And the Bastard laughed. In his murderous triumph, sword bared and bloody, he soiled with murder
The keep that had sheltered his worthless life. Cared he nothing for the great hearts
That had fostered him, fed him, clothed and protected him. He loved only bloodshed.
No loyalty did the Bastard cede to king or country.
Wounded in heart, sorrowing as a son, burdened with the concerns of a country at war,
The prince, now king, stepped forward to his tasks. His brothers dead or fled, to him fell
The heavy crown. To him fell the mourning, and to him, the protecting. The last son,
The loyal son, the brave prince became the king of the racked and troubled land.
«Vengeance first!» weary King Regal cried. To his shelter flocked his dukes and nobles.
«To the dungeons with the Bastard!» they pleaded with one voice. And so King Regal
Did his duty. To cell and chains went the conniving Bastard, the Witted One, the Regicide.
To dark and cold he was sent, as befitted such a dark and cold heart.
«Discover his magic,» the king bade his loyal men. And so they tried. With questions and fists,
Clubs and iron, with cold and dark, they broke the traitor. They found no nobility, no cleverness,
Only wolf-greed and dog-selfishness. And so he died, the Traitor, the Witted One, the Bastard.
Of no use to anyone but himself had his life been. His death freed us from his shame.
— «KING REGAL’S BURDEN,» A SONG BY CELSU CLEVERHANDS, A FARROW MINSTREL
4
And back-to-back those brothers stood
And bade farewell their lives,