Well the voting is closed! Wylla will stay with Waldina. This is probably a wise choice, as Waldina is in a pretty poor state of condition currently, she could probably use the company of a familiar face as opposed to a near-pirate crew Anyway, I'm sorry it's been so long, it turns out I've been busier than I thought I would be this term break, but I finally have the next part ready, and it's a Warmond part. Here's a recap:
Last time we saw Warmond, he was spending some luxurious time with his wife: Dia, before being interrupted by Wyman, his uncle. The two talked about Wyman preparing to leave for the Fingers to aid the Royce's with his army, and then Warmond tried to talk to him about what they saw with Aunt Wyona's corpse when it was freed in the swell from her coffin. This was pretty unsuccessful, and Wyman finally delivered the message that his father, King Waldemar, wished to speak with Warmond. When finding Waldemar in Wyona's gardens, the old man gave him a history lesson on House Manderly's origins before asking what Warmond's ambitions would be as king. You chose for him to say he would like to increase trade routes in the kingdom, and this part takes place roughly an hour after then.
Wylla
The oaken door to Frenken’s chambers stood a crack open, somewhat inviting to the adventurous eye, but not Wylla’s. Ask anyone arou… morend the realm and they would boast of the Farman Mermaid and her formidable strength, Wylla felt extremely weak in the presence of the one place in Faircastle she had no control in. She bit her lip before rising her hand to the door and tapping on the wood.
“I said I’m not hungry you wench!” Frenken shouted bitterly, walking to the door before his eyes widened at the sight of Wylla, causing him to gulp. “My Lady,” he mumbled awkwardly, before his anger returned to his eyes. “What do you want?” he muttered, crossing his arms. Wylla frowned, eying the borders of the oak door.
“Can I come in?” she asked softly, and for a moment it appeared she would be denied even that much from her husband, but at the final second he gave in, standing away from the door. Wylla hesitantly walked in, the door being shut … [view original content]
A cool draft breezed through Warmond’s open bedroom window, brushing over his naked torso which obscured the entrance as he stared out at the Flooded Citadel. Warmond leant on the windowsill, lifting his eyes to the night sky; it was like a black coat that covered the white sky, an ink blotch with white dots pointing through. There was something tranquil about staring into the stars, something alluring, but Warmond wasn’t in the mind to pick it.
His head stirred over the events that had passed this evening, particularly the discussion he had with his grandfather. Did I give the right answer? He thought anxiously as his eyes stared aimlessly at the night sky. All his life he had been training, training to become the next grand King of the Seas, to uphold the lineage that Waldemar and so many others had set up for him. Was trading truly the best answer? Would that build the kingdom? Was it the answer Waldemar wanted?
Warmond let out a heavy sigh, lowering his gaze to Wyona’s gardens. All of the flower petals had closed as the sun had set, moisture droplets forming on their exterior with the humid night. He thought of the missing mermaid pearl that was lost somewhere among this vast flora, and how many children, including his own at a young age, had dug up the soil and plants in search for the precious jewel. Few men knew it was more than just that.
The soft hands of a loving woman gave Warmond a fright as they touched his shoulders, but became a welcomed comfort quickly after. She rubbed his tense muscles, laying her head on his upper back. “You’ve been standing here for almost an hour,” she acknowledged with some concern. “It’s almost as if you wanted me to leave the warmth of our bed,” she added with a touch of humour. Warmond sighed, a thin smile spreading across his lips.
“I’m sorry, I-” he stumbled for a moment, his eyes looking back up to the stars. “I just have a lot on my mind,” he stated awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. “Like what?” she asked, gently turning him around to face her.
Even in the backing of night, she brought light with her beauty, and made him wonder why he’d been staring at the stars for so long. Her straight silver hair had been tied back into a loose bun, and her tired lilac eyes were like purple lanterns, staring at him lovingly. Warmond shook his head, letting a smile replace his worry. “More of the same,” he stated nonchalantly, placing a hand around her waist.
“This trip will be good for us,” she encouraged, looking up at him with warm eyes. “We’ll get to see Willow, and my brothers and nephews and so on,” she thought aloud, causing Warmond to chuckle; he loved when she did that. “I feel like I barely see my eldest son, and he is based in this castle,” Warmond muttered, picking Dia up and walking to their bed. She loosely wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Waldemar studies hard, just like his father,” she stated with some pride as Warmond placed her on the bed. All Warmond could do was sigh, getting into the bed with her. “Such responsibilities, they take away what a child should have. A childhood,” Warmond mumbled dryly. Dia ran her hand through Warmond’s bristle strawberry blonde chest hair.
“Which is why we must enjoy the luxuries presented to us when we get the chance,” she reinforced her argument by pulling at one of the hairs, making Warmond momentarily wince at the unexpected. “Out of it, woman!” he growled playfully, making her laugh. “We should get some rest, there’ll be a long ride ahead of us tomorrow,” Warmond stated with a boring tone, which Dia casually rolled her eyes to.
“The night is young. We’ll get some rest soon enough,” she assured him, climbing atop of him. Warmond smirked, running a hand over her smooth tanned thigh. “So be it,” he grinned, pulling her down to the point where their lips met.
-
The main courtyard of the Flooded Citadel was large compared to most castles, but with the amount of activity this morning it felt like it scaled down to something much smaller than a stables pen. Manderly soldiers, geared with leather gambeson and bronze pauldrons and armed with bronze weapons, rushed around the courtyard as they prepared to march out. The Strong Merman stood beside his daughter, Wylda Half-witch, almost at eye level with her atop her horse. Wyman was a strong and powerful man, decked with muscles that aided endurance, and a good thing too, as he was too large for any horse to carry him.
Warmond’s tired eyes then spotted the luxurious wooden horse carriage that his grandfather and son stood by, talking with Warmond’s sister: Wynne Blackwood. Warmond turned to Dia, who already had the same agenda on her mind, and the two walked together to meet the carriage and its subjects.
Their son was the first to notice them, a smile crossing his lips as Warmond approached with open arms. Waldemar II met his embracement with warm compassion, patting his father on the back as Warmond did the same to him, and the two separated to look at each other. Waldemar II had short blonde hair, a colour which no doubt came from the mix of Warmond’s strawberry blonde with Dia’s silver, or perhaps from her grandfather. Waldemar II had his father’s turquoise eyes, and wore a light stubble.
“Father,” he greeted warmly, looking Warmond in the eyes. “How’re you feeling?” Warmond asked him, to which Waldemar II shrugged. “Excited to get away from my books,” the young man admitted with a smirk, quiet enough so the older Waldemar could not hear. Or so the foolish boy thought.
“Consider this negotiation an adaptation to your teachings,” King Waldemar chortled uncharacteristically, causing Warmond and Waldemar II to grin. Wynne smiled, clasping her hands. “I will be remaining in the Citadel until you return,” she informed Warmond, causing him to raise an eyebrow. “There must always be a Manderly at the Citadel,” Waldemar the older clarified, to which Warmond nodded.
“You sure you can handle it?” Warmond teased like a child, to which Wynne glared at him. “I learnt more here than how to bake cakes and be a lady,” she assured him bitterly, but Warmond chuckled all the same. “Wynne, how are your children?” Dia asked, approaching her with a warm smile. “Waldryn just had his thirty-fourth nameday recently, did he not?” Dia asked, hooking her arm around Wynne’s and walking her away from the men.
“Your wife is a smart woman,” King Waldemar observed thoughtfully, letting out a sigh, “I admit, I am glad I accepted your mother’s last wish,” Waldemar stated with a tone that could be considered stubborn. “As am I,” Warmond stated quietly, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Is there anything you’d like me to pass on to your brother when we arrive at Starfall?” Warmond asked, and Waldemar II’s eyes widened as if he had forgotten something.
“Yes, of course,” he spoke quickly, patting down his coat and then glancing around him as if he had lost something. “Excuse me a moment, I must have left it in my quarters,” he realised, and quickly made his way back to the castle. Warmond sighed, watching as his dutiful son climbed the green stone steps back to the hall of the Flooded Citadel. He turned his gaze back to his grandfather, who held a stern look on his eyes.
“If King Merle is wishing to start a war, I’ll need you all back here,” Waldemar stated with a cold tone, to which Warmond nodded. “Our visit will be brief,” Warmond assured him, but Waldemar shook his head. “Make the most of it, savour it. I will send word to Starfall if I require your return sooner than expected,” he declared.
“Give King Andrey my regards,” Waldemar finally stated, and Warmond nodded. “I will,” he assured him, to which Waldemar reciprocated Warmond’s gesture. “And your son, Willow. Give him this,” Waldemar ordered, turning and freeing something from the carriage; a bastard sword. “He’s old enough to know how to wield it, and a trainee to the best swordsman in Dorne requires the best,” he acknowledged, and Warmond examined the blade as Waldemar passed it to him. Warmond took the sheathed weapon under his arm, freeing the blade from its scabbard.
“This is Valyrian steel,” Warmond realised in bewilderment, his eyes widening in surprise. The king nodded, a smirk touching his lips. “There was a time I could wield that blade with such excellence that those who came against me met a grim end. Now it has served as little more than a letter opener; far from its original purpose.” Waldemar clasped his hands, a frown over his hard face.
“I had it forged for me when I saw that Wyman required more than just a sword. When my hands became too tired for wielding such things, your father adopted the weapon, and for a while I considered passing the sword down to you…” he stated, but something held him back from saying anymore. “Its name is Conqueror,” he added dryly, and Warmond admittedly felt like a boy looking at a magnificent weapon. Envy crawled over him.
Conqueror had the delicacy of a Valyrian’s hand, with the magical bends and ripples worked into the blade, and a textured detail of the hilt and the forte covering, which was a silver-grey alloy. The black leather grip matched the leather scabbard it came with, and the hilt of the blade was forged dark steel, as was the straight crossbar. Warmond fought hard to tear his eyes away from the brilliance of the blade back to his grandfather.
“Willow will be very appreciative of this, I will make sure of it,” Warmond assured him, to which Waldemar simply chuckled. “I’m sure the boy won’t need any persuasion in taking the sword,” he smiled, guiding Warmond’s hand as he pushed the Conqueror back into its scabbard. There was a brief moment of disappointment and jealousy as Warmond watched the blade disappear, but he knew he had to trust the rationale of his mentor.
“Now go. You have a long ride ahead of you, and a day goes quicker than you think when on horseback.” I know, Warmond thought with some annoyance as he was pointlessly lectured again, but he clamped his tongue. The two linked arms before the old man turned back to his carriage, and Warmond to his horse. He spotted his wife talking with the weasel he had to call his uncle: Wendel, who was accompanied by his best warriors. Warmond made haste to rescue Dia from his torment.
“Ah, nephew. Ready to go?” Wendel asked sarcastically as he tapped the neck of his courser impatiently. Warmond shot his plump young uncle a glare as he climbed onto his own steed, taking the hand of his wife. Wendel smirked, his cocky brown eyes flashing down to Warmond and Dia’s bond before lifting up to Warmond again. “Try to keep up,” he arrogantly said before he spurred his horse around and set off out the gates, followed by his loyal riders. Warmond let out a heavy breath.
“Hold me down,” he muttered to Dia, who placed her other hand on top of his. “Come, let us not waste anymore time,” she urged him, starting her pace and pulling Warmond along. His eyes flashed over to the Strong Merman, who held a heavy look on his turquoise eyes. He conversed with the revered Iron Wolf, a masked sellsword in service of their kingdom, known for his iron helm that was shaped like a wolf’s head, but more so for his unique akimbo fighting style.
“You go ahead, I’ll be with you in a moment,” he assured her, to which she frowned, letting go of his hand. He watched her canter out the main gates for a moment before walking his horse over to Wyman, gaining the Strong Merman’s attention almost immediately, as well as the grey eyes of the Iron Wolf.
“Prince Warmond,” Wyman greeted sternly, and Warmond gave him a nod before turning his gaze to the Iron Wolf. “May I have a moment with my uncle?” Warmond asked pointlessly to the sellsword, who, as silent as a prowling wolf, bowed and took his leave. Wyman now devoted his utmost attention to the crown prince, partly in curiosity of what he had to say. Warmond dismounted his horse, putting him a foot beneath his giant counterpart.
“Don’t linger too long in the Fingers, Uncle. I know you still hold feelings for her, but you must remember your place. War is coming,” Warmond muttered grimly, and Wyman, to his surprise, nodded without any complaint.
“Our Flood Devours,” Wyman remarked with a certain sense of pride, one which Warmond reciprocated before grasping his uncle’s forearm. “Stay safe,” Warmond finally bid him, to which Wyman nodded firmly. “And you, Iron Merman.” The two exchanged a short glance before separating. Warmond climbed back atop his horse, the sheathed Conqueror in one hand and the reins of his steed in the other. Without another moment, he started off for the gates, until he heard the familiar voice of his son shouting after him.
“Father!” Waldemar II yelled for a second time before Warmond pulled his steed to a halt, his eyes falling down to his son awake and ashamed. “Wald, I apologise, I-” Warmond mumbled, but his son shook his head, placing a hand on the back of Warmond’s horse. “It’s alright, it’s been a long night no doubt,” he smiled, and Warmond could not help but nod. “Here, this is it,” Waldemar II stated calmly as he extended his hand to Warmond.
In his hand was a small wooden box, which when Warmond opened, revealed an iron bracelet, the metal was coiled and ended at two points; one with a shooting star and the other with a trident. Warmond spotted a matching bracelet on Waldemar’s wrist as he lowered his hand, bringing a smile to his lips. “We’ll see you soon,” Warmond said, bidding his son farewell, and chasing after his wife and Wendel’s group.
-
The high stone walls of Oldtown made for a sight on sore and weary eyes, even if the mighty High Tower of Battle Isle had been seen glowing for much longer, it was plainly a relief to see their tiresome journey was coming to an end for the day. The setting sun of the west casted an orange glow over the beautiful city, it was as if the city were on fire, and the packing merchants and egressing customers were escaping the flames.
Warmond turned his gaze to Dia, who held a look of pride on her eyes; a sort of confidence. “What?” Warmond asked, curious to understand her smug satisfaction as she stared ahead to the city. When she opened her mouth to speak, her eyes remained locked on the High Tower of Oldtown.
“I’m thinking about when my family once sacked this grand city,” she revealed, causing Warmond to raise an eyebrow. “Samwell Dayne?” he asked curiously, and she nodded in confirmation. “The Starfire, yes. He and King Barragan Blackmont, the Firebrand, rode up the Wide Way after warring with the Fowler’s of Skyreach. The two kings desired more than what the Blue Hawk had to give, and with little resistance, they rode through the Red Mountains and almost burnt Oldtown to its foundations,” Dia remarked with clear pride, making Warmond smile.
“And now through us, the Dayne’s and Hightower’s are mutual allies,” Warmond stated clearly, to which Dia turned her smirk towards Warmond. “Perhaps,” she winked, turning her gaze back on the High Tower. Perhaps, Warmond remarked with a roll of the eyes, there was something about his wife which was admirable and formidable. She could make blood rush through his veins as quick as she could send shivers down his spine. He loved her for it.
“And has he told you about our own family’s history?” The confident tone of Lord Wendel sounded as he rode up behind the duo, turning Warmond’s light expression into a reprimanding scowl. Dia turned her gaze to the grinning Marshall of the Northmarch, an intrigued look on her lilac eyes. “No?” she wondered thoughtfully, and despite Warmond not thinking it possible, Wendel’s grin widened.
“Truly? Nothing about Walden the Wise, who constructed the Flooded Citadel where you live today? Or Lord Wilmer, who constructed the Western Fleet to chase after a mermaid? Perhaps his daughter, Wanda, whom translated Walden’s Wisdom into the Old tongue? A book I plan to translate into the common tongue, if I might add,” he announced with some arrogant pride, and Warmond noticed Dia’s eyes widening with interest.
“Do tell me more,” she encouraged him, to which Wendel turned his laughing grin to Warmond. “It would be my pleasure,” he stated warmly, and swiftly he snatched Dia away from Warmond before he could even protest. The Iron Merman tightened his grip around the reins of his horse, glaring at Wendel with menacing eyes.
“Prince Warmond,” the strong voice of Lady Cynthea Crane called from behind, turning his bitter attention to Wendel’s four body guards: Lady Cynthea Crane, Addam Ambrose, Manfryd Merryweather and Lord Cleyton Costayne; each of who were rumoured to be engaged in relations with Wendel. Warmond sighed, reluctantly accepting their company as they surrounded him.
“We hear that war is stirring in the east,” Cynthea stated calmly, running her finger over the bowstring that travelled between her breasts and down to her waist, which homed two daggers. Her face was less homely, with a gruesome scar running under her right eye which she did not make an attempt to cover with her long brown hair; something she tied back into a ponytail.
“War is all across the east,” Warmond muttered bluntly, causing Lord Cleyton to chuckle. “Indeed,” he acknowledged, running a hand through his short blonde hair. “What she means to say is that there are rumours that the Gardener’s are building an army,” Cleyton clarified, but Warmond remained silent. Manfryd and Addam quickly lost interest, spurring their horses ahead of Warmond, and after a long draw of silence, Cleyton followed after them with a disappointed huff. Only Lady Cynthea remained.
“Are you aware on how you are travelling to Dorne, my Prince?” Cynthea asked calmly, making Warmond raise an eyebrow. “Through the Red Mountains,” he presumed, to which Cynthea nodded with a smile on her lips. “Yes, without a doubt. Though how was what I asked you,” she remarked, causing Warmond to shrug his shoulders impatiently.
“How?” he asked with a bitter tone, which seemed to lead to Cynthea’s amusement. “Through Starpike,” she informed him, unsheathing an arrow from her quiver and fingering the iron point. Warmond raised an eyebrow. “The Peake’s are our rivals,” Warmond stated coldly, and Cynthea’s smile grew as she nodded.
“They are House Manderly’s rivals, yes, but Wendel looks to set aside these mere quarrels. He’s offered his son in marriage to Lord Peake’s daughter. Of course, letting the crown heirs pass alone through unstable relations won’t be happening, let me assure you. Wendel has ordered myself and Lord Cleyton to accompany you to Starfall and back,” she informed him, causing Warmond to frown. Great.
“That’s very kind of you,” Warmond muttered in thanks, trying to sound as genuine as possible after the long journey, to which the Lady Cynthea simply nodded in gesture. “Of course,” she smiled, as if it was expected of her. Warmond took her eyes off her and towards Dia, who held her head back with haughty laughter as Wendel grinned at her, placing a hand on her thigh.
Warmond snapped, his legs digging into the ribs of his destrier, spurring him forward, past Wendel’s bodyguards with haste until he was just on top of his wife and his whoreson uncle. Dia turned her grin to Warmond, who met her gaze with ireful eyes. Wendel’s grin mellowed down to a smug smirk.
“Wendel was just telling me about the time Lord Walter was dropped to the ground by Lady Wylla,” Dia informed him before turning her gaze back to Wendel. “He’s such a formidable man, I’d have never thought someone could take him down, especially not a sister!” Dia exclaimed, and Wendel nodded.
“Well, Wylla was always a big gal, and despite how wild Walter was, there was no taking down the Farman Whale,” Wendel chuckled, and Dia’s grin mellowed down to a warm smile, but Warmond did not share in the humour. He turned his gaze from Dia to Wendel, and then back to Dia again. This is over.
Dia has already earned my sympathies by having a name that does not start with the letter 'W' In all seriousness though, if given the choice, I wouldn't pull either aside, but if we have to choose, Wendel seems like the more reasonable option. Not the more reasonable person, mind you, but he's the one Warmond should be angry about here. Dia, well, she might not think anything about this, but from what few things we know about Wendel so far, his intentions should be clear. Having a really stern talk with him might settle this before it develops into anything less desirable. That be said, I'd rather avoid a conflict here, but if we have to, then Wendel is the better choice in my opinion.
Warmond
A cool draft breezed through Warmond’s open bedroom window, brushing over his naked torso which obscured the entrance as he stare… mored out at the Flooded Citadel. Warmond leant on the windowsill, lifting his eyes to the night sky; it was like a black coat that covered the white sky, an ink blotch with white dots pointing through. There was something tranquil about staring into the stars, something alluring, but Warmond wasn’t in the mind to pick it.
His head stirred over the events that had passed this evening, particularly the discussion he had with his grandfather. Did I give the right answer? He thought anxiously as his eyes stared aimlessly at the night sky. All his life he had been training, training to become the next grand King of the Seas, to uphold the lineage that Waldemar and so many others had set up for him. Was trading truly the best answer? Would that build the kingdom? Was it the answer Waldemar wanted?
Warmond le… [view original content]
Warmond
A cool draft breezed through Warmond’s open bedroom window, brushing over his naked torso which obscured the entrance as he stare… mored out at the Flooded Citadel. Warmond leant on the windowsill, lifting his eyes to the night sky; it was like a black coat that covered the white sky, an ink blotch with white dots pointing through. There was something tranquil about staring into the stars, something alluring, but Warmond wasn’t in the mind to pick it.
His head stirred over the events that had passed this evening, particularly the discussion he had with his grandfather. Did I give the right answer? He thought anxiously as his eyes stared aimlessly at the night sky. All his life he had been training, training to become the next grand King of the Seas, to uphold the lineage that Waldemar and so many others had set up for him. Was trading truly the best answer? Would that build the kingdom? Was it the answer Waldemar wanted?
Warmond le… [view original content]
I'm afraid that Warmond might let his current emotions get the better of him. I'm afraid that if he pulls Wendel aside, that he might start an altercation between them. That would not be good for anybody, and Wendel has his loyal companions with him.
Warmond
A cool draft breezed through Warmond’s open bedroom window, brushing over his naked torso which obscured the entrance as he stare… mored out at the Flooded Citadel. Warmond leant on the windowsill, lifting his eyes to the night sky; it was like a black coat that covered the white sky, an ink blotch with white dots pointing through. There was something tranquil about staring into the stars, something alluring, but Warmond wasn’t in the mind to pick it.
His head stirred over the events that had passed this evening, particularly the discussion he had with his grandfather. Did I give the right answer? He thought anxiously as his eyes stared aimlessly at the night sky. All his life he had been training, training to become the next grand King of the Seas, to uphold the lineage that Waldemar and so many others had set up for him. Was trading truly the best answer? Would that build the kingdom? Was it the answer Waldemar wanted?
Warmond le… [view original content]
Warmond
A cool draft breezed through Warmond’s open bedroom window, brushing over his naked torso which obscured the entrance as he stare… mored out at the Flooded Citadel. Warmond leant on the windowsill, lifting his eyes to the night sky; it was like a black coat that covered the white sky, an ink blotch with white dots pointing through. There was something tranquil about staring into the stars, something alluring, but Warmond wasn’t in the mind to pick it.
His head stirred over the events that had passed this evening, particularly the discussion he had with his grandfather. Did I give the right answer? He thought anxiously as his eyes stared aimlessly at the night sky. All his life he had been training, training to become the next grand King of the Seas, to uphold the lineage that Waldemar and so many others had set up for him. Was trading truly the best answer? Would that build the kingdom? Was it the answer Waldemar wanted?
Warmond le… [view original content]
So I won't close the vote just yet as it is both a tie and not everyone has voted yet. However I do have the next part ready, and it's a Torrhen part. The last time we saw Torrhen, he had just arrived at Yronwood with his father: King Hector, and was awaiting an audience with the crown prince: Eddin Yronwood. When finally meeting him, they were denied an alliance between their two houses, and tension started to rise between Hector and the sickly Eddin before the discussion was interrupted by King Olyvar himself. Both Eddin and Hector were asked to remove themselves from the room, and Torrhen was left to negotiate with the king, who wanted to see how Torrhen could benefit the Yronwood's with such an alliances. Olyvar later asked for Torrhen's opinion on what he wanted as a ruler, and out of the three choices, you chose vengeance. This part takes place immediately after the last.
The Dornish prince bit his lip as he decided on his answer, still unsure of the certainty that it would be the correct one. “Vengeance,” he muttered in a cold tone, one which made the old king raise an eyebrow. “Vengeance?” he repeated in question, to which Torrhen nodded, “why?” Torrhen gulped, awkwardly grasping the arm of the wooden chair he sat on.
“The Storm King humiliated you, crushing your army and taking your first son, leaving the Bloodroyals crippled as a result. Now you have risen back to your strength, with an army able to lay waste to the conquering stags of the Stormlands,” Torrhen explained, and Olyvar stared long and hard at the crown prince of Blackmont before giving a brief nod.
“Indeed,” he muttered under his breath, and Torrhen took the chance to turn this argument onto his side. “Yet such an army should not be wasted again,” Torrhen bravely stated, and the old king turned his hard glare back onto Torrhen. “Wasted?” he uttered, his tone warning. Torrhen held his composure, nodding.
“If it is vengeance you want, Your Grace, why should you be defeat a second time? If not by the Durrandon’s, then by the Andal’s that will soon land on our shores,” Torrhen stated in attempt to persuade, and a thin smile touched Olyvar’s old lips. “The dutiful son, I see,” Olyvar grumbled lightly, but Torrhen remained silent, clearly disappointing the old man.
“Prince Torrhen, you must understand that I am a man with few remaining years left. You are right, I do not seek wisdom, I’ve been stewing over my mistakes for years, and as for power? I’ve been swimming in it for years. I am an old man now, and my enemy has long come to pass over these years of vengeful thoughts, and now his grandson sits in his throne, upholding his legacy. I cannot kill the man who took everything from me, but I can certainly take everything from him, and I intend to do so while there is still a breath in my chest!” Olyvar barked, slamming his fist onto the desk that Torrhen sat behind, but the Blackmont prince held his calm gaze.
“I want you to succeed, Your Grace,” Torrhen affirmed, rising from his seat so that he might stand as an equal to the old man, who looked far less imposing a foot beneath him. “Though you will not succeed if you are slaughtered on two fields by two enemies,” Torrhen plainly acknowledged, and for a moment Olyvar held his hard gaze on his throbbing fist, until lifting it to Torrhen.
“What would you suggest then? You know what I want, and frankly, I don’t care if these foreigners tear apart my kingdom, so long as I get my vengeance,” Olyvar muttered, and Torrhen nodded with a look of disappointment on his eyes. The magnificent Bloodroyal he had heard all of the stories about had paled down to this: a vengeful warmonger with no hope for his kingdom. Torrhen sighed, tucking his hands into his vest.
“Join our alliance, King Olyvar. Help us defeat these Andal’s as the men in the North have done, and when that is over, the Kingdom of Blackmont will march with you into the Stormlands, and without a doubt, the Kingdom of the Torrentine will be by our side as well,” Torrhen proposed, turning his solemn gaze to meet the stern look on Olyvar’s, who visibly turned the proposition over in his head.
“I will need something with steadier foundations to assure such a deal won’t be forgotten after you have what you want, Prince Torrhen,” Olyvar said, his raspy tone gritting at Torrhen’s ears. Torrhen turned his gaze out of the window, looking out to the Sea of Dorne. “I’m sure a marriage can be arranged,” Torrhen sighed, feeling left without options, but to his surprise the old king shook his head.
“I’m not interested in a permanent alliance with House Blackmont, nor am I interested on wasting my son’s daughters and granddaughters on you vultures,” Olyvar muttered lightly, showing a smirk, to which Torrhen nodded. “What then?” Torrhen asked curiously, to which Olyvar crossed his arms.
“I have a great-grandson, a bright boy who is eager to learn, and I think an intelligent mind like your own would serve as a great mentor for the boy. His name is Daris, he is the descendant of my eldest son, and has no path place in Yronwood now with his line likely never succeeding to my throne,” Olyvar informed him, making Torrhen raise an eyebrow.
“You want me to tutor him?” Torrhen asked, somewhat bewildered by the proposition, but Olyvar shook his head. “Not tutor, mentor. Think of him as a servant to tend to your horse, and pouring your drink, he will learn what it means to be a crown prince through you. If you accept, of course,” Olyvar stated, and Torrhen felt no other option but to accept, even if he wasn’t fully on board with the idea.
“I do,” Torrhen declared, to which Olyvar gave him a firm nod. “Good, I’ll have him sent your way after I’m done with your father. Go bring him in, I would like to hear what my new allies have in mind for this Andal invasion destined to threaten my shores,” Olyvar smirked, and Torrhen held a solemn expression. The crown prince extended a hand out to the Bloodroyal, who took the man by the forearm, securing the deal.
Torrhen exited Eddin’s quarters with a thin smile on his lips. It mellowed when he spotted his father hunched over a bench, staring at the sandstone floor impatiently before lifting his curious gaze up to his son. “Well?” he asked, a touch of worry on his concerned tone. Torrhen approached his father, who rose from his bench, with a smirk on his lips.
“Our new ally wishes to talk further about our plans with you,” Torrhen informed him, and Hector lifted an eyebrow in surprise. “How did you manage?” he asked with mild astonishment, to which Torrhen sighed and shook his head as he thought on how he would deliver his answer. “A promise for blood,” Torrhen stated bluntly, and to his surprise, his father did not bother to question it any further. A thin smile spread across Hector’s lips, followed by a hand on Torrhen’s shoulder, and another on his face before pulling him into an embrace.
“You’ve done well, son,” Hector complimented, pulling himself away and staring into Torrhen’s eyes. “He’s waiting,” Torrhen ushered him, to which his father nodded and approached the quarters with a stern look on his face. When his father entered the room, Torrhen let out a heavy sigh of relief, almost collapsing on the bench beneath him. It was one thing to hold a steady composure before a renowned king of Dorne, and another to strike a deal with him. Torrhen knew that with the foundations of a Blackmont-Yronwood alliance, the First Men of Dorne would stand a stronger chance against the Andal’s.
Torrhen’s eyes fell to the floor, aimlessly eying the sandstone tiles beneath his feet as he focused on calming his heavy breaths. His brow had grown sweaty, and the Great Hall of Yronwood felt repugnantly humid. It was in heat like this that Torrhen longed to be back at Blackmont, relaxed in the calm flow of the Torrentine; alas, his duties as the heir to the kingdom forced him to shut out such thoughts during matters like these.
“Prince Torrhen,” a raspy old voice called from across the hall, and Torrhen lifted his gaze to meet the brown eyes of Prince Broden Yronwood; King Olyvar’s second son. Broden was a man on his mid-sixties, and while he was much healthier in his form than his half-brother, Eddin, his age had clearly taken his toll on him. His muscular figure had started to relax and fatten, while his tanned hands and face had started to wrinkle, and his short hair and moustache had greyed.
Torrhen arose from his bench, watching as the man approaching him with a small smile on his dry lips. Torrhen had only met Broden briefly on the one brief occasion that both the Yronwood army and Blackmont army had meet each other by the Greenblood. He hadn’t thought much of the man then, and admittedly from first sight, he didn’t think all that differently of him now. The way he dressed, the way he walked, it was clear he still lusted for the heirdom that his half-brother possessed.
“Prince Broden,” Torrhen greeted coldly, yet the old prince didn’t seem to be affected by it. “Is my father making you wait out here?” Broden asked dryly, to which Torrhen shook his head. “No, my father has just entered to conclude negotiations,” Torrhen hesitantly informed him, to which Broden raised an eyebrow.
“Negotiations?” he questioned suspiciously, and Torrhen nodded in confirmation. “We are to be allies, Prince Broden,” Torrhen stated nonchalantly, making Broden raise his eyebrows. “Is that so?” he asked, but Torrhen had already given him the answer, leading Broden to sigh. “I fear it may not be so easy,” Broden grumbled with some clear distaste, making Torrhen curious.
“How do you mean?” Torrhen questioned, making Broden frown as he crossed his arms and leant towards Torrhen. “It would be unwise for me to speak of such things where prying ears can hear,” Broden muttered into Torrhen’s ear, making the crown prince scout the hall. A few servants attended their duties, while cleaners and chisellers worked away at the sandstone. Torrhen thought on a response, but was interrupted by approaching footsteps, stealing the attention of Broden as well.
“Ah, Benedict,” Broden muttered under his breath as he glared at his approaching nephew. The solemn prince approached with a stern look on his brown eyes. “Prince Torrhen,” he greeted with a nod, which Torrhen reciprocated, “Uncle,” Benedict added with a sour tone, making Broden snarl.
“Nephew, haven’t you got something better to be doing than interrupting our discussion?” Broden growled, causing his nephew to smirk. “I grew bored of watching my son defeat your eldest grandson so easily,” Benedict sighed, watching Broden’s eyes tense. “Perhaps you should put him against Alix then, or do you fear Yorick’s confidence will shatter if he loses?” Broden challenged, which brought sheer amusement to Benedict’s eyes.
“Yorick aspires to be both an excellent swordsman and an excellent ruler, as befits him. He will be King of Yronwood one day. It’s hard for a young man with such a future to be shattered by a boy with none,” Benedict jeered, making Broden clench his fists, “but don’t worry, Uncle, I plan to return. I would like to extend my offer to you, Prince Torrhen, my son is quite eager to meet you,” Benedict stated, turning his gaze to Torrhen, who raised an eyebrow.
“Yorick?” he asked subtly, making Benedict smile as he nodded. “Yes, my son. If you wish to do so, I would love to show you to the courtyard,” Benedict stated, a sneer touching his lips to mock his uncle. Torrhen started to answer, but was quickly interjected by Prince Broden.
“Thank you, Nephew. I will point him in your direction if he so chooses after we are done,” Broden bluntly informed him, to which Benedict simply nodded. “So be it,” he uttered with a cold tone before turning back to where he came, and before long, disappearing out of the hall. Broden gritted his teeth, and Torrhen raised his eyebrows.
“You two seem to be on good terms,” Torrhen muttered sarcastically, making Broden roll his eyes. “As I was trying to say, such an alliance won’t work,” Broden grumbled coldly, staring at the empty trail that Benedict had seemingly left. “Because of your grudge with Benedict?” Torrhen questioned pathetically, making Broden shake his head.
“Because of Eddin’s family and my own,” the old man corrected with a bitter tone. “Eddin is sickly, and unfit to rule. Benedict is misguided in believing he will one day become king. My half-brother will not last for such a thing to occur, and you would be wise to consult with me instead of Eddin or Benedict,” Broden stated as calmly as he could, making Torrhen cross his arms.
“Right,” Torrhen muttered, clearly disappointing the old prince, but he maintained his dignity and settled with a heavy sigh. “Perhaps my words aren’t enough for you to be swayed. Tonight my family will be holding a council meeting in my quarters, I’d implore you to join us,” Broden urged, making Torrhen raise an eyebrow. They’re having secret meetings? He thought with some disappointment. Perhaps it was unwise to come here, Torrhen thought bitterly, and took a moment of extra thought before meeting Broden with an answer.
Heh, it seems I have estimated the old king quite correctly, as much as I wish he would be different. Good stuff, very good I also loved how Olyvar described Torrhen's job as Daris' mentor. This entire time, I was thinking "So, Daris is basically becoming his squire, huh?". It's great that the First Men don't even have a name for that concept. Despite how nuanced their culture is, this shows that they have some serious shortcomings in several aspects. I wonder how Gawain will react to this though. Bet he's going to love this
[Accept his request]
Oh, a secret meeting? This sounds intriguing and I don't see much drawback in acquiring this knowledge. If Broden plans on doing anything less than honourable, which I suppose given how secretive he is about the whole thing, then knowledge is certainly useful. Torrhen might be able to decide on what to do with it. It cannot hurt to be on good terms with Broden for now, as he seems to be quite interested in working with Torrhen in some capacity. Given that he is invited, it would be unwise to decline, possibly offending a man that might, for all we know, become quite important for a possible Blackmont-Yronwood alliance in the future.
Torrhen
The Dornish prince bit his lip as he decided on his answer, still unsure of the certainty that it would be the correct one. “Veng… moreeance,” he muttered in a cold tone, one which made the old king raise an eyebrow. “Vengeance?” he repeated in question, to which Torrhen nodded, “why?” Torrhen gulped, awkwardly grasping the arm of the wooden chair he sat on.
“The Storm King humiliated you, crushing your army and taking your first son, leaving the Bloodroyals crippled as a result. Now you have risen back to your strength, with an army able to lay waste to the conquering stags of the Stormlands,” Torrhen explained, and Olyvar stared long and hard at the crown prince of Blackmont before giving a brief nod.
“Indeed,” he muttered under his breath, and Torrhen took the chance to turn this argument onto his side. “Yet such an army should not be wasted again,” Torrhen bravely stated, and the old king turned his hard glare back onto Torrhen… [view original content]
Torrhen
The Dornish prince bit his lip as he decided on his answer, still unsure of the certainty that it would be the correct one. “Veng… moreeance,” he muttered in a cold tone, one which made the old king raise an eyebrow. “Vengeance?” he repeated in question, to which Torrhen nodded, “why?” Torrhen gulped, awkwardly grasping the arm of the wooden chair he sat on.
“The Storm King humiliated you, crushing your army and taking your first son, leaving the Bloodroyals crippled as a result. Now you have risen back to your strength, with an army able to lay waste to the conquering stags of the Stormlands,” Torrhen explained, and Olyvar stared long and hard at the crown prince of Blackmont before giving a brief nod.
“Indeed,” he muttered under his breath, and Torrhen took the chance to turn this argument onto his side. “Yet such an army should not be wasted again,” Torrhen bravely stated, and the old king turned his hard glare back onto Torrhen… [view original content]
Torrhen
The Dornish prince bit his lip as he decided on his answer, still unsure of the certainty that it would be the correct one. “Veng… moreeance,” he muttered in a cold tone, one which made the old king raise an eyebrow. “Vengeance?” he repeated in question, to which Torrhen nodded, “why?” Torrhen gulped, awkwardly grasping the arm of the wooden chair he sat on.
“The Storm King humiliated you, crushing your army and taking your first son, leaving the Bloodroyals crippled as a result. Now you have risen back to your strength, with an army able to lay waste to the conquering stags of the Stormlands,” Torrhen explained, and Olyvar stared long and hard at the crown prince of Blackmont before giving a brief nod.
“Indeed,” he muttered under his breath, and Torrhen took the chance to turn this argument onto his side. “Yet such an army should not be wasted again,” Torrhen bravely stated, and the old king turned his hard glare back onto Torrhen… [view original content]
[Accept his request] Alright, let's find out what's going on here.
Btw, I've held off from sending you a pm before I'm done with all the Dayne's, and I'm now almost done! Only Laenah left, and when I'm done with her I'll submit them all
Torrhen
The Dornish prince bit his lip as he decided on his answer, still unsure of the certainty that it would be the correct one. “Veng… moreeance,” he muttered in a cold tone, one which made the old king raise an eyebrow. “Vengeance?” he repeated in question, to which Torrhen nodded, “why?” Torrhen gulped, awkwardly grasping the arm of the wooden chair he sat on.
“The Storm King humiliated you, crushing your army and taking your first son, leaving the Bloodroyals crippled as a result. Now you have risen back to your strength, with an army able to lay waste to the conquering stags of the Stormlands,” Torrhen explained, and Olyvar stared long and hard at the crown prince of Blackmont before giving a brief nod.
“Indeed,” he muttered under his breath, and Torrhen took the chance to turn this argument onto his side. “Yet such an army should not be wasted again,” Torrhen bravely stated, and the old king turned his hard glare back onto Torrhen… [view original content]
And here I was thinking you'd forgotten about me! Well you have me very excited to return home, which I'll shortly announce now that I'll be inactive for the next few days, so I'll get back to you with a reply next Monday!
[Accept his request] Alright, let's find out what's going on here.
Btw, I've held off from sending you a pm before I'm done with all the Dayne's, and I'm now almost done! Only Laenah left, and when I'm done with her I'll submit them all
Alright, I've sent them now! (I did realize though that I haven't done Arthur yet, but I'll submit him with the Brook's!) So, I'll try to send you a pm later today!
And here I was thinking you'd forgotten about me! Well you have me very excited to return home, which I'll shortly announce now that I'll be inactive for the next few days, so I'll get back to you with a reply next Monday!
Alright fantastic! My google sheets on my phone is quite appalling so I'll have to look at them when I get home. Thank you for getting them in though, and I'm looking forward to your PM!
Alright, I've sent them now! (I did realize though that I haven't done Arthur yet, but I'll submit him with the Brook's!) So, I'll try to send you a pm later today!
Warmond
A cool draft breezed through Warmond’s open bedroom window, brushing over his naked torso which obscured the entrance as he stare… mored out at the Flooded Citadel. Warmond leant on the windowsill, lifting his eyes to the night sky; it was like a black coat that covered the white sky, an ink blotch with white dots pointing through. There was something tranquil about staring into the stars, something alluring, but Warmond wasn’t in the mind to pick it.
His head stirred over the events that had passed this evening, particularly the discussion he had with his grandfather. Did I give the right answer? He thought anxiously as his eyes stared aimlessly at the night sky. All his life he had been training, training to become the next grand King of the Seas, to uphold the lineage that Waldemar and so many others had set up for him. Was trading truly the best answer? Would that build the kingdom? Was it the answer Waldemar wanted?
Warmond le… [view original content]
[Accept his request]
To begin with - reasoning of this choice. Of course it's an opportunity to take, for now it looks as it doesn't have drawbacks, and can result in quite interesting way of developing the story of ol' Torrhen.
Welcome back! After quite a break from being absent I feel it's time to finally come back. Already catched up with missed story - your recap is pretty good so there I had no problem with it. One question though, to you Stigz - what's up with The Northern Chill? Are you planning on continuing it in near future? You left us with giant cliffhanger, so I suppose I'm not the only one waiting for it.
Keep up your good work, waiting for more ^^
The situation with TNC... Well, there's bad news and good news with that storyline, and I'll give you the run down. Basically, I've dropped TNC as a standalone sub story, so I won't be returning to that part of the thread. The reason for this was because once I started getting back into the Invasion, making plans and thinking forward, TNC didn't really fit in with the planned sequels that would come in after the conclusion of the Invasion. Of course, I could always pick it up after I finished the second sequel of the Invasion, but realistically that won't be for years, and I think it'll be too far gone for a return by then.
So the solution. Well there were a lot of fantastic plots and characters on TNC that I just couldn't let go of, such as Freya Hawkeye, Jared Pyke and the Stranger, and then there were some less interesting and not so well planned storylines (the Northern war, pretty much all of the south). So I've pulled out all of the good ideas I had in TNC and I'm installing them into the Invasion where they fit, and the rest into Kingdom Falling (the sequel to the Invasion). There were a lot of characters not introduced, such as a Thenn storyline, which will now make an appearance in the Invasion. However some of the storylines that were in TNC won't make an exact transition across to here, so the NW, so the cliff hanger won't be resolved, and I can explain the follow through events of that plotline to you over a PM if you're still interested.
Anyway, some of these ideas have already been introduced recently through the new PoV of Erza Nightwood, who was a minor Ironborn character in Jared Pyke's storyline (who is now Jarod Greyjoy). So we'll be seeing a lot of the old faces of TNC in the near future, including Ashe Snow, who I have some plans for quite soon There will also be some others which will really add on to Nathan's storyline, now that he's associated with the Ironborn
It still pains me that this was the end result decision I had to come to, but overall I started up way too many unfamiliar and unrelated storylines in far away regions which just stirred away from the main plotline. Could I have linked it all together? Yes, eventually, but that'd be after quite a while and quite a lot of boredom. Dorne is a classic example of this mistake, which I quickly grew to hate after I started it. The Reach was becoming the same unfortunately. So that's the idea, out with the old and in with the new.
[Accept his request]
To begin with - reasoning of this choice. Of course it's an opportunity to take, for now it looks as it doesn't have d… morerawbacks, and can result in quite interesting way of developing the story of ol' Torrhen.
Welcome back! After quite a break from being absent I feel it's time to finally come back. Already catched up with missed story - your recap is pretty good so there I had no problem with it. One question though, to you Stigz - what's up with The Northern Chill? Are you planning on continuing it in near future? You left us with giant cliffhanger, so I suppose I'm not the only one waiting for it.
Keep up your good work, waiting for more ^^
Torrhen
The Dornish prince bit his lip as he decided on his answer, still unsure of the certainty that it would be the correct one. “Veng… moreeance,” he muttered in a cold tone, one which made the old king raise an eyebrow. “Vengeance?” he repeated in question, to which Torrhen nodded, “why?” Torrhen gulped, awkwardly grasping the arm of the wooden chair he sat on.
“The Storm King humiliated you, crushing your army and taking your first son, leaving the Bloodroyals crippled as a result. Now you have risen back to your strength, with an army able to lay waste to the conquering stags of the Stormlands,” Torrhen explained, and Olyvar stared long and hard at the crown prince of Blackmont before giving a brief nod.
“Indeed,” he muttered under his breath, and Torrhen took the chance to turn this argument onto his side. “Yet such an army should not be wasted again,” Torrhen bravely stated, and the old king turned his hard glare back onto Torrhen… [view original content]
Oh, I understand, there's strong reasoning of abandoning this story I see. Sad to hear, but given the quality of current Invasion and your plans to include parts of the story to this fanfic I'm sure it won't hurt us that badly
As for mentioned cliffhanger - I would be greatly grateful if you'd find time to give me a short run-down of your project of this piece of NC storyline, of course if it's not a problem, because - indeed, I'm interested ^^ I just want you to make sure it won't spoil me anything bigger from Invasion though!
Thanks for quick response, and as I said - looking forward to next parts of Invasion.
MICRO!!!!! Hello! Yes, welcome back!
The situation with TNC... Well, there's bad news and good news with that storyline, and I'll give y… moreou the run down. Basically, I've dropped TNC as a standalone sub story, so I won't be returning to that part of the thread. The reason for this was because once I started getting back into the Invasion, making plans and thinking forward, TNC didn't really fit in with the planned sequels that would come in after the conclusion of the Invasion. Of course, I could always pick it up after I finished the second sequel of the Invasion, but realistically that won't be for years, and I think it'll be too far gone for a return by then.
So the solution. Well there were a lot of fantastic plots and characters on TNC that I just couldn't let go of, such as Freya Hawkeye, Jared Pyke and the Stranger, and then there were some less interesting and not so well planned storylines (the Northern war, pretty much all of t… [view original content]
Alright, so I'll close both of the votings now. Warmond will choose to pull Wendel aside and Torrhen will decide to accept his request. This choice with Warmond is more or less a character development with how he interacts with either his wife or his uncle, so it'll surely be interesting as to where this choice leads. As for Torrhen, well this choice will basically help in understanding the current situation that House Yronwood finds itself in, and whether Torrhen wants to be a part of that, and really, what part of that he wants to be a part of. Confused yet? Don't worry, it'll come clear soon enough
Anyway, I have a new part ready for you guys, and it's a Jaremy part. Now the last time we saw Jaremy, he was introduced to Tor Thunderstorm and the young Tywin Yronwood through a bar fight he caused, which resulted in the guards interrupting and arresting them. Jaremy later awoke bound and in a cell with Tor, to which the old man explained himself a little more as well as his relations with the Yronwood's, of which Tywin was currently working on bailing him out. Tor finally came to realise that Jaremy was indeed Jaremy Sand, the Bastard of Brownhill, after noticing how he felt troubled with the mention of his recently passed father. Later, King Edgar and Tywin Yronwood entered the cell and freed Tor before Edgar further inspected Jaremy, which he later recognised to be his bastard brother. This part takes place where the last left off.
Torrhen
The Dornish prince bit his lip as he decided on his answer, still unsure of the certainty that it would be the correct one. “Veng… moreeance,” he muttered in a cold tone, one which made the old king raise an eyebrow. “Vengeance?” he repeated in question, to which Torrhen nodded, “why?” Torrhen gulped, awkwardly grasping the arm of the wooden chair he sat on.
“The Storm King humiliated you, crushing your army and taking your first son, leaving the Bloodroyals crippled as a result. Now you have risen back to your strength, with an army able to lay waste to the conquering stags of the Stormlands,” Torrhen explained, and Olyvar stared long and hard at the crown prince of Blackmont before giving a brief nod.
“Indeed,” he muttered under his breath, and Torrhen took the chance to turn this argument onto his side. “Yet such an army should not be wasted again,” Torrhen bravely stated, and the old king turned his hard glare back onto Torrhen… [view original content]
A knot tied in Jaremy’s chest as his brother repeated his name, louder and more assured this time. The bastard lifted his gaze momentarily, staring his half-brother in his green eyes before dropping his gaze back to the ground. “King,” Jaremy finally muttered quietly, and in the corner of his gaze Jaremy noticed Edgar’s eyes widen, either in shock or disgust. Likely both, Jaremy thought ignorantly.
“Cut his bindings,” the King ordered, rising from the grimy cell floor. The guards showed less obedience this time around, eying each other before looking back to their king. “Now!” Edgar rushed them impatiently, and after a moment Jaremy felt the ropes around his wrists loosen until his arms fell by his side tiredly. His eyes crawled over his chafed red wrists, which he placed a hand over.
“Stand,” Edgar commanded, staring at Jaremy with pleading eyes while the guards watched with callous. Jaremy grasped his forearm, stretching out his fingers before clenching them, instantly noticing the guards moving their hands to the hilts of their sheathed blades. After a moment of reluctance, Jaremy arose to meet the concerned gaze of his older brother.
Jaremy had always been a little bit taller than his brother, but with him in his royal adornment and Jaremy in his rough, patchy attire, the brute bastard appeared much larger than the king he stood before. Jaremy exchanged an awkward glance with his brother, whose eyes studied him like a novella a child could not put down. Jaremy considered saying something, but before any words could come to his mind Edgar had already made the first move; pulling him into a tight embracement.
There was a moment of tension in the first few seconds of his brother’s embrace. Jaremy wanted to fight Edgar’s hold, to break away from the man. He didn’t see Edgar as a brother, not like those he had met and lived with during his years in exile. Edgar was just a face of pain that reminded him of haunting memories, yet Jaremy could not pull himself away, all he could do was stand idle until his brother released him.
“Where have you been?” Edgar mumbled, almost weakly, unbefitting from that of a king. Jaremy glared at the man with critical eyes before answering. “In exile,” Jaremy muttered bluntly, crossing his arms and turning his gaze away. This seemed to offend one of the guards, who reached for his cudgel.
“You will talk to the King with respect,” the man warned him as he slapped the face of his blunt weapon across the open palm of his free hand. Edgar shot a glare towards the man before returning his gaze to Jaremy, who paid neither of them any mind. “Excuse him, my personal guard can speak out of their place. Would you leave us?” Edgar asked sternly, yet it was more of an order than a question, which was answered with a disapproving look and a hesitant exit.
Edgar studied Jaremy with cautious eyes, watching as Jaremy’s gaze turned malicious, aimlessly staring to the floor. “Was that a mistake?” Edgar asked with an almost challenging tone, which Jaremy did not react to. “Maybe,” Jaremy responded with a wild, cold tone, making Edgar raise an eyebrow. “I know you won’t hurt me, Jaremy. I know who you are,” he stated boldly, placing a hand on Jaremy’s shoulder, which he quickly nudged off.
“You don’t know who I am, Edgar. You didn’t then, and you sure as hell don’t now. I’ve already killed one of you before,” Jaremy warned with a deep growl, but Edgar held his ground, trying to catch the gaze of Jaremy’s firm directed glare. He failed to do so, making him sigh and shake his head defeated.
“Then why are you here? Why did you come back?” he asked with a touch of frustration, to which Jaremy raised an eyebrow, turning his gaze back to Edgar. “Do you plan to banish me again, like Father?” Jaremy asked with a touch of bloody amusement, but within that was a clear warning which Edgar noted, and he shook his head. “Father isn’t here anymore if you haven’t already noticed, and if you try anything that got you exiled last time I will make sure that you are not around to make another mistake,” Edgar assured him sternly, making Jaremy’s eyes widen in surprise to Edgar’s strong retaliation before frowning to the mention of his father.
“How did he pass?” Jaremy asked with a harsh tone, but among it was a touch of melancholy. King Franklyn had actually given Jaremy a chance in Brownhill, unlike Queen Eyla or the other nobles of the court, and Jaremy had fucked it up. He was well aware that Franklyn’s choice to exile him was a mercy as opposed to the other options.
Edgar crossed his arms, his expression returning to the neutral calm and nonchalant composure it now held. “By illness,” he informed him bluntly, “only two years ago, a couple of weeks before the coming of my second child; whom I’ve named after our father,” Edgar stated calmly, to which Jaremy furrowed his eyebrows, a depressive manner still overwhelming the knot in his chest.
“You have a son?” Jaremy barely manage to utter, to which Edgar nodded. “And a daughter, Abrey,” he added, causing Jaremy to shake his head in denial. A lot had changed since the last time he had been at Brownhill, which narrowed his thoughts down to one more person. “What about Elise? How is she?” Jaremy asked with a tone riddled with concern and curiosity, something which brought a small smile to Edgar’s lips.
“I’ll let you discover that for yourself over dinner tonight,” Edgar effused warmly, clasping his hands, but Jaremy firmly shook his head. “I’m a bastard, I cannot eat at the Brownhill table,” Jaremy stated in an attempt to sway his brother’s thoughts, but it was no use, as he gently shook his head. “You’re a guest,” he corrected, “and you will eat with us tonight,” he insisted, patting Jaremy’s shoulder before turning to leave the cell.
“I will have my men escort you to your old room, and the servants bring you some fresh clothes. I’d have tried to keep your arrival a secret, but you’ve made efforts to make yourself known at Brownhill, so we will await for you in the hall,” Edgar informed him before exiting the cell, leaving Jaremy without a chance to argue. Instead, he let out a heavy sigh and ran a hand through his thick unwashed and coarse hair.
It was not the fact that he was a bastard that made him not want to dine with the Brownhill’s, but because he was an outcast, and that was not something that truly ashamed him. He was not meant for the royal courts of a kingdom, or to dine in lavish clothing and eat flamboyant meals. He was a bastard and an exile, a slave and a tribesman, a warrior and a lover. For all, the one thing that had brought him back to his old home was the latter. He came for Elise.
-
The day had dragged on for hours as Jaremy was escorted from his cell to his quarters, bathed by servants and dressed into a luxurious tunic with a blue waistcoat and grey cotton pants. Groomers had attempted to trim Jaremy’s ragged hair, which they had spent hours unknotting and washing the blood, dirt and grime from, but Jaremy had threatened to break their hands and open their throats with their scissors if they cut his hair.
During all of this he had received no visitors, and while he had not been given the time or permission to travel much further than his chambers, his worry grew deeper as he thought about Elise. She couldn’t be dead, Edgar would not have been so optimistic if she had passed, but if she was in Brownhill and aware of his presence then why had she not come to meet him. She’s moved on, Jaremy thought to himself fearfully, but he couldn’t be surprised, he had after all been gone so long. Yet he still found it hard to believe, perhaps she was not in Brownhill after all, which worried him further.
He barely noticed the sun starting to set in the west already by the time the servants and groomers had finished with him. He found himself staring at his reflection in the mirror with a confused and almost intimidated look. If he had not recognised himself earlier, he surely couldn’t recognise him now. What they had made him, this had never been what Jaremy was.
The grime and muck set into the skin had been washed away after three attempts of bathing, and despite all the work done, knots and ties still remained in both Jaremy’s hair and beard, yet it was admittedly a lot tidier than it had been in a while. The dirt underneath his nails had been removed with the clipping of those nails, and his feet were tucked into comfortable new shoes; one thing he could not complain about after this painfully long and pointless process.
The next thing which caught Jaremy off guard was the knock at his door, which he stared at for a moment before the old warrior entered with his young companion. Tor’s amber eyes widened in surprise as he looked at the new image of Jaremy Sand, who felt uncomfortable to say the least. Tor ran a hand through his thick grey beard, trying to hold back his laughter while young Tywin just raised his eyebrows.
“Lord Sand,” Tor greeted with an escaping chuckle before bellowing over, bring a small smile onto Tywin’s lips. Jaremy just shook his head, looking back in the mirror. “Laugh again,” Jaremy muttered in warning, making Tor’s face straighten back to its solemn origins. “You ready to go?” he asked with a serious tone, to which Jaremy raised an eyebrow.
“My brother now organises an escort to hold my hand through to the hall? How much does that prick want to humiliate me?” Jaremy spat ignorantly, moving away from the mirror and towards the window. Tor crossed his arms, shaking his head. “We’re based up the corridor, just a few rooms across from you. I figured it might be easier if you didn’t need to face the confrontation of the reunion alone,” Tor suggested, to which Jaremy just chuckled in response.
“I’ve been doing things alone for quite a while, old man,” Jaremy stated with arrogance, and Tor nodded with acknowledgement. “And now that you’re home you don’t need to,” he responded boldly, which Jaremy fought the urge to argue with. “So are you going to accompany us or not? This is after all my first time at Brownhill,” Tor added in a hope to persuade Jaremy, who just rolled his eyes.
“Sure,” he muttered, turning away from the window and approaching the doorway. Tywin stood aside, letting Jaremy pass uncontested, while Tor awaited him outside. The trio walked in silence down the corridor until they reached the stairs which descended down to the main hall, where surely enough the Brownhill members awaited. Jaremy’s eyes scanned over the table as they approached, searching for Elise.
Edgar sat at the head of the table, but he arose as he noticed Jaremy and his company approaching. Immediately on Edgar’s right sat a woman on her early thirties which Jaremy could only presume was Edgar’s wife, a young child in her arms, and beside her sat a young girl with bright blue eyes and wavy black hair that just reached her shoulders. Next to her sat a boy around her age, perhaps a bit younger, with a scrawny build and dark blonde hair, yet something which bothered Jaremy was his eyes. Those familiar green eyes.
On Edgar’s left sat his old crone of a mother: Queen-regent Eyla, whose age had certainly caught up with her since Jaremy had last been unfortunate to lay his eyes upon her, and was blessed to see only the back of her head. However it was the beauty beside her that caught Jaremy’s eye, and even before she had turned, Jaremy had instantly recognised her. Elise.
She was the pure definition of beauty, her wavy black hair flowed down past her shoulders and over the sleeveless shoulders of her purple dress. When her big green eyes met with Jaremy’s his wild heart beat quickened and thudded ferociously at his chest. Her facial features were delicate, with full lips and a button nose. She was exactly how he remembered her… and how she held her head so high with that long neck of hers. Jaremy could barely control his excitement.
“Jaremy,” Edgar warmly greeted as he clasped his hands, but Jaremy paid his brother little attention. “Please find yourself a seat, we shall begin our feast!” Edgar announced, clapping his hands, which summoned servants with filled platters of roasted pork and steamed vegetables, accompanied with glazed apple sauce and thick brown gravy.
Jaremy took his seat at the end of the table, his eyes set on Elise, whose gaze remained lowered and seemingly embarrassed. Tor and Tywin took their seat by the man that sat beside Elise, his curly dark blonde hair was slicked back, and his brown eyes watched Jaremy like a hawk. Yet like his brother, Jaremy paid the insignificant man no mind.
“Jaremy,” Edgar repeat, taking his seat again, and just managing to claim Jaremy’s waned attention. “I’d like to introduce my wife and children to you,” he stated casually, to which Jaremy flicked his gaze back to the woman and her three children before returning back to her. “Nice to meet you,” he muttered, turning his gaze back to Elise, but this wasn’t enough to satisfy Edgar.
“Jaremy,” Edgar called again, this time frustrating the concentrating bastard, who ripped his gaze away from Elise with annoyance. “What?” he spat, to which Eyla slapped her hand on the table. “I told you that bastard has no place at our table!” she groaned, to which Jaremy shot his attention to her. “Shut your mouth, hag!” he snarled back at her, bringing a hush of silence across the table. Jaremy’s gaze flickered between the widened eyes and gasping mouths of each of those on the table, until Edgar finally let out an awkward laugh which was accompanied by Tor’s booming chuckle.
“Mother, please. Jaremy is our guest,” Edgar stated as he placed a soft hand on her old, wrinkled and bony hand. She responded with a roll of her eyes and a snatch of her hand, which she tucked under her armpits. Edgar maintained a warm smile that he now directed to Jaremy. “This is my wife, Julienna,” Edgar resumed, placing his spare hand on her own. The young woman gave Jaremy an awkward nod, which Jaremy reciprocated impatiently.
“And these are my children, young Franklyn and Abrey,” Edgar introduced them with a proud tone, and Jaremy inspected his infant nephew and young niece briefly before his eyes landed on the boy with such familiar big green eyes. “And this one?” Jaremy asked with some impatience, to which Edgar shook his head. “He-” but Jaremy had already gotten the idea, and interjected.
“Your bastard,” Jaremy concluded, now returning his gaze back to Elise, who held an embarrassed stare to the table. The table remained silent for a moment as Jaremy watched Elise’s awkward tension rise, and the anger on the blonde-haired man’s face increase. “He’s Riler Wern, my son, and no bastard,” the man growled, finally gaining the attention of Jaremy, who just raised an eyebrow.
“And you are?” Jaremy asked carelessly, to which the man responded diligently. “Harrin Wern, the General of the Brownhill army,” he stated with some sense of duty, but in a tone that reeked of condescendence. Jaremy smirked at him. “Good for you,” he mocked as he turned his gaze back to his brother as if to ask if introductions were over, but instead was met with a frown.
“Harrin is Elise’s husband,” Edgar finally revealed, “Riler is their son.” Jaremy glared at Edgar for a long moment to await for the reveal of his jape, but after nothing he turned his gaze back to Riler, and then to Elise’s big green eyes, now wet and streaming down her cheeks. Jaremy’s hands closed into fists under the table, his heart beating faster and faster, his anger clearly evident, to the confusion of General Harrin.
“This is your husband?” Jaremy muttered, his glare firmly set on Elise, who remained silent in fear. “ANSWER ME!” he growled, rising to his feet with such aggression that his chair flipped from behind him. Harrin quickly arose in defence of his wife, a stern and cold look on his brown eyes. Eyla glared at Jaremy with ireful eyes.
“Leave the poor girl alone you devil!” Eyla wailed, pulling Elise into her embracement. Jaremy’s anger spoke clearer than any words could, and as he started to head for Harrin he was quickly intercepted by Tor, who gave him a warning with his blade. “That’s enough, Jaremy,” the old man stated, pointing the blade at Jaremy’s throat.
“Out of my way, old man,” Jaremy groaned as he took another step forward, the blade digging into his throat, cutting through his skin and shedding blood. Edgar’s children screamed, scrambling from their seats and running from the hall, quickly followed by their mother. Eyla pulled the shook Elise from her chair, securing an arm around her waist and another used as a guiding hand, which held Elise’s free hand.
“I told you we should’ve hanged that bastard!” she yelled, spitting at him, pushing Edgar over the edge. He slammed his fists on the table, rattling the platters and goblets and showing an anger that Jaremy had never seen in his brother before. “ENOUGH!” he shouted, halting Harrin from pursuing the matter and making Tor lower his blade.
“Send him away, Ed! Get rid of him!” Eyla howled as she begged, but Edgar avoided her pleads. “Leave, mother. I will have words with Jaremy, alone,” Edgar muttered with a seething tone, which mildly satisfied the old hag that guided Elise away. Harrin quickly accompanied them, and eventually both Tor and Tywin took their leave. When the hall fell silent, Edgar pulled off his silver crown and tossed it across the hall.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he growled, to which Jaremy furrowed his eyebrows. “This was your fucking surprise for me? First you humiliate me by putting me in this garment, and then you inform me that Elise has been married off to some noble shit who cares more for honour than for anything else?! You know how special she is!” Jaremy yelled, throwing a chair across the room in blind rage. Edgar shook his head violently, pouring himself a cup of wine.
“Yes, I know just how bloody special she is to you,” Edgar spat as he downed his cup of wine, making Jaremy raise an eyebrow. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he muttered, to which Edgar rolled his eyes. “Did you really think I wouldn’t know about you two? After you were exiled, Elise and I became close, and she explained to me just how close you and she were before your banishment.” Jaremy raised his eyebrows in a moment of brief shock.
“She did?” he mumbled, to which Edgar nodded. “And after a while I came to respect that, but you were gone and she needed to move on. She has a family now Jaremy, you can’t expect her to come back to you,” he stated, but Jaremy shook his head.
“You don’t know the lengths I went to in order to survive, just so that I could be with her again,” Jaremy growled, clenching his fists as he approached Edgar. “I survived a shipwreck onto Sothoryos, and then on that continent for years until I was enslaved into the Freehold. They had me build their grand estates, tunnel moats of lava, mine under their mountains while I lived in a slum with a dozen other men. There were so many times when I could have given up, but I held through for her. I’m here because of her!” Jaremy shouted, and this time, Edgar only nodded.
“You should go work off your anger,” Edgar suggested, “go to the courtyard and spar with the soldiers. Perhaps they could even learn a thing or two from your experience,” Edgar stated optimistically, making Jaremy scoff. Fuck that, bloody amateurs. “Have your fucking General train his troops, just give me Elise,” Jaremy demanded, but Edgar could only shake his head.
“You know I can’t do that,” Edgar stated disappointedly, making Jaremy flip another chair. “Damn you!” Jaremy growled, crumbling to his knees. This time, Edgar only watched him from the stand, crossing his arms. “Perhaps you should leave, go serve another house or forge a new life elsewhere. Get away from Elise, now that you know she’s not waiting for you,” Edgar suggested hesitantly, making Jaremy raise an eyebrow.
“You’re sending me away?” Jaremy asked, to which Edgar shook his head. “No, I’m giving you a choice Jaremy. You either handle yourself here, accept that Elise is not going to be with you and find a role that you can fill which will aid our kingdom, or you can leave and try to start again,” he clarified, leaving Jaremy somewhat at a loss. He was unsure what the best thing to do was.
Time had travelled so fast. It had only been yesterday that Jaremy had returned to Dorne, and last night that he had arrived at Brownhill under arrest. Today he had learnt so much and yet gained so little, what would tomorrow have in store for him? Was it worth the pain to find out? Part of him agreed that it may be a better choice to move on, but where? After all of this, without Elise, Jaremy was nothing.
Now, this was a choice that I needed to really take my time to think through, and it didn't really get any easier. Before I go to my choice though, I'll just say that you did great job in this part showing the dynamics of the Brownhill family, and the personalities of these characters. Great stuff, which also affected my choice...
[Remain in Brownhill] I see the possible negatives to this, as they are clear as day. Jaremy staying in Brownhill sets up many potential conflicts, and to avoid them he would basically have to just give up on Elise and chill.... and well, that just doesn't sound like Jaremy However, I take the risk of this choice leading to some tragedy, just because I think it would be a waste if you wouldn't get to explore these relationships and dynamics further. We just got a taste in this part of the potential for storytelling that Jaremy returning home gives, and I'd rather see that developed further, rather than Jaremy wandering off to somewhere else. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure you'd make an interesting storyline out of that as well, but it would still feel like a missed opportunity in terms of storytelling for Jaremy to leave now.
Jaremy
A knot tied in Jaremy’s chest as his brother repeated his name, louder and more assured this time. The bastard lifted his gaze mom… moreentarily, staring his half-brother in his green eyes before dropping his gaze back to the ground. “King,” Jaremy finally muttered quietly, and in the corner of his gaze Jaremy noticed Edgar’s eyes widen, either in shock or disgust. Likely both, Jaremy thought ignorantly.
“Cut his bindings,” the King ordered, rising from the grimy cell floor. The guards showed less obedience this time around, eying each other before looking back to their king. “Now!” Edgar rushed them impatiently, and after a moment Jaremy felt the ropes around his wrists loosen until his arms fell by his side tiredly. His eyes crawled over his chafed red wrists, which he placed a hand over.
“Stand,” Edgar commanded, staring at Jaremy with pleading eyes while the guards watched with callous. Jaremy grasped his forearm, stretching out… [view original content]
Oooh, I knew it I really knew something has happened in the meantime. It would have just been too perfect if Elise actually waited for him for all these years, especially given that they all thought him dead for the utmost majority of this time. And guess what, I can't even be mad at her for this. Jaremy has been gone for years, everyone thought him dead and moving on is not a bad thing. That being said, Jaremy's reaction is a concerning one. I fear he could really break down and not in a pretty way once the initial shock has worn off. He's already, understandably, not the calmest, most well-adjusted guy. And to make things worse, Edgar has handled this situation poorly. He could have, should have seen this coming, but he chose the one way to break it to Jaremy that almost guaranteed conflict, even if he likely underestimated just how severely he would react. Ah man, this was an intense and brilliant scene
[Remain in Brownhill]
I very much agree with WildlingKing here. While it might be the better thing for Jaremy to move on as well, we have just gotten to know these characters and their relationships with each other. Don't get me wrong, I want the best for Jaremy, but feel like this is too interesting to miss out on. We don't know how Elise felt about the whole situation, given she didn't manage to utter a single word before things get south. And well, I'd love to see this setting being developed a bit more, even if I am quite afraid this could end up as a mistake. But I think this alone won't decide how it all ends for Jaremy, so maybe we can avoid the worst in future choices. Brownhill is his home after all, so staying there could be quite good for him, in a way.
Jaremy
A knot tied in Jaremy’s chest as his brother repeated his name, louder and more assured this time. The bastard lifted his gaze mom… moreentarily, staring his half-brother in his green eyes before dropping his gaze back to the ground. “King,” Jaremy finally muttered quietly, and in the corner of his gaze Jaremy noticed Edgar’s eyes widen, either in shock or disgust. Likely both, Jaremy thought ignorantly.
“Cut his bindings,” the King ordered, rising from the grimy cell floor. The guards showed less obedience this time around, eying each other before looking back to their king. “Now!” Edgar rushed them impatiently, and after a moment Jaremy felt the ropes around his wrists loosen until his arms fell by his side tiredly. His eyes crawled over his chafed red wrists, which he placed a hand over.
“Stand,” Edgar commanded, staring at Jaremy with pleading eyes while the guards watched with callous. Jaremy grasped his forearm, stretching out… [view original content]
Now, this was a choice that I needed to really take my time to think through, and it didn't really get any easier. Before I go to my choice though, I'll just say that you did great job in this part showing the dynamics of the Brownhill family, and the personalities of these characters. Great stuff, which also affected my choice...
Thank you! I really got into this part last night, although I'll admit my initial plans were to focus on Jaremy talking about the Freehold with Elise since I've recently gotten a major hit of inspiration for there, but as I continued to write my way towards those plans, things changed and ultimately this felt more natural and expected from a Jaremy pespective. I'm glad you approve, it means I'm sinking into the right track with him, which is certainly something I like!
I see the possible negatives to this, as they are clear as day. Jaremy staying in Brownhill sets up many potential conflicts, and to avoid them he would basically have to just give up on Elise and chill.... and well, that just doesn't sound like Jaremy However, I take the risk of this choice leading to some tragedy, just because I think it would be a waste if you wouldn't get to explore these relationships and dynamics further. We just got a taste in this part of the potential for storytelling that Jaremy returning home gives, and I'd rather see that developed further, rather than Jaremy wandering off to somewhere else. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure you'd make an interesting storyline out of that as well, but it would still feel like a missed opportunity in terms of storytelling for Jaremy to leave now.
There are indeed positives and negatives to this choice, and while it would be a bit of a waste to outright leave Brownhill, Jaremy choosing to leave would not mean he would never see the Brownhill's again. He perhaps would not associate with them as often, and would have a retreat to go to when he grows sick of them, but certainly would not be the end of his interactions with them. However with all that being said, you wouldn't be able to see half of the family dynamics in work with this choice, and while that would overall be better for Jaremy in the long term, it'd lead in a completely different path for his character development, as would remaining in Brownhill.
Now, this was a choice that I needed to really take my time to think through, and it didn't really get any easier. Before I go to my choice … morethough, I'll just say that you did great job in this part showing the dynamics of the Brownhill family, and the personalities of these characters. Great stuff, which also affected my choice...
[Remain in Brownhill] I see the possible negatives to this, as they are clear as day. Jaremy staying in Brownhill sets up many potential conflicts, and to avoid them he would basically have to just give up on Elise and chill.... and well, that just doesn't sound like Jaremy However, I take the risk of this choice leading to some tragedy, just because I think it would be a waste if you wouldn't get to explore these relationships and dynamics further. We just got a taste in this part of the potential for storytelling that Jaremy returning home gives, and I'd rather see that developed further, rather than Jaremy wa… [view original content]
Oooh, I knew it I really knew something has happened in the meantime. It would have just been too perfect if Elise actually waited for him for all these years, especially given that they all thought him dead for the utmost majority of this time. And guess what, I can't even be mad at her for this. Jaremy has been gone for years, everyone thought him dead and moving on is not a bad thing. That being said, Jaremy's reaction is a concerning one. I fear he could really break down and not in a pretty way once the initial shock has worn off. He's already, understandably, not the calmest, most well-adjusted guy. And to make things worse, Edgar has handled this situation poorly. He could have, should have seen this coming, but he chose the one way to break it to Jaremy that almost guaranteed conflict, even if he likely underestimated just how severely he would react. Ah man, this was an intense and brilliant scene
Indeed, after being gone for about sixteen years it was a bit of a naive dream of Jaremy's to return back to an awaiting loving woman. Now that she has moved on, married another and had a child, Jaremy's reaction to this after his initial blind moment of rage will be quite interesting if he does remain, or if not as well. Surprisingly though he was quite tame in his fit of anger this time however than he was last time, so this could hopefully lead to a better path for Jaremy with some help. However that'd take a lot of guidance and assistance, and as we know, Jaremy isn't really one for accepting help, so it could really go any way from here. Edgar definitely could have handled this better, but being the optimistic and distant brother, he shed some hope that perhaps a part of his old brother remained. This however wasn't all that much of a con for Edgar, as he got to witness just how his brother reacted over something that could be considered trivial, and from the position of a monarch, such anger and strength could be utilised or dangerous, which has likely put a lot on Edgar's mind as with this given choice.
Oooh, I knew it I really knew something has happened in the meantime. It would have just been too perfect if Elise actually waited for him … morefor all these years, especially given that they all thought him dead for the utmost majority of this time. And guess what, I can't even be mad at her for this. Jaremy has been gone for years, everyone thought him dead and moving on is not a bad thing. That being said, Jaremy's reaction is a concerning one. I fear he could really break down and not in a pretty way once the initial shock has worn off. He's already, understandably, not the calmest, most well-adjusted guy. And to make things worse, Edgar has handled this situation poorly. He could have, should have seen this coming, but he chose the one way to break it to Jaremy that almost guaranteed conflict, even if he likely underestimated just how severely he would react. Ah man, this was an intense and brilliant scene
[Remain in Brownhill]
I very… [view original content]
Jaremy
A knot tied in Jaremy’s chest as his brother repeated his name, louder and more assured this time. The bastard lifted his gaze mom… moreentarily, staring his half-brother in his green eyes before dropping his gaze back to the ground. “King,” Jaremy finally muttered quietly, and in the corner of his gaze Jaremy noticed Edgar’s eyes widen, either in shock or disgust. Likely both, Jaremy thought ignorantly.
“Cut his bindings,” the King ordered, rising from the grimy cell floor. The guards showed less obedience this time around, eying each other before looking back to their king. “Now!” Edgar rushed them impatiently, and after a moment Jaremy felt the ropes around his wrists loosen until his arms fell by his side tiredly. His eyes crawled over his chafed red wrists, which he placed a hand over.
“Stand,” Edgar commanded, staring at Jaremy with pleading eyes while the guards watched with callous. Jaremy grasped his forearm, stretching out… [view original content]
Find that choice could lead to some very interesting scenarios. He could possibly end up repairing his relationship with his family. On the other hand, he might just make it worse. I wonder if Elise still harbors feelings for him. If so, this could turn into a Rhaegar/Leana situation, but, unlike Leana at the time, Elise has a son and a husband now. So, that is probably unlikely. I'm mainly just curious to see how he continues to react with his family.
Jaremy
A knot tied in Jaremy’s chest as his brother repeated his name, louder and more assured this time. The bastard lifted his gaze mom… moreentarily, staring his half-brother in his green eyes before dropping his gaze back to the ground. “King,” Jaremy finally muttered quietly, and in the corner of his gaze Jaremy noticed Edgar’s eyes widen, either in shock or disgust. Likely both, Jaremy thought ignorantly.
“Cut his bindings,” the King ordered, rising from the grimy cell floor. The guards showed less obedience this time around, eying each other before looking back to their king. “Now!” Edgar rushed them impatiently, and after a moment Jaremy felt the ropes around his wrists loosen until his arms fell by his side tiredly. His eyes crawled over his chafed red wrists, which he placed a hand over.
“Stand,” Edgar commanded, staring at Jaremy with pleading eyes while the guards watched with callous. Jaremy grasped his forearm, stretching out… [view original content]
Jaremy
A knot tied in Jaremy’s chest as his brother repeated his name, louder and more assured this time. The bastard lifted his gaze mom… moreentarily, staring his half-brother in his green eyes before dropping his gaze back to the ground. “King,” Jaremy finally muttered quietly, and in the corner of his gaze Jaremy noticed Edgar’s eyes widen, either in shock or disgust. Likely both, Jaremy thought ignorantly.
“Cut his bindings,” the King ordered, rising from the grimy cell floor. The guards showed less obedience this time around, eying each other before looking back to their king. “Now!” Edgar rushed them impatiently, and after a moment Jaremy felt the ropes around his wrists loosen until his arms fell by his side tiredly. His eyes crawled over his chafed red wrists, which he placed a hand over.
“Stand,” Edgar commanded, staring at Jaremy with pleading eyes while the guards watched with callous. Jaremy grasped his forearm, stretching out… [view original content]
I'll be in small minority here, but I'd like to see more dynamic story. It's not good-bad choice though - both options have advantages, both have drawbacks. Leaving Brownill gives you a lot of space in the story and potential moves of Jaremy, but is linked with abandoning great plot with Elise. Remaining there makes his story a little bit linear, but grants development of this Elisabeth-Jaremy relation. I'm not super convinced to any of it, so prolly I should go with majority of you, but as I see this choice will win anyways - if somewhat no, I'd have to rethink it and maybe change the decision.
Jaremy
A knot tied in Jaremy’s chest as his brother repeated his name, louder and more assured this time. The bastard lifted his gaze mom… moreentarily, staring his half-brother in his green eyes before dropping his gaze back to the ground. “King,” Jaremy finally muttered quietly, and in the corner of his gaze Jaremy noticed Edgar’s eyes widen, either in shock or disgust. Likely both, Jaremy thought ignorantly.
“Cut his bindings,” the King ordered, rising from the grimy cell floor. The guards showed less obedience this time around, eying each other before looking back to their king. “Now!” Edgar rushed them impatiently, and after a moment Jaremy felt the ropes around his wrists loosen until his arms fell by his side tiredly. His eyes crawled over his chafed red wrists, which he placed a hand over.
“Stand,” Edgar commanded, staring at Jaremy with pleading eyes while the guards watched with callous. Jaremy grasped his forearm, stretching out… [view original content]
And Jaremy will remain in Brownhill! Hey guys, apologies for being so inactive as of late, I've been pretty busy with school and projects which have unfortunately soaked up all my time, and will only continue to get worse as this term progresses I do have some better news however, and that's that I have a new part ready to apologise for my inactivity, and it's a Jaycen part.
The last time we saw Jaycen he reunited with King Hector Blackmont and Prince Torrhen Blackmont, having a jolly good old time with them before returning to his journey to Storm's End.
Jaremy
A knot tied in Jaremy’s chest as his brother repeated his name, louder and more assured this time. The bastard lifted his gaze mom… moreentarily, staring his half-brother in his green eyes before dropping his gaze back to the ground. “King,” Jaremy finally muttered quietly, and in the corner of his gaze Jaremy noticed Edgar’s eyes widen, either in shock or disgust. Likely both, Jaremy thought ignorantly.
“Cut his bindings,” the King ordered, rising from the grimy cell floor. The guards showed less obedience this time around, eying each other before looking back to their king. “Now!” Edgar rushed them impatiently, and after a moment Jaremy felt the ropes around his wrists loosen until his arms fell by his side tiredly. His eyes crawled over his chafed red wrists, which he placed a hand over.
“Stand,” Edgar commanded, staring at Jaremy with pleading eyes while the guards watched with callous. Jaremy grasped his forearm, stretching out… [view original content]
Plumes of black smoke sat over the final horizon of the remnant Red Mountains. The combined armies of House Caron, Dondarrion and Swann travelled towards Griffin’s Roost now, and Jaycen hoped his one eye was failing him, for the sight he saw left him without words. The red keep had been left stained with soot, a remnants of the black smoke that still lifted from some of the damaged towers.
Jaycen grasped the reins of his steed with a tight grip, eying the piled corpses that burned outside the keep. They were too far to identify what allegiance the soldiers had, but the banners clarified who now held the ruins of Griffin’s Roost, and it was not House Connington. The banner gave clear origin of the usurpers of the castle; a seven pointed star on a white field. Andal’s, Jaycen thought bitterly as he grit his teeth. Hector was right.
“I’ll fucking kill those bastards!” Keat spat, unsheathing his sword in a fit of rage. Gladys placed a hand on his destrier’s neck, looking at him with stern but sympathetic eyes. “We all will,” she promised him, “but we must wait for our army to arrive. No point you throwing yourself onto the spear,” she stated plainly, turning her gaze to Lord Gilbret Swann.
“Grandfather,” she mumbled, pulling the old man from his aimless gaze. He turned his old eyes to Gladys, a frown on his wrinkled brow. “We should wait,” he agreed, but Jaycen shook his head, now staring at the riders that approached them. “There won’t be time for that,” he muttered, now unsheathing his own blade.
Three riders drew nearer as the commanders watched cautiously at their approached, ready to ride against them if need be. Keat was restless, his destrier pacing back and forth, sweat forming on his brow. Gladys stared sternly at the riders, twirling her blade between her fingers, while Gilbret sat calmly and awaited their arrival. Jaycen started to recognise their adornments as they grew closer. The Night’s Watch?
Before Jaycen could even think further on it, the black brothers were upon them. They circled them curiously, like crows inspecting tainted meat from above, before their ringleader stopped and dismounted from his Garron. “Lords, m’lady,” he greeted warmly, staring up to them with a solemn gaze. Jaycen sternly glared at the man, while Gilbret answered in their stead.
“Evening, brother,” Gilbret replied passively, staring at the man with poor eyes. Jaycen studied the man thoroughly, he was a younger man than Jaycen, perhaps in his mid-thirties, with long coarse black hair that fell past his shoulders and a beard which met his untidiness. His eyes were a light brown.
“I am Morrigen, a ranger of the Night’s Watch,” he stated nonchalantly, then turning to his two companions. “These two are Simon Whitehill and Tom Hill, also rangers of the Night’s Watch,” he added, turning his gaze to Jaycen. “What are you doing this far south?” Jaycen growled, yet in a manner that demanded an answer rather than asked for one. Morrigen sighed, turning back to the burning castle.
“We are searching for a deserter, named Teddy Estermont. We were led to believe he was being harboured with the Connington’s, but we’ve yet to find his corpse among the rest,” Morrigen informed them regretfully. Keat groaned in anger. “The remains?! You fucking besieged my Lord’s home for one bloody traitor!” he spluttered with ire. Morrigen shook his head.
“The Andal’s besieged your home, my Lord, we only searched for a traitor,” he assured him, but Keat had heard enough. “You fucking shit!” Keat screamed, jabbing his horse in the back of its ribs, making his steed arch up on his hind legs. “Enough!” Lord Gilbret yelled, but Keat ignored his orders. He charged forward, striking and merely missing Morrigen as he side-stepped. Keat charged down the hill, riding for Griffin’s Roost.
“For fuck sake,” Gladys spat, kicking her horse into a gallop after him. Jaycen turned his gaze down to Morrigen, whom still looked to be processing what just happened. The Lord of Nightsong dismounted from his horse, meeting the brother eye-to-eye. “My Lord, I can assure you, we had nothing to do with this,” Morrigen swore, falling to his knees as Jaycen approached him with his sword in hand.
“Lord Gryff was a close friend of mine, where is he now?” Jaycen shouted, and Morrigen shook his head. “Dead, my Lord,” he muttered with remorse. “And his son?” Jaycen spat, but Morrigen just shook his head. “From what I can see, you are the real traitors here,” Jaycen muttered, but Morrigen lifted his hands up, shaking his head.
“Please, my Lord, we were only following our orders,” he exclaimed, and Jaycen could spot the one called Simon Whitehill nocking an arrow. “Whose orders?” Jaycen growled, halting a moment. “Ron Connington, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” he stated, and Jaycen raised an eyebrow. “He ordered this?” Jaycen asked with a touch of disbelief, to which Morrigen nodded.
“He ordered the death of his own family?” Jaycen spat, now convinced the man was lying. Jaycen placed the blade of his sword on Morrigen’s shoulder, and he could see the man clearly uncomfortable with its presence. “Lord, back away from him,” a younger voice ordered, and the sound of a drawn bowstring followed. Jaycen turned his gaze to the young man atop his horse, an angry look on his eyes.
“Drop that arrow, stupid boy,” Jaycen grumbled, turning his gaze back to Morrigen, “Harder boys have tried to kill me.” Simon hesitated a moment, long enough for Morrigen to plea for forgiveness. “My Lord, please, I swear to you… We were just following our orders, we’re hunting a deserter,” he mumbled, but Jaycen just shook his head.
“We’ll see what King Qarlton has to say once he finds out you murdered one of his most loyal bannermen,” Jaycen growled, sheathing his blade and returning to his horse. “We will take back Griffin’s Roost and bring the head of the Andal shit back to the Storm King. Then we’ll figure out what to do with you,” Jaycen stated with a menacing tone, climbing atom his horse and steering it back to their army. “Come, Lord Gilbret. We have a siege to prepare,” Jaycen muttered, and the two rode back to their army.
-
The great curtain wall of stone stood a hundred feet high, and almost as thick on its seaward side, with battlements running across the top of the walls. The curved walls were truly a work of elite architecture, being smoothly rounded, it was constructed perfectly, and it truly reputed its namesake: Storm’s End.
The Great Marcher army set up their camp alongside the other vassal armies of the Storm King, while Jaycen continued through the main gates into the castle, followed by Gladys, Gilbret and Morrigen. Jaycen’s expression remained as stern and cold as ever, a hand clutched around the openings of a leather bag, with another around the reins of his steed as it led him towards the Great Hall of Storm’s End.
Jaycen continued riding into the main tower of the castle, careless to the thoughts of the astonished guards that attended to his companion’s horses. His mind was set on the king, and that alone stormed a vast amount of conflict inside his mind. Qarlton had been Jaycen’s most trusted friend once, the brother he had never had, but that was ruined when he chose to sleep with his wife: Meghan. Jaycen came to forgive him, or at least so he said, but could never respect the man like he once did, especially now.
The Lord of the Marches turned his cold glare down towards the bag he grasped in his hands, weighted as he expected, and oozing to the bottom of the leather. It was perhaps the smell which topped it off however, the odour of death; drying blood and rotting meat. All things which Jaycen was well accustomed to, and one which he carried as a burden rather than an honour.
He led his destrier around the large corridors, the nobles and guards quickly darting out of his way as he trotted through; all sharing gazes of shock, fear and disdain. As he approached the main gates to the Great Hall, the guards opened them for his approach, allowing him to pass unwarranted into the throne room. It was there he saw him: the Storm King, sitting upon his stone throne with a smirk on his lips; something Jaycen was unsure whether to remark at or scowl in response to. He did neither.
Qarlton was a man of a slender muscular build, mostly hidden under a simple attire consisting of a long-sleeved black shirt with a golden short sleeve vest over the top of this; running down to his knees, and decorated with a crowned black stag. Atop of this he wore a dark golden cloak trimmed with black fur, and above all this, sitting on top of his greasy and receding black hairline, sat a golden wrapped antler crown.
He arose from his throne with a grin spread across his lips as Jaycen came to a halt before him, studying his features. The man had aged since he last saw him, his sides had greyed and he wore a grey stubble with that. His hair remained black and greased; slicked back and crowned, yet it was his piercing dark blue eyes which still held their sharpness. Alert and cunning, yet also condescending and arrogant, Jaycen held his composure under Qarlton’s gaze.
“Lord Caron,” he greeted nonchalantly, lifting his arms in welcome. Jaycen tossed the bag at his feet in turn, a sickening crack thundered through the hall as it landed, toppling to Qarlton’s leather boots. “That’s the head of the Andal warlord that has held Griffin’s Roost uncontested. He had grown fat with his newly accustomed lifestyle, he barely put up a fight against my army when we redeemed the castle; and the Connington’s,” Jaycen seethed, making Qarlton frown.
“Dead, I presume,” he muttered, to which Jaycen nodded. “Their bodies were torn apart from horseback, their corpses desecrated and serving as supper for the ravens,” Jaycen grumbled, grasping the reins of his horse. Qarlton nodded, pulling out the head of the fat Andal warlord and smirking. “Looks like the Lord of the Marches had his way with you,” he admired, dropping the bruised and bloody head back into the bag, which he passed off to one of his kingsguard.
“You have served me well once again, and I am glad you have answered my call,” Qarlton announced, clasping his hands and passing off a warm smile that was heavily uncharacteristic for the man that Jaycen once knew. “I didn’t do it for you,” Jaycen muttered, averting his gaze elsewhere. “To not answer your call would be treason, my King, and we are certainly not traitors!” Gilbret stated in a cheery tone, finally entering with the company of Gladys and Morrigen. Qarlton grinned, descending the steps of his throne.
“Lord Gilbret, it is a pleasure to have you back in my halls, and Lady Gladys!” he called, taking and kissing her hand as a gentleman. “You are most welcome,” he assured her, to which she just rolled her eyes playfully, all the while Jaycen scowled at Qarlton’s unnerving behaviour. “And who is this?” Qarlton asked, turning his gaze to the final member of their group. Before any of them could answer, the man of the Black spoke for himself.
“Morrigen, Your Grace. I’m a brother of the Night’s Watch,” Morrigen informed him, to which Qarlton raised an eyebrow, before shrugging off the matter. “Welcome,” he muttered, turning back to Jaycen. “You’ve made quite an entrance,” he marvelled, to which Jaycen remained silent to, holding a solemn idle stance. “This conquest is foolish, Qarlton, the real enemy is at your shores, murdering your lords while you bicker with the Massey’s!” Jaycen grumbled, looking down at the man he had once held in high regard, and now saw for what he was: a neglectful ruler. Qarlton barely flinched at Jaycen’s accusations, returning to his throne.
“Yes well, you were always the brains of our duo, which is why I’ve called specifically for you to come to me in this time I need you the most,” Qarlton explained, taking a seat on his uncomfortable stone chair and shifting his gaze back to Jaycen, who stared at him sternly. “You want my opinion? Turn your eyes to those who pose a threat to your kingdom, not those you wish to add to it. There will be nothing to add to if you continue to neglect your subjects!” Jaycen spat, making Qarlton raise an eyebrow.
“You think you could do better?” he challenged him, making Jaycen clamp his tongue as he stared at Qarlton with a bitter gaze. “I think you could,” Qarlton admitted, rising from his throne again, now to approach Jaycen. He placed a hand on the neck of Jaycen’s horse, a frown on his face. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes between us, and I wish I could mend those, I truly do, but right now there are matters which require more than just our bickering. If not for me, the Kingdom needs you,” Qarlton stated, before pulling something from his side pocket. Jaycen stared sternly at the silver brooch Qarlton presented to him. It was shaped like that of a thunder bolt, and Jaycen knew exactly what it was.
“I want you to be my Hand,” Qarlton stated, offering the medallion to Jaycen, who stared at it with cold eyes. Qarlton placed the brooch in Jaycen’s hand. “Think of your family, Lord Caron, and the good of the realm,” he added as he returned to his throne. Jaycen now gulped, furrowing his eyebrows as he stared at Qarlton with a worried eye.
“My family?” Jaycen asked with a clearly concerned tone, to which Qarlton nodded. “Yes,” he averted his gaze to Gladys before returning back to Jaycen. Now Jaycen felt outright tension stiffen through his body, his hands paralysed around the reins of his horse. He was referring to Meghan, he knew this much, but what did he have over her? She is safe at Blackhaven, unless… he recalled that he hadn’t seen her as he departed, but he had placed that down to her emotional distraught. Now he was unsure.
Jaycen gritted his teeth, glaring at Qarlton with a cold eye. He’s trying to blackmail me, he realised, and in this he found some relief, for there was the chance he was bluffing, but worry still consumed him. If he truly had Meghan, he would be endangering her to disobey his king, not only for her sake, but for his family… and the realm, as he came to think of it. House Caron would not stand for their Lady Mother to be a hostage to their liege’s household, it would lead to a civil war, and gods knew that was the last thing the kingdom needed now. Yet how could Jaycen serve such a man, were the risks worth defying him?
Okay, so, what is that guy planning? We know Meghan is at Storm's End, but what Qarlton's plans for her are in particular, I still don't know. It might be that he manipulated Ted quite heavily when he offered him to marry Meghan, especially considering that he makes a show out of promoting Jaycen right here. That would be the less concerning option. More concerning would be that he plans for Jaycen to, in one way or the other, outright die, so that he can do as he pleases with the rest of House Caron. Jaycen is not only his most powerful bannerman, but also his most inconvenient, having at least two reasons now to outright rebel against his king. He decided against it the first time and I believe nothing good can come out of defying him this time either. I mean, declining this offer to Qarlton's face? Yeah, he'd give him every reason he needs. Now, I believe it will eventually be very dangerous for Jaycen as well if he accepts, but I see it as necessary to ensure the safety of his family, especially Meghan. I hate playing by Qarlton's rules here, but we know he has her as... a hostage? A guest? I don't know. She's at Storm's End, she's in danger if we decline the offer and well, accepting it might put Jaycen into a position where he can do something against that. While probably not stopping Qarlton from his foolish conquest, he might actually get out of this one alive if he plays his cards right with the power he is offered here.
Jaycen
Plumes of black smoke sat over the final horizon of the remnant Red Mountains. The combined armies of House Caron, Dondarrion and … moreSwann travelled towards Griffin’s Roost now, and Jaycen hoped his one eye was failing him, for the sight he saw left him without words. The red keep had been left stained with soot, a remnants of the black smoke that still lifted from some of the damaged towers.
Jaycen grasped the reins of his steed with a tight grip, eying the piled corpses that burned outside the keep. They were too far to identify what allegiance the soldiers had, but the banners clarified who now held the ruins of Griffin’s Roost, and it was not House Connington. The banner gave clear origin of the usurpers of the castle; a seven pointed star on a white field. Andal’s, Jaycen thought bitterly as he grit his teeth. Hector was right.
“I’ll fucking kill those bastards!” Keat spat, unsheathing his sword in a fit of rage. Gladys plac… [view original content]
Jaycen
Plumes of black smoke sat over the final horizon of the remnant Red Mountains. The combined armies of House Caron, Dondarrion and … moreSwann travelled towards Griffin’s Roost now, and Jaycen hoped his one eye was failing him, for the sight he saw left him without words. The red keep had been left stained with soot, a remnants of the black smoke that still lifted from some of the damaged towers.
Jaycen grasped the reins of his steed with a tight grip, eying the piled corpses that burned outside the keep. They were too far to identify what allegiance the soldiers had, but the banners clarified who now held the ruins of Griffin’s Roost, and it was not House Connington. The banner gave clear origin of the usurpers of the castle; a seven pointed star on a white field. Andal’s, Jaycen thought bitterly as he grit his teeth. Hector was right.
“I’ll fucking kill those bastards!” Keat spat, unsheathing his sword in a fit of rage. Gladys plac… [view original content]
Jaycen
Plumes of black smoke sat over the final horizon of the remnant Red Mountains. The combined armies of House Caron, Dondarrion and … moreSwann travelled towards Griffin’s Roost now, and Jaycen hoped his one eye was failing him, for the sight he saw left him without words. The red keep had been left stained with soot, a remnants of the black smoke that still lifted from some of the damaged towers.
Jaycen grasped the reins of his steed with a tight grip, eying the piled corpses that burned outside the keep. They were too far to identify what allegiance the soldiers had, but the banners clarified who now held the ruins of Griffin’s Roost, and it was not House Connington. The banner gave clear origin of the usurpers of the castle; a seven pointed star on a white field. Andal’s, Jaycen thought bitterly as he grit his teeth. Hector was right.
“I’ll fucking kill those bastards!” Keat spat, unsheathing his sword in a fit of rage. Gladys plac… [view original content]
There's no way that defying him would result in no consequences, so it's rather definitely right choice there. And being Hand of the Lord isn't that bad - it's more like adviser, not servant. If Jaycen plays it properly, he can have large impact on Qarlton decisions. Of course it's linked to vowing an ultimate loyalty to him, but still - Caron family is in danger, and that can be good opportunity to do something about it.
Jaycen
Plumes of black smoke sat over the final horizon of the remnant Red Mountains. The combined armies of House Caron, Dondarrion and … moreSwann travelled towards Griffin’s Roost now, and Jaycen hoped his one eye was failing him, for the sight he saw left him without words. The red keep had been left stained with soot, a remnants of the black smoke that still lifted from some of the damaged towers.
Jaycen grasped the reins of his steed with a tight grip, eying the piled corpses that burned outside the keep. They were too far to identify what allegiance the soldiers had, but the banners clarified who now held the ruins of Griffin’s Roost, and it was not House Connington. The banner gave clear origin of the usurpers of the castle; a seven pointed star on a white field. Andal’s, Jaycen thought bitterly as he grit his teeth. Hector was right.
“I’ll fucking kill those bastards!” Keat spat, unsheathing his sword in a fit of rage. Gladys plac… [view original content]
Jaycen
Plumes of black smoke sat over the final horizon of the remnant Red Mountains. The combined armies of House Caron, Dondarrion and … moreSwann travelled towards Griffin’s Roost now, and Jaycen hoped his one eye was failing him, for the sight he saw left him without words. The red keep had been left stained with soot, a remnants of the black smoke that still lifted from some of the damaged towers.
Jaycen grasped the reins of his steed with a tight grip, eying the piled corpses that burned outside the keep. They were too far to identify what allegiance the soldiers had, but the banners clarified who now held the ruins of Griffin’s Roost, and it was not House Connington. The banner gave clear origin of the usurpers of the castle; a seven pointed star on a white field. Andal’s, Jaycen thought bitterly as he grit his teeth. Hector was right.
“I’ll fucking kill those bastards!” Keat spat, unsheathing his sword in a fit of rage. Gladys plac… [view original content]
And I'll close this vote now. Jaycen will accept Qarlton's offer. I won't say much about this choice, but I'm sure many of you could see the similarities between Ned and Robert from season 1 here, and Ned really ought to have stayed in the North... Fortunately this is not Kings Landing, and there are no Lannister's involved from what we can see
Anyway, I have the next part ready, and it is a Bethany part. Last time we saw her, Gareth had left and Bethany was striking hard times with her limited company, with Maddelyn showing difficulty getting over Gareth's return to Nightsong, and the whoreson Ben Tarth showing some empathy after his actions, something which Bethany did not take lightly too. By the end of the part, you chose for Bethany to go and apologise to Ben, and well, those were my bloody guidelines, but I might've gotten carried away with a new character at Blackhaven Enjoy!
Jaycen
Plumes of black smoke sat over the final horizon of the remnant Red Mountains. The combined armies of House Caron, Dondarrion and … moreSwann travelled towards Griffin’s Roost now, and Jaycen hoped his one eye was failing him, for the sight he saw left him without words. The red keep had been left stained with soot, a remnants of the black smoke that still lifted from some of the damaged towers.
Jaycen grasped the reins of his steed with a tight grip, eying the piled corpses that burned outside the keep. They were too far to identify what allegiance the soldiers had, but the banners clarified who now held the ruins of Griffin’s Roost, and it was not House Connington. The banner gave clear origin of the usurpers of the castle; a seven pointed star on a white field. Andal’s, Jaycen thought bitterly as he grit his teeth. Hector was right.
“I’ll fucking kill those bastards!” Keat spat, unsheathing his sword in a fit of rage. Gladys plac… [view original content]
The warm air brushed against her cheeks and through her hair, she adjusted her arm, her gaze focused on the lone oak that sat atop the small hill, at least a mile from the large stone wall that bordered Blackhaven Town from the Marches. Inhale. Her chest rose as she pulled in her breath, holding her army steady and her gaze calm. The shaft of the arrow rested against her forefinger, and with a calm exhale, she let her grip loose.
The arrow soared through the air, battling against the wind and steering on course, as planned. Splinters of wood thrusted into the air as the arrow pierced the trunk of the old oak, right next to the four other arrows she had just shot earlier. Another round of applause came from the guards as they watched her in marvel. “Brilliant shot, Lady Caron!” they exclaimed in compliments, but Bethany felt no sense of pride from her shots, nor any uplifting of her lowered spirits.
Before long, the men under the Dondarrion tabards return to their duties along the wall, and Bethany was left to sit alone on the battlements, staring at the tormented old oak. Even from here she could see the damage the old wood had underwent, used as a sparring tree, a target for arrows, and an opponent for the lance. Thick sap ran down its new wounds, bringing a shiver down her spine, as she stared aimlessly into the distance.
To the west were her parents at Storm’s End, to the east was Gareth at Nightsong, and north; Alara. The thought of her half-sister brought much conflict into her mind. There was without a single doubt that she loved her sister to death, but a deep part of her heart envied her life, a life free from the boundaries of family and commitment, free of the duties of a daughter, and free from the confinement of a prison’s walls. Bethany bit her tongue as she clenched her hands tightly around the shaft of her bow. I could run, but they would catch me, she thought hopelessly, staring across the dry and barren fields of grass that she had called home for so many years. Nothing felt so entrapping now as it did then.
“Lady Bethany,” a voice called from behind her, one without familiarity. Bethany cautiously and curiously turned her gaze behind her, loosening another arrow from her quiver. Her gaze met the dark green eyes of a soldier, his golden hair short and swept back with a slight tinge of orange running through it, and smile on his lips. “Who are you?” Bethany asked bluntly, forgetting her manners, but for a prisoner of a distant castle she had lost her courtesy for each and every man who approached her to compliment on her beauty.
“I am Captain Cassian Cole,” he introduced himself, bowing before her honourably, to which she gave him a brief nod. “I’ve been assigned to watch over you,” he informed her, taking his place beside her, which oddly brought some comfort to her, but she made an effort to ignore his presence. “In case I decide to run away?” Bethany asked nonchalantly, rolling her eyes. “In case you find trouble,” he corrected, making Bethany raise an eyebrow, but she chose not to question it. Cassian sighed, kneeling over the battlements and looking below to the guards.
“Castle Cole is a half hour ride from here,” he stated, running his hand through his hair. “Do you like to ride?” he asked, turning his gaze to her. Bethany eyed him a moment, rooting out the deceit in her captor, or at least the guard tasked from her captor to watch over her. Hesitantly she nodded, to which the man grinned. “Great, let’s go then,” he decided, turning to the steps behind the wall. Bethany pulled herself off the battlements and followed after him.
“Isn’t the guard meant to follow the one they are meant to protect, not the other way around?” Bethany asked, feeling quite confused as to these sudden come of events. Cassian stopped, taking her by the forearm and looking into her eyes with a solemn glare. Bethany tensed up, having no choice but to look into his dark green eyes. “I’m not your slave, Lady Caron, and forgive me, but I do have better things to do than stand idle while you wallow in your misery atop the wall,” he stated before releasing her and heading to the stables, leaving her somewhat taken aback, yet oddly in a position of excitement. Someone was finally being real with her.
-
He looked handsome in his gear, sitting tall atop his horse with an alert gaze that watched around them. He wore a pair of leather pants with a leather coat that was hidden under the scarlet tabard of House Cole. His sheathed bronze sword jiggled by his side as his courser walked along the road beside her own. Bethany remained in her casual wear, consisting of a loose long-sleeved yellow shirt and black tights, her bow slung over her shoulder. She felt uncomfortable, and quite underdressed for their destination.
“Why do we ride for Castle Cole?” Bethany asked, breaking the silence that had lasted from the beginning of their ride to now. Cassian shrugged, still staring ahead. “I thought you might enjoy some time outside of Blackhaven,” Cassian stated, which Bethany nodded to. “Yes, but my question still stands.” Cassian sighed, turning his gaze to her momentarily before returning to his alert watch. “My mother is ill, I wanted to see her before she passes,” he stated bluntly, making Bethany swallow her pride.
“I-” she stumbled on her words, but Cassian just shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t expect the Lady of Nightsong to care about the wellbeing of a peasant’s mother, so don’t fret yourself with false condolences,” he muttered, making Bethany scowl at him. “I had plans to make an apology to someone today,” Bethany stated in a change of subject, to which Cassian showed no particular interest to. “Why didn’t you?” he asked with an apathetic tone, making Bethany frown. “I was convinced to come out on a ride with Captain Cassian Cole, who is sounding like a real shit to me,” Bethany ranted, but to her surprise she received no retaliation.
“Oh don’t let me stop you,” he stated, rolling his eyes. “You know your way back to Blackhaven,” he muttered, not bothering to turn his eyes to her. That I do, she thought in a final sense of defiance, before jabbing the ribs of her courser, sending the steed into a gallop ahead of him. “Hey!” he yelled, but his words were drowned out from the sound of hooves on dirt, a storm of dust left in her trail. She would ride home, back to her brother, she would be safe there. Safer than with a dementing old man and a neglectful guard, that much was certain.
She slapped the reins, spurring the horse faster along the dirt road, a liberating feeling came with this act of rebellion. She could not help but think of Alara again, on the nights she used to watch her and Ryman ride under the stars of the night from her tower window, for a first time her heart was not flooded with envy with the thought of her sister, but appreciation and understanding. She dug her feet into the ribs of her horse, quickening its pace yet again.
“BETH-” a voice shouted from behind her, and her quick gaze behind her confirmed it was Cassian. “STOP!” he yelled, somehow slowly managing to catch up to her. Bethany ignored him, riding her horse harder and faster, she did not care if Cassian or the entire guard chased after her, she would get home. Pushing her horse harder and harder, the beast snickered in disapproval, but obeyed its mistress.
The road had been surrounded by trees this entire ride, but finally Bethany came across an opening to an entire landscape of flatlands: the Marches. With ambition and hope-driven courage she steered off the road and onto the grass, instantly feeling the difference in terrain beneath her. She flicked her gaze over her shoulder to still see Cassian in pursuit, gaining on her now. She tried to spur her horse faster but all the creature replied with was a loud snicker and a shaking head of denial. Bethany cursed the beast, tears welling up in her eyes, and then she felt him, his grasp on her arm. She fought him, slapping at his arm in an attempt to free herself, but after a long fight she came out defeat, and was pulled from the saddle of her horse.
The courser galloped off as their own began to slow, but with Bethany’s resistance, Cassian had no choice but to let her go. She stumbled off the side, rolling across the grass while Cassian slowed his steed down to a halt. He dismounted just as Bethany was finding her feet, and disorientated, she tried to run for the distance, where she hoped the Nightsong would be. She felt the weight lifted off her legs as Cassian lifted her up by the waist, the two falling into the field of wild grass.
Bethany laughed hysterically through her tears, the blurred image of Captain Cassian hovering over her, on top of her. He brought a gentle hand to her face, wiping away the tears that she wept, and for the first time, Bethany saw something beautiful in the man above her. His eyes sympathetic, even if they clearly appeared frustrated, but there was a soft smile on his lips, even if it was small. He moved the muddled hair from her fringe off her face, staring into her eyes with a look she knew well. It was one she often had when she saw Gareth with another girl, a longing which she knew she could never have, something Cassian now mirrored. He was overstepping his line, this much was certain, but there was something alluring about the man that made Bethany’s heart quicken.
Bethany
The warm air brushed against her cheeks and through her hair, she adjusted her arm, her gaze focused on the lone oak that sat ato… morep the small hill, at least a mile from the large stone wall that bordered Blackhaven Town from the Marches. Inhale. Her chest rose as she pulled in her breath, holding her army steady and her gaze calm. The shaft of the arrow rested against her forefinger, and with a calm exhale, she let her grip loose.
The arrow soared through the air, battling against the wind and steering on course, as planned. Splinters of wood thrusted into the air as the arrow pierced the trunk of the old oak, right next to the four other arrows she had just shot earlier. Another round of applause came from the guards as they watched her in marvel. “Brilliant shot, Lady Caron!” they exclaimed in compliments, but Bethany felt no sense of pride from her shots, nor any uplifting of her lowered spirits.
Before long, the men under … [view original content]
Comments
Well the voting is closed! Wylla will stay with Waldina. This is probably a wise choice, as Waldina is in a pretty poor state of condition currently, she could probably use the company of a familiar face as opposed to a near-pirate crew
Anyway, I'm sorry it's been so long, it turns out I've been busier than I thought I would be this term break, but I finally have the next part ready, and it's a Warmond part. Here's a recap:
Last time we saw Warmond, he was spending some luxurious time with his wife: Dia, before being interrupted by Wyman, his uncle. The two talked about Wyman preparing to leave for the Fingers to aid the Royce's with his army, and then Warmond tried to talk to him about what they saw with Aunt Wyona's corpse when it was freed in the swell from her coffin. This was pretty unsuccessful, and Wyman finally delivered the message that his father, King Waldemar, wished to speak with Warmond. When finding Waldemar in Wyona's gardens, the old man gave him a history lesson on House Manderly's origins before asking what Warmond's ambitions would be as king. You chose for him to say he would like to increase trade routes in the kingdom, and this part takes place roughly an hour after then.
Warmond
A cool draft breezed through Warmond’s open bedroom window, brushing over his naked torso which obscured the entrance as he stared out at the Flooded Citadel. Warmond leant on the windowsill, lifting his eyes to the night sky; it was like a black coat that covered the white sky, an ink blotch with white dots pointing through. There was something tranquil about staring into the stars, something alluring, but Warmond wasn’t in the mind to pick it.
His head stirred over the events that had passed this evening, particularly the discussion he had with his grandfather. Did I give the right answer? He thought anxiously as his eyes stared aimlessly at the night sky. All his life he had been training, training to become the next grand King of the Seas, to uphold the lineage that Waldemar and so many others had set up for him. Was trading truly the best answer? Would that build the kingdom? Was it the answer Waldemar wanted?
Warmond let out a heavy sigh, lowering his gaze to Wyona’s gardens. All of the flower petals had closed as the sun had set, moisture droplets forming on their exterior with the humid night. He thought of the missing mermaid pearl that was lost somewhere among this vast flora, and how many children, including his own at a young age, had dug up the soil and plants in search for the precious jewel. Few men knew it was more than just that.
The soft hands of a loving woman gave Warmond a fright as they touched his shoulders, but became a welcomed comfort quickly after. She rubbed his tense muscles, laying her head on his upper back. “You’ve been standing here for almost an hour,” she acknowledged with some concern. “It’s almost as if you wanted me to leave the warmth of our bed,” she added with a touch of humour. Warmond sighed, a thin smile spreading across his lips.
“I’m sorry, I-” he stumbled for a moment, his eyes looking back up to the stars. “I just have a lot on my mind,” he stated awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. “Like what?” she asked, gently turning him around to face her.
Even in the backing of night, she brought light with her beauty, and made him wonder why he’d been staring at the stars for so long. Her straight silver hair had been tied back into a loose bun, and her tired lilac eyes were like purple lanterns, staring at him lovingly. Warmond shook his head, letting a smile replace his worry. “More of the same,” he stated nonchalantly, placing a hand around her waist.
“This trip will be good for us,” she encouraged, looking up at him with warm eyes. “We’ll get to see Willow, and my brothers and nephews and so on,” she thought aloud, causing Warmond to chuckle; he loved when she did that. “I feel like I barely see my eldest son, and he is based in this castle,” Warmond muttered, picking Dia up and walking to their bed. She loosely wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Waldemar studies hard, just like his father,” she stated with some pride as Warmond placed her on the bed. All Warmond could do was sigh, getting into the bed with her. “Such responsibilities, they take away what a child should have. A childhood,” Warmond mumbled dryly. Dia ran her hand through Warmond’s bristle strawberry blonde chest hair.
“Which is why we must enjoy the luxuries presented to us when we get the chance,” she reinforced her argument by pulling at one of the hairs, making Warmond momentarily wince at the unexpected. “Out of it, woman!” he growled playfully, making her laugh. “We should get some rest, there’ll be a long ride ahead of us tomorrow,” Warmond stated with a boring tone, which Dia casually rolled her eyes to.
“The night is young. We’ll get some rest soon enough,” she assured him, climbing atop of him. Warmond smirked, running a hand over her smooth tanned thigh. “So be it,” he grinned, pulling her down to the point where their lips met.
-
The main courtyard of the Flooded Citadel was large compared to most castles, but with the amount of activity this morning it felt like it scaled down to something much smaller than a stables pen. Manderly soldiers, geared with leather gambeson and bronze pauldrons and armed with bronze weapons, rushed around the courtyard as they prepared to march out. The Strong Merman stood beside his daughter, Wylda Half-witch, almost at eye level with her atop her horse. Wyman was a strong and powerful man, decked with muscles that aided endurance, and a good thing too, as he was too large for any horse to carry him.
Warmond’s tired eyes then spotted the luxurious wooden horse carriage that his grandfather and son stood by, talking with Warmond’s sister: Wynne Blackwood. Warmond turned to Dia, who already had the same agenda on her mind, and the two walked together to meet the carriage and its subjects.
Their son was the first to notice them, a smile crossing his lips as Warmond approached with open arms. Waldemar II met his embracement with warm compassion, patting his father on the back as Warmond did the same to him, and the two separated to look at each other. Waldemar II had short blonde hair, a colour which no doubt came from the mix of Warmond’s strawberry blonde with Dia’s silver, or perhaps from her grandfather. Waldemar II had his father’s turquoise eyes, and wore a light stubble.
“Father,” he greeted warmly, looking Warmond in the eyes. “How’re you feeling?” Warmond asked him, to which Waldemar II shrugged. “Excited to get away from my books,” the young man admitted with a smirk, quiet enough so the older Waldemar could not hear. Or so the foolish boy thought.
“Consider this negotiation an adaptation to your teachings,” King Waldemar chortled uncharacteristically, causing Warmond and Waldemar II to grin. Wynne smiled, clasping her hands. “I will be remaining in the Citadel until you return,” she informed Warmond, causing him to raise an eyebrow. “There must always be a Manderly at the Citadel,” Waldemar the older clarified, to which Warmond nodded.
“You sure you can handle it?” Warmond teased like a child, to which Wynne glared at him. “I learnt more here than how to bake cakes and be a lady,” she assured him bitterly, but Warmond chuckled all the same. “Wynne, how are your children?” Dia asked, approaching her with a warm smile. “Waldryn just had his thirty-fourth nameday recently, did he not?” Dia asked, hooking her arm around Wynne’s and walking her away from the men.
“Your wife is a smart woman,” King Waldemar observed thoughtfully, letting out a sigh, “I admit, I am glad I accepted your mother’s last wish,” Waldemar stated with a tone that could be considered stubborn. “As am I,” Warmond stated quietly, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Is there anything you’d like me to pass on to your brother when we arrive at Starfall?” Warmond asked, and Waldemar II’s eyes widened as if he had forgotten something.
“Yes, of course,” he spoke quickly, patting down his coat and then glancing around him as if he had lost something. “Excuse me a moment, I must have left it in my quarters,” he realised, and quickly made his way back to the castle. Warmond sighed, watching as his dutiful son climbed the green stone steps back to the hall of the Flooded Citadel. He turned his gaze back to his grandfather, who held a stern look on his eyes.
“If King Merle is wishing to start a war, I’ll need you all back here,” Waldemar stated with a cold tone, to which Warmond nodded. “Our visit will be brief,” Warmond assured him, but Waldemar shook his head. “Make the most of it, savour it. I will send word to Starfall if I require your return sooner than expected,” he declared.
“Give King Andrey my regards,” Waldemar finally stated, and Warmond nodded. “I will,” he assured him, to which Waldemar reciprocated Warmond’s gesture. “And your son, Willow. Give him this,” Waldemar ordered, turning and freeing something from the carriage; a bastard sword. “He’s old enough to know how to wield it, and a trainee to the best swordsman in Dorne requires the best,” he acknowledged, and Warmond examined the blade as Waldemar passed it to him. Warmond took the sheathed weapon under his arm, freeing the blade from its scabbard.
“This is Valyrian steel,” Warmond realised in bewilderment, his eyes widening in surprise. The king nodded, a smirk touching his lips. “There was a time I could wield that blade with such excellence that those who came against me met a grim end. Now it has served as little more than a letter opener; far from its original purpose.” Waldemar clasped his hands, a frown over his hard face.
“I had it forged for me when I saw that Wyman required more than just a sword. When my hands became too tired for wielding such things, your father adopted the weapon, and for a while I considered passing the sword down to you…” he stated, but something held him back from saying anymore. “Its name is Conqueror,” he added dryly, and Warmond admittedly felt like a boy looking at a magnificent weapon. Envy crawled over him.
Conqueror had the delicacy of a Valyrian’s hand, with the magical bends and ripples worked into the blade, and a textured detail of the hilt and the forte covering, which was a silver-grey alloy. The black leather grip matched the leather scabbard it came with, and the hilt of the blade was forged dark steel, as was the straight crossbar. Warmond fought hard to tear his eyes away from the brilliance of the blade back to his grandfather.
“Willow will be very appreciative of this, I will make sure of it,” Warmond assured him, to which Waldemar simply chuckled. “I’m sure the boy won’t need any persuasion in taking the sword,” he smiled, guiding Warmond’s hand as he pushed the Conqueror back into its scabbard. There was a brief moment of disappointment and jealousy as Warmond watched the blade disappear, but he knew he had to trust the rationale of his mentor.
“Now go. You have a long ride ahead of you, and a day goes quicker than you think when on horseback.” I know, Warmond thought with some annoyance as he was pointlessly lectured again, but he clamped his tongue. The two linked arms before the old man turned back to his carriage, and Warmond to his horse. He spotted his wife talking with the weasel he had to call his uncle: Wendel, who was accompanied by his best warriors. Warmond made haste to rescue Dia from his torment.
“Ah, nephew. Ready to go?” Wendel asked sarcastically as he tapped the neck of his courser impatiently. Warmond shot his plump young uncle a glare as he climbed onto his own steed, taking the hand of his wife. Wendel smirked, his cocky brown eyes flashing down to Warmond and Dia’s bond before lifting up to Warmond again. “Try to keep up,” he arrogantly said before he spurred his horse around and set off out the gates, followed by his loyal riders. Warmond let out a heavy breath.
“Hold me down,” he muttered to Dia, who placed her other hand on top of his. “Come, let us not waste anymore time,” she urged him, starting her pace and pulling Warmond along. His eyes flashed over to the Strong Merman, who held a heavy look on his turquoise eyes. He conversed with the revered Iron Wolf, a masked sellsword in service of their kingdom, known for his iron helm that was shaped like a wolf’s head, but more so for his unique akimbo fighting style.
“You go ahead, I’ll be with you in a moment,” he assured her, to which she frowned, letting go of his hand. He watched her canter out the main gates for a moment before walking his horse over to Wyman, gaining the Strong Merman’s attention almost immediately, as well as the grey eyes of the Iron Wolf.
“Prince Warmond,” Wyman greeted sternly, and Warmond gave him a nod before turning his gaze to the Iron Wolf. “May I have a moment with my uncle?” Warmond asked pointlessly to the sellsword, who, as silent as a prowling wolf, bowed and took his leave. Wyman now devoted his utmost attention to the crown prince, partly in curiosity of what he had to say. Warmond dismounted his horse, putting him a foot beneath his giant counterpart.
“Don’t linger too long in the Fingers, Uncle. I know you still hold feelings for her, but you must remember your place. War is coming,” Warmond muttered grimly, and Wyman, to his surprise, nodded without any complaint.
“Our Flood Devours,” Wyman remarked with a certain sense of pride, one which Warmond reciprocated before grasping his uncle’s forearm. “Stay safe,” Warmond finally bid him, to which Wyman nodded firmly. “And you, Iron Merman.” The two exchanged a short glance before separating. Warmond climbed back atop his horse, the sheathed Conqueror in one hand and the reins of his steed in the other. Without another moment, he started off for the gates, until he heard the familiar voice of his son shouting after him.
“Father!” Waldemar II yelled for a second time before Warmond pulled his steed to a halt, his eyes falling down to his son awake and ashamed. “Wald, I apologise, I-” Warmond mumbled, but his son shook his head, placing a hand on the back of Warmond’s horse. “It’s alright, it’s been a long night no doubt,” he smiled, and Warmond could not help but nod. “Here, this is it,” Waldemar II stated calmly as he extended his hand to Warmond.
In his hand was a small wooden box, which when Warmond opened, revealed an iron bracelet, the metal was coiled and ended at two points; one with a shooting star and the other with a trident. Warmond spotted a matching bracelet on Waldemar’s wrist as he lowered his hand, bringing a smile to his lips. “We’ll see you soon,” Warmond said, bidding his son farewell, and chasing after his wife and Wendel’s group.
-
The high stone walls of Oldtown made for a sight on sore and weary eyes, even if the mighty High Tower of Battle Isle had been seen glowing for much longer, it was plainly a relief to see their tiresome journey was coming to an end for the day. The setting sun of the west casted an orange glow over the beautiful city, it was as if the city were on fire, and the packing merchants and egressing customers were escaping the flames.
Warmond turned his gaze to Dia, who held a look of pride on her eyes; a sort of confidence. “What?” Warmond asked, curious to understand her smug satisfaction as she stared ahead to the city. When she opened her mouth to speak, her eyes remained locked on the High Tower of Oldtown.
“I’m thinking about when my family once sacked this grand city,” she revealed, causing Warmond to raise an eyebrow. “Samwell Dayne?” he asked curiously, and she nodded in confirmation. “The Starfire, yes. He and King Barragan Blackmont, the Firebrand, rode up the Wide Way after warring with the Fowler’s of Skyreach. The two kings desired more than what the Blue Hawk had to give, and with little resistance, they rode through the Red Mountains and almost burnt Oldtown to its foundations,” Dia remarked with clear pride, making Warmond smile.
“And now through us, the Dayne’s and Hightower’s are mutual allies,” Warmond stated clearly, to which Dia turned her smirk towards Warmond. “Perhaps,” she winked, turning her gaze back on the High Tower. Perhaps, Warmond remarked with a roll of the eyes, there was something about his wife which was admirable and formidable. She could make blood rush through his veins as quick as she could send shivers down his spine. He loved her for it.
“And has he told you about our own family’s history?” The confident tone of Lord Wendel sounded as he rode up behind the duo, turning Warmond’s light expression into a reprimanding scowl. Dia turned her gaze to the grinning Marshall of the Northmarch, an intrigued look on her lilac eyes. “No?” she wondered thoughtfully, and despite Warmond not thinking it possible, Wendel’s grin widened.
“Truly? Nothing about Walden the Wise, who constructed the Flooded Citadel where you live today? Or Lord Wilmer, who constructed the Western Fleet to chase after a mermaid? Perhaps his daughter, Wanda, whom translated Walden’s Wisdom into the Old tongue? A book I plan to translate into the common tongue, if I might add,” he announced with some arrogant pride, and Warmond noticed Dia’s eyes widening with interest.
“Do tell me more,” she encouraged him, to which Wendel turned his laughing grin to Warmond. “It would be my pleasure,” he stated warmly, and swiftly he snatched Dia away from Warmond before he could even protest. The Iron Merman tightened his grip around the reins of his horse, glaring at Wendel with menacing eyes.
“Prince Warmond,” the strong voice of Lady Cynthea Crane called from behind, turning his bitter attention to Wendel’s four body guards: Lady Cynthea Crane, Addam Ambrose, Manfryd Merryweather and Lord Cleyton Costayne; each of who were rumoured to be engaged in relations with Wendel. Warmond sighed, reluctantly accepting their company as they surrounded him.
“We hear that war is stirring in the east,” Cynthea stated calmly, running her finger over the bowstring that travelled between her breasts and down to her waist, which homed two daggers. Her face was less homely, with a gruesome scar running under her right eye which she did not make an attempt to cover with her long brown hair; something she tied back into a ponytail.
“War is all across the east,” Warmond muttered bluntly, causing Lord Cleyton to chuckle. “Indeed,” he acknowledged, running a hand through his short blonde hair. “What she means to say is that there are rumours that the Gardener’s are building an army,” Cleyton clarified, but Warmond remained silent. Manfryd and Addam quickly lost interest, spurring their horses ahead of Warmond, and after a long draw of silence, Cleyton followed after them with a disappointed huff. Only Lady Cynthea remained.
“Are you aware on how you are travelling to Dorne, my Prince?” Cynthea asked calmly, making Warmond raise an eyebrow. “Through the Red Mountains,” he presumed, to which Cynthea nodded with a smile on her lips. “Yes, without a doubt. Though how was what I asked you,” she remarked, causing Warmond to shrug his shoulders impatiently.
“How?” he asked with a bitter tone, which seemed to lead to Cynthea’s amusement. “Through Starpike,” she informed him, unsheathing an arrow from her quiver and fingering the iron point. Warmond raised an eyebrow. “The Peake’s are our rivals,” Warmond stated coldly, and Cynthea’s smile grew as she nodded.
“They are House Manderly’s rivals, yes, but Wendel looks to set aside these mere quarrels. He’s offered his son in marriage to Lord Peake’s daughter. Of course, letting the crown heirs pass alone through unstable relations won’t be happening, let me assure you. Wendel has ordered myself and Lord Cleyton to accompany you to Starfall and back,” she informed him, causing Warmond to frown. Great.
“That’s very kind of you,” Warmond muttered in thanks, trying to sound as genuine as possible after the long journey, to which the Lady Cynthea simply nodded in gesture. “Of course,” she smiled, as if it was expected of her. Warmond took her eyes off her and towards Dia, who held her head back with haughty laughter as Wendel grinned at her, placing a hand on her thigh.
Warmond snapped, his legs digging into the ribs of his destrier, spurring him forward, past Wendel’s bodyguards with haste until he was just on top of his wife and his whoreson uncle. Dia turned her grin to Warmond, who met her gaze with ireful eyes. Wendel’s grin mellowed down to a smug smirk.
“Wendel was just telling me about the time Lord Walter was dropped to the ground by Lady Wylla,” Dia informed him before turning her gaze back to Wendel. “He’s such a formidable man, I’d have never thought someone could take him down, especially not a sister!” Dia exclaimed, and Wendel nodded.
“Well, Wylla was always a big gal, and despite how wild Walter was, there was no taking down the Farman Whale,” Wendel chuckled, and Dia’s grin mellowed down to a warm smile, but Warmond did not share in the humour. He turned his gaze from Dia to Wendel, and then back to Dia again. This is over.
[Pull Dia aside] [Pull Wendel aside]
[Pull Wendel aside]
Dia has already earned my sympathies by having a name that does not start with the letter 'W'
In all seriousness though, if given the choice, I wouldn't pull either aside, but if we have to choose, Wendel seems like the more reasonable option. Not the more reasonable person, mind you, but he's the one Warmond should be angry about here. Dia, well, she might not think anything about this, but from what few things we know about Wendel so far, his intentions should be clear. Having a really stern talk with him might settle this before it develops into anything less desirable. That be said, I'd rather avoid a conflict here, but if we have to, then Wendel is the better choice in my opinion.
[Pull Wendel aside]
[Pull Dia aside]
I'm afraid that Warmond might let his current emotions get the better of him. I'm afraid that if he pulls Wendel aside, that he might start an altercation between them. That would not be good for anybody, and Wendel has his loyal companions with him.
[Pull Dia aside]
So I won't close the vote just yet as it is both a tie and not everyone has voted yet. However I do have the next part ready, and it's a Torrhen part. The last time we saw Torrhen, he had just arrived at Yronwood with his father: King Hector, and was awaiting an audience with the crown prince: Eddin Yronwood. When finally meeting him, they were denied an alliance between their two houses, and tension started to rise between Hector and the sickly Eddin before the discussion was interrupted by King Olyvar himself. Both Eddin and Hector were asked to remove themselves from the room, and Torrhen was left to negotiate with the king, who wanted to see how Torrhen could benefit the Yronwood's with such an alliances. Olyvar later asked for Torrhen's opinion on what he wanted as a ruler, and out of the three choices, you chose vengeance. This part takes place immediately after the last.
Torrhen
The Dornish prince bit his lip as he decided on his answer, still unsure of the certainty that it would be the correct one. “Vengeance,” he muttered in a cold tone, one which made the old king raise an eyebrow. “Vengeance?” he repeated in question, to which Torrhen nodded, “why?” Torrhen gulped, awkwardly grasping the arm of the wooden chair he sat on.
“The Storm King humiliated you, crushing your army and taking your first son, leaving the Bloodroyals crippled as a result. Now you have risen back to your strength, with an army able to lay waste to the conquering stags of the Stormlands,” Torrhen explained, and Olyvar stared long and hard at the crown prince of Blackmont before giving a brief nod.
“Indeed,” he muttered under his breath, and Torrhen took the chance to turn this argument onto his side. “Yet such an army should not be wasted again,” Torrhen bravely stated, and the old king turned his hard glare back onto Torrhen. “Wasted?” he uttered, his tone warning. Torrhen held his composure, nodding.
“If it is vengeance you want, Your Grace, why should you be defeat a second time? If not by the Durrandon’s, then by the Andal’s that will soon land on our shores,” Torrhen stated in attempt to persuade, and a thin smile touched Olyvar’s old lips. “The dutiful son, I see,” Olyvar grumbled lightly, but Torrhen remained silent, clearly disappointing the old man.
“Prince Torrhen, you must understand that I am a man with few remaining years left. You are right, I do not seek wisdom, I’ve been stewing over my mistakes for years, and as for power? I’ve been swimming in it for years. I am an old man now, and my enemy has long come to pass over these years of vengeful thoughts, and now his grandson sits in his throne, upholding his legacy. I cannot kill the man who took everything from me, but I can certainly take everything from him, and I intend to do so while there is still a breath in my chest!” Olyvar barked, slamming his fist onto the desk that Torrhen sat behind, but the Blackmont prince held his calm gaze.
“I want you to succeed, Your Grace,” Torrhen affirmed, rising from his seat so that he might stand as an equal to the old man, who looked far less imposing a foot beneath him. “Though you will not succeed if you are slaughtered on two fields by two enemies,” Torrhen plainly acknowledged, and for a moment Olyvar held his hard gaze on his throbbing fist, until lifting it to Torrhen.
“What would you suggest then? You know what I want, and frankly, I don’t care if these foreigners tear apart my kingdom, so long as I get my vengeance,” Olyvar muttered, and Torrhen nodded with a look of disappointment on his eyes. The magnificent Bloodroyal he had heard all of the stories about had paled down to this: a vengeful warmonger with no hope for his kingdom. Torrhen sighed, tucking his hands into his vest.
“Join our alliance, King Olyvar. Help us defeat these Andal’s as the men in the North have done, and when that is over, the Kingdom of Blackmont will march with you into the Stormlands, and without a doubt, the Kingdom of the Torrentine will be by our side as well,” Torrhen proposed, turning his solemn gaze to meet the stern look on Olyvar’s, who visibly turned the proposition over in his head.
“I will need something with steadier foundations to assure such a deal won’t be forgotten after you have what you want, Prince Torrhen,” Olyvar said, his raspy tone gritting at Torrhen’s ears. Torrhen turned his gaze out of the window, looking out to the Sea of Dorne. “I’m sure a marriage can be arranged,” Torrhen sighed, feeling left without options, but to his surprise the old king shook his head.
“I’m not interested in a permanent alliance with House Blackmont, nor am I interested on wasting my son’s daughters and granddaughters on you vultures,” Olyvar muttered lightly, showing a smirk, to which Torrhen nodded. “What then?” Torrhen asked curiously, to which Olyvar crossed his arms.
“I have a great-grandson, a bright boy who is eager to learn, and I think an intelligent mind like your own would serve as a great mentor for the boy. His name is Daris, he is the descendant of my eldest son, and has no path place in Yronwood now with his line likely never succeeding to my throne,” Olyvar informed him, making Torrhen raise an eyebrow.
“You want me to tutor him?” Torrhen asked, somewhat bewildered by the proposition, but Olyvar shook his head. “Not tutor, mentor. Think of him as a servant to tend to your horse, and pouring your drink, he will learn what it means to be a crown prince through you. If you accept, of course,” Olyvar stated, and Torrhen felt no other option but to accept, even if he wasn’t fully on board with the idea.
“I do,” Torrhen declared, to which Olyvar gave him a firm nod. “Good, I’ll have him sent your way after I’m done with your father. Go bring him in, I would like to hear what my new allies have in mind for this Andal invasion destined to threaten my shores,” Olyvar smirked, and Torrhen held a solemn expression. The crown prince extended a hand out to the Bloodroyal, who took the man by the forearm, securing the deal.
Torrhen exited Eddin’s quarters with a thin smile on his lips. It mellowed when he spotted his father hunched over a bench, staring at the sandstone floor impatiently before lifting his curious gaze up to his son. “Well?” he asked, a touch of worry on his concerned tone. Torrhen approached his father, who rose from his bench, with a smirk on his lips.
“Our new ally wishes to talk further about our plans with you,” Torrhen informed him, and Hector lifted an eyebrow in surprise. “How did you manage?” he asked with mild astonishment, to which Torrhen sighed and shook his head as he thought on how he would deliver his answer. “A promise for blood,” Torrhen stated bluntly, and to his surprise, his father did not bother to question it any further. A thin smile spread across Hector’s lips, followed by a hand on Torrhen’s shoulder, and another on his face before pulling him into an embrace.
“You’ve done well, son,” Hector complimented, pulling himself away and staring into Torrhen’s eyes. “He’s waiting,” Torrhen ushered him, to which his father nodded and approached the quarters with a stern look on his face. When his father entered the room, Torrhen let out a heavy sigh of relief, almost collapsing on the bench beneath him. It was one thing to hold a steady composure before a renowned king of Dorne, and another to strike a deal with him. Torrhen knew that with the foundations of a Blackmont-Yronwood alliance, the First Men of Dorne would stand a stronger chance against the Andal’s.
Torrhen’s eyes fell to the floor, aimlessly eying the sandstone tiles beneath his feet as he focused on calming his heavy breaths. His brow had grown sweaty, and the Great Hall of Yronwood felt repugnantly humid. It was in heat like this that Torrhen longed to be back at Blackmont, relaxed in the calm flow of the Torrentine; alas, his duties as the heir to the kingdom forced him to shut out such thoughts during matters like these.
“Prince Torrhen,” a raspy old voice called from across the hall, and Torrhen lifted his gaze to meet the brown eyes of Prince Broden Yronwood; King Olyvar’s second son. Broden was a man on his mid-sixties, and while he was much healthier in his form than his half-brother, Eddin, his age had clearly taken his toll on him. His muscular figure had started to relax and fatten, while his tanned hands and face had started to wrinkle, and his short hair and moustache had greyed.
Torrhen arose from his bench, watching as the man approaching him with a small smile on his dry lips. Torrhen had only met Broden briefly on the one brief occasion that both the Yronwood army and Blackmont army had meet each other by the Greenblood. He hadn’t thought much of the man then, and admittedly from first sight, he didn’t think all that differently of him now. The way he dressed, the way he walked, it was clear he still lusted for the heirdom that his half-brother possessed.
“Prince Broden,” Torrhen greeted coldly, yet the old prince didn’t seem to be affected by it. “Is my father making you wait out here?” Broden asked dryly, to which Torrhen shook his head. “No, my father has just entered to conclude negotiations,” Torrhen hesitantly informed him, to which Broden raised an eyebrow.
“Negotiations?” he questioned suspiciously, and Torrhen nodded in confirmation. “We are to be allies, Prince Broden,” Torrhen stated nonchalantly, making Broden raise his eyebrows. “Is that so?” he asked, but Torrhen had already given him the answer, leading Broden to sigh. “I fear it may not be so easy,” Broden grumbled with some clear distaste, making Torrhen curious.
“How do you mean?” Torrhen questioned, making Broden frown as he crossed his arms and leant towards Torrhen. “It would be unwise for me to speak of such things where prying ears can hear,” Broden muttered into Torrhen’s ear, making the crown prince scout the hall. A few servants attended their duties, while cleaners and chisellers worked away at the sandstone. Torrhen thought on a response, but was interrupted by approaching footsteps, stealing the attention of Broden as well.
“Ah, Benedict,” Broden muttered under his breath as he glared at his approaching nephew. The solemn prince approached with a stern look on his brown eyes. “Prince Torrhen,” he greeted with a nod, which Torrhen reciprocated, “Uncle,” Benedict added with a sour tone, making Broden snarl.
“Nephew, haven’t you got something better to be doing than interrupting our discussion?” Broden growled, causing his nephew to smirk. “I grew bored of watching my son defeat your eldest grandson so easily,” Benedict sighed, watching Broden’s eyes tense. “Perhaps you should put him against Alix then, or do you fear Yorick’s confidence will shatter if he loses?” Broden challenged, which brought sheer amusement to Benedict’s eyes.
“Yorick aspires to be both an excellent swordsman and an excellent ruler, as befits him. He will be King of Yronwood one day. It’s hard for a young man with such a future to be shattered by a boy with none,” Benedict jeered, making Broden clench his fists, “but don’t worry, Uncle, I plan to return. I would like to extend my offer to you, Prince Torrhen, my son is quite eager to meet you,” Benedict stated, turning his gaze to Torrhen, who raised an eyebrow.
“Yorick?” he asked subtly, making Benedict smile as he nodded. “Yes, my son. If you wish to do so, I would love to show you to the courtyard,” Benedict stated, a sneer touching his lips to mock his uncle. Torrhen started to answer, but was quickly interjected by Prince Broden.
“Thank you, Nephew. I will point him in your direction if he so chooses after we are done,” Broden bluntly informed him, to which Benedict simply nodded. “So be it,” he uttered with a cold tone before turning back to where he came, and before long, disappearing out of the hall. Broden gritted his teeth, and Torrhen raised his eyebrows.
“You two seem to be on good terms,” Torrhen muttered sarcastically, making Broden roll his eyes. “As I was trying to say, such an alliance won’t work,” Broden grumbled coldly, staring at the empty trail that Benedict had seemingly left. “Because of your grudge with Benedict?” Torrhen questioned pathetically, making Broden shake his head.
“Because of Eddin’s family and my own,” the old man corrected with a bitter tone. “Eddin is sickly, and unfit to rule. Benedict is misguided in believing he will one day become king. My half-brother will not last for such a thing to occur, and you would be wise to consult with me instead of Eddin or Benedict,” Broden stated as calmly as he could, making Torrhen cross his arms.
“Right,” Torrhen muttered, clearly disappointing the old prince, but he maintained his dignity and settled with a heavy sigh. “Perhaps my words aren’t enough for you to be swayed. Tonight my family will be holding a council meeting in my quarters, I’d implore you to join us,” Broden urged, making Torrhen raise an eyebrow. They’re having secret meetings? He thought with some disappointment. Perhaps it was unwise to come here, Torrhen thought bitterly, and took a moment of extra thought before meeting Broden with an answer.
[Accept his request] [Deny his request]
Heh, it seems I have estimated the old king quite correctly, as much as I wish he would be different. Good stuff, very good
I also loved how Olyvar described Torrhen's job as Daris' mentor. This entire time, I was thinking "So, Daris is basically becoming his squire, huh?". It's great that the First Men don't even have a name for that concept. Despite how nuanced their culture is, this shows that they have some serious shortcomings in several aspects. I wonder how Gawain will react to this though. Bet he's going to love this 
[Accept his request]
Oh, a secret meeting? This sounds intriguing and I don't see much drawback in acquiring this knowledge. If Broden plans on doing anything less than honourable, which I suppose given how secretive he is about the whole thing, then knowledge is certainly useful. Torrhen might be able to decide on what to do with it. It cannot hurt to be on good terms with Broden for now, as he seems to be quite interested in working with Torrhen in some capacity. Given that he is invited, it would be unwise to decline, possibly offending a man that might, for all we know, become quite important for a possible Blackmont-Yronwood alliance in the future.
[Accept his request]
[Accept his request]
It would probably be best for him to know what is truly happening at House Yronwood.
[Accept his request] Alright, let's find out what's going on here.
Btw, I've held off from sending you a pm before I'm done with all the Dayne's, and I'm now almost done!
Only Laenah left, and when I'm done with her I'll submit them all 
And here I was thinking you'd forgotten about me!
Well you have me very excited to return home, which I'll shortly announce now that I'll be inactive for the next few days, so I'll get back to you with a reply next Monday! 
Alright, I've sent them now!
(I did realize though that I haven't done Arthur yet, but I'll submit him with the Brook's!) So, I'll try to send you a pm later today!
Alright fantastic! My google sheets on my phone is quite appalling so I'll have to look at them when I get home. Thank you for getting them in though, and I'm looking forward to your PM!
[Pull Wendel aside]
[Accept his request]
To begin with - reasoning of this choice. Of course it's an opportunity to take, for now it looks as it doesn't have drawbacks, and can result in quite interesting way of developing the story of ol' Torrhen.
Welcome back! After quite a break from being absent I feel it's time to finally come back. Already catched up with missed story - your recap is pretty good so there I had no problem with it. One question though, to you Stigz - what's up with The Northern Chill? Are you planning on continuing it in near future? You left us with giant cliffhanger, so I suppose I'm not the only one waiting for it.
Keep up your good work, waiting for more ^^
MICRO!!!!! Hello! Yes, welcome back!
The situation with TNC... Well, there's bad news and good news with that storyline, and I'll give you the run down. Basically, I've dropped TNC as a standalone sub story, so I won't be returning to that part of the thread. The reason for this was because once I started getting back into the Invasion, making plans and thinking forward, TNC didn't really fit in with the planned sequels that would come in after the conclusion of the Invasion. Of course, I could always pick it up after I finished the second sequel of the Invasion, but realistically that won't be for years, and I think it'll be too far gone for a return by then.
So the solution. Well there were a lot of fantastic plots and characters on TNC that I just couldn't let go of, such as Freya Hawkeye, Jared Pyke and the Stranger, and then there were some less interesting and not so well planned storylines (the Northern war, pretty much all of the south). So I've pulled out all of the good ideas I had in TNC and I'm installing them into the Invasion where they fit, and the rest into Kingdom Falling (the sequel to the Invasion). There were a lot of characters not introduced, such as a Thenn storyline, which will now make an appearance in the Invasion. However some of the storylines that were in TNC won't make an exact transition across to here, so the NW, so the cliff hanger won't be resolved, and I can explain the follow through events of that plotline to you over a PM if you're still interested.
Anyway, some of these ideas have already been introduced recently through the new PoV of Erza Nightwood, who was a minor Ironborn character in Jared Pyke's storyline (who is now Jarod Greyjoy). So we'll be seeing a lot of the old faces of TNC in the near future, including Ashe Snow, who I have some plans for quite soon
There will also be some others which will really add on to Nathan's storyline, now that he's associated with the Ironborn 
It still pains me that this was the end result decision I had to come to, but overall I started up way too many unfamiliar and unrelated storylines in far away regions which just stirred away from the main plotline. Could I have linked it all together? Yes, eventually, but that'd be after quite a while and quite a lot of boredom. Dorne is a classic example of this mistake, which I quickly grew to hate after I started it. The Reach was becoming the same unfortunately. So that's the idea, out with the old and in with the new.
[Accept his request]
Oh, I understand, there's strong reasoning of abandoning this story I see. Sad to hear, but given the quality of current Invasion and your plans to include parts of the story to this fanfic I'm sure it won't hurt us that badly
As for mentioned cliffhanger - I would be greatly grateful if you'd find time to give me a short run-down of your project of this piece of NC storyline, of course if it's not a problem, because - indeed, I'm interested ^^ I just want you to make sure it won't spoil me anything bigger from Invasion though!
Thanks for quick response, and as I said - looking forward to next parts of Invasion.
Alright, so I'll close both of the votings now. Warmond will choose to pull Wendel aside and Torrhen will decide to accept his request. This choice with Warmond is more or less a character development with how he interacts with either his wife or his uncle, so it'll surely be interesting as to where this choice leads. As for Torrhen, well this choice will basically help in understanding the current situation that House Yronwood finds itself in, and whether Torrhen wants to be a part of that, and really, what part of that he wants to be a part of. Confused yet? Don't worry, it'll come clear soon enough
Anyway, I have a new part ready for you guys, and it's a Jaremy part. Now the last time we saw Jaremy, he was introduced to Tor Thunderstorm and the young Tywin Yronwood through a bar fight he caused, which resulted in the guards interrupting and arresting them. Jaremy later awoke bound and in a cell with Tor, to which the old man explained himself a little more as well as his relations with the Yronwood's, of which Tywin was currently working on bailing him out. Tor finally came to realise that Jaremy was indeed Jaremy Sand, the Bastard of Brownhill, after noticing how he felt troubled with the mention of his recently passed father. Later, King Edgar and Tywin Yronwood entered the cell and freed Tor before Edgar further inspected Jaremy, which he later recognised to be his bastard brother. This part takes place where the last left off.
Jaremy
A knot tied in Jaremy’s chest as his brother repeated his name, louder and more assured this time. The bastard lifted his gaze momentarily, staring his half-brother in his green eyes before dropping his gaze back to the ground. “King,” Jaremy finally muttered quietly, and in the corner of his gaze Jaremy noticed Edgar’s eyes widen, either in shock or disgust. Likely both, Jaremy thought ignorantly.
“Cut his bindings,” the King ordered, rising from the grimy cell floor. The guards showed less obedience this time around, eying each other before looking back to their king. “Now!” Edgar rushed them impatiently, and after a moment Jaremy felt the ropes around his wrists loosen until his arms fell by his side tiredly. His eyes crawled over his chafed red wrists, which he placed a hand over.
“Stand,” Edgar commanded, staring at Jaremy with pleading eyes while the guards watched with callous. Jaremy grasped his forearm, stretching out his fingers before clenching them, instantly noticing the guards moving their hands to the hilts of their sheathed blades. After a moment of reluctance, Jaremy arose to meet the concerned gaze of his older brother.
Jaremy had always been a little bit taller than his brother, but with him in his royal adornment and Jaremy in his rough, patchy attire, the brute bastard appeared much larger than the king he stood before. Jaremy exchanged an awkward glance with his brother, whose eyes studied him like a novella a child could not put down. Jaremy considered saying something, but before any words could come to his mind Edgar had already made the first move; pulling him into a tight embracement.
There was a moment of tension in the first few seconds of his brother’s embrace. Jaremy wanted to fight Edgar’s hold, to break away from the man. He didn’t see Edgar as a brother, not like those he had met and lived with during his years in exile. Edgar was just a face of pain that reminded him of haunting memories, yet Jaremy could not pull himself away, all he could do was stand idle until his brother released him.
“Where have you been?” Edgar mumbled, almost weakly, unbefitting from that of a king. Jaremy glared at the man with critical eyes before answering. “In exile,” Jaremy muttered bluntly, crossing his arms and turning his gaze away. This seemed to offend one of the guards, who reached for his cudgel.
“You will talk to the King with respect,” the man warned him as he slapped the face of his blunt weapon across the open palm of his free hand. Edgar shot a glare towards the man before returning his gaze to Jaremy, who paid neither of them any mind. “Excuse him, my personal guard can speak out of their place. Would you leave us?” Edgar asked sternly, yet it was more of an order than a question, which was answered with a disapproving look and a hesitant exit.
Edgar studied Jaremy with cautious eyes, watching as Jaremy’s gaze turned malicious, aimlessly staring to the floor. “Was that a mistake?” Edgar asked with an almost challenging tone, which Jaremy did not react to. “Maybe,” Jaremy responded with a wild, cold tone, making Edgar raise an eyebrow. “I know you won’t hurt me, Jaremy. I know who you are,” he stated boldly, placing a hand on Jaremy’s shoulder, which he quickly nudged off.
“You don’t know who I am, Edgar. You didn’t then, and you sure as hell don’t now. I’ve already killed one of you before,” Jaremy warned with a deep growl, but Edgar held his ground, trying to catch the gaze of Jaremy’s firm directed glare. He failed to do so, making him sigh and shake his head defeated.
“Then why are you here? Why did you come back?” he asked with a touch of frustration, to which Jaremy raised an eyebrow, turning his gaze back to Edgar. “Do you plan to banish me again, like Father?” Jaremy asked with a touch of bloody amusement, but within that was a clear warning which Edgar noted, and he shook his head. “Father isn’t here anymore if you haven’t already noticed, and if you try anything that got you exiled last time I will make sure that you are not around to make another mistake,” Edgar assured him sternly, making Jaremy’s eyes widen in surprise to Edgar’s strong retaliation before frowning to the mention of his father.
“How did he pass?” Jaremy asked with a harsh tone, but among it was a touch of melancholy. King Franklyn had actually given Jaremy a chance in Brownhill, unlike Queen Eyla or the other nobles of the court, and Jaremy had fucked it up. He was well aware that Franklyn’s choice to exile him was a mercy as opposed to the other options.
Edgar crossed his arms, his expression returning to the neutral calm and nonchalant composure it now held. “By illness,” he informed him bluntly, “only two years ago, a couple of weeks before the coming of my second child; whom I’ve named after our father,” Edgar stated calmly, to which Jaremy furrowed his eyebrows, a depressive manner still overwhelming the knot in his chest.
“You have a son?” Jaremy barely manage to utter, to which Edgar nodded. “And a daughter, Abrey,” he added, causing Jaremy to shake his head in denial. A lot had changed since the last time he had been at Brownhill, which narrowed his thoughts down to one more person. “What about Elise? How is she?” Jaremy asked with a tone riddled with concern and curiosity, something which brought a small smile to Edgar’s lips.
“I’ll let you discover that for yourself over dinner tonight,” Edgar effused warmly, clasping his hands, but Jaremy firmly shook his head. “I’m a bastard, I cannot eat at the Brownhill table,” Jaremy stated in an attempt to sway his brother’s thoughts, but it was no use, as he gently shook his head. “You’re a guest,” he corrected, “and you will eat with us tonight,” he insisted, patting Jaremy’s shoulder before turning to leave the cell.
“I will have my men escort you to your old room, and the servants bring you some fresh clothes. I’d have tried to keep your arrival a secret, but you’ve made efforts to make yourself known at Brownhill, so we will await for you in the hall,” Edgar informed him before exiting the cell, leaving Jaremy without a chance to argue. Instead, he let out a heavy sigh and ran a hand through his thick unwashed and coarse hair.
It was not the fact that he was a bastard that made him not want to dine with the Brownhill’s, but because he was an outcast, and that was not something that truly ashamed him. He was not meant for the royal courts of a kingdom, or to dine in lavish clothing and eat flamboyant meals. He was a bastard and an exile, a slave and a tribesman, a warrior and a lover. For all, the one thing that had brought him back to his old home was the latter. He came for Elise.
-
The day had dragged on for hours as Jaremy was escorted from his cell to his quarters, bathed by servants and dressed into a luxurious tunic with a blue waistcoat and grey cotton pants. Groomers had attempted to trim Jaremy’s ragged hair, which they had spent hours unknotting and washing the blood, dirt and grime from, but Jaremy had threatened to break their hands and open their throats with their scissors if they cut his hair.
During all of this he had received no visitors, and while he had not been given the time or permission to travel much further than his chambers, his worry grew deeper as he thought about Elise. She couldn’t be dead, Edgar would not have been so optimistic if she had passed, but if she was in Brownhill and aware of his presence then why had she not come to meet him. She’s moved on, Jaremy thought to himself fearfully, but he couldn’t be surprised, he had after all been gone so long. Yet he still found it hard to believe, perhaps she was not in Brownhill after all, which worried him further.
He barely noticed the sun starting to set in the west already by the time the servants and groomers had finished with him. He found himself staring at his reflection in the mirror with a confused and almost intimidated look. If he had not recognised himself earlier, he surely couldn’t recognise him now. What they had made him, this had never been what Jaremy was.
The grime and muck set into the skin had been washed away after three attempts of bathing, and despite all the work done, knots and ties still remained in both Jaremy’s hair and beard, yet it was admittedly a lot tidier than it had been in a while. The dirt underneath his nails had been removed with the clipping of those nails, and his feet were tucked into comfortable new shoes; one thing he could not complain about after this painfully long and pointless process.
The next thing which caught Jaremy off guard was the knock at his door, which he stared at for a moment before the old warrior entered with his young companion. Tor’s amber eyes widened in surprise as he looked at the new image of Jaremy Sand, who felt uncomfortable to say the least. Tor ran a hand through his thick grey beard, trying to hold back his laughter while young Tywin just raised his eyebrows.
“Lord Sand,” Tor greeted with an escaping chuckle before bellowing over, bring a small smile onto Tywin’s lips. Jaremy just shook his head, looking back in the mirror. “Laugh again,” Jaremy muttered in warning, making Tor’s face straighten back to its solemn origins. “You ready to go?” he asked with a serious tone, to which Jaremy raised an eyebrow.
“My brother now organises an escort to hold my hand through to the hall? How much does that prick want to humiliate me?” Jaremy spat ignorantly, moving away from the mirror and towards the window. Tor crossed his arms, shaking his head. “We’re based up the corridor, just a few rooms across from you. I figured it might be easier if you didn’t need to face the confrontation of the reunion alone,” Tor suggested, to which Jaremy just chuckled in response.
“I’ve been doing things alone for quite a while, old man,” Jaremy stated with arrogance, and Tor nodded with acknowledgement. “And now that you’re home you don’t need to,” he responded boldly, which Jaremy fought the urge to argue with. “So are you going to accompany us or not? This is after all my first time at Brownhill,” Tor added in a hope to persuade Jaremy, who just rolled his eyes.
“Sure,” he muttered, turning away from the window and approaching the doorway. Tywin stood aside, letting Jaremy pass uncontested, while Tor awaited him outside. The trio walked in silence down the corridor until they reached the stairs which descended down to the main hall, where surely enough the Brownhill members awaited. Jaremy’s eyes scanned over the table as they approached, searching for Elise.
Edgar sat at the head of the table, but he arose as he noticed Jaremy and his company approaching. Immediately on Edgar’s right sat a woman on her early thirties which Jaremy could only presume was Edgar’s wife, a young child in her arms, and beside her sat a young girl with bright blue eyes and wavy black hair that just reached her shoulders. Next to her sat a boy around her age, perhaps a bit younger, with a scrawny build and dark blonde hair, yet something which bothered Jaremy was his eyes. Those familiar green eyes.
On Edgar’s left sat his old crone of a mother: Queen-regent Eyla, whose age had certainly caught up with her since Jaremy had last been unfortunate to lay his eyes upon her, and was blessed to see only the back of her head. However it was the beauty beside her that caught Jaremy’s eye, and even before she had turned, Jaremy had instantly recognised her. Elise.
She was the pure definition of beauty, her wavy black hair flowed down past her shoulders and over the sleeveless shoulders of her purple dress. When her big green eyes met with Jaremy’s his wild heart beat quickened and thudded ferociously at his chest. Her facial features were delicate, with full lips and a button nose. She was exactly how he remembered her… and how she held her head so high with that long neck of hers. Jaremy could barely control his excitement.
“Jaremy,” Edgar warmly greeted as he clasped his hands, but Jaremy paid his brother little attention. “Please find yourself a seat, we shall begin our feast!” Edgar announced, clapping his hands, which summoned servants with filled platters of roasted pork and steamed vegetables, accompanied with glazed apple sauce and thick brown gravy.
Jaremy took his seat at the end of the table, his eyes set on Elise, whose gaze remained lowered and seemingly embarrassed. Tor and Tywin took their seat by the man that sat beside Elise, his curly dark blonde hair was slicked back, and his brown eyes watched Jaremy like a hawk. Yet like his brother, Jaremy paid the insignificant man no mind.
“Jaremy,” Edgar repeat, taking his seat again, and just managing to claim Jaremy’s waned attention. “I’d like to introduce my wife and children to you,” he stated casually, to which Jaremy flicked his gaze back to the woman and her three children before returning back to her. “Nice to meet you,” he muttered, turning his gaze back to Elise, but this wasn’t enough to satisfy Edgar.
“Jaremy,” Edgar called again, this time frustrating the concentrating bastard, who ripped his gaze away from Elise with annoyance. “What?” he spat, to which Eyla slapped her hand on the table. “I told you that bastard has no place at our table!” she groaned, to which Jaremy shot his attention to her. “Shut your mouth, hag!” he snarled back at her, bringing a hush of silence across the table. Jaremy’s gaze flickered between the widened eyes and gasping mouths of each of those on the table, until Edgar finally let out an awkward laugh which was accompanied by Tor’s booming chuckle.
“Mother, please. Jaremy is our guest,” Edgar stated as he placed a soft hand on her old, wrinkled and bony hand. She responded with a roll of her eyes and a snatch of her hand, which she tucked under her armpits. Edgar maintained a warm smile that he now directed to Jaremy. “This is my wife, Julienna,” Edgar resumed, placing his spare hand on her own. The young woman gave Jaremy an awkward nod, which Jaremy reciprocated impatiently.
“And these are my children, young Franklyn and Abrey,” Edgar introduced them with a proud tone, and Jaremy inspected his infant nephew and young niece briefly before his eyes landed on the boy with such familiar big green eyes. “And this one?” Jaremy asked with some impatience, to which Edgar shook his head. “He-” but Jaremy had already gotten the idea, and interjected.
“Your bastard,” Jaremy concluded, now returning his gaze back to Elise, who held an embarrassed stare to the table. The table remained silent for a moment as Jaremy watched Elise’s awkward tension rise, and the anger on the blonde-haired man’s face increase. “He’s Riler Wern, my son, and no bastard,” the man growled, finally gaining the attention of Jaremy, who just raised an eyebrow.
“And you are?” Jaremy asked carelessly, to which the man responded diligently. “Harrin Wern, the General of the Brownhill army,” he stated with some sense of duty, but in a tone that reeked of condescendence. Jaremy smirked at him. “Good for you,” he mocked as he turned his gaze back to his brother as if to ask if introductions were over, but instead was met with a frown.
“Harrin is Elise’s husband,” Edgar finally revealed, “Riler is their son.” Jaremy glared at Edgar for a long moment to await for the reveal of his jape, but after nothing he turned his gaze back to Riler, and then to Elise’s big green eyes, now wet and streaming down her cheeks. Jaremy’s hands closed into fists under the table, his heart beating faster and faster, his anger clearly evident, to the confusion of General Harrin.
“This is your husband?” Jaremy muttered, his glare firmly set on Elise, who remained silent in fear. “ANSWER ME!” he growled, rising to his feet with such aggression that his chair flipped from behind him. Harrin quickly arose in defence of his wife, a stern and cold look on his brown eyes. Eyla glared at Jaremy with ireful eyes.
“Leave the poor girl alone you devil!” Eyla wailed, pulling Elise into her embracement. Jaremy’s anger spoke clearer than any words could, and as he started to head for Harrin he was quickly intercepted by Tor, who gave him a warning with his blade. “That’s enough, Jaremy,” the old man stated, pointing the blade at Jaremy’s throat.
“Out of my way, old man,” Jaremy groaned as he took another step forward, the blade digging into his throat, cutting through his skin and shedding blood. Edgar’s children screamed, scrambling from their seats and running from the hall, quickly followed by their mother. Eyla pulled the shook Elise from her chair, securing an arm around her waist and another used as a guiding hand, which held Elise’s free hand.
“I told you we should’ve hanged that bastard!” she yelled, spitting at him, pushing Edgar over the edge. He slammed his fists on the table, rattling the platters and goblets and showing an anger that Jaremy had never seen in his brother before. “ENOUGH!” he shouted, halting Harrin from pursuing the matter and making Tor lower his blade.
“Send him away, Ed! Get rid of him!” Eyla howled as she begged, but Edgar avoided her pleads. “Leave, mother. I will have words with Jaremy, alone,” Edgar muttered with a seething tone, which mildly satisfied the old hag that guided Elise away. Harrin quickly accompanied them, and eventually both Tor and Tywin took their leave. When the hall fell silent, Edgar pulled off his silver crown and tossed it across the hall.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he growled, to which Jaremy furrowed his eyebrows. “This was your fucking surprise for me? First you humiliate me by putting me in this garment, and then you inform me that Elise has been married off to some noble shit who cares more for honour than for anything else?! You know how special she is!” Jaremy yelled, throwing a chair across the room in blind rage. Edgar shook his head violently, pouring himself a cup of wine.
“Yes, I know just how bloody special she is to you,” Edgar spat as he downed his cup of wine, making Jaremy raise an eyebrow. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he muttered, to which Edgar rolled his eyes. “Did you really think I wouldn’t know about you two? After you were exiled, Elise and I became close, and she explained to me just how close you and she were before your banishment.” Jaremy raised his eyebrows in a moment of brief shock.
“She did?” he mumbled, to which Edgar nodded. “And after a while I came to respect that, but you were gone and she needed to move on. She has a family now Jaremy, you can’t expect her to come back to you,” he stated, but Jaremy shook his head.
“You don’t know the lengths I went to in order to survive, just so that I could be with her again,” Jaremy growled, clenching his fists as he approached Edgar. “I survived a shipwreck onto Sothoryos, and then on that continent for years until I was enslaved into the Freehold. They had me build their grand estates, tunnel moats of lava, mine under their mountains while I lived in a slum with a dozen other men. There were so many times when I could have given up, but I held through for her. I’m here because of her!” Jaremy shouted, and this time, Edgar only nodded.
“You should go work off your anger,” Edgar suggested, “go to the courtyard and spar with the soldiers. Perhaps they could even learn a thing or two from your experience,” Edgar stated optimistically, making Jaremy scoff. Fuck that, bloody amateurs. “Have your fucking General train his troops, just give me Elise,” Jaremy demanded, but Edgar could only shake his head.
“You know I can’t do that,” Edgar stated disappointedly, making Jaremy flip another chair. “Damn you!” Jaremy growled, crumbling to his knees. This time, Edgar only watched him from the stand, crossing his arms. “Perhaps you should leave, go serve another house or forge a new life elsewhere. Get away from Elise, now that you know she’s not waiting for you,” Edgar suggested hesitantly, making Jaremy raise an eyebrow.
“You’re sending me away?” Jaremy asked, to which Edgar shook his head. “No, I’m giving you a choice Jaremy. You either handle yourself here, accept that Elise is not going to be with you and find a role that you can fill which will aid our kingdom, or you can leave and try to start again,” he clarified, leaving Jaremy somewhat at a loss. He was unsure what the best thing to do was.
Time had travelled so fast. It had only been yesterday that Jaremy had returned to Dorne, and last night that he had arrived at Brownhill under arrest. Today he had learnt so much and yet gained so little, what would tomorrow have in store for him? Was it worth the pain to find out? Part of him agreed that it may be a better choice to move on, but where? After all of this, without Elise, Jaremy was nothing.
[Leave Brownhill] [Remain in Brownhill]
Now, this was a choice that I needed to really take my time to think through, and it didn't really get any easier. Before I go to my choice though, I'll just say that you did great job in this part showing the dynamics of the Brownhill family, and the personalities of these characters. Great stuff, which also affected my choice...
[Remain in Brownhill] I see the possible negatives to this, as they are clear as day. Jaremy staying in Brownhill sets up many potential conflicts, and to avoid them he would basically have to just give up on Elise and chill.... and well, that just doesn't sound like Jaremy
However, I take the risk of this choice leading to some tragedy, just because I think it would be a waste if you wouldn't get to explore these relationships and dynamics further. We just got a taste in this part of the potential for storytelling that Jaremy returning home gives, and I'd rather see that developed further, rather than Jaremy wandering off to somewhere else. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure you'd make an interesting storyline out of that as well, but it would still feel like a missed opportunity in terms of storytelling for Jaremy to leave now.
Oooh, I knew it
I really knew something has happened in the meantime. It would have just been too perfect if Elise actually waited for him for all these years, especially given that they all thought him dead for the utmost majority of this time. And guess what, I can't even be mad at her for this. Jaremy has been gone for years, everyone thought him dead and moving on is not a bad thing. That being said, Jaremy's reaction is a concerning one. I fear he could really break down and not in a pretty way once the initial shock has worn off. He's already, understandably, not the calmest, most well-adjusted guy. And to make things worse, Edgar has handled this situation poorly. He could have, should have seen this coming, but he chose the one way to break it to Jaremy that almost guaranteed conflict, even if he likely underestimated just how severely he would react. Ah man, this was an intense and brilliant scene 
[Remain in Brownhill]
I very much agree with WildlingKing here. While it might be the better thing for Jaremy to move on as well, we have just gotten to know these characters and their relationships with each other. Don't get me wrong, I want the best for Jaremy, but feel like this is too interesting to miss out on. We don't know how Elise felt about the whole situation, given she didn't manage to utter a single word before things get south. And well, I'd love to see this setting being developed a bit more, even if I am quite afraid this could end up as a mistake. But I think this alone won't decide how it all ends for Jaremy, so maybe we can avoid the worst in future choices. Brownhill is his home after all, so staying there could be quite good for him, in a way.
Thank you! I really got into this part last night, although I'll admit my initial plans were to focus on Jaremy talking about the Freehold with Elise since I've recently gotten a major hit of inspiration for there, but as I continued to write my way towards those plans, things changed and ultimately this felt more natural and expected from a Jaremy pespective. I'm glad you approve, it means I'm sinking into the right track with him, which is certainly something I like!
There are indeed positives and negatives to this choice, and while it would be a bit of a waste to outright leave Brownhill, Jaremy choosing to leave would not mean he would never see the Brownhill's again. He perhaps would not associate with them as often, and would have a retreat to go to when he grows sick of them, but certainly would not be the end of his interactions with them. However with all that being said, you wouldn't be able to see half of the family dynamics in work with this choice, and while that would overall be better for Jaremy in the long term, it'd lead in a completely different path for his character development, as would remaining in Brownhill.
Indeed, after being gone for about sixteen years it was a bit of a naive dream of Jaremy's to return back to an awaiting loving woman. Now that she has moved on, married another and had a child, Jaremy's reaction to this after his initial blind moment of rage will be quite interesting if he does remain, or if not as well. Surprisingly though he was quite tame in his fit of anger this time however than he was last time, so this could hopefully lead to a better path for Jaremy with some help. However that'd take a lot of guidance and assistance, and as we know, Jaremy isn't really one for accepting help, so it could really go any way from here. Edgar definitely could have handled this better, but being the optimistic and distant brother, he shed some hope that perhaps a part of his old brother remained. This however wasn't all that much of a con for Edgar, as he got to witness just how his brother reacted over something that could be considered trivial, and from the position of a monarch, such anger and strength could be utilised or dangerous, which has likely put a lot on Edgar's mind as with this given choice.
[Remain in Brownhill]
While I'm curious to where Jaremy would go, I agree with Wildling and Liquid's reasoning.
[Remain in Brownhill]
Find that choice could lead to some very interesting scenarios. He could possibly end up repairing his relationship with his family. On the other hand, he might just make it worse. I wonder if Elise still harbors feelings for him. If so, this could turn into a Rhaegar/Leana situation, but, unlike Leana at the time, Elise has a son and a husband now. So, that is probably unlikely. I'm mainly just curious to see how he continues to react with his family.
[Remain in Brownhill]
[Leave Brownhill]
I'll be in small minority here, but I'd like to see more dynamic story. It's not good-bad choice though - both options have advantages, both have drawbacks. Leaving Brownill gives you a lot of space in the story and potential moves of Jaremy, but is linked with abandoning great plot with Elise. Remaining there makes his story a little bit linear, but grants development of this Elisabeth-Jaremy relation. I'm not super convinced to any of it, so prolly I should go with majority of you, but as I see this choice will win anyways - if somewhat no, I'd have to rethink it and maybe change the decision.
And Jaremy will remain in Brownhill! Hey guys, apologies for being so inactive as of late, I've been pretty busy with school and projects which have unfortunately soaked up all my time, and will only continue to get worse as this term progresses
I do have some better news however, and that's that I have a new part ready to apologise for my inactivity, and it's a Jaycen part.
The last time we saw Jaycen he reunited with King Hector Blackmont and Prince Torrhen Blackmont, having a jolly good old time with them before returning to his journey to Storm's End.
Jaycen
Plumes of black smoke sat over the final horizon of the remnant Red Mountains. The combined armies of House Caron, Dondarrion and Swann travelled towards Griffin’s Roost now, and Jaycen hoped his one eye was failing him, for the sight he saw left him without words. The red keep had been left stained with soot, a remnants of the black smoke that still lifted from some of the damaged towers.
Jaycen grasped the reins of his steed with a tight grip, eying the piled corpses that burned outside the keep. They were too far to identify what allegiance the soldiers had, but the banners clarified who now held the ruins of Griffin’s Roost, and it was not House Connington. The banner gave clear origin of the usurpers of the castle; a seven pointed star on a white field. Andal’s, Jaycen thought bitterly as he grit his teeth. Hector was right.
“I’ll fucking kill those bastards!” Keat spat, unsheathing his sword in a fit of rage. Gladys placed a hand on his destrier’s neck, looking at him with stern but sympathetic eyes. “We all will,” she promised him, “but we must wait for our army to arrive. No point you throwing yourself onto the spear,” she stated plainly, turning her gaze to Lord Gilbret Swann.
“Grandfather,” she mumbled, pulling the old man from his aimless gaze. He turned his old eyes to Gladys, a frown on his wrinkled brow. “We should wait,” he agreed, but Jaycen shook his head, now staring at the riders that approached them. “There won’t be time for that,” he muttered, now unsheathing his own blade.
Three riders drew nearer as the commanders watched cautiously at their approached, ready to ride against them if need be. Keat was restless, his destrier pacing back and forth, sweat forming on his brow. Gladys stared sternly at the riders, twirling her blade between her fingers, while Gilbret sat calmly and awaited their arrival. Jaycen started to recognise their adornments as they grew closer. The Night’s Watch?
Before Jaycen could even think further on it, the black brothers were upon them. They circled them curiously, like crows inspecting tainted meat from above, before their ringleader stopped and dismounted from his Garron. “Lords, m’lady,” he greeted warmly, staring up to them with a solemn gaze. Jaycen sternly glared at the man, while Gilbret answered in their stead.
“Evening, brother,” Gilbret replied passively, staring at the man with poor eyes. Jaycen studied the man thoroughly, he was a younger man than Jaycen, perhaps in his mid-thirties, with long coarse black hair that fell past his shoulders and a beard which met his untidiness. His eyes were a light brown.
“I am Morrigen, a ranger of the Night’s Watch,” he stated nonchalantly, then turning to his two companions. “These two are Simon Whitehill and Tom Hill, also rangers of the Night’s Watch,” he added, turning his gaze to Jaycen. “What are you doing this far south?” Jaycen growled, yet in a manner that demanded an answer rather than asked for one. Morrigen sighed, turning back to the burning castle.
“We are searching for a deserter, named Teddy Estermont. We were led to believe he was being harboured with the Connington’s, but we’ve yet to find his corpse among the rest,” Morrigen informed them regretfully. Keat groaned in anger. “The remains?! You fucking besieged my Lord’s home for one bloody traitor!” he spluttered with ire. Morrigen shook his head.
“The Andal’s besieged your home, my Lord, we only searched for a traitor,” he assured him, but Keat had heard enough. “You fucking shit!” Keat screamed, jabbing his horse in the back of its ribs, making his steed arch up on his hind legs. “Enough!” Lord Gilbret yelled, but Keat ignored his orders. He charged forward, striking and merely missing Morrigen as he side-stepped. Keat charged down the hill, riding for Griffin’s Roost.
“For fuck sake,” Gladys spat, kicking her horse into a gallop after him. Jaycen turned his gaze down to Morrigen, whom still looked to be processing what just happened. The Lord of Nightsong dismounted from his horse, meeting the brother eye-to-eye. “My Lord, I can assure you, we had nothing to do with this,” Morrigen swore, falling to his knees as Jaycen approached him with his sword in hand.
“Lord Gryff was a close friend of mine, where is he now?” Jaycen shouted, and Morrigen shook his head. “Dead, my Lord,” he muttered with remorse. “And his son?” Jaycen spat, but Morrigen just shook his head. “From what I can see, you are the real traitors here,” Jaycen muttered, but Morrigen lifted his hands up, shaking his head.
“Please, my Lord, we were only following our orders,” he exclaimed, and Jaycen could spot the one called Simon Whitehill nocking an arrow. “Whose orders?” Jaycen growled, halting a moment. “Ron Connington, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” he stated, and Jaycen raised an eyebrow. “He ordered this?” Jaycen asked with a touch of disbelief, to which Morrigen nodded.
“He ordered the death of his own family?” Jaycen spat, now convinced the man was lying. Jaycen placed the blade of his sword on Morrigen’s shoulder, and he could see the man clearly uncomfortable with its presence. “Lord, back away from him,” a younger voice ordered, and the sound of a drawn bowstring followed. Jaycen turned his gaze to the young man atop his horse, an angry look on his eyes.
“Drop that arrow, stupid boy,” Jaycen grumbled, turning his gaze back to Morrigen, “Harder boys have tried to kill me.” Simon hesitated a moment, long enough for Morrigen to plea for forgiveness. “My Lord, please, I swear to you… We were just following our orders, we’re hunting a deserter,” he mumbled, but Jaycen just shook his head.
“We’ll see what King Qarlton has to say once he finds out you murdered one of his most loyal bannermen,” Jaycen growled, sheathing his blade and returning to his horse. “We will take back Griffin’s Roost and bring the head of the Andal shit back to the Storm King. Then we’ll figure out what to do with you,” Jaycen stated with a menacing tone, climbing atom his horse and steering it back to their army. “Come, Lord Gilbret. We have a siege to prepare,” Jaycen muttered, and the two rode back to their army.
-
The great curtain wall of stone stood a hundred feet high, and almost as thick on its seaward side, with battlements running across the top of the walls. The curved walls were truly a work of elite architecture, being smoothly rounded, it was constructed perfectly, and it truly reputed its namesake: Storm’s End.
The Great Marcher army set up their camp alongside the other vassal armies of the Storm King, while Jaycen continued through the main gates into the castle, followed by Gladys, Gilbret and Morrigen. Jaycen’s expression remained as stern and cold as ever, a hand clutched around the openings of a leather bag, with another around the reins of his steed as it led him towards the Great Hall of Storm’s End.
Jaycen continued riding into the main tower of the castle, careless to the thoughts of the astonished guards that attended to his companion’s horses. His mind was set on the king, and that alone stormed a vast amount of conflict inside his mind. Qarlton had been Jaycen’s most trusted friend once, the brother he had never had, but that was ruined when he chose to sleep with his wife: Meghan. Jaycen came to forgive him, or at least so he said, but could never respect the man like he once did, especially now.
The Lord of the Marches turned his cold glare down towards the bag he grasped in his hands, weighted as he expected, and oozing to the bottom of the leather. It was perhaps the smell which topped it off however, the odour of death; drying blood and rotting meat. All things which Jaycen was well accustomed to, and one which he carried as a burden rather than an honour.
He led his destrier around the large corridors, the nobles and guards quickly darting out of his way as he trotted through; all sharing gazes of shock, fear and disdain. As he approached the main gates to the Great Hall, the guards opened them for his approach, allowing him to pass unwarranted into the throne room. It was there he saw him: the Storm King, sitting upon his stone throne with a smirk on his lips; something Jaycen was unsure whether to remark at or scowl in response to. He did neither.
Qarlton was a man of a slender muscular build, mostly hidden under a simple attire consisting of a long-sleeved black shirt with a golden short sleeve vest over the top of this; running down to his knees, and decorated with a crowned black stag. Atop of this he wore a dark golden cloak trimmed with black fur, and above all this, sitting on top of his greasy and receding black hairline, sat a golden wrapped antler crown.
He arose from his throne with a grin spread across his lips as Jaycen came to a halt before him, studying his features. The man had aged since he last saw him, his sides had greyed and he wore a grey stubble with that. His hair remained black and greased; slicked back and crowned, yet it was his piercing dark blue eyes which still held their sharpness. Alert and cunning, yet also condescending and arrogant, Jaycen held his composure under Qarlton’s gaze.
“Lord Caron,” he greeted nonchalantly, lifting his arms in welcome. Jaycen tossed the bag at his feet in turn, a sickening crack thundered through the hall as it landed, toppling to Qarlton’s leather boots. “That’s the head of the Andal warlord that has held Griffin’s Roost uncontested. He had grown fat with his newly accustomed lifestyle, he barely put up a fight against my army when we redeemed the castle; and the Connington’s,” Jaycen seethed, making Qarlton frown.
“Dead, I presume,” he muttered, to which Jaycen nodded. “Their bodies were torn apart from horseback, their corpses desecrated and serving as supper for the ravens,” Jaycen grumbled, grasping the reins of his horse. Qarlton nodded, pulling out the head of the fat Andal warlord and smirking. “Looks like the Lord of the Marches had his way with you,” he admired, dropping the bruised and bloody head back into the bag, which he passed off to one of his kingsguard.
“You have served me well once again, and I am glad you have answered my call,” Qarlton announced, clasping his hands and passing off a warm smile that was heavily uncharacteristic for the man that Jaycen once knew. “I didn’t do it for you,” Jaycen muttered, averting his gaze elsewhere. “To not answer your call would be treason, my King, and we are certainly not traitors!” Gilbret stated in a cheery tone, finally entering with the company of Gladys and Morrigen. Qarlton grinned, descending the steps of his throne.
“Lord Gilbret, it is a pleasure to have you back in my halls, and Lady Gladys!” he called, taking and kissing her hand as a gentleman. “You are most welcome,” he assured her, to which she just rolled her eyes playfully, all the while Jaycen scowled at Qarlton’s unnerving behaviour. “And who is this?” Qarlton asked, turning his gaze to the final member of their group. Before any of them could answer, the man of the Black spoke for himself.
“Morrigen, Your Grace. I’m a brother of the Night’s Watch,” Morrigen informed him, to which Qarlton raised an eyebrow, before shrugging off the matter. “Welcome,” he muttered, turning back to Jaycen. “You’ve made quite an entrance,” he marvelled, to which Jaycen remained silent to, holding a solemn idle stance. “This conquest is foolish, Qarlton, the real enemy is at your shores, murdering your lords while you bicker with the Massey’s!” Jaycen grumbled, looking down at the man he had once held in high regard, and now saw for what he was: a neglectful ruler. Qarlton barely flinched at Jaycen’s accusations, returning to his throne.
“Yes well, you were always the brains of our duo, which is why I’ve called specifically for you to come to me in this time I need you the most,” Qarlton explained, taking a seat on his uncomfortable stone chair and shifting his gaze back to Jaycen, who stared at him sternly. “You want my opinion? Turn your eyes to those who pose a threat to your kingdom, not those you wish to add to it. There will be nothing to add to if you continue to neglect your subjects!” Jaycen spat, making Qarlton raise an eyebrow.
“You think you could do better?” he challenged him, making Jaycen clamp his tongue as he stared at Qarlton with a bitter gaze. “I think you could,” Qarlton admitted, rising from his throne again, now to approach Jaycen. He placed a hand on the neck of Jaycen’s horse, a frown on his face. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes between us, and I wish I could mend those, I truly do, but right now there are matters which require more than just our bickering. If not for me, the Kingdom needs you,” Qarlton stated, before pulling something from his side pocket. Jaycen stared sternly at the silver brooch Qarlton presented to him. It was shaped like that of a thunder bolt, and Jaycen knew exactly what it was.
“I want you to be my Hand,” Qarlton stated, offering the medallion to Jaycen, who stared at it with cold eyes. Qarlton placed the brooch in Jaycen’s hand. “Think of your family, Lord Caron, and the good of the realm,” he added as he returned to his throne. Jaycen now gulped, furrowing his eyebrows as he stared at Qarlton with a worried eye.
“My family?” Jaycen asked with a clearly concerned tone, to which Qarlton nodded. “Yes,” he averted his gaze to Gladys before returning back to Jaycen. Now Jaycen felt outright tension stiffen through his body, his hands paralysed around the reins of his horse. He was referring to Meghan, he knew this much, but what did he have over her? She is safe at Blackhaven, unless… he recalled that he hadn’t seen her as he departed, but he had placed that down to her emotional distraught. Now he was unsure.
Jaycen gritted his teeth, glaring at Qarlton with a cold eye. He’s trying to blackmail me, he realised, and in this he found some relief, for there was the chance he was bluffing, but worry still consumed him. If he truly had Meghan, he would be endangering her to disobey his king, not only for her sake, but for his family… and the realm, as he came to think of it. House Caron would not stand for their Lady Mother to be a hostage to their liege’s household, it would lead to a civil war, and gods knew that was the last thing the kingdom needed now. Yet how could Jaycen serve such a man, were the risks worth defying him?
[Accept his offer] [Decline his offer]
[Accept his offer]
Okay, so, what is that guy planning? We know Meghan is at Storm's End, but what Qarlton's plans for her are in particular, I still don't know. It might be that he manipulated Ted quite heavily when he offered him to marry Meghan, especially considering that he makes a show out of promoting Jaycen right here. That would be the less concerning option. More concerning would be that he plans for Jaycen to, in one way or the other, outright die, so that he can do as he pleases with the rest of House Caron. Jaycen is not only his most powerful bannerman, but also his most inconvenient, having at least two reasons now to outright rebel against his king. He decided against it the first time and I believe nothing good can come out of defying him this time either. I mean, declining this offer to Qarlton's face? Yeah, he'd give him every reason he needs. Now, I believe it will eventually be very dangerous for Jaycen as well if he accepts, but I see it as necessary to ensure the safety of his family, especially Meghan. I hate playing by Qarlton's rules here, but we know he has her as... a hostage? A guest? I don't know. She's at Storm's End, she's in danger if we decline the offer and well, accepting it might put Jaycen into a position where he can do something against that. While probably not stopping Qarlton from his foolish conquest, he might actually get out of this one alive if he plays his cards right with the power he is offered here.
[Accept his offer]
[Accept his offer]
This is probably the safer and wiser thing to do, at this point.
[Accept his offer]
There's no way that defying him would result in no consequences, so it's rather definitely right choice there. And being Hand of the Lord isn't that bad - it's more like adviser, not servant. If Jaycen plays it properly, he can have large impact on Qarlton decisions. Of course it's linked to vowing an ultimate loyalty to him, but still - Caron family is in danger, and that can be good opportunity to do something about it.
[Accept his offer]
And I'll close this vote now. Jaycen will accept Qarlton's offer. I won't say much about this choice, but I'm sure many of you could see the similarities between Ned and Robert from season 1 here, and Ned really ought to have stayed in the North... Fortunately this is not Kings Landing, and there are no Lannister's involved from what we can see
Anyway, I have the next part ready, and it is a Bethany part. Last time we saw her, Gareth had left and Bethany was striking hard times with her limited company, with Maddelyn showing difficulty getting over Gareth's return to Nightsong, and the whoreson Ben Tarth showing some empathy after his actions, something which Bethany did not take lightly too. By the end of the part, you chose for Bethany to go and apologise to Ben, and well, those were my bloody guidelines, but I might've gotten carried away with a new character at Blackhaven
Enjoy!
Bethany
The warm air brushed against her cheeks and through her hair, she adjusted her arm, her gaze focused on the lone oak that sat atop the small hill, at least a mile from the large stone wall that bordered Blackhaven Town from the Marches. Inhale. Her chest rose as she pulled in her breath, holding her army steady and her gaze calm. The shaft of the arrow rested against her forefinger, and with a calm exhale, she let her grip loose.
The arrow soared through the air, battling against the wind and steering on course, as planned. Splinters of wood thrusted into the air as the arrow pierced the trunk of the old oak, right next to the four other arrows she had just shot earlier. Another round of applause came from the guards as they watched her in marvel. “Brilliant shot, Lady Caron!” they exclaimed in compliments, but Bethany felt no sense of pride from her shots, nor any uplifting of her lowered spirits.
Before long, the men under the Dondarrion tabards return to their duties along the wall, and Bethany was left to sit alone on the battlements, staring at the tormented old oak. Even from here she could see the damage the old wood had underwent, used as a sparring tree, a target for arrows, and an opponent for the lance. Thick sap ran down its new wounds, bringing a shiver down her spine, as she stared aimlessly into the distance.
To the west were her parents at Storm’s End, to the east was Gareth at Nightsong, and north; Alara. The thought of her half-sister brought much conflict into her mind. There was without a single doubt that she loved her sister to death, but a deep part of her heart envied her life, a life free from the boundaries of family and commitment, free of the duties of a daughter, and free from the confinement of a prison’s walls. Bethany bit her tongue as she clenched her hands tightly around the shaft of her bow. I could run, but they would catch me, she thought hopelessly, staring across the dry and barren fields of grass that she had called home for so many years. Nothing felt so entrapping now as it did then.
“Lady Bethany,” a voice called from behind her, one without familiarity. Bethany cautiously and curiously turned her gaze behind her, loosening another arrow from her quiver. Her gaze met the dark green eyes of a soldier, his golden hair short and swept back with a slight tinge of orange running through it, and smile on his lips. “Who are you?” Bethany asked bluntly, forgetting her manners, but for a prisoner of a distant castle she had lost her courtesy for each and every man who approached her to compliment on her beauty.
“I am Captain Cassian Cole,” he introduced himself, bowing before her honourably, to which she gave him a brief nod. “I’ve been assigned to watch over you,” he informed her, taking his place beside her, which oddly brought some comfort to her, but she made an effort to ignore his presence. “In case I decide to run away?” Bethany asked nonchalantly, rolling her eyes. “In case you find trouble,” he corrected, making Bethany raise an eyebrow, but she chose not to question it. Cassian sighed, kneeling over the battlements and looking below to the guards.
“Castle Cole is a half hour ride from here,” he stated, running his hand through his hair. “Do you like to ride?” he asked, turning his gaze to her. Bethany eyed him a moment, rooting out the deceit in her captor, or at least the guard tasked from her captor to watch over her. Hesitantly she nodded, to which the man grinned. “Great, let’s go then,” he decided, turning to the steps behind the wall. Bethany pulled herself off the battlements and followed after him.
“Isn’t the guard meant to follow the one they are meant to protect, not the other way around?” Bethany asked, feeling quite confused as to these sudden come of events. Cassian stopped, taking her by the forearm and looking into her eyes with a solemn glare. Bethany tensed up, having no choice but to look into his dark green eyes. “I’m not your slave, Lady Caron, and forgive me, but I do have better things to do than stand idle while you wallow in your misery atop the wall,” he stated before releasing her and heading to the stables, leaving her somewhat taken aback, yet oddly in a position of excitement. Someone was finally being real with her.
-
He looked handsome in his gear, sitting tall atop his horse with an alert gaze that watched around them. He wore a pair of leather pants with a leather coat that was hidden under the scarlet tabard of House Cole. His sheathed bronze sword jiggled by his side as his courser walked along the road beside her own. Bethany remained in her casual wear, consisting of a loose long-sleeved yellow shirt and black tights, her bow slung over her shoulder. She felt uncomfortable, and quite underdressed for their destination.
“Why do we ride for Castle Cole?” Bethany asked, breaking the silence that had lasted from the beginning of their ride to now. Cassian shrugged, still staring ahead. “I thought you might enjoy some time outside of Blackhaven,” Cassian stated, which Bethany nodded to. “Yes, but my question still stands.” Cassian sighed, turning his gaze to her momentarily before returning to his alert watch. “My mother is ill, I wanted to see her before she passes,” he stated bluntly, making Bethany swallow her pride.
“I-” she stumbled on her words, but Cassian just shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t expect the Lady of Nightsong to care about the wellbeing of a peasant’s mother, so don’t fret yourself with false condolences,” he muttered, making Bethany scowl at him. “I had plans to make an apology to someone today,” Bethany stated in a change of subject, to which Cassian showed no particular interest to. “Why didn’t you?” he asked with an apathetic tone, making Bethany frown. “I was convinced to come out on a ride with Captain Cassian Cole, who is sounding like a real shit to me,” Bethany ranted, but to her surprise she received no retaliation.
“Oh don’t let me stop you,” he stated, rolling his eyes. “You know your way back to Blackhaven,” he muttered, not bothering to turn his eyes to her. That I do, she thought in a final sense of defiance, before jabbing the ribs of her courser, sending the steed into a gallop ahead of him. “Hey!” he yelled, but his words were drowned out from the sound of hooves on dirt, a storm of dust left in her trail. She would ride home, back to her brother, she would be safe there. Safer than with a dementing old man and a neglectful guard, that much was certain.
She slapped the reins, spurring the horse faster along the dirt road, a liberating feeling came with this act of rebellion. She could not help but think of Alara again, on the nights she used to watch her and Ryman ride under the stars of the night from her tower window, for a first time her heart was not flooded with envy with the thought of her sister, but appreciation and understanding. She dug her feet into the ribs of her horse, quickening its pace yet again.
“BETH-” a voice shouted from behind her, and her quick gaze behind her confirmed it was Cassian. “STOP!” he yelled, somehow slowly managing to catch up to her. Bethany ignored him, riding her horse harder and faster, she did not care if Cassian or the entire guard chased after her, she would get home. Pushing her horse harder and harder, the beast snickered in disapproval, but obeyed its mistress.
The road had been surrounded by trees this entire ride, but finally Bethany came across an opening to an entire landscape of flatlands: the Marches. With ambition and hope-driven courage she steered off the road and onto the grass, instantly feeling the difference in terrain beneath her. She flicked her gaze over her shoulder to still see Cassian in pursuit, gaining on her now. She tried to spur her horse faster but all the creature replied with was a loud snicker and a shaking head of denial. Bethany cursed the beast, tears welling up in her eyes, and then she felt him, his grasp on her arm. She fought him, slapping at his arm in an attempt to free herself, but after a long fight she came out defeat, and was pulled from the saddle of her horse.
The courser galloped off as their own began to slow, but with Bethany’s resistance, Cassian had no choice but to let her go. She stumbled off the side, rolling across the grass while Cassian slowed his steed down to a halt. He dismounted just as Bethany was finding her feet, and disorientated, she tried to run for the distance, where she hoped the Nightsong would be. She felt the weight lifted off her legs as Cassian lifted her up by the waist, the two falling into the field of wild grass.
Bethany laughed hysterically through her tears, the blurred image of Captain Cassian hovering over her, on top of her. He brought a gentle hand to her face, wiping away the tears that she wept, and for the first time, Bethany saw something beautiful in the man above her. His eyes sympathetic, even if they clearly appeared frustrated, but there was a soft smile on his lips, even if it was small. He moved the muddled hair from her fringe off her face, staring into her eyes with a look she knew well. It was one she often had when she saw Gareth with another girl, a longing which she knew she could never have, something Cassian now mirrored. He was overstepping his line, this much was certain, but there was something alluring about the man that made Bethany’s heart quicken.
[Kiss him] [Do nothing]
[Kiss him]
Hell yeah