Westeros

Benjamin was a strange, blustering figure in the midst of the rain, heavily armored and taking his horse back and forth along the lines of Winsler, Strake and Cavanaugh. Everyone knew who he was, but they paid him little mind, as they often did these days. He was content to believe that everyone jumped to his every word when the reality was that they barely paid attention; his sons were the voices of authority.

"Ready yourselves," he barked. "D'you think we've time to dawdle when the North Tower waits? I'll not have you prancing about."

A pair of knights exchanged a look of annoyance as his horse came past.

The retinue of House Strake was the smallest present, even with all its members accounted. Jane sat astride her horse, hands firmly anchored in its mane, and blinked away the rivulets of rain that coursed into her eyes. She was soaked to the bone. She never rode side saddle, for her mind filled with terrible images of falling off the horse more easily that way; she'd a sickening fear of horses from childhood. Her teeth chattered and she clenched her jaw to stop them.

What a story for the girls, she thought. I look like the wet rat at the head of the mice.

"My Lady?" It was her lady-in-waiting, Addie. Not a week passed without the woman fainting. Before this, she had fainted at the news of coming to King's Landing.

"Yes?" Jane sighed.

"Will there be war?"

"Of course. There's always a war, isn't there? Always a Strake to lose their life in it. I hear enough of it from Lord Winsler and you must bother me with it, too, I take?"

Silence. Jane regretted her harsh, bitter words. It was no fault of Addie's. She looked over at her lady-in-waiting, staring down at her hands in the rain, and wondered at how to apologize.

"Where are my boys?" Benjamin was demanding. His horse came past the Strakes at a gallop.

"My Lord, please, slow down," a retainer was pleading, running after them on foot.

"What a daft man," Addie said.

Jane's apologetic urges vanished and were replaced by defensive protectiveness.

Nathanial watched his brother stride away in pursuit of Leiliana and he had the strangest feeling that he would never see him again, the look Quin had given him made him clench his fist in worry and fear. Though raised to be superior and commanding Nate had never lorded it over Quin and the two brothers had always been as close as brothers could. If anyone could bring Leiliana back to him it was Quin. Bring her back to us if you can Nathanial thought quietly but in his heart he doubted that events would occur as he wished them to. Leiliana had made it clear that she wanted to be with Lionel and relished the freedom and conflict he had brought with him. But he had to stop thinking of her and focus on salvaging the situation. House Grayhardt had at least in part aided a traitor and a slayer of the Queen. The King and his family were bound to be suspicious of him but he needed to show them that his loyalty had not wavered. Even though deep down he did question loyalty to Henry he knew that keeping him on the throne was the best way to maintain a stable Seven Kingdoms.
He rose his movements stiff and tense as though the shock of what had occurred had sank through to his very bones, he straightened his shoulders assuming the calm, almost regal bearing that the Wolves were known for. His head held high and his eyes hard he approached the dais. He made a point of lowering his head in respect to the body of the late Queen as she truly had not deserved such a fate. She had been manipulative and cold but then a woman in her position had to be to survive and she had only been a woman making the best of her circumstances. He moved his eyes from Morgana to the Princess Adelaide and he hoped she saw the compassion and guilt in his eyes as even though he did not sanction his daughters behaviour as head og his House he was responsible. He made sure he met Prince Raban's eyes as well before fially looking into the King's dark, cold eyes.

He knelt and lowered his head for a moment before speaking. "Your majesty, I am deeply sorry for the loss of Queen Morgana. I wish you to know that Leiliana Grayhardt acted without the knowledge or permission of her family and as of this moment..." Nate hesitated and forced himself to continue even though the words felt like gravel in his throat. "As of this moment Leiliana Grayhardt is no more, I have only one daughter. Leiliana is simply a traitor that needs to be caught and dealt with. House Grayhardt stands with you and our ships are yours."

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Birgitte rose when she saw her husband did and watched as he approached the dais, she kew what it was he did and also knew just how hard it was for him to do so. But for the continued survival of their house it had to be done. She smoothed down the sides of her satin red dress and ensured that her hair was still pinned in place on top of her head before moving to stand at her husbands side. He would not do this alone, never alone not while she was alive.
She looked at the dead Queen and felt pity for her but was not saddened by her loss as she felt that Morgana had in essence brought this upon herself with her manipulations and intrigues and when you played such dangerous games you needed to be willing to pay the final price. But then Birgitte wondered if the same could be said for her, had she not paid the final price in losing Leiliana? But no to her the final price would be the loss of her entire family and that she would fight tooth and nail to stop from happening. She looked at Princess Adelaide and the respect was in her eyes for the strength the young woman showed even under such condiserable stress.
She could have been IronBorn
Birgitte thought and if anyone else had heard that thought they would have been surprised for Birgitte was slow to award respect worthy of those in her own lands but as far as she was concerned Adelaide acted with strength, determination and willpower. All three traits were worthy of respect.

Birgitte knelt beside her husband her red dress falling around in pools of red fabric, she kept her head lowered as her husband spoke although she wanted nothing more than to stand tall and show the strength the Wolves were known for. But they needed to show the King that they were still loyal to him even if it meant others thought they were his lapdogs.
"My husband speaks truly sire, even now Lord Quincel pursues the traitors in the Firestorm one of our fastest ships."

"First time in Qohor?" Reuben questioned, skipping about as he followed Lionel through the streets of the free city. Lionel resisted the urge to kick him, but it was difficult. Reuben Snow, orange-haired and skinny, was a bastard from Pyke who had tagged around Lionel since the Firestorm left Blackwater Bay. He was a cheerful, amiable, and cheeky boy of five and ten, and could never shut up. Lionel would have thrown him overboard a long time ago if it weren't for Reuben's expertise in all areas of dealing with a ship. The boy was a good teacher, even if he did get on Lionel's nerves.

The first week on the Firestorm had been a bit of an awkward one for Lionel. Just like a wildcat out of the forest, Lionel had to struggle to adapt to his new environment on the ocean, amongst the sailors. The first day or two had been full of humiliating screw-ups on board, the least of which involved tangling up the sails so badly that Leliana couldn't stop laughing for an hour. The situation was not made any better by the fact that none of the men aboard the Firestorm were loyal to him- Lionel knew the game of power well, and he understood that he was now well beneath Ser Quincel and Leliana. But he learned quickly, and in the course of the next two months, had become as an efficient sailor as the rest of them- and more importantly, had become one of them. Lionel had never been the sort of leader that men loved, but he was good at earning respect. And respect entailed loyalty. Eventually, the sailors had grudgingly voted to let Lionel assume command of the Firestorm, and he'd slid easily into the position of power.

"Ship needs a flag," Toothless Royce had told him over the meal table. "What do you say, catboy? Got any ideas for a design?"

Lionel had shrugged. "Whatever you're fond of- skulls and crossbones will do."

"So we're pirates now." Toothless Royce responded.

"What, did you think we were part of the king's fleet?"

Royce shrugged. "Fine by me. I've got a box of cloth scraps, I'll have the flag up on the morrow. Good?"

"Yeah, just one more thing." Lionel grinned. "Put a bloody crown on it."

Reuben skirted around a tall, bearded man hastily, dancing back into step next to Lionel. "The bandits around here are merciless. Watch your purse, Bastard King."

Back in the Red Keep, Lionel had always been Prince Lionel Damian. Now, the sailors were referring to him by all sorts of names. Most still used Kinslayer, but the term had lost its negative connotation. It was clear that Queen Morgana had never been well-loved amongst the Greyhardts; Lionel's tales about the cold bitch, told over tankards of ale, had elicited much laughter. He had lost the name Damian the moment he was known to be a bastard; in the Seven Kingdoms, a bastard born in King's Landing was given the surname Storm. By rights, he was Lionel Storm now. No one referred to him as Damian anymore, but there were those who jokingly referred to him as Catboy, and even more who called him the Bastard King- especially after he'd made his intentions for the Seven Kingdoms clear.

It had taken a while for Lionel to persuade the sailors of his plan's feasibility, Ser Quincel most of all, but the Firestorm had finally accumulated a following, a decently-sized fleet of ships from every banner, consisting of sailors from the Free Cities of Myr and Braavos. None of the Free Cities had done well under the regime of House Damian. King Henry was possessed of an isolationist mindset, unwilling to risk the economy on foreign markets. As a result, relationships with the Free Cities had declined since times of 3old. Ships from Westeros were regarded with a remarkable degree of hostility, as they had discovered when t hey first docked at Myr. But word had spread through the Free Cities since that little scandal- word of the bastard Storm King and his growing army. Enemies of the crown had joined him willingly out of a desire to get a piece of the Seven Kingdoms, and each day the rumors became stronger, his supporters became greater. Even in Westeros, there were those who supported Lionel- House Tyrell had promised to give Lionel their secret aid, and they were a force to be reckoned with. Myr and Braavos had already pledged him his support…and now Lionel had brought them to Qohor, intent on forging a contract with the Bloody Mummers.

The Brave Companions, better known as the Bloody Mummers, were one of the oldest companies of sellswords in Westeros, and their reputation had not improved over the course of hundreds of years. From what Lionel was told, they were still the same bloodthirsty, savage, greedy, unscrupulous fighters they had been since the time of Aegon the Conqueror. The Bloody Mummers and the Bastard King. Perfect.

Only through a long string of contacts had Lionel been able to secure a meeting with Jans Siran, the leader of the Brave Companions. They had agreed to meet at the Bleeding Heart tavern in the port city, a bar that was public enough for Lionel's comfort and yet not so public that their conversation could be overheard. Lionel had decided only to bring four others- Ser Quincel, Reuben, Royce, and of course, Leliana. In case the conversation went sour, he was fairly confident that the five of them could fight their way out. If he brought anymore, their meeting would be too conspicuous. Even if half the population of the Free Cities secretly supported Lionel, there was still a royal arrest warrant on his head- and Lionel wouldn't put it past the Bloody Mummers to trade him in for a handsome monetary reward. He could only hope that they would honor their contract with him over betraying him to his father.

Of course, it wasn't like Lionel was actually planning on paying the Bloody Mummers. He was as much a Beggar King as he was a Bastard King. His fleet, if one could call it that, had no more riches than the average pirate crew. But if everything went right, if their meeting went the way Lionel had planned, the Brave Companions would soon be joining his growing army.

At the very least, Lionel hadn't been clapped in irons yet. If his father's guards were looking for him, they'd have a difficult time recognizing him now. His once-handsome face had been marred by Dante's blade; a two-inch long scar ran from the bottom of his empty eyesocket towards the bridge of his nose, half of which wasn't hidden by the black eye-patch Lionel had taken to wearing. Although he was still clean-shaven, Lionel hadn't cut his hair since the day of the tourney. It hung jaggedly over his eyes, the longest strands touching his upper back. With his lean, gaunt frame and hardened build, Lionel barely resembled the pampered, arrogant prince of House Damian.

"Look, there's a temple," Reuben said, pointing rather redundantly to a painfully obvious white temple down the street. "How about you marry Lady Leliana there? I'll be your priest."

Lionel ignored him. Reuben had said the same thing in Myr and Braavos. Lionel hadn't yet technically married Leliana, although he easily could have on the Firestorm. However, for some reason, he wasn't willing to do that just yet. He wouldn't bind Leliana to a one-eyed beggar who had nothing to his name. He wasn't going to force her to stay with him for life.

Not until he'd taken back the Iron Throne.

The Bleeding Tavern drew into sight, a worn-down shack of a tavern that was for the most part empty. Lionel would have preferred a more packed space; the more conversation there was, the less there could be heard. But they were meeting on Jan's terms, not his. He was going to have to comply with whatever the Bloody Mummers wanted.

"Be ready to whip your blades out if it comes to it," Lionel told the other four, pushing the door of the tavern open.

"Again," The shout was cold and fierce. Adelaide secured her helmet, two dark eyes glinting beneath it, full of a determination like steel. Moving into position, she bent her legs, raising her hands that gripped the hilt of a sword. It glinted in the morning sun asn she shifted slightly. Not once did her gaze falter from the shadowy figure in front of her. The britches and boots she wore were covered in the dust from the hardened ground, but she paid them little heed. It was not often that the Princess was seen to be wearing such an attire, only when she was practising in the field. Long ago had she given up trying to conceal her plan of fighting from her father. He knew about it and whether he choose to ignore it was up to him. But she continued nonetheless. She needed to for when the time came for her to face Lionel and his deadly blade.

Launching himself towards her, the figure swung his sword, which was blocked by Adelaide with an ease flick of the wrist. He delivered blow after blow, but with a lesser force that she had grown used to. The man was going easy on her. After her last sparring partner had been sent away by her father on a "special mission", as he had referred to it, they had been forced to find another. Adelaide refused to fight Kervall Winsler for the time being, for she knew he would be too soft on her. But it looked like he might be her only option should this fool refuse to fight her properly. Stepping she avoided yet another blow that would do nothing more than scratch the skin, let alone kill. Lionel's approach would be much more deadly than this.

With a gentle growl to herself, she took the offense into her own hands. Moving quickly, the young man barely had time to block the coming blow. The clang of metal reverberated through the air. Before it had faded, Adelaide whipped into another attack, though not hard enough to harm the man. When it came to fighting Lionel, all she had to do was injury him badly enough for him to bleed, the rest was out of her hands. Blow after blow, knocking the man further back towards the edge of the ring. Finally he seemed to get the idea and offered a fair fight of his own, but it wasn't enough. Adelaide kept going, stepping neatly out of the way, blocking and sparring, aiming blows where she could. Her technique was not quite flawless, but she had come on far with the sword that she held. Having always been a fast learner, she had picked things up fairly quickly and Kervall was a great teacher. He had shown her things she could have never picked up from merely watching and had educated her well on the fighting techniques. Now she just had to master it. After only ten weeks, Adelaide was more than capable of handling herself when it came to an attack.

Knocking her partner's sword from his hand when he dropped his defence, she pressed her blade to his neck as he raised his hands in a quick yield. Smiling, she stepped back, scooping up his sword and handing it back to him. Thanking him, she turned to those watching. With a smooth movement, she removed her helmet, her cascade of dark hair falling around her back and face. There was splattering of applause, though most did not know how to react to the Princess defeating a man in combat. Rolling her eyes, she tucked the helmet under her arm, sheathing her sword. Even covered in dust and dirt, a flush to her cheeks, there was something enchanting about the young girl.

"So, how did I do?" She asked the general crowd, though her words were intended for Kervall. She could not see him, but she did hope he had been there to see her defeat this man. A murmur of approval ran through the small crowd, but many averted their eyes. They would never understand her need to fight. Lionel wasn't going to stop at anything to get the crown back even if that meant destroying her and Raban. Adelaide would rather die protecting herself and her younger brother than simply sitting back and watching. Instead she intended to be as active as she could throughout this war.

However, war was not what Adelaide had wanted. But she had no say in the matter. King Henry, her father, had announced war and that made it final. So, she had to watch as everything went to chaos and turmoil. Certainly now no-one would listen to her, even with her raised standing in court. Even though she had now reached the tender age of 16, as of three weeks before, there was no more standing for her than there had been. It was as though she were unable to speak. To be seen and not heard as it was so kindly put by her mother once. Her mother who was now long dead and buried. The thought saddened her somewhat, but since Morgana was brutally killed Adelaide had been forced to be stronger than ever. Although she had realised soon after the death that it had not been Lionel who had plunged the sword through Morgana's stomach, she was still intent on making him pay. Her father wanted him alive. Adelaide wanted him dead. It was the only way to end this once and for all.

Taking a cloth that Mary handed her, unseeingly, she ran it over her forehead, before handing it back. She squeezed the girl's arm, a sign that she was smiling. Ever since Mary had given her word that she would stand alongside Adelaide and Kervall, the two had become inseparable. The serving girl had become more of a friend to Adelaide than ever. Although she still remained one of the staff, her position was somewhat elevated in Adelaide's eyes. But they were going to need more allies than just Mary if they were to win this war. It was certainly going to be bloodthirsty and violent if the Winslers and Lionel had anything to do with it...

His face was carefully blank. Quincel was thoroughly and constantly pissed off. The last two months had placed him in a situation that he resented and dreaded. Why his crew had suddenly decided to vote on letting Lionel assume command, he had no idea. Most of the men (himself included) had been on a ship longer than Lionel had even been alive. Though Lionel had learned fast, two months on a ship did not a seaman make. The sailors had served in the Greyhardt fleet their whole lives, and he was shocked (to say the least) at how easily they had been swayed to Lionel’s cause. He had hoped that his men were a bit more loyal than that.

It was true that Quin had renounced his leadership when realized that he was dishonored and legitimately a traitor to the Crown (and consequentially, his house and family). And that he was a bit aimless now that he had no agenda from his Lord. But damn! Was the crew too daft to see that aiding Lionel would involve the bloodshed of the House they had BEEN A PART OF AND SERVED FOR THEIR ENTIRE LIVES? Some of the Greyhardt fleet had followed the Firestorm, but most of the fleet still remained at the Greyhardt ports. If Lionel succeeded in building their army, they would be fighting against fellow crewmen and knights.

Must be Leliana’s fault. The sailors really liked her. And for some unknown reason, she really liked Lionel.

He stared out glumly at the rag tag fleet of ships that Lionel had massed. It certainly couldn’t rival the Greyhardt fleet, but it was still impressive considering that THEY WERE PIRATES NOW. Drowned God. Quin couldn’t fathom how he had come to this low point in his life. He looked up gloomily at the pirate flag that waved above the once noble ship. What. How they had even been able to dock? Quin shuddered. The Free Cities must be filled with all sorts of terrible things.

And now they were off to hire the Bloody Mummers. Quin did not approve. Oh no. Not at all. But there was nothing he could do about the mad bastard-king’s insanity, and the best thing was to make sure that no harm came to the general peace (and Leliana) due to his brash actions. He supposed he should be honored that he was allowed to come at all. But looking at their scrappy group, Quin did not feel too much reassured. Besides himself, Lionel had chosen three more to make a group of five: two sailors and one girl. There had been PLENTY OF (now traitorous) KNIGHTS who had followed Quin in his idiotic rescue ploy.

Alright. Maybe the sers weren’t well acquainted with dealing with mercenaries. But he hoped to the Seven that SAILORS FROM HOUSE GREYHARDT WHO HAD LIVED AND TRAINED IN THE NORTH weren’t as well! And, why was he bringing that boy? Reuben was a damnably cheeky brat. Clever and well versed in ship lore though he may be, Quin always found himself asking how a BOY OF FIVE AND TEN YEARS HAD HAPPENED TO BE ON A WAR GALLEY FROM THE GREYHARDT’S FLEET. Damn it! As soon as he got back to the North, he would have to make inspections on all the other ships to ensure that young bra- … and then he remembered that he was as good as exiled. He sank into a dark gloom.

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Maryn leaned back in his chair and propped up his feet on the table. He yawned luxuriously. Shitty tavern, he thought cheerfully as he walked a coin across his fingers. For a moment he debated buying a drink, but decided against it. The girls were ugly and the beer was abominable at best. But the laidback Maryn never complained, probably wouldn’t if the world depended on it. Well. Unless someone offered him compensation for his efforts. The boss liked the Bloody Heart as a place of negotiation. Unremarkable and isolated from the mainstream, the place was habitually empty. The few people that did venture into the shoddy tavern were people of no consequence, or employed by the Bloody Mummers themselves.

Well. He wasn’t here to have a nice drink. Apparently, the Brave Companions were to meet with the Bastard King, Kinslayer, they called him. That ought to be interesting enough. Maryn smiled and crossed his arms behind his head. He lacked a healthy sense of tact. King or not, Maryn sure wasn’t going to be putting on any airs for the boy. He wondered if the rumors were true and the ex-prince was handing out land like candy to children. The dock was just about filled up with boats that had heeded his call. Maryn felt almost impressed. The boy must got a real silver tongue to be able to string a line of men so easily with bare promises. Either that, or he was possessed of such prowess that there was no doubt that the Iron Throne would be his. Maryn licked his lips. A worthy boy. A possible competitor for the title “the Great Me”?

“Hey master,” he drawled. “Why're we meeting up with this Bastard King? Heard he’s got more titles th’n gold.”

The events had happened in their brutally fast paced ways. It seemed fate itself was driving the winds that pushed all the players in this latest game of thrones, well Jamie would have liked to shove Memory up fate's ass till it learned who truly was in charge. It always seemed Jamie was the knight on the chessboard. A valuable piece all things said but wielded by a piss poor child who knew nothing of how the game was played and insisted on their own rules taking precedence. Take for example his own father's failure to notice his son's hard work in making their escape from King's Landing. The half mad fool had shouted for his children even as Jamie rode past him on his horse in a dark fury. For Kervall that traitor to their mother's womb had insisted on staying with his Damian whore. True the Damians would have likely never given up such a valuable hostage, Kervall being all but comatose but the idiot should have at least done his duty and resisted. But no the fool was eying his whore even as he agreed meekly to stay.


When this was all over Jamie had vowed to beat the living shit of Kervall for his betrayal of House Winsler, he would force the traitorous bastard to live the rest of his days as a cripple. And only the Seven could sit Kervall on the lord's chair of House Winsler. Jamie would sooner kill Kervall then call him Lord Winsler, no to the end of time itself Kervall would be a Damian. Kervall Damian and thus his enemy. It had hurt him to say those words to the brother whom he had grown up with. But Jamie would not let his heart rule his head ever again, now was the time for death and ruin.

And what death and ruin it was, for Jamie had truly abandoned the fools in his life. Upon their return to the Eyrie Lord Winsler had spoken of open war and glorious victories. Jamie right then and there had called the man a fool. Had told the old sod that House Winsler had as much chance as winning an open war as a snowball did in hell. Lord Winsler had understandably been angered and shouted for the guards to take Jamie to the dungeon. None had listened, for it had been quite some time since the soldiers,knights,and staff had listened to Lord Winsler. The young masters, his sons, held the reins firmly in their hands, Lord Winsler had been little more then a figurehead since his sons learned to think for themselves at a rather early age. Jamie then told the guards to take Lord Winsler to his chambers so that he might sleep, no doubt the maester would pour the distraught lord a glass of dreamwine. It did not matter to Jamie, who for all intents and purposes was Lord Winsler in all but title.

Knowing that open war wasn't feasible Jamie instead organized his mounted soldiers and knights into the mobile bands they were accustomed to when fighting the mountain clans and brigands. Jamie was most comfortable with this aspect of warfare as it was how he had cut his teeth and earned his knighthood. And speaking of the mountain clans Jamie had put them to good use as well. It had not been all that easy convincing them but Jamie had his ways.

The mountain clans were a very martial society, a direct effect of living in hostile territory. And like any primitive martial society they had their unique customs. The one that had interested him the most was their leadership ones. Most martial societies had the strongest as leader. So Jamie took advantage of this, which meant fighting duels upon duels....To the death, with the Stone Crows fighting unarmed during their duels for leadership. So far he had the loyalty of the Stone Crows and the Black Ears. Not exactly the easiest of allies to group together but they seemed to respect Jamie's honoring of their rights despite his Andal blood. Though Jamie wished they had added more numbers to his forces. However their knowledge of guerrilla tactics played well into the Dragon's plan.

For Jamie had not merely called his father a fool to get him out of the way, he truly knew open warfare was a quick path to suicide. Instead the Winsler nobleman all but abandoned the Vale,taking with him every single horse that could bear a man in armor, and every single man that could ride. As a result Jamie had a large mobile force that well not capable of direct attacks against a standing army was suited to the raiding style of warfare he had adopted. Taking the counsel of his mountain clan allies and his own experiences in the quick and hard strikes used against his fights versus brigands Jamie became a terror of the farmer and supply train. He burned down villages, allowing every single person to flee. For the amount of refugees would only hamper the Damians. He stole crops, burning what he could not take, butchered supply lines. Leaving armies to rot on the vine for lack of supplies.

Though he had only been at this style of warfare for a short period of time Jamie was already beginning to doubt the moral superiority he felt over his enemy. This was not how a knight fought battle, this was how a brigand fought battle. Then he would remember the low born sons of bitches he was fighting and forget about the angst, for a time anyways. But when he stared up at the stars at night he truly wondered about the honor left in his life, that and what Nuala thought of him. The wildling woman was in every spare thought,he simply could not ignore the woman. He often wondered if she approved of what he was doing. For she undeniably had more honor in her then Jamie and every single knight had put together.

Even Eilis, his loyal commander of his personal guard admitted so. For he like Jamie had been impressed by her saving Lionel, if only because of what it represented and not the act itself mind you. Frankly Jamie had wished Nuala had let the biggest son of a bitch of them all drown along with his Greyhardt whore. Then again Jamie knew it was what give the woman her honor, this fulfilling of a life debt.

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Jamie sat on his black stallion, which after the events at King's Landing he had dubbed Warrior. Warrior had proved himself time and time again since then. And today would be no different. Looking down from his lofty perch atop the massive war horse Jamie glazed at the latest supply line that would suffer the fate of all the others before it. The men at arms and knights guarding it wore the crest of House Damian upon their surcoats and shields. They seemed taken aback at the sudden appearance of Jamie and his strike force, the last reports had put them North raiding Greyhardt interests. But that was the perk of having a force composed solely of calvary and horse drawn wagons. They could travel far and fast without waiting for the slow plodding of infantry. Though in a pitched battle their lack of infantry would be telling, calvary were never meant to act alone in open warfare. But for the guerrilla warfare he had adopted calvary were Warrior sent.

The enemy to their credit had begun investing more heavily in their supply lines security, but unlike him they had other interests to protect. Westeros was a big place after all, you could only spread your forces so thin and still expect to defend key points. Jamie singled the attack and the hoof beats and rattling of armor drowned out the shouted orders of the enemy as the Winsler calvary begun their charge.

All at once the massacre began as 2000 pound horses smashed full force into the Damian soldiers and knights. Not bothering to stay and fight Jamie and his calvary simply ran them over clearing the fray quickly. Wheeling around Jamie and Winsler forces once more smashed through their lines, using his lance to spear a knight trying to organize the defense. Clearing the fray once more Jamie drew Memory, now was the time to actually fight.

Charging once more Jamie slashed the valyrian blade right and left, swinging downwards at any who got to close. And as soon as it had started the attack was over, silence filled the air. Broken only here and there by the cries of those not quite dead, who were being attended to as Jamie's calvary looted the supply line for food and equipment with the effectiveness of much recent practice. The survivors attended to, the looting done, and another army left to rot on the vine for want of supplies Jamie and his force were gone. Left in their wake were nothing but stripped corpses and burning wagons.

The Dragon once more thought of the little honor there was in this. At least they had claimed several more horses and thus could mount more soldiers. For while Jamie lacked for men it was the want of horses that was most pressing, he simply could not mount every single man under his command. This lead to a reserve of replacements true enough and they could train further in the way of warfare they now fought but it was bodies atop horses at his back Jamie Winsler truly needed. He was winning every battle, nearly one sided slaughters they may be.However Houses Damian and Greyhardt were sending ever more scouts into the country side trying to find him and his army. It was only Westeros's sheer size that was working in his favor. Resupply by sea was becoming increasingly more difficult and only the black sailed smugglers cared to risk the Greyhardt navy, while the supply lines were increasingly under heavier guard thus making looting all that much harder. And there were only so many villages he could raid as well, so many crops he could steal.

With her bow – a new one which she had appropriated from Braavos...alright, fine, stolen from Bravos, as they were low on funds anyways – Leliana was more than ready to face Qohor and the Brave Companions.

The past two and a half months have changed Leliana. She knew that if she was to survive in this turn of events, she would have to harden herself to the world around her – and she had. At first it had been hard for her to accustom her thoughts to the fact that slitting throats was a thing that was easy to do, but with time and effort she had forced herself to reach the point where her mindset changed.

And now it was as easy as breathing. Killing a human may as well be the same as taking down a deer. The bled all the same, after all, did they not?

She had tried her hand again at sword-fighting, but had still found herself unable to get the bloody hang of how to move about with a blade in hand. Leliana had once more realized she should just stick to bows.

She was one of the four others accompanying Lionel along to his meeting with the Brave Companions and she walked to the left of him, her eyes drinking in the sights of Qohor’s streets. It was when Reuben made mention of marriage that Leliana finally turned to pay attention to the people she was walking alongside.

“Honestly, how many times do I have to tell people to call me Leli? You’ve known me a while, Reuben – it’s Leli or nothing. I’ve stopped being a Lady since I ran off. Leliana would do, as well.” She teased him, one eyebrow quirked as she scrutinized him with blue eyes.

She wasn’t sure yet if she wanted to get married at this point in time, in any case. Sure, she liked Lionel well enough – alright, it was by far more than that by now – one could go as far as saying that she was beginning to love him. Still, the idea of being less than completely free chafed her in all the wrong ways. Leliana knew that Lionel would never impeach himself on her autonomy, as he himself had been in severe need of shirking the shackles put on him by the expectations of his family, but she was nonetheless a bit hesitant. In time, perhaps after the hectic warring slowed down, she would gladly agree.

She looked over at Lionel and could not help but smile. He had recovered very well, what with losing an eye and being forced to adapt to extended periods of time out at sea. He had changed much since she had first met him. But, then again, so had she. Whether it had been for the best or the worst, Leliana could not tell – but it felt as if it had been for the best.

---

“Well, won’t you look at that,” Ammon’s brisk voice pierced through the air as he watched the doors of the tavern open and five people come in – four men, one woman. Ammon lounged in one of the chairs, one leg crossed over the other, his expression a mixture of scorn and conceit.

This must have been the infamous ‘Bastard King’, accompanied by the three main members of his ‘court’. Ammon smirked and leaned forward in his chair, cupping his hands beneath his chin in order to lean it atop his knuckles. The man looked young and Ammon figured that he was no more than twenty years of age, though he had an air of appearing older due to the eye-patch and scar, as well as the shaggy uncut hair.

Ammon spared not even a second glance at the youngster with them, though he did wonder why a boy of no more than five and ten, by the looks of him, had been allowed to come along. Neither did he give much attention to the toothless man. The grizzled, slender man who was came next under Ammon’s scrutiny was categorized as someone who did not particularly wish to be there.

And only then did Ammon turn to look at the red-haired wench, because, after all, one saved the best for last – though the Bastard King wasn’t bad to look at either, but too scruffy for Ammon’s tastes. He eyed her up, noting the womanly curves and the full bosom. She walked close to the Bastard King and that, to Ammon, spoke volumes. A lover or a good friend...most likely both.

Ammon turned to Jans and his voice dropped low so that only their leader could hear. “Bringing only so few, a wise decision - I reckon the older chap and the wench are related, and that the wench and our one-eyed King are bed-fellows." He then leaned away and cast his eyes and attentions over at Sirena.

"What do you make of the fresh meat?" He grinned at her, having always been rather fond of the woman. Needless to say, the two of them took a tumble together on more than one occasion - it was always simple and never had any strings attached. Just good, consensual - yet at times rough - tumbling through the sheets. He had taken on bedding Sirena even before having killed his last wife. After all, why bother being faithful to a woman who was as good as dead?

((OOC ~ Did not post for Dante yet. Guahh, it's late.))

~~~NUALA~~~

She was disgruntled, chewing on her bottom lip as all her belief tried to rush back into her mouth. As a Wildling she had been along on her fair share of raids in which her people had needed food or supplies in order to survive. She had never has issue with taking lives. The North had made Nuala into a woman with a heart as comparably cold as the Wall itself. True, she did have her soft spots (but they were far and few). It was not the life-taking which caused her displeasure. It was not the deed itself but in the way it was carried out. Nuala understood necessity and she understood honor. Most importantly she understood the two did not always go together hand in hand. Her mind was yet to be fully made up.

'When did I begin to draw out the conclusions of my opinions?', she thought to herself as she thrust in a downward motion with her spear to impale a man. She wrenched her spear back out and it withdrew with a squelching sound. The body fell down to be trampled beneath the hooves of horses; dead. 'Ever since you decided to put faith in him.', she thought again in a reply to her previous mental question.

Since coming to the Eyrie, Nuala had been resupplied with a new spear. She would have considered looking to trade in the mare she had ridden there for a horse better suited for battle had she not become rather attached to the sorrel mare. Nuala had even called her a new name: Eubha; in the Old Tongue it meant 'life'. Silly as it sounded in her mind it served as a reminder of what she had held on to when she had clawed her way past the Night's Watch and into this strange country of people who she had yet to fully understand. Eubha was a quick horse and that made up for her lack of mass to act as proper war horse. Nuala favored speed for herself over brute strength; she herself was strong for a woman but it was speed she invested in when it came to attacking. Speed and flexibility: two weapons in her arsenal when needing to make up for not having the strength of a burly man.

It was sitting atop Eubha, reins in one hand and bloodied spear in the other, that Nuala rode up to Jamie. It had been one of the quicker raids, the ones which ended no sooner than they began. "It is done." She said in reference to their most recent raid. "The next will be soon, I assume." She made the statement without any accusation in her voice (though it could be seen in her eyes, if only a bit). Understanding rarely equated to approval. Nuala did understand, for what it mattered. She was not blindly entrenched in her own honor so as to be unable to see necessities -- yet it still did not translate respect of a deed.

Nuala would be both blind and ignorant if she had not noticed the way Jamie had experienced transformations throughout the earlier months. On the inside she worried for him. On the outside Nuala scowled. She was never good at expressing things she felt and showing great depths of emotions was neither a strong point nor something she liked to do. Smiling was foreign enough to her. Nevertheless, she did scowl less around Jamie (and for Nuala, this was more than she had ever offered to others).

"Odd of you to be so interested." Jans rumbled, downing a tankard of ale. "The Bastard King's as poor as my dead father, bless him, but he's half a Damian, which means he must be decent enough at treachery and conspiracy- and the Seven know that you lot don't have half a brain between you to spare. Besides, he's already got Myr, House Tyrell, and the Braavosi on his side, and that changes things. I'd rather throw in my lot with a bravo than with some old fart of a king. Furthermore, he's promised to absolve us of our crimes against the crown once he assumes the kingship." Jan's grin gleamed white in the darkness. "And if he doesn't quite live up to expectations, King Henry's offered a handsome reward in exchange for his son, if you can call him that. So don't trouble yourself, Maryn. You'll get your pay either way."

~

The dark, dimly lit tavern became silent the moment Lionel walked inside, and it was obvious from the first look that the Bleeding Heart was Jan's tavern. There was no fear of being overheard, because there was no on there besides the Bloody Mummers. The men inside all regarded Lionel with cool, carefully guarded expressions, and then turned back to their quiet conversations. Lionel suspected that they were privately thinking through all the different ways they could kill him. Not a particularly reassuring thought. He almost wanted to put an arm around Leliana to shield her from the hostile air, but he figured she would just slap him and then inform him that she could handle herself. As it were, he couldn't help but walk a little closer to her, just in case.

"Over here, your bastardly Grace," a deep voice boomed.

Jans Siran was a huge, burly, bearded man with dark skin the color of polished ebony. He was bald, but his beard was a grand sight, braided in with jewels, beads, and- Lionel thought- a ring of fingers strewn together. The man was clearly built for strength, not speed. Although nearly seven feet tall, the leader of the Bloody Mummers possessed a rather wide stomach, but the bulging muscles in his arms more than made up for it. Lionel was aware of faint snickers as he sat down across from Jans, and he realized he must have looked like a stick in comparison.

There were two men sitting near Jans, one dark-haired and the other blonde. Lionel sized them up out of the corner of his eye. They were both shorter than he was, but far more muscular- in fact, compared to everyone in the bar, with the exception of the women, Lionel resembled a slender waif, for all the training he'd gone through as a child. That wasn't good. Lionel was going to have to find some way to establish authority over them, if not through physical strength. The dark-haired man seemed curiously detached, as if bored. At least he doesn't seem hostile. Casting him off as not a threat for the time being, Lionel focused his attention on the blonde one- and found himself clenching his fists together when he saw how the man was looking Leliana up and down. Lionel was not exactly a jealous man, but he would rather Leliana sleep around with the sailors rather than some slimy sellsword.

Lionel dipped his head in respect, a little unsure of how to properly address the Bloody Mummers. "It's good to meet you," he said. "I'm Lionel Storm. This man is Ser Quincel, former shipmaster of House Damian. The man with one tooth is Royce. This here is Leliana, my…" He broke off suddenly. He couldn't call Leliana his wife; they hadn't married yet. Neither was she his whore or anything of that sort. But if the glances coming from Ammon meant anything, Lionel had to establish that no one would be touching Leliana while he was in reach of his sword. "My partner. And that boy…"Lionel broke off again. Where was Reuben?

"You're so funny!" Several tables away, a voluptuous blonde-haired woman squealed and ruffled the hair of a certain orange-haired squirt. "Hanah, isn't he just adorable?"

Hanah clearly agreed, as she was busy pinching Reuben's cheeks."You are, you little cutie…you get your hands off him, Louanne, you're messing up his lovely hair."

"Now, now, ladies…" Reuben smirked, leaning against Hanah's chest. "There's enough of me to go around."

Lionel suppressed an inner groan. That little… "And that little idiot is my cabin boy. Pay him no attention, he's only here because he'd wet himself otherwise."

"You've got quite the formidable crew," Jans rumbled, laughing. "Although I must say, you're quite the disappointment."

Lionel caught the smirk on Jans' face and knew it was a jest. "Is it the eye?"

"You're not half as pretty as they said you were."

"So it was the eye," Lionel replied, reaching for his tankard.

Jans stayed his hand. "Don't drink that. The wine here is awful."

"It doesn't matter, I'm parched. Anything's better than nothing."

Jans' expression didn't change, but his eyes leveled at Lionel's. "I said, the wine is awful."

Realization struck Lionel, and he hastily put the tankard down. "One of your men trying to kill me?"

"No, that was just a test to see how stupid you were." Jans grinned. "You barely passed."

Laughter rang out through the tavern- half the Bloody Mummers had been watching. Lionel scowled and took a long gulp from the tankard, trying to swill down the humiliation. He would have liked to unsheath Night and take Jans' head off right there and then, but that wouldn't end too well for any of them.

"Relax, your Grace. By the Seven, you need to cool off," Jan said. "But enough of that. Let's get to why you came here. My men tell me you're interested in a forging a contract with the Brave Companions- have you any idea how much it's going to cost you? How much gold do you have stashed in that threadbare tunic of yours?"

"Not a stag," Lionel replied frankly.

"So we're bartering, are we? What, are you going to become our whore? Sorry, but you're not that pretty."

More laughter. Lionel fingered the hilt of Night, trying to keep his cool. Keep the end goal in mind. You're here to forge a contract, not take Jans' head off. "Single combat," he declared, looking Jans directly in the face. "Me against you. Whoever wins gains control of the Bloody Mummers."

Jans burst out laughing. "Single combat? What do you take us for, some Wildling clan?"

Lionel allowed himself to smile. "No, but I take you for man who's not afraid of a wight half a foot shorter, and what's more, one-eyed."

Jans was silent for a moment. Lionel sipped his ale quietly, eying the Mummer from over the top of his tankard. It was a delicate operation that he had planned, and it could easily end in disaster, but it was well-known that Jans was a fierce defender of his pride. And then there was the other little tidbit he'd planned…

The sound of Reuben's chatter with the serving wenches drifted over in their direction. "…yeah, I'm a captain of my own ship, you know. The Bastard King knows I’m the best sailor in the fleet." As always, the little prick was bragging and exaggerating with such gusto that it was embarrassing. Louanne and Hanah, however, seemed to be eating up every word.

"How about the king himself? Is he a good sailor?" Hanah cooed.

Reuben scoffed. "Catboy? Don't tell anyone I said this, but the Bastard King's reputation is overblown. He can't raise a sail to save his life, and have you seen his swordplay? Clumsier than a frog's and not half as fast. He might have been a decent fighter before, but to be honest, he's not half the knight he was before he lost his eye."

Jan raised an eyebrow. Lionel continued sipping innocently, waiting for the Mummer's response.

"Hey, Reub. You're coming with us."

The little sailor literally yipped with excitement and scurried towards Lionel, eagerness written all over his face. However, Reuben knew better to be less than a little suspicious. Lionel was not known for handing out favors without a good reason- and that was usually a self-centered one. "May I inquire as to why, your Grace? Which of my many services will you be requiring?"

Lionel rolled his eye, wishing he should grab Reuben by the ear and throw the ruffian overboard. Reuben seemed intent on getting Lionel to laugh, something which he somehow loathed to do whenever the little git was around. "I need someone who looks innocent, stupid, and naïve. Can you lie well?"

"What, your Grace?" Reuben's face blanked out; his eyes widened childishly, and he sucked his mouth back into a pout. For a moment, Lionel almost felt a stir of sympathy for the 'waif' standing before him. And then it disappeared. No one in their right mind would ever pity Reuben.

"That's good enough. Let's go.

"Single combat?" Jans repeated. He slammed his fist down on the table. "Fine, it's your head."

Lionel grinned wolfishly. "With all else equal. Meaning the same weapon, the same armor, no outside help."

"Of course. What do you take me for, a cheater? I'm not a bloody Damian- begging your pardon, your bastardly Grace." Jans rose from his seat, casting a huge shadow over the room. Lionel swallowed when he saw how huge Jans truly was- but that didn't matter. He would have the advantage in this fight. He hoped.

"Outside, then?"

Jamie rode at the head of his calvary, the sound of hoof beats and armor jingling the only sound to be heard now that the crows had been put behind them. He could picture the flesh of the men he had killed so recently being ripped apart by those ever hungry birds of war. And it disturbed him to say the least, he had killed before and would likely keep on killing for quite some time. But the feel of man's flesh giving way beneath the keen valyrian steel would haunt him to the grave. Some part of him realized the men he killed were only servants to their masters. They fought him because if they didn't House Damian and House Greyhardt would throw them off their lands and starve their wives and children. They were just as bound by fate as he himself was.


A hundred thousand men are cowards if they knell before a single man. Jamie reminded himself, once again using the inner fire of his anger to banish his rising depression. The Dragon reminded himself that was all King Damian was, a mere man, composed of the same fragile flesh and blood the rest of them were. His Crown and the Iron Throne gave him nothing that wasn't even remotely based on reality.

An old riddle came to mind as that thought ran it's course through is mind. A King, a priest, and a rich man sat in a room together. Before them stood a sellsword of low birth armed with a sword. The King commanded the sellsword to slay the other two in the name of the Crown. The Priest ordered the man to kill the other two in the name of the gods. And lastly the Rich Man told him to kill the other two for mere gold.

Who lives and who dies. Jamie could hear the voice of their maesters echoing in his head. The man had been found of using such riddles to teach the Winsler noblemen. Jamie never one for study or scholarly manners had nonetheless knew the answer to that one, for it's answer lay at the very heart of the nobleman's beliefs. It depends on where the sellsword believes power resides. For power is only power when those under you believe you possess it. The memory of his answer echoed as well in his mind.

But his thoughts were disturbed by the arrival of Nuala, he did not have to turn his head to know it was her. The wildling rode the only smaller sized horse, thus the hoof beats of her mare were far quieter and were only heard every other second as the bigger horses drowned out the sound every first second. He also did not need to turn his head to sense the disapproval in her eyes.


He looked down at his armor, that once gleaming golden plate that shone in the sun so brightly. Now it bore the scratches and dents of much recent combat. Despite all the care Jamie and their blacksmith lavished on it the armor was beginning to wear out. Jamie somehow viewed the armor's fate as an analogy to his own. The golden gilding was beginning to wear out and the castle forged steel beneath it was showing in more then one place.

" As soon as my scouts bring back reports of our next target and we rest up some." Jamie replied to Nuala words regarding their raid. He also fingered the threadbare surcoat, the red faded to near white while the proud panther of his House was all but gone." If I could live free of the shadow of my name I would Nuala." He added with a half sad smile." Anyways I got word from the Sons of the Mist, they say they're willing to meet with me. So you and the rest will get a bit more rest this time."

Jamie knew that the Sons of the Mist were the least understood of the mountain clans. For as their name suggested they were here and gone like the mist. They struck hard and fast then vanished without a trace. No doubt Eilis would worry for such a meeting would only have one purpose. To secure their loyalty and add their warriors to his army, which would mean another duel to the death. Several in fact for Jamie would need to earn his right to challenge for leadership by besting those closest in line to the leader. Eilis highly disapproved of this tactic of recruitment, saying if Jamie lost they'd be the poorer.

Fate would never be so kind as to end my confusion that quickly. Jamie thought with that same half-sad smile before turning his thoughts once more to Nuala. It was a force of habit that never failed to draw perhaps a scowl though she had scowled less of late. Jamie missed those scowls, for they reminded him of a time when he knew who he was. Though he knew deep down the lack of scowls was her way of expressing herself. The North beyond the wall was no doubt a harsh place where live was brutal and often cut short. And so it's people became cold as the ice,snow,and rock of their native soil so as to survive. But if history was to be believe Jamie also knew there was a time the wildlings had lived in the warm south. Briefly the Dragon wondered what Nuala would have been like if she had grown up in the warm south with it's easy pleasures and backstabbing nobles. Somehow though the thought ruined the appeal, it was her honor,savage grace, and strength beyond his own in many ways that gave the wildling all the appeal he found in her.

Ammon noted the way in which his ogling of the wench had brought about hints of anger, if the clenched fists were any hint at the matter. He did not back down, reserving for himself the right to eyeball anyone he damned well pleased to.

“If we braided his hair and put him in a frock, it would change things considerably,” Ammon shrugged his shoulders at Jans’ words about making the Bastard King their whore. “Though, the redhead with the big tits would better suit the job, but we all take what we can get, don’t we?”

Or the both of them, truth be told. He rather liked the thought of the two decent-looking ones being face down and ass up. “Ha-ha-ha!,” went Ammon’s keening bird-laugh, his good humors spurned onwards by the manner in which Lionel Storm was stumbling through the situation. This whole situation was making him grin, though the expression he wore like showing his teeth than an actual smile.

A one on one duel? What was the daft bastard thinking?. Jans would crush that slender youth with his fist like a hammer crushes a walnut. And yet the one-eyed man was grinning, a wicked leer which Ammon found out of place on the visage of someone who was surely traipsing to his doom.

“With all else equal.”

Those words made him pause in his own thoughts and Ammon leaned forward once more to brace his chin on his knuckles, eyes narrowing to slits as his expression sobered up ostensibly. There was a trick here somewhere, or something that was not being accounted for, and Ammon hated being left out in the dark about things.

He took in every detail of the Bastard King he could find, tilting his head first one way and then the other as he pieced things together in his mind. And then – the eye. Ammon would have tipped his head back and let out a shriek of laughter, but he did not – he did, however, let out a low chuckle. My, what a clever Bastard you are, aren’t you, kitten? He said nothing as Jans rose out of his chair. After all, why spoil something that would be so undoubtedly interesting? And it was not as if Jans would be backing out of a deal after he made it, the man had a reputation to uphold, after all.

Ammon rubbed his chin with one hand, something he did whenever faced with things of notice, feeling himself to very intrigued by all of this. And what if the Bastard King did win? That would be an even more interesting turn of events. Being absolved of their crimes and pillaging through the Seven Kingdoms did sound rather nice, now that Ammon really gave it a thought. I just hope he’ll put out, when it comes down to the payment.

---

Leliana had taken a seat beside Lionel and leaned forward to brace her elbows on the table, watching the men before her warily. She did, of course, have one corner of her mouth tweaked up in a cheerful smirk and the look in her eyes hinted at mirth, but she was nevertheless guarded.

They were very greatly outnumbered. If negotiations went sour and they had to attempt to fight their way out of the tavern, Leliana doubted they would get to arm’s distance of the door. This lot wasn’t a bunch of castle guards or peasants wielding spare swords. These were hardened, sadistic criminals to whom cutting off a foot or a hand was the equivalent of saying ‘hello, how do you do?’.

Leliana was beginning to very much dislike this situation. Though she believed that Lionel would be able to come out of this fight the victor – he always had something up his sleeve, that man of hers – she did not at all like the implications of what would happen if Lionel lost. At the hands of the Bloody Mummers, a quick death would be a great mercy, and a very unlikely one at that.

The words from the mouths of Jans and the blonde man beside him said as much.

“I’m counting on you to win this one,” she said, leaning over to speak into Lionel’s ear, “being flipped ass over tits and hammered like a bent nail is not something on my priority list at the moment. I know you’ll get through, but I reckoned I should mention that, just in case you forgot and decided against trying. So, just do your magic and stick him with the pointy end.”

With that said, Leliana gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, “there’ll be a proper one afterwards.” She wondered where the duel would be taking place. A back alley seemed a good location, though the actual inner space of the tavern would work just as well.

Leliana looked over at her Uncle and gave him a winning smile, as if to say ‘Oh hey, we’re pirates and soon to be either dead or joining the Mummers! Isn’t this fantastic?’. She was not attempting to be mocking or anything, merely trying to brighten up the situation as best as she feasibly could. Apart from the whole danger of the circumstances, it was all rather quite exciting.

She would have twiddled her thumbs to prevent the onset of anticipation, but prevented herself, as it would be taken as fidgeting. Alright, and perhaps Leliana did want to fidget in this sort of company. Sure, she may have forced herself to harden and debased her moral standings to easily accept murder, but she was still far from being anywhere near as nasty as any of the Mummers.

If we win, I’ll learn with due time.

"They're gone," Edwina wept. "All of them, except two."

Jane could not imagine it. She could not feel the loss. It was too terrible to be real. Her hands trembled and she sat down in the chair heavily, her eyes sweeping the table and remembering the vision of nine girls sitting there: pelting one another with bread; trying to act like ladies; arguing and laughing. She closed her eyes and took a deep, calm breath.

"Who?"

"Only little Margaret, by a thread. Katherine has recovered, but ... oh, Jane, Meg's changed."

"Does the illness ... leave marks?"

"I wish that were it," she said, a cruel, desperate smile on her face.

"How could this happen?" Jane whispered to herself. "They were safe and sound when I left. Not a cough or a red nose amongst them. I promised to tell them about the court."

Poor Jane, her mother's words echoed. It will end with you.

"You must see Margaret," Edwina interrupted her thoughts. "She asks for you. Maybe, now that you're here, she can rally and overcome. She must. There's no one else."

"No one else?'

"There's no other heir to Strake," she said, her voice quiet. "You disinherited your cousin Dante and Katherine is ... "

Simpleminded. From the day she was born.


~

One. Two. Three.

Jane's lips moved in silence. She was tapping out combinations of numbers on the pane of her bedchamber's window. There were shadows under her eyes and a paleness to her skin that spoke more of recent illness than a deliberate complexion. It made the freckles across the bridge of her nose stand out all the more sharply in contrast. In the past two months, she had made more prayers to the Crone than in the last five years of her life.

There was a knock at the door. Jane paused: "Yes?"

"My Lady, I've come with news of Lady Margaret."

I will not stand the last vigil. By the Seven, I will not, she swore, knowing it was a vow she would break, for who would do so in her place? For a moment, she felt the temptation to be blunt, to ask if her sister was dead, but she did not.

"And what is that news?"

"I am ... My Lady, she ..."

She's dead.

"She asks for you."

Jane felt as though she'd been doused with freezing water. She turned from the window, where she had been watching the men at practice in the yard, to look at the woman. Her eyes placed what her ears could not. It was one of the newer women of the House, one who had been appointed to look after Margaret and Anne as they'd come to take more interest in their coming womanhood than their child's games.

"Then I will come," she said and stood.

The room smelled of death and hope. She kept her eyes firmly away from the small bed where Anne had slept and focused on Margaret. The former sight might have been better. Her seven year old sister looked as though she were not long for the world and Jane steeled herself.

"Mumma Jane!" Margaret said, her voice strangely bright. Jane found she did not loathe the nickname in that moment.

"Yes, yes," she said and smiled wearily. "I hear you've gotten better."

"Where is Anne? Is she better yet?"

"Yes," Jane lied. "Much better."

Margaret pouted, then began to cough. Flecks of blood landed on her coverlet. Jane reached out a hand and touched her younger sister's cheek. A look passed between them. Margaret adored Jane. For her entire life, her eldest sister had been the mother she had never had - the mother that, once, her sister Cecily had told her that it's your fault she's dead.

"Does that mean I don't have to be the Lady when I'm old?"

Jane hesitated. "That is a long time from now, Meg. We'll see."

"Watch over them, Jane," her mother had said.

Why am I to do everything? Jane thought. Why did you die and leave it to me?

The visit was not a long one. For the past two months, Margaret had tread that line between sickness and wellness like a practiced dancer. Jane looked at her sister and could not imagine that she would be able to bear the weight of their House, or even children, when she came of age. It was a fact that the rest of the household was well aware of. Some had even begun to whisper that her disinheriting Dante was a mistake, as though they could not remember what he had done.

Who will it fall to when Jane is dead? she could hear them thinking. She has no children, one sister an idiot, and the other sister will likely die before she comes of age. Her sole Strake cousin is years gone. The closest relative ...

"Damian," she whispered to herself. Her great grand aunt had married into House Damian.

What more misfortune could befall us?

"My Lady!" a breathless voice called to her. Jane stopped as she reached the large staircase and looked down to see one of the knights, Ser Wilhelm, looking up at her with wide eyes. "There's a ... there's---" he struggled to catch his breath. She raised an eyebrow.

"There's a troop from House Damian coming!"

Her heart plumetted. What more misfortune indeed?

"In peace?" she asked, her voice calm.

"They have arms, but they are not ... hostile that we have seen."

"Then we have guests, and we will entertain them," she answered and came down the stairs. Ser Wilhelm stared at her as though she'd grown another head.

"House Damian? As guests?"

"Or we could attack them and watch as they overcome our small forces, then kill, burn and rape everything," she snapped.

"Winsler---"

"Is my liege. And far better armed. And without the responsibility of a sick child who cannot be moved."

Wilhelm bowed his head. "Yes, my Lady."

"I will write to Jamie Winsler of this," she said. "Tonight, under darkness, have Ser Guy ride out."

The noise in the courtyard began to swell and reach them through the walls.

Pleasant, she willed herself. Pleasant. Inviting. Iron.

Maryn grinned. “Heh. A pretty couple you’d make with the princeling, Ammon,” he drawled sarcastically. He glanced at Ammon shiftily from the corner of his eyes. “Send me an invite to your wedding. Didn’t know you liked little boys so much.”

He stretched and peered at Lionel innocently. “Too bad Jans’ getting to him first. He’ll be needing a new face after this, poor thing.” It really was a shame. Maryn was starting to like him. Gutsy and one-eyed and so easy to make fun of. Not at all comparable to the Great Maryn.

But even so, he couldn’t help feeling like there was something amiss to all this. It was obvious that the Bastard King had a trick up his sleeve. Why impose the strict rule of complete equality? And that brat of his. Squawking in the corner like a little red bird, his overloud and boyish voice rang out a little too obviously. A true crewmember never shelled out his captain’s weaknesses like that. Even if he was draped over those two sluts like a small and not very well patterned blanket. Even Maryn wasn’t buying his exclamations of how terrible that Lionel chap was.

He stared at the small boy. “You there, shut up or I’ll rip you a new one so Ammon can fuck you through it.”

----
Quincel was being judgmental. The tavern was filthy, a disgrace. It was obviously being run by the mercenaries as their headquarters of sorts. He made no move to take any drinks and sat stiffly and oddly.

He still couldn’t believe that they were trying to hire mercenaries for their pirate band. It all seemed a little surreal to him. His hand tightened on his saber’s hilt over and over. The boy was so reckless! Challenging the leader of the Bloody Mummers for their service? That was no way to deal with mercenaries at all. As soon as King Henry opened up his hands dripping with gold toward them, they would turn on Lionel and his companions like starving curs.

He bristled at the blond one’s lewd remarks. How dare he speak to Leliana like that? If he weren’t trying to keep himself from strangling Lionel, Quin would run him through for his insolence. But that would ruin Lionel’s plans and this insanity would only worsen. And then Leliana had smiled at him. Quin suspected that it was supposed to be a reassuring smile, but all it made Quin feel was a strong desire to dive into the sea and go live with the Drowned God. "Don't smile like that, Leli," he muttered.

Secretly he wondered what would happen if Lionel was killed in the single battle. Clearly, they would fuck Leliana’s brains out. He shuddered, and his brief thoughts of being able to dismiss the pirates and live a perfectly non-criminal life dissipated like frost in the sun.

“Best of luck. I hope that you know that losing is unacceptable.” He stared hard at Lionel. In other words, if Lionel was half the man they made him out to be and Leliana got hurt, even the Seven could not shield him from Quin’s angry vengeance.

"A proper one afterwards? I'd rather have a proper one now. Just in case." Lionel pulled Leliana back by the shoulders and kissed her on the mouth, glaring at the blonde-haired Mummer out of the corner of his eye. For some reason, Lionel was beginning to feel a fierce sort of protectiveness when it came to the redhead- a protectiveness he'd never before felt for anything other than perhaps his sword. It was both troublesome and baffling. Sure, he may have enjoyed Leliana's company, but why should that mean she couldn't talk to other men? For someone who had gone seventeen years without truly caring about another individual, Lionel was more than confused by his own feelings. Regardless, he was sure of one thing. If the Mummer even touched Leliana, then he could expect a very rude sword to the face.

"Don't worry, I don't particularly enjoy being raped either. With men the size of Jans, I doubt either of us could survive." Lionel grinned. He probably should have been feeling scared- just from looking, it was obvious that Jans could crush him like a toothpick. But Lionel was counting on two things- Jans' overconfidence…and his inability to fight without both eyes.

"Oy, kitty, are you coming?" Jans shouted from the door.

Lionel shot Leliana a glance and then headed outside, where a ring of Bloody Mummers had already formed like wolves, eager for a bloody kill. Judging from the sellswords' jeering expressions, Lionel was not the only one who harbored doubts about his chances against Jans. The leader of the Bloody Mummers was huge, heavy individual, but his long strides more than made up for that, along with his incredible strength. Add that to pair of arms that could crush a man's head with one swing. Once they were outside, Jans shrugged off his cloak, revealing a mass of bulging muscles- and scars. The scars were the worst part. They meant that Jans had been injured, multiple times, but he had survived. And probably smashed in the head of whatever poor fellow gave him a scratch. One of the Mummers scurried up and handed Jans a huge mace, his chosen weapon. For all its prettiness, Night looked like a toothpick in comparison. As did everything else about the two of them.

"Fighting again?"

"Ho, who's this challenger?"

"Didn't know you picked fights with little girls, Jans."

Evidently in Qohor, a good brawl was always appreciated. Other bystanders, merchants and sailors, were gathering around now, intent to see what was going on. Jans, who was infamous for his public fights, paced back and forth in the ring, shouting out the details of the duel to those who were curious. "The Bastard King Lionel Storm of Westeros thinks he can defeat me in single combat," Jans roared to a ripple of laughter. Lionel's insides burned, but he refrained from showing it. Jans was clearly the stronger, and any protest on Lionel's part would only lend suspicion. "If our king wins, the Bloody Mummers will join him in his quest to take back the Iron Throne- which is so rightfully his. If he loses... he and his little cohort get to become my own personal brothel." More laughter. Lionel tightened his grip on his hilt. "The rules will be simple. The first one to yield loses. Ready, your grace?"

Lionel swung Night out in a lazy circle to warm up his arm. "Yeah, just one thing. Where's your eyepatch?"

~

Upon hearing Maryn's threats, Reuben lifted up both arms- which was kind of difficult, seeing how Hanah and Louanne were apparently trying to smother him with their tits. Small as he was, Reuben was not lacking in guts or ego. He was, after all, the greatest sailor who ever lived.

"Eh, at least it'd save my butthole the pain. I quite like being able to shit whenever I want to- can't say the same for you, since you've been around this Ammon chap for far longer." Reuben said cheekily, wriggling his way out from Hanah's clutches. "Sorry, I've got to go," he said over Hanah's protests. "There's an extra eyepatch in my back pocket, and I think the king's gonna be needing it soon."

Winking at Maryn, Reuben slipped out of the tavern.

~

"You agreed to a bout where all else was equal," Lionel reminded an enraged Jans. "Equal choice in weapons, equal armor- that is to say, no armor, and equal handicaps. If you haven't noticed, I've only one eye. So if you wouldn't mind putting an eyepatch on…and make sure it's the right eye, not the left."

Reuben wormed his way through the crowd into the ring, dangling the eyepatch before Jans. Jans snatched it from the air, looking like wanted to kick Reuben into oblivion, but the little squirt dashed off before he was violently murdered. Pity, that would have been two birds with one stone. But one couldn't have everything in life.

Jans tied the patch on, sliding the black cloth over his right eye. "I'll make sure you die slowly for this, kitty."

"Always refer to your king as 'your grace." Lionel admonished. "Now we're ready."

Under normal circumstances, it would have been suicide for Lionel to challenge a man like Jans Siran, especially without any armor on. But in this case, everything leaned towards Lionel's favor. Without the bulky constraints of armor, he had speed, which was going to come in handy when it came to Jans' ferocious swings. But more importantly, Jans would be severely crippled without the use of one eye. Lionel had had two and a half months to adjust to life with only his left eye, during which he had learned to tilt his head slightly, to keep a closer guard in his blind spots. But Jans only had a matter of seconds to adjust- a feat which was quite impossible. Furthermore, Lionel's left side was his dominant side, but Jans was right-handed; being blinded in one's dominant side made the handicap even worse. Lionel would have smirked, but he didn't want to risk engaging Jans even further.

"Graaaagh!" Jans bellowed, heaving his mace through the air. Lionel jumped and scrambled to avoid being skewered. And so the duel began.

The first several minutes followed a rather predictable pattern of slightly clumsy swings on Jans' part and agile dodging on Lionel's. Neither party was scratched; Lionel once or twice attempted to get within range to land a blow on Jans, but the long reach of the mace always kept him at bay. It couldn't keep going that way; with each dodge, Lionel was forced to expend twice as much energy as Jans, and it was obvious who would outlast the other in a battle of stamina. Frustrated, Lionel began to try some riskier tactics to gain ground, always avoiding the mace by a hair. But as soon as he got within reach of Jans, the mace was always there, forcing him back. Lionel's attacks became more and more desperate, much to the delight of the crowd.

Damn them… As his frustration mounted, the red haze of the berserker's fury began to ebb at the edge of Lionel's vision. It was only a matter of seconds before he lost his senses. Lionel hacked furiously at Jans, trying to draw blood wherever he could, and it was only through sheer luck that the mace didn't crush his head in. He saw only a target- a large target, to be sure, but that only meant there were more things to cut, more things to attack- why wasn't he hitting anything? Lionel let out a howl of anger and redoubled his offensive, while Jans lazily batted his blows away.

"Catboy's gonna lose at this rate," Reuben muttered from the sidelines. Lionel's strategy worked against men his own size, men who were wielding swords. But against a giant like Jans Sirans, Lionel was just digging his own grave. A blow was going to land eventually, and then Lionel would be dead.

It finally happened. In his frenzy, Lionel had stopped paying attention to dodging altogether. Jans' mace smashed into Lionel's side, flinging him back a good ten feet like one would smack a mouse. As the Bloody Mummers cheered and laughed, Reuben and Toothless Royce exchanged a worried look. It's over.

Lionel landed sprawled in the dirt, completely winded. The pain had served to clear his mind, but it was three minutes too late for that; Jans crossed the distance between them in two huge steps, placed a hefty foot on Lionel's chest, and increased the pressure, driving all air out of Lionel's lungs. "Feel like yielding, your grace?"

Lionel gasped, struggling futilely to wriggle free. The cackling of the Bloody Mummer's rang in his ears, growing louder and louder; Reuben looked like he was shouting something, telling him to yield already, but he couldn't hear. The world pulsed in front of him, flashes of black becoming more and more frequent. And then-

"Arrgh!" Jans stumbled back, clutching his eye. Lionel sprang to his feet, flinging another handful of dust at Jans' face before leaping forwards, Night in hand. His ribs cried out in protest, but Lionel ignored them- victory was within his grasp, even if only a sliver. Jans's mistake had been in leaving his eye unguarded; when one was operating with half the vision, small tricks like dust had twice the effect. Jans, distracted with rubbing the dirt out of his eye, could not bring his mace up in time.

"You've got a thick neck, but Valyrian steel cuts through everything," Lionel breathed, holding the blade to Jans' skin. "Feel like yielding?"

((OOC: I will type more for Dante when Nasrin gets in the mix.))

~~~NUALA~~~

"I understand necessity, Jamie." She said levelly, watching the sad half-smile forming on his face. "You are moping again." She allowed herself to let go of Eubha's reins and extend her hand across the space between them and place it upon his armored shoulder.

"You allowed me to join your ranks. And I did." She took her hand back and retook the reins. "That is as good as a promise to stay." Nuala was not the sort who could put things well into words. She meant to get across the point that she did not mean to abandon him at any point and that she would stay there through it all. He was feeling downtrodden as of late and she would be blind to not see it. Hissing out breath and irritation, she made up her mind to say more.

"There is an old Northern saying: Cha'n eil fealladh ann cho mòr ris an gealladh gun choimhlionadh. There is no deceit so great as a promise unfulfilled." Her annunciations of the words were measured and careful. She did not want to confuse him with the sounds of a language spoken in the far reaches of the North. She had grown listening to motley of the Common Tongue and the Old Tongue being spoken about her. It was the Old Tongue she had grown to speak first and Common second. The words were almost unfitting when spoken out beyond the Wall. They were (for the most part) short, simple, and descriptive -- unsuited for Westeros where words are meant to jump about and not get to the point.

It was more than Nuala was usually comfortable voicing and she shifted in discomfort atop Eubha. "The Sons of the Mist. More dueling, without doubt." She switched the subject and her voice hitched up in approval. What honor was lacking out on the raids was made up for in the duels between Jamie and the leaders of the Mountain Clans. It was very similar to Wildling ways, in some respects. She was not worried for him. Jamie had won each time so far and she did not expect failure.

~~~DANTE~~~

The past two months had been filled with a tension that Dante did not like which he was met with on the few times he and King Damian met face to face. Dante had a distinct gut feeling that the man would be planning on hanging him in the future. What Dante was counting on right now was not outliving his own usefulness. 'And if I do, I will merely run off again.'

In order to make himself scarce that day Dante decided to go in search of Nasrin (who was, most likely, in the gardens).

[Sirena and Isabel soon~ Actually, I think I might wait for Lord/Lady Greyhardt to post before posting Isabel. o3o]

;;Nasrin Cavendish;;

The past two months were hectic and chaotic to anyone living amongst the Damians. Her father, more displeased then sad about the death of Queen Morgana, was pushing her more and more to make herself more appealing to men (something she definitely did not want). She did not exactly miss being under Queen Morgana’s service, but she was not so bitter that she would talk badly about a dead woman. In her last moments, as Nasrin had observed silently from the sidelines, already knowing that there would be no chance for the queen, Morgana had shed her cold hardened heart for that time. It would have perhaps been the first time in her life that Nasrin had thought the woman the slightest bit admirable.

The declaration of war made everything seem so bleak; white and black, greys and a heavy, somber mood despite the rush to arm the troops and send them out. She had heard rumors that the Damians had planned the war—wanted it for not-so-noble purposes (not that she had ever thought they would have noble purposes), and wondered if it was true. Most likely. Though she doubted that King Henry had been willing to sacrifice his wife and the betrayal of his son to get it—he had gotten it. Nasrin wept no tears for the situation, but she did think it was wretched. And what of the poor innocents caught between this war? What of them?

What of her mother?

Nasrin paced the court garden without trying to appear too anxious. Once in a while a servant scurried by, most likely continuing to supply and make do with the war, and Nasrin smiled distractedly at their hurried greetings to her. This war didn’t have anything to do with her. Her father was Lord Cavendish and she his heir, but she was an illegitimate child—come to mention it, had not the late Queen mentioned about Lionel being a bastard child? Well, that would explain quite a bit, she supposed. No wonder he had been the worst of the three. Was this sympathy she was feeling? Not at all! It was simply that she supposed that some children weren’t born bad, even though that had been what Queen Morgana must have thought.

This was stupid. Nasrin paced some more, lost in thought. And her mother, who lived in the countryside—would she be safe? She certainly hoped so, but she knew well that at times that innocent lives were lost in wars, more than the lives of the actual people responsible for the war. This bothered her, more than someone skinning live baby rabbits in front of her eyes would have—and that was big thing. She was uneasy. Innocent people were supposed to be protected by the nobility, and as much as she knew that the corruption in the world made it not so, she wished that things could be as they were supposed to be.

She continued to pace, her speed increasing before she even realized it. She did not even notice some of the passing-by nobles look at her a bit strangely. She strode about blindly on the path, not able to focus on the nature and flowers she had come out to clear her head. Useless, useless!

And then she walked straight into what felt like a wall. Nasrin let out a muttered curse (her father would have glared at her that one), irritation setting in…when she realized that it wasn’t a wall. Oh, lovely. It was some man’s muscle bound chest. Lovely indeed (and in swooped her sarcasm). She looked up from her rather short height and was not so pleased (but then not quite displeased) to see the Dornishman himself. “Oh. You,” she said dryly, reaching up briefly to touch the tip of her nose that was probably red from walking into him so hard. "What brings you here?"

" A apt saying that." Jamie spoke in reply as Nuala lifted the hand she had placed upon his armor plated shoulder. The Dragon had grown accustomed to such things, the wildling was one of his best soldiers. Though she did not have the poetic ease of a southerner her actions and unspoken words made all the difference to his spirit as it were. She may have silently judged but it was not the harshness of his childhood master of arms nor the gentle chiding of Eilis. Indeed the woman seemed one of the few who were loyal to who he was and not what his birth had made him. Sellswords followed him for the gold his raiding brought them, his own house knights and men at arms followed him because of his name, and the knights and men of arms of Strake and Cavanaugh followed him because they were sworn to. Not that those pitiful noble houses had offered up much in the way of help. Strake simply did not have the manpower to spare, and all the reminders of their sworn duty would not change that. Jamie did not care for Lady Jane Strake either, who for all intents and purposes was head of House Strake. She was far too timid and her house added not strength to their cause but weakness. Their sworn status would eventually make them a liability to Jamie. For sooner or later the forces arrayed against him would use House Strake's weakness against him, by no doubt attacking the worthless ally. And Jamie as a Winsler and being something of their liege lord at the moment would be duty bound to save them.

Cavanaugh had always been firmly in Kervall's pocket, especially since taking one of their sons as his squire. With Kervall and his squire the Damians hostage the Cavanaughs had been understandably loath to part with their knights and men at arms. Least their support of his cause draw the wrath of the Damians down on their son's head. He had managed to wrest some troops from them on the promise they would bear the crest of Winsler during the entire campaign however.

But Nuala did not subscribe to such political machinations, which the under equipped Jamie was thankful for. With that keen mind of hers the lacking of subtly on his part would have seen him lose. She simply acted and followed his example, if not literally unquestioningly at least with out the need for reassurances,gold, or sworn oaths.

He did not miss the approval in her voice though as she finished berating him gently for his angst and spoke of the duels to come. Jamie was also looking forward to it, if only because such matters reminded him of the honor he had swore to uphold when he felt the naked blade touch his shoulder on that fateful day so long ago.

The wind sang in a dirge like tone as the bandits that were beyond healing were put down quickly and mercifully. The master of arms who had taken Jamie first as a page then a squire lay on a litter, a arrow through his arm. Though had it not been for Jamie's actions not 20 minutes ago the arrow would have went through the knight's heart. Jamie in the heat of the battle had become separated from his knight, the hawk eyed master of arms. Though only 15 the lad was acquitting himself well, then again bandits were not trained fighters. And even at 15 Jamie was far bigger then most full grown men. A bandit had thrown aside his shattered spear to retreat to bow range, Jamie saw this and charged like the reckless boy he was. The bandit had the arrow notched and was sighting when the charge of the blonde nobleman caught him off guard. The arrow was loosed anyways but it flew badly.

Thus Jamie had in the master of arms hawk eyes earned both a knighthood and sound telling off for such irresponsible and reckless behavior. Though a knight Ser Jamie as it were was sentenced to a month's worth of menial chores. Though at least shoveling horse shit beat the probable death had the arrow been aimed at him instead of the master of arms. Not that the 'stable boy' appreciated such nuances.

" Indeed more dueling." Jamie answered briefly in a swift smile that was gone far to fast from his face, though it lingered in his emerald green eyes shining off the golden flecks strewn across his irises.Deciding enough had been said and enough ground covered Jamie called a halt to their march as the sun began a rapid descent into the western sky.

Normally a army marched into the early night but Jamie had no desire to tire his calvary's mounts. The ability to move rapidly and on a moment's notice was one of the greatest strengths of the force he had assembled. That tactic required taking it easy on the horses whenever possible. So it was the guerrilla army organized it's night camp with the ease of much recent practice. No tents were pitched for it would only slow the breaking of camp in the morning. Furthermore it was the south and the air still warm and dry. The only fires lit were the ones needed to cook the food they had equal parts raided and hunted for. Jamie in particular was improving his already impressive hunting skills and to nearly everyone's surprise becoming quite the expert on mushrooms and other edible plant life.

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


Jamie together with Eilis, Wora the Stone Crow officer in charge of his clan mates, and Mycenae the woman in charge of the Black Ears sat around a cooking fire awaiting the stew Jamie was preparing. Cooking much to the shock of Eilis happened to be a hidden talent of the Dragon and after a few brave bites had declared his charge the one who would cook for the officers. Jamie had laughed, a rare moment of amusement in the depression the raiding was weaving within him. But every night Jamie was slaving over a cook fire preparing the appointed duty Eilis had thrust upon him as a joke. Wora and Mycenae had in particular grown fond of the spices the Winsler nobleman used, for such things were unheard of amongst the Mountain Clans. Dornish peppers often found their way into his dishes and their spicy fragrance permeated the air as Dornish wine was served out with Wora drinking a whole bottle of the fortified stuff to himself.

Jamie did not indulge in wine anymore fearing the loss of wits that came with such things. But he had his nightly habits beside cooking as well. As he made sure his stew was cooking correctly Jamie played a few notes upon a silver and gold stringed harp with a worn wooden frame. Only Eilis knew from whence the harp came, though the Winsler nobleman had a strong suspicion Nuala knew as well. He had fetched the thing from the Dining hall before making good his escape from King's Landing. And in the months since had taught himself to play it, though his playing never sounded as skillful as that red headed bard had. Though tonight it had it's own beauty about it his playing did.

"Your getting better Andal." Wora said with a chug upon his bottle of fortified Dornish wine. " I can actually stand to listen to your playing. By the weirwood I would even say it's enjoyable to listen to."

" I agree with our Stone Crow friend." Eilis said drinking nearly as much wine as Wora did but at least sipping it from a golden goblet the former hedge knight had taken from the last minor holdfast they had taken.

" Indeed blondie you keep that up and you'll be known as the Bard King." Mycenae added with a smile as she put back nearly as much wine as the two men, though in a slower paced fashion. For she truly enjoyed the fine wine of the Andals, it was one of the few aspects of Andal culture she truly held no criticism for. The fermenting of grape was in her mind the only worthwhile contribution the Andals had made since their conquest of Westeros in the dim fog shrouded days of yore.

Jamie did not respond with words but merely by serving the meal he had prepared. Wora and Mycenae abandoned the wine in favor of the Dornish pepper flavored venison stew. Eilis like the old campaigner that he was managed somehow to both eat and drink at the same time.

The night air was filled with only the gentle notes Jamie played upon his harp as he ate slowly lost in thoughts, a not uncommon sight. For night was a time of reflection, however unhealthy lingering over the deeds of the day may be. Here and there the calls of the sentries underscored his harp playing as all around him troops were either sleeping,lost in quiet talk, or drinking and eating. Jamie allowed them alcohol ,though not to excess, for fighting men throughout history would always drink. Staring up at the night sky playing upon his harp Jamie took in the stars, shining down upon this land. They had seen so many things those stars, things the Dragon was experiencing right now.

Henry had never enjoyed having a hostage so much as Kervall Winsler. Of course, they did not refer to him as a hostage - how impolite that would be! - but as an honored guest. As his wounds recovered, Henry made certain that the man was given some of the best rooms in the castle; given freedom of the grounds; given a high seat at the table. The subject of a betrothal to Adelaide had not come up again, but it was not far from his mind. He watched as Kervall began to train her and, hesitant, relaxed his disapproval of Adelaide's hunger for combat. Perhaps it would do her some good to gain the discipline it offered, and to learn some methods of protecting herself. Most of the guard were focusing their duties on Raban . . .

Adelaide had bested her partner. Henry grinned. It looked like a victory she had won of her own accord, though the King had made certain to warn her sparring partners they must go easy on the Princess. He would not have her injured on account of her whims.

"You grow better with every fight," Henry said as he came up behind her. "Perhaps I'll send you out with the next company we deploy to fight the mountain clans."

Since the death of Morgana, Henry had become more relaxed and easy with his children - particularly Adelaide. He was still the strict, reserved man that he had always been, but there were more cracks in his private demeanor.

"Our friends, the Winslers, have a ... singular, most vexing coward's way of warfare."

Or, so I've heard, Jamie Winsler does.

"You would not have spoken with Kervall about this, would you?"

It was the first time had ever directly, bluntly spoken with her about the civil war.

He had been right about the eye. A term that had been brought up when the brawl was about to begin in the streets. Ammon watched in silence, his dark grey eyes taking in every movement of the two dueling men. He appraised the battle in silence, for once remaining in silence - portraying only the barest hint of his arrogance that never failed to grace his expression.

He exchanged a glance or two with Sirena and, whenever he met her eyes, he grinned in wordless agreement. The Bastard King was going to end up on his ass in the dirt very soon. Ammon found himself anticipating that moment.

And just when he believed that they would be getting their fair share of fresh meat for dinner, what with Lionel being flat on his back with Jans' foot on his chest, the tables had turned. The Bastard King had flung a handful of dust. The fair-haired sellsword threw his head back and shrieked in laughter – crow-sharp, carrion-hungry sounds which escaped his lips in bursts and made his shoulders roll and heave.

Oh, that had been a dirty trick - one worthy of any self-respecting Mummer. Ammon felt a surge of amiability towards the young man who would shortly become the new leader of the Brave Companions. Being able to get past Jans Siran was a feat in and of itself and he could not help but nod in commendation as the fight ended with Jans having the edge of a Valyrian steel blade being pressed to his neck.

"That was well played," Ammon said as he clapped his hands together once and then twice.

---

Leliana had been clenching her hands so hard that it was a wonder the skin of her knuckles had not been bust open by the sheer force of her anxiety.

When Jans' mace smashed into Lionel's side and sent him sprawling to the ground, she bit back a cry, nails biting hard into the flesh of her palm - hard enough to slice through and draw blood. She forced herself to continue watching, hands slick with her own dripping blood. It fell from between her fingers and unto the dust-covered street to form small drops of crimson against dirt-brown.

She thought it to be over then. But - just as she felt the urge to cry out for Lionel, he had managed to throw a fistful of dirt into the eye of Jans Siran. It was then that the situation had reversed itself and twisted into their favor, and soon enough Lionel's Night was at Jans' throat.

Leliana exhaled a breath that she did not know she had even been holding and her shoulders slumped downwards in relief. Lionel had won. Lionel had won! Forgetting all her previous worries, Leliana punched her bloodied fist into the air and let out a victorious howl.

But what of Jans Siran? She did not see how he would take easily to being beaten and especially not by a younger man less than half his size. She doubted that he would dishonor the bargain in front of the large host of Mummers, as well as by-standing civilians and merchants, for surely they would dub him petty and ridicule him with other such terms a man of his caliber would loathe to be called.

The deal had to be sweetened. It would not simply do to leave things at this - only a duel and the promises of wealth and prestige in the Seven Kingdoms would only get them this far. Plus, they would need the loyalty of Jans Siran if they wanted the rest of the Mummers to grow into being the same. And, if not loyalty, then they at least needed to have the Mummers grow to like them; loyalty could come after, for all it was worth to this lot.

And, after some careful deliberation and intense inner conflict with herself, Leliana finally knew that which had to be further promised. Alright, fine, so the thought itself had come to her unbidden - that was a truth - but it had not taken her much fighting over the decision with her own mind. It almost scared her how easily she had just came up with something so heinous, but she did not pause to deliberate on nuances of that fact.

She had fallen far, and yet she found herself caring not a fig. She was no longer the happy-go-lucky girl she had started out being. Though still a she-wolf in all but biology, Leliana now preferred to fend for herself and for Lionel, as well as Uncle Quin, Old Walter, and the crew. She had forced herself to mentally sever old bonds and find news ones of value to forge.

"Perhaps it would be best for the bargain to be reinforced with some sweet pastry?" She spoke out before anything could turn sour on them. Though she wanted nothing more but to go embrace Lionel and check on how his ribs had fared from that mace, she was aware that she had to propose the very last bit right away. Another fact Leliana knew was that she would have to do so in a manner which would prevent anyone but Jans Siran from hearing of it. She was sure that Uncle Quin would not stand for what was churning in her mind.

Without any hesitation, she strolled out into the area that had been used for the battle and made her way over to the giant man who could crush her skill in one thick-fingered fist. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she spoke to Jans and only to Jans, keeping her tone audible only to him and even - save for the occasional flirtatious lilt that was due to be factored into such an offer.

"I have a sweet younger sister back behind the walls of Winterfell, a young maiden of seven and ten. She is rumored to be one of the most beautiful women the Seven Kingdoms have to offer, and all for good reason," Leliana purred, the look in her eyes predatory. "As her dear elder sister, I would be more than willing to lure her out from home in the dead of night - after we sail to Winterfell, of course - and have the sweetling be caught. What say you, Jans Siran? A smile and your good humor in exchange for my delectable, exquisite...virginal sister? A mare unmounted and unbridled...yours for the breaking." The offer hung in the air, heavy and sinfully enticing - waiting to be accepted.

"Yield," Jans breathed, eyes narrowed. Anger flashed across the Mummer's face. "Get your sword away from me, damnit!"

Lionel quickly withdrew Night and took several steps back, eying Jans carefully. The sellswords grew quiet, anticipating; the air became tense and hostile. For a moment Lionel feared for his safety. With the Bloody Mummers, you never knew what to expect; Jans looked ready to go at it again, and Lionel wasn't sure if his ribs- or his life - would last another brawl. But just when he thought he should probably start babbling some prayers- something he hadn't attempted in years- Leliana was at Jans' side, murmuring words with a coy expression on her face.

Jans raised an eyebrow, regarding Leliana with an unfathomable expression. Lionel tensed, hoping that the redhead was not just about to get her face smashed in. She'd never been good at keeping her tongue under control, and if she had insulted the Mummers in some way…

Jans opened his mouth and let out a deep rumble of laughter. "You men of Westeros are more clever than I gave you credit," he boomed, wiping a last speck of dirt from his eye. He glared down at Leliana. "And crueler, too."

"Damn straight," Reuben said stoutly. "I can't count the number of times she-"

Several Mummers sent him menacing looks, and the little squirt promptly shut his mouth.

"The Brave Companions are now under the employment of this stringy-looking fellow. We'll follow the Bastard King into Westeros to get his precious Iron Throne back, where we'll rape, plunder, pillage, and steal until the gods get sick of us," Jans announced, eliciting shouts of laughter. "I know how much you lot want to get back to Westeros." The Bloody Mummers hadn't been back to the Seven Kingdoms since King Henry put a royal sentence on all of their heads and made it illegal to hire them. "The lands are warmer, the sluts are prettier, if that redhead over there is any indication, and the wine is better. No more tumbling with gnarly whores that have to wear a bag on their faces before you touch them, yes? His lordship has promised us complete pardon for any war crimes we commit, so you lot had better make sure we're on the winning side."

One of the Mummers raised his sword. "King Storm!"

Cackling madly, the rest of the Mummers followed suit, until the air echoed with cries of support for the Bastard King. Lionel knew that it was only a jest, but he couldn't help grinning as well. Jans had the full loyalty of the Bloody Mummers, and now they had the full loyalty of Jans, thanks to whatever promise Leliana had just made. The Mummers clearly didn't give a shit for Lionel's cause, but that was alright- neither did the Braavosi. The only thing that mattered was that Lionel could promise them rewards that they wanted, rewards that King Henry and Jamie Winsler would never stoop so low to promise. But Lionel Storm was a different person. He didn't have a sense of honor- and that benefited him more often than not.

"Your asshole's spared for the night," Jans told Lionel, clapping a huge hand on his shoulder. Lionel winced as the impact sent tremors of pain through his ribs. "I can't speak for the rest of the men, though. You'd best avoid bending over whenever Ammon's around."

Lionel smirked. "If he tries, I'll stick him with the pointy end."

~

"…and then I jumped overboard to save him from the clutches of the whale, but alas, he had already drowned in his own blood." Reuben sighed, his tales become more and more exaggerated as he downed another tankard. "It was with a heavy heart that I slew the whale and bore his body back to the ship."

"You poor thing!" Hanah exclaimed, "comforting" Reuben by kissing the side of his face. Reuben's cheeks were already covered with lipstick; he looked as if someone had smashed him over the head with a pot.

The Bleeding Heart was literally packed with Mummers. As a farewell to Qohor before the sellswords set sail for Westeros, Jans had ordered free drinks all around. Within a matter of minutes, the tavern had been filled with Mummers, bystanders, and merchants, all intent on capitalizing on the free alcohol, no matter how atrocious it was. Jans had directed Lionel to a room upstairs, where his ribs had been checked on by one of the Mummer's healers- in other words, he had been informed that it was "just a bruise" and received tankard of ale to "take his mind off the pain". Not exactly what Maester Syrus would have done, but Lionel was fairly sure that his ribs weren't broken. He could have Kern give them a closer look once they got back to the dock, but the pain wasn't so bad that he couldn't move around. He left the room and was intent on finding Leliana when an old woman stopped him on the stairs, refusing to let him pass.

"Move," he told her politely. His hand went to his hilt. If she didn't get out of the way, Lionel was fairly sure that no one would mind a dead old lady on the stairs. It might even draw a good laugh.

"Kinslayer," she mumbled, stubbornly latching onto his wrist. "Your very existence has been a cursed one since the day you were born. Years ago the golden-haired ones lost their mother because of you- and now, two more have lost their mother to your blade."

"It wasn't my blade that slew her," Lionel said violently. He had no patience to deal with half-mad hags, especially hags who repeated every rumor told about him. "Get away, woman, or I'll- agkh!"

The woman had lifted his hand to her mouth and actually bit him. Blood streamed from his fingers in little rivulets, staining the woman's gnarled teeth red. She closed her eyes and ran her tongue over her lips, savoring the taste. "A man like you cannot be a king. You will never truly rule the Seven Kingdoms," she rattled, opening her eyes. "You will sit atop the Iron Throne for only a moment, and then you will die for the true king of Westeros, and your half-siblings will sing over your corpse. You will have two children, but you will never know them, you who have ripped so many children from their parents. You will weep, Kinslayer. You will regret-"

"I said move." Lionel shoved the woman out of his way and clattered down the rest of the stairs. His heart was slamming against his chest; he was undeniably shaken, although he knew it was foolish. Since when do the words of a stupid old crone matter? There were tales of old, tales about maegi who could read into the future if you let them taste your blood, but they were only tales. Maegi didn't exist anymore- and the future was not definite, besides. Things could change. Things could always change. Half a year ago, Lionel's destiny had been a stifling life following the footsteps of his father, but he had broken free of that easily enough.

He wiped the crone's words from his mind and scanned the crowd until he saw a flash of red hair. He pushed through the mass of bodies until he was standing beside Leliana. He wanted nothing more than to capitalize on the promise she'd made with him before the duel, but that could wait. Once the Mummers joined their crew, they would have fewer chances to speak privately; Jans would want to be present for every decision-making process, and Lionel couldn't blame him.

"I'm quite sure you know what I’m about to ask, so don't play games," Lionel said, wrapping his arms around Leliana's waist to make it look like they were dancing. Up close, her eyes were startlingly bright. Your half-siblings will sing over your corpse. You will have two children, but you will never know them. The words of the maegi suddenly echoed in his mind, but Lionel pushed them out again just as forcefully. Why was he thinking of that? He didn't want children in the first place, and he suspected Leliana wasn't too fond of them either. "Be honest. Just what did you promise Jans just now?"

He caught a glimpse of Jan's face over Leliana's shoulder. It was clear that the Mummer wanted to leave soon; they needed to head out before too many ears picked up on what was happening. Lionel suspected that his father knew he was still alive by now, but it was best to keep the true size of his army a secret as long as he could, for it was difficult to fight against opponents that you didn't know existed.

"I'm thinking of sailing to Winterfell first," he told Leliana quickly. "It's where the largest fleet in Westeros is located. If we can pull off a surprise attack, then we'll rule the North. Without ships, my father can't hope to defeat us in naval combat- storming King's Landing will be a breeze after that. What do you think?"

~

Winter is coming.

Nathaniel Greyhardt moved away from the window, the old words of House Stark echoing in his mind. It was true. Winter was coming. These long, easy days of summer were about to come to an end, along with the peace in the Seven Kingdoms that House Greyhardt had tried so hard to uphold. And when winter did come…all of these summer knights don't know what's in store for them. They were but children- Jamie, Princess Adelaide, Kervall, Isabel, the Kinslayer…all of them. They had never known what cold meant, never known what war truly meant. To them, it was all still merely a game of thrones, a play where each could pretend to be a king and try to topple the other, unaware of the consequences that were to follow.

None of them know what they're doing. From what his scouts told him, Jamie Winsler was fighting a guerilla war in the mountains, amassing the support of the clans. It was a smart move, especially for House Winsler, which possessed such a small army. But was it really wise? Guerilla warfare was fine for winning back small amounts of land, but when it came to overtaking a kingdom…one would need a true force then, an army that was not afraid to bleed and die on a battlefield. Jamie Winsler was fighting a coward's battle, with men who would flee in face of a real one.

The rumors from across the Narrow Sea were less verifiable, but just as troubling. As Nathaniel had feared, Lionel Damian- no, Lionel Storm had survived the fall, or someone was lying very well. What was more, he was building up a small army of pirates and sellswords. Nathaniel had received no word about his brother or daughter, but he almost wanted to believe that they had died rather than followed the Kinslayer in his madness. Either way, Lionel Storm would have to be dealt with sooner or later, and Nathaniel dreaded the day of the encounter.

In the months after the events at the Red Keep, House Greyhardt had returned to Winterfell with the approval of the king. Winterfell was, after all, the most strategic holding in the North, along with the sea city of Pyke. In anticipation of an attack, Nathaniel had increased the security of his stronghold, summoning men from the lesser houses in the region. Should Jamie or Lionel think to make a grab for the north, Nathaniel would be ready.

Quincel smiled, the first time he had done so in a long long time. The boy had won! He had played dirty, but luckily, the sellswords hadn't minded. If anything, they cheered at Lionel's underhanded move. Quin realized that Lionel had just won the admiration and (temporary) loyalty of the Mummers. Quin quickly stopped these traitorous thoughts.

An army of sellswords were no match for the kingdom's sers and holdfasts. Quincel felt pained again when he remembered that this criminal army was going to, in their own words, "rape, plunder, pillage, and steal," from Quincel's beloved homeland. They would kill his family. For the first time in a long time, he thought of Isabel and Richard. They were his neice and nephew, too. Why did he feel a such a strong urge to protect Leliana over them? To protect her at the risk of those other two?

He felt sick and walked away, all thoughts of congratulating the young "King" turning to ash in his mouth.

----
Maryn slammed his tnakard down triumphantly. This swill he was drinking had been as abominable as he had remembered, but after a few (free!) rounds of the pisswater, it definately had improved. The crewman opposite him blinked at him palely, like a lamb. Then he spun himself violently to the side and spewed all of the drink he had just consumed and most of his lunch too.

Maryn laughed. He didn't think they'd drunk that much together and the drink wasn't that bad. "Heh, our drink not good enough for your royal baby stomachs?" He cried triumphantly, leaping to his feet. In a fit of alcohol induced madness, he grabbed the man's tankard and dumped the rest of his contents on the reeling crewman's head. He was making a fool of himself, but damn, like hell he cared! The strong ale had made him dizzy with happiness, pleasantly numb.

"Hey, boss, we really going to sail with these pansies?" he shouted, waving at Jans excitedly.

King's Landing

The clacking of practice swords filled the sparring grounds, peppered by grunts and the occasional yowl of pain. Ser Ulfred Borander stood with three pages, each one holding a wooden sword. "There is only one way to become a better swordsman, and that is to fight a better swordsman. There are a million nuances to the movement of the blade that spell both life and death. Many a young nobleman thinks himself the blade-master with a bit of fancy foot work. Experience will change that. It will turn the most nervous and unsure fool into a prowling dire wolf or it will kill them and someone better able will step forward."

One of the pages had started to follow a passing girl with his eyes. Ulfred slapped him lightly with the haft of his wooden blade across the face. "Hopefully no young women will cross your path on the battlefield, or we are all doomed. Pay attention."

Ulfred circled the pages; adjusting a foot there, raising an arm here. After a few moments he stepped back to watch. One of the boys, a red headed and be-freckled thing was the first to falter. Ulfred's wooden blade shot out at his ankle, making him trip. The boy stood and adjusted his stance correctly. Another's arm sagged, with a flick of his wrist Ulfred disarmed him. "Pick it up."

This went on for some time, a few knights gathered a good distance away and watched intently. Gerold, the youngest spoke first. "Need he be so strict with them? They're just boys."

An older, grizzled knight by the name of Dumont spoke next, "I for one think Ulfred is being too soft on them, there will be much bloodshed to come and those boys will inherit it."

Lastly, Padrick spoke, "I was a lad when I met Ser Ulfred. Gave me the best advice I've ever heard."

"What was that?" Dumont leaned forward with interest.

"He said, "If you're fighting to stay alive, look into the bastard's eye. That'll tell you a moment before he strikes." It's kept me alive to this day." Padrick leaned back against a rail.

"That's it? No hidden wisdom? Just sounds like another geezer who thinks he knows better than everyone else." Gerold spit over the rail. "I think the philosopher general Xander said it best, "Make your sword like a leaf on the wind and you need only strike softly."

They grew quiet at that, the sounds of practice a background to contemplation. Finally Dumont spoke, "What does that even mean? Least Ulfred speaks plainly. This philosopher business sounds like a bunch of foriegn nonsense." Dumont put on a mock pious expression and said in a high, lilting voice. "Make your blade like a a leaf on the wind and get run through while composing a poem about it."

" So what do you plan to do once you are sitting your pretty little behind on that there Iron Throne blondie?"Mycenae asked with a swallow of her stew, the Black Ear was nearly as tall as Jamie though slender as befit her gender so it was eye to eye she smiled at the Winsler nobleman.

Jamie plucked a few more notes from his harp before considering his answer, staring into the cook fire he had permitted to keep burning. " Honestly besides razing House Damian and House Greyhardt to the ground I hadn't thought that far ahead. I have no real desire to sit on that barbed chair. Only a fool lusts after a crown, I'll probably exile Kervall from Westeros then give the bloody throne to whoever wants it, well as long is isn't Lionel." Jamie replied, spitting out the Bastard King's name like it was something foul he had unwittingly put in his mouth." If he isn't already dead I'll kill him myself. That son of a bitch deserves nothing less then the worse death imaginable."


" You and the Sons of the mist will get along fine Andal. They have ways of killing a man that can take months, if not years they say. My Father's Father knew a man they killed in their slow way. He said you could hear the screams clear across the mountains for nearly 5 months." Wora chipped in with a chug of his wine bottle having eaten all the stew he cared to, which was a rather large amount given his small and lean frame. " It was so bad sometimes it use to wake the babes He said before old age claimed him."

" Same old Jamie." Was all Eilis would respond with as he to stared into the embers of the fire,a enigmatic look upon his face.

If Jamie heard these words he did not respond, rather he gazed over at where Nuala sat eating. Given her distance it was through the night's velvet cloak that he saw her. He wondered briefly what she was thinking of as he continued with playing upon his harp, but then dismissed it. The wildling's thoughts were her own, though the Dragon would have paid dear coin to know them. He did not know what he felt for the woman but it was not mere respect for her honor and skills at battle, there was plenty of that though. She was an enigma to him, a closed book that defied all attempts to judge it's contents. Jamie wished he had the same coolness sometimes but his nature was what it was. Wild and passionate in all things be it battle or day to day life. The Seven had not fashioned Jamie as a subtle man nor even a wise one. They gave him height,muscle, and a warrior's fate. They gave him grace and strength so that he might march with pride and determination.

Why though they had made him as such was what truly puzzled and troubled Jamie. He cared not for the chains of fate being ever more tightly wrapped around his body with each kill, with each battle, and with each blow to his honor.

Deciding that sleep was in order Jamie bid his captains a good night and headed to were he had picketed Warrior. Passing by Nuala as if by mere chance, though Jamie and likely Nuala herself knew it was by design on the nobleman's part." Do you know what chivalry is Nuala. It is pride aspiring to beauty, thus this formalization of pride gives rise to the concept of honor, which in turn becomes the pole of noble life."He spoke with that same half sad smile of earlier. " Or at least that is what they teach in the septs and in the code you swear to when your knighted....Sleep well Nuala, battle will come calling us before we know it."

Jamie then walked away from the object that held his attention, the one person whom he knew life would be the poorer without. Why he felt these things even Jamie did not know. He did not lust after the wildling in the classical sense nor did the Dragon truly know if it was love. His head did not spin, his knees did not go weak, nor did his heart stop beating. Nothing was as it was in the bards tale, he did not glimpse her curves and savage grace and simply know it was love. Respect, desire,and something he did not know was what made up the feelings he had for the woman. It was all and all a discomforting notion whatever it was, for he had been so use to knowing nearly everything he did and felt. Even his anger and recklessness were easier to figure out.

Thrusting such thoughts from his mind Jamie dug around his saddlebags for his sleeping roll, the saddle being off the horse and it being dark only hampered such things. He really should have laid the thing out before there was little more then moonlight to show him the way. " Warrior take you, where is the blasted thing." The Winsler nobleman muttered to himself as the dew on the air was beginning to form on the golden plate he still wore. For Jamie had grown accustomed to it's weight and given the need for rapid movement saw no need to remove it unless the need for bathing or washing the gambeson and tunic he wore under it came calling. Such a practice served to broaden his already impressive build, though it was increasing the speed at which the armor was wearing out.

A knight who lives in his armor. Have I become little more then a living suit of armor, a breathing sword, an avatar of death and battle. Jamie thought to himself with the depression that the thought of even more raiding was weaving in him. His men saw a confident man who lead them to victory time and again, they saw the Dragon who roared at his enemies. Who lined their pockets with gold and loot, who gave them fine armor and horses. What they did not see was the young knight who stared up at the star filled sky thinking of his disgrace, wondering if even revenge was worth it.