Book 1, Act 1 - Gold and Wine

Iron Raven moved swiftly under the warm summer sun, the Sunset Sea glimmering all around it, and its waves gently splashing against the hull. It was the flagship of King Harmund Hoare, second of his name, and it had been on the sea for over a week now, along with the other two Hoare ships sailing with it. And now finally they approached the imposing Casterly Rock of the Lannisters, and the wealthy city of Lannisport by its feet.

Looking at the magnificent seat of the Lannisters, which raised well over thousand feet above the sea, Gwynesse Goodbrother couldn't help but be amazed. The ringfort on top of the colossal rock was by itself almost the size of Hammerhorn, but for the massive body of Casterly Rock it was just the crown on the lion's head. No doubt thousands of Ironborn had looked at this same view throughout the past centuries, sharpening their axes as they prepared to unleash their might on the golden city. However, King Harmund the Haggler had not sailed here to raid or wage war, he had been invited by his father-in-law, Lancel the Fifth, King of the Rock.

Gwynesse glanced at Prince Harmund the Handsome, who was standing beside her at the prow of Iron Raven, but the heir to the Iron Islands didn't look to be nearly as awe-struck by the sight as she was. Of course, the prince had seen Casterly Rock several times before, visiting his mother's family. And what came to Queen Lelia and King Harmund, they had both grown up here, so for them the sight was so familiar they hadn't even bothered coming out of their cabin yet.

Instead of going to the harbor of Lannisport the Hoare ships sailed straight towards the Rock, and the caverns underneath it. "It's bigger than I imagined," Gwynesse finally managed to utter, and Prince Harmund flashed her a charming smirk. Being only a year younger Gwynesse had known the prince throughout her childhood and youth, having often visited the Hoare Castle with his lord father Garrison Goodbrother. However, this nine-day sail from Great Wyk to Casterly Rock had been the longest and most intimate time she had spent with the prince, and she truly felt they had grown closer as friends than ever before. Gwynesse knew quite well that her father had sent her on this journey in hopes of the prince falling for her, but she still saw that as a very unlikely scenario. Sure, she didn’t consider herself ugly, but Harmund was exceptional when it came to looks, which had earned him the moniker of ‘the Handsome’. Be that as it may, Lord Garrison was eager to see his only daughter as the Queen of the Iron Islands, and while Gwynesse wouldn't object, she had a feeling that the prince wouldn’t be so easily charmed.

Harmund the Handsome was a very unusual Ironborn. He didn't seem to particularly enjoy the sea, he had been raised by his mother to worship the Seven Gods, and not once had Gwynesse heard him talk about the glory of raiding. No, Harmund preferred to talk about the great knights of the green lands, warriors that saved the maidens instead of stealing them. Even if the prince did have the black hair and dark eyes of his father, there was something undeniably Lannister about him – the way he spoke, the way he dressed, and the way he combed his hair and kept his face cleanshaven. Nonetheless, Gwynesse found Prince Harmund to be a good man, and certainly worthy of her respect.

Soon the Hoare ships creeped inside the caverns under Casterly Rock, and finally the King and Queen came out of their cabin. The cavern was larger enough to fit a castle in it, and its docks and wharves were illuminated by dozens of brightly burning torches. The longships looked especially strong and imposing here, surrounded by small merchant cogs.

As they climbed out of their ships and onto the docks, the Hoares were welcomed by a crowd of noblemen, their silk and velvet clothes adorned by golden lions. Leading them was a tall blonde man around the same age as King Harmund, that being early fifties.

"Harmund!" The man greeted the Ironborn king with a cheerful tone, embracing into a brotherly hug with him, before turning to Queen Lelia. "And my sweet sister, it is so good to see both of you again! Not to forget my handsome nephew," he added with a grin, now looking at Prince Harmund.

"It's great to be back, Tymond," King Harmund replied with an earnest tone on his deep voice. "How's the old man?" He asked with a relaxed tone, to which Tymond Lannister let out a sigh. "You know Lancel," he said with a repressed chuckle. "There's always some grand plan in his mind."

"I'm assuming that's why he called for us," Queen Lelia joined the conversation with her warm and motherly voice. "You would be correct, sister," Tymond replied calmly, tensing up slightly. "I think it would be best if he explains it himself... as for now I know almost as little as you."

"Well then, we better go meet him," King Harmund said with a carefree tone, and Tymond nodded to him. Gwynesse followed from behind as they began to make their way up the winding stairway carved into the rock.

“Gwyn,” she heard a raspy voice of an older male behind her and turned to see Captain Garse Goodbrother approaching her. Though they shared family name, they weren’t directly related, as Garse hailed from the cadet branch of Corpse Lake. He was the younger brother of Lord Gilbert Goodbrother, a man known for little more than his endless lust and gluttony. Garse however was a true warrior and a man of the sea, having raided the coasts of Reach and North throughout his life.

“What is it?” Gwynesse asked quietly, trying to avoid gaining the attention of the Lannister noblemen around them. “There was something I wanted to ask, figured this was a good time,” Garse responded, a slight smirk on his scarred face as he glanced towards the Hoares and Lannisters walking ahead of them. “I saw you with the prince earlier. That’s why your father sent you, to woo him, isn’t it?” he asked with a whisper, and Gwynesse gave him a wordless nod. For a moment Garse remained silent, a pensive expression on his face.

“You’ll do as you will, Gwyn,” he finally spoke up quietly, looking her to the eyes. “However, if you want to marry a true Ironborn, Gilbert’s firstborn is still unmarried.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Gwynesse replied dryly, turning her eyes away from Garse. In truth she knew enough about Erik Goodbrother to be certain she would never marry that man. Though not as bad as his father, he had a reputation as a violent and arrogant man.

Finally the stairs ended, and after walking through a short corridor they arrived to a large hall with gilded walls and massive red marble pillars, their girth at least three fathoms. At the western end of the hall there were four tall windows bringing in the light of the sun, as well as a large archway leading into a garden. Inside the hall the many treasures of House Lannister were in display, ranging from simple golden ornaments to statues thrice the size of Gwynesse.

“Welcome to the Golden Gallery,” Prince Tymond Lannister spoke to the Ironborn guests, a thin smile on his face. “This is a collection of the many treasures gathered and crafted in Casterly Rock since the age of the First Men. Feel free to look around while we wait for His Grace.”

With a bored expression Gwynesse approached a golden sculpture of a lion, large rubies embedded as its eyes. She touched its golden mane lightly, feeling the cold surface under her fingertips. I wonder how much some fat magister beyond the Narrow Sea would pay for this, she thought with a smirk forming on her face. Suddenly from the corner of her eye she spotted Prince Harmund stepping next to her.

“Like it?” the prince asked smoothly, and with a subtle gulp Gwynesse moved her hand away from the sculpture. “I was just wondering how valuable it is,” she replied with a shy grin, to which Harmund reacted with a soft chuckle. “The Golden Gallery is impressive, but I think I can show you an even better view,” he said, a playful smirk on his face. “Is that so?” Gwynesse asked with a raised eyebrow, and the prince nodded. “Follow me,” he simply said, turning to head towards the archway at the western end of the hall. Quietly Gwynesse walked after him, and through the archway they entered a small garden at the side of the Rock.

Harmund led them through the stony pathway past the peaches and finely trimmed shrubs, all the way to the stone railing at the very edge. From there opened a view to the wide Sunset Sea glimmering beneath them, continuing as far to the west as the eye could see before disappearing into the horizon. The ships sailing down there looked so small that they could fit between your fingers. It was a magnificent view indeed, though somewhat overshadowed for Gwynesse by the uneasy feeling in her stomach she got from just looking down. They had to be at least seven hundred feet above the water, and they weren’t even half way to the top of the Rock.

“So, what’s your impression on Casterly Rock?” Harmund asked calmly, a friendly smile on his face. Gwynesse considered her answer for a moment, letting her gaze travel through the horizon. “It’s all so… grand, and shiny,” she finally said, her tone half admiring and half wary. She had to admit that there was something regal and powerful in just the sheer size of this place, but it wasn’t a place she would ever feel comfortable calling home. There was just too much gold and silk, and not enough dirt and rust.

Harmund told her about the first time he had seen Casterly Rock as a child, a dreamy look in his eyes as he described how amazed he had been in that moment. It was quite clear he much preferred this place to his home at Hoare Castle, not to even mention any other castle on the Iron Isles. They chatted a while about their childhood memories, and while the prince did most of the talking Gwynesse managed to share with him a story about her and her younger brother Gabrin getting lost at the woods near Hammerhorn when they were under ten years old. The story seemed to greatly amuse Harmund, and he remarked that getting lost in the woods was something that rarely happened on the Iron Isles, given that most of its forests had been cut down for timber centuries ago. It was the reason why they were so desperately clinging on to their hold on Cape Kraken, despite the constant conflicts it caused with the Northmen.

Time flew quickly as Gwynesse and Harmund laughed and told their stories to each other, and soon they were approached by another Lannister, this one being about the same age as they were. “Prince Harmund,” he greeted the Hoare prince with a bright smile on his finely formed and clean-shaven face, his long golden hair combed behind his head.

“Prince Tywell,” Harmund responded politely, the smile on his face telling that he considered the man his friend. “Gwynesse, this is Tywell Lannister, grandson of King Lancel. Tywell, this is Gwynesse Goodbrother, daughter of Lord Garrison Goodbrother,” he introduced them to each other, and the Lannister prince gave him a small bow, to which she a bit clumsily responded with a curtsy.

“It is an honor to meet you, mylady,” Tywell spoke with a formal tone, and Gwynesse smiled hesitantly. She had had some basic training of course, but court etiquette wasn’t something one had to pay much mind to on the Iron Isles. “The honor is all mine,” she managed to mumble, and Tywell reacted with what looked like a sincere smile.

“Anyway, grandfather already welcomed the guests while you two were here,” he said with a small sigh, turning his eyes back to Harmund who just shrugged lazily. “I’m sure we didn’t miss anything important,” he responded calmly.

“Well, you did miss the invitation to the dinner,” Tywell spoke, furrowing his eyebrows slightly. “And considering that Lancel plans to reveal his plans on that dinner, I’d say it is quite important.”

“Then I’ll be there,” Harmund said with a nonchalant tone. Tywell merely nodded with a sigh, before glancing at Gwynesse. “And will Lady Gwynesse accompany you?” he asked curiously. Not knowing what to say or how to react, Gwynesse simply turned her eyes to Harmund, and for a couple seconds they just looked at each other. “I don’t know,” Harmund finally spoke, his words quiet and sharp. “Would you like to?” he then asked.

Gwynesse turned her gaze down for a moment, before raising it up again and confidently speaking up. “Yes, I would. If it pleases you, my prince,” she said, seeing Harmund’s lips immediately forming a warm smile. “It does,” he said softly.

Gwynesse and the rest of the Ironborn entourage were given quarters a few floors above the Golden Gallery, on a long corridor by the southern side of the Rock. The chambers given to Gwynesse herself were fairly small but comfortable, having even a window with a view towards Lannisport. After taking a bath and changing into a red-and-black velvet dress for the royal dinner she sat down on the bed, and it felt softer than any other bed she had ever slept on. With a sigh she closed her eyes to relax for a moment, but a sudden knock on the door startled her awake. Harmund had promised to escort her to the dinner, but there was still supposed to be at least an hour before it would begin. Nervously Gwynesse stood up and walked to the door, expecting to see the prince as he opened it. However, instead of Harmund there was a young fair-haired girl clad in a simple crimson-colored wool dress.

“Lady Gwynesse,” the girl spoke with a curtsy. “I was sent to prepare you for the dinner,” she explained with a polite tone. Gwynesse looked at the girl doubtingly for a couple seconds, before hesitantly letting her in. “I’ve already bathed and dressed up”, she said sternly.

“Good, then I can go straight to doing your hair, mylady,” the servant girl said, gesturing towards the wooden chair by the table. “Please, take a seat.”

Gwynesse glanced at the loose and messy braid she had made for herself, and with a sigh she sat down. The servant girl put a small mirror on the table in front of her and began to open Gwynesse’s hair. As the girl begun to comb her hair, Gwynesse silently stared at her reflection on the mirror. It wasn’t something she did often, and the longer she looked the more she was bothered by her imperfections. Her brown eyes were slightly too close to each other, her nose was a bit too wide, her eyebrows too thick and her brown hair just too plain and boring. She quickly shook these irritating thoughts out of her mind and decided to instead converse with the servant girl, who had just started to work on an extravagant crown braid on top of Gwynesse’s head. “So, girl, what’s your name?” she asked.

“I’m glad you asked, mylady,” the girl chirped cheerfully, still working on her hair. “I am Brynna Sarsfield, grandniece of the Lord of Sarsfield.”

“Sarsfield… I think I’ve heard of the place before,” Gwynesse said with a disinterested tone, and Brynna nodded enthusiastically. “It is a beautiful castle, just a day’s ride away from Casterly Rock. So, where do you come from, mylady?” she asked with her bubbly tone.

“A place called Hammerhorn,” Gwynesse responded calmly, a subtle smile forming on her face just from thinking about her home. “It is a large and sturdy square castle built on the Hardstone Hills of the Great Wyk,” she explained proudly. “And beneath it are the largest mines in all of the Iron Isles.”

“I’ve heard that slaves work on the mines of the Ironborn,” Brynna interjected, her tone suddenly less cheerful, and the smile faded from Gwynesse’s face. “Thralls,” she corrected calmly. “But also regular smallfolk, mostly them in fact these days.”

“So, things really are changing on the Iron Isles?” Brynna asked shyly. Gwynesse raised her eyebrow, considering her answer for a moment. “Yes, I suppose they are,” she finally said, seeing from the mirror that the extravagant braid on her head was almost ready.

Shortly after the servant girl had finished with her hair and took her leave, Prince Harmund finally arrived. He looked stunning in his dark blue satin garb paired with a golden silk cape. With a charming smile on his face he bowed and offered his hand for Gwynesse. “You look beautiful, mylady,” he complimented her as she took his hand. “Thank you,” she muttered nervously, only now fully realizing that she was about to walk hand in hand to a royal dinner with Prince Harmund the Handsome, in front of his father and her king.

“Is everything alright, Gwyn?” Harmund asked empathically, and she gave him a hesitant nod. “Yes, it’s just… are you sure this is appropriate?” she asked with a nervous chuckle, and a grin formed on Harmund’s face. “If you’re worried about my father’s reaction, don’t be,” he said softly, taking in a deep breath. “He knows we are close friends.”

“And what about the Lannisters?” Gwynesse asked sharply, surprising even herself that she cared about their opinion. “They might… misinterpret.”

“Let them,” Harmund said with a carefree shrug, and Gwynesse gave him a questioning look. “Yes, Gwyn, I’m sure,” he said before she could even ask, letting out a small chuckle. “Now, shall we go before we’re late?” he asked, and Gwynesse nodded, a relieved smile forming on her face.

They walked towards north through a wide corridor and a small hall, up one stairway and towards east through a short corridor, until finally arriving to the dinner hall. It wasn’t a place for great feasts, but rather a more intimate room clearly meant for family dinners. Fire was burning on the fireplace, and dozens of candles were illuminating the room decorated with tapestries and red silken curtains. On the floor were red carpets adorned with golden patterns, no doubt the work of the finest weavers in Lannisport.

At the end of the long table sat King Lancel Lannister, next to him his son and daughter-in-law, as well as their son and daughter. Lancel was an old man, already on his late sixties, but there was still plenty of lion left in him. The gaze in his green eyes was sharp, he was well dressed, and his light grey beard and hair were finely groomed. And of course, on his head was a magnificent golden crown.

At the other end of the table sat King Harmund Hoare, and beside him his wife Queen Lelia. Quietly Prince Harmund took the seat next to his father, and Gwynesse sat down between him and Prince Tywell’s sister. For a couple of seconds an awkward silence followed, and Gwynesse kept her gaze firmly on the surface of the table.

“Well then, it seems everyone is here,” the Lannister king finally spoke up with his authoritative tone, gesturing for the servants to bring in the first course. As the silver plates with onions and boiled quail eggs were carried in front of them, and the wine poured into their glasses, conversations around the table slowly began. King Lancel took a sip of the wine and a bite of the egg, signaling for the rest of them to start dining as well.

“So, I heard you’re the daughter of Lord Goodbrother,” the Lannister princess next to Gwynesse said to her, and she responded with a nod. “Yes, I am Gwynesse Goodbrother,” she introduced herself quietly, making sure her voice wouldn’t be the loudest around the table.

“Lorena Lannister, daughter of Prince Tymond and Princess Alysanne,” the princess responded, nodding towards her parents closer to King Lancel. “Not a Lannister for much longer though, it seems. I’ve recently been betrothed to Lord Reyne’s heir,” Lorena continued, rolling her eyes as she spoke.

“Not your own choice, I take it?” Gwynesse asked with a subtle smirk, and Lorena shook her head in confirmation. “The boy is four years younger than me, barely a man grown,” she explained with a sarcastic chuckle. “Ramsay Reyne, an arrogant child is what he is. Anyway, you and Prince Harmund, are you to be wed?”

“No,” Gwynesse immediately responded, perhaps more sharply than was necessary. “Not for now, at least,” she continued with a softer tone. “Neither of us have been promised.”

“Well, the prince is already twenty and three, it’d be about time for him to settle down with someone,” Lorena spoke with a quiet and playful tone, and Gwynesse glanced quickly towards Harmund to make sure he wasn’t listening to their conversation. “It’s not in my hands,” she then whispered, and Lorena gave her an understanding nod. “I wouldn’t be so sure, maybe it is more in your hands than you realize,” the Lannister princess said with a wink, before taking a sip of her wine. Gwynesse followed the example, gulping her glass nearly empty.

As the second course of black bread and smoked salmon was being brought to the table, King Harmund chinked his glass thrice to garner everyone’s attention. As the people around the table quieted down, he cleared his throat and spoke up. “It feels great to be back here in Casterly Rock, Your Grace,” he started with a polite tone, raising his glass for King Lancel, who reciprocated the gesture. “However, I was led to believe you had some greater purpose for summoning us here this time.”

“Straight to business then, aye?” Lancel asked, gulping down his wine and gesturing for the servants to pour more for all of them. “Fine by me,” he continued, taking a bite of the black beard. “You’re correct, my friend, I have indeed summoned you here for a great purpose. Decades ago when I first began to build this alliance together with your father, we both had great visions for what could come out of it. Since then much of it has indeed come to fruition, with the trade between our kingdoms blossoming and creating wealth greater than ever before for both. However, there is one aspect of this alliance that remains untested, patiently waiting for its day to shine.”

“And what would that be?” King Harmund asked, his eyes narrowed in interest. “The combined military might of the ironman raiders and the knights of the Rock,” Lancel responded, a grin forming on his face. There was something unsettling in his expression, a hunger that had so far remained hidden. “Westeros is changing. During my time as a king I have seen the weakened Riverlands fall under the rule of the Storm King, I have seen the weak and petty kingdoms of Dorne being united by a strong foreign conqueror. And when I look to south I see the Reach, weakened by internal quarrels, and ripe for taking.”

“The Gardeners are not to be underestimated, their kingdom has stood for thousands of years,” Prince Harmund stated with a somewhat concerned tone, and King Lancel gave him a nod. “And never before in those thousands of years have the Rock and the Iron Isles been united as they are now,” he said confidently. “Your ancestors terrorized their coasts from Arbor to Old Oak for centuries, mine came close to conquering their lands several times. Imagine what we could achieve together.”

A tense moment of silence followed the Lannister king’s words, and Gwynesse glanced quietly at the other people around the table, seeing excitement in some eyes and concern in others. King Harmund however kept whatever he felt hidden under the expression of utter calmness. “And if we succeed, if we defeat the Gardeners, what then?” he asked, a sharp tone on his voice.

“Then we shall share their kingdom,” Lancel responded with an almost arrogant smirk on his face. “You can keep the shores, I will take Highgarden and everything east from it.”

King Harmund tapped his fingers against the table, a thoughtful expression on his face. However, before he could say anything, Queen Lelia spoke up. “Father, are you sure this is wise?” she asked gently, deep concern in her green eyes. “What if it goes wrong?”

“That is the risk a man must take if he ever wishes to achieve something great, my sweet daughter,” Lancel responded dismissively, quickly shifting his gaze back to King Harmund. “So, do you believe you could rally your captains to sail to war against the Reach?” he asked.

“Yes, I do, and I shall,” Harmund responded after a moment of consideration, a slight smirk forming on his face now, to which King Lancel reacted with a hearty laugh. “We shall achieve great things together, that I swear to you my friend!” he roared cheerfully, gulping down his wine.

“For great things,” Harmund proclaimed with a bombastic tone, and everyone around the table raised their glasses and repeated the words.

Four courses and several glasses of wine later the dinner was over, and the Hoares and Lannisters alike were making their way out of the dinner hall. Prince Harmund was escorting Gwynesse back towards her chambers, both of them slightly tipsy from the wine. Gwynesse couldn’t contain her smile, being more than satisfied with the evening so far. She had managed to not embarrass herself in front of these royal folk, and she even believed she had given a decent impression of herself, as well as making a new friend in Princess Lorena.

“I always knew King Lancel to be ambitious, but this talk of conquering the Reach is something else entirely,” Harmund spoke as they walked down the stairs, shifting Gwynesse’s attention back to him. “Heavens, if he succeeds in this, his name will never be forgotten. Same goes for my father, I suppose.”

“Perhaps for you as well,” Gwynesse suggested lightheartedly, to which Harmund chuckled warmly. “Benefit of having the same name as my father,” he jested, and they both laughed. Finally, they arrived at the door of Gwynesse’s chambers.

Opening the door, Gwynesse turned once more to look at Prince Harmund, who was standing there with a sharp look in his eyes. For a couple seconds neither of them said anything, until Gwynesse spoke up. “Thanks for this evening…” she begun but cut herself off as Harmund begun to untie the braid on her head. “Figured I’d help you with this,” he said with a cheerful tone, and Gwynesse subtly rolled her eyes. “Thanks, I guess,” she muttered amusedly, and Harmund looked her charmingly to the eyes. “No, thank you, my lady,” he replied smoothly, sliding his hand softly through Gwynesse’s now open hair. He stepped even closer to her, and she felt her heart racing in excitement.

For a moment neither of them said anything, as Gwynesse moved her right hand on Harmund’s lower back, and he moved his on her hips. Unable to hold back any longer, Gwynesse rushed to kiss the prince on the lips, before backing away inside the room and looking him intensely to the eyes. He took in a deep breath and followed her inside, closing the door behind him. That night they made love, and Gwynesse felt like she was in one of those seven heavens Harmund always talked about.

Summer sun shined from a clear blue sky, and a soft breeze was blowing in the woods near Horn Hill, making the leaves quiver ever so slightly. Otherwise it was completely silent, and Walton Manderly nervously stood as still as he could. Standing atop the leather glove on his left hand was a sparrowhawk with dark brown wings and white chest, a sharp gaze in its bright yellow eyes. Walton had named her Shadow, and this was the first time he had taken her hawking after several moons of training. Normally they would be on horseback with dogs flushing out the quarry, but Shadow still needed more training before she could work with the dogs.

Quietly Walton glanced behind, seeing Lord Symon Tarly and his two sons standing a dozen yards behind him, each of them with their own hawks. Walton had been Lord Symon’s ward and squire for almost three years now, having been sent to Horn Hill a day after his eleventh nameday. He was almost a man grown now, and he did his best to act like it. Symon gave him an encouraging nod, and Walton turned his gaze forward again with determination in his eyes. This time she’ll do it. Taking in a deep breath, he ringed the bell on his right hand, and a rabbit sprung from the underbrush a few yards away from Walton.

“Go Shadow!” he yelled as he extended his hand, and the sparrowhawk spread its wings to fly towards its prey. Shadow glided over the rabbit with her claws prepared to sink into it, and a triumphant smirk formed on Walton’s face. However, as the hawk plunged into the killing blow, the rabbit jumped to left and just barely dodged Shadow’s claws, escaping into the bushes.

Disappointedly Walton whistled, and soon Shadow flew back to his glove. With a sigh he gave her a treat and stroke her head softly for the effort. “She is still inexperienced, Walton,” Symon spoke with his deep and compassionate voice, having walked beside him. “She’ll be a fine hunter one day, believe me.”

“Yes, mylord,” Walton said quietly, though it was difficult to hide his disappointment. Symon’s hawk had caught four rabbits that day, and his eldest son Triston’s hawk two. Even the lord’s younger son Ryam’s hawk Huntress had managed to bring back one rabbit, and she hadn’t been trained any longer than Shadow.

“I think we should head home. Six rabbits will make a fine stew,” Triston stated calmly. He was the heir to Horn Hill, a young man of eighteen years, tall and sturdily built like his father. His brown hair had been cut relatively short, and around his mouth was a shadow of a beard.

“Already? But it’s not even close to sundown yet,” Ryam moaned, petting his grey-and-white goshawk. He was about a year younger than Walton, having had his thirteenth nameday a fortnight ago. Despite being younger, he was slightly taller than Walton, and was already starting to show a strong physique similar to his father and brother. When it came to skill with the sword Walton and Ryam were more or less equal, but the Tarly undeniably had the advantage when it came to raw strength. On the other hand, Walton considered himself better than Ryam in archery, reading and riding.

“The hawks have worked hard already, they deserve rest,” Symon calmly responded to his younger son, already starting to walk towards their horses which were tied to an oak close by. “Besides, I’m getting hungry”, he added with a grin on his face. “Come now boys, let’s head home.”

On the road back to Horn Hill Symon and Triston led the way, while Walton and Ryam rode a good couple dozen yards behind them. Ryam kept proudly describing how Huntress had caught its first prey, and Walton settled mostly to listening. It took less than half-an-hour for them to reach Horn Hill, and the sun was still high up as they rode in from the gates. At first they took their hawks to the mews, after which Walton and Ryam were tasked with taking the horses to the stables.

Walking back from the stables to the outer yard, Walton noticed Genna Tarly standing by the archway that led into the inner yard, together with her friend Darla Hunt. Genna was a year older than Walton, being the second daughter and third child of Lord Symon and Lady Marya. Walton had been crushing on her from the day he first arrived to Horn Hill three years ago, and getting to know her better over the years had only reinforced that feeling. She was sweet and kind, and her beautiful smile was always able to make Walton feel better. Unfortunately, situations where it’d be just the two of them without either Genna’s brothers or friends around were extremely rare, and so far Walton had found no opportunity to reveal his feelings to her.

“Father told me to fetch you for the great hall,” Genna spoke as Ryam and Walton approached her. “We havin’ a feast?” Ryam asked with a raised eyebrow, but Genna shook her head. “No, but there’s news from Highgarden,” she explained as they made their way into the inner yard.

“From King Greydon?” Ryam asked excitedly. “What kind of news?”

“I don’t know, Ryam,” Genna answered with a sigh. “Let’s just go to father, he’ll tell.”

And so they walked into the great hall, where Lord Symon was already waiting together with his wife Marya and their son Triston. Present were also the old and stern Maester Runcel and the jovial steward Jon Cordwayner, as well as few of the household knights, most notably Ser Halmon Hunt, the second son of Lord Harys Hunt. He was a tall and handsome man on his early thirties, with a pointy chin, high cheekbones, attentive blue eyes and a chestnut hair that was tied to a ponytail. Walton knew him mostly as an excellent archer whom he had learned a lot from personally, but outside of his marksmanship Halmon had a reputation as a lustful womanizer. Some rumors even said that he had a bastard in every town of the Reach. Walton had never dared to ask the man if this was true.

“Looks like everyone is here,” Symon spoke up with a cheerful tone, on his hands a small piece of parchment, which he raised above his head. “This is a message from Highgarden. An invitation, to be precise.”

“We’ve been invited to Highgarden?” Ryam asked, glancing excitedly at Walton who reciprocated his friend’s smile. “All of the Reach has been invited to Highgarden,” Lord Symon replied with a soft chuckle, handing the message to Maester Runcel now. “King Greydon’s son and heir Prince Perceon has his thirtieth nameday in one moon from now, and the King has decided to arrange a grand tourney in celebration.”

“A tourney in Highgarden?” Triston spoke up, sounding almost as excited as his little brother now. “Hundreds of knights, lord, ladies and singers from all over the Reach will be there,” Genna spoke with a dreamy look in her eyes. “It will be so marvelous.”

“I’ll take part in the squire melee,” Ryam announced, grinning from ear to ear. “There will be one, right?”

“I believe so, yes,” Symon confirmed calmly. “As well as the regular melee, archery competition and the joust, all with great prices from the royal treasury for the victors. I’m thinking of taking part in the melee myself, although I don’t expect to have much of a chance to win against the likes of Alester Oakheart or Benedict Bulwer. I assume you’ll try your lucky on the archery contest, Ser Halmon?”

“Of course, my lord,” Ser Halmon responded with a wolfish grin on his face. “Only it’ll have nothing to do with luck.”

“I’ll take part in the joust,” Triston spoke up determinedly, and his parents turned to look at him, Lord Symon with pride and Lady Marya with concern. “With all the knights of the kingdom there, the competition will be hard,” Symon stated softly, and with just a hint of hesitation in his eyes Triston nodded. “I know, but I’m a man grown and an anointed knight now. I can handle it.”

“Just… try not to hurt yourself too badly,” Marya spoke quietly, clearly deeply concerned for her son’s wellbeing. Symon put his arm around his wife in a comforting manner. “He says he can handle it, dear,” he said with a warm tone, letting out a small wistful sigh. “And since he is a man grown now we have no choice but to take his word for it.”

“Will you fight in the squire melee, Walton?” Ryam suddenly asked, shifting everyone’s attention to them. “I… yeah, I think I will,” Walton answered nervously, and Lord Symon gave him an approving nod.

“Your family will be there to watch,” he pointed out with a friendly tone. Indeed, this tourney would be the first time he’d see most of his family in three years. His lord father Waymar had visited Horn Hill little over a year ago, but the rest he hadn’t seen since the day he rode out of the gates of Dustonbury. He remembered his mother Alicent had cried the morning he left, and his little sister Meliana had been jealous of him getting to see new places. His older sister Alyssa had been the same age that Walton was now, which was weird to think about. And then there was his older brother Andrew, who by now was already eighteen. He had told Walton to keep his chin up and represent House Manderly with pride in Horn Hill, and he had done his best to do just that throughout these past three years. I wonder how they all have changed.

For the following weeks all anyone in Horn Hill could talk or think about was the coming tourney. Symon trained Ryam and Walton for the melee several hours on the courtyard every day, while Triston trained for the joust outside the castle walls with the master-at-arms Ser Gyles Oldflowers.

A week before the beginning of the tourney Lord Ilyn Vyrwel and his family came to visit Horn Hill. Walton knew that Tarlys and Vyrwels had always been close allies, but these days they were exceptionally close due to Lord Symon’s firstborn daughter Tanda having married Lord Ilyn’s heir Lyonel Vyrwel less than a year ago. Almost immediately after riding through the gates Lord Ilyn announced to the people of Horn Hill that Lady Tanda was carrying his son’s child, which was received by applauds and cheers.

However, Walton focused his attention on Ser Lyonel’s younger brother Ivar Vyrwel. He was a tall and strong young man of fifteen years, as well as the squire of his uncle Ser Gormon Vyrwel. There was no doubt he’d take part in the squire melee, and both Walton and Ryam knew from previous experience that he’d be a hard one to beat. “Hello, boys,” Ivar greeted them with a condescending tone while his father and brother were conversing with Symon and Triston. “Planning to fight on the squire melee, aye?”

“Yes, we are,” Ryam responded sternly, crossing his arms as he spoke. Ivar nodded with a tiny smirk. “Great,” he said calmly, scanning both of them from head to toes with his brown eyes. “Try to stay out of my way though, unless you want the beating of your lifetime.” With these words Ivar walked away from them, and Walton and Ryam exchanged an irritated glance.

A plentiful feast was held that night at the great hall, lords Tarly and Vyrwel sharing the high table with their wives and heirs. On a regular feast Walton, Ryam and Genna would be up there as well, but tonight they had to settle for one of the tables near the dais, where they sat together with Ivar and Darla Hunt. Fires were burning in all six hearths of the hall, eight green banners with the red huntsman of House Tarly hung on the walls, wine was flowing, and four musicians were playing cheerful songs up on the gallery.

“Any of you ever been to Oldtown?” Ivar asked casually, gulping down his wine and pouring more. “No. Why?” Ryam responded bluntly, to which Ivar reacted with a cold chuckle. “I was there with my uncle couple moons ago,” he bragged with a haughty tone, leaning back on his chair. “You can’t really understand how big that place is without seeing it yourself. All the sprawling cobblestone streets, narrow alleyways, crowded markets, shoddy taverns and luxurious mansions… it’s easy to get lost in there. Within the walls of that city is its own world, separate from the rest of the kingdom, where wars are fought in shadows without the king in Highgarden having a clue.”

“And what were you doing there?” Walton asked sharply, glancing quickly at Genna and Darla who looked to be fascinated by Ivar’s story. “Ah, Gormon’s old pal from the city watch just needed some help,” he responded nonchalantly. “Had to take care of a few thugs, that’s all.”

“You killed someone?” Ryam asked, and it was hard to tell if his voice was shocked or admiring. With a subtle smirk on his face Ivar nodded. “Well, Gormon and his pal did most of the killing, but I did cut down two of those criminal bastards myself.”

Walton hated to admit it to himself, but in this moment he was jealous of Ivar. Not because of the killing, but because it was clear just how much more experience he had despite being just a year older than Walton, how much more of a man he already was. “Did you see the Citadel? What about the Starry Sept?” Darla asked enthusiastically, breaking the silence that was starting to get tense.

“Aye, they were there,” Ivar responded with a soft chuckle. “Can’t say I have much of an eye for such things, but I guess you could say they were pretty to look at. Wouldn’t want to set foot inside either one though, mainly due to the people that occupy them.”

“You have something against maesters and septons?” Genna asked curiously.

“Maesters are dull, but at least they stay mostly in their citadel,” Ivar spoke with an amused tone. “The septons and their Faith Militant though, oh how they love to roam the streets and shove their message down everyone’s throats. Spent barely a fortnight in Oldtown and had enough of that shit for a lifetime.”

“But their message is that of the gods, right?” Darla asked with some confusion, and after hesitating a moment Ivar nodded. “I guess you could say so, yes,” he said with a sigh. “They are men though, and just like everyone else in Oldtown they seek to control and own as much of her as they can.”

“Sounds like a nasty place,” Walton commented dryly, and Ivar gave him a nod. “It has its good sides as well,” he replied with a sharp smirk.

The feast went on for hours, until by the midnight people slowly began to make their way out of the hall. Lord Ilyn and his wife were amongst the first to leave, Lady Vyrwel clearly being quite drunk. Walton himself had also had more wine than in a long time, and admittedly it was getting to his head. Seeing Genna and Darla getting up from the table and starting to make their way out, Walton brazenly caught up to them by the hall’s entrance.

“Walton,” Genna spoke with a surprised and amused tone as he stepped next to them. Walton flashed the girls a grin, and Genna looked at him questioningly. “Did you forget to tell us something?” she asked curiously, and Walton shook his head. “No, I just… I wanted to thank you for the company, it was a pleasant evening,” he said, managing to maintain eye-contact with Genna. “And… good night, my ladies.”

Genna giggled innocently at his words and turned her gaze down. “I think you’ve had a couple cups of wine too many, Walton,” she remarked softly, tapping him gently on the shoulder. “Good night to you too though, and see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” Walton responded as Genna and Darla already continued to walk towards their chambers. With a sigh he felt the rush of excitement coming down and being replaced by disappointment. How can I ever make her understand?

With faltering steps Walton made his way out to the courtyard, and to his surprise he noticed faint light coming from within an open window of the smithy. There is no reason for anyone to be in there at this hour. Unable to curb his curiosity, Walton sneaked closer and began to hear talking.

“Greydon is not the kind of king who would turn a blind eye to infighting amongst his vassals,” a stern voice that Walton didn’t recognize spoke. “And if Lord Peake plans to start a war with the Manderlys, then he better anticipate all of Reach to start picking sides. The Fossoways and Raylans are with him, sure, and perhaps he’ll be able to convince the Florents and Oakhearts as well, but what about the Hightowers, Osgreys and Redwynes? Hells, even our friend Symon’s allegiances are questionable, he seems quite fond of that Manderly ward of his.”

Tensed up, Walton creeped slightly closer to the open window, leaning under it without making a noise. “Relax, brother,” the smooth voice of Lord Ilyn Vyrwel responded. “There will be no war, not yet. And when the time comes, it’ll be done in a way that siding with the Manderlys will be seen as treason to the crown. As for Symon, who do you think he is more fond of, his firstborn daughter or his ward?”

Shocked about what he was hearing, Walton forgot himself for a moment, and bumped his elbow against the timber wall of the smithy. “Did you hear that?” Ilyn said inside, and without hesitating a moment Walton got up on his feet and ran back inside the keep. He didn’t look back, he had no idea if Lord Vyrwel had recognized him, but that night he didn’t close his eyes for a second.

It was a calm and clear early evening in Raventree Hall, and the godswood was crowded with riverlander nobility, all of them gathered beneath the great weirwood tree. Lyonel Bracken was standing on the second line, right behind Robert and Ronas Blackwood. He was dressed in his finest red satin doublet paired with a dark fur cloak, his blond hair was neatly combed, and he had even trimmed his beard for the occasion.

Quietly Lyonel shifted his gaze towards the heart tree, where Lord Brydan Blackwood was standing alone with the red-and-black bride’s cloak resting on his hands. Brydan was a man grown, being already twenty and three, but looking at him standing there Lyonel couldn’t help but be reminded of the scared little boy the Lord of Raventree Hall had been fifteen years ago in his father’s funeral. Nonetheless he appeared lordly and handsome now, dressed in a fine red silk garb adorned with black patterns and a black wool cape held up by a silver buckle in the shape of a raven. His medium-length brown hair was neatly combed back, he had shaven his stubble beard, and on his green eyes was a happy if also a bit nervous expression.

Bells were rung by the entrance of the godswood, and with some murmur the people turned to look that way. There stood Lord Everan Tully with a proud expression on his clean-shaven face, holding the hand of his beautiful daughter Ellyn. As they begun walking towards the heart tree, Robert Blackwood quietly moved next to his nephew and took the bride’s cloak from him.

Ellyn’s lean figure was concealed by the maiden’s cloak in the colors of House Tully, and underneath it was a white satin gown with beautiful gold trimmings. Her wavy auburn hair was tied to two braids that rested on her shoulders, her full red lips formed a small smile making tiny dimples on her round and freckled cheeks, and on her blue eyes was a keen and kindly look.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this day?” Robert asked with a formal tone, which Lord Everan reciprocated in his answer. “Ellyn Tully, a woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

Brydan stepped forward now, clearing his throat before speaking up. “Brydan of House Blackwood, Lord of Raventree Hall, and Warden of the Riverlands under the Storm King,” he announced himself calmly. “Who gives her?”

“Her father, Everan of House Tully, Lord of Riverrun,” Everan responded proudly. He let go of Ellyn’s hand and gave her an approving nod, before taking a step back. “Lady Ellyn, do you take this man?” Lord Robert asked ceremonially.

“I take this man,” Ellyn answered softly, and with a sweet and confident smile on her face she approached Brydan, who gently took her hand. Together they knelt in front of the ancient face carved into the weirwood and bowed down their heads to honor the Old Gods. There they remained in silence for a full minute, and only the croaking of the ravens could be heard in the godswood. Finally, Brydan got back on his feet and helped Ellyn up as well. Quietly she turned her back for him, and he removed the red-and-blue maiden’s cloak from her shoulders. He handed it to his uncle Robert, who in turn handed him back the red-and-black bride’s cloak. Carefully Brydan laid the cloak over Ellyn’s shoulders, and she turned to face him again. For a couple of seconds the two just looked at each other, until Brydan spoke up. “With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife,” he announced, before embracing into a short and gentle kiss with his bride, to which all the guests reacted with cheers and applauds. With a nervous grin on his face Brydan raised Ellyn to his arms, and so they begun to make their way to the feast at the great hall.

And a lavish feast it was, so lavish that Lyonel had to wonder if it had been wiser to be more sparing at the face of a coming winter. However, he wasn’t left with much time to worry about that as he sat between his brothers Robb and Horas, who kept pouring him more wine mug after mug while inquiring him about the recent affairs of Raventree Hall. Lyonel told them about the time the castle’s steward Olyvar Chambers was tricked by the squires to drink horse piss, then about the time when Ronas challenged a visiting freerider to a horse race and lost twenty gold, and finally he found himself describing to his brothers how Prince Barron Durrandon had once on a feast drunkenly climbed on the table and started to sing a bawdy song.

“So, how are things at Stone Hedge these days?” Lyonel finally managed to ask his brothers, and after exchanging a look with Horas, Lord Robb decided to answer. “It’s all good, for the most part,” he started, taking a sip from the mead before continuing. “Ronnel is almost a man grown now, and it’s getting harder to keep him in line when he gets his foolish ideas. Just a couple weeks ago he rode to Harroway with his pal Tristan Lychester without asking for my permission. No doubt they went whoring. Guess you could even say it’s natural for lads that age, I just hope the boy at least had enough wits with him to not father a bastard.”

“Planning to find him a bride any time soon?” Lyonel asked casually.

“Aye, I’ve been thinking about it,” Robb responded with a sigh. “Lord Michael Darry has been constantly expressing me his willingness to wed his daughter with Ronnel. No doubt he’ll be doing it again tonight,” he said, glancing at few tables behind him where the stocky and loud Lord Darry was laughing drunkenly at something a Mooton knight sitting next to him had said.

“I say you should agree to it already. Minisa Darry is a fine lass, certainly good enough for Ronnel,” Horas commented with his calm and relaxed voice. At thirty and three he was the youngest of the Bracken brothers, as well as the only anointed knight. He had not fought in Roderick’s rebellion, having remained holding Stone Hedge together with their uncle Ser Elric Bracken, who to this day still served as the castellan.

“I have nothing against the girl, or his father for that matter, but the Bracken name simply carries more weight than that of the Darrys,” Robb stated calmly. “That’s not to say we can never join in marriage with houses of lesser prestige, it has been done before many times, but it shouldn’t be something achieved as easily as simply asking. To marry the Lord of Stone Hedge has been a great honor and privilege throughout the ages, and so it should remain. We mustn’t forget our pride, or others will as well.”

Lyonel smirked subtly, Robb’s words reminding him of their father. Robb himself had married Lady Hanna of House Paege about a year before the war, after almost two years of begging Lord Emmon to agree to it. I can only imagine how many times he had to listen through that lecture about the pride and prestige of House Bracken.

“I have to go for a leak,” Lyonel said to his brothers, standing up from his seat and starting to walk through the noisy hall. However, before he could reach the door he was approached by an old and portly man. Perhaps on his late fifties, the man was balding and there were grey specks in his brown beard. He was dressed in a green wool doublet with silver trimmings, and a silver tree embroidered on the chest. House Harlton, Lyonel realized.

“Ser Lyonel Bracken?” the old man greeted him with a questioning tone, and Lyonel nodded. “Not a ser, mylord, but I am Lyonel Bracken,” he responded calmly. “I take it you are Lord Armond Harlton?”

“Indeed,” the man responded with a thin smile. “I suggest we continue this conversation outside,” he said quietly, glancing at the servant maids and guardsmen nearby. Lyonel nodded approvingly, and so they made their way out to the inner yard.

“I recall having a conversation with Lord Emmon on this yard during the war,” Armond stated tensely, his attentive green eyes studying Lyonel’s face. “He was a proud and honorable man, your father. However, what I remember most vividly about him is his fearlessness, the sheer unwillingness to be afraid or cower before the danger. A trait I must admit I’ve never had myself.”

“At least you had the courage to answer honestly to Prince Barron’s message,” Lyonel remarked. “You were the only one out of the lords he contacted.”

“Mm, I fear the rest have already turned against the Storm King’s rule,” Armond responded grimly. “Stoney Sept is on the lands of Lord Hoster Keath and he hasn’t lifted a finger to keep the Faith Militant in line, proving himself to be just as much of a coward as he was during the last war. It’s well known that Lord Roland Vance has never been in favor of the Storm King, and Lord Tommard Smallwood… I doubt even the gods know what goes through that man’s head.”

“Prince Barron tasked me with investigating the situation,” Lyonel said, and Armond nodded. “Yes, Lord Ronas told me. However, I’m afraid that it’ll take more than one man to solve this mess.”

“If so, if this escalates into a war, we can trust in the Storm King’s protection,” Lyonel assured confidently, but Lord Harlton narrowed his eyes in doubt. “Can we?” he asked quietly, taking in a deep breath. “If we were speaking of King Arlan I would agree, but his son is a stranger to me. For all we know he is not committed to protecting Riverlands the way his father was.”

“Don’t forget that two of Roderick’s daughters are still in Storm’s End, one of them Prince Ormund’s wife,” Lyonel pointed out. “And Prince Barron is fully committed to protecting Riverlands as well, I can assure you that.”

“I hope you’re right,” Armond said with a sigh, already turning back towards the entrance of the great hall. “Nonetheless, you should rest well tonight, Bracken. We leave for Castlewood tomorrow.”

Lyonel took Lord Harlton’s advice and headed to bed right after the bedding ceremony of Brydan and Ellyn. Next morning, he woke up with an uneasy feeling. The cheerful mood of the wedding night was gone, replaced by nervous anticipation for the mission ahead.

After having his breakfast Lyonel was summoned to the lord’s solar on the third floor. Walking into the large and lavishly decorated room, he saw Lord Brydan already sitting at the head of the long table and having a conversation with Ronas, Robert and Armond.

“…attempt to take Trident Hall,” Robert Blackwood spoke to his nephew as Lyonel approached the table. “Ah, Lyonel, we were just speaking of this pretender king in Stoney Sept,” Brydan spoke calmly, a tense expression on his face.

“Lucifer Justman,” Lyonel responded with a nod, taking the seat next to Lord Armond.

“Lucifer the Liar,” Robert grumbled bitterly, and Lyonel noticed an amused smirk forming on Ronas’ face. “Whatever we call him, it seems evident that he has begun to gain support,” Lord Armond spoke sternly. “If he assembles an army, my lands will be the first in danger.”

“I understand,” Brydan responded, a touch of frustration in his words. “However, before I begin to prepare for war I will need evidence that the enemy is real, that this pretender king exists.”

“I shall provide you with that evidence, my lord,” Lyonel assured calmly, and Brydan looked at him with a grateful expression. “You will be doing a great service for this land, Lyonel,” he said with a relieved tone. “Hopefully this can be resolved without further violence.”

“Seems unlikely, my lord,” Armond said with a jaded tone. “The Warrior’s Sons are fanatics, they will not see reason.”

“You may be right, but the Faith Militant alone cannot threaten us, they need allies,” Brydan remarked sharply. “If we were to expose this Lucifer as the fraud he is, the riverlords supporting him would have no choice but to abandon the cause.”

“That’s an optimistic way to look at it,” Ronas commented cynically. “Just as likely they will continue to follow him regardless, or simply choose another king from their ranks.”

“We’ll worry about that then,” Lyonel said with a sigh. “Now, let’s just concentrate on the issue at hand.”

“Agreed,” Armond said dryly. “Which brings to mind, what kind of evidence exactly would convince you to start amassing your armies, Lord Brydan?”

“Word from a man I trust will be enough,” Brydan responded, shifting his gaze back to Lyonel. “As I said, I shall provide the evidence, my lord,” he assured again, and the young lord nodded approvingly.

“May the gods protect you, Lyonel Bracken,” Brydan said with a grateful tone, and Lyonel thought he could even spot a hint of concern in his words. And with that the meeting was over. However, as Robert and Armond made their way out of the solar, Lady Ellyn entered. She was accompanied by a lanky redheaded boy, thirteen years old at most. The young lady looked as pretty as always, if also a bit tired, wearing her wavy red hair open now. She gave a meaningful look at Brydan, who then spoke up.

“Lyonel, there is one more thing I’d like to give you for this mission,” he said with a soft smile forming on his face, gesturing towards Ellyn and the boy. “Mylord, this is my cousin, Axel Rivers,” Ellyn introduced the boy to Lyonel. “A squire to aid you on your journey. You can consider it as House Tully’s humble contribution for this important mission.”

“Hello, ser,” Axel spoke with a respectful tone, a slightly nervous but excited expression on his face. “I’m no knight,” Lyonel informed the boy with a relaxed tone, but extended his hand for him anyway. “But if that’s no problem, then I’ll gladly accept your service.”

“It’s no problem,” Axel responded with a slightly uncertain tone, glancing at Ellyn as he shook Lyonel’s hand. “I heard you fought in the Battle of Six Kings, se… I mean…”

“You can just call me Lyonel,” he cut the boy off with a friendly tone. “And yes, I did fight in the Battle of Six Kings, ‘twas the worst day of my life.” Axel looked a bit taken aback by his comment but nodded respectfully nonetheless.

“So, have you been trained in combat, boy?” Lyonel asked calmly.

“Yes, I have. Sword, spear and lance,” Axel answered proudly. “My dream is to one day be the greatest knight in all of Riverlands.”

Ellyn tapped her cousin gently on the shoulder. “As you see, he is eager to serve,” she said with a small chuckle, and Lyonel gave the lady a nod. “I’ll take good care of the lad, mylady,” he promised.

Lyonel packed his arms and armors, as did his new squire, and by noon they met with Armond at the gates. Lord Harlton had traveled to Raventree Hall lightly, accompanied only by six of his household guards, one of them being their one-eyed captain Ser Gared Grey, who had lost his left eye in the Battle of Six Kings. Lyonel and Axel fetched their horses from the stables, and so they were on their way.

It was a grey and cloudy day with some light showers every now and then. They rode through the hilly lands of House Blackwood, past the light woods, green meadows, small villages and farmlands, until couple hours before sundown they finally arrived at the Red Fork. One of the three branches of Trident, Red Fork had its headwaters in the mountains of the Kingdom of Rock and flowed from there past Pinkmaiden and Sherrer to the Riverrun where it converged with Tumblestone. From there the river continued east past the Stone Hedge and all the way to the Harroway’s Town, where it finally joined the great Trident.

The entourage led by Lord Harlton crossed the river by an old stony bridge and headed to a two-story inn standing nearby at the southern riverbank. ‘Drunken Ferryman’ it was called, and above its door was a painted sign depicting a man about to tumble from his ferry to the muddy brown water. Right next to the inn were river docks where merchants plying between Harroway and Riverrun docked regularly to sell their goods and buy grain and other crops from the people of the nearby lands.

Being located less than a day’s ride to west from Stone Hedge this inn was a familiar one for Lyonel. The last time he had been here was more than five years ago, but not much had changed since then. On the wall next to the backroom’s door still hung the same tapestry depicting the lords of Bracken and Blackwood standing side-by-side on a battlefield against seven Andal knights. It was a retelling of the legendary Battle of Bitter River from the times of the Andal invasion, one of the few times in history that Blackwoods and Brackens had rallied together against a common enemy. The battle however had ended in a bitter defeat, after which the Brackens had submitted to the Andals and took up their faith, while Blackwoods had stubbornly clung on to their old traditions, as they still did thousands of years later.

After ordering some food and ale they seated themselves by two tables near the stairway leading up to the rooms on the upper floor. Lyonel, Axel, Armond and Gared took the table by the window looking towards the river, and the rest of the soldiers took the one next to it. The hall was fairly crowded, but the innkeep had nonetheless promised there to be enough free beds for all of them.

“So, your father is Lord Everan’s brother, right?” Lyonel asked from his squire as he took the first sip of the ale, which was just as good as he remembered. “Aye,” Axel responded with a relaxed tone, eyeing his foaming mug of ale excitedly. “Ser Andar Tully, captain of the guard in Riverrun. And my mother was a fisherman’s daughter from Sallydance.” The nonchalant way that Axel said this made Lyonel chuckle softly.

“I met your father couple years back in the tourney at Pinkmaiden,” Ser Gared said with his gruff voice. “He was unhorsed on the third round by Ser Barristan Blanetree, who went on to win against Ser Harlen Vance on the final round.”

“Yeah, I was there, squiring for my father,” Axel responded with a nod, taking the first gulp of his ale and frowning slightly at the taste. “I still remember that last joust, it was glorious. Ser Barristan and Ser Harlen going against each other for fourteen tilts, breaking eight lances and five shields in the process.”

“Aye, it was quite glorious indeed,” Gared replied with a hearty laugh.

Before any of them could say anything more, the door of the tavern was loudly slammed open. The chatter in the hall quieted down, and everyone shifted their gazes towards the door. In walked a group of eight men and three women, all clad in white surcoats with red seven-pointed star badges sewed on the chest. Most of them wore padded leather or wool under their surcoats, and were armed with mere cudgels, axes or knives. The only exception was the burly red-haired man leading them, who was clad in chainmail and carried a castle-forged sword on his hip.

“Faith Militant,” Gared muttered sternly as the group conversed with the innkeep at the counter. “Poor Fellows,” Lord Armond specified with a resentful stone, glaring at them coldly. Poor Fellows were the footmen of the Faith Militant, a lowborn and lightly-armed counterpart of the knightly Warrior’s Sons. This was the first time since the fall of House Teague that Lyonel saw them patrolling this far away from Stoney Sept.

Tense atmosphere took over the hall as the Poor Fellows walked past the tables of Lord Harlton’s entourage. Without saying a word they made their way to a couple of tables near the fireplace at the opposite wall, from where they kept eyeing Armond and his men. Slowly the chatter and noise returned to the hall, as it came clear the situation wasn’t about to escalate into a fight.

“Poor Fellows on Bracken lands? They’re getting bold,” Lyonel said quietly, and Armond gave him a nod. “A bad omen,” he muttered grimly.

An hour or so went by, and then the burly redhead decided to approach Lord Harlton’s table. “Evening, sers,” he greeted them calmly, to which they reacted with mere glares. “Just wanted to make a deal with you,” the man continued. “You see, the innkeep informed us that there are only three beds available for tonight, and I thought it’s kind of unfair that all of you will get to sleep in soft beds while eight of mine will have to settle for the hard floor.”

“You’re speaking to a lord,” Ser Gared spoke up with a threatening tone, to which the man reacted with a grin. “A lord of what?” he asked with an unimpressed tone, his eyes scanning Armond from head to toes.

“I am Armond Harlton, Lord of Castlewood,” Armond introduced himself sternly.

“And I’m Ben the Brute, captain of the Poor Fellows,” the man responded with a snarky tone. “Look, I’m not here to pick a fight with you, m’lord. I simply want to make a compromise. Give four of your beds to my men and I’m happy.”

“You’re far away from Stoney Sept,” Lyonel joined the conversation with a calm tone. “What exactly are you doing here?”

“The duty of the Poor Fellows is to protect the weak and helpless everywhere, not just Stoney Sept,” Ben responded, his tone slightly more serious now. “But these lands are under the rule of House Bracken. Do you not trust them with the protection of their own people?” Lyonel asked smoothly, and Ben narrowed his eyes into a glare.

“Brackens bow to Storm King, who is an enemy of the Faith,” he stated tensely, looking Lyonel to the eyes. “They are godless men, cowards and sinners who have led this kingdom into the pitiful state that it’s in.”

Lyonel clenched his fists under the table, glancing behind Ben and seeing that some of the other Poor Fellows had also stood up from their seats. Tense silence lingered in the hall, and Lyonel could see from the eyes of Ben the Brute that he was ready for a fight.

“You may take four of our beds,” Lord Armond suddenly interfered with an authoritative tone, and Ben looked at him with a surprised expression. “Thank you, m’lord,” he finally managed to utter, an almost disappointed tone on his voice. “That’s all I wanted,” he added before heading back to his group.

“We must choose our battles wisely,” Armond said quietly, his eyes shifting between Gared and Lyonel. “There is nothing for us to gain in this fight, so we shall avoid it. The time to draw blood will come, but we must be patient.”

It was the fourth day after the night Gwynesse Goodbrother had spent with Prince Harmund Hoare. They had seen each other just briefly couple times after that, and if Gwynesse didn’t know that the prince was busy planning the war with King Lancel and King Harmund, she would’ve suspected that he was purposefully avoiding her. Even as it was, there was the sneaking suspicion in her mind that Harmund regretted their night together.

Whatever the truth was, Gwynesse had done her best not to think about it too much. Instead, she had toured the Casterly Rock together with Princess Lorena. They had visited the ringfort on the top, the small godswood called the Stone Garden on the northeastern corner, the sept in the heart of the Rock illuminated by hundreds of candles, and many of the magnificent halls and courtyards sprinkled throughout the massive fortress of the Lannisters. Lorena had been eager to learn about the life on the Iron Isles, inquiring Gwynesse about their customs and traditions. Gwynesse on the other hand had asked Lorena about the great tourneys and fairs of the mainlanders that she had heard about.

She had quite enjoyed the company of the Lannister princess, and was especially fond of her unabashed and candid personality. Still it was at times remarkably apparent just how different of worlds they came from, causing both to not always understand what the other was talking about. Lorena would try to explain Gwynesse the significance of knighthood or why it was important for a noblewoman to learn music and poetry, whereas Gwynesse would find herself explaining the difference between rock wives and salt wives. It was also clear to Gwynesse that Princess Lorena downright despised many aspects of the Ironborn culture, even if she didn’t say so explicitly.

Gwynesse had returned to her chambers after lunch to rest. After all, there was not much else for her to do before the feast that would be held at the great hall that evening. Prince Harmund was once again in the council room with his father, grandfather, uncle and cousin, and Princess Lorena was busy with designing her new gown with the tailor. Gwynesse knew that many of the ironborn guests had been going around Lannisport, visiting its many taverns and brothels, and she was tempted to join them. However, she knew she had to avoid that kind of behavior if she wanted to be seen as a prospective future wife of Prince Harmund. Queens don’t drink among the commoners.

Suddenly the door of Gwynesse’s chambers was knocked on, and she opened it to see one of Queen Lelia’s handmaidens standing there. Ursula Farwynd she was, a pale black-haired girl of fifteen years, and a granddaughter of Lord Urrek Farwynd – as was Gwynesse, since her mother was Urrek’s daughter. That of course made Ursula her cousin, but in truth they were strangers to each other.

“Lady Gwynesse, Queen Lelia summons you to her chambers,” the girl spoke with her thin and timid voice.

“The Queen wants to meet me now?” Gwynesse asked with a raised eyebrow, and Ursula nodded. “Yes, mylady. Though she did say that only if you’re not in the middle of something important.”

“Nothing more important than obeying the Queen, that’s for sure,” Gwynesse replied with a nervous chuckle. And so, Ursula led the way and she followed. Luckily Queen Lelia’s chambers weren’t that far away, being also on the southern side of the Rock, just few stories higher than Gwynesse’s.

Entering the Queen’s chambers, Gwynesse was almost overwhelmed by the lavish decoration. Everything from the tables to the canopy of the bed was ornamented with gold, crimson curtains made of silk hung by the windows, and a thick and soft carpet with intricately detailed patterns laid on the floor. However, the Queen herself was sitting outside on the balcony with a glass of wine, admiring the spectacular view of Lannisport under the afternoon sun.

In her mid-forties, Queen Lelia still retained much of the beauty she was known for. Her graceful figure, luscious golden hair and delicate facial features were all intact, even if the first small hints of aging had begun to emerge.

”Your Grace,” Gwynesse greeted the Queen with a respectful curtsey, to which she responded with a small nod and a polite smile. “Lady Gwynesse, please take a seat,” she said with a friendly tone. Quietly Gwynesse sat down next to Queen Lelia, and Ursula poured wine for her before stepping back.

“I always loved sitting here as a child, just watching and listening to the city from afar,” the Queen said with a placid tone, her bright green eyes fixed on the city below them. “If you’re quiet enough, you can hear the bells of the septs, the yells of the merchants selling their goods on the markets, even the strikes of hooves and creaking of the cartwheels against the cobbled streets. Children are often ungrateful of what they have, and I was no exception. Bored of all the luxuries that came with being the king’s daughter, I came here to dream I was just an ordinary girl on the streets of Lannisport.”

Gwynesse took a sip of her wine and looked at the Queen curiously, wondering why she was telling her this. Her lips forming a small smile, Lelia turned her gaze to Gwynesse now. “However, as I matured I learned to accept my role in this world, even embrace it. I was the Princess of Casterly Rock, my role was to be looked up on with awe by the common folk of those streets. And when I married Harmund and sailed with him to Iron Islands I had once again a new role to learn and embrace. I would be the foreign Queen, representing the beauty and glory of the culture that so many of your kind want to look down on.”

“It must have been hard, being surrounded by people who… aren’t fond of what you represent to them,” Gwynesse said tensely. “Your bravery is commendable, Your Grace.”

Queen Lelia chuckled warmly at Gwynesse’s words. “Thank you, darling. Although I must say I never felt I was in danger, thanks to Harmund,” she said, genuine affection in her words. Gwynesse nodded, feeling more and more confused as to why the Queen had summoned her. As if reading her mind, Lelia spoke up. “You must be wondering why I wanted to discuss with you in private like this,” she said smoothly, and once again Gwynesse nodded. ”Well, I have noticed your… growing connection with my son,” Lelia explained calmly.

Gwynesse turned her gaze down embarrassedly, unsure how to respond. She opened her mouth to say something but was immediately cut off by the Queen. “It’s alright, dear,” she assured gently. “I love my first son more than anything in this world, and if he is happy with you I would never take that away from him.”

“But… I wouldn’t be your first choice, right?” Gwynesse asked quietly, her tone slightly sour. Lelia nodded. “I have nothing against you, sweet girl,” she said softly, and Gwynesse couldn’t tell whether she was being sincere or not. “I would simply prefer if Prince Harmund were to marry a daughter of a Westerman lord, a girl blessed in the light of the Seven. This alliance between our kingdoms is based on my marriage with King Harmund, but it might not be enough to secure it for the future generations.”

“I understand, Your Grace,” Gwynesse said stiffly, taking in a deep breath before continuing. “However, perhaps marrying a daughter of the Iron Isles would have the benefit of reassuring the Ironborn lords that their king is still one of their own. It would inspire loyalty.”

Lelia flashed Gwynesse a cold smile, no doubt meant as a friendly gesture but coming off as almost judgmental. “You are smart and good-hearted, I can tell that,” she said with a small sigh. “However, my son’s reign over the Iron Isles will mark progression and letting go of its savage old traditions, no matter the cost. If you wish to be the Queen that rules beside him, that is something you must understand and embrace.”

“I can do that, Your Grace,” Gwynesse promised with a subtle gulp. She felt somewhat conflicted about Queen Lelia’s vision for the future of the Iron Isles but arguing against it here and now would do no good. However, if she actually were to marry Harmund and rule by his side, then she could influence him to see the value of the traditions that his mother was so eager to destroy.

“I’m happy to hear that,” Lelia said softly, though Gwynesse could spot the hint of doubt in her words. “Rest assured, I have no plans of turning my son against you, Lady Gwynesse. If he chooses you, I will respect his choice.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Gwynesse said thinly, forcing a smile on her face.

Gwynesse left the meeting with a conflicted feeling. On one hand Queen Lelia had at least seemingly accepted her, but she had to wonder if her true intention had been to make Gwynesse reconsider her advances with the prince. Whatever the truth was, Gwynesse found herself deciding that she would not give up on courting Prince Harmund. Part of her liked to think she was doing it because it was what her father expected of her, but there was no denying that she had also grown very fond of Harmund during their time together on this journey.

The feast that evening was as spectacular as was to be expected, with musicians, wine and tables decked with tasty foods. The occasion begun with King Lancel announcing to the court of Casterly Rock his plan to invade the Reach. “The banners have been called,” the Lannister king spoke with devotion and zeal in his words. “While our Ironborn allies sail together with the Farman fleet towards Mander, my son shall lead the might of the Rock on the northern Reach. The Reach shall be squashed between our jaws, and its weak and soft men shall cower in fear as they hear our roar!”

The people in the hall cheered and applauded for their king, but Gwynesse thought she could spot doubt in many of their eyes. War against the Reach was not something to be taken lightly, there was a history of long and brutal wars between the Lannisters and Gardeners after all, and rarely ever had anything meaningful been achieved in those wars. Then again, the alliance with the Ironborn was an asset no King of the Rock before had possessed.

Gwynesse sat on the high table next to Lorena and her mother Alysanne. It was clear Lorena had inherited most of her looks from Prince Tymond, because Alysanne had much sharper facial features than her daughter, and instead of the typical golden blond of the Lannisters her hair was dark brown.

“Growing up in Banefort, I remember my father’s men saying that on the Iron Isles even women are raised as warriors,” Alysanne spoke with an intrigued tone on her voice, scanning Gwynesse with her green eyes. “I’m curious, mylady, is there any truth to that?”

“Well, yes… and no,” Gwynesse responded with a tense chuckle. “Many noble lords train their daughters to fight so they can protect themselves, but women rarely take part in raiding parties. In fact, most captains would never accept a woman on their crew.”

“And did your father train you?” Alysanne asked softly.

“Aye, together with my brothers,” Gwynesse answered with a smile, many pleasant memories surfacing in her mind. She had never been an outstandingly talented fighter, but sparring with her brothers had always been among her favorite pastimes as a young girl. “My mother was never that fond of it though, saying I should concentrate more on literature. ‘There are thousands of Ironborn who can wield a sword, but only few that can read or write a letter’, she always told me.”

“Sounds like a wise woman,” Alysanne commented with a smirk. “I’d love to meet her, this lady…”

“Lady Amyra, daughter of Lord Farwynd,” Gwynesse clarified politely. “And I did take some of her advice. Haven’t read a single book, but I can read a letter if need be.”

“Ah, I have a couple books you should definitely read,” Lorena said enthusiastically, and Gwynesse raised her eyebrow. “I don’t think I’ll have enough time before heading back home,” she pointed out with an amused tone.

“It doesn’t matter, you can borrow them,” the Lannister princess insisted. “And hey, that way I can be sure you’ll come visit again in the future,” she added with a playful tone.

“I guess you’re right,” Gwynesse admitted with a chuckle. “Wouldn’t want to steal from the Princess of Casterly Rock after all.”

The feast went on for another hour or so, after which people began to slowly make their way out, Prince Tymond and Princess Alysanne being among the first ones to leave. Prince Harmund walked next to Gwynesse and stopped for a moment. “Meet me at the Stone Garden,” he whispered, and continued walking without waiting for her response.

Gwynesse looked on quietly as the prince walked out of the hall, glancing towards her quickly at the door before exiting.

“Lucky girl,” Lorena said with a teasing tone, to which Gwynesse chuckled dryly. “Maybe, or maybe I’m just way over my head,” she responded earnestly. “Courting a Hoare prince… I don’t know if I should be happy or concerned for myself.”

“Don’t worry about it too much, dear. Harmund is a good man,” Lorena said with an encouraging tone. “Now, don’t keep him waiting too long.”

With a sigh Gwynesse stood up and made her way out of the hall. Silently she walked through a long corridor and a small hall, arriving to the terrace that overlooked the small godswood. The winding paved path leading to the heart tree was illuminated by half-a-dozen lanterns, and by the weirwood itself stood Prince Harmund.

Gwynesse approached him quietly, and he looked at her with a slightly nervous gaze in his dark eyes. “My prince,” she greeted him with a shy smile, which he reciprocated. “Gwyn,” he said calmly. “I’m sorry for not having been able to talk with you these past few days.”

“No need to apologize,” Gwynesse replied softly. “You’ve been busy planning the war, I understand.”

“Yeah, and… I needed some time to think, about us,” Harmund said with a subtle gulp. “You see, I won’t be sailing with my father and the Ironborn fleet. Instead, I’ll march together with Prince Tymond and the Lannister army, and…”

“And what?” Gwynesse asked, gently grabbing Harmund’s left hand. “And I wanted to ask if you’d join me,” the prince concluded, now looking her to the eyes.

“You… want me to march to war with you?” Gwynesse asked with a surprised tone, and Harmund nodded. “It’s your choice of course,” he quickly assured. “But like I said, I’ve been thinking about us, and I don’t want this war to separate us now.”

Gwynesse narrowed her eyes and studied Harmund’s face, wondering why he was saying this. She doubted it was as simple as he was claiming, they may have grown close during this journey, but so close that Harmund couldn’t separate from her even to fight a war? Gwynesse found it unlikely. Perhaps he is worried that I’m carrying his child, she realized. It made sense, Harmund wouldn’t want to risk her giving birth to his bastard while being preoccupied by the war. But if I am carrying his child, would he want to marry me to make the child legitimate, or just make sure the child is never born in the first place?

“I’ll come with you,” Gwynesse finally said, her tone calm and collected. She trusted that she knew Harmund well enough to know he wouldn’t harm her. And if anything, going with him would give her more time to win the prince’s heart, whether she was carrying his child or not.

Harmund kissed her quickly on the lips, a wide smile forming on his face as they separated. “Thank you, Gwyn,” he said with a relieved tone. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“Anything for my prince,” Gwynesse chirped in response. “Even war.”

Whew, thread up to date 

And Erich's second part should be dropping fairly soon 

After almost a week of traveling through the Riverlands, Lyonel Bracken and his traveling companions finally saw Castlewood ahead of them. The stout and dun-colored stone castle stood atop a small hill, overlooking the Blackwater Rush to its west and the sparse woods all around it. It was a sunny and windless day, and Lyonel had to admit there was something alluring about this place. The distant sound of running water, the singing of birds, the earthy smell in the air, the beams of golden sunlight shining through the trees. It all made Lyonel feel relaxed and comfortable.

“No place like home,” Lord Armond Harlton said softly, a rare expression of happiness on his face. And so, they rode in through the gates to the long quadrangular courtyard, in middle of which stood a dead white tree. The thing that immediately caught Lyonel’s attention was the amount of greenery on the courtyard, with vines growing up the structures and several flowerbeds by almost every building. At the very end of the courtyard were large stone stairs leading up to the main keep itself.

After taking their horses to the stables, Lord Armond led Lyonel, Axel and Gared inside the keep. While not as large as the one in Raventree Hall, Castlewood’s great hall was still quite an impressive sight with its tall stone pillars and a large pebble mosaic of a silver tree on green field on the floor.

Two people were standing near the dais as they entered, one clearly a maester and the other a woman of approximately the same age as Lord Armond. The maester was plump and balding, probably on his early fifties, and clad in clean dark robes. The lady on the other hand had a red hair that was starting to grey, and a strong face with high cheekbones and bright green eyes that matched her dress. She was quite tall for a woman, standing at almost six feet and towering the maester by several inches.

“My lord,” the maester greeted Armond with a respectful bow as he noticed them approaching.

“Maester Bennis,” Armond responded with his calm and dry tone, before turning towards the woman. “Carolei,” he said softly, and briefly embraced her in a hug.

“Welcome back home, husband,” the lady responded calmly. “I see you’ve brought guests with you,” she then added, eyeing Lyonel and Axel.

“Yes, I suppose introductions are in order,” Armond spoke, turning towards them. “This is Lyonel Bracken, sworn sword of Lord Brydan Blackwood. And his squire Axel Rivers, natural son of Ser Andar Tully.”

“Welcome to Castlewood, both of you,” the lady said warmly. “I am Lady Carolei Harlton, daughter of the late Lord Dafyn Cargyll.”

“A pleasure to meet you, mylady,” Lyonel spoke with a courteous bow, and Axel followed his example. “Sadly, my visit here is due to some… concerning news,” Lyonel continued, and Lady Carolei nodded. “I know,” she replied with a sigh. “We were just discussing a raven sent by my brother, Lord Desmond Cargyll. He informs that the Poor Fellows attacked one of the villages on his lands, killing half its people and driving the rest away. Apparently, the village’s eldest had refused to pay tribute for the Faith Militant, and the following night a band of over fifty Poor Fellows charged on the village, burning down the houses and putting to sword many of those who tried to escape. My brother sent his men as soon as he learned of what had happened, but this band of Poor Fellows had already left by then.”

“Those bloody cowards,” Ser Gared muttered.

“Does Lord Desmond ask for my aid?” Lord Armond asked calmly, and Maester Bennis shook his head. “No, not directly, mylord,” he said, handing the scroll to Armond. “However, he does suggest a meeting between you and him, to figure out the best course of action.”

Armond eyed the message silently for a moment, before clearing his throat and speaking up again. “Should this situation get out of hand, I hope we can trust in the Storm King. However, for the mean time it would indeed make sense to organize with our allies,” he spoke sternly. “Carolei, do you know where our son is?”

“Elbert is on a patrol with a couple dozen troops,” Carolei answered to her husband, a slightly concerned expression on her face. “He has been doing it a lot since you left.”

“Good, our people ought to be aware that we want to protect them from these thugs of the Faith,” Armond said, a determined look in his eyes. “And has he had any encounters with the Faith Militant while I was gone?”

“Just a small skirmish near the crossroad a few days ago,” Carolei answered. “A group of Poor Fellows had taken over the tavern there, and Elbert drove them out.”

“Good,” Armond said again, stroking his beard as he turned his eyes to Lyonel. “We’ll have a dinner once my son returns, and then we shall discuss your mission further. For now, I think we all could use some rest. Maester Bennis, would you show our guests to their chambers?”

After resting for a moment Lyonel took a bath and changed into a more comfortable clothing, after which he went out to the courtyard together with Axel. First, they went to the stables to groom their horses. Lyonel’s mount, Brie, was one of Raventree Hall’s many trusty coursers. She was a calm and well-trained brown mare, and Lyonel personally had a lot of experience with her.

Axel’s mount on the other hand was a young rounsey, named Patch for the brown patches on his otherwise white coat. Bred and raised in Riverrun, this was undoubtedly the longest journey Patch had ever made, and towards the end of it Axel had had some troubles keeping him calm.

“What exactly do you think our mission will be?” Axel asked as they were brushing their horses.

“I’m not sure,” Lyonel admitted with a small sigh. “Lord Armond wants to organize with his allies, but we came here to learn more about the enemy. The only way I see of doing that is to go to Stoney Sept.”

For a moment they both remained quiet, until Axel spoke up again. “But what good will going to Stoney Sept do?” he asked with a confused tone. “I mean, I understand that it’s where the enemy is, but you don’t think they’re going to tell anything to us, do you?”

“Not if they know who we are,” Lyonel admitted calmly. “However, it seems clear that they are preparing for war. The Faith Militant alone is not strong enough to challenge the Storm King’s authority, they need every ally they can muster.”

“So, we will pretend to join their cause?” Axel asked.

“Maybe,” Lyonel answered hesitantly. “We shall discuss this further with Lord Armond at the dinner.”

After grooming their horses, Lyonel and Axel made their way back to the courtyard and sat down by the dead tree in the middle. Soon they were approached by two young boys, one of them around the same age as Axel, while the younger one couldn’t be more than ten years old.

“Is it true that there will be war?” the younger one blurted out, and the older smacked him lightly on the ear. “Elston, manners,” he said with a chastising tone, before turning back towards Lyonel and Axel and giving them a small bow. “I am Roderick Harlton, the firstborn son of Ser Elbert Harlton and his wife Lady Sarra. This is my younger brother, Elston Harlton.”

“Hi,” Elston muttered, holding his ear and glaring at his older brother.

“Nice to meet you, little lords,” Lyonel said with a warm and friendly tone. “I am Lyonel Bracken, second son of the late Lord Emmon Bracken and sworn sword of Lord Brydan Blackwood.”

“And I’m his squire, Axel Rivers from Riverrun,” Axel introduced himself with an unenthusiastic tone.

“You were sent here by Lord Brydan, right?” Roderick asked, and Lyonel gave him a nod. “So, is it true? Will there be a war?”

“Sadly, it seems more and more likely after every passing day,” Lyonel responded calmly. The looks on the eyes of the two Harlton boys were shocked, but also kind of excited. “Grandfather has told us many stories about the last war,” Roderick said with a subtle gulp.

“If there will be war, we will march together with father and grandfather,” Elston boasted confidently, to which his brother reacted by rolling his eyes. “You’re too young to fight in a war, Elston,” he pointed out bluntly.

“I’m only three years younger than you!” Elston complained. Before Roderick could respond to his brother, they heard a horn sounding outside the castle’s walls.

“That’s our father’s horn,” Roderick recognized, turning his eyes towards the gates. Soon eight riders in the colors of House Harlton rode in, few of them having one or more arrows attached to them. “Father!” Elston screamed, running towards the riders, and his older brother followed quickly after him. Lyonel and Axel exchanged a concerned look, before going after the Harlton boys.

Elston and Roderick ran to the leader of the group, who had just dismounted his horse and struggled to stay on his feet. There was an arrow embedded slightly above his right knee. The man removed his helmet, revealing a long brown hair and a stubble beard, as well as a pained expression on his broad face.

“Father, are you alright?” Roderick asked with a panicked tone, but the man just handed his helmet to him and collapsed on his left knee.

“Ser Elbert?” Lyonel asked as he approached him, offering his hand to help the man back up on his feet. “I am,” he grunted in response as he grabbed Lyonel’s hand.

“I’m Lyonel Bracken, here by the orders of Lord Brydan Blackwood,” he introduced himself hastily. “What happened?”

“We were ambushed… a couple miles west from here… in the forest,” Elbert Harlton explained, breathing heavily. “The Poor Fellows?” Lyonel asked quietly, and Elbert nodded. “Alright, hang on, I’ll take you to the maester,” he assured, placing himself under Elbert’s right arm to support him.

“We lost… at least a dozen men,” Ser Elbert muttered as they limped towards the main keep, and Lyonel could see the pain and anger in his green eyes. “They’ll be avenged, ser,” he promised calmly. As they reached the stairs, Lady Sarra stormed out of the doors. “My love!” she exclaimed with a distraught tone, rushing to hug her husband. “I’m… fine,” Elbert muttered, but Sarra shook her head.

“Help me take him to the maester, mylady,” Lyonel suggested gently. “That arrow must be taken care of.” Sarra took in a deep breath and nodded, and together they brought Ser Elbert to Maester Bennis’ quarters.

“Stay strong, ser,” Lyonel said with an encouraging tone, before leaving him with his wife and the maester. Roderick, Elston and Axel had followed them to the door of the maester’s quarters. “Will he be fine?” Roderick asked immediately as Lyonel stepped outside.

“Aye,” he confirmed softly, ruffling the boy’s brown hair lightly. “But you have to let the maester do his job.”

“I understand,” Roderick said with a sigh. Just then, Lord Armond and Lady Carolei approached them on the corridor.

“I heard the Poor Fellows ambushed Elbert and his men,” Armond spoke with a troubled tone, and Lyonel nodded in confirmation. “Is he in there?” the lord then asked.

“Yes, he took an arrow right above his right knee,” Lyonel explained, to which Carolei reacted with a dramatic gasp. “He should be fine, but… with that kind of injury, he…”

“He may never stand on his own two feet again,” Armond concluded with a sullen tone. Tense silence followed his words, until it was broken by Carolei as she approached her grandsons. “Come boys, follow me,” she told them, and begrudgingly they complied.

Lyonel put his hand on Armond’s shoulder. “We’ll make them pay, mylord,” he said with a quiet and tense tone, looking the old lord to the eyes. “Every one of them.”

“I’ll see you at the dinner, Lyonel. One hour,” Armond spoke sternly, before walking past him to enter the maester’s quarters.

An hour went by, and Lyonel and Axel made their way to the great hall. Ladies Carolei and Sarra were already sitting by the high table, as well as Roderick and Elston. The atmosphere on the hall was gloomy, and for a moment no one said a word. Lyonel and Axel took seats by the other end of the table, leaving two seats free for Armond and Elbert.

“Apologies for the waiting, we will begin the dinner as soon as Armond and Elbert arrive,” Lady Carolei explained with an apologetic tone, and Lyonel gave her an understanding nod. A couple minutes passed, only the young boys discussing quietly amongst each other. Then the doors of the hall were opened again, and Armond walked in alone.

“Unfortunately, Elbert is unable to join us this evening,” he said with a sigh as he arrived at the table. “He had to take milk of the poppy for the pain, and needs to rest.”

“Thank the gods he survived,” Sarra said with a relieved sigh.

“Indeed, it could’ve been much worse,” Carolei chimed in.

“Worse?” Armond scoffed as he sat down. “These thugs ambushed my son, and so close to our home no less. The situation is more severe than I could’ve even imagined.”

“We can discuss that later. Now, let us eat and drink in peace,” Carolei spoke, softly placing her hand on Armond’s shoulder. “Servants, bring us the food,” she then commanded.

It was a quiet and awkward dinner. Carolei complimented the food and wine and Lyonel agreed with her, Axel told a short story about catching a fish once with bare hands, which Roderick and Elston especially seemed to enjoy. However, Armond and Sarra remained quiet throughout the dinner. Lyonel could see anger in the eyes of Armond, and fear in Sarra’s.

“Boys, it’s time for you to go to bed,” Sarra spoke up when they were all done eating.

“But I want to hear what grandfather plans to do next,” Roderick protested, which led to Armond finally speaking up. “You’re too young to concern yourself with this, boy,” he said with a quiet but authoritative tone. Roderick looked disappointed, but didn’t have the courage to protest further.

“Come, we’ll go see your father first,” Sarra told her sons, and with some murmur they followed her out of the hall.

“I assume you are planning something,” Carolei started as the doors were closed, looking at her husband. “An attack like this… it can’t go unanswered.”

“You are absolutely right,” Armond responded, leaning back on his chair. He stroked his beard and gazed up, a pondering look in his eyes. “It is clear that we cannot just sit around and wait for someone to help us, be it the Storm King or Lord Brydan. We must act now, we must act ourselves.”

“And?” Carolei urged him to continue.

“And the first step will be to contact our allies,” he continued calmly. “In fact, I already told Maester Bennis to send ravens to lords Cargyll, Chyttering and Byrch. Together we should be able to amass large enough force to protect our lands against the Faith Militant.”

“Are you sure we can trust Chyttering and Byrch?” Carolei asked quietly.

“I have to trust Ulwyck Chyttering, he is my son-in-law,” Armond responded dryly. “As for Bernarr Byrch, his house has been sworn to the Storm King since Arlan the Avenger marched to Blackwater Rush over a century ago. I doubt he’ll change sides now.”

“And what will be my role in all of this?” Lyonel joined the conversation, gaining the attention of both the Lord and Lady Harlton.

“I assume you still wish to fulfill the task that Lord Brydan gave you?” Armond asked calmly.

“To learn more about this Lucifer Justman, yes,” Lyonel confirmed, and Armond nodded to him. “In that case, I do have an idea. A plan, even,” he said, his lips forming a thin smile.

“I’m all ears,” Lyonel said.

“First, I should ask you something,” Armond said, taking in a deep breath. “Have you ever been to Duskendale?”

“Yes, years ago,” Lyonel answered with a raised eyebrow. He had been to Duskendale once, a couple years after the war when Lord Brydan and his uncle Ronas had visited there.

“Good, because for my plan to work you’ll have to convincingly pull off being from there,” Armond explained. “You see, over sixty years ago King Arlan the Second drove the Faith Militant out of Duskendale, and ever since then they have craved to claim back their chapterhouse there. If you were to approach them, claiming to be a messenger of a potential ally in Duskendale, I have no doubt they would tell you everything you want to hear.”

“Clever,” Lyonel admitted with a slight smirk. “However, from what I know of Lord Renly Darklyn, he doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who would seek an alliance with the Faith Militant.”

“And that is why you’ll claim to have been sent by Lord Damion Darke,” Armond responded sharply. “I’ve met and exchanged letters with him in the past and know him to be a religious man. I can have Maester Bennis forge a message by him, it should be enough to fool the Faith Militant. Like I said, they’ve craved to reclaim their position in Duskendale for a long time, they’ll be eager to rush into an opportunity like this.”

Lyonel took in a deep breath and turned his eyes to his squire. “What do you think, Axel?” he asked with a relaxed tone. The boy looked surprised by the question, but answered nonetheless. “I think it sounds like a solid plan,” he said.

“Then I shall do it,” Lyonel said, giving a nod to Lord Armond.

The sun had already set when Prince Barron Durrandon finally arrived at the gates of Storm’s End. He had rode like the wind through the Riverlands and the northern Stormlands, having left Raventree Hall two weeks ago. The light of the crescent moon glimmered on the stones of the ancient castle, and even to the gates Barron could hear the sounds of the feast.

The guards escorted him to the inner courtyard, where he was approached by a large and imposing man with long brown hair and bushy beard, and a wide grin beneath it. He was dressed in a black-and-white doublet decorated with a pair of battling swans, which made Barron deduce that the man was Lord Domeric Swann. Together with his father Lord Aubrey Swann he had fought in the Riverlands sixteen years ago, and as Aubrey had fell in the Battle of Six Kings his son had taken up the mantle of Lord of Stonehelm at the young age of twenty and six.

“Prince Barron!” the marcher lord greeted him with an obviously drunken voice.

“I’ve come to give my farewells for my brother, and to see the coronation of my nephew,” Barron responded to Domeric with a serious tone, and immediately his grin disappeared, replaced by an apologetic look. “Of course, I’m sorry my prince,” he muttered awkwardly. “However, King Arlan has already been buried in the crypts this morning, and Ormund has been crowned the new Storm King. You’re just in time for the feast though, the new king hasn’t even made his speech yet!”

“First I want to give farewells for my brother,” Barron replied calmly, and Domeric nodded understandingly. “I’ll come with you, my prince,” he said with a bow, and so they made their way into the crypts behind the sept. Domeric led them with a torch in his hand to illuminate the dark tunnels beneath the ground. They walked past the crypts of many long dead Storm Kings, such as Maldon the Seventh who suffered a humiliating defeat against King Gyles Gardener the Third several centuries ago, Cleoden the Third who spent his whole twenty-year reign waging war against the Dornish, and Arlan the Avenger who expanded the Kingdom of Storm to Blackwater Rush over a century ago. And finally, they reached Arlan the Third’s grave. Statue of a mighty warrior stood atop it, which Barron knew had been sculpted shortly after the war on Riverlands. It depicted Arlan in his prime, a handsome and fierce warrior king.

Barron took in a deep breath and stepped closer to the statue, placing his right hand softly against the cold and damp stone. “Oh, brother,” he uttered with a mix of grief and joy in his voice, as memories from decades ago surfaced in his mind. Barron had always been the lesser of the two brothers, but that had never diminished the amount of love and respect Arlan had showed him. Why would the gods decide to take you first?

“Arlan’s death is a great loss for the whole kingdom,” Domeric spoke with quiet and respectful words, and Barron gave him a wordless nod. He removed his hand from the statue and stepped back, gulping subtly as his gaze scanned the stone depiction of his brother.

“Let us hope his son will have a long and prosperous reign,” Barron muttered sternly as he turned away from his brother’s grave. “Well then, the feast awaits, and I’m starving.”

They made their way to the great hall, where musicians were playing, wine flowed and the nobility from all over Stromlands were enjoying themselves. Prince Barron made his way to the royal table on the dais, where King Ormund the Fourth sat with the crown on his head. Next to him was his wife, now Queen, Shiera Durrandon. Then there were their children, the Crown Prince Baldric, Princess Alissa and Prince Durwald, all of them under sixteen years old. Next to them was Ormund’s younger sister, Princess Marleina. On the other end of the table were seated Arlan’s second wife and Shiera’s younger sister, the Dowager Queen Shana Durrandon, and her daughter Princess Arya.

“Uncle Barron!” Ormund stood up to greet him as he walked up to the dais, embracing him into a brief hug. “I was wondering if you’d be able to make it.”

“Nearly rode my horse to death to make the journey as fast as possible,” Barron grunted in response, to which his nephew let out a hearty laughter.

"It is good to see you again, uncle," Marleina spoke, a thin smile on her face. "The pleasure is all mine, niece," Barron responded politely. Though there was no hostility between them, he had never had a particularly close relationship with his niece. As children she had been raised by the ladies of Storm's End, and in adulthood she had had her duties in Griffin's Roost.

Barron took the seat between the King and the Dowager Queen, and began to eat and drink.

“So, I assume you’ve heard of the troubles in Riverlands,” Barron spoke up after quenching the worst of his hunger and thirst.

“The ravens have reached Storm’s End, yes,” Ormund responded unenthusiastically. “The Faith Militant has always been a bothersome nuisance. As the chief advisor of the Warden of Riverlands, I trust you will find a way to deal with these problems.”

“Oh, I know one way that would certainly work,” Barron said sharply. “March your armies to Riverlands like your father did, remind them of our power. That should bloody do it.”

Ormund glanced at his uncle tiredly and let out a sigh. “It’s a long march to Riverlands,” he said calmly. “We cannot afford to assemble the whole might of Stormlands every time some lunatic of the Faith Militant decides to kill a few peasants. My father trusted the Blackwoods to protect the Riverlands in his name, and as I recall your role was to make sure they do just that.”

Before Barron could answer to Ormund, the Dowager Queen next to him spoke up. “So, you would abandon my brother, your brother-in-law, in his time of need?” she asked sternly, a sharp glare in her green eyes. “I doubt Arlan would’ve done that.”

“I do not wish to insult you, Queen Shana, but I believe I knew my father better than you did,” Ormund responded, a cold and sarcastic smile on his face.

“And do you have nothing to say to this, sister?” Shana challenged Queen Shiera, who reacted with a frustrated sigh. “Do you have no trust in our brother, Shana?” she asked in response. “He’s not a boy anymore, I’m certain that he’s fully capable of doing his duty.”

“Excuse me, my king, my queens, but Lord Brydan’s capabilities are not the issue here,” Barron sternly inserted himself back into the conversation. “And it is not just about some crazed Warrior’s Sons causing havoc either – we’re talking about a full-blown rebellion, or at least it could become one if we don’t act quickly to squash it. They have even crowned themselves a king, a man who calls himself Lucifer Justman. Do you understand that, my king? A man on the territory that your father conquered, that you now rule, calls himself a king. It is high treason and demands an answer.”

Tense silence on the royal table followed Barron’s words, until Ormund spoke up again. “Fine then, I will grant you some men from our closest bannermen to deal with the issue,” he said begrudgingly. “However, the full might of the Stormlands I cannot give you, uncle, for I have other plans for that might.”

“Other plans?” Barron asked with a frown, and King Ormund simply nodded to him. Then he grabbed his goblet and stood up, quickly gathering the attention of the whole great hall.

“Speech, speech!” some chanted cheerfully on the lower tables, and Ormund nodded to them with a smile.

“Aye, I do indeed have a few words for you, my dear lords and ladies,” he spoke with his smooth and charismatic voice. “I’ve mourned for my father since the day that he died, and I doubt there will ever come a day that I won’t look back to when he was still here with us. However, time has come for the Stromlands to turn its gaze towards future again.” Ormund paused for a moment, letting his eyes soar over the nobles who had all quieted down to hear his speech. “I’m grateful for the legacy my father has left me, but I am also determined to build upon it. Arlan marched to Riverlands not to conquer but to help a friend, but in the end the circumstances forced him to annex the region. It was the greatest conquest any Strom King has ever made, but it was never my father’s dream. His true dream was to subdue the Dornish regions of the Red Mountains under our rule, and I will be the one to see his dream come reality.”

Ormund paused again, letting the surprised audience whisper amongst each other for a moment before continuing. “I know what some of you are thinking right now. Yes, Arlan’s attempt to conquer Dorne six years ago failed, after his army suffered a crushing defeat on the Boneway. We underestimated Princess Nymeria and her Principality back then, but we will not make the same mistake again. Instead of simply marching on the Red Mountains, we shall also send a strong fleet of ships to the Greenblood, forcing the Dornish to fight on two fronts. Together, my lords, we shall crush the Dornish. Ours is the fury!”

The nobles in the hall reacted to the King’s speech with roaring cheers and applauds, some even starting to chant his name. With a satisfied smile Ormund sat down, and Barron shot his nephew with a cold glare.

“Spare me from your complaints, uncle,” Ormund said dryly, the people in the hall still cheering for him. “This war is my destiny, just as conquering Riverlands was Arlan’s.”

“I will not deny it from you, Your Grace,” Barron responded calmly. Of course he disapproved this reckless decision, especially now that Riverlands was at the verge of another war, but he knew already that his nephew’s mind would not be changed. If I wish to have any troops with me when I return to Riverlands, I better not anger him.

“I expected you to be more… stubborn,” Ormund said with a pleasantly surprised tone.

“I know better than to deny the Storm King his desire for conquest,” Barron replied with a sigh. “Just know that the situation has grown extremely precarious, and the day may come when the only options you have are to either march north or give up your dominion over Riverlands.”

“I have no doubt in my mind that you will pacify the situation before it gets to that, uncle. Truly, you deserve praise for how exceptionally you have governed Riverlands for these past sixteen years,” Ormund spoke with honeyed words. It was empty flattery, but Barron played along. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said calmly. “I do believe I am indeed capable of governing Riverlands. However, to ensure that our hold on the land endures whatever troubles lay ahead, a show of force will be necessary. And for that, I will need troops.”

“You have troops. House Blackwood and their vassals are under your command,” Ormund responded with a sly smirk. “However, in case that isn’t enough, our vassals at Blackwater Bay are also at your disposal. They served us well against the Teagues, did they not? If there is to be another conflict on Riverlands they will surely serve us well again.”

So, I get the scraps, Barron thought with some frustration, but gave the King a polite nod nonetheless. It was true, the houses of Blackwater Bay could form quite a formidable army together. However, those houses were famously quarrelsome amongst each other, and weren’t exactly known for their loyalty.

The rest of the evening was free of talks of war, and with the help of the wine Barron even managed to relax and enjoy himself after the exhausting journey behind him. Shana and Shiera were especially curious to hear about the goings-on of Raventree Hall, and the more wine Barron drank the crasser his stories became. By the end of the night he was telling about the time Olyvar Chambers was tricked to drink horse piss, breaking into laughter after every other word.

The next morning Prince Barron woke up with an agonizing headache. It took him a moment to recall where he was, before he recognized the room around him. It was the very same chamber he had lived in during his youth in Strom’s End, located on the higher floors of the massive keep.

Gritting his teeth, Barron raised from his bed. For a moment he felt the urge to throw up, but managed to compose himself at the last moment. “Fucking hell,” he muttered as he made his way out of his chambers. It was a cloudy and slightly windy day outside, but Barron decided to make his way atop the walls nonetheless. From there he admired the billowing Shipbreaker Bay, and listened as the waves smashed against the rocks beneath him.

Barron was no maester, but it was clear to see that autumn was near. Yet another reason why Ormund should reconsider his plans. Storm Kings had regularly waged war with the Dornish for centuries, and even Arlan hadn’t been able to subdue them. Perhaps Ormund could be the one to do it, but Barron had his doubts.

“Prince Barron,” a female voice spoke behind him, and he turned to see Shana Durrandon approaching him. Technically speaking she was his sister-in-law, but being twenty-five years younger she might as well have been his daughter. “Queen Shana,” Barron responded with a respectful nod.

“Not much of a queen anymore,” she responded with a small sigh. “Anyway, how are you feeling?”

“I’ve had worse hangovers,” Barron answered with a tiny smirk. “And you?”

“I’m… fine, I suppose,” Shana answered calmly. “It’s weird, Arlan has been dead for weeks, but seeing his crown on Ormund’s head was what made me truly realize that he is gone.”

“You may not be the Queen any longer, but I guarantee that you and your daughter will be treated with utmost respect here,” Barron assured.

“I know,” Shana replied nonchalantly. “Still, I feel that I’ve lost my purpose here. What am I supposed to do with the rest of my life? Smile and watch idly as my sister and her husband rule?”

“Perhaps you should concentrate on Arya,” Barron suggested calmly. “I’m sure that’s what Arlan would’ve wanted.”

A sad little smile formed on Shana’s face, and she gazed into the sea with longing eyes. “I talked about this with him many times during the weeks before he passed,” she said quietly. “The thought of leaving Arya behind without a father hurt him more than anything, he was always so protective of her. And despite all the pain he refused to accept that he didn’t have much time left in this world. He thought he could pull through with sheer will.”

“Aye, that sounds like Arlan,” Barron replied wistfully, and a moment of silence followed.

“Barron, there is a request I have for you,” Shana finally spoke up again, and Barron gave her a questioning look. “When you go back to Riverlands, please allow me and Arya to come with you,” she pleaded.

“Why?” Barron asked with a raised eyebrow. Shana gulped subtly, and considered her words for a few seconds before speaking up. “Like I said, there is no purpose for me here anymore, and I want to see Raventree Hall again. And my brother, I want to see what kind of man Brydan has grown to be.”

“And are you sure this is something Arya wants?” Barron asked with narrowed eyes, and Shana nodded. “If she remains here, she’ll never be able to move on from the pain of losing Arlan,” she said with a sigh. “She grew up here, but I believe it would be for her own good to live somewhere else, at least for some time.”

“You’re a free woman, as is your daughter,” Barron stated calmly. “However, I must warn you. Riverlands is not exactly safe right now, and I might well be marching to a war as I return there. Of course, I will do everything in my power to keep both of you safe regardless, but wars are unpredictable.”

“I am the daughter of Lord Roderick, and Arya is the daughter of King Arlan. We are not easily frightened,” Shana said confidently, and Barron gave her a soft smile. “Well, I can certainly see my brother’s influence in you,” he said with a benevolent tone. “So be it, we shall travel together.”

”And you’re sure it was Lord Ilyn Vyrwel?” Lord Waymar Manderly asked sternly, and with a gulp his son Walton nodded. They were in the chambers given to the Manderly lord in Highgarden, Walton’s mother Lady Alicent standing by the window with a concerned expression on her face, and his older brother Andrew guarding the door.

It was the morning of the first tourney day, and Walton’s family had arrived the last night. Walton had told them what he had overheard in Horn Hill just a week before, to which they had understandably reacted with some skepticism.

“Yes, I believe he was speaking with his brother, Ser Gormon,” Walton explained. With a sigh his father leaned back on his chair, a frustrated expression on his stocky face. Lord Waymar was one of the wealthiest lords in the Reach, which he made no efforts to hide with his expensive and extravagant attires. Of course, much of that wealth came from the inherited family fortune, but Waymar had also taken steps to increase House Manderly’s wealth by making investments in Oldtown and increasing trade overseas. Even though such endeavors could be seen as benefitting all of the Reach, it was also a source of jealousy for many Reachman lords.

“Well, I had suspected that Lord Peake was envious of my wealth, but I wouldn’t have guessed him to take it as far as plotting against my family,” Waymar grunted with a displeased tone. “What more did you hear, boy?”

“Lord Ilyn mentioned that when they are to move against us, it’ll be done in a way that would paint us as the traitors and not them,” Walton answered with a nervous tone, to which his father frowned. However, it was Andrew who spoke up now. “And how would they do that?” he asked with a confused tone, and all Walton could give in response to his brother was a shrug.

“Anything more?” Waymar inquired sternly. Walton remained quiet for a moment, thinking back on that night and trying to remember what more he had heard. “They spoke about who would support Lord Peake in his efforts against us,” he recalled, struggling to remember the details. “I think they mentioned… Fossoways, Florents, Raylans…”

“Raylans?” Waymar cut him off with a surprised and irate tone. “I consider Lord Adrack a friend, are you sure this is what you heard, boy?”

“I… I’m pretty sure they mentioned that Raylans would side with them, yes,” Walton responded with a gulp. The anger on his father’s face was replaced by disappointment, and then doubt. “I find that hard to believe,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly. “And what of Lord Tarly, did they speak of him?”

“Symon is not in on their conspiracy,” Walton assured calmly. “However, Lord Ilyn’s heir is married with Symon’s eldest daughter, so…”

“So he cannot be trusted either,” Waymar concluded with a bitter tone.

“Will you speak to the King about this, father?” Andrew asked calmly, and Waymar shook his head. “No, Lord Peake is too close with King Greydon, and there is not enough evidence,” he said sternly. “However, I will speak of this with Lord Hightower.”

Walton knew that his father’s older sister Merianne was married to Ser Lester Hightower, the heir of the old Lord Glendon Hightower. He didn’t know how close of a connection Waymar had with the Lord of Oldtown, but if he was willing to speak to him about this there had to be a lot of trust between them.

"And what of Walton?” Lady Alicent spoke up, and Waymar turned to look at her. “What of him?” he asked calmly, and she took a few steps closer to them.

“You said that we can’t trust Lord Tarly anymore,” Alicent spoke strictly, glancing at her son with concerned eyes. “Doesn’t that mean it is time for Walton to come back home?”

“No,” Waymar responded to his wife without hesitation. “He will remain as Lord Symon’s ward, and he will keep his eyes and ears open for anything that might hint towards Lord Peake’s plans. Do you understand, boy?” he asked, looking at Walton now.

“Yes, father,” Walton replied with a dutiful nod, and a thin smile formed on Waymar’s face. “See, the boy is willing to do his part,” he said to Alicent, who sighed and shook her head. “Only because he doesn’t understand the risks,” she said, now lowering herself next to Walton. She placed her hand on his shoulder and looked him to the eyes. “I’ve missed you badly, my son,” she said softly.

For a split-second Walton wanted to answer that he had missed her too, for that was the truth, but as his gaze shifted back to Waymar he changed his mind. “You don’t have to worry about me, mother,” he said with all the confidence he could muster. “I’m almost a man grown now.”

Alicent chuckled gently to his words, and lightly stroked his fair hair. “I’ll never stop worrying about you, my child,” she said with a wistful sigh, before standing up and taking a step back. “Now, I think it’s time we made our way to the tourney field, Willam should have his first joust at any moment.”

Not many nobles were present at the large tourney pavilion reserved for them at this time. After all these were the first rounds of the joust, and the true excitement would be on the fifth day of the tourney when the champion would be determined. However, Walton’s younger sister Meliana was there together with Ser Patrek Lowther, the master-at-arms of Dunstonbury.

“Has Willam rode yet?” Andrew asked as they approached them, and Ser Patrek shook his head. “But Ser Triston Tarly just unhorsed Ser Olymer Wythers.” And indeed, Walton could see Triston on the other side of the tiltyard, being congratulated by his father and brother, while the older Wythers knight limped away with a defeated expression.

“Good to see you again, brother,” Meliana spoke, measuring Walton with her sharp gaze. She had grown during the two years they had been apart, being now at the age of eleven, but she was by no means a woman grown. “Likewise, sister,” Walton responded with a hesitant smirk. “I take it you’ve behaved yourself while I’ve been gone.”

“No, she hasn’t,” Andrew chimed in with a humorous tone.

“Yes, I have,” Meliana insisted, giving Andrew an irritated glare.

“You shouldn’t speak against your older brother,” Andrew remarked, wagging his finger with a sly grin on his face. “Well that’s just unfair,” Meliana protested.

“Enough,” Lord Waymar said with a calm but authoritative tone, nodding towards the tiltyard where an announcer had now arrived. The man opened a scroll to read from and cleared his throat. “Next to ride, Ser Willam Manderly of Dunstonbury, against Ser Harry of Little Dosk,” the man announced ceremonially, which was followed by the chime of trumpets. Willam rode to one end of the tiltyard, clad in his shining plated armor and wielding a lance painted in turquoise and white. His opponent at the other end of the tiltyard looked sturdy, built like a warrior. However, his gear revealed that he was of modest background, most likely a hedge knight. The man was clad in a well-worn armor that was a mixture of leather and chainmail, and bore no colors of any noble house. Instead, on his brown shield was painted only a golden seven-pointed star.

“Finally, Willam gets to show his worth,” Andrew said excitedly, but his father merely scoffed. “A hedge knight will not be nearly enough of a challenge for Willam to show his worth,” Lord Waymar said nonchalantly, just before the two knights charged into the first tilt. The hedge knight’s lance missed its target completely, while Andrew’s bumped heavily against his opponent’s shield. However, both remained atop their horses and turned around for the second tilt as they reached the ends of the tiltyard.

Ser Willam and Ser Henry clashed again, though this time both of them hit each other’s shields. However, it looked as if Henry’s blow was harder, and for a split-second Walton feared that Willam would fall. He remained atop his horse, but it was clear by now that unhorsing this hedge knight was no easy task even for someone as skilled as Ser Willam. And so they charged for the third tilt. Ser Henry’s lance splintered on impact with Willam’s shield, but both riders remained on their saddles.

While they waited for Henry’s spare lance to be brought to him, Walton noticed Willam turning his gaze up towards the sky. Perhaps he is praying, he thought with a gulp. Walton could only imagine how nervous his second cousin had to be right now. He had come here to win glory, and to be unhorsed on the first round by a hedge knight would be the furthest thing possible from that.

Ser Henry got his new lance, and so the knights charged for the fourth tilt. Ser Henry’s lance scraped on Willam’s shield, while the Manderly knight’s lance slipped under his shield. With a grunt of pain, the hedge knight tumbled down from his horse. Willam Manderly had won his first joust on the tourney.

“We should go congratulate Willam,” Andrew said cheerfully.

“You do that, I’ll go see this Ser Henry,” Waymar said sternly. “A knight of his skill should have a lord to serve.”

While the Manderly lord approached the hedge knight, Walton, Andrew and Meliana went to their second cousin. “Congratulations, cousin!” Andrew yelled with a grin as Willam dismounted his horse. He removed his helmet and let out a sigh. “Not my best joust,” he said with a displeased tone, but Andrew tapped him encouragingly on the shoulder. “Doesn’t matter, you’re on the second round regardless,” he remarked.

Walton watched several more jousts together with his family. All of the royal guards who attended the joust made it to the second round, as did the King’s second son Prince Harlon, Ser Lyonel Vyrwel, Andrew. After all that Walton went off to prepare for his own performance at the squire melee, which would be the final event of the first day.

“Can’t believe the King himself will be there to watch us fight,” Ryam spoke with a wide grin on his face as they sat together on a pavilion, putting on their gear. “I’m trying to forget there is an audience at all,” Walton replied with a queasy tone. “How many fighters were there again?”

“I think it was fifty… two?” Ryam responded with an uncertain tone, chuckling softly as Walton reacted with a slight wince. “Look at it this way, there’s so many fighters that if you mess up no one will probably even notice,” Ryam spoke calmly.

“My father will notice, your father will notice,” Walton argued sternly, and his friend let out a sigh. “I guess you’re right,” he said with shrug, and Walton looked at him with a frown. “How can you be so relaxed?” he asked with a slightly annoyed tone, and Ryam flashed him a grin. “It’s just a tourney melee, my friend,” he said confidently, tightening the straps of his armor. “No one is going to die, and before it’s over I might even get a chance to give Ivar Vyrwel a good beating.”

“Or he’ll give you one,” Walton pointed out unenthusiastically. He had done his fair share of training throughout his life, but he knew there were many boys of his age out there he would stand no chance against. I fear Ivar is one of them.

Before Ryam could answer anything to Walton, they heard the trumpets calling the fighters. “Let’s go,” Ryam said with an eager smirk, pulling on his helmet and patting Walton on the shoulder as he stormed outside of the pavilion, and Walton quickly followed after him.

There was an hour or so to sundown as the fighters made their way to the tourney field. The fighters gathered on the tourney field, forming a large ring. On one side of the field was the tourney pavilion of the nobles, with the royal family seated on a platform above everyone else, and on the other side were the crowds of common folk. Walton’s eyes wondered from King Greydon to his own family, and then the Tarly’s. Finally, he spotted Genna Tarly, sitting beside Lord Symon with a sweet smile on her beautiful face. Perhaps this could be my chance to impress her.

The King stood up, and the trumpets were blown to gather everyone’s attention. “Lords, ladies, and the people of the Reach,” Greydon begun with his powerful voice. “We’ve all come here not just to admire the skill of this land’s many great knights, but to celebrate the glory of the Reach! There is no other kingdom so proud, so strong, so beautiful. And tonight, we will witness the young promises of the kingdom, who have come from everywhere from the North March to Oldtown to prove their worth. They are all protectors of tomorrow, but only one can be champion today!”

The people cheered loudly for the King’s words, and Walton closed his eyes for a moment, trying to remember the tips that Willam had given him earlier. He glanced at Ryam who standing on his right, clenching on to his mace. Ryam had tried to convince Walton to choose a mace for his weapon as well, but he had taken a blunted sword, because it was the weapon he had the most experience with.

The trumpets chimed, signaling the beginning of the melee. Walton immediately raised his shield and took a step back. However, the Caswell boy who had stood on his left charged forward instead of challenging Walton. He glance behind him, seeing that Ryam had begun a duel with a Cuy squire who looked about the same size as him.

With grunting, screams and clashing filling the air around him, Walton begun to carefully approach the center of the field, keeping his shield up. Then his eyes met with someone, a brown-haired boy slightly taller than him wearing the colors of House Hutcheson. The Hutcheson squire pointed his war hammer towards Walton, challenging him to a fight. With a gulp Walton nodded, and so his first opponent charged against him. He managed to block the first swing of the hammer with his shield, though it still threw him slightly off balance. To counter he swung his sword, mostly just to give himself time to find his footing again. However, the Hutcheson was in hurry to defeat him, and his next swing was aimed at Walton’s legs. Swiftly Walton moved his right leg and dodged the hammer, leaving him in a forward leaning posture. Feeling like he had no other option, Walton rushed forward, dashing against his opponent shield first. Surprised by this, the Hutcheson took a few steps back under Walton’s push, before swinging his hammer again. This time it hit Walton on his ribs, denting the armor and forcing him to back down.

Walton gasped at the pain he felt on his ribs, clenching his teeth together violently to bear it. The Hutcheson squire gave him no time to catch his breath, immediately charging for another strike. Walton barely managed to move his shield fast enough to deflect the hammer, and he could feel the impact on his arm even through the shield. Had it hit him, he would’ve been on the ground. Recognizing he was in a tight spot, Walton decided to do something aggressive. While the Hutcheson prepared for another swing of his hammer, Walton quickly stabbed him on his lower left leg. Even with a sharpened blade it wouldn’t have done much damage, but it worked well enough to distract the Hutcheson for a moment, and Walton took that moment to leap closer to him. He moved specifically closer to the hammer, leaving the Hutcheson with less room to use it. As the Hutcheson tried to counter this by pushing Walton away with his shield, he managed to hack his sword on the hand that was holding the hammer. With a loud bark of pain the Hutcheson dropper his weapon, and Walton proceeded to move his blade against his neck.

“I yield,” the Hutcheson grunted with a displeased tone, raising his hands up and beginning to walk away from the field. Walton let out a sigh of relief and allowed a satisfied smile to form on his face. Glancing around him, he saw around twenty fighters still on the field. He tried to see if Ryam was still there, but before he could find him he was interrupted. “Hey, Manderly,” someone said with an aggressive tone behind him, and Walton turned around to see a squire that looked to be the same age as him, armed with a sword and wearing the colors of House Peake.

“Leo Peake,” Walton spoke grimly, recognizing the boy as the grandson of Lord Lorimar Peake.

“I’ve heard your father is a traitorous snake,” Leo said coldly, to which Walton frowned. “I know your father is a traitorous snake,” he responded sternly, to which Leo simply smirked. Then, without a warning he attacked. Walton parried the first strike with his sword, and immediately retaliated with an upward swing aimed at Leo’s head, which he dodged. At first Walton was on the offensive, striking furiously from left and right, but failing to penetrate his opponent’s defense. Then, Leo moved from defensive to offensive, forcing Walton to back down and hide behind his shield.

After a couple minutes of intense dueling, Leo suddenly halted. On his face a surprised expression, as he seemed to be looking behind Walton. He is trying to trick me, Walton deduced, and resisted the urge to look behind him. However, Leo now completely lowered his guard, and the expression on his face turned from confused to frantic. “Ivar, don’t-“, he begun, but before Leo could finish the sentence Walton felt a heavy blow on the back of his head, knocking him out.

Three days had passed since King Harmund had set sail from Casterly Rock, first to Fair Isle where the Farman fleet would join him, and from there back to the Iron Isles where they would join with the Ironborn fleet. However, Gwynesse Goodbrother had kept her promise to Prince Harmund the Handsome and stayed with him and the Lannister army.

A massive army of westermen had been amassing on the meadows north of Lannisport and east of Casterly Rock, and Gwynesse eyed it from atop a small hill to the north. Nearly ten thousand had already arrived, among them the levied troops of such noble houses as Reyne, Tarbeck, Westerling, Prester, Parren, Hamell, Sarsfield, Jast and Plumm, as well as hundreds of sellswords and freeriders. The forces of Banefort and Crakehall were expected to arrive any day, and even more would join them once the army would march to Deep Den. From there the full might of the Rock would head south, to Reach.

Gwynesse had learned from one of the books she had borrowed from Princess Lorena that the westermen had in the past often used the Ocean Road when attempting to conquer the Reach. However, as King Lancel undoubtedly knew, those attempts had always been curbed by the dutiful Marshalls of the Northmarch – the lords of House Osgrey. And since the Ironborn fleet would attack from the west regardless, marching the Lannister army to the eastern Reach would serve to further split King Gardener’s defenses.

Gwynesse’s thoughts were interrupted as she noticed Prince Harmund approaching her up the hill. “What are you thinking, dear?” he asked as he got closer, and she looked at him with a small smile. “This war,” she answered softly. “How it might change Westeros,” she added as Harmund arrived next to her.

“Hopefully for the better,” the prince said with a small sigh, his eyes soaring over the hundreds of tents and pavilions on the field beneath them. “My hope is that our people, the Ironborn, will get good and fertile land from the Reach. Perhaps then there will be no more need for stealing and raiding, and they can all find the Faith.”

Gwynesse studied the prince’s face as he spoke, and the look on his eyes was sincere. Many Ironborn would find what he just said insulting, but Gwynesse could tell that Harmund truly wanted the best for everyone. “Perhaps,” she said quietly. “Maybe… maybe you could teach me, about the Faith,” she suggested with a subtle gulp, and Harmund gave her a surprised look.

“Oh, well, I’m not much of a teacher, or a septon for that matter,” he said with a hesitant tone. “But I suppose I could teach you something. I assume you know the basics?”

“I know there are seven gods,” Gwynesse said with an awkward chuckle. “Father, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Smith, and then there is, uh…”

“Crone and the Stranger,” Harmund concluded calmly. “And in truth there is just one god, with seven faces. Father is the face of justice, Mother is the face of mercy, Warrior is the face of courage, Smith is the face of strength, Maiden is the face of innocence, Crone is the face of wisdom, and Stranger is the face of death.”

“If they are all faces of the same god, why should they be prayed to separately?” Gwynesse asked with a raised eyebrow. Harmund seemed stunned for a moment by this question, but after a couple seconds he let out a small laugh and smirked. “That is a good question, Gwynesse,” he said with a lighthearted tone. “But think of it like this; a family is one, but you might ask something from your mother that you wouldn’t ask from your father, or something from your brothers that you wouldn’t ask from your mother.”

“But my father, mother and brothers are not the same… person,” Gwynesse remarked with an amused tone, and Harmund let out a sigh. “I suppose a septon could explain it better,” he said with a grin.

“And how exactly do they know what the god or gods are like?” Gwynesse asked with narrowed eyes. “Have they met them?”

“They haven’t, but they’ve read and studied the testimonies written by the Andals who did thousands of years ago,” Harmund was quick to answer. “Hugor of the Hill, the first King of Andals, was crowned by the Father himself.”

“And we should just… believe those old testimonies?” Gwynesse asked with a skeptical tone, and Harmund nodded. “Faith is the key,” he stated calmly. “You must have faith in the Seven, and they will make themselves known to you as you pray to them.”

“Faith,” Gwynesse repeated quietly. She didn’t know if she could force herself to have faith in the Seven, but for the sake of Harmund she would try. “I’ve heard your father used to say that there are eight gods, Drowned God being one of them,” she brought up.

“That was heresy, and my father has renounced such claims long ago,” Harmund responded calmly. “Now he simply sees the Drowned God as an aspect of the Stranger. Not exactly in line with the scriptures, but I can sympathize with my father’s need for seeking a compromise between his two beliefs.”

“And what about you, my prince?” Gwynesse asked with a slightly nervous tone, and Harmund gave her a questioning look. “What about me?” he asked calmly.

“Will you seek a compromise, when you inherit your father’s crown?” She asked softly. For a couple of seconds Harmund just looked at her, and Gwynesse could not read the emotion from his eyes. “My hope is that by the time I take my father’s place, there will be no need for a compromise,” the prince finally spoke, a clear and earnest tone on his voice. “That our people will have accepted the Seven in their hearts and renounced their old sinful ways.”

“I hope you’ll forgive me for speaking plainly, my prince, but I don’t think what you hope for is very likely to come true,” Gwynesse spoke with a delicate tone, hoping not to insult Harmund, and to her surprise the prince smiled. “I thank you for your honesty, my lady,” he said smoothly, softly grasping her hand. “And you’re correct, it is unlikely that the Ironborn will embrace the Faith of the Seven on their own. They will need someone to guide them, to show them the light, and I am prepared to take that role.”

Gwynesse moved closer to Harmund, taking his other hand and looking into his eyes. The hopefulness and determination in his dark eyes was captivating, enchanting even. “I pray you will succeed,” Gwynesse whispered, before pulling the Hoare prince into a passionate kiss.

A horn sounded somewhere in the distance, most likely signaling more troops joining the army. Slowly Gwynesse and Harmund separated from their kiss and turned their eyes to south, and indeed, a sizeable force could be seen approaching from afar. Thousands of soldiers, marching under brown banners.

“The Crakehalls,” Harmund said with a small smirk. “Come, we should join Tymond and Tywell in welcoming them.”

They hurried down from the hill and joined the Lannister princes and lords Reyne, Tarbeck and Westerling at the center of the camp. Lord Regenard Reyne was a tall, broad and stocky man on his early forties, with red face, dark hair and large mutton chops. He certainly looked like a warrior, unlike his son and heir Ramsay who stood beside him. He was boyishly handsome and had a confident smirk on his face, but Gwynesse had to wonder if he even had the strength to carry a shield. Lord Alfred Tarbeck on the other hand was a fat and balding man on his early fifties, looking more like a merchant than a warrior in his blue velvet doublet. And lastly there was Lord Edwyn Westerling, a lean and ordinary looking man on his mid-forties, the most outstanding feature of his looks being his luscious golden hair, which he had pulled back into a knot behind his head.

“There he comes,” Prince Tywell said with a grin on his face as the man leading the Crakehall troops approached them atop his white horse. He was a young and handsome man, no more than twenty-five, with long brown hair and a patch of beard on his chin. The young knight descended from his horse, and fell on his knee in front of the Lannisters. Tywell grabbed the man’s arm and pulled him up, embracing him in a brotherly hug. “It’s good to see you, Ser Aubrey!” he said, tapping his friend on the back.

“Likewise, my prince,” Aubrey Crakehall responded with a polite tone as they separated.

“And are you the sole commander of these troops that march with you, ser?” Prince Tymond asked sternly, and the Crakehall knight turned his green eyes towards the older of the Lannister princes. “Yes, my prince,” he responded with a respectful nod. “My father knows that from his two sons, I am the warrior.”

“And why would Lord Anders not lead his troops personally?” Tymond inquired sharply.

“My lord father wishes to remain in charge of Crakehall, for he fears this war may entice Reachmen to attack our lands,” Ser Aubrey responded calmly.

“Understandable,” Prince Tywell was quick to say, giving a meaningful glance at his father. “He has done his duty by sending these men, and you to lead them.”

“How many men do you bring, ser?” Lord Tarbeck asked with a curious tone. “Two thousand, more than hundred of them on horseback,” Ser Aubrey answered with a confident grin.

“A considerable force,” Harmund commented with a relaxed tone, shifting Ser Aubrey’s attention towards him. “Ah, Prince Harmund, you’re here as well,” he said with a wide grin, approaching him and putting his right hand on Harmund’s shoulder. “It’s been years.”

“Indeed,” Harmund replied with a friendly tone. “Who would’ve guessed we’d meet again in such circumstances.”

“In all honesty, I’m surprised it took this long for King Lancel to do this,” Aubrey said with a humorous tone, slowly turning his eyes to Gwynesse. “Mylady,” he greeted her with a polite tone.

“I am Gwynesse, of House Goodbrother,” she introduced herself with a shy smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ser.”

“Likewise,” Aubrey replied with a small nod. “I take it you are Prince Harmund’s betrothed?”

“A companion,” Harmund corrected quickly, glancing at Gwynesse. “Though I suppose anything is possible,” he added with an awkward chuckle.

“I see,” Aubrey said with a smirk, turning towards the Lannister princes again. “I wonder, where is King Lancel?” he asked with a calm and polite tone.

“The King will join us once the Baneforts arrive,” Prince Tymond answered. “For now, make yourself and your men comfortable, Ser Aubrey.”

“I shall do that, my prince. Now excuse me, I am in need of rest,” the Crakehall knight said with a relaxed tone. He bowed once more for the Lannisters, and as he walked back towards his horse he glanced at Gwynesse again, their eyes meeting for a moment.

“He’s your friend?” Gwynesse asked quietly from Harmund, as they watched Aubrey leading his horse to the other direction.

“Yes,” Harmund confirmed with a small smile. “A good friend.”

The Baneforts arrived the next day, led by the elderly Lord Monfryd, who was also the father-in-law of Prince Tymond. King Lancel then made his way to the camp to greet his bannermen, and a great feast was held outside that evening. The long table of the king was in the middle, around it hundreds of smaller tables for the troops and the camp followers. No doubt half the prostitutes of Lannisport had found their way into the camp, and Gwynesse could hardly blame them. Men heading to war were more eager than most to lay with women, as well as to part with their coin.

Gwynesse sat between Prince Harmund and Lord Regenard Reyne, and directly opposed to them were Prince Tywell, Ser Aubrey and Lord Edwyn Westerling. They were just a few seats apart from the King, who was sitting with his son Tymond, as well as lords Tarbeck and Banefort.

“Tell me, Prince Harmund, can we trust your father to do his part?” Regenard asked sternly, and Harmund gave the Reyne lord a polite nod. “King Harmund is a man of his word, mylord,” he said calmly. “You can trust him.”

“Harmund is like a son to King Lancel, he would never betray us,” Prince Tywell remarked as well, and Regenard nodded with a seemingly satisfied expression on his face. “And what of his vassals?” Edwyn Westerling asked, his tone calm but sharp. “I suspect many of the Ironborn lords may be less comfortable with this alliance than their king.”

“They would not miss the opportunity to raid the Reach,” Gwynesse joined the conversation. “It is true many of them have no love for King Lancel, some don’t even have love for King Harmund. However, they all have a love for wealth, and more so for wealth taken with swords and axes.”

“Ah, the iron price, as I believe your people call it,” Edwyn replied, a thin smile on his face, and Gwynesse gave him a nod.

“The promise of plunder is what will inspire most of them to sail with my father, Lady Gwynesse is right about that,” Harmund spoke calmly, sipping his ale. “However, I believe it is the lands that we will conquer that will be most beneficial to our people in the long run.”

“If any lands will be conquered, my prince,” Ser Aubrey inserted himself into the conversation, shifting all of their attention to him. “I don’t mean to sow doubt into your hearts, my lords, lady. However, before speaking of the benefits of victory, the war should first be won.”

“Of course, you are right Aubrey,” Harmund agreed, though clearly somewhat begrudgingly. “The war must be won, and the enemy is not one to be underestimated.”

Soon King Lancel stood up from his seat and climbed atop the table, a beautiful sword on his hand. Quickly everyone else stood up as well, to honor the King. “People of the Rock, from Banefort to Crakehall, it warms my heart to see all of you here!“ He begun his speech, and the troops cheered and banged their mugs against the tables for him. “Ahead lies a long march, and many battles. Blood will be spilled, and many will fall, but have no doubt, in the end we will prevail! For glory, for the gods, and for the Rock!” The King ended his short speech by raising his sword towards the starry night sky. Monfryd Banefort immediately raised his fist and yelled, “Long live the King!”

“Long live the King!” Regenard Reyne joined him, and soon the whole camp was chanting it. “Long live the King! Long live the King! Long live the King!”

After a couple hours of feasting and drinking, Gwynesse felt the need to go for a leak. “Excuse me,” she said politely as she stood up and walked away from the tables. She headed towards the eastern edge of the camp, where there were some trees and bushes.

After taking a piss Gwynesse made her way back to the camp. However, before she could get even close to the tables, she saw Aubrey Crakehall in front of her. Standing there in the moonlight, tall and proud, with a confident smile on his face, Gwynesse had to admit that he looked quite attractive. “Lady Gwynesse,” he greeted her with a polite tone as they approached each other.

“Did you follow me here, Ser Aubrey?” Gwynesse asked, narrowing her eyes as she glared at the Crakehall knight.

“No, mylady,” Aubrey responded, his lips forming a playful smirk. “I simply needed to take a piss as well. That said, now that we’re both here, there is something I’d like to ask from you, mylady.”

“Ask away, ser,” Gwynesse replied calmly, and the knight took a step closer to her. “Harmund was… somewhat unclear, earlier, when I asked about his relation to you,” he said, carefully studying Gwynesse’s face with his eyes as he spoke. “So, I was wondering if you could clear this up for me. What are you to him?”

“A friend, for now at least,” Gwynesse answered with a subtle gulp. “Though my father wishes me to wed him. And we have already… shared a bed.”

“I see,” Aubrey replied with a small chuckle, turning his gaze down for a moment. “For all his talk of the Faith, Harmund did always have a weakness for pretty girls.”

Gwynesse was slightly taken aback by this comment. “You mean to say he’s had many… affairs?” she asked, keeping her voice nonchalant.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, mylady,” Aubrey was quick to say, his tone sincere. “But yes, when we were younger and Harmund would come visit the Rock, he had a habit of bedding every pretty wench he came across. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are a couple black-eyed bastards of his on the streets of Lannisport. All of that was years ago though, he may have changed since then.”

“Why are you so interested in what is between me and Harmund anyway?” Gwynesse asked sharply, and with a charming smile on his face Aubrey took another step closer to her. “I was merely wondering if I’d break my good friend’s heart were I to steal yours,” he answered smoothly, and for a couple seconds Gwynesse was left without words. “And what makes you think you could steal my heart, ser?” She finally asked tensely, perhaps trying too hard to sound like she had no interest in him whatsoever.

“Tell me, do you love Harmund?” Aubrey asked with a serious tone, ignoring her question. “I… I think so, yes,” Gwynesse answered hesitantly.

“And does he love you?” Aubrey followed up immediately. “I don’t know,” Gwynesse answered truthfully, letting out a small sigh. “But I would like to think that he does.”

“In that case, I will not come between the two of you,” Aubrey said softly, tapping Gwynesse lightly on her shoulder. “Now excuse me, I have a piss to take,” he said with a lighthearted tone, walking past Gwynesse.

She turned to look at him once more, glaring at his distancing back as he walked out of the camp to the bushes. I’m not sure what to think of him.

Erich Storm stood by the entrance of Storm’s End’s main keep, watching as his great-uncle Prince Barron Durrandon mounted his horse, preparing to leave together with Queen Dowager Shana and Princess Arya, as well as lords Buckler, Fell and Errol and their families.

It had been nearly a week since King Arlan’s funeral, and majority of the noble guests had already left Storm’s End to prepare and rally their troops for the coming war. Prince Barron however would head to Riverlands, and part of Erich wished he could follow him. After all, he had fought more than enough against the Dornishmen already, and defending Riverlands against the Faith Militant and the false Justman king seemed like a more worthy cause than attempting to conquer the Red Mountains once again. However, he had sworn his sword to King Ormund, and he would stay true to that oath.

“Prince Barron will handle the Riverlands just fine, lad,” Ser Trystane Cole stated next to Erich, as if he had read his thoughts. “We have a glorious conquest ahead of us in Dorne.”

“Are you sure?” Erich asked quietly, glancing at his old friend from the corner of his eyes. “You were there six years ago, you know the Dornishmen wont yield easily.”

The old knight smirked at Erich’s words, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Easily? No, of course not. But even the hardest foe cannot withstand the fury of Stormlanders forever. This time we will be victorious.”

Erich nodded to Trystane, seeing no use in arguing with him about this. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as optimistic, but he still wanted them to succeed just as much. With the fleet attacking from the east, perhaps this time will indeed be different.

“Erich,” the voice of his mother called behind him, and he turned to see Princess Marleina standing by the doors of the keep. She looked tired, as she often did these days, but in her eyes was urgency. “What is it, mother?” Erich asked as he approached her, a bemused tone on his voice. Lord Robert had left for Griffin’s Roost two days ago, Erich would’ve expected his mother to be relieved for being rid of him and back in her childhood home, yet she looked distressed.

“We need to talk,” Marleina said with a subtle gulp, her hand shaking slightly as she grabbed onto Erich’s left arm. “Come now,” she urged him, ignoring his irritated gaze. Begrudgingly Erich followed his mother, who led them to an empty council room next to the great hall.

“Alright, you clearly don’t want people to hear whatever you’re about to say to me,” Erich stated with a mildly amused tone as Marleina closed the door behind them, and she shot him with a sharp glare. “You do not need to go to war,” she then blurted out.

At first Erich didn’t say anything, but after seeing the dead serious look on Marleina’s eyes he let out a dry chuckle. “You wanted me to serve Ormund,” he sharply reminded her. “What, did you expect that being a knight of the Storm King would not include fighting in his wars?”

“Well I bloody well didn’t expect my brother to do something this reckless,” Marleina retorted with a frustrated tone. She stepped closer to Erich again, now grabbing his arms with both of her hands. “Please, Erich. You can stay here in Strom’s End, there will need to be a garrison here even when the Storm King is absent.”

Erich pulled himself free from his mother’s clutches and shook his head. “You would have me dishonor myself,” he hissed with an offended tone. “To hide behind the walls of Storm’s End while my brethren march to war. And why? So you can try and make up for all the years of torment I went through in what was supposed to be my home.”

Marleina looked genuinely hurt by his words, taking a couple faltering steps back as tears welled up in her eyes. She meant well, Erich knew it, but he had to close his heart to it. He was a man now, and he had to put his duties above these delusions of mending the scars left by his childhood. Those scars are in my very essence, they cannot be healed.

“I’m sorry,” Marleina sobbed with a defeated tone, collapsing on one of the chairs around the long table. “I don’t know what I could’ve done differently, how I could’ve helped you more. I… I was too weak, I’ve always been too weak.”

With a sigh Erich stepped closer to his mother. “You’re not weak, mother,” he assured calmly. “But you have to understand, I am not yours to protect anymore.”

“You are a man of your own, I know,” Marleina replied with a sigh, wiping the tears from her eyes and looking at Erich again. “You may not be mine to protect anymore, but I will never stop carrying this love and concern for you in my heart. You deserved better than the home I gave you, but you have to know that I always wanted your best.”

“I know, mother,” Erich said softly. “I know.”

Another week went by, with the local knights and levied troops being mustered to Storm’s End and preparing for a long march. It was a brisk and windy morning, and banners of Durrandon, Swygert, Musgood, Horpe and Cafferen flapped in the wind above the pavilions of the military camp erected on the fields north of the castle. For now it was a relatively small host, no more than a few thousand men strong, but in Blackhaven they would join with the forces of the Marcher Lords.

Erich was clad in a brand new black-and-gold plate armor forged in Storm’s End, riding through the camp atop a strong and handsome black destrier named Whirlwind. Erich looked quite high and mighty in his new gear, as was to be expected from a knight of the Storm King. He dismounted his horse in front of the war council pavilion and marched in confidently.

Five men were sitting or standing around the council table as Erich entered the pavilion. Near the king’s seat at the head of the table to the right was Lord Gregor Cafferen, clad in hauberk and a green tabard with the sigil of his house, leaning against the table with both of his hands curled into fists. He was a bald and portly man on his mid-fourties, with solemn blue eyes and a close-cropped dark beard peppered with grey. He also happened to be a brother-in-law of Lord Robert Connington.

A couple seats to the left from Lord Cafferen were sitting Ser Raymont Horpe and his younger brother Ser Ralph Horpe. Raymont was a handsome man with a striking smile that rarely left his well-defined and clean-shaven face, whereas his brother Ralph was a boorish and stern man with an unkempt brown beard and hair. They were both closing their forties, but Raymont looked at least slightly younger than he was, and Ralph looked significantly older than he was. Raymont was fittingly for a noble knight clad in shining plate armor with a white-and-grey cloak donned over it, while Ralph preferred a simple boiled leather armor and an undyed woolen cloak.

Near the other end of the table to the left were standing Lord Justin Musgood and Ser Simon Swygert. Lord Musgood was a short and average looking man on his early forties with a short auburn hair and beard. He was wearing a checkered blue-and-white surcoat over his hauberk and holding in his hands a sheathed bastard sword. Ser Simon Swygert on the other hand was a tall and lean man on his early thirties with an unassuming narrow face, curly brown hair and a wispy mustache. He was clad in a well-worn dark grey plate armor and a purple woolen cape with white trimmings donned on his shoulders.

“Ser Storm,” Gregor Cafferen greeted Erich nonchalantly, to which he responded with a small nod. “Are we marching today, mylords?” he then asked from no one in particular.

“We’re waiting for His Grace to come and tell us just that,” Ser Ralph Horpe responded with a surly tone, which was followed by a brief moment of tense silence.

“A raven from Greenstone arrived late last night,” Ser Simon Swygert then stated, breaking the silence. “News about the fleet?” Erich asked, and the Swygert knight nodded with a small smile. “Aye, all ships from Tarth have now arrived to Greenstone and the fleet is ready to sail as soon as they’re commanded to do so.”

“I don’t envy those poor bastards on the ships,” Justin Musgood said with a sober tone. “Sailing is bad enough as it is, but now it’s almost autumn and the seas to the south and east are infested with pirates.”

“And what kind of pirates exactly would dare attack a fleet of war galleys?” Ser Raymont Horpe asked amusedly, a wide grin on his face.

“Did you miss the part about it being almost autumn, ser?” Justin shot back sternly. “Autumn storms have scattered fleets before, and a stray war galley is as susceptible to pirates as any other lone ship.”

“Oh, poor Lord Musgood has had nightmares about storms and pirates again,” Raymont mocked, and a small smirk formed on his younger brother’s face. Simon simply shook his head in a condescending manner and turned his eyes away from the Horpe brothers.

Before anyone else could speak up, King Ormund finally entered the pavilion. However, he didn’t come alone. Beside him stood his eldest son, Prince Baldric Durrandon, clad in an armor he looked quite uncomfortable in. The crown prince was fifteen years old, still more a boy than a man grown. They all bowed to the King and his son, who then took their seats at the head of the table.

“My lords,” Ormund spoke calmly, gesturing for them to sit down as well, and so they did. “I have decided to take my son and heir with me on this campaign,” the King said, nodding towards Baldric. “One day he will be the Storm King, and it is time for him to see war with his own eyes. He has been tutored in the art of warfare and trained in combat from a young age, and whenever I am not personally present he will speak with my authority. Is this understood?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Lord Cafferen responded with a dutiful tone, and the rest of them mumbled something similar.

“Good then,” Ormund said, his lips forming a thin smile. “We will begin our march to Blackhaven today. The war ahead of us will not be easily won, but at the end of it awaits a glorious triumph for our kingdom. This campaign will be long, and it will be winter before any of us see our homes again. Make sure your troops understand this, lords.”

“Perhaps it would be better for their morale to concentrate on the glory and plunders of the war, Your Grace,” Ser Raymont suggested, and King Ormund gave him a small nod. “Aye, you may remind them of that as well,” he said calmly. “Now, go and give the commands to your troops.”

With bows to the King the lords and knights hurried out of the pavilion. Erich was about to go as well, but Ormund spoke up before he made it out. “Not you.”

“Your Grace?” Erich asked as he turned towards the Storm King. Ormund approached him, a calm and authoritative expression on his face. “I have a very specific task in mind for you, Ser Erich,” he said, glancing at Prince Baldric behind him. “In Blackhaven we will split our forces, one half marching down the Boneway and the other down the Prince’s Pass. I will lead the forces in Boneway, my son will lead the forces in Prince’s Pass. And you will serve as his bodyguard.”

Erich glanced at the young prince with a raised eyebrow. He was surprised by this task, but gave King Ormund a dutiful nod nonetheless. “It would be an honor, Your Grace,” he responded with a formal tone.

“You will shield him on the battlefield, but also in the war council,” Ormund instructed sternly. “There will be several hardened and prideful lords marching with you to the Prince’s Pass, and many of them may underestimate my son and think that they can assume command over him. You will keep them in line and remind them who is in charge, ser.”

“As you wish, Your Grace, but…” Erich hesitated a moment, and Ormund narrowed his eyes. “But what?”

“But I am a bastard,” he blurted out with an uncomfortable tone. “Some of these prideful lords may not put much worth on my words.”

“I recall you telling me that you have a good reputation among the Marcher Lords,” Ormund remarked with a sharp smirk. “Besides, you’ll be speaking with authority given to you by the Storm King. I trust you will do fine, nephew.” With these words the Storm King walked out of the pavilion, and his son followed quickly behind him.

After a day’s march to the west the farmlands and plains around the Storm’s End begun to turn into lush green forests. Then, after another day the terrain turned hilly and the woods were dominated by pines. And finally, after five days of marching the northernmost peaks of the Red Mountains could be seen in the distance. It was here that the forests gradually begun to make way for the open grasslands of the Dornish Marches.

At the end of the sixth day of marching the Storm King’s army made camp next to Grandview, the seat of House Grandison. It was a small but stout stone keep, standing high on the foothills of the Red Mountains, built atop a cliff overlooking the lightly forested slopes and ridges to its north. The Grandison forces had already left, leaving only a small household garrison, which meant that the barracks of the castle could’ve housed a significant portion of the troops. However, they decided to avoid the hassle and the whole host remained camped outside the walls for the night. Even the Storm King himself merely made a brief visit in the castle to greet the Grandison family.

After enjoying a few ales with Ser Trystane Erich sat down outside on the grass next to his pavilion, just gazing at the glimmering stars and half moon on the clear night sky. As he was starting to think about going to sleep, suddenly Prince Baldric approached him.

“Would you mind having a little chat?” the young prince asked.

“You mean, right now?” Erich asked, and the prince gave him a nod. “Yes,” he said with a small chuckle. “I’d like to learn to know a little better the man I’m going to depend upon to protect me on the battlefield.”

“Sure, alright,” Erich replied awkwardly, unsure what could he possibly have a conversation about with the prince that was nearly a decade younger than him.

Baldric sat down a few feet away from Erich, letting out a small sigh as he gazed at the starry sky. “You know, grandfather told me and Durwald about you once,” he spoke with a calm tone. “He did?” Erich asked with a genuinely surprised tone, and the prince gave him another nod.

“He was teaching us that we shouldn’t judge a man’s honor solely based on the circumstances of his birth,” Baldric explained. “He used you as an example of a bastard with honor.”

“I am… deeply honored by that,” Erich replied quietly, and it wasn’t just empty words. He had always respected King Arlan, but to know he had had enough respect in return for him to use him as an example in teaching his grandsons about honor came as a complete surprise to Erich. Silence lingered between them for a moment, until Baldric spoke up again. “Would you be up for a little sparring match, ser?” he asked with a smirk. “I need to know that my bodyguard can handle a sword, after all,” the prince added before Erich could even answer.

“Ah, sure,” he then responded with a touch of uncertainty in his words. A sparring match should be harmless enough, but he was slightly concerned that he could accidentally harm the man he was supposed to protect. Nonetheless, they grabbed dulled training swords and moved to an even ground with enough space for swordplay.

“Don’t hold back, ser. I’m well trained,” Baldric warned Erich, who responded with a small nod. Then he charged forward, giving first an easy downward strike from right, which Prince Baldric parried effortlessly. He then countered with a surprising speed, and Erich only barely managed to dodge his thrust. Baldric didn’t relent, now striking upward. Erich deflected the blade and quickly went for a counter, the flat of his sword lightly hitting the prince’s upper right leg. Baldric reacted quickly, dashing Erich’s blade away from him, and following it up with a quick swing that hit him on his right shoulder.

“Not bad,” Erich quipped as he stepped backwards to make more space between them. Baldric nodded with a grin, before charging again. Their swords clashed against each other, again and again, neither being able to get past the other’s defense. After a while Erich could feel sweat starting to run on his forehead as well as his heartbeat getting faster and faster. However, he could see that Baldric was starting to wear out as well, his blocks getting slightly sloppier and his movements heavier the longer they continued. Finally, in a desperate attempt to break Erich’s defense the prince overcommitted to a heavy swing, and Erich seized on the opportunity by leaping closer to Baldric and tackling him to the ground. As he was on the ground, Erich kicked the sword off his hand, and placed the tip of his own sword on the prince’s chest.

“Dead,” Erich said with a triumphant smirk. For a moment the young prince’s blue eyes were filled with fury, but then he let out a sigh and his expression softened. “Aye, you got me,” he admitted.

“You didn’t lie though, you are clearly well trained,” Erich complimented as he offered his hand to pick Baldric back up. The prince grabbed his hand and pulled himself up, giving Erich a respectful nod.

“You’ll make an adequate bodyguard, ser,” he said and walked away.

Bronzegate was a modestly sized square fort with thick stone walls and broad watchtowers in its corners, standing atop a high hill overlooking the vast forests to its north and the rolling hills to its south. Its purpose had once been to guard the northern border of the Storm King’s realm, which was a strange thought now that the Kingdom of Storm reached all the way to the Neck. At least for now, Prince Barron Durrandon thought grimly.

It was almost noon, and the old prince stood atop the northern walls gazing at the military camp that had gathered outside the castle. Banners of houses Buckler, Fell, Errol and Hasty flickered proudly in the wind, but the host was no more than two-thousand men strong. It wouldn’t be enough to save Riverlands from the Faith Militant and their allies, Barron was certain of that. He would need to recruit the Darklyns and their bannermen to his cause, which was a thought that didn’t bring him much joy. Lord Renly Darklyn was a thoroughly unpleasant man with little redeeming qualities, yet it seemed the fate of Riverlands would soon be in his hands. And in mine.

“Prince Barron,” he heard a timid female voice speaking to his right, and turned to see Princess Arya Durrandon approaching him. “Please, you may call me Uncle Barron,” he responded with a small smile, which the girl shyly reciprocated.

“Uncle Barron,” Arya corrected herself, leaning against the battlements and eyeing at the commotion of the camp below. “I just wanted to thank you,” she said with a small gulp. “For allowing mother and I to come with you. It’s been years since I’ve been this far from Storm’s End and… it’s refreshing.”

“You’re welcome, princess,” Barron replied lightheartedly. “Just remember that this is no harmless jaunt to see the countryside. We are very likely marching to a war, which is no place for a princess. I’ve yet to discuss this further with your mother, but I believe you two should remain in Duskendale until we can be sure that you’ll be safe in Raventree Hall.”

Arya shrugged in a carefree manner. “Duskendale is fine by me,” she said nonchalantly. “Though I know mother would like to see her childhood home again.”

“And she will,” Barron promised confidently. For a moment neither of them said anything, until Barron spoke up again. “You know, losing her father was a hard thing for Shana to overcome sixteen years ago, and I know you feel the same way now.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Arya muttered weakly, avoiding eye contact with Barron. “Are you sure?” he asked with a warm and empathizing voice. “Arlan was my brother, I miss him dearly as well.”

A couple tears rolled down the princess’ soft cheeks. “I try to think about all the good memories I have with my father, but now they are all overshadowed with the thought that he is no longer here, and that I will never hear his voice again.”

“You should hold on to those memories,” Barron gently advised his niece. “Loss is a natural part of life, but we should not let it guide us into darkness and apathy. You had a father that loved you, a father that anyone could be proud of. Carry his memory in your heart, not just with grief, but with love and pride.”

“I will try, Uncle Barron,” Arya promised, wiping the tears from her eyes and letting out a small sigh.

For a moment they stood there in silence, until Prince Barron noticed Lord Benfred Buckler ascending the stairway to the battlements and approaching them with heavy steps. Benfred was a plump man on his early forties, his receding hairline making him look slightly older than that. He was the son of the late Lord Romny Buckler who had fought valiantly and fallen in the Battle of Six Kings, but to Barron’s eye Benfred did not look like the warrior his father had been.

“Prince Barron, Princess Arya,” Lord Benfred greeted them with a small bow, slightly out of breath from the climb up the stairs. “Lord Benfred, you may speak freely,” Barron responded with a steely and authoritative tone. He was the commander of this army, which meant that he had to assert his leadership into every interaction he had with these lords.

“We just received a raven from Lord Blackwood,” the Buckler lord informed with a troubled tone on his voice. “I thought you should be the first to hear the news.”

“Well, spit it out then,” Barron urged impatiently, and Benfred gave him an obedient nod. “The Faith Militant has captured Fairmarket,” he explained hastily. “Ser Emmon Shawney has escaped to Raventree Hall, but a significant portion of his troops were massacred on the streets by a battalion of Poor Fellows that infiltrated the town during nighttime, with the help of hundreds of townsfolk that joined them.”

“So, it has begun,” Barron stated sternly. “A war is ahead of us, it is clear now if it wasn’t before.”

That night a great feast was held at the great hall of Bronzegate. The lower tables were crowded with knights and soldiers of the host, while the royalty and lords were seated on the high table at the dais. Ale flowed, the tables were filled with a wide array of food ranging from pigeon pies and venison stew to roasted boar’s loins, all the while minstrels were playing cheery songs on the galleries. Barron had to admit that Lord Benfred certainly knew how to arrange a splendid feast, though it did little to lighten his mood at the moment.

Barron glanced to his left, seeing Lord Benfred, his wife Lady Shireen and their seventeen-year-old daughter Branda having a seemingly cheerful conversation with Queen Shana and Princess Arya. I suppose this feast is good for something, Barron thought as he saw his niece laughing at something Branda had just said.

“So, Prince Barron,” he heard a male voice speaking to his right and shifted his attention back Lord Edgar Fell who was sitting next to him. He was a well-mannered and handsome man on his late thirties, with a slicked back dark hair and a pointy goatee. “Tell me honestly, how dire exactly is the situation in Riverlands?”

“Well, you heard what happened in Fairmarket,” Barron remarked grimly. “Aside from that, Stoney Sept is controlled by the Faith Militant and Harroway is likely to side with them as well. As for the river lords, Blackwood, Bracken and Tully are the only ones I trust fully.”

“It seems to me that this will be a very different kind of war from the last one,” Edgar said with a deep sigh. “With King Humfrey we just needed to beat him in a single decisive battle, but this time… I think the Faith Militant will avoid that, staying in hiding and striking from the shadows instead.”

“For now,” Barron agreed sternly. “However, if they truly intend to overthrow our rule in the Riverlands, sooner or later they will have to face us on the field of battle. I only wish the full might of the Storm King was with us for that moment.”

No matter how splendid the feast was Prince Barron simply wasn’t in the mood for drinking and laughter that night, and so he made his way to bed early.

The following day the host finally begun its march towards north. It was a brisk and sunny morning, and Prince Barron mounted on his horse stood atop a hill slightly to the northwest of Bronzegate, overlooking the army as it began its long march. The vanguard led by Lord Benfred Buckler’s sons Robin and Barristan had already entered the forests to the north, while the last wagons of the supply train in the rear were only just leaving where the camp had been.

A single rider among the Errol troops in the middle diverted from the forces, galloping towards Barron instead. Quickly the prince recognized the rider as Jaremy Errol, the Lord of Haystack Hall. He was a stocky and broad-shouldered man with light grey hair and bushy beard, at the age of sixty being just a year younger than Barron himself. They had known each other from childhood, but Barron had never considered Jaremy a friend of his. In fact, in their youth they had even been outright rivals for a time, competing for the heart of the same fair maiden. Ultimately it had of course been a pointless rivalry, because that fair maiden happened to be Annara Tarth who eventually married Arlan and became his queen. All that seemed so distant and insignificant now, but somewhere deep in Barron’s heart a sliver of grudge towards Jaremy still lingered.

“My prince,” the Errol lord greeted him with a slight grin as he arrived atop the hill. “Lord Errol,” Barron responded sternly.

“It is such a beautiful sight to see men of Stormlands marching to war, isn’t it?” Jaremy Errol spoke with an exaggeratedly bombastic tone, stroking his beard as he gazed at the troops below them. “Not so beautiful after you remember many of them will never return,” Barron responded grimly, to which Jaremy let out a small chuckle.

“Come on, Barron,” he said with narrowed eyes and a sharp smirk. “We both know you want this war. It was your brother who got all the praise and glory last time. There is no shame in wanting to make a legacy for yourself.”

“I am too old to care about praise and glory,” Barron responded with a scoff. “And it is the legacy of my brother that I am trying to preserve.”

“Whatever you say, my prince,” Jaremy said with a cynical tone. “However, I do have to wonder if this war is worth it just to preserve your brother’s legacy. There was a reason why he only annexed Riverlands after having been left with no other choice. The land is faraway and hard to control, and the river lords will never be truly loyal to us.”

“Riverlands is a fertile and prosperous land,” Barron reminded Lord Jaremy, who gave him an agreeing nod. “When it isn’t in war, yes,” he admitted with a small sigh. “However, it seems clear to me that land will never know peace. Its lords are as hostile towards each other as they are towards outsiders, and its smallfolk is divided between the followers of the Seven and the Old Gods.”

“So, you believe it to be more trouble than it’s worth to uphold our control over the Riverlands?” Barron asked calmly, to which Jaremy shrugged. “It is better than letting the Faith Militant control it, I suppose,” he responded lazily. “They are puppets of the High Septon after all, who in turn is in league with the Gardeners. However, perhaps we should make this Brydan Blackwood a king, like Arlan had planned to do with his father.”

“It could have worked with Lord Roderick, but it will not work with Brydan,” Barron insisted sternly. He had a lot of respect for the young Lord of Raventree Hall and did believe he made a decent Warden of Riverlands, but he did not see him as suited for the role of a king.

“Why not?” Jaremy asked sharply. “He is a man grown now, and from what I know of him he would be a loyal ally to the Storm King even without a direct allegiance.”

“He is not powerful or respected enough among the river lords to be their king,” Barron explained calmly. “Right now Brydan’s authority rests completely on our name and reputation. If we simply put a crown on his head and left Riverlands for him to rule over there would be half-a-dozen pretenders challenging his rule within months, and the land would burn in civil wars.”

“Doesn’t sound so different from the current situation,” Jaremy remarked dryly, but Barron was quick to shake his head. “Trust me, it would be much worse.”

For a moment they both remained silent, just eyeing at the army of troops marching down the road towards the forests in the north at a sluggish pace. Watching them made Barron wonder if he himself would ever return from this war, to see again the land that had raised him. It didn’t matter, he would gladly die fulfilling his duty, but there was still something melancholic about it.

“Well, war waits for no man,” Lord Jaremy suddenly broke the silence. “Ours is the fury!” he yelled as he raced down the hill to catch up with the troops.

“Ours is the fury,” Barron repeated with quiet and hollow words.

The sky was cloudy, with rays of sunlight shining through and banners flickering in the wind. Prince Hagon Hoare leaned on the battlements of Orkwatch, eyeing the large fleet approaching the castle from south. Three Hoare longships led the fleet, behind them some forty Farman war galleys and dromonds, as well as almost a hundred longships of House Greyjoy and their vassals.

“Your father won’t be pleased to find you here,” Quenton Farwynd said calmly, standing next to the prince.

Hagon glared at his friend for a moment, before turning his eyes back to the approaching fleet. “My father knows I’m an ironman at heart. He’ll understand.” With those words he left the battlements and made his way back into his chambers.

On the way Hagon saw Karin Orkwood once again sparring with Harrick Hoare at the courtyard, flashing a thin smirk at the woman as he walked past her. Once in his chambers Hagon sat down with a sigh to wait for the inevitable. And after less than half-an-hour the door was indeed knocked on. Opening it Hagon saw his father, King Harmund II Hoare, clad in a dark leather attire with a fur-lined black wool coat donned over it. On his face was a steely expression, and in his black eyes a cold, piercing gaze.

“Your Grace,” Hagon greeted him with a small bow, forcing a small smirk on his face, which his father didn’t reciprocate. With a sigh the king stepped inside the chambers, taking off his gloves and walking wordlessly to the window overlooking the courtyard.

“In my letter, I commanded you to garrison Hoare Castle, Hagon,” Harmund stated coldly, not even looking at his son. “By coming here you’ve disobeyed a direct order I gave you.”

“You knew I could not follow that order,” Hagon argued sternly, and Harmund turned to look at him with a sharp glare. “You chose not to,” he corrected, and though he did not raise his voice his words were strict and strong. “The gods know I should send you back with your hands tied behind your back.”

“But you won’t?” Hagon asked carefully, gulping subtly under his father’s intense glare.

“I heard the Shrike visited Hoare Castle while I was gone,” Harmund changed the topic, his tone remaining harsh.

“He did,” Hagon admitted with a nod. “I welcomed him, and…”

“And you let him baptize you,” Harmund concluded sternly. “What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking about our house, and about our kingdom,” Hagon claimed confidently. “You may despise the Shrike and his kind, but our people still hold them in high regard. Do you think my brother could ever appease them? No, they despise him, so it is up to me prove to them and the people we rule over that House Hoare is still Ironborn.”

“Your brother is the heir to the Seastone Chair,” the King reminded him with furrowed brows. “However, I do believe we should do what we can to retain peace with the priests of the Drowned God. Perhaps your encounter with the Shrike did some good after all.”

With a relieved smile Hagon nodded to his father. “You’re welcome, Your Grace.”

For a moment tense silence lingered in the room, until King Harmund took a step closer to his son, his expression slightly mellowed now. “So, you want to sail to war?” he asked calmly.

“With all my heart, father,” Hagon responded sincerely.

“Then I shall not deny it from you, son,” Harmund said with a small sigh, placing his hand on Hagon’s shoulder and looking him to the eyes. “But remember, war is no place for a boy.”

“I am a man of the Iron Isles, Your Grace,” Hagon assured, his words quiet but confident.

That night a feast was held at the great hall of Orkwatch, the noble lords and captains of their mighty fleet taking part. Hagon was seated at the high table, between King Harmund and Ser Sandor Farman, who was the heir to Fair Isle and the man in charge of the Farman fleet. Ser Sandor was a tall and sinewy man on his later forties, his golden hair receding and starting to grey, and on his tall cleanshaven face seemingly stuck a disgruntled expression. The Farman knight was dressed in a blue velvet coat with golden waves embroidered on the sleeves and three white ships on the chest. Over his shoulders was donned a red silk cape fastened by a large round clasp of gold decorated with small rubies.

To Hagon’s left Harmund was conversing with his cousin Lord Qarlton Hoare, and as they reminisced and laughed about something that had happened twenty years ago the prince turned his attention to his right, where Ser Sandor was having a much quieter discussion with Lord Dagon Greyjoy. Dagon was a tall and lean man on his late fifties, his chiseled and hard cleanshaven face starting to show signs of aging, and his once black long hair now shining silver. Lord Dagon was a mild-mannered and cold man, in his pale blue eyes always a sharp glare.

“Who knows, you may have iron in your blood as well, Farman,” the Greyjoy lord spoke softly, the thinnest of smirks on his face. “The Ironborn held Fair Isle for several generations during the Age of Heroes.”

“Unlikely, mylord,” Ser Sandor responded, and though his tone was polite his eyes told he found the suggestion repulsive. “House Farman can trace their ancestry to long before the ironborn ever invaded Fair Isle, all the way to the ancient Farman Kings.”

“I know, and I also know that the ironborn were eventually driven out from your island by Lord Gylbert Farman,” Dagon admitted nonchalantly. “However, there is a story here on the Iron Isles, which tells that it wasn’t Gylbert who fathered his son who would go on to inherit Faircastle and Fair Isle. No, instead it was a Greyjoy reaver whose seed would inherit the lands and titles of Lord Gylbert.”

Ser Sandor looked downright shocked by the Greyjoy’s words. “Preposterous,” he muttered in an irate tone.

“Just a story, ser, nothing more,” Lord Dagon said with a sly smirk, raising his cup and gulping down his wine.

Towards the end of the night King Harmund raised from his seat to hold a speech. “My fellow Ironborn!” he began, to which the many captains in the hall cheered loudly. “And our honored guests and allies from the Fair Isle,” Harmund continued, receiving a significantly tamer reaction from the couple dozen Westermen in the room. “Together we have gathered the greatest war fleet Westeros has ever seen, and together we shall sail to conquer! No man of the Reach can stop us, they shall all kneel before the ironmen of the sea and the lions of the west. To glory!”

“To glory!” the whole hall roared in unison, and Hagon could feel his blood pumping from excitement.

The following morning Prince Hagon made his way down to the beach clad in an iron halfhelm with a nasal guard, chainmail byrnie and a black tabard with the sigil of House Hoare in the chest, a dark blue cloak donned over them, a round shield carried on his back, and from his belt hanging a shortsword and a hand axe. With a satisfied smile on his face the young prince observed the thousands of warriors making their way into the hundreds of ships anchored in the harbor, carrying with them swords, shields, axes, spears, bows and arrows, as well as food and other supplies.

“We’ll follow your lead, King Harmund,” Hagon heard Ser Sandor Farman saying to his father with his stiff and formal tone some dozen yards away from him. “There is a long journey ahead, and a longer war after that,” Harmund said with a calm and authoritative tone to the Farman knight. “Make sure your men aren’t too exhausted by the time we reach Mander’s mouth.”

Sandor bowed obediently to Harmund, before making his way to the longboat that took him to his flagship dromond anchored near the entrance of the bay to the south. Next Hagon saw his father approached by Lord Ulfric Harlaw. He didn’t get to hear their conversation however, as he himself was approached by Lord Roryn Drumm.

“Look at that Harlaw wuss groveling at the feet of our king,” the Drumm lord said with a mocking tone, a look of disgust in his eyes. “Thinks very highly of himself too, no doubt.”

“Well, he did bring a lot of ships and men to our cause,” Hagon pointed out sharply. “More than you did, mylord.”

“Aye, he did,” Roryn admitted with a thin smirk that didn’t reach his blue eyes, stroking his forked black beard. “Fancy new ships and green boys to sail them. They are traders and farmers, men of peace and summer. My captains and their crews are reavers, my prince. Who do you think will prove themselves more useful in war?”

“Your men may be more experienced than Lord Harlaw’s, but Harlaw’s men are no less ironborn. They’ve been raised and trained to fight,” Hagon argued calmly, to which Roryn chuckled coldly. “Aye, there is iron in their blood, I do not deny that. However, they are not men yet, and many of them will die as boys. It is one thing to know how to fight, and another entirely to know how to kill. That is something you don’t learn in sparring and training at the comfort of your home.”

Hagon nodded quietly, knowing the Drumm lord knew what he was talking about. Roryn the Reaver had sailed and raided the shores of Westeros and beyond for nearly three decades, winning plenty of wealth and reputation in doing so, and Hagon could only imagine how many hundreds of men he had left dead in his wake. Roryn tapped him lightly on the shoulder, a wolfish grin forming on his face. “It is men like us, warriors and reavers, who raised the Ironborn to greatness, Prince Hagon.” As he turned his eyes to Lord Harlaw again, Roryn’s face turned sour. “There would be no men like him without the blood that men like us spill. Never forget that, my prince.” With those words the Drumm lord walked away from him and made his way to his own longship.

And so, shortly before noon the massive fleet of over four hundred ships in total finally set sail. Hagon stood at the prow of his longship Iron Heart as they entered the open sea, gazing in awe at all the ships around him and feeling the wind on his face and hair. So many times in the past he had dreamt of something like this, it felt almost surreal to be here now to witness it with his own eyes.

“My prince,” he heard the carefree voice of his friend Quenton from behind and turned to face him with a wide grin on his face. “Can you believe it, Farwynd? We’re sailing to war.”

“Well, you seem as happy as a clam,” Quenton said with a chuckle. “Excited to kill some fools, I take it?”

“Excited to win glory in the name of our kingdom!” Hagon responded, nudging his friend lightly on the shoulder. “This war will be our legacy, Quenton. There is so much reputation and riches for us to gain, my friend.”

“Unless we die,” Quenton replied grimly, to which Hagon could only roll his eyes. “Try not soil your pants while you cower in fear,” he jabbed mockingly.

“It’s not that I’m afraid to die,” Quenton insisted, crossing his arms. “But if you think about it, there’s a high chance that at least one of us will. I’ve never been to a battle, but I know enough about them to tell that you’re as likely to become a corpse as you are to win any glory or riches.”

“A skilled enough warrior can survive hundreds of battles,” Hagon replied nonchalantly, thinking specifically about Roryn the Reaver.

Quenton shrugged. “Or lucky enough,” he said with a smirk, and they both laughed.