Young Writers Society

“The rulers of the earth are not the kings of the world”

- A Dorian proverb

The Third Son

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A bitter wind forced its way violently through the cold air that pervaded the already frigid expanse. The vicinity itself was far beyond scorched, burning viciously in a gelid inferno. Winter had come early this year, the first snows having arrived as early as October, the Month of the Harvest. Spring and autumn were virtually inexistent in Boraelgrasp, summer giving way to the chills of the cold season almost immediately as the warm weather ceded. But the North was not, in any respects, a place of warmth.

Jakob sat atop his perch, leering over the land as it appeared in all of its boreal beauty. The view encompassed a stretch that extended all the way to the horizon, surpassing the southern acres of the Whitewood and ending at the far off hills that marked the border of Boraelgrasp's middle country.

The wind was far more sinister towards the sky's rim, the domain in which it could roam freely. It would be a brave feat indeed to dwell in any other spire that reached for the sky, but this tower in particular sported a height so ambitious that it could almost touch the face of God.

And it was here where Jakob chose to set up his court, which he held most every day at the same hour.

Often times he embraced his thoughts; other times he sang, in that horrid voice that he himself loathed more than the others who had experienced the off key hilarity; but sometimes he just stared, gazing over the land that he knew would never be his. But that thought did not perturb him. He did not believe that he was even half the man his father was. Still though, the thought of Hill one day inheriting the crown disturbed him even more. But if not Hill, then who? Him? No. Even the notion of such equated to the punch line of a bad jest.

Today Jakob took up the banner of contemplation, that is, the lambasting of the experience of the previous day, while still appreciating the splendour of the country he called home, in particular the lively town of Wynter's End that sat in the shadow of Whitehold and its cliffs.

What did they want with him, the bandits? Did they intend to harm him? No. If they did, they would have gotten it over with. They could very well have been Dalish. Jakob considered that, but men of the Dale remained cautious ever since the War of the Whispers had ended over two decades ago. The Alliance, from what Jakob knew of foreign affairs, did not want to risk conflict with Federation of the Dale, successor state of the People’s Commune or, as some people once called it, the “Red Empire.” The Federation too, Jakob assumed, would also probably not want to risk a true war, hot or cold. Borealgrasp had the “pleasure” of bordering the Dale, which often put the responsibility of maintaining positive diplomatic relations in the hands of the kingdom’s leaders, including Father. Jakob had met Dalish ambassadors before. They were just like everybody else, some nice, some serious, and others complete arses. Yet they had an almost brutish aura about them, with a layer of unquestionable loyalty mixed within. But the men in the Whitewood did not seem to be in service of anybody but themselves. They lacked that particular aura. No, they were too primitive.

They had the stench of desperation.

The absence of even the slightest notion of honour almost made Jakob feel sorry for them, but, then again, they did abduct him. They weren't poor saps that he had met and befriended out in the woods. They were criminals, and they got what they deserved, even though Father, to an extent, subtly, but still verbally, expressed his regret that he had to resort to killing the men on the spot.

Father had told him that desperate people resort to desperate actions in desperate times. This was a clear example of this truth. However, Father had told him that these men were to be pitied. For they did not have what Jakob, and even many of the inhabitants of Wynter's End, had always taken for granted. And Jakob did pity them. He pitied them very much. But the pity that he felt was not the sympathetic kind that his father was a clear proponent of. No, Jakob's came from what some could consider being a place of arrogance, as if he were better than them simply because he was threatened. He knew this though, but that did not change the fact that they deserved what they got.

Why were they so desperate? And, more importantly, what did they truly want with him. Perhaps they planned on ransoming him. He was worth his weight in gold, just as most nobles of the world. But he was confused why they had even bothered with a measly third son, as opposed to someone like Hill. Why me, what am I worth to the wider world? Maybe it was simply the virtue of his name, not who he truly was as a person. I'm just a title. Nothing more.

Yes, he had a title, and, to the world, was the title itself, but he was so insignificant. Hillard was with the hunting party as well, and he would have been a more profitable target, being the heir to an entire kingdom! But the encounter was all random. Jakob had seen something that he had wanted, and so he had gone after it. From then, it was merely a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But what if what had befallen him had happened to Hill? If that were the case, would Jakob have been rid of a tormenter, or would he have been deprived of a brother? He wished no ill upon Hillard. He knew the type of man he was or, at least, the type of man that he thought he was. Life was a confusing thing indeed, that is, if he thought about it too much.

“Mind if I join you?” he heard a voice say from behind. Startled by the abrupt address, but recognizing it instantly, he turned around to face the speaker.

“Helena, what are you doing up here?”

She grinned widely, her light brown hair blowing wildly in the bitter breeze. “So I could get as far away from you as possible, obviously.”

“Well, I’m afraid that your scheme backfired.”

“It sure does seem that way.” She winked at him, but a cold blast of wind assaulted the tower, causing her to shiver. She pulled the cloak around her tighter and plopped down next to Jakob, feet dangling right off of the edge of the tower. She scanned the snow-covered lands that lay before them. “So, are you trying to spot more stags that you can ‘steal’ from Hill?”

“I’ve not been paying attention much to the details in that regard. I would like to remind you that you are the one who enjoys spiting others, so if you see a stag to hunt as to rub it in his face, I completely encourage you to go kill it. Besides, I’ve other things on my mind right now.”

“Oh? Like what?”

Jakob pursed his lips before letting out a sigh. He turned his head away from her and focused his eyes on the expanse once more. “It’s nothing, really.”

“Well, when you say it like that, there’s obviously something. Both your word choice and the words that hide behind your words say otherwise. I’ve studied your ways. Fourteen years next week.”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me.” Jakob did not much care for his birth-day. Not only did it fall upon Prophet’s Eve, but he was not fond of the memories that came with it. It seemed to be a rather unlucky day for him. One year, he fell from a four story tower. Another year, he had almost drowned in the White Lake. And then there was that business with that old servant who was banished to the mountains by Father. Jakob had told his father of the man’s advances that very evening, and the good king had acted swiftly, administering justice to the man that had tried to harm his son’s pride on his own birth-day. Nothing serious had come of it, fortunately, but the memory was disturbing

The anniversary of his birth was overshadowed by the festivities that were held each year at Whitehold. Often, the gifts he had received were for both the Yuldetide and his birth-day. In a way, it was not fair, but he had learned to accept it. The day was supposed to be all about him, but it was not. As a matter of fact, it was the day before the birth of the Great Prophet, the height of the Twenty Days of Yule. In spite of that even, he had not received an actual gift in two years.

Jakob did know, however, that there was no lying to Helena. She was just as perceptive as she was obnoxious, and just as obnoxious as she was lovable. “I’m just mulling over what happened yesterday. You’ve already heard the story.”

“Yes, but what are you mulling over, exactly?”

Jakob pulled one of his dangling legs up and crossed it over his thigh. “Primarily why the men took me, and who they were.”

“Any revelations?

“Not yet.”

“Well, they could have been political rivals of Father, sent to kidnap or kill you or something.”

“I don’t think Father has anybody one could consider a ‘political rival.’ And they were greedy. I don’t think they were in a group. That’s it though. That’s all I could conclude. I came here to think more, but I thought the memory of my ordeal would hold more answers. I can’t find them though.”

Helena shrugged her shoulders. “Then what’s the point? They were probably just desperate cockheads looking for coin. Nothing but lowborn cunts.”

His sister’s use of profanity did not shock Jakob as it would to other members of the family, such as Alicia or Cayleb. Most would definitely find her doing so absolutely horrifying. Jakob, however, found the practice amusing. It was the manner in which she said the words. Yes they were used to insult, but it came from a snarkier place, which usually only arose when with Jakob or the kitchen maids that she befriended. She never said it to a person’s face. Helena was polite, but not to a point where she would lie to spare somebody’s feelings. She was honest. But honesty and politeness meant nothing if you had a thirteen year old girl casually spitting out “fucks” and “shits.” A princess was to be poised. A princess was to follow directions. Neither of these described Helena. She did what she wanted.

“You’re probably right,” agreed Jakob wholeheartedly. “I suppose that I read too much into things.”

“You suppose?”

Jakob made a face at his sister. “I think in metaphors. Is that a problem? You analyze things too much.”

Helena bobbed her head from side to side. “I suppose I walked right into that one, brother. I shall give that to you. Yet I often do it from a place of sarcasm. I am more fluent in sarcasm than I am in Teutonian and Albanese combined. And do you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I am Helena fucking Fortman!”

“Of course you are.” Jakob rolled his eyes, but he smiled inside. This is who she was, and she was his best friend.

Jakob pulled his legs up and stumbled back onto the battlements. He began to pace back and forth, stroking his chin as if he had true whiskers. “I suppose that you are right though. But the intentions of the brutes is not all that is on my mind” It was true, although the realization itself was belated. It had been his sister who had made him realize that something else was bothering him, perhaps on a deeper level.

“What else is on your mind?”

Jakob squinted his eyes and scrunched his nose. He took a deep breath. Your sister can know the truth. She already knows that you’re nowhere near being a man. “I can’t fight.”

“Ha,” Helena chuckled in a single breath. “That’s it?”

Jakob nodded. “But there’s more to it. It is not that I do not know how to fight. I just can’t fight. I’m not a coward or anything of the sort, but I am unable to. Do I make any sense.”

“No. None at all.”

Jakob sighed. “Forget it.”

Helena looked concerned. She was an interesting one, so unserious, but at the same time so serious. One minute she’d be reading epic poetry, and the next she would be running around the castle like an obnoxious moron. Concern, however, was a serious feeling. “Maybe you feel inferior? Is that it?” She scooted herself around and pushed herself to her feet by her hands.

Jakob turned his head upwards and moved his entire mouth back and forth. “I suppose, maybe. Mostly about Hillard, though. He would not have shied away from a fight with the ruffians.”

Helena nodded in agreement, but the look itself subtly implied that there was some sort of catch to her meaning. “Yes, that is very true, but remember that Hill is stupid. I wasn’t there, so I can’t measure the situation, but he would have been ripped apart if he fought.”

“I’m not a pacifist though. I know war is sometimes the answer, but it’s a matter of me being able to follow through.”

“Yeah, but do you have to kill to be a man? Hill’s killed, but I’m still more of a man than he is.”

Jakob couldn’t hide a grin. “This is true.”

Helena shook her head. “I know. But don’t worry, I bet you’ll be a warrior or something one day. The Scourge of the North!”

“That’s really the best you can come up with? Why not something with a ring to it, like? Well, I can’t think of anything either.”

“Then I’m still winning.”

The prince flustered. “But maybe I will be some epic, clichéd hero, liked Raegar the Smudge, minus the whole trying to usurp the throne business. That’s uncalled for.”

“I dunno,” his sister said with a shrug. “You never know what kind of king Hill will become. If it comes down to it, we’ll take the throne. And then, of course, you and I will have to fight after that, and, of course, I’ll win.”

“I believe you.” His sister’s sense of humour amused him, but she often did not take certain situations seriously when they needed to be taken seriously. While this was not one of those moments, Helena’s mixed demeanor that she was currently displaying seemed to be rather awkward. But, when wasn’t she awkward?

“You’ll be fine though, Jakob. You’re young and I’m young. Hell, Hill’s young too, and still has a lot of work to do, even though he will probably never be polite. And then…” Helena stopped herself, putting her palm to her face and then shaking her head. “Bah, I’m sorry. I feel like such a bitch.”

“Why do you feel like a bitch?”

“Fourteen years old and I’m already sounding like a preachy old shitquack.”

“For what it’s worth, Helena, I appreciate the effort.” Jakob patted his sister on the back.

“Hey! Effort? I was just being humble when I said that!”

Jakob shook his head. “A simple ‘you’re welcome’ would suffice.”

“I bet it would.” She paused, but then turned to look at him again. “But seriously, Jakob, I think it’s safe to say that we have time. Hill’s almost four years older than us. We have time. Or, at least, you do. I’ll probably be fucking betrothed by next year at this time.”

“Probably.”

“Mmm. The world still sucks dragon testes. I don’t want to be some damn trophy wife to Lord Arsewipe of Shitshire!”

“Well, I don’t think that particular scenario will happen,” Jakob teased. “Plus everyone knows that Lord Arsewipe is already married to…” Jakob could not finish his thought. As a matter of fact, he could not think of something remotely clever.

Helena shook her head in disappointed. “Jakob, don’t even try.”

A half smile forced its way onto Jakob’s face. He strode to the opposite end of the tower roof and pulled himself onto one of the ledges. Once atop, he sat himself down once more, gazing over the White Lake, shimmering in a wintery splendour. It’s clearer than on most days.

Helena, although with a bit of a struggle, climbed atop of the battlement as well, and she took a seat next to him, eyes widening as she gazed upon the waters. Jakob put his arm around his sister and pulled her close. She responded by resting her head on his shoulder. “It’s so pretty,” she said softly.

“It’s home.”

They sat there for a long time, watching the ships as they entered the fjord. More and more were arriving through the strait that connected the lake and the Northern Bite. The festivities were on the way, and soon the keep would be packed with extended family, bannermen, and merchants. Wynter’s End too was always busy in December, but both castle and town felt foreign to Jakob when they were overcrowded.

The ships appeared to growing more massive with each coming day, and far more decorated. They were probably merchants, but some looked to be even regal. “A lot of work is still to be done around here,” stated Jakob, breaking the intimate silence. “The great hall needs decorating; the food needs to be made; I need to find a noose to hang myself.”

“And then the cousins come,” Helena added with a distant sigh.

“And then the cousins come.”

Neither spoke another word, restoring the peacefulness and serenity to the picture.

Brother and sister enjoyed the moment for a while longer, taking in the beauty of the fjord and its surrounding landscapes. The wind too had stopped, and, for a while, the sun poked its way out of the clouds and shone down upon the shimmering waters. It was so beautiful and serene, the North. Jakob loved the snow more than anything in the world, Father and sister aside. He lost himself in the echoing bliss of the world, until Helena finally said: “we should be getting back. It’s nearly evening.”

Jakob too knew that the moment was over. Rarely was there anything as sweet as what had just happened. A part of his soul was set free, allowed to wander wherever it so wished. And it was not even so much that he did so with his sister. Yes, that was a factor, but it was more about him than it was her. She had triggered yet another realization: happiness is not an emotion, but an experience.

Whitehold was where he belonged, and it was there where the brief spurts of euphoria emerged. It is where he felt at ease, and it was the winter that brought him to life.

The North was his home.