Terror had spread across Headens for many years. When King Margot took the throne, a terrible shadow was cast across the realm. The cruelty of Margot's reign would likely be told for many centuries to come. An awful man, but awful men often provided opportunities. Opportunities that Duneon was determined to capitalise on.
Duneon was born the son of Goron the Guest. An infamous man, termed, perhaps rightly so as 'The Guest' due to his penchant for abusing the right of the first night. House Helmsire, the House Goron was Lord over, had ruled at Riverbell since The Battle Of The Head, a large scale war in which the Menace, King Harys Ivar, had subjugated all the kingdoms in the realm, uniting them.
The Guest's bastard sons and daughters were prevalent across those lands. Duneon had never been officially recognised by Goron but his parentage was well known. His hair that as the color of sand and wild eyes that were blue as the ocean were all the proof he or anyone else needed.
When Robert Wysten, had declared his fealty to Prince Jakob, now King Jakob and thus became the current prime minister to the king, Duneon left his home by Riverbell to join the war effort. He had always desired to elevate himself from his unclaimed bastard status. Not only was he an unclaimed bastard, but one of many spawned by the reviled Goron the Guest. A knighthood seemed a fine place, if at all, to start.
While on the battlefield, his thoughts drifted to his son. A queer boy of ten-and-three years, fond of swordplay and words and sayings that seemed almost foreign to him. Duneon thought this a symptom of his mother's death by fever some years ago, a coping mechanism developed by the young lad. Saying goodbye to Aerys had been a difficult thing, but sacrifices must be made on the path to greatness. He would return to his boy as a knight and give him the life that had been denied to him.
The life he more than deserved.
Dark clouds were gathered about the field near Hurys that was destined to be the location of the battle. Thousands of men lined up to throw themselves against each other in a deadly and macabre frenzy of blood and steel to decide who sat upon the throne. It had been a moon's turn since Duneon first joined the host and they had marched far and wide. Duneon was lucky enough to not be located in the front line of infantrymen, fodder as they were for charging knights of the Craven. He was a few lines deep, reasonably close to the guard of Lord Wysten.
The men on the side of Jakob were constantly looking overhead, terrified at the mere thought of the Unwavering Beast, a title given to the dragon and its mount, along with its fiery wrath. All had heard the story of the Hell's Gate and the way the results had swung the war in their favor. Though it appeared that thus far the dreaded being was absent from the battle. A fact all were thankful for, numbers meant little in the face of a dragon.
The sound of horses trotting in the distance put the men Duneon was allied with on high alert, the man next to him slightly trembling under his armour as he raised his sword to his chest while taking audible breaths, no doubt to ease his nerves.
"Men!" Jakob started, his face not deviating from the direction of the sound of the approaching soliders. "For days, we have marched to this field for one reason alone; Victory!"
A thunderous roar erupted from the soliders, swords and shields clanging together in unison.
"And now the moment is upon us, one of truth! As guardians of our beliefs, of our way of life, of our realm! We must fight to the last breath in our bodies, with every ounce of strength we possess, until we can sweat not more, and the courage we show on these grounds will be told for years after we are gone!"
Another roar was the result, his voice becoming less audible as the opposition were now in sight.
"And now, my men," his sword raised high above his head the sunlight glinting off the sharp blade. "CHARGE!"
With a final war cry, soliders rushed into the dust created by the opponents in front of them.
And so the battle began.
The Craven had only been able to muster an army of some four thousand men, and whether the charge of Jakob had spurred some warriors spirit in the men, or their opponents were just inadequate is something left to the bards that sing of legends of old. For they did not do much to stand in the way of the army of Jakob.
It was an exceptional chance of fate that would see Duneon seize his opportunity for greatness. The famous Drako, a legendary but aging knight of the Kingsguard. The only surviving member of Ivar's guard, of particular renown for his martial ability and zealous loyalty, had managed to stab his sword into the thigh of Lord Robert Wysten. Duneon burst forward with a speed he did not know he possessed as he parried with his shield the Knights' blow that would have pierced the Lord's neck.
Despite his fear, he smiled as he traded blows with the ferocious knight. Saving the life of the Lord of the Lands and cousin to the King had seemingly heightened his resolve. He knew such action would see him rewarded beyond his wildest dreams. The downed Wysten, despite his injury, in a display of the fury and grit his House was renowned for, pulled free a dirk and lodged it firmly into the Knight's calf. Duneon pressed forward and the tired, injured knight fell to his sword.
Duneon smiled.
Until the blade of an unseen opponent emerged from his throat. Bloodstained the cold steel. The light in his oceanic eyes faded as his lifeblood fed the grass. As darkness filled his vision, his last thoughts turned to his son and he prayed to the heavens that his son would succeed where he had failed.
Slowly, he breathed his last.