If not for the sound of leaves rustling in wind, the man might've thought he'd entered an alien world where neither sound nor time existed. He knew it was but a foolish thought, yet that very sensation had drawn him to this place time and again over the years. Here burdens that had long weighed on his shoulders felt for a moment as if they'd never been there, and all else that life offered became meaningless.
Even with his eyes closed, the man knew for certain he was being watched. But the creatures of the woods that lay hiding somewhere, everywhere around him, were not a threat to him. They but observed him, no doubt wondering the very same questions that he had come here to find answers to.
Who am I?
And what do I want?
When Waymar opened his eyes, he was prepared to adjust them to sunlight. To his surprise, it did not rush to greet him, for dusk had creeped quicker than Waymar had anticipated.
Perhaps it was not just a foolish thought after all, he mused and rose to his feet, stretching. In his mind he had sat against an ancient tree, its bark white as snow and its leaves red as gore. What lay there in truth was but a lonely, sad stump, which an Andal's axe had brought down a century ago. Against it, beside where Waymar had sat, lay a sheathed sword and its belt. As he picked it up to attach it to his waist, Waymar found himself once more surprised by how light this steel of the dragonlords actually was. As he finished buckling the belt, all the while resting his eyes upon the once mighty tree, the sword's name rang sorrowfully in his mind.
Lamentation.
According to old beliefs, each weirwood tree had been a different god. But even if there was any truth to the legends, the time of those
old gods had come and gone. A dozen generations had already passed since Andals first landed in Vale and brought with them steel, death - and a religion of their own. Waymar had been named in the light of the Seven, as had his father and his father before him. But even so, the words of his house echoed in his mind.
We remember.
His feet led him down a narrow path that led out of the grove. In a clearing not far awaited four men clad in steel with five horses. As they heard him approach, the men hastily rose to their feet.
''M'lord'', the eldest of them spoke.
''Ready to leave?''
A lonely guardsman with a longbow in his hand gave the riders a nod as Waymar and his companions galloped down a path leading out of the forest. Soon in their vicinity were a dozen tents, arranged in the outskirts of the woods. Soldiers armed to the teeth gave them curious glances, but other than that they did not seem to be interested in Waymar's affairs. As he reached the largest of the tents, Waymar dismounted. One of the soldiers offered to take the stallion's reins, and led him away. No courtesies were exchanged between the man and Waymar. Although Andal kings and lords demanded to be treated with respect, the Bronzemen of Vale, descendants of the First Men, were of a different sort. To speak false courtesies was not their way, and to gain respect a man needed to earn it first.
With an odd determination, Waymar stepped inside the tent, meeting the eyes of a man he knew would be there. ''Found what you were looking for?'', the man asked. Waymar gave him no reply, and only glaced around. Although it was the largest of the tents in the camp, it only contained a small table with a few chairs around it, a bed for him sleep in and an armor stand where lay a bronze suit he was more than familiar with. Waymar pulled back a chair and sat opposite of the man.
After a brief silence, he broke it.
''Report.'' The other man shifted from his relaxed position, and leaned forward.
''Of the sixty eight soldiers accompanying us, fifteen stand in guard at all times. Each man is instructed to be sober and to remain vigilant no matter the hour. Hill Clans and bandits are not likely to bother us tonight. '' The man gave a pause before continuing,
''And your family are placed in tents just beside yours. Your son, however, insisted on taking watch duty and patrols the perimeter this very moment.''
''Your family?'', Waymar repeated the man's words and felt a faint smile form on his lips.
''Our family, brother.'' The way Andar belittled himself was all too typical of him. Unlike Waymar or their two younger brothers, Andar had never married. He had come to accept that although he shared the name Royce, it was not his privilege to continue its line. Without children or a wife of his own, Andar was free of burdens that might have prevented him from dedicating himself fully to their house and its legacy. And that he had done for years, earning his place as Waymar's right hand time and again through hard work. Whereas Waymar was raised in the old ways of their house, the way of the sword, Andar had mastered the art of pen and paper that Andals had brought with them from Essos. And in the world they lived in now, it was just as important.
Andar merely bowed his head as an answer to Waymar, who removed his sword belt, pulled back one of the chairs and sat opposite of his brother.
''As for why I wanted our family to accompany me on this journey'', Waymar began,
''It is about time the young ones are married.''
Waymar saw how Andar finally put together all pieces of the puzzle. Having known the man for all his life, it was easy to read the look on his face. Waymar's son and namesake, heir to Runestone, was already a man. He was skilled with a sword and had already learned everything Waymar could teach him about ruling. It was indeed time for him to take yet another responsibility; that of continuing the family line. Finding a husband for Waymar's other child, Ysilla, and for his niece Mya might prove a bit harder. They had grown soft, plump and did not possess traits required from a lady of a house. But no doubt the name Royce would have some weight in the matter, and wake interest in some of the lords that also were headed for the Eyrie.
''I know'', Waymar stated before his brother could even answer.
''As for my nephews, their time will come later. I needed someone in Runestone who knows their way around the court. And I needed someone capable standing ready to raise our banners, should the need arise.'' The decision had been an easy one. His young kinsmen had shown promise, and now having reached manhood everything they'd learned was about to be put to a test. Still, what they were facing would be nothing compared to what awaited Waymar.
The young High King of the Mountain and the Vale had inherited his father's throne when he was merely a child. Such power given to a boy that young was said to have changed him, and not to better. The work on the Eyrie, a citadel built atop a mountain, had began decades ago. Arryns were said to be running short on gold to keep the work going, and there were whispers that the young High King planned on invading neighboring kingdoms to fund the project. It certainly would explain why many prominent vassals of his had been invited to celebrate his eighteenth nameday.
But the young king has never seen war. He does not understand that we would be better off without one.
But then again, Waymar thought,
I suppose thirst for blood and battles is part of his nature. House Arryn was relatively young family compared to many others. The Arryns were much unlike the Starks who had ruled from Winterfell since the times of Brandon the Builder, or the Gardeners from whose founder most Reachmen houses are descended from. The name Arryn had become known in Westeros only some six generations ago when they led an army of Andals against the First Men and carved out a kingdom of their own.
Why had the Andals invaded at all was a thing many had differing opinions about. Legends told that their High King, Hugor of the Hill, a deeply religious man who directly communicated with the Seven, had been promised lands in foreign lands by the deity he worshiped. But to more cynical people like Waymar himself a more probable explanation was the ever-expanding Valyrian Freehold. Andalos lay just north Pentos, a city ruled by the dragonriders. It was but a matter of time before the Valyrians decided to venture even further north, to Andalos and to Braavos, the city of escaped slaves.
It did not matter why. The Andals had come all the same, first landing in Vale. Waymar's ancestor Bronze King Robar the Second managed to unite the clans and houses and mounted fierce resistance against the foreign invaders. The folk of Runestone were true First Men, who used bronze for their tools of war. Their foes on the other hand used iron-made weapons and horses, and were far better suited for war. Many of them were what nowadays are known as knights; men vowed to uphold the good and live a virtuous life in honor of the Seven.
But despite the odds being against them, the First Men prevailed in numerous battles. King Robar himself was said to have slain one of the Andal kings Qyle Corbray, and then to have claimed his Valyrian steel longsword Lady Forlorn as his own. But Robar's victories drew the attention of other Andals, whose hosts until then had fallen to petty rivalries and fought more often against one another than together. United under Ser Artys Arryn, known also as the Falcon Knight, the invaders marched against Robar Royce.
The two hosts met in what would later be called
The Battle of the Seven Stars. It is said that Robar's host threw back six charges, only to break after the seventh. Upon seeing the tide of battle turn, the Bronzeman High King ordered a counterattack, during which he personally slayed Torgold Tollett, a fearsome and huge Andal warrior. Later, somewhere amidst the battle Robar Royce met Artys Arryn in single combat. After slaying the former, King Robar thought victory was near. He was proved wrong when half a thousand knights charged his men from behind, led by a knight with a helm styled with falcon wings. King Robar II Royce had been fooled by a mere decoy, and he soon died fighting along with most of his allies.
The sword which he had claimed after slaying King Qyle Corbray was returned to his kinsman, Jaime Corbray. The lands he had sought to protect from the invaders were all conquered. And so with him died the old way of living, and a new era began under the leadership of Artys Arryn, who was proclaimed High King of Mountain and Vale.
It is disputed how long ago all this took place. The Andals prefer to count the passing of time in years, in which case their invasion of Vale began some thirty-and-hundred years ago. Many of the common folk on the other hand count time by each passing summer. But to Waymar, whose ancestor had played a major part in those events, this was six generations ago. After King Robar's demise, his younger brother swore fealty to Artys Arryn, and in return was allowed to retain the ancient seat of House Royce, the castle of Runestone. Although much of their house's power was lost, they nevertheless remained one of the most powerful vassals of the Arryn kings - a thing that is true to this day.
Sudden movement abruptly drew Waymar back from those distant memories about life long past. There was something heart-warming about Andar's smile as he rose to his feet and walked out of the tent, knowing well it was best to leave Waymar to his thoughts. He was determined to savor this short moment of solitude, for a man of his stature could rarely afford them. Taking a more comfortable position in his chair, Waymar removed his gloves and shifted his thoughts from what once was to what would be.
A cry of pain suddenly filled the air, forcing Waymar to stir from his slumber. Raising so quickly that the chair under him fell over, Waymar reached for his sword. The shouting outside had multiplied.
Death throes, he soon realized and pulled Lamentation from its scabbard.
No time for donning armor. With his hand wrapped around the hilt of his Valyrian steel sword, Waymar rushed outside.
''M'lord!'', one of the guards shouted in surprise and rushed to his side. Arrows flew across the camp from the woods' direction, felling men and horses both. Sundown had allowed the attackers, whoever they were, to approach them in secret through the forest. An arrow flew two feet away from his face, and Waymar bent over, covering his head with his hand by instinct. A sudden thud made him look up, only to notice that the man beside him sheltered him with a shield. His heart was racing, and fear for his and his family's lives crept to edges of his mind.
The first fight in a battle is against yourself, spoke a voice from within him. Waymar steeled himself and placed his free hand on the shielder's shoulder, pulling him backwards behind the tent.
After they were in cover, Waymar tried to control his heavy breathing and to focus on evaluating the situation. More of his men rushed from the tents, only to be riddled with arrows.
They're more numerous than us, Waymar quickly realized, and began to understand the hopelessness of standing and fighting. A stray horse riding through the camp suddenly took an arrow to its side, and a second one to its neck.
And they mean to prevent us from fleeing.
Waymar glanced around, counting at least twelve men covering behind nearby tents. He recognized young Robar and Andar among them. Although his scholarly brother and overweight nephew were unlike to be of much assistance in what was coming next, Waymar knew they would have information he desperately craved for. Even if this was to be his last day in this world, Waymar meant to ensure that the same fate would not await his children. He took the shield from the man beside him, and if the soldier shouted anything after him, his words fell to deaf ears. Waymar rushed forward towards his kinsmen, shielding his vulnerable flank from arrows that soon took to air. With no one else brave or stupid enough to venture out of cover, all eyes turned on him. Two arrows flew a few feet past him, and a third hit his round shield. Then a sudden flash of pain struck his left sheen. Limping on, Waymar looked down and noticed an arrow shaft sticking out of his shank. He could only take a few more steps before the pain became unbearable and the leg gave away under him.
Strong hands grabbed him by armpits, dragging him the rest of the way. Somewhere during the fall Waymar had lost both his shield and his dragonsteel sword. He tried to search for the latter with his eyes, but just when he saw a glimpse of it near the ever-distancing position where he'd fallen, another shock of pain rippled through his body. Waymar wrapped his hands around an arrow that had come to protrude from his abdomen and could not help but to grimace.
The man who'd dragged him now placed him down behind the cover of a tent. Waymar lay on his back, contemplating the situation. Andar rushed to his side with a worried look on his face and inspected the wounds.
''I'm too old for this'', Waymar growled, angry at himself. His fingers tightened around the arrow shaft sticking out his gut, and he felt a growing need to remove the foreign object. Before Andar could stop him, Waymar firmly pulled out the arrow from his body and let out a cry of pain. Its head tore some of his flesh with it, sending a surge of immense pain through Waymar's body. The last thing he saw was Andar, shouting something to the men beside him. Then darkness engulfed him.
When Waymar became conscious again, he realized he was being dragged. He tried to look over his shoulder and see the men gripping his wrists, but even the slightest movement reminded him of his wounds. One of the arrows still remained in his leg, and the wound in his stomach had bled profusely already, staining almost all of his upper torso in red. How much time had passed, that he did not know. The last light of the day flickered in horizon, slowly settling down behind mountains. It had grown colder. Or perhaps Waymar felt it because of loss of blood. Still dazed, it was hard for him to gather his thoughts.
A young woman was crying somewhere nearby. The sound grew louder and louder, and Waymar realized he was being dragged towards it.
Ysilla. The realization struck him hard as a hammer. Waymar struggled, trying to free himself from the men's grip despite the pain - to no avail. The sobbing of his daughter grew even louder, and soon the men suddenly released Waymar. He turned to his side, grimacing from pain, and looked around. They were at the edge of the forest. Dozens of men clad in leather with swords or longbows in their hand stood around him and few others. Waymar saw his daughter Ysilla, crying hysteriously despite her cousin Mya's attempts of calming her down. Beside them were perhaps a quarter of the men who'd accompanied Waymar on this journey, most of them now wounded and all of them disarmed and with their hands tied. Among them Waymar recognized Andar and his two younger brother Yohn and Robar, and Robar's namesake son. Despite everything that had happened, a sensation of utter relief flowed through him at the sight of his son and heir, who stood in the crowd. Waymar the Younger's face was covered in blood. If it was his or someone else's, Waymar could not tell.
''Lord Royce is awake'', spoke one of the men surrounding them. Waymar turned to look at the speaker, a young man clad in dark leather like all the others.
''Good, let us begin.'' The man, clearly the leader of the ambushers, stood under a huge oak tree. From its strongest and thickest branches hung several ropes with a hangman's noose tied to them. Waymar felt his heart beat faster after realizing what was about to take place. One of his guards decided to make a run for it, but two arrows stopped him before he could escape. The wounded man lay in ground for a while, moaning from pain, until one of the ambushers bothered to go and cut his throat.
The cutthroat walked to their leader with a blood-stained sword in hand and exchanged a few quiet words with him. The weapon in the man's hand was none other than Waymar's own sword, Lamentation. The realization angered him, and Waymar suddenly found strength to speak.
''Who are you, and what do you want?'' The cutthroat and the leader both turned towards him. As he looked at them both, Waymar noticed similarities in their faces. Both men, perhaps in their mid-twenties, had reddish-brown hair and a mustache.
Brothers, no doubt.
The leader nodded to one the men who'd dragged Waymar. The man landed a kick in his stomach, aimed at his wound. Waymar let out a cry of pain and curled. All other prisoners except for Ysilla remained quiet.
Fine, Waymar thought.
Lesson learned. He turned to look at the leader again when the man suddenly spoke.
''No doubt you would like to know that, Lord Royce. But dead men have no need of information. The only thing I want you to know is that what happens now will or has already happened in your home.'' There was something strange in the leader's grin after he finished. Even though Waymar had no idea of who he was, he had an odd sense that to him this was somehow personal.
At a gesture from the leader, his men pushed three captives forward towards the huge oak.
Andar, Robar and Robar the Younger. Before Waymar could shout in protest, he was kicked in stomach again. He could only watch as two brothers and nephew were taken to the noose. All three were determined to die with dignity, and remained quiet as the ropes tightened around their necks. But all of their dignity disappeared the moment their feet no longer touched the ground. Their faces twisted and their mouths gasped for air - to no avail. Witnessing the slow murder of his family only fueled the anger and hatred that was quickly building up inside Waymar. But before he could do anything, his son rushed forward. Waymar the Younger ran towards the leader, tackling one of his men to ground on his way. He leaped forward, with his tied hands reaching for the ambushers' leader's neck. Yet his flight was cut off mid-air when the cutthroat, using Valyrian steel, cut Waymar the Younger's head clean off. The young man's lifeless corpse dropped on the ground right in front of the leader, who seemed more amused than shocked.
Waymar's glistening eyes wandered the ever-darkening world around him, no longer able to focus on anything longer than a moment, as he tried to comprehend what had just happened. Ysilla's cries had turned to hyperventilating. Andar, Robar and his son had breathed their last. Yohn had fallen on his knees. The cutthroat wiped Lamentation's blade to the headless corpse's jacket. The leader was looking at him, grinning. And suddenly, a sword swung in the darkness.
''Wot?'' asked one of the ambushers, and landed another blow on Ysilla's neck with his twohander, cutting her head from the rest of her body. The man then turned to look at the leader and went on,
''The bitch wos too loud. Wy are gwyn' to off 'em all anyhow.'' The leader was quiet.
''Aye'', he finally spoke, nodding, and walked to Waymar.
''Hang the rest. We have somewhere else to be.'' The leader pulled a knife from his belt and crouched beside the distraught Lord Royce, shoving the blade in his gut. For a moment, Waymar almost welcomed it. But after the knife twisted and moved, cutting its way through his flesh, he realized his end would not be quick or painless. The man left him laying there, holding his own guts.
The last thing Lord Waymar Royce saw before finally dying was the butchering of the rest of his family.