Post by birkett on May 7, 2013 20:51:42 GMT -5
"... and I couldn't quite believe I'd made it." Ser Brenton's young face was marred by a disconcerted frown. It had only been the night previous he'd charged the gates of King's Landing and lopped three heads from three bodies with a single sweep of his weapon. From that moment forward the experience had been surreal - the shouting, the spitting, the piercing shriek of blade on blade or the resounding slam of a shield; the split second images of fearful men's faces, hewn body parts, and hundreds of orphaned weapons upon the ground; the strange calm that had come over him despite his being terrified and, at times, sickened at what he was not only witnessing but taking part in - until the last of Stannis Baratheon's men had fled and he was safely within the city walls.
Here he was, a full day later, armed and armored and ready to once more take the field should that host return. It was a notion Brenton did not find appealing, however he had no desire to avoid or retreat from it either. That was what had him so perturbed: his genuine ambivalence to the taking of other men's lives. He had been nursing along a stein of ale for the past half hour, talking to the same two disinterested men who'd been standing a few hundred feet from the gate of King's Landing. They were polite enough to humor Brenton by listening to his story - a story likely shared by any number of participants in the battle - though they responded infrequently and with few words when they did. Brenton took a long draught from the oversized mug before motioning with his head that the three of them would proceed up the street.
It was nice being the heir to a noble house, no matter how minor. Even when none of one's closest friends or acquaintances were with him, he still had soldiers who were beholden to following him about, "Did you see all that fire? By the Gods, what an awful way to go."
Here he was, a full day later, armed and armored and ready to once more take the field should that host return. It was a notion Brenton did not find appealing, however he had no desire to avoid or retreat from it either. That was what had him so perturbed: his genuine ambivalence to the taking of other men's lives. He had been nursing along a stein of ale for the past half hour, talking to the same two disinterested men who'd been standing a few hundred feet from the gate of King's Landing. They were polite enough to humor Brenton by listening to his story - a story likely shared by any number of participants in the battle - though they responded infrequently and with few words when they did. Brenton took a long draught from the oversized mug before motioning with his head that the three of them would proceed up the street.
It was nice being the heir to a noble house, no matter how minor. Even when none of one's closest friends or acquaintances were with him, he still had soldiers who were beholden to following him about, "Did you see all that fire? By the Gods, what an awful way to go."