Lannister Camp

Donning his gold-embroidered scarlet doublet and black satin gloves, Kevan Lannister prepares for the war council with his brother: the Warden of the West Tywin Lannister. Appearances are important, especially if you're related to the Old Lion; he won't accept anything less than perfect. Satisfied with his reflection, Kevan straps his sword and exits his tent to the light of the setting sun. Fellow knights and soldiers salute as he passes by; while only a household knight, he is still a lion.

Entering the ornate red and gold tent, he bows his head. "Greetings, Lord Tywin. Apologies for the late arrival."

The Warden of the West stands tall at the head of the table, the candles flickering in his green gaze. The man is only two years older than Kevan, yet his unsmiling visage is carved from immeasurable years of cunning, wisdom, and experience. As much as the Lannister knight tries to reach that height, he will never come close to casting a shadow upon the Old Lion. "Sit."

"Thank you, my Lord." Kevan takes the seat to Tywin's right, placing himself directly behind the map of the Riverlands and the box of tokens for different Houses. He greets the others with a smile and a nod: Ser Daven Lannister looks more like a lion than his father Ser Stafford owing to his large beard, Ser Harys Swyft corrects the blue chicken brooch pinned above his heart, the gallant Ser Addam Marbrand acknowledges him with a kind smile, and the dour Lord Leo Lefford is too busy with his papers to even look at him. Though these are the main commanders of Lord Tywin's army, there are a couple of notable people missing at the table. Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard is one of them, though he's accounted for as he is currently besieging Riverrun. But the other-

"The dogs and goats have yet to return with their game," Tywin begins, tracing his finger along the Gold Road. "If this continues, we will need to establish a supply train between the Westerlands and our two camps, which carries risks."

"Though the Mountain and Ser Jaime have done work in crippling the South-West portion of the Riverlands, we must not forget that there are still Rivermen," Kevan adds, pointing out several castles on the maps. "Mallister men were once spotted not far North of here, and Ser Addam saw a gathering army at the Crossings."

"Near four thousand men," Addam pipes up, "with about a thousand mounted knights. Pelted us with arrows once my outriders got near, yet did not break ranks to chase us."

"We know not the number of House Whent. Darry castle was retaken by House Darry once we left. House Erenford is unquestionably among the four thousand of the Freys, attending the marriage of Lord Walder. And…" With each House he lists, Lord Tywin's countenance grows darker. A cold bead of sweat runs down Kevan's head, threatening to drip from his nose and onto the expensive map. But he hastily finishes his list before wiping his face with some cloth. "That is all we know, my Lord. What shall we make of this?"

Tywin's lips twitch before giving his answer. "…I've come here to enact retribution yet my men are blinder than bats. Ser Harys." The knight jolts up in surprise, wiping his droopy eyes. "Why did you not report the numbers from your scouting?"

"W-Well my Lord, tis' hard to count when there's fighting, my Lord. You see, I was leading a charge against some men of-"

"Hard to count?" Daven scoffs and holds up his gloved hands. "The Seven gave us fingers for a reason. Care for a better excuse?"

"No, Ser, I DID know how many there were," Harys corrects himself. "I counted them myself and went to write a message, but the Imp. It was his fault that the… Losing of… Ravens…" The man wilts against Tywin's intense stare, slowly sinking into his plush seat before muttering "apologies."

Kevan coughs into his hand before sending a glare at the Swyft knight. "While Tyrion's foolish act has costed us, did it not occur to you that a rider can be sent to carry messages?" In truth, Kevan has doubts if it were truly his nephew's fault. From the accounts of him and that sellsword of his, this Lady Stormcrow commands crows and ravens with more finesse than a Targaryen with dragons. Losing our ravens is an inevitability, but my brother would not hear any of it. Truly a shame… That boy could grow like you with the right guidance and be welcomed at this war council, rather than hearing more of my good-father's remarks.

"And with the Imp riding West for our sake, what does that make you, Ser Harys of Cornfield?" Addam raises his brow before sipping on some wine. "Lord Leo, is it possible to establish a supply line from Golden Tooth?"

"My keep is rich in gold, but swine and wheat?" He shakes his head. "That's another matter. The craggy hills my keep rests on is never meant for sowing. What I have in reserve is meant for the coming Winter, which will surely be a harsh one. If I were to relieve that…" Lord Leo gives a careful glance at Tywin.

"What of our current supplies?"

"Ahem, well," the Lord shuffles some papers about before handing it to Tywin. "That is our numbers, my Lord. I've been frugal with some of the rations, meaning that we have over a month of good eating. For Ser Jaime, I suspect closer to two months due to his smaller numbers. Of course, this does not account for any possible attacks from the Riverlords nor unexpected storms, shall we say."

"So we have no choice," Daven mutters. "Once again, Lord Tywin, I implore you to let me take command of a foraging party. I shall supply the Lannister army with meat and bread to keep well-fed. Under my command, all shall fear the lion's roar, not the bleat of a goat or the baying of hounds."

Tywin stands still, no doubt mulling on his decision. With each tap he makes on the oaken table, it sends uneasy palpitations into Kevan's heart. Finally, he gives his answer: "Even a young lion needs to extend his claws now and then. If I hear no reports of the Mountain nor the Bloody Mummers in two weeks, then I shall allow you to forage. Any objections?"

"None, my Lord," says Kevan, his voice joined by the others. He always defers to his brother's better judgement.

"Now, on striking the Riverlords." Tywin's hand moves over to Riverrun, running his fingers through the tokens piled atop it. "Lord Blackwood and Lord Bracken currently reside in Riverrun to protect the castle. But with such proximity, enmity is brewing in their hearts. The rivalry between the two Houses runs deeper than their Lords." He moves red horse tokens towards Raventree Hall, home of the Blackwoods. "Stone Hedge is nothing but ruins; the Mountain saw to that. Would the Brackens not take the chance to take this keep, especially after losing their own?"

Understanding the command, Leo smiles. "I'll prepare the necessary colours, my Lord. Would a hundred men suffice?"

"Enough to turn their weirwood into tinders," Lord Tywin replies. "Ser Addam, you shall be the one commanding this host."

"It would be an honour, my Lord," he bows. "They shall mistake lions for horses."

"The Freys still stand, though," says Daven, twirling his beard, "holed up in the Twins. It'd be a great folly to besiege such a castle."

"Not all Freys are in the Twins," Kevan corrects, surprising Daven and Addam. "Two hundred Frey soldiers have taken up arms to aid Ser Jaime's siege. They're led by none other than Lord Walder's own son and knight, Ser Emmon Frey."

The four's expressions collectively sour at his name. "Sevens save us," Harys whispers. Even Tywin can't hide his distaste as his scowl grows. It's a feeling that Kevan shares yet dare not voice for his own integrity. After all, Tywin fought hard as a ten-year-old boy when their father Tytos Lannister wedded the unremarkable and spindly Ser Emmon with their sister, Genna Lannister. "We came short on that bargain," was what you said, brother.

"Will Genna be joining us?" Tywin asks.

"Aye, she will." That answer brings much-needed relief to the war council. While Emmon Frey is a pathetic example of a knight, Genna is still a lion even under their drab colours. "What of Walder Frey, my Lord?"

"The Late Lord Frey is a craven," Harys spits, "for he sits in his keep to fondle his young wife while the Riverlands burn beneath his feet. The only thing greater than his greed is his senility."

"Which is a benefit for us," Ser Addam points out. "While we can stomp out an army of four thousand, it'll be with significant losses. Let him stay in that castle; less of our knights will bleed on Frey swords."

"Ambitious he may be, it is not without wisdom," says Tywin. "His action is reminiscent of the Battle of the Trident: he sides with the victors, which shall be us. We only need shine it through his clouded eyes." The candles cast a vicious shadow on his face, giving shivers to all present. "Once Riverrun falls, others will follow. Walder Frey will strike down the salmon herald faster than they can swim. However, this is not guaranteed. Ser Daven, any reports of Northmen?"

"None so far, my Lord. Rest assured, my messengers shall ride here once they spot them," the Lannister knight smirks, earning a grumble from Harys Swyft. "But should we worry much of their involvement? They have no reason to march South for our campaign is just in the eyes of the Seven and the Iron Throne."

"I hear from Jaime that the Stark boy is still wet behind the ears," Addam chuckles. "The boy learnt from the late Eddard Stark, who I never considered much of a commander to begin with. Not many will answer his banners, leaving him with scant men if he does march South."

"That is until he marches to the Crossing, earning him four thousand men by your own accounts." Tywin's answer wipes off the Marbrand knight's smile. "Need I remind you Catelyn Stark is a Tully? If she reaches Winterfell, her words will coddle the boy into marching South. No, the Freys must be dealt in haste, preferably through unions of blood."

Marriage, Kevan realises. He'd always known how Tywin used marriages between Houses to the Lannister's advantage, even so much as earning a place at the Iron Throne. "On that subject," he coughs into his hand, "I put forth my son Lancel into consideration. A dutiful boy and a King's squire, surely he's worth his weight in gold dowry."

"A dead King's squire," Daven sneers. "Not even a knight. If my father allows it, I shall put myself into consideration. It's about time I settle down," he stretches his arms, "letting someone groom my beard and birth my child."

"A Lannister is worth a hundred Freys," Tywin reminds them coldly, "but every war has its price. A rider will be sent for them at the coming dawn, bearing the terms of marriage. Lancel shall be the first offer and hopefully the last. Objections?" Again, none raise their voice. After all, who are they to argue the Old Lion? "Good. Onto a more delicate matter: the Vale and its new overlord, Lady Stormcrow." The Lord's expression grows dark, causing more sweat to dampen Kevan's clothes. "If I'm to trust Tyrion's accounts, then House Arryn of the Eyrie is no more, brought down by sorcery and crow feathers. And," his fist tightens, cracking the wooden tokens between his fingers, "he was so foolish as to make terms without MY approval."

…

"W-Well, if I may add." Kevan loosens his collar; has the tent always been so stuffy? "The terms were to not carry out physical conflict against Lady Stormcrow's men and for us to receive the King's approval. Other than the occasional tense verbal exchanges between scouts, the first term is easily managed. The second… Well, we would be hard-pressed to receive approval from King Robert. But from King Joffrey?"

"I have faith in my daughter," is what Tywin says. "And we know the Red Keep still has their ravens. However, that does not mean we will be negligent. We are dealing with sorcery. And though I doubt much of it, it pays to be cautious."

Leaving the table, he takes a heavy book from a nearby shelf before dropping it onto the map, scattering all the tokens. Its title reads Of Magic and Sorcery within Westeros as seen by Archmaester Marwyn, and written below it is Property of Tyrion Lannister. "For once my son's interests and mine align," the Lord quips as he flips through the pages. Kevan gulps as terrifying illustrations of death and wondrous pain pass his eyes before stopping on a page with an illustration of a man wearing a wolf pelt. "From all observations, I believe we're dealing with a warg." The word sounds so foreign to their ears, especially coming from Tywin's tongue.

"A warg…" Daven knocks the table in thought. "My nanny once told me tales of wargs wearing animal skins to steal maidens and children. If she is changing skins with birds…" A look of horror creeps onto his bearded face. "By the Seven! She's spying on us!?"

"And here I thought the Lannisters were being generous with their gold," says Ser Addam with a nervous laugh. "So when I shot down a raven yesterday and received some coins-"

"-You were rewarded for killing a spy," Tywin finishes. "No man is so foolish as to hunt them after the chaos my son brought, for free that is."

Goosebumps crawl over Kevan's arms. This feeling of being watched is not all that dissimilar to the time he slept in the Red Keep; he assured himself then that the scurrying he heard were rats. Rumours among the guards said they were the Spider's little birds. But for actual birds to spy on us? "To think the Spider is being outmatched."

"Clearly," Addam gulps. "Damn it, they must have followed me to the Twins as well… How many birds have we killed since this decree came to be?"

"Sparse," Lord Leo answers, reading through a piece of paper. "Nary twenty birds, fifteen crows and five ravens, were killed and given to the cooks. Though there are fewer birds than before, the archers are still hesitant in treating them ill. Anyone caught feeding or tending to the birds are imprisoned for treason and to be judged by Lord Tywin." Would Tyrion be imprisoned for harbouring that crow of his? Kevan thinks, and knowing his brother the answer might be grim.

"It is clear that we know too little of sorcery, which is why I'm giving a task for all of you." All sit straight to hear the Lord's command. "If any of your scouts or outriders catch a whiff of a hedge wizard, a woods witch, or anything magical in nature, secure and bring them before me. Every brick has its place, and with this unnatural threat, we must adapt. Objections?"

"None," all answer.

"Good. Kevan," he turns to the Lannister knight, "my command was for you to secure anyone of interest leaving the Vale. How are your findings?"

Kevan scratches his head, hanging low to not meet Tywin's eyes. "It is my shame to say that they do not amount to much, my Lord. Most leaving were terrified commonfolk and men of ill repute, providing us with mere whispers and hearsays. A few hedge knights joined our cause, looking for pay and chances to become landed knights."

"If all you've done amounted to whispers, what were they?"

Kevan takes the list out from his breast pocket and recites them under Tywin's sharp scrutiny. "Ser Brynden 'Blackfish' Tully is assumed to be dead for he accompanied Tyrion through the Bloody Gate and into the Eyrie."

"A fine knight of wide renown yet such an ignoble death," Ser Addam shakes his head before raising his cup. "A toast for the one I shall never see in battle!" Daven and Harys join in but Kevan can only frown at their attitude before continuing.

"Though she unified the mountain clans, the same can't be said for the more brave-hearted Knights and Lords of the Vale. In opposition to her and currently trying to reclaim the Eyrie are: House Arryn of Gulltown, House Corbray, House Coldwater, House Tollett, House Hersy…" The list goes on and on until Lord Leo yawns and rubs his weary eyes. "Her rule is not supported nor seen as legitimate," Kevan concludes, handing the paper to Tywin. "That is all I have, my Lord."

"Which is more than a certain knight in this council," the Lord glares at Harys. The man opens his mouth to retort but quickly shuts it, a wise decision on his part. "As the Vale lays in turmoil, who shall lay claim to the overlord of the mountains?"

"In all good graces, I'm unsure, Lord Tywin," Kevan answers. "Magic is such an exotic method of warfare that I have no predictions. Perhaps a warlock from Qarth would know the answer…"

"If it comes to a bet, I put my coins on the woman," says Daven, surprising Harys Swyft.

"She has savages," the Swyft knight presses. "All the birds can do is taint a man's armour with their shit."

"Was it not you who fought a losing battle against the crows using a sword?" Daven reminds him, causing the knight's cheeks to go red. "Whispers say the woman can fly. That she comes with the wind and departs with it, a demon from the Seven hells who can sing a storm with her laughs."

"The singer has been getting into your head," Addam chuckles as he sips from his drink. "The man exaggerate for coins and a hot meal, Ser, not to tell us truths."

Tywin raises his brow. "Singer?"

"Aye, my Lord. A young man named Morrow who came from the Vale. Must have been quite prolific there for he asked if I knew him. A good lad with a fine voice, though his hand broke in a bar fight so his woodharp leaves much to be desired," the knight shrugs. "Still, a nice break from the camp's monotony."

"Tell me, does he have sandy brown hair?"

"…That I do recall."

"And was it his right hand that broke?"

Addam looks confused. "My Lord, by chance have you heard him play?"

"No, but my son had. A sandy-haired singer named Marillion accompanied Tyrion up the Mountains of the Moon before breaking his playing hand in a scuffle with the mountain clans. Tyrion said the lad stayed at the Eyrie to heal and sing for Lysa Arryn, but if the castle is in ruins…"

All turn to look at Addam whose face slowly pales. "…Shit," he mutters before standing up and rushing out of the tent with his sword drawn, knocking over the wine cup he had been drinking from. A worried Daven follows him out.

"Clear the table."

"Aye, my Lord." Ser Harys clears up the tokens while Lord Leo dabs away at the wine with his handkerchief. The Old Lion straightens his back, his shadow looming over the map as Kevan folds it up.

"Fetch me Tyg," Tywin commands with steel in his voice, calmly putting on black gloves. "Lannisters always pay their debts, so let us pay to hear this singer's last ballad."

Lannister Camp

Shit, Marillion curses himself as his barely-healed fingers missed a chord of his woodharp. Pausing a moment to flex his playing hand, he sees that it is nearly sunset. And I've yet to acquire supper, he bemoans before getting back to his instrument.

Most of the Lannister men are too busy eating or drinking to take notice of his beautiful voice, but he at least has a few captive audiences. A raven hiding atop the largest tent in camp watches him with great interest; it brings some joy to his heart that even beasts enjoy his singing. But he did hear of a decree made by the Lannisters: kill blackbirds and you shall receive coins. Lady Stormcrow won't take kindly to people hurting her pets, he thinks, wondering how much wroth will the Lannisters bring about to themselves.

His other listener is a man, a knight from the looks of it. And a gallant one as well with long hair that burns bright like the sunset. A fine one for tales and ballads, but a shame I don't recognise his herald. The last of his watcher is a man who is no doubt a Lannister owing to his blonde mane of a beard and the lion-styled armour he's wearing. Yet again, I do not recognise this man.

With a flourish, the singer perfectly strums the last chord and bows his head with a smile. The copper-haired knight gives some small applause before throwing some coins into Marillion's hat. "A good show," says the knight, "but the woodharp feels lacking."

"Sorry, m-my Lord of Westerlands. A bar can be unscrupulous at times," Marillion raises his healed hand with a nervous chuckle. He can't tell them that the Lannister dwarf was the one who injured him; even less the fact his hand was healed by Lady Stormcrow's blue-haired friend.

To his surprise, the two watchers burst out laughing. "Look at the lad, hands all shaky," the Lannister grins, pointing at him with a fork.

"None of us are Lords, lad. I'm Ser Addam Marbrand and that bearded lion back there is Ser Daven Lannister, son of Lord Tywin's brother in law."

"It is an honour to meet you, kind Sers. The name's Morrow of the Hills, no doubt you've heard me perform elsewhere?"

"From the Vale? I fear not."

Excellent. "Well, good Sers," Marillion smirks, "should any of you have the need for a singer in a Lannister celebration, Morrow is your man." His fingers glide along the strings, opening his way to their hearts. "I can sing thee The Rains of Castamere, The Lies of Little Lann, or anything else that you may fancy. For some silver, of course. Even a singer needs his due."

"Hmm… How about you sing us something now? Daven and I need to attend Lord Tywin's meeting and a song will surely put our hearts in the right mood."

"Certainly, my Sers."

"But no Lannister songs," the bearded lion grumbles. Ah, a fitting title for a Lannister. "The Seven cursed us to always hear The Rains of Castamere…"

"Even Lord Tywin knows it to be a good song, Daven."

"A good song, aye, but not one you'll want to hear before having a meeting with him," the Lannister knight spits. "I'm already loyal to the Old Lion, Addam. I don't need a constant reminder about what happens to those who betray him. Give a Lannister something different for once."

"Need not worry, my knight of Lannister, for I shall heed your request." Marillion plucks the woodharp, stringing up the melody for his next song. "I've composed a brand new piece, inspired by my travels in the beautiful mountains of the Vale. Mayhaps this song shall be remembered by all singers to come."

"Hopeful, aren't you?" the Marbrand knight snickers. "Well, on with it then. I'll pay you with dinner." With the knight leaving, the singer tunes his woodharp and quietly recites the first few verses. He may be no Tom of Sevenstreams, but a man like Marillion have no need for written lyrics and notations; the Seven gave him memory for a reason. I can create joy and sorrow with the flick of my tongue; even Lady Stormcrow know my worth! And so he begins his piece.

The Lannister frowns upon hearing the first foreboding tones; this is not a song for a jolly time. In truth, this was made under the Lady's guidance and was assigned for him to sing down the Riverlands. All Lords and Ladies want songs of exploits. But hearing the notes brings up other memories: of howling winds and crumbling towers, of screaming children and the caws of birds. Taking a deep breath, he begins to sing:

"And so I hear the first crow speak:
Why do we live so high?
The second speak in smiling cheer
Of Lady Stormcrow's might.

Cages and clips will hold our wings
When men are so inclined,
But Stormcrow heart has no man's blood
For her wings are divine.

Her laughter brings oh so much joy
As her tongue sow the winds.
When knights go up to reap the storm
They bleed their hearts and minds."

As he sings, the Marbrand knight returns to give him a bowl of beef stew. The singer gives a silent thanks as the knight sits next to the Lannister. A peek at the raven and Marillion sees it hopping in joy. A smirk crosses his face as he continues to the next couple of verses.

"The sky is hers, the hills are hers,
And her castle the clouds.
Oh so high up, we love it here,
Looking down from above.

And when we dance the storms come down
Raining on all the men,
"Oh please," they cry, "please spare us all,"
But floods pay them no mind."

Marillion's chest swells with pride; it was he who suggested the last verse, and even Lady Stormrow praised his chosen lyrics. With the darkening sky and his burgeoning excitement, he swears he sees a gathering crowd before him, clapping and stomping to his music. Alas, every beautiful song must end.

"And that is why we live up high
and roost in mountaintops.
We sow the wind, they reap the storm,
And that's the life of crows~!

We sow the wind, they reap the storm,
And that's… The life… Of crows…!"

With a last pluck and flourish, he stands and bows before his gathered audience… Which are still only the two knights and the raven. Their half-hearted claps leave much to be desired. "In hindsight," says the Lannister as he puts down the empty bowl, "I'd much prefer Castamere."

"Certainly not the best song I've heard. Quite disappointing," the other cringes. "And why sing of that sorcerer, Morrow? You came from the Vale!"

"You never know who you'll sing to, good Sers," Marillion tries to reassure them. "One day it may be the Knight of the Vale, the next a Lannister, the next-"

"What, a mountain wildling? The crows?" The Lannister laughs. "Savages don't even know the Seven, let alone good music. Come on, Addam, leave the lad to his meal. Maybe with a full stomach he'll come up with a better song." With that, the two knights leave him alone by the small fire.

…

"Says the knight with a lion's mane," Marillion whispers to himself, plucking a sorrowful tune. "Why must Lannisters be deaf to beautiful music?" That's a question that continues to haunt him ever since the dwarf stepped on his hand.

Soon enough, anger boils in him. I've been chosen by Lady Stormcrow herself! This is my adventure! he wants to shout to the skies, but that'll be foolish. No, he must keep the secret to himself. After all, was it not fate that he was spared from falling rubble? Just wait, oh Lannisters, for I will create a piece that'll render your heart like a maiden to a knight!

His stomach rumbles. It's time for supper.

Lion-Men Camp

Cawa roosts herself tightly between the tent folds, careful to not be heard as she listens in on the human's meeting. She suppresses her need to yawn; these things go on for far too long and far too stale. Where's the dancing of birds or the loud shouts over everyone's wings? To think they're the ones who keep us in cages…

She was assigned personally by the Great Lady Aya, Blessed Be Her Name, to watch over one of her many human singers: a young one named Mari-something. In truth, she cares less for those humans than the tiny ticks that live between a sparrow's feather. But if it's Her words, then I shall carry it out, she thinks proudly.

Born and bred in the Great Prison on the shores of the Great Western Sea, Cawa came to learn the many strange tongues of the humans. Of course, she now holds the honour to wield that skill against her torturers, the ones who kept her captive for many moonturns. And one day, once their bodies have grown overripe and bursting with maggots, she will plead to the Great Lady to be the first to take a bite. Oh, what joy will that be!

Cawa prides herself in being one of the most devoted and devout of the ravens, and a few days ago she proved herself among the most intelligent for she avoided death by resting in the enemy's home. They shall never suspect their own nest, she ruffles her feathers, suppressing her want to laugh. Of course, there are others more devoted than her who gave their life to the cause: the martyr Tere the Raven had given his life into tricking these lion-men via a false message. And they're still following it too! Your sacrifice lives on in the wind, Tere.

The flutter of wings alert her as another bird lands on the tent; a large crow with white speckles by the name of Toro. "Cawa," he speaks, "anything of import?"

"The lion-men speak with fear of other humans. They think our Great Lady is nothing more than a nuisance."

The crow can't hold his laughter, prompting Cawa to smack him with her wing. "Apologies," he says, crooning his beak. "I remember our Great Lady's wisdom: better be invisible under the moon than stark black beneath the sun. If they do not fear us, then the less they shall suspect."

"But for them to see Her in such low regards…" She flares up her feathers in frustration. "They'll learn soon enough."

"I hear our Great Lady has taken a few humans in the Red Stones as her thralls," Toro adds in a low whisper, "that they're the one who created the false message. Words in the wind speak of the Great Lady preparing an official arrival to the human leaders, perhaps to speak of alliance and repayment. Must be a comforting thought for you ravens," Toro laughs. As a crow, he never had to suffer much under the human's featherless wings. No, the likes of him are free to live wild in the forests and shingles, earning Cawa some small amount of jealousy.

"They wear shining metals, Toro. Their greed knows no end."

"Perhaps they'll ask us to make them fly. Of course, our Great Lady can do just that," he says with a hint of malice. "I'll be back at dawn to see if anything new has arisen. Let Her wings guide you, Cawa." And with that, the crow flies back into the night.

…

The raven knows the crow is talented, but to have the bird be of a superior position… That she does not like. But no matter, Cawa tells herself, for I shall ascend those peaks soon enough. Oh, how I dream to roost by the Great Lady's wings, to have my own human retainer carry my nest as I-

The cloth suddenly shifts under her claws, almost causing the bird to caw in surprise. Curious, she slides down to the tent's edge and sees a couple of humans with shining armour storm out, sharp weapons in hand. From the direction they're walking, they appear to be approaching the Great Lady's singer.

…That's not good.

Fearing the worst, Cawa takes off from the tent and watches from behind a wooden stable. They're talking too fast for her to understand but it's clear that they're angry. At the singer? Wait, have they figured out who he is!?

Sure enough, the singer throws his unfinished bowl of food at them before sprinting away into the dark. "Shit!" Cawa takes flight, keeping an eye on the singer's dark shape as he moves through the torches and tents. Soon enough it's not only those two humans but a whole host of them chasing the singer down. Some carry those sharpened metal while others have bolts and arrows on hand.

Seeing him climb up a horse, Cawa quickly swoops down and shouts "Follow me!" Arrows whizz past her, some clipping a feather or two but none hitting her body. She shouts again for the singer, hoping the fool will follow her guidance rather than die to these lion-men; she'll be punished if the Great Lady's pet dies! Luckily for her, the singer still has common sense about him as he follows her trail in the sky.

She ascends further, avoiding the arrows and bolts aimed at her, hoping that the red streak in the sky is enough for him to see her. "By the Great Lady," she caws ruefully, "you ought to be-"

"COME BACK HERE YOU CUNT!"

Another rider burst out from the glimmer of the camp: a lion-man in golden armour, his sharp weapon shining red beneath the bloody streak. His steed is faster than the singer's and in no time he would be on his tail. Cawa needs to intervene now… Or should she? The only intervention she can do is a direct one and that will risk her life. But failure beneath Her gaze… That I will never do!

And so she swoops down at the lion-man's head, her talons digging into his scalp as she bites hard into his skin. The human yelp and howls, swinging his arm at her and narrowly misses. She takes to the air again, having stopped the man's run. He swings his weapon wildly into the dark, nowhere near hitting her. "I KNEW it!" he roars. "By the Seven you fucking birds are DEAD!"

"Try me," she cackles before leaving him a particularly nasty parting gift. The lion-man's angry shouts are music for the wind.

Soon she finds the singer moving through a small patch of woods. "Don't rest now," she caws, "we're still too close to the lion-men." She doubts the singer can even understand her, but it's better than nothing. I wonder what Toro will think. Perhaps I do deserve to fly higher in the sky for saving the Great Lady's pet? Hopping happily tree to tree, Cawa and the singer go deeper into the night.