I leave that to you guys to figure out, debate and discuss, it's allegorical. 

-- Edited by Aegon the Conqueror on Monday 10th of December 2012 11:11:37 PM

Well since the Prologue doesn't really start the story and has intrigued several people, I will post the first part of the next chapter a bit earlier than anticipated, but only a part.

 

Chapter 1

The Young Lion

 

The candles on the great chandeliers flickered beautifully together, casting their light across the hall of the giant cathedral. The front rows were packed, close to two thousand men and women had come to bear witness to the monumental day. High born lords and ladies, knights and squires all dressed in splendid attire, the sigils of their respective houses and family sown unto their doublets. The ladies all looked resplendent in the many gowns they all wore so magnificently. The young knight had just stepped through the Cathedral doors, to his right and to his left stood two older knights that he greatly admired Sir Berkhald Leonesse his father’s cousin and also the Master at Arms at the Lion’s Den, the knight’s ancestral home in the north, though he had not been there in several years. It had been Sir Berkhald who had first taught him how to swing a sword and tilt a lance. Sir Berkhald was a giant of a man, a true man of the north, grizzled, broad and tall with a booming voice and a great red beard.

 The other was a living legend Lord Artos of house Dameor, they called him the veteran of a hundred battles. In truth it was closer to a hundred and twenty; Sir Artos had led his men into each of those battles and emerged victorious. It was after the latest of those battles that the moment had finally came. He had squired for Sir Artos and fought at his side, as reward for his bravery, he would be knighted on his the day of his eighteen year celebration. Today was the day.

He walked towards the front of the cathedral; shoulders held back, head held high, a proud young man. Knights and squires who had fought with him lined the pathway on both sides, offering applause, nods of the head and slaps on the back as he walked past. The applause had been deafening when the great doors had first opened and the soon to be knight had felt a hundred feet tall. In truth he stood over 6 feet tall, broad shouldered with striking blue eyes piercing from beneath a crown of shoulder length jet black hair. He had dressed in his best mail, scoured to a gleaming sheen; over this he wore a deep blue silk doublet with the crowned golden lions head roaring sown on. His family sigil had been just the roaring lion, but he had personalised the sigil to the crowned one after his adoption by the king. 

Speaking of the king, he saw his adoptive father standing before the great Altar, 12 feet tall the king was, dressed in the most magnificent fur trimmed cloak, golden armour. Sadly these ceremonial occasions were the only times that the king still donned armour. He did not look a day over 30 and yet he had lived and ruled for ten thousand years. No one could remember a day that the king had not sat on the Golden Throne...no one could remember a time of peace though either, a time when the Kingdom of Lux Divina was not at war.

As the young knight neared the altar he scanned the faces to his right and to his left. Some men and women he had known all his life. He saw his mother and his grandmother, known throughout the realm as the Lioness of the Den. Yet sadly his father was not there, he did not expect him to be, yet the longing was still there. It had been years since he had spoken to his father. But he would not let thoughts like that ruin this day. It was after all a day that brought on consequences for the entire realm, or so the noblemen whispered among themselves. This was the day in which the Young Lion of the North came into his own.

As he stepped up unto the steps of the sanctuary the king withdrew his eight foot great sword and held it upright by the guard. The sword called Wrath was known and feared throughout the world. When the king drew that sword in righteous fury, none could stand before him. Off course these were only tales, no one in living memory had ever seen the king fight. The king had not taken the field since the day of days over a thousand years ago.

He stopped and looked up at his adoptive father’s smiling face. The king’s features seemed to change all the time, sometimes he was a blonde man with green eyes with flecks of gold, other times he had dark hair and dark skin. The change came gradually yet quickly at the same time. It was as if the face remained constant, yet take your eyes away from it for a second and a completely different one would face you when you turned back.

The king’s voice boomed throughout the Cathedral, deep, resonant, booming and loud, “Kneel.” The knight complied. The king spoke once more, “Guywin of the house Leonesse, you would this day take your vows as a knight of the realm? You would consecrate yourself to safekeeping, protection and honour of this kingdom?” The knight nodded and spoke, “I would your Majesty.” His voice, though deep for someone his age, seemed like that of a mouse compared to the king. The king surveyed the crowd then looked at Guywin’s face and said “Do you swear to always face your enemies with courage, to protect the weak and uphold the king’s law?” The knight exhaled and answered for all the hear, “I swear!” The king continued, “do you swear to live by the rules of chivalry, to place your honour above safety or convenience and to live your life in service to the realm?” “I swear!” He half shouted. “And do you swear loyalty and obedience to the crown and to the kingdom of Lux Divina?” The knight raised his fist in the air and shouted it out, “I swear!” The king raised the sword and lightly tapped the knight on both shoulder, “Then in front of all these witnesses and by the power of the crown of Divina, I dub thee Sir Guywin of house Leonesse, the young Lion of the North. Now rise a knight!”

The Knight rose and as he turned a thunderous cheer went up from crowd as men raised their fists into the air and ladies clapped politely. In the front row he saw both his mother and grandmother beaming with great pride. The king placed his hand on the Guywin’s shoulder and whispered, "I am truly proud of you this day son." Guywin turned, smiled and thanked his father before descending from the sanctuary to meet his mother and grandmother.

His mother stopped a foot from him, she had almost embraced him forgetting that not only was he a man grown, but he was now a knight, a defender and prince of the realm. Guywin had wanted nothing more than to embrace both his mother and grandmother, it had been nearly three years since he had seen them, but such a public display of affection simply would not do. His grandmother had that shrewd smile on her face she was so famous for. One would not think she was nearing sixty, she seemed much younger and her wits were still a clear as the day of her thirtieth year celebration. In the absence of his father, lord Geor, his grandmother had ruled and governed their lands and the lesser houses and knights that were sworn to the service of the Lion’s Den.

She clasped Guywin’s hand in hers and said, “You made us all proud today my child, you will bring the back the lost honour and renown of our house. I know it. That idiot son of mine would be proud of you.” Guywin glowered at her; he hated it when she got like this, “Lady Grandmother I remind you that Lord Geor is still my father as well as your liege lord, I would ask that you speak of him as such.” She gave him a scornful look and said, “Har! You’re a smart boy, though sometimes I think you have the common sense of a peasant. If your lord father would start acting like a lord mayhaps I’ll start giving him that respect. You know better than to tell me that. He was my only son; I had such high hopes for him...but now you have been knighted I know you will make us all proud and restore the family name.”

His mother just looked at him and smiled shyly. Poor woman, she had been totally overruled by the Lioness since Lord Geor’s lapse of judgement. She was a short, small woman who had been able to bear only one living child. She seemed totally out of place among the strong and gruff northmen who seemed to love only two things in this world, their honour and battle. She was a lady that had been raised among the comforts of the capital city of Ouranos and she had never really adapted to the rigors of living in the harsh, cold, brutally beautiful north.

Guywin had been raised to respect strength, all northern men had been and as such he found it difficult to respect the timid woman before him, he had also found it hard to connect with his mother. His grandmother however was a true northern woman and so they’re relationship had come easy. His father had always consulted her for advice and she had been more of a mother to Guywin than his own one was.

His Grandmother slipped her arm through his and they started walking towards the Cathedral doors, the mother following closely, keeping her morbid silence. Guywin towered over his tiny wizened grandmother as they slowly strode forward. She looked up at her tall handsome grandson, then looked over her shoulder and gave a snort of contempt, “How this one ever gave birth to you I will never know.”  Guywin politely ignored to stab at his poor mother. Heaven knew he didn’t care for her much, but she was still his mother and that deserved a certain amount of respect.

He decided to change the topic, “How is the North Grandmother? I yearn to visit, mayhaps the king will allow me to do so now that I have earned my knighthood. I have need to get to know my bannermen if I am to one day be their overlord.” His Grandmother smiled and said, “The North loves you Guywin, every one of the four great houses of the four Northern provinces sing your praise. Your bannermen are all eager to meet you. You left as a boy, but you will return as a man of great honour. Every one of them is looking forward to the day that you remove the blight from our house and restore us to our former glory. Once upon a time we were the first of the noble houses in service to the king, you will make us so again.”

Guywin just smiled, it was enormous pressure, but he knew he could do it. It was his destiny. Why else had the king chosen him that day? He remembered it very clearly, the clear ringing of the silver trumpets, the thousands of floating banners. The tournament was held to honour one of the victories of Lord Artos Dameor, he had stopped a force of near 20 000 Daemn who had invaded from the east. In his honour the King held a great tournament and great lords from all over had come to attend and take part. In the absence of Lord Geor Sir Berkhald had attended and Guywin had squired for him.

Sir Berkhald had entered both the jousting and the melee and Guywin had did his best to keep up with his great cousin and not get distracted by the thousands of people of the great fanfare. Sir Berkhald had won the melee, but had broken his collarbone and shoulder in the attempt. Sir Berkhald being a true Northman refused to acknowledge the injury and simply strode into his tent and ordered Guywin to remove his melee plate and dress him in his jousting armour. Yet sir Berkhald being as human as you or I, fainted from the excruciating pain. The heralds had started calling for sir Berkhald to come forth. Not knowing what to do, only knowing that he had to preserve his hero’s honour, he had donned his great cousin’s armour. Clambered onto his black destrier and taken the lance from one of the pages. He had felt so uncomfortable in the heavy plate, he struggled to see through the black helmet and fear filled his entire body. For the man he would ride against was none other than the great Lord Artos. Yet his resolve to protect the honour of the man who had taught him how to fight, who in many ways had been a father to him, was stronger than his fear.

Three times he rode against Artos, three times they broke lances on one another’s armour. But at the fourth pass, Sir Artos having had enough of the cocky upstart, raised his lance slightly and struck Guywin on the helmet. He had flown from that horse like a stone from a trebuchet; his helmet had spun through the air and into the crowd. He had landed with great force and his head had rung. Unable to get up he stayed down. However he became vaguely aware that the crowd was not cheering anymore. In its place was a shocked silence. For before them was not a famous knight, but a young boy and moreover this young boy had managed to trade three blows with the most skilled knight in the Realm.

Artos himself had helped Guywin from the floor and held his hand in the air as the crowd cheered them on! At Artos’ insistence the king had met with young Guywin. Two hours later the king had formally adopted him and ordered that he be fostered in the capitol.

His mother’s voice broke him from his musing, “I am proud of you too son, a true man of the north.” She had a voice that squeaked like mouse. Guywin turned around and flashed his mother his most brilliant smile, “Thank you lady mother, might I say that you are looking lovely this evening.” His mother beamed at the compliment. Guywin had learnt the advantages of guile and flattery at court long ago and he had perfected the art. Indeed he was well aware that the combination of his shoulder length dark hair, his deep blue eyes, smile and his silver honeyed tongue could work wonders on the ladies of the court. Of course his reputation as a prince and champion of the realm preceded him. The Crowned Lion on his doublet immediately made it clear just who he was, and every time he entered all the unmarried ladies of the court, and a few married ones would stare longingly at him.

A wife was something that was never far from his mind, yet he had not met one yet that he thought would make a good match. Yes he would marry for political reasons, but no proposed match proved advantageous enough yet and he had not yet met a woman that deserved more than an hour of attention. He had traded many a passionate kiss with many a noble lady before, but that had been where it had stopped. He was of the north and the most precious thing a man of the North had was his honour. 

And so endeth the first lesson. 

Her character was actually a combination of my real grandmother and the queen of thorns. Yes my grandmother is that scary! She once broke a wooden hanger on my arse, though I deserved it.

Bahahaha a cane never hurt nobody if given with a sure hand. I'm thankful for my parents having the guts to discipline me that way. But with granny I deserved it. Let's just say my cousin and I made our own foam party in her bathroom. By the time she caught on the foam was already at hip height! When she opened the door it streamed out and unto her new carpeting

Jesus Aeg,there is quite a bit to digest here. I will need more time to read this in order to give you my honest opinion.

All right Ry I'll wait for you before I post the next part.

He decided to head for the road to see what might pass through. The eastern road led through the forest and to the capital. Often when he had been unable to find any game he had perched on the rocks to the south of the road to watch the passing travellers, wondering who they were and where they came from. He had reclined on the rock for half an hour, looking up at the leaves from the trees that covered him, perfectly content and happy with the world and the way things were.

He had nearly dozed off when he heard the rhythmic hoof beats of a horse at a steady gallop. From the sound he could gather that it was either a large war horse, or simply a horse that was heavily loaded. He squatted on his haunches, hidden deep within the shadows of the trees, almost invisible to the naked eye. The green of his cloak matched perfectly into the mosaic of leaves and moss and bark. The rider came into view as the road curved around the rock formation. Guywin took the bow from his back and wondered at himself at the mischief of shooting and arrow into the ground in front of the rider. Perhaps once when he was a boy, but that was not the way of the knight. He almost reconsidered when he recognised the rider. He wore a deep set yellow surcoat with a red fox on the chest. A purple coat of a silk was clasped around his shoulders. He wore gloves of black of fine black mole and his light sandy hair bounced along to the rhythm of the horse. As always his mouth was slightly open, that had been the thing Guywin had always teased him about. He was not a large man, neither was he broad of shoulder, but he had been gifted with a keen mind.

His name was Leonhardt of house of Foxenspoor. He had been his mothers’ fourth child, and even though he had been born small and frail, she had given him the name of the Lionheart. He stood to inherit virtually nothing, so she had given him a great name. Now that it came to his mind Guywin thought that the northern houses were far too obsessed with lions.

The sigil of house Foxenspoor was a fox and no animal as best described Leonhardt, clever, quick with an able mind for warfare. He was not like to lead his men from the front as Guywin was wont to do, but none could doubt that he was brave, doubly so considering his frail size. Guywin had befriended Leonhardt years ago; there were so few northern knights in the capital while he had grown up. Leonhardt had been sent there to be fostered with some or other great lord. Guywin had forgotten his name.

In a nimble movement Guywin leapt from the rock formation and landed catlike in front of Leonhardt’s horse. Neighing and rearing it almost threw the shocked knight, but he managed to hold on. Guywin clasped his bow with both hands and looked up as Leonhardt struggled to draw his sword from its scabbard. As quick as lighting Guywin drew a goose shafted grey arrow over his right shoulder and pulled the string back to his right ear. A smile crossed his lips as he said, “I thought knights of the eastern warfront were always on their guard? But if I had been a Daemn I fear you would already have been felled friend.” The knight slid his sword back into his scabbard and raised both his hands, “Yet I was under the impression that there were the light of the capital touches the world, the faithful may travel without fear. Do not the king’s knights guard this rode?” Guywin relaxed his bow and pointed the arrow at the ground, “It is indeed so Sir knight of Foxenspoor which is why you find me here, even though it is in this strange attire.” Leonhardt gave Guywin a puzzled smile, “You know me good man, yet I have no idea who you are, this puts me at a disadvantage I fear.”

At this Guywin removed his hood and spoke in a thunderous voice, “Perhaps good sir if you had climbed of your high horse when I had hailed you your eyes would not have deceived you, for you know me well as a friend and a brother.” Leonhardt slid from his voice as a great grin spread from ear to ear, “The Young Lion Cub of the North, can it truly be that you have grown so in only two years? It appears to me that you are no longer a cub, but a fierce predator fully matured.” Guywin clasped his outstretched arm and returned the smile, “It is I Sir Fox, a man grown and newly knighted.” He turned to walk and Leonhardt took the bridle of his horse and strode alongside him.

Guywin towered over him and outweighed him by near 60pounds, yet it seemed to bother the smaller man none. He looked up at the younger knight and said, “Indeed we in far east heard of your bravery and your prowess riding with Lord Artos. It is what brings me here, the news of you coming into your own.” Guywin simply smiled and said, “And here I had hoped that you came of your own accord. Yet you are not here to only visit old friends are you? The Fox shook his head and said, “Nay I wish it were that simple Guywin, but I come on behalf of someone much wiser and greater than I.”

Guywin gave a snort of contempt and said, “Has Lord Timothy run out of young knights of lesser houses and second sons to protect his precious white keep?” A flash of anger washed over Leonhardt’s face yet he quickly hid it, “If you knew the man you would not speak of him thus. He is wise beyond his years and inspires complete loyalty. He is one in whom the Prince who was Promised lives again. He will one day become the Warden, Protector and Lord Paramount of all the eastern provinces, you mark my words. Under him the squabbling lords will cease and they will be united again under his banner.”

Guywin looked Fox over, it was not like him to praise a man so highly unless he was of the highest honour. Yet something of this bother him, “Should those lords not be united under the king’s banner?” Leonhardt laughed at that, “Young Guywin if you knew him you would know of his complete and utter loyalty to our king, indeed he never does anything that is not of the king’s will. He hears him from the tower of the white keep and so orders things according to what the king wants. That is why so many young knights have joined him and sworn fealty to him as their liege lord. We fight for the realm; we keep the forces of Gehenna at bay. No Daemn ever escapes the vigilant eyes of the White Keep. His Captains of Four are warriors without peer, warriors that I think would be able to defeat even you in single combat. They are foreigners, sworn to Lord Timothy and they bring with them a unique fighting style I had not yet witnessed before. Yet they command respect among each and every one of the knights serving there.” Leonhardt smiled as he looked off in the distance, “There’s great honour in serving in Timothy’s Eastguard. I beg of you to consider the words I have spoken. Even if you only joined your sword to ours for a year I know you could make a difference. The truth is we are hard pressed and each month the Daemn become more both in number and in daring. We could use the champion of the north, your name alone would draw many lesser knights and men at arms to pledge their swords to our cause.”

Guywin stopped and turned towards his old friend, “I will think on what you have said, for now my longing is to return to the north and meet my bannermen. But I promise to consider your offer. I take my leave dear Leonhardt, I do not wish to be seen within this attire. I trust you shall keep our chance meeting to yourself?” Leonhardt nodded and spoke in a loud voice, “You have my word on the matter, on my honour as a knight. Farewell Young Lion, I will meet you again at the feast.”

Guywin scrambled up the rock formation and disappeared into the woods, it was high time that he had gotten back, for it was not every day that the king held a feast in your honour. He would slip back in the way he had came to the forest. The way he had always returned.

 

 Here endeth the second chapter. 

 

 

 

-- Edited by Aegon the Conqueror on Sunday 30th of December 2012 08:35:57 AM

-- Edited by Aegon the Conqueror on Sunday 30th of December 2012 08:44:24 AM

Chapter 2

The Fox

 

Leonhardt stood atop the white tower, hands on the parapets and looked out over the east. Mountains covered the flanks of the White Keep to the north and to the south. For that reason the fortress had been made to withstand any attack from the east. Indeed the villages and peoples to the east of here looked to the White Keep as their bastion of hope and their salvation. He could never understand why they did not locate to a safer haven, but the people of the east were a stubborn and superstitious lot. Yet stubborn or not it had been the privilege and honour of the Knights of the White Keep to guard the peoples and the Bain’s Pass, the only way through the great Eastern mountains.

He heard the footsteps behind him and turned to face his lord. Timothy was in his mid thirties and balding, yet he still had a lord’s countenance. Deep set green eyes with a great beard of dark hair. He was thick of girth and shoulder and towered over the Fox. Leonhardt turned back to the parapet and looked out over the east again. Rolling hills and valleys went on for miles, and then the deep darkness began, nothing grew there. It was just an endless sight of death and dark clouds. From there the Daemn would issue forth against this fortress. For hundreds of years the volunteering knights of the White Keep had guarded the outskirts of the realm against the great evil that stirred just a few miles away.

Timothy came and stood behind Leonhardt with both his hands on Leonhardt’s shoulders. He bent down and kissed Leonardt in the neck. Angered Leonhardt turned shrugged away from him, “Not here my lord, someone will see.” Timothy irritated by the Fox’s reaction, crossed his hands behind his back and thrust out his chest, “I tire of these games Leonhardt. You are mine!” Leonhardt smiled and said, “I am yours my lord. But you know perfectly well what would happen if we are revealed before the time is right, my lord. Too many times both you and myself have spoken out against the evils of a same sex relations. I will not have your reputation sullied.” Timothy answered in his deep voice, “Yes that will not do, but one day Leonhardt, you will rule alongside me as my Underking....but before that can happen we need a champion. I clearly cannot draw the knights here that I need, even though I have fought my entire life for this realm. I am but the second son of my house Leonhardt, yet I have risen and become the Lord of the White Keep. I have given my life for these people. And what do I have to show for it? A meagre castle and lands of little income? Nay gratitude is no longer enough. The war in the west and the north east gets all the attention from the king. However if we can bring a true champion here...someone who would draw the knights and the men at arms we need...then that would indeed change the face of this war.”

Leonhardt smiled and said, “Indeed my Lord it is the reason why I asked you here. I know of such a man.” Timothy’s face lit up, “Who is this man?” Leonhardt grinned and asked, “Have you ever heard of the Young Lion of the North my lord?” Timothy nodded and spoke, “Heir to the house of Leonesse, adopted son of the king. How would you get a man like that to come here? The saying is that there is great honour to serve with the Knights of the White Keep, yet why would he come here? He is of the north, he has his own enemies to fight, lands to rule. Why would he choose to come fight enemies he had never heard of?”

The Fox turned and looked towards the east again, “I have known him for years, he knows me trusts me. He is hungry for honour, hungry to lead men into war. He cannot do that while he is in the north. He can ride as a champion in Lord Artos’ army, but he cannot call his own banners. Only his father can do that, and as the entire realm knows, lord Geor will do nothing of the sort. Guywin can off course distinguish himself in Artos’ force, but in the end the glory of the victories will go to Artos. Although Guywin admires and loves Artos’ his desire is to show that he is greater than even the greatest knight of this era will soon overshadow that love. We will grant him the opportunity to do just that. He will come here and the hedge knights and freeriders and men at arms will flood to join the Young Lion, but we will ensure their loyalty belongs to us.”

By then Timothy was smiling broadly and he clapped Leonhardt on the shoulder, “Do you really think you will be able to persuade him?” Leonhardt turned back towards his lord and lover, “You forget I was once from the north, before I discovered my life here, before I discovered you. All those northerners are alike, so predictable with their precious honour. Easy to play, easy to manipulate, for they all expect other men to play by the same rules. It is because of their honour that the king so loves to keep them near. I could never understand why they cared so much about their vaunted rules. It is absolutely ludicrous. It is why I fled here as soon as I earned my spurs. Nay fear not my Lord, I will bring him here. I shall leave for the Capital on the morrow. I hear our young Lion is to be knighted soon, by none other than our lord king.”

That night Lord Timothy had came to visit his bed as if to inspire him further. And all through the night he whispered promises of a future together. Come the morning Leonhardt was willing to do anything for his sworn lord and lover. He had set out that next morning at dusk, vowing to himself that he would not return without Guywin in tow. 

Chapter 3

The Young Lion

Gods this was what he enjoyed, what made him feel alive! He galloped along the northern road, past oak and elm, at near full speed. The further he went, the steeper the rising of the hills, the less they declined. Leagues from here you could see the giant Mountains of the Dragons. Somewhere on those mountains, on a giant plateau, he knew, lay the great Fortress of the Lion’s Den, there lay home.

He had decided to set out the morning after the feast, on his own with only two Northern guards. Leaving his mother and grandmother behind with most of the household guard in tow, he had informed only them of his departure. The king would most definitely know he had gone as he was wont to do, but likely no one else. Leonhardt would indeed by livid, but surely he would forgive his old friend for wanting to visit the Lion’s Den and the great north, after all Leonhardt himself came from the north.  

His guardsmen were called Gorm and Garhold, two brothers. His grandmother had told him to take these two as he might perhaps find them good travel companions. When Guywin’s mount was lathered and foaming at the mouth he finally slowed down, dismounted and started walking to give his horse a rest. Gorm and Garhold duly followed. Guywin half turned towards the men behind him and over his shoulder he said, “The Lioness informs me that you two are brothers.” Gorm smiled and said, “Yes m’lord twins if you please, although mother tells me I be the younger one.” Guywin waved them forward as he spoke, “She also tells me you are rather low born, how is it that two such men find themselves in the distinguished household guard of Lionesse?” This time Garhold answered, though the two looked much the same, dark hair, flat noses, thin set eyes, and were of the same build, Garhold had a much deeper voice. “Well begging your pardons m’lord but your eldest cousin, the Crane’s Bastard, drafted us. Never known to the Bastard to be a man who cares about birth, he only cares about the strength of a man’s sword arm.”

That was very like Jahun, he was older than Guywin by some five years and could fight like a demon with a sword in each hand. It had brought great shame to House Leonesse at the time, but Lord Geor’s youngest sister Haithle had fallen pregnant when she was only 16 years on this earth. The father was suspected to be some southern lord with a Crane as his sigil. So whether true or not poor Jahun had been given the nickname the Crane’s Bastard before he had even been born. Lord Geor however did not blame the poor lad, ‘how could his mother’s folly be his mistake’, the high lord of the north had said; that was when he was still himself. Lord Geor had been quite fond of his sisters, but the older two were married to Northern Lord’s quite young. Perhpas that was why Geor had kept Haithle close. Although thinking back on his early years Guywin realised theirs had always been quite a close family. At least until the folly of Lord Geor, a tragic day for everyone of their house.

“M’lord?” Gorm’s voice brought Guywin out of his musings. “My pardons, I was just thinking of the many memories I share with Captain Jahun. He had been like an older brother to me since the day I was born. Tis a shame his younger brother did not turn out as well. Is there any news of the two?” Lady Haithle had married a lesser lord of one of the vassal houses of Leonesse. But he had died in battle not long after they had a son, also named Guywin, but everyone just called him Guy, to his eternal grief. Unfortunately he was as unlike from his bastard brother as could be, despite his noble birth.

Gorm answered him, “well last I heard of him m’lord he is still somewhere within the confines of the Lion’s Den. About a year ago he had gotten in a tavern brawl, when the town’s watch had been called, he knifed three of em before fleeing back to the Den. There he requested sanctuary from the approaching guards who were angered at his butchery. When your lady grandmother refused him as such, and his brother tried to take him into custody, he attempted to stab Captain Jahun. Off course your cousin, even though he is a bastard, is not someone to trifle with and put the little cocky upstart on his arse, beg pardon, m’lord. However Jahun did not manage to restrain him before Guy bit half his ear off.”

Guywin sighed, “Well Guy always had more balls than brains. If only he could channel that energy and anger in the right direction. Sadly I fear that will not happen soon. Though I suppose every family has one of his ilk...

Just for curiosity, does anyone else besides lady Lyanna and Rygar read these?

so my cousin deems the two of you good with the sword?” Both Gorm and Garhold nodded and Garhold spoke, “Yes m’lord not to be filling my crotch with a banana, if you’ll beg pardon, but we’ve heard him pray tell your grandmother that we are some of the finest blades he’s ever seen. “ Guywin smiled, “Never known by cousin to be wrong on the matters of bladework, being captain of our household guard is certainly not something he became because of his birth. So how is is that you two come by this skill?” A huge grin spread over Garhold face, “Our father fancied himself an adventurer and he had travelled through much of the realm. Often he would sell his sword. He survived those years purely by his bladework. He settled down when he met our mother, a true northern woman she is. But he taught us since we was little boys and I dare say we could more than hold our own in a scuffle.”

Guywin smiled as he spotted a clear hill to the left of the road, “I think we have ridden far enough for today. We will make camp here and stay the night. Legend has it that the Prince that was Promised used to spar often with the men that served him, to get to know their weaknesses, but also to show the men why he was worthy of their loyalty.” Gorm smiled as he followed his lord towards the hill, “You fancy yourself to be the second prince that was promised m’lord?” Guywin laughed at that, “Not quite what I meant, he was the true born son of a king, I am only adopted. But much like every other lad who ever picked up a sword he is a personal hero of mine. What say you we take a swing?” As Garhold tethered his horse to a tree he answered, “Well m’prince if the tales tell true then I think you’d be able to best either one of us quite easily.”

However Guywin had already set his mind to the matter, and he had always been a stubborn man, “Mayhaps if I took the both of you one at one time you might best me. Come Gorm, Garhold, if my steel does not sing every once in a while, my blood grows cold.” Gorm snorted at that, “If you’ll pardon me m’lord, but my brother and I are not well born, neither of us understood what you said just now. But if m’lord is sure then I suppose we could take a swing at it.”

The moment Guywin heard their acceptance he drew his sword, and twirled it in the air for a few seconds. There was no sweeter sound than that steel cutting a swathe through the air. The two brothers drew theirs as well and starting moving, one to the left, the other to the right in an attempt to flank Guywin. But it was moments like these that made him come alive, he never felt more at peace, more content than when he had a blade in his hand and an enemy to face. Life became so simple then. Guywin feigned right at Gorm before stepping left to parry the incoming blow from Garhold. Moving his blade to the left before twisting his wrist inward, he caught and directed Garhold’s sword to catch Gorm’s. He held it there for a moment, a humungous grin on his face, then he pushed two backwards off him and realised once more, as he always did in battles, that he was freakishly strong.

Both brother’s staggered back, caught off balance by the sudden push of their young lord. They attacked both at once and Guywin drew his dagger from his right hip and caught their blades on his. Again he slid his arms outwards to deflect their blows harmlessly from him. Finally the real dance began, Gorm and Garhold had only been testing him, seeing whether the cocky young upstart was truly as good with a blade as all the stories told. They came as a kraken would, moving blindingly fast, there was no time to think, only to feel as Guywin parried their blows one by one as they drove him backwards. It felt like he was facing a kraken with many arms and he had to concede that Jahun was right; these two could indeed wield a blade like few men ever did.

However Guywin was not the run of the mill swordsmen, men had oft jested he came out of the womb with a blade. He could not remember a time when he had not practised with the sword, spear, bow and lance each day. Grindingly he came to a halt and within moments the momentum of the battle had turned as he rained blows on the two brothers, dancing around them, using the momentum of their blows against them. Using their numbers to his advantage, he oft made them come into one another’s way. Every swordmaster he had ever trained under had marvelled at not only his strength, but how nimbly and gracefully he could fight. He could see the determined faces of the twins reflect the sheer admiration for his skill.

Within moments it was over, he slipped past Gorm’s defence and dealt him a stinging blow to his nose with the sword’s crossguard, Gorm’s eyes were blinded with tears and never saw the outstretched foot that tripped him. Without missing a beat he touched Gorm lightly on the chest with his sword whilst he parried Garhold’s strike with his dagger. In the blink of an eye he had turned his sword around in his hand and jabbed Garhold in the neck with the pommel. He swung the sword around once more and before Garhold could recover, he found himself staring at the long blade that was held to his throat. 

 Guywin deftly swung his blade from the throat of Garhold and sheathed it, “Well fought, I can see why my cousin has taken a liking to you two, you posses much greater skill than the average guardsman. I dare say that you would be able to defeat several knights I have crossed blades with.” Garhold nervously placed his hand over the spot where Guywin’s sword had been moments before, “Where did milord learn to fight like that? I have matched blades with many a knight. I have bested several of them before and been bested myself. But never before have I seen someone wield a blade like m’lord just did. Jahun was the finest blade I had tested myself against, but your abilities far exceed his!”

Guywin smiled as he helped the hapless Gorm from the ground with an outstretched hand, “If it is any consolation the two of you are the greatest challenge I’ve had in some time. Even upon the field of battle I found no challenge.”

Gorm looked at the young lord with an expression of pure curiosity, “Beggin your pardon milord, but what was it like, fighting the Daemn?” Guywin bent down and gathered the closest piece of wood, casually tossing it to the middle of their would be camp. He looked around him for more pieces, “Well for one...it’s nothing like the songs. In the songs all the men die fighting bravely against a fearsome monstrous foe. They stand their ground and they bleed it a glorious crimson all in defence of Lux Divina. Truth is...truth is it’s nothing like that. What did you suppose the Prince that was Promised did in his last few moments? Whisper some glorious words that his task was done? Truth is he probably shat himself. They all do! It’s not glorious, it’s dirty and grimy and slick and slippery with blood. Men begging for mercy, crying out to the mothers that gave birth to them, cursing their enemy for the pain they have inflicted upon them. Many break and run from battle shaming themselves...and the Daemn...the tales do not make them monstrous enough. Deformed beasts from the pits of hell, every nightmarish shape you could think of. Imagine your deepest darkest fear, somewhere among the ranks of the Daemn will be the embodiment of that fear. That is what makes them so deadly. It is one thing to stand in conflict against other men, but these creatures. They make your bowls turn to water!”

Guywin was silent for a while, thinking to himself, thinking back to that one creature that had looked like a demonic version of his own father, beckoning him closer to his blade. He did not tell them of how scared he was in that moment, fearing that the terror would become too much...that he would run.

He walked around gathering more firewood to his arms, the twins did the same, but remained within earshot to hear his entire tale, “If a man goes down they descend upon him, tearing his innards from the folds of his armour, gorging themselves on his life’s blood. Often they would come upon you with the flesh of a fallen comrade still sticking from between their fangs. Yet for all their ferocity they die as easily as any man. That is why if we hold our lines, if we stand our ground and fight like we are meant to, we can usually rout the Daemn. That is why Artos has been so successful; his army is a disciplined band of brother, veterans one and all. They know the enemy that they face. In fact amongst that exalted company I was the green boy. I kept my mouth shut, I listened to their plans, I squired for Lord Artos and only when the battle came upon us did my blade taste the black accursed blood of the Daemn. At first I feared them, who would not, but I saw how easily they fell beneath my blade. So I abandoned the fear and instead sought for one that could present me with a challenge. Yet none stepped forth. I slew many that day...that is why I received my knighthood.”

Guywin placed his pile on the ground and set to the task of making a fire, “Pray that you never have to face those accursed creatures. Pray that the greatest enemy you ever face are the outlaws and dark men from the north. For I do not think men were meant to face these enemies.” It was quite for a few moments as he struck a spark from his flint stone. The sky was starting to darken. He could hear the screams of the dying men once more. Horrid sounds, one did not hear them during tournaments. Bright banners blazing in the sky, silver trumpets, cheering crowds. Tournaments would always be more glorious than battle; the closest one could come to the battles described in the great songs.

He finally broke the unbearable silence, “So tell me of the North. Tell me of my home, it has been years since I last saw the great granite walls of the Fortress of Ridge and Vale.” The men grinned, it was clear they took great pride in serving in that place. Indeed long before the Lion’s Den had sprung up on the plateau; the Fortress of Ridge and Vale had already dominated the crest of the great mountain leading down to the plateau. It was a fortress without peer in all of the north. Indeed it rivalled the King’s citadel in Ouranos. How House Leonesse had come to it was now a mystery, but for as long as history recorded, the Lions had always occupied its hallowed halls.

Gorm answered, “Well milord it looks much the same it has for ten thousand years I suppose; large grey walls, thousands of men patrolling the walls in bright mail. I give your lady grandmother credit; the men tell me that the guard has not grown any more lax in discipline or in upkeep since the days in which your father was still himself. In that way the soldiers and guardsmen of the Ridge and Vale still command the respect and envy of the entire north. However things have not been at their best for some years. Lord Geor is mocked by the peasants. Your grandmother still commands respect, though the people yearn for a lord again. But there is a great deal of optimism now that your fostering is complete. Every time news of your achievements reached their ears the story would grow with each telling. In some circles it is whispered that you are a warrior without peer, someone who cannot be killed. The Prince that was Promised come again.”

At that Guywin burst out laughing, “Those same people did not see me bleed from the cuts of Daemn blades, or seen me bruised and beaten in the training yard by better and stronger men...” He grew quiet and poked the fire with a small stick, “But I wonder if their expectations are not too high. I am only a man, but my wish is to bring Leonesse back to its former glory. But these things will not happen overnight.”

The conversation fell silent and Guywin excused himself on the pretence of wanting to take a stroll. For the umpteenth time the worries came back to him. Like a mountain of crushing weight the self doubt hung around his shoulders. He was yet eighteen and already men expected him to right every wrong within the north. It was too much! How he longed for the days of simple squiring. What would happen to him if he did not live up to their expectations?

Yet to whom could he convey these feelings of inadequacy? There was no trusted companion with whom he could share this. It was the same all over, men heard who he was and revered him as an invincible son of the King. His grandmother would simply dismiss it as nonsense and his mother...he could not bring himself to appear so weak before her. He realised yet again, for all his achievements, for all his acquaintances, he was utterly alone. If only he could escape for a while yet! He oft thought how much simpler his life would’ve been if he had been born a second son, if he had been the follower instead of the leader. He had never been good at making real friends, but he had a talent for making followers out of companions. Yet now he wished for someone equal. The fact that he had been away from the north for so long did not help his dilemma at all.

He looked up at the sky at the millions of stars; somewhere out there he would find someone who could stand as his equal. Someone who did not only see the skill with the sword, the handsome looks, his talent for command. Someone who would know him for who he truly was in his quite moments, someone who could see the warrior poet, who could see that he was a great deal more sensitive than he appeared. And instead of loathing it, would love him for it. He quickly shook him out of his stupor and made back for camp. Who was he kidding? This was real life, not a fairytale. 

Their journey flew past quicker than Guywin would have imagined.  Yet it was long overdue when finally he reached the gates of the Lion’s Den. The great grey walls of granite rose eighty feet high; studded by many towers and bastions, surrounding a city of fierce north men. To the farthest north of the city, nestled in between an impassable mountain, stood the great fortress of Ridge and Vale; ancestral home of the Lions of the North. The city commanded a view stretching for many leagues and rose and dipped with the cliffs, yet its walls ran straight and true, leaving no weak point. It was the envy of every other northern house. For the fortress itself was monstrous, built by giants some said, others by the power of the King himself. It was surrounded by a wall standing a hundred feet tall and within a Keep that dominated the entire mountain. Three hundred feet tall it stood, coming together at its gates as the keel of a ship jutting from the waves. The roof slanted downwards from this point to the back of the mountain. But that enormous castle served as a reminder to all of the power of the House of Leonesse.

They rode through the gates, saluted by the spearmen guarding its huge entrance. They wore the blue cloaks of the North guardsmen, dressed in grey and sombre plate and mail, the lion of Leonesse roaring upon their surcoats. Guywin’s arrival prompted little interest from the common folk who were milling about the streets going about their business. That was what he had intended, most still expected him to arrive in a week’s time with a great retinue of guards and off course alongside his mother and grandmother. His garb was plain travelling clothes, his more elegant garments and armour on its way with the baggage train of their retinue. For now he wore simple hooded green travelling cloak and mail, appearing yet another simple travelling knight.

They made their way on to the gates of the Fortress in silence. Guywin did not display it on his face but he found himself in the highest of spirits to be among his people again. The green rising and falling of the North behind him filled him with a sense of belonging. Amidst all the radiant colours of the capitol, he had sometimes missed the simple grey and green and blue of the Lion’s Den.

At the great gates of the Fortress wall they were challenged, by two spearmen blocking their path, “Whom do I salute sir knight?”  Guywin smiled from beneath his hood, “The Young Lion of the North and heir to the Fortress of Ridge and Vale.” The guardsman looked unsure, “The Young Lion is yet leagues away, attending his grandmother and mother upon the road.” Irritation flashed Guywin’s face, this came of being away from home for so many years. He dropped his hood, brilliant golden hair spilling forth, “No he stands before you, you need only ask Garhold and Gorm here.” The two brothers nodded in unison, yet they were out of uniform and lightly clad as Guywin was, he would not have had them be weighted down by plate mail with his haste. Now he wondered whether he had made a mistake.

The guard still did not look sure, “You two seem familiar, but I’m afraid I cannot let you pass.” A vein was popping in Guywin’s neck from frustration, “Call my cousin Jahun then and let him verify truth in this matter. I grow tired of your incompetence in failing to recognise two brothers in arms.” The man seemed to bristle at the insult, yet he swallowed his anger and with gritted teeth responded, “With all due respect sir, the house guard of Lionesse numbers seven thousand men, impossible to know the face of every man that would serve here. I will however send someone to fetch the captain for you.”

They waited for another half an hour in which Guywin paced around restlessly. This was not the welcome he had inspected. How was this any better than being swamped by crowds of peasants he wondered? Finally his cousin appeared on the steps in plain grey armour; his cousin never was a man for adornments, his only distinguishing feature being the two golden stripes upon his grey pauldrons and his personal sigil which was that of the Lion of Leonesse trampling upon a crane. He marched with a determined look towards the gate, clearly irritated by being interrupted. His face changed however when he saw the young man standing next to the great white stallion. He rushed forward and embraced Guywin in a monstrous hug, “Cousin you little bastard! Sneaking up on us like that, we did not expect you for yet another week.” Guywin smiled still clasping his Jahun’s arm, “Haste to see home has brought me to our door early.” Jahun clapped him on the back and led him inside, the two smarting spearmen forgotten, “Still it is well met nonetheless and the city will rejoice at the homecoming of its finest son. I shall speak to the steward right away, the city must celebrate.” Guywin raised his hand, “I would have you not do so yet cousin and keep my arrival quiet for a while still. At least until the Lioness arrives.” His cousin looked at him perplexed, “Why would you wish that, you are revered as a hero among the people, the saviour of the North. They would feast and dance and celebrate your return as they haven’t celebrated in years.”

They started the ascent of the great steps leading to the iron studded oaken doors of the Keep, “It is for that very same reason I would have my arrival be kept silent. I wish to have a few days in peace to enjoy the wonders of the north. I want to explore the hills, to hunt to go swimming in the lake as the two of us once did as boys. I expect you will see to the wagging tongues of the two guards to at the gate?” Jahun nodded, “Very well so shall it be. Yet I should inform you that our grandmother has sent a pigeon with the message that the lords sworn to this house must gather within the fortnight.” Guywin nodded approvingly, “That is well, for I would have words with the brave men. Get to know them before I take place as their proper lord. But now cousin if you will allow I think I would like to make visit upon my father.” At the mention of lord Geor the smile fled from Jahun’s face. After all these years the ill state of his liege lord and uncle still pained him, it was a notion that somehow reassured Guywin. “By all means cousin I shall take you to him at once.” Guywin placed his hand on Jahun’s shoulder, “No need for that captain, I remember the way. This is my home after all. You have more important duties than escorting your cousin around, I am sure.” Jahun smiled at him warmly, “Ah now that I do, thanks to your father. It does my heart good to see you again Guywin.” He held out his hand, the Young Lion took it and pumped it vigorously, “As it was you my friend. Make preparation for tonight you and I will talk of our many glorious memories together.” 

Hey Aegon, you plan on publishing? Nowadays its a lot easier with e-books and such. Ya might wanna think about it.

The fortress had always been dark inside, the giant cavernous halls dominating the meagre light cast by torches and candles. Yet when he finally reached his father’s solar, he found it pleasantly bright. The door stood ajar, revealing an enormous room. One day this room would be his Guywin realised. A great goose feather bed dominated a large deal of the area, complimented by a desk and a bookshelf that scratched the roof. It was filled with books, when he was a younger man his father had adored reading, one of the few traits of lord Geor that Guywin had inherited. He found that the source of the light was coming from the balcony that lead out from his father’s room. The drapes were drawn back and the doors were open, sunlight streamed in. It was on the balcony overlooking the city that he found the two of them. Standing at the door was his father’s manservant Petar. The hair on his head had nearly all fallen out, and he smiled from underneath his giant beak shaped nose, “Welcome back master Guywin.” He took Petar’s hands in his own, “How is he?” Petar shook his head, “I’m afraid he is much the same as he has been for the past ten years. He sleeps, he rises, he sits and stares out over the lands. Never saying anything, never doing anything more than blinking his eyes or eating what is fed to him.”

Guywin shook his head, “What do the physicians say? Is there yet hope for recovery?” Petar looked down at the formerly proud Lord who had grown gaunt and thin throughout the years, “I fear they do not know my lord, some say he may yet recover, others that he will die like this. For all their wisdom they are none the wiser as to what is actually wrong with him. Physically he is a healthy mind, I fear it is a disease of the soul, and for that no man of medicine has any cure.” Guywin gently touched his father on the shoulder, but Geor did not appear to even notice the presence of his son.

Guywin pulled a chair and sat down next to his father, “You may leave us Petar, I shall call for you when I leave here.” Petar nodded, “Very well my lord, I shall retire to my room.” Guywin looked out over the city in the same way his father did every day. He felt his heart swell with love for the city, the people bustling through the busy streets and for the rolling green hills and cliffs beyond that. Involuntarily he thought back to that fateful day, he had been so very proud of his father before that day, so young, nine years old only. It was strange how much he could still recall.

He had been training in the yard with the other boys, blunted swords and small suits of heavy chainmail, heavier than it needed to be, designed to make the boys strong. Already back then he was far ahead of his peers in terms of skill with the blade. They were finishing up, taking off the heavy mail and replacing them when young Kiven ran up to him. Although he was already tall at the time, Guywin had been a lean boy, nothing of the muscles that dominated his body later on showed yet. But Kiven, Kiven was a large boy and freakishly strong for his age and a natural bully at that.

The cruel smile that dominated Kiven’s face made it clear to Guywin that whatever was coming next, he would not enjoy. “Guywin, did you hear the news about lord Geor?” Guywin slowly turned, still clasping the handle of his blunted sword, “What about my father?” Kiven licked his lips, as if savouring what was to come, “My father just told me, your father’s army was ambushed by the Daemn that had landed on the Northern shores.” In that instant Guywin prayed his father had won a great victory as he had sworn to do when he had called his banners and hastily set out to confront them before his full strength was gathered. But in his heart he knew that was not the case. Kiven sneered, “Well your father ran away, he ran away and abandoned his men, five thousand of them were slain. The greatest defeat the North has had in a hundred years my father says! Your Father is a coward Guywin! He’s a coward and now we all are in danger because of him.”

Guywin stood, anger gripping his heart, his entire body shook in nigh uncontrollable rage. Kiven leaned closer, “Like Father like son, you will grow up and be a coward, just like your father! The blood of a coward always shows, my father says” Guywin could not take it anymore, in that instant he flew at Kiven with the sword. He had beaten the boy so savagely the time the guards had pulled Guywin off Kiven the damage was so extensive that Kiven forever after walked with a limp and was unable to grip anything with his left hand.

The moment they had managed to drag him off the battered Kiven, he bolted from their hands and into the Keep. Tears blinded him and more than once he nearly ran into a servant. He sprinted all the way to his grandmother’s solar. He burst through the door, tears stains upon his cheeks. The scene that greeted him confirmed his worst fears, for his mother stood in tears, his grandmother ashen faced and Lord Berkhald looked forlorn. Guywin was still shaking visibly, “Tell me it’s not true!” He yelled, “Don’t tell me my father is a coward!” Berkhald approached him and knelt down in front of the little boy, placing a hand on his shoulder to comfort him, “Guywin, I...I’m so sorry...” He saw the pity in his great cousin’s eyes and he could not stand to be in the room for one instant longer. He shrugged of Berkhald’s hand and speedily turned around, sprinting from the room amidst his family’s cries to come back.

He did not stop until he reached his room. Once there he opened his wardrobe and took out the possessions he prized above all others in this world. A suit of fine chainmail made by the finest northern smiths, wonderfully light; made specifically for him. The shinguards, gauntlets, pauldrons and helm made from light lobster steel, one by one he equipped them. He pulled the blue doublet with the family crest over his head. Finally he took the steel sword and fastened it around his waist. He was ready and he set out towards the stables at a brisk trot, dreading the thought that he should be caught.

At the stables he mounted his white pony Snowmane and set out at full gallop towards the gates. Several guards tried to stop the young lad, but he just kept on riding. Either they would move or he would trample them. The moment he reached the city gates he turned his pony towards the northern shore, towards the daemn. If he died, it did not matter; he would show them all that House Leonesse was not a house of cowards! He pushed his pony as hard as he dared.

It was three days before they finally caught up to him. Even then he did not go meekly, spurring the pony forward while his great cousin rode him down on his great warhorse. Reaching for the reins, Guywin slashed at him with his sword and Berkhald’s hand was only saved by his steel gauntlets. They had to drag the young lord from his horse kicking and screaming. In the end Berkhald had no choice and he backhanded the young boy lightly across the helm. That calmed Guywin somewhat; Berkhald held the boy against his cheeks as sobs echoed from within the helmet. “Good lad, brave lad.” Berkhald whispered, “Were you going to face the entire Daemn army on your own?” Guywin nodded against his chest, Lord Berkhald smiled, “They are already defeated, I came upon them with the reserve force your father did not wait for. They are all dead, but one day you will have your chance.” At the news that there were no Daemn, all the strength and resolve had left Guywin and he collapsed meekly into an exhausted heap. He had slept for nearly the entire way back to the Lion’s Den.

Once there Lord Berkhald had carried him back to his bed and gently removed the armour as the boy slept. Only he wasn’t entirely asleep and he could hear every word that was spoken around him, for his mother and grandmother were gathered around him. It was the words of Berkhald that filled him with resolve once again. He could remember them well, “This boy’s fears are unfounded, he is as unlike from his father as night from day. I swear my lady, he would have charged into ten thousand daemn if they appeared from him. He would have died yes, but he would have died with a lion’s courage...a lionheart this one...a heart unaffected by fear. There can be no doubt; he will do great things for this house one day.”

What did you think of the reveal of lord Geor and why he's in the state he is? Sufficient buildup for his condition?

This week's excerpt features a trabadour inspired by a conversation I once had on here. Wonder if the lady will realise who I'm joking about  

That day he first felt the crushing weight of great expectation. As he grew in stature and favour with the men around him, as his accomplishments became more distinguished, so did the burden grow. Like a noose around his neck that got tighter with every victory, threatening to choke the life out of him. He had risen to such staggering heights that to fall from them would be devastating. It was almost as if he was waiting to fail, wondering with every challenge if this was to be the one to bring his downfall. He did not for one moment think his father left to fight the Daemn thinking it would be the one moment that would forever bring shame upon the house. Yet that was what happened.

Lord Geor returned several days later. At first he spoke, but as the snickering behind his back and the grumblings of his leal lords grew, he drew further and further back into himself. Ashamed by what he had done. This continued until one day he no longer spoke or did anything at all. And so the governance of the land fell to the Lioness and lord Geor missed the opportunity to see what an extraordinary man his son was growing up to be, or if he did he gave no acknowledgement of it.

Guywin rose, for he could no longer stand to be next to the man who only represented failure and fear. He was not even sure if his father had even known that his only son had been away for so many years. He left the stifling room, unsure of what to do next. He found a servant keeping vigil next to the door and despatched him to find Petar.

He just walked and found his feet leading him towards the Keep’s central gardens. Deep in the bowels of the fortress was an indoor garden of stunning beauty. Kept alive by rays of sunlight that were reflected of a series of polished mirrors, it was just another one of the great wonders the Fortress of Ridge and Vale concealed. He walked through the doors and found himself gasping for breath. Whoever the keep’s new gardener was, he had wrought miracles. The garden was well tended, the grass kept to a neat length. However it was the roses that had captured Guywin’s heart. For on all sides of the garden they rose higher than Guywin stood, in all different shades found in nature. However as he walked deeper and deeper into the garden their colours changed somehow and became more exotic until he was sure some strange magic was at work.

For as he continued they became radiant shades of dark purple and light blue, a thing unheard of. Each rose more beautiful and unique than the last. He reached the middle of the garden, a river had flowed through it and next to a giant oak, that had somehow grown more humongous in his time away, it culminated in a small waterfall. This had always been his favourite place. When the world became too much he had come here to be alone with his thoughts. However it had grown more beautiful, for wrapped around the trunk of the oak tree was a series of roses of the shade so dark it appeared to be drawn from the very pits of the night sky.

He sat down there, willing his soul to take in every detail and revel in the beauty around him. Feeling inspired he decided to try and compose poetry, as he was wont to do when being alone. The ladies at court in the capitol had been fond of asking him for a recital, something he was only too happy to do. A beautiful poem now and a few chaste kisses later behind a rose bush. He smiled to himself as he remembered one or two of those kisses had been a little less than chaste.

He smiled at a good memory, it appeared to him that no matter where he was, memory made the other place appear better. He sat in silence, yet the words would not come to him. What he was feeling refused to flow unto paper. Wherefore he decided to try his hand at something a little simpler. A wicked troubadour to ease clouded thought and lifted sullen spirit. These ones had always come easy to him, however he had always kept them to himself, so he had no idea how good he really was.

There once was an innocent kitten with golden fur

And everywhere all the tomcats wanted to be with her

Yet she would only laugh and pur

For none of them were worthy of her

 

On a summer’s day a lion came to

Wishing to relieve a kitty so blue

He roared and bristled his mane

And so quickly the innocent kitten became tame

 

He took her away and he took her to play

And on the starless night he made her day

And kitty demure finally did purr

For she was certain the lion was worthy of her

 

And so she gave her precious gift away

For she was sure the lion would stay

Yet as the sun delivered its first ray

The lion had already went away

Hoping to find another kitten to play

 

Guywin smiled to himself, a satisfying troubadour; bawdy, light hearted with simple wording. Yet he wondered at himself for writing one which could be construed as a sad tragedy in a momentary lapse of judgement.

Partly to make up for my review not being there tonight. THis will be the final entry into this thread story wise and I hope you enjoy it. It will show quite clearly where the direction of this story is headed. 

A Special shout out goes to Lady Lyanna!

 

Later that evening he sat down on the right side of the Lord’s seat in the great hall. A place of honour, yet as empty a gesture as the large wooden chair reminiscent of a throne. It had been years since lord Geor had claimed his place as the head of house Leonesse. Jahun sat across from Guywin, happily chewing on pheasant’s leg. The table was filled by lady Haithle and certain other family members and retainers of lesser import to Guywin. He was not in the best of moods; certainly his mood was darker than it had any right to be. After all he found himself home. His aunt Haithle was going on about something and Guywin paid her little heed. Her lisp has always been to his immense chagrin and he found it difficult to listen to her for long.

Johun smiled and turned towards Guywin, “I was riding the week before last and I found myself at a great favourite spot of ours when we were young. Do you remember Dragon Cove?” Guywin smiled off course he remembered. It was so named for the large dragon bones that dotted the area, including a large skull the colour of obsidian. No one quite knew why, but dragon bones never withered. Instead they remained where they had fallen; a testament to the bravery of the dragonslayer. For years it had been the boys’ playground. For what boy who saw a dragonskull did not also dream of the glory that comes from besting a dragon in mortal combat?

Jahun continued, “I remember we were there once, playing as we often did but this time I played a giant and you were the knight who was trying to slay me.” Guywin smiled to himself, he knew where this story was going. “You knocked me over the head with your club...I remember that day.” Jahun chuckled to himself, “Yes you little arse, you pretended to be passed out, and when I went to check on you out of concern, you knocked me between the legs with your wooden sword!” Jahun roared with laughter as he was wont to do. Guywin laughed with, and as he did it seemed that he shed years of worry. When they both had calmed down, their laughter much to the amusement of the others at the table, Guywin said, “Only you made one mistake in the telling of the story cousin. You did not check on me out of concern for my welfare, you did so out of concern for your own. For you knew if we got back to the Lion’s Den with me slung unconscious over my pony, that my father would’ve surely striped your bottom to like a zebra.”

At the mention of Lord Geor, the mood grew sombre and tense again. Jahun just nodded and said, “You speak the truth cousin...there are days when I miss my uncle terribly indeed.” He rose from his chair, cup in hand and raised it, “I propose a toast! To Lord Geor, may he return to us soon, in full health!” The other guests awkwardly rose and pronounced, “to Lord Geor.” Guywin raised his cup, but he remained quiet, having given up on an improvement of his father’s condition a long time ago.

The festive mood that had grabbed them all earlier was now shattered, replaced by a very grim and silent atmosphere. Guywin drank the rest of his cup’s content in a single gulp, not even tasting the rare and ancient wine that was reserved for the lord of the Lion’s Den.  It left a bitter after taste of bile at the back of his throat that threatened to push up. Jahun must’ve seen the depressed expression on his face because the next moment he said, “I have cheerful news from our grandmother cousin! I received a pigeon with news today. She has written to all the lords of the north, inviting them and their knights of note and renown to what she calls the Lion’s Tournament in two months time. We are to start making preparations immediately. I daresay cousin a home coming tournament is a great honour.”

Guywin’s heart sank at the news. This was the last thing he had wanted; he sometimes wished men would stop trumpeting his talents to the known world. However if there was one thing that he had learned in his time at the capitol it was that a lord showed only what he wanted people to see. So instead he smiled at Jahun and cheerfully said, “It will only be a great honour if you ride beside me cousin Jahun.” The crane’s bastard beamed at the compliment, raised his glass and roared his consent. 

That night Guywin crept into his bed, at war with himself. He was half at peace and glad to be home and in the north, the other half dreading what was to come. For if he had understood his grandmother correct she intended to host a tourney for all the northern lords. Surely they would all come to honour him, but at the same time every one of them would try their best to defeat their future liege lord. They would be sorely mistaken for Guywin was nowhere as at home as on a horse with a weapon. Yet the very fact that he knew the reason for their coming weighed heavily on his mind. It was a lonely place at the top. Being the greatest of his generation meant that whatever there was always someone who wanted to take his place. If he was anyone else, they’d be welcome to it. However as the only son of the greatest house of the north and a prince of the realm, he was honour bound to protect it. He resolved to find someone during this tournament who he could trust, who he could turn to in times of need, someone to ease the burden of command.

With these thoughts he finally drifted off to sleep. Darkness surrounded him. He was standing somewhere he had never been before, he was sure of it. The only light emanated from the silver of his drawn blade. He heard it before he saw anything, strange music, from an instrument he had never heard before. A woman’s voice was singing softly in tune with it. Her voice seemed sad, yet it flowed with an otherworldly beauty. He lowered his sword, taking in the music, feeling his heart melt along to it. It reminded him of so many things, safety, home, his childhood, and long forgotten dreams. But it also awoke a fierce longing in his heart for someone to hold close, someone to love. And all within him knew in that instant he had to find the woman who was singing. He held out his sword, letting the meagre light it cast lead him onwards.

His boots echoed along the corridor he had assumed he was in. Above the music a great and terrible voice spoke, “Beware! Beware! Your doom is at hand! Your heart’s desire has been found!” Yet he kept on walking onwards, knowing that to turn would be to admit defeat. A great flame of golden red burst forth hurtling towards him, and yet he was unafraid and he allowed himself to be engulfed. It burnt, but it made him stronger, stronger like he always felt when he was standing next to his Lord and King. He could feel the King, could feel the touch of his giant hands, could feel the heat of his breath, could feel the strength that so easily flowed from him. He heard the King’s voice as clear as the sunlight breaking through clouds of rain, “Prove yourself worthy and she is yours. Go to her and know she is my gift for you will be together...” The King’s words gave him courage and the fire blazing around him paved the way as he ran forward.

He came to the end of a corridor and he saw her standing upon a lonely hill. The sky was dark and only broken by great flashes of lightening. Around her the bones of a thousand men were strewn amongst swords and armour. Guywin knew a great battle had taken place there and no clear victor was determined. Her back was turned towards him. She wore a red dress, yet redder still was her hair, bathed in the same flame in which Guywin had found himself engulfed. It was blowing in the wind yet moved so slowly it scarce appeared to stir at all. Her song continued as he approached cautiously, but she stopped abruptly and turned around.

Afterwards he would spend many hours trying to remember her face, yet as dreams were oft want to do, he could not recall what she looked like. Except that she was a woman of such great beauty that no other he had ever seen before came close to her. All he could remember was that fiery red hair. The music still continued, sad yet glorious, accompanied by a thousand voices singing in a choir; their voices came from all around Guywin. They sang in a language Guywin could not understand, yet it sounded as if it was a tongue the King himself had invented. Amongst the music Gywin could only stare at the great beauty on the hill before him. She stood there and simply stared back, yet to Guywin it felt as if she was looking into the very darkest depths of his soul.

Finally her voice came, sweet and pure, “Lionheart! When will you realise that the craven’s blood has not tainted your veins? When will you realise that if should ever meet defeat it will only serve to make you stronger? For I see who you truly are! You are the very paradox of a warrior! For you think that it is not courage that keeps you in battle but fear! You fear what would happen if you run!  And so you stay and you fight because the enemy before you could not be as great as the failure of your father behind you.”

At her words tears began to stream down Guywin’s face, he sunk to his knees knowing that what she said was true. Knowing she had said out loud the one thing he could never admit to anyone. As she continued speaking she started walking down the hill towards him. “But I tell you now that there is a fire within you that goes beyond your fear! You will betray those you have sworn to serve! You will betray honour and you will do it fighting for the only thing that truly matters! You will wage a holy war for love! And in doing so, you will discover the strength of your own soul...in doing so you will win the one thing your heart has always desired.” She reached him and knelt down in the mud before him. Taking his head in her hands, she raised it until he looked into her eyes. They shone with the strength of a millions stars, the shone like the blue of the clearest ocean. Slowly she reached forward and kissed him once upon the lips. As she did so a great light exploded, fire surrounded them both and Guywin felt as if he was flying upon great wings. The voices of the choir reached a great crescendo and great drums were echoing in the night. Sounding louder and louder, growing until it felt as if they were beating within his very head.

Guywin woke with a start, for someone was banging upon the great oak door of his room. He wiped his eyes and tried to make sense of the dream that had been so vivid that his present reality appeared dim and untrue.

 He had to consult one of the town clergymen, but he was sure he had received what they all called “visions from the King.” Dreams visited upon those who held a special place within the plans and designs of the king. So few men ever received them that there raged a great debate whether they truly and existed or if it was simply men reading too much into their own dreams. However this one was different Guywin was sure of it, for he had felt the very presence of the king himself. It was something he had never before experienced in his sleeping hours.

Ok. Fun fic time.