Mathis (I)

Flops of mud regularly flew up from the hooves of the squadron of doughty Goldengrove knights and men-at-arms riding around him; some of it occasionally splashing on his well stained travel cloak. Mathis Rowan's stout frame felt thankful for the thick wool mantle resting across his shoulders, covering the hardened leather he wore. For though the mid-day rain had faded, a chill fall air had swept in quickly behind the returning dashes of sun light. The weather worried the great lord a great deal. His thoughts turned frequently to it and what portents it brought for the future.

His hope of actually living during the Seven foretold 'Great Summer' had died on dark wings that cloudy day in early December. Mace wanted his banners, all his banners, to attend first the crowning of the new king and then the marriage of his lone daughter to a Baratheon not named Joffery. Assuredly this meant war, and nothing in the intervening four months inclined Mathis to think any differently of the situation. The arrival of the Citadel's message nigh two months later proclaiming the advent of autumn had been a mere formality as far as he was concerned. His nose could smell the storm clouds gathering and the odor of change in the wind.

But even he had been surprised when the tourneys and parties taking place beneath fair Highgarden to introduce so many young, valiant lordlings and knights to their handsome new king and his beautiful queen were struck by an icy gust of doubt. The Wolves of the North had scattered and slain the Lions of Casterly Rock. 'Winter has come for the Lannisters,' he remembered proclaiming in in the quickly called council. Rumors of Lord Stark's return filled the small, letter choked scroll. 'A mummer dressed in wolf's clothing,' his Grace had laughingly explained. 'A bloody talented and dangerous one,' Lord Randyll muttered unhappily in response. Perhaps sensing the mood of the chamber, the king had ordered that night that his mighty host would depart three days afterward. And they had, even though a number of Reach and Stormlands lords were yet to be accounted for.

A mighty spectacle they'd made riding through what little unflattened late summer wheat remained in Mace's fields. His grace had looked so handsome and glorious riding on a jet black stallion that matched his hair, with his lovely bride, the fair Margaery to one side of him and the puissant Ser Loras decked out in silver mail and a vibrant rainbow colored cloak to the other. Still, watching the stalks trampled under, the Lord of Goldengrove couldn't but think of the late summer wheat in his own fields. 'Has it all been harvested? Is the fall wheat planted? Will autumn last long enough that that too can be harvested? The larders need to be full to overflowing; only the Seven know how long winter will last.' He took his duties as a lord seriously. That meant treating not only his lordlings, but his smallfolk too, justly, firmly and with Seven granted grace.

They'd barely made five miles that first day on the Roseroad, sorting out the march order with much arguing and demanding of honors or satisfaction from insults real or only perceived. He'd been pleased to see the high spirits, so many full of piss and vinegar, as they began the grand crusade to set the king on his proper throne. Still, he did not like the idea of fighting in winter. He'd done so in Robert's Rebellion, though he'd been on the side that thought of it as the 'War of the Usurper.' But he was not the young man he'd once been. 'You're middle aged and fat,' he chastised himself, wishing longingly for the boundless strength and vigor he recalled from his youth.

If truth be told, he was no longer quite so stout as at the start of the adventure. He needed to be, for only a week prior news had come of Stannis and his Northern allies storming the Red Keep and placing his stubborn arse, oh the Reach's nemesis in the siege of Storm's End was not forgotten, on the Iron Throne itself. From that moment, gone was the lackadaisical pace of his grace's procession. No more feasting each night or scheduling a tourney every seventh day to honor the Warrior. To the king's vast disappointment, he had left his queen of love behind at that evening's keep, so that he could ride hard night and day, to wherever the host needed its war leader most. A veritable demon now seemed to drive the usually magnanimous monarch, Stannis could not be allowed to hold what his grace had claimed.

On this forty-ninth day since departing Highgarden, Mathis Rowan, Lord of Goldengrove and high in the councils of Good King Renly, rode over the top of a wooded rise on the Roseroad while safe and secure in the bosom of his household guard. The chill air about him on the knoll hinted at the promise of a frost in the future, far in the future he hoped, but it did give him a clear view for leagues and leagues. Below him the Mander, now much reduced in size since the last time he gazed on it three and forty days ago, came into view. A mile ahead he spied his hard charging grace, immediately surrounded by his only constant companions, the brave Ser Loras and three others who'd earned the privilege, through their knightly excellence, of wearing the king's rainbow cloak: Lord Bryce, Ser Parmen, and Ser Robar. Mathis smiled at the dashing figures they cut and at the several thousand knights and mounted men-at-arm preceding them in the van, led by Lord Tarly's Red Huntsman banner. Then squinting, for his eyes were no longer young either, he made out in the distance a modest keep beside the river, today's destination: Bitterbridge.

Inspired by the sight, he gave spur to his mount, enthused to be part of such a grand and noble expedition. He'd survived war and winter before, he could survive this. Satisfied for the nonce with his fate, Mathis' thoughts quickly turned toward the coming promise of mulled wine, a feather bed, and a saucy, ample bottomed wench to keep him warm through the oncoming night.


Iron shod hooves clattered and sparked as they beat across the cobblestone inlaid as the surface of the bridge. The king's own giant, shimmering gold banner sporting the proud, prancing Baratheon stag swayed in the breeze high above House Caswell's modest yellow centaur banner and equally modest stone and timber castle. The fields laying outside the Mander fed moat were quickly sprouting with tents and pavilions of the men and beasts already arrived. Mathis noted there would be no fall wheat or legumes for pleasant Lord Lorent, but at least it looked like his smallfolk had gotten the late summer wheat harvested.

"Gerold!" he shouted once off the loud stone bridge, drawing the attention of his House Master-at-arms. "Take the lads about a half mile past the hives," pointing a distance down the Roseroad where Lord Warryn Beesbury's men were making camp. "I want us in the lead of the van tomorrow, no matter whether his Grace relinquishes command of it to me from Lord Tarly or not."

"T'is far, my lord," his formidable deputy grunted, and then craned his neck about; obviously trying to judge the distance from his lord's commanded destination to the nearest curve of the river.

Mathis rosy cheeked, clean shaven face cracked a grin. He knew his man's practical inclinations well. Water. And how far it must be toted by weary squires to their masters' thirsty mounts and the night's cooking fires. Luckily, the Lord of Goldengrove was further travelled than most of his peers; and more than once he'd taken guest rights here under Lord Lorent's late father, even hunted some with the old man. "There's a small rill that comes less than a furlong from the road about there, t'will make a fine camp," he said with satisfaction.

Gerold nodded in approval.

"Rooster!" he yelled, drawing the attention of his second squire, a poorer relation from House Cockshaw.

"Yes, my lord."

"I am stopping to pay my respects to his grace, see that my tent is pitched and all held in readiness should the king not long require my attendance."

"It shall be done," the eager boy of twelve years concurred.

"Come, Wilbert!" he commanded, as he guided his sturdy bay steed over towards the entrance of the well beaten path leading to Bitterbridge Castle. His House guards promptly adjusted the speed and direction of their own mounts to make room for him and his first squire to pass through them. When his personal banner carrier made to follow, he waved the man off; with the king already ensconced within, space would be at a premium. 'Just the tiniest room with a bed,' his tired body begged.

Gravel now crunched beneath them and soon the pair arrived at the gate. "Ser Hyle," he called out to the scar faced knight captaining the Horn Hill men at the open gate.

"Lord Rowan, welcome," the trusted banner to Lord Tarly replied. Instantly the spears barring his way were lifted aside.

The Ser's lips curled almost in embarrassment. "The bailey is quite crowded at the moment, my lord."

Mathis noted through the long shadows cast by the rapidly departing sun that the modest space beyond was in fact rather stuffed with horseflesh. He hid is irritation. He was a great lord, a descendant of Garth Greenhand, but they were all marching to war, allowances must be made for the minor snares and pitfalls his dignity was sure to encounter along the way. He shrugged and began to dismount on the spot. "Wilbert, see to Copper," he ordered his second cousin's middle boy.

"There's a picket line around the corner of yonder watch tower," Ser Hyle politely offered.

Feet on solid earth, he handed the reins over to the fifteen year old.

"May I show you to his grace, Lord Rowan?"

"Kindly offered, Ser, but I've visited the Caswells before," he replied and started off through the jumbled muck of mud and horse shit; tired, tight thighs and calves barking at him after the long day's ride.

Even if Mathis had never visited Bitterbridge before, the small size of the place as well as the loud sounds and delicious aromas emanating from the only building that resembled a keep would have directed him where to go. He politely wiped off the filth that had so quickly stuck to his boots before entering the great hall.

He found his grace a foot, standing; dominating those gathered at the high table with his muscular height and easy smile. Spread out beneath the king's benevolent gaze, Mathis easily enough recognized their host, young Lord Lorent, of course the lean, greying, but still hawkish Lord Tarly, Ser Loras and the rest of the Rainbow Guards were a given; and near a score of lordling captains he knew to varying degrees. Almost all were seated and in good cheer. The Lord of Goldengrove snatched an ale from the tray of some passing serving maid and continued on to the place where he belonged near Good Renly.

"Lord Mathis," his Grace cried upon spying him. "We are most pleased. No matter how hard I drove my Obsidian today, every time I peered over my shoulder, there hung your golden tree, protecting my back."

As always when around the king, Mathis found his back suddenly straighter and his chest thrust out prouder. "Your Grace, what news?"

Ser Loras' hand splayed out over the table in a slow sweep to encompass a passel of small parchment rolls. "Much and nothing, my lord," the young knight answered for his sovereign, friend, and good brother.

"Oh, do not be so rash, Ser," the king chuckled. "It appears my dear brother has denied me the privilege of executing Robert's wife myself."

"Queen Cersei is dead?" he asked, not all that surprised. Lord Stannis and the north men had captured her after all.

"And her nasty little sprog Joffrey too," Lord Bryce added cheerfully.

"Took him long enough to do it," Lord Randyll complained.

"Apparently, Cersei publically confessed to the High Septon that all three children were bastards."

Mathis' eyes widened in surprise. From his memories of her, confirmed these past months by his Grace's litany of complaints about the harpy, he thought the old queen would have to have been nearly tortured to death to admit such a sin, no matter if it was true or not.

The king's knowing smirk widened further. "Oh it gets much better, my Lord. She said the father was her own sweet brother Jaime."

"Mother protect us," Mathis swore. "Is it true?"

His Grace shrugged nonchalantly and then laughed, "All I can be sure of is t'wasn't the imp. Him she loathed.

"Tommen and Myrcella are to join the Night's Watch and the Silent Sisters," Ser Robar said soberly.

"Some verses on the fall of House Tywin needs to be added to the Rains of Castamere, me thinks," Lord Lorent suggested slyly.

"Ha, good man Lord Caswell," the king declared, clapping the wispy man across his thin shoulders. "Well said. When we take King's Landing from my brother, I shall sponsor a competition amongst the singers and bards to produce the most apt addition to that little ditty."

"Surely tales of your conquest will be their first works, your Grace," Ser Loras demanded.

"Oh, I'm sure they will do that out of love for me. It will take gold to make them write anything about old Tywin's brood."

The table joined in laughter at the king's evident contempt for the Lannisters.

"No word of Lord Stannis and his rebels stirring out of King's Landing?" Mathis asked when the chortling died down.

"None," Lord Randyll scowled.

"My brother is rather fond of sitting behind walls and doing very little," his Grace said dryly.

"The Starks may not be so prone to waiting," Lord Bryce pointed out.

"Let them come. I fear none in an open fight," Good King Renly proclaimed confidently.

A hearty round of agreement and encouragement met those words.

Mathis set his now empty mug down at the table and picked up a scroll that had the broken rose seal upon it. He scanned it quickly. "Good news, your Grace, your lordly good father says he now has close to twenty thousand swords gathered at Highgarden. The Mertyns and Morrigens have arrived from the Stormlands; and more of the minor houses sworn to the Hightowers appear every day."

"Yessss," the king said slowly as a frown threatened the edges of his usually jovial lips. "But where to send them? We've more than enough to deal with Stannis, even if Lord Paxter must beg off giving me the Arbor's fleet for his sons' sakes."

Mathis worried too about his wife's cousins. He had hopes Hobber might take the stain of embarrassment off his honor. Still, he promptly nodded agreement to his grace's words, Lord Tarly's plan for the assault was a clever one.

"Why not Casterly Rock?" Ser Parmen shouted. "Use the Old Lion's own gold to pay for the words marking his own house's fall."

The suggestion brought a roar of approval. The thought of all the coin sitting in the Rock's vault stirred the greed in each man's heart. But something else warred with the greed welling up in Mathis Rowan's chest. Lady Oakheart's sweet demesne bestrode the Ocean Road on the way into the Westerlands. He felt sad for that feisty little old Lady should duty require her to let those lands by ravaged locust like. 'What can a lord do, but obey his liege as the Seven commands,' he thought sadly.


The sounds of Tarly's men making ready to leave from that sorry excuse of Bitterbridge's bailey woke Mathis for the second time before the sun rose. Despite his desire to sleep late, made possible by his Grace's decision the night before to make this a rest day thanks to Jon Fossoway's contingent arriving so late – being Mace's good brother shouldn't have qualified the genial but overmatched green apple command of the long mounted column's rear! – a satisfied smile still lay on his lips, and not just because of the lovely feather bed he found in the cramped quarters he'd appropriated from the Casswell's under Steward. No, t'was the sweet scullery dumpling who'd kept him company during most of the night that brought a pleasant sigh of rambunctious memory to his lips.

The obsequious little quill pusher's personal recommendation of that golden honey for a bed warmer, whispered when he personally handed over the key to the room's door, had surprisingly proven exemplary. Mathis would leave an appreciative token behind for the man. Eloyse, fifteen if a day, had proven suitably demure at first, allowing him with a reasonable amount of coaxing to bring her to the mattress for a few sips of wine but then reproaching him lightly when the merchant demanded payment in kisses for his wares from the house's mistress. They'd then gone on to play gardener and the bunny, septon and shy septa, and lastly Aegon and the Maidenvault, which revealed as firm and juicy a pair of apples on her chest to make any Fossoway lass, green or red, proud.

Oh she'd then squealed with excitement when his battering ram at last smashed through her already lightly trodden portcullis. Her greedy, pear shaped hips had thrust out to meet his every plowing of her fertile field. When he'd finished, Mathis had gallantly let his little bed warmer remain snuggled against him. Her naked arse had felt marvelous fit tight against his now spent lance. When the bed tilted heavily to one side while the owl still hunted the tit-mouse, he'd reached out to find her naked form sitting on the edge. "Milord, I must get dressed and down to the kitchen to see to my chores," she whispered. His surprisingly turgid member told him to overrule her, so he pulled the saucy wench back down to receive his lordly rights in another bout.

He didn't remember her leaving, clearly she must have, for his bed was now empty of all accept his burgeoning smile and rapacious cock. He felt young again. The slight he felt at his Grace again selecting Lord Randyll to lead the van, though a vastly reduced one this day, hardly stung at all. Though to be fair, he must admit that the hard and bald headed lord would be the one eventually bound for out of the way Tumbleton. And still, hadn't the fine, fine king promised to spar with Mathis himself this very morning. If they were to wait a day for the horses to regain their legs, then blade skills must be kept up. T'would be a horrible thing if in their haste to reach the Blackwater Rush, this mighty host forgot how to trade sword strokes.

He sat up. Then not letting his body have the chance to protest, Mathis Rowan slid out of that fine feather bed and stood up. 'Time to see if Wilbert remembered to get my plate,' he thought, until his bladder reminded him that he had other duties to attend to before meeting the king with blunted blade. He stepped over to the necessary bucket and immediately chuckled to himself. "Down boy," he commanded his recalcitrant member, as it refused to bend down for proper aiming. 'That little chit truly deserved those gold links I gifted her,' he thought before, at last, 'Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh.'


Mathis broke his fast in Lord Lorent's diminutive great hall on small beer and hunks of goose he picked out of the remnants of a congealed pease, onion, and mushroom pasty left over from the previous night's equally wee feast. Wilbert had in fact retrieved his best plate from the trunks in Mathis' tent and smartly brought along Rooster to aid in his armoring. The dawn departure of Tarly and his men left space enough for the rest to be attended by their squires while they ate. The conversation was engaging and good humored. Though he knew the cause was the prospect of a day practicing arms after a hard week's ride, he couldn't help but think that the dyspeptic, always contrary Lord Tarly's absence improved every one's mood.

Lord Steffon Varner to his left spoke of two serving girls having vied last night for his attention over the dining board, forcing the argent weasel to pleasure them in tandem despite the jealousy it engendered from the three other lords forced to share Lord Caswell's solar, each with only a solitary, and according to Lord Steffon, more homely companion than either of his beauts.

Young Ser Alyn, a cousin of the king's through Renly's Estermont mother, who had only warranted a spot on the benches in the great hall for his repose, claimed to have been accosted by a mysterious maiden on his way back from the jakes in the middle of the night, where she pleasured him with her mouth. "I dare say my cock hasn't been bathed so well since fore I left Greenstone," the fresh out of the egg turtle proclaimed.

"Did you give'er a kiss for her ministrations?" Lord Steffon asked slyly, giving Mathis a knowing wink.

"Gods no," Ser Alyn sputtered.

"Then perhaps t'was the ghost of Bitterbridge," he suggested ominously.

"Who was she?" the youth asked wide eyed.

"She?!" Ser Emmon Cuy cackled with naughty glee. "Squire Dickon was a notorious sword swallower, he was. They chopped his cock off and made him clench it tween his teeth when they hung him, all the better for the Stranger to know his crimes," the slightly older knight snickered with delight.

"Aye!" shouted Lord Pyrch Dunn. "You better check whether you still have your sausage in your trousers, young Ser. Fore Squire Dickon won't rest 'til he finds one his own size."

And with that, all the Reachers within hearing gave the traditional response to the well-known jape within their kingdom; each held up two fingers with barely an inch space between them. The subsequent roar of laughter couldn't drown out the loud crimson the Stormlands' knight green face turned.

Mathis was still chuckling as he raised his arms so that Wilbert and Rooster could slip his brigandine over his heavy wool doublet. "Tighter," he commanded the pair once it was on him. Inside he was pleased, that the leather embedded with small steel plates and hooks no longer fit so snug as it did even ten days earlier, the last time he'd sparred in full regalia. He spied the king and his rainbow cloaks coming near him as they made their way toward the bailey, all clearly eager to trade mighty wallops and feel hot blood flow through mighty muscle and tough sinew. "Your Grace," he and the others all cried out.

The king in his suit of forest green-green plate carried a Baratheon antlered helm in one hand and a heavy warhammer, just like his brother Robert, in the other. He hoisted his weapon up and said merrily, "Do not think I've forgotten my promise to knock you on your stout arse this morning, Rowan."

"Only if your Grace does not mind receiving as well as giving," Mathis called back with excellent cheer. The knowledge that his battle armor was sure to be dented as the king was clearly not opting for the more traditional blunted tourney sword didn't bother him in the least. Not when so generous and redoubtable a monarch as Renly acknowledged him so publically and kindly amongst his peers.

Ser Loras snorted amused appreciation at the challenge to his king and friend.

The veteran warrior at the heart of the Lord of Goldengrove smiled with pride to be counted among such young, strong nobles; so full of life and laughter. He reveled in the feeling until, "hold, hold I say," burst out of him at Wilbert, who was raising up his master's gold emblazoned chest plate to fit to the hooks of the brigandine.

Obediently his squire stopped.

Mathis grabbed the large break-fast mug of the dining board one final time and downed in a long swallow the last of his thick, almost porridge like small beer.

His second cousin's middle son raised both eyebrows inquiringly.

He met the query with an imperiously raised finger. Buuuuuuuuurrrrrppppppppppppp. 'Ahhhh, that felt good,' he thought. He next puckered his anus, testing. 'No? Oh well,' he thought with disappointment. This particular fighting lord believed he melee best on a near empty stomach, unencumbered by heavy foods or reaction slowing gases and bilious humors. "Now, Wilbert," he commanded.


Clang!

Clang!

Clang!

The reverberation of steel on steel, blade on mail, axe head on plate, mace on shield sounded sweet to the Lord of Goldengrove as it filled the bailey. Men fought and strove to gain mastery over each other. The taste of an Arbor gold. Cool rain after a blazing drought. The feel of a nubile, moaning woman. The cry of a new born son. The swish of a field full of ripe grain falling under scythes. To have another fall and cry yield. This things were life!

He quickly shifted his feet and his shield.

Ka-smash.

Mathis staggered slightly, but he'd smartly prepared and only taken a glancing blow off the thick staves of oak attached to his off arm. With his right he lashed out with a long-handled axe. His Grace danced back as he knew he would, so much younger, agiler, and stronger than himself; so glorious in his flashing green!

The counter-stroke had merely been a ploy to bide time. He crouched again, centering himself to keep his balance and center of gravity sure. Twice already he'd tumbled hard into the muck under Renly's outwardly friendly yet completely earnest onslaught. The much taller man swung the hammer near as effortlessly as Robert had all those years ago when Mathis had faced off against the Great Stag in a tourney melee. Both men were handsome, so unlike their other brother. A memory of gaunt Stannis flitted before him like a ghost, a warning.

Tank.

His right hand shook with a sharp sting, the shaft of the long-handled axe vibrating from where the dulled spike of the warhammer, the king's sole concession to the tourney rules under which all were sparring today, had caught him an unexpected blow. 'Too old, too slow,' he cursed.

His Grace swung left, he dodged right. Now right, and he skipped left, giving ground, going backward slowly.

"You're running out of space, Lord Mathis," the king graciously warned.

Though appreciated, it was unnecessary, his back had sensed the approaching twenty foot high wall. The Lord of Goldengrove seldom forgot his proper place in relation to things. He grunted, then lazily lashed out with the axe, his grip still not strong, and pretended to step forward slowly in a follow through.

Good King Renly took the sloppy bait, the warhammer swept up over head and down in a powerful, bone jarring stroke.

Mathis paused his uplifted leg, and prayed to the Warrior that the blow came down where he was supposed to be, not where he was.

Squelch.

Mud and muck splattered up where the heavy, brutal mace plowed into the earth.

Now, Mathis stepped down, and hard, right on the handle to his foe's weapon. Through upraised visor he saw surprise on his Grace's firmly sculpted jaw and deep blue eyes. He drove his left shoulder forward and plowed his House's sigil, painted in the center of his shield, right into Renly's own antler enameled shield.

The strong king tottered.

Remorselessly the older, more knowledgeable man kept driving forward.

Splat.

Many "oooooohhhhs" and even a few cheers filled the bailey.

"Well done, my Lord!" the King was the first to shout in congratulations from his supine position. "It seems you caught me with my hammer limp."

A round of polite titters greeted his fallen foe's self-deprecating jest.

"T'was desperation, nothing else your Grace," he replied humbly, lowering his hand to help the king back to his feet.

"My thanks," Good Renly answered, taking advantage of the help to regain his feet.

The king was not a light of weight, causing Mathis to groan a bit at the pressure applied to his joints.

"Another go, my lord?" he asked with the same cheer and politeness displayed when he'd helped the Lord of Goldengrove back to his feet, twice, earlier.

"I thank you, your Grace, but perhaps it's time someone younger, more able to withstand your 'Fury' gave you a proper challenge. My rattled bones feel in need of a warm soak and a cool ale."

"Nobly said, Lord Mathis; and even more nobly done. You shall always have a place of honor near my side."

He swelled with pride to hear those words from such a worthy, respectful liege.

"Now who would meet my hammer next!" the king cried out. Many voices shot out, but one in particular seemed to catch Renly's attention. "Tarth!" he shouted out. "Let us see if you are all your father's missif claimed you to be."

A tall figure in cobalt blue, taller even than the king, stepped somewhat reluctantly from the crowded sideline that had gathered to watch and wait their turn.

'A beauty,' Mathis thought disparagingly. 'Figures you'd appear again once Tarly was no longer around to chastise you and your unmaidenly virtues.' He shivered. 'What is the world coming too? I suppose I should be happy my daughter's only a slut; there are worse things to be ashamed of.'