Chapter 11: Théoden's Disapproval
John Stark stood in the Golden Hall, the cloying scent of mead and woodsmoke clinging to his throat like damp wool, the vast chamber's shadows flickering with the torchlight, the heat pressing against his skin. His new title, "Stark the Ghost," hung unspoken in the air, a tension that thickened as Théoden's pale, sunken eyes fixed on him, the king's frail form slumping on the throne. His legs ached from the ride, the muscles stiff, and the system's hum buzzed low and wary in his mind—a secret he guarded with a clenched jaw, his scarred hands resting still at his sides to hide the tremor.
Théoden's voice sliced through the silence, thin and icy, his frail form leaning forward under Wormtongue's slithering shadow, the advisor's oily whispers curling like smoke.
"You consort with my niece, Stark. You return from wounds that would kill any man, and you fill the halls with absurd tales of ghosts and unnatural strength. You are too close to my daughter, and I will not have this dishonor!"
John stood firm, drawing on the system's confidence to steady his stance, his knees creaking, masking it with a forced bow, his voice measured despite the dryness in his mouth.
"My Lord, I mean no dishonor. I simply defend the people of Rohan. And your niece saved my life as often as I saved hers. We are companions in the fight against Saruman."
[SYSTEM: Charisma: +0.5. Don't anger the king, fool. Keep the tone submissive but firm.]
"This king's grumpier than my old boss on a Monday morning," he muttered, the anachronistic quip a whisper lost in the hall's echo, his lips twitching to hide a smirk, the taste of mead lingering sourly.
A sudden gust slammed the great doors ajar, the iron hinges groaning, the sound a perfect mirror to the rising tension as Théoden's rebuke hung poised, the air growing heavier with each breath.
Éowyn could not bear the injustice, her chest tightening at the sight of her uncle, warped by Wormtongue's poison, scolding the man who'd fought for them, her hands clenching into fists. She stepped forward, her voice ringing with fierce purity, the words bouncing off the stone walls.
"Lord! John Stark saved me from the Dunlendings and the Wargs! He brings honor and safety, not dishonor! His stories are true, and his loyalty is greater than many who merely whisper in your ear!"
She stood beside John, their defiance a united front, the hall falling silent save for the torches' crackle, her eyes blazing with resolve, her breath quickening.
She gripped his arm, pulling him aside, their hands brushing in a fleeting spark that jolted through her, a tender loyalty blooming beneath her duty, her pulse racing. His gaze met hers, gratitude blazing, the system's alert hidden behind a quick nod, his neck rubbing raw under his collar.
"You're like a knight in shining sass," he quipped, his smile charming despite the odd words, a flirtation masked as humor, his voice cracking slightly.
[SYSTEM: Charisma: +1. She's fighting for you, Romeo. Good job making powerful enemies.]
Théoden's rage sputtered, his voice trembling, spittle flecking his lips.
"Go! Both of you! Out of my sight! You test my patience, niece!"
Éowyn led John away, the small victory swelling in her chest, her heart alight with dangerous hope, her boots echoing on the stone as the hall's shadows swallowed their retreat, the air cooling against her flushed face.
He found solace on a quiet balcony, the cold wind a relief against the hall's heat, the city sprawling below in a tapestry of torchlit roofs, the breeze tugging at his torn cloak. Alone, he let the HUD glow sharply in his mind, its crystalline edges pulsing, the hum vibrating in his teeth.
[SYSTEM: Resolve: +0.5. Don't mope, Stark. Théoden's rejection is a key plot point. Remember the tests of heart that await.]
He sighed, the sound heavy, Wormtongue's hatred and Théoden's rejection a dual weight, yet Éowyn's warmth a counterbalance, grounding him as he rubbed his weary face, the stubble scratching his palm.
"The King's not your fan? Shocker. But she is," he mused, the hope flickering like a candle in the wind, his throat tight with emotion.
His HUD revealed Soul Wear at 40%, the stretched-thin sensation a chilling reminder of his cost, a price he bore to prove his worth—not just to the king, but to Éowyn and himself, his fingers tracing the railing's rough edge.
Éowyn joined him, leaning on the railing, the wind tugging her hair into golden strands, her armor clinking softly.
"The King requires proof, John. He requires you to be of Rohan. The men, the Rohirrim, they respect strength and skill. Train with them. Prove your worth in the courtyard. Let them see Stark the Ghost is a warrior, not a phantom."
The challenge settled over him, a path to redemption, and he nodded, resolve hardening as he met her gaze, the wind carrying their shared silence into the night, his heart steadying.
"Training. Time to grind out those levels," he thought, the cold biting at his knuckles.
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