The Red King (A King of Rivers and Hills AAR)

[Solid Snake]

Chapter XV

The Wolf in the Forest

Lord Greystark came to regret his words in Winterfell, while in the castle he instructed his men to be vigilant at all times, to wear their full armour and avoid wandering off. He instructed for the castle´s carpenters and smiths to reinforce Princess Lyra´s carriage. The King intended for the girl to travel with the army, but after the first scouts that Torrhen had sent into the forest were found beheaded not 200 yards inside the woods, both the King and Greystark opted for the Princess to remain in Winterfell until Deepwood Motte had been pacified.

“Oh great.” Lyra was heard to ask. “Before spending my days as a trophy for the new Lord of the Acorns I can spend some time with the crying boy and the girl.” The Princess complained to his father´s exasperation.
“Do remind me Lord Greystark.” The Princess asked one day. “Is the Glover I´m supposed to marry the one with the hideous scar or the one that lost it´s eye, I fail to remember which one was the comeliest.”
Torrhen could only laugh. “I´m sure you will find your husband to be loyal and devoted to you, qualities far more important than a pretty face.”
“Yes, my husband who is betraying his brother is supposed to be devoted to me. I understand Lord Greystark, thanks.” The Princess said before returning to his chambers.
Torrhen gave a silent prayer to the Gods thanking them for his far more modest and prudent daughter. The Bolton girl had the same fire of his father inside her.

Soon the army was ready, Torrhen Greystark and his army marched into the wolfswood, and the forest clans made him pay for every inch gained. Daily ambushes, both by daylight or night time, by groups of tens and by hundreds. Torrhen did not slept without full armour for a single day, after the first few days he desisted of sending forays into the woods, less than half returned back to the column. Instead he chose to keep his force surrounded by a heavy shield wall, in constant rotation to avoid exhausting his men, and still he lost some every day to a stray arrow, a pit fall or to a raider´s axe. Men sworn to clans like Forrester, Branch and Brook, and half a hundred more, covered in branches and leaves to disguise themselves. Forest demons, his men began to call them; those that they managed to capture alive offered no information of the forces holding Deepwood Motte or the disposition of the clans. By the riders that had reached Winterfell, Torrhen knew that the new Lord Glover awaited them in a covert position halfway to the wooden keep, he claimed that he had convinced a dozen clans to support his claim, and that he could bring the others to heel when he was proclaimed the new Lord with a Bolton bride at his side. But how would Greystark find him? No one knew.

Every day was a tiring effort, thankfully the supply wagons were always well under guard and the clansmen had not made a heavy dent upon the Grey Wolf´s forces, yet the men knew no rest as they made their way across the Wolfswood.
Ten days into the forest, at last, Lord Greystark´s vanguard brought to him a piece of armour, a mailed fist, it´s lower half coloured in bright red. He ordered the army to a halt and inspected the woods around him, they were in a small clear, a prime site for a meeting, or an ambush.
A few moments later, movement was seen in the eastern edge of the clearing, two banners appeared, the mailed fist of the Glovers and a peace banner, a white weirwood on a field of red.
The shieldwall parted to make way for Owen Glover and his retinue, an iron helm atop his head and wearing a bright red cape. He dismounted in front of Lord Greystark and bowed his head before him.

“The one without the eye then.” Torrhen said in a low murmur. “Lord Glover, you are most welcome.”
Before Owen could formulate an answer, Lord Greystark cut across him.
“Tell me, how many miles of this accursed forest we must march through? How many men does your brother have with him?” He asked.
Young Owen, all three and twenty years of age, swallowed before answering.
“Galbart has near a thousand inside the fort, but as you must know the Motte is not a strong castle, wooden and small.” The young man said. “The danger is out here, out here, my brother can bleed you every step of the way.” He said as he took notice of the wounded men before him. “As I´m sure he has.” He finished in a low growl.
“How many men have you brought.” Torrhen asked.
“I command the allegiance of at least a dozen clans, the rest shall kneel before me after my brother´s death.” Owen said, Greystark spat at the mention of this, Owen was nothing but another kinslayer as far as he was concerned. “The Starks are done for.” Owen continued. “It was this, or the axe.”
“Or the Wall perhaps.” Torrhen countered. “The King does not use an axe, but I don’t think he would stoop so low as to take your head Glover. I hope you can lead us the rest of the way.”
Owen nodded as his one eye, furrowed in anger.
The day after, battle was joined.


“Galbart knows he cannot hold the castle against a large force.” Owen pointed as the men took position before him. “He will try to break us here.”

Torrhen only nodded in answer, the scouts Glover had brought had spotted Galbarts force stalking through the woods and had led them to one of the few clearings amidst the wolfswood. Greystark signaled his archers in a wide crescent around the clearing, men from the Rills mostly, part of the new levies that Marq Ryswell had sent, although his last letters spoke of raiders in the western shore. The ironborn were never far from the shore or so the old wives said.


“Give them fire as they march toward us.” Torrhen said to one of his runners. “I want them bloodied before they reach us.”






Torrhen kept most of his men in reserve though, turning to Owen Glover instead. “Those are your people that are bleeding in the field now, for you, or for your family at least.” He said, his eyes full of disdain. Owen countered with an angered glare. “Time to earn your keep my Lord.”
Owen took the reins of his horse and spurred his men into action, sounding his horn, his clansmen surging behind him, taking the enemy´s flank, caught unawares and surprised to be attacked by their own kin the enemy lines collapsed under the charge.



Turning and charging back again the new Lord Glover cut down scores of his brother´s men, few survived to return back to the Motte.




Lord Greystark spat at the ground yet again, as he saw the battle unfold before him.

“If the King wants his daughter to marry his kind, that´s his choice.” Torrhen said. “If it were for me I would burn this entire forest to the ground, and whomever foolish enough to live in it.”

[Alwyn]

Owen seems to be a capable warrior, but I wonder if his reputation as a kinslayer will cause problems for him in future. Good updates!

[Solid Snake]

Chapter XVI

The Red Prince

The Karhold was a stronger keep than the Umber´s Hearth and far stronger than the Motte in the Wolfswood, stone walls and towers, a deep moat surrounded it, redirected from one of the many rivers in the area, it meant that Vayon had to split his force to fully surround the fortress.
He gave Ralf Flint the command of the second host without much thought, he knew that if battle should be joined, he needed a quick, strong leader across the moat. He kept his men busy building towers and planks to cross the water. Days passed by, without much notice, sieges could be a dreadful and tedious affair, the Prince was determined to storm the walls, against the wishes of lord Locke, who voted to starve out the remaining Karstarks, trusting they would surrender as news from the fall of Winterfell reached them, Vayon was not so sure, Arnolf Karstark was as stubborn as they came, old and set in his ways, from the few visits that he had made to Karhold, in an attempt to court one of Karstark daughters; Vayon knew that the old man would rather take his own life and set flame to the keep before surrendering it to the Boltons.

Vayon thought his position safe, they had built palisades and stakes of their own surrounding their camp, sentries and patrols into the surrounding woods. It was to everyone´s surprise that he was woken one day to the sound of horns and alarm all around him.



The wolves had him outnumbered and outflanked, Flint cut away from him as well, and Karhold´s gates opened up as hundreds of men crossed the moat. Yet it was clear that Bolton´s men wore heavier armour and weapons of better quality, Karstark had sent too much of their better men to die in Winterfell, green boys and old beards made up most of his force now.



Vayon rallied his men around him, forming two battle lines, knowing he would have to commit to pierce through his foes to avoid them cutting off his advance, or retreat if it came to that.

“Form up, form up!” He cried, drawing his sword. “Archers in the centre, spears in front, we shall take them head on! Cavalry with me! Ride with me now and I will give you victory! Ride with me and I shall give you glory!”



“To Karhold! His weight in gold to the one that brings me his head!” Vayon roared, to his soldiers approval.
“Our Blood! Our Blood!” Was the battle cry set loose upon the field.
Vayon rode forward, his army behind him, straight towards Arnolf Karstark and the forces streaming forth the castle´s gates. A small rear guard under Lord Locke to keep in check the encroaching foes. Of Flint nothing was known, he would either survive or die.
Soon the Bloody Company reached the enemy´s line, hacking and tearing through them, their axes cutting clean right through the bone. More farmers than warriors, they made little dent upon Bolton´s lines.




The sun of winter blazed all over the field, as Arnolf massed his cavalry on Vayon´s left flank, attempting to break him then and there. But Bolton´s spear wall took the charge well, managing to hold their position.





“To them!” The men cried as battle flowed across the woods and plains. “Take down the horses! Hold!”




Bolton´s line was as fierce as they came, battle hardened and well supplied, they stole the momentum from Arnolf´s horse and began to push through.


Now it was Karstark´s forces that were under pressure, Vayon rode right through them, his guard close behind, blood and cries in their wake. Arnolf´s centre was hard beset on all sides, arrows kept pouring down all around him, his banners pierced in half a hundred places. The red tide threatening to engulf him.




Unable to link up with his other forces, his men cut down all around him, the Flayed Man of the Dreadfort surrounding his position, Arnolf rallied his last guards and charged Vayon´s flank. But the Red Tide soon swept him under.



Credit was due to Lord Arnolf, his blade cut it´s way towards the Prince of the Dreadfort, nearly exchanging blows with young Vayon, but in his blood lust he could not make friend from foe, and the tale spread around the camps at later times claimed that it was Arnolf´s own men that cut his horse down and his head afterwards. Later making it a gift to their new Prince.




Locke managed to held his ground, his ring of spears covered the enemy´s advance, saving time for Vayon to deal with the last sun of Winter. The old man´s voice was near breaking from ordering his men around, urging them to hold. When at last the horn of the Dreadfort sounded from his rear and when he saw his Prince´s banner rushing towards him, he knew the battle was won.




When the army managed to swing around the moat they found Lord Ralf covered in gore and blood, lording over his men and taking the spoils from the men that had tried to kill him. Few men had managed to return back to the castle, but when Vayon showed to the keep the head of it´s fallen lord they opened their gates to him. The Flayed Man flew atop the walls that night, and for many nights yet to come.

[Alwyn]

Good update, your storytelling captures the urgency of the alarm and the sudden change from safety to desperation for Vayon. I like the phrasing of "the last sun of Winter" and the moment when the old man's voice was near to breaking as he urged his men to stand their ground.

[Solid Snake]

CHAPTER XVII

The King in Winterfell

As the Flayed Man was raised atop the walls of Karhold and as Greystark marched even closer to Deepwood Motte, the King woke up from a restless night. Waking up from what was not too long ago King Edrik´s bed, he covered himself in a wolf´s cloak. Pouring cold water from the jar besides his bed. He could hear the wind howling, the cold winds were rising, winter would soon be upon them, and the war better be over by the time it had the North in it´s grasp. The castle had been quiet, for the most part, some thieves were caught, some swords were missing from the arsenal, some girl or other claimed a guard had defiled her; justice was dealt all the same. The King heard their complains, sent out guards to search and question, and brought justice by his own hand, with Flesh Eater or some other blade.



He had been cautious to be sure, after he melted the Winter´s Crown before the Great Hall of Winterfell he felt the cold glare from some of his loyal subjects; the first weeks he had wore Beron´s skin as he took his place in the High Seat of Winterfell, as his chamberlain hailed him as: “Domeric of House Bolton, Third of his Name! Wolfslayer! The Red Fist! The King in the North!”. But after a while he could not shake the feeling of steel being sharpened behind his ears. Nowadays Beron´s skin hung from a top and behind his bed.



His daughter accompanied him in the dais most of days. The Princess needed to be seen by their new folk and to learn the ways of court and in that she had thrived; while at first resentful from an arranged marriage, she had learned her role. She gave out cloth, timber and grain from her own hands to those most impoverished after battles, she hunted with bow and hawk in the woods (always under heavy guard). She rode with the new Wull and the new Cerwyn, charming both boys with her smile. Her jests to both ally and foe at dinner always sent the court into laughter. Domeric could not be more proud.



The knocks in the door took him from his revelries.
“Your Grace.” The maester said, taking to one knee as he entered the room. “How fare you this day?”
“It´s a cold day Maester.” He answered, as he clothed himself. “How long do we have before the true snows fall?”
“Two months if we are lucky.” Russell said, helping his King with his cloak´s brooches. “A few weeks is more likely.”
“Instruct the hunters to make one last effort, to bring in as much meat and fish as possible.” The King said, as they prepared to step out the room. “This war has cost us many harvests. And the sack of Barrowtown puts the entire region in peril. Is there anything else I should know before?”
“Lord Ryswell sends word that his folk has spotted iron ships, full of reavers, nearing the Rills. He asks for leave to gather his force and reinforce his castle.” Russell answered, handing Domeric a piece of parchment.



“Give him our approval.” The King said with a snarl. “Come spring the ironborn shall be put to heel, this endless reaving must end.”
“As you say Your Grace.” The maester said.
Another day at court. Princess Lyra acquainted herself with some refugees hailing down from the mountains, the Flints and Norreys had sent their youngest, both for protection, and as hostages.
Domeric tried to make time each day to pray before the Heart Tree, each day he could feel it´s eyes boring into him, seeing through his flesh and heart and soul. The Old God´s priests and their chants filled the Godswood with ethereal peace. This day he found two kids praying before the tree, the maester and two guards close by.



“Your Grace.” The maester said, bowing. “Children, kneel before the King.”
The children did not move.
“It is not needed.” Domeric said. “You can leave us.” He said as he took to his knees before the Tree, the cold, red sap drying beneath him.
“Lady Lyanna, Arthos. Well met. It is the first time I see you here.” The King greeted them.
“We come here to pray every day.” The girl said at last, after a silence that seemed eternal. “We see you as well.”
“It seems this day I have caught you.” The King said. A long silence. “My apologies.”
The wind rustled through the red leaves, a song was heard far away.
“No need.” Lyanna said.
“What do you pray for my Lady?” Domeric asked, suddenly in a cold sweat.
“I pray for my father and my mother.” Said Arthos, so suddenly that the King almost gasped.
“I do so as well, and for my sisters.” Lyanna continued. Raising his head, looking Domeric straight in the eyes, blue steel against silver ice. “For my baby brother. I pray for my King and for my family.”
Domeric Bolton remained silent, taking the girls anger up front.
“I pray for your death as well my Lord.” Lyanna said, a savage smile creeping up beneath the cold tears pouring from her eyes. “What do you pray for?”
The King gathered himself up, unable to answer.
It was another restless night.


Ps. Thanks for all the views, and thank you to all the readers. We shall keep on with the tale. Any insights and comments are welcome.

[Maximinus Thrax]

Much respect, mate! You've been posting your great works around here for ages.

[Solid Snake]

Chapter XIX

The Silver Fist

Night fell upon Deepwood Motte, Greystark had sent Owen Glover forward with his vanguard, under cover of dark and covered in branches and mud to steal upon the wooden Keep and surround it before Galbart´s forces could notice their approach.
“Do you mean to speak to your brother?” Greystark had asked of the new Glover earlier that day.
“It would be a lost cause, the rest of the clans shall not bend the knee as long as Galbart still lives, and if I know my brother he will never surrender.” Owen answered, every day since the battle more and more clans, some with a hundred members and some with just a dozen men, had come forth from their holdings to declare their allegiance to Owen Glover, and to Greystark who spoke with the King´s authority. Soon, Glover´s men far outnumbered his own; still, for him it was a dirty thing they were doing.
“Deepwood Motte can be easily taken by storm, if we manage to get close without my brother spotting us.” Owen explained. “The hill is very steep, and the woods are sure to be thick with traps, pits, snares and the like. If our surprise fails, he can bleed us heavily before we take the Bailey.”


“I trust that task to you my Lord.” Torrhen said, spitting at the floor. “You know your lands the best. Afterwards, what shall be done with your brother?”
“I must be the one that deals with him.” Owen answered. “Our way…”
“Is the old way.” Torrhen said, nodding. None was more accursed than the kinslayer but still, Torrhen would think less of Owen if he did not do the deed himself. And judging by the number of clans now following them the rest of the forest´s men thought the same.



He stood from afar, not a light, not a torch lit in the camp, the clansmen were their guides, the forest could be so thick in places that the sun did not pierce the canopy, if Greystark had been alone he would surely have lost his way in this twilight haze. A hundred of his own marched with Owen as he made his way up the hill, while he kept the rear, unable to see much beyond his own nose, a distant flame, that one of his guides claimed it was the Central Keep of Deepwood Motte towered above and beyond him.

A faint rustle of leaves surrounded him, suddenly the forest came alive before his eyes, as Owen made his attack upon the wooden walls. Nimble men and light ladders sprang forth, a horn of alarm was heard. Soon the clash of swords and the cries of the dying filled the night.
By all reports the garrison was far smaller than their current force, but as he surveyed the grounds and pondering over his march from Winterfell, he knew that the clansmen could have made his passing even harder and bloodier than it had already been. In the end it seemed, the clans respected strength more than anything, the Starks were done for, and now only the Boltons of the Dreadfort could unite the North to withstand the oncoming Winter. The Umbers still held some small support in the lands surrounding the Last River, but the forest and the mountain clans, could muster near to 5 thousand men amongst them, many now lost in the past battles, but they could have held out for years, being a constant thorn, in hidden keeps and caves. Torrhen was glad that they were willing to accept their new Lord and their new Princess.

The sounds of battle faded with the Hour of the Wolf, dawn would come soon, a different horn was heard again. The clansmen around him erupted with cries of victory, clashing their shields and sounding horns of their own.
“I gather that that means the Keep has fallen.” Torrhen asked of his guides.
“Aye, we know the calls of the Glovers and the music from Deepwood, it proclaims victory and invites us in.” The man beside him said. “We should start up my Lord.” Looking back and around him the Greystark could see the forest alive with flame, hundreds of torches were now lit, heralding the coming dawn, as the army marched forth towards the Keep.

The Keep´s doors had been burst open with a battering ram, blood and leaves covering the grounds, close to a hundred bodies scattered around the walls and the yard. The Central Keep hid a massive weirwood inside it´s structure, the Keep being constantly rebuilt around it, but the lower floor remained the same, and carved out of one of the tree´s roots the Glovers had made their High Seat. Blood was everywhere, or blood mixed with weirwood sap, many bodies were around the entrance and around the tree, but few looked like Owen´s men. Galbart was being held down, on his knees before his brother, who had claimed his castle at long last.
“I know you will not ask for mercy brother.” Owen said, as blood poured from his eyeless socket. “The war is over, the Starks are lost and accursed.”
“I know that you are a traitor and a craven!” Galbart spat, blood coming from many wounds, it seemed as the brothers had finished this battle with single combat. “Take my head and be cursed forever, spare me and be called a coward for the rest of your lives. Hurry and spare me of these sight of my father´s Halls taken by traitors. The Gods shall judge you.”
“Not before they judge you brother.” Owen raised his blade and pierced his brother from front to back, his blood staining the weirwood roots.
Deep silence, the clansmen looked away and continued to retrieve the bodies of the fallen garrison, accursed or not, a Glover still held sway in the Deepwood, if his allegiance was to Winterfell or to the Dreadfort was a small matter to them.

Owen carried his brother´s body outside the Keep, crossing Torrhen on his way out.
“It´s my duty to dispose of him, there is a stream that carries our dead north, towards the shore, I shall take him there.” Owen said.
“As you wish my Lord.” Torrhen said, bowing before him. A small measure of respect.
“Your men are welcome in my Halls, send word to Winterfell, the King has his forest and his mountains, tell him that the bride´s bag has been paid for.” He marched on, his brother in his arms.

[Solid Snake]

Chapter XX

The Moat

The foul stench of the Neck came pouring from the South. The great towers of Moat Cailin stood in defiance despite age and logic. Young Ethan´s host was arrayed in a crescent covering the northern exit of the Causeway.



Moat Cailin stood, as it has always stood, in the Northern end of the causeway the only “true and safe” passage crossing the Neck, the entrance to the North. Its seven remaining towers stood, lopsided and crumbling but still set in their place, behind a great wall of shiny black stone. Who built the wall? Who built the towers? No one knew. The crannogmen of old claimed that giant lizardlions brought the stones forth, dragging them up from the swamps and bogs, to be shaped by giants and the children of the forest, a refuge against the first onslaught of the First Men. And there it stood, even after the breaking of the Arm of Dorne and the many floods that had ravaged the region, the outer parts of the fortress had fallen back into the waters; but seven towers still remained, and from there, a hundred men could stop ten thousand southerners. Over the centuries the Arryns, the Lannisters, the rivermen, the ironborn, they had all tried the Moat, they had all been pushed back. No army could take the Moat, from the South.

Ethan Greystark marched down from the North however, bringing new levies from the Den and riders from the Rills to bring Moat Cailin to heel, he had surrounded the forest and cut it off from new supplies, the way south was clear, but if the garrison wanted to make a run for it into the Causeway, Ethan was not going to stop them. If he could avoid a direct assault, all the better, for the towers would be a tough nut to crack on their own, all the while under fire from the other six towers. The many forays and sallies that the garrison had undertook spoke of their desperation, watching from afar, his men kept the fortress under close watch, and soon the garrison´s numbers began to dwindle.

Days turned to weeks and weeks turned to despair. The garrison became haggard and unkempt, fewer men on the walls, fewer attempts of breaking out. Ethan was close to fulfilling his task without bleeding his men.

But still, they kept watch, soon the garrison would have to surrender or try to fight their way out.

It turned out to be the latter option, as dawn broke a horn pierced dawn´s mist as whatever remained of the garrison marched forth from the Moat.




Haggard and weary, but still defiant, waving the white banner of the Starks in front of them, they formed into a wedge and rode into fate and battle.




Greystark was ready for them, arrows were set loose and the riders from the Rills poured forth from the rear and the flanks, crisscrossing the field, trampling their foes and seizing the day.




The infantry marched on across the corpse ridden battlefield, racing south to reach the towers, still under close formation and behind their shields, lest their lives be taken by a stray arrow or a loose stone. Soon the Flayed Man replaced the Direwolf atop the Children´s Tower. The gates and battlements reinforced, it fell to one of Lord Burley´s sons to keep the Moat and keep watch on the Causeway, soon as Winter came, the Causeway would become a lifeline as food and forage crawled their way up North; and that way, treacherous as it may be, must be kept open.

Ethan Greystark rallied most of his force and prepared to march back North, to await new orders, he hoped he would be able to claim his new seat soon, Karhold was a worthy prize, it seemed to him, that the war was coming to a close. And not a moment too soon, the cold winds were rising, and he knew that there would be famine to a certain extent. The Den´s port and the Causeway would become the North´s lifeblood as Winter set in with all of it´s cruel force.



For the time being, his orders sent him back to Barrowton to regroup and reinforce Ryswell´s garrison there, it´s port must be reopened with all haste so that food from the Westlands could be brought up by ship. But it was not to be, instead, fear and alarm greeted him as he joined Marq Ryswell in his hall.

A group of refugees were setting their grieves before their Lord. “Are you certain of this?” Barrowton´s maester asked as Marq poured another cup of wine down his throat, on his face, a deep anger was settling.

“Aye, my Lord.” The leader of the men said, a bandage covered the left side of his head, there was blood pouring through the fabric. “Reavers, Ironborn, the krakens of Pyke and the black and greens of Blacktyde.” The man spat as he named the invaders. “They swept over the Rills not two weeks past, your Lordship´s keep was taken by storm. We were too few.”

“How many men?” Ryswell said, standing up, looking at Ethan´s arrival in the back,

“Close to six hundred, eight hundred perhaps.” The man said. “We demand justice! They killed my youngest, and my wife, and…”

“And you shall have it! ” Ryswell boomed. “We shall suffer no ironborn in our shores, in my Keep! I will cast them back into the sea!”

After the Hall was cleared, Ethan met with Lord Ryswell and his sons.



“ Dire news I take it.” Ethan said to clear the air.

“Damn bastards.” Marq growled. “I warned the King many times before, if I had had more men.”

“But there weren´t” Rodderick the Golden said, fuming. “All sent north and to the Moat none the less, while our people were slain.”

Greystark took the rebuke well. “A lord´s lands must be defended by the Lord, or else give them up. I daresay the King would be even harsher.” He leaned forward. “It goes without saying that I lay my arms at your side my Lord, and if I have your leave I will help you reclaim your Keep.”

“Half of your men are ours Greystark.” Rodderick said, still in anger. “Don’t forget that.”

"I haven´t" The young Lord said. "They have covered themselves in glory, now, march with me and let´s kick the ironborn back into the sea."

[Alwyn]

Good updates! I'm looking forward to seeing whether Ethan will prevail against the ironborn.

[Solid Snake]

Chapter XXI

The Prince and the Giant

Winter was ever approaching, and further North the cold set in with a vicious grip, the Weeping Water was already frozen at it´s head, and still, in defiance, stood Last Hearth, last northern stronghold before Brandon´s Gift, ancestral home of the Umbers and home to a would be King, Ondrew Umber had proclaimed himself King in the North when news of Winterfell´s capture reached his ears; petty kings in ages past, the Umbers had been always a ferocious folk, bitter enemies of both Winterfell and the Dreadfort they had held sway in the lands past the Last River since ancient times, before finally submitting to Winterfell half a millennia ago. Their arms were blazoned with a Giant, it´s chains broken in a field of red, a vestige some said of the real Giant that had once called Last Hearth it´s home, truth be told, the Umbers were oft times larger and taller than most northmen. It had come to no surprise that they had proven so fickle after the fall of the Starks. King Domeric had instructed his son to pacify them and at last unify the North beneath the flayed man of the Boltons. It was so that after regrouping and replenish his train of supplies in Karhold and the Dreadfort, Prince Vayon set out for the Last River to bring Ondrew Umber to heel.



Due to their fickle loyalty the Umbers had withheld a greater part of their host than the other Lords that had threw their lot in with the Starks, so Vayon expected heavy resistance, both in the castle and in the march north. The Prince had learned what to expect of his closest bannermen, young Ralf Flint and Lord Locke, who had both become his staunchest supporters, so he wasted no time in sending Flint onwards with a heavy vanguard under him, the Umbers would try to bleed them every step of the way and defend every ford and crossing, and so Flint would try and scourge the entire region and divide and divert the Umber´s forces before Vayon´s march.
Young Flint proved to be up to the task, he had drawn many of the Umber river guards in a wild chase before riding hard for a crossing and crushing his pursuers in a daunting rear guard action. Vayon reached his outriders three days later, crossing without any issue.

“And where would be my Lord of Flint?” The Prince asked after allowing the rider to rise from his kneels.
“Last Hearth my Prince.” He answered. “The Flint took most of the riders and set forth for the castle, we believe he has it surrounded by now.”
“It would be a mighty gift indeed.” The Prince said. “How was the crossing?”
“It was a fine battle my Prince.” Was the answer. “Worthy of a song! Ralf will tell you all about it I´m sure. The way is safe my Lord, just march on and win this war.”
The Prince gave the man a golden coin for his words, and kept his march North. He found Ralf Flint two days later, Last Hearth caught in a closed fist.



The Prince and his host reached Last Hearth after a four day march, the road heavy and difficult with fresh snows, low visibility and slow marching, at last they spotted Flint´s fire ring, marking his outposts surrounding Umber´s keep. They found young Ralf keeping the Umber`s main gate under watch.
“My Prince.” He said kneeling before Vayon as he dismounted. “You are most welcome, our supplies were dwindling, and the forest is bare of any game.”
“Winter has come.” Said Lord Locke, small ice embers hidden amongst his beard. “We can only expect heavier snows from now on. This war must end quickly.”
“And so it shall.” Vayon said, warming his hands in the fire. “We have not enough food for a long siege, we must take the castle by storm, and hope that the Umbers haven’t neglected their harvests.”
“A wise man should have knelt by now, Lord Umber must know that he stands alone.” Lord Locke said as one of his men brought him a jar of mulled wine to warm him up.
“And when has any Umber shown any kind of common sense?” Asked Ralf with a snarl. “They have tried to sally forth two times now, I have managed to push them back but they were close things. The old bastard remains defiant. I bet his wife wishes him dead as much as we do.”

As everyone knew, Ondrew´s claim laid in his marriage to a Stark princess, more than forty years his senior the girl had been used as a rallying banner for the remaining loyalists, few as they were.
“Lady Umber has had many opportunities as of yet.” Vayon said. “Her life is forfeit as well. What of the garrison?”
“Few in number, we have bled them in their sorties, I reckon five or six hundred, cold and starving.” Ralf answered.
“For our sake lets hope they´re not.” Vayon said, smiling. “If not, soon we shall be cold and starving ourselves. The Umbers know that there will not be a siege, they only want an honourable death, there will be no parlay before the wall, or kneeling before the keep, Lord Umber shall fight till the last man, and then some.” He surveyed the walls and the men around him. “We storm the castle on the morrow. This war has well run it´s course.”



The morrow came with a slight breeze, turning the snow mounds into whirlwinds, the army sounded it´s horns, welcoming the dawn, cold as it was. The banner of Umber now with a crowned giant flew, defiant, in the ramparts. Vayon sent forth the attack and the fate of the Umbers was sealed.



First to reach the walls was the Bloody Company, those who had marched with Vayon since his first campaign from the Dreadfort, that had bled beside him in the march to Karhold and punched through the last sun of Winter, some of the very best the North had to offer, quick to the walls and quick to the fight, the garrison held it´s own, for a while, against the crimson tide.




The last King of Winter was ready for battle, he had less than 500 men on the walls, and those were soon beset on all sides by the Bolton soldiers, his last retainers were a top their mounts beside him, clad in armor and drunk with ale and slaughter.
The great horn of the Umbers was heard blasting from the Hearth one last time, Vayon´s men had already reached the main gate and let their Lord´s cavalry through, the Prince could see the last of the Umbers riding down hard on his vanguard, the great frame of Ondrew could be seen clearly from afar, his red and snow mane flowing from his helm, his great greatsword on his hands, a truly daunting weapon, even larger and heavier than Ice, the ancient blade of the Starks. Vayon saw, clear as day, how the greatsword hacked one of his men from neck to navel in one stroke.



The battle was all but over, the walls had been taken by the Bloody Company and some spearmen were making their way through the streets to reach the Hearth of the Umbers, but right near the gate the last Giant made his stand as he cut his way through Vayon´s men, taking hits in his sword and armour, undaunted, his horse as fiery and warlike as his rider, kicking and biting at all those who dared to touch it´s reins, Ondrew Umber was soon covered in blood and gore, the red rivulets flowing down his white and red plate to form a pool beneath his horse´s hooves.





Dozens and dozens of men felt the bite of his steel as he kept trying to push through to Vayon´s position, all the while shouting for him to face him and die. The Prince obliged his wish. And soon the steel rang between them, the Prince was hard pressed by the old man, who was raining blows from left and right and every hit from that monstrous sword was enough to rattle his entire body, glimpsing from his helm he could spot his men managing to bring down the rest of the Umber´s company, as Ondrew was so close to him he could smell his bloody breath, truly a giant atop his warhorse, Umber had at least a two heads advantage over his foe, and Vayon was finding it hard to get inside his guard.



“By all accounts he should be more tired than I.” Vayon thought as he blocked yet another blow with his shield. “If we keep this up, he will kill me.”

His shield was near to being just splinters tied to his arm and so he avoided one of Ondrew´s cuts and throwing his sword away, he took one of his shield´s splinters and when Umber turned to face him again he thrust the wooden spike right through Ondrew´s right eye. The old man, dropped his sword and gave a haunting cry, reaching for his dagger, the Prince thrust the blade through the other eye, silencing the Giant.





Victory was his, at a heavy cost, to many had fallen in Umber´s charge, and he had been in mortal danger as well. But at last, as he reached for the Hearth´s Horn and as he tore it down into the fire that had been set in the courtyard, he knew that at last the North was united, once again.

[Alwyn]

A costly victory and an impressive last stand for the defenders! The north is united, but I wonder what has been happening elsewhere, and if anyone is turning their eyes towards the north, hoping for an easy victory after so many men were lost in warfare there.

[Solid Snake]

Chapter XXII

We Rule the Waves

Since time immemorial the people from the shore, fishing villages and small harbours had learned to fear the Ironborn rising from the sea. Greyiron, Greyjoy, Harlaw, Blacktyde, Farwynd, names that had been etched in the collective memory of Northmen, Lannisters, Hightower and Redwyne and every lord great or small in between. Hundreds if not thousands of girls and men had been taken as thralls and salt wives just in the past fifty years. Hundreds of keeps razed, bridges burned and ships sunk or claimed as prize. No place in the western shore of the continent was safe from the reavers of the Iron Islands, and chief amongst them were the Lords of the Black Blood, the Hoares of Orkmont held sway over ten thousand ships and their will ran wherever the sound of waves could be heard, or so they claimed. As things stood, the Arbor was still overrun with Ironborn, with Lord Tyland Redwyne a captive in his own castle, Oldtown had been sacked not ten years past with a bounty of a hundred maesters and five thousand thralls. The Lions of the Rock had managed to kept them in check, but traders from Kayce, FairIsle and Lannisport kept close to the shore and hired heavy escort to see them through their travels. In the North, the reavers from the Lonely Light had taken Bear Island by storm half a millennia ago and not even the fiercest of the Winter Kings had managed to reclaim it. From there, no village in the Wolfswood was safe from their depredations and to the south they had managed to threaten Barrowton and now the Rills were also in their grasp.



The Blacktydes from Blacktyde had set forth from their island and with 80 longships had assaulted the ancient holdings of House Ryswell. Jared Blactyde and his eldest son Jorah had set their banner atop the Horselord´s Keep. The roar of outrage and defiance from the smallfolk was deafening. Lord Ryswell was hard judged for not defending his land and the King had been beset daily by the survivors and other small lords to reclaim the castle from the Ironborn, as this events transpired, Vayon had not still returned from his campaign North and Winter was ever closing if not already there, so messages and orders took days to come through and forth from Winterfell. It had fell upon Ethan Greystark the duty of reclaiming the Rills, a royal edict was bestowed upon him written and signed in weirwood sap, very much like blood. The war against the ironborn was a religious one as it was a territorial one; the Singers of the Old Gods had declared that the stain of the Ironborn must not be allowed to spread, lest of all their heretical belief in the Drowned God, and hundreds of men, defying the weather, rallied to Ethan´s banner in Barrowton.



Rodderick took command of his House´s cavalry and provided the supplies for the campaign with his own gold. Supplies in the region had been scarce since Beron´s Wrath but at the urging of the Old Gods the Northmen were ready for battle even if it meant crossing the roads during the harshest part of Winter.

The Ironborn were not Northmen, to be sure, and winter didn’t bit as hard in the Isles as it did in the lands beyond the Neck, soon it came to be that the raiders from Blacktyde had run out their own supplies and did not dare to venture out to hunt. There was almost no game to be found even so. They lived mainly on fish, fished and brought up by their thralls guarding the longships, normally it was a two-hour march back to the castle, the snowfalls had turned that into a daylong gruelling walk.

Ethan Greystark fared a little better as he marched west, he had sent the zealots of his army forward, their faith keeping them warm as they made way for the rest of the army. Rodderick urged him to march faster, he might as well have asked him to make the snows cease. Still, he wanted to be inside the Ryswell´s Keep before his supplies ran out.



Their first clash was against one of these thrall patrols, caught midway between the coast and the Keep. Starving, over numbered and in low spirits the iron reavers were cut short by Ethan´s vanguard. A few were kept alive for questioning.



“How many men does Blacktyde keeps inside the Rills?” Ethan asked, inside his tent, the prisoner, badly beaten before him, a fire kept the tent warm. Rodderick was present as well, and the Chief Speaker before the Old Gods, his face, hidden behind a weirwood mask. “Where are your longships hidden?”
“You can ask all you want, cub.” The reaver asked. “Lord Blacktyde shall skin you all if you dare face him.”
“Skin me, you say?” Ethan said, with a smile. “King Domeric happens to know a thing or two about that, the Red Man of the Dreadfort, surely your lord Jared has heard of the Boltons and their words.”
The man before him swallowed, pure sand in his throat.
“Speak, thrall, and I promise your death shall be swift.” Rodderick said. “Keep your tongue and lose your skin boy. The King shall make a spectacle out of you.”
“My King is of the Black Blood! King Hoare rules over the waves and sea!” The thrall spat in defiance, making Rodderick grimace at the spit flown his way.
“He is no King of Winter and snow.” Ethan countered. “You have overreached yourselves, you shall starve before we reach the Rills I wager. And come Spring we shall make a gift to your King, of the skins of your dead lords.”
“This is my final offer thrall.” He continued. “Speak now and you shall die before you know it, refuse me, and the gods shall have every drop of your blood before you breathe your last.”
The Singer had drew a wicked scythe, his features unreadable, the mask, sinister.
“The only God is the Drowned God!” The man roared. “What is dead may never-!”
Rodderick hit him in the head with the butt of a spear.
“Take him to the gods.” He said towards the masked man. “Let his fellows see what befalls him. Then bring in the next one.” The Golden said to the tent´s guards as he threw the unconscious man out to the snowfield.
The next man gave the answer they were seeking. Frostbite and hunger had made short work of Blacktyde´s invasion, less than 300 men fit for battle. Now, the only obstacle in Ethan´s path was the Winter that had so weakened his foe.
The next day they set out towards the Rills once more, the weirwood nearby painted red by the blood of the fallen captives, their heads impaled on stakes all around it.
It took them three more days to reach the Horselord´s Keep, a small bastion surrounded by snow covered plains, usually many horse packs roamed freely all around it, now lost to the cold or kept inside the castle.
“Its your castle.” Ethan said to Rodderick as their men surrounded the ancient seat of the Ryswells. “Are there any hidden ways in? Secret backdoors?”
“There is, a hunter´s gate hidden in plain sight, a movable piece of wall.” He said pointing towards the west of the castle. “I can bring all our horse inside through there if you keep the ironborn busy atop the walls.”
Ethan smiled. “I shall let the singers take first blood, they have been aching for it since they took up those masks of theirs. Let´s make this quick, I fear Winter is already here.”
“My Lord is wise to send us first into the fray.” The Chief Singer said to Ethan as he delivered his orders. His mask of weirwood now “crying” with it´s red sap. “We shall deliver the castle and it´s people from the heathens inside. A final tribute to the Gods before the coming snows.”
Ethan was unsure of how to answer that, so he just nodded and left, a weird bunch indeed.





Ladders were made ready for the assault, the few ironborn still fit to fight had few bowmen with them their arrows made no great dent amongst the believers of the Old Gods as they made their way across the field. Soon they were climbing the walls and taking the fight to the Drowned God´s men, shield against shield, sword against axe.






While the men fought and bled in the walls, Rodderick made good on his word, dislodging part of the western wall he led his horse into his castle by the reins, his men as silent as him. With a smooth movement they sat astride their horses now, and still, silent as the waters they rode into the town proper. Jared Blacktyde had remained near the Keep, with his personal guard, armoured in heavy iron and with heavy axes in their arms, their green cloaks gathering snow. It was his undoing, when he finally heard the horses´ rumble it was already too late.








In the walls few ironborn remained, but Jorah Blacktyde stood defiant, his last guards still by his side, they knew they were dead, every ironborn knew that, their only worry was how would they find their way to the sea if they died so far inland. That distressing thought did not keep Jorah Blacktyde afraid, his steel singing as he took every foe that came his way.





Near to three dozen men had he felled, his axe still thirsty, the sound of battle a small buzz in his ears, his sight turned red, his arms set on fire. He knew nothing but the next man in front of him and the next man, and the next man after that. He would not be judged a craven or a turncloak, and still he kept going, at last he was surrounded, and felled, collapsing from twenty different wounds.





The rest of the army came through the fallen gates, the small folk cheering at his returning Lord, the remaining ironborn, those deemed unfit for battle were herded by the Singers, their scythes would be hard at work late into the night.

“Welcome to your castle my Lord.” Ethan said to Rodderick as they took the castle dais.

“The Rills are yours my Lord.” Answered Rodderick as was customary.

“The King has instructed me to bestow the Rills into your care.” Ethan continued. “Your father shall remain in Barrowton, take care of your people Lord Ryswell.”

With that the Young Wolf retired back to the walls, he intended to supervise the safe passing of his force inside the castle. He was to regroup and resupply, and at last he had been given leave to claim his own Lordship far in distant Karhold. As Winter set it´s claws across the land he hoped that his family and his land could know peace at long last.

[Alwyn]

Good update! I enjoyed Jorah Blacktyde's defiance and I wonder if the Young Wolf's family and land will get the peace that he hopes for.

[Solid Snake]

Chapter XXIII

A Pride of Lions

Winter was here, the white raven had finally arrived from Oldtown, confirming what every man, woman and child from the North already knew. The season had passed and Winter was in full swing, maester Russell expected a harsh, but short winter.
“Three years, would be my wager, if I were a gambling man.” He said to the King as he attended the Queen and the twins, recently arrived to Winterfell to deliver his youngest daughters under proper care. A difficult labor, but happily delivered, maester Russell set two girls at the King´s lap, Jonelle and Sybelle. “The men from the Queen´s entourage claim that the roads are still crossable, and the Weeping Water and the White Knife are still open at their mouths.”

“It has just begun.” Domeric said as he carried one of the babes off from his wife´s lap. “And Winter can be crueller on our youngest and can be the bane of great and small lords alike. The Starks were fortunate; and clever, to build their home here. Hardly any chill enters it´s walls.”
“I just hope Vayon can get here safely.” The Queen said as she nursed the second twin. “The winds and the roads are hard.”
“His journey will get easier as he gets nearer.” Domeric said, pacing the room with his newborn. “He is accompanied by the best men of our House and he is stronger than all of us. It is our other guests that worry me.”
He returned the babe to one of the nurse maids, always close to Queen Catelyn.
“Are you certain of their numbers and location?” He asked to Russell.
“Your brother sent riders, just arrived in the morning.” He said, passing a parchment to the King. “They are crossing the Barrows, and he has already met them, he expects to arrive in two weeks from now.”
“Later than Vayon, all the better, the boy shall need time.”


When at last Prince Vayon arrived to his new seat, the folk surrendered their love to him, young, dashing and imposing on his dark pink armour. Hero of the North and leader of a victorious and hard campaign pacifying both Karhold and Last Hearth. Horns and trumpets greeted him as he entered the walls into the Main Keep.
King Domeric had made a point of the entire court, save for the Starklings, to receive his eldest son in person. As the Prince made his way through the hall atop his horse, his father applauded him, the warriors tapping the floor with their spears. And when Vayon dismounted in front of his father, Domeric stepped down from the ancient seat of the Starks and embraced his son with warmth, the Queen following close behind. The crowd roaring their support.
“Welcome my child.” Queen Catelyn said. “You have been so, so brave, we are so proud of you. The Queen was beaming.
“We truly are, tales of your victories have reached every corner of the North, you have become all I had ever hoped you´d be. “The King said, stepping back and gesturing his son towards the High Seat.
“You are Prince of Winterfell, and you shall seat where the Starks once ruled.” Domeric said.
“Thank you, father, mother.” Vayon said, as he turned towards his people, and took possession of his new seat and castle, the small folk embracing him with their cheer.

After the small feast that followed, the Royal Family turned towards their inner chambers, so that the Prince could meet his sisters.
“Truly a surprise mother!” He said as he carried one of the babes. “I thought that our maester had ruled out any other births!”
“It was a risky endeavour to be sure.” Maester Russell pointed out. “But Northern women are often of hardier stock and your Mother is hardier than most Northern women.” He said, bowing towards the Queen.
“A blessing from the Gods.” The Queen said smiling. “And now with you here and with the war at it´s end, we can have some rest at last.”
“The war has only ended in the North.” The King pointed out, as he drank a cup of wine. “The Starks have left us many debts still to be paid.” He pointed towards his son. “But that´s another war altogether, you are the matter I wish to discuss now my son.”
“Me?” Vayon said, turning with a smile. “What other matter is left to discuss? The North is safe, war shall wait for spring or at least we must try to do so, and…”
“You are unwed.” The King said, smiling as well. “You are my eldest and my heir, Prince of Winterfell, hero of many battles and you remain unwed and without a son of your own.”

“Winter is not a time for weddings.” The Prince said, sitting down, and pouring wine for himself. “Food is short, towns need to be rebuilt, people have suffered…”
“All the better to see you safely wed.” The Queen said, caressing his wrist. “The people shall cheer you and your wife as they have cheered you today, a distraction yes, but a vital one.”
“You are smart my son.” Domeric said. “I have no illusions, the North shall never love me as much as they already love you, we can hold sway over the North for centuries now and Winterfell shall remain at it´s heart not the Dreadfort, even if I rule from there you will be a great Lord and power in your own right. The Prince of Winterfell and his rule will not be a small one. The castle, it´s rents and holdings shall go to you and your own in it´s entirety. Some of our loyal lords wanted me to carve the Stark holdings, I will not do such thing, when I pass you shall rule from the Dreadfort and your own shall rule from here and so on and so on.”
“And who would you have me wed to?” The Prince asked, overwhelmed by his new responsibilities. “I dare say there are not many great Houses left in the North.” He said, half joking.
“There have been ravens.” The Queen said, smiling.

“And tomorrow I shall ride out to meet our guests in the road and escort them here.” Domeric continued.
“You? Our King?” Vayon said, in mild disbelief. “Where did that raven come from?”
“Casterly Rock.” The Queen said, triumphantly.

“When the news of Winterfell spread down South it caused a rumble in the rest of the continent.” Domeric continued. “Some offered peace, others only defiance, but the Lannisters reached out, looking for an alliance.”
“To be gained by marriage?” Vayon asked.
“Only natural my child.” The Queen said chastising him. “Queen Johanna has offered her eldest daughter hand in marriage, princess Eleyna, young, smart and a dashing beauty if her mother can be believed.” She said with a laugh.
“The Lannisters of Casterly Rock have always been famed for their looks.” His father said, pouring more wine. “And for their gold, we have an use for both to be sure, the Lady Johanna has been quite insistent in that you meet her daughter and has braved the journey north, by sea no less. We expect them to arrive a week from today.”
“Can I refuse? Is my agreement necessary?” Vayon asked, with a snarl.
“Certainly.” His father said, piercing him with his cold eyes. “I will not impose the girl on you, but at least meet and hear the poor girl, she deserves that after travelling for a thousand miles and more, hearing tales of your deeds, sailing through the Sunset sea, across winter storms and ironborn, landing in Barrowton and braving our Winter and Snows through a war ravaged land, hoping for a time alone with the Prince…-“
“Enough!” Vayon said laughing. “I will meet this Princess; a winter wedding is not an uncommon sight in these Halls after all.”


During the next week the smallfolk was kept busy and festive with the preparations of the coming feast, the lady Eleyna was famed for her beauty and Prince Vayon was a Prince that all the North could be proud of, efforts were made to supply fresh meat for the table, including fresh fruits and sweets from Winterfell´s iced garden. Thankfully the snows had subsided for those days, even if the cold turned even colder, barely kept at bay by the famous waterworks of the castle, running hot water across it´s walls, keeping it warm even in the dead of Winter.
At last, it came that the banners of King Domeric and King Liam of Casterly Rock were spotted from a top the walls. The smallfolk defied the cold to get a glimpse of the Lions from the Rock, the Queen of the Rock had brought a hundred knights with her for protection, and had brought three of her cubs, the Princess Eleyna, shining in a cloak of red embroidered with gold, rubies on her ears, riding a top a horse with a coat that looked like molten gold and two Princes, her youngest, Prince Tommen and Prince Loren riding small palfreys. The Queen herself was riding beside the King as it befit her position, a mule with a coat of pure silver, almost invisible in the snows, she was visible enough for her entire retinue, her dress was golden and golden was her crown, with a cloak of pure crimson with emeralds and cloth of gold entwined in the fabric, hand in hand they passed through the gates of Winterfell and let the cheer of the crowd wash over them.

Prince Vayon welcomed them inside his Hall, standing up with open arms as the entourage made their way across the Hall, the ambience festive and warm from the dozens of torches in the walls and chandeliers.
King Domeric gave his son a small bow as he brought forward Queen Johanna.
“Lady Johanna, Queen of the Rock.” He said presenting her to the Winter´s Court. “May I present my son? Vayon, Prince of Winterfell, Giantslayer and Shield of the North.”
“My lady.” The Prince said, stepping down from the dais to welcome her. “Winterfell and the North welcomes you and your family.” He kissed the hand of the Queen, bowing before her.
“You are most courteous.” The Queen answered, beaming. “And may I present my own daughter? The lady Eleyna, Princess of the Rock, Flower of the West.” She said as she turned to give way for her daughter.
The Princess face was a poem, fair skin, turned into a slight blush from the cold, a few snowflakes crowned her golden hair, embroidered with a net of gold and rubies to match those in her ears. Her dress was a deep blue, hinting at the glint of steel, her cloak crimson and gold. Her eyes, two pools of emerald green.

“My lady.” The Prince said as she took her hand and bowed to give it the gentlest kiss. She smelled of lilac and oranges. “Tales of your beauty make you no justice, I hope your travel was not arduous.”
The two mothers, the Queen Johanna and Queen Catelyn shared a knowing smile.
“It was a long journey yes, my Lord.” The Princess answered, her voice clear and vibrant. “I had not seen snow before, it turns every village into a fairytale, although nothing could have prepared me for the cold.” A small shiver gave her away.
“Winterfell is the warmest castle in the North my lady.” The Prince said as he took her hand to lead her into the dais. “I trust it shall be more to your liking.”
The rest of the introductions were made, and then, the feast began.
Seven plates to honour the seven gods of the Southern lands, salmon, and venison, roast aurochs and a hearty soup of sweet onion. To top it all off, a cake was brought up, a golden lion of lemon pie, surrounded by sweets of winter rose, the Princess Eleyna and Queen Johanna declared it sublime. A small ball followed, Vayon and Eleyna shared three dances before exchanging partners, wine and ale flowed through the night.
“So why Giantslayer?” The Princess asked. “I thought the giants were extinct.”
“There are no more giants south of the wall my Lady.” Vayon answered as they turned and twirled. “North of the Wall, who can say?” A slight shrug. “My feats are not so grand I fear, the last Umber fell before my blade, they used to blazon their banners with a roaring giant.”
“You Northmen are so colourful.” The Princess said, smiling. “I do hope you can share more stories with me.”
“It shall be my pleasure.” The Prince said, returning her smile.
After some other small pleasantries both parties retired for bed, tomorrow would be a busy day.

The next day was chill, but there was no snow, the sun was shining meekly in the sky, and Prince Vayon was touring the Princess through the godswood, followed at a prudent distance by both their mothers and their entourage.
Their steps crunched the leaves and the snow below them, steam was rising from the ground, to the great interest of the Princess.
“This is so weird!” The Princess claimed. “The forest, the steam, the snow, the heat… Gods! It´s like straight out of a fairy tale!”
“The hot water springs under us keep the castle warm and provides for many pools in this here godswood.” The prince explained as they made their way through the forest. His clothes were a pale pink and his cloak was embroidered with crimson tears of blood. “In the Winter it is the difference between life and death my lady.”
“So grim.” The Princess teased. “I suppose this was the Stark´s playground before, what will the Prince of Winterfell make with this forest?” Princess Eleyna wore a green emerald dress with a golden lion embroidered in the fabric.
“The old tales say that the Starks used to keep deer and direwolves in these woods, for game and for battle. The children of the forest taught them the language of the wolves and they could talk to them as I talk to you now.” Vayon explained. “I guess that many princelings used the pools to bathe, but in essence, a godswood is a site of prayer.”
“You mean the weirwoods?” The Princess said, moving forward as the branches opened up into the central clearing. “Did I get that right? Ohhhh” Her surprise permeated the air.
The godswood opened up into the largest pool in the forest, steam rising in lazy spirals from it´s dark surface, at the head of the lake stood the heart tree, massive in size, its red leaves in sharp contrast with it´s white bark. It´s eyes seemed fixed on the couple.

“The heart tree, yes.” Vayon said, taking Eleyna´s hand to guide her towards the tree. “I hear that there are no heart trees south of the Neck.”
“Only in the wild.” The girl said. “Most great houses keep a small godswood and some keep a heart tree. Ours is in the Stone Garden, a small, twisted old thing, it´s branches covering almost the entire room.” Eleyna said as she gazed upon the giant trunk and as red leaves fell over her golden hair.
“Casterly Rock sounds like an imposing place.” Vayon said, as he reached her.
“Oh it is beautiful, it shines like a golden mound in the sunset sea. The Rock is even taller than your Wall, some say. Our ships can dock beneath it and there are veins of gold throughout the entire thing. The Rock is a wonder; you must come some time.” The Princess said, as she stood facing the red smile of the heart tree.
“It would make my heart fill with joy my lady.” Vayon said as he knelt before the weirwood. “I gather that your mother told you the true intent of your visit?”
The Princess knelt beside the Prince. “Oh yes, we are to be married, our gold must flow into the north and your blades shall bleed our foes, blah, blah, blah. But even without all of that…”
“Yes?” The Prince asked, turning to face her.
“I think I would be very happy to be your wife.” Eleyna said, quivering. Vayon reached out with his hand, taking hers into his own.
Both Queens, gazed with approval and with a hidden smile at the young couple.

“I take it that it is settled then?” Queen Johanna said with a smile.
“I would say as much.” Queen Catelyn answered. “Vayon seems taken with her. A lovely girl to be sure.”
“So, we can turn to discussing the wedding arrangements?” The Queen of the Rock asked. “My husband pressured me to leave the girl wed to her Northern Prince at the end of this journey.” A small pause. “I hope that religion is of no matter?”
“No, and yes. The wedding must take place before a heart tree if your girl is to be Queen of the North someday, but she will be allowed to keep her own gods afterwards.”
“By the Seven! Please do tell that to our septon, he almost threw himself out of the Rock when my lord husband told him of his decision to join our Houses.” This elicited laughter from both Queens.
“Yes, yes my lady, I shall.” Catelyn answered. “I think we can leave to our husbands the matter of gold and swords. Come, my lady, let us take this pair away.”

It was a tall order to surpass the welcoming feast, but for the wedding, no expense was spared, Winterfell´s cooks were hard pressed to deliver a feast that would be the talk of the region for years to come.
The Princess Lyra came down from Deepwood with her Glover husband, her mother was quick in pestering for news of pregnancy, but the Princess remained silent on the matter, although she looked happy with her marriage; she beamed at the Princess Eleyna, glad to have a “proper conversation with a real lady” and began filling the Princess ears with tales of their childhood.

From Torrhen´s Square their uncle sent only wedding gifts, excusing himself with tales of bandits near his castle, to the bride she sent a proper winter´s cloak, woollen and with a heavy hood but embroidered with gold and emeralds, to his nephew he sent a weirwood bow, near half his height.
From the Den the Greywolf came as well, Torrhen Greystark arrived to much cheer and excitement from the smallfolk. His exploits during the war were also the stuff of song and praise. Sadly, his son Ethan was detained by snows in the Rills and could not make the journey North.

Most of the remaining lords made their utmost effort to assist or send their salutations, Cerwyn, Flint, Wull and such; many of the small folk tried to reach Winter´s Town as well in hopes of catching a glimpse of the pride of lions that had taken shelter in Winterfell.

The day of the wedding began before dawn, tradition dictated that the bride and groom must exchange their vows before the Heart Tree at the break of dawn. It was so, that traversing across a cold mist Princess Eleyna met her husband to be beneath a cloth with the golden lion of her father, escorted by Queen Johanna, Vayon waited for her, with both her fathers beside him.
“Who comes to deliver this woman?” Queen Catelyn asked.
“It is I, Queen Johanna of Casterly Rock. I bring my trueborn daughter, Princess Eleyna a worthy and pure maiden.” Queen Johanna stepped up with her daughter before the gaze of the weirwood. “And who shall receive this daughter of mine?”
“It is Vayon of House Bolton, my trueborn son and Prince of Winterfell.” King Domeric proclaimed as the parents stepped down from the dais to leave the couple alone before the tree.

Princess Eleyna knely before Vayon, unclasping her bridal cloak. Vayon knelt beside her, took the Lannister cloak from her shoulders and put his own cloak on top of her, bringing her under his protection. The cloak was a pale pink with the flayed man of the Boltons embroidered in rubies at it´s centre.
As they both rose together, their hands entwined beneath the gaze of both men and gods, they declared, for all to hear.

“By winter and by spring, through sickness and wealth, through war and peace, by ice and fire, I swear that you are mine and I am yours, from this day to my dying day.” They both said in perfect unison. A cheer erupted from the crowd and the festivities began.

As the wedding feast was roaring in the Main Hall, King Domeric, Queen Johanna and Torrhen Greystark held a closed council in a private chamber.
“So, your husband expects the Northmen to make battle against your foes?” Torrhen asked.
“What are alliances for? If not to battle our allies’ foes?” The Queen asked in turn, not balking one bit. “Aren´t you at war with the Arryns of the Eyrie?”

King Domeric laughed. “For only half millennia now, a war that the Starks started.”
“And that the Boltons shall end I hope.” The Queen said. “Why do you think I brought my daughter and my own self by sea? The Arryns have swept over the riverlands, they threaten the Golden Tooth and even the Stromkings have felt their bite as well.”
“It seems that the Talon has grown bored of waiting.“ Torrhen said. “Do we know if the Old Falcon has died?”

“Reports are scarce.” The Queen admitted, sipping wine. “But if you bring your armies to bear against the Talon you shall have the entire support and gratitude of House Lannister.” She pierced Domeric with her gaze. “I trust that your Grace has seen the chests that my husband has sent you.”

“A king´s ransom, yes.” The King admitted. “And happiness for my son.”
“And a Princess that the North can love.” The Queen continued, grasping the concept.
The King turned to Torrhen.
“If Ramsay can hold the Moat and our southern border, I think an invasion of the Vale is not impossible.” Domeric said.
“The Starks were forcing my hand to begin building galleys for an invasion. A small fleet is ready.” Torrhen said. “We´ll have to be quick in our crossing, winter storms can be treacherous.”
The King refilled Queen Johanna´s cup.

“And what would the Lannister be prepared to do against those common foes of ours, the ironborn?” The King asked.
“If you give us the swords we shall give you the ships.” The Queen said with a smile. “They are a pest, and we shall well be rid of them.”
“Perhaps one of your sons could stay as Vayon´s ward?” The King asked. “To keep his sister´s company and to perhaps meet a future wife?”
“Those babes of yours?” The Queen almost laughed, but contained herself. “They need a nanny not a husband, but still… A husband seven years older than his wife is not uncommon at all.”
“It would gladden my heart.” The King assured her. “Tell your husband that the Vale shall run red.”
He got up and took the Queen´s hand.

“Now, shall we join the festivities?”
“Gladly.” The Queen answered. “I am most curious of the, what do you call it? The dance of red leafs?”
“Oh my lady.” The King said, smiling. “It is to die for!”

[Alwyn]

Great update! The King's final comments about the Vale and the dance sounds ominous.

[Solid Snake]

Chapter XXIV

The Falcon´s Claws

It wasn’t the first time that the Arryns, or some other, tried the Causeway in search of the way North. Hundreds of armies had met their end at Moat Cailin over the ages and ever since the War Across the Water had began some other lordling from the Vale would venture up the Neck from time to time. But since the Arryns decided to turn South instead of North, their fortune had increased, the Eyrie now held sway over all the riverlands of the Trident, reaching the Golden Tooth in the West, putting pressure on the Lannisters and reaching the head of the Blackwater, the domains of House Durrandon since time immemorial. Half a millenia ago when the war began, even the Boltons sent their share against the Valemen, Belthasar Bolton claimed the lives of three hundred sistermen to build his dreaded Pink Pavillion; and even Domeric had once led the Old King´s navy to Gulltown to burn the Arryn fleet at harbor, joined by a very young and very bold Beron Stark. Since Bolton´s Defiance, the Arryn King, Old Osgood Arryn had turned his old eyes towards the Trident and the North had been left to resolve it´s own matters, blissfully isolated from the rest of Westeros, but now, even as Winter still raged, some of the Vale lords had resumed their constant march North.





It was a matter that the King and Queen Johanna had discussed at large.

“I intend to bring the Three Sisters to heel once and for all, small rocks yes, but from there an assault upon the Vale´s eastern shore is more than feasible.” The King surmised. “Does your lord husband plans on a counter attack from the West?”

“Us Lanisters are not well loved in the riverlands as you must know.” The Queen answered. “But the Arryns attacked us unprovoked and my husband promised a reckoning, yet the Green Hands are still a threat to our southern marches. He will send aid to you, but our main force is defending against the might of Highgarden.”
So the Boltons stood alone for the most part, but the wealth of Casterly Rock would pay for the campaign and when the Arryns resumed their forays North, a swell of volunteers rose forward to pick up shield and spear.



Moat Cailin, held by the Burleys, could stand against an army twenty thousand strong and more, but the Arryns, now holding both banks of the Green Fork made their way up North from Seagard and bypassed the worst of the swamps and bogs of the Neck. When he grew aware of the danger Lord Flint barely managed to summon a small levy from his lands before the Lord of Gulltown put him to siege.




Mychel Grafton was one of the Talon´s closest companions, strong and young matching his liege lord in ferocity and cunning, he had been sent to crack open the Northern way and now, catching the garrison of Flint´s Finger unawares he was very close in reaching his goal.

Ravens were sent out to Winterfell and the Dreadfort, and already Ramsay Fireblood was making his way down south but Rodrik Flint, head of House Flint, knew that help would be late if it came at all, but he was adamant in making Grafton pay for every inch gained.

Grafton wasted no time in building siege engines to storm the castle, rams, ladders, even a tower were brought up, but the Flints were not without tricks of their own. And Lord Rodrik sneaked out every day with his few retainers and raided Grafton´s camp time and time again, night in and night out, goading him into bow range and always leaving him with fewer men than the day before.



Furious, Lord Grafton decided enough was enough and launched his assault upon the walls, and as he saw young Lord Rodrik riding hard to meet him, he decided to pursue him with his knights while his infantry took the castle.

A top the walls the Arryns could not stand under the fire pouring down from above, but their ram reached the castle´s gate and set to work, pound after pound, tearing the gate from it´s hinges and allowing hundreds of men inside. But there beyond the gate stood men of the North, locked in shield and spear and ready to give out their lives to defend their hearth and home.




Outside the gates Grafton had clashed with Flint´s cavalry, at a ground that Rodrik chose before hand, and even though the Vale knights outnumbered the northmen three to one, numbers counted little after Grafton´s vanguard fell into pit traps and murder holes all over the field, and some of Flint´s fiercest men had been hiding near the hedges and bushes and now they sprang forward, with spear and dagger, dancing amongst Grafton´s knights.

Rodrik Flint survived with less than 5 companions at his side, but Grafton had not dared to face him, after half of his knights had been lost to spear and axe his own retainers turned him around to flee the field.




And at the gates the Arryns fared no better, the north men were adamant in their defence and would not budge under pressure, when Rodrik returned and hit them in their rear they surrendered by the score.




Flint´s Finger was safe for now, but Rodrik knew that luck had played it´s part in the battle and he knew that the Arryns would not cease, not when they had coin and men to spare, while the North was depleted from the past conflicts. He sent another raven to Winterfell and to Moat Cailin urging them to reinforce the Causeway, while he raised another force to guard the western road and keep the way south under watch.

Eorl Hunter was one of the Talon´s best men, along with Grafton, Lord Royce and Lord Corbray, hailing from Longbow Hall he had been instrumental in the battle for the Riverlands, taking Seagard and Oldstones by storm, he had now been set by the Falcon King to march North and brave the dangers of Moat Cailin. When news of the incoming foes reached the ears of King Domeric and Torrhen Greystark in the Wolf´s Den plans had to be made anew.

The King would set sail for Sisterton as was originally planned, but the Grey Wolf would be marching south to relief Moat Cailin and stop Lord Hunter in his tracks.




Lord Hunter marched North with close to five thousand men, mostly infantry, but with close to five hundred knights of the Vale, anointed by the Seven and famed in song and battle. He was determined to break the Causeway open, but when Greystark fell upon him he redeployed to a nearby forest, the frozen swamps of the Neck at his back.




Torrhen brought most of his horse down South, but still he was outnumbered in both cavalry and infantry. But the weather and terrain was on his side, the Valemen would not be able to escape should battle turn sour for them, and the winter´s count had already took it´s toll on Hunter´s men as they marched North. Greystark matched Eorl spear for spear as he concentrated his cavalry on his right flank to surprise the enemy´s horsemen. Eorl instructed his men to not give ground as the northmen clashed with his shield wall.



Torrhen, still nimble and strong despite his years charged right through the enemy´s left flank, the horses had been malnourished and frostbitten as winter claimed them and thus, they had turned out far weaker than the cavalry from the Wolf´s Den.



The men from the Vale held firm at first, their training and gear showing through the snows, but the Northmen were better suited to battle in these conditions and had survived far worse battles. The line was holding, for now, and Lord Hunter was looking for the right moment to push through his foe, using his remaining knights as a fist of steel he turned his helm towards Torrhen´s charge which was threatening to overwhelm his left flank.



“Knights of the Vale!” He cried as he drew the ancient blade of his House, Longshot, forged in Valyrian steel. “Far and wide you have ridden with me! From the Bloody Gate and the Mountains of the Moon! All the way to the Sunset Sea, to Seagard and beyond! We broke the Hammer of Justice!” His men drew close to him as they readied lance and sword for the coming clash.

“The Falcon shall flay their flayed man even more!” He cried, his men roaring their support. “For the King, for the Falcon and the Vale!”

The knight´s charge made the earth tremble, making the men tremble inside their armour.




Eorl clashed his cavalry against Torrhen´s men, his steel cutting men, shield and horse alike. He turned and danced in his horse looking for the Grey Wolf. Around him the battle raged, his men still held the line, but the northmen were slowly pushing them into the bogs, and he knew of the dangers that lurked there. He rode forward, cutting down foes as he advanced, looking for Greystark´s banner.




Torrhen was doing much the same thing, as his men were being swept aside by the Falcon Tide he endured and with his retainers kept his horse and his position. At last he spotted his foe, not twenty paces apart. And with a cry of defiance he met Torrhen´s steel with his own. Long time did the duel last, as Greystark endured as best he could, Longshot leaving him small cuts all over his arm and torso. His sword found an open spot in Hunter´s guard, and managed to pierce him beneath the armor, but Eorl pushed him with his shield and brought the old man down from his horse.



It seemed that Eorl would deliver the finishing blow, but Greystark´s infantry rushed forward and formed a shield wall around him, piercing Eorl´s horse and making him fall down as well. It was hard to make sense of the flow of battle but the back line of Hunter seemed to have been compromised as arrows fell through their backlines and their right flank seemed to have fallen as well. Torrhen´s cavalry was gaining the upper hand and as Lord Hunter tried to make sense of his surroundings and arrow coming from the bogs pierced him right through the slit of his helm.

The Flayed Man and the Grey Wolf´s banners were flowing all the way from Hunter´s right flank to his rearguard. And already some of his men had began to break and lose formation.




Greystark had to be dragged back from the field of battle, his still bleeding wounds turning him weak and feeble, but alive still. As his men overtook the Valemen and as news of Hunter´s death flew across the field the battle turned into a rout, a death trap more like, for there was no way back to North or South, the only way open was West, towards the deep of the Neck´s bogs. Torrhen´s men claimed the crannogmen had finally joined the fight on their side, united against a foreign threat, their arrows took their toll in the Arryn´s rear. The field was littered with bodies, but no remains would survive the night.




The King crossed the Bite without much issue, braving storms and thunder he landed on Sweet Sister with close to three thousand men, his very best, the deadliest fighting force in the North, those who had slayed the Wolfs and had taken Winterfell by storm.




The King made his way quickly towards Sisterton, the seat of House Sunderland. House Borrell, the main bannermen of the Sunderlands stood in his way, but since most of their fighting force was in the host of Lord Corbray near the Trident the castles and keeps were mostly deserted. The Bloody Company tore it´s way through the walls of Sisterton, the famed One Eyed Crab, the old Lord Borrell barred Breakwater Castle against the King, but after a short siege Domeric claimed his last eye, and his life.

The Night Lamp and the rest of Sisterton surrendered shortly after, Domeric spared the life of one of Sunderland´s daughters, the rest of the family he ordered them flayed. The Three Sisters had fallen, and the King intended to reach the Vale of Arryn next and cripple them from within.








Ps. So long from the last update! As I said before, updares will be irregular, but I intend to keep on writing, work has been hectic this month, summer has been cruel, and I will be on holidays till July, so I will attempt to post an update or two. Thanks to all the readers! Hope you have been enjoying this tale so far.

[Alwyn]

I'm enjoying your tale! It sounds like Rodrik Flint is brave, smart and lucky - an effective combination.

[Solid Snake]

Chapter XXV


The Bleeding Rivers

As Lord Greystark and his army, reinforced by the allegiance of House Reed and all their vassals; crawled through the Causeway, his head still hazy with fever from his wounds in the past battle; Lord Ramsay marched down from Flint´s Finger, the plan called for him to seize Seagard and then join with Greystark at the Green Fork of the Trident, and proceed down it´s banks till they reach the God´s Eye.
Ramsay was a cunning warrior, and he led his scouting party with the same zeal he showed in the field of battle, thus he was well aware of Arryn´s movements in the lands surrounding the Green Fork. It was so that he learned of the Old Falcon´s death and of Oswyn Arryn, the Talon, ascent to the crown of Mountain and Vale. Oswyn Arryn was a true and proven warrior as well, his early forays had led him to burn down Greystark galleys and he even managed to seize Widow´s Watch for a moon´s turn before Lord Flint and Beron Halfstark pushed him back to the sea; the War Across the Water between Winterfell and the Eyrie, dormant for three centuries had become fiery red in the past year. Now, free of his father, the Talon had carved out the river lords and had beaten the famed Hammer of Justice, the late Tristifer Mudd in single combat. His scouts seemed to point that Arryn´s main force was off west, trying to gain the Golden Tooth from the Lannisters, the Green Fork had been entrusted to Morton Royce lord of Runestone. Lord Royce had split his army in two, he and his main host had marched east, to block Lord Greystark´s march, while his eldest son had remained at Seagard, his army, close to ten thousand men, full of levies from the river men.

Young Nestor Royce had decided to not remain idle in Seagard, setting out to hunt Ramsay Firebrand in the marches north of the castle, his retainers failed to tell him that Ramsay boasted of being called The Hunter.
Keeping the young man in check while keeping his main force hidden, Ramsay had managed to draw out the lordling all the way to a hidden clearing in the Cape of Eagles, with the sound of waves crashing over Ironman´s Bay filling the air.
When Nestor finally managed to track down Lord Ramsay´s retinue, he found himself facing the Bolton´s main force, the Flayed Man flying all over the field.



The young man knew he had been outmanoeuvred, but he had no choice but to give battle or be cut down while retreating. He ordered his river men front and center, keeping most of his cavalry in reserve; the men from House Royce used heavy bronze armour, runes carved in the plates, said to glow with a red or golden light and to shield the wearer from all harm, or so it was said.

Ramsay sounded his battle horn and ordered his men forward, his infantry clad in iron and steel ready to match the men from the Vale with spear and sword, the banners of Bolton and Flint marching forward together. As Ramsay raced all his cavalry to his left flank the infantry clashed together against the river men.




The river men held their own, for a while, their numbers were larger than the northmen but their strength and training started to show. And the river men began to fell by the score. It was this moment that Ramsay turned his horse around and charged for the enemy´s right flank with an iron fist of close to 500 riders. Nestor´s right crumbled under the onslaught and Ramsay´s famed ferocity and lust in battle, the Bolton´s were rightly feared and the river men began to flee from the field.





Young Lord Royce had reacted too late, he sent his cavalry forward, leading the charge into Ramsay´s forces, trying to save his right flank, he could not be blamed for cowardice, but he knew the field was lost.





He had managed to send a small party back to Seagard to warn them of the incoming foe, his guards cutting down northmen left and right as they plunged deeper into Ramsay´s lines. But as with his army, he overreached himself; the Hunter had turned around his infantry and the rest of Nestor´s army was soon fleeing the battle, while Ramsay rode forward to catch the lordling.




Famed armour it may have been but it did little to protect Lord Royce from Ramsay´s vicious blows, his body rattling with every strike, he soon felt his sword arm wet with blood, his vision a haze of red, his left arm likely broken, the shield crushed to splinters, he managed to saw his banners fleeing back east, while a red tide swam upon him, near to collapse he saw Ramsay´s blade as it pierced his runic armour.

After the battle, Ramsay had sent out riders to catch the fleeing men.

“If they claim to be river men offer them to join us or leave for their homes, show no quarter to the valemen.” He had ordered them. “The enemy outnumber us near five to one in the South, if we manage to turn the river men back against the Arryns we have a chance of surviving.”

His serfs were helping him out of his armour, red with gore and blood.

“Fetch me Lord Royce, I shall keep one of his bracers as a trophy, and I shall offer his father a brand-new cloak.” He said with a grin, the rest of his men setting out to screen the forests and rivers.




As Ramsay and Greystark battled their way down the Green Fork and into the river lands, so did the King in the North sailed south, his pink banners flying in the wind, bypassing the Arryn patrols he achieved what no other had done before, not even the Starks of Old. He had set foot in the Vale of Arryn, Flesh Eater in hand; the soil so closely guarded by the Mountains of the Moon, famed in story and song, home to a thousand heroes and cradle of the best chivalry in Westeros.





The King set foot in the Fingers, were the Arryn´s watch was less vigilant and had not wasted time in marching east, to reach Coldwater Burn, seat of the Coldwaters, a lordly House sworn to the Corbrays, and the main seat of power in the Fingers. Domeric, as his bannermen, knew he was outnumbered by a wide margin, and he knew that it would take more than blood to bend the Vale into submission. When the Andals first came into the Vale by sea, it meant war, the First Men and their Lords not quite willing to submit to the invaders, it took years of war and a final battle where the first Arryn slew the High King of Mountain and Vale for the Kingdom to be pacified and brought into the light of the Seven. Still, there were many proud and ancient Houses of First Men blood, and in them King Domeric trusted he could find common ground and unite them against the Arryns.



He would have to overcome some fierce opposition though; the Vale was fiercely loyal to the Arryns; shocking the Arryns with his invasion was Domeric`s strategy to sway the lords to his side. House Coldwater stood in his way, a strong keep but lightly garrisoned, the knights of the Vale were far and away, quick victories and fast sieges were the path to keep his enemies in disarray.

This was one of the few times that the King offered terms, and Lord Coldwater a man of sixty winters came out to parley, with him he brought his second son, Gael. The pair of them held council with the Red King.

“Lord Brent, lord Gael, you are welcome, please, sit.” The King said, rising to meet his guests in his tent, Flesh Eater clasped at his side, the Red Crown atop his brow.
“King Domeric.” The old man acknowledged him. “What brings the King in the North to the Vale of Arryn?”

“Our war, my Lord.” The King replied. “The Old Falcon died and the Talon has tried to claim another prey, but I fear that Moat Cailin was more than he could grasp. Will you deny that the Arryns have sent armies to my lands?”

“Our war was with the Starks.” Lord Gael said, piping up.
“Your war is with the North.” Domeric replied. “And I am the North now, the Bloody Company rides with me now, yes, but Umber, Glover, Flint, Greystark, Cerwyn, Wull and all the rest bend the knee before me. Your King has not been forthcoming to finish our old war, and now that war has come to the Vale at last.”
“And you mean to raze our lands your Grace?” Brent asked, with a snarl. “Or rule us from the Dreadfort? I count not five thousand men with you, you are outnumbered.”

“If all the remaining men in the Vale rise against me, perhaps.” The King said. “But near all of your fighting men are off in the Trident, I am here and there is none strong enough to oppose me.”

“The Eyrie still stands your Grace, and it shall never fall. Runestone, Redfort, Longbow, Heart`s Home, and more they all shall stand against you.” Brent said, sipping the wine offered to him.

“I trust that I might come to terms with them, after your Falcon King and Prince are plucked by the lions, I intend to bring the old gods back into the Vale, your House can trace its lineage right to the Age of Heroes, your gods are the same as mine.” Domeric said.

“We worship the Seven who are one!” Young Gael cried.
“When I offer Royce, Redfort, Hunter or Waynwood the Stewardship of the Vale I trust that they shall revert their beliefs.” Domeric countered. “The hour grows late my Lord, open your gates and pledge your allegiance or watch your castle burn.”

“The Vale already knows you`re here.” Brent Coldwater said as he stood up. “Lord Corbray shall find you here and crush you before my walls.”

“He might find me, warming myself in your flesh.” Domeric said, standing as well. “When the sun sets we shall storm your Keep.”






The King kept his word, and while the defence was valiant it was short lived, and soon the Flayed Man banners poured into Coldwater Burn, it´s lord dying in its defence.




When the battle was over, it was Gael that surrendered the remainder of the Keep and it`s smallfolk.

“Your older brother is off fighting in the Golden Tooth, no?” The King asked, before waiting for an answer he said. “It seems to me that you are my new Lord Coldwater, rule in my stead and swear your sword before me and the heart tree.”

“My King.” Gael Coldwater said, kneeling before the Red King.



A bloody war had begun it´s latest chapter, against Domeric stood the Eyrie and the formidable castles of Houses old and famed in story and song, but the King was determined to make them bleed.

[Solid Snake]

So long from the last update! Worry not, this story lives still. I hope you are having a most pleasant time reading it. Cheers!

[Alwyn]

It's good to see your story continuing! I enjoyed the desperate defiance of Lord Royce and Lord Coldwater. I wonder if Gael will be a reliable vassal, or if he will seek revenge.