DogWithABanana

You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? she begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.”

Valyris' eyes hold some hesitation, standing there as he contemplates telling his story before sitting down with a sigh. He glances up at the candles, their painfully bright centers before closing his eyes, the light still burning his eyes in the dark, unintentionally assisting his memory.

"I'm a Highlander, Trueborn of the North. Not Trueborn by Law." He lowers his head, eyes still closed, "My father was a minor noble, just newly promoted from his merits as a knight. He recognized me, and I thought he would never treat me as his own. My mother was a tanner. She's told me stories of how they met. Their eyes first did, in the golden snow of sunset, across opposite ends of the street, both standing under awnings, sheltered from light snowfall. After the honor of three trysts, my father moved on, but not my mother. She couldn't, she had me after all." He gains a smirk but doesn't have the energy to even chuckle.

"That's how I've come to be. To exist." He leans back and thinks more of more recent times, "My life so far was quick. Hardships amongst the other children, I was more keen to learn and talk with the adults, on the other hand they saw me as a little leech of wisdom and knowledge." He finally smiles wider and wipes his dry mouth before running his hand through his dry hair. He sighs and continues, "As soon as I could, I tried joining up with a guard. A travelling mercenary group. Anything where I could swing a sword and see the world. But I couldn't. –I couldn't, because- Of my mother. She's taken care of me most of my life. And ultimately, I had to take care of her for the rest of hers. So, to leave it all behind I tried again. I was starving, and it was winter. I had nothing to my name. I was blessed enough to be harbored in chapels, saving my strength for tryouts in the garrison."

He takes a moment to breathe, "I succeeded, of course. It was a boring but content first few weeks. A life in the barracks, amongst men rumoring who I was. At least I had meals and somewhat of a pay. I thought it was all I was going to have in this life. But I met my father again at inspection. He stopped, he paused when he stood in front of me. I looked my father in the eye. That's when I knew, he recognized me. After that day, everyone else did. I was half-outcast, half-welcome. A bastard. Those who despised my father amongst the guard took out their problems on me. Until another inspection, by my younger half-brother. The little lord. Just two years younger than I was. He recognized me as well, then offered me in private, if I could join his personal guard." Valyris smiles, "Blood protects blood, he told me. It can be thicker than steel."

"I was reassigned to the castle, more commodities, less crowding. It was a dream; I could picture myself as a prince if I closed my eyes and ears enough, in my new, cozier bunk. My half-brother, he treated me like a true one. Brought me on to his small entourage to share in his studies, spar in the training grounds, he even..." Valyris chokes up, "He even gave me my own horse, to hunt with him. People started to realize our relationship, who I was, why I was treated this way. Jealousy. How, I hate jealousy."

Valyris shifted his seating uncomfortably, "One day, my father approached me, in front of my brother. And bid me to leave. At first, my brother protested. But father said it was for the good of the house. That I was part of its future. It wasn't safe for me. I am to return when the time is right. I have no idea what that means. But he gave me the means to leave. To finally do what I've always wanted to do, to travel. And I have. And now I'm here." He looks down to his hip and grips the hilt of his sword, the end pommel inlaid with silver, molded in shape to resemble tree roots. He pulls the sword from its sheath partially, its blade immacuately kept, rarely used. He looks up, "That's my story."