Happy December from London!
So, I kinda didn't plan this properly – there's a bit of a time jump after this first POV. I know, it's weird, but I didn't want to cut anything out or just write a bunch of garbage or upload just one teensy chapter, so… just go with it. Each POV is basically a mini-chapter anyway, right?
Also, people, don't be scared to submit villains – they're always fun to write. And, to be honest, I personally tend to remember the villains more than the heroes, but maybe that's down to me having so many vertices (get it?).
Oh, and, this story is rated 'M' for a reason - there's gore and sex and a bit of cursing, so... yeah, if you're too young to buy a beer in the UK, you probably shouldn't be reading this. Now that I've said that, we can move on with the story. Enjo!
23rd Day of the Fifth Moon, 152 A.C.
Freya
Freya had long imagined the castle of Pyke. She had imagined a grand, imposing fortress, standing tall against the might of the waves. She had expected the same majestic towers of the Red Keep, the proud walls, and the vast courtyards. She had envisioned Pyke as a sprawling fortress with soaring towers, polished stone, and banners fluttering proudly in the sea breeze. She had dreamt of seeing the glistening walls, guarding their ancient splendour.
She imagined towering spires touching the clouds, battlements that stood tall and unyielding against the pounding waves, and an aura of undeniable strength. Not weathered, shattered remnants. Pyke was no testament to the harshness the isles, but it was still devoid of opulence or grace.
There were no guards with gleaming armour standing sentry, their posture rigid and commanding, yet instead, the remnants of broken battlements stood unguarded, their stones crumbling and weary, a desolate welcome to the unforgiving isle.
With a heavy heart, Freya took in the ruinous sight of Pyke, a sombre testament to the fall of a once-great stronghold. The vision that greeted her was not one of awe-inspiring might or majestic power but rather a melancholic reminder of time's inexorable grasp, reducing a once-proud castle to a haunting, desolate ruin.
Perched precariously on barren islands and stacks of rock, the castle's towers and keeps rose in fragmented disarray, the same grey-black stone, now overgrown with green lichen, bearing the weight of its age and decay. The eroded cliff that once cradled Pyke now left it scattered, connected by swaying rope bridges that hinted at a bygone unity now lost to the relentless passage of time.
The curtain wall enclosed the headland, remnants of fifty acres that bore witness to the castle's faded glory. The gatehouse, once a formidable entrance, now stood in a crescent moon of dilapidated walls, the iron portcullis a mere vestige of protection, a silent sentinel to its futile defence against the relentless march of decay.
The gaping hole in the wall, where dragonfire had rent the stone apart, was a vivid reminder of past devastation. Sunlight filtered through the breach, illuminating the scars that marred the stony facades. The air held the acrid scent of ash and remnants of smouldering fires, lingering despite the passage of time. The castle she had dreamt of was now a mere shadow, a crumbling testament to the failed rebellion of her family.
The castle's towers were crumbled and eroded. Turrets that once stood tall were now mere remnants, their shattered stones lay scattered, entwined with the bones of broken structures. Walls, scorched by dragonfire, wore their wounds of ancient battles like memories etched in stone.
The main gate, where she expected towering doors, stood ajar, barely held together by rusty hinges. The courtyard, overgrown with weeds and brambles, was strewn with debris and remnants of what might have been splendid sculptures or decorations. Skeletal remains of long-forgotten animals and birds lay strewn about, picked clean by scavengers.
A pall of gloom hung heavily in the air as Freya trotted into the courtyard behind Rayn, Whalebane and Ironhand, along with a dozen other ironborn from the Leviathan. Pyke had been a place of legends once, but now, it stood as a testament to ruin. The sky, eternally overcast, cast a shadow over the jagged remains of the walls, cloaking the ruins in a perpetual shroud of darkness.
Rayn dismounted from the black, garron at the front. Three ironborn soldiers remained mounted – due to the paltry few horses on the islands, there would be multiple journeys needed to take all the ironborn to the castle.
"What happened?" Freya frowned.
"Dragons," Whalebane responded as her shaggy Harlaw pony was led away from her.
"No, no-one's here. No guards or stewards or…" She trailed off. "The stables are empty, the kennels…"
"As I said," Whalebane replied, walking up to Rayn's side. It was then that Freya watched her brother standing in the courtyard, staring up at the keep, where no Greyjoy banners flew. The Great Keep, the Kitchen Keep, and the Guest Keep each stood defiantly upon their isolated islands, their dilapidated structures testament to the castle's faded pride. Towers and outbuildings perched atop precarious stacks, linked by weather-worn archways or precarious wooden walkways, telling tales of a castle once interconnected, now fragmented and isolated.
As Freya gazed upon the Sea Tower, the oldest sentinel of Pyke, she observed its weathered complexion - the base white from relentless salt spray, the middle adorned with the green patina of lichen, and the top blackened by the soot of forgotten nightfires. A solemn reminder of the passage of time and the castle's unwavering endurance against the elements.
The Bloody Keep, which she had thought to be a formidable structure, was a skeletal silhouette against the grey sky. Its walls were cracked and crumbling, empty of any grandeur. The windows were nothing more than gaping holes, offering a glimpse of the desolation within. Rust and decay claimed every inch of the fortress, its echoes of ancient glory fading into the salty winds.
"How much do you remember of it?" Rayn asked Freya.
"I was three," she responded. She dawdled a few steps forwards and scraped her shoe against the gravel and dirt that made up the courtyard ground. "I suppose it looked quite different? Less… empty?" She glanced around, but Rayn's eyes remained fixed on the covered stone bridge on the other side of the courtyard.
"It's not," he replied, laying a hand on the leaf-pommel of his sword and marching forwards, followed by his crew and his sister.
They walked for some time, up and over the stone bridge that was sprayed with saltwater. The sea's mournful whispers echoed through the hall as they opened the creaking doors (one of them collapsed off the hinges and thudded onto the door, rocking back and forth on the handle). Freya felt the melancholy of every footstep upon the fractured stones, the broken pathways, and the gnarled roots that clawed at the earth, a testament to nature reclaiming its ground.
Here and there, scattered remnants of the castle's inhabitants were visible, broken artifacts, tarnished remnants of the past, scattered across the deserted courtyard. The skeletons of abandoned towers reached out like skeletal hands, their crumbled bodies yearning for days gone by.
A solemn silence enveloped the desolation, broken only by the distant cries of sea birds, echoing through the hollows of the abandoned corridors. Freya moved further, her heart weighed down by the desolation that surrounded her. Pyke was a shadow of its former self, a sorrowful monument to lost glory, brooding in the midst of the unforgiving sea.
And then Rayn turned to Freya, frowning. She heard it too – a distant voice singing off the stone walls.
"With timber creaking, the longship's might,
Lands on the shore and smashes and bites.
Blood and iron are the price we paid,
For those who reave, for those who raid!"
Rayn began to march down the halls, almost breaking into a jog, his shoulders raised up high as he led the others through the stone corridors, and closer to the voices, which grew stronger and louder and echoed less.
Finally, the Greyjoy siblings turned the corner and entered the long feasting hall of the Bloody Keep. Most of the tables had been upturned. Some of the oaken tables, carved with depictions of krakens and dragons and leviathans, were embedded with axeheads and daggers, covered in blood and scraps of food. Freya stifled a shriek as she saw a large brown rat nibbling on a severed finger.
At the end of the hall, sat on the stone dais with a long table, emblazoned with a purple sailcloth, sat two dozen men, all of them drunk and merry, legs up on the table as they raised their horns and sang together.
"Sing the song for those we slayed,
For those who reave, for those who raid!"
Freya expected Rayn to run at them, to shout – she had to pull on her dress and jog to keep up with him, Ironhand and Whalebane. The iron that still hung from the ceiling (half of them had fallen and crashed into the wooden tables that lined the end of the hall) were steeped in old, dried yellow candlewax. Instead, candles were bundled and burning along the tables, the soft glow of light the only source in a room that was quickly darkening with the setting sun dropped beneath the horizon outside.
The men eyed Rayn, his crew, and finally, Freya. The big man at the centre of the table eyed her for a long while – it made her skin crawl.
"Come to pay tribute to the Reaper?" A skinny man with thin blond hair and a hooked nose said from beside the big man.
"The Reaper?" Ironhand asked.
"We claimed this keep in the name of the Wynch," the skinny one explained. "Makes him the Reaper of Pyke."
Freya glanced to Rayn, but he remained quiet, a content smile setting in on his lips as he gave a soft smile. It soon became clear he was not intending on saying anything, and so, Freya stepped forwards, reaching within her cloak to produce the scroll with the dragon-seal of House Targaryen.
"I'm Lady Freya of House Greyjoy," she began, her voice shaking slightly, "this is my family's keep that you are feasting in. You are welcome to continue your merriment once oaths of fealty are sworn, and you bend the knee-"
"Fealty? To you?" The skinny man chortled, his teeth black and yellow. "Run along, little girl. We need more ale." The men chuckled and Freya tried to ignore them. It was hard, hearing Rayn titter quietly and smile at them – genuinely amused.
She scowled and straightened up. "You must not have heard me, Ser. I am Lady Freya of House Greyjoy-"
"Ser?" He snorted. "Do I look like a cock-sucking knight?" One of the other men began to say something, but the skinny man leant across and smacked him around the era.
Freya took a step forwards. "I have a decree from King Aeric Targaryen, confirming my legitimacy as-" One of the men swept his heavy hand across her behind. She took a step back, feeling incredibly small as the man let out a soft and throaty chuckle, his eyes glinting at her. She tossed the letter onto the table.
"Readers," the big man said, his voice slow and dull, "no need for readers 'round 'ere." He picked up the letter, scrunched it up in one hand and tossed it back at Freya. She immediately bent down to pick it back up, and the same man gave a loud bark and snapped his jaws together at her hand, making her jump back a second time. They all laughed at the table, and Freya turned to see Rayn still smiling.
"What's your name, Wynch?" Rayn's voice was level as he addressed the big man, who narrowed his eyes at him.
"Aggar Wynch."
"Aggar," Rayn nodded as he began to walk around the table, a finger softly grazing the wooden shaft of his axe. "I'm Rayn Greyjoy. And this keep is mine. So take your men and get out- not you," Rayn pointed at the man that had slapped Freya's behind, but his dark eyes never left Aggar. "You stay."
"I'm thinking we all stay," Aggar said, sliding out of his chair to tower over Rayn. He was taller and stronger, and a sharp axe lay across the table, with a shaft longer than Freya was from head-to-toe! "I'm thinking we like this castle. I'm thinking we like it a lot." Agga's hand closed around his axe as he lifted it from the table.
"Quite the thinker," Rayn nodded, looking up at the man. "We could finger-dance. And if I win, you'll leave my keep."
"I'm thinking we-" Agga's voice turned into a piercing screech as Rayn's axe slammed into the wooden table, severing three of the fingers fully from Agga's left hand. It was less than a second until Ironhand and Whalebane had drawn steel and the Wynch men were falling out of their chairs, drunken and panicked.
Ironhand plunged his long dagger deep into the shoulder of one man as he swung his sword, slicing open the throat of another. Whalebane had drawn both swords and already buried one into the heart of the man closest to her, before hacking at the arm of the man that had leered at Freya – his arm was hanging on by fragments of muscle. Freya covered her mouth – the sight of blood spurting, of bone being snapped like twigs – the sailing had not made her sick, but this might…
When Freya looked back, most of the men were on the floor or strewn across the table. Some of Rayn's crew had taken cuts and bruises, but none were dead. Rayn had grabbed the skinny man by a fistful of his thinning blond hair, and bashed his drinking horn against his brow. He hurled the horn onto the floor before pulling on the long shaft of the axe and heaving the blade high into the air, then down into the man's skull. He wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand, then turned Aggar Wynch, who was still on the floor.
"Get up," he ordered. Aggar tried to say something – it was a shout, but little more than a noise of anger and defiance. She saw Rayn kick the man, then pull out a dagger from his belt. "I'll make you get up," he promised, pointing the blade down at the man. A moment later, and Rayn was behind the table with the man, with screams echoing and around the hall. Rayn stood up and tossed something onto the table.
"Get up, before I take the other one!" Rayn's voice was a roar, his eyes wild and face bloody. The man gradually rose, a hand covering the bloody mess where his ear used to be, as he keeled over, sobbing quietly. "Scurry back to Iron Holt. Tell everyone the Greyjoy is back and demands tribute from his bannermen."
"I'll kill you for this, boy," the man swore, his face red and sweating.
Rayn pressed the edge of his dagger against the man's fat neck. "Go on," he dared him, the dagger pressed so tightly against the man's neck, Freya was sure that the slightest twitch or shake would open it fully.
After a long pause, Rayn shoved the man back, sending him stumbling back onto the floor. Aggar pushed himself up and did as Rayn ordered – he scurried out of the keep for Iron Holt, still clutching the hole in his head.
"What about this one?" Whalebane pointed her sword at the man with the broken arm in front of her.
"It's Freya's arse." Rayn approached Freya and held out his dagger to her. She frowned, looking down on it before turning back to the man. The man immediately shook his head and began to beg and plead, but Whalebane stomped down on his face with her boot, shutting him up.
"I can't, it's not-"
"Our way is the Old Way," Rayn told her quietly, placing the dagger in her hand. She immediately shook her head, trying to give it back to him.
"I don't want to…"
"I'm not asking."
She knew what he wanted her to do, but… it was murder – the Seven-Pointed Star demanded they have the mercy of the Mother. Beyond that, there was so much blood in the hall. Bodies of men, dead and dying, littered the table, and the crew already began picking the bodies clean, pulling off their boots and examining their weapons.
As poor a wretch as the man in front of her was, no-one deserved to be murdered.
"I can't," she insisted, staring into her brother's dark eyes.
He clenched his jaw before storming back over to the table and stabbing his dagger deep into the wood before leaning across and tugging the axe out of the corpse of the skinny man (who twitched and spasmed as the axe was removed from his skull. Rayn spun around and, in one fluid motion, lodged the axe into the man's chest. He wheezed and groaned as blood gushed out across the steel axehead, his lips trembling as he looked up to Freya, his eyes full of fear and confusion.
Rayn wrenched his dagger out of the table and wiped it on the dying man's sleeve before sheathing it in his belt. He took out his sword and began issuing orders to his crew. Freya didn't hear any of them – all she could do was look back at the man that took his last few, shuddering breaths of life before slumping onto his side, the axe still lodged deep into his chest as his blood spilled out across the stone dais.
26th Day of the Fifth Moon
Myra
Myra had settled in well to Ironrath. As the summer snows began to fall flat and heavy, the ground laden with a soft layer of snow that would crunch under her boots and wet her skirts, the young girl would begin to remember the years spent at Winterfell. Watching Torrha and Aunt Gwyn build snow castles before Cayden would go running through them with a devilish laugh of glee. There had been occasions where Myra joined – enjoyed herself, even, though it had always felt as though she were intruding. Those memories had began to turn cold like the dirt became ice beneath the snowfall. Her grandfather, Colyn, would decide her comings and goings. Perhaps Gwyn could visit her. She'd enjoy that – she felt as though she had not thanked her enough. And, more than that, the world felt unfamiliar. Waking up in a different place, a smaller chamber that was no longer flooded with warm air from hot springs, like in Winterfell. It seemed that Myra had left all the warmth behind her.
She had risen from her bed early and felt the cold prickle at the hairs on her arms. She'd not felt cold like it in a while. She had retreated beneath the blankets and wolfskins and felt her shoulders be draped in warmth.
Myra was in the wind, feeling it ruffle beneath her as she glided along, wings outstretched. She was flying through a dark woodland, weaving between the trees and dipping beneath the interwoven branches of ebony and pine. She beat and folded her wings, rising higher up above the canopy of trees. The forest sprawled like an unending sea of green, a tapestry woven from oak, pine, chestnut, and ironwood. Streams snaked through the woodland, glistening like silver threads in the sunlight that filtered through the woodland.
She could see all of the North from that high – the Bay of Ice that surrounded the lonely isle of Bear Island, the distant shimmer of the Wall in the North, the curve of the land at Sea Dragon Point, the slither of sunlight cresting along the horizon to the east,
Her sharp gaze honed in on a small clearing. Amidst the foliage, a movement caught her attention—a scurrying creature, its reddish-brown fur a stark contrast against the verdant backdrop. Her instincts kicked in, recognizing her quarry – a rabbit nibbling on tender shoots of grass. With a swift and calculated motion, she angled her wings, adjusting its trajectory.
Gliding on the wind, Myra descended in a rapid, controlled dive, a sleek silhouette cutting through the sky. Her talons outstretched in a blur of speed and precision. At the last moment, she folded her wings close to her body, hurtling downward like an arrow released from a taut bowstring. Her descent ended with her talons digging into the loose skin of the rabbit. She felt the flesh pinch beneath her talons, satisfaction flooding through her veins as she watched the rabbit's red-brown fur come closer. It's head turned sightly, and her talons snatched…
She woke up to the door opening, and a woman entered, followed by two young girls. She carried a large wooden tub, while the girls carried two large pots. The water was heated and Myra slipped out of her linen shift and climbed into the wooden tub. The wood was a relief, as the stone slabs of the floor were cold and unwelcoming. She reflected on her dream as one of the girls poured warm water over her, and began to rub her arms with lye soap and a horse-hair brush. It was not the first dream she had dreamt – all had such adventures in their sleep. But this one had been so visceral. She barely responded when the women asked if the water was too hot, when the woman introduced the girls with her as her daughters… she was still in the Wolfswood. But she had been deprived of the satisfaction in her hunt.
Hours after her skin had been washed and scrubbed, after the women had left and Myra lay in the warm water, feeling her fingers begin to prune, and staring out of the window to the Wolfswood. She finally rose, standing at the window and staring at the sun's warm glow in the foliage.
The cold in the air didn't phase her. Goose pimples dotted her breasts, thighs and forearms, but she did not shy away or retreat into her bed. It had not been a dream – she could distinctly remember the feel of the wind in her feathers, the sight of the rabbit below… it was a memory, she was sure.
There was a second knock at the door.
"My Lady?"
"A moment," Myra called through the door, walking to pull on her linen shift and make herself somewhat modest. She pulled her dark hair out from underneath and walked to the door, opening it a crack to see the same girl there, holding a gown that had been folded over. There was no leather doublet, no thick blue wools. Instead, she found a hardy gown of a deeper and softer blue, along with a soft cravat she immediately decided she wouldn't wear.
'Don't be rude, Myra,' Gwyn's voice echoed in her head, 'you're a guest.'
Myra sighed and allowed the girl to dress her. The gown was looser than most, and fell short at her ankles, exposing her ankle. The bodice laced up with extreme ease, there was still room when the eyelets touched one another: it must have been one of Alyna's old dresses, surely. Soon enough, her hair was combed and two braids wrapped around to the back of her head. She was finally suitable to leave her room.
It was a short walk to the Great Hall a floor below. Myra entered from beside the hearth and descended the short few steps into the hall itself, where she stood opposite the old ironwood tree the keep had been built around. The great doors, carved with the Forrester sigil of the ironwood sentinel, had been opened so a woman might bring in a wicker basket of firewood to lay in the hearth.
She still felt the urge inside her – as if she could fling open the doors and rush out, stretch her wings out and let the wind take her.
There was a long piercing call that Myra recognised and the brown wings of Swiftwing appeared at the door, swooping in and making the woman with firewood curse the Seven Hells. The falcon settled on the mantle above the hearth, pushing his head out for Myra to scratch him. It was hard to explain, but Swiftwing didn't seem happy. Not that it was always clear with falcons, but it was a feeling Myra could not deny. Or, perhaps that was just her.
"I know," she said softly, "I miss it too." She did. She may not have a been a Stark, but Winterfell was her home. It had been the site of her worst memories, but also her best. Leaving it behind wasn't her choice, and perhaps that's what made it so much harder for her.
"You look particularly dour this morn," Owen Forrester's gentle lilt came from up on the dais. Myra turned to see him stood between the tapestry of his family and lord's chair. He was clad in his black leathers, a sword at his waist – more than half his side with a heavy crossguard. His brown curls were pushed back from his face, and a thin brown beard coated his jaw.
"Lord Owen," Myra greeted him with a terrible attempt at a curtsy. "Apologies."
"It was a joke," he explained, "though, a poor one."
Myra had heard Alyna speak of her brothers, though, Owen was only her younger by five minutes. It was hard to see the man before her as a man as old as her. She gave a polite smile and walked up to the table where bacon, eggs, blood sausage and thick slabs of brown bread were waiting at a seat that had been pulled out from the table. Owen had been sitting there, before he stood up to pace and read a ravenscroll.
"Goods news or bad?" Myra asked.
"For us? Good," Owen held out the skinny roll, which Myra took and began to read.
To Thorris Forrester, Lord of Ironrath and Defender of the Ironwood Groves,
I thank you for word of Myra Snow, and taking her beneath into your hall. I am sending a guard of mine own, captained by my granddaughter, Lady Jeoranne. She may escort Myra Snow west to Deepwood Motte, and on to Bear Island.
Your son is quite well: as I write you, he is regaling me with how Finn Stark defeated Rogar Bolton at the Siege of the Dreadfort. He studies and trains hard – you ought to be incredibly proud of Feron.
I look forward to seeing you again: when Feron is of age, you must journey to my Hall and join us in feasting.
May the Old Gods watch over you,
Colyn Mormont, Lord of Bear Island.
Myra had never heard of Jeoranne Mormont, which meant there must not have been much to know about her. Though, she had heard stories of the women of Bear Island – that they mated with bears and carried babes into battle. But she was a Mormont – she was kin with him.
'So am I,' she reminded herself.
"It's good; bandits always lurk on the Wolfswood."
"Is that why you carry a sword in your own hall?" Myra asked pointedly.
Owen held out a hand and she returned the ravenscroll to him. "Bring food for Myra Snow," he ordered across the hall, before unbuckling his swordbelt and resting the weapon against the table. He pulled in his seat and sat down next to the Lord's chair, his grey eyes flickering to the ironwood sentinel that had been carved into the backrest and painted black.
"Thank you, my Lord," Myra said as she sat down.
The two made idle conversation, heavy with silences, before food was brought out for Myra. Finally, Owen set down the ravenscroll, with unspooled across the table and curled. "Why's a bastard being given an escort to Bear Island?" Owen asked. "You're too old to be warded."
"My grandfather summoned me there," Myra replied.
"Your grandfather?" He asked. He frowned and finally his eyed widened – he knew. It was a look Myra was well accustomed to. "You're Myra Wolfsbane."
She dropped her fork onto the plate with a clatter. That name – that damned name. It followed her like flies followed shit. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe deep, continuing to chew the pork in her mouth. She was a guest – she had to act as a guest.
"Aye, my Lord," she said, delicately holding her knife in one hand – if she clutched it too tightly, she might offend him. "But… please, don't call me that."
"Forgive me…" Owen began as footsteps thundered through the doors and across the Great Hall, towards the dais. The man was wrapped in a thick, black brigandine over a tattered and patched gambeson. A helm would wobble around on his head – far too large for him.
"Lord Forrester," the man panted, bowing his head.
"What is it, Cley?"
"They're outside," he said breathlessly, folding over to catch his breath as he pointed to the doors. "Whitehills."
Owen's face turned to stone. His eyes were suddenly awake and alert, darting outside. He pushed himself out of his seat, picking up the sword and fastening the belt around his waist as he walked. Myra set down her cutlery and began to chase after him – thankfully, the gown didn't hinder her.
She followed him down the stone steps and towards the archway of the gatehouse, following him up the uneven stone steps and clutching the cold walls for support until she finally came to ramparts, trailing after the man in black, who laid a hand beside the crenellations on the stone battlements.
Far below, a motley group of nobles and soldiers stood, with three men on the narrow stone bridge that rose above the deep chasm below, and spanned between the gates of Ironrath and the Wolfswood beyond. The three men Myra recognized to be noble – particularly because she recognized the boy in the back, lanky and gangly, with a handsome chin, but very little else besides. He reminded her of a ferret, in all but hair, as only patchy tufts and wisps of ashen hair sprouted out of his sloped jaw unevenly, leaving a patch bare on that chin. Like the two other nobles, he wore a thick cloak with a soft sheep-skin mantle, buckled with silver stars. It was Melric Whitehill – the first boy she'd hit in the face.
The eldest man at the front, looking up at them with beady blue eyes, was equal in height to Owen, though his hair was ashen and straight. He was wide-faced and thin-lipped. The third man was short and squat, corpulent and soft-skinned, with a long set of ashen chops lining his jaw.
"Little lordling Forrester," the first man spoke, his voice rough and coarse.
"What's this rabble, Whitehill?" Owen asked, his lilt turning cold and sharp. "Remove yourself!"
"Your father said it first, boy, 'if you've designs on my ironwood, you can damned well take it'." Whitehill held out his hands and gestured to his men, armed with swords and axes. "I have my men. Now, will you cower behind your walls while my men fell this forest, or will you come down here like a man?"
Owen's knuckles turned white, and he began to march back towards the staircase. Myra wanted to speak out – to tell him to stop being a fool, but an older man with an ugly, scarred face spoke first.
"Don't play into his hands."
"No-one speaks to me like that on our lands," Owen replied, failing to break his stride as he thundered down the staircase, a hand on the crossguard of his longsword. He walked out through the stone arch and turned to approach the closed portcullis, where a group of bowmen had gathered behind a man in steel armour. The long dirt road was deserted of peasants, marketfolk and even the blacksmith. Though, she did spy an apprentice pick up a hammer and linger behind the Forrester guards.
Myra wove behind, stopping a little further back than Owen, who stood in front of his men, facing the Whitehills that stood on the other side. Owen stretched out his arms.
"Well, Whitehill? Here I am. What is it you were to frail to shout to me up there?"
"You are bold, to be sure, unlike your craven father," Whitehill grabbed the portcullis with a gloved hand. "Too scared to stand against me without your gate and your toy soldiers?" He sneered.
Owen glanced to the scarred man, then back to Whitehill. "Just wise," he answered. "You're overreaching, Royce. This is my Lord Father's keep, his woodland. This is provocation."
Whitehill released the portcullis and frowned. "We're simply standing around, paying respects to these trees what used to once grace our lands…" he said innocently, a cruel and vicious smile dancing on his lips. "Maybe we have a mind to pay respects more frequently."
Owen took a step closer to the portcullis. If Whitehill unsheathed his dagger, he could stab the young Forrester lord in the heart. But he wasn't that stupid. Surely.
"Listen close, Whitehill," Owen snarled, "Ironrath is mine. The Ironwood Groves, mine. If you take issue, visit the Tallbran."
Whitehill let out an ugly cackle. "Call yourself a man, to go running to the Starks? That jumped-up dolt is not of the Wolfswood-"
"Watch your tongue, old man," Myra barked, taking a step forwards. Royce Whitehill's beady blue eyes snapped onto her. He was confused, certainly, his eyes dancing along her and her ill-fitting dress.
"Well, well, I see you've been helping yourself to more than just this ironwood, my little lordling…" Whitehill's chortles were dripped in malice. "How much do you cost? Or are you one of his father's? Perhaps both of them share you? Who gets what? Are you going to give the little lordling a bastard brother or a son?" Owen thumped a hand against the ironwood portcullis and, for a second, Royce flinched and stepped back, though the men behind him began laughing loudly. Royce joined them quickly, though he did not return closer. "The lordling's in love," he jeered.
"I'm Myra Snow of Winterfell, ward of Brandon Stark and cousin to his children," Myra declared. Whitehill's smile evaporated almost instantly, as did the grins and jeers of the men beside him. All the colour drained from their faces and the young, gangly man made to walk away, until he was grabbed by the shorter. "Speak like that about my Lord Uncle again, and I'll send a raven advising he take your tongue."
Whitehill was silent for a moment, still pale-faced. He scowled and spat on the stone bridge he stood upon,
"Bastards are born of sin," he said with a shrug to hide his fear, "lies come as easy to them as breathing. They are nothing more than creatures of lust, low-cunning and treachery." His eyes rolled over to Owen. "Right at home."
"I speak for my Lord Father in this instance," Owen said quietly, hatred embroiled with his words, "my word is law: leave my lands or my bowman shall loose arrows upon you, and those who do not die shall hang as common criminals. Except for you, Whitehill – I'll take your head myself."
There was no fear on Whitehill's face. No hatred, no anger… he just stared at Owen quietly for a moment with great focus and thought. Finally he gave a little scoff, then a chuckle, and shook his head.
"So quick to anger…" he jeered before looking back to Myra and bowing his head. "Wolfsbane."
Myra wanted to lunge at the gate and stick her hand through the portcullis, and bash the man's head against the wood and iron until blood gushed out of his nostrils. She might have, if she were not rooted to the dirt beneath her boots in rage.
The bowmen climbed up through the gatehouse and soon began to patrol the ramparts, already replacing burnt out torches. Marketfolk slowly began to creep out onto the long road once again. Sound and life returned to the castle as the Whitehills rode off to the north-west, towards their barren hills.
Some of the townsfolk thanked Owen, though he paid little notice aside from a polite nod; he was engaged in a conversation with the scarred man.
"Where was my father?" Owen asked, barely loud enough for Myra to hear.
"He was in the Godswood, my Lord."
"No-one told him Royce fucking Whitehill was at the gate?"
"He told Cley to leave before the lad could open his mouth."
Owen chewed his tongue and shook his head. He then seemed to remember Myra was walking beside them and remembered his courtesies. "Myra, this is Orwen, Ironrath's master-at-arms."
"Snow," he bowed his head.
"Thank you, Snow," Owen thanked her, somewhat embarrassed. "It's rude for a guest to have to intervene on behalf of their host, but… I thank you for it all the same."
"There's no need for thanks," Myra said, glancing back to portcullis – some part of her felt as though the Whitehills still lurked outside. "You're not the only ones who have been wronged by the Whitehills."
"You as well?"
"Melric," Myra muttered darkly, remembering how the boy had loudly told the story of her mother drinking the moon tea whilst quick with child. If someone like Melric Whitehill knew the story, others must have as well. "He claimed that bastards offend him."
"Everything offends a Whitehill," Owen muttered darkly. "Royce and his sons won't be back while you're here – he may be devious, but he's hardly bold, the craven."
"And afterwards?"
"Royce is proud and slow-minded. He'll no doubt crow about us insulting him, but the second he touches our groves, we'll send a raven to the Tallbran."
"Why not now?"
"The Whitehills have been grumbling about us for centuries," Owen shrugged as he looked up at the snowflakes that fell upon the dirt. "Let's hope these snows bury Highpoint."
Aemon
A small chamber was used for meetings of the Lord Regent and his council – the steward, the castellan, the master-at-arms and the like. Graciously, Durran Baratheon had agreed to let Aemon gather with members of the small council in that chamber, adorned with tapestries of the Last Storm, depicting the young upstart bastard, Orys Baratheon, standing across from the old, proud storm king, Argilac the Arrogant. The long table was carved with the crowned stag of House Baratheon, polished smooth and adorned yellow silks and silver bowls of crabapples, apricots and blackberries.
The chamber's windows, though narrow, offered glimpses of the surrounding Stormlands, with sunlight filtering through to cast a warm, golden hue upon the chamber's stone walls. Gulls' cries echoed in the distance, and the rhythmic roar of waves crashing against the cliffs sounded almost peaceful when heard at the same time as the small council meeting.
Aemon was sat at the head of the table, regarding the ongoing bickering with a mixture of disdain and weariness: the Mistress of Laws, Jeyne Tully was once again engaged in a vehement argument with the Master of Coin, Arthor Hightower.
Their voices clashed in the air, each point punctuated by sharp intonations that reverberated off the stone walls of the chamber. Aemon's distaste for the ceaseless bickering had grown palpable – he disliked the ceaseless wrangling for influence that so often defined council meetings. His fingers idly drummed on the table, betraying his impatience.
Jeyne, her auburn hair pulled back tightly, argued hotly for decreased taxation in the Riverlands to rebuild and bolster their defences against potential incursions, while Arthor, an imposing figure with a receding hairline and a thick, greying beard, fervently opposed her, insisting that less taxation would burden the other kingdoms' merchants and disrupt trade.
The council chamber, adorned with the ancient banners of House Baratheon, crackled with tension. Aemon's gaze flitted from one councillor to another, noting their varying reactions. He shared a resigned look with Lord Vaellyn Velaryon, the Master of Ships, who offered a subtle shrug, clearly weary of the relentless dispute.
Outside, the waves crashed against the cliffs, a rhythmic echo that seemed to mimic the discord within. Gulls' cries carried through the narrow windows, their calls almost mocking the fruitless debates held within the stone walls of Storm's End.
Aemon found himself yearning for the tranquillity of the Red Keep, with his wife, Vaenys and his two boys, Aerys and Maeghar. He missed watching them play with wooden swords, fighting over who had to be Daemon and who had to be Aemond One-Eye. He missed hearing Vaenys tell stories about Old Valyria to them. He missed ruffling their golden hair, looking down at their violet eyes. He would take them all to Dragonstone when he returned – escape the leeches and sycophants of the Red Keep. But that would not be for some time, indeed.
Vaellyn Velaryon was sat on the other end of the table, next to the empty space where Grand Maester Toryn would sit, but the old man had remained in the Red Keep, as was his place. The Lord Commander had also travelled to Highgarden, along with Ser Osric Royce, who guarded his sister, Daelaena.
With the absence of two vital members of the small council, not to mention that there was still no Hand of the King, Aemon had hoped to avoid the meeting, yet matters had to be addressed. He silently willed for the session to end, desperate to escape the cacophony of clashing opinions and the fractious atmosphere that hung over the chamber like a storm cloud.
Jaeghar had been smarter – he'd insisted he was to train with his sworn protector, Ser Harwin Mooton of the Kingsguard. The crafty young man – he'd clearly avoided the meeting, knowing full well of the rift between Jeyne Tully and Arthor Hightower. He would have to endure them at all future small council meetings, Aemon was sure, though he hoped their constant bickering would be at an end by the time the wedding was done – a full two years of their endless squabbling – it was impossible to decide on a topic or matter to talk of, let alone try to resolve it…
"… Therefore, I propose that we aim to raise the tariff on importing grain from everywhere outside of the Reach," Arthor said, clasping his hands together and resting them on the tabletop. "It is the most fertile land in the realm – surely we wish to promote trade for our people?"
Jeyne gave a small cough and Aemon softly closed his eyes, trying to steel himself for another argument.
"I see how you may promote this, Hightower – but it is my people that peddle grain also. If your law passes, my farmers will have no-one to buy their grain."
"You border on the Vale, the North, and the Westerlands. It is my liege that has the title Warden of the South, he shall need more gold to protect the realm from-"
"Have you forgotten whose keep we are in, Hightower? It is the Baratheons that hold against the Dornish, not the Tyrells. The Reach hasn't held the marches for hundreds of years – perhaps we ought to bestow the title onto them instead?"
"This is hardly relevant-" Aemon began.
"We've relied on our trade networks for generations," Jeyne explained, turning to look at Aemon, "in return for our grain, we have an increased presence on the coastlines to deter Ironman raiders. They're wary of the King's colours…"
"The Ironmen are of the same realm as us all – His Grace himself has sent the Greyjoy girl to oversee the isles… Do you truly believe that they would begin raiding again?"
"They've never stopped. The Shield Isles have been attacked in recent years – Fair Isle, even in the North at Bear Island! You'd know that if you were from outside of King's Landing, my Lord."
"We ought to return to the matter at hand…" Aemon tried once again.
"If that was true, our Prince Aemon would never have sent the girl back to Pyke. Unless, you question his competence?" Arthor Hightower asked innocently.
"I question your competence," Jeyne feigned a smile that made Arthor Hightower chew on his tongue.
"Perhaps we can discuss raising the tariff on fish to appease my Lady Trout." He leant back in his chair and crossed one leg upon the other. "That is your sigil, is it not?"
Jeyne's smile faded from her face as she looked back to Aemon, who wanted to do anything but meet her gaze. "Fair trade and cooperation is how we achieve peace and prosperity. Not by angling for our own personal greed or acclaim. Would you truly have this man sit on the small council, Your Grace?"
"My Lady…" Aemon began, with very little clue as to what he would say next.
"Was your champion, Ser Grover, striving for these ends when he took off Lord Garth's arm? Or was he angling for acclaim and-"
"And here is the truth of it – the Hightowers are displeased with King Aeric's judgement, and seek the exact revenge for some imagined plot!" She was growing red in the face.
Arthor tittered. "Do not be surprised my Lord – women can often get these notions. Monthly, I believe."
"Might I suggest that we hold on raising or lowering tariffs on trade? For the moment, at least?" Aemon asked. "We are guests in Lord Durran's halls, and bickering like children is not polite."
"Of course, I am the child, of course…" Jeyne muttered under her breath.
"Your hair is far too grey for any of us to think that, my Lady…" Arthor replied cooly. Jeyne scowled at him.
"You did not seem to concerned with my grey hair when you drunkenly knocked at my bedchambers, Ser," she replied. Arthor's face turned a bright shade of scarlet and Aemon desperately wanted to sink through his chair and cover his eyes. "
The door knocked. 'O, thank the Seven' Aemon thought. "Enter."
Lord Arthor and Lady Jeyne straightened up, settling back into their chairs as a young boy entered the room. He could not have been any old than seven or eight, with a round face full of fat and soft red hair cut short. Probably a Wylde boy, Aemon guessed.
"Pardon, my Lords, Your Grace," the page bowed his head, "Lord Durran has assembled everyone in the Round Hall, my Lord, for-"
"Yes, of course, right away," Aemon nodded, thanking the Seven for whatever reason Durran Baratheon had to call an abrupt end to the small council meeting. He pushed out his chair and picked up his cane, hoisting all his weight on it and holding the edge of the table as he approached the page, who offered an arm.
Ardan
Ardan felt uneasy.
Though most days in Storm's End were often greeted with worry and doubt, today was different. Ardan felt noticed, and not in the best way. He'd always been more than happy than to slip away into the shadows at court. But that day, he'd been specifically requested by name to come to the Round Hall.
It was curious, as many lords were not allowed; what with the pending wedding between Durran and the Princess Rhaenerys, lords and ladies had flocked from all corners of the realm, south of the Neck. Hightower, Tully, Bracken and Blackwood (though the two lords and their young sons remained on either side of the hall), there must have been more than two hundred in the Round Hall, and about twice that elsewhere in the tower of Storm's End. Only those in positions of power and prominence, belonging to powerful or Great Houses were in attendance, save for Ardan – the Bastard of Storm's End.
A gorgeous woman with golden hair and a scarlet gown brushed past Ardan, and he pushed himself closer to the pillar by which he stood. Durran was sat on the Storm Throne so comfortably, he must have imagined it had been carved for his arse.
In the small circle three steps lower than the rest of the keep, stood a motley group of knights, all with longswords and thick cloaks. Ardan only really recognised two men: the round-bellied and red-moustached lip of Ser Steffon Penrose, the Knight of the Parchments, who haughtily chuckled as he looked around.
A few steps behind, with the rest of the other knights, was Ser Edric. The eldest man there by no less than twenty years, Edric the Ancient was doubtlessly the cause of Ser Steffon's amusement. If the damned fool wasn't highborn, Ardan was sure Ser Edric would have knocked half of his teeth out. The man was old, but still the best swordsman Ardan had had the fortune to see – and the greater fortune to learn from. A man into his eighth decade, and still trouncing Ardan on the occasions that they sparred.
'Am I here to watch them talk about the war?' Ardan thought to himself. 'Is Durran that cruel?' Ardan didn't want to answer his own question. He wanted to think about something else. His blue eyes began to scan the crowd for the golden-haired woman he'd seen, some years older than him, but before he could begin to search for her scarlet dress, he was distracted.
"Ser Idiot looks rather pleased with himself," Arrec said quietly, a hand on Ardan's shoulder as he moved him to the side.
"Aren't you supposed to be up there?" Ardan asked, looking to where Durran sat. Some part of him wanted Arrec to go – Ardan wanted to be quiet and alone, just forgotten in the sea of nobles. It was bad enough he'd been summoned to witness this.
"Not enough room on the dais with all the dragons," Arrec explained, though his voice was dark. A moment later, Ardan saw why: Aerion was sat on a chair beside Rhaenerys, talking softly, his forefinger curled beneath her sharp, pointed chin. Durran must have noticed – his hand was curled into a fist. Aerion Targaryen, the Black Prince, seemed set on wronging every Baratheon in the keep. Durran was an obnoxious boor, but Ardan still shared blood with him.
"My lords," Durran's voice was deep and proud – much like their father's. "I thank you for gathering today. Though you have come for a happy occasion, we are still at war. Assembled before us are the brave men that will serve in our war. Lords Bolling and Buckler, Caron, Dondarrion, Inkwell, Selmy and Swann, Wensington and Wylde."
The Round Hall broke into applause. Though Arrec seemed slightly bored, glancing around and trying to find someone of interest, Ardan beat his hands together hard for Ser Edric.
"Ser Steffon," Durran gestured for him to take a step forwards.
"Idiot…" Arrec muttered under his breath. Ardan couldn't help but smile at that.
"When can you march?"
"My noble liege," Steffon tried to dip into a deep bow. "We will be ready with the morning sun, cousin."
"Lord Baratheon," Ser Edric immediately took a step forwards, bowing his head. Durran's gaze shifted to the older man, instantly giving him his full, undivided attention.
"Ser Edric?"
"I would advise we remain at Storm's End for another week, my Lord; the marcher lords already have a large host in the south, and more knights are riding in from across your lands. It would be best we wait until our full force is assembled."
"I won't leave my borders unmanned," Durran decreed. It made Ardan angry – they weren't his lands. Not yet. "We'll send the men we do have to Nightsong upon the new moon. Once provisions arrive, we'll march south and secure the Prince's Pass, and a force will remain to garrison Blackhaven in case the Rhoynar try to march north."
"A 'garrison'," Arrec snorted, "a nice name for it. Children and milkmaids."
"All soldiers are important in a war," Ardan said. It was true, though – only the most useless men, like Ser Idiot, would be found at Blackhaven, a hundred leagues from any of the fighting. Still, they'd be closer than Ardan.
It was torture. Hearing about the war, seeing Ser Edric give his council and Durran ignore it.
"Very good, my Lord, very good," Ser Steffon nodded, "Ser Edric, see to it we ration the stores until they are replenished."
"Yes, Ser." Durran gave a stiff bow and stepped back into the line.
"How does he not want to punch that squirrel off his lip?" Arrec asked quietly. Ardan still felt his lip curl at Arrec's genuine wonder.
"Yes, the men could do with a bit less food. Time we get them starved and ready for a bit of war, don't you think?" Ser Idiot slapped Ser Edric on the shoulder and broke into loud guffaws and chortles, far, far louder than the half dozen nobles who quietly tittered. His raucous, unyielding laugh bouncing around the stone walls. Arrec gave a small chuckle at the deafening silence that answered Ser Idiot's terrible joke, but Ardan couldn't match it. He was seeing the beginning of the war, and he wouldn't be a part of it. Arrec must have seen Ardan's face, because he immediately stopped laughing and instead furrowed his brow.
Durran's blue eyes rolled across the Round Hall and found Ardan. His heart dropped – there was a reason why he'd been summoned there. There were no shadows to slink into.
"I am also proud to announce that it is my Lord Father's deepest wish that his bastard, take up the fight! Dornish heathens are no match even for our bastards." This time, the Round Hall did break out into chuckles. Arrec's face turned to a shade of scarlet. Ardan didn't care though: he was going? He was really going? He couldn't stop himself smiling – he was going to go to war with Ser Edric, fight in the Pass, just like his grandfather. He could see himself, fighting his way in a siege to a tower and ringing the bell to declare his victory and taking of the city – just like the Bull Trout, Tristifer Tully.
He'd return home within a year, maybe? No more than two, certainly. He could just see the look on Lady Cassandra's face – none of her children were fighting for their father's lands. Ardan would be knighted – he could swear service to someone – maybe in the Marches! He'd have to pick his own sigil – he still had the blood of Orys Baratheon, of Durran Godsgrief. Perhaps he'd do as bastards did, and invert the colours of the Baratheon sigil. He could pick a new name for himself 'Blackstorm' or 'Goldhart'.
"Bastard." Durran's voice snapped Ardan back to the present – he still had to win the war, first. Durran's mouth twitched into a smile beneath the dark hair that lined his jaw. "You shall ride with our forces for Blackhaven. Once there, you may find a man called Bryce – he was Squire to Lord Aeric…"
Ardan stopped listening. Blackhaven? Not… Nightsong? Blackhaven? Durran was just confused – he'd misspoken, surely. He had already opened his mouth to correct his half-brother when he saw Lady Cassandra.
She was stood behind the Storm Throne, her red curls glistening in the firelight as her freckled cheeks grew fat in her smirk and she led the Round Hall in applause, her sea-green eyes alight with pleasure and satisfaction. Ardan understood then. There was no mistake at all.
He wanted to push his way to the throne and scream at her. It wasn't just cruel, it was unfair! Sent to man the walls like a simple-minded peasant that'd never held a spear before. He'd be surrounded by incompetent idiots. Not that it would matter – he wouldn't see any combat. He'd see the war out from inside a castle, and wouldn't kill a single Dornishman. He wouldn't be knighted – he'd never be knighted.
The next thing he knew, everyone was clapping – everyone but Ardan and Arrec. Ardan was still too dumbstruck, and Arrec may not have understood, but he saw Ardan and knew it was bad.
People began to file out of the Round Hall, up into the feasting hall or to their chambers, some to the library, others to the stables to mount up for a ride. Ardan, however, remained still, his hand balling into a fist as his eyes locked onto Durran.
"Should I stay?" Arrec asked. Ardan slowly shook his head. The worst Durran could do was tell Ardan he had to stay, in which case he wouldn't dishonour himself by milking goats. Or perhaps he'd finally be sent away – then he'd be free to follow Ser Edric.
Ardan descended the steps and waited for Durran to finish conversing with Prince Aemon. The Princess Rhaenerys eyed Ardan with curiosity for a moment, her violet eyes flickering over him, before she followed her brother, Aerion, up the stairs. Lady Cassandra said something softly, and Durran turned to see Ardan there.
"Bastard?"
"Blackhaven?" Ardan asked, unable to keep his voice level. For years, he'd been quiet. His entire damned life!
"Forgive me, Your Grace, the Bastard clearly is not well."
"Evidently…" Prince Aemon said, staring down at Ardan. Though, he turned away after a moment and bowed his head, leaving the Round Hall with Lady Cassandra, who instead began to converse with Ser Connas Corbray, laughing loudly as she left.
"What's the point of sending me to Blackhaven?" Ardan asked tersely.
"You wanted to contribute to the war effort – now you shall," Durran stated simply, his voice cool and unfazed by Ardan's anger. It only made his hands curls into fists.
"How?" Ardan asked, desperately trying to contain his anger and stop himself from shouting. "By milking goats, churning butter and tending to children?" Ardan asked – as if Durran meant to treat him like a girl.
"If that's what you're commanded to do," Durran said with a shrug as he stood up from his throne. Ardan didn't care anymore, he took several steps forwards, placing a foot on the first step up to the throne.
"Do I look like I'm some common fucking footman?" He hissed.
"You look like a whoreson bastard that is lucky to still have his tongue," Durran said, his voice booming and deep. He was far better at shouting than Ardan.
"I'm riding to Nightsong," Ardan declared, "I'll fight on the front and represent our father and House Baratheon for-"
"You can't: you're not a Baratheon," Durran reminded him, "you're a bastard."
Ardan looked back down at the stone steps. He couldn't cry – not now, not in front of Durran. He steeled himself and tried to keep his voice steady. "I've not forgotten, my Lord. But I can carry the gold stag, as is my right. The sight would surely show that our Lord Father-"
"Blackhaven!" Durran's fist slammed onto the arm of the throne as he marched down the steps. "Blackhaven, Blackhaven, Blackhaven! How many times must I say it before it gets through your thick, bastard skull?" He snarled, a few steps separating the two of them.
"At least one more, my Lord." The words had left Ardan's lips before he'd even thought them. Veins grew thick in Durran's brow, the nostrils flare as his face contorted in rage.
"Are you mocking me?" he hissed.
All bravery and rage Ardan had felt had vanished – like steam into the air. He dropped his eyes back to his feet. "No, my Lord," he said quietly.
"Blackhaven. With the new moon."
Ardan cheek began to twitch. Rage and fury bubbled inside him. He wanted to hit the stone walls of the castle, the knights in shining armour, every noble that looked down on him. He wanted to hit Durran hard in the face. He turned around and began to march out the hall, shaking his head and seething with white-hot wrath.
Ardan stormed of the Round Hall and into the courtyard: an expanse of gravel and grey stone, not even nearly dry from the last storm, and dark clouds approached once again. He'd make his way to the Godswood: he wanted away from everyone. However, upon exiting the keep, he found Arrec leant against the stone wall, tapping his cane against his lame leg. Ardan continued to march – he didn't want Arrec to see the tears pooling in his eyes. He tried to will himself to be angry – too angry to cry.
"What is it?" Arrec asked with a frown, walking as quickly as he could to catch up to Ardan, who marched away determinedly.
"Blackhaven," Ardan said, his voice flaring.
"Well, you're still going to the Marches, defending our home-" Arrec began in his bright, cheery voice. It was the last thing Ardan wanted to hear.
"Not at Blackhaven," Ardan snapped, "I might as well be a milkmaid there. Or a fucking page like I'm six again…"
They found their way to the Godswood. A small courtyard of ash and oak: hardy trees with deep roots that spread out into the ground like spiderwebs and gripped the rock beneath like a fist. The trees were scarred and gnarled, the grass little more than a thick and slippery moss that turned slick under Ardan's boot. It was always empty and quiet – no-one worshiped the Old Gods this far south. Ardan had been named in the light of the Seven, and he praised them still, but he found peace and serenity in the Godswood – a sanctuary. There were almost no weirwood trees left in the South – most heart trees were oak, with no faces carved upon them. Except for Storm's End: a thick, white tree grew up high, it's bright red leaves catching the light on the warm summer's day. However, in Storm's End, the white bark shone brightly, a sever face carved into the bark from thousands of years ago. The First Men had built Storm's End, and, through their ancestor, Argella, the Baratheon's claimed descent from them. Ardan could claim that too – he had no name, but he shared blood with the First Men who had first worshipped the very same weirwood he stood before.
There was no weirwood tree in Blackhaven. Little more than black stone. Ardan was better than that – he deserved better.
"Maybe he's doing this to protect-" Arrec began.
"No!" Ardan shook his head, "This is the proof: he's always hated me, him and that-" He caught himself before he insulted and condemned Arrec's mother. He knew his brother already knew about how she acted, but Ardan wouldn't say anything about her. After all, Ardan had grown up hearing several insults about his own mother – he didn't want to become one of those people.
"If he hated you, he'd send you to die in a battle," Arrec said with a reassuring smile. "I'm sure he has his reasons for this."
"That doesn't make it fair," Ardan spat the words. "At least I don't have to stay here anymore…"
"Ardan…" Arrec's face fell in hurt.
"I'm a better swordsman than anyone here – than everyone here!" Ardan complained – Arrec didn't understand – this was all Ardan had. "I've trained every day for eight years! I unseated Jaeghar fucking Targaryen, and I'm being sent along with the children and goats!"
Arrec placed a hand on Ardan's shoulder, stopping his pacing and his ranting.
"You'll be serving in the war, Ardan. And at least you won't die-
Ardan removed Arrec's hand. "No-one gets knighted from standing atop walls a hundred leagues from the Pass! I'll just be another man that didn't fight in the war like Steffon fucking Penrose!" Even Ser Idiot was a knight. Ardan's hand closed into a fist. "It's not fair!"
Ardan saw Arrec softly laugh under his breath. He felt guilty – Arrec could still walk. And Ardan knew he ought to be thankful to everyone, but it was the only thing he'd ever asked for.
"Ardan, this is the best thing that could happen- you're going to be the best there!" He took a step forwards, leaning on his cane, and placing his hand back on Ardan's shoulder, talking calmly to him. "With everyone else at battle, you'll be invaluable at Blackhaven. Everyone else is going to be learning how to swing a sword and hold a shield – you can be the one to teach them! Ardan, you can be a commander. No, you might not earn glory nor knighthood, but you'll learn to maintain a keep, drill soldiers – defend the walls in a siege. You'll need your own squire! Everyone's going to rely on you. You'll be one of the most important people there – far more important than a squire in a battle. You'll be one of the youngest commanders in history. You."
Ardan didn't know what to say. It was true, it was easier to shine when everyone else was dull. And Ardan was already an accomplished swordsman – even at his young age. Their own father, Arlan, had talked of how much he learned when he was warded to Prince Martyn of Dorne. A third son was not expected to accomplish much, and when he returned home, he was known as the Strongarm. Of course, he'd earned such a name from fighting in his brother, Durran's, war. Something Ardan would not be able to say.
But Arrec was not wrong. He could become a commander. That could be a useful education – he could be a commander in whatever war came next – like Ser Edric. But he still felt dazed by it all. He didn't know how to feel. It was true, Ardan knew how to swing a sword, ride a horse, tilt a lance and loose an arrow. That was fine enough for knighthood, but perhaps Blackhaven could teach him more. And, if the Dornish did march north, he could help repel them. He'd earn more than a knighthood, he'd be a hero in all the realm. Just like his father.
In spite of all of it, Ardan still could not shake off the confusion. "I really thought I was going to be a knight," he confessed.
"Time yet, Storm," Arrec reassured him with a smile. "And much more time for some ale and warm mead."
Woohoo, another chapter down! I may be adding two more chapters to this instalment, simply because there's some scenes I was gonna cut, but I think I could add them back in… I dunno, we'll see!
The wiki is also getting constant updates, and also a lot more artwork, so, if you want to see more of Ironrath, for example, jump over to the wiki and you'll see certain places described. There's a lot of info about the way certain cultures work, information on religions - it's a real project that is only getting more and more attention. We're actually at 175 pages now, which is... insane. There's also a lot more information on, say, the Ironborn Rebellion, if you wanna learn about what happened exactly. It's also steered towards being more beginner-friendly in this universe, as there are some of you who have no idea about this world, so, you don't need to flick between wikis, you can just check out this one and stay pretty up to date with everything.
Anyway, with that over, I'm going to get on and do some more artwork for the wiki. A massive thank you to everyone that reviews - it genuinely gives me so much energy, and makes this work feel more appreciated - even when it's being critiqued. So, see ya next time, feel free to send in a character if ya want, and I can't wait to read those reviews!
R.