The office of the Blight Castle’s Keep was a museum of raksha relics. A prideful representation of House Ironstones ancient roots. On the back wall was a large painting of a bulky man sitting on the signature icy steel throne of House Ironstone. He had a mane of white hair, and wore a white coat attached with a white cloak. Leaning on the arm of the throne was a six foot great sword built for only titans to wield.
A shield hung on the opposite wall. Carved on it was the sigil of House Ironstone: A sturdy shield with the face of a ferocious bear on it. In front of the painting was the wooden desk stacked with undone paperwork and unopened letters—marriage proposals and promises of soldiers that never came. Vlad, sitting in a four-legged wooden chair behind the desk, rubbed his temple as he took a deep breath, inhaling the chilly air. He looked at the painting as if it were alive.
“Grandfather, what would you do?”
The raksha were changing, adapting, evolving. According to legend, during the Age of Stone they couldn’t even scratch a White Cloak's beautiful silver armor. They were fewer in number then. Weaker, slower. But now they seemed to be coming in the thousands. White Cloaks were dwindling; northmen massacred.
Vlad squeezed the arm of his chair. At times like this, he hated his father for leaving him so early. That crude soldier of a father only taught him how to swing a sword and the ethics of it all. He hated to admit it, but Vior had been graced with the intelligence. Perhaps it was because he wasn't a pure blood; or because he spent hours dodging his responsibilities on the wall to hide in the Castle library.
The floorboard squeaked behind Vlad, snapping him out of his trance. The person in question was Vlad’s mother, Lady Helena. She carried a healthy amount of weight that spread evenly throughout her lengthy figure. Her black hair fell to the waist of her dress as she elegantly sat in the chair opposite of Vlad and frowned with her cold blue eyes. She flipped a letter across the desk.
“A raven from Lord Rennard was sent this morning,” she said, crossing her left leg over the right. “Apparently Vior has scurried off to Wolf Bay.”
Vlad’s expression didn’t change.
Lady Helena’s eyes narrowed. “You already knew.”
“He sent the girl along with a letter.”
“Ah yes, a timid one, that girl.” Lady Helena stared at Vlad and there was silence for a while.
“Is that the only reason you came, mother?”
She gestured to the letter. “Read it.”
Vlad scraped up the piece of ripped paper and his frown deepened. His jaw clenched and his hands curled into a fist, ripping the letter into another half. There were only four words on the letter:
See Ya Later, Fucker!
“Any idea where he went?” Vald asked, clenching his jaw to prevent himself from yelling.
Lady Helena shrugged. “No one could guess the antics of that unpredictable child.”
“I will send a team to capture him.”
“Why?”
Vlad’s dull face lit with shock at his mother’s question. “Why? This is the second time, mother. The second time he’s left us in a time of great need! An Ironstone does not run! You expect him to go unpunished?”
Lady Helena didn’t know whether to be happy or sad. Vlad sounded so much like his father. “You have much bigger issues to face than a missing brother, son. Don’t waste valuable men that can be used on the raksha on a blind mission to capture your little brother.”
After a lingering moment, Vlad sighed. “You're right, mother.”
Having delivered the letter, Lady Helena prepared to leave right before Vlad called to her.
“Yes?”
“High Lord Edgard has summoned the Great Houses to Wintercall. I suspect the crown has asked for more northmen to support its conquest of Sangala.”
“The crown would never ask us to supply any men,” Lady Helena reassured. “Even the king wouldn’t dare want to face the raksha himself.”
“Yes, but every lord in The North will not share the same fate. They will be compelled to supply men. Valuable northmen that could be better used on the wall or in the North than on the crown's selfish conquest.”
“What are you trying to say, son?”
“How long will The North bend down like dogs. We once had the pride of a kingdom. Now we're treated as mere hunting dogs.”
Lady Helena stepped slowly. She stopped at the shield hung on the wall and caressed its edges. “Your priority is this house, this family. Even when House Ironstone was a clan it had remained neutral. We are guardians of the Winter. Not judges, executioners or rulers. Guardians.” She took her hand off of the shield and turned back to Vlad. For the first time in a while she saw how young her son actually was. Ten was old enough to fight raksha, but twenty-five was too young to carry the burden of a whole region.
“Your brother,” she said.
“Do not speak his name.”
“Not Vior. Von."
Vlad’s face contorted into disgust.
“I know you have received a marriage proposal from House York. Accept it.”
“Mother, she’s thirteen. And the third daughter. She has no promise of wealth or property. Her dowry is less than 100 pounds of silver. Von may be a waste of a brother but to sell him to a thirteen year old girl with no promise…” Vlad hesitated.
“You have big shoulders, son. Bigger than your father’s, even. But you cannot carry the weight of this whole house alone. A marriage to the High House of The North will secure an alliance. And with it: men, money, food, horses.”
Vlad’s thick fingers played with the letter with the stamp of House York on it.
“You ought to get married yourself. And preferably to someone who has had her first bleed.” Lady Helena added. “The House needs an heir.”
Vlad opened his mouth to refute her last words but his mother turned and left, leaving him with only his thoughts.
…
Viskle had never stepped foot in the throne room before. As he entered, the sheer weight of the place pressed down on him. Two White Cloaks flanked Lord Commander Vlad at the far end, their stillness more unnerving than the dozen armored soldiers lining the walls.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The icy steel throne towered nine feet tall, a sharp, glinting reminder of House Ironstone’s legacy. Made of rare Northien steel—the second sharpest metal in the world—it had stood in the same spot for over 10,000 years. Its arms bore grim trophies: on the left, the skull of a raksha felled by Benteke Ironstone, the third king of the North; on the right, a skull claimed by Vlad’s grandfather, Tron Ironstone, the strongest Grand Knight of his time.
The room was cold, quieter than he expected, save for the low murmurs from the line of petitioners: criminals, citizens, and soldiers awaiting judgment. Viskle’s stomach churned. He didn’t know why he’d been summoned, only that the summons left no room for refusal.
Had he done something wrong? Was this about some long-forgotten slight? He was famous for his short temper—maybe he’d offended the wrong person? Goosebumps prickled his skin despite the heavy cloak draped over his shoulders.
He caught sight of the man kneeling before the throne and his heart sank. A fellow White Cloak, one who’d fought at his side during the recent raksha raid. The man had fled before the battle’s end, abandoning his post and his oath. Cowardice wasn’t uncommon, but a White Cloak’s life no longer belonged to himself.
“Please, m’lord,” the man sobbed, his voice cracking. “I’ll never break my oath again!”
“Take off your shirt,” Vlad commanded, his voice calm but unyielding.
A branding iron, glowing red-hot, was placed into Vlad’s waiting hand. The defector clutched his shirt as if it were armor against the inevitable. “M’lord... I beg you!”
For an oathbreaker, the punishment was as severe as the crime. The brand marked them as dishonored, barring them from marriage or children. Those who defied these terms faced execution, and any children they already had were sent to a lifetime of servitude at the Wall.
The man’s pleading fell on deaf ears. A White Cloak stepped forward, tearing the shirt from the defector’s back and forcing him to his knees. Vlad pressed the iron against his chest, the sizzle of burning flesh mingling with the defector’s screams.
It wasn’t the pain that broke him—it was the shame. The sound was a cry of a man whose future had been shattered, his legacy turned to ash.
Viskle looked away, his face a mask of neutrality. The defector had brought this on himself, but even so, the sight left a bitter taste in his mouth.
When the man was dragged away, it was Viskle’s turn. His legs felt heavy as lead as he stepped forward and knelt before the throne. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. “I, Viskle Orlo of the White Cloaks, greet the Lord Commander and Guardian of the North!”
Silence.
The seconds stretched painfully. His palms began to sweat. Did he say something wrong? Was this part of the ceremony? The screech of a sword being drawn filled the room, and chills ran down his spine.
“Viskle Orlo of the White Cloaks,” Vlad said, his voice echoing through the hall. “You have shown loyalty to our cause, bravery worthy of our house, courage, and discipline. And for this...”
The cold steel of Vlad’s sword touched Viskle’s right shoulder, and his breath hitched.
“Do you swear by Lady Winter to uphold the White Knights’ code of honor?”
“I do,” Viskle replied, his voice trembling.
“Do you swear by Lady Winter to uphold the White Knights’ code of strength?”
“I do.”
“Do you swear by Lady Winter to uphold the White Knights’ code of courage?”
“I do.”
“I, Vlad Ironstone, Guardian of the North, grant thee the rank of Knight. Receive your sword and insignia.”
Viskle’s hands shook as the ceremonial Northien steel sword was placed in his grasp.
Vlad’s hand rested briefly on his shoulder, steadying him. It was a rare gesture, warm and reassuring like a fire on a freezing night.
“Rise, Sir Viskle of the White Knights.”
When Viskle stood with unsteady knees, the commoners, the criminals, the soldiers, and even white cloaks kneeled with their heads down and hands pounded to their chests. Fellow knights such as Sir Bronx and the Lord Commander himself pounded their chest in a solute.
The hall was dead silent. The chilly air was absorbed by an Aura of respect and prestige. The light around seemed to dim, staying bright for only one person.
Viskle was like a baby cub. Pushed into a new world, lost and confused. And yet, this was the best moment of his life. He should have brought his mother. His wife would have loved this. Oh, how he wished he could show his son this image. The Lord Commander saluting him?!
Tears welled up in his eyes as he glanced at Sir Bronx. Six long years he had been the old man’s squire. Six long years of cries, laughter, pain and joy. Sir Bronx gave a warm smile and an encouraging nod.
“I-i-i-i. Umm….?” Viskle couldn’t find the words. Was he supposed to give a speech? Say words of gratitude? Give another oath?
A rare smirk curved its way onto Vlad’s lips. And Sir Bronx whispered, “No words need be spoken. Just walk off the steps, young knight.”
Viskle tried to bow before leaving, but a swift hand stopped him.
“This is your moment, Sir Viskle,” Vlad said. “If only for today, no need to bow.”
Viskle straightened, the weight of his new title settling on his shoulders. For the first time, he allowed himself to believe it: he was a knight.
Viskle had never ridden a horse faster in his life. The sky seemed lower than normal. As if he could touch the clouds and ride them to the sun. From a common thief to a 21 year old Aura Knight. How many of those old men and women could say they were only 21 when they received their insignia?
With the allowance of a White Cloak and squire, Viskle had afforded to buy a small plot of land south of Castle Blight. The house might not have been the grand castle but it was sturdy and ten times warmer. It was his place to sleep, eat and create fond memories. He loved his little home.
When Viskle entered, his mouth salivated at the scent of broth. His wife, Jasmin, was whipping up dinner at the hearth. He always loved coming home to this beautiful woman. Her messy bun, her slender arms, her pretty brown eyes. She even made wearing an apron look sexy. He gave her a hug from behind and the scent of her cheap perfume almost made him forget the big news.
“Guess what, guess what?” He asked with anticipation.
“You finally left the white cloaks,” she replied.
Viskle frowned. “You know that’s not possible.”
“Right, I forgot. Why give your life to your son and family when you can give it to the wall?” She’d been spinning the same spot of the broth for three minutes now, not daring to look up.
“Hey.” Viskle grabbed Jasmin’s chin and forced her to look at him. When he saw the bags under eyes and tears in her eyes, his heart skipped a beat and his expression softened.
“Everytime you go out there is another chance for you to never come back!” She lashed out, drumming her slender fists against his chest. “For the love of winter, you are only twenty-one years old. What will happen to your son when you die? What about me!”
Viskle sighed and hugged her tight. Her words stung as always. It was the same cycle every time he came back. First: Angry, second: sad, and then finally she’d calm down and become his loving wife again. But this time he had the upper hand. He went to grab his insignia but a little rascal interrupted.
“Daddy!” Remy, the six year old boy with features similar to Viskle ran from his room and jumped on Viskle.
Viskle lifted his son into the air, holding him close as he laughed. "There’s my little prince!" he said, his smile brightening the room. The boy, only six but already full of the energy of a dozen warriors, wrapped his arms around Viskle’s neck with a fierce hug.
It was then that Jasmin noticed the sheath dangling at Viskles belt. It was made of the finest leather and carved on the snow white hilt was four northic runes from top to bottom: Honor, Bravery, Courage, and Winter.
Her eyes widened and she held back the urge to yell at him right then and there. “Rem, go back to your room. Daddy and mommy need some alone time.”
Viskle arched an eyebrow as a small small formed on his lips. Little Remy hopped of off
Viskle, looked at his father and stated, “Make sure to make me a brother, I don’t want a sister,” before scurrying back into his room.
Viksle’s smile broadened. He had happy expectations. The smell of fresh broth lingered in the air. The couch was fluffy and soft. The fireplace crackled with a romantic symphony. Oh yea, he was about to get lucky.
But contrary to his thoughts, all he received was the cold stare of his wife. “Where did you get that sword,” Jasmin said, dangerously calm. “I know your not stupid enough to start stealing again.”
Viskle looked down at his sword and then realization struck. He was here to deliver big news! How could he have forgotten already?
He smirked and unlinked the sheath from his belt “You mean this?” He teased wiggling the sword in front of her like a proud child.
Jasmin took a breath of relief. She knew her husband wasn’t foolish enough to smirk at her unless he had been innocent. Still, that sword was too good for him to afford. Even a housewife like her could tell. And when she asked him where he got it, Viskle proudly whipped back his blood-stained white cloak so that she had a clear view of the badge attached to his gray coat. On the badge was the insignia that he had been gifted—a white apple with a silver leaf attached to its stem. The white apple could only be harvested in the north. It became the symbol of growth said to be gifted by the Goddess Winter to the first Iron King after his crowning.
“You're joking, right?” Jasmin hopped up and down, squealing. “This better not be one of your pranks!” She jumped into his arms and they swung, laughing as they did when they were children.
“This is only the beginning,”Viskle said.
Becoming a knight merely opened the gates of opportunity. It gave him nothing but a title. He would have to work harder; get more achievements. Only then could he afford servants, land, money. One day his family would live like lords.
“Now how about making a little brother for Rem?”