A Dream for Dreamers - [City-Building RP]

[Dirty Chai]

The Riverlands. 1000 AI.

The riders meandered along the side of the hill, following the old trodden path down to the crossing of the gorge, the riders hunched over saddles lazily guiding their horses through each weave and turn. A blue banner was hung from a pole carried by one of the cavaliers in front, but because it caught no wind in this low valley, only the tale of fish could be made out.
The land was overgrown here, with tall pines and greedy shrubs covering up the hillside; Directly across the gorge, however, could be seen a well-kept set of fields, terraced below a farmer's hut at the top of a hill.

One of the riders stopped his horse for a moment, the others not noticing; he turned in the saddle, bending so he could see behind him, to the lowering sun and the valley they had spent the better part of a day crossing... It was becoming orange now, tinted by the dying sun, just as it would be when the sun was reborn in the morning.

Quiet land this was, deep in the heart of the Trident. 'A kingdom of farmers,' the man's father once told him.
The silence was only broken by the sounds of lonely birds calling out into the vast distance, looking for companions... Only broken by the the beasts and denizens of the forests and rivers.

He turned back to face ahead of him, and adjusted the padded hood around his head.
The stars were beginning to show in the eastern sky, glowing brighter amongst the dark blue horizon.

"Your Grace?"
His thoughts were disrupted, grounded back down to reality.
"'Tis nothing. Carry on."
The serjeant nodded and then carried on, as did his master.

They now came to floor of the gorge, reaching the point where the two hillsides sharply collided and then fell downwards into a narrow canyon, all the way to a stream far below.
A sturdy stone construct guaranteed the way across the short gap, and they continued up the second hillside the same they came down the first.

A thousand years, the leader began to ponder, his path now facing the dying sun instead of away.
A thousand years to till the land, a thousand years of one kingdom.. A thousand years of rule from Oldstones, a fortress built by heathens.

They reached the ridge just before the sun set below the western hills, and now could see north across a new, smoother valley, to a familiar sight:
A small town beside a wide, shimmering river, with one tall stone tower emerging from the rooftops, casting a shadow across the water.

The leader smiled, and a horseman beside him declared, "Let us cross the valley with haste, Your Grace, before the night sets in."
He nodded in agreement, but continued to smile warmly, evidently relieved to see his home in sight.

[Dirty Chai]

It was a quiet entry, as always; the village folk offered bows as the riders passed, but continued on with their business without much remark.
A few children did always follow the horsemen up the trackway to the gate of the fortress, but usually ran off once a watchman barked at them.

The men dismounted in the yard as the wooden gate slammed shut behind them, and a handful of boys ran forward from the stables to take their horses for them.
Three of the riders went off to a side-house, while another two went back out a smaller door of the gate; lastly, the leader removed the padded coif from his head, and revealing the famous, long, blonde locks of King Philip, walked up to the stairwell in front of the tower. His tower.

Philip had a comfortable grin as his face as he entered the keep and began climbing the stairwell to the hall, imagining to find his wife sitting upon a throne..
Oh, his beautiful wife. She was his, as well.
His steps hastened, a sudden desire to feel his lover's warmth..

The crying of a babe.
Philip froze.
Wails and whines, loud and uninhibited. A newborn babe was whining away, echoing down to him.

He ran up the steps, finding little excuse to hinder now, only slowed by the weight of his warm attire.
Reaching the small hall where the two thrones sat, he found his wife sitting on her seat, and the cries of the baby still yet leading into another room.
His glanced between the cries and his surprised wife, until she stood, smiling, and hastened towards the side-hall, to which he followed.

There, across the side-hall and inside a small but warm alcoved chamber, sat a cradle and a nurse beside it.
The woman backed away towards the corner to stand with her head bowed while the King and Queen came to stand over the child.

"A boy," Philip said, removing the mitts from his hands, and then reaching down with one finger to gently feel the newborn's cheek, to which the little babe responded with bubbling laughter.
"Strong and healthy," Philip's wife said.
"His name, Ysabel?"
"Edmund."
Philip's hands then gently found their way around the babe's waist, under the little arms, and lifted the swaddling boy from the cradle, high into the air above his father.
The father felt a muffled chuckle leave his mouth as he shared a long gaze with his son before placing him into the arms of the nurse.

They then backed away from the alcove, leaving the nurse to tend to the babe's needs, and walked down towards the end of the rounded hall, and climbed another flight of stairs rounding the tower.

"Tully submitted without a fight," he said, breaking the short silence.
"No bloodshed, then?" Ysabel answered proudly, as if he was reporting to his master, "Good. Perhaps Bracken will follow the trail."
Philip's mouth moved to respond to that, but he refrained, knowing it served no purpose.

They entered into a warm room lit by a hearth in the corner, and quickly closed the door behind them to keep the cooled air out.
A large, four-posted bed sat in the center of the room and against the far wall, and the floor had wooden panes filled in, covered up by soft carpets from eastern merchants.
The walls were equally dressed, the stonework blanketed by tapestries and other adornments.

Ysabel walked to stand by the hearth and then sat in a chair facing her husband; Philip watched her while he held his arms outwards, letting a servant remove the coats and cloak from him, the outer-garments.

"My queen," he recited for her in Old High Andal after the servant left, closing the door.
He moved to stand over her and held her hands in his.

Most of that language was forgotten, but those two words were of the ones that remained.