The wind shrieked and the rain battered down upon Lothor as his steed pressed forth. At his side was only one man, riding atop his own steed: Ser Rupert Boggs, a distant relative of the Boggs clan. Rupert counted himself among the few personal friends of the Knight of Brownhollow. Lothor was never quick to make such a claim, yet he knew the man at his side was dependable to a fault. If he were not, Lothor doubted Rupert would be quite so eager to face down the mad lord of Dyre Den himself.
Rupert was a large and rather shaggy man. Easily towering over Lothor, the younger man was also double Lothor’s own girth. Naturally he was far from the fleetest upon his feet, yet Gods help any man who cannot avoid his powerful blows. Both his hair and his eyes bore a striking resemblance to shit and he smelled like it too. A dented half-helm adorned his head, covered by the simple hood and traveling cloak Lothor also donned.
Lothor’s haggard expression was born from the lack of sleep. Rumor had spread through the Point of Samn Brune’s kinslaying of his Uncle, and it seemed the Caves, Pynes and Hardys were doing little to quell the rabbling clans. Rupert even claimed it was these very same houses that were inciting the many local clans around Dyre Den. It was only a matter of time for the worst possible outcome for Lothor’s house.
Cracklaw Point had run out of patience with the young Samn Brune.
It was only the fear of a madman that kept the champions of smaller clans and the greater houses away. Samn had proven his disrespect for the traditions he was raised with. To go as far as kinslaying, and not even doing the deed with one’s one blade… Lothor’s squished nose wrinkled at the very thought.
“Ey, Lothor.” Rupert called out, attempting to wrest his friend’s attention from his thoughts, “Ya got that look about you again. Ya thinking too much?”
“Of course I’m thinking. We ride to challenge a lunatic who could easily order us seized and tossed off the cliff to plunge into the Bay of Crabs.” Luthor said as calmly as a man walking to his death could. His train of thought was broken, but his eyes remained focused upon the trail ahead of them.
Rupert laughed at the grim suggestion, before he quickly shook his head. “Do or die, Lothor. Ya said it yourself before, didn’t ya? Brunes are right fucked if the wretch doesn’t get tossed outta that crooked keep with a bloody smile.” He readjusted his half-helm. “Last I checked ya were a Brune right? Well, then time to unfuck yourself! Just gotta kill the whelp first!” With a laugh, the larger man slapped his steed and pressed forth.
Gods bless Rupert, even in the face of death his own simple logic shone through.
It was meant to intimidate any who found themselves in Lothor’s position. There was not a single doubt in the mind of the Knight of Brownhollow. Even Rupert stood solemn alongside him, staring at the barely recognisable head.
It had been left out upon this pike for quite some time. Were it not displayed so prominently upon the road to Dyre Den, and had Lothor not been familiar with the older man from his youth, he would not have recognised the severed and tarred head of Peter Brune.
Peter Brune was by no means good, honest, or just. To be truthful, Lothor had never liked the well groomed and ambitious brother of the good Lord Eustace Brune. However, he could not help but feel a deep pang of sympathy for the man whose head now rotted away before them.
This was it, the final warning given by the mad lord. Past this pike was death or retribution. Damnation or salvation. If he could not end this now, it was likely that the clans of Cracklaw Point would wage full blown open warfare with each other for the first time in decades. What man would want this for his people? What man could justify this style of rule?
It was no man Lothor sought to end, but the monster adorned with the moniker of Samn Brune.
It was a few hours till they saw Dyre Den. The torrents of rain had cleared, revealing the decrepit castle in all its glory. Three gnarled towers jutted out from the small, crooked keep. Casting off his hood to reveal his face and slowly greying brown hair, Lothor Brune approached the gates.
“Halt! Who approaches Dyre Den, the seat of our most noble lord Samn Brune?” The man at the gate said uneasily. It seemed not even the men of the keep were free of Samn’s reign of terror.
“I am the Knight of Brownhollow, Lothor Brune and the Champion of the Brunes of Brownhollow.” Lothor announced, a commanding voice booming from the usually solmn man. “I demand Samn Brune, lord of Dyre Den grant me an audience before these gates. Should he reject, know that his kin calls him a craven.” The die was cast.
One of the men stationed at the gate quickly fled inside the crooked keep, no doubt to fetch his mad lord. Lothor merely waited, hand resting firmly upon the hilt of his blade while the other clenched into a fist. Rupert sat at the ready behind Lothor, still atop his horse yet ready to dismount upon a moment’s notice in case Lothor needed another blade at his side.
To say the anticipation was killing the Knight of Brownhollow was a grave understatement. It ate away at him. Each and every second allowing him yet another moment to question every step and choice which brought him to the present. Do or die. Thats what Rupert said, that’s what Lothor said. No longer did that hold true, no longer can such assurances be guaranteed, who’s to say with a madman? Like it or not, it was now do and die. May the gods take solace in choosing to die for the right, just reason.
For what seems like an unending eternity, the gates of Dyre Den swung open in full. The monster stood before Lothor now, descended from his crooked tower, crooked keep and crooked walls. The living abomination took the face of a young, handsome boy fully able to deceive any that were not aware of it’s true, horrendous nature.. A full fledged grin stretching from ear to ear with teeth sharpened more to the likes of daggers, fit to chomp down upon their next kill. It was adorned in a fitting jerkin and a sword firmly strapped to it’s side.
“Ah, cousin Lothor.” The beast greeted, flaunting its deadly smile once more. “I see you have come to Dyre Den this lovely day. How may I help my dearest and most beloved kin?” It asked, the question clearly pointed and his tone bathed in all the malice and loathing the creature could muster.
Undeterred by the lightly veiled threats, Lothor stood his ground. “Samn Brune, I have come to challenge you, as is my right as the champion of Brownhollow. As you have not selected a champion of Dyre Den, as it’s lord that duty falls upon you, as the traditions of Cracklaw Point dictate.”
The beast laughed at that, clenching it’s stomach as it threw its head back in amusement. Rumbling for a moment longer, it leveled it’s beady black eyes upon Lothor. “You? Lothor Brune challenges me with these silly traditions in an attempt to oust your rightful ruler?” The creature snarled now, any amusement in his tone dried up like a drop of water in a parched desert. Replaced only with scorn and disgust. “That is treason. And everyone knows what we do with traitors in Dyre Den, no, in Cracklaw Point!” With that, the beast finally drew it’s blade, opening it’s gaping maw once more. “Men, seize the traitor! He’ll be joining my uncle and learn the fate of those who dare commit treason against their liege!”
That was it then. It had all been for naught. Lothor’s worst fears were then realized, the monster of Dyre Den truly had no respect, nor even a shred of acknowledgement for the traditions of Cracklaw Point or it’s people. The clans would go to war to dispose him and there would only be bloodshed. Bloodshed under the yokes of the Arryns of the East, not even their true Targaryen overlords. Taking a single deep breath, Lothor drew his blade, the steel screaming in protest of the beast’s orders. Yet, his guardsmen, men of Dyre Den did not move. They did not even draw their steel.
“Ser Lothor challenged ye, m’lord.” Began one of the men, unmoving.
“And ‘tis tradition, a champion’s demand of a duel can’t be denied. Not by no lord, nor even a king.” Another at the gate added with a nod. The beast turned, snarling and growling like a savage animal in the direction of the men. Yet, as they remained stoic in the face of the creature’s anger, it finally turned back to Ser Lothor. “Fine! You dare challenge me for my rightful lordship, then so be it! The gods favor me! I can’t be defeated by some of my lowly ‘kin’ from Shithollow!” he said rushing at his kin.
The clash of steel muted any other words as the beast lunged . Powerful blow after blow followed by the unrelenting creature, advancing relentlessly at the expense of Ser Lothor as he struggled to block and parry each of its strikes. Lothor did not process the sky his vision instead of the horrendous abomination he traded blows with until a few moments later. A root had caught upon his foot, causing him to trip backwards. A moment the beast was happy to capitalize upon, seizing the chance to drive it’s steel into Lothor’s heart.
It was quite, faint even, but Lothor heard it. The voice however seemed unfamiliar, strangely enough.
“Do or die ya fuckin’ cunt!”
Rupert. Definitely Rupert.
Twisting to his side, the blade found a home in the ground, narrowly avoiding the prone knight. Forcing himself up, Lothor pushed the beast away, causing it to abandon its blade in the ground. Standing over it, Lothor raising his sword, ready to deliver the final blow upon the hellspawn that had inflicted so much horror.
His blade however, did not move. It remained raised in the air, far above the Knight’s head as he merely stared. Stared at the quivering form before him. It was not a beast, nor abomination. Not even a creature. A boy. It was a simple boy. Gone was the malicious smile. The snarling of a nightmarish creature was replaced with the whimpering of a suckling babe.
Lothor lowered his steel before finally sheathing it, his shoulders slumped. He had won this day, and Samn had lost. Lost it all. His inheritance, wealth, claims and all. But, he would not lose his life. The boy could thank Lothor for that much, but he never would, and now never could. He would never again step foot in Cracklaw Point.
A boy. It had always been a boy. Samn Brune. Boys do not have to be monsters to do the things they do. It’s the tales of men that make monsters, no more. To call some men monsters is an insult to the monsters of those tales. Men are far crueler.
Source by MasterGruntR75
Mens Hair Styles 2015
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