Fourth Son of House dey Arromanc
Born in Jaculan
Wilund was born in the latter years of his mother’s consolidation of power, when Jaculan had already bent knee securely to Baroness Calatild and rival murmurs had faded into careful politeness. He was not born in crisis. He was born in stability — and that shaped him more than hardship would have.
At his birth there was quiet surprise.
His hair grew pale from the first — not gold, not ash, but a soft platinum that caught light strangely. His eyes were lighter than most Vlandians, sensitive in bright sun, often narrowed or shaded beneath hood or visor. Physicians later named it a condition of the eyes, uncommon but not cursed.
In Jaculan, nothing was ever allowed to be called cursed.
His mother permitted no such language.
He was named Wilund, after Wilund the Bold — a name heavy with conquest and foundation. Whether that was hope or warning, none dared ask.
Wilund grew into symmetry.
He is neither imposing nor slight, yet proportioned in a way that unsettles first impressions. Straight-backed. Even-shouldered. Movements measured rather than loose. His hands are elegant but not soft; trained in pen, rein, and blade alike.
His hair remains pale, worn longer than most Vlandic sons but always controlled — tied back for training, brushed smooth in court. In sunlight it gleams almost silver.
He does not tan. He burns. Because of this he favors shade, cloaks, visors, and controlled exposure. It has given him a habit of awareness — he always notes where light falls.
He keeps himself meticulously clean.
Armor polished but not ostentatious. Boots brushed. Gloves maintained. Even during travel, he restores himself at day’s end with quiet routine.
Other young men call it excess.
Veterans eventually call it discipline.
He believes that if one commands men, one must look like one commands oneself.
Wilund is not loud.
He does not compete for space in a hall.
He waits.
He listens.
He speaks when others have finished — and remembers what they forgot.
He is affectionate in private company. Gentle with servants who perform well. Respectful toward retainers. Formal with strangers. He laughs more easily among his brothers than before courtiers.
He is neither vain nor ascetic. He simply prefers order over neglect.
Some mistake this for fragility.
It is not fragility.
It is control.
As fourth-born, Wilund was never burdened with inheritance.
Thomund was shaped for rule.
Silvind for diplomacy and alliance.
Lasand for charter and legal structure.
Wilund existed outside necessity.
That granted him proximity without expectation.
He stood in map rooms unnoticed.
He listened to his mother discuss supply corridors and levy quotas.
He learned the shape of roads before he learned the weight of a battlefield.
Baroness Calatild did not ignore him. She simply did not press him toward a defined path. Whether this was trust or calculation remains uncertain.
His father regarded him with mild concern — seeing refinement where he preferred blunt strength.
Wilund loved them both without resentment.
Even when affection was uneven.
He trained as all noble sons do.
Sword drills in the yard.
Mounted exercises beyond the walls.
Shield formations under sergeants who did not soften their instruction.
He understands formation.
He understands terrain.
He can read a field before riding into it.
But he has not yet been forged in the chaos of real war.
His instincts are disciplined — not hardened.
He has not yet learned what fear does to men in a collapsing line.
He will.
Raised in the Church of the Word, Wilund’s belief is steady and unspectacular.
He kneels without display.
He swears carefully.
He believes oath and authority are the spine of the Marches.
He does not romanticize violence.
He accepts it as duty.
He despises oath-breakers more than enemies.
Among townsfolk:
“The Silver Son.”
Among young retainers:
“Polished, but fair.”
Among older knights:
“He will either surprise us or disappoint us.”
Among rival houses:
“An ornament.”
Among clerks:
“Attentive.”
He is underestimated with courtesy.
He does not correct them.
Wilund does not desire Jaculan.
He desires standing.
Not rebellion.
Not rivalry.
Expansion.
He understands that a powerful cadet branch strengthens the main line.
If he earns land, it will be in his mother’s name first.
If he earns a banner, it will fly in loyalty before independence.
He does not wish to replace his brothers.
He intends to stand beside them — with something of his own.
At eighteen, newly of age, he requested leave to travel and serve.
Not as a wanderer without name.
But as a noble seeking witness.
Baroness Calatild granted him a modest retinue of young household men — enough to protect dignity, not enough to provoke threat.
He left Jaculan at dawn.
Armor clean.
Cloak clasped.
Hair pale beneath a shaded hood.
He did not depart in anger.
He departed with intention.
He rides now to earn scars that match his name.
They were not gifted to Wilund as decoration.
Baroness Calatild chose carefully:
Sons of reliable sergeants.
Nephews of sworn retainers.
Men whose fathers held the walls during her inheritance dispute.
Youths old enough to fight, young enough to be shaped.
They are loyal to Arromanc first.
To Wilund… that must be earned.
These are not militia peasants.
They are trained in the Vlandic manner — disciplined, drilled, accustomed to formation.
They fight on foot.
They hold ground.
They represent structure.
Age: 24
Son of a city watch captain.
Broad-faced, slow to smile.
Natural leader among the ten.
He questions Wilund silently at first — measuring him.
Will become his line-anchor in battle.
Age: 19
Youngest of the crossbowmen.
Quick hands, restless energy.
Hero-worships Wilund’s composure.
Will need tempering.
Age: 27
Older than most.
Former caravan guard.
Scar across his chin.
Practical. Speaks little.
Respects competence only.
Age: 22
Lean, long-limbed.
Sharp eyes. Excellent at judging distance.
Not brave by instinct — but steady when others stand firm.
Age: 25
Devout. Keeps a small wooden charm of the Church.
Believes Wilund’s pale features are a holy sign.
This could become dangerous admiration.
Age: 21
Laughs easily.
Good morale presence.
Strong enough to carry pavise without complaint.
Age: 23
Former page in Jaculan’s court.
Understands noble etiquette.
Acts as quiet intermediary between Wilund and the common-born soldiers.
Age: 26
Shorter, thick-armed.
Crossbow maintenance expert.
Complains constantly — never deserts.
Age: 20
Nervous in speech.
Unshakable once line forms.
Will prove braver than he believes.
Age: 24
Former hunter.
Best fieldcraft among them.
Eyes always scanning tree lines.
Likely future scout leader.
They naturally form tight defensive shapes.
They instinctively protect Wilund when arrows fall.
They begin to take pride in uniform cleanliness under his influence.
Others mock them at first for polished gear.
Later, that polish becomes their mark.
These are light cavalry — not heavy knights.
Young mounted retainers trained in lance and sword.
They represent mobility.
They represent Wilund’s future expansion.
Age: 26
Only one formally knighted.
Second son of a minor landholder.
Assigned as nominal senior rider.
Skeptical of Wilund’s refinement.
Will test him early.
Age: 22
Fast rider.
Smiles in battle.
Reckless tendencies.
Needs restraint.
Age: 23
Studious. Observes Wilund closely.
May become his tactical second.
Age: 28
Veteran of border skirmishes.
Blunt. Scarred. Direct.
Respects strength quickly, weakness brutally.
Age: 21
Quiet. Excellent with horses.
Treats mounts like sacred charges.
Will bond strongly with Wilund’s personal horse.
Age: 24
Former squire passed over for knighthood.
Carries chip on shoulder.
Sees Wilund’s youth as insult at first.
Age: 20
Idealistic.
Romanticizes chivalry.
Will be fiercely loyal once convinced.
Age: 27
Oldest of riders.
Dry humor.
Has seen men panic and die.
Watches Wilund most carefully of all.
At departure from Jaculan:
They respect the house.
They are uncertain of the son.
They expect polish to crack under pressure.
Wilund must:
Endure the first march without complaint.
Share hardship visibly.
Stand his ground in first skirmish.
Maintain composure under blood.
When he does — and he will — they will begin shifting loyalty from Arromanc to Wilund personally.
That is when they become something else.
They will not name themselves.
Others will.
After:
Holding a defensive line too long.
Fighting in disciplined silence.
Maintaining formation when others scatter.
Keeping their armor unnervingly clean even after campaign.
Someone will mutter:
“They fight like forged bronze.”
And the name will stick.
But that is later.
For now, they are simply eighteen young men riding behind a pale-haired noble with a new banner and something to prove.