Servant Ambrosius
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Messmer
🕑 Added 2024-07-22 05:54:43 +0000 UTCPJO World
The Winter Realm, The Winter Fort
When he comes to it is to a ringing in his ears, a blurry vision, and a swelling ache that is sure to become the darkest of bruises.
With a groan that is muffled to his ears, Aemon raises himself to his knees before slowly standing to his feet. Despite the world swaying around him Aemon is able to right himself on his feet, and with his now clear vision make out the massive shape before him that destroys his fort.
“That’s a dragon.” Aemon whispers to himself, his eyes wide as he beholds the massive black dragon that ravages the Winter Fort.
Standing on four clawed feet and with scales as black as night is a dragon that matches the maesters’ description of Balerion the Black Dread. However, Aemon knows better than most that this dragon is no Balerion; for other than the four limbs which separate it from the Valyrian dragons this one also possesses a massive scar over his left eye along with flames that are orange. The flames of Valyrian dragons always match their scales. More damning however is that within these lands only one dragon matches the description of the dragon before him, Vortigern.
Yet it cannot be The Black Dragon for King Arthur himself slew him and unlike the beasts of the Greek pantheon, the ones of these lands do not reform once slain.
“And yet here he stands before you ravaging your newly acquired fort.” says the Other as his incorporeal figure appears next to Aemon.
The Other’s words bring Aemon out of his stupor as his puzzlement is quickly replaced by rage of the likes he has only ever felt once in both lifetimes.
“Vortigern!” screams Aemon as he draws Longclaw, his voice overlapping with the earthshaking roar of a dragon as his Conqueror’s Haki bores down upon The Black Dragon with no restraint.
Vortigern, who had been rampaging unimpeded, stumbles back hundreds of feet away from the Winter Fort as Aemon’s wrath bears down upon him.
“You should have stayed in your grave.” Aemon says as he appears on top of Vortigern’s head with his sword poised to stab the dragon’s remaining eye.
Before he can, however, his instincts forged through the fires of hundreds of battles warn him of an incoming danger, causing him to backflip away from the dragon’s head just as a greatsword slashes through the space where he once stood.
With speed comparable to Malenia, the wielder of the greatsword launches himself at Aemon hoping to take advantage of his airborne nature to quickly finish him.
With a sneer Aemon deflects the attack while making use of the strength behind it to further increase the distance between him and his foe.
His cloak billowing behind him, Aemon gracefully lands upon the snow covered ground, his feet barely disturbing the field and his back to the forest that surrounds the Winter Fort.
“Trénmhoir mac Cumhail.” greets Aemon as his attacker lands before him. “To show yourself before me after committing treason so blatantly; whether it is the height of arrogance or foolishness, I have yet to decide.” he says.
Standing before Aemon at seven feet and garbed in plate armor white as snow and wielding a greatsword of the same coloration is none other than Trénmhoir mac Cumhail, the current lord of House Cumhail.
“It is not treason to oust an outsider from one’s home.” replies Trénmhoir, his voice light contrary to his appearance and despite his helm.
“Mayhaps, or mayhaps not. Yet to ally yourself with The Black Dragon in order to assault the Winter Fort is treason regardless of reason; and for what? To scrape and bow for Messmer’s favor?” questions Aemon.
“Power is only given to those who are willing to lower themselves to pick it up.” replies Trénmhoir.
“One who bows their head once will only learn to bow their head again and again.” answers Aemon before launching himself at Trénmhoir.
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Lord Trénmhoir had outlined a well thought out and precise plan for Aidennan to follow. With Eredin and his vicious pack occupied in House Cumhail’s lands and attacking useless bait, Aidennan is to lead the bulk of House Cumhail’s forces, the true White Knights of Cumhail and not the rabble that Eredin busies himself with, to wipe out the Knights of Winter before quickly retreating.
Lord Trénmhoir himself is to keep the interloper busy while the Black Dragon himself takes care of Malenia and her Knights of Decay.
The end result would see the foreigner devoid of any significant force save for the Royal and Castle guards.
All in all it is a simple yet effective plan that would lay the groundwork for Messmer to rid them of the pretender with minimal losses.
If only it were that simple, Aidennan thinks to himself as he dodges a swipe from the white direwolf’s flaming claws, allowing it to fly by him to land in the snow before disappearing in the shadows.
They had come in the dead of night, when the moon was high. A pack of wolves emerging from the shadow ridden forest with a direwolf leading the charge. Its eyes are a blood red color that seems to glow in the night, and its fur is as white as snow.
They stalked Aidennan’s troops as if they were prey, without a sound. An army, with swords and shields in their hands, and a hunger for glory and a drive to bring the false King to heel. Unaware of the danger at hand, they delved deeper and deeper into the land as the pack slowly encircled them.
It began with outriders going missing and stragglers being picked off silently until the soldiers began to notice that they were in danger. And yet for all their vigilance they never suspect a pack of wolves, thinking that their enemies are merely the paltry members of the Black Knives putting a final effort to buy their King time.
At night, the howls of the pack sent chills down their spine, and still they did not suspect a direwolf leading her pack nor did they expect themselves to be the prey; for the wolves of the White Forest are not known to attack any save for the wildlife of the forest. They could feel the tension and danger but most attributed it to the eeriness of the forest and the magic of the Black Knives
That assumption had cost them dearly. Now, the forces Aidennan leads are a mere fraction of what he had sallied forth with. Surrounded by seemingly every wolf of the White Forest, Aidennan can do nothing but lead his brothers and sisters in arms on a defensive battle towards the Winter Fort, for failure is not an option.
As he plunges his sword into the skull of another wolf, Aidennan takes stock of his knights, finding that of the original 5000 he had set out with only half of them remains.
Still, half is more than enough to wipe out the Winter Knights, especially since the only warrior of note within that order is their commander, Algrim. Aidennan is more than confident of his odds against the old knight.
With what seems to be the last of the wolves retreating in a panic, Aidennan cannot help but sigh in relief as the Winter Fort appears before their eyes.
Unfortunately that relief quickly turns to dread as Aidennan lays eyes upon the body of his lord, sprawled out onto the snowy ground with his head missing and blood gushing from his neck.
Standing over the body of his lord, sword, still slick with Lord Trénmhoir’s lifeblood, in one hand and Lord Trénmhoir’s helmeted head in another is a figure shrouded in a black cloak lined with gray fur. His long black hair with platinum highlights flows down to his upper back, and his lone bright blue eye stares daggers deep into Aidennan’s spirit; and for the first time in his life, Aidennan feels fear.
“What is this? More traitors come to deliver themselves to me? Good, Longclaw thirsts for blood this night and I am not one to disappoint him.” says the figure with a smirk as he carelessly discards of Lord Trénmhoir’s head.
“You false king!” snarls Aidennan. “The Unseelie Court will never accept you.” he says as he raises his sword and prepares himself for battle.
“Oh? And who shall lead this rebellion against my person? Your lord?” asks Aemon as he makes a show of looking towards Lord Trénmhoir’s corpse. “Oh wait, that one is a corpse already.” he says with a grin.
“Perhaps House Lucaria?” asks Aemon, causing Aidennan to flinch for the interloper’s speculation is much too close to the truth. “Perhaps it is Prince Messmer, eldest prince of the former Queen Mab?” Aemon says as he removes his eyepatch, revealing his blue-white Titan eye.
“Show yourself Messmer, I can feel your serpent eyes glaring at me from beyond the Veil.” says Aemon as his eyes look in a particular direction beyond Aidennan.
For a moment there is no response until finally a shower of flower petals blows through the air and slowly coalesces to reveal Messmer’s form.
“I did not expect you to be able to perceive me beyond the Veil.” says Messmer as he studies Aemon, his voice a beautiful tinkling reminiscent of wind chimes.
Despite standing at seven feet tall Messmer does not strike an intimidating figure. Rather appearing quite slender, graceful, and beautiful, not unlike Aemon himself. With fiery red hair, pale skin, and eyes the color of bronze, one would easily be able to distinguish him as a prince.
In spite of his princely appearance however, he dons an armor that would not be out of place on a Roman centurion; red cape and all. His spear is easily taller than him yet he wields it as if it were an extension of his arm, and his helm is inscribed with the motifs of the same scarlet serpents that wound around his arms, and neck glaring at Aemon.
“Messmer, why return now?” asks Aemon, Aidennan having been long forgotten once Messmer appeared before him.
Ignoring Aemon, Messmer looks up at the night, his figure emanating deep sorrow and anguish
“Oh mother, would thou truly sanction lordship in an outsider such as him?” asks Messmer with a heavy sigh.
“She did not have much of a choice. After all, she was cursed with incompetent wastrels for children.” replies Aemon, drawing Messmer’s attention to him.
“It matters not, my duty remains the same.” Messmer says as he slowly hefts his spear up and crouches into a fighting stance. “Come, outsider, face your end with dignity.”
Without a word Aemon launches himself at Messmer, a silent snarl on his lips; while, unseen by Aidennan and his knight, the Black Knives slowly rise out of the shadows and wordlessly slit their throats.
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Westeros, King’s Landing
The Blue Pearl
106 AC
It has been moons since Evelynn has seen her lord and despite missing him dearly she has focused her attention on her mission as opposed to searching him out.
Through her tutelage Rhaenyra is proving to be an adept mind in matters of politics. Matters of warfare come less naturally to her but that is not to say that she is untalented. Rather, it is simply her morals and righteousness that holds her back; and for the heir to the throne that is a positive quality to possess. Best to let her uncle and cousins commit the terrible acts that she cannot be seen committing.
Still, the poor girl struggles under the authority of her new stepmother and Evelynn wonders how much longer can she endure before snapping at both her father and the now Queen Alicent.
Speaking of the new queen, she has been employing her agents in search of Evelynn’s lord. A fruitless endeavor if there ever was one for the smallfolk owes their allegiance to her and without her say so Alicent’s agent will not receive a scrap of information, useful or otherwise.
A knocking brings Evelynn out of her daydream, causing her to frown.
“Enter.” commands Evelynn, and Melisandre gracefully glides within the room with a piece of parchment in hand.
With nary a word she hands it to Evelynn and silently waits.
Reading the information on the parchment, Evelynn cannot help the smile that appears on her lips.
“Is this information trustworthy?” asks Evelynn.
“I have verified it myself.” replies Melisandre, causing Evelynn’s smile to turn into a grin.
“Ah, Otto, Otto, Otto, your arrogance truly knows no bounds. It shall be your undoing” she says as she quickly writes a message on a separate parchment. “Personally deliver this to Daemon himself with all haste.” commands Evelynn as she hands the message to Melisandre.
With a bow Melisandre transforms into a raven and with the message in her claws flies out of the building.
Watching Melisandre leave, Evelynn cannot help the laughter that erupts from within her.
Despite being nothing but a bug Otto Hightower is one who has garnered the hatred of her lord. How unfortunate, for Evelynn is not one to let those who draw her lord’s ire to remain unscathed. And Otto, the fool that he is, has just handed her the first tool that will bring about his and House Hightower’s permanent downfall.
Author’s Note: Here’s the latest chapter. The battle between Aemon and Messmer kicks off while Evelynn enjoys her time playing the game of thrones. As usual tell me what you guys think.
