Young Writers Society

“The North looks after those who serve it.”

- Mak’thor the Conqueror

The King of Winter

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The day was gray and the snow was fresh as the party moved along in silence. The smoky scent of burning wood filled the air, a distinguished smell not uncommon to the bitterly cold days of the Yuletide. While the odor soothed the nostrils of some of the hunters the smell distorted the senses of both hound and bitch alike.

The White Stag, in all of its glory, was spotted in Boraelgrasp not more than a day before by a group of civilian outriders out hunting poachers. “It is a sign,” old Syr Duff said to Stewart once the news arrived at the castle. “The White Stag has not been seen south of the Northern Pass in two-hundred years.”

It did not take the good lord long to assemble a party. Upon selecting who would accompany him on the hunt, Stewart did not let rank and status affect his decision. He picked those whom he knew had experience and skill. At least fourteen of the thirty or so men handpicked by Stewart were simple lowborns and hands, but he could not trust them any more.

By the time Stewart and his men arrived at the spot where the stag had been sighted there was no sign of its presence. The snow had covered its tracks, but the dogs were able to pick up a slight scent indicating the late presence of the creature.

They had tracked it as far as the edge of the Whitewood, many miles north of Wynter’s End and yet there was still no sign of it, scent aside. Stewart insisted that they push on, but some of the men disagreed with the notion, and Stewart, feeling in particularly good spirits, allowed all those who wished to turn back to do so.

The Northern Road was covered by snow, but the trees were able to shelter the men from the worst of the storm. There was still no sign of the stag, but Stewart Fortman was able to disguise his weariness.

“We’ve been at this for hours, my lord.” Grayson Lemay turned his head and looked at Stewart, who didn’t bother to return his guard captain’s gaze. “Do you not think that it may be time to put this scheme to rest?”

Stewart kept looking straight, refusing to take his gaze off of the road before him. “No,” he said calmly, “If you think this endeavor foolish, then turn back. The White Stag is a symbol of our people, representing over a thousand years of victory and defeat, triumph and disgrace.”

“Yes, my lord, I understand that, but if we stay here we’ll all freeze to death.”

Stewart jerked his reigns and turned his horse, facing the officer. The rest of the company came to a halt. “Have you learned nothing, Grayson?” Stewart exclaimed with much conviction. Grayson had been at his side since days as a young man and was once a close friend of his brother Maegar. Stewart knew that he did not deserve insult, but Stewart was irritable and was no longer able to retain that truth.

“I apologize, Grayson,” he said after he ordered the party to carry on the march. “I should not have reacted in that manner.”

“It was never my intention to offend, your grace. I was only stating my-“

“Opinions,” Stewart finished. “We all have them. My father was the most opinionated man I’ve met to this day.”

“A good man till’ the end, your grace. A strong legacy he built. You should be proud.”

“A strong legacy indeed. One that I have the fortune to inherit.”

“Which is something that you certainly do not lack, your grace.”

Stewart cringed. “How many times have I told you not to address me as such, Grayson? Do not forget that you have been at my side even before my father ascended to the throne.”

The other man nodded. “Of course not, your gr- err, your Stewart.”

“Your Stewart?” said the lord inquisitively. “I rather like the sound of that.”

They continued down the snow-covered road, the hunting party quiet with an exception of the occasional grumble or complaint. The deeper they went into the Whitewood the denser the brush became and the taller and thicker the trees grew. There were still no tracks to be seen, but Stewart’s confidence rose. He was so concentrated and caught up in his thoughts that he did not even notice the absence of his friend who disappeared back into the small company following behind.

Stewart embraced his role as king. It was a difficult job, but a rewarding one too. It was like being a father. Stewart was a very stern man, but he was just. However, despite the fact that many believed him to be unreasonably strict, he, by no means, looked down upon the other kings of Caenterin. There was no lack of humility on his part. Some rulers of Caenterin had a lack of it, and it often made Stewart laugh. Discipline was one thing. Being a total arse was another.

There was Ao̊gar Mauresonn of Copenisle, his cousin, over in the Fjords. Stewart respected him, having hosted him at Whitehold twice since the young king’s coronation, but the patriarch of House Maur was far too idealistic. Idealism was perhaps one of the most dangerous traits that any man could embrace.

And then there was the king of Espis. He was a – no, that didn’t matter. Espis had always been at odds with Albion.

Alicia had also been Albanese.

No, I mustn’t think of Alicia.

Thinking such thoughts was useless, at least at the moment. After all had he not spent nearly two years grieving, lambasting his loss? He had thought very much of the child. Was it his responsibility? After all he was Hill’s brother, Jakob’s brother, Helena’s brother.

He could not do it. The child was a bastard, and bastards had no place in Stewart’s household.

Was it that he lacked the courage? Perhaps. He considered that much, as any sensible man would. Maybe he was afraid. Fear was common. It was only human. But maybe it was the fact that it was not his responsibility, having children to raise and a kingdom to run. Or perhaps it was a mix of both. No matter; his troubles were long since forgotten, reverted only to a whisper.

He had not been to Albion since, nor anywhere that required him sailing through or across the Northern Bite.

His last trip had been east, towards the Dalish border, to negotiate a treaty with the men of the Dale. While the War of Whispers was long over, there still remained a sense of silent hostility that required action every so often.

The results of the sojourn bore sour fruit. After nearly three months in Kremingrad, Stewart and Vlad the Minister were unable to reach a conclusion that would bring an end to continuous acts of mutual espionage occurring on both sides of the border. Another cold war was the last thing that he wanted, but he did not know if Vlad felt the same way. Stewart despised the Dalish with a passion, although his own spite could not come close to that of his brother’s.

In the end three of Stewart’s delegation turned up dead due to “unforeseen accidents”. Before Stewart could safely leave the city, a group of Vlad’s elite attacked Stewart and his men, resulting in some “aggressive negotiations”. Vlad claimed to have nothing to do with the ambush.

Stewart had once been as far as Musantilir across the Long Sea, but that was fifteen years ago, virtually out of boyhood. Now he had no desire to traverse beyond the Rhünish Wilds.

He did not much like travelling outside of Boraelgrasp, preferring the notion of staying at Whitehold with his family, as he had a strict responsibility to both his family and country.

Besides, adventuring had always been Daegar’s specialty.

It was hard to believe that he had not seen his brother in nearly six years. Half of his children did not even remember him. Sometimes Stewart felt the same way. The two of them were close as children, but not so much anymore. It saddened him

An owl was sent to Snowcliffe requesting his presence at the Yule’s Mass feast, but such was done every year out of courtesy, but his brother was a busy man, or so he said. Stewart had not received a single letter from Daegar in over a year

A horse advanced alongside the line of hunters and men at arms, sticking to the edge of the narrow road. At first Stewart was expecting it to be Grayson again, but he turned around and saw that it was his son Hillard.

“Hill,” Stewart said brusquely as he pulled back upon the reigns of his gelding. “How goes it in the rear?”

“Uneventful, Father,” said the boy with a sense of grandiose conviction. “The wind bites, my legs tire, and the men talk of nothing but whores and kitchen girls.”

A bitter breeze made its way through the forest and Hillard shivered, covering himself with his cloak. “And it’s cold. I’ve never remembered a day colder than this before.”

“You’re a winterman,” Stewart snapped. “You’d do best to remember that. Saying that the cold bothers you is like denouncing your own nation, as half of the party has already done. If you fear it so, go south. I’m sure you’d find it pleasant in Eastguard. They say that the Sarecs are on the march. And the Wards always look for new recruits.” Regardless of his intent, Stewart could not hold back a smile.

“Very funny.” The prince did not look amused, but Stewart did not regret his comment. “It’s not the cold that I fear, Father. It’s the wood. I’ve never been fond of it, especially in the dead of winter.”

“You don’t know what the dead of winter is. When the snows and winds blow down from the Gag Malak and the cold sticks to your bone as if it were a piece of solid rock. There are stories of men freezing to death within a matter of minutes.”

“They say that the Great Winters happen when the Frost Wyrms awake from their slumber underneath the Unbreakable Ice. They’re awakening creates a foul magic that freezes the world, allowing them to hunt until the ice retreats once more and they begin to tire. Millions of northerners freeze to death each year and the few hundreds that survive begin repopulating like ants!”

Stewart laughed. “Well, I don’t know anything about that, but I will tell you that the long winters are very difficult, and very cold. I wasn’t much younger than you during the Great Winter of 81’. We were not permitted to venture outside of the castle until after all of the snow had gone away. It was so cold that the halls and dungeons of Whitehold were nearly as cold as it is outside today. Men died in the dungeons and on the walls. The only warm room was the great hall. There were summer snows that year as far south as Transel. The grapes in the vineyards of Grecador and Ithil did not grow, and half of Paletine went hungry and men froze in their own blankets.”

“And what of the White Stag, Father?” inquired Hillard. “Does the cold perturb it?”

The king shook his head. “I couldn’t imagine so. It’s a beast of the Far North. They’re bred for such things. The Whitewood must feel like a tropic to stag.”

“How do you plan to take it down, Father?” With that the lad reached down to the side of his horse and pulled out his small crossbow. “I don’t see you with one of these.”

“I don’t plan to kill it,” declared Stewart. “It was not my intention.”

Hillard raised his eyebrows in surprise. “We’re not out here to kill it? I thought it was the whole point of the hunt!”

“I never said we weren’t hunting it. I simply stated that I shall not be the one to kill it.” He gave a wry smile. “I see you have taken my advice and brought along that crossbow of yours.”

He could see the excitement rush across his son’s face as the boy put it together. Just the idea of killing the stag was exhilarating. Stewart knew that the prospect would excite Hillard. What better way for his son, the heir to Whitehold and Boraelgrasp, to cross over into manhood than to kill the beast of legend, the very same creature that was depicted on the banner upon a field of black. It would make Stewart proud. It would make the house proud.

“You want me to kill the stag?” the lad finally said after a prolonged state of disbelief. “But you are King of Winter!”

“Soon you will be too, Son. You will carry on the name of Fortman to your deathbed and pass it on to your children. Remember how lucky you are to be born into prosperity. I will remind you that not everyone has had the same advantages that you have had in life.”

“But, the White Stag, Father? You’ve always-“

Stewart raised his hand. “That’ll be enough, Hill! I will hear no more of it.” Stewart looked over his son in approval. It was hard to believe that he was as old as he was. It seemed just a week ago that he had carried him on his shoulders on daily walks throughout the winding passages and corridors of the Jewel Room, deep in the dungeons of Whitehold.

The two of them rode alongside one another, reminiscing of times past, the good and the bad. The more and more they talked the more and more Stewart began to realize that his son was no longer a boy; he was a man grown. While Stewart already knew it, if Hill were able to kill the stag this day he would ultimately prove himself to the rest of the men and tales of his resilience would spread throughout Wynter’s End and perhaps into the outer hamlets. Who knows, maybe he’ll find one of those kitchen girls for himself.

This day belonged to Hillard, yes, but he loved his other children just as much. He may have been strict, putting an emphasis on discipline over all, but he cared for his family. He tried to be as effective as a father as he was a king, yet he did not help but feel that he did not do enough. A lot of his time was spent settling land disputes or strategizing as to what men and companies were to be stationed along the Dalish border, who would command these parties, and planning feasts to honour the coming of guests of honour even more important than Stewart himself. But the hunt was for Hill. This was his day.

That is if they even found the stag at all.

That was a possibility, but Stewart was not one to abandon what he set out to do.

After another mile the party came to a split in the road. Stewart tried to be as decisive as possible but decided to leave the decision in the hands of the men of his entourage. After a good ten minutes of bickering, in which the king decided that he would never leave such simple decisions in the hands of these particular men ever again, it was decided that they would take the path to the left. While the wood became less dense the farther they went there was still no sign of the stag.

Even though he was able to disguise his annoyance, which he had learned to do after twenty or more years of listening to the petty disputes of farmers trying to settle their problems, Stewart continued to be bombarded by his son’s persistent asking of the question, “Where’s the stag”, which he stated in about fifty different ways. Right as Stewart was about to yell at him to shut up after the fifty first time, he heard another rider coming up from the back of the pack. Half expecting it to be Grayson once more he turned around but saw that it was not Grayson. Instead it was Janus Moore, the leader of the rear outriders.

“What is it, Janus?” Stewart asked curiously. It was not expected for an outrider to come up to the van, that is, unless there was something wrong.

“I just did a headcount, milord; there’s one of us missing.”

Stewart rolled his eyes. “Near half of them were complaining about the cold. I gave them leave to return to Wynter’s End. I would’ve expected you saw them.”

The hunter shook his head. “No, Syr. This was in the past twenty minutes. I’ve been keeping count. None of the company has left in hours.”

“He must have been separated back at the fork, then. Send some men back and see if they can find him.”

“No, milord,” Janus blurted with a nervous urgency. “It’s not just one of the men. It’s your son!”

A surge of shock swiftly came across Stewart, yet he was confused at the same time. Why would one of his sons be stupid enough to split off from the pack? He’d taught them better than to do something that foolish. As an instinct, Stewart looked to see if Hillard was still beside him. His son was just as startled as he was when he had first heard the news.

“Which son?” Stewart asked. “Cayleb or Jakob?”

“Jakob, milord.”

Stewart wasn’t surprised. Jakob had always more difficult than the rest of his children. Not difficult in the sense that he was a troublemaker, but he was more wild and unpredictable than the others, both he and his sister. Yet his unpredictability ironically made his actions all the more predictable, but Stewart would have never expected something like this. This was downright carelessness.

“I knew it,” spat Hillard. “Why did you even want to bring that idiot with us anyway?”

Stewart gave his son a stern look and said, “He is your brother, Hill. He has every right as you to be here. The hunt was for a chance for us all to bond.” But if I knew that Jakob was going to do something like this… “Organize a search party. Go fetch Grayson and two others and bring them here.”

Stewart could see the agitation on Hillard’s face, which partially annoyed Stewart himself, but he did not have time to lament.

Janus returned with Grayson and two others a few minutes later, all mounted. He could tell that his captain had too been caught off guard, but Stewart knew that Grayson was sincerely worried. He cared for all of the Fortman children as if he were an uncle. He was, in a way, Stewart thought. And it was good to know that they all had friends as honest and loyal as the soldier.

Within a matter of minutes Stewart, Janus, Grayson, the two footmen, and Hillard, much to his disappointment, rode out. The six of them backtracked to the fork but found no sign of Jakob. Janus suggested that perhaps he had taken to the right, but Stewart insisted that he was smarter than to do something such as that. He would have known just as well as the rest that the goal did not lie deeper into the Whitewood. No. He must’ve veered off the path. The only thing that struck the lord as odd was that none of the column saw him disappear. He most likely slowed down his horse, allowing him to fade into the rear and out of sight. While the boy always had a tendency to draw attention to himself, often being the center of it, he could be subtle and covert whenever he so wished.

But what would possess him to stray from the party? Just as Stewart motioned for his men to follow behind him as he went off of the road, to the left, he noticed tracks on the ground, fresh, obviously made within the last fifteen to twenty minutes. Why would he just split off from the party? It’s not the time to get distracted; we came to hunt the stag. Unless… The realization came to him in a flash and Stewart kicked his horse into a canter. The other five followed.

The snow continued to fall. While the storm was not waning, it did not seem as cold to Stewart as it did along the road. Among the trees and brush he could see various furry denizens of the woodland, many of them bashfully observing the cantering of the horses. The deep snow slowed the pace, but the party hastened as much as it was able.

“There,” Grayson said, pointing to a clearing surrounded by a collection of dead trees. “Jakob’s mount.”

Stewart had to squint his eyes to see, but there, standing in the clearing, was his son’s horse. He thought he saw three dark shapes standing before the small cliff on the edge of the clearing, but his poor eyesight could deceive him at times. “Dismount. We will leave the horses here and continue on foot.”

The five of them obeyed and climbed off their horses.

Stewart, Hillard, and the rest silently tread through the snow in direction of the clearing. Hearing voices on the other side of the small hill, they crawled up it on their hands and knees and peered their heads over it. Stewart saw. There, in the clearing, was his son Jakob.

But he was not alone.

Three other men surrounded the boy, the lot of them dressed head to heels in fur. The largest of them had long, red matted hair reaching down to his shoulder. They appeared to be unarmed.

“Tell us, little bird,” the large one said, “where’s the rest of your party?”

Jakob coughed. “I…I don’t know, Syr. I simply-“

A second man, scrawny, no older than Hill, cut Jakob off. “It don’t matter where they are.

“Quiet, Bugger!” yelled the large man. “There are travelers along the road. Where they’re travelers there’s gold. What use would we have killin’ him?” Jakob still did not say a word. Stewart, from afar, could tell that he wanted to ever so badly. That is what concerned him. Jakob had always been impulsive. Please don’t say anything you’ll regret.

“I don’t have anything you’ll want, Syr.” Jakob was clearly frightened in the sincerest of definitions. “Please, just leave me be.”

The third bandit gave Jakob a toothless smile. “Or what? You’ll piss on us?” He and the young one laughed, but the leader just gave them both smacks across the noggin.

Stewart could see that Jakob began to shiver. “Please, Syr. I promise I’ll not return here ever again. Please, Syr.”

“I’m no knight, boy!”

“I don’t mean to offend.”

The largest man snarled, giving Jakob what appeared to be a stern look, but then he started laughing. The other two joined in. “We’re not here to hurt you, Boy.”

“Then what do you want?”

“We saw your horse. Heard it whiny. We just came to take a look. We’ve been out hunting.”

“As have I.”

“Alone?”

“No, with my father and brothers.”

“Oh, perhaps we know them?”

Stewart saw him shake his head. “You’ve probably heard of him.”

The king closed his eyes. He’s going to tell these strangers who he is.

Yet Jakob faltered, seeming to consider not revealing who he was.

“We’re not here to hurt you,” the third man told him with what appeared to be a warm smile upon his crooked face. “We saw you all alone. You can trust us.”

“Jakob. Of House Fortman.” He stood up proud and tall, as a true lord would do.

The three men looked at one-another. The burly one turned back to Jakob and said: “A noble boy, eh? A prince no less. Heh heh.”

“Oi,” exclaimed the second. “Don’t you know how much he’d be worth for a ransom?”

“Bah, shut it, Bugger,” dismissed the third. “We are gentlemen. We’re not scum.”

“You’re right, but some of us have to make a living.”

“Shut up!” the large one shouted, clearly irritated by the bickering of his companions. He turned back to Jakob. “Don’t worry. We’re not here to kidnap you. We want to help. Name’s Dorus. These two idiots here are Bugger and Morry.” The two men waved.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, but I don’t need any help. I can hunt this stag on my own.”

“Can ya now?”

Stewart realized that these men were of no threat to his son, and so he opted to emerge from behind the snow-covered hill. He strode swiftly, frowning sternly. “Jakob!” he called out to his son, “What in the nine hells are you doing here?”

“Father, err, I-“

“Don’t you dare make any excuses! You nearly worried us to death, running away like that, and into the arms of these scoundrels, no less!”

The three men stood in awe, mouths gaped open. They faltered, but as soon as Stewart turned and made eye contact, they bowed before him.

“My lord!” Dorus declared. “It is an honour.”

“Rise,” ordered Stewart in a stoic tone. They obeyed. “What are you doing with my son?”

The one called Morry raised a finger. “Well, you see. We was-”

Dorus smacked him on the back of his head and cut him off. “We saw your son. He appeared to be lost. We did not know who he was, but we decided to help him out.”

Stewart stroked his beard covered chin, considering the story. These men did not seem wicked. They were mere commonfolk – his commonfolk. They appeared to be loyal enough. “While I thank you for taking your time to help my son, I’d like to know what, exactly, you are doing in my forest.”

All three men bowed their heads. “Hunting, your grace.”

“Really? Hunting what?” Stewart already knew the answer.

“A stag had been sighted in the region very recently. A white stag.”

“We thought we could catch it,” Bugger added, “and sell its pelts and eat its meats.”

Stewart stood up as tall as he could, trying to look as regal as possible. “You do realize that is poaching, correct?”

The men nodded.

“And that poaching is a crime?”

They nodded again.

“Hmm.” The king stood there in silence for several seconds, taking a good look at the three men. Dorus seemed to be close to his age, and Bugger just a bit older than Hill. He could not tell Morry’s age. The only distinguishing feature was his bad teeth. “Do you know what the punishment for poaching is in these lands?”

“No, Milord,” Dorus said swiftly, shaking his head back and forth.

“The punishment for poaching in the Whitewood is the loss of a finger…a finger for each beast hunted. But you hunt the White Stag, a symbol of our people. That should merit a right hand.”

“But, Syr!”

“Don’t presume!” the king exclaimed, irritated by the hasty assumptions of the ruffian. “Know that I am not without mercy. You seem like decent folk. A bit misguided in judgment, but decent all the same. And you went out of your way to ensure my son’s safety. If anything, that should be rewarded.”

A look of relief fell over the men’s faces. Dorus sighed in what appeared to be relief. “Thank you, Milord.”

“No thanks are necessary, but seeing as no harm has been done, I would like to ask you if any of you have seen the stag.” All three of them shook their heads no. “Hmm. Pity.” Dorus cleared his throat, as if he had something else to say. “Have you anything more?” Stewart said in response.

“Well, Syr. That’s part of the reason we wanted to help your boy. We’ve…saw something, Milord.”

“’Saw’ something?”

“Yes.”

Stewart turned to his son. “And you, Jakob?”

He said nothing, only shaking his head. He seemed ashamed. It tasted almost like embarrassment. Jakob should feel that way. After all, he did disobey his father.

Stewart swiftly faced the trio. “Spit it out. I don’t have all day.”

“I assure you,” Bugger started, “this is something that you’ll want to hear.” Morry nodded in agreement.

“Very well then. Speak swiftly.” Stewart crossed his arms, ready to listen intently.

“Well,” began Dorus, clearing his throat, “as you know we were hunting. The White Stag, naturally.”

“Poaching.”

Dorus faltered. “Err, sure. ’Poaching’. We were out here and have been tracking the bloody beast for hours. By well after mid-day, we finally spotted hoof prints in the snow.”

“Of the stag?”

“Err, well, not exactly,” Morry answered, continuing from where Dorus left off. “We thought so at first, but then we saw more hoof prints. Bugger then realized that they looked more like horses. What we saw next was-”

“Unexpected,” interrupted Dorus. “We saw dozens of horse tracks, off the road. After about a kilometer or so, we heard voices and saw smoke rising into the air. We approached a clearing and saw some sort of campsite…with armed men.”

“Could it be possible that they were men of my own? Men at arms or soldiers who serve one of my vassals?”

“I doubt it. Their banners weren’t recognizable, and we’ve been all over the country.”

“Did you stay long enough to hear anything that they said?”

“A bit, but not really. All I made out was something about Wynter’s End and the Yuletide and the Dale, and really just those words in general. Nothing more, to be frank. Morry heard more than I.”

“Could you tell me, Morry?”

“Aye, Milord. I don’t know exactly who these men were, or who in the hell they served in the first place, but they did, as Dorus mentioned, discuss the Dalish in the Northeast, as well as some arl to the South.”

“Which arl?”

“I don’t know, your grace.”

Hillard spat. “He could mean Arl Granning, the bastard.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Hillard. We don’t want to assume anything just yet. That’s the first step to becoming a warmonger.”

“Yes, Father. I apologize.”

“Don’t.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Milord?” Morry addressed, “may I continue?”

“Go on.”

“I seem to think that, whoever these swords were, that they’ve got a connection to the Dalish.”

“Possibly. Could you take me to this camp? How many men did they have?”

“Dunno. Looked like a scouting force.”

“A heavily armed scouting force,” Dorus added under his breath.

“I made out a little over twenty men,” Bugger said. “Enough to take on a platoon. They seemed well-trained.”

“Could you take us there?”

“What?” shouted all three of them at the same time.

Dorus looked the most surprised of all. “You can’t be serious, Milord! They’ll spot us.”

“Not if we’re careful.”

Bugger shook his head in what seemed to be the utmost of reluctance. “No. We’d be outnumbered, and stealth isn’t exactly our-”

“Boy, I’ve fought in three wars. I’ve been on plenty of scouting excursions. I know how to be stealthy.”

“But these boys may not.” Dorus crossed his arms. “But I’m sure you’d be more than happy to try? Right, boys?” He glared at them with a wry smile.

“Umm,” Gutter mouthed. “Sure?”

“Sure? Was that a question?”

“No, no. Of course not! I’m willing.”

“And you, Morry?”

Morry sighed, closing his eyes. A look of fear ran over his face, but it appeared to be rooted in defeat. “I…I suppose.”

“Excellent! Milord, we’re with you!”

“I thank you for your services. You are doing your liege proud.”

“Shall we take you there now?”

Stewart answered in a nod. He could see the nervous looks on the faces of the two younger hunters, but Dorus seemed to remain relatively stoic. He almost reminded Stewart of himself, specifically with his stern, but equally fatherly, demeanor. Once the party rounded up the horses, Dorus led them north of the clearing, through snow-covered brush. All nine of them did their best to be as silent as possible, at the joint urge of both Dorus and Stewart. After a few minutes of silent treading, they came up upon another clearing. “My king,” Dorus said, once they were all present. “Look there!” He pointed up to the sky with his index finger. Smoke rose from a position nearby – somewhere ahead. “Fire”

“Approach carefully,” Stewart ordered in what was almost a whisper. “Be on your guard.”

Knowing already where the encampment would be, Stewart took the lead, the three hunters following directly behind him, and Jakob at the very rear. The camp came into sight. Fortunately, thick ironwood trees surrounded the clearing in which the camp was located, making for decent cover. Stewart, pulling out his broadsword, put his back up against the nearest tree, and then peered his head out from behind.

The camp appeared to be empty, save for a few horses tied to wire connected between two ironwoods.

“It looks to be deserted, Father,” Hillard said, right into Stewart’s ear. It almost made the king jump.

“Quiet down, Hillard!” he whispered in a stern voice. “And please do get out of my face.”

Dorus quietly treaded to Stewart’s ironwood, himself peering at the camp. “No one seems to be home.”

“You said there was an army here. Where is it?”

“I don’t know, your grace.”

“Do you have any idea where they could’ve gone?”

Dorus shook his head. “No.”

Leaning his head back out from behind the tree, Stewart scanned the campsite. Aside from the horses and a few barrels of what he assumed to be grog, all that stood out were two posts in the ground. Both had a standard attached. One of them was a distorted variation of the old Gaulish banner, used back during the days of the monarchy. The other was simply one colour: black. He rubbed his face. “Dear me.”

“Looks like these folk don’t belong to an army, your grace.”

“Aye. Mercenaries. I’ve heard rumours that the Thugs of Gaul have been sighted within our borders…but the Black Banners?”

“They don’t mean good news.”

“Who are the Black Banners?” Hillard whispered, curious.

“Sellwords,” answered Stewart, in an even lower whisper, “from the North.”

“What’s so bad about them?”

“Why don’t you go look for some and find out yourself.”

“I think I’m alright.”

“That is what I thought.”

“There don’t appear to be none here,” Dorus said. “That could be either a really good thing or a really bad thing.”

“Hmm. Agreed, but I suppose we should seize this opportunity and have ourselves a look around and figure out exactly what they are doing here…and where the host might be now.” Stewart turned to the rest of the party, lying low in the brush behind him. Speaking softly, he turned to them and said: “There’s no one here. We’re going to take a look around, but be on your guard.” One by one, each member of the party slipped out of the brush and past the threshold of the ironwood trees. Stewart allowed Dorus to take the lead, remaining standing next to the tree. He caught Jakob before the boy could make his way into the clearing. “You. Stay here.”

“But Father, I-”

“You’ve already caused enough trouble. I am not going to have you go searching for more. Do I make myself clear?” Jakob shook his head ‘yes’. “Good. Do not come out of this brush until I say so. You’re already in more trouble than you could possibly ever fathom.”

Jakob bowed his head and gave a solemn nod. Stewart refused to respond, and continued on past the brush. Once he reached the center of the campsite, he gazed it over. His men and the three hunters were spread out about it, looking for any signs of life. “Milord!” Dorus cried out. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone here!”

“What do you mean?” Stewart called out. “They wouldn’t just get up and leave!”

Grayson, coming up behind him, said: “I agree. They’d leave at least a contingent of two or three. This place still seems to be in use.”

“Yes, but where would they go?”

“The thousand royale question.” Stewart and Grayson walked towards the western end of the camp, along the way searching the various chests and tables both inside and outside of the tents. Aside from a map of the region, there was nothing of particular interest. They were just about ready to give up, when they heard a rustling from inside one of the tents on the edge of the camp. Stewart ordered Grayson to stop.

“Grayson,” Stewart whispered. “I am going to go back behind this tent and leap in through the back. You enter through the front when I do.” The soldier nodded and Stewart crept around to the tent’s rear. Putting his ear to the canvass, he could hear further rustling. Stewart counted to the number three and then, without hesitation, slashed his sword across the canvass and leapt in through the tent’s newly formed back entrance. Within seconds, Grayson too burst in through the front. There was no human inside, only a bloodhound, chewing on a piece of raw meat that he must have been scavenging for. Stewart could not help but laugh. “Well. It looks like we have found our mercenary.” Stewart petted the dog.

“Your Grace, but we still do not know what happened to the camp dwellers.”

“Keep searching. Perhaps we will discover some vital information that can tell us why the gangs have journeyed this far into the Seat of the Kingdom.”

Grayson turned around to inspect one of the chests near the entrance flap while Stewart approached the desk in the center of the tent. The dog came up next to him, still chewing on the meat, and looked the king directly in the eyes, his head slanting. Stewart leaned down to pet a hound when he felt something sharp against his back. He turned his head as much as he could, and, out of the corner of his eye, noticed the silhouette of a black robed man behind him. Stewart assumed that he had a dagger to his back. “Jackson the Kingslayer,” the man said. “I quite like the sound of that.”

Grayson spun around upon hearing the man and pulled out the crossbow latched onto his belt. “Let him go,” he demanded, “or else I will shoot you where you stand.”

Stewart shook his head. “Stay calm.” He turned his head slightly as to address the mercenary. “We can talk through this together.”

“Not going to happen,” he replied. “We’ve received our orders. And now it’s me who’ll gut you.”

Stewart smiled, looking only at Grayson, who let his own guard now. The king knew that his most loyal servant understood that he had the situation under control. He was a veteran of two wars and had, for sure, been in far more dire circumstances. “Besides my death, what is it that you seek?”

Stewart heard him laugh. “It does not concern you. As a matter of fact, by killing you, this conflict will end before it even begins.”

“Three strong lads hold my name. You kill me, and they hunt you down and put an end to whatever your goals are.”

“Three strong lads you say?” added the sellsword. “You don’t happen to mean the three “strong” lads who accompanied you on the hunt, do you?”

Stewart gritted his teeth. “Harm them and you die.”

“Then I assume that they aren’t as strong as you seem to believe.”

“I think you underestimate my offspring.”

“And do I underestimate you?”

“Perhaps.” Stewart grinned to himself, and with a deep sigh swiftly reached behind his back and grabbed the hand that was clutching the dagger, pushing the blade away from his spine and twisting the mercenary’s arm. Surprised by the king’s sudden retaliation, the man leapt sideways, drawing another dagger. In turn, Stewart reached for the shortsword at his belt.

The sellsword gritted his teeth and lunged towards him. Stewart straffed to the left, but the mercenary swung his dagger close to his neck. The king pulled his head back before it had the chance to slash at his gullet, although the sudden motion made him fall onto his back.

The sellsword was on him in a second, jumping atop Stewart and pinning his hands to the dirt. Although the king was strong, the sheer weight of the other man, and the extreme pressure that he was applying to his wrists prevented Stewart from reaching for his blade, which lay not even a foot away.

Stewart’s opponent could not finish him with the daggers, as they too lay nearby. It would mean letting go of Stewart if he were to retrieve his tools as to finish him off.

A savage cry came from the other side of the tent, and Stewart tried to raise his head as best he could, whereupon he witnessed Grayson dashing over in the direction of himself and the mercenary, holding a blade of his own. Interrupted, their enemy let go of Stewart and rolled to his own left, proceeding to reach for his blades and swinging back to his feet. Grayson lunged towards him, but the man, who was obviously skilled, countered the thrust with both of his blades, pushing the sword out of his own direction before strafing backwards in a single swift motion. He raised one dagger above his head and extended the other away from his body in a fighting stance. Grayson lunged at him again, but the mercenary again blocked the attack. Stewart, already back on his feet, retrieved his fallen blade and rushed towards the mercenary, successfully tackling the man as he was too busy focusing on his apparent duel with Grayson.

The mercenary struggled while Stewart had him pinned down. Although he was seemingly subdued, a dagger was still clutched in his hands, and, using a free arm to thrust it into Stewart’s shoulder. At the last minute, Grayson pinned the man’s arm down just as the dagger was about to cut into the king’s flesh. The soldier seized the dagger from the mercenary’s hand and tossed it away. Stewart gave Grayson a nod and stood up, but before their adversary had the chance to regain his own footing, he kicked the man in his side, causing him to rile in pain. Grayson too proceeded to do the same, before grabbing a hold of his crossbow and ramming its butt against the mercenary’s left arm. The sounds of his screams overtook the noise of crunching bone.

Stewart rested a foot upon the man’s chest. “Kingslayer, indeed,” he said with a grimace. “Why are you here?”

“I just tried to kill you, did I not?”

“You did.”

“That’s why.”

Stewart spat. “You remained here by chance. You had no idea that I would be here, let alone when.”

Grayson walked to stand next to Stewart. “This is an organized company,” he said with folded arms. “I am sure that you and your compatriots have a collective motive, as it were.”

“I’m not telling you nothin’!”

Stewart kicked him again in the side. “Surely you are not just passing through.”

“Why wouldn’t we be?” the mercenary answered as he coughed. “Sellswords pass through these lands all the time.”

“The Black Banners and Thugs of Gaul together at the same time?” Stewart cocked his head sideways and grinned. “I think not.”

Grayson kicked him again. “Who hired you?”

“It was just a job.”

“Of course it was.” The king sheathed his sword before bending a knee as to better look the mercenary in the eye. “But what was the job?”

A dry cough overcame the man, but he smiled nonetheless. “It’s too late anyway. By now, you’re host is already under attack.”

Stewart stood up and took a deep breath. He turned to Grayson. “The party.”

“Aye,” the soldier replied with a worried look in his eyes. “We should return.”

Stewart addressed the mercenary once more. “How many men are there? Collectively?”

He shook his head as if he did not know all of the details. “I don’t know! We have about eleven or so, myself included. I know not how many the Banners have.”

“Shit,” Stewart spat, turning back to Grayson. “Eleven Thugs is bad enough, but along with the Banners, they have a chance of overtaking the force!”

“Then we should return, Your Grace.”

Stewart nodded. “There’s nothing of use here at the camp as it is. Let us return to the horses.”

“And what of the prisoner?”

“Tie him to the Thugs’ banner post.

“But, Milord!” protested the mercenary. “I’ll freeze!”

Stewart pulled him back to his feet. “Not my problem. If your companions care about you, they’ll return. If not, then best of luck.”

“Fuck y-”

Stewart smacked him across the face in the same manner of which he did to Hill earlier. “Grayson, tie him up well.”

The captain nodded. “Of course, Your Grace.” Stewart pushed the subdued man towards Grayson, and he led the man along, a crossbow at his back.

The snow picked up as the eleven men rode back into the direction of the main pathway, where the rest of the host was situated. After several minutes of cantering through the heavy powder, Stewart could hear the clashing of swords in the distance. Kicking his feet against his mount, he increased his own speed, and the other men followed suit. Within minutes, Stewart could see the silhouettes of men fighting from behind the dense brush of the ironwood trees. “Jakob!” he yelled without turning his head. “Stay back!” His son did not respond, but he hoped that the boy would adhere to his order.

The fight itself was now visible in its entirety. Stewart did not hesitate at all. He rode directly into the fray, with his companions riding close behind – his son, the soldiers, and even the three poachers. Although the fight was chaotic, Stewart was able to distinguish his own men from the mercenaries. Raising his blade, he cut down the first mercenary that he could see. From what he could tell, none of his own men had fallen.

Another sellsword, dressed in black leather armor, made an attempt to rush Stewart as he remained mounted. Before his assailant had the chance to cut through his mount, Stewart brought his sword down upon the man’s head, cutting him down without a single scream.

It was at that moment when Stewart noticed a ball of flame hurdle towards another one of the Banners, lighting his face on fire. The king turned to see his second-born son, Cayleb, casting what magic that he could from his hands. The boy was among the only of the Fortmans to possess the gift, or curse, depending on how one looked at it, of mancy. Although Stewart discouraged its practice, it seemed to prove rather effective in the situation at hand. Two or three other men were already being burned to a crisp.

Stewart dismounted, heading towards the nearest mercenary. His attempt at sneaking up on him was interrupted as another, larger man rushed towards him, screaming a battle cry. Although Stewart managed to avoid the axe that the brute was swinging at him, the man that Stewart was charging, alerted to his presence, turned around and swung his longsword at him. In retaliation, Stewart unsheathed Frostbane, the blade of his fathers, from behind his back. Both blades met one another, locked in a bitter embrace. Pushing with all of his might, Stewart broke the lock and then swung Frostbane again, although the other man proceeded to block his own attack. Stewart kicked the man in the gut and brought the sword down once more, but the mercenary was able to block it with his blade. In spite of the successful counter, the sheer force of which Stewart brought his broadsword down upon the weapon of his adversary managed to shatter the latter’s blade. The man now laying face up on the ground, Stewart did not hesitate to bring Frostbane down upon him.

Stewart raised his sword once more and looked for the nearest mercenary. Sure enough, the large man from earlier came charging at him once more, again screaming. With all his might, Stewart slashed at the man, but he blocked the blow with his metal axe, knocking him off balance. The large sellsword was on the offensive, with Stewart blocking the attempted blows of the axe. Suddenly, another man came up from behind, wearing thuggish colours. Now with two opponents to face, Stewart lunged towards his new adversary as to effectively get him out of the way before the larger mercenary could deliver a crushing blow. He gritted his teeth and raised Frostbane. Although the sellsword attempted to raise his blade in an attempt to block the blow of the broadsword, it was an act done in vain, and Stewart brought it down, slicing the man’s head clean off of his body. Stewart turned back once more to face the larger man, but as the mercenary was about to bring down a strike from his own axe, he screamed in pain before falling to the ground. Once he had collapsed, Stewart saw the arrow protruding from his spine. Looking up, he noticed Grayson, holding a crossbow, and smiled.

Much to his own relief, the mercenary ranks seemed to have thinned out. Cayleb himself continued to hurdle bouts of fire at the sellswords. As far as Stewart could see, none of his own men had fallen.

“Stewart Fortman!” a voice roared. He turned to his right and saw a large man standing in-between two ironwood trees, holding an axe in either hand. “It is a pleasure to see you here!”

Stewart himself raised Frostbane once more, reverting into a defensive stance. “Who is your master?” he asked assertively. “Why do you ambush this party?”

The large man laughed. “It matters not to you. For you and your line will soon be dead, and new men shall sit on the throne of this kingdom!”

Stewart, sword still raised, approached the man slowly as the fight continued around him. “You mutter nonsense,” he said as he slowly approached the man. “You have already failed. Your comrades fall before the swords of my own.”

“That may be so, but your adversaries are plentiful in this land, mark my words – more plentiful than you may think.”

Stewart slanted his head sideways and glared at the man. “You work for enemies, domestic in nature, yes? They too will fall.” He rushed forwards, holding Frostbane in front of him, and met the axe of the mercenary. “Who are you?”

“Hoorand of Groland, Captain of Gaul.”

Stewart retracted his blade from the lock with the axe and did an upward strike. With ease, Hoorand blocked the blow. “So,” Stewart began as he initiated another slash, “you lead the band?”

Hoorand blocked Stewart’s second blow. “The Thugs of Gaul.” He kicked Stewart in the stomach. The king coughed, trying to hold his sword steady as he limped towards Hoorand, lazily swinging at him. “To think that I may be the man to kill the king of Boraelgrasp.”

“You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you?” Ignoring the pain that the larger man had inflicted, Stewart, with a shout, swung his blade at the man, yet he continued to dodge all of his strikes with ease. He was clearly skilled, reminding Stewart of the noorking neo-crusaders whom he had faced back during the war, particularly during the Siege of the Fjord.

Stewart was no stranger to the slaying of noorkings. This man was no different. Raising his sword once more, it met the axe of Hoorand with a crash. The barbarian unlocked his weapon from the clash and swung it above his head, forcing Stewart to duck as he brought it down, rolling to his size. In an instant, he hopped back to his feet and slashed his sword to the side. Hoorand blocked the blow once again, and then retaliated again on his own with yet another swing of the axe. Stewart, now exhausted, tossed Frostbane to the side, believing himself weighed down by the weight of the broadsword. Instead, he pulled out his short sword and lunged towards Hoorand. The latter was clearly caught off guard by his change in form. He swung his axe down once more, but Stewart rolled to the side.

The king raised his short sword once more. Hoorand slashed once more, but, with ease, Stewart ducked once more. He saw a break in the sellsword’s form. He grinned. Using such to his advantage, as his adversary’s axe pierced the snow covered ground, Stewart chopped as hard as he could into the left hand of the mercenary. As he had expected, it fell to the ground.

A cry of pain elicited from his enemy. Again, Stewart grinned, raising his blade at the bastard that stood affront him. He screamed.

Once more, Stewart swung again, but the tired man strafed backwards, clutched his severed limb. He made a sound – a sound that almost sounded like a cry, a blatant cry.

` Once more, King Stewart Fortman smiled. “You have given up, Bastard,” he addressed him as he pointed the blade in the direction of his neck. “I am kind enough to spare you if you flee at this precise second.” The king said this as he already witnessed the men of both the Black Banners and the Thugs of Gaul run off deeper into the Whitewood. He had hoped it be due to his second eldest’s magi powers, but he attributed most to the collective powers of his forces as a whole.

The mercenary, Hoorland, was bleeding, the blood streaming from the stub that lay in the place of the limb. He was almost crying, which made Stewart almost sorry for the sap. “Run,” he cried as he screamed, looking at the stub where his hand once was.

The mercenary looked at Stewart with a scowl and tried to hobble in another direction, but the king laughed. The sellsword tripped. Stewart allowed him to help himself up and see himself back to his horse, an old animal blue in colour and spotted. As Stewart stood there, stoic, all he said was “Fuck you, Bastard.” And the man, yelping in pain, rode off, not knowing anything else to do.

Both Black Banners and Thugs of Gaul rode away, leaving what was left of the Fortman company free to do as it pleased. Picking up Frostbane, Stewart laughed, “We are victiorious!” he yelled, as he watched the coward sellswords run and ride away in vain, clearly defeated from whatever the hell their ultimate goal was regarding the fate of the royal company.

“Grayson,” Stewart said, addressing his most trusted commander several moments after the mercenary company disappeared, “what are our overall casualties.”

Grayson did a count. “Zero, Milord,” he replied. Stewart himself did a quick glance over the company. Out of the men he had handpicked to accompany him upon the hunt, not a single men lay dead.”

“I know not what was the purpose of this attack was as a whole,” Stewart said, grabbing Frostbane from the ground and sheathing it once more behind his back. “But I believe that this event complicates the overall political situation here in our nation,:

Grayson himself cleared his throat. “Given the circumstances, My Lord,” he said, “must we continue the hunt at all?”

Stewart shook his head. “No, but I appreciate your enthusiasm.”

“A pitty,” the captain said with a nod. “The white stag is a saymbol of our fantastic nation, and for it to disappear means a winter of sorrow.”

“Our winter shall be one of plenty,” Stewart snapped. “A mere beast does not tell whether or not we live or die once the season of cold comes.”

“And that comforts me, Syr,” the captain said in response. “You trust in us enough to believe that our viguour is enough to stand against whatever traitors stand in our way,”

“But the question,” the king said, “is what the traitors’ motivations are, and, more importantly, who they are.”

“Rebels, Milord?”

“Most likely.”

“Who?”

“The Grannings are likely suspects, but they are too week to engage an open rebellion, especially with Daegar to the north. My brother would most certainly not allow them to seize my throne.”

“I agree, my king,” said Grayson as he himself sheathed his sword.” That particular house possessed nowhere near the amount of forces that you do, not counting your forces, particularly the dwarves and men of Soudor that have pronounced themselves loyal to you in the end.”

Stewart nodded. “I have invited Arl Granning to the Feast of the Yuletide, to praise our Prophet and Saviour. Surely he, who opposes us the most as compared to all of my other adversaries, would not hire these bloody miscreants!”

“We cannot be sure, My King.”

Stewart shook his head. “I respect my vassals. While it is a proper speculation, I would prefer to give them the benefit of the doubt.”

“As you wish, my king.” Grayson gave Stewart a bow, and then once more hopped back again onto his mount.

“I do not believe,” Stewart began. “that this dilemma is done for as a whole.”

“What do you mean, Your Grace?”

“In its entirety, the situation is not quite resolved.”

“Perhaps not,” the king retorted once again, “but all who have opposed our actions have disappeared, for what we know of, at least,”

“Fort what we know of.”

Stewart gazed about his company in silence. He himself did not suspect of any traitors, but he realized the possibility that not all of his subjects were loyal as a whole, whether they were men and women of Wynter’s End or citzens of the eastern-most part of the nation. “Is everyone accounted for?” Stewart asked, attempting to count each and every one of his party.

Grayson himself counted, as did two or three more of the soldiers. “Nearly all of them are here,” he stated, “save for one.”

“And might that be?”

“Jakob Fortman.”

Stewart gaped in horror. His first assumption was that his own offspring had passed in the assault, but, according to several of his own company, none of them had passed, most certainly not his own seed. “Has no one seen him since the attack itself?” Stewart asked, looking to Grayson, worried by the prospect of his demise.”

“No, Milord,” Grayson replied. “I myself have not seen him at all, If I am to be clear in the least.”

Stewart mounted his horse once more and trod words his lieutenant. “No sight at all?”

“No, Milord.”

Stewart scoffed. “Find something!” he called. “I told that boy to remain still.”

“And that clearly was not enough for him.”

In that instant, a single thought came to Stewart. Jakob had most certainly seen the white stag in the location that Dorus and his fellow poachers had initially spotted him in. For sure, in spite of the fact that Stewart had promised Hillard to take the stag, Jakob’s intention was to seize the opportunity by himself. “I believe,” started the king, “that the boy returned to the position in which he initially rode to.”

“Which position?”

“The place where we found the poachers.”

“So?” asked the captain, “what do you suppose we do in ultimate retaliation?”

“Return.”

“With whom?”

“You, Hillard, and four others. Not the poachers, just in case they are affiliated with either the Black Banners or the Thugs of Gaul.”

Within minutes, King Stewart Fortman, Grayson, Hillard, Janus, and a contingent two other men at arms were off in direction of the initial clearing where Jakob was confronted by the three poachers, who now, much to Stewart’s relief, pledged loyalty to him and the crown of Boraelgrasp.

They trotted towards the clearing. Hillard road alongside Stewart, much to the latter’s dismay. He loved his son, but figured that his son’s presence would ultimately cause disruption.

Once the party neared the relative location of which the clearing was, Stewart ordered the dismount.

“Tyron,” the king said, looking towards one footman in his party. “Stay with the mounts. The five of us will go on ahead.”

The soldier nodded, and Stewart ordered Grayson, Hill, and the three others to follow in suit as her neared the hill that overlooked the clearing. Sure enough, as he expected, he noticed Jakob. Much to Stewart’s dismay, the lad was not alone. He was surrounded by three men, all wearing cloaks that distinguished themselves as members of the Black Banners. “And so,” the first said, “another member, one younger in age, has wandered from the heard.”

Jakob, who seemed frightened, did nothing but raise a dagger, sure that he would soon be assaulted by one of the Banners.

“A bounty,” the second Banner said, “would do nicely. It would most certainly compensate us for our disastrous failure.”

All three Banners seemed to smile, but Jakob seemed to grow evermore startled. “Don’t hurt me,” he said. “This was only intended to be a hunt.”

“A hunt it is, indeed, but one for men of noble birth it has become, ‘My Lord.’” The sellsword smiled.

Grayson quickly turned to Stewart. “Should we strike now, Milord?” Stewart put up a finger to his lips and shook his head, still curious how his own son would ultimately react.

Stewart set his gaze once more upon his son. “How do you know that I am of noble birth?” Jakob asked the three Banners.

“I witnessed you,” the second man said, “as your father the king addressed you at our encampment. You are worth much - more than you may think.”

The third mercenary chuckled. “You are ours,” he said with a smile upon his face. “Once we sell you to the Men of the North, our yearly income will increase two-fold, if not more.”

“I belong to nobody. My father will hear of this!”

The second sellsword laughed. “Struggle and scream all you like, whelp. No one will hear your screams. If you try and run, I swear that I’ll shatter your crown!”

As one of the ruffians looked in his direction, Stewart ducked behind his cover.

“Father,” Hill said in a whisper. “I say we strike now, before it’s too late.”

Stewart shook his head. “No. Stay your blade, but keep it ready. We shall see what your brother does.”

“Father, he’s thirteen!”

“And a smart lad. Do you remember how you were at thirteen? A fighter is what you were. Not as impulsive as Jakob, but a fighter nonetheless.”

“But Jakob isn’t me. I am a fighter. Jakob is-“

“A fighter also, Hillard.” He turned back to the scene. “A fighter also.” Perhaps even more spirited than you, Hillard.

The lord just hoped the lad would not do anything stupid.

The first of the ruffians started dragging Jakob through the snow in direction of the horses. He handed him over to the third man. “Silas, you tie up the boy. Virus, grab his horse.”

Just as Jakob was handed over to Silas, the lad kicked him as hard as he could in the shin, causing a yelp of pain. The sellsword grabbed his heel and jumped up and down on one foot before losing his balance and falling face first into the snow. The mounts, including Jakob’s own garron, began whinnying, startled by Silas’s reaction. The one called Virus, managed to slightly calm down his mount, but he still reached for his shortbow just in case.

There it is, Stewart thought to himself. He had hoped that Jakob could have solved the situation rationally and on his own, but what was done was done and nothing could be helped by that point. No matter the outcome Stewart would have handled the mercenaries, but he saw that, by this point, there would be no other option than to jump into a fight.

The good king climbed over the hill into the clearing, Frostbane raised, Hill, Grayson, Janus, and the other man at arms rushing in behind him.

The brutes barely had anytime to react. It actually took the leader a few seconds to figure out what was going on. Jakob was able to make a run for the cliff, but Virus pursued.

Stewart, unable to reach his son, was confronted by the leader, who reached for not one, but two concealed hatchets under one layer of his furs. He swung at Stewart, who managed to dodge the attacks with ease.

The man at arms, a middle aged man by the name of Edmund, rushed in towards the leader of the band, hoping to reach Jakob, but the large man, sensing the threat behind him turned to his side just in time to intercept him.

Edmund succeeded in grabbing a hold of Silas, however his opponent was stronger than he. Silas wrenched free of the soldier’s grasp and hit him with the butt of his axe. Edmund shook off the pain, but as he brought his sword down, Silas grabbed a hold of his arm and drove his knife through the man’s belly.

Stewart was taken off guard by what he saw and, in an attempt to save his son, he ran his opponent through, knocking him over in an instant.

He charged for Silas, swinging Frostbane at him as soon as he reached the rocks where Jakob was cornered. The man ducked and swung his axe as he came back up in a recovery. Stewart strafed backward, barely avoiding the sweep of the large weapon. Both men swung sword and axe at the same time, their respective weapons clashing, locking together. Stewart pushed the axe aside with his blade and Silas stumbled sideways. Stewart lunged forward, but again his opponent deflected the attack. In an instant, he jumped into the air towards the king, obviously hoping to bring the axe down. Stewart reacted quickly and blocked the blow, but the force brought him to the ground.

With his enemy on top of him, the only thing standing between Stewart and the axe was Frostbane. But the brute was strong and, standing up once more, swung his axe before Stewart had a chance to thrust his sword upwards, subsequently knocking it out of his hands.

Once more Stewart’s opponent brought the axe down, but Stewart rolled to the side. He stood up once more and, before Silas could react, tackled him, bringing them both to the ground. As they wrestled in the snow, Stewart hit the man as hard as he could in the throat.

Silas began choking and coughing. Stewart got back up to his feet, Silas rolling around in pain, trying to recover himself but unable to do so fast enough. Stewart, grabbing a hold of the fallen axe, looked down upon his defenseless opponent and said: “Your crown’s the only one that’ll shatter today.” With that he brought the axe down upon the man’s head.

Dropping the axe, Stewart went to retrieve a fallen Frostbane, which he strapped to his back. Looking over, he could see that the rest of the conflict was resolved. Grayson was standing over the largest of the sellswords. With a closer look he could see that his head was disconnected from his body. The captain’s broadsword was dripping with blood. It was a red, gruesome sight, the decapitated man’s skin and jugular sticking to the blade.

Stewart called over to the rest of the party. “Where’s the third one?”

“He got away, Father,” replied Hill. “On horseback.” Stewart could see him a few hundred yards away trying to get his uncooperative horse to gallop.

Janus smiled. “It would seem that the lad managed to disarm Master Hillard, here.” Stewart sighed and shook his head. Hillard looked embarrassed. “Here, I’ll take care of him.” Janus pulled out his longbow, grabbed an arrow from his quiver and aimed it at the runaway. He released it and it precisely went through the lad’s neck. Blood spilling from it, he toppled off of his horse, dead.

Stewart then focused his attention on Jakob.

He was sitting on the ground, leaned against the ledge when Stewart reached out a hand to pull him up to his feat. “What the hell were you thinking, boy!?”

“Father, I can explain.”

“There is no need to explain, boy! You pulled this shit twice in one day!”

“That wasn’t my intention!”

Stewart crossed his arms. “That is never anybody’s intention. Now, tell me what possessed you to wander off like that…both fucking times?”

All Jakob did was point to his left. A hundred or so yards to his right was a body, seeming to blend into the snow. With a closer look, Stewart realized that it was the White Stag.

Forgetting about his son’s deviance, he turned back to him. “Did you kill it, Jakob?”

He nodded. “I…I saw it, Syr. I decided to follow it. I chased it to this clearing. I shot it with my crossbow, see.” He pointed to his weapon down in the snow. Knocked out of his hands by one of the bandits, no doubt.

“You should have told me. We would’ve gone after it.” His son looked at the ground.

“I wanted to kill it myself. I wanted to prove to you that I could be a man too.”

He’s telling the truth. Stewart kneeled down and placed his hands on his son’s shoulders. “There’s plenty of time for you to prove your manhood, Jakob. No matter what, you will always make this family and me proud, so long as you do not follow in the path of your great-great uncle, Raegar the Smudge. But what you did was just plain stupid.”

“But I killed it, Father.”

Stewart couldn’t help but smile. “Just between you and I, it makes me proud that you did, but I am afraid that your brother-“

“Father.” Hill was walking towards them. He sheathed his longsword. “What has he done this ti-“

Hill clearly noticed the stag.

“Who killed it?” he said anxiously. Neither Stewart nor Jakob responded. “Who killed it?!” His anger could not be disguised. “Jakob, it was you wasn’t it?” Jakob nodded. “You ruin absolutely everything!”

“Hillard,” Stewart said. “Please, calm down.”

“Calm down?” he exclaimed. “Calm down! How can I calm down when my shit of a brother killed my stag?”

Stewart reached out a hand and slapped his son on the cheek. Hill rubbed it and gave his father a look. “You…you hit me.”

“That’s right,” replied Stewart. “I did hit you. You do not speak to me or your kin that way. Do you understand?”

Stewart could see the rage in his son’s face. Stewart gave him an equally stern look. “Go back with the others and help them clean up the mess.”

Hill nodded submissively. “Yes…Father.”

After he had walked away, Stewart turned back to Jakob. “Do not listen to your brother. It was my fault. I told him that he could take down the stag.”

“No,” replied Jakob. “It is I who is sorry. I had no idea it was his to kill. If I had known-“

“It’s okay, my boy.” He smiled fondly at Jakob, a flood of memories returning to him, ranging from his birth, to birthdays, to even the most seemingly insignificant moments that they had spent together. This is the start of a new memory, I suppose. “

The two of them looked down at the dead man at their feet. “I should not have done that,” Stewart said with a sigh and a shake of his head. “He should have faced justice – true justice.”

“Then why did you kill him, Father?”

The king smirked. “I acted in the moment, I suppose. No one threatens my children.”

The king extended his hand to his son, who proceeded to shake it in accordance to the former’s desire.

Lord Fortman turned and called towards his men. “Secure the horses, Hillard! Janus, Grayson: burn the bodies, but leave Edmund. We’ll take him back to Wynter’s End and hold a proper service.” They saluted and quickly obeyed.

“Now come,” Stewart said to Jakob. “Let us retrieve the stag, you and I, but don’t think that I haven’t forgotten this little stunt of yours, Jakob. We’ll have a talk about this when we return home.”

Jakob smiled. “Yes, Syr.”

An hour later Stewart and his men returned to the hunting party with three extra horses and the White Stag. Relieved, the seventeen turned around and made for Wynter’s End.

On the ride Hillard continued to complain about Jakob’s idiocy and how it should have been he to take down the stag. It took one slap and two more scoldings to calm the boy down.

While Stewart outwardly acted as if he were cross with his younger son, he was secretly proud. Upon the ride home, once they exited the forest, Jakob’s eyes caught Stewart’s, and the man couldn’t help but smile fondly at his son.