Post by The Light on Dec 2, 2012 2:28:39 GMT -5
Arthur stood at the top of the Hightower looking out. His brother stood next to him, a hard look on his face. “This isn’t good.” He decided.
“Well, of course not. There’s a Dornish host just outside our city’s walls led by Lord Yronwood.”
“You should have let me attack them. They could have been destroyed by now, and we could be sipping on wine rather than be under siege.”
He looked at him, his one blue eye focusing on him. “Patience brother, all will be resolved. Whether by us or Lord Tyrell, the siege will not last. Our stores are full and our walls strong.” He turned back to gaze over the host.
The Young Bull snorted, “I will not stand idly while they piss and shit outside our walls. They build siege engines while we tremble in fear? No, Gerold, the time for action is now. Give me leave to lead a sortie. Lord Yronwood must leave the camp sometime and when he does we’ll fall upon him. Besides, Lord Tyrell is busy fighting the Baratheons. Let me swing my sword.”
A vein pulsed in the Coldeye’s neck. “No, dear brother. You will wait elsewise I will lock you and your men up. Beesbury and all the rest. You will have your chance, but I implore you to wait. This will be won through guile, not force. Now leave me or stay watch our enemies.”
Arthur stormed out of the room and down the stairs. He came to his room and opened the door. His squire lay on the bed, caressing a pretty woman. “Get out. Now.” They made a move to vacant his chambers. “Not you boy.”
His squire was Aymery Westerling, a son of the Lord of the Crag. He had met the boy while in King’s Landing eight years ago. He had refused to make him a knight on the grounds he wasn’t ready. He still called him boy even though he was twenty-four years old. “Yes, my lord?”
“My horse, armor, sword and shield. Bring them to the stables. Find Rudy Beesbury and the rest of my men.”
“My lord, why? Are we going somewhere?”
“We’re going to war.”
They met in the stables half an hour later. They were thirty all together, Arthur’s friends and soldiers. “Rise, Ser Aymery Westerling of the Crag.”
Aym’s knighting had taken place quickly. Arthur had been waiting for this moment, but only now did he think his squire was ready. “Whatever happens out there you are all my closest friends and no one could ask for better soldiers.”
His squire rose, a big grin on his face and a tear rolling down his cheek. “My lord, I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing boy, for there is nothing to say. All right, saddle up.”
They rode past brothels and bakeries and the Citadel. He filled his body with memories of Oldtown. Growing up and playing with Gerold, his first woman, his knighting, Gerold’s disappearance, their father’s death and Gerold’s emergence with one less eye.
They came to one of the gates. He dismounted and strode up to a guard. “Let us pass. I am Ser Arthur.”
The guard spat, “No’er one supposed to leave Oldtown with the Dornish out there. Lord’s orders.”
“Let my men and I pass. Otherwise we will kill you and pass anyway.” He smiled and rubbed the pommel of his longsword.
The guard paled, “You wouldn’t dare. We are Lord-“
Arthur darted out and grabbed the man by the tunic. He pulled him forward and struck his fist against the man’s face. “Sorry.” The guard crumpled.
His men went flying past him. “Get the fucking gate open!” He blocked a guard’s sword and kicked the man in the chest. He saw Harold Florent scale to the winch. The gate opened slowly, just enough for horses to get through. He hopped on his horse and rode faster than he ever had before.
A short distance out of the city he stopped. He turned and counted his men. Florent was not among them, nor was Merryweather. He spotted Aymery and Beesbury. “How many men do we still have?”
Beesbury did a quick count. “Twenty-three, Arthur. It will suffice.”
“It better, otherwise we’re doomed. All right men, let’s get moving.” He spurred his horse.
They came upon Lord Yronwood’s raiding party just after before dawn. The sun crept in the sky to the east, a pink slice across the sky. Lord Yronwood had about fifty men, if he guessed right. An easy amount. I could kill that much one-handed. They sprang upon him in a clearing, by a river.
All seven hells broke loose at once. Art had surprise on his side, but Yronwood had numbers. He immediately recognized him by his sigil, a black gate. “Kill Yronwood!” he bellowed to his men.
The fighting wasn’t going well for either side. Arthur cut down an aging knight marked by a crowned skull and his squire. Rudy Beesbury took an arrow to the chest and was cut down by Yronwood himself. No, Rudy! He charged his foe.
Their swords screamed as they came together. They were nearly knee deep in the water and losing balance. His shield was splinters and his sword nicked. Lord Yronwood was the same. He was an aging man. Good with a sword in his youth, but now more battle commander. They came together again, Art’s sword missing him by a hair. Arthur swung a vicious down slice that caught his foe’s sword hand. He heard the snaps and pressed the attack.
Yronwood fumbled for his sword with his good hand in the stream. “It’s gone, my lord. Sucked downstream.” He threw off his enemy’s helmet.
“Arthur.” He nodded and craned his neck.
He swung, taking off Lord Yronwood’s head in a single blow.
The battle raged on upon him. He saw Aym slay a knight by plunging his dagger into his eye. An armored fool rushed him, he quickly blocked the strike and slashed him across the face, ending his life. Lord Yronwood’s men were retreating, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was the knight in his arms. The boy he had knighted that day.
The Dornish found him there, by the side of the river holding the dying form of Ser Aymery Westerling, the last of his men and his best friend. Tears ran down his cheek as he cradled his body.
“Arthur…I’m a knight. My father will be so proud.” He let out a slight rattle and he was no more.
He sobbed and screamed, “No. No. No! NO!” He shook his body and pumped his chest. He blew air into his lungs and cried. “Aymery! Oh gods no! Why him? He was just a boy!” They pulled him off the corpse.
He grabbed the nearest soldier by the throat and squeezed till there was but jelly in his armored hands. He was a monster, nothing could hurt him now. He flung himself at the soldiers, dagger in hand. He saw another Manwoody and ripped his throat out. He killed several Lemonwoods and a Dayne. He killed everyone in his path till he was completely covered in blood, his own and his enemies. He fainted near Aym’s body. “Don’t give him to the flames. He wants to go home. Aym always loved the Crag.” He blacked out.
Arthur Hightower's Sword: Noteworthy to Expert
RIP Ser Aymery Westerling
“Well, of course not. There’s a Dornish host just outside our city’s walls led by Lord Yronwood.”
“You should have let me attack them. They could have been destroyed by now, and we could be sipping on wine rather than be under siege.”
He looked at him, his one blue eye focusing on him. “Patience brother, all will be resolved. Whether by us or Lord Tyrell, the siege will not last. Our stores are full and our walls strong.” He turned back to gaze over the host.
The Young Bull snorted, “I will not stand idly while they piss and shit outside our walls. They build siege engines while we tremble in fear? No, Gerold, the time for action is now. Give me leave to lead a sortie. Lord Yronwood must leave the camp sometime and when he does we’ll fall upon him. Besides, Lord Tyrell is busy fighting the Baratheons. Let me swing my sword.”
A vein pulsed in the Coldeye’s neck. “No, dear brother. You will wait elsewise I will lock you and your men up. Beesbury and all the rest. You will have your chance, but I implore you to wait. This will be won through guile, not force. Now leave me or stay watch our enemies.”
Arthur stormed out of the room and down the stairs. He came to his room and opened the door. His squire lay on the bed, caressing a pretty woman. “Get out. Now.” They made a move to vacant his chambers. “Not you boy.”
His squire was Aymery Westerling, a son of the Lord of the Crag. He had met the boy while in King’s Landing eight years ago. He had refused to make him a knight on the grounds he wasn’t ready. He still called him boy even though he was twenty-four years old. “Yes, my lord?”
“My horse, armor, sword and shield. Bring them to the stables. Find Rudy Beesbury and the rest of my men.”
“My lord, why? Are we going somewhere?”
“We’re going to war.”
They met in the stables half an hour later. They were thirty all together, Arthur’s friends and soldiers. “Rise, Ser Aymery Westerling of the Crag.”
Aym’s knighting had taken place quickly. Arthur had been waiting for this moment, but only now did he think his squire was ready. “Whatever happens out there you are all my closest friends and no one could ask for better soldiers.”
His squire rose, a big grin on his face and a tear rolling down his cheek. “My lord, I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing boy, for there is nothing to say. All right, saddle up.”
They rode past brothels and bakeries and the Citadel. He filled his body with memories of Oldtown. Growing up and playing with Gerold, his first woman, his knighting, Gerold’s disappearance, their father’s death and Gerold’s emergence with one less eye.
They came to one of the gates. He dismounted and strode up to a guard. “Let us pass. I am Ser Arthur.”
The guard spat, “No’er one supposed to leave Oldtown with the Dornish out there. Lord’s orders.”
“Let my men and I pass. Otherwise we will kill you and pass anyway.” He smiled and rubbed the pommel of his longsword.
The guard paled, “You wouldn’t dare. We are Lord-“
Arthur darted out and grabbed the man by the tunic. He pulled him forward and struck his fist against the man’s face. “Sorry.” The guard crumpled.
His men went flying past him. “Get the fucking gate open!” He blocked a guard’s sword and kicked the man in the chest. He saw Harold Florent scale to the winch. The gate opened slowly, just enough for horses to get through. He hopped on his horse and rode faster than he ever had before.
A short distance out of the city he stopped. He turned and counted his men. Florent was not among them, nor was Merryweather. He spotted Aymery and Beesbury. “How many men do we still have?”
Beesbury did a quick count. “Twenty-three, Arthur. It will suffice.”
“It better, otherwise we’re doomed. All right men, let’s get moving.” He spurred his horse.
They came upon Lord Yronwood’s raiding party just after before dawn. The sun crept in the sky to the east, a pink slice across the sky. Lord Yronwood had about fifty men, if he guessed right. An easy amount. I could kill that much one-handed. They sprang upon him in a clearing, by a river.
All seven hells broke loose at once. Art had surprise on his side, but Yronwood had numbers. He immediately recognized him by his sigil, a black gate. “Kill Yronwood!” he bellowed to his men.
The fighting wasn’t going well for either side. Arthur cut down an aging knight marked by a crowned skull and his squire. Rudy Beesbury took an arrow to the chest and was cut down by Yronwood himself. No, Rudy! He charged his foe.
Their swords screamed as they came together. They were nearly knee deep in the water and losing balance. His shield was splinters and his sword nicked. Lord Yronwood was the same. He was an aging man. Good with a sword in his youth, but now more battle commander. They came together again, Art’s sword missing him by a hair. Arthur swung a vicious down slice that caught his foe’s sword hand. He heard the snaps and pressed the attack.
Yronwood fumbled for his sword with his good hand in the stream. “It’s gone, my lord. Sucked downstream.” He threw off his enemy’s helmet.
“Arthur.” He nodded and craned his neck.
He swung, taking off Lord Yronwood’s head in a single blow.
The battle raged on upon him. He saw Aym slay a knight by plunging his dagger into his eye. An armored fool rushed him, he quickly blocked the strike and slashed him across the face, ending his life. Lord Yronwood’s men were retreating, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was the knight in his arms. The boy he had knighted that day.
The Dornish found him there, by the side of the river holding the dying form of Ser Aymery Westerling, the last of his men and his best friend. Tears ran down his cheek as he cradled his body.
“Arthur…I’m a knight. My father will be so proud.” He let out a slight rattle and he was no more.
He sobbed and screamed, “No. No. No! NO!” He shook his body and pumped his chest. He blew air into his lungs and cried. “Aymery! Oh gods no! Why him? He was just a boy!” They pulled him off the corpse.
He grabbed the nearest soldier by the throat and squeezed till there was but jelly in his armored hands. He was a monster, nothing could hurt him now. He flung himself at the soldiers, dagger in hand. He saw another Manwoody and ripped his throat out. He killed several Lemonwoods and a Dayne. He killed everyone in his path till he was completely covered in blood, his own and his enemies. He fainted near Aym’s body. “Don’t give him to the flames. He wants to go home. Aym always loved the Crag.” He blacked out.
Arthur Hightower's Sword: Noteworthy to Expert
RIP Ser Aymery Westerling
