Westeros

We do not discuss such things.

For what it was worth, Henry believed that Adelaide was being truthful with him.

"Of course, Jamie Winsler is a terrible man. He's a coward and I've yet to meet a terrible man who wasn't one."

He resisted telling his daughter that their ideas of what made a terrible man were likely quite different.

"When the Winslers come," he continued, without directly answering her question, "they will be defeated. If they can even put up a fight at all, led as they are by either an old lunatic, a blustering coward, or a womanish scholar."

They were not empty words. He truly expected a complete victory over the House of Winsler, especially as their only allies were a handful of savages, Strake, and Cavanaugh. What threat were those Houses? Strake had always been small and weak, even when not led by a woman; there was Cavanaugh, too, floundering under the stewardship of dead Matthew's vapid, spineless sister. If there was any sign that the Seven favored Damian, it had to be in the horrible hand that had been dealt to their enemies.

Strake will be in our hands, soon, anyways, he thought as he remembered his secret orders to Knight Commander Edmund. The war would be over sooner, and cleaner, than anyone thought.

"Your Grace," Kervall Winsler said as he approached and Henry nodded. There was one Winsler he could see a use in. His combat advice to Adelaide struck him as cute, for he couldn't imagine how the man could keep that straight, serious tone and face. Princesses did not became warriors. Adelaide would tire of the game, he was sure, and return to her gowns and dances.

"Raban? Yes, 'tis only appropriate. A king must be a warrior."

Henry never spoke to anyone of Lionel's change in position. To hear him speak, you'd believe that there was no eldest son but Raban. Nor had ever been any different.

Adelaide brought their conversation to an end, leaving to change into more suitable attire, and Henry walked back in silence.

I must betrothe Adelaide and Kervall. The only other option, in his mind, was to kill the man. Winsler, as long as it stood, would be a threat. Who was to say that Kervall would not try to avenge his family? And, even if he did not, would his sons keep that peace? He would not prune a threat, only to have it emerge and rise against his descendants. It would be best to rip out the roots. If Kervall were wed to Adelaide, the blood of Winsler, and through them Lannister, would be forever joined to Damian ... keeping in mind that Jamie and Teralo met their deaths.

He rubbed at his temples. The hair there had become more peppered with gray in the past months.

Morrie, he thought. What would you tell me?

She had always been the voice he trusted above all others, his Morgana, and her absence wounded his heart and mind more deeply that any about him could have guessed. Tentatively, as time took them away from her death, his advisors had suggested the idea of another marriage to him. It was a repulsive thought, regardless of what duty asked of him. His own father had married three times, as each wife died, but he had been driven by the need for an heir in part. Henry had his children. He'd listened with no interest, humoring them only because he could not find the words to refuse. The men, taking his silence as admission (since, typically, he insulted them when he disagreed) had suggested any number of women. Among them, Isabel Greyhardt (a thought Henry found more ironically amusing than anything else), Nasrin Cavendish, Julia Cavanaugh, and even Jane Strake. The only one he saw the slightest political interest in was the Cavendish woman ... she was the sole heir to her House; her father's lands and standing army were quite beneficial.

What would you say, Morrie?

He knew what she would say: for the good of Damian. Henry realized that her heart had been stronger than his.

“Why should we give our beloved Bastard King any satisfaction? I didn’t see him bending over to give me some, or for you,” he said in agreement with Sirena’s voice opinion. He had no intention of playing another man’s game without any direct and upfront compensation. Back in Braavos, hiring one of the Faceless Men in order to carry out the assassination of a royal, and one that was both prominent and secure behind the walls of a Keep, would cost as much gold as the hiring of an army.

Of course, that was not to say that Ammon considered himself unable to perform the assassination - if he had been given that much gold for it and not just left on land with a simple set of orders, he would have done so and been able to get away with it. But, since there was no money for neither him no Sirena, the two of them would much rather frolic about and engage in their own fun.

“We would have to look the part of tortured escapees – and I think we’ll manage that if we took a really rough tumble in the hay before arriving at King’s Landing,” he eyed Sirena with a smile on his face that hinted very much at his desire to engage in some violent bed-play. “You, me, and Loreley.”

They would have to do that a few days before their arrival at the Red Keep, so as to give the wounds and bruises a few days to mottle and close up so as to look all the more believable. At the next inn – or the next time they made camp – was when they would enjoy in their bit of brutal fun. Ammon’s loins already ached for another torrid night with Sirena, but he told himself to wait.

And, by all the Gods that were ever named, Ammon despised waiting.

---

Every movement was agonizing. Ammon would have never been able to attest to the fact that sex could be both pleasurable and excruciating until that morning. He and Sirena had stopped by a roadside inn where they got lodging, fresh supply of food and a bath. Of course, since supplies were short in these times, what with the realm being at war, they had gotten what they needed by threatening to butcher the innkeeper.

However, since it was not wise to sleep under the roof of people whom one threatened with death, he and Sirena had taken care of the innkeeper and his family before going upstairs into one of the rooms to engage in interrupted coitus. The two of them had, at first, flipped a copper to see if they should or should not murder their ‘hosts’. The copper had landed with the side of the King’s seal facing upwards – and that had more or less decided for them that killing the innkeeper and his family was indeed the right thing to be done. Leaving such things up to random chance was not only cruel, but deliciously fun. Ammon approved whole-heartedly.

“This was a horrible idea,” Ammon decreed as they saddled a pair of fresh horses – the old horses had collapsed a few hours away from the inn and been long since abandoned. Their appropriation of a new set of horses meant that yet another poor stable boy had been murdered – albeit with less style since the last time, considering that both Ammon and Sirena ached pretty much everywhere that either of them could reach. Ammon had not even had the desire of taking the stable boy on a ride – all euphemisms intended, of course.

“I think I dislocated something…” he groaned as he swung himself unto the back of the horse and winced when his body came into contact with the saddle. Riding would bring many times the amount of pain and though Ammon knew that they would have to keep up their pace so as to make good time, he was still not looking forward to the ordeal.

“If we ride as hard as we did the past four days, then we certainly will look the part of escapees,” Ammon said as he took up the reins and tried to ignore the throbbing ache of every damned inch of his body. “I feel like I’ve crawled out of a dungeon using my teeth and from the way you’re hobbling, I’d say you share my sentiment.”

He looked over at Sirena and let out a laugh, trying not to move his shoulders too much due to one of them most likely being dislocated – or just wrenched in the wrong manner – he could not quite tell. “We passed Highgarden – the main Keep, already. We ought to be a third of the way to Cider Hall.” They had been keeping up the pace of a gallop throughout the whole day and sleeping for a few hours before resuming the gallop once more. It wasted the horses quickly, but had them moving at a very speedy pace.

Ammon rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, flinching as his fingers hit a cut that had begun to scab over and was most likely bleeding again after he had just touched it. He drew his fingers back and looked at them, frowning darkly when he did indeed see his own blood on his hand. Well, they did, after all, have to look part of tortured escapees, did then not?

“I cannot watch this, Kent.” Despite his words, Quincel stared at the flaming, shrieking scene that unfolded before him. It was a scene from his worst nightmares. Death in the water, blood on his homelands. A battle! A war, a war on his House and home, and worse! He was on the wrong side. The invading side. “I should be there! I should be at the front of my House, defending against these scoundrels who dare to wage war on Winterfell.”

The priest Kent started to murmur a few empty! reassuring words, but Quincel did not hear, did not want to hear. He clenched his fists so that his knuckles gleamed palely in the firelight. He was a man transfixed, impaled by this scene of horror before him. He wavered, not in weakness, but in the flighty anger of fire. He could not see Leliana from his wantage point, nor did he want to. She had willingly, willingly! agreed to go with Lionel in the main attacking force. It was not the Leliana he knew. She had no place on a battlefield. She might be a strong, independent child, yes child!, but even so, she would not ride into war. That was men’s work. Men? Were those who played the deadly game of war truly men? Dogs more like, scrabbling over scraps of meat. A dog, a dog like Quincel. A dog that bit the hand that fed, and ran off with a bitch.

If you were a truly good man like your brother, you would stop this.

There was no way. His troops, the original few that had mistakenly followed him when he was set on rescuing the girl, they were all scattered among the Braavosi ships. The Braavosi were watching him. The Braavosi! Quincel cursed them. Why they deigned to bow before Lionel, he could not understand. Dogs, dogs licking the feet of other dogs. Quincel might once have let himself believe that Lionel could be a king, that he had the wisdom, the skill, the sovereignty that could hold a kingdom. A false hope gleaned from the reflection of Leliana’s eyes. She saw something in him, and thus, Quincel had tried, too. But all he could see was in the Bastard’s wake was bloodlust, dishonor, and a raw, wild savagery.

The Seven Kingdoms would burn. Burn!

Many times he has wondered what would have happened had he not gone to their rescue. But there was no speculating of what could have been, not when there were so many problems to be dwelt with in the present. It was all his doing! All his! Not Leliana. She could not be blamed for the follies of youth. It was he! Quincel of no House worth mentioning.

Overcome with his own self-loathing and hatred, he stalked off to shut himself away, to be a ghost, a wraith, an oathbreaker. He was worse than nothing.

----------
Maryn laughed. It was really all too wonderful. He usually favored a less direct way of murder than an all out-in-the-open battle, but this was ok! Surrounded by allies and Mummers and Braavosi and Myrmen, he didn’t mind this. Not at all! So many friends! They would be invincible. They were!

These Greyhardt men were good, he granted them. To be able to be mobilized so quickly after such a random sneak attack. They really were brave men. But they are no match for the Great Me! At first, he had fight just as well as them, matching parry for parry, taking wounds, being cautious, retreating back. But a few moments later he realized that for every sword thrust the Greyhardts gave, Maryn and his friends gave three back! Spurred by his confidence, he gave up form. Heh. I don't need to be careful! The sooner I get this job done, the sooner I get paid…

His sword whipped around, crazily, messily. But it got the job done, and that was that. The disciplined Greyhardt men fell back before the Mummers’ wrath, and disheartened by the foreign soldies’ vicious attack and the loss of the fleet, they surrendered. Victory was theirs.

When the rest of Lionel’s ‘army’ let out a victorious cheer, Maryn finally stopped looking for people to hurt. “Where’s my pay?” yelled the sellsword above the din of the excited mob.

That really was an experience and half was the first thought that went through Jamie's mind as Nuala kissed him. No gentle and chaste peck upon one's cheek but a full on kiss that left his lips slightly numb from the sheer force of it. Then again the rather copious amount of alcohol on both of them probably didn't help matters in that department. His second thought was why in the name of the Seven had he not made the first move himself.

Most likely because I value the family jewels right where they are. Jamie thought with a touch of amusement. Perhaps she really was aware of his feelings or felt the same way herself. Jamie would not put anything past Nuala.

But like all enjoyable things it was over far too soon and he watched the wildling running the tip her tongue over her lips. Though he did agree it was time for some rest, as much as he would like, nay wanted to take things further. Jamie would not lie to himself or her if Nuala asked about it. Somehow though he felt this single kiss like her sparse words were more reward then he wanted. " Your right, I suppose it is bed time." He chuckled somewhat wanly, but at least it was laughter. Which scant moments ago had been the last thing he wanted to do.

Striding towards were he had set his tent up,the nights were always somewhat chilly this close to northern most reach of the Moon Mountains, he gave washed his face and hands in a basin of cold water. Tomorrow would come a time for washing the clothes and body underneath his armor.

Jamie in the faded red and black tent bearing a banner of his House stared at his reflection in the water basin. His face had acquainted itself with the necessitates of reality. His golden hair was unruly although still worn short, long hair was a liability in close quarters combat as it only gave the enemy something to pull you closer with. His face while still holding the beauty of his Lannister blood had become hard, his eyes deep unreadable pools and his mouth had a firm set to it. It was the face of a man who was driven by goals so personal he refused to reveal them. Where had his openness, the face Teralo use to mock as an open book, the face that laughed and loved world. Where had the child in him run off to, only 17 verging on 18 and Jamie had become unreadable save in his more melancholic moments.

He ran suddenly numb fingers over his lips, remembering the feel of Nuala's kiss. Exactly what had happened to him, was this simply what a Knight became in war. All the chivalry, the code, the honor, none of it seemed to survive battle. Would the burden of the deaths at his hand simply be buried away, the hardness of his face hiding the chaos within him. Honor, Justice, Duty, Courage, what did it all mean in the end. Jamie could not answer that, not anymore. And he once held such a fervent belief in chivalry, had used it to justify his hatred of his House's enemies. House Damian, their blood knew nothing but evil and desire. Lionel and his father was proof enough of that. Lionel may be a bastard but the same blood of his father flowed through all the Damians. It showed in the King's cold blooded killing of his mother, in Lionel's actions that fateful day in King's Landing, and even Adelaide was the same as her father and half brother. Her blood knew nothing but evil, she had used her charms to seduce his brother. She was a whore just like every other Damian woman, the same as the rest of her godsforsaken House. Jamie was willing to bet in time even Raban would show the baseness of his blood.

Even that though did not silence his moral dilemmas. But as Nuala suggested he'd leave the judging to the Gods, he'd help of course by speeding the Damians, and Greyhardts to their rightful judgement of course. So his mind settled Jamie blew out the candles of his tent and went to bed. At least now the exhaustion had caught up with him.

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The dawn arrived in it's slow way, like always seemingly hesitant to shine on more war and death. Jamie lay partially submerged in a mountain stream, letting the glacier water of the Moon Mountains numb the raging hangover pounding in his head. The Sons of the Mists really knew how to brew a strong drink. His armor and freshly cleaned and dried clothes lay on the bank, Memory within easy reach of the stream Jamie lay in. His face was up to the sky, listening to the bird song and wishing they'd shut up.

And so it was in this somewhat foul mood Eilis found him in, the former hedge knight was accompanied by one of the many scouts Jamie had seeded over Westeros. Let it not be said Jamie Winsler did not value intelligence, at least of the military kind. This one had been sent to the lands of House Tryell if he remembered right. He did not trust them, proclaiming neutrality as they did, Jamie was no history buff but even he knew more then one player of the game of thrones had met their end through so called neutral houses.

" Can't you leave a man to die in peace." Jamie muttered as he stared up at them, seemingly at ease with the fact he was unclothed and they fully clothed with Eilis wearing castle forged steel armor. In reality he was more concerned with the very high possibility his head might explode, or at least it seemed that way from all the pounding within it.

"If your going to drink on the job you have to be prepared to suffer through a few headaches." Eilis said quoting Jamie's catchphrase whenever Eilis complained of the same thing.

Jamie sent a small handful of water flying at Eilis's face, which hit home much to his satisfaction.

"Fine be like that Jamie, guess this killer intel will go to waste." Eilis said as he wiped the ice cold water off his face and grumbled as it dripped onto his armor, a night spent polishing it was in order.

"Spit it." Was all Jamie would retort with.

Eilis motioned the scout forward and the slim man with the prefect non-describable features suited for his line of work began to talk animatedly." House Tryell sent supplies and ships north but that isn't the best part Lord Winsler." Jamie had noticed more and more people calling him that of late, no doubt because of the fact he had defacto command of House Winsler. " A fleet of ships put in, their crew were the slop you see in the free cities. Not a single decent soldier among them, although they were well armed. and the Tryell fleet accompanied this fleet Northwards."

Jamie felt a sudden clenching of his bowels, a gut instinct that spoke volumes. " Who was the commander of the free city fleet." Jamie asked cautiously, he had a strong suspicion he already knew through.

" I couldn't get close enough to be sure but it looked like what you said Lionel looked like . But I wouldn't wager any gold on that guess. However the commander did take a meal with Lord Tryell." The scout finished with a flourish.

" Support that scum will you Lord Tryell, I'll burn Highgarden to the ground for that." Jamie said wrathfully standing up and rapidly changing into his clothes and armor. " Eilis assemble the men and break camp." He ordered as he slipped his breastplate on.

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

In less then an hour and half his army had assembled, the ease of much recent practice quite the reason for that. They had grown accustomed to rapid deployment and the like. Life as raider was quite the fast paced one, but with the addition of the Sons of the Mists they now had a force that could be called a standing army. Although lacking siege equipment Jamie's forces were hardened and experienced, the mountain clans in particular were no stranger to battle. After all since their birth they were use to having to fight nearly every day for food and survival against Andals determined to wipe them out.

" How do you lot feel about plucking a few roses." Jamie shouted at the top of his voice atop his war horse. Warrior chose that moment to rear up, it had always been a spirited animal. Jamie used the moment to draw Memory and wave it above his head as his forces cheered, in particular his knights. Finally glad to be marching to open battle and not a raid they spurred their mounts after Jamie. Spirits were in high swing as Jamie showed them once more nothing less then the Dragon.

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

The march across the southern plains towards Highgarden where not without their dangers, after all House Damian still had armies in the field. But beyond some minor skirmishing not much of note had happened as Jamie took a long circular northern route to give the idea he was marching towards Greyhardts interests, for he had in the past. The best deceptions held a little truth in them after all. That was one lesson of warfare Jamie had learned the hard way, after one of his first raids nearly ended in disaster. So he burned down some of the more southernly of the Greyhardt holdings, never staying long enough to do more then a bit of resupplying and enough looting to sell the story. But the Greyhardt forces seem loath to chase him and usually let him be. They almost seemed preoccupied with something else which only made his gut instinct all that more pressing.

But the realities of battle made no allowance for a commander's impatience and so he rode the horses gently so as to husband their strength for the battles to come. For he would take Highgarden and it's lands, it would send a message loud and clear to all who watched him. Jamie hated to disappoint the audience,no self-respecting tourney champion did that after all.

Finally though after a long and wearisome march Jamie stood upon a gentle rise of land overlooking the lands of House Tryell. A richer fief was hard to find, the soil was fertile and gave good bumper crops. The people were stupid and content, and their defenses were hardly overwhelming. Though it would be quite the blood letting House Tryell was no Greyhardt army or Damian force.

" How did such a foolish noble House like Tryell survive this long by siding with those born to lose." Jamie wondered aloud, none of his officers were within hearing range of them though and so the question went unanswered.

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

Smoke, screams, and clashing steel filled the battlefield as House Tryell's forces caught off guard were steadily losing ground despite their best efforts. Those soldiers caught outside the castles and keeps of House Tryell were paying for that fact dearly. Jamie rode time and time again into their ranks, his calvary landing punishing blows against those who had dared to support his enemy.

Wheeling about again his mounted soldiers and knights rode into the doomed ranks of the enemy. Their lances and swords thrusting and slicing with glee at the joy of open battle and victory. House Tryell forces to their credit had managed a decent stand at the beginning, forming shield walls and pike battalions. But their very disadvantage of fighting not from a keep but on open ground was their undoing. Jamie coming out of the blue it seemed to them had not given time for a retreat. No honorable deceleration of battle, just cold steel and death was their first glimpse of the Dragon's fury.

Jamie swung Memory down, feeling it bite cleanly into the skull of the soldier too close to his horse. The pounding of the horses hooves drowned out even the screams of the wounded. Riding clear of the fray Jamie wheeled about, prepared for more blood letting before moving on to Highgarden itself. The sight of nearly all the remaining companies of Tryell's forces caught out in the open waving whatever white cloth they could get a hold of stopped him.

Ordering a cessation of attacks Jamie along with Eilis and his personal guard rode forward to meet their bearer of peace. The man was middle aged, lacking the first three fingers of his right hand. He was of middling height though broad of shoulder and his armor was blood stained and dented beyond usefulness. He looked at them with a tired set to his face, his helmet obviously had been knocked off his head for his face showed heavy bruising.

" There is no point in this fighting, my men are only being slaughtered for the vain pride of nobility."The tired knight spoke with a heavy tone. " I am Ser Edgar, sworn sword of House Tryell and commander of this army. If I give you my pledge will you let my men walk away."

" Why, so that they can be thrown against me on the morrow Ser Edgar." Jamie answered with a laugh the rest of his guard joined in for save Eilis. " No Ser Edgar your men leave as corpses or in my service."

" Very well if that is how it must be, I am beyond caring about my fate at this point. Death by your blade or another's makes little enough of a difference to me. I will die before this war is through and this game over with."

[I was going to write some more, but then I looked at the clock and realized I have school tomorrow. :/ Blahhh.]

Quite pleased with himself for having come up with that little bit of improvised poetry, Kervall wore a large grin as he let Adelaide guide him through the gardens. Idly, he wondered what the surprise might be, but knowing Adelaide, it would probably be sweet and thoughtful, and touch his heart. As they came around the corner, Kurt saw Mary and the stable boy and the horses, and froze, his grip on Adelaide's hand tightening, his breath momentarily catching. It was an automated reaction, a fear ingrained deep within his psyche, and his muscles. He glanced nervously at the princess before letting his eyes roam, hesitantly, towards the pair of animals before them. He locked eyes with the bay, and she stared back at him, completely at ease, and probably the calmest he had ever seen a horse. As they stared at one another, Kervall's jumbled nerves slowly started to unwind. This was far from the half-mad creature that had kicked him ages ago. His sore ribs throbbed, as if echoing that injury that had nearly crippled him with his more recent yet similar affliction.

Kurt's hand tightened reflexively as Adelaide pulled away from him, and he was left standing alone, staring at this strange, temperate mare. Breaking the stare, Kurt ran a hand through his hair. What uncanny timing did Adelaide have. He had, in point of fact, been visiting the stables on a bi-daily basis, trying to get himself more accustomed to the smell and presence of horses without having every muscle in his body seize up. His gaze flicked to the stable-boy, who must have known about this whole thing while he had been visiting, and found the kid grinning at him like a fool. Nice. Kervall couldn't help but snicker at himself.

Taking a deep breath, the blond hobbled over towards the bay. The horse continued staring at him, its unshakable passivity surprising. Usually when Kervall approached horses they seemed to sense his nervousness and return it in kind, yet this one was so docile it was almost unnerving. Extending a hand slowly, Kurt reached up as if to touch the beast, but hesitated as his fingers were not quite there. His gaze flicked to the horse's eyes, which were trained squarely upon him. Still, Kervall remained motionless. Finally, the mare snorted at him, and sidled over slowly, brushing her flank against the young man. Kurt couldn't help but laugh, the sound a wobbly release of his tension and unease. Glancing up at Adelaide who was giving him a winning smile, Kurt's fingers moved up bay's shoulder, and down her muzzle.

"Lilac, huh? Well, I guess we could... Oh, you like that, do you?" Kervall had run his hand down the end of the horse's nose, and felt her push happily against his hand. He had had no idea horses could be so ... affectionate. They'd always seemed as nervous as he was around them. Grinning somewhat childishly, Kurt was about to turn to hand Mary his cane when he noticed something along the saddle. Adelaide, resourceful as ever, had thought to attach a special sheathe for his walking cane amongst the mare's tackle, which meant he would also have it when they dismounted, regardless of their location. Tossing her an impressed and appreciative glance, he slid the cane into the leather holster and grabbed at the saddle's pommel. The stable-boy moved to help him, but Kervall raised a hand to stop him. Injured though he may be, he was far from an invalid or a prissy courtesan. After another deep breath, he let muscle memory take over and vaulted himself up into the saddle. It hurt like hell when he landed, but he closed his eyes and let the pain die down quietly. Lilac remained completely motionless and steadfast under him, which helped him recover quickly as well as easing his nerves.

When he opened his eyes, he glanced down at Adelaide and that childish grin returned to his face. It had been a while since he'd had something to get this excited about, and it showed clearly on his face. "Well? Are you going to make me wait all day, my dear?"

Looking surprised, Adelaide watched as Kervall stroked the horse with hesitation and then ease, before climbing onto Lilac's back without help from either herself or the stable boy. Meeting his eyes, she smiled prettily, before fiddling with the straps on Storm's saddle, which she promptly removed and shoved towards the boy, who looked shocked. The princess often rode without a saddle, though not many were aware of this. She would leave with a saddle on, before stopping to remove it and then picking it up on the way back. This time however, she swung a bag over his back, securing it. Storm bulked slightly at the sudden, unexpected weight. Running her hand along Storm's now bare back, Adelaide steadied him, before taking the reins in her left hand and hoisting herself elegantly up. Swinging her leg over, she seated herself comfortably, shifting slightly. Storm snorted, his prancing feet halting as he felt her weight. He was accustomed to the weight of Adelaide and knew what it meant. Instead he tossed his head against the reins, eager to get going. Smiling to herself, she ran a calming hand through his mane, the hairs there tangling between her fingers. He nickered ever so slightly, turning his head to look at her from one of his dark eyes. He stamped an impatient hoof to the ground, once, twice and then three times.

Clicking her tongue ever so slightly, she tapped her heels into Storm's side to get him to walk on. He did so obediently, his hooves making a clatter on the stones beneath them. Leaning forwards, Adelaide wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her head against his mane, so that she was practically laying on his back. The reins were tucked underneath her, for she held no reason to have them to hand. Storm was simply go where he was told when she directed him with her legs. Glancing to her left where Lilac was walking slowly alongside Storm, she stared at Kervall, who did not look so much at ease as she did on the back of a horse. When he looked her way, she smiled, though not a word left her lips. Instead she focused on the ride as they passed through the gates, the forests looming in the near distance. Already the smell of blossoming flowers was behind them, replaced by the budding trees that lay in wait for them.

Tapping Storm's sides with her feet once again, she urged him into a steady trot, knowing that Lilac would follow suit without having to be asked by Kervall. The horse was a unique creature. Her stride was steady and smooth and she did not spook easily. She had been Raban's horse when he was much younger, but he had grown tired with the creature and given her to Adelaide to take care of. She was only more than happy to hand her over to Kervall if it would assist him.

Their destination wasn't far into the trees and once they broke the treeline, the princess slowed her horse to a walk once again. He transitioned smoothly without her even feeling it. Cracking branches and rustling leaves could be heard beneath them, but she was focused on the birdsong in the trees. The sunlight streamed through the leaves, sending mottled patterns across the ground. The smell of fresh leaves and grass filled her nostrils and she inhaled deeply. Straightening, she glanced around, redirecting Storm slightly towards a clearing. "How is Lilac behaving?" She asked with a small grin on her face. She knew the horse would be fine in Kervall's control. Lilac would behave in anyone's hands, even the cruelest of trainers. She was a placid creature.

Storm strode into the clearing before the eldest Winsler had a chance to reply. Soft grass filled a large area, swaying with the gentle breeze. Flowers shone brightly in the long grass, entwined together. To one side, a stream bubbled steadily, the sunlight reflecting off the clear water. A blanket had been placed on the bank, with a weaved basket which Adelaide had earlier filled with food. Smiling, she took another deep breath, enjoying the beautiful scene that surrounded them. Sincerely, she looked to Kervall with a serious face.

"I hope I have not been too bold, dear Kervall..."

"The north is a cold, depressing place," Jans muttered as he stepped over a tangle of roots. "All these trees- they're suffocating, they are. Curse this blasted godswood and curse the gods of the north. I would hate to live here my whole life, I'd go half-mad."

"Some people go half-mad after being somewhere for too long, no matter where they live," Lionel responded. But he couldn't deny the truth behind Jans' words- he and his men were soldiers of summer, of open plains, clear skies, and wide oceans. The thick, crowded forest seemed too close, too near, too stifling. There was almost no room for one to stretch his arms; every breath Lionel took felt too shallow, too forced. "The sooner we reach the castle the better. Preferably before dark."

After two days of travelling on the White Knife river, Lionel's men had dragged the boats ashore and began a long trek through the godswood, which took another day before Winterfell was finally in sight. The Mummers had been all for storming it immediately, but Lionel had decided to hold off the final march for one night; he didn't want to fight with tired men. In the meantime, he had sent out several scouting parties to get a good feel for the area. He had more than enough men to put up a good fight against the Greyhardts, but without a proper strategy, trying to take the stronghold would be suicide. Although it was cowardly, the best tactic would be to secretly storm the castle, getting within the walls before it was too late.

They made camp in the forest that night. Lionel forbade the men from lighting campfires in the open, as it would draw attention from the scouts, but Reuben had found a nice little cave, which he had then turned into some sort of oven. The last Lionel heard of it, Reuben was now charging men to bring their raw kills to his "bakery". The boy should have been born a Mummer; he had the greed and selfishness of one. Jans had offered to intimidate Reuben into letting them roast their meat, but Lionel had declined. He didn't like eating before a military campaign. The adrenaline always flooded through his bloodstream; the excitement overwhelmed him- the endless possibilities, the strategies, the tactics, the whole battle which was really just a game- a game which happened to be the only thing Lionel was good at. When he was fighting, he lost control of his mind, but when he was commanding…he lost sight of everything completely, and the world became a diagram, where the opponents' forces were colored black and his were colored red. Nothing mattered, absolutely nothing mattered except for advancing the red and eradicating the black.

Eradication. It was such a lovely word. Lionel wasn't a sadist, had never enjoyed watching people suffer. It wasn't their pain he wanted. It was their total destruction, their annihilation, their disappearance from the world. When he knocked down an enemy, he wanted them to never stand up again. When he fought, he wished his opponent to disappear.

"Hey, catboy?"

Lionel looked up. It was Reuben.

"You've been staring at your sword like you can evaporate it with your mind." Reuben said, inviting himself into the tent. "Did it work?"

Lionel glared at him. "What is it?"

"Whoa, whoa, no need to get aggressive," Reuben said, lifting his arms up. "Calm down. Try taking deep breaths. Anyways, it's a messenger from House Thorneir, bearing some rather interesting news."

"House Thorneir?" Lionel repeated. "That doesn't make any sense. They're allied with the Greyhardts."

"And now, apparently, they want to betray them," Reuben replied. "They're offering you their aid. And they want to arrange a meeting."

Lionel laughed. Could it be possible? If House Thorneir wanted to turn against House Greyhardt, Winterfell would be taken with ease. But it was almost too good to be true- if Lionel had ever learned anything from Maester Syrus, it was that the trusting were always the first to die. If House Thorneir thought he was going to lower his defenses for such a ploy, they were gravely mistaken.

"A meeting won't be necessary," he said abruptly. "Tell House Thorneir that if they want to help, they'll lead a charge against Winterfell tomorrow morning. The Greyhardts trust them, they should be able to get in with ease. That'll be proof enough of their true loyalties. And don't sent the original messenger back- send one of our own so that at least we have a hostage. Oh yeah-" he added when Reuben started to head out. "Get Leliana in here. We need to go over the inside layout of Winterfell before tomorrow."

"Why..." She began to wonder, her mind trailing back to those eyes – to the realization that all she had pretended had been only and just that – a pretense. Tears swelled in her eyes as her head pound from the ale she had indulged in the night before, the past day when they had broken camp for the night within the forest. She remembered it all in slow motion, and she shook the memories from her head.

"... Didn't you stop me, Leli?"

She looked down at her hands, and she noticed that there was still blood crusted beneath her fingernails and quietly cursed at herself. Overwhelming guilt washed over her, and her heart beat faster. She knew she was going to be sick, but just swallowed the lump in her throat.

She gathered her weapons, putting them on in a frantic rush. Then suddenly, in the middle of strapping her quiver to her back, she met her own gaze through a small hand-mirror in her pack. Her hair was tangled, laying waved on her shoulders and face. Her eyes staring back at her with remorse, and confusion.

"I hate you..." She told the face in the mirror, and continued to tighten the strap of the quiver. The face grinned back up at her in a wolfish leer. “I wasn’t the one who asked you to come by, you know. You came of your own accord.” The leer turned into an angry grimace, “so you can just go ahead and leave me alone, you annoying bitch. You’re just ruining everything. I don’t want to think about those eyes – you’re forcing me to.”

“Why am I even here? I shouldn’t be – shouldn’t be…” she demanded her answer, tears slipping down from her eyes to pitifully roll down her cheeks.

“I love him. There’s your reason.” The face snarled and wiped away at the tears. “Don’t you get emotional on me.”

“I followed because I was too stupid to know otherwise…I-I thought – I don’t know what I thought…” she felt fear grip her from the inside. “I don’t think I can – they’re still my family – I…I don’t…I just want to go home…”

“Oh – would you shut up? You’re making my head ache, Leliana.” She watched as the face in the mirror rubbed her forehead, glaring at her with those bright blue eyes. “This is no place for you – just leave and let me handle things. You already had your turn when you talked to Walter, that should be enough for you. By the Drowned God, you force your company on me and I do not need you here right now.” She took an inhale of the crisp air and felt herself safe, surrounded by those tall trees and the quiet whisperings of the forest.

~

“I think it’s Leli you would rather see, not Leliana,” she joked – those words making little sense to anyone but her – as she strolled into the tent. She had been walking through the forest with the ease of someone who had been born in these parts and had spent many days hunting and running through the densely-packed trees. Inside the tent she felt strangely claustrophobic, but she ignored the feeling. Leliana shot Reuben a grin as a ‘hello’ before turning back to Lionel.

“You wanted to talk plans and strategies, I am assuming,” she said and sidled up to him, playfully bumping him with her hip before taking a seat. “The Keep is very well fortified and I cannot imagine we won’t suffer losses if we lay siege – even if we choose the options to sneak about like thieves in the night.”

Leli, I – I fear I’m going…

Already are, love. Already are.

---

Finally. After several more days of riding as if there Wildfire was roaring after them, Ammon and Sirena had arrived at King’s Landing. Now that they were finally within the city – riding atop a pair of horses that looked very ready to collapse and die on the spot, the one thing that was left for Ammon and Sirena to do was to get into the Red Keep and convince the King of their pretend intentions.

The two of them had planned out their strategies throughout their whole journey and they knew exactly how the situation ought to be handled – or so they hoped. It would be tricky business, but oh-so worth it in the end. Ammon was honestly very eager to get inside the Red Keep and get himself involved in the fascinating series of events that he was sure were transpiring within its walls.

There was nothing quite like a little courtly intrigue to get one’s blood pumping.

Their first ‘setback’ – if one could call it such – met them when they had ridden through the city and up to the gates which barred the Red Keep from the general populace. The first step now was, of course, to get through and the guards who were in the way looked like they were going to make things difficult. Ah, I do no suppose the group of them have half a brain between them, this should not be too hard. Ammon exchanged a discreet look with Sirena before the two of them forced their tired, plodding horses closer.

“And what business do you two beggars have, prancing around the gates of the Red Keep?” The guard barked at them, his pockmarked face twisted into a sour frown. “I ought to have the two of you thrown in the dungeons for parading about like you own the place.”

“We mean no harm,” Ammon said, and though he was acting the part of the beggar his tone still carried with it undertones of his arrogance and dominant personality, “we’ve only come to speak with the King.”

The guard let out a guffaw and so did his friends. “And why, pray tell, would the King ever wish to speak to the likes of the two of you?”

“Ah, and here we were – my fair lady and I, thinking that His Majesty would wish to hear of how we escaped from the clutches of the Winslers and have new for him appertaining to his son,” Ammon sighed and made himself look the very image of the downtrodden messenger who had clawed his way through sharp briars – only to be turned away. Dramatic, but good enough to fool a bunch of guards. “You know the one, I assume. He wears an eye-patch these days – though the last time we say him, he was in bad shape…”

He knew that he and Sirena would have to play a much more delicate game once they were before the King. They would have their audience with the King soon enough, in any case, judging by the way one of the guards had slipped inside of the gates and was off hurrying towards the Keep – without a doubt going to relay the news to the King. So far, so good.

The cool winds of the first winter days cut through the mountains of Vale, the last trees with any leaves on them were steadily losing to the icy mountain gales. The first snows had yet to come, but the inhabitants of the Vale knew that it could not be far off. Teralo breathed deeply, his breath forming a small cloud as he placed his hand on top of Emaya's head, running his fingers through her hair. Small tears were still flowing down her face though she was careful to not make much noise beyond a fain whimpering. Both stood in front of a simple grave, old now and a few shoots of grass already growing over the once disturbed land. The grave was not elaborate, marked simply with a small inscription and the name Frenalin Harte.

The death of Emaya's mother had been rough and the child had not taken it well. Though now 12 years old, her birthday a mere four days ago had done little to cheer the girl up, even for a small time. She was taking the death better then Teralo had, for he had been much younger and did not have the support that Emaya now had from a close friend. Still, it was hard for her. If one had thought Emaya inseparable from Teralo before, they were sadly mistaken now. The girl never left his side and her once cheery and innocent smile had been replaced by one of more knowledge and sadness.

Teralo, or for that matter anybody of the caravan sent to Kings Landing, had not learned of the deadly plague that had swept through the Vale and the surrounding land until their return, and by that time it had been too late. The sickness had been fast, few surviving more then a week after being infected. By the time the caravan returned, the sickness was gone, but death had taken it's place. Many succumbed to it's bite, and one of those poor souls had been Frenalin Harte.

A familiar pressure pressed itself against Teralo's chest, the sound of soft sobs accompanying it. Before her mother passed away, Teralo would have put on a smile and try to cheer Emaya up. However, this was not as simple as that. Emaya's pain cannot be healed by a smile and comforting words alone, it was not even a bandage for the wounds of the heart. Teralo lowered himself down a bit to embrace the smaller girl. His hand caressed the back of her head comfortingly as she cried into his shoulder. Emaya's soft sobs reminded him so much of the loss of his own mother, but even that memory no longer carried such a heart wrenching feel as Emaya's sobs did. He tried to think of something to say, but like all the other times there was little to say to Emaya. She didn't want words, he had tried and she cried all the harder because of them. Emaya wanted him to be there for her, she wanted to cry with and be with the last person she had in this world. So Teralo stayed with her, held her, comforted her to the best of his abilities. Emaya was recovering, but Teralo knew from experience that the death of a cherished loved one, was the worst thing anyone can experience. The greatest shame though, was that Emaya's innocence had cracked, there was nothing that could have avoided it, but Teralo wanted nothing more then for Emaya to smile again.

Emaya shivered a little as another gust of wind blew, temporarily drowning out her quiet sobs. "Your getting cold, let's head back to the castle all right?" Emaya nodded before walking silently back to the castle with Teralo. Hand in hand, and only the wind to help them.

These past few days had not been good to Quincel. Completely convinced of his own treachery, he became a ghost, shivering and pale. The closer they got to Winterfell, the lower his head dropped from shame, until he was constantly staring at the cold unforgiving ground. Food and speech were ashes alike in his mouth. He could not speak, could not eat, and so just sat, staring mournfully his hands twisted in his lap or sometimes at his blade, naked and dull. Lost in his own misery, surrounded by the whispers of enemies of Greyhardt, he passed in a trance, helplessly tangled in his failure. Sometimes he would rouse from his sleepless dreaming, but whispers of the carnage of the Greyhardt fleet, of the ruthlessly calculating Bastard King, of the prowess of the She-wolf assailed him and beat him back.

Lionel’s men, these bought swords, these curs, looked at him and laughed, taunted him. When he proved to be unresponsive, they went away, to occupy themselves with better men. Craven, they called him. And he was.

-

Upon discovering the vast cold forests of the North, Maryn decided that now would be a perfectly good time to hone those tree climbing skills he’d been itching to practice. He asked to be a scout for the fleet moving upshore. Of course House Greyhardt knew they were coming, Lionel had send some terrified men fleeing back to the great Winterfell hold. But a surprise attack would not be a happy thing at all. It was strange having Maryn initiating any sort of duty. But of course Maryn had his own motivations. The Greatest Man in the World had to have a variety of skills, and at the moment, Maryn needed to improve his climbing skills.

As the other scouts continued their scouting, Maryn casually paused in front of a great tree. Damn these northern trees. All the branches were seemingly miles above his head, and studded with strange prickles. He examined the tree carefully for a moment, and in a flurry of quick, scraping movements, scrambled up onto the trunk. He dug his fingers into splintery crevasses, scrabbled for footholds on slippery knots. Cursing, he dragged himself up the tree.

“Hey! What are you doing?” One of the scouts, a Braavosi, turned to glare at Maryn. So much for being sneaky.

“Climbing. What? My cock’s not so lonely that I must seek companionship in this tree. Nope. Can’t find a goddamn teat on this thing.” With a great heave, he pushed off the tree and latched onto a branch. When swinging up onto the top of the branch proved too much work for his poor stomach muscles, Maryn changed tactics and instead walked his legs up lamely on the side of the tree. A few ungraceful movements later, he managed to flop on top of the branch, arms clinging to the branch for dear life, one leg on either side of the branch. Ow…

The Braavosi snorted. “Worst cat I’ve ever seen.”

“The only Catboy is back there with the ships. Besides, you can’t laugh at me. I can see inside Winterfell from here.” He was lying through his teeth. All he could see was more branches and strange prickle leaves. Maryn scrambled to his feet. The branch made some ominous cracking noises, so Maryn jumped on it a couple of time, daring it to drop the Great Him.

The gods were good, and Maryn did not fall. From there, the going was easy. The branches were strong and sturdy and closely placed, Maryn was not a particularily big man, and now it was just a matter of hanging onto something and leaping from branch to branch. Maryn looked down and was impressed by his own progress. Then he realized that he didn’t know how to get back down. Oh well. If was going to be stuck in a tree, might as well climb higher and figure out how to solve this dilemma while he was at it.

The canopy thinned suddenly, and Maryn really could see over Winterfell’s walls. Screw breathtaking view for miles around. The most important spot was the holdfast, and wow! The fortifications on that thing were crazy. There were more turrets on that wall than he had seen combined. There were two solid rock walls, the outer shorter than the inner, but taller than any tree around it. Jammed in between the walls was a wide moat, spanned by a few narrow bridges. Spikes and crenellations lined the battlements. The thick inner wall surrounded not one, but two keeps, and only offered two gates of entry. And randomly, for some reason, there was a small forest of pale white wood. Yes. In the middle of the city. Maryn whistled. “That Winterfell sure is a brute of a holdfast,” he called down to the Braavosi. “Like your mother! And her mother! And her pet dog and her great aunt!”

-
“We’ve landed,” Kent said softly. He left soon after, not bothering to see if Quincel had heard. He could not tend him forever, and this was no place to be weak.

Reluctantly, slowly, the traitor pushed himself to his feet. A few uncertain steps, coupled with a weakly searching hand, directed him to the exit of the longboat’s cabin. He had been unable to set foot on the Firestorm, to be so close to the blood of his blood, Leliana who was a traitor like him. This was Wolf-fang, a good Greyhardt ship that had been spared the flames but captured and taken. A fast, well armed ship, Quincel had sailed on this ship many times in his service. But somehow it still seemed so unfamiliar. He stumbled off the cold ship and wandered around camp aimlessly, trying to figure out what was happening.

“We’re storming it tomorrow. One more night of forest food and cold,” grumbled a Mummer. “Don’t know if I can take it. This land’s been awful cold without women.” A lewd laugh rang out among his companions.

Disgusted, Quincel started to leave, but another man piped up. “Don’t worry. Might it be that His Bastardly Grace will let us really rape some ladies before he lops off their head. Imagine our lowly selves fucking the Lady of Winterfell herself. You ever fuck a noblelady, Ren?”

And suddenly he was reeling, his hand flying to his face. Before he could stop himself, Quincel had stepped up and hit him as hard as he could. The man spat a glob of bloody spittle and wiped the red liquid from a split lip. Blood flowed out again despite his effort, trickling down in a thin line into his beard. “Why if it isn’t the craven Greyhardt traitor.” His sword came sliding out of its scabbard and he advanced.

Seabound flashed out as well, a white gleam of Valyrian steel. With two furious blows, Quincel knocked away the man’s sword and took off a hand. Crippled by his mental burdens he may be, but he had once been Ser Quincel, shipmaster of the Greyhardt fleet, captain of the Greyhardt’s forces. He was no small fighter. As the man writhed and clutched at his lifeblood, Quincel remembered who he was. A sword in his hand, blood at his feet, he was a fighter. Dishonored, fallen from service, yes. But he was a fighter! They couldn’t take that away. No man could but himself.

“Insult my family again, any one of you, and I’ll send you to your vile gods so you can repeat it to their faces,” he said. Adrenaline pumped wildly in his veins, drowning him in the sound of rushing blood. Yes! He was alive. He could feel it. The time worn grip of Seabound, the crisp cold hair, the steam and stench of hot blood. And the dream was broken, he could think again. So clearly, the sounds, the colors, they were so bright. He had returned to his senses! Ecstatic, he did a bold thing. He turned his back on the suddenly hostile men, and walked away.

They might tell the boy Lionel. He might even take offense. But if he had any complaint, perhaps his Night could come discuss it with Seabound. The blade gleamed with bright blood. Quincel was back. And he would ride into battle with these filth, yes ride next to even the King. He would make certain no harm would come to his precious family, even if he died to stay the Bastard’s blade. He owed them that much.

Their journey into the surrounding wilderness was a surprisingly easy one. Kervall was used to riding - as much as he disliked it - but the experience was almost entirely different atop Lilac. She sauntered along without needing much guidance, at an easy and relaxed pace that almost let Kurt completely forget his anxiety. Instead, he turned his attention to Adelaide. He couldn't help but smile, watching her quietly as she seemed to enjoy riding Storm without the saddle a nearly obscene amount. The sight of her leaning forward and, for lack of a better word, cuddling the horse while they walked made him snicker. It was an adorable image that he would no doubt carry with him for a long time to come. As for Lilac, he was quite content to let her pick her own route through the trees behind Storm. Even her gait was somewhat calmer than he seemed to remember from being equine. Not that he was complaining - less jostling was a very good thing when your innards were sore and bruised. Unconsciously, he laid his right hand along his mare's flank while he let his mind wander, the reins dangling loosely from his left.

His mind projected forward, to the future. What would be the outcome of all of this? Jamie was out there stirring up a shitstorm, but he knew himself that without help, his brother would likely fail to accomplish anything besides being a large pain in the ass for King Damian. He examined the hand dealt him, and wondered if the feud between their families was worth all the time and energy vested in it. He, too, had planned and schemed and thought of ways they might overthrow the king. But was it worth it? What was there to gain by railing against the world and what it offered? Death of your enemies and allies alike? Misery and heartache along with conquest and glory? What did it all mean? Not for the first time in two months, he struggled to grasp the point of it all. Surely victory and revenge might bring solace or even happiness, but what then? When you stood in a field surrounded by bodies and blood with the flag in your hand, what happened when the adrenaline died down? Would you need to seek out more enemies, more conflict just to feel satisfaction? Living from fight to fight until finally losing did not seem anyway to live one's life. At least, not to him. Was it a crime to want less in life than glory and bloodlust?

Kervall was roused from his inner thoughts as the princess asked him a question. "Hm? Oh. She's a dream," He smiled, "I've truly never ridden so easily. Hm..?" Kurt's attention was stolen as they entered the quiet, beautiful clearing. Immediately he noticed the basket sitting nearby and he couldn't help but laugh. "Of course not, Ada." He spoke gently, slipping into a more affectionate and casual tone seeing as they were alone, "How long have you been planning this?" Smirking, he let Lilac take him to the other side of the clearing before dismounting. The jarring of the landing hurt more than he was expecting and he had to close his eyes and take a deep breath before moving on, but he did so wordlessly. Kervall pulled the walking cane from its place and tied Lilac to a nearby tree with a large lead, allowing her to wander and graze as she pleased. Then, he approached the picnic with an astounded expression splayed over his features.

"Wow, Ada. I'm impressed. You really went all out, didn't you?" Lowering himself to the blanket, Kurt held up a hand, beckoning her to join him.

The thud of the horse’s hooves was sharpened to a clop as Kenneth trotted his big bay stallion on the hard packed earth of the road outside of Cavanaugh castle to the stone paving past the portcullis. He didn’t want to draw much attention to himself until he could figure out how his sister had been running the Cavanaugh household. There was hardly anyone around to challenge his entrance which struck Kenneth as odd. There was a civil war going on between the Cavanaugh’s liege Lord Winsler and King Henry. Both Kenneth’s father and his brother had kept guards at the gate and on the walls at all times, even during peace. With such a dangerous war going on, the guardsmen should have been patrolling four to the gate and eight or more to the walls. The portcullis should not have been left open to anyone. As he dismounted in front of the main entrance to the Great Hall and petted his tired mount’s nose Kenneth took stock of what he saw. Barely a dozen people stood about a hot and quiet courtyard. No children played ball as it was in the village he’d left to come here, no women gossiped nor laughed or flirted with the men. In fact, it looked as if there weren’t any men. The oldest boy Kenneth saw was being pulled along to the shade near a passage that Kenneth thought he remembered leading to the worker’s and peasant petitioner’s rooms. The scrawny sunburned child looked less than twelve, and there was no energy in his movements. The boy acted like enemy soldiers Kenneth had seen captured and starved for days at a time to break their spirit. It was not a happy memory, and Kenneth would be having extremely unpleasant words with his sister, Julia, instead of the normally unpleasant ones he had already planned for and memorized on the ride back to Cavanaugh land.

As no one came to stable Kenneth’s horse and escort him inside, Kenneth took the honor upon himself. First he walked the sturdy bay to the front paddock to the right of the courtyard by the guest stables. At this hour of noon with the sun high overhead, nothing should have been kept there as the heat was too intense. However, two scrawny cattle with glazed eyes and a sorrowful looking mule were attempting to crop at the dry grass strands covering the dusty summer ground. All three animals looked exactly like the starved boy Kenneth had seen just a moment ago. He walked his horse inside the paddock and over to a small bit of shade where the eve of the stable reached over the fence, near the water trough and its brackish contents, and tied the reigns there loosely. Kenneth looked into the soulful brown eyes of his mount and said, “I won’t leave you like this for long. You’ll be in a cool stable before dinner time.” Turning away Kenneth thought to himself, “If we even stay so long as that.”

Kenneth strode away, having seen as much outside as he could stomach, towards the wooden doors of the Great Hall. “Funny,” he thought, “Even when I was a nobleman, soldier, and knight in training, these doors always seemed larger and more solemn than anything in my life. I come home now as a simple blacksmith, two heads taller and certainly no wiser, and these doors seem small, overpowered by the tall stone walls they are set in. I suppose both of us look as we always truly were; simple and solid, nothing great nor grand or special.” No steward or guard challenged him here, either, as he lifted the handle and pulled the door open.

He paused inside the threshold to let his eyes adjust from the blinding sunlight outside to the dim gloom inside the Hall. “Some things don’t change,” he thought. The Great Hall was still a massively tall, long chamber. The dusty tapestries of nymphs and fauns were different from the epic battle scenes of his childhood, but the majesty of the Hall couldn’t be masked by trivialities such as that. It had been built to intimidate guests and enemies alike, and it still suited its purpose even in these hard times. All the view needed was a pack of hounds, a game of dice or two, and a circle of women doing needlepoint to make the image in Kenneth’s mind complete and real before his eyes. Sadly, the hot, heavy air muffled no conversations or curses or speech at all. A dull echo of a thud sounded to his far left ahead of him as a servant, the first near teenage boy Kenneth had seen since he’d been there, emerged from the kitchen door holding a tray of something and strode with quick, echoing steps toward the grand staircase on the opposite side of the Hall. Kenneth strode toward the boy quickly and called out, “You, boy! Stop for a moment. I have a question for you! Yes, you! Stop! ” The boy halted, and he waited for Kenneth to reach the other end of the Hall.

“Would that tray be for the Lady of this house?” Kenneth asked.

“Yes, ser. Excuse me, but she doesn’t like to be kept waiting. This morning when a maid was bringing hot water for the Lady’s bath—“

“Don’t worry boy, I have no intention of keeping you here. I’d like you to take me to her.”

“Well, you can follow me up if you want to, ser. Can’t guarantee that she’ll see you, though.”

“She’ll see me, lad. Let’s get going.”

~

“Hello, Julia. I see you’ve managed to almost ruin Father and Matthew’s hard work in little less than a few months. Not much has changed, I see,” Kenneth thought while staring at his sister’s back.

He was standing in her presence chamber, an embroidered chaise lounge in front of him and facing away. Reclining on the lounge was Kenneth’s sister, Lady Julia Cavanaugh. Five years younger than Kenneth and infinitely more spoiled and full of herself, Lady Julia had been running the Cavanaugh estate since the untimely death of their older brother, the late Lord Matthew. It was by her beseeching request that he’d come back at all.

“Julia,” was all he said.

Julia jumped up from the lounge, scattering the silver tray of sweetmeats the serving boy had brought her all over the floor.

“Lady Julia!” she screeched before she’d even turned around. “My title is Lady. I am the Mistress of this house and I—“

Her face was red at the ears and cheeks, drastically clashing with her dirty blonde curls. The look of anger disappeared and was immediately replaced with one of mild shock as she turned around completely and faced Kenneth for the first time in fourteen years. The incredibly pale, sweaty looking skin of her chest and throat blazed red in embarrassment, but she quickly regained her speech.

“Princey, thank the Seven you’ve come to save me!” she exclaimed in fake relief and enthusiasm.

Kenneth winced and tried not to let it show. “Matthew isn’t around anymore, Julia. You don’t have to pretend to like me the best. There’s no making him jealous where he’s at now, so don’t call me that.”

Julia’s fake smile faded and was replaced with an arrogant smirk that really didn’t become her plump, rosy face. “Yes, I know that, Princey dear. But it bothers you nonetheless. Therefore, why shouldn’t I say it?”

“Perhaps because you’ve entreated me to come fix the mess you’ve made of this household, and I haven’t agreed to do it yet?” he retorted.

“Oh, you’ve agreed alright. This is Father’s legacy we’re discussing. Everyone on the grounds knew that you were always closest to him. That’s why Matthew agreed to help fake your death in the first place. He didn’t want any challengers to the title. He secretly hoped you’d get out into the world, young and foolish as you were, and get yourself conveniently killed for real. I can’t say I didn’t feel the same,” she said and strutted over to Kenneth.

Her head barely reached his shoulder, and she had to reach up to stroke his earlobe. “Matthew was always very good to me. I was his only family after mother died. And you remember us three were always so close,” she said with a sigh.

Kenneth took her by the shoulders and gently but forcibly moved her away from him a few steps. “It was quite convenient how Mother died and Matthew claimed the title. Rumors around the peasantry make it sound a little too convenient for my comfort.”

“Yes, well,” she said as she hastily stepped to his side and laced his arm around hers, “that’s all in the past, Kenneth. We must now discuss our future.”

She walked with him rather stiffly accompanying her to the chaise lounge and attempted to sit him down with her. After a moment of his silent refusal to sit, she released him and sat down anyway.

“As you must know, House Cavanaugh is in the middle of a civil war between Houses Winsler and Damian,” she spoke as if she were discussing new curtains. “

“I know that, Julia. That reminds me of a very important question I have for you. Where are all the soldiers and guards? I understand that some of them would have been sent to protect Lord Winsler, but we should have at least fifty here guarding the gates, the walls, and the surrounding countryside. I came through an open portcullis without a word or a challenge! You could be attacked and killed at any time. What’s worse, you could have been attacked and we could have lost our lands and our title. Father would be apoplectic if he could see this, and I don’t think even sweet Matthew would have many kind words for you now,” he said sternly.

Julia yawned and picked up a stray sweetmeat from the cushion next to her. “Calm down, Princey. We have about sixty of those annoying brutes if you count all the boys I rounded up and stuck them with. I sent them on patrol a week ago. With the farmers slacking at their work and the war raising the price of food, it was awfully hard trying to figure a way to feed all of the servants as well as keep myself in the luxurious lifestyle I’m entitled to as a Lady,” she said, then popped the candy into her greedy mouth. “In fact, I’ve fired almost everyone except the kitchen staff and darling Tobias that you came in with. They work for food now.”

“What happened to the fortune Father amassed over his lifetime?” Kenneth burst out.

“Matthew wasn’t exactly frugal, Princey. He didn’t leave very much of it to me. Besides, didn’t you see those three lovely tapestries in the Great Hall as you came in? Those were quite expensive, but I think it gives the Hall the feminine touch it’s needed all these years. And if you’d sit down you’d see how wonderfully comfortable this new chaise lounge is,” she said in all seriousness and pride.
Kenneth rubbed his temples firmly and said, “You’ve made such a mess of things, Julia. I can’t help but think you did it on purpose to bring me back here so you wouldn’t have to work, but I know that you’ve never been that clever.”

He stood up straight and used a tone of voice that shockingly reminded Julia of their father. “My first order as Lord is that our remaining soldiers come back immediately. I don’t care if ten of them have to go hunting every day in order to feed this castle until I can somehow fix the finances, but they must come back. We are terrifyingly too open to attack right now. My second order is that you will make no purchases unauthorized by me. From chocolates to horses, you will ask me first or you’ll be locked in your rooms.”

Julia had been smiling at first, but the expression slowly faded from her face as she realized that years living as a peasant hadn’t made Kenneth long for a title and power like she assumed. If anything, the tall, strong, man before her had been hardened against the whole thing. She had thought she was doing him a favor when she recalled him from the slums, and she had thought he would treat her as such. This serious, unforgiving brother of hers was treating her like a child.

“It’s going to be harder to get my way than I thought it would be,” Julia thought. “Just he wait until I tell him the best news in my arsenal of gossip. Why, he’ll be the first to know, after I write to my darling betrothed that is.”

She rose from her sitting position and curtseyed to her new Lord. “Of course, dear brother, I will do as you command at once.”

Kenneth saw through the act his sister was putting on, but he decided to let it go. Until she decided to do something openly against him, he had bigger problems to deal with.

“I wish her spy never found me to give me her letter,” he thought. “Yes, well,” he answered himself in his head, “it’s happened and we’re here. Let’s begin.”

~

Very early the next morning, before the servants or the sun were up, Kenneth strode down to the stables to check on his horse and saddle him for a ride. He thought the peace and quiet of the early morning and the solitary ride would help him sort out his plans and emotions. The sun was just barely coloring the horizon as Kenneth stopped in the courtyard to watch it. This was a personal ceremony he’d honored every morning for the last four years since his wife, Beth, and their child had died. He wasn’t going to forget it or them just because he’d been forced to reclaim his heritage.

Lost in introspection, Kenneth didn’t notice at first that the sky was smudged black in the direction of Strake land nor that the breeze smelled faintly of smoke.

[Sirena a little later, I have stuff that's going to take a bit, soooo.]

[short. .__.;; Well, this is supposed to be part of the post below, but I had to split it in two. :/ Sorry~]

;; Sirena D'Airelle ;;

‘My fair lady?’ Sirena echoed in her mind, resisting the urge to smirk a bit. Ah, Ammon and his dramatics. It only made him more fun to be around. Nevertheless she kept a serious, business-like look, which was rare for Sirena who was nearly never serious. At least she could laugh her head off at them inwardly.

At their obnoxious refusal Sirena shook her head heavily, as if this farce really mattered to her. “Poor Master Lionel. We would have brought him along, but alas, we were only able to escape with our lives. Did he not call for his father as he lay, beaten and bloody?” It was something like sweet retaliation as she described the Bastard King as a weepy, cowardly babe—ah, yes, the image kept her mood afloat.

These men were true idiots, like the big meatheads on the night streets of Braavos, the ones that she outsmarted and slipped through with brutal and nimble grace. She knew them too well. They liked to pretend they were all that, but when faced with the threat of missing out on a chance or being punished by higher authority, they became as fearful as little children with the fairy tale monsters. She slumped slightly in her saddle, pretending to be fatigued and weary. It wasn’t hard because it wasn’t much of pretending as much as reality. Her injuries were healing, but they still ached whenever she moved a certain way, and especially in the mornings.

She exchanged a hidden smirk with Ammon as the gates opened and they were ushered inwards with the tired, slow horses. The guards were the easy part—fooling the King and the others of the court would be a different matter. Sirena raised her head and studied the majestic structure as they got closer and closer to it. In her opinion, it was too…well, it looked too uptight and stiff. She was much more suited to the more casual and comfortable regions of regular cities and ports, not to mention where the Bloody Mummers usually stayed. This place looked like it was full of rules and restrictions, just what she didn’t like.

But she supposed that she was in a more indulging mood than usual, so she would comply. Besides, if they were chased out right away, she wouldn’t have time to add things to her collection of whimsical, fine things—however, she swore to the Seven if anyone, anyone tried to put her in a frilly dress they would have Loreley slicing them to pieces. She chose her wardrobe, and she would dress as she pleased.

"Bother the siege," Lionel said, sliding an arm around Leliana's shoulders. "It takes too bloody long anyways. No, only an idiot with a very large army would contemplate doing something like that. I'm thinking of something else…after all, Winterfell is nothing more than a very well fortified egg. Once we break the shell, the insides will spill out. And there are numerous ways for us to crack that shell, all of which are being put into action as we speak."

Jans and the Mummers, who were nimble with their feet, would be scaling the walls and invading the castle in the earliest hours of the morning, when the patrols were still bleary-eyed and unaware. Once inside, they would open the gates for Lionel's main force to pour into the keep. But if that didn't work, several individual Braavosi had been charged to find other passageways into the castle. Lionel wasn't exactly sure how they'd do it, but he'd told them that the first to accomplish the task would be paid more than the others when Winterfell was taken. The Braavosi had been quite eager to start on preparations after that little conversation. Men were all the same- you needed only to know what controlled them, and they would be dancing in the palm of your hand.

And there were quite a few pieces under Lionel's control now. First, there was House Thorneir. They might have decided to betray House Greyhardt by their own will, but regardless, they were Lionel's allies now, and he was going to take full advantage of their help. Second, there were the Mummers, men who were bound to a man who was, in turn, bound to his pride. Jans would never betray Lionel, not when he was alive. That was simply the sort of man Jan was. It saved Lionel the trouble of winning the hearts of his men himself, because they all knew that would never happen. He was still mocked as "Catboy" and the "Bastard King", although he laughed openly at the taunts when they were hurled at him. In a way, it was humorous. His ironic fall from power and his subsequent quest to reclaim it were all quite funny when one thought about it. Third, the Myrrmen and the Braavosi were bound to Lionel, united by their common hatred towards the crown of Westeros.

And fourth…Lionel had Jamie Winsler doing exactly what he wanted.

He himself had not planned on dealing with the Winslers any time in the near future, but the opportunity to manipulate them was handily plunked onto his lap when Jon Tyrell entered his tent several minutes after Leliana did, carrying a message sent from a rider from down south. Lionel had read it for several minutes, and then stared at Jon Tyrell carefully to see his reaction. When the man's expression was unfathomable, Lionel spoke. "So Jamie Winsler's marched on Highgarden."

To his great surprise, Jon Tyrell laughed. "And the craven can march all he likes. My ships and supplies are all over here- if the rest of the fleet hasn't left already, it will. My children are safe at camp, and I don't have a living wife for him to take hostage."

Lionel raised his eyebrows, curious at Jon Tyrell's apparent lack of concern for his principle seat. "You do realize that means you're stuck with us for the meantime, Jon?"

Tyrell shrugged. "I'd rather be in the thick of action than to stay locked away safely in some castle. Anyhow, I believe poor little Jamie's in for an unpleasant surprise. I had never expected to keep Highgarden, not once I threw in my lot with you. As soon as we decided to sail for Winterfell, I had my men pack all the supplies that they could and to destroy the rest. The only soldiers remaining are the ones I wanted dead. When you've lived as long as I have, you know how to turn things to your advantage when you move your troops. On the other hand, the Winsler brat will find that not all victories are as sweet as he thinks they are- particularly when it's a victory too easily won."

Gynna shot him a mischievous smile. "The Roses are good as acting as bait. Pointless battle after pointless battle, his men will tire, and he will have been distracted."

Lionel grinned. The thought of Jamie Winsler, marching across the Seven Kingdoms in all of his valiant glory only to find that his enemy had already for the most part deserted was rather amusing. Then again, it was what to be expected. Winsler was only a brute of a man who could wield a sword; the finer aspects of strategizing and plotting would be lost on that thick head of his. There was a difference between calculated warfare and mindless destruction, but Jamie didn't seem to know what it was, what with all of his seemingly random conquests. He'd met with success so far, Lionel had to admit, but it really didn't matter. For all his promises of vengeance and glorious victory, Jamie hadn't won a single battle yet that really threw King Damian out of the loop. And he'd been at it for…what, three months? Pathetic. Really, quite pathetic. "In that case, it's because of you that Jamie's been too preoccupied in the Summerlands to come up here and interfere with our plans. I must thank you for your sacrifices, Lord Tyrell."

"Oh, anything for the rightful king of Westeros," Jon Tyrell responded sarcastically. "Although I do expect you'll pay us back soon enough when the Iron Throne is in your hands."

Lionel nodded at him as if to say indeed. In reality, he was already wondering how he was going to get rid of the Tyrells. The House had a notorious history of being a parasite, gradually wrapping its vines around the royalty until they were chocked by the thorns. They were always demanding you to pay them back, and when you granted their wishes, they requested even more. As much as he enjoyed Jon Tyrell's biting wit and sarcasm, Lionel was not eager to share the crown with him. A hunting accident, perhaps? Maybe he was heroically slain by the enemy…but only when the war is over. I need him around for some time yet.

The tent flap opened again. It was one of the Mummers, and he looked quite drunk, but managed to spill out his message without vomiting. "It's Ser Quinny-long face, your bastardly grace. He's left camp."

Lionel rolled his eyes, feeling rather annoyed. He had predicted that he'd have to deal with this for a while; it was obvious that Quincel didn't want to be there. But he couldn't kill the man, he was Leliana's uncle and his savior besides. But he couldn't exactly let him go either, then all of his plans would be revealed….

"Find him and bring him to me," he said carefully. "And be sure not to hurt him."

You could always tell when messengers brought unpleasant news. Henry looked up from his desk when the first pair arrived. Their faces were familiar: two high-ranking knights, on his military council, that he'd sent with Knight Commander Edmund to attack Strake. There were no triumphant smiles on their faces, only the tense, guarded look of men ready for a tongue lashing. Well, they would not find it in him. Henry made a point of restraining his anger (at least, with his soldiers) and unleashing it strategically.

"What happened?" he asked and put down the report that he'd been reading.

"We burned it, Your Grace," one burst out, starting with what was obviously the good news. "All of it."

As opposed to half of it?

"We killed a lot of them," the other added. "They didn't have many knights. You were right they'd given most to Winsler, Your Grace."

Henry shot him a look that said of course I was right.

"And what of the Strakes? Are they dead?"

Their faces, and hesitation, told him all that he needed to know. Slowly, he took a breath and got up from his chair, walking over the window looking out over the courtyard.

"I am imagining," he said, "how a command of able-bodied men could manage to bungle the deaths of two women, one a simpleton, and a child."

"Lady Strake killed the Commander!"

They did not see Henry's brief expression of shock.

"Jane Strake killed Knight Commander Edmund?"

"Ser Phillip was half-dead when I found him; said she'd stabbed the both of them with a big, jeweled sword. We tried to save him, but..."

The sword of Strake, Henry knew at once. It had been one artifact he'd keenly enjoyed the thought of receiving.

"The household was running for it by the time we'd readied."

"A traitor?"

"We're not sure, Your Grace."

"They were running to Winsler or Cavanaugh," Henry mused aloud. "More like to be Cavanaugh. Old Benjamin'd be no use to her and Cavanaugh is closer."

What to do now? She had all the appearance of a church mouse, but the abilities of a cornered cat; her father's daughter, indeed.

"Are we to attack Cavanaugh?"

"No," Henry said at once. "Under no circumstances."

The men shared a look.

"But, Your Grace, they are our enemies and---"

Henry whirled and, in that moment, the darkness in his eyes was a terrifying image of what they had seen in Lionel.

"You dare to question your King?"

"N-No, Your Grace."

He stared at the both of them and they dropped their eyes. Tense moments passed, then Henry relaxed.

"Cavanaugh is our ally and I will not have you bringing any risk of harm to your future Queen."

"Your Grace?"

"Dismissed."

They bowed and backed out of the room. Only his council knew of the secret betrothal, with the exception of the two men who'd been absent when the decision was made. Their tongues would not wag. And, if they did, their heads would roll enough to wag them two lives' worth.

By the Seven, how orchestrated that love letter had been!

"Your Grace?"

Henry had just taken his seat once more and he made a grunt of grudging approval. What more could they bother him with? He needed time to think ... time to wonder if Julia Cavanaugh would be much adverse to poisoning her guest of honorary refuge. Cavanaugh were no strangers to poison, so the rumors went.

"Forgive me for disturbing you, Your Grace, but there are ... two persons. They claim to have escaped from the Winslers and have news of ... your son." How best to address Lionel in conversation?

"They are here?" Henry was alert at once.

"I allowed them inside, but they will be thrown out, or executed, if Your Grace---"

"Show them in."

"To the throne room, Your Grace?"

"No. Here. I won't have courtiers milling about and listening. If they're lying, they'll be killed."

The man looked dismayed at the thought of beggars sullying the king's chambers, but murmured his obedience and slipped away.

~

The sun had just begun to rise as what was left of the House of Strake topped the hills and saw Cavanaugh, spread out before them like a blessing. Edwina gave a loud sob of relief. Seated before her on the horse, held tightly against her chest, Margaret slept. Blood oozed from the corners of her mouth. Jane rode at the front alongside Ser Stephen, a old and wizened knight who had commanded the men of Strake since her grandfather's days. Her hair was a wild, tangled mess, and, from her forehead to her waist, she was stained with spots of blood - not her own, though she felt weary enough to bleed. Her bones were bruises.

I Breathe, I Endure.

"We've made it," he said as they slowed.

Jane said nothing. Moving her lips, she was certain, would have taken all her strength that wasn't spent on steering her horse. Seeing her difficulty, Stephen reached out and took the reins, guiding it beside his own mount.

"Meg? Kathy?" her voice came out a whisper.

"They're well."

"Sorry," she mumbled.

No resistance met them as they came through and that made Stephen's heart sink. They'd been counting on soldiers - enough to weather another attack. Then, to the side, he caught sight of a lone man on horseback.

"Ho, there!" he called. "We're of Strake! Our lands have been burned by Damian!"

Jane's head raised at that and she found the strength to call out, though her eyes were so bleary she could not make out anything of the rider: "We must speak with Lady Cavanaugh."

(There was a time lapse since it is our natural terrain I presume we could move faster and our Estate is near Hornwood, so Lionel would be getting there as either Nathanial won, I won or we were at a standstill. If you think this post is not up to par just let me know and I will edit it out and rewrite it. Though it makes sense to me that Nathanial would not know what the hell was going on since why would an Ally betray him? But who knows. Won't be able to post till tomorrow night so I can fix it then if need be.)


The Northern winds bemoaned with an acrimonious lust consuming the bowmen of Thorneir. Grimnir began to contemplate how her ploy would turn out with the current situations; Lionel was presumably near the fleet of which he burned along White Knife. Also to take the advantage of the surprise he would want to get near as possible to Winterfell so his warriors would not be exhausted, for any good General would do such a thing. Grimnir scoffed slightly, her archers were vigorous men, born, raised, and trained in these bitter climates. Of course, Lionel would take his men to rest the cold for them would be no less than brutal. She sent her messenger around the same time Lord Grey’s, no Nathanial the feeble-minded pitiless dupe’s messenger had left. Giggling at that new name she had just thought of Grimnir sighed softly wondering how it would feel to see him suffer as his wife fell before his eyes.

Her plan was falling into place it truly was perfection, added on the air tasted as if a blizzard was approaching which would make the battle so much easier for them to win. Mar grabbed her arm whispering in her ear:

M’Lord the messenger may not make it back to the keep in time, this could potentially be a fault we cannot remedy.

Grimnir laughed loudly patting Mar on the back.

Mar my dear do not ever doubt me, if he perishes we will merely use his body holding it up to the keep, have Seea imitate his voice and have the gates open to our looming gale of devastation. Though I think he will make it, though his Master is frail of mind and body, he did not come off as such, also seeing as he is still walking nearly after a half a day of travel I am quite impressed. Tell the men I will brief them when we are within an hour of Winterfell and to eat their rations shortly.

Waving her hand slightly she dismissed Mar who began passing off the message.

The next half a day of travel was truly a blessing for Grim, not only did she love the cold, but the frigid air felt like bliss upon her bare breasts. Grim was quite sure her messenger had not reached Lionel yet, it would take at least a few days to track them down across the river then to find their camp if they made any, but it did not worry her at this point. She knew her warriors were at least a day's journey ahead of Lionel's boats maybe more, though to that she was unsure. With or without Lionel there Winterfell would fall to flaming arrows and warriors who could hide amongst the snow as if it were their own skins.

Nightfall was quickly approaching as her band of merry kinsmen traipsed gleefully after the injured messenger. Grim decided that her bowmen should hear a speech to drive their hearts into the fiery passion before they reached Winterfell to pass the time as the wolves howled their melancholic tunes. Her voice echoed in the coming darkness filling it with a sweltering uproar.

MEN OF THE NORTH!

We travel through these hoary mountains with frozen vapor so vibrant I can feel the rime melt upon my warm breast! We are a people of hunger, of mirth, of valor, of affection! We are the ones that are sought after for aid in these petty squabbles they dare call wars. They know nothing of WAR NOTHING! For when the horns cry out an arrow silences them! When the dawn rises, kissing the mountain peaks with its warm caress arrows pierce the sky with their sonic cries!

When their army surges from their protective sanctum to meet our own our arrows will perforate not only their bodies but also their souls! Their morale will crumble like dust to the prodigious rush of the Tundra wolf! We will drink not their blood from this onslaught my fellows! Instead, we shall drink in the awe-inspiring, soul lifting taste of a people conquered to our lips! It will taste sweet like a pup drinking milk from its mother’s breast it will trickle from our lips tumbling to the mud letting know any being that treads upon this blood-saturated land that THE HOUSE OF THORNEIR stood valiantly! They shall tremble in fear when our voices are heard amongst the clash of steel and ringing echoes of falling stone!

The imminent fall of Winterfell is at hand! Tonight we shall overcome!

Grimnir’s speech ended as soon as the high walls of Winterfell came into sight. She waved her bowmen to run silently amongst the adjacent tree’s waiting for her signal.

The messenger approached the gated walls speaking in a booming voice:

OPEN THE GATES! I BEAR NEWS FROM THE HOUSE OF THORNEIR! LORD NATHANIAL MUST HEAR MY MESSAGE BEFORE ITS TOO LATE!

Time seemed to stretch as the large doors were ever so slowly pushed open. As they reached a shuddering halt, Grim began to move quickly through the trees bursting into the open careful to stay low blending in with the snow whilst signaling her bowmen as she drew her own weapon. The messenger began to walk forward yelling something that caught on the wind carrying it further past the encircled trees:

CLOSE THE GATES WE HAVE BEEN-

The messengers body hit the ground with a wet thud blooding spilling from his wound staining the snow revealing nothing but the trees and white snow upon the ground behind him. The guards looked puzzled slightly as two more arrows blazed through the air implanting themselves into their necks. The guards near the drawbridge cried out!

CLOSE THE GATES!

GET THE BRIDGE UP!

WE ARE BEING INVADED!

Grim’s men no longer had the white snow to guard their cover it was open warfare now. Sprinting across the space to the closing drawbridge pulling free her arrows from the guards necks blood spilling onto her pristine boots. Grim jumped landing on the bridge with Mar close behind her breasts landing heavily on her chest. Crouching low to the ground she let off another shot as Mar ran forward splitting the other’s face open. Nathanial knew someone was here, not entirely if it was her but someone was here nonetheless, oh the look on his face would be priceless.

The Night was long Nathanials death was neigh!

[[OOC: Sorry for any typoes. It's 2am over here. >_o]]

So far the plan had worked. They were being escorted through the halls of the Red Keep to the King’s chambers – two poor souls who looked as if the life had been beaten out of them. This was a dangerous game they were playing at, and Ammon knew that he and Sirena would have to play it well. He was not nervous in the slightest of course, making only the right gestures and movements attributed to the part of the tortured escapee that he was playing at.

All that mattered was the act and pretending that both he and Sirena believed their own lies. And, from what he had seen of Sirena, Ammon knew that she would be able to perfectly pull her weight in this. They had the particulars worked out so that everything fell into place. Not a detail had been unattributed and left unconsidered. Now all that was left was to present their ‘truth’ to the King. Oh, this was going to be fun.

The man who was part of their escort did not look at all pleased to be bringing the two of them to the King’s chambers. Ammon was pleased by that – the more people that took to them as looking the part, the better.

Now, ‘twas time for their grand finale.

~

“Your Majesty,” Ammon did his best to bend into a bow, but the sharp pain that shot through his side when he did made it look like a very ungraceful stumble. He let out a hiss of air and grabbed at the spot where the pain had decided to introduce itself and did his best not to swear in front of the King. Ammon was in no way pretending to be wounded, and neither was Sirena, the two of them had done quite a good job of making themselves look as if they had been recently tortured.

They were both also, not to mention, covered near head to toe in drying blood and dirt from the hard days of riding. Escapees in all but the truth of the matter.

“We were ambushed at Highgarden,” Ammon said as he rubbed again at his side and winced – the cut had opened up again and was bleeding. Nothing fatal, of course – he and Sirena knew damn well where and how to cut and bruise in order to bring about as much pain as possible but not permanent injury.

“We were with Master Lionel Storm during the meetings with Jon Tyrell. We were ready to be sailing off towards Winterfell, but the Winslers had organized an ambush for us while we were at Highgarden,” he looked the King straight in the eyes, his demeanor calm and collected – giving no hints at the fact that either he or Sirena were lying through their teeth. At times Ammon looked away, as if to remember an event or spoken words, but his eye movements were consistent with those of a trustworthy man.

Ammon knew how to lie in tense situations. As an assassin that was one of the first lessons which had to be learned – how could one kill if one could not lie? His gestures and emotions were paced naturally, the displays cued exactly as they would be had he been telling the truth; there were no delays or sudden stops. Ammon’s whole face moved whenever his expression changed, instead of being limited to the mouth movements that liars exhibited.

“When the Winslers came, many of the fleet had already been sailing off the harbor, but they got to the remaining ships,” Ammon made a disgusted face, anger flashing across his features, “Leliana, Master Lionel’s beloved, had sailed off ahead – she did nothing to help. Maybe she was planning on taking control of those armies herself or throwing her lot in with another.” Ammon shrugged his shoulders and winced again, mentally noting to himself that he ought to see if his shoulder really was dislocated – and if it was, to get a Maester to fix it.

“They did not do much talking, especially not the tall blonde lug who led them – Jamie Winsler,” Ammon continued; standing was getting rather awkward, what with him trying not to put too much weight on his twisted ankle. Honestly, though the plan had been good, going through with it had been a terribly painful and physically excruciating thing. “Tried to fight our way out but failed. They grabbed the lot of us; I was by Sirena, but I saw Master Lionel being taken.”

He went on to recount of how they had been taken to the Tyrell dungeons and been put to the torture in there – how he himself had cracked pitifully under pressure because they had raped Sirena – and made sure to keep his details at just the right amount, talking neither too much nor too little. Just enough. Enough to sound truthful and to almost convince himself that it really had happened in this manner.

“Getting away was not something we thought was possible,” Ammon rubbed his raw wrists, as if his body was recalling being shackled – he had been shackled, of course, but just not by guards… “The Winslers let us off on their own accord.”

“Would call it a stroke of luck, but it wasn’t,” he grinned the rueful grin of a man fortunate enough to be alive, and then his expression darkened considerably and the smile was gone. “They took us to Master Lionel’s cell, showed to us what would happen if we did not behave, and told us to run back to King’s Landing and deliver the news to Your Majesty.”

Ammon swallowed nervously, as would a man who did not want to go into detail out of guilt for the inner feelings of a father, “I will spare you the particulars of Master Lionel’s condition – but here we are.”

Ammon’s hand travelled to his eye, to the one that he knew Lionel still had. “He’s blind now, Your Majesty…Jamie Winsler said something about wanting to give Master Lionel's eye to Your Majesty as a gift, but decided he’d rather have it himself."

Wandering through the Keep in the middle of the day was not a very common occurrence for Raban. Usually he had duties, or practice, or studying to do. Maester Syrus had let him off early, though, and Ulfred had had to leave the practice field, so he'd been left to his own devices. And honestly? He was bored. He couldn't help but wonder why Lionel had craved freedom from the responsibilities to the crown so badly. While it was true that they filled up most of his week, they filled it with political intrigue, knowledge, and the practicing of tasks he would need to be comfortable with as a monarch. Then again, he'd just answered his own question, hadn't he? Putting Lionel behind a desk with Syrus poring over numbers in a ledger would inevitably lead to his older brother squirming in his seat in frustration and ignorance. Unintentionally, his feet stopped their aimless marching as thoughts of his half-brother crossed his mind. They'd gotten many vague and unconfirmed reports over the last few months regarding him. Enough to discount his death almost entirely, but nothing of definitive or trustworthy accuracy. Some said he was amassing an army, yet others said he had conquered the realm of the horse lords and was terrorizing the desert countryside. There had even been a report that someone had seen him and Quincel Greyhardt arguing on the shores of Braavos over the ownership of a boat. Some of those rumours were just plain preposterous. Sighing to himself, Raban's gaze swung to a nearby window, and he stared out of it at the sky, motionless. I wonder where you are now, Lionel. Has time done nothing to assuage the malice and vitriol flooding your heart?

Movement down a nearby hall caught the prince's attention. He quickly moved to peer around the corner and pieced together the scene before him. Overhearing the partial sentence of a guard, Raban saw that he was leading a couple of disheveled travelers who looked like they'd danced with the business end of spiked mace. Glancing over his shoulder, he figured they could only be heading one place - his father's study. What could possibly be so important that Father wanted to see a couple of injured soldiers privately? They must have been prisoners of war! Excitement blossomed within Raban, fueling his mind with possible intrigue and something infinitely more interesting than wandering around the Keep. Thinking as he moved, the prince sprinted down the corridor and paused near the king's door to catch his breath. Counting a few more moments to make his timing seem realistic, he straightened his back and rounded the last corner, pushing through the guards posted with authority. One of them stammered, but what was he going to do? Bar entry to the Crown Prince?

"There you are, Father, I've been looking for you. Have you seen the most recent raven from Renlough?" His query was a contrived one, but he hoped it was just long enough to give him an excuse without raising questions in his father's mind before he was interrupted by the impending procession, "They're too busy whining about their harvest ceremony when the rest of us are worried that--" Noise behind him made him pause and turn around to see the doors burst open, admitting the pair he had seen earlier in the hall. Raban scooted aside, making room for them and the guards, and listened carefully to Ammon's 'report'.

His first thoughts were of sympathy. Both of these wretched creatures looked positively exhausted and bedraggled, and it was clear they were in no small amount of pain. Yet the first place they had come was to the king. It reflected well on them, at least in his eyes. The man who was telling their story seemed to be speaking from his heart, and Raban not only pitied him, but believed him. However, something wasn't quite right. The prince tossed a few glances at his father to see what his reaction was to all this. So it was true; Lionel was not only alive, but actively forming alliances against the Crown. That was hardly a surprise, but it wounded Raban's heart to hear it, nonetheless. Part of him missed his brother - at least, back when Lionel hadn't scared the daylights out of him. Sometimes he wished he could go back to that time, but he forced himself to turn his attention back to the matters at hand.

It seemed pretty probable that Lionel could have won over Jon Tyrell to his side. Even Raban knew the relationship between the Tyrells and the Crown was strained, so that made sense. However they had received information weeks ago that Lord Tyrell's fleet had moved from Highgarden. It had been a mystifying move back then, and they still didn't know where the ships had gone, but if Jon Tyrell was in Highgarden with Lionel, why had he sent his ships away? Of course, they could have come back, but no doubt they would have heard of the fleet's return in the week or so it would have taken these injured soldiers to make the journey to King's Landing. So what about Jamie Winsler ambushing Highgarden. That certainly corroborated their own information as to the madman's whereabouts, but this news had been most recent - maybe a week or two old. Even given time for the raven to arrive at the Red Keep, that seemed like an awfully short amount of time for Jamie to storm Highgarden - and succeed, despite its formidable fortifications, fleet present or not - torture these two, free them, and have them stumble their way across the entire continent. Raban was curious how this would play out. He didn't doubt that this poor man was telling the truth - at least what he thought was the truth - what reason would he have for lying? But this story both agreed with and contradicted their own intelligence. Were they being fed false information?

Foremost on his mind, however, was the health of these two troopers. Whatever depraved lunatic had inflicted these wounds upon them had been either completely mad or very near to it. They were random, intentionally superficial and inflicted to bring about pain and discomfort. The dried blood caking them both - and the stain now spreading over the side of the male's tunic - spoke to the fact that they had not allowed the wounds to properly heal for their entire journey. Assailed constantly by the dirt of the road that could only lead to infection, or worse. The prince's heart went out to these two brave souls who had risked their own newly freed lives for the sake of their liege, and the way this man told his story genuinely tugged at his heart strings. Whatever the truth of the matter, Raban hoped they would find some solace and peace within the walls of the Keep, at least for a time.

Kenneth broke himself away from his reverie and went to saddle his bay. He had just trotted back out to the middle of the courtyard when the horse flicked its ears toward the gate and nickered what sounded like a greeting. Kenneth steered the horse to face the visitors who were dragging themselves through the gate.

”Refugees from House Strake? Here?”

At once Kenneth again regretted Julia’s decision to send the soldiers out. The men weren’t due back until this evening, and House Strake wasn’t far from Cavanaugh.
”Damian soldiers could be right on their heels.” Kenneth’s blood ran cold. “And what do I do about Julia? I didn’t want to be revealed until I could get this House back under control.”

Kenneth couldn’t turn them away. Firstly, they would have news. Secondly, they looked awful and exhausted. Most importantly, they were his allies. He wasn’t well supplied to house guests, but in this case he had no choice, nor would he have chose differently if there was another option.

He trotted his horse as close to the group as he could without making the animal too nervous. All five of them smelled of smoke and Kenneth could tell by the tallest woman’s clothes that the horse would probably be able to smell the blood staining her dress.
“I am Lord Cavanaugh,” he spoke to the old man. ”Lady Julia will still be sleeping, and I would prefer not to wake her. You can follow me and I will do my best to accommodate you and tend to any injuries you may have.”

He glanced at the youngest girl who was slumped over in the saddle and felt his heart throb. Beth had been so completely sure that their child was going to be a girl, but they’d never been able to find out.

“We can talk after you rest. Until my soldiers arrive we’re at the mercy of the Seven anyway. Please, follow me.”

Kenneth turned his horse back towards the paddock and tied the reins to there. “You can leave your horses here and I will come tend to them once I’ve helped you,” he said, once again to the old man.

All of the people in the group were women except the man who’d spoken at the gate, and all of them, even the old man, looked to Kenneth like they were faint with exhaustion and fear. Turning to the old woman in the company, Kenneth held up his hands to her waist height and said, “Allow me to help you down, Madam.”

Once she was dismounted Kenneth turned to the tallest young woman. “May I, Miss?”

Kenneth had been gone so long that he didn't realize he was addressing Lady Strake herself.

Adelaide slipped from Storm's back with elegant grace, landing almost too lightly. She swung his reins over his head and followed Kervall's lead in tying Storm to a nearby tree, but far enough away so that he wouldn't become tangled with Lilac. Rubbing his neck, she smiled, resting her forehead against his shoulder. He paid her no heed, the meadow grass a tempting treat for a horse. Patting him once more, she turned, lifting her skirts and walking towards the bank where she had set up the picnic. It brought a smile to her lips to already see Kervall sitting himself down and even more so when he called her Ada. They had taken to calling each other by their nicknames when they were alone. It felt much less formal than in the confines of the castle. Which was why she had arranged the picnic in the clearing. It had taken a lot of preparation to sort it all out, not that she minded. In fact it had given her something to do other than practicing her fighting skills and it allowed them to escape etiquette and manners.

"I wanted to show you how grateful I am," Adelaide told him, placing herself gently beside him. She took his hand in her own, giving it a squeeze. "It is not everyday that someone will show such understanding for a princess." She let out a small laugh and although it appeared genuine, there was a bitter note to it. No Adelaide, don't linger on that. Father will listen one day. Clearing her throat, she diverted her eyes to the basket, which she pulled forwards with her free hand. Inside she had arranged various foods and some Dornish wine which she had taken without anyone's knowledge. She doubted that anyone would actually mind them taking the wine. Handing him a goblet, she pushed the basket at him as well, indicating for him to help himself. She removed her hand from his, leaning backwards.

"I actually wanted to discuss something with you," As she said it, she looked up to meet his eyes, holding his brilliant gaze. Her own dark brown eyes shimmered green in the bright sunlight. With a slender hand she removed a lock of hair that fell in front of her eyes. Her pale cheeks reddened somewhat. "My father is undoubtedly going to bring up the subject of betrothal once again..." She trailed off with a small shrug of the shoulders. "I wondered what our response should be. Obviously it will be bring further uproar between our Houses. But is there much more than war? I do not wish for your family to hate you Kurt. Quite the opposite in fact. I want our Houses united, but with your father and brother, that shall never happen." Chewing her bottom lip, she frowned, her cheeks returning to their naturally pale colour.

Adelaide did not wish to bring further reason for the Winslers to hate the Damians even further. It was her intention to make it the other way. But Jamie was so hot-headed and Lord Winsler was half-mad, meaning that they would never listen to their reasoning. In fact, a marriage between the two of them would cause them to move further away from being united with the Damian House. Ada's last wish was for Kervall to be outed or even killed by his own family. She would do all she could to prevent that and ensure his safety.