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Post by Father on Dec 9, 2018 17:51:21 GMT 1
After the attack, Lord Eldon refused to leave the castle, his appearance was announced by the heavy breathing caused by carrying the weight of his breastplate, his best knight, second best knight, but Ser Rennifer was presently in no condition to serve him. But he had served him well, very well indeed, without Ser Rennifer he would surely be dead now. Pity that Ser Roland had not been ended for the insult that Lady Alicent had visited upon him. But Lord Tyrell had demanded swords to favor Ser Roland, in real fight, Ser Rennifer would have smashed his skull with the morningstar. Ser Rennifer would serve him well once more, he was sure of it. He should be rewarded, he needed a new landed knight to replace Ser Bryce, and if Ser Theon would not recover? Perhaps, but no, he needed Ser Rennifer close at hand. A wife maybe. Ser Rennifer had not shown interest in such, only in fucking a pretty cunt, but perhaps he might like Alena Flowers? Pretty as a picture and looks like she will be quite entertaining in bed. Perhaps the spongeholder might wash and bring her to his own bed? But no, a lord should not sample the goods meant for his men. A man such as Lord Eldon must be loyal to all who are loyal to him. But perhaps the spongeholder might give her to him for a night in return for a favor? Hmm, interesting idea. Someone else for Ser Rennifer? Lady Laena? Beautiful, a great bastard, but also a widow with children, word was that she was looking for a new husband. Would she be willing to make Ser Rennifer happy? He had been asking about Ser Titus, hoping that he might be able to convey his gratitude in person, a lord should always be generous to those who sacrificed for him. A great lord should repay each favor granted to him with magnanimity. And is he not a great lord despite what all those inconsequential naysayers cares to utter? He approaches the young knight's bed, the sweet smell of roses precedes him, heavily perfumed as he is. Two servant brings forth a large and heavy chair on his signal, another quickly places soft pillows on it for their lord to be comfortable. He places his meaty and moist hand upon Titus' good shoulder. "How do you feel, ser?" He is not entirely sure if Titus is able to hear him, one never knows with milk of the poppy, but the maesters said that his body was young and robust and that he should recover. |
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Post by Titus Blackbriar on Dec 10, 2018 23:12:50 GMT 1
They say Milk of the Poppy give dreamless sleep, the sweetness of oblivion when the suffering of waking and dream alike is too much to bear. Titus had slept deeply, but not peacefully. The Milk he had received, and he had been plied with a lot of it, might have numbed the pain, dulled the edges but his sleep was filled with scorpions. Crawling, clawing, pinching, stinging, biting, ripping, tearing at him as some small part of him still hung on to that precious life that the Gods had given him.
He was not sleeping now. He was weak, weaker than he'd ever been, had it not been for the dull pounding of a war-drum in his mind and the feint impressions of what happened around him, he would think himself dead. Dead and cursed to that horrible in-between. Not the Heavens and not the Hells. That horrifying void in between. He thanked the Seven for those scorpions and those war-drums because at this moment, there was no pain, but no life. He couldn't move. He could barely open his eyes and each breath took effort, but at least the scorpions clawed.
The smell was nauseating. He wanted to throw up. He heard the voice of Lord Eldon and wanted to throw up a again. He forced his eyes open and a few moments, after his vision cleared, he saw the fat lord before him and wanted to throw up a third time.
"Alive, lord." His voice was weak, near a breathless whisper. He was to weak to disguise any of the contempt he held for the lord, but also to weak for it to manifest. Speaking took enough effort.
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Post by Father on Dec 12, 2018 22:12:53 GMT 1
"Gods be good, you will stay that way, ser" Eldon offers. "I owe you my life, ser, and a horse, I shall arrange for the very finest horseflesh in all the realms, one of Lord Fossoway's very special breeds, a horse fit for a king! He likes to jape that he will accept it's weight in gold in payment for one, but he will not deny me and what I have to offer." For Eldon Merryweather, the world revolves around him and his every want, and nothing else matters. "My debt cannot be repaid by a mere horse, surely there must be something else that you might like, ser? Lady Daena's hand perhaps? I could speak to Lord Durwell, he likes being owed favors"
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Post by Titus Blackbriar on Dec 13, 2018 1:55:45 GMT 1
His debt...
The debt Lord Eldon owed for claiming Roland's horse and demanding Titus' protection when there where women and children in need. The debt he owed for being a coward and tyrant. The debt he owed for raping and ruining the life of maidens unnumbered. Perhaps Lord Eldon would best have payed the debts he truly owed in death rather this in life.
But Lady Marriane lived. Young Simon lived. Titus lived.
His father did not.
A wave of despair washed over him. He couldn't remember when he found out, but he knew. Only the sorrow came and went as it pleased, sometimes giving way for the sweet oblivion of the poppy, sometimes drowning him. His father was dead and Titus was alone and drowning.
Then that fat, stinking Lord threw him a rope. Lord Eldon, the very man who's crimes was the reason that any of this had happened now held something before him that glimmered of hope. Of a future. It's not hard for the glutton to spot the spark in Titus' eyes, as they light up on the mentioning of Lady Daena's name. A spark in what before seemed as empty eyes, hollow with suffering.
They say nothing makes one long for life more than death and that was the rope offered to Titus.
"Aye, lord-" he does not get any further as a coughing fit takes hold of his heart and lungs, causing his body to shake and head to spin. The nearby maester comes to his aid, holding up as he yet can not and covers his mouth with a cloth as they wait for the fit to pass. When he speaks again it is more a rattle than a whisper. "But she can not see me like this..." it sounded more like nonsense said in delirium than an actual protest. Lady Daena had in fact already seen him, but Titus had no recollection of it.
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Post by Father on Dec 13, 2018 23:29:52 GMT 1
"Nonsense, ser. Only proof of your valor and toughness, I know of no lady that does not appreciate strength, in conviction and of body." Eldon has turned flattery into an art form. When he cares to, his appreciation and generosity seems endless. Most of the time, he tells people to jump and they do, but Eldon Merryweather would not get away with being Eldon Merryweather without knowing how to make him palatable to negotiate alliances with, without making his most important men loyal to him. Finding those without scruples was also part of it, everyone wanted something as Lord Durwell liked to say, if it could be bought with money or influence, Lord Eldon could offer it, he did not need to be liked by everyone as Lord Durwell, or as industrious and creative as he, for Lord Eldon Merryweather is a man of means and power, giving him the influence to get whatever he wants.
Almost anything, but the whore of Yronwood was only one woman, and that other girl, Margaery? Myrielle? She was younger and had the same looks, blonde hair, a pretty face, long legs and with nice curves. In his bed there were little difference between them, though he imagined that Alicent would fight more, that would make it a true conquest.
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Post by Titus Blackbriar on Dec 17, 2018 16:59:55 GMT 1
A second coughing fit, less violent than the first but enough to blur his vision and bring flecks of darkness before his eyes. The lightheadedness brings a certain clarity however. Lord Eldon Merryweather was a monster of man, no doubt about it - but to accept the gratitude of a monster is better than to insult it and risk it's anger. Something the small-folk, and whoever instigated the riot, was certain to soon find out.
And now the monster was before him, parting its thin lips, baring his jagged teeth in a smile, offering honeyed words of thanks and treasure untold. To refuse was folly - Lady Daena was a good woman, Titus was certain they could grow to love each other - but he would not have her barted off to him, a whore brought before a cripple.
"You honour me, Lord Eldon, with such gratitude." longer sentences and courteous speech took effort. "If Lady Daena would have me I would strive to honour her. Lord Marq can be certain of such."
But by the gods I will walk up the stairs of the Sept by my own strength and I'll make a life for us far from men like you.
The prospects of a life with Daena could feel so sweet, yet speaking the to Lord Eldon, all Titus felt was a bitter taste.
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Post by Father on Dec 18, 2018 19:43:42 GMT 1
"However great an honor it might be, it is all well deserved" Lord Eldon assures Titus. "I shall speak to Lord Durwell, no doubt that man have a dozen schemes which he might find the wealth and influence of Longtable to be hugely beneficial in their pursuits. He chuckles in advance of his own joke. "And I am not talking about bedding a dozen young ladies, a different one for every night, all of high birth and only the most beautiful" There is admiration in his voice, as he believes that Lord Durwell have indeed done exactly that. "Lady Daena is very beautiful, I would wager Lord Marq sometimes wished he had the blood of the dragon too, so that he might have her for himself, surely he must!" Greed and desire lights up his face. "She deserves a wedding befitting the most beautiful daughter of kings, I would be very happy to host it at my expense" And surely, he would be allowed to "guide" her to the guest quarters. "But first you must find the strength to get out of this bed, ser."
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Post by Titus Blackbriar on Dec 29, 2018 14:12:14 GMT 1
Do not speak of her like that you disgusting bag of shit.
Anger flares within him, he wanted to reach out and strike the repulsive Lord but he knew better, and was far too weak. The maesters where certain, or atleast pretended to be, that the strength and use of his limbs would return but for now they where limp, weak and heavy - a terrifying feeling for a man who’s sole worth is measured in his skill with sword in hand.
”He will, Lord” a voice speaks up from the corner of Titus’ eye. A voice humble and neutral but firm and unwavering - one used to speaking to powerful men. ”But he needs rest. If my Lord forgives.” It is the voice of Maester Olyvar, Lord Gormon Peake’s personal maester, charged with the survival of the young knight, awaiting to administer the milk of the poppy. Or perhaps seeking to releave the patient from the insufferable Lord Eldon.
Terribly sorry, amongst the holidays and the melee I forgot about this scene. Happy to finish up as I appreciate you got plenty of stuff going on.
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Post by Father on Dec 29, 2018 17:16:56 GMT 1
/scene then
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