Rise of Wales

The heavy door to Ieuan's chambers creaked open, revealing his sullen figure as he stepped inside. His fists clenched at his sides, his mind still reeling from his father's scornful words at dinner.

From the corner, Esma emerged silently, her eyes sharp and observant. She had lingered near the dining hall, unnoticed, her ears catching every bitter word exchanged. Now, she approached Ieuan, her movements fluid and deliberate, a mixture of concern and something more veiled behind her gaze.

"My lord," Esma's voice was a soft murmur, her presence gentle but firm. "I saw the way he spoke to you."

Ieuan turned, his face a mask of anguish and simmering rage. "He hates me!" he spat, his voice heavy with pain. "Is that all I'll ever be to him? A bastard, unworthy of his name, his love?"

Esma stepped closer, her hand brushing against his arm. "You are more than that, my lord," she whispered, her eyes locking with his. "His blindness to your worth doesn't diminish it. You are your own man, not just the son of Owain Glyndŵr."

Ieuan's breath hitched, her words stirring something within him. He allowed her touch to linger, drawing strength from her proximity. Their faces were mere inches apart, the tension between them palpable. Slowly, their lips met, a kiss that was both a solace and a spark, igniting a fire that consumed them both.

Their bodies moved together with a desperate urgency, shedding the layers of tension and clothing alike. The world outside their room faded into insignificance as they found solace in each other's arms. Esma's hands roamed across his skin, grounding him, reassuring him in a way words could not.

Later, as they lay entwined, the firelight casting a warm glow over their bare skin, Ieuan stared at the ceiling, the weight of his father's rejection pressing down on him. "He'll never see me as anything more than a mistake," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not while I carry my mother's blood."

Esma propped herself on one elbow, her fingers tracing light patterns on his chest. "Then make him see you," she said softly, her voice carrying a note of intrigue. "Not as the boy he scorns, but as a man who demands respect."

Ieuan turned his head to look at her, her words igniting a flicker of defiance in his eyes. "How?" he asked, the bitterness in his voice tempered by a hint of hope.

Esma's lips curved into a subtle smile, her eyes gleaming with a dangerous suggestion. "What does your father love most?" she asked, her tone deceptively light.

Ieuan's brows knitted in thought, and then, like a dawning realization, a slow smirk spread across his face. "His afternoons in that bloody tower," he said. "He stares at that old oak tree like it's the heart of the world."

Ieuan's eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. "The elder oak!?"

Ieuan sat up abruptly, the sheet falling from his shoulders as he strode to his desk. He rummaged through a pile of papers until he found what he was looking for—a sketch of the ancient oak, its twisted branches reaching skyward like gnarled fingers grasping at the heavens.

"I'll cut it down," he declared, a fierce resolve hardening his voice. "I'll destroy the one thing that gives him peace."

Esma sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest, her eyes flickering with something beyond shock—a glint of satisfaction, carefully hidden. "This...." she cautioned, though her tone carried a subtle edge of encouragement. "If he finds out—"

"He won't," Ieuan interrupted, his grin widening. "Not until it's done. By then, I'll tell him it was me."

Esma's lips curved into a knowing smile as she leaned in, her voice a silken whisper against his ear.

The crisp morning air wrapped around Ieuan as he strolled with purpose through the castle grounds. His blonde hair caught the pale light of dawn, and the fur-lined coat draped over his shoulders shielded him from the biting cold. Each step he took echoed faintly against the stone paths, the weight of his intentions pressing heavily on his mind.

Near the castle gate, a small group of rugged men loitered, their breath visible in the chill air as they shared idle chatter. Among them was Caradoc, a bald man with a toothless grin, and his companions..

"What could the young lord need on a morning like this?" Caradoc queried, his curiosity piqued.

Ieuan's eyes, sharp with determination, met the man's gaze. "I have a task for you," he announced, pulling his leather pouch from his belt and letting the metallic jingle of coins punctuate his words.

Caradoc abandoned whatever trivial chore he had been tending to, his interest now wholly captured by the promise of silver. "What would the young lord like us to do?" he asked, a grin spreading across his face as he imagined the weight of coins in his hand.

Ieuan stepped closer, his voice low but firm. "I need you to cut down the elder oak."

The five men exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of Ieuan's request settling heavily among them. The elder oak was no ordinary tree; it was a symbol, a sentinel of the land.

Caradoc's smile faltered. "But, lord, this cannot—"

"I'll hear none of that," Ieuan cut him off, tossing a handful of silver coins onto the dirt before them. The sound of metal hitting earth was a sharp contrast to the silence that followed.

Caradoc's eyes widened, his fingers itching to gather the scattered coins. His mind whirled with the promise of reward, but his apprehension lingered. "Still, my lord, the elder oak—"

"This is an order from my father," Ieuan lied smoothly, his voice gaining an edge of impatience. He leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowing. "He wants it done. Quickly."

The men hesitated, their loyalty wavering between fear of reprisal and the allure of silver. Ieuan saw the uncertainty flickering in their eyes and sighed, pulling more coins from his pouch. "Fine," he relented, tossing the extra silver into Caradoc's open hand. "I'll accompany you myself."

With that, the small group mounted their horses, the morning breeze tugging at their cloaks as they rode out of the castle gates. The terrain was rugged, the undulating hills of the Welsh countryside stretching before them like a patchwork quilt of greens and browns. The elder oak stood proud in the distance, its gnarled branches clawing at the sky, as if it wished to be seen and remembered.

As they neared the tree, the men's reluctance grew palpable. Caradoc shifted in his saddle, his eyes darting between Ieuan and the towering oak. "Are you sure about this, my lord? It is said that tree's older than the castle itself. During your foref-" Ieuan interrupted him, his jaw tightening, "Start cutting."

Gawain, dismounted first, drawing his axe from his belt. "Well, Let us get it over with ladd."