Olenna mentioned he only disappeared with Dayne and Whent.
A Song of Sun and Stars (Man of Steel x ASOIAF)
- Thread starter OrangePanther01
- Start date
- Crossover Movies Fantasy
Madness light the Drums
Chapter 15 –
White Harbor gleamed beneath the afternoon sun. The new city, a testament to Lord Manderly's ambition, rose from the stony coastline with freshly cut stone and timbered houses climbing towards the looming New Castle. The docks bustled – ships laden with timber and salted fish jostled next to sleek merchant vessels bearing the colors of far-off ports.
Atop the deck of a modest but well-kept ship, a young man stood out amidst the rough sailors.
With a final sack of coin handed to the weathered captain, the man gave a curt nod. "Wait for my signal at the harbor, as we agreed," he instructed, his voice low. "And may the Seven grant you fair winds." The captain grunted, the transaction completed.
Disembarking, he approached two men who awaited his arrival. Their weathered, but well-armed attired marked them as rough sellswords with sun-weathered faces and mismatched leathers.
"News?" the man asked.
"From your spies, my prince," Ser Oswell Whent replied. "Brandon Stark wed to the Tully girl, as expected. And the Baratheon stag rides north with a party of about three hundred, lords and men from the Stormlands – Lord Robert is already on his way to Winterfell. Bael is already on his way to Winter Town, he will be ready when the time arrives."
The prince's amusement faded, replaced by a flicker of sternness. "Don't call me the Prince, I am Cael," he corrected sharply. "And please, Edd, a little less formality. We're playing roles, remember?"
The men nodded, well admonished for the slip.
Then he nodded, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "This is excellent news. Then we have little time to waste. First, New Castle. Let us pay our respects to Lord Manderly."
Ser Arthur Dayne, frowned scratching at his well-fit, but ill-feeling attire. "Cael, forgive my boldness, but this disguise…your eyes are unmistakable."
The prince chuckled, mirth clear in his voice. "Relax, Luke. We've witnessed countless mummers and plays at court. And even among them, Leonard has a rare talent." He rubbed a hand across his dyed hair. "At most, I resemble some dragon seed bastard, not the crown prince. I make for the perfect bard, especially amongst those of the North. Relax, my friend. You worry for naught."
Despite the Prince's reassurances, a crease remained between Ser Arthur's brows. "Even so, this plan… it hinges entirely on the Lady Lyanna's cooperation. What if she spurns you?" His voice held a note of unease, the knight uncomfortable with the effectiveness of the plan.
Ser Oswell chuckled, a playful note entering his voice, "Come now, Luke, have you seen the Lady? She has the fiery blood of the Wolf in her, the same as her brothers. The spies have already established that she feels trapped in that dreary castle, and with the Baratheon brute soon breathing down her neck… trust me, she'll come willingly."
The prince, ever the visionary, spoke with unshakeable conviction. "Indeed, our spies have confirmed what we suspected. Lyanna Stark, the wild rose of Winterfell, finds herself… restrained. Rumors abound of her father barring her from riding, keeping her close." His violet eyes took on a faraway glint. "Prophecies, Luke. There's a power in them, a force that shapes destinies. This is her chance for freedom, for a life beyond the one laid out for her. She will grasp it. She will not be the first Stark maiden to have been spirited from within the walls of Winterfell. A bard did it once, and a bard will do so again."
Arthur nodded slowly, the logic of the prince's words sinking in, even if it didn't soothe all his reservations. With a sigh, he adjusted his ill-fitting jerkin. "Very well, Cael. Let us hope your instincts are as keen as your swordsmanship."
The streets of White Harbor hummed with activity. Merchants hawked their wares, fishermen hauled their catch from the docks, and the clang of a blacksmith's hammer rang out in rhythmic counterpoint to their horses' hooves.
The Prince in disguise atop his mount that they'd acquired from a nearby stable, held his harp with practiced ease.
His companions flanked him, their hard eyes scanning the crowds.
As they neared New Castle, the imposing stone walls loomed ahead.
Guards, clad in the distinctive blue and green livery of House Manderly, blocked their path. Their gazes narrowed suspiciously at the two heavily armed men accompanying a mere bard.
"Halt!" barked the guardsman. "State your names and your business here."
Rhaegar flashed a practiced smile, the charismatic bard persona coming easily. "Greetings, good sirs. I am Cael, a humble bard who travels the Seven Kingdoms. Word of the Lady Lyanna's impending wedding has reached my ears, and I yearn to offer my musical talents for the celebrations at Winterfell." He gestured towards the castle. "We were fortunate enough to learn that Lord Manderly has but recently returned from Lord Brandon's wedding. Perhaps we might join his party and travel North under his esteemed protection?"
The guard shifted, weighing their request.
Then, he glanced again at Cael's companions. "And these armed men? Why the need for such robust protection for a mere singer? Far from the crownlands aren't ya?"
Rhaegar let out a good-natured chuckle. "I am from the Crownlands, good ser. My mother had the blood of the dragons in her! Alas she passed away, and I had no talent at swordsmanship, as a bard I earn a fair bit of coin, and the roads are fraught with danger. My friends here, Edd and Luke, ensure a safe journey and the continued melody of my songs."
The guard's eyes flickered towards the harp slung on the prince in disguise's back, and a flicker of amusement crossed his weathered face. "Well, as luck would have it, Lord Manderly does hold court this very day. And with Lord Eddard Stark himself!" He paused, lowering his voice. "Strange times, these…perhaps a song or two might lighten the mood."
The mention of Stark sent a ripple of surprise through the disguised trio, but they masked it quickly.
"Excellent!" Rhaegar beamed. "Then perhaps you'd be kind enough to announce us? My thanks, Ser…?"
"Wylis," the guard grunted. "Follow me then, bard. Let's see if your tunes are as pleasing as your tongue."
Nodding, the Prince and his men dismounted their horses, trailing after Wylis into the heart of New Castle.
Within New Castle's walls, a sense of urgency hung in the air. Servants bustled through corridors, laden with trunks and chests, while stablehands readied horses and carriages. It was clear that preparations for a significant journey were underway.
Wylis led them into a grand hall where a gathering of nobles had assembled.
At the head of the polished wooden table sat Lord Manderly, his bulk spilling over his richly upholstered chair.
Beside him, a striking young woman with dark hair and violet eyes commanded attention, her hand resting lightly on a slightly rounded belly.
Beside her sat a grim-faced man with the unmistakable Stark features, Lord Eddard.
Cael bowed low before Lord Manderly, then towards Eddard Stark.
As he rose and turned to acknowledge the woman, his breath caught.
Lady Ashara Dayne.
Ser Arthur's sister, pregnant, eyes fixed on him.
It took a monumental effort to avert his gaze as a wave of surprise and a flicker of panic surged through him.
Beside him, Ser Arthur had frozen, and only a subtle nudge from Oswell kept him from openly staring at his sister.
Forcing himself out of his stupor, Cael bowed once more, struggling to ignore Lady Ashara's continued gaze. "My Lord Manderly, " he began, his voice steady, "I am Cael, and I am merely a traveling bard. I have heard of the Lady Lyanna's impending wedding and would offer my services as entertainment for the joyous occasion. I have learned that you intend to travel to the wedding, I seek safe passage to Winterfell under your protection."
Manderly eyed the Prince with shrewdness. "And you hail from where, bard? Such… exotic coloring suggests lands far from the North."
A beat of silence, the Prince bowed. "The Crownlands, my lord." He smiled ruefully. "I was born on Dragonstone."
Manderly chuckled after a moment's scrutiny longer, his belly shaking. "Dragon's blood, perhaps. Now, Stark," he turned to Eddard, "your Lady wife seems… intrigued by this man. If he can play half as well as he speaks, perhaps his songs might soothe your father's ire at your absence."
Eddard's grip on Ashara's hand tightened momentarily.
A shadow crossed his face, and then he shrugged, a weary acceptance in his eyes.
Lady Ashara, however, finally broke her scrutinizing gaze from the Prince.
"Have you been to King's Landing, bard?" she asked, her voice soft yet carrying a curious undercurrent.
Rhaegar answered carefully, "No My Lady. I have not. The stories about the city smells made my stomach turn."
Ashara turned her attention to his's companions, her gaze lingering briefly on Ser Arthur disguised well as a sell sword, hair dyed and sword swapped for common steel.
Then, addressing Eddard, her voice held a gentle persuasion, "If he sings well truly, Ned, then Lord Manderly's idea is sound. Perhaps a skilled singer could indeed distract from the…tension… your absence may cause at Winterfell."
Eddard nodded, the grim line of his jaw softening slightly. "Very well, Let us see if your talents warrant this patronage."
Rhaegar bowed, a sense of relief washing over him.
Not a flicker of recognition from Ashara, not even at his guards.
With practiced fingers, he coaxed the first notes from his harp, a melody rising into the air, sweet and wistful, echoing off the stone walls.
They met one night, 'neath starlight bright,
His heart ablaze, her soul took flight.
A prince, they say, with vows to keep,
Yet in her gaze, his soul found sleep.
The whispers soft, the laughter low,
A bond they forged, where love could grow.
They danced in shadows, 'cross the floor,
No crown could hold them back any more.
Oh, hearts entwined, a love so sweet,
A stolen dance with willing feet.
One born to lead, one wild and free,
Their love a song for eternity.
The world outside, a distant call,
Within these walls, they risked it all.
A touch of hands, a stolen kiss,
Two hearts ablaze, in stolen bliss.
When the last chord faded, a silence hung in the air.
Lady Ashara's eyes shimmered with unshed tears as the final notes faded. "It is a beautiful song!" she murmured, the memory of their elopement vivid in her voice. "So like my own story, Cael. Ned, my husband He stole me away, My heart, my everything… and gave me this wonderful gift." She rested a hand protectively on her belly. "We met on the tourney of Harrenhall, where he first stole my kiss… and wed at the Isle of Faces with our vows, he gave me endless bliss." Her smile towards Eddard held a gentle teasing. "And the bard's song reminds me, my lord husband, you still owe me that dance."
Turning to Rhaegar, she offered a radiant smile, a flicker of warmth replacing the earlier scrutiny. "I have seldom heard such a beautiful song. Only the crown prince himself could match your talent. And even then…" she whispered conspiratorially, the action futile in court, but clearly in jest "...perhaps I liked yours even better. Though such thoughts
might border on treason, so I hope word of my praise doesn't leave this court?"
Eddard chuckled, the lines around his eyes softening. "Indeed, my lady. Cael's song stirs the heart. Mayhaps, father will be moved by such songs too. Your request is granted, Cael – you will journey with us to Winterfell."
Lord Manderly beamed, his approval clear. "Excellent! Then it's settled. Wylis, find these fine musicians suitable lodgings for the night. And you, bard, be ready at dawn. We depart for Winterfell come first light!"
Bowing deeply, the Prince and his disguised companions felt a wave of relief wash over them. Ashara's lack of recognition was a stroke of luck, or perhaps a testament to Leonard's talent in disguises.
They followed Wylis to a modest but comfortable inn within White Harbor's bustling streets.
As the door closed behind them, Ser Arthur's composure finally cracked.
Fury erupted from him, the mask of the sellsword falling away to reveal the outraged noble knight within.
"She eloped! With the quiet wolf!" he spat, his knuckles white as he gripped the back of a rough-hewn chair. "By the Seven, Ashara, what has done? What will Father say?"
Eyes blazing, he paced the small room, his anger a palpable force. "I knew she was unhappy at the Red Keep," he muttered, the name like a curse. "Father wanted to wed her in Dorne … and now this…"
Ser Oswell moved to his friend's side, a hand on his shoulder. "Easy, Arthur. It's done." He turned to the prince, "... perhaps this is for the best. Lady Ashara seems content here, in the end that's what matters right?"
The prince, his own heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation, stepped forward. "Oswell is right. Arthur…" He lowered his voice, a conspiratorial note entering it, "now, if you speak to Lady Lyanna, our words carry more weight. She's family now, is she not? This has always been about stealing a maiden away for love. Ashara seems to have found her own."
Arthur's anger sputtered but didn't extinguish entirely.
He slumped into the chair, his head in his hands. "I suppose," he murmured. "But still…my sister, a Stark…"
The prince laid a hand on Arthur's arm. "She looks happy, Arthur. And safe. That, in the end, is all that truly matters."
Despite the Prince's reassurance the night in White Harbor promised little rest.
The stage was set, the players moving into position.
And when dawn broke, Rhaegar Targaryen, hidden beneath the guise of Cael the bard, would ride one step closer to the destiny he believed was his.
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The morning air held a chill that did little to cool Lyanna's simmering nerves.
Winterfell's gates loomed ahead, the weathered stone a stark contrast to the vibrant banners of the approaching Baratheon party.
She stood beside her father, her brothers a somber tableau around them.
Brandon, his usual boisterousness tempered, offered a tight smile to his new Tully bride, Catelyn.
Her brother's wedding had been an affair she'd been forbidden to attend, but neither had Ned. She did not envy Brandon.
Eddard and his wife, Ashara, spoke in hushed tones.
A wave of bittersweet happiness washed over Lyanna.
Her brother, ever dutiful, had defied their father and made his own path, a path Lyanna could only yearn for.
Lady Ashara had told her husband everything that Brandon had tried to charm her to his bed, and Ned had decided to distance away from their elder brother as much as he could.
Even now, she knew he did not intend to remain at Winterfell any longer than necessary. He had prospects for a keep for him, at the Eyrie, at Storms End, and now even at Dorne.
She hoped he would choose Storm's End.
She would love to have him at least near her when she wed Robert. No matter how jealous she was of him, she loved him all the same.
Their father's fury at his arrival and subsequent news of elopement had been a storm that still rumbled in the tense undercurrents of the Stark household.
Benjen stood apart, his young face set in a stubborn line. Her heart ached for him.
Their father's punishment – forcing Benjen to keep his distance – was meant for her, a constant reminder of her own curtailed freedom.
"Lyanna," Her father's voice, gruff yet laced with weariness, brought her back to the present. "I know you dislike me. I …. will speak with Robert …. his proclivities"
She cut him off, halting the empty promise he intended to make to her again "No need, father. I know my duty. And I will perform it well. You need not worry about me anymore."
She turned her gaze away from her father.
He was a hypocrite.
He cared little for her, truly. He had offered her a thousand gold dragons, as a veiled death sentence to make her accept her fate in Winterfell.
She knew it, and he knew it too.
Yet, when Ned eloped with Ashara, all he got was a stern talking to, a resigned disappointed "Not you too, Ned" and that's that.
She shook her head from the depressing spiral she'd been tending to fall into recently. She had learned well from Lady Mormont and Maestery Walys. Her situation wasn't hopeless.
Robert would likely never be faithful to her, but she didn't need him to be. Not anymore.
She would rule Storm's End and show her father that she could play his little games better than he could.
It played into her father's schemes she knew, but as Lady of Storm's End, she would have a position as strong as her father's for any further negotiations, he wouldn't get what he hoped entirely from selling her off in her coming wedding.
She turned away from her father's disappointed gaze, she wouldn't let his saddened face tug at her heart any longer.
In the gathered crowd that awaited her betrothed's arrival, was the bard and his guards that Ned had traveled with.
Cael the bard.
And his guards Luke, and Edd.
The names tore further at her heartstrings, like the Gods were playing a cruel jape at her expense.
The infatuation she had with the Reacher boy, Luke had been just that. An infatuation.
He had been sweet, brave, and more noble than most boys she had met.
And she had attempted to manipulate him into taking her maidenhead. She was glad that he hadn't arrived to meet her the next day. He didn't deserve what she had planned for him.
And poor Caelum would have been swept in everything should she have been caught.
She had truly been a fool.
The bard's songs the few days he had been at court, reminded her of the Prince.
Or the idealized version of the Prince, she had believed him to be before his obsession with Prophecy had been revealed to her.
He had sang in the hall, for all to hear after Lady Ashara and Ned introduced him, and her father had agreed to him singing for the celebration of her wedding.
He had even offered the bard payment for his services, but the man had looked at her father, then at her, and smiled.
"I would only like a blue winter rose as payment, my lord." He had said, "Singing for your daughter's wedding will be my true reward."
Yet, even the bard was a reminder of her gilded cage.
Her father's guards watched her every move, their presence a constant hum of disapproval.
Only in her chambers and the gods wood was there a semblance of privacy, and even that was an illusion with guards posted just outside.
"Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm's End!" The herald's booming cry shattered her musings.
The gates swung open, revealing a whirlwind of men, banners snapping in the wind.
At the forefront rode Robert Baratheon himself, his dark hair and muscular build a stark contrast to the pale hues of the North.
He dismounted with a fluid grace, flashing a grin at Rickard Stark. "My Lord Rickard," Robert's voice was a rumble of good humor, "no need for formalities between soon-to-be kin, eh?"
Rickard sighed, a trace of a reluctant smile on his stern face. "Very well, Robert." He gave the younger lord a brief, somewhat awkward hug. He offered him bread and salt "Be welcome in Winterfell."
Nodding he accepted the offered bread, and gulped it down with fervor.
Turning to Brandon, Robert clasped his arm in genuine warmth. "Well met, Brandon! And my congratulations on your recent marriage!" He bowed to Catelyn, a touch of formality returning. "Lady Catelyn, a pleasure. You make a radiant bride." Catelyn curtsied, her cheeks warming slightly. "Thank you, my lord, your words are kind."
Ned was next, and Robert's booming laughter filled the courtyard. "Ned! And here I thought I was the wild one! Eloping, by the gods! Why didn't you invite me at least?!" He clapped Ned on the shoulder, his jovial grin infectious.
Ned's own smile was rueful. "Apologies, Robert. It was…spur of the moment, shall we say."
Robert leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "The lady fair enough to tempt you into such madness, then?"
His gaze flitted towards Ashara, understanding dawning in his eyes. "Ah," he chuckled, "now I see! No wonder you were in a rush. Well done, my friend, well done!"
Ashara offered a gentle smile. "The wolf is as wild as ever, my lord, merely… redirected."
Robert laughed, as he offered a kiss atop the lady's knuckles.
Lyanna smiled despite herself, for all his faults Robert brought true joy to Ned, and for that she can't truly hate him.
Finally, he approached Lyanna. His gaze swept over her, the boisterousness fading slightly, replaced by a flicker of curiosity mixed with genuine admiration. "Lady Lyanna," he said, his voice softening, "you're as beautiful as the day I last saw you."
Lyanna managed a polite incline of her head. "My Lord Baratheon," she murmured, "welcome to Winterfell."
Internally, she gritted her teeth.
Last she saw him, he had stumbled and stomped his way away to the brothel in Harrentown. It was likely he remembered whatever whore he tumbled around with more than he did her.
Her father then stepped forward. "Lord Robert, your men – refreshments and rest await. It has been a long journey."
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The Great Hall crackled with energy. The long tables groaned under the weight of roasted boar, venison pies, and flagons of ale.
Lords of the North, their weathered faces reflecting the harsh beauty of their lands, mingled with the Stormlander knights, their laughter echoing off the ancient stone walls.
Lord Manderly, his laughter booming above the din, raised his goblet in a toast to the upcoming union.
Beside him, Lord Karstark, grim even in celebration, shared a quieter jest with Lord Bolton, whose unnerving pale eyes surveyed the hall with a predator's focus.
Lord Dustin danced happily with his lady wife, whose gaze frequently strayed to the high table. She felt disgusted by the lady, Lord Dustin seemed to adore the lady in truth, but Lady Dustin was still looking to put horns on the poor man.
She hoped Brandon didn't reciprocate any further. Father would be watching him, but she knew if he desired, he would find a way back in her bed.
At the high table, Eddard and Ashara moved as one through a graceful dance, their smiles a touchstone of genuine happiness amidst the boisterous revelry.
Brandon and Catelyn made a more formal pair, their movements a careful duet of propriety and tentative connection. They would need a long while before they get comfortable with one another, provided Brandon controls his lusts.
He had already lost Ned due to them, he would do well to not lose his wife too.
Lyanna watched from the shadows, her heart a dull ache.
The bard's song, full of stolen hearts and whispered promises, stung with cruel irony. All around her, couples swayed and twirled, but she felt trapped in a dance she did not choose.
Robert, a few paces away, goblet untouched, was bolstering his courage. His eyes flickered towards her, a mixture of admiration and apprehension battling within him. Finally, he rose, smoothed his tunic, and approached.
"Lady Lyanna," he offered her his hand with a slightly lopsided grin, "Might I have the honor of a dance?"
A small, tight smile was her only answer as she accepted his hand. As they moved onto the dance floor, he launched into a clumsy attempt at conversation, mistaking her quiet formality for pre-wedding jitters.
"Afraid I haven't been the most… attentive of suitors," he confessed, a rueful edge to his voice. "Should've come courting sooner, but well… to be honest, I was a bit intimidated." He paused, a flicker of vulnerability flashing in his eyes. "Ned always said… said you were a force to be reckoned with." He offered a self-deprecating chuckle. "Should've listened, shouldn't I?"
Lyanna hesitated, guilt and frustration warring with the urge to say something sharp. "Don't worry, my lord," she managed, her voice cool, "We have a lifetime to acquaint ourselves."
His expression fell slightly at her distant tone. "But that's just it, isn't it? Wish we had more time. Perhaps a ride later, to…talk, and all that?"
"Forgive me, my lord," Lyanna countered, "but it has been… a while since I last rode. My skills must be quite rusty."
Robert's disappointment was clear. "Well, don't you worry about that! Storm's End has plenty of fine horses. We can ride together – daily if you like!"
A hesitant smile touched Lyanna's lips.
The thought of escape, even in this small measure, was bittersweet. "Mayhaps," she agreed softly, "Mayhaps we shall."
Despite Robert's clumsy charm, Lyanna couldn't quell the litany of his faults playing in her mind.
He had dishonored her at the tourney, fathered a bastard in the vale, spent the day at Harrenhall's brothel when the Prince had dishonored her in front of the realm.
Yet, a flicker of doubt began to creep in.
The man before her was trying, however awkwardly.
Albeit at her brother's behest. But he was attempting …. Something.
It wasn't the grand, romantic gesture she'd longed for, but it was…something.
"Mayhaps," she murmured in agreement to his suggestion of rides together, "If Eddard were to join us at Storm's End…" Her voice trailed off, the thought both hopeful and laced with unease.
With Ned as a buffer, a guide, perhaps they could navigate this together, temper Robert's wilder impulses.
The dance ended, and with it, their stilted conversation.
A flicker of relief passed through Lyanna as she excused herself, a need for solitude pressing upon her.
As she slipped from the hall's warmth, the weight of the coming days pressed down with stifling force. The Godswood, with its quiet heart tree, beckoned as a sanctuary.
To her surprise, her usual guards, ever-present shadows, were absent. They were probably still at the feast.
Beneath the watchful gaze of the heart tree, Lyanna sank to the cool earth, she couldn't control her tears then.
She did not know what to do, truly.
This was her fate, sealed by alliances and her father's ambition.
Robert was making an effort, clumsy as it was.
A small, fragile part of her wondered if it could be enough, if the man she'd despised at the tourney could become something more.
Perhaps…perhaps she owed him that much. She wouldn't expect miracles. Fidelity was a fool's dream, but a modicum of respect, a partnership of sorts – maybe that was within reach.
She had given him no chance at the tourney, she realized too angered by the news of the bastard girl he had fathered in the Vale, too caught up in her own anger and disappointment, but he had been trying then too.
She could mold Robert into something worthy of respecting her at least.
She would rule Storm's End, be the voice in his ear.
Father wouldn't get the easy alliance he desired through her, she would make him work for it.
A sharp crack of a twig shattered her prayer.
Wiping away tears, Lyanna braced herself to face the guards that had returned to guard her.
Instead, her breath caught in her throat.
Cael, the bard, stood before her, and there, unmistakably hidden beneath his traveling clothes, was the hilt of a sword.
Fear coiled in her belly.
"Lady Lyanna," Cael murmured, noticing her alarm, he took a cautious step back. "I mean you no harm, I swear it."
Lyanna stepped away from him, her voice tight with suspicion. "You... you carry a sword. Why are you here?"
A tentative smile touched his lips, transforming his handsome face into something achingly familiar. "I had thought the Knight of the Laughing Tree would recognize a friend," he said softly, "even in disguise."
A gasp escaped Lyanna's lips as the pieces fell into place.
His violet eyes, the song he had sung of a stolen heart... it was him.
The crown prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, stood before her in the guise of a humble bard.
"Why?" she stammered, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and a flicker of unwelcome hope. "Why are you here?"
"I saw you, Lyanna," he replied, using her name with a familiarity that sent a tremor through her, "I saw your spirit at Harrenhal, and I see your unhappiness now. You do not wish to wed Robert Baratheon." He took a step closer, earnestness in his voice. "I can help you, Lyanna. You can flee, break this betrothal…"
Hope flared within her, a desperate, foolish flame.
She immediately tamped it down. "What do you mean?" Her voice held a forced calmness despite the chaos within.
"Run away," he said simply, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. "Just as your brother Eddard did. Marry for love, not duty."
"What do you mean?" Lyanna's voice was barely a whisper, a mix of desperation and dread.
His response was shockingly direct. "I love you, Lyanna. I saw you at the tourney, your courage, your wild spirit… it captivated me. And now I see your unhappiness, a caged wolf yearning for freedom. I can give you that freedom."
Lyanna's hesitation was a sharp blade cutting against the allure of his words. "You…you are married," she pointed out, her voice raspy, "To Princess Elia."
He flinched, caught off-guard.
His hand instinctively stroked his black-dyed hair. "Elia…she is fragile," he said, his voice low and intense, "Another childbirth could kill her. She will not live for long."
"What…what are you saying?" she managed to force out.
His eyes, those haunting violet eyes, held a mesmerizing intensity. "We can be wed, Lyanna. It is my destiny, the prophecy... " He paused, then continued, his voice taking on an almost pleading note, "You would be my queen, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I love you, Lyanna. I would never dishonor you as Robert would."
Lyanna's heart hammered against her ribs.
Her long-suppressed dreams, the yearning for a freedom she thought forever out of reach, was suddenly within her grasp. The prince, with his silver hair, his promises of love and a crown…he was the escape she had desperately craved.
Then, like a venomous serpent, her father's voice hissed in her memory.
Warnings of war, accusations of the prince's obsession with prophecy, the twisted need for a third child.
He would try to get her with child if Princess Elia failed.
Her father's warnings of the prince's madness rang true.
He wanted to kill his own wife, to get to her.
And if the poor woman birthed another babe anew, she would be thrown aside as a whore.
Lady Mormont had taught her well.
She couldn't lead her family to slaughter. She wouldn't see Benjen, Ned, or even Brandon fall to a Targaryen blade, no matter how much she despised her father.
A decision solidified within her, a desperate act born of loyalty and despair.
She stepped closer to the prince, her voice a soft, treacherous whisper. "If…if you truly loved me…" she murmured, her hand lifting, seemingly in caress, her eyes searching his.
Hope flashed across his face, a blinding flare in the fading twilight. "Lyanna…" he breathed, "You will be my queen. Ours will be the song of ice and fire..."
Her smile was swift, bitter, and held not a trace of the promised surrender.
Her knee slammed into his groin with brutal force.
Damning her future, her happiness, for the sake of her family.
The prince doubled over, his handsome features contorting in a mask of agony. Lyanna felt a flicker of satisfaction twist through her as she wrenched the sword from his hip.
Before he could recover, she was screaming. Her voice, hoarse with terror and defiance, echoed through the Godswood.
"GUARDS! FATHER! HELP!"
Her flight was a desperate dash through the darkening woods, branches whipping at her face, the pounding of her heart a frantic drumbeat in her ears.
And then, they were there.
Two men, armored but unfamiliar, springing from the shadows like wolves. They were the Prince's sell swords, she realized as she pirouetted away from them.
The first, tall and golden-haired, made a grab for her, but she spun away, the stolen sword flashing in the fading light.
The second, older, his face shadowed by a weathered helm, moved with terrifying speed. His sword clanged against hers, the force of the blow sending shockwaves through her arm.
"Oswell! Gather the prince, make for the horses! Bael awaits! I'll handle her!" The older man's voice was cold, and focused.
Ser Oswell, the younger knight, hesitated for a split second, then darted past Lyanna into the trees, disappearing in the direction of the stricken prince.
So even the body guards were the Kings Guard in truth.
Lyanna spat a defiance at the remaining knight's feet, her heart sinking.
They were trapped in the heart of Winterfell, outnumbered and outmatched.
"You'll not escape," she rasped, her sword wavering in her bruised hand.
"That remains to be seen, little wolf," the knight replied coldly. His helm obscured his features, but there was an unnerving certainty in his voice.
He lunged forward, not to cut, but to disarm.
Though battered, Lyanna fought back, her training from Lady Mormont fueling a desperate resistance.
But it was useless. With a twist of his wrist, her sword skittered across the cold earth. A moment later, a heavy hand was on her shoulder, a blow was coming…
And then, chaos erupted.
The tranquility of the Godswood exploded into a storm of shouts and the clash of steel.
Guards in the Stark livery surged past her, followed by a host of Northern lords – Manderly, Bolton, Mormont, their faces grim beneath torchlight.
From the opposite direction came Stormland knights, Robert Baratheon and her own brothers, Ned and Brandon, leading the charge, swords gleaming.
Rickard Stark's authoritative voice cut through the din. "Release my daughter, sellsword and leniency may yet be yours."
Lyanna's correction was a desperate hiss. "Father, it's Ser Arthur Dayne! The prince – he's in the Godswood!"
Arthur tightened his grip, the point of his sword pressing into her throat until she fell silent. "Harm her," Rickard roared, his eyes blazing with fury, "and you will not leave this place alive!"
"Alive or dead makes little difference," Arthur retorted, a strange, almost resigned smile twisting his lips. "My duty is to my King."
Robert Baratheon surged forward, his war hammer raised. "Your King ordered this abduction? Aerys, the Mad King?"
Arthur scoffed, "My King is Rhaegar, and no other."
Before the tense exchange could escalate further, an arrow hissed through the air, slamming into Arthur's side.
He gasped, his grip loosening, his sword arm going slack.
A flicker of surprise, then a defiant grin crossed his face as he crumpled to the ground.
Lyanna wrenched herself free, stumbling towards her family.
Ned, showing presence of mind, kicked Arthur's fallen sword away.
Relief coursed through her, but it was quickly replaced by a sickening dread.
"The Godswood!" she gasped, "The prince is in there!"
Rickard, flanked by Robert and her brothers, was a whirlwind of fury. "Rodrik!" he barked, "Seize the prince! Do not let him escape!"
Robert was near vibrating with rage, his voice echoing through the clearing, "Let me go! I'll smash his skull in!"
Rodrik nodded grimly, gathering a band of men and disappearing into the shadowed trees.
Rickard, showing his aged shrewdness, held his sons back. "Ned, Brandon, cool your tempers. We need a clear head, not just brute force. You too Lord Baratheon."
Moments later, Rodrik returned, his expression grim. "The Godswood is empty, my lord."
Lyanna wracked her brain, desperately searching her hazy memory of the encounter. "...Horses," she murmured, "Ser Arthur said something about horses, and someone named Bael."
A flicker of comprehension crossed Rickard's face, followed by a chilling rage. "Sound the alarm! To the gates! Ready horses, we will pursue them!"
As the men readied to leave, at the barked orders, her father stopped Brandon "Head to the crypts. Search them thoroughly."
"The crypts! Father, I should ride in pursuit!" Brandon protested.
"Silence!" Her father ordered, as they made their way quickly toward the castle "This reeks of Bael the bard's legend. He could be hidden within the crypts! You will do as I say!"
Chastised, her brother nodded, and left hurriedly to carry out his orders.
"Ned, take Lyanna to her chambers, have Maester Walys see to her wounds. I will give chase with the men." Her father continued giving out orders.
She felt relieved that her part in all this was finally done, she had made her choice in the end.
It was Ser Arthur, his head buzzing from Ned's blow, who chuckled darkly at that. Robert had gotten a few whacks into the unarmed man in his anger after the fact too.
Rickard's icy gaze locked onto him. "Why do you laugh, Kingsguard?"
"The prince is far beyond your reach," Arthur rasped, blood seeping from his wound. "You will never find him."
"We have you," Rickard countered, "And words have a way of loosening even the most loyal tongues." He paused, then looked to his assembled men, and then at Ned who was helping her return to her chambers. "Ned, instructs Maester Walys to have ravens dispatched to White Harbor, no to all the docks in the North. All ports, all ships...no vessel leaves the North without my express permission."
The Prince would be caught.
"Raise the Banners! Lord Stark!" Robert Baratheon's fury laced voice rang through the air "This means war."
Despair settled in the pits of her stomach, Lyanna had done this to avoid war at all costs.
She realized she had been doomed, her house had been doomed the moment the prince had set his eyes on her.
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Caelum bounced excitedly beside his mother on the wagon seat, his eyes sparkling as he recounted his latest escapade. "And then," he exclaimed, "I was listening for the hawk, as Willas searched for her! Guess what? She was right at the top of the tree, Ma, so high up! And had taken a poor kitten up there with her. We had to make Sunflash leave her, and Willas had to teach her not to think of kittens as food."
Elyna smiled, stroking her son's dark hair. "Good Jon, Caelum. All animals deserve kindness, just like people. Treat them with respect, and they will respect you too"
Caelum beamed in response, a small gap in his smile showcasing a missing tooth.
While still young, there was a spark in his eyes that spoke of a maturity beyond his seven years.
Harlon emerged from the inn, wiping his brow on his sleeve. "Looks like we're done here," he announced, giving the cart a final inspection. "One more delivery, then we pick up Luke, Meredith and Toman from the castle. Should be a quick trip back home after that."
Caelum hopped down from the wagon. "Can I help, Pa?" he asked, his voice filled with an earnest determination.
Harlon chuckled, ruffling his son's hair playfully. "Maybe when you're a bit bigger, lad. Today, you're my official 'barrel checker'. Make sure none are loose, alright?"
Caelum saluted with a grin, taking his duties seriously as he scurried around the cart.
Elyna watched the pair with a mix of pride and a lingering worry she couldn't quite shake. Briar City was their biggest delivery route, and while the town itself was friendly enough, the roads could be unpredictable.
Yet, Caelum was growing so quickly, and it wouldn't be long before he'd be handling these chores alongside his father.
The wagon rumbled onward, Caelum settling back against the barrels with a contented sigh. "What else did you do today, Caelum?" Elyna asked, a soft smile playing on her lips.
"Oh!" Caelum's eyes lit up again. "Willas sent a letter to his friend! A princess from Dorne, you know? With Sunflash!" He paused for dramatic effect. "And she's going to answer with an eagle! Can you believe it, Ma? An eagle!"
Both Elyna and Harlon chuckled at their son's infectious enthusiasm.
Suddenly, Caelum's ears perked up.
A distant voice, tinged with frustration, drifted through the air. "Blast it all! Where could that wretched purse have gotten to?"
"Someone's in trouble," Caelum informed his parents, already focusing on the sound.
Harlon raised an eyebrow. "What do you want to do, lad?"
"He's coming this way," Caelum said, brow furrowed in concentration. "To the next delivery. It wouldn't hurt to stop and help, would it?"
Harlon and Elyna exchanged a knowing glance.
Then, with a nod, Harlon directed the wagon down a narrower street, guided by Caelum's instructions.
They finally came upon a disheveled man, frantically searching the dusty road.
"Easy there, friend," Harlon called out, a reassuring note in his voice. "What seems to be the trouble?"
The man, startled, spun around. "My purse," he lamented, "it's gone! Stolen, I reckon. I am Elston, a baker. And my purse was right there by my stall, this is the second time in the last three moons it has gone missing!"
"Can you describe it?" Harlon asked.
"Purple satchel," Elston replied, "silver trimming on the opening. Had my week's earnings in it..." His voice trailed off miserably.
Caelum listened intently, then discreetly focused on the description, he focused his eyes, gaining an otherworldly clarity to them.
As if through an invisible window, he saw the purple satchel, a block away, tucked beneath a table in the very inn they were headed for next.
A quick glance showed him his father had noticed his subtle nod.
"Don't fret, Elston," Harlon said calmly. "We'll have a look around. If we find it, we'll make sure to get it back to you."
With newfound hope, Elston thanked them profusely.
Caelum guided his father in driving the wagon towards the inn. "It's at our next delivery spot" He said.
"I see," Harlon said, as he looked at the inn. "Fortunate, then. I'll take a barrel in, and we can do the delivery, then find the thief."
Caelum excited at helping someone again, quickly clutched at the barrel nearest to him, and lifted it on to his father's back.
"Caelum!" His father admonished "Those are heavy! You'll hurt your back!"
"Aww, Pa," Caelum said as he jumped off the cart, after kissing his mum's cheek, bidding her to wait for them outside as they finished the delivery, and confronted the thief. "I don't think it was that heavy, truly!"
Harlon tried to remain stern to his son, but failed miserably.
Sighing to himself in amusement, he followed Caelum into the inn. His wife watched them go with a fond gaze.
Inside the bustling inn, Harlon delivered the ale, his eyes scanning the patrons while Caelum watched a ragged-looking man hunched over a plate of food. The purple satchel lay beside him, the stolen coins now buying a meager meal.
A pang of sympathy went through Caelum - the man seemed more desperate than wicked.
"Well, Caelum?" Harlon joined him, a thoughtful frown on his face. "What should we do? There's the guards, of course. Hand the fellow over, take the purse back to the baker. Or…" He let the question hang in the air.
Caelum chewed his lip. "He's just…hungry, Pa. Turning him in won't fill his belly. It'll just get him into worse trouble with Lord Tyrell."
Harlon nodded slowly. "So what is your idea?"
"The baker, he…well, he had work that needs doing right? Guarding his stall, stuff like that. And his purse keeps getting stolen…maybe..." Caelum hesitated, then took a breath, "Maybe if we can convince the thief to return the purse, tell the baker what happened… the baker might be kind. Offer him a job."
A glimmer of pride shone in Harlon's eyes. "Good thinking, son. But there's a few holes in that plan. First, we'd need the baker to understand how desperate this fellow is. Then there's whether he'd truly be kind. And…" Harlon's voice softened, "the thief himself. No reason for him to trust us, and if confronted, he might do something rash."
Caelum nodded, the weight of the situation settling on him.
"Here's what we'll do," Harlon said decisively. "I'll handle this. Keep an eye on things, but don't say a word, alright?"
Harlon approached the ragged figure with a friendly smile. "Excuse me," he began, his voice warm and disarming, "I couldn't help but overhear your troubles earlier."
The man, startled, looked up from his now empty plate. Initial wariness flickered in his eyes. "Aye?" he said cautiously.
"Harlon, farmer and ale brewer by trade," Harlon continued, extending a calloused hand. "And this here's my son, Caelum." He gave Caelum a gentle nudge, who offered a small wave in return.
The man hesitated, then tentatively shook Harlon's hand. "Willem," he muttered. "No trade, not anymore…"
"Willem," Harlon echoed, "a hard world out there, isn't it? Makes it difficult for an honest man to earn his daily bread." He motioned towards the empty plate. "Baker's fare good here, at least?"
Willem's lips twitched into a half-smile. "Warms the belly better than nothing, I suppose."
Seizing the opportunity, Harlon pulled out a stool and sat across from Willem. "Been in Briar City long?" he asked, keeping his tone conversational.
"Off and on," Willem replied. "Had a bit of work at the stables, but…" His voice trailed off, a flicker of shame crossing his face.
Harlon nodded sympathetically. "I've been through lean times myself," he admitted. "Takes a strong man to make it on his own." He eyed Willem, gauging his reaction. Underneath the grime and tattered clothing, there was a spark of weary determination.
After a few more minutes of gentle questioning, Harlon had gleaned more of Willem's story: a lost apprenticeship, bad luck, and a dwindling hope. Finally, he leaned forward slightly.
"Tell me, Willem," Harlon said quietly, "if there was a chance at a steady wage, an honest day's work for an honest day's pay…would that interest you?"
Willem's eyes widened. Hope, mingled with a flicker of suspicion, flared in their depths. "Steady work?" he repeated. "You…you're not mocking me?"
"Not at all," Harlon replied earnestly. "Fact is, there might be an opportunity. But first..." he paused significantly, "there's a matter that needs to be settled."
Willem stiffened. The hopeful light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a familiar wariness. "What…what matter?"
"The missing purse," Harlon said, keeping his voice even. "That of the baker you were just lamenting to."
Willem froze, words sputtering on his lips. "I...I don't…"
"Willem," Harlon said, his voice firm but kind, "I'm not here to turn you in. But folks in Briar City, even the good ones, won't tolerate thievery forever. A word in the wrong ear, and you'd be paying a visit to the Tyrell's dungeons."
Willem gulped visibly. "So…what then?" he asked, a tremor in his voice. "How does confessing help me get this…job?"
Harlon smiled reassuringly. "Let's just say…I take an interest in good men down on their luck. If you agree, I'll help. Come clean to the baker, and maybe he'll show some kindness. If not..." he shrugged, "there's always a need for strong hands on my farm. Fair pay, roof over your head."
Willem stared, the offer slowly sinking in. Finally, a flicker of desperate resolve settled in his eyes. "Alright," he said quietly. "Alright, I'll do it."
Caelum, observing his father, felt a swell of pride. Harlon had calmed the panicked man, found the kernel of good within him, and offered a helping hand.
With Willem in tow, they left the inn and rejoined Elyna at the wagon.
Willem trailed nervously behind the cart as they returned to the baker's stall.
Now came the hardest part.
With the purple satchel tucked carefully under his arm, Harlon approached Elston's bustling stall. The baker, deep in conversation with a customer, barely noticed him at first.
"Master Elston," Harlon called out, raising his voice slightly over the market's din.
Elston looked up, surprise giving way to a burst of pure joy as he recognized the satchel. "By the Seven!" he exclaimed, "You found it! Bless you, good sir, a thousand blessings!"
He fumbled in his pocket. "Here, allow me to reward you for your kindness…"
Harlon gently pushed his hand away. "Save your coin, friend. A full belly and a clear conscience is reward enough." Something about the baker's warmth made Harlon bolder; it was time for the next step of his plan.
"Tell me, Elston," he continued, "would you be willing to offer that same kindness to another man, one down on his luck, in need of a helping hand?"
Intrigued, Elston nodded. "A man of good heart, is that what you mean? Then of course! What sort of favor do you ask?"
Harlon motioned for Willem to step forward. The ragged man hesitated, then tentatively approached the stall.
"This is Willem," Harlon said. "He...he had a hand in the disappearance of your purse."
Elston froze, the friendly smile vanishing from his face. "He… what?" His hand instinctively reached for the place where the purse had been moments ago. "Guards!" He began to shout, panic replacing gratitude.
Harlon stepped forward, placing a calming hand on Elston's arm. "Peace, friend, peace. Hear the man out." He turned to Willem. "Go on, tell him."
Willem, eyes downcast, recounted his tale in a trembling voice: the lost jobs, the dwindling hope, the desperate act driven by hunger. Harlon watched Elston closely. The baker's face was a shifting mask of anger, pity, and wariness.
Finally, Elston spoke, his voice hardened, "So he's a thief. Why should I trust him to guard my stall, when he's proven himself unworthy?"
"Because a full belly doesn't yearn to steal," Harlon argued, "and a man with something to lose won't risk losing it." He placed a hand on Willem's shoulder. "One chance, Master Elston. That's all he asks. A debt to repay, a path back to honest work. If he falters, then you hold the power."
Elston chewed his lip, considering. Long moments passed before he finally sighed, a mix of resignation and a grudging hope in his eyes.
"Very well," he said to Willem. "You'll have your chance, but you'll start by earning back the coin you spent. Fair warning, I'll be watching you like a hawk."
A wave of relief washed over Willem, and it was then that Caelum, watching from the wagon, saw a change in the man.
A flicker of determination replaced the desperation in his eyes.
Harlon smiled, a genuine warmth that matched Elston's own when he'd recovered his purse. It was a small victory, one that resonated with the bustling life around them.
Caelum and Elyna who had been watching the exchange, smiled too feeling immensely proud of Harlon.
Caelum vowed internally, that he would be a man who would make his Pa proud too.
As Harlon bid farewell to Elston and Willem, a gentle breeze ruffled his hair. His return to the wagon felt triumphant, a small beacon of light in a world often shrouded in hardship. Elyna greeted him with a quick, affectionate kiss, her eyes mirroring the pride Caelum felt swelling in his chest.
"Well done, husband," she murmured, the smile in her voice a warm echo of his own warmth.
A quick ruffle of Caelum's hair made him beam, a promise in his heart echoing silently: I will be a man you're proud of, too.
"Time's wasting," Harlon declared, breaking the sweet moment. "On to the castle, then home we go. I wouldn't want Luke and Toman to think we abandoned him to the lords and their squabbles." His words were light, but it was clear he was trying to take the focus away from him by the red blush on his cheeks.
The journey to the castle was filled with Caelum's chatter. He regaled his parents with more tales from the lessons he shared with Lord Garlan under Maester Lomys' tutelage.
Yet, as they neared the imposing gates of Highgarden, a change descended.
The bustling heart of Briar City gave way to a strange hush.
Guards stood stiffly at their posts, and the usual sounds of laughter and haggling from within the castle walls seemed strangely muted. Luke, Toman, and Meredith stood waiting, their smiles forced and eyes shadowed.
"What ails you?" Harlon asked, a gruff note entering his voice as he surveyed the boy his son affectionately called brother, the girl his son called sister, and one of his oldest friends.
Whatever had transpired was clearly no cause for celebration.
Luke swallowed, his fingers tightening around the reins of his mount. "Ser Vortimer..." he began, then paused, as if searching for the right words. "He's made me his squire, Father."
Caelum, ever the optimist, clapped his hands gleefully. "That's wonderful, Luke! Doesn't that mean—"
"It means war, little brother," Luke cut in, his voice bleak. "Ser Vortimer says I'll squire on the battlefield. The Reach raises its banners, Cael. House Tyrell stands with the Targaryens." He looked at each of them in turn, grim determination replacing his usual easy grin. "We march against the Starks."
The words hung heavy in the air.
A cold dread descended upon Caelum and his family.
War.
And his family would bleed for the same prince who had tried to have them killed at the tourney of Harrenhall.
He prayed to the Seven for guidance, once again.
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(A/N) Exams are a pain in the butt.
Anyway.
War is finally here, this time sparked by Rhaegar's madness.
Arthur Dayne is captive to the Starks.
This was a bit of a long chapter because of my sudden hiatus. Hope the wait was worth it.
Also, what did you guys think about the song? It was a shitty attempt, but inspired by Frank Sinatra.
White Harbor gleamed beneath the afternoon sun. The new city, a testament to Lord Manderly's ambition, rose from the stony coastline with freshly cut stone and timbered houses climbing towards the looming New Castle. The docks bustled – ships laden with timber and salted fish jostled next to sleek merchant vessels bearing the colors of far-off ports.
Atop the deck of a modest but well-kept ship, a young man stood out amidst the rough sailors.
With a final sack of coin handed to the weathered captain, the man gave a curt nod. "Wait for my signal at the harbor, as we agreed," he instructed, his voice low. "And may the Seven grant you fair winds." The captain grunted, the transaction completed.
Disembarking, he approached two men who awaited his arrival. Their weathered, but well-armed attired marked them as rough sellswords with sun-weathered faces and mismatched leathers.
"News?" the man asked.
"From your spies, my prince," Ser Oswell Whent replied. "Brandon Stark wed to the Tully girl, as expected. And the Baratheon stag rides north with a party of about three hundred, lords and men from the Stormlands – Lord Robert is already on his way to Winterfell. Bael is already on his way to Winter Town, he will be ready when the time arrives."
The prince's amusement faded, replaced by a flicker of sternness. "Don't call me the Prince, I am Cael," he corrected sharply. "And please, Edd, a little less formality. We're playing roles, remember?"
The men nodded, well admonished for the slip.
Then he nodded, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "This is excellent news. Then we have little time to waste. First, New Castle. Let us pay our respects to Lord Manderly."
Ser Arthur Dayne, frowned scratching at his well-fit, but ill-feeling attire. "Cael, forgive my boldness, but this disguise…your eyes are unmistakable."
The prince chuckled, mirth clear in his voice. "Relax, Luke. We've witnessed countless mummers and plays at court. And even among them, Leonard has a rare talent." He rubbed a hand across his dyed hair. "At most, I resemble some dragon seed bastard, not the crown prince. I make for the perfect bard, especially amongst those of the North. Relax, my friend. You worry for naught."
Despite the Prince's reassurances, a crease remained between Ser Arthur's brows. "Even so, this plan… it hinges entirely on the Lady Lyanna's cooperation. What if she spurns you?" His voice held a note of unease, the knight uncomfortable with the effectiveness of the plan.
Ser Oswell chuckled, a playful note entering his voice, "Come now, Luke, have you seen the Lady? She has the fiery blood of the Wolf in her, the same as her brothers. The spies have already established that she feels trapped in that dreary castle, and with the Baratheon brute soon breathing down her neck… trust me, she'll come willingly."
The prince, ever the visionary, spoke with unshakeable conviction. "Indeed, our spies have confirmed what we suspected. Lyanna Stark, the wild rose of Winterfell, finds herself… restrained. Rumors abound of her father barring her from riding, keeping her close." His violet eyes took on a faraway glint. "Prophecies, Luke. There's a power in them, a force that shapes destinies. This is her chance for freedom, for a life beyond the one laid out for her. She will grasp it. She will not be the first Stark maiden to have been spirited from within the walls of Winterfell. A bard did it once, and a bard will do so again."
Arthur nodded slowly, the logic of the prince's words sinking in, even if it didn't soothe all his reservations. With a sigh, he adjusted his ill-fitting jerkin. "Very well, Cael. Let us hope your instincts are as keen as your swordsmanship."
The streets of White Harbor hummed with activity. Merchants hawked their wares, fishermen hauled their catch from the docks, and the clang of a blacksmith's hammer rang out in rhythmic counterpoint to their horses' hooves.
The Prince in disguise atop his mount that they'd acquired from a nearby stable, held his harp with practiced ease.
His companions flanked him, their hard eyes scanning the crowds.
As they neared New Castle, the imposing stone walls loomed ahead.
Guards, clad in the distinctive blue and green livery of House Manderly, blocked their path. Their gazes narrowed suspiciously at the two heavily armed men accompanying a mere bard.
"Halt!" barked the guardsman. "State your names and your business here."
Rhaegar flashed a practiced smile, the charismatic bard persona coming easily. "Greetings, good sirs. I am Cael, a humble bard who travels the Seven Kingdoms. Word of the Lady Lyanna's impending wedding has reached my ears, and I yearn to offer my musical talents for the celebrations at Winterfell." He gestured towards the castle. "We were fortunate enough to learn that Lord Manderly has but recently returned from Lord Brandon's wedding. Perhaps we might join his party and travel North under his esteemed protection?"
The guard shifted, weighing their request.
Then, he glanced again at Cael's companions. "And these armed men? Why the need for such robust protection for a mere singer? Far from the crownlands aren't ya?"
Rhaegar let out a good-natured chuckle. "I am from the Crownlands, good ser. My mother had the blood of the dragons in her! Alas she passed away, and I had no talent at swordsmanship, as a bard I earn a fair bit of coin, and the roads are fraught with danger. My friends here, Edd and Luke, ensure a safe journey and the continued melody of my songs."
The guard's eyes flickered towards the harp slung on the prince in disguise's back, and a flicker of amusement crossed his weathered face. "Well, as luck would have it, Lord Manderly does hold court this very day. And with Lord Eddard Stark himself!" He paused, lowering his voice. "Strange times, these…perhaps a song or two might lighten the mood."
The mention of Stark sent a ripple of surprise through the disguised trio, but they masked it quickly.
"Excellent!" Rhaegar beamed. "Then perhaps you'd be kind enough to announce us? My thanks, Ser…?"
"Wylis," the guard grunted. "Follow me then, bard. Let's see if your tunes are as pleasing as your tongue."
Nodding, the Prince and his men dismounted their horses, trailing after Wylis into the heart of New Castle.
Within New Castle's walls, a sense of urgency hung in the air. Servants bustled through corridors, laden with trunks and chests, while stablehands readied horses and carriages. It was clear that preparations for a significant journey were underway.
Wylis led them into a grand hall where a gathering of nobles had assembled.
At the head of the polished wooden table sat Lord Manderly, his bulk spilling over his richly upholstered chair.
Beside him, a striking young woman with dark hair and violet eyes commanded attention, her hand resting lightly on a slightly rounded belly.
Beside her sat a grim-faced man with the unmistakable Stark features, Lord Eddard.
Cael bowed low before Lord Manderly, then towards Eddard Stark.
As he rose and turned to acknowledge the woman, his breath caught.
Lady Ashara Dayne.
Ser Arthur's sister, pregnant, eyes fixed on him.
It took a monumental effort to avert his gaze as a wave of surprise and a flicker of panic surged through him.
Beside him, Ser Arthur had frozen, and only a subtle nudge from Oswell kept him from openly staring at his sister.
Forcing himself out of his stupor, Cael bowed once more, struggling to ignore Lady Ashara's continued gaze. "My Lord Manderly, " he began, his voice steady, "I am Cael, and I am merely a traveling bard. I have heard of the Lady Lyanna's impending wedding and would offer my services as entertainment for the joyous occasion. I have learned that you intend to travel to the wedding, I seek safe passage to Winterfell under your protection."
Manderly eyed the Prince with shrewdness. "And you hail from where, bard? Such… exotic coloring suggests lands far from the North."
A beat of silence, the Prince bowed. "The Crownlands, my lord." He smiled ruefully. "I was born on Dragonstone."
Manderly chuckled after a moment's scrutiny longer, his belly shaking. "Dragon's blood, perhaps. Now, Stark," he turned to Eddard, "your Lady wife seems… intrigued by this man. If he can play half as well as he speaks, perhaps his songs might soothe your father's ire at your absence."
Eddard's grip on Ashara's hand tightened momentarily.
A shadow crossed his face, and then he shrugged, a weary acceptance in his eyes.
Lady Ashara, however, finally broke her scrutinizing gaze from the Prince.
"Have you been to King's Landing, bard?" she asked, her voice soft yet carrying a curious undercurrent.
Rhaegar answered carefully, "No My Lady. I have not. The stories about the city smells made my stomach turn."
Ashara turned her attention to his's companions, her gaze lingering briefly on Ser Arthur disguised well as a sell sword, hair dyed and sword swapped for common steel.
Then, addressing Eddard, her voice held a gentle persuasion, "If he sings well truly, Ned, then Lord Manderly's idea is sound. Perhaps a skilled singer could indeed distract from the…tension… your absence may cause at Winterfell."
Eddard nodded, the grim line of his jaw softening slightly. "Very well, Let us see if your talents warrant this patronage."
Rhaegar bowed, a sense of relief washing over him.
Not a flicker of recognition from Ashara, not even at his guards.
With practiced fingers, he coaxed the first notes from his harp, a melody rising into the air, sweet and wistful, echoing off the stone walls.
They met one night, 'neath starlight bright,
His heart ablaze, her soul took flight.
A prince, they say, with vows to keep,
Yet in her gaze, his soul found sleep.
The whispers soft, the laughter low,
A bond they forged, where love could grow.
They danced in shadows, 'cross the floor,
No crown could hold them back any more.
Oh, hearts entwined, a love so sweet,
A stolen dance with willing feet.
One born to lead, one wild and free,
Their love a song for eternity.
The world outside, a distant call,
Within these walls, they risked it all.
A touch of hands, a stolen kiss,
Two hearts ablaze, in stolen bliss.
When the last chord faded, a silence hung in the air.
Lady Ashara's eyes shimmered with unshed tears as the final notes faded. "It is a beautiful song!" she murmured, the memory of their elopement vivid in her voice. "So like my own story, Cael. Ned, my husband He stole me away, My heart, my everything… and gave me this wonderful gift." She rested a hand protectively on her belly. "We met on the tourney of Harrenhall, where he first stole my kiss… and wed at the Isle of Faces with our vows, he gave me endless bliss." Her smile towards Eddard held a gentle teasing. "And the bard's song reminds me, my lord husband, you still owe me that dance."
Turning to Rhaegar, she offered a radiant smile, a flicker of warmth replacing the earlier scrutiny. "I have seldom heard such a beautiful song. Only the crown prince himself could match your talent. And even then…" she whispered conspiratorially, the action futile in court, but clearly in jest "...perhaps I liked yours even better. Though such thoughts
might border on treason, so I hope word of my praise doesn't leave this court?"
Eddard chuckled, the lines around his eyes softening. "Indeed, my lady. Cael's song stirs the heart. Mayhaps, father will be moved by such songs too. Your request is granted, Cael – you will journey with us to Winterfell."
Lord Manderly beamed, his approval clear. "Excellent! Then it's settled. Wylis, find these fine musicians suitable lodgings for the night. And you, bard, be ready at dawn. We depart for Winterfell come first light!"
Bowing deeply, the Prince and his disguised companions felt a wave of relief wash over them. Ashara's lack of recognition was a stroke of luck, or perhaps a testament to Leonard's talent in disguises.
They followed Wylis to a modest but comfortable inn within White Harbor's bustling streets.
As the door closed behind them, Ser Arthur's composure finally cracked.
Fury erupted from him, the mask of the sellsword falling away to reveal the outraged noble knight within.
"She eloped! With the quiet wolf!" he spat, his knuckles white as he gripped the back of a rough-hewn chair. "By the Seven, Ashara, what has done? What will Father say?"
Eyes blazing, he paced the small room, his anger a palpable force. "I knew she was unhappy at the Red Keep," he muttered, the name like a curse. "Father wanted to wed her in Dorne … and now this…"
Ser Oswell moved to his friend's side, a hand on his shoulder. "Easy, Arthur. It's done." He turned to the prince, "... perhaps this is for the best. Lady Ashara seems content here, in the end that's what matters right?"
The prince, his own heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation, stepped forward. "Oswell is right. Arthur…" He lowered his voice, a conspiratorial note entering it, "now, if you speak to Lady Lyanna, our words carry more weight. She's family now, is she not? This has always been about stealing a maiden away for love. Ashara seems to have found her own."
Arthur's anger sputtered but didn't extinguish entirely.
He slumped into the chair, his head in his hands. "I suppose," he murmured. "But still…my sister, a Stark…"
The prince laid a hand on Arthur's arm. "She looks happy, Arthur. And safe. That, in the end, is all that truly matters."
Despite the Prince's reassurance the night in White Harbor promised little rest.
The stage was set, the players moving into position.
And when dawn broke, Rhaegar Targaryen, hidden beneath the guise of Cael the bard, would ride one step closer to the destiny he believed was his.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
The morning air held a chill that did little to cool Lyanna's simmering nerves.
Winterfell's gates loomed ahead, the weathered stone a stark contrast to the vibrant banners of the approaching Baratheon party.
She stood beside her father, her brothers a somber tableau around them.
Brandon, his usual boisterousness tempered, offered a tight smile to his new Tully bride, Catelyn.
Her brother's wedding had been an affair she'd been forbidden to attend, but neither had Ned. She did not envy Brandon.
Eddard and his wife, Ashara, spoke in hushed tones.
A wave of bittersweet happiness washed over Lyanna.
Her brother, ever dutiful, had defied their father and made his own path, a path Lyanna could only yearn for.
Lady Ashara had told her husband everything that Brandon had tried to charm her to his bed, and Ned had decided to distance away from their elder brother as much as he could.
Even now, she knew he did not intend to remain at Winterfell any longer than necessary. He had prospects for a keep for him, at the Eyrie, at Storms End, and now even at Dorne.
She hoped he would choose Storm's End.
She would love to have him at least near her when she wed Robert. No matter how jealous she was of him, she loved him all the same.
Their father's fury at his arrival and subsequent news of elopement had been a storm that still rumbled in the tense undercurrents of the Stark household.
Benjen stood apart, his young face set in a stubborn line. Her heart ached for him.
Their father's punishment – forcing Benjen to keep his distance – was meant for her, a constant reminder of her own curtailed freedom.
"Lyanna," Her father's voice, gruff yet laced with weariness, brought her back to the present. "I know you dislike me. I …. will speak with Robert …. his proclivities"
She cut him off, halting the empty promise he intended to make to her again "No need, father. I know my duty. And I will perform it well. You need not worry about me anymore."
She turned her gaze away from her father.
He was a hypocrite.
He cared little for her, truly. He had offered her a thousand gold dragons, as a veiled death sentence to make her accept her fate in Winterfell.
She knew it, and he knew it too.
Yet, when Ned eloped with Ashara, all he got was a stern talking to, a resigned disappointed "Not you too, Ned" and that's that.
She shook her head from the depressing spiral she'd been tending to fall into recently. She had learned well from Lady Mormont and Maestery Walys. Her situation wasn't hopeless.
Robert would likely never be faithful to her, but she didn't need him to be. Not anymore.
She would rule Storm's End and show her father that she could play his little games better than he could.
It played into her father's schemes she knew, but as Lady of Storm's End, she would have a position as strong as her father's for any further negotiations, he wouldn't get what he hoped entirely from selling her off in her coming wedding.
She turned away from her father's disappointed gaze, she wouldn't let his saddened face tug at her heart any longer.
In the gathered crowd that awaited her betrothed's arrival, was the bard and his guards that Ned had traveled with.
Cael the bard.
And his guards Luke, and Edd.
The names tore further at her heartstrings, like the Gods were playing a cruel jape at her expense.
The infatuation she had with the Reacher boy, Luke had been just that. An infatuation.
He had been sweet, brave, and more noble than most boys she had met.
And she had attempted to manipulate him into taking her maidenhead. She was glad that he hadn't arrived to meet her the next day. He didn't deserve what she had planned for him.
And poor Caelum would have been swept in everything should she have been caught.
She had truly been a fool.
The bard's songs the few days he had been at court, reminded her of the Prince.
Or the idealized version of the Prince, she had believed him to be before his obsession with Prophecy had been revealed to her.
He had sang in the hall, for all to hear after Lady Ashara and Ned introduced him, and her father had agreed to him singing for the celebration of her wedding.
He had even offered the bard payment for his services, but the man had looked at her father, then at her, and smiled.
"I would only like a blue winter rose as payment, my lord." He had said, "Singing for your daughter's wedding will be my true reward."
Yet, even the bard was a reminder of her gilded cage.
Her father's guards watched her every move, their presence a constant hum of disapproval.
Only in her chambers and the gods wood was there a semblance of privacy, and even that was an illusion with guards posted just outside.
"Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm's End!" The herald's booming cry shattered her musings.
The gates swung open, revealing a whirlwind of men, banners snapping in the wind.
At the forefront rode Robert Baratheon himself, his dark hair and muscular build a stark contrast to the pale hues of the North.
He dismounted with a fluid grace, flashing a grin at Rickard Stark. "My Lord Rickard," Robert's voice was a rumble of good humor, "no need for formalities between soon-to-be kin, eh?"
Rickard sighed, a trace of a reluctant smile on his stern face. "Very well, Robert." He gave the younger lord a brief, somewhat awkward hug. He offered him bread and salt "Be welcome in Winterfell."
Nodding he accepted the offered bread, and gulped it down with fervor.
Turning to Brandon, Robert clasped his arm in genuine warmth. "Well met, Brandon! And my congratulations on your recent marriage!" He bowed to Catelyn, a touch of formality returning. "Lady Catelyn, a pleasure. You make a radiant bride." Catelyn curtsied, her cheeks warming slightly. "Thank you, my lord, your words are kind."
Ned was next, and Robert's booming laughter filled the courtyard. "Ned! And here I thought I was the wild one! Eloping, by the gods! Why didn't you invite me at least?!" He clapped Ned on the shoulder, his jovial grin infectious.
Ned's own smile was rueful. "Apologies, Robert. It was…spur of the moment, shall we say."
Robert leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "The lady fair enough to tempt you into such madness, then?"
His gaze flitted towards Ashara, understanding dawning in his eyes. "Ah," he chuckled, "now I see! No wonder you were in a rush. Well done, my friend, well done!"
Ashara offered a gentle smile. "The wolf is as wild as ever, my lord, merely… redirected."
Robert laughed, as he offered a kiss atop the lady's knuckles.
Lyanna smiled despite herself, for all his faults Robert brought true joy to Ned, and for that she can't truly hate him.
Finally, he approached Lyanna. His gaze swept over her, the boisterousness fading slightly, replaced by a flicker of curiosity mixed with genuine admiration. "Lady Lyanna," he said, his voice softening, "you're as beautiful as the day I last saw you."
Lyanna managed a polite incline of her head. "My Lord Baratheon," she murmured, "welcome to Winterfell."
Internally, she gritted her teeth.
Last she saw him, he had stumbled and stomped his way away to the brothel in Harrentown. It was likely he remembered whatever whore he tumbled around with more than he did her.
Her father then stepped forward. "Lord Robert, your men – refreshments and rest await. It has been a long journey."
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The Great Hall crackled with energy. The long tables groaned under the weight of roasted boar, venison pies, and flagons of ale.
Lords of the North, their weathered faces reflecting the harsh beauty of their lands, mingled with the Stormlander knights, their laughter echoing off the ancient stone walls.
Lord Manderly, his laughter booming above the din, raised his goblet in a toast to the upcoming union.
Beside him, Lord Karstark, grim even in celebration, shared a quieter jest with Lord Bolton, whose unnerving pale eyes surveyed the hall with a predator's focus.
Lord Dustin danced happily with his lady wife, whose gaze frequently strayed to the high table. She felt disgusted by the lady, Lord Dustin seemed to adore the lady in truth, but Lady Dustin was still looking to put horns on the poor man.
She hoped Brandon didn't reciprocate any further. Father would be watching him, but she knew if he desired, he would find a way back in her bed.
At the high table, Eddard and Ashara moved as one through a graceful dance, their smiles a touchstone of genuine happiness amidst the boisterous revelry.
Brandon and Catelyn made a more formal pair, their movements a careful duet of propriety and tentative connection. They would need a long while before they get comfortable with one another, provided Brandon controls his lusts.
He had already lost Ned due to them, he would do well to not lose his wife too.
Lyanna watched from the shadows, her heart a dull ache.
The bard's song, full of stolen hearts and whispered promises, stung with cruel irony. All around her, couples swayed and twirled, but she felt trapped in a dance she did not choose.
Robert, a few paces away, goblet untouched, was bolstering his courage. His eyes flickered towards her, a mixture of admiration and apprehension battling within him. Finally, he rose, smoothed his tunic, and approached.
"Lady Lyanna," he offered her his hand with a slightly lopsided grin, "Might I have the honor of a dance?"
A small, tight smile was her only answer as she accepted his hand. As they moved onto the dance floor, he launched into a clumsy attempt at conversation, mistaking her quiet formality for pre-wedding jitters.
"Afraid I haven't been the most… attentive of suitors," he confessed, a rueful edge to his voice. "Should've come courting sooner, but well… to be honest, I was a bit intimidated." He paused, a flicker of vulnerability flashing in his eyes. "Ned always said… said you were a force to be reckoned with." He offered a self-deprecating chuckle. "Should've listened, shouldn't I?"
Lyanna hesitated, guilt and frustration warring with the urge to say something sharp. "Don't worry, my lord," she managed, her voice cool, "We have a lifetime to acquaint ourselves."
His expression fell slightly at her distant tone. "But that's just it, isn't it? Wish we had more time. Perhaps a ride later, to…talk, and all that?"
"Forgive me, my lord," Lyanna countered, "but it has been… a while since I last rode. My skills must be quite rusty."
Robert's disappointment was clear. "Well, don't you worry about that! Storm's End has plenty of fine horses. We can ride together – daily if you like!"
A hesitant smile touched Lyanna's lips.
The thought of escape, even in this small measure, was bittersweet. "Mayhaps," she agreed softly, "Mayhaps we shall."
Despite Robert's clumsy charm, Lyanna couldn't quell the litany of his faults playing in her mind.
He had dishonored her at the tourney, fathered a bastard in the vale, spent the day at Harrenhall's brothel when the Prince had dishonored her in front of the realm.
Yet, a flicker of doubt began to creep in.
The man before her was trying, however awkwardly.
Albeit at her brother's behest. But he was attempting …. Something.
It wasn't the grand, romantic gesture she'd longed for, but it was…something.
"Mayhaps," she murmured in agreement to his suggestion of rides together, "If Eddard were to join us at Storm's End…" Her voice trailed off, the thought both hopeful and laced with unease.
With Ned as a buffer, a guide, perhaps they could navigate this together, temper Robert's wilder impulses.
The dance ended, and with it, their stilted conversation.
A flicker of relief passed through Lyanna as she excused herself, a need for solitude pressing upon her.
As she slipped from the hall's warmth, the weight of the coming days pressed down with stifling force. The Godswood, with its quiet heart tree, beckoned as a sanctuary.
To her surprise, her usual guards, ever-present shadows, were absent. They were probably still at the feast.
Beneath the watchful gaze of the heart tree, Lyanna sank to the cool earth, she couldn't control her tears then.
She did not know what to do, truly.
This was her fate, sealed by alliances and her father's ambition.
Robert was making an effort, clumsy as it was.
A small, fragile part of her wondered if it could be enough, if the man she'd despised at the tourney could become something more.
Perhaps…perhaps she owed him that much. She wouldn't expect miracles. Fidelity was a fool's dream, but a modicum of respect, a partnership of sorts – maybe that was within reach.
She had given him no chance at the tourney, she realized too angered by the news of the bastard girl he had fathered in the Vale, too caught up in her own anger and disappointment, but he had been trying then too.
She could mold Robert into something worthy of respecting her at least.
She would rule Storm's End, be the voice in his ear.
Father wouldn't get the easy alliance he desired through her, she would make him work for it.
A sharp crack of a twig shattered her prayer.
Wiping away tears, Lyanna braced herself to face the guards that had returned to guard her.
Instead, her breath caught in her throat.
Cael, the bard, stood before her, and there, unmistakably hidden beneath his traveling clothes, was the hilt of a sword.
Fear coiled in her belly.
"Lady Lyanna," Cael murmured, noticing her alarm, he took a cautious step back. "I mean you no harm, I swear it."
Lyanna stepped away from him, her voice tight with suspicion. "You... you carry a sword. Why are you here?"
A tentative smile touched his lips, transforming his handsome face into something achingly familiar. "I had thought the Knight of the Laughing Tree would recognize a friend," he said softly, "even in disguise."
A gasp escaped Lyanna's lips as the pieces fell into place.
His violet eyes, the song he had sung of a stolen heart... it was him.
The crown prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, stood before her in the guise of a humble bard.
"Why?" she stammered, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and a flicker of unwelcome hope. "Why are you here?"
"I saw you, Lyanna," he replied, using her name with a familiarity that sent a tremor through her, "I saw your spirit at Harrenhal, and I see your unhappiness now. You do not wish to wed Robert Baratheon." He took a step closer, earnestness in his voice. "I can help you, Lyanna. You can flee, break this betrothal…"
Hope flared within her, a desperate, foolish flame.
She immediately tamped it down. "What do you mean?" Her voice held a forced calmness despite the chaos within.
"Run away," he said simply, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. "Just as your brother Eddard did. Marry for love, not duty."
"What do you mean?" Lyanna's voice was barely a whisper, a mix of desperation and dread.
His response was shockingly direct. "I love you, Lyanna. I saw you at the tourney, your courage, your wild spirit… it captivated me. And now I see your unhappiness, a caged wolf yearning for freedom. I can give you that freedom."
Lyanna's hesitation was a sharp blade cutting against the allure of his words. "You…you are married," she pointed out, her voice raspy, "To Princess Elia."
He flinched, caught off-guard.
His hand instinctively stroked his black-dyed hair. "Elia…she is fragile," he said, his voice low and intense, "Another childbirth could kill her. She will not live for long."
"What…what are you saying?" she managed to force out.
His eyes, those haunting violet eyes, held a mesmerizing intensity. "We can be wed, Lyanna. It is my destiny, the prophecy... " He paused, then continued, his voice taking on an almost pleading note, "You would be my queen, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I love you, Lyanna. I would never dishonor you as Robert would."
Lyanna's heart hammered against her ribs.
Her long-suppressed dreams, the yearning for a freedom she thought forever out of reach, was suddenly within her grasp. The prince, with his silver hair, his promises of love and a crown…he was the escape she had desperately craved.
Then, like a venomous serpent, her father's voice hissed in her memory.
Warnings of war, accusations of the prince's obsession with prophecy, the twisted need for a third child.
He would try to get her with child if Princess Elia failed.
Her father's warnings of the prince's madness rang true.
He wanted to kill his own wife, to get to her.
And if the poor woman birthed another babe anew, she would be thrown aside as a whore.
Lady Mormont had taught her well.
She couldn't lead her family to slaughter. She wouldn't see Benjen, Ned, or even Brandon fall to a Targaryen blade, no matter how much she despised her father.
A decision solidified within her, a desperate act born of loyalty and despair.
She stepped closer to the prince, her voice a soft, treacherous whisper. "If…if you truly loved me…" she murmured, her hand lifting, seemingly in caress, her eyes searching his.
Hope flashed across his face, a blinding flare in the fading twilight. "Lyanna…" he breathed, "You will be my queen. Ours will be the song of ice and fire..."
Her smile was swift, bitter, and held not a trace of the promised surrender.
Her knee slammed into his groin with brutal force.
Damning her future, her happiness, for the sake of her family.
The prince doubled over, his handsome features contorting in a mask of agony. Lyanna felt a flicker of satisfaction twist through her as she wrenched the sword from his hip.
Before he could recover, she was screaming. Her voice, hoarse with terror and defiance, echoed through the Godswood.
"GUARDS! FATHER! HELP!"
Her flight was a desperate dash through the darkening woods, branches whipping at her face, the pounding of her heart a frantic drumbeat in her ears.
And then, they were there.
Two men, armored but unfamiliar, springing from the shadows like wolves. They were the Prince's sell swords, she realized as she pirouetted away from them.
The first, tall and golden-haired, made a grab for her, but she spun away, the stolen sword flashing in the fading light.
The second, older, his face shadowed by a weathered helm, moved with terrifying speed. His sword clanged against hers, the force of the blow sending shockwaves through her arm.
"Oswell! Gather the prince, make for the horses! Bael awaits! I'll handle her!" The older man's voice was cold, and focused.
Ser Oswell, the younger knight, hesitated for a split second, then darted past Lyanna into the trees, disappearing in the direction of the stricken prince.
So even the body guards were the Kings Guard in truth.
Lyanna spat a defiance at the remaining knight's feet, her heart sinking.
They were trapped in the heart of Winterfell, outnumbered and outmatched.
"You'll not escape," she rasped, her sword wavering in her bruised hand.
"That remains to be seen, little wolf," the knight replied coldly. His helm obscured his features, but there was an unnerving certainty in his voice.
He lunged forward, not to cut, but to disarm.
Though battered, Lyanna fought back, her training from Lady Mormont fueling a desperate resistance.
But it was useless. With a twist of his wrist, her sword skittered across the cold earth. A moment later, a heavy hand was on her shoulder, a blow was coming…
And then, chaos erupted.
The tranquility of the Godswood exploded into a storm of shouts and the clash of steel.
Guards in the Stark livery surged past her, followed by a host of Northern lords – Manderly, Bolton, Mormont, their faces grim beneath torchlight.
From the opposite direction came Stormland knights, Robert Baratheon and her own brothers, Ned and Brandon, leading the charge, swords gleaming.
Rickard Stark's authoritative voice cut through the din. "Release my daughter, sellsword and leniency may yet be yours."
Lyanna's correction was a desperate hiss. "Father, it's Ser Arthur Dayne! The prince – he's in the Godswood!"
Arthur tightened his grip, the point of his sword pressing into her throat until she fell silent. "Harm her," Rickard roared, his eyes blazing with fury, "and you will not leave this place alive!"
"Alive or dead makes little difference," Arthur retorted, a strange, almost resigned smile twisting his lips. "My duty is to my King."
Robert Baratheon surged forward, his war hammer raised. "Your King ordered this abduction? Aerys, the Mad King?"
Arthur scoffed, "My King is Rhaegar, and no other."
Before the tense exchange could escalate further, an arrow hissed through the air, slamming into Arthur's side.
He gasped, his grip loosening, his sword arm going slack.
A flicker of surprise, then a defiant grin crossed his face as he crumpled to the ground.
Lyanna wrenched herself free, stumbling towards her family.
Ned, showing presence of mind, kicked Arthur's fallen sword away.
Relief coursed through her, but it was quickly replaced by a sickening dread.
"The Godswood!" she gasped, "The prince is in there!"
Rickard, flanked by Robert and her brothers, was a whirlwind of fury. "Rodrik!" he barked, "Seize the prince! Do not let him escape!"
Robert was near vibrating with rage, his voice echoing through the clearing, "Let me go! I'll smash his skull in!"
Rodrik nodded grimly, gathering a band of men and disappearing into the shadowed trees.
Rickard, showing his aged shrewdness, held his sons back. "Ned, Brandon, cool your tempers. We need a clear head, not just brute force. You too Lord Baratheon."
Moments later, Rodrik returned, his expression grim. "The Godswood is empty, my lord."
Lyanna wracked her brain, desperately searching her hazy memory of the encounter. "...Horses," she murmured, "Ser Arthur said something about horses, and someone named Bael."
A flicker of comprehension crossed Rickard's face, followed by a chilling rage. "Sound the alarm! To the gates! Ready horses, we will pursue them!"
As the men readied to leave, at the barked orders, her father stopped Brandon "Head to the crypts. Search them thoroughly."
"The crypts! Father, I should ride in pursuit!" Brandon protested.
"Silence!" Her father ordered, as they made their way quickly toward the castle "This reeks of Bael the bard's legend. He could be hidden within the crypts! You will do as I say!"
Chastised, her brother nodded, and left hurriedly to carry out his orders.
"Ned, take Lyanna to her chambers, have Maester Walys see to her wounds. I will give chase with the men." Her father continued giving out orders.
She felt relieved that her part in all this was finally done, she had made her choice in the end.
It was Ser Arthur, his head buzzing from Ned's blow, who chuckled darkly at that. Robert had gotten a few whacks into the unarmed man in his anger after the fact too.
Rickard's icy gaze locked onto him. "Why do you laugh, Kingsguard?"
"The prince is far beyond your reach," Arthur rasped, blood seeping from his wound. "You will never find him."
"We have you," Rickard countered, "And words have a way of loosening even the most loyal tongues." He paused, then looked to his assembled men, and then at Ned who was helping her return to her chambers. "Ned, instructs Maester Walys to have ravens dispatched to White Harbor, no to all the docks in the North. All ports, all ships...no vessel leaves the North without my express permission."
The Prince would be caught.
"Raise the Banners! Lord Stark!" Robert Baratheon's fury laced voice rang through the air "This means war."
Despair settled in the pits of her stomach, Lyanna had done this to avoid war at all costs.
She realized she had been doomed, her house had been doomed the moment the prince had set his eyes on her.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
Caelum bounced excitedly beside his mother on the wagon seat, his eyes sparkling as he recounted his latest escapade. "And then," he exclaimed, "I was listening for the hawk, as Willas searched for her! Guess what? She was right at the top of the tree, Ma, so high up! And had taken a poor kitten up there with her. We had to make Sunflash leave her, and Willas had to teach her not to think of kittens as food."
Elyna smiled, stroking her son's dark hair. "Good Jon, Caelum. All animals deserve kindness, just like people. Treat them with respect, and they will respect you too"
Caelum beamed in response, a small gap in his smile showcasing a missing tooth.
While still young, there was a spark in his eyes that spoke of a maturity beyond his seven years.
Harlon emerged from the inn, wiping his brow on his sleeve. "Looks like we're done here," he announced, giving the cart a final inspection. "One more delivery, then we pick up Luke, Meredith and Toman from the castle. Should be a quick trip back home after that."
Caelum hopped down from the wagon. "Can I help, Pa?" he asked, his voice filled with an earnest determination.
Harlon chuckled, ruffling his son's hair playfully. "Maybe when you're a bit bigger, lad. Today, you're my official 'barrel checker'. Make sure none are loose, alright?"
Caelum saluted with a grin, taking his duties seriously as he scurried around the cart.
Elyna watched the pair with a mix of pride and a lingering worry she couldn't quite shake. Briar City was their biggest delivery route, and while the town itself was friendly enough, the roads could be unpredictable.
Yet, Caelum was growing so quickly, and it wouldn't be long before he'd be handling these chores alongside his father.
The wagon rumbled onward, Caelum settling back against the barrels with a contented sigh. "What else did you do today, Caelum?" Elyna asked, a soft smile playing on her lips.
"Oh!" Caelum's eyes lit up again. "Willas sent a letter to his friend! A princess from Dorne, you know? With Sunflash!" He paused for dramatic effect. "And she's going to answer with an eagle! Can you believe it, Ma? An eagle!"
Both Elyna and Harlon chuckled at their son's infectious enthusiasm.
Suddenly, Caelum's ears perked up.
A distant voice, tinged with frustration, drifted through the air. "Blast it all! Where could that wretched purse have gotten to?"
"Someone's in trouble," Caelum informed his parents, already focusing on the sound.
Harlon raised an eyebrow. "What do you want to do, lad?"
"He's coming this way," Caelum said, brow furrowed in concentration. "To the next delivery. It wouldn't hurt to stop and help, would it?"
Harlon and Elyna exchanged a knowing glance.
Then, with a nod, Harlon directed the wagon down a narrower street, guided by Caelum's instructions.
They finally came upon a disheveled man, frantically searching the dusty road.
"Easy there, friend," Harlon called out, a reassuring note in his voice. "What seems to be the trouble?"
The man, startled, spun around. "My purse," he lamented, "it's gone! Stolen, I reckon. I am Elston, a baker. And my purse was right there by my stall, this is the second time in the last three moons it has gone missing!"
"Can you describe it?" Harlon asked.
"Purple satchel," Elston replied, "silver trimming on the opening. Had my week's earnings in it..." His voice trailed off miserably.
Caelum listened intently, then discreetly focused on the description, he focused his eyes, gaining an otherworldly clarity to them.
As if through an invisible window, he saw the purple satchel, a block away, tucked beneath a table in the very inn they were headed for next.
A quick glance showed him his father had noticed his subtle nod.
"Don't fret, Elston," Harlon said calmly. "We'll have a look around. If we find it, we'll make sure to get it back to you."
With newfound hope, Elston thanked them profusely.
Caelum guided his father in driving the wagon towards the inn. "It's at our next delivery spot" He said.
"I see," Harlon said, as he looked at the inn. "Fortunate, then. I'll take a barrel in, and we can do the delivery, then find the thief."
Caelum excited at helping someone again, quickly clutched at the barrel nearest to him, and lifted it on to his father's back.
"Caelum!" His father admonished "Those are heavy! You'll hurt your back!"
"Aww, Pa," Caelum said as he jumped off the cart, after kissing his mum's cheek, bidding her to wait for them outside as they finished the delivery, and confronted the thief. "I don't think it was that heavy, truly!"
Harlon tried to remain stern to his son, but failed miserably.
Sighing to himself in amusement, he followed Caelum into the inn. His wife watched them go with a fond gaze.
Inside the bustling inn, Harlon delivered the ale, his eyes scanning the patrons while Caelum watched a ragged-looking man hunched over a plate of food. The purple satchel lay beside him, the stolen coins now buying a meager meal.
A pang of sympathy went through Caelum - the man seemed more desperate than wicked.
"Well, Caelum?" Harlon joined him, a thoughtful frown on his face. "What should we do? There's the guards, of course. Hand the fellow over, take the purse back to the baker. Or…" He let the question hang in the air.
Caelum chewed his lip. "He's just…hungry, Pa. Turning him in won't fill his belly. It'll just get him into worse trouble with Lord Tyrell."
Harlon nodded slowly. "So what is your idea?"
"The baker, he…well, he had work that needs doing right? Guarding his stall, stuff like that. And his purse keeps getting stolen…maybe..." Caelum hesitated, then took a breath, "Maybe if we can convince the thief to return the purse, tell the baker what happened… the baker might be kind. Offer him a job."
A glimmer of pride shone in Harlon's eyes. "Good thinking, son. But there's a few holes in that plan. First, we'd need the baker to understand how desperate this fellow is. Then there's whether he'd truly be kind. And…" Harlon's voice softened, "the thief himself. No reason for him to trust us, and if confronted, he might do something rash."
Caelum nodded, the weight of the situation settling on him.
"Here's what we'll do," Harlon said decisively. "I'll handle this. Keep an eye on things, but don't say a word, alright?"
Harlon approached the ragged figure with a friendly smile. "Excuse me," he began, his voice warm and disarming, "I couldn't help but overhear your troubles earlier."
The man, startled, looked up from his now empty plate. Initial wariness flickered in his eyes. "Aye?" he said cautiously.
"Harlon, farmer and ale brewer by trade," Harlon continued, extending a calloused hand. "And this here's my son, Caelum." He gave Caelum a gentle nudge, who offered a small wave in return.
The man hesitated, then tentatively shook Harlon's hand. "Willem," he muttered. "No trade, not anymore…"
"Willem," Harlon echoed, "a hard world out there, isn't it? Makes it difficult for an honest man to earn his daily bread." He motioned towards the empty plate. "Baker's fare good here, at least?"
Willem's lips twitched into a half-smile. "Warms the belly better than nothing, I suppose."
Seizing the opportunity, Harlon pulled out a stool and sat across from Willem. "Been in Briar City long?" he asked, keeping his tone conversational.
"Off and on," Willem replied. "Had a bit of work at the stables, but…" His voice trailed off, a flicker of shame crossing his face.
Harlon nodded sympathetically. "I've been through lean times myself," he admitted. "Takes a strong man to make it on his own." He eyed Willem, gauging his reaction. Underneath the grime and tattered clothing, there was a spark of weary determination.
After a few more minutes of gentle questioning, Harlon had gleaned more of Willem's story: a lost apprenticeship, bad luck, and a dwindling hope. Finally, he leaned forward slightly.
"Tell me, Willem," Harlon said quietly, "if there was a chance at a steady wage, an honest day's work for an honest day's pay…would that interest you?"
Willem's eyes widened. Hope, mingled with a flicker of suspicion, flared in their depths. "Steady work?" he repeated. "You…you're not mocking me?"
"Not at all," Harlon replied earnestly. "Fact is, there might be an opportunity. But first..." he paused significantly, "there's a matter that needs to be settled."
Willem stiffened. The hopeful light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a familiar wariness. "What…what matter?"
"The missing purse," Harlon said, keeping his voice even. "That of the baker you were just lamenting to."
Willem froze, words sputtering on his lips. "I...I don't…"
"Willem," Harlon said, his voice firm but kind, "I'm not here to turn you in. But folks in Briar City, even the good ones, won't tolerate thievery forever. A word in the wrong ear, and you'd be paying a visit to the Tyrell's dungeons."
Willem gulped visibly. "So…what then?" he asked, a tremor in his voice. "How does confessing help me get this…job?"
Harlon smiled reassuringly. "Let's just say…I take an interest in good men down on their luck. If you agree, I'll help. Come clean to the baker, and maybe he'll show some kindness. If not..." he shrugged, "there's always a need for strong hands on my farm. Fair pay, roof over your head."
Willem stared, the offer slowly sinking in. Finally, a flicker of desperate resolve settled in his eyes. "Alright," he said quietly. "Alright, I'll do it."
Caelum, observing his father, felt a swell of pride. Harlon had calmed the panicked man, found the kernel of good within him, and offered a helping hand.
With Willem in tow, they left the inn and rejoined Elyna at the wagon.
Willem trailed nervously behind the cart as they returned to the baker's stall.
Now came the hardest part.
With the purple satchel tucked carefully under his arm, Harlon approached Elston's bustling stall. The baker, deep in conversation with a customer, barely noticed him at first.
"Master Elston," Harlon called out, raising his voice slightly over the market's din.
Elston looked up, surprise giving way to a burst of pure joy as he recognized the satchel. "By the Seven!" he exclaimed, "You found it! Bless you, good sir, a thousand blessings!"
He fumbled in his pocket. "Here, allow me to reward you for your kindness…"
Harlon gently pushed his hand away. "Save your coin, friend. A full belly and a clear conscience is reward enough." Something about the baker's warmth made Harlon bolder; it was time for the next step of his plan.
"Tell me, Elston," he continued, "would you be willing to offer that same kindness to another man, one down on his luck, in need of a helping hand?"
Intrigued, Elston nodded. "A man of good heart, is that what you mean? Then of course! What sort of favor do you ask?"
Harlon motioned for Willem to step forward. The ragged man hesitated, then tentatively approached the stall.
"This is Willem," Harlon said. "He...he had a hand in the disappearance of your purse."
Elston froze, the friendly smile vanishing from his face. "He… what?" His hand instinctively reached for the place where the purse had been moments ago. "Guards!" He began to shout, panic replacing gratitude.
Harlon stepped forward, placing a calming hand on Elston's arm. "Peace, friend, peace. Hear the man out." He turned to Willem. "Go on, tell him."
Willem, eyes downcast, recounted his tale in a trembling voice: the lost jobs, the dwindling hope, the desperate act driven by hunger. Harlon watched Elston closely. The baker's face was a shifting mask of anger, pity, and wariness.
Finally, Elston spoke, his voice hardened, "So he's a thief. Why should I trust him to guard my stall, when he's proven himself unworthy?"
"Because a full belly doesn't yearn to steal," Harlon argued, "and a man with something to lose won't risk losing it." He placed a hand on Willem's shoulder. "One chance, Master Elston. That's all he asks. A debt to repay, a path back to honest work. If he falters, then you hold the power."
Elston chewed his lip, considering. Long moments passed before he finally sighed, a mix of resignation and a grudging hope in his eyes.
"Very well," he said to Willem. "You'll have your chance, but you'll start by earning back the coin you spent. Fair warning, I'll be watching you like a hawk."
A wave of relief washed over Willem, and it was then that Caelum, watching from the wagon, saw a change in the man.
A flicker of determination replaced the desperation in his eyes.
Harlon smiled, a genuine warmth that matched Elston's own when he'd recovered his purse. It was a small victory, one that resonated with the bustling life around them.
Caelum and Elyna who had been watching the exchange, smiled too feeling immensely proud of Harlon.
Caelum vowed internally, that he would be a man who would make his Pa proud too.
As Harlon bid farewell to Elston and Willem, a gentle breeze ruffled his hair. His return to the wagon felt triumphant, a small beacon of light in a world often shrouded in hardship. Elyna greeted him with a quick, affectionate kiss, her eyes mirroring the pride Caelum felt swelling in his chest.
"Well done, husband," she murmured, the smile in her voice a warm echo of his own warmth.
A quick ruffle of Caelum's hair made him beam, a promise in his heart echoing silently: I will be a man you're proud of, too.
"Time's wasting," Harlon declared, breaking the sweet moment. "On to the castle, then home we go. I wouldn't want Luke and Toman to think we abandoned him to the lords and their squabbles." His words were light, but it was clear he was trying to take the focus away from him by the red blush on his cheeks.
The journey to the castle was filled with Caelum's chatter. He regaled his parents with more tales from the lessons he shared with Lord Garlan under Maester Lomys' tutelage.
Yet, as they neared the imposing gates of Highgarden, a change descended.
The bustling heart of Briar City gave way to a strange hush.
Guards stood stiffly at their posts, and the usual sounds of laughter and haggling from within the castle walls seemed strangely muted. Luke, Toman, and Meredith stood waiting, their smiles forced and eyes shadowed.
"What ails you?" Harlon asked, a gruff note entering his voice as he surveyed the boy his son affectionately called brother, the girl his son called sister, and one of his oldest friends.
Whatever had transpired was clearly no cause for celebration.
Luke swallowed, his fingers tightening around the reins of his mount. "Ser Vortimer..." he began, then paused, as if searching for the right words. "He's made me his squire, Father."
Caelum, ever the optimist, clapped his hands gleefully. "That's wonderful, Luke! Doesn't that mean—"
"It means war, little brother," Luke cut in, his voice bleak. "Ser Vortimer says I'll squire on the battlefield. The Reach raises its banners, Cael. House Tyrell stands with the Targaryens." He looked at each of them in turn, grim determination replacing his usual easy grin. "We march against the Starks."
The words hung heavy in the air.
A cold dread descended upon Caelum and his family.
War.
And his family would bleed for the same prince who had tried to have them killed at the tourney of Harrenhall.
He prayed to the Seven for guidance, once again.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N) Exams are a pain in the butt.
Anyway.
War is finally here, this time sparked by Rhaegar's madness.
Arthur Dayne is captive to the Starks.
This was a bit of a long chapter because of my sudden hiatus. Hope the wait was worth it.
Also, what did you guys think about the song? It was a shitty attempt, but inspired by Frank Sinatra.
Arimai
Curmudgeon
Whoowee! She is deep in denial and avoiding responsibility.
At least she made the right choice when Rhaegar the dumbass came. I hope Caelum figures out how to activate the repository soon.
Best way to break Arthur Dayne to melt his family's prized sword and remake it into a House Stark's new sword alongside Ice. The ultimate insult to the Sword of the Morning.
Arimai
Curmudgeon
House Dayne would bankrupt itself to hire the Faceless to kill the Starks. The sword is theirs, the sword of the morning only ever bears it until he retires, dies or is stripped of the title.
They have his sister.
I don't think they will go as far as to threaten Ashara, but she should be willing to shame Arthur into abandoning the Mad Prince.
Fair point. House Stark will just hold that sword hostage alongside Arthur Dayne until House Dayne comes to them to get the two back and also Ashara as well.
I see, Ashara would give Arthur a case of:
View: https://youtu.be/bHb5CFGYz1A?si=zX4hEJtlo832lu0f
Arimai
Curmudgeon
They'd come for the sword, but Arthur is out of luck. He broke his vows and aided in the attempted abduction of a vassal King's daughter.
Ashara is now a Stark they'd come to negotiate dowry, inheritance and trade rights. With Arthur removed from the Inheritance Ashara is the heir of the primary line so they'd need a son or daughter of hers to inherit Starfall. Her eloping with Ned gives the Daynes a moral advantage in medieval society for depriving them of her.
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- Location
- La Serena, Chile
A shame seeing so few comments and reactions to the chapters posted so far.
For I have played with this concept in my head. And yet, the execution I have found here exceds anything I could have thought of.
People focus too much in how Broken Superman would be in this setting. Where the moments His powers start to develope there Is no Little in this world that could hurt him, Let alone Kill.
But clearly this story wasn't about Superman cumberstonping whoever the opposition Is.
Oh he Will be capable of, but that isn't the point that makes Superman actually special.
He Is a Symbol of Hope. That things can get better. That People can be Better.
Teachings he received from His normal Human Parents, who raised him to he a Good Man.
And here? Well, the powerful of Westeros Will be shocked in the face of someone who truly believes in the good of men. That only wants to help with no real Desire or power and riches.
PD: It was also great seeing Caelum existence derailing a Little bit the events leading to the Rebellion.
With Lyanna Stark making her final decision in the face of Rhaegar's offer and avoiding capture, the beginning of the Civil War has been changed forever.
Pretty much Ending a good portion of canon Westeros by 298
For I have played with this concept in my head. And yet, the execution I have found here exceds anything I could have thought of.
People focus too much in how Broken Superman would be in this setting. Where the moments His powers start to develope there Is no Little in this world that could hurt him, Let alone Kill.
But clearly this story wasn't about Superman cumberstonping whoever the opposition Is.
Oh he Will be capable of, but that isn't the point that makes Superman actually special.
He Is a Symbol of Hope. That things can get better. That People can be Better.
Teachings he received from His normal Human Parents, who raised him to he a Good Man.
And here? Well, the powerful of Westeros Will be shocked in the face of someone who truly believes in the good of men. That only wants to help with no real Desire or power and riches.
PD: It was also great seeing Caelum existence derailing a Little bit the events leading to the Rebellion.
With Lyanna Stark making her final decision in the face of Rhaegar's offer and avoiding capture, the beginning of the Civil War has been changed forever.
Pretty much Ending a good portion of canon Westeros by 298
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Arthur Dayne will have to take the black as a new member of the Night's Watch than be executed like what happened to most Targaryen loyalists post-Robert's Rebellion.
Sparks and Embers
Chapter 16 –
The torchlight flickered on the damp stone walls of the dungeon, casting long, grotesque shadows that danced with each uneasy movement.
Ashara's voice, normally as sweet as a summer breeze, held a taut edge, anger, and weariness seeping into her tone, her pregnancy still early made her waddle a little as she paced the cell. "What were you thinking, Arthur?" she demanded, her fist clenching at her side. "To try to kidnap Lady Lyanna... with the Crown Prince himself? Are you so far gone?"
Arthur, the legendary 'Sword of the Morning', slumped on a rough-hewn bench, his wrists bound with heavy chains. A mocking smile twisted his lips. "Hah! And eloping with Eddard Stark is any better, dear sister? What will Father say of that, of your stolen vows?"
Ashara felt a surge of fury threatening to overwhelm her. Her pregnancy normally a source of joy, now only added to the turmoil churning within her. "Arthur, you damned hypocrite, you're accusing me of eloping when you planned to do the same to Lyanna with the Prince?! You fool! You have shamed our house, shamed yourself! Father will hear of this, and so will every lord and lady in the realm. You'll be no knight, you are an Oathbreaker!"
Arthur surged to his feet, the chains around his arms rattling at the sudden motion, a flash of defiance igniting his eyes. "Aerys?" he snarled, "The Mad King will never be my king! Rhaegar is the true king, the one destined to lead us!"
Ned stepped forward, his voice low and dangerous. "Words have consequences, Kingsguard. Even spoken beneath the stones of Winterfell... Tell me the plan. Where did you intend to take Lyanna? You can't truly believe you'd have escaped the North with her in tow. Just like the Prince won't escape, not with my father and Robert giving chase."
The Knight's jaw clenched, false bravado fighting through his uncertainty. "They won't find him," he muttered.
Ashara, her face pale, pressed closer to the bars. "Why, Arthur? Why violate your oaths? You served the King all these years…you were the most honorable among us."
"You know why," Arthur retorted, his sneer aimed directly at her. "Aerys burns men alive for his twisted pleasure. His cruelty knows no bounds. You knew…. You have seen the charred corpses in the dragon pit … that's why you chose to flee with the Stark! To hide in his dreary keep!" He paused, bitterness lacing his voice as he gestured toward her belly. "At least I tried to do something, to save the Seven Kingdoms from a despot and set a worthy king upon the Iron Throne. Not whore away to a savage here in the North! I tried to be a True Knight for a True King!"
Ashara's eyes blazed with fury. "This is madness, this is not some grand scheme for salvation! I love Ned. He listened when no one else would, when father didn't, you didn't. I wanted to leave the Red Keep, I pleaded to let me leave. Even Elia pleaded for me to return home! But no! Father wanted me to stay at the Red Keep, the only one who listened when I needed it most was Ned, and I love him! We married for love. I am not a whore!"
Her voice cracked with anguish and anger. "And if you think the North is some uncivilized wasteland, then what in the Seven Hells were you doing plotting to abduct its lady? You call Ned a savage, you don't know anything about them at all!"
Ned moved to place a comforting hand on Ashara's shoulder. His voice remained measured, but his grey eyes were twin chips of ice fixed on Arthur. "I need answers, Ser Arthur. The North remembers those who bring harm to our own. Right now, the only thing standing between you and a much less hospitable cell is the love my wife bears for her brother. But even that patience has limits."
Arthur's defiance held fast, his jaw clenched in a stubborn line. "I will not betray my king," he ground out, the words barely audible.
A bitter laugh escaped Ashara. "Betray Rhaegar? You have already betrayed him. He will be caught. His dishonoring of Elia, his attempted… violation of Lyanna. Word will spread. He might be your precious king, but he cannot hide forever. You followed him into madness, into ruin. You betrayed him the moment you let him follow through with this madness!"
She sank against the bars, the emotional strain etched in every line of her face. "I should have recognized them in White Harbor," she whispered, more to herself than to the others. "But I…I didn't want to believe…" She trailed off, then looked up, a sheen of unshed tears in her eyes. "I ... hoped that Aegon's birth would heal the wound he created between Elia and him… but to do this?"
Ned placed a protective arm around his wife, trying to comfort her as best he could. "Why do you believe Rhaegar will escape justice? There has to be more to this plan..."
Arthur remained steadfastly silent, his eyes fixed on a cobweb in the far corner of his cell.
Ned's patience wore thin.
His voice took on a sharper edge. "Enough of this, Ser Arthur. Ashara, you shouldn't have to bear witness to this… go..." He hesitated, a flicker of concern in his eyes. "Are you well enough to go to Lady Catelyn? Or mayhaps Lyanna?"
Ashara sniffled, wiping angry tears from her eyes. "No... I don't want to see my brother tortured..." she shook her head trying to cling to Ned with everything she had. "I can make him talk, Ned. He'll listen when he knows what's right."
Arthur's scoff echoed in the confined space. "Take your pity elsewhere, sister. My loyalty lies with my king."
Ashara let out a sob of frustration, burying her face in her hands.
Ned started to say something, but they were interrupted by a sharp shout from the guards outside. "Lord Eddard! Your father and Lord Baratheon have returned!"
Ned glanced back at Arthur, trying to discern any shift in his captive's expression, but the Kingsguard remained a mask of unwavering defiance. "Did they capture the Prince?" Ned asked the guard.
The guard, a weathered Northman named Calon, swallowed nervously. "I don't know, my lord. I couldn't see well, the entire guard was with them."
Ned sighed, a heavy weight settling upon him.
He squeezed Ashara's hand. "We'll finish this later. He has no love left for you" He turned back to the guard. "Calon, see that Ser Arthur receives no food or water. Let him stew here until my father decides his fate." He hesitated, then added, "And… see that he isn't spoken to. Silence may make him more inclined to cooperate."
With a parting glance at Arthur, Ned left the dungeons.
The early morning air was a shock after the claustrophobic atmosphere below.
The attempt by the Prince the previous night had taken a toll on Eddard, and he had lost track of time in ensuring Lyanna was safe with maester Walys, and questioning Arthur Dayne.
He joined Ashara as they made their way towards the castle grounds.
An uneasy murmur spread through the assembled men – a mix of Starks and Stormlanders. Banners snapped in the crisp wind, and the scent of horses and damp earth hung heavy in the air.
In the center of the clearing, Rickard Stark and Robert Baratheon stood in tense conference near a grim sight – the slain body of Ser Oswell Whent, dragged unceremoniously behind Robert's warhorse.
And near them, bound and gagged, were two men.
The flicker of recognition in Ned's eyes was like a lance through his heart.
Even with their hair dyed and faces bruised, the violet eyes were unmistakable.
They had all been fooled by the Prince's farce, not willing to question the absurdity of such a ploy.
A desperate plea reached them as Ned and Ashara approached.
One of the bound men was struggling against his captors, his voice hoarse with fear and exertion. "Lord Stark... Mercy, I beg you! I'll take the black, swear my life to your service! Anything!"
Ned and Ashara joined his father and Robert.
Before either could speak, Brandon arrived, disheveled and weary from his fruitless search of the crypts. His face was a grim mask of frustration.
Rickard silenced the pleading man with a harsh smack with the pommel of his sword, "Enough!"
Robert surged forward, his rage barely contained. "I'll have their heads, I swear it! To dare touch Lyanna... to attempt to steal her away!" Robert's grip tightened on his Warhammer, a tremor of fury running through his arm.
Rickard's voice, though calmer, held a razor's edge. "Silence, Lord Baratheon. We have them. That is what matters." He turned to Rhaegar, who had yet to speak. "Did you truly believe you could escape the North, Prince?" Rickard's tone shifted, almost a touch of admiration in his voice. "The ploy was ingenious, I admit. To lead us on a fruitless chase south after your craven body double, while you fled North…. A pity the craven betrayed you when it mattered to you the most."
Rhaegar's eyes flashed with anger, but he refused to speak a word.
Rickard's voice, deceptively calm, cut through the tense silence. "But what then, Prince? Once you reached Castle Black, did you intend to venture beyond the Wall? Did you think to take my daughter there?"
Rhaegar remained silent, his defiance simmering beneath the surface.
Robert lunged forward, the warhammer blurring as he backhanded the Prince across the face. Teeth shattered, blood staining Rhaegar's drab bard's clothes.
Bael, the craven double, let out a whimper of terror. "I'll talk! I'll tell you anything, please!" He strained against his bonds. "A ship… there is a ship, waiting at some settlement north of the Wall. At Hardhome! Captained by Laenor Waters!"
Robert raised the hammer again, a snarl twisting his features. "Is that right, Targaryen?!" He backhanded the Prince again "Speak, Gods damn you! Another blow and your tongue won't be good for much talking!"
Rickard, his weathered features grim, seized Robert's arm. "Enough, Lord Baratheon. We need him intact." He turned his assessing gaze back to Bael. "And what of you, sellsword? What did the Prince promise for this treachery?"
Bael swallowed visibly. "Knighthood… a keep in the Crownlands… he swore I'd be raised above my station…"
Rickard sighed, a world of weariness in the simple sound. "…And by doing this, you've cast aside your life. The Prince may survive, but you? You have already sworn your life to the wall."
Robert's voice boomed, shaking the early morning stillness. "No! I will have his head! This means war! Rhaegar has provoked it, and by the Gods, House Baratheon will answer! I will not rest till the Targaryen dynasty drowns at my feet! Ours is the Fury!"
Ned felt a chill of unease, Ashara squirmed beside him.
Rickard, too, tensed.
The Stormland lords flanking Robert roared their approval.
Ned saw that Brandon's hand was tight on his sword hilt, echoing their sentiment. The fool.
Rickard held the Stormlord's gaze, his voice steady despite the growing danger. "We need not start a war, Lord Baratheon. Do you not see? We hold the Prince as hostage. We can negotiate with the Crown, exact reparations…"
Robert's fury cut him off. "Negotiate?! He dishonored my betrothed! There will be bloodshed, Lord Stark, and the Mad King's dynasty will drown in it!"
Brandon, mirroring Robert's earlier defiance, spoke up. "Father, such an insult, such a reckless act against Lyanna, against our House... it cannot go unanswered!"
Rickard could see that his words were affecting the lords and men who were witness in the clearing.
Rickard's face hardened.
His voice, when it came, was laced with anger. "And what do you suggest, son? Shall we condemn the entire North to bloodshed, raze villages and fields in our revenge?"
Brandon's retort was swift and sharp, "What do you suggest we do, Father? Roll over and lick the Targaryen boot, allow the insult to fester?"
Rickard's composure cracked.
He whirled on Brandon, the tension radiating outwards.
In front of not just his bannermen, but Stormlanders as well, he was losing control.
Ned cut in, his voice urgent, "Brandon, war solves nothing! Think, what do you intend to achieve by this madness? Lyanna is safe. Here, at home! She has not been hurt; you are going too far!"
Brandon rounded on him, "The Targaryens have already gone too far! This attempt to kidnap Lyanna was the last straw. Robert Baratheon can be King, damn it! His claim is there! Let the Targaryens burn for all I care!"
Robert, surprisingly, was the voice of reason. "I have no desire for the damned crown! Though," he glared at the captive prince, "I'd be a sight better ruler than this inbred fool or his pyromaniac father." He spat at Rhaegar's feet. "The Realm knows Aerys' madness by now! Harrnehall was proof enough. It is an open secret."
Rhaegar, surprisingly, decided to speak. "My father... had nothing to do with the deaths at Harrenhal."
A sharp crack of Robert's warhammer against Rhaegar's jaw silenced him.
Blood trickled down the Prince's face, another tooth chipped. "Of all the times you speak, you speak to defend your father now?!"
Rickard lunged forward, grabbing Robert's arm again. "Enough! Robert, stop we need him unharmed!" He turned his piercing gaze on Rhaegar. "Explain yourself, Prince!"
Rhaegar spat a bloody tooth and sneered. "My father is not responsible for burning those fools. It was... the work of your precious Lyanna's lover. Some... lowborn farm boy named Luke!"
The clearing fell eerily silent.
It was the stillness before the storm, the breath held before chaos erupts.
Robert roared and surged forwards, warhammer held high. "Lies! Slander against my betrothed! I'll smash your silver-haired skull for even suggesting…"
This time it was Ned who leaped in the path of Robert's fury.
Brandon and Rickard quickly joined, grappling with Robert, wresting the weapon from his hands.
With a final shove, Robert was forced back, his rage a tangible force in the sudden quiet. Rickard turned to his men. "Cassel! Take the Prince to the deepest cell and chain him there. You, personally! I won't have another incompetent guard playing into his hands! "
Cassel, grim-faced, nodded and moved to obey.
Rickard continued with icy precision, "The prince, Ser Arthur, and this...Bael are to be kept separate. No communication between them. Do you understand?"
Rickard whirled on Robert "Robert we will continue this in my solar!"
Ned cut in, his voice trembling slightly. "Father… Lyanna's guards … their ale was found laced with milk of the poppy. They had no hand in this."
Rhaegar's laughter, a chilling sound, echoed in their ears as he was dragged away.
Broken and bruised, the Prince of Dragonstone still had the power to sow chaos in his wake.
"Gods damn you!" Robert roared futilely, "He lays insult after insult upon my betrothed. Your daughter, and you expect me to do nothing!"
"In my solar! Robert!" Rickard commanded.
He could see that the Storm Lander lords were bristling at his tone, but Robert was now acting like a child, and he would not take another lord making orders in his home.
"Fine! Seven curse it all! Fine!" Robert stomped, as he began marching to the castle.
Rickard sighed wearily and turned to the rest of the men in the clearing "Please, my Lords. You all have aided in the capture of the Prince. Take rest, the guards and servants will see you well-rested and fed. Ethan, see to the arrangements."
Ethan Poole, the steward of Winterfell nodded, bowed from where he stood watching with his son, Vayon. "Yes, m'lord"
Ned turned to Ashara, the stress from the events must be overwhelming and he didn't want her involved any further. Facing her brother had been taxing enough, but she had been insistent "Ash, you should return to the castle. Mayhaps, you can join Lyanna and Benjen with Maester Walys."
His wife sighed drearily "No, Ned. My heart will not rest till I am certain there will be no war. I don't want to see you off to war. I won't be able to rest not knowing that Elia's and Rhaenys' lives could now be in danger."
Eddard sighed, placing a kiss atop his wife's brow. "I will do my level best to prevent that from happening, love."
Ashara leaned into his side deeper, her violet eyes staring into his stark greys. "I will worry all the same."
Ned sighed, as he calmed her fears "Have faith in me, love. I do not want to see Princess Elia, nor her children hurt either. I will convince Robert."
Ashara searched his eyes for a moment and then squeezed his hand lightly, giving him a lingering kiss "I will place my faith in you, Ned. As I did at Harrenhall."
Seeing his wife leave, Ned worried internally.
War was not something he desired either.
Quickly, he followed his father, Brandon and Robert to his father's solar.
Robert's voice boomed in the confines of the solar, echoing against the stone walls. "Damn you all! The Prince spat on my betrothed, on her honor... in front of my bannermen, in the heart of Winterfell! And you expect me to… to negotiate?"
Rickard's calmly replied. "We have leverage. We will demand reparations. The Prince will be sent to the Wall, stripped of his titles. His son, Aegon, shall be named Crown Prince."
"That is not enough!" Brandon snarled, pacing the stone floor like a caged wolf. "Do you think the Targaryens will take that without retaliation?"
Rickard thundered at the insolence of his son, and heir "Brandon, I will not take that tone from you. You will be silent. You of all people are not in the position to speak this way with me. Your insolence will not be tolerated any further, you daft fool! Don't clamor for war for an insult – an attempt on Lyanna – that bore no fruit!"
Ned took a deep breath, trying to find words that might soothe the wounded stag. "Robert, think of the realm. Think of the smallfolk... the actions of two madmen – Rhaegar and Aerys – does not merit drowning the Seven Kingdoms in blood."
Robert scoffed. "As if the Mad King will listen to your demands! Lord Rickard, the madman burns people at the stake for his twisted pleasure. What do you think he will do?"
"If there is to be a war, I will not see it be started by us!" Rickard shouted back.
Ned seeing an opportunity, tried to step into the fray. "Robert... what would you achieve by igniting this war? The end of the Targaryen dynasty – yes. And then what?"
Robert's voice was thick with frustration. "The line of the Dragon must die out! They've proved themselves unfit to rule, time and again."
Ned pressed his point, his voice a sharp contrast to the rising temper of the room, "And what of Elia? Her children? Viserys? Even Queen Rhaella... Would you condemn them all? Kill them all for your revenge? For the sins of their father and brother? A crime that the Prince failed to commit in truth?"
Robert faltered. "The Wall for the boys…" He hesitated, a flicker of unease in his eyes. "The Silent Sisters for the women. It would be... a kindness, compared to Aerys."
Ned scoffed, a bitter laugh rising in his throat. "You think Dorne will take that willingly? You will have a war with Dorne on your hands too then, and winning not one but two wars is easier said than done. And if some miracles you win, then who will be King, Robert? Who would you seat upon the Iron Throne? You?"
Robert hesitated.
There was a flicker of doubt on his face, the first sign that he truly hadn't thought that far ahead.
Brandon piped up, "You have the claim, Robert! You could rule, bring stability…"
Rickard slammed a fist on the table "Silence, Brandon! I will not have you fill Robert's head with seditious nonsense!"
Defeated, a mix of anger and confusion warring on his face, Robert finally relented. "Fine. Your plan, then, Lord Stark ... Gods damn it all!" Without another word, he turned and stalked towards the door.
Ned followed. "Where are you going, Robert?"
"Wintertown," Robert muttered, not looking back. "To work off some of this fury…in the only way I know how."
"No, you will not! Robert Baratheon!" Rickard's patience finally broke. "I have tolerated enough of your dishonoring of my daughter! Is this how it is going to be if you are wed? Will you put horns on my daughter, spit on house stark through out your married life?!"
Robert stopped in his tracks.
Vulnerability battled rage in his eyes, his usual bluster momentarily silenced.
His shoulders slumped with a weariness that belied his formidable strength.
Rickard pressed his advantage, his voice cold and deliberate. "You have dishonored Lyanna enough! First, with a bastard flaunted before the realm. Then, at Harrenhall after the Prince had dishonored her before the realm, you sook solace in a brothel rather than attempt to truly understand, and comfort the woman you are to wed! And now, you clamor for war? I wonder, Lord Baratheon, if you are worthy of this alliance."
Rickard knew he was playing a dangerous game.
The threat of breaking the betrothal was an empty one – the alliance with the Stormlands was too valuable to throw away.
But his anger, and his fear for his daughter's future had finally frayed his patience and made him reckless.
The effect on Robert was immediate.
He bowed his head, the bravado gone. "My apologies, Lord Stark. I...I never intended to dishonor Lyanna... I never thought my actions hurt her in truth."
Rickard continued, his tone harsh but a flicker of pity softening the set of his jaw. "You say you never intended to bring harm, yet that is exactly what your actions do, Lord Baratheon. You think only of yourself – your pain, your desires. Lyanna suffers your thoughtlessness, and you'd condemn countless innocent lives for a vengeance that won't heal the wounds you inflict."
He turned the full force of his icy gaze on Brandon. "You are no better, Son! You never think before you commit to reckless actions. Don't understand their consequences. Haven't you learnt your lesson already?! What will it take?!" He said glancing at Eddard for a brief moment.
Brandon swallowed, the recklessness of just moments ago replaced with a dawning realization.
A sharp, insistent knock shattered the heavy silence. Rickard's voice was clipped. "Enter."
Maester Walys, his stooped frame trembling slightly, hurried into the room. "My pardon, Lord Stark...urgent missives...three arrived in quick succession."
Rickard's hand shot out. "Give them here."
He scanned the first raven scroll, then the second. And then the third.
The blood drained from his face, leaving it ashen. He looked up, a bitter smile twisting his lips. His voice, when it came, was hoarse with shock and a terrible, weary humor.
"Congratulations, gentlemen." He held the letters aloft. "The Gods it seems have decided to granny you your wish, His Grace, King Aerys of House Targaryen, has declared war upon the North. We are now rebels in the eyes of the Iron Throne."
The silence in the solar following that declaration was deafening.
The silence stretched into a taut, almost unbearable thing. Then, Ned finally broke it. His voice was strained, a sliver of uncertainty cutting through his usual calm. "Father, what do the letters say?"
Rickard's voice was heavy with the weight of the world. "Jon Arryn writes first – Gulltown is blockaded, the Royal Fleet sealing it from the outside. He claims that the King has demanded he swear himself again to the Crown, and raise the banners against House Stark. Then, White Harbor..." He took a jagged breath. "The same. Ser Bartimus' ravens plead for aid from Lord Manderly and House Stark, it seems." He closed his eyes for a brief moment before opening them, the flint-like determination returning. "And finally, Aerys himself. He demands the release of the Prince. And... our heads. All the lords who are here at Winterfell have been sentenced to die."
Brandon exploded; his earlier contrition forgotten. "How? It hasn't been a day! How could Aerys possibly know?"
A slow realization dawned on Rickard's face, and it was answered by a hollow laugh. "The Prince... Rhaegar... he played us. The fool intended to distract us with a war to the South while he fled North" Rickard paused, then looked at Robert directly. "Your arrival, your wedding feast, ... he timed it all perfectly."
Robert swallowed hard.
The boisterous defiance was gone, replaced by a deep dread settling in his stomach. "If we fight, then… what are we fighting for? I have no desire to be King."
Rickard sighed. His shoulders slumped as if ten more years had suddenly been added to his age. "We will not take the Iron Throne, no. Damn the gods, not another war... But the King," his voice hardened, "the King must die. I do not know why he has attacked us if he knew the Prince was our captive, but his madness cannot be allowed to fester any longer."
Ned's mind raced. "If we win, Father... who sits on the Throne?"
Rickard stood then, a flicker of his old strength returning. "There is a war to be won first. Ned!" The
Eddard started at the sharp tone.
His father continued "I will raise the banners. You will ride beyond the Wall. That ship at Hardhome… you will find it. Take the ship, by persuasion or by force. Convert the captain, or kill him. I don't care. Laenor Waters is the captain of a ship belonging to the Royal fleet, he is the bastard son of Lucerys Velaryon, use it, use him." He paused, considering his words. "Sail for Dragonstone. Elia and the children – we will secure them as hostages against Dorne."
He turned to Brandon. "You will take a portion of our strength south to Gulltown. We must relieve Jon Arryn."
Finally, his gaze settled on Robert. "We shall defend White Harbor, you and I. Lord Manderly will rally to us. But understand this, Robert Baratheon… the Targaryen bloodline will survive this. But they will answer to us. Aegon will be King… but the Starks, and their allies, will rule through him."
Despite the plans set forth, Rickard seemed to age a decade in the solar before them.
Then, surprisingly, Robert spoke with a clarity and purpose that was often lacking. "Lord Stark, marry me to Lyanna. Now. We will face this war together, as a good-father and good-son."
Rickard froze.
This was not the blustering Robert he was used to.
He considered, weighing a desperate request against his own fears and misgivings.
"The war...we could all fall. I would not see my daughter a widow after such a brief marriage. She has endured your thoughtlessness for far too long." He paused, struggling to find the right words. "And... Lyanna already despises me. Do not look so shocked, Baratheon. My... actions in this matter displeased her greatly." Rickard sighed. "Please, Robert. Understand. For her sake."
Robert swallowed hard.
The sting of disappointment was a bitter taste in his mouth, mixed with a sense of rising panic at the thought of the coming war. But this... this was Lyanna, not some battlefield. "I... understand, Lord Stark. I promise, she'll have no cause to despise my actions from this day forth."
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Ser Barristan Selmy stood rigid as a statue in the Red Keep throne room, yet his mind churned like a storm-tossed sea.
The lingering stench of burnt flesh still clung to the air, a sickening testament to the King's madness.
The memory of Owen Merryweather's screams echoed in his ears, a relentless specter he could not shake.
It was a fortnight since the pyres had consumed the Hand of the King and the High Septon, a gruesome spectacle seared into the minds of all present.
The echoes of Owen Merryweather's cries and the sickening sizzle of burning flesh haunted Barristan's sleep.
With chilling clarity, he could still picture the High Septon, robes ablaze, desperately attempting to shield Lord Merryweather with his own frail body, only to be engulfed in the all-consuming flames.
The screams, the cries for mercy, and the King… Aerys had watched it all with a disturbing glint in his eyes, his thin lips twisted into a smile that chilled Barristan's knightly soul.
The throne room remained eerily silent, the only sound a faint crackling from the embers in the braziers.
King Aerys sat slumped on the Iron Throne, a grotesque caricature of royalty.
His once handsome face was ravaged by paranoia, his eyes wide with a manic desperation. The crown sat askew upon his matted hair, jewels winking mockingly in the dim light.
Aerys's gaze darted restlessly around the chamber, as if haunted by unseen enemies.
His hand twitched spasmodically, the long, uncut nails glinting like talons. "Selmy," he had rasped, his voice a jagged whisper. "Where is he? Where is my son?"
A moon had passed since the ravens bearing Rhaegar's plea for support had reached King's Landing. It was then that the King's madness had begun its horrifying escalation.
Similar letters had been sent to Dorne, the Reach, and the Westerlands. Prince Rhaegar had effectively mobilized the realms for war with just four letters.
Though, out of the three realms, only the Reach seemed to have raised their banners.
Fear for his son, echoes of Duskendale rekindled, had ignited a wildfire of paranoia within Aerys.
Owen Merryweather, the appointed Hand amidst this chaos, had attempted to soothe his sovereign with reason and sound council. It was his undoing.
"Your Grace," he had began cautiously, "I propose… we treat with the Starks. Perhaps there is still time for negotiation."
Aerys bolted upright, the Iron Throne scraping harshly against the stone floor. "Negotiation? With traitors? With oathbreakers!" His voice rose to a shriek. "They stole my son, corrupted him! Rhaegar was mine! They... They all want my crown!"
The King's wild accusations had hung heavy in the air.
Barristan had known it was futile to reason with the man before him.
It was like trying to quench wildfire with water.
"You're one of them! Aren't you! SEIZE HIM!" He had screamed, and Connington's men had dutifully captured the poor man.
Only to see the man tried in a sham trial by combat.
His enemy?
Wildfire.
The only one to question the King's madness then had been the High Septon.
The man's patience finally snapped, seeing another of the hundreds, nay thousands perish from the burnings.
Up till then, the King's proclivities were kept secret. The burnings of men conducted in the dead of night, in the Dragonpit.
It seemed open heresy as the King prayed to the Red God from Essos as the former Hand of the King burned was what snapped the High Septon's patience.
He too was seized and burnt in a pyre beside the Hand, and had his quarters searched.
That had led to devastation further devastation for King.
Plans of sedition by the Prince, to depose the King, to marry Lyanna Stark at the isle of faces were revealed.
The king's madness, already fueled by his reliving of Duskendale, seemed to have been strengthened further with oil.
Suddenly, Aerys's eyes fixed on a shadowed corner of the throne room. "There!" he shrieked, pointing with a shaking finger. "They are there! The dogs have come! Come to steal my throne! Steal my son!"
There was no one in the corner, only dust and cobwebs, but the King was inconsolable, his delusion complete.
"Guards!" he screeched, spittle flying from his lips. "GUARDS! SEIZE HIM!"
The Kingsguard Knights, young Jamie Lannister, Gerold Hightower and himself were all that were still present in the red keep, tensed. Unsure whether to obey a command born of madness.
Barristan saw the indecision mirrored in their eyes.
Before anyone could react, Aerys lunged from the throne, fingernails clawing at the air as he advanced on the empty shadows. His mad laughter pierced the oppressive silence, making the King seem more demon than man.
And then, the King turned his accusing gaze upon Barristan. "You! Selmy! You serve them too. Admit it."
A wave of nausea swept over Barristan.
He had served House Targaryen faithfully since he was a squire, had seen the promise fade from Aerys over the years.
Yet, the thought of his honor, his oaths, being questioned by this broken shell of a king, cut him deeper than any Valyrian blade.
"Your Grace," he began, his voice steady despite the tremor in his heart. "I would lay down my life to protect you and your heir."
Aerys, caught in his whirlwind of delusion, seemed not to hear him. "Lies!" the King shrieked. "LIES! All of you conspire against me! We shall give them Duskendale again! You! You led the rescue of Duskendale! Do it again! I command you! Take men, Connington!"
"Yes, my King!" The new Hand of the King bowed.
"Raise the banners! Lend men to Selmy!" The king ordered "I want you to burn the Riverlands in your wake Selmy! Repeat what you did at Duskendale….." he paused, a smile forming on his face "… but this time, when you free my treasonous son! Bring him to me! I will see how much dragon remains in him truly!"
A knot of dread tightened in Barristan's gut.
The King's orders hung in the air like a poison mist, a twisted mockery of his former glory.
Burn the Riverlands? The mere thought sickened him.
At Duskendale, he had snuck into Duskendale in the dead of night to save the now maddened King.
To try to do that at Winterfell would be folly.
At least he had men to aid him this time. Disgusted though he was with the mere thought.
Now, he was ordered to turn upon innocents, to unleash devastation upon lands sworn to House Targaryen.
The specter of the pyres rose again before his eyes.
Lord Merryweather's charred remains.
The High Septon engulfed in flames as he sought to shield another.
Madness whispered, "These are the ones you will burn next."
"Your Grace," Barristan said, his voice barely a whisper, "the Riverlands are loyal. There are no traitors to root out."
The King hissed, his lips peeling back in a snarl. "Loyal? You fool! They harbor my son, shelter his betrayers! And that wolf-blooded Stark… he is wed to one of theirs!" Spittle flecked his lips. "They all deserve to burn!"
Jon Connington stepped forward, newly raised Hand replacing the still-warm ashes of his predecessor. "Your Grace, perhaps we should focus on securing alliances. The Reach has pledged support, but Dorne and the Westerlands remain silent. Should we not…"
Aerys cut him off with a flick of his hand, his eyes blazing. "Alliances? I do not need alliances! I am the dragon! Those who do not bend... shall burn!" His voice rose to a crescendo. "But first, we must secure my heirs."
His mad gaze strengthened its weight upon Connington. "You will take my beloved Rhaella and my son Viserys to Dragonstone. See them safely ensconced, and then return with Elia and her whelps. I will purge the realm of traitors, and when it is cleansed…" His voice trailed off, replaced with a manic laugh that chilled the room.
Barristan's heart clenched.
Queen Rhaella.
Gentle, kind Rhaella, abused time and again by this monster.
The thought of her alone on the desolate island of Dragonstone, pregnant, with only Viserys and a Kingsguard escort to protect her...
"But, Your Grace," Barristan protested feebly, "Dragonstone is vulnerable… I should remain to protect…"
"Silence!" Aerys shrieked. "Do you question your king? You will obey, or you will burn along with the rest of the traitors!"
Barristan bowed his head, unable to meet the Queen's imploring gaze.
Shame washed over him.
As a Kingsguard knight, his duty was to protect the royal family, yet here he was, commanded to abandon the Queen in her most vulnerable time.
He would send Pia with her. She doesn't deserve to stay at the Red Keep any longer. The dangers here were ever-increasing.
Connington cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence. "And what of the Princess Elia, Your Grace? And the Westerlands? Lord Tywin is a formidable ally…"
"Tywin Lannister!" Aerys spat the name as if it were venom. "He will pay for his hesitation. But he is my loyal dog! He will come, won't he Lannister?!" The kings eyes strayed to the wobbling Jamie Lannister, once so promising, now a terrified shadow of the Knight he could have been.
"I … I hope so, my King." The young man whimpered.
"The Dornish slut is my son's wife. Her whelps are his heirs." He paused, and a flicker of something akin to cunning crossed his face. "She will be my hostage against Dorne. A guarantee of their… obedience. Bring her back to the Keep Connington!"
Barristan felt his stomach churn.
Once again, an innocent woman was to become a pawn in the King's twisted game.
Elia, the gentle princess, who was already a virtual prisoner in King's Landing, had fought desperately to leave the Red Keep for Dragonstone was now to return a hostage for her own family.
The knot in his gut tightened further.
He saw it all now - the escalating madness, the innocent lives that would be lost, the realm consumed by fire.
The King had lit the pyre, and Barristan Selmy, honor-bound, was being forced to carry the torch.
Their orders were clear then. With the Kings dismissal, Barristan left to begin preparations.
Barristan felt the weight of a thousand battles on his shoulders as he exited the throne room. The air seemed to crackle with the King's madness, a miasma of paranoia and violence that threatened to choke him.
His duty was clear, yet twisted and horrifying.
He sought solace in a familiar corner of the Red Keep, a place far removed from the stench of death and the stench of burning flesh still lingering in the throne room.
The Sept of Baelor was a sanctuary amidst the chaos. Incense and candlelight mingled, a soothing balm against the oppressive atmosphere of the court.
Here, he found Pia. She knelt before the altar of the Mother, her brow furrowed in prayer.
Young, earnest, with eyes that still held the wide-eyed innocence of someone untouched by the cruelty of the world.
The memory of saving her from those brutes at Harrenhal flashed across his mind, and a flicker of warmth kindled in his heart amidst the cold dread settling over him.
"Pia," he said softly.
The girl started, then turned, her face lighting up upon seeing him.
"Ser Barristan!" She hurried towards him, relief washing over her features. "I am so relieved … I don't like it when you head to the Red Keep …. Not after… " Her voice trailed off, fear evident in her eyes.
Pain lanced through him.
She did not need to understand the full horror of what transpired, but the fear in the Sept spoke volumes about Aerys' descent.
Gently, he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Pia, my child. There are things brewing… dark things. I need a favor... a task only you may fulfill."
Her brow furrowed with determination. "Anything, Ser Barristan. You saved my life. It is yours to command."
Barristan hesitated, guilt twisting his gut.
"I must leave soon for the Riverlands. The King has ordered it." His voice was husky. "The Queen is set to go to Dragon Stone …. I don't want to leave you here near the Red Keep …. Please, join the Queen, go to Dragon Stone with her."
Pia's gasp was barely audible. "Dragonstone? But Ser Barristan … father … I am but a novice here..."
He saw her hesitation, the flicker of fear.
But her trust in him outweighed her doubts.
"I have no family, Ser Barristan. Apart from you. If there is a place for me at the Queen's side… I will gladly take it." Her voice strengthened with resolve.
Barristan's heart ached.
She should be preparing for a life of piety, not facing the horrors that were sure to come.
Yet, he was selfishly grateful.
Queen Rhaella needed a gentle presence, someone untouched by the court's intrigues. And if she agreed, Pia would be safe away from the dangers of the capital for however long the war lasted.
Together, they ascended the winding stairs to the Queen's chambers.
The Queen Rhaella was alone, her eyes red-rimmed, the ghost of a woman Barristan once knew.
She sat hunched by the window nursing her pregnant belly, gazing out at the bleak King's Landing skyline as if already seeing the future painted in blood and fire.
"Queen Rhaella," Barristan began, his voice heavy.
She turned, a flicker of hope warring with stoic resignation. "Ser Barristan, you bring news?"
He knelt before her. "The King… he commands you and Prince Viserys to depart for the safety of Dragonstone. Jon Connington will soon arrive to escort you there."
Rhaella's slender form trembled. "Dragonstone…" She whispered, the name evoking specters of ancient Targaryen tragedies.
Beside him, Pia stepped forward. "Your Grace, I am Pia. A novice in the Sept of Baelor. May I accompany you? With your permission, I would… care for you."
Rhaella regarded Pia with curiosity. She then turned to Barristan and smiled "I would gladly keep your daughter safe, Ser Selmy. Rest assured."
Barristan's heart clenched.
The whispers at court called Pia his whore, yet Queen Rhaella knew that he loved the girl like his daughter.
The Queen then smiled at Pia a fragile bloom of hope amidst the despair. "Pia. That would be... a kindness. I welcome you."
As Pia hurried to gather their belongings, a six-year-old burst into the room. "Mother!" Viserys cried, his silvery head barely clearing the table. He rushed into Rhaella's waiting arms. "And who is this?" Curiosity replaced his worry as he eyed Pia.
"This is Pia, my sweet boy," Rhaella said, her voice soft. "She is coming with us to Dragonstone and will look after us."
Viserys beamed. "A new playmate?" He launched himself at Pia, childish enthusiasm momentarily banishing the lingering shadows.
A wave of relief washed over Barristan, quickly followed by a crushing sense of shame. Here was the woman he swore to protect, her innocence long ago shattered, finding solace in a child rescued from the streets. How could he abandon her? Yet, bound by honor and duty, his path was clear. He could only hope to shield her from the worst the war was bound to bring.
"Good fortune to you, Ser Barristan," Rhaella murmured, a sad smile on her lips. "In this maelstrom of madness, please, do what you can to keep my little Viserys safe. For me."
Her plea felt like a physical blow.
He had sworn an oath to guard her, to shield her from harm... and he was failing.
But even as guilt gnawed at him, Barristan Selmy, the Bold, could not deny this one small act of mercy of defiance against the king's capricious cruelty.
Pia was his to protect, if only for a little while longer.
And now, she would be in the Queen's protection.
He would follow the Queen's orders to the end of his days if he had to.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
A cold knot hardened in Caelum's belly as he stood beside Luke in the grand hall of Highgarden. It wasn't the opulence that chilled him, nor the stern faces of the assembled bannermen.
It was the sight of his father, usually kind and strong, kneeling before the imposing figure of Lord Mace Tyrell.
"The realm teeters on the brink of war, Harlon," the Lord of the Reach boomed, his voice tinged with an odd mix of weariness and anticipation. "Those granted favors in peacetime must now repay them in service. Your tax exemption has served you well these past seasons, but it stands no longer."
Harlon looked up, a flicker of desperation masked by a stoic resolve. "But my lord, I have but a small farm, barely enough to…." His voice trailed off, the reality of their precarious situation settling like dust upon his shoulders.
A hush fell over the court.
Eyes turned toward Caelum.
He saw pity in the soft gaze of lady Alerie, but it was veiled by a strange detachment. Even his friends, Willas and Garlan, avoided his gaze, their smiles replaced with somber expressions. He was alone.
"My lord," Harlon spoke up again, his voice steadier now, "if tax cannot be spared, I offer my service. My brothers were Knights in the war of Ninepenny Kings. I was the greater swordsman than them, and they served Lord Jason Lannister well. I offer my service as sword to House Tyrell. Please, do not take away the tax immunity"
Caelum's heart pounded like a war drum in his ears.
His father, with his quiet wisdom and calloused hands, offering himself to the battlefield?
To a war ignited by the very Prince who had tried to kill him and Luke only a few years ago?
Mace Tyrell sat upon his high seat, silent and thoughtful.
He glanced at Lady Olenna beside him, and she merely gave a subtle incline of her head.
He turned back to Harlon.
"Your dedication is admirable, Harlon," the Lord of Highgarden replied. "Your son Caelum has been a true companion to my Garlan. I value that loyalty. Very well. Your tax exemption shall stand."
Relief washed over Harlon, swiftly followed by apprehension.
"But," Mace Tyrell continued, his tone hardening, "Generosity must be earned, not merely granted. It is not gold, but your strong arm the Reach demands. Your fields will be tended by your son, while you join our ranks. Ser Vortimer Crane will test your credibility as a swordsman."
Caelum's relief transformed into despair.
Luke, as a squire, heading to war in the name of the mad Prince was bad enough... His father, a simple farmer at heart... this was a far crueler fate.
"My lord," Harlon began to protest, "Caelum is just a boy, barely –"
"Old enough to take his father's place on the farm," Lady Olenna interjected. Her voice was sharp, like thorns in a rosebush. "War disrupts the order of things, Harlon. Be grateful that your sacrifice is service, not blood."
Harlon stood, lips pressed tightly together.
, he lowered his head again. "As you command, my lord," he said, voice thick with forced acceptance.
Caelum's throat tightened, a silent cry trapped within him.
This was not the happy homecoming he imagined.
The taste of victory from the previous chapter had turned to ashes in his mouth. He had helped a thief find redemption, but his own family was now held captive by war and a lord's cold bargain.
And all he could do was watch.
A ripple of amusement ran through the court as Ser Vortimer Crane, the imposing master-at-arms of Highgarden, strode forward. A towering figure clad in gleaming armor, he carried himself with an authority that commanded the room.
"So, the farmer thinks himself a knight now?" he boomed, a hint of mockery lacing his voice. He tossed Harlon a blunted sword and a set of mismatched, ill-fitting armor.
Caelum cringed at the disrespect, but his father accepted them with a silent nod.
As they took position in the center of the great hall, the circle of onlookers widened, whispers of skepticism and a few stray chuckles filling the air. Harlon, once a familiar sight tilling his fields, now appeared strangely out of place in this glittering war chamber.
Ser Vortimer launched into the spar without ceremony. His sword flashed like a silver streak, relentless and precise.
Harlon, hampered by unfamiliar armor and years of disuse, parried frantically. His stance was clumsy, his footwork faltering. Each clash reverberated through Caelum's body, a stark contrast to the smooth, almost effortless movements of the knight.
Desperation fueled Harlon's defense. Old muscle memory flickered, and once or twice he caught Ser Vortimer off guard with a crude but surprisingly powerful counterstrike.
All Caelum felt was despair, he didn't want his father humiliated in court, neither did he want to see him off to war.
Time seemed to both drag and speed along. The ringing of steel echoed relentlessly as Ser Vortimer's blows fell like hammer strikes, forcing Harlon relentlessly backward. A thin sheen of sweat marked Harlon's brow, and a gasp escaped his lips as he narrowly avoided a strike aimed at his helm.
Lord Mace watched intently, his expression unreadable.
A bead of sweat ran down Caelum's face, mingling with a silent tear. Had this all been for nothing? Would his father now be humiliated alongside the loss of their life as they knew it?
Finally, the onslaught stopped. Ser Vortimer abruptly backed off, raising his sword. Harlon, breathing heavily, stumbled, but remained upright.
"Enough," Mace Tyrell declared, his voice cutting through the hall. "The man has a flicker of skill. It can be honed, given time." Relief coursed through Caelum like a swift stream.
Harlon dropped to one knee, offering his sword in submission. "My thanks, Lord Tyrell," he said, voice ragged.
"You shall find Ser Vortimer a strict teacher, Harlon," the Lord intoned, "but war is a sterner one still. Report to the training yard tomorrow at dawn. The Reach's banners gather swiftly."
With a final stiff nod, Harlon rose slowly to his feet and left the court, Luke and Caelum in tow.
Outside, the sun still bathed Highgarden in golden light, but the walk home to their village was a somber one, the taste of their small victory mingling with the looming specter of war.
That afternoon, a smothering silence settled over the farmhouse as if the hearth's warmth had been snuffed out. Elyna's face was a mask of fury, grief and a mother's protective fire all tangled together.
"You would swear an oath to them?" she spat out, her voice trembling. "To the prince who tried to have our children murdered?"
"What else could I do, Elyna?" Harlon's voice was thick, a mixture of guilt and weariness. "We cannot afford the increased taxes. Without the exemption, we lose everything we worked so hard to build."
"But at what cost?" Elyna shot back, her hands clenched into fists. "Your life, Harlon? What if you die like your brothers? Left in some gods-forsaken battlefield?"
Tears streamed down Harlon's face, cutting lines of silent anguish against his rough farmer's skin. "I don't know, Elyna," he choked out, "I just...I cannot bear the thought of our children going hungry because of my pride…"
The room fell silent again, save for the crackling of the fire. Despair settled thickly between them, its weight far heavier than sacks of coin.
Then, Caelum spoke, his voice soft but unwavering. "I'll go."
Heads snapped up in an instant. Luke stared at his little brother in confusion, Marna and Serra's eyes went wide. "Don't be a fool Caelum!" Elyna scolded, he voice wavering.
"Luke's a squire, going off to this war," Caelum continued, meeting his father's gaze. "And Pa...I can't see you go too." He paused, the words heavy on his tongue. "If I go with you, maybe…maybe I can keep us all safe."
"Safe?" Harlon's laugh was a sob in his throat. "The battlefield is no place for a child, Caelum. Your magic… it must remain a secret. You know they will label you a demon should anyone find out!" He shook his head, "And besides, the Tyrells would never accept a child soldier."
Caelum stood tall, a spark of determination replacing the usual childish light in his eyes. "They won't have a choice," he said stubbornly. "Didn't the gods say I was sent for a reason? With this destiny?" He reached beneath his tunic, clutching the crystal hidden there, the faint silver glow illuminating his hand. "I want to keep you all safe, Pa. We need a miracle, and maybe I'm it."
Harlon looked at his son, this boy brimming with stubborn loyalty and a strange power that defied understanding. Tears welled up in his eyes again, but his voice was stern as he turned to Marna and Serra.
"Do you have it?" he asked, a desperate edge to his voice.
The two women nodded "We do, Harlon. Like you had requested."
Solemnly, they each pulled out small sacks, the clinking of metal heavy in the silence.
Harlon followed suit, emptying a far larger sack of silvers onto the table.
"I will pay you back," he vowed. "Every stag, even if I have to sell my soul to a hundred lords to do so."
With newfound resolve, he looked around the table.
Elyna stared back, the fight extinguished from her eyes, replaced by an awful acceptance.
Marna and Serra looked heartbroken but resigned.
Then, Caelum unable to take the suspense any longer, focused his vision on the sacks, an ethereal clarity kicked in them, and a wave of shock washed over him as he saw the truth in the shining silver.
Why would they gather this much for him?
"I didn't want to go like this," he blurted out, unable to contain his turmoil. "Not when you…" he looked at Harlon, Luke, "…are going to war."
Luke blinked in confusion. "What do you mean? Go where?"
"The Citadel," Serra choked out. "Caelum.. he wanted to learn magic, to understand his... destiny. We've been gathering coin for his journey."
Luke's eyes widened. "They're sending him alone? Now? They'd rob him on the road, take it all!"
Harlon sighed in anguish. "He'd be safer far from here, Luke," he said brokenly. "Safer than any of us are going to be. I want him as far away from the war as I can. I have no idea whether Highgarden will face any sort of attack, and I don't want to risk him joining us in going to war. He will be safe at the citadel. Besides, no robber will survive trying to rob from Caelum."
Luke's protest rang out across the table, a raw echo of Caelum's own thoughts. "He can't go alone! They'll skin him alive on the Oldtown road."
"He won't be alone," Harlon countered, his voice laced with a desperation he couldn't mask. "Septon Mattheus has found him a place with a merchant caravan. Other boys, from castle families...they also seek to be maesters. There's safety in numbers."
Meredith's voice, usually warm and comforting, cut with a protective edge that surprised them all. "But he's just a child, Harlon. Even with a caravan, the Reach is a dangerous place, and getting more so by the day."
"I'm not going!" Caelum exclaimed, his voice sharp and trembling.
Harlon's face creased with an unbearable mix of sadness and determination. "It's decided, son. The coin's been paid, the arrangements made. You will be far from this war."
Caelum sank into a chair, tears of frustration and fear welling up uncontrollably. He didn't want to see Luke marched off to a battlefield, he couldn't bear the thought of his father joining the fray. His head pounded, and a familiar surge of power threatened to burst from him.
A flicker of vibrant red flared in his eyes for a split second – a primal response to his overwhelming emotions – but he clamped down with desperate focus, forcing it to subside. Meredith saw the brief flash, a gasp escaping her lips.
Then, with a resolve he didn't feel, she spoke. "If Caelum goes to the Citadel, then I go too."
Caelum's heart twisted. He loved Meredith like a sister, cherished her warmth and steady presence. His going to the Citadel was already an unbearable sacrifice... but now her job too? The job at Highgarden that she loved so much? A stab of resentment against the Tyrells bubbled within him.
"No," he choked out, his voice barely a whisper. "Meredith, you finally…finally have a good job. You love working there. I refuse to be the reason you lose something you worked so hard for."
He stood, the tears still running down his face. "I'll go alone" he said, his voice thick with a pain that belied his young age. "Don't worry, I'll be fine. I'll learn and be back strong enough to protect us all."
The weight of Caelum's words hung heavy in the air. And then, like a crack splitting the silence, Marna's voice broke through, a mix of desperation and practicality.
"Jerren will go with him."
Harlon shook his head, "Marna, I... I couldn't possibly ask for more. Your boy helps me with the farm, keeps the inn running with you. I won't..."
"Harlon," Marna interrupted, "Jerren's strong and capable. He's worked the land and the roads, and knows how to handle himself." She placed a gentle hand on Meredith's shoulder. "And Meredith...she wouldn't rest here knowing he was on the road alone. We're family, we share in this."
Caelum's heart ached. Jerren wasn't just Meredith's brother; he was a steady presence in Caelum's life too.
To see his sacrifice pile onto Meredith's family, the debt he owed growing heavier... Silently he pleaded to the Seven, 'Just keep them safe. This family. Keep them safe.'
"No," he said, his voice steadier now, "Jerren stays here. He's needed. With Luke leaving, and now me... I don't want to put you all out any further." He fought back a fresh wave of tears, his resolve bolstered by an unspoken vow – he would find a way to repay every debt, protect his loved ones, even if from afar.
"I'll manage, I promise," he said, the words more to convince himself than them. He met Marna's eyes, his own shining with an unexpected ferocity. "The Citadel is a place of knowledge. I'll learn my magic ….. if that is what you want Pa, I will go."
With that, he turned, not wanting them to see the tears that threatened to fall again. It was a lonely journey he had to face, and the sooner he accepted the bitter truth, the better.
The silence lingered heavily, broken only by Luke's soft voice. "I'll keep him safe, Cael. I swear it."
A strangled chuckle escaped Harlon. "Might be the other way around, son, if that damned swordsmanship of mine doesn't improve." The attempted humor fell flat, a mask over the raw fear in his eyes.
Tears flowed freely now. Elyna's sobs were muffled against Harlon's chest, Meredith clung to her mother, and even Luke had tears streaming down his face.
Caelum stood apart, near the hearth. The fire's warmth felt hollow against the chill of impending separation.
His prayers to the Seven echoed in the silence. 'Protect them. Keep them safe. Guide me to the power I need to do the same.'
He couldn't bear the thought of losing his family. But, unlike at the tourney, he felt powerless to stop it this time.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N) Wow. That hurt my back a lot.
Rhaegar had planned to set off the war. He knew Lyanna's kidnapping would spark war, and had planned to start it pre-emptively, to distract the Stark attentions from his escape.
Basically, he had sent a letter to Aerys saying that Rickard Stark had captured him (while not actually being captured) trying to spark his father's PTSD about Duskendale. More letters were sent to Dorne, Reach, and Westerlands (Rhaegars apparent allies, he neglects sending similar letters to Tully, and Arryn because he realizes it would be futile)
This is what caused the mobilization of war.
Rhaegar's plan is to depose Aerys during said war after Lyanna is heavy with a child.
The torchlight flickered on the damp stone walls of the dungeon, casting long, grotesque shadows that danced with each uneasy movement.
Ashara's voice, normally as sweet as a summer breeze, held a taut edge, anger, and weariness seeping into her tone, her pregnancy still early made her waddle a little as she paced the cell. "What were you thinking, Arthur?" she demanded, her fist clenching at her side. "To try to kidnap Lady Lyanna... with the Crown Prince himself? Are you so far gone?"
Arthur, the legendary 'Sword of the Morning', slumped on a rough-hewn bench, his wrists bound with heavy chains. A mocking smile twisted his lips. "Hah! And eloping with Eddard Stark is any better, dear sister? What will Father say of that, of your stolen vows?"
Ashara felt a surge of fury threatening to overwhelm her. Her pregnancy normally a source of joy, now only added to the turmoil churning within her. "Arthur, you damned hypocrite, you're accusing me of eloping when you planned to do the same to Lyanna with the Prince?! You fool! You have shamed our house, shamed yourself! Father will hear of this, and so will every lord and lady in the realm. You'll be no knight, you are an Oathbreaker!"
Arthur surged to his feet, the chains around his arms rattling at the sudden motion, a flash of defiance igniting his eyes. "Aerys?" he snarled, "The Mad King will never be my king! Rhaegar is the true king, the one destined to lead us!"
Ned stepped forward, his voice low and dangerous. "Words have consequences, Kingsguard. Even spoken beneath the stones of Winterfell... Tell me the plan. Where did you intend to take Lyanna? You can't truly believe you'd have escaped the North with her in tow. Just like the Prince won't escape, not with my father and Robert giving chase."
The Knight's jaw clenched, false bravado fighting through his uncertainty. "They won't find him," he muttered.
Ashara, her face pale, pressed closer to the bars. "Why, Arthur? Why violate your oaths? You served the King all these years…you were the most honorable among us."
"You know why," Arthur retorted, his sneer aimed directly at her. "Aerys burns men alive for his twisted pleasure. His cruelty knows no bounds. You knew…. You have seen the charred corpses in the dragon pit … that's why you chose to flee with the Stark! To hide in his dreary keep!" He paused, bitterness lacing his voice as he gestured toward her belly. "At least I tried to do something, to save the Seven Kingdoms from a despot and set a worthy king upon the Iron Throne. Not whore away to a savage here in the North! I tried to be a True Knight for a True King!"
Ashara's eyes blazed with fury. "This is madness, this is not some grand scheme for salvation! I love Ned. He listened when no one else would, when father didn't, you didn't. I wanted to leave the Red Keep, I pleaded to let me leave. Even Elia pleaded for me to return home! But no! Father wanted me to stay at the Red Keep, the only one who listened when I needed it most was Ned, and I love him! We married for love. I am not a whore!"
Her voice cracked with anguish and anger. "And if you think the North is some uncivilized wasteland, then what in the Seven Hells were you doing plotting to abduct its lady? You call Ned a savage, you don't know anything about them at all!"
Ned moved to place a comforting hand on Ashara's shoulder. His voice remained measured, but his grey eyes were twin chips of ice fixed on Arthur. "I need answers, Ser Arthur. The North remembers those who bring harm to our own. Right now, the only thing standing between you and a much less hospitable cell is the love my wife bears for her brother. But even that patience has limits."
Arthur's defiance held fast, his jaw clenched in a stubborn line. "I will not betray my king," he ground out, the words barely audible.
A bitter laugh escaped Ashara. "Betray Rhaegar? You have already betrayed him. He will be caught. His dishonoring of Elia, his attempted… violation of Lyanna. Word will spread. He might be your precious king, but he cannot hide forever. You followed him into madness, into ruin. You betrayed him the moment you let him follow through with this madness!"
She sank against the bars, the emotional strain etched in every line of her face. "I should have recognized them in White Harbor," she whispered, more to herself than to the others. "But I…I didn't want to believe…" She trailed off, then looked up, a sheen of unshed tears in her eyes. "I ... hoped that Aegon's birth would heal the wound he created between Elia and him… but to do this?"
Ned placed a protective arm around his wife, trying to comfort her as best he could. "Why do you believe Rhaegar will escape justice? There has to be more to this plan..."
Arthur remained steadfastly silent, his eyes fixed on a cobweb in the far corner of his cell.
Ned's patience wore thin.
His voice took on a sharper edge. "Enough of this, Ser Arthur. Ashara, you shouldn't have to bear witness to this… go..." He hesitated, a flicker of concern in his eyes. "Are you well enough to go to Lady Catelyn? Or mayhaps Lyanna?"
Ashara sniffled, wiping angry tears from her eyes. "No... I don't want to see my brother tortured..." she shook her head trying to cling to Ned with everything she had. "I can make him talk, Ned. He'll listen when he knows what's right."
Arthur's scoff echoed in the confined space. "Take your pity elsewhere, sister. My loyalty lies with my king."
Ashara let out a sob of frustration, burying her face in her hands.
Ned started to say something, but they were interrupted by a sharp shout from the guards outside. "Lord Eddard! Your father and Lord Baratheon have returned!"
Ned glanced back at Arthur, trying to discern any shift in his captive's expression, but the Kingsguard remained a mask of unwavering defiance. "Did they capture the Prince?" Ned asked the guard.
The guard, a weathered Northman named Calon, swallowed nervously. "I don't know, my lord. I couldn't see well, the entire guard was with them."
Ned sighed, a heavy weight settling upon him.
He squeezed Ashara's hand. "We'll finish this later. He has no love left for you" He turned back to the guard. "Calon, see that Ser Arthur receives no food or water. Let him stew here until my father decides his fate." He hesitated, then added, "And… see that he isn't spoken to. Silence may make him more inclined to cooperate."
With a parting glance at Arthur, Ned left the dungeons.
The early morning air was a shock after the claustrophobic atmosphere below.
The attempt by the Prince the previous night had taken a toll on Eddard, and he had lost track of time in ensuring Lyanna was safe with maester Walys, and questioning Arthur Dayne.
He joined Ashara as they made their way towards the castle grounds.
An uneasy murmur spread through the assembled men – a mix of Starks and Stormlanders. Banners snapped in the crisp wind, and the scent of horses and damp earth hung heavy in the air.
In the center of the clearing, Rickard Stark and Robert Baratheon stood in tense conference near a grim sight – the slain body of Ser Oswell Whent, dragged unceremoniously behind Robert's warhorse.
And near them, bound and gagged, were two men.
The flicker of recognition in Ned's eyes was like a lance through his heart.
Even with their hair dyed and faces bruised, the violet eyes were unmistakable.
They had all been fooled by the Prince's farce, not willing to question the absurdity of such a ploy.
A desperate plea reached them as Ned and Ashara approached.
One of the bound men was struggling against his captors, his voice hoarse with fear and exertion. "Lord Stark... Mercy, I beg you! I'll take the black, swear my life to your service! Anything!"
Ned and Ashara joined his father and Robert.
Before either could speak, Brandon arrived, disheveled and weary from his fruitless search of the crypts. His face was a grim mask of frustration.
Rickard silenced the pleading man with a harsh smack with the pommel of his sword, "Enough!"
Robert surged forward, his rage barely contained. "I'll have their heads, I swear it! To dare touch Lyanna... to attempt to steal her away!" Robert's grip tightened on his Warhammer, a tremor of fury running through his arm.
Rickard's voice, though calmer, held a razor's edge. "Silence, Lord Baratheon. We have them. That is what matters." He turned to Rhaegar, who had yet to speak. "Did you truly believe you could escape the North, Prince?" Rickard's tone shifted, almost a touch of admiration in his voice. "The ploy was ingenious, I admit. To lead us on a fruitless chase south after your craven body double, while you fled North…. A pity the craven betrayed you when it mattered to you the most."
Rhaegar's eyes flashed with anger, but he refused to speak a word.
Rickard's voice, deceptively calm, cut through the tense silence. "But what then, Prince? Once you reached Castle Black, did you intend to venture beyond the Wall? Did you think to take my daughter there?"
Rhaegar remained silent, his defiance simmering beneath the surface.
Robert lunged forward, the warhammer blurring as he backhanded the Prince across the face. Teeth shattered, blood staining Rhaegar's drab bard's clothes.
Bael, the craven double, let out a whimper of terror. "I'll talk! I'll tell you anything, please!" He strained against his bonds. "A ship… there is a ship, waiting at some settlement north of the Wall. At Hardhome! Captained by Laenor Waters!"
Robert raised the hammer again, a snarl twisting his features. "Is that right, Targaryen?!" He backhanded the Prince again "Speak, Gods damn you! Another blow and your tongue won't be good for much talking!"
Rickard, his weathered features grim, seized Robert's arm. "Enough, Lord Baratheon. We need him intact." He turned his assessing gaze back to Bael. "And what of you, sellsword? What did the Prince promise for this treachery?"
Bael swallowed visibly. "Knighthood… a keep in the Crownlands… he swore I'd be raised above my station…"
Rickard sighed, a world of weariness in the simple sound. "…And by doing this, you've cast aside your life. The Prince may survive, but you? You have already sworn your life to the wall."
Robert's voice boomed, shaking the early morning stillness. "No! I will have his head! This means war! Rhaegar has provoked it, and by the Gods, House Baratheon will answer! I will not rest till the Targaryen dynasty drowns at my feet! Ours is the Fury!"
Ned felt a chill of unease, Ashara squirmed beside him.
Rickard, too, tensed.
The Stormland lords flanking Robert roared their approval.
Ned saw that Brandon's hand was tight on his sword hilt, echoing their sentiment. The fool.
Rickard held the Stormlord's gaze, his voice steady despite the growing danger. "We need not start a war, Lord Baratheon. Do you not see? We hold the Prince as hostage. We can negotiate with the Crown, exact reparations…"
Robert's fury cut him off. "Negotiate?! He dishonored my betrothed! There will be bloodshed, Lord Stark, and the Mad King's dynasty will drown in it!"
Brandon, mirroring Robert's earlier defiance, spoke up. "Father, such an insult, such a reckless act against Lyanna, against our House... it cannot go unanswered!"
Rickard could see that his words were affecting the lords and men who were witness in the clearing.
Rickard's face hardened.
His voice, when it came, was laced with anger. "And what do you suggest, son? Shall we condemn the entire North to bloodshed, raze villages and fields in our revenge?"
Brandon's retort was swift and sharp, "What do you suggest we do, Father? Roll over and lick the Targaryen boot, allow the insult to fester?"
Rickard's composure cracked.
He whirled on Brandon, the tension radiating outwards.
In front of not just his bannermen, but Stormlanders as well, he was losing control.
Ned cut in, his voice urgent, "Brandon, war solves nothing! Think, what do you intend to achieve by this madness? Lyanna is safe. Here, at home! She has not been hurt; you are going too far!"
Brandon rounded on him, "The Targaryens have already gone too far! This attempt to kidnap Lyanna was the last straw. Robert Baratheon can be King, damn it! His claim is there! Let the Targaryens burn for all I care!"
Robert, surprisingly, was the voice of reason. "I have no desire for the damned crown! Though," he glared at the captive prince, "I'd be a sight better ruler than this inbred fool or his pyromaniac father." He spat at Rhaegar's feet. "The Realm knows Aerys' madness by now! Harrnehall was proof enough. It is an open secret."
Rhaegar, surprisingly, decided to speak. "My father... had nothing to do with the deaths at Harrenhal."
A sharp crack of Robert's warhammer against Rhaegar's jaw silenced him.
Blood trickled down the Prince's face, another tooth chipped. "Of all the times you speak, you speak to defend your father now?!"
Rickard lunged forward, grabbing Robert's arm again. "Enough! Robert, stop we need him unharmed!" He turned his piercing gaze on Rhaegar. "Explain yourself, Prince!"
Rhaegar spat a bloody tooth and sneered. "My father is not responsible for burning those fools. It was... the work of your precious Lyanna's lover. Some... lowborn farm boy named Luke!"
The clearing fell eerily silent.
It was the stillness before the storm, the breath held before chaos erupts.
Robert roared and surged forwards, warhammer held high. "Lies! Slander against my betrothed! I'll smash your silver-haired skull for even suggesting…"
This time it was Ned who leaped in the path of Robert's fury.
Brandon and Rickard quickly joined, grappling with Robert, wresting the weapon from his hands.
With a final shove, Robert was forced back, his rage a tangible force in the sudden quiet. Rickard turned to his men. "Cassel! Take the Prince to the deepest cell and chain him there. You, personally! I won't have another incompetent guard playing into his hands! "
Cassel, grim-faced, nodded and moved to obey.
Rickard continued with icy precision, "The prince, Ser Arthur, and this...Bael are to be kept separate. No communication between them. Do you understand?"
Rickard whirled on Robert "Robert we will continue this in my solar!"
Ned cut in, his voice trembling slightly. "Father… Lyanna's guards … their ale was found laced with milk of the poppy. They had no hand in this."
Rhaegar's laughter, a chilling sound, echoed in their ears as he was dragged away.
Broken and bruised, the Prince of Dragonstone still had the power to sow chaos in his wake.
"Gods damn you!" Robert roared futilely, "He lays insult after insult upon my betrothed. Your daughter, and you expect me to do nothing!"
"In my solar! Robert!" Rickard commanded.
He could see that the Storm Lander lords were bristling at his tone, but Robert was now acting like a child, and he would not take another lord making orders in his home.
"Fine! Seven curse it all! Fine!" Robert stomped, as he began marching to the castle.
Rickard sighed wearily and turned to the rest of the men in the clearing "Please, my Lords. You all have aided in the capture of the Prince. Take rest, the guards and servants will see you well-rested and fed. Ethan, see to the arrangements."
Ethan Poole, the steward of Winterfell nodded, bowed from where he stood watching with his son, Vayon. "Yes, m'lord"
Ned turned to Ashara, the stress from the events must be overwhelming and he didn't want her involved any further. Facing her brother had been taxing enough, but she had been insistent "Ash, you should return to the castle. Mayhaps, you can join Lyanna and Benjen with Maester Walys."
His wife sighed drearily "No, Ned. My heart will not rest till I am certain there will be no war. I don't want to see you off to war. I won't be able to rest not knowing that Elia's and Rhaenys' lives could now be in danger."
Eddard sighed, placing a kiss atop his wife's brow. "I will do my level best to prevent that from happening, love."
Ashara leaned into his side deeper, her violet eyes staring into his stark greys. "I will worry all the same."
Ned sighed, as he calmed her fears "Have faith in me, love. I do not want to see Princess Elia, nor her children hurt either. I will convince Robert."
Ashara searched his eyes for a moment and then squeezed his hand lightly, giving him a lingering kiss "I will place my faith in you, Ned. As I did at Harrenhall."
Seeing his wife leave, Ned worried internally.
War was not something he desired either.
Quickly, he followed his father, Brandon and Robert to his father's solar.
Robert's voice boomed in the confines of the solar, echoing against the stone walls. "Damn you all! The Prince spat on my betrothed, on her honor... in front of my bannermen, in the heart of Winterfell! And you expect me to… to negotiate?"
Rickard's calmly replied. "We have leverage. We will demand reparations. The Prince will be sent to the Wall, stripped of his titles. His son, Aegon, shall be named Crown Prince."
"That is not enough!" Brandon snarled, pacing the stone floor like a caged wolf. "Do you think the Targaryens will take that without retaliation?"
Rickard thundered at the insolence of his son, and heir "Brandon, I will not take that tone from you. You will be silent. You of all people are not in the position to speak this way with me. Your insolence will not be tolerated any further, you daft fool! Don't clamor for war for an insult – an attempt on Lyanna – that bore no fruit!"
Ned took a deep breath, trying to find words that might soothe the wounded stag. "Robert, think of the realm. Think of the smallfolk... the actions of two madmen – Rhaegar and Aerys – does not merit drowning the Seven Kingdoms in blood."
Robert scoffed. "As if the Mad King will listen to your demands! Lord Rickard, the madman burns people at the stake for his twisted pleasure. What do you think he will do?"
"If there is to be a war, I will not see it be started by us!" Rickard shouted back.
Ned seeing an opportunity, tried to step into the fray. "Robert... what would you achieve by igniting this war? The end of the Targaryen dynasty – yes. And then what?"
Robert's voice was thick with frustration. "The line of the Dragon must die out! They've proved themselves unfit to rule, time and again."
Ned pressed his point, his voice a sharp contrast to the rising temper of the room, "And what of Elia? Her children? Viserys? Even Queen Rhaella... Would you condemn them all? Kill them all for your revenge? For the sins of their father and brother? A crime that the Prince failed to commit in truth?"
Robert faltered. "The Wall for the boys…" He hesitated, a flicker of unease in his eyes. "The Silent Sisters for the women. It would be... a kindness, compared to Aerys."
Ned scoffed, a bitter laugh rising in his throat. "You think Dorne will take that willingly? You will have a war with Dorne on your hands too then, and winning not one but two wars is easier said than done. And if some miracles you win, then who will be King, Robert? Who would you seat upon the Iron Throne? You?"
Robert hesitated.
There was a flicker of doubt on his face, the first sign that he truly hadn't thought that far ahead.
Brandon piped up, "You have the claim, Robert! You could rule, bring stability…"
Rickard slammed a fist on the table "Silence, Brandon! I will not have you fill Robert's head with seditious nonsense!"
Defeated, a mix of anger and confusion warring on his face, Robert finally relented. "Fine. Your plan, then, Lord Stark ... Gods damn it all!" Without another word, he turned and stalked towards the door.
Ned followed. "Where are you going, Robert?"
"Wintertown," Robert muttered, not looking back. "To work off some of this fury…in the only way I know how."
"No, you will not! Robert Baratheon!" Rickard's patience finally broke. "I have tolerated enough of your dishonoring of my daughter! Is this how it is going to be if you are wed? Will you put horns on my daughter, spit on house stark through out your married life?!"
Robert stopped in his tracks.
Vulnerability battled rage in his eyes, his usual bluster momentarily silenced.
His shoulders slumped with a weariness that belied his formidable strength.
Rickard pressed his advantage, his voice cold and deliberate. "You have dishonored Lyanna enough! First, with a bastard flaunted before the realm. Then, at Harrenhall after the Prince had dishonored her before the realm, you sook solace in a brothel rather than attempt to truly understand, and comfort the woman you are to wed! And now, you clamor for war? I wonder, Lord Baratheon, if you are worthy of this alliance."
Rickard knew he was playing a dangerous game.
The threat of breaking the betrothal was an empty one – the alliance with the Stormlands was too valuable to throw away.
But his anger, and his fear for his daughter's future had finally frayed his patience and made him reckless.
The effect on Robert was immediate.
He bowed his head, the bravado gone. "My apologies, Lord Stark. I...I never intended to dishonor Lyanna... I never thought my actions hurt her in truth."
Rickard continued, his tone harsh but a flicker of pity softening the set of his jaw. "You say you never intended to bring harm, yet that is exactly what your actions do, Lord Baratheon. You think only of yourself – your pain, your desires. Lyanna suffers your thoughtlessness, and you'd condemn countless innocent lives for a vengeance that won't heal the wounds you inflict."
He turned the full force of his icy gaze on Brandon. "You are no better, Son! You never think before you commit to reckless actions. Don't understand their consequences. Haven't you learnt your lesson already?! What will it take?!" He said glancing at Eddard for a brief moment.
Brandon swallowed, the recklessness of just moments ago replaced with a dawning realization.
A sharp, insistent knock shattered the heavy silence. Rickard's voice was clipped. "Enter."
Maester Walys, his stooped frame trembling slightly, hurried into the room. "My pardon, Lord Stark...urgent missives...three arrived in quick succession."
Rickard's hand shot out. "Give them here."
He scanned the first raven scroll, then the second. And then the third.
The blood drained from his face, leaving it ashen. He looked up, a bitter smile twisting his lips. His voice, when it came, was hoarse with shock and a terrible, weary humor.
"Congratulations, gentlemen." He held the letters aloft. "The Gods it seems have decided to granny you your wish, His Grace, King Aerys of House Targaryen, has declared war upon the North. We are now rebels in the eyes of the Iron Throne."
The silence in the solar following that declaration was deafening.
The silence stretched into a taut, almost unbearable thing. Then, Ned finally broke it. His voice was strained, a sliver of uncertainty cutting through his usual calm. "Father, what do the letters say?"
Rickard's voice was heavy with the weight of the world. "Jon Arryn writes first – Gulltown is blockaded, the Royal Fleet sealing it from the outside. He claims that the King has demanded he swear himself again to the Crown, and raise the banners against House Stark. Then, White Harbor..." He took a jagged breath. "The same. Ser Bartimus' ravens plead for aid from Lord Manderly and House Stark, it seems." He closed his eyes for a brief moment before opening them, the flint-like determination returning. "And finally, Aerys himself. He demands the release of the Prince. And... our heads. All the lords who are here at Winterfell have been sentenced to die."
Brandon exploded; his earlier contrition forgotten. "How? It hasn't been a day! How could Aerys possibly know?"
A slow realization dawned on Rickard's face, and it was answered by a hollow laugh. "The Prince... Rhaegar... he played us. The fool intended to distract us with a war to the South while he fled North" Rickard paused, then looked at Robert directly. "Your arrival, your wedding feast, ... he timed it all perfectly."
Robert swallowed hard.
The boisterous defiance was gone, replaced by a deep dread settling in his stomach. "If we fight, then… what are we fighting for? I have no desire to be King."
Rickard sighed. His shoulders slumped as if ten more years had suddenly been added to his age. "We will not take the Iron Throne, no. Damn the gods, not another war... But the King," his voice hardened, "the King must die. I do not know why he has attacked us if he knew the Prince was our captive, but his madness cannot be allowed to fester any longer."
Ned's mind raced. "If we win, Father... who sits on the Throne?"
Rickard stood then, a flicker of his old strength returning. "There is a war to be won first. Ned!" The
Eddard started at the sharp tone.
His father continued "I will raise the banners. You will ride beyond the Wall. That ship at Hardhome… you will find it. Take the ship, by persuasion or by force. Convert the captain, or kill him. I don't care. Laenor Waters is the captain of a ship belonging to the Royal fleet, he is the bastard son of Lucerys Velaryon, use it, use him." He paused, considering his words. "Sail for Dragonstone. Elia and the children – we will secure them as hostages against Dorne."
He turned to Brandon. "You will take a portion of our strength south to Gulltown. We must relieve Jon Arryn."
Finally, his gaze settled on Robert. "We shall defend White Harbor, you and I. Lord Manderly will rally to us. But understand this, Robert Baratheon… the Targaryen bloodline will survive this. But they will answer to us. Aegon will be King… but the Starks, and their allies, will rule through him."
Despite the plans set forth, Rickard seemed to age a decade in the solar before them.
Then, surprisingly, Robert spoke with a clarity and purpose that was often lacking. "Lord Stark, marry me to Lyanna. Now. We will face this war together, as a good-father and good-son."
Rickard froze.
This was not the blustering Robert he was used to.
He considered, weighing a desperate request against his own fears and misgivings.
"The war...we could all fall. I would not see my daughter a widow after such a brief marriage. She has endured your thoughtlessness for far too long." He paused, struggling to find the right words. "And... Lyanna already despises me. Do not look so shocked, Baratheon. My... actions in this matter displeased her greatly." Rickard sighed. "Please, Robert. Understand. For her sake."
Robert swallowed hard.
The sting of disappointment was a bitter taste in his mouth, mixed with a sense of rising panic at the thought of the coming war. But this... this was Lyanna, not some battlefield. "I... understand, Lord Stark. I promise, she'll have no cause to despise my actions from this day forth."
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
Ser Barristan Selmy stood rigid as a statue in the Red Keep throne room, yet his mind churned like a storm-tossed sea.
The lingering stench of burnt flesh still clung to the air, a sickening testament to the King's madness.
The memory of Owen Merryweather's screams echoed in his ears, a relentless specter he could not shake.
It was a fortnight since the pyres had consumed the Hand of the King and the High Septon, a gruesome spectacle seared into the minds of all present.
The echoes of Owen Merryweather's cries and the sickening sizzle of burning flesh haunted Barristan's sleep.
With chilling clarity, he could still picture the High Septon, robes ablaze, desperately attempting to shield Lord Merryweather with his own frail body, only to be engulfed in the all-consuming flames.
The screams, the cries for mercy, and the King… Aerys had watched it all with a disturbing glint in his eyes, his thin lips twisted into a smile that chilled Barristan's knightly soul.
The throne room remained eerily silent, the only sound a faint crackling from the embers in the braziers.
King Aerys sat slumped on the Iron Throne, a grotesque caricature of royalty.
His once handsome face was ravaged by paranoia, his eyes wide with a manic desperation. The crown sat askew upon his matted hair, jewels winking mockingly in the dim light.
Aerys's gaze darted restlessly around the chamber, as if haunted by unseen enemies.
His hand twitched spasmodically, the long, uncut nails glinting like talons. "Selmy," he had rasped, his voice a jagged whisper. "Where is he? Where is my son?"
A moon had passed since the ravens bearing Rhaegar's plea for support had reached King's Landing. It was then that the King's madness had begun its horrifying escalation.
Similar letters had been sent to Dorne, the Reach, and the Westerlands. Prince Rhaegar had effectively mobilized the realms for war with just four letters.
Though, out of the three realms, only the Reach seemed to have raised their banners.
Fear for his son, echoes of Duskendale rekindled, had ignited a wildfire of paranoia within Aerys.
Owen Merryweather, the appointed Hand amidst this chaos, had attempted to soothe his sovereign with reason and sound council. It was his undoing.
"Your Grace," he had began cautiously, "I propose… we treat with the Starks. Perhaps there is still time for negotiation."
Aerys bolted upright, the Iron Throne scraping harshly against the stone floor. "Negotiation? With traitors? With oathbreakers!" His voice rose to a shriek. "They stole my son, corrupted him! Rhaegar was mine! They... They all want my crown!"
The King's wild accusations had hung heavy in the air.
Barristan had known it was futile to reason with the man before him.
It was like trying to quench wildfire with water.
"You're one of them! Aren't you! SEIZE HIM!" He had screamed, and Connington's men had dutifully captured the poor man.
Only to see the man tried in a sham trial by combat.
His enemy?
Wildfire.
The only one to question the King's madness then had been the High Septon.
The man's patience finally snapped, seeing another of the hundreds, nay thousands perish from the burnings.
Up till then, the King's proclivities were kept secret. The burnings of men conducted in the dead of night, in the Dragonpit.
It seemed open heresy as the King prayed to the Red God from Essos as the former Hand of the King burned was what snapped the High Septon's patience.
He too was seized and burnt in a pyre beside the Hand, and had his quarters searched.
That had led to devastation further devastation for King.
Plans of sedition by the Prince, to depose the King, to marry Lyanna Stark at the isle of faces were revealed.
The king's madness, already fueled by his reliving of Duskendale, seemed to have been strengthened further with oil.
Suddenly, Aerys's eyes fixed on a shadowed corner of the throne room. "There!" he shrieked, pointing with a shaking finger. "They are there! The dogs have come! Come to steal my throne! Steal my son!"
There was no one in the corner, only dust and cobwebs, but the King was inconsolable, his delusion complete.
"Guards!" he screeched, spittle flying from his lips. "GUARDS! SEIZE HIM!"
The Kingsguard Knights, young Jamie Lannister, Gerold Hightower and himself were all that were still present in the red keep, tensed. Unsure whether to obey a command born of madness.
Barristan saw the indecision mirrored in their eyes.
Before anyone could react, Aerys lunged from the throne, fingernails clawing at the air as he advanced on the empty shadows. His mad laughter pierced the oppressive silence, making the King seem more demon than man.
And then, the King turned his accusing gaze upon Barristan. "You! Selmy! You serve them too. Admit it."
A wave of nausea swept over Barristan.
He had served House Targaryen faithfully since he was a squire, had seen the promise fade from Aerys over the years.
Yet, the thought of his honor, his oaths, being questioned by this broken shell of a king, cut him deeper than any Valyrian blade.
"Your Grace," he began, his voice steady despite the tremor in his heart. "I would lay down my life to protect you and your heir."
Aerys, caught in his whirlwind of delusion, seemed not to hear him. "Lies!" the King shrieked. "LIES! All of you conspire against me! We shall give them Duskendale again! You! You led the rescue of Duskendale! Do it again! I command you! Take men, Connington!"
"Yes, my King!" The new Hand of the King bowed.
"Raise the banners! Lend men to Selmy!" The king ordered "I want you to burn the Riverlands in your wake Selmy! Repeat what you did at Duskendale….." he paused, a smile forming on his face "… but this time, when you free my treasonous son! Bring him to me! I will see how much dragon remains in him truly!"
A knot of dread tightened in Barristan's gut.
The King's orders hung in the air like a poison mist, a twisted mockery of his former glory.
Burn the Riverlands? The mere thought sickened him.
At Duskendale, he had snuck into Duskendale in the dead of night to save the now maddened King.
To try to do that at Winterfell would be folly.
At least he had men to aid him this time. Disgusted though he was with the mere thought.
Now, he was ordered to turn upon innocents, to unleash devastation upon lands sworn to House Targaryen.
The specter of the pyres rose again before his eyes.
Lord Merryweather's charred remains.
The High Septon engulfed in flames as he sought to shield another.
Madness whispered, "These are the ones you will burn next."
"Your Grace," Barristan said, his voice barely a whisper, "the Riverlands are loyal. There are no traitors to root out."
The King hissed, his lips peeling back in a snarl. "Loyal? You fool! They harbor my son, shelter his betrayers! And that wolf-blooded Stark… he is wed to one of theirs!" Spittle flecked his lips. "They all deserve to burn!"
Jon Connington stepped forward, newly raised Hand replacing the still-warm ashes of his predecessor. "Your Grace, perhaps we should focus on securing alliances. The Reach has pledged support, but Dorne and the Westerlands remain silent. Should we not…"
Aerys cut him off with a flick of his hand, his eyes blazing. "Alliances? I do not need alliances! I am the dragon! Those who do not bend... shall burn!" His voice rose to a crescendo. "But first, we must secure my heirs."
His mad gaze strengthened its weight upon Connington. "You will take my beloved Rhaella and my son Viserys to Dragonstone. See them safely ensconced, and then return with Elia and her whelps. I will purge the realm of traitors, and when it is cleansed…" His voice trailed off, replaced with a manic laugh that chilled the room.
Barristan's heart clenched.
Queen Rhaella.
Gentle, kind Rhaella, abused time and again by this monster.
The thought of her alone on the desolate island of Dragonstone, pregnant, with only Viserys and a Kingsguard escort to protect her...
"But, Your Grace," Barristan protested feebly, "Dragonstone is vulnerable… I should remain to protect…"
"Silence!" Aerys shrieked. "Do you question your king? You will obey, or you will burn along with the rest of the traitors!"
Barristan bowed his head, unable to meet the Queen's imploring gaze.
Shame washed over him.
As a Kingsguard knight, his duty was to protect the royal family, yet here he was, commanded to abandon the Queen in her most vulnerable time.
He would send Pia with her. She doesn't deserve to stay at the Red Keep any longer. The dangers here were ever-increasing.
Connington cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence. "And what of the Princess Elia, Your Grace? And the Westerlands? Lord Tywin is a formidable ally…"
"Tywin Lannister!" Aerys spat the name as if it were venom. "He will pay for his hesitation. But he is my loyal dog! He will come, won't he Lannister?!" The kings eyes strayed to the wobbling Jamie Lannister, once so promising, now a terrified shadow of the Knight he could have been.
"I … I hope so, my King." The young man whimpered.
"The Dornish slut is my son's wife. Her whelps are his heirs." He paused, and a flicker of something akin to cunning crossed his face. "She will be my hostage against Dorne. A guarantee of their… obedience. Bring her back to the Keep Connington!"
Barristan felt his stomach churn.
Once again, an innocent woman was to become a pawn in the King's twisted game.
Elia, the gentle princess, who was already a virtual prisoner in King's Landing, had fought desperately to leave the Red Keep for Dragonstone was now to return a hostage for her own family.
The knot in his gut tightened further.
He saw it all now - the escalating madness, the innocent lives that would be lost, the realm consumed by fire.
The King had lit the pyre, and Barristan Selmy, honor-bound, was being forced to carry the torch.
Their orders were clear then. With the Kings dismissal, Barristan left to begin preparations.
Barristan felt the weight of a thousand battles on his shoulders as he exited the throne room. The air seemed to crackle with the King's madness, a miasma of paranoia and violence that threatened to choke him.
His duty was clear, yet twisted and horrifying.
He sought solace in a familiar corner of the Red Keep, a place far removed from the stench of death and the stench of burning flesh still lingering in the throne room.
The Sept of Baelor was a sanctuary amidst the chaos. Incense and candlelight mingled, a soothing balm against the oppressive atmosphere of the court.
Here, he found Pia. She knelt before the altar of the Mother, her brow furrowed in prayer.
Young, earnest, with eyes that still held the wide-eyed innocence of someone untouched by the cruelty of the world.
The memory of saving her from those brutes at Harrenhal flashed across his mind, and a flicker of warmth kindled in his heart amidst the cold dread settling over him.
"Pia," he said softly.
The girl started, then turned, her face lighting up upon seeing him.
"Ser Barristan!" She hurried towards him, relief washing over her features. "I am so relieved … I don't like it when you head to the Red Keep …. Not after… " Her voice trailed off, fear evident in her eyes.
Pain lanced through him.
She did not need to understand the full horror of what transpired, but the fear in the Sept spoke volumes about Aerys' descent.
Gently, he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Pia, my child. There are things brewing… dark things. I need a favor... a task only you may fulfill."
Her brow furrowed with determination. "Anything, Ser Barristan. You saved my life. It is yours to command."
Barristan hesitated, guilt twisting his gut.
"I must leave soon for the Riverlands. The King has ordered it." His voice was husky. "The Queen is set to go to Dragon Stone …. I don't want to leave you here near the Red Keep …. Please, join the Queen, go to Dragon Stone with her."
Pia's gasp was barely audible. "Dragonstone? But Ser Barristan … father … I am but a novice here..."
He saw her hesitation, the flicker of fear.
But her trust in him outweighed her doubts.
"I have no family, Ser Barristan. Apart from you. If there is a place for me at the Queen's side… I will gladly take it." Her voice strengthened with resolve.
Barristan's heart ached.
She should be preparing for a life of piety, not facing the horrors that were sure to come.
Yet, he was selfishly grateful.
Queen Rhaella needed a gentle presence, someone untouched by the court's intrigues. And if she agreed, Pia would be safe away from the dangers of the capital for however long the war lasted.
Together, they ascended the winding stairs to the Queen's chambers.
The Queen Rhaella was alone, her eyes red-rimmed, the ghost of a woman Barristan once knew.
She sat hunched by the window nursing her pregnant belly, gazing out at the bleak King's Landing skyline as if already seeing the future painted in blood and fire.
"Queen Rhaella," Barristan began, his voice heavy.
She turned, a flicker of hope warring with stoic resignation. "Ser Barristan, you bring news?"
He knelt before her. "The King… he commands you and Prince Viserys to depart for the safety of Dragonstone. Jon Connington will soon arrive to escort you there."
Rhaella's slender form trembled. "Dragonstone…" She whispered, the name evoking specters of ancient Targaryen tragedies.
Beside him, Pia stepped forward. "Your Grace, I am Pia. A novice in the Sept of Baelor. May I accompany you? With your permission, I would… care for you."
Rhaella regarded Pia with curiosity. She then turned to Barristan and smiled "I would gladly keep your daughter safe, Ser Selmy. Rest assured."
Barristan's heart clenched.
The whispers at court called Pia his whore, yet Queen Rhaella knew that he loved the girl like his daughter.
The Queen then smiled at Pia a fragile bloom of hope amidst the despair. "Pia. That would be... a kindness. I welcome you."
As Pia hurried to gather their belongings, a six-year-old burst into the room. "Mother!" Viserys cried, his silvery head barely clearing the table. He rushed into Rhaella's waiting arms. "And who is this?" Curiosity replaced his worry as he eyed Pia.
"This is Pia, my sweet boy," Rhaella said, her voice soft. "She is coming with us to Dragonstone and will look after us."
Viserys beamed. "A new playmate?" He launched himself at Pia, childish enthusiasm momentarily banishing the lingering shadows.
A wave of relief washed over Barristan, quickly followed by a crushing sense of shame. Here was the woman he swore to protect, her innocence long ago shattered, finding solace in a child rescued from the streets. How could he abandon her? Yet, bound by honor and duty, his path was clear. He could only hope to shield her from the worst the war was bound to bring.
"Good fortune to you, Ser Barristan," Rhaella murmured, a sad smile on her lips. "In this maelstrom of madness, please, do what you can to keep my little Viserys safe. For me."
Her plea felt like a physical blow.
He had sworn an oath to guard her, to shield her from harm... and he was failing.
But even as guilt gnawed at him, Barristan Selmy, the Bold, could not deny this one small act of mercy of defiance against the king's capricious cruelty.
Pia was his to protect, if only for a little while longer.
And now, she would be in the Queen's protection.
He would follow the Queen's orders to the end of his days if he had to.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
A cold knot hardened in Caelum's belly as he stood beside Luke in the grand hall of Highgarden. It wasn't the opulence that chilled him, nor the stern faces of the assembled bannermen.
It was the sight of his father, usually kind and strong, kneeling before the imposing figure of Lord Mace Tyrell.
"The realm teeters on the brink of war, Harlon," the Lord of the Reach boomed, his voice tinged with an odd mix of weariness and anticipation. "Those granted favors in peacetime must now repay them in service. Your tax exemption has served you well these past seasons, but it stands no longer."
Harlon looked up, a flicker of desperation masked by a stoic resolve. "But my lord, I have but a small farm, barely enough to…." His voice trailed off, the reality of their precarious situation settling like dust upon his shoulders.
A hush fell over the court.
Eyes turned toward Caelum.
He saw pity in the soft gaze of lady Alerie, but it was veiled by a strange detachment. Even his friends, Willas and Garlan, avoided his gaze, their smiles replaced with somber expressions. He was alone.
"My lord," Harlon spoke up again, his voice steadier now, "if tax cannot be spared, I offer my service. My brothers were Knights in the war of Ninepenny Kings. I was the greater swordsman than them, and they served Lord Jason Lannister well. I offer my service as sword to House Tyrell. Please, do not take away the tax immunity"
Caelum's heart pounded like a war drum in his ears.
His father, with his quiet wisdom and calloused hands, offering himself to the battlefield?
To a war ignited by the very Prince who had tried to kill him and Luke only a few years ago?
Mace Tyrell sat upon his high seat, silent and thoughtful.
He glanced at Lady Olenna beside him, and she merely gave a subtle incline of her head.
He turned back to Harlon.
"Your dedication is admirable, Harlon," the Lord of Highgarden replied. "Your son Caelum has been a true companion to my Garlan. I value that loyalty. Very well. Your tax exemption shall stand."
Relief washed over Harlon, swiftly followed by apprehension.
"But," Mace Tyrell continued, his tone hardening, "Generosity must be earned, not merely granted. It is not gold, but your strong arm the Reach demands. Your fields will be tended by your son, while you join our ranks. Ser Vortimer Crane will test your credibility as a swordsman."
Caelum's relief transformed into despair.
Luke, as a squire, heading to war in the name of the mad Prince was bad enough... His father, a simple farmer at heart... this was a far crueler fate.
"My lord," Harlon began to protest, "Caelum is just a boy, barely –"
"Old enough to take his father's place on the farm," Lady Olenna interjected. Her voice was sharp, like thorns in a rosebush. "War disrupts the order of things, Harlon. Be grateful that your sacrifice is service, not blood."
Harlon stood, lips pressed tightly together.
, he lowered his head again. "As you command, my lord," he said, voice thick with forced acceptance.
Caelum's throat tightened, a silent cry trapped within him.
This was not the happy homecoming he imagined.
The taste of victory from the previous chapter had turned to ashes in his mouth. He had helped a thief find redemption, but his own family was now held captive by war and a lord's cold bargain.
And all he could do was watch.
A ripple of amusement ran through the court as Ser Vortimer Crane, the imposing master-at-arms of Highgarden, strode forward. A towering figure clad in gleaming armor, he carried himself with an authority that commanded the room.
"So, the farmer thinks himself a knight now?" he boomed, a hint of mockery lacing his voice. He tossed Harlon a blunted sword and a set of mismatched, ill-fitting armor.
Caelum cringed at the disrespect, but his father accepted them with a silent nod.
As they took position in the center of the great hall, the circle of onlookers widened, whispers of skepticism and a few stray chuckles filling the air. Harlon, once a familiar sight tilling his fields, now appeared strangely out of place in this glittering war chamber.
Ser Vortimer launched into the spar without ceremony. His sword flashed like a silver streak, relentless and precise.
Harlon, hampered by unfamiliar armor and years of disuse, parried frantically. His stance was clumsy, his footwork faltering. Each clash reverberated through Caelum's body, a stark contrast to the smooth, almost effortless movements of the knight.
Desperation fueled Harlon's defense. Old muscle memory flickered, and once or twice he caught Ser Vortimer off guard with a crude but surprisingly powerful counterstrike.
All Caelum felt was despair, he didn't want his father humiliated in court, neither did he want to see him off to war.
Time seemed to both drag and speed along. The ringing of steel echoed relentlessly as Ser Vortimer's blows fell like hammer strikes, forcing Harlon relentlessly backward. A thin sheen of sweat marked Harlon's brow, and a gasp escaped his lips as he narrowly avoided a strike aimed at his helm.
Lord Mace watched intently, his expression unreadable.
A bead of sweat ran down Caelum's face, mingling with a silent tear. Had this all been for nothing? Would his father now be humiliated alongside the loss of their life as they knew it?
Finally, the onslaught stopped. Ser Vortimer abruptly backed off, raising his sword. Harlon, breathing heavily, stumbled, but remained upright.
"Enough," Mace Tyrell declared, his voice cutting through the hall. "The man has a flicker of skill. It can be honed, given time." Relief coursed through Caelum like a swift stream.
Harlon dropped to one knee, offering his sword in submission. "My thanks, Lord Tyrell," he said, voice ragged.
"You shall find Ser Vortimer a strict teacher, Harlon," the Lord intoned, "but war is a sterner one still. Report to the training yard tomorrow at dawn. The Reach's banners gather swiftly."
With a final stiff nod, Harlon rose slowly to his feet and left the court, Luke and Caelum in tow.
Outside, the sun still bathed Highgarden in golden light, but the walk home to their village was a somber one, the taste of their small victory mingling with the looming specter of war.
That afternoon, a smothering silence settled over the farmhouse as if the hearth's warmth had been snuffed out. Elyna's face was a mask of fury, grief and a mother's protective fire all tangled together.
"You would swear an oath to them?" she spat out, her voice trembling. "To the prince who tried to have our children murdered?"
"What else could I do, Elyna?" Harlon's voice was thick, a mixture of guilt and weariness. "We cannot afford the increased taxes. Without the exemption, we lose everything we worked so hard to build."
"But at what cost?" Elyna shot back, her hands clenched into fists. "Your life, Harlon? What if you die like your brothers? Left in some gods-forsaken battlefield?"
Tears streamed down Harlon's face, cutting lines of silent anguish against his rough farmer's skin. "I don't know, Elyna," he choked out, "I just...I cannot bear the thought of our children going hungry because of my pride…"
The room fell silent again, save for the crackling of the fire. Despair settled thickly between them, its weight far heavier than sacks of coin.
Then, Caelum spoke, his voice soft but unwavering. "I'll go."
Heads snapped up in an instant. Luke stared at his little brother in confusion, Marna and Serra's eyes went wide. "Don't be a fool Caelum!" Elyna scolded, he voice wavering.
"Luke's a squire, going off to this war," Caelum continued, meeting his father's gaze. "And Pa...I can't see you go too." He paused, the words heavy on his tongue. "If I go with you, maybe…maybe I can keep us all safe."
"Safe?" Harlon's laugh was a sob in his throat. "The battlefield is no place for a child, Caelum. Your magic… it must remain a secret. You know they will label you a demon should anyone find out!" He shook his head, "And besides, the Tyrells would never accept a child soldier."
Caelum stood tall, a spark of determination replacing the usual childish light in his eyes. "They won't have a choice," he said stubbornly. "Didn't the gods say I was sent for a reason? With this destiny?" He reached beneath his tunic, clutching the crystal hidden there, the faint silver glow illuminating his hand. "I want to keep you all safe, Pa. We need a miracle, and maybe I'm it."
Harlon looked at his son, this boy brimming with stubborn loyalty and a strange power that defied understanding. Tears welled up in his eyes again, but his voice was stern as he turned to Marna and Serra.
"Do you have it?" he asked, a desperate edge to his voice.
The two women nodded "We do, Harlon. Like you had requested."
Solemnly, they each pulled out small sacks, the clinking of metal heavy in the silence.
Harlon followed suit, emptying a far larger sack of silvers onto the table.
"I will pay you back," he vowed. "Every stag, even if I have to sell my soul to a hundred lords to do so."
With newfound resolve, he looked around the table.
Elyna stared back, the fight extinguished from her eyes, replaced by an awful acceptance.
Marna and Serra looked heartbroken but resigned.
Then, Caelum unable to take the suspense any longer, focused his vision on the sacks, an ethereal clarity kicked in them, and a wave of shock washed over him as he saw the truth in the shining silver.
Why would they gather this much for him?
"I didn't want to go like this," he blurted out, unable to contain his turmoil. "Not when you…" he looked at Harlon, Luke, "…are going to war."
Luke blinked in confusion. "What do you mean? Go where?"
"The Citadel," Serra choked out. "Caelum.. he wanted to learn magic, to understand his... destiny. We've been gathering coin for his journey."
Luke's eyes widened. "They're sending him alone? Now? They'd rob him on the road, take it all!"
Harlon sighed in anguish. "He'd be safer far from here, Luke," he said brokenly. "Safer than any of us are going to be. I want him as far away from the war as I can. I have no idea whether Highgarden will face any sort of attack, and I don't want to risk him joining us in going to war. He will be safe at the citadel. Besides, no robber will survive trying to rob from Caelum."
Luke's protest rang out across the table, a raw echo of Caelum's own thoughts. "He can't go alone! They'll skin him alive on the Oldtown road."
"He won't be alone," Harlon countered, his voice laced with a desperation he couldn't mask. "Septon Mattheus has found him a place with a merchant caravan. Other boys, from castle families...they also seek to be maesters. There's safety in numbers."
Meredith's voice, usually warm and comforting, cut with a protective edge that surprised them all. "But he's just a child, Harlon. Even with a caravan, the Reach is a dangerous place, and getting more so by the day."
"I'm not going!" Caelum exclaimed, his voice sharp and trembling.
Harlon's face creased with an unbearable mix of sadness and determination. "It's decided, son. The coin's been paid, the arrangements made. You will be far from this war."
Caelum sank into a chair, tears of frustration and fear welling up uncontrollably. He didn't want to see Luke marched off to a battlefield, he couldn't bear the thought of his father joining the fray. His head pounded, and a familiar surge of power threatened to burst from him.
A flicker of vibrant red flared in his eyes for a split second – a primal response to his overwhelming emotions – but he clamped down with desperate focus, forcing it to subside. Meredith saw the brief flash, a gasp escaping her lips.
Then, with a resolve he didn't feel, she spoke. "If Caelum goes to the Citadel, then I go too."
Caelum's heart twisted. He loved Meredith like a sister, cherished her warmth and steady presence. His going to the Citadel was already an unbearable sacrifice... but now her job too? The job at Highgarden that she loved so much? A stab of resentment against the Tyrells bubbled within him.
"No," he choked out, his voice barely a whisper. "Meredith, you finally…finally have a good job. You love working there. I refuse to be the reason you lose something you worked so hard for."
He stood, the tears still running down his face. "I'll go alone" he said, his voice thick with a pain that belied his young age. "Don't worry, I'll be fine. I'll learn and be back strong enough to protect us all."
The weight of Caelum's words hung heavy in the air. And then, like a crack splitting the silence, Marna's voice broke through, a mix of desperation and practicality.
"Jerren will go with him."
Harlon shook his head, "Marna, I... I couldn't possibly ask for more. Your boy helps me with the farm, keeps the inn running with you. I won't..."
"Harlon," Marna interrupted, "Jerren's strong and capable. He's worked the land and the roads, and knows how to handle himself." She placed a gentle hand on Meredith's shoulder. "And Meredith...she wouldn't rest here knowing he was on the road alone. We're family, we share in this."
Caelum's heart ached. Jerren wasn't just Meredith's brother; he was a steady presence in Caelum's life too.
To see his sacrifice pile onto Meredith's family, the debt he owed growing heavier... Silently he pleaded to the Seven, 'Just keep them safe. This family. Keep them safe.'
"No," he said, his voice steadier now, "Jerren stays here. He's needed. With Luke leaving, and now me... I don't want to put you all out any further." He fought back a fresh wave of tears, his resolve bolstered by an unspoken vow – he would find a way to repay every debt, protect his loved ones, even if from afar.
"I'll manage, I promise," he said, the words more to convince himself than them. He met Marna's eyes, his own shining with an unexpected ferocity. "The Citadel is a place of knowledge. I'll learn my magic ….. if that is what you want Pa, I will go."
With that, he turned, not wanting them to see the tears that threatened to fall again. It was a lonely journey he had to face, and the sooner he accepted the bitter truth, the better.
The silence lingered heavily, broken only by Luke's soft voice. "I'll keep him safe, Cael. I swear it."
A strangled chuckle escaped Harlon. "Might be the other way around, son, if that damned swordsmanship of mine doesn't improve." The attempted humor fell flat, a mask over the raw fear in his eyes.
Tears flowed freely now. Elyna's sobs were muffled against Harlon's chest, Meredith clung to her mother, and even Luke had tears streaming down his face.
Caelum stood apart, near the hearth. The fire's warmth felt hollow against the chill of impending separation.
His prayers to the Seven echoed in the silence. 'Protect them. Keep them safe. Guide me to the power I need to do the same.'
He couldn't bear the thought of losing his family. But, unlike at the tourney, he felt powerless to stop it this time.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N) Wow. That hurt my back a lot.
Rhaegar had planned to set off the war. He knew Lyanna's kidnapping would spark war, and had planned to start it pre-emptively, to distract the Stark attentions from his escape.
Basically, he had sent a letter to Aerys saying that Rickard Stark had captured him (while not actually being captured) trying to spark his father's PTSD about Duskendale. More letters were sent to Dorne, Reach, and Westerlands (Rhaegars apparent allies, he neglects sending similar letters to Tully, and Arryn because he realizes it would be futile)
This is what caused the mobilization of war.
Rhaegar's plan is to depose Aerys during said war after Lyanna is heavy with a child.
War has begun in Westeros and I have a feeling Caelum won't stay from the sidelines for long. He is Superman after all.
I'm really enjoying this so far. One thing I would recommend is to add in the date and or location at the start of every chapter, as a way to show time progression between them.
- Location
- La Serena, Chile
The worst part Is knowing Caleum's journey to the Citadel Is Pointless.
He won't find the information he seeks. For such thing doesn't exist on this planet.
And Is too likely either His Father and Luke don't return alive, or do so mutilated
He won't find the information he seeks. For such thing doesn't exist on this planet.
And Is too likely either His Father and Luke don't return alive, or do so mutilated
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Plus Maesters hate magic and would want any trace of them snuffed out. Caelum ain't gonna like them when he finds out their anti-magic stance.
Arimai
Curmudgeon
@OrangePanther01 how old is Cal? He shifts between 8 to 13 in his characterisation. Although if Lyanna wanted him he'd have to at least have gone through puberty so 14? Lyanna is 16 isn't she?
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I am guessing (hoping?) that after learning whatever it is that passes for the 'scientific method' as taught by the Citadel, Caelum will end up activating his House of El Crystal when he tries to run tests on it.
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Shadow of Learning
Chapter 17 –
Sunlight streamed through the narrow window of the attic room, casting geometric patterns across the rough-hewn floorboards.
Caelum rolled out of his makeshift bed, wincing as his joints protested the unfamiliar hardness of the straw ticking.
It wasn't the comfort of his bed, but it would have to do.
"Caelum? You awake in there or do I have to fetch a bucket of water?" A muffled voice pierced the sleepy silence.
Caelum stifled a chuckle. "Awake, Pylos, and nearly dressed!"
Pylos, a lanky boy with a mop of unruly brown hair, burst through the door, his energy barely contained by the cramped space. "C'mon! What are you waiting for? I don't want to be late the first day!"
Caelum grinned, lacing up his sturdy boots.
Pylos' enthusiasm was infectious, chasing away the last vestiges of his own lingering doubts. "True enough," he admitted, a spark of anticipation igniting within him.
He pulled on a simple woolen tunic, the coarse fabric a far cry from the soft linens at home, but it carried the promise of a new beginning.
They descended the creaking stairs, the scent of freshly baked bread and roasted meat filling the air.
In the common room, the innkeeper, a burly man named Lernen with a voice built for booming orders, was already at work.
Caelum caught his eye and nodded a quick greeting.
"I'll be back after lessons to help out, Lernen," he offered.
The innkeeper, wiping his hands on a worn apron, gave a curt grunt in response. "Good lad. I will have enough chores to keep you occupied all afternoon, don't you worry."
A warm voice cut through the innkeeper's gruffness. "Don't listen to him, Caelum. I'll help. You shouldn't have to work on your first day at the Citadel."
Caelum turned to find Fern, the innkeeper's daughter.
She bore a slight resemblance to Meredith, filling him with warmth tinged by a pang of homesickness.
Lernen barked a reprimand, "Get back to those tables, girl! And you," he pointed a thick finger at Pylos and Caelum, "best be on your way. Don't want to make a poor showing on your first day."
Pylos tugged Caelum's arm with all the impatience of a hound straining at the leash. "Come on, Caelum! We don't want to arrive at the gates of knowledge like dawdling merchants!"
Caelum couldn't suppress a grin.
He and Pylos had joined the same merchant caravan journeying to Oldtown, drawn together by a shared hunger for learning and, more keenly, the need to escape the encroaching shadow of war. Pylos' father, a lesser knight in service to Lord Tarly, had arranged for his son to seek sanctuary at the Citadel, and Caelum's own father had sent him for similar reasons.
They stepped out into the bustling streets of Oldtown.
The air hummed with activity, a chorus of voices mingling with the rhythmic clatter of cobblestones beneath their feet. Unlike the quaint familiarity of his village, the grand city seemed alive, its buildings and inhabitants a symphony of colors and textures.
Merchants hawked their wares with boisterous cries, their stalls a vibrant tapestry of silks and spices. Well-dressed ladies, trailed by servants holding baskets, paused to barter over exotic trinkets. Children darted through the crowds, as they played near the banks of the Honeywine river.
Despite the vibrant veneer, Caelum felt an invisible weight press down on Oldtown as they made their way through the streets. The guardsmen patrolling in their pristine Hightower livery, swords gleaming in the midday sun, seemed more numerous than necessary. Their presence was a stark reminder that the echoes of war had reached even this ancient haven.
Knots of townsfolk gathered on street corners, their voices low and laden with worry. An elderly woman, her hands gnarled from a lifetime of work, wrung a frayed shawl with trembling fingers. "...heard the baker's son was taken," she whispered to her companion. "Called up to the levies, not even old enough to shave properly..."
Another voice, a man with the weathered face of a fisherman, cut in. "Taxes doubled again, they were. Can't even afford a decent net now. How'm I supposed to feed my kin if the catch stays small?" A chorus of weary agreement rose from the group.
Further along, a merchant with a shrewd eye and a pouch bulging with coin spoke in hushed, rapid tones. "Shipments from Dorne delayed," he confided to a fellow trader. "Roads aren't safe with all those soldiers marching about. Prices for spices? Through the roof, they'll be."
"Even the arbor has stopped sending their wares, word is almost the entire fleet sailed away over a moon ago" Another bemoaned.
They pressed onward, the city's bustle fading into a background hum against the undercurrent of worry that gnawed at Caelum. He caught Pylos's gaze stray towards a group of guards rounding a corner, and a frown momentarily creased his friend's brow.
"Don't worry, Pylos," Caelum said gently, nudging his shoulder. "The Seven will watch over them. They'll be back before you know it."
A hesitant smile touched Pylos's lips. "I know, I know... It's just..." He trailed off, his cheerfulness a thin veneer over his unspoken fears. Then, with a determined shake of his head, he said, "That's why I need to make the most of my time at the Citadel. Learn everything I can, so I can go back and help my father."
Caelum felt a flicker of pride, tinged with a bittersweet knowledge he couldn't share. Pylos's unwavering determination mirrored his own. "And what will you be studying?" he asked, eager to shift the focus away from lingering anxieties.
"Languages," Pylos declared, his voice swelling with newfound enthusiasm. "Not just the common tongue, but High Valyrian and the Summer Isles' speech—imagine the trade possibilities! And numbers!" His eyes gleamed, "Estate management, taxes, crop rotation... Father said Lord Tarly promised him a holding near Horn Hill after the war. I need to learn how to run it properly."
Caelum nodded thoughtfully. "Those sound like noble goals, Pylos. I'm here to study as well. Farming techniques, medicine, numbers... and..." his voice lowered slightly, "magic." He watched for Pylos's reaction, adding, "And maybe a bit of statecraft wouldn't go amiss either."
Pylos blinked, confusion warring with amusement. "Magic?" he finally choked out, "You're serious? All those tales of spells and potions are just stories, Cael. A waste of time!"
"Perhaps," Caelum conceded with a guarded smile. Magic was too precious, too dangerous a secret to share. "But I find the idea... fascinating."
Pylos shook his head with exaggerated disappointment. "You'll be wasting precious hours chasing shadows! And trying to learn that much at once? You'll spread yourself too thin." He paused, a spark of camaraderie in his eyes. "Why not ditch this magic nonsense and study languages with me? It would be far more useful!"
Caelum bit back a laugh, appreciating his friend's straightforward concern. "I'll think about it," he promised.
Languages interested him too infact, there was just so much to learn here at the citadel that he couldn't make a choice very easily.
The hum of the city faded as they strolled beside the Honeywine, its waters glinting like scattered jewels in the morning sun.
Pylos, temporarily swept up in the grandeur of Oldtown, chattered about trade routes and the exotic ships lining the docks.
The ancient bastion of knowledge was a sight to behold. Weathered towers reached into the sky, their silhouettes a testament to centuries of accumulated wisdom. Intricately carved bridges arched over the river, connecting sprawling complexes that seemed to meld organically with the landscape. The massive gates, flanked by twin sphinxes with enigmatic faces, beckoned like a doorway to a world beyond the ordinary.
Suddenly, a faint sound cut through the rhythmic lull of the river – a grunt of exertion, quickly muffled.
Caelum's heightened hearing, a peculiar 'gift' he'd never spoken of, pinpointed the origin with unsettling accuracy. He shifted his course subtly, a flicker of determination in his eyes.
"What are you doing?" Pylos asked, brows furrowed in confusion as Caelum veered away from the path toward the citadel.
"Come on," Caelum gestured vaguely, his smile masking his true purpose, "Just a quick detour."
Pylos hesitated, glancing back towards their destination. "If this is another cat you spotted up a tree, so help me! We don't have time for your detours, Caelum! We'll be late for our first day!"
"Relax," Caelum said, his voice infused with a calmness. "It's still early, see?" He pointed to other figures, a mix of young men and grizzled scholars, making their own unhurried way towards the Citadel's gates.
Pylos sighed, a long-suffering expression crossing his face. "You and your bleeding heart, Cael. Always stopping to help every stray cat or fallen sparrow..." Yet, he followed without further protest.
Despite his grumbling, Caelum knew Pylos shared his own deep-seated compassion, even if their friend showed it in less obvious ways.
As they rounded a bustling market stall, the source of the muffled sound became clear.
An old man, his back bent and his thin hair wisping in the breeze, struggled to pull a heavily laden cart.
The wheels churned uselessly in the muddy cobblestones, and another strained grunt echoed through the air.
"You think we can lift that?" Pylos scoffed as they drew closer. "The thing's bigger than both of us put together! And look at the state of it – those wheels are half-buried in mud. We'll be here all day!"
Caelum ignored his friend's pessimism. "Won't take long," he said, already forming a plan. "We don't need to lift the whole thing, just get it rolling."
Without waiting for further argument, he strode up to the old man. "Can we lend a hand?"
The old man, his face wrinkled with a mix of weariness and surprise, nodded. "Name's Willem," he croaked. "Bound for the Motherhouse with their supplies. Damned cart won't budge an inch, though. Old bones aren't what they used to be..."
Pylos, ever the pragmatist, chimed in. "Can't you get a horse to pull it? Seems an awful lot for one man."
Willem's weathered face creased with sadness. "Had one... good beast. But he took sick and died. No coin for another, not with the prices these war-times bring."
"Surely someone else can help you?" Pylos persisted. "A son, perhaps?"
Willem's shoulders slumped. "I Had a boy once," he murmured. "Took by the chills in winter. Just the two of us, it was..." His voice trailed off, the unspoken pain hanging heavy in the air.
"We'll get it there for you," Caelum cut in, his voice steady.
Pylos gaped at him. "We will?" His eyes darted between the hulking cart and Caelum's slender frame.
"Of course we will!" Caelum responded as he helped the old man to the side.
"You couldn't lift a handle on that monster, let alone pull it! Besides, we need to get going. Someone else will come along, I'm sure..."
Caelum waved off his friend's concern. "The Motherhouse is on the way to the Citadel anyway, and Pylos, we have plenty of time." Ignoring Pylos' spluttering protests, he approached the cart and gripped one of the heavy wooden handles.
With a smooth motion that belied his small stature, he lifted, the muscles in his arms flexing with the unexpected ease of it.
Pylos's mouth fell open.
Even Willem blinked in surprise.
"Bless those muscles, lad!" Willem exclaimed, his face breaking into a grin. "Never seen a boy your size with such strength."
Caelum ducked his head, a slight blush warming his cheeks. "It's nothing," he mumbled, "just used to helping Pa back home at the farm." Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he turned to Pylos. "Well? Are you going to stand there gawking, or lend a hand?"
Pylos, a mixture of exasperation and amusement warring on his face, grumbled under his breath. But despite his protests, he joined Caelum at the cart.
Their hands grasped the sturdy wooden handles, and with a concerted effort, they began to roll the cart forward.
And roll it did.
With Caelum's strength leading the way, the unwieldy cart seemed to transform, its wheels turning easily on the muddy road.
Even Willem, walking beside them, offered an occasional shove. Pylos couldn't deny the lack of strain, the surprising lightness with which they moved their burden towards the Motherhouse.
"Well, what do you know," Pylos muttered, a hint of amazement in his voice, "this is easier than hauling water for the horses back home."
Caelum chuckled. "I told you it wouldn't be too bad."
"There are easier ways to build muscles, you know," Pylos retorted. "Like training with a sword, or learning how to wrestle. Actual useful skills."
"And who said helping others isn't useful?" Caelum countered, lightness in his tone.
They followed the street, the Motherhouse rising into view with its seven-pointed star etched prominently above the grand entrance.
Caelum felt a quiet satisfaction as they reached the threshold, their task accomplished.
Willem's gratitude spilled out in a torrent of blessings. "May the Mother's light shine on you both," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And you, young man," he turned to Caelum, "have a gift in you, a strength of spirit to match those strong arms of yours."
Before Caelum could protest, Willem pressed a few worn copper coins into Pylos' hand. "For your trouble," he insisted. "A small token, but from the heart."
Pylos grinned, pocketing the coins with a flourish. "Well, if you insist! Thank you kindly, good sir. We were happy to help."
Caelum sighed, a rueful smile playing on his lips.
He knew any argument would be futile. Pylos sometimes embraced his practical side a bit too enthusiastically, but his heart was in the right place.
With a last grateful nod towards Willem, they set off once more, the Citadel towering in the distance.
As they walked, the sounds of the Motherhouse faded - the soft chanting of prayers, the clinking of incense burners, the rustling of robes - all replaced by the bustling energy of Oldtown.
"We made it," Pylos said with a satisfied air, checking the position of the sun. "And with time to spare. See, I told you we wouldn't be late."
"You were worried?" Caelum teased, nudging his friend playfully.
"Me? Never." Pylos' cheeks flushed slightly, betraying his earlier doubts. "I just knew you wouldn't let a good deed distract you for long. Even if you do have a soft spot for old men and stray cats."
The massive twin sphinxes flanking the entrance seemed both imposing and welcoming. Their weathered faces, male and female, held enigmatic smiles as they guarded the threshold to this hallowed place of learning.
Throngs of students and scholars flowed towards the open gates. Young men like themselves, their eyes bright with anticipation, mingled with older, grizzled acolytes bearing ink-stained hands and robes adorned with a few links of their hard-earned chains. Each face carried its own story – sons of merchants hoping for a better life, landless knights pursuing the knowledge that might win them favor.
"Come on," Pylos said, urgency replacing his earlier teasing tone. "We need to stick with the crowd."
Caelum followed, his heart pounding with a potent mix of excitement and the lingering echoes of Willem's heartfelt blessing. They crossed the threshold, entering a sprawling courtyard bustling with activity.
The Scribe's Hearth, a cluster of stalls where letters were read and written for the illiterate, buzzed with the scratching of quills and the murmurs of those dictating missives to faraway loved ones.
Nearby, a heated debate over the proper interpretation of an ancient text erupted between a red-faced scholar and a young acolyte with eyes gleaming in the heat of intellectual battle.
A new shout pierced the lively hum of the courtyard, cutting through the scholarly debates and the hurried scribbling of letters. An acolyte, a stocky young man with a shock of ginger hair, had commandeered a wooden stool and was bellowing instructions.
"Novices! Hear me!" he roared. "Make your way to the Great Hall in the Seneschal's Court! Archmaester Theron will address you on the commencement of your studies! Haste now, knowledge waits for no man!"
A surge of movement rippled through the crowd. "Let's go!" Pylos's voice crackled with excitement as he tugged at Caelum's arm. "Don't want to miss the Archmaester, do you?"
Caelum stumbled forward, his own anticipation making his steps feel lighter. "We're moving, Pylos, no need to shout," he chuckled.
They weaved through the throng, the Citadel's wonders unfolding with every step. "Look!" Caelum pointed towards a shadowy archway. "Do you think there's a garden in there?" His mind conjured images of sun-dappled paths and fountains whispering secrets only plants could understand.
Pylos squinted, then shrugged. "Maybe? But numbers first, gardens later. Can you imagine the libraries here? Stacks of books higher than Horn Hill's Keep!"
Their eyes met, alight with shared awe.
Suddenly, a grotesque stone face leered down at them from a rooftop.
Pylos yelped while Caelum burst out laughing. "It's just a gargoyle, you silly sod. They're supposed to scare away bad spirits!"
"And bad students, apparently," Pylos quipped back, the moment of surprise already replaced by eager fascination. "And spirits don'e exist!"
Even the strange carvings held a certain wonder.
The Seneschal's Court was a grand space, its high ceiling supported by massive stone pillars. The Great Hall, bathed in sunlight filtering through stained glass, was a hive of activity. Acolytes and novices milled about, their voices a constant murmur blending with the rustle of robes and the nervous shuffling of feet. Spotting an empty table, Caelum and Pylos quickly took their seats, eager to witness the spectacle unfolding before them.
Suddenly, a hush fell over the gathered crowd.
From a side entrance, a procession of figures emerged, their robes a rich tapestry of colors denoting their ranks. Maesters in somber grey mingled with Archmaesters whose garments shimmered with threads of silver, gold, and other precious metals signifying their fields of expertise.
The hall buzzed with barely contained excitement, a symphony of nervous whispers and rustling robes.
Then, a booming voice cut through the din.
An Archmaester, resplendent in a deep grey robe marked by the silver link of a historian, strode to the center of the raised dais.
Theron, Caelum recalled.
Despite a well-maintained physique and a neatly trimmed grey beard, his eyes flashed with an untamed energy that belied any notion of scholarly stuffiness.
"Welcome, novices!" His voice was surprisingly gruff, devoid of sugar-coated pleasantries. "You stand upon the hallowed ground of the Citadel, a bastion of knowledge built over countless ages. Some of you will leave this hall as acolytes, your necks adorned with your first hard-earned links. Others...," here he paused, his gaze sweeping the crowd with unsettling intensity, "... will wash out, your dreams of wisdom left as dust on these ancient floors."
A ripple of unease passed through the novices.
Pylos shifted nervously beside Caelum, his earlier enthusiasm slightly dampened.
Theron smirked, as if relishing their discomfort. "We do not traffic in sentiment here. Knowledge is a harsh mistress, demanding dedication and sacrifice. You will study until your eyes burn and your fingers cramp. You will pore over crumbling scrolls and dissect the secrets of the stars. And should you prove worthy," his voice hardened, "you will emerge from this place transformed, armed with tools to reshape your destinies... perhaps even the fate of the realm itself."
"Remember, novices," Archmaester Theron concluded, his voice ringing like a blacksmith's hammer, "you are free to attend whichever lessons pique your curiosity. But to forge your first link, true mastery in at least three disciplines is required. Choose wisely, work tirelessly, and prove your thirst for knowledge is unquenchable. The Citadel awaits your brilliance. Or your failure."
As Archmaester Theron retreated to the high table, he was immediately surrounded by other maesters, their voices a low hum against the excited chatter of the novices. The hall buzzed with anticipation, newly minted scholars scrambling to find guidance amid the dazzling array of opportunities laid before them.
Pylos nudged Caelum. "Come on," he said, "let's not waste time. Before we know it, those lessons will be full."
He spotted an older acolyte, already sporting a gleaming iron link around his neck, helping a group of wide-eyed novices navigate their schedules. Before Caelum could protest, Pylos was dragging him forward.
The acolyte, a tall, lanky fellow with a mop of unruly brown hair, introduced himself as Patrick. An air of superiority clung to him as he surveyed the newest batch of students with a dismissive glance.
"What can I do for you, novices?" Patrick asked, barely masking a sneer. He clearly relished his newfound status, the promise of knowledge already inflating his ego.
Pylos stepped forward, his earlier excitement tempered with a hint of caution. "We're interested in medicine," he started. "When does the lesson, um..." he stumbled over the term, "...commence?"
Patrick rolled his eyes. "An hour from now, in the Tower of Healing. Maester Lorcas will be conducting the lesson. But unless you have the stomach for blood and the mind for complex remedies, don't bother." He paused, a sly glint in his eye, "Perhaps you'd be better suited to sorting scrolls in the library?"
Caelum bristled slightly at the acolyte's condescension, but something else caught his attention. Using his heightened senses, he focused on the conversation unfolding at the high table. The ebb and flow of voices was clear to him, a symphony of whispered strategy and speculation.
"There is a conclave meeting this afternoon," a maester with a silver astrology link said, his voice low and urgent. "Word from King's Landing, it seems."
Archmaester Theron nodded. "I am aware," he replied, his voice a rumble. "It is about Connington delays." His tone held a hint of impatience.
"He is Stalling," another maester, this one adorned with an emerald link signifying a mastery of economics, scoffed. "The man wastes precious time at Dragonstone."
"He is being Clever, not foolish," Theron countered. "The crown is vulnerable. Stark holds the prince – Connington knows negotiation is the wiser course."
"And the king?" The maester asked.
"The king will rage," Theron said flatly. "And Connington… well, his best hope is to stay far from the fires of Aerys' wrath. Let Barristan bleed the riverlands in time the king will be forced to negotiate too."
The threads of the maesters' conversation left Caelum yearning for more.
He wanted to know more, he wanted to know if the war was soon to end, no matter how much he knew that it wasn't.
Frustration gnawed at him as the whispered plans faded into the background hum of the hall.
His gaze drifted back towards the high table.
Most of the maesters and archmaesters were dispersing, leaving a lone figure hunched over a massive tome, seemingly oblivious to the activity around him.
The man's robes were worn, their original hue faded beyond recognition.
A shock of white hair escaped from beneath a frayed hood, and his hands, stained with ink and what might be more unsettling substances, turned the pages with restless energy.
Curiosity piqued, Caelum turned back to the acolyte. "Who is that maester?" he asked, nodding towards the solitary scholar.
Patrick, the acolyte, followed Caelum's gaze and an exaggerated scoff escaped his lips. "That's Marwyn the Mad," he declared with an air of disdain. "Best stay clear of him. Doesn't teach, doesn't talk much, just skulks around with his nose in those…questionable books."
A hint of a smile played on Patrick's face. "Unless you're keen on learning about demons and spells, I suppose. Though if that's your sort of thing," he shrugged, "Quillion's your man. Higher mysteries, he calls it. Mostly a load of nonsense, if you ask me."
Pylos broke into his thoughts. "Caelum, come on!" he said, a touch of exasperation in his tone. "We need to make it to the Tower of Healing. Forget about magic. There are real things to be learned, things that can help people."
Caelum nodded, pushing down his curiosity about Marwyn for the time being.
Pylos was right; medicine offered the promise of knowledge with practical applications, a way to protect and heal when the time came.
And besides, there was a comforting familiarity in his friend's unwavering practicality. It reminded him of Luke in a way.
As they turned to leave, Patrick the acolyte couldn't resist a final jab. "Mayhaps your friend is wiser than he looks," he remarked. "This obsession with magic... a fool's errand. Listen to him, and you might just make something of yourself here."
They exited the Great Hall, the scent of old parchment fading as the bustling life of the Citadel swirled around them. The air crackled with a mix of nervous excitement and quiet determination.
Young scholars rushed towards their first lessons, seasoned acolytes carried weighty tomes, and in quiet corners, heated debates erupted over ancient texts.
It was a microcosm of the realm they'd left behind – a pursuit of knowledge against the looming backdrop of a kingdom teetering on the brink of war.
Caelum and Pylos were now part of it, two friends bound by a common goal, their paths diverging yet entwined. And as they set off towards the Tower of Healing, Caelum felt a surge of hope.
He couldn't wait to learn everything there was to learn, magic included.
x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x
The war council chamber within New Castle, grand in peacetime, now felt cramped and stifling. Salt-laden wind rattled the shutters, counterpoint to the tense hum of voices within. Maps of the coast and the Riverlands were spread across the table, weighted down by tankards and daggers.
Rickard Stark stood hunched over the maps, his weathered face set in grim lines.
Though weeks had passed since his arrival, White Harbor still felt foreign.
Here, his wolf pelts seemed out of place, his men restless. The sea's cold breath was a constant reminder of the Royal Fleet lurking unseen beyond the horizon.
Lord Wyman Manderly, his bulk spilling over a carved chair, drummed blunt fingers on the tabletop. "Those Valeryon ships. They lurk like leeches. Just enough harassment to choke the port, but not a full assault. The craven hide behind the King's banner, scurrying like rats on Sisterton."
Lucrys Velaryon had converted the three sisters as the staging grounds for his naval blockade, Godric Borrel rolling over for the Targaryens like a frightened animal.
"And the King hides behind his walls like a maddened child," Robert Baratheon growled, his voice echoing in the chamber. He paced restlessly, Warhammer tapping against his leg. "Damn it, I came to fight, not watch bloody seagulls!"
Roose Bolton's voice cut in, pale eyes gleaming in the dim light. "Perhaps the Crown waits for their southern allies, Lord Baratheon. Given that your brother was successful in culling the rebellion in your banners, his siege of Ashford has distracted the flowers, Mace Tyrell will not be able to join Randyll Tarly on his march to the riverlands, but should he fall…"
"Then the Riverlands burn," Rickard finished.
News of Barristan Selmy's siege of Harrenhal had reached them, relayed by desperate ravens from Hoster Tully.
He glanced around the table, at the hardened faces of his bannermen – the Hornwoods, the Cerwyns – and the Stormlanders, their loyalty radiating a different sort of heat from the restrained Northmen. "Brandon has relieved Gulltown, and Jon Arryn is said to be sailing to our aid, but…" His voice trailed off, the silence laden with what went unspoken.
Ser Elden Estermont, grizzled and scarred, shifted in his seat. "But without breaking this damned blockade, White Harbor is going to strangle." His eyes met Rickard's. "We cannot afford a war of waiting, Lord Stark."
A murmur of assent swept through the chamber.
The war was a noose around White Harbor's neck, tightening with each passing day.
Food stores had already dwindled due to the long winter, and the false hope that the false spring had brought destroyed the northern larders further.
Trade ships dared not approach, and the strain on Lord Manderly's hospitality grew heavy.
Rickard pressed his fingertips to his forehead, a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes.
Roose Bolton cleared his throat, his voice a cold whisper in the tense silence. "Forgive my bluntness, Lord Stark, but perhaps our efforts at… diplomacy… have run their course." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "We tried when Gulltown was relieved, and Lord Arryn added his support to our cause… those were victories that spoke louder than our ravens, but despite holding the Prince captive… despite suffering defeat at the Vale in the breaking of the blockade of Gulltown," A subtle flicker of contempt crossed his pale eyes, "…the King's replies haven't changed. He wants our heads, nothing less."
Robert Baratheon roared, his warhammer slamming down on the table, making tankards jump. "Damn the King, and damn his princeling! Rhaegar started this bloody game, and it's past time he paid the price." A chorus of grim agreement rose from the Stormlander lords.
Lord Hugh Grandison gripped the pommel of his sword, knuckles white. "Aye, the crime he committed against Lady Lyanna... against House Stark and House Baratheon, there's a debt owed, and blood's the only coin that'll pay it."
A pained sigh escaped Rickard Stark's lips. He had wanted to avoid executing the prince, sending him off to the wall after the war should have been enough but the King seemed to have taken complete leave of his senses. "I had tired to use The Prince as leverage, to easen the efforts of the Crown against us... it was worth trying," he admitted, his voice rough. "I had hoped… hoped to avoid this, strip him of everything…"
"But the Wall won't hold back his father's madness," Wyman Manderly interjected, his voice heavy. "We can't keep feeding a dragon, hoping it won't turn and bite us."
Rickard nodded slowly, the lines around his eyes deepening. "You are right, my lord, the Prince has outlived his usefulness," he sighed.
The council chamber buzzed with surprise. They hadn't expected him to cave in so easily.
Halys Hornwood barked a rough laugh. "Yes, m'lord. Once the Prince is dealt with, the targaryens will realize that we have been toyed with enough."
Rickard nodded, and sighed as the weight of his decision settled on him. "Ned has sailed with Lord Mormont, the Greatjon, and young Karstark for the Wall, and found far more than we bargained for." He paused, remembering the tension in those first moments after the raven arrived with Ned's hasty missive. "Laenor Waters, Velaryon's bastard, it seems, was captaining a vessel at Hardhome, awaiting the Prince. With him… his wife."
A ripple of intrigue passed through the council. Wyman Manderly scratched his beard thoughtfully.
"The ship was meant for Lady Lyanna then, and now it becomes her brother's escape route," he mused, a touch of grim amusement in his voice.
"Indeed," Rickard confirmed. "Ned secured the ship, took the woman hostage… and convinced the captain to sail for Dragonstone." He leaned forward, the flickering lamplight etching harsh shadows on his face. "They will have arrived at Dragonstone as we speak …. If the old gods favor him."
Medger Cerwyn pounded a fist on the table. "By the Old Gods, that's boldness worthy of a bard's song! "
Robert Baratheon slammed his warhammer down once more, a triumphant grin splitting his face. "Ned will be successful I tell you! Let's finish this – bring out the princeling, Lord Stark. It's time he paid his dues."
A grim silence fell over the council, the Lords' triumph tainted by a somber finality.
Rickard stood slowly, the lines on his face etched deeper than ever. He felt the weight of a thousand decisions pressing down on him, the cost of war heavy in the air.
"Very well," his voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Lord Manderly, if you would... see to it that the Prince is brought to the yard."
Wyman Manderly rose, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "Of course, Lord Stark. And… and Ser Arthur?"
Rickard hesitated.
"Ser Arthur will remain a prisoner," Rickard said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "He shall not pay for the sins of his king… not when his blood binds him to my own son's wife, he will witness the consequences of his actions and swear himself to the wall at the end of this war"
A subtle shift rippled through the council, a mix of relief and disappointment.
The chamber emptied, lords departing with grim nods and determined strides.
Rickard lingered, staring at the maps, a battleground of spilled ink marking the Riverlands.
He reached for Ice, the ancestral blade resting against the wall. Its Valyrian steel seemed to shimmer with a cold, expectant light.
The courtyard, usually bustling with trade or drilling soldiers, now pulsed with a tense energy. Men-at-arms formed a rough circle, their faces a mixture of eager anticipation and grim resolve.
North men and Stormlanders stood side-by-side, their differences forgotten in the spectacle that was about to unfold.
Rickard Stark stood tall at the center of the circle, Ice resting across his shoulders.
It was a weapon born for executions, its weight both a burden and a grim comfort. A hush fell over the gathered men as they waited, their hushed murmurs fading into an expectant silence.
Then, the prisoners were brought forth.
Rhaegar first, his once regal bearing reduced to a pale imitation. Stripped of his finery, clad in roughspun clothes, the Targaryen Prince resembled less a dragon and more a broken man.
Yet, his eyes held a defiant spark, burning with the last embers of pride.
Ser Arthur Dayne followed, walking with measured steps, his chains rattling a counterpoint to the tense stillness. His face was a mask, betraying no emotion, but Rickard read the anguish in the set of his shoulders, the defeat that no armor could hide.
"Bring him forward," Rickard commanded, his voice cutting through the charged atmosphere. "Let him meet his end like a man, not a sniveling cur."
There was a scuffle, and then Rhaegar stumbled into the center of the circle.
His defiance, though dimmed, had not completely extinguished.
Glaring at Rickard, he refused to kneel.
Rickard sighed, a weary sound laced with a hint of pity. "Must you do everything the hard way, Prince?" He nodded toward the guards flanking the prisoner. "Place his head on the block."
A rough hand shoved against Rhaegar's shoulder.
Then, a vicious kick behind his knees sent him sprawling.
The sound of the impact echoed harshly in the sudden silence.
Ser Arthur winced, his chains clinking, and silent tears began to trace lines down his stoic face.
The Prince, now on his knees, spat out dirt and grit.
Rickard stepped forward, his hand tightening on Ice's hilt.
He who passes the sentence, must swing the sword.
"Rhaegar Targaryen," Rickard intoned, his voice grave. "For the attempted abduction of Lyanna Stark, for the war you have brought upon this realm, for the slander against my house, and the countless deaths of innocent men, women, and children…" He paused, the weight of the accusation hanging heavy. "…I sentence you to death."
Rickard met the Prince's gaze, seeking a flicker of contrition, a final shred of dignity.
All he found was a cold, desperate defiance.
"Do you have any final words?" Rickard asked, his tone devoid of mockery.
It was a final courtesy, however undeserved.
The Prince spat blood on the ground. "You have doomed your house, Stark," he rasped, his voice laced with a chilling certainty. "The cold winds blow, and with them comes the end. Winter is coming, and you wolves will freeze and die. Mark my words! It is the word of the Dragon!"
Madness.
The final embers of Rhaegar's desperate prophecy were pathetic, not fearsome.
Rickard sighed, the last thread of pity fraying.
He raised Ice, the Valyrian steel catching the light in a deadly arc.
The blade descended, swift and merciless.
In a single heartbeat, The echoes of his curse faded into the indifferent sea wind.
A roar of triumph went up from the assembled men, led by the Stormlanders. "A fitting end for a madman's son!" boomed Robert Baratheon, raising a fist in grim satisfaction.
Rickard nodded, the finality of the act settling over him like a heavy cloak. "His head shall be sent to Velaryon, and so to the King," he declared. "A grim trophy, and a testament to our resolve."
With a heavy heart, he turned toward Ser Arthur. The Kingsguard knight now sobbed openly, his shoulders shaking with the force of his despair.
His oath, shattered beyond repair, now a burden heavier than any chains.
"Arthur Dayne," Rickard's voice rang out, harsh and unforgiving. "Mourn not your false king, oathbreaker. Mourn your own vows, for you are no knight." He stepped closer, the shadow of Ice falling across Arthur's bowed form. "You forsook the vows to protect the innocent, uphold justice, and honor women. And now those vows are ashes."
Rickard's tone softened slightly, the faintest trace of reluctant mercy tempering his judgment. "Be thankful to your sister, Ashara. Were it not for her marriage to my son, you would share the Prince's fate."
He turned away, the Lords stirring around him.
Just as they were about to return to the castle, a breathless crier ran into the courtyard.
"My Lord Stark! Ships… sails on the horizon! Lord Arryn's banners has finally arrived!"
A sudden jolt of energy surged through Rickard.
He spun on his heel, "To the coast!" he bellowed, "Man the defenses! Lord Manderly," he turned to the corpulent lord, "Ready your ships! Today, we break this damnable blockade!"
x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x
The war tent was a stifling cocoon of sweat and unease.
Heavy wool tapestries depicting knights in shining armor hung from the canvas walls, mocking the grim-faced men gathered within.
Luke stood stiff as a fence post beside Ser Vortimer Crane, the knight's sour breath and the clink of his ill-fitting armor a constant assault on his senses, despite being his squire he was still required to work as the Knights cup bearer in such situations.
His gaze drifted across the cluttered table – maps bristled with markers, half-empty tankards, a stale loaf of bread speckled with flies.
Lord Mace Tyrell, a mountain of a man draped in silk and furs, gnawed his lip, his eyes flitting over the map like a trapped bird.
Lords Fossoway and Grimm leaned close, their murmurs a low hum beneath the flap and rattle of the wind outside.
Ser Vortimer Crane cleared his throat, the sound grating. "My lord, we must act swiftly. Ashford cannot hold much longer." He jabbed a blunt finger at the map, tracing the siege lines around the tiny marker representing Ashford Castle.
"Agreed," Lord Fossoway's voice boomed. "Stannis Baratheon is like a wasp at a feast. If we dally, he will bleed the castle dry."
Their words hung heavy in the air, a constant reminder of the lives depending on the decisions made within this tent.
Luke's gut twisted.
He wasn't some lordling playing at war. He knew the stench of burning flesh, the choking grip of desperation - things most of these men had only ever heard in tales around a hearth.
A bead of sweat trickled down his temple as the silence stretched. "We cannot wait for Randyll Tarly to return south" Ser Quentin Tyrell broke the tension. "We risk losing both the castle and its bannermen should Ashford fall."
Mace Tyrell slammed a fist on the table, the furs around his neck shifted, revealing the tremble in his hand. "If only we had more men, a larger force. This damned defiance of the Starks…!" His voice trailed off, replaced by a frustrated sigh as he raked his fingers through his beard.
Lord Grimm stroked his chin, his eyes narrowed. "Lord Stannis is known for his stubbornness, but he's not a fool. He wouldn't risk a siege if his numbers were vastly depleted." He glanced at a scroll on the table, the crumpled raven's message from Lord Ashford. "If the castle falls, he will gain a strategic point, and we will have the unpleasant task of reclaiming it from him, and with supply lines from Harvest Hall directly leading to Ashford, that will be a tall task indeed"
"Perhaps a direct assault then?" Lord Fossoway suggested, his voice resonating in the cramped tent. "Hit them hard and fast, force them to retreat."
Ser Vortimer Crane scoffed, "And bleed our own forces against their entrenched position? Stannis may be young, but he's no hotheaded fool like his brother."
The discussion went on, a whirlwind of strategies and counter-proposals.
Yet, each plan seemed to unravel as quickly as it was proposed.
Ashford's geography led it to be easily reinforceable from the Reach, but the same was true from the other side as well as a direct line of support was present from Harvest Hall.
Lord Stannis' reputation for tactical brilliance, their own depleted troops - every factor deepened the frown on Mace Tyrell's face.
Luke's fingers twitched towards the sword at his belt.
It offered little comfort, a stark contrast against the maps bristling with markers representing thousands of unknown lives. All he could do was stand silent, absorbing the arguments echoing around him.
As the light outside the tent faded, casting the grim faces within in long shadows, a sense of desperation settled into the room.
The tapestry-covered walls felt like they were closing in, the very air thickening with the weight of indecision.
"We must do something," Mace Tyrell declared, his voice strained. "The sun rises, and Stannis' siege engines will be hammering at Ashford's gates. If we don't act…" he left the threat unspoken, his usually jovial face etched with worry.
Suddenly, a rustle from outside the tent flap broke the oppressive silence. A messenger, face taut with exhaustion, slipped inside and dropped to a knee before Lord Tyrell.
"My lord," he gasped, "A raven from Ashford! Urgent news."
A collective sigh filled the tent, a mixture of anticipation and dread.
All eyes turned as Lord Grimm took the proffered scroll, his hand trembling slightly as he broke the seal.
Lord Grimm's voice cracked as he unrolled the scroll. Taking a steadying breath, he began to read, each word a heavy stone laid upon the oppressive silence.
"To Lord Mace Tyrell, Warden of the South, my most urgent plea. The enemy has breached the outer defenses. We fight valiantly, but our numbers dwindle with each passing hour. The keep itself still stands, though for how long I cannot say. Stannis' siege engines batter our gates relentlessly, and scaling parties are trying to swarm our walls."
He swallowed hard, his hand tightening on the parchment. "Their main force is concentrated on the eastern wall. Yet, every passing moment brings the enemy closer to our heart. I beg you, Lord Tyrell, for aid! For the sake of honor, for the sake of the Reach, do not let Ashford fall."
Silence settled for a heartbeat, then Lord Grimm's voice softened, laced with a father's desperation. "My daughter, Elianora, and my wife, Evelyn, they remain within the keep. I beseech you, for their lives, for the future of House Ashford… send help. Time is of the essence."
He paused, then in a steadier tone, added, "Ashford holds, my lord. But barely."
Lord Mace sagged into his seat. "Gods above," he whispered, his hands trembling. "We must act. The lives of women and children hang in the balance!" He looked around the table, his eyes pleading. "We must find a way…"
The men around the table exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of Lord Ashford's plea heavy in the air.
Parmen Crane remained a statue of stoic composure, but his knuckles had turned white on the table edge, a subtle tell of his inner turmoil.
Luke watched him, a familiar resentment flaring within him.
Parmen, with his arrogance and disdain for those below his station.
Parmen, who had tried and failed to charm Meredith to his bed, despite his impending marriage to Elianora.
But beneath the simmering dislike, Luke also felt a tremor of unease.
Rumor or not, if Elianora was true with child… and the army hounding at her doorstep, he did not wish for a cruel fate for even Parmen's innocent bride-to-be.
He'd never wanted to fight this war, a war born of a prince's twisted obsession – the very prince who had tried to have him and his brother killed.
Yet fighting was no longer a choice.
His father, just a simple guard, stood outside this very tent, his life bound to the whims of these high lords.
And beyond them lay his home, the Reach, now threatened by the marching armies of the North.
Mace's voice was thick with frustration, "If only we had a way to force Stannis back, even temporarily. Break this damned siege, then retreat and consolidate our forces as soon as Lord Tarly arrives with the rest of our men… and Paxter Redwyne's fleet soon to blockade Storm's End and shipbreakers bay, Stannis would have no choice but to flee back where he came from." He sighed heavily, "But as it stands, we're trapped in this waiting game, while Ashford bleeds…"
"My Lord Tyrell," he began, his voice surprisingly steady, "I…I beg permission to speak."
A ripple of amused disdain spread through the tent.
Ser Vortimer Crane's scowl deepened. "Be silent, boy! You have no place to speak here!" he barked.
Perhaps it was the desperation in Luke's voice, or the flicker of guilt as he remembered the boy's uncle, Harlon, the father of his sons' friend, forced to take up a sword. "Let the boy speak," he ordered.
Luke swallowed hard, his gaze meeting Mace Tyrell's unwavering stare. "My lord," he began stepping towards the map, his rough hands tracing a path across its worn surface. "Lord Ashford claims their main force is focused on the east. What if we sent a small detachment as a feint – strike from the northern flank, draw their attention while a second smaller group attempts to scale the walls from a less defended point?" His heart pounded in his chest. "We… we could try to reach Lady Ashford and the others within the keep, move them to safety from the same side we climbed over. Then, our main force strikes from the south, forcing Stannis back. With Ashford's bannermen freed, we could…"
He trailed off, the plan suddenly feeling reckless, his lack of experience painfully clear.
Yet, Lord Mace's frown was one of consideration, not outright dismissal.
"And how do we scale these walls? Stannis has the eastern and southern walls under siege" Ser Quentin Tyrell inquired, his voice edged in skepticism. "The Cockleswent flows between us and the castle. That's the only side that's not under siege."
A flush crept up Luke's neck, but he forced himself to answer. "My lord, a…a small detachment could swim the Cockleswent, scale the walls from the riverbank. It's the one side Stannis won't be focused on!"
"While the rest of our forces cross at the western town?" Lord Fossoway stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Then feint from the north, draw their attention there, then… it could work…"
A chorus of murmurs filled the tent, a mix of cautious consideration and doubt.
Ser Vortimer Crane's frown remained, but his eyes held a calculating glint Luke hadn't seen before. The knight was actually weighing the plan's merits, not just dismissing the words of a lowly squire.
Ser Quentin voiced his next concern. "Whoever crosses that western bridge faces heavy peril. Stannis will assume they're reinforcements from further north, and focus his efforts there."
Silence fell, broken only by the relentless flap of the tent canvas.
Then, to Luke's surprise, Ser Vortimer Crane spoke, his voice gruff but determined. "I'll lead the contingent for the feint. If this… this gamble of yours has a chance, we'll need to hit hard and fast."
A wave of unease washed over Luke.
This plan could well send his uncle to his death.
Harlon was a simple man, brave, and after almost a month of training under Ser Crane, good at his sword too, but unversed in the brutality of a true battlefield.
"I'll go across the river," Parmen Crane announced, his voice cutting through the tension. "I'll take some men. And get the women and children to safety."
"You will need to be careful" Se Quentin warned "You will have get rid of all the armor, even the sword would be trouble for swimming. You must be very light, both for the swim and the climb"
"My Lord, the Cockleswent isn't a very wide river, especially at the base of the castle," Luke interjected. "Getting a couple of ladders across will not be difficult, and neither will the weapons. The armor is all that we will need to get rid of to get across."
The contemplative hush within the war tent hung as thick as the tapestries themselves. Lord Mace Tyrell stood, his gaze flickering across the faces around him, relief warring with grim determination.
"What do you think Ser Crane, will this gamble work with our numbers?" he questioned, his voice hopefull.
Ser Vortimer Crane stepped forward. "Best estimates put Stannis' host at near twenty-two thousand, my lord. And we can be certain, he has more awaiting orders in the storm land. Our own forces stand at twenty thousand strong, with Lord Tarly and his seven thousand due to return. That brings us near enough on par with the Baratheons."
Ser Quentin Tyrell added, "To convince Stannis that reinforcements have come from the North, the force crossing from the town will need to be substantial – half that number at the very least. A host of Four thousand at least will have to cross from the town.."
"I can lead the attack across the town bridge," Ser Vortimer declared, his voice firm. "With a feint from the north, I'll hit hard, draw their attention, and be in position when Lord Mace begins his assault."
Tension eased slightly around the table.
Lord Jon Fossoway nodded slowly, his eyes bright. "Then it is settled. Much hinges on the men who swim the Cockleswent. Securing the Ashford household will lift the spirits of those trapped within and provide a routing point for our reinforcements. Once they arrive at the castle gates, Stannis will have to retreat."
A wave of satisfaction swept through Luke.
His plan had found purchase within the minds of these seasoned commanders.
Lord Mace rose, a tired smile creasing his face. "With my plan, Baratheon will pay for this impudence. We break this siege and force Stannis back to his stormy hovel." He dismissed the council with a final rallying cry, "Rest, my lords! Tomorrow, we ride for Ashford!"
Amidst the scraping of chairs and shuffling feet, no one acknowledged him.
Luke's shoulders slumped slightly, but a touch on his arm halted his retreat.
He turned to find Ser Vortimer Crane regarding him with a critical eye.
The knight rarely spoke to him without a sneer of disdain, but now his stare unnerved him even more. "Come with me."
A knot tightened in Luke's stomach as he followed Ser Vortimer through the bustling camp.
The anticipation of battle thrummed like a war drum in the air.
He glanced towards the familiar figures surrounding the fire, relief warring with anxiety as he caught sight of his father and uncle. They seemed oblivious to his approach, caught up in a shared joke. Luke yearned to share a last moment of levity with them, but duty called.
Ser Vortimer led him to a quieter corner of the camp, far from the boisterous laughter and the frantic preparations. He paused, and Luke waited, heart sinking. The knight's brow was furrowed, his weathered face more grim than usual.
"You've a sharp mind for tactics, boy," Ser Vortimer began, his voice surprisingly even. "And in the yard... well, I'll give you this – you have bested Parmen in the yard fair and square multiple times."
Luke blinked, confusion replacing his mounting fear.
The knight's gaze locked onto Luke's. "You'll join Parmen across the river. See this plan of yours through – and keep him alive. Do that…" Ser Vortimer hesitated, the faintest hint of hesitation flickering across his face,"… and I'll make sure your uncle and father make it through this battle."
Luke had to stifle a gasp.
Ser Vortimer offered to protect his family, the two people most important to him.
Yet, the price was clear, he would have to ensure that Parmen Crane lived through the battle, alongside his betrothed, and then ensure none of the Stormlanders make it past the inner walls.
If they did, the tides of the battle would shift, and retaking the castle would become a harder task.
Success hinged on ensuring that didn't happen, otherwise, a lot of lives would be lost.
A wave of dizziness washed over Luke.
This was far more responsibility than he was ready for.
But the image of his father's determined face, his uncle's boisterous laugh, his own promise to Caelum… it hardened his resolve.
He would do anything to see his family through.
Struggling to keep his voice even, Luke managed a choked, "You have my word, Ser Vortimer."
There was a gruff nod, the closest thing to approval Luke had ever gotten from his usually disdainful master.
A flicker of something like respect sparked in the knight's eyes, then vanished as Ser Vortimer turned towards the bustling camp.
"See to your preparations, boy," he barked, his voice back to its usual gruffness.
x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x
OMAKE:
Luke gasped, the kick to his stomach crumpling him to the ground. The next kick, aimed at his chin, knocked him backwards toward the wounded Stark knights.
The young lord Parmen Crane spat on the ground next to him, around the empty plain a retinue of Targaryen-aligned men jeering at the defeated squire, practically baying for his blood in the dark, early morning.
Touching his now black eye, Parmen winced in pain, before fixing Luke a look of disgust, the grip on his blade tightening.
"I'd have hoped, despite your station, you had enough honor to follow the command of your superiors and eliminate these savages when ordered. I can't say I'm surprised to be proven wrong however."
Fear gripped Luke's heart. His eyes briefly went to his injuries, his body covered in various cuts and bruises from the beating he'd received, courtesy of Parmen Crane and his loyal men. Then it went to his stolen sword, in the grasp of one of Ser Crane's knights, stolen from him during the initial scuffle and now leaving him helpless.
He was an idiot. Luke knew there would be no talking his way out of this situation. He'd known that the second his pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears, and his body instinctively moved in front Parmen, blocking the young lord's swing against a helpless Stark knight's neck. He didn't know why he'd done such stupid thing, knowing it would lead to his own death.
... No. That would be a lie. He knew exactly why he defended this group of enemy knights.
They were wounded. They were helpless. They had surrendered. And yet they would still be mercilessly slaughtered by his contingent.
No matter how stupid it was, Luke had to protect these knights from an unjust execution. It was the right thing to do, he knew it deep inside, and he'd never be able to forgive himself if he just stood by and watched while men whose only crimes were being from a different House were gutted like animals before him.
He could never face his brother Caelum if he did that.
So despite the fear, and despite knowing pointless a gesture it was, Luke clenched his teeth and stood back up, visibly struggling as he did so. A few of the Stark knights helping regain his balance; they couldn't do much, most of them already wounded from before they'd encountered his group, but the gesture was appreciated all the same.
Pain radiated from everywhere, blood from his cuts dripping into the dirty battlefield, but he still mustered what strength he had left to glare at Parmen.
"There is no honor in killing surrendering men." Luke wheezed.
A backhand from an armored glove, and Luke had to spit the blood from his mouth. At least he was still standing. A small victory.
"Filthy peasant. It is not your place to judge what's honorable and what isn't." Parmen's clicked his tongue, as if scolding a child. He raised his sword and positioned it next to Luke's neck.
Parmen crane's face twisted into a sneer.
"But I am not without mercy. We need every last body for this war, after all. So beg me for forgiveness squire, and I shall let you live."
It was clear from his eyes that Parmen was enjoying this. The squire who'd managed to disarm him during training now making a mistake that left him at the young lord's mercy. Knowing whatever choice the peasant made, it would be victory for the young Crane.
It was obvious enough to everyone, and despite the blow to his pride, Luke knew he should accept the lordling's condescending offer, because it was still better than dying, even if it was at the expense of some men's lives.
Too bad for him he was such a bleeding heart idiot.
Luke stayed silent, and the slight mirth apparent on Lord Parmen's face dimmed, his mocking smile dropping into a frown.
"Really? Do you truly wish to die such a pathetic death?"
It took a while for Luke to find his words, the sword still aimed at his unguarded neck doing his nerves no favors.
"... I can't let you kill these men, Lord Parmen."
"Why?"
There was genuine confusion in the young lord's tone, and Luke couldn't fault him for that. Luke had other people he wanted to protect. More important people like Harlon and Caelum. So why would he risk all that for a handful of wounded enemies he didn't even know the names of?
Despite it all, Luke smiled, lifting his head to look at his executioner in the eye.
"Because it feels like it's the right thing to do."
Parmen Crane scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief as his men continued to hurl insults at the beaten down traitor.
"So be it then."
Ser Crane's heir raised his sword high, and Luke shut his eyes tight, knowing what was to come. He hoped Caelum wouldn't be too upset at his death, and that he'd understand why he had to do what he did. If only he could jus-
FWOOSH
A sudden green flash erupted, cutting off Luke's internal thoughts and blinding the gaze of everyone in the flatland. Parmen winced, his sword forgotten as he instinctively covered his eyes. Around him the men- Stark and Targaryen alike- were similarly rendered sightless. Even Luke, with his eyes closed, could see as the strong light bathing his vision in emerald. And then something else happened.
The pain he'd felt from his wounds inexplicably started fading, as if soothed by the mysterious energy this light brought forth. Another gasp escaped Luke's lungs, but this one was from surprise as he was lifted off the ground, the calming sensation spreading throughout his entire body, as if he was being cradled by the Gods themselves.
Luke's eyes snapped open, looking at what was being done to him by who knows what, and what he saw stunned him even more than what he'd seen in the farm all those nights ago.
The numerous injuries inflicted on him were gone, as if he'd never been harmed at all. Parts of his armor and the entirety of his chainmail and clothes had disappeared, being replaced with a strange black and green material covering his whole body. What was left- his pauldrons, courters, greaves and sabatons, were no longer dented and rusted. Rather, they were now flawless and brilliant, matching the colors of the unusual fabric perftecly.
What caught Luke's attention most of all though was the glowing green ring now on his finger, the sigil on it reminiscent of... something. He could feel the power radiating out of it, something that terrified yet excited him for reasons he didn't know.
His wide eyes still focused on the mysterious band his right hand in wonder, Luke barely noticed the starstruck faces of the people around him, nor that he'd now been lowered back onto the ground.
The entire plain was rendered silent. Parmen, his men and even the Stark knights could do nothing but gawk at the impossible display before them. A sudden green flash, and where was once a traitorous squire now stood a being clad in emerald energy swirling around him? Such a thing would've been deemed a daydream had it not happened before their very eyes.
A million questions ran through Luke's mind, but before he could voice even a single one, a voice- his own voice?- shattered the silence. It was far steadier than it had any right to be, almost monotone, and laced with a tinge of something the young man couldn't quite decipher.
It was what the voice said though, the words echoing across the land, that snapped him out of his fugue.
Luke of Planetos. You have the ability to overcome great fear.
Welcome to the Green Lantern Corps.
x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x
(A/N) I am back! We'll be back to our regularly scheduled programming.
I hoped this was worth the wait.
The Tyrells had sent a token force with Randyll Tarly to aid in the war effort. They didn't want to get too involved, as they realized something was amiss with Rhaegar and the whole ordeal.
Harlon was essentially never supposed to head off to war, just join the retinue train in the castle, and be ready to serve. But then Stannis routed the dissidents in the Stormlands and did what Robert had done in canon and attacked the Reach.
He reached further reaching all the way to the castle of Ashford and has laid siege to it.
Mace has come as reinforcement.
Stannis is a whole different beast compared to Robert and this time, there is no Randyll Tarly to counter him.
Luke stepped up and provided strategy.
I hope it made sense, I think I'm thinking too hard.
Sunlight streamed through the narrow window of the attic room, casting geometric patterns across the rough-hewn floorboards.
Caelum rolled out of his makeshift bed, wincing as his joints protested the unfamiliar hardness of the straw ticking.
It wasn't the comfort of his bed, but it would have to do.
"Caelum? You awake in there or do I have to fetch a bucket of water?" A muffled voice pierced the sleepy silence.
Caelum stifled a chuckle. "Awake, Pylos, and nearly dressed!"
Pylos, a lanky boy with a mop of unruly brown hair, burst through the door, his energy barely contained by the cramped space. "C'mon! What are you waiting for? I don't want to be late the first day!"
Caelum grinned, lacing up his sturdy boots.
Pylos' enthusiasm was infectious, chasing away the last vestiges of his own lingering doubts. "True enough," he admitted, a spark of anticipation igniting within him.
He pulled on a simple woolen tunic, the coarse fabric a far cry from the soft linens at home, but it carried the promise of a new beginning.
They descended the creaking stairs, the scent of freshly baked bread and roasted meat filling the air.
In the common room, the innkeeper, a burly man named Lernen with a voice built for booming orders, was already at work.
Caelum caught his eye and nodded a quick greeting.
"I'll be back after lessons to help out, Lernen," he offered.
The innkeeper, wiping his hands on a worn apron, gave a curt grunt in response. "Good lad. I will have enough chores to keep you occupied all afternoon, don't you worry."
A warm voice cut through the innkeeper's gruffness. "Don't listen to him, Caelum. I'll help. You shouldn't have to work on your first day at the Citadel."
Caelum turned to find Fern, the innkeeper's daughter.
She bore a slight resemblance to Meredith, filling him with warmth tinged by a pang of homesickness.
Lernen barked a reprimand, "Get back to those tables, girl! And you," he pointed a thick finger at Pylos and Caelum, "best be on your way. Don't want to make a poor showing on your first day."
Pylos tugged Caelum's arm with all the impatience of a hound straining at the leash. "Come on, Caelum! We don't want to arrive at the gates of knowledge like dawdling merchants!"
Caelum couldn't suppress a grin.
He and Pylos had joined the same merchant caravan journeying to Oldtown, drawn together by a shared hunger for learning and, more keenly, the need to escape the encroaching shadow of war. Pylos' father, a lesser knight in service to Lord Tarly, had arranged for his son to seek sanctuary at the Citadel, and Caelum's own father had sent him for similar reasons.
They stepped out into the bustling streets of Oldtown.
The air hummed with activity, a chorus of voices mingling with the rhythmic clatter of cobblestones beneath their feet. Unlike the quaint familiarity of his village, the grand city seemed alive, its buildings and inhabitants a symphony of colors and textures.
Merchants hawked their wares with boisterous cries, their stalls a vibrant tapestry of silks and spices. Well-dressed ladies, trailed by servants holding baskets, paused to barter over exotic trinkets. Children darted through the crowds, as they played near the banks of the Honeywine river.
Despite the vibrant veneer, Caelum felt an invisible weight press down on Oldtown as they made their way through the streets. The guardsmen patrolling in their pristine Hightower livery, swords gleaming in the midday sun, seemed more numerous than necessary. Their presence was a stark reminder that the echoes of war had reached even this ancient haven.
Knots of townsfolk gathered on street corners, their voices low and laden with worry. An elderly woman, her hands gnarled from a lifetime of work, wrung a frayed shawl with trembling fingers. "...heard the baker's son was taken," she whispered to her companion. "Called up to the levies, not even old enough to shave properly..."
Another voice, a man with the weathered face of a fisherman, cut in. "Taxes doubled again, they were. Can't even afford a decent net now. How'm I supposed to feed my kin if the catch stays small?" A chorus of weary agreement rose from the group.
Further along, a merchant with a shrewd eye and a pouch bulging with coin spoke in hushed, rapid tones. "Shipments from Dorne delayed," he confided to a fellow trader. "Roads aren't safe with all those soldiers marching about. Prices for spices? Through the roof, they'll be."
"Even the arbor has stopped sending their wares, word is almost the entire fleet sailed away over a moon ago" Another bemoaned.
They pressed onward, the city's bustle fading into a background hum against the undercurrent of worry that gnawed at Caelum. He caught Pylos's gaze stray towards a group of guards rounding a corner, and a frown momentarily creased his friend's brow.
"Don't worry, Pylos," Caelum said gently, nudging his shoulder. "The Seven will watch over them. They'll be back before you know it."
A hesitant smile touched Pylos's lips. "I know, I know... It's just..." He trailed off, his cheerfulness a thin veneer over his unspoken fears. Then, with a determined shake of his head, he said, "That's why I need to make the most of my time at the Citadel. Learn everything I can, so I can go back and help my father."
Caelum felt a flicker of pride, tinged with a bittersweet knowledge he couldn't share. Pylos's unwavering determination mirrored his own. "And what will you be studying?" he asked, eager to shift the focus away from lingering anxieties.
"Languages," Pylos declared, his voice swelling with newfound enthusiasm. "Not just the common tongue, but High Valyrian and the Summer Isles' speech—imagine the trade possibilities! And numbers!" His eyes gleamed, "Estate management, taxes, crop rotation... Father said Lord Tarly promised him a holding near Horn Hill after the war. I need to learn how to run it properly."
Caelum nodded thoughtfully. "Those sound like noble goals, Pylos. I'm here to study as well. Farming techniques, medicine, numbers... and..." his voice lowered slightly, "magic." He watched for Pylos's reaction, adding, "And maybe a bit of statecraft wouldn't go amiss either."
Pylos blinked, confusion warring with amusement. "Magic?" he finally choked out, "You're serious? All those tales of spells and potions are just stories, Cael. A waste of time!"
"Perhaps," Caelum conceded with a guarded smile. Magic was too precious, too dangerous a secret to share. "But I find the idea... fascinating."
Pylos shook his head with exaggerated disappointment. "You'll be wasting precious hours chasing shadows! And trying to learn that much at once? You'll spread yourself too thin." He paused, a spark of camaraderie in his eyes. "Why not ditch this magic nonsense and study languages with me? It would be far more useful!"
Caelum bit back a laugh, appreciating his friend's straightforward concern. "I'll think about it," he promised.
Languages interested him too infact, there was just so much to learn here at the citadel that he couldn't make a choice very easily.
The hum of the city faded as they strolled beside the Honeywine, its waters glinting like scattered jewels in the morning sun.
Pylos, temporarily swept up in the grandeur of Oldtown, chattered about trade routes and the exotic ships lining the docks.
The ancient bastion of knowledge was a sight to behold. Weathered towers reached into the sky, their silhouettes a testament to centuries of accumulated wisdom. Intricately carved bridges arched over the river, connecting sprawling complexes that seemed to meld organically with the landscape. The massive gates, flanked by twin sphinxes with enigmatic faces, beckoned like a doorway to a world beyond the ordinary.
Suddenly, a faint sound cut through the rhythmic lull of the river – a grunt of exertion, quickly muffled.
Caelum's heightened hearing, a peculiar 'gift' he'd never spoken of, pinpointed the origin with unsettling accuracy. He shifted his course subtly, a flicker of determination in his eyes.
"What are you doing?" Pylos asked, brows furrowed in confusion as Caelum veered away from the path toward the citadel.
"Come on," Caelum gestured vaguely, his smile masking his true purpose, "Just a quick detour."
Pylos hesitated, glancing back towards their destination. "If this is another cat you spotted up a tree, so help me! We don't have time for your detours, Caelum! We'll be late for our first day!"
"Relax," Caelum said, his voice infused with a calmness. "It's still early, see?" He pointed to other figures, a mix of young men and grizzled scholars, making their own unhurried way towards the Citadel's gates.
Pylos sighed, a long-suffering expression crossing his face. "You and your bleeding heart, Cael. Always stopping to help every stray cat or fallen sparrow..." Yet, he followed without further protest.
Despite his grumbling, Caelum knew Pylos shared his own deep-seated compassion, even if their friend showed it in less obvious ways.
As they rounded a bustling market stall, the source of the muffled sound became clear.
An old man, his back bent and his thin hair wisping in the breeze, struggled to pull a heavily laden cart.
The wheels churned uselessly in the muddy cobblestones, and another strained grunt echoed through the air.
"You think we can lift that?" Pylos scoffed as they drew closer. "The thing's bigger than both of us put together! And look at the state of it – those wheels are half-buried in mud. We'll be here all day!"
Caelum ignored his friend's pessimism. "Won't take long," he said, already forming a plan. "We don't need to lift the whole thing, just get it rolling."
Without waiting for further argument, he strode up to the old man. "Can we lend a hand?"
The old man, his face wrinkled with a mix of weariness and surprise, nodded. "Name's Willem," he croaked. "Bound for the Motherhouse with their supplies. Damned cart won't budge an inch, though. Old bones aren't what they used to be..."
Pylos, ever the pragmatist, chimed in. "Can't you get a horse to pull it? Seems an awful lot for one man."
Willem's weathered face creased with sadness. "Had one... good beast. But he took sick and died. No coin for another, not with the prices these war-times bring."
"Surely someone else can help you?" Pylos persisted. "A son, perhaps?"
Willem's shoulders slumped. "I Had a boy once," he murmured. "Took by the chills in winter. Just the two of us, it was..." His voice trailed off, the unspoken pain hanging heavy in the air.
"We'll get it there for you," Caelum cut in, his voice steady.
Pylos gaped at him. "We will?" His eyes darted between the hulking cart and Caelum's slender frame.
"Of course we will!" Caelum responded as he helped the old man to the side.
"You couldn't lift a handle on that monster, let alone pull it! Besides, we need to get going. Someone else will come along, I'm sure..."
Caelum waved off his friend's concern. "The Motherhouse is on the way to the Citadel anyway, and Pylos, we have plenty of time." Ignoring Pylos' spluttering protests, he approached the cart and gripped one of the heavy wooden handles.
With a smooth motion that belied his small stature, he lifted, the muscles in his arms flexing with the unexpected ease of it.
Pylos's mouth fell open.
Even Willem blinked in surprise.
"Bless those muscles, lad!" Willem exclaimed, his face breaking into a grin. "Never seen a boy your size with such strength."
Caelum ducked his head, a slight blush warming his cheeks. "It's nothing," he mumbled, "just used to helping Pa back home at the farm." Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he turned to Pylos. "Well? Are you going to stand there gawking, or lend a hand?"
Pylos, a mixture of exasperation and amusement warring on his face, grumbled under his breath. But despite his protests, he joined Caelum at the cart.
Their hands grasped the sturdy wooden handles, and with a concerted effort, they began to roll the cart forward.
And roll it did.
With Caelum's strength leading the way, the unwieldy cart seemed to transform, its wheels turning easily on the muddy road.
Even Willem, walking beside them, offered an occasional shove. Pylos couldn't deny the lack of strain, the surprising lightness with which they moved their burden towards the Motherhouse.
"Well, what do you know," Pylos muttered, a hint of amazement in his voice, "this is easier than hauling water for the horses back home."
Caelum chuckled. "I told you it wouldn't be too bad."
"There are easier ways to build muscles, you know," Pylos retorted. "Like training with a sword, or learning how to wrestle. Actual useful skills."
"And who said helping others isn't useful?" Caelum countered, lightness in his tone.
They followed the street, the Motherhouse rising into view with its seven-pointed star etched prominently above the grand entrance.
Caelum felt a quiet satisfaction as they reached the threshold, their task accomplished.
Willem's gratitude spilled out in a torrent of blessings. "May the Mother's light shine on you both," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And you, young man," he turned to Caelum, "have a gift in you, a strength of spirit to match those strong arms of yours."
Before Caelum could protest, Willem pressed a few worn copper coins into Pylos' hand. "For your trouble," he insisted. "A small token, but from the heart."
Pylos grinned, pocketing the coins with a flourish. "Well, if you insist! Thank you kindly, good sir. We were happy to help."
Caelum sighed, a rueful smile playing on his lips.
He knew any argument would be futile. Pylos sometimes embraced his practical side a bit too enthusiastically, but his heart was in the right place.
With a last grateful nod towards Willem, they set off once more, the Citadel towering in the distance.
As they walked, the sounds of the Motherhouse faded - the soft chanting of prayers, the clinking of incense burners, the rustling of robes - all replaced by the bustling energy of Oldtown.
"We made it," Pylos said with a satisfied air, checking the position of the sun. "And with time to spare. See, I told you we wouldn't be late."
"You were worried?" Caelum teased, nudging his friend playfully.
"Me? Never." Pylos' cheeks flushed slightly, betraying his earlier doubts. "I just knew you wouldn't let a good deed distract you for long. Even if you do have a soft spot for old men and stray cats."
The massive twin sphinxes flanking the entrance seemed both imposing and welcoming. Their weathered faces, male and female, held enigmatic smiles as they guarded the threshold to this hallowed place of learning.
Throngs of students and scholars flowed towards the open gates. Young men like themselves, their eyes bright with anticipation, mingled with older, grizzled acolytes bearing ink-stained hands and robes adorned with a few links of their hard-earned chains. Each face carried its own story – sons of merchants hoping for a better life, landless knights pursuing the knowledge that might win them favor.
"Come on," Pylos said, urgency replacing his earlier teasing tone. "We need to stick with the crowd."
Caelum followed, his heart pounding with a potent mix of excitement and the lingering echoes of Willem's heartfelt blessing. They crossed the threshold, entering a sprawling courtyard bustling with activity.
The Scribe's Hearth, a cluster of stalls where letters were read and written for the illiterate, buzzed with the scratching of quills and the murmurs of those dictating missives to faraway loved ones.
Nearby, a heated debate over the proper interpretation of an ancient text erupted between a red-faced scholar and a young acolyte with eyes gleaming in the heat of intellectual battle.
A new shout pierced the lively hum of the courtyard, cutting through the scholarly debates and the hurried scribbling of letters. An acolyte, a stocky young man with a shock of ginger hair, had commandeered a wooden stool and was bellowing instructions.
"Novices! Hear me!" he roared. "Make your way to the Great Hall in the Seneschal's Court! Archmaester Theron will address you on the commencement of your studies! Haste now, knowledge waits for no man!"
A surge of movement rippled through the crowd. "Let's go!" Pylos's voice crackled with excitement as he tugged at Caelum's arm. "Don't want to miss the Archmaester, do you?"
Caelum stumbled forward, his own anticipation making his steps feel lighter. "We're moving, Pylos, no need to shout," he chuckled.
They weaved through the throng, the Citadel's wonders unfolding with every step. "Look!" Caelum pointed towards a shadowy archway. "Do you think there's a garden in there?" His mind conjured images of sun-dappled paths and fountains whispering secrets only plants could understand.
Pylos squinted, then shrugged. "Maybe? But numbers first, gardens later. Can you imagine the libraries here? Stacks of books higher than Horn Hill's Keep!"
Their eyes met, alight with shared awe.
Suddenly, a grotesque stone face leered down at them from a rooftop.
Pylos yelped while Caelum burst out laughing. "It's just a gargoyle, you silly sod. They're supposed to scare away bad spirits!"
"And bad students, apparently," Pylos quipped back, the moment of surprise already replaced by eager fascination. "And spirits don'e exist!"
Even the strange carvings held a certain wonder.
The Seneschal's Court was a grand space, its high ceiling supported by massive stone pillars. The Great Hall, bathed in sunlight filtering through stained glass, was a hive of activity. Acolytes and novices milled about, their voices a constant murmur blending with the rustle of robes and the nervous shuffling of feet. Spotting an empty table, Caelum and Pylos quickly took their seats, eager to witness the spectacle unfolding before them.
Suddenly, a hush fell over the gathered crowd.
From a side entrance, a procession of figures emerged, their robes a rich tapestry of colors denoting their ranks. Maesters in somber grey mingled with Archmaesters whose garments shimmered with threads of silver, gold, and other precious metals signifying their fields of expertise.
The hall buzzed with barely contained excitement, a symphony of nervous whispers and rustling robes.
Then, a booming voice cut through the din.
An Archmaester, resplendent in a deep grey robe marked by the silver link of a historian, strode to the center of the raised dais.
Theron, Caelum recalled.
Despite a well-maintained physique and a neatly trimmed grey beard, his eyes flashed with an untamed energy that belied any notion of scholarly stuffiness.
"Welcome, novices!" His voice was surprisingly gruff, devoid of sugar-coated pleasantries. "You stand upon the hallowed ground of the Citadel, a bastion of knowledge built over countless ages. Some of you will leave this hall as acolytes, your necks adorned with your first hard-earned links. Others...," here he paused, his gaze sweeping the crowd with unsettling intensity, "... will wash out, your dreams of wisdom left as dust on these ancient floors."
A ripple of unease passed through the novices.
Pylos shifted nervously beside Caelum, his earlier enthusiasm slightly dampened.
Theron smirked, as if relishing their discomfort. "We do not traffic in sentiment here. Knowledge is a harsh mistress, demanding dedication and sacrifice. You will study until your eyes burn and your fingers cramp. You will pore over crumbling scrolls and dissect the secrets of the stars. And should you prove worthy," his voice hardened, "you will emerge from this place transformed, armed with tools to reshape your destinies... perhaps even the fate of the realm itself."
"Remember, novices," Archmaester Theron concluded, his voice ringing like a blacksmith's hammer, "you are free to attend whichever lessons pique your curiosity. But to forge your first link, true mastery in at least three disciplines is required. Choose wisely, work tirelessly, and prove your thirst for knowledge is unquenchable. The Citadel awaits your brilliance. Or your failure."
As Archmaester Theron retreated to the high table, he was immediately surrounded by other maesters, their voices a low hum against the excited chatter of the novices. The hall buzzed with anticipation, newly minted scholars scrambling to find guidance amid the dazzling array of opportunities laid before them.
Pylos nudged Caelum. "Come on," he said, "let's not waste time. Before we know it, those lessons will be full."
He spotted an older acolyte, already sporting a gleaming iron link around his neck, helping a group of wide-eyed novices navigate their schedules. Before Caelum could protest, Pylos was dragging him forward.
The acolyte, a tall, lanky fellow with a mop of unruly brown hair, introduced himself as Patrick. An air of superiority clung to him as he surveyed the newest batch of students with a dismissive glance.
"What can I do for you, novices?" Patrick asked, barely masking a sneer. He clearly relished his newfound status, the promise of knowledge already inflating his ego.
Pylos stepped forward, his earlier excitement tempered with a hint of caution. "We're interested in medicine," he started. "When does the lesson, um..." he stumbled over the term, "...commence?"
Patrick rolled his eyes. "An hour from now, in the Tower of Healing. Maester Lorcas will be conducting the lesson. But unless you have the stomach for blood and the mind for complex remedies, don't bother." He paused, a sly glint in his eye, "Perhaps you'd be better suited to sorting scrolls in the library?"
Caelum bristled slightly at the acolyte's condescension, but something else caught his attention. Using his heightened senses, he focused on the conversation unfolding at the high table. The ebb and flow of voices was clear to him, a symphony of whispered strategy and speculation.
"There is a conclave meeting this afternoon," a maester with a silver astrology link said, his voice low and urgent. "Word from King's Landing, it seems."
Archmaester Theron nodded. "I am aware," he replied, his voice a rumble. "It is about Connington delays." His tone held a hint of impatience.
"He is Stalling," another maester, this one adorned with an emerald link signifying a mastery of economics, scoffed. "The man wastes precious time at Dragonstone."
"He is being Clever, not foolish," Theron countered. "The crown is vulnerable. Stark holds the prince – Connington knows negotiation is the wiser course."
"And the king?" The maester asked.
"The king will rage," Theron said flatly. "And Connington… well, his best hope is to stay far from the fires of Aerys' wrath. Let Barristan bleed the riverlands in time the king will be forced to negotiate too."
The threads of the maesters' conversation left Caelum yearning for more.
He wanted to know more, he wanted to know if the war was soon to end, no matter how much he knew that it wasn't.
Frustration gnawed at him as the whispered plans faded into the background hum of the hall.
His gaze drifted back towards the high table.
Most of the maesters and archmaesters were dispersing, leaving a lone figure hunched over a massive tome, seemingly oblivious to the activity around him.
The man's robes were worn, their original hue faded beyond recognition.
A shock of white hair escaped from beneath a frayed hood, and his hands, stained with ink and what might be more unsettling substances, turned the pages with restless energy.
Curiosity piqued, Caelum turned back to the acolyte. "Who is that maester?" he asked, nodding towards the solitary scholar.
Patrick, the acolyte, followed Caelum's gaze and an exaggerated scoff escaped his lips. "That's Marwyn the Mad," he declared with an air of disdain. "Best stay clear of him. Doesn't teach, doesn't talk much, just skulks around with his nose in those…questionable books."
A hint of a smile played on Patrick's face. "Unless you're keen on learning about demons and spells, I suppose. Though if that's your sort of thing," he shrugged, "Quillion's your man. Higher mysteries, he calls it. Mostly a load of nonsense, if you ask me."
Pylos broke into his thoughts. "Caelum, come on!" he said, a touch of exasperation in his tone. "We need to make it to the Tower of Healing. Forget about magic. There are real things to be learned, things that can help people."
Caelum nodded, pushing down his curiosity about Marwyn for the time being.
Pylos was right; medicine offered the promise of knowledge with practical applications, a way to protect and heal when the time came.
And besides, there was a comforting familiarity in his friend's unwavering practicality. It reminded him of Luke in a way.
As they turned to leave, Patrick the acolyte couldn't resist a final jab. "Mayhaps your friend is wiser than he looks," he remarked. "This obsession with magic... a fool's errand. Listen to him, and you might just make something of yourself here."
They exited the Great Hall, the scent of old parchment fading as the bustling life of the Citadel swirled around them. The air crackled with a mix of nervous excitement and quiet determination.
Young scholars rushed towards their first lessons, seasoned acolytes carried weighty tomes, and in quiet corners, heated debates erupted over ancient texts.
It was a microcosm of the realm they'd left behind – a pursuit of knowledge against the looming backdrop of a kingdom teetering on the brink of war.
Caelum and Pylos were now part of it, two friends bound by a common goal, their paths diverging yet entwined. And as they set off towards the Tower of Healing, Caelum felt a surge of hope.
He couldn't wait to learn everything there was to learn, magic included.
x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x
The war council chamber within New Castle, grand in peacetime, now felt cramped and stifling. Salt-laden wind rattled the shutters, counterpoint to the tense hum of voices within. Maps of the coast and the Riverlands were spread across the table, weighted down by tankards and daggers.
Rickard Stark stood hunched over the maps, his weathered face set in grim lines.
Though weeks had passed since his arrival, White Harbor still felt foreign.
Here, his wolf pelts seemed out of place, his men restless. The sea's cold breath was a constant reminder of the Royal Fleet lurking unseen beyond the horizon.
Lord Wyman Manderly, his bulk spilling over a carved chair, drummed blunt fingers on the tabletop. "Those Valeryon ships. They lurk like leeches. Just enough harassment to choke the port, but not a full assault. The craven hide behind the King's banner, scurrying like rats on Sisterton."
Lucrys Velaryon had converted the three sisters as the staging grounds for his naval blockade, Godric Borrel rolling over for the Targaryens like a frightened animal.
"And the King hides behind his walls like a maddened child," Robert Baratheon growled, his voice echoing in the chamber. He paced restlessly, Warhammer tapping against his leg. "Damn it, I came to fight, not watch bloody seagulls!"
Roose Bolton's voice cut in, pale eyes gleaming in the dim light. "Perhaps the Crown waits for their southern allies, Lord Baratheon. Given that your brother was successful in culling the rebellion in your banners, his siege of Ashford has distracted the flowers, Mace Tyrell will not be able to join Randyll Tarly on his march to the riverlands, but should he fall…"
"Then the Riverlands burn," Rickard finished.
News of Barristan Selmy's siege of Harrenhal had reached them, relayed by desperate ravens from Hoster Tully.
He glanced around the table, at the hardened faces of his bannermen – the Hornwoods, the Cerwyns – and the Stormlanders, their loyalty radiating a different sort of heat from the restrained Northmen. "Brandon has relieved Gulltown, and Jon Arryn is said to be sailing to our aid, but…" His voice trailed off, the silence laden with what went unspoken.
Ser Elden Estermont, grizzled and scarred, shifted in his seat. "But without breaking this damned blockade, White Harbor is going to strangle." His eyes met Rickard's. "We cannot afford a war of waiting, Lord Stark."
A murmur of assent swept through the chamber.
The war was a noose around White Harbor's neck, tightening with each passing day.
Food stores had already dwindled due to the long winter, and the false hope that the false spring had brought destroyed the northern larders further.
Trade ships dared not approach, and the strain on Lord Manderly's hospitality grew heavy.
Rickard pressed his fingertips to his forehead, a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes.
Roose Bolton cleared his throat, his voice a cold whisper in the tense silence. "Forgive my bluntness, Lord Stark, but perhaps our efforts at… diplomacy… have run their course." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "We tried when Gulltown was relieved, and Lord Arryn added his support to our cause… those were victories that spoke louder than our ravens, but despite holding the Prince captive… despite suffering defeat at the Vale in the breaking of the blockade of Gulltown," A subtle flicker of contempt crossed his pale eyes, "…the King's replies haven't changed. He wants our heads, nothing less."
Robert Baratheon roared, his warhammer slamming down on the table, making tankards jump. "Damn the King, and damn his princeling! Rhaegar started this bloody game, and it's past time he paid the price." A chorus of grim agreement rose from the Stormlander lords.
Lord Hugh Grandison gripped the pommel of his sword, knuckles white. "Aye, the crime he committed against Lady Lyanna... against House Stark and House Baratheon, there's a debt owed, and blood's the only coin that'll pay it."
A pained sigh escaped Rickard Stark's lips. He had wanted to avoid executing the prince, sending him off to the wall after the war should have been enough but the King seemed to have taken complete leave of his senses. "I had tired to use The Prince as leverage, to easen the efforts of the Crown against us... it was worth trying," he admitted, his voice rough. "I had hoped… hoped to avoid this, strip him of everything…"
"But the Wall won't hold back his father's madness," Wyman Manderly interjected, his voice heavy. "We can't keep feeding a dragon, hoping it won't turn and bite us."
Rickard nodded slowly, the lines around his eyes deepening. "You are right, my lord, the Prince has outlived his usefulness," he sighed.
The council chamber buzzed with surprise. They hadn't expected him to cave in so easily.
Halys Hornwood barked a rough laugh. "Yes, m'lord. Once the Prince is dealt with, the targaryens will realize that we have been toyed with enough."
Rickard nodded, and sighed as the weight of his decision settled on him. "Ned has sailed with Lord Mormont, the Greatjon, and young Karstark for the Wall, and found far more than we bargained for." He paused, remembering the tension in those first moments after the raven arrived with Ned's hasty missive. "Laenor Waters, Velaryon's bastard, it seems, was captaining a vessel at Hardhome, awaiting the Prince. With him… his wife."
A ripple of intrigue passed through the council. Wyman Manderly scratched his beard thoughtfully.
"The ship was meant for Lady Lyanna then, and now it becomes her brother's escape route," he mused, a touch of grim amusement in his voice.
"Indeed," Rickard confirmed. "Ned secured the ship, took the woman hostage… and convinced the captain to sail for Dragonstone." He leaned forward, the flickering lamplight etching harsh shadows on his face. "They will have arrived at Dragonstone as we speak …. If the old gods favor him."
Medger Cerwyn pounded a fist on the table. "By the Old Gods, that's boldness worthy of a bard's song! "
Robert Baratheon slammed his warhammer down once more, a triumphant grin splitting his face. "Ned will be successful I tell you! Let's finish this – bring out the princeling, Lord Stark. It's time he paid his dues."
A grim silence fell over the council, the Lords' triumph tainted by a somber finality.
Rickard stood slowly, the lines on his face etched deeper than ever. He felt the weight of a thousand decisions pressing down on him, the cost of war heavy in the air.
"Very well," his voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Lord Manderly, if you would... see to it that the Prince is brought to the yard."
Wyman Manderly rose, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "Of course, Lord Stark. And… and Ser Arthur?"
Rickard hesitated.
"Ser Arthur will remain a prisoner," Rickard said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "He shall not pay for the sins of his king… not when his blood binds him to my own son's wife, he will witness the consequences of his actions and swear himself to the wall at the end of this war"
A subtle shift rippled through the council, a mix of relief and disappointment.
The chamber emptied, lords departing with grim nods and determined strides.
Rickard lingered, staring at the maps, a battleground of spilled ink marking the Riverlands.
He reached for Ice, the ancestral blade resting against the wall. Its Valyrian steel seemed to shimmer with a cold, expectant light.
The courtyard, usually bustling with trade or drilling soldiers, now pulsed with a tense energy. Men-at-arms formed a rough circle, their faces a mixture of eager anticipation and grim resolve.
North men and Stormlanders stood side-by-side, their differences forgotten in the spectacle that was about to unfold.
Rickard Stark stood tall at the center of the circle, Ice resting across his shoulders.
It was a weapon born for executions, its weight both a burden and a grim comfort. A hush fell over the gathered men as they waited, their hushed murmurs fading into an expectant silence.
Then, the prisoners were brought forth.
Rhaegar first, his once regal bearing reduced to a pale imitation. Stripped of his finery, clad in roughspun clothes, the Targaryen Prince resembled less a dragon and more a broken man.
Yet, his eyes held a defiant spark, burning with the last embers of pride.
Ser Arthur Dayne followed, walking with measured steps, his chains rattling a counterpoint to the tense stillness. His face was a mask, betraying no emotion, but Rickard read the anguish in the set of his shoulders, the defeat that no armor could hide.
"Bring him forward," Rickard commanded, his voice cutting through the charged atmosphere. "Let him meet his end like a man, not a sniveling cur."
There was a scuffle, and then Rhaegar stumbled into the center of the circle.
His defiance, though dimmed, had not completely extinguished.
Glaring at Rickard, he refused to kneel.
Rickard sighed, a weary sound laced with a hint of pity. "Must you do everything the hard way, Prince?" He nodded toward the guards flanking the prisoner. "Place his head on the block."
A rough hand shoved against Rhaegar's shoulder.
Then, a vicious kick behind his knees sent him sprawling.
The sound of the impact echoed harshly in the sudden silence.
Ser Arthur winced, his chains clinking, and silent tears began to trace lines down his stoic face.
The Prince, now on his knees, spat out dirt and grit.
Rickard stepped forward, his hand tightening on Ice's hilt.
He who passes the sentence, must swing the sword.
"Rhaegar Targaryen," Rickard intoned, his voice grave. "For the attempted abduction of Lyanna Stark, for the war you have brought upon this realm, for the slander against my house, and the countless deaths of innocent men, women, and children…" He paused, the weight of the accusation hanging heavy. "…I sentence you to death."
Rickard met the Prince's gaze, seeking a flicker of contrition, a final shred of dignity.
All he found was a cold, desperate defiance.
"Do you have any final words?" Rickard asked, his tone devoid of mockery.
It was a final courtesy, however undeserved.
The Prince spat blood on the ground. "You have doomed your house, Stark," he rasped, his voice laced with a chilling certainty. "The cold winds blow, and with them comes the end. Winter is coming, and you wolves will freeze and die. Mark my words! It is the word of the Dragon!"
Madness.
The final embers of Rhaegar's desperate prophecy were pathetic, not fearsome.
Rickard sighed, the last thread of pity fraying.
He raised Ice, the Valyrian steel catching the light in a deadly arc.
The blade descended, swift and merciless.
In a single heartbeat, The echoes of his curse faded into the indifferent sea wind.
A roar of triumph went up from the assembled men, led by the Stormlanders. "A fitting end for a madman's son!" boomed Robert Baratheon, raising a fist in grim satisfaction.
Rickard nodded, the finality of the act settling over him like a heavy cloak. "His head shall be sent to Velaryon, and so to the King," he declared. "A grim trophy, and a testament to our resolve."
With a heavy heart, he turned toward Ser Arthur. The Kingsguard knight now sobbed openly, his shoulders shaking with the force of his despair.
His oath, shattered beyond repair, now a burden heavier than any chains.
"Arthur Dayne," Rickard's voice rang out, harsh and unforgiving. "Mourn not your false king, oathbreaker. Mourn your own vows, for you are no knight." He stepped closer, the shadow of Ice falling across Arthur's bowed form. "You forsook the vows to protect the innocent, uphold justice, and honor women. And now those vows are ashes."
Rickard's tone softened slightly, the faintest trace of reluctant mercy tempering his judgment. "Be thankful to your sister, Ashara. Were it not for her marriage to my son, you would share the Prince's fate."
He turned away, the Lords stirring around him.
Just as they were about to return to the castle, a breathless crier ran into the courtyard.
"My Lord Stark! Ships… sails on the horizon! Lord Arryn's banners has finally arrived!"
A sudden jolt of energy surged through Rickard.
He spun on his heel, "To the coast!" he bellowed, "Man the defenses! Lord Manderly," he turned to the corpulent lord, "Ready your ships! Today, we break this damnable blockade!"
x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x
The war tent was a stifling cocoon of sweat and unease.
Heavy wool tapestries depicting knights in shining armor hung from the canvas walls, mocking the grim-faced men gathered within.
Luke stood stiff as a fence post beside Ser Vortimer Crane, the knight's sour breath and the clink of his ill-fitting armor a constant assault on his senses, despite being his squire he was still required to work as the Knights cup bearer in such situations.
His gaze drifted across the cluttered table – maps bristled with markers, half-empty tankards, a stale loaf of bread speckled with flies.
Lord Mace Tyrell, a mountain of a man draped in silk and furs, gnawed his lip, his eyes flitting over the map like a trapped bird.
Lords Fossoway and Grimm leaned close, their murmurs a low hum beneath the flap and rattle of the wind outside.
Ser Vortimer Crane cleared his throat, the sound grating. "My lord, we must act swiftly. Ashford cannot hold much longer." He jabbed a blunt finger at the map, tracing the siege lines around the tiny marker representing Ashford Castle.
"Agreed," Lord Fossoway's voice boomed. "Stannis Baratheon is like a wasp at a feast. If we dally, he will bleed the castle dry."
Their words hung heavy in the air, a constant reminder of the lives depending on the decisions made within this tent.
Luke's gut twisted.
He wasn't some lordling playing at war. He knew the stench of burning flesh, the choking grip of desperation - things most of these men had only ever heard in tales around a hearth.
A bead of sweat trickled down his temple as the silence stretched. "We cannot wait for Randyll Tarly to return south" Ser Quentin Tyrell broke the tension. "We risk losing both the castle and its bannermen should Ashford fall."
Mace Tyrell slammed a fist on the table, the furs around his neck shifted, revealing the tremble in his hand. "If only we had more men, a larger force. This damned defiance of the Starks…!" His voice trailed off, replaced by a frustrated sigh as he raked his fingers through his beard.
Lord Grimm stroked his chin, his eyes narrowed. "Lord Stannis is known for his stubbornness, but he's not a fool. He wouldn't risk a siege if his numbers were vastly depleted." He glanced at a scroll on the table, the crumpled raven's message from Lord Ashford. "If the castle falls, he will gain a strategic point, and we will have the unpleasant task of reclaiming it from him, and with supply lines from Harvest Hall directly leading to Ashford, that will be a tall task indeed"
"Perhaps a direct assault then?" Lord Fossoway suggested, his voice resonating in the cramped tent. "Hit them hard and fast, force them to retreat."
Ser Vortimer Crane scoffed, "And bleed our own forces against their entrenched position? Stannis may be young, but he's no hotheaded fool like his brother."
The discussion went on, a whirlwind of strategies and counter-proposals.
Yet, each plan seemed to unravel as quickly as it was proposed.
Ashford's geography led it to be easily reinforceable from the Reach, but the same was true from the other side as well as a direct line of support was present from Harvest Hall.
Lord Stannis' reputation for tactical brilliance, their own depleted troops - every factor deepened the frown on Mace Tyrell's face.
Luke's fingers twitched towards the sword at his belt.
It offered little comfort, a stark contrast against the maps bristling with markers representing thousands of unknown lives. All he could do was stand silent, absorbing the arguments echoing around him.
As the light outside the tent faded, casting the grim faces within in long shadows, a sense of desperation settled into the room.
The tapestry-covered walls felt like they were closing in, the very air thickening with the weight of indecision.
"We must do something," Mace Tyrell declared, his voice strained. "The sun rises, and Stannis' siege engines will be hammering at Ashford's gates. If we don't act…" he left the threat unspoken, his usually jovial face etched with worry.
Suddenly, a rustle from outside the tent flap broke the oppressive silence. A messenger, face taut with exhaustion, slipped inside and dropped to a knee before Lord Tyrell.
"My lord," he gasped, "A raven from Ashford! Urgent news."
A collective sigh filled the tent, a mixture of anticipation and dread.
All eyes turned as Lord Grimm took the proffered scroll, his hand trembling slightly as he broke the seal.
Lord Grimm's voice cracked as he unrolled the scroll. Taking a steadying breath, he began to read, each word a heavy stone laid upon the oppressive silence.
"To Lord Mace Tyrell, Warden of the South, my most urgent plea. The enemy has breached the outer defenses. We fight valiantly, but our numbers dwindle with each passing hour. The keep itself still stands, though for how long I cannot say. Stannis' siege engines batter our gates relentlessly, and scaling parties are trying to swarm our walls."
He swallowed hard, his hand tightening on the parchment. "Their main force is concentrated on the eastern wall. Yet, every passing moment brings the enemy closer to our heart. I beg you, Lord Tyrell, for aid! For the sake of honor, for the sake of the Reach, do not let Ashford fall."
Silence settled for a heartbeat, then Lord Grimm's voice softened, laced with a father's desperation. "My daughter, Elianora, and my wife, Evelyn, they remain within the keep. I beseech you, for their lives, for the future of House Ashford… send help. Time is of the essence."
He paused, then in a steadier tone, added, "Ashford holds, my lord. But barely."
Lord Mace sagged into his seat. "Gods above," he whispered, his hands trembling. "We must act. The lives of women and children hang in the balance!" He looked around the table, his eyes pleading. "We must find a way…"
The men around the table exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of Lord Ashford's plea heavy in the air.
Parmen Crane remained a statue of stoic composure, but his knuckles had turned white on the table edge, a subtle tell of his inner turmoil.
Luke watched him, a familiar resentment flaring within him.
Parmen, with his arrogance and disdain for those below his station.
Parmen, who had tried and failed to charm Meredith to his bed, despite his impending marriage to Elianora.
But beneath the simmering dislike, Luke also felt a tremor of unease.
Rumor or not, if Elianora was true with child… and the army hounding at her doorstep, he did not wish for a cruel fate for even Parmen's innocent bride-to-be.
He'd never wanted to fight this war, a war born of a prince's twisted obsession – the very prince who had tried to have him and his brother killed.
Yet fighting was no longer a choice.
His father, just a simple guard, stood outside this very tent, his life bound to the whims of these high lords.
And beyond them lay his home, the Reach, now threatened by the marching armies of the North.
Mace's voice was thick with frustration, "If only we had a way to force Stannis back, even temporarily. Break this damned siege, then retreat and consolidate our forces as soon as Lord Tarly arrives with the rest of our men… and Paxter Redwyne's fleet soon to blockade Storm's End and shipbreakers bay, Stannis would have no choice but to flee back where he came from." He sighed heavily, "But as it stands, we're trapped in this waiting game, while Ashford bleeds…"
"My Lord Tyrell," he began, his voice surprisingly steady, "I…I beg permission to speak."
A ripple of amused disdain spread through the tent.
Ser Vortimer Crane's scowl deepened. "Be silent, boy! You have no place to speak here!" he barked.
Perhaps it was the desperation in Luke's voice, or the flicker of guilt as he remembered the boy's uncle, Harlon, the father of his sons' friend, forced to take up a sword. "Let the boy speak," he ordered.
Luke swallowed hard, his gaze meeting Mace Tyrell's unwavering stare. "My lord," he began stepping towards the map, his rough hands tracing a path across its worn surface. "Lord Ashford claims their main force is focused on the east. What if we sent a small detachment as a feint – strike from the northern flank, draw their attention while a second smaller group attempts to scale the walls from a less defended point?" His heart pounded in his chest. "We… we could try to reach Lady Ashford and the others within the keep, move them to safety from the same side we climbed over. Then, our main force strikes from the south, forcing Stannis back. With Ashford's bannermen freed, we could…"
He trailed off, the plan suddenly feeling reckless, his lack of experience painfully clear.
Yet, Lord Mace's frown was one of consideration, not outright dismissal.
"And how do we scale these walls? Stannis has the eastern and southern walls under siege" Ser Quentin Tyrell inquired, his voice edged in skepticism. "The Cockleswent flows between us and the castle. That's the only side that's not under siege."
A flush crept up Luke's neck, but he forced himself to answer. "My lord, a…a small detachment could swim the Cockleswent, scale the walls from the riverbank. It's the one side Stannis won't be focused on!"
"While the rest of our forces cross at the western town?" Lord Fossoway stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Then feint from the north, draw their attention there, then… it could work…"
A chorus of murmurs filled the tent, a mix of cautious consideration and doubt.
Ser Vortimer Crane's frown remained, but his eyes held a calculating glint Luke hadn't seen before. The knight was actually weighing the plan's merits, not just dismissing the words of a lowly squire.
Ser Quentin voiced his next concern. "Whoever crosses that western bridge faces heavy peril. Stannis will assume they're reinforcements from further north, and focus his efforts there."
Silence fell, broken only by the relentless flap of the tent canvas.
Then, to Luke's surprise, Ser Vortimer Crane spoke, his voice gruff but determined. "I'll lead the contingent for the feint. If this… this gamble of yours has a chance, we'll need to hit hard and fast."
A wave of unease washed over Luke.
This plan could well send his uncle to his death.
Harlon was a simple man, brave, and after almost a month of training under Ser Crane, good at his sword too, but unversed in the brutality of a true battlefield.
"I'll go across the river," Parmen Crane announced, his voice cutting through the tension. "I'll take some men. And get the women and children to safety."
"You will need to be careful" Se Quentin warned "You will have get rid of all the armor, even the sword would be trouble for swimming. You must be very light, both for the swim and the climb"
"My Lord, the Cockleswent isn't a very wide river, especially at the base of the castle," Luke interjected. "Getting a couple of ladders across will not be difficult, and neither will the weapons. The armor is all that we will need to get rid of to get across."
The contemplative hush within the war tent hung as thick as the tapestries themselves. Lord Mace Tyrell stood, his gaze flickering across the faces around him, relief warring with grim determination.
"What do you think Ser Crane, will this gamble work with our numbers?" he questioned, his voice hopefull.
Ser Vortimer Crane stepped forward. "Best estimates put Stannis' host at near twenty-two thousand, my lord. And we can be certain, he has more awaiting orders in the storm land. Our own forces stand at twenty thousand strong, with Lord Tarly and his seven thousand due to return. That brings us near enough on par with the Baratheons."
Ser Quentin Tyrell added, "To convince Stannis that reinforcements have come from the North, the force crossing from the town will need to be substantial – half that number at the very least. A host of Four thousand at least will have to cross from the town.."
"I can lead the attack across the town bridge," Ser Vortimer declared, his voice firm. "With a feint from the north, I'll hit hard, draw their attention, and be in position when Lord Mace begins his assault."
Tension eased slightly around the table.
Lord Jon Fossoway nodded slowly, his eyes bright. "Then it is settled. Much hinges on the men who swim the Cockleswent. Securing the Ashford household will lift the spirits of those trapped within and provide a routing point for our reinforcements. Once they arrive at the castle gates, Stannis will have to retreat."
A wave of satisfaction swept through Luke.
His plan had found purchase within the minds of these seasoned commanders.
Lord Mace rose, a tired smile creasing his face. "With my plan, Baratheon will pay for this impudence. We break this siege and force Stannis back to his stormy hovel." He dismissed the council with a final rallying cry, "Rest, my lords! Tomorrow, we ride for Ashford!"
Amidst the scraping of chairs and shuffling feet, no one acknowledged him.
Luke's shoulders slumped slightly, but a touch on his arm halted his retreat.
He turned to find Ser Vortimer Crane regarding him with a critical eye.
The knight rarely spoke to him without a sneer of disdain, but now his stare unnerved him even more. "Come with me."
A knot tightened in Luke's stomach as he followed Ser Vortimer through the bustling camp.
The anticipation of battle thrummed like a war drum in the air.
He glanced towards the familiar figures surrounding the fire, relief warring with anxiety as he caught sight of his father and uncle. They seemed oblivious to his approach, caught up in a shared joke. Luke yearned to share a last moment of levity with them, but duty called.
Ser Vortimer led him to a quieter corner of the camp, far from the boisterous laughter and the frantic preparations. He paused, and Luke waited, heart sinking. The knight's brow was furrowed, his weathered face more grim than usual.
"You've a sharp mind for tactics, boy," Ser Vortimer began, his voice surprisingly even. "And in the yard... well, I'll give you this – you have bested Parmen in the yard fair and square multiple times."
Luke blinked, confusion replacing his mounting fear.
The knight's gaze locked onto Luke's. "You'll join Parmen across the river. See this plan of yours through – and keep him alive. Do that…" Ser Vortimer hesitated, the faintest hint of hesitation flickering across his face,"… and I'll make sure your uncle and father make it through this battle."
Luke had to stifle a gasp.
Ser Vortimer offered to protect his family, the two people most important to him.
Yet, the price was clear, he would have to ensure that Parmen Crane lived through the battle, alongside his betrothed, and then ensure none of the Stormlanders make it past the inner walls.
If they did, the tides of the battle would shift, and retaking the castle would become a harder task.
Success hinged on ensuring that didn't happen, otherwise, a lot of lives would be lost.
A wave of dizziness washed over Luke.
This was far more responsibility than he was ready for.
But the image of his father's determined face, his uncle's boisterous laugh, his own promise to Caelum… it hardened his resolve.
He would do anything to see his family through.
Struggling to keep his voice even, Luke managed a choked, "You have my word, Ser Vortimer."
There was a gruff nod, the closest thing to approval Luke had ever gotten from his usually disdainful master.
A flicker of something like respect sparked in the knight's eyes, then vanished as Ser Vortimer turned towards the bustling camp.
"See to your preparations, boy," he barked, his voice back to its usual gruffness.
x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x
OMAKE:
Luke gasped, the kick to his stomach crumpling him to the ground. The next kick, aimed at his chin, knocked him backwards toward the wounded Stark knights.
The young lord Parmen Crane spat on the ground next to him, around the empty plain a retinue of Targaryen-aligned men jeering at the defeated squire, practically baying for his blood in the dark, early morning.
Touching his now black eye, Parmen winced in pain, before fixing Luke a look of disgust, the grip on his blade tightening.
"I'd have hoped, despite your station, you had enough honor to follow the command of your superiors and eliminate these savages when ordered. I can't say I'm surprised to be proven wrong however."
Fear gripped Luke's heart. His eyes briefly went to his injuries, his body covered in various cuts and bruises from the beating he'd received, courtesy of Parmen Crane and his loyal men. Then it went to his stolen sword, in the grasp of one of Ser Crane's knights, stolen from him during the initial scuffle and now leaving him helpless.
He was an idiot. Luke knew there would be no talking his way out of this situation. He'd known that the second his pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears, and his body instinctively moved in front Parmen, blocking the young lord's swing against a helpless Stark knight's neck. He didn't know why he'd done such stupid thing, knowing it would lead to his own death.
... No. That would be a lie. He knew exactly why he defended this group of enemy knights.
They were wounded. They were helpless. They had surrendered. And yet they would still be mercilessly slaughtered by his contingent.
No matter how stupid it was, Luke had to protect these knights from an unjust execution. It was the right thing to do, he knew it deep inside, and he'd never be able to forgive himself if he just stood by and watched while men whose only crimes were being from a different House were gutted like animals before him.
He could never face his brother Caelum if he did that.
So despite the fear, and despite knowing pointless a gesture it was, Luke clenched his teeth and stood back up, visibly struggling as he did so. A few of the Stark knights helping regain his balance; they couldn't do much, most of them already wounded from before they'd encountered his group, but the gesture was appreciated all the same.
Pain radiated from everywhere, blood from his cuts dripping into the dirty battlefield, but he still mustered what strength he had left to glare at Parmen.
"There is no honor in killing surrendering men." Luke wheezed.
A backhand from an armored glove, and Luke had to spit the blood from his mouth. At least he was still standing. A small victory.
"Filthy peasant. It is not your place to judge what's honorable and what isn't." Parmen's clicked his tongue, as if scolding a child. He raised his sword and positioned it next to Luke's neck.
Parmen crane's face twisted into a sneer.
"But I am not without mercy. We need every last body for this war, after all. So beg me for forgiveness squire, and I shall let you live."
It was clear from his eyes that Parmen was enjoying this. The squire who'd managed to disarm him during training now making a mistake that left him at the young lord's mercy. Knowing whatever choice the peasant made, it would be victory for the young Crane.
It was obvious enough to everyone, and despite the blow to his pride, Luke knew he should accept the lordling's condescending offer, because it was still better than dying, even if it was at the expense of some men's lives.
Too bad for him he was such a bleeding heart idiot.
Luke stayed silent, and the slight mirth apparent on Lord Parmen's face dimmed, his mocking smile dropping into a frown.
"Really? Do you truly wish to die such a pathetic death?"
It took a while for Luke to find his words, the sword still aimed at his unguarded neck doing his nerves no favors.
"... I can't let you kill these men, Lord Parmen."
"Why?"
There was genuine confusion in the young lord's tone, and Luke couldn't fault him for that. Luke had other people he wanted to protect. More important people like Harlon and Caelum. So why would he risk all that for a handful of wounded enemies he didn't even know the names of?
Despite it all, Luke smiled, lifting his head to look at his executioner in the eye.
"Because it feels like it's the right thing to do."
Parmen Crane scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief as his men continued to hurl insults at the beaten down traitor.
"So be it then."
Ser Crane's heir raised his sword high, and Luke shut his eyes tight, knowing what was to come. He hoped Caelum wouldn't be too upset at his death, and that he'd understand why he had to do what he did. If only he could jus-
FWOOSH
A sudden green flash erupted, cutting off Luke's internal thoughts and blinding the gaze of everyone in the flatland. Parmen winced, his sword forgotten as he instinctively covered his eyes. Around him the men- Stark and Targaryen alike- were similarly rendered sightless. Even Luke, with his eyes closed, could see as the strong light bathing his vision in emerald. And then something else happened.
The pain he'd felt from his wounds inexplicably started fading, as if soothed by the mysterious energy this light brought forth. Another gasp escaped Luke's lungs, but this one was from surprise as he was lifted off the ground, the calming sensation spreading throughout his entire body, as if he was being cradled by the Gods themselves.
Luke's eyes snapped open, looking at what was being done to him by who knows what, and what he saw stunned him even more than what he'd seen in the farm all those nights ago.
The numerous injuries inflicted on him were gone, as if he'd never been harmed at all. Parts of his armor and the entirety of his chainmail and clothes had disappeared, being replaced with a strange black and green material covering his whole body. What was left- his pauldrons, courters, greaves and sabatons, were no longer dented and rusted. Rather, they were now flawless and brilliant, matching the colors of the unusual fabric perftecly.
What caught Luke's attention most of all though was the glowing green ring now on his finger, the sigil on it reminiscent of... something. He could feel the power radiating out of it, something that terrified yet excited him for reasons he didn't know.
His wide eyes still focused on the mysterious band his right hand in wonder, Luke barely noticed the starstruck faces of the people around him, nor that he'd now been lowered back onto the ground.
The entire plain was rendered silent. Parmen, his men and even the Stark knights could do nothing but gawk at the impossible display before them. A sudden green flash, and where was once a traitorous squire now stood a being clad in emerald energy swirling around him? Such a thing would've been deemed a daydream had it not happened before their very eyes.
A million questions ran through Luke's mind, but before he could voice even a single one, a voice- his own voice?- shattered the silence. It was far steadier than it had any right to be, almost monotone, and laced with a tinge of something the young man couldn't quite decipher.
It was what the voice said though, the words echoing across the land, that snapped him out of his fugue.
Luke of Planetos. You have the ability to overcome great fear.
Welcome to the Green Lantern Corps.
x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x
(A/N) I am back! We'll be back to our regularly scheduled programming.
I hoped this was worth the wait.
The Tyrells had sent a token force with Randyll Tarly to aid in the war effort. They didn't want to get too involved, as they realized something was amiss with Rhaegar and the whole ordeal.
Harlon was essentially never supposed to head off to war, just join the retinue train in the castle, and be ready to serve. But then Stannis routed the dissidents in the Stormlands and did what Robert had done in canon and attacked the Reach.
He reached further reaching all the way to the castle of Ashford and has laid siege to it.
Mace has come as reinforcement.
Stannis is a whole different beast compared to Robert and this time, there is no Randyll Tarly to counter him.
Luke stepped up and provided strategy.
I hope it made sense, I think I'm thinking too hard.
- Location
- La Serena, Chile
While I Liked the Omake, I hope we only keep the Man of Steel elements for this story.
For the DCEU, Let alone DC as a whole, Is a very big setting compared to the world of ASoIaF
Could easily consume the later, leading to over shadowing the characters and events within Westeros
For the DCEU, Let alone DC as a whole, Is a very big setting compared to the world of ASoIaF
Could easily consume the later, leading to over shadowing the characters and events within Westeros
Don't worry, I don't plan to introduce any unnecessary DC comics characters.
Battle Beneath the Sun
Chapter 18 -
The chill of dawn clung to the riverbank like a stubborn fog. Luke shivered, water dripping from his sodden tunic. There'd been no time to change – every heartbeat mattered. Around him, his men scrambled, their movements stiff with cold and the lingering fear from their desperate swim.
"Those ladders!" Parmen Crane's voice cut through the damp air, a mix of urgency and authority. "We haven't the gods-damned day to wait."
True enough.
The first fingers of sunrise painted the eastern sky, a stark contrast against the billowing smoke rising from Ashford Castle.
The outer wall was lost; they were too bloody late for that. Now, it was a desperate race to the heart of the keep, where, they prayed, the Ashford household still held fast.
Ser Lanthorn Turnberry and Ser Monberry Horcross lumbered toward the pile of crude wooden ladders, their armor gleaming dully in the pale light.
Lucky bastards, Luke thought, their noble blood earning them a dry passage across the Cockleswent upon the boats they had acquired from the banks of the narrow river for their weaponry and ladders.
"Ser Callahad, Ser Geni, bring the rest" Parmen barked, and two of the shorter hedge knights, Ser Callahad the Short and Ser Geni the Cheerful, their teeth chattering, began hauling ladders to the base of the wall.
Luke fell in beside them, straining muscles aching from the frigid crossing.
They had a party of almost five hundred with them who had swam across the river, ready to aid the soldiers of House Ashford in their defense.
Above, stark against the rising smoke, a few figures were visible on the wall – Ashford men, their sigils a defiant splash of burnt orange against the grey stone sun.
Parmen was the first up the ladder, his movements surprisingly nimble despite the weight of his armor. Lanthorn and Monberry followed, grunting with exertion. Then it was Luke's turn.
Each rung was a small victory, the castle wall growing agonizingly closer.
He ignored the chill, the burning in his arms, and focused on the battle awaiting them at the top.
The top of the wall offered no respite, only a brutal panorama of the battle raging within Ashford Castle.
On the other side, beyond the keep in the courtyard, Ashford men, their orange sun sigils stained crimson, formed a desperate line at the inner gate at the far end – the last barrier protecting the keep where the women and children huddled.
Beyond them, smoke and flames devoured the town, painting the morning sky in shades of ash and ruin.
Ser Solaire the Bright, face pale, stared wordlessly at the inferno.
But Luke had eyes only for the Stormlanders.
They swarmed the top of the inner wall, their ladders scraping against stone, shouts of bloodlust barely drowned by the roar of battle raging below as the soldiers of House Ashford barely held them back from climbing over and into the courtyard their pikes gleaming with bloodied Stormlander blood.
A stocky man-at-arms, his Ashford livery torn and bloodied, scrambled towards Parmen. "Ser Parmen!" he gasped, "I am Ser Darrien Pommigham, the master at arms. Lord Ashford holds the gate, for now. The Stormlanders will-"
"We have come as promised," Parmen interrupted, his voice steady. "Lead us to the keep. My father and Lord Mace won't be long behind." He turned to indicate Lanthorn and Monberry. "We'll secure the household's escape."
Ser Darrien gulped, eyes darting between Parmen and the keep. "The ladies and rest of the household await you within the keep, ser, but make haste! The gate won't hold for long!"
Parmen nodded and turned to the rest of the Hedge Knights in the party "Ser Solaire! Take my father's squire, Luke with Ser Gaston, and Ser Hamish; along with our men, and ride in aiding the defense of the inner wall with Lord Ashford. Inform him that I am securing his household, he need not worry."
Ser Solaire's reply was a curt nod, the jovial knight's face set in grim determination.
"Mount up!" he barked, his voice cracking slightly. "Gather your weapons! Armor, any scraps you can find! We ride as one."
Luke wasted no time. Eyes scanning the pile of supplies, he spotted a dented shield bearing the Ashford sun, then grabbed a hefty warhammer. It was a familiar weight, reassuring in its brutality. Chainmail followed, the icy links biting into damp skin, but the protection was welcome.
"Ready, Ser!" Luke called over the din, as he approached the hedge Knights who were arming themselves as well.
Horses stamped nervously nearby, saddled and ready.
It was a luxury their men on foot couldn't afford, and a stark reminder of the divide between him and the highborn at his side. He himself was merely lucky enough that Ser Vortimer Crane had personally sent him with this party, and as his squire he was afforded one as well.
Sers Solaire, Gaston, and Hamish already mounted beside him, their expressions mirroring his own mix of fear and hardened resolve.
With a final glance towards Parmen disappearing towards the keep, Luke swung onto his horse.
Ser Solaire spurred his mount forward, barking orders over the clash of steel and roar of battle.
The courtyard, mercifully free of fighting, was a scene of organized chaos – wounded men being tended, supplies hastily gathered, eyes filled with fear and grim resolve turned towards the looming inner gate.
"Steady, men!" Solaire's voice rang out. "Make formation! Archers, to the wall!"
The sound of the gate shuddering under siege blows reverberated through the stone, a chilling counterpoint to the organized scramble around them. Luke felt a jolt of fear for the women and children trapped in that besieged keep.
Time was a cruel enemy.
They reached the defensive line, a desperate line of bloodied men and gleaming pikes who lined the top of the inner wall.
Lord Everard Ashford stood amidst them, not an imposing figure, but one radiating the stubborn tenacity of his lineage. His greyed hair and lanky frame spoke of battles weathered, burdens carried, yet his eyes held an unyielding spark.
"My Lord, I am Ser Solaire, a hedge Knight from the Goldengrove," Solaire proclaimed, dismounting with a swiftness that belied his jovial demeanor. "We bring the promised aid of Lord Tyrell and the Reach!" He gestured to Luke and the knights beside him. "Ser Parmen, with men, is securing your household. He sends word that Ser Vortimer Crane, and Lord Mace Tyrell will soon march on to Stannis Baratheon's army outside the outer wall. The plan is to cut off Stannis from the men already inside."
Lord Ashford visibly sagged with relief, then his shoulders straightened once more. "Your news is welcome, Ser Solaire." But his gaze was drawn, as was Luke's, to the shuddering gate. "We fight against time itself. Cafferen leads those dogs just outside the inner wall, and Stannis himself lurks with the larger force just behind him.."
The thunderous rattling of the gate underscored his words, each echoing strike a countdown to a bloody reckoning. "It won't hold," Lord Ashford muttered, a haunted look in his eyes.
Ser Solaire, face grim, wasted no time. "Men! To the wall! Shore up those defenses!" He barked orders, directing the Tyrell troops with efficiency. "Wood, rope, anything to brace the line! Archers, take position!"
Luke, hammer gripped tight, spurred his horse towards the wall.
The sight of weary Ashford men, bloodied and battered, was a stark reminder of the battle already waged.
Time was not a luxury they had.
They'd barely begun their desperate work when the unthinkable happened.
A monstrous groan of tortured wood filled the air, followed by a triumphant roar that drowned out even the clash of swords. The gate splintered, then exploded inward in a hail of debris.
"OURS IS THE FURY!" they screamed as men charged through the broken gate.
"Stormlanders!" someone screamed, a cry half-choked in terror.
The disciplined retreat Ashford commanded disintegrated into a panicked scramble.
Ser Solaire's voice cut through the chaos. "Ser Hamish hold the line! Cover Lord Ashford's retreat! Don't let these bastards approach another inch inside the wall!" He spurred his horse forward, a beacon of defiance amidst the tide of fear. "Boy!" he said turning to Luke, "Ride with Lord Ashford, I will hold the line here with Ser Hamish!"
Above, a desperate counterattack began.
Ser Geni led Ashford archers in raining a deadly hail upon the Stormlanders clambering over the shattered gate.
Luke nodded sharply, the hammer heavy in his grip.
Fear thrummed through his veins, but it was cold, focused, fueling action rather than panic.
It was a symphony of chaos that could've shattered a lesser man.
The world narrowed down to the rhythmic pound of boots against cobblestone, the rasping breaths of the wounded, shouts of panic and defiance cutting through the clangor of steel.
"Fall back, damn you!" Luke's voice was raw, barely audible over the din. A wounded spearman stumbled, clutching a bloodied arm, and Luke hauled him up. "Lord Ashford commands – to the keep! Fall back!"
Every step they gained was a small victory. Behind them, Ser Solaire's booming war cries and the vicious ring of steel upon steel held a flicker of hope. But hope wasn't enough against the tide of Stormlanders flooding through the breached gate.
"Baratheon dogs!" an Ashford soldier spat, blood dripping from a gash on his cheek. He swung a battered axe wildly, forcing a Stormlander back.
The enemy surged forward, a wave of bloodied steel and brutal victory cries. Luke's hammer rose and fell. Bone cracked, a scream cut short as he carved a path, every man stumbling back another precious foot gained. The air thrummed with a strange mix of fear and adrenaline, fueling a desperate, animal instinct to survive.
Ashford men, beaten but unbroken, rallied with unexpected ferocity. An archer, blood streaming down his face, snatched Luke's arm. "My Lord's banner! Protect Lord Ashford!" he gasped, pointing a trembling finger ahead.
Luke saw it then, a splash of defiant orange against the grey stone.
Lord Ashford's retreat was almost complete. But a knot of pursuers closed in, their battle-lust terrifying to see. There was no time for strategy, no time for anything but action.
"With me!" Luke roared, voice finally matching the battle-fury in his heart. The hammer sang it's terrible song, and the ragged group of defenders surged to meet the enemy head-on.
Luke surged forward, the reins gripped tight in one hand, the hammer a brutal weight in the other.
The knot of Stormlanders, their eyes fixed on the retreating Lord Ashford, were caught utterly by surprise.
The impact of Luke's charge sent shockwaves through the Stormlander ranks.
His horse slammed into their flank, and the ordered advance disintegrated into panicked shouts and flying bodies.
Luke's hammer was a whirlwind of death.
One man, helm dented like a broken egg, toppled off his saddle with a choked gurgle.
Another screamed, a piercing wail of agony as his arm flopped uselessly, bone splintered into bloody ruin. The sickening, metallic tang of blood hung heavy in the air.
All around, the tide turned with brutal swiftness. Ashford soldiers, moments ago stumbling and beaten, found renewed fury.
"For Ashford! For the Reach!" someone roared, and the rallying cry spread like wildfire. A Tyrell man-at-arms, eyes wide and wild, wrenched his spear free from the belly of a Stormlander, the dying man's gasp mingling with the stench of voided bowels.
The Stormlanders, caught off-guard, faced a ferocity they hadn't bargained for. Their boasts turned into strangled cries, victory replaced with stark terror. This wasn't glorious battle, this was a desperate, brutal fight for survival, and fear twisted their faces into grotesque masks. Men died screaming, died choking on their own blood, and with each one, the Ashford banner seemed to burn a bit brighter.
He wheeled his horse, seeking the next target, the next threat, when Lord Ashford's voice cut through the chaos.
"Enough! To me, men!" The battered lord's voice was surprisingly strong. "You... well done, lad..." He faltered, a flicker of emotion, then regained his composure. "Archers, aim for the walls! Cover those brave bastards at the line. The fortress will not fall while we men defend it!"
With a surge of relief, Luke saw Ser Solaire, Ser Hamish, and a scattering of men still holding back the enemy tide. It was far too few for long, their retreat inevitable.
"Cavalry!" Luke shouted, his voice hoarse. "With me! Pick off any who stray from the line!" He spurred his horse forward, the ragged band of cavalry following him. Arrows began to whistle from the walls above, and with each fallen Stormlander, the pressure on the defenders eased ever so slightly.
Luke wheeled his horse, seeking the next target. But with a surge of relief, he saw Lord Ashford's banner waving defiantly at the entrance to his keep, a rallying point for the battered force.
Every second bought and paid for in blood was precious.
"Aim beyond the line!" Lord Ashford's voice was a ragged bark as he ordered his retreated archers to cover the retreat of his reinforcements.
Luke spurred his horse forward, the ragged band of cavalry following like a vengeful shadow.
Arrows whistled overhead, their sharp song joined by the ragged cheers of their archers. It was a lifeline thrown, and Luke saw, with grim satisfaction, the Stormlanders scatter momentarily, giving Ser Solaire's beleaguered force a sliver of space.
"Fall back!" Solaire's bellow cut through the chaos. "Slow retreat, by the Gods, hold the line!" The knight was a beacon amidst the storm, his voice a mix of command and desperation.
One by one, men began stumbling away from the fray.
Hamish the Harper brought up the rear, his shield raised high. "Gaston! Cover Geni's retreat!" His voice was surprisingly jovial, belying the grim line of his jaw. "The archers on the wall won't do us any favors now!"
Ser Gaston, grim-faced, nodded and turned his horse toward the wall, shouting orders to the men following him.
They closed ranks around Ser Geni, and the archers retreated into the courtyard.
Emboldened by their dwindling prey, the Stormlanders surged anew as more poured forth over the inner walls and into the courtyard.
Luke saw the desperate battle atop the wall, Ashford and Tyrell colors struggling against the tide. There was no other choice – one final, brutal charge to buy them time.
"With me!" he roared.
Once more, his band of riders descended upon the Stormlanders, disrupting their pursuit, creating those vital moments for his comrades to reach the relative safety of the keep, just beyond the breached inner gate.
The courtyard was awash in a swirling tide of steel, desperate shouts, and the sharp tang of blood. Luke, hammer rising and falling in a vicious rhythm, spurred his horse toward Ser Geni's retreating men. His riders, emboldened, drove wedges into the Stormlander ranks, scattering them like wolves among sheep.
The world narrowed down to sweat stinging his eyes, the rhythmic thud of his horse's hooves, the brutal crunch of bone beneath his hammer.
They weren't winning, just holding on by the skin of their teeth. Every man they sent sprawling meant one less for Geni's archers to face.
A Stormlander who made past Ser Solaire and Ser Hamish's line, teeth bared in a snarl, lunged at Geni.
Luke intercepted the blow with his shield, the force of it jarring his arm. Ser Geni stumbled back, but his eyes met Luke's, ablaze with a wild mixture of gratitude and desperation.
"To the keep!" Ser Geni roared over the clash of steel, gesturing wildly. His remaining archers scrambled like frightened rabbits, but the path was clear, if only for a moment.
"Go!" Luke bellowed back, a desperate plea disguised as a command.
Ser Geni needed no further urging, throwing a ragged salute before turning towards the looming safety of the keep.
Behind him, Luke's riders snarled a challenge, their horses stamping and snorting amidst the carnage.
Time.
They were buying nothing but precious seconds, but seconds were all they had.
Luke saw Hamish, fighting with a berserker's fury, a last defiant beacon against the tide, as Ser Solaire and Ser Hamish's line finally reached the keep as well.
Then, with a roar, Ser Gaston began his own desperate withdrawal, pikemen forming a bristling shield against the relentless advance.
"One last charge!" Luke's voice was raw. "To the keep!" His horsemen, their numbers diminished but unbroken, surged once more, disrupting the enemy pursuit enough to buy those vital moments.
Luke's breath rasped in his throat, heart pounding in time with the relentless cadence of the retreat. Sweat made his grip on his weapon slip before he adjusted his fingers. The copper scent of blood mixed with churning mud and the chill air.
They could hold no longer.
He saw Ser Solaire and Ser Geni reach the base of the keep, its towering doors ajar, but Ser Gaston's pikemen, who had covered Ser Geni's retreat, were still a desperate knot of defiance against a sea of storm-swept steel.
"One last time!" Luke roared, more a plea than a command.
His horse, weary but loyal, responded with a surge of exhausted power. His horsemen, bloodied but unyielding, followed.
It was madness, he knew, a futile final charge against an unstoppable tide. But he needed to aid the Knight's retreat, some lines held by sheer, bloody-minded stubbornness.
Ser Gaston had covered for all others, Luke needed to aid him too.
The impact was brutal.
But the Stormlanders, emboldened, surged once more, the press of bodies threatening to overwhelm Gaston's men.
And still, they held, their long pikes forming a deadly barrier, their shields a flickering wall of resistance.
Then Gaston saw it – the fresh wave of men pouring over the inner wall, outnumbering them three to one.
"Fall back!" he bellowed, turning to Luke. "Luke, retreat! To the keep, man!"
The pikemen began a ragged withdrawal, bristling with steel and fury, every step bought in blood.
Luke wanted to charge again, but one look at the approaching horde told him it was madness.
"Retreat!" It was Lord Ashford's voice, harsh with command, booming from the keep. "Retreat, damn you!"
And so, with burning lungs and a heart filled with a strange mix of fury and ice-cold clarity, Luke turned his back on the fight.
Luke's breath hitched in his throat as he turned. Ser Gaston the dim, once ridiculed for his slow wittedness, now embodied the warrior himself.
His bloodied spear danced a deadly arc, fending off three, four attackers at once. His pikemen, faces contorted in desperate defiance, formed a ragged ring of steel around him.
And then it happened.
A flash of surprise etched on Gaston's face as a lucky sword thrust found a gap in his defenses.
He staggered, his spear faltering, his bright eyes wide with shock. For a heartbeat, time seemed to slow as a Stormlander knight, sensing his advantage, lunged.
The knight's blade pierced Gaston's chest, burying itself with a sickening finality.
Gaston's eyes met Luke's, not in fear, but with a flash of defiance that burned even as his knees buckled. He fell, not with a gasp, but with a warrior's roar that echoed above the din of battle.
His pikemen closed ranks, a vengeful bristle of weapons.
But without Gaston's command, their formation wavered. Stormlanders surged over the fallen knight, their victory cries a harsh counterpoint to the dying gasps of those valiant few who had sacrificed themselves to ensure their commander's retreat.
Swearing under his breath, Luke spurred his horse and joined the desperate scramble towards the relative safety of the keep's grim embrace.
There was no time for grief, no time for hesitation.
Fear and desperation fueled a mad dash for the keep, the towering doors a fleeting promise of safety. Luke's cavalry rode as one, a desperate wedge cutting through the enemy ranks. Their horses, sensing the urgency, responded with a final burst of speed.
Inside!
The doors loomed open, and they raced through, the thunder of enemy pursuit echoing behind them.
"Shut it!" Lord Ashford's bellow held the raw edge of panic. "Arrows! Aim for the bastards as they close!"
Arrows whistled overhead, a deadly rain upon the Stormlander advance.
Luke felt a jolt as the heavy doors of the keep slammed shut, followed by the frantic rumble of bars being pulled and chains secured.
Ser Solaire, face grim, barked orders. "Men to the barricades! Pile anything, everything – stop them from breaking through!"
Geni's command echoed his. "Archers – to the upper floors! The windows, damn you, man every opening! Head to the roof! I want them pinned down!"
They moved as one, fear and exhaustion momentarily subsumed by the need for action.
The keep's stone belly swallowed them, the echoes of their frantic preparations fading as they pushed deeper inside.
Only in these dim, flickering corridors did the silence settle, a heavy pall filled with unspoken grief.
Gaston's face, resolute and proud moments before, haunted Luke's steps.
Then, a flicker of light, voices raised in alarm.
They'd found sanctuary, of sorts.
Parmen stood, flanked by Lanthorn and Monberry, their expressions mirroring his own mix of grim determination and weary relief.
Beside them, Ser Darrien, master-at-arms, hovered near a cluster of pale-faced women and servants – the heart of Ashford, those they'd fought so desperately to protect.
Lord Ashford's daughter, Elianora Ashford, clearly pregnant, sat on the cleared bench in the hall beside her mother, Evelyn,
Lord Ashford, pushing his way through his men, met them.
His eyes, haunted and yet fiercely resolute, fell on them one by one. "Why?" he demanded hoarsely as he approached Parmen Crane. "You were meant to escort them to safety, why are they still here?"
Parmen stepped forward, his voice surprisingly steady. "There was no chance, my lord. By the time they were ready to leave, the Stormlanders had broken through the inner gate. I didn't want to risk leaving the keep in the chaos."
A flicker of something akin to despair flashed across Lord Ashford's face.
His shoulders slumped, the weight of defeat seeming to crush the stubborn spark that had fueled them moments before.
"Where is Mace?" he asked, voice barely a ragged whisper. "Where is Vortimer? Gods damn them both, where are they?" His gaze swept over the assembled knights, seeking an answer no one could give. "We have lost," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Lost…"
A chilling silence fell, broken only by choked sobs and the shuffling of exhausted men. Parmen remained stoic, but his eyes held a flicker of shared despair.
To Luke, the keep's dim embrace suddenly felt stifling, a tomb rather than a sanctuary.
"Surrender is…" Lord Ashford's voice cracked.
No, surrender would be a mercy they would not receive. They'd taken too many Stormlander lives. Lord Cafferen wouldn't let them live, especially if Lord Mace and Ser Vortimer begin their assault soon.
Luke's eyes strayed towards Lady Elianora, huddled against her mother, her sobs muffled but heart-wrenchingly clear.
Even amidst his own fear and the echoing silence, something in him rebelled against this bleak surrender.
He swallowed hard, searching for the courage he hadn't realized he possessed. His voice cut through the oppressive silence. "Ser Solaire," he began, forcing a steadiness he didn't entirely feel, "how many men do we have?"
A thunderous boom echoed through the keep, a brutal counterpoint to the oppressive silence. The heavy doors shuddered violently, sending a ripple of fear through those gathered. Lord Ashford whirled, eyes blazing with a mix of desperation and fury.
"What do you think you're doing, boy?" The title wasn't an insult, merely a reflection of the chasm between them. "It's over."
Luke stood his ground, chin held high. "Ser Solaire," he repeated, louder this time, "how many men?"
Another bone-jarring crash at the doors.
Ser Solaire stepped forward.
"Counting those we brought, Ashford's own… close to nine hundred, perhaps." He hesitated, glancing at the despair on Lord Ashford's face, then back to Luke.
Luke nodded, taking it in.
Nine hundred.
BOOM!
The doors rattled again.
Time was a noose tightening around their necks.
Lord Ashford let out a ragged sigh. "Ashford is lost. We are lost." There was a finality in his tone that made Luke's heart clench. "You saved my life, lad, I'll never forget that. But it's over. The castle has fallen!"
"You said earlier that the castle won't fall while your men defend it! They are still defending it! They have died defending it!" Luke shouted, then another sickening crash echoed through the keep, and Luke didn't hesitate. "Ser Darrien," his voice rang out, firm but not unkind, "are there other ways out of this fortress? Ways the women and children might escape?"
The master-at-arms hesitated, a flicker of despair mirrored in his eyes. Lord Ashford's defeated sigh and the renewed wailing of the women made him flinch. "There's… the kitchen entrance," he rasped. "Leads to the old servant tunnels, it leads to the northern wall."
Hope, a fragile flicker amidst the gloom, sparked in Luke's heart.
He nodded sharply. "Gather the women and children. Take them through the kitchens. Ser Parmen, Ser Lanthorn, Ser Monberry – with him," he barked, seeking out the familiar faces. "Fifty men, follow them. Guard them with your lives."
Lord Ashford erupted, desperation fueling his fury. "What is this? A game, boy? Do you dare command my men?" There was a plea in his voice now, a father's desperation for those he couldn't save. "We are finished. It is done!"
Luke met his gaze unflinchingly. "Ride out with me, Lord Ashford," he said, a strange calm settling over him.
Ashford stared at him. "Death and glory"
"For Ashford," Luke interrupted, his voice low but filled with a stubborn defiance that echoed in the torch-lit hall. "For your people. One last charge. We make enough noise, cause enough chaos… and they might just escape." He gestured vaguely towards the kitchens. "Through the tunnels, to the wall and over. To Safety."
BOOM!
The doors buckled, the sound like a death knell.
Lord Ashford's gaze fell on his daughter, pregnant and huddled and weeping in her mother's arms.
Then, something hardened in those haunted eyes.
A lord's resolve finally rekindling amidst the ashes of defeat.
"Yes." He whispered "Yes! The banners of House Ashford shall fly once more! One last time!"
"Yes!" Ser Solaire roared, as he prepared his battle axe. "The noon sun is on high! We shall show the Stormlanders the might of your House and that of the Reach beneath the light of the sun!"
Ser Geni prepared his bow, and Ser Hamish brandished his sword as well, roaring along in unison.
Lord Ashford turned to Luke, and placed his hand on his shoulder with a solemn look. "I would know the name of the man I am to ride to my death with."
"Luke," he replied simply. "Squire to Ser Vortimer Crane." A flicker of pride, of defiance, surged through him at the words.
Ashford nodded. He barked orders, his voice echoing in the grim hall. "Mount up then!" he roared. "Se Solaire! Ser Hamish! With me! Ser Geni, cover us with the archers!"
Ser Solaire, face alight with grim determination, rallied the battered remnants of their men. "To the horses!" he shouted. "Rally your men! Form up behind the cavalry!"
Ashford turned to Darrien and Parmen. "Get them through the kitchens!" he snapped. "Quickly now! There's no time to waste!"
Then he gestured to the castle's maester, a thin, grey-haired man who'd been hovering nervously. "Maester Tybald," he barked, "Get this man a shield!" pointing to Luke.
Luke realized then that the battered shield he'd carried was useless, splintered and cracked. It had saved Lord Ashford, its work was done.
Maester Tybald scurried away, Luke felt a surge of gratitude, but also a strange sense of finality. He returned with a shield emblazoned with House Ashford's sun sigil, this one flickered with bright stars.
It reminded him of Caelum.
This new shield would not just be for protection, it would be his battle standard.
The very earth seemed to tremble as the Stormlanders struck the keep gates once more.
The Ashford shield felt sturdy in his grip, its star-flecked sun a defiant beacon against the encroaching darkness. Luke tightened the straps, then hefted his warhammer, its weight both comforting and terrifying.
Turning, his eyes met Parmen's.
A complex flicker of emotions crossed the knight's face – guilt, shame, and a grudging respect. "Go," Luke said, his voice low. "Quickly, while you still can."
Parmen swallowed, a nervous gesture that seemed out of character.
Then, to Luke's surprise, he unbuckled his ornate breastplate. "Take this," he offered, and Luke saw the apology in his eyes, an unspoken plea for forgiveness.
He hesitated.
Parmen, for all his flaws, was no coward. And beneath that polished armor, Luke knew the man was more vulnerable than he cared to show.
Yet… every bit of protection counted now. With a brief nod, he accepted the breastplate.
Quickly donning the armor with the help of Ser Solaire, he realized it was a perfect fit.
Ser Lanthorn, Ser Monberry and Ser Darrien quickly followed suit offering their armors to Ser Solaire, Ser Gaston, and Ser Geni.
As Parmen, Ser Lanthorn and Ser Monberry turned to join the exodus towards the kitchens, the ground trembled beneath them.
The gate wouldn't hold much longer.
Turning, Luke saw Ashford and his knights mounted, grim determination etched on their faces.
"For Ashford!" Lord Ashford's roar was met with a ragged chorus of echoing shouts.
It was the cry of the doomed, the defiant last stand of men against a tide they couldn't possibly hold back.
But hope wasn't about victory today.
It was about the slimmest sliver of a chance, the barest thread for others to cling to.
There would be no more delays, no time for doubts or hesitation.
Now, it was down to cold steel, desperate courage, and the slim hope they were gambling everything upon.
Another BOOM!
Luke mounted his horse, and joined Lord Ashford at the helm.
"FORTH! FOR ASHFORD!" The Lord shouted and the cavalry charged straight for the rattling door.
BOOM!
The gates of the keep splintered, disgorging a sea of steel and fury.
With a roar echoing Ashford's own, Luke spurred his horse forward, plunging into the fray.
"FOR ASHFORD!" His voice was a battlecry amidst the storm, the warhammer rising and falling in a brutal, bloody rhythm.
He was lost in a whirlwind of blood and steel. The breastplate clanked with every swing of the warhammer, every bone-shattering blow.
His world narrowed down to the rhythmic thud of his heart, the screams of dying men, and the sickening crunch of metal against flesh.
Somewhere to his left, Solaire bellowed a defiant curse with each swing of his axe. "Yield, you Storm-cursed bastards!" the knight roared, carving a crimson path with grim determination.
Then there was Hamish, shield raised, teeth bared in a madman's grin. "Taste my steel, you dogs!" he shrieked, his laughter a jarring counterpoint to the dying gasps around them. A Stormlander spear bounced off his shield, and the harper retaliated with a furious blow that shattered his opponent's visor.
Beside him, Lord Ashford was a fury unleashed. His sword sang its own brutal song, each parry and thrust a testament to a lifetime of battle. "Hold firm!" he bellowed, his voice ragged but carrying over the din. "For Ashford! Make for the wall!"
Above them, the Ashford banner snapped and whipped, the silver sun a defiant beacon amidst the swirling chaos.
Every inch the banner gained was a victory snatched from the jaws of defeat.
With each desperate swing of his hammer, Luke felt a surge of grim satisfaction. They were not just fighting, they were moving, cutting a path for those who couldn't defend themselves.
The cavalry charge was not the stuff of legends.
This was no glorious advance through yielding ranks, but a desperate, brutal fight for every foot of stone.
Horses screamed as they were felled, men cried out as they were trampled beneath the churning tide. The very air throbbed with the clang of steel, the guttural roars of the Stormlanders, the dying gasps of the fallen.
Yet, they moved forward. Each swing of Luke's hammer, each desperate thrust of Ashford's blade carved a fleeting path of chaos, a wedge cutting through the heart of the enemy advance. They were buying time, nothing more, but those precious, blood-soaked seconds were all that mattered.
All that mattered while, behind them, a frightened procession of women, children, and old men fled towards the ghost of salvation.
They advanced like a battered spear point thrust into the heart of chaos. Luke, Ashford, and Solaire, a bloody vanguard fueled by desperation, carved a ragged path towards the inner wall. Ashford's shouts were a beacon amidst the storm, his blade flashing as he urged them onward.
"To the wall! To the wall!" he roared, his voice edged with the desperation of a cornered beast.
The opposition was fierce.
Stormlanders, drunk on the promise of victory, rallied against this final defiant stand but their morale was breaking seeing their men die like flies to a frog.
They swarmed like angry wasps, swords raised, and curses hurled.
Horses shrieked, adding to the terrifying symphony of battle, as they were felled or caught in the press of the melee. With every step forward, they left a trail of fallen men in their wake, their sacrifice buying precious strides for their lord.
Then, through the haze, Luke saw Hamish break away, a wild light in his eyes. "Gaston!" he heard the harper scream, his voice cracking with a grief-fueled rage. The fallen knight's body lay splayed across the cobblestones.
"Hamish, no!" Luke's own voice was hoarse, barely audible above the din. "Fall back! Gods damn you, come back!"
But Hamish was a force of nature unleashed.
He charged, his shield a battering ram against the Stormlander lines, drawing a swarm of enemies in his wake.
It was glorious, it was reckless, and it was tearing a wedge of chaotic distraction through the Stormlanders, disrupting their advance.
Luke, with a curse, signaled his men to follow, to cover Hamish's desperate gambit.
Lord Ashford echoed his command, his voice a mix of fury and despair.
They pushed onwards, leaving a trail of their own dead, while overhead, Geni's arrows rained from the crumbling walls above, desperately trying to cover this mad gamble.
And then it happened.
Hamish's horse stumbled, shrieked, and fell, throwing the harper violently. Before he could regain his feet, a Stormlander pike plunged downwards, its blade sinking deep into the harper's exposed neck.
A final, choked gasp, then stillness.
His charge was over, his song cut tragically short.
The sight of Hamish's fall, a brutal punctuation in their desperate charge, was a blow to the gut. But Lord Ashford, his face set in a mask of grim determination, seized the moment.
"To the wall!" he roared, his voice a beacon through the chaos. "To the wall!"
Changing course, their bloodied vanguard surged towards the breached inner gate, the shattered remains no longer a symbol of defeat, but a desperate point of hope. The Stormlanders, disrupted by Hamish's reckless gamble, hesitated, their relentless advance faltering.
Behind them, Tyrell and Ashford infantry surged forward, their shouts echoing the dying strains of Hamish's battle song.
They poured through the gaps that the cavalry had carved, taking advantage of the enemy's momentary disarray, and cut a swathe of vengeance for their fallen comrades.
Luke spurred his horse onwards, the heavy warhammer a relentless bludgeon against the tide.
Dimly, he was aware of Solaire beside him, his battle-axe rising and falling in a grim dance of survival.
Every foot gained, every Stormlander felled, was a lifeline thrown to those still fleeing.
Ahead, the inner wall loomed, stark against the blood-red late afternoon sky. Without hesitation, Ashford led the charge towards it, seeking the sanctuary of the upper ramparts.
With desperate strength, they hauled themselves and their horses up the tumbled stones of the breached inner wall.
Each agonizing push, each desperate scramble, fueled by sheer, desperate will. As Luke crested the top, his heart hammered a wild rhythm in his chest, mingling adrenaline and fear with a sudden, almost overwhelming surge of hope.
From this vantage point, they could finally see beyond the confines of the courtyard. The town stretched before them, a terrifying tableau of destruction. Homes blazed, screams of terror cut through the smoky pall, and the glint of steel reflected in the firelight - Stormlanders, sacking the town with horrifying efficiency. Only one building seemed untouched, its spires defiantly untouched by flame – the sept, and beneath it, he could just make out the hated banner of Cafferen.
Then, like a thunderclap splitting the sky, a single, clear sound shattered the air. A horn, its blast carrying from beyond the outer wall, from the west.
Distantly, Luke saw the flicker of arrows, a lethal rain falling amidst the Stormlander positions beyond the wall where the bulk of Stannis Baratheon's forces were camped.
Hope ignited in his veins, burning away the icy despair. "Ser Vortimer Crane!" he cried, a ragged shout of triumph echoing over the din of battle. "He has finally come!"
Ashford's face, bloodied and weary, twisted in a reflection of Luke's own desperate joy.
Another horn blast – this time from the east, another volley of arrows raining death upon Stannis's forces.
"And Lord Mace!" Luke couldn't contain the ragged laugh that tore from his throat. "Lord Mace has arrived!"
It felt like the tide turning, a sliver of possibility, a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.
The siege wasn't over, the fight still raged within the castle walls, but they were no longer alone, no longer the final, desperate gasp of defiance.
They had a chance.
"Stannis will retreat," Luke rasped, his voice a mix of exhaustion and determined hope. They'd done it! Against all odds, they'd bought the time needed. "He won't risk a battle his men aren't prepared for, not when fresh armies surround him."
Ashford nodded, a flicker of fierce elation in his eyes. "Yes," he agreed. "They've had a taste of victory… now they'll sense defeat snatching it from their grasp." He paused, looking out over the ravaged town, the storm of emotions a mirror of Luke's own.
Then, a spark of calculation replaced the despair in his gaze. "But this isn't over," he declared. "We've a chance, Luke, a chance to end this, not just survive it."
"What do you mean, my lord?" Luke asked, his heart pounding with renewed anticipation.
Ashford gestured towards the sept, Cafferen's standard still a defiant stain against the smoke-filled sky. "That banner. If it falls, so too does the spirit of the Stormlander forces." His voice dropped to a near whisper. "We cut down Cafferen, we cut the serpent's head from its foul body."
It was a bold gamble, a desperate one. Leave the relative safety of the upper wall, ride into the heart of the chaos… But Luke saw the wisdom in the madness. The Stormlanders, already reeling from the unexpected assault from without the walls, would falter if their leader fell. It was a desperate chance, a final, defiant throw of the dice.
"Then we ride, my Lord," Luke said simply.
There was no hesitation, no fear, only the same cold determination that had fueled their desperate charge.
Lord Ashford's smile, fleeting but genuine. "After this, lad," he said, a warmth in his voice that transcended the formalities of titles. "Come find me. You will have a place with House Ashford, as a Knight"
But even as a surge of pride warmed him, Luke forced his focus back to the desperate present.
The last battle was waiting, and titles were for the living.
They descended the wall with surprising speed, finding Ser Solaire amidst a scene of organized chaos.
Shouts, barked orders, and the clang of steel filled the air as the battered knight rallied their remaining men.
Solaire, face grim but alight with the same fierce joy Luke felt, met them at the breached gate.
"They have faltered!" he boomed, gesturing to the open space beyond the inner gate where Stormlander bodies lay in stark contrast to the retreating enemy. "The cowards heard the horns, saw the arrows, and tasted fear!"
"Reinforcements have arrived," Luke managed, still breathless with exertion. He outlined their desperate gambit, Lord Ashford's plan echoing his own desperate hope.
Geni, joining them, added a touch of grim practicality. "My archers are ready," he rasped. "As you charge, we'll cover you. Gods willing, those Stormlander bastards will be too busy dodging arrows to see their lord fall." He gave a wolfish grin. "And fall he will, if this old bow has anything to say about it. I will be joining you! Let's end this!"
Solaire hoisted his axe with a bellow. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's bring that Storm-whelp down!"
The inner gate was flung open. With a final glance back at the walls, at the archers poised like vengeful angels, they spurred their horses forward. This was it - they would end this siege, or die beneath the blood-red sky.
The retreating Stormlanders, caught between relief at escaping the keep and demoralization at the relentless hornsong in the distance, were still a formidable force.
A hail of arrows met their desperate charge - a reminder of their mortality, of the slender thread upon which their hopes now hung. Shields were raised in desperate defense, but their battered armor held, and the enemy's volley had minimal effect.
Above the chaos, Luke could see their goal – the sept, rising defiantly against the burning backdrop, and the Cafferen standard, a splash of green and two rearing horses against the smoke-wreathed sky.
Then came the answering volley - Ashford's archers unleashing their own deadly rain.
The Stormlanders wavered, momentarily distracted by the sudden onslaught from above.
It was the opening they needed.
Ahead, they could make out Lord Cafferen himself, surrounded by a knot of knights – those who dared stand so openly must be powerful houses sworn to his cause.
Luke recognized the Fell sigil, the Grandison crest… They were his targets.
Their charge was met by a bristling wall of pikes.
Luke's breath hitched in his throat as his horse soared, clearing the first rank.
He whirled his heavy warhammer with desperate force, a whirlwind of destruction clearing a bloody path.
Lord Ashford was a blur of motion beside him, his sword a flickering tongue of steel.
Solaire's axe rose and fell with savage efficiency, and Geni loosed deadly shafts even as he charged.
They were unstoppable, a storm of fury and determination cleaving through the enemy ranks.
Their cavalry became a relentless wedge, carving a path through the heart of the storm. Luke's hammer fell with brutal rhythm, shattering bones, crumpling armor. Each foe that stumbled or fell was another step closer to their goal, another thread of Cafferen's arrogance unraveling.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Geni, a blur of motion amidst the chaos.
His arrows seemed almost guided by vengeance, each finding its mark with deadly precision. Then, a grim realization struck Luke – Geni was drawing far too much attention. He had already fallen off his horse, surviving luckily with the aide of their men.
The enemy pikemen were breaking formation, swarming the archer in a desperate counterattack.
"Ser Solaire!" he roared over the din, spotting the knight nearby. "Geni needs aid! I am going to cut a path through to him!" He gestured furiously toward the archer, his voice tight with urgency.
Without hesitation, Luke spurred his horse towards his comrade.
The warhammer sang it's brutal song, clearing a path through the tide of bodies. Men screamed, horses reared, their formation shattering beneath the relentless assault. He was a shield to Geni's sword, buying the archer precious moments to loose another deadly shaft.
"Careful old man!" Luke barked, a grim grin splitting his bloodied face. He swatted away a sword thrust with his shield, then smashed a pikeman to the ground with the hammer's haft.
Ser Geni, even while loosing another arrow, gave a breathless laugh. "Don't get cocky, whelp," he retorted. "These bastards might've felled my horse, but they'll not pincushion me before you reach their lord!" The arrow soared, finding its mark in the throat of a Stormlander knight.
A Stormlander arrow whistled past Luke's head, the near-miss snapping him back to the perilous present. Geni answered the threat with a retaliatory shot, the arrow disappearing into the fray.
Luke, with a defiant roar, surged deeper into the chaos. More arrows, some finding purchase in the battered plate, glancing off with harmless thunks.
"Missed one!" Geni's voice carried a macabre cheer over the din. Another arrow whizzed past, embedding itself in the shield of a charging Stormlander pikeman. The man stumbled, providing Luke an opening for a brutal counterattack.
"Thanks for the assist!" Luke bellowed back, his hammer shattering the pikeman's helm in a spray of blood and steel.
A Stormlander knight, face contorted in fury, charged towards him. A lucky swipe grazed Luke's shoulder, momentarily unbalancing him, but Luke's hammer connected with the knight's helmet in a brutal, bone-jarring blow. The knight crumpled, unhorsed, disappearing beneath the churning tide.
And then it happened. A single arrow, arced high above the melee, a final judgement from the sky. Time seemed to slow as Luke tracked its deadly path. It struck Lord Grandison square in the eye, the feathered shaft sinking deep into his helmet. The knight toppled with a choked scream, his death throes lost amidst the battle symphony.
Luke turned to share a shout of victory with Geni… only to see the archer fall, his body bristling with arrows like some grotesque porcupine.
Ser Geni's bow clattered to the cobblestones, his last defiant shot forever loosed.
For a heartbeat, time seemed to stutter, the world reduced to the grotesque image of the archer, his laughter silenced, his body a gruesome testament to the cost of war.
Then, rage ignited, a white-hot inferno that consumed him. "For Geni! FOR ASHFORD! FOR THE REACH!" he roared, the battlecry ripping from his throat.
He spurred his horse forward, the hammer a whirlwind of bloody vengeance.
The Stormlanders wavered.
Arrows whispered past Luke, finding their marks with grim efficiency.
The charge was chaos, raw and bloody, but through the storm Luke could see Ashford beside him, his sword a flickering beacon, and Solaire, the berserker with an axe that drank its fill of Stormlander blood.
The enemy line before them was thinning, morale crumbling. Some fled, making for the haven of the breached outer gate, their cries echoing over the din. "Every man for himself!" "It's over, lads, run!" "The Reach has come – we're doomed!"
Others, trapped, fought with the desperate courage of cornered rats.
A spearman, eyes wide with terror, lunged at Luke, only to be felled by a brutal blow from Solaire's axe.
Yet, Luke saw it – the knot of knights surrounding Lord Cafferen faltered, their retreat cut off by the relentless onslaught. A surge of grim satisfaction flowed through him.
Victory, bloody and desperate, lay tantalizingly close.
He smashed through the final remnants of the line, clearing a path straight for Cafferen.
"Cafferen!" Luke roared, the name a curse torn from his raw throat.
He met the lord's eyes, saw the flash of fear beneath the helm.
Lord Fell, realizing the game was up, attempted to cover Cafferen's retreat. Lord Ashford intercepted him with his horse.
The last few Stormlanders standing between Luke and Cafferen were sacrificial lambs, their fear making them easy prey.
His hammer rose and fell with savage efficiency, each blow a hammer stroke against the crumbling Storm-built edifice. With a final, desperate charge, he smashed through Cafferen's shield, splintering the expensive wood and sending the man staggering.
"Cafferen!" Luke roared, his voice a raw echo of Geni's fallen laughter and Gaston's lost voice.
The horse beneath him danced nervously, sensing its rider's fury, the burning town reflected in its wide eyes.
Lord Cafferen stumbled back. But Luke gave him no respite. He charged again, narrowly dodging a desperate spear jab that scraped his shoulder, drawing blood.
Undeterred, he surged forward once more, the warhammer finding its mark with brutal force. The sickening crunch of metal and bone echoed over the battlefield as Cafferen's chest caved inwards. The lord toppled, his dying scream swallowed by the sounds of battle.
Whirling, heart pounding, Luke surveyed the scene. Solaire, soaked in blood, stood over the fallen body of Lord Fell, his axe raised in a final, victorious salute.
Lord Ashford, bloodied but unbowed, dismounted nearby, his gaze mirroring Luke's own mix of exhaustion and grim satisfaction.
And there, beneath the smoke-wreath sky, the Cafferen banner dipped, finally hitting the cobbled ground.
The siege was over.
The Cafferen banner's fall was the final straw.
A ragged cheer erupted, echoing from the battered Ashford men and their Tyrell reinforcements.
It was the primal roar of men who had stared down death and won, a guttural hymn of victory rising above the still-smoldering town.
Luke, exhilaration battling exhaustion, joined the shouts.
Then he saw Solaire's grin a bloody beacon amidst the chaos, and Lord Ashford, dismounting with a weary but triumphant stride.
They shared a glance, a wordless understanding passing between them.
It was over.
Ashford was saved.
Lord Ashford was already barking orders, his voice tinged with the urgency of a man ready to see this all behind him. "Take prisoners!" he shouted. "Bind their wounds! Don't let more blood stain this ground than is necessary!"
Luke blinked, the world suddenly coming back into sharper focus. "My lord," he began, his voice surprisingly steady. "I must ride to the outer wall."
Astonishment flickered across Ashford's face. "What? Don't tell me you wish to join the fight there as well? Lord Mace has this well in hand, lad!"
"My father," Luke explained. "And my uncle are with the forces outside. Lord Stannis will soon order a retreat, I need… I need to know they're safe."
"Then go," he replied. His hand clasped Luke's shoulder, briefly but with warmth. "But first… get those wounds seen to. We can't have our hero bleeding to death!"
Luke felt a flicker of surprise at the title. Then he saw it - the scrapes on his arms, the bruises hidden beneath his battered armor.
Pain, until now merely a background hum, flared in those abused muscles.
He shook his head, "I'll be fine, my lord."
With a resigned sigh, Ashford gestured towards the keep. "Then so be it. And remember, Luke, you have a place here, as a Knight." His face twisted into a grin.
Luke nodded, the title felt so small to him now, but he was grateful regardless. He couldn't wait to return home to Caelum, and Meredith.
Meredith had kept faith in him, had believed he would become a Knight. He hoped to see her smile soon when she realized that he had achieved his dream.
Solaire was beside him. "I'll ride with you, lad," he boomed, already remounting his horse.
Luke needed no further prompting.
With a final salute to Lord Ashford, they spurred their horses towards the outer wall.
Their ride to the outer wall was not one of victory, but of solemn acknowledgement. Each fallen body, Ashford or Tyrell or Stormlander, earned a silent prayer. Luke thought of those he'd fought beside, laughed with... Geni, his laughter silenced. Gaston, the dim knight turned shining beacon of sacrifice. Hamish's heartbroken charge… They'd bought this victory with their lives, and Luke vowed to honor that debt.
"Praise the Sun," Solaire murmured as they passed a particularly grim tableau. "May it guide their souls to its warm light."
Startled, Luke looked at the knight.
Solaire was now closed-eyed in silent prayer, his arms reaching out to the sky to slowly dipping evening sun. "I thought you were from the Reach, Ser Solaire."
Solaire grinned. "Yes, I am. From Goldengrove, but I don't follow the faith of the seven. I am just praying for those who died today… as they died in the sun's embrace. Seems fitting to honor that, wouldn't you say?"
"You speak of… a different god?" Luke asked, curiosity battling his ingrained faith.
Solaire was from the Reach, where the Seven held sway.
"Many gods," Solaire corrected. "I wandered far in my youth, saw lands beyond the Reach. In the Summer Isles, temples crowd the shores, each dedicated to a different power. Fire gods, sea gods, a goddess of love… if the sun god didn't call to me, I would have become a servant at that temple!" He chuckled, a surprisingly boyish sound. "Her temple was, shall we say, popular amongst the young knights."
"And the Sun God?" Luke prompted, intrigued despite himself.
Solaire's grin widened. "Ah, he was what called to be. An old temple, half-crumbled, with writings I couldn't read. But his light, his warmth… they spoke louder than words. Besides, who else gives us days like this?" He gestured toward the battle-scarred landscape bathed in the golden hues of late evening.
"Does… does your god have a name?" Luke asked, a strange sense of wonder filling him.
Solaire shrugged. "The scriptures were lost, the old tongue forgotten. Perhaps it's better that way. Makes the faith simpler, wouldn't you say?" He spurred his horse onward. "Come, we're nearly there."
They reached the shattered outer gate, the remnants of battle still clinging to its broken timbers.
Beyond, the sounds of fighting echoed, but muted, distant. The clash of steel against steel was replaced by the ragged shouts of retreating men and the mournful cries of the wounded.
"You were right," Solaire said with a grin. "Stannis Baratheon had ordered a retreat"
Luke nodded, too breathless for words.
Across the field, like a dark stain retreating from golden shore, he could see it – the banner of Baratheon, slowly retreating.
To the east, the banners of House Tyrell fluttered victoriously.
Further still, where a smaller skirmish seemed to be sputtering to an end, Ser Quentin's personal standard swayed amidst the chaos.
The relief that flooded Luke was almost overwhelming.
"My father," he managed to croak, pointing. "He'd be with Quentin's men." Then, remembering, he gestured west, where the bruised but defiant banner of the Crane still flew. "And my uncle… he fights with them."
With a shared nod, they spurred their horses towards the heart of the remaining skirmish.
Luke's battered body protested with every jolt. The adrenaline, that invisible shield that had fueled him through the desperate siege, was finally fading.
Now, pain flared with each ragged breath, a brutal counterpoint to the thrill of victory.
They rode past the sprawling beginnings of Mace Tyrell's encampment, soldiers scurrying like ants after a broken sugar jar, as they treated their wounded and carried the dead.
Up ahead, the final, desperate clash unfolded.
Ser Quentin, bloodied but unyielding, pressed a retreating knot of Stormlander spearmen.
The Tyrell banner waved defiantly above them, but as Luke squinted through the dust, his heart jolted with relief – there! Toman, his father, fighting at Ser Quentin's side, his sword a flickering beacon of loyalty.
A spearman thrust at Quentin, the knight dodging with practiced ease. Toman, seeing the danger, shifted, his shield raised in a protective arc… too slow.
The other Tyrell men, caught up in their own battles, didn't see the danger.
But Luke did.
The spear didn't stop. He saw, with horrifying clarity, the way Toman's shield arm faltered, the way the splintering wood gave way.
Then came the sickening thud, the spray of blood… and the way his father crumpled, the spear protruding obscenely from his throat.
A scream tore from Luke's lips. It was a primal, wounded sound unlike anything he'd ever uttered, a raw cry that echoed louder in his ears than the clash of battle around him. "NO!" The word tore from his throat.
He spurred his horse, heedless of the pain lancing through his body. "Father!" His world narrowed to the sight of Toman's fallen form, to the Stormlander spearmen who, seizing the distraction, turned their weapons towards the vulnerable Ser Quentin.
"You'll pay for that!" he roared, his voice a ragged snarl. Rage fueled him now, a red haze replacing the fading adrenaline. The spearmen wouldn't take another life, not if he had any say in it.
He reached them, the warhammer rising and falling. "For my father!" he bellowed with each strike.
One, two, blows rained down, crushing bone and steel. The spearmen crumpled, their dying cries lost in the chaos.
Seeing their comrades fall beneath Luke's relentless fury, the last remnants of the Stormlander spirit broke. With ragged shouts, they dropped their spears, scattering like startled rabbits before a hungry wolf. Ser Quentin, his life spared by Luke's desperate intervention, surveyed the clearing with a weary sigh.
But Luke didn't see the victory, didn't hear the other Tyrell men's cheers. He was already off his horse, stumbling towards the crumpled form of his father. His warhammer, still stained with blood, clattered to the ground.
Then came Solaire, his boisterous energy replaced by quiet concern. "Luke…" he began, his voice gentle, a hand reaching out as if to halt the inevitable.
Too late. Luke dropped to his knees beside Toman. "Father," he choked out, the title now a plea, a frantic prayer to a world suddenly gone wrong. "Wake up… please…" He reached out, trembling fingers fumbling with the bloodied clasp of his father's helm. "Please…"
He sobbed, dry, ragged gasps tearing through his lungs.
The battle, the Stormlanders, Ser Quentin – it all faded into a blurred backdrop. There was only the stillness of Toman's body, the sickening redness staining the ground, and the impossible finality of death.
As the sun finally dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the battlefield, Luke's tears fell freely.
A boy, alone with his grief, surrounded by the grim echoes of a victory he no longer cared about.
Despair washed over Luke in icy waves. He clutched his father's lifeless body, sobs wracking his frame, staining Toman's armor with hot tears.
Solaire knelt beside him, large hands hovering helplessly. "Lad… Luke, I am so sorry…" he began, his voice thick with unspoken sympathy.
The words felt hollow, even to Luke's grief-stricken ears.
No prayer could bring back the light in his father's eyes, the warmth in his rough hands.
He felt a flicker of gratitude for the knight's attempt, but it was swiftly replaced by a new wave of anguish.
Then, Ser Quentin was there too, his voice a rumble of concern beneath the rough veneer of the battle-hardened knight. "Your father… he died a hero's death, boy. He shielded me…you saved me!"
But Luke barely heard him.
His mind latched on to another name, another life left dangling by the threads of war…"My uncle…" he gasped, the words a jagged whisper.
He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the answering twinges of pain, ignoring the concerned calls from both knights. "I have to… I have to find…"
With a strength born of desperation, he hoisted his father's body onto his saddle, uncaring of the weight, of the way the blood soaked into his legs.
The warhammer, discarded amidst the bodies of his enemies, seemed insignificant now.
With a strangled cry, he spurred his horse onward.
He rode east, towards the battered banner of House Crane, tears blurring his vision, leaving a glistening trail in the gathering twilight.
His journey was a blur of pain and relentless determination. Each jolt of his weary horse sent agonizing tremors through his battered body, but he clung on, his father's body.
The Crane banner, though smaller and more ragged than when they'd left for war, drew him on like a beacon of terrible hope.
Ser Vortimer Crane had promised he would keep his uncle safe, he would know where to find him.
Soldiers, weary and bloodied, stared as he passed, their murmurs of surprise trailing him. "Isn't that the squire? What's he…" "Hush, man, look who he carries…"
Luke didn't care about their whispers, about the pity in their eyes. "Ser Vortimer…" he rasped, the name a mantra against the rising tide of dread. "My uncle Harlon… where…"
Then, a change in the atmosphere, a grim set to shoulders he recognized. "Where is Ser Vortimer?" Luke asked, his voice trembling.
The soldier swallowed, his gaze flicking to the body across the saddle. "Ser Vortimer is dead, lad."
"But my uncle… my uncle Harlon?" Luke's voice cracked with the desperation of a drowning man clinging to a broken plank.
Another soldier spoke up. "Ser Crane sent him back, last I saw."
Without waiting for further explanation, Luke spurred his horse towards the back of the Crane force.
Hope, that fragile, flickering thing, battled despair as he scanned the faces of the wounded.
Then, a shout, a ragged, hopeful shout that cut through the cacophony of pain.
"Luke!" Harlon, his face lined with exhaustion, was limping towards him, bandages around his torso stained a worrying shade of red.
He was missing his left arm, and had a giant gash on his right shoulder covered by cloth.
Yet, it was the wide-eyed shock that replaced the pain on his face that finally shattered Luke's fragile composure.
He saw Harlon's gaze flicker upwards, saw the recognition dawn.
Then, a wail of grief tore from Harlon's throat as he rushed towards the horse, towards the limp form of his brother.
The world tilted, Luke's pain flared blinding white, and he knew no more.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N) There will be another part to chapter 18.
The battle needed a whole chapter to do it justice I think.
I hope you like it. I hope the whole thing made sequential sense.
Also, yes, all OC character names are inspired or straight up lifted from from software games.
Also, next chapter will mainly focus on Caelum as most of my background set up is now almost complete for the next arc.
The chill of dawn clung to the riverbank like a stubborn fog. Luke shivered, water dripping from his sodden tunic. There'd been no time to change – every heartbeat mattered. Around him, his men scrambled, their movements stiff with cold and the lingering fear from their desperate swim.
"Those ladders!" Parmen Crane's voice cut through the damp air, a mix of urgency and authority. "We haven't the gods-damned day to wait."
True enough.
The first fingers of sunrise painted the eastern sky, a stark contrast against the billowing smoke rising from Ashford Castle.
The outer wall was lost; they were too bloody late for that. Now, it was a desperate race to the heart of the keep, where, they prayed, the Ashford household still held fast.
Ser Lanthorn Turnberry and Ser Monberry Horcross lumbered toward the pile of crude wooden ladders, their armor gleaming dully in the pale light.
Lucky bastards, Luke thought, their noble blood earning them a dry passage across the Cockleswent upon the boats they had acquired from the banks of the narrow river for their weaponry and ladders.
"Ser Callahad, Ser Geni, bring the rest" Parmen barked, and two of the shorter hedge knights, Ser Callahad the Short and Ser Geni the Cheerful, their teeth chattering, began hauling ladders to the base of the wall.
Luke fell in beside them, straining muscles aching from the frigid crossing.
They had a party of almost five hundred with them who had swam across the river, ready to aid the soldiers of House Ashford in their defense.
Above, stark against the rising smoke, a few figures were visible on the wall – Ashford men, their sigils a defiant splash of burnt orange against the grey stone sun.
Parmen was the first up the ladder, his movements surprisingly nimble despite the weight of his armor. Lanthorn and Monberry followed, grunting with exertion. Then it was Luke's turn.
Each rung was a small victory, the castle wall growing agonizingly closer.
He ignored the chill, the burning in his arms, and focused on the battle awaiting them at the top.
The top of the wall offered no respite, only a brutal panorama of the battle raging within Ashford Castle.
On the other side, beyond the keep in the courtyard, Ashford men, their orange sun sigils stained crimson, formed a desperate line at the inner gate at the far end – the last barrier protecting the keep where the women and children huddled.
Beyond them, smoke and flames devoured the town, painting the morning sky in shades of ash and ruin.
Ser Solaire the Bright, face pale, stared wordlessly at the inferno.
But Luke had eyes only for the Stormlanders.
They swarmed the top of the inner wall, their ladders scraping against stone, shouts of bloodlust barely drowned by the roar of battle raging below as the soldiers of House Ashford barely held them back from climbing over and into the courtyard their pikes gleaming with bloodied Stormlander blood.
A stocky man-at-arms, his Ashford livery torn and bloodied, scrambled towards Parmen. "Ser Parmen!" he gasped, "I am Ser Darrien Pommigham, the master at arms. Lord Ashford holds the gate, for now. The Stormlanders will-"
"We have come as promised," Parmen interrupted, his voice steady. "Lead us to the keep. My father and Lord Mace won't be long behind." He turned to indicate Lanthorn and Monberry. "We'll secure the household's escape."
Ser Darrien gulped, eyes darting between Parmen and the keep. "The ladies and rest of the household await you within the keep, ser, but make haste! The gate won't hold for long!"
Parmen nodded and turned to the rest of the Hedge Knights in the party "Ser Solaire! Take my father's squire, Luke with Ser Gaston, and Ser Hamish; along with our men, and ride in aiding the defense of the inner wall with Lord Ashford. Inform him that I am securing his household, he need not worry."
Ser Solaire's reply was a curt nod, the jovial knight's face set in grim determination.
"Mount up!" he barked, his voice cracking slightly. "Gather your weapons! Armor, any scraps you can find! We ride as one."
Luke wasted no time. Eyes scanning the pile of supplies, he spotted a dented shield bearing the Ashford sun, then grabbed a hefty warhammer. It was a familiar weight, reassuring in its brutality. Chainmail followed, the icy links biting into damp skin, but the protection was welcome.
"Ready, Ser!" Luke called over the din, as he approached the hedge Knights who were arming themselves as well.
Horses stamped nervously nearby, saddled and ready.
It was a luxury their men on foot couldn't afford, and a stark reminder of the divide between him and the highborn at his side. He himself was merely lucky enough that Ser Vortimer Crane had personally sent him with this party, and as his squire he was afforded one as well.
Sers Solaire, Gaston, and Hamish already mounted beside him, their expressions mirroring his own mix of fear and hardened resolve.
With a final glance towards Parmen disappearing towards the keep, Luke swung onto his horse.
Ser Solaire spurred his mount forward, barking orders over the clash of steel and roar of battle.
The courtyard, mercifully free of fighting, was a scene of organized chaos – wounded men being tended, supplies hastily gathered, eyes filled with fear and grim resolve turned towards the looming inner gate.
"Steady, men!" Solaire's voice rang out. "Make formation! Archers, to the wall!"
The sound of the gate shuddering under siege blows reverberated through the stone, a chilling counterpoint to the organized scramble around them. Luke felt a jolt of fear for the women and children trapped in that besieged keep.
Time was a cruel enemy.
They reached the defensive line, a desperate line of bloodied men and gleaming pikes who lined the top of the inner wall.
Lord Everard Ashford stood amidst them, not an imposing figure, but one radiating the stubborn tenacity of his lineage. His greyed hair and lanky frame spoke of battles weathered, burdens carried, yet his eyes held an unyielding spark.
"My Lord, I am Ser Solaire, a hedge Knight from the Goldengrove," Solaire proclaimed, dismounting with a swiftness that belied his jovial demeanor. "We bring the promised aid of Lord Tyrell and the Reach!" He gestured to Luke and the knights beside him. "Ser Parmen, with men, is securing your household. He sends word that Ser Vortimer Crane, and Lord Mace Tyrell will soon march on to Stannis Baratheon's army outside the outer wall. The plan is to cut off Stannis from the men already inside."
Lord Ashford visibly sagged with relief, then his shoulders straightened once more. "Your news is welcome, Ser Solaire." But his gaze was drawn, as was Luke's, to the shuddering gate. "We fight against time itself. Cafferen leads those dogs just outside the inner wall, and Stannis himself lurks with the larger force just behind him.."
The thunderous rattling of the gate underscored his words, each echoing strike a countdown to a bloody reckoning. "It won't hold," Lord Ashford muttered, a haunted look in his eyes.
Ser Solaire, face grim, wasted no time. "Men! To the wall! Shore up those defenses!" He barked orders, directing the Tyrell troops with efficiency. "Wood, rope, anything to brace the line! Archers, take position!"
Luke, hammer gripped tight, spurred his horse towards the wall.
The sight of weary Ashford men, bloodied and battered, was a stark reminder of the battle already waged.
Time was not a luxury they had.
They'd barely begun their desperate work when the unthinkable happened.
A monstrous groan of tortured wood filled the air, followed by a triumphant roar that drowned out even the clash of swords. The gate splintered, then exploded inward in a hail of debris.
"OURS IS THE FURY!" they screamed as men charged through the broken gate.
"Stormlanders!" someone screamed, a cry half-choked in terror.
The disciplined retreat Ashford commanded disintegrated into a panicked scramble.
Ser Solaire's voice cut through the chaos. "Ser Hamish hold the line! Cover Lord Ashford's retreat! Don't let these bastards approach another inch inside the wall!" He spurred his horse forward, a beacon of defiance amidst the tide of fear. "Boy!" he said turning to Luke, "Ride with Lord Ashford, I will hold the line here with Ser Hamish!"
Above, a desperate counterattack began.
Ser Geni led Ashford archers in raining a deadly hail upon the Stormlanders clambering over the shattered gate.
Luke nodded sharply, the hammer heavy in his grip.
Fear thrummed through his veins, but it was cold, focused, fueling action rather than panic.
It was a symphony of chaos that could've shattered a lesser man.
The world narrowed down to the rhythmic pound of boots against cobblestone, the rasping breaths of the wounded, shouts of panic and defiance cutting through the clangor of steel.
"Fall back, damn you!" Luke's voice was raw, barely audible over the din. A wounded spearman stumbled, clutching a bloodied arm, and Luke hauled him up. "Lord Ashford commands – to the keep! Fall back!"
Every step they gained was a small victory. Behind them, Ser Solaire's booming war cries and the vicious ring of steel upon steel held a flicker of hope. But hope wasn't enough against the tide of Stormlanders flooding through the breached gate.
"Baratheon dogs!" an Ashford soldier spat, blood dripping from a gash on his cheek. He swung a battered axe wildly, forcing a Stormlander back.
The enemy surged forward, a wave of bloodied steel and brutal victory cries. Luke's hammer rose and fell. Bone cracked, a scream cut short as he carved a path, every man stumbling back another precious foot gained. The air thrummed with a strange mix of fear and adrenaline, fueling a desperate, animal instinct to survive.
Ashford men, beaten but unbroken, rallied with unexpected ferocity. An archer, blood streaming down his face, snatched Luke's arm. "My Lord's banner! Protect Lord Ashford!" he gasped, pointing a trembling finger ahead.
Luke saw it then, a splash of defiant orange against the grey stone.
Lord Ashford's retreat was almost complete. But a knot of pursuers closed in, their battle-lust terrifying to see. There was no time for strategy, no time for anything but action.
"With me!" Luke roared, voice finally matching the battle-fury in his heart. The hammer sang it's terrible song, and the ragged group of defenders surged to meet the enemy head-on.
Luke surged forward, the reins gripped tight in one hand, the hammer a brutal weight in the other.
The knot of Stormlanders, their eyes fixed on the retreating Lord Ashford, were caught utterly by surprise.
The impact of Luke's charge sent shockwaves through the Stormlander ranks.
His horse slammed into their flank, and the ordered advance disintegrated into panicked shouts and flying bodies.
Luke's hammer was a whirlwind of death.
One man, helm dented like a broken egg, toppled off his saddle with a choked gurgle.
Another screamed, a piercing wail of agony as his arm flopped uselessly, bone splintered into bloody ruin. The sickening, metallic tang of blood hung heavy in the air.
All around, the tide turned with brutal swiftness. Ashford soldiers, moments ago stumbling and beaten, found renewed fury.
"For Ashford! For the Reach!" someone roared, and the rallying cry spread like wildfire. A Tyrell man-at-arms, eyes wide and wild, wrenched his spear free from the belly of a Stormlander, the dying man's gasp mingling with the stench of voided bowels.
The Stormlanders, caught off-guard, faced a ferocity they hadn't bargained for. Their boasts turned into strangled cries, victory replaced with stark terror. This wasn't glorious battle, this was a desperate, brutal fight for survival, and fear twisted their faces into grotesque masks. Men died screaming, died choking on their own blood, and with each one, the Ashford banner seemed to burn a bit brighter.
He wheeled his horse, seeking the next target, the next threat, when Lord Ashford's voice cut through the chaos.
"Enough! To me, men!" The battered lord's voice was surprisingly strong. "You... well done, lad..." He faltered, a flicker of emotion, then regained his composure. "Archers, aim for the walls! Cover those brave bastards at the line. The fortress will not fall while we men defend it!"
With a surge of relief, Luke saw Ser Solaire, Ser Hamish, and a scattering of men still holding back the enemy tide. It was far too few for long, their retreat inevitable.
"Cavalry!" Luke shouted, his voice hoarse. "With me! Pick off any who stray from the line!" He spurred his horse forward, the ragged band of cavalry following him. Arrows began to whistle from the walls above, and with each fallen Stormlander, the pressure on the defenders eased ever so slightly.
Luke wheeled his horse, seeking the next target. But with a surge of relief, he saw Lord Ashford's banner waving defiantly at the entrance to his keep, a rallying point for the battered force.
Every second bought and paid for in blood was precious.
"Aim beyond the line!" Lord Ashford's voice was a ragged bark as he ordered his retreated archers to cover the retreat of his reinforcements.
Luke spurred his horse forward, the ragged band of cavalry following like a vengeful shadow.
Arrows whistled overhead, their sharp song joined by the ragged cheers of their archers. It was a lifeline thrown, and Luke saw, with grim satisfaction, the Stormlanders scatter momentarily, giving Ser Solaire's beleaguered force a sliver of space.
"Fall back!" Solaire's bellow cut through the chaos. "Slow retreat, by the Gods, hold the line!" The knight was a beacon amidst the storm, his voice a mix of command and desperation.
One by one, men began stumbling away from the fray.
Hamish the Harper brought up the rear, his shield raised high. "Gaston! Cover Geni's retreat!" His voice was surprisingly jovial, belying the grim line of his jaw. "The archers on the wall won't do us any favors now!"
Ser Gaston, grim-faced, nodded and turned his horse toward the wall, shouting orders to the men following him.
They closed ranks around Ser Geni, and the archers retreated into the courtyard.
Emboldened by their dwindling prey, the Stormlanders surged anew as more poured forth over the inner walls and into the courtyard.
Luke saw the desperate battle atop the wall, Ashford and Tyrell colors struggling against the tide. There was no other choice – one final, brutal charge to buy them time.
"With me!" he roared.
Once more, his band of riders descended upon the Stormlanders, disrupting their pursuit, creating those vital moments for his comrades to reach the relative safety of the keep, just beyond the breached inner gate.
The courtyard was awash in a swirling tide of steel, desperate shouts, and the sharp tang of blood. Luke, hammer rising and falling in a vicious rhythm, spurred his horse toward Ser Geni's retreating men. His riders, emboldened, drove wedges into the Stormlander ranks, scattering them like wolves among sheep.
The world narrowed down to sweat stinging his eyes, the rhythmic thud of his horse's hooves, the brutal crunch of bone beneath his hammer.
They weren't winning, just holding on by the skin of their teeth. Every man they sent sprawling meant one less for Geni's archers to face.
A Stormlander who made past Ser Solaire and Ser Hamish's line, teeth bared in a snarl, lunged at Geni.
Luke intercepted the blow with his shield, the force of it jarring his arm. Ser Geni stumbled back, but his eyes met Luke's, ablaze with a wild mixture of gratitude and desperation.
"To the keep!" Ser Geni roared over the clash of steel, gesturing wildly. His remaining archers scrambled like frightened rabbits, but the path was clear, if only for a moment.
"Go!" Luke bellowed back, a desperate plea disguised as a command.
Ser Geni needed no further urging, throwing a ragged salute before turning towards the looming safety of the keep.
Behind him, Luke's riders snarled a challenge, their horses stamping and snorting amidst the carnage.
Time.
They were buying nothing but precious seconds, but seconds were all they had.
Luke saw Hamish, fighting with a berserker's fury, a last defiant beacon against the tide, as Ser Solaire and Ser Hamish's line finally reached the keep as well.
Then, with a roar, Ser Gaston began his own desperate withdrawal, pikemen forming a bristling shield against the relentless advance.
"One last charge!" Luke's voice was raw. "To the keep!" His horsemen, their numbers diminished but unbroken, surged once more, disrupting the enemy pursuit enough to buy those vital moments.
Luke's breath rasped in his throat, heart pounding in time with the relentless cadence of the retreat. Sweat made his grip on his weapon slip before he adjusted his fingers. The copper scent of blood mixed with churning mud and the chill air.
They could hold no longer.
He saw Ser Solaire and Ser Geni reach the base of the keep, its towering doors ajar, but Ser Gaston's pikemen, who had covered Ser Geni's retreat, were still a desperate knot of defiance against a sea of storm-swept steel.
"One last time!" Luke roared, more a plea than a command.
His horse, weary but loyal, responded with a surge of exhausted power. His horsemen, bloodied but unyielding, followed.
It was madness, he knew, a futile final charge against an unstoppable tide. But he needed to aid the Knight's retreat, some lines held by sheer, bloody-minded stubbornness.
Ser Gaston had covered for all others, Luke needed to aid him too.
The impact was brutal.
But the Stormlanders, emboldened, surged once more, the press of bodies threatening to overwhelm Gaston's men.
And still, they held, their long pikes forming a deadly barrier, their shields a flickering wall of resistance.
Then Gaston saw it – the fresh wave of men pouring over the inner wall, outnumbering them three to one.
"Fall back!" he bellowed, turning to Luke. "Luke, retreat! To the keep, man!"
The pikemen began a ragged withdrawal, bristling with steel and fury, every step bought in blood.
Luke wanted to charge again, but one look at the approaching horde told him it was madness.
"Retreat!" It was Lord Ashford's voice, harsh with command, booming from the keep. "Retreat, damn you!"
And so, with burning lungs and a heart filled with a strange mix of fury and ice-cold clarity, Luke turned his back on the fight.
Luke's breath hitched in his throat as he turned. Ser Gaston the dim, once ridiculed for his slow wittedness, now embodied the warrior himself.
His bloodied spear danced a deadly arc, fending off three, four attackers at once. His pikemen, faces contorted in desperate defiance, formed a ragged ring of steel around him.
And then it happened.
A flash of surprise etched on Gaston's face as a lucky sword thrust found a gap in his defenses.
He staggered, his spear faltering, his bright eyes wide with shock. For a heartbeat, time seemed to slow as a Stormlander knight, sensing his advantage, lunged.
The knight's blade pierced Gaston's chest, burying itself with a sickening finality.
Gaston's eyes met Luke's, not in fear, but with a flash of defiance that burned even as his knees buckled. He fell, not with a gasp, but with a warrior's roar that echoed above the din of battle.
His pikemen closed ranks, a vengeful bristle of weapons.
But without Gaston's command, their formation wavered. Stormlanders surged over the fallen knight, their victory cries a harsh counterpoint to the dying gasps of those valiant few who had sacrificed themselves to ensure their commander's retreat.
Swearing under his breath, Luke spurred his horse and joined the desperate scramble towards the relative safety of the keep's grim embrace.
There was no time for grief, no time for hesitation.
Fear and desperation fueled a mad dash for the keep, the towering doors a fleeting promise of safety. Luke's cavalry rode as one, a desperate wedge cutting through the enemy ranks. Their horses, sensing the urgency, responded with a final burst of speed.
Inside!
The doors loomed open, and they raced through, the thunder of enemy pursuit echoing behind them.
"Shut it!" Lord Ashford's bellow held the raw edge of panic. "Arrows! Aim for the bastards as they close!"
Arrows whistled overhead, a deadly rain upon the Stormlander advance.
Luke felt a jolt as the heavy doors of the keep slammed shut, followed by the frantic rumble of bars being pulled and chains secured.
Ser Solaire, face grim, barked orders. "Men to the barricades! Pile anything, everything – stop them from breaking through!"
Geni's command echoed his. "Archers – to the upper floors! The windows, damn you, man every opening! Head to the roof! I want them pinned down!"
They moved as one, fear and exhaustion momentarily subsumed by the need for action.
The keep's stone belly swallowed them, the echoes of their frantic preparations fading as they pushed deeper inside.
Only in these dim, flickering corridors did the silence settle, a heavy pall filled with unspoken grief.
Gaston's face, resolute and proud moments before, haunted Luke's steps.
Then, a flicker of light, voices raised in alarm.
They'd found sanctuary, of sorts.
Parmen stood, flanked by Lanthorn and Monberry, their expressions mirroring his own mix of grim determination and weary relief.
Beside them, Ser Darrien, master-at-arms, hovered near a cluster of pale-faced women and servants – the heart of Ashford, those they'd fought so desperately to protect.
Lord Ashford's daughter, Elianora Ashford, clearly pregnant, sat on the cleared bench in the hall beside her mother, Evelyn,
Lord Ashford, pushing his way through his men, met them.
His eyes, haunted and yet fiercely resolute, fell on them one by one. "Why?" he demanded hoarsely as he approached Parmen Crane. "You were meant to escort them to safety, why are they still here?"
Parmen stepped forward, his voice surprisingly steady. "There was no chance, my lord. By the time they were ready to leave, the Stormlanders had broken through the inner gate. I didn't want to risk leaving the keep in the chaos."
A flicker of something akin to despair flashed across Lord Ashford's face.
His shoulders slumped, the weight of defeat seeming to crush the stubborn spark that had fueled them moments before.
"Where is Mace?" he asked, voice barely a ragged whisper. "Where is Vortimer? Gods damn them both, where are they?" His gaze swept over the assembled knights, seeking an answer no one could give. "We have lost," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Lost…"
A chilling silence fell, broken only by choked sobs and the shuffling of exhausted men. Parmen remained stoic, but his eyes held a flicker of shared despair.
To Luke, the keep's dim embrace suddenly felt stifling, a tomb rather than a sanctuary.
"Surrender is…" Lord Ashford's voice cracked.
No, surrender would be a mercy they would not receive. They'd taken too many Stormlander lives. Lord Cafferen wouldn't let them live, especially if Lord Mace and Ser Vortimer begin their assault soon.
Luke's eyes strayed towards Lady Elianora, huddled against her mother, her sobs muffled but heart-wrenchingly clear.
Even amidst his own fear and the echoing silence, something in him rebelled against this bleak surrender.
He swallowed hard, searching for the courage he hadn't realized he possessed. His voice cut through the oppressive silence. "Ser Solaire," he began, forcing a steadiness he didn't entirely feel, "how many men do we have?"
A thunderous boom echoed through the keep, a brutal counterpoint to the oppressive silence. The heavy doors shuddered violently, sending a ripple of fear through those gathered. Lord Ashford whirled, eyes blazing with a mix of desperation and fury.
"What do you think you're doing, boy?" The title wasn't an insult, merely a reflection of the chasm between them. "It's over."
Luke stood his ground, chin held high. "Ser Solaire," he repeated, louder this time, "how many men?"
Another bone-jarring crash at the doors.
Ser Solaire stepped forward.
"Counting those we brought, Ashford's own… close to nine hundred, perhaps." He hesitated, glancing at the despair on Lord Ashford's face, then back to Luke.
Luke nodded, taking it in.
Nine hundred.
BOOM!
The doors rattled again.
Time was a noose tightening around their necks.
Lord Ashford let out a ragged sigh. "Ashford is lost. We are lost." There was a finality in his tone that made Luke's heart clench. "You saved my life, lad, I'll never forget that. But it's over. The castle has fallen!"
"You said earlier that the castle won't fall while your men defend it! They are still defending it! They have died defending it!" Luke shouted, then another sickening crash echoed through the keep, and Luke didn't hesitate. "Ser Darrien," his voice rang out, firm but not unkind, "are there other ways out of this fortress? Ways the women and children might escape?"
The master-at-arms hesitated, a flicker of despair mirrored in his eyes. Lord Ashford's defeated sigh and the renewed wailing of the women made him flinch. "There's… the kitchen entrance," he rasped. "Leads to the old servant tunnels, it leads to the northern wall."
Hope, a fragile flicker amidst the gloom, sparked in Luke's heart.
He nodded sharply. "Gather the women and children. Take them through the kitchens. Ser Parmen, Ser Lanthorn, Ser Monberry – with him," he barked, seeking out the familiar faces. "Fifty men, follow them. Guard them with your lives."
Lord Ashford erupted, desperation fueling his fury. "What is this? A game, boy? Do you dare command my men?" There was a plea in his voice now, a father's desperation for those he couldn't save. "We are finished. It is done!"
Luke met his gaze unflinchingly. "Ride out with me, Lord Ashford," he said, a strange calm settling over him.
Ashford stared at him. "Death and glory"
"For Ashford," Luke interrupted, his voice low but filled with a stubborn defiance that echoed in the torch-lit hall. "For your people. One last charge. We make enough noise, cause enough chaos… and they might just escape." He gestured vaguely towards the kitchens. "Through the tunnels, to the wall and over. To Safety."
BOOM!
The doors buckled, the sound like a death knell.
Lord Ashford's gaze fell on his daughter, pregnant and huddled and weeping in her mother's arms.
Then, something hardened in those haunted eyes.
A lord's resolve finally rekindling amidst the ashes of defeat.
"Yes." He whispered "Yes! The banners of House Ashford shall fly once more! One last time!"
"Yes!" Ser Solaire roared, as he prepared his battle axe. "The noon sun is on high! We shall show the Stormlanders the might of your House and that of the Reach beneath the light of the sun!"
Ser Geni prepared his bow, and Ser Hamish brandished his sword as well, roaring along in unison.
Lord Ashford turned to Luke, and placed his hand on his shoulder with a solemn look. "I would know the name of the man I am to ride to my death with."
"Luke," he replied simply. "Squire to Ser Vortimer Crane." A flicker of pride, of defiance, surged through him at the words.
Ashford nodded. He barked orders, his voice echoing in the grim hall. "Mount up then!" he roared. "Se Solaire! Ser Hamish! With me! Ser Geni, cover us with the archers!"
Ser Solaire, face alight with grim determination, rallied the battered remnants of their men. "To the horses!" he shouted. "Rally your men! Form up behind the cavalry!"
Ashford turned to Darrien and Parmen. "Get them through the kitchens!" he snapped. "Quickly now! There's no time to waste!"
Then he gestured to the castle's maester, a thin, grey-haired man who'd been hovering nervously. "Maester Tybald," he barked, "Get this man a shield!" pointing to Luke.
Luke realized then that the battered shield he'd carried was useless, splintered and cracked. It had saved Lord Ashford, its work was done.
Maester Tybald scurried away, Luke felt a surge of gratitude, but also a strange sense of finality. He returned with a shield emblazoned with House Ashford's sun sigil, this one flickered with bright stars.
It reminded him of Caelum.
This new shield would not just be for protection, it would be his battle standard.
The very earth seemed to tremble as the Stormlanders struck the keep gates once more.
The Ashford shield felt sturdy in his grip, its star-flecked sun a defiant beacon against the encroaching darkness. Luke tightened the straps, then hefted his warhammer, its weight both comforting and terrifying.
Turning, his eyes met Parmen's.
A complex flicker of emotions crossed the knight's face – guilt, shame, and a grudging respect. "Go," Luke said, his voice low. "Quickly, while you still can."
Parmen swallowed, a nervous gesture that seemed out of character.
Then, to Luke's surprise, he unbuckled his ornate breastplate. "Take this," he offered, and Luke saw the apology in his eyes, an unspoken plea for forgiveness.
He hesitated.
Parmen, for all his flaws, was no coward. And beneath that polished armor, Luke knew the man was more vulnerable than he cared to show.
Yet… every bit of protection counted now. With a brief nod, he accepted the breastplate.
Quickly donning the armor with the help of Ser Solaire, he realized it was a perfect fit.
Ser Lanthorn, Ser Monberry and Ser Darrien quickly followed suit offering their armors to Ser Solaire, Ser Gaston, and Ser Geni.
As Parmen, Ser Lanthorn and Ser Monberry turned to join the exodus towards the kitchens, the ground trembled beneath them.
The gate wouldn't hold much longer.
Turning, Luke saw Ashford and his knights mounted, grim determination etched on their faces.
"For Ashford!" Lord Ashford's roar was met with a ragged chorus of echoing shouts.
It was the cry of the doomed, the defiant last stand of men against a tide they couldn't possibly hold back.
But hope wasn't about victory today.
It was about the slimmest sliver of a chance, the barest thread for others to cling to.
There would be no more delays, no time for doubts or hesitation.
Now, it was down to cold steel, desperate courage, and the slim hope they were gambling everything upon.
Another BOOM!
Luke mounted his horse, and joined Lord Ashford at the helm.
"FORTH! FOR ASHFORD!" The Lord shouted and the cavalry charged straight for the rattling door.
BOOM!
The gates of the keep splintered, disgorging a sea of steel and fury.
With a roar echoing Ashford's own, Luke spurred his horse forward, plunging into the fray.
"FOR ASHFORD!" His voice was a battlecry amidst the storm, the warhammer rising and falling in a brutal, bloody rhythm.
He was lost in a whirlwind of blood and steel. The breastplate clanked with every swing of the warhammer, every bone-shattering blow.
His world narrowed down to the rhythmic thud of his heart, the screams of dying men, and the sickening crunch of metal against flesh.
Somewhere to his left, Solaire bellowed a defiant curse with each swing of his axe. "Yield, you Storm-cursed bastards!" the knight roared, carving a crimson path with grim determination.
Then there was Hamish, shield raised, teeth bared in a madman's grin. "Taste my steel, you dogs!" he shrieked, his laughter a jarring counterpoint to the dying gasps around them. A Stormlander spear bounced off his shield, and the harper retaliated with a furious blow that shattered his opponent's visor.
Beside him, Lord Ashford was a fury unleashed. His sword sang its own brutal song, each parry and thrust a testament to a lifetime of battle. "Hold firm!" he bellowed, his voice ragged but carrying over the din. "For Ashford! Make for the wall!"
Above them, the Ashford banner snapped and whipped, the silver sun a defiant beacon amidst the swirling chaos.
Every inch the banner gained was a victory snatched from the jaws of defeat.
With each desperate swing of his hammer, Luke felt a surge of grim satisfaction. They were not just fighting, they were moving, cutting a path for those who couldn't defend themselves.
The cavalry charge was not the stuff of legends.
This was no glorious advance through yielding ranks, but a desperate, brutal fight for every foot of stone.
Horses screamed as they were felled, men cried out as they were trampled beneath the churning tide. The very air throbbed with the clang of steel, the guttural roars of the Stormlanders, the dying gasps of the fallen.
Yet, they moved forward. Each swing of Luke's hammer, each desperate thrust of Ashford's blade carved a fleeting path of chaos, a wedge cutting through the heart of the enemy advance. They were buying time, nothing more, but those precious, blood-soaked seconds were all that mattered.
All that mattered while, behind them, a frightened procession of women, children, and old men fled towards the ghost of salvation.
They advanced like a battered spear point thrust into the heart of chaos. Luke, Ashford, and Solaire, a bloody vanguard fueled by desperation, carved a ragged path towards the inner wall. Ashford's shouts were a beacon amidst the storm, his blade flashing as he urged them onward.
"To the wall! To the wall!" he roared, his voice edged with the desperation of a cornered beast.
The opposition was fierce.
Stormlanders, drunk on the promise of victory, rallied against this final defiant stand but their morale was breaking seeing their men die like flies to a frog.
They swarmed like angry wasps, swords raised, and curses hurled.
Horses shrieked, adding to the terrifying symphony of battle, as they were felled or caught in the press of the melee. With every step forward, they left a trail of fallen men in their wake, their sacrifice buying precious strides for their lord.
Then, through the haze, Luke saw Hamish break away, a wild light in his eyes. "Gaston!" he heard the harper scream, his voice cracking with a grief-fueled rage. The fallen knight's body lay splayed across the cobblestones.
"Hamish, no!" Luke's own voice was hoarse, barely audible above the din. "Fall back! Gods damn you, come back!"
But Hamish was a force of nature unleashed.
He charged, his shield a battering ram against the Stormlander lines, drawing a swarm of enemies in his wake.
It was glorious, it was reckless, and it was tearing a wedge of chaotic distraction through the Stormlanders, disrupting their advance.
Luke, with a curse, signaled his men to follow, to cover Hamish's desperate gambit.
Lord Ashford echoed his command, his voice a mix of fury and despair.
They pushed onwards, leaving a trail of their own dead, while overhead, Geni's arrows rained from the crumbling walls above, desperately trying to cover this mad gamble.
And then it happened.
Hamish's horse stumbled, shrieked, and fell, throwing the harper violently. Before he could regain his feet, a Stormlander pike plunged downwards, its blade sinking deep into the harper's exposed neck.
A final, choked gasp, then stillness.
His charge was over, his song cut tragically short.
The sight of Hamish's fall, a brutal punctuation in their desperate charge, was a blow to the gut. But Lord Ashford, his face set in a mask of grim determination, seized the moment.
"To the wall!" he roared, his voice a beacon through the chaos. "To the wall!"
Changing course, their bloodied vanguard surged towards the breached inner gate, the shattered remains no longer a symbol of defeat, but a desperate point of hope. The Stormlanders, disrupted by Hamish's reckless gamble, hesitated, their relentless advance faltering.
Behind them, Tyrell and Ashford infantry surged forward, their shouts echoing the dying strains of Hamish's battle song.
They poured through the gaps that the cavalry had carved, taking advantage of the enemy's momentary disarray, and cut a swathe of vengeance for their fallen comrades.
Luke spurred his horse onwards, the heavy warhammer a relentless bludgeon against the tide.
Dimly, he was aware of Solaire beside him, his battle-axe rising and falling in a grim dance of survival.
Every foot gained, every Stormlander felled, was a lifeline thrown to those still fleeing.
Ahead, the inner wall loomed, stark against the blood-red late afternoon sky. Without hesitation, Ashford led the charge towards it, seeking the sanctuary of the upper ramparts.
With desperate strength, they hauled themselves and their horses up the tumbled stones of the breached inner wall.
Each agonizing push, each desperate scramble, fueled by sheer, desperate will. As Luke crested the top, his heart hammered a wild rhythm in his chest, mingling adrenaline and fear with a sudden, almost overwhelming surge of hope.
From this vantage point, they could finally see beyond the confines of the courtyard. The town stretched before them, a terrifying tableau of destruction. Homes blazed, screams of terror cut through the smoky pall, and the glint of steel reflected in the firelight - Stormlanders, sacking the town with horrifying efficiency. Only one building seemed untouched, its spires defiantly untouched by flame – the sept, and beneath it, he could just make out the hated banner of Cafferen.
Then, like a thunderclap splitting the sky, a single, clear sound shattered the air. A horn, its blast carrying from beyond the outer wall, from the west.
Distantly, Luke saw the flicker of arrows, a lethal rain falling amidst the Stormlander positions beyond the wall where the bulk of Stannis Baratheon's forces were camped.
Hope ignited in his veins, burning away the icy despair. "Ser Vortimer Crane!" he cried, a ragged shout of triumph echoing over the din of battle. "He has finally come!"
Ashford's face, bloodied and weary, twisted in a reflection of Luke's own desperate joy.
Another horn blast – this time from the east, another volley of arrows raining death upon Stannis's forces.
"And Lord Mace!" Luke couldn't contain the ragged laugh that tore from his throat. "Lord Mace has arrived!"
It felt like the tide turning, a sliver of possibility, a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.
The siege wasn't over, the fight still raged within the castle walls, but they were no longer alone, no longer the final, desperate gasp of defiance.
They had a chance.
"Stannis will retreat," Luke rasped, his voice a mix of exhaustion and determined hope. They'd done it! Against all odds, they'd bought the time needed. "He won't risk a battle his men aren't prepared for, not when fresh armies surround him."
Ashford nodded, a flicker of fierce elation in his eyes. "Yes," he agreed. "They've had a taste of victory… now they'll sense defeat snatching it from their grasp." He paused, looking out over the ravaged town, the storm of emotions a mirror of Luke's own.
Then, a spark of calculation replaced the despair in his gaze. "But this isn't over," he declared. "We've a chance, Luke, a chance to end this, not just survive it."
"What do you mean, my lord?" Luke asked, his heart pounding with renewed anticipation.
Ashford gestured towards the sept, Cafferen's standard still a defiant stain against the smoke-filled sky. "That banner. If it falls, so too does the spirit of the Stormlander forces." His voice dropped to a near whisper. "We cut down Cafferen, we cut the serpent's head from its foul body."
It was a bold gamble, a desperate one. Leave the relative safety of the upper wall, ride into the heart of the chaos… But Luke saw the wisdom in the madness. The Stormlanders, already reeling from the unexpected assault from without the walls, would falter if their leader fell. It was a desperate chance, a final, defiant throw of the dice.
"Then we ride, my Lord," Luke said simply.
There was no hesitation, no fear, only the same cold determination that had fueled their desperate charge.
Lord Ashford's smile, fleeting but genuine. "After this, lad," he said, a warmth in his voice that transcended the formalities of titles. "Come find me. You will have a place with House Ashford, as a Knight"
But even as a surge of pride warmed him, Luke forced his focus back to the desperate present.
The last battle was waiting, and titles were for the living.
They descended the wall with surprising speed, finding Ser Solaire amidst a scene of organized chaos.
Shouts, barked orders, and the clang of steel filled the air as the battered knight rallied their remaining men.
Solaire, face grim but alight with the same fierce joy Luke felt, met them at the breached gate.
"They have faltered!" he boomed, gesturing to the open space beyond the inner gate where Stormlander bodies lay in stark contrast to the retreating enemy. "The cowards heard the horns, saw the arrows, and tasted fear!"
"Reinforcements have arrived," Luke managed, still breathless with exertion. He outlined their desperate gambit, Lord Ashford's plan echoing his own desperate hope.
Geni, joining them, added a touch of grim practicality. "My archers are ready," he rasped. "As you charge, we'll cover you. Gods willing, those Stormlander bastards will be too busy dodging arrows to see their lord fall." He gave a wolfish grin. "And fall he will, if this old bow has anything to say about it. I will be joining you! Let's end this!"
Solaire hoisted his axe with a bellow. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's bring that Storm-whelp down!"
The inner gate was flung open. With a final glance back at the walls, at the archers poised like vengeful angels, they spurred their horses forward. This was it - they would end this siege, or die beneath the blood-red sky.
The retreating Stormlanders, caught between relief at escaping the keep and demoralization at the relentless hornsong in the distance, were still a formidable force.
A hail of arrows met their desperate charge - a reminder of their mortality, of the slender thread upon which their hopes now hung. Shields were raised in desperate defense, but their battered armor held, and the enemy's volley had minimal effect.
Above the chaos, Luke could see their goal – the sept, rising defiantly against the burning backdrop, and the Cafferen standard, a splash of green and two rearing horses against the smoke-wreathed sky.
Then came the answering volley - Ashford's archers unleashing their own deadly rain.
The Stormlanders wavered, momentarily distracted by the sudden onslaught from above.
It was the opening they needed.
Ahead, they could make out Lord Cafferen himself, surrounded by a knot of knights – those who dared stand so openly must be powerful houses sworn to his cause.
Luke recognized the Fell sigil, the Grandison crest… They were his targets.
Their charge was met by a bristling wall of pikes.
Luke's breath hitched in his throat as his horse soared, clearing the first rank.
He whirled his heavy warhammer with desperate force, a whirlwind of destruction clearing a bloody path.
Lord Ashford was a blur of motion beside him, his sword a flickering tongue of steel.
Solaire's axe rose and fell with savage efficiency, and Geni loosed deadly shafts even as he charged.
They were unstoppable, a storm of fury and determination cleaving through the enemy ranks.
Their cavalry became a relentless wedge, carving a path through the heart of the storm. Luke's hammer fell with brutal rhythm, shattering bones, crumpling armor. Each foe that stumbled or fell was another step closer to their goal, another thread of Cafferen's arrogance unraveling.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Geni, a blur of motion amidst the chaos.
His arrows seemed almost guided by vengeance, each finding its mark with deadly precision. Then, a grim realization struck Luke – Geni was drawing far too much attention. He had already fallen off his horse, surviving luckily with the aide of their men.
The enemy pikemen were breaking formation, swarming the archer in a desperate counterattack.
"Ser Solaire!" he roared over the din, spotting the knight nearby. "Geni needs aid! I am going to cut a path through to him!" He gestured furiously toward the archer, his voice tight with urgency.
Without hesitation, Luke spurred his horse towards his comrade.
The warhammer sang it's brutal song, clearing a path through the tide of bodies. Men screamed, horses reared, their formation shattering beneath the relentless assault. He was a shield to Geni's sword, buying the archer precious moments to loose another deadly shaft.
"Careful old man!" Luke barked, a grim grin splitting his bloodied face. He swatted away a sword thrust with his shield, then smashed a pikeman to the ground with the hammer's haft.
Ser Geni, even while loosing another arrow, gave a breathless laugh. "Don't get cocky, whelp," he retorted. "These bastards might've felled my horse, but they'll not pincushion me before you reach their lord!" The arrow soared, finding its mark in the throat of a Stormlander knight.
A Stormlander arrow whistled past Luke's head, the near-miss snapping him back to the perilous present. Geni answered the threat with a retaliatory shot, the arrow disappearing into the fray.
Luke, with a defiant roar, surged deeper into the chaos. More arrows, some finding purchase in the battered plate, glancing off with harmless thunks.
"Missed one!" Geni's voice carried a macabre cheer over the din. Another arrow whizzed past, embedding itself in the shield of a charging Stormlander pikeman. The man stumbled, providing Luke an opening for a brutal counterattack.
"Thanks for the assist!" Luke bellowed back, his hammer shattering the pikeman's helm in a spray of blood and steel.
A Stormlander knight, face contorted in fury, charged towards him. A lucky swipe grazed Luke's shoulder, momentarily unbalancing him, but Luke's hammer connected with the knight's helmet in a brutal, bone-jarring blow. The knight crumpled, unhorsed, disappearing beneath the churning tide.
And then it happened. A single arrow, arced high above the melee, a final judgement from the sky. Time seemed to slow as Luke tracked its deadly path. It struck Lord Grandison square in the eye, the feathered shaft sinking deep into his helmet. The knight toppled with a choked scream, his death throes lost amidst the battle symphony.
Luke turned to share a shout of victory with Geni… only to see the archer fall, his body bristling with arrows like some grotesque porcupine.
Ser Geni's bow clattered to the cobblestones, his last defiant shot forever loosed.
For a heartbeat, time seemed to stutter, the world reduced to the grotesque image of the archer, his laughter silenced, his body a gruesome testament to the cost of war.
Then, rage ignited, a white-hot inferno that consumed him. "For Geni! FOR ASHFORD! FOR THE REACH!" he roared, the battlecry ripping from his throat.
He spurred his horse forward, the hammer a whirlwind of bloody vengeance.
The Stormlanders wavered.
Arrows whispered past Luke, finding their marks with grim efficiency.
The charge was chaos, raw and bloody, but through the storm Luke could see Ashford beside him, his sword a flickering beacon, and Solaire, the berserker with an axe that drank its fill of Stormlander blood.
The enemy line before them was thinning, morale crumbling. Some fled, making for the haven of the breached outer gate, their cries echoing over the din. "Every man for himself!" "It's over, lads, run!" "The Reach has come – we're doomed!"
Others, trapped, fought with the desperate courage of cornered rats.
A spearman, eyes wide with terror, lunged at Luke, only to be felled by a brutal blow from Solaire's axe.
Yet, Luke saw it – the knot of knights surrounding Lord Cafferen faltered, their retreat cut off by the relentless onslaught. A surge of grim satisfaction flowed through him.
Victory, bloody and desperate, lay tantalizingly close.
He smashed through the final remnants of the line, clearing a path straight for Cafferen.
"Cafferen!" Luke roared, the name a curse torn from his raw throat.
He met the lord's eyes, saw the flash of fear beneath the helm.
Lord Fell, realizing the game was up, attempted to cover Cafferen's retreat. Lord Ashford intercepted him with his horse.
The last few Stormlanders standing between Luke and Cafferen were sacrificial lambs, their fear making them easy prey.
His hammer rose and fell with savage efficiency, each blow a hammer stroke against the crumbling Storm-built edifice. With a final, desperate charge, he smashed through Cafferen's shield, splintering the expensive wood and sending the man staggering.
"Cafferen!" Luke roared, his voice a raw echo of Geni's fallen laughter and Gaston's lost voice.
The horse beneath him danced nervously, sensing its rider's fury, the burning town reflected in its wide eyes.
Lord Cafferen stumbled back. But Luke gave him no respite. He charged again, narrowly dodging a desperate spear jab that scraped his shoulder, drawing blood.
Undeterred, he surged forward once more, the warhammer finding its mark with brutal force. The sickening crunch of metal and bone echoed over the battlefield as Cafferen's chest caved inwards. The lord toppled, his dying scream swallowed by the sounds of battle.
Whirling, heart pounding, Luke surveyed the scene. Solaire, soaked in blood, stood over the fallen body of Lord Fell, his axe raised in a final, victorious salute.
Lord Ashford, bloodied but unbowed, dismounted nearby, his gaze mirroring Luke's own mix of exhaustion and grim satisfaction.
And there, beneath the smoke-wreath sky, the Cafferen banner dipped, finally hitting the cobbled ground.
The siege was over.
The Cafferen banner's fall was the final straw.
A ragged cheer erupted, echoing from the battered Ashford men and their Tyrell reinforcements.
It was the primal roar of men who had stared down death and won, a guttural hymn of victory rising above the still-smoldering town.
Luke, exhilaration battling exhaustion, joined the shouts.
Then he saw Solaire's grin a bloody beacon amidst the chaos, and Lord Ashford, dismounting with a weary but triumphant stride.
They shared a glance, a wordless understanding passing between them.
It was over.
Ashford was saved.
Lord Ashford was already barking orders, his voice tinged with the urgency of a man ready to see this all behind him. "Take prisoners!" he shouted. "Bind their wounds! Don't let more blood stain this ground than is necessary!"
Luke blinked, the world suddenly coming back into sharper focus. "My lord," he began, his voice surprisingly steady. "I must ride to the outer wall."
Astonishment flickered across Ashford's face. "What? Don't tell me you wish to join the fight there as well? Lord Mace has this well in hand, lad!"
"My father," Luke explained. "And my uncle are with the forces outside. Lord Stannis will soon order a retreat, I need… I need to know they're safe."
"Then go," he replied. His hand clasped Luke's shoulder, briefly but with warmth. "But first… get those wounds seen to. We can't have our hero bleeding to death!"
Luke felt a flicker of surprise at the title. Then he saw it - the scrapes on his arms, the bruises hidden beneath his battered armor.
Pain, until now merely a background hum, flared in those abused muscles.
He shook his head, "I'll be fine, my lord."
With a resigned sigh, Ashford gestured towards the keep. "Then so be it. And remember, Luke, you have a place here, as a Knight." His face twisted into a grin.
Luke nodded, the title felt so small to him now, but he was grateful regardless. He couldn't wait to return home to Caelum, and Meredith.
Meredith had kept faith in him, had believed he would become a Knight. He hoped to see her smile soon when she realized that he had achieved his dream.
Solaire was beside him. "I'll ride with you, lad," he boomed, already remounting his horse.
Luke needed no further prompting.
With a final salute to Lord Ashford, they spurred their horses towards the outer wall.
Their ride to the outer wall was not one of victory, but of solemn acknowledgement. Each fallen body, Ashford or Tyrell or Stormlander, earned a silent prayer. Luke thought of those he'd fought beside, laughed with... Geni, his laughter silenced. Gaston, the dim knight turned shining beacon of sacrifice. Hamish's heartbroken charge… They'd bought this victory with their lives, and Luke vowed to honor that debt.
"Praise the Sun," Solaire murmured as they passed a particularly grim tableau. "May it guide their souls to its warm light."
Startled, Luke looked at the knight.
Solaire was now closed-eyed in silent prayer, his arms reaching out to the sky to slowly dipping evening sun. "I thought you were from the Reach, Ser Solaire."
Solaire grinned. "Yes, I am. From Goldengrove, but I don't follow the faith of the seven. I am just praying for those who died today… as they died in the sun's embrace. Seems fitting to honor that, wouldn't you say?"
"You speak of… a different god?" Luke asked, curiosity battling his ingrained faith.
Solaire was from the Reach, where the Seven held sway.
"Many gods," Solaire corrected. "I wandered far in my youth, saw lands beyond the Reach. In the Summer Isles, temples crowd the shores, each dedicated to a different power. Fire gods, sea gods, a goddess of love… if the sun god didn't call to me, I would have become a servant at that temple!" He chuckled, a surprisingly boyish sound. "Her temple was, shall we say, popular amongst the young knights."
"And the Sun God?" Luke prompted, intrigued despite himself.
Solaire's grin widened. "Ah, he was what called to be. An old temple, half-crumbled, with writings I couldn't read. But his light, his warmth… they spoke louder than words. Besides, who else gives us days like this?" He gestured toward the battle-scarred landscape bathed in the golden hues of late evening.
"Does… does your god have a name?" Luke asked, a strange sense of wonder filling him.
Solaire shrugged. "The scriptures were lost, the old tongue forgotten. Perhaps it's better that way. Makes the faith simpler, wouldn't you say?" He spurred his horse onward. "Come, we're nearly there."
They reached the shattered outer gate, the remnants of battle still clinging to its broken timbers.
Beyond, the sounds of fighting echoed, but muted, distant. The clash of steel against steel was replaced by the ragged shouts of retreating men and the mournful cries of the wounded.
"You were right," Solaire said with a grin. "Stannis Baratheon had ordered a retreat"
Luke nodded, too breathless for words.
Across the field, like a dark stain retreating from golden shore, he could see it – the banner of Baratheon, slowly retreating.
To the east, the banners of House Tyrell fluttered victoriously.
Further still, where a smaller skirmish seemed to be sputtering to an end, Ser Quentin's personal standard swayed amidst the chaos.
The relief that flooded Luke was almost overwhelming.
"My father," he managed to croak, pointing. "He'd be with Quentin's men." Then, remembering, he gestured west, where the bruised but defiant banner of the Crane still flew. "And my uncle… he fights with them."
With a shared nod, they spurred their horses towards the heart of the remaining skirmish.
Luke's battered body protested with every jolt. The adrenaline, that invisible shield that had fueled him through the desperate siege, was finally fading.
Now, pain flared with each ragged breath, a brutal counterpoint to the thrill of victory.
They rode past the sprawling beginnings of Mace Tyrell's encampment, soldiers scurrying like ants after a broken sugar jar, as they treated their wounded and carried the dead.
Up ahead, the final, desperate clash unfolded.
Ser Quentin, bloodied but unyielding, pressed a retreating knot of Stormlander spearmen.
The Tyrell banner waved defiantly above them, but as Luke squinted through the dust, his heart jolted with relief – there! Toman, his father, fighting at Ser Quentin's side, his sword a flickering beacon of loyalty.
A spearman thrust at Quentin, the knight dodging with practiced ease. Toman, seeing the danger, shifted, his shield raised in a protective arc… too slow.
The other Tyrell men, caught up in their own battles, didn't see the danger.
But Luke did.
The spear didn't stop. He saw, with horrifying clarity, the way Toman's shield arm faltered, the way the splintering wood gave way.
Then came the sickening thud, the spray of blood… and the way his father crumpled, the spear protruding obscenely from his throat.
A scream tore from Luke's lips. It was a primal, wounded sound unlike anything he'd ever uttered, a raw cry that echoed louder in his ears than the clash of battle around him. "NO!" The word tore from his throat.
He spurred his horse, heedless of the pain lancing through his body. "Father!" His world narrowed to the sight of Toman's fallen form, to the Stormlander spearmen who, seizing the distraction, turned their weapons towards the vulnerable Ser Quentin.
"You'll pay for that!" he roared, his voice a ragged snarl. Rage fueled him now, a red haze replacing the fading adrenaline. The spearmen wouldn't take another life, not if he had any say in it.
He reached them, the warhammer rising and falling. "For my father!" he bellowed with each strike.
One, two, blows rained down, crushing bone and steel. The spearmen crumpled, their dying cries lost in the chaos.
Seeing their comrades fall beneath Luke's relentless fury, the last remnants of the Stormlander spirit broke. With ragged shouts, they dropped their spears, scattering like startled rabbits before a hungry wolf. Ser Quentin, his life spared by Luke's desperate intervention, surveyed the clearing with a weary sigh.
But Luke didn't see the victory, didn't hear the other Tyrell men's cheers. He was already off his horse, stumbling towards the crumpled form of his father. His warhammer, still stained with blood, clattered to the ground.
Then came Solaire, his boisterous energy replaced by quiet concern. "Luke…" he began, his voice gentle, a hand reaching out as if to halt the inevitable.
Too late. Luke dropped to his knees beside Toman. "Father," he choked out, the title now a plea, a frantic prayer to a world suddenly gone wrong. "Wake up… please…" He reached out, trembling fingers fumbling with the bloodied clasp of his father's helm. "Please…"
He sobbed, dry, ragged gasps tearing through his lungs.
The battle, the Stormlanders, Ser Quentin – it all faded into a blurred backdrop. There was only the stillness of Toman's body, the sickening redness staining the ground, and the impossible finality of death.
As the sun finally dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the battlefield, Luke's tears fell freely.
A boy, alone with his grief, surrounded by the grim echoes of a victory he no longer cared about.
Despair washed over Luke in icy waves. He clutched his father's lifeless body, sobs wracking his frame, staining Toman's armor with hot tears.
Solaire knelt beside him, large hands hovering helplessly. "Lad… Luke, I am so sorry…" he began, his voice thick with unspoken sympathy.
The words felt hollow, even to Luke's grief-stricken ears.
No prayer could bring back the light in his father's eyes, the warmth in his rough hands.
He felt a flicker of gratitude for the knight's attempt, but it was swiftly replaced by a new wave of anguish.
Then, Ser Quentin was there too, his voice a rumble of concern beneath the rough veneer of the battle-hardened knight. "Your father… he died a hero's death, boy. He shielded me…you saved me!"
But Luke barely heard him.
His mind latched on to another name, another life left dangling by the threads of war…"My uncle…" he gasped, the words a jagged whisper.
He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the answering twinges of pain, ignoring the concerned calls from both knights. "I have to… I have to find…"
With a strength born of desperation, he hoisted his father's body onto his saddle, uncaring of the weight, of the way the blood soaked into his legs.
The warhammer, discarded amidst the bodies of his enemies, seemed insignificant now.
With a strangled cry, he spurred his horse onward.
He rode east, towards the battered banner of House Crane, tears blurring his vision, leaving a glistening trail in the gathering twilight.
His journey was a blur of pain and relentless determination. Each jolt of his weary horse sent agonizing tremors through his battered body, but he clung on, his father's body.
The Crane banner, though smaller and more ragged than when they'd left for war, drew him on like a beacon of terrible hope.
Ser Vortimer Crane had promised he would keep his uncle safe, he would know where to find him.
Soldiers, weary and bloodied, stared as he passed, their murmurs of surprise trailing him. "Isn't that the squire? What's he…" "Hush, man, look who he carries…"
Luke didn't care about their whispers, about the pity in their eyes. "Ser Vortimer…" he rasped, the name a mantra against the rising tide of dread. "My uncle Harlon… where…"
Then, a change in the atmosphere, a grim set to shoulders he recognized. "Where is Ser Vortimer?" Luke asked, his voice trembling.
The soldier swallowed, his gaze flicking to the body across the saddle. "Ser Vortimer is dead, lad."
"But my uncle… my uncle Harlon?" Luke's voice cracked with the desperation of a drowning man clinging to a broken plank.
Another soldier spoke up. "Ser Crane sent him back, last I saw."
Without waiting for further explanation, Luke spurred his horse towards the back of the Crane force.
Hope, that fragile, flickering thing, battled despair as he scanned the faces of the wounded.
Then, a shout, a ragged, hopeful shout that cut through the cacophony of pain.
"Luke!" Harlon, his face lined with exhaustion, was limping towards him, bandages around his torso stained a worrying shade of red.
He was missing his left arm, and had a giant gash on his right shoulder covered by cloth.
Yet, it was the wide-eyed shock that replaced the pain on his face that finally shattered Luke's fragile composure.
He saw Harlon's gaze flicker upwards, saw the recognition dawn.
Then, a wail of grief tore from Harlon's throat as he rushed towards the horse, towards the limp form of his brother.
The world tilted, Luke's pain flared blinding white, and he knew no more.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N) There will be another part to chapter 18.
The battle needed a whole chapter to do it justice I think.
I hope you like it. I hope the whole thing made sequential sense.
Also, yes, all OC character names are inspired or straight up lifted from from software games.
Also, next chapter will mainly focus on Caelum as most of my background set up is now almost complete for the next arc.
The Disappointed Novice
Chapter 19 –
Sunlight poured through the narrow, arched window of the lecture hall, casting geometric patterns on the dusty floor.
Caelum, his black hair tousled and his blue eyes alight with a mixture of curiosity and disappointment, shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden bench.
Half a moon had passed since his arrival at the Citadel, and the glow of anticipation had faded, replaced by a nagging sense of disillusionment.
He'd come seeking the ancient magicks, the secrets of a power he knew thrummed faintly within himself.
Yet, the esteemed Maester Quillion and his study of the higher mysteries offered little to ease this relentless ache.
"True magic is dead," Maester Quillion had declared on their very first day. His voice, as weathered as the crumbling tomes lining the hall, echoed with a dismissive finality. "With the dragons died the last embers of sorcery, more than a century ago in the Dance of the Dragons. What remains are fragments of old power, echoes of a time lost. Mysteries, yes, but mysteries to be unraveled with logic, not spells."
"Consider the Wall," the maester had declared, his voice resonating with a strange mixture of awe and dismissal. "A towering edifice of ice, impossibly resilient against the passage of time and the harsh northern elements. Ancient magics, they say, wove enchantments to preserve it – potent spells now lost to us."
A hush had fallen over the room, the novices leaning forward in fascination.
Maester Quillion had continued. "And far to the south stands, here in the heart of oldtown, the Hightower, its foundation built upon an oily black stone unlike any found in these lands. Legends claim sorcery transported it from a distant realm, imbued it with strength beyond natural means." He paused, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Or perhaps some canny mage understood principles of architecture that we, alas, have yet to rediscover."
His gaze had swept the room, settling on each eager face. "Then there are the Valyrian roads, in parts of Essos, smooth ribbons of stone that defy decay, their construction a puzzle no mason of our time can solve. Did the dragonlords of old possess secrets of earth and fire that we can only dream of?"
He'd lowered his voice, a touch of drama lacing his tone. "There was a time, my dear novices, when the world thrummed with different kinds of power. The breaking of the Arm of Dorne, the uncanny bond of the skinchangers, the greenseers and dragon dreamers communing with visions… yes, there was once magic."
A tremor of excitement had run through the novices.
"But those flames have been extinguished," Maester Quillion had said firmly. "With the dragons died the last vestiges of true sorcery. Their fire-fueled spells, their blood-birthed rituals. Magic, however potent, was not inexhaustible. And now…" he shrugged, "now its echoes only serve to deepen the shadows of mystery."
He'd gestured towards the towering shelves that lined the hall. "Our task, here at the Citadel, is to illuminate those shadows. Logic is our torch, reason our weapon. It is by understanding the mechanics of the world, not clinging to faded enchantments, that we shall unveil the truth behind the wonders left in magic's wake. For now, in a world of men, there is no longer a place for such powerful magicks."
The Maester's words, like cold water splashed on a warm flame, had sent a ripple of unease through the eager crowd of novices.
A boy, barely into his manhood, raised a hesitant hand. "Maester," he began, a tremor in his voice, "if such powerful magics existed… could they be found again? Rediscovered, perhaps?"
Maester Quillion had stroked his greying beard thoughtfully. "There are those who dedicate their lives to this pursuit," he admitted, a hint of caution in his tone. "They delve into crumbling scrolls, seek whispers amongst dwindling folk in far-off corners of the realms and beyond. Why, some of these people are famous in the histories for their actions that shaped the realm. Brynden Rivers would be one such individual. Yet," he raised a warning finger, "know this: the ancient texts speak of sacrifice, prices paid for manipulating the forces of nature."
His gaze became distant, haunted. "Skinchangers forging a bond with beast… at the cost of a piece of their very soul. Seers, be they green-seers or dragon dreamers, delving into the mists of past and future… their bodies ravaged, their minds sometimes broken." He shuddered slightly. "And shadowbinding… ah, the tales from those dark rituals from the far and distant land of Asshai by the Shadow, make even the stoutest maesters tremble."
A collective gasp rose from the novices. Caelum felt his skin crawl, images of monstrous deeds flickering through his mind's eye.
Maester Quillion sighed, the weight of centuries of lost knowledge echoing in the simple act. "Some sacrifices were subtle – a measure of blood offered to the gods for a glimpse of the future. Others…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "Let us just say that the price of bending nature's laws to one's will was often monstrous, the result rarely guaranteed. Sometimes, such horrifying sacrifices barely even bore fruit. Thousands of lives perished, but magic bore but a fart in the wind for wonder."
He had fixed them with a stern look. "Remember," he said, his voice ringing clear, "it's been a century and more since the last Targaryen dragon took flight. Whatever vestiges of flame-fueled sorcery remained has vanished with those magnificent creatures. Rituals, once perhaps infused with power, have now fallen silent. Magic may have left its mark upon the world, but as far as we know, it no longer walks among men. There is no room for it in the wiser world."
Today, the room was nearly deserted.
The once enthusiastic crowd of novices had dwindled with each passing lesson.
Those who remained, like Caelum, were driven by a mix of stubborn hope and a fascination with the strange tricks and illusions that formed the core of Maester Quillion's teachings. Others merely wanted to replicate to head home, and swindle their audiences.
"Behold!" The maester's thin frame occupied the center of the worn stone room, his hands wreathed in flame. They flickered, a mesmerizing dance of orange and yellow, but caused him no apparent pain. "What sorcery is this? A simple trick, nothing more."
A few gasps of half-hearted awe echoed from the sparsely filled benches.
Caelum stifled a sigh.
"I will reveal the secrets to you," Maester Quillion continued, his voice rising in a dramatic flourish, "The common man sees and believes in wonders without understanding. Yet understanding is the true miracle. Sulphur, egg white, and a touch of purslane – harmless on their own. When combined…" He extinguished the flames, shaking the blackened residue from his hands. "…they form a barrier, shielding the skin from harm."
Caelum remembered that first day, when the room was crammed with excited faces.
Back then, Caelum's own secret, the strange power that pulsed below the surface, had thrummed in anticipation.
Now, the sensation was replaced by a dull prickle of frustration.
He couldn't wait for the lesson to end.
Lomas Longstrider and his adventures. Alongside a score of other books had filled Caelum's time outside of lessons. He couldn't take the books back with him to the inn, otherwise, he would have spent his nights reading too.
After he helped Fern take care of the inn with her father, Liernen that is.
The thrill of the scribe's explorations resonated with his own stifled longing for discovery. Longstrider's detailed descriptions of far-flung wonders had both stoked Caelum's desire for real magic and, frustratingly, confirmed Maester Quillion's assertions.
It seemed the world of enchantments and magics was bound to books, not a living reality anymore.
Besides, Caelum was well-versed in the mummer's concoctions.
Longstrider, bless his wandering soul, had detailed their uses and variations in one of his lesser-known treatises.
The Citadel's own library, a labyrinthine maze of scrolls and neglected volumes, had yielded that peculiar tome along with countless others devoured by Caelum's restless mind.
The Citadel's library held treasures beyond imagining.
Yet those dusty stacks also held a cruel truth – magic as a living, breathing force was all but extinct. He longed to feel its thrum, somewhere else than what was beneath his skin, but the secrets he sought remained frustratingly elusive.
Caelum's heightened senses had become both a blessing and a curse.
While they aided him in the mundane – deciphering whispers across a crowded tavern, spotting a misplaced book in the darkened library – they'd also led him down a precarious path.
The Archmaesters' conclave had become an irresistible temptation.
Desperate for news of the war, of his father and brother fighting alongside the Tyrell host against the Stormlanders, he'd begun eavesdropping on their whispered deliberations.
News at the Citadel was often frustratingly slow to arrive.
Ravens bearing messages from across the Seven Kingdoms sometimes brought reports of skirmishes and troop movements, but tidings from the Reach were agonizingly infrequent.
Archmaester Gyldayn seemed enthralled with these reports, meticulously adding them to his ever-growing tome "Fire & Blood." A tome he was working on that accounted for the complete History of all Targaryen Kings.
But for Caelum, they were scraps, fragments of a war he couldn't fully grasp, leaving him gnawed by worry for his family.
With the timing of Conclave meetings now ingrained in his mind, Caelum knew one was in progress this very moment. The allure of forbidden knowledge outweighed the tedium of extinguished flames and clever deceptions.
Maester Quillion's voice faded into a dull hum as Caelum focused, stretching his strange abilities towards the distant chamber where the Archmaesters gathered.
At first, the murmur of voices was indistinct, a jumble of sound barely louder than a buzzing insect.
But with practiced concentration, the words sharpened, resolving into a conversation as clear as if he were a fly on the wall.
"...reduced significantly," Archmaester Theron's gruff voice cut through the mental fog. "Lord Hightower's decision to dispatch Ser Baelor and Ser Garth eastward with the bulk of the Hightower forces and the fleet. To aid Lord Mace leaves fewer guards here than I'd prefer. The watch over the stones is particularly vulnerable."
A pause, then another voice, a reedy tone Caelum recognized as Archmaester Perrestan "Perhaps the stones aren't worth the trouble they've caused, Theron. Lomys shouldn't have sent half a cart loads worth of the shards to the citadel. This defiance of the North is the result from that accursed event. Had the meteor not struck the Reach, had the glass candles not momentarily flared alight across the realm, this war might never have erupted. The fool Marwyn is still trying to get his own glass candle to light up once again ever since."
Archmaester Theron sighed, a hint of exasperation coloring his words. "Lomys couldn't have known the value of the stones then. Lord Hightower has offered to take the bulk of those star-cursed rocks off our hands, I am inclined to agree… Damned prophecies have plagued the Targaryens for generations, Perrestan. The Prince was already obsessed those, much like his father is obsessed with Fire. All looking to rebirth the dragons. It was merely a matter of time before something else caused this damned war."
"I agree with the idea that we send the rocks away to the Hightowers." Another voice, Archmaester Gyldalyn, if Caelum recognized his voice correctly spoke up.
"There have been numerous attempts by acolytes, novices, and fools to nick the stones before they leave the citadel. The only reason they don't target the starry sept itself is fear of the wrath of the gods! Getting the faith to not start some form of the faith uprising after the King burnt the High Septon was hard enough, should those stones also be taken by the small folk, we'll have some sort of Faith militant marching to every house in oldtown by the end of the moon!" Perrestan's nasally voice wheezed, and even Caelum cringed at the sound.
"Then so be it, the stones will be sent to the Hightowers. We'll hold on to just enough that we can keep learning about it should things change in the future. The faith will hold, they too know that the King is cornered, the Dornish will send a small token force, only so far as Princess Elia is under the watchful eye of Jon Connington at Dragonstone." Theron sounded weary and exhausted.
"We have this… opportunity, Perrestan. It is time to rid ourselves of the last copy of 'Blood and Fire' outside of our vaults. The text poisons the minds of those susceptible to Targaryen delusions. It has done so for a century since the last dragon's breath turned cold." He said after a moment's contemplation.
Caelum didn't wish death for anyone, but the Prince had tried to kill him, and his brother at the Tourney of Harrenhal.
At least now he knew why he had done so irrationally at the time.
He just hated everything to do with the Reach. He didn't wish him death, but he certainly hoped he smells like the inside of a tourney helmet for the rest of his days.
Caelum desperately hoped they spoke about the Reach next.
All he knew was that Lord Mace had marched to the aid of some Lord to the east, along the Cockleswent and broken a siege there.
"Dragonstone, and Winterfell sent a raven requesting for a new junior maester. Walys believes he is not long for this world, and Gerard needs aid in preparing for the birth. We have the perfect opportunity. Queen Rhaella is entering the last phase of her pregnancy, in a few moons. Sending someone to finally gain access to Dragonstone's vaults should take care of that for us." Another arch maester, Edgerran, if Caelum's recollection of his voice was any indication.
"Has Ebrose taken the tests for the maesters in medicine already? Where is he? Marwyn's absence from the conclave is expected. Ebrose is another matter entirely… he may not like these meetings, but he attends them regardless." Theron asked after a moment's silence.
"Ebrose is out near the weeping docks. There have been reports from the small folk of violent ceaseless and bloody bowel movements recently…. He has gone down to investigate." Arch maester Castos informed the conclave.
Ebrose was a kind old man, and maester Lorcas had nothing but praises for the kindly old maester.
Caelum had met the old Archmaester on multiple occasions, the man liked to sit with the novices and acolytes while they attended Lorcas' lessons on healing. Despite being the Archmaester of healing himself.
"…but I can confirm, Ebrose has finished testing the new maesters. There are a few promising candidates. He was especially enthusiastic about Luwin." Castos continued.
Caelum was getting antsy, he didn't care which maester got assigned where. Which book the maesters wanted to be removed from where.
If you asked him, remove all books about some prophecy from everywhere.
All he cared to know was how the war was ongoing in the Reach. He knew they were unlikely to discuss his father by name, why would they?
But some news would at least soothe his beating heart.
They said, no news is better than ill news.
They haven't felt the frustration of not knowing, of worrying about the lives of family, knowing you can't do anything for them.
A sudden clap of Maester Quillion's hands, the sound amplified in Caelum's heightened awareness, cut through his eavesdropping. "This concludes today's lesson," Quillion declared, his voice bringing Caelum back to the lecture hall. "Study the texts, I will question you all on the use of Sulphur in lighting a recently extinguished candle."
With a start, Caelum realized the room was emptying.
He hastily gathered his parchment and quill, shoving them into his satchel. The thread of the Archmaesters' conversation slipped away, as his concentration was broken.
He wasn't getting anything important anyway.
He stepped into the sunlit courtyard, scanning the bustling throng for his friend Pylos.
Other novices and acolytes streamed out from various lecture halls.
Caelum joined their ranks, his mind still swirling with the fragments of conversation.
The other students, mostly highborn sons of knights or wealthy merchants, paid him little attention. Caelum had learned quickly that his simple upbringing and lack of a noble lineage marked him as an outsider in their eyes.
It didn't bother him much. He preferred to stay away from their prattling, and nonsensical boasts of chivalry. None of them were Knights.
He found Pylos waiting near the punishment pit by the Seneschal's Court.
A group of older acolytes, their faces contorted in a cruel mockery of amusement, were hurling tomatoes at a hapless boy who stood shivering in the center of the pit.
Caelum felt the punishments were too cruel, but it was better than handing them over to the Hightowers to be kept in the cells.
As he approached Pylos, he asked "What was he accused of?"
"Hmm? Oh, him." Pylos said, as he greeted Caelum "Well, he was caught near the vaults. A lot of people have been trying to steal the stones from there. Enough about him, how was the mummer show today?"
Caelum rolled his eyes, a wry grin forming on his lips. "Very funny, Pylos. It was riveting as always. I'm surprised those benches aren't full to bursting."
Pylos snorted. "You'd be surprised. More than half the students have already dropped Higher Mysteries. Can't imagine why you're still attending."
Caelum sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I've been wondering the same thing myself, to be honest. I am thinking of leaving… we'll see. I will join you in the library for the next lesson, either way."
"Now you're speaking my language!" Pylos beamed. "In celebration of your newfound sanity, I'll even buy you dinner at the Quill and Tankard. It's on me."
"I'll hold you to that," Caelum chuckled. A warm meal sounded much more appealing than another afternoon of Maester Quillion's theatrical demonstrations.
"Speaking of dinner," Pylos said, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "I need to start memorizing the 'Flora of The Seven Kingdoms' for Lorcas's next lecture. Fancy helping me out? I don't understand how you already have it all stored in your head. It's not fair that you can handle four lessons while the rest of us struggle with three."
"Why would you want to take four lessons?" Caelum raised an eyebrow. "Most of these highborns are allowed to become acolytes with just one link. If you should be jealous of anyone, it's of them."
Pylos scoffed. "Well, I can't exactly change my birth, can I? And I'm not jealous, you fool. I just think you're mad for taking on so much."
He clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll help you with those plants. Why don't we take a stroll through the gardens, that will help you identify the herbs."
Caelum had helped Meredith, Aunt Marna and Aunt Serra on multiple occasions in preparing poultices for the sick back home, he knew almost half these herbs already.
He'd already begun working towards four links - a rare undertaking for a novice, but he was determined to excel. A yellow gold link for money and accounts, silver for medicine, platinum for languages and negotiation, and the Valyrian steel link for the study of higher mysteries.
But the disappointment with Higher Mysteries had cast a shadow over his goals.
The low number of maesters who forged that link wasn't due to its difficulty, as he'd initially thought, but rather to its lack of substance. Only one in a hundred maesters forge a Valyrian Steel link. They all hoped for a deeper understanding of the forces that Caelum knew existed, but found only dusty texts and disillusioned scholars.
In his frustration, Caelum had sought solace in the library, delving into books on history and ravenry, subjects far removed from his initial focus.
The vast collection was a chaotic wonderland, overflowing with scrolls and tomes organized with an infuriating disregard for any logical system.
Yet, even in its disarray, the library offered a quiet refuge from the disappointments of the classroom.
Pylos, too, was working towards three links: yellow gold for money and accounts, silver for medicine, and platinum for languages and negotiation. A path more typical for a novice, especially of low birth, but one he pursued with a single-mindedness that Caelum found both admirable and slightly amusing.
As they entered the library, the scent of aged parchment and beeswax filled their nostrils. The towering shelves seemed to stretch towards the heavens, a dizzying labyrinth of knowledge waiting to be explored.
"There has to be a better way of finding books in this mess!" Pylos complained as they began searching for another copy of 'Flora of The Seven Kingdoms: A Medicinal Exploration' in the healing herbs section of the library.
They had to find a copy every time they wanted to read it when they explored the library. It was a daunting task.
Luckily, it was one of the books that maesters used in their lessons and had high demand.
They were readily available for maesters, acolytes and novices to peruse. One just had to find it in the mess.
"If you find a better way to search for books, then please inform Archmaester Guyne. He'll have finally succeeded in his endeavor to organize the library. And you'll have been the first in centuries to do so. You'll make history at the very least!" A voice slightly amused, drifted from a nearby alcove.
Caelum and Pylos turned to find two boys perched on a worn bench, their eyes fixed on the newcomers.
One, with pale skin and a mop of unruly ginger hair, sat beside another, long dark-haired with striking amethyst eyes, and a lithe small frame, who held the familiar tome, Flora of the Seven Kingdoms, open on his lap as he observed them with a curious tilt of his head.
Pylos gasped. "You're Yandel!" he blurted out, his eyes wide with surprise. "Everyone knows you. You grew up here, didn't you?"
Yandel, clearly used to the attention, offered a polite smile. "That's right," he confirmed. "And this is my friend, Nerf. We're both novices."
"I'm Pylos, and this is Caelum," Pylos replied, eager to meet the other novices of the citadel. "We just arrived a few weeks ago."
Caelum, his eyes drawn to the coveted book in Nerf's lap decided to take a direct approach. "Forgive my interruption, but I couldn't help but notice that you have Flora of the Seven Kingdoms. Would you mind if I borrowed it once you're finished?"
Nerf, the quieter of the two, nodded readily. "Of course," he said, pushing the book towards Caelum. "We were just discussing the medicinal properties of sweetsleep. Fascinating stuff."
"Indeed," Caelum agreed, his eyes scanning the pages eagerly. "It's a useful plant, especially for treating insomnia."
Yandel's smile widened. "We attend the same lessons with Maester Lorcas, actually." he said, gesturing towards Caelum and Pylos. "I've seen you there a few times."
Caelum and Pylos exchanged surprised glances. They hadn't noticed the boys before, their attention usually focused on the task at hand.
Yandel was somewhat well known at the citadel. Arch Maester Edgerran had raised the lad himself.
"Well, then," Caelum said with a grin, "we should definitely study together. Four heads are better than two, as they say."
Nerf nodded eagerly. "Absolutely!" He tapped the book in Caelum's hands. "I find this particular subject fascinating. Did you know that the bark of willow can be used to ease pain and inflammation?"
Caelum's eyebrows raised. "Yes, I've heard of that. My aunt used to make a potion from willow bark for pain. She also used moldy bread for treating wounds, though I'm not sure how that works."
Yandel leaned forward, his voice hushed with excitement. "It's the mold itself! It has properties that can prevent infection."
He paused, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Speaking of infection, Maester Lorcas' next lesson will be all about leeching. You both should read up on it beforehand."
"Leeching? I've heard of it," Caelum said cautiously, "but I haven't seen it used firsthand. Is it effective?"
"Surprisingly so," Nerf replied. "They can help drain excess blood and reduce swelling. Some maesters even believe they can draw out infection."
Pylos, who had been listening intently, interjected, "But how do they know which blood to take? And how do they stop the bleeding afterward?"
Nerf shrugged. "I'm not entirely sure." He paused, then added with a grin, "Perhaps we could ask Maester Lorcas about it during our next lesson."
Caelum nodded, frustration rising in his head again.
He had seen the tiny infectious creatures that caused most disease, with his magical sight.
He knew those little critters caused infections and most diseases.
In fact, he had brought up the idea to Archmaester Ebrose when he had sat by him during a lesson that Maester Lorcas taught sometime, a few days ago.
The Archmaester had been amused by the idea, and Caelum had felt frustrated.
He didn't know how to explain that he could see those beings with his very eyes without letting him know of his magical sight.
The kind old maester had offered to investigate the idea further, but Caelum doubted it would go anywhere.
The conversation shifted, flowing from one topic to the next as the hours passed.
The scent of parchment and beeswax mingled with the faint aroma of the Honeywine River wafting through the open windows.
Caelum learned that Yandel, much like his mentor Archmaester Edgerran, was pursuing a copper link in history for his first link, alongside red gold for money and accounts, and black iron for ravenry.
He, too, had taken on a fourth lesson, for the silver link of medicine, mirroring Caelum's own ambitious path.
Nerf, on the other hand, was focusing on the red gold link for numbers and sums, alongside silver for medicine and yellow gold for money and accounts.
A practical combination, Caelum mused, but one that lacked the allure of the less-trodden paths.
As the afternoon sun began to cast long shadows across the library floor, the four novices closed their books with a reluctant sigh.
The initial awkwardness of their meeting had given way to a sense of camaraderie, a shared hunger for knowledge that transcended their differing backgrounds.
Their study session was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps and a hushed conversation.
A familiar figure, the lanky acolyte Patrick, emerged from the stacks, leading a frail yet distinguished-looking man towards their table.
"Archmaester Ebrose," Patrick announced with a hint of self-importance, "I believe these are the novices you wished to speak with." He gestured towards Caelum and Pylos, a smug smile playing on his lips.
Archmaester Ebrose, his eyes twinkling with warmth, nodded at Patrick. "Thank you, Patrick. I will take it from here."
Patrick bowed stiffly, his back ramrod straight, and retreated back into the labyrinth of shelves.
"Too stiff that one" The old Archmaester chuckled when Patrick was out of ear shot. Then he turned to the group and said "Good afternoon, my young scholars, I hope I'm not interrupting your studies."
"Not at all, Archmaester," Caelum replied, rising to his feet. Pylos and Yandel followed suit, while Nerf offered a shy nod.
Ebrose's gaze lingered on Caelum for a moment. "Caelum, would you mind accompanying me to the Weeping Docks? There's a matter I'd like to discuss with you. Your friends are welcome to join us, of course."
Yandel and Nerf exchanged a quick glance. "Thank you for the invitation, Archmaester," Yandel said, "but I must return to assist Archmaesters Edgerran and Gyldalyn with their work on Fire & Blood."
"Of course." Ebrose smiled and nodded as Yandel began packing his rucksack.
As he was about to leave, the old man said "Oh, and Yandel. Would you kindly apologize to Gyldalyn, and thank him and Castos for covering for me at the meeting?"
Yandel nodded, and said, "I will, Archmaester Ebrose."
Nerf then said, "I would love to come, but I fear I will be late for supper." He bowed to Ebrose, "Farewell, Archmaester. It was a pleasure meeting you. You too, Caelum, Pylos. I hope we study together again."
Caelum and Pylos nodded as they bid their new friends goodbye "We'll wait for you in the library. We should read together often."
Nerf smiled, and nodded as he too took his leave.
Caelum and Pylos looked at each other, their curiosity piqued. "We'd be honored to accompany you, Archmaester," Caelum said.
Ebrose's smile widened. "Excellent. Shall we?" He gestured towards the library exit, a hint of urgency in his tone.
Ebrose led them out of the grand library, its labyrinthine aisles fading behind them as they descended a winding staircase towards the Weeping Docks.
The docks, a chaotic tangle of piers and fishing boats, marked the edge of the Citadel's imposing structure, a stark contrast to the quiet scholarly atmosphere they'd left behind. Maesters looking to journey to the Bloody Isles usually take a boat from here.
The air was thick with the salty tang of the sea and the cries of gulls circling overhead.
Pylos, unable to contain his curiosity, nudged Caelum in the ribs. "What's this about, eh?" he whispered, his eyes wide with a mix of excitement and apprehension. "Why does the Archmaester want to speak with you specifically?"
Before Caelum could answer, Ebrose chuckled, his voice a warm rumble. "A few days ago, young Caelum shared a rather intriguing idea with me," he said, turning to face them with a twinkle in his eye. "He spoke of tiny, unseen creatures that might be responsible for the diseases that afflict us. I'd like to explore that idea further, especially in light of a troubling illness that's affecting the smallfolk near the docks."
Caelum's heart skipped a beat.
He hadn't expected the Archmaester to remember their brief conversation. It had been a passing comment, born out of frustration and a desire to share the knowledge gleaned from his unique sight.
Pylos, however, was brimming with questions. "Tiny creatures? What sort of creatures?" He looked at Caelum, his brow furrowed in confusion. "You never mentioned this to me."
Caelum shrugged, a nervous smile playing on his lips. "It was just a thought, Pylos. Nothing concrete."
Ebrose raised a placating hand, as they made their way down to the docks. "There's no need for alarm, my young friends. This is merely a preliminary investigation. But Caelum's insight intrigued me, and I believe it warrants further exploration."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the bustling docks. "The illness that's spreading through the Weeping Docks is quite a common occurrence. The symptoms are severe – violent cramps, bloody stools, and a rapid decline in health. We've tried the usual remedies, a concoction of wormwood, nettled wine, and warmed mint. We have learned our lesson with the Great Spring Sickness, and have isolated the docks from the rest of the city."
A sense of urgency filled Ebrose's voice. "The sickness should pass in time, but I believe that testing Caelum's idea would hold merit."
"Tiny creatures?" Pylos echoed, his voice rising an octave. "Invisible to the naked eye? Archmaester, are you sure it's wise for us to be here? We could catch the sickness ourselves!"
Ebrose chuckled, patting Pylos reassuringly on the back. "Calm yourself, young Pylos. If it were that easy to catch, half of Oldtown would be bedridden by now. Vapors are notoriously difficult to contain, after all."
Despite Ebrose's reassurances, Pylos remained visibly uncomfortable as they reached the edge of the dock. The smell of the salty Honeywine river wafted toward them.
A tall, slightly stooped man with kind eyes and a fatherly air approached them, his grey robes adorned with a heavy maester's chain. "Archmaester Ebrose," he greeted the Archmaester with a concerned frown, "why would you bring novices here? They shouldn't be exposed to this contamination."
"Maester Qyburn," Ebrose replied, a hint of amusement in his voice, "I assure you, they're under my protection. Besides, young Caelum here had an idea I wanted to explore."
Qyburn's brow furrowed. "An idea? From a novice?" He glanced at Caelum, his skepticism evident. "I must admit, I'm curious to know what could possibly intrigue the Archmaester of Healing."
Ebrose patted Caelum's back encouragingly. "Caelum believes that diseases might be caused by minuscule creatures, too small to see with the naked eye. I believe that if these creatures inhabit the vapors that cause this disease, then we may be on the verge of discovering an effective treatment for it. Perhaps burning incense laced with mould."
Qyburn's skepticism deepened. "Invisible creatures, you say?" he scoffed, though a spark of interest flickered in his eyes. "While I find it hard to believe that a novice could offer any meaningful insights, I'm always open to new ideas. After all," he added with a pointed look at Ebrose, "we mustn't discount any possibility, no matter how outlandish it may seem."
Ebrose chuckled. "Indeed, Maester Qyburn. Indeed. Now, shall see if his idea holds any water?"
Qyburn, his curiosity piqued, nodded and led the group deeper into the ramshackle town built inside the walls of the citadel, near the Weeping Docks.
As they passed through the narrow alleys, the sight of guardsmen in Hightower livery patrolling the streets was a stark reminder of the sickness's grip on the community.
The guards, their faces grim, politely urged residents to remain indoors.
One, recognizing Archmaester Ebrose, bowed respectfully and allowed them to pass.
"The sickness began spreading rapidly three days ago," Qyburn explained as they walked. He turned to Caelum, a hint of challenge in his eyes. "If, as you suggest, it's caused by tiny creatures, where might they originate?"
Ebrose, sensing Caelum's hesitation, placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Take your time, my boy. Observe, and investigate. And think your ideas through."
Caelum nodded, closing his eyes for a moment to focus on his heightened senses.
The world around him sharpened, the ordinary sights and sounds becoming intensely vivid.
His vision seemed to pierce through walls, revealing the pale faces and writhing bodies of the afflicted within their homes.
Caelum closed his eyes, focusing his senses. The air itself crackled with whispers, each a fragment of suffering echoing through the narrow streets.
"...blood...so much blood..." a woman's voice, weak and trembling, reached him from a nearby house. "The fever... it won't break..."
A child's whimper followed, punctuated by the sound of retching. "Mama... hurts... burning..."
From another dwelling, a man's raspy cough echoed, followed by a string of curses. "Damn this flux! Another bloody stool... I can't keep anything down..."
A chorus of moans and feverish cries filled the air, a symphony of pain that sent chills down Caelum's spine.
He could almost feel the heat radiating from flushed skin.
As they walked, Caelum noticed something peculiar.
Every house they passed contained the same minuscule creatures in their water.
These tiny critters swarmed in the murky depths of pitchers and cups, their wriggling forms a grotesque dance of disease.
Caelum stopped abruptly, his eyes fixed on a nearby guard. "Where do these people get their water?" he asked.
The guard, startled by the intensity in Caelum's eyes, stammered, "From the well, mostly. It's the same one that we use for the citadel. Some boil water from the Honeywine, but it's a salty river, not good for drinking."
"Show me the well," Caelum demanded, a sense of urgency gripping him.
Maester Qyburn, his brow furrowed, interjected, "You think the well is poisoned?"
"I don't know," Caelum replied, his voice barely audible. "But I need to see."
The guard, recognizing the authority in Ebrose's voice, reluctantly led them to a central square where a stone well stood, its wooden bucket hanging idle.
Caelum peered into the depths, his vision effortlessly piercing the murky water. On the surface, it seemed clean enough, but deeper down, a horrifying sight met his eyes.
The bloated carcass of a dog lay submerged at the bottom, its fur matted and its limbs contorted in a macabre tableau.
Without hesitation, Caelum seized the well's rope, untied the bucket, and fashioned a makeshift noose.
"What are you doing?" Qyburn asked.
"I am checking to see if my hunch is right?!" Caelum responded.
He lowered it into the well, his heart pounding as he fished for the dead animal.
"Aha! So it was poisoned!" Qyburn affirmed.
"Maester, you could call it poison, but the poison itself is a writhing mass of tiny living creatures," Caelum said, as he lowered the dead animal onto the ground.
Both Qyburn and Ebrose leaned over the carcass, their faces wrinkled in disgust.
"The poor creature," Ebrose murmured. "It looks like it was cut open. Its blood must have been drained before it was dropped in the well."
Qyburn nodded in agreement. "A tragic accident, no doubt. But there is hardly evidence of invisible creatures."
Caelum bit back a frustrated sigh.
How could he explain what he saw without revealing his secret?
The writhing mass of malevolent tiny life in the well water was undeniable to him, a stark contrast to the clear liquid that appeared to the naked eye.
Ebrose placed a hand on Caelum's shoulder. "Your idea is certainly novel, my boy," he said, his voice kind but firm. "But it lacks... substance. We need more than a hunch to overturn centuries of medical understanding."
Caelum nodded, a wave of disappointment washing over him.
He knew he couldn't reveal his true abilities.
But the truth, as he saw it, was right there in front of them, hidden in plain sight.
"Perhaps," Ebrose continued, a thoughtful look on his face, "we could conduct further tests on the water. See if there are any other anomalies we've overlooked."
Qyburn scoffed. "A waste of time, if you ask me. The dog's blood, and spirit, is the culprit, plain and simple."
Ebrose, however, seemed intrigued by Caelum's theory, however far-fetched it might seem. "I'll have the acolytes collect samples for further analysis," he decided. "We'll see if there's anything unusual about the well's water."
It would be futile, Caelum bit back a sigh.
Seeing something so small would require some sort of contraption capable of seeing the smallest of things.
Like a far-eye, but instead of seeing far, to see tiny things instead.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the docks, Ebrose turned to Caelum and Pylos. "It's getting late, my young friends. You should return to your homes before the gates close." He placed a hand on Caelum's shoulder. "You have a sharp mind, Caelum, and a keen eye for detail. You'll make a fine healer one day."
Caelum nodded, dejection coloring his face.
He bade the two maesters goodbye and left for the main city of Oldtown.
He needed to rest.
As they walked away, Qyburn and Ebrose continued their discussion. "This incident," Qyburn mused, "it supports my theory about residual energies. Every living being leaves a trace behind, and it's not so different for those in death. In this case, the dog's foul spirit corrupted the well's water."
Pylos, his earlier fears forgotten, punched Caelum playfully on the arm. "You have a keen eye, Caelum. I don't know how, but you always seem to want to run at the source of trouble…. But I am grateful, I suppose. If that sickness had spread beyond the docks, it could have been disastrous."
Caelum managed a weak smile. "I just hope they figure out the real cause," he muttered under his breath.
Pylos, sensing his friend's unease, grinned. "Don't worry, you'll get that silver link in no time. Ebrose clearly sees your potential. I'm almost jealous, to be honest."
Caelum chuckled, a touch of warmth returning to his chest. "Jealousy isn't a very scholarly emotion, Pylos."
"True," Pylos conceded. "But I am allowed to feel a pang of envy when his friend is clearly outshining him. Archmaester Ebrose likes you, and he takes the tests for medicine. That's one link that you have already forged as far I am concerned." He slung an arm around Caelum's shoulders. "Now, about that dinner at the Quill and Tankard… I believe I owe you two meals now."
Caelum smiled, slightly.
He was not feeling hungry anymore.
"Some other time, Pylos. I am not so hungry." Caelum said, as they walked past the Citadel's massive gates. "Perhaps on the morrow?"
Pylos hesitated, he could see his friend was feeling down "Yeah, tomorrow sounds nice too. Liernen should have good food at the Learned Anchor anyway."
The Learned Anchor was the inn where Pylos and Caelum had found board.
It was a distance away from the citadel, almost at the other end of the city of Oldtown. The Quill and Tankard was simply nearer to the citadel, and Caelum was in no mood to eat.
The stone streets of Oldtown were bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun as Caelum and Pylos made their way back to the Learned Anchor.
The city's labyrinthine alleys and bustling markets buzzed with activity, but Caelum barely noticed the sights and sounds around him. His mind was consumed by the mystery of how to get the Archmaesters to see what he does, without revealing his magical sight.
The imposing silhouette of the Hightower loomed in the distance, its peak painted gold by the fading light of the sun that engulfed the fire at its top.
By the time they reached the Learned Anchor, the sun had vanished below the horizon, leaving the sky awash in a deep indigo hue.
The inn was bustling with activity, its common room filled with patrons returning from the Starry Sept.
The smell of roasted meat and freshly baked bread mingled with the comforting aroma of hearth smoke.
Fern, her short boyish brown hair tousled and her amethyst eyes sparkling with curiosity, spotted them first.
"There you are!" she exclaimed, wiping her hands on her apron. "You're late. Were you held up by something important?"
Pylos puffed up his chest, a proud grin spreading across his face. "As a matter of fact, Archmaester Ebrose himself requested our presence."
Fern's eyes widened. "Both of you?" she teased, nudging Caelum playfully. "What could the esteemed Archmaester possibly want with you, Caelum?"
Pylos sputtered indignantly. "I said both of us, not just Caelum!"
Fern chuckled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Oh, I'm sure he did, Pylos. But it seems our Caelum is quite the popular fellow. In fact," she lowered her voice, "another Archmaester is waiting for him upstairs in his room."
Caelum's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Another Archmaester?"
Fern nodded. "He arrived a few hours ago. I've sent him to your room. Don't worry, I've already told father you will be busy this evening."
Caelum felt gratitude for his friend, and said "Then I should go and see what he wants with me"
"Should I bring up food?" Fern offered, as he made his way toward the stairs past the crowd of patrons.
"No, thank you, Fern. I am not in the mood to eat." Caelum replied, "Though, write down Pylos' meal today on me."
"You're the best Caelum!" Pylos exclaimed "That's three meals I owe you now!"
"You owe me nothing!" Caelum shouted as he finally reached upstairs.
As he approached his room, he activated his magical sight, peering through the wooden door.
The room was dark, the only illumination coming from the pale moonlight from the open window.
A figure sat hunched in the shadows, his features obscured by the gloom.
What did Archmaester Marwyn want with him?
Caelum had tried to find the elusive maester after the disappointment that was Quillion's lessons, but the maester seemed to almost always be in his chamber, or somewhere in the city.
With a deep breath, he pushed open the door, the hinges creaking softly in the quiet hallway.
As he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
A shiny shimmering candle in the man's hand suddenly flared to life, illuminating the face of the waiting figure.
He quickly snuffed it with his right hand and turned to stare at him.
Archmaester Marwyn leaned forward, the moonlight dancing on his weathered face. "So, you are the one?" he rasped, his voice barely a whisper. "It's you. You are the sun!"
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
Well, I have fleshed out the citadel as best I could.
Don't worry, Caelum does not have any added magic.
The Glass candle is reacting to Caelum's bio-electric field.
Sunlight poured through the narrow, arched window of the lecture hall, casting geometric patterns on the dusty floor.
Caelum, his black hair tousled and his blue eyes alight with a mixture of curiosity and disappointment, shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden bench.
Half a moon had passed since his arrival at the Citadel, and the glow of anticipation had faded, replaced by a nagging sense of disillusionment.
He'd come seeking the ancient magicks, the secrets of a power he knew thrummed faintly within himself.
Yet, the esteemed Maester Quillion and his study of the higher mysteries offered little to ease this relentless ache.
"True magic is dead," Maester Quillion had declared on their very first day. His voice, as weathered as the crumbling tomes lining the hall, echoed with a dismissive finality. "With the dragons died the last embers of sorcery, more than a century ago in the Dance of the Dragons. What remains are fragments of old power, echoes of a time lost. Mysteries, yes, but mysteries to be unraveled with logic, not spells."
"Consider the Wall," the maester had declared, his voice resonating with a strange mixture of awe and dismissal. "A towering edifice of ice, impossibly resilient against the passage of time and the harsh northern elements. Ancient magics, they say, wove enchantments to preserve it – potent spells now lost to us."
A hush had fallen over the room, the novices leaning forward in fascination.
Maester Quillion had continued. "And far to the south stands, here in the heart of oldtown, the Hightower, its foundation built upon an oily black stone unlike any found in these lands. Legends claim sorcery transported it from a distant realm, imbued it with strength beyond natural means." He paused, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Or perhaps some canny mage understood principles of architecture that we, alas, have yet to rediscover."
His gaze had swept the room, settling on each eager face. "Then there are the Valyrian roads, in parts of Essos, smooth ribbons of stone that defy decay, their construction a puzzle no mason of our time can solve. Did the dragonlords of old possess secrets of earth and fire that we can only dream of?"
He'd lowered his voice, a touch of drama lacing his tone. "There was a time, my dear novices, when the world thrummed with different kinds of power. The breaking of the Arm of Dorne, the uncanny bond of the skinchangers, the greenseers and dragon dreamers communing with visions… yes, there was once magic."
A tremor of excitement had run through the novices.
"But those flames have been extinguished," Maester Quillion had said firmly. "With the dragons died the last vestiges of true sorcery. Their fire-fueled spells, their blood-birthed rituals. Magic, however potent, was not inexhaustible. And now…" he shrugged, "now its echoes only serve to deepen the shadows of mystery."
He'd gestured towards the towering shelves that lined the hall. "Our task, here at the Citadel, is to illuminate those shadows. Logic is our torch, reason our weapon. It is by understanding the mechanics of the world, not clinging to faded enchantments, that we shall unveil the truth behind the wonders left in magic's wake. For now, in a world of men, there is no longer a place for such powerful magicks."
The Maester's words, like cold water splashed on a warm flame, had sent a ripple of unease through the eager crowd of novices.
A boy, barely into his manhood, raised a hesitant hand. "Maester," he began, a tremor in his voice, "if such powerful magics existed… could they be found again? Rediscovered, perhaps?"
Maester Quillion had stroked his greying beard thoughtfully. "There are those who dedicate their lives to this pursuit," he admitted, a hint of caution in his tone. "They delve into crumbling scrolls, seek whispers amongst dwindling folk in far-off corners of the realms and beyond. Why, some of these people are famous in the histories for their actions that shaped the realm. Brynden Rivers would be one such individual. Yet," he raised a warning finger, "know this: the ancient texts speak of sacrifice, prices paid for manipulating the forces of nature."
His gaze became distant, haunted. "Skinchangers forging a bond with beast… at the cost of a piece of their very soul. Seers, be they green-seers or dragon dreamers, delving into the mists of past and future… their bodies ravaged, their minds sometimes broken." He shuddered slightly. "And shadowbinding… ah, the tales from those dark rituals from the far and distant land of Asshai by the Shadow, make even the stoutest maesters tremble."
A collective gasp rose from the novices. Caelum felt his skin crawl, images of monstrous deeds flickering through his mind's eye.
Maester Quillion sighed, the weight of centuries of lost knowledge echoing in the simple act. "Some sacrifices were subtle – a measure of blood offered to the gods for a glimpse of the future. Others…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "Let us just say that the price of bending nature's laws to one's will was often monstrous, the result rarely guaranteed. Sometimes, such horrifying sacrifices barely even bore fruit. Thousands of lives perished, but magic bore but a fart in the wind for wonder."
He had fixed them with a stern look. "Remember," he said, his voice ringing clear, "it's been a century and more since the last Targaryen dragon took flight. Whatever vestiges of flame-fueled sorcery remained has vanished with those magnificent creatures. Rituals, once perhaps infused with power, have now fallen silent. Magic may have left its mark upon the world, but as far as we know, it no longer walks among men. There is no room for it in the wiser world."
Today, the room was nearly deserted.
The once enthusiastic crowd of novices had dwindled with each passing lesson.
Those who remained, like Caelum, were driven by a mix of stubborn hope and a fascination with the strange tricks and illusions that formed the core of Maester Quillion's teachings. Others merely wanted to replicate to head home, and swindle their audiences.
"Behold!" The maester's thin frame occupied the center of the worn stone room, his hands wreathed in flame. They flickered, a mesmerizing dance of orange and yellow, but caused him no apparent pain. "What sorcery is this? A simple trick, nothing more."
A few gasps of half-hearted awe echoed from the sparsely filled benches.
Caelum stifled a sigh.
"I will reveal the secrets to you," Maester Quillion continued, his voice rising in a dramatic flourish, "The common man sees and believes in wonders without understanding. Yet understanding is the true miracle. Sulphur, egg white, and a touch of purslane – harmless on their own. When combined…" He extinguished the flames, shaking the blackened residue from his hands. "…they form a barrier, shielding the skin from harm."
Caelum remembered that first day, when the room was crammed with excited faces.
Back then, Caelum's own secret, the strange power that pulsed below the surface, had thrummed in anticipation.
Now, the sensation was replaced by a dull prickle of frustration.
He couldn't wait for the lesson to end.
Lomas Longstrider and his adventures. Alongside a score of other books had filled Caelum's time outside of lessons. He couldn't take the books back with him to the inn, otherwise, he would have spent his nights reading too.
After he helped Fern take care of the inn with her father, Liernen that is.
The thrill of the scribe's explorations resonated with his own stifled longing for discovery. Longstrider's detailed descriptions of far-flung wonders had both stoked Caelum's desire for real magic and, frustratingly, confirmed Maester Quillion's assertions.
It seemed the world of enchantments and magics was bound to books, not a living reality anymore.
Besides, Caelum was well-versed in the mummer's concoctions.
Longstrider, bless his wandering soul, had detailed their uses and variations in one of his lesser-known treatises.
The Citadel's own library, a labyrinthine maze of scrolls and neglected volumes, had yielded that peculiar tome along with countless others devoured by Caelum's restless mind.
The Citadel's library held treasures beyond imagining.
Yet those dusty stacks also held a cruel truth – magic as a living, breathing force was all but extinct. He longed to feel its thrum, somewhere else than what was beneath his skin, but the secrets he sought remained frustratingly elusive.
Caelum's heightened senses had become both a blessing and a curse.
While they aided him in the mundane – deciphering whispers across a crowded tavern, spotting a misplaced book in the darkened library – they'd also led him down a precarious path.
The Archmaesters' conclave had become an irresistible temptation.
Desperate for news of the war, of his father and brother fighting alongside the Tyrell host against the Stormlanders, he'd begun eavesdropping on their whispered deliberations.
News at the Citadel was often frustratingly slow to arrive.
Ravens bearing messages from across the Seven Kingdoms sometimes brought reports of skirmishes and troop movements, but tidings from the Reach were agonizingly infrequent.
Archmaester Gyldayn seemed enthralled with these reports, meticulously adding them to his ever-growing tome "Fire & Blood." A tome he was working on that accounted for the complete History of all Targaryen Kings.
But for Caelum, they were scraps, fragments of a war he couldn't fully grasp, leaving him gnawed by worry for his family.
With the timing of Conclave meetings now ingrained in his mind, Caelum knew one was in progress this very moment. The allure of forbidden knowledge outweighed the tedium of extinguished flames and clever deceptions.
Maester Quillion's voice faded into a dull hum as Caelum focused, stretching his strange abilities towards the distant chamber where the Archmaesters gathered.
At first, the murmur of voices was indistinct, a jumble of sound barely louder than a buzzing insect.
But with practiced concentration, the words sharpened, resolving into a conversation as clear as if he were a fly on the wall.
"...reduced significantly," Archmaester Theron's gruff voice cut through the mental fog. "Lord Hightower's decision to dispatch Ser Baelor and Ser Garth eastward with the bulk of the Hightower forces and the fleet. To aid Lord Mace leaves fewer guards here than I'd prefer. The watch over the stones is particularly vulnerable."
A pause, then another voice, a reedy tone Caelum recognized as Archmaester Perrestan "Perhaps the stones aren't worth the trouble they've caused, Theron. Lomys shouldn't have sent half a cart loads worth of the shards to the citadel. This defiance of the North is the result from that accursed event. Had the meteor not struck the Reach, had the glass candles not momentarily flared alight across the realm, this war might never have erupted. The fool Marwyn is still trying to get his own glass candle to light up once again ever since."
Archmaester Theron sighed, a hint of exasperation coloring his words. "Lomys couldn't have known the value of the stones then. Lord Hightower has offered to take the bulk of those star-cursed rocks off our hands, I am inclined to agree… Damned prophecies have plagued the Targaryens for generations, Perrestan. The Prince was already obsessed those, much like his father is obsessed with Fire. All looking to rebirth the dragons. It was merely a matter of time before something else caused this damned war."
"I agree with the idea that we send the rocks away to the Hightowers." Another voice, Archmaester Gyldalyn, if Caelum recognized his voice correctly spoke up.
"There have been numerous attempts by acolytes, novices, and fools to nick the stones before they leave the citadel. The only reason they don't target the starry sept itself is fear of the wrath of the gods! Getting the faith to not start some form of the faith uprising after the King burnt the High Septon was hard enough, should those stones also be taken by the small folk, we'll have some sort of Faith militant marching to every house in oldtown by the end of the moon!" Perrestan's nasally voice wheezed, and even Caelum cringed at the sound.
"Then so be it, the stones will be sent to the Hightowers. We'll hold on to just enough that we can keep learning about it should things change in the future. The faith will hold, they too know that the King is cornered, the Dornish will send a small token force, only so far as Princess Elia is under the watchful eye of Jon Connington at Dragonstone." Theron sounded weary and exhausted.
"We have this… opportunity, Perrestan. It is time to rid ourselves of the last copy of 'Blood and Fire' outside of our vaults. The text poisons the minds of those susceptible to Targaryen delusions. It has done so for a century since the last dragon's breath turned cold." He said after a moment's contemplation.
Caelum didn't wish death for anyone, but the Prince had tried to kill him, and his brother at the Tourney of Harrenhal.
At least now he knew why he had done so irrationally at the time.
He just hated everything to do with the Reach. He didn't wish him death, but he certainly hoped he smells like the inside of a tourney helmet for the rest of his days.
Caelum desperately hoped they spoke about the Reach next.
All he knew was that Lord Mace had marched to the aid of some Lord to the east, along the Cockleswent and broken a siege there.
"Dragonstone, and Winterfell sent a raven requesting for a new junior maester. Walys believes he is not long for this world, and Gerard needs aid in preparing for the birth. We have the perfect opportunity. Queen Rhaella is entering the last phase of her pregnancy, in a few moons. Sending someone to finally gain access to Dragonstone's vaults should take care of that for us." Another arch maester, Edgerran, if Caelum's recollection of his voice was any indication.
"Has Ebrose taken the tests for the maesters in medicine already? Where is he? Marwyn's absence from the conclave is expected. Ebrose is another matter entirely… he may not like these meetings, but he attends them regardless." Theron asked after a moment's silence.
"Ebrose is out near the weeping docks. There have been reports from the small folk of violent ceaseless and bloody bowel movements recently…. He has gone down to investigate." Arch maester Castos informed the conclave.
Ebrose was a kind old man, and maester Lorcas had nothing but praises for the kindly old maester.
Caelum had met the old Archmaester on multiple occasions, the man liked to sit with the novices and acolytes while they attended Lorcas' lessons on healing. Despite being the Archmaester of healing himself.
"…but I can confirm, Ebrose has finished testing the new maesters. There are a few promising candidates. He was especially enthusiastic about Luwin." Castos continued.
Caelum was getting antsy, he didn't care which maester got assigned where. Which book the maesters wanted to be removed from where.
If you asked him, remove all books about some prophecy from everywhere.
All he cared to know was how the war was ongoing in the Reach. He knew they were unlikely to discuss his father by name, why would they?
But some news would at least soothe his beating heart.
They said, no news is better than ill news.
They haven't felt the frustration of not knowing, of worrying about the lives of family, knowing you can't do anything for them.
A sudden clap of Maester Quillion's hands, the sound amplified in Caelum's heightened awareness, cut through his eavesdropping. "This concludes today's lesson," Quillion declared, his voice bringing Caelum back to the lecture hall. "Study the texts, I will question you all on the use of Sulphur in lighting a recently extinguished candle."
With a start, Caelum realized the room was emptying.
He hastily gathered his parchment and quill, shoving them into his satchel. The thread of the Archmaesters' conversation slipped away, as his concentration was broken.
He wasn't getting anything important anyway.
He stepped into the sunlit courtyard, scanning the bustling throng for his friend Pylos.
Other novices and acolytes streamed out from various lecture halls.
Caelum joined their ranks, his mind still swirling with the fragments of conversation.
The other students, mostly highborn sons of knights or wealthy merchants, paid him little attention. Caelum had learned quickly that his simple upbringing and lack of a noble lineage marked him as an outsider in their eyes.
It didn't bother him much. He preferred to stay away from their prattling, and nonsensical boasts of chivalry. None of them were Knights.
He found Pylos waiting near the punishment pit by the Seneschal's Court.
A group of older acolytes, their faces contorted in a cruel mockery of amusement, were hurling tomatoes at a hapless boy who stood shivering in the center of the pit.
Caelum felt the punishments were too cruel, but it was better than handing them over to the Hightowers to be kept in the cells.
As he approached Pylos, he asked "What was he accused of?"
"Hmm? Oh, him." Pylos said, as he greeted Caelum "Well, he was caught near the vaults. A lot of people have been trying to steal the stones from there. Enough about him, how was the mummer show today?"
Caelum rolled his eyes, a wry grin forming on his lips. "Very funny, Pylos. It was riveting as always. I'm surprised those benches aren't full to bursting."
Pylos snorted. "You'd be surprised. More than half the students have already dropped Higher Mysteries. Can't imagine why you're still attending."
Caelum sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I've been wondering the same thing myself, to be honest. I am thinking of leaving… we'll see. I will join you in the library for the next lesson, either way."
"Now you're speaking my language!" Pylos beamed. "In celebration of your newfound sanity, I'll even buy you dinner at the Quill and Tankard. It's on me."
"I'll hold you to that," Caelum chuckled. A warm meal sounded much more appealing than another afternoon of Maester Quillion's theatrical demonstrations.
"Speaking of dinner," Pylos said, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "I need to start memorizing the 'Flora of The Seven Kingdoms' for Lorcas's next lecture. Fancy helping me out? I don't understand how you already have it all stored in your head. It's not fair that you can handle four lessons while the rest of us struggle with three."
"Why would you want to take four lessons?" Caelum raised an eyebrow. "Most of these highborns are allowed to become acolytes with just one link. If you should be jealous of anyone, it's of them."
Pylos scoffed. "Well, I can't exactly change my birth, can I? And I'm not jealous, you fool. I just think you're mad for taking on so much."
He clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll help you with those plants. Why don't we take a stroll through the gardens, that will help you identify the herbs."
Caelum had helped Meredith, Aunt Marna and Aunt Serra on multiple occasions in preparing poultices for the sick back home, he knew almost half these herbs already.
He'd already begun working towards four links - a rare undertaking for a novice, but he was determined to excel. A yellow gold link for money and accounts, silver for medicine, platinum for languages and negotiation, and the Valyrian steel link for the study of higher mysteries.
But the disappointment with Higher Mysteries had cast a shadow over his goals.
The low number of maesters who forged that link wasn't due to its difficulty, as he'd initially thought, but rather to its lack of substance. Only one in a hundred maesters forge a Valyrian Steel link. They all hoped for a deeper understanding of the forces that Caelum knew existed, but found only dusty texts and disillusioned scholars.
In his frustration, Caelum had sought solace in the library, delving into books on history and ravenry, subjects far removed from his initial focus.
The vast collection was a chaotic wonderland, overflowing with scrolls and tomes organized with an infuriating disregard for any logical system.
Yet, even in its disarray, the library offered a quiet refuge from the disappointments of the classroom.
Pylos, too, was working towards three links: yellow gold for money and accounts, silver for medicine, and platinum for languages and negotiation. A path more typical for a novice, especially of low birth, but one he pursued with a single-mindedness that Caelum found both admirable and slightly amusing.
As they entered the library, the scent of aged parchment and beeswax filled their nostrils. The towering shelves seemed to stretch towards the heavens, a dizzying labyrinth of knowledge waiting to be explored.
"There has to be a better way of finding books in this mess!" Pylos complained as they began searching for another copy of 'Flora of The Seven Kingdoms: A Medicinal Exploration' in the healing herbs section of the library.
They had to find a copy every time they wanted to read it when they explored the library. It was a daunting task.
Luckily, it was one of the books that maesters used in their lessons and had high demand.
They were readily available for maesters, acolytes and novices to peruse. One just had to find it in the mess.
"If you find a better way to search for books, then please inform Archmaester Guyne. He'll have finally succeeded in his endeavor to organize the library. And you'll have been the first in centuries to do so. You'll make history at the very least!" A voice slightly amused, drifted from a nearby alcove.
Caelum and Pylos turned to find two boys perched on a worn bench, their eyes fixed on the newcomers.
One, with pale skin and a mop of unruly ginger hair, sat beside another, long dark-haired with striking amethyst eyes, and a lithe small frame, who held the familiar tome, Flora of the Seven Kingdoms, open on his lap as he observed them with a curious tilt of his head.
Pylos gasped. "You're Yandel!" he blurted out, his eyes wide with surprise. "Everyone knows you. You grew up here, didn't you?"
Yandel, clearly used to the attention, offered a polite smile. "That's right," he confirmed. "And this is my friend, Nerf. We're both novices."
"I'm Pylos, and this is Caelum," Pylos replied, eager to meet the other novices of the citadel. "We just arrived a few weeks ago."
Caelum, his eyes drawn to the coveted book in Nerf's lap decided to take a direct approach. "Forgive my interruption, but I couldn't help but notice that you have Flora of the Seven Kingdoms. Would you mind if I borrowed it once you're finished?"
Nerf, the quieter of the two, nodded readily. "Of course," he said, pushing the book towards Caelum. "We were just discussing the medicinal properties of sweetsleep. Fascinating stuff."
"Indeed," Caelum agreed, his eyes scanning the pages eagerly. "It's a useful plant, especially for treating insomnia."
Yandel's smile widened. "We attend the same lessons with Maester Lorcas, actually." he said, gesturing towards Caelum and Pylos. "I've seen you there a few times."
Caelum and Pylos exchanged surprised glances. They hadn't noticed the boys before, their attention usually focused on the task at hand.
Yandel was somewhat well known at the citadel. Arch Maester Edgerran had raised the lad himself.
"Well, then," Caelum said with a grin, "we should definitely study together. Four heads are better than two, as they say."
Nerf nodded eagerly. "Absolutely!" He tapped the book in Caelum's hands. "I find this particular subject fascinating. Did you know that the bark of willow can be used to ease pain and inflammation?"
Caelum's eyebrows raised. "Yes, I've heard of that. My aunt used to make a potion from willow bark for pain. She also used moldy bread for treating wounds, though I'm not sure how that works."
Yandel leaned forward, his voice hushed with excitement. "It's the mold itself! It has properties that can prevent infection."
He paused, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Speaking of infection, Maester Lorcas' next lesson will be all about leeching. You both should read up on it beforehand."
"Leeching? I've heard of it," Caelum said cautiously, "but I haven't seen it used firsthand. Is it effective?"
"Surprisingly so," Nerf replied. "They can help drain excess blood and reduce swelling. Some maesters even believe they can draw out infection."
Pylos, who had been listening intently, interjected, "But how do they know which blood to take? And how do they stop the bleeding afterward?"
Nerf shrugged. "I'm not entirely sure." He paused, then added with a grin, "Perhaps we could ask Maester Lorcas about it during our next lesson."
Caelum nodded, frustration rising in his head again.
He had seen the tiny infectious creatures that caused most disease, with his magical sight.
He knew those little critters caused infections and most diseases.
In fact, he had brought up the idea to Archmaester Ebrose when he had sat by him during a lesson that Maester Lorcas taught sometime, a few days ago.
The Archmaester had been amused by the idea, and Caelum had felt frustrated.
He didn't know how to explain that he could see those beings with his very eyes without letting him know of his magical sight.
The kind old maester had offered to investigate the idea further, but Caelum doubted it would go anywhere.
The conversation shifted, flowing from one topic to the next as the hours passed.
The scent of parchment and beeswax mingled with the faint aroma of the Honeywine River wafting through the open windows.
Caelum learned that Yandel, much like his mentor Archmaester Edgerran, was pursuing a copper link in history for his first link, alongside red gold for money and accounts, and black iron for ravenry.
He, too, had taken on a fourth lesson, for the silver link of medicine, mirroring Caelum's own ambitious path.
Nerf, on the other hand, was focusing on the red gold link for numbers and sums, alongside silver for medicine and yellow gold for money and accounts.
A practical combination, Caelum mused, but one that lacked the allure of the less-trodden paths.
As the afternoon sun began to cast long shadows across the library floor, the four novices closed their books with a reluctant sigh.
The initial awkwardness of their meeting had given way to a sense of camaraderie, a shared hunger for knowledge that transcended their differing backgrounds.
Their study session was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps and a hushed conversation.
A familiar figure, the lanky acolyte Patrick, emerged from the stacks, leading a frail yet distinguished-looking man towards their table.
"Archmaester Ebrose," Patrick announced with a hint of self-importance, "I believe these are the novices you wished to speak with." He gestured towards Caelum and Pylos, a smug smile playing on his lips.
Archmaester Ebrose, his eyes twinkling with warmth, nodded at Patrick. "Thank you, Patrick. I will take it from here."
Patrick bowed stiffly, his back ramrod straight, and retreated back into the labyrinth of shelves.
"Too stiff that one" The old Archmaester chuckled when Patrick was out of ear shot. Then he turned to the group and said "Good afternoon, my young scholars, I hope I'm not interrupting your studies."
"Not at all, Archmaester," Caelum replied, rising to his feet. Pylos and Yandel followed suit, while Nerf offered a shy nod.
Ebrose's gaze lingered on Caelum for a moment. "Caelum, would you mind accompanying me to the Weeping Docks? There's a matter I'd like to discuss with you. Your friends are welcome to join us, of course."
Yandel and Nerf exchanged a quick glance. "Thank you for the invitation, Archmaester," Yandel said, "but I must return to assist Archmaesters Edgerran and Gyldalyn with their work on Fire & Blood."
"Of course." Ebrose smiled and nodded as Yandel began packing his rucksack.
As he was about to leave, the old man said "Oh, and Yandel. Would you kindly apologize to Gyldalyn, and thank him and Castos for covering for me at the meeting?"
Yandel nodded, and said, "I will, Archmaester Ebrose."
Nerf then said, "I would love to come, but I fear I will be late for supper." He bowed to Ebrose, "Farewell, Archmaester. It was a pleasure meeting you. You too, Caelum, Pylos. I hope we study together again."
Caelum and Pylos nodded as they bid their new friends goodbye "We'll wait for you in the library. We should read together often."
Nerf smiled, and nodded as he too took his leave.
Caelum and Pylos looked at each other, their curiosity piqued. "We'd be honored to accompany you, Archmaester," Caelum said.
Ebrose's smile widened. "Excellent. Shall we?" He gestured towards the library exit, a hint of urgency in his tone.
Ebrose led them out of the grand library, its labyrinthine aisles fading behind them as they descended a winding staircase towards the Weeping Docks.
The docks, a chaotic tangle of piers and fishing boats, marked the edge of the Citadel's imposing structure, a stark contrast to the quiet scholarly atmosphere they'd left behind. Maesters looking to journey to the Bloody Isles usually take a boat from here.
The air was thick with the salty tang of the sea and the cries of gulls circling overhead.
Pylos, unable to contain his curiosity, nudged Caelum in the ribs. "What's this about, eh?" he whispered, his eyes wide with a mix of excitement and apprehension. "Why does the Archmaester want to speak with you specifically?"
Before Caelum could answer, Ebrose chuckled, his voice a warm rumble. "A few days ago, young Caelum shared a rather intriguing idea with me," he said, turning to face them with a twinkle in his eye. "He spoke of tiny, unseen creatures that might be responsible for the diseases that afflict us. I'd like to explore that idea further, especially in light of a troubling illness that's affecting the smallfolk near the docks."
Caelum's heart skipped a beat.
He hadn't expected the Archmaester to remember their brief conversation. It had been a passing comment, born out of frustration and a desire to share the knowledge gleaned from his unique sight.
Pylos, however, was brimming with questions. "Tiny creatures? What sort of creatures?" He looked at Caelum, his brow furrowed in confusion. "You never mentioned this to me."
Caelum shrugged, a nervous smile playing on his lips. "It was just a thought, Pylos. Nothing concrete."
Ebrose raised a placating hand, as they made their way down to the docks. "There's no need for alarm, my young friends. This is merely a preliminary investigation. But Caelum's insight intrigued me, and I believe it warrants further exploration."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the bustling docks. "The illness that's spreading through the Weeping Docks is quite a common occurrence. The symptoms are severe – violent cramps, bloody stools, and a rapid decline in health. We've tried the usual remedies, a concoction of wormwood, nettled wine, and warmed mint. We have learned our lesson with the Great Spring Sickness, and have isolated the docks from the rest of the city."
A sense of urgency filled Ebrose's voice. "The sickness should pass in time, but I believe that testing Caelum's idea would hold merit."
"Tiny creatures?" Pylos echoed, his voice rising an octave. "Invisible to the naked eye? Archmaester, are you sure it's wise for us to be here? We could catch the sickness ourselves!"
Ebrose chuckled, patting Pylos reassuringly on the back. "Calm yourself, young Pylos. If it were that easy to catch, half of Oldtown would be bedridden by now. Vapors are notoriously difficult to contain, after all."
Despite Ebrose's reassurances, Pylos remained visibly uncomfortable as they reached the edge of the dock. The smell of the salty Honeywine river wafted toward them.
A tall, slightly stooped man with kind eyes and a fatherly air approached them, his grey robes adorned with a heavy maester's chain. "Archmaester Ebrose," he greeted the Archmaester with a concerned frown, "why would you bring novices here? They shouldn't be exposed to this contamination."
"Maester Qyburn," Ebrose replied, a hint of amusement in his voice, "I assure you, they're under my protection. Besides, young Caelum here had an idea I wanted to explore."
Qyburn's brow furrowed. "An idea? From a novice?" He glanced at Caelum, his skepticism evident. "I must admit, I'm curious to know what could possibly intrigue the Archmaester of Healing."
Ebrose patted Caelum's back encouragingly. "Caelum believes that diseases might be caused by minuscule creatures, too small to see with the naked eye. I believe that if these creatures inhabit the vapors that cause this disease, then we may be on the verge of discovering an effective treatment for it. Perhaps burning incense laced with mould."
Qyburn's skepticism deepened. "Invisible creatures, you say?" he scoffed, though a spark of interest flickered in his eyes. "While I find it hard to believe that a novice could offer any meaningful insights, I'm always open to new ideas. After all," he added with a pointed look at Ebrose, "we mustn't discount any possibility, no matter how outlandish it may seem."
Ebrose chuckled. "Indeed, Maester Qyburn. Indeed. Now, shall see if his idea holds any water?"
Qyburn, his curiosity piqued, nodded and led the group deeper into the ramshackle town built inside the walls of the citadel, near the Weeping Docks.
As they passed through the narrow alleys, the sight of guardsmen in Hightower livery patrolling the streets was a stark reminder of the sickness's grip on the community.
The guards, their faces grim, politely urged residents to remain indoors.
One, recognizing Archmaester Ebrose, bowed respectfully and allowed them to pass.
"The sickness began spreading rapidly three days ago," Qyburn explained as they walked. He turned to Caelum, a hint of challenge in his eyes. "If, as you suggest, it's caused by tiny creatures, where might they originate?"
Ebrose, sensing Caelum's hesitation, placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Take your time, my boy. Observe, and investigate. And think your ideas through."
Caelum nodded, closing his eyes for a moment to focus on his heightened senses.
The world around him sharpened, the ordinary sights and sounds becoming intensely vivid.
His vision seemed to pierce through walls, revealing the pale faces and writhing bodies of the afflicted within their homes.
Caelum closed his eyes, focusing his senses. The air itself crackled with whispers, each a fragment of suffering echoing through the narrow streets.
"...blood...so much blood..." a woman's voice, weak and trembling, reached him from a nearby house. "The fever... it won't break..."
A child's whimper followed, punctuated by the sound of retching. "Mama... hurts... burning..."
From another dwelling, a man's raspy cough echoed, followed by a string of curses. "Damn this flux! Another bloody stool... I can't keep anything down..."
A chorus of moans and feverish cries filled the air, a symphony of pain that sent chills down Caelum's spine.
He could almost feel the heat radiating from flushed skin.
As they walked, Caelum noticed something peculiar.
Every house they passed contained the same minuscule creatures in their water.
These tiny critters swarmed in the murky depths of pitchers and cups, their wriggling forms a grotesque dance of disease.
Caelum stopped abruptly, his eyes fixed on a nearby guard. "Where do these people get their water?" he asked.
The guard, startled by the intensity in Caelum's eyes, stammered, "From the well, mostly. It's the same one that we use for the citadel. Some boil water from the Honeywine, but it's a salty river, not good for drinking."
"Show me the well," Caelum demanded, a sense of urgency gripping him.
Maester Qyburn, his brow furrowed, interjected, "You think the well is poisoned?"
"I don't know," Caelum replied, his voice barely audible. "But I need to see."
The guard, recognizing the authority in Ebrose's voice, reluctantly led them to a central square where a stone well stood, its wooden bucket hanging idle.
Caelum peered into the depths, his vision effortlessly piercing the murky water. On the surface, it seemed clean enough, but deeper down, a horrifying sight met his eyes.
The bloated carcass of a dog lay submerged at the bottom, its fur matted and its limbs contorted in a macabre tableau.
Without hesitation, Caelum seized the well's rope, untied the bucket, and fashioned a makeshift noose.
"What are you doing?" Qyburn asked.
"I am checking to see if my hunch is right?!" Caelum responded.
He lowered it into the well, his heart pounding as he fished for the dead animal.
"Aha! So it was poisoned!" Qyburn affirmed.
"Maester, you could call it poison, but the poison itself is a writhing mass of tiny living creatures," Caelum said, as he lowered the dead animal onto the ground.
Both Qyburn and Ebrose leaned over the carcass, their faces wrinkled in disgust.
"The poor creature," Ebrose murmured. "It looks like it was cut open. Its blood must have been drained before it was dropped in the well."
Qyburn nodded in agreement. "A tragic accident, no doubt. But there is hardly evidence of invisible creatures."
Caelum bit back a frustrated sigh.
How could he explain what he saw without revealing his secret?
The writhing mass of malevolent tiny life in the well water was undeniable to him, a stark contrast to the clear liquid that appeared to the naked eye.
Ebrose placed a hand on Caelum's shoulder. "Your idea is certainly novel, my boy," he said, his voice kind but firm. "But it lacks... substance. We need more than a hunch to overturn centuries of medical understanding."
Caelum nodded, a wave of disappointment washing over him.
He knew he couldn't reveal his true abilities.
But the truth, as he saw it, was right there in front of them, hidden in plain sight.
"Perhaps," Ebrose continued, a thoughtful look on his face, "we could conduct further tests on the water. See if there are any other anomalies we've overlooked."
Qyburn scoffed. "A waste of time, if you ask me. The dog's blood, and spirit, is the culprit, plain and simple."
Ebrose, however, seemed intrigued by Caelum's theory, however far-fetched it might seem. "I'll have the acolytes collect samples for further analysis," he decided. "We'll see if there's anything unusual about the well's water."
It would be futile, Caelum bit back a sigh.
Seeing something so small would require some sort of contraption capable of seeing the smallest of things.
Like a far-eye, but instead of seeing far, to see tiny things instead.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the docks, Ebrose turned to Caelum and Pylos. "It's getting late, my young friends. You should return to your homes before the gates close." He placed a hand on Caelum's shoulder. "You have a sharp mind, Caelum, and a keen eye for detail. You'll make a fine healer one day."
Caelum nodded, dejection coloring his face.
He bade the two maesters goodbye and left for the main city of Oldtown.
He needed to rest.
As they walked away, Qyburn and Ebrose continued their discussion. "This incident," Qyburn mused, "it supports my theory about residual energies. Every living being leaves a trace behind, and it's not so different for those in death. In this case, the dog's foul spirit corrupted the well's water."
Pylos, his earlier fears forgotten, punched Caelum playfully on the arm. "You have a keen eye, Caelum. I don't know how, but you always seem to want to run at the source of trouble…. But I am grateful, I suppose. If that sickness had spread beyond the docks, it could have been disastrous."
Caelum managed a weak smile. "I just hope they figure out the real cause," he muttered under his breath.
Pylos, sensing his friend's unease, grinned. "Don't worry, you'll get that silver link in no time. Ebrose clearly sees your potential. I'm almost jealous, to be honest."
Caelum chuckled, a touch of warmth returning to his chest. "Jealousy isn't a very scholarly emotion, Pylos."
"True," Pylos conceded. "But I am allowed to feel a pang of envy when his friend is clearly outshining him. Archmaester Ebrose likes you, and he takes the tests for medicine. That's one link that you have already forged as far I am concerned." He slung an arm around Caelum's shoulders. "Now, about that dinner at the Quill and Tankard… I believe I owe you two meals now."
Caelum smiled, slightly.
He was not feeling hungry anymore.
"Some other time, Pylos. I am not so hungry." Caelum said, as they walked past the Citadel's massive gates. "Perhaps on the morrow?"
Pylos hesitated, he could see his friend was feeling down "Yeah, tomorrow sounds nice too. Liernen should have good food at the Learned Anchor anyway."
The Learned Anchor was the inn where Pylos and Caelum had found board.
It was a distance away from the citadel, almost at the other end of the city of Oldtown. The Quill and Tankard was simply nearer to the citadel, and Caelum was in no mood to eat.
The stone streets of Oldtown were bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun as Caelum and Pylos made their way back to the Learned Anchor.
The city's labyrinthine alleys and bustling markets buzzed with activity, but Caelum barely noticed the sights and sounds around him. His mind was consumed by the mystery of how to get the Archmaesters to see what he does, without revealing his magical sight.
The imposing silhouette of the Hightower loomed in the distance, its peak painted gold by the fading light of the sun that engulfed the fire at its top.
By the time they reached the Learned Anchor, the sun had vanished below the horizon, leaving the sky awash in a deep indigo hue.
The inn was bustling with activity, its common room filled with patrons returning from the Starry Sept.
The smell of roasted meat and freshly baked bread mingled with the comforting aroma of hearth smoke.
Fern, her short boyish brown hair tousled and her amethyst eyes sparkling with curiosity, spotted them first.
"There you are!" she exclaimed, wiping her hands on her apron. "You're late. Were you held up by something important?"
Pylos puffed up his chest, a proud grin spreading across his face. "As a matter of fact, Archmaester Ebrose himself requested our presence."
Fern's eyes widened. "Both of you?" she teased, nudging Caelum playfully. "What could the esteemed Archmaester possibly want with you, Caelum?"
Pylos sputtered indignantly. "I said both of us, not just Caelum!"
Fern chuckled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Oh, I'm sure he did, Pylos. But it seems our Caelum is quite the popular fellow. In fact," she lowered her voice, "another Archmaester is waiting for him upstairs in his room."
Caelum's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Another Archmaester?"
Fern nodded. "He arrived a few hours ago. I've sent him to your room. Don't worry, I've already told father you will be busy this evening."
Caelum felt gratitude for his friend, and said "Then I should go and see what he wants with me"
"Should I bring up food?" Fern offered, as he made his way toward the stairs past the crowd of patrons.
"No, thank you, Fern. I am not in the mood to eat." Caelum replied, "Though, write down Pylos' meal today on me."
"You're the best Caelum!" Pylos exclaimed "That's three meals I owe you now!"
"You owe me nothing!" Caelum shouted as he finally reached upstairs.
As he approached his room, he activated his magical sight, peering through the wooden door.
The room was dark, the only illumination coming from the pale moonlight from the open window.
A figure sat hunched in the shadows, his features obscured by the gloom.
What did Archmaester Marwyn want with him?
Caelum had tried to find the elusive maester after the disappointment that was Quillion's lessons, but the maester seemed to almost always be in his chamber, or somewhere in the city.
With a deep breath, he pushed open the door, the hinges creaking softly in the quiet hallway.
As he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
A shiny shimmering candle in the man's hand suddenly flared to life, illuminating the face of the waiting figure.
He quickly snuffed it with his right hand and turned to stare at him.
Archmaester Marwyn leaned forward, the moonlight dancing on his weathered face. "So, you are the one?" he rasped, his voice barely a whisper. "It's you. You are the sun!"
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
Well, I have fleshed out the citadel as best I could.
Don't worry, Caelum does not have any added magic.
The Glass candle is reacting to Caelum's bio-electric field.
Marwyn: "PRAISE THE SUN!"
Caelum is gonna need to say this line when debuting to intervene, "In this world, kings are as numerous as grains of sand. But I am no such thing. I am an existence unlike any other in this world. Caelum, Warrior of the Sun!"
- Location
- La Serena, Chile
I mean, no need to explain this.
The Glass Candle reacting to Caelum, and existence from beyond this planet, Is pretty much Magical for the incomplete understanding of this Humanity regarding the Cosmos, Let alone the real possibility of Life out there
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The Mad Mage
Chapter 20 –
"I don't understand," Caelum said, as he stared at the stocky man illuminated by moonlight. "What are you talking about? You are mistaken. Clearly, I am just a boy. I am not the sun."
The man stirred, as he indicated to the shiny candle, its wick held tightly in the maester's hand. "The glass candle does not lie, boy!" he intoned.
A cold dread settled in Caelum's stomach.
The whispers were true, Archmaester Marwyn was mad.
"Archmaester," Caelum began, forcing his voice to remain steady, "I believe you're mistaken. Perhaps you've had too much to drink?" He edged towards the door, his hand hovering over the latch.
Marwyn chuckled, "I am not daft, boy!" He rose from his seat, his silhouette growing taller, more imposing in the moonlight. "Ten years ago, a star fell on the Reach, near Highgarden. Everyone in Westeros knows the tale – the Fat Flower made sure of it."
Caelum froze, a chill running down his spine.
He knew the story well. It was the night he'd arrived on this world, a babe carried on a star that blazed across the sky.
"But what they don't know," Marwyn continued, "is that on that very night, glass candles across the world flared to life for but a few moments. Every mage, every sorcerer, every priest from Ib to Asshai by the Shadow who held a candle saw a vision – a vision of the sun."
Caelum's breath hitched in his throat.
Marwyn's eyes seemed to pierce through the darkness, locking onto Caelum's face. "I saw it too, boy. I was in Essos when my candle ignited too. I saw it then. The sun, blazing in all its glory, as it descended upon the earth and snuffed out both fire and ice."
Caelum shook his head, his voice barely a croak. "You're mistaken, Archmaester. I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Mistaken?" Marwyn scoffed. "The star fell on your farm, did it not? Caelum Starborne, the moniker given to you by the Fat Flower himself. The man didn't know how right he was. You are that sun, boy. You are the reason magic will return to this world."
Panic surged through Caelum. "Please, Archmaester, you've had too much to drink. You need to leave."
Marwyn tilted his head, after a moment's silence a small, defeated smile played on his lips.
He took a step closer, the glass candle still clutched in his hand. "Very well," he said. "If you insist. I'll go."
For a moment, Caelum thought that the mad man was indeed leaving, as he approached the door.
Caelum stepped away, allowing him to pass by. But, just as he reached the door, the man turned and hurled the glass candle he had been holding onto straight at him.
The young novice reacted on instinct, his hands shooting out to catch the projectile.
He fumbled and jumped around, as his fingers closed around the cool smooth surface.
Suddenly, just as his grip tightened around the candle, it burst into blinding light, filling the room with an eerie unearthly glow.
Before he could react, Marwyn snatched the candle from his grasp. A thick cloth muffled the glow, plunging the room back into relative darkness.
Marwyn's voice, now edged with triumph, cut through the silence. "You cannot hide, child."
Caelum opened his eyes, blinking against the afterimages that danced before him.
He took a step back, his heart pounding in his chest. "It doesn't mean anything," he insisted, his voice shaking slightly. "I don't trust prophetic visions. A star may have fallen on my family's farm... but it's at best a coincidence."
A low chuckle escaped Marwyn's lips. "Wise words, boy. Never trust a prophecy. They are slippery things, as elusive as smoke and twice as dangerous." He paused, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Gorghan of Old Ghis once wrote that a prophecy is like a treacherous woman. She takes your member in her mouth, and you moan with the pleasure of it and think, how sweet, how fine, how good this is... and then her teeth snap shut and your moans turn to screams. That is the nature of prophecy. Prophecy will bite your prick off every time….."
Caelum cringed at the man's crude language.
Marwyn laughed at his response, "Grow up! If you're affronted by some crude language, then there's no hope for you in this world. Coincidence or not," Marwyn's voice was firm, unwavering, "the glass candles do not lie. Magic will soon return. You cannot hide yours forever." His eyes gleamed in the dim light, filled with a hunger that sent chills down Caelum's spine. "What is it you can do? Are you a skin-changer, a warg? Can you see the future, or command the flames?"
Caelum, backed into a corner, both figuratively and literally, knew the charade was over.
He let out a shaky breath and turned his gaze towards the oil lamp in the corner.
His eyes, usually a vibrant blue, flared crimson, and a searing beam of energy shot forth, igniting the lamp's wick with a silent whoosh.
Marwyn gasped, his face a mask of awe, wonder, and fear. "Magnificent," he breathed. "You're like a Dragon that's taken human form!"
Caelum, adrenaline pumping through his veins, pushed past the stunned Archmaester and slammed the window shut, blocking out the moonlight.
He turned to face Marwyn, his heart pounding in his chest. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice a mixture of defiance and fear.
Marwyn's laughter echoed through the small room, a dry, and raspy. "You think a little fire will scare me? You are asking the wrong questions!" he said, a glint of amusement in his eyes, masked his fear. "I want many things, boy. I want a Dragon of my own, to learn all the magics of the world, a harem of Lyseni women to cater to my every need. But first, I want you to leave this place."
Caelum was both affronted and confused. "Leave the Citadel? Why?"
"Why did you come here in the first place?" Marwyn countered, his voice taking on a sharper edge.
"To learn magic," Caelum admitted.
Marwyn scoffed. "And how is that going for you, eh? Did the mummer's farce with the grey sheep teach you anything useful? The Citadel is a graveyard of knowledge, boy. They hoard secrets, twist them to fit their narrow worldview. The lesson that Quillion teaches is designed to turn novices away from their passion for magic. There is no magic to be found here." He leaned forward, his eyes burning into Caelum's. "Leave this place, boy. There is no magic here. Don't ask too many questions about magic, unless you fancy poison in your afternoon meal."
Caelum bristled. "You're mad," he accused.
Marwyn threw back his head and laughed, "All who seek true magic are a little mad, boy. You and I are no different." His laughter faded, replaced by a chilling seriousness. "Who do you think killed all the dragons the last time around? Gallant dragonslayers armed with swords? The world the Citadel is building has no place for sorcery, prophecy, or glass candles. Much less for dragons. And you are a Dragon in human skin."
He paused; his gaze unwavering. "You've read the histories, haven't you? Brynden Rivers, Bloodraven, the sorcerer prince? Aemon Targaryen, the Dragonknight's brother?"
Caelum nodded, "I have read the histories, yes."
"Both Targaryens," Marwyn continued, "both sent to the Wall. A clever maneuver, orchestrated by the grey sheep here at the Citadel. Brynden grew too powerful, they knew he was a sorcerer. His knowledge and power were a threat to their fragile order. And Aemon... well, he couldn't be trusted. No more than I can be."
A sudden realization struck Caelum. "But you're an Archmaester," he blurted out. "How can you be here if they hate magic so much?"
Marwyn smiled, he sauntered over to the bed and sat down, his eyes never leaving Caelum's face. "Now you're asking the right questions, boy," he smiled at Caelum. "The first step to survival is understanding your enemies. And the second..." He paused, letting the silence hang heavy in the air. "The second is finding allies far more powerful than they are, or growing stronger yourself."
Understanding dawned on Caelum's face. "The Hightowers," he said, the pieces falling into place. "You're close to them, aren't you?"
Marwyn's smile widened, revealing a glint of sharp teeth. "Indeed, boy. Lord Leyton shares my passion for magic, for the secrets the Citadel seeks to bury. It is his coin that keeps this place running, his men who guard the sheep while they sleep." He leaned back against the pillows, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. "When threatened by those more powerful than yourself, you have two choices: grow your own power, or find friends who are even more powerful in turn. I've been doing both."
Caelum crossed his arms, a skeptical look on his face. "I don't trust you, Archmaester. But if what you say is true, then perhaps I should seek Lord Hightower's protection myself. He wouldn't let the maesters harm me if I were under his wing."
"Perhaps," Marwyn replied, his smile still in place. "But do you truly wish to be Leyton's pet? He'd lock you up in that tower of his, poke and prod you like some rare insect. Is that the life you envision for yourself? I have no reason to lie to you. If I wanted, your secret could be out by the first light of tomorrow's sun."
Caelum's eyes narrowing in anger. "Who am I supposed to trust, then?" he spat out. "You? You sneak into my room, lurk in the shadows like a common cutthroat, and then expect me to believe your wild stories?"
Marwyn's smile only widened. "Trust me? Of course not, boy. That would be foolish." His tone turned serious. "It took me half a moon to ferret out your secret, and that was with the advantage of my glass candle. Others with similar tools, or perhaps a sharper eye, could easily uncover your truth."
"And what if they do?" Caelum retorted.
"Do you intend to take the maester's vows?" Marwyn asked, his gaze piercing. "The moment you step into the chamber with the Citadel's own glass candles, their magic will flare, and your ruse will be over."
"I never intended to take the vows," Caelum retorted. "I'll learn what I can, then leave and become a knight."
A scoff escaped Marwyn's lips. "A knight? That's your ambition? To swing a sword and play at chivalry? You, with the power of a dragon in your veins, have your sights set on such a... limited dream?"
Caelum met Marwyn's gaze defiantly. "I want to be a knight, to protect the weak and innocent. That's what matters."
Marwyn leaned forward, his voice a low, urgent whisper. "Did you never wonder why the gods, whichever ones you believe in, sent you here? Why they chose this time, this place, to bring you into the world?"
"You said it yourself, prophecies are dangerous, fickle things," Caelum countered. "I don't need destiny. I have magic, and I'll do with it what I believe is right."
Marwyn shook his head, a disappointed sigh escaping his lips. "Do you even know who you are, boy? Why wouldn't you seek the truth of your existence? Prophecies are dangerous only when you obsess over them. Otherwise, they are very much real."
"I don't need to know," Caelum retorted, his voice hardening. "I have the power to make my own choices, to forge my own path."
"And what path is that?" Marwyn pressed. "The path of a knight? A protector of the realm? You could be so much more."
Caelum remained silent, his gaze fixed on the Archmaester's face. He knew Marwyn was trying to manipulate him, to draw him into his web of secrets and schemes.
Marwyn, sensing his hesitation, leaned closer. "Tell me, boy, what do you know of your destiny?"
Caelum met Marwyn's gaze, defiance warring with uncertainty in his eyes. "Why should I tell you anything? I don't trust you."
"Fair enough," Marwyn conceded. "But I am the only one who can help you find that destiny. And you already know what I want in return. Magic is all that I am interested in."
Caelum stared at Marwyn for a long moment, weighing his options.
Then, slowly, he reached for a leather cord hidden beneath his tunic. He pulled out a simple silver bracelet, its centerpiece a shimmering crystal etched with the symbol of a stylized 'S.'
"This is all I have," he said, holding out the bracelet to Marwyn. "It's the only clue the Gods sent with me."
Marwyn's eyes widened as he gazed at the crystal, a flicker of awe in his usually stoic expression. "Fascinating," he murmured, reaching out a trembling hand to touch the shimmering surface. "It radiates with a light of its own, like the star shards from the fallen star…. Its similar, but not the same."
He withdrew his hand, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. "I believe... I believe I've seen similar symbols in my travels," he said, his voice barely a whisper.
Caelum quickly tucked the bracelet back under his tunic, his heart pounding. "Where?" he asked.
"Many places," Marwyn replied, his eyes distant. "Not exactly the same symbol as this, but similar... at an old temple in the Summer Isles, at the Church of Starry Wisdom in Braavos, at the ruins of the God-King's palace in Ib..." He paused, a shiver running down his spine. "And once, near the edge of Asshai, at the gates of the Great Empire of the Dawn, beneath the Shadow. That's as far as I dared to go. No one goes beneath the Shadow, not without a light of their own."
Caelum's hopes sank. "You've told me nothing," he said, a bitter edge creeping into his voice.
Marwyn leaned forward, his eyes burning with intensity. "Leave the Citadel, boy. Come with me. I've spent eight years in the east, mapping distant lands, searching for lost books, studying with warlocks and shadowbinders. I've learned much, and yet... not enough. To truly understand the mysteries of magic, to bring it back to this world, I must travel beneath the Shadow. And you," he reached out, his hand hovering inches from Caelum's face, "you are the key."
Caelum jerked back, his pulse quickening. "I don't need to travel to Asshai," he retorted. "I have magic here, within me. I can forge my own destiny, right here in Westeros."
Marwyn sighed, "Your vision is limited, boy. You have friends here, yes. But do they truly know you? Do they know the power you hold within youself?"
Caelum's eyes narrowed. "Are you threatening to reveal my secret?"
Marwyn's laughter filled the room once more. "I don't need to, boy. In time, everything will come to light. Your friends will learn the truth of you. And then what? They will fear you, shun you. You will be alone once more, an outcast in a world that doesn't understand you."
"That hasn't happened before," Caelum retorted, his voice gaining a new strength. "I do have friends who know my secret. They don't fear me."
He thought of Luke, his brother in all but blood, and Meredith, the girl who'd become like a sister to him.
They'd seen his magic, his true self, and their bond had only grown stronger.
Marwyn's eyes narrowed. "Friends? Or family, boy? Those are two very different things. Did they rejoice in your magic, embrace it? Or did they beg you to hide it, to keep it locked away like some shameful disease?"
Caelum flinched, a wave of doubt washing over him.
Marwyn's words struck a chord.
Had Luke and Meredith truly accepted his magic, or had they simply learned to tolerate it out of love and loyalty?
"Leave," Caelum whispered, his voice hoarse. "Just... leave."
Marwyn sighed, the fight seeming to drain from him. "Very well, boy. I'll leave you to your illusions." He turned towards the door, his cloak swirling around him like a shroud. But before he left, he paused, he said. "Avoid the Red Temple by the wharf, Caelum Starborne. They've been searching for the 'Bringer of Cataclysm' ever since the Tourney of Harrenhal. Were you involved in that, boy?"
Caelum remained silent, his heart pounding in his chest.
Marwyn shrugged. "Doesn't matter if you tell me. I know you were." He opened the door, a sliver of moonlight illuminating his gaunt features. "Remember, boy, I found your secret in half a moon. If you're not careful, others will too. And the priests of R'hllor may be the first. They have designs for you that you will not like."
With that, he stepped out into the hallway, leaving Caelum alone in the light of the lantern in his room.
Caelum collapsed onto his bed, burying his face in his hands.
The weight of Marwyn's words pressed down on him, a suffocating blanket of doubt and fear.
Was he truly destined for a life of isolation, shunned by those he held dear? He'd had no friends his age at the village, he was too different, too weak, too pitiful then.
Luke and Meredith too had been forced by their Ma's to stay with him in the beginning, and he truly loved them, for they had come to love him regardless. He loved them truly.
Wilas and Garlan didn't know of his magic, and he knew should they have found out, they would have been scared of him, like the Prince's Knights had been that accursed night.
Their family, the Tyrells would try and use him, for their needs, or kill him. He knew that too. Luke had made sure to inform him of that with brutal honesty.
He wondered what Pylos, and Fern would think if they were to find out.
What Yandel and Nerf would think.
He hoped they never did.
He had just made his first friends his age, and he didn't want to lose them because of being different, stronger than they were.
As he lay there, lost in the labyrinth of his own thoughts, a soft knock on the door startled him. He quickly sat up.
"Caelum?" A soft voice came from beyond the door.
"Fern?" Caelum questioned.
"Pylos asked me to bring this up for you," Fern said as she opened the door, and walked in holding a plate laden with food.
It was a steaming bowl of stew, a hunk of freshly baked bread, and a small flagon of ale.
"Thank you," Caelum murmured.
Fern placed the tray on the bedside table, her eyes scanning his face with concern. "Are you alright?" she asked."You seem troubled."
Caelum forced a smile. "It's nothing," he lied. "Just tired from the day."
Fern didn't seem convinced, but she didn't press the issue. Instead, she sat down on the edge of the bed, her amethyst eyes fixed on the flickering lantern.
Fern tilted her head, her amethyst eyes filled with a gentle concern. "I don't know if I can believe that," she said softly. "I've only known you for a short while, but in that time, you've become more than just a guest at the inn. You've helped us so much, both with your work and your kindness."
She reached out, her hand resting on Caelum's arm. "My father and I, we're here for you, Caelum. If you ever need anything, or just someone to talk to, don't hesitate to ask."
Caelum's heart swelled with a mix of gratitude and guilt. He imagined Fern's reaction if she saw him unleashing the fiery power within him. Would her eyes still hold that same warmth, or would fear and revulsion replace it? The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
"Thank you, Fern," he managed, his voice barely a whisper. "I... I appreciate that."
Fern squeezed his hand reassuringly. "Now, eat up," she said, gesturing towards the food. "You shouldn't skip meals, especially not after a long day at the Citadel. And get some rest. You've got lessons tomorrow."
Caelum nodded, a genuine smile finally gracing his lips.
He hoped she would never find his secret out.
"Caelum," Fern began, her voice hesitant, "would you like to come with me to the Starry Sept on the seventh day? People from all over Oldtown come to pray and seek guidance from the Seven." She paused, her eyes searching his face. "I think... I think it might help you find some peace, whatever's troubling you."
Caelum's smile widened. "I'd like that, Fern. Thank you."
Fern returned his smile, a warmth radiating from her amethyst eyes.
She squeezed his hand once more, then rose to leave. "Get some rest, Caelum," she said softly. "Tomorrow is a new day."
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N) This is a shorter chapter than usual. I am a little sick.
Marwyn the Mage. He's a conundrum that I've tried to characterize as best I could.
There isn't much in Canon about him, apart from his near obsession with magic itself.
As for Caelum, well he's a 10-year-old boy. And he is insecure about his powers.
Anyway, I've already begun working on chapter 21. I will get it out soon, to make up for the shorter chapter, I plan to make that one very exciting.
Also, I think I should clarify. Because of Caelum's interference, a lot of the timeline of the OG rebellion was pushed back, if that was not clear already.
Should I include dates? I mean, I was planning on writing maester's reports about some of these battles eventually. Some of the major events will obviously be in the main story too, but adding dates to it felt too, idk, weird. I thought it broke the narrative flow for some reason.
"I don't understand," Caelum said, as he stared at the stocky man illuminated by moonlight. "What are you talking about? You are mistaken. Clearly, I am just a boy. I am not the sun."
The man stirred, as he indicated to the shiny candle, its wick held tightly in the maester's hand. "The glass candle does not lie, boy!" he intoned.
A cold dread settled in Caelum's stomach.
The whispers were true, Archmaester Marwyn was mad.
"Archmaester," Caelum began, forcing his voice to remain steady, "I believe you're mistaken. Perhaps you've had too much to drink?" He edged towards the door, his hand hovering over the latch.
Marwyn chuckled, "I am not daft, boy!" He rose from his seat, his silhouette growing taller, more imposing in the moonlight. "Ten years ago, a star fell on the Reach, near Highgarden. Everyone in Westeros knows the tale – the Fat Flower made sure of it."
Caelum froze, a chill running down his spine.
He knew the story well. It was the night he'd arrived on this world, a babe carried on a star that blazed across the sky.
"But what they don't know," Marwyn continued, "is that on that very night, glass candles across the world flared to life for but a few moments. Every mage, every sorcerer, every priest from Ib to Asshai by the Shadow who held a candle saw a vision – a vision of the sun."
Caelum's breath hitched in his throat.
Marwyn's eyes seemed to pierce through the darkness, locking onto Caelum's face. "I saw it too, boy. I was in Essos when my candle ignited too. I saw it then. The sun, blazing in all its glory, as it descended upon the earth and snuffed out both fire and ice."
Caelum shook his head, his voice barely a croak. "You're mistaken, Archmaester. I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Mistaken?" Marwyn scoffed. "The star fell on your farm, did it not? Caelum Starborne, the moniker given to you by the Fat Flower himself. The man didn't know how right he was. You are that sun, boy. You are the reason magic will return to this world."
Panic surged through Caelum. "Please, Archmaester, you've had too much to drink. You need to leave."
Marwyn tilted his head, after a moment's silence a small, defeated smile played on his lips.
He took a step closer, the glass candle still clutched in his hand. "Very well," he said. "If you insist. I'll go."
For a moment, Caelum thought that the mad man was indeed leaving, as he approached the door.
Caelum stepped away, allowing him to pass by. But, just as he reached the door, the man turned and hurled the glass candle he had been holding onto straight at him.
The young novice reacted on instinct, his hands shooting out to catch the projectile.
He fumbled and jumped around, as his fingers closed around the cool smooth surface.
Suddenly, just as his grip tightened around the candle, it burst into blinding light, filling the room with an eerie unearthly glow.
Before he could react, Marwyn snatched the candle from his grasp. A thick cloth muffled the glow, plunging the room back into relative darkness.
Marwyn's voice, now edged with triumph, cut through the silence. "You cannot hide, child."
Caelum opened his eyes, blinking against the afterimages that danced before him.
He took a step back, his heart pounding in his chest. "It doesn't mean anything," he insisted, his voice shaking slightly. "I don't trust prophetic visions. A star may have fallen on my family's farm... but it's at best a coincidence."
A low chuckle escaped Marwyn's lips. "Wise words, boy. Never trust a prophecy. They are slippery things, as elusive as smoke and twice as dangerous." He paused, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Gorghan of Old Ghis once wrote that a prophecy is like a treacherous woman. She takes your member in her mouth, and you moan with the pleasure of it and think, how sweet, how fine, how good this is... and then her teeth snap shut and your moans turn to screams. That is the nature of prophecy. Prophecy will bite your prick off every time….."
Caelum cringed at the man's crude language.
Marwyn laughed at his response, "Grow up! If you're affronted by some crude language, then there's no hope for you in this world. Coincidence or not," Marwyn's voice was firm, unwavering, "the glass candles do not lie. Magic will soon return. You cannot hide yours forever." His eyes gleamed in the dim light, filled with a hunger that sent chills down Caelum's spine. "What is it you can do? Are you a skin-changer, a warg? Can you see the future, or command the flames?"
Caelum, backed into a corner, both figuratively and literally, knew the charade was over.
He let out a shaky breath and turned his gaze towards the oil lamp in the corner.
His eyes, usually a vibrant blue, flared crimson, and a searing beam of energy shot forth, igniting the lamp's wick with a silent whoosh.
Marwyn gasped, his face a mask of awe, wonder, and fear. "Magnificent," he breathed. "You're like a Dragon that's taken human form!"
Caelum, adrenaline pumping through his veins, pushed past the stunned Archmaester and slammed the window shut, blocking out the moonlight.
He turned to face Marwyn, his heart pounding in his chest. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice a mixture of defiance and fear.
Marwyn's laughter echoed through the small room, a dry, and raspy. "You think a little fire will scare me? You are asking the wrong questions!" he said, a glint of amusement in his eyes, masked his fear. "I want many things, boy. I want a Dragon of my own, to learn all the magics of the world, a harem of Lyseni women to cater to my every need. But first, I want you to leave this place."
Caelum was both affronted and confused. "Leave the Citadel? Why?"
"Why did you come here in the first place?" Marwyn countered, his voice taking on a sharper edge.
"To learn magic," Caelum admitted.
Marwyn scoffed. "And how is that going for you, eh? Did the mummer's farce with the grey sheep teach you anything useful? The Citadel is a graveyard of knowledge, boy. They hoard secrets, twist them to fit their narrow worldview. The lesson that Quillion teaches is designed to turn novices away from their passion for magic. There is no magic to be found here." He leaned forward, his eyes burning into Caelum's. "Leave this place, boy. There is no magic here. Don't ask too many questions about magic, unless you fancy poison in your afternoon meal."
Caelum bristled. "You're mad," he accused.
Marwyn threw back his head and laughed, "All who seek true magic are a little mad, boy. You and I are no different." His laughter faded, replaced by a chilling seriousness. "Who do you think killed all the dragons the last time around? Gallant dragonslayers armed with swords? The world the Citadel is building has no place for sorcery, prophecy, or glass candles. Much less for dragons. And you are a Dragon in human skin."
He paused; his gaze unwavering. "You've read the histories, haven't you? Brynden Rivers, Bloodraven, the sorcerer prince? Aemon Targaryen, the Dragonknight's brother?"
Caelum nodded, "I have read the histories, yes."
"Both Targaryens," Marwyn continued, "both sent to the Wall. A clever maneuver, orchestrated by the grey sheep here at the Citadel. Brynden grew too powerful, they knew he was a sorcerer. His knowledge and power were a threat to their fragile order. And Aemon... well, he couldn't be trusted. No more than I can be."
A sudden realization struck Caelum. "But you're an Archmaester," he blurted out. "How can you be here if they hate magic so much?"
Marwyn smiled, he sauntered over to the bed and sat down, his eyes never leaving Caelum's face. "Now you're asking the right questions, boy," he smiled at Caelum. "The first step to survival is understanding your enemies. And the second..." He paused, letting the silence hang heavy in the air. "The second is finding allies far more powerful than they are, or growing stronger yourself."
Understanding dawned on Caelum's face. "The Hightowers," he said, the pieces falling into place. "You're close to them, aren't you?"
Marwyn's smile widened, revealing a glint of sharp teeth. "Indeed, boy. Lord Leyton shares my passion for magic, for the secrets the Citadel seeks to bury. It is his coin that keeps this place running, his men who guard the sheep while they sleep." He leaned back against the pillows, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. "When threatened by those more powerful than yourself, you have two choices: grow your own power, or find friends who are even more powerful in turn. I've been doing both."
Caelum crossed his arms, a skeptical look on his face. "I don't trust you, Archmaester. But if what you say is true, then perhaps I should seek Lord Hightower's protection myself. He wouldn't let the maesters harm me if I were under his wing."
"Perhaps," Marwyn replied, his smile still in place. "But do you truly wish to be Leyton's pet? He'd lock you up in that tower of his, poke and prod you like some rare insect. Is that the life you envision for yourself? I have no reason to lie to you. If I wanted, your secret could be out by the first light of tomorrow's sun."
Caelum's eyes narrowing in anger. "Who am I supposed to trust, then?" he spat out. "You? You sneak into my room, lurk in the shadows like a common cutthroat, and then expect me to believe your wild stories?"
Marwyn's smile only widened. "Trust me? Of course not, boy. That would be foolish." His tone turned serious. "It took me half a moon to ferret out your secret, and that was with the advantage of my glass candle. Others with similar tools, or perhaps a sharper eye, could easily uncover your truth."
"And what if they do?" Caelum retorted.
"Do you intend to take the maester's vows?" Marwyn asked, his gaze piercing. "The moment you step into the chamber with the Citadel's own glass candles, their magic will flare, and your ruse will be over."
"I never intended to take the vows," Caelum retorted. "I'll learn what I can, then leave and become a knight."
A scoff escaped Marwyn's lips. "A knight? That's your ambition? To swing a sword and play at chivalry? You, with the power of a dragon in your veins, have your sights set on such a... limited dream?"
Caelum met Marwyn's gaze defiantly. "I want to be a knight, to protect the weak and innocent. That's what matters."
Marwyn leaned forward, his voice a low, urgent whisper. "Did you never wonder why the gods, whichever ones you believe in, sent you here? Why they chose this time, this place, to bring you into the world?"
"You said it yourself, prophecies are dangerous, fickle things," Caelum countered. "I don't need destiny. I have magic, and I'll do with it what I believe is right."
Marwyn shook his head, a disappointed sigh escaping his lips. "Do you even know who you are, boy? Why wouldn't you seek the truth of your existence? Prophecies are dangerous only when you obsess over them. Otherwise, they are very much real."
"I don't need to know," Caelum retorted, his voice hardening. "I have the power to make my own choices, to forge my own path."
"And what path is that?" Marwyn pressed. "The path of a knight? A protector of the realm? You could be so much more."
Caelum remained silent, his gaze fixed on the Archmaester's face. He knew Marwyn was trying to manipulate him, to draw him into his web of secrets and schemes.
Marwyn, sensing his hesitation, leaned closer. "Tell me, boy, what do you know of your destiny?"
Caelum met Marwyn's gaze, defiance warring with uncertainty in his eyes. "Why should I tell you anything? I don't trust you."
"Fair enough," Marwyn conceded. "But I am the only one who can help you find that destiny. And you already know what I want in return. Magic is all that I am interested in."
Caelum stared at Marwyn for a long moment, weighing his options.
Then, slowly, he reached for a leather cord hidden beneath his tunic. He pulled out a simple silver bracelet, its centerpiece a shimmering crystal etched with the symbol of a stylized 'S.'
"This is all I have," he said, holding out the bracelet to Marwyn. "It's the only clue the Gods sent with me."
Marwyn's eyes widened as he gazed at the crystal, a flicker of awe in his usually stoic expression. "Fascinating," he murmured, reaching out a trembling hand to touch the shimmering surface. "It radiates with a light of its own, like the star shards from the fallen star…. Its similar, but not the same."
He withdrew his hand, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. "I believe... I believe I've seen similar symbols in my travels," he said, his voice barely a whisper.
Caelum quickly tucked the bracelet back under his tunic, his heart pounding. "Where?" he asked.
"Many places," Marwyn replied, his eyes distant. "Not exactly the same symbol as this, but similar... at an old temple in the Summer Isles, at the Church of Starry Wisdom in Braavos, at the ruins of the God-King's palace in Ib..." He paused, a shiver running down his spine. "And once, near the edge of Asshai, at the gates of the Great Empire of the Dawn, beneath the Shadow. That's as far as I dared to go. No one goes beneath the Shadow, not without a light of their own."
Caelum's hopes sank. "You've told me nothing," he said, a bitter edge creeping into his voice.
Marwyn leaned forward, his eyes burning with intensity. "Leave the Citadel, boy. Come with me. I've spent eight years in the east, mapping distant lands, searching for lost books, studying with warlocks and shadowbinders. I've learned much, and yet... not enough. To truly understand the mysteries of magic, to bring it back to this world, I must travel beneath the Shadow. And you," he reached out, his hand hovering inches from Caelum's face, "you are the key."
Caelum jerked back, his pulse quickening. "I don't need to travel to Asshai," he retorted. "I have magic here, within me. I can forge my own destiny, right here in Westeros."
Marwyn sighed, "Your vision is limited, boy. You have friends here, yes. But do they truly know you? Do they know the power you hold within youself?"
Caelum's eyes narrowed. "Are you threatening to reveal my secret?"
Marwyn's laughter filled the room once more. "I don't need to, boy. In time, everything will come to light. Your friends will learn the truth of you. And then what? They will fear you, shun you. You will be alone once more, an outcast in a world that doesn't understand you."
"That hasn't happened before," Caelum retorted, his voice gaining a new strength. "I do have friends who know my secret. They don't fear me."
He thought of Luke, his brother in all but blood, and Meredith, the girl who'd become like a sister to him.
They'd seen his magic, his true self, and their bond had only grown stronger.
Marwyn's eyes narrowed. "Friends? Or family, boy? Those are two very different things. Did they rejoice in your magic, embrace it? Or did they beg you to hide it, to keep it locked away like some shameful disease?"
Caelum flinched, a wave of doubt washing over him.
Marwyn's words struck a chord.
Had Luke and Meredith truly accepted his magic, or had they simply learned to tolerate it out of love and loyalty?
"Leave," Caelum whispered, his voice hoarse. "Just... leave."
Marwyn sighed, the fight seeming to drain from him. "Very well, boy. I'll leave you to your illusions." He turned towards the door, his cloak swirling around him like a shroud. But before he left, he paused, he said. "Avoid the Red Temple by the wharf, Caelum Starborne. They've been searching for the 'Bringer of Cataclysm' ever since the Tourney of Harrenhal. Were you involved in that, boy?"
Caelum remained silent, his heart pounding in his chest.
Marwyn shrugged. "Doesn't matter if you tell me. I know you were." He opened the door, a sliver of moonlight illuminating his gaunt features. "Remember, boy, I found your secret in half a moon. If you're not careful, others will too. And the priests of R'hllor may be the first. They have designs for you that you will not like."
With that, he stepped out into the hallway, leaving Caelum alone in the light of the lantern in his room.
Caelum collapsed onto his bed, burying his face in his hands.
The weight of Marwyn's words pressed down on him, a suffocating blanket of doubt and fear.
Was he truly destined for a life of isolation, shunned by those he held dear? He'd had no friends his age at the village, he was too different, too weak, too pitiful then.
Luke and Meredith too had been forced by their Ma's to stay with him in the beginning, and he truly loved them, for they had come to love him regardless. He loved them truly.
Wilas and Garlan didn't know of his magic, and he knew should they have found out, they would have been scared of him, like the Prince's Knights had been that accursed night.
Their family, the Tyrells would try and use him, for their needs, or kill him. He knew that too. Luke had made sure to inform him of that with brutal honesty.
He wondered what Pylos, and Fern would think if they were to find out.
What Yandel and Nerf would think.
He hoped they never did.
He had just made his first friends his age, and he didn't want to lose them because of being different, stronger than they were.
As he lay there, lost in the labyrinth of his own thoughts, a soft knock on the door startled him. He quickly sat up.
"Caelum?" A soft voice came from beyond the door.
"Fern?" Caelum questioned.
"Pylos asked me to bring this up for you," Fern said as she opened the door, and walked in holding a plate laden with food.
It was a steaming bowl of stew, a hunk of freshly baked bread, and a small flagon of ale.
"Thank you," Caelum murmured.
Fern placed the tray on the bedside table, her eyes scanning his face with concern. "Are you alright?" she asked."You seem troubled."
Caelum forced a smile. "It's nothing," he lied. "Just tired from the day."
Fern didn't seem convinced, but she didn't press the issue. Instead, she sat down on the edge of the bed, her amethyst eyes fixed on the flickering lantern.
Fern tilted her head, her amethyst eyes filled with a gentle concern. "I don't know if I can believe that," she said softly. "I've only known you for a short while, but in that time, you've become more than just a guest at the inn. You've helped us so much, both with your work and your kindness."
She reached out, her hand resting on Caelum's arm. "My father and I, we're here for you, Caelum. If you ever need anything, or just someone to talk to, don't hesitate to ask."
Caelum's heart swelled with a mix of gratitude and guilt. He imagined Fern's reaction if she saw him unleashing the fiery power within him. Would her eyes still hold that same warmth, or would fear and revulsion replace it? The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
"Thank you, Fern," he managed, his voice barely a whisper. "I... I appreciate that."
Fern squeezed his hand reassuringly. "Now, eat up," she said, gesturing towards the food. "You shouldn't skip meals, especially not after a long day at the Citadel. And get some rest. You've got lessons tomorrow."
Caelum nodded, a genuine smile finally gracing his lips.
He hoped she would never find his secret out.
"Caelum," Fern began, her voice hesitant, "would you like to come with me to the Starry Sept on the seventh day? People from all over Oldtown come to pray and seek guidance from the Seven." She paused, her eyes searching his face. "I think... I think it might help you find some peace, whatever's troubling you."
Caelum's smile widened. "I'd like that, Fern. Thank you."
Fern returned his smile, a warmth radiating from her amethyst eyes.
She squeezed his hand once more, then rose to leave. "Get some rest, Caelum," she said softly. "Tomorrow is a new day."
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(A/N) This is a shorter chapter than usual. I am a little sick.
Marwyn the Mage. He's a conundrum that I've tried to characterize as best I could.
There isn't much in Canon about him, apart from his near obsession with magic itself.
As for Caelum, well he's a 10-year-old boy. And he is insecure about his powers.
Anyway, I've already begun working on chapter 21. I will get it out soon, to make up for the shorter chapter, I plan to make that one very exciting.
Also, I think I should clarify. Because of Caelum's interference, a lot of the timeline of the OG rebellion was pushed back, if that was not clear already.
Should I include dates? I mean, I was planning on writing maester's reports about some of these battles eventually. Some of the major events will obviously be in the main story too, but adding dates to it felt too, idk, weird. I thought it broke the narrative flow for some reason.