Emissary of the Mark

(Elfhelm’s adventures in the land of Rhûn)

by Soledad

Disclaimer: see Introduction, because in this story it’s rather long.

Author’s notes: The Wild Goose Path is the Rohirric equivalent of the Milky Way. At least in my stories.

Beta read by my good friend Larner, whom I owe my thanks.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Chapter Seven: A Secret Unveiled, A Wergild Paid

Imogen led the two guests back to the guest house, where they had been assigned the best chambers the Western Halls of Nimwarkinh could offer. These were small, remarkably dry caves, the walls covered with thick, beautifully woven carpets of goat wool, and the stone floor with heavy bear skins to keep the cold at bay. The four-poster beds were made of the wood of back firs that grew all over the Mountains of Nimwarkinh – not a very high-quality wood, admittedly, but the masterful carving hid the flaws skilfully.

Instead of curtains, they were hung with woollen carpets and cushioned with bearskins. Bed linens were an unknown luxury in Nimwarkinh, apparently. A low, marble-plated   table stood on twisted bronze legs at the head of each bed, the saddlebags of the guests placed on the floor next to the tables. A small washstand, also made of bronze, with a copper washing basin and large jugs of hot and cold water offered them some comfort before retiring for the night.

Imogen escorted Strider to his chambers first, wished him a restful night and closed the door firmly behind him. Then she led Elfhelm to the other chambers, but instead of leaving him alone as well, she went in with him, closed the door behind them and secured the latch from within. Elfhelm watched her with wide-eyed surprise.

“My lady,” he said, “what is the meaning of this?”

“What do you think?” she asked in bitter amusement. “My family owes a life debt to you, and I was sent to pay it.” Seeing Elfhelm’s baffled expression, she laughed mirthlessly. “You think this to be such a rare wonder? Rest assured that it is not. ’Tis not the first time for me; and not the last one either, most likely. Not as long as my youth and beauty last.”

“I thought you had no obligations in your resting cycle,” said Elfhelm, having finally found his voice.

“Usually, I do not,” she agreed with a sigh. “But we are in your debt. You can afford to forget how Ingolf threatened you with death; how he had you thrown into the Black Pit. We cannot. Or do you believe my father would give me to any random strangers? Then you are mistaken. He only does it when much is at stake. For he knows I can get him whatever he wants. Whatever we need.”

“Then, for the first time, he shall have to live with a disappointment,” said Elfhelm coldly. “I do not sell favours for favours; less so when ladies are involved.”

“Why?” she asked, her eyes glittering in challenge. “Dou you not know what to do with a woman in your bed?”

Not man enough for a shieldmaiden, Elfhelm remembered the worst Khimmer insult one could think of. But he knew he was being provoked and was not about to play her game. He smiled involuntarily, though, for she was bold in pursuing her goals; he had to give her that.

“I certainly would know how to give a girl a good time,” he answered. “I had no complaints so far. But what kind of father sells the virtue of his daughter as a Dunlending wool merchant would sell his fleeces on the market?”

“One that has no other choice,” replied Imogen grimly. “If word got out that you had not been given proper compensation, my father’s throne would fall and the uncertain bond between the tribes would fall apart again. How long, do you think, would we last against the marauding Orcs on one side and the forces of Gondor, in whose eyes we are the marauders, on the other? Divided, we would fall and perish, no matter which side may emerge victoriously at the end of the upcoming great war.”

“The other chieftains do not seem to share your father’s concerns,” said Elfhelm. “On the contrary: they appear content enough to continue a life as raiders and pillagers.”

“Which is why my father must hold his position, at any costs,” returned Imogen. “He is the only one strong enough to keep this tentative bond together. And he is the only one wise enough to seek out other ways to get us what we need. He is the only one who can break us free from the Shadow that our people have served too long. But he can only keep the Sword as long as his reputation remains unblemished.”

“I understand that,” said Elfhelm, and truly, he did. The Men of the Mark took hospitality very seriously, too. “But why must you be the one who has to pay a debt in which you had no part?  In truth, I owe you a life debt as well, since you have saved me from the worst.”

“The price for a life is a life, or something of equal value,” she quoted the old law. “Our treasure chambers are all but depleted. Evil winds have been blowing from the Ash Mountains for years by now, poisoning the meagre soil in the Courtyard of Nimwarkinh; growing food there has become increasingly difficult. Even the game has become rare since the number of wolves has grown. Father held back the raids as much as he could, to make these negotiations possible at all, but that meant we had to trade our treasure for food, so that our people would not starve. We no longer have enough gold and silver to pay you a proper wergild for the threat to your life.”

Elfhelm, remembering Joukko and his starving family, understood that, too. Still…

“And so your father trades you instead?” he asked with a disapproving frown.

Imogen shrugged. “Would you prefer my brother’s head on a platter? You would be entitled to that as well.”

“In all honesty? I would,” replied Elfhelm bluntly. “But I assume that losing his only heir would not make Ragnar Jarl’s position any safer.”

“Nay, it would not,” agreed Imogen. “It would lead to kin-strife, and to the fall of the entire Tribe. You cannot reject our offer, unless you want my father’s fall – and a fate worse than death for me. You must know that all women and daughters of a fallen chieftain become the spoils of the new warlord’s warriors. Is that the fate you would wish upon me? Then you are either a very cruel man or you have never seen our warriors at their worst.”

Elfhelm had seen enough farmsteads raided and destroyed by Easterlings to know what Khimmer warriors were capable of when battle madness and bloodlust came over them. He had also learned during his stay that Ragnar the Smith had quite a number of rivals; rich, powerful and respected chieftains like Siltric Silkbeard, who watched his throne with envious eyes for the slightest sign of weakness. He had no doubts that – should Ragnar fall from power – his family would suffer a terrible fate. Particularly the women; particularly Imogen, who as a shieldmaiden was a sworn protector of her father’s position.

Still, such a bargain was not acceptable to the honour of a thegn of the Mark. And the Éothéod held their honour in high regard, higher than they would regard their life. He knew, however, that he could not simply reject the offered compensation. Not if he wanted his mission to succeed.

There had to be another way… and in a sudden moment of clarity he saw it, shining more brightly than the Wild Goose Path shone among the stars.

“Answer me one question ere I would say either aye or nay; and be honest with me,” he said. “If things were different between me and your father – would you choose me nonetheless?”

Imogen’s pale face gained some colour. Tears flooded her clear grey eyes all of a sudden, as if the bitter frost around her heart had begun to thaw a little.

“I never had a lover of my own choice,” she admitted quietly. “I never truly wanted one. Exceeding in battle was almost more important for me, and my entire life was dedicated to that. But had we met under happier circumstances, I may indeed have chosen you I might even be happy with you, for a short while -- for long as happiness is granted to a shieldmaiden.”

“I am honoured,” said Elfhelm, and he meant it. She might hail from a tribe of uncouth barbarians, but her personal bravery and honour elevated her to the same rank as any noblewoman of the Mark. “You must understand, though, that the thews of the Mark do not allow me to accept such an offer from a free lady of my own rank – unless we intended to wed. Evenhead is sacred to us.”

“Then this argument is pointless,” she said bitterly.

“Why would it be?” Elfhelm shrugged. “’This would not be the first time someone of our family married outside the Mark. My own mother came from Rhûn, you may wish to know.”

“But was she also a shieldmaiden?” asked Imogen gravely. “Had she been used as a bargaining tool by her family?”

“Nay; she was more fortunate,” he admitted. “But she was a penniless refugee, on the verge of starving, she and her entire clan, when my father found them, hunting for white kine just outside the Brown Lands. And I was told that shieldmaidens can be released from the bond of their order – for the good of their people.”

“’Tis a rare thing, done only in times of great need,” she said.

“Are these no such times then?” returned Elfhelm.

“Perhaps,” she said. “But do you know what you are asking of me? To give up everything l lived for, everything I fought for all my life, so that your honour can remain unblemished? What makes you think you have the right to ask this of me?”

“Nothing,” he admitted freely, “save perhaps the fact that I have come to admire you greatly and would not mind sharing my life with you. For you are bold and honourable and valiant – and so beautiful, I swear, that not even the Elven minstrels would find the right words to sing about your virtues properly. Your deeds would place you among the Ruling Queens of Westernesse, had you been born to a different people – women like you are highly praised and valued in the Mark.”

“I am a warrior, not a housekeeper,” she said.

Elfhelm nodded. “I would never ask you to lay down your sword, should you agree to become my wife. We, too, have our shieldmaidens who ride to battle with the Men of the Mark. The Lady Aud herself, wife to Prince Théodred, is one of those, and admired for her battle-boldness.”

“And kinship through marriage would smooth the paths between our people,” said Imogen slowly. “Yea, I see where you are going with this. But if that is what you have in mind, I have to confess something to you, something no-one knows. I may not be with you long enough to make the alliance work.”

“Why not?” asked Elfhelm in surprise.

“Two years ago, I fell ill with the lung fever and have suffered from a dry cough ever since,” she admitted. “’Tis a common enough thing among our women; some get it from the brown vapours blown over from the Ash Mountains, some because they spend their entire life in these underground caves. Few of us live to such a high age as Old Weohstan Jarl; and never the women. Less so the shieldmaidens who cannot afford to show any weakness.”

“But you cannot hope to keep it a secret forever,” warned Elfhelm. “A dry cough following the lung fever is one of the most dangerous illnesses. It may appear harmless at first, but inevitably leads to a slow and painful death if not treated.”

“I know,” she sighed dejectedly, “but what can I do? Our healers know not how to treat this illness; and besides, the others must not learn that I have fallen ill. They hate me and are jealous of my fame that outshines theirs by far. Do you think they would not give me a slow and painful death should they understand how I have misled them for the last two years?”

“I imagine they would,” replied Elfhelm. Like in the Mark, sooth – meaning truth and honesty – was valued among the Khimmer warriors, shown by their strong avoidance of lies, which they considered a weakness. In a culture that knew no written contracts, honesty was a necessity; again, very much like in the Mark. “Yet I do not believe all would be lost just yet. If you come with me, away from the poisonous breath of the Ash Mountains, perchance the wide, free grasslands of the Mark would bring you ease – perhaps even healing, who knows? We can call in healers from Mundburg; they are said to be the best in Middle-earth, and may know a cure for your illness.”

“And if they cannot?” asked Imogen seriously.

“If they cannot, you shall at least have a few years left to ride across the green meadows of my homeland, with the wind blowing freely in your hair,” said Elfhelm, using an old metaphor of the Mark. “You can ride to battle with me, or you can stay at home and rule our household – whichever you desire. And we can make this alliance between our peoples work.”

“Is that the only reason why you want me to become your wife?” asked Imogen doubtfully. “For the alliance?”

“Nay,” admitted Elfhelm freely. “My father has been urging me to take a wife for some time. He said either I find one or he will do it for me. I would prefer it to remain my choice, if I can. You would give me the freedom of that choice.”

“While you deny me the same,” pointed out Imogen mercilessly. “I see, though, how it would serve your purpose. Wedding me now would placate your father, and once I am dead, which is only a matter of a year or two, you can choose a more proper bride of your taste.”

Elfhelm shook his head. “Nay, my lady. The maiden I loved with all my heart chose my own brother over me; even if he died, I could never have her. But I can learn to love you, given enough time; for you are worth being loved and admired.”

“You are right; I am,” she replied simply. “But you cannot force your heart to love somebody, whether they are worth it or not.”

“Not force, nay,” he admitted. “However, my people believe that love between a man and a woman united in marriage begins to grow after the first embrace and the exchange of proper gifts – a way to share the luck and holiness of their respective families – and thus ensuring that their union is blessed. Therefore, I can teach my heart to love – and in the end, does it truly matter how I got there?”

“I do not know,” said Imogen thoughtfully. “All I know is what I have to do to save my father’s throne and my brother’s head. And if you only accept me if I marry you, then that is what I will have to do. Even if it means having to leave behind everything that I have known and loved and wanted all my life.”

“You speak of marriage as if it were the worst fate one could imagine,” teased Elfhelm. “I happen to know that most people find it very satisfying.”

She arched an eyebrow. “I am sure it is – if it is your own choosing. Which is why you have tried to avoid that fate in any way you could, well beyond the age the Men of the Mark usually get wedded, is it not?”

“Which is why I want it to be my choice – not that of my father,” countered Elfhelm.

“Or mine,” she said. “But that cannot be helped now. As we are both using each other to get what we want – or what my father wants, in my case – we can be honest about it. I will marry you; I give you my word, the word of a shieldmaiden that is as good here as it that of any warrior’s – better even. But first you must lie with me, so that my family can be free of any debt when my father sits down to negotiate that alliance with you in the morrow.”

“I see we have come to an agreement then,” Elfhelm opened one of the saddlebags and sifted through its contents ’til he found a small, flat wooden box. “But ere we would lie with each other as weorman and wife, I must give you this.”

“What is this?” she asked in suspicion.

Elfhelm opened the box. It contained a golden bracelet lying on a small velvet cushion; the kind the women of the Mark wore on their wrists. It was three fingers broad, beautifully made and richly set with rubies and amethysts – clearly not Rohirric craftsmanship but brought from somewhere in the far South; Harad, most likely.

“’Tis called the brydcéap in my tongue, also known as the bridesgift,” he explained, “supposed to be given the bride by the groom’s family as a sign of mutual agreement and as the symbolic proof that the groom can support his future wife. ’Tis given the evening before their first night together. Since my family is not here, I have to give it you myself – and I ask you to accept it as a sign of your willingness to marry me.”

Imogen inclined her head with great dignity and allowed him to slip the bracelet onto her wrist. It fit surprisingly well, considering that her hands were larger than those of most women, due to the fact that she had been training with weapons since childhood.

“I accept your gift, my lord, and accept your courtship – such as it can be under the circumstances,” she said. “Now, let us get done with which needs to be done – my father expects me at sunrise at the last, to tell him that I have succeeded.”

“Aye, that you have,” Elfhelm took her face in his hands and smiled into her clear, sober eyes. “Fear not what is about to come, my lady. There will be joy in it, I promise.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Lord of Nimwarkinh found no sleep that night. He never did when he was forced to sacrifice his youngest, most cherished daughter – the only child of his beloved Branwen – for the good of their Tribe. At such times he did not want to see anyone, not even his son and heir – less so now, when Ingolf had been the reason for his problem. At such times, he wanted no mead, nor the warm bodies of his women.

Grim-faced as a wounded bear, he retired to the small, rotund cave whose only furniture was a low stone bench running around the walls, and stared into the dying fire in the bronze brazier standing in the middle. Here, in this round little hall did he always ponder over his far-reaching plans. Here did he make his hardest, often risky decisions. Here did he come always when he wanted to be alone; for no-one was allowed to enter here.

There was no need to place guards outside the massive bronze door. No-one, not even Imogen, would have dared to cross the threshold of this particular cave. It had been considered sacred and inaccessible for everyone save the lord since the times of Beloberch Jarl the Wise, the great-grandfather of Ragnar the Smith.

People still believed that their chieftain would hold counsel here with the spirit of his ancestor, the mythical bear. Ragnar Jarl had believed thusly himself in his youth. He had only learned the truth when his father, Hademar Jarl, had handed over leadership to him and ceremoniously led him to the Ancestor’s Cave for the first time.

It had been a long time ago. Hademar Jarl had been dead for decades, and Ragnar the Smith knew all too well by now that the only spirit he could hold counsel here with was his own restless soul. For restless was the soul of the Lord of Nimwarkinh, despite having risen higher in power at the noon of his life than any Khimmer warlord before him.

For he alone knew that the long-planned great war was no longer just a distant possibility. The power of Mordor had been growing slowly, steadily for many years, and now its forces were getting into motion. ’Twas only a matter of years and the black wave would sweep over the still free peoples of Middle-earth, burying friend and foe alike on its way.

Perhaps alone of all Khimmer jarls, Ragnar understood that the tribes of Rhûn were not the friends or allies of Mordor. They were but tools in the Black Hand, to be used and discarded at will. They could not hope any better fate than all other peoples, once Mordor’s monsters had swarmed across the mountains.

He also knew that he could not save everyone. There were too many chieftains like Siltric Silkbeard who lived for a chance to raid and pillage and kill. They would follow Mordor willingly – and die to smooth the road for Orcs, Trolls and who knew what other horrible creatures, in the hope of rich spoils in Rhovanion, Gondor or Rohan.

Ragnar was not willing to have his warriors massacred on Mordor’s behalf. But he knew he could not simply declare freedom from the Dark Lord. Too long had the tribes of Rhûn fought under the black banner of Mordor. He could only hope to save his own tribe, and those smaller ones that had followed his lead, by holding back, instead of breaking free openly, by secretly assisting the King of the Mark in his ongoing struggle with the Dunlendings, the Hill-men and the marauding Orcs.

By proving that at least his tribe could live in peace with its neighbours

In the rather unlikely case that the united forces of Gondor and Rohan could defeat Mordor, or at least keep the black wave behind the fence of the Ash Mountains and the Shadow Mountains, he had to make sure that no blame would be put on his tribe – or himself.

For that, however, he had to make this alliance with the Mark possible. The Horselords were a fierce and valiant people, their realm rich and strong. Théoden-king might be elderly now, but his son and heir, Prince Théodred, was said to be the greatest warrior since Eorl the Young, and if their emissary was anything to judge by, their thegns were not much behind him. Together, the two people would present a formidable force, even if their alliance would have to remain secret for a while yet.

If he could win the ear of the young emissary for his suggestions.

The warlord rose from the stone bench. He had already sent for his daughter several times, to learn how things were going, but every time, his slave had come back with the news that Imogen was not in her chambers.

The news disturbed Ragnar Jarl greatly. As a rule, his daughter did not need the entire night to win the favour of a potential ally. Was the young emissary so hard to please? Or had Imogen failed, for the first time since she had outgrown the care of her tutors? A failure like that would mean the end of them all.

This time he went himself, instead of sending a slave, and this time, he was fortunate. He found Imogen in her bedchambers, sitting on the edge of her bed, wearing a simple night shift and combing her hair. It was a familiar sight. It was how she always prepared herself for the night, even if daybreak was not very far by now.

She looked up unsurprised when the door opened, revealing her father. She knew he would come. He always did, on such nights.

“Father,” she acknowledged his presence with a simple nod.

“Is it done?” he asked, cutting to the core without preamble. There was no need for that. They were always honest to each other.

She nodded again, putting the comb away.

“Done – but not over yet,” she answered. “Our debt is paid; but he would not accept his wergild unless I consented to become his wife.”

“Did you?” Ragnar Jarl’s face was unreadable. The thought of losing his cherished daughter hurt, but winning kinship within the Mark in the process would serve the Tribe well. Still, he was not about to force Imogen; he loved her too much, almost to a fault.

She shrugged. “What other choice do I have? What other choice do we have? You know what the lesser jarls would say: that if the price is just a wench, then that price must be paid, one way or another. ’Tis better if I do this of my own will than be forced to do it.”

“I would not force you,” he began, but Imogen interrupted.

“You may not, but the others would; and you cannot risk losing their support on my behalf. We both know that.”

“Losing you will be hard for me to bear,” confessed the warlord. “And losing your hamingja will weaken the Tribe. There are few equalling the power and luck you possess.”

“You would lose me sooner or later anyway,” she reminded him. “Shieldmaidens die young.” She chose not to tell him about her illness; she did not want to dishonour him by making him part of her deceit. “And by carrying the hamingja of our clan to his family, I shall receive his in exchange; that of a rich and powerful clan, represented by the bridesgift given me before our first embrace.”

She raised her hand, showing him the precious bracelet. The pure gold gleamed in the dimly lit chamber and the many-coloured jewels sparkled like the stars on the night sky.

“You have accepted his gift?” said his father, stunned. “You have accepted his courtship, ere he would have sent his friends to me to negotiate the marriage?”

“The matter of the outstanding wergild has forced my hand,” she pointed out. “But he will send Lord Aðalbrandr to you in the morrow. He wants do this properly, although he insists on taking me with him when he leaves our halls.”

“Disguising our alliance with the Mark as a marriage contract between his clan and ours would make things much easier,” admitted Ragnar. “I am still loath to have to bargain you for the sake of the Tribe. You always wanted to live and die as a warrior; and now we are about to take it from you, him and me. It may be for the greater good, but it will be done at your cost, and that breaks my heart.”

She smiled up at him, surprisingly enough. “Do not concern yourself about me, Father. He gave me his word that I can keep my sword and ride with him to battle, should I wish to. The people of the Mark have shieldmaidens, too; some of them are of royal blood. I will have a good enough life there.”

“You will have to live among strangers who see us as barbarians,” said her father. “It will not be easy for you.”

“I know,” she sighed. “But if his clan has accepted his mother, a penniless Mordvin refugee, they will accept me, too – given enough time.”

And if she died before that would happen, none of this would matter anyway. But she could not tell her father that, not yet. Perhaps before she left Rhûn for good; he deserved the truth, and once she was gone, her deceit would no longer cast an unfavourable light upon his honour.

Ragnar Jarl nodded, knowing that it was true. Imogen would have a much better life in the Mark; perchance a much longer one, too. And in time, she would win over the proud Riders of the Mark: with her boldness, her strength and her beauty. The Rohirrim valued such traits. What mattered the loss of a father when everyone else would benefit from it?

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, and was not surprised when Imogen shook her head.

“Nay, I do not want to do this,” she admitted bluntly. “But it will be better for everyone else. You wanted me to make this alliance possible, and that is what I am doing.”

“I assume that the fact that Lord Elfhelm is bold, handsome and honourable does help a little,” said the warlord with a wry smile. Imogen shrugged.

“He promised me that there would be joy – and he kept his promise. It will be pleasant enough to be his wife. As long as I can keep my sword, I can live with it… with him. Besides,” she added, her clear grey eyes darkening in sorrow, “this arrangement gets me far away from Ingolf, which is a good thing. Owing me a life debt would turn him from a brother to an enemy in the long run. When I am gone, he will no longer be reminded of his shame whenever we meet.”

Ragnar nodded, knowing that it was very true again. With Imogen gone, Ingolf’s dishonourable actions would be soon forgotten, and he would be able to take over leadership once the time came.

“I shall not send you alone, though,” he said. “You are the daughter of the mightiest man of Rhûn; you are entitled to take your slaves and maids with you.”

“Can I do that?” asked Imogen with a frown. “Is slavery allowed in the Mark?”

“Nay, ’tis not,” admitted the warlord. “But if I give you Alajar and Unga, they will know to value their new status. Even as bondsmen, they, too, will have a better life there than here; and you shall have your own servants who will answer only to you.”

Imogen nodded thoughtfully. Unga and Alajar were both very young still, the children of enslaved Northmen from Rhovanion. As their parents had been born free, they were still way too proud for their own good; they would not last long in Nimwarkinh. They would blend well into a household of the Mark, though; more so as they were both blond and blue-eyed.

“Do you think Elfhelm will agree?” she asked. “Surely they have enough servants in his father’s manors.”

“I am certain that they have,” replied his father. “But this is a point where I shall not back off when the marriage contract is negotiated. You need your own servants; your birth entitles you to that. You are to build your own household – this will be something that you can contribute. I would prefer to send some guards with you, too, but I doubt that would be allowed.”

“I need no guards,” said Imogen coldly. “I can guard myself well enough.”

“You can,” her father agreed. “But you are not going there as a nameless shieldmaiden selling her sword to a liege lord. You are going there as a bride of noble birth, and your rank would demand that you have guards of your own people.”

Imogen shook her head. “They would never agree to have Khimmer warriors in their midst – and can you blame them? Our people have been raiding their borders for more years than anyone can remember.”

“Not our tribe; not since I hold the Sword,” corrected Ragnar, but Imogen waved off his protest.

“I doubt that the people of the Mark can tell one Khimmer tribe from another. I cannot take any warriors with me, Father.”

“Perhaps not,” allowed Ragnar. “Unless they are your half-brothers who want to follow their sister to a foreign land. No-one could truly oppose the support of kinfolk.”

“But they are your guards, and you need them,” she reminded him. “Besides, which ones would be willing to leave Nimwarkinh and follow me? I am not that close to any one of them.”

“I was thinking of Einarr and Eiríkr,” said the warlord. “They have always been loud-mouthed about not wanting to serve Ingolf once he comes in his own. This would be their chance to find another place to live.”

Imogen stared at her father in shock.

“You want to send them into exile for not suffering being wronged by Ingolf in silence?”

“I cannot afford to allow them to continue mouthing off against my heir,” replied the chieftain grimly. “Were they not my own flesh and blood – or such staunch warriors – I would have dealt with them much earlier. This way, they can still be of use for me… for us all.”

“What if they do not want to leave?” asked Imogen.

“Oh, they will leave, one way or another,” said her father icily. “Either with you or into true exile; ’tis their choice. I can do with a dozen guards instead of fourteen. What I cannot do with is that my own sons would tear a hole into my shieldwall by bringing the common warriors against my heir,” he rose. “Rest now, my little oak. The new day will bring counsel; it always does. There is no need to concern ourselves with it tonight.”

~TBC~