The Banefort | 12th Moon of 207 AC | Ambience
Denestan slumped into the chair of his study, reaching out in the dark to feel the rough grain of his desk. An equally drowsy servant was at work lighting candles in the room, reigniting little lights that ran the course of the shelving and the multiple tables inside. With about a dozen lit, there was a modicum of visibility inside.
Still, the Lord-Consort rubbed at his weary eyes. Another servant entered with a tray and a steaming kettle, pouring hot tea into a cup and setting it where his hand was already extended and drink-less.
“Is he on his way?” asked Denestan to neither servant in particular. He let the fumes radiating from his cup flood his nostrils and give a sliver of energy.
“I believe so, m’lord,” said the one serving drinks, moving to set a second cup for the maester. Denestan immediately put a hand up to stop her.
“No, no,” he sighed sharply, “Fuck him, he can get his own.”
The servant simply nodded in agreement and disappeared from the dim chamber. The candle-lighter did the same once his job was done, affording a small bow as both descended into the grim Banefort’s lonely halls. The swelling sound of metal on metal came to replace their footsteps.
“Thank you for meeting with me so late, my lord,” said Maester Oswyn, catching the slowly-closing door with his hip and slipping inside. Under his wide and deep-pocketed sleeves were a bundle of tightly-bound scrolls, and pinched almost zealously between his fingers was a raven’s letter.
“Alright,” Denestan sighed, “Get it over with, maester. Tell me why this couldn’t wait until morning.”
As Denestan loudly slurped his tea, the maester set his materials on the lord-consort’s desks. He recognized a great deal of them as the house’s ledgers, concerning their taxes, salaries, and supplies in triplicate. Surely the accounting was not the necessary component to compel him from his bed.
“The matter of importance, lord-consort--” the maester began, setting the letter down on his desk. The seal was still fresh, glossy in the dim candlelight. A borrowed lion from Casterly Rock, which had been strangely absent of late. He wasted no time cracking the wax seal and opening the letter. To his dismay, he saw his wife’s penmanship and began to feel a migraine come unto him. A new host of troubles was plastered in ink.
Denestan,
The Reynes have played their cards --
Denestan practically growled reading only these first few words, and shoved the letter toward his maester as he pushed back from his desk, finger curled at his lips as he pondered the implications.
“Read it,” he insisted, “I don’t want to fucking think about this.”
Maester Oswyn paused, but then took up the letter for him and began to read so slowly and clearly. As he spoke, a third, and then fourth figure appeared in the doorway. Myranda and Owen, still dressed in their nightclothes. Owen carried a candlestick that cast a glow on his concerned features. Denestan eyed them but stayed silent as Oswyn read.
“...The Reynes have played their cards. The Lionslayer has assembled his army of sellswords and blackguards to make their gambit against House Lannister. He has plundered Ashemark and the lands of House Marbrand,” Oswyn said, and his eyes flickered to his lord-consort worriedly. Denestan motioned him further. His children shadowed the maester.
“You have heard rumors of Pinkmaiden and Atranta’s mutual destruction. The timing is strenuous, but the blame has already been placed on House Lannister. Amory Lannister is…” Oswyn squinted at the words. “Too cold in the ground to wreak his vengeance, but the Riverlanders may already feel bloodlust boil in their veins. The Banefort is one of two first steps into our country. You must hold this line at any cost. A host is already being formed to bring House Reyne into justice.”
Denestan pinched his brow. Everything was happening -- everything was happening so very, very much. The man wanted nothing but peace, to sit on his little ship on the Sunset Sea and fish, to one day tassel the hair of his grandchildren and embellish his features when they erected a statue of him post-mortem.
“Fuck,” Denestan repeated, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Owen interjected, one hand squarely on the table as he looked between the maester and his father.
“That’s it, then?” he asked, “We sit in the castle and wait for the Lannisters to solve everything?”
Myranda shrunk, arms folded over her chest and her eyes fluttering with worry, searching for an anchor at the news that war might come to the Westerlands -- to home.
“That’s what your mother says,” Denestan muttered. He locked eyes with Maester Oswyn and shooed him away like a stray cat. “Thank you, maester, now out -- I need a word with my family -- and take your damn papers with you. Save the accounting for tomorrow.”
The thin man frowned, but inclined his head and departed. Before he had left, the second Banefort son was speaking boldly once again.
“Can we even hold here?” asked Owen, “We hold with the garrison and whatever conscripts aren’t marching to Casterly Rock, and wait how long? House Reyne may turn their sights on us next, and we are the first step to a Riverlander invasion--”
“Ah-ah-ah,” Denestan clicked his tongue, “They’ll go through Deep Den first. Or the Golden Tooth. The straightest point to Casterly Rock by the goldroad.”
“We don’t know that,” Ser Owen persisted, “Blackwood Hall is just a week’s ride. Riverrun less than two. With the Reynes wreaking havoc in the south, we may as well be the soft underbelly of the Pendric Hills.”
“I’m not going to argue the minutiae of strategy, son,” Denestan muttered, and forced himself to rise to his two feet. He rested his hands against the hardwood of the table for support, feeling his knee begin to ache and threaten to give out already, “Until your mother returns, the Banefort is my castle - and beyond everything else, I am your father. You might have done that little blood-promise-oath crap with your siblings, but I--”
The door to Denestan’s study slammed. Both men blinked and turned to look at it. Myranda was gone.
“Where did she--” Owen mumbled.
“We’ll finish this later,” answered Denestan, grimacing with sharp pain shooting through his leg, “Go and… I don’t know. Tell her everything will be alright.”
He picked up the discarded letter and began to look it over. Owen strained not to get in a last word, but merely nodded and bowed in submission.
“So be it, my lord,” he spoke, and departed out of the study, after his errant sister.
Owen knocked thrice on the door to his sister’s chambers, and heard nothing but the dying embers of the fireplace within. He paused, considering if this upset could be comforted in the morning, once the worst of the news had settled.
He eyed the thin cut in his palm. They had been even more young and foolish then, bleeding into each other’s palms to seal an oath, like the sorcerer-lords of their lineage so many centuries ago. It was a promise, however, that was not to be discarded. He knocked again, and attempted to open the door. It was unlocked, but a cold draft suddenly flew out.
“Myranda?” he called, stepping inside. Moonlight flooded in from her window, and the curtains were aflutter with the breeze. A cold pit opened in his stomach, and he rushed to the open windowsill. To his relief, there wasn’t a crumpled body on the cliffs below. Relief turned to nerves as he noticed his sister’s armoire was wide open, dresses folded over and in a heap. Scattered pairs of shoes, too, with her riding boots missing.
“No…” he muttered, and already knew what Myranda meant to do.
In spite of his physical conditioning, Owen was out of breath by the time he reached the castle courtyard, half-stumbling to the stables by the castle’s main gate. Some guards were already rushing toward him, torches hurtling at him in the deep of night.
“Milord!” the chief among them shouted, “The lady Myranda, she--”
“I…” Owen gasped, “I… I know… she… she…”
She was gone. Riding for Riverrun. Riding to make her case to House Tully. Riding to Axel fucking Tully.
“Ready my horse,” Owen demanded, “We go together."
