MARON SAND doesn't have a custom title currently.
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Sworn To: House Martell
Born to: House Toland
Location: Ghost Hill
Title: HEDGE KNIGHT
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Joined: 17-December 15
Last Seen: Yesterday at 12:37 pm
Local Time: Jun 24 2018, 08:04 PM
88 posts (0.1 per day)
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Dec 26 2016, 12:50 AM
Thank the gods Maron knew these woods, these lands, these seemingly endless acres that stretched east across the Reach's kingdom. It was perhaps all that kept he and Sarella under the very noses of the lords and landed knights they were trespassing against, poaching their game and leaving a false trail for their hounds to follow later. Showing their faces in a town or village could mean both of their heads, seeking the solace of a warm inn and clean linens might very well prove to be their last bit of luxury for the rest of their lives, and while Maron did not think he would ever truly know comfort again, he would never risk Sarella. The pains of her second miscarriage had driven them far once she was finally recovered enough to do so, his Dornish steed carrying them both from dawn until dusk beneath the cover of the treeline, following the Honeywine upstream. He did not know where they would go... but he could feel his heart taking them northeast, to the distant sands of their home. At least there, the death of Satanna Durwell would finally be savored for the triumph that it was, and not the current price it had become on each of their heads.
He remained prepared for the absolute worst, however. Prepared to throw down his life if it meant Sarella would live free, prepared to happily lay his head down upon a lord's block if he promised her release. Prepared to fight a dozen knights to the death if it meant Sarella would escape the fray. Maron could not be sure what awaited them once they reached the Marches. Lord Caron was ruthless, and he had never been welcome in Nightsong on his travels in the years past... it would be an arduous journey through the swamps if they wished to remain hidden, and in truth, the Dornish knight was worried. He did not think even his mother in Ghost Hill would be able to save him if the Lord of Nightsong found him, and prayed Sarella's royal parentage would spare her long enough for a fair trial in Oldtown. But Maron? Maron would be little more than another Dornish skull beneath Lord Caron's mace. I will be ready, he told himself, and not for the first time.
What he was not ready for, though, was the horribly unexpected and disgustingly wretched sight of Durwell banners flapping in the cold wind. Against the night sky, the ugly bright colors of Satanna's House almost looked remotely tolerable, but Maron had seen that pattern on so many mantels, liveries and linens, it would never sit well with him again. Melding into the shadows offered to him by the small town, the Dornish knight crept low to the ground, flatting himself against the side of the inn and moving slowly towards where the retainer had grouped. Only horses and knights remained, for he could see nor hear Lord Durwell, and Maron had to wonder. Were the gods so good that they would put the very man in front of him? It would be an easy thing to sneak into the inn like he had so many times in the Citadel, to slit the lord's throat and leave him there for his servants to find, to disappear back into the shadows and evaporate into the night. "I hear the man is thrice her age," the knight's voice was almost guttural, and Maron recognized it from his time spent serving beside him in Durwell Keep. It made his gut churn at the sound of it. "The poor lass. If only Lord Durwell would marry her to me. I would show her a cock that actually stands."
He paused, heart seizing in his chest, his palm freezing around the hilt of his dagger. He listened as the second knight laughed and retorted without hesitance. "After what the Dornish bastard did to her, I doubt she will want any man's cock. An old man too weak to bed her is likely exactly what she wants." Maron's jaw went tight. She was alive? And she was here? He could not think. Standing up from his crouch, he dipped further into the shadows where he'd left his horse, leaping into the saddle and galloping far past the neighboring treeline. Sarella's rage when he broke the news had ignited upon each of his senses, her screams so loud that he had to be thankful for how far they'd settled into the forest, her fists on his chest so hard that he could feel the purple bruises swelling there long before they finally showed. And her tears so salty upon his lips when he finally kissed her that he could do little but cry with her, too, and at last, the sight of her finally asleep on her bedroll near the fire enough to draw him into his own slumber.
Sep 15 2016, 10:35 PM
During the interim of THIS thread
After successfully hurling up the few contents of his stomach, Maron had no choice but to finish lacing the front of his trousers and journey back into Durwell Keep. A thousand and one things raced through his mind as he made way to his chamber; accommodations Satanna had insisted he have. Though nothing within these walls truly belonged to him, the Dornish hedge knight was somewhat grateful for the brief solace away from the girl he called his charge. He needed to think. To devise a plan. And more importantly, do his best to forget what he'd just done outside ever happened. It is not over yet, he told himself, quickly gulping down a cup of stale wine he'd left out from the night prior. It only made him move to refill it with a fresh pour. You have to protect Sarella.
Gods. All he had ever wanted was to be close to her. House Durwell had once served as means to that goal. Yet now, he could not help but feel a guilt reside in his chest that could rival the weight of the Seven Kingdoms. "Ser knight," a familiar maidservant entered, timid and almost cowardly as she stepped forth. Clearly Satanna had sent her. Maron's dark eyes appraised the girl, emptying the second chalice down the back of his throat. "I was sent to see you properly groomed, Ser. Lady Satanna demands it." Something inside of him stirred, almost something akin to fear. Like the thought of having an unsteady pair of hands bringing a barber's blade anywhere near his manhood made him want to bring out his own blade for defense. "I have never..." "Go and find Alleras, the acolyte that tutors Lady Satanna. The boy has a steady hand," he filled the cup a third time. "He will see the job done." The girl very obviously hesitated, afraid to fulfill any command that was not Satanna's. "Our lady will be pleased when she sees only hair shaved and not skin cut. I could not imagine her wroth should I present to her with wounds." For added measure, Maron did not stop there. "I will still tell her it was you who performed the task. She will be very happy to hear you did so well."
It did not take much else to convince the girl, Maron gulping down the chalice of wine as she turned to finally leave. In her absence he began to disrobe himself, pulling off the articles of clothing almost defiantly, if not violently. As if he wanted to tear them to pieces in his anger. A Dornishman, he thought with a scoff. Coerced for sex. A brief, ill-timed chuckle passed his lips, pondering on where the world must have gone to for this all to happen. To him, of all people. Having stripped himself completely bare, he turned to pour the fourth chalice. But you will not let that wench get to Sarella. Maron would suffer the current madness of Satanna Durwell until his paramour was far from her grasp. Then I just might let her kill the bitch for me. Without pause he lifted the metal cup back up to his scowling lips, tilting it further and further towards the ceiling as it, too, emptied far down into his waiting gut. It was like this, his neck arched and muscled arm bent above him when she finally entered, ugly brown robes and all. Turning his head and lowering the goblet from his mouth, Maron's dark eyes seemed to loom even darker at the sight of her. He wondered, in all of his naked glory, if she could see the heart cinching and wilting behind his broad pectorals.
Jaw tensing, he went to pour a fifth cup of wine, this time nearing the bottom of the wooden cask. He knew it would not be enough. Looking up, goblet freshly filled, Maron's hard gaze landed upon his paramour. "'Lo, Alleras."
Jun 27 2016, 04:20 PM
Wood splintered beneath his fist, the door frame of his chamber bursting open. He hated this. He hated this bloody room, this godforsaken inn and this goddamned city. Maron could recognize the impatience budding up within him, the same uneasiness that always left him leaving Oldtown for Dorne once more, but this time it seemed more than just that. He could care less for Ghost Hill or even his lady mother at the moment, and with another grunt, Maron threw his curled fist once more into the wooden paneling of the wall. It did not matter what coin it took to repair it. If he had his way, he would choke the very last gold dragon, silver and copper star out of Lord Durwell. And then he would choke it out of his stupid, fuckable little daughter. "Ser Maron, I need you to wash me." Her voice echoed in his skull, even as he found himself leaving the inn and mounting his chestnut courser outside. "Daddy would have me nice and clean." The knight's stomach churned, tapping his spurs into his horse's sides. "Do you like the scent? Daddy brought it back from Oldtown."
The night air was cool, almost wintry as he rode through the city, but Maron could feel a sweat lining his dark, bulging muscles the longer he remained in the saddle. He was a knight. A man. Though he did not own his own holdings, though he earned his reputation -and his living- by the point of his sword and lance, Maron could not recall which of his vows entitled what he was currently suffering. He should be serving some great lord, apart of some great household of knights that stood constantly at the ready for battle. Not some dim-witted, half-noble wench who thought him her plaything, and not in the bloody Reach, either. Grinding his jaw, Maron rode to the stables built closest to the Citadel, paying too much coin for a stall too small - but he appreciated the stable boys recognizing him, and he trusted them with his courser as he turned to flip the dark woolen hood over his head. Disappearing into the night, melding into the shadows he knew so well, the Dornish bastard trekked quickly through the Citadel's grounds. "Lower, Ser Maron."
Dropping into Sarella's cell was effortless, trusting almost blindly that the window he could just barely fit through would be left unlocked for him. He risked his head, both of theirs, truly, by simply crossing the gates beneath the notice of those who guarded them, and even more by trespassing into the very Citadel itself. But there was no distance nor fortress that could keep him from his paramour, and the triumphant smirk on his lips spoke multitudes as he landed onto the floor of her meager lodgings. "'Lo, Alleras," he greeted deeply, teasingly mimicking all those that she shared this place with. It was but a few short steps over to her, his hands already going for the ugly brown robes she constantly donned, ready to rip them from the hidden bodice beneath. Just like that, Lady Satanna was gone from his mind, her vile voice and even worse commands nothing more than a bad memory - one unfortunately he would have to return to on the morrow, but for the moment, Maron was purely content with what he had now. Left aroused and hungry by what the girl had made him do, his Dornish blood incited by such base things, he almost felt like he wanted to ravish the woman before him.
In one easy push the robes were gone from her shoulders, opened at the chest and now nothing more than an unsightly puddle on the ground around her ankles. Her permanently sun-kissed skin seemed to glow even in the dim, almost cold light of her cell, and Maron's hands moved quickly to remove her of the tight linen wraps that confined and flattened her breasts. The things she did for knowledge. The things I do for love, he bit back to himself, dipping his mouth to the side of her bared neck, yet to free her dark locks from their bind at the back of her skull. "I grow tired of Oldtown," he murmured breathily, an eager palm reaching to cup a newly freed breast and squeezing hungrily. "But not of you," his lips lifted to her own, capturing them in a fervent kiss, focused now only on one singular thing. He had yet to even realize if she was allowing him to do any of this to her. "Never you."
May 1 2016, 07:40 PM
So the Queen was dead. Or so, that was what most seemed to believe... even the royal family. Maron thought it strange they mourned an empty space where a body should be, found it even stranger they grieved over the torn, half-frozen carcass of a horse-sized direwolf in the Queen's place. Of course, the Dornish knight was not so much a fool to put those words on his lips, but they were thoughts he could not be freed from. Like any subject he grieved for the realm's loss, and his heart clenched whenever he put himself in the shoes of his King. What would he himself do, if he lost Sarella? At least, he supposed, the King had all of the princes and princesses. Maron would be alone if he lost his lover and paramour. He had no children with her to draw solace from. The gods sought to take it from me, he thought bitterly, drowning out the nagging and gaggling of his charge Lady Satanna. Even in the face of a funeral, a royal one, no less, the girl had the gall to assume it an opportunity to flaunt herself to the thousands that attended. It made him sick, having to follow her as she mingled with the crowds, having to listen to her speak. He found he did not have the strength to force himself to stomach her this night.
The relief was almost palpable when he was finally allowed to dismiss himself. His temples were pounding through the corners of his skull, so tired of all the black donned by the mourners and the minstrels who played their somber music. They called this a celebration of the Queen's life, but Maron felt far from celebrating... and, as a master of the shadows he knew so well, he disappeared from the Red Keep and into the constant noise of King's Landing. There were so many people in this city, even more now that it housed all of the mourners from every reach of the realm, and he almost found it easier to navigate. Eyes did not follow him here like they did in Oldtown, such was the vast melting pot of people that inhabited the odorous King's Landing, and he moved somewhat freely down Shadowblack Lane to Cobbler's Square, where he took Coppersmith's Wynd to avoid the crowded brothels on the Street of Silk.
Eel Alley. He did not know why or how this place had earned its name. Nothing of it reminded him of an eel, especially since it laid in the shadow of the Great Sept itself. Perhaps he had been told once at Lemonwood, but he had been too distracted by Sarella then to learn much from their maester. The thought brought a faint smile to his face as he passed through into a tavern housed between two stone and timbre buildings, well-lit by glowing oil lamps and torched, flickering sconces. Patrons lingered on its wooden decks outside, most occupied by women no doubt of ill repute whose pockets were lined by the very men they perched themselves upon. He ignored them as he passed, the sound of the doors closing behind him going unnoticed by the raucous from those within... something he found he was actually grateful for. For too long had he suffered the open unwelcome of Oldtown. "Wine," he said abruptly to the first doe-eyed girl that approached him. Just as she turned to fetch him a cask, Maron's hand flew out and latched around her wrist, keeping her from taking another step. Her gasp was met with his hard dark stare. "Your darkest vintage. I hear the man who owns this place brews a special sort."
Darkness was well matured by the time he thought to realize it. Patrons had come and gone, there had been times where the place was nearly empty before it filled again. The girl that served him was gratefully weary of him since his manner of arrival, and though the "special" wine he purchased cost him much, Lord Durwell paid him well. By the second cup, Maron did not think he could even taste the preciousness of it anymore, already so inebriated that the tavernness could have been bringing him piss poor wine and he still would have paid the same. The whites of the knight's eyes had gone red by his third, and he began to sway some by his fourth and fifth. "Someone! Anyone!" He called out with a laugh, raising his goblet with a strong though wavering hand. "A toast!" Maron's glazed stare flickered slowly across the faces that turned to look at him, some with noticeable smiles and others with annoyed grimaces. Nevertheless, he went on, spurned with confidence the spirit left behind in his saturated veins. "A toast to the Queen!" He tilted his head back and poured the wine down his throat. "A toast to more wine," Maron continued with a laugh, sloppily gesturing for the girl to bring another cask.