Trying my hand at a brief passage of Game of Thrones fan fiction, incorporating friends as characters: The Journey had been a perilous one, laden with threats at every turn of the broad expanse of Winterfell, but it was a journey necessary for the Lowe’s borne on a cryptic message their master received from Winterfell, sealed with Sam’s stamp, it was short but to the point, assuring that matters had changed and they were urgently needed at Winterfell. Although Newcastle was a modest province fortunately least affected by the sweeping decimation of Tywin Lannisters mass, the damage was spreading like a festering wound, reducing what precious little crops and grains that had managed to withstand the first assault to charred remains as bands of former Lannister and Baratheon forces alike plundered what they could. Lucy and James Lowe were escorted by a small sortie, comprised of a handful of exhausted knights and sworn swords, Lucy was attended by a band of handmaidens, each more emaciated and half-mad than the last. Their baggage train trailed only a half a kilometre back, it had been molested throughout by roaming wolves and thugs, killing oxen and scattering supplies to the winds. The majority of the oxen had been slaughtered in an effort to sustain them on the last leg of the journey, as all other supplies dwindled. James Lowe led the slow but steady march, his palfrey slathered and near death, James himself was in little better state, having chased away some bandits a few days back he had copped a glancing blow from a Morningstar to his shoulder, the ancient master had bandaged the wound with a poultice and leeched out the corrupted blood, but when Lucy changed the bandage she had difficulty not gagging at the smell and sight of black pus. ‘Husband,’ She said, drawing her horse alongside her husband, she tentatively reached out a hand to where James’s wound was buried under a pile of furs, ‘How fares your wound?’ ‘It troubles me some,’ He admitted, shaking out the frost that stiffened the fur of his coat, favouring her with a reassuring smile, ‘Not long now.’ ‘Winterfell.’ Identified Rory, a squire who had proved his worth, valiantly charging down a raider with a battle-axe to bury in the scum’s face. He motioned with the standard he was carrying, bearing the flag of Winterfell, the standard was frozen, brittle and threatening to break, the flag itself was torn and all but unrecognisable, the snarling wolf mauled to that of a half-curled grin. Winterfell loomed ahead, a tragic ghost of its past, ruined and blackened, ravaged and ravaged again by Bolton and Baratheon men alike. The battlements had all but collapsed, hunks of rock the size of an aurochs had tumbled down the steep incline like a child’s toys. With grim determination the Lowe’s and their party pressed on. A lone ride rode out to greet them, drawing his coat closer as he inclined his head. ‘Your grace,’ Phil Stevens said, tugging at his maesters chain, the frost stuck the metal to his fingers, ‘Welcome.’ ‘Welcome.’ Returned Lucy, guardedly politely, gaze wandering past. ‘Good morrow,’ said James, his gaze also looking past Maester Phil, ‘Where is Samuel?’ Phil was trained to conceal his masters bidding but his face fell a fraction, arousing suspicion from the Lowe’s to no end, ‘He begs forgiveness but advises that he is unable to leave the Hall.’ ‘Why?’ James demanded, his voice rough as he rubbed at the flakes of snow embedded in his grizzled beard. Again the hesitation, ‘He is predisposed at present, but begs that you will accompany me.’ Phil offered, rounding his destrier in the direction of Winterfell. ‘What is the matter?’ Lucy enquired, though she was mindful to keep her tone less scalding than her beloved, she could not remove all traces of doubt. ‘He will explain all in due course.’ Was all Maester Phil answered. He offered no other words of explanation as the band passed through the wreckage that was once the proud structures of Winterfell, Lucy could not contain a gasp, emitted at the shocking decimation of her once cherished Liege Lords provinces. Though tales of treachery had reached even the modest lands of Newcastle, they had never anticipated something as severe as this. There was evidence of the multiple families that had occupied and pillaged Winterfell in attendance everywhere the eye roamed, sigils of the flayed man of Bolton, and the flaming heart of Baratheon were left to wither and bury in the snow, covered but not forgotten. It seemed an age before they arrived to Winterfell’s main hall, Maester Phil swung of his horse and patiently awaited for the Lowe’s to follow suit. ‘I expect quarters as befit our station,’ warned James as he dismounted, shaking away the frost that carpeted his back, wincing at the effort and tenderly pawing at his wounded arm, ‘And food for all of ours.’ ‘All of that will be seen to shortly,’ bade Phil with a curt nod, ‘But my master begs you visit him at once in the hall.’ ‘But,’ Lucy stammered, confused by the demand, ‘We are ride weary, we need to change into suitable fresh clothes, perhaps a bath.’ Phil shook his head at this, tugging incessantly at his long collar, ‘I am sorry but it is most pressing you join my master in the grand hall.’ Lucy looked to James, his face taut and unreadable, as he caressed the haft of his dirk, if Phil was concerned by the display he made no sign of it, eventually James allowed a nod, ‘Very well, I expect that my men may join us?’ ‘Of course,’ answered Phil, sweeping a broad hand towards the milling maids and sworn swords, ‘You can expect every hospitality that Sam has to offer.’ ‘That wouldn’t be much.’ Muttered James in spite of himself, though only Lucy heard it. With mixed emotions and a grave trepidation Lady Lucy and Ser James followed Phil into the grand hall, he hefted open the doors with the aid of several of Sam’s men stationed out front, each bore the golden Kraken of the Greyjoys on their breast pocket and eyed the Lowes with naked contempt. The noise had been considerable outside, but inside the grand hall it was positively deafening as five hundred men and women were crammed into every square inch of its confines. Even at a glance the Lowe’s noted that Sam had been busy, rallying not only sworn banner man of the Starks, whom he had a dubious allegiance with, but also that of all of his own, the golden Kraken was hung on every one of the grand rafters over, banners streamed down twenty feet tall, the Kraken’s tentacles flexed and shifted as if uncoiling to constrict the few Starks. Whether this was a blatant show of force or if Sam had some other intention remained unclear, but Lucy could not help but feel unsettled at the sheer amount of sworn Greyjoy men. They were all there, Buchanans, Braash, Cavallaro’s, and Milostniks, even Ser Nicholas Bruce was huddled someone slightly under Sam’s table, whispering something to his beautiful wife that drew a light chuckle. Sam took the place of grand honour, as was the custom which he had so callously disobeyed it was a place reserved solely for a blood born of Stark, seated in the simple carved throne of House Stark, he was engaged in an animated conversation with two of his trusted lieutenants Paul Blair and Simon Miller, Blair was half contributing to the talk half contributing to a vicious gang of finger dance, in an instant one of his fingers was sheared off by a careless axe chuck, instead of roaring in agony, he roared a laugh, sucking on the stump and drowning himself in a cask of wine, Layo Ayeni a trusted advisor from the Summer Isles was off to the side, engaged in some deep conversation with another lord. Sam himself was garbed in a cloak of Stark, a garment that he would’ve had to have plundered from areas off limits to all save Starks, a highly disrespectful gesture and one that was not lost on James and Lucy Lowe. Sam was well into his cups, splashing wine from multiple cups that he grabbed whenever his hand strayed, bouncing two buxom dark-haired beauties on either knee, their breasts bared and bouncing to the beat, as their owners giggled at his antics. The ambience died down as occupants of the lower tables registered the presence of the Lowes, a moment later Simon Miller whispered into the ear of Sam and he set down his cup. ‘At last, my dear friends,’ He cried out, spilling my drink in his clumsy sweep, ‘Welcome, rest your swollen feet, your men my place themselves by the hearth. Join me; there is enough drink to sink the largest pleasure barge of Lys, whatever be your fancy, mulled wine, pepper beer, the best spirits the free cities have to offer. Drink and be merry.’ ‘I expected you to greet us at the gates,’ answered James evenly, eyeing the hundreds of eyes gawking at him, daring one to meet his gaze. ‘Bah,’ Sam scoffed with a snort of derision, ‘Freezing my balls off in the bitter cold waiting is not my idea of a good time, no, my place is here, with a bellyful of ale and some beauty on my lap.’ With that he nuzzled the nape of the neck of one of the girls, they shrieked with carnal delight, their hands busy under the table. ‘It would’ve been a much needed escort,’ James continued, advancing forward, tables and chairs skited like the surge of an ocean to clear him a path, ‘In these troubling times, Stannis Baratheon has been seen in these parts, as had that accursed Bolton bastard.’ ‘Stannis is a broken and done man,’ dismissed Sam, guzzling more wine from yet another cup, ‘I chased down what little forces he had left, they have scattered to the winds, probably half way to Dorne by now. As for that bastard Ramsay, that upstart whelp is of no concern. I have parties out now, hunting him down. When we capture him I will see him punished justly.’ ‘It is a custom obeyed by one ally to another.’ James said, unwavering in his resolve, unshakable in his honour, ‘You should have obeyed it.’ ‘See that is where we differ you and I,’ Sam said, absent mindedly kissing the cheek of one of the young women on his neck, ‘Squids and Wolves make strange bedfellows, but it is your honour and dire need to cling to the ways of old.’ ‘The ways of old are all that we have.’ Interjected Lucy, feeling a flash of anger, ‘You should care to mind them.’ ‘Enough of this drivel,’ Sam said, slamming a fist down, his temper short to begin with thoroughly riled, ‘Join me at my table, my men will make room.’ Paul Blair and Simon Miller looked like they had no intention of making room, nor did Layo Ayeni, toying with a slip of a dagger, pricking the ball of his thumb in anticipation. Then things took a turn for the worse.
Posted on: Tue, 30 Jul 2013 15:42:24 +0000
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