A Landed Knight

Chapter I: A Landed Knight

It seemed like only yesterday when Felix first set his eyes upon Ramparts. The keep’s walls decayed and disheveled, cracked and lined with damp moss. The L shaped courtyard was overgrown and the garden was more of a graveyard, with once vibrant Reach flowers turned to slumped over emaciated and weak vessels. Their powerful colours turned a sickly grey. The keep itself was stripped of furniture, except for a few cobwebs and some broken wooden chunks. It was a horrific sight to behold. But Phylip proved his worth as the new Castelyn, he imported flowers and shrubberies from all around the nearing towns and villages to decorate the keep, returning it to its former glory. He hired builders to scrape the moss away, fill the cracks in the walls with mortar, even filling the halls and rooms with gorgeous furniture, expensive trinkets, silver ornaments, and beautiful works of art. It was everything Felix had hoped. A holdfast of his very own and two villages to work his fields and pay him taxes. Felix had even bought some wine with the money he was steadily gaining. Though the renovations had left the house coffers quite empty.

Felix woke from his bed, the covers stuffed heavily with cotton and his pillows fluffy with swan feathers. The bedding was wrapped in crimson sheets and stitched with gold string that weaved in and out of the fabric like vines on a tree. A canopy lay over his head with matching crimson curtains concealing him. He propped himself up on the carved wooden backboard of his bed and pulled a bolt of velvet to open the canopy. With a light hand he parted the curtains and pulled them to the corners of his bed frame. Tieing them to the legs of his bed. He placed his feet on the carpeted floor, the individual hairs tickling the soles of his feet. He passed his bedside table, taking a quick glance at his wardrobe and mirrored desk. He approached the sliders that led out to his balcony and threw open them open, stepping out onto the stone overhang. The afternoon sun; or morning sun in Felix’s case, touched his pale skin and warmed Felix considerably. There he placed his hands onto the stone bannister and looked out over the fields to spot upon his two villages in the far distance and then down to face the open courtyard where Ser Malic Bennet was making men out of wanna be knights. The lads had enlisted for the roles of men-at-arms from the villages surrounding Ramparts. No doubt they heard that a fifteen-year old was their new lord and thought that they could make a fat coin purse from exploiting him. Oh how they were wrong. Ser Malic came mid way through the renovations, offering his military prowess for a humble price. He was bald of head, but dark of beard hair. When he arrived he hoisted a hefty load of something over his shoulder. No one could see inside the bag and no one cared, or wanted to. Ser Malic was intimidating when roaring and screaming at the trainees and Felix wasn’t about to raise that voice when it wasn’t needed. Sometimes Felix didn’t know who was the head of Ramparts. But still, the thought of what could be in that bag ravaged Felix’s imagination regularly. Apart from that Felix admired Ser Malic, he carried out orders without hesitation or question. But what Felix personally liked about Ser Malic was that he didn’t swear when barking orders. Sure he called the village recruited milk sops, and mummy coddlers, but swearing seemed like a lack of intelligence in Felix’s eyes.

Felix then approached the dresser and opened one of its many draws. In the central draw that he had pulled out was full of tight fitting knightly clothes, with the stomach tightened and the chest puffed up. But Felix dove bellow all those fine clothes and selected his regular loose cotton shirt. He slipped on his brown trousers and slid his cottoned feet into some shoes. Now dressed, he approached the hefty door that led from his room to a main hallway and stepped out into the corridor. He enjoyed walking the corridors, they had all his favorite art plastered over the stone walls in golden frames. He passed two guestrooms and the rookery before Phylip stepped out of his office, clasping neatly filed papers with numbers and ledgers inscribed on the paper in ink.

“Ser.” He announced bowing his head slightly. Felix had learnt a great deal about Phylip in the time they had spent together. First, that he was of Volentine decent and came to Westeros to get away from the smell of the Rhoynar. Or so he jested. Phylip came to King’s Landing to become a painter and sell his masterpieces for a fortune. But as all dreams that one crumbled and he found comfort in wine. He told Felix that he would put his own spin on the wine to suit his tastes. Then he began to let friends drink the wine and they seemed to enjoy it. So he sold more of his wine to the public eventually earning enough to brew his own wine in a vineyard. Felix didn’t understand why Phylip abandoned everything he had in King’s Landing for service in Ramparts. But Felix was more grateful than curios. So he didn’t ask question it.

Felix made his way down the staircase, sliding his hand over the bannister. At the bottom of the stairs was the ground floor that was made up of a wide open hall. With a central hearth burning day and night, decorative ornaments distributed on the mantle. On the opposite wall of the mantle and on either side of the staircase were two archways that led into two intertwined rooms. The Kitchen and pantry to the left and to the right; household storage and armory.

Felix decided to take a walk through the armory, though it wasn’t much to look at, at the moment. The room was full of lined up weapon racks and wall mountings though no spears or axes were racked and no swords or shields were mounted. There was however, a gift from the forge lords of the north. In a dusty corner, perched upon an armor rack was a full suite of mountain forged armor. Comprised of a plate breastplate, two pauldrons over the shoulders with spaulders leading down from that, touching the elbow cups and leading on to vambraces and gauntlets. The cussies and half of the polyenes were covered by a blue kilt, with greaves and sabatons over the shins and feet; all of this, with a heavy mail coating underneath. Felix ran the naked flesh of his hands over the cobalt tinted steel, leading them up over the gorget and placing his hands on either cheek of the helm. The metal cold against his flesh. He plucked the helm from stand and held it in his hands. The helm was so heavy that he had to steady his arms by holding the back of it with one hand and inspecting with his other over the temple. Felix was awed by the craftsmanship and felt unworthy to own such armor. He had donned mail many a time, but plate was for lords and kings. Not a fifteen year old landed knight who had a lucky break. He placed the helm back atop its stand and ventured to the kitchen.

Felix found Maester Andrew butchering some lam for the ravens. He wore dark brown rags and his chain over that. He was middle aged and with long flowing brown hair that touched his shoulders. Something unorthodox for a maester to have. But he gave wise council and kept the ravens fed so Felix couldn’t ask any more of him. Felix passed open draws of spices and vegetables, a bowl of fruit was hung up next to the window and the meats were kept hung up on hooks on the opposite side of that.

“Good morning Andrew.” Felix stated. Surprised; Andrew flung his cleaver up in the air and across, smashing the fruit bowl into tiny shards; cascading the fruit onto the floor.

“Oh, my. Sorry ser, I’ll clean it up.” He huffed whilst getting to his knees and placing the shards in his hands. Felix helped by gathering up the fruit and piling it up on the counter.

“It’s fine Andrew, summon a maid and get it cleaned up.”

“Oh, thank you ser. I’ll go feed the ravens.”

“Yes, very good.” Felix replied with a smile and watched Andrew shuffle away.

Felix opened the doors of the great hall that led out of the ground floor. The sun blinded Felix momentarily, but he recovered shortly and sauntered into the semi-circle stone decking which then led out to the court yard. To the right behind the keep were the gardens, where Felix liked to think and ponder. Then left from there, was the barracks, where Ser Malic and the recruits slept. Next to that were the training grounds; a square flat piece of land with blunted swords stacked against the fence. Ser Malic was teaching the trainees how to stand, kicking their shins if they didn’t stand right. Then, to the rleft of that was the stables. Felix had bought three more horses on top of keeping his trusty destrier that had came on campaign with him in the Riverlands. Brooks the Brown, the Stable Master was brushing their manes and inspecting the horse shoes as Felix approached him.

Felix came upon the horses and ran his hand over the spine of his destrier. The steely hairs roughly grazing his fingers.

“How’re they finding life in the stables?” Felix asked Brooks, who was mentally critiquing newly made saddles.

“Better than others would.” Brooks growled, as he tossed one of the saddles into the box from whence it came and folded his hairy, meaty forearms facing Felix.

“We need better horse shoes. The one these three have got are complete shit, we’ll need new ones.” Felix ran his horse’s hair in between his fingers. Taking note of the split ends.

“I trust you can find ones of quality?”

“Aye.”

“Then ask Phylip for the money and do the rest.” Felix smiled, bowed his head slightly and walked off. Venturing towards Ser Malic. In the corner of his eye he spotted Brooks scoffing and twitching his finely tuned nose.

Felix placed his arms on the fence of the training ground and spyed the trainees. They weren’t much to look at. Not the warriors of legend, but there was still time. Ser Malic donned his trademark mail shirt with mail sleeves that dropped open at his wrists. His morning star was tied to his belt just under his belly as he barked orders at the peasant boys. Felix oft wandered what Ser Malic could do with that morning star. He imagined Ser Malic could split skulls like cracking egg shells.

“Ser Malic.” Felix announced. To which Malic turned on his heels to face him.

“Ser Felix.” Ser Felix. It still didn’t sound right in his head. “Come to see these pathetic excuses of boys twiddle their sticks around like nancies?” Felix looked at the boys. Their shirts clung to their chests, sodden with sweat and dripping with perspiration.

“How long until they’ll be ready?”

“Ahh...two months, three at most, one and a half at least.”

“Very well...carry on.” Felix began to walk to the gardens, but stopped as Ser Malic trailed behind him, quickening his pace to a jog yelling.

“Oh, Ser!” Felix stopped, watching as Ser Malic’s bald head glistened with sweat in the sunlight.

“I have something to show you. If you would.” He outstretched an arm to the barracks. Felix grinned humbly and followed beside Malic.

The barracks stunk of body odor that hung heavy in the air. Constricting Felix’s breathing. Ser Malic led Felix past the lined up bunks with disheveled sheets and pillows, into his quarters. Stacked up against the back wall of Malic’s room were three crates. Just below a mounted battle axe.

“Ser.” Ser Malic announced, getting on one knee infront of a crate and prying the nails off the wood with a metal jack. “Phylip did advise for us to not buy any armor or weapons for the boys until they were ready. Which was a good suggestion, even for a foreigner.” Felix watched as Ser Malic rifled through the crate. “But for the ones who can be trusted to hold a crooked spear. I had these made.” With the crate now open, Ser Malic retrieved a dark crimson shirt from the box. Holding it by the shoulders, showing off the copper stallion and the two vigil knights of Felix’s sigil, embroidered in the fabric. Felix approached the shirt and rubbed the crimson wool in between his thumbs and forefingers.

“It’s...brilliant. A fine uniform.” Felix hesitantly replied. In truth Felix didn’t like the uniform. It wasn’t what Felix had imagined the guards of Ramparts would be wearing. But he didn’t want to be rude. Plus this was only a temporary kit.

“I’m glad you think so ser. My two best will wear this on patrol of the walls tonight.”

“Your two best?!” Felix inquired, folding his arms and leaning against a desk.

“Aye, Fergus and Hugo. They’re strong lads, the only real ones we have.”

“Right...well I won’t keep you.” Felix left the barracks and ventured to the garden. There he picked his favorite spot next to a shrubbery of tulips. Where the sun beamed through the small congregation of trees and warmed Felix to the core. There, as he thought, he felt a sudden excitement. It was actually happening. House Hinterland was finally taking shape. And who knew. Perhaps the copper stallion wouldn’t just fly on the walls of Ramparts but in another keep, or castle. Either through battle, diplomacy, or matrimony.

Felix sat to his table in the dining hall next to the kitchen. He indulged in a succulent ham; roasted with chess nuts and marinaded in wine before being glazed in honey. Felix didn’t know how much he enjoyed fancy food before he had devoured half in a matter of moments. With his belly full and aching with digestion. He decided to take a walk on the ramparts. Perhaps getting some fresh air in his belly would help the digestion along. So Felix gracefully glided along the corridors and out of a stone arch onto the walls. He leant against the stone railings and breathed the cool night air. It stung slightly but Felix didn’t mind. He looked down at the small gathering of trees on the left bank of the road that led to Ramparts. A small glint of...something, metal. Caught Felix’s eye. It shined as occasional flickers of the torch light beside him that rippled in the wind. Felix focused on the glint, by squinting his eyes and leaning over the railings. Felix leant closer and closer to the glint, on the verge of falling off the walls.

“My lord?” A voice sounded, surprising Felix to the point of dancing with gravity. He pushed himself up off the banister and look to his side. Andrew stood in the arch way, an expression of confusion clear on his face. “What’s down there.” Andrew asked approaching the railing.

“Nothing. Justa trick of the light I think.” Andrew glared at Felix. Unconvinced.

“Well, we have a meeting. Phylip and Malic are already inside so…”

“Hurry along before they kill each other? Aye, I’ll be there.” Andrew nodded and waddled off. Felix looked back down at the same spot. The only difference being that the metal glint was gone.

“So you see, we should invest in crossbows.” Ser Malic preached, holding out a crossbow with the string drawn back and a bolt loaded in the shaft. He had demonstrated how they worked and to Felix they seemed quite simple.

“Ser Malic are you aware that the house funds are not bottomless? Crossbows may be the most deadly ranged weapon in modern day, but they’re far too expensive. If you think a ranged unit would help the defence of Ramparts, then you’ll have to settle on longbows.” Phylip announced folding his arms defensively.

“You’re a Volentine, how about you pull out some golden from your jap side! You don’t know anything about this country or our prices!”

“And here he comes with the insults.” Phylip groveled to Felix. Felix folded his arms over his desk, placing his elbows on the table and frowning. He listened as the two battled it out. They had been at each other’s throats since the day they both of them came into contact with each other. Whether it’s Ser Malic’s ideas being stomped by Phylip’s logic, or Phylip’s affinity for numbers being spurred by Ser Malic. Calling it “classic Volentine cowardice.”

“Don’t give me that, you don’t know what these things can do! I’ve seen a bolt from a crossbow pierce a man’s half helm!”

“That may be so, but at least that man could afford one!”

“Well maybe if you didn’t spend the money on flowery gardens and cushy chairs we would have enough coppers for a spear!”

“Enough!” Felix boomed. Holding his head in his hands, annoyed at the constant bickering. “We’ll pay for half of the amount of crossbows. Compromise?” Ser Malic and Phylip leered at each other for a long moment before nodding and grumbling. “Very well, now excuse me but I would wish to retire to my bed chambers.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Of course.” The two then existed the room, exchanging glances of hatred as Ser Malic went left and Phylip went right down the hallway. Felix leant back in his chair and let out a long drawn out breath. He looked to his far left and spotted Andrew’s chain and brown rags lingering in the corner.

“Never thought I’d be having to take settle arguments of full grown men.”

“Often, I’ve found that all of us are children, who bicker over adult things.”

“If that’s true...then I’m dealing with toddlers.” Felix laughed but andrew merely smiled as he shuffled to the front of Felix’s desk.

“Speaking of adult things.” Andrew handed Felix two raven scrolls but dropped them as his fingers quivered uncontrollably. His arthritis was playing up. Felix thought as he retrieved the small rolls of parchment. “One, from Lord Ethan Lash, of Wolfhaven. The other, from Lord Daemon Verdant, of Castamere.” Felix inspected the seals. The red wolf of house Lash, and the green dragon crossed with a red lion; house Verdant.

“Seals, unbroken? You didn’t read them?”

“Two letters from Lord Verdant and Lash can only mean one thing ser. Those letters are for your eyes only.” Felix tore the wax seal off the paper. Opening the letter from Lord Ethan first. When the ink inscriptions became clear to Felix he began to read a loud.

“Dear Ser Felix Hinterland, I Lord Ethan Lash, lord of Wolfhaven and Master-at-arms of the Stepstones, humbly invite you to help me squash the Verdant bugs of Castamere in the fires of war…” Felix looked up the Andrew who nodded his head. “I promise that when we take the shit smeared ruins that the Verdants call home, you shall have your share of the gold in their holds. You’ll be rich beyond your wildest dreams and be bathed in glory for all of eternity. We already have the support of the great and noble houses of Whent, Esterold, Henning, Redflame, Reaver, Sentinel, Herbon and...Youngflower!”

“You squired for Lord Youngflower didn’t you Ser?”

“Aye for almost a year. I do hope Lord Youngflower survives this endeavor.”

“I’m sure he will, he’s a fine warrior.”

“The finest some would say...but Ser Tristifer once told me that one sword, no matter how sharp will lose its edge to ten blunted sticks.” Felix pondered for a moment. Tossed the letter to the table and picked up the scroll from Lord Verdant, breaking the seal. Reading aloud once again.

“Dear Ser Felix Hinterland, holder of Ramparts. I Lord Daemon Verdant call upon you to take up your arms against the Lash law breakers. Their crimes have gone unpunished for far too long. Help me administer justice for the realm and for our king and I shall make sure that you carry spoils of war and bountiful plunder back to your keeps. Know, that if you side with the Lash cunts, then I shall feast in your burnt down halls and watch as my beast. “Konrad.” Rips you limb from limb and I shall laugh as my men take turns with your mothers, sisters, and daughters. Join me and fight alongside the glorious house Sunfyre, the honorable house Starkwood, the humble house Littleknight, the cunning house Henning and the intrepid men of the Lodge...lead by the seasoned warrior Gascoigne Hinterland, Headmaster of the Lodge.” Felix blinked, not being sure if he read the words right. But it was correct. His father was fighting in the war. “Seasoned is a tortured way of putting it.” Felix announced tossing the letter onto the desk, beside Lord Lash’s.

“How old is your father, if you mind me asking ser?”

“Sixty-two.” Felix stood from his chair and gazed out of a window that revealed one of his two villages that was lit by the house lights and road lanterns. “What is he thinking? He’s in no fit state to be participating in a war!”

“You care about your father. I understand. Your father will be fine, he’s a veteran warrior.”

“I’m not concerned, I’m angry.” Felix pushed himself off the wall and heavily slumped back down in his chair.

“Ser...may I speak my mind?” Felix nodded in approval as he bit his thumb’s fingernail. “I think you’re angry because you’re afraid for your father’s well being. You try to avoid the subject of your father, but inside I think you truly do love him. It’s very hard for a boy not to love his father. Despite who he is, or what he’s done.” A long silence gripped the room, before Andrew continued. “You know. I met your father once. I was eighteen and was on my way to the Citadel to start my training. I stopped off at the Lodge for something to eat. There me and your father began to talk. There was something about that conversation...something about him that I’ll never forget.” Andrew smiled and brushed his long hair away from his face. “When I look at you ser, I think of that conversation. You’re more like your father than you’d care to admit.”

“How so?”

“You have his instincts, his mind for strategy.” Felix but off a chunk of his finger nail and spat it out on the floor.

“Right, well. Shall we fight in the hostilities?” Andrew asked approaching the door.

“No, let them rip each other to pieces. Being on the winning side of a war is profitable but on the losing side. Not so much.” Andrew placed his hand on the doorknob, smiled and bowed his head whilst sounding the words.

“Ser.”

As Andrew shuffled out of the doorway and was closing the door behind him. Felix quietly bellowed.

“Andrew!” Andrew turned stiffly to face Felix. “Thank you.”

Andrew smiled, sounding a last. “Ser.” Before waddling off.