So, erm… some guys (and gals) have really knocked it out of the park when it comes to reviews: Son of Arryn has only sat down and done, like, five in a matter of days, so… really, hats off – it filled me with so much enthusiasm and motivation, I got this one out!
One of the POV's is considerably shorter – it really held up the writing because I had an idea of what to write, but no actual plan, so I've come up with… something? Some of you will like it (Winter's Warden will, at any rate), and, erm… yeah.
Again, there is a discord – PM me if you wanna be in on some polls, look at some unused art work, just listen to people get real horny about some characters, and also swap theories (apparently Rayn might be a Faceless Man).
6th Day of the Seventh Moon, 152 A.C.
Vaegon
Everyone dreamed, Vaegon knew, but it was not the same for him. For he did not dream of pleasant things, nor did he suffer nightmares – Vaegon dreamt of what would become, and what had been. Since he had been a child, dreams had plagued him: he had dreamed of the fire and flame raining from the heavens, of waves of ash and sulphur burying him below. He had dreamt of the small grove of weirwood trees, carved with faces that wept red sap like tears of blood amidst the storm of rain and thunder. He had felt them come alive and wrap their roots and branches around his wrists until the skin broke. He had seen an endless dark, with sleet and snow, he had waded through a river of bodies, with bloodied hands that grasped at him as he passed, while fire raged on around him, bursting into a blaze.
Every night Vaegon slept, and always he dreamt. The night before, he had drunk enough wine to the point where he slumped in his chair and his eyes grew weary and he plummeted into a rough sea of visions…
The sun began to grow dark, until all the fields of verdant green grass were shrouded in darkness. His skin grew cold and, in the blink of an eye, the rolling fields were crashing waves, dragging him beneath the water, where he could see something: a great beast that did not swim with tail or fin, nor did it have any eyes or mouth he could see: the dark shadow, he could barely see against the depths of the water… he knew it was looking at him. It turned towards him, and his ears began to ache as a deep rumbling surged towards him.
Vaegon was then in still water, shining bright like the moon, but warm like the sun. It was pleasant and calming, with pink rose petals cascading from the sky and falling upon the shimmering surface before they too glistened. And then he heard the water dripping as something slid up his cheeks: the faint grazing of skin that parted the faint silver stubble on his cheeks. It was growing over him, the cold and slimy wet fingers that began to slid over his cheeks, the sharp, bony fingertips that pressed against his nostrils, that began to sink into his skin, pull and stretch his eyelids down, slip between his lips. The grip grew steady over his head and his body was plunged downward…
He awoke in a sweat: the vaulted ceiling filled with the first blue rays of the dawning sun filtering through the stained-glass windows with depictions of the Seven, staring down upon him in judgement. Vaegon never liked septs: even when he had been younger and attended Smith's Day or the Feast Day of the Father – even when he had married Jeyne Blackwood. He could still remember her – raven-black curls that fell to her waist and eyes just as black. He remembered wondering if there was any point in removing her bridal cloak, red and black, for his, which was black and red.
Vaegon shook off the memory as he pressed himself to his feet, his hand sliding into something slimy and wet. He looked over to see his hand in a splash of wet wine upon the floor. But, then, the smell came: it had been wine he could not keep down the night before. He straightened up and grimaced, stifling a retch as he leant against the statue of the Father Above and wiped his wet hand against the marble feet. Perhaps he should have offered a prayer as way of apology, but… the Father Above knew all, and would know otherwise. He looked down at Vaegon, hard, white eyes full of judgement. It reminded him of how Aemon used to look at him, long ago.
Aemon had always been just, like the Father Above, and Aerion was as the Warrior: battle-ready and courageous. Jaeghar was the Smith (or at least, he had tried to be), and that left Vaegon as the Stranger. The outcast. The one more, yet less, than human. Like the Stranger, Vaegon would wander in far away worlds: in his dreams, Vaegon would find himself in what had come to pass, and that which had yet to.
When Vaegon had arrived at Storm's End, he had been curious as to how vast the Strongarm's private reserves would be. The lord had been famous, in his good health, for his love of wine and beer and ale. It had been oft mentioned by his father, Aeric, at many dinners, where he would yearn for a cask of Stormlander ale – so strong that only a few men could drain their tankards. Of course, Aeric had often boasted of how much ale he could imbibe: 'Nothing like your weak, flowery water,' he had jested to Vaegon, slapping him on the shoulder. Some time later, his father had keeled over and vomited the Arbor gold along with wet chunks of harvest-day goose that had slapped upon the floor.
And so, in the past days at Storm's End, Vaegon had made it his mission to find the private reserves. He had tried the kitchens, though, they had led him to a chamber so small and barely-stocked with casks of black ale and Arbor red that Vaegon was sure this was not the prize he sought.
Deciding he would start early, so as to dislodge the dream of water and fire from his mind, Vaegon began exploring again, making his way through the long, quiet corridors of Storm's End and climbing up the stairs that wrapped around the Round Hall, with the Storm Throne below, cast with elk pelts and wolf furs.
Picking a corridor that he vaguely recognised (though, to be fair, all the corridors looked very much the same in this castle), Vaegon found his way into a room with long oaken doors: perhaps it was a vault, hidden away several flights above the kitchens. He wiped his hand down on the door again before pressing it open and walking inside to find…
Books. Long shelves that stretched the entirety of the hall with multiple aisles like the docks at a trading port. Vaegon began walking forwards, hoping he might find a hidden door behind some of the books: though it was still dim with the morning sun yet to fully rise, Vaegon made his way until he spied the warm glow of candlelight at one of the aisles, where some books were stacked on a dark walnut writing-desk.
Turning the aisle, Vaegon found the writing-desk next to it held the lit candles, and at that desk was a blackwood cane, pommelled with a round gold handle, embossed with a stag. Sat at the table was the youngest Baratheon son, with a head of thick black hair, only long enough to obscure his scalp. He was hunched over a thick, dread-inspiring tome that, when open, was wider than the desk-top.
The boy looked up and immediately stood up, one hand clasping the writing desk, the other his high-backed stool, as he bowed his head.
"Your Grace,"
Vaegon took a breath and tried to recall the boy's name. It was not Durran… it was… was he named for his father? No, he was named for Vaegon's father… "Erich?"
"Arrec, Your Grace," the boy corrected him tentatively.
"A thousand apologies," Vaegon groaned as he walked over to turn the other stool and sit down, rubbing his tired, violet eyes. They were stinging… and his tongue tasted foul. He looked up to the small, silver chalice and carafe that rested on the long table behind Arrec. "Might I?"
"Forgive me, Your Grace, but it's wine. I can call for some smallbeer-"
"On the contrary," Vaegon hoisted himself to his feet and staggered over, "I was very much looking for wine." He picked up the carafe to fill up Arrec's cup, out of courtesy, then walked back to his stool with the carafe. He took a sip of the gold wine: a little dry for his taste. He glanced up to the Baratheon boy, who was looking back to his tome.
"Do you usually pair your wine with parchment?" Vaegon asked.
"It's been paired with politicking, as of late," Arrec replied, "I had been excited for Storm's End to empty again, but… it appears I'll be one of those leaving too."
"That's right, my kingly father has honoured you with the position of Hand of the King…" Vaegon nodded. "At ten-and-five – even younger than Uncle Maelor."
"Ten-and-six, your Grace."
"No matter," Vaegon waved a hand as he drank more wine – it was not as sweet as in the Reach… but that did mean he could drink more of it. "You're also to be our brother, in due time," Vaegon smacked his lips.
"I'm deeply humbled by the offer of the Princess' hand – I am not worthy of the honour."
"I would hardly call it an honour," Vaegon snickered, "Rhae wants to complain about anything: she stamped her feet the entire way here to marry your brother, and now she's kicking her feet again because the arrangements have changed…" he rolled his eyes.
"It is marriage," Arrec replied, "not something that should be taken lightly."
Vaegon rolled his eyes: Arrec may have been right, but Vaegon wasn't in any mood to debate. He found the whole ordeal with his family terribly exhausting. Instead, he nodded to the book before Arrec.
"What is it?"
"Some people might call it a 'book'," Arrec said. A moment passed and he cleared his throat. "Apologies, Your Grace, I was-"
"How dare you talk to Blood of the Dragon," Vaegon tried to impersonate his uncle Maelor before breaking out into a chuckle and a snort. "You don't have to apologise for making japes, my Lord – do I look like Aerion?"
Arrec stifled a smile and, placing a thumb on the page he was reading, he closed the book to read out the title. "The Reign of King Viserys, First of His Name, and the Dance of the Dragons That Came After."
"Quite a mouthful," Vaegon murmured, "is it as dreary as it sounds?"
"Seems overly critical of Rhaenyra," Arrec said, with a slight frown.
"Well, your grandsire did support her: of course you'd think so," Vaegon shrugged.
"Maester Orwyle was critical of Aegon, ought I to disregard him as well?"
Vaegon grinned slightly: he thought Baratheon's were all dolts, yet there was one who apparently had a sharp mind. Though, perhaps that was all he could be – growing up with Aemon, Vaegon knew how it could motivate one to read and study when they could not ride and hunt and spar with the other boys.
"The truth is none of us were there," Arrec went on to lament, "and we're like to never know who was right of wrong."
'I know,' Vaegon thought to himself, 'I've seen it all.'
"I was hoping to find your father's reserves," Vaegon said, quickly changing the subject with a clear of his throat, "some good blackberry wine or something of the like."
"There's no secret reserves," Arrec told him.
Vaegon let out a long groan. "And the day grows worse…" He glanced back down to Arrec's leg. "So, will you be joining us in King's Landing?"
"I will."
"Well, you know our father, you'll know Rhae, in due time… and you've already encountered Aerion."
"Quite hard to forget," Arrec nodded.
"How's the leg?"
"No pain," Arrec replied. "It just… isn't as strong as before."
"Aerion does not takes slights so easily…" Vaegon remarked.
"Slights?"
"Well, your bastard brother knocks our valonqar off his horse, so my other valonqar… well, you know the rest…" He took a swig from his wine.
"Things happen at tourneys," Arrec said, somewhat stiffly, "Ser Garth Tyrell fell at Gulltown: there is always danger."
"True enough… danger is everywhere." Vaegon sighed and there was a long lull of silence. Vaegon remembered his manners: "I am sorry to hear about your sister."
Arrec's face darkened, yet, he managed to give a short nod.
"Thank you, Your Grace."
"How long has it been, now?"
"A fortnight."
Vaegon wasn't sure what to say: the girl was likely dead or in Dorne already. But… saying that to Arrec likely would not help things.
"Well… as Hand you could have command of the goldcloaks: they're quite capable since Daemon armed them some years ago…"
"Then who would keep the peace in King's Landing?"
"What do you care if some smallfolk rob and kill each other? It'll happen all the same…"
"As Hand of the King, my duty would be to the realm." Arrec did not need to even consider the option. Or perhaps, he already had?
"Even if it means losing your sister?"
"If sending the goldcloaks would find my sister, I would have already sent the raven," Arrec said, his blue eyes hard and glistening in the candlelight. "But it has been two weeks. We have sent ravens to all sworn to my Lord Father. All I can do now is pray. Pray and hope."
'What good is hope?' Vaegon thought. 'And what can prayer manifest? If prayers were answered, the septs would never be empty.'
"There is more you can do," Vaegon said, standing up and walking over to fill Arrec's cup once again. After all… it had soothed Vaegon's pain. Or, rather, not soothed it, but dampened it. Made it closer to bearable. Vaegon had never lost a sister, but he had lost a wife. More than lost her: she had died because of his dreams.
The dreaming itself was no longer the curse: living with the knowledge that she had died because of him was the pain he drank to dull.
Myra
A thick blanket of white snow nestled on the ground, hiding all the dirt and damp grass, the moss on the dark, wet rockeries and small puddles of leaves: the first that would fall as summer would end. The dark pool of water had the faint, silver surface of ice from where the summer nights had turned frosty.
Cloistered at the centre of the godswood, between the dark green needles of pine trees, the yellow of larches and bright virescent leaves, was the heart tree: the weirwood. Snow-white bark, speckled with black, the gnarled tree trunk had a carved face that wept blood-red sap as it stared out at Myra.
Though Myra stood there, listening to the branches creak and trunk groan in the wind that rustled through the canopy above, where snow would occasionally fall, quite ungracefully, in sheets that crunched onto the blanket below, piling up like the aftermath of a snow castle.
Myra walked forwards: the bear pelts heavy on her shoulders, but giving her no warmth. In the eyes of the heart tree, the weirwood, there was no cold. She reached out, the pale skin of her bare arm stretching out to towards the weeping face. As her fingers pressed against the frosted, milk-white bark, the winds did not cease, nor did the snow stop falling. Absolutely nothing happened, but Myra could feel something – as if it were distant. Like grasping the slackened line of a fishing rod and pulling, but yet to feel it taut.
One thing changed: a new sound had permeated the quiet cacophony of the godswood: a young child was humming. Myra turned around to see the boy sat, cross-legged, at the edge of the pool, holding a thick, heavy branch, and tapping it against the frozen pool. He had messy brown hair, tousled by the wind, and he looked to be no more than ten years old. There was something achingly familiar about him: the sweetness in his round cheeks, the bright, grey eyes, even the way his face scrunched up in effort as he tried to lift the fallen branch. He reminded her of Smallbran. Another brother that was not quite a brother.
Myra took a step closer, wanting to tell him to stay back from the edge of the pool, as it was always deeper than one realised. And then she heard another child's voice, calling in the distance – a girl's.
"…keep running off!" The girl had a broad, Northern accent – thicker than Myra's.
Myra turned to see the girl, with dark brown hair plaited in twin braids, marching over. She snatched the boy's arm and began to pull on him. She was shorter than the boy, but outmatched him in ferocity – that was plain to see.
Myra began to grow worried about the two children, so close to the dark pool. Not because it was deep, but because of the cold. That was always the most dangerous thing about the North.
"Come!"
"In a moment!
"Not a moment, now!" the girl said, her voice biting. "Uncle Cregard is Lord of Winterfell – you have to do what he says!"
"Cregard?" Myra murmured aloud, looking between the two children.
"So?"
"So, you have to do what he says, stupid!"
"But I'm older than you – and you're a girl, so you have to do what I say!" The boy argued.
The girl thumped him on the shoulder and the boy relinquished his stick.
"Now, come along, or I'll hit you in your stupid big nose!"
"My nose isn't big! Or stupid!" The boy snapped as she began to drag him around the pond, thumping him on the arm when he would not listen to her.
"I don't- I don't want to go!" The boy shouted and protested. "Mara!"
The breath caught in Myra's throat. Mara? The girl's dark brown hair, her grey eyes and long face – it was not just like Myra's, it was Myra's. She was looking at her mother, in her girlhood.
Mara. A mother Myra had never known, never seen, save for the likeness of the tapestry. It were as though Myra was staring at a looking-glass. Though Cayd was taller than her (and older, if Myra's memory served), Mara was undeterred in dragging her brother away in the Godswood.
Before Myra could take a step to follow them, something stopped her: a voice.
"How are you here?"
Lilted, but not like a Northman from the Wolfswood. It was softer, but still quite broad. Faint – not like a whisper, but as if she was being called to from far, far away. Myra turned around to find no-one there. The voice had slipped away on the wind, falling into the distant creaking of the woods.
"Who's there?" Myra asked. She wished she had her bow.
There was no response. No girl or woman watched her – only the red, bleeding eyes of the weirwood tree. Myra turned back, her foot crunching loudly against the snow below. It cracked like ice and Myra suddenly fell, as if she was plummeting into a sea. Coldness surged through her body, from her toes to her breast. Voices swirled around her ears like waves – shouts and screams too loud to decipher.
Finally, she heard that voice again. But it was not from the sounds that clashed and hammered against her ears – it came from within her own skull.
"No-one's ever here."
With a startled yelp, Myra's dark grey eyes opened, her heart pounding. She sat there, completely still for a moment, disoriented as she looked around the darkness of the chamber, with the soft blue light of the faint light of dawn seeping through the small window across from her.
She was sat in her bed, with the furs and woollen blankets slipping down to her waist. Her pale skin had turned to gooseflesh, full of bumps with the small hairs on her arms standing on-edge. Her chest heaved, slick with sweat. She slipped out of bed, her toes prickled by the bear-fur that had been laid out across her chamber. She walked over to the window, and unclasped the lock, looking out across the bay of ice, taking a deep breath to steady herself.
It had ended as a nightmare, but had not been just a dream. The weirwood tree had been there – she had seen her mother, she knew it. It had been real – the dead lived on in the forests, all knew it. Perhaps it had been her mother's voice she had heard in the weirwood. Perhaps this was her way of reaching out?
The thought, however pleasant or comforting, was not true – Myra knew this. Myra, whose mother tried to kill her before she was even born. Myra, who killed her own mother to come into the world. Myra Wolfsbane, born of rape.
The fire in her hearth had burned low, casting a dim, flickering light. Rain began to tap on her fingers as she leant against her window, feeling the cold morning air kiss the sweat away from her neck and her chest. The North only felt colder.
She took a deep breath, the cold air filling her lungs, before hanging her head and closing her grey eyes.
Ardan
Ardan was breaking fast outside at one of the tables with the other footmen: some of the squires had to attend on their lords and knights during the morning meal, but ever since Ser Edric had left for Nightsong, Ardan had had no-one to serve. Of course, this often meant he was given the most gruelling and grotesque chores and errands: cleaning out the stables, mucking out the pigsty, building the pells, and . He had tried to remind himself of Prince Aemon's words, how 'greater men have had to do far worse,' but it offered little respite to the smell of shit.
Most days, Ardan would enjoy sparring: he had taken to trying to teach some of the other boys how to swing a sword, take up a guard, counter-cut and thrust… most of them seemed to be learning quickly, and the once-quick bouts were growing longer. Still, none of them had managed to land a strike on him yet.
Today, however, Ardan was not musing on his tasks. He was not thinking about training the other boys. He was instead looking at the food he had: cold, lumpy gruel would not travel well. Neither would the lamb and potato stew, but the bread would. That ought to last him long enough until he reached Stonehelm. Of course, he wouldn't be able to travel too close to the castle, lest he be hanged as a deserter. He would have to take Godsgrief and cut off the road, follow the River Slayne north and… somehow pass the castle of Crow's Nest without attracting attention. With all the men away, surely they would not send out riders to look at one lone rider.
Ardan would have to reach Storm's End. He could find shelter in Durran's Town – and then he could get word to Arrec: he'd provide him with food and shelter, and maybe even talk to his mother or brother? Have him pardoned for desertion.
It was selfish of him to think about that – Oraella was out there, somewhere. Every second he worried about saving his own skin, it could mean she would die. If the Dornish had kidnapped her, they would not be sailing to Dorne – every ship from Estermont to Tarth would happen upon them. No, they still had to be in the Stormlands somewhere…
First, Ardan would need to leave Blackhaven: he still had some silver he could use to bribe the guards, though… many of them did not like him. Perhaps he could ask to join a patrol? He could wait until they pause to rest, and then ride north. But they'd come after him. If they did, would he be willing to fight them? Kill them? Could he be pardoned for killing other soldiers? Would he want Arrec to know about that?
'If it means Oraella is safe…' a voice from somewhere within Ardan's head whispered.
"Storm," Ardan glanced over to see Pate sitting down opposite him, with a wooden bowl of gruel and a cup of smallbeer. He was bigger than most boys, with the sides of his head shorn short. A single strip of tufts of golden hair ran from his brow to the nape of his neck as his blue eyes fixed on the food he spooned into his mouth.
"Believe it or not, it tastes better than it did at Crow's Nest…"
"Well, you wait until you eat at Durran's Town," Jack stepped over the wooden bench to sit next to Pate. "The beer is better too, isn't that right, Storm?"
Ardan didn't respond. He couldn't get distracted: if the Dornish had taken Oraella, they would be taking her back to Dorne. Likely not by boat – as Maester Rickard had taught him, the Dornish had not had a sea presence in quite some time. Besides, the Velaryon fleet patrolled the Narrow Sea to protect trade, and a ship sailing to Dorne would be noticed. No, the abductors would be travelling by horse: they wouldn't be in the Rainwood… and the Kingswood was the wrong way. They'd be slipping through the Slayne, down towards Blackhaven or Nightsong. Perhaps they would have a small fishing boat to slip around the Red Mountains. Or perhaps they would use the hidden tunnels…
"Storm's just missing good ale, I'm sure," Jack said. "And probably a little more: there's this alemaid called Briony – lovely big eyes, teats you could stare at for days…"
"I'll commission a portrait for you," Pate said with a scoff.
"Don't swear a vow you can't keep, Pate. Mark me, the moment she hears of my valour in battle, she won't be able to help herself…"
"What battle?" Pate scoffed.
"Well, I can't just pull her down on my knee: she's not one of your… farmer's daughters."
"Ah, Essie," Pate grinned, "she was this serving girl, back at Crow's Nest. I've not seen your Briony, but Essie's teats were something special…" He chortled.
"And you left her?"
Pate paused to eat another spoonful of gruel. "It turns out I wasn't the only one enjoying her."
Jack chortled. "Well, we'll return as conquering heroes to Durran's Town: find you two women larger than your Essie! Storm must know some, isn't that right Storm?" Jack glanced back over. "Storm?"
Ardan's hand curled into a fist – he tried to concentrate: would he stay along the coast or ride up towards the Kingswood?
"Storm-"
"Let the man eat, Jack," Pate nudged Jack, "some days I wish I didn't hear you…"
"I'm wasted on you…"
"Feel free to waste away elsewhere," Pate retorted. He drink some smallbeer and wiped his mouth.
Ardan couldn't stop thinking about what might have happened: he'd grown up hearing the story of what had happened to his uncle Erich: his Lord Father used to talk of him, at times, but would very quickly grow sad. He knew Erich had been kind. In a lot of ways, Ardan thought he might have been like Arrec. Their father had told Ardan that they all looked like his brothers – though Arrec was not barrel-chested, he bore his father's face, and none could deny that. Arlan had told Ardan, after too much ale, that Ardan reminded him of Erich, in a certain light. He supposed that was why he grew sad talking about his lost brother. Perhaps that was why he never wanted to send Ardan away. He imagined Durran to look like his late uncle and namesake, Durran Marshblade, so named for the bogs his body had been lost in in the Neck.
The war had been started because a Baratheon had disappeared before they could wed their intended. And now Oraella was missing, after being betrothed to a Tully boy. Was there a curse on the family? His grandsire, Ser Lord Baldric, had ruled Storm's End instead of his brother, Borros Baratheon. Maybe this was his vengeance? Or perhaps it was the wrath of the Seven Who Are One? Perhaps vengeance upon his Lord Father, for breaking his marriage vows.
There were bandits on the road, no doubt. Perhaps they'd slain the Dornish? But… Oraella… he didn't want to think about what they would do to a highborn girl.
"Bastard!"
Ardan looked over his shoulder to see the squire of one of Ser Idiot's knights, Howard Sunglass, standing over him: an older boy, tall with short golden curls, blue eyes, and a handsome square jaw, clad in a cream doublet over ruffled white silk. Many serving girls and handmaids had taken a shine to the young knight, but Ardan found him crass and foolish. Only Ser Idiot would have a soft Crownlander squire in his service.
"What is it?"
"Your duties," Howard said in a clipped Crownlander accent as he handed him a small piece of folded paper with a smirk. Ardan glanced down to see it stamped with purple wax bearing the forked lightning bolt of House Dondarrion.
"What is it?" Ardan asked again.
"Can you not read?"
"Can-" Jack began before Pate elbowed him in the ribs. Howard scowled over to Jack before turning back to Ardan.
"I'd advise you wash your hands and hold your breath, bastard."
Ardan frowned, watching Howard Sunglass leave before glancing back down at the paper. Usually he would be given an instruction at the end of training. Howard's strange jest… was it a reference to Pate and Jack? Or the food, perhaps?
"Fucking Crownlanders…" Jack spat the words as he ate some of his gruel. "Tosspots…"
"What's that?" Pate asked, pointing at the paper with his spoon, a small speck of porridge flinging over onto it. Ardan cracked the wax seal and unfolded the paper.
Ardan Storm: You are ascribed to attend on Lord Baldric Dondarrion, Heir to Blackhaven, until further notice. You are to serve him meals, change his sheets and blankets, and draw hot baths for him.
By order of Ronard Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven.
Mucking out the pigs, cleaning the horses, serving meals, changing blankets – Ronard Dondarrion was clearly trying to shame Ardan. It only bolstered his resolve to leave: nothing he did mattered here.
"I'm to attend Lord Baldric Dondarrion," Ardan said, climbing out of the bench. One of the other footmen beside him glanced up and quickly muttered a prayer.
"Lord Baldric the Cursed?" Jack asked. "Don't look him in the eye."
"It's true, Storm – evil passes through the eye," Pate nodded, leaning across to take what was left of Ardan's gruel, while Jack helped himself to his smallbeer.
"Aye, the Wyl of Dorne cursed him when he was still in his mother's belly," Jack said, "he fell out of her: all twisted and deformed."
It seemed the shame wouldn't end with Ardan's duties, but with whom he would attend on: the accursed monster of Blackhaven. He remembered the drunken talk of footmen from some nights ago: of Lord Baldric, cursed by the Seven. But it was all superstition.
Wasn't it?
Ardan rolled his eyes and made his way across the courtyard. The sun had broken through the clouds in the morn, illuminating the black basalt walls of Blackhaven, and the rocks and tufts of yellow and green grass it was built into. To the south, towards the Red Mountains, were the long ditches, wide and deep, that would serve to stifle any approach from the Stone Way: the treacherous pass held by the Dornish House Wyl.
Reaching the main keep, he pressed on the wooden door, bound in black iron, and ducked his head under the archway. He was not sure where he would find Lord Baldric. He held a hand out to stop a woman: a handmaid, by the look of her. She wore a cotte woven from cotton, dyed black, over a bright scarlet kirtle.
"Pardon, my Lady?"
"Yes, Ser?"
"I'm to serve Lord Baldric: where are his chambers?"
The handmaid's pleasant smile faltered and she gestured to the dark wooden staircase beside them.
"To the top," she informed him. Ardan nodded his thanks, but before he could fully walk away, she held out a hand to keep him there. "Pray to the Mother for mercy."
Ardan's brow wrinkled: the smallfolk were known for superstitions: an unseasonably warm day meant a bad harvest, a lone woman at the crossroads might bewitch you, unless you carry moonstone or lavender, rain or storm during a wedding meant the marriage would be rife with struggles. But there was a highborn lady, and even she believed the tale.
Was this Lord Ronard's revenge? To have Ardan die at the hands of his son?
His boots creaked on the wooden steps as he climbed higher and higher up the tower. Sounds seemed to fade and die away below as he climbed up the dim staircase, one hand on the stone wall, and the other on the pommel of his longsword: it made him feel brave enough to reach the final step.
With a hand on the wooden railing, Ardan took a few steps across the final floor, facing the only door there. There were no locks upon it, nor any great wooden bar. Ardan paused and bowed his head, trying to recall the prayers he was taught when he was younger.
"Blessed Mother, watches over us with loving grace,
Shield us from the evil that means to harm us,
And protect our hearts from darkness and despair,
With your gentle hand, guide us to safety, your children on earth."
He reached out, fingers wrapping around the cold wrought iron door knocker, and let it thud heavily against the oaken door. A long silence followed.
"My Lord?" Ardan waited for a response, but none came. "I'm here to attend on you, my Lord."
Again, there was no sound that came from inside. Perhaps he was still asleep. Ardan turned around, feeling as though the shadows had begun to creep towards him. If Lord Baldric would not respond, Ardan would…
"Enter," the voice was deep, yet hoarse and weak like an old man's. Ardan swallowed and pressed on the door.
The chamber may have been the nicest Ardan had seen at Blackhaven – though, in fairness, he had not seen a great many. A threadbare once-rich carpet of black and purple lay in the centre of the room, its intricate patterns now faded. A large hearth was on the other side of the room, with the Dondarrion lightning bolt embossed upon the wall. On the right was a bed no smaller than his own in Storm's End, a heavy, long chest at the foot of it.
The stone walls were warm – white and brightened by the sunlight that streamed in from the window at the other side of the chamber. A long shadow was cast from over there: a figure was standing at the window with his back to Ardan, still in his linen nightgown. Red-gold hair tumbled down his back. He was slender, with long arms that the sleeves of his nightgown could not fully cover.
"Lord Ronard has bid me serve you, my Lord." Ardan was tentative, staying at the door.
"I do. I wish to dress, and my manservant is not here. Or if he is, he is rather quiet…"
Ardan closed the door behind him and began to walk forwards, his boots heavy on the stone floor until he came close enough for Lord Baldric to turn around. His breath caught as he looked upon the man's face.
"Gods be good…" Ardan muttered.
Lord Baldric did not have the face of a man – or, at least, not one any more: his skin was cracked and stiff, mottled black and grey like stone. It had grown from his shoulder up his neck and across his eyes and brow. His eyes were pale and misty, glazed over as they remained fixed straight ahead: he was not looking at anything in particular.
Ardan had heard about the greyscale disease before: it had left the skin hard to the touch, disfigured the victims. Even killed them. Some of the afflicted had gone blind once the rot reached their face, turned to wheezing when it calcified their lips and tongue, and those that did not die became mad, feral beasts. Maester Rickard had told Ardan (after one of his ventures into the bay with Arrec) that children were more prone to the ailment than those full-grown. Still… Ardan did not wish to come any closer to the man.
"Do not be alarmed," Lord Baldric told him, "Maester Corso has assured it cannot be spread through touch nor air – elsewise we would have a castle of statues."
His words did little to reassure Ardan. He walked forwards, examining the man's face: he could make out his thin lips, with the cracked grey skin inching towards the corner of his mouth.
"How long…" Ardan asked, curiosity outweighing his courtesies.
"A decade, very almost," Lord Baldric replied in his frail voice. "My clothes?"
Ardan pulled his gloves from his belt and tugged them on as he walked over to the chest and set about dressing the lord. Upon removing his nightgown to dress the man in his smallclothes, Ardan saw the extent of the greyscale: it had spread down his shoulder before gradually fading away at his belly, but it still spread down towards his hands, reaching his fingertips.
Once the man was dressed in his woollen breeches and short boots, along with a linen shirt and a thick, cotton jerkin of midnight black. The clothes were clean, but worn: as if they had been worn many times over recently. Soft woollen gloves were pulled over Lord Baldric's hands, and Ardan felt confident enough to pull off his own gloves.
"Your name?" Lord Baldric asked. Ardan looked up. "You've dressed me as if I were a babe. Unless you wish me to call you 'Mother'?"
Ardan took a step back, stowing his gloves in his belt. He would have to wash them after each time he had touched the man…
"Ardan Storm," Ardan replied.
"Ardan Storm?" Lord Baldric turned the words over in his mouth, his white eyes flickering. "The Strongarm's bastard?"
It still scratched Ardan, hearing the word. "I am Lord Arlan's son."
"I was named for your grandsire," Lord Baldric said. "Ser Baldric the Bold. Another man born on the wrong side of the blanket…"
Ardan had grown up hearing the stories of his grandsire: just like their ancestor, Orys, a bastard had risen to prominence to rule the Stormlands. Baldric the Bold had been tall and strong and just and brave. An unparalleled warrior – that was what Ardan's Lord Father had told him. If Ser Baldric had been so skilled… how could he be laid low by a simple Stark?
"I heard she was an iron islander," Lord Baldric said, clearly looking for an answer. Ardan was tired of repeating the only answer he had.
"I don't know."
"You do not know her?"
"No."
"That must have been hard for you…" Lord Baldric said thoughtfully.
"It wasn't," Ardan lied, his voice steady and hard as he glared into Lord Baldric's white eyes. He expected this would be all Lord Baldric would talk to him about – he had not left Storm's End to simply be an amusement or curiosity.
But Lord Baldric's frail voice softened.
"Forgive me. I do not speak to people often, outside of Maester Corso." Lord Baldric took small steps, his gloves hands casting from side to side, searching for anything he may knock into. He reached his small table and sat down.
"Is there anything else, my Lord?" Ardan asked, trying to hide the bitterness in his voice.
"How is your reading?"
"I can read…" Ardan said warily.
"Good. I wish to read: The Reign of King Viserys is on the shelf."
Ardan's hand clenched into a fist: he was a wetnurse. Dressing Lord Baldric, reading to Baldric – next he would be feeding and bathing him!
"Yes, my Lord," Ardan said, trying to swallow his frustration as he walked over to the wide bookcase by the door, filled with thick tomes and stacks of scrolls bound by ribbons and wax. It had been easier to stifle his anger at Storm's End, where fear of Lady Cassandra and Lord Durran would keep him silent and obedient. But they were not here, and the rage that burned inside Ardan grew hot.
"How old are you, Storm?"
"Sixteen."
"I imagine you are a squire, then?"
"Yes. To Ser Edric Bolling."
"Ah, Ser Edric. A very good rider, I hear. And swordsman, to boot…"
"He also very wise," Ardan responded.
"Is that so?" Baldric asked, tapping a finger against the table idly. "Actually… pick out 'On the Ruin of Men' by Yorick the Young."
"Yes, my Lord." Ardan frowned – Yorick the Young had been a Dornishman… nevertheless, he began to scour the bookcase.
"Tell me… would Ser Edric agree that… doing one's duty is the path to honour?"
Ardan frowned at the odd question. Perhaps Lord Baldric intended to smear his name somehow… "He'd say it's the only path."
Lord Baldric let out a small, soft noise. He was chuckling. Ardan turned around, brow furrowed and fist clenched once more: he was laughing. Him. At Ser Edric!
"Well… I suppose Ser Edric is a rare knight, and a rarer man," Lord Baldric said softly as Ardan returned to the table, the thin text under his arm. "Show me where duty resides. Your head? Your heart? Touch the part of you that holds it."
Ardan set the book down on the table.
"There is a page…" Lord Baldric said, gesturing to where the book had been set down. "If you open…"
Ardan's jaw clenched as he opened the book, finding the pages falling back as a long strip of ribbon had run the length of the page. Ardan took a moment, trying to bolster his resolve before clearing his throat and taking a breath.
"A word. That is all. Duty is but a word, and words are but wind. It is easy to love, when the woman is a great beauty, her arms around you abed. It is easy to swear obeisance to the Prince that favours you: showers you with riches. But will you still love when beauty fades, and love itself burns you? Will you serve the Prince that bids you butcher your own kin?"
Ardan spoke the words, but he was not listening: he was thinking about how he would be able to join a patrol if he was serving Lord Baldric. Perhaps if he gave him good service, he may allow him leave? But how long would that take? What could be happening to Oraella in a week's time- a day's?"
"Would you, Storm?"
Ardan glanced up at Lord took a moment before he realised what he had been reading and paused. He supposed that… perhaps some people were not worth serving. People like Ser Idiot and Lord Ronard… but he had to. Everyone had to serve someone unless they were King.
"I don't know," Ardan muttered, annoyed at the incessant questioning – he should be out riding…
"Many men would," Lord Baldric said with so much confidence, it must have been a fact. "But if an honourable man does his duty… and the duty itself is dishonourable… what must he do then?"
"What do you mean?" Ardan snapped. Lord Baldric had another small chuckle, something that only made Ardan grow more frustrated.
"I shall speak plainly…" He took a long breath, licking his thin lips. "Yorick the Young believed that honour is not always clear. And that duty is not always easy. Because what Yorick recognised was that every man has a choice. To serve. To do their duty to their love, to their king, to their brothers…" his white eyes moved from the book, "or to their sister."
Ardan closed his eyes as everything finally fell into place: Ardan was an idiot. Baldric knew the words on the page already. It had not been Lord Ronard that had requested Ardan serve him…
"You already knew who I was, didn't you?" Ardan felt angry – no longer at Lord Ronard or at Lord Baldric, but at himself.
"You are worried for your sister," Lord Baldric nodded. "I know, Storm. And if I were you, with sight and strength, I would plan to ride as well. But only after I knew what that meant."
"Well, are you going to tell me?" Ardan spat the words. Lord Baldric's lip curled slightly. "Am I amusing you?" Ardan growled.
"If Blackhaven falls, the Stormlands bleed. And if one man can shun his duty, others shall do the same. And soon, no-one will guard against the Stone Way."
"If someone's taken my sister, I have to find her," Ardan stated, "that is my duty. The last time a Baratheon went missing, they were never found."
Lord Baldric's smile faltered, his eyes staring far off across the chamber. "I know, Storm. You are loyal to your father's house, and his children, but-"
"No," Ardan scowled. He was sick of hearing it. "No, you don't know! How could you?" Ardan stood up, knocking the chair back onto the floor as he began to make his way to the door. But he stopped, he had to explain – Lord Baldric didn't understand. Neither did Prince Aemon – no-one truly understood!
"I know I'm a Bastard," Ardan's voice cracked, tears pooling in his eyes, but not for himself, "but she is my sister. My little sister!" His legs were quaking as he glared down at the man. A lump grew in his throat as his eyes burned. "If I don't help her, what sort of brother am I?"
Lord Baldric pressed his hand to the table and, shaking, rose to his feet.
"I thought that the sun shined for men of my birth," Lord Baldric began, "that we were all bred with love, and destined for honour. And the Seven cursed me: they took the feeling in my hands… robbed me of scent, and finally my eyes. The world is now nothing but black. And all I can feel is the sun on what remains of my face." His white eyes seemed to find Ardan's, searching them.
"Honour and duty exist solely in a man's mind. And it is impossible to know one from another. Dishonour lies in every man's duty, soon enough. And it is always one man that turns the tide. But when your bones turn to dust and your name fades from the world, no-one will know of your choice. Only you."
Baldric returned to the window, standing beside the black-and-purple curtains and staring out. Except, now Ardan knew – he was not staring. In a world without smell or light, he was simply enjoying all he had: the warmth of the sun upon his face.
Tion
The Kingsroad stretched from the Crownlands in the south to the North, meeting with the High Road to the east and the River Road to the west. Just north of the Trident, where all four roads converged, a large inn sat, half a day's ride from the nearest village or sept.
Three stories tall, with turrets and chimneys cobbled of white stone, and when riding from Riverrun, Tion had spied the thatched roof of the stable on the northern side of the inn, as well as the famous belltower built only some thirty years ago.
It had once been known as the Two Crowns, in honour of when Old Jaehaerys and his queen, Alysanne, had stayed there. Since then, it had been known mostly by another name: the Bellringer Inn, so-named for the belltower built by the innkeeper. But, as it had passed to the crippled knight, Jon Heddle, a black three-headed dragon had been forged to hang outside the building, and thus, for as long as Tion Rivers had known, the place had been named the Clanking Dragon. Though, his Lord Father still referred to it as the Bellringer. More commonly, most Rivermen knew it simply as the Inn at the Crossroads.
The dust trail from the Kingsroad to the south had been enough of an announcement of a large party of riders heading their way. Tion had managed to piece it together, who they were there to meet. When Ser Harold Bracken had complained of 'tree-praying barbarians' infesting their land, Richard Blackwood, the heir to Ravenstree Hall, had stood up and stated he would not suffer slurs for gods more ancient than any other in the Seven Kingdoms, and the two had almost drawn steel until Tion's Lord Father, Ser Tristifer, had urged peace and forbade any violence.
'We are not united by our God,' Tristifer had reminded them, 'we are made one by our home.'
Everything he said made Tion's tongue taste bitter. His father still spoke with honour, but… he was not. How could he be? He had committed a grievous sin, to lie with another man's wife, and that man was his brother and lord. He had betrayed his knightly vows.
The Tully words were 'Family, Duty, Honour.' But had his father not betrayed every one of those words? How could he still speak about unity and use words to douse the flames of centuries-old feuds?
Still, when Brynden Blackwood remarked on the 'fucking wolves running too far south of their snows,' everything had begun to make sense for Tion. Of course, he had heard of Northerners venturing out of their frozen wastes to wed the Victor Tyrell, the Tourney Rose. It was no secret the Tyrell's and Hightower's wished nothing but death to House Tully. Arthor Hightower loathed the Riverlands, and constantly sought to keep them in poverty. And ever since Garth Tyrell's squire had been foolish enough to not fasten his armour properly (and, of course, died as a result of this), the Reachmen had sought to lay the blame with Ser Grover Mooton – a pious and honourable man that had served as the sworn shield to Lord Garret as far back as Tion could remember.
And now the Reach, with the largest army in all of Westeros, had sought out an alliance with the Stark's? Another House that had long sharpened their swords and spoke of vengeance when they looked towards the Trident. The family that had killed a boy only some years older than Tion?
When the dusty clouds came closer, and the banners of Houses Stark and Karstark, Glover, Cassel, and Poole came into sight, along with Northmen in their boiled leather and drab wool, with fur-mantled cloaks folded over their saddles, Tion had rested a hand on the hilt of his arming sword, and not removed it.
Richard Blackwood had darted inside to tell the rest of the River Lords, who all exited wearing swords and daggers, ready to meet the approaching Stark party. Every man kept a hand on his weapon, all of them save Tristifer, who simply clasped his hands and waited patiently, his auburn hair flashing in the light like a slow flame.
The Northerners approached down the long road that rolled over the patchwork of green fields and golden crops, with the dark waters of the Trident catching the late afternoon light, reflecting it in dazzling patterns that danced on the surface like the scales of a fish.
The constant murmur of the river, the soft rustling of wind through the fields of wheat and barley, their stalks whispering as they moved… it was tranquil. Relaxing, even. But Tion remained tense beneath that deep blue sky, with only a few wisps of cloud lazily drifting, his hand never leaving the hilt of his sword.
"Tion," Tristifer said softly, looking over to him, "peace. Breathe. Do not let fear rule you."
"I'm not scared," Tion insisted. He felt his father's blue eyes fix on his, but Tion would not meet his gaze. He watched the Northern riders approach from the Kingsroad to the south – some forty of them, there must have been. All older than him, all armed and on horseback, while Tion remained on foot with his father.
"There is a place for fear, but it is not on your throne."
There had once been a time when Tion might have listened to his father, and tried to live his life by every word. But the man before him… it must have only been words to him. And Tion would never betray his family like Tristifer had.
The Northmen turned to approach the stables beside them, dismounting and hitching their horses to the posts and fences. One of them caught sight of the River lords, then turned to tell the others. Warily, the party walked around to the entrance of the inn, standing across from the party of River lords.
"Make way, Rivermen," one of the men called, a man that wore wollens with the white sun of Karstark.
"Lord Stark?" Tristifer asked, his voice loud and firm, but calm and controlled. "Would you join me for food and drink, my Lord?
"If you command my Lord to-" One of the youngest Northmen spoke, with dark hair, with a jerkin of white wool. Upon his breast, there was a stitched escutcheon: a pale blue plate, with a grey tressure. Tion did not know the name for this house.
"I am Ser Tristifer Tully of Riverrun," He spoke over the young man, "and I will talk to Lord Stark, not his lackey."
"Lackey…"
"If you're Tristifer Tully, you're not Lord of Riverrun," said a dark-haired with a grey-sleeved jerkin with white wolf-heads embroidered across his shoulders and chest. "What are you lord of, my Lord?"
Tristifer took a moment, perhaps to calm himself or think of his next words.
"Come, Lord Stark, tell your men to calm themselves, and we might talk like civilised men."
"Talk where? At the inn?" One of the elder men asked. His brown hair was tousled, a thick beard laid upon his jaw. His grey eyes were cold, hidden within the tired folds of his face. Tion could make out the grey Direwolf stitched upon his breast: this was Brandon Stark. "Or in the cells below Riverrun?"
It was no secret what had happened to Theo Reed: once a ward at Riverrun, turned hostage once Durran Marshblade came to avenge his father and brother. He had wed Tion's great-aunt Elys to cement an alliance, only to die before planting an heir inside her.
"Would you prefer to talk out here? Or inside, with the warmth and the ale and food?" Tristifer asked, gesturing to the door some fifteen yards behind them.
"I'd prefer to continue to my lands, and be done with you southrons," Brandon Stark replied, his point enunciated by the young man in white wool spitting on the dirt.
Tristifer's jaw clenched as he looked out down the road for a moment. Tion was not sure if he was thinking of his next words, or simply trying to cool his own temper. Perhaps both?
"Your daughter wed the Tyrell boy recently," Tristifer stated.
"I don't recall you at the wedding," The Karstark chortled.
"My invitation was misplaced, I'm sure," Tristifer replied sardonically before looking back to Brandon Stark. "You're aware of the animosity the Tyrell's hold for my family?"
"You mean, how one of your men killed Lord Garth?"
"Accidents happen in tourneys," Tristifer said slowly. "Men die sometimes."
"Aye. Sometimes."
"A Tyrell boy may sit the Gardener Throne, but it's a Hightower who rules. And Arthor Hightower is a boor who would bankrupt the realm for his Lady Aunt…"
"If you've a point, Tully, find it quickly," Brandon said, somewhat impatiently. Tion gripped his sword harder.
"If the Hightower's and their Tyrell puppets continue pressing against my family, there will be war, my Lord. It is plain for all to see. I'd like to know where you stand."
"You want to know if I'd call my banners and march south?" Brandon Stark scoffed.
"I'd like to know where you stand," Tristifer repeated himself.
"I'd stand here, between you soft southron knights and my blood." Brandon Stark walked forwards, a hand on the gargantuan hilt of a greatsword at his waist: it must have been as big as Tion Rivers – bigger, even. "If war comes, Tully, I'd bid you surrender quick. Before forty thousand Northmen march on you."
"Then we will have to send word to the Eyrie. And to Storm's End," Tristifer replied. "As Durran Baratheon is now my brother, by law."
Brandon Stark's face darkened at the mention of the Baratheon's. His face was truly like ice: but underneath, a river ran strong and hard and fast. Tion thought he might draw his sword and cleave them apart right then and there… Tion pulled his sword ever so slightly, the slither of steel glinting in the sunlight.
"I take threats to my homeland as well as you do, Lord Stark," Tristifer continued. "You speak so readily of marching men down the Neck, of grudges old made anew, and not so long ago, you accosted Lords Bracken, Darry, and Whent."
"They came upon my daughter and her handmaid: a pair of girls." Brandon Stark growled. "I remember what fate befell younger girls when southron men marched North."
"You are not the only man here who has fought for their home, my Lord," Tristifer said tersely. He was growing frustrated, Tion could see it. "I was younger than you when I faced battle for the first time."
"Aye, and you'll be a younger man when you face it for the last."
Tion drew his sword fully and took up a long tail guard, with the blade pointed out at Brandon Stark.
"If you threaten my Lord Father once more…" Tion hoped his voice would not break.
"Put up your blade, boy," the young man in a white jerkin said, almost amused, "else I may have to use my own…" He stepped forwards, pulling out his arming sword and pulling the strap of his shield over his head.
Tristifer stepped in front of Tion, wrapping one arm across his shoulder, and the other hand drawing his longsword to point at the Northman, who immediately stepped back, shield in front of him.
"If Lord Poole comes near my son again, he'll find himself missing a head," Tristifer said to Brandon Stark, his blue eyes still fixed to the young Northman.
Brandon Stark walked forwards, a hand still on his greatsword as he stopped an inch or two from the point of Tristifer's sword.
"Use your sword, Tully. Or sheathe it."
Tristifer's eyes fixed on the older man's, his jaw still clenched and brow furrowed as the point of his sword remained fixed at Brandon Stark. Tion was not sure what his father would do – the man had declared for the enemy, and there he was, standing right in front of them, at the point of Tristifer's sword. All Tion's father had to do was lunge, and another enemy was vanquished.
A breeze passed, a crow cawed, and Tristifer lowered his sword. Brandon Stark walked forwards, a hand on his belt as he leant forwards to talk to Tristifer.
"I'll look for you on the field, Tully," Brandon Stark said. Tion couldn't believe it – a Northman stood there, threatening the Riverlands, disrespecting Tristifer, and he was to do nothing? To lay down his arms? Tion's cheek began to twitch.
"Winter is coming. For you, and all the southrons-"
Tion stepped out and swung low, his blade biting at Brandon Stark's knee. The man let out a long yell and stumbled backwards. Poole moved forwards, his arming sword arcing up to Tion's head. He lifted his sword to counter-cut, but was kicked back by his own father. Tion rose to his feet as he watched his father's longsword cut half-way into the man's temples.
Screams were heard in the Bellringer Inn behind. Knights and sworn swords sprinted at one another, engaging in a chaotic melee. Tristifer called out to try and keep the Rivermen in formation, but it was all in vain: many had broken off into smaller bouts. The Northmen were disorganized: Brandon Stark was being pulled back by his vassals, who tried to make their way back to the stables.
Richard Blackwood advanced, his longsword flashing as it bound against the Karstark's. The blades slid up and down another until the Karstark tackled the man to the ground, slipping the dagger from his belt and plunging it in the man's neck with a geyser of blood splashing over his brow.
Brynden Blackwood kicked Karstark off and, at the sight of his son coughing on the last of his own blood, swung his claymore down and severed Karstark's head from his body.
"You bloody fucking bastard…" Brandon Stark hissed as he drew his greatsword. Sers Horas Harlton and Symond Whent approached together. The man that wore white Direwolf heads upon his grey jerkin had left the man he was fighting to thrust the true edge of his blade across Ser Horas' neck. The man stumbled, clasping his neck as he tried to step back and hold out his sword, only to fall to one knee. The Northman turned back to face off against the Rivermen, but he never saw Brynden Blackwood's claymore swing down the length of his spine.
Blood began to mix into the dirt as Brandon Stark struggled to balance on his one good leg, with his greatsword held up high, ready to swing at any who approached him. He was surrounded, with only two sworn swords beside him, wielding spears and shields.
"Yield, my Lord," Tristifer said, his face specked with blood, "I want no more bloodshed."
Brandon Stark did not hesitate. He replied without any words by spitting on the dirt. Tristifer Tully hung his head and then gave a short nod to the other Rivermen. They charged together, only for Ser Symond Whent to fly off his feet as the Stark's greatsword struck against his head.
The Stark guards died quickly: they were outnumbered, and as soon as they were grabbed from behind, their throats opened with daggers, Brandon Stark was next. His arms were held, he was forced onto the dirt as he yelled and kicked and raged with all his might. His greatsword was taken from his hand and held by Ser Harold Bracken, who awaited Tristifer's order.
"You saw him kill Ser Symond," Ser Harold said, "let me take his head, Ser."
"I said I want no more bloodshed, and I meant it," Tristifer said to Bracken before he looked back to the defeated Brandon Stark. He closed his eyes and shook his head, "Go to the forge. Put Lord Stark in chains. Find his horse, and saddle it to ride to Riverrun."
Brandon Stark did not speak at this: no insults or threats or curses, his grey eyes simply remained fixed on Tristifer with nothing but disgust and contempt. But Tristifer could not return his gaze. Instead, he had grabbed Tion by the hand and marched him away from the inn.
"What are- let go of me…"
"What did I say?" Tristifer asked, pushing Tion in front of him. "I told you not to let fear rule you!"
"He was threatening us! He declared for the Reach, and you just stood there and let him!"
"They won't let this lie, now," Tristifer glowered, "we've killed two-score Northmen. We've lost half as many Rivermen. We now must pacify the North and our own who have lost kin…" Tristifer rubbed his brow as he paced back and forth.
"He was threatening you."
"I don't need a dolt of a boy protecting me, Tion," Tristifer snapped. "When the Stark's come south with their forty thousand men, what do you think they will do upon hearing of their kinsmen's death?" He asked. "They'll demand your head and mine, and every other man's here. The Northmen don't forget their grudges, it's all they prattle on about…"
Tion swallowed at the thought of forty thousand men outside Riverrun. "They can't-" he began, but Tristifer shook his head.
"You need to stop talking," Tristifer ordered him – he was talking as the master-at-arms, not as his father. "You will go find a cart, you will load every man on there – Northerner and Riverlander, and then you will take this cart back to Riverrun, and you shall not eat or sleep until each and every one of them has been given over to the Silent Sisters. Do you understand?"
Tion's fist clenched: here his father was, once again, talking of affording last rites and final honours, when he had been making a cuckhold of his own brother?
"Tion," Tristifer, the master-at-arms, barked, "do you understand?"
"Yes, Ser," Tion muttered, looking away from him.
Tristifer shook his head once more, looking down at Tion, before turning to return to the some-near-sixty corpses that lay outside the inn at the crossroads. As Tion looked at the bodies, some still moving before having a dagger or dirk open their throats, he found himself prickling at an uneasy thought:
This was how wars began.
Well, there we have it. Only two more chapters (and an epilogue) to go! Keep an eye on the wiki, there'll be some new content soon and… yeah, enjoy the rest of your day/night. Happy Pride Month to all and I'm eager to hear your thoughts on what's occurred in this chapter!
R.