It was a late night. Rather, a whole night - Even though his father had taken to ceasing his room, there would be no sleeping - But instead, planning.
The conversations he and Ser Brannoric were rather straight-forward, with little room for misunderstanding or misconception - They were mainly on his father's plans, for little was said of Quintyn's own plans or thoughts; Namely, on his father's 'masterplan' which involved a few key aspects, and a few less-key ones.
"House Windgarden. A foolish name for a foolish house, fathered by foolish fools.", his father had said repeatedly throughout the long, longer yet, night, "It will die, soon - I would prefer it to die by my own hand", he said.
"I will burn it to the grounds - Literally, and figuratively... And from it's ashes, shall rise a new House - House Vesfyre", his father had also said. This was what brought the largest amount of shock to Quintyn - His father was denouncing his own house, his father's, father's, father's house, his birth-name, opting for another House, a new one that he himself could father...?
He didn’t dare to ask, not once, throughout the long conversation - More, a monologue. For after the earlier incident, and out of fear, he could not even conceive the idea of speaking - Be that for, or against, his father. The latter being nigh impossible, for him.
And now, day broke, as the light shone through the window, he was stood, leaning back against the wall closest to the door; Because he wanted to leave, and because he had been refused a seat - Not even on the floor. His father eyed him with the same cold, stern, eyes he always did, his face flat and loyal: Not betraying a single emotion or thought.
"I will enact your will, father.", Quintyn said, in a blunt tone.
"I expect you will. It must happen, understand? If not, then my plans will fail - you will fail.", his father replied, pausing for a moment, "… And if you fail. Well, you, more than anyone, know exactly what happens to those that fail. I have no room for failure. No room for excuses, either.", to this Quintyn nodded slowly, trying to understand what that meant... 'you, more than anyone'.
But, he replied, "Yes. Of course.", and turned to leave...
… Though he was stopped, as his father, rather aggressively, commanded, "Stop."
He bit his tongue, trying to refrain from cursing - Even under his breathe. Over the years, he learnt well enough that it was foolish to do that around his father; Though, he had not been under his father's 'custody' till the age of seventeen, and then - It was only to act as a squire to his younger son, Wilham. He did not turn around.
"Remember who you are. I am telling you this because I believe you have use. Not because I believe you're worth much - You're a bastard, someone I can spend without much care. Remember that... If you -do- fail, why - I shall take you hunting one day, and when I return from the hunt, it wont be the pelt of a bear I'm carrying, but rather the pelt of another animal - You.", his father pierced his mind. His ears. Everything. Suddenly, a jolt of pain ran through his body, and he knew, it was not the physical kind. "My son, Wilham, you're lord will have the best of this, understand?", he finished.
Quintyn simply nodded, not wanting to turn around and face his father - He did wonder, though, what his father's face looked like. Maybe it was sad, or happy, joyful-like. Maybe it was smug, sarcastic. Maybe it was, even, depressed, and regretful. Maybe it was covered in blood and signs of immense pain.
He wished it was the last one.
After leaving the room, he brushed off his clothing, the same black jacketing, and rubbed his eyes, using his right hand. He approached the main hall of the inn, though he stopped at the top of the stair-case, noticing quite the 'beauty'. A lady stood by the bar-top, smirking and chuckling at someone. She seemed to be rather slender, and well-formed, with an ageless face.
Only... It wasn’t her. It was the other lady beside her. An older one, one with a grim face, aged and dreadfully weathered. It was his mother.
He groaned in his mind - First his father, then his mother!? Perhaps his half-brothers would also care to join, he thought. He did not approach her, though - He hated the woman. Not out of fear, as he did of his father, but out of sheer disgust - She was the daughter of a farmer, and a weaver, and if anything - She was just some random lady that his father ran into on some errand. He found it hard to imagine that his mother was ever beautiful.
Instead, he ran a hand across his face, and through his hair, hoping to avoid... It failed.
"Quintyn! Quintyn.", someone called - And though it was not his mother, but rather the Scarred Man, she heard all the same. Damn him. Why did he have to call... That... Bastard.
His mother looked shocked, and Quintyn groaned even harder than before, but he faked a smile, walking towards her, "Mother.", he said, as she embraced him, his head on her shoulders - He gave the Scarred Man a quick, but clearly furious, glance. "What brings you here?", he asked, tearing free of her grip. She stank; Horrible.
"What brings me here? Life. Jonathan came into town for business, and naturally - I followed.", she chuckled, somehow finding that meaningless, pointless, stupid statement funny.
"Hah! Well, he is quite the man, then.", Quintyn said. Jonathan Reeding was a stout, yet short, man of a stocky nature, he was on Quintyn's list of people to kill, horribly, though. For reasons that even he couldn’t remember.
"Rightly-Said. Perhaps you'd want to speak to your brother...?", she asked - It wasn’t his brother. It was his half-brother. The son of Jonathan. Laegrem Reeding.
"No.", he said - Flatly, his face turning sour.
His mother looked shocked, he seemed so happy but a moment ago, "But... I thought... What's happened? It's been seven years since you last saw him, and I... Did you have a fight or...? What?"
"I've said, no. Now, get out of here.", he said - His mind racing with thoughts.
His mother wondered, clearly. She, seemingly, just couldn’t understand what was happening. Even the most literate, wouldn’t understand, Quintyn thought though - It was indeed random, but he didn’t want to see any more of the woman.
"I said... Get. Out. Now.", he said, his face growing stern. Perhaps this was the result of what happened to him just-yesterday, he thought. Perhaps he was doing this to get some form of dignity, although the others in the inn who were now staring, and making glances, did not seem to think it dignified.
"But I...?", she said, speechless, "Can I get you a drink? Sit down, you seem -", she continued, before being cut off when Quintyn spat in her face. She lashed out, swinging her right hand at him, as a mother would slap a child in such an instance that they had spat at them - Even though, Quintyn wondered, if he had done that to his father, he could simply admit his life was over. But he caught the hand, and raised his own left hand, equally-swinging it back at his mother. She fell to the ground... Now, most-like anyone who seemed to care, stared at him. He had just hit a woman. Quintyn didn't much like that. If women could hit men, why not the other way? Perhaps the hitting would have to stop. Though it did occur to him that this was not some random person, but his own mother. He stared down at her, for a moment.
"Leave.", he hissed, turning and heading for the benches. He was contemplating what exactly he had just done, before realising...
He just didn’t care.
