonchalant as the look in his blue eyes. “He will fight for you, Your Grace, given that the contract is agreed upon.” “It is,” Nymeria said tensely, nodding towards Lady Julia, who then cleared her throat. “We have decided to accept the price of fifteen-thousand pieces of gold that your king has asked for his service,” the Jordayne lady spoke with a formal tone. “However, it shall be paid in three installments. First one immediately, second once the threat of the Stormlander fleet has been successfully overturned, and the third six moons after that. We also demand that King Vyros Nahyr will henceforth forbid all the crews sworn to him from ever attacking the coasts of the Principality of Dorne, or to set upon any ship flying the colors of House Martell or any of their bannermen.” “These terms are acceptable,” Albion said after just a couple seconds of consideration, turning his eyes to Nymeria again. “However, I would like to remind Your Grace that there was one more thing that King Vyros asked of you for his service, beside the gold.” “The envoy?” Nymeria asked dryly, to which the Greyjoy nodded. “Indeed, Your Grace. He needs someone Rhoynar, to aid him in negotiating an alliance with the Crimson Prince.” “I have men and women suitable for the task in my service,” Nymeria answered calmly, but Albion didn’t look entirely satisfied. “We were hoping for a royal envoy,” he explained with a thin smile. “The Crimson Prince may have been a slave yesterday, Your Grace, but today he considers himself no less a royalty than Vyros or you.” “Unfortunately, it is not possible,” Nymeria said strictly. “I rule the Principality of Dorne and right now it is under an invasion by the Storm King – I have no time to act as an envoy in negotiations between pirate kings. An as you can see my eldest daughter is pregnant, she cannot risk such a hazardous voyage so near her labor. Her younger sisters Deria and Mariah are married to two of my noble bannermen and have their own duties to adhere to.” “What about me?” Allyria spontaneously spoke up, receiving a frustrated glare from her mother. “You are too young,” she said strictly, which annoyed her. “I am a woman grown,” she insisted stubbornly. “Youngest daughter would fit the purpose well, Your Grace,” Albion weighed in calmly. “Given that she can speak Rhoynar, of course.” “It is my mother tongue,” Allyria responded enthusiastically in Rhoynar, to which the Greyjoy smiled approvingly. “You do not know what you are agreeing to, girl,” Nymeria spoke sternly, also in Rhoynar. “You would be on the sea surrounded by pirates, and away from home for weeks, perhaps even months.” “Give her guards to protect her and she will do fine,” Sarella joined the conversation, looking at their mother with empathetic eyes. “She deserves a chance to prove herself, to serve the Principality as a proud Nymeros Martell.” For a moment Nymeria remained silent, her expression shifting from stern to uncertain and finally to melancholic. “So be it,” she said with a sigh, switching back to common tongue. “Princess Allyria will serve as the envoy of the Principality of Dorne in this mission, but with her shall travel seven royal guards.” “Thank you, mother,” Allyria said humbly, unable to contain her smile and feeling more excited than she had in a long time. |
|
|
|
Post by edinosaur22 on Jul 2, 2019 2:29:22 GMT
Yay... We are finally in Dorne, and I'm surprised both Edd and Olivar are still alive and kicking, good for them. Although now I wonder who of Nymeria's old guard are still around.
|
|
|
|
Post by LiquidChicagoTed on Jul 5, 2019 19:56:14 GMT
Ah, Dorne! I was wondering if you still want to have a PoV in that region, given its potential for massive NW spoilers, but I am glad you chose to do so, because it makes speculating for NW all the more fun, seeing how some stuff is outright confirmed. In this part, we learn that Olivar, Edd Prally, Julia Jordayne, Jamison's son Samwell, Boran Sargen and, spoiler alert, Nymeria survive that story Not the biggest names (aside from Nym, whose survival was always guaranteed, of course), which is good, but like edinosaur, I am very curious whom else still lives and how you will handle that in the story. I suppose there are some ways to keep it neutral (A Lady Blackmont, for example, could refer to Gwen or to Naemon's wife) and it certainly helps that Allyria won't be in Dorne for long here, but I genuinely love this glimpse of the region we've spent so much time in with NW twenty years later. By the way, the name Allyria makes me wonder. Aside from being a genuinely pretty name, it does sound similar to House Allyrion. Could that hint at Emerson or Esperence doing something big for Nym in the later parts of NW? Something so big that she decides to name her child after their house. Or maybe she just liked the sound of the name. Ah, questions over questions, but what I can say is, Allyria is a nice PoV, she's got a lot of potential, Dorne is still great and I am excited for both stories. |
|
|
|
Post by WildlingKing on Jul 12, 2019 21:33:59 GMT
Walton V Having won the joust of Prince Perceon’s nameday tourney Ser Willam Manderly was given the champion’s purse, and King Greydon himself named him a member of the Order of the Green Hand and offered him a place in his royal guard. Willam had accepted the offer, kneeling before the King as His Grace donned a green cloak over the Manderly knight’s shoulders. Walton cheered on with the others, but there was part of him that was worried for his cousin. There were enemies of House Manderly in Highgarden, he was sure about it, even if the King himself wasn’t one of them. The last event of the tourney was the melee, in which Lord Alester Oakheart distinguished himself by becoming the champion after beating nine other competitors – the last of them King Greydon himself. Lord Symon Tarly didn’t do badly either, being among the last ten competitors standing before being taken down by the big and strong Ser Benedict Bulwer of the royal guard. The last night of the tourney was concluded with a massive feast by the riverside. The tables were brimming with all kinds of foods from roasted boar, geese and chickens to massive pies salty and sweet, as well as mead, ale and many sorts of wines. Musicians kept playing cheerful songs throughout the night, while Highgarden’s chubby fool called Flowerbutt wobbled across the tables japing drunkenly at whoever he was passing by. “There is the lord of silver and gold, whom no one likes even if he is rich as the king tenfold!” the fool mocked as he pranced in front of Lord Waymar. Many around the table laughed at the jest, even Lady Alicent, but Walton’s father only managed a sour smirk. It was a happy night. Walton’s head had finally started to feel better, and he had no trouble keeping everything he ate and drank inside. He spent most of the night with Ryam, going around listening to stories told around the tables, and tasting all kinds of wines that were on offer. When the dancing began later in the night and Ryam was cooing with Darla Hunt, Walton found the courage to ask Genna Tarly for a dance. As they messed up the rhythm and stumbled their steps, both of them started laughing uncontrollably. Next morning it was time to leave. Walton gave his farewells to his family, first to his father, mother, brother and sisters who would head back to Dunstonbury, and then to Willam who would remain in Highgarden. This time the Tarlys didn’t travel together with the Vyrwels, as Lord Ilyn had hurried and left with his family and entourage early in the morning. The day was sunny, but as they rode to south Walton’s mood began to dampen. The joy he had felt for Willam’s victory was fading, replaced with fear and concern for what tomorrow held. The Reach was seemingly in peace, but Walton knew now that under the surface old rivalries were festering, and should they emerge above the surface his family would be among the first embroiled in conflict. As if to reflect his mood the weather began to turn. It started to rain continuously during their second day of travel, and it kept raining with hardly any breaks until they arrived at Horn Hill during the noon of the fifth day. After taking their horses to the stables, wet and tired from the road, Walton and Ryam immediately went to see their hawks in the mews. While feeding his sparrowhawk Shadow, Walton let out a deep sigh. “Still upset about the squire melee, aye?” Ryam asked calmly, his goshawk Huntress standing on his right elbow as he fed her. “I hate people like Ivar Vyrwel,” Walton muttered in response, lightly petting Shadow’s head. “If it weren’t for dishonest and dishonorable people like him, the world would be much better. Can you imagine how much better everything would be if everyone was honest and good like Lord Symon?” Ryam raised an eyebrow at Walton’s words. “I haven’t really thought about it like that,” he said. “But if everyone was good and honest, who’d be the villains that heroes defeat in great stories?” “I don’t know,” Walton answered sourly. “In some stories the heroes slay dragons, or giants. I’d prefer that to Ivar Vyrwel.” “Don’t be too harsh on Ivar,” Ryam said, putting Huntress back into her cage. “I’m sure he regrets what he did. I didn’t even see the poor lad once during the last couple days of the tourney.” It’s not just about Ivar, Walton was tempted to say, but held his tongue and just let out another sigh. “I know.” For a single evening the gods allowed Walton to think his life in Horn Hill would go back to the ordinary. He took a bath, attended Maester Runcel’s lessons with Ryam, had a pleasant dinner with the Tarly family and read a book about the Three Sage Kings in his bed before falling asleep. However, in the very next morning Walton’s world was shaken like never before. He was still breaking his fast together with Ryam and Triston when they were suddenly summoned to the great hall. Making their way there they quickly noticed that more or less the entire household of Horn Hill had been summoned. Lord Symon was standing at the dais with Lady Marya and Maester Runcel, in his hands a piece of parchment. Together with Ryam and Triston Walton made his way to the front row of the crowded hall. “Good people of Horn Hill,” Symon spoke up sternly, and the chatter quieted down. Lord Tarly gulped subtly before speaking up again. “I will not mince words with you… the Reach is at war.” The lord’s words were received with audible gasps of shock, and people started to immediately ask who, where and why. Symon raised up the parchment in his right hand, a gesture which calmed down the crowd again. “King Greydon informs us that there have been reports of a large Lannister army marching on the northeastern part of the kingdom, pillaging every village they come across, and others about an ironborn fleet sailing down the western coast.” “Has the King called the banners?” Triston asked eagerly, to which his father nodded. “His Grace intends to muster a great army in Highgarden and has instructed Lord Hightower to do the same in Oldtown. House Manderly and the lords of the Shield Islands have been tasked with defending the entrance to Mander against the ironborn. However, most urgently troops are needed in the northeast, and Lord Caswell has begun to assemble a smaller force in Stonebridge to act as the first line of defense against the Lannister invaders.” Now the hall was overtaken by a tense and shocked silence. Lord Symon cleared his throat. “Ser Tyler, Ser Arron, Ser Pate,” he addressed three of the household knights, who stepped forward dutifully. “Each of you take a dozen men from the guards and began levying troops today,” he commanded, to which the three knights responded in unison: “Yes, mylord.” Now Lord Symon shifted his gaze to Ser Halmon Hunt, who was leaning on the wall next to one of the hearths. “Ser Halmon, muster as many mounted men as you can, we ride to Stonebridge at the first light of tomorrow.” “First in Battle, mylord,” Halmon replied to his lord with a wolfish grin on his face, before giving him a dutiful nod and taking his leave. “What about me, father?” Triston insisted, and the Tarly lord looked at his firstborn son with a pondering expression. “You will remain here until a larger force has been levied. Then you will march those troops to Highgarden and join King Greydon’s host. Understood?” “Yes, mylord,” Triston responded, though Walton could tell the Tarly heir wasn’t entirely pleased with the task. “Walton, you will ride with me to Stonebridge, as my squire,” Symon then said to Walton, who quickly and dutifully bowed his head to the lord. “And me?” Ryam then asked sharply, which brought a sad smile on Symon’s face. “You will remain here in Horn Hill, Ryam,” he said, and before the boy could even begin to protest his father raised a single finger to silence him. “I will hear no objections. In the absence of myself and your brother, you will act as the Lord of Horn Hill. Your duty is to remain here, to hold this castle in the name of House Tarly while we’re gone.” Ryam nodded wordlessly to his father, but his eyes revealed that he was very disappointed. After the meeting was over and people of the castle returned to their tasks, Walton followed Ryam to the small and bright godswood of Horn Hill. In the middle of it there was a small pond, and next to it an old oak, which was the heart tree of the godswood. Walton and Ryam sat beneath the oak, and for a moment neither said anything. “I wish you could come with us… or I could stay here with you,” Walton finally spoke up, his tone apologetic even if none of this was his choice. Ryam’s mouth was set in a tense grim line, and his eyes oozed of frustration and anger. He grabbed a stone from the ground and tossed it at the pond, leaving ripples at the surface as it sunk down. “It’s not fair,” Ryam muttered angrily. “As the men of the Reach from Oldtown to Tumbleton band together to defend their homeland against these invaders, I am left here to sit like a useless child.” “You will be the acting lord,” Walton said, but Ryam merely scoffed at the remark. “The lord of a garrison of handful men-at-arms and a bunch of servants,” he said disparagingly. “Any household knight could be left to hold the castle; mother even could be trusted with the task. The truth is that my father thinks I’m not enough of a man to go to war.” “Maybe he’s right,” Walton said with a gulp, receiving a cold glare from his friend. “I’m certainly not sure if I’m enough of a man for it,” he quickly added. “Maybe no one is. You know, a lot of people are going to die in this war, Ryam. Perhaps you should be grateful that you most likely won’t be one of them.” Ryam’s expression softened, and for a moment he turned his eyes down in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t complain,” he muttered with a regretful tone. “I… I hope you’ll stay safe, Walton,” he said, raising his gaze to look Walton in the eyes again. “Come back alive, so that one day we can ride to battle side by side, you and me. What do you say, friend?” “I’ll do my best,” Walton responded, forcing a small smile on his face. The next morning they were preparing to leave, and Walton was once again clad in his armor. Ser Halmon had gathered some hundred riders, two dozen of them anointed knights, twice as many squires and mounted levies, and the rest were common freeriders. The Tarly family had come out to the courtyard to give their farewells to Lord Symon. Triston and Ryam both looked sullen while their mother Lady Marya was shedding quiet tears. Close to them was Genna, standing there with Darla Hunt and a redheaded servant girl from the kitchens named Jenny. While Symon was talking with his wife, Ryam decided to approach Genna. “Walton,” she greeted him with her sweet voice, looking as beautiful and innocent as always. It was what Walton had always loved about her, the sincerity in her green eyes and the kindness in her cheerful smiles. “Genna, I…,” Walton glanced at Darla and Jenny. “I wanted to share a few words with you before I leave.” Genna nodded understandingly, and they took a few steps away from the other two girls. “What is it, Walton?” Genna asked gently. Walton gulped, taking a moment to find the right words. “I just wanted to say that I’ll miss you,” he started tensely. “I know, we don’t spend that much time together, but when we do I… I feel like we have a… connection. I don’t know what will happen in this war, I don’t know if I’ll even come back…” “Walton,” Genna cut him off, softly grabbing his right hand with both of hers. “You will come back, I know it. I will pray for father and you, every day. I promise.” Walton nodded stiffly, hoping he would never have to let go of Genna. “Still, I wanted you to know,” he said quietly. “In case we won’t see each other again… I love you, Genna.” Her eyes widened slightly, as she was clearly surprised by Walton’s words. “Walton, I…” she struggled to find an answer. “I’m touched by your words.” She sighed, looking Walton to the eyes and smiling shyly. “Come back alive, and we can talk more.” Walton nodded, and slowly Genna let go of his hand. “Goodbye,” he whispered, before turning around and walking to his horse. He wasn’t sure how to feel about what just happened, but there was no more time to dwell on it now. Now there was a war to fight. |
|
|
|
Post by WildlingKing on Jul 27, 2019 18:09:49 GMT
Gwynesse V A little over a week after crossing the border between the Rock and the Reach was when the Lannister army faced its first resistance from the Reachmen, as a fairly small band of mounted men-at-arms flying banners of House Wythers, House Lyberr and House Inchfield began to harass them. First they ambushed a foraging party, killing dozens of Westermen soldiers before disappearing to the countryside. Then the next day they set fires on the Lannisters’ line of marching, though those were quickly put out as it started to rain. The night after that they tried to attack the camp from the north but were quickly deterred and sent to retreat by the archers guarding the camp. In the morning following the nightly attack Ser Aubrey Crakehall led the vanguard ahead of the rest of the army, and returned a couple hours before sundown, having routed the harassers and captured two of their leaders – Ser Olymer Wythers and Ser Erwin Lyberr. With a big grin on his face the Crakehall knight presented the two tied up Reachmen to Prince Tymond Lannister. Olymer Wythers was a balding and portly man on his fifties, while Erwin Lyberr was hardly a man grown. Gwynesse thought he might have been handsome, if it weren’t for the dark and swollen bruises currently on his face. “Well done, Ser Aubrey. Noble hostages are always welcome,” Prince Tymond spoke calmly as he studied the two men with his eyes. “So, what do we have here? Younger brothers or second sons of noble lords, aye?” “Lord Wendel Wythers is my nephew,” Ser Olymer responded sternly. Prince Tymond nodded and turned his gaze to the younger man. “And you?” he asked, but Ser Erwin remained defiantly silent. “He’s the heir of Lord Uthor Lyberr,” Ser Olymer explained with a sigh, receiving an angry glare from the young knight. “Good,” Prince Tymond said nonchalantly and turned towards Ser Aubrey again. “We should be able to get a decent ransom out of these two. Ser Aubrey, make sure they are treated well and guarded at all times.” After the capture of the Wythers and Lyberr knights most of the villages, orchards and farmsteads the Lannister army came across were abandoned, their people having fled to south with their livestock and whatever possessions they could carry. No wonder, Gwynesse thought grimly. During this past week she had witnessed the Lannister army robbing and killing everything it came across, leaving behind a trail of mud and blood. During the twelfth day after crossing the border they arrived at the Ring, the seat of House Roxton. It was a sturdy square fort built atop a hill, protected by thirty feet high walls, six round towers and a dry moat around it. The hill wasn’t very high or steep, though the surrounding flat farmlands made it look larger than it truly was. The drawbridge was raised and the portcullis lowered, and some men armed with spears and bows could be seen behind the battlements. “The castle is lightly defended,” Lord Lyn Serrett claimed confidently. “The men on the battlements stand far apart from each other, suggesting they hardly have enough to man the walls.” “Can we take it with an assault?” asked Ser Alton Lydden. “Of course we can,” barked Lord Ryman Brax in response. “The question is whether we should. It is as Lord Serrett says, this castle is lightly garrisoned. The troops behind those walls don’t pose a threat to us, but when it comes to taking a castle the defenders always have the advantage. Aye, we can take the Ring, but we will lose many men in the process.” “Losses are to be expected in a war,” the elderly Lord Monfryd Banefort stated sternly. “However, taking the Ring would give us a firm foothold in the Reach, a base to operate from.” “I agree with Lord Banefort,” Prince Tywell said calmly, and his father nodded in agreement. “Begin to build the siege engines,” Prince Tymond commanded with a tone that left no room for objections. Together with Prince Harmund and Prince Tywell Gwynesse watched as the soldiers began to put together battering rams, ladders and catapults. “The Ironborn look down on the use of siege engines,” Harmund stated calmly, receiving a surprised glance from Tywell. “Why?” the young Lannister prince asked with a confused expression. “It goes against the old way,” Harmund said with a mocking smirk. “They believe wars should be fought on the field with swords and axes, man against man.” “It would certainly make things simpler if everyone followed that sentiment,” Tywell remarked lightheartedly. “However, so long as our enemies cower behind walls I’m more than happy to knock down those walls with siege engines.” “I think it’s a shame,” Gwynesse said quietly, receiving curious glances from both princes. “That we must knock down those walls, I mean,” she clarified. “Who knows how long they’ve stood there.” “Yes, it is a shame,” Harmund agreed softly. However, long before the work on the siege engines was done the Ring surrendered. A white banner was raised above the gatehouse, the defenders put down their arms, the portcullis was risen, the drawbridge was lowered, and the castellan rode out to formally withhold the castle to the Lannister army. It turned out there were only a couple dozen men garrisoning the castle, most of them either green boys or grey old men. There were no servants present either, and the larders and storerooms had been emptied from most food and supplies. “They’ve all gone to Stonebridge,” said Ser Emerick Shermer, the elderly castellan of the Ring. “Lord Caswell is amassing an army there.” The garrison of the castle were allowed to leave without their arms and armors, save for Ser Emerick who was taken to the castle’s dungeons together with the Olymer Wythers and Erwin Lyberr. Prince Tymond made the Ring the base of his army, a massive camp of Westermen soldiers sprawling all around it. Looking at all those tents and banners, Gwynesse found it hard to imagine a force strong enough to stop them. She also wondered if the Ironborn had already attacked the Reach from the sea. This war will truly transform Westeros, she realized, perhaps fully for the first time. Gwynesse was given comfortable quarters in the main keep of the castle, right next to Prince Harmund’s room. Sitting there alone, half-heartedly reading one of the books given to her by Princess Lorena, she allowed herself to imagine she was back in Hammerhorn again. The chilly wind of the Iron Isles on her reddened cheeks, a fresh summer rain soaking her hair, the sound of her brothers sparring, laughing and arguing with each other. Gwynesse had always wanted to see the world, but now that she was here she missed her home. Here she was surrounded by strangers, the only one among them she could trust being Harmund. Did I make a mistake following him into this war?Early in the next morning the door of her room was knocked on, and as she opened it she found Prince Harmund standing at the corridor. “Morning, Gwyn,” he said softly, a charming little smile forming on his cleanshaven face. “Prince Tymond is about to hold a war council at the great hall. Would you like to come with me?” “To the war council?” Gwynesse asked with a raised eyebrow, to which Harmund nodded with a chuckle. “Yes,” he replied with a relaxed tone. “You deserve to be there just as much as any of these westermen lordlings. More so than most of them, I’d argue.” “I’m flattered, my prince,” Gwynesse responded with a smirk, which the Hoare prince reciprocated. “Fine then, lead the way.” As they made their way into the great hall, Gwynesse noticed the blue-and-gold banners of House Roxton had been torn down from the walls and replaced with Lannister lions. Princes Tymond and Tywell stood at the dais, and a noisy crowd of lords and knights had gathered near them. “We cannot stay here,” Lord Ryman Brax started with his dry and gloomy tone, scratching his stubble beard as he spoke. “Not all twenty thousand of us, not for long. The pantries and granaries have been emptied, and the nearby lands will be foraged empty within weeks.” “We have a supply line back to Deep Den,” Ser Alton Lydden pointed out calmly, to which the Brax lord scoffed. “It is a long route, and I can guarantee you those supply caravans will be harassed on the way.” “Lord Brax is right, we cannot stay here for long,” Prince Tymond joined the conversation with his stern and tense voice. “We will of course leave a small garrison to hold the Ring, but the question I’ve summoned you all here to discuss is where should we march from here?” “Any word of the Ironborn fleet?” Lord Regenard Reyne asked with a mildly concerned expression on his reddish face. “Nothing so far,” Prince Tywell was the one to answer. “However, there is no reason to doubt they will soon arrive at the mouth of Mander and break through whatever defenses the Reachmen have been able to muster there. Their assault is sure to draw the attention of Highgarden, which is why I suggest we take care of this army in Stonebridge before it marches west to join with the Gardener king.” “Do we know how large the army in Stonebridge is?” asked Prince Harmund. “We do not,” Prince Tymond spoke up again. “However, we can reasonably assume it is significantly smaller than our own.” “But do we even need Stonebridge?” Lyn Serrett challenged, a confident smirk on his face. “By holding this castle we already have a foothold in the Reach, I say we march straight to Highgarden before King Greydon has the opportunity to muster large enough force to challenge us.” “Highgarden is not so easily taken,” Ser Aubrey remarked sharply. “And it could leave us surrounded by enemy armies from all directions. Lord Caswell has his host in Stonebridge, and I am sure by now lords Osgrey, Hightower and Peake have each also began to amass their troops, not to mention the Redwyne fleet. By defeating this army in Stonebridge, we would at least have the eastern Reach secured.” The discussions went on throughout the whole day, but by the end it was decided that a garrison of thousand men led by Lord Ryman Brax and Ser Alton Lydden would remain to hold the Ring, while the rest of the army led by the Lannister princes would advance to Stonebridge, and several scouting parties would be sent to the west. After a feast held at the end of the council, Gwynesse made her way alone to the battlements of the Ring. From there she saw the massive camp around the castle, and watched and listened to the thousands of soldiers who had gathered around the hundreds of cookfires to drink, feast and sing together. Above them all a silver crescent moon shined on a clear night sky with thousands of stars, dim and bright. There was something oddly calming about the sight, even if Gwynesse knew many of these men were marching to their deaths. “Lady Gwynesse,” she suddenly heard the voice Aubrey Crakehall, and turned to see him approach her atop the wall. “It seems we have a similar idea of a relaxing evening,” he said with a thin smirk as he leaned on the battlements next to her. “Or you followed me here,” she responded sharply. “You are not easily fooled, are you, mylady?” Aubrey asked with a small chuckle, and Gwynesse gave him a nonchalant glare. “I assume the mainlander girls are duller, then?” “Some of them,” Aubrey said calmly. “Not all of course. I believe you met with Princess Lorena yourself. Now there is a strong-willed and smart young woman, much better than Ramsay Reyne deserves.” Gwynesse turned her eyes back towards the camp with a small sigh. “What do you want from me, Ser Aubrey?” For a moment the Crakehall knight remained silent, just gazing at the night sky. “Nothing,” he finally said, taking in a deep breath. “I was merely wondering if war is truly the right place for you, mylady.” “I can take care of myself, ser,” Gwynesse was quick to respond, and Aubrey nodded in an agreeing manner. “I don’t doubt it,” he said softly. “However, what is it that you hope to achieve here?” Gwynesse gulped, considering her answer for a moment. “I am here to accompany Prince Harmund, to give him my love and support,” she said tensely. “He asked you to come with him, right?” Aubrey asked quietly, and Gwynesse nodded. “I can understand why you agreed. He is a charming man, and handsome, and the heir to the Seastone Chair. However, do you truly believe it was an act of love from him to bring you with him into a war?” Gwynesse hesitated for a moment. “He didn’t want us to separate, because…” “Because he fears you will bear him a bastard that he cannot ignore or deny,” Aubrey concluded bluntly. “Have you considered that to avoid any chance of that happening he could’ve simply married you back in Casterly Rock?” “I know,” Gwynesse hissed, feeling uncomfortable with the discussion. “But it’s like you said, he is the heir to the Seastone Chair, of course he doesn’t want to make a rushed decision on something like this.” “Yet he is perfectly happy to use you for his pleasure,” Aubrey pointed out, and Gwynesse shot him with an irritated glare. “What exactly are you trying to say, Ser Aubrey?” The Crakehall knight let out a sigh and turned his gaze down, seemingly regretful for having angered Gwynesse. “I merely want you to question whether Prince Harmund is the kind of man you imagine him to be, mylady,” he said softly, bowing to her and then taking his leave. |
|
|
|
Post by WildlingKing on Aug 26, 2019 19:39:41 GMT
Hagon V The Shield Islands had fallen to the Ironborn and Farman fleet with hardly any resistance, undoubtedly because the ships of the Shield Islanders had retreated to defend the entrance to Mander. Prince Hagon sat next to his father, King Harmund, at the high table of Southshield Castle’s great hall. It was the final feast before the war would truly begin, and just from the ruckus in the hall one could tell the men were more than eager to finally bloody their blades against the Reachmen. Lord Roryn Drumm was playing finger dance with his crewman atop one of the tables, and on another table there was a fistfight going on between Karin Orkwood and a Farman knight. Hagon himself was having a drinking contest with Lord Qarl Volmark, both of them having downed six horns of ale by now. Qarl was a broad shouldered and hairy man on his early thirties, with a frizzy brown beard and a receding hairline. He was a boisterous man who enjoyed laughing and drinking more than anything else in the world, as Hagon learned that night. “Can’t keep up, princeling?” Qarl asked after gulping down his seventh horn, flashing his sparse line of teeth in a mocking grin. “Fuck you,” Hagon muttered and forced himself to gulp down the rest of the ale in his horn. Qarl burst into a loud laughter and tapped the prince on the back. “You’ve got spirit, boy!” he bellowed, beginning to refill their horns again. After that Hagon’s recollection of the night became foggy, with no memory regarding whether he won the drinking contest or not. Regardless of that, he woke up early in the next morning with a mild headache as his friend Quenton Farwynd came to wake him up. “Hagon, we’re preparing to set sail for Mander,” he said tensely. With a dizzy head and slightly faltering steps Hagon made his way out of the castle and to the beach, where the hundreds of longships were being boarded and prepared to set sail by the thousands of Ironborn warriors. Walking towards his own ship, the Iron Heart, Hagon noticed Lord Volmark standing aboard his longship Leviathan’s Wrath. From the smug grin that the man flashed him the Hoare prince could only deduce that he had indeed lost that drinking contest last night. Before reaching his ship he was approached by King Harmund. “Father,” Hagon muttered, his voice coming out hoarser than he had expected. “Son,” Harmund replied. The king’s lips formed a thin smirk, but it quickly faded as he continued. “I wanted to see you before we sail to battle.” “You’ve seen me now, Your Grace,” Hagon responded sternly. Harmund narrowed his eyes, meticulously studying Hagon’s face, and after a moment he placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “I shouldn’t have doubted you,” he said quietly. “You’re an ironman at your heart, I can see that now. You’ve chosen the path of our ancestors, the path of the Old Way. It’s a different path than the one your mother hoped you would take, but it is a choice only you can make for yourself. And I shall respect it.” “Thank you, father,” Hagon said, his tone sincere. “I shall bring glory to our house today.” “May the gods protect you,” Harmund said softly, before tapping Hagon on the shoulder and walking away. Climbing aboard the Iron Heart Hagon found Quenton Farwynd raising the Hoare banner above the sails, and the old and fat steersman known among the crew as the Swine commanding the men to the oars with his booming voice. Hagon stood at the prow as they set sail, just feeling the gusts of wind on his face and listening to the sounds of hundreds of ships plowing through the waves. However, after an hour or so he got bored and made his way into the aft cabin. There he laid down on a hammock and began to inspect his sword, to make sure it was efficiently sharp for the battle ahead. However, Hagon’s thoughts quickly drifted into what his father had said to him at the beach. He approves the path I’ve chosen, he thought with some satisfaction. However, it wasn’t lost on Hagon that the path chosen by his older brother had also been approved by their father, and much earlier at that. He would not want to hear it of course, but a future conflict between the two sons of King Harmund was inevitable – they were pulling House Hoare to opposite directions. How can he not see the contradiction?Soon the cabin’s door was knocked on, and Quenton stepped inside with a displeased look on his face. Hagon looked at his friend with a frown. “What is it?” “A couple dozen ships just separated from the fleet, heading towards Raylansfair,” Quenton answered with a sigh as he sat down. “Probably intending to raid it.” “And whose ships were they?” Hagon asked. “Lord Drumm’s,” Quenton answered. Hagon smirked. “Roryn the Reaver… that man is a rogue to the core. We should’ve probably expected something like this, especially after father put him in charge of guarding the rear with Lord Blacktyde. Not exactly the most glorious job for a famous reaver like him. Not to worry though, I’m sure he’ll join us again soon enough.” “Or he will just plunder Raylansfair empty and then sail back to the Iron Isles,” Quenton said with a cynical tone. “That man only cares for his own wealth.” “He does care for his reputation as well,” Hagon said confidently. “He won’t want to be known as a coward. He’ll rejoin us once he has had his fun in Raylansfair.” Another couple of hours went by before they finally reached the entrance to Mander and came face to face with the fleet defending said entrance. Hagon saw perhaps a hundred ships blockading the mouth of the river that was almost a mile wide, formed into three lines of defense. On the southern bank of the river there were also half-a-dozen trebuchets, preparing to rain rocks and fire upon the attacking ships. Hagon had wondered in the past why ironborn raiders no longer dared to invade the Mander, but he wondered no more. Most of the defenders’ ships were longships not too different from those of the ironborn, but among them were also a few massive dromonds with over three-hundred oars and a dozen war galleys with at least two-hundred oars. Among their banners Hagon recognized the green hand of House Gardener, the merman of House Manderly, as well as the sigils of the Shield Islander lords – even if he couldn’t exactly recall which sigil belonged to which house. The Farman ships with their strong rams and ballistae mounted on their prow led the charge as the first line, while the longships of Great Wyk, Harlaw and Orkmont formed the second, third, fourth and fifth lines. The longships of Blacktyde and those that remained from the Old Wyk would guard the rear, while the longships of the Pyke and Saltcliffe would attempt to make a landing on the southern bank to harass the trebuchet crews. The Iron Heart was in the middle of the second line, flanked by Lord Volmark’s Leviathan’s Wrath on the starboard and King Harmund’s Iron Raven on the portside. Some hundred feet ahead of them was the hulking Farman flagship Sea Lion, and a hundred feet behind them were Harrick Hoare’s Dark Princess and Erik Goodbrother’s Corpsemaker. “Battle speed!” Hagon roared a command for his crew as they crept closer to the enemy lines. He could hear the sounds of the Farman ships loosing their ballistae on the defenders, followed by the sound of the steel bolts crashing through wood. The defenders responded in kind, and now the crashing sounds and screams of pain came from much closer. Hagon gulped and clenched tightly the hilt of his sword, which was still sheathed. He didn’t fear the fighting and killing, he yearned for it, but he hated standing here without being able to anything except hope and pray his ships wouldn’t be sunken by the ballistae or trebuchets of the enemy. “Hagon!” Quenton yelled, grabbing him from the arm and pointing toward the skies to the south. Turning his gaze there, Hagon saw hundreds of stones – all of them larger than a man’s head – flying towards the fleet. “Brace for impact!” he screamed at his crew, as if there was anything they could do to prepare. However, none of the stones hit the Iron Heart. Some landed on the water just a few feet away from them and splashed the whole crew soaking wet. The Leviathan’s Wrath was less lucky, several stones having torn holes into its hull and breaking its mast. The ship quickly began to sink, and Hagon thought he saw Qarl Volmark descending beneath the waves with an axe in hand. I laughed and drank with him yesterday. The stones were followed by a volley of incendiary projectiles, but they mostly rained down on the third and fourth lines. “Captain, we are approaching the enemy line!” the Swine roared from the stern of the ship. Turning his gaze forward again, Hagon saw that they were indeed under a hundred feet away from the reachmen ships. Some of those ships had been boarded by Farman knights and soldiers, some were sinking, some were just now ramming Farman ships or being rammed by one, some were retreating back towards the second line of defenders, and some charged forward towards the second line of attackers. Hagon saw one Shield Islander longship with a red-green-and-yellow banner directly ahead of them. He unsheathed his sword and pointed it towards the ship. “Assault that ship!” As they got closer the reachmen loosed a small volley of arrows on them. Most of them missed the Iron Heart completely or landed on its boards, but four of them did land on the oarsmen, killing two and injuring two. Just a few seconds after that the hulls of the two ships scraped against each other with a loud noise, and both crews began to throw grapnels over their opponents’ railings, locking the two ships against each other. “Board the ship!” Hagon roared to his crew, to which they responded with thundering battle cries. The two crews clashed on the railings, many men falling down to the waters between the ships. However, Hagon fought his way to the deck of the enemy ship, cutting down two reachmen by the railings. He was then approached by a knight, a tall man wielding a bastard sword and clad in plated steel armor that was enameled green. Behind the visor Hagon could see the sheer fervor in the man’s eyes as he swung his sword toward him. Hagon blocked the strike, but it was a heavy blow that he could feel even through the shield. Not seeing an opening to counter he backed down, and the knight pursued him, striking fiercely from above. Hagon managed to dodge the swing, but he then slipped on the wet boards, lost his footing, landed on his ass and lost his grip on his sword. The knight laughed as he stepped closer to Hagon with the intention to end the ironborn prince’s life with a single swing of his sword. However, Hagon managed to quickly grab the axe from his belt and threw it towards the knight. With a great clank the axe thudded against the knight’s armored chest. It merely dented the armor, but the impact was still enough for the knight to lose his focus and balance for a moment, which was enough for Hagon to grab his sword again and charge against the knight. He plunged his sword through the small crack between the knight’s helm and gorget, effectively penetrating his throat. With a bloody gurgle the man collapsed as Hagon pulled out his sword. Hagon breathed heavily and looked around him, seeing the fighting between his crew and this Shield Islander crew was still ongoing on both decks. However, before he could do anything else, he heard a loud crash and lost his footing again, falling face first on the boards. He felt dizzy, his face was resting on a puddle of blood from the knight he had just slain, and it felt like the world was spinning around him. With a groan he managed to roll over onto his back, seeing the blue afternoon sky above and hearing the sounds of battle all around him. Then the deck slowly began to tilt. “Hagon, get up!” Quenton shouted, having appeared above him and offering him his hand. With a grin Hagon grabbed his friend’s hand and was pulled back up on his feet. However, he struggled to keep his balance as the deck kept tilting. “The ship’s sinking, the Farmans rammed into it!” Quenton yelled, gesturing for Hagon to follow him back to the Iron Heart, and so he did. The deck of his longship was littered with corpses, most of them thankfully reachmen soldiers. While the corpses were being thrown off board Hagon took a moment to observe the battle that was raging around him. The river and the bay were filled with floating corpses and debris of wrecked and sunken ships, dark smoke rising from some of them. Some of the Farman ships had broken through the first two lines of defense and were now engaging with the third line. Hagon saw the crew of his father boarding a Manderly galley together with a Kenning crew, while dozens of Greyjoy, Botley, Wynch, Saltcliffe and Sunderly crews were making a landing on the southern bank. “Forward! The blockade must be broken!” Hagon commanded his crew, and so they pushed on. Seeing another Manderly galley attacking the Iron Raven, Hagon commanded his crew to board it. He again personally led the charge, fighting side by side with Quenton as they cut through the Manderly soldiers. With help from the King Harmund’s crew they easily overwhelmed the defenders and captured their ship. However, just as Hagon thought the fighting was over he heard a familiar voice screaming in pain behind him. He turned around to see Quenton groveling on the floor in pain, a gruesome wound on his right arm spanning from wrist to elbow and bleeding heavily. The Manderly soldier who had wounded Quenton was currently being beaten to death by Hagon’s crewmen. Quickly Hagon ripped some blue-green fabric from the tabard of a dead Manderly soldier and began to wrap it around his friend’s wound. “You’ll be alright,” he muttered. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, it hurts,” Quenton cursed with a panicked voice. Hagon looked his friend in the eyes, but the fear and panic in them was too much for him to bear. Silently he carried Quenton back to the Iron Heart and commanded the crew to make a landing on the southern bank. He lowered his shaking friend to sit down against the railing and knelt down next to him. “That bastard surprised me,” Quenton said with a shaky voice, grimacing in pain. Hagon looked at the cloth he had wrapped around Quenton’s arm, noticing that the blood had turned it dark red. With a gulp he stood up, once again observing the battle. Though the fighting still continued on some of the ships the blockade had clearly been broken, with a dozen-or-so reachman ships retreating upstream. The trebuchet crews had also been routed by the unit of ironborn warriors led by Lord Greyjoy. The battle had been won, but not without a cost. As the Iron Heart beached on the southern bay the sun was already nearing the horizon in the west. The Farmans and Ironborn had already began to set up a camp south of the river. With the help of the Swine Hagon carried Quenton towards that bay, taking him straight to the sickbay where the injured were being gathered. “This is Quenton of House Farwynd, friend of Prince Hagon Hoare!” Hagon declared loudly as they arrived there. “Make sure to tend to his wound immediately!” Two of the healers quickly rushed to take care of Quenton. Before they dragged him away, Hagon gave him one last look. “You’ll make it through this, friend,” he said, but he wasn’t sure if Quenton even heard his words. |
|
|
|
Post by WildlingKing on Sept 8, 2019 15:33:24 GMT
Lyonel VI The night after their escape from Stoney Sept was rainy, or at least Lyonel was fairly sure that it was. His mind was a blur of darkness, pain and distant sounds of the men pursuing them. “Lyonel,” his squire Axel said every now and then to make sure he didn’t fall asleep on his saddle. The barking of dogs and yelling of the Faith Militant men slowly grew more and more distant as Lyonel and Axel rode through woods and fields towards east, praying their horses would not stumble on any roots or stones in the darkness of the night. As hours went by the sounds disappeared entirely, and Lyonel’s delirious mind began to wander. Staring into the forest ahead of him, he saw a light in the darkness. It was unlike any light casted by torches, candles of lanterns, it was more pure, heavenly even. And in that light, Lyonel saw a tall young man with long blonde hair, bright blue eyes and a joyful smile. “Jeren,” Lyonel spoke with a confused tone, which made the young man chuckle. “You’ve gotten older, Lynnie,” he answered with a cheerful tone. “You… look exactly as you did sixteen years ago,” Lyonel muttered, his eyes studying the man he had loved so long ago. “I… haven’t thought of you in a while, Jeren. I’m sorry.” “No need to apologize, my dear,” Jeren answered warmly. “I’ve been waiting for you.” “I think… I might join you soon,” Lyonel said, suddenly remembering the bolt in his lower back, and the pain radiating from it. Then he felt a hand grabbing him from his shoulder. Slowly the light disappeared, and Jeren with it. “Lyonel, are you alright?” He turned his gaze to see his squire looking at him with concern. “I’m fine,” Lyonel lied through his teeth. By dawn they stopped for a moment, long enough for Axel to make a fire, remove the bolt from Lyonel’s back and cauterize the wound. When it was done Lyonel grimaced in pain and spoke, “We have to keep moving.” An hour later they found a safe place to cross the Blackwater Rush, and continued to south and east from there. By noon they came across a wild cherry tree, from which Axel picked cherries for them to eat. We can’t be far from reaching Harlton lands, Lyonel thought, allowing himself just a sliver of hope. Perhaps this is not the end. As the sun set that evening, they finally allowed themselves to rest. Axel insisted staying up and letting Lyonel sleep, and begrudgingly he agreed to it. Closing his eyes, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever open them again. If that is my fate, so be it. New dawn came, and beams of sunlight shined through the verdant woods and the morning fog. Lyonel could see that some of the leaves had already began to turn yellow. Summer is almost over. He felt cold and burning at the same time, he felt weak and tired, and he still felt a throbbing pain in his back where the bolt had been. “Ser,” Axel said as he noticed that Lyonel had woken up. “I’m still not a knight, kid,” he reminded his squire, forcing a smirk on his face. Axel helped Lyonel up to a sitting position, making him lean against a poplar tree. The boy handed him a flask of water, which Lyonel grabbed eagerly. “I’ve picked up some berries as well if you’d like,” Axel said while Lyonel was gulping down the water. “I haven’t properly thanked you yet, Axel,” Lyonel said as the boy handed him some blackberries. “No need to, this whole mess was my fault in the first place,” Axel replied, a hint of shame in his words. “If Ser Mathis hadn’t recognized me…” “Thank you, Axel,” Lyonel sternly cut his squire off. “For saving my life, for being a loyal squire. What happened in Stoney Sept was unlucky, but it was your actions that saved us from certain death. You should take pride in that.” For a moment they were both silent, until Axel stood up with a small sigh. “I left the horses to drink from a nearby brook,” he said quietly. “I’ll go fetch them back.” Lyonel almost fell asleep again while Axel was gone. However, then he heard something. Perhaps it was just wildlife rustling brushes in the distance. A few moments went by before he heard it again, this time more clearly. Barking of dogs, followed by human voices. Are they still on our trail? With great pain Lyonel forced himself to stand up and grabbed his sword. He was in no condition to fight, but he would at least die with a sword in hand. Axel soon returned with the horses. “You heard it too,” he said nervously, looking at Lyonel. “Aye, it’s the Faith Militant, I’m sure of it,” he muttered, clutching the hilt of his sword tightly, hearing the distant voices of men and dogs slowly getting closer. “You go, take the horses and ride back to Castlewood, I’ll hold them.” “No,” Axel protested, now drawing his own sword. “I won’t abandon you, Lyonel.” Lyonel smirked thinly at his squire’s words. “If we both die here, we’ve failed our mission,” he said calmly. “Ride to Castlewood and tell Lord Harlton what we saw and heard in Stoney Sept.” For a moment Axel stood there in silence, his expression slowly turning from stubborn defiance to conflicted grief. Finally, he let out a deep sigh and sheathed his sword. All the while the noises of the men tracking them kept creeping closer and closer. By now Lyonel could even make out some of their words. “Farewell, Lyonel,” Axel said with a saddened voice as he mounted his horse, and Lyonel responded with a wordless nod. As his squire rode off, Lyonel turned around to face his enemies. He walked toward the noises, and soon he came face to face with a band of eight men. One of them was clearly a kennel master, holding four bloodhounds on a leash. Six of them were Poor Fellows, young boys and old men armed with cudgels, maces, hatchets and crossbows. Lyonel recognized one of them as Omer the Old, who might well have been the one who shot him in the back when they made their escape. Finally, the man leading them was a knight of the Warrior’s Sons, clad in silver armor and rainbow cloak, and the only one out of the bunch who was mounted. “Looking for me, are you?” Lyonel asked, standing straight and trying his best to hide his pain. The knight raised his visor, revealing a cleanshaven face of a young man. “Ser Leo of Duskendale,” he said with a condemning tone. “Though that isn’t your real name, is it?” “No, it isn’t,” Lyonel admitted nonchalantly. “Tell us who you are and who sent you to Stoney Sept, and I shall give you a good clean death,” the young knight promised. “Resist us and I will ride you down and feed your corpse to the hounds.” Lyonel sheathed his sword, figuring he would win more time for Axel by complying. “I will give you my name, but I would like to learn yours first.” “What use does a dead man have for my name?” the knight asked with an agitated tone. “I would like to know the name of the man who has the honor to end my life, that is all,” Lyonel responded calmly. The young knight stared at him with for a few seconds with a steely gaze, but then his expression softened, and he let out a sigh. “Ser Raylon Ryger,” he said sternly. “Lord Robb Ryger’s son?” Lyonel asked. “Nephew,” Raylon hissed, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Now, your name. Real name.” “Lyonel Bracken,” he declared calmly, which made the Poor Fellows mutter in surprise. “I’ve heard of you,” Raylon said with narrowed eyes. “You fought with Lord Roderick in the last war, and have served the Blackwoods ever since, correct?” “Correct.” “So, Lord Brydan sent you to spy on King Lucifer?” Raylon asked. “Lord Brydan gave the order, yes,” Lyonel answered with a subtle gulp, realizing he was almost out of time. Ser Raylon couldn’t have many more questions left, and then it would be over for him. It is an honor to die doing my duty. “However, it was Prince Barron Durrandon’s idea. He has ridden to Storm’s End and will return to Riverlands with the full might of the Storm King.” For a moment the forest was filled with a tense silence, until Omer the Old spoke up. “He had a squire with him, and they escaped Stoney Sept with horses,” he said, pointing his crossbow at Lyonel. “Where are they?” Lyonel sighed and put on the best expression of disappointment he could muster. “The boy left this morning before I woke up,” he lied with a straight face. “No doubt thought I was slowing him down and left me to die.” This seemed to amuse Raylon Ryger. “There is no honor among godless men,” he said as he dismounted his horse and drew his sword. “Time to die, Lyonel Bracken,” the knight said with a dutiful tone. “Get on your knees.” For a second Lyonel considered drawing his sword and fighting back, but he knew it would be futile. So, he went down on his knees, feeling a sting of pain radiating from his back again. Soon I will be with you, Jeren. Raylon walked next to him and cleared his throat. “I, Ser Raylon Ryger, sworn brother of the Warrior’s Sons and servant of the Faith, sentence this man to death, for conspiring against the rule of King Lucifer Justman, first of his name, the chosen of the Seven and the rightful…” Before Raylon could finish speaking he was cut off by a trumpet sounding in the woods nearby, followed by the sound galloping horses. They all looked towards north, seeing a dozen riders charging towards them through the forest. “STORM KING!” Lyonel heard some of the scream. They were wearing striped black-and-red tabards with a golden goose embroidered on the chest. House Cargyll, Lyonel recognized, and then he noticed Axel riding beside the Cargyll men. How in the world did he?Then everything happened quickly. Raylon Ryger rushed back atop his horse, the kennel master and his dogs ran away in panic, the Poor Fellows managed to take down one of the Cargyll riders with their crossbows, and Omer tried to shoot at Lyonel but missed him by just a few inches. Lyonel drew his sword as Omer the Old charged towards him with his mace, while the rest of the Poor Fellows were being cut down by the attackers. With difficulty Lyonel managed to block Omer’s first strike, but the second one hit him painfully on the ribs, making him stumble down on the mossy ground. However, as Omer tried to start beating him to death, Lyonel surprised the old man with a swift thrust straight to his belly. The blade penetrated Omer’s leather jerkin and plunged into his entrails. A shocked expression took over the old man’s face, and with hysteria he dropped his mace and grabbed the blade of Lyonel’s sword, trying to pull it out of himself in panic. Lyonel pushed the blade deeper instead, before violently pulling it out, blood splattering all over him. Omer the Old was dead, and now his corpse fell on Lyonel. Stuck under Omer’s corpse and feeling dizzy, Lyonel turned his gaze towards the battle raging beside him. All of the Poor Fellows were dead, as well as few of the Cargyll men. Ser Raylon Rygers was still holding his own against three Cargyll men who surrounded him, until finally they managed to knock him off his horse. Axel rushed to help Lyonel, with him one of the Cargyll men. No, not a man, Lyonel realized as he saw the woman’s face as she removed her helmet. His mind was already drifting towards unconsciousness as Axel and the Cargyll woman lifted Omer’s corpse off from him. “You’ve done your duty well, Lyonel Bracken,” the Cargyll woman said softly, a compassionate look in her hazel eyes. “We’ll take you back to Castlewood.” |
|
|
|
Post by WildlingKing on Sept 9, 2019 18:34:32 GMT
Bernarr I It was a misty and dewy morning in the North. Lord Bernarr Bolton stood alone in the shadowy godswood of Dreadfort, the ancestral home of his ancient and noble family. He stared into the mournful red eyes of the heart tree, wondering what his ancestors would think of him. The Red Kings of Dreadfort had stood against the hegemony of the Starks longer than anyone else in the North, and Bernarr’s grandfather Gerhard Bolton had attempted to reclaim their glory. He had started a bloody war against King Eyron Stark eleven years ago, and during the nearly three years that the war lasted Bernarr had lost his father, mother, two uncles, younger sister, three older brothers, all three of his remaining grandparents and several cousins. The war had ended when Lord Gerhard had died, after Dreadfort having been under siege by King Harlon Stark for nearly two years. If only Gerhard had died sooner, mayhaps I would still have a mother, brother and a sister. Bernarr’s father, two uncles and oldest brother had died in the Battle of White Knife during the first year of the war, which had been a decisive moment in the conflict. In that same battle Bernarr’s second oldest brother Goren had surrendered and been sent to the Wall, where he still presumably served in the Night’s Watch. After the Battle of White Knife the newly crowned King Harlon had besieged Dreadfort while his brother Prince Karlon rode north-east to crush House Grastan – the last remaining ally of the Boltons – on the Grey Cliffs. Bernarr’s third oldest brother Erryk had died of a fever just four months after the beginning of the siege. Being just two years older than him Erryk had always been the sibling Bernarr was the closest with, and losing him had been the most shocking tragedy of his life up to that moment. However, less than a week later it had been surpassed by the death of his mother, Lady Mya of House Grastan. Maester Mylon had told Bernarr and his then seven-year-old little sister Emma that their mother had died of a grief that drove her mad, and only years later Bernarr had realized it meant she had taken her own life. After their mother’s death Bernarr and Emma had found comfort in each other, but just two weeks before Gerhard died and the siege ended Emma had died as well, weakened and ultimately claimed by the famine and sickness that had taken over Dreadfort during the last months of the siege. It had been Bernarr’s eleventh nameday when he was made to bend his knee to the Starks and swore King Harlon his allegiance before this heart tree, and in return he had been allowed to keep the seat and lordship that had belonged to his family for thousands of years. Nearly nine years had passed since that day. Bernarr heard something and turned around, seeing his lady wife Unella descending the stone stairs leading down to the godswood, in her arms their three-months-old baby boy wrapped in warm wool cloths. Unella was a fair young lady of seventeen years, with a kindly face, big blue eyes and wavy brown hair that was tied into a thick braid. She was the daughter of the Stark king’s master-at-arms Urrathon of House Poole, a lesser house that the Boltons of old would’ve never accepted a bride from. Bernarr however hadn’t had much choice when King Harlon had suggested the betrothal to him two years ago. “My lord,” Unella greeted him with her tender and innocent voice, and Bernarr smiled at her. The baby let out a small bawl as he saw his father, which made Bernarr chuckle. “Has Robar had his breakfast yet?” he asked calmly, and Unella nodded. Bernarr had named his first son after his eldest brother who had died fighting side by side with their father Regis Bolton. Looking into his son’s icy pale eyes, Bernarr’s smile slowly faded. “What’s on your mind, dear?” Unella asked. Bernarr turned his gaze to the ground, where he saw a few yellow and red leaves on the grass. Winter is coming indeed. “Memories,” Bernarr said with a sigh. “The message from Winterfell that arrived yesterday has reminded me of things I’d rather forget.” “You feel conflicted,” Unella said with a calm and understanding tone. “Of course I do,” Bernarr responded with a slightly frustrated tone. “I must once again kneel before King Harlon and shame the memory of my father and brothers by fighting under the banner of their killers.” “I understand how you feel,” Unella assured softly. “However, Harlon is a fair and just man. Serve him well and he will reward you as handsomely as any other of his bannermen.” His wife’s words didn’t exactly surprise Bernarr, he knew Unella had spent her childhood in Winterfell and viewed the Starks as family. Bernarr found her to be a sweet and lovable young woman, but moments like these reminded him that there was a reason King Harlon had chosen her as his bride. Her job is to make me forgive the Starks and remain loyal to Harlon, or else. A softly delivered threat, but a threat nonetheless.Bernarr kissed Unella gently on her forehead and looked at their son once more. “I should go see Torren before he leaves,” he said and took his leave from the godswood. Entering the inner courtyard Bernarr found the captain of the guards Torren Ironthorns preparing his men and horses for their mission to levy troops from the Bolton lands, all of them wearing pink tabards displaying the flayed man. The captain had earned his nickname with his stern and harsh personality, as well as the small iron spikes attached into his gauntlets. “Mylord,” Torren greeted Bernarr with a stern and dutiful tone. He was a tall and broad man on his late thirties with a bushy black beard, receding hairline and small dark brown eyes. “There was something I wanted to ask from you.” “Go ahead,” Bernarr replied calmly, even though he could already see from the man’s eyes what he was thinking. Torren was a veteran of the last war and had fought beside Regis Bolton on the White Knife, and he certainly had no love for the Starks. “There will be many who refuse to take up arms to fight for the Stark king,” Torren said bluntly. “Many lost their brothers, fathers and sons in the last war. Those wounds are still fresh, the people still bitter. How do you wish me to act with those who refuse your call to arms?” Bernarr remained quiet for a moment. He could hardly blame any man for feeling bitter towards the Starks, for he shared the sentiment, but as a lord he also had to assert his authority over his people. “No killings, if it can be avoided,” he started quietly. Boltons of old were not known for their mercy, but Bernarr had never been like them. “Try to persuade them, remind them of their duty, tell them their lord shares their pain and promise their loyalty will be well rewarded. From those who continue to refuse after all that, extort supplies and a fee of ten silver coins.” “Understood, mylord,” Torren responded and returned to his duties. After watching Ironthorns leading his men out of Dreadfort, Bernarr walked around the muddy yards of his castle. He went to see blacksmith Herman and his apprentices Jyllen, Little Ben and Sweetjon at work making spearheads, arrowheads, halfhelms, greaves and vambraces for the coming war. The smithy was burning hot as there was fire burning in all three furnaces, a rhythmic clanking sound could be heard from the back as Jyllen was using the hammer and anvil, and all four of them were reddened and sweating heavily from the heat. “Good work, Herman,” Bernarr complimented as he observed the first finished spearheads and arrowheads. “Join me on the high table at tonight’s feast.” “Thank you, mylord,” the bald and grey-bearded blacksmith muttered with a deep bow. Next Bernarr went to see the butcher Morgan who was cutting pork loins and venison ribs for the evening’s feast. Even the usually laughing and lighthearted Morgan seemed concerned by what was to come. And no wonder, the forty-year-old man carried on his forehead a scar left by an axe as a reminder from the last war. Kennelmaster Fern, brewer Jorgen and the cook Bold Bors also seemed more tense than usually when Bernarr went to see them. Finally, as it was almost noon Bernarr made his way to the southern tower, where the ravenry and maester’s quarters were located. Entering Maester Mylon’s room, Bernarr found Dreadfort’s portly steward Sam Snow conversing with the maester. “Mylord,” the maester and steward spoke in unison. “Good day,” Bernarr responded as he sat down by the window with a sigh, looking at the godswood beneath him. “We were just discussing the supplies required for the march ahead,” Sam Snow spoke with his quavering voice, his walrus mustache wobbling above his meaty lips. “And?” Bernarr asked calmly. “Everything should be in order, mylord,” Maester Mylon responded with his calm and cultured voice. “Dreadfort will have to come by with less than usually until the next harvest, but then again there will be less of us here anyway.” “Have you chosen the castellan yet?” Sam asked curiously. “Steffon Lightfoot will do,” Bernarr answered, referring to the elderly master-at-arms of the castle. “I would like to have a word with the maester in private.” “At once, mylord,” Sam said quickly with a deep bow and took his leave. “Is there something on your mind, Bernarr?” Mylon asked calmly after the door was closed. He was a wise, caring and observant old man, and after the war he had been the closest thing to a parent Bernarr had had. Mylon had taught him how to be a lord, including everything from reading and writing to the art of warfare. “I’m sure you know what is in my mind,” Bernarr spoke with a sullen tone, and Mylon nodded knowingly. “You don’t want to fight for the Starks,” the maester stated nonchalantly. “It feels wrong,” Bernarr muttered, clenching his fists as he stared out of the window. “I’m betraying my father and brothers.” For a moment silence lingered in the room, until Maester Mylon spoke up again. “Your first and foremost duty to them is to secure the future of House Bolton. You are not the first Lord of Dreadfort to kneel to the Starks in order to survive.” “I know,” Bernarr said with a sigh, turning towards the maester again. “However, perhaps… when King Harlon marches against the Ironborn with all his might, instead of following him I should take the opportunity to attack Winterfell and raze it to the ground.” A thin smile formed behind Mylon’s grey beard. “My role is to advice you, and if you choose to rise against the Starks I will advice you in your efforts just as I advised your grandfather. However, Lord Gerhard wasn’t always eager to hear my advice, especially when it came to knowing when to give up. I would say his stubbornness is just as much to blame for the deaths of your father, mother, sister and brothers as the Starks are.” “So, you advise me to remain loyal to the Starks?” Bernarr asked quietly. For a moment the maester studied the young lord’s face with his sharp grey-green eyes, then he nodded. “I do,” he confirmed calmly. “It is up to you what kind of lord you want to be, but I’ve always seen you as someone who cares for the wellbeing of your people. Keep the peace and raise your son to be a strong and wise lord, and perhaps the finest hour of House Bolton is yet to come. On the other hands, seek war against the Starks now and risk not only the wellbeing of your people and your son, but also every dream and hope that your father and grandfather and their forefathers before them had for the future of House Bolton.” Bernarr felt a single tear rolling down his cheek as his mind wandered back to everyone he had lost. “I understand what I must do,” he said with a defeated tone. “I must discard my personal grief and pride for the good of the legacy of my house. Thank you for your counsel, Maester Mylon.” Gently the maester lowered his wrinkled hand on Bernarr’s shoulder, a warm smile forming on his face. “You’re a wise young lord, Bernarr Bolton.” |
|
|
|
Post by WildlingKing on Sept 11, 2019 22:39:38 GMT
Arthur II The seventy-seven Warrior’s Sons that had left Gulltown had been on the road for nearly a week now, having been hosted every night by a different landed knight or minor lord. During their journey so far they had also been joined by around fifty freeriders and hedge knights, increasing their numbers to well over a hundred mounted men. The sun was still high up on the clear blue sky, painting the fields, meadows, rivers and lakes of the Vale of Arryn beneath it with vibrant and beautiful colors. Arthur had travelled across the Vale a lot throughout his advanced age and knew they would reach Ironoaks before sundown. He had even sent Ser Gareth Grafton and Ser Osbert Shett to race ahead that morning to announce their arrival to Lord Waynwood. “It was a good idea to send those two boys ahead,” Ser Eddard Egen said with a grin as they arrived at the Iron Lake. “Better keep ‘em busy since they’re so eager to prove themselves.” Arthur smiled thinly at his friend’s words. “They’re young and oblivious to what lays ahead of us,” he said calmly, looking at the light of the afternoon sun glimmering on the calm surface of the vast lake to their left. “They will return from Riverlands as men, or not at all.” Half an hour before reaching Ironoaks they could already faintly see the highest of the castle’s white towers rising above the lake in the distance. The ancestral home of House Waynwood was built on a small island near the northern coast of the Iron Lake, connected to the lakeshore by a thirty yards long and dozen yards wide stone bridge. By the lakeshore to the east of the castle there was a large village, and to the north and west a verdant forest filled with tall and strong oaks that had given the castle its name. The gates of Ironoaks were opened and the drawbridge lowered when Ser Arthur led his lieutenants over the bridge and into the castle. Above the gates the green-and-black broken wheel banners of House Waynwood flew side by side with the blue-and-white falcon-and-moon banners of House Arryn, and the sound of high-pitched trumpets welcomed them into the cobbled courtyard where Lord Waynwood together with his family was waiting for them. The Waynwoods were a big family. Around the old lord were flocked two of his brothers and sisters-in-law, three sons and two daughters-in-law, four nephews, two nieces, three grandsons and four granddaughters, three grandnephews and a grandniece. However, Arthur knew there could have been at least one more, as the lord’s thirdborn son Ser Medgar had died in the Battle of Six Kings sixteen years ago. Lord Wendel Waynwood himself was a chubby sixty-year-old man with gout. He was restricted to a wheelchair, which was pushed around by the castle’s wiry and relatively young maester with a narrow face and poor posture. Wendel was a joyful man with puffy facial features, pasty white skin, thick grey mustache, balding head and bright green eyes. “Welcome, welcome to Ironoaks, Warrior’s Sons!” the Lord of Ironoaks bellowed with a cheerful tone as Arthur and his lieutenants dismounted their horses. “We are honored by your hospitality, Lord Waynwood,” Arthur said with a deep bow. “Arthur, it’s been too long!” Wendel said with a wide grin, gesturing for him to come closer, and as Arthur did so the Waynwood lord grabbed his right hand and shook it with a surprising vigor. “You old devil ain’t wasting away, are you? By the gods, I am jealous of you, Ser Arthur. To be so strong and healthy at your age. One would think you’re the younger one between the two of us!” “I would gladly switch places with you if I could, Lord Wendel,” Arthur responded with a smirk, only half in jest. “It seems to me your halls are filled with laughter and life, while my only company are grim and zealous old men.” Wendel laughed heartily at his words. “I don’t think you’re being entirely honest with me, Arryn,” he said lightheartedly, glancing at Gareth and Osbert who stood by the stairs leading up to the great hall. “From what I gather you’ve found yourself a couple of young and eager disciples.” “Young, eager and arrogant,” Arthur replied nonchalantly, and once again Lord Wendel burst into laughter. A plentiful feast was held that evening in the great hall of Ironoaks. Arthur sat on the dais between Lord Wendel and his heir Ser Wyllis, who was a broad and stocky man on his early forties. Arthur only allowed himself a single cup of wine, but as the night went on his company got progressively more drunk. Wendel told a hunting story from his youth, claiming that he had nearly been ripped open by a boar, but managed to jump on its back and kill it by stabbing his dagger to its brains. Arthur vaguely remembered having heard the story before. Then Ser Wyllis long-windedly told about a grand tourney in Heart’s Home that he had taken part in three years ago, the story concluding to him being unhorsed on the second round by King Oswell himself. “Don’t tell the lad when you see him, but I let him win,” Wyllis claimed with an arrogant smirk. “He had just recently been crowned, you know. People would’ve taken it as a bad omen for the new king to be unhorsed on the second round. Let it not be said that Ser Wyllis Waynwood doesn’t consider the best of his kingdom.” Eventually the topic of discussion drifted into the last war, and the son Lord Wendel had lost to it. “Medgar was even younger than them back then,” he said grimly, looking Gareth and Osbert who were laughing with the lord’s nephews and grandsons at the lower tables. “I was the one who suggested him to join the Warrior’s Sons.” There was a sting of regret and shame in the old lord’s words. “Your son served well, and was eager to prove his worth in battle,” Arthur said with a calm and careful tone. “And he did, he fought well, taking down many of the Storm King’s knights before falling.” In truth Arthur hadn’t seen how Ser Medgar Waynwood had fought in the Battle of Six Kings, in fact he had only learned of his death hours after the battle was over. However, not all lies were evil, and his words did bring a thin but proud smile on Lord Wendel’s face. “He was always such a good and decent boy,” he said, tears welling up in his eyes. “Hard-working, honest and humble. He deserved so much more than to die fighting some riverman’s war hundreds of miles away from home.” “He fought for the Seven,” Arthur gently reminded the lord. “And… perhaps by winning this coming war we can make sure his death was not in vain.” “I wish you and your men all the good fortune in the world, Ser Arthur,” Wendel said emotionally. By first light of the next morning the Warrior’s Sons gathered for a prayer in the sept of Ironoaks, after which they prepared to continue their journey towards the Eyrie. Two of the Waynwoods decided to join them, and with them a dozen men from the household guard. Ser Alan Waynwood was the youngest of Lord Wendel’s nephews, being a thin and tall man on his late twenties with a flowing black hair that reached beneath his shoulders, a patch of beard on his chin, and sharp grey-green eyes. Matthew Waynwood on the other hand was the only son of Lord Wendel’s second son Ser Osbert. He was a green and beardless boy of no more than seventeen years, and yet to be knighted. The journey from Ironoaks to Eyrie went much like the one from Gulltown to Ironoaks, with landed knights and minor lords hosting them every night and nearly a hundred more freeriders and hedge knights joining them along the way. On the afternoon of the sixth day since leaving Ironoaks they finally saw the seven slender white towers of Eyrie astride the peak of the Giant’s Lance, thousands of feet above the valley below. By the time they reached the Gates of the Moon at the base of the mountain the sun had already sunk behind the Mountains of the Moon in the west. Gates of the Moon were a large and formidable fortress, but plain in comparison to the beautiful Eyrie high up in the mountain. Arthur and his men were welcomed in the vast outer courtyard by Ser Herman Hardyng, the Keeper of the Gates of the Moon. Ser Herman looked much like his late older brother and Arthur’s dear friend Ser Hallis, sharing his peaceful blue eyes, chiseled jawline and sandy blonde hair – though it had begun to turn grey. Memories from before the last war surfaced in Arthur’s mind, making it almost painful to look at Ser Herman. “The Lone Falcon has invited you to visit him in the Eyrie tomorrow,” Herman told Arthur, referring to King Oswell II Arryn, who also happened to be Arthur’s grandnephew. They called the young king ‘the Lone Falcon’ because he had been the only child of his father King Hubert III Arryn, and because despite being already four and twenty, he was yet to choose himself a bride. The last time Arthur had seen Oswell was over three years ago, when the young king had visited Gulltown and its chapterhouse during the royal progress following his coronation. Arthur remembered Oswell as a bright and courteous young man, but despite being of the same flesh and blood they didn’t know each other very well. His invitation is surely just a simple gesture of good will. Nonetheless, after breaking his fast next morning Arthur began the long climb up to the Eyrie, escorted by a young lad named Kevan. Riding mules through the forested path from the Gates of the Moon to the first waycastle called Stone was easy enough. However, the trail from Stone to the second waycastle called Snow was steeper and more hazardous, including several spots where they had to dismount their mules and lead them by foot. It was well past noon when they reached Snow, where they stopped for a bowl of beef stew and couple cups of hot mulled wine. The climb from Snow – where they left the mules – to the third waycastle called Sky was where Arthur began to truly feel his age. The steep steps were in many places cracked and broken, and always open to the winds that even during summer were quite cold up there. By the time they reached Sky Arthur was panting, his back was aching, and his legs felt like a pair of heavy logs. Not since he was eight years old had Arthur ever used the wooden baskets pulled by chain winches to get from the Sky to the Eyrie, but now he had to humble himself. I’ve truly become old, he thought with some embarrassment as he sat down to the basket. Arthur sat by the fire in the Eyrie’s reception hall known as the Crescent Hall, which somehow felt colder and quieter than he remembered from his childhood summers. A couple of guardsmen clad in sky-blue tabards loitered lazily around the doorway, and a servant girl brought Arthur a cup of honeyed wine and some bread. Eventually Arthur was approached by Myles Moore, the steward of the Eyrie. He was a short and stout man on his early fifties, with a short fair hair, a pale cleanshaven face streaked with deep lines, and mild grey eyes. The man had served in the household of Eyrie for over two decades, having been appointed for his task by King Hubert. “King Oswell has been waiting for you, Ser Arthur,” Myles spoke with a dryly polite tone. “Please, follow me to the Moon Tower.” The steps of Arthur and Myles Moore echoed in the bright and austere marble hallways and stairways as they made their way towards the Moon Tower, where the royal chambers were located. “So, has His Grace found a suitable bride yet?” Arthur asked after a moment, breaking the silence. Myles gave him a curious look before answering. “His Grace is considering between a few suitors,” he said laconically. “May I inquire whom exactly?” Arthur asked calmly. Myles remained silent for a few seconds before giving Arthur a nod, a jaded expression on his face. “Lord Amory Royce has a fifteen-year-old granddaughter named Anya. A sweet and pretty girl, from what I gather, and from an ancient and powerful family,” he spoke with an utterly disinterested tone. “However, Lord Martyn Melcolm has offered a much greater dowry for his daughter of nineteen, Mylena Melcolm. There are rumors that the girl is a bit dim though. His Grace has also considered Larra Corbray, the second daughter of Lord Lewyn Corbray, even though I have strongly advised him against it. The girl is undeniably a beauty, and just a year younger than His Grace, but that is about all she has to offer. The Corbrays are not as wealthy as they once were, and King Oswell marrying a secondborn daughter with a lesser dowry would be seen as an insult by both Lord Royce and Lord Melcolm.” “I see,” Arthur responded as they already approached the doors of the royal chambers. “Well, I hope His Grace makes his choice soon. These halls are in dire need of the laughter of children.” Entering the king’s audience room Arthur saw Oswell standing by the window, which opened a view to the valley in the south. Hearing the sound of the door the young king quickly spun around. “Great-uncle!” he exclaimed with a charming smile. Oswell Arryn was a handsome young man with the frame of a warrior, smiling bright blue eyes, medium length light blonde hair and a thin beard of similar color. The young king was dressed in an attire of sky-blue silks adorned with silver and sapphires. “Your Grace,” Arthur spoke with a respectful tone as he kneeled before his king. “Please, call me Oswell,” the King said as he offered Arthur his hand and helped him back up on his feet. Studying the old knight’s face, Oswell clearly noticed how weary Arthur was from the climb. “My apologies for the inconvenience, ser. The climb up is never pleasant.” “There is no inconvenience great enough to dismiss a king’s invitation,” Arthur responded with a polite smile. “Besides, climbing up to the Eyrie again has brought up many fond memories from decades ago.” “I’m sure,” Oswell said with a soft chuckle. “Come, join me for a cup of Arbor gold and cheeses from the Free City of Pentos.” “Gladly, Your Grace.” Oswell led Arthur to a small table by the window, where the servants had already left a silver platter filled with cheeses and poured wine for them both. “I assume the raven I sent from Gulltown arrived here?” Arthur asked calmly, to which Oswell nodded in confirmation. “Indeed, it did. However, I learned about this Lucifer Justman and his ambitions even before that. You see, a raven from Stoney Sept arrived here as well.” “Lucifer Justman asks for your aid?” Arthur asked with a raised eyebrow. “He does,” Oswell confirmed calmly. “However, as much as I hope he will succeed, for now I cannot march in his aid. Starting a war with the Storm King would be too big of a risk, and I must prioritize the wellbeing of my own people above all else.” “Of course,” Arthur agreed, nibbling on a spicy cheese. “That said, I am beyond grateful that you are able to lead at least some knights of the Vale in aid of our brothers in Faith,” the young king said, taking a sip of the Arbor gold while his attentive eyes studied Arthur’s face. “There was also something important I wanted to ask from you.” “I am yours to command, Your Grace.” “When you are with this Lucifer Justman, be it on a feast, sept or battlefield, I want you to pay attention to him and the men around him,” King Oswell said, his tone suddenly a bit more focused. “See who is truly in command, how competent of a king this Lucifer is, and whether or not he is a worthy ally for the Kingdom of Mountain and Vale. If he indeed wins this war and establishes himself as the King of the Trident, I want you to return here and report to me all that you’ve seen and heard.” “I will, Your Grace,” Arthur responded dutifully. If indeed I live long enough to do so. |
|
|
|
Post by WildlingKing on Sept 20, 2019 17:38:00 GMT
Barron IV It was a gray and damp day. Prince Barron gazed at the sturdy walls made of pale grey stone that guarded Duskendale, a large port town standing by the Blackwater Bay. Behind those walls could be seen the smoke rising from its many homes, the tiled roofs of the town’s tallest manses, the domed roofs of its many septs, as well as the Dun Fort itself with its formidable square keep and drum towers, overlooking the town and its harbor from atop a hill. Barron stood at the head of an army of four-thousand men, by his side Lord Edgar Fell, Lord Hugh Hasty, and Lord Denys Stokeworth, who had joined them yesterday as they had marched past Castle Stokeworth. Lord Denys was an old and sinewy man with a serious face and cold grey-green eyes. He also happened to be the brother-in-law of Lord Renly Darklyn. Barron had sent Denys’ son and heir Ser Steffon Stokeworth with Lord Nestor Follard and Ser Tyler Wendwater north to court the support of the Buckwells and Hartes, and Ser Owen Rosby with Ser Yohn Farring and Ser Erwin Hayford north-west to Sow’s Horn to do the same with House Hogg. He had also sent Lord Jaremy Errol and the Buckler brothers to Castlewood to report their progress to Lord Harlton. The gates of the town were closed, and guardsmen clad in chainmail hauberks and armed with spears manned the walls. Barron had already sent a man to announce them to the guards and ask them to be let in, only to be refused. “Is your brother-in-law always this welcoming, Lord Stokeworth?” Barron asked sarcastically, to which Denys scoffed quietly. “Lord Renly has always been about as welcoming as a rabid dog,” he stated dryly. Barron sighed, letting his gaze wander along the town walls. Spearmen could be seen every couple dozen feet from each other, for as far as his eyes could see. We have no chance of taking this town with an assault, he admitted to himself with some frustration. Most of all he was frustrated by the fact that Lord Renly knew just as well that they had no chance, which gave him all the leverage in this situation. If only we had marched here with the full might of the Storm King, as we did sixteen years ago. “Ah, Duskendale,” Lord Fell spoke up with a joyless grin on his face. “A stinking pile of shit, lowlifes and more shit.” “It’s the closest thing to a real city I’ve ever been to,” Barron stated nonchalantly, remembering his last visit there shortly after the war against the Teagues had been won. He hadn’t particularly enjoyed his stay there, but admittedly it had mostly been due to Lord Renly Darklyn being such an unpleasant man to be around. “Duskendale is like an innocent and peaceful little village in comparison to Oldtown,” Denys claimed. “I visited that den of depravity thirty years ago when I escorted my thirdborn son Torbert to the Citadel. Lived nearly a month there, which was enough for a lifetime.” “Anything that makes Duskendale look innocent in comparison is something I want to stay far away from,” Lord Hasty said calmly. He was a veteran of two wars, as well as a private and mild-mannered man on his early fifties. “Perhaps we should just move on and leave Lord Darklyn to rot within his walls,” Edgar Fell suggested with a sigh. “We already have more than four-thousand men. Add to that the troops of all the river lords still loyal to Lord Blackwood, and we should have more than enough men to crush whatever meager support this Lucifer Justman has managed to muster.” “You’re assuming his support is meager,” Barron remarked sharply. “Personally, I’m inclined to be less optimistic. There are many in the Riverlands who remained loyal to the Teagues until the very end, and many more who do not recognize the Storm King as their rightful ruler. Not to mention that the Justmans are celebrated in songs and folktales as the last truly strong and beloved dynasty of river kings. It may be obvious to any learned man that this Lucifer is nothing more than a mummer with a crown, but the common folk will be more eager to believe his lies, especially since they are spoken to them with the authority of the Faith Militant.” “Prince Barron is right,” Lord Stokeworth agreed sternly. “You need House Darklyn.” Few more minutes went by, until finally the western gates were opened. Out rode three mounted men, one of them carrying the Darklyn banner of sable and gold diamonds, and another one a blank white banner of peace. The man leading them was a tall and broad-shouldered knight clad in dark steel armor with a red cloak donned over the shoulders and fastened by golden clasp in the shape of a diamond. Unlike the two others he wore no helmet, showing his morose face with small dark blue eyes, large nose, greasy jet-black hair that was combed back, bushy eyebrows and side-whiskers, strong jawline and a small patch of beard on his chin. Though it had been a long time, Barron recognized the man as Ser Edwyn Darkly, the now almost forty-year-old son and heir of Lord Renly. “Greetings, mylords,” Ser Edwyn spoke tensely, his eyes shifting between the four of them. “I am Ser Edwyn Darklyn, the firstborn son of my lord father Renly Darklyn, who has sent me here to inquire what is your business in Duskendale.” “We have sent your father half-a-dozen ravens before our arrival, he knows bloody well what our business here is,” Barron answered sternly, glaring at the knight with fury in his eyes. “Let us through your gates and I may remind his lordship personally in case he has forgotten.” “House Darklyn is in middle of a conflict,” Edwyn said strictly. “My lord father does not wish to let a strange army inside his town.” “A strange army?” Barron bellowed angrily. “Do you not recognize the banner of your king, ser?” “Or the face of your uncle, for that matter,” Lord Stokeworth added dryly. Edwyn sighed in frustration. “My father’s instructions are not to let your army through the gates, Prince Barron,” he insisted. “However, perhaps I could escort you and your companions to meet Lord Renly in the Dun Fort.” Barron glanced at Lord Denys, who gave him a reassuring nod. “Fine then, lead the way,” the old prince said to Ser Edwyn, before turning towards his companions. “Lord Hasty, stay here and inform Queen Shana and the troops about what is happening,” he commanded. Even Renly Darklyn wouldn’t dare to hurt or capture the uncle of the Storm King. “Follow me, mylords,” Edwyn then spoke, before turning around and leading them towards the gates. In silence they rode through the cobbled streets of the town, gathering curious looks from townsfolk who peered at them from the windows and alleyways. “I apologize for the caution,” Edwyn finally spoke up again as they approached the upward path leading to the gatehouse of the Dun Fort. “I’ve seen a town being sacked before and would like to avoid even the slightest chance of it happening here in my beautiful Duskendale.” “Aye, I’ve seen a town being sacked before as well,” Denys spoke grimly, giving a meaningful glance at his nephew. “Hard to forget, given that we were the ones doing the sacking back in Harroway’s town. What happened there was a travesty.” “It was war,” Edwyn simply replied, avoiding eye contact with his uncle. Without further conversation they rode through the open gates of the Dun Fort to its pentagonal courtyard. While dismounting his horse, Barron’s eye was immediately caught by a knight clad in a shining red armor sparring against two swordsmen at the same time. He moved with an impressive speed and grace, and before long he had made both of his opponents yield. Upon noticing Prince Barron and his companions the knight removed his helmet, revealing a flowing strawberry-blond hair, lively green eyes and a handsome cleanshaven face of a man on his late twenties. Barron also just now noticed the three golden crowns painted on the knight’s chest plate. House Hollard, he realized, faintly remembering having heard over a decade ago that Lord Darklyn had married his sole daughter off to the heir of Hollard Castle. “Ser Edric,” Edwyn spoke to the man with an authoritative tone, to which the younger knight responded with a dutiful nod, listening as Edwyn continued. “Would you fetch my lord father and tell him Prince Barron Durrandon is waiting for him in the solar.” “Of course, ser,” Ser Edric Hollard responded politely with a thin smile. “However, Lord Renly is currently enjoying a bath, so I’m afraid you might have to wait for a while before he joins you.” “No matter,” Edwyn responded with a small sigh, and with another dutiful nod the Hollard knight took his leave. “Come,” Edwyn grunted at Barron and his companions, gesturing for them to follow him into the main keep. “I’ll arrange us some refreshments in the solar while we wait for my noble father.” The solar was located in the highest story of the tall keep, its black and yellow latticework windows offering a view towards the sea. Looking at the distant waves crashing against the chalk cliffs north of the town made Barron wonder how his nephew’s war efforts in the south had progressed. I hope whatever you gain in Dorne is worth putting Arlan’s legacy at risk, he thought bitterly, and not for the first time. Ser Edwyn soon joined them, at his coattails coming half-a-dozen, who poured red wine into their goblets and placed cheeses, fruits, biscuits and bread on the table. Barron sat down and took a sip of the wine. It had a sweet and rich taste, most likely an imported vintage from across the Narrow Sea. “So, I take it this Lucifer Justman we’ve heard of is more than just a rumor,” Edwyn spoke up, breaking the tense silence in the room. “It would seem so, yes,” Barron responded calmly, taking a bite from an apple. “However, regardless of who he really is, this Lucifer Justman is just a figurehead. In truth our war is against the Faith Militant, who in turn are little more than the High Septon’s iron fist.” “I’m glad they’ve been driven out of Duskendale,” Edwyn said, a thin smirk forming on his face. “What was once their chapterhouse is now used to store wines and other valuable imports.” “How practical,” Edgar Fell commented. “Wouldn’t want all that space to go to waste.” Tense silence lingered on the room for a few moments again, until Ser Edwyn once again spoke up. “So, if there will indeed be a war in the Riverlands, why have you marched here with such a small army, Prince Barron?” Barron took another sip from his wine, looking Ser Edwyn and considering his answer. “The Storm King is marching against the Principality of Dorne with his strongest bannermen,” he decided to reveal the truth. “He believes the situation in Riverlands can be resolved with… lesser forces.” “That means you and me, Ser Edwyn,” Lord Fell quipped with a smirk, raising his cup theatrically for the Darklyn knight. A couple minutes passed, after which an old man entered the room. However, Barron could see immediately that it wasn’t Lord Renly. This man was chubby and short, with watery blue-green eyes, soft facial features and sparse grey hair around his bald head. “Seven blessings to you, my prince, mylords,” he greeted them with a respectful tone. “Lord Damion, what are you doing here?” Ser Edwyn asked with a frown. “Ser Edric told me we have royal guests, and as the steward of the Dun Fort I believe it is my concern to make sure such important guests are treated appropriately,” the old man explained, before turning towards Barron with a polite smile on his face. “Prince Barron, I am Lord Damion Darke, the steward of this castle. I trust you’ve been given a warm welcome.” “Aye, if only Lord Renly would bother to join us,” Barron responded with a surly tone. “My apologies, your highness,” Damion responded with a humble nod. “His lordship can be a bit… negligent, at times.” “Oh, trust me, I know what kind of man Lord Renly is,” Barron said grimly. What felt like an hour went by, before finally Lord Renly Darklyn joined them in the solar. He was a tall but slightly crouched man, with long black hair that began to turn grey, a pale and gaunt cleanshaven face streaked with wrinkles, folds and warts, as well as a prominent nose and chin. As he looked at them, Barron could see only contempt and apathy in the Darklyn lord’s small, dark and deep-set eyes. “Father, this is…” “I know who it is,” Lord Renly harshly cut off his son, glaring at Barron. “Prince Barron Durrandon, the noble brother – no, uncle of our beloved king in Storm’s End.” “Lord Darklyn,” Barron greeted the man tensely. “I hope the army that you’ve brought outside my walls isn’t meant to intimidate me, because in that it fails miserably,” Renly said with a mocking tone as he sat down and poured wine for himself. “That army is meant to defeat the false king Lucifer Justman,” Barron stated calmly. “With your aid, Lord Renly.” “Ah, yes, of course,” the man muttered, gulping down his wine with a single swing. “You’ve come to beg for my aid.” “I’ve come to demand it, in the name of the Storm King,” Barron said, his tone slightly stricter now. Anger flared in the Darklyn lord’s eyes for a moment, before he let out a dismissive scoff. “And where exactly is the Storm King?” “He is preoccupied with another conflict in Dorne,” Barron answered with a frustrated sigh. “As it happens, I am preoccupied with a conflict of my own,” Renly shot back. “I’ve heard,” Barron said, just barely containing his anger. “This petty feud between you and Lord Staunton must be put to an end at once. The coming war in Riverlands is more important.” “It is not my war,” Renly insisted. Barron narrowed his eyes as he glared at Renly, but the old lord didn’t falter under his gaze. “It will be your war sooner or later,” Barron said sternly. “I’m sure you’ve read your history and know that there was once a time when the Justmans ruled over Duskendale. If this Lucifer manages to take Riverlands, this is where he will turn to next.” For a moment Renly Darklyn remained silent, clearly considering Barron’s words. “March with me to crush Lord Staunton, and I will march with you to crush Lucifer Justman,” he offered after a while. “No,” Barron refused firmly. “We shall arrange an exchange of hostages with Lord Staunton, and I will lead the peace negotiations between the two of you.” Renly frowned and clenched his fists, clearly reluctant to Barron’s proposal. “This conflict was started by him,” he hissed. “I didn’t kill his fool of a son, and I owe him nothing.” “I know of the things you’ve done over the years, Lord Renly,” Barron said coldly. “You should consider yourself lucky that I am here to help you resolve your disputes for you, and not to charge you for your numerous crimes.” For a moment Renly looked like he wanted to argue against Barron, but then he just let out a joyless chuckle and stood up from his seat. “Fine then, we shall do it your way, Prince Barron,” he begrudgingly agreed. “You shall see for yourself what a stubborn buffoon Lord Staunton is.” |
|
|
|
Post by WildlingKing on Sept 22, 2019 21:24:33 GMT
Walton VI The hundred-or-so riders led by Lord Symon Tarly, Walton Manderly and Ser Halmon Hunt had been on the road for over a week. On the way they had been joined by a couple dozen freeriders and hedge knights. They had passed through the southern plains, crossed the Cockleswent at Ashford, and on the tenth day they reached the Blueburn and the Three Bridges – the seat of House Bridges. On the way they had come across a continuous stream of thousands of civilians escaping the war to south. Every castle since Ashford that they came across had been left with a skeleton garrison as the soldiers had marched north, and it looked like that was the case in Three Bridges as well. The ancestral home of House Bridges was built on two islands on the Blueburn, connected to each other and to the river’s shores by dark stone bridges. Lord Symon and his men rode over the first bridge and entered the courtyard on the island closer to the southern shore, where the castle’s stables, barracks, smithy, kennel and small sept were located. On that courtyard they were approached by a broad man on his fifties who introduced himself as Ser Humfrey Hastwyck, the master-at-arms of the Three Bridges. “Oh, how I’d love to march by your side against the Lannisters, Lord Tarly,” the man claimed as he escorted them to the bridge connecting the two islands. “Unfortunately, Lord Bridges has tasked me with the duties of castellan while he is gone.” “We all have our roles to play, ser,” Symon responded with a respectful tone. Ser Humfrey held the Tarly men an abundant feast at the castle’s great hall, with fruits and plants of the latest harvest, roasted quail and goose, many sorts of sausages, and of course barrels of ale. Ser Halmon played the lute and sang amusing songs about drinking and whoring – which he seemed to know dozens of – throughout the night. The men in the hall sang along, laughed and cheered, but somehow it felt hollow to Walton. The laughter always ended too suddenly and was followed by moments of haunting silence. Every man here knows this might be their last pleasant evening in this world. Towards the end of the night Halmon sang a sad song about a mother waiting for her sons to return from war: The lord’s man came one day to levy my sons.
He said: “March on, sons o’ the Reach!”
I wept and sobbed as they marched away,
off to war to fight for their king.
March on, sons o’ the Reach!
Oh, march on, sons o’ the Reach!
The war ahead is long, and your brothers will die,
but I’ll pray for you to come back.
Now I beg for the gods to spare my sons,
as they march through death and sorrow.
They are still so young, and full of life,
and I pray for them to come back.
March on, sons o’ the Reach!
Oh, march on, sons o’ the Reach!
The war ahead is long, and your brothers will die,
but I’ll pray for you to come back.
A year has gone by, and the seasons have changed,
yet I still wait for you to march home.
Mother give us peace, and save my sons,
till then I pray for them to come back.
March on, sons o’ the Reach!
Oh, march on, sons o’ the Reach!
The war ahead is long, and your brothers will die,
but I’ll pray for you to come back.
The lord’s man came back, riding his black horse.
With a sullen face he told me:
“Your sons have died to protect this land.”
Oh, how I prayed for them to come back.
March on, sons o’ the Reach!
Oh, march on, sons o’ the Reach!
The war has taken your lives, and left me with grief,
but I’ll pray for you to find peace.By the time the song was over Walton noticed many of the soldiers swiping tears from their eyes and cheeks. It also made him wonder if he’d ever see his mother again, and whether she even knew her son was about to ride into battle by Lord Tarly’s side. The thought tied his stomach in knots, but it also made him feel some queer, grim sort of pride. He was a son of the Reach and would go to battle to protect the land of his forefathers. I wonder who delivers the news to Lady Alicent in case I fall. Next morning they continued their ride towards Stonebridge, under dark grey clouds that occasionally showered them with short bursts of rain. Shortly before sundown they reached Stonebridge, finding the town and fort still in the hands of Reachmen and no Lannisters in sight. It was hard to estimate how large an army exactly manned the Stonebridge, but Walton was sure it couldn’t be much more than five thousand. Above the camp erected on the flat fields at the feet of House Caswell’s seat could be seen flying a diverse set of banners, from the Caswell’s yellow centaur on white to Fossoway’s red apple on gold, Ashford’s white sun-and-chevron on orange, Roxton’s golden rings on sky-blue, Meadows’ colorful flowers on green, Cockshaw’s red, white and gold feathers on black, Bridges’ black stone bridge over three blue streams on white and gold, Sloane’s white stars on indigo and orange sun on yellow, Norridge’s flaming arrows on blue, Middlebury’s green and white diamonds and black saltires on yellow, and Hastwyck’s olive and ivory bars. The castle of Stonebridge wasn’t a particularly large one, but the lowlands surrounding it made the stone-and-timber keep look taller than it truly was. While Ser Halmon remained in charge of the men setting up their camp, Lord Symon and Walton rode ahead. Hundreds of men were at work, fortifying the southern banks of the Mander, as well as the ancient bridge that crossed it. Wooden spikes had been erected into the riverbank, to prevent the Lannisters from charging through the river east of the bridge where it was shallow enough for crossing, caltrops had been scattered on the bridge, and at its southern end stood a two feet thick and ten feet tall wooden barrier with a dozen arrowslits and twice as many iron spikes pointing towards the attackers. Symon and Walton found Lord Oscar Caswell by the castle’s northern gates, overlooking the ballistae being raised atop the walls with winches. The Caswell lord was a stout and strong man on his late forties with close-set blue eyes, short sandy hair that was receding and close-cropped beard of a slightly darker tone. He put a cheerful grin on his face as he greeted and welcomed the Tarly lord. “Lions have drowned on that river before,” he said confidently, putting his hand on Symon’s shoulder. “Let us drown some more of them together, friend.” “Do you know when they will be here?” Symon asked calmly. “The scouts that returned today say they’ll be here within two days,” Oscar answered, his confidence notably flaking. “They say that over twenty-thousand men march towards us under the Lannister banners.” “They won’t find an easy triumph here,” Symon assured his friend. Symon and Walton ate a modest dinner at the keep, after which they made their way atop the castle’s walls. The sun had just set beneath the horizon in the west, the silver moon and stars beginning to glimmer in the indigo sky. The torches of the men guarding the riverbanks were reflected on the calm and dark waters of Mander. All kinds of sounds could be heard from the camp, distant singing and chatting, horses, swords being sharpened. Despite all that, standing there under the night sky felt strangely peaceful. “Lord Symon, there is something I need to tell you,” Walton suddenly spoke up, unsure what overcame him. “Yes?” Symon asked calmly, giving him a curious look. For a moment Walton struggled with his words. “It’s just… Either of us could die in this coming battle,” he muttered, to which Symon chuckled softly. “I am aware,” he quipped with a sad thin smirk. “No, but there is something that happened before Prince Perceon’s tourney, something I should’ve told you about,” Walton said with a gulp, taking in a deep breath before continuing. “Back when the Vyrwels were visiting Horn Hill, I overheard something, after the feast.” Symon narrowed his eyes as he looked at him. “Overheard what?” “Lord Ilyn, speaking with his brother,” Walton said nervously. “They were talking about a plot led by Lord Peake against my family. It’s been a while so it’s hard to remember every word, but it’s clear they mean to start a war against my father, against House Manderly. I… just thought I should tell you, in case I die fighting against the Lannisters.” For a moment Symon studied his squire’s face with his eyes, and Walton was afraid he wouldn’t believe him. However, then Symon nodded calmly. “That was why you were asking those strange questions before the tourney,” he deduced. “Why didn’t you tell me then?” Walton turned his gaze down in embarrassment. “I… didn’t know if I could trust you,” he admitted with a sigh. “Your daughter is married to Lord Ilyn’s heir and carries his child. How could I ask you to… well, turn against your own family?” Symon let out a deep sigh, turning his gaze away from Walton. “Have you told your family about this?” he asked quietly. “Yes.” “I see,” Symon said, turning to look at Walton again. He was clearly distraught by what he had heard, but managed to give Walton a reassuring smile nonetheless. “For now, we have a war to fight against the Lannisters. After that we shall take care of this mess, peacefully. I do not want a civil war in the Reach, and I’m sure neither does King Greydon.” “Will you speak with the King about this?” Walton asked, his eyes widening slightly. “I will,” Symon promised. “After the war.” “I’m glad to hear that,” Walton said with genuine relief. “I just… can’t understand what Lord Peake has against my family.” For a moment Symon didn’t say anything. “I consider your father a friend,” he finally spoke up, weighing his words carefully. “However, there are many great lords in this kingdom who do not have such a high opinion of him, Lord Peake least of all it seems. Together with lords Hightower and Redwyne your father holds a wealth much greater than even the royal family. Some see it as a threat to the kingdom’s stability. Some even whisper that the reason King Greydon hasn’t raised the royal tariffs in Oldtown, Arbor and Dunstonbury during his reign is because he fears to upset the three of his wealthiest bannermen.” “But… My father has never shown himself to be in anyway treacherous towards the Gardeners,” Walton said with some confusion, and Lord Symon gave him an understanding nod. “It isn’t about any actions taken,” he said. “Or even words spoken. It’s about the potential of how things might unfold in the future. Hightowers and Redwynes alone, however wealthy they may be, could never threaten the authority the Gardeners have over the rest of the Reach. However, if they were to ally themselves with the Manderlys, whose ambitions of ruling over the Reach in the past have not been forgotten, and it is a whole different situation. I know your father has no such plans, but I also understand the concerns that some lords may have. All it takes is one dispute, one perceived insult or moment of reckless ambition, and the Kingdom of Reach could be torn in two.” “Concerns… or greed,” Walton replied tensely. The Peakes had attempted to claim rulership over the Reach in the past as well, they were just as guilty of that as the Manderlys. The only difference was that House Manderly had found its dignity and managed to maintain and increase its wealth and power since the last civil war, while the Peakes had grown bitter and jealous. “Be that as it may, we are all sons of the Reach,” Symon reminded him. “Gardeners and Hightowers, Tarlys and Vyrwels, Peakes and Manderlys. All of us. And we shall settle this as kin.” |
|
|
|
Post by WildlingKing on Sept 26, 2019 19:45:16 GMT
Allyria II The sun was about to set, painting the sea and sky with gold, orange and red. The colors of House Martell, Allyria thought with a smile as she looked at the rough waters through the stained glass windows in the main cabin of the Divider. Usually the spacious room was reserved for Captain Albion Greyjoy, but he had courteously offered it for Princess Allyria to reside in during this journey. They had left Sunspear that morning. Princess Nymeria had looked concerned sending her youngest daughter on a mission to the seas. “When you meet the Crimson Prince and his people, tell them they are welcome here in Dorne, if they pledge their loyalty to House Nymeros Martell,” she had quietly instructed Allyria, out of earshot from Captain Albion or other members of the Outcast Company. Allyria’s older sister Sarella had kissed her on both cheeks and told her that she believed in her. “Perhaps I will be an aunt by the time I come back,” Allyria had responded cheerfully, softly stroking her sister’s pregnant belly. Allyria’s eleven-year-old half-brother Vorian Dayne had also begged to come with her, but Nymeria had heard none of it. I wonder how soon I’ll see them all again. A sudden knock on the door shifted Allyria back to the present and made her turn away from the windows. “Come in,” she chirped. The door was opened and in stepped Ser Samwell Dayne, one of the seven royal guards Nymeria had assigned with protecting Allyria during this mission. “Good evening, my princess,” the young knight spoke with an overtly polite tone and deep bow. “Don’t be like that, Sam,” Allyria said with a chuckle, which brought a grin on Samwell’s face. He was the firstborn son of Ser Jamison Dayne, a famed knight and second son of King Vorian Dayne. Princess Nymeria and Prince Mors had defeated and subjugated the Daynes twenty years ago, which was before Allyria had even been born, and Sam too had been just a babe. “Everything alright?” the Dayne knight asked as he took a seat. “Sure,” Allyria responded with a relaxed shrug. She had sailed before; her longest voyage having been to Starfall and back four years ago. However, the fact that they were sailing to battle felt quite absurd, and Allyria had to keep reminding herself that that was indeed where they were heading. Of course, she would be kept far away from the fighting, but the thought still almost made her feel nauseous. “This mission is probably the most important thing I’ve ever done. It’s exciting, but also… a bit unnerving.” “I understand,” Sam said with a reassuring nod. He was a tall and handsome young man, with flowing dark hair and lilac eyes that he had got from his father. In truth Allyria had had a crush on him since the day he arrived in Sunspear three years ago, freshly knighted and pledging his service to Nymeria. However, back then she had hardly been more than a little girl, having just had her first flowering. He still sees me as a girl, not a woman, Allyria thought as she studied Sam’s chiseled face with her eyes. She was also convinced that Sam regularly visited the brothels in Shadow City, which were filled with beautiful and skilled women she would have no chance of competing with. Unless he is enticed by a maiden’s innocence. “Tell me, Sam, what is the most exciting thing that has ever happened to you?” Allyria decided to ask. “The most exciting thing?” Sam repeated her words with a raised eyebrow, taking in a deep breath. “Well, the first thing that comes to mind is that time I, my twin brother Ferris and our father got caught up in a sandstorm on our way from Clearhaven to Sandstone. My steed bolted and galloped away from Jamison and Ferris. After the sandstorm was over my horse was bitten by a viper in the sand, which made it rise on its hind legs, throwing me to the sand. I quickly killed the snake, and found the horse laying down and wailing in pain nearby. So, I killed it too and made myself a camp in the desert. I ate some horse and snake meat and laid to rest, and by dawn my father and brother found me.” “Sounds more terrifying than exciting,” Allyria said with a stilted chuckle. “How old were you then?” “Thirteen, I think,” Sam responded with a smirk. “Maybe you’re right though, perhaps that grand tourney in Lemonwood last year better fits the word ‘exciting’. Even though I’m still bitter about that loss against Lord Jeremie Gargalen on the third round, I was so close to unhorsing him in the first tilt.” Allyria remembered it quite well, even though the jousting itself had been perhaps her least favorite part of the tourney. She didn’t enjoy watching men breaking each other’s bones with lances, but she had quite enjoyed the grand feasts in Lemonwood’s gardens, with mummers, poets and minstrels from across Dorne and beyond entertaining the nobility of the Principality all night. “It was the first time I got drunk,” Allyria said amusedly. “I remember, my princess,” Sam responded with a smile. “You giggle a lot when you’re drunk.” Allyria blushed in embarrassment. “Oh no, please, let’s not talk about that,” she said with a little giggle. “As your highness commands,” Sam replied teasingly. “Anyway, the sun’s almost down. I should probably go to sleep, Ser Mateo Toland will guard your door tonight.” “Goodnight, ser,” Allyria said politely, and Sam gave her another bow at the door. “Goodnight, my princess.” Around the noon of the next day they arrived at the Broken Arm of Dorne, and after following the jagged coastline for another hour they could see the large and colorful fleet of the pirate king Vyros Nahyr. The ships were huddled by a lofty cliffside, which hid them from the north. Where the Stormlanders are coming from, Allyria realized. Allyria stood at the prow of the Divider, in the company of five members of the crew. Hakon Sparr was a gruff and seasoned ironborn raider on his mid-sixties, his age and experience marked by his thin white hair and the half-a-dozen scars streaking his weary face, one of them having blinded his left eye. Maester George was a sworn maester of the Citadel on his early forties, who had served for a time in the Pyke, until joining Albion’s crew because his services weren’t appreciated by Lord Dagon Greyjoy. Tyra Iheira was a buxom and blue-haired Tyroshi woman on her mid-twenties, as well as a disowned daughter of a magister. Faye Morrigen was a young and pretty Stormlander woman, couple years older than Allyria, who had been captured by Tyroshi pirates a little over a year ago and later joined the Divider’s crew after they had defeated said Tyroshi pirates in battle and rescued her. And then there was Ser Arthur Jast, twenty-year-old Westerman and the only anointed knight in the Outcast Company, who had joined due to lack of other prospects as the third son of Lord Jast’s younger brother. They truly are a company of outcasts, Allyria had come to realize as she got to know the members of the crew. They approached King Vyros’s flagship, a Pentoshi war galley with two-hundred oars, which according to Hakon was called Kestrel. Allyria was escorted on the Kestrel’s deck by three of her royal guards – Samwell Dayne, Boran Sargen and Artos Sand – as well as Albion Greyjoy and Fenris Snow, while Hakon Sparr and Tyra Iheira carried the large chest of Martell gold. On the deck they were quickly approached by whom Allyria assumed to be King Vyros, a tall and lean man on his late forties with a bald head and thick black mustache, clad in green and black silks and satins. By his side was an at least a decade younger and distinctly Valyrian man, with a pretty cleanshaven face, large and attentive violet eyes and silky platinum hair that reached well beneath his shoulders. “Welcome aboard my humble ship, princess,” King Vyros spoke up with a respectful bow, while Hakon and Tyra lowered the chest of gold at his feet. “I am Vyros Nahyr, King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, and this here is my companion Laegor Galiar from the Free City of Lys.” “A pleasure to meet you, Your Grace,” Allyria responded with a curtsey. “I am Princess Allyria Nymeros Martell, the fourth daughter of Princess Nymeria and the late Prince Mors. Captain Albion as your representative agreed to a contract with my mother, and the price you asked for your service will be paid in three installments.” Allyria handed the contract to the pirate king as she spoke, and he read through it quickly. “And I take it this is the first installment?” Vyros asked calmly, looking at the gold at his feet. “Yes, Your Grace, five thousand pieces of gold,” Allyria confirmed. “Five thousand more will be paid once the threat of the Stormlanders has been averted, and the last five thousand six turns of moon after that. In addition to that, I will act as the envoy you required for the negotiations with the Crimson Prince.” “Fantastic,” Vyros said with an unctuous smile on his face. “Thorio!” he yelled, and quickly an older one-eyed man with a bushy dark beard approached him. “Take the gold down to the hold and count it with Jago.” “At once, Your Grace,” the man grunted dutifully, and carried the chest away with the help of another crewman. As they had descended under the deck, Vyros shifted his attention to Allyria again. “Now that we’re done with the formalities, perhaps Your Radiance would like to join me for some refreshments at my cabin,” the pirate king offered courteously. “I would love to discuss with you in private.” Allyria instinctively glanced at Sam, which Vyros clearly noticed. “Have no fear, my princess, a dignified conversation is all I am asking,” he assured gently. “It would take just a few minutes of your time.” “Of course, Your Grace,” Allyria agreed with a shy smile, and so Vyros led her to his lavish quarters at the stern of the ship. As they sat down on the cushioned chairs by the round oak table, they were served octopus soup and pale amber wine. “A Pentoshi vintage,” Vyros told after taking his first sip. “I understand Pentos isn’t exactly famed for its wines, but having grown up there I have a taste for it.” “It’s good,” Allyria complimented politely. Sure, she preferred Dornish reds, but as far as white wines went she had certainly had worse. “So, was your father a king?” she inquired curiously, to which Vyros reacted by shaking his head with a hearty laugh. “No, I’m afraid my father was nothing more than a lowly seaman, who died on the seas before reaching his fiftieth nameday.” “Then how did you become a king, Your Grace?” Allyria asked with a raised eyebrow. “I used to be a sellsail captain, back when this war between Myr and Tyrosh began,” Vyros started calmly, taking in a deep breath with a small smile on his face. “The Myrmen hired me, along with dozens of other captains. I fought with them in one battle near Tyrosh, but the fighting turned against us and I retreated south to the Stepstones, following one of the Myrish crews. Soon we came across two pirate ships, and I knew we were in trouble. Sure, we had the bigger ships, but they were also damaged from the battle and filled with tired and injured men. So, I attacked the Myrish ship before the pirates could, and thus they spared me and my Kestrel. The captains of those two pirate ships were Sallyrio Saan and Aelor Celtigar, whom I quickly befriended. They told me they were on the hunt for a certain Lyseni galley transporting a great treasure to the Archon of Tyrosh and offered me a share if I joined them in the hunt.” “And you did?” Allyria asked tensely, gulping down the rest of her wine. “Aye, I did,” Vyros answered with a grin. “And it was the best decision I ever made. You see, we managed to ambush and capture that ship by the Skulls, and the treasure inside it was even greater than any of us had imagined. Enough gold to make a king, ten times over.” “And what about Saan and Celtigar?” Allyria asked with a frown. “Did they not want to become kings?” “Celtigar took his men and newfound fortune elsewhere, hoping to establish himself a seat on some sorry little isle by Blackwater Bay,” Vyros explained with a shrug. “As for Saan, I still see him as an equal, but he never had an interest in crowns or titles.” “Yet you aren’t the only one who claims kingship over these waters,” Allyria remarked calmly. Vyros’s smile died down, but he didn’t look angry. “Yes, Dagaphos Bluebeard has admittedly claimed the title of the King of Stepstones longer than I have. However, we’ve pushed him and his crews out of Merman’s Rest, Blackstone, Grey Gallows, Bloodstone and Darkstone, and for the past year he has been hiding in his Shadow Fort in Little Tyrosh. Meanwhile, the Crimson Prince and his freed slaves have taken hold of the Skulls.” “Why do you think an alliance is possible with the Crimson Prince, but not with Dagaphos Bluebeard?” Allyria inquired. “You have a lot of questions, sweet princess,” Vyros said with a soft chuckle, before giving an answer. “Well, for one I have so far avoided any conflict with the Crimson Prince. I also know him to be a man truly in charge of his own decisions, whereas Dagaphos is little more than a puppet of the Tyroshi.” “I see,” Allyria said, but quickly another question sprung into her mind. “Why do you even need an alliance with the Crimson Prince? You said you drove Dagaphos Bluebeard away, could you not do the same with him?” “I would not need an alliance if I could trust that the war between Myr and Tyrosh will never end, or that the Freehold of Valyria itself will never turn its wrath towards Stepstones,” Vyros said with a deep sigh. “However, I am not so naïve. I recently heard that the Freehold had crushed a corsair king who had reigned over the Basilisk Isles for nine years uncontested. The dragon’s head may turn slowly, but it would be foolish of me to assume they will forever ignore even these crude islands at the edge of their vast empire.” Allyria had heard stories about the greed and savagery of the Valyrian dragonlords plenty of times from her mother, which made her sympathize with Vyros. Against the Freehold he would truly need all the help he could get. “Do you know when the Stormlander fleet will come?” she changed the topic. “Soon, most likely,” Vyros answered calmly. “I have men with far-eyes atop those cliffs. We’ll know of the Stormlander fleet hours before it is here.” “You have a strong fleet, Your Grace, but are you sure it is strong enough to turn back the Stormlanders?” Allyria asked. “It is,” the pirate king assured confidently, and that concluded their meeting. As she made her way out, Allyria was immediately approached by Samwell Dayne. “What do you think about this Vyros?” he asked quietly, escorting her back towards the Divider. “I’m not sure,” Allyria admitted. “But I think we can trust him, at least for now.” To that Sam let out a nervous little laughter. “I don’t think it is ever wise to trust a pirate, much less a pirate who calls himself king,” he said, glancing around himself to make sure Vyros’s men weren’t listening. “I don’t think we have much a choice, Sam,” Allyria responded with a sigh. The rest of the day was calm and boring, and Allyria spent it chatting with the crew of the Divider. Maester George told her stories about legendary Iron Kings of the ancient times, some of which she recalled having heard from Maester Olivar in the past. As they were eating supper Allyria asked Faye Morrigen why she hadn’t gone back home after being rescued from the Tyroshi pirates, to which she answered something about how she now saw the Outcast Company as her true family, and went on to excitedly explain how happy she was living free of all the expectations and rules that came with being a noble lord’s daughter. Allyria found Faye to be a good person, even if a bit eccentric. As the sunset was drawing nearer Allyria asked Fenris Snow how he had ended up as member of the Outcast Company. The young Northman didn’t seem particularly eager to talk about it but revealed nonetheless that he had almost joined the Night’s Watch three years ago before meeting Albion and his crew at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. “Thank the gods I hadn’t yet spoken my vows for the Watch,” he said with a grim look on his icy blue eyes. “Why did you consider joining the Night’s Watch in the first place?” Allyria asked curiously. Fenris turned his gaze down towards the waters below them, and for a moment she thought he would just ignore her question. “A bastard child of a Stark and a Bolton is welcome nowhere in the North,” he finally spoke quietly. “Except the Wall. Every man is welcome at the Wall, because the Night’s Watch needs every man it can get.” “Are Starks and Boltons enemies?” “Always have been,” Fenris answered with a deep sigh, “but now more so than ever. There was a war between them ten years ago. My father died in that war. He was a Stark prince, third son of King Eyron. Fat load of good it did for me, the Starks never allowed me into Winterfell. But at least my father still came to see me every now and then, until the war happened. I had lived in Winter Town my whole life, but suddenly the people there started to call me a bastard of a Bolton, taking out on me all their anger and grief from having lost loved ones to Bolton blades. And as for my Bolton mother, well, I had been separated from her the day that I was born, and she had been married off to some lesser noble lord she went on to give legitimate children for. There was no way I could’ve ever been accepted among them. I could’ve gone to Dreadfort, I suppose. However, as much as I was despised in Winter Town for being one, the Boltons to me were nothing but strangers who had killed my father.” “I’m… sorry to hear what you’ve had to go through,” Allyria said apologetically. It was so strange to her, how they were both of royal blood, but just because Fenris was a bastard his life had been so different from hers. “No need, my princess,” Fenris said with a thin smile. “I’m happy now, as part of the Outcast Company.” |
|
|
|
Post by edinosaur22 on Sept 27, 2019 18:48:38 GMT
Well then, now we know Jamison's sons will live into adulthood, as well as Jeremie Gargalen and Mateo Toland. Is always pretty interesting when we see how characters from Nymeria's War have grown.
And it does feel like a lot of time.
|
|
|
|
Post by WildlingKing on Sept 30, 2019 21:17:23 GMT
Bernarr II A thin layer of snow covered the ground and large wet snowflakes floated slowly through the air. Whenever one landed on Bernarr’s face or clothes it quickly melted into water. “Summer snows,” Torren Ironthorns had grunted when it began to snow early in the morning. “These will melt away before we reach Winterfell.” The Bolton army of nearly thousand men had begun their march from the Dreadfort six days ago, called to serve the King in the North. Bernarr knew that in the past Bolton lords and kings could’ve mustered armies three times the size of this, but his grandfather’s war had taken its toll. There had also been some who had refused to honor their liege’s call to arms, but fewer than Bernarr had feared, and even most of them had agreed to pay a fee of silver for the Boltons. Those that hadn’t had been hanged. By Bernarr’s side rode the captain of his guards Torren Ironthorns, as well as Big Ben, a strong and heavyset guardsman on his late forties who had served the Boltons for over two decades. They were both good and loyal men, but Bernarr still found himself wishing that Maester Mylon could’ve marched with him. After the war the old maester had been his pillar of strength to lean upon, being the closest thing to a parent he had left. However, maester’s duties were with the castle they served. “Why do you suppose King Harlon wants to march on Cape Kraken now?” Big Ben suddenly asked with a frown upon his round and bearded face. “Starks have fought for the dominion of Cape Kraken against the Ironborn many times in the past,” Bernarr remarked calmly. He had no trouble imagining that Harlon Stark coveted the glory of being the King in the North who reclaimed Cape Kraken after the Hoares having held it for centuries. However, Bernarr himself had no interest in that distant piece of land, nor had he ever even met a single ironborn. “Aye, but why now?” Big Ben insisted. “As far as I see there’s no difference between this year and the last, or the one before it. The only thing that’s changed is that now winter is almost upon us. So, why has he waited this long?” “Perhaps something else has changed as well,” Ironthorns suggested dryly. “Aye, perhaps the Stark king has grown so tired of wrestling with his bear of a wife that he needs to make war to get away from her,” Ben quipped with a gruff laughter. For a moment Bernarr could see the thinnest of smirks forming on Torren’s face. “You better watch your tongue in Winterfell, Ben,” the captain then sternly warned his subordinate. “Aye, I’m not an idiot, cap,” Big Ben assured with a grin that revealed his sparse and yellow line of teeth. Shortly after noon that day they reached the White Knife. The water was clear and ran swiftly, and Bernarr could see bright yellow and red leaves floating on it. He halted his horse at the riverbank, while his troops began to wade their way across the river. “Is this the ford…” he started but cut himself off with a subtle gulp. “That your father and brother died in?” Ironthorns asked bluntly, having halted by his side. “Yes, mylord.” For a moment Bernarr felt dizzy as he looked at the running water. He had never been to a battle, but he could vividly imagine the one that had taken place here a decade ago. Thousands of men under the banners of Bolton, Grastan, Hornwood, Lightfoot and Ashwood on this side of the river, and on the other side thousands more under the banners of the Starks and their bannermen. The river must have run red that day. “The battle was lost when your father fell, mylord,” Big Ben said with a sigh. “The Hornwoods were the first to abandon the battlefield, and Ashwoods quickly followed once their lord died. Lord Grastan died fighting as well, and Lord Lightfoot surrendered and bent the knee to the Starks. Those who refused to do so were killed on the spot, butchered like animals and thrown into the river.” “The war was lost that day,” Ironthorns muttered. “But at least we killed enough of them that King Harlon didn’t dare attempt to take the Dreadfort by storm.” Perhaps it would’ve been better if you hadn’t, Bernarr thought but didn’t say. After three more days of marching they arrived at Winterfell, seeing the fromidable host that had already gathered on the fields east of the ancient fortress of the Starks. Aside from the Starks’ grey direwolf on white, Bernarr spotted among the banners House Hornwood’s brown bullmoose with black antlers on orange, House Umber’s roaring brown giant on red, and House Lake’s seven green pommes on brown. Near the Winter Town could also be seen some white sunbursts on black of Prince Karlon Stark, who had been given lordship over the lands that once belonged to House Grastan, where he had after the war built his own seat called Karl’s Hold. It was hard to tell, but Bernarr reckoned that with the addition of his troops the army was already well over five thousand men strong. He left Big Ben in charge of the troops as they began to set up their camp, and rode towards the main gates of Winterfell together with Torren Ironthorns. The gates of the outer wall were open, and the drawbridge lowered. However, the gates of the inner walls were closed, and a guardsman at the gatehouse demanded them to announce themselves. “This is Bernarr of House Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort,” Ironthorns announced him with a booming voice. The guardsman glared at them for a few seconds, before commanding the gates be opened. Riding into the courtyard, Bernarr immediately noticed the cold stares. Whether people of the Stark household or soldiers of their bannermen, none there had any love for the Boltons. Or so Bernarr assumed. “Lord Bolton!” Bernarr heard someone yelling as they had taken their horses to the stables. Turning around, he saw a dark haired and broad-shouldered man on his mid-twenties approaching them with a confident grin on his face. From the bullmoose embroidered on the man’s orange gambeson Bernarr deduced that this had to be Harrion Hornwood, the grandson of Lord Harwin Hornwood. “You are Lord Bernarr Bolton, right?” he asked as he got closer, and Bernarr gave him a tense nod. “And you’re Harrion Hornwood, I take it?” he calmly asked in return. “I am indeed,” Harrion answered with a smile, patting Bernarr lightly on the shoulder. Harrion had a greasy medium length hair which he had slicked back, piercing blue-green eyes, strong jaw, a patch of beard on his chin, and a pale scar running down his right cheek. Being second cousins they were kin, but Bernarr hadn’t seen Harrion since he was six or seven. “How’s life in Dreadfort these days?” “Quiet and peaceful,” Bernarr answered truthfully. “I heard you became a father recently. Congratulations, mylord,” Harrion said with a small chuckle. “I’ve had three of the little buggers already, you know. Two sons and a daughter. Can’t have much peace and quiet with them.” “Congratulations,” Bernarr said awkwardly, unsure what else he should say. “I would’ve invited you to Hornwood years ago, you know, but grandfather is so bloody terrified of displeasing the Starks that he won’t allow it,” Harrion explained with an apologetic tone. “As for me, I think our houses should stick together, there’s no treason in that. I saw how these people looked at you when you rode in, resentful pricks the lot of them. They hate me too, you know. I slew Prince Herndon the Black Wolf in the Battle of Wolf’s Den.” “This is hardly the place to brag about such things, Hornwood,” Ironthorns sternly asserted himself into the conversation. “Oh, Ironthorns, you crusty old bastard,” Harrion said with a wide grin, lightly nudging the captain on his armored chest. Torren merely frowned at the Hornwood in response. “Lord Bolton,” another voice called before Harrion could speak up again, and this time they were approached by Urrathon Poole, Winterfell’s master-at-arms and Bernarr’s father-in-law. He was a portly man on his late forties with light brown hair and a thick mustache. “I saw you brought a considerable force with you. That is good. Come now, King Harlon has invited you to the great hall.” And without further ado they left Harrion Hornwood at the stables and made their way towards the inner yard. Bernarr had last seen Urrathon nearly five months ago when he had visited Dreadfort to see his newborn grandson. “Are Unella and the boy still in good health?” he asked as they walked through the archway leading into the inner yard. “They are,” Bernarr answered calmly. Urrathon had never been anything but courteous towards him, but he could still feel there was tension between them, tension that had been there since the day Bernarr had wed Unella. He still fears that his daughter is in danger at Dreadfort. Bernarr considered saying something to alleviate the man’s concerns, but he couldn’t come up with anything before they already reached the doors of the great hall. Entering the great hall, they found it crowded with people. King Harlon Stark sat on his throne at the dais, on his left his wife and heir, and on his right his brother Prince Karlon with two of his sons. In the hall there were dozens of men clad in colors of House Umber, and one of them stood before the dais telling something to the Starks. He was a giant of a man, standing at nearly seven feet tall and towering everyone else in the room. He had a balding head with frizzy dark grey hair and a slightly lighter grey beard that reached his chest. Bernarr deduced that this had to be Orryn Umber, the Lord of Last Hearth and a man on his late fifties. “…I brought the bastard’s head to Lord Commander Dayne myself. I tossed it at his feet, and asked if I should train his men and change his sheets as well while I was at it,” the old man finished his tale, which was followed with some laughter from the men in the hall. “Bjamir the Climber has been a constant nuisance since before my reign,” Harlon spoke up with a calm but authoritative tone. “You’ve done a great service for the Night’s Watch and the North in killing him, Lord Umber. It shall be rewarded accordingly.” Quietly Urrathon had made his way to the dais, and now whispered something to his king’s ears. Immediately Harlon’s grey eyes darted into the back of the hall and found Bernarr. He could feel others shifting their gazes toward him as well, which tied his stomach in knots. “Lord Bolton, approach,” the King in the North commanded. With stiff steps Bernarr walked through the hall that had fallen silent. Some of the Umber men dragged their feet as they made way for him, glaring at him as he walked past them. Some looked at him with bitter anger, others with mockery or even pity. However, the look on Lord Umber’s face was downright murderous, which was more than just a little frightening. Ignoring them all, Bernarr kneeled before the dais and bowed down his head. “I, Lord Bernarr of House Bolton, have come to honor your call to arms, Your Grace,” he spoke solemnly. A few lingering seconds of silence went by before the King spoke up. “Rise, Lord Bolton,” Harlon commanded calmly. As he did so, Bernarr’s eyes met with those of the Stark king. The look in them was cold and steely, but not hateful. Harlon was a sturdy man on his mid-fifties, with a bushy dark grey beard and a receding hairline, which was at least partly covered by the ancient bronze-and-iron crown resting on his head. Queen Elyana Stark, who was a few years younger than her husband, looked at Bernarr with dull indifference. She was a robust woman with the blood of House Mormont, and while she had never been known for her beauty, she had given the King five healthy children. Beside her sat the King’s heir, Prince Benjen Stark, who had an almost as murderous of a look in his grey eyes as Lord Umber when he stared down at Bernarr. He was a stocky man on his mid-thirties with a broad face, dark brown hair, and a thick but well-groomed full beard. The look on Prince Karlon’s attentive eyes on the other hand was more curious than resentful. The King’s younger brother was commonly known among northmen as the Sun of Winter, a moniker reflecting his cheerful and humorous nature. He was just two years younger than the King, but looked about a decade younger, with fewer wrinkles on his face, and his pointy brown beard only just having began to grey. His two sons who sat beside him, both strong lads on their early to mid-twenties, mostly avoided looking at Bernarr. “Welcome to Winterfell, Lord Bernarr,” King Harlon said with a formal tone. “I am honored by your hospitality, Your Grace,” Bernarr responded tensely, hearing Lord Umber let out a mocking scoff behind him. “Traitor’s blood,” someone in the crowd said, which was followed by a few seconds of murmurs, until King Harlon stood up from his seat, which quickly quieted the hall down again. “I would like to have a few words with Lord Bolton in private,” the King spoke loudly. “Out, all of you.” He glanced at his wife, son, brother and nephews to signal that he meant them as well. The King’s command was obeyed, and with some chatter everyone except King Harlon and Lord Bernarr left the hall. Prince Benjen was the last to leave the room, and after he had closed the doors behind him Harlon sat down on his throne again. “Be honest with me, Bolton, did you consider not honoring my call?” Harlon asked, his tone nonchalant. “It crossed my mind, Your Grace,” Bernarr admitted, to which the King reacted with a chuckle. “Honesty. That’s good,” Harlon said with a sharp smirk. “I do not need to ask why it crossed your mind, that much is clear. You lost many loved ones to the last war between our houses, a fate I would’ve never wished upon such a young boy. However, do not forget that you are not the only one who lost something to that war. I’m sure you noticed the way Lord Umber looked at you. He lost two sons at the Battle of White Knife. I lost a son that day as well. Prince Beric, my secondborn. Even before that I lost my brother Herndon, who died defending Wolf’s Den against your father’s men. And my noble father King Eyron, while he died of an illness, was certainly hastened on his way to the grave by the grief and stress of the war. Within these walls you will find dozens more of such stories, hundreds more in Winter Town, and thousands all over the North.” “I understand, Your Grace,” Bernarr said with a gulp, turning his gaze down. “My deepest condolences for your losses.” “Piss on that!” Harlon bellowed. “May the others take your condolences, they mean nothing to me, just as mine mean nothing to you. The past is the past, there is no changing what happened yesterday. My eyes are firmly in tomorrow. Not long ago a whisper reached my ears, that King Harmund Hoare has sailed with all his might to wage war in the Reach, leaving Cape Kraken ripe for taking. For generations there hasn’t been such an opportunity. I am willing to leave the past behind. If you are willing to do the same, Lord Bolton, you will have the opportunity to win back the honor of your house in the field of battle, fighting by my side. Are you willing to do that?” “I am, Your Grace,” Bernarr responded with a respectful bow. “I will, Your Grace.” “That is very good to hear,” Harlon said, leaning back on his chair. “However, there is one more thing. Just recently a crow carrying a message written by Lord Commander Dayne arrived here in Winterfell, bringing with it some troubling news from the Wall. I wonder if you’ve heard of these news as well?” “I have not, Your Grace,” Bernarr answered truthfully, wondering what these news from the Wall had to do with him. For a moment the Stark king studied Bernarr’s face with his eyes, perhaps to determine if he was speaking the truth. “It concerns your older brother, Goren Bolton, who has given vows to the Night’s Watch,” Harlon finally said with a small sigh. “He, along with over fifty of his brothers in black, has deserted from the Eastwatch, taking one of the Watch’s ships with him. It is unclear where exactly they have sailed, but Lord Commander Dayne suspects the wildling settlement known as Hardhome, where some King-beyond-the-Wall is rumored to hold court.” “This is the first I hear of this,” Bernarr said quietly, feeling conflicted. He had always felt guilt about the fact that Goren had been punished with life on the Wall for fighting alongside their father in the most important battle of the war, whereas he had been rewarded with lordship for bending his knee after the long and pointless Siege of Dreadfort. There was a part of Bernarr that was genuinely happy that his brother had freed himself from that unjust punishment, but he was also concerned about what might Goren plan to do next. I pray he only yearned for freedom, and not something more. “I believe you, Lord Bolton,” King Harlon said sternly. “However, I remind you that desertion from the Night’s Watch is punishable by death. If Goren finds his way to the North, I’m afraid I will have to kill one more of your brothers.” |
|
|
|
Post by WildlingKing on Oct 7, 2019 15:07:18 GMT
Gwynesse VI The chill of the night still lingered on the air, even if the sun had already risen above the vast green fields of the Reach. Thin and fleecy clouds could be seen high in the sky against the deep blue sky, and despite the noises of the camp around her Gwynesse Goodbrother could hear the singing of the birds in the distance. It was a beautiful and peaceful morning, in stark contrast to the slaughter and ugliness that was soon to come. Gwynesse turned her gaze to south, seeing in the distance Mander and the ancient Stonebridge that crossed it, and beyond it the modest castle and small town named after the bridge, as well as the thousands of Reachmen troops on the riverbanks preparing to face the Lannisters in battle. A wooden barricade reinforced with iron spikes had been constructed to block the southern end of the bridge, and the southern banks of the three reedy fords within four hundred yards upriver from the bridge had all been fortified with wooden spikes, behind which stood long lines of archers ready to rain steel upon whomever would attempt to cross the river. Some six hundred yards upriver from the bridge the flat and open fields turned into a forest. The Lannister army had arrived there late last evening. Some of the westermen lords had urged Prince Tymond to attack during the night, but the crown prince had wisely decided to wait until the morning to properly assess the situation. He had claimed for his quarters an abandoned farmhouse, around which the camp of the Lannister army had been erected. The war council that morning would be held in that farmhouse. Approaching the farmhouse, Gwynesse saw Prince Harmund waiting for him outside by the door. “Good morning, mylady,” he greeted her smoothly, giving her a small kiss. Gwynesse smiled, looking into the prince’s dark eyes. Harmund had been good and kind to her throughout their time together on this march to war, but she still felt conflicted about him. The words of Ser Aubrey Crakehall haunted her mind. I want you to question whether Prince Harmund is the kind of man you imagine him to be. “Have they already started?” Gwynesse asked nervously, glancing inside the common room of the farmhouse behind Harmund. He shook his head. “We’re still waiting for Lord Banefort and Ser Aubrey,” he said, now glancing behind Gwynesse. “Oh, there they come.” The room was crowded with the noble lords and knights, all gathered around a small table that Prince Tymond and his son Prince Tywell sat around. “Mylords, time has come to decide how we proceed,” Tymond opened the meeting with a stern and commanding tone. “I say we attack, as soon as possible,” the old Lord Monfryd Banefort spoke bluntly, crossing his arms. “The trebuchets have been built; we outnumber the defenders at least four to one. What are we waiting for?” “I assume you have seen the fortifications at the bridge and the fords, Lord Banefort?” Lord Merrel Payne chimed in dryly. “Attempting to make a crossing here will result in a bloody mess.” “We can overwhelm their defenses,” Lord Banefort insisted. “Sure, men will die, but that’s war. What else is there to do?” “We could attempt to cross the river elsewhere,” Ser Aubrey suggested calmly. “Mander only gets deeper and muddier downriver from here,” Prince Harmund said knowingly, no doubt having read it from some book. “There isn’t a good place to cross it within leagues to the south and west.” “And what about upriver?” Prince Tywell joined in eagerly. “There has to be places suitable for making a crossing in that forest.” “Perhaps so, but I doubt it would be a better option than facing the Reachmen head on here,” Ser Aubrey claimed with a sigh. “They will notice our large army worming its way into the forest and immediately set up ambushes there. It won’t end well.” “There has to be some way to cross that damn river without losing half our men in the process,” Prince Tymond spoke sternly. “If not then we might as well forget this place and march straight to Highgarden.” “Perhaps some of the troops could cross the river in the forest while the rest engage with the defenders here,” Gwynesse spoke up spontaneously. Practically every man in the room shifted their gaze to her in surprise, and only then she realized what she had just done. These noble lords certainly didn’t expect an ironborn girl to have the gall to put forth battle plans for them. “Just an idea, mylords,” she chirped nervously. “It might be an idea worth pursuing, mylady,” Ser Aubrey said politely, before turning towards Prince Tymond again. “My prince, I could send scouts to the forest to find a suitable place for crossing. And if such a place is found I can lead the vanguard there, perhaps in the cover of the night.” “Send the scouts, ser,” Tymond commanded after a moment of hesitation. Then he turned his gaze to Gwynesse and gave her a small and respectful nod, which she tensely reciprocated. “Mylords, we shall continue our planning once Ser Aubrey’s scouts return,” the Lannister prince announced, and thus the meeting was over. After taking a short walk around the camp, Gwynesse and Harmund made their way into his pavilion. There they enjoyed a few cups of wine, Harmund complimented Gwynesse for her excellent idea and the courage to speak up in front of the lords, and soon they found themselves wrapped around each other on the fur mattress, fervently pulling off each other’s clothes once again. He is perfectly happy to use you for his pleasure, the voice of Aubrey spoke inside Gwynesse’s head as they kissed. However, once the handsome prince filled her wet cunt with his stiff manhood the voice disappeared, replaced with pure satisfaction. If he uses me for pleasure, then I surely do the same for him. Once they were done and quietly laid side by side on the mattress, the doubts began to creep back to Gwynesse’s mind. “Harmund, do you love me?” she asked quietly, laying her head against his hairy and muscled chest. “Of course I love you, Gwyn,” Harmund answered with a sweet smile on his face, but his tone was too nonchalant to truly convince her. “Are you sure?” she insisted, now intensely looking him to the eyes. Softly Harmund stroked her cheek. “I love you more than anything I have ever loved, my dear,” he spoke with a warm and reassuring tone. Gwynesse nodded and smiled. “Then… will you take me for your wife?” Harmund hesitated for a moment, turning his eyes towards the blue fabric ceiling of the pavilion for a moment. “I will,” he then promised with a subtle gulp, turning his eyes to her again. “Gwyn, we will be wed once the time is right. You have my word.” “And when will the time be right?” Gwynesse asked, her voice strict but not outright hostile. “Not before the battle,” Harmund responded with a sigh, raising himself now to a sitting position. “I’ve decided that will ride in the vanguard by Ser Aubrey’s side.” “Why?” Gwynesse asked weakly. She hadn’t expected this, she had assumed Harmund would remain with the reserves, far away from the fighting. “Because I am a knight, Gwyn,” Harmund said, a hint of uncertainty in his words. “I must prove myself in the field of battle. Why else would I have come all this way?” Gwynesse grabbed the prince’s arm and looked him in the eyes, wanting to plead for him to not risk his life so recklessly. However, she could already see from his eyes that her words would not persuade him to change his mind. So, instead she guided her hand around Harmund’s cock, which quickly hardened again in her grip. “Then you owe me one more ride, my love,” Gwynesse whispered as she pushed Harmund down on his back and mounted his manhood again. Eventually Ser Aubrey’s scouts returned, reporting that they had indeed found a good spot in the forest for the vanguard to cross the Mander, and so the war council was called together once again. It was decided that Ser Aubrey and the vanguard would cross the river during the night, and by dawn the Lannisters would begin their assault on the fords and the bridge, while the trebuchets would fling rocks at the castle. Someone suggested that they could use the trebuchets to crush the barricade fortifying the bridge, but the idea was quickly shot down due to the risk of crumbling the bridge itself. Lord Westerling would command the infantry on the bridge, and Lords Serrett, Payne and Tarbeck respectively at the fords. Prince Tywell together with Lord Banefort and Lord Reyne would command the cavalry, while Prince Tymond would be in charge of the reserves. “Once the fortifications of the bridge have been breached there will be a signal,” Tymond instructed tensely, his gaze shifting between the many lords and knights in the room, finally arriving at Ser Aubrey. “Until then the vanguard must remain in the forest. Understood?” “Yes, my prince,” Ser Aubrey answered dutifully. “Good,” Tymond said with a stressful sigh. “Prepare your men but do it north of the camp and do it discreetly. You have until nightfall.” Nightfall came all too soon for Gwynesse’s liking. She spent those last hours talking with Harmund, but it was clear the young prince was nervous, perhaps even frightened, of what awaited him tomorrow. Unlike usually between them Gwynesse now led most of the conversations. She told childhood stories from the Iron Isles and talked about what things in the mainland she preferred to the isles and vice versa, about places she wished they could visit together, anything to try and take Harmund’s mind off the war even just for a moment. Harmund smiled, laughed and told stories of his own, and in moments Gwynesse felt that he was fully there with her in that moment, but the fear was always quick to return to his eyes, even if he tried to hide it from her. “Please, don’t die tomorrow,” Gwynesse said with a gulp as the sun was already falling towards the horizon in the west, unable to avoid talking about it anymore. “Battles are unpredictable,” Harmund responded, trying to sound as calm and brave as he could. “My life will be in the hands of the Seven, and I trust that they will protect me.” “You don’t have to do this, Harmund. You’re the heir to the Seastone Chair, the future of the Ironborn, you don’t have anything to prove to me or to anyone,” Gwynesse pleaded. “For my sake, please, stay by my side.” For a moment it looked like Harmund wanted to comply to her, but then he shook his head. “No, Gwyn,” he said tensely. “You don’t understand, I need to do this to prove my worth, to myself most of all. This war serves the interests of my house and kingdom as much as it does the Lannisters. What kind of a man would I be to stay away from the fighting and watch from afar as others get slaughtered? No, I couldn’t do that, it is my duty to fight.” “I do understand,” Gwynesse answered weakly, weeping as she pushed her face against Harmund’s shoulder. “I love you, by the gods, I do. Please, don’t leave me alone in this world.” “I love you too,” Harmund answered quietly, putting his arm around her. As the sun set Ser Aubrey and his men prepared at the northern edge of the camp to ride out into the night, and Gwynesse escorted Prince Harmund to them. “Pray for me, my love,” Harmund said as they separated from their last kiss. “I will,” Gwynesse responded with shaky words, tears welling up in her eyes again. Harmund flashed her one more smile, before mounting his horse and putting on his helmet. By the time the riders disappeared into the night, tears freely streamed down Gwynesse’s cheeks. May the Warrior give strength to your arms, and the Mother grant you mercy. |
|
|
|
Post by WildlingKing on Oct 8, 2019 23:24:17 GMT
Walton VII Thin mist lingered over the green fields, and the light of the morning sun glimmered softly on the surface of Mander. North of the river could be heard the faint sounds of boots thumping against the ground as the Lannister army marched into position for the battle. Walton Manderly sat atop his horse by the side of Lord Symon Tarly, at the head of a cavalry unit of five hundred men commanded by Symon, Lord Bernard Bridges and Ser Garth Meadows. They were situated behind the easternmost of the three fords upriver from the Stonebridge, some four hundred yards away from the castle. There was another cavalry unit of same size closer to the bridge and the castle, commanded by Lord Arstan Roxton, Ser Flement Fossoway and Lord Gordan Middlebury. The four hundred archers positioned behind the wooden spikes by the fords were commanded by Ser Halmon Hunt, Ser Jon Norridge and Merle Flowers – the bastard brother of Ser Flement Fossoway. The three infantry units positioned behind those archers were commanded by Ser Richard Ashford, Lord Armen Cockshaw and Ser Ethan Sloane, and the one by the bridge by Ser Hobert Hastwyck. The castle itself was under the command of Lord Oscar Caswell. All of yesterday the Reachman army had waited for the Lannisters to make their move, but it never came. However, now it seemed clear the Westermen had decided to attack. They outnumber us greatly, Walton thought as he looked at the thousands of Lannister infantrymen marching into position north of the river. Behind those thousands of infantrymen were as many cavalrymen, and further behind them even more men in the reserves. And not only that, there were also three large trebuchets being pushed into position behind the Lannister infantry. Those have the range to hit us, or the castle, Walton realized unnervingly. The defenses set up by the bridge and the fords wouldn’t be easily breached, but still Walton doubted they could prevent such a massive force from crossing the river for long. Eventually arrows would run out and the fortifications be torn down by the attackers. That is when we charge in. TOO-TO-TO-TOO! The Lannister trumpets chimed in the morning, and the Westerman infantry formed into phalanxes at the bridge and the fords, beginning their attempt to cross the river. “Nock!” Yelled the commanders of the archers. “Draw! Loose!” Volleys of arrows rained upon the Lannisters wading through the fords, and while many missed them completely or landed on their shields, the harrowing screams of pain revealed that some also slipped through. Dozens of Lannister corpses floated towards the bridge or sunk under the surface. However, the phalanxes kept slowly but surely marching across the river. The sound of the trebuchets being launched shifted Walton’s attention away from the river. Three large rocks had been flung to the air, and Walton looked with wide open eyes as they flew towards the castle. One of them missed the castle completely, landing on the field east of it. One smashed against the castle’s northern wall just east of the main gate. Walton couldn’t see how much damage that one did, but he did see the third rock crumbling the roof of the northern tower. Meanwhile, the Lannister infantry had reached the southern riverbank at the fords. As they began to hack down the wooden spikes, the Reachmen infantry charged against them, poking the Lannisters back to the river with their pikes. While most of the Lannister soldiers backed down, some bravely fought to death against the defenders, resulting in the battle’s first Reachman casualties. The trebuchets were launched again, flinging three more rocks towards the castle. Two of those rocks hit the northern wall, which was now at least partially crumbled, while the third flew over it and landed on the courtyard. If they cross the river the castle will fall within an hour, Walton grimly realized in that moment. The Lannister infantrymen at the fords was reforming their phalanxes for another attempt to tear down the spikes, while the ones at the bridge had deployed a battering ram and started to pound it against the barricade. The archers kept shooting volleys of arrows, by now having taken down hundreds of Lannister soldiers with them, but more were always sent from the reinforcements. Once more the trebuchets were launched, the rocks this time doing further damage on the northern wall, tower and gatehouse. Shortly after that the barricade at the bridge crumbled with a loud crash, the westermen charged through screaming their battle cries, and a chaotic melee ensued between the attackers and defenders. aHOOOOOOOOOOO! A loud and booming horn was blown somewhere near the bridge, and suddenly the Lannister cavalry began to prepare for a charge across the fords. The infantrymen hadn’t manage to take down all of the wooden spikes, but enough that the cavalry could potentially get through. The pikemen formed a line of defense at the riverbank, but intentionally left a gap for the Reachman cavalry to ride out against the Lannisters. “It’s almost time,” Symon said sternly, glancing at his squire. Walton nodded with a gulp, and pulled down the visor of his helmet. His whole body felt heavy and stiff, his hands were shaking slightly, and cold sweat ran down his forehead. “Men of the Reach!” Symon roared, raising his lance towards the sky. “We have some lions to drown! FOLLOW ME!” The ground shook under the hundreds of hooves striking against it and the men screamed their battle cries as they charged towards the river. Walton saw the enemy riders galloping through the fords with great splashing and rumble, approaching the Reachmen just as fast as they did them. “DUNSTONBURY!” he screamed from the bottom of his lungs, drowning all his fear with the fervor of battle. They clashed with the Lannisters at the beach waters, and for a moment the world was nothing but the chaotic cacophony of breaking lances, shields and bones. Walton managed to knock a knight wearing a silver tabard with a red lion off his horse, but his lance broke in the process. He threw his broken lance away and unsheathed his sword, but by then the Lannister riders were already retreating back to the north of the river. We did it, we turned them back, Walton thought, for just a moment feeling triumphant. “LOOK TO THE EAST!” Someone screamed with a panicked voice. “TO THE EAST! EAST!” They all shifted their attention towards the east, seeing to their shock another Lannister cavalry unit charging towards them. Where in seven hells did they come from?“FORM UP!” Symon hastily rallied the Reachman riders to face the riders coming from the east. “CHARGE!” And so, they charged towards east along the river, the sun in their eyes. This time the clash was more brutal and lasted for a longer time. Walton managed to block with his shield a lance aimed at him, but didn’t manage to take anyone down with his sword, swinging it frantically at any enemy who came near. After the cavalries had charged through each other, the Reachman riders regrouped at the eastern edge of the battlefield. Their numbers had greatly reduced, and on the field laid dead and dying hundreds of men and horses. Meanwhile the Lannister cavalry that had came from the east kept on charging against the infantry and archers on the southern bank, joined by the Lannister riders from the north. The bridge had been lost, its defenders now retreating towards the castle or surrendering, while the other Reachman cavalry unit was getting squashed between the Lannister infantry coming from the bridge and the riders coming from east and north. Walton also noticed Lannister archers lining up on the northern bank, shooting volleys of arrows on the reachmen attempting to retreat from the river. It’s over, he thought grimly. However, Lord Symon didn’t seem to agree, rallying the cavalry once more. “We will not abandon our brothers to slaughter!” he shouted with the kind of rage and fervor Walton had never seen from him before. “We are sons of the Reach! We will defend this land to the death if needs be! Now come with me, ONE LAST TIME!” The men cheered loudly at the Tarly lord’s words, and so they began their final desperate charge. Whatever Lannister infantry had made its way to the southern bank quickly ran away from them or got ridden over, but as they got closer to the bridge and castle, they were faced with an enemy cavalry charge twice the size of theirs. Screaming from the bottom of his lungs Walton followed Symon into the chaotic clash. Something hit him on the right shoulder, he didn’t know what, but he kept pushing on. He thrusted his sword into a Lannister knight’s throat, blood splattering to his face through the visor as he pulled it out. A fellow Reachman’s horse fell in front of him, which made his horse bolt and change direction. As he got control of his mount again, he saw Symon retreating from the clash towards the river and decided to follow after him. However, before he could reach him, a stray arrow landed on Lord Symon’s neck. Walton could only watch in horror as the man who had been like a father to him these past few years fell from his saddle, no longer the fearless warrior and great man he had been, but just a lifeless corpse. For a moment he froze in terror, feeling nauseous and dizzy, the sounds of battle around him somehow distant. He could see most of the remaining Reachman riders abandoning the battle, riding to south and east, while those that didn’t were being slaughtered by the Lannisters. He looked once more at Symon’s corpse, which laid in the mud with blood still streaming out from the neck. He stared at it until his vision was blurred with tears. I’m sorry my lord, I have to go. |
|
|
|
Post by WildlingKing on Oct 11, 2019 13:25:50 GMT
Ellyn IV The sun had almost set. Bright torches illuminated the shadowy outer courtyard of Raventree Hall, where Lady Ellyn stood together with Ronas Blackwood, Maester Joseth, Olyvar Chambers and Ser Uthor Wayn. The gates were open, and in rode Lord Brydan Blackwood with dozens of knights and squires at his coattails, returning from their mission to Fairmarket. The people of the castle welcomed back their lord with cheers, but the look on Brydan’s face was anything but cheerful as he dismounted his horse. “We’ve driven out the Faith Militant and taken back Fairmarket,” he announced, which resulted in another wave of cheers. “I’m pleased to hear of your success, mylord,” Maester Joseth spoke politely as Brydan approached them, to which the young lord responded with a stiff nod. “What about the leader of these Poor Fellows, mylord? Was he caught?” Ronas inquired sharply. “We did not find Ben the Brute,” Brydan answered with a sigh. “He may have died in the fighting or he may have escaped, we cannot know for sure. Regardless, the battalion of Poor Fellows that took over Fairmarket has been crushed. Ser Emmon Shawney together with Ser Horas Bracken and Ser Andar Tully has been left in charge of Fairmarket with a garrison of five hundred men. Now excuse me, I want to take a moment to pray.” With those words Lord Brydan stormed off, and Ellyn watched silently as her husband walked away without saying a word to her. Something bad happened in Fairmarket. Among the riders who had returned with Brydan Ellyn noticed her younger brother Errol, and decided to approach him. “Errol, I’m glad you’re back,” she started softly, and her brother just gave her a short glance, a sullen look in his eyes. “What happened in Fairmarket?” Ellyn asked calmly. For a moment it looked like Errol would just ignore her, but then he spoke up with a quiet and strained voice. “Jon… Jon died.” “I’m sorry… what are you saying?” Ellyn asked confusedly, and her brother shot her with a furious glare. “My friend, Jon Bigglestone. He died in Fairmarket.” Errol’s words were soaked with grief and anger, and Ellyn could see he struggled to hold back tears. She wanted to hug her brother, to console him, but before she could do that Errol stormed away from her. “These young men have just had their first taste of war,” Ellyn heard the voice of Ronas speaking behind her, and she turned to face him. “I’d advice you to go and console your lord husband, mylady,” he continued with a calm tone. “These are the moments when he truly needs you.” Ellyn nodded and took in a deep breath, and then wordlessly made her way to the godswood. It was dark there, and silent except for the occasional creaks of the ravens that had come to roost for the nights on the branches of the dead weirwood. And at the feet of that weirwood Ellyn saw a lone lantern, and beside it Brydan on his knees in front of the face of the heart tree. Quietly she approached him, but he did not acknowledge her even when he kneeled next to him. He looked different, and not just because of the stubble that had grown on his cheeks and around his mouth. There was something different about the look in his eyes as well, it was somehow harder than she remembered. “This is where we had our first kiss,” she spoke up quietly, looking at the red eyes of the weirwood. “It has been just a few turns of moon, but it feels like it was years ago.” Brydan remained silent, but the look on his eyes softened slightly, and he turned his gaze down with a sigh. Gently Ellyn put her hand on his shoulder. “What happened in Fairmarket, my love?” Brydan gulped audibly, struggling to find the words. “It was… it was ugly,” he started quietly. “First the battle itself, clearing out the town alley by alley, door by door, putting to sword everyone wearing the colors of the Faith Militant or attempting to resist us. And when the fighting was done, those who refused to renounce their allegiance to that cursed Lucifer the Liar had to be hanged. There were women among them, and boys half my age.” It was clear to see that Brydan was shaken by the experience. “You did what you had to do,” Ellyn assured, now grabbing her husband’s hand. “They made their choice when they decided to rebel against you.” “My father rebelled against the Teagues,” Brydan remarked sharply. “He rebelled against tyranny,” Ellyn argued. “These people, they want to bring that tyranny back. You did what you had to do.” For a moment they were both silent, listening to the ravens creaking above them. Finally, Ellyn stood up on her feet, keeping her hand in Brydan’s. “Come, my love,” she whispered. “I’ve missed your warmth in our bed.” Silently they made their way to the lord’s chambers, where Ellyn first stripped her own clothes and then gently and slowly began to undress Brydan, teasingly kissing and nibbling him everywhere while she did so. By the time he laid down on the bed his manhood was already rock hard. With pleasurable moans Ellyn mounted it, and after just a few moments of passion the lord’s seed was inside her. With a satisfied smile Ellyn rolled down by Brydan’s side. “I think we just made a son, mylord,” she said, and for the first time since his return Brydan smiled. “I hope so,” he said quietly. They made love twice more before falling asleep, tucked against each other, warm, tired and content. However, instead of getting a peaceful night of rest Ellyn was again haunted by nightmares. She stood at the battlements of a silent and ruined castle she didn’t recognize. The castle stood by the confluence of two large rivers, and both of those rivers ran red with blood. She made her way down from the battlements and out of the ruined castle, entering a vast and grey field littered with corpses. Most of them were soldiers, but among them were also women and children, septons and maesters, farmers and blacksmiths. Ravens and crows danced and laughed mocking as they feasted on the corpses. Ellyn kept walking, but the field of corpses seemed to never end. Eventually snow began to fall, burying the dead under a clear white veil. Famished men and women joined the crows and ravens, frantically digging the dead soldiers from under the snow and feasting on their raw flesh, dark blood splattering their pale white faces. Finally the field of corpses ended, as she arrived at the foot of a large hill. Atop that hill stood a lone leafless oak tree, and from its branches dangled four crowned corpses. Ellyn struggled her way up the hill, the snow getting deeper all the time and slowing her down. Finally, after what felt like hours, she arrived at the tree, and what she saw then shocked her more than all the devastation she had seen before that. Lord Brydan’s lifeless corpse leaned against the tree, all but his pale face buried under the snow. With tears in her eyes Ellyn fell on her knees before her death husband. She hugged him and kissed him, begged for him to come back to life, but his body remained cold and lifeless. She woke up to the door of the lord’s chambers being knocked on early in the morning. She remained laying under the blanket while Brydan dressed up and opened the door. A servant was there, telling that Maester Joseth had called the council together due to some messages that had arrived during the night. After the servant left Ellyn looked at his husband, wondering if she should tell him about the nightmares. “Are you feeling well, Ellyn?” Brydan asked calmly, clearly having seen the distress in her eyes. “I’m… fine, just had some bad dreams,” Ellyn answered, forcing a smile on her face. What else could I say?“Want to join me on this council meeting?” Brydan asked, offering her his hand. And so, after Ellyn dressed up and combed her hair, they made their way to the council chamber hand in hand and took their seats next to each other. “Maester Joseth, I heard you received some important messages during the night,” Brydan spoke up, opening the meeting. The maester cleared his throat, placing on the table two scrolls of parchment. “Indeed, mylord,” he said with a subtle gulp. He picked up one of the scrolls and handed it to Brydan. “That one is from the Trident Hall, sent by your uncle Lord Robert,” Joseth said. “He informs us that troops of houses Grell, Charlton and Haigh have captured Castle Darry, seemingly in support of the Faith Militant’s cause. Meanwhile Lord Harroway has continued to amass troops in his town.” “As has Robert in Trident Hall,” Brydan concluded, having read the scroll. “Indeed,” Joseth confirmed with a sigh. “But he fears he will be outnumbered if you do not march in his aid.” “And the other message?” Brydan asked strictly. “From Castlewood, mylord,” Joseth said, handing the other scroll now to the young lord. “Lord Harlton writes that his scouts have spotted a large Faith Militant army marching north through the lands of House Vance of Atranta, accompanied by Vance, Keath, Piper, Blantree and Smallwood troops.” “Lyonel,” Brydan suddenly said while reading the scroll, a bright smile forming on his face. “Lord Harlton writes that Lyonel and Axel have returned safely from their mission to Stoney Sept. Lyonel has been injured but Maester Bennis is nursing him back to health.” As Brydan continued to read his smile died down. “Apparently they learned in Stoney Sept that Lucifer intends to wed Lord Harroway’s daughter.” “I believe this Faith Militant host spotted by Lord Harlton’s scouts is escorting King Lucifer to Harroway for that purpose, mylord,” Maester Joseth said. For a moment tense silence lingered in the council room, and there was a concerned look in each of their eyes. “No news from Prince Barron?” Uthor Wayn asked quietly, to which the maester shook his head. “Nothing since he informed us that he has to conciliate a dispute between Lord Darklyn and Lord Staunton before he can bring the forces of Blackwater Bay to our aid.” “We have no time to wait for Prince Barron to come and save us,” Ronas spoke up sternly, looking intensely at Lord Brydan. “My brother is being surrounded by enemies, he needs your help now, Lord Brydan. We cannot allow the Faith Militant to take Trident Hall. It was the seat of the Kings of Trident for centuries, and for this Lucifer Justman to hold it… well, it would be a symbol of legitimacy we cannot afford to concede to him.” For a moment Brydan remained silent, eyeing the writings on the two pieces of parchment and scratching his chin. “I agree, Ronas,” he finally said, taking in a deep breath. “We must march in Lord Robert’s aid, but we need more troops to do so. Maester Joseth, send ravens to every bannerman and landed knight you think we can still rely upon. We must also levy more troops from our own land. When we have enough troops we shall march to Fairmarket, where we will combine our forces with those of Lord Mallister. And then, to defend Trident Hall.” “And… do you intend to personally lead the troops again, mylord?” Ellyn asked timidly, unable to shake from her mind the lifeless face of Brydan that she had seen in her nightmares. Perhaps the old gods are trying to warn me, perhaps they want me to prevent him from going. Gently Brydan grabbed her hand and looked her to the eyes. “I understand your concern, mylady,” he assured with warm but decisive words. “However, this is my war to fight. Protecting my father’s legacy is not only my duty, it is my purpose, and I will keep fighting until no man, army or king threatens to destroy it. You made me understand that it is what must be done. And this war has only just begun.” |
|
|
|
Post by WildlingKing on Oct 21, 2019 22:25:33 GMT
Erich V The sun approached the mountainous horizon in the west, painting the sky with gold. The evening was filled with the laughter and singing of Stormlander soldiers, which Erich Storm listened to with a smile on his face while passing water at the edge of the camp. It was a camp set around Skyreach, the ancestral home of House Fowler, which they had now besieged for nearly a week. Skyreach was perched high on the mountainside, with a steep and hard climb for any army attempting to storm its gates and walls. It wouldn’t have been impossible to impregnate with an army as large as theirs, but Prince Baldric had decided to instead wait for his father’s host to make its way through the Boneway and Yronwood, in the meantime sending foraging parties to pillage the nearby lands. Erich pulled his trousers back up and turned back towards the camp, whistling as he walked past the pavilions and cookfires, making his way to the long table in the middle of the camp where Prince Baldric was feasting with the lords and knights of his host. Near the prince there was also a comely young bard named Merry Mark, whose singing and playing Baldric had taken a liking to during this siege. Mark was a thin and fair-haired man on his early twenties, and seemed to know countless of marcher ballads, playing a lute as he sang them for the entertainment of the lords and knights. He had also come up with a little song of his own to commemorate Prince Baldric’s victory on the Prince’s Pass, and now whenever he started to sing it all the lords and knights loudly joined him. He was just about to start again when Erich returned to the table. Drop you spears, dogs of Dorne, run away,
Baldric the Bold is here, and he’s here to stay!
Like a storm he came down the Prince’s Pass,
And swiftly kicked your arse!
So, listen carefully, dogs of Dorne, to this merry song,
You’ll be beaten by a prince so young and strong!
He’s here to take your lands, your wives and your gold,
So, run away, here comes Baldric the Bold!
Drop you spears, dogs of Dorne, run away,
Baldric the Bold is here, and he’s here to stay!
Like a storm he came down the Prince’s Pass,
And swiftly kicked your arse!
He’s not a boy, dogs of Dorne, he is a man,
Of noble blood even the gods themselves can’t damn!
So, drop your spear and bend your knee, you Dornish mutt,
Cause those who resist will be left on the gallows to rot!
Drop you spears, dogs of Dorne, run away,
Baldric the Bold is here, and he’s here to stay!
Like a storm he came down the Prince’s Pass,
And swiftly kicked your arse!Loud cheers and applauds followed the song once again, and throughout it all a wide grin remained on the young prince’s face. I’m glad he enjoys it now, because he’ll surely get sick of it before the end of this war, Erich though with some amusement as he took his seat next to Baldric. “For Baldric the Bold!” Lord Prestan Caron roared drunkenly on the other side of the table, raising his mug of ale for a toast, to which they all joined eagerly. “For Baldric the Bold!” “Thank you, my lords and knights!” Baldric responded cheerfully, raising his mug for them. “The victory is as much yours as it is mine. Mark, another song about the heroics of the Marcher Lords, perhaps?” “As you wish, my prince,” Merry Mark responded with a smile on his face, starting to sing another marcher ballad. When the feasting and drinking was done for the night, Erich made his way towards his pavilion with faltering steps. Entering the pavilion, he was welcomed by a slender girl clad in nothing but one of Erich’s cloaks. It was Calla, a young camp follower from the Marches that Erich had spent the last few nights with. She was a fair skinned, freckled and redheaded girl with a foxy smile and sharp green eyes. Erich didn’t know how old exactly she was, but he was sure she couldn’t be more than seventeen. “How was your evening, Ser Erich?” Calla purred seductively, approaching him with slow steps. With a drunken grin Erich reached to pull the cloak from the girl’s shoulders, but she stopped him by grabbing his arm. “How rude,” she said teasingly. “Has ser knight forgot his manners? You’re supposed to answer me question first.” “My evening was… pleasant enough,” Erich said with a little chuckle. “And yours?” “Bloody boring,” Calla said with a sly grin and pulled off the cloak, revealing her slender and graceful body. Unable to contain himself, Erich put his hands on her small and perky breasts. “Would your knighthood like and make it a wee bit more exciting?” she asked playfully. “With pleasure,” Erich answered. Calla giggled delightfully as he raised her to his arms and carried her to the mattress, where they spent yet another night together. In the morning Erich woke up with a slight headache, Calla still tucked under his arm, as Ser Raymont Horpe barged into his pavilion. “Morning, Ser Erich,” the Horpe knight said with a thin smirk on his face. He was eating an apple and tossed another one for Erich. “The Prince sent me to fetch you. There was a rider in the night.” “A message?” Erich asked with a coarse and muffled voice, rubbing his eyes as he raised to a sitting position. “I presume so, aye,” Raymont answered, before exiting the pavilion. With a sigh Erich got up and began to dress, while Calla remained laying on the mattress, having fallen asleep again. She looked so innocent and young when she was asleep, which almost made Erich feel guilty. He had never asked the girl how she had ended up as a camp follower, or if she had a family back in the Marches. She had been little more than cheap entertainment for him to pass the time during this dull siege. I should have a talk with her today, he decided before taking his leave. The atmosphere in the pavilion of the war council was quiet and tense when Erich made his entrance. Many of the lords and knights looked hungover, a feeling that Erich shared, but Prince Baldric himself looked more concerned than anything. A few more minutes went by before the council was gathered. “A rider in the night brought a message from my father, King Ormund,” Baldric started, his tone already revealing that whatever message he had received wasn’t good news. “They’ve sent a raven from the Boneway to Nightsong, and from there the rider was sent to us, meaning that his message is by now a week old at least.” “And what’s the message, my prince?” Lord Caron asked with a concerned frown. “My father requests reinforcements,” Baldric said with a sigh. “He has sent similar messages to all the major castles in the Marches, but stresses that our aid is paramount. King Ormund’s host holds Wyl and most of the Boneway, but at the time of writing this message they had been prevented from crossing the Greenbelt three times by a Dornish force commanded by the Sword of the Morning. His Grace writes that he has lost nearly two thousand men attempting to cross the Greenbelt.” The prince’s words were followed by a tense silence. “Shall we abandon our siege, then?” Lord Larys Grandison broke the silence, a nervous expression on his fleshy red face. “I would advise against that,” Ser Emerick Trant was quick to chime in. “If we abandon this siege, we allow the Fowlers holed up in that castle to join forces with the Blackmonts and Daynes in the west.” “Perhaps we should simply take Skyreach by storm, be done with it,” Ralph Horpe suggested sternly, but none of the men in the council looked particularly enthused by the idea. “I would suggest we split our forces in half,” Raymont Horpe then spoke up. “Half our numbers should be enough to keep the siege going, while the other half should be enough to take Yronwood from the south.” “Maybe,” Prestan Caron said, stroking his bushy red beard. “However, if we fail to take Yronwood…” “Our forces will be splintered and broken, and our war effort in shambles,” Prince Baldric concluded with a frustrated sigh. “No, it isn’t a risk we can take. We can only send reinforcements for my father from the north.” “It’ll take too long, my prince,” Lord Caron protested. “As you said, His Grace’s message is already at least a week old. Even if you send only cavalry and they ride with utmost haste, it’ll take at least a fortnight before they reach the King’s host.” “Not if they take a shortcut, mylord,” Erich remarked, garnering curious looks from the men in the pavilion. “Would you care to elaborate, Ser Storm?” Lord Grandison asked with a raised eyebrow. “There is a route that goes through the Manwoody lands, connecting the Prince’s Pass and the Boneway,” Erich explained. “Not as wide or level as either of them, of course, but good enough for an army to use. It is the route the Daynes and Blackwoods used in the last war when they arrived to reinforce the Martells and the Yronwoods. It turned the tide of war then. Perhaps it can serve a similar purpose now, but this time in our favor.” “I know of that route,” Prestan admitted with a sigh. “It could work, but… well, frankly the Dornishmen know their lands better than we ever could, and I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that we are not exactly welcome here. Blackmonts and Daynes marching through the Manwoody lands is one thing, but Stormlander troops braving those treacherous valleys, ravines and ridges is something else entirely.” “The way I see it, it’s the only way to get troops in King Ormund’s aid fast enough to matter,” Erich stated with a shrug. “Either that, or we trust His Grace will make do without reinforcements.” “Erich is right,” Baldric said decisively. “I’ve made my decision. I will lead three thousand mounted men through this route to the Boneway, and with me shall ride Ser Erich Storm, Ser Raymont Horpe, Ser Samwell Toyne and Ser Arys Selmy. The rest of you will remain here, and Lord Caron shall take charge of this siege.” Returning to his pavilion, Erich found Calla just getting dressed up. A smile lit up on her face as she saw Erich, but quickly died down as she noticed his serious expression. “What did the Prince say, ser?” she asked. “He’ll be leaving with three thousand mounted men, and I will go with him,” Erich answered with a sigh, pulling the rug from over the armor stand. “Leaving where?” Calla queried, approaching him with hasty steps and grabbing his arm. “To the Boneway,” Erich answered calmly, gently pulling his arm away from the girl’s grasp. “To join King Ormund’s host.” “Well, I’ll come with you then,” Calla said enthusiastically, but with a sigh Erich shook his head. “The road we’re taking is too dangerous for you,” he said, avoiding eye contact with the camp follower. “You should remain here.” Calla gulped and took a step back. Erich could see from her eyes that she wanted to protest, to lash out at him, but lacked the courage to do so. She has been left behind before, Erich realized, feeling a sting of empathy and guilt. However, he quickly shook such feelings off, knowing very well he was doing the girl a favor in preventing her from following him into this perilous journey. “I’m sorry, Calla,” he nonetheless uttered. “Perhaps we’ll see again someday. If not, I wish you a happy life.” Calla gave him a small nod, before silently taking her leave from the pavilion. Erich had known her for just a few days, but watching her leave felt surprisingly bitter. The cavalry of three thousand men lead by Prince Baldric left the camp before noon, heading north to the Prince’s Pass. To Erich’s surprise, the prince had allowed the bard Merry Mark to come along with them. “I am so grateful that you allowed me to come, your highness,” the bard said, riding by Baldric’s side. “Witnessing your heroic deeds personally will make it easier for me to make more songs about them.” “You’re welcome, Mark,” Baldric responded with a chuckle. They rode up the Prince’s Pass with haste, reaching the pass leading east to the lands of House Manwoody at the end of the third day. There they made their camp for the night, and though the ride had been tiring the spirits among the troops seemed to be high. There was singing and laughter around the cookfires, even if the amount of ale and wine they had brought with them was limited. “Do you think the Dornish lords of these lands will bend the knee to my father?” Baldric asked from Erich, as they gazed at the camp from a cliff above it. “They did bend the knee to Princess Nymeria, my prince,” Erich answered calmly. “She was just as much an outsider to them as your father is. And those that did not bend the knee were crushed.” “I know,” Baldric said with a sigh. “However, there has been bad blood between Dornishmen and Stromlanders for centuries. I fear that these Dornish lords would rather see their lands burned and peoples slaughtered than willingly bend the knee to us.” For a moment Erich looked quietly at the young prince. A small stubble had grown above his lips and on his chin and cheeks, and in his blue eyes was a determined look resembling that of his father’s and grandfather’s. This war has quickly turned him from a boy to a man. “Perhaps,” Erich finally responded to the prince. “However, bad blood between us and the Dornish can only exist so long as we are separated. I believe that if we win now, and manage to hold onto what we’ve gained, in a few generations Dornishmen and Stormlanders may stand together as brothers and sisters. And when they begin to marry and breed together, do you think their children will see much sense in the rivalries of the past?” “Well said, Ser Erich,” Baldric said with a thin smile. “A bastard you may be, but you’re a good and smart man. Lord Connington was a fool for not seeing that. One day, when I’m the Storm King, you shall get all the reverence and glory you deserve as my most trusted commander and right hand.” “I’m honored, my prince,” Erich responded sincerely, and Baldric patted him lightly on the shoulder before taking his leave. In the first light of the following dawn they continued east, following the path high up to the mountains, then back down to a rugged and dry valley, and then up again. Entrance to the Manwoody lands, Erich thought as he watched the winding path ahead of them. He knew that Kingsgrave couldn’t be more than few days of travel from the Prince’s Pass, and he knew of the terrifying reputation that castle had. There were countless stories from the days of King Albin the Mad of both enemies and servants of House Manwoody having been savagely tortured in the dark dungeons of Kingsgrave. Albin the Mad has been freezing his balls off on the Wall for the better part of two decades, Erich reminded himself. He didn’t know much of Albin’s descendant who now held lordship over Kingsgrave, but at least they didn’t have Albin’s dark reputation. And if they don’t like us being here then they can try and stop us, Erich thought, confident that they would outnumber whatever forces Lord Manwoody would be able to muster together. At nightfall the Stormlander host made their camp by an abandoned shepherd’s cabin on a green and lightly forested high pass. The moon shined brightly that night, and Erich could see that tomorrow the route would take them down to a narrower and more densely forested valley. “Can’t get sleep, aye?” Ser Raymont Horpe asked, approaching him from behind. “It would certainly be easier with some wine in the belly and a girl to keep me warm,” Erich admitted dryly, to which the Horpe knight let out a hearty chuckle. “Ah, I miss home,” Raymont in turn confessed with an uncharacteristically wistful tone, gazing at the starry sky above them. “My wife, my sons and daughters. It’s the same thing every time. When I marched to Riverlands sixteen years ago my wife was expecting our first son, and before every battle I prayed the gods to spare me so I could go back home and see my son. Six years ago, when I marched to Boneway with King Arlan, I had just had my second daughter. By then my wife had given me five children, and I prayed to gods they wouldn’t have to grow up without a father. Now, in just a few turns of moon my son and heir Jonos will come of age, and I pray that I will see him as a man grown. However, I fear the gods may have already given me all the luck and mercy they can spare.” Erich remained quiet for a moment, unsure how to answer. He didn’t know Ser Raymont particularly well, and by their time together during this campaign he had certainly not expected such openness from the man. “Well, at least you have a home to miss,” Erich finally spoke, flashing a smirk at the Horpe knight, who reciprocated it. “Oh, I believe after this war you’ll always be welcome in Storm’s End, Ser Erich,” Raymont said nonchalantly. “Or would you not like it to be your home?” Erich frowned slightly, thinking about the question. “It is certainly a magnificent place, but a home? Well… maybe someday.” Erich got just a few hours of sleep that night, before the dawn came and it was time to push forward. As they followed the small and rough path down to the forested valley below, Ser Samwell Toyne took the lead at the vanguard, Prince Baldric came in the middle with Erich and Ser Arys Selmy, and Ser Raymont Horpe was in charge of the rearguard. By Prince Baldric’s side rode also the bard Merry Mark, who kept singing as they rode through the shadowy valley. At the bottom of the valley ran a small creek, enclosed from north and south by steep slopes filled with pines, firs, yews, hemlocks and ash trees. As the valley grew narrower and narrower the Stormlander riders had to spread into a longer and thinner line. In a few places the valley turned into an outright ravine, with the cliffsides north and south of the creek sometimes no more than a couple dozen feet away from each other. The atmosphere was tense as they marched through those tight spots. Even Merry Mark had stopped singing, leaving only the sounds of the creek and hooves striking against the wet stones to echo in the ravines. Then, a few hours past noon, as they were making their way through yet another ravine, a horn was blown ahead of them. It was Ser Samwell’s horn. “There must be trouble ahead,” Ser Arys Selmy stated sternly. “It could be an ambush.” “Go see what is going on,” Baldric commanded with a gulp, and dutifully the Selmy knight rode ahead. Baldric then sent another man to inform Ser Raymont in the rear that they might be under attack. However, soon after that man had ridden off large rocks fell into the ravine just a couple dozen yards behind Prince Baldric and Ser Erich, blocking the way. Then, smaller rocks kept falling in. No, thrown, Erich realized to his horror. We have indeed been ambushed. “PUSH FORWARD!” Baldric roared a command, and so they did. As they made their way out of the ravine they could see where the initial ambush had happened. Dead men and horses laid on the ground and the creek, covered with arrows. Sounds of fighting could be heard uphill from the forest to the north. However, instead of charging towards it recklessly Prince Baldric had his men form two lines by the creek, facing both north and sound. “Let them come,” Erich heard the young prince mutter beside him. However, instead of north or south, their opponent approached from the east. It was a cavalry unit of House Manwoody, five hundred men strong at best. However, the ambush had reduced and scattered the Stormlander host, leaving Prince Baldric in charge of a roughly similar number of riders. Now they formed up for a charge. Erich spotted the knight in charge of the Manwoody cavalry, who was clad in a plated armor of black steel with a charcoal grey cloak donned over it, and armed with a morningstar. He rode a horse with pitch black coat and mane, and the visor of his greathelm was shaped like a human skull. The Stranger himself, Erich thought with horror, before shaking off the irrational instinct. That knight wants to invoke fear with his attire, he quickly rationalized. “Men of the Stormlands, OURS IS THE FURY!” Baldric screamed, and with thunderous battle cries they tilted their lances and charged towards the enemy. However, on the way volleys of arrows were rained upon them from the forest in the south, further decreasing their numbers. Erich saw one arrow landing on Baldric’s right elbow, but the prince himself didn’t even seem to notice. They clashed with the Manwoody cavalry on the creek, starting a chaotic melee between the two forces. Erich stuck close to the prince, protecting his left flank and unhorsing any man who dared to come too close. However, it quickly came clear the fighting was turning against them, as the Manwoody riders skillfully maneuvered around the Stormlanders by continuously retreating to the forest before swiftly striking again. “RETREAT!” Baldric commanded. “REGROUP IN THE WEST!” However, Baldric and Erich’s retreat to west was stopped by the black knight with the skull helmet. Erich drew his sword, and with a furious roar he charged towards the Manwoody knight. They exchanged a few swings, successfully parrying and dodging each other’s strikes, but then the Manwoody knight managed to violently embed the spikes of his morningstar into the head of Erich’s horse. The steed died with a harrowing scream of pain, throwing Erich off its back before collapsing to death. Landing on the creek Erich hit his head on a rock and began to drift to unconsciousness. The last thing he saw before passing out was the Manwoody knight facing Prince Baldric in a duel. |
|
|
|
Post by edinosaur22 on Oct 22, 2019 1:53:42 GMT
Damn, cliffhanger. And who of Albin's sons (or maybe Arvin's possible future child) inherited Kingsgrave?
The story remains pretty awesome.
|
|
|
|
Post by WildlingKing on Oct 22, 2019 12:26:46 GMT
Damn, cliffhanger. And who of Albin's sons (or maybe Arvin's possible future child) inherited Kingsgrave? The story remains pretty awesome. It'll be revealed pretty soon who is the Lord of Kingsgrave these days  |
|
|
|
Post by LiquidChicagoTed on Oct 27, 2019 2:59:39 GMT
Oh my god, it's him, it's Mordekhai Wesley! Now, I realize that a skull-shaped helmet is probably not all that uncommon with Manwoody knights, but still, my first thought was back to NW's most terrifying character (even if Valerie is working hard on usurping that position from him). I actually wonder, we never learned a thing about Wesley, but maybe he had offspring? Jesus, I don't even want to imagine that man having children, he alone was terrfying enough as it is. But since this is most definitely not Wesley who returned from the dead, it might actually be someone related to him, or someone who took a page from his book in terms of style. Let's hope it's not in terms of personality as well, or else I see very bad things on the horizon for Jamison Junior. Seriously though, I love even these small details and call-backs to the events of NW, really helps with connecting the two stories.
Also, for the sake of amusement, allow me to take an educated guess on the identity of the Lord of Kingsgrave: It's Arvin's son, Albin's grandson. I am pretty certain that Albin will suffer a very terrible fate in NW (if it's up for a vote, I say the bastard needs to die) and Arvin could succeed him in theory, but I have this slight feeling his possible redemption arc will end up in his death instead, leaving his son to rule as the Lord of Kingsgrave. That, or maybe he died in the years between the two stories. I also just had to imagine, what if it is some super outlandish candidate, like Alaric Manwoody and then we're left to guess just how exactly that guy managed to outlive every member of the main Manwoody line ^^ Finally, on the off chance that this creepy skull knight is actually the resurrected Ser Wesley Crusher, here's my standard Wesley response gif to shoo him away:  |
|
|
|
Post by WildlingKing on Oct 27, 2019 18:25:59 GMT
Oh my god, it's him, it's Mordekhai Wesley! Now, I realize that a skull-shaped helmet is probably not all that uncommon with Manwoody knights, but still, my first thought was back to NW's most terrifying character (even if Valerie is working hard on usurping that position from him). I actually wonder, we never learned a thing about Wesley, but maybe he had offspring? Jesus, I don't even want to imagine that man having children, he alone was terrfying enough as it is. But since this is most definitely not Wesley who returned from the dead, it might actually be someone related to him, or someone who took a page from his book in terms of style. Let's hope it's not in terms of personality as well, or else I see very bad things on the horizon for Jamison Junior. Seriously though, I love even these small details and call-backs to the events of NW, really helps with connecting the two stories.
Also, for the sake of amusement, allow me to take an educated guess on the identity of the Lord of Kingsgrave: It's Arvin's son, Albin's grandson. I am pretty certain that Albin will suffer a very terrible fate in NW (if it's up for a vote, I say the bastard needs to die) and Arvin could succeed him in theory, but I have this slight feeling his possible redemption arc will end up in his death instead, leaving his son to rule as the Lord of Kingsgrave. That, or maybe he died in the years between the two stories. I also just had to imagine, what if it is some super outlandish candidate, like Alaric Manwoody and then we're left to guess just how exactly that guy managed to outlive every member of the main Manwoody line ^^ Finally, on the off chance that this creepy skull knight is actually the resurrected Ser Wesley Crusher, here's my standard Wesley response gif to shoo him away: Hehe, well I can safely assure you that this skull knight is no Mordekhai Whether they have been inspired by Mordekhai or are somehow related will be revealed in Erich's next chapter. Same goes for who is the Lord of Kingsgrave. That said, when it comes to NW, like I've said before I view TAoS as one potential future for that story, but I don't intend to be completely tied to its "canon" whenever I get around to continuing NW. (In fact there is already at least one pretty major continuity error between the two, but for now I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who has noticed XD) |
|
|
|
Post by WildlingKing on Dec 12, 2019 21:31:34 GMT
Hagon VI It was midday, but there was no sign of the sun on the dark grey sky. In the light rain Prince Hagon Hoare walked through the muddy siege camp the Ironborn had erected few days ago around Dunstonbury, the great white castle of House Manderly. They had been victorious in the Battle of Mander’s Mouth nearly a week ago, but that victory had come at a heavy cost. Their fleet had been reduced to around three hundred ships, and thousands of Ironborn and Farman men had died, hundreds more injured. Among the injured was Hagon’s friend Quenton Farwynd. Entering one of the tents reserved for the injured Hagon was for a moment overtaken by the smell. The stench of death. On one of the bunks he spotted his friend, laying quietly on his back with an empty look in his eyes. Hagon’s eyes quickly shifted to Quenton’s right arm… or rather what was now just a bandaged stump ending at the elbow. Quietly he sat down on a stool next to his friend. “Quenton,” Hagon said quietly, and stiffly Quenton turned his eyes to him. “Hagon… I thought you would’ve gone by now,” he spoke with a quiet and depressed tone. “Gone where?” Hagon asked calmly. “To raid… They’ve sent raiding parties to the countryside, right?” “They have,” Hagon confirmed with a sigh. “You think I’d leave you behind?” Quenton raised up his stump arm and looked Hagon to the eyes. “You think I’ll be much of a raider with this?” Hagon felt uncomfortable and turned his gaze down. “You still have your left hand,” he muttered. “Fuck you, Hagon,” Quenton spat. “It’s over, my life is over. What is an ironborn warrior without his swordhand?” “You shouldn’t speak to me like that,” Hagon reminded his friend strictly. “I am your prince, and I saved your life.” “It would’ve been better if you didn’t,” Quenton responded coldly and shifted his gaze away. Hagon eyed Quenton silently for another moment, before shaking his head slightly and taking his leave. Right as he stepped out of the tent, he heard horns sounding from the Mander. Rushing at the northern edge of the camp, Hagon saw a dozen longships of House Drumm approaching them from the west. Looks like Roryn the Reaver hasn’t abandoned us after all, he thought with a thin smile forming on his face. “You missed a great battle, Lord Drumm!” Hagon yelled as he went to greet Roryn and his men as they made their landing on the riverbank. “Maybe so, prince, but I took Raylansfair for us,” Roryn Drumm responded with an unabashed tone, a wolfish grin forming behind his black beard. Hagon could see there was plenty of plunder in the Drumm ships. “You acted against King Harmund’s orders,” Hagon pointed out calmly, to which the Drumm lord merely chuckled. “I’m sure the Haggler will understand,” he said nonchalantly, and gestured for two of his men who then carried a chest full of gold and silver to them. “Come, let’s go and meet the King,” Roryn said with a sharp smirk. As they entered the war pavilion, it was occupied by King Harmund, Lord Ulfric Harlaw, Lord Dagon Greyjoy, Ser Sandor Farman, Harrick Hoare and Karin Orkwood. Lord Drumm was quick to kneel before the King, while his men carried the chest of gold and silver at the feet of His Grace. “King Harmund, I bring you treasures from the town of Raylansfair, as well as news that the town and its castle are currently under our occupation.” “Any noble hostages?” Harmund asked nonchalantly while inspecting the treasure chest. Roryn hesitated for a moment before answering. “There was only an elderly bastard knight there, acting as castellan,” he explained. “He told us Lord Raylan had left the town with his family upon hearing about our fleet pillaging the Shield Islands. I had the man killed. He was of no value, Your Grace.” Harmund studied Roryn with his eyes for a moment, before giving him a nod. “I understand,” he said with a sigh. “You’ve put me in a tough situation, Lord Drumm. Your actions may have been useful to us, but they were nonetheless made without my consent. You could have simply asked for a permission to raid Raylansfair, and I may have granted it, but instead you did it on your own authority. So, what am I to do with you?” Roryn narrowed his blue eyes, clearly insulted by the mere suggestion that he would be punished for his deeds. However, before he could speak up, Lord Harlaw cleared his throat. “Your Grace, perhaps he could lead the mission we were speaking of earlier,” he suggested with his formal and polite tone. “What mission?” Hagon was quick to ask, looking at his father with a raised eyebrow. Harmund crossed his arms and took in a deep breath, before speaking up. “Our scouts have informed us that King Greydon is amassing an army at Highgarden, as was to be expected. It is also to be expected that Lord Osgrey is doing the same in the northern Reach, and Lord Hightower in Oldtown. We might also have no more than a moon’s turn before we must either retreat from Mander or face the Redwyne fleet. Before such decisions are to be made however, we must learn if the Lannister host led by Prince Tymond has succeeded on their march to the eastern parts of the Reach. We must send ships up the Mander.” For a moment silence lingered in the pavilion. They all knew that the deeper inland you sailed your ship on a hostile territory, the greater the risk was that that ship would never see the sea again. “If that is your wish, I will gladly lead the mission, Your Grace,” Roryn finally spoke up, a thin smirk on his face. “To be the first Ironborn in generations to raid the Mander all the way up to the Stonebridge? Aye, that’s a challenge I can embrace.” “Good,” King Harmund said nonchalantly. “Just remember, your primary goal is to find the Lannister host.” “I understand, Your Grace.” “I will go with him,” Hagon suddenly spoke up, receiving a surprised glare from both Harmund and Roryn. “For what reason?” Harmund asked strictly. “My brother is with the Lannisters, is he not?” Hagon then asked with a playful smirk. “Perhaps I just miss him, father.” Roryn let out a hearty laugh. “I’ll gladly have the lad sailing by my side, Your Grace.” “Your Grace, I would like to go as well,” the young Harrick Hoare suddenly spoke up. His bodyguard Karin Orkwood looked at him with a shocked expression on her face. “I came here to become a true ironborn, a raider like my ancestors. I don’t think I can achieve that by sitting on a siege camp.” “Fine, I shall allow it,” Harmund said with a hint of frustration in his words, shifting his gaze from Harrick to Hagon, and then back to Roryn again. “Twenty ships will sail up the Mander, no more. Try to reach the Lannister host as quickly as possible, send ships back in case you come across anything worth reporting, and do not engage with enemy forces if you can avoid it.” They left early next morning. The raining had stopped, but there were still some clouds darkening Hagon’s mind. He hadn’t gone to see Quenton again before leaving, and his friend’s last words to him echoed in his mind as he watched the shores of Mander slipping by them. Have I denied him both the life and death of a warrior?“You look awfully sour for a man sailing towards untold plunders, captain,” the Swine spoke with his deep and raspy voice, waking Hagon from his thoughts. The prince then forced a small smile on his face. “I shall be happier once I get to bloody my blade again.” They slipped past Highgarden during the third night after they left from Dunstonbury. Some of the reachman guards spotted them and tried to shoot at them with arrows, but to no avail. On the seventh day they reached the confluence of Cockleswhent and Mander. For that night they made camp at the riverbank directly opposed to sturdy white castle built on a small hill in a tight meander of the river. From the golden banners with red apple Hagon could tell it was Cider Hall, the seat of House Fossoway. Some movement could be seen on the battlements now and then, but otherwise the castle and the village beside it were as silent as a grave. They continued up the river in the first light of the morning, and began to raid villages, inns and farmsteads located near the river. Many of them were outright abandoned, but even those that weren’t had hardly any able-bodied men to defend them. During the ninth day they also came across a motherhouse located on a small isle in the middle of the river. Roryn and his men had their way with the terrified septas and silent sisters, but Hagon was not in the mood for such. Instead, he decided to approach Harrick and Karin, who were looking for hidden treasures in the sept, also abstaining themselves from the raping. “Found anything?” Hagon asked, while Harrick and Karin were pushing a statue of the Father from its platform. They had already done the same for the statues of the Mother and the Warrior. “There was silver under the first two,” Harrick said, excitedly nodding towards the silver cups and plates piled next to the crumbled statue of the Mother. “I bet you there’s some under each of these.” “Wouldn’t mind some help here, prince,” Karin quipped, and with a nod Hagon rushed to help them. With a loud thump the statue of the Father came down on the stone floor, its head separating from the body as well as one of its hands. On the hole beneath was hidden only one object: an ancient golden crown. With widened eyes Hagon grabbed the crown, looking at its eleven points of yellow gold and the dark blue sapphires embedded in its band. On the front of the crown was engraved the head of a fox. “Well, you certainly look enthralled by it,” Karin remarked dryly with a raised eyebrow. “It must have belonged to one of the ancient kings of the Reach,” Harrick said with an admiring tone. “Perhaps all the way from the Age of Heroes.” “What is it with men and crowns?” Karin asked, rolling her eyes. Hagon let Harrick to haul most of the treasures found in the sept but kept the crown for himself. They spent the night in the motherhouse and continued their journey in the morning. Some of the raiders were now dragging new salt wives with them. On the thirteenth day they sailed past Longtable, the seat of House Merryweather located at the confluence of Blueburn and Mander. There looked to be an army of few hundred to a thousand men camped outside the castle, though it didn’t look to be very well organized. Some of the soldiers yelled at them and shot at them with arrows, perhaps attempting to goad them into a fight, but the ironborn just laughed and showed them the women they had taken from the motherhouse. Next morning they finally came across Lannister scouts, who told them that the westerman army had crushed a Reachman army at Stonebridge six days ago and was now stationed there. Two ships were immediately sent back to report this to King Harmund, but the rest of them continued towards Stonebridge. They arrived there during sunset, and what caught Hagon’s eyes immediately was the crumbled walls of the Caswell castle. They anchored their ships at the dockside of the town, and marched through its streets to the keep. As they got closer, they could hear the music and laughter from inside getting louder. Hagon barged into the great hall with Harrick, Karin and Roryn coming close behind him. At the dais were seated the two Lannister princes, several westerman lords, and in the very middle Prince Harmund the Handsome and… Gwynesse Goodbrother. Hagon had forgotten that the Goodbrother girl had accompanied the Hoares on their visit to Casterly Rock, and now apparently to the war as well. This is a wedding feast, he suddenly realized, an astonished grin forming on his face. Finally, as he made his way closer to the dais his brother noticed him. “Hagon,” Prince Harmund greeted him with a slightly baffled tone. “Hello brother!” Hagon responded cheerfully and spread his arms theatrically. “And congratulations, I take it?” Harmund gulped subtly before nodding. “Yes, Lady Gwynesse and I have been wedded today.” “I must say I am surprised by your choice of bride, brother,” Hagon said sincerely. “Was your union blessed by a septon?” “Of course,” Harmund answered tensely. “Pity,” Hagon said with a small sigh. “It is always a shame to see old traditions die.” “What are you doing here, Hagon?” Harmund asked, a frustrated look in his dark eyes. “I was sent by our father, who is currently besieging Dunstonbury, to fetch you and your Lannister friends.” Hagon took another step closer to the dais and stared his brother intensely to the eyes. “There is a war to be fought.” |
|
|
|
Post by WildlingKing on Jan 10, 2020 14:08:19 GMT
Arthur III ”Who would pass the Bloody Gate?” asked the booming voice of Ser Hendry Hersy, the Knight of the Bloody Gate. Hendry was a tall and barrel-chested man on his early fifties with a bushy black beard and balding head. “Ser Arthur Arryn, captain of the Gulltown chapter of the Warrior’s Sons, and with him seventy-six knights of the order, as well some two hundred volunteers who have joined us to fight for the cause of King Lucifer Justman in Riverlands,” Arthur responded with a formal tone. Ser Hendry gave an approving nod, and so the gates were opened for them. On the other side the Knight of the Gate approached Arthur while the hundreds of mounted men poured through. “Another war in Riverlands, aye?” he spoke with an attentive gaze in his green eyes. “You think this Lucifer Justman truly has a chance in overthrowing the rule of the Storm King?” “It’s hard to say,” Arthur admitted with a sigh. “Regardless, it is my duty as a Warrior’s Son to support his cause.” For a moment Hendry remained silent, just eyeing at the men riding past them. “My nephew, Addam Hersy, died in the last war,” he spoke up again with a solemn tone on his deep voice. “It was… hard for my brother to accept the loss of his only son. In fact, I think he still struggles to cope with it.” “I understand,” Arthur said with a humble tone. “Many good men were lost to that war.” “I see many young men marching with you, Ser Arthur,” Hendry said calmly, putting a hand on the old knight’s shoulder. “Try to bring as many of them back home alive as you can.” “I will try,” Arthur responded with a deep sigh. “By the Seven, I will try.” The ride down the high road was burdensome and bleak, and not made at all easier by the heavy rains that pestered them from the fourth day onward. However, at least they were numerous enough that no clansmen marauders dared to bother them. During the eight day the sun began to shine again, and during the ninth they made their way past the foothills of the Mountains of the Moon and to the forested borderlands of the Riverlands. Few hours past noon they were approached by half-a-dozen riders clad in blue tabards with three red martlets on a white bend. House Grell, Arthur recalled after having thought about it for a moment. “You the Warrior’s Sons from the Vale?” asked the young man with long auburn hair, who was leading the Grell soldiers. “Aye, we are!” Ser Eddard Egen yelled an answer before Arthur could. “And who are you, boy?” The redhead looked taken aback by Eddard’s tone, but answered nonetheless. “I am Ser Jon Nutt, here by the command of Lord Grell to escort you to Harroway.” “Good afternoon, Ser Jon,” Arthur spoke up with a calm and polite tone. “I am Ser Arthur Arryn, captain of these Warrior’s Sons. We’ve come to aid King Lucifer in his cause.” Jon Nutt nodded to Arthur’s words. “His Grace is waiting for you in Harroway. There is to be a royal wedding in three days.” That evening they arrived at the old inn at the crossroads, where Arthur enjoyed a few horns of ale together with Eddard Egen, Gareth Grafton, Osbert Shett and Jon Nutt. “Lord Charlton garrisons Castle Darry, holding Lord Darry and his family hostage,” Jon explained in-between sipping his ale. “Saltpans have also surrender to Lord Harroway’s men. Practically speaking, we control everything east and south of Goodbrook. Except for the Trident Hall, of course, that’s still held by Lord Robert Blackwood.” “So, that’s where we’ll strike first?” Gareth asked eagerly, and Jon nodded to him. “After the wedding, yes,” he confirmed. “Taking Trident Hall won’t be easy, especially if Lord Robert has been preparing for our attack,” Arthur pointed out. The Nutt knight gave him an unconcerned glance. “I have a feeling that Lord Harroway will find a way,” he stated nonchalantly. “Lord Harroway is to lead the assault, then?” Arthur asked sternly. “Together with King Lucifer and Captain Hill,” Jon answered. Arthur nodded tensely. He knew Lord Osmund Harroway to be a decent man, but he knew nothing of King Lucifer, and he had always considered Ser Harrold Hill to be a needlessly brash and cruel man. Perhaps he has been tempered by age. They arrived at Harroway an hour after the noon next day. The modestly sized town at the southern bank of the Trident was protected from south, west and east by twenty feet tall wooden walls. Some parts of the walls had been rebuilt since the last war, where Darklyn forces had breached them and sacked the town. Right now, outside those walls was camped an army sworn to King Lucifer Justman. Aside from the banners of the Warrior’s Sons and House Harroway, Arthur spotted the colors of Smallwood, Vance of Atranta, Keath, Blanetree, Ryger, Haigh, Grell, Piper and Lolliston. At quick glance, he estimated their numbers to be well over seven thousand. Riding through the muddy streets of Harroway with his lieutenants and Ser Jon Nutt, Arthur could still notice some signs of the sacking. Here and there could be seen ruined houses, which had stood abandoned and derelict for the past sixteen years. The town was clearly less populated than it had been before the last war, and the people that were on its streets looked tense and fearful at the sight of soldiers, especially the older folk. And who could blame them, Arthur thought grimly. At the center of the town stood the Harroway Tower, a bulky stone roundtower surrounded by a twelve feet tall curtain wall of stone. Arthur thought it was a rather modest seat for a house as prestigious as the Harroways, but then again, in his experience the river lords in general cared less about flaunting their wealth than those of the Vale. In the courtyard they were welcomed by a sturdy knight of the Warrior’s Sons, with a bald head, scarred face, a shadow of a beard on his strong jaw, and dark blue-grey eyes. “Captain Hill,” Ser Jon Nutt greeted the man with a respectful nod, and only then Arthur recognized him as Ser Harrold Hill. Years have not been kind to him, he thought. Not that I have much room to speak. “Ser Arthur Arryn,” Harrold greeted him with a tense but respectful tone, offering his hand. Arthur shook the man’s hand and gave him a polite nod. “I was wondering if you’d still lead your men personally,” Harrold said calmly, studying Arthur with his eyes. “No offense, brother, but you’re getting old.” Arthur chuckled slightly at the man’s words. “You don’t look quite as young anymore either, Ser Harrold,” he replied nonchalantly. “You’ve even lost your luscious locks of hair.” “I prefer to keep my head shaven these days, makes things simpler,” Harrold responded with a thin smirk. “Anyway, there is to be a war council within an hour. You should come.” Having said that, the bald knight turned his eyes to the six lieutenants Arthur had brought with him. “There’s no room for all of your men, but you may bring two with you if you wish,” he stated and took his leave. Arthur turned towards his lieutenants. The first choice was clear. “Ned,” he said without hesitating. Ser Eddard Egen was the man he trusted most in this world, his dearest friend and closest advisor. However, the second choice was harder. Ser Perros Hawick was a riverman, and perhaps the most eager of all his lieutenants to serve King Lucifer. Ser Lambert Stone on the other hand was a shrewd man with a keen military mind, someone certainly well suited for a war council. And then there were Ser Gareth Grafton and Ser Osbert Shett, the youngest of his lieutenants – the future of the Gulltown chapter. “Ser Gareth,” Arthur finally decided, and a surprised but pleased expression took over the young Grafton knight’s face. “I’m honored, Captain,” he said with a grateful tone. “You will be there to watch and learn,” Arthur said strictly, before turning to the remaining four lieutenants. “Rest of you, return to the camp.” The war council was held in a large room on the fourth story of the tower, with several narrow but tall latticework windows opening a view towards the river north of the town, as well as the farmlands and woods beyond it. The room was already crowded with people when Arthur, Eddard and Gareth made their entrance. The men had gathered around a long table, though none had yet taken their seat. They’re waiting for the King. “Ser Arthur, welcome,” a calm and polite voice spoke, and Arthur shifted his attention to the man approaching him. He was a slender man on his mid-forties, with a narrow cleanshaven face, short dark brown hair and sullen blue eyes. He was wearing a rather simple attire of a dark grey tunic, black wool breeches and worn leather boots, the only real indication of his noble status being the golden brooch depicting a trident pinned on his chest. Some fine lines had appeared on his face that hadn’t been there when Arthur had last seen him sixteen years ago, but he still recognized those sad eyes to be Osmund Harroway’s. “It’s been a long time, Lord Harroway,” Arthur responded politely, to which Osmund nodded. “Indeed, I wasn’t even a lord when we last saw each other,” he responded with a thin smile. However, that smile faded quickly, no doubt because of the painful memories from the last war surfacing. Osmund had lost a father, uncle, aunt, two brothers and a sister to that war. “I’ve been told your daughter is to marry King Lucifer,” Arthur quickly changed the topic. “She is,” Osmund confirmed tensely. It wasn’t hard to see the thought troubled the lord. “Myrcella is a proper and good young woman. She will do her duty, as we all must.” Arthur narrowed his eyes and looked at Osmund for a moment, before nodding slowly. “We’ve yet to meet King Lucifer,” Eddard Egen calmly joined the conversation. “I take it he is a good man?” Osmund nodded, considering his words for a moment. “His Grace is young, and still unexperienced as a king,” he said with a small sigh. “He needs guidance, but he has already proven himself a pious and determined young man. He will be the king of Faith that these lands deserve, but first we must win this war for him.” “Indeed,” Arthur agreed quietly. “Excuse me, sers, I should go check if His Grace is ready,” Osmund Harroway spoke tensely, and with a small nod he took his leave. Looking around the room, it was clear to Arthur that the atmosphere amongst these men sworn to King Lucifer’s cause was tense. There were no smiles, no laughter to be heard, only quiet mutterings and stern faces. And no wonder, this was after all a collection of men who had either been defeated in the last war or changed sides since then. Making his way closer to the long table with Ned and Gareth, Arthur took his place next to a haggard looking man on his late thirties, with greasy slicked back dark hair, close-cropped salt and pepper beard, small green eyes and dark bags under them. He was dressed in a simple brown wool doublet, a bright yellow cloak donned over it and fastened with a silver clasp in the shape of a seven-pointed star. Next to the man stood a slightly crouched old man, dressed in white robes that Arthur recognized as belonging to a septon. The old septon had a mostly bald head, with some white hair remaining on the sides, and a wrinkled and pasty white cleanshaven face. All in all, Arthur deduced that this man was even older than himself. However, the look on the septon’s blue eyes was surprisingly sharp for his advanced age. “You must be Ser Arthur Arryn of Gulltown,” the man in yellow cloak spoke up, his voice polite if a bit uneasy. “I am Lord Tommard Smallwood, the Lord of Acorn Hall. This here is Septon Lewis, my dear friend and wise advisor.” The septon nodded at Arthur with a kindly smile. “Your father fought for Lord Roderick Blackwood, did he not?” Arthur asked with a raised eyebrow. “And I fought beside my father,” Tommard was quick to confirm with a subtle gulp. “I saw him fall in the Battle of Six Kings, trampled to death after being knocked off his mount by a knight of the Warrior’s Sons.” Tommard’s lips formed a thin and joyless smirk. “That sight never left me. To this day it haunts my dreams. Septon Lewis tells me it is the gods reminding me of where the path of sin leads. You see, my father was not a godly man. No, he was a drunkard and a whoremonger, and he spat on the Faith. He was my father, and I loved him, but I’ve known for a long time that I must choose a different path.” “Which is why you’ve chosen to support King Lucifer’s cause,” Arthur deduced calmly, and Tommard nodded. “I wish there was another way,” he said grimly. “But if another war is required to undo the sins of the past, then I have no choice but to fight on the side of the Faith.” “I understand,” Arthur muttered with a sympathetic tone. He wanted to say something more, but before he could the door of the room was opened once again, and in walked King Lucifer Justman, escorted by Ser Harrold Hill and Lord Osmund Harroway. The young king was a fair-haired and comely lad with blue eyes, reminding Arthur somewhat of his grandnephew King Oswell back in Vale. His Grace was dressed in lavish silks and velvets in white, blue and gold, and on his head rested a crown of silver and gold. With a haughty expression on his boyish face and with determined steps King Lucifer took his place at the head of the table. The lords and knights in the room all bowed for the King, before also taking their seats. “Mylords, I would like to welcome the newcomers, who have joined our host since the last war council,” Lucifer spoke up, his voice tense. “Lord Lucas Grell,” he continued, looking at a sturdy man on his late fifties with a light brown hair and bushy greying beard, who at once stood up as the King spoke his name. “Your Grace,” he said with a deep bow. “It is an honor to finally meet you in person. Together with Lord Charlton and Lord Haigh we have worked tirelessly these past few months in securing the regions north of here for your rule.” “And I’ve heard you were even successful in capturing Darry,” King Lucifer said with a thin smile on his face. “For that you have my utmost gratitude. Once we’ve taken Trident Hall, I would like to discuss further with you, Charlton and Haigh about suitable rewards for your valiant service.” “I am deeply honored, Your Grace,” Lord Grell said with another bow, and after King Lucifer gave him an approving nod he sat down again. Then the King turned his gaze to Arthur. “Ser Arthur Arryn of the Vale,” he spoke with what looked to be a genuinely delighted smile. Arthur stood up and bowed for the King, as did Ned and Gareth. “Your Grace, I have arrived here from Gulltown to support your cause in overthrowing the Storm King’s illegitimate rule over Riverlands. It would be an honor to serve you in pursuing that goal.” “The honor is all mine,” Lucifer responded smoothly. “You have a reputation as being the very ideal of a Warrior’s Son, Ser Arthur, which was why I knew you would answer my call. I was holding out hope that perhaps King Oswell would join you as well, but alas.” “King Oswell has told me he is open to making an alliance with you in the future, Your Grace,” Arthur said carefully. “However, for now he considers marching against the Storm King too risky of an endeavor. That said, hundreds of knights, squires and freeriders from the Vale followed me here as volunteers.” “I see,” King Lucifer said calmly, lightly tapping his fingers on the table, the smile on his face having grown slightly smaller. “If King Oswell requires proof that I am a worthy ally to him, he will have it soon enough when I take the Trident Hall.” “It’s one thing to take a castle, Your Grace, and another entirely to hold it,” Gareth suddenly spoke up with a nonchalant tone, and Arthur shot the young knight with a meaningful glare. “What my young lieutenant, Ser Gareth Grafton, is trying to say, Your Grace, is that the Storm King will surely retaliate,” Arthur spoke with a conciliatory tone. “Of course he will,” Ser Harrold Hill sternly spoke up. “No one in this room thinks the war ahead of us will be easy. Yet it is our duty to return Riverlands under a rightful king and the Faith of the Seven, is it not?” Arthur let out a small sigh and nodded. “It is our duty, yes,” he agreed. “However, I cannot help but be concerned about all the death and suffering this war will surely bring. And if we fail, if it is all in vain… I cannot see that being the will of the Seven.” “Which is why the Seven will guide King Lucifer to victory,” Septon Lewis spoke up, a soft smile on his wrinkled face. “It is His Grace’s purpose in life to bring the light of the Seven back to this land, so says even the High Septon, the Shepherd of the Faithful.” “And our purpose is to protect and guide His Grace on that path,” Ser Harrold stated solemnly. Realizing there was no use in arguing this any further, Arthur simply nodded to Harrold’s words and sat down. “Ser Arthur’s concern is warranted, of course,” Osmund Harroway spoke up, sharply eyeing the men around the table. “However, I firmly believe this is the best moment to strike we’ve had since the last war was lost, and we cannot afford to hesitate now, or we may never again have an opportunity like this. The Storm King and his allies are not be underestimated, that is true, but they are not as strong as they believe themselves to be, and they’ll come to learn that soon enough.” The discussion then moved on to the upcoming attack on Trident Hall, as King Lucifer announced they would begin their march on the day following the wedding. Five thousand men would march on Trident Hall, while a smaller host of two thousand would remain to defend Harroway. After a few minutes of debate, it was decided that Lord Lucas Grell, Ser Harry Lolliston and Lord Robb Ryger would remain in charge of the garrison remaining in Harroway. After a good night of rest, the next day brought with it the grand royal wedding. The sun was shining from a clear blue sky as Ser Arthur and his lieutenants entered the town’s largest sept, each of them clad in their silver armors and rainbow cloaks. King Lucifer stood between the shrines of the Mother and the Father, holding in his hands an ivory velvet cloak. The ceremony began with a choir of holy sisters singing a lengthy song about the balance between the Father’s judgement and the Mother’s mercy. It was a song Arthur had heard countless times in the past, but he had to admit that these holy sisters performed it particularly beautifully. When the song was over, the septon spoke a short prayer for the King and for the Riverlands. Then, finally, the doors were opened, and Lord Osmund Harroway entered the sept, escorting by the hand his seventeen-year-old daughter Myrcella. She was by all means a pretty sight in her silky white wedding dress and orange maiden’s cloak donned over it, with a short and lean figure, round rosy cheeks, timid blue-green eyes and curly light brown hair. Having escorted her daughter between the shrines of the Mother and the Father, Lord Harroway stood aside as the septon began his prayers. First, he spoke a prayer to House Harroway and Myrcella. Then he spoke another prayer for King Lucifer, and finally for the union that was about to be made. Seven vows were spoken by Lucifer and Myrcella, the septon invocated seven blessings on them, and they exchanged seven promises with each other. A marriage song was sung, after which the septon challenged anyone present to speak against the marriage, which of course no one did. Lord Harroway then removed the orange maiden’s cloak from his daughter’s shoulders, and King Lucifer replaced it with his white cloak, which Arthur now noticed had the golden scales of House Justman embroidered on it. “With this kiss I pledge my love,” the groom and bride ceremoniously spoke in unison, though Lucifer’s voice clearly overpowered that of Myrcella’s. The people in the sept all cheered and applauded as the bride and groom kissed, but to Arthur’s eyes it looked like a very uncomfortable kiss. They are complete strangers to each other. “In the name of the Seven I declare you man and wife,” the septon intoned. “To be one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever!” Another song was sung, after which King Lucifer crowned Queen Myrcella with a thin silver circlet adorned with seven sapphires. Then the King walked at the shrine of the Warrior, where Ser Harrold Hill kneeled before him and offered him his sword. Lucifer took the sword and theatrically raised it towards the ceiling, and its blade glimmered magically on the light coming in from the colorful stained-glass windows. “The gods are with us!” the young king bellowed fervently. “They have shined their light upon us today, and with this blade I shall return their blessing over this land! For victory, for glory, for the gods!” |
|
Also, the battle here was superb. I got a weakness for battle scenes and you always nail them, so Erich + Stormlands + battle scene easily equals one of my favourite parts so far.
I am certain that, with choices making their return to NW in some capacity, this could mean that our choices will have some degree of influence on Kortney's final fate. It also means that her story is far from over, something I was not sure of after she didn't feature in the early parts of Book 2.