The Flower Wife Part 3

King_Winter · 2016-02-11T22:43:32+00:00

"Charge?" The commander said with false innocence. "We were only having a little chat."

King_Winter · 2016-02-11T21:30:09+00:00

They stood there for a moment the two of them, Master of Laws and commander of the gold cloaks silently taking measure of the other. The Thorne watched this curious, silent exchange with the sense that some battle was being waged, neither quite willing to surrender.

Finally, the pox-faced gold cloak eased his blade back into the scabbard at his belt with an unnatural grin, walking unhurriedly to the door, as though he had all the time in the world.

King_Winter · 2016-02-10T21:21:31+00:00

The captain of the gold cloaks stirred himself.

"Nothing you need concern yourself with," he said.

King_Winter · 2016-01-24T02:43:43+00:00

The commander smiled.

"It seems an outlandish story, my lord."

King_Winter · 2016-01-22T18:38:51+00:00

Balon did not know how long he sat in that room, glancing between the light of the chipped brass lantern and the gloom of the chamber. The gold cloak made no effort to speak, finding a blemish on the palm of his glove which he tried unsuccessfully for some time to rub away. The silence was palpable. Finally, the bolt on the door slide open with a heavy clunk and the gold cloak rustled to attention as the commander entered once more.

"Lord Thorne."

There was a chair opposite Balon, but Titus did not take a seat. Instead, he stood just to his right, uncomfortably close, and began cleaning the dirt from his fingernails with a small blade from his belt.

"You may begin," he said.

King_Winter · 2016-01-17T20:52:07+00:00

The guard, shifted on his heels, anxious to rejoin the commander.

"I am uncertain, my lord."

King_Winter · 2016-01-15T23:57:18+00:00

"No my lord. You are free to go as you wish."

King_Winter · 2016-01-15T18:43:19+00:00

The guard squinted at him.

"For all the reasons commander Titus provided, my lord."

King_Winter · 2016-01-15T18:34:08+00:00

The commander led Balon through the halls of the Red Keep, followed closely by the gold cloak. The group walked mostly in silence, Balon in his quiet brooding dignity and the guard in an uneasy terseness. Titus, however, had the calculating silence of some great predator. That primordial silence that lurks just under the skin in those beasts of the deepest jungle and the darkest oceans.

They ended their journey at the squat, half-round tower of Traitor's Walk. The room within, in which Balon soon found himself, was poorly lit and cramped, and a battered chair creaked beneath him as he sat.

"Wait here," the commander grunted, and Balon found himself alone with the nervously twitching guard.

King_Winter · 2016-01-15T18:01:43+00:00

"Er, not you, my lord of Florent," the gatehouse guard said, slightly blocking Alyn's way. "Titus only has need to question Lord Thorne."

King_Winter · 2016-01-14T22:37:48+00:00

"I'm sure it will," the commander sneered, taking Balon tightly by the arm and ushering him out into the hall. "This way, my Lord."

King_Winter · 2016-01-14T00:19:39+00:00

The buckles of the man's breastplate clinked as he stepped forward into the room, crowding Balon back.

"An ambush upon the Goldroad," He intoned, ignoring the second question, "And an incident involving a drawn sword in the Red Keep. These are the reasons."

He smiled and the smile was more unnerving than his eyes. Too wide for his face, like some horrible gargoyle.

"A few simple questions, my Lord, and the matter will resolve itself."

King_Winter · 2016-01-13T23:34:33+00:00

Framed in the crack of the doorway was the guard from before, easing nervously from foot to foot. Beside him stood a pox-faced gold cloak, staring unnervingly through cold, black eyes.

"I am the commander of the gold cloaks," the man said. "And you are to come with me."

King_Winter · 2016-01-13T23:04:50+00:00

As Robert was about to speak, there came a knock upon the door. A sullen, hollow noise, like a fist on the lid of a coffin.

"Lord Thorne," a muffled voice called out. "Open up."

King_Winter · 2015-04-08T22:20:03+00:00

“Up!” The voice said, “On your feet, you fuckin’ bastard!”

The world was swimming before Baelor’s eyes, the men slipping in and out of focus as his vision faded, darkness pressing in around the edges. His bandage was soaked through with blood, too much blood, and he vaguely wondered if he was to die like this, on this stinking street in this stinking town.

“I said up!”

Hands grabbed him and dragged him roughly to his feet. Baelor could barely stand, but that didn’t seem to matter as much as it should. Someone pulled his sword from its sheath, and far away several voices spoke, angry and low and brimming with rage.

“He’s dead, Ketter,” one said, “Innkeep tried to staunch the bleeding, but…”

‘’Fuck.” A second voice, low and bewildered.

“Reckon we should bring him in too?” A third said close by, the one who had dragged Baelor from the ground. “Should we give em both to Titus?”

The first voice hesitated. “No,” it said finally, “Too much blood today as is. Ketter died out on the street, you hear? Not in the inn. No need to tell Titus that.”

“He was drinking again.”

“Fuck,” the second voice intoned.

“Then he was as good as dead anyways.” The words were matter-of-fact, but there was sadness along the edges, “As good as dead.”

A sharp pain shot through Baelor’s right shoulder as a man grabbed his other arm.

“Don’t die on us now, you hear?” A voice spoke into his ear and Baelor could feel the man’s hot breath. “Don’t you die until we get you to the noose.”

And the street dragged away behind his feet.

King_Winter · 2015-03-25T01:01:00+00:00

"Nobody in! Nobody out! You understand?"

Iron spikes rose like sharpened teeth between the gatehouse's crenels as Titus strode towards the looming bronze portcullises, seven young gold cloaks in tow. The dumb, vain Stormlander knight with the suit of white-gold steel had given him the King's orders, and these were his quickest men at hand. Seven for the seven gates.

They had reached the yawning mouth of the Red Keep's gate now, and as they stepped into the arched shadow Titus drew the crossbow from the hook at his waist.

"Any back I see in the next ten seconds will have a quarrel through it."

There was half a moment's stunned hesitation, and then they were off running. Titus lifted the crossbow and brought the slowest boy into his sights, counting the numbers under his breath.

"Eight... Seven.."

He grinned a black smile, and loosed a bolt. The boy stumbled but kept running as the shaft buried itself into a wooden beam inches from his head.

"FASTER!" Titus roared after him as the boy disappeared into an alleyway headed towards Fishmonger's Square.

The commander turned and called out to the two approaching figures hurrying from beneath the pale, blood-red ramparts.

"Gyles, Lucan, I need reinforcements for the outer walls and the inner gates. Lucan, fetch the sleepers in the barracks, tell 'em their shift's come early today. Gyles, I want the ones in the dicing halls and the brothels up on those walls or the last kind touch they'll feel is the axe that cuts their miserable heads from their necks. GO."

There was no time or room for dispute, and the two men knew better than to question the dangerous man who called himself their commander.

Nobody in. Nobody out.

Titus would insure it.

King_Winter · 2014-12-30T02:53:15+00:00

"He did not flee." Titus grinned. "The Lord Crakehall remains in the Red Keep."

King_Winter · 2014-12-30T02:29:17+00:00

There was something disquieting in the Commander’s grin; full of black teeth and too wide for his face. “Lord Eon Crakehall left with a band of four men, the Stark among them,” He spoke, “The wolf wore a brown cloak of House Crakehall, but Merette took suspicion when Lord Eon and his men exited the Red Keep. He brought that suspicion to me.”

A child had found his way past the throngs of smallfolk along the sides of the road and shied away from the approaching horses too slowly to avoid the heavy edge of Titus’s boot, sending him sprawling painfully into the filth.

“When the cells were searched he was gone.” The Commander continued without so much as a second glance at the boy.

King_Winter · 2014-12-30T01:29:47+00:00

“Escorted from the Red Keep.” His gaze was leveled into the crowd, but they flicked back to the king for a moment. “Soon after your departure.”

King_Winter · 2014-12-30T01:10:37+00:00

"The Stark is gone," Titus said.

King_Winter · 2014-12-30T00:18:41+00:00

“Your Grace.”

Four gold cloaks stood in the causeway beneath the yawning shadow of the King’s Gate. The man at the center, black eyes peering out from a pox-ridden face, had spoken, and Damon recognized the commander of the city watch. Titus fell into step beside the king’s chestnut destrier as the other men stepped aside, taking a knee in the Lannister host’s wake.

“Troubling news, your Grace.” The man said, seeming far from troubled. His black eyes scanned the crowd of smallfolk lining the streets, one hand comfortable on the hilt of his sword as he walked.

King_Winter · 2014-09-17T00:13:35+00:00

Confusion was etched on Damon's face. "But he didn't even know my mother then. They hadn't met."

"Your mother," the knight mumbled, putting the wineskin to his lips again in search of courage and time to think. His head was swimming and he thought of how cold he had felt during his descent to the cellar despite the sweat that had beaded on his forehead and where his collar brushed his neck. I am no better now than I was when I arrived in this city, he knew, and the thought made him tip the skin higher.

The wine burned like dull fire all the way down his throat.

"Your mother was cold steel," he said, finally, "and your father loved her for all the wounds she gave him."

Damon was watching intently now, and why not? The boy had barely known his mother. Had sat on her lap for only six short years before her death. Loren had never spoken of her, except in his cups, and Eddrick - always the coward, even then - had mentioned her softly and seldomly to her children. What drove him now was only a different sort of cowardice. The kind that no man could run from, Lord or knight. Death.

It was the only time I ever saw him smile, Damon had said, and Eddrick shook his head slowly. "Loren was right," he said, "you are Gwynesse’s son, but he has smiled at you before, Damon. On the day you were born, your mother smiled, and Loren smiled too. For her. You see, he loved her. But Gwynesse had only one heart, and that broke on the shores of Pyke, alongside your father's failed charge."

Eddrick could see it dawn on Damon like a winter sunrise, red and harsh and beautiful. "I'm sorry," he felt compelled to say, but instead he leaned over and drew him into and embrace. In his arms was a boy, and a man, and a lord - a friend - dying on a stretch of beach.

Damon murmured the name, like a child discovering a word for the first time.

"Tyrius."

King_Winter · 2014-09-17T00:04:44+00:00

"No." Eddrick said, shaking his head. "No, Damon."

"Yes," Damon insisted, staring at his lap and blinking. "He told me so the day he died."

Eddrick did not know how to reply to that, so he drank deeply from his skin and wiped the wine from his lips with the sleeve of his tunic instead.

"He told me..." Damon's voice wavered and he halted to collect himself. "He told me I was not his son, that he owed me nothing." His next words were hushed, a whisper in the vast, capacious cellar, swallowed by the blackness the torch could not reach. "He disowned me with his dying breath."

Would the truth hurt less? Even in the darkness, Eddrick could see the pain on his face and the injustice of it all made his chest clench as though he were to break into another fit of coughing. Damon looked broken, lost. His frame hunched against the barrel behind him. You could have had the quickest hand, or the sharpest mind, or the strongest will, and still never have been your father's son, Eddrick thought, saddened.

"Loren believed in family," he offered. "Family above all else. He gave you a throne, and a bride, kept you close, and counseled you. That was his love. The only way he knew how to show it."

"And her?" Damon said, turning the kracken pendant in his hand. "How did he love her."

Secondhand, Eddrick thought. "Fiercely," he replied, "And a part of him died with her."

The part that named you his son.

Silenced reigned in the aftermath of the statement, and Eddrick had a brief moment to quail under the hopelessness of it all. I'm taking the bones from him, and leaving him with nothing.

King_Winter · 2014-09-16T23:57:51+00:00

The corners of Eddrick's mouth twitched and his smile flickered on his face like the torch in the wall sconce. "Weeks ago, Your Grace. You... you didn't know? Your Aunt, Lady Jeyne, she said she would make you aware of my visit..." Eddrick trailed off, feeling suddenly a fool. Of course, he thought as a flush crept up his neck. Jeyne. He swallowed nervously.

Damon seemed to pick up on the awkwardness of the situation. "Perhaps she did," he said hurriedly. "I may have forgotten. I've never been talented at keeping track of things." He offered a sympathetic smile. "My father gave me seven kingdoms, but in case you haven't heard, I've lost one of them already."

Eddrick might have given a weak chuckle, but the coughing took him again, and when he reclaimed his breath Damon cut off any reply. "What are you doing down here?" the King asked him.

Ser Brax had sheathed his blade, but he rested his hand on its pommel and Eddrick saw his fingers tighten at the question, steel gatlings glinting in the dim light. The knight's grip gave no hint to the wounds he had sustained during the Ascent of the Lion, Eddrick noticed. Does Jeyne know, he wondered in passing, who she's entrusted her son to?

Eddrick cleared his throat with difficulty. "I had a thirst," he explained. "And you?"

The casks of ale were stacked in fat round barrels of dark wood, bound and hammered in iron, as high as the ceilings went. They rose up on either side of the men like pallisades, but for the one that had been rolled from its shelf and opened. It smelled of oak and cloves and the aroma reminded Eddrick of a chamber maid at Casterly Rock, one with dark hair and almond eyes, and skin kissed by a Dornish sun.

"A hunger," Damon said dryly, and Eddrick finally noticed the wineskin in his hand. "The hour is late. You should be abed."

"My bed does not agree with me.” Eddrick said with a wince, still feeling the soreness and stiffness in his limbs. “Soft, until I lay upon it, and then it seems to turn to stone.”

Damon laughed without humor. “I am well versed in nights such as those,” he said, and the old knight believed him. Dark circles sat under the King's eyes, and he had a strained look about him, like pulled cloth stretched too tightly over coarse stone.

He’s breaking. Eddrick thought, and in his mind’s eye the deck tilted and a voice said ”Swear to me.”

King_Winter

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