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Chapter 5: Strong as Stone
"We've been here before; we'll be here again."
– Prince Willam Stark
The hall was heavy with the smells of smoked fish and fresh-baked bread, with lords and levy alike in attendance, the wooden walls of this modest hall were draped with Fisher banners; blues, whites and silvers – boasting the fortunes of House Fisher – named after its founder, a fisherman with no creativity whatsoever. In the early hours of the feast none were as disinterested as Prince Willam. He sat on the raised platform with his brother and cousins while his lordly uncle hosted his people to the tune of a high harp playing songs all too sober for the prince's tastes. Bards had always made him uneasy. Liars, all of them.
"Try to find another way," the bard sang, "to keep safe all the things that I hold dear."
Willam hated Frostfell's song and the accursed memories that accompanied it's playing.
"Put me through the coming winter, let it linger, till my body is gone and till my mind is clear."
His father had put down the Frost Rebellion with a vengeance and they called it a tragedy rather than an act of defiance; ill thought, ill ended. They sang of love and lingering. The fools. "Sole responsibility. To protect and serve against who has the nerve!"
Willam snorted at that, earning a heartful punch in the arm from one of his cousins.
"For they all lived comfortably," the song continued on, and the Prince downed his ale.
Lord Frost could have kept his peace and been sat here today listening to a less tiresome tune, laughing and drinking with the others; if he'd just bent the knee rather than calling his levies. He hadn't, however, the man's pride demanded he answer force with force – sword for a sword. Blood for Blood.
"But the light behind blue eyes betrayed them from their lies…"
Frostfell was a ruin now, aptly renamed Frostfall by some few. Willam was, technically speaking, its Lord. "A bloody mockery that is," said Lord of Ruins mumbled, refilling his tankard and pushing aside the sorrow of it all. He hated bards.
"Brother?" The man beside him had risen a brow, waiting any reply.
Willam summoned his best smile. "I was out of ale, dear brother! It always seems to vanish…"
"You drink far too much little brother…"
"Ah," he smirked wide. "I disagree, I drink too little; you sour bastard!"
The bastard sighed at his antics, nursing the same tankard he'd been holding since the feast began.
"Cheer up Snow," Willam encouraged with a sigh of his own. "I'm not that drunk, promise, you'd know if I were."
It took more than a few drinks these days to put him abed. He'd been lectured many a time by his father, some by his mother; but none so often as by an ever-vigilant Cregan Snow, the Bastard of Winterhold. "I know what I'm doing!" Willam would often snap at the subject, dismissing their worries as foolish.
By the gods he wanted to flee this place, his family, the lords; all of it felt far too heavy.
"I don't know what might kill you first," Cregan said warily. "The drink or your stubbornness."
"The ghosts," Willam muttered in honest response without a second's pause.
"What was that?" Snow asked, to confirm or because he hadn't heard; Willam wasn't sure.
He drank deep, a thousand thoughts suddenly flashing past.
"Nothing, dear brother. Nothing at all…"
Aye. It would definitely be the damn ghosts.
A raven sat perched comfortably on the rafters, the dim light of fires brushing across its midnight black feathers; with a mischievous glint in strange emerald eyes and what almost seemed a smile of sorts. "Hello there," Willam greeted the raven as it landed abruptly at his table, as if a long-lost friend.
The raven said nothing, staring at the Prince with those gleaming emerald eyes.
"Befriending the birds now are we, dear cousin?"
"So it would seem Ed," he offered the bird some of his bread. "I'm quite popular. Didn't you know?"
Edwyn Fisher scoffed happily at that notion as he drank. "Trust you to befriend the strange looking bird with-"
The great oaken doors swung wide open, letting the early morning cold creep as a handful of men in wolfskin cloaks and rugged leathers barged their way inside.
"Lord Odyn!" The lead man bellowed aloud, a scowl on his lips.
Willam knew that scarred wolfish face anywhere…
"Lord Ryder," his uncle Odyn Fisher said from his highchair with a slight smile.
Lord Ragnar Ryder, called the Reaper and worse things by his enemies – personal huntsman of royalty all these years. The first in battle and blood, as they often boated. No man led a vanguard quite like a Ryder. The fact no man noted the lord's bandaged arm was a testament to how often Ryder's found trouble.
Lord Fisher held his smile firm. "What brings you this far east old friend?"
"What indeed?" Willam offered, white knuckles wrapped around his tankard.
Lord Ryder eyed him, flashing a smile for a moment. "Prince Willam? Is that you boy?!"
"Last I checked, aye my lord; I am he…"
"You've fucking grown lad!"
The last time Will had seen this one, his axe was coated in Frost blood.
"Aye. Time has a way of doing that Reaper…" Willam offered his warmest grin to the butcher's huntsman. He refilled his tankard absently. "So, my Lord of the Hunt. Tell me, what prey brings you so far from home? Is it Beast or Man that has your interest this time around?"
"My brother's arrogance aside," Cregan offered with another sigh. "I'd know the answer too, my Lord…"
A deep frown found its way onto Ryder's face, only for another to answer them in his place.
"Too often one and the same, little brother; as I'm sure you know." The newcomer entered behind Ryder and his men, dressed as if he owned the place – and may as well have, as on his person alone boasted enough silver finery against fine grey-white silks to build this hall times over.
"Prince Artos!" Lord Fisher stood sharply, the whole hall falling to hushed whispers.
"Greetings Uncle," the new Prince gave a swift nod before eyeing his side.
Willam emptied his tankard before speaking. This was… somewhat unexpected…
"Brother," he eyed his brother's party with suspicion. Ryder stood unphased by the previous use of his title – not that he'd expected the Reaper to care for words – while beside him stood one of four sons; angry looking and proud in equal measure. "This is your hunt? Has father recalled me home? Am I your prey, big brother?"
"Not today, little brother…"
Willam fought the urge to roll his eyes.
"Uncle," Artos asked with a step forward. "I've need of your shipwrights if it's-"
Lord Fisher smiled genuinely at his sister's son. "What's mine is your own lad, but why the need?"
"My business with Nefer has grown… complicated…"
"The Jogos?" Thorim Fisher asked aloud from beside his father.
Artos looked to the Fisher heir and shook his head in denial of that.
"Those savages?" Lord Ryder scoffed, causing Thorim's face to redden.
"No more than usual," Artos waved off the notion. "It's something more – for the king's ears."
"You'd keep secrets from your own uncle, cousin?" Thorim snarled, glaring at the princeling.
"And a fine uncle he is dear cousin, but I cannot-"
Willam eyed his brother closely, noting the way Artos stood some feet apart from Ryder as if expecting the man to draw steel in a heartbeat. He hadn't smiled once upon his entry, nor offered the usual courtesies expected of a prince; keeping eyes downcast at mention of Nefer. There was shame there, Willam saw it…
Strange. There were things here left unsaid, and few things left a taste so foul as secrets.
"Just speak! Damn it all, brother…"
Artos glared at the youngest prince but relented with the tide.
"The King of N'ghai has been overthrown," he began with a glint of anger in his grey stark eyes. "The usurpers, whoever they are; attempted to slay us all – but we escaped in the end despite great odds. Some of us, at least…"
Well. That was news indeed.
"What?!" and "How dare they!"
Willam sat, sipping from his tankard, letting the gathered lords spill their grievances.
There was outrage in the air as the hall hushed at Fisher's command and the old man demanded, politely, an explanation. "A madman calling himself the Speaker admitted to the killing of our envoy," Artos began his tale with a tired sigh. "They had a message for my father, some madness about K'Dath and-"
K'Dath? Artos continued to rant his tale, but the name of that place rang in Willam's head like tower bells.
"A coincidence?" He thought, eyes darting from Artos to the dark red of his drink. "A tall tale? A poor excuse?"
"They tried to kill you lad?!" Lord Fisher asked suddenly, a fury in his words that was reserved for defence of his kin.
"Aye," Prince Artos replied. At some stage of his tale, it appeared he'd lost his composure. "As we tried to leave, the rats tried to slaughter us. Lord Ryder almost reached their leader but nearly fell himself, if not for Bjorn's courage…"
"Bjorn? Is the lad alright?" Lord Fisher asked, eyeing his friend; knowing the answer from a mere glance.
"My son is dead Odyn," Lord Ryder confirmed with a heavy heart and no small fury about him.
Willam caught the glare sent by Bolvar Ryder. It was brief like a lightning flash; but it was there.
"We will avenge him," Artos swore, eyes downcast. "The others too. That much I swear to the Gods…"
The Gods rarely listened to mortal whims. Willam doubted much would come of such a vow, in reality.
Nefer was a shadow of its former glory, even with their foul magics… the necromancers hated the Jogos Nhai far more than they disliked trading with outsiders. It was funny, in a way, if the Jogos weren't hostile to everyone not of their people; they'd have made for better allies than the damn necros ever did.
Whatever their shortcomings however, no army could hope to defeat them.
The Empire had not approved of Winterhold's dealings with Nefer.
And the Kings of the Sunset had not cared in the slightest.
"We should teach the bastards a lesson!"
"The King will crush them all! The damn fools!"
Willam doubted that. The city was ancient; the last bastion of ancient magics.
"No army could take that city," Cregan offered sagely. "Not without boundless losses."
"They've sealed the city," Artos agreed bitterly. "We were lucky with escape with our lives…"
Not all of them had, plainly; as if the death glares of Bolvar Ryder or the fury behind Lord Ryder's mask weren't evidence enough. In truth, if anyone had suggested Nefer would attempt this a day before now then that fool would've been laughed out of court, but now? It would seem obvious – and in hindsight perhaps it was.
Willam could see the anguish that plagued his brother, try as he might to hide it.
Would their father see it? He doubted that.
"Father will not be pleased. For once, I'll not be the failure."
Artos scoffed at his little brother, not bothering to acknowledge that truth. There would be consequences.
"You've my ships lad," Lord Fisher repeated his earlier vow with greater gusto, raising his voice for the whole hall to hear. "And whatever else you may need as well, consider it yours Prince Artos. May the gods bless your voyage home and give strength to your sword."
"Thank you, uncle," Artos bowed gracefully atop the flowery words. "I'll give mother your regards."
"The gods will punish those faithless dogs Rag," Fisher then swore to his old friend. "I know it."
Ragnar Ryder only scowled. "I'll punish the bastards myself, Odyn; with or without the damn gods…"
Willam gave an absent nod to his brother before he turned, leaving the hall in an awkward silence and hushed whispers – events having soured everyone's mood. It was an uneasy thing, to count necromancers as your enemy. "The dead should stay dead," Prince Willam cursed, refilling his tankard once more.
He'd drink till the nagging thoughts left him in fleeting peace, or till the drink killed him. Whatever end came first.
He was dreaming an old dream. The familiar warmth washed over him, safe and glad, laying in a feathered bed with the women he loved beside him; although her face was sad for reasons he dared not recall. "Good morning," his love spoke, all smiles and sweetness as if nothing had ever nor could ever happen.
Anyone would've called him lucky, with soft snow-white hair that flowed to her shoulders, sapphire blue eyes and a smile that could melt ice.
Her eyes, her smile, her laugh, her everything from head to toe. She was his world for the brief time they'd shared.
It was easy to forget reality in memory and in the end, memory was all he had.
"Morning love," Willam smiled at her ghost, happy and warm and safe.
He'd missed her smile. It wasn't real. He knew this, but didn't care.
"Is something wrong my love?" She'd asked, all too concerned.
"Nothing," he'd replied with a convincing smile. Nothing at all.
"Everything," a child with snow-white hair and sad silver-grey eyes snarled.
He ignored the child. She worried too much. Everything was fine, happy, perfect.
His love would ask, "would you like to do something" with a smile sweet as honey.
"She never asked that," the child snarled at the illusion. "This isn't real!"
Was that true? It was, wasn't it? She'd been so afraid that night…
His love vanished. Alone in their bed now, he missed her once more.
"Why?" Willam stared at the child aside the bed, eyes pleading. "I was just-"
"Lying," she replied bluntly, as if was the simplest of things. Lying. It was all too easy to forget logic for love; he'd found that much in life – it blinded him like nothing else could ever manage. It was too often easier, safer, warmer than cold truths; that cut like winter winds.
"Wake up," the child asked of him; her voice cracking.
"I don't want to..."
"Wake. Up."
"No. I don't-"
He didn't wish to wake.
"Wake! Now!"
Gods, he'd pray, let him rest. Just leave him be…
"Awake!" The child's voice roared, ringing against his head and dragging him back to the waking world.
It seemed there would be no solace in his dreams. The gods were cruel bastards, waking him from a ruined rest with his head laid on a sticky bar that reeked of spilled ale – that had soaked his shirt right through. "We've been here before," the child's voice spoke sadly from the dark. "We'll be here again."
Willam looked at his companion now. She was young, nothing but a child, with snow white hair and clear silver-grey eyes that shun like stars in the relative darkness that shrouded the pair. "I didn't ask," he muttered to her with a weary sigh.
"You needn't have asked at all…"
No, he needn't have, she knew his thoughts all too well.
"You can't drown it away," she scolded him with a scowl. "You know this."
He stared her down, although his heart wasn't in it. "I can damn well try, girl…"
The child merely rolled her eyes; muttering words he'd gladly pretend to never hear.
He downed another tankard, smooth as velvet and sweet as honey; holding a taste for the drink, its famous bite all but lost to him now. The tavern he sat in was empty all expect for the girl and a nervous barkeep, well stocked and prior to his arrival well serviced. He'd changed that, seeking quiet.
"A- Another?" The barkeep asked, her voice shaky and uneasy.
"Always," he'd replied, not meaning to sound quite so harsh. "Please…"
She was a beauty. Smooth near flawless skin and green eyes, with red hair.
"I don't trust her," was all the girl offered to his side; with near a growl. She didn't trust anyone.
He eyed the barkeep. He'd scared her, and the guilt of it ate at him somewhere behind all the drink.
"I'm sorry for all this," he decided honesty was best. Lies were bitter things and he so hated the taste.
"I don't-" the barkeep hesitated, fear halting her choice of words.
"Have you ever lost something precious, My Lady?"
She offered him nothing as he gave no time to reply.
"Family?" He asked, downing the remains of his drink.
The barkeep said nothing, but her eyes spoke volumes.
Willam knew that look all too well. "How did they die?"
"My daughter," the barkeep answered coldly. "Last winter's chill..."
He gave her a nod, knowing his words would mean nothing. She no doubt thought him spoiled and clueless. "We've had it better than many," the child would tell him sagely. "How can we speak on such things?" He'd often thought, no matter his own struggle; there was always a sadder tale out there somewhere.
"Another," Willam ordered, pushing his empty tankard towards the red-haired woman to fill despite the nagging doubts that told him he'd had enough.
A newcomer's voice rang out over the otherwise empty tavern, standing in the doorway and entering with a disappointed scowl.
"Drowning your sorrows still I see, little brother? You really must stop this foolishness…"
"Prince Snow," Willam never so much as turned to acknowledge his bastard brother, nursing the ale instead.
Cregan shrugged off the use of bastard title, wholly uncaring in his approach. He pulled out a stool beside his littlest brother and sat with nought but a "mind if I join you?" as if it was question in need or want of any answer at all. The woman behind the bar grew tenfold more uncomfortable. Twice the Prince, twice the trouble.
"We've been celebrating without you," Cregan began to explain; having stolen his drink with a blank glance and not a single care in this world.
"I forgive you," Willam quipped. "Never been one for celebrations, Snow…"
"Uncle said you'd wandered off again. The old man sent me after you, Stark."
"Uncle can go fuck himself," Willam scoffed, eyeing the barkeep who dropped the new drink she'd been attempting to bring him. "I can barely escape his shadow for an hour. Father's lapdogs, the lot of you!" It might've been the drink talking. In fact, he knew it was; the guilt of it ate at him even now.
"Was taking over this whole establishment entirely necessary?"
Willam glared, locking eyes with the bastard for a moment; daring him with grey eyes.
"No," he supposed not. "But the hall was getting bloody loud. I needed to think in peace…"
"It was rather rude of you," said the child happily on the stool beside him; a finger on her chin as if to think. Her smile was mockery and cunning. "As a matter of fact, you've scared the pretty red lady half to death!" He simply stared at her. This had been Her idea, for god's sake!
"You'd suggested this," Willam thought angrily. "Maybe take some credit for once?"
She held a beaming smile, full of mischief. Why did he ever listen to her?
"Will?" Cregan asked, with concern breaking the bastard's usually stoic mask. "I think you've had enough to drink. All else aside little brother, enough is enough; stop this nonsense." Maybe, but still, he saw Elssa in the barkeep. It warmed and stung in equal measure. True love burned into the soul; he'd found at least.
To see her in the face of every woman he laid eyes on. Love was a ghost ever haunting.
"Run along Tiff," Willam dismissed the woman behind the bar. She paused, looking to his brother.
"Now," Cregan scolded. "This is her home. We'll be the ones to depart."
The bastard had a point. She lived here…
"My apologies then Lady Tiffany..."
He hoped it sounded sincere as she blinked, unsure of what to say.
"Enjoy the rest of the celebrations my lady," Cregan offered helpfully. "And please, accept payment…"
"Payment?" Willam asked aloud, receiving a swift slap across the back of his head. It was with a groan and yet another muttered apology that he gave the barkeep a pouch of gold, far more than she'd ever seen or would ever have earned otherwise. Pocket change to him, but a blessing to her.
The world spun ever so slightly as he got up from his stool and exited the tavern.
How much had he drunk? He'd stopped counting a lifetime ago. Only the gods knew…
"Aedan!" Willam smirked and scowled at his friend, ever vigilantly guarding the door outside.
"Sorry," came the immediate apology. "Prince Snow demanded entry and-"
"And I hold your master's leash, Outlander."
Aedan scowled both at the title and harsh truth.
"Don't worry about it Grey," Willam shrugged at his friend, smirking wide before speaking and swaying slightly in his stance. "Snow has no choice my friend! Father orders and the hound must obey, bark, sit, beg, or it'll find itself missing balls!"
The Bastard of Winterhold merely sighed at the drunken ramblings.
"We should get you to bed Will…"
"Aye," Willam agreed dizzily. "A feathered bed does sound-"
The town bells shattered against the walls of Willam's mind, ringing something fierce, making the drunk prince scowl and curse the gods for the noise.
"Riders returning!" the shouts came with the bells. "Riders! Open the gates!"
"What's anyone doing outside the walls this late?" Aedan asked aloud, looking to Cregan for answers.
He, Aden and Will watched the far gate open across the square as a handful of men near limped into the settlement seemingly hurt.
"Greystark?"
"Aye, Prince Snow?"
"Take my brother to his bed," the bastard ordered. "I'll check on this."
"But surely we should help the men Prince Sno-"
"That was an order, Outlander!" Cregan snapped at the young man. "See to your charge or I'll see to it my father hears you're incapable of fulfilling your duty! I'll handle whatever this is quite fine without you." Aedan reluctantly wished the bastard Prince luck before near carrying his drunk charge towards the main keep and the comfort of a feathered bed, all while the drunk Willam muttered half a conversion with himself.
"Y- You worry-"
He'd ramble as they neared the keep.
"S- Stupid girl…"
Aedan fought the urge to roll his eyes as they neared the chambers.
"Vis," Willam had growled at the air. "L- Leave me alone…" with those words the Prince collapsed onto his feathered bed and near instantly drifted off to sleep, muttering of girls and demons; necromances and liars – all nonsense Aedan would blame on the drink – praying that his Prince might find some peace in dreams.
The waking world hurt like few things could. He'd grown used to the bite of it, honestly; though still…
"How much did I drink?" He asked it aloud of nobody, half up from bed; still dressed in his leathers and aching all over. It seemed, somehow – he wasn't sure how exactly – that he'd managed to find chambers after the tavern. With a groan and realization that he reeked of booze; the young prince willed himself out from the covers.
A raven cawed at him from the open window, all black feathers and mischief in its eyes. "Don't judge me," Willam eyed the bird as he stumbled over the basin of fresh water that had seemingly been left for him. The Prince unceremoniously dunked his head into the water like a common lowborn.
In the mirror of imperial glass, grey-silver eyes starred back at him.
"Sword!" The damn crow squawked its perch on from the window.
"Excuse you?" Willam raised a brow at the bird.
"Sword, Sword, Sword," it cawed again. "Sword!"
Frost rested peacefully on the chest at the foot of his bed, along with a convenient tunic.
Aedan seemed the likely culprit. The man was as always as dutiful as they came.
"My thanks Lord Crow," Willam bowed gracefully at the bird. "I'd be lost without thee!"
The bird flapped its wings in an acknowledging reply. The Prince eyed the thing suspiciously before shrugging such thoughts away someplace dark, then changing into the fresh black tunic with its fancy silver trim before strapping Frost to his hip and finally putting a glove over his sword hand.
Outside the room, slumped against the wall, was a sleeping Greystark.
"Aedan," Willam gave the man a swift kick and a friendly smile.
"Who!" Aedan awoke in a panic. "Will, I was-"
"Sleeping on the job? Father will be simply thrilled…"
"No!" He denied, before lowering his eyes. "I mean, yes but-"
"Relax little brother, just don't let my father's men catch you…"
A nod at that, understanding they'd take any excuse to replace him.
Or at least they'd try. Willam wouldn't accept it – such was the impasse.
"Lord Fisher bid me bring you to him the moment you woke up, My Prince."
"Did he now?" Unsurprising, he was probably overdue another long-winded lecture about duty and honour and whatnot. Fisher loved his duty almost if not more than he loved his own wife and children, it always seemed. "We best not keep my lord uncle waiting then…"
The pair walked in quiet for a time to the great hall where Lord Fisher would no doubt be hosting his morning feast.
"Prince Artos has left," Aedan explained as they walked down the halls.
To home, one wagered; to home and father. "Anything else happen that I missed Grey?"
"Prince Snow is readying for a sweep of the jungles," nothing too out of the ordinary there. It was however odd that Cregan had taken a sudden interest in what were often extremely dull patrols. "Last night a patrol returned as we left the tavern, it seems the locals have grown bolder and several of the patrol were killed…"
"By the natives?" Willam doubted. They were savage, aye, but equally timid near the coast.
Aedan seemed concerned. "Another died of fever – infection from the bites was too far along."
The natives were green-skinned savages, the females filing their teeth into sharp points to bite and gnaw. They were no Shrykes, certainly; but no less hostile despite being only human. They weren't known for attacking large patrols and avoided the coast like it was certain death – the sea made of an acid that burnt to even look at.
For nearly a whole patrol to be wiped out?
It was concerning, to say the least.
"Strange times we live in eh Grey?"
Aedan agreed with a simple hum. Strange times.
The oaken doors of the great hall were engraved on every inch, a wooden painting of waves, sharks and sails creaking open on their approach. The guardsmen announced their entry with a simple "Prince Willam Stark" failing to bother naming his shadowing greycloak.
All eyes fell on the pair as they walked onward.
"Nephew," Lord Fisher eyed him. "You're late lad…"
"Oh, I disagree!" Willam smiled wide and arrogant, his hands spread wider theatrically as he stepped forward. "A Prince is never late, my dear Lord Uncle, those that arrive before him are simply early! Princes arrive exactly when they mean to!"
"Do they also smell of booze?" Thorim asked with a smirk.
"Only the handsome ones tend to manage that, my cousin..."
"Ha!" Edwyn Fisher scoffed at that as his brother laughed half-heartedly.
"Something to say, little cousin?" Willam grabbed a loaf of bread from the table, ripping apart a piece to eat.
"Perish the thought Will," Edwyn rolled his eyes. "I'd never dream of correcting a Prince!"
Willam stared at the man blankly.
"Something the matter?"
"Correcting huh?"
"Did I say that?" Edwyn managed to look innocent enough.
"Enough!" Lord Fisher snapped with a sigh and a quick roll of his ocean blue eyes. "Willam, please take a seat and cease your efforts to give this old man a headache, would you kindly? We've enough to occupy ourselves with without you sparring with my boys…"
Willam bowed gracefully at that, taking his seat at the table. "As you say, Uncle, my apologies."
"I was winning anyway," Edwyn held a smirk as he cut at the smoked fish before him, taking a bite and savouring the taste as Willam muttered his disagreement with a roll of his eyes akin to that of a small child. He did not fail to note the glare from Thorim's wife. The newest Lady Fisher didn't like him much.
The feast, by Fisher standards, was minimal; with smoked fish and yet more damn fish. The heart of House Fishers wealth was in fact Cod from the watery channels between the Sunset Islands. They were also responsible for the islands trade in tuna and the more expensive salmon; but their delicacy was Shark – turning the very banner of House Fisher into steaks and filets marinated in sour wines, milk, or saltwater. It wasn't every house that would cook its own banner, but the silver shark of Fisher saw all profit under the waves; as it had always done. "Oh joy," Willam muttered as he sat at the table. "Look, more fish!"
Thorim's wife glared at him. "You should be grateful, my Prince…"
"Should I now?" Willam asked, head tilted in mock thought. "Is that so Lady Flint?"
The pair stared at each other blankly, the use of her family name causing some tension – although Lady Talia hid her emotions with the very air of professionalism. She was brave, and it made Willam's smirk more honest. "There's to be an expedition lad," Lord Fisher decreed, interrupting the pairs contest.
There hadn't been one since the last logging camp was organized…
"Why?" Willam asked, suddenly curious.
"Is this about the lost scouting party father?"
"Aye," Lord Fisher gave a nod. "Last night, as you know boys, a party of men near crawled their way through out fair gates; beaten and bitten – so much so that one of them passed last night from infection. We cannot allow such hostility within our own lands to go unanswered."
"Those beasts fear the sea," Lady Talia spoke, unsure in this; looking to her husband. "Do they not my love?"
"The demons don't go near the coast love," Thorim confirmed quickly and confidently, clasping his wife's hand.
Edwyn figured it out first, putting down his fish and looking to his father with a glint of worry.
"It wasn't the coast, was it, father?"
Lord Fisher shook his head silently. It wasn't.
Willam sighed, guessing. "They hit one of the logging camps?"
"Aye lad," Lord Fisher confirmed with a scowl. "It was sudden, I'm told; they attacked in uncommon numbers with surprising efficiency for what is expected of the savages. As it stands, four men returned to us and only three remain."
Willam had long since stopped eating his fish.
"Is there's something you're not telling us Uncle?"
He could smell a secret from miles away, as bitter a stench as ever to linger.
"I spoke to the one coherent man among the four," Lord Fisher explained wearily, his features twisted by a deep frown. "It seems, according to his account at least, that the savage did not outright kill everyone at the camp. It would appear they-"
Willam scoffed at the suggestion. "You can't be serious…"
"Do not interrupt boy!" Lord Fisher scolded his nephew with a scowl.
"They took prisoners." It was Thorim to the point, growing concerned. "You're certain, father?"
A moment's pause at that, the old Lords concern playing havoc with his features as he gave a nod In reply.
"They don't take prisoners?" Edwyn dismissed, more question than answer in truth.
"They don't," Willam agreed fully. "They never have. Not once. Why start that now?"
There was it seemed, a first time for everything. The nights just kept growing darker of late.
"That my boy," Lord Fisher looked to his heir now, "is what we intend to discover. Why now indeed, yet regardless, we'll not leave our people to whatever foul fate those savages have planned – may the gods keep them whole until their rescue."
"It's nothing pretty I wager," Willam muttered absently. He did not envy them.
"Must you go?" Lady Talia asked her husband. "Is it not a task for the guardsmen?"
Thorim Fisher smiled, leaning over to kiss his newly caught wife before reassuring her. "Our family suffered the Iron Kings for countless generations my love, we struggled against worse odds and made our enemies reap what they sowed. We'll be perfectly fine."
"A few savages are no match for us Tally, fret not," Edwyn smiled at his sister-in-law.
"Strong as Stone," Lord Fisher echoed his house words with pride.
Willam poured himself some wine. Today was going to be a long day.
It was a small thing for Lord Fisher to call on a hundred men willing to carve out the jungle on a fool's errand searching for men that were certainly long dead and butchered by the local demons – such as the Mossovy called them, or such as they believed. The legends spoke of demons and demon hunters…
The locals however demonized, were despite the Mossovy tales, very simply human. They bled red as sure as any other men of women.
"Are you excited cousin?" Edwyn had walked up to him in the courtyard looking oddly happy. "We're finally ridding ourselves of those local pests – too long delayed if you ask me! We should've done this sooner." It wasn't that they hadn't tried before, but the jungles were thick and the islands vast.
They'd no doubt make a song of it.
"This won't be very pretty a thing, Ed."
Edwyn frowned slightly. "I know, but still-"
"It'll be bloody," Willam countered. "Butchers work, truly..."
His cousin seemed to entirely deflate. "What choice is there?"
They could choose to leave the captive men to their doubtlessly decided and grisly fate, to ignore the pests and simply double the guard in face of the new aggression, that in fact Willam believed to be the best decision – instead of sending a hundred men into thick jungles full of foulness, chasing corpses.
"None," he opted to say instead of all that. "None at all."
"Why so glum looking little brother?!"
"Thorim," Willam greeted the Fisher heir absently, his eyes scanning the yard.
He smirked, clasping Will on the shoulder gladly as if they were the best of friends.
"We leave in short order!" Thorim degreed as if he were already a lord. "Father says I'm to accompany you, wants the people to see their future lord off to slay beasts and all that. You lads ready?" Edwyn's mood seemed to improve at the sound of his brother's bluster. Whatever the young heir's faults, he oozed confidence.
"Ready as ever brother," he perked up. "We'll teach those savages to steal away with our people!"
The more Willam thought about this plan, the more he wanted another drink…
The Heir looked to him for support.
"Lambs to the slaughter, dear cousin…"
"That's the spirit Will!" Thorim mistook the prince's words.
Were they to be the lambs, or their foe? Time would answer…
Around them men and women readied their steel, chainmail and leathers and food for the expedition – that consisted mainly of smoked fish and meats – with all other necessities; as if they were off to a damn picnic. The silver shark of House Fisher flew proudly in the gentle sea breeze as the company prepared to depart.
"Hold still my Prince." Aedan was busy strapping on the rest of his armour.
A simply lightweight steel breastplate with faulds attached to protect the front waist and hips, along with matching gauntlets. The only prominent feature was a single ornate pauldron covering his shoulder, engraved with silver runes of the old tongue. Last but not least Aedan handed his prince a close-fitting Y-shaped slit helmet that Willam often refused to wear. The armour was simple but practical, although only one pauldron over his left shoulder was a personal preference.
It may have provided a weak point, but in the stubborn Prince's opinion; he'd simply avoid being hit.
"Almost done," Aedan commented, tightening the strap on Willam's shoulder.
"Ouch," Willam frowned mockingly. "That hurt..."
"It'll hurt more when someone slashes your other shoulder. If you'd just-"
"It limits my swing," he dismissed the idea. "I've told you Grey, I'll just not-"
"Not get hit," Aedan and Edwyn echoed at the same time, one sighing while the other laughed.
He hadn't been hit yet so it seemed to be working, besides; he did truly prefer the freedom such a decision carried regardless of the risk.
"I don't see any of you besting me with a sword, eh?"
Aedan simply scowled at that, holding true to his complaints.
"There's always next time cousin!" Edwyn smirked.
"And all the time's after that Ed…"
"Prince Willam!" A voice called out suddenly, leading a majestic white stallion over to the group; kitted in attire similar to House Fisher's men-at-arms only baring the grey direwolf of Stark with trimming of silvers. He offered the reigns of the horse to his prince.
"Hello Winter," Willam stroked the horse's mane; his smile true. "Has he been behaving, Ivar?"
"Aye," Ivar gave a nod, smirking at the horse as he handed it away. "He's harmless m'lord."
Hardly. If memory served, the horse once bit off some noble idiot's ear…
"You've a natural talent with horses my friend."
"Thank ye m'lord!"
Willam rolled his eyes at the use of his title.
"Ready for your first taste of battle, Scout?" Aedan asked, happily finished with his prince's armour.
"Aye," Ivar replied eagerly. "Is it true though, what the men say?"
Willam kept quiet, raising a brow in question.
"About the… well about the demons and all, m'lords…"
The group, except for Ivar, laughed aloud. "Whatever tall tales the men are telling," Willam smirked happily as his brain unwrapped a thought. "I assure you Ivar, it's probably worse. Far worse. By the gods, isn't it true Grey? The tales. You know the ones!"
Aedan seemed to understand. "About the demons with three heads?"
"Aye!" Willam agreed, nodding thoughtfully.
"And don't forget the fire breathing…"
"Who could forget the fire breath?!"
"Enough cousin," Thorim was laughed. "You've scared your man half to death!"
Willam smirked, eying Ivar's worried looking expression.
"It's not true?"
"No, Ivar my friend; it's not."
"They breathe acid," Edwyn offered helpfully. "Not fire…"
Willam, Aedan and the Fishers all nodded sadly at those words.
Ivar signed with a heavy frown.
"I want to go back home…"