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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.
