I'm thinking it might be Parmen. Even though he appears on the outside to be pious and a lick-spittle to the Arryns, I'm guessing deep down, he's more like his brother.
Overall, though, it is an interesting dream sequence none the less.
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Overall, though, it is an interesting dream sequence none the less.
@Knight Errant. I like that interpretation! I thought it fitting for Lyonnel and his sense of destiny. In any case, new update!
Rollam
Rollam could honestly not understand why Parmen wished to live as a godsworn. For most of his life, Rollam had wanted nothing more than to not be a septon and his recent experiences had vindicated that desire. He was naked as he watched out the window of his room, gazing into the darkness. During the day you could always see the various holdfasts and villages dotting the landscape, but it was late at night and the sky was clouded. A time for sleeping. He wasn't tired and the fresh air that came through the window only revitalized him.
“Why don't you come back to bed?” she purred.
Rollam turned around. In his bed laid the black haired girl who had watched him during the tourney. Her name, she had told him, was Fridrika and she had fled from the wild and mountains to find a better, civilized life. It did not surprise him. His brother had turned Heart's Home into a sanctuary for exiles and migrants.
“Why not indeed?” he said, as he crawled back under the sheets.
Fridrika's fingers touched his chest, playing with the hair that began to grow there. She was years older than Rollam was. She had told him that she had been born nineteen years ago. If that was true, than she appeared to be younger. It mattered little.
“Why aren't you lord of this keep?” she asked, softly.
“Because I'm the younger son,” Rollam replied, slightly annoyed.
Fridrika giggled as she moved her hand down from his chest, looking at him.
“You are a warrior. Strong, quick, respected. Where I come from you would be the chieftain. We only follow the strongest. Here they follow a little boy who believes in the Gods, refuses to drink mead, never strikes in anger but falls to his knees in worship. You should be lord, you're better than him.”
A flash of anger, confusion and surprised in Rollam's eyes, but he quickly regained himself.
“You as well?” he smirked wryly. “My uncle and Ser Patrek came to me yesterday, seeking my assistance in a plot against my brother. They seek to make me king.”
Fridrika's hand moved back to Rollam's chest, she smiled the smile that made him melt. A smile that was everything and more.
“They seem like smart men,” she simply said. “What did you say? No? Or did you tell your holy brother so that he would forgive their sins?”
Rollam remained silent, gazing at the shadows haunted the wall as they were given life by a single burning candle. He had not given a definite answer to Lyn Corbray and Patrek Ermethon, nor had he told his brother anything about the conspiracy. Deep inside he wanted the title, the glory, the life. But it would mean becoming a kinslayer, it would mean destroying the mother who had tried to protect the few children not taken from her by the Stranger or others.
“I think you should,” Fridrika continued, gently caressing his chest with her nimble fingers. “You take after your father, not your brother. I've seen him, my love. I've seen him cut down my brother and clan. He was tall, strong, quick of mind. He had desires and a sense of destiny. Your brother has none of these things. Take his place, and I shall give you everything you ever wanted... And more.”
Rollam did not speak, but the silence was a different kind of silence. A silence that speaks of a reluctant acceptance of destiny. The flame of the candle died and darkness covered Rollam's chambers. The youngest son of the late Lyonnel Corbray closed his eyes. Tomorrow he would speak with his brother, but now he would sleep.
He did not see how Fridrika's smile had grown into a wicked grin.
~~~
Rollam
Rollam could honestly not understand why Parmen wished to live as a godsworn. For most of his life, Rollam had wanted nothing more than to not be a septon and his recent experiences had vindicated that desire. He was naked as he watched out the window of his room, gazing into the darkness. During the day you could always see the various holdfasts and villages dotting the landscape, but it was late at night and the sky was clouded. A time for sleeping. He wasn't tired and the fresh air that came through the window only revitalized him.
“Why don't you come back to bed?” she purred.
Rollam turned around. In his bed laid the black haired girl who had watched him during the tourney. Her name, she had told him, was Fridrika and she had fled from the wild and mountains to find a better, civilized life. It did not surprise him. His brother had turned Heart's Home into a sanctuary for exiles and migrants.
“Why not indeed?” he said, as he crawled back under the sheets.
Fridrika's fingers touched his chest, playing with the hair that began to grow there. She was years older than Rollam was. She had told him that she had been born nineteen years ago. If that was true, than she appeared to be younger. It mattered little.
“Why aren't you lord of this keep?” she asked, softly.
“Because I'm the younger son,” Rollam replied, slightly annoyed.
Fridrika giggled as she moved her hand down from his chest, looking at him.
“You are a warrior. Strong, quick, respected. Where I come from you would be the chieftain. We only follow the strongest. Here they follow a little boy who believes in the Gods, refuses to drink mead, never strikes in anger but falls to his knees in worship. You should be lord, you're better than him.”
A flash of anger, confusion and surprised in Rollam's eyes, but he quickly regained himself.
“You as well?” he smirked wryly. “My uncle and Ser Patrek came to me yesterday, seeking my assistance in a plot against my brother. They seek to make me king.”
Fridrika's hand moved back to Rollam's chest, she smiled the smile that made him melt. A smile that was everything and more.
“They seem like smart men,” she simply said. “What did you say? No? Or did you tell your holy brother so that he would forgive their sins?”
Rollam remained silent, gazing at the shadows haunted the wall as they were given life by a single burning candle. He had not given a definite answer to Lyn Corbray and Patrek Ermethon, nor had he told his brother anything about the conspiracy. Deep inside he wanted the title, the glory, the life. But it would mean becoming a kinslayer, it would mean destroying the mother who had tried to protect the few children not taken from her by the Stranger or others.
“I think you should,” Fridrika continued, gently caressing his chest with her nimble fingers. “You take after your father, not your brother. I've seen him, my love. I've seen him cut down my brother and clan. He was tall, strong, quick of mind. He had desires and a sense of destiny. Your brother has none of these things. Take his place, and I shall give you everything you ever wanted... And more.”
Rollam did not speak, but the silence was a different kind of silence. A silence that speaks of a reluctant acceptance of destiny. The flame of the candle died and darkness covered Rollam's chambers. The youngest son of the late Lyonnel Corbray closed his eyes. Tomorrow he would speak with his brother, but now he would sleep.
He did not see how Fridrika's smile had grown into a wicked grin.
Rollam
The morning was clouded. Rollam put the hood of his cloak over his head to guard himself from the drizzle that fell from the sky. The young Corbray was wearing a thick woollen cloak trimmed with fur, the cloak was clasped together with a silver brooch depicting a raven in flight. Underneath the cloak he wore a simple white woollen doublet and black trousers tucked neatly into black leather boots. A hand-and-a-half sword hung at his side.
It was still early in the morning when Rollam crossed the yard of Heart's Keep. Life was, for the most part, still turning in its bed for one last time. He saw how the stable boys were readying some horses, from the corner of his eye Rollam glimpsed at the scullery maids gathering water from the well. He also saw Sandor Redfort, captain of the guards send by Florian Arryn to “protect” the heir of Heart's Home, talking to some of his soldiers. The blue cloaks with the moon-and-falcon made his stomach turn. The disgust was mutual, judging by the way they were eyeing him. Parmen's decision to allow Rollam to take up martial training had removed him from septon Gaelyc's supervision, and their control. And they resented him for that.
With good reason, to be honest.
Rollam was on his way to the private sept of the Corbrays, where he would find his brother. He had to know his brother's plans for their seat, for him. The sept, like all septs, had seven sides. Against each side stood a statue representing one of the Seven. Rollam found his brother kneeling before the statue of the crone, an intricately carved wooden image of an old, ugly woman holding a lantern. Rollam kept some distance from his brother, as not to disturb him from his prayers. Parmen's whispered words were barely audible, but Rollam thought he'd recognize the prayer. Septon Gaelyc had made a point of jamming dozens of prayers into his skull, for any inane celebration or situation. The prayer he thought Parmen was mumbling, however, scared him. Parmen was asking the Seven for the wisdom to make a terrible, heart breaking decision.
When he was done praying, the young lord of Heart's Home got back on his feet and turned around. It was then and there, in the faint light of the sept that Rollam noticed how different they were. Both were spitting images of their father, or so their mother and uncle Lyn had always told them, but where Rollam was tall, lean, muscular and healthy, his brother was the complete opposite. His face was pale, his eyes dull and sunken in their sockets. When he stood, his posture was crooked. Parmen Corbray looked tired, dead tired.
“It's good that I see you, brother. On my shoulders I carry a great weight, but the Seven have granted me the wisdom to do what I must.” Parmen said, a faint smile on his face. He wore a simple robe made of plain jute.
“Brother,” Rollam replied, looking for the right words. “Tell me, then, what it is.”
“Our father shamed our name before the gods, old and new, and all the men of the realm, by slaying his rightful king. His arrogance and vanity brought the Stranger into many a man's hearth. His blood is our blood, brother...”
Rollam did not flinch nor speak. The words his brother spoke were not his own, they were the words of septon Gaelyc. The fat septon had tried to make him believe the same lie, but Rollam had never believed it. Lyonnel had been a traitor, a rebel and a kingslayer, but this had not shamed him or his house. The Arryns themselves were traitors by the same standards, as were all the kings of Westeros. No god, old or new, had ever struck them down in retaliation.
“I will be the last Corbray to rule Heart's Home,” Parmen continued, the faint smile unchanged. “I shall turn the keep into a magnificent sept and make this into a holy place, not one of betrayal and death. I shall fund an order who will spread the Faith and help the needy. This shall be a place of lasting peace.”
He fell silent, dull eyes gazing into the nothing. Rollam suspected that his brother was seeing his ideal world in his mind's eye.
“Such an act will redeem our blood and erase our traitorous name from the annals of history. Oh, my dear brother, does it not sound wonderful?”
Every part of his body wanted to hit his brother in the face, right there in the sept. Ser Artyr, Maggo the Dothraki, Lyn, Ser Patrek, all had told him in their own way that a true warrior always remains calm and collected. Again, he did not flinch.
“It sounds..,” he said, again looking for words that would not hurt his brother's sensibilities. “It sounds that if this is what you command, than I am here to follow.”
The faint smile on Parmen's lips flashed off and on. You had to catch it in the blink of a moment, and Rollam had not failed to notice.
“But you do not agree with my plan.”
“My brother,” Rollam replied. “It's not my position to doubt your judgement. You are the eldest one, by rights you decide what should be done...”
The morning was clouded. Rollam put the hood of his cloak over his head to guard himself from the drizzle that fell from the sky. The young Corbray was wearing a thick woollen cloak trimmed with fur, the cloak was clasped together with a silver brooch depicting a raven in flight. Underneath the cloak he wore a simple white woollen doublet and black trousers tucked neatly into black leather boots. A hand-and-a-half sword hung at his side.
It was still early in the morning when Rollam crossed the yard of Heart's Keep. Life was, for the most part, still turning in its bed for one last time. He saw how the stable boys were readying some horses, from the corner of his eye Rollam glimpsed at the scullery maids gathering water from the well. He also saw Sandor Redfort, captain of the guards send by Florian Arryn to “protect” the heir of Heart's Home, talking to some of his soldiers. The blue cloaks with the moon-and-falcon made his stomach turn. The disgust was mutual, judging by the way they were eyeing him. Parmen's decision to allow Rollam to take up martial training had removed him from septon Gaelyc's supervision, and their control. And they resented him for that.
With good reason, to be honest.
Rollam was on his way to the private sept of the Corbrays, where he would find his brother. He had to know his brother's plans for their seat, for him. The sept, like all septs, had seven sides. Against each side stood a statue representing one of the Seven. Rollam found his brother kneeling before the statue of the crone, an intricately carved wooden image of an old, ugly woman holding a lantern. Rollam kept some distance from his brother, as not to disturb him from his prayers. Parmen's whispered words were barely audible, but Rollam thought he'd recognize the prayer. Septon Gaelyc had made a point of jamming dozens of prayers into his skull, for any inane celebration or situation. The prayer he thought Parmen was mumbling, however, scared him. Parmen was asking the Seven for the wisdom to make a terrible, heart breaking decision.
When he was done praying, the young lord of Heart's Home got back on his feet and turned around. It was then and there, in the faint light of the sept that Rollam noticed how different they were. Both were spitting images of their father, or so their mother and uncle Lyn had always told them, but where Rollam was tall, lean, muscular and healthy, his brother was the complete opposite. His face was pale, his eyes dull and sunken in their sockets. When he stood, his posture was crooked. Parmen Corbray looked tired, dead tired.
“It's good that I see you, brother. On my shoulders I carry a great weight, but the Seven have granted me the wisdom to do what I must.” Parmen said, a faint smile on his face. He wore a simple robe made of plain jute.
“Brother,” Rollam replied, looking for the right words. “Tell me, then, what it is.”
“Our father shamed our name before the gods, old and new, and all the men of the realm, by slaying his rightful king. His arrogance and vanity brought the Stranger into many a man's hearth. His blood is our blood, brother...”
Rollam did not flinch nor speak. The words his brother spoke were not his own, they were the words of septon Gaelyc. The fat septon had tried to make him believe the same lie, but Rollam had never believed it. Lyonnel had been a traitor, a rebel and a kingslayer, but this had not shamed him or his house. The Arryns themselves were traitors by the same standards, as were all the kings of Westeros. No god, old or new, had ever struck them down in retaliation.
“I will be the last Corbray to rule Heart's Home,” Parmen continued, the faint smile unchanged. “I shall turn the keep into a magnificent sept and make this into a holy place, not one of betrayal and death. I shall fund an order who will spread the Faith and help the needy. This shall be a place of lasting peace.”
He fell silent, dull eyes gazing into the nothing. Rollam suspected that his brother was seeing his ideal world in his mind's eye.
“Such an act will redeem our blood and erase our traitorous name from the annals of history. Oh, my dear brother, does it not sound wonderful?”
Every part of his body wanted to hit his brother in the face, right there in the sept. Ser Artyr, Maggo the Dothraki, Lyn, Ser Patrek, all had told him in their own way that a true warrior always remains calm and collected. Again, he did not flinch.
“It sounds..,” he said, again looking for words that would not hurt his brother's sensibilities. “It sounds that if this is what you command, than I am here to follow.”
The faint smile on Parmen's lips flashed off and on. You had to catch it in the blink of a moment, and Rollam had not failed to notice.
“But you do not agree with my plan.”
“My brother,” Rollam replied. “It's not my position to doubt your judgement. You are the eldest one, by rights you decide what should be done...”
Very interesting new parts, Zwolsche! I get the feeling that Rollam is just a tiny bit angry... :rofl:
@Knight Errant. Only a tiny bit.
Last update for some days. I'll be some days with my girlfriend, before going back to my parent's place to write my BA-thesis in quiet contemplation and peace. Internet time will be limited. So enjoy!
Lyn
“How about poison?” Lyn Corbray suggested.
“Nah,” Ser Patrek replied. “The fat septon has one of his own taste all the foods and drinks served to the older'un and himself. 'Tis almost as if he expects a conspiracy against him and the lord,” he added wryly.
The three of them sat around a wooden table. Rollam Corbray had, after a meeting with his elder brother the day before, given his consent to a plot against his brother. The knowledge of becoming a kinslayer weighed heavily on his and Lyn's mind, but one raven had to be sacrificed to guarantee the flock.
“My brother will soon make a tour of the holdfasts and villages, as to introduce himself to the smallfolk and to spread the Faith,” Rollam said, his voice soft and his eyes fixed upon the single candle that flickered at the centre of the table. He reached out over the table and grasped an earthen jug filled with wine, and poured him and the others a cup of wine. “He'll be lightly guarded by Redfort and the other Arryn bastards, no more than twenty in all, I'd say.”
He took a sip of the wine. It was sour, of a poor vintage. It was all his brother allowed to get. Wine aroused the 'sinful passions' and was therefore to be shunned. However, since a full ban on wine would mean a mutiny, Parmen had given the steward of the household permission to buy as little as possible, and only the most horrible vintage available.
“If that's so,” Ser Patrek said, nursing his wine. “Than you must be gone. The killing of the lord of Heart's Home and his royal guards by some company of brigands and bandits will raise questions.”
Lyn took a sip of his wine as he contemplated the idea and Patrek's comment. The knight was right, of course, twenty was not a large number, but these were trained and veteran soldiers, including a couple of knights. Not something an ordinary group of thugs could easily overpower. Their death would raise suspicion.
“There will be a tournament at the Crossing in just a fortnight. What if Rollam would go there to participate? That would put many leagues between you and your brother, and less likely to cause suspicion.” he said, nipping from his wine and looking at the younger Corbray at the opposite end of the table, curious to see his response.
“There must always be a Corbray at Heart's Keep,” he replied, his gaze locking with his uncle.
“I'm a Corbray,” Lyn replied, casually; pouring himself another cup of wine. The sour taste became less prominent the more you drank. He put the jug back on the table, and once again turned his attention to his nephew. The blonde Corbray saw suspicion creep over Rollam's face.
“I know what you're thinking,” he said. “You're wondering what would prevent me from sending a second group of hedge knights, bandits and rogues after you on your journey to the Riverlands.”
To be fair, the idea had crossed his mind when Rollam hinted at a possible ambush during his brother's inspection of the land.
“However, it's like you said. There must always be a Corbray at the Heart's Keep. If you stay here, suspicion will fall onto you. If I join you to the tournament at the Crossing, suspicion will be roused as well, not to mention giving your liege lord a chance to seize practical control of Heart's Home in our absence. No, one of us must remain if we are to put this plan into motion, and it can not be you.”
Ser Patrek Ermethon had remained calm during this exchange, nursing his wine, being content with just listening. The man appeared somewhat dull, lacking the cunning required to play the game of thrones. Lyn could not shake the feeling that this was false, that the knight was far more dangerous than he appeared to be.
“The older'un has said that milord here can become a knight. It wouldn't be strange for him to take part in the lists. If Daviros, that Dothraki, myself and some others were to join him, nobody would bat an eye.”
They were dancing with details, avoiding the main issue.
“Who's going to... kill... my brother?” Rollam finally said, his voice a mere whisper.
“I've moved through questionable circles in my time away from Heart's Home,” Lyn said. “Leave that to me. The less you and Ser Patrek know, the less truth they can torture out of you if we fail.”
Last update for some days. I'll be some days with my girlfriend, before going back to my parent's place to write my BA-thesis in quiet contemplation and peace. Internet time will be limited. So enjoy!
~~~~
Lyn
“How about poison?” Lyn Corbray suggested.
“Nah,” Ser Patrek replied. “The fat septon has one of his own taste all the foods and drinks served to the older'un and himself. 'Tis almost as if he expects a conspiracy against him and the lord,” he added wryly.
The three of them sat around a wooden table. Rollam Corbray had, after a meeting with his elder brother the day before, given his consent to a plot against his brother. The knowledge of becoming a kinslayer weighed heavily on his and Lyn's mind, but one raven had to be sacrificed to guarantee the flock.
“My brother will soon make a tour of the holdfasts and villages, as to introduce himself to the smallfolk and to spread the Faith,” Rollam said, his voice soft and his eyes fixed upon the single candle that flickered at the centre of the table. He reached out over the table and grasped an earthen jug filled with wine, and poured him and the others a cup of wine. “He'll be lightly guarded by Redfort and the other Arryn bastards, no more than twenty in all, I'd say.”
He took a sip of the wine. It was sour, of a poor vintage. It was all his brother allowed to get. Wine aroused the 'sinful passions' and was therefore to be shunned. However, since a full ban on wine would mean a mutiny, Parmen had given the steward of the household permission to buy as little as possible, and only the most horrible vintage available.
“If that's so,” Ser Patrek said, nursing his wine. “Than you must be gone. The killing of the lord of Heart's Home and his royal guards by some company of brigands and bandits will raise questions.”
Lyn took a sip of his wine as he contemplated the idea and Patrek's comment. The knight was right, of course, twenty was not a large number, but these were trained and veteran soldiers, including a couple of knights. Not something an ordinary group of thugs could easily overpower. Their death would raise suspicion.
“There will be a tournament at the Crossing in just a fortnight. What if Rollam would go there to participate? That would put many leagues between you and your brother, and less likely to cause suspicion.” he said, nipping from his wine and looking at the younger Corbray at the opposite end of the table, curious to see his response.
“There must always be a Corbray at Heart's Keep,” he replied, his gaze locking with his uncle.
“I'm a Corbray,” Lyn replied, casually; pouring himself another cup of wine. The sour taste became less prominent the more you drank. He put the jug back on the table, and once again turned his attention to his nephew. The blonde Corbray saw suspicion creep over Rollam's face.
“I know what you're thinking,” he said. “You're wondering what would prevent me from sending a second group of hedge knights, bandits and rogues after you on your journey to the Riverlands.”
To be fair, the idea had crossed his mind when Rollam hinted at a possible ambush during his brother's inspection of the land.
“However, it's like you said. There must always be a Corbray at the Heart's Keep. If you stay here, suspicion will fall onto you. If I join you to the tournament at the Crossing, suspicion will be roused as well, not to mention giving your liege lord a chance to seize practical control of Heart's Home in our absence. No, one of us must remain if we are to put this plan into motion, and it can not be you.”
Ser Patrek Ermethon had remained calm during this exchange, nursing his wine, being content with just listening. The man appeared somewhat dull, lacking the cunning required to play the game of thrones. Lyn could not shake the feeling that this was false, that the knight was far more dangerous than he appeared to be.
“The older'un has said that milord here can become a knight. It wouldn't be strange for him to take part in the lists. If Daviros, that Dothraki, myself and some others were to join him, nobody would bat an eye.”
They were dancing with details, avoiding the main issue.
“Who's going to... kill... my brother?” Rollam finally said, his voice a mere whisper.
“I've moved through questionable circles in my time away from Heart's Home,” Lyn said. “Leave that to me. The less you and Ser Patrek know, the less truth they can torture out of you if we fail.”
Update! Not my best piece of work, but it works well enough. It can only get better, amirite?
Sandor
Sandor had a bad feeling about this tour of Heart's Home. First, there were only twelve of them to protect the boy. True, all of them were experienced warriors. Veterans of the war, with years of extensive training. Still, ultimately numbers meant more than skill and experience. 'We have reserves' had been Jon Arryn's strategy in dealing with the traitors, and although it had cost him Longbow Hall and his life, it had won him the war.
Sandor Redfort was the youngest scion of a distant branch of the main Redforts. He was more likely to inherit the Twins of the Crossing than his own family's estates. He traced his descent from a legitimized bastard brother to the great-grandfather's grandfather of the current lord of the Redfort. Not that it mattered much. Sandor had earned his spurs in the wars, and Jon Arryn had made him a knight. Florian Arryn had assigned him with this task, which was almost over. In two months the eldest living son of the traitor Lyonnel Corbray would come of age, and he would be relieved of his duty of guarding him. He would go home. Home!
The red headed Redfort missed his wife and sons, and longed for his home. It was a decent enough home. No castle nor a great hall, but it was his nonetheless. He looked back at his companions, all wearing the white-and-blue of Arryn, all guarding the young Parmen Corbray and the fat septon Gaelyc.
They travelled as fast as he could push unto the young Corbray. The dolt wanted to travel at a slow pace, to 'feel the land'. Sandor wanted to get it over and done as soon as possible. They were travelling through the woods and he would feel a lot safer when they were back in the hilly countryside. Although, of course, his ward would be safest back in Heart's Keep, especially with the younger Corbray out of the way and at the Crossing. Only two more months...
“When I get home, I'm gonna miss that fat breasted scullery maid,” one of the guards, riding behind him said; engaged in a discussion with another knight. “I took her maidenhead and squirted enough of my seed to get her with child, thank the gods for moon tea.”
“The gods do not take kindly to baseborn children,” Parmen said sternly. The young Corbray was a sickly, weak child. His fixation on the Faith had left his muscles weak and his health frail, but there was a certain strength of mind with him that reminded Sandor all too much of the boy's father. 'At least this boy is too weak to rebel,' the captain of the guard thought, immediately noting that the boy's brother was the complete opposite.
“Nor do they take kindly to the murder of innocent life. You should wed this 'fat breasted scullery maid', or the gods will punish you.”
The guard was about to apologize, but the words died in his throat, blocked by a crossbow's bolt.
“Ambush!” Sandor roared, drawing his sword. “Protect the lord!”
It was hard protecting a lord when on horseback, and your foe was hiding amidst the trees, firing arrows and bolts at you. Another guard, Willem, screamed as he fell from his destrier; an arrow through his eye had done him in.
'They were waiting for us,' Sandor thought as his brought his shield to guard himself from an arrow. 'They knew we were coming!'
Then they came rushing at them, sellswords. Better armed than your run of the mill brigands. One, a sturdy blonde fellow in his mid-thirties, raised his battle axe to strike at Sandor's charger but the captain was faster, burying his longsword in the sellsword's face.
There were too many of them, and too well organized. Another sellsword did manage to take out Sandor's charger. The poor thing collapsed to his side, trapping the fiery Redfort underneath. He could do nothing as two of the assailants dragged Parmen Corbray off his horse and stabbed him with a sickening fury and delight. To his credit, the boy did not scream.
'He's actually praying for them!' Sandor thought, who was no longer making any attempt to from underneath the horse. There was no point. The boy was dead, as were most of his men, and he would follow.
“Hey Chell,” a man with wormy lips, a hook-nose, shifty eyes and messy brown hair said. In his hand he held a dagger dripping with Parmen Corbray's blood, and his eyes were locked on Sandor; his smile a crooked grin.
“Let's bludgeon the Arryn bastard to death with the boy's head.”
“You know,” the man named Chell replied, his voice more refined than one would expect from an ugly, dirty little man. “That's a most exquisite suggestion.”
~~~
Sandor
Sandor had a bad feeling about this tour of Heart's Home. First, there were only twelve of them to protect the boy. True, all of them were experienced warriors. Veterans of the war, with years of extensive training. Still, ultimately numbers meant more than skill and experience. 'We have reserves' had been Jon Arryn's strategy in dealing with the traitors, and although it had cost him Longbow Hall and his life, it had won him the war.
Sandor Redfort was the youngest scion of a distant branch of the main Redforts. He was more likely to inherit the Twins of the Crossing than his own family's estates. He traced his descent from a legitimized bastard brother to the great-grandfather's grandfather of the current lord of the Redfort. Not that it mattered much. Sandor had earned his spurs in the wars, and Jon Arryn had made him a knight. Florian Arryn had assigned him with this task, which was almost over. In two months the eldest living son of the traitor Lyonnel Corbray would come of age, and he would be relieved of his duty of guarding him. He would go home. Home!
The red headed Redfort missed his wife and sons, and longed for his home. It was a decent enough home. No castle nor a great hall, but it was his nonetheless. He looked back at his companions, all wearing the white-and-blue of Arryn, all guarding the young Parmen Corbray and the fat septon Gaelyc.
They travelled as fast as he could push unto the young Corbray. The dolt wanted to travel at a slow pace, to 'feel the land'. Sandor wanted to get it over and done as soon as possible. They were travelling through the woods and he would feel a lot safer when they were back in the hilly countryside. Although, of course, his ward would be safest back in Heart's Keep, especially with the younger Corbray out of the way and at the Crossing. Only two more months...
“When I get home, I'm gonna miss that fat breasted scullery maid,” one of the guards, riding behind him said; engaged in a discussion with another knight. “I took her maidenhead and squirted enough of my seed to get her with child, thank the gods for moon tea.”
“The gods do not take kindly to baseborn children,” Parmen said sternly. The young Corbray was a sickly, weak child. His fixation on the Faith had left his muscles weak and his health frail, but there was a certain strength of mind with him that reminded Sandor all too much of the boy's father. 'At least this boy is too weak to rebel,' the captain of the guard thought, immediately noting that the boy's brother was the complete opposite.
“Nor do they take kindly to the murder of innocent life. You should wed this 'fat breasted scullery maid', or the gods will punish you.”
The guard was about to apologize, but the words died in his throat, blocked by a crossbow's bolt.
“Ambush!” Sandor roared, drawing his sword. “Protect the lord!”
It was hard protecting a lord when on horseback, and your foe was hiding amidst the trees, firing arrows and bolts at you. Another guard, Willem, screamed as he fell from his destrier; an arrow through his eye had done him in.
'They were waiting for us,' Sandor thought as his brought his shield to guard himself from an arrow. 'They knew we were coming!'
Then they came rushing at them, sellswords. Better armed than your run of the mill brigands. One, a sturdy blonde fellow in his mid-thirties, raised his battle axe to strike at Sandor's charger but the captain was faster, burying his longsword in the sellsword's face.
There were too many of them, and too well organized. Another sellsword did manage to take out Sandor's charger. The poor thing collapsed to his side, trapping the fiery Redfort underneath. He could do nothing as two of the assailants dragged Parmen Corbray off his horse and stabbed him with a sickening fury and delight. To his credit, the boy did not scream.
'He's actually praying for them!' Sandor thought, who was no longer making any attempt to from underneath the horse. There was no point. The boy was dead, as were most of his men, and he would follow.
“Hey Chell,” a man with wormy lips, a hook-nose, shifty eyes and messy brown hair said. In his hand he held a dagger dripping with Parmen Corbray's blood, and his eyes were locked on Sandor; his smile a crooked grin.
“Let's bludgeon the Arryn bastard to death with the boy's head.”
“You know,” the man named Chell replied, his voice more refined than one would expect from an ugly, dirty little man. “That's a most exquisite suggestion.”
That's both the most disturbing and interesting way to kill a man I have ever heard. :wacko: Overall, both parts were not bad. Not bad at all.
Very good - you've definitely captured the tone of the book.
A small favour - could you give us an update on what's happening in your game to Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish?
Cheers,
CCA
A small favour - could you give us an update on what's happening in your game to Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish?
Cheers,
CCA
Aye, quite sickening! Perhaps we'll hear of Chell and Wormlips again, but if we won't... Let's just assume that they were killed by Rollam upon his ascend as lord of Heart's Home, in order to silence them as witnesses.
I'll take that as a compliment!
And, I'm happy to oblige.The Littlefinger in this timeline did not rise as high as the one we know and love (to hate) from the books/TV series. His father died in '1107' (which would be about 289 AL in the actual timeline, and nine years before the events of aSoIaF) which made Petyr lord of the most little finger (in this game represented as the seat of "Newton"). He died in '1124', which makes it quite likely that he fought against Lyonnel and Stafford on Jon/Florian Arryn's side, although I never noticed him as a commander. Petyr married some girl from a non-dynasty and got two daughters, so at his death the lordship of "Newton" went to Petyr's brother (who was born a year after the start of the game, so is completely non-canon).
Interesting tidbit. His eldest daughter, who died a year after Petyr himself, married a grandson of Walder Frey. They had two sons, of which only the youngest survives. Don't read the spoiler if you want no spoilers/hints of the later books whatsoever:
So I'm never going to attend his wedding, nor hire him as my Master of Coin. If cunning his hereditary, then a kid with Frey/Baelish cunning is running around the Vale!)
-EDIT-
I went nosing around, and I found this. I'm still giggling. Not really absurd... Or, well... Can you imagine them being friends?
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You really should!
In any case, I have some tragic news. It seems that A Conspiracy of Ravens has gone the same way as my previous AAR: the computer died. That means I can not continue my game. I could continue the story, but that would venture all too deep into the realm of fan fiction, something which mr. Martin loathes. I, therefore, will quit this AAR, sadly.
I'd like to thank all of you for your support, especially Knight Errant, who has been the most supportive of all. It was fun writing this one, and I'll be back for CK2!
Aww... So much potential lost! You should try again instead of quiting alltogether.
You should try again instead of quiting alltogether.Well, that is tempting. You know what? Why not! I'll start again this weekend.
It'll be a different dynasty, though. When I started this AAR I wasn't all that familiar with the setting, but now I am. So the next AAR will be with a dynasty in anywhere that isn't The Vale, the Riverlands or the North.
Unless, of course, I find a way to play as Mance Rayder... Because that might be very interesting indeed! I'll keep you folks updated.
It'll be a different dynasty, though. When I started this AAR I wasn't all that familiar with the setting, but now I am. So the next AAR will be with a dynasty in anywhere that isn't The Vale, the Riverlands or the North.
Unless, of course, I find a way to play as Mance Rayder... Because that might be very interesting indeed! I'll keep you folks updated.
You could make Tyrion Lanister the Lord of all the mountain tribes That would be pretty fun - but it is in the Vale though so...
That would be pretty fun - but it is in the Vale though so...
Aww no problem it has been my pleasure reading.
Though don't you ever scare me like that again, saying you'd quiet. I almost had a heart attack reading that. Good luck in the North!
Sorry for the disappearance, but last week I finished my BA-thesis, so I had little time for internet or play. Since I'll leave for Vienna tomorrow, I'll be back with a reboot of this AAR after next sunday. See you folks then!
This is a very well-done AAR thus far, I hope you keep with it! I've never had the drive to start a Westeros game, but maybe I should.
This AAR inspired me to buy Crusader Kings and so I cannot wait for the next installment, no matter how much later I have to wait.
If you don't mind my asking, what subject?
<_<
Where are my northerners? Don't think I'll forget about Westeros just because I can't watch the Game of Thrones.
Where are my northerners? Don't think I'll forget about Westeros just because I can't watch the Game of Thrones.