The large, open hall was clouded with people for once. Normally the great hall was rather empty, servants feet shuffling around being the only sound in it. But the dukes early death had given reason for it's use again, if not for a coronation of the next duke, then for a meeting of the earls and marquis', the noblemen and the common advisors. But sadly the coronation would have to wait. Many of the nobles had travelled from their holdings to the Wintershouse, where the snow fell thick and heavy, and the trees were without leaves for nine months, only to grow out yellow and brown, before falling again. These nobles stood together, bickering and talking about affairs of the realm. Some talked about lord Gregars role in king Etwine's campaign. Others spoke of lord Perris of Harrighfield, discussing whether he should own the iron mine that sparked the war, or if king Etwine should own it. The opinions were diferring, but many of them agreed that the war was unnessecary, and Gregars involvement even more unneccesary. Others had talk of trade, and recent sightings of the horsemen of the west, and a single minor lordling jested about a man crossing the icey oceans. An impossible feat, as many knew.
“THUD.” A silence befell the hall, as the heads turned towards the young boy sitting on the simple wooden throne, adorned with stags' antlers. The young lord regents' face spoke books, his teeth clenched and his hands balled into fists after having smacked on the armrests. Looking around the hall, he looked over the faces of all those that had gathered, and knew this to not be all, as many were still returning from the Kings battles in the Ironhills. Nevertheless he raised from the throne, pushing his chest forward and lifting his chin. The earls and other vassals looked at him, some with hope and bravery in their eyes, others with distrust and disdain. It was a known fact that Joakim's young age was a matter of discussion amongst the nobles. And Joakim knew now was the time to show he was not a boy, but a man.
“Friends of the Whitelands!” he spoke, loudly as the walls of the hall bounced his words, echoing them and giving them figurative weight. “We meet to mourn my father, god have his soul. Slain in battle, he died an honorable death amongst his fellow soldiers, loyal to the crown as always. We meet to gather oaths of fealty to my brother, lord Gregar Weade, rightful heir of the North, who is fulfilling his duty to the king as we speak.” He looked around the room once more, assuring everyone was looking at him still. He was remarkably steady for a man that just heard of the death of his father. Perhaps it was the knowledge that this was his duty that held him in place. Just as he wanted to continue, he saw his mother at the large doors with two of her maidens. They wore traditional, simple black dresses, and had used a piece of black charcoal to mark a dot on their forehead, as was custom for a period of mourning.
Forcing himself to swallow his emotions, he continued, his mother turning around and leaving the hall at the same time. “Are there any who object to Gregars claim on the Whitelands? Speak now, and be free to voice your concerns for the good of the realm!” The room stayed silent, but when Joakim moved forward a step to continue with the collection of oaths, a loud and gritty voice broke the silence. “If the good lord Gregar is so concerned with the well being of our realm, why is he fighting the Kings' battle, far away from his home and family, who need him now?” The man that spoke was Earl Redford, of Redford keep in the south bordering the Forklands. He was short and stubby, but strong and a capable fighter none the less. He had a black beard, with scars throughout it, and had a shaved head, littered with scars likewise. “I say... I say he is more concerned with personal glory and honor than the wellbeing of his people.” He had a serious look in his eyes, and stared at Joakim as if he was challenging him. And not any less important, it seemed some of the others in the hall nodded, agreeing with the mans points.
Joakim was petrified, as he hadn't anticipated an actual reply. Slowly he rectified himself, standing straight again and walking down the few stairs that lead up to the throne, walking closer to Earl Redford. “Earl Redford, if I am not mistaken, last year you were named Shieldbrother of the duke. I know I am not mistaken, as I attended the festivities at your keep. Does your duty as Shieldbrother not mean you were supposed to be with my father, Duke Rikard? Were you not supposed to guard him?” The Earl grinded his teeth and didn't seem to accept this as an answer, stepping forward with a hint of aggression. Some of the nobles around the two got a bit more on edge, ready to interfere, but it wasn't neccesary. “What are you saying, lord regent..” the Earl said, spitting the words as if it was saliva on his tongue.
“Perhaps you would've been home from campaign right now, celebrating with the duke.. if you had been there, earl Redford.” The earl seemed agitated, but stepped back and shut his mouth, granting Joakim this 'victory' for now. Joakim slowly backed off too, and walked back to the throne, placing a hand on the armrest. “My brother is serving for the king, as any son of the duke would. We have received a messenger who says he is currently returning to the Wintershouse, his rightful place. As soon as he arrives, we will coronate him as duke, but first I shall need the oaths of allegiance from his bannerman, you. Do you swear unto the banner of your house loyalty, respect and fealty to the rightful heir of the Whitelands, son of duke Rikard the Just, and guardsman of the North?”
The nobles bowed their heads and put a hand on their right shoulder, while simultaneously stating that they did indeed swear fealty, respect and allegiance to lord Gregar Weade, future duke of the Whitelands. Meanwhile Joakim sat down on the throne again, signs of weariness showing in his face due to the restless nights he had endured, and now this attack of Earl Redford. The stress had been wearing him down, and he wasn't sure he had handled adequately in this situation, despite the quick training in these type of situations he received from several advisors. “Very well. I am sure you all would wish to return to your quarters, it has been a long day for all of us. We will meet again at the word of Gregars arrival.” And with that, the meeting was ended, and everyone was to return to their daily tasks, meaning most of the noblemen went to enjoy some food at the local tavern, normally a place for peasantry, but today a place for blue blood.
The handsome young knight swayed side to side in his saddle, his horse slowly trotting the muddy grounds. His face was stern, tranquil and had a hint of drowsiness on it. As he passed the fifth waystone, he turned his horse to the right, leading it onto a better path, though still muddy. A farmer standing on his lands nearby, tending the pigs, looked onto him as he rode by, though the young man payed him no mind. In front of him was the first stop on the way home, the Mosskeep, whose outside walls are covered in thick slippery moss. The actual keep inside it was much better maintained. It had a certain charm, he'd admit. But it was no better than his home.
As he approached the walls at an ever slow pace, one of the forward guards noticed him and halted him, pointing his spear at the man from a distance while letting out a “You, stop.” The young knight halted his horse, and looked at the guard, who wore a simple kettle hat with chainmail to cover the neck, along with a chainmail with surcoat and some simple leather boots. They certainly saved money on his equipment. The knight slowly raised his hand and grabbed his woolen hood, lowering it with a short tug. The guard squinted his eyes, then opened them wide before looking at the shield hanging from the horses' saddle, which was yellow with the Old Tree insignia of the Weade's on it. Suddenly he turned around, the poor man realizing his error in pointing his spear at the man, and ran for the gate, shouting at the gatesman to open it. Slowly the man rode his horse forward again, towards the gate, as he listened to the man yell. “He's here! The Oakheart of the North! Call lady Rossric! Gregar Weade is here!”
He still had it, old Gregar. His name was still known to the common man, as was his nickname. A grin escaped from his tired lips as he pulled the hood back on, the rain bothering him too much to keep it off. Certainly, it wouldn't rain in the north, it'd be snowing, just like Gregar liked it. The horse rode into the stables almost by itself, and Gregar got off, leaving his equipment to be gathered by a stableboy or servant. Hopefully lady Rossric employed better stableboys than her father did, as items frequently went missing whenever Gregar had visited years before. Patting the horses neck a few times, he sent his other hand across it's manes, almost as if he were thanking him for it's service. After that he turned around and approached the keep, passing through the small but bustling crowd of people that were working, and through the doors of the keep, into the main hall. “Lady Rossric.” he'd speak, with a warm and low toned voice, approaching the throne she'd be seated on with graceful, but steady and tough steps. His face had a small smile on it, though lady Rossric would've known Gregar long enough to see it was a smile bothered by weariness, fatigue and sadness. If anything, he smiled out of sheer social requirement. “Last time I saw you, you were throwing a tantrum at your father.” His head would turn around the court, taking a look at those that were present in an attempt to see if he remembered or recognised any of them. Perhaps a knight or guardsman would strike him familiar, or an advisor or nobleman met at a feast once. And perhaps he partially wished to see if anyone was truly in awe of the famed 'Oakheart' or if they were merely thinking that Gregar could not be thé Oakheart that he was known to be, as the stories often made him out to be much more handsome and formidable as he himself found himself to be.
Gidja walked her round amongst the quarters of the lords, making sure to differ her patterns every now and then. Mostly she did this by just walking where ever struck her fancy. This meant she mostly walked around the balconies overlooking the garden - well, a garden. It was more like a snowed over field of grass, with hints of dark purple and deep yellow Snowdragons, a type of fower that grew only in the north. Not that it was any special except for it's exclusivety in southern regions. From the balcony she could see into this garden, where most servants spent their spare time resting, and she could also walk around the premises of the guest quarters. They were simple quarters, made of stone, and most did not have more than a bed, a chest for weaponry and other such things and a table and stool. It was good enough for the lords, who seemed to pride themselves in their simplicity, and often mocked the southern lords for their standards.
It was turning night, and many lords and their servants came back from the tavern, drunk or sober depending on the lord. They all entered their quarters straight away, most likely wishing to sleep away the drinks. Gidja could't fault them. Just as she was about to change her position again to take a look onto the garden, she got called over by another guardsman, Eirik, a young and able recruit. The young boy was barely 16, and had not a spot of hair on his chin. Even the lord regent, Joakim, looked more manly than this young guard. She grinned to herself, her slight laugh uncovering her joy in the boys appearance. As she got closer to him he grinned at her as well. “Laughing at me again are we? Just watch, one day I'll be yer' boss, Gidja.” She smiled and playfully tugged on his cheek as a mother would. “Sure you will. What did you want, hairless Eirik?” The boy adjusted his leather belt again, his sheathed sword being slightly too heavy for him. It would never stay up comfortably, always dragging on behind him. “Capt'n told me ter' release you, 'n ordered you to visit the courtyard. Somefin' about keeping an eye on thieves.. not sure who'd risk their handses right now fer' stealing, but orders be orders, right Gidja?”
Gidja shrugged it off, the boy was right, orders were orders. She nodded at him and gripped her spear closer while heading off for the courtyard, passing through the guest quarters, into a stairwell and down into the garden where she'd greet Svit, a servant of the liege lord. After the garden it was a straight walk through the main hall, past the sides of it, out the large doors and into the courtyard. It seemed quiet, two of the dogs running by chasing eachother and playing around, generally being a nuisance, but an enjoyable nuisance at that. A cat had laid down nearby and purred softly as it slept, but one open eye would reveal it wasn't truly sleeping, more so watching the two dogs scuffle about.
It had become part of her routine, to stand in the cold outside during the snow, watching the moon shine it's light on the keep and it's surrounding village, leaning on her spear and keeping a watchful eye on the surroundings. Surely nobody would try anything tonight, not with all the guards of the visiting earls and other noblemen walking about. Lord regent Joakim had made a good decision to offer them shelter inside the village rather than outside, and it seemed the tavern owner, Andrik, agreed with her. He was making good bussiness with these drunk soldiers walking around, and those that didn't drink sat around their fires near the tents they set up in the village, talking and having a merry time, despite the bitter cold.
Surely, it would be fun to see someone from the south spend a night here. Maybe that pesky little Edúar Athos, of the Falkhalls. That little brat always had such a runny mouth whenever she had seen him, surely his father would do good to send him to the Whitelands for some Northern discipline to be beaten into him. Gidja giggled to herself, the mere idea of a southerner here was idiotic ofcourse, but she couldn't help but wonder what he'd do. Probably scream bloody murder at the 'abuse' of putting him in a cold chamber with a bed and table. And so the night carried away, drunk men passing by, dogs chasing eachother and a half sleeping cat to keep her company. She wondered what her own cat was up to, but she knew the answer - he'd be laying in her bed, lazy as always. It'd been months since he'd caught a rat. Stupid critter it was.
“THUD.” A silence befell the hall, as the heads turned towards the young boy sitting on the simple wooden throne, adorned with stags' antlers. The young lord regents' face spoke books, his teeth clenched and his hands balled into fists after having smacked on the armrests. Looking around the hall, he looked over the faces of all those that had gathered, and knew this to not be all, as many were still returning from the Kings battles in the Ironhills. Nevertheless he raised from the throne, pushing his chest forward and lifting his chin. The earls and other vassals looked at him, some with hope and bravery in their eyes, others with distrust and disdain. It was a known fact that Joakim's young age was a matter of discussion amongst the nobles. And Joakim knew now was the time to show he was not a boy, but a man.
“Friends of the Whitelands!” he spoke, loudly as the walls of the hall bounced his words, echoing them and giving them figurative weight. “We meet to mourn my father, god have his soul. Slain in battle, he died an honorable death amongst his fellow soldiers, loyal to the crown as always. We meet to gather oaths of fealty to my brother, lord Gregar Weade, rightful heir of the North, who is fulfilling his duty to the king as we speak.” He looked around the room once more, assuring everyone was looking at him still. He was remarkably steady for a man that just heard of the death of his father. Perhaps it was the knowledge that this was his duty that held him in place. Just as he wanted to continue, he saw his mother at the large doors with two of her maidens. They wore traditional, simple black dresses, and had used a piece of black charcoal to mark a dot on their forehead, as was custom for a period of mourning.
Forcing himself to swallow his emotions, he continued, his mother turning around and leaving the hall at the same time. “Are there any who object to Gregars claim on the Whitelands? Speak now, and be free to voice your concerns for the good of the realm!” The room stayed silent, but when Joakim moved forward a step to continue with the collection of oaths, a loud and gritty voice broke the silence. “If the good lord Gregar is so concerned with the well being of our realm, why is he fighting the Kings' battle, far away from his home and family, who need him now?” The man that spoke was Earl Redford, of Redford keep in the south bordering the Forklands. He was short and stubby, but strong and a capable fighter none the less. He had a black beard, with scars throughout it, and had a shaved head, littered with scars likewise. “I say... I say he is more concerned with personal glory and honor than the wellbeing of his people.” He had a serious look in his eyes, and stared at Joakim as if he was challenging him. And not any less important, it seemed some of the others in the hall nodded, agreeing with the mans points.
Joakim was petrified, as he hadn't anticipated an actual reply. Slowly he rectified himself, standing straight again and walking down the few stairs that lead up to the throne, walking closer to Earl Redford. “Earl Redford, if I am not mistaken, last year you were named Shieldbrother of the duke. I know I am not mistaken, as I attended the festivities at your keep. Does your duty as Shieldbrother not mean you were supposed to be with my father, Duke Rikard? Were you not supposed to guard him?” The Earl grinded his teeth and didn't seem to accept this as an answer, stepping forward with a hint of aggression. Some of the nobles around the two got a bit more on edge, ready to interfere, but it wasn't neccesary. “What are you saying, lord regent..” the Earl said, spitting the words as if it was saliva on his tongue.
“Perhaps you would've been home from campaign right now, celebrating with the duke.. if you had been there, earl Redford.” The earl seemed agitated, but stepped back and shut his mouth, granting Joakim this 'victory' for now. Joakim slowly backed off too, and walked back to the throne, placing a hand on the armrest. “My brother is serving for the king, as any son of the duke would. We have received a messenger who says he is currently returning to the Wintershouse, his rightful place. As soon as he arrives, we will coronate him as duke, but first I shall need the oaths of allegiance from his bannerman, you. Do you swear unto the banner of your house loyalty, respect and fealty to the rightful heir of the Whitelands, son of duke Rikard the Just, and guardsman of the North?”
The nobles bowed their heads and put a hand on their right shoulder, while simultaneously stating that they did indeed swear fealty, respect and allegiance to lord Gregar Weade, future duke of the Whitelands. Meanwhile Joakim sat down on the throne again, signs of weariness showing in his face due to the restless nights he had endured, and now this attack of Earl Redford. The stress had been wearing him down, and he wasn't sure he had handled adequately in this situation, despite the quick training in these type of situations he received from several advisors. “Very well. I am sure you all would wish to return to your quarters, it has been a long day for all of us. We will meet again at the word of Gregars arrival.” And with that, the meeting was ended, and everyone was to return to their daily tasks, meaning most of the noblemen went to enjoy some food at the local tavern, normally a place for peasantry, but today a place for blue blood.
The handsome young knight swayed side to side in his saddle, his horse slowly trotting the muddy grounds. His face was stern, tranquil and had a hint of drowsiness on it. As he passed the fifth waystone, he turned his horse to the right, leading it onto a better path, though still muddy. A farmer standing on his lands nearby, tending the pigs, looked onto him as he rode by, though the young man payed him no mind. In front of him was the first stop on the way home, the Mosskeep, whose outside walls are covered in thick slippery moss. The actual keep inside it was much better maintained. It had a certain charm, he'd admit. But it was no better than his home.
As he approached the walls at an ever slow pace, one of the forward guards noticed him and halted him, pointing his spear at the man from a distance while letting out a “You, stop.” The young knight halted his horse, and looked at the guard, who wore a simple kettle hat with chainmail to cover the neck, along with a chainmail with surcoat and some simple leather boots. They certainly saved money on his equipment. The knight slowly raised his hand and grabbed his woolen hood, lowering it with a short tug. The guard squinted his eyes, then opened them wide before looking at the shield hanging from the horses' saddle, which was yellow with the Old Tree insignia of the Weade's on it. Suddenly he turned around, the poor man realizing his error in pointing his spear at the man, and ran for the gate, shouting at the gatesman to open it. Slowly the man rode his horse forward again, towards the gate, as he listened to the man yell. “He's here! The Oakheart of the North! Call lady Rossric! Gregar Weade is here!”
He still had it, old Gregar. His name was still known to the common man, as was his nickname. A grin escaped from his tired lips as he pulled the hood back on, the rain bothering him too much to keep it off. Certainly, it wouldn't rain in the north, it'd be snowing, just like Gregar liked it. The horse rode into the stables almost by itself, and Gregar got off, leaving his equipment to be gathered by a stableboy or servant. Hopefully lady Rossric employed better stableboys than her father did, as items frequently went missing whenever Gregar had visited years before. Patting the horses neck a few times, he sent his other hand across it's manes, almost as if he were thanking him for it's service. After that he turned around and approached the keep, passing through the small but bustling crowd of people that were working, and through the doors of the keep, into the main hall. “Lady Rossric.” he'd speak, with a warm and low toned voice, approaching the throne she'd be seated on with graceful, but steady and tough steps. His face had a small smile on it, though lady Rossric would've known Gregar long enough to see it was a smile bothered by weariness, fatigue and sadness. If anything, he smiled out of sheer social requirement. “Last time I saw you, you were throwing a tantrum at your father.” His head would turn around the court, taking a look at those that were present in an attempt to see if he remembered or recognised any of them. Perhaps a knight or guardsman would strike him familiar, or an advisor or nobleman met at a feast once. And perhaps he partially wished to see if anyone was truly in awe of the famed 'Oakheart' or if they were merely thinking that Gregar could not be thé Oakheart that he was known to be, as the stories often made him out to be much more handsome and formidable as he himself found himself to be.
Gidja walked her round amongst the quarters of the lords, making sure to differ her patterns every now and then. Mostly she did this by just walking where ever struck her fancy. This meant she mostly walked around the balconies overlooking the garden - well, a garden. It was more like a snowed over field of grass, with hints of dark purple and deep yellow Snowdragons, a type of fower that grew only in the north. Not that it was any special except for it's exclusivety in southern regions. From the balcony she could see into this garden, where most servants spent their spare time resting, and she could also walk around the premises of the guest quarters. They were simple quarters, made of stone, and most did not have more than a bed, a chest for weaponry and other such things and a table and stool. It was good enough for the lords, who seemed to pride themselves in their simplicity, and often mocked the southern lords for their standards.
It was turning night, and many lords and their servants came back from the tavern, drunk or sober depending on the lord. They all entered their quarters straight away, most likely wishing to sleep away the drinks. Gidja could't fault them. Just as she was about to change her position again to take a look onto the garden, she got called over by another guardsman, Eirik, a young and able recruit. The young boy was barely 16, and had not a spot of hair on his chin. Even the lord regent, Joakim, looked more manly than this young guard. She grinned to herself, her slight laugh uncovering her joy in the boys appearance. As she got closer to him he grinned at her as well. “Laughing at me again are we? Just watch, one day I'll be yer' boss, Gidja.” She smiled and playfully tugged on his cheek as a mother would. “Sure you will. What did you want, hairless Eirik?” The boy adjusted his leather belt again, his sheathed sword being slightly too heavy for him. It would never stay up comfortably, always dragging on behind him. “Capt'n told me ter' release you, 'n ordered you to visit the courtyard. Somefin' about keeping an eye on thieves.. not sure who'd risk their handses right now fer' stealing, but orders be orders, right Gidja?”
Gidja shrugged it off, the boy was right, orders were orders. She nodded at him and gripped her spear closer while heading off for the courtyard, passing through the guest quarters, into a stairwell and down into the garden where she'd greet Svit, a servant of the liege lord. After the garden it was a straight walk through the main hall, past the sides of it, out the large doors and into the courtyard. It seemed quiet, two of the dogs running by chasing eachother and playing around, generally being a nuisance, but an enjoyable nuisance at that. A cat had laid down nearby and purred softly as it slept, but one open eye would reveal it wasn't truly sleeping, more so watching the two dogs scuffle about.
It had become part of her routine, to stand in the cold outside during the snow, watching the moon shine it's light on the keep and it's surrounding village, leaning on her spear and keeping a watchful eye on the surroundings. Surely nobody would try anything tonight, not with all the guards of the visiting earls and other noblemen walking about. Lord regent Joakim had made a good decision to offer them shelter inside the village rather than outside, and it seemed the tavern owner, Andrik, agreed with her. He was making good bussiness with these drunk soldiers walking around, and those that didn't drink sat around their fires near the tents they set up in the village, talking and having a merry time, despite the bitter cold.
Surely, it would be fun to see someone from the south spend a night here. Maybe that pesky little Edúar Athos, of the Falkhalls. That little brat always had such a runny mouth whenever she had seen him, surely his father would do good to send him to the Whitelands for some Northern discipline to be beaten into him. Gidja giggled to herself, the mere idea of a southerner here was idiotic ofcourse, but she couldn't help but wonder what he'd do. Probably scream bloody murder at the 'abuse' of putting him in a cold chamber with a bed and table. And so the night carried away, drunk men passing by, dogs chasing eachother and a half sleeping cat to keep her company. She wondered what her own cat was up to, but she knew the answer - he'd be laying in her bed, lazy as always. It'd been months since he'd caught a rat. Stupid critter it was.