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The horn’s low note brought Baelon from his stupor upon the western wall. Leaning upon his guards-spear the young man twisted about, watching a flurry of wings descend below the inner fortifications, where trees concealed the Pool of Tears. Something was wrong. Baelon checked the sun, noting its position still high and well above the horizon, his replacement would not be for hours to come, and yet the Right Horn sounded. A first Baelon felt a sense of welcome relief at this realization, he would need not take part. He could not abandon his post, not when the high western wall was so vital a position. Leaving the bulwark unmanned for even a moment although not necessarily leaving the castle vulnerable due to the number of dragons which could spot threats from far further afield than a man atop a wall, was taken very seriously by the Dragon Guard nevertheless. The elite company of lesser aristocrats and noble sons who were sworn to defend the walls of the Keep with their very lives if need be looked down on degradations of duty. An antiquated duty perhaps, but one that was accompanied with great honor and prestige.
An explanation for the sudden scheduling was not long in coming. Armored footsteps approached and three men, of equal age and status to Baelon soon appeared taking separate positions along the fortifications, eight foot lances clutched in their hands. One of their number approached Baelon directly, a malicious light in his blue eyes. Baelon knew him by name, and addressed him thus when he drew close enough to hail.
“Sir Yhon, I did not expect a replacement for some time, and three…?”
“Things have changed, we are tripling the guard on all positions, and the Right shall begin at once.” The man paused, leaning one mailed shoulder against the crenellation staring out over the waters that surrounded the keep and on to the distant lands beyond where the Five Kingdoms and the border remained, as of now, unmolested in the fragile peace. “Against my better judgement, you’d best hurry or you’ll miss the choosing.” Sir Yhon did not need to explain further why Baelon participating in the Right was against his better judgement. The knight had expressed on numerous occasions that giving the son of a traitor a dragon, and making him a winged defender would be like placing a fox to guard the chicken coop.
The perpetual doubt to his loyalty resolved Baelon against his reservations. Straightening he handed Sir Yhon the warhorn and spear, leaving them in his superior’s possession. He might dread the Right, but he would do it just to spite the men like Yhon who watched him with unguarded suspicion. He would tolerate their mutterings and glances no longer. “The watch is your's Sir Yhon.” He said through gritted teeth, the ceremonial words expected of a changing of the guard. “All is quiet, nothing to report.” Turning he strode away, but Yhon would not let him leave without one last verbal thorn.
“Like father like son. Should you follow in your family’s footsteps Baelon Traitors-kin, I will be the first to put an arrow through your heart.”
The walk to the Pool of Tears was a long one from the outer wall. He took the lesser known route where people rarely trod. Each step brought him closer to his fate, leaving him wondering what the day might hold in store. Would he earn a dragon, or would they reject him upon learning his family's past? They were ancient enemies after all, Dragon and Rynor had been killing each other for hundreds of years, their roles once reversed. There was a time, many years ago when the name Rynor did not bring foul oaths and whispers, but praise and respect. That was before the war, and the unification of the dragons and Tur.
At long last he arrived at the gardens surrounding the Pool, now filled with riders, dragons, and hopefuls. He was late Baelon knew at once. A young woman already had a dragon, and others were preparing to step forth. Baelon slipped through the crowd, making his way to the front, wondering if he should make himself known, or remain silent. What if they had already called his name, and had moved on? Stopping beside one of the hopefuls Baelon laid a hand upon the person’s shoulder. “Excuse me, has the queen called for one named Baelon yet?”
An explanation for the sudden scheduling was not long in coming. Armored footsteps approached and three men, of equal age and status to Baelon soon appeared taking separate positions along the fortifications, eight foot lances clutched in their hands. One of their number approached Baelon directly, a malicious light in his blue eyes. Baelon knew him by name, and addressed him thus when he drew close enough to hail.
“Sir Yhon, I did not expect a replacement for some time, and three…?”
“Things have changed, we are tripling the guard on all positions, and the Right shall begin at once.” The man paused, leaning one mailed shoulder against the crenellation staring out over the waters that surrounded the keep and on to the distant lands beyond where the Five Kingdoms and the border remained, as of now, unmolested in the fragile peace. “Against my better judgement, you’d best hurry or you’ll miss the choosing.” Sir Yhon did not need to explain further why Baelon participating in the Right was against his better judgement. The knight had expressed on numerous occasions that giving the son of a traitor a dragon, and making him a winged defender would be like placing a fox to guard the chicken coop.
The perpetual doubt to his loyalty resolved Baelon against his reservations. Straightening he handed Sir Yhon the warhorn and spear, leaving them in his superior’s possession. He might dread the Right, but he would do it just to spite the men like Yhon who watched him with unguarded suspicion. He would tolerate their mutterings and glances no longer. “The watch is your's Sir Yhon.” He said through gritted teeth, the ceremonial words expected of a changing of the guard. “All is quiet, nothing to report.” Turning he strode away, but Yhon would not let him leave without one last verbal thorn.
“Like father like son. Should you follow in your family’s footsteps Baelon Traitors-kin, I will be the first to put an arrow through your heart.”
The walk to the Pool of Tears was a long one from the outer wall. He took the lesser known route where people rarely trod. Each step brought him closer to his fate, leaving him wondering what the day might hold in store. Would he earn a dragon, or would they reject him upon learning his family's past? They were ancient enemies after all, Dragon and Rynor had been killing each other for hundreds of years, their roles once reversed. There was a time, many years ago when the name Rynor did not bring foul oaths and whispers, but praise and respect. That was before the war, and the unification of the dragons and Tur.
At long last he arrived at the gardens surrounding the Pool, now filled with riders, dragons, and hopefuls. He was late Baelon knew at once. A young woman already had a dragon, and others were preparing to step forth. Baelon slipped through the crowd, making his way to the front, wondering if he should make himself known, or remain silent. What if they had already called his name, and had moved on? Stopping beside one of the hopefuls Baelon laid a hand upon the person’s shoulder. “Excuse me, has the queen called for one named Baelon yet?”
