The Chronicles of Charles Pyke, Dornish bastard of Iron

Mother

Charles stares up at his mother, eyes stinging with tears as he holds his arm, which was turning purple with bruise. His mother stared down at her 12 year old boy sadly, she knew what had happened already to her innocent baby boy with his tan skin and dark curly hair much like hers Yet his was long for a boy, thus she told him to wear it in a ponytail, Yet the grey eyes and rigid features of his father. 

"Oh Honey..." she would whisper softly as he began to cry, she would squat down and hug him, pulling him into her comfortingly. She pet his head as he held onto her woolen dress, sobbing softly, not understanding why he was so hated. He wanted to be friends with them. The boys, Bronn and Randall.

"Why do they hate me mama, I tried to give them half of my honeybread" He would sob out as he hung onto her, his arm throbbing with the bruise and welt left by the stone. This was not the first time this has happened, yet he prayed to every god, Old and New, that it would end. His mother would shake her head gently and pull back to look at his arm, holding it gently as she rubs some salve on it, to dull the pain, then wrapping a rag around it. She kisses his head and hugs him again, patting him to go play with his toys, He scurried away and sat in the corner, playing with a small iron ship and a bag full of sand that he would toss around.  He sat there until their was a knock at the door, His mother hurried to it, opening the door and turning into a different woman, a happier woman. 

"Ser Gerald, How lovely of you to stop by." She would coo in a voice that told Charles to leave, he would grab his ship and sandbag, slipping past his mother and the man, A older man, wearing Blue and White armor, he must have been a knight, his Mother spent a lot of time with knights and guards, most of them knew him by name. 'Charles! Is your mother home?' they would ask him, 'Charles give this to your mother' they would hand him a bag of silver 'Tell her i said thanks' the Knights would often give him some sweet bread and a few coppers for himself as well. He liked the Knights and Guards, the Guards would yell at the kids when they cornered him 'Leave him or i'll have your hides!' after they scatter a Guard would accompany him home. Guards were kind to him. He kept walking, going near the gate, waving to one of the guards as he passes through, going to the river to play with his ship, running it through the mud on the bank so he wouldn't lose it in the water. his Sand Bag sat on the shore as he played, a few feet from him. He kept playing until he heard the other children coming, he grabbed his things and hid in the weeds, holding his things tightly as they crossed the gate, going down the river and undressing. Jumping into the river, laughing and splashing one another. He watched longingly as he stood in the muck and weeds, It was far too early for him to return to the house.  He slowly climbed from the weeds, running into the castle with fear behind him. He doesn't hear any of the children calling at him. so he continues to run, not knowing where he's going, he runs right into a man, armored in leather and a plate with a Fish on it, he looked up. Lip quivering slightly. most men would strike him for being so clumsy. Yet this man smiled softly and helped him up. He was much older than any men he knew, too old to be a guard. dressed too common to be a knight. The man asked his name, in a voice like rocks in a stream, rough yet nice to hear. 

"My name is Charles ser." He looked up at the man, his eyes curious about him. his beard and hair was grey, yet his hands were callused, more than any guard he's met. The man smiled, speaking happily 

"Im Ser Phillip, the man-at-arms of the keep." he looked Charles over, his eyes a soft green and brown. "Tell me Charles, are you a Farmer's Boy? you're built very well" He patted his shoulder, his face twisting in curiosity when he shook his head no. "Are you a Guard's Son?" He shakes his head again,  Phillip became truly curious then.  He squatted down to look Charles in the eyes, Smiling slowly as he nods. "No, You're not are you boy?" He stood and walked to a rack of training swords, grabbing one and tossing it to him, picking up a shield himself "Grab that boy, i want to see how you wield." Charles eyed the sword nervously as he slowly picked it up, holding the soft leather wrapped around the hilt softly, the blade wooden yet it was heavy, the kind of heavy that a metal has to it. He lifted it with both his arms and stood, feet apart slightly, his arms shaking slightly from the weight of the sword. Phillip smiled at him "Okay Charles. try to strike me." Charles would nod nervously and swing the sword, more like a hammer than a sword, and clumsily, Phillip would bat it away with the shield then bash Charles with it hard enough to put him on his rear. "Again Charles." Charles whined softly yet stood, trying to attack again, holding the sword with two hands again, frowning as it was batted away and he was shoved down again. Charles spent the rest of the day being shoved by a shield. As the sun fell into the horizon, he would whine. His arms felt like they had weights on them. His legs were cramping and felt like he would collapse. His rear was sore from falling on it so much. Yet, Phillip gave him 5 copper and a bit of salted pork and sweetbread after they were done, Telling him to come again tomorrow. He decided he wouldn't he hated it, hated being pushed down by the man. He ate and went home, entering the door to find his mother in bed, naked as she always slept. he would pull out the cot from the back room and lay on it. He would pat his pockets looking for his Sand Bag and Iron Ship. His face filling with panic as he realized they weren't there. It was too late to go back out. The guards would just bring him home and wake his mother. He whimpered softly as he curled up on the cot, tears pricking his eyes as he laid there. He slept to the sounds of his mothers breath and the cries that erupted from himself as he sobbed for his lost toys.

When he awoke the next Morning, he ran to the place where he met Phillip. His toys sat on a bench, he snatched them up, stuffing them in his pockets quickly as he turned to leave. Phillip caught him by his shirt as he turned.

"Good, You came. Grab the Sword" Phillip would say, as he pushed him to a sword rack full of training swords. Phillip picking up his shield, nodding as Charles held the sword in his hands again, striking the shield, a rage inside of him breaking free as he began swinging harder and faster, backstepping away from the shield bash. Phillip looked surprised as Charles swung the sword at his legs, knocking him down, raising the sword to slam it on him, a hand shot out to grab it. Phillip held the sword, staring at Charles. Charles stopped and let go of the sword, stepping back slowly, tripping on nothing and then scooting back on his rear, his face full of fear. Phillip stood slowly. Charles became choked up, nearly ready to cry as he backed into a stone wall. Phillip approached him slowly, holding the sword by what would be the blade. Charles covered his face and cried out, shaking slightly as Phillip came within striking distance, yet the strike that terrified him so, never came. Instead, a hand came down to pull the boy up. Charles seemed inquisitive to what was going to happen. He was pulled to a set of tables, where he was given a plate of Lamb, an Apple, some sweetbread, and a small glass of wine. Phillip himself fills a glass with wine and drinks it slowly, urging Charles to eat, and he did, he devoured the food quickly, feeling gluttonous afterwards. Phillip laughed softly and pats his shoulder "Don't eat yourself to death. we still have training." he would pick up the sword, handing it to Charles, then picking one up for himself. Charles was slow at first, but after Phillip rang his head like a bell once or twice he began blocking, while he was no swordfighter and had no idea how to properly fight, he fought carefully, even then he was bloody and bruised by the end of the day.  Phillip gave him salted pork, Sweetbread, a small glass of wine, and tended to his cuts before sending him home.  Charles walked home, chewing on the salted pork, his nose had a bandage across it where Phillip split his nose. He was actually kind of happy with today. 

Then he felt a fire pain course through the center of his back, he fell and let out a scream of pain. Randall and Bronn came from some trees, laughing Bronn had a small bow and Randall had a tree branch. Bronn picked up the blunt wooden arrow with a laugh. 

"I got me a bastard! Pa is gonna be so proud!" Bronn taunted, kicking Charles in the already bruised ribs, causing him to wheeze with pain. He tried to stand slowly, as Phillip taught him to, But something hit him on his back with a hard Thwack. Randall laughed like a madman as he brought the tree branch back up to his shoulder

"Bastard of Hell!" Randall shouted before slamming the branch on his back again, Charles cried out a cry that only a child in pain could. he would stay down this time. Charles knew they were going to kill him, he knew it. No one would care except his mother. He rolled away and stood up, grabbing a branch and standing up slowly, his back ached like it had been broken. yet he stood and held the branch, just like he held his sword. As Randall mocked him "Is the bastard a swordsmen now? Who's teaching you? You're dad? Oh. Wait a minute." Randall grinned evilly as Charles let out a cry, Running at him, hitting him with the branch, on the shoulder, on the head, the ribs and the legs and arms. He hit him with conviction, He didn't even realize when Bronn ran off, or when Randall stopped fighting. He only stopped when three guards pulled him off of Randall, while two of them pulled Randall away from the boy, Randall was hurt, Bad. Randall's left arm was twisted and purple, His face was bloody and bruised. He knew people were screaming, at him, for help, at Randall. it didn't matter, he didn't hear any of them, he didn't hear any of them. He heard his heart pounding in his ears as he realized what he had done. He killed Randall. 

He Killed.

He's A Killer.

He Isn't Ashamed.

He's Happy. 

He began chuckling softly, a sound few have heard from the bastard.

He chuckled as they took him to the keeps dungeon.

He laughed as they locked the door. 

He's Happy.

He Isn't Ashamed.

He's A Killer.

He's Killed.