Chapter 25: The Western War, Part One
POV Brynden, 17th Day, 2nd Moon
High on the wall, in line with the gate's center, one of his brother's keen-eyed men let out a blast of his trumpet. It was a blaring noise that his ears knew well, the sound was quickly answered by the mournful wail of a northern horn.
It's about time.
Brynden, his commanders, his knights, and his little nieces had been waiting in the courtyard for hours now. Edmure and many of the servants had to be sent back to their respective duties, healing and keeping the castle flowing respectively, but most of the commanders had little to do other than train their men. So, the soldiers were given the day for themselves while their commanders' knees wore away. Those men, Brynden's commanding knights and soldiers along with the all-important quartermaster, all stood only a few steps behind the foremost line.
Those without military station who yet remained were mostly the ones who absolutely needed to be there, such as the new arrival's kin. These were the persons who stood in that front line.
Standing primly, and with a face somehow both grim and expectant, was Sansa. The young lady had been standing completely still the entire time, no matter that he saw her leg tremble at times. Brynden managed to notice that the young wolf at her feet seemed to be in pain as well. He had silently decided to get them both to Maester Vyman, and was about to when the trumpet sounded.
Next to her was her sister Arya, with a carefully bored look on her face trying, and failing, to hide the expectant gleam in her eyes. Her own pup was pacing about in a circle around her feet, and had been for quite a while.
At Arya's side was Lyanna Mormont, named for the Wolf-Maid more like than not, who wore a truer version of her foster-sister's look. The bear sat behind her, appearing so much like a large old toy the man remembered, save for its breathing.
After the little Mormont came Alyssa, who had silenced her eager chatter and was now quite nearly bouncing on her heels. All excited to see her "Auntie Cat" again and meet yet another member of her extended family. The young girl's obvious joy did what the cloud-covered sun couldn't and kept them all from being completely miserable as they waited.
Then there was young Jon, standing tall at the very end of the line, and slightly off behind. He still wore his armour, although he had left his helm behind. He seemed nervous, but what more was the fact that he held Ice in his gloved hands rather than on his back. The greatsword was held shoulder to foot, the tip of the scabbard only an inch from touching Jon's boot.
To his right was his foreign paramour, Cirilla her name was, his white wolf at her feet. Brynden didn't quite know what to think of the girl, she spent a great deal of time with his nieces doing Seven know what and even gallivanted around at Ser Jon's side with a sword. But she caused no trouble, and the girls adored her, so he had yet to say anything about it.
The portcullis started to lift just as everyone resettled themselves in their preferred poses to greet the new monarch, his lords, and who else he deemed to bring with him into the castle.
First to ride under the sharp prongs of the portcullis were three heavily armed men, the two on the flanks wore the same Stark man-at-arms armour. While the one in the center was clearly a lord, the quality of his plate and brigandine making such clear. Although, he looked to be a lesser one, as his cloak lacked ornamentation, safe for the wolf pelt that seemed strung over his shoulders.
His face reminded him of Edmure, even with his rougher features and heavier gaze. Still, he looked young, the patchy beard didn't help matters either.
As the three approached, Ser Jon quickly went down to one knee, presented his lord father's sword high over his head, and closed his eyes. It was then that Brynden finally noticed the band of bronze on the young man's brow, and the dark spikes that rose from his hair.
"Welcome Robb." Brynden said, "Or should I say Your Grace?"
The boy chuckled, the sound reminded him of his cousin Irvine at that age, "Robb is all well and good amongst kin, great-uncle." he said, as he slid off his mount in a smooth and practiced movement.
They clasped arms, and Brynden discovered that his great-nephew possessed his father's firm grip. "Be welcome in Lord Tully's castle, King Stark." he said, making an approximation of his brother's lordly voice, before quickly abandoning it, "A feast has been prepared, for you and your lords, and our supplies are open to your men."
"I thank you, Ser." Robb said, then they released each others' arms, and he moved down the line.
As the two of them had chattered on, lords and some ladies streamed into the courtyard. All of them were still in armour, even two of the ladies. Cat was the sole exception to that rule, wearing a warm woolen dress in the Tully colours. With its cut and pattern, he found it to be remarkably similar to the one she wore when she first left Riverrun for her husband's castle.
Of the lords, Brynden recognised many, though some names escaped him.
There was the massive Jon Umber, who commanded the Northern infantry at both the Battle of the bells and the Trident, riding in with a younger version of himself and announcing Robb's entrance a moment too late, but plenty loud. Just behind the tall pair was Roose Bolton, as pale and calculating as he remembered, and Halys Hornwood, sporting an eyepatch he hadn't back in the rebellion. Next to ride through were the two armoured ladies, Mormonts by the black bears on their green surcoats, who flanked Brynden's niece. The last was another lady. This one in a red gambeson of strange styling, split at the hip to reveal a man's trousers and with a hood over her head.
Then, just as Cat had entered the yard proper, Robb was done accepting hugs and greetings from his sisters and cousin and had reached the still kneeling Ser Jon.
"Your Grace, our Lord Father, before his capture commanded me to bring you both Ice and our sisters." the young man started, his head still down, still on one knee. He went to say more, but the new king's hand on his shoulder stopped him.
"Rise, brother." Robb commanded, and Jon did. The young knight then offered the young king their father's sword, but was again stopped.
"I prefer the arming sword, and Ice is too deadly a blade to sit upon a mantle or in a trunk during a war as important as this." he stated, and Brynden could see the dread creeping through Cat's courtly face, "As such, as the King in the North and head of House Stark, I name you the Sword of Winter and charge you to wield Ice to the very best of your ability in my name."
Ser Jon's eyes went wide at that, and the corners of his mouth curled into a smile. It was the most emotion he'd ever seen from the young man, and Brynden's old heart warmed at the sight despite him. Jon was such a stoic man after all, joy was a rare sight on him for Brynden.
After returning to his senses, he went to one knee and accepted. Robb nodded with a smile, gave Cirilla a short greeting, and walked back to Brynden.
"What say you to retiring to your solar after the feast, uncle. So that we may plan what comes next?" he asked quietly, as Cat went to her daughters with a warm motherly embrace.
"I say we go now, but Hoster would chew my ear off if he heard I didn't feast you." Brynden said.
"Let us go on, then. Lead the way, uncle."
With the official, and more desperately awaited for, greetings were good and done with, they all quickly vacated the courtyard. They had a feast to get to in the great hall, after all. It wouldn't do to miss it and accidentally leave guest right uncomplete.
It took the two of them very little time to lead everyone else to the great hall and the food that awaited them.
Riverrun's feasting hall had never been all that large, but Brynden and the stewards had done their very best to cram as many tables and benches into as was humanly possible. All together there were three rows of tables running down the hall, all starting from the high table at the very end of the hall and stopping only a foot and a half from the opposing wall.
As it was, many had already taken their seats even as the lords, ladies, knights, and the odd captain filed in to claim choice spots of their own.
Brynden managed to reach his own high-backed chair unaccosted, and quickly moved to quietly scold a Edmure who was already seated next to him, "This will last long, Edmure, you should have stayed abed."
"I have rested enough, uncle. I must be here, it wouldn't be right to miss the welcoming feast for our allies." he said, "Besides, I won't be leaving this chair for anything other than retiring for the night." he finished, rather glumly at that.
The old knight sighed, and gave the boy's forearm a comforting squeeze, "Very well, but you'll only stay until the second course." he said, his nephew was still weak from his wounds and long sleep, he would only be able to eat the first course regardless of how long he strayed in the hall.
Edmure gave him a nod just as the hall settled.
Before anything else, Brynden cast his eyes over the hall see how everyone had organised themselves. What he saw came as no surprise.
Nearest the dais, on the leftmost table, were what Riverlords were present in Riverrun. The most prominent of them being Lord Tytos, who had greatly proved his might in their most recent battle, and Lord Bracken's alleged baseborn son Harry.
On the right-most table were the Lords of the North that had arrived with their King Stark, the closest four to the high table being Lord Umber, Lady Mormont, Lord Bolton, and the elder Manderly brother. Each had their kin coming right after them, the Lady of Bear Island even having poached her daughter from Arya.
The middle table was the most diverse, including what minor Vale lordling's Brynden had picked up on his way from the Eyrie and the captain of Alyssa's guard, along with many of the martially proven Riverland Hedge Knights that joined their flight.
Just after the lords, only a table-length away from him, were the knights and prominent warriors from all groups. In this section there was far more mixing, even though that was mostly the Valemen spreading themselves about. It was here, in the Northern row, that Jon and Cirilla took their seats, Ser Arctic having earned it with his ability and the fact that he'd succeeded in both sacking the Lannister camp and bringing Ser Jaime, and other Westerland knights, in alive the night after the battle.
Up at the high table itself were the most important people in the room, and some of their kin. To Brynden's right hand was Edmure, even paler than when they spoke only moments earlier, next was Cat, who seemed somewhere affeered. He quickly decided to speak with her after the feast.
Next to his niece was Lysa's orphaned daughter. Alyssa, still unknowing of her mother's death, was smiling just as brightly as ever. Her attentions and curiosities clearly placed on the Northmen for the moment.
To Brynden's right was the young king himself, looking more a king than his age would suggest. Following Robb was Sansa, sitting just a primly and properly as her mother did at her age, for all that the girl seemed put out. Next to her was the possible reason for this, young Arya was already drumming her fingers on the table.
As the host, Brynden rose to make the first pre-meal speech before anyone got too impatient, "On my brother's behalf, I welcome our northern allies to Riverrun and offer our meat and mead." he simply said and, at that signal, the serving maids rushed in with an orderly chaos.
Soon enough, all the fish and ale had been set down, and Brynden let himself fall back into his chair to fill his own plate.
The very first thing he went for was the trout, which Brynden had heavily hinted to the head cook to prepare it the way he'd always liked best. And, from the looks of things, old Byron had pulled through for him once again.
Brynden took hold of one of the fish by the tail, and quickly pulled it onto his polished steel plate. He damn near burned his fingers, but as he cut the twine keeping the trout's belly closed Brynden was rewarded with the savoury smell of butter, cheese, onions, and garlic. Along with the sight of mashed potato spilling out from within.
This specific dish wasn't all that difficult for Byron to make, but Hoster rarely allowed its creation. Too simple, the daft man always said, but was it ever a great meal. The making of Brynden's favourite dish was rather simple, all one had to do was prepare mashed potatoes, gut a trout, and stuff the mash between the fish's ribs before baking it in an oven.
What came out of the oven was this, a trout with marvellously tender meat and crispy skin, along with the best fishy potato mash one could ever have all in one dish.
The old knight damn near ignored everything but his ale as he devoured his meal, even Cat's quick yet cautious steps over to her son. All he could bother to notice was the very end of whatever they were talking about.
"Mother, I will not hear any more of this." Robb firmly stated, "Jon is our Sword of the Morning, and he will be until either his death or the end of his fighting days."
Brynden could see his eldest niece's worry, subtle though it was, yet she nodded all the same and returned to her own seat.
From then on, he decided to pay more attention to the feasters around him, and not only because he had nearly finished his trout.
With a glance to his right, Brynden found that Arya had disappeared, though he soon found her down below. The girl had left her trout half opened to leave the high table and join her foster sister at the northerners' tables. Since she seemed to be enjoying herself, he decided to leave it be.
But, before he fully looked away, a flash of blond hair caught his attention. With a small sigh, he spotted Alyssa pestering the younger Umber. Brynden couldn't quite hear what was being said, but the young girl was clearly engrossed with the man, and using her hands to emphasise each of her questions. Although he couldn't see the young man's face, it was simple to imagine the bemused expression he must have had.
Even as he kept an eye on his youngest niece, Brynden listened to the conversation over to his right between Robb and Sansa. No matter that it was slowly but surely getting more difficult to parse their words from the noise of the feasters.
"... and your leg, it has been getting better, yes?" he asked, rather awkwardly at that.
"Yes, thank you." Sansa said, her voice not quite right.
"Sansa, about what happened in-" Robb started, before his sister's short and quickly suppressed sob cut him off. This pulled Brynden's focus fully towards the pair.
"Oh, Robb..." she nearly wept, but the tears held themselves back as her brother took her hand in his, "It's been so hard... father, and Jeyne, and Jory, an-and-"
"I know, Sansa, I know." he said, the boy clearly doing his best to comfort her.
For the girl's sake, Brynden got Cat's attention and informed her of Sansa's state. She quickly stood, her face filling with motherly concern, and very nearly rushed to her side.
Then the men under the high table started getting louder and louder, and everything harder to hear. So, Brynden quickly signaled for the second course and for the head maid to have Arya and Alyssa escorted to their rooms. His blond little niece went without issues, what with her having been nodding off for the past half-hour, but the brown haired one took some convincing. Thankfully, Cirilla took it upon herself and herded the precocious girl, and her foster sister, out of the hall with only a few quiet whispers.
Only seconds after the youngest feasters were gone, serving maids once again burst from the servants' doors with the next course.
This coming dish was just the thing to sober the men enough to keep most of them from mistakes, violent or otherwise. It was a hardy meal, with thick cuts of mutton seared golden brown on cast iron trays nearly and then drowned in the gravy made from their own juices. They had a side of baked onions and garlic sprinkled lightly with sugar and sweet mashed beets to offset the meat. Trenches were also provided for the feasters to use at their discretion.
Brynden chose the only truly right way to use the bread, and that was stuffing it with as much meat and gravy as he could, while slicing the onions into thin strips to join the mutton, then eating it without spilling anything.
With half his attention on the hall at large, Brynden managed to notice a number of events.
The first was that Sansa had calmed, and that she urged her mother to return to her seat and enjoy her meal while insisting that she truly was alright. Cat allowed her daughter this, and returned to her talk with Edmure.
Only a moment after his niece had sat back down, there was a commotion down the hall.
Looking to where he heard the contrasting shouts of jests and jeers, Brynden saw what had brought it all to bear. It turned out to be a man dancing drunkenly on a table near the main doors. He had a striking stock of red hair, and Brynden soon recognised him as Lord Blackwood's baseborn nephew. He waved over one of his guards to remove him, but before the man even reached him someone had already stepped in.
Ser Jon, despite the amount of drink Brynden had seen him throw back, stood steady as ever as he snatched the young man by the back of the collar and pulled him from the table. Then the hall itself, he returned soon after and came behind the high table.
The stoic young man bent down between Robb and Sansa, and quietly offered to escort his sister to her room now that the hall was "falling into its cups". She agreed, stating that she was growing tired, and they both left talking about getting larger bowls, of all things.
Soon after that the ponderous guard Brynden had silently called finally arrived, and Edmure took advantage to have the man assist him to his room. Cat, with relief clear to him, stood to walk out with her brother. As the pair left, Brynden could only hear that they were talking about some sort of gossip or another.
Lord Umber then launched himself to his feet and roared at toast to both Hoster for his hospitality and for the war to continue in their favour. The rest of the hall followed suit and roared the same. It was then that Brynden took the opportunity to signal for the third and final course. It soon came, its arrival even heralded with the cheers of the men.
The third course went without major incident, nor curiosity, and soon it was time for dancing. Or, it would have been, if it weren't for the distinct lack of women in the hall. Replacing the traditional activity was simply more drinking, and the weaker drinker's finally falling onto the tables. Much to the hall's conscious feasters' collective amusement.
As the feast started to get deeper and deeper into the cups, his kingly nephew made it clear that he wished to move on to their private talk in the solar. Brynden agreed and they went off without a word.
Thankfully, their departure was discreet, and they left the great hall without any followers. Even still, Brynden knew he wouldn't be getting much sleep that night.
_The Very Next Morning_
Brynden had never liked the Lord's solar, not that the chamber itself was at fault. In that respect it was rather tasteful, with its warm red wooden floors, and the masterful paintings hanging on the three walls. The balcony, which completed the room's triangle, in particular was quite the place to stand. The view allowing one to see much of the castle below, and the Riverlands beyond it.
No, regardless of the room's craftsmanship, Brynden hadn't enjoyed his time in it since he was a child. All those years ago when his and Hoster's father hardly ever left its confines, given the man's injury, had painted the room with poor memories. His brother ordering him into for constant badgering never helped either.
Yet, here he was, completely of his own volition.
He had taken one of the firm wooden chairs that had been stuffed under the small dining table, and dragged it over to sit at Hoster's bedside. Allowing Brynden to relax his tired legs as he spoke to his brother.
"You said that Edmure hurt himself, Brynden?" his brother asked, just as he had shortly after Brynden had entered. It had only been a couple hours since then.
"Yes, brother, just outside of Riverrun." he said, keeping the answer vague to account for when Hoster thought he was.
"That boy, always getting himself into trouble with those cursed friends of his. Hah, and he wonders why I don't foster him out. That son of mine would break a bone or two within the week." Hoster chuckled weakly at his own jape, his rough voice almost breaking as he did.
"Water, please."
Brynden easily grabbed Hoster's favoured drinking horn, the one their uncle had made for him, and gently gave it to his brother, taking care that he fully gripped it before letting go.
Hoster took greedy gulps of the cellar chilled water, then gave a relaxed sigh as he finished. He kept his hands on the horn, looking into what clear water remained, "Have you made a decision about Lady Bethany? Lord Redwyne has been sending me ravens, his daughter has many suiters, Brynden. He won't wait much longer for a lord's brother."
"I'm still thinking about it, brother, you know my thoughts on this." Brynden said, much softer than he ever did before.
"Oh, yes, I know." Hoster replied, his to growing more clipped, "How many times must I tell you, it was wholly father's decision. He informed me only a day before he announced it. That is no reason to keep your heels in the dirt, all our cousins died against the Ninepenny Kings, you know well the state of our house."
Brynden had to bite his cheek to keep from snapping at the man. He's sick! Doesn't even realise it's been decades since then.
"I just need some time, that's all."
"Don't wait too long, indecision has killed more than impatience ever will." Hoster said, quoting their father's favoured phrase.
Without another word, the Lord of Riverrun's eyes fluttered closed. Seconds later he drifted off to a fitful sleep.
It didn't take long for the mumbling to start, "Lysa... The tansey... I- I'm sorry." he said, hardly louder than his wheezing breaths.
Where before he might has struck Hoster for the reminder, all Brynden did was take the man's hand, and try to comfort his nightmare fraught sleep.
His brother may have been an ambitious cunt since he became lord, and could still be as stubborn as an aurochs when he wanted, but Hoster had always been his brother before he'd been his liege lord. Even what the man had done to Lysa couldn't fully sever that link, he doubted anything could. Not for the first time did Brynden think on Steffon Baratheon, loyal to the end to his cousin. Would that man had stayed by Aerys's side, as he had Hoster's in his mad plan to near force the marriage of two grieving lords?
The door opened before Brynden could sink any further into those thoughts, he almost snapped at the intruder before he heard the slightly wheezing breaths and the tapping of a crutch.
Brynden stood, and held the chair firmly in place as his nephew neared. His ankle was bad enough as it was, he wouldn't have it worsen for the sake of his own comfort.
"Thank you, nuncle." Edmure said, easing himself into the highbacked chair, "How is he?" he asked, as he laid his crutch over his knees. His nephew had been short of breath ever since he took that spear to his shoulder, the maester had told them it would heal with time, but that some if it would always remain. Consequently, it also forced Edmure to convey his intent with fewer words.
"I'd say he was getting better, but that would be a lie." he told him, placing a firm hand on his unbandaged shoulder.
All Edmure did was nod at that, the boy was hardly looking at Hoster.
"You should be resting in your chambers, your father would be wroth if he knew you were going against Vyman's word." Brynden said, it was clear the mere walk to the solar had strained his young nephew.
"I know, but- but have you told Alyssa about Lysa yet?" Edmure said, even though he rightly should have said less.
"No, there just never seems to enough time, or simply the right time." he said, making the same excuses he did when Minisa died. At least then he had a swiftly approaching time limit, but now? Alyssa knew well that she wouldn't see her mother again for a few moons at the least. And how could he do it, the girl loved her mother, telling her she passed would crush her.
Edmure only nodded, now looking at his father full in the face, "What am I to do?" he asked, unmoving safe for his breathing, "Half of the lords here say I should kneel to Robb... the others say I take my own crown."
"Do the first to easily, and you would lose the respect of most the lords, Riverlords and Northmen alike, along with your autonomy." Brynden started, he couldn't just give Edmure the answer, no matter that he was currently "Regent" for both him and Hoster. But he would advise to his best ability, "Do the second and we will see a dozen different rebellions only moons after Robb's army leaves."
Brynden then gave his nephew's shoulder what he hoped was a comforting squeeze, "Your father always preferred his own way, no matter what others wanted or what might have been best, but your mother knew how to compromise. She could take an issue and split the demands down the middle. Aye, both sides would be unsatisfied, but neither lost as much as they could have. That often proved the most secure route."
Even from behind, Brynden could see the thoughts turning in Edmure head. Then, he nodded, and spoke once more.
"I hear Robb plans to attack the Westerlands."
"Aye, he wishes to secure the western borderlands against the remnants of Ser Jaime's army, and the greybeards they add to them to fill out the ranks."
"And leave us to the brigands already here?" Edmure asked, his voice growing bitter, "Along with what villains Lord Tywin sends from the east?"
"We have not lost all the forces of our lords, Edmure." he said, reminding him that the armies of his friends were not the only ones in the Riverlands.
"But will they follow, uncle? Mallister sits at Seagard, waiting for an envoy for formality's sake-" the boy suddenly let out a dry cough, easing it by easing the drinking horn out of Hoster's grasp and stealing a sip, "And Frey won't stir for anything short of a sure victory, of a large enough toll to buy him." he finished, distain for Lord Walder colouring his voice same as it always did his father's.
"Someone has been sent, someone who Robb is certain will win both of them to the cause." Brynden said, unsure as he was about the foreign woman's ability, "He also plans to ally with the Ironborn, and have them attack the Lannister coastline."
That seemed to ease some of his nephew's worry, but something seemed to still be gnawing at him. Brynden wouldn't push him to tell of it, though, Edmure would ask if he needed advice. It wouldn't do to undermine his authority, even in private. Hoster would always throw fits over it, no matter how well intentioned.
Edmure didn't ask, only starting his struggle up from the chair. He made it up on his own, and got his crutch under his arm easily enough.
Brynden walked ahead of him and opened the door, and gave Edmure one last meaningful look as he passed. He nodded, saying that he would go rest, and left with swift steps. As swift as they could be with his injuries, anyway.
The black fish of the Tully's stayed there at the door for a moment longer, looking back at Hoster and thinking about whatever he needed to get done outside of this room. He felt as though he were forgetting something, but the feeling eventually passed. Brynden sighed, and went back to his brother's side, sitting in the chair once again. He settled in it, and waited for the next visitor.
Someone was bound to come at some point, maybe even Alyssa would come after her lessons with Vyman.
POV Jon, 19th Day, 2nd Moon
Somber shook out her head, the big mare clearly getting impatient with all the standing around. No matter that it has only been for a few moments.
Arya then released him, promising to keep the axe polished as she did, and stepped away to join Sansa and Lya, letting Robb come in for his own farewells, "I would rather go with you, you know that right?" his brother said.
He couldn't help but smile at that, "Heavy weights the head that wears the crown, aye?"
Robb let out a short laugh and gave him a nod, "Aye, an apt description."
"You swear you'll both be safe." his brother asked, glancing at Ciri before looking back to him.
"Aye, safe as we can be. Don't worry overmuch, Robb, we've both been trained in the art of keeping each other alive."
His brother smirked at that, "Good." he said, as he brought up his hand.
He easily clasped Robb's arm, but suddenly found himself pulled into a manly embrace, "I'll keep things in one piece here, don't worry about the girls."
Jon firmly returned the embrace and, with a nod, they released one another. Robb then stepped back, waved over the stoop-backed scribe, and King Stark started to announce his own send off. The Witcher kneeled to receive the instructions.
"Ser Jon Arctic, Sword of Winter." his brother started, the scribe new to him scribbling down his words, "I, King Robb Stark, hereby command you and your riders to foray into the outer Westerlands. You are to learn all you can of the disposition and movements of their troops, and the state of their defenses. Furthermore, I grant you the right adapt your routes as you see fit, so long as those changes assist you in your duties."
"Rise, Ser Arctic, mount your horse and lead your men into the Westerlands. Ride well, and know that our offensive depends upon the information you gather." he finished, and Jon did as he commanded.
He turned his back to most of his family, and mounted Somber. Once he was in the saddle, he looked back only once to see that they were all waving goodbye and then rode to where Ciri watched on her Mist.
Then, together, they rode under the portcullis and over Riverrun's drawbridge.
It didn't take them very long at all to reach his riders, what with them being formed up but a short ride from the castle's gate, and the two of them took their place at the head of the mounted column. Then they were off.
There were, admittedly, a few queer looks from some of the men when Ciri didn't break off from the group once they gained some true distance from Riverrun, but nothing was said about it. So, he let it be. They would learn of her worthiness the same way they learned his, through combat. Jon would just have to come across suitable foes, as it seemed that his tales weren't enough.
Eventually, when Riverrun had finally slipped out of view, Jon led his riders in breaking off of the Riverroad towards the north-west.
Used to him doing such things on their smaller patrols the men followed with ease and soon their course to the Tumblestone and House Grell's lands was set.
Jon had never particularly encouraged his men to ask him questions, but he'd never stopped them from doing so. As such, they had slowly been becoming more and more frequent.
Only an hour into the ride to the more western part of the Tumblestone the first one came riding up to join him and Ciri at the front.
"Cap'n, some the lads have been wondering about the plan for this ride." Roderick, the most outspoken yet respectful of his men, said quietly. "There 'ave been rumours coming from the other parts of the army, 'bout goin' into the Westerlands. Do they be true?" he swiftly asked, his White Harbour accent slipping through in his excitement.
"Aye, but only for scouting." Jon easily answered, he had been rather transparent with his men so far. And it had yet to bite him in the ass, so he continued to tell them most of what they asked for. "So, we won't be doing anything too recognizable, other than causing the disappearances of some patrols of course." he finished with a smile. Many of his newer men had more than sufficient anger towards those who fought for the Lannisters, which made them fight all the harder.
Roderick nodded, and slowed from a swift trot to a slower one to spread the word to the rest.
Not long after their goal was spread to each and every man in the column, they had reached the rushing waters of the Tumblestone. The river looked no different from the part just off of Riverrun's moat, just as deep and quick as what protected the Tully fortress.
Jon wasted no time and wheeled left to ride the column counter to the river's flow, it would lead them straight to the Westerlands. Hopefully it's banks would be rideable until their found some sort of trail through the mountains.
As they rode along the swift waters, the soft-green rolling plains and streams that made up all the woodless parts of the Riverlands slow turned to drier and more rugged terrain. The flat land first turning to waves of grass and the odd lonely trees, to hills that only grew in height as they continued westward. These hills had more shrubs and trees, but they were still rather sparse and offered little to no cover. Not that they really needed it while still in Grell lands.
Eventually the hills turned sharper, the valleys between them deeper, and yet still the area around the Tumblestone remained level and free of large stones. Jon supposed that the river swelled in spring time or under heavy rains to keep it so, which made the closing in of autumn all the more concerning.
However, the autumn storms were far away for now, and he had more pressing matters. Once such thing was the massive boulder he finally spotted on the opposite bank. The one shaped like a man's face, and marked the border between the lands of House Grell of the Riverlands and House Drox of the Westerlands.
With his riders finally in the Westerlands proper, Jon had them break off into groups of ten. Wyllem was given command of a few lancers in addition to his own squad of archers, Roderick had his polearms and maces, and Artos his own mounted spears and foragers. All to name only a few. He had done what he could to balance each group, but some commanders simply did best with certain units, so it was what it was.
Jon's own group was composed of himself, Ciri, Rickard of the Mountains of the Moon, the young Eren Stone of Longbow Hall, Edmund the large, Edmund the small, Addam of Ironoaks, Mute Karl, Ghost, and Gwyn.
Their path was the most direct of all the groups, that to the castle Ashemark, and the Golden Tooth south of it. All the others would ride out and check on the castles of smaller lord and landed knights, while removing any patrols they come across. One such castle was that of House Drox, which was why Jon and his group could continue along the Tumblestone to Ashemark without detours.
The foliage along their path changed drastically over the length of a league, the growing mountains sprouting tall and proud trees, with smaller ones scattered along the bank of the river. Eventually, from between the doomed little birches, Jon found a beaten dirt path along the river. It was a small risk to take it, but one he easily took. The risk of simply losing their swift way to Ashemark was too high in the mountains and valleys of the Westerlands.
Suddenly, Gwyn prodded Jon's mind in warning, prompting the witcher to send an eye over to the eagle.
Once that half of his vision returned, Jon quickly saw what Gwyn had wanted to show him. It was a small group of mounted men, five in all, but still a threat to his duties. A short look at the flying pennant one man carried let him know they were of House Drox.
The witcher then pulled himself back and informed the rest of what Gwyn found, "There's a Drox patrol coming our way." without skipping a beat he then offered commands, "Off the road and into the trees, all of you."
They all followed them promptly, their horses climbing the small incline and hiding behind the cover offered by the leafy trees. Ghost however, simply hid in wait amongst a dense group of bright green saplings, somehow disappearing behind them.
Only moments later the patrol Gwyn had spotted rode down on the path they had just rode off of. None of the man gave any notice of spotting them, and Jon waited for the right moment to come.
As they neared, Jon was forced to stop Eren with a hand on his shoulder, "Patience." he whispered to the boy. And he though listened, Jon could see the impatience in him and chose to leave the hand on Eren's shoulder. The boy was determined, and driven beyond all of Jon's other riders, but he was stubborn and impulsive. Which was why he was with Jon on this ride, better have him close to both teach him and stave off his worse impulses.
Thankfully, it didn't take very long for the right man to walk by Ghost's hiding spot.
On Jon's silent signal Ghost sprung from the young birches for the only rider with a horn and, before the man could even get his wits about him, ripped him from the saddle to tear him apart.
With the patrol's only means of calling for aid killed, Jon kicked Somber forward to rescue the wolf from the man's comrades. His riders followed not a second later, and they all fell upon the smaller group like a rockslide.
Addam had the first kill, being the best javelineer of the group. His missile soaring through the air and plunging into the lead man's gut. The next best thrower was the smaller Edmund, and his javelin stuck itself in the rear patrolman's thigh.
The rest of them were too slow in aim or arm to loose their own javelins this close to the enemy, and instead chose to spur their steeds onward all the faster.
Somber was the swiftest of them, and she brought the witcher right into one of the enemy horsemen. His foe, frozen in fear, could hardly face Jon as he reached him.
He swung up at him, and Ice split the scout waist to shoulder with almost contemptuous ease. The man's parts then fell to the ground, as Jon quickly snatched the horse's reins from limp fingers.
As he had trained them to do on their first scout purge with him, Jon's riders did the same as he with their dead foes' horses and did their best to calm them. Eventually, they did, Ciri doing the same as well. Most likely having quickly picked up on it the moment Jon first did it.
He had half a mind to propose right then and there, with the blood of the patrolmen still splattered over her helmless face and running down her sword. The smile she gave him when she noticed his look made it sweeter, but it wasn't the right time, these days it seemed to never be a good enough moment. Jon felt that this was the sort of issue one would ask their parent for advice to help with, but-
Jon shook those thoughts away, the perfect moment would eventually come, and they could be officially joined for all the world to see before the Winterfell heart tree just like he'd always envisioned.
He smiled back at her, and the moment soon passed as Ciri looked away to clean off her silver sword. It was an odd blade, taken from a felled silver knight what seemed like ages ago now, it took very little maintenance to keep from dulling and was sharp as a griffin's claw. The elegant design also favoured her heavily, no matter how hard it was to find a suitable scabbard.
Soon enough, they were all ready to continue on. And so they did.
They rode at a slow canter on the dirt path for hours, but once the sun had finally started to burn orange at the horizon, Jon decided that it was time for them to look for a secure place to set up their camp.
Such a location was quickly found by Ghost, it was a middling cave that had obviously belonged to a pack of wolves at some point, but the dust covering the what bones were present and the state of decay of the shed fur made it clear that it had long been abandoned.
Regardless, he still had both Eren and Rickard search the whole cavern for safety's sake, and only once both men returned did he command both the pair and the rest of the men not on watch duty to start building the camp.
As they'd been taught, Jon and Ciri joined them in this, setting up the sleeping equipment and starting a fire.
By the time the sun had mostly sunken below the horizon, all was prepared. A little way from the entrance to the cave, they had unsaddled and tied all the horses. At the entrance was their stone encircled fire, with their provisions tied up in a tree nearby. The cave itself played host to their bedrolls and baggage.
After a short meal of watered ale and salty rations, where the men all but demanded a tale of one of his and Ciri's adventures, they crawled off into their bedrolls.
Jon and Ciri had had their own bedrolls customized a long time ago, allowing them to button the woolen coverings together to make one large bedroll to keep them to keep each other close as they slept. It earned some snickers, but he wouldn't have it any other way.
As he had Ciri slowly started off on the road to sleep, a big white wolf-child made his way over from the fire.
Ghost padded over them both, and then quickly made himself comfortable in the small space he'd forced between the two of them. Without thought Jon started to run his fingers through the wolf's fur, idlily noting that he had grown once again. The last time he'd noticed such being only a few days ago meant Ghost was still growing quick. He wondered at what size he'd achieve, larger than his mother that's for certain. Since the long dead wolf was at least a few moons short of adulthood by her proportions.
The giant puppy shifted atop the bedrolls, pushing Jon out of his thoughts before settling it a different position.
Now without his trail of musings, Jon found himself simply staring at the stone ceiling. This wasn't the first time that sleep had alluded him, far from it, ever since he went through the Trail of Grasses it had been troublesome to achieve. So, as he did most nights his sleeplessness became an issue, he started counting.
Jon reached two hundred when he finally started feeling drowsy, then at ten and one thousand he-
_Days Later_
Jon shifted and settled himself in his place lying on the sheer outcropping. It was an uncomfortable place to lay oneself on, given its sharp and jutting rocky surface, but needs must. For, regardless of its comfort, it was the best place to get a good view on Ashemark and the small village that hid in its shadow.
The castle of House Marbrand's main line was smaller than Jon expected, but its defenses were still impressive and its placement more so. The high, thick walls standing upon a rocky mount with the sturdy stone towers all along the road up to its gate made it an intimidating seat. Not to mention the short towers that straddled the walls themselves.
As he looked it all over, noting any and all places that may have been poorly maintained, Ciri passed him back the far-eye Ser Brynden issued him just before Robb officially sent him to learn what he could of the state of the borderland Westerland castles.
But just before he brought it up to his eye to see the human parts of Ashemark's defences, Ciri spoke up, "I think we should note down what we find and move on, Jon. I don't see anything for us to do here." she said, getting up from the rocks and resting on her heels.
"I disagree." Rickard easily replied, his smallfolk-Vale accent tightly controlled as usual, "I say we dress as brigands and attack in the night. Kill and take what we can to weaken the Lannisters."
"You'd have us be brigands for the night?" Ciri asked, her brows in a frown and an angry scowl working its way onto her face. Jon hooked his foot under hers, pulling her out. The scowl receded and the frown eased, but her eyes kept their accusing glint.
"No, m'lady, only disguised as such to cut down their knights and men-at-arms, and burn down the armoury." he explained, with an understanding look to what wasn't covered by his beard.
Ciri nodded, and turned back to look at Ashemark, while Rickard looked to him for commands. The decision was an easy one.
"We record what defences they have, their numbers of their men and their disposition. Then we move on, King Robb's orders were clear. We learn what we can, make little evidence of our presence. No brigands would be brave enough to face that castle willingly." he said, even though it still felt odd to call his brother a king. Most of the time he still saw Robb as the boy he was when they played together or trained under Ser Rodrik. No matter that he was almost a man, that he'd changed so much, or all the time they spent apart.
Rickard nodded, deferential even though Jon knew how bored he and most of the men were getting with only riding and scouting.
Jon rose to his feet, clapping a hand onto Rickard's armoured shoulder as the man followed him up, "Don't worry, Rickard." he said, giving the large man a smile, "We're bound to find ourselves in a skirmish or two back in the Riverlands."
He chuckled through his nose, returning Jon's smile. Rickard turned back to face the castle, then pulled out a small leatherbound tome, along with his twine reinforced stick of charcoal.
As Rickard wrote down all they had just observed from Ashemark, Jon started on the deer trail that would lead him back to where he tied Somber and to where the rest had taken up guard posts. He heard Ciri follow only a moment later, and knew Rickard would do the same as soon as he finished recording the details. By the time the man had joined them, all would be ready to ride onward.
They would have to be, to get the job done as quickly and as well as they could speed was key.
What made it more pressing was that there were many leagues between them and the next important Westerland fortress, all of them holding mountains and valleys. To do the job right, each splintered group of Jon's riders had to use the daylight hours to their most. His own section was slightly ahead, but the faster they gathered the information Robb needed the better.
His brother was an excellent tactician, what few war councils and simulations he shared with him made that clear. But even the best fell to misinformation. Jon would never let such a thing happen to his family again.
_Even More Days Later_
"Around your horse, now white with frost, sparkles ice on pond and marsh." Ciri sang softly, riding next to him at the head of their small band.
"Your longing eyes greave what is lost, but nought can change this parting harsh." Jon continued, joining his deeper voice to hers.
Dandelion's Winter might have been one of his most melancholic ballads, but it had always been Jon's favourite. And just so happened to be one of the few songs he knew all the words to.
Just as he and Ciri were singing their song, his riders were doing the same behind them. Singing songs of their own in yet smaller groups. He just managed to hear, under Edmund's booming voice belting out The Lusty Lad, Eren and Addam softly singing a fair rendition of Iron Lances. Jon couldn't quite hear what the men beyond them were singing, but he assumed they were ballads and tunes that were close to each of them.
Aside from singing with Ciri and listening to his riders, Jon kept the smaller part of his attention on the broad-leafed trees around the thick trail. They were mostly elms and walnuts, all of them were old things, big and strong with rugged bark to protect them.
But there was also the rare sapling fighting for sunlight on the edges of the path, young little things that he well knew would either be cut by those who tended to the trail, or eaten. Mayhaps one or two would be overlooked until they were too much effort to remove. One could hope.
Just as he was using his own eyes to observe the area surrounding him, the witcher was making sure to periodically check on both Ghost, who was ranging far to the west, and Gwyn as he played between the trees or perched on rocky outcroppings.
The daylight passed as they all rode along, Jon keeping an eye on things, and he and Ciri soon reached the end of the ballad, "Spring will return, on the road the rain will fall." he sang.
"Hearts will be warmed by the heart of the sun." she continued, swaying herself to the tune a lute would have played.
"It must be thus, for fire still smolders in us all." they sang together, "An eternal fire, hope for each one."
Both of them then let the final words fade into nothing, as Jon simply kept looking about.
Most of it was the same tree, bush, trail, and jutting rock. Then the canopy broke to open sky.
That break then allowed him to spot something more to his interests, a castle that followed the description Jon had been given of the Golden Tooth. Generally small, the castle was made of sandy coloured stone and sat high upon a jagged mountainside. What had to have been its main keep was tall and thin, with a sharp pointed roof and without machicolations. The walls themselves looked patchwork even from the distance, with different sections clearly divided by their varying stages of sun bleaching, but they seemed strong.
The most important part of the castle, however, was that the River Road traveled just beneath it. With a narrower strip of it actually smoothly scaling the mountainside and entering the Tooth's eastern gatehouse, and then leaving through the western one to travel down to rejoin with the main road.
That sight in particular kept his attention for quite some time, for, from what he could see, there was simply no way around it all for a large army to march into the Westerland heartland.
But, if Casterly Rock or the coastal castles weren't Robb's goal, and instead he wanted the northern ones... Well, that could be doable, if he properly separated the army. Perhaps even leaving the infantry behind to secure passage with the cavalry.
Jon cut that line of thinking, it wasn't his place nor his expertise to think on grander strategy. He would leave that to his brother, and if he asked for Jon's advice, he would give it best he could then and there.
That being said, gathering information was his duty, so Jon reached out to Gwyn and sent the whole of himself. Letting his body keep itself upright on Somber as his mind took its usual place in the great eagle's feathers.
With the warm wind under their wings, Jon and Gwyn banked left towards the sand-yellow castle. It took them little time to close in on its walls, and even less to finally reach them.
Then they went over them and as they soared over the battlements, fast enough that both could hear the air smack against the stones, the pair learned that the Golden Tooth was much denser than Jon had expected. The fortress was positively filled with buildings, the only clear space being the road, a small training yard, and what few open passages there were between buildings. Another thing they managed to see were windows on the cliffs above the castle, and another fort higher up the mountain.
Tunnels in the mountain? Jon knew that Casterly Rock had most of the living space in the rock itself, but did every castle in the Westerlands have something similar?
His musings were cut, however, when Gwyn prodded his mind and brought his attention on the road on the northside over the castle. Where men, horses, and carts were swiftly assembling.
In the center of it all, and standing on a crate, was a well-armoured man with a truly impressive chestnut mustache.
The man was clearly the one in charge, given that he seemed to shouting at all of the other men. He and Gwyn, however, were too high up to hear what the man was saying, the words stolen by the wind before they could reach them.
So, even with the risk of being shot down on the value of being such a large and strangely coloured bird, Jon asked Gwyn to go lower to hear what was being shouted.
As he asked, Gwyn flew lower. Enough so that he could make out what the commander was shouting, "- all day! Go on lads, Oxcross is many leagues away!"
With that bit of crucial information obtained, Gwyn quickly escaped before he could be spotted and Jon left the eagle's mind.
The very first thing he did was turn to Ciri, who'd been watching over his body like usual, "They're sending men and supplies to Oxcross, I don't know for certain, but suspect their rebuilding Ser Jaime's army." he told her.
"Then we should try to learn more then?" she said, "Or return and report this as soon as possible."
Jon fell silent for a moment then, because both options were valid. Speed, or more information. But, before he could think deeply on the matter, Eren, the youngest member of the group, rode up to the front to join them.
"We could find a way around the Tooth, and see if the border castles further south are doing the same?" Eren asked, his earnest eyes nearly sparkling at the chance for an extended outing and the chances that came with it. "We could see for ourselves how large the army could be, along with what commanders they might have."
Jon contemplated the Valeman's words, and judged them sound enough, "Aye, but we turn back into the Riverlands at Deep Den. There's little need to watch the castles that border the Reach, they're Renly's problem and we must have some degree of haste." and were simply too far away.
They all nodded at his words, and Jon sent out both Addam and Eren, the two fastest riders he had at the moment, to inform the other groups. They would all come together northeast of Deep Den, rather than Hornvale as he had originally instructed.
So, the rest of them waited for the pair's eventual return. As they did, Jon couldn't help but think about the other fronts of the war, it was one of the downsides of being in the field, he just didn't know how it was going. Would he finish things here only to find their eastern army routed? Or that the Riverlord castles that surrendered to the Lannisters were already burnt out before they heard of their victories?
All he could do was wonder, and do his job.
POV Raymond, 15th Day, 3rd Moon
The young hunter went over his equipment one last time, running his hands over each as he thought of them. Finishing knife. He gently gripped the handle with his left hand, giving it a jiggle to make certain the sheath was tied to his belt properly. It was.
Skinning knife. His right hand slipped off the sturdy dining table and clutched the thin blade's own sheath and gave it a sharp tug to be sure.
Quiver. The very same hand went down to his thigh and fiddled with the straps that bound the narrow quiver to his belt. Finding them to be secure he moved onto the quiver itself and searched for any holes, or thinness. He-
"Just fuckin' go already!" his father suddenly shouted, slamming his dornish bow into Raymond's chest.
Once his breath returned to him, Raymond took up his father's old, but still strong, bow, the one he took as a trophy from the Step Stones. He was told it was made of horn and sinew, having been used by some dead slaver, making it was far too valuable to be used outside of war. For something as low as common hunting would be... would be...
"F-father, this is-"
"I damn well know what it is, boy." his stooped father interrupted, "An you know I can't pull it back no more. Enough o' usin' that stick and string o' yours, ye be usin' this one now."
Without thought, his fingers curled around its unstrung length, the strings held in a leather back tied to the bottom end. "Ye know how to string an' loose it right." his father continued, though far less harshly than before, "Just go kill something big with it, aye?"
Raymond couldn't help but gulp, "Yes father."
A bony, yet still strong, hand cuffed him firmly on the shoulder, "Atta boy, get goin' now." he said, before turning about and half-limping to his chair.
The hunter breathed in deeply, and nodded despite his father facing away from him. He then turned on his heel, the packed dirt floor grinding under his worn boots, and made for the cabin door.
"Fore ye go, imma be goin' inta town fer a few things, so don't go an' panic when ye get back an I'm not here!" his father quickly shouted, just as Raymond opened the door.
He went to reply from the threshold, but, again, he was answered before he could speak, "Aye, aye, I'll fetch yer 'Rosemary' nonsense."
Raymond smiled at his father crotchety attitude, and left the cabin proper, closing the door firmly behind him to keep the loose thing from swinging open on its own.
Bow in hand and with each and every part of his equipment secure in their proper places, he went off to hunt, giving the garlic and onions his father grew only a short glance for pests. All while breathing deeply of the fresh air now that he was out of the stuffy cabin.
The day was still rather young, the sun having risen only a few fingers over the distant horizon, so Raymond set out at a leisurely pace for the woods who's hunting rights his father had been allotted as reward for his wartime service under Lord Paege.
Before he knew it, he was already under the heavy canopy of the ancient oaks and making his way southwest. Away from the distant Blackwater Rush and, hopefully, good and far from where the Lannister's raiders were painting the fields red and black. Well, as long as what the other hunters told him was true. Which it most likely was, Walton was an observant man, even the patch covering what used to be one of his eyes.
Regardless of what was befalling those damned souls up north, he had duties to attend to. And attend to them he will.
So, as Raymond strolled through the woods, stepping over the occasional root, he looked for any signs of larger game. Any scratch marks on the bark, tufts of fur caught higher in what undergrowth there was, or any overturned patches of earth. Marks of deer, elk, boar, or even a wild goat. Not that he'd ever hunted one of the hairy himself, but he'd seen Walton often carrying them into the butcher's shop.
The sun climbed into the sky, slowly but surely, and Raymond kept vigilant. His father had told him that the days have been getting shorter, the sun faster in its journey, but he hadn't noticed it. Each day seemed just as the last, warm as ever and going through all the same movements.
By the time morning had turned into day proper, the young hunter had finally spotted something.
A muddy clump of grey hair, wrapped up in the thorns of a berryless blackberry bush. It could have belonged to one of the goats Walton kept nabbing, but the tuft seemed odd. Except for the colour, it didn't look at all like that of those he'd seen. It wasn't nearly long enough, nor was it as lanky.
Then he realised, it wasn't hair, but fur. Of the same quality as the pelt his father caught, skinned, and cured for his mother when he was only a babe.
Raymond squatted down and braced himself with his free hand, he looked about the dirt for any tracks. It hadn't rained since yesterday's night, and the fur seemed to have been in place for some time. Two days if he had read the wear of the strands and the withering of the green around it correctly.
Sure enough, only a few short steps from the bush, in old mud that was dry as a bone, was a four toed and clawed print. Larger than any dog's, even as hard to see as it was.
It was a wolf, he'd bet his boot on it.
Raymond considered turning away from where the track pointed, but his father's words kept him on this path. A wolf was plenty big, even with its tough meat, he would do his father proud bringing one in.
He set out once again, but with quick and purposeful strides where he once went with ease.
Soon, the hunter came across another mark of the wolf's passing, a large bloodstain splattered over the leaves of a young sapling and a host of broken branches on the bushes it fought against for sunlight.
The blood was dry and browning, so Raymond quickly continued his hunt. No point in checking for the wolf's prey if it escaped him.
So, onward he went, sure he was closing in from behind his quarry. He gave only the slightest consideration to the sun reaching its climax in the sky above.
Along his way he found yet more blood, some on the leaves of bushes and more clumping the dirt below. Again, he dismissed it, wolves were known to be ravenous. It wouldn't be strange for one to eat and walk in bursts.
Eventually, he came upon an especially dense gathering of greenery, with what was almost a tunnel formed from broken branches. Many of the sharper ones sporting grey mantles.
He was close, he could feel it in the quickening drum of his heart. So, as he forced himself to relax with long and deep breaths, he went to string his father's bow just as he was taught countless times before. He was forced to wipe his hands on his tunic, for the still air doing little against the heat of noon.
First, after he looped one end of the string to the bottom tip, he hooked that same tip's curve under his foot, careful not to press it into the ground. Then, he firmly grasped the handle with his right hand while his left held the string's loose end against the bow's top half. Once he felt it was good and ready, he pulled.
The recurve bent just as smoothly as it always did, and the loop was soon in place. Taking it out from under his foot, Raymond gave it a testing tug. When the string didn't suddenly snap free and take his eye out, he deemed it ready.
Looking over where the wolf forged its path, Raymond quickly decided to make his way around it all, none of the trees were anything close to one another anyway.
Oh so carefully, the hunter stalked around the bushes on the balls of his feet, sliding them only an inch over the dirt where he could and testing his steps where he couldn't. As he went, Raymond gently pulled one of his few steel-headed arrows out from his quiver, doing his damndest to keep the others from rattling against each other during the movement. Then he nocked it.
Finally, Raymond cleared the green and quickly drew back his string, using the strength in his back to make it all the faster.
But just as his thumb reached his chin, Raymond froze.
For the wolf was already dead, and barely recognizable in its state. Its skull was a trampled ruin, its limbs either broken or plain missing, its grey flank was filled with too many holes for him to count, and its spine snapped in more than a few places.
Raymond loosened his muscles, slowly letting the taught bow relax, and inched towards it.
As he approached, he suddenly noticed that all the ground around the body was mud, rather than the drier dirt he'd walked over to get there.
Upon closer inspection, Raymond saw that it wasn't simply mud. All around the wolf the ground was watered with its blood and churned by hooves then left to settle.
The sight disturbed him, to say the least. Such cruelty was unheard of for any hunter, Raymond's father had instructed him in using the finishing knife for a reason, after all.
Raymond eventually looked away from the carcase, and saw that the horse tracks continued past it. They showed only two beasts, heavy though they were.
After a moment's consideration, Raymond decided to follow them.
Best to be certain. It wouldn't so for something to go awry because of any sloth of his. Besides, mayhaps one of the horses would suddenly die, his father had had horse once before and the man had nothing but good things to say on the taste.
So, after ripping a large enough tooth from the dead wolf's somewhat stiff jaw, the hunter set off after the pair. Only glancing at the now after-noon sun creeping towards the horizon.
As he noticed before, the horses were heavy, their tracks deep, so it was no trouble at all for Raymond to follow them. But soon, he spotted something through the canopy. Something that drifted lazily through the air in the distance.
Smoke.
From what Raymond saw if it, the pale cloud must have been coming from Bitterbark Square. Mayhaps they were burning a bonfire or pyre?
As he grew closer to where he knew the village to be, Raymond pulled his arrow off the string and stuffed it back into his quiver. He didn't want a misunderstanding to build because of it, who knew how they would react in times like these.
Eventually, Raymond broke free from the woods, and stumbled to a stop at what he saw.
Before his eyes sprawled what had to have been the entire entirety of Bitterbark Square, but where there should have been whole houses of dark timber and blooming gardens were only floors and overturned earth. All with a thick blanket of black ash layered over it.
Only one home stood unburnt, though much of its walls were still stained black. It was a small triangular house at the very edge of the village, standing at the end of its very own dirt path.
In a slight daze, Raymond made his way to it. Stepping over the twisted and blackened bodies of man, woman, and beast alike. The ashes squished wetly underfoot, and stuck to his boots.
The hunter crossed the famed square, the center of which was made from stone blocks he'd been told were stolen from a Harrenhal caravan. He saw nothing of the stalls the people of his village had told him about, the only remains were ash and char. Along with blackened things spread about, oozing strange substances from where they sat.
What was more, there was not a single carrion crow picking at what remained, nor even flying overhead. All was silent, even the wind didn't dare to make a sound.
Raymond soon reached the door to the small wooden home, and pushed open the door.
The hinges groaned, but gave way, and revealed what hid the inside.
On the floor were two halves of an old man, both lying facedown in a dark pool of blood. One of the man's hands, the one connected to his right half, tightly clutched a stainless tanning knife. Beside the pieces lied a big brown mastiff, sadly nudging at the corpse's empty hand and whining.
The beast completely ignored the jerky lying next to its paw, meaty as it was.
Raymond only watched for a second or two, unnaturally taken by the sight, then came to his sense and slowly closed the door as to not disturb the old hound's mourning.
He didn't know how long he stood there, staring unblinkingly at the copper-bound wood, but the sky was going dark when he finally turned away and noticed the tracks he'd once been following. That had led him about before he stumbled upon the yet smouldering pyre that used to be Bitterbark Square.
Following them with his eyes, he saw that they joined more hoof prints. More than he could possibly count, and all of them were heading north.
His eyes widened and his heart started thundering in his ears, his already chilled blood going even colder as Raymond realised where the butchers had to be going next.
He ran after them, his mind filling with images of his father in two parts on the floor of their cabin.
Over roots, around trunks, and under low-hanging branches he went, running as fast as he could the whole way. He nearly tripped more times than he could count, but that didn't matter, he didn't fall and could keep his pace going. That's all that was needed.
Before long his lungs started to burn, his throat grew dry, and his flank clenched painfully. But he kept running. Even as familiar trees, bushes and trees passed him by he kept pace.
Then the cabin finally came into few, only in parts at first, but finally in full as he flew from the treeline huffing and puffing.
It's not burned. It's not burnedIt's not burnedIt'snotburnedItsnotburned
Raymond nearly crashed through the door in his haste, "FATHER!" he shouted, his voice breaking itself as he stumbled into the main room.
There was no sign of the old man, even as he kept shouting for him with hoarser and hoarser words. He went through every room, slamming open what doors barred his way, but there was nothing. Yet, there was no blood as well, not that it reassured him in the least,
Once he'd gone over the entire cabin, root cellar included, Raymond rushed back into the main room and saw them. The pegs by the door, where they kept their coats and hats. They were empty.
And then Raymond remembered. Imma be goin inta town fer a few...
What tension had left him in his search came back in full force and he tore himself out of the cabin, then into the woods.
His feet pounded on the earth of the trail he and his father kept for going to and from the town, his heart doing the same in his ears once again.
As he went, a fell glow started show itself between the trees, and Raymond's gallop slowed to a crawl.
Slowly, with despair filling him, he emerged from the woods and gazed at the devastation.
Before him, the village of Forge's Glade, the place he and his father spent so many days under the sun and moon both. Where he had met and spent time with the villagers, his father's old war friends and Raymond's own childhood playmates. The place where he'd spent so much of his life was burning.
The mad flames burned orange and red on the houses' rooves, devouring the thatch that once protected them from the rain. There were even some homes that had been turned into ovens, with their inner fire reaching out to burn yet more.
Even at his trudging pace, Raymond soon reached the town's main street, and though he couldn't see anyone... he could smell what was left. It was a terrible mixture, the tangy smell of spilt blood and the burning of pork. He could hardly keep his stomach when he spotted a blackened hand holding a doorframe in deathgrip.
As focused as he was on the horror of it all, he hardly noticed the thundering in the distance.
Suddenly, Raymond heard a sputtering cough, and rushed to where he heard it. His heart jumped up in relief and down in further despair when he found that it wasn't his father, but the village elder, leaning against a bloodstained wall.
The old greybeard had gone with his father to every war he'd been in, commanding the village's levies each time. The warhammer Raymond had marveled at in his childhood laid beside its wielder, covered in blood and viscera. A few feet away was a bloody corpse it must have made.
"Raymond, is that you boy?" the elder asked, but Raymond couldn't look at his face, only where the man's arm had firmly roped over his gut. The old man only laughed as he noticed, "Don't go reminding me boy, I know it's there."
He coughed again, the blood that he spewed washing some of the ashes from Raymond's boot.
The elder grunted at that, "Sorry 'bout that, but I suppose ye be looking for yer father." his free arm then jutted a thumb further into the village, "Joel be further in, between Liam's house and Margo's. I don't if he be breathing, but he ought to be there."
Raymond nodded gratefully, but he hesitated before going, "Oh, just leave me be, my boy, I don't need ye standin' over me in my last moments. Besides, yer in the way of my view." the elder said, then suddenly spoke up again, "Take Judas with ye, though. He's never let me down, and I can't carry 'im no more."
With an almost reverent hand, Raymond took the spiked hammer just under the head and took it up. "There, he looks good with ye. Now leave me be, I'm getting tired, and I want to get the view right."
Raymond nodded, determination now filling his chest. The hammer in his hand and the bow slung over his shoulder were comforting weights as he continued on.
Even in its current state, with the raging fires stirring the shadows into a frenzy and the embers flying about, he knew the village like the back of his hand. Raymond didn't know whether that was a good thing or not, he decidedly didn't go thinking about it, or anything other than finding his father at the moment.
Raymond eventually reached the small alley between the two houses, it was only wide enough for two men at most to walk shoulder to shoulder. It was here that he had to step over mixed dead for the first time. Both those of what of the village's menfolk stood their ground there with their pitchforks, knives, and wooden clubs, and those of what precious few brigands they brought down with them, at times he saw some with arrows deep in the chinks of their armour or even in their visors.
All were lying together in their still-warm blood side by side.
As Raymond went deeper and deeper into the alley, he stepped over more and more brigands littered with wounds, but the villagers always outnumbered them by a terrible margin. Some of the villagers even had arrows sticking out of their fronts. This only became more common as he went, but it all feld his mind as he found him.
His father was near the dead-end at the back of the alley, hunched over a dead brigand.
He slowly closed in, and then he saw the spear.
Raymond quickened his steps and raced over to his father, tripping over arms and legs as he went.
When he was finally by his side he knew, but still Raymond called out and shook his shoulders. He didn't care if he was ruining the elder last moments with his shouting, or if he was drowned out by the flames. Neither did he care about the purple face of the man his father killed with his dying breaths, nor that his father's hands were still wrapped around the man's neck. He could hardly even feel whatever streamed down his face, or that he had kneeled on a longbow.
All he saw was his father's craggy face, and the manic grin that stretched over his features. All he could feel was the too cold muscle of his shoulders.
"Just fuckin' go already, boy."
Raymond snapped to look to him, but no. His father was still gone.
Nonetheless, he heeded his father's words, and stood.
It only took a moment of shallow consideration for Raymond to start looking for any survivors.
He didn't find any in the alley, each and every one killed to the last no matter their age or condition, from the ancient village midwife to a young boy Raymond had yet to meet. His hands, arms, and knees were covered in blood by the time he left the alley and started on the street.
Raymond decided not to look inside any of the worse-off houses, and started to search between them for anyone who might have hidden themselves in some hidden nook or cranny.
Eventually, he came up with nothing and moved on to some of the larger streets. Raymond even started shouting for anyone who could hear, no matter if any of the butchers remained.
With his hands cupped around his mouth in hopes of making his calls some small part louder, he couldn't quite see the dirt road itself as he walked.
Then his foot struck something tough and knotted. Something that let out a curse.
"Stefen!" Raymond said, crouching down to uncover the village butcher of what debris had fallen on the man.
He eventually went to push away a shard of wood, and received only a wet squelch, "Others take you, boy! Leave it be!" Stefen roared, trying and failing to kick at him, "By the Seven, you're no Measter! Gods, not even Brother."
Raymond quickly left the shard be, and stepped away to a safe distance from the older man, saying nothing.
"So, Martyn's dead then." he said, glancing at the hammer held loosely in his off hand.
All he could give was a nod.
"Shite." Stefen said, then all at once his cloudy eyes seemed to clear, and they snapped over to Raymond.
"Boy, if yer anything like your da, listen close." he said, his gaze steely no matter his injury, "Those Lannister dogs have taken Lisa, Em, and some other girls." a pained grunt interrupted him, but the burly man managed to push through it, "Ye gotta go get 'em, boy."
"But Stefen the other sur-"
"They are the only ones Raymond!" he snapped, "You are their only chance, no big lords or knights give two shits 'bout some smallfolk girls. It has to be you, Raymond."
Raymond had to words to that, so he clenched his jaw tight, and gave Stefen a hard nod.
He then stood, left the man to die with some kind of peace, and started looking for evidence of the horses.
It took no time, nor effort, at all for Raymond to find the killers' tracks. The ground they had covered much like the villages they sacked, overturned and ruined with naught but blackness left.