Of Honors Well Deserved
Sixteenth Day of the Tenth Month 293 AC
You take stock of Denys Trainer in the flickering torchlight, still somewhat bemused by Malarys' cavalier perspective on death, or perhaps the fact that most of you grant some merit to the notion. Now that the talk of alchemy is done you could simply send him back to Harrenhal and deal with the matter later, when it would not cost you more magic upon the even of battle. Unless you have very much misjudged them, neither he nor his companions would blame you for the wait. Whether they expect it or not, however, they are worth that small sacrifice, and much more. "Come, I would have words with you and your companions," you announce softly.
The alchemist stands almost painfully straight as you set your hand upon his shoulder, as though the prospect of addressing him and the others on their good work makes him more ill at ease than a journey to the wilds of Sothoryos. "Your Grace, we are not ready..." he stutters.
"You just helped kill a castle full of undead ironborn, including the worst of the breed to ever walk the earth, good man," you say, using the title for the last time in relation to him, though he knows it not. "Unless one of you happens to be falling-down drunk, any state is a good state to receive me, and I can
cure being drunk."
"Ah... no, Criston and Thoros are already sobered up, Your Grace," he laughs nervously, though the smile he gives you at the end is more sincere.
With that you make your way to Harrenhal, and for the first time stand in the monstrous cavern Harren called his Great Hall. Yet no malice do you feel in the darkened corners. The whistling you catch from above is only the wind through stones and not the breath of ghosts. A bat flies from its perch too high for eyes other than yours to catch it, and even it looks happy to no longer share its nest with the dead and the damned.
An hour passes before all of Lady Whent's guard can be gathered, though they are dreadfully few compared to the vastness of the hall. What they lack in numbers, they make up for in boldness. Not one fails to meet your gaze, straight and proud even as eyes widen at the hiss of Dark Sister from its sheath... a single eye in the case of the captain of the guard who fought alone even when all hope seemed lost, his comrades dead around him. To the others you grant knighthood, but to him you grant a knighthood and restore an eye in the same gesture.
"The better to serve you, Your Grace," the man says, choked with emotion.
"The better to see all your life, Ser," you correct. "I do not ask of you any more than I do of any other man in my service, the healing was merely redressing an unfairness of fate."
Once the ceremony is done you motion to your own agents, from Melisandre and Thoros to the Furies and the band of Westerosi friends to follow. Doubtless they expect some new assignment... other than the red priestess. She is one of the few you cannot lightly keep a secret from. A corner of her mouth twitches slightly as she looks at Denys, the beginnings of fond amusement, you would judge.
The fire plays merrily in the hearth, different as can be from the drafty great hall. The door is closed and a Devil stands sentinel at it from instinct. There you turn to face the others, though directly in front of the young alchemist. "Denys Trainer, kneel," you command. In a measured tone that still rings clearly through the chamber, you continue: "In the face of armed insurrection you fought at the Trident and the Battle of Stony Sept, as your father before you, in leal service to House Targaryen, living to swear oaths of service again, even as friends and family fell in the service of my House. All trials overcome starting at the tender age of fifteen." A fiery blush creeps along his cheeks, recalling how the squire must have looked on the eve of battle.
"Alongside loyal friends, you have cleansed the plague infesting King's Landing, illicit contraband from Darkfey killing as sure as any virulent disease or abject poverty," you continue over the sound of the crackling fire. "In the Stormlands, alongside that same company, slaying Devils who had troubled Lord Fell during a time when Lords themselves were reluctant to protect their people from the depredations of Fiends and more. And in Dorne, you attempted to valiantly dispatch more of the same, as well as an Undead bearing a curse of vengeance not easily dismissed from the minds of statesmen as much as any decent man or woman."
Not many can claim to have aided Stormlander and Dornishman in equal measure, you think but do not say. Hopefully the day will come when the divisions of the Seven Kingdoms will be healed in full and you would not jest of them on so solemn an occasion.
Instead you carry on with the last and greatest deed. "Lastly, at my request, you aided in putting an end to the threat that could have been a knife in the heart of Westeros, plunged at the most inopportune moment. It was a threat you had no reasonable hope or expectation of surviving should the worst have come to pass, one were if was all too possible to fall into a fate worse than death, and yet you faced it standing steadfast and dauntless to the end."
Denys' friends are smiling now, from Ting's reserved expression to Ser Criston's proud wide smile, but the knight to be does not do so yet, less from stoicism you suspect and more from not quite believing the moment is yet upon him. Ready or not, it is indeed time: "For these reasons I count you worthy of bearing the title knight, its privileges, and its duties." With these words you unsheath again Dark Sister, in mirror to the scant handful of times you had done so without violence in mind. "Answer me then, Denys of House Trainer. Do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all in need of protecting, to obey your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or perilous they may be?"
"I will, Your Grace," he says, his voice unwavering as steel.
Tapping his shoulders in turn you reply just as firmly: "Arise then, Ser Denys, a Knight of the Realm."
"Knew the kid has it in him from the start," Criston whispers to Thoros in a tone he likely imagines is too low for you to hear.
Where do you assign the misfits Thoros and Melisandre for the reminder of the month?
[] Write in
OOC: Sorry this took so long. I was struggling to fit the two parts of the vote together without feeling forced, but it just would not work, so I put this vote in the middle. The next update will have you guys poking the Forge.
