Legionnaire Bram
Bram and three others from his squad, Wat, Jem, and Pate, made their way through the streets of Cyrodiil.
They were late. Well, Pate and Jem were late, and as squad leader, Bram was supposed to find them and drag them back before their absence was noted. He had found them in a tavern, naturally, nursing cups of ale and flirting with serving girls when they should have been preparing for muster.
Today, their century and three others were being assigned to security duties near the tourney grounds. With three kings and a queen in attendance, along with hundreds of nobles and knights from across Westeros, the burgeoning city was packed and would only increase as the king arrived. The legion was on high alert, every man expected to be at his best.
They were heading to the main barracks in the first ring of the city, where the meeting of the centurions and Primarch Aerion would take place. All four centuries assigned to tourney duty were gathering there to receive their orders and deployment assignments.
As they rounded a corner, Wat suddenly stopped and pointed. "Oh look, it's the purple fucks."
Twenty Spectres were walking out of the barracks. Their armor gleamed with that distinctive purple tint, their cloaked figures imposing. They moved like shadows, silent and coordinated, drawing the eye of everyone on the street.
"Hey, they're amazing," Jem said, his voice filled with genuine awe. "I want to join them one day. Imagine getting to wear that armor, protecting the king himself!"
Pate snorted and clapped Jem on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. "You? A Spectre? You can barely keep your footing during drills. You're nowhere near good enough to be a Spectre."
"Aye," Wat agreed with a grin. "None of us are as good as Bram here, and Bram was chosen to be one, wasn't he? If even he turned it down, what chance do you have?"
Bram felt heat rise to his cheeks. "I don't want to be one of those purple fucks," he said firmly. "I want to be a centurion. The legion is all I need. That's where real soldiers belong."
"That's the spirit!" Pate said, slapping Bram's shoulder. "Our glorious leader speaks true. The legion forever!"
They made their way into the barracks, a large stone building that could house a thousand men. The main hall was already crowded with legionnaires in their standard armor.
Bram quickly spotted the rest of his squad and led his three stragglers over to join them. They fell into formation just as the centurions entered.
Centurion Jonnel Blackwood led the way. Behind him came the centurions of the other three centuries being deployed: Centurion Marcus Vyprn, Centurion Willem Roote, and Centurion Tytos Grell.
And behind them came Primarch Aerion.
The Primarch was a position created specifically for the leader of the Spectres, the best of the best warriors in the kingdom. They were the ones who protected the king and the royal family, the shield and sword of House Stormcrown for generations to come.
Bram was not surprised when Aerion Whiteflame himself had been selected as the first Primarch. Aerion had been the first to join the cause of their great king, the man who had brought about the end of the Ironborn threat and the birth of the Heartlands. Bram looked up to Primarch Aerion, even though he did not like the Spectres as a whole.
It had been quite tempting when Centurion Jonnel had offered Bram the chance to join the Spectres. The honor, the prestige, the chance to serve directly under the king's eye. But Bram loved the legion. He wanted to climb its ranks honestly, through merit and service, all the way to centurion himself if he could. Maybe even beyond, to legate, a position that was currently filled by the king himself but would be given away once the legion reached five thousand men. The Spectres were glorious, yes, but they were also separate. Bram wanted to stay with his brothers, with the men he had trained and bled with.
"ATTENTION!" Centurion Jonnel's voice rang out, and all men snapped to perfect stillness.
Primarch Aerion stepped forward, his eyes sweeping across the assembled legionnaires. When he spoke, his voice carried easily through the hall.
"You have been chosen for an important duty," Aerion began. "The tourney brings kings, lords and ladies, knights and common folk from across Westeros to our city. It is an opportunity to show them the strength and discipline of the Heartlands. It is also a potential disaster if we fail to maintain order."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"The First Century," he gestured to Jonnel's men, "will be assigned to the melee grounds. You will maintain order among the competitors, prevent fights outside the official bouts, and ensure no one dies who isn't supposed to."
He turned to the next group. "Second Century, you have the jousting lists."
"Third Century, you patrol the pavilion area. Hundreds of people, plenty of opportunities for theft, assault, or worse. Keep the peace. Resolve disputes before they turn violent."
"Fourth Century, you're on the outer perimeter."
Aerion's expression grew more serious. "More knights and hedge knights have come from the Reach and the Vale than we expected. Some are here for honest competition. Others may have… other motives. The Reach especially."
The Primarch dismissed them after that.
As the centuries began to disperse, men heading to their assigned areas to begin preparations, Centurion Jonnel called out three squads from their century to stop, including Bram's.
Bram exchanged glances with his men. Thirty legionnaires in total remained as the others filed out.
When the hall was clear, Primarch Aerion stepped forward again, his expression grave.
"You thirty have another task," he said quietly. "More important than the general security."
He began pacing, his hands clasped behind his back. "Many septons from the Starry Sept have come to Cyrodiil. More than would be expected just for a tourney. They claim to be here to minister to the faithful, to provide spiritual guidance to visiting lords and knights. And perhaps some of them are."
His eyes hardened. "But we believe others mean to cause trouble. The Faith of the Seven sees the Covenant as a threat, sees King Harald as a heretic…They call it the Leonite Heresy moving our high keeper Leobald. There are radicals within the Starry Sept who would do anything to strike at him, to undermine the Heartlands."
"There is a conspiracy afoot. One of the Spectres is currently investigating. But in the meantime, we need eyes and ears among the crowds. We need to watch these septons, see who they meet with, what they say, and who they are trying to influence."
He pointed at them. "That's your job. You will not wear your legion armor for this. You will dress as common folk, blend in with the crowds at the tourney. Watch the septons. Listen to their preaching. See if any of them are doing more than just praying."
"If you see anything suspicious," Aerion continued, "you report it immediately to Centurion Jonnel or directly to me. Do not try to handle it yourselves. Do not confront anyone. Just watch and report. Understood?"
"Yes, Primarch!" they chorused.
"Good." Aerion's expression softened slightly. "This is important work, men. The safety of three kings, a queen, and hundreds of nobles may depend on your vigilance. Can I count on you?"
"Yes, Primarch!" they said again, louder this time.
"Dismissed."
As they filed out, Bram felt the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders.
========
Bram led his squad through the bustling marketplace that had sprung up within the tourney grounds, a temporary city of tents and stalls that seemed to grow larger by the hour.
Merchants from the Free Cities had come in droves, their exotic wares displayed in colorful pavilions. Bram saw silks from Lys, spices from Volantis, and wine from Myr. There were traders from all over the Seven Kingdoms as well: furs from the North, jewelry from the Reach, and special oils from Dorne. The air was filled with a dozen languages and dialects, the smell of cooking food and unwashed bodies, and the constant noise of haggling and shouting.
It was incredibly busy. Thousands of people packed the thoroughfares between stalls, jostling and pushing, creating chaos that was almost overwhelming.
As they walked, two figures suddenly crashed into Bram from the side, nearly knocking him off balance.
The squad immediately went on alert, hands moving toward their weapons.
But Bram quickly gave the hand signal to stand down, a slight lowering of his palm.
"Bram!" two female voices chorused.
It was his two sisters, Ara and Alys, both grinning up at him without a trace of apology.
Bram scowled at them. "What in the Seven Hells are you doing? You can't just—"
"We were looking for you," Ara said, interrupting. "Do you know how hard it was to find you?"
"Very hard," Alys added, always following her sister's lead. "We've been searching for an hour!"
Bram crossed his arms. "Ah, here to see your brother bravely defend the kingdom, are you?"
"No," they said in perfect unison.
"We just want some money to buy new clothes," Ara continued, holding out her hand expectantly.
"We need new dresses for the tourney," Alys interrupted. "Mother said she would ask you for money, but she forgot…"
There was laughter from the squad behind Bram. Wat was grinning openly, and even stoic Pate cracked a smile.
Jem stepped forward with what he clearly thought was a charming smile. "Well, hello there. I don't believe we've been properly introduced. I'm Jem, and you are…?"
He directed this at Ara, his eyes lingering on her in a way that made Bram's jaw tighten.
Ara looked at him with the kind of withering disdain only a sixteen-year-old girl could muster. "Not interested," she said flatly.
More laughter erupted from the squad.
Bram drove his fist into Jem's stomach, not hard enough to truly hurt but enough to double him over. "That's my sister."
Bram sighed and reached into his pouch, pulling out several marks. He counted them out carefully, then handed them to Ara. "This is enough for both of you."
"Thank you, big brother!" they chorused again, Ara pocketing the coins.
Then Alys leaned in conspiratorially. "Oh, and you should know, Mother is planning to set you up with Maris tonight."
Bram groaned, his head tilting back toward the sky. "Of course she is."
"Busty Maris?" Pate said, his eyebrows rising. "You lucky bastard!"
"I thought you were sweet on someone else?" Jem spoke up.
"Oh yes, what was her name?" Wat added with mock innocence. "Mya? The tanner's daughter?"
His sisters were now very intrigued, both leaning forward with identical expressions of gleeful curiosity.
"We are moving out," Bram said loudly, his face reddening. "Right now. Squad, with me!"
"But, Bram—" Ara started.
"NOW!" Bram barked, already turning and walking away at a rapid pace.
Behind him, he could hear his sisters laughing and his squad members chuckling as they followed. He was never going to hear the end of this.
They patrolled through the marketplace and tourney grounds for the next few hours, maintaining order and resolving disputes.
Most of the issues were minor. A merchant accused of short-changing customers, which Bram resolved by having the man use proper scales. A fight between two sellswords over a game of dice, which ended when Bram confiscated the dice and sent them both on their way.
But many of the problems stemmed from tensions over the Covenant. People from other kingdoms caused trouble, making inflammatory statements and picking fights with locals who defended their king and their faith.
One man from the Reach got into a shouting match with a Heartlands merchant, claiming King Harald was a dark warlock who had seduced the Riverlords with devil magic. The merchant took exception to this characterization. Fists flew. Bram's squad separated them and hauled the Reachman away to cool his head in a holding cell.
Another incident involved a hedge knight from the Vale who loudly proclaimed that the Covenant was a heresy and that anyone who followed it was damned. This attracted a crowd, some supportive, others angry. Before it could escalate into a riot, Bram stepped in and suggested the knight move along and keep his theological opinions to himself.
They had arrested many such troublemakers over the course of the afternoon. The holding cells were filling up with drunk knights, angry septons, and overzealous pilgrims who could not keep their mouths shut.
Then, as the sun began to lower toward the horizon, Bram spotted something that made him stop.
A group of septons, perhaps six of them, were gathered near one of the larger tents. What caught Bram's attention were the armed men with them.
Not simple guards or escorts. These were knights in full armor, wearing no identifying sigils. They stood close to the septons, their hands never far from their weapons, their eyes constantly scanning the crowd.
"That looks suspicious, does it not?" Bram said quietly to his squad.
"Oh yes," Wat agreed, his hand moving to his sword hilt. "Very suspicious."
"They're expecting trouble, looks like," Pate added.
Jem nodded. "Or planning to cause it."
Bram watched for a moment longer. The septons were talking among themselves, occasionally gesturing toward the castle in the distance. One of them pulled out a piece of parchment and showed it to the others. They studied it, nodded, and then one of the knights pointed toward a different part of the tourney grounds.
Whatever they were planning, it was not just spiritual ministry.
"All right, boys," Bram said, his mind working through the options. "Here's what we're going to do…"
.
.
.
Loren watched as his twelve-year-old son, Lann, trained with one of his most trusted men-at-arms, Ser Marc Lannett, in the camp where they spent the night.
Loren smiled as he observed his son's skill. The boy moved with natural grace, his footwork solid despite his youth. More importantly, he listened. When Ser Marc corrected his stance, Lann absorbed the lesson immediately, adjusting his positioning without hesitation or wounded pride. When the knight showed him a new parry, Lann practiced it slowly at first, internalizing the movement before attempting it at speed.
"The boy has your mind, Your Grace," Tybolt Reyne observed, standing beside Loren. "He learns like a scholar studies a text."
"Aye," agreed Leo Lefford. "Most boys his age want to swing their swords like they're heroes from songs. Young Lann actually thinks about what he's doing."
"He'll be a formidable fighter when he's grown," Quenten Banefort added. "And more importantly, a formidable commander. A man who understands the why behind the how."
"The Crown Prince does you credit, Your Grace," Damon Marbrand added. "He will make a fine king one day."
Samwell Serrett nodded his agreement. "The Rock is fortunate in its heir."
Loren nodded along with the flatteries, though he knew most of them were genuine. His son was talented, disciplined, and intelligent. A father could ask for little more.
The practice duel intensified, Lann pressing an attack that Ser Marc had to work to defend against. But the knight's experience told, and he caught Lann's blade in a bind before stopping the bout with a raised hand.
They all applauded as the duel ended. Loren stepped forward, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. The boy was breathing hard, sweat dampening his golden hair.
"You were good," Loren said. "But you're still showing your intent with your overhead strikes. You drop your shoulder slightly before you commit. An experienced opponent will read that and counter."
Lann nodded seriously, processing the critique. "I'll work on it, Father. Thank you."
"And your riposte from the bind was excellent," Loren added, not wanting the criticism to overshadow the praise. "Ser Marc had to react quickly there. Well done."
Lann smiled, the genuine pleasure of a boy praised by his father. "Thank you, Father."
Loren smiled back. Truly, this was the life any king would dream of. Strong and loyal vassals who respected rather than merely feared him. A beautiful queen who loved him. An heir he could be proud of, who would rule wisely when the time came. Two beautiful daughters who would make advantageous matches to strengthen alliances.
And, of course, the culmination of a millennium of his ancestors' ambitions: the conquest of the Reach, within his grasp at last.
Oh yes, Loren Lannister, King of the Rock, felt the sweet satisfaction of a man whose plans were finally coming to fruition.
"We should leave now, Your Grace," Tybolt Reyne said, breaking into his thoughts. "We can be in Cyrodiil by afternoon if we make good time."
Loren nodded and gave the command to break camp and prepare to ride.
Until yesterday, his lords had been neutral in their opinion of the Heartlands. Well, some were hiding their dislike for the new kingdom and its strange new faith behind courtly politeness. They had made skeptical comments about sorcery and heresy during the journey, questioning the wisdom of allying with a man the Faith condemned.
But all that had changed.
They had passed the ruins of Harrenhal yesterday, and Loren had seen fear bloom in most of his lords' eyes as they gazed upon what remained of the monstrous castle.
The massive fortress, the greatest ever built in Westeros, stood as a monument to what Harald Stormcrown's power could do. All that was left were shattered stones still being hauled away, with a single tower portion left standing as a grim reminder.
Suddenly, all the stories they had heard of King Harald Stormcrown, the Dragonborn, the Herald of the Gods, seemed less like exaggerations and more like understatements. The reality struck them like a physical blow: magic was real, devastating, and capable of destroying anything men could build.
Loren had suppressed a laugh as they passed the ruins, watching the expressions on his lords' faces shift from skepticism to unease and then to genuine fear. The tales they had dismissed as propaganda or superstition now seemed terrifyingly real.
Harald had mentioned in one of their letters that the ruins of Harrenhal served as a useful reminder to visiting dignitaries. "Nothing makes people take me seriously," he had written, "quite like seeing what I did to the mightiest fortress ever built."
Loren watched as the ten major lords of his kingdom and their households moved into position. It was a large procession, deliberately so. He wanted Harald, and anyone else watching, to see the wealth and power of the Rock on full display.
The column glittered with gold and crimson. Every lord wore his finest armor or richest clothing, their horses draped in caparisons of silk and cloth-of-gold. Servants wore livery of crimson and gold. Knights bore shields polished to mirror brightness. Wagons carried supplies and gifts, their contents worth a king's ransom. The Lannisters of the Rock were the wealthiest house in Westeros, and Loren wanted everyone to remember it.
There were fewer ladies in the procession than there might have been. Loren had brought only his sister, Joanna, leaving his queen, Jeyne, at Casterly Rock. His queen was pious, still uncertain about the Covenant and its mixing of faiths. She had made her disapproval clear when Loren announced his intention to ally with Harald, though she had been too dutiful to argue openly.
The other lords had been even more cautious, leaving their wives and daughters at home. They were distrustful of the new kingdom and its sorcerer king, worried about what exposure to the Covenant might mean for their families. Better to keep their womenfolk safe in their castles than bring them along.
Loren rode with Tybolt Reyne and his son, Lann, along with Loren's cousin, Tywin Reyne. Tywin was Tybolt's son, named after Loren's late grandfather, their houses united together as Tybolt had married Loren's aunt.
"Your Grace," Tybolt said after they had been riding for some time, his voice carefully neutral, "I must ask. Is this alliance you seek truly necessary? We are strong enough to face the Reach on our own, are we not?"
"Necessary? Yes, Lord Reyne, it is," Loren replied. "With Harald's help, my victory is assured. Without it, we face perhaps years of bloody campaigning with an uncertain outcome."
Tywin spoke up from Loren's other side. "But Your Grace, what if the sorcerer is not what he seems? What if he is indeed a dark warlock? What if he uses magic to addle our minds, make puppets of us? The Faith warns against such things. The maesters say magic corrupts everything it touches. What if—"
"None of that," Loren interrupted firmly but not unkindly. "Harald is no dark sorcerer. His magic is divine in origin, blessed by the gods themselves. That is what the Covenant teaches, and I have seen no evidence to contradict it."
Several lords riding nearby shifted in their saddles, still not entirely convinced.
"If it were dark magic, if Harald truly served evil powers," Loren continued, "then why have the gods not struck him down? Why does he prosper? Why do his people thrive?" He gestured broadly. "The Heartlands still have many who follow the Faith of the Seven. There have been no forced conversions, no persecution of the pious. The Covenant also worships the Seven, I remind you all, just alongside the Old Gods. That hardly sounds like the work of a dark sorcerer, does it?"
He let that sink in before continuing.
"I know what I am doing, my lords. I would not lead the West into danger, nor would I risk our future on a whim or a foolish gamble. All I ask of you is your trust. Trust that I have thought this through, that I have weighed the risks and rewards. Can you give me that?"
The lords exchanged glances, then, one by one, they nodded.
"Of course, Your Grace," Tybolt said. "You are our king. We trust your judgment."
"Aye," the others echoed.
Loren nodded, satisfied for now. They would see soon enough when they met Harald face to face. They would see that the Dragonborn was a man who could be reasoned with, allied with, even befriended.
=========
By afternoon, they arrived.
The grand procession of the West came to a halt on the approach to Castle Cyrodiil, and Loren heard the collective intake of breath from his lords and knights as they beheld what lay before them.
The castle crowned a hill above the Gods Eye, the lake gleaming silver below. Two structures of white marble dominated the summit, connected by a bridge that seemed to float between them. One structure boasted a tower that reached toward the sky, so tall and slender it seemed impossible that stone could support such height. Yet there it stood, proud and beautiful, catching the light and seeming to glow
Below the castle, on the slopes of the hill, were rings of many more buildings still being built, and below it all a town had formed. Not the haphazard collection of structures that typically grew around a lord's seat, but a planned settlement with wide streets laid out in organized patterns. Buildings were being constructed in a uniform style, creating harmonious blocks rather than chaotic sprawl. Loren could see the grid system clearly from this vantage point, streets running perpendicular to each other to create orderly squares and rectangles. At the base of the hill, the settlement spread out in a circular pattern around the hill's foundation, following the natural contours while maintaining that same sense of order.
Construction was everywhere. New buildings were rising, scaffolding surrounded half-finished structures, and workers filled the streets.
"With some more work, this could rival Highgarden as the second most beautiful castle in Westeros. Only Casterly Rock itself would surpass it."
Many of his vassals agreed, though Loren noticed some looked more unsettled than impressed. The sheer scale of what had been built in such a short time was difficult to process, difficult to accept as anything other than sorcery.
They were met at the base of the hill by twenty men wearing armor of a unique design. The plates were dark steel with a distinctive purple tint that seemed to shift in the light, almost iridescent. They wore flowing cloaks of deep purple trimmed with gold, and their helmets completely obscured their faces.
"An honor guard," Lord Serrett said.
"Your Grace, we are to escort you to Castle Cyrodiil. Please, follow us," the lead man said.
The purple-armored guards formed up around the procession. They began the ride up the hill, following a wide paved road that switchbacked up the slope in gentle grades that did not strain the horses.
As they climbed higher, Loren gained a better view of the castle's details. The marble was carved with intricate designs, scenes that seemed to tell stories. He saw dragons in flight, warriors in battle, gods and mortals interacting. The craftsmanship was exquisite, rivaling anything in the West.
They reached the top of the hill and emerged into a vast open space that took Loren's breath away.
The entrance to the castle was fronted by a grand plaza, a structure similar to what Loren had seen in illustrations of the great temples of the east. Massive colonnades curved in sweeping arcs on either side of the plaza, creating an embracing semicircle. The columns were of white marble, each one carved with intricate designs. Between the columns stood statues of weirwoods, the Seven, and nine others he did not recognize.
The plaza was paved with white stone that seemed to gleam, kept immaculately clean. At its center stood a fountain, water cascading from multiple tiers.
The procession streamed through this magnificent space, their numbers seeming small despite their size in the face of such grandeur. The sound of hundreds of hooves on stone echoed off the marble, announcing their arrival with a thunderous drumbeat.
At the far end of the plaza, before the main entrance to the castle proper, stood the welcoming party.
Lords and ladies of the Heartlands were arrayed in their finest, creating a colorful display. Loren recognized the red salmon of Tully, the ravens of Blackwood, and the twin towers of Frey. Servants stood in organized rows, dressed in livery of purple and gold. Everything was arranged with perfect symmetry and attention to detail.
And in the center of it all stood Harald Stormcrown.
He wore clothing of the finest make, a doublet of deep purple with gold embroidery that caught the light. Over it was a cloak of cloth-of-gold lined with purple silk, moving elegantly in the breeze. His blond hair was neatly styled, his bearing that of a man who knew he was the most powerful person present.
But what drew Loren's eye was the crown.
It sat upon Harald's head like a work of art, wrought of gold and set with jewels that seemed to glow, gems Loren had never even seen before. The craftsmanship was exceptional. He felt a moment of envy as he glanced at his own crown, which now looked simple by comparison.
The procession came to a halt. Loren dismounted smoothly, his lords and knights following his example. He straightened his clothing, adjusted his crown, and walked forward with the measured dignity befitting a king.
Harald was smiling. So was Loren.
"This is much more than the 'little castle' you mentioned in your letters, my friend," Loren said, genuine amusement in his voice.
"It was quite little at the time," Harald replied with a grin.
Loren laughed, a sound of genuine delight. Harald joined him, and both sets of lords watched in surprise as the two kings embraced like old friends rather than meeting with the formal distance typically expected of monarchs.
"Welcome to the Heartlands, King Loren," Harald said warmly, stepping back but keeping one hand on Loren's shoulder. "My home is yours. My hospitality is entirely at your disposal."
He then offered bread and salt, which Loren accepted.
Harald swept his arm toward the entrance of the castle. "Come, let us not stand on ceremony in the sun when there is wine and comfort within. I have a grand week planned for you all."
Loren nodded, still smiling. "Lead on, my friend."