DAMON RAVENSWOOD
Damon held in his hand a goblet of wine, like he always did. He never seemed to grow tired of drinking them—of filling his lips with their taste—up until now. It was sweet wine he held, but the tang his tongue relished was nothing of sweet to him, it was bitter, and he had grown tired of drinking something that did not suit his taste.
“Sad he did not die in his sleep,” he grimaced after he took one last drink from the cup, before placing it on the table of four edges he stood in front of.
He had shown himself to his mother’s bedchamber as soon as silver took the place of gold in the sky, showering the castle in a mix of dark and grey. It was the latter he wanted atop his head, but it was the light of the former that splattered upon the brown mop of his hair which was as stern as the face he called his own. Not silver, gold! He spat when his eyes glimpsed the moon.
“Maybe we should just kill him ourselves. Don’t you think so too, Mother?” Damon notioned. “Rid ourselves of that barmy bastard.” He snapped thumb with middle finger before saying, “Just like that.”
She sat below the only narrow window of her bedchamber, gazing at Damon with a face that was filled with nothing short of annoyance. With slanted eyebrows and narrow eyes she had watched her son speak, even though she had things to say. She had left her lips shut, choosing to let him speak his fill, but it seemed his fill was not yet to come, and now she had to cut back on the freedom she had given him. “Do you know what day it is, Damon?” He took no notice of her piercing eyes, he had always been so shortsighted, and even though she wanted him to sit the throne, he no doubt angered her a few times, and now was one of such times.
“What day it is? Why would I give a hound’s ass to that?” His hands folded behind his back as he paced about the room in unfastened linen grey robes meant for the night’s sleep.
She continued, ignoring her son’s vulgarity. “In two days it’ll be the betrothal of the son of that wench, Thalia.” Damon stopped his prancing and turned his gaze to meet his mother’s stare, but somehow he still took no notice of the glint of annoyance perusing her eyes, it flew over his head like the poorly made kite of a child lost to the drifting wind. “In two days it’ll become the seventh that the bastard has sat the throne, your throne, and you dare stand before me sad that he did not die in his sleep? Sad that the ravens did not pick him up in his bed? Sad? Sad?”
“Take it easy, Mother,” he immediately put in before she said any more. Maybe he missed it because his eyes could not see well in the dark of night, despite the moon’s light and the dim yellow from the chamber’s candlelight, or maybe he missed it because her voice was still as calm as the gentle waters of Fishersbay, home to serene stillness, but if only he could strain his eyes to look further, he would see the little bubbles finding their way from the depths of that calm river, showing signs that a tsunami was about to bring itself to the surface. “I will take care of him,” he added, witlessly.
“And how would you do that?” Ophelia rose from her chair, the hem of her blue night-cloth dancing to the beat of her slow steps, as she approached her son where he stood in the middle of the bedchamber a few distance from the unlit hearth. “Will you kill him?” With one step of her foot at a time, she uttered something. “Surely you must have a way to do that.” Another foot in front of the other. If only Damon could see, he would have glimpsed how menacing his mother was at this moment, and how much he should mind his words. “You haven’t even been able to get the grand savant on your side. How are you going to take care of him?” She was at his face now. He stood a tad taller than her, with bold eyes and faint brushes of hair growing on his chin, but in her own eyes he was still the small, gullible son she held below her breasts once.
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He watched his mother demurely, his hands still behind his back in a tightened embrace. “Worry not, Mother. Lord Varyn—”
“Lord Varyn?” She broke his talk. “Do you think I put Lord Varyn in the council to deal with such matters?” She blinked scornfully. “He is a craven damfool only in that seat to relay the words spoken in the council to us. You expect something from such a man?” Her head cocked in wonder, seemingly in shock at her dear son’s reasoning.
“Do not speak to me like I’m a fool, Mother. I know what I am doing,” Damon raged, his forehead and cheeks tinting a titchy red in the dark. He was not a kid, but she was treating him as one. Infuriated was what his hastened breathing beckoned to his mother, but she had less care.
“Oh, small wonder of that. And you are here,” she looked him from up to down and back up, eyeing him with a frown, “standing the same man as the day before and the day before that, a man without the crown. Tell me, what is it you know you are doing? What is your mighty plan to take the crown without the grand savant on our side?”
He no doubt had the same temper as his mother, both hotheaded they were, but the itchiness to tell her about his new pawn, overtook the infuriation his body welled in. “I’m going to get the grand savant on our side, that I will do, and I have already taken steps to ensure that. The lesser savant, Arryn, I have talked to him and brought him over, he will—”
He was about to raise his head in pride while further barking out his great plan, when a gasp sharp like a freshly made dagger from the forge, left his lips as his face turned to his right unwillingly, and it was not until after a few seconds did he notice the itch on his left cheek. Ophelia’s palm had allied itself forcefully for a brief moment with the face-flesh on his left, leaving it quivering in hot red, maybe even as hot as molten steel. His embracing hands behind his back loosened then, dropping languidly to his side while he licked the suffering cheek with his tongue inly.
“Do you grow stupid by the day, Damon? Arryn? And you did not think to consult with me before meeting with him?” Her voice was calm but harsh. Harsh like the icy cold of winter that would be upon them as soon as autumn drew its curtain to a close. She cupped his chin and turned his face back to hers, it was devoid of anger, he kept it caged inside, he dared not let it free, she would slap him as many times as needed to draw him back to his senses. “What did you do to make you believe he’s on your side? Threaten him maybe? I won’t tell you to not be stupid seeing as you are lunging yourself in kind towards it, but I’ll let you in on a secret. You may have forgotten but you are the only one fighting to be king, Zephyr is already on the throne, he is the king. What do you think would happen if the savant takes your word of treason to him? Or did he not make mention of that to you, your loyal savant?”
“That won’t happen, Mother,” his voice was broken and not as assuring as how he wanted it to sound, and it did less to assure Ophelia. His words had the weight of a pickle seed to her at this moment, a small budding pickle.
“Pray it will not, pray my dear son.” She let go of his chin then took up the goblet of wine he did not finish and gulped it down, her nose curling in response. It was bitter to her too. “Seeing as our heads aren’t up on the spikes of blood square, then your savant has not gone to the bastard yet.” She fell on the bed covered in sheets with the same silver colour as the moon, and lay sideways, turning her back to Damon. “I don’t care how you do it, but keep him from going to the king. Threaten him further or have his tongue, you must rein him, if not, then I’ll have Dante become the king if not you. To me it does not matter who sits the throne, as long as the crown is where I can grasp it myself, so do not think yourself the only one I can make king, your brother is just a year younger and more than capable enough to ascend in your place. Come to my bedchamber with your nonsense one more time and you shall become my second son.”
Dante…? Damon’s hands tensed up to a fist, and his teeth gnashed on each other frustratingly in silence. His mother mentioning his brother as an heir was nothing short of a painful and swift stab to his sides. He was not going to give his throne up for no one, not even his brother.