Joras
Joras had always despised dirty things, which was why his filthy knight helmet bothered him so much.
It was an old one, passed down from the previous knight who died by falling onto his own sword in training.
Huffing once more onto the helmet, he wiped it with his uniform sleeve. He wasn’t fully satisfied, but settled — since he had been trying to get it shiny for the last few minutes.
He sat in the west guard barracks with the other knights who stalled their bodies, trying to have every moment of reconciliation before stepping out onto the streets of the ancient kingdom to patrol. He ignored them as they argued about who was taking the night shift as they filled their guts with red wine at the table scattered with empty dirty plates.
Joras loathed living with his fellow knights, he would try his best to clean around the barracks, but it was pointless as they lived and ate like pigs — even the stationed maid chose to resign as she found the conditions of the place too horrid to lay a clean hand on.
Cleaning the place was a challenge for him, when he cleared the table it would be back to its chaotic state the next morning, when he made the beds, the gray blankets would be thrown onto the floor when it was time to start the day — not to mention the washroom was another nightmare for him to bear.
He soon settled on keeping the simple things tidy, such as tossing out spoiled food and sweeping the leaves that would come in from the door. He even realized one day that he never received a proper thankfulness from them.
Joras paused in the middle of staring into his helmet, feeling the quietness that had fallen in the room and the eyes of the other knights on him.
“I’m not doing it,” he continued on cleaning his helmet, not looking at their faces. “I took the night shift last time. Pick someone else.”
“Come on, Joras,” a knight walked to him. “If you take it, one of us can cover a shift if you want to sleep in.”
“No.”
Joras found it migraine-inducing when they quarreled over night shifts, and he didn’t understand why. He saw that nights were peaceful and less labor compared to the day.
The knight released out an exasperated huff and took off his helmet.
The man underneath the gold helmet was the third commander, Killian Woolhorn.
Killian was a man in his mid-forties. He reminded Joras of the knight paintings he’d see on the murals that plaster the kingdom’s filthy alleyways. Killian had golden locks and a strong face. He often took off his helmet to bathe in the attention of women that gazed love-struck over him.
He plopped down on the bed, which made Joras bounce up lightly.
Still, he continued his attention on his helmet, paying him no mind.
“How many times will you attempt to clean that damn thing? It’s old armor,” Killian said with a scoff. “Ever since you entered the ranks, you still tend to it like it’s brand new.”
Joras couldn’t refute his points as they were as true as the stars. He wanted to look presentable when he left the barracks. His father always told him to stand out from others so the king could notice him, but the king hadn’t walked the streets in a long time.
This would be his second year as a Greenguard, and it wasn’t like the triumphant tales his father told him when they used to bunch up at the fireplace.
Joras Stormwatch came from a family where every man served as a knight. It would’ve been unwise for to not follow in their steps. He joined at sixteen and was finally put out for patrolling last year after he completed his guard training.
“Well, somebody better take the damn shift. Today is ration day, so that means the hungry will devour us today,” a knight said with his gruff voice.
“Right. It is ration day,” Killian said in an dreading tone, his gaze, haunted and distant — as he remembered the ones from the past.
Joras stopped cleaning the helmet, now satisfied with it, and looked to Killian.
“I can patrol today since it’ll be more chaotic, and someone can take the night shift,” before they could open their mouths to reject, he continued on. “Ration day is the worst day out of the month. Last month we were pelted with bricks. Would you rather take the night and be tired in the morning or be pelted with something worse for today? Like the dog shit they threw at us two months ago?”
Joras looked to them with his light golden eyes as they negotiate in their heads. The knights were giving in, he could easily tell. Even Killian became silent next to him as he rubbed his coarse fingers on his hairless chin.
The men quickly agree to the suggestion, but soon they began arguing over who would get the shift.
This signaled Joras he slid his helmet over his short, blond hair and headed out to evade yet another argument.
Joras walked down the empty street of Logen and saw children playing in the muddy water from last night’s severe deluge. Their small bodies jumped from puddle to puddle as their mud soaked clothes dried fast in the scorching sun that baked the day.
Logen was the oldest kingdom out of the other three.
In the Esmur region, it was once the richest kingdom, until a series of intense weather ravaged it throughout. The kingdom was crippled after the natural events that struck it. Many left in droves to other kingdoms, only for them to be turned back — as they didn’t accept refugees.
He walked the littered streets and dilapidated homes, but stopped when he saw the mural he would always pass was painted over.
Instead of the painting showing the faces of knights in their armor, the faces were now covered with black paint and in big letters it said: The Protectors of Neglect.
He read the words over and over confused by the meaning, Joras didn’t understand why civilians placed the blame on low food and living conditions on the knights, out of all people he felt it would be the king who secluded himself in the blue castle for seven years.
He went to a bucket that was filled with rainwater to clean the mural. The paint didn’t remove as it was dried by the sun, and it frustrated him. Out of anger, he threw the bucket to the ground.
“That was my water!” a man yelled out in anger.
Joras immediately turned his head to see a man standing there with a furious expression, and a child next to him glaring at him with an expression full of judgement.
“I put this out here for water. Are you a damn fool?” the man stomped toward him.
Without hesitation, Joras whipped out his steel sword and pointed it threateningly at the man.
“Back away, you can’t approach a knight like this! You’re breaking the law!”
He was stunned at the man as he eyed him with a warning.
The man stopped in his steps and gritted his teeth. “You knights think you can do as you please, huh? Walking around in armor like you’re protecting something.”
Joras ignored the man’s words as he has heard the critiques as many times he heard birds singing. He looked down at the bucket and lowered his sword.
“Why are you catching rainwater?” he asked in concern. “Just go to the freshwaters west of the kingdom.”
The man released out a rough scoff and looked to him like he was a fool.
“The freshwaters are being used to bathe and shit in. I’m not giving my son water from that place,” he said in disgust at the suggestion the knight gave him.
Joras’s honey colored eyebrows knitted together as he put away his sword.
“Why are civilians using the freshwaters for waste? How long have they’ve been doing that?”
“For a while. The plumbing line has been damaged because of no maintenance, so we use the freshwater lake.”
“Does the king knows?” he asked with cluelessly.
The man looked at Joras like he was a common idiot and walked back into his small stoned house, grabbing his son harshly by the arm.
Joras stood in the empty walkway and looked at the other houses that had buckets and cups that sat out.
This wasn’t a crisis for the knights, since they had their own plumbing system that reached far to a lake outside the kingdom’s walls.
Joras turned his attention to the castle that reached high in the sky as the sun shined over it.
Never had he been inside the palace, and he didn’t understand why. His father told him when he would be appointed knight, it would be done in a ceremony in the great feast hall, but it was in the barracks — and wasn’t exciting as far as celebrations went. Joras never seen or met the king. The man hasn’t shown his face in years. He wondered why a king with power would cower behind walls, and what reason would that be?
He continued down to the ration station that was on the north side of the kingdom, bracing himself mentally for an onslaught of abuse.
With a painful groan, Joras stumbled and fell to the ground as his helmet received a hard blow. Unable to process what had happened, he was swiftly raised by a knight.
“We had worse thrown at us reform the line!” the knight yelled.
He shook his head to rid himself of the dizziness that was clouding his mind and upon looking down; he saw it was a rock he was pelted with.
“Be lucky it’s not dog shit this time,” Killian was now beside him, helping him and the others block the crowd from surging towards the ration stands.
As they held up their silver shields in an attempt to protect themselves, they were met with a barrage of curses and stones.
“I thought you would’ve taken the night shift?” Joras asked curiously, his body pressed behind his shield.
“I was,” he grunted as he struggled to hold off the line. “But, second commander, Azul, told everyone in the barracks to come out today. There’s not enough rations for half of the kingdom, so today’s going to be the worst we ever had.”
The crowd was filled with hungry people as they raised their hands frantically into the sky, trying to catch brown sacks that were being tossed by knights from the ration wagons. Joras looked behind him to glimpse the wooden carts that barely had anymore sacks on it, only a few people had departed after getting their share.
“Damn it!” Killian cursed. “One of you, go break up that clash those two are having!” he shouted to the knights down from them.
Two civilians were engaged in a heated dispute over a sack, each of them trying to take possession of it while they howled out profanities at each other and fell to the muddied ground, exchanging harsh blows.
The knights never had to worry about food like civilians did. They had rations that came from the castle’s supply hall. The king didn’t allow people to go out to hunt, except for those cleared by him.
Joras never been outside the walls. His father used to venture outside them, but only because he was stationed out there.
Sometimes the young knight would sometimes peek through the small cracks that riddle the stone walls and look out to the vast fields of green grass and sunflowers that grew from it. It calmed him all the time, but there was nothing more miserable than looking away to be met with broken structures and people that he passed by.
A knight came to Killian’ side.
“Sir, there are no mo- more rations,” his voice stuttered as he looked at the intense crowd. “Wh- what do we do?”
“I’ll tell them,” he said, knocking an old man back with his shield, who fell to the ground with a harsh thump. “Go round up the knights near the docking port. We’ll need a lot of reinforcements, and they aren’t doing anything useful.”
Killian broke away from the line, and Joras now had to use twice his strength. His metal shoes slid back against the ground and he pushed back with all his might. He looked to the old man that still laid on the ground.
He stared up at Joras weakly with his sunken, desperate blue eyes and a bleeding mouth from the rough push. He had empathy for the elderly man, however he felt the man should have abided by their orders to step back and establish a line.
Killian went up front to stand on a broken pillar and yelled for the people to silent themselves. It took him a while as he shouted from his lungs, but soon they all fell silent.
“Please, everyone, calm yourselves. I have some—”
“We don’t care. Give us our rations!” a woman screamed with a crying child in her skinny arms.
The crowd became louder as Killian tried to shout over them.
“Please, silent yourselves!” he pleaded with no use.
Joras knew this would not end well. When they find out only half of them will be getting fed, they’ll riot — or at least kill some knights.
The rations they received were from the nearby farms, it not much since the flooding from the intense weather had ruined most of the croplands. The king used to give out rations from the castle, but soon stopped when civilians turned up to get fed every day.
“I have a feeling today won’t end well,” a knight took the place Killian had relieved Joras from using all his might.
Joras knew who the voice was underneath the helmet. It was his childhood friend, Dimitri.
“There are times where I regret signing up for the Greenguards,” Dimitri mumbled.
Joras convinced his friend to join the knights with him at fifteen, and it wasn’t a simple task for Joras. He had to get Dimitri excited about the prospect of living in the castle, eating luxurious meals without having to labor most of the times. Joras often looked back at the things he said with a disappointed sigh every time, as it was nothing like the fairytale he told his friend.
“Would it be better to be them?” he nodded his head to the starving, furious crowd. “Or a knight that has hot meals every night?”
Dimitri cautiously peeked over the edge of his shield, scanned the mob of people that are berating at Killian and sending rocks hurdling in his direction.
“I’d rather be them. They’re showing us no mercy today.”
“And neither are we,” Joras said, his tone laced with a threat.
Killian succeeded to silence them once more and cleared his throat, delaying the words he didn’t want to say. He removed his helmet and his shoulder length hair flared out; it was wet with sweat from being in hot armor against the burning sun.
“I have some important news about the rations for today. There seems to be a shortage on today’s supply, so those who still have spare from last months will have to make due until the middle of next month.”
The knights braced themselves when the silent lingered. It was the calm before the storm as they tighten the hold on their oval-shaped shields and their swords were unsheathed.
A tumultuous roar from the crowd filled the air as they pelted rocks at the knights.
“This is neglect!” a man shouted.
“They have to have more! Rush them to get the ration wagon,” another said. “We’ve had enough of this mistreatment!”
The knights tried to hold the line as much as they could, but were pushed back and trampled by the feet of the mob.
The pain that Joras was feeling through the stomping of their feet was unbearable, all he could do was groan and cry out in response. If he didn’t get up soon, he would be crushed into the soil. With a desperate attempt, he was forced back down — his heavy breathing labors inside the metal helmet and he was on the brink of giving up until he felt a strong arm pull him up.
It was Dimitri.
“You okay?” he shouted over the crowd as they ransacked the wagons.
Joras took off his helmet and breathed the hot air into his lungs like a fish that was back in the water. His face sweated and his eyes were wide and alert from nearly suffocating.
“Put it back on, you damn fool,” he said, pushing a civilian over. “Stones won’t be the only thing they’ll toss today.”
“Al- alright,” he said between huffs.
Joras placed his helmet back on with shaky hands and looked at the now demolished wagons.
He saw knights trying to break up fights as civilians fought over sacks. Knights drew their swords as they were rush down by men and this caused Joras help his fellow sword brothers.
In their hands were the swords of the knights, and they lifted the sharp blades to their chest. Before they cut gut them, Joras stepped between them.
“Lower the weapons and leave the area,” he lifted his blade to the men. “Don’t dare to challenge me, if you do, you’ll be breaking the law.”
Secretly, Joras wanted them to attack him, he never had a serious fight in his life that required him to use his sword. He always prayed for a moment like this, to make his opponent — no matter how old or young to take a swing at him.
The way their feet was positioned made him realize it’ll be an easy takedown. They stood with both feet unspaced and held the swords with no tight grip. He figured it was from them not getting enough meals they required. If they could only see his squinting eyes underneath his helmet, they would heed the warning and walk away, but the men showed no fear, no remorse — no worth. They circled him, and Joras prepared himself.
Before a blade could be swung, three arrows darted from behind and past him, piercing the men in the head. The bodies fell instantly as they twisted on the ground from reacting nerves.
Joras turned around to see the Greyguard knights that have arrived in the chaos.
The civilians stopped the rampaging and instantly fled the scene, some even dropped sacks of rations.
The Greyguards were sometimes called the, King’s Shields; they are the most feared compared to Greenguards, and the better trained.
Joras watched them hop off their all black horses as their grey and gold armor highlighted in the sun. His main goal in life was to be a Greyguard, he even had a dream of it last night when he fell into slumber.
Greyguards lived in the castle with their families, and it was rare to see them as they mostly spent time outside the walls handling the king’s bigger problems.
Killian made his way to them as he held his arm that was pierced by a small dagger.
A man hopped off the horse and took off his helmet, his white dreads fell to his side as he looked around at the bodies of civilians that laid dead on the ground after the wild aftermath.
It was commander Wilthold, the leader of the Greyguards.
“Commander Wilthold,” said Killian, wincing. “We tried our best to keep them in order, but they rushed us,” he looked around to each knight and turned back to Wilthold. “Fortunate for us, no knights were slain.”
Wilthold nodded to Killian and made his way over to Joras.
Joras knew little about Wilthold, he didn’t even know his first name. He was a man in his fifties, and his presence demanded respect with his stern demeanor.
He stopped in front of Joras and eyed him.
“Take off your helmet when you’re approached by a Greyguard,” his vocal tone was deep, giving off intimidation.
Joras hastily removed it and looked him in the eye. He became nervous to why the commander was signaling him out. Questions spilled in his head, wondering if he did something wrong. Not breaking eye contact with Wilthold’s chestnut ones, knights observed them silently and waited for his words.
“Would you have killed these men?” he pointed to their lifeless bodies.
Joras took a short moment to answer. Would he have made that decision? They were trying to kill him. He didn’t want to answer stupidly, so he said yes.
“I would’ve. I was going to,” he said prideful with his head held high.
“What is your name, soldier?”
“Joras Stormwatch, sir.”
“Stormwatch?” his eyes shined briefly with amusement, but then became stern again. “Shorn’s boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
Wilthold looked him up and down and turned to Killian.
“When the next ration day happens, you’ll give it out to only women with children. The next wagon delivery is going to be as short stocked as this one.”
“Commander Wilthold, the orders you given is something we will comply with, but—”
“But, what?”
Killian became anxious by the peering eyes from the Greyguards.
“But we need to have more order—”
“Then give that order, Killian,” he interrupted him. “It’s not up to me to place positions around Logen, it’s the three commanders’ job,” he pointed to him. “And that includes you,” he lowered his finger as Killian nodded his head. “I’ll be speaking with King Zullan, to discuss the food conditions for the civilians,” he turned around slowly to observe the Greenguard knights haggard state. “If civilians ask about the food shortage, just tell them the King is taking action, Understood?”
“Yes, Commander,” they all said in unison as they went to their destination spots for patrolling.
Joras watched the Greyguard archers pull their black arrows out the heads of the deceased men, they do it with ease as if they did it many times before. He questioned if he would’ve killed them. He knew he would’ve had the right to do so.
“Let’s go to the healing ward,” said Dimitri, still breathing heavy and shaken from the riot.
His friend took him out of his thoughts and he nodded to him as they walked to the south side of the Logen.
