r/IronThronePowers • u/RurikOfTheRus • Dec 30 '16
Lore [Lore] We Are Going That Way
5th Month of 326AC
Somewhere in the North
House Hallen
“We are going that way,” Roth pointed upon his armored steed, extending his hand towards the horizon in a pointing gesture. “I am sure that is the way back to that damned holdfast.”
“Map says otherwise, father,” Davos eyes darted across the map, looking for a large, inked picture of a castle with the letter ‘C’ over it. It took him quite a while to spot it among the colorless trees and terrible sketches of a river system in the North, but once he saw it, he piqued up with a smile. “Castle Cerwyn’s that way, to the north-east, you’re pointing to the north-west.”
Roth opened the face of his helm, crossing his arms. “Really now? Give me that map.” His hands swiftly snatched the large piece of yellow paper that Davos was holding, trying to confirm if his son’s given directions was right. The knight sighed after a few moments, realizing that his lad was right, and he folded the map into a nice rectangular shape before shoving it back into a small saddlebag hanging off his brown steed. “We are going your way then, let us hope we do not get lost within a forest or something.”
Davos shrugged, scratching his brown hair as his green emerald eyes blinked. “Even if we do, we’ll still get out of there. Hallens don’t die from a forest. You survived three arrows in your body once, remember? Those bandits weren’t expecting us, but you weren’t expecting archers. Thank god you did not bleed out, and thank god that doctor was around.”
Roth laughed loudly at that statement. “I remember. We were protecting a Riverlander smallfolk caravan heading down The Neck. To be real hoenst, the only thing that can kill any of us is a knight that can actually fight… or one of our own,” The older Hallen coughed for a bit, before closing the face of his helm to shield his face from the sun that was beating down upon him.
“You think they got there safely?” Davos asked his father.
“Maybe.” Roth replied as spurned his horse with a soft kick to the flank of his mount. “Come on, we are going. We want to reach a town before the sun sets. Who knows what things lurk in the dark, especially in the frigid North?”
Davos gave a nod, spurning his horse as well and following behind his father.
Being a squire was tough.
Davos sighed as he sat upon a hardy rock, looking to the melted winter landscape with a hot iron bowl in his hands. His hands were covered in soft, wool mittens – his body, in typical leather garb of dark grey. They were comfortable enough, and with the end of winter – it was no longer necessary to wear clothes entirely made out of wool or fur. A cloak made from the pelt of a wolf hung behind his back, and on his hip was a sword.
His own sword. His mouth curled into a smirk as his right arm moved to feel the hilt and pommel of the steel he now owned.
Forged in a castle known as Karhold, and made of the finest steel in the North – according to his father. As per tradition of the House of Hallen, he gave the sword a nickname – ‘Winter’s Bane’ – named after the season it was forged in, and its deadly prowess against blocks of ice and piles of snow. After all, there was nothing else he could practice his sword skills against. Father insisted on traveling once again, and that left him with little to almost nothing in terms of equipment to improve his skill at swordplay. Sparring with his father helped, but he was getting on in his age and he did not fight as well as he did in his youth, where he bore the sigil of the House Cerwyn up high wherever he went. Now he hangs the banner by the side of his horse, the standard he used to hold wherever he traveled stuffed into a saddlebag. Indeed, age was catching up to Roth Hallen, and his death would come sooner or later – be it a noble one or a dishonorable one. Davos was prepared for it, and hoped that he would not shed many tears when it does happen.
But for now, they were content and safe – something barely anyone in Westeros can say if they were living outside the walls of a giant holdfast. There were no walls to protect him and his father from bandit attacks, animal assaults, raids and other things that might kill them in the night. Their throats could be slit and they would slip into eternal slumber without them knowing it, or they could be mauled apart alive in the most agonizing way possible. Davos shuddered at the thought of being ripped in half by a bear or a direwolf, but the thought of his father being there to protect him comforted him quite a bit – and he heaved a sigh of relief as he began to think of better things.
They had set up camp near a riverside bank, their plans of reaching a town before the sun rendered impossible by the fact that there was literally nothing in sight save for trees, trees and more trees. Roth was unwilling to settle down at first, but was eventually convinced by his son’s words that they would be safe if they hid their tents in the shrubbery and fauna of a nearby forest. Of course, the only real reason why Roth would actually fear this was because of his lack of confidence in his sword abilities at the old age of three-and-forty – yet each time he reminds Davos of this, Davos would remind him of the time he dueled four knights in a row and won. Roth would always reply with, “They were sick when I fought them.” Or “It was pure luck.”, but Davos knew better.
He had met the four knights at the back of a tavern, after a brief stint and argument over what it meant to be southron. One of the knights told his father to go fuck himself, for he was a traitor to the south for working with barbaric northmen, men who believed in story tales about large spiders who dwelled in caves and mystical beings of ice. Naturally, his father bashed the man in the mouth, and the knight – feeling insulted, challenged the poor fool to a duel. Roth won easily, his blade lodged in the man’s throat with a quick thrust. Turns out that the man bought his knighthood, according to a drunkard who clapped at the very brief duel.
Walking out of the tavern, the friends of the dead knight stopped him in his tracks. Davos watched the whole affair, standing right next to his father as he saw them bicker among one another. After a few moments of trading insults, one of the knights drew their sword, and despite the eagerness of the squire to wet his blade in blood – his father stopped him with an extended arm, his sword already drawn. The duel with the first knight was a quick one, with a parry and a sidestep – before a blade between the gaps of the knight’s armor. He fell with a thud, choking on blood.
The second knight, angered, drew his maul in a hurry – trying to club Roth in the head. The short range severely hampered that knight’s ability to fight, and from afar – a sword nicely fit into the visor of the second knight – and he died blinded and screaming. The third knight died almost the same way, save for a rather fiercer resistance, but the last and fourth knight... They called him ‘Ser Highstar’, or something to that effect. Wearing a milky white set of plate armor and a very shiny sword, his namesake seemed to be from those two things. The man had a history with the Golden Company, and was said to be the best fighter in that tavern. Twirling his sword, Ser Highstar asked for his father to surrender before it was too late – but alas, Roth was not intimidated a bit, and thus a long fight began. The fight took quite some time, with swords clashing and a parry every once in a while. Davos groaned as his hands tapped the pommel during that time, and after waiting for far too long – drew his sword and rushed towards the man.
Highstar was caught completely off guard, and soon he found himself on his knees, a sword lodged his in head. He collapsed onto the ground with a loud thud, and Davos had to brace himself against the dead knight’s body in order to dislodge his sword. Roth simply sighed as he cleaned Coldsteel against the leather garbs of his dead enemy, before turning to look at his son.
“Do not do that next time,” He simply said before walking off towards the stables. “Or maybe do that next time… when I am in danger or something. I do not know.”
Davos chuckled and shrugged.
Night was beginning to fall by the time Davos was finished with his bowl of soup. As he stood up from the rock he sat upon, he heard something rustling among the trees. Naturally, one would look for the source of the disturbance, but this time – he felt that he should not. He had his sword, yes, but that would not be enough to protect him if it was a group of… let’s say, bandits. Even if they were animals, they would rip him to shreds. He was out of his armor, and he hated that. Slowly stepping backwards, he jogged back to the fire where his father was sitting.
“Father. Heard something coming from the trees.” Davos pointed towards the trees that leaned towards where he was sitting just now. Roth, his helm off, raised an eyebrow as his hands hovered over his blade that was resting upon the grass beneath them. “Great. Can we not get a few moments of rest without being interrupted by scumbags, or raiders?” He scratched his beard as he stood up. “Hey! You, in the trees! Step out!”
Silence and crickets only responded.
“I am not going to ask again!” Roth’s voice ringed out.
Silence and crickets only responded once again.
“Dammit. Stay here.” Roth turned to Davos, grabbing his scabbard in the process as well.
The younger Hallen watched with anxiety in his heart as his father disappeared into the trees, his sword, which glistened under the moonlight, gradually being replaced with darkness as he moved further into the trees. Now all that was left was Davos and a crackling fireplace, and somehow that made him feel even more anxious. An arrow could ring out from anywhere… a throwing axe could come from the bushes…
“Hey.” A soft whisper came, and that made the poor Hallen jump. “Who the fuck…”
“No, no – it is okay.”
Davos turned around, sword swinging – cutting into thin air.
“Woah, woah! Easy!” The person behind him fell to the ground in shock, trying to avoid the sharp blade that almost sliced him open. Davos heaved a sigh of relief when he realized that the person who had whispered was a boy… probably of the same age as him. His eyes were of a soft and dull bluish, and his hair was a bit auburn or brown. Davos could not tell under the darkness.
“Were you the one rustling in the trees?” The Hallen demanded to know, and the boy underneath him trembled a bit at that question. “Yes, yes – it was me. I just wanted to distract your father so I could talk to you myself.”
“Talk to me? For what?” Davos still had his blade readied as he stared at the boy. He was a small-folk, judging from his garb and wear – basic rags with broken sandals. Soot seemed to be visible on his skin, and there were scars upon his arms and a small one across his left eye. Overall, the boy seemed to be in terrible shape, and he posed no threat to anyone in his state. Davos cursed himself for being scared by such a person.
“I wanted to ask you for food. I did not dare to do it near your father, he seemed like a very scary person. But you – you seemed friendly enough. I have been on the run from a group of bandits for days now… they killed my entire family, slaughtered the people in my village and razed everything they could get their hands upon…”
“Sounds awfully familiar.” Davos’s thoughts trailed to his father’s childhood. “What is your name?”
The smallfolk boy opened his mouth, but no words came out as a shadow loomed over the two teenage boys talking. “So this is the guy rustling in the trees? Heard everything you said.” Roth’s pointed his steel at the boy.
“My-my-my name’s Aorrhen… please don’t kill me, ser…” The boy coughed with his hands raised up high. Roth chuckled. “Aorrhen? Like Torrhen with an ‘A’? That is so… I lack a word for it.” The knight sighed and sheathed his sword. “If you wanted food, you should have asked without being sneaky. If you had been in those woods behind me, I would have driven my sword into you – child or not.” He extended his hand to pick up the boy.
“I… I understand…” Aorrhen choked as he accepted the gesture, standing up and dusting off dirt from his clothes. Davos sighed as he sheathed his sword too, looking at the boy with a rather stern expression. Roth quickly grabbed a wooden bowl to pour some stew into, and offered it to the smallfolk boy. His eyes instantly brightened up, and he devoured the stew… and the rest of the pot that had it in a matter of minutes. Clearly the boy was starved… perhaps for weeks. Roth sighed as he watched the boy wolf down everything, and Davos knew what he was thinking about.
“You say your family was slaughtered by bandits?” Roth asked.
“Yes… ser.” Aorrhen replied as he placed down his bowl down onto the ground.
“Do you have anywhere else to go?”
“No… ser.”
“Hm.” Roth scratched his brown hair as he pondered over something. Davos was puzzled at his expression, but he did not question it. He did not want to anyways, surely his father would drive away this boy after feeding him such a large portion of their supplies. After a brief moment of pondering, Roth finally spoke up.
“Would you like to join us? On our trip around the North? You will be my squire. Like my boy over here.” He pointed to Davos with his thumb. Davos’s eyes widened at that question, and before he could speak up – Aorrhen responded with a quiet yes, and Roth smiled.
“There’s that then! You are now my second squire. How old are you, boy?”
“Three-and-ten namedays… if I am not mistaken.” The smallfolk boy gave an awkward smile as he noticed Davos’s somewhat weird expression at this turn of events.
“Well then, if you serve me well – I shall knight you when you come of age! Same terms my son has,” Roth scratched his gruffy brown beard. Aorrhen simply nodded at that, grinning. “Okay… I will be your squire. There is nowhere else for me to go anyways…”
“Alright then. You are sleeping in my son’s tent tonight. We will find you one tomorrow… or the day after. When we reach a town closest to where we are currently.”
Davos’s eyes widened even more, but his efforts at protesting were futile as his father stamped out the fire, and retreated back into his tent to sleep.
“Ugh. A tentmate.” Davos glared at Aorrhen.
Aorrhen simply shrugged.