DAMON RAVENSWOOD

“Curses!” Damon swore as he stormed into his bedchamber, anger seething from all over his body as the door slammed shut behind him and his brother Dante with a resounding thud, echoing off the stone walls.

“Was Father mad? How could he have done such a thing!” He further wailed as he kicked his boot into the wooden table which stood near his chamber’s window, throwing himself onto its chair, the sound of creaking wood, protesting beneath his weight in return. 

“He’s dead, brother. Let him lie in peace,” Dante, calm and relaxed, said as he strode quietly to where Damon sat, beside the window. “You should not question Father’s decision,” he added as he stared outside the window, watching the knights of the royal guards stand guard in the yard below, then further looking beyond the gate of Aeron’s holdfast—where the royal hall and their chambers were located—and further beyond the castle gate, into the crowded and bustling King’s city, taking in the fresh air. “You are lucky,” he said. “You get a good view of the city from here.”

“Sometimes, I wonder whose side you are on, dear brother.” Damon remarked wistfully, taking his glance away from his brother and towards his chamber’s door as he shouted, “guards! Should I have to ask for a drink?!” 

“Pardon, my lord. It shall be brought with haste,” a voice replied quickly from beyond the door. 

“Have Melisandre bring it to me.”

“Understood, my lord.”

Dante shook his head fretfully, saying, “do not fill her with child, brother. I worry you might just father your own bastard.”

“Oh, shut up, Dante. What do you know about the urges of a man’s cock?” Damon mocked as he jokingly grabbed his prized jewel, afterwards, crossing his legs and elevating them onto the table as he extended them outwards. 

“I, too, am a man. I have them as well.”

“Doesn’t matter when you have not had the touch of a woman.”

“You underestimate me, brother.”

“I know you,” Damon laughed. “Might as well become a eunuch, lose those dangling loads between your thighs.”

Dante winced unpleasantly. “Fascinating, but I shall pass on that offer.” 

“Anyway,” Damon started, his laughter reducing to a whisper, “what shall we do about the bastard on the throne?”

Dante sighed worrily. “You should be careful what you say, brother. He is the king, the ravens listen for him.”

“The ravens listen only for the ravens. He is no raven!” Damon corrected; his laughter now completely gone, and only spite remained. “He is a bastard. Not one of us.”

“You bear no proof of that, brother.”

Damon hissed. “Mother had always told me about Father’s journey to the south, and how he returned, bringing Thalia filled with child. She said it was too short a time for Father’s seed to have become fruitful, and—”

“—she did not believe the child was his,” Dante cut in, completing Damon’s sentence. “You have told me that story a thousand times already, but not once have you been able to answer the question I always ask in return. Why would Father name he who is not his child the crown prince?”

Damon descended his legs from the table to the ground languidly. “That I do not know,” he said, “but—”

“There are no buts, brother.” Dante perched on the window, folding his arms together as he looked at his brother with a rather fretful glint in his eyes, he then breathed out a deep sigh before adding, “Father named him his child, but Mother thinks not. You choose to believe Mother because you know that if he is actually a bastard, then the throne should be rightfully yours, and I, honestly cannot stop you from wanting it, but you should remember, Zephyr is the king, raven or not, and it never bodes well to anger the king.”

“And what about you?” Damon inquired, his gaze filled with curiosity as he stared deeply at his brother. “You want not the throne nor its power?”

…

“My lord!” A guard called out suddenly from beyond the door, putting a stop to the conversation of the brothers. “Melisandre has arrived.”

Damon gave a resigned sigh as he leaned back in his chair. “Let her in,” he voiced in return. 

The door of the chamber flew open, and in she came. Melisandre, a young lady, covered in nothing but a transparent silk gown, exposing her dark skin, which glittered like the finest of marbles under the light of the sun, for all to see. Her long dark hair swaying majestically behind her as she walked quietly towards Damon and Dante, bearing in her hand a golden ewer, filled with the finest and most expensive wine in all of Ravenwing, The Red Mist, and two golden goblets, all sitting atop a silver tray. 

“I shall take my leave.” Dante exhaled deeply, descending from the window as Melisandre set the tray of wine on the table.

“Why don’t you join us,” Damon offered, smiling as he assertively placed his hand on Melisandre’s nates.

“Once again, a rather fascinating offer, quite tempting, I must say, but I shall pass.” 

“Your rod must be pissed at you, brother. You keep denying it a little fun.” Damon laughed boisterously. 

“Do not worry, brother. It speaks no word of complaint to me.”

“Yet,” Damon added. “Pour me a drink and take off that damned silk. Must I have to tell you, Mel,” he demanded, his eyes forlorn, like a baby deprived of his toy.

“Forgive me, my prince.” She gently took off her plain silk clothing, and began pouring the wine into a cup, pushing Dante to make haste towards the chamber’s door.

“Oh, lest I forget. You asked me a question, brother, about power,” Dante said, halting his advance towards the door. “I intend to answer that question.”

Damon’s lost curiosity returned as fast as the hunting dogs of Ravenwing. “Alright,” he said. 

“You see, brother. Power begets fear, and fear begets madness,” Dante began, “when power is wielded, its wielder fears losing it, and in return is intoxicated up to the point of madness. It’s a constant cycle, one which always ends up destroying the wielder…” he gently turned his head to its side as he glanced at Damon who sat behind him… 

“...And I want no part in madness.”