Artos could hardly suppress his giddiness. A Night's Watch incursion into the wilds could and would spell a whole lot of trouble for everyone, to be sure, but for now, he couldn't think of this as anything but a most intriguing opportunity. He'd been waiting for something like this for ages...
He stood up straight and folded his arms together. "You wouldn't happen to know where our good king Joramun is, would you?" he asked the cook.
The Night's King was out there beyond the Wall to attack the free people, to destroy them utterly, to wipe them out to the last woman and child. That's what Artos was going to tell Joramun. He didn't know if there was any truth to it, but it was such a convenient tale to tell.
edited 29th Jun '12 2:01:51 PM by BornIn1142
Cook shrugged before saying, "Last I heard, he was in his tent drinking off his hangover, and sending out messengers, but that was an hour ago, when I took over for the last cook, who went to the doctor because of his cough. Ha. Lazy bastard. I finally heard a rumor before him. I bet it will hurt him to know that! Ha ha!"
Rodrik Bolton eyed the grinning man with a barely contained fury.
"My lord brother may have small love for me, Lewys, but I am still his kin, his bannerman and commander of a hundred sword. If I ask him for the head of a guardsman, he would not consider the matter overlong. This imudence will not be forgotten. Wait outside and send in whatever feckless servant allowed you in in the first place."
edited 29th Jun '12 2:32:14 PM by johnnye
Scion of the Dragon
Maylas's eyes snapped open automatically, one hand darting out close around the squire's wrist and the other snapping around the slender curved knife he kept beneath his pillow.
"My apologizes" The singer said sheepishly, when he realized who it was, releasing the squire's wrist, he careful tucked the knife back under his pillow. "Old habit." When you traveled alone along highways most of the year, you learned to sleep lightly or you slept forever. A bright smile breaking out over his features, Maylas stood, shaking off the furs and revealing his bare form. He crossed the room and began digging through the wardrobe, without the barest hint of modesty.
"Do I have the honor of knowing who is summoning me at this late hour?" The Northernmen hardly placed a premium on singers, and he hadn't been trying to catch anyone's eye of late.
edited 29th Jun '12 3:30:49 PM by LMage
"You are never taller then when standing up for yourself"
Artos favored the cook with a mild smile. "Well done, my good man. I owe you."
He meant it as well. He was good for favors. There being no currency beyond the Wall, and Artos having relatively little to barter, promises were the best coin with which to buy people off. A rumor shared was such a small thing that it wouldn't cost him much anything - he could have just as well gotten it for free - but the cook would remember the sentiment. It was a convenient way to turn enemies into friends and to make sure that fortuitous happenings came his way more than once. Artos had made a lot of promises in the years since his desertion, and he'd made an effort to keep as many as he could. As a good man should...
With a final nod at the cook, Artos turned away and headed off to Joramun's personal tent.
Lewys grins, before smugly saying, "I'm sorry, my lord, but we can't leave, yet. We were told to bring you to the Lord, not to deliver his summons to you. We would never dream of defying the Lord Bolton's orders. You may take your time dressing, but we will be waiting outside your room." The two exit, taking their places by the door.
The squire yells in terror, tears forming in his blue eyes. Maylas can see that a the boy's face is marred with a scar, and his long, black hair is unkempt and a little wild. Before the Rose Singer can say anything, the squire says, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."
The squire breathes a sigh of relief at the apology, and, in response to the Rose Singer's question, says, "N-no... My m-master told me n-not to say..." He leans in, and whispers, "P-people may be listening..."
The cook grins, and yells to Artos as he leaves, "I'll remember that, southren man!"
As Artos goes toward Joramun's tent, he passes by a couple of warriors gathering in a tent, three young women, one of which blows him a kiss, and a man juggling flaming torches, who drops one in the snow when he's told by a young couple that the Night's Watch was journeying north, the girl with beautiful red curls, said to be touched by fire. In front of Joramun's tent stand two guards, one with several small axes, and another with a strange looking curved sword. An ax identical to the ones one of the guards has is stuck in a tree several yards away from them as the ax wielding guard talks to a woman enthusiastically, pointing to the ax in the tree.
edited 29th Jun '12 2:39:40 PM by deathpigeon
Artos added pace as he came up to the so-called king's tent.
"What's going on?" he asked the guard with the sword, loudly enough that anyone nearby paying attention might overhear, "Is Joramun inside? Am I late for the war council?"
edited 29th Jun '12 2:48:35 PM by BornIn1142
The guard with the strange sword shakes his head as the guard with the axes gets the girl he's talking to laugh. The guard with the sword tells Artos, "Joramun isn't in, right now. I believe he left to talk to someone else, though I can't remember who..."
Rodrik was drying his head with a cloth when his captain of guards entered the room. The lord was in a black mood, snapping at the servants preparing his clothes, and his eyes narrowed as they found Horben's. The man was not clever, but he was loyal; more guileless than honest, but either way he could be trusted.
"One: I want to know what this summons is about. I won't run along sniffing at the arses of a couple of baseborn dogs so my brother can give me orders, I want to know what's happneing before I'm told. Send the Karstark boy to the ravenry, he's got the makings of a good spy. Two: Those guards outside. Give them a reminder not to scorn their betters. It can wait, for now, but I don't want them to forget it."
edited 29th Jun '12 2:55:03 PM by johnnye
The captain of the guards sighs, "I'm sorry, my lord, I don't know what these summons are for any more than you do, and the Karstark boy... Well, you'll see when you meet your brother," the captain grimaces before continuing, "As for those two guards, they've been rather insolent, of late, and your brother told me he has some sort of... special punishment for them. He didn't tell me what, but I didn't like the smile he had when saying that, and I fear that they may not be the only ones who will have to suffer for their punishment..."
Rodrik frowned. His brother had a savage streak, and was best avoided when in such a mood; but as at this moment, there was a choice between being in his presence as ordered, or angering him further, avoidance was not an option. Rodrik took some solace in the fact that his blood had spared him, in the past, from getting anything more than bruises from Marys; others were not so lucky. He took a genuine pleasure in family traditions that Rodrik had not seen in any other, and was not nicknamed "Manhide" for nothing.
Rodrik dressed simply and quickly, and stepped outside. Horben and another guard fell in step behind him, his brother's men ahead, as if he did not know the way. Weighing the embarrassment of asking against the impotence of remaining in the dark, he pressed Lewys and Varamun for details.
Artos gritted his teeth. It wouldn't be the first time that he'd had to chase around camp, looking for Joramun.
"I expect he'll be seeking out the war chiefs?" he asked, "I mean, with the Night's King bearing down on us with such a vast force, what else could he be doing? I expect we'll hear the call to arms any time now, eh?"
He kept his voice up. He wanted anyone nearby to hear. Rumors of the ranging were creating worry in the camp as it was, and if Artos was lucky, that worry would eventually bloom into panic. With that in mind, he did his part to get the barbarians riled up and anxious to fight.
Scion of the Dragon
Maylas frowned, glancing over his shoulder as he drew a light green tunic out of the wardrobe.
"Oh..?" That was interesting. And here he had been lead to believe the Northermen looked down on the southerners for their politics. Pulling the tunic over his head, he made sure to surreptitiously slide a boiled leather strap holding another slender knife up onto his shoulder. You could never be to safe.
Once he had his clothes on he turned, striding over to run a finger down boy's cheek, over his scar. He wasn't un-comely. "Lead the way" He said softly.
"You are never taller then when standing up for yourself"
Lewys and Varamun ignore Rodrik's questions as they lead him to the great hall. Inside four partially flayed men hang from hooks on the wall, groaning in pain as Marys cleans his blade, sitting at the end of the hall, blood splattered on his clothes. In the center of the room sits an execution block with the headless body of the Karstark boy laying next to it, his head rolled a couple of feet away. Blood pools around his corpse. Marys smiles at his brother's entrance, and says, in his soft raspy voice, "Ah, Rodrik. I'm glad you've come. I hope Lewys and Varamun haven't given you too much trouble." He pauses a moment, but it's clear he isn't looking for a response.
He continues, "I'm sure you must be wondering why I've sent for you. Well, I've been considering things, and I've come to the conclusion that the King is just too... weak. He isn't willing to do what needs to be done to crush the Night King. So I've decided that only a Bolton has the what it takes, but I cannot leave Dreadfort. So I'm sending you to Winterfell. You shall advise the King in my place, driving him to action where he is too cowardly to take it, and, if you must..." Marys licks his lips in anticipation, "Do what it takes to put power in the hands that are willing to do what is right."
The guard laughs, and says, just as loudly, "There's no need to be so dramatic. These are just rumors. Allow Joramun to sort out what needs to be done." The guard with the axes grabs the woman he's talking to, and kisses her.
The squire looks down and away from the Rose Singer, as if ashamed, before striding out of the chambers. He leads the Rose Singer to a corridor he rarely went to, and strides over to an ornately carved door that the Rose Singer had never seen before. The squire knocks twice, then pauses, then knocks three times. Inside, a voice says, come in. The squire opens the door, and lets the Rose Singer enter. The room is small, and the ceiling is short, short enough that the Rose Singer must duck to enter. Inside is a short table with a half finished Cyvasse game on it. On the far end of the table a man sits on the floor in a black cloak. He motions for the Rose singer to sit down.
edited 29th Jun '12 3:50:16 PM by deathpigeon
Rodrik took a deep breath.
"And I see your first step in this grand coup has been to murder young Brandon Karstark? Masterful. After all, we could have no possible use for an alliance with the third most powerful House in the North, now could we?" He took a moment of pleasure at the flicker of frustration that crossed his brother's face. He had no taste for politics, and the consequences of his bloodlust rarely occurred to him.
"And you wish me to stand at that... that man's side and whisper in his ear. How long must I desist from planting a knife in his back, brother? Because you know every minute will be a chore. Our lady mother will be whispering from her grave, and my sword hand will be twitching at her every word."
They were bold words, and he could see men smirk at the thought of Rodrik the Bloodless raising a blade in anger against Tristifer Stark... but there was killing, and killing.
edited 29th Jun '12 3:43:50 PM by johnnye
Marys laughs, "I have said nothing about a coup, and neither should you. As for the Karstark boy... Well, I caught him feeding the... decorations," he gestures to the flayed men, "after he was explicitly told not to. I'm sure his father would understand, and, if not, I'm sure I can make him," Marys pauses, "As for how long you should wait, wait until your power in the King's Court is secure, and you can herald a smooth transfer of power." Marys grins savagely.
Marys turns his attention to the other two guests, "As for the two of you... For your insolence, and, yes, I heard of the incident with the flour," the two pale immediately, "you two shall accompany my brother to the court, and whether you make it there or not shall be up to him." Marys chuckles.
Howel woke as he hit the floor. The banging at the door was loud and growing louder. He didn't know how long it had been going on, but he knew the door couldn't take much more of it.
"Hold on." He got to his feet, trying to get the ache out of his back. He might not have technically been a prison, but his room was certainly not one for esteemed guests. He stood for a moment pondering his situation when he realized how loud the pounding on the door had gotten.
"I said give me a moment," he shouted, throwing open the door.
edited 29th Jun '12 3:55:03 PM by Chrisham2
It was a difficult delivery, now it's growing up mean and strong.
"And what is it that needs to be done?" asked Artos, "Not another round of ale and wenches, I hope? The king would be a fool to ignore this crisis. Rumors don't spring up from nothing."
Outside the door is a burly man known as Jon Greystark, a quiet, yet deadly, warrior. Jon looks at Howel, and motions for him to follow before setting off for the council room.
"Joramun will say what needs to be done when it needs to become known. Until then, don't worry your little southren brain about it." As he speaks, the girl blushes, and whispers something in the other guard's ear, who smiles proudly. She then hurries away, giggling.
To whatever end
"Is it true?" Brysanna hissed under her breath at the doctor. Without waiting for a response, she swept out of the medical tent and into the chaotic camp outside. All around her were taut faces, furrowed brows, whispered words. A cloud of nervous anticipation had descended over the free folk.
She saw a cook, speaking with a grey-haired man. She saw a woman fearfully clutching two babes to her chest. She even saw the tent of Joramun himself—although the King-beyond-the-Wall was nowhere to be found. With practiced ease Brysanna weaved through the seemingly endless camp until, at last, she made her way to a small clearing where she and her brothers had erected their tents. Telvor, her youngest brother, was already there, whetting his hand-me-down sword with fierce energy. One look at his face and she knew. "You've heard too," she said in a softer voice than she was used to. "The kneelers are coming."
edited 29th Jun '12 4:24:11 PM by Troliolio
"Blame Karstark's death on one of your projects there, and if you send both bodies to Lord Artos he may even thank you. Perhaps not believe you, but it will suit him to pretend that he does."
"As for you two, I seem to be short a rather competent squire. I'm sure between the two of you you can throw together a suit of armour and saddle a horse. Do it to my satisfaction and you may even be walking to Winterfell with boots on."
"Horben, assemble the men. We'll ride in one hour. And find me a new boy, one with letters if you can find one." His brusque words masked, he hoped, his dismay at Brandon's death. He had made a point of giving the boy an education, seeing the spark of intelligence in him, and he had quickly made an invaluable informant and raven-wrangler.
Rodrik turned back to Marys, the latter idly sharpening a flensing knife with a faint smirk on his face.
"This Night's King. He was our bastard brother once — our mother's shame and our father's cuckoo, but blood all the same. I thought kinship would spare this land from war, but it clearly means little to some people." He spat, glaring at the direwolf banner on the wall. "How do you mean to deal with the King of Crows?"
edited 29th Jun '12 4:24:28 PM by johnnye
"I s'pose there's no time for me to dress?" He didn't really need an answer. He was being summoned. That rarely happened anymore. He'd spent almost a good few months without even seeing the King. This could be it, the reason he came to Winterfell. An army to take back the Wall. Somehow he doubted it.
Shutting his mouth, he quickly pulled on his black pants and grabbed his cloak. It'd be best to not keep anyone waiting.
It was a difficult delivery, now it's growing up mean and strong.
Artos, not quite successful at suppressing his irritation, raised his hand and pointed a finger at the guard's chest. "You're more like us than you'd care to admit. We've kings whose subjects follow them in blind faith as well." He pulled back his hand and pointed the finger at the side of his head. "My little southron brain can muster more independent thought than yours ever could, free man."
With that, Artos turned on his heel and headed off to find someone who could tell him where Joramun might be. It was a bit much to expect that the guard would tell him just to prove he could, but Artos enjoyed simply hitting him where it was likely to hurt.
edited 29th Jun '12 4:29:06 PM by BornIn1142
Telvor nods solemnly, "It appears so. I'm sure we shall leave soon to meet them in battle." He pauses a moment, then says, "Would you like to prepare for the battle with me, sister?"
Marys chuckles at Rodrik's idea, "I hadn't thought of that. That should serve my purposes."
Lewys and Varamun flee the room to do as Rodrik told them, terror in their eyes. Horben nods, and leaves as well.
"As for what we shall do with the Night King... That shall be determined by how he reacts to a new King," Marys pauses a moment before saying, "I do not wish him harm any more than I do you." A threat lingered in his words.
Jon leads him to the council chambers, and lets him in. Inside, the small council sits, including Tristifer's eldest son and daughter. The seat for his youngest was open, as it had been since Tristifer sent him south to request aid from the River King, his brother-in-law. Tristifer smiles at Howel's entrance, and says, "Ah, Howel. I was hoping you'd decide to show up to this council meeting. I'm sure I could use the advice of a Black Brother, today." By this time, Jon had gone, and it appeared like no one had noticed he had been there at all.
The guard laughs, "Have fun, southren man!" Once Artos leaves, he turns to the other guard, and they begin to have an animated conversation as the guard with the axes moves his arms to indicate shapeliness of a woman.
Artos does not find any evidence of where Joramun is, at first, but he may, if he looks hard enough.
In a time all but forgotten, when legends were in the making, and heroes roamed the land, there were three great men whom history will always remember. They each ruled their own people as Kings, one the King of Winter, one the Night King, and one the King-Beyond-The-Wall. The struggle between them was a mighty struggle indeed, with great battles, and clashing forces. They were three of the greatest men of their time, and they’re mark on history will never be forgotten. This is not their story...
Nightfort
A force of Black Brothers has gathered, and about to be sent out. Supposedly, it is only a simple scouting mission, but the force is too large, and too heavily armed. Something isn’t right. Rumor has spread around the castle ever since the Night King had doubled the number the day before. To most, though, they’re just rumors, nothing more. However, one man knows better. The night before the Night King had called Robin Hornwood to his private chambers, where he explained the true purpose, his queen at his side. A spy in the Wildlings’ camp had told him of a place where they have been keeping a secondary force of Wildlings, and the men were being sent to destroy that base. The Night King looked almost disappointed when he told Robin that he couldn’t lead the force himself, and that Robin would have to. Among the men being sent out was a man known as Mart Dayne. The force began to gather at a gate to pass through the Wall.
Winterfell
At dawn, in a small, cold room at the top of a tower, a squire shakes the Rose Singer. Softly, as if he were afraid of his own voice, he says, “Please, wake up. You’re needed by my master.” He continues to shake until Maylas wakes up. Outside snow has begun to fall, and the sun is peeking over the horizon.
Howel lays asleep in a small room near the dungeons. The sun has risen hours ago, but no light makes it down here. The torches that line the wall give off more heat than light, and Howel sleeps on. At the door, there is a soft tapping. Pause. The tapping is repeated, this time slightly louder. Another pause. BANG! BANG! BANG! Someone hits the door with great strength and ferocity, nearly taking it off its hinges.
Dreadfort
Rodrik is rudely awoken by two Bolton men dumping a bucket of water on him, “Wake up, my lord,” the taller of the two says, enunciating my lord a bit too much, his tone mocking. The other of the two grins, and says, “The Lord of Dreadfort would like to see you, now. Best hurry, you know he doesn’t like it when people are late. Especially cowardly maggots.”
The Wildling Camp
Rumor spread through the Wildling Camp like wildfire. The Night’s Watch was going to be sending a force Beyond-The-Wall. Most didn’t know how the information had come to the Wildlings, and none were certain of the details, but they spread it eagerly all the same. Artos Harvis heard it from one of the cooks, who, in turn, heard it from a young woman nursing her newborn, who, in turn, heard it from her midwife when she had come to check up on her and the baby that morning, who, in turn, heard it from a warrior whose bed she shared last night, who, in turn, refused to say where he heard the rumor from. Brysanna heard it from an old man who made for one of the greatest doctors in the camp, who, in turn, heard it from one of his patients who came in with a cough, and had stayed with a fever, who, in turn, heard it from his wife, who, in turn, heard it from a particularly flirtatious woman who had kissed her cheek, who, in turn, heard it from a warrior who turned down sleeping with her because he knew he must prepare for battle, who, in turn, refused to say where he heard the rumor from. Darkly heard it from one of his spies the night before, and hadn’t intended to leak the information to the rest of the camp until he had told Joramun, who had been passed out, drunk, when the spy came into the camp, but one of his spies had leaked it, and he did not know who. A man came to his tent, and requested he be allowed entrance.
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edited 29th Jun '12 4:35:11 PM by deathpigeon