Post by The Smith on Jan 22, 2009 0:36:47 GMT -5
Brynden squinted against the late afternoon sun as he cleaned up the campfire and carried his saddle to his horse. One of his men finished the rest of the cleaning up. It was a unusually sunny day today – if Brynden had the sun at his back, he could see quite far across the rolling grasslands, as far as the river. It was late afternoon, and they had stopped to eat and give the horses a rest. Brynden gazed out over the peaceful fields, wondering how the brigands would react to him.
After returning Jennelynn safely to her mother’s keeping, he had set about interrogating the bandit leader he had caught. The man spoke in Braavosi best, so Brynden questioned him in his native language.
It had taken some intense persuasion to persuade the wretched man to reveal his secrets.
“We were merchants here, my lord,” he spat out blood. “Braavosi merchants in King’s Landing. But in the rebellion against the King, our businesses were sacked and burned, and some of our women raped and killed. We were cast out of King’s Landing, and took to robbery.”
And they had robbed, raped and murdered their way through the south crownlands. First they had been small parties, but then they became large bands of thieves. Local men joined them, for the times were harsh and both money and food were hard to come by.
Brynden had the man executed, and both the Lords Rosby and Stokeworth begged him for help in removing the bandits from their lands. Disgusted by their ineptitude, Brynden gathered his own men to go scouting for the last band of robbers that was still active – a party of eight.
He had crossed into the crownlands a few days before, and had only ten men with him – a larger party would be more noticeable, and Brynden wanted to track these people with stealth. Besides, Rosby and Stokeworth were both going to give him soldiers. Brynden was not even riding his horse, Red Sun – the stallion’s distinctive coloring and build would be recognized. Instead he rode a hardy dark bay gelding, a fast horse that was tough as nails, extremely willing and not as distinctive as his warhorse. The gelding’s name was Lancer, because he was such a good horse in a joust, but Brynden’s men called him, “the little iron horse”, because he had more will and stamina than any horse Brynden had ever seen. Bad weather, long travel, inadequate food – none of it seemed to wear him down. He was as stubborn as a mule in that regard.
“How far from Rosby, my lord?” asked Rolf, the apprentice maester who had been sent with him. He had a cage of ravens with him. Rolf was also a good man with a sword, as much a soldier as a maester. He had ridden with Lord Corbray on campaigns before.
“Little more than a day’s ride, if we went at a slow, easy pace,” Brynden replied, buckling up Lancer’s girth. They had received information that the bandits were on Rosby’s lands. The other horses seemed restless – Brynden had ordered oats to be found for them the night before, to give them the energy for a long ride ahead. The oats had done their work – even the most listless horses seemed brighter-eyed and perkier today.
“Can we be certain that the bandits are in Rosby, my lord?”
“We paid that peasant well for his information,” Brynden said. “I trust he was honest with us. In any case, I did send Cotter to scout the area near Dyre Den and Stokeworth. Where is he?
“I haven’t seen him this morning, my lord.” Rolf squinted around, shielding his eyes from the sun. “OY! Somebody find Cotter Wells!”
The other men, who were saddling up, looked around. “I think he hasn’t come back yet,” one soldier replied.
“I’ll check if he’s nearby,” Ser Robb Graves said, mounting his horse. Brynden nodded, and Ser Robb wheeled his horse about and cantered away.
An hour later two riders approached at a fast gallop. Brynden immediately recognized his men, and felt relief wash over him. “It’s them!” he said, rising to his feet. Rolf looked up – the sunlight made it easy to spot them.
The two riders reined in their sweating, frothing horses hard as they reached the camp, panting. Ser Robb had found Cotter Wells.
“Well done, Ser Robb,” Brynden said to Robb Graves, who was trying to regain his breath. Ser Robb Graves was captain of Brynden’s household guard, and he was a very resourceful young man. Then Brynden looked at Cotter. “You must have scouted too far…”
“Lord Brynden!” Robb said hoarsely. “They’re…They’re…”
“We saw them riding towards Stokeworth, ser!” Cotter panted. “Towards the villages – they’re on some tired mules. They’re at least thirty of them.”
“Thirty?” Brynden asked sharply, stunned. His small company was no match for thirty bandits. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, my lord – they were dressed the way that farmer said, and were speaking in some queer foreign tongue. We heard some of them men speaking normally though – a great deal of local men must’ve joined them.”
Brynden had guessed that much. “Thank you, men,” he said. “We might be able to do the Lord of Stokeworth a great service today. Rolf,” he turned to the apprentice maester. “Send a raven to Lord Rosby…” he dictated the letter, as Rolf fished out parchment and quill and scribbled it out. Then Brynden sealed the letter with his sigil, and Rolf tied it to a raven leg’s. He sent the raven off, and then Brynden asked, “Do you have ravens that are meant for Stokeworth?”
“Unfortunately no, my lord,” Rolf said apologetically. “I had two, and we sent them out already.”
Brynden felt disheartened for a moment, but then rallied himself. He turned to his men and barked, “On your horses, men! We have a fast and hard ride ahead of us. We need to warn Lord Stokeworth before the bandits reach his villages, or else those villages and fields are doomed.” The urgency was not lost on him. There had been less rain this year than usual, and farmers had harvested fewer crops. The realm needed to be fed, and Brynden was terrified at the idea of farmers being attacked.
“My lord…” Cotter and Ser Robb were on extremely tired horses. It was immediately apparent to Brynden that they wouldn’t make it.
“Find an inn somewhere and get those horses some rest,” he told them kindly, throwing a purse of coins to Ser Robb. “You need it. Join us when they’re well enough to travel again.”
“Thank you my lord,” Ser Robb bowed. Rolf handed Cotter the cage of ravens as well – they couldn’t come along on the fast ride ahead.
“The rest of you – with me! Everything depends on our speed today. Stokeworth is a little further from here than Rosby is.” Brynden turned Lancer around, and kicked the dark bay forward. The horse went into a canter, and began to build speed. Brynden could hear eight horses thundering behind him. Brynden leaned forward in his saddle, bent over Lancer’s neck, and urged the horse on with his reins. “Yah!” he yelled. “Come on now!”
And it was as if the horse had been still before, so powerful was his burst of speed. The dark gelding suddenly surged forward and broke into a gallop, gaining speed every second. The wind was howling in his ears, stinging his eyes and making them water. Brynden could barely breathe, but he was flying.
Lancer flew down the grasslands at breakneck speed, and the other riders tried hard to keep up. The horses seemed to want to race each other, and a few managed to catch up to Lancer. The exhilaration of galloping infected their riders, but the horses could not maintain the speed for long. After a while Brynden had to slow to a canter, and then to a trot, to give Lancer a chance to catch his breath and relieve his muscles. Night was falling. They would only have an hour of daylight, and then darkness would cover them.
The other horses were very tired, though a few looked like they had it in them to go a few more miles. Brynden slowed down to a walk to give the others a chance to catch up. One of his men rode up to him and said, “My lord, three of the horses look like they’re about to fall over.”
“We’ll have to change them at a nearby inn,” Brynden said. “And water the others.” After ten more minutes walking, Brynden saw an inn in the distance. He spurred Lancer into a canter, and the other riders followed. They made it to inn, and three of the horses were exchanged for fresh horses while the other steeds were given water and new oats.
“This is for the horses, water and food,” Brynden said handing over coins. “And this is for your silence,” he added, adding others. The wary-looking innkeep accepted them with a bow. “You have my silence, m’lord.”
Refreshed, they set off again. They could barely see the way ahead, but Brynden knew the way. He urged Lancer into a gallop again, and they flew over gentle hills, gaining speed as they came down over the other side. Lancer stopped trying to increase his speed, and settled into a rhythm that he could maintain for a long period. Brynden kept the horse steady, and he felt the other horses galloping behind him.
The hours passed on. Spittle and froth flew from Lancer’s mouth. His neck was soaked with sweat. Brynden did not intend to ride the horse to death, and slowed to a walk to let Lancer recover. The other horses needed it too, and they walked for a bit. All too soon, though, Brynden pushed Lancer back into a gallop.
“My lord!” Rolf shouted. “The horses won’t make it!”
“They have to!” Brynden yelled over his shoulder. “We have no time!”
Brynden was tired himself, and hungry, but he dared not stop. They had to warn Stokeworth and give him time to send out soldiers to defend his people from the bandits. Therefore he pushed Lancer for all he was worth, riding hard and fast into the night. When they reached a stream, he paused to give the horses a chance to drink, which they badly needed. Then it was back to galloping. The night wind was cold. When Brynden looked over his shoulder, only five of his original eight were still behind him. Guilt stung him, but he pushed it aside. Saving those villages was the only priority.
Midnight passed, and they rode on. Two more horses gave up and fell down, half dead with exhaustion. Brynden barely even heard them. Fifteen minutes later, however, he clearly heard another horse whinny and collapse. He slowed to a canter to give the remaining horses a chance to recover. They maintained the canter for a long time, only by the determination of their riders. For one poor grey horse in particular, it seemed only his loyalty to his rider held him up. He looked completely spent.
Brynden listened to their wheezing. As it seemed to die down a little, he pushed Lancer faster. And then into a gallop again. The “little iron horse” was certainly living up to his name. Of all the eight horses, only he maintained a steely will to keep his pace.
An hour later, the two remaining horses behind Brynden fell, their forelegs collapsing as they crashed headfirst into the ground and rolled over. Their riders yelled and Brynden hoped they had not been crushed, but he had no time to stop. It all depends on me now, he thought. I’m the only one who can warn Stokeworth. And that terrible realization made him urge Lancer faster every time the horse faltered. “Come on, boy,” he said urgently. “We’re almost there. Come on, now. Don’t you give up, not now!”
The dark gelding couldn’t understand the words, but his ears flicked back, and he heard the urgency in Brynden’s voice. He couldn’t speed up, but he maintained his gallop, panting hard. Brynden privately felt wretched for the poor horse, but he couldn’t stop now, not for anything. If Lancer fell, Brynden would get off and run with his own feet.
But Lancer didn’t fall. The little iron horse kept running, and soon dawn broke over the horizon. Brynden felt dizzy himself, but he hung on. If he faltered now, there would be nothing to keep Lancer going. He was the leader. He had to show confidence.
And then, far in the distance, he saw it. The tall towers of Castle Stokeworth were visible, and they gave him hope. He kicked Lancer, urging him on. “We’re almost there!” he yelled. “Go go go go!”
And somehow, the dark bay found a burst of energy. Perhaps it was the cold morning light that gave him hope, or his rider’s enthusiasm, or perhaps he too could sense that the journey was almost at an end. Whatever it was, it heartened the horse. Lancer regained his old speed, and soon he was flying up the slope to the grey castle, running like a deranged creature. We both must be deranged right now, Brynden thought, giddy with exhaustion and hunger.
Stokeworth’s castle drew closer, but agonizingly slowly. The wind was whipping Brynden’s face, as it had done all night, but his skin was numb now. Some spittle flew from Lancer’s mouth and hit Brynden’s cheek, but he didn’t reach up to brush it away. He felt it connected him with his horse somehow, and besides, he needed both hands on the reins. He was exhausted, and it took all his strength to stay mounted. His thighs burned from gripping the saddle and holding him in a forward position. His arms ached. This was the greatest endurance test he had ever known, both for horse and man. Whenever he felt himself weaken he remembered the helpless peasants, their vulnerable villages, their vital fields of wheat and barley.
As they neared the castle, Lancer began to slow. Brynden weakly pushed him on, but the horse didn’t gallop. It was all that Brynden could do to keep him cantering. He could see the outer entrance coming up. The sentries didn’t challenge him, probably assuming that a worn out lone rider was not a threat.
He rode into the courtyard, slowing immediately to a trot and then a walk. Lancer slowed down gratefully. Brynden dismounted and led the horse, which was trembling violently. Brynden patted his neck, and his hand came away slick with sweat. “Good boy,” he said softly. “Good boy, Lancer.” He saw a man gaping at him, and beckoned him over.
“I am Lord Brynden Royce,” he said, giving the man a few silvers. “See to it that this horse is unsaddled, washed, and well fed. Let him sleep like a babe, and there will be more coins for you.”
“Yes, my lord,” the man bowed, and led Lancer away.
Someone ran inside to tell Stokeworth of Brynden’s arrival. The chief steward of the castle appeared quickly, and led Brynden inside towards Stokeworth’s solar.
“You are most welcome, Lord Royce,” the steward said. “Though we are surprised…”
“I am here to tell your master to ready his men,” Brynden said curtly. “Thirty bandits are about to attack villages on the western edge of his lands.”
Result:
- Brynden achieves Legendary in Horse riding
After returning Jennelynn safely to her mother’s keeping, he had set about interrogating the bandit leader he had caught. The man spoke in Braavosi best, so Brynden questioned him in his native language.
It had taken some intense persuasion to persuade the wretched man to reveal his secrets.
“We were merchants here, my lord,” he spat out blood. “Braavosi merchants in King’s Landing. But in the rebellion against the King, our businesses were sacked and burned, and some of our women raped and killed. We were cast out of King’s Landing, and took to robbery.”
And they had robbed, raped and murdered their way through the south crownlands. First they had been small parties, but then they became large bands of thieves. Local men joined them, for the times were harsh and both money and food were hard to come by.
Brynden had the man executed, and both the Lords Rosby and Stokeworth begged him for help in removing the bandits from their lands. Disgusted by their ineptitude, Brynden gathered his own men to go scouting for the last band of robbers that was still active – a party of eight.
He had crossed into the crownlands a few days before, and had only ten men with him – a larger party would be more noticeable, and Brynden wanted to track these people with stealth. Besides, Rosby and Stokeworth were both going to give him soldiers. Brynden was not even riding his horse, Red Sun – the stallion’s distinctive coloring and build would be recognized. Instead he rode a hardy dark bay gelding, a fast horse that was tough as nails, extremely willing and not as distinctive as his warhorse. The gelding’s name was Lancer, because he was such a good horse in a joust, but Brynden’s men called him, “the little iron horse”, because he had more will and stamina than any horse Brynden had ever seen. Bad weather, long travel, inadequate food – none of it seemed to wear him down. He was as stubborn as a mule in that regard.
“How far from Rosby, my lord?” asked Rolf, the apprentice maester who had been sent with him. He had a cage of ravens with him. Rolf was also a good man with a sword, as much a soldier as a maester. He had ridden with Lord Corbray on campaigns before.
“Little more than a day’s ride, if we went at a slow, easy pace,” Brynden replied, buckling up Lancer’s girth. They had received information that the bandits were on Rosby’s lands. The other horses seemed restless – Brynden had ordered oats to be found for them the night before, to give them the energy for a long ride ahead. The oats had done their work – even the most listless horses seemed brighter-eyed and perkier today.
“Can we be certain that the bandits are in Rosby, my lord?”
“We paid that peasant well for his information,” Brynden said. “I trust he was honest with us. In any case, I did send Cotter to scout the area near Dyre Den and Stokeworth. Where is he?
“I haven’t seen him this morning, my lord.” Rolf squinted around, shielding his eyes from the sun. “OY! Somebody find Cotter Wells!”
The other men, who were saddling up, looked around. “I think he hasn’t come back yet,” one soldier replied.
“I’ll check if he’s nearby,” Ser Robb Graves said, mounting his horse. Brynden nodded, and Ser Robb wheeled his horse about and cantered away.
An hour later two riders approached at a fast gallop. Brynden immediately recognized his men, and felt relief wash over him. “It’s them!” he said, rising to his feet. Rolf looked up – the sunlight made it easy to spot them.
The two riders reined in their sweating, frothing horses hard as they reached the camp, panting. Ser Robb had found Cotter Wells.
“Well done, Ser Robb,” Brynden said to Robb Graves, who was trying to regain his breath. Ser Robb Graves was captain of Brynden’s household guard, and he was a very resourceful young man. Then Brynden looked at Cotter. “You must have scouted too far…”
“Lord Brynden!” Robb said hoarsely. “They’re…They’re…”
“We saw them riding towards Stokeworth, ser!” Cotter panted. “Towards the villages – they’re on some tired mules. They’re at least thirty of them.”
“Thirty?” Brynden asked sharply, stunned. His small company was no match for thirty bandits. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, my lord – they were dressed the way that farmer said, and were speaking in some queer foreign tongue. We heard some of them men speaking normally though – a great deal of local men must’ve joined them.”
Brynden had guessed that much. “Thank you, men,” he said. “We might be able to do the Lord of Stokeworth a great service today. Rolf,” he turned to the apprentice maester. “Send a raven to Lord Rosby…” he dictated the letter, as Rolf fished out parchment and quill and scribbled it out. Then Brynden sealed the letter with his sigil, and Rolf tied it to a raven leg’s. He sent the raven off, and then Brynden asked, “Do you have ravens that are meant for Stokeworth?”
“Unfortunately no, my lord,” Rolf said apologetically. “I had two, and we sent them out already.”
Brynden felt disheartened for a moment, but then rallied himself. He turned to his men and barked, “On your horses, men! We have a fast and hard ride ahead of us. We need to warn Lord Stokeworth before the bandits reach his villages, or else those villages and fields are doomed.” The urgency was not lost on him. There had been less rain this year than usual, and farmers had harvested fewer crops. The realm needed to be fed, and Brynden was terrified at the idea of farmers being attacked.
“My lord…” Cotter and Ser Robb were on extremely tired horses. It was immediately apparent to Brynden that they wouldn’t make it.
“Find an inn somewhere and get those horses some rest,” he told them kindly, throwing a purse of coins to Ser Robb. “You need it. Join us when they’re well enough to travel again.”
“Thank you my lord,” Ser Robb bowed. Rolf handed Cotter the cage of ravens as well – they couldn’t come along on the fast ride ahead.
“The rest of you – with me! Everything depends on our speed today. Stokeworth is a little further from here than Rosby is.” Brynden turned Lancer around, and kicked the dark bay forward. The horse went into a canter, and began to build speed. Brynden could hear eight horses thundering behind him. Brynden leaned forward in his saddle, bent over Lancer’s neck, and urged the horse on with his reins. “Yah!” he yelled. “Come on now!”
And it was as if the horse had been still before, so powerful was his burst of speed. The dark gelding suddenly surged forward and broke into a gallop, gaining speed every second. The wind was howling in his ears, stinging his eyes and making them water. Brynden could barely breathe, but he was flying.
Lancer flew down the grasslands at breakneck speed, and the other riders tried hard to keep up. The horses seemed to want to race each other, and a few managed to catch up to Lancer. The exhilaration of galloping infected their riders, but the horses could not maintain the speed for long. After a while Brynden had to slow to a canter, and then to a trot, to give Lancer a chance to catch his breath and relieve his muscles. Night was falling. They would only have an hour of daylight, and then darkness would cover them.
The other horses were very tired, though a few looked like they had it in them to go a few more miles. Brynden slowed down to a walk to give the others a chance to catch up. One of his men rode up to him and said, “My lord, three of the horses look like they’re about to fall over.”
“We’ll have to change them at a nearby inn,” Brynden said. “And water the others.” After ten more minutes walking, Brynden saw an inn in the distance. He spurred Lancer into a canter, and the other riders followed. They made it to inn, and three of the horses were exchanged for fresh horses while the other steeds were given water and new oats.
“This is for the horses, water and food,” Brynden said handing over coins. “And this is for your silence,” he added, adding others. The wary-looking innkeep accepted them with a bow. “You have my silence, m’lord.”
Refreshed, they set off again. They could barely see the way ahead, but Brynden knew the way. He urged Lancer into a gallop again, and they flew over gentle hills, gaining speed as they came down over the other side. Lancer stopped trying to increase his speed, and settled into a rhythm that he could maintain for a long period. Brynden kept the horse steady, and he felt the other horses galloping behind him.
The hours passed on. Spittle and froth flew from Lancer’s mouth. His neck was soaked with sweat. Brynden did not intend to ride the horse to death, and slowed to a walk to let Lancer recover. The other horses needed it too, and they walked for a bit. All too soon, though, Brynden pushed Lancer back into a gallop.
“My lord!” Rolf shouted. “The horses won’t make it!”
“They have to!” Brynden yelled over his shoulder. “We have no time!”
Brynden was tired himself, and hungry, but he dared not stop. They had to warn Stokeworth and give him time to send out soldiers to defend his people from the bandits. Therefore he pushed Lancer for all he was worth, riding hard and fast into the night. When they reached a stream, he paused to give the horses a chance to drink, which they badly needed. Then it was back to galloping. The night wind was cold. When Brynden looked over his shoulder, only five of his original eight were still behind him. Guilt stung him, but he pushed it aside. Saving those villages was the only priority.
Midnight passed, and they rode on. Two more horses gave up and fell down, half dead with exhaustion. Brynden barely even heard them. Fifteen minutes later, however, he clearly heard another horse whinny and collapse. He slowed to a canter to give the remaining horses a chance to recover. They maintained the canter for a long time, only by the determination of their riders. For one poor grey horse in particular, it seemed only his loyalty to his rider held him up. He looked completely spent.
Brynden listened to their wheezing. As it seemed to die down a little, he pushed Lancer faster. And then into a gallop again. The “little iron horse” was certainly living up to his name. Of all the eight horses, only he maintained a steely will to keep his pace.
An hour later, the two remaining horses behind Brynden fell, their forelegs collapsing as they crashed headfirst into the ground and rolled over. Their riders yelled and Brynden hoped they had not been crushed, but he had no time to stop. It all depends on me now, he thought. I’m the only one who can warn Stokeworth. And that terrible realization made him urge Lancer faster every time the horse faltered. “Come on, boy,” he said urgently. “We’re almost there. Come on, now. Don’t you give up, not now!”
The dark gelding couldn’t understand the words, but his ears flicked back, and he heard the urgency in Brynden’s voice. He couldn’t speed up, but he maintained his gallop, panting hard. Brynden privately felt wretched for the poor horse, but he couldn’t stop now, not for anything. If Lancer fell, Brynden would get off and run with his own feet.
But Lancer didn’t fall. The little iron horse kept running, and soon dawn broke over the horizon. Brynden felt dizzy himself, but he hung on. If he faltered now, there would be nothing to keep Lancer going. He was the leader. He had to show confidence.
And then, far in the distance, he saw it. The tall towers of Castle Stokeworth were visible, and they gave him hope. He kicked Lancer, urging him on. “We’re almost there!” he yelled. “Go go go go!”
And somehow, the dark bay found a burst of energy. Perhaps it was the cold morning light that gave him hope, or his rider’s enthusiasm, or perhaps he too could sense that the journey was almost at an end. Whatever it was, it heartened the horse. Lancer regained his old speed, and soon he was flying up the slope to the grey castle, running like a deranged creature. We both must be deranged right now, Brynden thought, giddy with exhaustion and hunger.
Stokeworth’s castle drew closer, but agonizingly slowly. The wind was whipping Brynden’s face, as it had done all night, but his skin was numb now. Some spittle flew from Lancer’s mouth and hit Brynden’s cheek, but he didn’t reach up to brush it away. He felt it connected him with his horse somehow, and besides, he needed both hands on the reins. He was exhausted, and it took all his strength to stay mounted. His thighs burned from gripping the saddle and holding him in a forward position. His arms ached. This was the greatest endurance test he had ever known, both for horse and man. Whenever he felt himself weaken he remembered the helpless peasants, their vulnerable villages, their vital fields of wheat and barley.
As they neared the castle, Lancer began to slow. Brynden weakly pushed him on, but the horse didn’t gallop. It was all that Brynden could do to keep him cantering. He could see the outer entrance coming up. The sentries didn’t challenge him, probably assuming that a worn out lone rider was not a threat.
He rode into the courtyard, slowing immediately to a trot and then a walk. Lancer slowed down gratefully. Brynden dismounted and led the horse, which was trembling violently. Brynden patted his neck, and his hand came away slick with sweat. “Good boy,” he said softly. “Good boy, Lancer.” He saw a man gaping at him, and beckoned him over.
“I am Lord Brynden Royce,” he said, giving the man a few silvers. “See to it that this horse is unsaddled, washed, and well fed. Let him sleep like a babe, and there will be more coins for you.”
“Yes, my lord,” the man bowed, and led Lancer away.
Someone ran inside to tell Stokeworth of Brynden’s arrival. The chief steward of the castle appeared quickly, and led Brynden inside towards Stokeworth’s solar.
“You are most welcome, Lord Royce,” the steward said. “Though we are surprised…”
“I am here to tell your master to ready his men,” Brynden said curtly. “Thirty bandits are about to attack villages on the western edge of his lands.”
Result:
- Brynden achieves Legendary in Horse riding