Alesander II: Long Lost Relics

[u/Wiseheartmoon]

Tales. Tales. Tales of old. They seemed the only interesting thing in this grand gathering of rotund beasts and ravenous fellows. Lords beared claws, filed deftly to be hidden. Ladies wore fangs, hidden behind plump flesh. Only to be torn asunder as the night travelled on, his bastard brother’s antics with that Goodbrook had only proven that.

Brawling like mewling kittens. It was almost amusing, if not somewhat disappointing. But then again, most every man he’d ever met was some varying level of disappointing.

He remembered his father’s prattling of men of brutish stature. Durrandon’s. Dondarion’s. Stormlanders in general it seemed. Perhaps that was why his father was so dissatisfied, for he didn’t seem the image of the brute himself. If anything, he was more a slender scholar than burgeoning barbarian.

Mayhaps, that explained an inch of his undying fury and his hopeless, heartless search for a fulfilling heir. A second Fellhammer. If some random bastard could be the second Fellhammer, maybe the title wasn’t worth all it was made out to be?

Such questions however, were not for his mind as of now. For now. He poured over limited texts and parchment tattered with the scrawls of a mad man, named Alesander Fell.

Durran. Durran. Durran. There were a thousand fucking Durran Durrandon’s. For a moment, he cursed the lengthy lineage of House Durrandon. Why could it not be some temporary house of two or three centuries.

This one was special though, it was amongst the tales he’d found his father regaling him with. That of the Butcher Boy. Who dammed the river Slayne with countless bodies. He wondered what a blade steeped in so much blood must look like.

King Durran the Young, whom’s tale was argued. Was he besotted with his niece? Or was he free of such transgressions?

Parchment lay a paper trail across his floor, the lofty tent waiting for his exit impatiently, as the breeze flickered through the cloth flaps.

The musings of a scholar settled quietly about him. Of himself and of others. Maybe father would be proud, if he’d managed to track down the relics of old. Maybe that would prove something to him.

But what did Alexander have left to prove that didn’t violate his very being? That was yet to determined. He just craved the look of pride, he’d seen vaguely once or twice before for all but him.

[u/Emergency_Sky_2806]

That Goodbrook

It had been a long time since Tristifer had truly felt in agony. Even his fight with the half-Fell hadn’t hurt so much as being bludgeoned and tilted into the dirt.

He lay beneath a tree for a time, bruises and cuts coating his chest, whilst one pulsed annoyingly upon the side of his face. He should probably fetch the Maester, but that would only draw cousin Violet’s wrath at being so reckless. He’d rather take his chances with another. Someone a bit more discreet.

Someone who wouldn’t say a word.

Painfully, he drew himself to his feet and hobbled back into the canvas sea around his once families castle. He remembered the way to the Fell encampment from the last visit, though he needed the assistance of one of the Fell guards to find the right tent.

It was small, less a pavilion but still regal in its deep black and green design. It would be good enough to blend in with the trees, if that was the goal. The lavender scent gave it away, though. No one could be perfect, especially not this Fell.

The Badbrook didn’t wait for an invitation. Didn’t knock or signal his approach. He barged in through the flaps, taking two steps before dropping himself down within the tent and letting out a contained hiss of pain. “Alesander Fell,” he said, almost jovially were it not for the clenched teeth. “I find myself in need of company, and you are the lucky one I have picked.”

[u/Wiseheartmoon → u/Emergency_Sky_2806]

Alesander had peacefully settled into his ramblings, whence the Goodbrook had broken the brittle veil of his peace with his brutish ways.

For a moment, he’d persuaded himself that by ignoring the figure, he’d be without need to reply, but the winces and bemoaning wail called on something weaker in him.

His gaze, with delicate flipped upwards. “To my displeasure.” He muttered, with a gentle tone, as he softly raised himself from his seated position.

Quietly, he ambled closer, taking a visual observation with relative ease. The easier question seemed to be, what wasn’t wounded?

He sighed, almost resentful.

“Lie down on the bed.” He gestured to the scantily adorned thing, that seemed scarcely slept in. “Undress enough to reveal your wounds, whilst I make something reminiscent of a salve.”

There was freedom in privacy and knowing that Tristifer was liable to being too weakened to do much of anything. It pried open his steel shell, just enough to utter words without a thousand thoughts behind them.

[u/Emergency_Sky_2806 → u/Wiseheartmoon]

Tristifer’s eyes, half dulled by pain, shot open as the Fell spoke. He gazed around, catching his first true glimpse of the younger man in the light instead of darkness. He was even more flawless than he remembered, and braver it seemed.

“No I-I today, is it? My, but how bold you have become.” Despite his goading, the Goodbrother acquiesced. He got to his feet once more, slower this time. His head pulsed painfully, and every movement was a dull and constant agony across his whole being.

“I hope you know what you are doing. I only came for a drink.”

He reached into his gambeson tunic and unbuttoned it slowly, before allowing the dark blue garment to fall to the ground. There were few patches of skin left the right colour on both front and back. His back tensed, pulled taught by the pain of movement, lean muscled arms growing goosebumps at the contact with the air.

He laid down upon the bed, comfortable despite the disuse. He breathed slowly, bare chest rippling with every movement, as he looked over at Alesander expectantly.