A Home Unknown

[Baelor Fireborne]

The small, flickering bulbs of far-off lanterns and torches danced on the horizon, just barely visible in the eerie glow of the setting sun. On Shim’s outskirts, the tiny flames were spread thin, but in the center, in line with the cobblestone road on which he traveled, there was a small cluster. That was his destination. He hoped to reach the village by nightfall.

Flamestrider had been gradually slowing since they stopped for supper. The warhorse was weary from their long journey. He desperately needed new shoes, a wash, rest, and some proper hay and grains. The pack mule behind them was fairing worse. A thick length of triple-braid rope had been tied to the rear of Strider’s saddle, and then around the lesser beast’s neck. His horse was practically dragging the creature along. He had gone through three mules on his journey thus far, and had spent damn near all his coin replacing each one of them. They were necessary, however, as they carried his armor and their food and water.

Baelor himself longed for a proper bed, and a meal that relied not on bread, but slowly cooked meat, a roast perhaps, or a fine stew, with potatoes and rich, thick broth – and a strong summer wine to wash it down. His mouth watered, and he caught himself before saliva gathering at the corner of his lips could bead down his chin.

Many long nights had passed where he longed for these things. He’d close his eyes and think of Keltaris, of Godfrey, the merchant who had taken him in, and his family, and everything that he’d left behind. Before he had taken his leave and set out on this journey, Godfrey had asked him the same question that he asked himself on those nights of reflection: “Why are you leaving?” He knew the answer, just as Godfrey had. How can a man move forward in life when he does not know himself? How can he embrace the future, if he has no past? The merchant had always taught him to never forget himself, but, in truth, he did not know who he truly was.

And often, on those same nights, he’d imagine what he would do if he met the men who had killed his family. Some nights he’d envision forgiving them, in others he’d bring them in to face the city’s justice, and in others he’d butcher them and their families as they had done to him and his. But then there were also nights where he didn’t care.

A quick pain in his lower back brought the flame-birthed child back from the depths of his thoughts. He was bloodied and bruised, and tilting this way or that caused discomfort. In an effort to avoid the main trade roads from Keltaris to Shim, Baelor and Flamestrider had taken a few choice paths, supposedly shortcuts and lesser-traveled passageways, and had met trouble along the way – a few wildling brigands at first, and then later on a wild boar, and finally some highway thieves.

Baelor reached forward and scratched the warhorse’s neck; his flesh was tough where the padded armor had been. He had dismounted and unsheathed the Summerset to face the charging boar, but the beast had caught him off-balance after an ill-advised overhead swing, and had knocked him onto his backside. Flamestrider had reared up in defense of his master, and had crushed the wild beast beneath his mighty hooves, breaking its back. “I owe you some sweet-cubes for that one, friend.” Sugar was a luxury could ill afford, but monetary costs were of no concern when compared to the cost of his life.

The flames were more detailed now, he observed as he glanced forward. They were large and more visible. He was nearly on the outskirts of the farmlands, and from there it was not far from the village’s small and remote center. He’d heard rumors on the road that they kept an inn nearby, and he hoped to spend this night in one of their beds after he had refreshed on one of their meals. The travelers leaving Marn, mostly free traders and sellswords, spoke highly of the tiny establishment. He looked forward to testing its reputation.

[Baelor Fireborne]

The inn, known as The Red Chalice, was quiet this evening. The lighting was dim in the establishment’s dining and seating area, a few lanterns and candles fought back the shadows, but only just. They were serving a stew, it looked thick and meaty. The smell of ale and wine and dinner rose in wisps and danced wildly throughout the inn’s main floor. As Baelor stepped inside, he noticed the smell first. Upstairs there were hallways lined with doors, and behind those doors there were small rooms, each with a single bed and a dresser and nothing more. He longed for the massaging comfort of a bed.

He could hear his warhorse stomp and moan and put up a fight as they led him to the small stable they kept out back. Fireborne had spent the last of his coin on a few sugar cubes for his horse, and on tipping the stable boy for the good care of the beast. He could not afford them, but he valued his life more; right now, he owed all that he was to Flamestrider. Surely that boar had meant to gore him and feast on his calloused, pink flesh.

That meant, though, that he would have to acquire a room without paying, for he had no coin. Well, he could not pay with silver and gold, at least. Further complicating matters, he was no negotiator, and had next to nothing to barter.

“What can I do you for, lad?” The innkeep was an older woman. Her face was worn and leathery, one that had seen many seasons. She had not the soft, pink skin of the city folk, of those whose muscles and very nature atrophied as they spent their years protected from the world. Her voice was shrill and tough, and he had not been called lad in many a year.

“A room, a warm meal, and perhaps a flagon of wine,” he responded, and moved towards the counter from which she stood behind.

The innkeep looked down his figure, and then back up again. Her expression remained constant, as if it had been chiseled from granite. He did not intimidate her, which was refreshing. His armor remained with his horse, protected by the stable boy . . . and, more likely, the money he had given him. Instead, he adorned a thin layer of boiled leather, with a light vest of ringed mail hung over the shoulders and clasped against the ribs. His massive greatsword hung across his back, the thick pommel standing like an oak tree from behind his shoulder and neck.

She opened a small ledger, read over some scribbling, and then responded, “That’s two bishani a night.”

He knew that he could not pay, and from her reaction to his body language, so did she. “If you don’t have the coin, then piss off.” The innkeep furrowed her brow and turned her back to Fireborne, refocusing her attention on the paying customers.