ASTEN
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Asten Godrow dipped his lance for Maxwell's head, and gently pushed off. The cart was narrow, but solidly constructed. Not for long, Asten beamed, as he eyed the descent before him. It was a wide corridor of steps, and along either side it was flat blue stone. Well, flat, at least save for the incremental sections where it levelled out for a meter. These little sections usually had a brazier in them, but they had been moved from the left side. Asten could barely contain himself after he bumped across the first platform, and continued picking up speed. Through the slits in his visor, he saw four more ahead of him – three now, and was holding on tight. The vaulted hall he approached was the cavernous centre-way of Heldenstrike Hall, and if they had set it up right, he would emerge on the dais on course for the ramp. The cart was shaking more and more violently, and for a moment Asten was worried he might bounce out of the cart before he reached his target. His hard breathing echoed around his helmet, as he hit the bottom and emerged from the stairway faster than he had ever been not on a horse.

Maxwell's helmeted form appeared, standing atop the humungous stone hammer in the middle of the room. He was holding a tarnished wooden shield close in front of his chest, and besides his frog-mouth helm, wore naught but tunic and pants. Maxwell stood roughly level with him, as Asten charged across the walkway from the side of the hall. The sight of the gap between the walkway and the hammer gave him a powerful shot of excitement. If he fell short, not only would he topple down to the floor seven feet below, he might even plunge into the long recess directly underneath where most of the statue stood in. Balanced atop Maxwell's helm was the target – an old bucket. Asten aimed for this and let out a warcry,

"Hollowtooooop!"

The cart hit a very meagre ramp of packed gravel, some bricks, and a wooden board, and it sent Asten sailing through the air. He was relieved to feel the cart come with him. Time seemed to slow down, and Asten more or less kept his posture gripping the sides of the cart.
But Asten saw he was falling short, and reached out with the lance to touch the bucket. He was almost standing up, when almost simultaneously he felt the bucket through the lance, and then the hammer through the cart. The wooden steed shattered loudly, and Asten tumbled with surprising violence across the top of the hammer and second ramp. Now, he was sailing free through the air again, but was so shocked by the throw, he did not try to couch the imminent landing. The next thing he knew, searching the bleary and indistinct world around him, sunlight drifting in from a long tunnel above the hall, he saw that the ground had actually broken before him. He could hear Maxwell erupt into hysterics from above, and his own moans pressing through his visor into the smashed stone beneath.

"The Godrows carry the weight…of two mountains!" Asten cried, in a state of confusion and delirium. Maxwell's laughs became savage, and Asten finally saw what had actually happened.

"Oh shit..." Asten moaned, clutching pieces of broken tomb.

"No, no..." he heard Maxwell repeat, climbing down from the statue, still laughing.

The first thing Asten felt was fear. It was not just because he had desecrated an ancient line of sacred dead right in front of a sept, but because the Lord Tallhammer was a choleric man. 'Mad Old Madorick' Tallhammer cultivated a hatred for Godrows, and if he found out about what had just happened, it would be unleashed upon him.

Maxwell came over holding the lance with the bucket perfectly impaled on its end. He was looking around to see if anyone had witnessed them. "Seven fucking hells! Look at this!" he said excitedly, holding up the trophy for Asten. Asten slid himself staggering off of the stone coffin, and Maxwell gave him a hand up. "This is going to prove shit to explain." He declared, staring at his ancestor's grave. Or at least, Asten thought, I think he's staring at it.

"Which angry spirit... do I need to steer clear of... in the afterlife?" Asten huffed.

"Relax, my dung-cart warrior," he said, holding him by the shoulders. "You will not see any afterlife this day." He looked Asten up and down. "You aren't wounded, are you?"

"No," Asten replied, still feeling around. "I think... I'm fine... Winded though."

"Good." Maxwell butted his helmet against Asten's.

"What... will we tell your uncle when... he gets back?" Asten asked.

Maxwell threw back his hands into somewhat of a care-free pose, and said, "The cart was carrying mason's supplies to the sept, when the wheel broke and it all fell from the walkway onto Ser Bedron the Hardy's tomb. The reason for your bruises is we were duelling earlier and, naturally, I was thrashing you."

Asten lightly smacked the side of Maxwell's helmet, and asked, "Who was pushing the cart when it fell?"

Maxwell thought for a second. "Uh, no one. Jyll was obsessing over one of her newly concocted aromas, when she blindly stumbled into the thing."

Asten smiled.

Just as Maxwell added, "Too late for us who saw to cry out a warning," Asten saw the broad figure of Maxwell's sister Jyll approaching from a level further down the terraced hall. He flinched, and coughed loudly, pointing the top of his helmet in her direction.

"What's that, what's wrong, Asten?" He leaned in curiously. "Are you still winded?" he asked with mild concern.

Jyll froze, looking shocked at the sight of what had happened. "What have you done now?!"

Maxwell spun around and tried to kick the lance out of sight. "The reason for his bruises is we were duelling earlier and, naturally-"

She interrupted him with folded arms, "Do you think I'm stupid, Maxwell?" She started towards him, pointing. "I heard you just before," she said, cutting him off again, "You want to rope me into this?" She stepped in and acerbically spat, "I'll sink you if you try to pin this on me! I'll sink you like Castamere!"

Asten piped up, "Greetings, Jyll."

She spun to face him, "You! Look at you! Have you taken leave of your senses?" She pointed at the broken tomb. "My uncle will come down on you – harder than you've just come down on us!" Asten felt sheepish. "After that, slim chance of seeing your sister's wedding!" She was not mean spirited, but she had a point. It was precious that he had even been granted permission to attend Leura's wedding in the first place. Despite that, the glorious stunt was still running through Asten's head, and tempting him to smile.

Jyll had pulled a small bottle from a pouch on her belt, and was removing the cork. "You need to go to the maester," she told him, pouring something stinging on his grazes.

Maxwell scoffed metallically. She shot him a glare, while she helped Asten out of his helmet. After a moment, she shook her head and said, "Well whatever you do, just don't implicate me. I can pretend I never saw this, but if I'm asked, I won't lie about it."

"Why are you up here anyway, Jyll?" asked Maxwell, pulling off his own helmet. It revealed a short crop of blond hair and striking, if battered, features. He laid the massive thing on the ground.

"I... was going to the sept to pray. Now, if you'll excuse me." She parted for the steps behind them.

"Save one for us!" Asten called, as she ascended. He and Maxwell swaggered off down the hall.

"Yeah right, pray..." Maxwell muttered, "More like ogle the new Warrior."

Asten laughed. "I don't see why you need a statue for the Warrior," Asten quipped, "I could just take my tunic off and pose during sermons. Get old Septa Anya's heart beating once again."

"It is what you're good at." Maxwell offered. A tickled-looking pout screwed up his mouth, and he said, "Others take your posing, you bloody chamber pot. The old girl's vigour might be restored when she finds out who vandalised the Walk of Honoured Dead."

"To a hell with it! Well, then, Jyll will have to pleasure herself on stone rather than flesh..."

"That's my sister you're talking about, you bloody vagrant." They stopped to face each other. There was a pause.

"Not half the lady my sisters are." There was another pause. This was a game they played to outdo each other.

"Trouts, fished from the same base river as this Stony Sept son of a serving-Sally."

"Slurs, spat spitefully by a rotten-shafted, stone-headed..." Asten leant in and flexed his larger physique, "...bolt."

Maxwell pushed up closer, "Boasts, from the man who bears into battle the utterly terrifying colourful hill!"

"Richer!" Asten laid on the contempt thick.

"Tougher!" cried Maxwell.

"Swifter!" replied Asten, holding up his helmet to remind Maxwell of the stunt.

Maxwell grabbed the arm with one hand, and shot the other behind Asten's back. Asten knew what he was trying to do, and resisted it frantically, but Maxwell got the leverage and threw him over his back. Again, Asten hit the ground, and Maxwell threw his arms in the air victoriously.

Before he had much of a chance to gloat, Asten spun his body around on the floor to face Maxwell's body, and lifted his legs up to wrap around Maxwell's knee and thigh. Laugh at this, Tallhammer, he thought, as he twisted, and brought Maxwell down on his side.

They were sprawled chuckling, and Asten, at least, found he did not feel like getting up.

"Gods, is that another one that Moreo showed you?" Maxwell asked, as they both stared at the vaulted ceiling. He was referring to the old squire that they had both taken to with an adoring fascination.

"You were too busy losing the tourney at The Tor."

Asten felt a kick to the sole of his boot.

"Second place."

They were silent for a moment. "I guess Jordayne had the home advantage..." Asten conceeded.

"Shouldn't matter. I must remember the next time to acclimatise my destrier to Dornish conditions. That's what fucked me."

"Your horse was all over the place earlier that day. It is a shame I missed you get thrashed at the end."

Asten flexed the muscles in his back, then remembered something, and sat up. "But," Asten exclaimed, "you unhorsed Ser Fabyan Gargalen in front of his sister!"

A smile instantly came across Maxwell's face when he mentioned Gargalen's sister.

They then said in unison, "Dornish girl Elassya, now that's a good lass for ya!"

Asten smiled and cast his mind back to their last visit to Dorne, to Maxwell's mother's family. Lord Madorick allowed his niece and nephew to travel once a year, and Maxwell usually somehow convinced him to allow Asten to come as well. One particularly rotten year, he was left alone at Heldenstrike Hall, but Asten was not thinking about that.

He was remembering Elassya's soft and thick body in blue samite, her beautiful skin which was half-salty and half-sandy as those Dornish types are known, her hair dark and shining like a deep well in the desert. He was remembering her exasperated face as he and Maxwell teased her and roped her into their shenanigans. She would play the voice of sense and moderation, appealing to the same sense she saw deep down in Asten. She was the counter to Maxwell's more extreme ideas and behaviour. In truth, she shared the same sense of adventure they did, and she often complained to Asten that there were no men with their humour or daring at The Tor.

The Tor, Asten remembered, she lives in a place that is not her home. Although, she was simply fostering, and would likely have returned home to the Salt Shore by now, as she had reached the age of majority. Asten recalled his own experience of turning sixteen at Heldenstrike Hall, which passed completely unremarkably. Not that home will be much of an improvement for her, Asten thought. Elassya had no siblings but Ser Fabyan, and he was foul. What was probably most unsettling about him, Asten had decided, was how differently he acted when his sister was around. When it was just them and Fabyan, he acted as if there were no ill feelings between them, and all the while he looked down at them and dismissed what either of them said. With Elassya, he dropped this façade in favour of mean-tempered and loud jokes made to embarrass her. Asten and Maxwell agreed it put them off teasing and making their own jests. Maybe that was the point, Asten wondered. They all put in ripostes for her sake, but it wore down on everyone after days. The last time Asten and the Tallhammers departed, Ellasya stole Asten aside and broke down crying to him.

"It's just..." She sobbed in his arms. She buried her forehead in his chest, and muttered, "Not f-" She trailed off. She felt good in his hands. "I'm sorry, Asten..." she sniffed. "You have to go back to that tyrant's hall." She wiped her eyes, and said, "It would not be proper for me to complain," managing to smile.

Asten chuckled and said, "Since when has anything we've done together been proper?"

Her moist smile grew into a steamy grin, and desire coursed through her sharp eyes. Just thinking about her look was stirring Asten's trousers.

They both got up slowly, feeling stiff. Maxwell stretched out, looking back, and said, "We need someone to clean that mess up."

"We do." Asten agreed. "Maester Teris?"

"A durable man!" Maxwell proclaimed. "Good thinking, Asten!"

Asten smirked and shook his head.

"No, you moron, I was thinking of the servants, the ones helping him with these projects?"

Maxwell shrugged and said, "Yeah, if he'll let us have them. He doesn't want to fail my uncle's ridiculous schedule for this work."

"It's worth a try," Asten said as he rubbed his aching shoulder. "I think I really do need to see him anyway."

They made their way down the steps together, having passed braziers and pillars, with smaller hallways leading off. The capital of each pillar was a hammer; Maxwell once joked that one could break and fall on you, and you would finally understand how Rhaegar Targaryen felt at the Trident. The west wing was whitewashed inside, just like the light tunnel above the long hall, and generally made for a nicer living space. This was where the rooms for family and guests were located, with servants' quarters underneath. It could, and often was, closed off from the main hall and traversed from within. On the right, the East wing was a long interior garden, capped on both ends by other rooms; at the bottom was a constellation of offices for the Lord and high-ranking servants, guest rooms mirroring the family quarters joined to the middle, and the treasury and eastern catacombs were connected at the top. It was in many ways an imitation of Castle Hollowtop, though Asten would have taken Hollowtop's airy spaces over Heldenstrike's oppressive confines any day.

They now veered across the bottom terrace, facing the grand entrance. The maester's office was actually located in the west wing. This was natural to facilitate the care work that was part of a maester's duties. They passed through the doorway and into a female servant carrying a bundle of wrapped tools. Several others were strung back through a narrow hallway, to a stairwell just before the dining hall. They carried fresh supplies of all sorts, though the servants looked as if they were what needed replacing. Shuffling past them, the boys ascended the wooden steps to the next floor. They passed a long solar on their right which wrapped around the corner. Asten was not much one for reading, but the solar was the most popular room in the castle – it was contiguous with the spacious room below it which received the most sunlight. The trophy room beloved by Maxwell and Asten was further back in the west wing, but this one was perfect for lounging and chatting after a tiring hunt.

The maester's door at the end of the corridor hung ajar, and they could see his back hunched over a stool. He seemed not to notice them come in, so Maxwell knocked, and he jumped. A shaky voice croaked, "No, I cannot take any mo-!" Slowly arising, he stopped abruptly when he saw them. "Oh," he uttered, not so much relieved as confused. "Young masters," he said with a slight bow. He then went back to his work, and Asten exchanged a quick glance with Maxwell, who rolled his eyes.

"We need some of the servants, old man," Maxwell said loudly.

"They are completing the constructions. They're very busy." he replied dismissively.

"We need them for just a few moments." Maxwell reassured him.

"Out of the question." He said anxiously. "Your uncle..." he began.

Maxwell interrupted him, "My uncle will not be home for days," and then took a knee standing on a chest by the maester's desk. He leaned in as if to read what the maester was writing and asked "Surely you can't be that far behind schedule?"

Asten moved in too, and Maester Terris looked uncomfortable and incredulous.

"Insolent children. He'll have me clearing the sewers again if it isn't ready. Without a light! I do not believe my body could take another fall!"

Asten anticipated another quiet rant from the old man about how maesters were supposed to be protected from the whims and abuses of lords and ladies. Such rants were typically rare, given the man's usual professionalism… and fearful reticence. Mad Old Madorick was crueller and more short-tempered by the moon's phases, according to Jill. Asten did not know much about the moon's phases, but could vouch for Lord Madorick's inconsistencies. Having always to second guess oneself was something that plagued all who resided in Heldenstrike Hall. Before he left, the lord said nothing to anyone if he wasn't shouting or screaming. When he returns, he may be laconic and glaring, turning it all over in his mind. Asten did not blame Maester Terris for being unaccommodating. He suspected the weariness was taking its toll on this poor old man.

Asten left Maxwell to hang about sheepishly while he wandered over to the balcony. A raven landed in the cage just before he stepped out. He set his helmet on the small balcony and looked down the side of a steep hill, sitting inside the bottom of the mountain as they were. There was a small stream at the bottom of the narrow valley, which often struggled to make it along. All along their side was grassy, and all along the other was forest – a defensive feature, to encourage attackers to remain on the other side, be squeezed deep into the valley, then be set ablaze with the aid of flammable barrels hidden in branches. The valley meant hunting often had to be done quite a distance from Heldenstrike Hall. The long rides gave him and Maxwell plenty of time to chat, usually about the hunt. Invariably, though, the conversation broadened to be about anything and everything. If they could see what they were talking about, or knew approximately where it was, they would make a detour and go there. When they came close to Godrow lands, Asten would joke about going over into them, at which Maxwell would half-chuckle then go quiet. Asten secretly wished Maxwell would agree and go over with him one day. Most days they had nothing but time, and a morning's hunt often became a whole day's adventure, finished with mild anxiety to get home before the nightfall curfew.

The raven cawed and flapped as it settled in the cage. Asten was shocked to notice the seal on the letter attached to its foot. In the waning light at a strange angle he could make out the twin mountains in red wax – correspondence from Hollowtop. He briefly considered reaching inside and pocketing it, but decided the risk was too great.

"If my lords must insist on shifting responsibility for their actions, then let them conspire with the guard." Asten picked up his helmet and came back inside as the maester continued, "I am sure Captain Daris can spare men to help you."

Asten glanced at Maxwell, who said, "Asten also has something he wants tending to."

The maester perked up.

"His shoulder hurts."

The maester went to Asten, then realised he was confused, "Which shoulder?" he asked impatiently.

"It's my right shoulder." Asten replied awkwardly. "I took a... hasty fall on it." In truth, Asten was not sure exactly how he landed. Perhaps he really did hurt it in sparring but didn't feel it in the excitement; they stopped sparring for a while to set up the ramp stunt, but he and Maxwell were chuckling and working feverishly the whole time. This hangover of violence happened commonly – when Asten was fighting, he felt fully alive, perfect at the moment of crux when a duel is won or lost. The consequences barely meant anything, until his body and soul became quiet.

Maester Terris was feeling and poking around Asten's shoulder. "Tell me if it hurts," he added late. Asten was not sure several times, but decided against speaking. Many coloured metals hung and softly clinked about the maester's neck: a black one, bronze, electrum, silver... a couple gold ones, of course, and iron. Maxwell said that one meant he was an expert on warfare, and they often sprang him with hypotheticals like 'what would you do if seven Kingsguard were charging at you ahorse and you had an army five-hundred strong of ten year-olds with spoons?'

"He's fine..." Maxwell concluded, turning back to the door.

The maester did not look impressed. "There are no new bruises, so I suspect you have strained it. I do not believe there is any serious damage, though I would recommend you not sleep on this shoulder for several nights."

"Come on then, Asten." Maxwell ushered.

As they left, the old maester added, "Oh, and, uh, a cold bath would not go amiss."

Halfway down the hall, they both smirked at this, remembering something that happened hunting by the river last week. Asten muttered, "You want a cold bath, Maxwell?" to which Maxwell laughed and shook his head.

They made it down a closer stairwell, then headed back around for the centre hall. The captain of the guard would be outside by the walls. They passed beside the lord's hall on the corner, with all the smells of cut vegetables and raw meat mingling forth from double doors. Muffled talk abounded from the kitchen within. The anticipation of dinner made Asten smile, only to be soured at the sight of a woman at the end of the corridor being hobbled along by a servant. Her long chestnut hair was aging and her appearance somewhat dishevelled. It was Mariya Jordayne, niece of Lord Trebor Jordayne.

Maxwell slowed down, and when the woman looked up at him, her eyes widened.

"Max Well..." she sang in a doleful tone. Her Dornish accent was thick.

"Mother," replied Maxwell not without affection, but nevertheless with a desire to pass.

She drew her handmaid along and accosted her son. "Your face is so dirty!" She held the side of his face. "And your brow is bleeding!" Maxwell's mother did not usually talk much. When she did, her voice always sounded drained, even if it was punctuated by the vigour found in all Dornish women. "You have been hunting with that Godrow boy again!"

Asten sighed loudly, speechless with embarrassment. It seemed the demons had scattered her memory far today.

"Mother!" Maxwell huffed with exasperation, "We were sparring – we always spar, we are knights! I mean, Asten would be a knight too if it weren't for..." He quickly shut up as her expression was taken with fear. She could scarcely handle normal conversation, let alone conversation about Maxwell's uncle.

"Nothing good ever came of hunting," she said slowly and shakingly to Maxwell's eyes. Maxwell would not look at her, and Asten could see that his friend was desperate to leave. They were distracted by the handmaid, who said "My lady, please, the maester awaits us."

The boys moved aside further for them to pass. "Please," repeated the handmaid.

"Take a bath, my son," Mariya said while reluctantly being drawn away.

"I will, mother," grumbled Maxwell as they pressed on. They passed along in silence, back out to the great hall. The grand entrance was open, showing a long series of arches concealing all manner of murder holes and portcullises. If the archways and wide steps behind them were barricaded between the massive vaults and the doors barred, the entire hall would be fantastically defensible. Despite its relatively small size, Heldenstike had more spine than any castle in the Westerlands. Any attacker who would try to grab and hold onto its spine would find their hand shredded and pulverised.

Wandering outside they were greeted by a vibrant sunset and a sparsely peopled bailey. It gently sloped down beside the mountain, which loomed behind and to the right of them. Many run-down buildings fit into the squarish courtyard. Still, from the hall's entrance Asten could see again the valley beyond the walls, lying before them and curving past them. Narrow tracks along the mountains led to turrets at points along this side of the valley, rendering the Heldenstrike garrison capable of showering arrows into the sides and back of an attacking army. Far beside the setting sun, he was able to make out the gap at the end where he knew the spine truly began. It featured a well-moated holdfast commanding the pass, rockface turrets above, and several towers further beyond. Hedges and rivulets, both natural and man-made, criss-crossed the pass, though there were ample stone bridges to cross them. When Asten and Maxwell raced up or back through the valley, they would not break their stride through the village that they simply called 'the bridges'. It had a proper name – Elbridge – and an incredibly unimpressive knight named Ser Callum Trevytan, but its people were talkative and high-spirited. Despite the occasional cries from surprised path-crossers, they never failed to bow or curtsey the boys as they barrelled through, and Asten usually thought he saw smiles on their blurry faces.

In the Heldenstrike bailey, the main avenue took the boys down nearly three-hundred feet to the gatehouse. They passed a well, and the tanners, being well hung with hides and leathers of many different shades. The bald blacksmith was striking away at what looked like a ploughshare. The boys saw the man they were looking for by the gatehouse, and hastened past the inn towards him. Captain Daris was a large man, obscuring the doorway beside him. He was looming over another man in a long-sleeved green jacket and hat with a dirty white feather. It was the castellan, the second born of another Yarwyck vassal, named Clayde Morovel. It looked like he was being chewed out by the captain.

"You listen here, Morovel. My lads cannot move about with all this clutter, and it's not their mess for once." He had a finger in the castellan's face and a hand nearly around his neck. "All I ask is you take it all over to whichever corner of this castle actually holds fifty barrels and sacks of paint, pitch, and powderlime! And, by the gods, we've a veritable forest's worth of picks!"

Maxwell said, "Greetings, Daris."

The captain looked at Maxwell, but Clayde Morovel whinged with a feeble tone, "It's unbelievable, I just can't find anywhere else! This spot is so close to the path, and it-" He finally noticed the company.

Asten and Maxwell shifted uncomfortably.

The captain waved his hand and said, "You'll find the space, in the undercroft or grain silos, I'm sure of it," then released him with a little shove.

Morovel let out an uncertain humming noise.

The captain turned to the boys. "My lords," he addressed them, somewhat uncertainly.

Morovel then hastily took off his hat and bowed to Maxwell, "My Lord." He strode off.

Asten frowned as he watched him go back up to the keep, then was surprised to see Maester Terris hobbling as fast as he had ever seen him move down towards them.

"You cannot go out now, it's too late," said Captain Daris.

"That's not why we're here," said Maxwell.

The captain raised a thick eyebrow.

"We would actually like to borrow some men for a moment."

He looked pleasantly surprised. "That would be most welcome, my lord." He gestured at the guardhouse, inside which Asten could see a crowded table and two men struggling to pass each other at the foot of the staircase. "There are too many cooks in this kitchen, if you follow me," remarked the captain. "This lot have nothing better to do!" he raised his voice, drawing their attention. "I can give you-"

At that moment, a horn called out from atop the barbican. The tune meant returning lord. Asten's stomach sank.

"Open the gates! I must talk with his lordship immediately!" quaked maester Terris.

As the captain was duty-bound to meet the lord as well, he huffed and said to Asten and Maxwell, "My lords, please excuse me," bowed, then joined the maester.

The boys gathered around as well. The maester was clutching the scroll Asten had just been looking at, unfurled in his hand. The boys exchanged worried looks and Asten said, "What do we do now?"

"We fix it ourselves," said Maxwell, exasperated.

They ran back up the hill, to the keep's entrance that jutted imposingly out of the mountain face and dry moat. They should have a good few minutes before Lord Tallhammer arrived at Heldenstrike, and a few more before he was inside. Somehow this all reminded Asten of what Heldenstrike Hall used to be, a refuge for outlaws hiding from the king's men. Sometime before Aegon's conquest, it became no longer hidden, and instead of thieves scurrying from its hollow, it was the king's peace rode forth from its gates.

They hastened along the grand hall's entrance. There is one thing about this place that remained hidden, Asten thought, to all but a few, who anyhow lack the courage to speak of it, or are in it themselves. Most would even brush it off with talk of a lord's prerogative, or a firm hand that has always ensured justice. But Asten knew better. As they ascended through the hall, Asten decided not for the first time that he had witnessed enough of Mad Old Madorick's crimes. If Lord Tallhammer came in and saw what he and Maxwell were attempting to exculpate themselves from, Asten feared the likely outcome. He had been feeling recently that he could not stomach another saga of deceit, outrage, torturous punishment and continual reminders. Lord Madorick would probably single him out for some personal punishment too, as happened more often than most others were allowed to notice.

Asten used to dream of slaying the tyrant when he was strong enough, but reality settled in well before that. He went for years whispering at night about plans to bring Maxwell's sister and mother to Dorne with them, and never return. Reality caught up with that as well.
Not that it mattered, thought Asten, as they approached the scene of their stunt. For all his distaste towards his uncle, Maxwell never entertained these fantasies as seriously as Asten did. And without Maxwell by his side, Asten did not think he would leave the seventh hell if its gate were unlocked. Worse, when Asten told him about Lord Madorick threatening to kill him, or Maxwell, or Maxwell's sister or mother, half the time he did not even seem to believe him. "My uncle is a cunt, a nasty old cunt," he said once, "But come on Asten, you don't believe that nonsense about him murdering his wife and her handmaid and children? The smallfolk always string gruesome tales about lords and ladies they don't like." In fact, Asten was no longer able to suggest that Madorick was a murderer, ever since their greatest falling-out in an argument about Maxwell's father. As Asten glanced at his friend's increasingly anxious face, he wondered once again if Maxwell really believed the excuses he spoke.

They stood at the top of the stairs, staring across at their mess. "Well," Maxwell began, "we can move the other stuff somewhere, to my room maybe. That stuff on its own won't put us in the shit anyway, it's the tomb that worries me. It's harder to explain."

They wandered over towards Ser Bedron's tomb, and half-heartedly decided to pick up the pieces that scattered. Asten was spinning his mind trying to devise a way they could disguise the whole incident in the few minutes they had. He picked up a large piece and tried placing it back where it looked like it fit, only for it to slide out.

Maxwell suddenly said, "Hey," looking at Asten. "The powderlime! We can make mortar!"

"Do you even know how?"

"Yes, you just add sand and water, and mix it too. I've watched the servants do it before." He pointed towards the stairs that led up to the sept, saying, "They should have some up there."

"I'll get it," Asten called, making for the stairs.

"I'll figure out where these pieces fit!"

Asten took the steps two at a time, and some thirty feet along he bundled through the open door into a room of disturbed tranquillity. The smells of sweat, holy oils, and stone carving were already laying upon Asten, who peered around at the work briefly. The room was not much wider than an average sept, but markedly taller. It now fit exquisitely detailed statues twice the size of a man, and a painted dome ceiling – not even Hollowtop's sept was as lavish. The servants worked in silence around the edges, some on ladders and scaffolds. Asten spotted a wooden tray next to one kneeling servant with some tools and a bucket of light-blue mortar. Perfect, Asten thought. He paced over and picked up the whole thing, causing the servant to look at him with flaring apprehension. Asten simply said, "We're all buggered anyway," and made off with them. As he left, he realised he had not seen Jyll in there. She usually spent a long time in the sept, which Asten thought was strange given her general irreverence and esoteric interests. He remembered his own sister Leura as being decently pious, and eager to proclaim such piety, though Jyll reminded him more of Cynthia. Maybe she's just there to smell the oils, Asten mused as he trundled back down the steps to Maxwell.

When Asten emerged at the bottom, he saw that Maxwell had arranged all the pieces in a rough rectangle next to the tomb. "Holy Smith!" called Asten, "You work quickly!"

Maxwell gestured with an open hand, "They all have writing on them." He spoke quickly, pointing at the mortar, "Slather that on the tomb, and, uh…" He looked down at his constellation. "I guess I'll place these on top?"

Asten hurried over, putting down his helmet and the tray. He stared down at the mucky tools and sludgy mixture in the bucket. "Okay…" he breathed nervously. He considered saying a prayer, even if he had just left the sept. As he picked up the trowel and sank it in the bucket, he began muttering "I beseech the Smith, please forgive my… overzealous act of devotion to the Warrior, and grant me the- your guiding hand to… guide my trowel, and fix this sacred tomb well."

"…That was atrocious," Maxwell told him.

"Oh lay off me, you trout!" Asten retorted. The tomb had three big cracks, from which stemmed many chips large and small. The mortar was mercifully easy to spread, though Asten found one had to run a steady blade over the rough and bumpy surfaces for an even finish. Asten was wondering how in the world his landing could have caused such destruction. I must have giant's blood, he concluded.

Maxwell suddenly decided to replace the pieces as Asten worked. As each chunk sank in, it pushed some mortar up beside it. A few moments of nervous sweating later, Asten was trying to clean up the edge of the wonky last piece. "Stop padding it!" Maxwell complained, to which Asten blurted, "Stop jiggling it!". They got another jiggle and scrape in before standing back together and appraising their work.

Asten's stomach sank further yet.

"Oh gods…" Maxwell cried, holding his head. "Seven hells, that looks nothing like the others!" He turned to his friend, shaking his head, "I knew this wasn't right, for us to try and work stone?!"

"What? You-"

Just then, Maxwell looked like he heard something, and shushed Asten. His heart raced when he realised it was voices echoing from far down the hall. Judging by how faint they were, Asten placed them just outside the-

"Entrance," Maxwell confirmed aloud, finishing Asten's thought. Whatever they were going to do, they had to do it now.

Asten span through ideas, "Uh, alright, um… we'll put something on it, or-"

Maxwell jumped on the idea, "Yes! Of course, those drapes, do you remember? By the boat? We can cover the tombs with them!"

Asten knew what he was talking about, and where to get them. "Let's go!" he told Maxwell as he sped off to the stairs at the side of the hall.

"Wait," called Maxwell, staggering to a stop. "Crap, the tools can't stay here," he said, wheeling back for the tray.

Asten kept going, up to the dais and nearly tripping over the ramp. The ramps, he swore silently. And the braziers! Asten could have shat himself if he had allowed his bowels any liberty. He had no choice but to carry on and do something about them later. There was a door in the wall, blue and inconspicuous beside the wide stairway up to the west catacombs. It opened with a creak, and a dark and narrow passage led down and back to the level underneath the centre hall. There were other entrances, more convenient for loading and unloading that which was stored in the undercroft, but this route led directly to where the drapes would be.

Asten squeezed from the passage into a wide chamber. It was absolutely packed; the entire inventory of a castle under construction, and then some. It was a musty affair, and though most of the room's contents were recently stored, the floors and walls held fearsome grime and dust. He could scarcely move around, his legs imposed upon by barrels and chests, and he had to duck baskets and hanging cupboards and the staves of tools… and pikes. Axes too. Lots of pikes and axes here. He promptly found a passable isle and shimmied down it. A few steps in, something fell from a high shelf on to the floor behind him. Turning his head, he saw only that it had a shaft. Give it your best shot, Ser Bedron.

Looking around, the room ran under two tiers, then linked up to the hall and down to the sewers where both wings flowed to. Not far in, Asten came across the weather-beaten boat, mast-less and low down under several stacks. The raft's hull had been painted by Jyll and Maxwell years before Asten arrived. It was wrought in Reelersville by the river mouth, where fishermen salted their catches and loaded the great summer storehouses. Years ago, the boys tried to sail it down the sewer during a particularly heavy downpour and nearly drowned. Ever since, it had filled up with colourful chests and oily miscellanea no longer used. This served Maxwell and Asten well on occasion to hide things. Beside it on the far end was a tall open chest Asten knew held decorations. There lay the drapes, dusk blue and granite grey. Tallhammer colours. It was a neat and handy pile, which Asten grabbed and ducked back along the way he came.

Asten barrelled out of the stairwell and halted when he saw them. Seven hells, he cursed under his breath. Maxwell was by the tomb, facing Ser Anthony Ardis who stood, hand resting on hilt, alongside a frowning guard. Five or ten paces separated them. They were in travel-worn armour, Ser Anthony in a green-near-black surcoat and the guard in Tallhammer blue. A hissing green snake followed the edges of Ser Anthony's coat, and a dark cave opened in the centre. On the other man stood a grey warrior holding aloft beside him the eponymous two-handed hammer.

Asten's shoulders slumped as they all looked at him, and Ser Anthony pointed and shouted, "You are to come with us as well, right now!"

There was nothing he could do at this point, so after grimacing for a moment, Asten moved to join them. He tried to shrug off the guilt from his shoulders as he bounced down the stairs, thinking about what he could say to these men. They started down the hall as he approached, and he got an expressively mouthed "FUCK!" from Maxwell. He hurried to catch up and said, "Ho there, Ardis-"He nearly tripped over, as he came up on the knight's side.

Ser Anthony's sour face staring ahead told Asten exactly how lacking in generosity the man's imagination was.

"Gods, we had nothing to do with it! It was- "He quickly remembered to glance back at Maxwell, who shook his head. He looked in front again, and saw they were approaching the archway into the East wing now. "Um…" was all that ran from his mouth. Asten felt the guard's tall presence behind his back. Where is Maxwell, with his unsurpassable bullshit?

"You don't have to tell him about any mess up the end of the hallway," Maxwell said in a lowered voice.

Ah, here it comes! Asten worried he sounded suspicious though.

"That's to be expected with servants and supplies running forth all day." They passed through the archway now.

Asten began to sweat that they did not have enough time to convince these two to look the other way. He took the lead from Maxwell, saying casually, "It would be less trouble for you anyway not to concoct a story about something you didn't even see."

Ser Anthony shot out a mailed hand and grabbed Asten's shoulder, stopping in the elaborate archway. He stared down and ahead, and his grip was tight.

"Ser Anthony!" came the warning yell from Maxwell.

He glared up at Asten with resentment in his eyes.

Asten blinked and Maxwell was there in front of the man, chests close and staring into him.

After a few tense seconds, he let go and fronted up to the shorter Maxwell as another set of hands from behind grabbed Asten roughly. "I think I will tell him. I'll tell him what I saw, and he will tell everyone the story of what happened…" He briefly deigned to consider his words, then addressed Maxwell as "Boy." Maxwell seethed at him. For another moment, Asten wondered if they were about to fight. Freeing himself from the guard might be tough, especially with all the armour, so Asten planned to turn into him and trip him or drive him into the wall.

Instead, a jovial and insolent voice blasted them from beyond the archway, "I've heard she's run off again, is it true?"

Ser Anthony's eyes flared as he slowly turned his anguished face.

Coming into sight was the ragged and prematurely greying beard of Ser Mandas Fremont. Known as 'Whoreslayer', he was one of the biggest men Asten had seen, having yet to encounter Ser Gregor Clegane – Maxwell told Asten ridiculous stories about the Mountain That Rides, ones he had never heard before coming to Heldenstrike Hall, which led Asten to suspect they were mostly made up. Ser Mandas' old coat-of-arms was quartered white and emerald green, the latter with a round light blue pool and a grey tower across it. "It is true!" cried Ser Mandas, arms in the air. He put a heavy arm around Maxwell's shoulders and, bellowing laughter, said, "I promise she's not at my castle!"

Asten could not believe some of the things Ser Mandas was liable to say in any but the most sensitive of company. Though, he was also unsurprised, given what he knew about this man.

Ser Anthony was visibly struggling to ignore Ser Mandas but after a moment he looked to relent. He glanced sourly around at them all, shook his head and finally growled, "Fucking children…" He stormed off ahead of them, shouldering hard past Ser Mandas, who threw his hands up again briefly whilst still smiling.

Mandas turned back, then said to the guard "You too, fucker." The guard said nothing and stomped off, following suit.

Maxwell could not hold a smile off his face. "Saved by the Whoreslayer," he marvelled ironically.

"Just as well you're not a maiden, my lord," came the quick response, as he motioned them to continue with him to Lord Tallhammer's office.

Asten did not know whether to cringe or chuckle. He was reminded of a story he had heard about Ser Mandas, that when he was eleven, his father had brought him to a brothel in the capital on the King's name day celebrations. His father had instructed him to remain downstairs, going off to cavort with strumpets and other patrons on the open roof. As Maxwell tells it, Mandas grew bored of his corner and walked upstairs to complain, finding most people roaring with laughter at the mummer's troupe who were putting on a raunchy comedy. He was stopped by one tall performer who proceeded to wind up the young boy. When he asked her if she had seen his father, she teased that he had been all over her, and in the middle of her lurid description, he shoved her backwards over the edge of the roof to her death. When it came up in a rare conversation with Ser Mandas, Asten felt brave enough to ask him if he intended to kill the woman. Ser Mandas responded by saying, "She was a mummer, I thought she would land on her feet. How was I supposed to know she would land on her head? Dumb bitch."

They walked along raised gardens that ran down the middle of the hall. A great variety sprung over the tall stone frame, though they were wispy, and all seemed to imitate the blue of their surroundings rather than compliment it. One could walk through on pavers and sit in peace or conversation, though rarely did anyone do so.

"What is his great angst this day?" asked Maxwell about Ser Anthony sarcastically.

"He's just mad that he lives in a hole in the ground, my lord." waved Ser Mandas with a cocky dismissiveness.

"Do you not also live in a hole in the ground, Ser?" Asten inquired carefully.

"Yes, Godrow," he retorted, continuing in a wistful and passionate tone, "but my hole has green grass and trees, sunlight and babbling brooks." He paused mid-explanation to run up a pathway to the middle of a garden bed and looked around as he jumped up onto a stone table.

Asten raised an eyebrow at Maxwell.

"A great big fat tower, eighty feet tall in a steep depression nearly as high!" He relished talking about his bizarre castle, at any invitation. "Every morning, I push the sluts off and stumble over to a large window," He picked up an imaginary bow and arrow, and drew it just above the boys, "and shoot all the bucks and hares on the slope like it's a tapestry."

After a moment, he hopped down and sauntered back to the boys. They continued onwards. Beyond the corner of the garden was another archway, longer and lit by torches. They approached with dampening spirit, and no noise echoed from within. Several knights were gathered at the end of the brief passage, at an intersection of another hallway. A couple stared at them as they approached. The boys headed in first, going left for the Lord's office. The door near the end was closed, and in front of it stood two guards, one being the loaf who had grabbed Asten. The nearer one gave them a stare, and Ser Mandas told the boys, "He is in a meeting with the castellan. Sit for now."

The boys shared a bench behind them as Ser Mandas joined a group of two other knights. A dozen of the wealthiest landed knights sworn to House Tallhammer, Asten knew, had been called up by Lord Madorick to attend the Lord Yarwyck's court at Yarwyck Hall. It was an important event regarding the Yarwyck inheritance, with lords and knights from all over the Yarwyck domain to attend.

In Ser Mandas' clique was Ser Graham Shannon, a thin, hard man with a short dusty beard and same such hair, whose coat was yellow with brown stripes down the sides. In the centre was a snowy wildcat on a small white circle. Ser Adryan Pottel, beefy and younger, was nevertheless a head shorter. He wore a black bull on a field per bend, red in the bottom left opposite yellow.

On the other side of them, against the near wall, stood two men opposite each other having what looked like a sedate argument – Sers Tyrion Oaker and Toller Bryant; a silver horse rearing on a wavy field green and red, a gold horse rearing on black and blue. Perhaps they are arguing about each other's heraldry again. On the far wall was the Castellan's office, guarded by a Tallhammer man. Opposite Asten sitting on his own was Ser Callum Trevytan, Knight of The Pass; his heraldry was five green mountains, surrounding a grey knight holding aloft a shield, on an azure field. He was closer in age to Asten and Maxwell than he was the other knights, and sometimes Asten thought he spoke to himself.

Crowding the hall to their left were the rest, two cliques facing off in an adversarial spirit. Nearer were Sers Andrew Fryden and Anthony Ardis, Fryden bearing a black teardrop outlined in gold on a dark grey field, gathered by Ser Alasdair Carter. He was perhaps the most charismatic – tall and confident, almost handsome, and with an impressive family history. His heraldry was striking too, three red pickaxes across a cream field, below a larger silver field festooned with two dozen emeralds and rubies alternating diagonally. Opposite him proudly stood Ser Mondar Vestington, years older and extremely polite but a greater joust than any knight present, save perhaps Maxwell, and with little doubt the most famous. His colours were comparatively plain – three white and dark green bars alternating horizontally. The knight beside him wore a silver bend crossed with three white trees over a plum field. It was Ser Ascar Brewell, who scratched his big head and eyed Asten suspiciously. Last was Ser Loudon Septhill, simply midnight blue. Asten had to recall years back to remember what his voice sounded like from all of three words – soft and thick like a running stream of blood. He was leaning on the near wall beside the door to the Captain's office, and Asten tried to shrink behind Maxwell to avoid his sinister shifting gaze.

All together, they made the hallway claustrophobic, and the arrival of the boys seemed to bring out the general sense of distrust that always simmered in Lord Madorick's servants. Why they have returned here, and so soon, was a mystery. All Asten got from Maxwell was a shrug, so he tried to catch one of Mandas' clique's attention. They seemed to be ignoring the boys, with Ser Mandas facing the other way. Lord Shannon eventually caught Asten's eyes and reluctantly spoke up, "Lord Yarwyck fell ill. Lord Madorick has convened us here instead."

Asten felt that did not explain enough, but just then the door to Lord Madorick's office opened and Clayde Morovel followed the Maester out. Maester Terris looked thoughtful and concerned, struggling to hobble along as usual, whilst Morovel looked… Well, there's never much on his face anyway. If Morovel was a forest animal, Asten would have long ago planted an arrow between his unsuspecting eyes. Terris briefly gawked at Asten as he hurried along. What does that mean, you jangling scarecrow? Perhaps this is about more than the cart incident, he wondered. Then a guard stood close and said firmly, "Lord Madorick will see his nephew." He did not look at Asten. Maxwell and Asten exchanged glances, as he got up and waded past everyone's eyes to see his uncle. The door was closed behind him, and Asten oddly feared for him.

The minutes passed slowly. The minutes passed quickly. What could be in that scroll that Madorick would need to see it? Is Leura's wedding off? It all seemed too serious to Asten for that. Perhaps this is about something else entirely? Asten was in no true company, and the growing dread of his own meeting nearly made his eyes cross until he closed them. All there was now was to try and breathe, though the silence made him self-conscious. He fumbled with his helmet and bundled the cloth ever tighter into its rim. Occasionally, there came a muffled burst from Maxwell, the only one audible. Asten gave up trying to make any of it out and was too worked up to think anyway.

Asten turned his head quickly when the door finally opened, got up pre-emptively and even clenched his fists, as if they were about to take him to some dungeon. Maxwell trudged out, not looking so much concerned as confused. The look he gave Asten was somewhat wounded, as if Asten had lied to him about something.

"He wants to see you…" he muttered.

Now Asten was sure this was not about the cart incident. The guards simply stood by the open door. He began to wander towards it, glancing around for an instant at all eyes now watching him in anticipation. There was a real sense of ambition in these men, a feeling conveyed by Sers Carter and Vestington's half-smiles and superior stance. It was a feeling that some broad kingdom awaited them all – not to inherit but to take. Asten pushed down the butterflies in his stomach, promising himself the old man would not be able to daunt him, and stepped through the threshold.

Mad Old Madorick sat almost normally with a disgusted droop in his chair. His eyes were equal parts wretched and thoughtful. They stared at Asten from the beginning, something Asten tried his absolute best not to reciprocate. He did nevertheless notice them slide over to the chair in front of a heavily stacked desk. On the desk he also noticed the opened letter from Hollowtop. Asten followed to take his seat, walking over a thin and fading carpet. Asten surreptitiously searched the gilded blue for his bloodstain, amongst those of the thrown wine bottle on Morovel's most unfortunate day. He sat, helmet and bundle clutched in his lap, and waited for Lord Tallhammer to speak. It was generally better to say little and respond to his questions than to initiate conversation. As happened frustratingly often, Madorick gave him nothing, only staring at Asten's helmet. The old man's short hair was thick and round, and his wiry strength and domineering size were only wilted from his undue age.

After a moment, Asten lost patience and said, "My lord," repressing an aggravated sigh. His hands were still shaking.

"Your sister," Madorick took his time to say.

Oh gods, what is this?

"She will not be marrying Larris Lydden," he said.

Asten could not feel relief, but an additional pang of disappointment and confusion.

Madorick leant back onto his side, hand on his chin. "Your father wishes to marry her to Maxwell."

Madorick was scanning Asten's face and must have seen it go slack with fear and hope. Asten tried to bring the tautness back to his face but was too stunned by what he had just been told.

Madorick drew out the pause, then calmly stated, "You arranged this." He loved to wallow in his falsehoods.

Asten could only shake his head, trying to hold his composure, then try to ask one of the hundred questions spinning through his mind. Why would they think you would accept? There must be more to the offer – what is it?

Asten spoke up a little too dumbly, asking, "Will you accept?"

How could she refuse the Lyddens? What does my family think will happen if Madorick does accept? Why now?

"I know what you are thinking. You are thinking dark things, of course, but you are also thinking, 'Maybe if our houses join… maybe, I shall get to return home?'"

Seven hells, he can feel my heart pumping.

Madorick grabbed the scroll and stood up with some difficulty. He shuffled over to the fireplace and tossed it in, to Asten's alarm. He stared dourly into the flames. "So it shall draw us into a union with your infantile house." He paused one of his deliberate pauses. "To stoop so low would risk shaming our family name. We would require a sizeable dowry at the least to consider such a proposal."

We own over three times the lands you do, you arrogant bastard.

Madorick went on, stroking his chin, "I should think… Half of his lands?"

Asten baulked, and half yelled out, "That's-!" Ridiculous, he was about to yell.

Madorick shot him a look and turned the screw tighter, "Yes, to send your beloved sister away with her new love Maxwell to Cerysford Keep," A sly smile developed on his lips, "And here to foster with Jyll, I think, your other sister…"

Asten gripped his helmet tight and gritted his teeth.

"Or..." Madorick taunted slowly, "Some generous bounty of gold, or jewels…" He came over to Asten's chair, "Or something… irreplaceable. Would you know something your father could give me that was… irreplaceable?"

Another pause gave Asten a chill.

"I am offered a gauntlet."

A gauntlet? Is this a proposal or a challenge?

"The description has it as a piece of the finest workmanship, thick with platinum and gold ribbons and…" Madorick paused and exhaled with subtle satisfaction, "It is a very special heirloom of the Roxburghs."

By the seven, he will accept, Asten concluded.

Madorick leaned shallowly over his desk and picked up a blank piece of paper. He said, "You will write that you fare well, and that you eagerly await the wedding of your beloved sister into the great and welcoming halls of Heldenstrike Hall. Of your father, the Lord Godrow, you praise and admire the understanding he has reached that the houses Godrow and Tallhammer are of equal stature, if not equal stock, and deserving not of contention but of fraternity and respect to each other's rightful property and secure relations. Thus, the restoration of all disputed lands along the Blackwater tributaries east of Lord's Lake and the prestigious Roxburgh heirloom will be sufficient to make matrimony agreeable. The ceremony will be held at Hollowtop."

Asten had never read a marriage acceptance letter, but this seemed a perverse one in just about every sense. What about the other disputed lands? Giving up on those? Asten doubted it. He was given a quill, to humiliate his family with. Asten put his helmet on the table and scanned the desk for an inkpot, finding none. Already exasperated, he thought to look up at Madorick, who immediately insisted "Write." Asten turned his chin as if to say okay then, put pen to paper at the top, and the words rolled out well enough. He felt Lord Tallhammer's eyes keenly tracing his hand. He just about remembered the passage, but had to paraphrase a little, and fully expected with every deviation the page to be torn from under him and tossed into the fire. Halfway through, the ink came out thin and patchy, and promptly stopped dry. After a moment of being stuck, Asten asked tersely "May I have some ink?"

He was surprised by a sharp flick to the ear that made his head rock, and Madorick said "Write it in blood."

Asten searched more thoroughly over the desk, lifting everything around the precarious stacks of books and letters in search of an inkpot. As he thought about Madorick's command, he oddly became increasingly upset. He found one under a letter and carefully lifted it over next to his work. Going carefully over his last few words, he soon finished it by signing his name near the bottom where Madorick pointed.

The old man took the page; Asten felt a rush as he downed the quill and sat back in his hard chair. Madorick circled back around the table, leaning on it in preparation to sit back down. He reached across it to grab his quill and inkpot, set them in front of him, then sat back, quill in hand. He looked up at Asten briefly, then pointed the quill at him and flicked it in the direction of the door.

Asten got up and quickly made for the exit, then remembered what he had left behind. He loathed to turn around and look at the old man a moment longer, but when he did, Lord Tallhammer was reaching with an almost puerile finger to nearly touch Asten's helmet.

He shot forward a pace or two to grab it, but he was too late. It clattered along the hard ground, drapes scattering apart from within.