Post by Father on Jun 24, 2018 22:41:41 GMT 1
Daven
The teats loomed in the distance, too close to Blackwood lands for Ser Daven's taste, at least with such a small company. Though things had been peaceful for a long time, and loyal as he might be to his family he did question the desire to challenge a king that seemed as willing and able to govern properly as the king before him was not. But his present company, which called him a coward and brushed off all well intended words of caution concerning the matter. Well he must know that some among the king's friends, chiefly Bloodraven, must have concluded that the surest way to preserve the peace in the realm, and among Brackens and Blackwoods, would be to ensure that Ser Aegor Rivers, by most quite aptly called Bittersteel, find a sudden demise. Men were approaching, but his cousin appeared to expect them, was that why they were here?
Ser Daven had failed to elicit much of Bittersteel's intent in bringing him out here for hunting. The man did not care for such pleasures, only the idea of what the hunt represents, the sort of things that proper knights are good at. Though there must be some reason to bring him specifically out here, with only his squire and Bittesteel's men, Ser Daven did not like the look of them. "The teats, even that those bastards took from us, from my mother no less." Merely his voice and choice of words made it obvious how the name men had given Bittersteel years ago had stuck. "Tell me, Ser Daven, can we win the war?" There was no point convincing him that there would not be a war, Ser Daven thought it wouldn't matter, there would be a war, the question being whether it would be the large one or simply Blackwood against Bracken with the rest of the Riverlands taking sides all over again until the king would call upon outsiders to put an end to the chaos that Riverrun yet again would fail to contain. His brother would see to that, Otho had been spoiling for a fight with the Blackwoods as long as Daven could remember.
But it was not just fire and fury on both banks of the Red Fork that Bittersteel talked about, no, all he ever talked about was the war to unseat the usurper, the whoreson of the Dragonknight. Of that, Ser Daven was much more pessimistic, the approaching men looked like more of the sort that followed Bittersteel, at least from this distance, armed with bows and swords. "We will lose that one, if there even is much of a war to begin with." He was certain of this, had he not explained it already? Bittersteel looked at him with his cold purple eyes, clearly irritated by the answer. "Yes, yes the Stormlords are increasingly getting comfortable with the Dornish usurpation, Daeron knew well what he did when he united his house with Blackhaven, The Marches are split through the middle. The North and the Vale are behind him, as is the Rock, and the Riverlands will be divided as it always have been, more interested in taking sides as Stone Hedge and Raventree try to settle their never-ending feuds than caring who should sit on the Iron Throne, and even if the Roses are on our side, they will need to battle dissenters before they can rally behind the true king." Bittersteel spat. "Do you not think Ser Quentyn and Lord Shermer and I have discussed this at length, cousin? The Starks will take time to assemble and march, as will the Dornish, the Arryns have to go through the Riverlands, the Golden Lions have to contend with the Red, if most of the Reach is behind us, we can keep the West busy and then we need only the Riverlands to stand with us against the North and East, we will win."
That could work, Daven had to agree, though with a few caveats. "Should Ser Daemon lay claim to the throne on the morrow, both Reach and Rivers would spend all their strength fighting among themselves, the only hosts free to press the attack would be commanded by those who stand against him." Bittersteel merely nods, almost with a hint of regret, a puzzling emotion for that man to have. "This is true, which is why we must secure both the Trident and the Mander before such a time comes, the latter we can make strides towards at Lord Tyrell's tourney, the man himself is an admirer of my half-brother, the one true king. If we only had an idea of what the Florents might scheme, we would have it well under control." Daven has his doubts, vividly remembering the tales that old Joanna told of the tourney at Riverrun when she was a young maid, of rapes and broken pacts and deaths in sparring matches, deaths in the melee, of fair maidens kidnapped and heroes to the rescue, of women in knightly armor, of trials by combat and lost eyes. And this was after the one where the queen wore splendid green and the princess dramatic black. With the stakes raises so high, he would wager nobody would have any control over what was about to transpire there. But there are no illusions in his mind about his cousin caring for such words, and there is no point in firing him up further.
"And the Riverlands?" His curiosity demands instead. "You brother shall see to that, Ser Otho is ever so willing to vanquish our enemies closer to home. Of course, he will need a cause that other knights finds righteous and true, if two centuries of Targaryen rule has thought us anything, it is that in these days, you either win quick or you will never truly win at all." Bittersteel suddenly stops his train of thought as the approaching men reaches the group and marches up to him. Ser Daven gets a dark feeling that something is wrong, the way some of these men look at the others puts him on edge. "Everything ready?" the steely voice of his cousin demands of the leader of the group, a big man clutching a boar spear, he only gets a gruff nod. "You wonder how? We both know your brother knows nothing of the plotting needed to achieve that, this is where you and I play our parts." Daven thinks Bittersteel seems guilty, as if he is about to get caught and knows it. "We will get those back." Daven feels the strong arm of his cousin guide him to turn to view The Teets together once again, he can feel the other man's eyes in his back. "My half-brother is the one who has a way with words, but archmaester Gyldayn once put some quite apt words in the mouth of Bold Jon Roxton, well probably someone else did, I would wager, but I liked those all the same. The words were something like this, my condolences..." Daven misses the rest of the phrase as a massive pain hits him in the back and through his belly, he thinks he heard his name. He falls to his knees and sees the tip of a protruding spear between the legs of the stallion adorning his chest. He is knocked to the ground, head first and notices a boot on his shoulder, the screams of men and clattering of weapons fills his ears, but he can still recognize the last words he would ever hear before the spear is pulled out of him, "You died in the ambush".