Chapter 5 The Imprisoned Dentures
862 Words
In the heart of the castle, the news of Wilder's capture spread like wildfire. Renly, the young lord, was ensconced in a small chamber, grappling with the words of "Ruby and Steel" without the crutch of his maester's guidance. The tome, penned by the scholarly Naerys, was a linguistic labyrinth, filled with terms as foreign as the women warriors who embedded rubies in their faces, a peculiar breed from beyond Westeros.
Despite the struggle, Renly persevered, his vocabulary a patchwork, but his determination unyielding. The book was a world away from the heraldry he'd mastered, a subject now concluded according to his maester's assertion. Other studies were beyond his years, or contingent on the consent of his guardian, the current head of House Baratheon, Robert Baratheon, currently absent from the castle.
So, it was left to languages to occupy Renly's mind, a subject he didn't spurn, given his intrigue with his "attribute bar" and its peculiar powers. Yet, when Jorah, a servant with a face as round and brown as a nut, burst in, Renly couldn't help but breathe an inward sigh of relief, setting down the dense, crimson parchment.
"Wilder, conspiring with Jon, Norton, and Ralph to surrender the castle under cover, has been imprisoned by Stannis?" Renly echoed, the gravity of the news settling in.
"Aye, m'lord," Jorah affirmed, his hands busy presenting a feast from the kitchen, an unexpected boon in these trying times. "Stannis himself ordered this for you. Sea pigeon pie, oatcakes, pea porridge, even a roasted apple!"
The aroma wafted, teasing Renly's starved senses, but his mind was elsewhere, contemplating the implications of the news. It had been five days since his anonymous tip, which he'd hoped would raise an eyebrow or two, without causing undue harm to Wilder.
His message had been vague, a hunch more than anything, but now... "I must see Maester Cressen," Renly declared, abandoning the food untouched.
...
Cressen was never far, an old man with a tower room that was his domain. He looked up from his puzzle of a torn map, his eyes crinkling in a smile. "Stannis once chided me for wasting food on you lot, but it seems even a child can be a sentinel."
"I wish to visit Wilder in the dungeons," Renly stated, his face a mask of gravity.
"Visit? There's no point. He's a traitor," Cressen dismissed, his hands stilling on the map.
"He aided me once," Renly insisted, a white lie slipping past his lips.
"Those hounds of your brother's would wag their tails at the sight of you," Cressen retorted, unmoved. "And your brother has f*******n visits to the traitors."
"Are you going to eat him?" Renly asked, a macabre question that made Cressen's hands tremble.
"Who has been filling your head with such nonsense?" the old man demanded, his gaze piercing.
Renly didn't bite, his mind on the dwindling food supplies, the faint smells from the kitchen, the moldy bread even the stable boys had to endure. "Take me to him," he pressed, his tone leaving no room for refusal.
Cressen sighed, his eyes lingering on the boy before he led the way, a crooked cane in hand.
...
The dungeons were a descent into the bowels of the castle, a journey through the rock itself. They passed servants and soldiers, each acknowledging their presence with a nod or a salute. A jester named Patchface, usually a bundle of erratic energy, spotted them and fled in tears, his antics forgotten.
"I'm still not convinced saving him was the right choice," Cressen mused, more to himself than to Renly.
Renly tuned him out, his focus on the impending meeting and the doubts swirling in his mind. Could he find a clue here, where all else had failed? The thought of the man's peculiar scent nagged at him. Was it a matter of sustenance?
As they reached the cell, Wilder's pleas assaulted their ears, his dignity in tatters. "Help me! Maester Cressen, help me!" he wailed, his cries echoing off the damp stones.
Cressen remained stoic, guiding Renly with a firm grip. The firebrands cast long shadows, illuminating the wretched state of the once-proud castellan.
"I was hungry, impulsive—have mercy, Maester, forgive me!" Wilder begged, his hands clutching the bars, his face streaked with tears.
But his words were cut short as something tumbled from his mouth, bouncing onto the straw-strewn floor. Renly's eyes widened at the sight of the dentures, a grotesque detail in the dim light.
The commotion halted, the dungeons falling into an uneasy silence. Wilder's outrage was palpable as he shifted from begging to fury, cursing his fate and the world that had forsaken him.
"Damn you, Stannis! And Robert—especially you! Why did you leave me to this? I could have fought, earned my glory on the battlefield, not faced your stone-hearted brother—may the Mad King burn you all!"
His tirade dissolved into bitter laughter, a song about six maidens bathing taking over, the melody at odds with the desolation of his circumstances.
Renly seized the moment, using Cressen's cane to fish out the dentures, a tangible piece of the man's unraveling dignity.
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