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( 1x07 )
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THE FORTRESS of Dewmire is a fine castile, and it is built with a panorama of the surrounding land. The towers stand tall with its watchers, quiver and arrow ready to fly to the steadfast walls that has been built for defense in an age that is defined by jealousy, greed and the love of power as much as honor, nobility, and loyalty to the crown. And past the iron gates that trap would-be intruders, lives of servitude are eked, safe from battle-axes and men alike. And from cloistered rooms, comfort is reserved for just a few. It is a world of subsistence living for all but the mighty who guarded their kingdoms of taxpayers. So long as they sang the right songs of protection, of greatness, of manifest destiny ── they would grow rich for generations to come.
ㅤㅤAt the light of moon-rise, the castellan of Dewmire, Borys Edgerton perambulates over the small, loose stones that are littered across the ground. He stumbles over a few pebbles the closer he gets the rock face. And the beam of his torch shines ahead into the Underforge. The cave has now come into view with the entrance being minuscule. The muddy stone that guarded the entrance is made to be jagged and uneven, arranged in such a way, that it would be difficult for by standards to spot. To an outsider, it would have been hard to see, but being one of Lord Vieux's advisors, he knows exactly where to look.
ㅤㅤNow inside the darkened cave with nothing but the torch he carries, Borys finds his way to the chamber. It is an enlarged room that held a quick escape out of Dewmire. And he knew this was where the Lord and his heir would be. After all, Daemon and his advisors would hold secret meetings underneath that forge every few days. And with the flickering of flaming torches sparking against the walls of ruthenium, bathing the entire cavern in a flickering silvery-gray glow, the color is a function of which wavelengths of light are absorb versus which are reflected. And the many silvery colored metals reflect most wavelengths of visible light quite well, giving it a fairly neutral color.
ㅤㅤBorys, a man of fifty-and-three, took in the stature of both men. Daemon Vieux, the current Lord of Dewmire, is hunch over the round table. His eyebrows have been furrowed as if he were contemplating. He is more mature than the other boy next to him. He's barely a man at ten-and-eight, but his shoulders are pushed back, and he seems to nod every few moments. The two are clearly deep into a conversation, but this mustn't wait.
ㅤㅤThe castellan has found them both, finally. Most likely they were speaking of any new information the Lord has received. But again, that could wait. Drawling in a short breath, his jaw unsteady as his mouth parts to speak, Borys then makes himself known, saying, "My Lord, Lannister men have gathered at the gates. They have come to collect the weapons we owe to Tywin and his army." Borys then pulls himself together, he must. And he musters up all the courage that he can, knowing his Lord doesn't like to be interrupted.
ㅤㅤ"That we 'owe.' How fitting those are the words you choose to use." The Lord never looks up from the spot he is fixated on. Daemon is too much in depth with what he's fixated on at the moment. However, he lets a weak scoff fall from his lips. "You mean the weapons we are forced to give to Tywin Lannister." Daemon never ruffled, and that night was no exception. His voice has a husky drawl that is in a slower motion compared to almost anyone else. His idea of hurrying is to bend his head down a little as he saunters, the pace of his footfalls not changing one iota.
ㅤㅤ"Shall we both welcome them into the Great Hall?" The question seems to not settle well between the two Vieux's, as there is too much bad blood between the houses, but Borys continues speaking anyway, saying, "The salt and bread are already waiting there for them."
ㅤㅤAenar hesitates. For the first time in a long time, he takes a moment to think. And with his thoughts looming over him, his muscles stiff at the thought of his father allowing Lannister men inside the castle and its walls. The thought of breaking bread with them as if they were equal is unsteadying. Aenar only knows to hate the Lannisters; he knows what they did. And whilst they haven't had trouble from the guards before, Aenar doesn't want to jinx it.
ㅤㅤDaemon's eyes rise, along with his head. He could not believe those words came from his castellan. Standing, his shoulders back now, his gaze then on Borys, Daemon says, "Absolutely not." He declines his castellan's thoughts, not even taking a single moment to think about them. "They will stand at the gates and you will bring what we have to give them there." His facial expression then becomes one of absolute disdain. He abhorred the Lannisters.
ㅤㅤ"My Lord, if I may ──" ㅤㅤ"I gave you an order."
ㅤㅤBorys bites down on his tongue. He tries to conceal himself, but he can't seem to. He knows he is allowed a bit of lead way with Daemon. He is his friend and his Lord. But now, he's terrified. Daemon Vieux is a man of much rage, and Borys is not. Yet, he continues speaking anyway, saying, "Yes, but," the man of House Edgerton drags out. "As one of your advisors, I suggest we welcome them in. Tywin will get word of this if we make them stand outside the gates of Dewmire."
ㅤㅤAenar saw the way his father clenched his fists tightly. The blood stopped flowing to his fingers. And it allowed them to turn white after a few short moments. The boy with dark brunet hair and grey eyes, unlike his father who had dark brown hair and hazel eyes, stood from his chair then. And when he opens his mouth to speak, to say something with a harsh tone, he snaps towards the man to be his castellan after he becomes Lord of Dewmire. "Do as your Lord commands."
ㅤㅤBorys never opened his mouth again. He keeps his lips tightly shut as he bites down hard on his tongue once more. However, this time, he draws a tiny amount of blood. The castellan then bows his head towards both men before seeing himself out. He was off to fulfill the wishes of his Lord.
ㅤㅤAenar picks his head up, and he stares straight into his father's eyes once he couldn't hear the echoing of the man's shoes. The boy has become bleak. "The fight against the Lannisters is one we cannot afford to make mistakes from." He is downcast. And it didn't seem to let up. There was apart of him that is scared. Aenar doesn't know how this will end. And he's terrified it ends badly.
ㅤㅤDaemon, with a glass expression of infuriation etched onto his face, maintains a calm voice. "Don't call it a fight when you know it's a war."
ㅤㅤAenar then presses his kneecaps against the wooden table. And in a fit, he outstretches his hand, jabbing his pointer finger to his right. "But Father, we cannot muck this up." The heir of Dewmire thinks he knows what he was talking about. After many moons of listening and watching his father, he thought he had it all figure out.
