Twenty Years I
Ser Markus Ryden, the lands of House Blackwood, 304 AC
“Kill the Heretics!”
“Fuck you Zealot!”
All around him men and women shouted and screamed at one another. Weapons clashed and blood stained the ground. The man in him was resigned to such a thing as he was used to the carnage of battle.
The Stallion in him wished to charge into the fray and stomp on all his enemies. The Wolf in him wanted the blood of these fanatics, having tasted some of it already.
But the father in him had to see that the child he held was safe again so he ran to where his band of warriors had agreed to meet up to after wards. Only, his path was blocked by several 'knights' and the man who started this whole fucking thing.
“Give me the child,” The so called Sparrow said to him. He seemed calm, as if he hadn't a care in the world. And he probably didn't as some of his men surrounded Markus. “She needs to be cleansed.”
The girl, Zara, flinched in his arms and whimpered at the sound of the Sparrows voice. Markus narrowed his eyes under his Weirwood mask before casting them upwards.
“You cannot win here, you don't have the numbers,” The old man continued. “Your Heathen Gods did not seem fit to bless you with brains it seems. But the Seven have much to offer a young man such as yourself.”
“I don't worship statues old man,” Markus replied evenly. He smiled suddenly and whispered to the girl, “Do you want to try something fun?” She didn't have time to reply before he threw her as high as he could into the air. She screamed briefly in surprise as a person snatched her out of the air and took flight above the trees. Markus smiled at Jon's retreating figure and turned to the stunned opposition.
Markus drew the sword his grandfather gave him after he was knighted. It wasn't the sword his mother meant to give him, that one had gone to his namesake, Mark Ryswell. This one was forged from the Valyrian Arakh that once belonged to a sellsword that fought against the Northern rebellion and was combined with Northern Ore.
The materials shouldn't hold well, they were too different in nature but the Mountain Clans had wove in Northern Magicks to hold them together. The blade took on a strange bronze hue though it wasn't anywhere near as weak as bronze, for starters, it didn't melt when he set it alight.
“For Justice!” He cried, swinging his sword outwards and cutting a man down in one stroke. A normal sword could have done that anyway, for the zealot didn't bother to wear armor. But a normal sword couldn't cut a man in half like Honor could.
It was hardly an original name, he admitted to himself as he continued to cut down his enemies. But, he had named it after the Direwolf who fathered his own companion, Leaves, who had picked off these fanatics with gusto. And Honor was something that came to him easily, much like breathing.
Of course he wasn't ruled by it like some suspected that he might be despite his bastardy.
He cut a mace in half and opened its wielder from balls to throat, ignoring the blood that splattered on to him before moving on. The Sparrow himself merely looked on, probably thinking that Markus would be overwhelmed by his men. But the fire he summoned from within kept them at bay. His sword rendered them useless and more reinforcements came to their aid just like they planned.
And yet this old man seemed content, but Markus couldn't understand why. And then the old man removed something from his robes. It was a small clay vial, one that he recognized from his lessons about warfare and he charged forward as the Sparrow picked up a fallen torch.
Men were shot down in front of him by arrows, clearing his path even more. He ducked and weaved under blows that could have hindered him from his goal. He launched his sword at the old man but it was intercepted by another fanatic who sacrificed himself for his leader.
Blood flew through the air and landed on the old man who had a looked of madness in his eyes.
“Clear the area!” Markus shouted because he wasn't sure if his plan would work but he hoped it would.
“May The Seven save you all,” He heard the old man whisper as he smashed the vial against the torch. Green erupted in his palm just as Markus tackled him to the ground. He actually felt hot when he encountered the Wildfire but he started to absorb it as best as he could.
His leathers melted instantly, his mail followed after , his mask as well, and the heat was starting to become a bit much, even to him. The old man was dead in what he assumed was an instant, since he hadn't heard any screaming.
“By the gods of the sky, I will weather any storm that comes my way,” He coughed slightly from the smoke as he started to recite the oath that was used to knight him. “By the gods of the sea, I will defend the shores of my -”
Whatever he said next was lost in a swirl of water.
Dame Meera Vorian
She held the water as best as she could but it wasn't easy. Drinking water could be contained easily, river water not so much, and the less said about the Sea, the better.
“If my husband drowns, you will die.”
Meera gritted her teeth and ignored her fellow Herald and concentrated on holding the large ball of water upright.
“Leave her be,” Her husband murmured quietly, probably in the hopes that she wouldn't hear him.
“I stand by what I said.” Obara snarled back. “If he dies before I can throttle him for his stupidity...”
She trailed off and Meera felt herself start to smile. While Obara was not born a northerner, she had the same spirit as one. If she hadn't known any better, she may have mistaken her for a woman of Bear Island or a woman from far North.
She curled her left hand to shift her false current which spat Markus out of the ball. He was cradling the burnt remains of the Sparrow who started this nonsense so long ago. He coughed and sputtered, tossing the body away.
“My thanks for the bath Meera,” He gave her a slight grin, one he shared with his father. “Did we win?”
“Aye, we won.” Her husband answered with a grin of his own as Meera flung the ball of water as high as she could into the sky. She pulled the water back and the little flame that was left faded into nothingness as it was overwhelmed by the sudden influx of air.
Marcus sighed and laughed quietly. The men and women around them began to laugh as well before cheering was heard throughout the area.
“It's fucking over!” Markus roared over the crowd. He pulled his wife down to the ground when she stomped her way over to him. He gave her a hearty kiss on the lips and she grabbed the back of his head to deepen it.
“Please tell me that they're not going to fuck on the forest floor?” A voice said from her side. It was Arya, who looked a little exasperated as she stared at the couple.
“Come my love, a religious war just ended after ten years, we can relax.” Her husband, Prince Quentyn Martell murmured, hugging her from behind.
“I'd just rather not tell my new niece or nephew that they were conceived next to a burnt body.” Though her tone was light her eyes held a certain amount of mischief.
“I'll tell your spawn every embarrassing story about you, even the one where you got stuck in the Weirwood tree in the Godswood and everyone saw your pale white arse,” Markus pointed a finger at her and gave her a stern glare. Arya flushed and made to to tell him off but he went back to kissing his wife and Arya just huffed.
“Prick,” She muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear. One of the Raventree soldiers came up to them.
“We have one who surrendered,” He announced, looking excited. “His two brothers were apparently prisoners amongst these scum.”
“You seem a little too excited about that,” Arya snarked but the soldier continued on, not even bothered by her tone.
“He looks like a Baratheon,” He added, seemingly vibrating in place with excitement. The cheering that took place was replaced with silence, Meera noticed that Obara and Markus stopped what they were doing and made their way over. “I think he might be one of Robert Baratheon's bastard children but one of the other two might be his true borne son!”
Durran Baratheon was missing for sometime, almost as long as the 'Holy' war that had taken place these ten years past. It was assumed that he and his bastard siblings had perished. The prime suspect for the crime was Viserys Targaryen, the Lord of Dragonstone, since he had the most to benefit from it and since he was actively campaigning for his claim to the throne.
Meera thought it was a little too obvious for it to be him, but one could never know for sure. And while the Baratheon name was hardly respected any more, mainly due to the actions of the false King Robert, his children had committed no offense. They may be in need of aid at the moment.
“Find Ser Renly the Green and Dame Mya Stonegate if they are still alive,” Markus ordered one of their own soldiers. “Even if one of them is not Durran Baratheon, these men are still their family, and they will need to be informed. The rest of you, pack it up and make way for Raven Tree Hall!” He shouted and the Northern warriors did as they were bid.
“Lord Blackwood will have to be notified of this,” He notified the soldier grimly. “How badly did this supposed Baratheon child fight back.”
“He actually killed the scum he was supposed to fight with, I think he was waiting for an opportunity like this so he could see his brothers free. That's all he asked for, not that he was in a position to ask for anything, but his brothers...” He trailed off, looking uncomfortable.
“They've seen better days. They have the eyes of a storm and they seem just as spirited, but they haven't had much of a proper meal it seems. He surrendered when he had our word that they would be treated well.”
“Does this man have a name?”
“He said it was Gendry.”
Gendry Storm, Blackwood Camp
He settled in place to calm himself and to make sure that the restraints he was in didn't chafe and cut into his skin. No one talked to him, but he received enough dirty looks which he supposed was fair. He had fought for their enemy, regardless of his reasons for doing so. Still, none of them had done him wrong though it was only a matter of time.
The sound of feet coming his way made him look up slowly. Two sets of blue eyes locked with his and he couldn't help but blink as they didn't belong to either of his brothers. One of them, a man, looked at him sadly. The other, a woman with cropped hair, looked at him with interest.
“Who the fuck are you?” He blurted out before he could stop himself. He did stop himself from flinching like he used to do as he was younger and when he expected to be hit. If those mad sparrows were still around they would have whipped him until he was bloody for what he said.
The man laughed quietly, “I am your uncle Renly, boy.” He said calmly. “And this is your sister, Mya.”
He had heard of his older sister and uncles from Ser Cortnay Penrose, the Castellan that had begun to teach him in the art of warfare before he had died during a hunt. Or at least that was the story when his body had been returned and they were besieged when the gates were left open by a traitor to admit those that brought the loyal knight back.
It had been hell for he and his brothers since then. Childish resentment bubbled up in his chest but he managed to temper it though only just.
“You both seem healthy,” He said flatly, coldly. So maybe he didn't stop it entirely but at least he stopped himself from shouting. To their credit, both his sister and his uncle did not flinch at what he said.
“We'll make sure that you'll be given fair treatment -”
“I'm a war criminal,” Gendry interrupted his uncle. “I'm going to pay for the crimes I committed, never you mind about my treatment, see to it that my brothers live to see their next namedays. Durran is the future of our fathers house and Edric is his heir until such a time that he has children himself.”
Again, he spoke the words coldly and flatly, expecting them to yield the result that he wanted. He was disappointed.
“We'll do no such thing,” His sister replied firmly. “You will receive fair treatment and a fair trial - “
“Are the Lady these your lands, sister?” He snarled at her. “Are you one of these nobles who claim to own every single rock and patch of dirt that their ancestors shit on and claimed for themselves? Lord Blackwood is the one who will decide my fate. Just do as I say, and make sure that my brothers survive, or these chains will become my instruments of vengeance.” He shook them and they rattled slightly.
“Just go,” This time he sounded tired. “If you actually want to be useful, take care of them. I won't be able to do so any longer.” He turned his head away from them, not wanting to speak anymore. They left him after a moment and he settled himself again as his heart hammered in his chest.
As long as they survive, my death will be worth it, He thought to himself. My brothers will finally be free, and that is all that matters.
He repeated the words like a prayer, even though he stopped believing in any gods long ago. But if there was something he believed in, it was his brothers and the good they could do in this world.