Chapter 61 - Embracing Vulnerability

124 AC

The first day of the eleventh moon.

Ulf Pov

Pacing restlessly in my dimly lit chamber, I found myself gazing up at the moon, its silvery glow casting an eerie sheen on the parchment before me. Fingers trembling with a mix of anxiety and anticipation, I traced the contours of each letter that Daemon's missive bore. A whirlwind of a million thoughts tore through the fabric of my mind, an unrelenting tempest born from the weight of possibilities.

What if the secret contained within those inked lines were to escape, slipping through the cracks into the hands of another? The ramifications, the fallout — it all crashed over me like relentless waves against unyielding cliffs. But then, a voice, perhaps the remnants of reason, spoke up within my consciousness, a reassuring whisper amidst the chaos.

"He wouldn't," it said. "He's merely testing the waters, probing the boundaries of trust." A fragile lifeline for my racing thoughts, a semblance of sanity in the midst of the storm. I clung to that assurance, the notion that Daemon, enigmatic as he was, wouldn't wield his knowledge like a blade to strike me down.

Resolute in my attempt to quell the tumult, I exhaled a shaky breath and allowed my head to sink into the embrace of the pillow beneath me. The room seemed to close in, its walls pressing against the edges of my mind as I wrestled with the implications of Daemon's revelations. The shadows danced around the chamber, conspiring with the whispers of doubt that still lingered, taunting me.

With every heartbeat, a silent vow formed — a promise to navigate this treacherous path, to hold fast against the currents that threatened to drag me under. Daemon's missive lay there, a tangible embodiment of both uncertainty and opportunity, a parchment-bound crossroads that held the power to reshape destinies.

And so, as the moon continued its watchful vigil outside my window, I too remained vigilant within the confines of my thoughts. The die had been cast, the inked words setting a grander game into motion. It was up to me now, to play my role amidst the unfolding drama, to rise beyond the doubts that sought to chain me down, and to seize control of a narrative that threatened to slip through my fingers like grains of sand.

My gaze shifted hesitantly to the other missive, the one that hailed from the heart of King's Landing itself. Its presence was ominous, a harbinger of secrets and revelations yet unknown. With bated breath, I gingerly lifted the parchment, fingers trembling as though the very act of contact would unleash a tempest I could not weather.

As the seal surrendered its grip and the parchment unfurled beneath my touch, my eyes widened in disbelief, pupils dilating like a startled creature caught in the glare of a predator's eyes. The words etched upon the page seemed to surge into my consciousness, a current of realization that carried with it a weight that threatened to shatter the fragile equilibrium I had clung to.

And then, her name — a mere whisper at first, a fragile exhalation escaping the confines of my lips, but as the syllables wove their way through the air, they gained strength, carrying a resonance that seemed to echo not just in the room, but within the very chambers of my heart.

"Helaena."

The name hung there, suspended between the stark reality of the parchment and the swirling maelstrom of emotions that roiled within me. Her name — a conjuration of memories, of shared moments, of love.

"My dearest Ulf,

Oh, how the sands of time have mercilessly drifted since the last glimpse of your white hair fluttering in the wind, those eyes of yours aglow with a love that wrapped around me like a warm embrace. The memory of your smile, a precious treasure etched in my heart, still casts its gentle light upon the darkest corners of my mind.

Gods, the ache of missing the touch of your lips upon my skin, the sensation of your fingers tracing paths of devotion along my form, is a relentless pang that never seems to wane. I long to feel you, to be enveloped by you, but the cruel hands of fate have snatched away those moments, leaving me adrift in a sea of memories that can never be relived.

Yet, even in the wake of such heartache, I know that our shared past is now but a wistful echo, a song that time has rendered bittersweet. Nights are the cruelest, when darkness descends and my eyes close, and there you are, Ulf, haunting my dreams with your phantom presence. Call me mad, but in those ephemeral moments, I swear I've glimpsed you, seen the contours of your face illuminated by moonlight, felt your spirit brushing against mine like a tender whisper.

Two long years have etched lines of sorrow upon your countenance, Ulf. Joy has fled, and the mere flickers of emotion that I perceive are the ones ignited by the perilous path you tread. I am the cause of this transformation, this once-vibrant soul now eclipsed by shadows, and the weight of that realization bears down upon me like a crushing stone. You worry, my love, for the life I lead here, yet I assure you, Aemond has provided unwavering strength, and the laughter of the twins fills my days with a semblance of joy. I share with them tales of the "Great White Knight," your valiant exploits woven into bedtime tales that they cling to with delight.

Your sense of duty, that very anchor that held you back from following your heart, has steered your course into a relentless torrent of duty-bound trials. Ulf, all I yearn for is your happiness, a flicker of contentment that has eluded you for far too long. To watch you traverse this world, alone and besieged by adversaries, my heart shatters, for you deserve solace, a haven to which you can return.

Allow me to end this letter with a wish, a fervent prayer that the next time our eyes meet, I shall encounter the Ulf of old, the one whose laughter resonated like a melody in my soul. I yearn for your happiness, Ulf, even if it finds you nestled within another's arms. Your happiness will always be mine, a treasured gem nestled within the core of my being. And though circumstances have torn us asunder, the echo of our love remains, an undying flame that time itself cannot extinguish.

Yours forever,

Helaena".

As the weight of her words bore down upon my soul, I felt the tears welling up, spilling forth from the depths of my being. They slipped unbidden down my cheeks, carrying with them a mixture of longing and sorrow, a torrent of emotions that threatened to engulf me entirely. The parchment trembled in my grasp, her handwriting a fragile connection to a past that had been both a balm and a source of torment.

The letter — a vessel of her thoughts, her hopes, her heartache — seemed to shimmer before my blurred vision, its inked contents a testament to a love that had refused to wither despite the passage of time. With each line, her voice echoed within the chamber of my mind, a symphony of emotions that resonated through the depths of my being.

In a moment of bittersweet resolve, I rose from my seat, the missive clutched tightly in my hand. The fire crackled, its flames dancing in a hypnotic rhythm, and as I gazed into its heart, I knew what I must do. Slowly, deliberately, I allowed the letter to slip from my fingers, watching as it fluttered down to join the fiery embrace below.

The flames eagerly lapped at the edges of the parchment, consuming her words with an almost voracious hunger. I watched, transfixed, as the inked letters curled and blackened, as if the very essence of her feelings was being transmuted into smoke and ash. The pain in my chest deepened, a physical ache that mirrored the intensity of the fire's heat.

As the last remnants of the letter were devoured by the flames, I found myself sinking back into the chair, a sense of finality settling over me like a heavy shroud. The room felt dimmer, as if the fire's light had been dimmed by the weight of the memories it had consumed. And there I sat, a man torn between the past and the present, the remnants of her words etched in my heart even as they vanished into the ether.

The fire continued to dance, its crackling a mournful requiem for what had been, for the love that had burned so brightly and yet had been extinguished by the inexorable march of time. I closed my eyes, trying to hold onto the echo of her voice, the touch of her love, even as they slipped through my fingers like grains of sand.

In that quiet moment, the room seemed to hold its breath, as if the very walls were bearing witness to the silent ache that had taken root within me. The letter was gone, its remnants scattered among the embers, and I was left with nothing but the memory of her, the ghost of a love that had once been mine.

And so, I remained there, a solitary figure in the dimly lit room, my heart heavy with the weight of her words and the knowledge that, despite it all, life would inexorably march forward, leaving only the ashes of what once was.

The second day of the eleventh moon

Under the cloak of night, the High Hall of the Eyrie was alive with a cacophony of sound, each clap of applause feeling like a blow to my ears. A dull ache throbbed as if the noise itself sought to pierce through my defenses, mingling with the wine that had already begun to blur the edges of my perception. Jeyne's words, eloquent and resounding, lost their shape amidst the haze of my thoughts, drowned out by the unrelenting clamor.

One by one, faces I hardly recognized approached, expressing their gratitude and admiration, their words an echo of Jeyne's sentiments. I nodded along, a mechanical response born of obligation, my eyes more focused on the goblet I clutched than on the figures before me. The festivities raged on, a vibrant tapestry of colors and laughter, and yet the revelry felt hollow, a cruel jest played upon my heart.

This was the last place I wished to be, ensnared within a world of grandeur and celebration that seemed so distant from the realm of my own emotions. The Eyrie's perch, a place that usually granted unparalleled views, had become a cage of my own making, my soul a captive to the torment that churned within.

A familiar weight settled in my hand as I refilled my cup once more, the warmth of the liquid a temporary balm to the storm raging within me. The wine coursed through my veins, dulling the edges of my thoughts, numbing the rawness that seemed to seep into every pore. The cup became an anchor, a tether to the semblance of control that I clung to, a lifeline amidst the tumultuous sea of my emotions.

"Ser Ulf," Corwyn's voice broke through the haze, accompanied by the giggles of two young girls at his side. Their faces were a blur, their voices distant, as if they were creatures from another world entirely. Corwyn's words were lost to the fog that enveloped my mind, and I struggled to piece together the meaning behind his intent.

"You are very brave," one of the girls chimed in, her words like fragmented whispers that barely registered. Her words hung in the air, their significance elusive, as my thoughts drifted like leaves caught in a gentle breeze.

"My father says you are an equal to him, but he is stronger, I know," the other girl added, earning a reprimand from Corwyn. A wry smile tugged at my lips, a rare moment of clarity amidst the haze.

"Your father is indeed stronger than me," I replied, my fingers absentmindedly ruffling the girl's hair. The words I spoke were a mere echo of the truth that reverberated within me, a truth I dared not utter aloud. For within the depths of my heart, a painful conviction took root: Corwyn's strength, his unyielding courage, were attributes I sorely lacked when I had left Helaena to face her own demons.

As Corwyn ushered his daughters away, my grip on the cup tightened, knuckles white against the polished surface. I sought solace in the wine's embrace, hoping to drown the guilt that clawed at my conscience. Another refill, another attempt to find respite in the crimson depths, but the solace remained elusive.

I retreated to a shadowed corner of the hall, seeking solace amidst the cacophony that surrounded me. A young boy approached, a mere phantom in my peripheral vision, and I dismissed his presence with a wave of indifference. He stood there, a haunting mirror of Arnold's features, and I felt an unexpected jolt of recognition.

"You killed him," he declared, his voice like a shard of ice slicing through the fog of my detachment. I turned to face him, the resemblance between his visage and Arnold's becoming painfully apparent.

"Aye, I did," I retorted, my words laced with a bitter acknowledgment of the truth.

"He was a good man," the boy's voice wavered, tears glistening in his eyes like captured moonlight.

In that moment, I was stripped bare of the shields that had kept me numb, the words of a grieving child breaking through the armor of my detachment. Yet, even as the boy's grief washed over me, I found myself in the clutches of a desolate emptiness, the cup in my hand betraying my hope for solace by yielding nothing but a hollow echo.

Walking away from the boy, I sought to escape the weight of his accusation, the burden of his sorrow. But his voice pierced through the fog, sharp and accusing, like a blade driven into my conscience.

"The Seven will punish you for what you did!" he screamed, his accusation a sharp blade that sliced through the air and halted my steps. Slowly, I turned, my gaze locking onto his, a tempest of emotions swirling within me.

"What I did was make sure a traitorous cunt, the one you call your father, wouldn't have the chance to spill Lady Jeyne's blood," I retorted, my voice dripping with acidic disdain. The color drained from the boy's face as my words struck home, the reality of his father's deeds crashing like a tidal wave upon his innocence.

A voice, stern and commanding, sliced through the charged atmosphere. "Eldric, that's enough. Go to your room," the gruff command came from a figure of formidable stature, a giant of a man with hair as dark as the night but touched with strands of gray. He wore the colors of House Royce, and his presence was as imposing as a storm-clad mountain.

"The White Knight," he declared, his gaze locked onto mine. I quirked an eyebrow, challenging him silently, and inquired about his identity.

"Gunthor Royce, Lord of Runestone," he stated, his voice carrying the weight of his position.

"Pleasure to meet you," I said, my tone edged with a mixture of irreverence and exhaustion, as I moved away in search of another cup, a respite from the maelstrom within me.

He began to speak of Arnold, revealing the intricate web of their relationship, how he had raised the boy from a young age that Arnold was his squire as well, how he had come to care for him as a son. I could feel his gaze on me, thick with loathing for the role I had played in shattering the delicate balance of his life.

"Did he suffer?" he asked, his voice weighted with a father's sorrow, a question that pierced through my defenses.

Growing impatient, I replied, "No, he did not, though he soiled himself at the end." My words were brusque, a wall to shield myself from the deluge of emotions that threatened to engulf me.

But the wall was shattered as his hand clamped down on my shoulder, a grip like a vise that sent tendrils of pain radiating through my body. I stood my ground, the discomfort a welcome distraction from the torment in my mind.

"You're no different than the knight who knighted you, a cunt of a man, you and that Rogue prince," he seethed, the words like venom, each syllable laced with the fire of his loathing.

I grinned, a savage edge to my expression, and spat back at him, "As if your former squire was any better, trying to usurp his own cousin." My voice grew louder, a tempest that threatened to consume us both.

His rage ignited, his fist clenched, poised to strike. The world seemed to contract around us, the tension a palpable force that held the room captive. My body thrummed with the anticipation of violence, my senses sharpened, and I relished the pain that was sure to follow, the pain that would force me to focus on something other than the chaos within me.

"Do you know what The Rogue Prince told me?" I taunted, my words a spark thrown into the tinder of his fury. "He told me to shove a sword up the arse of any Royce I find." The fire of defiance surged within me, a reckless flame that danced in my eyes.

His hand drew back, a punch primed to find its mark, and I stood motionless, rooted to the spot. I welcomed the pain, the violent release, anything to alleviate the suffocating grip of my own thoughts.

"Lord Royce, stop this instant," came Jeyne's voice, slicing through the charged air like a blade. The giant, Gunthor Royce, begrudgingly complied, his grip on my shoulder relenting under her command. Jeyne's presence held a weight that few could challenge, and even the Lord of Runestone yielded to her authority.

She stepped between us, her presence a balm to the tension that had threatened to boil over into violence. Her words were soothing, an attempt to pacify the anger that had flared between us. I turned away, seeking refuge in the promise of another drink, a fleeting respite from the chaos that had consumed me.

Sometime later, as the warmth of the alcohol spread through my veins, Jeyne sought me out once more. Concern laced her voice as she inquired, "Ulf, are you alright?" I waved her concerns away, my actions dismissive, and returned to my drink with a fervor that bordered on desperation.

Before she could press further, Mushroom's voice pierced the air, a whimsical interjection that brought a peculiar sort of amusement to the turmoil of the evening. He prattled on about a song he had crafted to commemorate the valor of the White Knight and the Maiden of the Vale.

In ages past, when banners flew,

A tale of courage, brave and true,

Of a maiden fair in a Vale so green,

And a treacherous cousin, wicked and mean.

The maiden's heart was pure as gold,

Her cousin's heart was dark and cold,

He sought the throne that was not his right,

To claim her lands, and plunge the Vale in night.

But lo, there rode a knight so bold,

A champion with a heart of gold,

With armor gleaming, and sword so keen,

A White Knight to rescue the maiden serene.

Through rugged hills and valleys wide,

The knight did ride with fearless stride,

He faced the mountain clansmen tall,

A horde of foes, ready to brawl.

With blade in hand, he fought them all,

A hundred foes would rise and fall,

He clashed with clansmen, fierce and wild,

His courage and strength never defiled.

In battles fierce, he carved a path,

Each strike like lightning, none could match,

He slew them all, those treacherous men,

And brought the maiden's foes to an end.

The maiden watched with bated breath,

As the knight defeated her foes, to the death,

With admiration in her eyes so bright,

She knew he was her guiding light.

With victory won, the White Knight stood,

Before the maiden, noble and good,

She stepped to him, her heart aglow,

A kiss of gratitude, love's ember to bestow.

The stars above, they twinkled with glee,

As the maiden's heart danced wild and free,

The knight had saved her from despair,

A love was born beyond compare.

So sing this ballad, let it be known,

Of the White Knight's valor, brightly shown,

How he saved the maiden from doom and strife,

And won her heart for all his life.

As Mushroom concluded his song, the hall erupted into applause. The air was thick with jubilation, the sound of clapping hands and joyous cheers reverberating off the walls. His performance had cast a spell over the crowd, and the room seemed to pulse with a collective energy, a surge of exuberance that momentarily eclipsed the shadows that had lingered in the corners.

The applause was thunderous, a resounding approval that swept through the hall like a wave, carrying with it the fervor of the moment. The nobles of the Vale, caught up in the magic of the song, voiced their admiration with a chorus of praises, their voices rising and falling like a symphony of approval.

As the echoes of applause filled the air, the weight that had pressed upon me seemed to lighten, if only for a brief moment. Mushroom's whimsical song had succeeded in its intended purpose, lifting the spirits of those gathered and weaving a thread of merriment through the fabric of the evening.

After Jeyne had departed to converse with her vassals, I found myself alone once again, the din of celebration surrounding me like a sea of distant murmurs. The solitude was a refuge, a temporary escape from the whirlwind of emotions that had consumed me. Yet, solitude was not to be my companion for long.

A delicate hand settled upon my shoulder, the touch both surprising and oddly comforting. I turned, my gaze meeting the figure of a woman, clad in a gown of exquisite olive green that seemed to caress her form in all the right places. My eyes lingered, captivated by the allure of the dress that accentuated her assets, and I was lost in my appraisal until her voice broke through my reverie.

"You liked what you saw," she purred, her words infused with a playful lilt. As my gaze rose to meet her eyes, recognition dawned upon me, and I realized that the woman before me was none other than Marilda.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, my surprise giving way to a bemused smile.

Crossing her arms, Marilda met my gaze with an arched eyebrow. "How many cups have you drunk?" she inquired, her tone a mixture of curiosity and reproach.

Caught off guard, I found myself on the defensive. "I lost count," I admitted with a hint of a mischievous grin, attempting to diffuse the situation with a playful edge. Yet, before I could revel in my attempted charm, Marilda's response was swift and unexpected.

With a punch to my gut, her expression shifting from amusement to stern resolve, she scolded, "You Idiot Lady Jeyne thanked me as well in her speech because of my efforts to prevent The Gilded Falcon from making off with most of his gold." There was a note of pride in her voice as she recounted her contribution to the evening's success.

As I moved to refill my cup, Marilda's presence remained unyielding, her determination driving her to steer me away from further inebriation. "No drinks for you," she asserted, her grip firm as she took my hand and began leading me away.

"Where are you taking me?" I protested, a playful whine accompanying my words, the alcohol's influence apparent in my slurred speech.

"I still have a couple more in me," I insisted, my words a testament to my determination to continue the night's revelry.

Before long, I found myself within the confines of my own room, the moonlight casting a silvery glow across the chamber. The quietude was a stark contrast to the lively celebrations outside, the tranquility offering a chance to gather my scattered thoughts.

"Are you well, Ulf?" Marilda's voice held a gentle concern, her olive green eyes reflecting the worry that had settled within her.

"Why does everyone ask me that fucking question," I snapped, my frustration bubbling to the surface like a storm ready to break.

Marilda didn't respond with words, her silence a testament to her understanding. She simply stared at me, her gaze unyielding, and in that moment, my resistance crumbled.

"I'm a fucking mess," I admitted, my voice heavy with the weight of my own turmoil. "The woman I loved wrote to me, telling me I have to move on with my life, that I should find happiness," I continued, my words a raw admission of my vulnerability. "I don't know what I should do," I confessed, my voice trailing off as I buried my head in my hands.

In that vulnerable moment, a warmth enveloped me, a gentle embrace that spoke volumes of Marilda's empathy. She hugged me gently as I sat on the edge of the bed, her touch a soothing balm against the tempest within me.

"Everything will be alright," she whispered, her voice soft and reassuring, a lifeline offered in the darkness. Her fingers traced gentle paths through my hair, each stroke a gesture of comfort amidst the chaos that had gripped my heart.

A chuckle escaped me, a momentary release of tension, as she continued, "Although your head will be fucking pounding tomorrow." Her words carried a note of humor, a reminder that even in the midst of pain, there was room for laughter, for the camaraderie that came with shared experiences.

Marilda's presence, her touch, her words—each held a kind of solace that I hadn't expected to find in the midst of the turmoil that had consumed me.

As our gazes met, a silent understanding passed between us. Her eyes held a mix of empathy and longing, mirroring the turmoil that raged within me. In that shared moment of vulnerability, Marilda and I found solace in each other's presence.

Without words, our actions spoke volumes. She leaned in slowly, her lips drawing near to mine until they met in a tender kiss. The touch was a spark, igniting a flame that seemed to banish the shadows for a brief, fleeting moment. The sensation was electric, the taste of her lips a bittersweet reminder of the connection we were forging in the midst of our shared vulnerabilities.

Her touch was gentle yet assured as she straddled me, the warmth of her presence grounding me in the present. My inhibitions seemed to fade, the haze of alcohol and emotional turmoil giving way to the raw, unfiltered desires that coursed through me.

"Ulf, I should go," she murmured, her breaths coming faster, her own emotions mirroring the intensity of the moment.

"Why?" I questioned, the words tumbling from my lips in rapid succession, a desperate plea that betrayed the urgency I felt.

"You're drunk," she replied, her voice carrying a note of restraint. "I should not take advantage of you."

My gaze held hers, a mixture of sincerity and desire etched across my features. "Please don't go," I implored, my words a reflection of the longing that had taken hold of me.

In response, she kissed me once more, her lips meeting mine in a fervent embrace that seemed to erase the boundaries between us. The world around us faded, leaving only the sensation of her touch, the taste of her kiss, and the electricity that crackled between us.

In that moment, the chaos of the evening, the weight of my own regrets and uncertainties, all dissolved into the ether. There was only the present, the heat of our bodies, and the promise of connection.

As I roused from my slumber the next morning, my head felt as though a herd of stampeding stallions had made a thorough gallop through it. The memories of the previous night came rushing back, fragmented and hazy, like shards of a broken mirror reflecting the remnants of a wild revelry.

Slowly, the fog in my mind cleared, and I became aware of Marilda's naked form pressed against me, her warmth a stark contrast to the chill that had settled in the room. My lips found her forehead, pressing a gentle kiss there as she emitted a contented purr.

"I have made a man out of you," she mused, her voice a soft chuckle, her words echoing with a mixture of playfulness and satisfaction.

I couldn't help but let out a weary laugh at her remark, a sound that was both rueful and amused.

In that moment, as the morning light filtered through the window, a rueful yet amused smile played upon our lips. The remnants of the previous night's intimacy were evident in the way our bodies seemed to gravitate towards each other, as if pulled by an invisible force. The boundaries between us blurred, our vulnerabilities laid bare in the quiet intimacy of the morning.

With a shared understanding, our bodies entwined once more, a dance of desire and connection that unfolded in the hushed embrace of the room. Each touch was a testament to the unspoken bond that had formed between us, a continuation of the story we had begun to write in the shadows.

As our movements became more fervent, the world outside seemed to melt away, leaving only the sound of our ragged breaths and the palpable tension that hung in the air. There was a certain rawness to our actions, a mutual surrender to the desires that had simmered beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed.