All for our Pride
I was going through some stuff online and saw the line "All for Our Pride" suggested as the possible words of House Reyne. It gave me ideas, and I thought I might as well try out a chapter, see how it goes and then continue from there.
The words of house Reyne
suggested by ghostofthedreadfort on Tumblr
I own nothing. Credit where credit is due.
I was born in exile.
"My lord! My lord, please! You must stand, we cannot stay here!"
I was born in foreign lands, and I had never laid eyes upon my family's ancestral home, had never seen the halls that claimed the lives of so many women, children, and young men in a single day. Was it our punishment for sins of greed? Was it the failings of better men? Or was it the arrogance of my ancestors that brought me here, blood-stained and weary-
"He can't hear me! Mother have mercy on our souls, we are going to die here!"
- to watch it happen all over again. I don't know much of all this, life can be confusing for one so young, alone and without much guidance. But the one saving grace, the one difference that set me apart from my namesake-
"He is not his grandfather! He is different, he sees the world for what it truly is, my lord, his mind is his strength. It is a strength that Lord Tywin would find great use for."
- is that I understand the stakes. I understand that second chances are hard to come by and that death is the eternal enemy. I was born for this. I was tempered by hate and forged through exile and bloodshed. On his deathbed, my father, the one son of Roger Reyne, and the last of our kin to escape Tywin Lannister's wrath, told me that he himself had never seen Castamere, save for the hazy unattainable memories of infancy. His greatest shame was surviving across the narrow sea while the golden lion gave our home away, and sang songs of the Reynes and their doom, all for my family's greed.
"Lord Tywin wants him dead! He wanted his father dead. Seven hells, he sealed them in a tomb of their own making and drowned every last soul-"
If the red lion had thoughts of his pride, his kin, rather than his pride and ego, perhaps I would not be here, standing in the midst of what could just be a battlefield, watching men tear each other apart, and for what?
Our world should be cleansed in fire. Something went terribly wrong somewhere along the line.
We need to do better, we need to be better.
I looked around the death and destruction that surrounded me, the destruction that claimed the village that had nursed me back to life when my companion and I collapsed at its center. My journey from Braavos had been a long and perilous one, made so by the men who hunted me for the promise of Lannister gold. Perhaps they knew not what I looked like or what they would do with me. But one matter was a certainty, I was to be made an example. For rains weep o'er my halls, and the dead hear nothing but the roaring fury of the stranger.
All for our pride.
Words meant to show strength, devotion to our kin and family, to a house of greater claims to the Westerlands of the Casterlys than even the Lannisters could ever boast. In the end, everyone died for our pride, for our ego and ambitions.
All for our pride.
The words rang heavy in my skull as I rushed out of the tent I occupied, to the cries of the innocent and the screams of the burning and dying. My companion rushed to my side, dark-haired, armored and radiating arrogance. He threw my sword, scabbard, and belt with it in my direction, and I caught the instrument of death, -my own or my enemy's, I did not yet know- while the old man drew his into the gleaming light of the morning.
"Another day in the cradle of the gods, my lord. Are you ready?" He asked, looking around for the bloodriders we knew were coming.
"What am I to be ready for? Death?" I asked, feeling the dreaded mixture of fear and excitement flood my body, brain and soul.
"It's either death, victory or chains for us now, my lord. Be ready for any and all." He replied sagely, a smile spreading across his face. I always knew ser Daven was a man who lived for battle. Yet throughout our journey, ever since my father died and Tywin's assassins fell upon us, his strategy was to escape, flee and train whenever the sun hung high in the sky.
I had never been ready enough to turn and fight, in his opinion. But today, my guardian saw no other alternative. And though it made him happy to face a good fight and a good death, I could see he worried for me still.
There is no choice but to be ready. Anything else is death.
There was no more time to think, for before I could even look away, they were upon us, chasing women and cutting down any who were unlucky enough to stand in between. Ser Daven cut one man down and turned to face the next, whilst I drew my sword from its scabbard and readied the shield my father had gifted me, the red lion upon it wearied by the years, barely visible in the glint of the morning sun.
I rushed forward, towards a Dothraki bloodrider with his breeches down to his knees and his cock in his hand before a young girl. She cried out as he touched her and then cried out again when my sword cut his head from his body.
I stood there as my companion joined me, behind us the women, the children and the old cowered, attempted to climb the fences and ran through the chaos while bloodriders poured forth, the glint of their eyes catching the steel in our hands and the evil that was their souls longed for combat. Perhaps I would not see my home, perhaps I would die here. But if I were to die protecting those who sheltered and nursed me back to life, those that spoke a tongue I had never learned yet spoke it through kindness regardless, then perhaps the words of my house could have that greater meaning once more.
"All for our pride," I said aloud to my companion. Ser Daven turned in my direction and smiled, a sad faint thing that appeared so alien on a face so old.
"Yes, My lord. All for our pride." He repeated sadly. I respected him more then. I respected that man more than he would ever know. My guardian, my companion and most trusted friend stood by my side as the horde of bloodthirsty savages approached.
All of a sudden, a voice rang out and the approaching group of men stopped, a man with a long braid stepping forward. He pointed his Arakh in our direction and spoke. I understood nothing, but ser Daven did. "He says he will fight us one at a time, or both together. He says he will bring his Khal our heads regardless."
The grinding of my teeth was the fine line holding my resolve and restraining my fury. In all honesty, I did not want to die here at the hand of a murderous bloodrider, at the edge of the world, far from home, my journey coming to an end before the red lion could fly off the towers of Castamere.
But fight I would, and if it meant my death, then so be it.
The bloodrider rushed forward, his arakh a frenzy of steel. I met his strikes with one of my own and ser Daven swung his sword. Our attacks dodged, the bloodrider grinned and into the fray we jumped again. We must have fought for some time, the other bloodriders screaming obscenities for all I knew as they watched one of their betters take on two Westerosi, seemingly at ease with the fight.
I know not what came over me but when he swung his blade at me for the third time, his movements almost identical, I ducked and swung, and his blood gushed out, staining my face, my armor, and my feet.
He collapsed and I saw men around us reach for their curved weapons. Voices rang out, the seven hells broke loose, and they descended upon us like death itself.
I don't remember much of what happened next. The fight itself was an inexplicably quick affair. All I remember was the comforting weight and heat of Ser Daven's back against my own, as we faced our attackers, like the lions we were.
A lion and a hill against the hordes of the horse. Men have persevered against worse odds, I'd say.
Fuck it, bring on the rain.
A bloodrider fell to my sword. Another followed shortly after, and the cries of dying men facing Ser Daven's wrath reached my ears just as surely as the cries of children being ripped from their mothers rang out all around.
It was when the third bloodrider fell at my feet that a scream erupted from my throat. It was not one of pain or anguish, but a scream of bloodlust. I must have looked a fright then, shield notched and battered, bloodied from head to toe, and yet I felt powerful, I felt immortal in the wake of my ungodly slaughter.
My scream must have angered my foes or shook their resolve, for they stood looking upon a red lion, stained red by the blood of their brethren and if I were to die, I would damn them all to the seven hells with me.
A man yelled over the chaos and the savages halted in their approach. I looked up and my fury, my lust for carnage wavered at the sight of the khal. He was a lumbering beast of a man, with a braid that proved his prowess. It was his crown, his claim to greatness.
I looked up, a hand going for the blood on my face to wipe it. I wanted to cut his braid off his scalp, in my youthful arrogance. The man could crush my very being with his bare hands most likely. The thought entered my mind as the battle fever left me, the shock of what I wrought and the pain in tired limbs finally manifesting.
He laughed, and spoke to his men in a thunderous voice, his hands gesturing towards us as if we were vermin beneath his might.
Ser Daven relaxed for a moment. "We are to be a gift." He said to me, his sword falling to his side.
"A gift" I repeated, tasting the word and finding it sour. "A gift?" I asked dumbly, confused and battle worn.
"For his new bride, he said. Westerosi warriors for his Westerosi bride." Ser Daven explained, his sword meeting his scabbard.
I was confused still by the entire ordeal. "We killed his men." I said, "And he wants no retribution?" This made no sense to me. I looked around, my eyes frantically scanning the crowd and the bloodriders who stood there, on edge and confused. Ser Daven sighed, sounding defeated. "I believe our lives are retribution enough. We are his now, his bride's. It is either so or death."
"The Dothraki value strength above all." A new voice added. An armored knight, undoubtedly Westerosi, stepped forward, his hand resting casually, arrogantly upon the hilt of his sword. I slowly lowered my blade, I raised my left hand, shield still attached to it, palm outwards in as a peaceful manner as I could manage while I gasped for breath.
The knight seemed almost defeated looking upon us, "Do you speak?" he asked.
"Indeed we do, ser." Replied ser Daven. "Your bloodriders may only speak one tongue. Be it the common tongue or that of blood, we speak both and may still speak either today. Who are you?"
I had gotten my breathing under control by then. I had forgotten how much a real battle could rob a man of his breath. I have much to learn still. The knight spoke once more "I do not want your blood, stranger, know this well. Your life might just depend on the mercy of the Khal, so speak frankly. Ser Jorah Mormont is my name. Might I know yours?"
"Ser Daven Hill, once a knight of Castamere. With me is the last lion of House Reyne. What might we expect, Ser Jorah? Steel or freedom?" Ser Daven said, his guard unwavering. The knight regarded us strangely. Perhaps he had not thought to find a Reyne and a Hill this side of the world. I could not tell what went on behind those guarded eyes.
"The Khal has spoken, ser. But if you value your lord's life, it would be wise to refrain from any rash action. The Dothraki do not take well to that."
I looked from my companion to the lumbering beast of a Khal and the northern knight by his side, both waiting to see what we would do. If there was a choice to be made, it was one that would not be envied. I would not die here after all. I allowed my steel to find its sheath and nodded to the northern knight. "Very well, ser. It seems we have little choice but to put our lives in his hands." I said, defeated at last.
"All hope is not lost, my lord." Ser Jorah said, a sympathetic smile gracing his face as the Dothraki roughly stripped us of our steel and shield, our armor clattering to the ground. "The Khaleesi is as kind as she is fair. We are all brothers in exile, and your life might yet have meaning again."
The shackles found our wrists and our ankles. I raised the steel that bound me and shook it so that ser Jorah may see, making it sing as it moved. I looked him in the eye, straight in the fucking eye, a boy of six and ten staring down a knight at least two decades older. "If this is your Khaleesi's kindness, I fear my life lost all meaning the day her husband chose to slaughter the people of this town." I chuckled because all things considered, this did not turn out to be a bad day after all.
- "What's my name, Ser Devan?"
- "Roger Reyne, my lord. You have the blood of the Casterlys in your veins. Your ancestors once ruled the Wes-"
- "No, no no. Stop, just stop. What is my name?"
- "I don't understand, my lord."
- "My name is Roger. Just Roger. I am lord of nothing, the descendant of nothing. I am nothing until my banner flies upon the walls and towers of Castamere. Do you understand now?"
- "Would you like me to call you that? Just Roger?"
- "It would bring me great pride to earn my name. Do you not think so?"
- "You're an honorable man, Milo-... Lord Roger. I wish your father lived long enough to see it."
- "My father was a coward. A man who lived and died moving nothing but the dirt that buried him. he's dead."
- "He was an honorable man, my lord."
- "He was weak, Ser. Admit it."
- "I… I am sorry you think so My lord."
Walking in shackles was tricky enough without the Dothraki warrior screaming in our ear, his whip finding my back as we trudged through the smoke and ash of what once was the home of so many innocents. I had lost all respect for the Dothraki that day. Glory in battle and war was one thing, but killing and enslaving defenseless and unarmed sheepherders and farmers was another.
We had become slaves. The horse had shackled the lion and the world was probably all the better for it.
The whip cracked against my back again and a cry came unbidden from my lips. I stumbled and stopped as Ser Daven and I, along with a gaggle of women arrived at a tent, larger than the ones around it, and our new master came forth.
A silver-haired goddess, younger perhaps even than I, strode forth. She seemed crestfallen, grieved by the sight before her, of women and children that had seen their homes burn, probably witnessed their own families burn for that matter. She ushered them closer and saw to their well-being.
As a mother would, I thought.
Ser Daven and I stood there. We shared a glance and concluded that the only Valyrian exiles we knew of were once royalty. This here was a Targaryen princess. My lessons with Ser Daven had taught me most of what the seven kingdoms had seen and gone through since my family's downfall. Acquiring news from home, though difficult at times, was always something we both longed for. Many of our days were spent at the docks in Essos, gathering news from merchants and sailors from across the narrow.
Until Tywin's men fell upon us.
The red lion was history but soon after followed the greatest dynasty of the seven kingdoms. The stag sat proudly upon the throne of the Targaryens now, and the golden lion had made King's Landing its den, the kingdoms its hunting grounds.
Her eyes found us and confusion clouded them. As soon as she started moving towards us the whipping Dothraki - The man I vowed to rip limb from limb - Pushed us roughly to our knees. So I sank, blood and grime covering me and I looked to the muddy ground, just as delicate pale feet came to stand before me.
"A gift from Khal Drogo, Khaleesi." Ser Jorah introduced us. "A lord and his knight from your homeland." His voice was gentler, much kinder than it had been. I wondered if he felt sympathy for us or the horde of slaves-to-be. I suppose we are one and the same now.
"Why are they in chains?" Her voice was a melody. Either that or my headache was about to get a lot worse.
"They have shed blood, Khaleesi. They will have to earn their blades. Regardless, they are yours."
The Khaleesi crouched before me, the edges of her dress dipping ethereally into the muddy ground, her hair a multitude of scents. Her hand touched my chin and I flinched. I raised my head to look upon her, thinking I must look a fright with my dark hair matted and grimy. I looked into those violet eyes and faced the new master that I would serve.
Her hand moved to Ser Daven, and he looked upon her with uncertainty. "What is to become of us?" He asked, an old man, a brave man, tired and unsure.
"Ser Jorah" She said, "Remove their shackles and see to it that they're looked after. I entrust them and their well-being to you for now."
Ser Jorah bowed, "As you wish, Khaleesi." He motioned the Dothraki whipping bastard forward and had us unchained. "Come," He said. "Allow me to find you a place among the horde."
- "The gods favored us today, my lord."
- "What did I tell you about calling me that, ser?"
- "Forgive me, young lord."
- "There is nothing to forgive. And the Gods favour nothing. They care naught for us."
- "Perhaps they do more than we know."
- "Never enough though."
It was hours later after the sun had dipped out of sight and torches took up its mantle that we were called for. Ser Jorah had been true to his word at least and had provided us with enough time to wash and rest. And then there we were, slaves called forth by their master.
"My apologies for what happened." The Khaleesi had said. "The Dothraki are… well, they are different."
"We are still here." Ser Daven said, "And I believe we owe you our lives. The Khal would have slaughtered us alongside the rest had it not been for you."
She was quiet for a moment, her lips pursed and her mind wandering. I suppose it must have been difficult to be married to a bloodthirsty savage. How exactly do you apologize for it? "You are a long way from home. Ser Jorah tells me that you have been exiled from the seven kingdoms long ago."
"Ser Jorah speaks truly." Ser Devan inclined his head towards the northern knight. "House Reyne was destroyed a generation ago. I was a young man, one of the few who escaped Lord Tywin's wrath, and with me the last scions of House Reyne."
"Do you wish to go home?" She asked.
"We have no home to return to, Khaleesi. But if we could walk free to find our own way in the world, we would be satisfied." Ser Daven replied. The Khaleesi's face softened into sympathy.
"As would I." She said dreamily. "But my husband will not allow it. You must know this already."
Ser Daven sighed, "Indeed we do, Khaleesi. What is to become of us?"
She stood from her perch and walked a step closer, the light from the torches and the brazier doing marvelous things to her features. I had not yet spoken and I had no intention to do so. But seeing her as such, as divine as Valyrians tend to look, I could only stare. "I would ask you to prove yourselves." She said, "My brother is the true king of the seven kingdoms and he means to reclaim our father's throne one day. Prove yourselves, ser. And you will sail home with a conqueror's army at your back."
I mulled her words over and could not help but see right behind the gilded cage she wanted us to accept. "We will earn our steel and our freedom," I said committing nothing and promising even less, "What would you have us do?"
"Stand for me, my lord. Stand with Ser Jorah and I. You will find your way home at the end of this path, I know it." Ser Jorah nodded in encouragement, the ways of the noble and powerful seemingly a habit unbroken even this side of the narrow sea. Her tone was encouraging, inspiring even. And I, despite my weariness, allowed myself to be swept by it.
Into my gilded cage, I go.
"Then so be it," I said, falling to a knee before her. Ser Daven falling to his beside me "Would you have us swear you our lives, Khaleesi?"
"Your companionship, your friendship would do just as well." She replied.
And so we did, we swore our vows and rose again, shackled in steel no more, but shackled in vows and honor instead.
Because a caged lion is better than a dead one.
I dipped the tattered cloth into the cool waters of the stream I knelt at. My clothes, wet and as clean as I could get them to be, rested on the low branch of the tree beside me. I used the cloth to clean my bloody scabbard as the afternoon sun burned the back of my neck. The Horde had set camp nearby after a day of riding, one that I spent in the company of Ser Daven and the Dothraki warrior who kept careful watch over us from a distance.
Thankfully, there were no settlements or villages for the horde to sack in between our current camp, and the village where I lost my freedom the day before.
I sat on the edge of the water in my smallclothes, feeling tired of the constant glare of the sun above. I had missed roofs and shade more than anything since leaving Essos, and my future held nothing in it except the unending fields of the Dothraki sea.
"My lord." Ser Daven's voice reached my ears just as his footsteps stopped a small distance behind me.
"What did I tell you about calling me that, ser?" I asked, annoyed and hoping that this habit of his would break.
"My apologies, Lord Roger. But I have bent my knee before you since the day you were born."
"I am not your lord, Ser. Not yet… Not for a long time it seems." I threw the cloth aside, anger bubbling under the surface.
"We will endure." The old man said. "We always do."
I sighed, touching my eye and the swelling upon it, sensitive still. It was a kindness the Dothraki gave me the night before. I killed men, I realized, men who had families and friends. They understood battle, but envy and hate were part of men just as surely as their hands. "We might die still." I said.
"We might."
"You don't have to, Ser." I said, "I would not have you die for me."
There was silence then. Ser Daven said nothing as he approached, taking a moment to kneel by my side, fixing his eyes as I had on the horizon, and the fading sun beyond it. "Roger," He said, calling my name for the first time, "We survived this far together. We will endure together. And when the day comes for us to die, we will die for each other. Never has there been a nobler end."
"I owe you my life, Ser." I said in honesty, "More times than I could care to count. I would hate to see you die for me."
"There is nothing else I would rather die for." Ser Daven replied, his hand finding my bare shoulder.
"You're a loyal man, Ser Daven." I admitted.
"All is not lost. The Targaryens are powerful even at their weakest. This might be our best chance at survival. No assassin would dare follow a horde." His words were meant as comfort, but all I felt was resignation, fear that my life would end with the horse holding the rope around my neck.
I stood, dressing and wearing the scabbard of my sword, no steel for it to hold. "Let us return, Ser. We have steel to earn."
NOTE: Please let me know what you think.