296 A.C.
Brynden
The lord steward, Oswald Kress, was writing with his raven-feathered quill when Brynden and Chyswyck entered his chambers. He was a broad-shouldered man in his fifties. His trimmed hair receded slightly and was neatly combed back, brown and grey in equal parts. He kept to his writing without acknowledging the two.
From the door, Brynden could not see much of the man, but he knew the steward held power within these grounds, from the way he sat perhaps, all lord-like… or the way he held his quill… it was of a man learned. Not in name perhaps, Brynden had never heard of a House Kress before, but perhaps in the shadows, his beloved uncle was much the same. These kinds of men have no time for a hedge knight nor his bastard squire… But he had no proof of his Frey name except his looks, surely that would not be enough. He rested his thumb on the silver ring worn on his forefinger, and remembered the other parts of his blood.
Brynden took charge before Chyswyck could speak. "Lord Steward, Allow me to introduce ourselves. Ser Chyswyck Summerchild of Seagard and his humble squire, Brynden Blackwood." The lie had come easy, but when it came out he realised it was a clumsy lie. There were many Blackwoods about, from the main line to the lesser cousins. The lord steward would not remember all their names. But… the heir to Blackwood also had the name of Brynden. And that Brynden looked nothing like him that's to be sure. That Brynden was older too if he remembered correctly. O', why must you lie, you fool? Why must you always, always lie?
Kress looked up from his parchment. His eyes were grey and hard, piercing, judgemental. He held Brynden's gaze for several seconds before moving to Chyswyck beside him. What felt like a minute had gone by before the steward looked back to his parchment and continued to write on his parchment.
"Blackwood? You should be more careful on these grounds." Smooth strokes of the quill against paper were the only other sound in the room. "There's Brackens about." He waved at the page behind him and passed him the parchment. "Why have you come to my chambers?"
Chyswyck stepped forward. "My lord steward, we've met the master of the games, who told us that you were in charge of the lists. I myself am a competent knight, so with me in it the tourney shall be a spectacle for the ages."
The steward tapped his finger slowly on the table. "I have no need for showmen, Ser. The list has already been decided. All the knights in attendance are already here or a day's away. It would take far more than your skill with a lance to persuade me."
"Ten gold dragons. The tourney must have been costly for Lord Smallwood."
"To replace another with you?" The steward chuckled as he said so, he had a roguish smile about him. "No, I think not. The knights were promised things. Things not easily retracted. Men with swords tend to wave them wildly when pricked. I have no wish to seek quarrel with them."
Chywyck looked to the floor and took a breath. "Fifty then!" …Had this fool lost his mind?
His thoughts were interrupted by a clear knock on the door. The steward's gaze turned from them to behind them. "Who is it?" He asked.
"It's me, father," spoke a soft voice from behind the door.
"Enter." In strolled a young lady, attired in a yellow dress with acorns sewed throughout, the edges slightly dirtied. She had a roguish smile that was all too familiar. Passing the pair, she whispered to her father's ears. The steward listened with his face unmoving. "Ser Chywyck and young Brynden, you will wait outside my chamber while I converse with my daughter," he said.
The two stepped out. And no sooner did the door close, than Chyswyck's flushed face turned to him.
"Why did you say you were a Blackwood?" he questioned.
"I thought the Blackwood name may have lent us a certain sense of grandeur."
"And are you a Blackwood? Are you even a Rivers?" Anger spilled out of his voice.
"Does it truly matter?"
"Of course it does. You are my squire, you shall speak only the truth to me."
Brynden smirked. "A vow then, to one another. From this moment, we shall speak no lies to one another." Chyswyck's face grew redder. Before he could speak another word though, the door opened and they were welcomed in.
"Fifty dragons and you have a deal, Ser Chyswyck, the steward announced, his daughter smirking behind him," Ser Martyn would be pleased with the gold. You may go to the grounds and await the start of the tourney, my page will inform the Master of the games of this change." Chyswyck grasped the pouch on his belt and counted fifty whole dragons. What was once filled and round now looked loose and pathetic. There's no more five dragons in that now.
They both left the chamber in a significantly more aggravated mood than when they entered it.
"Why? Why fifty? You could have travelled from the Wall to Sunspear with that gold. A band of swords by your side to guard you. A flock of folk would serve you like a king, but you went and threw it all away. To chase glory that only your blind eyes can see, to seek maidens who whisper lies wrapped as song… If there ever was a more gullible knight, ser."
The knight had cuffed him on his right cheek.
"You will not speak to me this way. You are my squire, tend my horses, oil my sword, polish my armour, sand my mail. Do not speak to me as if you are my equal."
He nodded, begrudgingly.
They arrived at the yard half an hour before the first tilt. A crowd had already gathered before the grounds. "I will speak with squires to find more news about your opponents." Chyswyck nodded in silence.
There, by the corner of the makeshift yard, A plump boy of Brynden's age sat. He played with a string of weed, one end in his mouth, the other in his hand. By his expensive clothing, he looked highborn, a squire.
"What is your name?" He approached the boy.
"Ser Ambrose Butterwell. Pleasure." The boy stood up and wiped his grass-stained hands on his pants. If you are a knight, I'm a Kingsguard.
"Tell me, Ser Ambrose of House Butterwell, who are the greatest knights in contention for the hand of Lady Carellen?"
"Who?"
"The heir to House Smallwood." The dullard stared at him as if no thoughts flew through his mind.
"Right, right. Apologies. The most renowned in these parts is perhaps Ser Daemion Longwaters, the Quicksilver. Though he is more known for his sword than his lance. There's also Ser Hendry Bracken and his baseborn cousin, Harry Rivers. Ser Gerold Templeton, he's the younger brother to The Knight of the Ninestars. Ed Shawney, he's won three tourneys. Ser Balon Swann, and Vain Ellery, Lord Vance's third son." The squire listed off a dozen more knights, only some of their names were familiar to him. Perhaps after this all ended, young Chyswyck would indeed become a man-betrothed.
A loud and clumsy trumpet blew, announcing the arrival of someone new. A banner with Ravens, Brynden saw, House Blackwood? No. There were only three instead of a flock. And unlike the black and red of House Blackwood, the banner was white and red. House Corbray of the Vale.
Of the Corbrays, Brynden only knew one second son. Ser Lyn Corbray, who wielded the famed Vayrian steel sword, Lady Forlorn. It looked like this journey was exciting after all. Yet all seemed strange, Brynden remembered that Ser Lyn was knighted during Robert's Rebellion, and the rebellion happened some thirteen years past.
…
A tourney consisted of sixty-four knights. The first to break five lances or the first to unhorse his opponent would advance to the next round, while the loser would be forced to pay a ransom for their arms, armour, and mount.
The four Butterwell brothers were all as chubby as the next, none looked like knights if not for the plates on their bodies and the swords on their belts, the sigil on their arms, and the servants attending them. For a tourney seeking the future husband of the lady heir, they seemed less than an uninspiring sight.
There were two wooden viewing platforms that were built on the north and the south of the jousting grounds. In the centre of the north platform, where a dais was raised slightly above the rest of the planks; There, the Smallwoods sat. Lord Theomar looked the part of an eccentric painter. He had a gaunt and unshaven face. His hair was lengthy and measured near his waist, yet smooth and well-kept. He wore a gold silken robe that was long and wide by the cuffs and thin around his shoulders. Even from afar, Brynden could spot some slight stains of colour on his fingertips.
To his left sat his wife, Lady Ravella. She cast the very image of the Mother and appeared to be a kindly woman of middling age. The lady of Acorn Hall wore a humble coif and a dress of black and white, the colours of her old house, House Swann of Stonehelm. She gazed upon the grounds from time to time, smiling at the squires who passed through.
To the Lord's right was the heir of the House, Lady Carellen. The Real Lady Carellen. Though not to Brynden's surprise, the fake one stood behind her seat, with her bewitching fingers on the lady's shoulders, whispering something sweet into her ears. The real heir laughed at the fake one's jape. The two certainly favoured each other in looks, at least from a distance, with their dresses of the same hue and braids of the same fashion. One could easily mistake them for siblings.
Beside them were the guests of honour. Two Vances were present, one of Atranta and one of Wayfarer's Rest, judging by the sigils worn on their tunics. The two Vance branches celebrated their blood bond with one another just as often as they declared blood feuds. Brynden also saw a Dunn, a Buckler, and a Meadows. There was also a Swann, heavily muscled and broad in the chest. That must be Balon.
The master of the games strolled into the grounds with a scroll and announced the first match of the tourney was of Ser Daemion Longwaters against the bastard of Stonehedge, Ser Harry Rivers. Before he could announce the second, however, A young squire quickly ran to him and spoke to him quietly, and then the boy quickly ran back to the pavilions.
The fat man cleared his throat. "The joust shall resume in fifteen minutes!" The crowd groaned in frustration.
Brynden followed the boy and caught up to him eventually. "What's amiss?"
The boy turned. "Ser Daemion's gorget is not to be found." A gorget was the neck guard piece of the armour, quite an important part to be missing during a joust.
"I can fetch one for him, lend it to him 'til he finds his own." Chyswyck wouldn't be needing it until the afternoon anyway.
The boy nodded, and they soon ran to the small tent where Chyswyck was to dress. The two quickly found the gorget without trouble, and proceeded on to Ser Daemion's Pavilion. It was in the centre of the grounds, but more humble than most of its neighbours with its colour in dull beige.
Ser Daemion Longwaters was a dashing man of twenty, with blue eyes some shades darker than the sea, and perhaps most strikingly, a streak of silver lock amongst a mop of black. After introducing himself, Brynden handed the knight the gorget, who thanked him with courtesy. The boy squire then fashioned it onto his neck, ensuring it was adequately tightened.
The Longwaters could trace their roots back to the legendary Alyn Oakenfist and a Targaryen Princess more than a century ago. The two's heated romance never came to the binding of marriage, only leaving a child of baseborn status in its stead. Many years later, a Waters gave himself the name of Longwaters, and a new house was formed.
Ser Daemion, the second son, was forced out of their land when his brother inherited the family's keep. Now he served under Lord Smallwood's , many household knights of House Smallwood were taking part in their own tourney, ten at the very least. Mayhaps the lord wants his loyal men to marry his daughter.
The Quicksilver's personal device was split quarterly, with the red sea dragon of House Longwaters over a blue and white chequered field on the first and fourth, and the acorns of the Smallwoods on the second and third.
He wore full plates and barded his charger with a pattern of blue, white, and yellow. Most controversially, perhaps, was a silver dragon crest atop his close-faced helm. Robert's men would not like it, that's to be sure.
Crack!
A crash of wood rang out and the crowd erupted into thunderous cheers. The snap of a lance signalled the fall of a knight. Ser Daemion had unhorsed the bastard of Stonehedge on their third pass. Poor Harry Rivers was unconscious after he was planted into the earth and had to be dragged out by three pages and his lanky squire. A brain concussion at the very least. No wonder most knights could not read.
The dragon knight rode to the dais and removed his helm, bowing to the lords and flourishing with his hand. He stopped in front of the young heir and said something that could not be heard from afar, which caused Theomar to chuckle aloud. Daemion was certainly favoured by his liege.
The master of the games came with his stroll again, announcing Ser Chyswyck Summerchild against Ser Doltan Woodfoot. One of the knights sworn to Lord Smallwood, it appeared. Chyswyck and his polished steel plates made him look ever the fresh and green knight, in contrast, Ser Doltan wore colours of dark brown with scratches and small dents on his pauldron and chest plate. His shield was decorated with the acorns of House Smallwood. A sworn knight under Lord Smallwood it seemed. Though the face behind the helm looked a tinge too old to be five and twenty. Even from this distance, Brynden could make out a few lines near the side of his eyes. A tourney for the hand of the heir but filled with men of the Lord's service, a tourney for knights under the age of five and twenty yet with men who looked older. Strange.
A page blew the trumpet, and the two advanced.
Ser Doltan's old charger was fierce and headstrong, and Summerchild's rouncey seemed slightly unused to charging toward such a massive stick. The two came clashing in the middle, with Woodfoot's horse faster than Chyswyck's. The lance of the young knight struck at the other's acorn shield, while his opponent's lance found a place on his left shoulder. Chyswyck staggered from his saddle, almost falling. The crowd clapped as he readjusted himself.
On their second pass, Woodfoot's lance broke against Chyswyck's front plates. The same happened with the third and fourth. Each time the crowd would wince at the impact. Ser Doltan's frame sat firmly on his horse, a steel-unmoving statue. Chyswyck's rouncey whined and its hooves winged out dirt all over.
The knight gently soothed its mane and stroked the side of its neck. They charged at each other again, this time, both lances struck wood. Chyswyck's shield arm flung back from the impact, but his legs clung to the saddle. Ser Doltan's rigid form, however, fell and landed on his back. The smallfolk who stood by the edges of the ground clapped. So did the Vances and Balon Swann. Lord Theomar, however, was staring at Chyswyck intently while conversing with his lady wife and the lord steward behind him.
The jousts that followed were quick affairs, Ed Shawney bested a Butterwell brother on the first pass, and Gerold Templeton felled his opponent on the third with a fantastic display of skill. After that, the crew of mummers that Brynden and Chyswyck saw performed The Gallantry of Gallandon and The Loves of Queen Nymeria, with some additional erotic flares to them. When the plays ended, the Smallwoods returned to their quarters.
Once the hour of the bat had fully settled in, so did the celebrations. The tables of the Fair Wench were filled with tourney knights and smallfolk alike, feasting as one. Roasted boar on a spit they had, along with some pies stuffed with hares and chicken. Cured ham as well as onion stew to warm the hearts. Meads, ale, and wine they drank, singing merry songs.
The Butterwell brothers laughed and japed, and ate a mountain of food, while Ed Shawney drunkenly bragged about the three tourneys he had won. Three-finger Ed they called him, for he would always raise three fingers as he told his stories. Even Ser Daemion played his fiddle while the favoured bard of Lady Ravella, Tom of the Sevenstrings, fingered his harp. Brynden drank at least three cups of the heated spice wine. Or was it four or five? He couldn't decide.
Chyswyck sat next to him, downing mead with vigour. A silent drinker he was, a brooding one as well it seemed like. He tapped his knuckle impatiently on the table as he took another swig.
"Your friend seems to be in a stormy mood," Tommy O' Sevens approached their table. The bard was not a young one, with his wrinkled face and his thinning brown hair. He had the looks of a Blackwood Frey to him, fox-faced and slight. One might think he was an uncle or a cousin.
"Aye, he has weak bowels this one, been hurting since the first light." Chyswyck turned to him with foul eyes but remained silent.
"I know just a song to cheer your man up," Tom laughed. He then strolled off and sang about a floppy fish.
Brynden looked to his left. By the corner of the tavern, the Brackens had their own table. They would occasionally steal glances at him and whisper among themselves. That does not bode well. He felt his cheeks flush, and there was a heat in him that would not go away.
Finishing his cup, Brynden walked out of the Tavern. He unclasped his cloak, welcoming the wind to caress his face. Though the two taverns were still loud and rambunctious, the rest of the town had fallen into a comforting quiet, with the noise of crickets flapping their wings, and the occasional drunk's murmuring.
A sickness came to him, from his stomach to his chest. Far too many cups for me. He stumbled to the side of the street and held on to a wall. He slowed his breath to ease the headache. When the cold filled his lungs, he felt relieved. By then he took notice of a figure down the alley to his right.
"Lady Carellen?" He asked the shadow.
"Brynden Blackwood?" She said, Brynden could not make out her face in the dark, but the smirk was there, he was sure.
"What are you doing out at this hour? In an alley dark and dank? Surely, the lord assigned you with guards?"
"Truth be told, I have snuck out on my own. I was in need of some fresh air from all the crowds."
A silence fell between the two. "You lied to us, broke Sweet Chyswyck's heart, you did."
"The noble knight wished to rescue an innocent maiden, and I happen to be a maiden true. I see no lies here. The Father and the Mother above see all our deeds, I pray to them without shame."
"No doubt, they will judge you fairly."
"Lord Smallwood spoke to my father. He's quite fond of your young knight. A twist on a classic play, he called it. We will be cheering for your Chyswyck and his antics. Farewell, squire Brynden." She disappeared back into the alley with the grace of a fawn.
The fresh night breeze fanned Brynden's flushed face. He had left the Twins with no true goal, no objective, no real place in this oh-so-barbaric world, but perhaps, adventuring was indeed his calling. A journey through Westeros. Going on quests, rescuing maidens, slaying fell beasts, duelling villains. All fairy tales… mere songs in a world so cruel and so bleak, a man needed to be naive to dream such dreams. But perhaps some naive hopefulness was what he needed.
A rush of footsteps came behind him, he could hear the puddles splashing from boots. Is it the lady again? He turned to greet her, but was jerked back violently by a forceful tug. A brutish hand with rough calluses covered his mouth.
He scratched at the arm, but the attacker was much stronger than he was. He stilled as he felt something sharp graze his throat, a knife.
"Shhhhh." A whisper, barely heard over the silence of Fairmarket, with a breath that smelled of ale.
A robber, a kidnapper, a cutthroat? Oh… Is it a fucking Bracken? Brynden's head spun.
"Hello there, cousin…"
Note:
Another set up chapter for the mysteries to come.
Credit to batfruit for beta reading
