Barron

Bronzegate was a modestly sized square fort with thick stone walls and broad watchtowers in its corners, standing atop a high hill overlooking the vast forests to its north and the rolling hills to its south. Its purpose had once been to guard the northern border of the Storm King's realm, which was a strange thought now that the Kingdom of Storm reached all the way to the Neck. At least for now, Prince Barron Durrandon thought grimly.

It was almost noon, and the old prince stood atop the northern walls gazing at the military camp that had gathered outside the castle. Banners of houses Buckler, Fell, Errol and Hasty flickered proudly in the wind, but the host was no more than two-thousand men strong. It wouldn't be enough to save Riverlands from the Faith Militant and their allies, Barron was certain of that. He would need to recruit the Darklyns and their bannermen to his cause, which was a thought that didn't bring him much joy. Lord Renly Darklyn was a thoroughly unpleasant man with little redeeming qualities, yet it seemed the fate of Riverlands would soon be in his hands. And in mine.

"Prince Barron," he heard a timid female voice speaking to his right, and turned to see Princess Arya Durrandon approaching him. "Please, you may call me Uncle Barron," he responded with a small smile, which the girl shyly reciprocated.

"Uncle Barron," Arya corrected herself, leaning against the battlements and eyeing at the commotion of the camp below. "I just wanted to thank you," she said with a small gulp. "For allowing mother and I to come with you. It's been years since I've been this far from Storm's End and… it's refreshing."

"You're welcome, princess," Barron replied lightheartedly. "Just remember that this is no harmless jaunt to see the countryside. We are very likely marching to a war, which is no place for a princess. I've yet to discuss this further with your mother, but I believe you two should remain in Duskendale until we can be sure that you'll be safe in Raventree Hall."

Arya shrugged in a carefree manner. "Duskendale is fine by me," she said nonchalantly. "Though I know mother would like to see her childhood home again."

"And she will," Barron promised confidently. For a moment neither of them said anything, until Barron spoke up again. "You know, losing her father was a hard thing for Shana to overcome sixteen years ago, and I know you feel the same way now."

"I don't want to talk about it," Arya muttered weakly, avoiding eye contact with Barron. "Are you sure?" he asked with a warm and empathizing voice. "Arlan was my brother, I miss him dearly as well."

A couple tears rolled down the princess' soft cheeks. "I try to think about all the good memories I have with my father, but now they are all overshadowed with the thought that he is no longer here, and that I will never hear his voice again."

"You should hold on to those memories," Barron gently advised his niece. "Loss is a natural part of life, but we should not let it guide us into darkness and apathy. You had a father that loved you, a father that anyone could be proud of. Carry his memory in your heart, not just with grief, but with love and pride."

"I will try, Uncle Barron," Arya promised, wiping the tears from her eyes and letting out a small sigh.

For a moment they stood there in silence, until Prince Barron noticed Lord Benfred Buckler ascending the stairway to the battlements and approaching them with heavy steps. Benfred was a plump man on his early forties, his receding hairline making him look slightly older than that. He was the son of the late Lord Romny Buckler who had fought valiantly and fallen in the Battle of Six Kings, but to Barron's eye Benfred did not look like the warrior his father had been.

"Prince Barron, Princess Arya," Lord Benfred greeted them with a small bow, slightly out of breath from the climb up the stairs. "Lord Benfred, you may speak freely," Barron responded with a steely and authoritative tone. He was the commander of this army, which meant that he had to assert his leadership into every interaction he had with these lords.

"We just received a raven from Lord Blackwood," the Buckler lord informed with a troubled tone on his voice. "I thought you should be the first to hear the news."

"Well, spit it out then," Barron urged impatiently, and Benfred gave him an obedient nod. "The Faith Militant has captured Fairmarket," he explained hastily. "Ser Emmon Shawney has escaped to Raventree Hall, but a significant portion of his troops were massacred on the streets by a battalion of Poor Fellows that infiltrated the town during nighttime, with the help of hundreds of townsfolk that joined them."

"So, it has begun," Barron stated sternly. "A war is ahead of us, it is clear now if it wasn't before."

That night a great feast was held at the great hall of Bronzegate. The lower tables were crowded with knights and soldiers of the host, while the royalty and lords were seated on the high table at the dais. Ale flowed, the tables were filled with a wide array of food ranging from pigeon pies and venison stew to roasted boar's loins, all the while minstrels were playing cheery songs on the galleries. Barron had to admit that Lord Benfred certainly knew how to arrange a splendid feast, though it did little to lighten his mood at the moment.

Barron glanced to his left, seeing Lord Benfred, his wife Lady Shireen and their seventeen-year-old daughter Branda having a seemingly cheerful conversation with Queen Shana and Princess Arya. I suppose this feast is good for something, Barron thought as he saw his niece laughing at something Branda had just said.

"So, Prince Barron," he heard a male voice speaking to his right and shifted his attention back Lord Edgar Fell who was sitting next to him. He was a well-mannered and handsome man on his late thirties, with a slicked back dark hair and a pointy goatee. "Tell me honestly, how dire exactly is the situation in Riverlands?"

"Well, you heard what happened in Fairmarket," Barron remarked grimly. "Aside from that, Stoney Sept is controlled by the Faith Militant and Harroway is likely to side with them as well. As for the river lords, Blackwood, Bracken and Tully are the only ones I trust fully."

"It seems to me that this will be a very different kind of war from the last one," Edgar said with a deep sigh. "With King Humfrey we just needed to beat him in a single decisive battle, but this time… I think the Faith Militant will avoid that, staying in hiding and striking from the shadows instead."

"For now," Barron agreed sternly. "However, if they truly intend to overthrow our rule in the Riverlands, sooner or later they will have to face us on the field of battle. I only wish the full might of the Storm King was with us for that moment."

No matter how splendid the feast was Prince Barron simply wasn't in the mood for drinking and laughter that night, and so he made his way to bed early.

The following day the host finally begun its march towards north. It was a brisk and sunny morning, and Prince Barron mounted on his horse stood atop a hill slightly to the northwest of Bronzegate, overlooking the army as it began its long march. The vanguard led by Lord Benfred Buckler's sons Robin and Barristan had already entered the forests to the north, while the last wagons of the supply train in the rear were only just leaving where the camp had been.

A single rider among the Errol troops in the middle diverted from the forces, galloping towards Barron instead. Quickly the prince recognized the rider as Jaremy Errol, the Lord of Haystack Hall. He was a stocky and broad-shouldered man with light grey hair and bushy beard, at the age of sixty being just a year younger than Barron himself. They had known each other from childhood, but Barron had never considered Jaremy a friend of his. In fact, in their youth they had even been outright rivals for a time, competing for the heart of the same fair maiden. Ultimately it had of course been a pointless rivalry, because that fair maiden happened to be Annara Tarth who eventually married Arlan and became his queen. All that seemed so distant and insignificant now, but somewhere deep in Barron's heart a sliver of grudge towards Jaremy still lingered.

"My prince," the Errol lord greeted him with a slight grin as he arrived atop the hill. "Lord Errol," Barron responded sternly.

"It is such a beautiful sight to see men of Stormlands marching to war, isn't it?" Jaremy Errol spoke with an exaggeratedly bombastic tone, stroking his beard as he gazed at the troops below them. "Not so beautiful after you remember many of them will never return," Barron responded grimly, to which Jaremy let out a small chuckle.

"Come on, Barron," he said with narrowed eyes and a sharp smirk. "We both know you want this war. It was your brother who got all the praise and glory last time. There is no shame in wanting to make a legacy for yourself."

"I am too old to care about praise and glory," Barron responded with a scoff. "And it is the legacy of my brother that I am trying to preserve."

"Whatever you say, my prince," Jaremy said with a cynical tone. "However, I do have to wonder if this war is worth it just to preserve your brother's legacy. There was a reason why he only annexed Riverlands after having been left with no other choice. The land is faraway and hard to control, and the river lords will never be truly loyal to us."

"Riverlands is a fertile and prosperous land," Barron reminded Lord Jaremy, who gave him an agreeing nod. "When it isn't in war, yes," he admitted with a small sigh. "However, it seems clear to me that land will never know peace. Its lords are as hostile towards each other as they are towards outsiders, and its smallfolk is divided between the followers of the Seven and the Old Gods."

"So, you believe it to be more trouble than it's worth to uphold our control over the Riverlands?" Barron asked calmly, to which Jaremy shrugged. "It is better than letting the Faith Militant control it, I suppose," he responded lazily. "They are puppets of the High Septon after all, who in turn is in league with the Gardeners. However, perhaps we should make this Brydan Blackwood a king, like Arlan had planned to do with his father."

"It could have worked with Lord Roderick, but it will not work with Brydan," Barron insisted sternly. He had a lot of respect for the young Lord of Raventree Hall and did believe he made a decent Warden of Riverlands, but he did not see him as suited for the role of a king.

"Why not?" Jaremy asked sharply. "He is a man grown now, and from what I know of him he would be a loyal ally to the Storm King even without a direct allegiance."

"He is not powerful or respected enough among the river lords to be their king," Barron explained calmly. "Right now Brydan's authority rests completely on our name and reputation. If we simply put a crown on his head and left Riverlands for him to rule over there would be half-a-dozen pretenders challenging his rule within months, and the land would burn in civil wars."

"Doesn't sound so different from the current situation," Jaremy remarked dryly, but Barron was quick to shake his head. "Trust me, it would be much worse."

For a moment they both remained silent, just eyeing at the army of troops marching down the road towards the forests in the north at a sluggish pace. Watching them made Barron wonder if he himself would ever return from this war, to see again the land that had raised him. It didn't matter, he would gladly die fulfilling his duty, but there was still something melancholic about it.

"Well, war waits for no man," Lord Jaremy suddenly broke the silence. "Ours is the fury!" he yelled as he raced down the hill to catch up with the troops.

"Ours is the fury," Barron repeated with quiet and hollow words.