Post by The Smith on May 27, 2009 15:35:35 GMT -5
The Legend of the Traitor’s Son
At Goldengrove…
Steam rose from the mailed bodies of the massed troops. Rows of ragged, tired looking men, old codgers, or young boys for the most part. Deep in their midst, three ranks from the front line, stood a young man, stamping his hobnailed boots into the brown slush at his feet in a failed effort to keep warm. The handle of the heavy spiked flail was sticking to the steel links of his gauntlet, and he had to shake it to keep it loose in his grip. His shield, oak and ironshod, was on his left forearm, heavy always, and heavier now as icicles were forming to it.
His father was no doubt warm right now, beneath several bearskin blankets and before a roaring fire, as was his wont. The young man wondered how a man who hated even the slightest draft could have sold his own people to the long night. But then, there was so much about his father that was a mystery. When had he turned his cloak? Or had he never, truly been on the right side to begin with?
“Do me a favor eh,” said an old man with grey five day stubble on his cheeks, and a heavy mace with a bent shaft in his hand, “If I be killed here, you set me on fire so I don’t come back as one of those things eh? Promise?”
“Only if you do me if I go first,” the young man replied.
“Eh, ain’t no chance of that, look at that hauberk ye’ have. Like a regular fancy noble you are, they never get killed in these things.”
“Well than thank god I’m not one of them then.” The young man lied, “Cause with everything we’ve seen so far, I think the living might envy the dead.”
Somewhere near the front Ustice the Red was giving final instructions to the foot. The young man already knew what he was saying even though he couldn’t hear him. Hold your ground, keep your shields interlocked, don’t give ground, and set your pike before the charge. Frontline men keep the bastards back, and second and third row men get killing blows in when the opportunity arises. Above all don’t break formation. Wise tactics from decades of man fighting man. Totally useless, of course, given what was before them today, but just hearing that their leaders had a plan would help steady the men, fooling them into believing there was some way to survive. Sometimes, the young man considered as he hefted the weight of the flail, it was okay to lie.
The men couldn’t see of course, but the scouts had reported wights and Others advancing south, waiting somewhere in the tree-line, for the small army of men under King Selwyn to give battle.
Just then the Enemy moved from the darkness of the forest. A massive horde of the walking dead shambled forward, their black hands grasping every kind of weapon imaginable. Off to the right side, their “cavalry” was forming up, ghostly Others atop skeletal horses and giant spiders, the partially decomposed remains of massive bears. It was the army of a frozen hell and it marched forward into position as silently as the grave.
The young man did not hear the horn sound, but followed the others, as they charged. Battle was joined, living against the dead. The men fought hesitantly, the front ranks advancing slowly, while the rear ranks surged forward. It was mayhem. The young man put his weight behind his shield and forced his way to the front ranks, just in time to duck a rusted blade in a frozen black hand. The whirling flail forced the snarling ghoul backwards until the heavy spiked weight cracked it skull, the smell of rotten brain whiffing through the air.
Still the line began to falter, and the men fell back, retreating. As they began to turn, a young boy, mayhaps sixteen, fell, trampled by his comrades. As he lay helpless, crying for help, one of Others approached, slowly, deliberately, it’s blade of incandescent death held high in its hand. As it lunged forward, the whirling chain of the young soldiers flail caught the blade, and tore it from the creatures grasp, even as it began to freeze the steel forged links fast in their place. The creature howled in rage and turned to face the man who’d delayed its prize. The young boy fled past his savior, as fast as his legs could carry him. The creature advanced, with a new blade as cold as ice appearing in its clenched fist. The young man tossed away the flail as its links finally succumbed to the temperature and snapped, leaving the heavy spiked head on the ground in pieces. He raised his shield for a moment, and then thought better of it, tossing it away.
“C’mon you bastard, what are you waiting for? Kill me!” The young man said, but the thing gave no reply.
The thing lunged forward, only to scream as it was knocked onto its heels by a flaming spear, which pinned it fast to the ground. The young man felt a pull at the neck of his armor, and he was off his feet, being dragged backwards towards the line.
“Nice throw!” He remarked to his rescuer, the old man he’d been talking to earlier. “Nice shot my arse, I was aiming at you! Figured you were dead anyway.” The old man replied, As they continued to hustle backwards a few steps before the oncoming Wights.
There was a sudden “whoosh” than, above them in the sky, and heat like the hottest Dornish summer, as flames licked around the sky behind them, singing hairs on their head. Three magnificent beasts of fire and flame blotted out the cold light of sky and filled it with bright light of fire. The monstrous horde retreated from the field in disorder.
While the captains and lords met to discuss the return of Saella and the Selwyn’s taking of the knee, the common men sat around pitiful dung fires, and tried to stay dry and warm.
“There he is!” came a shout behind his head, “That’s Thatcher, I’d recognize him anywhere!” It was the boy whom the young man had interrupted the Other from killing, pointing at him and crying his name. Behind him stood two sergeants of the King’s army, hands on their hilts. “That’s Thatcher’s son. I seen him when I was at the Red Keep,” the boy continued, “ I used to help take care of the hounds. That’s him!” Men quickly pushed themselves away from where Talyn sat on his campstool. He hung his head.
“I’ll be buggered if that’s Thatcher’s whelp, that fella saved your life you little ingrate!” cried the grizzled old man from the back, fighting his way through the crowd.
“He’s a spy!” someone shouted, impossible to say who.
“Fuck he’s a spy, he fought a bloody Other, I seen him. He ain’t no turncloak, nor no turncloaks kid!” the man continued.
“Yes I am,” Talyn replied, resigned as he stood and turned towards his accuser. One could not hide what you were, not forever.
“Okay well he is, but fuck off,” the old man replied, not missing a beat, “Like you ain’t done worse than been some bitch’s son yourself. Seven knows I have.” The man replied. There was a muffled chorus of “yeahs” among the group.
“Alright, hush up you, King Selwyn will decide the matter.”
In the end, King Selwyn did not decide the matter, for it never got beyond Ustice the Red, who promptly declared Talyn “no worse than the rest of you useless scum,” and left them alone.
As Queen Saella took command, there was much reorganization, men who’d served under King Selwyn falling under the Dragon’s direct command. A few men who’d fought beside Talyn, or who had observed the arguments over what should be done with Thatcher, made a conscious decision to fight beside him during the many battles which followed, and placing their tents around his during camp, to prevent any who might have suffered under his father from taking revenge. At first he ignored them, but later, came to enjoy the company. They were ruffians, mostly. Thieves, men who belonged on the Night’s Watch, and would have been, in a different world. They began calling themselves the Traitors’ Sons. As the horrors of battle spread, so too did their numbers, as men who’d came north with one lord, found him slain and not knowing who to serve, join Talyn. When they finally reached the Wall, they numbered two-hundred. They fought together, with a common bond. None of them had anything left to lose.
When the day of the final battle came, the Traitors’ Sons formed a hardened corps of heavy infantry inside the ranks of King Selwyn’s force. Men from every walk of life, and every land in Westeros. Led by their commander into the frozen maw of the great Enemy, in hopes that here, at least, the suffering would end.
But Talyn was not so lucky. When the smoke of fiery dragons’ breath had cleared, they, and not the Others, held the field. Many other good men, BETTER men, in truth, were dead, while the Traitor’s Son, and his new found comrades would be forced to see another day, or find another battle to fight.
Result:
Talyn Thatcher to Legendary Battle
Talyn commands The Traitors’ Sons, a small corps of veteran heavy infantry under his own banner.
At Goldengrove…
Steam rose from the mailed bodies of the massed troops. Rows of ragged, tired looking men, old codgers, or young boys for the most part. Deep in their midst, three ranks from the front line, stood a young man, stamping his hobnailed boots into the brown slush at his feet in a failed effort to keep warm. The handle of the heavy spiked flail was sticking to the steel links of his gauntlet, and he had to shake it to keep it loose in his grip. His shield, oak and ironshod, was on his left forearm, heavy always, and heavier now as icicles were forming to it.
His father was no doubt warm right now, beneath several bearskin blankets and before a roaring fire, as was his wont. The young man wondered how a man who hated even the slightest draft could have sold his own people to the long night. But then, there was so much about his father that was a mystery. When had he turned his cloak? Or had he never, truly been on the right side to begin with?
“Do me a favor eh,” said an old man with grey five day stubble on his cheeks, and a heavy mace with a bent shaft in his hand, “If I be killed here, you set me on fire so I don’t come back as one of those things eh? Promise?”
“Only if you do me if I go first,” the young man replied.
“Eh, ain’t no chance of that, look at that hauberk ye’ have. Like a regular fancy noble you are, they never get killed in these things.”
“Well than thank god I’m not one of them then.” The young man lied, “Cause with everything we’ve seen so far, I think the living might envy the dead.”
Somewhere near the front Ustice the Red was giving final instructions to the foot. The young man already knew what he was saying even though he couldn’t hear him. Hold your ground, keep your shields interlocked, don’t give ground, and set your pike before the charge. Frontline men keep the bastards back, and second and third row men get killing blows in when the opportunity arises. Above all don’t break formation. Wise tactics from decades of man fighting man. Totally useless, of course, given what was before them today, but just hearing that their leaders had a plan would help steady the men, fooling them into believing there was some way to survive. Sometimes, the young man considered as he hefted the weight of the flail, it was okay to lie.
The men couldn’t see of course, but the scouts had reported wights and Others advancing south, waiting somewhere in the tree-line, for the small army of men under King Selwyn to give battle.
Just then the Enemy moved from the darkness of the forest. A massive horde of the walking dead shambled forward, their black hands grasping every kind of weapon imaginable. Off to the right side, their “cavalry” was forming up, ghostly Others atop skeletal horses and giant spiders, the partially decomposed remains of massive bears. It was the army of a frozen hell and it marched forward into position as silently as the grave.
The young man did not hear the horn sound, but followed the others, as they charged. Battle was joined, living against the dead. The men fought hesitantly, the front ranks advancing slowly, while the rear ranks surged forward. It was mayhem. The young man put his weight behind his shield and forced his way to the front ranks, just in time to duck a rusted blade in a frozen black hand. The whirling flail forced the snarling ghoul backwards until the heavy spiked weight cracked it skull, the smell of rotten brain whiffing through the air.
Still the line began to falter, and the men fell back, retreating. As they began to turn, a young boy, mayhaps sixteen, fell, trampled by his comrades. As he lay helpless, crying for help, one of Others approached, slowly, deliberately, it’s blade of incandescent death held high in its hand. As it lunged forward, the whirling chain of the young soldiers flail caught the blade, and tore it from the creatures grasp, even as it began to freeze the steel forged links fast in their place. The creature howled in rage and turned to face the man who’d delayed its prize. The young boy fled past his savior, as fast as his legs could carry him. The creature advanced, with a new blade as cold as ice appearing in its clenched fist. The young man tossed away the flail as its links finally succumbed to the temperature and snapped, leaving the heavy spiked head on the ground in pieces. He raised his shield for a moment, and then thought better of it, tossing it away.
“C’mon you bastard, what are you waiting for? Kill me!” The young man said, but the thing gave no reply.
The thing lunged forward, only to scream as it was knocked onto its heels by a flaming spear, which pinned it fast to the ground. The young man felt a pull at the neck of his armor, and he was off his feet, being dragged backwards towards the line.
“Nice throw!” He remarked to his rescuer, the old man he’d been talking to earlier. “Nice shot my arse, I was aiming at you! Figured you were dead anyway.” The old man replied, As they continued to hustle backwards a few steps before the oncoming Wights.
There was a sudden “whoosh” than, above them in the sky, and heat like the hottest Dornish summer, as flames licked around the sky behind them, singing hairs on their head. Three magnificent beasts of fire and flame blotted out the cold light of sky and filled it with bright light of fire. The monstrous horde retreated from the field in disorder.
While the captains and lords met to discuss the return of Saella and the Selwyn’s taking of the knee, the common men sat around pitiful dung fires, and tried to stay dry and warm.
“There he is!” came a shout behind his head, “That’s Thatcher, I’d recognize him anywhere!” It was the boy whom the young man had interrupted the Other from killing, pointing at him and crying his name. Behind him stood two sergeants of the King’s army, hands on their hilts. “That’s Thatcher’s son. I seen him when I was at the Red Keep,” the boy continued, “ I used to help take care of the hounds. That’s him!” Men quickly pushed themselves away from where Talyn sat on his campstool. He hung his head.
“I’ll be buggered if that’s Thatcher’s whelp, that fella saved your life you little ingrate!” cried the grizzled old man from the back, fighting his way through the crowd.
“He’s a spy!” someone shouted, impossible to say who.
“Fuck he’s a spy, he fought a bloody Other, I seen him. He ain’t no turncloak, nor no turncloaks kid!” the man continued.
“Yes I am,” Talyn replied, resigned as he stood and turned towards his accuser. One could not hide what you were, not forever.
“Okay well he is, but fuck off,” the old man replied, not missing a beat, “Like you ain’t done worse than been some bitch’s son yourself. Seven knows I have.” The man replied. There was a muffled chorus of “yeahs” among the group.
“Alright, hush up you, King Selwyn will decide the matter.”
In the end, King Selwyn did not decide the matter, for it never got beyond Ustice the Red, who promptly declared Talyn “no worse than the rest of you useless scum,” and left them alone.
As Queen Saella took command, there was much reorganization, men who’d served under King Selwyn falling under the Dragon’s direct command. A few men who’d fought beside Talyn, or who had observed the arguments over what should be done with Thatcher, made a conscious decision to fight beside him during the many battles which followed, and placing their tents around his during camp, to prevent any who might have suffered under his father from taking revenge. At first he ignored them, but later, came to enjoy the company. They were ruffians, mostly. Thieves, men who belonged on the Night’s Watch, and would have been, in a different world. They began calling themselves the Traitors’ Sons. As the horrors of battle spread, so too did their numbers, as men who’d came north with one lord, found him slain and not knowing who to serve, join Talyn. When they finally reached the Wall, they numbered two-hundred. They fought together, with a common bond. None of them had anything left to lose.
When the day of the final battle came, the Traitors’ Sons formed a hardened corps of heavy infantry inside the ranks of King Selwyn’s force. Men from every walk of life, and every land in Westeros. Led by their commander into the frozen maw of the great Enemy, in hopes that here, at least, the suffering would end.
But Talyn was not so lucky. When the smoke of fiery dragons’ breath had cleared, they, and not the Others, held the field. Many other good men, BETTER men, in truth, were dead, while the Traitor’s Son, and his new found comrades would be forced to see another day, or find another battle to fight.
Result:
Talyn Thatcher to Legendary Battle
Talyn commands The Traitors’ Sons, a small corps of veteran heavy infantry under his own banner.