Oaths and Steel

The realm has gone to madness. The King dead, the Prince now king imprisoning one of his father's most loyal Lords, the Lannister army marching into the Riverlands...and Lord Frey sitting on his arse while his Liege Lord calls the banners. A young Lord, barely a man, snarls in disgust and crumples the letter in his hands. The maester a quivering lickspittle by the name of Rickon with barely enough links to make his chain complete averts his eyes as his lord stomps from the hall. The guardsmen posted at the entrance to the hall silently open the door and exchange a worried glance.

For the last three years their young Lord has run Stonekeep like a well drilled forging team. Every aspect of his admittedly small holdings has been carefully managed to grow and prosper in the wake of his father's death. The fields were expanded much to the joy of the smallfolk and the neighbouring Crannogmen that venture south occasionally to trade for food in exchange for medicines that are hard to acquire otherwise. A bold deal with House Mallister saw a small land grant to the Lord of Seagard in exchange for a large shipment of steel for plows and equipment for Stonekeep's levies, with the permission of Lord Tully.

The only hardship that he has been unable to avoid or resolve themselves has been the unending letters from House Frey peddling their daughters like wares at the market. And now this. Robb Stark, a boy no older than he, is leading the banners of the North south down the Neck and without a doubt he will have to cross at the Twins. And the Freys always get their tolls. He scowls as he makes quick strides for the one place of peace he has other than his bedchambers. The Godswood.

The Dwarf Tree, as it is known by the few who care to note his House's faith, is the smallest known Weirwood south of the Neck. The face carved into its pale bark is set in a firm mask as if ever faced with hard choices. A feeling that the young Lord of Stonekeep, Brandon Stel, is all too familiar with. The Godswood is silent as ever as he kneels before the Weirwood. He ignores the way the soft earth chills his skin through the fabric of his breeches. He prays for an hour, maybe more, with only the weakest whisper of wind as his company. Then a pain jabs into his mind.

"...eeds a sheath! And every wedding needs a bedding!" the reedy and age cracked voice of a drunk Walder Frey rings out in the Great Hall of the Twins. Scores of men and women, mostly of House Frey, surge forward lifting Sir Edmure and Roslin Frey into their arms and spirit them away to their bedding chambers. Brandon smiles from beside a man larger than any he has ever spoken to and takes another sip of wine. As the feast winds down a certain song begins to play from the musicians in the balcony. A horribly off tempo performance, but still recognizable if only for the infamy of its origins. 'The Rains of Castamere'. A scream of pain and grief sends a shiver down his spine as crossbow bolts begin flying and Freys surge forward drawing swords and knives…

"...can't hold the bastards for long 'milord, there are simply too many of the weasley fucks," Captain Algren of his household guard grunts as another bar is nailed to the stout Ironwood gates of Stonekeep. The towering man from the Twins stands beside him and scoffs while running a whetstone along the edge of the ugliest greatsword Brandon has ever seen.

"More the merrier. The Red Wedding will be repaid in Frey blood come the morning. I must say...Lord Stel that you are one of the finest men that I have ever had the honor of fighting beside." A strange emotion wells in his throat as he extends his hand to shake the larger man's paw.

"The honor is mine Lord Umber. The Freys will pay for every inch of my land they have defiled with their every breath. And the betrayal of the North."

The gates shatter releasing a horde of Frey levies lead by the Black Walder. His few remaining men close ranks and grip their weapons tight. Brandon snarls and hefts his axe, the bearded head dripping with the blood of Freys. Steel and flesh crunch together in the now familiar song of battle joined. Bellowed war cries ring out as Lord Umber swings his massive sword in a great arc that cuts through two men in one stroke. Black Walder is before him with a blood streaked sword that buries itself in the rim of Brandon's shield. The look of shock on his face is exquisite as the axe chops down, deep into the bastard's neck nearly severing the head. Pain flares across his stomach as spears pierce his armor and find his flesh. All fades to darkness...

With a gasp he wakes from the strange vision with a cold sweat running down his spine. His eyes snap up to stare at the face in the tree, his shoulders heaving as if he had just run the full league of the slope leading to Stonekeep. The tree maintains its silent and stern vigil. For a time he stares into the hard red streaked eyes of the Weirwood before nodding. The Old Gods sent a message through him. A task must be completed.

But the lessons of his childhood of the men who have attempted to force a prophecy's completion ring loudly in his mind. The rumors he has heard of Prince Rhaegar becoming obsessed with a prophecy send nervous butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

'What if I become mad as they did in the past? Rhaegar brought ruin and death to the kingdoms with his dreams of prophecy and illusions of threats to the North. But can I afford to ignore this warning?' A cool breeze flits through the branches of the Weirwood caressing his cheek. The warmth in that breeze makes him shiver but for a different reason than the morning chill. It reminds him of his mother's presence before the fever took her. He sighs heavily and stands setting his shoulders. If the Old Gods have spoken...then the men of the Stonekeep shall answer.

"Ser Ronley! Muster the guard and call the levies. Riverrun calls and we shall answer," Brandon bellows as he returns to the 'Keep's courtyard. The muscular knight serving as the Master-at-Arms nods solemnly and mutters a few instructions to one of the guards before following his Lord into the Great Hall.

"Maester bring me the map in the second drawer of my desk in the study." Brandon clears one of the tables laid out for the morning meal of cups and plates, neatly stacking them to one side while the Maester who for some reason was still standing slack-jawed in the Hall scampers off to do his Lord's bidding.

"Ser Ronley, what would you say is the quickest that Lord Frey should be able to fully muster his levies?" Brandon begins as they wait for the Maester to return. The older man strokes his short, black, bushy beard in thought for a moment.

"They'll have about three hundred men-at-arms within the keep itself. The Twins is a solid defensible position and a few men with bows could hold it for weeks without worry. They can muster all told around three-thousand foot and another thousand knights...but as for how quickly they can muster I would say it takes a week for every outlying knight to muster with their retinue."

"How soon can we have our own forces mustered and ready to march south?"

"Five days my Lord. And we can reach Riverrun in two-and-a-half weeks. That makes it three weeks before Riverrun can expect our aid."

"I'm not planning on marching straight to Riverrun Ser Ronley but— ah thank you Maester." The weathered parchment map is swiftly unrolled and the corners are pinned down beneath a few empty mugs. Stonekeep is marked clearly on the map as well as its associated holdings in a light grey, two-hundred miles due north of Seagard and eighty-five miles northwest of the Twins. The Kingsroad is the only significant highway north to south in the Kingdom with almost all trade and the majority of military movement being based around it. The numerous other roads between keeps and cities are smaller and can be either better maintained or worse.

An army in Westeros has many considerations; with the sheer number of minor keeps and landed knights throughout the land to say nothing of the larger vassals of the Seven Kingdoms one must be sure to remove any threat along their line of advance and guard their supply trains, pick the roads that both take them to their destination the quickest yet are not too obvious or poorly maintained, and consider how rich the surrounding areas are for foragers to take the strain from the supply trains.

For Lord Stel the only road of immediate concern is the one leading to the Twins. From experience and the words of the merchants that occasionally come to the Stonekeep to ply their wares away from the keeps that have higher taxes the road is washed out ten miles north of the Twins and the ruts are worn deeper in places where the patchy woods of the Riverlands grow close to the woods. If it rains the supply wagons will become bogged down and slow the advance.

Brandon worries at his bottom lip as he considers the task to come. If the Old Gods sent him a warning specifically about the Freys then he shall heed it.

"How much food and water can a man carry and still be fresh enough to fight at the end of a march, if we only push them hard the first two days?" Ser Ronley frowns deeply and crosses his arms.

"Four days my Lord. But who are we trying to catch by surprise? The Lannisters are coming up the Golden Tooth and they are hardly subtle with thirty-five thousand men in that red and gold that they like to prance about in. A thousand men won't catch an army of that size off guard and do any noticeable damage if that's what you're thinking." Brandon hesitates before glancing at the Maester. Thankfully Rickon shows some sense of the mood and leaves the Hall. The solid oak door booms in the sudden quiet and Brandon sighs heavily before turning a hard gaze on his Master-at-Arms.

"You converted to the Old Gods after the Trident did you not Ser?" A shadow flits across the knight's face and his hand falls to the pommel of his time-worn sword.

"Aye, the Seven did nothing to save my brother or my wife during that fever that came through. The only things that kept me sane was my son, and the daughter that came after my return."

"And if I were to tell you that...I had a vision while in the Godswood?" Ser Ronley stares hard at his young Lord. Though still thought of as little more than a lad by the rest of the world, the knight has been with Brandon since he was a boy. The world was always grounded to the young lad with actual history being preferred over the tales of Ser Duncan the Tall's heroics or the Dragonknight and his more fanciful aventures. He has never know the boy, young man he corrects himself, to be the kind to give in to flights of fancy.

"I would ask if you had hit your head followed by what the vision told you," he deadpans. The young Lord's lips twitch for a moment in amusement.

"I wish I had. I was show a vision of a wedding feast in the Twins and a great betrayal of myself and our allies to the Rains of Castamere, of holding Stonekeep against Freys with a Lord Umber of Last Hearth. And killing the Black Walder before Frey spears skewered me like a pig. Ser Ronley...I felt everything." The knights face grows more pale as his Lord speaks and Bradon's voice becomes more haunted. Ronley's eyes glaze over in thought, before he begins nodding.

"I...I think you might have indeed...been visited by the Old Gods my boy. It would seem they have a task for the men of Stonekeep." The older man reaches out and squeezes his Lord's shoulder in an expression of affection that he could never show in public for the boy who seems as a second son to him.

"Ordinarily I would be hesitant to believe such a claim...but I'm afraid that I can believe such a string of events all too easily." And then it dawns on him. He doesn't mean to march for Riverrun as Lord Edmure commanded, but to a different keep entirely.

"You mean to march on the Twins!" The younger man smirks and nods.

"Aye, the Late Lord Frey is going to sit this fight out and milk concessions from whoever looks to be winning. When Robb Stark and the Northern Banners arrive at the Twins, which they'll have to unless there's another crossing which we know there isn't, Frey will rob the Northmen blind or worse: get a marriage out of it. We're not going to let that happen."

Lord Walder Frey leers from beneath his thick eyebrows as his progeny eat their morning meal at the tables below his dias. His own meal of fish, flaky bread, and watered wine sits half finished before him on the table beside a pair of letters. One from King's Landing and the other from Riverrun. Both call for his swords to marshal beneath their banner but both offer nothing to him. The Freys have collected their tolls for six hundred years and have endured every war since. This new war shall not rock the foundations of his House. Everyone can see the greedy gleam in his eye at the thought of the opportunities that are sure to arise and to be exploited.

His progeny are by and large a dull lot much like their mothers. It's a wonder that the few that are competent were even born. The news that the pup, Robb Stark, called his banners and marched them South brought no end of glee to his old heart, and sent his daughters clamoring for a marriage with this Northern Lord or some other. The pup will no doubt be full of the bravado of youth and the desperation of a boy without his father and thus the toll shall be great. For he cannot afford not to pay it. A smile tugs at his age creased lips as he imagines the heights his family will ascend in the coming days. War has a habit of shaking the order of things in the most interesting ways.

That smile swiftly disappears as a messenger arrives through one of the side passages breathing heavily. A grunt brings him in close and he whispers the news into the old Lord's ear. Some of the more astute, or just ambitious, men at the lower tables watch the interaction with hungry eyes looking for any sign of weakness. Or opportunity. Not one of them likes the sight of their father going pale and reaching for his wine with a shaking hand.

"Shut up all of you! And get the full guard on the walls!" he shouts cutting through the low buzz of conversation like a knife through butter. Some of those with sense are sent scrambling for their weapons and the walls. The others stare at him idiotically like cattle.

"Go you Seven damned ingrates! The army of Stonekeep is at our gates! Send the ravens to our banners to hurry and bar the gates!" The last of his children are sent scurrying from the hall leaving him and his young wife alone. Lord Walder Scowls into his cup and swallows all of the wine in a single gulp before throwing it across the hall in a rage.

"That damned boy! What is he playing at?"

Lord Brandon Stel stares down the rise at the imposing sight of the Twins with the castles at either end of the massive bridge that took the Freys three whole generations to build. The twin stone castles are imposing fortresses in their own right with strong walls and tall towers with plenty of places for archers and stout gatehouses where pots of boiling oil no doubt await any unprepared ram crew. And if they weren't enough there is the Water Tower at the center: a single tall tower with two portcullis, murder holes and firing slits to pepper any assault with arrows. For six-hundred years the Freys have held the crossing and have never failed to extract their toll.

The young Lord smirks to himself. The Twins would have been impregnable to his force, a suicidal assault against four-to-one odds. But his archers are posted along the river and are all expert marksmen. No raven will escape the Twins to call the levies. A few of them march with the men of Stonekeep, the more northern knightly houses sworn to the Twins and minor knights have no love for their liege and despise him for not keeping to his oaths and marching to Riverrun as the rest of their countrymen do. Memories of the Battle of the Trident echo fresh in their minds of the shame heaped upon their houses by their association with the Late Walder Frey.

The full force of his lands a hundred knights, two hundred archers, and five hundred foot march at his back augmented by another twenty knights sworn to the Twins with another hundred and fifty some-odd foot attending them. Against the three hundred men on constant guard within the Twins. Taking the first fortress would no doubt shatter his army and the Water Tower is a pipe dream, but when Robb Stark and twenty thousand Northmen arrive on the other bank of the Trident attracting their attention as well...

"The men are in place my Lord. Not a single bird is going to make it out of that rookerie. The baggage train is but a day behind schedule as well," Ser Ronley reports solemnly from atop his brown charger. Brandon nods quietly and rests his right hand on the head of his family's axe. His calloused palm enjoys the touch of the cold steel, the dents and scuffs in the metal, and the pointed teeth on the rearward facing hammer. The same weapon was used to defend the Stonekeep against the raids of the Crannogmen in the times before the Kings of Winter pacified them, the Weirwood haft is worn smooth by time and tells of the hands that have bore it through the ages. The supple, red leather cord wrapping about the end of the haft to form a grip is comfortable in his hand. It's deceptively light weight allows him to wield it with one hand and his Ironwood shield purchased from the Forresters of the North in the other.

The young Lord stands at ease before his most trusted and experienced knights, ignoring the unfamiliar weight of the chainmail hauberk and leather brigandine while quietly dreading the time when he must don the plate forged for him as a gift from one of his more powerful knights. While many of his fellow River Lords wear scales like the more southern Lords he prefers the armor of his close neighbours in the North as do some of his knights while the others wear full plate like the rest of the South. Many of those who abstain from full plate's heavier weight add a steel cuirass, pauldrons, and greaves for added protection during the charge.

"I want watchfires burning through the night and scouts watching for any of the other Frey banners coming from the south. If anything happens, I don't care what time it is, wake me I want to know of it. This is a bold move my good Sers...I know not how history will remember us or how Robb Stark will respond. One thing I do know is that we have essentially declared war on the Twins. Do any of you have something to say?" His dark brown, almost black, eyes sweep the assembled knights like a hawk. None flinch away from his gaze or avert their eyes. The challenge in his voice clear for all to hear.

"My House words are simple my good Sers: Oaths and Steel. The only things that truly matter between nations. Lord Frey needs to be reminded of them."

And the sun rises high. Shining merrily upon the banners of blue bearing a skull between crossed axes. In another time Catelyn Stark nee Tully negotiates from a position of weakness with Lord Walder Frey and betroths her son to a Frey maid. In another time and place Ser Edmure Tully stops Tywin Lannister at the Red Fork and unintentionally allows the Old Lion to receive word of Stannis Baratheon's assault on King's Landing. In another time and place the Tyrells come to the aid of the Crown and a Mad King come again. It is amazing how the flap of a butterfly's wing can affect history, or in this case a maiden of the Iron Islands washing ashore and meeting a River Lord before his death at the Field of Fire.