November 11, 905
The Hall of Witnesses smelled of pine, sweat, and iron, just like any other day.
The candles on either side of the Hall were flickering along the carved wooden beams that casted long and uneven shadows across the even stone floor.
Outside, the fjord wind was screaming through the open archways. It carried the tang of salt and the faint, distant cries of gulls that would sometimes come to Nordhavn at this time of the year.
Gregan was sitting stiffly on the bench, wedged between his older siblings, Theon and Lyanna. His hands were clasped so tightly that his knuckles whitened.
The center of the hall had a man who was kneeling. He was bound at the wrists, and his head was lowered. Dust and salt clung to his hair, and his back was caked in dried mud.
The fisherman, Duncan, looked to be around 30 rotations old and was currently chained for the crime of killing a boy, whose father—Harlon Hull—was a well-regarded shipwright of the southern docks.
The Hall had heard the testimonies and The Council of Elders which consisted of three eldest people of Nordhavn had given their tacit approval on the final decision.
However, they were not merely any old and senile people. These three were trained in the Wolfswood Conclave, an establishment at the far end of The White Knife, practically the edge of Nordhavn.
It's not a single grand tower or a building, but rather a cluster of ancient stone buildings and weirwood-ringed halls deep in the Wolfswood, a few days' ride northwest of The White Knife.
It is maintained jointly by House Holt and the older northern houses.
The Conclave trains and houses Nordhavn's scholar such as greenseers-in-training, master huntsmen, runecarvers, weather-wise women, herbalists who know the true names of every plant, and keepers of the old songs and genealogies.
Every member of The Conclave is sworn to secrecy, loyalty and abstinence to House of the Holts since it is known for producing hermits who would specialize in various fields such as medicine & surgery, war, philosophy and so on.
The Three Elders were two men named Maester Garrick and Maester Bryndel, while the other one was Maester Grace. All of them were in their nineties but their minds were sharper than the sharpest younglings.
Maester Garrick, who was a stern man in a threadbare robe of muted blue, cleared his throat. "My lord," he said in his usual confident but shaky cadence, "the matter stands plain before you. The truth has been spoken, the witnesses heard. All that remains is your judgment. We have given our counsel freely, as is our duty. Now the decision rests with you alone."
Lord Rickard, the King of the Northern Island, leaned slightly forward in his high-backed chair.
His gray eyes quietly scanned the hall, taking in the bowed heads of the witnesses, the silent guards, and the trembling man before him. Rickard was an extremely tall and wide man with shoulder length hair, a long beard and a thick mustache. All of his hair was light brown in color.
There was a perpetual frown on his forehead. He was wearing boiled leather, which was simple in design, unbefitting of a so-called Lord of Nordhavn.
Gregan, hearing upon these words, felt a tightening sensation in his chest as his father's gaze fell briefly on him. "Aye," he said at last, after an uncomfortably long moment of silence. "He must answer for his deeds."
A reverent murmur rippled through the benches as Gregan felt his stomach clench.
He had heard these words all too many times before, and he definitely knew what was going to ensue after this.
Theon's—his brother—arm rested casually across the back of Gregan's chair. The pressure in his brother's hand reminded Gregan not to fidget. Lyanna leaned slightly toward him as well, her eyes cold and bright as she scrutinized her younger brother.
The hall fell silence once again as Rickard's gaze silenced the murmurs. No man dared speak until the Lord of Nordhavn spoke again. "And answer he will. Before his kin, and before me. Bring him outside."
It needed not be said. The verdict was death by the King's hand himself. A hush fell as attendants brought forward a longsword.
The King, his children, the attendants, the people present in the Hall, the Maesters, and everyone else walked in silence to the area outside the Hall.
A woman stifled a sob as she saw her husband being dragged to a log of wood which had dried blotches of blood on it. A child, no more than 5 rotations, gripped her finger as he watched with a nervous look.
Lord Rickard took the longsword out as it swallowed all light around it. It was a jet-black colored blade with a simple hilt, covered in tons of leather straps. People suddenly shuddered, a chilling sense of fear climbing up their spines.
Everyone wanted to look at the sword in their Lord's hand, but none could dare to. After all, it was rumored that House Holt wielded a cursed blade that would decapitate anyone that dared look at it directly, save for the blood of Holt.
"Holt," was the sword's name. King Rickard stabbed the ground with his longsword that was almost as tall and heavy as him and looked down at the offender, Duncan.
"Any last words, Duncan?" He spoke as coldly as ever.
"I am ashamed of my crime... but please, allow my child to grow up into a better man. My wife... she had no part in it. Please, do not allow others to take advantage of her." Duncan rasped, and then before his King could approve or disapprove his requests, he lowered his head and pulled his collar down, revealing his pale neck.
"I, Rickard Holt, second of my name, sentence you, Duncan Wright, third of your name, to death for the murder of a non-adult child." Then, in one swift motion, the sword came down. Before the first drop of blood touched Rickard's sword and stained it, he was already sheathing it.
A moment later, the head fell down with a wet plop.
A loud cry escaped from a woman's mouth after a few still seconds.
"Rest well..." Lord Rickard mumbled as he turned away. His black cloak fluttered in the air as he made his way back inside the council and the three Maesters followed him in, waddling after him like ducklings.
'I don't want to be here... Why, just why... Why do I have to be a part of this... Why...? All because of her...'
During this whole proceeding, Gregan had closed his eyes as he cursed at someone. However, some time before the sword had fell, Theon had leaned over and had grasped Gregan's head gently, tilting it so he could not look away. "Steady," he had murmured with a faint edge of dark amusement in his voice. "Too soft for this place, you are, little brother. Open your eyes and see."
Theon was a boy on the cusp of manhood, near as tall as his father already, with hair of a dark ash-brown and his mother's sea-green eyes color and his father's siren-shaped eyes. Yet it was not only the eyes he had taken from Meilin Holt. Her eastern blood ran strong in his features, lending him a sharp, wicked beauty that turned heads everywhere.
He was handsome as a devil out of old tales.
Gregan's heart slammed in his chest as he tried to look away, to close his lids and block out what was about to happen, but Lyanna's fingers pinched the small of his back sharply. Pain jolted him upright and his eyes widened involuntarily.
He watched the blade descend and the head part from the neck with a single clean stroke. It struck the snow, rolled, and came to rest at his feet.
Yet this time he gave his siblings no satisfaction as he did not flinch.
Theon marked the tremor in the boy's frame and tightened his grip on Gregan's shoulder, forcing him to draw himself up straighter. "See?" he murmured, low enough that only Gregan would hear. "It's not as nauseating."
Following that, Lyanna's hand, as though she had not just twisted his skin near to tearing it from the flesh, settled on his head with a gentleness near motherly as she smoothed the sweat-damp hair back from his brow.
Lyanna was a tall girl with long and beautiful brown hair from Rickard Holt and Meilin Holt's enchanting, crystal-clear green irises. Like her mother, she had small almond eyes, puffed lips, a round face and a well-endowed body, unhidden underneath cloak as she wore her training uniform.
"Sorry," she whispered, "but that was for your own good, my dear brother." She drew away, leaving him to stare at the stone floor and the dark blood streaking outward across it.
His father's gaze rested on him but a moment, yet those pale grey eyes cut deeper than steel. In them Gregan read the very unhidden reproach, sharp and cold as hoarfrost. The weight of that look was heavier than any longsword ever forged in Nordhavn's smithy.
Gregan wheeled about and bolted, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest, down the dim corridors, past the heavy oaken doors of the council chamber, carved with wolves and weirwoods, until he burst into the sanctuary of his own chambers.
Gregan buried his face in the thin, lumpy pillow and let out a muffled groan. "Why must I have any part in this?" he shouted into the feathers.
His words were thick and slurred with exhaustion and rage. "Why can I not simply live as other boys do—free of wars, free of blood? Why must it always fall to me...? I hate you... all of it... because of you..."
The face of a girl rose unbidden behind his closed eyes. All he wanted was to tear her apart with his bare hands. It was she who had shattered the quiet life he might have had, she who had dragged him into this unwanted life.
After his initial breakdown, Gregan turned and slept on his back. An unknown amount of time later, he woke up. Through his window, he saw the cloudless sky that was dark, as usual, darker in fact, but it rarely made difference now.
Laying with his arms and legs sprawled, he looked at the simple ceiling. Without turning his eyes, he huffed. "Am I in trouble, mother?" He spoke without much emotion to his voice.
On the foot of the bed, sat an extremely beautiful woman. With wheat-ish-pale skin, ashen hair and mesmerizing green eyes, she was one of the most beautiful women in the entirety of Nordhavn. "Can I not visit you for the sake of visiting you?"
Gregan looked out the window as birds flew at the same level as his window.
Seeing her son so quiet, Meilin Holt took out something from her sleeve. While being married to Lord Holt, she had not completely abandoned her connection to the East as she wore a loose dress with a giant neckline that exposed her cleavage and sleeves that cinches at her elbows but became incessantly wide around her arms.
Meilin Holt was a noble lady from the Eastern Floating Island named Tianqiu. It was the largest floating island in existence, the most populated, the richest, and also the most resource rich one. It was the ideal place—a heaven.
Meilin Holt was born to two nobles who had married to merge their transport business. During the delegations between Tianqiu and Nordhavn regarding the Tidal Ink Accord, Lord Rickard was enamored by Meilin. Despite people from Tianqiu being regarded as the most beautiful, Meilin Holt still stood out. Due to that, Rickard Holt had married her. Of course, it wouldn't have been made possible if Meilin had not fallen just as hard for the handsome mountain.
Gregan looked at his mother and then at the parchment. Hesitatingly, he reached out and held it out. It was written in Ancient Nords, a language only the Holts understood.
His pale grey eyes widened as the piece of paper fell from his fingers. Despite the parchment no longer in front of him, he kept staring at the space where it had been moments before.
Meilin sighed as she leaned forward and closed the distance between herself and Gregan. Slipping her thin fingers between Gregan's, she gripped his hand tightly. "Gregan, my child, my heart aches to see you like this..." her words carried warmth, unlike the usual stiff, and cold ones Gregan was used to hear from everyone in Nordhavn.
"...but this is not the time that I take pity on you, or you sulk because of... her."
Gregan's head snapped towards her in fury.
Meilin's brows knitted together. "Know whose presence you stand in, Gregan Holt."
Feeling the warmth vanish in her voice, Gregan suddenly sat up. Meilin continued speaking. "Not mentioning her will not undo what has happened. But as House Holt says, "The Tide Takes None Alone," we have nothing else to do but accept what has already transpired."
Nordhavn, Tianqiu, Vaalor and Aenglarc will make a descent to the Corrupted Lands in 7 nights. And Lord Holt has decided that you and Lyanna shall go with the legion scrouging for food. However, the blood of Zhao Rui shall also be present there...
I worry for you. Lyanna has her head where it needs to be, but you... You worry me."
Gregan looked at his mother with a baffled look. "Do I look that helpless to you? Do you think your slant-eyed, wheatworms countrymen are going to do something to us?"
"You. Not us, you." Meilin spoke flatly. "Theon had awakened his Rune long ago, so I am not worried about him. The same goes for Lyanna, even if someone stronger appears, the two of them will be able to stand their grounds. But you... You are already 17 rotations old. There is not a speck of Arcana inside you. Of course, I am worried that these wheatworms that you speak of so condescendingly will kill you."
Gregan had the urge to retort, but he found out that he couldn't. He just didn't have the words or wit to refute what had just been said.
Meilin continued. "All I am saying is that Tianqiu is on bad terms with us. Us, not Nordhavn, but us Holts. Zhou Rui's blood might not be Royalty, but they are capable of standing up to us. They have the favor of a Knight of Pentacles. Do you realize how dangerous that is, for us?"
Gregan's pale grey eyes went a little wide. He could not even fathom that a normal noble family will have connection to a Knight of Pentacles. Calming down and pushing the image of the person who fueled his resentment and fury at the mere mention down, he looked at Meilin.
"What do you require of me, mother?"
"Tell your Lord Father that you cannot participate in the upcoming "Seasonal Descent." There is no dishonor in that. You should know this; Northerners do not care about honor or dishonor."
"Except the dishonor of treason." Gregan corrected.
"Wanting to save your life is not treason, Gregan." Despite the boiling emotions at her child, Meilin kept her emotions in check as her beautiful face stayed impassive. The heavy jewelry made of different assortment of extremely expensive stones glimmered in the darkening room.
Gregan was not sure what he wanted to do. In the end, he just sighed.
He hated this. He hated being on the run or living in fear from the blood of Zhou Rui. He loved Tianqiu. He loved the verdant green plains, foods made with assortment of spices, the warm brisk air, the pink blossom trees, the friendly people who offered warmth.
Gregan had lived a very comfortable life up until now. With extremely talented 3 older siblings who had all awoken some kind of Minor Rune and had advanced past the initial stages, he was never required by his parents to urgently become strong, as was the custom of the time, and the time when his father was a child.
It did not mean that he was neglected by his parents, it merely meant that they spoiled him to no end. So, with the recent developments and sour relationships between Nordhavn and Tianqiu, not only could he not go back to his favorite place, but his life was also perpetually in danger.
This sudden urge from his parents to become strong and somewhat awaken a Rune, even if he stays at Ace of Cups, made him really uncomfortable.
Runes were the measure of power. 99% of the people alive in this world would awaken Straight Runes. The Runes were classed in four categories: Swords, Wands, Pentacles and Cups. It started from Ace of each category, to 10 of each of category such as Ace of Swords, Two of Swords, up until Ten of Swords.
There were, however, four more classifications as well.
It was The Page, The Knight, The King and The Queen.
The King was purely bloodline based. So, the King of Swords: Lord Carrow ruled over Aenglarc, King of Wands: Lord Drăvanescu ruled over Vaalor, King of Cups: Lord Rickard ruled over Nordhavn, and King of Pentacles: Lord Zhou ruled over Tianqiu.
The King of each category had the authority to appoint the Queen, Knight and Page. At a time, only one Queen, 2 Knights and 2 Pages could exist together.
Sighing, Gregan looked up to his mother. "Let me think over it."
Meilin's expressions softened as she smiled at Gregan. Standing up, she walked towards Gregan, lowered down and kissed his cheeks multiple times. In the meantime, Gregan just sat there like a statue, visibly looking to be struggling.
Once Meilin was done, she turned around and left his room. Gregan looked outside, only to see the birds from before still flying outside his window. It looked suspended in air, as if flying at the same speed as Nordhavn.
The look of reproach in his father's cruel grey eyes flashed in his mind. He wanted to live peacefully. He wanted to spend the summers in Nordhavn and the winters in Tianqiu, however, it was all too late to lament over it.
He wiped his moist eyes, unshed tears that had welled at some point during his talks with his mother. "I'll need to pray for a rune..."
Despite hating it, he had already decided what he needed to do. Even if he despised this method, it was the only way. The only way to turn things back to how they were.