A Game of Thrones - Winter Chills | AGameOfThrones-WinterChills / A River Runs Through It browse

(OOC this is six months before the game start)

It took a week before he regretted letting Garyn accompany him and the others. Actually, that surprised Evan a little, because he'd figured it'd only take a day.

It wasn't that Garyn wasn't earnest, or genuinely willing to try hard. But he was singularly inept, and earnestness counted for little on the road or on the field of battle. And there, such ineptitude might cost not just your life, but that of the men around you, which meant that though it was months since any of them had seen combat, everyone's patience was wearing a little thin. Donnell, never one to let any opportunity for a snide remark slip by, was especially harsh whenever Garyn's saddlebags opened unexpectedly, spilling their contents on the road, or when he let the fire spread to things like the roasting hare or someone's sleeping blanket.

Evan let his horse slow to a stop, and the others rode on past, studiously ignoring Garyn. Flustered, Garyn continued to gather up the accoutrements that he'd spilled all over the road, but hamfisted as he was, he seemed to drop two more for every one he picked up and stuffed back into the saddlebag. He was sixteen, a year younger than Evan, but he seemed much younger still - bright eyes, a sandy mop of tousled hair and gangly limbs that he hadn't quite grown into gave the overall impression of a large, excited puppy. It was an impression that resulted in almost as much chaos as it suggested.

Painful though his company might be, Evan knew it was better for Garyn here on the road than still in Lord Marbrand's service. The Marbrands of Ashemark stood bannermen to Casterly Rock, and the decadence of the Lannisters flew true in the banners that followed the Lion. Many tales were told of the savagery of the Cleganes, and the callousness of the Paynes - Evan himself had seen too many things he would much rather forget. Ashemark, nestled against the rocky hills west of the Goldentooth, was home to many of the mines that made itself, and Casterly Rock, rich and strong. Men went into those dark pits, and gold and iron came out, but the men themselves never came out the same. And many never came out at all. Many a criminal and deserter had gone into those mines, but also those who had simply offended this noble or that, or those unfortunates whose business, land, or possessions a noble coveted.

But where there was wealth, men came to fight over it, and so there was always good work for mercenaries. For two long years Evan had fought in the sellsword companies of Ashemark, but no longer. Now, he was going home, and even though they were only just out of Lannister lands, he breathed easier already, as if the air itself were free, rather than taxed.

He'd known a few of his compatriots would join him. Garyn had begged to come, of course, and though Ox had groaned, Evan had agreed. Alone, someone as foolish as Garyn would have come to a very short end, or a long and ghastly one, forgotten in the mines of Ashemark. And though Evan had no illusions that he would last any longer on the Wall, at least there was a chance for Garyn to find something else to do with his life along the way. He was easily distracted that way, at least.

He'd finally gotten the last of his things into the saddlebag now, and Evan leaned over and closed it for him as Garyn clumsily remounted. "Sorry about that," he mumbled breathlessly, clearly abashed.

Evan did not smile. Having Garyn's best interests in mind did not include being paternally indulgent, particularly not in their business. "Keep your things under control, or I'll tie them to you," he said, nudging his horse onward again. Garyn swallowed and nodded, falling in behind.

He was not their commander, not in any official sense of rank, but they listened to him with the natural instinct of fighting men following a leader. Even Ox, five years his senior and three times his girth, a lusty, brawling giant who'd killed his first man at twelve, had sensed that there was something different about the dark-haired youth from the North, who spoke quietly but with words like steel, cutting and unyielding. The Ashemark commanders who led the freesword companies had also learned quickly that the advice of the Northerner was wise counsel, more often than not, and they'd sent him in command of small parties with regularity. Garyn, Ox and the others who'd joined him in leaving Ashemark employ were some of those he'd ridden with. He hesitated to call them friends - mercenaries had many enemies, and no friends. But though he was not formally in charge, they followed him willingly enough, and that suited Evan just fine.

Garyn was the youngest, only a sellsword these past few months, and had Evan not taken him under a wing, he never would have had the wits to survive even his first skirmish. Donnell, riding just off the road ahead, was seventeen, the same age as Evan, and dark as well, though his hair was long and lank instead of curly, and he stood shorter than average, with a pockmarked face that seemed frozen in a perpetual sneer. Ox seemed too large for his horse, and he was warbling something tunelessly as he lolled about in the saddle. And the taciturn Stavro rode out at point, his bald head catching the summer sun like a mirror.

Not for the first time, Evan wondered why they would choose to follow him to the Wall. The Night's Watch was the last resort of the damned for a reason, and privately, he thought that none of them actually intended to take the black. For the most part, he guessed that they were simply tired of the Marbrands, and wanted an excuse to try their luck elsewhere. And going along with the Northerner was as good an excuse as any.

"Riverrun!" Ox bellowed from the road ahead, and Evan looked up to see curling plumes of smoke rising from behind the next hill. They had been travelling through farmland for some time now, along the banks of one of the creeks that fed into the Red Fork, and as they crested the rise, the leaping trout banner of the Tullys came into view, fluttering from Riverrun's walls.

At the gate, they were watched very closely - mercenaries, particularly those who still had a few pieces of equipment with the burning tree of Marbrand, were not popular in Riverrun. Evan had to explain to a suspicious watchman that they were simply passing through on their way to his homeland in the North, which was true, and that they had stopped in to visit one of Garyn's uncles, which was a blatant lie, but one which got them sent on their way with a nod and a grunt.

"We rest here a few days," Evan said once they were in, riding slowly through Riverrun's crowded streets. "We are freeswords for now, boys, and there are a few Lannister coins burning a hole in my pocket."

Ox chortled his assent. "Aye - if I don't find me some cold ale and a warm woman by nightfall, there'll be the devil to pay."

The courtyard should have been empty. Practice was over - long over for the day, and the knights had drifted away; even the squires had packed away their lances and dismantled the quintain. Only one figure was left behind in the yard ...

"Kenrith!"

Ser Gryll was perhaps unexpected as the Master of Arms at Riverrun. A small, dapper man wirth dleek dark hair and a small thin moustache. Perople who did not know him well sometimes took him for a clerk, or perhaps a steward. But those were men who had never faced him in a tournament, or in battle. For Ser Grell had long since learned to fight in ways in which his lesser stature became a virtue and as a strategist, he was second to none. When Kenrith first came to him, his crippled arm a fresh disaster, it had been Ser Grell who had shown him, quietly, determinedly, what a man might achieve with his brain when his body was not equal to the task.

Not that this meant he allowed Kenrith to rely on his brains alone. The physical drills tyhe heir to Holdfast was set were unrelenting - sometimes leading Kenrith to suppose that he was worked harder than any of his fellows. And perhaps he was right. In the years Kenrith spent under his uncle's tutelage at Riverrun, no-one could have accused Ser Gryll of treating his nephew with any favouritism.

And yet ...

"Kenrith!" Ser Grell rarely raised his voice. Men obeyed his quietest command without question - and the Tully guards declared their Master at Arms was at his most deadly when he was at his very quietest.

He waited until the young man approached him.

Kenrith had been running through the same drill with his weighted practice blade since the other knights and squires had left practice. No water dancer's piercing weapon, this was a wide blade meant to fight a man in armor or unhorse a rider. The grip was long enough for the second hand Kenrith would never use with it, but the notched blade was not so long that he couldn't wield it with one hand... although that had certainly not always been the case.

He trained obsessively, and even if Ser Grell thought his performance was 'adequate,' he wished to best that. He had learned years ago that he would never be a lancer, with no arm to hold the shield, but this had only fueled his perfectionism. When he heard his uncle, he came running at a trot.

"Kenrith - there are a party of seelswords within the Keep. They are travelling north, they say. As a Northerner, I'd like you to ascertain the truth of this - or otherwise."

He smiled thinly. "You'll probably find them in the tavern."

"I'd best wash up first... but I will look into it," Kenrith said.

He considered asking his uncle more questions about the men, but thought better of it. It would be best to learn what he could from the men themselves, then compare this to what they had said at the gate.

After making his ablutions, Kenrith had dressed as he often did for dinner. From his clothing, a rough tunic and trowsers, there was little to distinguish him from another young soldier in Riverrun's service. His left arm was worn in a sling underneath his shirt, and the left sleeve was pinned up. The pin itself was the only overt sign of his origins, for it bore the Hardy crest. The perceptive, however, might see the signs of noble blood in the hard gaze of his steel grey eyes.

Riverrun was a big place, but there were only so many establishments in town willing to accept hard, armed men, particularly mercenaries from the west. Most of these were around the Gate districts, where travelers, merchants, drovers, and the inevitable swarm of camp followers, livestock, and other flotsam, made their trades by day and entertained themselves after sundown.

Kenrith had to make a few inquiries before he found the specific tavern the band of sellswords had chosen, but he had his suspicions before he asked as to where they'd wind up.

The Tumbling Stone, named for the fast-flowing mountain-fed waters that met the Red Fork at Riverrun, was the largest of these, and even at this early hour, its patrons were ahead of the curve. A couple of streetwalkers deftly stepped over a snoring drunk as Kenrith made his way inside.

Despite his fatigue from another long day of training, he holds himself erect as he walks into the dimly lit tavern set against the Water Gate Wall. At this time of the evening, most of the tables were occupied already, and a lone seat was hard to find. He spoke with the barmaid on his way in, and her smile petrified into a formal affair as he asked for his customary trencher, stew and mug of ale. The trencher and stew he carried in his right hand, and she would bring the ale along shortly thereafter. It wasn't that she was afraid of him or disliked the young Hardy... but his grim mein clearly put her off.

Kenrith approached the man who seemed to be the leader of the band of sellswords, and motioned to a nearby empty seat. "Do you mind if I join you?"

"To be sure you can, friend!" Ox roared, ale-foam spraying from his full beard in his enthusiasm. He indicated the empty seat with one meaty hand. "Grab a chair, grab a woman, and grab a drink! Branwen - go on now, join our friend here, I need me a free hand." He nudged one of the two girls that perched on his broad lap off, patting her on the rump as she went. "It is Branwen, ain't it?"

Kenrith took his seat during the exchange, studying the faces of the men in this band where they weren't obscured by women, mugs, or (as in Garyn's case) table.

"I'm Branwen," the other one said, tugging at his beard, though neither of them seemed in the least upset. "That's Arwen."

"Arwen," Garyn agreed, slurring the name in his stupor. He was face down on the table next to Ox, narrowly avoiding drowning in his stew, one hand still gripping his mug. His eyes were closed, and a little trickle of drool hung from the corner of his mouth.

"Ah, ignore Garyn here," Ox chuckled, taking another swallow. "Boy can't hold his cups."

Kenrith nodded and forced a small grin onto his lips as he nudged the young man's stew further from his face to discourage him from flopping into it.

Arwen nudged up against Kenrith, her intent of a good time writ clearly in her heavy-lidded eyes and the cut of her bodice. "Pleased to meet you, friend," she breathed. "Haven't I seen you in here before?"

His leg provided a stable platform for the shapely young woman, hardened as it was by countless laps run with mail and breastplate, but if she were expecting him to wrap an arm around her waist she would be in for a disapointment. "I've been in before, yes," he said to Arwen shortly after the pause precipitated by her nudging. He certainly gave no signs of objecting to her presence.

To Ox, and the group as a whole, he said "I'm Kenrith Hardy. To your health come winter," he said as he raised his cup with a smile.

It was a traditional northern toast, but not one they were likely to have heard from northern mercenaries working the south. Kenrith's accent, too, marked him as a northerner. As they spoke, he noted their own tongues.

He had already marked Ox as no northerner, but wasn't sure about the rest of the band. Whether they were from the north or not, of course, didn't mean they couldn't be heading in that direction.

"'Health come winter'?" Donnell raised his glass from the end of the table and drank, which was difficult enough given that he was directing a lascivious stare at the blonde girl behind the bar, a stare that left no doubt as to his intentions. For her own part, she was trying hard not to catch his eye - a disrobing stare added nothing to Donnell's already boil-scarred features. Unattractive or not, though, he was evidently still perceptive enough. "What kind of toast is that? Sounds like a northman curse."

"Its from the north, all right, but no curse... trust me... in Winter, you need your health," Kenrith said. Under his breath, he muttered "in summer too..."

"Winter," slurred Garyn, a bubble of foam growing briefly out of one nostril before it popped.

Ox wiped his mouth (unsuccessfully, it should be added) with the back of one hairy forearm, putting his mug down and watching Kenrith more closely. "Northerner, are ye? You sound like Ser Frost over there." He jerked his head towards the far corner of the taproom. "Hoi, Evan! Come and talk to your countryman here!" Giving Branwen an affectionate squeeze, Ox leaned in conspiratorially. "Boy has a bad habit of drinking alone," he said sourly.

Kenrith nodded once at the question as to his origins from Ox, then looked to see who he was calling to.

The taproom erupted in laughter for a second at some jape from the minstrel by the fire, but Evan looked the other way, towards his companions. Slowly, he uncoiled from the corner booth he had curled into and walked over, carefully picking his way through the crowd without apparent effort. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"We're drinking to our wintry health with our new friend here," Donnell said, indicating his mug. Evan leaned over the table, resting his knuckles on the dirty wooden planks.

"This here is Kenrith Hardy, he says," Ox explained.

"Evan Tamm," Evan said by way of introduction, looking the newcomer over with knowing, dark eyes. "And my drunken friends here are Ox, Donnell, and Garyn. Kenrith Hardy, you say? Of the Hardys of Holdfast?"

"Hardy," Garyn concurred with a little belch.

Kenrith offered Evan his hand, then nodded as his band was introduced. "Yes, I am. You are all, or mostly all, in high spirits... the last time I saw men so free and full of life, they had a long journey ahead of them. Have you met with some windfall that you're all celebrating... or does someone have a hard journey ahead?" Kenrith asked as he raised an eyebrow to Evan.

The last time he had seen men so vigorously full of life, one of them was going to the Wall...

Ox gave a hearty laugh, squeezing the girl on his lap again. "What's not to celebrate? We've silver to spend and plenty to drink to!"

"Evan here means to go back to his icy wasteland and take the black," Donnell said, leaning back in his chair with an unpleasant smirk.

Kenrith nodded as his suspicion was confirmed. The man's reclusive drinking and, to go by first impressions, withdrawn disposition reminded him of visiting men from the Wall at Holdfast.

Evan straightened, still watching Kenrith's face intently. "Now then, I'm sure my lord Hardy here doesn't wish to discuss bleak times ahead - not while they're still a long way off." His eyes flicked once to the oaken staff brooch on Kenrith's chest, then back to the young knight's face.

Ox laughed again. "So it's my lord Hardy, is it? Well then, so glad you could grace our table, milord." Branwen giggled as Ox made some sort of drunken, jesting obeisance.

Kenrith looked a little embarrassed as he was called by his last name. "My father still lives, the old gods keep him... I'm no Lord yet." After his momentary reluctance, however, he matched Evan's gaze. The japes about his station didn't seem to phase Kenrith much.

Arwen lightly touched the shoulder of Kenrith's withered arm. "Was it a mighty battle where some foe did you this hurt, milord?" she purred.

At this, a line of red seemingly shot up from below his shirt to the top of his head. Touching his shoulder, or suggesting the injury was from battle alone, would have angered him... but both together had an almost instant effect.

He brusquely brushed aside her hand and tensed up. As his jaw was setting up into a hard mask of taunt muscles, with an oddly calm and moderated tone of voice which belied his flushed face and angry mien, he said simply "No. Why not keep Evan company, if he is to take the black?" he suggested to Arwen. His movement was swift, but if it hurt Arwen at all it was her feelings which he had injured.

She jumped back off his lap as if bit. "I - I'm sorry, my lord... I didn't... didn't mean..."

Kenrith's scowl deepened somewhat at this, but he was otherwise mastering his temper well. His face, though still flushed, relaxed and his jaw unclenched as he took a long draw from his cup.

The table fell into an embarrassed silence, a quiet island in the chaos of the taproom. Ox took an extra long swallow of ale, Donnell looked very interested in tearing off a hunk of bread, and the girls didn't know where to look. Garyn gave a little hiccup, oblivious.

After a second, Evan was the first to speak. His eyes never left Kenrith's face. "Ox, why don't you and the girls take Garyn to his cot before he slides under the table for good?" They were quick to agree to that, and Ox slung the youth under one arm, wrapped his other around both girls, and made their mumbled goodbyes as they departed. Garyn made a few gargled noises as he left, his toes dragging in the junk on the floor.

Evan took an empty seat and pulled a drink over, still watching the nobleman. "You're a long way from home, my lord," he said quietly.

Kenrith nodded. "Sorry to spoil your fun. From what Ox said, it sounds as if you are as well. From the North, I mean. I miss home... although, half the merchants who pass through consider Riverrun to be part of the north in the first place," he added as he managed a small grin.

"We know better," Evan said simply, turning away from Kenrith's face at last and looking into the cup, as if there might be some greater insight in the frothy ale.

After a pregnant pause, Donnell made a great show of getting to his feet. "You Northerners," he said ruefully. "Funerals down here must seem like festivals to you." Nodding to both of them, he took his drink and sauntered off into the taproom in search of further entertainment.

Evan raised an eyebrow at his departing back. "Only because of the flowers, you know."

Kenrith nodded, adding "And the singing too, I suppose," as he thought of the septons when he thought of southern funerals. They had the like in the north, to be sure, but they were not what Kenrith thought of when he thought of the passing of the dead.

"I was poking around to see what mischief you and yours were about, as if you hadn't guessed... but if you're heading to the wall, I suppose you're entitled. Are your friends planning on following you the whole way... and do they understand how much 'north' that entails?" Kenrith asked more softly as he stared into his own ale.

"Even I have not been that far north, sir," Evan said. "And I doubt that any of them will take the black once they see what sort of place the Wall truly is. Or, what sort of place I can guess it is, to be precise. But they are companionship enough for the journey, and a man can't really ask for more." He shrugged, as if there were no more to be said on the matter.

Kenrith performed another of his brief nods.

However, he then went on to add, "A more inquisitive man might ask why a northern nobleman would be enquiring after the business of mercenaries in a riverlander holding." Evan continued to stare straight ahead into his drink, swirling it around a little as a charlatan fortune teller might her tea leaves. "Fortunately, we sellswords are simple men, and not at all the inquisitive type."

"Well, if asked, I would simply say that it was because I had been asked," Kenrith said with a grin. It looked as if he were about to continue, but instead he was interrupted.

At that, there was a sudden clatter, and a shocked silence descended over the taproom. All eyes turned towards the fireplace, where one of the young serving girls, a blonde wisp of a thing who looked no more than thirteen, was struggling to tear her arm away from the grip of a large, portly man, florid from his bushy beard to his balding, shiny scalp. In the firelight, it was hard to tell if the man's face was red naturally, which might be expected in someone of his girth, or red from all the shouting he was doing. Flecks of spittle caught in his beard as he bellowed at the girl, who squirmed all the more. The crash had come from the drinks she had been carrying; broken pottery and spilled beer lay around their feet.

Kenrith turned at the noise, and started to stand. He glanced at Evan to gauge his reaction to the developing scene, then returned his attention to the man and young woman.

"... working the streets with trollops and drunks, you little whore!" he was screaming. "Is this the best you can do? Is this the life you want? Answer me, girl! And look me in the eye!" The girl was doing her utmost to look anywhere but his eyes, looking around the quiet taproom for assistance. Most people were moving away into the corners, or into other rooms or to the street, though, and those that were not were looking away, faintly embarrassed by the whole scene.

"She be a hard worker, sir," the barman mumbled, obviously not wanting to further antagonise the man.

"I'll bet she works hard - on her back, the little slut!" the angry man roared, cuffing the girl once, hard, across the face. She gave a little shriek.

Kenrith had moved towards the man as continued to shout, and redoubled his pace as the man lifted his arm to strike his apparent daughter.

"Hold off there. A man may strike his child... but what fool speaks of his daughter thus in public?" Kenrith asked. "Are you calling my patron a liar, when he speaks of your daughter as an honorable hard worker in his establishment?" he said as he gestured towards the barman.

"Honour?" the man roared, rounding on Kenrith and jerking the girl around like a rag doll as he did so. "Honour in sleeping in a box by the fire or some stinking sellsword's cot? This is a family affair, boy - stay out of it." He was speaking to Kenrith specifically, but the rest of the patrons and staff seemed to be taking his words to heart - most were already trying to move away abashedly, and a path had been more or less cleared to the door, as if hoping the man would drag his daughter out soon and the whole affair might be done with. With another shake, he started to do just that, and the girl shrieked again and looked back at Kenrith with pleading eyes.

"Please, ser, stop him," she begged.

"Quiet, girl!" Furiously, he drew back his arm to strike her once more. Kenrith caught ahold of his arm, however, and this enraged the man even more. Kenrith was now close enough to smell the man's breath, which stunk of cheap barc. The apparent father tossed aside his daughter, sending her crashing into the bar and swung with his freed left hand.

Kenrith was forced to let go of his right arm as he ducked under the hook, but he had learned fast footwork from Ser Grell and no small amount of pragmatism. As he slipped the punch, he took a quick step which placed his lead leg behind the man's and thrust with his elbow, sending him crashing to the floor with a quick succession of grunts.

"If it were a family affair, your head would be in a noose, sot." Kenrith said from his abreviated boxers crouch. He had moved off far enough that the man couldn't scissor his legs as squire Gurney favored doing, and was waiting to see how the man would react now.

Like most bullies, the fight went out of him quickly once confronted. His bloodshot eyes opened wide, and he gasped like the Tully's fish a few times in shock, before trying to clumsily scramble to his feet. His oversize feet slipped in spilled ale, however, dumping him backdown on his belly with an even bigger grunt. The girl scrambled behind Kenrith, seeking the only sure safety in the taproom.

A few amused titters and chuckles broke the silence then, and the father turned even redder as he got to his feet, still glowering at Kenrith and his daughter. "Girl's got no right disobeying me like that," he grumbled. "Child's gotta learn her place." He stared daggers at Kenrith, but the violence of the confrontation seemed to be over.

"You first. And tonight, your place is out of here," Kenrith said with a hard stare and pointed finger.

After the angry father had climbed to his feet and sculked out the door, pausing only to cast murderous eyes over his shoulder at Kenrith, the young Hardy examined the girl's face with the knowing scrutiny of one who had seen many bruises and cuts in his short years.

"You'd best find someone to talk to him in the morning and talk things out. If all you've done is run off to work here, and have done so with cause, it may be he has no right... but the next time he storms in, chances are I will not be here," he said as he cleaned her split lip with a clean rag.

In the aftermath, the denizens of the taproom began to go back to their business as the inn seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Without looking up, they skirted around Kenrith and the girl, as if pretending they weren't there and the whole incident hadn't happened.

"T-thank you, ser," she said, choking back a sob and trying to smile through her tears. This close, she definitely was no older than thirteen, her fine hair pulled back from her grimy face and stained with the soot from the fireplace. "I-I'm from up the Tumblestone, ser - I had no idea my father would follow me all the way to Riverrun." She looked abashedly down at the floor. "I - I didn't want to live on the farm and muck out pigpens and marry some lackwit herdsman. I wanted to see the courts of noblemen and see the minstrels play in the cities." Carefully, she glanced up at Kenrith. "You understand, don't you, ser?"

"Hold this here until that clots," Kenrith said at first as he passed off the cloth to her. "I understand what you mean, but from the looks of things he had every right to do as he said. A man doesn't stay angry after a journey that long... leastwise not one so easily disuaded. Although I'm loathe to say it after hearing what he was bellowing, he made the journey. I follow the gods of the north, but if you are of the Faith, it might be best if you asked one of their priests or priestesses to mediate. This is not a world which is safe for a woman alone, would that it were. Mayhap he will give consent for you to leave home in a years time... but little is gained in life by running from one trouble to the next."

With the rag held to her split lip, she could do little but nod in reply to his words. Kenrith could not tell if she was genuinely contrite or not, but she certainly lowered her eyes, and her fear was apparent.

[space for something else here].

After Kenrith was satisfied that the girl didn't have the brain swell from her lumps to the head, and that the other patrons would give her a wide birth for this evening at least, he looked around for Evan.

He hadn't moved from the table, but had rather watched the proceedings with cool dark eyes, unlike everyone else in the inn, who had carefully averted their gazes. "I see my lord does not always need to be asked to look into matters," he said neutrally as Kenrith returned.

"Perhaps I heard something different in her little shriek as struck, but I'm sure I'll get my lumps for my kindness later," Kenrith replied with a shrug.

"Well, it looks like I've been up to more mischief than you. I wanted to wish you a safe journey, seeing as how it is to be a long one. If your friends are making the journey south and find themselves light of coin, I hear that the merchants of Marshend take on hired guards some of the time," Kenrith said before a small sigh of fatigue passed his lips.

"We may well travel in such a fashion," Evan agreed, his eyes following the serving girl as she limped off towards the fireplace, nursing her bruised face. "Not for a little while - we have been employed many a month now, and some rest is due them." Evan paused a while, as if weighing thoughts heavy in his mind, and he kept his eyes turned towards the fire when he continued, at length. "My father occasionally drove his herds to Holdfast when I was young," he said, slowly. "They say Lord Oswain's oldest son was named Kenrith - he would be about your age, I would think."

"He would have to be... my father is named Oswain, after all. Ser Grell, is my uncle... I have been sent south so that he might instruct me in arms... and so that I might recover from an illness which nearly claimed my life," Kenrith said as he glanced off into space and touched his left shoulder with the tips of his right hand.

"So... what led," Kenrith said as he paused for a moment. He had been about to say 'a drover's son,' but instead continued "... you to travel south and become a mercenary? You and I are too young to have fought in the war, after all..." he said as he studied the other man's face.

"Too young indeed," and Evan turned to face him then, his face expressionless. "Nothing special about my story, I'm afraid, milord. Just a young man who went south because he didn't want to grow up in a marsh and muck out pigpens. Marshend is pleasant enough, but can hardly be described as exciting. Not compared to the courts of noblemen and minstrels playing in the cities." The corners of his lips twitched in a smile, though it did not reach his eyes.

"That wisp of a thing had a similar idea, it seems... but I doubt she is quite so good with a sword. Which courts and minstrels have you been dealing with, if they put you off so much you wish to escape to the ends of the earth?" Kenrith asked as he sampled his newly refilled mug and tried to finish his now-cold dinner.

At the mention of the girl, Evan's eyes turned again to the place by the fire where she now huddled, but he did not mention her in turn. "We were most recently with the Marbrands in Ashemark, and the Blackwoods of Raventree before that, and a dozen others beside," he said, still watching the girl. "Noble enough, and none more or less terrible than any others, I suppose. Mercenaries rarely complain overmuch of their employers, ser, unless the coin is not forthcoming." The faintly amused, self-deprecatory look in his eyes spoke volumes. "Perhaps I just felt it was now time to do something of - greater value."

"You don't strike me as the starry-eyed romantic type. Service on the wall is of great value, to be sure. Many Hardies have stood the line on the wall... but it is no place of gleaming armor and glorious battle, as I'm sure you know. If you seek to stand shoulder to shoulder with noblemen's sons as their equal, however, I do not know of a surer course for one such as yourself. You mentioned you were a drover's son... do you come from a large family?" Kenrith said as his demeanor became a bit melancholy. This talk of the north, it seems, was making him a touch homesick.

"A brother once... and a sister," Evan answered distantly, his arms folded lightly across his chest. "Not a large family, no. Nor a close one." He did not seem inclined to go further, but instead turned and met Kenrith's grey eyes. "I do not need to go to the Wall to stand equal to the sons of lords, my lord - battle makes all men equals in the end. In the skirl of sweat, steel and blood, neither man nor god cares about your parentage or the quality of your smallclothes."

Kenrith nodded. He had no argument with these words, as blunt as they were. He had meant that, on the wall, only then would nobles -see- him as a peer rather than a 'craven mercenary.' Then, and in the brief seconds before a man like Evan unhorsed a knight and thrust a spike into the weak spot in the armor underneath the lancing arm and into the lung beneath.

A long scar suddenly stood out along the back of his hand as he pushed his empty drink aside, and straightened out of his chair. "The night grows long, my lord, and I must take my leave. If you wish to find us again, we will be here a week at least, I imagine." Again, he met Kenrith's eyes. "Gods go with you, Kenrith Hardy. May you find your way home."

"And with you and your thousand brothers-to-be," Kenrith said as the other man departed. With the Hardy tradition of sending men to the wall... Evan would soon be almost a kind of cousin. He was sorry to have touched on sore subjects, somehow, but delving into a man's past kicked over many rotten logs. A few minutes later, his ale finished, Kenrith payed for his dinner and made his way home.

Categories: WinterChillsGameLogs