ZEPHYR RAVENSWOOD

He remembered their names from the council meeting of days before. The grey-black haired one was undoubtedly Ser Calix Westerling, the lord commander of his Kingsknights, and the other who was a tad bit shorter, and a little less graceful and imposing, was very likely his son, Ser Aaron Westerling.

They oozed power, and Zephyr felt it as cold as the harsh winds of winter, it was almost enough to make him smile and drip him in a stream of safety, one that whispered to him that with them by his side his life would not be in any danger. But the sharp intone of another whisper made him question if that was true, if they were truly enough to keep him from death. Yes, he would have one more in a few days and then they would be three, but would they actually be enough to rip him from the shadow of death looming about him. He was not sure. No, he was. They were not enough, and they would never be. To survive, he needed to rely on himself, only he could pull himself from the shadow of death, only he.

No doubt the men of his Kingsknights were bound by loyalty to him—loyalty and honour—if all the whispers he had heard about them were true, but loyalty and honour was not what kept a king alive, what truly kept a king alive was his own strength and power, not the strength and power of his men; he had read that in books and seen such in shows. Kings that hoped solely on the strength, loyalty and honour of their men lost their lives, he would not be such a king, he did not want to. He would seek strength from himself and not from men that could betray him on a whim. I won’t lose my life, his voice spoke to him. Not now, not again.

He watched with a dark grimace, courtesy of the voices which echoed his mind, as Ser Calix reported their exploits of battle. The man had been speaking since, but Zephyr, stricken by his own thoughts, missed a ton of what left the Ser’s lips. Well, at least now he silenced those thoughts and chose to listen. Hopefully they remain the way they have become and will not resurface for the length of this court, afterall, it was his kingdom they spoke about, he should not be absentminded.

Ser Calix gingerly scratched the left path of his clean-shaven sideburns which led to the beard draping from his chin, his other hand firmly holding his great helm. “It was not much of a battle, the mountain folks have always lacked the head for one. They attacked every wagon in their sight, believing them to be merchants coming from Whispers Reach to trade at Old town. They were right to say the truth, for the most of it, but were wrong for the first when my son led his swords, dressed as merchants, to engage them.” He had a sharp way of speech, and his lips that gave way to such looked like they had never smiled before, they were firm and fierce.

That was not the same for the younger one though; a grin had stormed his face as soon as Ser Calix made mention of him to the king and his council, it stayed there now, not wanting to disappear, even as he started speaking. “They were not men of sense, M’grace. The pass had been deserted for fortnights ever since they had begun raiding, and when they saw wagons they did not even think it a trap. We had their heads no doubt, littered the pass with them all, and—”

The grin was gone now with his father’s glance, it went so quickly that Zephyr noticed it at once.

“Then why remain there for so long if they had been crushed within hours?” He spoke, finally. Zephyr had wondered if his mouth was glued shut, because the Lord Varyn below him was not the same one he had seen at the council meeting, that one was fiery, this one seemed meek of some sort. “Why did you two not hurry back to the side of your king?” He added another query.

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Ser Calix shifted a cocked brow at Lord Varyn, and Zephyr saw it then. His eyebrows furrowed and his hand swept slightly on the throne’s armrest as he watched the man’s eyes of arctic-blue. It was fierce and… kingly. It was the one he wanted, the one he lacked, the one that would show he himself had strength.

“They are savages bred only for hunting and raids. What do you think would happen if we left the town maybe a day or two after we defeated them?” The lord commander of the Kingsknights held Lord Varyn hostage with his unrelenting stare, and kept him as silent as the foggy white overhead sea of ghosthill.

Lord Varyn was without reply, as his eyes took to quivering blinks, accompanied by inspecting glances that watched the people of the royal hall. He knew the answer to the lord commander’s question, but he felt so foolish to utter a word of it. He should have remained silent, he let himself speak and now his thought process was being questioned.

“I shall answer that question for you, my lord. The savages would return to their raidings as soon as we were gone. We had to make sure they knew we were watching, that we were there and not some passerby, so they would not return. I ask that you do not question my ways of battle again, my lord. It is a stain to my silver.” Ser Calix pried his eyes away from the dumbfounded and speechless man, and put it back to his king watching him from the throne. “We want nothing more than to return by your side, but we have just returned from a long journey. If you would be so kind as to give us this day to rest, we shall return to your side by sunrise on the morrow.”

Zephyr wasted no time to reply, his smile struggling to be let free. “Granted,” he echoed from the throne. “I would want you no sooner by my side by sunrise.” Less doubt he wanted them now, but they should rest, that much he should grant them. A good king must be rational.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” The two men of the Kingsknights bowed, and with that, Flynn signalled to the herald to announce the court’s close.

After the herald sang the close, they all began to leave: the high ladies and lords, the Kingsknights, Lord Varyn Bolton, and the all-silent and grey-faced Lord Theon Silverfist. The column of black cloaks did not leave though, they remained, and while Flynn was setting himself up to leave, Zephyr approached him from the dais with haste.

“My friend,” Zephyr cooed, his hands together behind his back as he got to the council table.

“My king…” Flynn began, but did not finish as per his king’s interruption.

“Zephyr,” the king corrected. “The court is ended, I’m not the king to you now, I’m your friend.” A smile followed the end of his talk.

Flynn walked behind his seat, and as he pushed it beneath the table, he asked, “Is there anything my help is needed for, Zephyr?”

“I was thinking, why don’t we three come together like old times?”

“We three?” Flynn’s eyebrows knitted into confusion, a slim one.

“Me, you, and my brother, Dante.”

Flynn’s gaze flung upon the silver eyes of his king sharply, his face making it known to Zephyr that he was seemingly troubled in the mind, a lot more than Zephyr had ever seen from him, but he made no mention of it and just watched him with the smile his face wore.

“But, my king, you—”

“Yes,” Zephyr cut in, “but I want us to return together like old times… that is unless you oppose of it. Do you?” He placed his hands on his advisor’s shoulders and walked to his other side, leading his gaze as he did. “Do you?” He asked again, whispering this time.

“No, I don’t. There’s no way I can oppose you, you know that.”

“Good, my friend,” Zephyr chuckled. “Then I say let us meet on the night of the morrow, in the royal solar.”