Post by The Light on Jan 5, 2013 13:32:12 GMT -5
Gerold ascended the steps rapidly in the cold air, his steward, Willas following.
“My Lord, hundreds of sailor’s lives depend on this, you cannot do this.” Willas begged.
“Dornish Sailors. Dornish Soldiers. May they crash and sink on our rocky shores.” Gerold’s one eye stared upward. They reached the utmost peak of The Hightower, and as they stopped, he felt just how out of breath he was. The air was thin here. His hand rapped on the wooden door loudly.
“My Lord, I thought you wanted peace.”
Gerold stopped and turned around. “Yronwood is less than a DAY away from our walls, an enemy fleet is striking The Arbor, and you think that peace is an option, now?” He shook his head. “I should have listened to Arthur long ago.”
Willas stood still, his eyes accusing. “You are betraying everything you once held dear. Do not do this. Please.”
Gerold shook his head. “I have made my decision, Steward. Your presence is no longer needed.” His eyes stared coldly forward.
“You’re not the Lord I knew, Coldeye. Perhaps the rumors about your father are true.”
“ENOUGH. Leave me.” Gerold strode into the beacon room, shutting the door behind him. Flames fanned his face, throwing it into an insanely bright light. “Put it out.”
The Soldier nodded, pulling pieces of burning wood off the beacon, throwing buckets of water on it. Before long the flames began to stutter.
The Lighthouse flickered with Light for a second, than went out. Darkness enveloped the water, draping the fog in another layer of concealment.
The Siege Of Oldtown had begun.
__________
It rained that night. Thin needles of water fell from incredible heights, piercing mail and leather to land on Gerold’s Head.
“We’re not ready.” He spoke for the first time in hours.
“What?” Falthwyn was confused.
“We’re not ready, this city isn’t ready, and, gods help me, I’M not ready. Not for this.”
The Maester spoke. “Defending a city is easy. Just keep them off the gates and walls. You have the men. Yronwood barely outnumbers us 3 to 2. And besides, Lord Tyrell has almost captured Storm’s End. All we have to do is hold out for a few weeks until he get’s here.”
“Martell knows I’m green as grass with Warfare, and so does Yronwood. He won’t wait this one out. He’ll go straight for the city. Most of my men are from Oldtown. Once they get a chance to see their wives raped and their children murdered and their trade plundered and their houses burnt, they’ll break, don’t you see that, don’t you see how our lives, all of our lives, are hanging by a thread? Don’t you see how FRAGILE we are?” He was yelling now, almost out of breath.
The elderly man nodded slightly. “You have a plan, I presume? We don’t have much time.”
“Yes. Yronwood means to attack my weak side. Well, he’s going to face my strong one.” Gerold pulled a scroll out from under his arm, revealing a strange diagram, cluttered with numbers and angles. “Yes, I have a plan.” He smiled.
__________
Gerold Hightower's Warfare (Siege) increases to Master.
“My Lord, hundreds of sailor’s lives depend on this, you cannot do this.” Willas begged.
“Dornish Sailors. Dornish Soldiers. May they crash and sink on our rocky shores.” Gerold’s one eye stared upward. They reached the utmost peak of The Hightower, and as they stopped, he felt just how out of breath he was. The air was thin here. His hand rapped on the wooden door loudly.
“My Lord, I thought you wanted peace.”
Gerold stopped and turned around. “Yronwood is less than a DAY away from our walls, an enemy fleet is striking The Arbor, and you think that peace is an option, now?” He shook his head. “I should have listened to Arthur long ago.”
Willas stood still, his eyes accusing. “You are betraying everything you once held dear. Do not do this. Please.”
Gerold shook his head. “I have made my decision, Steward. Your presence is no longer needed.” His eyes stared coldly forward.
“You’re not the Lord I knew, Coldeye. Perhaps the rumors about your father are true.”
“ENOUGH. Leave me.” Gerold strode into the beacon room, shutting the door behind him. Flames fanned his face, throwing it into an insanely bright light. “Put it out.”
The Soldier nodded, pulling pieces of burning wood off the beacon, throwing buckets of water on it. Before long the flames began to stutter.
The Lighthouse flickered with Light for a second, than went out. Darkness enveloped the water, draping the fog in another layer of concealment.
The Siege Of Oldtown had begun.
__________
It rained that night. Thin needles of water fell from incredible heights, piercing mail and leather to land on Gerold’s Head.
“We’re not ready.” He spoke for the first time in hours.
“What?” Falthwyn was confused.
“We’re not ready, this city isn’t ready, and, gods help me, I’M not ready. Not for this.”
The Maester spoke. “Defending a city is easy. Just keep them off the gates and walls. You have the men. Yronwood barely outnumbers us 3 to 2. And besides, Lord Tyrell has almost captured Storm’s End. All we have to do is hold out for a few weeks until he get’s here.”
“Martell knows I’m green as grass with Warfare, and so does Yronwood. He won’t wait this one out. He’ll go straight for the city. Most of my men are from Oldtown. Once they get a chance to see their wives raped and their children murdered and their trade plundered and their houses burnt, they’ll break, don’t you see that, don’t you see how our lives, all of our lives, are hanging by a thread? Don’t you see how FRAGILE we are?” He was yelling now, almost out of breath.
The elderly man nodded slightly. “You have a plan, I presume? We don’t have much time.”
“Yes. Yronwood means to attack my weak side. Well, he’s going to face my strong one.” Gerold pulled a scroll out from under his arm, revealing a strange diagram, cluttered with numbers and angles. “Yes, I have a plan.” He smiled.
__________
Gerold Hightower's Warfare (Siege) increases to Master.