Bernarr
It was the third evening after Bernarr Bolton had arrived at Winterfell, and the Great Hall was filled with the cheerful noises of chatter, laughter and singing. Lords Gyles Glover and Ebbert Mormont had arrived earlier that day from the Wolfswood with over a thousand fighting men, and King Harlon had decided to hold a great feast to welcome them. Lord Mormont, the brother-in-law of Harlon, was a large and loud man on his late fifties, whereas Lord Glover was a quiet and gloomy man on his early fifties with a gaunt face and greasy dark hair. They shared the high table at the dais with the King, and a bard beside them was playing lute and singing songs about the heroics of the past Kings of Winter.
Bernarr Bolton was seated at one of the tables furthest away from the dais, his trusty captain of the guards Torren Ironthorns by his side. They shared their table with Rickard Hornwood and his son Harrion Hornwood, as well as Hornwood's captain of guards Torwyn Holt, Lord Luke Long and his brother Eyron Long.
Harrion drunkenly told them a story about how he had challenged a poacher to mount a moose if he wished to avoid being sent to the Wall, and the moose had kicked the poacher to the head as he had tried to climb atop it. No one except Torwyn Holt and Harrion himself seemed to find the story particularly amusing.
Luke Long then told about how he rode by Lord Orryn Umber's side as they hunted down and ambushed Bjamir the Climber and his band of wildling raiders. The Long lord was a tall and strong man on his mid-thirties with a comely face, deep green eyes, long brown hair and a close-cropped beard.
"They had climbed over the Wall between Sable Hall and Rimegate, and were heading back there when they came across us," Luke explained with a serious tone. "Apparently those two castles are some of the most lightly garrisoned by the Night's Watch. It's a shame, but there simply isn't enough black brothers left to effectively guard all of the Wall, and mutinies like the one that recently happened in Eastwatch certainly aren't helping." With those last words Luke glanced briefly at Bernarr.
"What do you think your brother intends, Lord Bolton?" asked Eyron Long, who looked much like his older brother except for being cleanshaven and having a shorter hair.
"I haven't seen Goren since I was a child," Bernarr answered calmly. "I do not know what kind of man he has grown to be in the Night's Watch."
"A traitor, clearly," Eyron said sharply. Bernarr narrowed his eyes as he looked at the man, but nonetheless gave him a small nod.
"So it would seem."
"Forgive my brother, Lord Bolton," Luke Long spoke up with a polite tone. "He seems to have forgotten that you were just a child when our father died at White Knife."
"I am aware," Eyron chimed in dryly, turning his tense gaze now to the Hornwoods. "Just as I am aware that our three other companions were there that day, fighting by the side of the Boltons."
"Two," Torwyn Holt corrected with a thin smirk on his bearded face. He was a burly and bald man on his mid-thirties. "I had been injured when we took Wolf's Den, and remained there until the Starks came to reclaim it."
"Water under the bridge," Rickard Hornwood spoke up with a tense smile forming on his face. He was a plain-looking and black-haired man on his late forties, and the heir to the lordship of Hornwood. "We are all here to serve King Harlon now, are we not?"
"Agreed," Harrion quickly said, grinning as he raised his mug for a toast.
"Agreed," Luke Long said calmly.
"Agreed," Bernarr quietly joined the toast.
"For King Harlon," Eyron said sternly and chugged his ale. Quietly they all took a deep gulp from their mugs.
"Speaking of kings," Torren broke the silence with his gruff voice. "I've heard grumblings of a King-beyond-the-Wall lately. There any truth to that, Lord Long?"
"Hard to say," Luke answered with a sigh. "Even the Night's Watch has trouble keeping up with what exactly is going on beyond the Wall. There are often conflicts between the wildling tribes, when one chieftain seeks supremacy over the rest, but there hasn't been a leader successful in uniting the wildlings in generations. However, now there is talk of a man called the Horned Lord, who is apparently hailed as king everywhere from Hardhome to Frostfangs."
"Horned Lord, eh?" Harrion spoke with a slightly amused tone. "You think there'll be a war against him someday?"
Luke shrugged. "Who knows. The whole thing could be nothing more than a rumor, or if the bastard really exists, he might get slain by some other wildling chieftain. That's how it usually goes."
Bernarr instinctively pictured in his head his brother kneeling before this wildling king. Would he truly do it? Would he join forces with a wildling just to get a chance to avenge our father and brothers?
These questions continued to trouble Bernarr's mind throughout the night, making him turn from side to side and lay awake in his bed. The dawn came what felt like mere moments after he had finally fallen asleep, and now it was time to prepare for the march ahead. Tired and chagrined, Bernarr broke his fast in the castle and then made his way out to the camp, to command the Bolton troops to pack their arms, armors and supplies.
"There was one drunken brawl between a couple of our men and some Umber boys last night, but nothing too serious," Big Ben reported to Bernarr and Torren with a nervous grin on his broad face.
"No bodies?" Torren asked sternly.
"No bodies, cap," Ben confirmed with a relieved tone. "And I've disciplined those involved already, no need to worry about that."
"Good," Bernarr muttered tiredly.
The three-day march of the army of some eight thousand Northmen led by King Harlon from Winterfell to Castle Cerwyn was troubled by heavy and icy cold rains. Finally seeing the small grey fort of House Cerwyn was perhaps the most welcome sight Bernarr had seen in his life. Around the castle was a camp of some two thousand more soldiers, dotted with banners of House Cerwyn, House Waterman, House Marsh, House Locke, House Woolfield and House Wells.
Even with just the noblemen of the army attending the small mess hall of the Cerwyns was cramped full. Luckily Bernarr found himself a place near one of the hearths. Next to him stood a tall and broad man on his early twenties, with green-grey eyes, short brown hair and a full beard. He was wearing a dark blue cloak, which was lined with dark fur and fastened with a golden clasp in the shape of a ring, runes engraved on it.
"Lord Bolton," the man greeted him with his deep and calm voice. He then offered Bernarr his hand. "I haven't had a chance to introduce myself to you. I am Harrald Umber, the grandson and heir of Lord Orryn Umber."
Bernarr shook the man's hand and gave him a respectful nod. "Pleasure to meet you."
"I heard there was a minor scuffle between our men and yours back at Winterfell," Harrald said, his tone still calm and respectful.
"My apologies, one of my subordinates has assured me the men involved have been disciplined for their actions."
"Oh, no need to apologize, as I understand it was our men who were the instigators," Harrald said with a thin smile. "They're Orryn's men to the bone, and Orryn has certainly taught them to hate the Boltons."
Bernarr sighed and turned his gaze to the fire burning in the hearth. "The scars left from the war fought between our late fathers are yet to be healed, it seems."
"Indeed," Harrald said, taking in a deep breath. "However, it doesn't mean that we must be enemies, Lord Bolton."
Bernarr raised an eyebrow and gave the young Umber a curious glance, to which the man reacted with a chuckle. "You look surprised that I don't despise you like my grandfather does," he stated amusedly. "Aye, it is true that my father died fighting against yours, just as yours died fighting against mine. But I've heard you have a son of your own now, aye? I have two… all the more reason we shouldn't repeat the tragedy of our own fathers."
"You can rest assured I have no such intentions," Bernarr responded tensely. "I've come here to prove my loyalty to King Harlon and to the North."
"As have we all," Harrald said softly.
At the first light of the next morn the Northern army, now ten thousand men strong, continued its march. The cold rains were now replaced by warm sunshine, and this time King Harlon led them towards west, towards Torrhen's Square. By the noon of the sixth day after leaving Castle Cerwyn they reached the seat of House Tallhart, and the large lake it stood by. On the fields north of the castle there was camped an army of some four thousand men under the banners of House Tallhart, House Dustin, House Ryswell and House Slate. However, the truly important sight was what was at the beach to the east of the castle. Hundreds of new longships were beached there, a wolf's head made of bronze adorning each of their bow.
"What you see before you is the greatest fleet the North has seen since the days of Brandon the Shipwright," King Harlon boasted before the men looking at the ships in awe. "These ships shall take our great army across the Saltspear, to reclaim Cape Kraken!"
The lords and common soldiers alike cheered loudly at the King's words. "THE NORTH REMEMBERS!" roared the king's brother Karlon Stark, and the men began to chant it, Bernarr joining them. "THE NORTH REMEMBERS! THE NORTH REMEMBERS! THE NORTH REMEMBERS!"
A feast was held that night in the great hall of Torrhen's Square, and this time Bernarr and Torren found themselves sharing a table with the Ryswell twins Ronard and Tomard, as well as Lord Bennard Locke and his two sons Brandon and Beren. The Ryswell twins were on their mid-twenties, both thin and tall and with handsome smiling faces. However, whereas Ronard kept his long brown hair loose and face cleanshaven, Tomard's hair was tied to thick braid and shaved off from the sides, and around his mouth was a goatee. Lord Locke was a plump and balding white-haired man on his early sixties. His heir Brandon, a man on his early forties, looked much like him except for having a full head of light brown hair. Brandon's younger brother Beren on the other hand was a sturdy and muscular man on his mid-thirties, with a short-cropped hair and a shaggy dark beard.
The atmosphere in the hall was cheerful throughout the feast, the lords and their sons clearly being eager for the war ahead. Bernarr allowed himself to enjoy the night as well. This is exactly what the North needed, he thought confidently while listening to the Ryswell twins singing a rousing song about Ironborn raiders being driven out from the Rills. A war against the Ironborn to unify us once again after the ugly civil war started by my grandfather.
When it was almost the hour of the wolf, Bennard Locke drunkenly climbed atop the table and started singing an old song about King Theon the Hungry Wolf, to which the whole hall quickly joined:
There once was a King of Winter called the Hungry Wolf,
Crown in head and sword in hand he sailed over many a gulf,
Before him fell the Andal, Wildling and the Ironborn,
But after every victory still more he did yearn!
Hungry, hungry was old Theon!
Hungry, hungry like a wolf!
Hungry like a wolf and just as fearsome was that king,
In his glorious memory should the Northmen sing!
Side by side with Bolton he beat Argos Sevenstar,
At the Weeping Water Northmen proved their skill at war,
Then he sailed across the seas to the invaders' land,
And he showed the men of Andalos his hunger ever grand!
Hungry, hungry was old Theon!
Hungry, hungry like a wolf!
Hungry like a wolf and just as fearsome was that king,
In his glorious memory should the Northmen sing!
The Hungry Wolf then sailed his ships across the windy Bite,
The raiding and unruly Sistermen he wished to fight,
With ease he took the isles and so the Three Sisters cried,
But still the wolf king's hunger was unsatisfied!
Hungry, hungry was old Theon!
Hungry, hungry like a wolf!
Hungry like a wolf and just as fearsome was that king,
In his glorious memory should the Northmen sing!
Years later Theon rode to Rills to put a rebellion down,
A Ryder lord there had made himself a traitor's crown,
On the battlefield the king and pretender came face to face,
With a single fatal swing he put the rebel to his place!
Hungry, hungry was old Theon!
Hungry, hungry like a wolf!
Hungry like a wolf and just as fearsome was that king,
In his glorious memory should the Northmen sing!
With the brothers of the Watch he rode beyond the Wall,
To find the wildling raiders and to kill them all,
And so, the wolf's hunger left many a wild one dead,
Theon's sword painting the Haunted Forest with red!
Hungry, hungry was old Theon!
Hungry, hungry like a wolf!
Hungry like a wolf and just as fearsome was that king,
In his glorious memory should the Northmen sing!
From seas came the Ironborn to raid and burn the North,
Those hardy men were the toughest foe Theon had ever fought,
But bravely he drove them out from Bear Isle and Stony Shore,
And when the last one fell, he asked: "Are there any more?"
Hungry, hungry was old Theon!
Hungry, hungry like a wolf!
Hungry like a wolf and just as fearsome was that king,
In his glorious memory should the Northmen sing!
When the song was over King Harlon himself climbed atop the high table, raising his horn of mead and bellowing: "Let us be as hungry as Theon was! AWOOOOO!"
"AWOOOO!" the whole hall howled drunkenly in response to the King.