Chapter 56: The Crag
…
Richard POV
A few days later, as the sun dipped low on the horizon, I sat astride my steed, Lancelot, his sleek black coat gleaming beneath the polished plates of his dark armor.
Like me, he bore blackened steel trimmed with gold, the muted glow catching the dying light of evening.
Together, we struck an imposing figure against the amber hues of twilight.
Behind me, my knights sat tall in their saddles, their dark steel and gold armor shimmering faintly in the fading sun.
The crest of the Nemean lion emblazoned on their breastplates stood as an unyielding symbol of strength and loyalty.
These were no ordinary soldiers—they were Nemeós knights, men forged in discipline and dedication, sworn to my cause.
We had arrived at the Crag and waited patiently outside its gates. The purpose of my visit was to deal with Ser Jamond, a troublesome knight who had encroached upon my lands.
Though I could have sent assassins or dealt with him myself, handling this matter publicly served a greater purpose.
I needed to send a clear message, and with the aid of Lord Westerling, my ally, I would do just that.
The jagged coastline of the Westerlands stretched endlessly behind us, waves from the Sunset Sea crashing relentlessly against the cliffs.
Before us stood the Crag, a fortress defiant in its simplicity, its grey stone walls seeming to rise naturally from the rocky landscape.
The sharp tang of salt filled the air as the wind carried sea spray and tugged at our cloaks.
Above, the golden banners of House Westerling fluttered in the breeze, adorned with their sigil: a golden field scattered with white seashells, a modest yet dignified emblem reflecting their ties to the sea and their noble, if diminished, heritage.
The Crag itself was a testament to endurance, its weathered stones shaped more by survival than splendor. Yet, signs of renewal were evident—fresh stonework reinforced the gates, and the walls had been restored since my last visit.
These changes spoke of Lord Gawen Westerling's resolve and the strength of the alliance we had forged.
With our pact of increased trade and mutual support, our lands had prospered.
The thriving Lionheart establishment within his territory had only made the deal more practical and profitable.
The gates groaned open at last, revealing a small procession of men-at-arms clad in the gold and white of House Westerling.
At their head rode Lord Gawen himself, his posture straight, his expression calm and composed.
He was young, twenty name days, with shoulder-length chestnut hair and steady brown eyes that held the wisdom of a man already accustomed to leadership.
"Well, if it isn't Galahad the Gallant. Welcome to the Crag again, my friend," Gawen called, his voice cutting through the sea breeze. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he rode forward, his cloak billowing behind him like a banner in the wind.
I spurred Lancelot ahead to meet him, and as we drew near, we clasped forearms, a gesture of mutual respect even from atop our horses.
"It has been too long, Gawen," I said, my grip firm. "I trust all has been well in your halls."
"Well enough," Gawen replied with a dry chuckle, glancing back toward the castle gates. "But I doubt you've ridden all this way simply to exchange pleasantries. Come, let us talk inside."
I nodded and accepted the bread and salt from one of his men. With that, we rode through the gates and into the heart of the castle.
A while later, I found myself seated in Gawen's solar. The stone walls of the chamber were cool, a stark contrast to the warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth.
"I trust your journey was well?" he asked, though his tone was more of a formality than true curiosity. He already knew there was more to me being here.
I nodded and leaned forward, folding my hands on the table, and met his eyes. "Gawen, a week ago, I received word of bandits attacking merchants traveling into my territory from yours."
His face darkened, a tightness in his expression revealing his anger. "Bandits, you say? That's unacceptable. I'll have them dealt with swiftly."
Though I appreciated the offer, I had already dealt with them, so his help would be of no use.
I shook my head, my voice steady. "I've already dealt with the bandits."
Gawen's confusion was evident as his brows shot up. "Then why bring this to me now? If you've taken care of it, what more is there?"
I hesitated, letting the weight of the truth settle between us. "The bandits were just pawns. The real culprit is Ser Jamond, who controls the southern part of your lands."
Surprise flashed across Gawen's face before it quickly morphed into a deep frown. "Jamond?" He said the name as if it were foreign, his disbelief palpable. "Are you certain?"
I nodded, holding his gaze. "I spoke with the bandit leader, who turns out to be one of Jamond's knights. He confessed to Jamond's involvement, and I have proof."
Gawen sat back in his chair, his eyes steady as he took in what I had said. He didn't question me further, the silence between us speaking volumes about the trust we shared.
Finally, he spoke, his voice calm but firm. "If you're sure, then I'll deal with this. I'll take care of Ser Jamond."
I shook my head. "No, Gawen. I want him for myself. I intend to make an example of him."
His expression shifted slightly, as if weighing my request against the cost of it. I could see the conflict in his eyes.
After a long pause, he spoke again. "You've done much for my house. Your alliance with me has brought us wealth and stability. You've earned my trust. If you wish to handle Jamond personally, I won't stop you."
I held his gaze, my voice unwavering. "I swear, Gawen, no harm will come to the innocent people of your lands. Only Jamond and those who aided him will pay."
He nodded slowly, his eyes resigned but understanding. "Very well."
With that, the matter was settled. My visit to the Crag was done.
…
Third POV
The dimly lit room smelled of dust and the sharp tang of gold. Stolen goods—silks, jewelry, gold—were scattered across the wooden tables.
Dresses with silver threads, necklaces set with precious stones, and stacks of gold coins filled the crates.
Ser Jamond, a slimy man in his forties with a black beard and greasy hair, sat in a high-backed chair. His rough hands were folded in front of him, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he surveyed the spoils.
The firelight flickered, casting shadows on the walls, while the wooden beams creaked under the weight of the stolen riches.
His daughter, Elayne, above average in looks and bearing resemblance to her father, stood at a nearby table.
Her fingers traced the fabric of an intricately woven dress, her eyes gleaming with anticipation as she assessed the fortune before her.
She laughed softly, her eyes lighting up with greed. "With Qynton's help, we'll have everything we ever dreamed of. The wealth he's brought us—it's more than I ever imagined."
Jamond's lips curled into a proud smirk. "He's been useful, hasn't he? Knows his way around the roads, and his work's paid off tenfold."
Elayne's gaze sparkled, a mix of amusement and hunger in her eyes. "And now, thanks to all this, I'll be able to marry him. A match made in heaven." She chuckled, her voice tinged with sarcasm.
"I never thought I'd end up with a man like him, but he's done what no one else could for us." She swept a hand across the piles of gold and gems, emphasizing her point.
Jamond leaned forward, fingers drumming on the armrest. "Aye, and he'll be rewarded for it, that's for sure."
Elayne smirked, turning her attention back to the treasures. She picked up a necklace, holding it up to the light. "With all this, we'll live like royalty. And I'll have the wedding of my dreams, too."
Jamond nodded, leaning back in his chair. "As long as the roads are ours, the rest will follow. All thanks to Qynton."
Elayne's smile widened as she placed the necklace back among the treasure. "And as we grow in wealth, we'll rise in power." She looked at her father, her grin growing. "We've really outdone ourselves, haven't we?"
Jamond chuckled, low and satisfied. "Indeed, my dear."
They shared a look, their laughter filling the cold room as the fire flickered lower.
But their moment was interrupted by a sudden knock at the door. Jamond looked up, his voice carrying an edge of irritation as he called, "Come in."
Silence followed for a while.
Elayne rose from her seat, her brow furrowing in confusion. "I'll see who it is," she said, heading toward the door.
When she opened it, there was no one in sight. Instead, an unmarked box sat on the doorstep. She frowned, glancing around but finding no one lurking in the shadows.
Jamond's voice came from the room behind her, gruff and questioning. "Who was it?"
Elayne turned the box over in her hands, still unsure, and shrugged. "No one. Just this." She walked back to him, holding it up. "What do you think it is?"
Jamond eyed the box cautiously, a frown pulling at his lips. "Open it."
Elayne hesitated for a moment, but then she slowly lifted the lid.
Immediately the smell of rotten flesh hit her nose. Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes locked onto the contents.
"Aaaaieeee!!!" She screamed in terror as she found out what it was.
…
Author note: This chapter sets up the conflict with Jamond. Could have made it longer and describe more things and give more detail, but it would do nothing for the plot.
This chapter gives a glimpse into Richard dealings for the past year. He made alliances with bordering houses, so houses both north and south of Neméos have been assured to not be hostile.
Ser Jamond was an outlier, who thinks he can profit without getting caught. Richard is about to have a field day experimenting and testing the soldiers he's been training up.