Hope
And even... excitation.
That was the swelling warmth that Lord Rurik Slater felt in his chest, almost droving back the cold on his skins, as he was almost shining with absolute resolution and the fierce urge to fight. The men in the castle, around him, all watched, with tense anticipation, as the first light of dawn brushed over frost-stained fields. Listening to his praises, following his orders, their heart now burning with pride and hope as they listened to the news.
Now that the Boltons waste their time laying siege to their stronghold, Rurik's bannermen, still unpressured, have the chance to regroup.
Soon, the valleys will swell with banners bearing the black pine on a silver field, a crescent moon rising behind it.
His sigil.
And they will show these flayers' worshippers whom they should truly fear.
This was the day they had prepared for, the clash with the Red Banner. An attack they expected. Charge, fury, and steel they had readied themselves for.
Yet all anticipation faltered at the sight before him and his men. The enemy was laying siege.
Giving them time to prepare, and to wait for reinforcements.
The fools.
That is what happens when you are feared by everyone around you, labeled as a "Red King," and only have worms for subjects.
You begin to expect your enemies to stay hidden in their castle while you tranquilly lay siege, assuming nobody would dare stand openly against you, afraid of your mere presence.
Red King, this overconfidence will kill you.
Soon, my father will be avenged, by your blood. And the entire haunting legend you and your cursed forebearers spent so long building will crumble. Everyone will realize that you are nothing.
Not a monster.
Not a beast.
Not a demon from the deep earth, ready to swallow babies and drink virgin blood.
Just a man.
A man who can bleed.
A man who can die.
Just a man. Not even a king.
That's what the new Lord Slater had in mind while watching with a calm resolution the camp in front of him.
Where the men were busy, leaving the palisades and erecting wooden stakes around the castle, beginning to assemble the pieces of some siege machine, or simply going about their business.
Although some seemed to have left, many horses around the camp seemed to be missing, their riders with them.
He got his answer when, in the distance, Lord Slater could see a red flame on the horizon and the yellow flames growing. His fist clenched in rage, as the young lord could see the clouds of black smoke beginning to spread, emerging from behind the hills.
That was the hardest part, letting his people suffer at the hands of this scum, while he was there, a hoofbeat away, so close.
He could leap onto his horse, raise his sword, inspire courage in his soldiers before they all stormed out the main gate, weapons in hand, arriving in the camp below to cut up this band of cowards, slitting throats, cutting, burning, until even the ground on which this scum had cursed by his presence was scorched.
They would then continue up the hill, before descending on the village, surprising the raiders, cutting them down one by one, for all the harm they had done and were going to do to their compatriots, their friends, their families, their brothers and sisters and mothers and wives.
They would all deserve it, a thousand and one times over.
But no, instead, he must resolve to wait, follow the plan, let his friends assemble their troops, only being able to leave the fortress once his family's black pine banners are on the horizon.
And for now, he can only wait. Hunker down in his fortress. Listening to his people suffer, cry, plead. Men and children will be put to the sword, if the riders are in a generous mood, and women will suffer a fate even worse than the feel of the blade at their throats.
He must watch, admire, live quietly, while children are forced to watch their mothers and sisters be raped to death, before being put in slavery, took to then be sent in the land of the terrible red lord. he must see his people being put to the sword, his land be burned, homes reduced to ashes and corpses. The wheat and barley, the fruit of his people's hard work, be reclaimed by those filthy hands, leaving the survivors of the massacres to starve when winter approaches.
Winter is coming. That's something he and those Stark idiots can still agree on.
What a good lord he is.
Even when he has driven the rapists of the earth from his borders, he will no longer be worthy of being called a lord.
He will have let his people die, or suffer a fate worse than anything, only to then die, while he is looking on with contempt from his warm little corner, with food at every meal and protected by wide stone walls and heavy wooden gates.
Three meals a day.
It'll be just one from now on; he doesn't deserve more.
His ruminating thoughts are interrupted when he sees some commotion in the opposing camp. Some soldiers are opening the passage, standing in two rows facing each other, in order to salute and let someone pass.
...
From the Bolton host, a single rider emerged. His white horse trotting towards the stronghold, crushing the few traces of grass still alive in its path. He came with a deliberately slow pace, his mount's hooves crunching the frozen earth in a steady rhythm. In his right hand he hold a banner, the white flag fluttering over his head... pale and ghostly against the morning sky.
Even from his tower, afar, Jorren could see that the rider was unusual. Almost like glooming in the entire place. Somewhat even close to the eccentricity of his master in term of... what does the southerners call it ?
Ah yes, refined and exquisites clothes.
Some fancy words to call a waste of money, sums of gold that could be enough buy a house, food for a year and a good sword, scattered in things as useless as pretty rags.
"Don't take this sophistication only for misplaced pride or the need to show off."
Master Alester said as he leaned on the battlements on the side of Jorren, fixing the new actor with his gaze.
"Fear is a very effective tool, especially in war. We could even says that it is the most effective one. 'Cause as long as it strikes the heart of your enemies, whether enough to make them flee or just to give them weak legs to stand on, you can says that you already won."
He man continues as the riders seems to take his time, like if he was sent to pick daisies.
The old man turn to Jorren, his one meters long beard now tied in a quite fine knot. His eyes now focused on the guard.
"As for two men drawing sword as each other as in a battle where thousands clash against each other, there is not only one but two battle that have been set, the one with hands, and the one with minds."
Jorren can only close his eyes as he see the old captain punch him, only for his hand to stop at some centimeters of his face, almost crushing him.
"You saw it coming, but didn't reacted." He said as he return to his previous place. "Your body was ready, but not was your mind. This is somewhat the same idea... roughly."
He put both his hands on the parapet. His eyes cold, but not devoid of fury. "If the enemy can touch your mind, he has already won one battle on two, and is way more close to finish the second in with the same spirit. Whatever your weapons, numbers or real chances of victory..."
"If he can sense what you will do even before you think of it, or at least make sure he make your mind weak, feeble, ineffective despite of every inch of intelligence you could find in it, the winner is already sorted even before the battle had began."
"And this man..." The sixty years old man in full plates continues while waving his hand in direction of the sharp looking rider. "As well as his wicked master, and their fathers before, and their father's fathers before them, they understood it."
"It is the same as their banner, it is not just assholes showing to the world how they torture their victims, and showing it just because they find it funny..." A cloud escape The captain's lips, the cold still present despite the coming of the sun.
"It is a warning. A way of showing what happen when you cross their path. A tool to instil fear in the heart of their enemies... and friends."
"Down here in the north." The old man says with a grim smile "There is few Houses that really mastered psychological warfare, or war without steel, as you northerners says... and House Bolton is, by far, the most advanced of them all."
"So, this, it isn't just 'fashion'." The vale accent began to show up as the old man says the term. "Or being little dapper boys."
"It is war, it is tactic, it is touching the enemy before even drawing your sword...It is the impression, a show. And in all things, even in war, especially in war actually, impression matter... often even more than facts."
As the old warrior then brought himself back to silence, watching the envoy with all of his focus, Jorren then also began to paid more attention to the rider, analysing his armour.
The steel was pale as bone, etched with lines going everywhere in the down and up parts and in the members, like the roots and arms of a dead tree.
A cloak of deep violet hung from his shoulders, fastened with a clasp shaped like a twisted knot of wood. Upon his breastplate gleamed a single, unmistakable sigil... a tree, slashed and bleeding.
From his branches, blood was flooding and dripping, like if the tree had human veins that were cut of open. A weirwood cut open to bleed, displayed as such for the world to see their sacrilegious infamy.
From a branche of the weirwood, a pale white chalice was hanging low, catching the blood. Like some sort of darks rituals.
Which is not far from reality.
For the soldiers of Bolton's army, the men belonging to this sigil were recognisable, few, but still apart, wearing the same banners as the riders, sometimes with a calice not hanging but put under the tree, sometimes the tree not white and bleeding but completely red, sometimes the Calice was red.
Even for the simple soldiers, their clothes were different, still, the violet drippings were simplified into stark red, to blend in and less contrast with the other bannermen of the Dreadfort lord.
Even from a distance, Jorren could recognized the rider.
"House Thorrn." Alester said before spiting on the ground, like he had pronounced a blasphemy. "The Hollowshade's ghosts."
House Thorrn, of Hollowshade, the heralds of the Dreadfort. The eternal envoys of the red kings, the bearer of words from the lord of blood.
The watchers and judges, who measured their truth not in talks and nice words, but in the blood of the innocent.
"Blood remembers."
No one did not recognise this House motto. Having lived in the stories brought by the few witnesses... stories of horror and of cruel judgement. Truths carved in blood, based on laws older than crowns, of rituals, customs far before even the arriving of the first men. When the land was cursed and wild.
The Boltons might flay for cruelty, amusement or to instil terror. But Thorrn did and made bled for knowledge, for secrets pried open like ribs.
Unlike the Red Kings, Thorrn rarely flayed their enemies and preys.
Yet they were said to descend from First Men blood priests, tribes descending from the deepest caves of the highest mountains, whispering to undignified gods, drinking the heartsblood of fallen foes to uncover knowledge. Predicting the future and carving erudition through a single sip of blood. Seer of blood. Some said.
Cause in the blood of a man, reside his life. And in life, there is truth. As said his nan the only time she spoke bout them.
Whatever this shit means.
Vaelric Clarhendhael, the founder of their line, was the descendant of such lineage of wild men, feudalising his tribe out of the traditional tribal way, after a forced migration from their ancestral place, to install them in the deep north, and change to the life of lord and castle, without ever forgetting his ways of life.
The legends had him declaring himself lord by sipping from a cup he had carved from his father's skull after a ritual combat, declaring that "only the blood tells truth."
The house's sigil, the chalice catching the bleeding tree's sap, was in way like their master, a threat, as well as a real practical thing.
You are probably no tree, no wolf or no mermaid, but us, with are in pace with our sigil.
The rider stopped well within bowshot, and his mount's breath puffed in white clouds. His helm, shaped into a gaunt, expressionless face, that Jorren interpreted to be the representation of a dead skull, turned slowly toward the castle as if weighing it. Though he bore a white flag, he could have as well have a whip in his hand, as he there was no fear in his stance... like a cold and authoritarian master.
Jorren's jaw tightened. He had hoped that Bolton would send a warlord or a champion, to end this right now and easily, and begone with it, whatever the end.
But instead, they had this ghostly envoy. Messenger of some sort.
"Mmmm." Alester made
"I didn't expected lord Bolton to be the negotiating type."
"Unless there is agressive negotiations."
The rider halted well within bowshot, without any fear of being shot.
After all, House Slater is a proud and honorable House, his status of white flag bearer give him immunity, as long as he does not trespass his rights.
Slater's hand curled into a fist on the battlement stone, his face cold. Whatever peace this specter bore, it was worth nothing. A white flag in the hands of House Thorrn only mean Bolton is eager to take some prisoners, nothing more.
Maybe his dungeons had become a bit empty recently, and he feel the need to refill his stocks of victims to abuse ?
The rider waited quite a time before speaking, letting the atmosphere install itself, or maybe just continuing to observe the keep from his better position. There was no hurry or hesitation in his moves, or his lack of moves, only the slowness of a man certain no harm would befall him. The white flag fluttered faintly in the winter wind.
Then, in one precise gesture, he lifted his right hand from the reins and placed it flat on his chest, over the chalice placated on his breastplate ; a formal salute. His head dipped slightly, his expressionless helm tilting just enough to acknowledge the battlements above.
"Lord Slater," the voice emerged from behind the steel, low and steady, carrying across the frost-bitten air, like whisper in Jorren's ears, but somehow clearly understandable. "By the blood that remembers, and the one that gives duty. I bring you the words of my master."
The envoy's gaze, hidden in the helm's hollow eye sockets, seemed to fix not just on Slater, but on each man along the wall.
The silence that followed was deliberate, stretching just long enough to make the men shift uneasily before Slater spoke.
"You may speak," the lord said, his tone clipped, eyes narrowing.
The rider inclined his head again, but only slightly, as though obeying a formality rather than the man. "The Red King extends you this choice, yield. Open your gates before the moon's rise, and your household will be spared the knife. Resist, and your blood will be taken, and all truth there is beneath your skin revealed, as the Old Ways demand."
A few of Slater's men spat over the battlements, but the envoy did not react. His posture remained rigid, unshaken, the pale armor glinting in the weak daylight like bone in the snow.
"And should I refuse outright?" Slater asked, leaning forward on the parapet.
The envoy's head tilted ever so slightly, as if amused. "Then, my lord… the earth itself will remember the foolish words that came out of your lips."
The silence stretched for a few seconds before being interrupted by a spit from the young Lord.
"Threats, and tales of knives and blood," Lord Slater said with an amused smile.
"And I was a fool to expect even the slightest refinement in the diplomacy, from a house of kinslayers and goatfuckers. Truly, what a fool I am."
This comment did not pass unnoticed, as even through his closed helmet, Jorren could swear to see flaming eyes directed toward his young lord.
"Such a madman's tongue," the rider replied, voice low and cold. "Undignified of a house such as yours. Be sure your blades are as sharp as your words, Lord Slater, for my liege's most certainly are."
He tapped his saddle and rode forward, nearly to the trenches at the castle's base.
"Tales of my master's skill and power are no mere fable. Any who cross his path will be stripped of their skin, their shame displayed for all the world to see. As My King forgets nothing, especially such insolence."
The rider leaned slightly in his saddle, a hand over his heart in mock salute.
"But my master has a different fate for whom ride by his side. For my master… is nothing if not generous."
He turned his horse to the right, no longer facing the walls, and swept an arm toward the valley beyond.
"Your lands, Lord Slater. Look upon them, and weigh your next words with care."
"I see..." the young lord replied from the battlements. "A threat... or a honeyed threat. Is that all?"
The envoy did not answer at once. Nor did he depart. He seemed to weigh his next words.
"As said, my master is generous." He repeated, before continuing, "Bend the knee Lord slater, and you will see everything you could hope from him and more... A protection from any danger your house could fear, even in its darkest dreams, as anyone under the red banner is a brother, and every petty enemy of a brother is only future prey."
"Such words, my lord," Slater said with a slow smile. "Strange… this pathetic notion of a pack reeks more of Winterfell than the Dreadfort. Tell me... has the Red King ever flayed his own flesh ? For I begin to wonder if, beneath those human layers, we might find wolf-hide."
At this point, Jorren could swear that he thought the rider would promptly leave, as he could hear almost all of the soldiers on the wall fall into a commune laugh at the envoy.
After all, few have lived for such a taunt toward the red king. But despite that, the rider stays. As Lord slater continue.
"Protection... is that all ?" The young Lord said with a smile
"So much things I have to give for something I have already, and that I am very capable to keep, even alone."
"You are wrong... My Lord." The envoy says with, for sure, as smile on his lips. "As you will give nothing to my King, if not a simple and single move of your body."
"You have gold you cherish, enough to build two more castles and still be rich?" dismissing the matter as one might brush aside mud., "Then keep it."
"The rich lands of your ancestors, that you would die for ?" The envoy added, without ever feeling like a real question, "Keep them. Do as you wish... grow them into something beautiful, or burn them to the ground, as you care. it is yours."
"You have brave men, women, and children, whom you would protect at any cost ?" The envoy pointed toward the host amassed on the walls in a showy gesture, "They are yours, and yours alone."
"You have a castle, and the thought of invaders crossing its threshold repulses you ?" The envoy put a hand on his torso, in a promise, "Not a single one of our men-at-arms will set foot beyond your gate."
The envoy let a short silence before continuing
"You have ships resting in your harbors, swift and strong enough to outrun any foe ? They will sail only under your command. And not any of their sails will have to bear the red mark, only your oak, my lord."
"You have stores of grain and meat enough to feed your house through ten winters ? Enough to make the whole North envy you ? Not a single crumb will be taken. Not a single seed of barley will be taken."
"You have daughters and sons, heirs to your name and blood? No harm will come to them, nor will they be wed or fostered without your leave." The horse made a silent move of the head as his rider give a slight push of the boots, "You have the right to rule every men, women, animal tree and living being in your land, to pass judgment, to hang or pardon as you see fit? That right remains untouched, unquestioned. You are sole judge, jury and executioner of every inch of ground in your borders."
The rider straightened in his saddle, the pale plates of his armor creaking faintly. His voice, when it came again, was steady, measured as always. His arm stretched in direction of the lord, presenting his hand, like a man wating for a debt to be repaid. In a final speech.
"My lord asks for only one thing," he said, the white flag drifting lazily in the cold wind, almost blending in the snow. "Bend the knee. Swear allegiance, and all you have named remains untouched. No gold taken, no land claimed, no blood spilt within or outside your walls. In return, you will ride beneath the red banner, and your sigil will join our vassal's, in the armies of loyal bannermen we have, and in doing so, you will never know fear from any other quarter again."
His skull-faced helm tilted slightly upward, as if studying the sky.
"You would stand not alone in the storm, whether it came from the starks, the number seven worshippers, or even the scum from the iron island, but you will be among brothers.... the strong, the feared, the remembered. All assembled, under the protector eye of the red King."
Then his gaze lowered again, those hollow eye sockets fixed on Slater.
"Refuse, and every stone of this keep, every tree in this lands, will remember the day you defied the Dreadfort. Your name will be whispered in fear, not from you, I can assure you, but of fear of the judgment of my lord, as you will be prime exemple of it for generations and generations to come, and so does will be your followers..."
"Maybe you will be his next personal banner, who knows..."
There came another murmur, almost too soft to hear.
"Or perhaps a cloak, should he find you pleasing to look upon..."
Jorren could not tell whether those last words had truly come from the envoy, or whether they had been whispered by his own imagination.
The silence that followed felt heavier than everything Jorren had endured in his life. As the riders stood in his saddle, utterly still.
He leaned slightly forward, the pale visor catching the new sunlight. "All my master asks, proud Lord Slater, is the bending of your knee... Nothing more. And only from you. Your allegiance… and the acknowledgement of the Red King's dominion."
Slater's jaw tightened. His fingers curled around the stone, knuckles almost white. "Bending the knee ? You presume too much about the courage of the men of Darkwood Hold, envoy."
The rider's helm tilted, in some slight moves, repeated at least five times, just enough for Jorren to sense the faintest flicker of amusement, though the pale, gaunt face remained as expressionless as ever.
"Presumption is the luxury of those who fear nothing, my proud lord. As I do, beneath my master's protection. A protection you might yet enjoy, should your pride permit it."
He paused.
"Again, he asks no great thing of you. Only that your house give its word to him and to his blood, and that you suffer the Red Banner to pass unchallenged in the days to come, until the last days are set upon this world."
He paused again, letting the silence stretch longer this time, "The choice is yours, proud Lord Slater. Bow, and all you have… remain untouched. Stand, and it will not... And my master's mercy will not stretch beyond the limits of his patience."
"I should tell my archers to carve a nice hole through that pretty armour of yours, envoy." Lord Slater responded, with annoyance.
"I am Rurik Slater, of House Slater, son of Johan Slater. I am a proud lord of a proud house, leading proud men. Do you truly think I would dishonour my ancestors by allowing even a single one of you fuckers into my keep ?"
The envoy leaned his head, clearly amused. "Honour ?"
The envoy's skull-like helm tilted, as though weighing the word on his tongue. Like a foreign word he tried to make some sense of.
"Honour," he repeated, drawing it out, as if tasting it.
"A fine word. A beautiful word. And a heavy one."
A faint pause.
"Yet in my master's lands, it is the word most often carved upon the graves of fools."
His gauntleted rested lightly on the pommel of his saddle, tapping with annoyance.
"You speak of your dear ancestors, the one whom your blood came from, of their pride. Do you think their cold bones would warm at the thought of you... son of Johan... throwing away all they built, for generations, for the sole pleasure of dying well ? With a blade in your hand, like the warriors in the saga ? Or would they call you by another word… one I shall not utter before your men ?"
Lord Slater grimed "Insult, whispered words and metaphors, that's all there is from the feared house Thornn, how disappointing."
The envoy advanced slowly, the clogs of his horse crunching against the frost-hardened earth. The white flag still fluttered above him, before he planted it on the ground. He then turned to face the walls, this time completely ignoring the young Lord, instead seeming to watch all his others listeners. And his voice carried across the valley, over battlements and banners alike, sharp, as he made his horse trot around the walls.
"Friends, bannermen, soldiers of House Slater…"
"You have heard your young and proud lord speak. You have heard Rurik Slater, son of Johan Slater, speak of honour, of pride, of the blood of his ancestors coursing through him. He spoke about his house, the noble house Slater, whom the pride is earned a thousand times, and the honour is indisputable."
"Yes... Truly, he is a man of honour."
Jorren could only watch with perplexity his captain, as the riders continued, the old man from the vale seeming to be more and more anxious as the minutes passed and the envoys was allowed to speak.
"He boasts of protecting his lands, his gold, his castle, and his people. And is he not honourable for it ? Aye, honourable indeed. There is naught but honour in such things... honour, and courage."
The man let a little pause before adding
"But honour alone shall not shield them from what is coming. Yet he is honourable."
"He proclaims that he shall not yield. That none shall breach his walls. That his hand shall strike down any who dare approach the gates of his ancestors. And who among us can deny the courage in such words ? Surely, he is honourable."
"Aye. Full of courage he is. Full of trust in himself and in his men. A man full of honour."
He let the words linger in the cold air.
"Just as all the others were before him."
There was a pause. A brief one.
"He speaks of defiance against my master, the Red King. Of standing unbowed before the Red Banner. Standing proud and brave against every tide, against such an impressive host. Against the great host my master has gathered just for him. Choosing to fight, even when the odds are so grievously against him."
"And is such steadfast pride not commendable ? Aye. Commendable it is."
The envoy's horse continued its slow moves beneath the walls.
"But honour can hold back this force of iron and steel no more than it can hold back the waves of the wildest sea."
He paused.
"Yet he is honourable."
"He vows to guard every one of you. Every man, every woman, every child placed beneath his care. To shield them from whatever harm may come. And in this, surely, we see his devotion. His fierce protection. His loyalty. Surely... he is honourable."
"He stands proud and unyielding atop these walls, calling defiance virtue, faking stubbornness into courage. Taking pride in the foolish, and shame in the wise. And who among you can deny him ? He is... honourable."
The envoy's voice carried farther now, reaching every corner of the battlements.
"Yes, my friends. Lord Rurik Slater, of proud House Slater, son of Johan Slater, is an honourable man. He is nothing... but honourable."
Another pause. Then another repeat. As a mock toward the concept itself.
"He is... honourable."
God damn it.
That's what brought Jorren back, previously entirely captivated by the mesmerizing speech and gesture of the riders. The swearing of good old captain Alester having brought him back from this fewer dream of words.
He turned as he could see the old man continue to swear every bit of insult he could have learned in his live, running through the ladder of the tower to go back on the walls, with the urge to goas fast as he can like he realised he had to stop something from happening.
Jorren could only even asked himself what had passed in the old man's mind that his gaze went back on the riders. That gave a short silence before continuing.
"Yes, he is honourable."
Truly he is.
"He stands proud upon these walls, yet earth beneath his feet trembles at the very thought of armies he cannot see. Human waves, ready to tear down every living thing where my master has decreed that salt shall be sown upon the earth. Every tree in this valley, every stone in his fields, shall remember, unto the end of days, the passing of my master's banners. And yet... he is honourable."
"He boasts of men-at-arms loyal unto death. Yet even the bravest heart shall falter when the Red King's wrath sweeps through these valleys. When the skin is taken away, and the real is revealed. When courage, clothes, lies, titles, armour and facade are stripped bare, and nothing remains but the man beneath. And still... he is honourable."
"He trusts in walls, in gates, in his fine wooden towers, tall and cold. But stone cannot bleed. Stone cannot feel the terror of what rides beneath the Red Banner, nor know the power that dwells beneath the Dreadfort."
He turned his skull-faced helm toward the keep.
"And it shall not be the stone that suffers a fate worse than death for his pride."
"And yet... he is honourable."
Even with his helmet now, anyone could see the smiling lips from which these words were said.
"He calls his pile of oak a fortress. His lands, a kingdom unto themselves. His ancestors, an unbroken line of fierce warriors, as though they might rise from their graves, take up their swords, and come marching to his aid. But wood and lineage do not turn the tide of steel and blood. And still... he is honourable."
A faint breath of laughter touched his voice.
"He claims his honour. His courage. His pride. And expects these things to shield all within this stronghold, to cover him like a cloak of mail and the hardest leather. Yet pride is but armour full of holes. And even the fiercest pride cannot stand alone against the storm my master brings."
"And yet... he is honourable."
Then envoy then stretched his hand toward the young lord, one sign from one finger, as if casting a silent curse unto him, exposing him for everyone to see.
"Look upon him, my friends. Look upon the son of Good Johan Slater, standing proud and unmoving, certain in his childish desires. Ready to cast you all into the grave for the sake of his pride and his petty warmonger dreams. And know this... every boast, every oath, every cry for loyalty shall crumble beneath the Red Banner.
"And yet... he is honourable."
His voice hardened, like steel. As if it was a mixed between curs spat with the vilest hate, and the most laughing condescendance.
"Yes. ... He is honourable, nothing but honourable... But honour shall not save him."
His voice rose again, now like thunder and storm.
"No !"
"Honour shall not save his castle ! Honour shall not save his lands ! Honour shall not save his people! Honour shall not save his family from the sharpness of the blade! Honour shall not save Rurik Slater..."
"And then—"
Jorren lost his focus, as the riders suddenly stopped, interrupted by a loud crack, at once followed by the sound of steel meeting steel at high speed.
The armoured man looked down toward his belly. A crossbow bolt had found its mark, jutting from his armour.
For one heartbeat, none moved.
Then the Thorn rider reached down, seized the shaft, and tore it from his armour without ceremony. Casting it aside as though it were little more than a twig.
He appeared scarcely troubled.
The bolt had pierced the outer plate, but there it had found the mail beneath, and the links had turned its deadly bite.
Jorren turned toward the walls. Captain Alester stood there with the crossbow still in his hands, already preparing another shot. His old eyes were fixed upon the rider with a look that needed no words.
Do not push it, asshole.
The envoy slowly turned his helm toward the battlements.
"Now, Lord Slater, I shall speak my final word to you." One gauntleted finger rose, pointing toward the young lord. "Or at least, if you are too witless to make the right choice."
His voice remained calm.
"A lord may live... if he will swear."
...
...
...
Such silence had fallen that even the wind itself seemed to have ceased, as though the whole valley had paused to hear what answer would be given.
Every eye was turned toward him.
Every thought.
Every face.
Toward Rurik Slater, young lord of Darkwood Hold.
He stood rigid as a statue.
Stunned ?
Afraid?
Or mayhaps confounded?
None could say.
Nobody could know.
Until then, Jorren had never seen such a thing, eyes that seemed to strip the world bare, exposing the purest, rawest emotion he had ever witnessed in his life. He saw it bloom in the Lord's face like a sudden fire: the flicker in his eyes, the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the subtle tightening of his jaw. Muscles moved in his cheeks as if words and wrath were struggling to be born at once.
The air thickened around them. The banners above the walls strained in the wind, as though the very fabric of the day sensed what was about to be unleashed.
Then it came.
A roar
A scream
A cry of ralliement
A cry of defiance
"Who are you?"
For the first time, the words seemed to strike something within the haunting rider.
He fell silent.
"You?"
Rurik's voice rose again, fury burning in his eyes.
"Who are you, that I should bide by you?" Lord slater said, with fury and defiance in his eyes. Soon followed by the applaud and support of his men. The men upon the walls answered with a thunder of cheers, their voices rising behind their lord, making noises of exclamations or cursing the wicked rider.
The Thorrn rider stayed for a heartbeat of silence, as if weighing the defiance in Lord Slater's voice, must be strange for him.
Then, slowly, he raised a gauntleted hand in a crisp, formal salute.
"A choice… made," he said, his voice carrying across the valley, calm and absolute. "Very well, Lord Slater. For my master forgets nothing. And when the day comes that he remembers his dues... may earth itself hide you from him…."
He lowered his hand.
"You shall be remembered, Lord Slater."
"But not in saga about courageous warriors or in history books about great rulers... No. But in songs and whispers. Not as man to envy, but as a lesson."
"You will be a lesson for the whole world Lord slater. That pride and honour don't save from the sharpness of a blade. And that my master, the Red King, rule unchallenged. And that whoever you are, it is folly to defy his will."
The envoy bowed his head slightly.
"Farewell Lord Slater it was a real pleasure to meet such a special person like yourself. May you courage be a source of great pride in the afterlife."
Without another word, the pale figure turned his mount. The polished armor gleamed one last time in the weak sunlight, a specter of bone and shadow, before his descend into the valley.
Behind him, the banners of Darkwood Hold snapped violently in the wind, the sound sharp as a warning bell, as though the land itself had recognized the weight of what had just transpired.
Lord Slater remained rigid upon the battlements, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed upon the vanishing figure.
He had chosen defiance. He had chosen pride. He had chosen his honour.
And with that choice, fate was sealed.
The fate of his house.
The fate of his people.
And, even more importantly, his own fate.
_____________________________
if you are confused, it take place during the age of heroes;
House Thornn and Slater are my inventions.
I hope some of you recognised the little references, and the influence that a certaine piece of Shakespeare had on this chapter.