Bastard Steel

The long ride through the forest stretched through the early morning, an uncomfortable ordeal for Lucan. He had adjusted his sitting form countless times, trying to find a position that didn't involve the woman knight's unruly red hair constantly slapping his face.

Right then and there, Lucan made a silent vow, he would never, under any circumstances, ride "bitch" again. The sun, a pale gold disc, began to crest the jagged peaks of the Godspine Mountains, and the rutted dirt path beneath them slowly transitioned into a more well-maintained road.

Through the tree line, the formidable silhouette of Dunmire Keep emerged. It was a massive structure, a true castle situated on a strategic hill, its defenses bolstered by the towering mountain behind it.

Two high stone walls, scarred by time and weather, surrounded the central keep. Just below the second set of walls, nestled outside the keep proper, lay the sprawling town of Dunmire.

Its layout was brutally functional. A wide, well trodden dirt road, more a muddy scar than a street, cleaved the settlement into two halves. This central artery stretched straight ahead, an unwavering path leading directly towards the imposing stone walls of the outer keep. The town itself was of a medium size, its buildings primarily timber and thatch roofs, clustered together.

Just in front of the town's entrance, a river of bright blue mountain water snaked across the landscape, cutting off direct access. A sturdy, if somewhat weathered, stone bridge arched gracefully over its waters, serving as the sole gateway into Dunmire.

At this entrance, a flurry of purposeful, almost frantic activity churned. Men moved with grunts audible even from Lucan's distance, lugging massive, freshly cut logs, their raw ends dragging in the mud. Others diligently shaved these timbers with axes and adzes, wood chips piling high around them. As fast as they were prepared, the timbers were being hauled and placed upright into freshly dug trenches, forming a nascent, yet undeniable, defensive line.

Lucan's gaze sharpened, a flicker of grim recognition in his violet eyes. A town of this size, situated at such a strategic mountain pass, without a proper wall? It wasn't just dangerous, it was an invitation to disaster. But now, it seemed, they were finally beginning to rectify that fatal flaw, finally constructing a palisade.

As they rode closer to the bridge that separated the road from the town, Lucan's gaze noted the many traveling merchant caravans moving about the path. Carts pulled off to the side, making way for the prince's retinue.

They crossed the bridge and passed through the towering wooden gate that was being constructed, a formidable structure already forty feet tall. The wooden palisade wall itself stood at thirty five feet, punctuated by strategic shooting points for archers and reinforced by newly erected towers every hundred feet.

The horses galloped straight through the town's main road. Lucan took fleeting note of the large stone two story building that dwarfed all the other houses. This part of town was a tight cluster of single story houses, primarily constructed of rough hewn wood with roofs patched together from thatch and sod.

They weren't grand, or even particularly sturdy, but they spoke of functionality and simple lives. There was no grandeur here, only practicality, a common sight in these unwalled frontier settlements. His eyes, however, were drawn to the largest building in the immediate vicinity, a beacon amongst the humble dwellings.

The tavern. Standing two stories tall, it utterly dwarfed the surrounding homes, a sturdy edifice of mixed stone and timber that gave it a robust, almost defiant look. It possessed a certain squat, strong presence, almost a dwarven aesthetic.

A crudely painted sign, weathered by the elements, swung from a post attached to its side, proclaiming its name in bold, if slightly faded, letters, 'The Bleeding Heart.' It seemed a fitting name for a place that was likely the very heart of this struggling, yet enduring, frontier town.

Villagers and guards alike paused their work, taking notice of the prince's retinue. Some lowered their heads respectfully, while others gave Lucan and Kaelen confused, wary glances. The horses galloped through the open gatehouse of the first stone wall, guards snapping salutes to the prince.

Inside the first layer of stone walls was a small courtyard, gallows and a large stage against the front wall, a leatherworker's sign and a small building, as well as the castle forge, from which the rhythmic clang of metal resonated.

Another large gatehouse, with barracks situated next to the actual gate itself, stood before them. They passed through it, entering the shadow of the second, larger gatehouse, its portcullis currently closed.

A guard on the other side of the portcullis bellowed up the walls. "OPEN THE GATES!" Not a second later, the portcullis began to groan upwards, and the retinue rode into the second layer. They passed through a tight "kill box", designed to trap invaders.

Inside, a large, five story tower like building stood, almost attached by a bridge to the main castle, built of lighter stone. The buildings around them, and even the castle itself, looked rather run down, as if maintenance had been neglected for many years. Though, now, many men and women littered the castle grounds with tools, carrying different stone restoration implements, a clear sign of recent activity.

The retinue finally halted outside the stables within the castle walls. Without ceremony, both Kaelen Thorne and Lucan were shoved unceremoniously from their horses, their bound hands making for an awkward landing. They were brought before the prince once again. Rowan dismounted from his saddle, his boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. He looked at the two mercenaries for a second, his expression unreadable.

"You will be kept in the cells," he stated, his voice calm and authoritative, "until I have further need of you."

Before either Lucan or Kaelen could utter a word, they were seized by waiting guards and hoisted towards a section of the castle along the east wall. A heavy door, lined with metal, opened with a creak, revealing two heavily plated guards, halberds held at attention. They were led down worn stone steps and into a dimly lit corridor.

A man with a bald head sat at a makeshift desk, clad in light chainmail over a purple gambeson. He was writing something on parchment, but looked up as they approached. Seeing the royal guards, he stood, saluting with a fist to his chest, his eyes widening in surprise as he recognized the red haired woman.

"Dame Holland!" he exclaimed, a hint of shock in his voice.

The woman knight, still gripping Lucan's arm with an iron hold, spoke from behind him. "We have some new prisoners. Give them the clean one." She gave Lucan a final, hard shove forward, sending him stumbling.

Kaelen, seeing the exchange, chuckled lightly. "She doesn't like you very much."

Dame Holland simply disappeared up the steps, leaving two knights to escort the bound men. The bald headed man, the gaoler, looked them over, taking in their scarred and beaten plate, the dried blood and dirt.

"Strip your armor, please," he said. Lucan and Kaelen obeyed. The dented pieces clattered to the stone floor, leaving them in just their grimy gambesons. They were patted down for any hidden weapons, then shoved into a relatively clean cell, two hard beds, a bucket in the corner. Surprisingly nice for a dungeon.

The heavy door shut behind them with a resounding clang. Kaelen sighed and collapsed onto one of the beds, the wood groaning under his weight.

Lucan mirrored him, sitting heavily on the other bed, his mind a storm of conflicted thoughts. The fleeting quiet of the cell, after the chaos of the raid and the dizzying ride, felt almost oppressive.

"What are we even doing here, Kaelen?" Lucan finally broke the silence, his voice low, raw with frustration. He stared at the flickering torchlight through the small, barred window.

"I mean, we have always wanted glory... To prove ourselves. That boy... the screams... for coin? For Lord Manfree, a fat pig who wouldn't lift a finger for any of us?" He ran a hand over his tired face, the rough gambeson chafing his skin. "Do you think Fray thought we were expendable the whole time? Just stupid mercenary's to send away for political power?"

Kaelen sighed, the sound heavy with his own weariness. He rubbed a hand over his grizzled jaw, staring at the rough stone ceiling. "Expendable... maybe not 'expendable,' Lucan. But... expendable enough for the cause, aye." He paused, searching for words, but finding only a similar bitterness.

"Fray always looked at the long game. Manfree's coin was good, and stirring up trouble for Rowan served a purpose. But this... this was brutal, even for us. And to lose a whole warband..." He trailed off, the implicit question hanging in the air, Did Fray truly care about them like he says? Or are they just the numbers?

Kaelen turned to face Lucan, his cold warrior's eyes holding a flicker of confusion and anger that mirrored Lucan's own. "He sent us with these brutes, men he knew were animals. He knew the risk. He's always been about influence, about power in the Riverlands. But this far west... this kind of dirty work... it feels like we were just meant to be a disposable message."

Kaelen let out a short, hollow laugh, devoid of humor. "Persevere, I said. And here we are. Caught. Stripped. And likely abandoned. Aye, I'm angry, Lucan. Confused, too. What in the hells was Fray's true play here?"