CHAPTER IV
A Prune Of A Brune
The trees dripped with sweat.
Not real sweat, no...just the weight of damp rot, hanging heavy in the air like a fever that wouldn't break. The marsh stank of fish and peat and wet iron. Gnats circled above the still water like thoughts too dumb to land.
Jeren tugged his helmet down a little tighter and tried not to scratch at the welt behind his ear. The helmet pinched. The armor didn't fit right either...too broad across the shoulders, like it had been made for someone taller. He'd never worn proper plate before, not outside training. He wasn't sure if he liked it.
Someone behind him muttered, "Under Ser Rogar's guidance, we'll stop those crabfuckers."
A few men grunted. One spat.
"These aren't Brune lands," someone else said under their breath.
"Shut it," came another voice. "You want Ser Rogar to hear you?"
"But it's true," the first man pressed. "This is Celtigar soil. Always has been. Since they took the Point."
"The king is fair, isn't he?" Jeren said quietly. "Why not petition him? Didn't our ancestors pledge straight to the Targaryens? Back in Queen Visenya's time?"
"That city is a pit of whores and vipers," growled an older sergeant. "You think they care who lived where a hundred years ago? Celtigar gold flows thick, or so Lord Beron says."
Jeren shifted his grip on his spear. "But this breaks the king's peace."
"And that's why it stays quiet," the sergeant snapped. "You want to end up on a spike?"
That silenced them for a while.
Jeren stared into the mist. There was movement...shadows flitting between twisted trees, thick with moss and dripping vines. Just birds. Or maybe the scouts returning.
He didn't want to say it aloud, but… he was nervous.
The last time Brune men had come into Celtigar land, they'd worn bone necklaces and dyed their faces black. Disguised like the forest folk, the Stone Pelters, the marsh savages that still haunted the innermost bogs. Meant to confuse, to sow fear. Meant to keep blood off the Brunes' name.
It hadn't worked.
They'd been cut down. Most of them. And one of them had been Jeren's brother.
Found with an axe through his face so clean it might've been Valyrian steel cutting cake.
"Should've worn your house tabard and died like a man," Jeren muttered, too soft for anyone else to hear.
"What was that?" someone asked.
"Nothing."
"Still think this is smart?" another whispered. "Celtigar's building towers now. Little forts. Paved trails. Cutting trees. Bringing sellswords in."
"Because we started it," someone hissed. "If we'd done it right-if our brothers had gone in with proper armor and blades instead of painted bone and piss-stained pelts...we'd have taken his copper-counting arse."
"Lord Celtigar?" someone said low. "There's rumors-"
"What rumors?"
"That he wields thunder. That he's blessed by the Storm God."
"Bullshit."
"Quiet," hissed a voice, as the sergeant turned.
The camp hushed. The crickets, the wind, even the mist seemed to still.
Ser Rogar Brune rode into view, mud splashed up his cloak, scouts flanking him on either side. His jaw was set like he'd been grinding it since dawn.
Jeren stiffened.
Ser Rogar was cousin to Lord Brune himself, a hard man with a voice like a whetstone. He hadn't spoken much on the ride down...just barked orders and kept his eyes on the horizon. But the look in his eyes now made Jeren's stomach clench.
He was angry.
And something else.
Excited.
Rogar dismounted with practiced ease and handed off the reins before anyone asked. He pulled his gloves free and strode toward the campfire, gesturing to his second-in-command.
They spoke in low tones, voices clipped and sharp. The scouts spread out behind them, fanning into the trees like trained hounds.
Jeren felt his fingers tremble on the shaft of his spear.
He thought of his brother again...of the silence in the bog that night, the way the mist had looked like smoke, the sound the body made when it hit the water.
This time, they were ready.
This time, he was ready.
The crab bastards wouldn't be grinning behind their walls forever.
Turns out, they were grinning behind their walls.
The jeers carried on the wind, laughter riding the crack of explosions that bloomed like fire from the palisade. Jeren flinched as another blast split the night, sending splinters and shrieks into the mist.
What had begun as a quiet ambush had become a slaughter.
The first wave had caught a few Celtigar guards and foresters unawares...men warming themselves by the watchfire, half-dressed and yawning. Easy kills. Too easy.
That should've been the first clue.
Then Buck took a bolt straight through the eye. Dropped like a sack of meat.
The sergeant, a hard bastard who once wrestled a badger for fun...was next. One moment he was shouting orders. The next, a blast sent him flying backwards into a nest of thorn and bramble they called "Wyvern's Teeth." Jeren had no idea if the man was dead or just too torn up to scream.
They kept pushing, but the trap had already sprung.
The foresters fought like madmen. Broad-shouldered killers in boiled leather and mail greaves, axes swinging like they meant to fell the trees along with the men. They cut through the Brune line with brutal efficiency, hacking low, splitting shields and skulls alike.
And the archers. Gods, so many archers.
Bolts rained from the walls in ceaseless volleys. Jeren saw one man with a broad nose and a nervous twitch take an arrow through the throat before he'd drawn his sword. Another fell screaming with a dozen barbs in his back.
Then he saw him...Ser Rogar Brune.
The knight was locked in single combat with a towering Celtigar man...boarish, broad, all brute strength. They traded blows in the mud as men died around them. Rogar's blade caught the Celtigar across the chest, but before he could strike again...boom. An axe rang off his helm like a bell.
Jeren watched the knight fall to his knees, dazed, his sword dropping into the muck.
Lucky, he thought as he saw another Brune man named Old Petr, an older soldier with a broken nose and sharp eyes...take an axe to the face. One clean stroke. Gone.
Lights bloomed overhead...red and white, pulsing in strange, silent bursts. A sign? Some Valyrian sorcery? Jeren didn't know. But the colors shimmered in the night sky like stars burning too close.
Not the worst way to die, he thought. Fucking crabs.
"Sorry, brother," he whispered. "Couldn't avenge you. I'll be meeting you soon enough."
He chuckled bitterly, hunkered behind a heavy pavise driven into the mud. It bristled with embedded bolts, looked more like a sea urchin or a porcupine than a shield. The only reason he was still breathing.
The Brune men were dying by the dozen now. The lines had shattered. Rogar had been captured...dragged off somewhere, maybe for ransom, maybe for hanging.
But Jeren? Jeren was no knight. No lord's cousin. No one to ransom.
His head would decorate a spike atop the wooden wall. He whimpered.
"Fuck you," he snarled at himself. "Coward."
He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. "You're a man. A soldier. Warrior Above's watching."
He would not die in the mud. Not on his knees.
"No," he growled, rising.
He screamed...louder than ever before...and broke from behind the pavise, charging at the Celtigar knight still standing amid the ruin.
"I'll gut you, boar-bastard! Arrrgghh!"
He didn't make it.
Something cracked against the back of his skull, and the stars above went black.
The sun was warm on his face.
The pigs were oinking somewhere near the gate, and Ma was stirring the pottage with one hand while frying the sausages with the other. Venison and pork...his favorite. He could smell the herbs. He could see the curls of steam in the golden morning light.
And there she was...Marra from the village. The one with the braids and the shy glances. She stepped close, voice low, cheeks pink.
"Jeren, I...I love-"
Cold water slammed into his face like a slap from the Stranger.
Jeren gasped, sputtered, choking as he thrashed upright...only to find he couldn't move.
His wrists were bound.
Mud under him. Shadows above. The stink of blood and sweat in his nose.
A grunt nearby. A wet thump.
The sound of someone getting punched in the face.
Ser Rogar's groan followed.
Memory came back in pieces: the jeers, the lights, the screams. Gods. The battle. The attack.
Holy shit.
Panic set in like fever. Jeren twisted in his bindings.
"Shh," said a voice in front of him.
A man crouched there...lean, smirking, with an easy sort of menace. "Stop squirming unless you want to die before breakfast. Ser Thoren's already pissed, and you don't look noble enough for him to spare your pimpled arse."
Wait. What?
How did he know about his-
Oh.
His armor was gone. His dignity too. Just rags now. He looked over and saw the swollen, bloodied face of Ser Rogar, barely conscious.
And there he was...the boar of a knight. Not the one they'd fought.
Ser Thoren.
Thoren Celtigar.
The uncle of Lord Celtigar.
Jeren's stomach twisted. They were properly, royally fucked.
Thoren paused from beating Rogar's face into a prune and turned, snatching a mug from a nervous-looking boy.
"Matt!"
"Yes, my lord?"
"I told you to bring me wine."
"Yes, my lord?"
Thoren sniffed the drink. "What the fuck is this?"
"Ahh...ale?"
The boar of a knight squinted at the cup, then at Matt, who went pale and bolted for the cellar, yelling something about fixing it.
Thoren grunted and turned back to Rogar.
"Rogar, Rogar, Rogar… You know you're fucked, right?"
The knight didn't answer. Stoic. Or maybe his jaw was too broken to speak.
"You know how this looks," Thoren went on, pacing, "and what my nephew is going to do to you."
He took a long swig of ale anyway, grimaced, then wiped the corner of his mouth.
"Not kill you, of course. If I were in his place, I'd have your head wrapped in silks and shipped to your cunt of a cousin...what's his name? Beron, isn't it? Young blood. Hot blood. That explains it."
He chuckled. "But you, Rogar...you should've known better."
Thoren leaned in.
"My nephew's smarter than me. I'll admit it. Sharp as a blade. But just as ruthless."
He crouched beside Rogar, wiping the blood from his knuckles onto his trousers.
"He's going to drag you to King's Landing, you know that? Drag your name and your house right through the mud. He'll beggar Dyre's Den with reparations alone. Humiliate you before every lord with ears. All legal. All clean."
Rogar's breath rasped between bloodied teeth.
"And that's not the worst of it," Thoren added. "Not by half."
He stood again, flexing his fingers.
"I want to feed you to the crabs. Truly, I do. But I'm a patient man."
Thoren looked down at Rogar, eyes full of fire and mockery.
"And after all that's done, after my nephew is finished with you… you'll beg to be fed to the crabs."
Jeren was surprised when Ser Thoren didn't beat him senseless. Even more so when hot pottage was ladled into a wooden bowl and pressed into his hands, steam curling from rich venison chunks and thick sausages dusted with black pepper and coarse salt.
The spices hit his tongue and nearly broke him. He choked on a sob. "Ma-"
Across the cell, Ser Rogar was barely recognizable...his swollen face pale and purpled, eyes puffed shut, lips cracked. He looked more frog than knight now. A pale, battered frog.
Strangest of all was the difference in their treatment. Jeren, a nobody, was fed, clothed in clean rags, and even had a blanket tossed over him in the night. Rogar? Rogar was left in his filth.
They were fattening him, Jeren thought. Like a pig before slaughter.
Not that he was alone. Young Mitty was alive. Old Beric too. A few sergeants remained...one of them, rumor had it, was the son of Lord Beron's steward.
The man who had first woken Jeren...lean, with a vulture's grin...was named Lymond. A mean bastard. He brought the prisoners ale most nights. Sometimes even snuck Jeren a bit of wine.
Never for Ser Rogar, though. They seemed to enjoy rubbing salt in his wounds. And the other men...Beric maybe not, but the rest of the common soldiers, they'd turned on Rogar completely.
"Shouldn't've listened to the bastard," one had muttered. "Crabs like that bear really do wield thunder."
"The boar," Jeren corrected, but nobody cared.
Rogar sat quiet most days, jaw clenched, teeth grinding like he wanted to bite through the walls. The looks he gave were savage...as if he wanted to flay them alive like a northern savage.
Jeren was tired. His head felt funny still, a dull throb where the blow had landed. But it was just a lump. No cracks. No real harm.
Ser Thoren came later. Took prisoners one by one into the stone chamber. Some came back worse than they'd gone in. One of the sergeants stared daggers at Rogar for hours after. Jeren didn't understand...until it was his turn.
Thoren hadn't beaten him. Just sat with him. Spoke.
"We've got enough proof," the Celtigar said, "and more than enough witnesses to see Rogar and his kin bleed gold for what they did. We don't need the rest of you."
He sipped wine.
"But my nephew thinks otherwise."
Jeren said nothing.
"Every once in a while," Thoren went on, "cunts like your little lord Beron or war-drunk knights like Rogar misguide lads like you. Stir up your pride. Tell you you're fighting for justice. And who pays?"
He leaned forward.
"Do they die in battle? Do they lose their heads?"
"No," Thoren said. "It's always you."
"What'd that bastard tell you, hmm? That we were stealing your lands? That Celtigar men were slaughtering and raping your kin? Or did he feed you something poetic about towers, settlers, and how we were a threat to your way of life?"
He slammed the wine down.
"You attacked us first," Thoren snapped. "First with those painted savages, now with Brune banners."
Jeren opened his mouth.
"But you- the sellswords…"
"They're not sellswords, you daft shit," Thoren growled. "They're foresters. And don't pretend like you didn't know! Stormlanders who lost their homes after the Laughing Storm's rebellion. Crownlanders sick of Lannister gold and King's Landing's lies. Riverlanders too poor and fucked to fight back when their lords decide to sneeze and burn a village ."
Jeren blinked.
"They were settling," Thoren said. "Legally. Peacefully. Our men guarded them."
He jabbed a finger forward.
"If we weren't there, you'd have butchered them. INNOCENTS!"
He calmed, sat back.
"My nephew gives you a second chance. You'll face the king's justice...death, or the Wall. A choice."
"You are lucky. Got yourself a second chance, to do the right thing, the honorable thing... to clear this stain from your name and pay the Brunes back for dragging you into their betrayal."
He drained his cup.
"And Lord Caspian will make sure your families...the ones stuck in Dyre's Den rot...get pulled out. Given work. Land. New start. A future not twisted by the lies of their lords."
Jeren tried to argue. "But we thought-the land…"
Thoren waved him off.
"In Crackclaw," he said, "no one really knows what's theirs. Forest, swamp, bog, cave...it's all shadow."
Jeren thought the same, though he didn't dare say it. That was the truth, wasn't it? Everything in Crackclaw was murky. Overgrown. Forgotten. Whose tree was whose? Whose cave? Whose clearing? Maybe it had once belonged to the Brunes. Maybe to the Celtigars. But now?
Image mattered more than truth.
And the Brunes attacked first.
And the Brunes lost.
The young lord had played them. Played them all like pipes at a feast.
And now...now Lord Caspian would make sure Beron paid.
In gold. In oaths. In shame.
And Jeren, if he lived, could see his mother pulled from the piss-soaked alleys of Dyre's Den and given a cottage. A new start. A new life.
All of this because the wrong man lost