Marek eyed the elk and slowly drew his bow back, sighting in on the great beast. The forest of quiet, soldier pines and sentinels as far as the eye could see. Birds sang in the distance, their chirps echoing in the forest.

His arrows were fletched with hawk feathers, made just a few days ago. It was the second week of their trial, and Marek had felled many deer and bird, even catching a few rabbits whose pelts now warmed his feet. Jason had done well also, keeping himself fed and clothed with a great boar he had killed their first day out. At two and ten, both boys were tall and strong, their ash blonde hair held back by strips of cured leather.

The elk raised his head, its large black eyes darting to and from. Marek loosed his arrow, letting it fly. An arrow shot past his head, dead on with his own. Both took the elk down, piercing its heart. Jason bounded over him and raced to the elk, Marek on his heels.

"Whoever pulls his arrow first, claims the game!" shouted Jason, jumping over a fallen tree.

"Cheater! I saw it first, find your own!" Marek shouted back. Jason laughed.

"I did, its right here!" reaching the elk, he stopped to pull his arrow. A stick cracked him across the hand, forcing him back. Marek stood over him, stick raised to a high guard.

"Winner takes the game, loser finds his own." He challenged, smirking. He knew his brother well, and Jason nodded. Quick as a cat, he scooped up his own stick and launched himself at Marek. They exchanged a dozen blows, their sticks clacking across the woods. Both boys were fast and held each other at bay, Marek driving Jason back then the opposite for a time. Attacking from on high, Marek went for Jason's shoulder but was countered across his stomach and swept to the ground.

Jason leveled his stick at Marek's throat.

"Yield." He smirked.

"You didn't beat me, Jason. As always, you lost your footing." Marek swept his stick under his brother's legs, catching him the shins. As he went down, Marek sprung up and kicked his brother's stick away and stood victorious. Sweat beaded their heads, and a drop went down Marek's spine, tingling him.

Jason began to laugh and extended his hand upwards. Marek joined him and hauled him up.

"Come, we'll both need each to get this back to camp. Father will be pleased once we return." Jason said as he tossed his stick away. Slinging their bows over their backs, they tied the elk on their stretcher and carried the great beast back to their hideaway. Though they loved their father dearly, Marek found he could not share in his brother's enthusiasm. On their fifth name day, their father had taken to the yard and thrust tourney swords in their hands.

"You will be warriors." he had said simply and left, leaving them to the tutelage of grizzled Ser Lyonel Ruttiger, the master-of-arms of Swordhall. They had drilled endlessly in sword, shield, lance and bow until it was second nature. Then they were given to the master of horse, grey haired Sumner Hill and rode endlessly, fought from horseback and tended to the mounts' every need. They learned to feed and shoe, saddle and bridle them while Master Hill looked on silently.

Nearly a month afterwards was spent on a fishing cog out of Lannisport, mending nets and acting as rigging monkeys. They stank of fish every night and their hands blistered from the ropes but soon they mastered the sailor's trade. Jason had not taken to the ocean life as Marek did, reveling in the salty spray and the odd simplicity of working the ships. At times, he yearned to be back aboard such a vessel, bound for the East and parts unknown.

Once, they had even been caught in a freak autumn storm and the mainsail was nearly ripped from its holding. Only the timely climb and intervention by the boys had saved the ship, earning them to the respect of the captain and crew. From there it was to the forges of Swordhall, where they beat hot steel into swords, linked mail and forged plate. As their final test, both were told to create their own swords or they would have none at all. Each weapon was fine a blade as any man could ask for.

Now they were in the forests of Swordhall, south of Lannisport. Lord Marten had ridden them out, told them to dismount and return in two weeks' time. Marek could not share in his affections as his brother, because they simply weren't there. Their Lord father rarely spoke to them unless to give them a command or to chide them in their sword work, and even meals went without his presence. In truth, being out here was a welcome release from the keep, and from their father.

Their camp was small but functional, two tents made from deer pelts around a fire pit. Both worked diligently and silently, setting the dead elk over the pit. Jason lit the fire while Marek went for his knife and began to skin the game. The hide was tough, but hours at the sword ensured his cuts were true and clean, severing the particles of skin from the meat below. After it was gutted, the entrails removed, Marek's was bloody from hand to elbow. Blood had never bothered Marek, whether an animals or his own. The hide was hung on the rack for curing later and Jason began to work the spit, slowly roasting the meat.

"Do you think Father will ever let us see the capital? I hear it is a splendid city, full of mummers and knights and the princes! Imagine, we might see the royal family." Jason said, his eyes glowing in the fire light.

"The only way we will see the capital is if Father orders us to be pot scrubbers or chamber maids." Marek replied.

"Do not speak of him that way. He is raising us to be men, our own men." Jason defended their father as he had always done. Twins they might have been, but they could not have been more different. Jason claimed he was the elder, coming into the world first and Marek had long since let it be. Where Jason obeyed and was the dutiful son, Marek was the rebel and questioned at will. Of course, there were never answers but it not deter him from doing so.

"No, the smiths, tanners and sailors of the Westerlands raised us. Ser Lyonel is more of a father than our own is. I do not ask that he treat us as children, only to take some interest in us other than our assigned duties."

Jason scoffed.

"He is the Warlord and his duties require him to be elsewhere. Why, even Lord Tywin relies on Father while he is serving as Hand. After all, he did save the Hand's life during the war." He beamed at the accomplishments, ever proud of their sire.

"Yes, and he fought beside Ser Barristan the Bold as he cut his way through the Golden Company to slay Maelys the Monstrous. I know the stories as well as you, brother. It is not the stories I want but for him to look at us as his sons, not two more soldiers."

"We are the heirs of Severus, the next Warlords. Our line goes back to the Andals chieftains, the great Falx Severus who slew the Hooded King of the Banefort! A thousand years of history rest on him and on us when the times comes. Whomever proves himself worthy will wield Victory, the blade of a warrior. Father is preparing us, that is all." Victory was the pride of the house, the mark of the Warlord. They had only ever seen it unsheathed once, when a murderer was caught on their lands. Lord Marten himself had carried out the sentence, an old tradition from the days of the First Men.

"I do not need a history lesson." Arguing with Jason was useless so Marek let it go, taking his turn on the spit. The elk was roasting now, the meat sizzling and crackling in the fire.

"When father returns from Duskendale, I will speak to him and you will have your answers." Jason said as he cut a portion from the roasted elk and savored the cooked meat. The ravens had been swift, flying straight from King's Landing. The letter was sealed in gold wax and stamped with the seal of the Hand. In a fit of madness, Lord Denys of Duskendale seized King Aerys and held him hostage. Lord Marten had answered the call as many great lords did.

At the head of two thousand foot and some five hundred knights, Lord Marten had raced to Duskendale to lay siege to the town. Many of the other bannermen had their armies at Duskendale, encircling the town from land and sea. Now, it was only a matter of time before the matter was resolved and Lord Tywin would mount the traitor's heads on spikes.

"When he returns, I suspect he will only send us away again." Marek replied, cutting off a small portion of roasted elk for himself. His words angered Jason.

"You always feel the need to question him, why? He is our lord and sire, we do as he says."

Marek chewed thoughtfully.

"Why, brother. I question because it is what he has taught us; to be our own men."