Chapter 2 - Rogan
As Rogan and his party passed through the large wooden doors of the way station, they were enveloped by the dim light of the common room, as well as the quiet speech of guests who, much like themselves, had not decided to quite yet finish off the evening.
"Jerret, Yohn, see if there aren't two rooms available. If not, we'll share the largest not yet occupied. If there's enough stew in the kitchen, get us all a bowl, offer silver, even if they don't ask, but unload the bedding and put Artos to bed first."
"What about me, Rogan?" said Edwaerd.
"Ed, you can help me find a table."
"Aww, but I don't wanna sit down. Let me help Jos-" but Rogan cut his ward off.
"Let Jos, Will, and Edmon do the tasks I have set them to in peace. Putting the horses away will be all the quicker without you badgering them. Trust me Edwaerd, you have a gift when it comes to making simple tasks complicated." Not a complete truth, but Rogan knew it would fluster the boy, and enjoyed occasionally teasing his young charge.
"…I just wanted to help."
At Ed's demure reply Rogan let out a chuckle and ruffled his prince's hair. "I understand the feeling, boy. But sometimes the best thing you can do to set people's minds at ease is relax. You've worked hard, and we're all proud of you. They're happy knowing you get to rest your feet after walking all day. Now help me find a table. At the very least we should all enjoy what's left of the evening together."
Way stations as a rule always had far larger interiors than their humble exteriors would suggest, carved into the mountain as they were. The common room of this one being large enough to make use of two floors to dine from, with several hearths that could be used if those who were prudent enough to bring wood deigned to use them. There also existed a large communal kitchen for pilgrims to cook with, and enough rooms to shelter as many as perhaps 200 people.
One mistake pilgrims to Almuth needed to be wary of was treating way stations of the Alm Trail like common inns. They weren't.
Way stations were often only lightly staffed, and did not run on a charge, but rather, on donations. Of course, the largest donator was traditionally the Prince of Alm who provided oil and other amenities to the 15 or so stations on the Mountain Road, but if one wanted a hearty meal, they'd need to have brought their own meat, and only the meekest of pilgrims were given blankets for their rooms.
Ed and Rogan chose a good-sized table next to one of the stone hearths. The fire had not yet gone out, and some kindly patron had been generous enough with their wood that Rogan did not feel guilty adding two small logs to keep a burning fire aloft. There was a comforting ambiance to the evening, and Rogan allowed a sense of contentment to wash over himself as he and Ed made conversation about the last several days.
Rogan knew that as a Chimeran, as a Schwarhund, he was innately loyal to the House of Alm and all its members. But his affection for Edwaerd went beyond the simple loyalty that was driven into his being. Rogan was genuinely fond of his Princeling. Edwaerd had something of a mouth, but he meant well more often than naught. He was incredibly humble given his station, and though some might have called that a weakness, it was a trait Rogan was supremely proud to have had a part in fostering in the young man.
Some ten or so minutes passed before Rogan saw Will, Joster, and Edmon return from the stables.
"Was there room?" he inquired.
"No more than half are being used," Will replied, "plenty of water and hay, we took a couple of minutes to brush them down."
Rogan nodded his approval. As the men settled to the table he reached into his pack and retrieved a small pouch and an ivory pipe. Edwaerd and Arty had given the pipe to Rogan four years ago on his 29th nameday. It was an impressive enough work with a large stummel that Ed had molded into the visage of a wolf. The stem was a roughly carved piece of Weirwood and Artos' contribution to the shared gift. As a whole the piece had a rough journeyman's look, but Rogan cherished it as nothing else.
The pouch contained dried hash and was passed around to his men who gratefully took a modest helping for their own pipes. When Joster attempted to pass the pouch back, Rogan motioned for him to leave it next to the empty seats. Jerret and Yohn could help themselves when they returned with the food.
As he and his men began to settle into the comfortable mood brought on by the expectation of a decent meal and good company, they began to converse as a means to pass the time. Eventually delving onto a topic that had nagged at the back of Rogan's mind, one he had done his best to put out of his thoughts in recent weeks.
"Lots more pilgrims this year. Wonder what for?" asked Joxter to none in particular.
Edmon was the first to answer. "Business before The Skyfall," he said sure of himself. "Merchants want to sell before the Alm Trail closes. People want to schedule rooms, ask relatives for space, like every other seventh-year."
He was right. Every seven years in an event commonly known as The Skyfall, though there were other name for it, Himewoke, that great temple in the sky whom the Princes of Alm stewarded over, graced the world for seven days. The faithful from all around Westeros flocked to Almuth in the months prior, which often served as an economic boon for the out of the way villages and townships that were nestled throughout the Iggorhorn and the greater Igor Valley, for even catching a glimpse of the temple was considered an auspicious event in a faithful's lifetime.
The next Skyfall was a little over a year away, but Edmon had already expressed his intentions to begin some of the more formal parts of his heir's training. When he brought the temple down, Edwaerd would be introduced to the Cherabim, Himewoke's guardians, and would ascend with them back into the heavens when the Skyfall ended. He would not be allowed to return until he had mastered the art of air Aelkemie and could descend under his own power.
Rogan knew it was a formal part of Ed's training, but still couldn't quite grasp why certain exceptions shouldn't be made given the state of House Alm's succession. Edmon had refused to marry again after the travesty that was his "marriage," to Edwaerd's birth mother, Princess Emma Joxter. The scar across Rogan's face grew agitated as she came to mind.
Thoughts of that woman tended to make Rogan bitter, sacrilegious as they were, but he had never quite forgiven her for her abandonment of Edwaerd or her duties as the Princess of Almuth. Prince Edmon, for his part, never truly held any animosity toward Emma, but had infamously refused to marry again, denying Alm any spare heirs should the worst come to pass.
Rogan could remember arguing viciously with Jin on the matter nearly a year ago. You could count the number of Princes that had never descended from Himewoke on two hands, but even one would have been one too many for Rogan. Instead, he had argued that if they merely skipped Edwaerd's scheduled ascent the once, Edwaerd would have seven more years to grow into adulthood, marry, and father children. He would be of marriageable age in two or three years, and Almuth had received missives from several Princes that broached the subject of nuptials.
It was a good plan, so reasonable in fact that Rogan had been able to persuade enough of the clan to back its being brought to Jin, who, uncharacteristically, agreed to petition it to Prince Edmon. It hadn't worked. Rogan hadn't been given much in the way of details of how that particular conversation had unfolded, but he had been quietly summoned to Edmon's study not two days later.
Edmon's admonishment had been gentle, tender, and lighthearted. Like a grandfather explaining to his grandson the dangers of eating too many sweets. "Our ancestors knew we made the right decision when we made wolves our shadows," Edmon had begun, "but to hear of your concerns…it is enough to make a man think his son is being guarded by a gaggle of geese. Are you that, Rogan? A mother goose, a hen?" Luckily, Rogan didn't need to dwell on that embarrassing memory, Yohn and Jerret had finally returned with the food, and they weren't alone.
Behind his two men was a woman and a man each respectively bearing a tray of fresh assorted breads and a generous pot of stew. Rabbit if Rogan's nose was anything to go by (and it usually was), with hints of carrot and leeks and…lemongrass? That wasn't very common in the valleys, though not unheard of in the cities.
Upon a closer look at the strangers, Rogan realized that neither was likely from the Vale as both were too densely dressed to be mistaken for locals. The man wore two velvet jackets over a well-tailored vest that looked expensive. For herself, the woman had chosen to wear two woolen shawls that did not look nearly tasteful enough for her soft features, likely bought in preparation for travel on the Iggorhorn, each large enough to be considered blankets in and of themselves.
Little wonder she needed to drape herself so, the man's fair complexion allowed him to pass as any typical Andal, but the woman's wheatish skin, and the way she so tightly wore her hair in a bun made it obvious she hailed from Dorne. Rogan almost didn't notice the slight bulge around her midsection. Pregnant? He thought, Mayhaps…two, three months?
Each kept a respectful distance behind Waynewood and Yohn laying out each tray on the table only when Jerret gave a signal to approach. No sooner had they headed back into the kitchen did two petite serving girls arrive with more food, and wine. It was far more than Rogan had expected for their party. He gave a knowing look to Jerret, wordlessly demanding the young knight explain the gregariousness of these strangers.
"The man's name is Louis, Louis Dubois," Jerret explained. "A wine merchant from the Arbor. The Dornish is his wife. They're here to schedule lodging for the Skyfall, or they were. I believe Dubois mentioned they had finished making arrangements a week ago. He has his help in the kitchens making provisions to travel down. Personally, I think his wife was hungry and-"
"To the point, Jerret."
"Right, Mr. Dubois was very generous, he insisted he didn't need the silver. He offered a generous amount of supper for us all. He insisted we take all this when, someone, mentioned Prince Edwaerd was with us."
"I…may have mentioned that the Prince would find that there stew delicious...without thinking…sir." Yohn, guiltily admitted.
Rogan pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. Leave it to his band of idiots to cause a ruckus in a near-empty common room of a half-empty way station in the middle of the witching hour.
The situation wasn't helped by Edwaerd's obvious amusement at the faux pas of his men, which he decided to express with boisterous laughter. Soon enough his infectious energy spread to the guards around the table, and even Rogan could not help but let a smirk reach the edge of his lips.
It was good to hear Edwaerd laugh so hard, ever since the events involving Bracken two years ago, Seven curse those curs, Rogan had occasionally had to watch Ed deal with the rare fit of melancholy. Maester Chester insisted it was, "residual trauma" from the assault, and while they had almost disappeared now, thus far it seemed only Arty had the ability to summon Edwaerd out of his moods.
"Rogan," Edwaerd whispered. "I know you're already breaking the rules for me and Art but let's let Sir and Madam Dubois join us. I feel terrible taking so much of their food, with nothing to give back."
"It's the least they can do Edwaerd, they'd be honored just to serve you personally. Let it be."
"You think so?" Edwaerd said in a low voice tinged with genuine disbelief. "Suppose I go and thank them and their cooks?"
Rogan fought down the urge to rub his brow. He knew Edwaerd well enough to know his Prince wouldn't let this go until he had felt he made some kind of amends toward the imaginary trouble he felt he was putting the merchant through.
"Yohn, please invite Sir Dubois and his wife to share in our meal. Tell them that Prince Edwaerd of Almuth would personally like to give his thanks for their generosity."
"You don't need to sound like you're in pain, Rogan." Said Edwaerd.
"Oh, I'm in pain." Rogan began. "In fact, I have a golden pain right here." He wrapped an arm around Ed to bring him in close, then proceeded to knuckle his golden hair between shared fits of laughter.
Edmon had wanted this outing to be a lesson on hardships for Edwaerd. But then, In Rogan's opinion, hardship untempered by camaraderie would have been a poor lesson for anyone to learn. And if Rogan forgot to mention their dinner in his report to Jin, well, who said dogs had perfect memories.
When Yohn returned in the company of the Dubois', Rogan noticed that a third guest had joined the two, no taller than the merchant's hip, holding onto Louis' leg as if she were being led into a fire. It was a girl, perhaps no older than seven years old, and resembled so strongly Louis's wife it was obvious that this was their daughter.
"Now now mon chéri." Said Louis as he tried to coo his daughter out of her shyness, his voice heavy with the Reach dialect, "As we practiced, my treasure." The girl continued to flounder under the pressure of her introduction and would have buried her face into her father's trousers had her mother not sent her a glare so cool that even Rogan pitied her.
Luckily for her, she wasn't introducing herself to just any Prince, but one who'd once scaled down a ravine to save the life of the baker's kitten.
There was an audible screeching of wood on floorboard as Edwaerd pushed himself away from the table. Rogan immediately stood from his chair, straightened his back, and was proud to see that his men had done much the same without any need for a signal on his part.
Edwaerd circled around the table much to the worried confusion of their guests. He regally made his way in front of the family who promptly went to their knees, eyes facing downward in supplication, as was proper.
"It is I who is honored by your company, Sir and Lady Dubois. I am Edwaerd of House Alm, the Lord of Vierwinds [1], son and heir of my father, Prince Edmon the reigning Prince of Almuth, and though I have many other titles, this night, I would prefer you know me only as 'Friend'. I beseech thee. Do me the great honor of sharing bread and salt at our table. I would know more of those who have chosen to be so generous, on a road that demands so much." He finished with a bow that would have impressed the King himself.
Not bad, Rogan thought to himself. In far more formal circumstances, a crier would have listed, at least, the highest twenty or so of Edwaerd's titles. Instead, he had taken the initiative to introduce himself to these commoners, and though it was informal, it was always a high honor to have a Prince of the blood introduce himself.
At the very least Dubois and his wife seemed to understand the implication and looked suitably flustered as opposed to their daughter's raw confusion.
"Gran Príncipe!" Lady Dubois nearly cried. "We know it was presumptuous to bring our child uninvited. But to meet you, it will be the crowning of all her days. To see you, a glorious memory to share with her children and grandchildren. We hope you can forgive us."
"Oh, no." Ed began. "Really. I'm glad I get to meet your family. Actually, I'd like to meet your cooks too after our meal. They must have worked hard to feed my men and I'd hate to leave without thanking them."
Rogan made no attempt to hide his irritation at this. At the rate, all these distractions were piling up it was becoming increasingly likely that an early start back to Almuth at first light would be out of the question.
"By The Seven, are we ever going to eat?" Came the voice of Artos Arryn from the corner hall.
Eyes; misty, hair; a mess, and no shirt to speak of. Rogan could have killed him for making an awkward situation stranger but being a civilized man who knew he represented his Prince in all things, settled on clipping the boy's head sharply with his fist. And if the laughter that erupted behind them served to cut the tension and feed his men sooner. Well, who was he to count small blessings?
Perhaps he had been too hard on Artos. For one who bore such an illustrious name, Arty had an ease of talking and getting to know others Rogan couldn't help but admire. The quasi-formality that had seemed to slowly engulf the common room now seemed to have all but dissipated, and the Dubois', while hesitant, seemed to have caught on that it would be in everyone's best interest if they treated this meal as any supper one might enjoy with new friends.
Rogan in fact found much of what he discussed with the Dubois' great interest. Louis' wife was named Lola, their daughter; Urraca, was eight years of age. Though young and neither yet thirty, they were already expecting another child. Lola claimed they prayed for another girl, which Louis dutifully agreed with, though a look of mock pain and a subtle shake of the head to the men of the table told them that he feared the prospect.
Rogan didn't envy the man. Dornish woman had the reputation of being headstrong, temperamental, and perhaps a bit too passionate. And those were the better descriptions. A third girl would likely turn the poor man's hair white well before he was fifty.
The story of how they met, reddened the cheeks of more than a few at the table.
Lola's father owned several prosperous citrus orchards a half day's ride from Lemonwood and was a loyal subject of House Dalt. Louis was an up-and-coming wine merchant who had inherited the bulk of his business from his late grandfather and was looking to expand into the liquor trade, specifically citrus liquors, which were becoming increasingly popular among the Riverland's affluent.
What had initially begun as negotiations for steady procurement of oranges and lemons, transformed into negotiations of marriage once Louis was informed by his future father-in-law that the 'maid,' he had deflowered was in fact the man's daughter.
Lola radiated pride at this part of their story. Even claiming that laying with the Reachman who would father her children had been a scheme she had contrived herself. For he was, "Very tall and handsome. But also, estúpido." Though she claimed she would only learn of his stone-headedness much much later. It was the type of bawdy love story Rogan thought only southerners would find romantic.
Surprisingly, it was Urraca, who proved to be the most talkative when the pressures of first impressions were lifted off her small shoulders, waylaying Ed and Arty with question after question about all manner of things both real and fanciful. Could Edwaerd fly? Did clouds taste like sweet-cotton? Would Edward marry a Princess from the Reach or Dorne? Would he marry her?
Edwaerd and Artos answered with all the truth that could be expected from boys of four and ten. "Damn straight," he could fly or would soon enough. Clouds likely tasted like regular cotton, hence the color. Edwaerd was noticeably quiet with questions pertaining to his marriage, but Artos insisted he'd marry at least ten. And if Ed didn't want Urraca in ten years, she could always come and find him. Which earned Arryn a sharp jab to his shoulder, and an apology to her parents.
For all that, the evening was memorably pleasant. There was a genial mood around the table, and despite Rogan's initial misgivings of their company, the Dubois' made for fine company and conversation. It was good to hear news of the going-ons of regions below the Great Vale, and Rogan could tell both his men and wards enjoyed the company of such far traveled countrymen and the stories and news they were kind enough to share.
It's good he gets to be like this sometimes, Rogan thought to himself.
It was not often Edwaerd could enjoy a pleasant supper with so many people. Edmon and Jessica were not yet so old they took all their meals alone, but the grand dining hall hadn't been full in decades, and even when meals were taken together, which were often small affairs to begin with, a degree of formality was expected from Edwaerd, and most certainly from Artos.
As their evening persisted into the hour of the wolf [2] Rogan gave serious contemplation to postponing their trek back to Almuth to the following morning, when he smelt something that set his hackles to rising. Something he had thought he had almost forgotten. Fox, but more so.
It took all of Rogan's training to keep a strait face, and he was tempted to light more hash if only to calm his nerves and make himself more conspicuous. No, can't lose the scent.
Mild, subtle, mixed with wafting after after-smell of cooled bits of cooked rabbit, stale bread, and bad breath, but there was no mistaking it. It was the mossey forested fox-tinged musk of a Rotskul[3]. The Chimeran servants of House Joxter.
Rogan's face remained stony, but it was all he could do to contain a whirlwind of thought and panic. Emma, was she here? Now? And if she was…was she here as well? Lily, you bitch!
He could feel the scar across his face pump with blood, each pulse more poignant than the last, but he had chosen to keep that wound. Now, old scars that had left him so close to death so long ago had reappeared. No pain, but the memory of both it and failure speaking to him from a past he thought he had left behind.
Rogan fell back to his training, and more importantly, the training he had given his men. They had trained for scenarios, not unlike this one. The only problem was the all but Jerret was red-cheeked on account of the wine. Had this been planned? No. Rogan thought to himself.
He would have been able to pick up on the lie had the merchant been purposefully acting with duplicity. Regular men gave too many small tells of the body. And even if his acting had been impeccable, people gave off a distinct smell when they lied that was almost impossible to hide from a Schwarhund. No, this was their own seven-cursed luck.
His own back faced the entrance to the way station where he suspected the Skulker was positioned. Left with few options, Rogan realized he would need to signal Jerret regardless of their less than ideal circumstances, and pray his slushed men didn't draw this stranger's attention.
"Jerret, Muriel complained before we left that there were weevils in the flour that Tansy bought from the market. Did you know where she bought it?" Said Rogan in as low a whisper as he could manage without drawing attention to himself.
Skulkers could pick up on even the smallest changes in a room. Or, The smallest changes with the people in that room.
Yohn had heard the message and tried to pass off a straitening of his back as a stretch and yawn. It wasn't very convincing.
"I think she bought it at Jackie's, the miller with the broken door. He always packs his flour in red sacks." Replied Jerret between spoonfuls of stew.
Bless the boy, he was dour enough to suck the laughter from a room sometimes but was damn useful when you needed him.
"What size were they?"
"Not his largest."
"How many did she buy?"
"I think Muriel would have needed at least 10."
"Well, we'll be having a word with him soon enough." Rogan finished, careful to give a knowing look to the young Knight.
So, there was a suspicious figure. The chimeran was of an undetermined gender, thus, likely cloaked. Near the door and wearing green. Small, or at least not tall, and was unaccompanied. No one Rogan knew personally, not a good sign.
Rogan could smell the Skulk's smell strengthen as he homed in on its musk. It was keeping a distance, but not suspiciously so, moving deeper into the common room. Rogan dared not give himself away, helping himself to several bits of stale loaf, taking care to observe the figure only from his peripherals as it walked past him in the direction of the stairs that led to common room's now empty second floor. That's when it made its mistake.
Rogan knew every inch of every way station, from Almuth to the base of the Iggorhorn. As the figure ascended the stairs, placing each foot on the rising wooden steps Rogan quickly realized there was no sound, no telltale squeak of the foot to nailed wood. It was as if there was no one walking up the stairs at all. Those were the kind of steps trained into the best trackers in Westeros, the kind of steps Skulks were infamous for. This fox knew who they were, and thought it was being inconspicuous.
"Jerret, by the door. Now." Rogan whispered.
But the Rotskul must have been on guard for despite Jerret's best efforts to keep himself silent there was little he could do to quiet the distinct sound of shifting. Picking up on this noise, the figure made a swift beeline for the second floor.
Rogan didn't waste time and burst from the table to the dismay of their weary guests, and confusion of his wards. But for all his speed he could barely keep the figure in view as he dashed up the stairway. He knew the fox would likely make for the large glass windows, the loud sound of shattering glass confirming his thoughts as he reached the top. A part of him demanded he slow to investigate the glass, strengthen the scent, but he beat it down. He dare not stop.
His body; coiled wind, he threw himself through the shattered pane, deftly avoiding the jagged glass. Unconsciously controlling his fall so that he landed safely on the stone bridge below, ignoring the shards of glass that pierced his hands. That was small insignificant pain compared to the shame of letting this intruder, this spy, escape.
Barely any thought to his movements, he blitzed down the trail, past the entrance. Droplets of the Fox's blood gave Rogan a broken path to follow, but the chimeran's wounds would not remain open for long. He dimly noticed that Joster was near the door, unconscious. Edwaerd was kneeling by his body and might have yelled something to Rogan as he passed them by, but he couldn't afford to wait, couldn't afford to listen. He had to run.
Soon, the cold vale winds would spread the sanguine odor away, and they were hours from first light. He had to keep the scent, he had to run.
He dare not stop.
Inside him, the Auldblud was rising [4].
[1] Vierwinds means Four Winds in my bastardized German/Andal monstrosity.
[2] The Hour of the Wolf is approximately 3-5am
[3] Rotskul comes from the word Rot, which is German for red, and Skulk, which is a group of foxes. More on them in the future.
[4] Auldblud meaning, Old Blood.
How do you do Fanficers. This was originally half the chapter, the second half pertaining to the chase itself, but I think readers have waited long enough for a proper update. I've tried to clean up and practice my dialogue and may go back to chapter 1 to fix certain mistakes.
Special thanks to AngelFaux for being such a good beta. Happy belated birthday you amazingly patient wonder.
NOTICE: For those of you here who don't know. I usually post on [Spacebattles] The story thread there includes pictures that I find to give the world I'm writing a sense of atmosphere and depth. I usually add commentary pertaining to the larger setting or history, so give it a look-see when you can.
threads/the-house-aelric-fmaxasoiaf-au.860281/page-3#post-68870371
Or just google: Spacebattles The House Aelric
The next update will likely be an informational on the Schwarhund. Maybe even one on the Rotskul. I'll also be splitting the Aething houses into a 3rd part (On Spacebattles) so as to better fit corresponding pictures, so keep a lookout for that.
As usual, I enjoy throwing ideas back and forth with all of you, so please like, share with friends, and comment. Or don't, you do you.
Personally, I think this chapter was a bit slow, but even GRRM knew you had to build tension to leave an impact, so I'm not to mad at myself.
Constructive criticism always welcome. I've just gone over the story for a 5th time, and made some minor flow changes, so there may be some obvious mistakes. Pointing these out would be welcome.
Please point out story fallacies or mistakes as you see them. I believe some time ago someone pointed out that I had kept or changed a family name that didn't match with the Aething House listed, and I've never lived it down.
Stay safe you beautiful wonderful people.
