Chapter Text
No sane man ever truly loves battle. Whether they’re lord or lowborn, knight or yeoman, battle is a confusing affair.
Men in a hundred colors bashing and slashing at each other, hoping that they're hitting an enemy instead of a friend. At least that's what Edwyn thought.
It was a dreary day in the Riverlands, he and a retinue of men had been sent by Lord Blackwood to collect taxes around some abandoned castle, but instead they had found themselves in a melee.
Edwyn didn't know what to think as he stood watching as men in Black, Blue, Purple, and White battered each other by a muddy stream. He had never seen a man die before; he was young, only six-and-ten name days old and had only recently entered Blackwood's service.
He stood, watching, sword in hand and covered from head to toe in mail & plate, black and red gambeson peeking between the gaps. He moved forward.
He charged at a beast of a man wearing Blue and carrying a large battle axe and yelled something incoherent. Edwyn drove into the man with his shoulder and thrust both men to the mud.
The man in blue looked up at him from the mud, though Edwyn could not see the man's eyes through his helmet.
They began to grapple, each grabbing the other's weapons and struggling to stay on top and away from the mud sucking at their armor. His resolve began to break as the larger man gained the upper hand and began bashing the head of his battleaxe into Edwyn’s helm.
Edwyn made to pull the man down and begin grappling again, but he was swiftly hit again, and again, and again.
Edwyn began to see flashes of light in his vision, and it was as if all hope was lost, but he pushed forward. He put his hand to his belt and drew his dagger, and in one fluid motion drove it with all his might into the larger man's groin, causing the man to fall backwards into the mud.
Edwyn jumped atop the man and began pushing his dagger into the man's throat, over and over again, only stopping after an indeterminate amount of time.
He looked down at his own hands and saw that the formerly reflective surface of his armor was now a crimson red. He looked at the man's throat, which he had torn to pieces like a wolf and saw that it now resembled pre-packed sausage.
He looked up at the sky and began to cry, praying to…
The Father to Judge all who make war,
The Mother to protect his family, who would surely mourn him,
The Warrior to give him the resolve to live with his actions,
The Maid to keep his family pure from the corruption of war,
And the Stranger…
As he said these prayers, a thud could be heard, and everything disappeared from the world, and nothing could bring it back.