Consolidation
By swiftness and deceit, Cleon conquered the riverlands and made of them his tribute. From that hour forth, the name of Gruen was spoken not only in fear but in reverence, for men saw in Cleon’s victories the hand of destiny— or of some darker power that watched and willed his rise.
The remnants of Fy’s shattered host, those neither drowned nor slain, did gather at the village of Fywold, purposing to make a final stand in defiance. Yet there they found only weariness and fear. For the townsfolk had already heard tidings of Cleon’s ruthless triumph. Many, gathering their hens, their coats, and their ponies, did flee north and east; and those who abode were either too frail to travel, or too burdened by their wealth to risk it on the road lest they be plundered by brigands scenting doom upon the wind.
Within Fywold’s wooden walls, the days stretched into weeks, and even the gray heavens that withheld their rain seemed to conspire against them. The soldiers of Fy devoured all the bread and eggs, drained the barrels of ale, and turned to butchering the swine and goats. Whosoever dared to protest was met with a cruel beating, and so silence fell heavier than the smoke upon their hearths before a storm.
At last Cleon’s host appeared upon the road. The besieged of Fy loosed their final arrows, yet not a one found its mark. Cleon sent no herald, nor parley, nor demand for two full days, filling the minds of the defenders with dread. From the walls, Fy’s men bellowed hollow threats and curses, cries of those already broken, while Cleon’s host made merry upon the bounty of the countryside, feasting openly within sight of their hungry foes.
When Cleon perceived their spirits fully broken and their hope extinguished, he sent Odax to address the people of Fywold.
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“Summer is no season for a siege,” quoth he. “The fields ripen for harvest, and the woods teem with game. Lay down thy arms and come forth. Return to thy labor of living.”
“Never!” cried the defenders. “Never shall we yield unto a bastard born!”
“Then thou shalt burn,” Odax retorted, “and with thee, all who dwell within these walls. Behold the pyres we do build. They are made you you.”
“Thou wouldst not dare burn these common folk,” came the reply. “The houses of Methundor would rise against thee for such a monstrous deed!”
“Nay, for it shall be by thine own hand,” said Odax. “Mark me well, for if these good folk slay thee in thy sleep to deliver themselves from flame, they shall win the rex’s favor. Think thou not they outnumber thee tenfold? I bid thee open the gates on their behalf, ere they turn upon thee.” Then Odax bellowed at the townsfolk inside the walls. “Behold! Let it be known that any subject who brings the rex’s justice upon a rebel of Fy shall be rewarded with ten silver erlings or two kine.”
At eventide, the pyres were kindled outside the walls, and those within— soldier, subject, maiden, and child— looked on in dread as the glowing embers ascended into the starless ether.
Ere dawn, the gates were opened without contest, and with terror writ upon their weary faces, the soldiers of Fy, scarce two hundred in all, did cast down their arms and shields with clangs and thuds. Then limping forth, many did beg for mercy, while others fell to their knees and muttered prayers unto deafened gods.
Their hands were bound, their ankles knotted together, and thus they marched for three days until they reached the walls of Gruen. There, those who would not yield nor swear allegiance unto Cleon were strangled by cords, their lives forfeit; the surviving remnant was pressed into the king’s host as the lowest rank of footmen. And so ended the rebellion of House Fy, not with the clash of swords, but with hunger and despair.
