Bastard Steel

Prince Rowan was many things: young, yes, but sharp as a freshly honed blade, and burdened by a responsibility that belied his years. When his cavalry swept into Hearthstone village and he found those two mercenaries, everything changed.

The Lake Lords were getting too cocky, daring to hire sellswords to raid their own villages, to kill their own people. It was disgusting, a direct challenge to the crown's authority, and they would pay. He would make them hang.

But then, he thought of the two men, their expressions in the face of his overwhelming force. They were distant, yes, but also weary, almost... detached. Like they didn't relish what was happening there, just endured it. They hadn't shown any remorse for their fallen comrades either, only a grim acceptance of their defeat. Then he thought of the crypt beneath the old iron mines. Yes, those two would do. They were hardened, skilled, and utterly expendable.

He clasped his hands behind his back, looking out from the highest tower of Dunmire Keep. Below him, the town stirred with a newfound purpose. He watched as the miners, a dark cluster against the mountain's base, gathered for a meeting near the mouth of the massive iron mine, one of the main source of labor and wealth for Dunmire. The town itself was nestled securely against the Godspines, facing only one direction, effectively shielded from attack on any other side.

He saw the woodcutters and builders working in rhythmic unison, their axes ringing, as they pushed the large palisade wall higher around the town's perimeter. He heard the faint clang of metal footsteps behind him, and turned to see Dame Holland's form ascending the tall spiral steps.

A small smile touched his lips. "Cousin," he greeted.

Dame Holland bowed slightly, her crimson hair a wild cascade. "My Prince. How are you this morning?" she asked, taking her place beside him, her gaze sweeping over the bustling town.

"I am well, thought I would watch the town this morning. See the people get to work." Rowan watched a group of children, oblivious to the grim realities of war, run about the main road with sticks in their hands, whacking each other, some dramatically falling to play dead. He smiled faintly. These people... stubborn, hard working. He had to protect them.

She nodded. "Aye. Mine production is going well, and the palisade construction progresses swiftly. No significant problems so far."

The prince nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Good. And the miners, have any investigated the crypt, as I asked?"

"Aye, they have," she confirmed, a strange look in her dark eyes. "According to the Foreman, his men found a large portcullis, its gates firmly shut."

Rowan's eyebrow raised. "A portcullis? Have you let Daemon know of this discovery?"

"I have. He was rather eager. He wants to investigate it himself and is already drawing up plans," she said, her hand resting on the pommel of her sword. The prince nodded, a quick silence descending as he absorbed the information. Those two mercenaries... and the crypt. Yes, this would work. A perfect confluence of needs.

He turned to his cousin, his plan solidifying. "Bring the prisoners to the Lords' Hall. I'll meet you there. I have use for them." With that, Rowan turned and began his descent down the spiral steps, his mind already calculating the next moves.

Holland watched the town for another moment, a soft sigh escaping her lips, before turning to follow.

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The steady scratch scratch scratch of a quill on parchment filled the chamber, a soft counterpoint to the distant sounds of the bustling keep. A swift, elegant hand moved across the page, charting a plan, a precise expedition beyond the ancient portcullis in the crypt, deep within the iron mine.

This meticulous work was the handiwork of Daemon Bellgrave of House Bellgrave. A man of relentless study, Daemon habitually buried his nose in books, unraveling secrets and devouring the mysteries of the past.

History was his passion, the unknown his greatest fascination. His dark hair fell across his brow as his ruby red eyes, sharp and intense, skimmed over his finalized plan. A subtle smile, a rare sight, formed on his angular features.

House Bellgrave had always been a pillar of the royal court, the largest and most influential house of the South Evermarch of Cairnheart. Their lineage was almost as ancient as the royal family's, known for their unwavering loyalty and formidable military strength.

Daemon, however, was the youngest of three sons, often overshadowed by his elder brothers. Much like Prince Rowan, he had felt politically insignificant in his youth. This shared experience had forged a deep bond between them early on. They had connected over their similar positions within their families, finding kinship in their mutual sense of being underestimated.

When Rowan had decided to head north to the Lake Duchies, Daemon had followed without hesitation, taking up the crucial position of Rowan's Hand and Scribe. The two were often seen together, bent over maps and scrolls in the strategy chamber, their minds weaving intricate plans.

They were friends, often thinking of each other as brothers, but Daemon never forgot his place. His loyalty to Rowan was fierce, absolute, and he never once overstepped his prince's authority.

A sharp rap at the door to his chambers in the scribbery broke Daemon's concentration. A guard, Hobard, popped his head through the opening, his kettle hat gleaming in the candlelight. "M'Lord, the Prince calls you to the Lords' Hall," he announced.

Daemon looked up, his ruby eyes meeting the guard's. "Understood. Thank you, Hobard." The guard nodded and quietly closed the door. Daemon's gaze drifted back to his parchment, to the precise lines of the plan: twenty men, himself among them, descending into the crypt to investigate what lay beyond that gate.

He had always yearned for an adventure like this, a chance to truly learn something new, to unearth a piece of forgotten history. He gathered his papers, a quiet eagerness humming beneath his scholarly calm.

And hopefully, Prince Rowan would allow it.