Westeros

OOC: Slight warning --> Ammon/Sirena kissy-scene at bottom.

"Well, hello," she laughed when Lionel came up to her and wrapped his arms around her waist and then asked her about what she had promised Jans. She delayed her answer in order to wrap her own arms about his neck, the look in her eyes softening as she looked over his face.

"Winterfell," the name of her old home slipped off her tongue, leaving a bitter taste which she immediately decided to disregard. "That would work out beautifully - I promised Jans he could have Isabel all to himself; going to Winterfell would fit into things perfectly."

She doubted it would be so easy to capture the North. Her father was not an easy man to get past - but with the Mummers on their side and, if they were to attack by surprise, as Lionel had said, then they may be able to pull it off. And, if she ignored the fact that she was going against her family and had bartered her younger sister for the loyalty of a criminal, she was alright.

After all, if the problem was ignored, then it went away. Right? Right.

"I like your hair this way - it's long. I like that," She ran her fingers through his hair, brushing it back and allowing herself to relish a moment of closeness. There would not be enough privacy with the Mummers around, that was for sure. Leliana knew that she would just have to take whatever she got.

She glanced down at his arms around her waist and noticed something that elicited a gasp. "Lionel, your hand is bleeding," Leliana took a step away from him and, carefully taking the hand in question in both of hers, brought it up for herself to look at. "Did you get...bitten?"

She frowned and looked up at him questioningly. "Is something wrong?" He seemed uneasy about something - but that might just be due to the fact that he had very nearly come to losing the fight with Jans. Still, Leliana felt as if she should make her inquire, just in case.

---

Ammon was getting piss-ass drunk. The alcohol tasted the same to him as it always did - and by that he meant that it tasted bad - and all that he really was consuming it for was to butcher all remnants of sobriety. Now they were under the direction of the Bastard King and, Ammon had to admit, that had not been something he had expected to occur when he had woken up that morning with Sirena's leg draped over his waist.

And, speaking of Sirena - Ammon had his hand on her lower back, leaning his side against hers - in essence putting half his drunken weight on her. "You know, love," he said to her, his words a tiny bit slurred, "you know what we should do?" He let out a laugh and leaned into her, smashing his lips against hers.

He nipped at her lower lip and dragged the tip of his tongue across it. Ammon never had to wait for Sirena's lips to part - his tongue was inside her mouth and exploring within mere moments. He had kissed her so many times that he figured he had already memorized the inner cavern of her mouth and the feel of her slick tongue rubbing against his.

Ammon pulled away from her with a groan and pinched her bottom, an arrogant grin plastered across his features. "You know what we should do?" He put extra emphasis on that last word and wiggled his eyebrows up and down. "Apart from ourselves, of course."

He jerked his chin in the direction of the red-haired wench. "You, me, and that red-headed wench...and the one-eyed one too - that would be...quite the grouping, hmm?" He let out another keening bird-laugh, sounding more like a crow cawing than actual human laughter. "Would have to get them stone drunk."

He swallowed the last of his laughter and resumed leaning against Sirena. He would have to see if he could get those other pieces of fresh meat later on - the main concern for him right now was the gorgeous woman on his arm. Ammon liked Sirena - not just because the two of them slept together on a regular basis - but actually liked her somewhat as a person.

[Ffffff, I dunno where the line is crossed, so I tried really hard to keep Sirena's part tame. It's not a lime or anything, but it still worries the crap out of me. S-So if you're like, 12, please don't read it and then be scarred. Though there's not a lot to be scarred about. I don't know. D: I don't knooooowwww ;w;]

Ten weeks might not sound like a long time to most, but to an adolescent who had just lost his mother, it was an eternity. Shouldered suddenly with more responsibility than he'd ever known, Raban had changed in that deceptively short time. He no longer stole away from his father or his caretakers in order to sneak to the godswood to slay non-existent Others - much to the approval of the king - but he had found other ways to get his clothes soiled. He accepted the duties of the formal Crown Prince with dignity and honour he thought were befitting of a Damian. The lessons in politics and geography still bored him, but at least he made an effort to pay attention. Most of the time. In the name of diplomacy, he'd even forged a tentatively positive relationship with Kervall Winsler. The two of them found they had a surprising amount of interests and ideals in common, and after the initial distrust was overcome, they had actually started becoming friends.

Unfortunately, the boy tended to avoid his older sister. Of course he wouldn't go far out of his way not to see her, but her new-found resolve and inner strength reminded him more and more of their mother, and he had still not quite dealt with her death properly. He avoided thinking about her death, and of Adelaide, whenever he could. As a result. the two of them hadn't really spoken much since that night. Kervall had suggested to Raban that he should try and talk to her, for his own benefit as well as hers, but even the thought of it made him nervous. He knew this wasn't exactly a long-term solution, but for now, he wanted to put his emotions on hold. Perhaps due to this, Raban already seemed more mature than he had three months ago. With his thirteenth birthday fast approaching, the young prince was determined to become the man - and the king - that his father wanted of him. Every day he worked hard at his studies under the Maester, and trained with surprising dedication at the practice yards. He had had a special wooden sword made for him, mimicking the dimensions of his new valyrian sword, and usually could be found practicing with it night and day, whenever he wasn't needed elsewhere.

"Prince Raban? Honestly, I know you detest these maps, but we are at war. You simply must know where our fiefdoms lay, and which houses are sworn to us." Maester Syrus scolded. The man's life had been spared by the king under the sole stipulation that he be more successful with Raban than he had been with Lionel. King Henry had made it abundantly clear that if he felt his younger son was doing poorly academically, Syrus would be the first one held accountable. Thankfully for the Maester, Raban was twice the student Lionel had been - a fact Syrus thanked the Seven for on a daily basis, though he could not deny he frequently missed Lionel.

The boy sighed, and leaned over the huge parchment, threading his fingers in his hair and hooking his feet behind the forelegs of his chair. "I know, I know. It's just so much to remember. Can we go over the minor houses between Riverrun and The Twins, again?"

"Again?" Syrus intoned, holding his arms up in a flustered and exasperated expression, "You told me you knew them!"

"I do." Raban replied, wearing a widening smirk, "They're the only ones I remember. That's why I want to go over them again."

The Maester leveled an accusing finger at the boy and opened his mouth to admonish, but the heat of his anger dissipated as he saw the mirthful grin on his face. Raban rarely laughed, now, and Syrus couldn't bring himself to quell such attempts at humour. Grinning himself, Maester Syrus lowered his hand to ruffle Raban's hair. "You little scamp," He uttered playfully, "I think we've had enough for the afternoon, anyway. You can go."

Raban hopped off the chair and started helping Syrus roll up the maps and put them away properly before heading down to the practice field. "See you tomorrow, Maester. Don't forget the Count of Orellia is holding court with Father tomorrow. He's brought firsthand refugees from Jamie Winsler's raids."

Maester Syrus looked up from the book he had been reading and put a hand on his hip. "Of course I haven't forgotten. I am supposed to remind you of such things, Prince!"

Raban ran down the steps of the Maester's tower and headed for the field. As he got closer, he heard Ulfred's gruff voice floating over the walls, and let himself smile briefly. He had come to like this man, this 'Mongrel Knight' as he had once been called. While he was a bit rough around the edges and rather strict as a teacher, he possessed a streak of surprising compassion that Raban rarely saw in the men that surrounded him. With some kind of uncanny second sight, Ulfred would always know if something was eating at Raban. Without ever having to say anything, the knight would be there when the prince felt he needed someone to talk to. He didn't offer pointless advice or tell him "the right thing to do". He merely listened. A couple times he had even let the boy cry on his shoulder. He never said a thing, never scolded him for being weak, never spouted adages or sayings that might cheer him up. Mongrel indeed, sometimes Ulfred reminded him of a pet dog - comforting and understanding, always there when you needed him. Shockingly, his father liked the man, too - even approved of his relationship with his son - and Ulfred had landed himself a permanent position in the Keep as the master-at-arms. Prince Raban took full advantage of that.

Silently, the young Damian came into the field and started pulling on the padding he wore to train, snatching up his custom practice sword and getting in line with the other boys. He was far more advanced than they were, but Raban had no problems going over the basics again. Besides, he didn't want to interrupt Ulfred's lesson.



The past two months had treated Kervall poorly, as one might imagine after such a brutal injury. He had tried getting out of bed and walking about after only a week of bed rest. After an incident that had involved a narrow set of stairs, a very badly placed laundry hamper, and the Maester's threat of physically tying him to the bed, Kervall had begrudgingly stayed abed for another two weeks. Adelaide visited him constantly, and gave him daily updates on her progress with training and some of the gossip in the court. He was unsure what had become of their betrothal by King Henry, but he was quite content with their relationship as it was. Quiet moments shared, learning from one another and laughing together all filled his heart with joy. Adelaide was an extraordinary young woman. She was far more brilliant than anyone gave her credit, and they often got into debates of the most random topics. Kervall relished these arguments with her - the only one at home who even cared to sharpen his wit was Teralo, and he hated debating. At the princess' coaxing, he had allowed the Keep's barber to cut his hair. He now wore it much shorter, though it still tended to look unkempt. Adelaide frequently told him she preferred it this way, and that she liked the way it highlighted the soft colour of his eyes. He had also found an unexpected friend in the form of young Raban Damian. The two of them spent a surprising amount of time together, once the initial suspicion they both held had worn off. Kervall found himself actually liking the boy, seeing a lot of himself within him.

After those three weeks, Adelaide brought him a gift: the most exquisite walking cane he had ever laid eyes upon. It was fashioned from fortified dragonbone, lacquered to a polished finish, the head being carved into the likeness of a panther. It was thick and sturdy and supported his weight easily, without making him look old or decrepit. He absolutely loved it. Capitalizing with obscene swiftness on his new mobility, Kurt and Flynt contacted some of the spies his father had placed in the Damian court ages ago, and spoke with them at length. Before he knew it, he had formed his own little circle of espionage within the Keep, and was able to keep abreast of events within the Kingdom without having to rely on news from Adelaide. He didn't know what it was, exactly, but people seemed so willing if not even eager to serve him. He had never demanded fealty from anyone, and though he knew he was still the rightful heir to the Eyrie, he did not think it right to hold his position above others or use it as an excuse to act superior to them, which made it all the more surprising when he found himself with a small but loyal group of followers within the very heart of his 'enemy'. He didn't realize that it was predominantly this exact trait that made people want to follow him.

His new intelligence network informed him in detail of what Jamie had been doing. It broke his heart to see his younger brother lashing out like this, as it had when he sent Flynt to tell the man not to expect him on that horrible night two months ago. He had known then that Jamie would not forgive him, as he knew now that the 'Dragon' had no doubt lost his faith and his trust in him completely. This caused him no small amount of pain and sleeplessness, but he had to force himself to overcome those emotions. While he had not forsaken his House completely, the situation required a very deft touch. That, he could do. He met with his circle of spies whenever he could, as he knew the Damians were watching him closely. Still, he was not without his resources. He used the sleepless nights caused by his worry for his younger brother to his advantage, as he did with all things. Eventually, they became less frequent, but he still sent a prayer to The Seven on behalf of Jamie every night. 'May you always walk within the grace of The Warrior, Brother, and should we ever come to face one another, may I have the strength and courage to do what is right. We do not forget'

One month after the incident, Kervall had a special rig constructed in the Keep's practice yard for his use. It was something akin to a tall work scaffolding, topped with a large chair. It took a great deal of effort for him to climb, and he was usually sore and uncomfortable for the remainder of the day when he did, but he didn't complain. Sitting atop it, he commanded a wonderfully tactical view of the field below him. He found that it gave him an unprecedented angle of observation, and the tactical advantage of the view was immense. He had been watching Adelaide's match from his special seat, and it took him a while to climb down from it. Flynt hovered at the bottom of the ladder anxiously as he always did, worriedly waiting with Kurt's walking cane in hand. By the time Kervall made it down and hobbled over to her and King Henry, they would have had quite enough time to hold their private conversation. Kervall may have even walked a little bit more slowly to let them talk. He was, if anything, never rude.

Approaching the pair, he bowed quickly to the king, "Your grace." Then, he turned to Adelaide and offered her a quick grin that had become something of a habit for him - it was a lopsided thing, one she had first seen in that stolen moonlit evening in the garden, flashing her the hint of a slightly pointed incisor in an otherwise bright smile, expounding his affection for her in a way only she would understand. After the grin was gone, he nodded, and pointed down to her foot. "Your right foot was always too far forward. If your stance is too wide, an opponent can take you down by pulling you forward. Tighten it up just a little. The speed of your strikes is improving, but we still need to work on the force behind it. Unless you want to switch to an epee or a saber, you'll need to swing harder if you want your attacks to do more than glance off armour or a shield." His advice had gotten far more precise over the past month - a sign she was improving. That the only things he noticed wrong with her technique were these minor improvements was almost like praise. As a combat teacher he was always very serious, and he knew Adelaide appreciated his earnestness for what it was; he wanted her to improve because it would keep her safe, he was not merely being unnecessarily critical.

He turned to watch the younger boys practice on the other side of the field just as Raban joined them, giving the princess and her father a view of his profile. The wounds on his face were as healed as they ever would be, now, though one had left a dark scar just above his right eye, cutting through the eyebrow. A small smile came to him as he watched Raban. "Your son is getting better every day. It's incredible how much time he has devoted to it, don't you think?"

"Of course we are," Jans responded to Maryn. "At least these men don't go around getting piss-ass drunk like the rest of you. We need sober men to fight this war, unless you want to stumble into King's Landing with a bottle in your hand and a sword in your head."

Unlike the other Mummers, Jans was not fond of getting hammered. He tended to destroy things when he did, and it was never much fun to pay the compensation. It was also key to maintaining control over the Brave Companions. Sellswords did not pay much respect to a man they'd seen slumped across the floor the night before, even if that man was seven feet tall.

"Put that mug down and get your gear together, Maryn. Tell your friends to stop drinking, too. We're sailing out tonight, as you seem to have forgotten."

~

Isabel, huh? Lionel couldn't help grinning at Leliana's response. It was probably blackhearted of him to think that way, but he couldn't help but feel amused at the thought of Isabel in the hands of a huge brute like Jans. Something tells me Lady Greyhardt isn't going to like that too much. Jans was right. Leliana had become crueler, but somehow Lionel liked her better this way.

"Do you?" Lionel smiled as Leliana ran her fingers through his shaggy black hair. Lionel had always worn it fairly long, but in the absence of a good barber on the Firestorm- despite the cabin boy's claims, he was not about to trust Reuben with a pair of scissors-Lionel had simply let it grow. "The Dothraki never cut their hair as long as they win every battle. So far, I haven't been defeated."

He resisted the urge to hit himself when she noticed his bleeding hand. Should've wiped it off first… "It's nothing, I just scraped it a nail," he lied immediately. He doubted that Leliana would take the crone's words any more seriously than he had, but he didn't want to bother her.

And then he realized that the marks on his hand were very obviously teeth marks. Even Raban tells better lies than that.

"Some old woman stopped me on my way downstairs, tried to tell my future from the taste of my blood." Lionel rolled his eyes, hoping that Leliana shared his skepticism. "Apparently I'm going to sit on the throne for a moment without actually being king, die with Ada and Rab singing over my bloody body, and father two children while I'm at it. Well, in a different order, of course," he added, realizing how ridiculous that sounded. "Ah, at least she only bit my little finger, I don't use that very often."

Jans was getting closer now; the Mummer had pushed his way through half the crowd, and it was clear that he was heading towards the two of them. There's not much time left. Half because he wanted to change the subject and half because he wanted to take advantage of their time alone while they still had it, Lionel spent the next two minutes kissing Leliana, drinking in the taste of her lips, the texture of her hair, every last detail so that the memory would stick firmly in his mind. Gods, he could stay like this forever…

You will die for the true king of Westeros. He pulled away suddenly, an unexplainable lump of dread forming in his throat. He swallowed, trying to force it away. Just an old woman. Just a bat-shit crazy, stupid old woman.

"There you are." A huge hand landed on both of their shoulders, wrenching them apart. Lionel glanced up to see Jans' grinning face, which looked- hopefully- sober. "I would suggest finding a room upstairs, but you might walk in on Ammon and whoever it is he's dallying around with now."

"Are we staying in Qohor for the night, then?" Lionel asked. They had originally planned to sail out that day, but it was getting dark.

To his slight surprise, Jans shook his head. "I don't need more people knowing of this than there should be, and we'll want to head out before too many of these idiots stagger home drunk. They can sleep it off on the ships, although you might want to watch out for a drunken brawl or two."

"The sailors can deal with that," Lionel replied. "We'll start for the dock."

"Sure, yeah, leave me to have a hell of a time waking up these fools." Jans sighed prodded an unconscious man slumped against the counter. "Perhaps the free ale wasn't such a good idea."

"No, it's fine." Lionel grinned. "Now they like me."

~

"In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws…"

"Sing another line of that bloody song and I'll knock you into the water," Lionel grumbled, glaring daggers at Reuben as he walked across the deck. Reuben shot Lionel a look so woeful it was almost comic, and then promptly started up a lewd jingle about a fisherman's wife. His singing voice didn't improve, but Lionel's mood did- but only slightly.

Dealing with drunken sellswords was a task no one should be forced to go through. After an hour and a half of running down the streets of Qohor, dragging along drunks, Lionel now had a bite mark on his left hand to match the one on his right. Some stupid Mummer had set his bloody dog on him…It was well past midnight before the ships left the harbor, sailing smoothly across the Narrow Sea. And then there was the issue of drunken brawls to deal with…Lionel had come to the conclusion that if the Mummers could do to Lord Greyhardt's troops what they could do to each other, then conquering the North wouldn't be a problem.

There had been a short council meeting involving Lionel, Leliana, Jans, Quin, and a representative from Myr and Braavos each. The route they finally decided on would be a long one. They would sail around Sunspear, stopping at Highgarden along the way to see what forces they could rally from Lord Jon Tyrell. After that, they would resume coasting along Westeros until they reached Pyke in the north. Jans had suggested stopping in Highgarden and continuing on land the rest of the way, but that would mean leaving the ships behind, which was crucial to a successful naval attack on Pyke. Ser Quincel, of course, had disliked every plan set forth. Lionel suspected that he wouldn't be happy unless he returned Leliana to Winterfell and chopped his own head off.

Exhausted, Lionel wandered the deck of the Firestorm. There was only one person he wished to talk to at the moment, and she was standing near the helm, thankfully without any blonde-haired lizards in sight.

"I'm beginning to hate whoever first thought of the Mummers," he grumbled, sliding an arm around Leliana's shoulder. "Was it Reuben? I think it was Reuben. By the Stranger, I'm going to strangle him some day." He broke off, realizing that he was rambling.

After the Mummers, the quiet of the calm sea beneath the stars was a relief. Lionel contented himself with the warmth of Leliana's body next to his, just the knowledge that she was there. Her very presence comforted him in a way that he'd never have dreamed was possible. He had spent eighteen years viewing other humans as nothing more than tools to get what he wanted, never once seeing them as beings who could feel and think the same way he could. They'd been pieces, just pieces on the board, but somehow Leliana had become more than that. I would forfeit the game for her. That realization should have bothered him, but for some reason it didn't.

"Here's an idea," he murmured into Leliana's ear, pulling her closer. "Let's get married in Winterfell. When we take Pyke, the north will be as good as ours. I'll be the King in the North, and that's the better half of Westeros besides. Crushing Casterly Rock will be easy then, it'll be like child's play. Poor little Isabel can be your bridesmaid- we can marry her to Jans for entertainment, I'd prefer that to a dancing fool. And for our anniversary, I'll give you my father's head on a spike." Lionel grinned. "How about it? Marry me?"

Adelaide turned to her father and practically beamed at his compliments. It had not failed to escape her notice that since her mother's death, their father had become must more at ease with them than he had ever been before. It pleased her to see him relaxing around his children. Raban was a different case however. He seemed more reserved than normal and though he did not directly ignore her, they were no longer as close as they had once been only a little while ago. Something about him seemed like it had changed. Perhaps he had finally grown up. After all, he was now set to take the crown now. There was a lot he had to do and growing up was a huge part of that. Raban had a large responsibility on his shoulders. She only hoped that it did not come down upon him too harshly.

Of course there was a reason behind her father's compliments. Although she managed to keep her smile in place, it looked somewhat forced. It had surprised her that he had not questioned her before on the matter, but she suspected he wanted her to get closer to Kervall. In truth they had become close and she enjoyed the time that they spent together over the last few weeks. He was an intelligent man and she had finally found someone who was debate logically with her, instead of merely humoring her attempts to understand politics and trivial things. But he seemed to understand her need to express herself and show just how much she understood. He listened to her, helped her. Although she was fully aware that her father considered him a hostage, she did not. He was a friend now. And perhaps more...

"We do not discuss such things," She said in a light tone, looking out across as Kervall walked with his cane towards them. He was still healing from the beating that Lionel had given him. But he was on the mend. "War is only on our minds when we are training and then we do not have time to talk." In truth, Kervall had barely mentioned Winsler tactics to her. After all, they were still his family and he would not sell them out. But Adelaide would give her father the information even in Kervall confided in her. But he hadn't and she wasn't worried. He would in time.

"Whilst we are on the matter, I must request something." It was said in a whisper as she turned he father away from Kervall. "Whilst I am fully aware that Kervall is a prisoner here, he is not treated like one. But when the Winslers come, we must make them believe he was our hostage. Jamie Winsler is an awful man and if he believes Kervall deserted his family then he is likely to kill him. If the Winslers believe he had no choice then they may not be so harsh if he should want to go back. Though I must say he seems to enjoy it here..."

When Kervall reached them, she gave him a bright smile and a small wink when he father wasn't looking. Whilst he gave her some advice, she listened attentively, nodding, her face completely serious. "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you." She said in a cheerful tone when he had finished. Adelaide knew she was improving as Kervall's advice became more complex and he picked up on less and less as time went on. Each time she listened to it and took it in carefully, working on what he suggested. His criticism did not worry her, for she knew that he only wanted to protect her. And he really did want to protect her. The fact that he had been willing to stay and defend her, even when he was almost comatose had shown that he cared for her. Adelaide appreciated it a lot. No-one had ever been willing to take a chance on her and for that she was grateful.

Turning her head, Adelaide watched Raban with a sad look in her eyes. The young boy had been suffering since their mother died. Whilst she had been strong and kept herself calm, she noticed Raban slipping further and further away from her. It hurt her to see the young boy that had easily been the most important person in her life slowly moving away from her. It was true, however, that he had improved greatly on skill and technique when it came to fighting. A soft smile crept onto her lips as she watched him carefully.

"He has come along brilliantly," She whispered, never taking her eyes from him. "I am so proud of what he has become." Glancing at Kervall, she graced him with another bright smile. "Now, if you don't mind I must be getting changed. Kervall, I would appreciate it if you could meet me in the gardens, at the fountain, in a little while. I have a surprise." It was a mere mutter, so that her father couldn't hear her. She wanted their meeting to be somewhat private. After all she didn't want the subject of betrothal to be raised again. However, it was never far from her mind...

Jamie, having final given up on ever finding his sleeping roll in the light moonlight available was busying himself grooming his horse. The curry comb smoothing out Warrior's black hide Jamie thought how much had happened to him in such a short period of time. It was the winds of war that blew at their back and those winds knew naught but the gale, the only question was the sails of his life strong enough to withstand such a buffeting.

In the morning he would once more face single combat, a series of duels fought to secure more men for his forces. They would each be fought to the death. And the maester that served them, a man named Aron constantly berated these ways of gaining troops as a death wish on Jamie's part. The middle aged man with his long and lean features was perhaps closer to the truth then he realized. But was it truly death he sought, that was what bothered the Dragon.

This is the only way left to me. I have bought all the sellswords I can, wrangled all the men I can from the sworn houses of Winsler, every knight and soldier of House Winsler marches at my back. Jamie justified the lethal duels amongst the mountain clans. And it was true in a way. All the sellswords Jamie could find had been hired, for with his raiding the Winsler nobleman did not lack for coin. The sworn houses of Winsler had given all they would and in Strake's case could give. Short of stripping Strake's lands of peasants and beggars Jamie wasn't getting any more troops out of Lady Strake. Fortunately for House Strake Jamie had neither the time nor inclination to turn farmers and beggars into fighting men. Though if his pool of replacements thinned Jamie knew there might be no other option. But in the end there was still that shame of his disgrace that haunted him, and the dishonor in the style of warfare he had been forced to adopt.

Perhaps Jamie did truly wish for death, but not right now. Right now he had a sworn oath to fulfill, the destruction of House Greyhardt and House Damian. His style of warfare wasn't winning him any lands or castles it was true enough but it was slowly but surely bleeding his enemies white. They could not defend every village, and thus would eventually starve when the crops failed to come in because of that. The men they loss trying to defend their supply lines would eventually strain their ability to garrison their castles and defend key points. And his raiders were making it dangerous to travel little bit by little bit save in overwhelming force, which only made it easier for him to move about the countryside. For the more men needed to escort groups the less men hunting him and his raiders.

Still these facts cut both ways like a double edged sword. Jamie did not lack for coin but his very successes in drying up the flow of goods meant there was little to spend it on. Only a few of his men could shop freely in the sparse markets, for there were things they needed that could not be raided. And Jamie suspected there was a rather lofty bounty on his head, which meant assassins and fortune hunters would sooner or later come seeking his head. And there was always supply troubles because of his status as an enemy to crown. Only bared swords and piles of gold tempted merchants and smugglers to do business with them.

Deciding such thoughts were simply a waste Jamie abandoned them and his grooming of Warrior. The horse's hide shone even in the night with a blue-black gleam. Though he knew sleep would and should be in order the Dragon could not calm his thoughts to the degree needed to achieve such a state. Knowing it was pointless Jamie unsheathed Memory in the hopes a physical exhaustion might at least ruin the ability to think.

Striding towards a still burning fire Jamie unlimbered his shield from it's rest upon his back. The crest of House Winsler set upon the custom made kite shield bore numerous scratches, all the result of his recent battles. Sword in his right hand and shield in his left Jamie assumed a slightly angled stance with his shield leading. Bringing Memory into a smooth forward lunge Jamie pivoted using his right leg while at the same time striking out with his shield, a classic shield bash that was effective against enemies not using a shield themselves. In the same pivot motion he brought Memory back towards him throwing his shield above his head to block an imaginary overhead strike, while at the same time shortening his grip on the valyrian blade to slice across the gut of his imaginary enemy. Twisting his wrist Jamie sent the keen edge of his blade upwards carving a deep and fatal line in the enemy.

Dodging sideways to avoid the last minute wild swings of his dying enemy Jamie delivered the coup de grace in the form of an high angled strike that would slice the head clean off an enemy had one been facing him. Instead the shadows bore mute witness to his practice session.

Assuming an other stance Jamie held the flat of his shield towards his imaginary enemy, a rather odd stance as it seemed to defeat the main purpose of a shield. For it revealed a rather large section of his body which had previously been protected by the steel wall of his shield. But thrusting out with his shield at an angle Jamie showed the brilliance behind the stance. Had he been facing a shielded enemy the thrust of his own shield would have pushed the shield of his enemy away and to the side of the enemy. Thus opening said enemy to whatever attack Jamie cared to deliver, and with a simple twist of his waist Jamie could defend himself from counterattack by putting the main bulk of his shield between him and his enemy. Combined with a well timed thrust of sword this angled shield thrust could prove a quick ending to a shielded enemy.

The hawk eyed master of arms nodded his approval as he watched Jamie spar with a fellow squire. " At last your recklessness is coming in useful Master Jamie. So many new to the blade and shield forget a shield is as much an offensive item as a defensive one. And often can fulfill both roles at once if your clever about your movements. Remember Jamie that your entire body needs to be involved in the attack. Draw strength through the flexing of your legs through your waist to dodge and duck. And never forget your swings should have all the weight of your body behind them unless your feinting."

Jamie saluted his thanks of the advice before returning to his sparring, there never seemed enough hours in the day for this most enjoyable of part of training.

The memory of that far off day fueled even ever more creative uses of a shield as he flowed from stance to stance, thrusts blending in with lateral slices. Hacking was for those new to the sword. For a blade's main strength lay in drawing cuts and slices. Hacking was for those wielding an axe not a sword. But before he had even begun to exhaust his body Jamie heard the predawn chorus of birds and the stirring of his forces. A new day had come at last, and he still was mulling over the ones that came before it. Well that was the way the cruel bitch of fate operated Jamie reminded himself as he sheathed Memory and returned his dented and scratched shield to it's rest upon his back.

Heading to Maester Aron for his morning rituals as the Dragon liked to call them he was subjected to the daily dose of a poultice of dried rosemary and charcoal to wash out his teeth, followed by a rinse of water that had mint leaves soaked in it overnight. Jamie found the taste of rosemary and charcoal extremely repugnant. Then even more exams, the man was hell bent on making sure Jamie was healthy as the horses they rode. A scathing comment from the Maester about the skipping of sleep and Jamie left the Maester to his own devices.

By now the sun was beginning to rise ever so slowly over the eastern sky. As if unwilling to shine down on another day of bloodshed and battle which had become the norm for Jamie since King's Landing. All around him knights,men at arms,and sellswords rushed to saddle and feed their horses. For Jamie held little love for being bogged down with servants and as such every little menial task had to be done by his men themselves. Even the cooking was up to each company to do themselves, thankfully Jamie did permit at least one cook within each company. For only the hedge knights and sellswords were use to cooking for themselves in Westeros.

And amongst this rabble Jamie spied Nuala, looking as chipper as usual. Which meant a scowl from no doubt waiting for each company to be done with their share of breaking camp. At least she seemed busy eating what was left of last night's stew. " I didn't know you cared that much for my cooking Nuala." Jamie said with a touch of laughter, a very light touch of laughter as Eilis came up to them holding two steaming metal cups.

"Morning Nuala, Lord Winsler." The former hedge knight said as the pounding of wine's ghost echoed in his head. Handing a steaming metal cup to Jamie the grizzled veteran clutched his head with the suddenly free hand.

Jamie for his part looked down at the contents of his cup. Barley cooked in rendered pig's fat flavored with the herbs favored amongst the mountain clans. " Wora cooked breakfast, I must say though it isn't half bad all things considered. " Eilis spoke up as he ate his own serving of the Stone Crow's cooking.

Jamie a man use to the spices of southern cooking nonetheless did enjoy the wholesome flavor of the herb flavored barley. It held a slightly earthy scent with a taste not all dissimilar to a similar product made by the cooks of the Eyrie." Remind me to get the recipe off Wora later." Jamie replied with finishing the dish quickly then giving a piercing whistle that drew his horse Warrior to his side.

" Ahhh,not so loud Jamie." Eilis complained as the pain of wine's revenge echoed all the louder.

Swinging himself up into the saddle Jamie looked down at Eilis with faint smile upon his face." If your going to drink on the job Eilis you must be prepared to suffer through a few headaches." Then turning to his forces in general he addressed them as others swung themselves into the saddle. " Alright you horrible lot we got some business back home to take care off. So once we get to the Vale you all can have a nice long and early rest. Alright let's move out."

And lightly digging his spurs into Warrior to get him moving Jamie looked once more at where Nuala stood staring at them, no doubt some sort of scowl ready to form on her lovely lips. " I'll see you tonight Nuala if it all goes well." With that Jamie surged away at the head of his calvary using every chance he could to catnap. For he knew he would need the energy when it came time to battle for the loyalty of the Sons of the Mist. Though like earlier the attempts at sleeping failed miserably.

At least with the early night their horses were refreshed and ready. As such he ordered a somewhat harsher pace from them, justifying it with the fact they'd get an early rest this day as well. So it was not at all surprising when the Vale and the Moon Mountains came in sight. As soon as their lofty peaks were towering above them Jamie ordered the ending of their forced march. The horses though lightly covered in lather were not too exhausted and so camp was set up once more. The moon mountains being no place for a horse Jamie left Warrior in the care of a knight sworn to Winsler.

Wora and Mycenae as the ones who organized this meeting left their horses as well in the care of their respective clan mates. And so Jamie, Wora,Mycenae, and the ever present Eilis left the troops to the trusted guidance of the companies officers and began to make their way up the winding path that lay in front of them. It would be a long hike before they reached the Sons of the Mist and though Wora and Mycenae had assured Eilis of the safe passage granted to them by the other clans the former hedge knight was visibly uneasy nonetheless. For he had seen plenty of battles against the mountain clans in his 45 years of life and 25 years of service to House Winsler. Wora and Mycenae themselves did not help matters either for as members of the mountain clans they knew what was yesterday could be gone today.

Indeed it seemed Jamie of the whole lot of them was the only one not uneasy with the situation. For him this stroll through the moon mountains was nothing more then a jaunt through the godswood. Though he wished Nuala was at his side as the sounds of the camp faded away as they got deeper into the ancient forests of his native soil. No feller's axe had ever rung in these woods nor a hunting party ever chased game through it. It was unspoken law in the Vale that the forests belonged to the mountain clans, as long as they stayed out of the Vale they could live in peace. Of course those mountain clans had hardly honored such unspoken pacts. But history was not why Jamie Winsler was here, no that foolishness he leave to Teralo.

"Shuddap. The Great Me can do whatever I like whenever I desire. Like burning down King's Landing, even when blind drunk," Maryn said cheerfully. He made a drunken mental note to ride into (sail into?) battle at the king's palace drunker than a boned fish.

---
"Stop that! What the hell are you doing to the shrouds?" Quin exclaimed. He had been chasing around drunken Mummers for what seemed like the whole night. If Lionel thought catching them in the streets was bad, trying to prevent them from turning the ships into floating piles of flotsam was an even worse task. Quin wondered where the heck Lionel was was. The ex-prince was much overdue for another righteous Ser Quincel glare. Quincel dragged the flailing man off the ropes and set him down safely on his feet, where the Mummer promptly thanked him by puking all over the deck. Quin jumped back to avoid getting spew chunks on his shoes.

"Clean that up," he said in a strained voice to no one in particular.

"No way!" Maryn replied happily. "Why the long face, long face? Maybe a drink or two or three will help!" He had (surprisingly) listened to Jans, but was still feeling very good, thanks to the general aura of drunkeness (and maybe a few other worldly delights).

Quincel stared at him coldly. "No thank you." Someone had to keep a level head in this madness.

"Killjoy," Maryn said pleasantly. He trotted off to go find somewhere to sleep.

Quincel stared at him hard as he walked away. Then with a sigh, he went over to the railing and leaned on it, looking out to sea. Although he knew that it was the tactically logical thing to do, he was certain that Lionel had picked Winterfell as his first target just to spite him. He had disapproved of every plan Lionel had laid out, but of course, no one else had, so they had completely ignored him. Quincel felt like a shadow of his former self. Once shipmaster of the Greyhardt fleet, now he had degraded to a renegade pirate sailing around with these... these... ARGH. He was a reserved person, so he liked to believe, but at that moment, Quincel wanted to kick something (or someone) overboard and laugh at it and make fun of its ancestors and gods. He took a calming breath to maintain his stoic face.

And that wasn't even the worst part. He had had millions of chances to just simply leave, but no. He had to keep following his neice (and consequentially, Lionel). And now they were sailing out to war with his own family. He wondered sadly what was going to happen then. He hoped that Nathanial and Birgitte could be spared, hoped without a shred of reason that the war wasn't going to happen. He'd wake up, realize this was all an insane, liquor-induced dream, and lock Leliana in an iron cage forever so this would never, never happen.

Quincel pressed his fingers to his temples. "Nathanial, I have failed so miserably. What am I going to do?" He wished (not for the first time) that Nathanial was here and could tell him what to do. Nathanial was the lord, he was the one who knew how to deal with critical situations like this.

"See, you're talking to yourself. You're just as crazy as the rest of us," Maryn said creepily from Quincel's side. So he had decided to come back and bother Long Face again after all.

Quin nearly threw himself overboard with shock, but recovered quickly. He sighed. Yes. I am as crazy as the rest of them. He'd written his own order for execution, there was nothing to it but to go through with it now.

Sometimes she wished to be drunk all the time, just so that everything would make complete and utter sense. Leliana decided she did not drink enough and that if she wanted to know the fell extent of her reasoning, she should stare down into the bottom of a tankard more often. It all made so much more sense when one was inebriated.

She was staring out at the water, hands clenched about the railing as she worried her upper lip with her teeth. But there had been no other way - no other way to gain freedom. People said that freedom came at a price, didn't it? Well, she had paid it. It was worth it, she told herself, all worth it.

The sound of Lionel's footsteps snapped her out of her reverie and she eased back into the smile she was used to depicting on her face whenever around him. He was so easy to speak with and she truly did enjoy his company. He slid an arm around her and she leaned against him, a pleased little expression on her face.

His words took her off-guard, but she listened to them nonetheless - and found herself amused by the mention of King Henry's head as a wedding present.

"A head on a spike, all for little old me? Lionel, you spoil me!" She tipped her head back in laughter and leaned more heavily into Lionel's side, letting him bear half of her weight.

"Marriage..." she pondered the word and the meaning which it brought - the promise of something which could bring both happiness and suppression.

"Only if you don't expect me to suddenly become mild-mannered and embroider periwinkles," she sucked her lower lip into her mouth, taking a few moments to think and consider what she was about to agree to.

"Yes," she turned around suddenly under his arm and pressed a kiss to his mouth, nipping at his lower lip before pulling back and grinning widely. And there it was - she had made the decision to marry a man, and it has been up to make the decision whether she wanted to or not. This had been nothing like the sort of thing that would have surely been imposed upon her had she remained at Winterfell - her choice to make, not that of anyone else.

"A double-wedding - you and me, following by Jans and Isabel," she tipped her head to the side and laughed - the sound pitching oddly, almost like hysteria.

She really should drink more.

---

After having taken a tumble with Sirena - which was a sobering experience, what with the amount of co-ordination required - the both of them had been ushered unto the boats of the Bastard King's fleet. Apparently they would be leaving soon or some shit like that. They had settled in down below the decks with the others, and though Ammon was still for the most part hammered, he had a distinct feeling that this was the main ship of the small fleet.

King's Landing

Ulfred watched the crowned prince out of the corner of his eye. Raban's demeanor was improving, as well as his skill. One on one he could easily defeat Ulfred's other students. The lad seems to be doing better. It's time.

"Harod, Loues, and you too, Dale, on my signal I want you to attack Raban." Ulfred turned away from the boys and limped over to the crowned prince. "Ho, lad, I could've sworn that old bag of wind, Syrus, had you this afternoon. No matter, do you remember that stance I showed you day before last? I hope so."

With a short bark at the assembled pages Ulfred swung his legs over the rail and looked on with interest.


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

Eastwatch-by-the-sea

The irregular crash of waves on the ice covered cliff walls below the keep were soothing to Dagovere Baewhite's ears. He sat in another meeting with the First Ranger, his captains, and the captains of Eastwatch. The conversation, though heated, was held in whispers. It made things more civil, no one shouted because they all strained to hear. Derfel Kenny, a captain of Eastwatch was speaking.

"I beg yer pardon, First Ranger, but we have fewer rangers than any other bastion along the wall. And most of our rangers are needed here. Wildling raids have increased so much that we've heard of coastal villages beyond the Gift being massacred. You ask us to petition for more men to take the black, but our ravens are no more capable than yours of convincin' the high born bastards of protectin' more than their own small interests. Increased numbers of raiding wildlings, even the beasts of the land are movin' south and we never see them 'til they've crossed the wall. All I'm sayin' is that with all o' this knockin' on our door and so little men it just doesn't make sense for you to ask this of us."

There were grunts of agreement from certain of the Eastwatch rangers. Dagovere kept his peace. One of the First Ranger's captains spoke up, Derrol or something, "There's always wildlings and we're always short of men. The fact is, you lot haven't sent a recruiter in years and you be the best equipped for such a voyage. I saw at least five ships docked out there, and I've spied many of your rangers layin' about like it's the Winter Festival."

Derfel put his hand up to stop the Eastwatch rangers from arguing that and replied, "If you were half so perceptive as you think you are, you would've noticed three in lifts being repaired. But I will admit that we're long over due in sending a Crow-picker. And I thank the First Ranger for not out right tellin' us to do it, and allowing us to work it out ourselves."

The mood settled after that, the heated tempers gone. Dagovere sipped on his second glass of wine since the start of the meeting. Another one of the Eastwatch captains gave his opinion,"Hullo, lads, I'm Captain Moriarty of the Maiden's Caress. The Maiden be ready to leave at a moment's notice, and I just happen to have a favor owed from the Greyhardts. I don't know if they'll come through on it, it was a small thing that's details do not bear on this discussion." Moriarty shuffled his feet awkwardly for a moment. "Perhaps someone they know would be best able to convince them to at least lend us a hand."

Everyone looked at Dagovere. Moriarty coughed. Dago set his goblet down and stood. "Well, that's decided."

The ancients forests were still and quiet, broken here and there by the gentle call of song birds. The loam they walked through was deep and black, rich with the compost of countless leaf falls. No paths marred the image of a forest no man walked through. But even Jamie knew these woods were alive with the rebellious mountain clans that had made every single noble house to rule in the Vale miserable. From the first moment Jamie could wield a sword he had cut his teeth on the hunting of the more troublesome bands.

And Jamie held no illusions that the Sons of the Mist had forgotten the part he had played. His was a face that simply refused to blend in with the other knights. Standing a head taller then most men and with a build that saw him one of the physically strongest of his Lord Father's sons and indeed stronger then most in Westeros. His blonde hair and green eyes, a combination uncommon to Westeros only helped those who saw him remember him. Sometimes the Dragon questioned his relationship with his brothers and indeed his father. For while Kervall and Teralo bore blonde hair like him only he bore green eyes. Then there was the fact he was taller then both his father and his brothers. Only the fact Teralo bore some likeness to him silenced such thoughts.

Perhaps she had green eyes and hair the color of gold. Jamie thought, trying to remember his mother's face. But she had been taken away from him at such a young age. And so many years had passed since that fateful days that the Winsler nobleman could no longer dredge up a clear image of the mother, whose memory had driven him to where he was today. All his searching came back with was a feeling of joy and comfort and the pure bliss her presence had been.

" She was indeed quite the woman." Eilis spoke divining what his charge was thinking." She could light up the darkest room with a single smile and had a wit sharper then valyrian steel."

" I am ashamed to say I can not remember Eilis." Jamie admitted with a sad tone to his voice.

"You were little more then a babe Jamie when she was killed." Eilis replied in a soothing tone for he remembered the day all too well. The scent of spilled blood, the grief of Lord Winsler, and the mute sadness of children not fully understanding what had happened. It had been hard thing to tell her sons that the wonderful woman that was their mother would longer grace the Eyrie with her radiant presence. That she had went to a better place and that one day they would see her.

Jamie did not respond, for such thoughts were not for a warrior about to enter the life and death struggle of single combat. A sudden absence of the quiet bird song perked his interest for it could only mean one thing. Animals could sense ill intent and often went into hiding at it's scent. Normally people paid such scant attention to things this fact flew over their heads. But Jamie had cut his teeth hunting in these woods for the remnants of the First men that an intense awareness of the environment around him was the norm.

"They are here." Wora said simply before carefully lowering the bow he held, for he was no muscle bound blonde giant. Even Nuala held a higher view of the world. But the Stone Crow was quick and agile, so skilled with a bow that he could launch three arrows at time and have each hit their target. Next came the tossing of his quiver to the ground.

Mycenae followed suit laying the twin short swords she favored, being both tall and well muscled for her gender the Black Ear had settled on a life of swordplay. She could move like the wind and hit with enough force to make men twice her size regret attacking her. Even Eilis unbuckled the rapier he preferred and laid it still attached to his belt to the ground.

Only Jamie clad in his scratched golden plate and girt with Memory did not lay his weapons aside. For he had come here with the clear intent to fight. And so it was in silence he watched the Sons of the Mist appear as if by magic from between the wide trunks of the ancient trees. They were a barbaric looking lot, clad in leather breeches and with only cloaks of various animals thrown over their shoulders, even the women amongst them did not cover their torso with more then a forward sweep of their cloaks. Tattoos of mythical creatures and battles adorned their bodies, shimmering with whatever ink they used. Both men and women wore their hair long, braided with golden rings amongst the older ones and silver amongst the younger ones.

" You are the one they call the Dragon, a raider of some renown." A silver haired man spoke up, clearly their leader from the respect the other Sons of the Mist showed him. Though of obvious age the man's back was as straight as spear and he carried himself with a warrior's grace. He was of equal height to Jamie and of equal build, upon his back rested a massive double headed axe nearly as long as he was tall, indicating great strength within his body. His body was heavily tattooed, every inch of his body save his face bore scenes of battle and death.

" They are the mark of a warrior. Each battle a warrior fights is inked onto the skin so that all may know his worth. It is a painful process getting them done. Even I have had to bite my lips to prevent myself from crying out in pain." The silver haired one spoke out after seeing Jamie gaze upon the tattoos. " But even I need no mark to know your story Dragon, you hunted us and the other clans in these woods since you were tall enough to hold a man's weapon. And since then you have earned a raider's glory."

If there was any accusation or disgust in his mind concerning Jamie's actions the silver haired one did not show it in his voice or posture.

" Your first fight will be with Mathias, my third cousin." The silver haired one added waving forward a man who shared his build and height. Though this Mathias was armed with a pike set upon a dragonbone staff." You already know the rules of this fight. It is to the death and your only chance to back out and leave with your life is now...." The leader spoke giving Jamie time to consider his options.

Wora,Mycenae, and Eilis looked at Jamie awaiting a response. Jamie did not speak with words but by drawing his valyrian steel sword, the blade dubbed Memory. When the dark gray steel with it's rippling patterns was revealed a collective gasp went up from amongst the Sons of the Mist, even their leader looked with avid interest. For the worth of valyrian steel was known to all.Next came the unlimbering of his shield and all at once Jamie stood ready for battle.

" A most excellent courage Dragon." The silver haired leader said as he motioned for Mathias to begin the fight.

They circled around each other, Mathias using the reach of his pike to keep Jamie at bay with feinting thrusts. Whipping the heavy weapon laterally he also kept the equally long legged blonde Andal from outflanking him. Once or twice Jamie was forced to swipe his sword to parry the thrusts of the barbaric piker. The shallow gashes he left in the head were very telling and suddenly Mathias realized Jamie was merely playing for time. The Dragon was waiting for the moment when he could commit to full on swing of his sword to lop the head of the pike off it's dragonbone staff. For valyrian steel cut through everything expect valyrian steel.

Still they circled, Mathias trying his utmost to prevent his weapon from coming into contact with Memory and Jamie doing is utmost to make that a reality. Their weapons clashed off each other despite the piker's best efforts and even more pieces of the weapon were shaved off. It clearly was only a matter of time before Jamie would win, for very soon Matias would be weaponless.

Deciding that at least a rush might rid them of the Andal if not grant him victory Mathias brought the pike into a heavy thrust while at the same time charging forward with all the strength in his body. Jamie did not dance sideways as expected but rather dropped to his knees, catching the pike's head upon his shield and lashing out laterally with Memory. Mathias committed to his charge could not stop his forward momentum soon enough. Feeling his legs cut from underneath him the barbaric piker fell to ground. About a foot away his legs from roughly the knee down lay in a pool of blood as did the rest of him come to that. Jamie stood over him, Memory in hand, awaiting Mathias to say his prayers to the old gods. Such respect from an Andal was unheard of and Mathias did not bother with trying to pick up his weapon and thrust it into the blonde's body. Not that he could mind you, Jamie was keeping his foot firmly on the hand near the fallen pike.

"Do it Andal." Mathias said after a few moments of silent prayer. Jamie nodding his understanding brought the valyrian blade clean through his heart. A soldier's death and not the slashed throat of a brigand's death.

"Well done Dragon." The silver haired leader spoke with a neural tone as he motioned another of his clan mates forward. A lean and long legged woman who had tossed aside her shadowcat cloak. She looked to be about the same age as Jamie but with black hair and blue eyes that bespoke the blood of the First Men in her veins. She looked unashamed of the fact she was clad in little more then a short pair of leather breeches." My youngest daughter Rowena."

Rowena was armed with a trident crafted of castle forged steel that shone even in the verdant light underneath the tree boughs. Saluting her Jamie fell into a slightly angled stance, his shield held slightly towards the woman. She for her part danced graceful as a deer around him, lashing out here and there with the trident, each blow ringing off Jamie's shield. She was obviously much stronger then her lean frame would suggest. And though his honor chafed at fighting a woman, the seriousness of the situation compelled the Dragon to action.

Like Mathias the woman, Rowena, had the advantage of reach. And unlike Mathias she was far quicker on her feet, handily able to keep out of the way of Jamie's attempts to trap her weapon upon the keen edge of his valyrian blade. And for the first time in quite awhile Jamie was beginning to question his wearing of full plate.

And so their dance of death went on. Rowena unable to penetrate the skilled defense of Jamie, and Jamie unable to launch an effective attack fast enough to keep up with the keen speed of Rowena. But furthermore the sleepless night Jamie had spent was beginning to tell and he could fell the exhaustion of two days hitting him. And so it was that Rowena launched a series of attacks, only his full plate preventing Jamie from ending up dead.

Realizing this the Dragon then had a idea. If he couldn't keep up with her then he would lure Rowena in. Letting his motions become even more sluggish Jamie let a series of hits go unanswered, adding more wear and tear to his armor but getting the desired results. Rowena thinking Jamie done for danced ever more closer in her thrusts till Jamie judging the distance sufficient exploded into motion. Dropping Memory to the ground the blonde grasped the shaft of the trident as it came towards him. Rowena realizing her mistake tried to pull back but even with only one hand Jamie was far stronger then her. So it was he yanked the trident out of Rowena's hands, spun it around smoothly and thrust it into her body.

Rowena stared dumbly at the shaft of her own weapon sprouting from her torso. Smiling a swift smile at Jamie she hit the ground dead, blood already pooling around her corpse. Now with two dead at his feet the Sons of the Mist seemed uneasy. Mathias and Rowena had been the finest fighters in the clan next to their silver haired leader.

" The stories they speak of you are true Dragon." The silver haired leader spoke in admiration as he unlimbered the long battle axe with it's dual heads from his back. Wora and Mycenae having seen this when Jamie had come to their clans knew what was coming up. Now was the time for two leaders to battle, to determine their very fates." My name is Foluna, and it is a honor to battle you..."

" Jamie Winsler, son of Benjamin Winsler." Jamie spoke introducing himself for the first time.

" Well then Jamie let the gods decide who is truly worthy of leading the Sons of the Mists."

Foluna and Jamie then began their deadly duel, the battle for leadership was well and truly one. Foluna was as skilled as Mathias and as fast as Rowena and so it was with little surprise Jamie was the anvil to his hammer. After the first few blocks Jamie realized his shield nor perhaps his arm would hold up against the blows of that heavy dual headed axe.And so it was also with little surprise Jamie felt his shield shatter, dancing backwards Jamie narrowly avoided having his head parted as well. Dodging underneath the swings of the axe Jamie managed to put some ground between him and Foluna. Gratefully Foluna did not chase after him, content with planning his next moves. Jamie using this brief pause tossed aside the remains of his shattered shield. His arm was numb but still responded to his commands, no doubt afterwards it would hurt like hell. If there was an afterwards, Foluna was the same size,same height,and same strength it seemed as Jamie. Combined with his skill and speed it seemed Jamie might have very well bitten off more then he could chew. And Jamie's exhaustion was starting to truly bother him, two days of battle,riding,and hiking this morning were simply too much.

Jamie, his breathing becoming harsh as Foluna capitalized on this advantage only drove the point home to the onlookers. Eilis kept looking at were he had tossed aside his rapier, his fingers itching to pick it up and save Jamie. Wora and Mycenae looked amazed, never had they seen Jamie this close to defeat before.

But for the two locked in mortal combat it was all background noise. Foluna kept on pressing the attacks and Jamie was reduced to dodging them and trying to make contact with them using Memory. For valyrian steel was his only hope, without the dual axe heads the shaft would much easier to deal with. But Foluna was a crafty old fox and kept his weapon far away from Memory, divining Jamie's plan.

Knowing he could not keep this dance of death up for much longer Jamie came up with a plan. A stupid and foolhardy plan that would likely get him killed but so then would this fight if it lasted much longer. Hitting the ground as if in exhaustion Jamie let the hand holding Memory hit the ground, he knelled over. His breathing harsh and uncontrolled, even letting his very body shake with exhaustion Jamie appeared every image the defeated warrior. Foluna didn't buy it for a second, not that Jamie had expected him to. The same trick doesn't work twice in a row after all. But it gave him time to catch his third wind as it were. Which really was the point of this.

Foluna realized this and brought the axe towards Jamie in a angled swing on the other side of the hand holding Memory. Jamie launched himself then towards Foluna, just getting clipped with the shaft of the axe. In his hand he held Memory on a shortened grip. Swinging it Jamie brought the valyrian blade bitting deeply into Foluna's right flank, destroying the ribs and lung. Smiling that same swift smile as his daughter as bloody froth stained his lips the silver haired leader of the Sons of the Mist died still clutching his weapon before hitting the ground.

" The duty has been passed onto you Jamie Winsler." A husky yet feminine voice said from his right. Turning to face the speaker Jamie was greeted with the sight of a woman clad in the same leather breeches as everyone else but with a direwolf cloak much like his own around her shoulders. The Dragon estimated her age at roughly twice his own though her body seemed trapped in timeless youth. " I am Gabrielle, wife to Foluna." She spoke in answer to his questioning stare." The Sons of the Mist are now yours to command as you see fit Dragon."

"Well then get your gear and meet us at the base of the mountains." Jamie replied as he walked away, determined to be seen striding back to camp as the conquering hero and not the hammered shit he felt like.

"It shall be done as you command Dragon."


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

The hike back to the camp had been hell on earth for Jamie's battered and bruised body. The arm had indeed starting hurting like a she-demon bitch soon after Foluna had fallen to his blade. Though he could move it quite well the amount of pain involved in such things made him not want to. The Sons of the Mist had very little gear it seemed and had met them halfway down the trail and so it was at the head of them he was seen marching into camp.

His men cheered as they saw the conquering hero and the additions to their sparse forces. They only saw the ever confident Dragon smiling as tales of his exploits were spread by Wora and Mycenae. Aron on the other hand shook his head in disgust before beckoning the conquering hero to his tent. Waving his men away Jamie strolled to the dour maester's tent. Where ointments, bandages, and stern words about the foolishness of such things were administered.

Deciding a glass of wine was really in order Jamie ordered the cook fires lit and sat himself before one scanning the crowd for Nuala. For her presence had always done wonders to his mind and body after these duels. Eilis handed him a golden chalice filled with a clear liquor, Jamie drank the potent brew to the last dregs in a single swallow.

"By the Warrior what is this." Jamie said spluttering as the full effect of the potent brew hit him and made his head slightly dizzy.

" Compliments of the Sons of the Mist, apparently it's the traditional way to celebrate a great victory." Eilis said with a gleeful smile on his face. " It's called moonshine in the rest of Westeros and should not be drunk so fast. I was going to tell you that but you chugged the stuff before I could say a word."

" One of these days I am going to have your head mounted on a pike as a warning to all my other personal guard." Jamie said with slightly dark tone betrayed by the smile on his face. He was feeling alive at this very moment, the joy of surviving such things was then spoiled by the memory of how it all happened.

" To Mathias,Rowena,and Foluna." Jamie added, tipping the last drops in the golden chalice onto the ground.

"Well spoken Dragon."Gabrielle spoke coming up from behind them accompanied by Wora and Mycenae who lugged a boar between them. " Were in the name of the Warrior did you get that." Jamie asked with a clear amazement on his face.

"The Sons of the Mist brought it with them." Wora answered as he and Mycenae set up a spit and got the heavy animal over the cooking fire. " It is our gift to you brave Jamie, a symbol of the devotion we will show you." Gabrielle answered with a solemn smile. " After all I think it only right that we celebrate your great victory today."

Jamie was somewhat shocked, familiar as he was with the ways of the mountain clans he could never truly understand them. He had slain her husband and daughter, not mention a clans mate. All to add their numbers to his forces and here she was overseeing the preparation his victory feast. He then simply accepted as the norm. Life was harsh enough without wallowing in the misery of fate's fickleness. Although he had been doing just that quite a bit.

Lionel chuckled. "Oh, right. I'd forgotten you were a girl. You give me his head on a spike then. I'll give you jewels and dresses and whatnot. You'll probably be the first ever woman to wear breeches at her wedding, though. And no, please don't embroider periwinkles. I wouldn't want you to lose your fingers," he teased. "Although I do expect you to stop sleeping with every decent-looking guy you come across. Blonde sellswords included."

Speaking of which… Something had to be done about Ammon. Not only did the man continuously ogle Leliana with the sole intent of pissing Lionel off, he was also too dangerous to have around. Lionel had to be in control; he didn't need Jans' second-in-command about to boss around the Mummers in his stead. Jans was perfectly willing to cooperate with Lionel, and he was easily manipulated. Ammon was not. Rather than go through the trouble of dealing with the Mummer, Lionel figured that he'd just find some way to get rid of him.

He also needed some way to get rid of Raban. Word spread fast, and apparently Raban was being quickly groomed to fill in the vacancy left by Lionel- and doing a better job of it, too. Although Lionel wasn't in the least bit jealous of Raban's life as the crown prince, he did envy the political power his brother now held- political power that was supposed to be his. But if he offed Raban, then there would be no heir to the throne…and then even a Bastard King would be better than no king. If there was some way to get rid of Ammon and Raban in one blow…

But there was. And it was painfully obvious.

~

"Is that really you, Lionel? By the Seven, you've changed since five years ago. You look absolutely nothing like Henry now," were Lord Jon Tyrell's first words to Lionel as he met them at the Shield Islands. The Tyrells had ridden out from Highgarden, followed by a long procession of supplies. During the weeks spent sailing through the Summer Sea, Lionel had exchanged several ravens with the Tyrells, who had promised a half of their fleet and unlimited supplies to aid in overtaking Winterfell. "Let's hope you act nothing like him, either."

"Lord Jon." Lionel stepped forward to embrace the man. The last time he had met the Tyrells was five years ago during a diplomatic visit with his father, a visit made to resolve trade issues in the Whispering Sound. Henry had wanted the Tyrells to enforce higher taxes in order to generate more income for the crown, but Lord Tyrell had adamantly refused on the grounds that it would drive away business. It was a visit that had not ended well for the king, but Lionel had made several crucial political ties there. A well-known story that circulated within Highgarden involved a twelve-year-old Lionel whispering to Jon Tyrell as they left, "It'll be different when I'm king." Lord Tyrell had been fond of Lionel since then, sending him gifts for his name day even when the Tyrells themselves were never present. A possible match had even been proposed between Lionel and Jon Tyrell's daughter Gynna, but Henry had crushed that easily enough. Nevertheless, Jon Tyrell had known early on that fostering a good relationship with the son was more important than maintaining relationships with the father. Henry would not live forever, but Lionel had many years ahead of him.

The Tyrells looked the same as they always had; brown-haired, slender-featured, but steely-eyed. A young boy walked by Jon Tyrell's side; Ronald Tyrell, Lionel guessed. The heir to House Tyrell was younger than Raban was, but almost as tall- and quite strong now, by the look of things.

"Hello, Lionel." Gynna Tyrell said shyly, dismounting from her horse to stand beside her father. She was the same as he remembered- sweet, slender, and doe-eyed, with curly brown locks tumbling past her shoulders. Lionel had actually liked Gynna once, had even pressured his father to say yes to the Tyrells' proposal. She had always been a just little too docile, though, too meek and unwilling to speak her thoughts- although Lionel knew the girl had a mind as sharp as a sword when pressed to it.

"Lady Gynna. It's nice to see you again," he said politely, drawing Leliana forward. Best clear up any misunderstandings before they occurred. "My betrothed, Lady Leliana Greyhardt. I doubt you've met before."

"No, but we've all heard the story of your dashing affair at the Red Keep," Jon Tyrell interrupted. "We all applaud your romanticism, Lionel. That was quite charming, but probably not worth an eyeball, now was it?"

"No, but I did get a war out of it," Lionel laughed along with the rest of the Tyrells. He had always admired Jon Tyrell's dry wit and cynicism. Given his choice of allies, he was glad to have the Tyrells on his side. They were a House of roses, yes, but all roses had thorns, the older ones most of all.

After loading the ships up with supplies, they stayed in the Whispering Sound overnight. While the rest of the men slept on deck, Lionel and his "court" dined with the Tyrells in a small cabin near the water, talking late into the night of their plans for invasion. Lord Tyrell set a decent table; although it was nothing compared to the last feast Lionel had sat at, they did not lack for smoked fish, fresh bread, wine, dried venison, and broiled mushrooms.

"So you're set on Winterfell," Jon Tyrell said. "Not the easiest battle you could be fighting, but probably the most strategic one. You could take Crakenhall or Tarth without breaking a sweat, but both of those are too difficult to maintain and too close to Casterly Rock."

Lionel nodded. "We may as well bite large while we've still got the element of surprise. Winterfell might have some warning, but they won't be fully prepared- and they don't know the full size of our fleet."

Jon Tyrell took a sip of wine. "I don't disagree. You'll have Winterfell, I'm sure of that, but the question is- at what cost? It'll be a hard-fought battle no matter what you do, and you'll need at least a month to recuperate and build up your forces again. Meanwhile, Jamie Winsler is still out there wreaking havoc doing gods-knows-what, and Henry might go so far as to send troops to take back Winterfell, although that's not really like him."

Lionel shrugged. "The Winslers aren't a problem. Jamie's a sword with two legs and an arm attacked. He doesn't know how to fight a real battle, he only thinks he does. Guerilla warfare is nothing compared to the strategies you need to take a stronghold, and I've had experience with that where he hasn't. If he tries for Winterfell, I'll just sit down somewhere and think of a way to outsmart him, that always works when dealing with savage brutes."

"Savage brutes? You're one to talk," Jon Tyrell said wryly.

Lionel laughed. "I'm only savage when I’ve got a sword in my hand. So keep me on a horse with a spear in my arms and I'll control myself."

~

Thanks to an unfortunate incident concerning one of the Bloody Mummers and the wife of the captain of Jon Tyrell's fleet, it was well past mid-morning when they finally headed back out to sea, and tempers were running high. The Tyrell's men and the Mummers were sailing on segregated ships, so as to minimize the conflict, but that didn't diminish the amount of bloody curses that were flung from ship to ship. Lionel groaned as he paced the front deck, ducking a hurled cabbage from one of the Tyrell's ships.

"The Braavosi and the Mummers want to kill each other, the Tyrells and the Mummers want to kill each other, the Tyrells want to kill the Braavosi for all I know, and the men of Myr, as usual, won't tell me anything about their real intentions," he complained out loud. "With a disjointed army like this, we'll kill each other before my father gets around to it."

"Aww, it's not so bad," Reuben commented, dropping in (unwanted) as usual. "Think about it. There hasn't been a serious injury yet- aside from the drowned drunken Mummer, but he did it to himself. This is just their way of having fun. They'll get serious enough when we get to Winterfell."

"I hope so," Lionel scowled. "I don't need Jans calling Jon Tyrell a bloody nailhead when we sail into Pyke. I don't know what that even means."

"At least we settled the whole affair with Ammon,"Reuben offered. "I thought he was never going to stop arguing."

It was true. Ammon and Sirena had been left on land when they sailed off, with the simple orders of "Go to the Red Keep and kill my lovely little brother for me, please." It was a rash action, but Lionel, already irritated with the Mummers, hadn't thought too clearly before deciding to rid himself of the lizard. Besides, it wasn't like anything could go wrong. If Ammon killed Raban and got away, he could always just deal with Ammon afterwards. If both were killed in the process, so much the better for him. And if Ammon was killed…

Lionel grinned, liking the third scenario. It truly didn't matter of Ammon was successful or not. If Adelaide and Raban found out, they would only become paranoid. The message would be clear, almost childishly so. I'm still alive, kiddos, and I'm going to get you. So you'd better start sleeping with a candle lit, because when you're not looking…

[Tsundere tsundere tsun tsun dere dere. :3
/hit/]

"Lass, it's like you've lost half your heart," Old Walter's voice carried with it a disappointment that Leliana would not have been able to bear had she been younger. She was full aware of exactly what he was getting at and that he knew much more about her intentions than she was letting on to him.

Leliana shook her head at his words - slowly at first, but then with more conviction. "No, I never lost it," the smile on her face was a rueful one, hinting at melancholy, so unlike the wolfish grin she often wore. "I gave it away."

"And what did you receive in return?" Walter was eying her with a wary expression, watching her with his wrinkle-encased brown eyes from his spot sitting atop one of the crates. His wooden leg was touching the ground just barely, while his good foot was firmly planted down on the ship's deck.

"Freedom?" Leliana's answer was more a question that anything else and even she caught the way it hitched upwards on the last syllable.

"It's not freedom you needed in your life, lass," Walter sighed and heaved himself off the crate, making a tutting noise beneath his breath as he began to hobble away from her, "it's guidance."

"Walter, wait," she whirled away from her previous spot - the one where she had previously been leaning against the railing and staring out into the endless-seeming waters ahead of the Firestorm.

Leliana caught up to the old sailor, lightly grasping his upper arm with her hand to make him stop. Walter stopped and looked down at her; the look in his eyes almost made her want to be sick - she did not want to face the accusation there. Leliana looked away, focusing her gaze on a spot to the side of Walter's face.

"I'm getting married," she said in a soft voice, one that bordered on the sort of tone a child might use when trying to explain a wrongdoing to its elder.

"Then I wish you the best of luck," he said nothing more than that. Walter simply stood there until Leliana finally removed her hand from his arm, at which point he turned and resumed walking away. Leliana did not watch him go - she went back to staring out into the sea. This was what she had forced herself to learn how to face - how else was she supposed to survive in such times were she not hardened? And what if she had stayed in Winterfell? The Mummers would have come and slaughtered everyone without a word.

No. No, they wouldn't have. They wouldn't have come at all.

She swallowed hard the lump that had formed in her throat. This is my fault. And I will do the one thing I am able and willing to - I will ignore it. After all, a man is like a deer and a deer dies so easily from an arrowhead.

It made so much sense. So much sense.

---

He and Sirena had been left on land when Lionel and the others sailed off, given only a set of simple orders and nothing more. To say that Ammon had been at all impressed would have been a dirty lie. The two of them would still go to the Red Keep and see what was going about at court, but it was now more due to an actual interest than the desire to fulfill the order of some one-eyed bigot who probably would not know what to do with a woman if she was naked and had her legs splayed open before him.

But, in times of war and backstabbing politics, being in the eye of the storm sounded like a swell idea - especially if killing was involved. Were Ammon and Sirena actually going to carry out the orders? Doubtful, but they would still go to the Red Keep just for kicks.

The journey would take them a while, but if they stole horses at regular intervals and rode the beasts down until their hooves broke off, then they would be able to make good time. Ammon was aware that the Mander River, nearby the mouth of which they had been left, would lead them back around and past Highgarden, near all the way to King's Landing. Ammon expected to be at the Red Keep in no more than two weeks,much less than that if they stuck near the river and had fresh horses.

Getting their first set of horses from a small coastal town - one as of yet untouched by the war - was easy. All they had had to do was kill the stable-boy, and that was easier than taking a sip of wine. The one thing that made this whole journey to King's Landing that much more enjoyable was that he had company with him in the form of Sirena. She was both fun to speak with and fun to sleep with, and that was like hitting two birds with the same stone.

Sirena was never like any of the wives Ammon had had in the past. Some part of him figured that if he ever wed her and offered her a sack of gold, she would roll her eyes and punch him in the eye - and then shove him down on the ground and bang him so hard they would both be walking funny in the morning.

"We'll need to change the beasts soon," he told her after their third day of near non-stop riding. The two horses had begun to grow weary, having never been pushed so hard before, and especially not by a pair of Mummers who could care less about whether the equines lived or died - as long as they got them where they wanted to be going. "I hope we hit another town soon, I'd hate to have to walk."

"I got off early." The mischievous grin that accompanied that remark split Raban's face from ear to ear, though it was soon wiped off his face. The boy was stunned. Wait... three of them? At once? I've never faced anything like that before! Well, outside of my daydreams, anyway... Then Ulfred's reminder came - the stance he had learned the other day was supposed to be a defensive one, when you were unsure of which direction an attack would originate. The squires glanced at one another in a moment of hesitation, but the master-at-arms' command came quickly and they knew better than to go against his word. Beginners they may be, but they knew to rush him headlong from the same direction was folly. Splitting up, they circled around the prince, weapons up.

Raban quickly dropped his centre of gravity and held his long practice blade close to his body, making himself a smaller target. He circled with the boys, trying to keep them all in at least his peripheral vision. Tension sent his heart pounding, and adrenaline rushed through his veins. He knew he shouldn't underestimate them - untrained though they may be, they knew they had the advantage here, and they would probably try to capitalize on that early. He allowed himself a small, quick grin as they charged simultaneously, as he'd expected. Raban dove forward towards Loues in front of him. The boy immediately balked, and he swung his sword to his left to parry the blow from Dale as he moved. He rolled past Loues as he recovered, but the young Damian was quicker than he was. He swung his practice blade low, hitting the boy's ankle hard, hoping to slow him down. Loues yowled and hopped on one foot, but Raban was already beyond him, dropping back into his stance to face the other two who were still charging. The attacks came together, and Raban danced to his right, dodging one blow and parrying the other. His counterattack was swift and brutal, whacking Dale's sword hand and making him drop his weapon, but his last assailant was upon him before he could press the advantage. Harod's wobbly offensive was easy to defend, but Loues had stopped his sniveling and was at Raban's side again. The two of them attacked relentlessly, but Raban quickly found an opening in Harod's defense, kicking him soundly in the gut and winding even while he parried an attack from Loues. Seizing the opportunity, Raban leaped over the page curled upon the floor to intercept a surprised Dale who was moving to rejoin the fight, and giving him a sound buffet against his left temple. Dazed, he went down into the dirt when Raban tripped him with a low roundhouse. Loues approached, nervous, his hand unsteady. The prince ventured a quick glance at Ulfred, who was standing implacable with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. Raban smirked, and this was enough to rattle Loues' already shaken confidence, and he flicked his gaze quickly over to his teacher. Raban pounced, attacking in quick succession against Loues' right side - even the parried blows reverberating pain up the boy's sword arm. Eventually, the page dropped his wooden sword with a whimper, and backpedaled quickly, his arms up for amnesty.

Panting hard, Raban let his defensive stance fall as he stood, running his free hand through his hair to pull dark, wet strands from his eyes. "Was that... alright... Ser?"

Sticking his practice sword in his belt, the young prince went to help the other boys to their feet, apologizing and making sure they were okay. He looked up and saw his father, Kervall and Adelaide watching, and gave them a nod, before turning back to his teacher. "D'you think I'm good enough to fight one of the hedge knights, yet?"



The more time he spent with her, the more Kervall realized he was growing to enjoy the company of the princess. Most of the women he'd met at court were vacuous, pampered little flowers, as delicate as they were spoiled. How surprised he'd been to find a princess who could not only match him in his intellectual pursuits, but who enjoyed it as much as he did! Not for the first time, he found himself wishing their families weren't such bitter enemies. He couldn't imagine a having a king for a father-in-law would be bad, but he knew how deep the blood feud went. He had been told all his life that the Damians were cowardly, cheating dogs. Of course, this had proved to be more or less true in the case of Lionel, but ironically the boy wasn't exactly a Damian, was he?

Shaking the ruminations from his mind, he nodded at Adelaide's request, grinning briefly at her. "I shall, m'Lady." He nodded and watched her go, his gaze lingering on her back for a little while longer. A surprise, huh? I wonder what she's cooking up. Wiping the grin from his face, Kurt gave a bow to the king and turned to go, calling Flynt to his side as he did so. Speaking quietly, he gave the knight a set of instructions to carry out before day's end. 'Hostage' though he may be, Kervall would be damned if he was going to let the situation squirm completely out of his control; he had several contingency plans well underway for a few circumstances he had foreseen. He knew Jamie would not be content rampaging through the countryside forever, though from what he'd heard he hardly had a standing army that could lay siege to any real city. Things changed, though, and Kervall planned to stay in the game whatever happened. Once he'd sent Flynt away, Kurt stopped by the stables, and spent a suspicious amount of time inside. Afterward, he headed over to the gardens to meet Adelaide.

He arrived before she did, and took the time to stroll among the flora being grown by the royal horticulturists. He liked this place - people rarely came here besides himself and Adelaide, and the gardeners did a surprisingly great job of creating a relaxing and beautiful environment. It made him wonder why it was so unpopular. Not that he was complaining, really. It had served as the perfect spot for him to meet not only the princess, but his network of spies had convened here several times, as well. As he limped by a wall grown over with ivy, Kervall let the fingers of his left hand trail along the stone and the thick, ropey vines scaling the wall. He paused, staring at that wall, and wondered quietly at its tenacity. Stone was hard and unyielding, but with much time, perseverance, and a little sunshine, the plant had grown to cover an entire wall, its arms reaching along and even through the unbreakable stone. If the ivy were to be ripped out, now, it would surely take part - if not the whole - wall with it. What a curious strength it possessed.

He turned as he heard his name called, and saw the princess approaching. He could not help but smile. Here, where they were alone, it did not matter, and he let his affection show clear to his face. As she drew near, he lowered himself to one knee (with a bit of a wince that he quickly hid), took one of her hands and placed a gentle kiss on it, then stared up at her, "Lo, thine eyes doth glimmer with empathy; what desire dost thou wish 'pon moonlight?" The goofy grin on his face lent the somber, poetic words a playful twist, "Fair maid, mine own heart stills b'neath thine visage; Prithee, tame its madness in earnest flight."

Adelaide smiled brightly at him, before giving a gracious bow of the head to her father, dismissing herself from their presence. With a quick glance at Raban, she gave him a wave of the hand, though it saddened her that she could not offer him more than that. She missed the time that they spent together, but she understood that he was growing up. He needed his space to grow and thus he had seperated himself from her. However, she couldn't help but think this was how it started with Lionel. He would not directly ignore them, but he would spend less and less time with Ada and Raban. Eventually over time he gradually stopped spending any time with them and finally he became bitter and twisted about their freedom. Adelaide had always known he was jealous of their lives. In actual fact, she had been jealous of his position as crown prince. Wanting nothing more than for someone to listen to her ideas and plans, his position was everything that she wanted. But, as mean as he was, she would have never thought of taking it from him, let alone killing him to take it.

"Lionel, come play..." Adelaide touched his arm, but he snatched it from her grasp. She looked hurt and tried again, but this time he turned and glared at her, his eyes vicious and menacing.

"I can't," He growled, fury written all over his face. "You're just trying to distract me." With an angry shake of his head, he refused to meet her in the eye. She merely frowned at him, crossing her arms across her chest.

"Distract you to do what?" Adelaide asked, looking more than a little confused at his words. "I wasn't trying to..."

"Distract me to take my throne..." It was a muttered whisper. A jealous child with a paranoid mind. The younger girl looked outraged, narrowing her eyes at her brother. His words were unbelievable. He was unbelievable. Now, he had really lost his mind.

"It's called paranoia," She shot at him, turning her back and marching away. "Grow up Lionel. You'll be King one day and you know you will..."

Now, killing him was all she wanted to do with him, if only to keep Raban and herself safe. Lionel would never be King if she could help it. He would not be allowed to take the throne whilst she still stood. Because that was all he wanted. He would take part in this war if only to destroy the remaining Damians and take the throne. Adelaide would do all she could to prevent that.

Returning to her room, she was quick to change from her training clothes to a beautiful satin gown in a brilliant pink. Almost running through the gardens, she had already sent word with Mary to prepare the surprise at the fountain. Coming around a bed of roses, she spotted Kervall and her smile instantly brightened, her pink cheeks flushed slightly. With her hair falling around her shoulders, she swept it to one side, calling his name and approaching him. She could not wait to give him the surprise. It had been something she had been planning for a while. After all, he had helped her so much and now it was her turn to return the favour.

When he bent down on one knee taking her hand, she flushed even more than before, an eyebrow arched in question. "Well fair sir, if you would kindly rise, then I will bestow upon you my surprise." Grinning, she helped him to his feet, holding the hand that wasn't using the cane. She squeezed it gently, leading him slowly around the fountain. As she did, Mary came into sight, smiling herself. Bowing to the pair, she gestured to a man stood alongside her. In his hand were two sets of reins. Stood behind him were two huge horses, one a gentle stormy grey colour, her own horse Storm. He gave a snort when he saw her, tossing his head, his man flicking over to one side. A smile tugged at her lips. Beside her horse stood another, a bay who was staring at them with steady brown eyes. She blinked, holding no response to their arrival. Whereas Storm pranced, she stood completely still, keeping her eyes upon them.

"I know how you dislike horses," She said, turning him to face her with a sincere look. "I wanted to help you solve that. Horses are gentle creatures with a lovely temperament. And this one," She gestured to the bay horse who hadn't removed her eyes from them. "More so than most. I have never come across such a mild-mannered creature. Her name is Lilac and she is yours if you so wish. I simply adore riding into the surrounding forests and it is my wish to share that with you." Giving his hand one more squeeze, she released it, quickly walking to Storm and throwing her arms around his neck. He nuzzled her shoulder affectionately, blowing into her hair. Laughing, she rubbed his velvety nose. Never had she looked more alive than when she was with her horse.

When they were younger, it was the only way that she had found she could escape her duties. The sweet smell of hay welcomed her, no matter how furious she was. It was an escape. When Storm's mother had died soon after giving birth to him, she had volunteered to look after him. Although her parents were not pleased, they did not discourage the act of kindness from Adelaide, after all it did give her something to do. Ever since then she had been raising horses in the stables and almost immediately it was clear that she was a natural when it came to the creatures. But still Storm was her favourite. his calm demeanor and soft nature calmed her and always made her smile.

Looking at Kervall, she arched an eyebrow once again. "So will a Winsler take the risk and ride with Damian? We do not have to go far, only as far as your injuries will allow."

Jamie smiled, a true smile pale and ghostly as it may be as Nuala came to sit down beside him. Upon her request to try the so called moonshine his golden chalice had been refilled with the Winsler nobleman sent for another cup that was in the wildling's hands. Sipping from the potent brew, now that he knew it's strong nature, the Dragon only listened to Nuala's words in grateful silence. Sparse though they might be the were high praise indeed, did she truly know what he felt about her. That was one question he longed to ask but now did not seem the time. Now was a time to let his army enjoy the fruits of his victory today, for one could only use words so long. All the proud speeches and chest thumping meant little to Knights who soiled their honor as raiders, it did not win the service of sellswords, nor convince mountain clans to side with him. Actions and not words were what won the hearts and minds of people no matter their beliefs.


We can not know what tomorrow brings, but at least tonight we can live and enjoy ourselves. Jamie thought with a melancholic joy that went down to his very bones. He knew all too well what tomorrow would bring, battle and more bloodshed. More burnt crops and refugees streaming towards King's Landing.

But the stewing in his own thoughts seemed like such an ill omened past time, given the presence of one of the few people truly loyal to him and not his deeds or name. She may have been brash to others but to Jamie her indomitable will and gentle chiding were exactly the thing he needed to keep himself from mulling in the disgrace forced upon him by both his actions and military necessity. Besides the conversation between Nuala and what could only be another of the sellswords under his employ was quite the sight. Made only the more entertaining by said sellsword ending up with a broken nose.

"I must say my entrancing Nuala that you were rather hard on him. Sellswords don't grow like apples to be plucked when one is hungry." He spoke with a laugh and a sip of the potent clear liquor in his chalice. It really was quite strong and already he could feel the intoxication of it affecting his thoughts. Did I just call Nuala entrancing. He worried for a second then decided it did not matter. Throwing back the golden chalice he drained the thing for the second time. " By the Warrior you lot make a fine brew." He said with a bow to his newest allies, the Sons of the Mist clapped his draining of two chalices of their victory drink.

Alright he really was drunk, Jamie knew there was no denying it and his thoughts were becoming increasingly muddled. But maybe the bottom of a bottle was the way to stop thinking about the thrice accursed disgrace of raiding. He briefly considered having the golden chalice filled a third time then decided his wit was already suffering enough. Instead he sat back down, this time a little closer to Nuala then he was before.

" Now who is the one drinking on the job." Eilis said with a laugh as he sipped from his own cup of moonshine.

Jamie smiled a little, suddenly not feeling so tired after all. Even the bloody arm had stopped bothering him, though he was still vaguely aware of the discomfort of moving it." I must say Nuala that if you ever get the urge to hit me, please warn me. I'd like a chance to hide." He added laughing as he watched the sellsword who despite his bleeding nose was joining in on the laughing even as Aron who had scurried over attended to him.

There really was no deny it now, the potent drink he had so carelessly chugged back was going straight to his head. Then again Jamie while appreciating a fine wine had never been one to indulge in drinking all that often. " Fetch mine harp." Jamie ordered to no one in particular as he stared at the empty bottom of his golden chalice tempted to ordered it refilled.

Eilis himself fetched Jamie's harp from Warrior's saddlebags and presented to the somewhat intoxicated nobleman. Gently holding the instrument in the crook of his arm Jamie played upon it's strings. His fingers despite his muddled head moved deftly amongst it's strings as. The notes rang out clear and sweetly as he began to sing. His voice holding a fine tenor tone which surprised Eilis as he did not know Jamie could sing. Then again neither did Jamie, this was the first time he had tired such things. Perhaps it was the moonshine talking or just his pent up feelings but it was a love song he sung, one well known to the Knights amongst them.



" Well played blondie." Mycenae replied after the last notes had rung in the air. " A bard king to lead us into battle, what a song that would make." She added with a laugh as she sipped back a deep red wine, not caring for the moonshine brewed by the Sons of the Mist.

" Indeed, he who conquered through song and verse and songmakers curse. A man who flowed through his enemies like the notes of a harp through the air." Eilis replied to Mycenae's jest with a smile and a laugh.

It was such an odd scene to the Winsler nobleman. Despite his drunk frame of mind Jamie could not but help to think of the three people who he had killed today. The feel of their flesh giving way beneath the keen edge of Memory. He laid a hand upon that valyrian blade belted upon his hips. Memory was a blade that had served him well in all the years he had worn it. It had never failed him and had saved his life many time by sheer fact of it's valyrian steel nature. Jamie then considered the fact his hands were not the first to wield this blade in battle. It had likely known a thousand wielders before Jamie and would likely know countless others after his corpse was buried and his memory forgotten. Long after this war was committed to the history books Memory would live on in another's hands. Jamie tired to picture the sheer number of people who had this fine sword before him. Images of Knights atop dragonback flashed in his mind, warriors defending their homes, less scrupulous men using it's keen edge to dispose of rivals. No doubt this blade had seen a lot, it's history a blood stained one, just as Jamie's life was becoming blood stained. He also wondered at the various names the blade had borne in it's long history.

" Nuala the dawn comes soon, when we must face it's light and be judged on our deeds. I wonder how the gods will Judge me when my time finally comes." Jamie wondered aloud to the object of his feelings. No doubt she thought his words the result of the drink flowing in his veins. But Jamie did truly wonder how he would be judged. He knew his enemy nothing more the craven dogs deserving their fate. But a lot of innocent people were being hurt by his revenge." My enemies hide behind their men so that I needs slaughter them. I must make widows and orphans to satisfy my lust for Damian blood. But no closer am I to my goal despite the blood that flows around my feet. How many more must fall before my blade so that they are brought within it's range. How many more must I kill before I can rest."

Once more that half-sad smile lit his features as those around him went about their feasting and drinking. At times like these he was glad for Nuala's presence. Her pragmatism kept him balanced and centered even as the demons of his thoughts tired their best to drive him mad. Jamie wondered briefly if this was the same thing his father was suffering through. And if so why had he been so harsh on the old man. " Such sad thoughts for a victory feast but I can not help it Nuala, the wine and food turns to ashes in my mouth. I suppose I should sleep for the dawn will come all too quickly. Perhaps in it's light I can face it's judgement. At least with you by my side life does not seem so bad."

The burning of House Greyhardt's fleet was a lovely sight against the foggy, black night. Lionel watched the crimson flames from less than a mile away, arms crossed with satisfaction as a small team of Mummers wove through the harbor, setting ships ablaze with torches and buckets of oil. That had been the first part of their strategy, to destroy as many ships as they could while the rest of the fleet hid several miles away in the cover of the mist. An alarm had already sounded, and judging by the shouts, Greyhardt's men were flooding into the harbor to douse the flames. Only two or three ships would be destroyed beyond function, but that didn't matter. They had razzed their opponents' nerves and crippled them somewhat, making the ensuing battle far easier for them.

They had decided to move in on Winterfell from the East, where the majority of the Greyhardts' fleet was harboured. Winterfell itself was further in land and would take a day of riding to reach, but Lionel intended to take White Harbor as shelter and then sail his forces down the White Knife river until they reached Winterfell. All along the coast of the Three Sisters, the Tyrell's ships were lined up like a pack of wolves, waiting to attack. The Braavosi were nowhere to be seen. Lionel had wisely decided to separate his forces. The Braavosi were waiting on the other side of the harbor to fend of attacks from incoming ships. Lionel had decided to place Ser Quincel on one of the Braavosi ships. He doubted that Ser Quincel would be able to lead an attack on his former fleet, much less on his brother's home. Better to place him away from the brunt of action, on the defensive. The Bloody Mummers, the primary ground combat unit, had been scattered along various ships. Once they docked, the sellswords would be deposited on land to storm Winterfell from the back. Aboard the Firestorm, Lionel and Leliana would be leading the attack, while Lord Tyrell operated the torch messaging system.

The shouts were growing louder and louder. Ship after ship lit up as the Greyhardts finally realized that they were under attack. One by one, the war galleys began sailing towards Lionel's fleet. On deck, Jans looked to Lionel expectantly, waiting for the signal. Lionel ignored him, eyes fixed firmly forward on a burning ship that had not yet been doused with water. Not yet… The flames continued to crackle, despite the men's best efforts to put them out. Finally, with a splintering crash, the masthead of the burning ship broke in two, smashing into the deck of the galley beside it.

Men from the ships around it immediately rushed to its aid, trying to make sure that the fire did not spread any further. It was the havoc that Lionel had been waiting for.

Lionel turned to Lord Tyrell and lifted an arm. "Go."

They sailed straight forwards, meeting the enemy fleet from a diagonal. The Firestorm cut through the water with powerful, elegant ease. The winds were on their side, the moon behind them. Everything was to their advantage, everything had been calculated and carried out with deliberate precision. It would be a close battle, but a decisive one. By the end of the night, Winterfell would be under the control of the Bastard King.

The first ship passed them, close enough to board. Lionel turned to Jans and nodded.

With a blood-curdling cry, the Mummer seized a rope and hurled himself over, followed by a group of ten. The ringing of steel and shouts of men echoed through the air as Jans took down the first enemy ship. It was like knocking down the first card in a tower; more cries pierced the air from different directions as Lionel's fleet clashed with the Greyhardts', hurling them into a bay of chaos and destruction. Lionel ignored the noise as the battle raged on behind him. His eyes were fixed upon the craggy outline of White Harbor, far in the distance. As more and more ships were destroyed, the Firestorm sailed straight ahead, until a bump that reverberated through the deck told Lionel that they had docked.

Only then did he unsheath Night.

The first two soldiers to assault Lionel were met with a watery death as he kicked them indifferently out of the way- after slashing their jugulars, of course. He managed to get off the ship without too much trouble, unless four more bodies counted. Then came the bloody business of cutting himself a path through the swath of soldiers that overwhelmed him on the dock. Night sang a haunting, whistling song as it flashed in the moonlight like some eerie herald of death. As Lionel lost himself in the bloody dance he was so fond of, ridiculous, crazed thoughts raced through his head, thoughts that could only be found in the mind of a berserker. Who were these people? How dare they stand in his way? He just wanted to reach the end of the dock, so why were they in his way? Who did they think they were? By the Seven, he was going to smite them…cut them to pieces...

Perhaps "pieces" was taking it a bit too far, but by the time Lionel reached the end of the dock, there was not a soldier left standing. He'd been too caught up too actually kill them all, but the ones that weren't dead were legless, and the ones that weren't legless had fled in fear. Then again, it wasn't entirely Lionel's fault. The flood of Mummers and Braavosi that had come running off the ship, howling with delight, probably had something to do with it.

He watched from the shore as Jon Tyrell made short work of the woefully unprepared Greyhardt fleet. As soon as the Braavosi had docked, the men immediately began hauling boats off the side of the ship. The plan was to sail up the White Knife river to Winterfell with the entirety of their force, where they would use a variety of tactics to overtake the castle. Without their fleet, the Greyhardts wouldn't be able to sail reinforcements in on time. The wolves' strength lay at sea; purely on land, they were mediocre at best. The Mummers, on the other hand...

The last remnants of a battle was still raging in the bay, but Lionel had no patience to stick around and watch. Jon Tyrell could take care of himself; if he survived, he'd come up the river after them. If not, then they didn't have time to wait around for a funeral. The Mummers, upon landing, were all for plundering the nearby towns, but Lionel ordered them onto the boats with the promise of better wine and whores at Winterfell when they reached it in a day or two.

Lionel was just about to board when he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye- some sailor who had survived the initial attack had lunged at him, hoping to kill the Bastard King before he died himself. Night flashed in a circle, once, twice, and then the sailor was on his knees on the ground, howling as he stared at the two handless stumps that were now his arms. Ignoring the man's cries, Lionel dragged him to his feet and gave him a shake. "Run on back to Winterfell," he told the sailor, and then released him. "Tell them I'm coming." The sailor let out a whimper of terror and scrambled away, cradling his stumps in his elbows. Laughing, Lionel wrapped his fingers around the side of the last boat and hauled himself upwards.

"Now begins the plundering and pillaging," Reuben commented cheerfully, helping Lionel on. "And raping and murdering."

Lionel sat down and grabbed an oar, jerking it back with a savage force. In the moonlight, his grin looked almost disembodied. "Here comes the raping and murdering indeed."

He was going to rip Richard Greyhardt's head off, right before his parents, and kick the headless corpse around until he'd had his fill of the parents' screaming. Isabel Greyhardt would go to Jans. Lady Greyhardt could go to whatever Mummer wanted her, if anyone was still interested in a wrinkly old crone. Nathaniel Greyhardt would serve no further purpose, although Lionel suspected that Ammon wouldn't complain about having him, if he was still around. Either way, the Greyhardt family, his father's closest allies, would be brought to ruin, ruin and total destruction. If Leliana thought that he was going to spare any of her family, then she was wrong. She was about to truly see how cruel Lionel Storm could be.

The courtyard was busy with the sights and sounds of House Damian's knights. They were a group of decent size (outnumbering Strake three to one) and all of them boisterously talking and laughing as they milled about under the red panther's sigil. The air was stale, windless, and the sigil of Strake did not move in its place over the estate. The family's motto - I Breathe, I Endure - was hidden in its folds.

One man, ornately dressed, broke away from the group and led his horse up to the great doors where Jane was standing, her household arranged about her. (Or peering out of the corners of windows.) He made a grunt as he dismounted and looked her over. Jane bore the look with a quiet, steady expression.

"I've come to speak with the Lady Strake. Fetch her, woman."

'Tis not the first time I've been mistaken for a servant, she thought.

"You are in her presence," she replied and curtsied, noting with a burst of satisfaction that she was two heads taller than the man. He looked taken aback, then bowed.

"You have my apologies, my Lady. I am the Knight Commander of these men and under the banner of House Damian. We have been sent by His Grace, the King."

She said nothing and continued to look in his eyes. He fidgeted and continued: "His Grace wishes to speak with you about your knowledge of Jamie Winsler and his whereabouts."

"I see the civil war has managed to reach us at last."

"At last? As we understand, my Lady, you've supplied him with men and arms."

Oh. Yes, she'd forgotten about that little detail. She tried a smile that she hoped was winning. Or flirtatious. Or anything that would let her stall for time. It was Addie who saved them, coming forward and insisting their guests speak of such matters on stomaches that were not empty - for the evening meal was just ready to be served.

Jane felt the dark, crawling reminder of what she'd seen happen at the last feast where there had been political tensions. And she hadn't been one of the key players in that one.

~

"I don't like the Knight Commander."

Jane's eyes did not move from the dancers. They had struck up a small band of players as the feast drew to its close, and some of the knights had paired with ladies of her household. Out of the corner of her mouth, she asked: "Why?"

"He keeps looking at me ... as if ... as if he knew what I looked like without my chemise!"

Jane had never felt so blessed to be physically unspectacular in her life.

"Well, he is a man. He's probably seen his fair share of ... un-chemised ladies."

Addie made a choked noise.

As if he knew they were speaking of him, the Knight Commander left his place amongst his men and walked over to them, bowing as he did. Addie made a high-pitched squeak and began to fidget in her seat. Jane put just enough pressure down on her foot to leave a warning ("Don't faint!") and a bruise. The smell of wine rolled off him like perfume.

"May I ask the pleasure of Lady Adelaide's company in a dance?"

"I'm called Addie, ser," the lady-in-waiting whispered.

"Adelaide," he insisted. "Feels more like I'm dancing with a princess."

She threw a desperate, pleading look at Jane and was whisked away.

~

It was half to to the gift Jane had received from her father on her twelfth birthday and half to the drunken state of the Knight Commander that all who escaped with their lives from the Strake estate that night did.

"Keep this book, Stem," he'd said, using his pet name for her, "and write down every day in it."

"But what if there's nothing, Papa?"

"There's always something to write about."

As evening began to settle around them, and the candles were lit as the windows darkened, Jane retired to her bedchamber. There would be much to write of in Book that day ... the previous pages had been filled with her grief of the deaths of her sisters and her worries for little Margaret. Of course, poor, sweet, simple-minded Katherine was also a worry, but she was one that Jane had grown accustomed to. She considered skipping the entry, but she had never done so before, and a single night of weariness would not make her.

Book was absent. Jane frowned, running her hands over the empty space at her bedside where she kept it. That was strange. None of the servants ever bothered it and she never placed it anywhere else.

"Addie?" she called. "Have you seen my diary?"

"No, my Lady. 'Tis misplaced?"

The only other place it would logically be would the small library on the first floor. It was late, and the house quiet, but she could not sleep without writing a few words.

"I might have put it in the library," she conceded and picked up one of the candles from her bedside. "Come with me," she said and ignored her lady-in-waiting's less-than-quiet sigh.

As they headed towards the library, down the main staircase, they heard the faint sounds of men's laughter. Jane paused.

"Another one!" she heard a voice shout, followed by more laughter.

Another what?

Curiosity tugged Jane onward down the corridor, past the library. It was the room where the Knight Commander and his men had been set up. The door was flung open, and candle light spilled into the hall. Slowly, she approached, then pressed herself against the wall by the door, listening.

A man's absurdly high, prissy falsetto spoke:


Hello, Book.

I really hate to dance. I wish that I could learn. Louisa always gets compliments about the way she moves her feet, but when they look at me, they just smile and say something nice that they think won't my feelings. I don't know why I can't learn! Maybe it's because I am too tall. I am two inches taller than Mumma and I hope I don't grow more, because pretty women are supposed to be very fragile and dainty, like in the tales. Sometimes I walk on the sides of my feet with my legs bowed a little to be shorter. It's hard to tell if I'm wearing a nice, thick dress, and I've gotten very good at it. But you can't dance that way.

Mumma says not to worry about it and that sometimes there are girls that bloom late. I asked her how late and she laughed. I am terrible at dancing and stitching and figuring out what other people think. That last one is politics. Papa says I spend too much time inside my own mind to know how to get inside someone else's. I shouldn't like to be inside someone else's head anyway because I like mine just fine. Maybe it would be nice to get inside Louisa's and learn how she dances, but I don't think that's politics."


Jane went cold with humiliation and rage. How did they get Book? That entry ... she must have been twelve when she'd written it, if Louisa was still alive. It had been a long time she had last thought of her sister Louisa, who had died shortly before her thirteenth birthday ... in the same sweep of illness that had carried away so many just a month ago.

"Shame you didn't find anything really worthwhile," she heard the Knight Commander's distinct voice.

"There might be code in it. His Grace'll be interested enough."

What?

"When do we start?" a gruff voice asked.

"Give it another hour or two. They'll be sound asleep."

"Why's the King so sure it'll work? That bastard doesn't have the honor to fight in an open field, why's he expected to come avenge Strake?"

They're going to kill us, Jane realized. What was there to stop them? She had no military force to speak of, beyond a few knights who had stayed - and they were mostly those whose days of knighthood were slowly beginning to fade as age crept up on them. Beside her, Addie's ragged breathing sounded like thunder.

"We're to Cavanaugh," Jane whispered. "I want you to ready Katherine and Margaret. And any of the servants who will remain with us and are capable. Addie, if you faint, I swear I'll leave you there."

"But what if they kill us?"

"Then we'll be dead. They won't if we are prepared."

~

Lord Winsler,

I send this letter to you in the utmost haste. By the time this reaches you, I believe that the Strake estate will have been burned, but my men, and the rest of my household, will have found refuge at Cavanaugh. The king has launched this attack on your allies to draw you, and more likely Jamie, out into direct warfare. We will be able to hold our ground with the combined forces of Cavanaugh. They will expect you to come to our aid from the front, as a shield, I imagine. They are unaware of Jamie's location, as am I. It would be the perfect opportunity to flank them. They would be caught between us and slaughtered. If you are at all able to contact your son, I beg you to do so. It may give him a perfect opportunity to come into the open.

Jane signed her name and filled the rest of the empty space with diagonal lines, so as to prevent any forged postscripts. Ser Guy took the letter and nodded to her.

"If all goes well, it will be in his hands in three days."

"At the soonest?"

"Aye."

The crows might be feasting on us by then, she mused. Margaret reached out and wrapped her fingers around Jane's hand, squeezing, her eyes full of fear. Her other hand was in Katherine's. Jane looked at the two of them and felt a fierce, hopeless surge of protectiveness: the same she often felt for poor, mad Benjamin. Katherine was all of twenty years old, but she'd the mind of a babe, and had since the fever in her childhood had addled her wits.

"Take them to the horses," she said and pulled her hand from Margaret's viselike grip.

"But where are you going?" the child's voice threatened to become a wail.

Just as her words were finished, there was a woman's scream from beyond the open window, followed by unintelligible shouts. The clash of metal followed.

This is Lord Winsler's war, at last, she thought.

"To fetch Miss Addie and a few other things. You won't even notice I was gone. Ser Guy? Edwina?"

The elderly nursemaid's face was streaked with tears, and she hesitated as the knight ushered out the two of them, Katherine following the man's lead with an empty, beatific smile.

"Your father's sword, isn't it?" Edwina asked.

"Yes."

"It's not worth your life, Stem," she sobbed.

Jane scoffed. "Look at you! Crying and making a mess for no reason! I'll be back in a moment."

"And 'twas the same your father said and him seven years in the grave now."

"The more we talk, the more time we waste," Jane said, frustrated. And fearful. "Fifteen minutes. I'll be back with Addie and we'll ride for Cavanaugh."

The words said, she turned and hurried from the room. It was both urgency and a fear that Edwina would change her mind that quickened her pace. There was the smell of smoke and fire and Jane realized they had begun to torch the estate. Generations of her family had been born, and lived, and died, under this roof. Now it was going up in flames. Her father's sword was kept in a secret room, just off the main staircase, and hidden by a secret panel in the wood. Heavily ornamented (and heavy in general) Jane could barely lift it with one hand.

Book, she thought, miserably. But there was nothing to be done for that, unless she wanted to track down the Knight Commander and challenge him. Jane turned the corner back to the staircase and crashed into him.

"Oh," he said. His eyes were bloodshot, his clothes stained with blood. "There you are."

Before she could react, his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. The sword dropped with a loud clang. His other hand grabbed a handful of her hair and jerked her down to his level, his lips crashing against hers, his rough stubble tearing at her skin.

This is the part where a knight gallant shows up. But this was the House of Strake, where the tales never had happy endings. Jane bit down on his tongue and tasted blood. He cried out and slackened his grip, allowing Jane to twist away. She brought her arm across her mouth and spat.

"Bitch," he snarled, blood pouring down his chin. He drew his fist back and lunged at her, but the wine had addled his senses, and she stepped out of his way with ease.

The blow that struck her from behind was unexpected. And debilitating. Her head screamed, and her vision exploded in purple and black dots.

"My Lady!"

Addie?

Jane lifted her head just as the man who'd struck her kicked her in the ribs. The force of it made her bounce up into the air for a moment. The smoke was growing thicker. She tried to make sense of the voices about her, but the ringing in her ears would not stop. When her eyes began to focus, she saw Addie, her bodice ripped, her chest crisscrossed with bloody cuts, struggling to free herself from the Knight Commander's grasp.

"No," she said, knowing the words were useless; knowing she was useless.

Why didn't you give them a son? she thought. Why couldn't you give them a single son?

Her father's sword glinted in the light of the fire that had begun to lick at the tapestries. A pair of black boots came into her line of vision and she looked up to see the nameless Damian knight who had struck her.

"This is what happens to all who betray their sovereign king."

The women's eyes locked for a moment. And then the Commander slit her throat.

"Addie!" Jane shrieked.

She flung her hand out for the sword and her fingers clasped so deeply around it that her palm was sliced. She thrust it up with all her strength, feeling it strike the knight's body, a moment's resistance, and then the sickening, foreign feeling of it sliding within. He made a strangled sound and staggered back from her, his body pulling away from the sword. Blood ran down its hilt onto Jane's hand. It was all the opportunity she needed. She raised and brought it down on his back, teeth bared. The man's legs gave out beneath him and he crashed to the floor.

The Knight Commander let Addie fall and lunged for her. With a wild, animalistic scream, Jane rounded and sunk the blade deep into his belly. He, like their other attacker, collasped. Four times more, she brought the sword down on him, then stopped, chest heaving. Her hands were stained with blood, as was her gown. There were spots of it on her face.

I've killed two men, she realized. Strange, she did not feel remorse; indeed, were she given the same chance, she'd kill them again. There was an overpowering smell of wine and burning wood, coupled with the coppery scent of blood. And there was Book, strapped to his side beside the sword he had not drawn. She pulled it loose and forced herself to look away and towards the wall, towards Addie. Her heart cried out. Her lady-in-waiting stared up at the roof with vacant eyes, her mouth open, her neck a sea of red.

There was nothing I could do. Slowly, she got to her feet and walked over, sword dragging, and dropped to her knees beside Addie. Her large, green eyes, pretty even in death, closed beneath Jane's fingertips.

"I'm sorry, Addie," she whispered. Her eyes burned, but the tears did not fall. There was no time to mourn. Outside, she could hear the shouts and screams of battle. She wasn't sure if they could fall. In two months, she had lost seven sisters; mourned and mourned until she was certain her heart had broken and mended itself crooked. There was nothing left to do but carry on.

As they rode off into the night for Cavanaugh, Jane remembered how her father had never looked back when he headed off to his last battle. She did not turn to watch Strake burn.

[Kayyyy, I dunno. If there's something I screwed up, tell me. e___e;;]

The arrow whistled through the air and hit its intended target square between the eyes. Crackling of bone. Sick squelching noise of arrowhead piercing into brain-matter and squish-squish-squishing-squelching inside. Somehow she heard it even above the din of the battle, above Jans’ shrieking, above the clang of steel against steel.

Draw another arrow and string it in the bow. Fingers know what they’re doing. Let go. Bowstring goes twang. Sharp slice of arrow. Strike and squelch. Almost like a melody for the dead.

A man is like a deer. Deer are there to be hunted. A man is there to be hunted. How is a man like a deer? A deer has four limbs. A man has four limbs. They both have heads and mouths and eyes and teeth and ears…and…and blood…and entrails too! – see how good I am at this!. A man and a deer are the same because they both die when hit with an arrow between the eyes.

It made so much sense. Leliana could not believe that she had ever doubted this before in her mind. How could she ever have been so foolish as to not see all those simple similarities? Why, if men were like deer then it was her right to fell them! Those were the rules of the hunt. She had the bow, the one strung with yet another arrow, and they were the deer.

Twang –twang –twang! Squelch – squelch – squish!

This was more fun than she had ever known hunting to be. The freedom and the thrill, intermingling in one concoction of pure ecstatic feeling that drove her to waxing poetic.

You’re horrible. You’re so wicked!

Oh, love, I know. But a man is like a deer, and thus there is nothing wrong.

She pushed those thoughts away – the ones that rang so clearly. She had to focus on the hunt, lest she lose sight of the deer and her arrows miss – and what sort of hunter would they call her then if she could not even hit a deer?

She breathed in deeply of the night air – the night which was black like ink…as if one of the Gods had been writing and tipped an inkwell over the page of the sky. She could imagine it – the ink-bottle tumbling onto its side and beginning to vomit ink across the sky. She could smell burning wood in the air and for some reason she really liked it – somehow it smelled right. The hunting of deer and a campfire in the background. Oh, she would roast herself a good leg of venison tonight.

“I should ask Richard if he wants any of the meat,” she said more to herself than to anyone around her, as they were busy doing other things, too busy to pay attention to a young woman taking out her skinning knife and rounding on a body.

First kill, then skin and gut. It was how hunting went. Why should she waste a perfectly good deer carcass? She whistled to herself as she slid the skinning knife under the hide and began to slice. First up along the belly and right to the middle of the torso to open the sternum – the skin will come off much better that way. Then to the sides of the cut so as to get to the entrails and scoop them out. She stuck her hand inside of the warmth and grabbed a handful of deer innards. They were slimy in her hand and just as she knew they should be.

Leliana gave a sharp tug and brought part of them outside and then set herself and her skinning knife on scraping out the inside of the bodily cavity of the deer. She continued to gently hum and then glanced up at the deer’s head – right into its glassy, accusing, dead eyes.

There was something wrong here. Leliana stood up, the knife slipping from her hand and clattering down to the grass. Clumps of the innards were still stuck to her hand and she wiped them off on her pant leg. There was definitely something wrong – something that told her there were no deer around.

Men are like deer.

“Just deer…” she swallowed hard the lump that had formed in her throat, but it would not go down. Leliana took in another deep breath of ink-black night and felt something gurgling up her gullet. She was unable to stop herself from being sick right then and there. She doubled over and emptied the contents of her stomach all over the carcass of the deer.

A man and a deer are similar because…

You know the answer. Because they have eyes and those eyes stare right back up at you! See how smart I am!

Leliana took her bow again and ran away from the body of the deer. She did not want to look into its man’s eyes. Why did they have to be so similar again? It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. She wasn’t sure even where she was heading. All that mattered was that her feet pounded hard on the ground and she was suddenly the deer that was running so, so fast away. Towards Winterfell. Following through carnage left behind by the Mummers and catching up to them.

Like a deer.

Birgitte walked through the courtyard of Winterfell with her woolen cloak wrapped tightly around her, she wore a woolen dress of deep burgundy but still she felt cold. She had not felt warm since the feast months ago, since she had lost her daughter and her brother in law in one fell swoop. It felt as though ice had encased her and would not allow any warmth to pass through. Nathanial did his best to warm her at night but even his strong arms could not break the ice that seemed to cover her permanently. She still loved him and that would never change and yet she had withdrawn from him frightened of losing him too. The pain of his loss might well break her and so she tried to ease any pain in the future by not feeling anything.

The courtyard around her was bustling and she was surrounded by organised chaos. Ever since the events at King's Landing Nathanial had been preparing for the inevitible. He knew that the Winslers and/or Lionel would come for Winterfell as it made sense to remove the King's allies before attacking the King. As Birgitte walked towards the keep she passed blacksmiths working hard beside their forges producing weapons for the men. Winterfell's soldiers trained in the yard practicing to ensure they were as good as they could be when the time came. More men were bringing in food and drink from the villages and land around Winterfell. They were preparing for a long haul and needed to have as much stored for a possible siege as they could.

Birgitte nodded and smiled when greeted but the smile did not reach her eyes and she did not see the looks of concern the men exchanged as she passed. Lady Birgitte was well loved by those who served House Grayhardt and all had noticed how withdrawn she had become. She entered the keep proper and climbed the stairs to the second floor, the corridors were lined with torches and thick rugs covered the floor to help keep out the chill. Pictures and tapestries lined the walls many of them of the Grayhardt family. Though some were also of House Stark who had owned Winterfell before them. Birgitte was well versed in House Stark's history and remembered well how that house had been torn apart by the politics and war of those vying to be King. SHe feared that a similar fate would befall her own family and felt a sense of helplessness to prevent it. Events were happening too fast for her to react and she felt lost at sea without an anchor, all she could do was hope that the current would bring her to land safely.

She entered one of the rooms on that floor and Nathanail looked up when she entered. He stood by a lrge wooden table that was strewn with maps and reports. His second in command stood beside him and both of their faces were grave.
"My lady." Colm Argentis inclined his head.
Birgitte nodded and then looked to her lord husband. "What news?"
Nathanial looked tired, more tired than she had ever seen him and she knew he was missing his brothers strong, stoic presence badly. Quincel had been a rock that Nathanial had often supported himself with and now that he was gone her husband struggled.
"A soldier arrived late last night, he had news from White Harbour. He found an injured man trying to reach Winterfell. Before the man died he told him of how White Harbour had been attacked. Our fleet is in flames and as yet I do not know how many survived the attack."

Birgitte clenched her hands and felt herself wavering on her feet, she sat down heavily in a chair and gazed almost unseeingly at her husband.
So it begins
"Who was it?" She asked wondering which of their enemies had reached them first.
"Lionel Storm."
"He will soon learn that the Wolves are not so easily destroyed." Birgitte said quietly but her voice was like steel and as she spoke she felt a little of the ice around her crack.
Nathanial met her gaze and his eyes showed his love and gratitude that she had stood by him throughout thils whole terrible affair.
"There is more." He said equally quietly. "Quincel and Leiliana were with him. The soldier said he saw Leiliana kill many of our men with her bow."

Birgitte was reminded then of words that her husband had spoken to his brother on the night of the feast.
She is lost to us
"She is truly lost to us."Birgitte said quietly and a little more of the ice cracked making her abloe to feel the stab to the heart that those words caused.

The night’s grasp reached the snow-cloaked estate of the Thorneirs, giving life to the howls of the wolves, the roars of the bears and the sleeping breaths of the folk sound asleep. Rising from her bed striding to the large windowless stone frame, she gazed out upon the world from her high seat. Something was amiss she could feel it in the air though to what prompted the feeling was still unknown to her. Sighing to herself, Grimnir trundled away from the view toward the stairs she needed some time outside of this stuffy estate before her long hours of navigating the political idiocies of the inane House structure. Flakes of fresh snow began to fall from the sky, the air was clean crisp welcoming Grimnir with each step she took further across the estate leaving the sight of the manor in the background the further away she got.

Grimnir loved to travel at night when it was the most peaceful, the day seemed to have more bustle thus making it much less calming. The moon overhead shone brightly down upon her head bathing her white hair, slowing her pace she shifted her quivers belt to rest snugly between her breasts giving her easier access to her arrows in a time of need. Snow began to fall more quickly coating her cloak with a wet sheen as it liquefied upon her warm back. Howling sounds echoed throughout the oak forest, her steps leaving deep indentations in the frost covered dirt. The winds might bellowed down through the mountainsides rampaging down passing over Grimnir who lifted her head laughing half naked yet welcoming the bitter cold that entombed her body. Something shifted to the east just within her vision, moving silently body tensed she weaved between the trees bow already in her hand. The shadow flicked over the hillside a challenge in her eyes, the hunt was beginning.

Breaking into a full-blown sprint, Grimnir jumped from the hillside becoming airborne, nocking an arrow, and firing all in one motion. The air whistled as the arrow rocketed picking up speed as it fell planting itself deep into the shadowy figure, who tumbled down the hill attempting to rebalance itself. Barreling after the target in now what was a full-scale blizzard, thankfully years of hardened training aided her in this chase. Bloodied prints gave way to the creatures’ whereabouts.

This is odd, the creature seems to grunt like a man, but men never continue to trek throughout the forest knowing the blood would guide me to them….

The trail suddenly stopped at the edge of a Cliffside the sea churning foam with a fury unmatched. Moving quietly Grimnir nocked another arrow unsure of where the thing had vanished. Yowls and yelps suddenly stopped seemingly giving her aid in the search. Her ears caught a rustling in the brush nearby walking quickly weapon at the ready she pushed back the brush to find a man huddling in a secret cave a fire burning next to him, grunting with pain as he attempted to pull out the arrow embedded in his thigh. Stepping inside the cave she smiled eyes glinting in the firelight placing bow resting at her side arrow already back in her quiver.

Grimnir spoke in a low but powerful voice similar to the wolves snarl in the sight of an unknown enemy in their territory.

Might I ask what you are doing in The House of Thorneirs land?

The man cringed answering in a hushed tone.

I am Njor Avoi, searching for the Lord Grimnir, I hear he is very able bodied and I am in desperate need of...

Njor never finished his sentence for Grimnir lashed out with her bow piercing him in the chest wrenching the razor up to slid effortlessly through his bone spattering his entrails onto the caverns floor.
Mumbling to herself as she wiped the filth from her bow on the snow covered brush outside.

Useless, arrogant, diminutive piss of a person the world should be glad I rid the earth of such a thing. No one ever refers to me as a man.

Grimnir trundled out from the brush hooking her bow to her back heading home leaving the man’s remains for the beasts.

Nightfall was beginning to fade as Grimnir passed through the estates fields, she could hear the people of the North going about their morning activities. Pushing open the manor doors Grimnir pushed through the already collecting crowd here to ask her meaningless things for the entirety of her day.

Hopefully something exciting will happen today, or shall I die of boredom from the tedious impractical inquiries these idiots present before me?

Unhooking her bow and quiver from her back Grimnir placed them at tables head sitting down it a huff waving the first man forward who was dressed not as her own but as a man from the House of Greyhardt.

What brings you to my doors this day?

The man bowed deeply reaching for a letter at his belt.

I have a letter for you from Lord Greyhardt it is about Lionel Storm and the events that have recently taken place in the House of Damian. He hopes that you can respond in a hasty and concise manner.

Grimnir took the letter from the messenger signaling for him to go back to his place at the other end of the table.

Lord Grimnir,

I have urgent news regarding the House of Damian.

Lionel has broken from his father’s grasp pledging to get the throne for his own. I fear the worst for a father scorned is never the game one wishes to enter. I call for aid for the young swine has burned my ships so I now know where his thoughts lie. Red Keep shant fall to the power of a dissent, we shall overcome! We await your reply by my messenger.

Scoffing loudly Grimnir stood from her seat pacing madly considering the events that were now placed on her table. If she were to aid, Lord Greyhardt as her ancestors had done it would simply be left to summoning her guard to begin the trek to Red Keep. Chuckling to herself she thought of another choice one that would prove to have far more worth then aiding these ailing old men.

Raising her hand Grimnir loomed over the messenger smiling sweetly.

It seems Lord Greyhardt has grown weak along with King Damian, for a child under the thumb of a king should never have gotten this far. My message to the pathetic Lord is this: ‘Your streets shall burn with my gleeful rage, your women will become mere toys for my hand to grope. You shall fall to the lone arrow piercing your loving heart. I will watch you bleed, I will watch you suffer, and I shall take pleasure in the sight of your crippled psyche.’

MAR!
The captain of her Guard rushed forward whispering, Yes M’lord?

Take this wretched being away from my presence. He holds the message for Lord Greyhardt upon his lips; before he takes his leave eradicate his left arm just to show how serious we are. Report back to me when this task is finished.

Mar nodded gravely beckoning to a pair of guards to bring the messenger down below the manor for his removal. Grimnir sneered cruelly giggling at the thought of Nathanial’s face when he received her wittily written speech. Now was not the time to relish in the future pain of those who have grown weak and complacent in their old age. They would travel along the coastline in the hopes that they would meet Lionel since he had burned Lord Greyhardts fleet it was appropriate to assume he took to the sea in order to reach his father.

Mar approached Grimnir standing straight relaying that the deed was indeed complete. Grimnir giggled madly at the thought of pain coursing through the creatures’ body. However, it was time to plan Grim glanced at Mar speaking quickly.

Gather the bowmen, have them waiting outside the estate in two hours for we march to war. Send a dispatch to attempt a meeting with Lionel letting him know we are aiding in his conquest. Make sure the dispatch leaves quickly traveling along the coastline the ships should not be hard to spot, have them take along a riding horse for running shant get them there in time. Now go Mar we leave in a few hours.