Chapter 1 - Edwaerd
"Ha, I'll have this done in a half-second!" Declared Edwaerd as he brought his hands together in a small clap then gently placed them on the stone railing. Feeling the Erd within the stone he carefully drew the power out from the mountain and willed it into the damaged section of the Mountain Road that had become such a problem for those seeking to travel to the lush valley below. He formed the patterns in his head, willing it into his chosen form. In the span of several seconds the stone grew from those sections that had been destroyed by lightning in an unusually strong storm two weeks previous. Carefully, the railing and hunks of road grew and molded itself together unto its original form, new stone meeting old, and were it not for the bits of black char that marked the original line of the damage, or the unweathered appearance of the new rail and roadway, none would have guessed it had ever been damaged at all.
He turned back to face the large group of onlookers who stared at him with a mix of awe, reverence, and in the case of the children, gleeful delight. A good number were swineherds who used the mountain road to transport their black swine up into Almuth [1] to sell at Market, or as most smallfolk had called it for hundreds of years, the Algorge. Plains were scarce in the Vale, so those farmers that raised livestock often lived and worked in the lower valleys where they could graze their animals in its fertile chestnut orchards. Still, there were a good number of merchants and travelers that had stood a respectful distance away to watch the miracle enacted.
Face growing hot with mild embarrassment and earlier confidence diminishing, Edwaerd wasn't quite sure what kind of reaction he had been expecting. Many of those older onlookers gestured the Serpents Cross on their persons, and those children that had tried to run up to him had quickly been reeled back and had their ears boxed for the attempt. No need to go that far, I wouldn't have minded talking, he thought quietly to himself. But that was out of his hands now. It was when some began to take a knee and profess themselves that Edwaerd began to try to disperse the crowd.
Raising his hands, he began to loudly shout, or as loud as a boy who was three-and-ten could shout, "You all needn't go so far as all that. I was just running an errand for my father!" But their reverence for the boy diminished any actual authority they thought he held as not only did they not move; they began to pray.
A gruff but loud voice erupted from behind Edwaerd, "Oi, you all heard the Princeling. Not one of any of you is gonna stay rooted to the road. You have a lane; you can tell your stories to your families or make your confessions at your parish. This road moves again. Now." The last word was spoken with such finality and unspoken authority that none in the crowd dared disobey.
Rogan had been the one to shout the order. Edwaerd's Schatten, his shadow. Standing 5 and a half feet tall, Rogan was by no means the tallest man anyone would ever have claimed to see. But his body was coiled in muscle, and he carried a wicked bastard sword at his shoulder, two short swords at his hip, and stood with the easy cat-like grace of someone who knew how to use them.
Not that he needed them. He, like everyone else in the Schwarhund [2] Clan had an almost animalistic aspect to their persons, they were Chimeran after all. Animal was in the bone, and probably in the spirit. His hair was midnight black and kept close-cropped, and a stubble he looked like he had been born with was flanked by two prominent sideburns. His wolfish disposition might have been considered handsome had it not been for the near-constant scowl plastered on his face that brooked little humor, and the large scar that ran jagged across his face.
His announcement was seasoned by the soft cocky voice of a boy that was now leaning on the renewed rail. "Aye, best be on your way. Roads fixed and all that."
"You've something to add Artos?" Rogan sharply asked. "You've got something that needs saying, you best say it," he warned.
This was said to the amusement of the other 5 other guards that had traveled with Edwaerd to make the repair, who all softly chuckled at the young lordlings embarrassment. Artos "Arty" Arryn was a grandnephew of Duke Albert Arryn of the Moon Gate and spoke with the cocksure attitude that came with knowing his father's father's brother was a premier noble of the Vale. He had the flaxen brown hair and hawkish hooked nose of his ancestors and would likely be considered very handsome when he came into his full height and build. He was also Edwaerd's best friend, sworn on a vow of brotherhood, made when each was five.
"N-no! I just wasn't thinking…is all" he tried to sheepishly explain.
"If you let your mouth speak for a wandering mind, you'll find yourself in far more trouble than any sword could get you out of. Think more, speak less," was Rogan's sharp retort. Though he followed his advice by familiarly jostling Arty's hair, to the boy's relief.
The afternoon was starting to wear on, and Edwaerd was not blind to the tinged orange horizon in the sky as the sun, already unseen this side of the mountain, began its slow descent to the West. It would be darker sooner than later.
Edwaerd was not looking forward to the night. He had practically begged his father to allow him the chance to travel so far away claiming his Aelkemie would solve all his issues should they come. His father had bemusedly acquiesced under the condition that he travel with Rogan and a small contingent of guards. Arty's company hadn't needed to be pointed out. Where Edwaerd went Artos wasn't much further behind. What had made the night unbearable was the food.
One of the Terrible Two, the pet name the denizens of Almuth had taken to calling Ed and Art for their infamous rambunction, had had the bright idea to declare they would use the experience to eat "rough" food, and live like "rough" people. The first night had been terrible, and to the great disappointment of Rogan, neither had finished their bland bowls of plain porridge. Luckily Arty had snuck a leather satchel of peppered jerky for themselves to feast on with cool water, away from the amused judgment of the guards. They had eaten half that first night, with the intent on saving the rest for the second day. Come morning, it was gone.
The rest of that morning and afternoon Rogan had chewed on something that could have been hash. But only old narley folk chewed hash, everyone else smoked it, Including Rogan. Unwilling to admit to their secret or nurse the mild embarrassment of admitting to their hypocrisy, they declined to bring up their missing meat. So that night they silently sulked and ate just a little bit more porridge until a guardsman had mercifully decided to share an apple his wife had gifted him, which in turn had made the boys feel that much worse for their arrogance. They had quietly agreed to buy him a cake by way of thanks when they made their return.
Edwaerd turned to his Schatten, "Rogan, do you think we'll have to camp on the road again?" He asked dejectedly.
Rogan mulled the thought over before responding. "Hm, well if your princliness does find the outside to cold and rough for your sensibilities, we can travel and make it to the next way station in perhaps 3, mayhaps 4 hours? They'll likely have something in storage you'll find palatable."
The gruff snideness of Rogan's remark wasn't lost on Edwaerd and was wholly expected. It was almost enough to make him turn around and march back to Almuth without stopping if he had a mind to. Arty frantically, but silently, gestured for them to continue to the way station from the safety of Rogan's eyeless back, and Edwaerd being the good friend that he was, relented to give both himself and his sworn brother a well-deserved rest. Even the guards seemed keen on the idea.
"We'll go to the Inn. We all deserve a good rest," he declared.
"And a good hot soak," groaned Arty.
Both made to look at Rogan for his final approval and were relieved to see him nod in acquiescence to the wisdom of the decision.
Edwaerd placed his hands behind his head and spoke with a relieved sigh. "Heh, I thought you were going to call me Lazy." He said smiling.
"You are," was Rogan's curt reply. "But your father tasked me with helping you learn from this outing. You and Artos have learned by walking this path for nigh on 3 days that not every man of the rough cloth can afford a horse or carriage. You've learned that sometimes what you make light of can be all that there is. And what you think you have, can be lost…or taken." Which he followed with a stern look.
He did take the jerky. Edwaerd deadpanned, and by the look Artos was giving him it seemed he had been of a similar mind.
"Still…," Rogan gestured to the Guards that had accompanied them thus far. "When one has people under his command, it doesn't do for them to have to suffer your whims or mistakes. A good commander…and prince must always put the best interests of their people first, even if they must set aside their pride," he paused, then teasingly added. "You do feel ashamed you can't stay out under the stars like oh so many smallfolk, aye?"
"Heh, of course." Edwaerd hoped those words had sounded genuine, but the lighthearted chuckles of his companions told him they likely understood that it was the soreness of his own feet he was thinking of first, which served to bring some mild embarrassment to his cheeks. It faded quickly however, and with a new firmness to their steps that came with the expectation of a soft bed and a goose feather pillow, Edwaerd's party continued down the path.
As the minutes turned into hours Edwaerd couldn't help but think back to Maester Chester's lecture on the construction of the road they now walked down. Princes of the House of Alm had formed the road over dozens of centuries, extending its width until it was eight wagons wide. As it had been grown from the mountain itself, conventional repair work; when needed, was often delegated to a lesser cousin or prince. The Mountain Road had several names that had attached themselves to the structure over the millennia. 'The High Way', or 'The Alm Trail' were the names Edwaerd often heard the most brought up in conversation after 'The Mountain Road' itself.
In truth, this wouldn't have been a work fit for a direct heir to one of the 20 princely families. But the House of Alm had become strained in members in recent years now being reduced to his ancient father; Prince of the Blood Edmon VII who was three and sixty, and Edwaerd himself; The Princeling. His heir.
Edmon had been prepared to make the repairs himself but had relented to Edwaerd's insistence that he should be the one to make the journey on account of his father's advanced age. Perhaps recognizing that his son sought some adventure from this outing, and always having had trouble denying his son his harmless fancies, Edmon had acquiesced to his son's request. But not without having had a long conversation with Rogan, the full scope of which Edwaerd had not been privy to.
As the party made their way down Edwaerd reflected on the journey they had had so far. By the time they finished their trek back to Almuth the better part of a week would have passed and Edwaerd was eager to see his mission finished. He had been excited to hear they would make the journey afoot, believing that by doing so he would meet new people before they made it to market which would, in turn, lead to long conversations about what the valleys below looked like, or if there were any cities more beautiful than Almuth, if they spent their free days fishing and so, so many things. But it was not to be.
The people he met on the road did not speak to him with the respectful ease of those that lived in Almuth, and often gave him a reverential berth on the road, stopping to bow deeply when they saw him, but never coming closer of their own accord, always keeping a healthy distance away. Rogan had shot down his first attempt to wave one over for a chat and had given him a scolding for his lack of focus.
"If you wave down every barley seller or flour merchant that strikes your fancy it'll take us a month to finish, and a month to get back. Have a care for the trust your father hath placed on your shoulders and for once simply do. As. You. Are. Told." Truth rung in Rogan's words but had left Edwaerd silent and bitter when he heard them, though those feelings would pass before the night.
Instead, to dull his boredom he spent parts of the following day learning something of the lives of the five guards that filled out their party. There was Yohn who had shared the apple and was expecting a child in two months. William who was hoping to propose to his sweetheart in a year after he had saved enough in wages. Joster who had five brothers and three sisters, all from the same mother. Edmon who had been named for his father. And lastly, there was quiet Jerret Waynwood, an extremely distant cousin of the Dukes Waynwood, and the only member of his father's Honor Guard who had accompanied them from the palace proper. As they continued on their way, Edwaerd thought back, back to when it seemed the chasm between him and ordinary people hadn't seemed so apparent, and when it had all changed.
Two years ago
Unlike the lowlanders that dwelled in the valleys and nooks of the mountain, they called Iggorhorn, named for St. Iggor who died attempting to convert its mountain men to the Sevenfold God. Those from the city proper treated Edwaerd with a familiar, if respectful, fondness he had yet to experience elsewhere else. A year ago, his father and Jessica; his father's first Wife, though not his mother, had had to meet with their Princely cousins the House of Aelfin to solve a dispute that had resulted in the death of Jeremy Mooton second son of Joffrey Mooton, Duke of Maidenpool, and Peter Borrel heir to Sweetsister.
Accusations of smuggling, backhanded deals, and a host of other charges were levied against each party and the situation escalated when Maidenpool sailors began ship burning and the hanging of "smugglers" from the Sisters. Sistermen in turn retaliated by putting up false lights to lure ships from Maidenpool into the dangerous rocky alcoves that made the Three Sister Islands infamous. The situation continually made worse by Count Sunderland's blatant protection of the accused Peter. Thus It seemed a true blood feud would develop between the two houses, and their peoples.
As lords from both parties wanted to avoid direct royal intervention even as the situation escalated, both sought the mediation and wisdom of their respective Princes. Lords from the Riverlands had elected Prince Rodric II of House Aelfin to argue justice on Mooton's behalf. The Sunderlands in turn had requested Edmon as their mitigator perhaps believing his seniority would give them the edge in the inevitable trial. Both Princes agreed.
Duke Oliver Grafton had offered Gulltown as a convenient location for either Princes travel which both believed quite gracious. But Oliver had conveniently forgotten to mention the Nameday tourney he had planned for his twin daughters. To fix his mistake he generously offered to move the tourney a respectful half-month forward. Jessica considered it borderline scandalous, Edmon had considered it clever, and Edwaerd was every kind of excited a child of two-and-ten could be. It would be his first time traveling to one of the great port cities of Westeros, and his first time ever seeing a proper Tourney. The Tourney of Maidens and Sisters the bards would call it.
Suffice it to say that the trip took a little over two weeks for the House of Alm's Princely procession to make it to Gulltown. The city was large, larger than Almuth given it's proximity to the Narrow Sea with wealth that was obvious and it's Duke was eager to show. Edwaerd had not been allowed the freedom of movement he was used to in Almuth which chaffed him when Arty had returned to share a fish sandwich which had a unique white "Gulltown sauce" [3] which had been positively divine. That Artos had been allowed to roam freely and he had not should have been his first indication that things were going to be much different for him there than in his home city.
It would take another week for Prince Rodric to arrive, but when he did it was in grandiose fashion. It seemed every other lord of the Riverlands had decided to show a united front by first sailing, then entering the city with their Prince, to the loud cheers and near as many jeers of the crowd, though those were always few and never directed at Prince Rodric. The events were taking on a distinctly dangerous regionalism that was bordering past a friendly rivalry.
His father met Rodric at the head of his own procession with Edwaerd and Jessica a respectful distance behind him, all wearing the royal red and white of the Aelings [4]. Their sigil, the Lady of Reason; A pure white Seven Winged Seraph in whose arms were cradled a tablet and crowned winged serpent, facing the sigil of House Aelfin, The Truth Speaker; A pure white winged lion with the face of a man, a crowned serpent for a tail and under whose paw sat a tablet, each facing each other in regal majesty.
A silence permeated the plaza before Prince Rodric took a knee in respect to his father's seniority. After each Prince spoke their own prayer, his father ceremonially raised Rodric from the ground to embrace him as a brother, surrounded by the frantic prayers and chanting of nuns from St. Maris Cathedral, led by the High-Mother herself. When they had finished their long embrace, a deafening cheer erupted from the city which Edwaerd might have found off-putting had it not been so mirthful. Lords and their sons, and some daughters, beat their swords to their shields in joining with what was obviously taken as the start of the festivities to come, rather than the serious deliberation on proper justice this excursion had originally been intended as.
It had all been something of a blur after that. A consistent string of complaints to his father in private on his lack of freedom had made the old man yield to reason, but only just. 4 high ranking members of the Gulltown's Sterngeld; The Windborn, had been added to an already impressive guard that consisted of 10 members of his fathers' personal knights, as well as the oft absent Rogan. It hadn't been the adventure he hoped for. Half of his tour around the city had been planned out for him, and often whole lanes had to be cleared as he and his unwanted posse made their way through the city. The experience endowed Edwaerd with an enormous sense of guilt for the trouble he had put the locals through.
One memorable incident which left Edwaerd with a particularly poor taste in his mouth had been on the road with a cabbage farmer. Unable to move his cart due to the sprained ankle of his mule which refused to give way, the man had been placed between-a-rock-and-a-mountain[5]. The Sterngeldman had been prepared to kill the mule to move it, and the man could do little more than sputter and beg. Edwaerd quickly put a stop to it, but it had been a close call.
Using the Healing Heart of Milos, an ancient healing Aelkemie, he quickly healed the ankle of the mule and bowed his head in an apology. The man who never gave a name was brought to tears and made as if to say something before he was quickly shooed off by a guard. Everyone looked embarrassed save for Rogan who was beet red in anger. Though whether it was directed at Edwaerd, the Sterngeldmen or what had simply unfolded, he never said. Edwaerd never asked, he had been the most embarrassed of all.
The fondest memories he had were of the Gulltown docks. He had marveled at the number of ships moored at the piers and had hoped to find time to tour a vessel, any vessel, and to his surprise, his father had arranged for him to tour his cousin Rodric's Flagship, The Lionlily. It was a beautiful Galleon, near twice the size of any of her vassal ships. Painted red and adorned with Golden winded lions. He had been allowed to ask as many questions as he had wanted about ships and sailing as his heart desired which he took keen advantage of. By the end of that day, and it did last till the end, he had loudly begrudged Almuth being placed on the Iggerhorn and further added.
"A Curse that I should be born on a Mountain! Had I been born nearer a stream I'd of captained a ship by now!"
Most of the crew took this in good humor and were flattered by his respect for their profession, and the ship's quartermaster, a fellow by the name of Yohan, had sworn to pass on his newfound passion to Prince Rodric, that he might be made an apprentice to his cousin. Rodric was a skilled sailor. One of the most skilled, or so they said.
Soon after that day, the Princes' negotiations came to an end. That Peter Borrell had killed Jeremy was not something that could be argued. However, there was enough evidence against Jeremy and his character that many had started to doubt that he had not instigated the conflict. Even if Peter were put to death, the Princes' gave Duke Mooton firm warning that there likely be heavy investigations made into the supposed smuggling taking place in Maidenpool. Unless of course, the two parties accepted their offer.
They were willing to give Duke Joffrey's heir, the slane Jeremy's elder brother Gregor Mooton, the rare chance to take not just a third wife [6], but a fourth. This, on the condition that all those wives were daughters of the Lords of the Three Sisters. Sunderland and his vassals had already agreed despite the crippling dowry this entailed. As a Count and his Barons, ordinarily, the Sistermen would have been considered far to low as regular marriage prospects, but Gregor was a widower with two sons which served to mitigate the Princes' offer.
After a long-winded speech on the death of sons, a father's vengeance, and other things Edwaerd found too boring to pay attention to, Joffrey Mooton accepted the Princes' offer to the great acclaim of the assembled lords. In the following days, bards would sing songs of his father's wisdom and Rodric's judgment, and it seemed that the Tourney which began in earnest soon after, became not simply for the daughters of Duke Grafton, but also the daughters of the Sisterlords, maidens given to seal peace with the future Duke of Maidenpool. The Tourney of Maidens and Sisters, a tourney right from stories. It had been everything Edwaerd had dreamed of.
Had he have not been caught up in that tale, he might have noticed by then the large chasm that seemed to exist between him and other lords. When introduced to the Dukes and Ladies that had attended the tourney, he dully noticed that Artos was often required to make an effort to not only engage in introductions, as befitted being of close kinship to the Moon Gate Dukes. But often also engaged in formalities he himself had never been taught. A deep bow to a Titled Duke here, a respectful nod to Countess Vance there.
Lords of the Vale often did not seek to travel the Mountain Road to Almuth. When they did, they tended to kiss his wrist with that of his Father's and Jessica's after entering the Palace grounds. Gulltown had been his first true outing, and he largely expected he would have to make the same gesture to Duke Grafton yet had been politely informed by Maester Chester that such gestures of supplication had been but one of many formalities reserved for Princes of the Blood, most of which he found quite silly. Barons were not allowed to keep extended eye contact with him unless Edwaerd initiated conversation and Counts and Countesses had to first ask for permission to approach.
The following week would see the highlight of the tourney kick into full swing. Lords and their Knights tested their metal against each other in the tilts of the Joust, but there were formalities even here. His father, Rodric, and their families had been given places of honor seated with, but above, Duke Grafton. Here at least he was allowed to cheer as loudly as he wished but found the experience less enjoyable with Artos being seated so far below.
Here he was seated next to Princess Elmina, heir presumptive to her father Rodric. She was three years his senior and he found her quite pretty. She had lightly bronzed skin from the sun, which he found pleasing to his eyes. Her eyes and hair were as golden as his own, and her lips were a dark cherry red. He had been quietly informed by Jessica that it was his duty to entertain her but remembered only being intimidated by her haughty personality. She talked loudly, often, and wasn't afraid to hit him when she believed he ought to have been paying more attention to her rather than the far more interesting tilts. When he stood to cheer, she had a habit of pulling on his robes until he sat back down to give her his attention. Perhaps that was where the true trouble was set to begin.
It tended to be the trend that most nights following the day's festivities the various assembled lords would meet in the great ballroom of the Seahold to mingle privately, though to what end Edwaerd knew little. This tended to last well into the night, and the children of lords were often only required in the presence of their parents when there was a need to make a pleasant introduction to old friends, reaffirm engagements, or some formality demanded the presence of the entire family.
Instead, the Godswood was decorated with lamps and other finery for the use of the youth. Cakes and watered-down wine abounded, and Edwaerd was allowed a degree of freedom to mingle with the dozens of lordlings that were expected to imitate their parents. He enjoyed the lack of protocol he was allowed with his peers, and along with Artos, soon made fast friends with Grover Tully heir to Count Roger Tully of Riverrun, and Brandon Waynwood youngest son of Duchess Saera Waynwood the Lady of Ironoaks and a powerful name in the Vale.
Soon other cliques formed. Rival River posse' formed around big-boned Ben Bracken and Wiley Benjamin Blackwood, heirs to their powerful Duke fathers, and it was rumored fists had already been thrown in the eyeless halls of the Seahold. But all these groups were dwarfed by the gaggle of girls that orbited Elmina. It was as if every young lady of good breeding had hovered around the Princess like flies to honey. Still, this was little business of Edwaerd's. What interest did he have with the small talk of young ladies? Then they took an interest in him.
First Grover started to avoid him, never giving quite the same reason twice. Then, he needed to speak to a cousin. His father had summoned him to meet a friend. He needed to brush down his horse, after all, he was a squire.
Brandon informed him that a girl Grover he sweet on, Milly Charlton, had brownnosed him into avoiding their fledgling group. That she was a part of Elmina's clique should have been the first warning. That was fine, more fun for them, let Grover swoon over a girl who'd never remember his face, he was no true friend.
Then Brandon started avoiding him, always seemingly at the other end of the Godswood. Artos confronted Brandon without Edwaerd some nights later, but whatever they discussed nearly brought the two to fists and yielded no answers. It mattered little, Edwaerd would discover the ringleader of his troubles soon enough.
It happened during the last week of the Gulltown Tourney. At the end of the final days joust between the dashing young Sir Anthony Keath and the old but still very skilled Baron Chambers. He remembered standing to give a loud cheer for the impressive 20 tilts that had resulted in Sir Keath's hard-fought victory when he felt the familiar pull of Elmina's hand on his cloak.
"You seem so lonely in the Godswood, all alone," she teased.
"I got those hens of yours to thank for that." He quietly shot back.
She smirked. "I like that rough uncouth way you speak. It's so earthy. It must come from living on that mountain with all that rock and dirt." Then she smiled and whispered in his ear. "I and my ladies have a game planned for tonight; won't you join us? I may even let that little friend of yours join in."
"Arty? He's not my friend, he's my brother. We swore it."
That seemed to humor her. "Oho. Sworn on blooded wine no doubt. Sworn to fight together, sworn to die together."
He chose to ignore her uninvited jabs. Then she whispered something that changed his mind.
"I have heard a most curious thing. I heard that two weeks ago you spent an entire outing on my father's ship coz. I heard from a cat that it pleased you to hear my father is a mighty captain of the sea. He has been to so many places. As have I.
Mayhaps you shall as well. Have you ever been to a Bravos Titan festival? I've been to two, they make this-" She gestured her arm in an exaggerated arc as if to cover the tourney grounds. "-this city, this thing, looks like a try-hard harvest festival.
I've been to Lyse once, the silky sand of their beaches put Grafton's rocky shore to shame, and the water is mmmmmmm so so warm."
Something about the way she had made that noise had made Ed flush red and her laughter at his discomfort made him turn his head away. But now a dark feeling was growing in the pit of Edwaerd's stomach, hot angry jealousy that caused him to scowl, and not for the first time he resented his father forcing him to put up with the girl.
"I'll take you there…" She said. "I'll tell my father to take you on as a ward, it's been done between Princes. He'll listen to me, and you'll get to sail with us. I've never been to Valyria, but Father has, and one day he'll take me...and perhaps you? All you have to do is agree to play my game."
For all his memories of the cheers and rancor of that day, it seemed that in that one moment naught but silence surrounded them, and only they existed.
"What game?" He asked with whispered caution.
"Come into my castle."
"That's it? Truly?" He could scarcely believe it. That was a game for children half their ages. Children who still needed their food cut on the plate.
"Aye, and if you tell no one of the game, or that we played it. I swear my father will be begging to have you as his ward, he likes you already."
"Do you…promise?" he whispered with more than a tinge of desperation.
"On our blood. With Holy Milos, Mother of Mercy as my witness. Sacred Aelric, Son of the Creator, Sevenfold Son of Heaven, The First and Last Miracle. Watch and seal this promise between your purest kin. Hold it in the Gate, seal it with truth, forge it in the fires of creation…finish it," she demanded.
"If we should break this oath of ours. Set us unto ruin. Bury our lies behind the door that hath no key. Creator abandon us, forsake us." Those last words were spoken together, with all the deathly seriousness it entailed. Elmina looked triumphant, Edwaerd felt short a soul.
"I'll send my cat to fetch you tonight, stay by your window. Don't bother going to the Godswood, you'll find no friends there. We'll begin tonight, "she whispered.
He didn't go to the Godswood, he didn't look for Artos.
Later that night a knock at the window of his room after a midday wash served to grab his attention and signal the arrival of his visitor. Rogan was with his Father who was himself entertaining Prince Rodric, leaving no one at his door. Outside the window, which was situated 5 stories high, on a flat wall was a man in tattered patchwork cloths. He had shaggy tabby red auburn hair under a pointed straw hat, and long legs he had opted to keep barefooted. His eyes green, sharp and slitted, like a cat. Clinging to his back, a skinny needle-like sword.
Dusting himself off after entering, he elected to make introductions quick. The man was named Tom Tabard, Elmina's Schatten, and like Rogan, he oozed danger. His smile, which never fell, did indeed touch the eyes, but it was as if everything he looked at was part of a joke only he knew, and he had a wheezy low laugh that sent a shiver down Edwaerd spine.
He had also brought cloths for Edwaerd, commoners' clothes, and a wool cap to hide his otherwise shoulder-length golden hair.
"I thought we were going to Elmina's room?" He inquired.
"We are, heheheheh."
Believing himself to far gone into Elmina's scheme and already playing her game, he allowed Tom to carry him down the wall, the speed of which astonished him. They slipped past the small number of guards that peppered the Palace grounds with the help of Tom's agile strength and with the help of Edwaerd's Aelkemie, were able to make it through the wall which surrounded the Seahold undetected.
He couldn't remember the exact path they had taken in his mind's eye, but Tom had led him through a maze of streets and alleys to make it to the back of an impressive Inn, which he would learn was called the Laughing Lady. An exchange of coins with a cook and they were through the back door and up five flights of stairs. Edwaerd might have thought it an exciting adventure had the circumstances not seemed so secretive.
When they reached the highest floor, they were met by a woman who wore a leather jerkin bearing a sword. She had the same eyes as Tom, but none of his perpetual amusement. By now he could hear the soft moans and cries of women behind the wall. Tom had removed the wool cap releasing his golden hair, which seemed to serve as a signal for the cat-woman to move away from the door she guarded. Still, Edwaerd's beating heart was in his throat and he had felt too rooted to the floor to move forward.
Tom's hand on his shoulder served to ground him from his daze, and not unkindly did he take a wet handkerchief and wipe Edwaerd's face as he began to speak.
"You know hehehheh, most men would kill to be standing here right now hehehehe. But I suppose given how things are hehe. I could understand you being nervous. Try to put on a brave face now Prince. I'd never bring you somewhere dangerous hehehe. I've known her since she was a wee kit hehehe. She knows what she wants, always has." He finished by ushering him into the room and closing the door. Years later and Edwaerd could still recalled hearing the sharp click of the lock.
The room was large, taking most of the Inn's highest floor. Dimly lit, Edwaerd could make out the fumbling feminine features of ladies in the corners of the pink silk blankets and blue satin pillows that richly adorned the room. Veils that seemed weaved from spider silk further obscured the shadowy figures of what was quickly becoming apparent were in fact the forms of Elmina's inner circle.
"Come into my castle, your Highness." Came the sweet voice of Elmina from her Satin throne. She dominated the center of the room.
That was how the game started, someone invited you into the 'castle' and then you played the parts. Someone the lord, the host, even the maid. But they had never agreed to any parts, had they?
"Slave bring my Lord bread and salt," she commanded. Slave? Slavery was a sin.
What kind of madhouse is this? But he had already known. It was a dollhouse, and he was her newest toy.
Freckle faced Linda Lolliston brought him a tray of sweetmeats and a cup of sweet Arbor Gold, unwatered. She had been dressed…immodestly. They all were. Most Laughed as he ran out of places to stare that wouldn't shame their dignity.
"Are you going to keep staring at the ceiling, or accept my hospitality?" She demanded.
"Elmina…this isn't bread, you sai-"but she cut him off.
"Just a game coz. Come into my castle, its always been a game, none of it's real. Play along, look how many of my friends came to play with us. Nothing that happens here is real." She gently grasped the cup of wine from the tray and took a sip before placing the rim to his closed lips. He might not even have drunk had it not been for the scowl she sent him at his hesitation.
Buxom Susan Butterwell started to burn a sour incense that slowly began to permeate the room. It smelled like hash but had a sour tinge to its odor and was very heady. He might have asked what it was called but slowly found it hard to string more than two thoughts together at a time.
"Take the Princes' coat," she commanded, but hadn't been wearing one.
He didn't remember who, but someone had started to loosen his shirt, and he soon felt the cotton rise over his head as it was taken off his body, exposing his torso. No argument came from his lips, he hadn't been able to think properly, but still remembered some of what happened next. Elmina kissed him, long and deep, his first. Then she motioned for another girl to do the same, Giselle Grafton, one of Duke Grafton's very own daughters. Then she waved for another after her, then another, and another. His last memory of that night was the feeling of someone taking off his shoes.
He awoke in his bed the next morning with no recollection of how he had gotten back into his room, but quietly guessed Tom was responsible. Feeling diminished he had to force himself to go through his regular routine. The quarterfinals of the Jousts were the day's main event and Eric Paege a knight of his father's guard had performed well enough to advance, something his father chose to honor with a rare standing ovation of his own.
Edwaerd for his part couldn't muster the energy of previous weeks to celebrate and wanted nothing more than to sleep and forget the bitter kisses of the night before. But this was something made harder by Elmina's use of his shoulder as a headrest during the joust. She had also taken to clutching his arm with hers, perhaps believing it to be more romantic than he himself found the gesture. When he had tried to shake her hand from atop his own, he found it to be like an iron vice and not willing to make a scene, relented to her whims.
He had purposefully avoided Artos that day. He didn't want Arty seeing him that miserable, hadn't wanted to share it with his brother. Instead he opted to turn into bed early, citing a slight headache that Jessica accepted and promised to pass on to his father. He dreamed of the Lionlily, of sailing to a city in the clouds. He dreamed of walking on a beach of silk and tasting the salt of the ocean. But he didn't smile in his dreams, because even there he wasn't happy.
His face tickled and he awoke to the tall imposing form of Tom Tabard dragging a tuft of straw, likely from his own hat, across his unsleeping face.
"Thought you wouldn't wake up Valley Cat, hehehe."
"Let's just get this over with," was Edwaerd's resigned reply.
The rest of that night played out much like the first. The door was sealed, he made and unmade a path through the wall, but as they sojourned through the alleys of Gulltown Tom soon led them to the back of a new building, a bathhouse. Most public bathhouses that speckled large cities were either very cheap or free, funded largely by the city to stymie disease. Others were sometimes very large and grandiose places that catered to extravagant foreigners or rich merchants that didn't feel the need to bath publicly. This was the latter, and it didn't look busy.
"hehehe, rented out," said Tom as they made their way past a guard. In fact, it had seemed as if all the bathhouses staff had been dismissed. Replaced by men hodgepodged from House Aelfin, and other Vale and Riverland Lords. One guard carried the arms of House Templeton, another of House Goodbrook perhaps in all numbering no more than two dozen, and all of them pretended they hadn't see Edwaerd.
He was led through a private hallway filled with frescos that beautifully, if candidly, depicted men and women in all forms of carnal pleasure, though he had little time to gawk. At its end was an elaborate wooden door with intricately carved flowers. That same Chimeran woman from the first night guarded this door as well, and silently move aside at their approach. This time he wasted no time opening the door.
There was an immediate difference in the atmosphere, and not just for the lack of pillows and sheets. The private bathing room was brightly lit and was larger than the Inn's highest floor had been. Several smaller baths of steaming water encircled a single dominating pool, and the smell of hot mist mixed with that same sour incense from the previous night permeated the room.
Near every girl, some he recognized, some he did not, was paired with another. Their faces close in deep passionate kisses. They hadn't been miserly with their noise either which served to paint Edwaerd's face scarlet, and it didn't look like they were practicing like he had heard some Nobel women were want to do with their ladies in waiting. Elmina had wanted him to see this.
As for herself, his tormentor was as naked as the rest of her ladies. Flanked on either side by her favorites who rubbed scented oils on her body, which was more curvaceous than Edwaerd had remembered noticing.
"Come into my castle, my Prince."
There was something to the way she had said that word…' my,' that made him uneasy.
To his credit, he remembered having summoned the courage to look her in the eye, though it did little to dull his embarrassment. "Elmina," he began slowly. "I don't...remember yesterday so well, I don't think I want to play this game anymore. We can pretend this never happened…you don't have to ask your father anything. I-I don't want to sail anymore." But the unconfident wavering of his voice was clear to his own ears and sounded cowardly.
Silently she stared at him, and he feared that she may become violent. Gently she shooed her handmaids away before wading out of the water. She moved toward him, naked and unashamed, and it was all he could do not to stare. A flood of emotions he didn't think one could feel together churned in his chest as he saw her. Hate, anger, terror, inferiority, even desire. She cradled his face in both hands, though she hadn't been gentle, bringing it close as if to bring his lips to her own. Instead, she viciously turned his head and whispered into his ear.
"You think this is my fault. After you promised to play our game. Now you want to leave after I've promised everyone here everything. You could have said 'no,' but you didn't. You could have told my Tabby to leave, but you didn't. Do you think you hated what happened last night? You think because you can't remember, you can leave? And spit on my honor? I've promised Every. Single. One of my ladies something from you."
He tried to pry himself from her grip then, but she was three years older, taller, and had the taut muscle of a woman who practiced the blade daily.
"I am the Heir to House Aelfin. Have you ever been off that mountain, am I the first cousin you've ever met? I heard rumors the Old Man of the Mountain never left its summit. I heard he had a proper heir with Elinor, but she's never talked about you, I bet you've never met your mothers' side of the family. I bet you've never heard of the Aelminsters. Do you know what my father says about her?!"
He was crying now, hot tears running down his face, but the venom of her words continued, though if she had cared for his distress, she chose not to show it.
"How dare you. I thought I'd see a wizened old man and his goat-raised brat when I came to this city. The old tales say the Lords of Alm were the most beautiful Aelings, but I never believed them. Then my father took a knee to yours and I saw you. How dare you, how dare you be so beautiful! My father's never denied me anything, and he won't deny me you. I was going to ask him on your behalf tomorrow, how dare you try to make me a liar!" Then she slapped him.
It hadn't hurt. He was used to being rough with Artos and some of the other children of Almuth, had even broken a finger on a fall from a horse, his father had healed it. A deafening silence filled the room. No one was laughing then. With a strength that surprised him, she tightly cupped his face and forced him to lock eyes with her. Golden pupils meeting golden pupils.
"Seven your beautiful, even when your crying!" She almost screamed. "How could you have come from that ancient thing and that man-shrew. Your mine now, do you understand? I own you. From the moment I laid my eyes on you, I knew you would be mine. How can it not be so? You should be thanking me. What other wife would do this for her husband? When I inherit I'll have the right to take whatever men I want, but I'd give it all up for you. Why can't you just stay silent and be happy? Every night could be like this. You can sail on the Lionlily every day, and every night can be just like this. Our children would look like they were spun from gold if you could just be quiet!"
But he had been too young then to know what her words meant and under her intense stare that would haunt him for years, had been to terrified struggle away.
She snapped her fingers and motioned a figure over. To his mild surprise, it was Milly Charton carrying a silver tray. Thinking of Grover he unconsciously turned his head away, only to have it forcefully strained forward by Elmina's firm grip. She picked from the tray a small red candy and tried to pry his mouth open.
"Open, you didn't accept my hospitality," she sneered.
He fumbled his words, "I-I don't want…w-what is it?" He asked in panicked terror.
"It's bread and salt if I say it is," though instead of forcing the candy into his mouth as he had half expected, she instead placed it into her own and began to chew. "See? Harmless." Then brought another piece to his mouth.
This time he had not refused, believing she might harm him if he resisted. In fact, it had not been a sweet at all, but rather something more akin to ginger. It had a mild spice to its flavor and was very bitter. He might have retched it out, but the unforgiving look she gave warned him of pain if he so much as made the attempt.
Heat spread throughout his body as its juice ran down his throat, but it had nothing to do with the steamy air of the chamber. When he finished, she gave him wine so strong he nearly spat that out as well. Then his vision began to red and his mind and memories soured in the hot mist.
He awoke the next morning to soreness of the body but was left confused at the lack of bruising. Informing Maester Chester of his condition and adding a slight headache and a feigned cough to his list of symptoms he had declined to watch the semi-finals in hopes a day's rest would numb the pain. He had also dreaded seeing Elmina for fear that he might have hurt her, but also because he hadn't been able to shake the feeling that she was the likely cause of his soreness.
Yet she did not give him peace even here. She woke him from a midday nap to spoon-feed him a peppered soup of chicken and cabbage. He had been too hungry to resist, so he calmly accepted each spoonful of broth as she regaled him with the story of her clever deception. About how she had played both her and his father like a fiddle in the wind.
She was worried for her young cousin she explained. They had grown so close over the weeks, and Edwaerd was having such trouble making friends, was that not what family was for? No, don't let the maids sully his person, she would bring him something to eat. She would feed him herself like an elder sister feeds an ailing brother…or a wife nurses a husband. Oh, well that would be quite something, wouldn't it? Yes, how sweet of her indeed.
Then she took off his nightgown…then her dress…and there had been no sour smoke to make him forget. She nursed him all night, and the night after that, and the night after that.
The last notable event would be the one he thought of most when he thought of Gulltown. The first time he ever saw someone killed, a boy. The first time someone had ever tried to kill him.
It had begun when Artos had burst into his chambers in a haughty rage.
"You've been in here for three days!" He screamed. "I can't believe you missed the finals. You should have seen it. Keath and Corbray made it to the final tilt. The crowd looked like they wanted to kill Anthony. When he knocked Corbray on his arse I thought for sure someone was going to die. Then Corbray pulled a sword, and then Prince Rodri-…" He didn't finish, Edwaerd's laughter had cut him off.
Arty was like that. His hearty energy could fill a crowded room and all he had to do was talk you to death. He remembered that at that moment he might have confessed everything to Artos, but his shame overcame his diminished courage. What if Artos called him a coward? What if Elmina was right? Perhaps he really was to blame.
Yet he also resolved at that instant to leave those experiences behind him. Artos had insisted on a proper lunch and good walk around the castle believing it would do Edwaerd's health wonders, logic he found difficult to disagree with. Hungry for something more tangible than soup, or the half-eaten sandwich Arty had gifted him, they made their way to the Seahold kitchens. Edwaerd had made it a point to avoid any looks he received from ladies he recognized.
"S'bit rude," came the voice of Artos beside him as they made their way down.
"Hmm?" He replied, pretending he hadn't been paying attention.
"Joanna Templeton, she waved at you. You could have waved back."
"Oh…must not have noticed her, just dizzy s'all," had been his weak excuse, but it seemed to amuse Arty.
"Har! Then we'll feast till your full, your highness!" He yelled with exaggerated exuberance. And again, the warmth of it his cheer renewed the smile on Edwaerd's face.
They made it halfway down when they were waylaid in the halls by Ben Bracken. Big-boned, big-bellied, big everything. In his hand was a knife, and his eyes had the red watered look of someone who had spent an evening crying. He had charged at them screaming, though neither Edwaerd nor Artos would remember being able to make out words from his wet angry howls.
Artos was a better swordsman then Edwaerd and trained incessantly with Rogan some days. This was due in part to his envy of Edwaerd Aeling physique, which Edwaerd's father had explained was a hallmark of all the 20 Princely families [7]. Owing to this he had been able to react impressively to Ben's madness by tripping the boy as he closed in. But Ben Bracken was big for his age and too angry to have the good sense to stay down.
Underestimating him, Artos was unprepared for Ben to grab his legs and pull him down into a grapple. With his sworn brother down Edwaerd summoning the anger of nights past and punched the back of Ben's head to the screaming of servants in the background. He hadn't yet realized that he was the object of Ben's rage who in turned grabbed him by his vestments to bring him to the floor. That was when Ben proceeded to pummel him. Not like the carefully calculated punches he and Artos sometimes gave each other under the careful watch of Rogan's practice. Ben was trying to make a paste of him.
Ben was large enough to hold both, but in the haze of his anger had made the mistake of dropping his knife and letting Artos slip out of his reach. Arty hadn't let the chance slip by and used Ben's focus on Edwaerd to take aim at the great weakness of all men.
Edwaerd might not have seen how it happened, but he knew it happened when Ben had fallen atop of him clutching his groin in almost pitiable pain. Edwaerd clapped his hands and chains made of the floor stone sprung around the brutish boy's agonized body to restrain him. Artos motioned them to run, and Edwaerd followed.
"Do you think he'll be ok?" Edwaerd asked panting. He didn't know what kind of answer he should have expected.
"Fuck that horse!" Arty breathlessly yelled as they made their way through the halls.
The absurdity of it all was too much for either to bare, and Edwaerd didn't know what it was, perhaps Ben, the groin, or just being with Artos again, but he laughed and so did Arty. They laughed until they reached the bottom of the Seahold. They laughed all the way to the Godswood.
As they came close to the grove's Weirwood tree, a large hulking thing with a grinning mouth, Artos motioned him to rest at its roots. Still breathing hard, he reached into its carved mouth to pull out a water skin. Drinking deeply, he handed it to Edwaerd.
"You'll *huff* like *huff* it," he said under ragged breath. "I and the other boys *huff* snuck into the kitchens two nights ago *huff*. You should have been there, one of the scullery maids came in *huff* and we blew out the torch. We all hid but Charles farted…and... never mind," he chuckled. "You'd have had to of been there."
Edwaerd felt a pang of jealously. It had sounded grand; he'd have loved to have been a part of their small adventure. As he drank from the waterskin he couldn't help but cough.
"What's the matter?" Artos asked. "It's the good stuff, not that watered-down shit they tried to drown us in at the…here."
"I just didn't expect it is all," was his measured reply. He forced himself to drink more deeply and felt better for it. Found he enjoyed the light warmth that slowly spread throughout his body.
The tender fattening of his face from their earlier pummeling had started to become more prominent. Edwaerd used the thickening blood that clotted his nose to scrimmage the Heart of Milos onto the palm of his hand. Using it to first heal the scrapes Artos had sustained on the floor, he then turned it onto his own face to gingerly ease, then erase the blackened swell of his lips and eye.
"I wish Grover could have been there," Artos began. "All he's talked about for days is how he's going to duel and save Milly from that fat sack of horse shit. I don't think he had it in him though, fucking trout. Even when Blackwood swore he'd back him all he did was sulk."
That was news. "What about Ben and Tully?" he asked.
"You stopped coming to the Godswood, but some nights ago Ben was bragging his father had arranged for Milly to be his second wife when they came of age, on account of the Chartons being river Counts and little better than Barons at that. Grover confronted Ben two nights ago and I was willing to back him, honest I was. But then ahhhh, what was her name, Ly-" he snapped his fingers in contemplation, "-la, Lyla Shett, yeah. She held me back. Said it wasn't a Valeman problem. Honestly, I think she just wanted to see them fight. Not that it would have been good. Ben being, well…Ben, and Tully being shorter than either of us. As you can imagine, Grover walked away with a face redder than his hair."
As Arty finished his tale dark thoughts crept into the back of Edwaerd mind. Hadn't Milly been a part of Elmina's games? Hadn't she been at the pools? Could she have told Bracken something had happened between he, Elmina, and the other girls?
Elmina's voice fiercely echoed in the back of his mind. You could have said 'no,' but you didn't! Oh gods I didn't. It was my fault! "My fault."
"Oi, are you all right?" Came the worried voice of Artos. "Your shaking. You didn't get hit to hard, did you? What do you mean 'My fault'?"
"N-no. I just-"but it came out in a panicked breath, and though the swelling had vanished he felt the quick hard beating of his heart in the veins of his face and ears. "-tell me a story Artos, any story, please. What did I miss?"
Artos worriedly began to regale his friend with the last week's events, and to his credit asked no more questions on the topic of Edwaerd behavior. Edwaerd soon forgot Ben in the wild stories of both this week and weeks past, surprised he had been so ignorant of the going ons of both city and tourney. A commoner had won the archery contest breaking the city record. Someone had stolen Lady Teague's necklace which sent the palace in a frenzy. But the best story of all was of how Rogan had faced down a mouthy Sterngeldman on the outskirts of the city, a story he resolved to hear in greater detail on the trip back to Almuth.
They stayed like that for a time. Arms around each other's shoulders in brotherhood. And for a time that was how Edwaerd thought this tale would end. In the warm glow of that moment, tomorrow rising anew and everyone setting off for the calming familiarity of home. If he played things right, he might not even have to see Elmina off. Those musings would be interrupted however by a rough gravelly familiar voice.
"There you two are," said Rogan, as he jogged to the Weirwood. "I found them! In the Godswood!" He yelled in a hoarse roar.
Edwaerd could only cover his ears to dull his Schatten's rude volume.
"God damn Rogan. You don't have to yell at us," Edwaerd annoyingly responded. "Look if this is about Bra-"but he was cut off by Rogan's rushed grasp of his face, which he proceeded to prod mercilessly.
"Are you all right, pup?! Answer me!" Yelled Rogan. "The maid said that little shit nearly killed you! Even if you're a little dizzy, you tell me."
"I'm fine, Arty's fine, we're fine. And I'll have you know we left him in worse shape than he left us," Edwaerd began.
"We beat him like a dead horse!" Artos added jubilantly.
Rogan smiled at that and tussled the hair of both his young charges, but also gave a sad look. "I'm sorry boys. If I'd have been with you none of this would have happened, and neither of you would need to deal with this black business."
Dear Seven he looks like he's about to cry! Edwaerd thought in silent horror. Rogan never cried. He didn't look capable of it.
They stared at each other in solemn silence before they were interrupted by the loud patter of mailed feet meeting the hard-stone floor of the outer halls. As the men entered Edwaerd noticed that not all, but many were of his father's personal guard. Rogan motioned both boys to rise which they obeyed but were thrown off their guard by the unexpected tight embrace of Maester Chester, who hadn't bothered hiding his tears.
After another teary-eyed inspection, which Edwaerd noticed focused largely on his own person, Chester affirmed both boys fit to leave, though he sobbingly scolded them both for having drunk such strong wine at the risk of their undeveloped livers [7]. They were led through the now hauntingly empty corridors of the Seahold until they were brought before lush apartments Edwaerd realized were his fathers. The sound of arguing behind its doors served to worry him further.
Everyone including Edwaerd was made to stand outside in stony silence, and an attempted quip by Artos was rewarded with a hard smack to the head, courtesy of Rogan who was in no mood for the boy's smart humor. After a time, the door was opened by a man Edwaerd hadn't thought to see again; Tom Tabard, but he looked cleaner and was better dressed in handsome leathers. Seeing Edwaerd, Tom threw him a curious wink and smiled his knowing smile. From behind him appeared the man for whom he opened the door; Prince Rodric.
As he stepped out from the apartments and made eye contact with Edwaerd he turned his head over his shoulder to make a final proclamation, "Think well on my offer Edmon. This is a dirty business, but it doth not have to end this way between us. The day can be salvaged yet, and it would be good for your son. We're family, after all." his gaze lingered on Edwaerd for what seemed like ages, then he walked away flanked by the snickering form of a cat that walked on two legs.
"Send him in," ordered the firm voice of his father.
Edwaerd hesitated but was led into the room by Rogan who gave him a regretful look as he backed outside the door. Edwaerd would need to face this alone. The apartments had but four people; himself, Jessica, Edmon…and Jin [8], his father's Shadow, and a man whose dead eyes belied a focus Edwaerd found off-putting.
"My boy," cried Jessica as she rushed to embrace him. "Are you hurt? I was so worried. Oh, my mountain imp, ill never let you go," which she followed with a desperate squeeze. Edwaerd couldn't help but notice she had been weeping.
Edmon answered for his son, "Leave him be my love, he's clearly fixed the worst of it."
"Father's right Jessie, I'm all right." He followed those words with a squeeze of his own to prove his health to her.
"This vicious business with the Bracken boy," Jessie spat. "To actually strike at you, a Prince of the Blood. I can't imagine the shame Bethany and her daughters are going through right now. They'll have to watch as well. Oh, this is a travesty, Eddy!" Her pet name for her husband.
Edmon nodded in quiet understanding, stroking his long pale-yellow beard. "Aye. Mayhap it is I to blame. Few lords fear the House of Alm, they see us but little. But to think a Duke's son would not have known better."
Edwaerd chose that moment to cut in. "Is he all right? I don't know why he did what he did, but we did leave him beat down and tied up."
Edmon and Jessica gave each other measured worried looks. They didn't know how to deal with what was obviously a complicated problem. His father chose his next words carefully and brought Edwaerd's golden eyes to meet his own.
"I'm sorry," his father began. "Ben Bracken will die, and you are going to watch." It sounded cold, and very unlike the man Edwaerd called father.
"I don't understand?" Edwaerd tried to ask, but a sharp raising of the hand by his father demanded no interruptions. What he would say next would stay with the Edwaerd for the rest of his life.
"You know I and Jessica never had children of our own. You are a blessing to me, my child. Perhaps it is because of this that I am such a poor father. We treat you as we would a grandchild, but you are not ignorant of this. I know you are quick of mind, quick enough that it amazes me to see how fast you take to Aelkemie. Your grandfather would be proud.
Your uncles to, if they were alive. I should have had a firmer hand with you. I learned when I was a boy, aye Edwaerd, I too was once a child. How a lord treats with their people is a much different matter than to treat with the people of their subjects, or vassals. The people of Almuth are as different to those that reside here, than those here are to Valyrians. I trust them with you. Trust that they love you near as much as I do.
My mind knew that this would happen, but my heart bespoke hope you that I could wait another year, and another after that, and another after that. When you came to me at the tender age of six with a scrapped knee and told me the butcher's child had pushed you too hard in a game of catch-me, I laughed that you should cry at so small a scrape. Then I healed you and to my surprise, you asked me to heal the children you yourself had pushed too hard.
I cherish your innocence and have sought to keep its spark lit where it might have benefited you to learn the harsh reality that you are not an ordinary person. I know you know you are a Prince. Do you know what that means? Do you know what that entails? We are the pure unbroken line of Aelric and Milos. An eternal promise to the people of our sacred land that the Sevenfold God does exist, and that he did deliver mercy unto his people, our people.
Your blood is not worth less than that of King Endrance. His house is senior and for that, we must do him proper honor and homage. But to strike at our blood with true intent to harm, unthinkable, unforgivable. Ben Bracken will die. We do not need his reasons. If his father wishes to salvage what meager honor his child hath left him, he will choose to hold the executioner's blade himself and deny the brute was ever his spawn. You are a Prince of the Blood. When we return to Almuth, I will teach you myself what that means."
Edwaerd didn't reply, because there hadn't been anything left to say.
In the years that would pass he would contemplate Edmon's speech. Whatever else was said and done his father had been right about one thing. Later that day surrounded by lords of the Vale and Rivers, Duke Bracken did approach the quibbling mass of his son with the executioner's sword. He did ritually deny the existence of a son seven times to the Archdeacon, and he did cut off his not-son's head.
Duke Bracken didn't cry, so Edwaerd cried for him. He cried and never forgot that that was what it meant to be a Prince. A Prince of the Blood.
On the Mountain Road
Edwaerd was brought out of his memories by a sharp pain at the lobe of his ear.
"Yeow! What the hell gives Rogan, you crap."
"I said, 'a gold Thaller for your thoughts?'" The wolfish man repeated.
Edwaerd thought long before he answered, "I was just thinking of…my first kiss."
Rogan groaned deeply in concentration, "I didn't know you had one, who was it? Jeffrey's daughter? Watch him, he'll beat no matter who your father is."
They both laughed at that, and it dawned on Edwaerd that the road had become dangerously dark ahead of them. Their only light came from the torches the guards had lit behind them. As he looked back, he saw the sleeping form of Artos on the company's horse. How long had he let his mind wander?
Rogan continued, "Funny thing about that, I remember my first kiss. That's the thing with men, there are just certain things you'll never forget." He stopped to take a long sniff of the whiff of air. "We'll be there in 10-15 minutes. I can smell the rabbit stew, you'll like that."
Edwaerd smiled as they continued down the road. His nose was as good as a bloodhound's so he knew Rogan was telling the truth. About both things really.
Your right, I'll probably never forget….
[1] Inspired by Iberian Ham: watch?v=1xcqXBGv5DM
[2] Bastardized German: Black Hound
[3] Tartar sauce
[4] Aelings is inspired by the old name of the House of Wessex. Their names tended to start with Aethl which was akin royal, or prince. Aethelstan=Royalstone. Therefore they were sometimes referred to as Aethlings.
[5] rock and a hard place
[6] I'll go into greater detail on marriage on an informational. But it is polygamous on both sides with large amounts of conditions placed on the practice.
[7] People consistently pointed out that Ed was very durable, so I just decided to roll with it. It was a good point.
[8] Inspired by this bad MF: watch?v=SZOr9K01Eno
Let me first start off by saying that if this seems all over the place. It is. I don't storyboard and somehow getting from point A to B can be a confusing animal. Such as with our Protagonist being molested. How did it get to that…I don't really know.
After 2k words, I said, "maybe I'll have him reflect on someone being punished for hurting him," which turned into killing the kid, which turned into how I get that to happen. Which turned into traumatizing the poor boy. By then I was 5k in and didn't want to erase anything and start over and yadayada. And I saw that one scene from "The Perks of Being a Wallflower," you know the one, and I was like, "yeah…yeah…this is good." Parent killings are boring anyway. Let's do something new to emotionally scar someone. It'll even work with how I want him to develop.
Anyway, I know this is rough. I'll likely come back to touch up the grammar later. I know it has flow problems. If the end seems rushed, it's because I was tired and felt even I was drawing on.
Next Chapter. Rogan (who if you haven't guessed by his description is based on a certain X-Men Character.)
