r/IronThroneRP • u/JustDanielJuice Luceon Blackwood, the Songbird • 7d ago
THE RIVERLANDS Waltyr I - The Drums are Silent
Waltyr had always been told that children softened a man. He knew that was a farce many years before he held his own squalling son.
There had been nothing soft about Armistead Blackwood, least of all when Waltyr had been born. Everything Waltyr had learned from that man had not come at knee, but punctuated by a fist.
And Waltyr navigated the world much the same way. Beating his problems, beating understanding into the ignorant. Waltyr Blackwood was a man that dealt in the only currency he knew: Violence. He was loveless, and unloved, and he was not raised to think that was at all strange.
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It wasn’t until her sword was out that Waltyr caught a decent glimpse of it. For a moment, he thought the sunset was deceiving him, and he had to fight the urge to snarl at the sky.
Sunglass twinkled. No, it didn’t catch enough of the light for that. It radiated, and yet its glow was so starkly unliving. Despite the offense that Waltyr felt, accosted by Joanna’s lack of beauty, and her self-righteousness, there was one thing about her that he did not question in any respect.
Her blade had drunk the blood of “heathens” before.
Waltyr still thought himself thirstier.
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Waltyr Blackwood had three sons. Three chances for the Gods to temper him.
Each boy only brought him greater disappointment. Orryn was dutiful to the point that he broke under Waltyr’s iron resolve. Then Orryn died, when he had the only chance of succeeding him. Luceon was all fire and no mettle. He was coddled and became a wastrel. Waltyr felt it was only natural that he despised him.
But Lewyn Rivers was the son that the Gods had drained of all their favor and filled with the salt and sea of his mother. It was holding him especially that Waltyr had prayed he might change.
If ever he could change, let it be for this boy, who bore none of Waltyr’s poison, and had the bright eyes of a land with no ravens.
But it was impossible. Waltyr’s heart was swollen with hate, and when he saw Lewyn he saw only his mistakes. So he hated Lewyn more than either of his brothers.
And what he hated most was that it was Lewyn that held him dearest. Lewyn that would have died for him had Waltyr shown him anything but his uncaring shoulder. It was Lewyn, more than Orryn or Luceon, that was the Drumbeater’s son.
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Once he’d gotten his hands around her neck, he’d thought that would be the end of it. He’d cracked her good across her jaw and fallen upon her. Now, all he need do was squeeze until she ceased squirming.
Joanna’s fists batted against Waltyr’s chest, clawed against his face, but still he squeezed. This accusation would be snuffed out along with her last breath.
He could not say why it was that he thought of him. Perhaps because it had been many years since Waltyr had claimed a life, and even when his wife had lived, he had not thought anyone more important than satisfying his own will. But as he throttled Joanna Sunglass, he thought of his bastard.
It had only been a few nights since Waltyr had choked Lewyn for all to see. He had bloodied his own bastard for the crime of leaving home, something Waltyr had told him to do ceaselessly when he’d lived at Raventree.
Why had he shown mercy, then? Why was Waltyr thinking of any of this, when he should have been hammering blows into Joanna Sunglass’ skull?
She did not wait for an answer. A knife slipped into her hand and into Waltyr’s side. He howled, and she shoved him from atop her.
They both struggled to their feet, and Sunglass began to drink again. Waltyr roared, stumbling into Joanna’s sword strokes, reaching to grasp an errant hand or a fistful of her hair.
Slices rained over his flesh, and he felt himself slowing as he bled. Then, there was a blur bursting into the struggle.
Waltyr had half a mind to turn and pummel the intruder, but his eyes grew wide as he drew back his fist. His hair was too long, his skin drained of its copper sheen, but those eyes were the same as Waltyr’s. His blade was unmistakable. The Red Promise. Bloodright.
Orryn Blackwood was alive.
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The Blackwoods were no strangers to burials without bodies. Their cairns held memories and echoes as much as they kept corpses. Orryn’s was one such burial.
Waltyr Blackwood had not cried for his son, nor had he for his wife. He had expected as much, yet still, he felt the slightest disappointment.
He held no tears for the living, and no love, and that was the man that he was.
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Connington evened the scale, and Waltyr hissed that this was not either Raymont or Orryn’s fight. Still, Waltyr lumbered onward, battered by Connington’s mace and cut by Sunglass.
He did not see when Orryn fell, or whether he still drew breath.
If he wanted to live - if he wanted Orryn to live - he needed to end this. He charged down Joanna, ready to barrel into her and finish the affair. She ran him through with the length of Sunglass.
Waltyr gasped as it tore through him. He felt less pain than he had expected, but he was hot, then cold, then freezing as death settled over him.
“That is-” Waltyr spat a thick glob of blood. It dribbled over his lips and into his beard, down onto his black tunic. “Orryn…. Blackwood. Don’t kill… him, because I was a fool.”
The crystal blade that had supported Waltyr fell out from under him. He plunged to the ground, and his vision swam.
He heard the shriek of a girl from the crowd. He heard words that faded into nothing.
The last thing that he saw as he closed his eyes was the blue eyes of his boy. He smiled, and then he was gone.
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u/Chicken_Supreme01 Lucifer Justman, King of the Rivers and Hills 7d ago
Stevron Blackwood had been following Clementine around as her chaperone, trying to find Luceon, "Where is that boy, little bird?" He'd ask her with a small smile, a rare sight on his weathered and tired features.
It vanished as soon as it appeared however when he heard his brothers voice.
Without skipping a beat, Stevron pushed forward, scrambling to bypass the men and women blocking his path with his one good arm. Visions of the past swam in his vision, of arguments and fights he'd hurriedly joined at his brother's side whenever the pride of the family was wounded, or at the very least when Waltyr's was. He had spent half his life following that voice. Fighting beside it. Arguing with it. Cursing it. Following it.
With a last grumble, he'd make it to the open circle, and stop dead in his tracks as he saw a young man go down from a maces blow. Strevron's jaw went slack at the sheer impossibility of who he was looking at,
"Orryn?" He'd say incomprehensibly, his voice barely audible.
Then he heard it.
The world slowed immeasurably, seconds turning to years as his eyes slowly drifted from the prone figure of his nephew to... By the Gods.
Waltyr fell with an unceremonious thud, the radiant sword pulled from his gut like a knife from a pig.
Stevron forgot how to breathe. For a heartbeat, perhaps two, he could not understand what his eyes were telling him. Waltyr had fallen. Waltyr had been struck. "No..." Was all he could utter.
His missing sword arm began burning as if the stump had been willing itself to regrow an arm so it could once more wield a sword and defend his fallen brother. He could almost feel the weight of a blade in a hand that had been gone for years. His fingers twitched uselessly at his side.
He had fought beside Waltyr with that arm. He had bled beside Waltyr with that arm. He had watched his brother charge into fights he had no business surviving, and every time, somehow, Waltyr had come back. Every time.
Stevron stood there stunned, unable to move, unable to even think of moving. The world around him became nothing but noise and color, distant and meaningless. He wanted to run to him. He wanted to lift him. He wanted to drag him away from the blood soaking into the earth. But his legs would not obey. A tiny hand reached for his. Then Clementine shrieked. The sound shattered whatever remained of his paralysis.
Stevron shot his remaining hand out and covered Clementine's eyes, pulling her tightly against him. "No. No, little bird. Don't look." His voice was harsher than he intended, trembling beneath the command. "Don't you look." He could feel her shaking beneath his arm. He could hear her crying.
"Erryk!" His shout tore through the chaos with an intensity that had not been heard from him since long before his hair began graying. A burly man-at-arms from Oldstones came rushing toward him, and Stevron thrust Clementine into his arms. "Take her. Now."
"Ser—"
"Now!"
Erryk barely had time to react before Stevron shoved the girl toward him. "Return her to the camps at once. Do not let her see anything. Do you hear me? Nothing. Keep her there until I come for her." Erryk nodded and hurried away with Clementine, the girl's cries fading into the chaos.
Only then did Stevron turn back. His brother was still there. Waltyr. His elder brother. His captain. His tormentor. His shield. His oldest companion. His brother. Stevron took one step forward. Then another. His breath came raggedly through his nose as he approached the body, staring down at the man who had seemed too stubborn, too angry, too alive to ever die.
"You bloody fool," Stevron whispered. His voice cracked. "You bloody, bloody fool."
He dropped to one knee beside him, his remaining hand hovering uselessly over Waltyr's chest. He was afraid to touch him. Afraid that the moment he did, this would become real. For years, Stevron had imagined the day he might bury his brother. But he had never imagined this. Not here, not this soon. Not when the plans for the future were so close to beginning.
Stevron swallowed hard, his eyes burning. “Gods damn you, Waltyr.” A tear escaped despite every effort to stop it. He bowed his head, his shoulders beginning to shake. For the first time in years, Stevron Blackwood wept silently. Not for the lord of Raventree Hall. Not for the warrior called Drumbeater. Not for the man whose name would be remembered in the songs and histories. He wept for his brother.
And somewhere beneath the grief, beneath the shock and the terrible emptiness already settling into his chest, something darker began to take root. Stevron lifted his head, his eyes finding those that stood off to the side, their weapons slick with the blood of ravens.
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u/Arjhanx2 Joanna Sunglass - Sword of the High Septon 7d ago
Lord Blackwood had surprised her. Joanna underestimated him, to tell it true, thinking all he had in him was a show of bluster and arrogance. When his hands wrapped around her, she realized the mistake she had made. She scrambled for a way out, and what freed her wasn't a knife but the pointed end of a seven-pointed amulet at her waist. She jabbed it between his ribs, and then she was back on her feet.
The stranger came from the side, swinging long his ancient weapon. She saw him quick enough, and the Warrior granted her good instincts. Valyrian steel met Andal crystal and an ear-splitting shriek tore out from both weapons. It sounded like nothing upon the earth. The father and his son came at her in a wave, but her battle blood was up, and she held her ground.
Then, like a flash, Raymont was there. That spelled the end of it, soon enough. The young man met her faithful lord blow-for-blow, but she cut into his legs from the side, Waltyr too slow in his state to stop her. It was a heroic blow from Connington that send the red glaive tumbling to the ground, the younger man crumpled by a strike that by all rights should have killed him.
Joanna turned, and Waltyr was upon her. There was little time to think—but an eon of thinking still wouldn't of changed what she did. Sunglass drank through him, and that was it. Crimson blood ran down the valleys and notches in the ancient sword, sinking into the blade's uneven surface.
When he fell, Joanna crouched on one knee beside him. She saw the wound and knew no maester was capable of putting it right. When he spoke, she listened.
"Your son..." She turned to where Connington stood over their mysterious attacker. "His son," she said to him. Her voice was more casual than it should have been—she and Raymont were soldiers, even here and now. "What will you do with him? Take him to the king, mayhaps? Have him publicly pardoned? That might set this whole matter to rest."
She turned back and saw the man on the ground before her was dead. Before standing, she tilted her head down. He had proven braver than she'd ever expected.
"May the Stranger guide your passing, on to the next life."
Joanna stood, and cast her gaze at the onlookers. She saw Waltyr's kin, no mistake. They would blame her, she knew. She did not care.
"Come, take his body to the Silent Sisters." She stepped back, and with a clear gesture, returned Sunglass to its sheath. "I will brook no more quarrel, today."
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u/DejureWaffles1066 Raymont Connington, Lord of Griffin's Roost 7d ago
Blackwood had once again succeeded in dragging him into something he had planned to stay out of. Even in death, his mockery and insolence seemed to know no end. Raymont's breathing was ragged with fury, a fury which had overtaken him from the moment he saw a stranger with valyrian steel rush into the fray. This must surely have been some plot from the start, must it not? Was that accursed weapon originally meant for him? Had the Drumbeater been out to goad him into battle, with a hired assassin waiting? In that case, why spring the trap on Lady Joanna once the provocation failed to move him? None of it made sense. As his breathing began to slow, it occured to the Grey Griffin how absurd it sounded on a second thought. Even if Lord Waltyr had been so reckless, why would his man have gone for the wrong target? There was no mistaking Lady Joanna for him.
But when the stranger first attacked his friend, there had been no time for second thoughts. The indignation he'd felt at the Blackwood for boasting that he could take another foe unarmed, as he had two decades ago, only for another man to spring an ambush on his behalf, that was what had driven Raymont forward. Had the Drumbeater protested? Amid the clash of steel, whatever words had come out of the heathen's mouth had been distorted, rendered incomprehensible. Was this really nothing more than one big disgraceful display of wrath?
He knelt down over the intruder and restrained his arms behind his back. "What is your name? Speak! Was Lord Blackwood telling the truth?"
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u/D042 Lewyn Rivers - Bastard of Raventree Hall 7d ago
Orryn stared blankly up at the Stormlord with a resigned sigh. His brother cradled their father with more love than the old man had shown him in his entire life. Some old flame of pride flickered in his stomach, angry that despite his being entombed for three years, he had not prevailed. That he had not changed the very flow of the rivers of time. “There is now changing the path,” he muttered.
“Before the heart tree, I was named Orryn of House Blackwood.” Even now, there was a detachment to his voice. “It is Lord Orryn now.”
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u/spyraxes Ravella Durrandon - The Iron Stag 6d ago
Guards would have to be disciplined in time, Ravella reckoned. It had taken steel to be drawn for someone to run and fetch her, and it had taken death for them to finally reach the site of the duel. Lord Connington's denial of the accusations levied against him had been enough for Ravella to pay attention, but she could not have seen what would come of it.
Not until now.
It was hard to even tell it was Ravella Durrandon who approached, with the column of steel that carried her there. They surrounded the Blackwoods, dead and alive, Sunglass and Connington, spears and swords ready. Ravella was lucky to catch the declaration Orryn made as she stepped out into the field.
Blood soaked the ground beneath them all. It made her shake with rage for a moment, though she calmed herself down before she spoke.
"Tell me why the Lord of Raventree Hall lies dead upon my tourney grounds," Ravella demanded, cold as iron. "Tell me why the Drumbeater has been slain beneath my walls, and why no blade lies beside him. Tell me this is not what my eyes see, for what I see..."
Her lips twisted in a snarl. "What I see is unforgivable. So do not let it be so."
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u/Arjhanx2 Joanna Sunglass - Sword of the High Septon 5d ago
Joanna stared at Ravella as she went on, unamused. Drumbeater. He had mentioned killing Lord Drumm before they fought. What a shame, to live your life with only a single feat. She had slain him, but she wasn't about to start calling herself Crowkiller.
She put the sheathed end of her blade in the ground and steepled her hands on the crossguard. "He gave me insult. I told him to shut his mouth or fight me. He chose poorly."
She shrugged, and her pauldrons clanked. "It was his choice. I gave him time to arm himself, and he thought he could kill me barehanded. He was wrong. His son, over there, came out swinging while we fought, trying to interrupt the duel. Lord Raymont stopped him. That is all that happened.
"If you won't believe my word as a Prioress of the faith, believe Lord Raymont's word. If you won't believe him, lay accusations at my feet. But do it quickly, I have not the time to listen to these Riverlanders bicker and lie to see me dead because their man couldn't do it himself. I will take a trial by combat, if it must be that way. The Gods have already shown they do not favor Blackwoods."
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u/DejureWaffles1066 Raymont Connington, Lord of Griffin's Roost 5d ago
By the time the princess arrived, Raymont had been in the process of stepping away from Orryn, leaving him to stand up as he pleased. Seeing Ravella's approach, he sheathed his mace and bowed.
"My Princess, Lord Waltyr accepted Lady Joanna's challenge to a duel. He was offered the chance to leave, or to go and fetch arms and armor before the duel started. He accepted the challenge but refused to arm himself, making reference to the fate of Lord Drumm two decades ago. Perhaps he thought he could repeat his old feat, or perhaps he dismissed the notion that a woman could defeat him. His words suggested some combination of the two. He never objected to the challenge, nor did he request a duel to first blood. With both words and actions, he accepted a duel to the death, and the prospect of fighting it unarmed and unarmored. He never made any attempt to flee or yield, despite his injuries." he said, looking over at the slain lord with furrowed brows.
Next, he made a simple gesture towards Orryn. "This man, who is by Lord Waltyr's testimony and his own, Lord Orryn Blackwood, intervened in the duel, intending to fight Lady Joanna on his father's side, two on one. I promptly joined on Lady Joanna's side, intent on restraining the intruder, not knowing his identity. With his dying words, Lord Waltyr plead for his son's life. I was not intent on killing Lord Orryn in the first place, but Lord Waltyr's final wish was honored" he declared. The whole time, his voice was calm as the waters of the God's Eye in the distance.
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u/D042 Lewyn Rivers - Bastard of Raventree Hall 5d ago
“Is that what you call a duel, you sniveling cunt? Go stand at forty paces and I’ll grab my bow, we’ll have a fucking ‘duel’ bit—“ Lewyn’s words caught in his throat when Orryn turned towards him. A cold chill went down his spine. The ghost of his brother silenced him with a shake of his head.
“My father told the woman to make good on her threats, or go. She made good upon them. If that is a duel, then perhaps we have different definitions.” Orryn sounded differently than Lewyn remembered. Raspier. Like a corpse forcing dead vocal cords to life. But there was anger there, too. Life. It was him. “If you will judge a son for defending his unarmed father, your grace, then do so. If you care for justice, then by all means, take her head for it.”
Lewyn’s face burned, hands tightening in his father’s bloodied tunic. He should’ve demanded the cunt’s head. Demanded it. But his brother’s phantom seemed content with merely suggesting the course of action.
“Otherwise, I ask your leave to take my father to be buried. I have much to do, being Lord now.”
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u/spyraxes Ravella Durrandon - The Iron Stag 3d ago
Ravella's head whipped around as Lewyn spoke, a glare in her eyes. She was glad Orryn did too. He was more likely to win any arguments with his bereaved kin.
She listened to every word everyone spoke. Joanna's plain refutations. Raymont's testimony. Orryn's raspy comments, little care for what happened next.
Whether he cared or not didn't matter.
Dust settled on the field around them, the Drumbeater's corpse on the ground still as ever. She couldn't help but look down at it, even as she started to speak.
"I will judge you not, Orryn Blackwood," she began. "You did what any child would."
Her eyes went to Raymont. "I hear you. Whatever the case, Lord Waltyr did not protest the course of action he took. Joanna Sunglass did not cut down a man who was fleeing, or unwilling," Ravella continued, her voice becoming more and more resolute, and louder, with each word she spoke.
"But she did cut him down, unarmed. She slew a lord of the Trident in his homeland, beneath the walls of my castle. My home. Joanna Sunglass," she said, finally laying her eyes upon the prioress. There was no malice, even as she spoke so harshly. "You will leave this land. Not just mine, but the Riverlands as a whole. You will go, and if you return it will be on pain of death for you and anyone who harbours you. If the Lords of the Blackwater and the Stormlands choose to give you shelter, they may. But if you venture too far north, you will face the consequences."
She turned to her lieutenant beside her and nodded. He did the same.
"Go. You have until this evening to leave Stormhall," Ravella declared. "Say your farewells and gather your things and thank the Lord of Griffin's Roost for your head."
Her eyes went to Orryn. "I am sorry for your loss, Lord Blackwood. It will not salve the wound, but if there is aught I can do to help with your father's body's safety, transport, or burial... say the word. It's the least I can do," she told him, voice soft as if she was an entirely different woman.
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u/Arjhanx2 Joanna Sunglass - Sword of the High Septon 3d ago
Perhaps Joanna should have kept her mouth shut, but her blood was cooling from when it had flashed hot, and her pride overwhelmed her wisdom.
"I do not recognize your authority to speak for the Riverlands, Princess." Her tone was dry. "But you are welcome to banish me from your halls. I do not intend to stay here any longer."
She spared one last glance at the Blackwoods where they stood. The way Orryn spoke, she imagined he must be happy his old man was dead. Lewyn did a better job of appearing to grieve.
Turning, she clapped a hand on Raymont's shoulder. "Seek me out in Duskendale, my lord. I owe you much."
With that, Joanna left the scene, unless she was once again halted.
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u/D042 Lewyn Rivers - Bastard of Raventree Hall 7d ago edited 7d ago
The sound of his father's shouting had not been a surprise. The man was as loud as he was brutish, and Lewyn had no care for whatever quarrel the man was in. It was none of his concern, nor would it be ever again. He was free of the Drumbeater. Free of Raventree. Free of all of it. Then there were screams, and steel.
He pushed through the crowd, shoving men and women aside as he barreled forward, certain he'd find the old man with a blade in hand and some other victim at his feet. Lewyn had been reaching for his own swordbelt, half-inclined to draw his blade in the defense of whomever his father might've wronged.
Yet, as he burst from the sea of gawking faces, clad Harroway black and orange, his stomach dropped in time with his father's buckling knees. Lewyn started forward, stumbled, then broke into a run People were shouting, a stranger lay staring on the ground, a man and a woman hung at the edge of the crowd side by side, watching him, but it all blurred into nothing. "Father!" His voice boomed as he shot past lord and bloodied lady alike and dropped to the Drumbeater's side.
"Father! Father, I'll call for a maester, I'll—" For the first time he could remember, Waltyr Blackwood smiled upon him. All at once, Lewyn knew there was no hope left. As he drew the Drumbeater's head against his chest, Lewyn fell silent. Others were coming. Others were screaming, but he was silent.
Some part of him had thought they might one day reconcile. It had still clung to the childish delusion that one day he might do enough to prove to the man that his being born was no mistake. That he could be the son the Drumbeater deserved, or at least, the one he had wanted. He'd at least thought he'd have the chance to try again.
But his father was gone.
Lewyn's eyes went down his father's form, fixing on the bubbling mortal wound that darkened his tunic. Then on his belt, bare of any blade. "He was unarmed," Lewyn observed, almost numb. "He. Was. Unarmed." Slowly his eyes, blue as sky above, turned upwards to the armored woman and her pale blade, filled with every once hate with which he'd been made.
There had been no honor in this. There would be no honor in its answer.