Chương 10: Chapter 9. The Falcon's Council and the Road North
290 C.A
Somewhere a week after the appearance of the Hand.
King's Landing. The Red Keep.
The Red Keep, the great bastion of House Targaryen, now stands as a grim emblem of the Baratheons following their fall. A fortress bristling with towers, chambers, and secret passages, it was once the seat of conquerors who had established their dominion over the Andals, the First Men, and the Rhoynar fleeing from the yoke of Old Valyria, though history would show that their flight was ultimately in vain. A symbol of the grandeur and tenacity of an ancient dynasty, it had now become a relic of their decline and defeat, a reminder of its former lords.
In a chamber known as the Small Council Room, yet another meeting of King Robert I Baratheon's chief advisors was set to begin, for the king was away. The chamber itself was lavishly adorned with curiosities from distant Essos, whether they be the intricate carpets of Myr or the tapestries of Qarth and Lys. At the entrance stood two Valyrian sphinxes, crafted from black marble, their eyes seemingly glinting with an ominous red light from the polished garnet that sparkled in the sun.
At the head of the long table sat the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, lord of the eponymous kingdom of the Vale. He had held his post since Robert's ascension from House Baratheon, managing the affairs of the Seven Kingdoms in the king's absence and during his stays in the capital. In truth, it was Arryn who governed the matters of Westeros, doing so with enough effectiveness to prevent the realm from fragmenting into chaos.
It was Jon Arryn who had arranged Robert Baratheon's marriage to Cersei Lannister to solidify the new monarch's position through a dynastic union with one of the most powerful and influential lords of Westeros—Tywin Lannister. Later, he had also managed to settle the conflict with Dorne, personally conducting negotiations with Lord Doran Martell and extracting the realm of the Rhoynar from the throes of war.
As Robert's mentor and closest advisor, he understood well how to navigate the king's whims, steering his decisions in the right direction, at least most of the time. Lord Arryn also bore the responsibility of selecting candidates for the Small Council, though he did not often exercise this privilege. Resolute when necessary, accommodating when required, he exemplified the role of a courtier and skilled administrator, a staunch supporter of the Faith of the Seven, like most denizens of the Vale.
Now, the Keeper of the East awaited the arrival of the other council members, as the gathering had convened earlier than planned due to an urgent letter from the king, delivered that very morning from Highgarden, which in itself was unexpected. Jon Arryn, already aware of the letter's contents, found himself in contemplation, absently regarding the traditional insignia of the Hand of the King upon his breast—a long golden chain forged in the shape of clasped hands. Before him lay several documents that were to be part of the day's discussion, alongside the fateful letter.
The old Falcon, as the lords of the Seven Kingdoms affectionately referred to him, was graying and possessed only a few teeth, yet he remained an authoritative figure and a splendid orator. His long, hawkish nose attested to his undeniable noble lineage as a Defender of the Vale. Broad shoulders spoke of the martial prowess the aged lord had once wielded in his youth.
Jon Arryn donned a long cloak in the colors of his house—a sky-blue garment—paired with a doublet of white and blue hues adorned with images of falcons. On his hand, one could discern a ring fashioned in the shape of the same bird, set with a moonstone sourced from the distant lands of his homeland.
To his left sat the already-arrived Master of Laws, Lord Wyman Penrose, head of House Penrose of the Stormlands. Older even than the Hand, Lord Penrose performed his duties with all the diligence his frailty and age allowed. Given his position as head of the Gold Cloaks, it was no surprise that this institution was rife with discord and corruption; yet, thanks to his merits and close acquaintance with the king, he remained secure in his role.
Lord Penrose wore a brown woolen cloak, embroidered with the likeness of two quills, the sigil of his house. His eyes were entirely black, nearly obscured by the multitude of wrinkles lining his face. His hands trembled slightly as he worked, appearing little more than two bones draped in skin.
A cadre of Gold Cloaks stood guard outside the Small Council Room. All donned yellow-dyed wool cloaks that faintly resembled gold. Their armor consisted of black scale mail, with iron chainmail beneath, and small helmets covering their heads. Armed with swords, maces, and spears, they were well-equipped for duty.
Several minutes of restless waiting passed for the Hand of the King before the remaining members of the Small Council began to arrive.
First came the ever-constant Grand Maester Pycelle, garbed in the customary black and gray cloak, adorned with a chain of various metals. Groaning and limping, the Grand Maester bowed to the Hand and the Master of Laws before taking his place to Jon Arryn's right.
Grand Maester Pycelle sported a long white beard, of which he was exceedingly proud. Sweating from the sun outside, he carried a small satchel filled with assorted remedies that could be utilized if the need arose. His enormous, rotund belly hung precariously, striving to reach the floor, and his labored breathing hinted at the unhealthy lifestyle of a man who had survived three kings.
Next, the current Master of Whispers, Varys, entered the chamber. A native of the Free Cities of Essos, this seemingly delicate eunuch, bald and refined, had served as the crown's chief informant for many years. Operating from the shadows and cloaked behind many masks, he had constructed an extensive spy network across the Seven Kingdoms, which he deftly utilized. Dubbed "The Spider" by his numerous adversaries, Varys preferred to dress simply and unobtrusively in silken robes and velvet trousers, wearing nearly silent soft-soled shoes. His hands, as delicate in appearance as he, remained perpetually concealed within the wide sleeves of his garments.
With a deep bow, the head of the intelligence network took his place at the far end of the table, clearly illustrating the degree of trust the Hand placed in him.
Last, but not least, the Master of Ships, Stannis Baratheon, and the recently appointed Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish, entered the Small Council Room. As soon as the final two participants took their seats, the ornate wooden doors were firmly closed by the guards outside; they would remain shut until the meeting concluded, only to be opened in the event of some extraordinary occurrence. Even then, the Gold Cloaks would hesitate before interrupting the councilors' deliberations.
"Ahem," cleared his throat Lord Arryn, signaling the beginning of the meeting. "Gentlemen, I welcome you all and apologize for the suddenness of this gathering. However, I have received an important letter from King Robert that, given the circumstances, cannot be overlooked." The Hand displayed the aforementioned letter bearing the royal seal. "Grand Maester Pycelle, I ask you to read the contents of this letter, as it is essential for our fruitful discussion today." He passed the letter to the Grand Maester.
"Of course, my lord Hand," the aging scholar replied obsequiously, carefully taking the letter in his hands. "From Robert I Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men," he began, reading in a clear yet age-worn voice.
To my closest friend and advisor, Jon Arryn, Hand of the King.
I write to you today, hoping for your wisdom and loyalty, which are your unparalleled virtues. The situation in which I found myself at the concluding feast of the royal tournament has perplexed not only me but all those close to me who were present that fateful night. Expressing my gratitude for your experience and intellect, I shall recount to you, and through you to the Small Council, what transpired—an occurrence that can only be deemed the machinations of our enemies.
On the night of the feast, before me and the highborn guests of the Reach, appeared a certain sorcerer, nothing like the ones from children's tales and nursemaid stories, but truly possessing the power and audacity to challenge me, which signifies a challenge to all the Seven Kingdoms in my person. Hidden in the darkness of the night beneath a septon's cloak, he, without the slightest hesitation, as soon as he stood before my eyes, began to cast slander upon my lineage, accusing me of wickedness and the illegitimacy of my rule over the land known as the Reach.
This scoundrel introduced himself as Edmund Gardener, the firstborn of the last king of the Reach, Mern IX Gardener, who perished with his family on the Burning Field nearly three centuries ago. He claimed to have been resurrected from the cold tomb of his family by the will of the Seven, which is undoubtedly nonsense due to the absurdity of such claims. However, I am troubled by the celestial signs that appeared in the night sky after his arrival. This may become a dangerous topic among the lords of the Reach, who already do not harbor great trust and favor toward us.
In my attempt to stop the troublemaker, to detain him and subsequently execute him as yet another loyalist, I was forced to confront unclear phenomena of nature. Perhaps this may sound like madness to you, but witnesses to this were not only I, but all present that night at the royal feast.
A fierce wind arose, sweeping away both people and all furniture and adornments of the feast. The stars aligned in the sky in the sign of the Seven and illuminated the figure of the sorcerer with such bright light that it was blinding. Various insects swarmed and formed a bright, glowing figure of a hand behind him. The royal guard, and I as well, were compelled to clash with living plants that had erupted from the ground, preventing us from delivering justice upon this scoundrel. Flowers bloomed beneath his feet, and his appearance was inarguably more beautiful than that of many women, reminding me of the vile smirk of the cursed Rhaegar Targaryen.
Accusatory words flowed from his vile mouth, calling upon the lords of the Reach to renounce their oaths to me, their king, as false. He urged them to bend the knee and join his side, and then fled from my wrath like the last coward. However, seeds of doubt were sown, and thus we must root them out by decapitating the sorcerer as soon as possible. I have sent my loyal men in pursuit along the Rose Road, led by your vassal, Lyn Corbray, an excellent swordsman and tracker.
And though I am confident in the success of my loyal servants, doubts keep me awake at night. Possessing power hitherto unseen, who knows what vile tricks this one is capable of. We cannot delay, and therefore by my royal decree, I order a reward of twenty thousand gold dragons for this scoundrel, and to employ royal power and authority to initiate a search. It is preferable to capture the sorcerer alive for a public execution, but I would also be pleased to see his decapitated head mounted on a spike.
For now, an investigation into the events is underway within the walls of Highgarden, but I am unsure if it will yield any results. However, if new information arises, I shall certainly write to you, knowing that you can execute the will of your king with all diligence and care. Also, while I am in Highgarden, I cannot trust the Tyrells and the lords of the Reach, who may very well be in league with this scoundrel, and thus my family requires additional protection, which I also order you to arrange.
As for the main characteristics of the sorcerer, here they are: pale skin, a fair face, light brown hair, and gray eyes. It is also worth mentioning that this criminal rides a white horse and wears a septon's robe, but I do not think we can rely on the stupidity of this slippery scoundrel. Most likely, he has already changed both his clothes and his horse, but I share this information with you just in case. As soon as matters in the Reach settle, I will return.
I express hope for the swift capture of the troublemaker and your cunning, my wise Hand of the King, Jon Arryn.
"Has His Majesty perhaps overindulged in wine at the Tyrell feast, esteemed advisors?" Petyr Baelish remarked in his usual jesting manner, listening with only mild interest to Maester Pycelle as he read the king's letter.
Petyr Baelish was a young man of modest height, with a sharp goatee and shrewd gray-green eyes. He favored attire befitting the Master of Coin, draped in black and silver, and today wore a long, fitted doublet, adorned with a mockingbird brooch on his chest. A closer inspection would reveal a few strands of gray hair already threading through his temples at such a young age.
The Baelishes were among the least significant lords of the Vale, their lineage stretching back a mere four generations since Petyr's great-grandfather, a Braavosi sellsword, arrived in Westeros to serve House Corbray. Petyr's grandfather became a knight, while his father was made lord of a small holding on the Fingers. With such a background, it was exceedingly difficult to attain a prestigious position like Master of Coin, yet through close ties with Lysa Arryn, the wife of his overlord, Baelish managed to become the head of customs at Gulltown. After demonstrating significant success, he caught Lord Arryn's attention and was invited to this vacant advisory role.
"There is no need to speak so definitively about it, Lord Baelish," Lord Arryn replied, shaking his head. "But you are right; I would not take this message seriously were it not for the king's official seal. Even if King Robert embellishes the events described in the letter, we cannot afford to ignore his commands."
"My brother is indeed fond of drink, Lord Baelish, but he would not stir a fuss over drunken ramblings—at least, not without Ser Barristan and his wife ensuring he did not. This alone speaks to the urgency and importance of this decree," interjected Stannis Baratheon, the Master of Ships. His voice was firm and extraordinarily serious.
Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone and Master of Ships in King's Landing, was the middle brother of King Robert Baratheon. While the elder and younger Baratheons shared certain traits, Stannis was the black sheep of the family. Stubbornly resolute, he understood his place in the world and the state of affairs within it. For him, there were no half-measures—only that which was just and unjust.
Tall and broad-shouldered, he was far from the life of the party and possessed no sense of humor. His bright blue eyes surveyed the gathered company with an intensity that left no doubt about his steadfast nature. Lord of Dragonstone, he dressed modestly in a plain gray wool tunic and matching trousers, with a thin black belt accentuating his waist. His appearance matched his demeanor—sparse black hair and a neatly trimmed beard framed a tense face and thinly pressed lips, making him look like a veteran of many campaigns, which he indeed was.
"My apologies, Lord Stannis; I did not intend to offend or dismiss the king's decisions. However, I must point out that this message appears exceedingly dubious," Baelish defended himself, closing his eyes slightly and bowing his head as if apologizing for his words.
"It may be dubious, but King Robert's decision in this matter is not up for debate," Stannis concluded, bringing an end to the discussion.
"Yet where shall we find the means to reward the bounty on the criminal's head when knights and mercenaries of all kinds bring it to us on a platter? The crown has frequently borrowed from Tywin Lannister and House Tyrell of late, and given the circumstances, I doubt either would welcome the need for such a loan," Baelish mused, twirling a quill in his fingers as he made notes in the ledger he always kept close at hand during meetings.
"That is of no concern, nor where we shall find the funds to meet this debt, Lord Baelish," the Hand of the King replied. "What matters is that King Robert's decree is executed in a timely manner. Should you wish to avoid questions and disputes with the Lannisters and Tyrells, you may request a loan from the Iron Bank of Braavos. You have my permission to do so," he ordered, his voice firm.
"Thank you for such a splendid suggestion, my lord Hand. It will be executed to the utmost standard," Baelish replied with a sly smile, expressing his gratitude to the elder lord of the Vale.
"As for the protection of the royal family, I entrust this matter to you, Lord Stannis," Jon Arryn addressed the Master of Ships. "If Robert wishes to surround himself with those he can trust unreservedly, we must gather them from the Stormlands. Assemble these men as swiftly as possible, but no more than two hundred—after all, we do not wish to strain relations with Lord Velaryon and his kin." At the Hand's command, Stannis Baratheon simply nodded, remaining silent.
"What news from your little birds, Varys?" the Hand asked the perfumed eunuch.
"Nothing concrete, your Grace," the master of whispers replied, straightening his shoulders with a practiced smile. "Rumors abound, coming from all directions, but in the context of the events described by the king, they are quite troubling."
"And what might those be, if I may inquire?" Lord Penrose leaned slightly forward, intrigued by the conversation but preferring silence until matters pertained to his own position.
"Nothing too alarming, Lord Penrose, merely that in the Starry Sept near Oldtown, a song was sung—a sort of prophecy concerning the promised prince, but in the Reach. Whoever orchestrated this performance, which His Majesty King Robert witnessed, certainly put forth a commendable effort," Varys replied, shrugging his shoulders.
"Are these events connected to the fact that the High Septon has not left the Sept of Baelor for a week now, praying tirelessly until his knees are bloodied?" the Hand asked, beginning to piece together these seemingly disparate but oddly similar occurrences.
"I cannot say, my lord Hand. The High Septon has never been known for his fervor in matters of faith, yet this event is certainly noteworthy. If you require my speculation, I would surmise that the Faith of the Seven has a direct hand in this. It is quite possible that following the Targaryens' departure, the church seeks to reclaim its once-lost authority," the Master of Whispers expressed his doubts, which fell upon fertile ground, given the extraordinary nature of these events.
"While your arguments seem logical, Varys," the Hand chewed on his lip, "the crown cannot simply seize and interrogate the High Septon, at least not without compelling evidence of his involvement. Many lords and common folk would not understand such a course of action on our part." Jon Arryn pondered the Master of Whispers' words. "Regardless, we must investigate this possibility. Place a watch on the High Septon and report any suspicious activity to me. Also, use your network to track down this 'sorcerer,' whoever he may be and wherever he may lurk. Do you understand?" He fixed his gaze on the man from the Free Cities.
"Everything will be done, my lord Hand. I shall send my 'little birds' to pay special attention to this matter," the eunuch nodded in agreement, acknowledging the lord of the Vale.
"Lord Penrose," the Hand called to the oldest lord among them. The man immediately turned his full attention to the Keeper of the East. "Your task will be to strengthen patrols both within the capital and beyond. Increase the guards at the gates and inspect anyone who matches the description of this 'sorcerer' who claims to be a risen dead."
"I understand perfectly, Lord Arryn. I will endeavor to act swiftly," Lord Penrose responded in his creaky voice.
"Well then, excellent. I shall focus on assembling those who may be needed for his capture. I will not allow some foul mage to cloak himself in the name of the Seven and sully the Baratheon name while I draw breath. Grand Maester Pycelle," the Hand called to the old scholar, "prepare all necessary edicts in my name for signature. We must act quickly to avoid exacerbating the situation."
"Well said, my lord Hand. I shall attend to it immediately after this meeting," the maester nodded, fully in agreement with the lord of the Vale. The news of magic and prophecies deeply troubled the soul of the old servant of many kings.
"I believe," the Hand continued, issuing orders, "that this matter is settled for now. Let us move on to other discussions." With that, he laid several sheets of parchment on the table, documents that were to be presented only a week hence. However, due to the king's sudden letter, they would be considered sooner, possibly aiding their cause with greater success than usual.
***
290 C.A
Two weeks after the appearance of the Hand.
Somewhere on the northern fields of the Reach.
As they ventured deeper into the endless fields of the Reach, Edmund and Lin paused for another rest beneath the open sky. The time approached sunset, and a bright crimson hue illuminated the horizon, which was streaked with feather-like clouds. This time, there were no thickets nearby, nor even rare patches of trees, which did not greatly trouble the two companions, weary from a long journey in the saddle. For many miles around, there was not a soul in sight, so there was nothing to fear.
Setting up camp, the heir to the throne of the Reach and his first knight indulged in a kind of contemplative silence. Several days of travel together had allowed them to see Corbray in a new light, as well as to view their homeland from a broader perspective. Camrit, the faithful horse, had nearly recovered from its wounds and frolicked merrily with its new companion, whom Corbray had named Heart in his youth.
It was not that the knight of House Corbray lacked imagination, but he saw no reason to delve into the meaning of his horse's name. At present, the knight was busy tending to the fire, while Gardener focused on setting up camp, spreading sleeping bags made of warm yet light wool from some creature—most likely a goat or a sheep, or perhaps something else altogether—onto the dry grass.
At first, the knight from House Corbray made an effort to show his appreciation and usefulness to Edmund, shouldering all the burdens of their journey and maintaining an overtly polite demeanor. However, Gardener managed to convey to the owner of Lady Despair that, despite his somewhat unmilitary appearance, he was more than willing to undertake the work of ensuring their travel was well cared for. Ultimately, they decided that Edmund would take on a modest share of the responsibilities, so as not to feel like a burdensome weight on Corbray's shoulders. Besides, the chosen of the Seven found the journey quite dull, and he performed even the smallest tasks with great eagerness, adding color to the monotony of their days.
Corbray proved to be a perceptive man, quickly realizing that excessive concern for his new king only served to agitate him. Though he still tried to maintain decorum, he ceased to press so firmly on the issue of distributing responsibilities. Conversations about family, lineage, and plans smoothly transitioned into various tales of life, family, and the everyday.
It was difficult not to get to know someone when spending twenty-four hours a day in their company. Thus it was with Corbray. Through their discussions, Edmund learned much about his companion and witnessed moments of laughter and smiles, rather than just the serious demeanor of a loyal servant. Lin turned out to be quite a laid-back individual, despite his desire to maintain a semblance of dignity before his lord. Tales of mishaps at tournaments, wars, and other escapades flowed from him like a cornucopia. Edmund also gleaned insights into Corbray's preferences when it came to choosing a partner, something that was hard to miss over the course of their conversations.
Corbray was not inclined toward men, though he found some of them sufficiently attractive, Edmund among them, but only in contrast to himself. Despite his rather fine appearance, Corbray was not known as a notorious seducer, though he admitted, somewhat reluctantly, that he occasionally visited brothels in various regions of the Seven Kingdoms. Still harboring hopes of a favorable marriage, Lin endeavored to maintain his reputation as a knight of the Vale, for a worthy match could appear on the horizon at any moment, and for most of Westeros's ladies, a womanizer made for an undesirable match.
Were he the lord of House Hearts, he could choose whom to wed, but as the second son—essentially a castaway from his own house—he was obliged to uphold a certain level of reputation, so as to catch the eye of ladies from mid-tier houses seeking husbands, who enjoyed a degree of freedom in their choices. After all, not every house in the Seven Kingdoms raised girls solely to marry them off advantageously. In many houses with stable yet not particularly high status, ladies, especially if fortunate enough to inherit their families' fortunes, were free to choose their own fates, cherished by their fathers and mothers.
This situation opened Edmund's eyes to the notion that not everything was as bleak as he had imagined. At least some individuals still had choices, provided they were not the focus of the powerful. Yet Gardener was not one to forget his place either. Most people had no rights at all; they were helpless captives of a long-standing traditional order, and it was not his place to break it, for it was only through it that he could breathe and be present here. "If things were different, perhaps the Seven wouldn't need me, and I'd be toiling the land," Gardener brushed aside such foolish thoughts.
Corbray also spoke of the state of affairs in the Vale and beyond, noting that as long as Robert lived, their cause was doomed to failure. Edmund agreed; such a king on the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms was far too advantageous. Self-absorbed and uninterested in anything beyond his own desires, Robert was merely the face of a new order on this beleaguered continent—a face that cemented the alliances of great houses, but the understanding that Robert was not destined for long life soothed Edmund's anxieties.
The War of the Five Kings was inevitable. The ambitions and intrigues of the great houses were not so easily extinguished in an instant, and on the horizon, while unaware, a future Mother of Dragons was rising, destined to become yet another stumbling block among various families and their lords. However, Gardener was not one to sit idly by; after the visit to the Seven, the question of finding allies among the lords of the Reach would arise, as was proper.
Drawing from his memories, Edmund knew well whom to approach first and whom to leave for last: the Osgrays, the Oldflowers, the Peaks, the Rowlans. Of course, the current positions of the lords were in significant doubt, but Gardener had time to persuade them to join his side. Corbray had also hinted at Lord Florent, the master of Brightwater Keep, known for his adventurous spirit towards all manner of schemes and intrigues. Gardener remembered him from the tales—ambitious and self-serving, he could be a valuable, but not irreplaceable, ally.
Moreover, if one worked hard enough, it was possible to amass a sufficient force of mercenaries. While the idea was not without merit, Gardener set it aside for emergencies. A mercenary army was not the best means of reclaiming one's kingdom, no matter how one looked at it. After all, maintaining power under such circumstances could prove extremely difficult, and the Seven would likely disapprove of such an approach, placing upon him the mission of unifier of Westeros in the face of the looming threat of the Great Others.
Once the camp was fully set up, the two companions settled down for dinner, consisting of meat and stew, savoring the first shadows of night. The steeds of the knights also settled for rest, knowing that, should danger arise, Camrit would wake his master, rendering Corbray's nighttime vigil unnecessary. Besides, bandits were practically non-existent in the Reach; it was one of the richest kingdoms, with little knowledge of hunger.
Overall, the journey in the company of the knight of the Vale went smoothly and peacefully. The scion of House Hearts was an excellent hunter, and with the money from the tournament, there was no need for Gardener to engage in the sale of herbs. The peasants they encountered in the villages along the way, seeing Corbray's wealth and armament, tried to keep prices low, selling everything necessary for the journey at almost cost price. On one hand, it was not entirely fair, but Lin reassured him, pointing out that most common folk viewed knights as symbols of protection and nobility, making them eager to be in their company and lend a hand—provided the knight did not overreach or behave improperly.
Edmund did not cease his training in the use of his powers, while Corbray watched with fascination, marveling at the might of the legacy of Garth Greenhand. Through this, Gardener also confirmed that Valyrian steel was an effective weapon against his magic. Edmund's attempts to ensnare Corbray using thorns during their training sessions met with limited success. No matter how hard Edmund tried to strengthen his living weapon, it was all in vain; Lady Despair faced no obstacles in this regard, once again proving the power of Ancient Valyria.
However, Edmund was not only met with disappointment but also with success. On about the third night of his not-so-effective exercises, Lin offered him the brilliant idea to focus not on the quantity and special qualities of the plants he grew, but rather on their quality. This decision led to an unexpected result. Several painstaking hours spent on a single unfortunate flower resulted in the growth of a genuine conifer beneath it. After attempting this several more times, Edmund confirmed his success and decided to test a long-held idea.
By combining his newly acquired skills and experience, Edmund was able to create a true natural grenade. A pine cone from one of the trees he had grown was subjected to enhancement and fortification for about an hour, leading to an intriguing but highly desired effect. A throw made by Edmund into a thicket nearly ended in disaster as hundreds of wooden shards shot in all directions, piercing through trees. Essentially, by infusing and reinforcing the pine cone with magic, Edmund forced it to release the accumulated energy upon striking a hard surface, causing the cone to swell from within. Since the growth was rapid, the projectile simply burst like a balloon, unable to alter its form in time.
Applying this effect to the familiar vines yielded no new results, aside from the fact that the thorns tore themselves apart from the inside. Yet Gardener did not despair; the emergence of new weaponry in his arsenal was still good news. Corbray, upon seeing the results of Edmund's experiments, urgently requested that this weapon only be used in dire circumstances, deeming it the weapon of not a Warrior, but the Unknown.
Life flowed along its course; ahead lay a long road and daunting trials that could not be fully prepared for. Yet the power of the heir to the Oak Throne was growing, along with his confidence. Now he was not alone, and the gods awaited his deeds and actions, a thought that could not help but weigh on him. Yet the experiences he had lived through and memories of his time in Highgarden lent him strength.
With such thoughts, Edmund Gardener drifted off to sleep after yet another exhausting night of training.
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