Chapter 2: A Feast of Banners

Chapter 2: A Feast of Banners

The sun that rose over Serpent's Tooth Keep the next day seemed to shine on a different man. The household staff, accustomed to the sullen, often-inebriated Lord Kaelen Vyrwel, now saw a figure of quiet, unnerving intensity. The slouch was gone from his shoulders, replaced by a straight-backed posture that spoke of coiled strength. His eyes, once clouded with drink or apathy, were now sharp and startlingly clear, seeming to assess everything and everyone with a cold, measuring gaze. The change was so profound it was whispered about in the kitchens and the barracks. They credited it to the shock of Ser Boros's tragic death, a grim catalyst that had seemingly forged their young lord into a man of steel overnight.

Kaelen was aware of the whispers. He encouraged them. Fear and awe were far more useful tools than the pity and contempt his predecessor had garnered. His first order of business was to solidify his control. He summoned the garrison to the courtyard, the same place where Boros had died less than a day ago. The men assembled, their expressions a mixture of apprehension and curiosity.

"Ser Boros is gone," Kaelen began, his voice ringing with a newfound resonance across the cobblestones. "He served this house faithfully, and his death was a tragedy. But war waits for no man's grief. We march for Storm's End in three days. We will need a new Master-at-Arms."

His eyes scanned the faces of the men. He saw the flicker of ambition in a few, the stolid sense of duty in others. His gaze settled on a man named Horys. He was in his late thirties, a stout, unsmiling man with work-roughened hands and a reputation for being disciplined and utterly unimaginative. He was not the best fighter in the garrison—that was a younger, cockier man named Steffon—but Horys was reliable. A perfect instrument.

"Horys," Kaelen said. "You will take the role of Master-at-Arms. Your duty is to ensure these men are equipped, drilled, and ready to march when I give the order. Do you understand?"

Horys's eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he snapped to attention. "Yes, my lord. I will not fail you."

"See that you don't."

A murmur went through the men. Steffon, the hot-headed young warrior, looked visibly slighted. It was a deliberate choice. Kaelen had no intention of promoting the best of his stock; the best were to be harvested, not delegated to.

Steffon, unable to contain himself, stepped forward. "My lord, if I may be so bold… the Master-at-Arms should be the finest warrior, to best train the men. I challenge Horys for the honor."

Kaelen turned his head slowly, fixing Steffon with a gaze so devoid of warmth it was like being stared at by a lizard. "You challenge my command?"

"No, my lord! I only wish to prove my worth to the house," Steffon stammered, shrinking slightly under the intensity of the stare.

"Your worth?" Kaelen let a small, cold smile touch his lips. It did not reach his eyes. "Very well. You wish to prove your skill with a blade. Then prove it against me."

A hush fell over the courtyard. Steffon, who had witnessed his lord's pathetic display against Boros just yesterday, saw an opportunity. A confident smirk spread across his face. "As you command, my lord."

They took up practice swords. Steffon was fast, his movements filled with youthful arrogance. He lunged, expecting the same clumsy oaf from the day before.

What he met was a wall of perfect, economical defense. Kaelen didn't move an inch more than necessary. He stood like a rock, his blade a blur, parrying every one of Steffon's furious attacks with an ease that was breathtaking. Every move Steffon made, Kaelen—or rather, the forty years of Ser Boros's experience now living in Kaelen's nerves and muscles—had seen it a thousand times before. The high feint, the low sweep, the lunge to the chest; they were the predictable scrawlings of a child to a master scribe.

Kaelen let Steffon exhaust himself for a full minute, a storm of blows crashing against an impenetrable defense. Then, with a sigh that sounded almost bored, Kaelen went on the offensive. It was not a flurry of attacks. It was three precise, perfect movements.

A parry that forced Steffon's sword wide. A step forward that broke his opponent's footing. A sharp, brutal pommel strike to the side of Steffon's unprotected head.

The young warrior crumpled to the ground, dazed and bleeding from his temple. Kaelen stood over him, not even breathing heavily. He had used Boros's skill like a scalpel, dissecting Steffon's pride with surgical precision.

He pointed the blunted sword at the fallen man. "Your worth is to obey your superiors. Horys is your superior. I am your lord. This is the only lesson you need to learn today." He then turned to the stunned men-at-arms. "Horys, begin the drills. Anyone who feels they are above your station will answer to me directly. We have much to do."

As he walked away, leaving a terrified silence in his wake, he felt the cool satisfaction of a plan perfectly executed. He had cemented his authority, instilled fear, and tested the seamless integration of his first 'meal'. The skills of Ser Boros felt as natural to him as his own hands. This power was more magnificent than he could have imagined.

The next three days were a whirlwind of methodical preparation. Kaelen's modern mind, accustomed to efficiency and logistics, streamlined the mustering process. He inventoried the armory, calculated rations with brutal pragmatism, and organized the fifty men of House Vyrwel into a disciplined marching unit. He was no longer just playing a role; he was optimizing a system for his own benefit.

On the fourth day, under a grey and drizzling sky, the serpent banner of House Vyrwel left Serpent's Tooth Keep and joined the muddy roads leading toward Storm's End. The march was slow, a slog through the rain-soaked landscape of the Stormlands. They were not alone. Soon, the road became a river of men and steel, as other, smaller houses joined the procession. Banners of Tarth, Penrose, and Estermont fluttered in the damp air.

For Kaelen, it was like walking through a larder. He saw knights with decades of experience, grizzled sergeants, sharp-eyed outriders. Each one a vessel of unique skills, a potential upgrade. But he was patient. He was a connoisseur, not a glutton. He needed the right opportunity, the right target, and a kill that could be plausibly denied.

His opportunity came on the second week of the march, in the shadow of the Kingswood. They had merged with the party of Lord Caswick, a portly, boorish man whose House sigil was a charging boar. Caswick was a man of enormous appetites—for food, for wine, for the sound of his own voice. He was also, by all accounts, one of the most renowned hunters in the Stormlands. He boasted endlessly of his skill with the bow, of tracking prey through the densest woods, of the dozens of monstrous boars whose heads decorated his hall.

Hunting, Kaelen mused as he listened to the man drone on by the campfire one evening. Stealth. Tracking. Archery. A very different, and very useful, set of skills.

The next morning, Kaelen approached Lord Caswick with a manufactured air of respect. "Lord Caswick," he said, his voice pitched in the tone of a junior seeking the wisdom of a senior. "Our men's rations are turning grim. Salt beef and hardtack are poor fuel for war. You know these woods better than any man alive. I was hoping you might honor us by leading a small hunt. A bit of fresh meat would raise the spirits of the entire column."

Caswick's chest puffed out with pride. The idea of showing off his legendary prowess to the younger lord was irresistible. "An excellent suggestion, Vyrwel! Yes! The woods here are teeming with game. A fat buck or a boar would do nicely. We'll ride out at once!"

They assembled a small party: Kaelen, Caswick, and two of Caswick's most trusted huntsmen. Kaelen had made sure to select a route that took them deep into the ancient forest, far from the noise and eyes of the main column. For hours, Caswick was in his element, pointing out tracks, identifying bird calls, lecturing Kaelen on the art of the stalk. Kaelen absorbed it all, not the man's words, but his methods. He watched how Caswick moved, how his eyes scanned the undergrowth, the practiced stillness he adopted.

They eventually found their quarry: signs of a massive boar, its tracks fresh in the damp earth. "Ah, a tusker!" Caswick whispered, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "A real monster! The glory will be all mine, boy. Watch and learn."

They followed the tracks to a dense thicket. The plan, as Caswick laid it out, was for his two huntsmen to circle around and act as beaters, driving the beast out into the open where he and Kaelen would be waiting with bows drawn. It was a standard hunting tactic. It was also a perfect stage for a tragedy.

As the huntsmen disappeared into the woods, Kaelen took his position beside the portly lord. He nocked an arrow, his movements calm and deliberate. He could feel the familiar, cold stillness settle over him, the mindset of the surgeon before the first cut.

The silence of the forest was broken by a sudden, furious crashing from the thicket, followed by a man's scream, abruptly cut off. A moment later, the second huntsman burst from the trees, his face a mask of terror. "Boar! Gods, it's a demon!" he shrieked, before a monstrous black boar, larger than any Kaelen had imagined, gored him from behind, tossing him aside like a sack of grain.

The beast was a true monster, its eyes burning with primal rage, blood dripping from its razor-sharp tusks. It turned its attention to the two lords.

Caswick, for all his boasting, froze. His face went pale, his bow trembling in his hands. This was no simple hunt; this was a manifestation of nature's fury.

Kaelen, however, felt no fear. He felt only the icy thrill of opportunity.

"Lord Caswick, shoot!" Kaelen yelled, feigning panic.

His shout seemed to break Caswick's stupor. The lord fumbled, drew his bowstring, and loosed his arrow. It was a poor shot, panicked and rushed, and it only grazed the boar's thick hide, enraging it further. The beast let out a deafening squeal and charged directly at them.

Everything happened in the space of three heartbeats.

Kaelen did not fire at the boar. He dropped his bow, drew the long-bladed hunting knife from his belt, and lunged towards Lord Caswick. "I'll save you!" he screamed, creating the perfect audio cover for his actions.

He crashed into Caswick just as the boar was upon them. To any observer, it would have looked like a heroic, if foolish, attempt to push his fellow lord out of the path of the charging beast. But Kaelen's movement was precise. His body shielded his action from view. As they tumbled to the ground together, Kaelen's knife, held in a reverse grip, plunged directly into Caswick's kidney from behind. It was a deep, fatal, and utterly hidden wound.

Caswick grunted, his eyes wide with shock and pain, unable to comprehend the betrayal. In the same motion, Kaelen shoved the man's body directly into the path of the charging boar.

The impact was sickening. The beast's tusks, already bloody, ripped through Caswick's portly frame. The man's scream was lost in the chaos of the animal's furious assault.

As the life fled Lord Caswick's body, extinguished by the wound Kaelen had inflicted, the rush came again. It was different this time. It wasn't the solid, grounding strength of a warrior. It was sharper, more refined. A flood of sensory data inundated him. His eyesight seemed to sharpen, the edges of the leaves becoming crisper. He felt an intuitive understanding of the wind's direction. The knowledge of a hundred trails, the subtle art of tracking, the steady patience of the stalk, the fluid mechanics of drawing a bowstring to its anchor point—it all poured into him, a lifetime of predatory knowledge becoming his in a single, ecstatic moment.

The boar, its frenzy spent on Caswick's corpse, was now wounded and slowed. With his newly acquired instincts, Kaelen saw his opening. He snatched up his fallen bow, nocked an arrow with a newfound, fluid grace, and drew the string. The world seemed to slow down. He saw the precise spot, the vulnerable point behind the boar's shoulder, leading to its heart. He released. The arrow flew true, burying itself deep into the beast. The giant boar stumbled, let out a final, gurgling squeal, and collapsed not five feet from the mauled body of its supposed killer.

Kaelen stood there, breathing heavily, not from exertion, but from the sheer exhilaration of the power he had just consumed. He surveyed the scene: two dead huntsmen, a dead lord, and a dead monster boar. A perfect, tragic hunting accident.

He waited an hour before stumbling back to the main column, his clothes torn, his face smeared with dirt and Caswick's blood. His performance was flawless. He was the sole, traumatized survivor of a horrific animal attack, a hero who had managed to slay the beast that had killed his companions. The story was tragic, compelling, and, most importantly, completely believable.

When their column finally arrived at Storm's End a week later, Kaelen was no longer just the obscure Lord of Serpent's Tooth. He was the young lord who had survived the Kingswood Tusker, the man who brought the tragic news of Lord Caswick's death.

The sight that greeted him was a testament to the fury of the storm. The massive fortress of Storm's End was the heart of a sprawling city of tents and pavilions. A forest of spears and banners stretched as far as the eye could see. The air was filled with the cacophony of ten thousand men: the ring of hammers on anvils, the shouts of drill sergeants, the whinnying of horses, and the low hum of an army preparing for war. For Kaelen, the sight was not awe-inspiring; it was intoxicating. It was a banquet hall laid out before him, filled with the finest dishes the Seven Kingdoms had to offer.

He was granted an audience with Robert Baratheon almost immediately, a privilege afforded to him as the bearer of another lord's fate. He was led into the great hall of Storm's End, a vast, echoing chamber where Robert stood over a table covered in maps, surrounded by the great lords of the Stormlands.

Robert Baratheon was even larger in person than the books had described. A giant of a man, filled with a vibrant, dangerous energy. He was muscle and fury, his black beard thick, his blue eyes flashing with impatience.

"Lord Kaelen Vyrwel," announced the herald.

Robert looked up from his maps, his gaze falling upon Kaelen. "Vyrwel. The serpent lord. You bring news of Caswick."

Kaelen bowed deeply, his face a mask of solemn duty. "I do, Lord Robert. It is with a heavy heart that I report Lord Caswick has fallen. We were beset by a monstrous boar in the Kingswood. He died bravely."

Robert listened, his expression unreadable, as Kaelen recounted his carefully constructed tale. When he was finished, the room was silent. Robert stroked his beard, his eyes narrowing as he studied Kaelen. He looked at the young lord's steady posture, the new confidence in his eyes, the way his hand rested comfortably on the pommel of his sword. This was not the boy-lord he had heard tales of.

"First your master-at-arms dies in a 'training accident,' and now Caswick falls to a pig," Robert said, his voice a low rumble. "The gods seem to be clearing a path for you, Lord Vyrwel." There was no accusation in his tone, but a hint of something else—a dark, grudging respect.

Kaelen met his gaze without flinching. "The gods are cruel, my lord. They take good men and leave others to carry the burden of their loss. I only did my duty."

Robert suddenly threw his head back and laughed, a booming sound that filled the hall. "Hah! Duty! I like that!" He clapped Kaelen on the shoulder, a blow that would have staggered the old Kaelen but the new one absorbed with solid footing. "You have steel in you, Vyrwel. I saw Caswick's men bring in the head of that boar. It was a beast worthy of song. To face that and walk away… you have a place here."

He turned to the other lords. "Find a command for Lord Vyrwel's men. We march north at the week's end. The Trident awaits, but first, we have three battles to win right here at Summerhall, against the king's men."

As Kaelen was dismissed, he walked from the hall with a quiet sense of triumph. He had not just survived; he had thrived. He had entered Robert's orbit, catching the eye of the rebellion's leader. He was no longer an insignificant minor lord. He was a player.

He looked out over the sea of banners in the courtyard, his new, hunter's eyes picking out details with startling clarity. He saw the sunburst of House Caron, the three griffins of House Connington, the silver swan of House Swann. He saw famous knights, hardened commanders, all gathering for the slaughter.

The rebellion was not just a path to a political position anymore. Summerhall, the Battle of the Bells, the Trident… they were not just historical events to him now. They were hunting grounds.

And he was starving.