Chapter 18: Shadow of Learning
Chapter 17 –
Sunlight streamed through the narrow window of the attic room, casting geometric patterns across the rough-hewn floorboards.
Caelum rolled out of his makeshift bed, wincing as his joints protested the unfamiliar hardness of the straw ticking.
It wasn't the comfort of his bed, but it would have to do.
"Caelum? You awake in there or do I have to fetch a bucket of water?" A muffled voice pierced the sleepy silence.
Caelum stifled a chuckle. "Awake, Pylos, and nearly dressed!"
Pylos, a lanky boy with a mop of unruly brown hair, burst through the door, his energy barely contained by the cramped space. "C'mon! What are you waiting for? I don't want to be late the first day!"
Caelum grinned, lacing up his sturdy boots.
Pylos' enthusiasm was infectious, chasing away the last vestiges of his own lingering doubts. "True enough," he admitted, a spark of anticipation igniting within him.
He pulled on a simple woolen tunic, the coarse fabric a far cry from the soft linens at home, but it carried the promise of a new beginning.
They descended the creaking stairs, the scent of freshly baked bread and roasted meat filling the air.
In the common room, the innkeeper, a burly man named Lernen with a voice built for booming orders, was already at work.
Caelum caught his eye and nodded a quick greeting.
"I'll be back after lessons to help out, Lernen," he offered.
The innkeeper, wiping his hands on a worn apron, gave a curt grunt in response. "Good lad. I will have enough chores to keep you occupied all afternoon, don't you worry."
A warm voice cut through the innkeeper's gruffness. "Don't listen to him, Caelum. I'll help. You shouldn't have to work on your first day at the Citadel."
Caelum turned to find Fern, the innkeeper's daughter.
She bore a slight resemblance to Meredith, filling him with warmth tinged by a pang of homesickness.
Lernen barked a reprimand, "Get back to those tables, girl! And you," he pointed a thick finger at Pylos and Caelum, "best be on your way. Don't want to make a poor showing on your first day."
Pylos tugged Caelum's arm with all the impatience of a hound straining at the leash. "Come on, Caelum! We don't want to arrive at the gates of knowledge like dawdling merchants!"
Caelum couldn't suppress a grin.
He and Pylos had joined the same merchant caravan journeying to Oldtown, drawn together by a shared hunger for learning and, more keenly, the need to escape the encroaching shadow of war. Pylos' father, a lesser knight in service to Lord Tarly, had arranged for his son to seek sanctuary at the Citadel, and Caelum's own father had sent him for similar reasons.
They stepped out into the bustling streets of Oldtown.
The air hummed with activity, a chorus of voices mingling with the rhythmic clatter of cobblestones beneath their feet. Unlike the quaint familiarity of his village, the grand city seemed alive, its buildings and inhabitants a symphony of colors and textures.
Merchants hawked their wares with boisterous cries, their stalls a vibrant tapestry of silks and spices. Well-dressed ladies, trailed by servants holding baskets, paused to barter over exotic trinkets. Children darted through the crowds, as they played near the banks of the Honeywine river.
Despite the vibrant veneer, Caelum felt an invisible weight press down on Oldtown as they made their way through the streets. The guardsmen patrolling in their pristine Hightower livery, swords gleaming in the midday sun, seemed more numerous than necessary. Their presence was a stark reminder that the echoes of war had reached even this ancient haven.
Knots of townsfolk gathered on street corners, their voices low and laden with worry. An elderly woman, her hands gnarled from a lifetime of work, wrung a frayed shawl with trembling fingers. "...heard the baker's son was taken," she whispered to her companion. "Called up to the levies, not even old enough to shave properly..."
Another voice, a man with the weathered face of a fisherman, cut in. "Taxes doubled again, they were. Can't even afford a decent net now. How'm I supposed to feed my kin if the catch stays small?" A chorus of weary agreement rose from the group.
Further along, a merchant with a shrewd eye and a pouch bulging with coin spoke in hushed, rapid tones. "Shipments from Dorne delayed," he confided to a fellow trader. "Roads aren't safe with all those soldiers marching about. Prices for spices? Through the roof, they'll be."
"Even the arbor has stopped sending their wares, word is almost the entire fleet sailed away over a moon ago" Another bemoaned.
They pressed onward, the city's bustle fading into a background hum against the undercurrent of worry that gnawed at Caelum. He caught Pylos's gaze stray towards a group of guards rounding a corner, and a frown momentarily creased his friend's brow.
"Don't worry, Pylos," Caelum said gently, nudging his shoulder. "The Seven will watch over them. They'll be back before you know it."
A hesitant smile touched Pylos's lips. "I know, I know... It's just..." He trailed off, his cheerfulness a thin veneer over his unspoken fears. Then, with a determined shake of his head, he said, "That's why I need to make the most of my time at the Citadel. Learn everything I can, so I can go back and help my father."
Caelum felt a flicker of pride, tinged with a bittersweet knowledge he couldn't share. Pylos's unwavering determination mirrored his own. "And what will you be studying?" he asked, eager to shift the focus away from lingering anxieties.
"Languages," Pylos declared, his voice swelling with newfound enthusiasm. "Not just the common tongue, but High Valyrian and the Summer Isles' speech—imagine the trade possibilities! And numbers!" His eyes gleamed, "Estate management, taxes, crop rotation... Father said Lord Tarly promised him a holding near Horn Hill after the war. I need to learn how to run it properly."
Caelum nodded thoughtfully. "Those sound like noble goals, Pylos. I'm here to study as well. Farming techniques, medicine, numbers... and..." his voice lowered slightly, "magic." He watched for Pylos's reaction, adding, "And maybe a bit of statecraft wouldn't go amiss either."
Pylos blinked, confusion warring with amusement. "Magic?" he finally choked out, "You're serious? All those tales of spells and potions are just stories, Cael. A waste of time!"
"Perhaps," Caelum conceded with a guarded smile. Magic was too precious, too dangerous a secret to share. "But I find the idea... fascinating."
Pylos shook his head with exaggerated disappointment. "You'll be wasting precious hours chasing shadows! And trying to learn that much at once? You'll spread yourself too thin." He paused, a spark of camaraderie in his eyes. "Why not ditch this magic nonsense and study languages with me? It would be far more useful!"
Caelum bit back a laugh, appreciating his friend's straightforward concern. "I'll think about it," he promised.
Languages interested him too infact, there was just so much to learn here at the citadel that he couldn't make a choice very easily.
The hum of the city faded as they strolled beside the Honeywine, its waters glinting like scattered jewels in the morning sun.
Pylos, temporarily swept up in the grandeur of Oldtown, chattered about trade routes and the exotic ships lining the docks.
The ancient bastion of knowledge was a sight to behold. Weathered towers reached into the sky, their silhouettes a testament to centuries of accumulated wisdom. Intricately carved bridges arched over the river, connecting sprawling complexes that seemed to meld organically with the landscape. The massive gates, flanked by twin sphinxes with enigmatic faces, beckoned like a doorway to a world beyond the ordinary.
Suddenly, a faint sound cut through the rhythmic lull of the river – a grunt of exertion, quickly muffled.
Caelum's heightened hearing, a peculiar 'gift' he'd never spoken of, pinpointed the origin with unsettling accuracy. He shifted his course subtly, a flicker of determination in his eyes.
"What are you doing?" Pylos asked, brows furrowed in confusion as Caelum veered away from the path toward the citadel.
"Come on," Caelum gestured vaguely, his smile masking his true purpose, "Just a quick detour."
Pylos hesitated, glancing back towards their destination. "If this is another cat you spotted up a tree, so help me! We don't have time for your detours, Caelum! We'll be late for our first day!"
"Relax," Caelum said, his voice infused with a calmness. "It's still early, see?" He pointed to other figures, a mix of young men and grizzled scholars, making their own unhurried way towards the Citadel's gates.
Pylos sighed, a long-suffering expression crossing his face. "You and your bleeding heart, Cael. Always stopping to help every stray cat or fallen sparrow..." Yet, he followed without further protest.
Despite his grumbling, Caelum knew Pylos shared his own deep-seated compassion, even if their friend showed it in less obvious ways.
As they rounded a bustling market stall, the source of the muffled sound became clear.
An old man, his back bent and his thin hair wisping in the breeze, struggled to pull a heavily laden cart.
The wheels churned uselessly in the muddy cobblestones, and another strained grunt echoed through the air.
"You think we can lift that?" Pylos scoffed as they drew closer. "The thing's bigger than both of us put together! And look at the state of it – those wheels are half-buried in mud. We'll be here all day!"
Caelum ignored his friend's pessimism. "Won't take long," he said, already forming a plan. "We don't need to lift the whole thing, just get it rolling."
Without waiting for further argument, he strode up to the old man. "Can we lend a hand?"
The old man, his face wrinkled with a mix of weariness and surprise, nodded. "Name's Willem," he croaked. "Bound for the Motherhouse with their supplies. Damned cart won't budge an inch, though. Old bones aren't what they used to be..."
Pylos, ever the pragmatist, chimed in. "Can't you get a horse to pull it? Seems an awful lot for one man."
Willem's weathered face creased with sadness. "Had one... good beast. But he took sick and died. No coin for another, not with the prices these war-times bring."
"Surely someone else can help you?" Pylos persisted. "A son, perhaps?"
Willem's shoulders slumped. "I Had a boy once," he murmured. "Took by the chills in winter. Just the two of us, it was..." His voice trailed off, the unspoken pain hanging heavy in the air.
"We'll get it there for you," Caelum cut in, his voice steady.
Pylos gaped at him. "We will?" His eyes darted between the hulking cart and Caelum's slender frame.
"Of course we will!" Caelum responded as he helped the old man to the side.
"You couldn't lift a handle on that monster, let alone pull it! Besides, we need to get going. Someone else will come along, I'm sure..."
Caelum waved off his friend's concern. "The Motherhouse is on the way to the Citadel anyway, and Pylos, we have plenty of time." Ignoring Pylos' spluttering protests, he approached the cart and gripped one of the heavy wooden handles.
With a smooth motion that belied his small stature, he lifted, the muscles in his arms flexing with the unexpected ease of it.
Pylos's mouth fell open.
Even Willem blinked in surprise.
"Bless those muscles, lad!" Willem exclaimed, his face breaking into a grin. "Never seen a boy your size with such strength."
Caelum ducked his head, a slight blush warming his cheeks. "It's nothing," he mumbled, "just used to helping Pa back home at the farm." Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he turned to Pylos. "Well? Are you going to stand there gawking, or lend a hand?"
Pylos, a mixture of exasperation and amusement warring on his face, grumbled under his breath. But despite his protests, he joined Caelum at the cart.
Their hands grasped the sturdy wooden handles, and with a concerted effort, they began to roll the cart forward.
And roll it did.
With Caelum's strength leading the way, the unwieldy cart seemed to transform, its wheels turning easily on the muddy road.
Even Willem, walking beside them, offered an occasional shove. Pylos couldn't deny the lack of strain, the surprising lightness with which they moved their burden towards the Motherhouse.
"Well, what do you know," Pylos muttered, a hint of amazement in his voice, "this is easier than hauling water for the horses back home."
Caelum chuckled. "I told you it wouldn't be too bad."
"There are easier ways to build muscles, you know," Pylos retorted. "Like training with a sword, or learning how to wrestle. Actual useful skills."
"And who said helping others isn't useful?" Caelum countered, lightness in his tone.
They followed the street, the Motherhouse rising into view with its seven-pointed star etched prominently above the grand entrance.
Caelum felt a quiet satisfaction as they reached the threshold, their task accomplished.
Willem's gratitude spilled out in a torrent of blessings. "May the Mother's light shine on you both," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And you, young man," he turned to Caelum, "have a gift in you, a strength of spirit to match those strong arms of yours."
Before Caelum could protest, Willem pressed a few worn copper coins into Pylos' hand. "For your trouble," he insisted. "A small token, but from the heart."
Pylos grinned, pocketing the coins with a flourish. "Well, if you insist! Thank you kindly, good sir. We were happy to help."
Caelum sighed, a rueful smile playing on his lips.
He knew any argument would be futile. Pylos sometimes embraced his practical side a bit too enthusiastically, but his heart was in the right place.
With a last grateful nod towards Willem, they set off once more, the Citadel towering in the distance.
As they walked, the sounds of the Motherhouse faded - the soft chanting of prayers, the clinking of incense burners, the rustling of robes - all replaced by the bustling energy of Oldtown.
"We made it," Pylos said with a satisfied air, checking the position of the sun. "And with time to spare. See, I told you we wouldn't be late."
"You were worried?" Caelum teased, nudging his friend playfully.
"Me? Never." Pylos' cheeks flushed slightly, betraying his earlier doubts. "I just knew you wouldn't let a good deed distract you for long. Even if you do have a soft spot for old men and stray cats."
The massive twin sphinxes flanking the entrance seemed both imposing and welcoming. Their weathered faces, male and female, held enigmatic smiles as they guarded the threshold to this hallowed place of learning.
Throngs of students and scholars flowed towards the open gates. Young men like themselves, their eyes bright with anticipation, mingled with older, grizzled acolytes bearing ink-stained hands and robes adorned with a few links of their hard-earned chains. Each face carried its own story – sons of merchants hoping for a better life, landless knights pursuing the knowledge that might win them favor.
"Come on," Pylos said, urgency replacing his earlier teasing tone. "We need to stick with the crowd."
Caelum followed, his heart pounding with a potent mix of excitement and the lingering echoes of Willem's heartfelt blessing. They crossed the threshold, entering a sprawling courtyard bustling with activity.
The Scribe's Hearth, a cluster of stalls where letters were read and written for the illiterate, buzzed with the scratching of quills and the murmurs of those dictating missives to faraway loved ones.
Nearby, a heated debate over the proper interpretation of an ancient text erupted between a red-faced scholar and a young acolyte with eyes gleaming in the heat of intellectual battle.
A new shout pierced the lively hum of the courtyard, cutting through the scholarly debates and the hurried scribbling of letters. An acolyte, a stocky young man with a shock of ginger hair, had commandeered a wooden stool and was bellowing instructions.
"Novices! Hear me!" he roared. "Make your way to the Great Hall in the Seneschal's Court! Archmaester Theron will address you on the commencement of your studies! Haste now, knowledge waits for no man!"
A surge of movement rippled through the crowd. "Let's go!" Pylos's voice crackled with excitement as he tugged at Caelum's arm. "Don't want to miss the Archmaester, do you?"
Caelum stumbled forward, his own anticipation making his steps feel lighter. "We're moving, Pylos, no need to shout," he chuckled.
They weaved through the throng, the Citadel's wonders unfolding with every step. "Look!" Caelum pointed towards a shadowy archway. "Do you think there's a garden in there?" His mind conjured images of sun-dappled paths and fountains whispering secrets only plants could understand.
Pylos squinted, then shrugged. "Maybe? But numbers first, gardens later. Can you imagine the libraries here? Stacks of books higher than Horn Hill's Keep!"
Their eyes met, alight with shared awe.
Suddenly, a grotesque stone face leered down at them from a rooftop.
Pylos yelped while Caelum burst out laughing. "It's just a gargoyle, you silly sod. They're supposed to scare away bad spirits!"
"And bad students, apparently," Pylos quipped back, the moment of surprise already replaced by eager fascination. "And spirits don'e exist!"
Even the strange carvings held a certain wonder.
The Seneschal's Court was a grand space, its high ceiling supported by massive stone pillars. The Great Hall, bathed in sunlight filtering through stained glass, was a hive of activity. Acolytes and novices milled about, their voices a constant murmur blending with the rustle of robes and the nervous shuffling of feet. Spotting an empty table, Caelum and Pylos quickly took their seats, eager to witness the spectacle unfolding before them.
Suddenly, a hush fell over the gathered crowd.
From a side entrance, a procession of figures emerged, their robes a rich tapestry of colors denoting their ranks. Maesters in somber grey mingled with Archmaesters whose garments shimmered with threads of silver, gold, and other precious metals signifying their fields of expertise.
The hall buzzed with barely contained excitement, a symphony of nervous whispers and rustling robes.
Then, a booming voice cut through the din.
An Archmaester, resplendent in a deep grey robe marked by the silver link of a historian, strode to the center of the raised dais.
Theron, Caelum recalled.
Despite a well-maintained physique and a neatly trimmed grey beard, his eyes flashed with an untamed energy that belied any notion of scholarly stuffiness.
"Welcome, novices!" His voice was surprisingly gruff, devoid of sugar-coated pleasantries. "You stand upon the hallowed ground of the Citadel, a bastion of knowledge built over countless ages. Some of you will leave this hall as acolytes, your necks adorned with your first hard-earned links. Others...," here he paused, his gaze sweeping the crowd with unsettling intensity, "... will wash out, your dreams of wisdom left as dust on these ancient floors."
A ripple of unease passed through the novices.
Pylos shifted nervously beside Caelum, his earlier enthusiasm slightly dampened.
Theron smirked, as if relishing their discomfort. "We do not traffic in sentiment here. Knowledge is a harsh mistress, demanding dedication and sacrifice. You will study until your eyes burn and your fingers cramp. You will pore over crumbling scrolls and dissect the secrets of the stars. And should you prove worthy," his voice hardened, "you will emerge from this place transformed, armed with tools to reshape your destinies... perhaps even the fate of the realm itself."
"Remember, novices," Archmaester Theron concluded, his voice ringing like a blacksmith's hammer, "you are free to attend whichever lessons pique your curiosity. But to forge your first link, true mastery in at least three disciplines is required. Choose wisely, work tirelessly, and prove your thirst for knowledge is unquenchable. The Citadel awaits your brilliance. Or your failure."
As Archmaester Theron retreated to the high table, he was immediately surrounded by other maesters, their voices a low hum against the excited chatter of the novices. The hall buzzed with anticipation, newly minted scholars scrambling to find guidance amid the dazzling array of opportunities laid before them.
Pylos nudged Caelum. "Come on," he said, "let's not waste time. Before we know it, those lessons will be full."
He spotted an older acolyte, already sporting a gleaming iron link around his neck, helping a group of wide-eyed novices navigate their schedules. Before Caelum could protest, Pylos was dragging him forward.
The acolyte, a tall, lanky fellow with a mop of unruly brown hair, introduced himself as Patrick. An air of superiority clung to him as he surveyed the newest batch of students with a dismissive glance.
"What can I do for you, novices?" Patrick asked, barely masking a sneer. He clearly relished his newfound status, the promise of knowledge already inflating his ego.
Pylos stepped forward, his earlier excitement tempered with a hint of caution. "We're interested in medicine," he started. "When does the lesson, um..." he stumbled over the term, "...commence?"
Patrick rolled his eyes. "An hour from now, in the Tower of Healing. Maester Lorcas will be conducting the lesson. But unless you have the stomach for blood and the mind for complex remedies, don't bother." He paused, a sly glint in his eye, "Perhaps you'd be better suited to sorting scrolls in the library?"
Caelum bristled slightly at the acolyte's condescension, but something else caught his attention. Using his heightened senses, he focused on the conversation unfolding at the high table. The ebb and flow of voices was clear to him, a symphony of whispered strategy and speculation.
"There is a conclave meeting this afternoon," a maester with a silver astrology link said, his voice low and urgent. "Word from King's Landing, it seems."
Archmaester Theron nodded. "I am aware," he replied, his voice a rumble. "It is about Connington delays." His tone held a hint of impatience.
"He is Stalling," another maester, this one adorned with an emerald link signifying a mastery of economics, scoffed. "The man wastes precious time at Dragonstone."
"He is being Clever, not foolish," Theron countered. "The crown is vulnerable. Stark holds the prince – Connington knows negotiation is the wiser course."
"And the king?" The maester asked.
"The king will rage," Theron said flatly. "And Connington… well, his best hope is to stay far from the fires of Aerys' wrath. Let Barristan bleed the riverlands in time the king will be forced to negotiate too."
The threads of the maesters' conversation left Caelum yearning for more.
He wanted to know more, he wanted to know if the war was soon to end, no matter how much he knew that it wasn't.
Frustration gnawed at him as the whispered plans faded into the background hum of the hall.
His gaze drifted back towards the high table.
Most of the maesters and archmaesters were dispersing, leaving a lone figure hunched over a massive tome, seemingly oblivious to the activity around him.
The man's robes were worn, their original hue faded beyond recognition.
A shock of white hair escaped from beneath a frayed hood, and his hands, stained with ink and what might be more unsettling substances, turned the pages with restless energy.
Curiosity piqued, Caelum turned back to the acolyte. "Who is that maester?" he asked, nodding towards the solitary scholar.
Patrick, the acolyte, followed Caelum's gaze and an exaggerated scoff escaped his lips. "That's Marwyn the Mad," he declared with an air of disdain. "Best stay clear of him. Doesn't teach, doesn't talk much, just skulks around with his nose in those…questionable books."
A hint of a smile played on Patrick's face. "Unless you're keen on learning about demons and spells, I suppose. Though if that's your sort of thing," he shrugged, "Quillion's your man. Higher mysteries, he calls it. Mostly a load of nonsense, if you ask me."
Pylos broke into his thoughts. "Caelum, come on!" he said, a touch of exasperation in his tone. "We need to make it to the Tower of Healing. Forget about magic. There are real things to be learned, things that can help people."
Caelum nodded, pushing down his curiosity about Marwyn for the time being.
Pylos was right; medicine offered the promise of knowledge with practical applications, a way to protect and heal when the time came.
And besides, there was a comforting familiarity in his friend's unwavering practicality. It reminded him of Luke in a way.
As they turned to leave, Patrick the acolyte couldn't resist a final jab. "Mayhaps your friend is wiser than he looks," he remarked. "This obsession with magic... a fool's errand. Listen to him, and you might just make something of yourself here."
They exited the Great Hall, the scent of old parchment fading as the bustling life of the Citadel swirled around them. The air crackled with a mix of nervous excitement and quiet determination.
Young scholars rushed towards their first lessons, seasoned acolytes carried weighty tomes, and in quiet corners, heated debates erupted over ancient texts.
It was a microcosm of the realm they'd left behind – a pursuit of knowledge against the looming backdrop of a kingdom teetering on the brink of war.
Caelum and Pylos were now part of it, two friends bound by a common goal, their paths diverging yet entwined. And as they set off towards the Tower of Healing, Caelum felt a surge of hope.
He couldn't wait to learn everything there was to learn, magic included.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
The war council chamber within New Castle, grand in peacetime, now felt cramped and stifling. Salt-laden wind rattled the shutters, counterpoint to the tense hum of voices within. Maps of the coast and the Riverlands were spread across the table, weighted down by tankards and daggers.
Rickard Stark stood hunched over the maps, his weathered face set in grim lines.
Though weeks had passed since his arrival, White Harbor still felt foreign.
Here, his wolf pelts seemed out of place, his men restless. The sea's cold breath was a constant reminder of the Royal Fleet lurking unseen beyond the horizon.
Lord Wyman Manderly, his bulk spilling over a carved chair, drummed blunt fingers on the tabletop. "Those Valeryon ships. They lurk like leeches. Just enough harassment to choke the port, but not a full assault. The craven hide behind the King's banner, scurrying like rats on Sisterton."
Lucrys Velaryon had converted the three sisters as the staging grounds for his naval blockade, Godric Borrel rolling over for the Targaryens like a frightened animal.
"And the King hides behind his walls like a maddened child," Robert Baratheon growled, his voice echoing in the chamber. He paced restlessly, Warhammer tapping against his leg. "Damn it, I came to fight, not watch bloody seagulls!"
Roose Bolton's voice cut in, pale eyes gleaming in the dim light. "Perhaps the Crown waits for their southern allies, Lord Baratheon. Given that your brother was successful in culling the rebellion in your banners, his siege of Ashford has distracted the flowers, Mace Tyrell will not be able to join Randyll Tarly on his march to the riverlands, but should he fall…"
"Then the Riverlands burn," Rickard finished.
News of Barristan Selmy's siege of Harrenhal had reached them, relayed by desperate ravens from Hoster Tully.
He glanced around the table, at the hardened faces of his bannermen – the Hornwoods, the Cerwyns – and the Stormlanders, their loyalty radiating a different sort of heat from the restrained Northmen. "Brandon has relieved Gulltown, and Jon Arryn is said to be sailing to our aid, but…" His voice trailed off, the silence laden with what went unspoken.
Ser Elden Estermont, grizzled and scarred, shifted in his seat. "But without breaking this damned blockade, White Harbor is going to strangle." His eyes met Rickard's. "We cannot afford a war of waiting, Lord Stark."
A murmur of assent swept through the chamber.
The war was a noose around White Harbor's neck, tightening with each passing day.
Food stores had already dwindled due to the long winter, and the false hope that the false spring had brought destroyed the northern larders further.
Trade ships dared not approach, and the strain on Lord Manderly's hospitality grew heavy.
Rickard pressed his fingertips to his forehead, a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes.
Roose Bolton cleared his throat, his voice a cold whisper in the tense silence. "Forgive my bluntness, Lord Stark, but perhaps our efforts at… diplomacy… have run their course." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "We tried when Gulltown was relieved, and Lord Arryn added his support to our cause… those were victories that spoke louder than our ravens, but despite holding the Prince captive… despite suffering defeat at the Vale in the breaking of the blockade of Gulltown," A subtle flicker of contempt crossed his pale eyes, "…the King's replies haven't changed. He wants our heads, nothing less."
Robert Baratheon roared, his warhammer slamming down on the table, making tankards jump. "Damn the King, and damn his princeling! Rhaegar started this bloody game, and it's past time he paid the price." A chorus of grim agreement rose from the Stormlander lords.
Lord Hugh Grandison gripped the pommel of his sword, knuckles white. "Aye, the crime he committed against Lady Lyanna... against House Stark and House Baratheon, there's a debt owed, and blood's the only coin that'll pay it."
A pained sigh escaped Rickard Stark's lips. He had wanted to avoid executing the prince, sending him off to the wall after the war should have been enough but the King seemed to have taken complete leave of his senses. "I had tired to use The Prince as leverage, to easen the efforts of the Crown against us... it was worth trying," he admitted, his voice rough. "I had hoped… hoped to avoid this, strip him of everything…"
"But the Wall won't hold back his father's madness," Wyman Manderly interjected, his voice heavy. "We can't keep feeding a dragon, hoping it won't turn and bite us."
Rickard nodded slowly, the lines around his eyes deepening. "You are right, my lord, the Prince has outlived his usefulness," he sighed.
The council chamber buzzed with surprise. They hadn't expected him to cave in so easily.
Halys Hornwood barked a rough laugh. "Yes, m'lord. Once the Prince is dealt with, the targaryens will realize that we have been toyed with enough."
Rickard nodded, and sighed as the weight of his decision settled on him. "Ned has sailed with Lord Mormont, the Greatjon, and young Karstark for the Wall, and found far more than we bargained for." He paused, remembering the tension in those first moments after the raven arrived with Ned's hasty missive. "Laenor Waters, Velaryon's bastard, it seems, was captaining a vessel at Hardhome, awaiting the Prince. With him… his wife."
A ripple of intrigue passed through the council. Wyman Manderly scratched his beard thoughtfully.
"The ship was meant for Lady Lyanna then, and now it becomes her brother's escape route," he mused, a touch of grim amusement in his voice.
"Indeed," Rickard confirmed. "Ned secured the ship, took the woman hostage… and convinced the captain to sail for Dragonstone." He leaned forward, the flickering lamplight etching harsh shadows on his face. "They will have arrived at Dragonstone as we speak …. If the old gods favor him."
Medger Cerwyn pounded a fist on the table. "By the Old Gods, that's boldness worthy of a bard's song! "
Robert Baratheon slammed his warhammer down once more, a triumphant grin splitting his face. "Ned will be successful I tell you! Let's finish this – bring out the princeling, Lord Stark. It's time he paid his dues."
A grim silence fell over the council, the Lords' triumph tainted by a somber finality.
Rickard stood slowly, the lines on his face etched deeper than ever. He felt the weight of a thousand decisions pressing down on him, the cost of war heavy in the air.
"Very well," his voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Lord Manderly, if you would... see to it that the Prince is brought to the yard."
Wyman Manderly rose, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "Of course, Lord Stark. And… and Ser Arthur?"
Rickard hesitated.
"Ser Arthur will remain a prisoner," Rickard said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "He shall not pay for the sins of his king… not when his blood binds him to my own son's wife, he will witness the consequences of his actions and swear himself to the wall at the end of this war"
A subtle shift rippled through the council, a mix of relief and disappointment.
The chamber emptied, lords departing with grim nods and determined strides.
Rickard lingered, staring at the maps, a battleground of spilled ink marking the Riverlands.
He reached for Ice, the ancestral blade resting against the wall. Its Valyrian steel seemed to shimmer with a cold, expectant light.
The courtyard, usually bustling with trade or drilling soldiers, now pulsed with a tense energy. Men-at-arms formed a rough circle, their faces a mixture of eager anticipation and grim resolve.
North men and Stormlanders stood side-by-side, their differences forgotten in the spectacle that was about to unfold.
Rickard Stark stood tall at the center of the circle, Ice resting across his shoulders.
It was a weapon born for executions, its weight both a burden and a grim comfort. A hush fell over the gathered men as they waited, their hushed murmurs fading into an expectant silence.
Then, the prisoners were brought forth.
Rhaegar first, his once regal bearing reduced to a pale imitation. Stripped of his finery, clad in roughspun clothes, the Targaryen Prince resembled less a dragon and more a broken man.
Yet, his eyes held a defiant spark, burning with the last embers of pride.
Ser Arthur Dayne followed, walking with measured steps, his chains rattling a counterpoint to the tense stillness. His face was a mask, betraying no emotion, but Rickard read the anguish in the set of his shoulders, the defeat that no armor could hide.
"Bring him forward," Rickard commanded, his voice cutting through the charged atmosphere. "Let him meet his end like a man, not a sniveling cur."
There was a scuffle, and then Rhaegar stumbled into the center of the circle.
His defiance, though dimmed, had not completely extinguished.
Glaring at Rickard, he refused to kneel.
Rickard sighed, a weary sound laced with a hint of pity. "Must you do everything the hard way, Prince?" He nodded toward the guards flanking the prisoner. "Place his head on the block."
A rough hand shoved against Rhaegar's shoulder.
Then, a vicious kick behind his knees sent him sprawling.
The sound of the impact echoed harshly in the sudden silence.
Ser Arthur winced, his chains clinking, and silent tears began to trace lines down his stoic face.
The Prince, now on his knees, spat out dirt and grit.
Rickard stepped forward, his hand tightening on Ice's hilt.
He who passes the sentence, must swing the sword.
"Rhaegar Targaryen," Rickard intoned, his voice grave. "For the attempted abduction of Lyanna Stark, for the war you have brought upon this realm, for the slander against my house, and the countless deaths of innocent men, women, and children…" He paused, the weight of the accusation hanging heavy. "…I sentence you to death."
Rickard met the Prince's gaze, seeking a flicker of contrition, a final shred of dignity.
All he found was a cold, desperate defiance.
"Do you have any final words?" Rickard asked, his tone devoid of mockery.
It was a final courtesy, however undeserved.
The Prince spat blood on the ground. "You have doomed your house, Stark," he rasped, his voice laced with a chilling certainty. "The cold winds blow, and with them comes the end. Winter is coming, and you wolves will freeze and die. Mark my words! It is the word of the Dragon!"
Madness.
The final embers of Rhaegar's desperate prophecy were pathetic, not fearsome.
Rickard sighed, the last thread of pity fraying.
He raised Ice, the Valyrian steel catching the light in a deadly arc.
The blade descended, swift and merciless.
In a single heartbeat, The echoes of his curse faded into the indifferent sea wind.
A roar of triumph went up from the assembled men, led by the Stormlanders. "A fitting end for a madman's son!" boomed Robert Baratheon, raising a fist in grim satisfaction.
Rickard nodded, the finality of the act settling over him like a heavy cloak. "His head shall be sent to Velaryon, and so to the King," he declared. "A grim trophy, and a testament to our resolve."
With a heavy heart, he turned toward Ser Arthur. The Kingsguard knight now sobbed openly, his shoulders shaking with the force of his despair.
His oath, shattered beyond repair, now a burden heavier than any chains.
"Arthur Dayne," Rickard's voice rang out, harsh and unforgiving. "Mourn not your false king, oathbreaker. Mourn your own vows, for you are no knight." He stepped closer, the shadow of Ice falling across Arthur's bowed form. "You forsook the vows to protect the innocent, uphold justice, and honor women. And now those vows are ashes."
Rickard's tone softened slightly, the faintest trace of reluctant mercy tempering his judgment. "Be thankful to your sister, Ashara. Were it not for her marriage to my son, you would share the Prince's fate."
He turned away, the Lords stirring around him.
Just as they were about to return to the castle, a breathless crier ran into the courtyard.
"My Lord Stark! Ships… sails on the horizon! Lord Arryn's banners has finally arrived!"
A sudden jolt of energy surged through Rickard.
He spun on his heel, "To the coast!" he bellowed, "Man the defenses! Lord Manderly," he turned to the corpulent lord, "Ready your ships! Today, we break this damnable blockade!"
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
The war tent was a stifling cocoon of sweat and unease.
Heavy wool tapestries depicting knights in shining armor hung from the canvas walls, mocking the grim-faced men gathered within.
Luke stood stiff as a fence post beside Ser Vortimer Crane, the knight's sour breath and the clink of his ill-fitting armor a constant assault on his senses, despite being his squire he was still required to work as the Knights cup bearer in such situations.
His gaze drifted across the cluttered table – maps bristled with markers, half-empty tankards, a stale loaf of bread speckled with flies.
Lord Mace Tyrell, a mountain of a man draped in silk and furs, gnawed his lip, his eyes flitting over the map like a trapped bird.
Lords Fossoway and Grimm leaned close, their murmurs a low hum beneath the flap and rattle of the wind outside.
Ser Vortimer Crane cleared his throat, the sound grating. "My lord, we must act swiftly. Ashford cannot hold much longer." He jabbed a blunt finger at the map, tracing the siege lines around the tiny marker representing Ashford Castle.
"Agreed," Lord Fossoway's voice boomed. "Stannis Baratheon is like a wasp at a feast. If we dally, he will bleed the castle dry."
Their words hung heavy in the air, a constant reminder of the lives depending on the decisions made within this tent.
Luke's gut twisted.
He wasn't some lordling playing at war. He knew the stench of burning flesh, the choking grip of desperation - things most of these men had only ever heard in tales around a hearth.
A bead of sweat trickled down his temple as the silence stretched. "We cannot wait for Randyll Tarly to return south" Ser Quentin Tyrell broke the tension. "We risk losing both the castle and its bannermen should Ashford fall."
Mace Tyrell slammed a fist on the table, the furs around his neck shifted, revealing the tremble in his hand. "If only we had more men, a larger force. This damned defiance of the Starks…!" His voice trailed off, replaced by a frustrated sigh as he raked his fingers through his beard.
Lord Grimm stroked his chin, his eyes narrowed. "Lord Stannis is known for his stubbornness, but he's not a fool. He wouldn't risk a siege if his numbers were vastly depleted." He glanced at a scroll on the table, the crumpled raven's message from Lord Ashford. "If the castle falls, he will gain a strategic point, and we will have the unpleasant task of reclaiming it from him, and with supply lines from Harvest Hall directly leading to Ashford, that will be a tall task indeed"
"Perhaps a direct assault then?" Lord Fossoway suggested, his voice resonating in the cramped tent. "Hit them hard and fast, force them to retreat."
Ser Vortimer Crane scoffed, "And bleed our own forces against their entrenched position? Stannis may be young, but he's no hotheaded fool like his brother."
The discussion went on, a whirlwind of strategies and counter-proposals.
Yet, each plan seemed to unravel as quickly as it was proposed.
Ashford's geography led it to be easily reinforceable from the Reach, but the same was true from the other side as well as a direct line of support was present from Harvest Hall.
Lord Stannis' reputation for tactical brilliance, their own depleted troops - every factor deepened the frown on Mace Tyrell's face.
Luke's fingers twitched towards the sword at his belt.
It offered little comfort, a stark contrast against the maps bristling with markers representing thousands of unknown lives. All he could do was stand silent, absorbing the arguments echoing around him.
As the light outside the tent faded, casting the grim faces within in long shadows, a sense of desperation settled into the room.
The tapestry-covered walls felt like they were closing in, the very air thickening with the weight of indecision.
"We must do something," Mace Tyrell declared, his voice strained. "The sun rises, and Stannis' siege engines will be hammering at Ashford's gates. If we don't act…" he left the threat unspoken, his usually jovial face etched with worry.
Suddenly, a rustle from outside the tent flap broke the oppressive silence. A messenger, face taut with exhaustion, slipped inside and dropped to a knee before Lord Tyrell.
"My lord," he gasped, "A raven from Ashford! Urgent news."
A collective sigh filled the tent, a mixture of anticipation and dread.
All eyes turned as Lord Grimm took the proffered scroll, his hand trembling slightly as he broke the seal.
Lord Grimm's voice cracked as he unrolled the scroll. Taking a steadying breath, he began to read, each word a heavy stone laid upon the oppressive silence.
"To Lord Mace Tyrell, Warden of the South, my most urgent plea. The enemy has breached the outer defenses. We fight valiantly, but our numbers dwindle with each passing hour. The keep itself still stands, though for how long I cannot say. Stannis' siege engines batter our gates relentlessly, and scaling parties are trying to swarm our walls."
He swallowed hard, his hand tightening on the parchment. "Their main force is concentrated on the eastern wall. Yet, every passing moment brings the enemy closer to our heart. I beg you, Lord Tyrell, for aid! For the sake of honor, for the sake of the Reach, do not let Ashford fall."
Silence settled for a heartbeat, then Lord Grimm's voice softened, laced with a father's desperation. "My daughter, Elianora, and my wife, Evelyn, they remain within the keep. I beseech you, for their lives, for the future of House Ashford… send help. Time is of the essence."
He paused, then in a steadier tone, added, "Ashford holds, my lord. But barely."
Lord Mace sagged into his seat. "Gods above," he whispered, his hands trembling. "We must act. The lives of women and children hang in the balance!" He looked around the table, his eyes pleading. "We must find a way…"
The men around the table exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of Lord Ashford's plea heavy in the air.
Parmen Crane remained a statue of stoic composure, but his knuckles had turned white on the table edge, a subtle tell of his inner turmoil.
Luke watched him, a familiar resentment flaring within him.
Parmen, with his arrogance and disdain for those below his station.
Parmen, who had tried and failed to charm Meredith to his bed, despite his impending marriage to Elianora.
But beneath the simmering dislike, Luke also felt a tremor of unease.
Rumor or not, if Elianora was true with child… and the army hounding at her doorstep, he did not wish for a cruel fate for even Parmen's innocent bride-to-be.
He'd never wanted to fight this war, a war born of a prince's twisted obsession – the very prince who had tried to have him and his brother killed.
Yet fighting was no longer a choice.
His father, just a simple guard, stood outside this very tent, his life bound to the whims of these high lords.
And beyond them lay his home, the Reach, now threatened by the marching armies of the North.
Mace's voice was thick with frustration, "If only we had a way to force Stannis back, even temporarily. Break this damned siege, then retreat and consolidate our forces as soon as Lord Tarly arrives with the rest of our men… and Paxter Redwyne's fleet soon to blockade Storm's End and shipbreakers bay, Stannis would have no choice but to flee back where he came from." He sighed heavily, "But as it stands, we're trapped in this waiting game, while Ashford bleeds…"
"My Lord Tyrell," he began, his voice surprisingly steady, "I…I beg permission to speak."
A ripple of amused disdain spread through the tent.
Ser Vortimer Crane's scowl deepened. "Be silent, boy! You have no place to speak here!" he barked.
Perhaps it was the desperation in Luke's voice, or the flicker of guilt as he remembered the boy's uncle, Harlon, the father of his sons' friend, forced to take up a sword. "Let the boy speak," he ordered.
Luke swallowed hard, his gaze meeting Mace Tyrell's unwavering stare. "My lord," he began stepping towards the map, his rough hands tracing a path across its worn surface. "Lord Ashford claims their main force is focused on the east. What if we sent a small detachment as a feint – strike from the northern flank, draw their attention while a second smaller group attempts to scale the walls from a less defended point?" His heart pounded in his chest. "We… we could try to reach Lady Ashford and the others within the keep, move them to safety from the same side we climbed over. Then, our main force strikes from the south, forcing Stannis back. With Ashford's bannermen freed, we could…"
He trailed off, the plan suddenly feeling reckless, his lack of experience painfully clear.
Yet, Lord Mace's frown was one of consideration, not outright dismissal.
"And how do we scale these walls? Stannis has the eastern and southern walls under siege" Ser Quentin Tyrell inquired, his voice edged in skepticism. "The Cockleswent flows between us and the castle. That's the only side that's not under siege."
A flush crept up Luke's neck, but he forced himself to answer. "My lord, a…a small detachment could swim the Cockleswent, scale the walls from the riverbank. It's the one side Stannis won't be focused on!"
"While the rest of our forces cross at the western town?" Lord Fossoway stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Then feint from the north, draw their attention there, then… it could work…"
A chorus of murmurs filled the tent, a mix of cautious consideration and doubt.
Ser Vortimer Crane's frown remained, but his eyes held a calculating glint Luke hadn't seen before. The knight was actually weighing the plan's merits, not just dismissing the words of a lowly squire.
Ser Quentin voiced his next concern. "Whoever crosses that western bridge faces heavy peril. Stannis will assume they're reinforcements from further north, and focus his efforts there."
Silence fell, broken only by the relentless flap of the tent canvas.
Then, to Luke's surprise, Ser Vortimer Crane spoke, his voice gruff but determined. "I'll lead the contingent for the feint. If this… this gamble of yours has a chance, we'll need to hit hard and fast."
A wave of unease washed over Luke.
This plan could well send his uncle to his death.
Harlon was a simple man, brave, and after almost a month of training under Ser Crane, good at his sword too, but unversed in the brutality of a true battlefield.
"I'll go across the river," Parmen Crane announced, his voice cutting through the tension. "I'll take some men. And get the women and children to safety."
"You will need to be careful" Se Quentin warned "You will have get rid of all the armor, even the sword would be trouble for swimming. You must be very light, both for the swim and the climb"
"My Lord, the Cockleswent isn't a very wide river, especially at the base of the castle," Luke interjected. "Getting a couple of ladders across will not be difficult, and neither will the weapons. The armor is all that we will need to get rid of to get across."
The contemplative hush within the war tent hung as thick as the tapestries themselves. Lord Mace Tyrell stood, his gaze flickering across the faces around him, relief warring with grim determination.
"What do you think Ser Crane, will this gamble work with our numbers?" he questioned, his voice hopefull.
Ser Vortimer Crane stepped forward. "Best estimates put Stannis' host at near twenty-two thousand, my lord. And we can be certain, he has more awaiting orders in the storm land. Our own forces stand at twenty thousand strong, with Lord Tarly and his seven thousand due to return. That brings us near enough on par with the Baratheons."
Ser Quentin Tyrell added, "To convince Stannis that reinforcements have come from the North, the force crossing from the town will need to be substantial – half that number at the very least. A host of Four thousand at least will have to cross from the town.."
"I can lead the attack across the town bridge," Ser Vortimer declared, his voice firm. "With a feint from the north, I'll hit hard, draw their attention, and be in position when Lord Mace begins his assault."
Tension eased slightly around the table.
Lord Jon Fossoway nodded slowly, his eyes bright. "Then it is settled. Much hinges on the men who swim the Cockleswent. Securing the Ashford household will lift the spirits of those trapped within and provide a routing point for our reinforcements. Once they arrive at the castle gates, Stannis will have to retreat."
A wave of satisfaction swept through Luke.
His plan had found purchase within the minds of these seasoned commanders.
Lord Mace rose, a tired smile creasing his face. "With my plan, Baratheon will pay for this impudence. We break this siege and force Stannis back to his stormy hovel." He dismissed the council with a final rallying cry, "Rest, my lords! Tomorrow, we ride for Ashford!"
Amidst the scraping of chairs and shuffling feet, no one acknowledged him.
Luke's shoulders slumped slightly, but a touch on his arm halted his retreat.
He turned to find Ser Vortimer Crane regarding him with a critical eye.
The knight rarely spoke to him without a sneer of disdain, but now his stare unnerved him even more. "Come with me."
A knot tightened in Luke's stomach as he followed Ser Vortimer through the bustling camp.
The anticipation of battle thrummed like a war drum in the air.
He glanced towards the familiar figures surrounding the fire, relief warring with anxiety as he caught sight of his father and uncle. They seemed oblivious to his approach, caught up in a shared joke. Luke yearned to share a last moment of levity with them, but duty called.
Ser Vortimer led him to a quieter corner of the camp, far from the boisterous laughter and the frantic preparations. He paused, and Luke waited, heart sinking. The knight's brow was furrowed, his weathered face more grim than usual.
"You've a sharp mind for tactics, boy," Ser Vortimer began, his voice surprisingly even. "And in the yard... well, I'll give you this – you have bested Parmen in the yard fair and square multiple times."
Luke blinked, confusion replacing his mounting fear.
The knight's gaze locked onto Luke's. "You'll join Parmen across the river. See this plan of yours through – and keep him alive. Do that…" Ser Vortimer hesitated, the faintest hint of hesitation flickering across his face,"… and I'll make sure your uncle and father make it through this battle."
Luke had to stifle a gasp.
Ser Vortimer offered to protect his family, the two people most important to him.
Yet, the price was clear, he would have to ensure that Parmen Crane lived through the battle, alongside his betrothed, and then ensure none of the Stormlanders make it past the inner walls.
If they did, the tides of the battle would shift, and retaking the castle would become a harder task.
Success hinged on ensuring that didn't happen, otherwise, a lot of lives would be lost.
A wave of dizziness washed over Luke.
This was far more responsibility than he was ready for.
But the image of his father's determined face, his uncle's boisterous laugh, his own promise to Caelum… it hardened his resolve.
He would do anything to see his family through.
Struggling to keep his voice even, Luke managed a choked, "You have my word, Ser Vortimer."
There was a gruff nod, the closest thing to approval Luke had ever gotten from his usually disdainful master.
A flicker of something like respect sparked in the knight's eyes, then vanished as Ser Vortimer turned towards the bustling camp.
"See to your preparations, boy," he barked, his voice back to its usual gruffness.
x ------ x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x ------- x
(A/N) I am back! We'll be back to our regularly scheduled programming.
I hoped this was worth the wait.
The Tyrells had sent a token force with Randyll Tarly to aid in the war effort. They didn't want to get too involved, as they realized something was amiss with Rhaegar and the whole ordeal.
Harlon was essentially never supposed to head off to war, just join the retinue train in the castle, and be ready to serve. But then Stannis routed the dissidents in the Stormlands and did what Robert had done in canon and attacked the Reach.
He reached further reaching all the way to the castle of Ashford and has laid siege to it.
Mace has come as reinforcement.
Stannis is a whole different beast compared to Robert and this time, there is no Randyll Tarly to counter him.
Luke stepped up and provided strategy.
I hope it made sense, I think I'm thinking too hard.
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone