Righteous in Wrath
Righteous in Wrath
The North in its entirety; The Hornwood and the lord's keep sits at the beginning of the Broken Branch
The army had crossed the Weeping Water and continued south until they came along the outskirts of the Hornwood. Though not as domineering as the Wolfswood, the Hornwood and the rough hills that it covered had its own reputation. Hornwood – the great keep of the eponymous House – was not a mighty citadel on par with the Dreadfort or Winterfell, but it was still an impressive lordship. With the army making good time in its march, Lord Bolton had decided that they should pass close to the keep, to stay a night. A raven was sent ahead to the steward, to gather the banners of the lord of Hornwood – those that had remained north – to join the Bolton host.
A decade prior, the Lord of the Dreadfort had conquered and subjugated the lord of the Hornwood. In needing the Hornwood’s men Donnel hoped that the steward had not forgotten as much, but Donnel was even more concerned that they remembered all too well.
His fears, in the end, were justified.
Hornwood (keep), within the Hornwood (wood), of the lordship of Hornwood, ruled by House Hornwood.
The gates of Hornwood Keep creeped open. Donnel was atop his horse, Heward Linden at his back holding the Bolton banner. To his left rode Brandon Snow, with no banner, and to Donnel’s right was Heward Dirk, a man at his back holding the banner of his House. Heward’s father had been granted Ethering in service to Donnel’s father, and had chosen a field of white, slashed diagonally with black and steel-grey. The Dirk’s were known for their knives, like the Boltons for skinning. It had been suggested by some that Heward’s father had skinned men in honour of Donnel’s father – and so chose Dirk for the name of his House… but to Donnel’s knowing that was just a rumour. The first lord Dirk had been a bold bodyguard, soldier, then commander, and had earned his name fairly.
When the gates were fully opened Donnel spurred his horse forward, followed closely by the other officers. The keep’s courtyard was still and quiet, but beyond the heavy wooden walls Donnel could hear the choruses of his men as they constructed a large camp beneath the Hornwood’s walls.
Greeting them, Donnel observed a large man grown fat, carried on a litter. He had been set down by the gates, on a bed of blankets borne by carrying poles. He had shrewd little eyes in a fattened face, and one leg was raised a foot higher than he was. At seeing the mangled and broken leg – missing all but his heel – Donnel recognised the man. Cellador Hornwood, and no friend to his House.
“Lord Hornwood, I thank you for letting us stay in your home.”
“I’m no lord.” Hornwood’s reply was gruff, as the man propped himself half a foot high on one arm and looked down on the riders. “My nephew went south. You left with him.”
“Lord Harlon is a good man, and still serves our King. And I thank you for letting us stay in Hornwood tonight. We’ll ride again tomorrow.”
“Aye, you shall.” The displeasure in Cellador’s voice was clear enough, even as he observed the most basic modicum of courtesy. “And when you leave you’ll take a few hundred Hornwood men with you, is that it? What are they needed for?”
“The King.” Donnel’s grip tightened on his reins. “When the King calls, we all can only answer.”
The greatest insult however was when Cellador brought out bread and salt for the lords. Donnel took them, making clear that he tasted of both… but they left a sour taste in his mouth. Why observe the rituals of guest right and peace if your intentions were truly as noble?
They spoke some more, and Cellador promised a small feast that evening to welcome his liege lord, before calling for the men attending him to carry his litter back into the keep proper.
“Donnel, what became of the man? That injury…” Brandon leant close to Donnel atop his horse, better to whisper. “I don’t know him.”
“You do. You met once, in the Riverlands. Cellador has changed since.” Donnel gave Brandon a look. “He fought in the war of Salt and River beside his nephew Lord Harlon Hornwood – and before that he fought in Torrhen’s war to free the Riverlands. A brave man, a good commander. During the siege of Rushmoor, Cellador lost his leg in a fight with some Harlaw lordling – never found out who, but ask him the story and he’ll swear to tearing the man’s heart out afterwards. The maiming was too severe, and Cellador can’t even stand anymore, even aided. The few times I’ve met with him – at the Dreadfort or Hornwood – I’ve heard that the wound still weeps… he cannot leave his litter.”
Donnel shook his head. “Peace has made the man bitter.”
“A bitter man. A fattened cripple.” Dirk trotted past the two. “He should welcome his lord better. His nephew knelt, but he thinks that because he can’t kneel he shouldn’t have to.” Brandon threw Dirk a dirty look.
“The man fell in battle; don’t disparage his wound. Be glad that you have not befallen the same fate – or yet fought a man with honour enough to defend the fallen.” And with that, Brandon lifted his chin and rode ahead to the stables.
Dirk sneered, and glanced to Donnel, but Donnel’s face was impassive, and impossible to read.
“He’ll learn as much.” Dirk said as much to himself, as Donnel. “When he meets the man.”
Donnel didn’t answer. He remembered when he had knelt before King Brandon, and when Brandon had allowed the Dreadfort to keep the lordships of both the Hornwood and Widow’s Watch.
He remembered how Harlon had then knelt to Donnel and proclaimed him a lord he’d be happy to kneel to – unlike his father, Lord Rodwell Bolton.
But he also remembered how Cellador had stared from the corner of Winterfell’s hall with eyes that burned hatefully. Cellador has not forgiven Donnel’s father – or any of House Bolton – for his war against the Hornwood.
House Hornwood; Righteous in Wrath
The feast had been no less tense. Brandon had spent much of the evening hoping to charm Cellador, hoping to rouse him with war stories, or inquiring as to the hunts in the Hornwood. Bitterness won out, and each of Brandon’s overtures only soured the steward.
“Fighting and hunting, do you mock me? A man who can no longer stand, do you enjoy berating a cripple?” Brandon lowered his head, perhaps in a graceful show of shame. He did however attract the attentions of Cellador’s son Jory Hornwood, who was willing to talk about the land’s game for quite some time. Beyond Jory, Lady Palla Hornwood – née Locke of Old Castle – smiled and was all too willing to engage the King’s uncle in conversation. Palla was Lord Harlon’s wife, and well-versed in diplomacy. ‘Would that she had received us, and not Cellador’, Donnel thought.
It did not take long however before the talk of hunting began to grate further against the steward, tilting lightly on his bed, before calling out over the evening’s din:
“The game of the Hornwood is quite impressive, thank you Jory. Lord Bolton! How compares the game of the Dreadfort?”
Donnel looked up steadily from his conversation with Heward Linden. The room fell quiet.
“I could not compare my lord. I’ve never hunted in the Hornwood.”
The man in his litter laughed harshly, his leg mounted on cushions on the lord’s table. He took another large gulp of wine from an iron goblet and reached out for another. Donnel noted that he had had several already.
“Well Bolton, what do you do with the game once you’ve caught it?” Linden and Dirk both glanced at Donnel. It tasted of a trap.
“As any huntsman would I expect. Cook them. Make use of their furs. It will all be needed come winter’s fall.”
“I suppose it isn’t flaying, is it, but skinning – if it’s an animal.” Cellador propped himself higher in his litter, attempting a sneer down at Donnel. Donnel didn’t move. “So tell us, those not of the Dreadfort, do you treat your animal skins any differently than your human skins? What do you do with them? Make them too into cloaks?”
Jory Hornwood tried to interrupt his father, but for his efforts the iron goblet was thrown in his direction. Lady Palla gave a small scream, and Cellador tried to sit further up in his bed, his mouth flecked with spittle.
“See, I can imagine that you would bolt your human skins onto the walls, or hang them by hooks. But if I had my way, I’d say the custom should be to have any flayed man hanged by the neck.”
Lord Dirk stood up in a rage, smashing his plate to the side of the table.
“How DARE you Hornwood!” Jory stood too – backing up awkwardly into Brandon Snow who scrambled to his feet in surprise – as much in reaction to Lord Dirk as Cellador’s thinly veiled threat.
“DARE I, Dirk? What does the Bolton’s loyal puppy dog have to say to me?” Cellador’s drunk eyes whirled, he leant on one arm and with the other cast around his bed for something unseen – a blade, a goblet? To Donnel’s side, Heward Linden – his bodyguard – came to his own feet, one hand protectively on Donnel’s shoulder, the other buried inside his own cloak.
A dozen other men stood, on every bench and all around the hall, those who had them gripped scabbards and hilts, and Donnel saw that even another word might bring the entire halls to blows. Steel and blood would follow in moments. And even through this, Lord Dirk continued to yell up at the littered lord, and Cellador would spit and howl down at Dirk.
“Lord, come, come now.” Linden leant down to Donnel, “We should move.” His eyes were flitting around the hall. The Bolton officers had been welcomed to the feast but they had not brought their soldiers – the hall was lined instead with Hornwood men, cloaked in orange-and-brown.
Donnel stood. He did not stand slowly with gravitas, but stood upright and suddenly and in anger, eyes burning with fury, smashing another plate off the table as he did so. Eyes turned to stare, Brandon had found his way to Lord Dirk and had a hand on his chest, hoping to calm him. Dirk had chosen to stand indignantly with one hand on his belt, signifying that he may well have drawn steel had it been allowed into the hall.
The hall was quiet, witness only to the furious stare between Cellador and Donnel, breathing the tension and the fear of what came next.
But Donnel turned, and he strode from the hall in silence. Linden immediately followed, hands buried in his cloak (no doubt he had not relinquished quite all his daggers) and stepped ahead, moving to clear a path for his lord. Dirk scoffed, slapped away the hand from Snow, and moved to follow too.
Cellador barked a small laugh from his litter, and with a turn of his white cloak Brandon glared up at the man, anger creasing is wizened features.
“Donnel spoke well of you in the Riverlands. Called you a bold commander. No leader of men would be so dishonourable to his guests.” Cellador only looked down at the King’s uncle.
“His father killed my brother. Now my nephew bends his knee to him. What does honour give a man?”
Brandon looked like he was about to say something else… but he didn’t. He saw the Lady Hornwood, Palla Locke, leave the hall, and followed with a final glare to the steward.
In the corridors leading between the lord’s hall and the exit of Hornwood castle, Lord Dirk had caught up with Lord Bolton.
“Righteous in wrath?” Dirk snorted, not bothering to hide either his disdain or anger. “Foolish in wrath perhaps. How dare he insult you so brazenly! The Moose’s uncle is lucky we have a host of Flintmen to slaughter, to so court bloodshed in his own halls!”
Donnel turned, for just a second, and held out a warning finger before Dirk’s face. His eyes burned with no less anger than Dirk’s own, only quieted, like the fury of a frozen waterfall in winter. Only a second, and Donnel turned again, making for the gates. At his coming Hornwood men begin to open them, but before he stepped out into the cold, he felt an arm seize his, and turned to find Palla Hornwood stood between the three of them.
“My lords, please, a moment.” Palla had eyes only for Donnel, looking at him pleadingly. “Forgive my lord’s uncle – or perhaps don’t, but don’t hold his behaviour against my lord husband. Harlon Hornwood is still your man, and has no sour words to say of you, Lord Bolton. With your father excepted, House Hornwood holds no grudge against House Bolton. Harlon keeps to his oaths – he rode south on your command so recently. So please, when you leave the Hornwood and think of its lord, think of your man Harlon, and not his embittered uncle Cellador.”
That was how Brandon found them when he rounded the corner. For a moment longer Donnel stared into Palla’s eyes looking for some glimmer of deceit… and nodded, the faintest trace of a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips.
“I shall, my lady. On my word.”
Palla smiled, and released Donnel’s arm. She stepped back, nodding her head low for each lord in turn as they left the keep – followed behind by Brandon and all the other officers and commanders who had attended the feast under Donnel’s command.
At first light, Donnel was overseeing the Bolton men deconstructing his lord’s tent. The fabric was dyed a light pink, but he couldn’t help imagining it coloured like skin, flapping in the wind. The thought of the early Red Kings who had war-tents made from the flayed skin of their defeated enemies crossed his mind more than once… He shook his head. He had been unable to shake such thoughts all night. They had quite haunted his sleep.
“My Lord Bolton.” Lord Dirk had appeared, and as the tent was pulled down its shadow was too pulled off his frame. “I wish to apologise for my conduct last night. I do not forgive the Maimed Moose his words, but I am present as your vassal and am expected to hold myself with more courtesy. I betrayed that, and that could be an insult on yourself. So, I apologise. Just don’t ask me to apologise to him.”
Many lords would consider Dirk to be too familiar, and not hold enough modesty and respect to his liege lord. A mere apology should not suffice for what should have been a plea for forgiveness from bended knee.
But Donnel and Heward had been through too much together, and Donnel did not begrudge him this bitterness. Palla’s words had soothed Donnel, but he could not shake the hatred of Cellador and his words.
“You’re forgiven Heward. You’ll need to forgive Brandon however, he’ll not understand. He doesn’t know our history, and will not know the feud.”
Brandon and Donnel had grown close during the war in the Riverlands. They had had little interaction before then and Brandon only knew Rodwell Bolton, Donnel’s father, in hearing of his misdeeds from Winterfell. Brandon did not know the politics of the Dreadfort and its lordships as he did those of Winterfell.
Lord Dirk nodded.
“I understand my lord.”
“I know you do. Find your horse, we’re riding out of camp before the main host. Best to put some distance between us and the Hornwood before Cellador attempts any more diplomacy.” Dirk smiled, and left. A moment later Linden appeared having brought Donnel’s horse.
He mounted, and began to trot out of camp. As he did he turned to look back over the keep of Hornwood. Decades may have passed, and alliances made and re-made, new lords come and gone, but still the Dreadfort and its vassals were so shadowed by the ghost of Donnel’s father…
Rodwell the Monstrous earned his nickname in emulation of the fabled Red Kings of old...
Rodwell the Monstrous had ridden from the Dreadfort and conquered the lands of both the Hornwood and Widow’s Watch. He had subjugated the young lord Harlon Hornwood and driven out all the Flints of Widow’s Watch to grant the land to his own man. Though the Starks had little justified cause to declare Rodwell a traitor outright for such an act, it earned him a lot of disfavour in Winterfell, and was remembered when Rodwell was caught having flayed poachers on his land living.
Brandon Stark had summoned the lords of the North to Winterfell to attend his new coronation and had intended there to reprimand Rodwell publicly for his wars. Rodwell had caused his own stir however when he attended the coronation in a cut wolfskin cloak, but with wolf-pelts that had been dyed freshly red with blood. To this day it was unclear whether this was meant as a sign of open hostility, or just mild provocation. Rodwell was commanded to cease his factionalism, his power-mongering, and reprimanded for his flaying… Rodwell’s reaction was his own, but many lords feared a rebellion to be brewing in the North. The Starks would likely had declared the Boltons all traitors, and threatened another great siege of the Dreadfort, if fate had not intervened first.
Firstly, Brandon Stark had been called south to help defend his friend, the King of the Trident, Deremond Darry the Gallant. Brandon had instead turned his eye away from the Dreadfort and called the banners of the North in preparation to march south.
Secondly, though Rodwell had threatened by and large to refuse his liege’s call to war, he died. A sickness swept through the Dreadfort and Donnel, still a young man, found himself the new lord of the Dreadfort. His first act was to call the Dreadfort’s banners and attend Brandon Stark’s war council at Moat Cailin.
Without a word to anyone present, the new Lord Bolton walked through the gathered lords until he came to where the King was seated and fell to bended knee. From the ground he renounced the disloyalty of his father before explained his father’s passing. Looking up he asked that he might make his lordly oaths of featly then and there, among the war council, and with all the major lords of the North present to witness. Donnel had further had the gall to ask for the honour of command.
While some lords joke that it was then and there that Donnel had earned his known nickname ‘the Daring’, that is an exaggeration. Brandon was so taken aback at Donnel’s impressive display of fealty that he gave Donnel his command and more. When Donnel had won successive victories in the Riverlands and quite earned the nickname ‘the Daring’, Brandon decreed that the Dreadfort may indeed keep the vassalages of the Hornwood and Widow’s Watch.
Donnel had never wavered as Brandon’s man since.
As for flaying… Many noble houses keep a valyrian steel sword. The Starks wielded Ice, the Mormonts held Longclaw.
Donnel knew that in his chamber there was a Bolton banner hanging, and behind it was a single valyrian steel flensing knife. He had used it only a few times, and not once since his father had died. Sometimes he would take it out and look at it, pondering the weight of history in his hand. Would it be turning against the traditions of his House to reject the practice? Would it not be as if for the Starks to hunt direwolves in absurdity? Surely if the Starks ever were to find direwolves still roaming the North, they were more like to adopt the beasts than hunt them.
So should it be so different for a Bolton to flay?
Every time he holds the knife, he puts it back, and again covers it with the banner. It was not his way, and could not imagine what might drive him to such cruelty…
The road west from the Hornwood took the Bolton host to the great river of the White Knife.
“We’ve taken this road before.” Lord Dirk and Brandon both had made up, and rode now with far more contentment than when they had left the Hornwood, at arms. “Save we had Harlon Hornwood beside us, and Jon of Snowgate. Now we ride it again, still with an army at our back, save Jon of Snowgate and Hornwood both are marching north, and been replaced in our number with some King’s uncle. Say, Brandon, have you any men to fight beside us?”
Brandon and Donnel both smiled.
“Nay lord Dirk, no other swords but mine own. Though, I’ll wager that mine is worth another ten wielded by any other man. Let’s hurry to Moat Calin though, best we be the ones to welcome your Jon of Snowgate and the Lord Hornwood. Whatever welcome we can make for them will be greater than any the Flintmen might offer.”
Donnel stopped his horse.
“Our Brandon may have brought no men with him, but I don’t think we’ll be without men of our own.”
Donnel had just seen the river. The army was to wheel around and head south – there was a great bridge that crossed the White Knife. Donnel had also seen the riders by the water. They bore the great banner of House Manderly.
“Manderly knights, or riders at least, come to find us.” Brandon nodded, pleased. “I’ve not seen much of Garris Mollen – that stomach-sickness that kept him out of Hornwood was well-timed – but it seems he’s been sending the right ravens to the lordships we’re passing.”
The riders had little to say. The Manderlys had received Lord Bolton’s raven and though they only speculated on the cause they had gathered their own host. The army of White Harbour – though depleted by the war – waited by the Knife’s Bridge to cross with the Boltons, then they’ll march on Moat Cailin together. The riders had been sent north along the White Knife to find the Bolton’s army.
“The lords Harrion and Mylon Manderly await you to the south, my lord. We’d ask to join you in the march, that we can bring you to them.”
Donnel smiled. Whatever green boys the Flintmen had gathered, they’d stand no chance against the gathered forces of the Boltons and Manderlys combined.
The Knights of House Manderly; though the Lord Duncan Manderly (pictured) was returning north with the King.
The Knife’s Bridge was no small feat of accomplishment. Only a few days ride north of White Harbour it had been built of the same white stone as New Castle, and carved with mer-people and mer-kings in recognition of the Manderly lords who had commissioned it. It was in its centre that the commanders met. To the east, the Bolton host. Across the bridge, a gathered three-thousand knights and footmen belonging to the lords of White Harbour and their vassals.
“I didn’t know the Manderlys had this many men still left in the North.” Brandon whispered to Donnel.
“Winterfell and Moat Cailin may be emptied, but the other lords of the North are allowed to keep some of their levies behind – so long as they pay their taxes. The Manderlys are strong – near as strong as the Dreadfort.”
"Near as?" Donnel laughed despite himself.
"As."
Brandon craned his neck, counting the tents – all laced in blue and green, or the colours of lesser houses.
“Still. At full strength the Manderlys and Boltons could match the host of Winterfell.” Brandon joked, but was quiet. Two lords approached, both with a bannerman by their sides showing the flag of House Manderly. Behind them, several other riders, gathered lords sworn to White Harbour.
Donnel smiled. He knew both of them. Lord Duncan Manderly ‘the Black Merman’ was married to Donnel’s sister after all. Four sisters, all wed to a different lord. Rodwell had made many mistakes, but strategic marriages were not one of them.
But Duncan Manderly was still south with the King, his brother Halys too. On the bridge opposite them, Donnel had to take a moment to recognise both.
To the left sat Mylon Manderly, Duncan’s other brother and the current steward of White Harbour. To his right, rode who he took to be Harrion Manderly, Duncan’s eldest son and heir. Harrion was a young boy – and Donnel hadn’t seen him in years, hence the moment’s confusion – and still relied heavily on Mylon for advice and guidance. It was told as much, when Harrion glanced to Mylon and only at his nod did he trot his horse forward to welcome Donnel with a big grin across his face.
“Uncle!”
Donnel couldn’t help but grin back. Harrion’s enthusiasm and delight was touching, albeit masking the overeager and nervous nature common to all young lords. He had been that man himself once.
“Nephew! Gods Harrion, last I saw you your sword was wooden! Now you wear a helmet and bare steel like a southron knight! It’s good to see such welcome faces.”
Mylon blinked.
“Trouble on the way here, my lords?”
“Just a hard ride, lord Mylon. How fare you?”
“Well, Lord Bolton.” Mylon bowed slightly in his saddle, exuding the charm and grace of a more practised diplomat, “But I must admit ourselves a little confused.” Harrion had allowed Mylon to trot his own horse until they levelled, then Mylon continued talking. “Your raven bade us gather bring our banners to meet you as the King’s Seneschal. We did so. It came with warnings of Flintmen attacking Moat Cailin, though we’d heard no such reports, only some small run of bandits far to the west.”
“You’re close to Moat Cailin, have you sent riders? Do you have eyes present?”
“A few scouts report occasionally, our most recent rider discovered your Flintmen army, or part of it. Our ravens west go un-returned however. Is the matter so pressing?”
“It is my lords. The King is returning to the North, and expects to march through Moat Cailin presently – we have no clear knowledge of when. Since I presume your scouts have seen nothing of the King’s banner, we have time yet to ensure the pass is unguarded.”
Harrion looked with concern to Mylon, whose practised face betrayed nothing.
“Pressing indeed, Lord Bolton. Though our scouts have not been present recently, I can confirm we’ve seen nothing of the King’s host.”
“Hmm. Inconvenient, Mylon, I’d hoped for a report.” Lord Bolton glanced away in thought. They still had no knowledge of how long they had left to reach Moat Cailin, and if Mylon used the term ‘army’ then their opponents may be greater than just a large raiding party…
“Time enough my lords.” Brandon sat his horse, seemingly comforted by the army that they now commanded. “Moat Cailin is but a few day’s ride – let us press on.”
“Agreed.” Harrion smiled up from his horse. He dressed as a knight, but Donnel doubted he had yet seen a battle. A boy of summer indeed. “We should march now, better to grant the King his crossing. No doubt he’ll show favour on those that are there to greet him.”
Donnel blinked away a smile.
“So young and already seeking glory, Harrion.”
“I heard you were only twenty-two when they named you the Daring in the Riverlands uncle.” And Donnel couldn’t help but smile.
“Indeed. And what shall they call you, Harrion?”
“I’d settle to be Harrion the Hero.” Harrion grinned again. “What say you uncle?”
Donnel laughed, and brought his horse forward. He intended to get another afternoon’s worth of riding and marching done today, but he’d enjoy the company at least.
“I’d say if you are the one to see the King through Moat Cailin, he’d name you so on the spot.”
The sun sank low in the sky and for the eighth day the armies of the Dreadfort and its vassals camped for the night, joined now by that of White Harbour. Lord Mylon Manderly had steered the campaign through Whitford and they were joined by Lord Artos Waterman. Donnel was impressed. Together they had gathered close to 9,000 men – the only force greater than that in the North was marching through the Neck to Moat Cailin under the King’s Banner. Whatever forces the Flintmen had gathered, they would break on the gathered Bolton and Manderly lines.
Donnel had spent much of the ride in the company of Harrion and Mylon Manderly, but now retired to his tent. Stepping through the pink curtain he found a figure waiting for him within.
The Norrey had walked and ridden in equal measure along with the Bolton army, but always seemed to disappear when others sought to look for him. He had spent much of his time with the maesters, always sending and receiving ravens in turn.
He had brought several of his collected letters with him now, curled and twisted on Donnel’s map table.
Donnel paused in seeing the Norrey, before stepping through and letting the heavy curtain fall behind him. The sounds of the camp seemed to fall away in the moment.
“What news?”
The Norrey bowed his head.
“My lords, I’ve been corresponding with several others, hoping to educate myself on this Flint’s Rebellion – given my own lack of knowledge going into it… and I’ve brought what I have now to you, along with what I’ve learned from the Manderlys.”
Donnel shrugged.
“Tomorrow we’ll continue our march, and by midday we’ll have reached Moat Cailin. Whatever you’ve learned will matter little – we’ll solve the intrigue disputes after the battle.”
“Perhaps, but I fear there’s more happening here than any of us can see at present.”
“In what manner?” Donnel sat on a chair and listened to what the Norrey had to say.
“The letters I’ve received have been contradictory. Sometimes the Flintmen are just that – Flintmen with axes and spears. Sometimes they have southern knights or hosts of Dornish spearmen. They seem to be spread out and sometimes everywhere, small parties and bands, then a great host falling upon a keep. First they carry lord’s banners of Spearmouth, the Flint’s Fingers, and Cape Kraken… then none, only grey banners disguised as mercenaries. Likely a great amount of this is exaggeration and possibly boast… but it makes it difficult to know just what we’ll face tomorrow.”
“The lordships you mentioned?”
“Yes, well… Apparently all the vassals of the Flint’s Fingers have thrown themselves behind this ‘Stout host’, along with Spearmouth – but not the Dustins of Barrowtown.”
“Is not Spearmouth sworn to the Dustins?”
“It is. It seems the lord of Spearmouth is in rebellion against her liege lord too. A Lady Melantha Stout. Apparently her daughter is the new lord of all of the Flint’s Fingers.”
“Who is this daughter?”
“A Lady Rowena Stout. By all accounts I’ve received… forgive me, Lord Bolton, by all accounts she is but eight years old.”
Donnel just looked at the Norrey wearily.
“Lord Norrey… I trust your words, and value your counsel.” He paused. “But an eight year old girl does not raise armies, sack keeps, and declare against the King in the North.”
The Norrey nodded, and began pacing back and forth the map table, occasional jabbing a finger down features of the map and at the odd curled letters sprawled across it.
“Yes, yes, I know, that’s why I scarce believe what I’ve received. I’ve heard that lesser lords support various factions, Cayn Clifftower is leading much of it I hear, and the Hayes of Cape Kraken too… but it’s inconsistent and difficult to piece together. I suspect that there is more here, another hand at work, something that ties it all together.”
Donnel frowned.
“Have we received ravens from Barrowton? Spearmouth may have attacked.”
Norrey shook his head.
“No, no ravens. At least, our camp hasn’t received any and, well, ravens can be intercepted.”
“Any word from the Rills? Is it possible that Lord Ryswell is involved?”
Again, Norrey shook his head.
“No, I strongly believe that the army of the Rills is still in the Rills.”
“But you don’t know? Have you lost track of two whole armies Norrey?”
The Norrey turned in anger, his face plain to read, and snapped at Donnel.
“No, I don’t know! Not for sure! I cannot be sure! I can only piece together what I hear, and I have heard no movement from the Rills, and far too much from the Flint’s Fingers! No man can know everything that happens in the North, Lord Bolton, no man can have a thousand eyes and two!”
Donnel raised a hand placatingly, but said nothing, lost in thought. His head fell to his hands, and he ran them through his hair.
“Tomorrow, Lord Norrey. Tomorrow we will reach Moat Cailin and put this nonsense to rest. By midday we will reach the towers.
“When we’ve taken them, we can ensure the safety of the King, and put this mess to bed. There. That is the end of it.”
Donnel stood, and helped the Norrey gather his letters.
“For better or worse, it ends tomorrow.”
******************************
Lucias stood and layered another log onto the fire. It crackled and sputtered, the flames reaching up to burn at the dried wood.
Donnel watched him do it, lost in his own story. Lucias still stood over the fire, the bright flames dancing in his icy-pale eyes, and smiled.
“Prophetic words.”
“A prophetic season. So much said and unsaid, coupled with meanings or not. How the gods mock us.” Lucian looked over his shoulder, but Donnel was still watching the fire.
“So what were you hoping for? Brandon to thank you? Raise you again from your knee, ‘Oh Donnel, you hero! Forget Harrion, now it’s Donnel ‘the Hero’.’ Donnel’s eyes snapped up, and Lucias stared for a moment before blinking away.
He walked back to his chair and sat back down, tucking his cloak beneath him.
“What did you expect though?”
“Nothing in truth. Nothing for certain. Norrey’s confusing report left me quite… unsure of things.”
“You trusted him still?”
“Aye. And still do.”
Lucias laughed.
“All his whispers and counselling, and still he had as little clue as what was really going on as you!”
“I don’t blame the man.”
“Blame the man? You were all being played by the most dangerous man north of Harrenhal, and you didn’t even doubt the realm’s master-of-whisperers?”
“I did doubt him for a while. For a long while I wondered about his competence, his loyalty… But he proved them both over and over.”
Donnel fixed Lucias with a stare.
“Hush, boy. Let me continue, and I’ll tell you how…”
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Hello. Overdue as ever. I'm starting to wonder if I'm forever being a little bit over-confident.
This is a big update, with a lot of words... but for those of you wondering how much of CK2's mechanics I've slotted into here... not all that much. Some character-building and a lot of setting.
And a lot of love went into this.
The next chapter 'Moat Cailin' will be out as soon as it's ready.
I hope I've set the scene for Brandon's return!
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