The Prince That Was Promised (Old Version)

Chapter 13: Siege of Ironrath

Rodrick Forrester

Ironrath (Three Moons before Orys/Resurrection

"Those fucking Whitehills," Rodrik groaned, watching from atop the walls of Ironrath as smoke curled into the sky. Below, his village burned.

Just hours ago, he had dared to believe the war was nearing its end. Asher had returned with 400 skilled warriors at his back. Victory had felt close until the Whitehills ambushed them on the road. Only luck and grit had let them survive. Now, bruised and battered, he and Asher had managed to retreat behind the walls with just 200 remaining sellswords. The worst part? Asher had lost his left hand, saving Rodrik from a mortal blow during the retreat.

Rodrik had barely pulled his brother back behind the gates before everything fell apart.

"Ryon is still with them," a voice said behind him.

He didn't turn. "Aye. I've no doubt they brought him with them to their camp, as leverage. To keep us docile while they lay siege to us. Thankfully, Roland and I prepared the stores for winter. If we ration carefully, we'll have food for a year. It would've been more if not for the Red Wedding. The Whitehills have been raiding us ever since."

His mother stood beside him, jaw clenched. "Ever since they murdered Ethan and took Ryon, they've grown bolder. And crueler." She stated as she laid a hand on his arm. "And you're certain we can hold out?"

Rodrik finally turned to her. Despite everything, he managed a small, confident smile. "I am. Winter is coming, and we have a legacy to protect."

He embraced her gently. "I don't know how yet... but I swear to you, I'll bring Ryon home."

Three Moons Later

A white flag fluttered over the scorched battlefield beneath Ironrath's gates. The land was littered with the corpses of dead Whitehills. Three assaults had been beaten back, one under the cover of night, two others in light of day.

Now, at last, the enemy raised the banner of truce. A small group of Whitehill riders waited just beyond bow range.

"They're coming to talk," Asher muttered beside him. He stood tall despite the sling binding his severed arm. The stump still bled sometimes, but he never complained. "We should kill them now while they're stupid enough to come close."

Rodrik gave a grim smile. "Tempting."

"But?" Asher asked with a frown.

"But we're not like them. They killed father similarly. What is the point of victory if we become like them?" He turned from the battlements. "Open the gate. Bring them in under guard. I want eyes on every man who breathes near them."

Asher frowned. "You think they'll offer terms?"

"They'll offer something. Whether we accept it..." Rodrik looked back at the smoldering land beyond Ironrath. "Depends on the price."

The gates creaked open, and the Whitehill party rode forward slowly—three men on horseback, one of them unmistakable.

Grif fucking Whitehill rode in three other riders, all clad in armor. Asher tensed beside him. Rodrik held him back with a quiet word. "Not now. You'll have your justice. One day."

Grif dismounted, sneering. "So, the famous sellsword Asher is now a cripple."

Rodrik stepped forward. "What do you want, Grif? Or are you just here to be an ass?"

Grif's men reached for their hilts. Rodrik raised a hand calmly.

"Easy now. You don't want to leave with arrows sticking out of your chests, do you?"