Private Tales A King's Duty

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer
Brett’s face lit up with determination as he listened to Bexley’s words, absorbing them like a sponge. The weight of being taught by a Second Rank Dreadlord wasn’t lost on him, and though he was young, the gravity of it gave him a spark of pride. He moved with eagerness, striking and then shifting to defense as she instructed. His small frame vibrated with effort as he parried her blows, eyes narrowing with each clash of their conjured blades.

Arryn, standing on the sidelines, tensed at every shift in their pace. He watched the slight gleam of magic strengthening Bexley’s strikes, jaw clenched as Brett’s determination met with rising pressure. Every instinct told him to step in, to protect the boy who meant more to him than he cared to admit. But as Brett met each challenge, gritting his teeth and adjusting his stance, Arryn’s anxiety wavered, yielding to reluctant admiration. He had always been eager to learn, just as Arryn had at his age.

Brett's breath came in quick pants, but his grip on the sword remained strong. The sudden change in Bexley’s movements and the subtle hum of magic didn’t escape him. He felt each strike vibrate through his bones, but instead of faltering, he adjusted—finding ways to deflect her blows that felt just shy of overwhelming. Sweat dampened his hair, but a grin crept across his face, fierce and full of exhilaration.

Arryn’s chest tightened with pride, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. “Good, Brett,” he called, unable to keep quiet. “Remember, find the rhythm. Don't just defend; make her work.”

Brett nodded without taking his eyes off Bexley, the words fueling him. When she spoke again—“Magic can always end.”—it clicked in his mind like a key turning. His gaze sharpened as he feigned a defensive move before darting to the side and aiming a clever strike at her midsection, testing whether he’d caught her off-guard.

Arryn's heart pounded as he watched, the boy's newfound confidence making him forget, just for a moment, the lingering fear of what it meant to cross blades with a Dreadlord.
 
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Bexley knew that Brett took to his training with great approach. He was skilled for a boy his age, perhaps could even teach Initiates his age a thing or two, and it was obvious that Arryn cared for the boy enough to train him to surpass him one day.

That feint almost caught her off guard.

She noted it, made Brett aware that she knew, but Bexley did not defend herself to stop the blade running through her light armour. She felt a coldness brush her midsection, but she knew a true wound would not be found. The last layer of her armour allowed her this protection.

Stepping back a few paces, out of reach, she dropped her arms and looked down at her armour, a grin spreading at her mouth. "You are quiet smart with your instincts. Majority of Dreadlords like to be on the offense, ready to wield their magicks against you... but they often leave openings for you to strike. Well done." She did not care that her armour would need replacing, as it was not a conjured set.


"There are many Dreadlords that used their magic to act as armour. Wear it down, and you wear down their energy reserves keeping it up."
 
"Careful, Brett!" Arryn cautioned as he landed a hit.

Brett stood there for a moment, the edge of the blade still in his hand, his chest rising and falling with excitement. He looked to Bexley, his eyes wide with pride and a touch of disbelief. "I—I actually got you with that?" he asked, his grin widening even further.

Arryn, watching the exchange with a mixture of pride and concern, gave a sharp nod and stepped in. “Alright, I think that’s enough training for one day.” His tone was firm, but there was an underlying affection in his voice as he turned to Brett. "You did well, kid. But don’t go getting cocky, alright?"

Brett, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension in Arryn's words, bounced on his heels. "Just one more round?" he asked, but Arryn's head shook and he didn't push it. He wiped a hand over his face, trying to hide the flush of victory. "Fine..I guess we can call it a day."

He gave Bexley one more enthusiastic nod, already feeling the rush of training and wanting more. "Thanks for the tips! I’ll get even better next time!" he grinned, and Arryn gave him a playful shove and watched as he skipped off to get himself a bath.

"He's a good kid with an unhealthy fascination for things he does't understand." Arryn murmured as he turned back to Bexley, his gaze falling to her dented armour. "I'll have the smith sort that.. No wounds, I hope?"
 
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Something foreign stirred within her as she watched Arryn praise the boy, regarding the young one with a strange affection that only pulled at her heart. No... not yearning... or craving... but another word.

Without.

It did not sate her wondering, but to Bexley she had never known such praise or encouragement for a good deed, but she felt compelled to also tell the boy positive feedback... but he wandered off before the right words could form on her lips. Her eyes shot to Arryn, hardening for a moment as she wondered what it would be like to be a mother one day.

And would she hand them off to the Academy like she had been?

Bexley ignored his concern for her armour.


"He is not your own child?" Conjured weapons fell from her hands, clattering against the loose dirt once before they disappeared from existence.
 
Bexley's question caught Arryn off guard, his brow furrowing as he processed it. He straightened, glancing briefly at her before returning to the rack of training weapons to organise them. “Not technically,” he rumbled, his voice low and steady. “But… he’s as good as.” He adjusted a blade on the rack, watching her conjured weapons fade from existence out of the corner of his eye.

“Brett was a slave. Like I was.” His tone remained calm, but there was a faint edge of something raw beneath the words. He paused, his gaze flicking to her, knowing the weight of his name—and the scars that bore its truth—needed no further explanation. “I bought him from his slaver when he was eight.” His lips quirked into a wry smile as he shook his head. “Took me a while to convince him he wasn’t still working for me. Then, a couple of years ago, he finally badgered me into letting him squire for me.”

Arryn chuckled under his breath, though the sound was tinged with something deeper. “Kid’s got spirit. Too much of it, sometimes.” He slid the last of the weapons into place and leaned against the rack, arms folding across his chest as his sharp eyes met hers again. “Not sure if I’m teaching him as much as he’s teaching me.”
 
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Bexley listened.

She had a better time connecting with others that possessed a warrior's spirit, someone that understood her troubles as she would understand their's. Brett's upbringing perhaps was the first encounter of someone that age not seen in the Academy. She saw the boy as free, lucky to be here at the Keep and learning from a worthy warrior such as Arryn.

"You are both lucky to be free of those chains." She tread carefully, not wanting to say the wrong thing. "If Brett wants a challenge in the ring, I will be happy to provide him with it. Cannot leave an eager boy without a Dreadlord instructor."

At this, she smiled. Not one that was pretty and plastered on for the sake of the court, but a small sliver of amusement that was more befitting to her as a high ranking Dreadlord.

"Well, if we are done here, I should get myself ready for dinner..." but she had not received an invitation from the King nor the Prince. Alone. That was not as horrifying as it could be to any other lady.
 
  • Cthuloo
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