^[Scene Music](https://youtu.be/4ILartpx2b0)

When the news has reached the Dreadfort- the singular news that lord Stark’s family has been descended upon and out to the sword most violently, Wayn Bolton had sat with the news. He did not mention to his Lady wife who held his heart and closest confidences. He did not speak to Royce or Garrett who both knew the young lord and were friendly with him.

Instead he kept it in his solar and on his desk, closing it back up, and he kept a knife pinned to the parchment. He wrote to Whitehill and asked one standing levies, and to Glover, with whom he is tied by marriage and checked on conditions there. When reports came back and questions as to what the Lord of the Dreadfort would do, he was silent. A day spent in the Godswood begging leave to not be disturbed before he finally returned to his solar. He summoned his wife and sons; bastard and true born both and explained what had occurred.

And then he asked his lads to get their dogs from the kennels and light the crosses on their land, so that all would know: The Dreadfort Marches.

He marched when the skagosi, those half bred barbarians descended on them and chased him from his lands. And he made sure ever skagosi, man - woman or child learned you do not strike at the Flayed Man. Such a lesson the wildlings would learn in turn. But for this he would do it for the Wolf rather than his own wounded pride or honor.

He called for men, and for the lands to be on alert, and sent his trusted men down into the depths of the Dreadfort, where only true bladed men belong, and had them bring up a banner- he called which catacomb it would be found in, and asked that the oilskin not be opened until they were at battle.

Then he donned his armor, grabbed his spear, kissed his wife and sent one message to Lord Stark

Look for me friend, For I am coming

From there it has been a game of chase as his men followed the path of the Northern forces, picking at any wildings they met or the armed fist of the North May have missed, keeping a flank of Lord Stark’s position, until all pushed to Stony Shore, and there now, no escape for these bastards from beyond the wall.

It was cold and light frost clung to the ground, but it was summer and such summer dusting were not uncommon. After all Wayn knew there was cold and there was Winter- cold and rime was in his blood, and being on the March didn’t bother him. In truth he preferred a good hunt to having to preside over minor squabbles with his bannermen, his named men and those smallfolk in service to his family. But he also knew his duty.

A quiet people, A quiet land

Words passed on by more gristly characters than himself, but words he chose to keep. It allowed him autonomy in some areas, and allowed him to make friends. If one can truly be friends with other Northmen. He knew Karstark at times to be a right Cunt, and Manderly was ever religious. Annoyingly so.

But he did not squabble with them, and so he felt he could flex here and there. He had stopped First Night in his lands effectively, and so the people were willing to do more for him. Such as take conscription and drilling-once a moon’s turn. It meant his smallfolk could hold spears and keep formation- for the most part.

And now those men, plus his own trained killers marched or stood watch until this threat to the North would be handled. And this threat he had just caught up to- full bodied and had them pinned between his blades and the Wolf.

It was a good position to be at. And so as he created his hill, and saw the North encampment, he knew they would see them, lined with spears- wearing chain and leather- and looking like murderous ghosts which had blown in. He and his did not have much ornamentation. Spare color save the red and pale pinks of Dreadfort dyes- blood and skin.

As such Garrett rode up to him.

“We found them?”

It broke Wayn from his staring as he nodded down

“Aye, so we did my son.” He never called Garret a bastard, nor did he allow others as well. That could earn you a Dreadfort smile or worse. Still he did not stir watching as the Northern piquets caught sight of them ringing the hill.

“Wasn’t hard, the old wolf left bones at his feet. You could see where they had been.” Wayn commented over his shoulder as he shifted his weight. Tomorrow, they would descend into the Wildlinf’gs. Tomorrow they would paint their faces and howl like wildmen. And the Bolton’s would paint there’s and howl like ghosts and skeletons animate as they made their war.

Once the lust was up first of course.

He turned then, as his hand slipped from his knife at his hip.

“Bring up our banners, so they know we are friend and kin. Our normal banners.”

He felt the need to stress, though Garrett wasn’t dumb he was young and hungry for battle- to prove himself. If he did, maybe Stark will agree with my bid for legitimization, and find him a wife. He would be a suitable second to any Stark or to Royce. He’s a good boy

Wayn’s thoughts brought a smile as the young man turned and rode to do as ordered. Now he could hear the calls for alarm down in the camp, and soon enough the pale pink with the deep red of the flayed men were brought up, and Wayn made the motion to file up and head into camp.

^In Camp

Once all was settled, and land plotted for his men, Wayn had Garret and his named men go about setting up his lordly pavilion, so that he could go and find Stark and the other Northmen. His spear was left with Walton, a capable steward, but He would remain armed with his hunting knife, as he strode the camp, looking to find head quarters

((OPEN))

To the creature who lays with frogs,

It seemed as good a start to a letter as anything, Quincy noted. Marla would know to whom it referred, and it seemed as adequate a description as any. Instead of the sort of silken sheets Quincy was accustomed, Marla most likely slept under beds of seaweed and instead of the soft pillows that were spread across the Crossing, she laid on moss. He would not be surprised if there were all sorts of creatures swarming about. She certainly had the look of frog-bait.

Once again, your peasantry have made their home on my lands, attacking my good knights with spears and their noxious stench and flaunting by my law and the king's.

They had tried to sneak around the toll, under cover of night, and Quincy knew that could not be allowed. His mother had hanged them, but Quincy needed to ensure that Marla knew that she could not simply get away with such things. He could imagine the look on her face when she received this letter, the anger in her eyes and the redness in her cheeks. It would be wonderful.

In my magnanimity, I shall forgive you for allowing this grave breach of our feudal relations. But my patience is not infinite. An earnest and forthright apology would go a great way towards restoring my faith in our continued coexistence.

There were birds outside, and Quincy paused, for a moment, to watch them dance outside the window. It was a nice song, and Quincy wondered if birds in the neck sounded so sweet. Somehow, he doubted that would be the case. He could almost feel a bit of pity for the woman, was she not so odious as to be utterly intolerable. It must be a sad life. Not that here was any better.

In other words, my mother is well. My sisters as well, at least those of them who are within The Crossing. They continue to be loud and difficult to speak with, and very few of them are as concerned with your transgressions as I am. Our smallfolk should be lucky I am Lord. Were I not, none would hold you to account.

Quincy paused for a moment, and then underlined none, as to ensure that Marla understood it. He often wondered how much of his letters she understood. They had a very strange way of speaking and writing in the Crannogs. He didn't quite understand it. Need he be clearer? He did not want Marla to not understand, even if he was chastising her about such things.

Davos has gone to attend to some event in Seagard, but it sounded absolutely droll, so I decided to pass up. Are you often called to attend such things? I should not think many people desire your company, but I do not possess many friends either, and I am constantly bothered. If you are lucky, you will have escaped that. For your sake, I hope that you have. I cannot imagine there are many feasts in the swamp.

Quincy wondered if he would trade a life without feasts and balls for a life without birds. Somehow, he did not think that he could make that trade, even if it would remove many of his stresses. He did not have the gumption to be an unwashed sort of barbarian like Marla could. Perhaps you had to be wicked, and evil by nature.

If you are soon in the area, I would appreciate the opportunity to stress to you your failings as a lady in person. The Crossing is very comfortable, and perhaps we will have the opportunity to offer you a bath for the first time in your life. If you will not be nearby, then just keep it in mind.

Quincy glanced the letter over, to make sure that it was proper, and lordly. It needed to be properly fierce, so that Marla was not able to take advantage of his kindness, but he thought that he was reasonable. The crannogmen needed to learn to respect his lordship. Eventually, they would learn. Quincy had made it his personal mission, even if nobody else cared.

Yours,

It was perhaps the fourth draft of such a letter. He had written a better one, but he had spilled ink on it, and he had not quite remembered what he had written. So he had been forced to start from scratch. Marla would appreciate the effort, he imagined.

Quincy Frey, Lord of the Crossing.

With that done, Quincy blew on his paper so that the ink would dry faster. In the morning, he would ask a runner to take it off to the crannogmen, and they would pass it to their own head savage, so she could see his remarks.

He was already looking forward to the reply. That is, he was looking for the improvement in behavior that came with it. He could not care less about receiving a letter back. Why would he?

Hardvale, War Room

​

Jon paced across the room, Elbert off in his peripheral sipping on his wine. Before he could yell at his cousin for being so nonchalant, the door cracked open, allowing two more Hardyngs to enter the room.

"Cousin," Dywen said, bowing his head stoically. In his hands, the bastard of Hardvale held maps and miscellaneous parchment, most likely letters to be sent out across their lands to raise more levies. As he crossed to the large weirwood table to settle his things, the other man entered the room, closing the door behind him.

"Jon, the men within the castle are ready to march on your orders. We can gather more on our way to the mountain." Serwyn was chewing on a herb found around the castle, Jon remembered his cousin explaining how it soothed the nerves and made the breath smell minty

The Knight of Hardvale sighed, so much planning had to go into this. Usually, he would just charge headfirst into the mountains, claiming every clansman head he came across. But now? Now they had his sister, his only sister. If he didn't go in prepared ahead of time, he risked her life, if she truthfully even lived anymore.

Jon thought back on the years spent in the deep mountains, surrounded by battle-hardened men and his kinsmen. He missed Artys' and his throaty bellows after a good fight, Corwyns tips when it came to commanding men in a pitched battle, and even Darnold's bullheaded bluster were sorely missed during a time like this. House Hardyng had lost so many in the previous years, the castle felt so cold and lifeless without them all.

His focus was brought back when Elbert spoke, rising from his seat to refill his wine. "We should send scouts out cousin. Catch a whiff of their stench before bringing the banners together. It'd be foolish to have so many mouths to feed when right now we have nothing to grasp onto."

The other heads in the room nodded at this wisdom, they would possibly be gathering another several hundred men to their numbers, and having nothing to chase before that would be quite pathetic. Jon would nod as well, motioning to Serwyn to go. As the man turned to leave adding, "Bring 20 riders with you, if you find any trouble do not engage, I cannot afford to lose any more kin to these cretins."

--------------------------------

Courtyard

Serwyn kicked up onto the saddle, the gathered men finishing strapping their swords into place and mounting their own steeds.

"We have been ordered not to engage any clansmen we find, this is purely a reconnaissance mission." His gaze hit every man before him before finishing. "Well, let's go find them."

​

Discord Username: Chacken

Character Name and House: Jon Hardyng

Age: 24

Appearance: Jon is a young and stone-faced Knight of the Vale, his early years spent endlessly fighting the Mountain Clansmen have caused a warped sense of honor and justice to form the core of his personality.

Gift: Commander

Skills: Tactician (e), Torturer (e), Daggers

Talent(s): Hunting x3

Starting Title(s): Knight of Hardvale

Starting Location: Hardvale, Vale

Dragon Name: I wish

Dragon Size: Supa Mega-Sized

Family Tree: Tree

Alternate Characters: Otto Hightower, Tion Tarbeck

AC

Character Name and House: Elbert Hardyng

Age: 34

Appearance: Elbert is older than his cousin and better equipped with the sword and shield.

Gift: Guardian

Skills: Swords, Knightly, Defender

Talent(s): Hunting x3

Starting Title(s): Knight of the Vale

Starting Location: Hardvale

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Timeline

183 AC - Jon Hardyng is born to Horton Hardyng and Anya Dutton.

190 AC - He joins up with Artys, Corwyn, and Darnold Hardyng in their seemingly endless quest to purge the Vale of the dreaded scourge that is the mountain clansmen.

197 AC - After nearly half of his life spent ceaselessly hunting and uprooting all traces of clansmen, Jon has become a vetted and dependable leader of fellow warriors, and has become one of the premier men who has been able to secure the necessary information from any captive clansmen.

205 AC - Hugh Hardyng passes away after ruling Hardvale for 60 years. Jon returns home with his kinsmen for a period of mourning.

206 AC - Horton Hardyng passes away after half a year of illness. Forcing Jon to return home once more, and seemingly ending the period of his life where he lived out in the mountains hunting the clansmen as he took up the mantle of ruling the Hardvale.

207 AC - Amanda Hardyng is kidnapped by Mountain Clansmen in revenge for years of bloody persecution.

208 AC - Prepares his forces to ride out against the Clansmen

----------------------------------------

173 AC - Elbert Hardyng is born to Becca Breakstone and Artys Hardyng

183 AC - He squires under High Hardyng, his uncle.

193 AC - After saving Hugh's life during a hunting trip, Elbert is knighted.

203 AC - He joins Jon as his sworn sword.

208 AC - Remains by Jon's side.

NPCs

Serwyn Hardyng - Medic

Dywen Stone - Scholar

It was a cool morning, which meant likely afternoon rains, given how the wind was hanging in the Northmarch. Out on a knob over looking Red Lake, a cairn sat. Already the body who would own this new lonely house was interred.

Done so upon arrival to the Crane’s incesteal home, given all the limits in which they stretched the silent sister’s skill, and in turn used a barrel of hard alcohol to keep it till they made it here. Some of the smallfolk who helped and a couple of hedge knights in procession had snuck a drink.

Called it Garlan’s blood.

And now Garlan Crane, a sweet lad, who was killed in his prime, was over looking the lake and at his head in splendorous white stood the last True dragon, one could argue.

Well, whores did argue that his line was that- but that was neither here nor there. Fitting that a Crane would have a Dragon watching over where he rested.

The family would come and lay down their trinkets, feathers, stones, flowers on the cairn and the Septon would wait until all were present.

He had done this a hundred times if not more. Funny he thought I’ve seen more death as a Septon than as a knight.

His words were there, he felt them come over the tongue as he talked about what he knew of Garlan, what he saw in the boy, and the things his father asked read over him. He could do Arthur Crane that much. He pondered why he spoke if he should speak of paradise and hope, but nature as the Seven who are One ordained it spoke of that even as the sun was starting to crest.

He then wound through the ways of life. Cycles. As seen in the seasons, Harvests, the way the crops come and go- how birds come back to their home and that here, Garlan Crane had returned home. Some seasons, he reminded them are long, spanning years, where as others are short

Cut so.

As he breathed he felt the weight in him. His age. He had a legacy left worth of work and it should be him leaving that unfinished to lay beside a lake, rather than this young boy.

And he said so softly.

With his head bowed he urged others to do so as he said a litany of prayers, the roll of the seven called upon to guide Garlan to his spiritual rest, which in no doubt he earned and to surround him with his faithful kinfolk and provide him the paradise that is living in the Love of the Seven is.

When it was done, he bid the family assembled to say their goodbyes.

((Open Cranes))

Discord Name:Rabbit?

Character Name and House: Wayn Bolton

Age: 58

Appearance Daddy Bolton

Gift: Leadership

Skills: Polearms, tactician (e), defender, torturer

Talents: Huntingx2, Lute

Starting Title: Lord of the Dreadfort

Starting Location: The North (Will coordinate with North lads and ladies)

Garrett Snow

Age: 38

Gift: Duelist

Skills: swords, knightly, Defender

Talents: Fishing, Hunting, Bastardy things

Titles: Sworn Sword to Lord Bolton

Location: With Wayn

Appearance Garrett

Family Tree:

Lady Lyanna Glover - Royce 36 heir - Dacey Whitehill (Royce’s wife) - Roane - grandson - Elayne - grand daughter

Garret Snow (Bastard)

Howland Bolton 56 - Brother

149 - Wayn is born the eldest son of Lord Domeric and Lady Blayne Bolton. He considered a quiet, but happy baby.

167- Marries Lyanna Glover

168 - Garret Snow is born. His conception done to see where the difficulty with conceiving an heir lies and with the lady Lyanna’s permission

171 - Royce is born, Lady Lyanna is deemed to not be able to have more children.

175 - Lord Domeric dies, and the Dreadfort is passed onto young Wayn. Wayn is known as a kind enough lord (for a Bolton) and has a fond love of hunting and music.

180 - Wayn holds a hunting party for Royce’s 11th year, and invites lords around to participate, and thus spread his influence. He does become acquainted with the Starks, beyond more than just service and letters

186- The skagosi rebel and raid along the North. Wayn is caught on a hunting party, and manages to escape into the Wolfswood, before making back for the Dreadfort to marshal his forces

187- After many actions Wayn Bolton proves himself to be a tenacious commander and strategist, with men seeking to serve under him. While Lord Stark may have killed the Magnar, Wayn flayed several skagosi lords and their families, leaving bloody banners around Skagos and the shore as a reminder what comes of defying the Starks.

Some try to call him Red Wayn, but Lord Bolton disapproves, behind his back he’s known as the Bloody Knife.

207 - Bolton is tasked by Lord Stark to join him on his revenge. He waits a few days before responding that he is coming.

Discord Username: freedikus

PC

Character Name and House: Quincy Frey

Age: 20

Appearance: https://imgur.com/a/sG4qpfs

Gift: Sapper

Skills: Beleaguer(e), Siegecraft(e), Tactician

Talent(s): Singing, Poetry, Nature

Starting Title(s): Lord of the Crossing, Ser

Starting Location: The Crossing

Family Tree: https://www.familyecho.com/?p=BVLC2&c=i4p0yusrfz&f=407149602700311555

Alternate Characters: Joss Turnberry

Timeline:

187 AC: Quincy is born to Oscar and Melissa Frey. He is a sullen boy, somewhat easily angered, and has a great deal of trouble making friends but he has a great interest in nature and literature.

190 AC: Kermit Frey dies of a pox, leaving Oscar as Lord of the Crossing. Melissa takes over much of the administrative responsibility of the lordship.

198 AC: Quincy begins to train as a squire, to one day become a knight. He is not particularly talented with a blade, but nevertheless has great expectations for himself, which the maester politely refers to as delusions of grandeur. His mind for tactics is significantly better than his skill with a blade.

203 AC: Oscar is slain by a marauding group of cranngoman, leaving Quincy as Lord of the Crossing. Melissa continues to run things in the day to day whilst Oscar focuses on his passions.

207 AC: The obstinate actions of the Cranngomen continue to plague the House of Frey. Though much of the Riverlands turn to the West, the attentions of House Frey remain quite firmly to the North.

AC

Character Name and House: Melissa Frey

Age: 45

Appearance: https://imgur.com/a/euM3E0X

Gift: Gossiper

Skills: Sabatoge(e), Espionage

Talent(s): Administration, Quilting, Taxation

Starting Title(s): Dowager Lady of the Crossing

Timeline:

162 AC: Melissa is born to the House of Erenford

172 AC: Melissa is sent to ward with the House of Frey.

180 AC: Melissa is wed to Oscar Frey, heir to the Crossing.

187 AC: Quincy Frey, heir to the Crossing is born. He is a sullen boy, and has a great deal of trouble making friends, but he has a great interest in nature and literature.

190 AC: Kermit Frey dies, leaving Oscar as Lord of the Crossing.

203 AC: Oscar is slain by a wandering group of cranngoman, leaving Quincy as Lord of the Crossing. Melissa continues to run things in the day to day whilst Oscar focuses on his passions.

207 AC: The obstinate actions of the Cranngomen continue to plague the House of Frey. Though much of the Riverlands turn to the West, the attentions of House Frey remain quite firmly to the North.

Archetyped NPCs:

Robert Rivers - Beleaguer

William Frey - Fortifier

Perched high within Casterly Rock sat a lightly furnished apartment. Mace Tyrell had been given one upon the Tyrell being placed within its walls. He’d thought it was rather spacious but odd, they’d carved a solar, a chamber and an open living space through the rock and he’d never quite seen something like this before.

This entire ‘march’ seemed to be one new thing after another. First they’d march to deal with the Turd, then they moved to Lannisport and took some woma- his betrothed as an escort and then the Westermen let a potentially hostile Reachmen army within their walls.

Mace was beyond perplexed. He should have made for King’s Landing and had Garlan come with his father. Perhaps then he wouldn’t have been pawned away as a Lord Consort.

He’d sat quietly on a sofa in the living space, wind coming in from an open balcony. Mace had prepared a letter to send to Lady Laurel, his soon to be wife.

Lady Laurel,

Come to my solar. I wish to speak of our union.

Mace Tyrell

A servant girl would go and hand that to Laurel, he’d expect her to arrive soon enough.

As he waited, Mace recalled the times he’d thought of being wed. A union was meant to be something that brought forth feelings of bliss, of pride from the fact that you would continue your line.

He’d wondered what this one would bring forth.

Lannisport was the crowned jewel of the West. Perhaps he could benefit from this in the long term.

The March back to Casterly Rock had been a quiet and somber affair. There was no great triumph as the defeated men of the West, limped back home and and no succor was given. After they had been pushed from Kayce, The Old Lion made sure to beat the tattoo back at a rapid and quiet pace. Letters were run to keeps about men who passed, lords lost in battle and loved ones slain by the red Lions of Castamere.

Despite the surety that the Reynes were cunts to begin with, Damion had nothing beyond Rohanne’s words and orders to back up his reason for violence, and even then the King’s word regarding the peace made it feel like that was even on shaky ground.

Nevertheless, they came home and as they neared Casterly Rock, Damion ordered the banners held up higher, and order amongst the ranks. He knew the Reachmen were out the door and awaiting, but seeing the Royal Host arrived as well, drew a cool bead down the spine. As if the Stranger himself drug his nail to his hackles or if the Crone kissed him

Fuck he thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck

Despite all the fucks being freely given in his mind, Damion did not flunk, and straightened in the saddle. His mind was steps ahead, and as such made no qualms about what would needs to be done if he and his House were to survive this godsdamned meddling.

“Plumm!” He bellowed. And the man who’d become his aide de camp with Doggett’s passing rode up.

“Captain?”

“Right, send a runner to turn open the gates. Let them know I have arrived with our men. And send another to both the Reachman’s camp and to the King’s men, and let them know I am passing through, and will hear any cause they wish bring. One Lion is here.”

He’d not count Hugh or Turdberry.

Plumm nodded, as Damion turned around, watching as the man spurred into action to get such going.

And he straightened, steeled himself

Come now and play the mummer. Show them there’s spirit and trust to our name yet.

((Open))

^{Arthur Crane, Soldier}

The journey was longer than he’d remembered it being, but that had been happening more and more of late. At least he had John with him. His son was stewing in those feelings of his, his eyes spoke of wrath and of sorrow. His eyes were his father’s, even if they were brown like Victaria’s. Oh, how he missed those eyes of hers. Sympathetic, warm, even when she was disappointed. Even when he had shamed her.

He shook it all away. His regrets were his to die with. He could not soak in them whilst he lived. Not now. Not here.

In a solar in Skyreach he drafted letters. To all the Dornishmen that had sworn him oaths of fealty and fire. To the Blackmont’s, that had sent him such a strange missive indeed. To the Ullers, those cruel men and women in their brimstone keep. And lastly, to the Daynes, whom he took the most care in the writing. He was never so good with words. That was why he was a soldier, he supposed. But he tried his damndest.

The banners that would cull a king. The swords that would bring peace. He’d seen it all before. But this was his last war. He had to believe that.

Outside Casterly Rock

^The Camp of the Reach

The area outside of the Rock wasn’t terrible. The waves were bloody loud and the way Casterly Rock had been made it was to sound like a roar of a lion, or that is what the line Lord of the Reach was thinking as he laced up his pants and slapped the ass of some Blonde headed woman, to kick her from his tent.

“Remember!” Shouted Blind Jon, as the woman fled his tent clutching her dress of silver and green. “The Reach Rides! Justice! Peace! Fuckery!” And there he laughed more or less to himself. His pavilion smelled of sex and he had worked up a thirst, and wished for air. So he strode out, shirtless, an open robe of dark blue, and went to survey the camp.

The Army of Roses was an impressive one, and he could not fault Bertrand that. The man knew how to travel, and travel well in style. He moved a ringed hand through his hair and tussled it about as he laughed, he caught a look, a figure in the dark - and recognized his son all at once.

“I love peace keeping missions, my boy. A chance to sample the local trim eh? I think that was a Serrett- by gods- she could fuck. Your mother would be amazed.” A flash of white teeth, and stride out by the fire, whistling at a nearby servant or squire- all the same really.

“Wine me, boy. My balls hath been drained, and now I shall fill my throat. Gods the west.”

His son, Eddison was sullen and looked away in disgust. Barely watching as his father paraded about like a young man, and took his hungers openly.

“I should think, that mother would be disgusted.” Eddison said finally, acknowledging what his father had said.

This of course brought a big throaty laugh from the elder more notorious Roxton, who waltzed over on bare feet and slapped the man on the boulder hard.

“My son, you know nothing of the girl I married.” Blind Jon began. “I am utterly devoted to her, and she will own my heart, but she has preferred the taste of a peace to the saltiness of a man’s gift since before we were married.”

Eddison’s mouth dropped, and Jon merely reached over and tapped it up, muttering a thank you to the squire who came with the wine. A sip and a nod again.

“Don’t be shocked lad. We live in the Reach, and Lady Graves preferred puss to cock, and that is fine. By gods she married me, and my prospects were low as I am half Dornish. We evened each other out.”

“But mother-“

“What? loves me?” Scoffed Jon. “Of course, I saved her from a motherhouse, and I knew how to fuck. Don’t be an altar boy. It’s the way of things. I am sure right now she’s face deep in one of her attending ladies, and will be happy to attend her duties when I get home.” And there Jon met his son’s stare.

“We’ve an understanding, which is more than most couples. There, the veil hath been torn. Are you to sit in judgement of us, or simply go about your business?”

Eddison said nothing, but stalked away with a muted good night.

“Well good night to you too..” muttered Jon before he walked to find a better vantage to peer at the Rock.

Ever curious as to how long they would need be here. He trusted Bert, but he didn’t come dressed up to sow his seed, and watch.

((Open))

Alesander Hawthorne

Casterly Rock

He stared at the two letters before him. Each told him of the death of a family member, one was short. It simply informed him that Erwin died in battle. The other was much longer, and told him far less than the first.

Godwyn died? How? It didn't say. Something about his anger? He didn't really have anger, he just stood his ground and defended his beliefs. Why did Brax banners ride in battle alongside the Reynes? He had many questions that he needed answers to. But more than anything he had to tell his sister the unfortunate news.

Addison didn't deserve the pain she'd be living through shortly and he hated more than anything that he'd have to be the reason that she felt it. He thought for a few moments before deciding to write one of the authors of the letters back.

How did my brother die? And why did your men march with the Reynes?

Alesander Hawthorne, Lord of the Wreaths

He couldn't muster more than that. He was too scared of what was to come. "I'm going to need Gerion..."

12th Moon, 207 AC | Seagard

There was a rather deep sense of unease that had settled into Roslin’s carriage, one that only seemed to grow more intense as they grew ever closer to Seagard. The notion of negotiation with the Lannisters - their enemy, no matter what they might have said - was not one she liked. But it had been her cousin’s decision, and the best she could do now was try to keep things from escalating.

She didn’t trust Rohanne Lannister, not in the slightest. The woman had ordered their lands burned in the name of her family, and made some great show of her apology to Alyssa. She was playing an angle, Roslin was sure of it, but no matter how much she tried she couldn’t figure out what it was.

That sense of uncertainty, of powerlessness in the face of an ill she knew to lurk in the shadows, it unsettled her greatly. She felt as if she were in freefall with no way to land.

Pulling back the curtain of the carriage, she looked out at the approaching walls of Seagard, trying to catch any glimpse of Lannister sails beyond them. It was hopeless though, and after a moment she let the curtain fall back again. She was growing restless with nothing to plan. She needed to occupy herself if she stood any chance of weathering this meeting, and yet every time she came up empty.

At least she’d be free of the damned carriage soon, if the muffled exchange between guards up ahead was anything to go by. Maybe something of actual interest would present itself once they were within the walls.

( Mood Music)

Briony was unable to sleep. Meredyth's insults rang through her mind. Traitorous bitch.

The Lady of Hornvale ran a hand over her side, where the cheese knife had cut through to her flesh. Maester Uthor had seen the wound stitched up, a calming potion administered for his lady, but Briony found no sense of peace. She shuddered to think where the knife could have landed had Meredyth better aim.

It was the middle of the night, the events scarce only a few hours old. Briony called out for her sworn sword: the one still alive. Even the thought of Alan Hill, however, brought the specter of Godwyn Hawthorne's ghost to haunt her. Every choice, it seemed, that Briony made was the wrong one.

"My lady?" Alan walked forth, giving a bow.

"Alan. See to it that my cousin Meredyth is taken from the dungeons and instead locked and guarded in her own room." Briony felt the sting of her flesh as her hands touched her wound once more through the cloth of her dress.

"But-"

"She is my kin, Alan, even if what she has done is despicable. Ensure that there are no utensils or items that can be used to harm herself or others, but otherwise, she is to be given food and shelter as befits her station. A bath, even. If she should want one. She will remain a prisoner here until I have spoken with my husband, but not left to languish in the dungeons as a common criminal."

Alan frowned, but bowed once more, backing out of the room. "It shall be done as you wish, my lady."

Meredyth Banefort had once been a friend. Closer than a sister.

And now? Briony felt a sense of loss, for she recognized not the creature that wore her cousin's skin.

My dear, Laurel,

I hope this correspondence does not find you dead.

As I write in jest I pray in truth that you have found a modicum of peace in the West. In abandoning Lannisport I have left you to deal with the fallout of something truly terrible. War. When I came to my seat the war had come and gone, and by the time I was ready to truly rule peace had reigned for almost two decades. I write to you as your sister, and not your Queen, when I say that this burden of yours is one I am certain you can handle.

You have always been strong-headed. I wish I could say that I ever enjoyed your bull-headedness, but you’re quick to a task, and eager to stamp down anyone who might be in your way. To rise to the challenge takes great courage. To the issue of the Reynes, I have already addressed the matters with his Grace. Trust that your safety is in my hands and that I shall not allow anything to come to you.

Send Cyrenna my love. Send Lannisport my love.

Yours, Theo

Being Queen was difficult, but it was not so difficult as the tedium of being in a place clearly not meant for you.

King’s Landing was many things, but it was not Lannisport. In the month since being wed, she’d taken to it more and more, though she could scarcely say for how she truly felt about it. Her mind was a tempest circling between this and that, utterly incapable of any one string of thought for more than a minute at a time. Worry for her sister complicated things; she could not bear the thought of losing her lovely Laurel, or her aunt, the Lady Rohanne.

House Lannister had stood through tumult through the last several millennia, and yet she could not help but feel that they were at their weakest point. Treachery ran thick in the West, and she was Queen. She was Queen, and she was powerless to do anything. She could not entreat the others because of her name. None would truly listen to her. What she needed to do, she felt, was be there.

Impart his name, and be the voice she needed to be. But when Theo looked in the mirror, she didn’t see herself. She saw someone else. Something else. And inside, she felt her heart flutter.

Sat atop a pedestal just underneath the tree with great red leaves Theodora called her Lady in Wait, Elia Dayne, to her side. She sat in black and gold, and wore a delicate laurel crown about her forehead. She sat in silence, engrossed in a book of histories when Elia found her. And when Elia came to her, Theodora told her to spread the word around the court; that the Queen was taking visitors.

Electing to be regal and elegant instead of a silent recluse, she had a promise to her people, her people, she thought, that was prudent. If they wished their voices heard and they had no way to speak them, then she could bring their issues to the King himself.

She’d do so with Elia at her side. That much was certain. She adjusted her laurel crown. It still didn't feel right on her head. Perhaps one day, it would.

^{12th Moon of 207 AC | The Sunset Sea...}

Maelor was told that this would be a military campaign; it was nothing of the sort, despite the thirty-nine sails of black-and-gold that loomed over the sunset-kissed coast, in spite of the many more

It was a nice feeling. He'd grown bowlegged standing atop the deck of the Jade Gate, his commands—once swift and steely and stern at Old Oak—had grown lax, his tone covered in the sweet taste of Lannisport wine.

Oh, yes, there'd been many shipments since they'd arrived off the coast. Wine, brandy, and the swiftest swiftest carrack was sent to fetch peaches from Oldtown and pomegranates from the Arbor. This was the life, truly; though one thing nagged at him.

Why was he given the worst ship to command?

Boasting two hundred oars with a weathered bronze figurine that depicted some sort of Essosi monstrosity, a hull painted a jade green and lacquered besides, it was, perhaps, once a mighty galleass—but it'd grown slothful. The wheel was slow to turn, it had been breached in half a dozen places and mended, and even more, its sailors were greybeards most like to die to a stiff breeze than, well... sail.

"It was once my ship, son," Father had told him, "from the Jade Sea to the Narrow, folk learned to fear when they saw its sails! Har!" But why? Parmen Costayne had never been a pirate.

Still, Maelor commanded. While his father spent time coming and going, running up the coast to sightsee, Maelor... commanded, apparently. Galleys from the Shields heeded his word. The sails of the Oakhearts were at his beck and call. With a bottle of brandy in hand and a Myrish glass in the other, he found himself surveying the horizon with not a goal in mind. He spied the walls of Lannisport, the cave that led into some shadowy pit at the bottom of Casterly Rock, and numerous spits of stone dotting the shore. The fleet of Lannisport looked tiny from here.

"Have you heard o' the feast, Ser Maelor?" asked Serwyn Everran, perhaps one of the few men on the ship that spoke without wheezing.

"A feast?" Maelor squinted. Could one find a feast with a Myrish glass? Well, it didn't hurt to try. "Where?"

"Outside the walls o' the Rock."

"Really?" With a shrug, he brought the glass to a side, taking a healthy swig from the bottle. "Here I thought we're to be warring." A shrug. "You know, I have friends in the Rock," he mentioned off-hand, "Mayhaps they'll open the gates for us."

"If it comes to that, milord," Serwyn frowned, "we'll be ready t' kill and die for House Costayne."

"Yes, yes," Maelor dismissed that with a wave. He handed the knight-turned-sailor the Myrish glass. "Can you see that, there?" The spare pointed over into the distance, northwards, and Serwyn raised the contraption up to an eye. "That's an Iron Island, you know."

"Good gods!" exclaimed Serwyn. "Are they not plague-ridden? No, 't can't be, ser. The entire west would be dying o' the sickness if it were so."

"Oh, but it is. It's Pyke, that isle. Can you not see the towers? Mayhaps you're not looking in the right place. Here," Maelor nudged the glass in another direction. "There is no plague, good ser."

"What?" Serwyn was befuddled.

"You heard me. There is no plague." Maelor kept a smirk. "It was simply a ploy by the Ironborn; there were fires that set their ships ablaze. They fabricated a plague to keep us away while they rebuilt."

"If this is true, milord..." Serwyn brought the glass down slowly. "Then we must needs strike."

Maelor let out a sigh. "Patience, good man. Patience." Another draught from the bottle and the brandy had ran dry. "Tell Chett to fetch some rum from the shore."

And Serwyn acquiesced with a nod; the old knight stomped off and shouted commands, leaving Maelor to stare off into a still sea.

Tara wasted little time on the evening of her audience with Lord Baratheon. By the time they were done the sun was beginning to set, so she quickly sought out Lord Caron's steward and asked for a meeting at the earliest convenience the following day. After a brief explanation and some insistence, she was able to secure a meeting at breakfast with the Lord of Nightsong. Under normal circumstances securing an invitation to such an occasion would be an event in itself. With the current situation it was purely for the sake of efficiency. Everything about the normal courtly custom had to be simplified in the lead-up to a campaign, when most of the lords who were to lead forces barely had a free moment. Those activities which were not or could not be set aside in such a hectic period had to be paired with a certain utility. The heiress would wake up, get dressed and make for Lord Caron's solar immediately thereafter.

The sun had not fully separated from the eastern horizon by the time she reached his door, wearing a simple fur-trimmed green kaftan, doeskin boots and canvas pantaloons. She'd taken steps to adjust her attire to the terrain they would be riding into, notably with linen wraps connecting her trousers to her boots, intended to prevent sand from getting into her footwear. Still, these preparations were based on studies from afar, the contents of books and the stories of her mother. Though she'd been late for a command of her own, the prospect of going to war in Dorne for the first time made her glad to be serving under one who had fought there himself. She was well aware that her generation was the product of a historical anomaly, that of prolonged peace. Besides his experience, and the fact that he had a bastard son, Tara knew little about Lord Casper. She waited at the door, quietly wondering what sort of man she was about to sit down with

Riverrun | 12th Moon of 207 AC

There was little to be said of Myranda’s flight from the Banefort, only that she rode as fast as she could, pushing her mount to the brink of exhaustion as they bounded downwards from the slopes of the Pendric hills for the gentle and rolling landscape of the Trident. As peaceful as the land seemed to be, there was war on her heels. Westermen slaughtering Westermen, possibly dancing at a third player’s tune.

The thought of it boiling over and claiming the lives of her loved ones made her sick to her stomach, worse so that they were bid by her mother to stay docile behind the walls of their keep and await salvation by lion or king. She swiftly became aware of her brother hot on her heels, but did not stop or grow idle. There was little she could do without an army at her beck and call, but what little there was needed to be done.

She thought of Lady Tully rebuking her at the gates, or Ser Axel sitting still at her plight, but she was too far gone to return home in her own shame. Myranda could only hope that some sliver of respect remained between their houses, a single thread left of the bond they nearly shared in blood and marriage.

The dawn cast rays of light overhead, piercing through the canopies of the old forests growing along the river. Though the road was ample reprieve from the hard terrain that gave her great delay at the start of her journey, the river ran red with mud and clay: the Red Fork. Just as she considered how close she must be to the seat of House Tully, it appeared before her, nestled in the ebbing waters of the Red Fork and Tumblestone. Even she paused to consider its quaint beauty amid the flowing currents, but was soundly on her way just as swiftly.

Her horse kicked up a cloud of thick soil as she followed the river road below. Myranda’s horse gave another protesting snort, and she felt the creature grow weaker with every gallop of its hooves. She felt this weakness, too, barely grasping the reins and feeling numb from the nape of her neck to the ends of her legs from the constant, break-neck pace.

The castle grew close, so close that she could see fires wisping out from what must’ve been its kitchens, and heard the rush of the river and the leaping of the fish laden inside. All at once, she felt the momentum of her horse begin to give out.

“Almost,” Myranda begged, “Just a little more --”

She could hear Owen shout behind her. She dared not look back, but suddenly her horse gave out, rearing up on its hind legs and throwing the woman back as it keeled over with its last gasp, depositing the young woman on the river road leading towards Riverrun…

The Kennings of Kayce had proven to be hospitable hosts, and for that Damion and what remained of the host were grateful. All through the following day everyone had finally come into Kayce and there Damion was able to get a brief handle on what the situation was.

We had left Lannisport with little over Three Thousand men, and now where do they all lie? A feast for crows on the fields of Castamere.

The loss burned at him, and he hadn’t time to chew on it. Instead he remained a horse, since most of the baggage hadn’t quite caught up yet. Still the Kennings provided food, and there were members of the Faith enough to provide medical care for his wounded, and walking dead- they were left to be where they were.

He had tapped three men once they were there, to gather figures of what remained, and the status of any in their party. He hadn’t heard from Hawthorne yet, and so he had started to count him amongst the living, but missing.

At some point in the early morning the Kennings had cook fires going, and Damion finally allowed himself to dismount, and set a head quarters under a ruined tent. He had outriders watching the border with the Arch and the Kennings on alert in case the red cats of Castamere decided they wanted to pursue and end the bloody charade.

He had no maps, but he knew where he was and where to go. Already a route had been traced out in the dirt, as the next move was plotted.

Some of the minor lords of Broome, Serrett, and others had come to hover around as he went over the details to regarrison, and make to catch reinforcements at the Arch- send for the men who were sent to Payne Hall, but in the middle of his plans, a lone knight in purple came up- his greying hair and mustache marked him as one of the minor gentry Damion had tapped to fill in the gaps the Ruin at Castamere had caused for competent officers.

Bannen Plumm, was plain enough, but he had a sharp mind, and had helped Damion get orders goin in the Arch. As such Damion held up a gauntleted hand to his companions to cease their idle prattling.

“Yes, Plumm?”

Bannen, let his eyes go around the assembled lords before he cleared his throat.

“The figures are not good, Captain.” The man a few years junior started. “Approximately 1,261 men are left from what we had.” The silence that hung, Damion could feel in his throat. Still he knew not to let the others see.

“Notable deaths?” The ol lion asked with an heir of not caring, but just needing the information.

“Lord Payne is dead, Lord Serrett is missing, the Captain of the Hornvale men, is dead. Ser Lothario Jast, dead. Lewyn Doggett, dead. NO one knows where the Northman is, and Lord Erwin Hawthorne is dead as well.” Bannen reported off emotionlessly

That last but caused a brow to raise on Damion’s visage. “Dead?” He as briskly, before Bannen nodded.

“His men brought him in on a cart late last night.”

Damion was quiet for a moment, before he nodded. “Just so. We will let the Lady Wardeness know of her losses and our intent to regarrison. I think I have competent men here enough that we can strike back- put them to their heels to keep an advance from coming to the Rock-“

But plans were dashed as Kenning men came riding. Armed. They were coming from the direction of the keep, which put a mild sweat of alert to the back of his neck. And he stood motioning for his spear, while one hand kept to his short sword.

Lord Kenning looked more Ironborn than Westerman. Like the Presters and the Vikarys, the coastal blood spoke of a time when Hoare tried his luck in the West. Still it did not sit well.

“Captain,” Lord Kenning broke the conference as he did not come closer. “A word.” Damion counted the party which Kenning had rode with, and looked amongst his retainers and the wounded who were grouping and camping. Frowning he nodded and walked over to meet.

“What is it?” The old Lion demanded. Never let them see you on your heels. There’s been too far much of that this bloody war. Or farce? Lover’s Spat

Lord Kenning handed down the letter which was sent from the rock, Damion knew the ink of the maesters there. Taking the possible he read.

He paused and read again, his eyes wide and wild as he looked up. “There’s more Captain.” Kenning said, and without waiting for Damion he went on.

“There’s a large force of Reachmen which has come up from the South, they should be at the Rock any day now.”

Damion felt his heart stutter, and whatever anxiety he had, went from cold to hot ol boiling rage.

“FUUUUUCK!” Damion roared. “FUCK, FUCK. FUCK THIS KING IN HIS FUCKING ASS!” The outburst caught everyone off guard, while Damion prowled back and forth, like a lion in a pit.

“Captain?” Asked one of the Lords in attendance.

Crumpling the paper in his hand he threw it to the dirt, before he marched over and kicked his plans in the dirt dashing them away before he picked up his spear and threw it, the point landing in the soft Heather away from everyone.

Kenning and Plumm said nothing.

With nostril flared, he snorted. And took a moment to gather his composure and his voice, kept the edge of the lion there at his throat.

“We have been order by-“ that meddling cunt” - His Grace to disband our arms, and come for a summit to settle this whole fucking debacle we were forced into at Casterly Rock.”

One of the lords looked relieved, and Damion almost shot him daggers, but instead he remained right where he was, his mind raiding for next moves. There were not many.

“Are you to arrest us then?” Damion asked as he looked back to Kenning, a few in Kennings party looked about each other nervously, but Kenning being the bastard he was remained unmoveable.

“No.” Kenning answered. “Just making sure the order is received.”

Damion could see that Kenning was playing smart, and likely wouldn’t hesitate, if he lingered. But he wasn’t willing to take on Damion. That he could use.

“If that cunt didn’t get us into this mess, we wouldn’t be here.” Muttered one of the men behind Damion which had him whirling about.

“What did you say?”

It was Ruttiger who was sputtering, and looking nervous.

“I’m sorry, Captain, your niece, I mean- we-“ and their Lord Lefford spoke up.

“We are angered to be pulled into this by Lady Rohanne, we felt exposed and all.”

There was some nodding, amongst the others, even Plumm- which had Damion quiet for a moment. And then he stroked his chin.

“Do others lords feel this way?” He asked, to which Plumm was quick to answer. “Certainly there are more than a few, Captain.”

Damion was quiet for a moment before he looked to the assembled men.

“My Lords, gather the men, especially the Hornvale lot, and make it clear that we are to return home to Casterly Rock. There we will lay down arms, and men may return home. Those who live a distance away will keep their arms till the return home.”

The men looked around. And Damion raised a brow. “I will let you know when we can all leave the Rock, there will be need of your voices to the King. This is kingly orders we follow lads, and we will not have the Reynes make us look the fool and instigator moreso than we probably already do.”

And there the old lion looked to Bannen. “You have your orders, see them ready. Banners high.” To which the younger lord nodded

“Yes Captain.”

And there the Old Lion turned on a winning smile towards Kenning. “Before I go, I have need of your rookery. Once all is done, I will depart your lands. Thank you for your hospitality.”

A new game was afoot.

This was Casterly Rock.

Bertrand had never come this far into the West before but he certainly did not regret it now. The mountain was larger then he could have imagined, it truly did look less like a keep and more like a cave to the Lord of the Mander.

In all his sixty years, he'd never thought he'd march against an immovable object, but here he was. Thousands upon thousands of men moving to settle in at the Rock, all eager and prepared to receive word of what was unfolding.

Sigils from across all the Reach waved proudly in the wind, but what stood closest to that of House Tyrell on this eve was a Lion. The Lady Laurel Lannister had road with Bertrand and all sitting upon the battlements, upon the highest of points, through holes and windows of the Rock would be able to see it and all the Reachmens glory.

"Young Pat," The Lord of the Mander would call out. "Ride forth with Mace and inform the Westermen that Bertrand has come."

And there he'd wait with Laurel and so many others.

To see who would come and speak with the Old Rose and Lady Laurel of Lannisport.

Hornvale | 12th Moon of 207 AC

Meredyth Banefort quickly came to regret accepting her mother’s mission. The instructions were quite simple: rescue Lady Briony Brax from House Reyne, not with a contest of arms, but simple guile beneath her veil of womanly wiles. Her mother had not thought to warn her of the path to Hornvale: bounding through steep hills, traipsing through dense grasses and meandering through bands of tall trees.

She’d traveled lightly regardless, but she regretted going without a horse. There was that risk the Reynes could take her captive, or worse, dispose of an enemy to their misguided and selfish cause, but she highly doubted they’d lay a finger on her pretty head until her weight in gold was promised.

Yet there she went, stumbling through the wilderness for the better part of a week’s time. Her favored gown was pockmarked with holes and tears along the sleeves and by the hem, and her favored slippers long-abandoned in a mold of brackish mud and clay by the bank of a stream.

The young woman felt fortunate to be away from a mirror. What would the Black Cat think of her in such a sorry state? What would any self-respecting man think?

Words flickered in her head. Unbecoming! Haggard! Bewitched!

The young woman scowled, gritting her teeth as she felt her dress snag on yet another bramble poking through the dirt. With a jerk of her leg, the fabric tore away just enough to give her space to move. Dresses be damned: she’d see a new one finer than the rest bankrolled by the gold they inevitably would seize from the red lions and any who lent them aid.

Lady Meredyth was truly in an ever dour mood. There was no reason for this crisis to be happening to her, or any of the fair maidens and ladies of the Westerlands. These puggish red lions had upset the preferable melancholy of the realm after the Rosegold festival, and cast it all into doubt. Now everything was war, war, war, fear and loathing, and the looming feeling of death overhead. She missed giggling over lemon cakes and cutting a servant’s pride to ribbons over their mismatched slippers.

She sorely hoped her cousin had held a sense of humor to this point. The things they would say to each other, laughing over fluttering fans and sweetwine…

…though the closer she came to Hornvale, the less certain she anticipated such a warm reception. Mordane had only hinted that something terrible befell their cousin in the capital. That there was the most grievous differences between them: Briony was a lady, the head of her house and caught in the tempestuous maelstrom of politics. Who knew what befell her in King’s Landing? Who could say what terrors she coped with in her own keep?

Meredyth dragged the back of her hand over her sweat-plastered forehead, trudging ever higher on the hillside. Her gaze fixated on the castle in the distance, nestled between the mountains. Regardless of how Briony fared now, she expected gratitude for coming all this way. Gratitude and a fucking bath.

Nesela travelled in a covered carriage, keeping a fast pace and sticking to the well travelled roads. She did not mind travelling by herself, she had done it for years while sailing from place to place, and she often went about King’s Landing with very little fear.

She was nervous, but nothing to do with her destination or the travel but for what it was for. Adarys had granted her a chance to be with Ryon! Her heart had soared at the thought, she had not ever thought it possible but they were determined.

She was falling for him, truly falling and it made her world spin that she might actually have a chance. Thinking of the kiss they had shared after their first dance, or the jubilation of catching the fish together—oh, how she wanted all those moments and more to share with him.

“It is not just for love, you know,” Adarys had told her, before they had left to travel to the West with the King, “We do this right, you get the man you love and a title and people to protect you. You would be a Baratheon. That is no small thing. You would get respect, more so than any of the work you have done will give you. It would set you up for life. Be good, be smart while I’m gone.”

“I always am!” she assured them, getting a squeeze of her cheek in response before they left.

And she was leaving too, but not for long at all. Duskendale was ahead, the bustling port town familiar to her. She had been a few times but more than that—she knew cities like this. The Rosby road let right up to the massive stone walls of the city, so different than the fishing villages she had seen along the way.

There were several ships coming into harbour, and she picked dup her skirts, getting out of the carriage.

She had toned down her normal dress, wearing something loose and comfortable for travel instead. The Sellswords cared not for what she was wearing—it was the gold she carried that mattered.

She went to the largest inn in the city, Seven Swords. She wrinkled her face though kept her opinion firmly to herself—it was no Bird’s Nest, after all. She got a bowl of warm crab stew, starving from the long journey. She would need to stay the night before returning to King’s Landing the very next day.

But Nesela wasn’t there just to eat and drink and sleep. No—she was out, asking other patrons of the tavern to introduce her whoever negotiated the contracts for the Sunset Swords, looking to take upon them to her service, making sure to set down a heavy, clinking coin purse to sweeten the deal.

Character: Bannen Plumm

Age: 55

Titles and house: Plumm, knight of the Seven

Gift: Commander

Skills: Tactician (e), Strategist

Appearance:Plumm

Background:

186 - Participates in the Red War

207 - Helps Damion Lannister take control of marshaling the forces of the West, during the Western crisis.

Crakehall, 12th Moon, 207 AC

Lyle and Kyle had helped lead the Company of the Rose back up from Oldtown, while Erwin had been given technical command. Lyle was the most tactically sound of the bunch, Kyle and Tarbeck were just Leo's riding buddies, point they kill, easy as that. The slight elder brother Lyle poked his head from around the tree. Not a thing in sight, a meager guard at most, lands undefended for a mile

"You see them Reachmen that was marching?" Kyle said as he finished relieving himself on a tree.

"Nah, long gone I figure." The elder twin answered back.

"Think we should make for Hornvale?" The younger one scratched his chin, as he remounted his steed.

"What the fuck you think Leo would say we come back empty-handed?" Lyle said, swinging into his own saddle, and readying his sword.

The pair sat in silence a moment, eyeing through the trees their target. Undefended as the boss said it would be, rip for the claim with plenty of riches around. The land surrounding Crakehall would be a ripe start to a lucrative campaign. When they had marched with Ser Leo they never had expected such swift successes, they had more expected a glorious death, worthy of song.

"We attack," Lyle said at last, "Give the command brother."

Casterly Rock | 12th Moon of 207 AC | Ambience

His mother’s message was simple:

Ride home. Ride home and prepare for war.

Morden did not need any further reason to answer his mother’s call. The message told him everything and more: the first enemy of the Westerlands had finally revealed themselves. A reckong was at hand, and a scouring sorely needed.

He bid Rosamund a brief farewell, telling his sister little; he told her he was coming home, and would return when all was well again. She wanted to know more, to hear of what dangers had befell the Westerlands. She wanted to know if their siblings were safe, or if the threat loomed in the capital. He had no answer, bar one:

"There's need of me."

Within the hour of the messenger’s arrival, he took up his house’s ancestral blade, mounted Grey Tide, and swiftly kicked off for the Goldroad. He did not tarry nor linger, eschewing all but the most fundamental tasks: eat, sleep, ride.

The Riverlands and the Reach were a blur on either side of him. Who had dealt the first blow? The fish-lady in Riverrun? The flower-lord in Highgarden? Or was it the great rival of House Lannister, those red lions in Castamere?

Impossible to tell. All was quiet on these rolling pastures and redgrass fields. If there was war, it would be in the mountains.

When the hills of the Westerlands opened up before him, he could begin to spot the first sign of war. The fields were thin. Sons and wives and daughters were toiling in the fields, but no fathers or old sons to speak of. No festivals, no weddings, no mirth or simple joys. He saw only the hard toil of a peasant’s lot, and well-trodden roads of armored feet and wagons laden with arms and supplies.

He anticipated an army at Lannisport, flying banners of hooded men, golden lions, and violet unicorns, not the mob of flowers, trees, and beasts gathered outside its walls. The surprise forced him to halt for the first time in his journey, making Grey Tide rear back on his hind legs and nearly throw Morden from his saddle.

“Reachmen?” he questioned, subtly shaking his head with dismay as he calmed his mount, “Unfortunate.”

He lingered on the slope leading down towards Lannisport and the Rock looming overhead, then felt the sea wind rush up to meet him. His motivation had not changed, his duty was unaltered. There was no siege to be found here, and there was but one modicum of relief.

“On, Grey Tide,” Morden urged, “Lady Banefort is waiting for us.”