Post by The Smith on May 15, 2008 4:56:04 GMT -5
Brynden Royce was visiting at the house of old Ser Arguel Flowers, a merchant who had been knighted long ago by the last Targaryen king, Aemon. He was a gouty old man now, but he was also known as the uncle of the late Ser Anselm, a knight of Callen Baratheon’s Kingsguard. Ser Arguel’s niece Tilda Avalon lived with him and was always fun to visit, even if she was a bit too scholarly for Brynden. Tilda was a middle-aged woman, but she was nice, soothing company. And right now, Brynden needed a motherly woman to reassure him. They were Vale folk too, despite their Flowers name. The Avalons were from the Vale, a peasant family near Heart’s Home, and the Flowers were half Reachmen, half Valemen.
“Everything will work out fine, m’dear,” Tilda said soothingly, as her sister Betrina gave Brynden a slice of hot apple cake. “Your mother will come home safe, don’t you worry. I will pray to the Mother every day to keep her safe, and light a candle to the Warrior too.”
Brynden had the sense not to say that his mother worshiped the old gods, and ate the apple cake slowly, savoring it. Plump Betrina Avalon ruffled his hair. “You look like a little Anselm,” she said fondly. “All in Kingsguard white. Are you a good squire to Lord Smith?”
“I try to be,” Brynden muttered, a little embarrassed.
“Well, don’t worry, sweetling. Everything will be all right. Why don’t you go out into the yard and see Uncle Arguel’s new charger?” Betrina knew how the boy loved horses.
“Ser Arguel bought a new warhorse?” Brynden said hesitantly.
Tilda pursed her lips a little disapprovingly. “Our sweet uncle may be old and gouty, but he likes to flash his money, especially on useless expensive destriers…”
“Do not speak so, sister,” Betrina said reproachfully. “A knight must have a good horse.”
“A horse he can’t ride?” Tilda raised an eyebrow, while Brynden ate his apple cake in a diplomatic silence. “Uncle thinks we must keep up appearances. It makes us look like we are greedy social climbers. The real highborn and knightly families will never really accept us anyway. Why should uncle think buying a flashy new destrier will change anything? It’s been the same story, for years and years…”
“That was a lovely apple cake,” Brynden interrupted, pushing his empty plate away. “Thanks for that – and for talking to me too,” he added, a little awkwardly. “I wouldn’t mind seeing that horse, though,” he said, rising from the table. He was eager to be away from their argument. He had come here for a bit of peace, not to listen to the sisters squabbling. Horses were always a balm to his troubles, though.
“Be careful, dear,” Tilda warned as he stepped out of the house into the cold winter chill. Brynden wrapped his cloak about him and walked towards the stables. The grooms seem to have retreated to their room behind the stables, probably sitting around a warm fire and having a drink.
He spotted Ser Arguel’s new destrier immediately, in a big box stall beside the old knight’s grey palfrey. The destrier was a chestnut, thick and muscular. There was one stable boy tending to him apparently with great concentration, brushing his mane. The boy started visibly when Brynden came up, and there was a flash of fear in his eyes.
Brynden stared at the other boy, and then said with a friendly smile, “Easy there, do I look like a Dornishman or something? I just wanted to see Ser Arguel’s new horse.”
“Oh, yes,” the boy said distractedly, with a nervous smile. He had stopped brushing the chestnut stallion. “Fine boy, isn’t he, milord?”
“Aye,” Brynden stroked the destrier’s nose. The boy was staring at him in a way that made Brynden uneasy. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
“Um,” the boy said. “He needs a blanket.” But he made no move to get one, and just stood there with a blank stare.
Was the boy some kind of lackwit fool? Brynden felt sorry for him. “I’ll get it,” he said, in as reassuring a tone as he could manage. “It’s in that room there, right?” The boy nodded. “I’ll be right back, then.”
Brynden walked down to the tack room, which had a corner with bundles of extra blankets in it. He was the lone human figure in a stable full of horses made drowsy by the cold, though the stable was a bit warmer inside.
As he lifted a thick blue woolen blanket, there was creaking sound down the corridor. Brynden paused, listening. Then there was the muffled thud of hooves on hay-strewn floor. Slow at first, then more steadily. Then a loud, indignant whinny, and Brynden heard the stableboy curse, “Oh shit, now you’ve done it.”
Brynden darted out, his heart thumping with suspicion. The great chestnut courser was rearing, flanks gleaming pale gold in the stable light, resisting the boy’s desperate attempts to tug him forward. Brynden noticed that the boy had strapped a sword on.
“Let go of him,” Brynden snapped, running up to take the reins. The boy saw him and leaped onto the rearing chestnut, clinging desperately to the horse’s mane as the destrier dashed out of the stables. Brynden looked around, wrenched open the palfrey’s stall door, and jumped onto her bareback, kicking her forward. She was startled, and stood bemusedly at first, until he hit her on the flank and shouted, and then she finally moved into action. The palfrey went into a bewildered trot, and then he urged her into a canter, gripping her grey mane and sitting tight as she flew out of the gate. Ser Arguel’s guards stood up in alarm. “It’s all right!” Brynden shouted as he shot past. “Didn’t you see the chestnut? I’m going after a thief, I’ll be right back!”
Luckily, they had not lost the chestnut. The thief was having trouble controlling the horse and staying mounted, but he seemed a remarkably able rider, his sword swinging from the belt as he fought to control the rebellious destrier. People scattered before the chestnut as it cantered wildly through the crowded streets, knocking over fruit and vegetable carts, whinnying shrilly and skidding on the cobblestones.
“Watch where you’re going!”
“What in seven hells that boy doing?”
“Thief!” Brynden shouted cantering past. In contrast, he was sitting the palfrey bareback and managing her well, and she smoothly leapt over a fish cart, knocking the vendor’s hat off, and landing lightly, though a woman shrieked and pulled her small daughter aside, shouting curses at Brynden. Brynden didn’t notice; his focus was on the chestnut and the thief. “Horse thief!” he shouted. “Someone stop him!”
Nobody moved to help, but everyone watched the chase with interest, some of them even eyeing the chestnut destrier speculatively. One man shouted to the thief as he fought to maneuver the destrier through the jewelers’ market, “Nine hundred silver stags boy! Come here!” But the thief barely spared him a glance, so intent was he in not being thrown off. Watchmen were whistling futilely, chasing after them on foot with their gold cloaks flapping, but Brynden paid them no heed, and neither did the horse thief.
But the thief had no chance to pause and secure himself on the horse somehow. Brynden pursued him relentlessly, chasing him through Pigrun Alley, with its smelling pot shops and shit in the gutter, into River Row, past lines of tall timber-and-stone buildings whose upper stories leaned out so far over the streets that they nearly touch those of the buildings across from them. Pony carts and ox carts pulled hurriedly out of the way, and a pair of watchmen who had received warning foolishly tried to block the chestnut, and were promptly ran down.
“That wasn’t wise!” Brynden shouted, wondering if the thief could hear him. “You know what gold cloaks do to criminals who hurt one of their own?” The palfrey was growing slick with sweat, and it was getting harder to stay mounted, but Brynden kept his strength and balance. He knew the thief was about to be trapped. The River Row ended at the King’s Gate…
…And when the King’s Gate loomed up before them, it was slammed shut, the watchmen manning the gate and walls looking askance at the two boys riding bareback. The chestnut skidded to a halt and bucked violently, his back snapping up and dashing the thief to the ground. The thief gave a shout, and then a groan of pain. The destrier grew calmer once his unwelcome rider was finally shaken off.
“Whoa!” Brynden cried, slowing the palfrey down with some difficulty. He dismounted in relief, going for his sword as quick as he could. The thief’s sword was already out; he was faster.
“What the fuck is going on?” a guard shouted. Brynden barely had time to get his blade up before the thief lunged at him. The thief was good. He was no wellborn squire, but someone had taught him to use a blade. It took all Brynden’s effort to block and parry the vicious assault, losing ground every time. He’s backing me up against the wall, Brynden realized.
Quick as a cat, Brynden changed direction, stumbling only a little. Block, parry, thrust. His arm hurt. His legs were tired from gripping the palfrey’s slick sides with desperate strength. Brynden gritted his teeth and forced himself to hit back, the swords ringing against each other harshly.
“Fuck off, you prick,” the thief grunted, stabbing forward again. He was sweating, and Brynden realized he was tiring too. “When I kill you, I’ll feed you to the pot shops.”
Brynden flared with anger, and began to lay at him with fast strokes, finding a new, desperate urgency in the fight. He didn’t know where his strength came from. His feet worked with his arms, his body acting on instinct and hunger and skill, and then it was the thief who lost ground, reeling back in surprise. Brynden took a sweeping blow to his legs and knocked him off his feet. “Yield!” he shouted. Another hit, cutting the shoulder tendons. “Yield, and maybe you won’t die, and the gold cloaks will give you a nice cozy…”
A rough gloved hand gripped him and pulled him back. Brynden spun around, but this was a man of iron, and he caught Brynden’s wrist. It was a captain of the gold cloaks. “Sheathe it,” he said curtly. Brynden glared at him, but found himself obeying.
“He’s a thief,” Brynden said angrily. “Arrest him.”
“Fucking lia..”
The captain kicked the thief, who fell silent. “And you are?” he asked Brynden.
“I am Lord Brynden Royce of Duskendale, and I saw this boy steal Ser Arguel Flowers horse. I chased him all the way from Peachtree Lane. Anyone will back me up, the whole town saw us.”
The captain automatically grew more respectful. He bowed and his men took the thief away. Brynden refused their healer’s attentions or spare saddles for the horses, only intent on returning to Ser Arguel’s house and putting the horses back before Tilda and Betrina lost their minds.
He calmed the sweating destrier and led the two horses back, hooking his fingers in their halters. It was a long slow walk, but it felt good. He went over the chase and the fight in his mind, glowing a little and grinning to himself. When he reached Ser Arguel’s house, the women were in a flurry, and Ser Arguel himself looked fit to burst.
“It’s all right, they’re back, it was just a thief,” he tried to say, as the hens fussed over him. Brynden turned as red as his hair, shook himself free, and dashed to stable the two horses. Women were so impossible to deal with.
Results:
Brynden gains Noteworthy Sword
Brynden gains Expert Horseriding
“Everything will work out fine, m’dear,” Tilda said soothingly, as her sister Betrina gave Brynden a slice of hot apple cake. “Your mother will come home safe, don’t you worry. I will pray to the Mother every day to keep her safe, and light a candle to the Warrior too.”
Brynden had the sense not to say that his mother worshiped the old gods, and ate the apple cake slowly, savoring it. Plump Betrina Avalon ruffled his hair. “You look like a little Anselm,” she said fondly. “All in Kingsguard white. Are you a good squire to Lord Smith?”
“I try to be,” Brynden muttered, a little embarrassed.
“Well, don’t worry, sweetling. Everything will be all right. Why don’t you go out into the yard and see Uncle Arguel’s new charger?” Betrina knew how the boy loved horses.
“Ser Arguel bought a new warhorse?” Brynden said hesitantly.
Tilda pursed her lips a little disapprovingly. “Our sweet uncle may be old and gouty, but he likes to flash his money, especially on useless expensive destriers…”
“Do not speak so, sister,” Betrina said reproachfully. “A knight must have a good horse.”
“A horse he can’t ride?” Tilda raised an eyebrow, while Brynden ate his apple cake in a diplomatic silence. “Uncle thinks we must keep up appearances. It makes us look like we are greedy social climbers. The real highborn and knightly families will never really accept us anyway. Why should uncle think buying a flashy new destrier will change anything? It’s been the same story, for years and years…”
“That was a lovely apple cake,” Brynden interrupted, pushing his empty plate away. “Thanks for that – and for talking to me too,” he added, a little awkwardly. “I wouldn’t mind seeing that horse, though,” he said, rising from the table. He was eager to be away from their argument. He had come here for a bit of peace, not to listen to the sisters squabbling. Horses were always a balm to his troubles, though.
“Be careful, dear,” Tilda warned as he stepped out of the house into the cold winter chill. Brynden wrapped his cloak about him and walked towards the stables. The grooms seem to have retreated to their room behind the stables, probably sitting around a warm fire and having a drink.
He spotted Ser Arguel’s new destrier immediately, in a big box stall beside the old knight’s grey palfrey. The destrier was a chestnut, thick and muscular. There was one stable boy tending to him apparently with great concentration, brushing his mane. The boy started visibly when Brynden came up, and there was a flash of fear in his eyes.
Brynden stared at the other boy, and then said with a friendly smile, “Easy there, do I look like a Dornishman or something? I just wanted to see Ser Arguel’s new horse.”
“Oh, yes,” the boy said distractedly, with a nervous smile. He had stopped brushing the chestnut stallion. “Fine boy, isn’t he, milord?”
“Aye,” Brynden stroked the destrier’s nose. The boy was staring at him in a way that made Brynden uneasy. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
“Um,” the boy said. “He needs a blanket.” But he made no move to get one, and just stood there with a blank stare.
Was the boy some kind of lackwit fool? Brynden felt sorry for him. “I’ll get it,” he said, in as reassuring a tone as he could manage. “It’s in that room there, right?” The boy nodded. “I’ll be right back, then.”
Brynden walked down to the tack room, which had a corner with bundles of extra blankets in it. He was the lone human figure in a stable full of horses made drowsy by the cold, though the stable was a bit warmer inside.
As he lifted a thick blue woolen blanket, there was creaking sound down the corridor. Brynden paused, listening. Then there was the muffled thud of hooves on hay-strewn floor. Slow at first, then more steadily. Then a loud, indignant whinny, and Brynden heard the stableboy curse, “Oh shit, now you’ve done it.”
Brynden darted out, his heart thumping with suspicion. The great chestnut courser was rearing, flanks gleaming pale gold in the stable light, resisting the boy’s desperate attempts to tug him forward. Brynden noticed that the boy had strapped a sword on.
“Let go of him,” Brynden snapped, running up to take the reins. The boy saw him and leaped onto the rearing chestnut, clinging desperately to the horse’s mane as the destrier dashed out of the stables. Brynden looked around, wrenched open the palfrey’s stall door, and jumped onto her bareback, kicking her forward. She was startled, and stood bemusedly at first, until he hit her on the flank and shouted, and then she finally moved into action. The palfrey went into a bewildered trot, and then he urged her into a canter, gripping her grey mane and sitting tight as she flew out of the gate. Ser Arguel’s guards stood up in alarm. “It’s all right!” Brynden shouted as he shot past. “Didn’t you see the chestnut? I’m going after a thief, I’ll be right back!”
Luckily, they had not lost the chestnut. The thief was having trouble controlling the horse and staying mounted, but he seemed a remarkably able rider, his sword swinging from the belt as he fought to control the rebellious destrier. People scattered before the chestnut as it cantered wildly through the crowded streets, knocking over fruit and vegetable carts, whinnying shrilly and skidding on the cobblestones.
“Watch where you’re going!”
“What in seven hells that boy doing?”
“Thief!” Brynden shouted cantering past. In contrast, he was sitting the palfrey bareback and managing her well, and she smoothly leapt over a fish cart, knocking the vendor’s hat off, and landing lightly, though a woman shrieked and pulled her small daughter aside, shouting curses at Brynden. Brynden didn’t notice; his focus was on the chestnut and the thief. “Horse thief!” he shouted. “Someone stop him!”
Nobody moved to help, but everyone watched the chase with interest, some of them even eyeing the chestnut destrier speculatively. One man shouted to the thief as he fought to maneuver the destrier through the jewelers’ market, “Nine hundred silver stags boy! Come here!” But the thief barely spared him a glance, so intent was he in not being thrown off. Watchmen were whistling futilely, chasing after them on foot with their gold cloaks flapping, but Brynden paid them no heed, and neither did the horse thief.
But the thief had no chance to pause and secure himself on the horse somehow. Brynden pursued him relentlessly, chasing him through Pigrun Alley, with its smelling pot shops and shit in the gutter, into River Row, past lines of tall timber-and-stone buildings whose upper stories leaned out so far over the streets that they nearly touch those of the buildings across from them. Pony carts and ox carts pulled hurriedly out of the way, and a pair of watchmen who had received warning foolishly tried to block the chestnut, and were promptly ran down.
“That wasn’t wise!” Brynden shouted, wondering if the thief could hear him. “You know what gold cloaks do to criminals who hurt one of their own?” The palfrey was growing slick with sweat, and it was getting harder to stay mounted, but Brynden kept his strength and balance. He knew the thief was about to be trapped. The River Row ended at the King’s Gate…
…And when the King’s Gate loomed up before them, it was slammed shut, the watchmen manning the gate and walls looking askance at the two boys riding bareback. The chestnut skidded to a halt and bucked violently, his back snapping up and dashing the thief to the ground. The thief gave a shout, and then a groan of pain. The destrier grew calmer once his unwelcome rider was finally shaken off.
“Whoa!” Brynden cried, slowing the palfrey down with some difficulty. He dismounted in relief, going for his sword as quick as he could. The thief’s sword was already out; he was faster.
“What the fuck is going on?” a guard shouted. Brynden barely had time to get his blade up before the thief lunged at him. The thief was good. He was no wellborn squire, but someone had taught him to use a blade. It took all Brynden’s effort to block and parry the vicious assault, losing ground every time. He’s backing me up against the wall, Brynden realized.
Quick as a cat, Brynden changed direction, stumbling only a little. Block, parry, thrust. His arm hurt. His legs were tired from gripping the palfrey’s slick sides with desperate strength. Brynden gritted his teeth and forced himself to hit back, the swords ringing against each other harshly.
“Fuck off, you prick,” the thief grunted, stabbing forward again. He was sweating, and Brynden realized he was tiring too. “When I kill you, I’ll feed you to the pot shops.”
Brynden flared with anger, and began to lay at him with fast strokes, finding a new, desperate urgency in the fight. He didn’t know where his strength came from. His feet worked with his arms, his body acting on instinct and hunger and skill, and then it was the thief who lost ground, reeling back in surprise. Brynden took a sweeping blow to his legs and knocked him off his feet. “Yield!” he shouted. Another hit, cutting the shoulder tendons. “Yield, and maybe you won’t die, and the gold cloaks will give you a nice cozy…”
A rough gloved hand gripped him and pulled him back. Brynden spun around, but this was a man of iron, and he caught Brynden’s wrist. It was a captain of the gold cloaks. “Sheathe it,” he said curtly. Brynden glared at him, but found himself obeying.
“He’s a thief,” Brynden said angrily. “Arrest him.”
“Fucking lia..”
The captain kicked the thief, who fell silent. “And you are?” he asked Brynden.
“I am Lord Brynden Royce of Duskendale, and I saw this boy steal Ser Arguel Flowers horse. I chased him all the way from Peachtree Lane. Anyone will back me up, the whole town saw us.”
The captain automatically grew more respectful. He bowed and his men took the thief away. Brynden refused their healer’s attentions or spare saddles for the horses, only intent on returning to Ser Arguel’s house and putting the horses back before Tilda and Betrina lost their minds.
He calmed the sweating destrier and led the two horses back, hooking his fingers in their halters. It was a long slow walk, but it felt good. He went over the chase and the fight in his mind, glowing a little and grinning to himself. When he reached Ser Arguel’s house, the women were in a flurry, and Ser Arguel himself looked fit to burst.
“It’s all right, they’re back, it was just a thief,” he tried to say, as the hens fussed over him. Brynden turned as red as his hair, shook himself free, and dashed to stable the two horses. Women were so impossible to deal with.
Results:
Brynden gains Noteworthy Sword
Brynden gains Expert Horseriding