Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, other than my own the original character(s) in this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so don't expect anything worthy of GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful thoughts :) feedback goes a long way to encouraging my writing.

Chapter 34: Pride and Purpose
"Yield, or this castle will become your pyre."
– Prince Willam Stark

"I was born under skies filled with ice and snow," Edwyn sang as they rode; a talent he'd picked up from his brother. He'd not ceased since they'd left Harrenhal. "Where the children sing and the cold winds blow, many a man gave a life for mine, and the men in the south will tremble!"

"When the children scream, and the dead men go; many a man gave a life for mine…"

"Many a man died before their time," Willam muttered the final line.

"By the dawn Fisher," Suko cursed aloud from atop his horse. "Would it perhaps kill you to sing something cheery?"

There was a thought. It was small wonder in truth that bards all too conveniently covered the truth of things in honey; for who wished to hear songs of blood and loss and sorrow? The songs instead sang of heroics and gallantry, especially these andals who seemed to have little else but flowery music… with the odd exception…

Truth was nobody wanted bards digging up skeletons. Flowers were pretty, after all, while bones were not.

Was that why men put flowers on graves? To hide the ugliness?

"Will," the voice dragged him from his thoughts.

"Sorry," he smiled it away. "I wasn't listening…"

"Do the Valemen have flowery songs," Edwyn called on another instead. "Lord Harrion?"

"Couldn't say," Harrion Karstark dismissed with a shrug.

"Nor would they it seems," Willam snorted his reply to that.

They'd made countless attempts to contact Robb's aunt in the Vale, all in vain – for nought but silence answered them from those mountains.

"Turning their backs on their own kin," Aedan cursed as they rode.

"At least they aren't fighting for the lions," Edwyn hummed his thoughts.

Inaction was as good a treason as any, in Will's mind; he could only curse Lysa Arryn for her cowardice.

"High as Honor," Suko scoffed from his side. "Family, Duty, Honor too – flowery words indeed."

"We could at least reach out to them, could we not?"

"What is it you expected me to do Lady Ash, exactly?" Willam looked to her with a raised brow. "Ride up to their Bloody Gate – that has such a welcoming and friendly name by the way – and declare 'I'm a Prince, open ya damn gates' in the hopes they simply agree without feathering me with arrows?"

"He'd look like a bird with all those feathers," Suko remarked from atop his horse, all smiles as usual.

"They're kin to Robb," Aedan added. "They should be here already; instead of hiding in those mountains."

"He'd be a dead," Harrion put a swift halt to the idea. "No army – yet alone man – passes that gate unless the Arryn's wish it."

"Perish the thought my friends," Willam scoffed at the notion. "I'm far too-"

"-pretty to die," Suko ended his line with a smirk. "Yes, yes, we know Stark."

"You're no fun sometimes Lóng."

"We're close," Aedan broke away their chatter.

Flash was sniffing the air as they broke through the woods, past the treeline.

In the clearing ahead laid a wooden motte-and-bailey – modest as it was – the wooden walls were littered with towers and a drawbridge that protected the only gateway, all surrounded by a motte of water that was fed from a nearby river; no doubt leading to the Gods River, as the locals named it, for it flowed to the Gods Eye.

On the walls, men ran about like ants in the distance. As they approached bells rang out to greet them.

"They're welcoming us cousin," Edwyn supposed from atop his horse.

"So it seems," Willam smiled a fake smile at him.

Black wings flew from the castle of Antlers not long after, flying fast; carrying their warnings.

"Dark wings dark words," Harrion muttered the old saying.

"No matter," Willam didn't seemed concerned.

"If they call for-"

"They won't," he assured the man easily.

He who controls the skies, controls the game.

"Set up out of archer range," Willam ordered lazily, eyes darting to Karstark. "Inform the others, would you?"

"As you wish," Karstark hummed, seeming agitated. He had his doubts it seemed. No matter, the man's belief was hardly required.

Karstark had been eager to join them from Harrenhal however, as had Glover and Tallhart; all thirsting for lion's blood. Justice too, but mostly blood.

They numbered in the thousands – some two thousand and a few in total – consisting of cavalry for the most part, while near ten thousand footmen had stayed behind at Harrenhal to deter Tywin's return. "Will," Edwyn moved his horse up beside him while the others rode off about their duties. "Is this wise?"

"Buckwell can barely field a few hundred men at the best of times," came the answer with a shrug.

"And if the ravens fly fa-"

"It'll be fine," Willam offered his best most assuring smile. "And if not; we'll know soon enough…"

It wasn't an hour before Lord Buckwell sent an envoy to their camp, out from the drawbridge that closed shut behind him the knight came; all bluster and pride and arrogance demanding "to speak with the rebel Stark" only to be greeted by the wrong Stark. They'd come with wish it were Robb, soon enough…

The envoy was dismissed with a summons for Lord Buckwell himself. No time would be wasted treating with messengers.

"On my honor as a Stark and a Prince," Willam had promised easily. "His Lordship shall not be harmed."

And so, the andal lord took him at his word – for refusal would no doubt end one way – though not the way he thought.

Lord Bryce Buckwell was a greying man, in his twilight years; it appeared – with a short greying beard, though the man still had some strength about him. He wore basic plated steel with a castle-forged sword at his hip and a checkered blue-white cloak at his back; clasped tight with polished gold.

There was no fancy seating here. Willam sat on the roots of the tree, peeling an apple with a knife.

"Stark," Lord Bryce stared at him blankly.

"Buckwell," he smiled at the man, looking up from his apple only shortly.

"Why have you come here?" The Lord demanded to know; his tone unfriendly at best.

"That should be quite obvious, should it not my lord? Perchance, did you miss my army?"

"I did not miss it," Buckwell scowled. "Nor did I come here for jests!"

"Willam is notoriously unfunny," Suko added unhelpfully, leaning against the great oak.

"And who are you?" Buckwell stared at the man, with smooth olive skin and short black hair. "A Dornishman?"

"Not quite," Willam answered, taking a bite from his apple.

"Prince Suko Lóng," he introduced himself with a flamboyant bow.

Buckwell's scowl grew tenfold. "Mummer Princes," he declared. "Rebels; the lot of you…"

"Come now, let's not resort to name-calling," Willam took another bite of his apple.

The lord was growing impatient it seemed. It was anyone's guess why…

"Speak your terms, Stark!" He barked angrily at the supposed Prince.

"My terms?" Willam hummed, throwing aside his apple and letting it roll away.

"You called me here for terms, did you not? If this is all some game then-"

"Open your gates and surrender," Willam spoke, getting up as his apple rolled out of view. "Those are my terms. Do this now, and my army will spare your little castle – if we can call it a castle – and we'll even spare your people their lives. Hostages will be taken however; to ensure-"

"Your dornish friend was right," Buckwell scoffed his reply. "You're not a funny man."

Willam frowned at that. Very well then…

"No doubt you believe this delaying tactic of yours is quite the ploy…"

"What nonsense are spewing no-"

"-the ravens," Willam remarked, tilting his head slightly. "You're hoping they reach the capital within a few days flight, no?"

"So, you're not a complete fool Stark…"

"I was taught by men far wiser than I my lord," Willam answered honestly.

"Then you know that-"

"They were far more merciless too…"

A woman walked up to the prince then, with an eagle circling lazily above the great oak.

"Thank you Row," Willam smiled at her as she bowed and took her leave. The eagle seemed to leave with her.

"What is this?" Buckwell demanded, his knuckles white; balled into fists at his side.

"Your hope," Willam unfolded the small parchment, its blue-white seal long broken.

Lord Buckwell's expression changed then and there. Gone was the stalwart confidence as fear reared its ugly head.

"I'm afraid nobody is coming to help you," Willam held out the small scroll between two fingers, smiling brightly at the andal lord; who seemed at a loss for words – for surely it was impossible to catch a raven mid-flight? And yet, as this northern savage handed him the letter, it was indeed the same he'd written before…

"I-" Lord Buckwell muttered, his eyes scanning the message as if he didn't quite believe it.

"I?" Willam mocked him uncaringly. "I what, my Lord? My andal isn't perfect… you'll need to speak up…"

"You'll not get away with this, Stark!"

"I suppose you're going to stop me, my Lord of Antlers?"

"The King will hear of this," Buckwell declared boldly, though his voice wavered – an empty threat if there ever was one.

"Oh dear," Willam scoffed with a roll of his eyes. "The boy king of incest is going to finally leave the capital and fight his first battle, all for little old me?"

"What an honor," Suko remarked with a chuckle from beside the tree. His hand rested peacefully atop his swords handle.

"Truly," Willam agreed happily. "I eagerly- oh wait, none of your damn ravens have reached the capital!"

"Such a disappointing turn of events," Suko added oh so helpfully.

"Truly disappointing," Willam agreed, feigning a heavy heart at the news.

Lord Buckwell smiled despite himself as if he held some secret key to victory. The sole player in a grand game.

"What's this?" Willam looked closely at the man for but a second. "Is that hope I see, Suko?"

"I can't tell," Suko leaded forward as if to get a closer look at the old lords expression.

"Aedan," Willam looked to his left then, at the previously silent Greystark. "Your thoughts? What do you see?"

"Couldn't say," he answered with a shrug. "All these andals look the same to me My Prince…"

At that – with a smile – black paws treaded towards them from behind the great tree; dragging a knight by his forearm.

"Ser Niclas!" Lord Buckwell's eyes went wide, taking steps backwards and nearly tripping on a root.

"Oh," Willam looked to the man, unconscious as he was. "Is that his name?"

Buckwell gulped audibly. "You- You have no honor, Stark!"

Willam frowned at that. "Your man is alive, is he not?"

His arm was mangled, bleeding profusely; but then he'd tried to flee.

"The fault was his," Aedan added hotly. "He tried to run…"

"Not very fast though," Suko chuckled at the thought.

"You savage-"

"Lord Buckwell," Willam interrupted the man. "Your ravens have failed you, as has your rider – so save me the gallant display of defiance."

"I shall never surrender," Lord Buckwell scowled at them all.

"Is the life of your people worth so little to you?"

"Ser-" Buckwell looked to the bloody form of his rider, and the beast that stood over him. "Ser Niclas knew his duty..."

The man had been sent riding south so hard that he nearly killed his horse before they'd caught him. Unfortunately for the knight, wargs had been tracking him from the moment he left Antlers; so his task was always a doomed one. It was a small thing for Wraith and the other wargs to hunt him.

It hadn't been the plan to mangle him… but the man resisted when captured… and bears were unpredictable beasts…

"So be it," Willam said without a hint of emotion. "Fluffy, if you'd be so kind…"

Lord Buckwell watched in horror and confusion as one man gave a nod, and the giant black bear seemed to obey – placing its mighty jaws around the neck of Ser Niclas and ripping it away with ease; killing the knight instantly in a sudden ripping of flesh. 'Fluffy' licked his lips after doing the task asked of him.

"Heartless bastard," Buckwell practically growled at his enemy.

"It was your decision, my Lord, his blood is on your hands – not mine."

"Is that what you tell yourself boy?" Buckwell spat at the ground. "To help you sleep at night!?"

"I've not had a decent night's sleep in years my lord," Willam told him sternly, eyes darting down to the dead man for a second. "It's not the ghosts of dead andal knights that haunt me however – his and your life mean nothing to me – but my ghosts are my own. I did not call you here to discuss my sleep however…"

The bear watched him closely, blood dropping from its maw; with a puddle at its feet – the pool of black blood seemed to seep into the oak's roots.

"What are you?" Buckwell muttered as he took a step backwards.

"A Prince," Willam answered with a smirk. "A wolf, a man; your enemy – call me what you like, it's no matter…"

"Warg…" Buckwell spoke that word like a curse wrapped in venom, as if its mere muttering spelled doom for all who heard it.

"Those monsters your Maester told you bedtime stories about are real, Lord Bryce."

"Demon," Buckwell sneered at him. "I've nothing to say to the likes of you!"

"Yield my lord," Willam's smile died in a heartbeat. "Yield, or this castle will become your pyre."

"Never!" Lord Buckwell turned his back then, the blue-white cloak fluttering in the breeze.

"I urge you to reconsider Bry-"

He wasn't coming back, it seemed.

"Well then," Suko spoke, leaning up against the tree. "That went well…"

"We could just seize him," Aedan suggested. It wouldn't be honourable… but it would save lives….

It's what King Brandon would do no doubt. That was a thought no one present dared raise with the king's son.

"No," Willam shook his head, fighting off the notion. "Let him return home. I do not make threats lightly…"

"You're sure about this, Will?"

"I said it, did I not Grey?"

Aedan frowned. "There's women and children in there…"

"I am a great many things my dear friend, but never a liar…"

That was a lie, he knew; hate it as he might – but ugly truths were just that. Ugly…

Years ago, he'd once said how there was a time and place for honor. That time was not now.

Antlers was burning by the time the sun began to set. The straw and thatch roofs had proven easy kindling for their arrows dipped in tar – try as the Buckwell men might to put out the fires – it was a hopeless thing, for every fire put out three more sprang to life, hungrily devouring straw and hay and wood and meat alike.

All that was flammable, both supplies and men, caught fire within; while the wooden walls blazed and crackled as the flames grew.

"Did you see all this destruction in your god's flames, Ser Thoros?"

The Red Priest stood at his side, watching the flames with a blank look.

"At Pyke," he began sombrely. "I saw a great tower fall and crush a boy of ten…"

A non-answer. That was all the red knight seemed to process; along with his dry wit and lust for wine.

"Spare me that lesson Thoros," Willam waved him away with a frown.

"War isn't pretty lad," the Priest told him what he already knew.

"I know," came the reply, as simple as it was cold. Life – yet alone war – had rarely ever been a pretty thing.

Edwyn's song came to mind then. An ancient song, that he'd first heard as a child from Lord Frost's lips. He could hear it now.

"Once just a man I was born to lead, but the black couldn't satisfy my need," Willam mumbled it as he watched the fires burn.

The screams of dying men, and women, and horses and pigs and gods know what else rang out from the fires.

"North of the Wall she cried out to me, and the men of the south will tremble…"

"You're singing now?" The new voice snapped him from his thoughts.

"Lady Ash," Willam didn't turn to greet her, his eyes fixed on the fires; dancing and flickering.

"Will," Ashlyn sighed, in no mood for games; she'd forgone his title – an act that demanded attention.

"Oh dear," at that he turned to face her, seeing flames dance in her amber eyes. "Will, is it? I must have royalty screwed up, eh?"

"Is all this necessary?" She asked, all frowns as the screams had long since ceased now.

"I-" He didn't have an answer, as a simple 'Yes' seemed far too little a word for it.

"Women and children called this place their home," Ashlyn said heatedly, and he could feel her eyes glaring daggers at him.

"Did I not give the lord a choice? Was it not his decision, to not yield?"

The fires were beginning to fade, as the homes and most walls became charred black.

"You sound like your father," Ashlyn said plainly, unblinking.

"I-" At that, he thought hard; but couldn't seem to argue it. She was right.

A horn blast saved him from finding the words. It rang from the north, long cold and chilling as it roared Harooooooooooooooooooooo on the wind – revealing a host of men arriving through the treeline flying banners of blues and browns and whites – riding atop horses armoured and plated with steel.

"Hold the thought my lady," Willam rushed past her, leaving Ashlyn to watch the dying flames of Antlers.

The new arrivals weren't unexpected. The wargs had reported their coming for some time, all part of the plan.

At the hosts head was a man sat atop a white steel, in steel-and-silver, flying a red salmon banner on a white field.

"Lord Mooton," Willam greeted the man as he dismounted, taking off his helm to reveal a far younger man than expected.

"My father sends his regrets that he could not ride in person Prince," the young knight offered apologies. "He sends me in his stead."

The Lord of Maidenpool wasn't one for great courage then it seemed, sending his boy to fight in his stead.

"Forgive me," Willam plastered his best smile even as Antlers smoked in the background. "Your name?"

"Ser Florian," the knight bowed in his spotless armour, as green to battle as he was young.

At least this one had enough courage to ride though… not that he'd been given too much choice in the matter…

"Prince Willam," another greeted him, walking up beside the knight with a grin on his lips.

"Now there's a face I know!" Willam gladly clasped this one's arm as it was offered. "Genrik, how fares the men?"

"Eager for battle Prince," the Greycloak answered gladly, though he began to frown as the sight of Antlers now.

"Not much fight to be had here," Willam remarked coldly. "I suspect our friends of Buckwell shall yield shortly, if they're wise…"

"You-" An unfamiliar voice joined them. "You burnt it down…"

"Ben!" The shout came, as Helman Tallhart stormed over; looking furious.

"F- Father!" Benfred Tallhart nervously scratched the back of his head.

"What in the gods name are You doing here boy!"

"I wanted to fight," Benfred frowned. "We all did…"

"We!?" His father scolded. "We, is it!?"

"The Wild Hares," the Tallhart boy replied with pride in his friends. "We-"

"A family matter best had in private, Sers," Willam interrupted them easily.

"Oh it'll be handled," Helman practically dragged his son and heir away by the ear.

Now that the show was over and done with…

"Ser Mooton," Willam called on the knight. "How many came?"

"A good thousand men Prince Willam," the boy seemed pleased to be asked.

"More than I'd hoped," Willam answered with a hum of thought.

They'd have docked at Maidenpool not long past, if all were to plan – forces from White Harbour to join with Mooton's Knights.

"The keep!" A cry echoed through the camp then, breaking through the chatter. "They yield!"

Surely enough, eyes darting southward; above the smoking ruins of houses and burnt walls, they could see it clearly despite the smoke.

"Lord Buckwell has seen reason," Willam looked up at the white flag that flew lazily in the breeze above Antler's Keep, looking down on the burnt homes. "Fine timing, Ser Florian; your arrival has scared our foe out of hiding – would that he'd seen reason sooner…"

"Yes," The knight frowned at the sight of the smoking structures. "If only…"

Antlers was a smoking ruin, more than a castle now; for only the keep atop its rise seemed untouched.

The drawbridge was a far cry from safe by now, burnt as it was; the fires had been relentless – forcing all to cross the motte slowly – leaving men open to an attack that never came. Willam thought that was in part thanks to their hostage, as Lord Buckwell had come out to surrender personally.

"I yield," he'd said thought gritted teeth, down on his knees with his head hung low.

"You set these fires," Willam told him simply. A lie. "Remember that my lord, how you could've stopped this."

Willam didn't believe it truthfully. He'd given the orders. He'd watched the fires burn. The dead were his doing, but so be it…

"Gods," Edwyn mumbled as they rode into Antlers – or what was left of it – past burn houses and shops, past weeping women and children.

"There is a time and place for honor," Willam recalled himself saying once more. It had rolled so easily off his tongue back then. Now those words tasted like ash.

"Honor means nothing when war isn't fair," came the voice of his father in reply, echoing against his skull; lecturing him even now from across the sea. They moved slowly through the burnt streets with a few hundred horses falling in behind them. All bore witness to the horrors, but for most the reality of war was nothing new.

The Riverlanders called it justice, for the Lannisters had done the same to their homes – while the Greycloaks had seen worse and knew better than to judge.

"Father," one woman was preying over the wailing of her child; her face half burn by the fires. "Mother, Smith, Warrior, Crone-"

There were no gods here, Willam knew, not even his own. The Old Gods had too few eyes this far south… thanks to the andals…

"Bastard!" One man threw a stone at Lord Buckwell in his anger.

"I-" The man held up his arms to defend himself, unarmed as he was; and afoot too.

"Stay back," Willam growled at the man.

"My wife," the lowborn snarled. "My son-"

He'd throw rocks at him too, Willam knew – were it so easy a target as Buckwell was now.

"Move aside or join them," Harrion barked coldly from atop his horse, looking down at the lowborn.

"BASTARDS!" The man ran at Buckwell, striking from across the head before Greycloaks managed to throw him aside.

"I didn't-" Buckwell groaned in pain. "It was the warg! H- He did this!"

If the 'warg' wasn't armoured with hundreds of troops at his back, perhaps the smallfolk would believe their lord.

"Warg is it?" Willam declared loudly, as the burnt folk gathered with snarls and looks that would kill a thousand times if they could.

"Your lord has gone mad!" Suko shouted. "Sprouting of wargs and dark magics to cover his guilt, good folk – his pride has driven him mad!"

Suko had gotten surprising well versed in the andal tongue over the years.

"No," Buckwell snarled. "I- You're a demon!"

The smallfolk grumbled, keeping their distance.

"Hold your tongue or see it lost, Lord Bryce."

"You- You swore I would come to no harm!"

He intended to keep that vow – but the man didn't know that.

"Move," Willam barked at him, as Wraith padded alongside with a maw of teeth.

"Wargs…"

"Could it be?"

As loud as Suko's rambling had been, it was hard to deny the wolves and giant black bear at their side…

The whispers of "Demon" and "Monsters" quickly took over all the poorly directed hate they'd thrown to old Lord Buckwell moments ago.

Past the villagers and up to the keep on the rise, it was about the only section of Antlers untouched by the flames. That alone was enough to rile up the locals, even if it was no true fault of the Buckwells. "Open up!" Willam called out to their guardsmen. "Your Lord has yielded, isn't that right Bryce?"

"Open the damn gates!" Buckwell commanded with a heavy heart and muttered curses, resigned to his fate in this conflict.

He could've held out perhaps. Might be he had food for a month's siege, or even move – doubtless his attackers wouldn't have wasted time and starved him out, but what of his people? A lord as small as Buckwell would never have been able to recover from the complete loss of the people who served him…

His neighbours would've ripped him apart within a few years. His house would've never recovered…

What men Buckwell had inside were few, but all threw down their arms one by one.

"Prince Willam," A young man bowed his head as they entered the hall of Antlers.

He was barely four-and-ten by best guess, with a clean face and dark brown eyes under well-kept hair – this boy was the perfect little andal.

"My eldest," Buckwell introduced the boy through gritted teeth.

Willam merely nodded at the boy, eyes darting around the hall at the others.

"My daughters," Buckwell seemed more nervous with these two.

Brown hair and brown eyes, they were young and innocent to the situation at hand; even more so than their elder brother.

"Greetings," Willam knelt to the children's height, mustering his kindest smile.

"P- Prince," the eldest of the girls managed a clumsy curtsy.

"Aren't you a proper little lady," Willam told the child kindly, ruffling her hair – much to Buckwells annoyance.

"Do not touch my children, demon…"

"Come now Bryce," the demon rolled his eyes lazily. "Let's not scare the little things, aye?"

Lord Buckwell held his tongue, but his eyes threw daggers of valyrian steel.

"Young-" Willam eyed the Buckwell Heir. "What was your name, lad?"

"Robert," the young heir answered bravely.

Named to honor King Robert no doubt. Buckwell likely had older sons once, before the dragons fell…

"Robert," Willam called the boy by name. "What has your father told you, hmm?"

"We-" The boy seemed conflicted, looking to his father for comfort.

A stiff nod was all he received from the old man.

"We are your prisoners… Prince…"

"I prefer the term 'honoured guests' young Robert."

"A- As you say," Robert mumbled uncertainly. "Prince…"

"Good lad," Willam looked back to the boy's father. "Bryce, where is the boy's mother?"

"Dead," Lord Buckwell scowled. "Gods give her rest; I thank them for taking her – least she have to lay eyes on the likes of you…"

"I'll have you know I'm quite the catch," Willam defended with a frown.

There was a scoff from the back of the room.

"Piss of Suko," Willam said without being sure it was him,

"It wasn't even me!" Suko yelped in denial, sulking as the others laughed.

"Enough!" Buckwell shouted, his voice echoing off the halls of his keep.

"Very well," Willam sighed. "Away with the pleasantries then…"

At that, Aedan walked up; flanked by Greycloaks holding chains for their guests.

All expect for the children, that was; as their lord father in irons was more than enough to ensure their cooperation.

"Young Robert," Willam called on the boy. "You and your sisters will be going on a little journey…"

"What?" The boy's father snarled. "That wasn't our deal!"

"It's off to Harrenhal with you," Willam declared; ignoring the raging old lord.

"You honorless bas-"

One of the Greycloaks struck him over the head, sending the old lord staggering.

"FATHER!" One of the girls cried out at the sight.

To his credit, young Robert Buckwell kept his composure.

"They will not be harmed," Willam assured the old man as he got to his feet. "So long as you behave, Bryce."

"And if I do not behave, demon?" He asked, all teeth and snarls.

"I'll have Lord Bolton flay the skin from your children's bones until you do behave…"

That shut him up, for a moment. "Y- You… You wouldn't dare…"

"Wouldn't I?" Willam tilted his head for effect. "I am a demon, am I not?"

The truth was that he wouldn't ever give such an order, but then; it wasn't like Lord Buckwell would be able to tell the difference between the skin of a dead man and the skin of his son or daughters. "Monster," he still cursed him, believing the lie for truth. "There is a special place in the seven hells for-"

"What part of behave did you fail to comprehend? I'm no Bolton, but if you'd like I could try my hand at-"

"No!" Buckwell barked at him with wide eyes. "N- No… I…"

"It's okay father," young Robert assured him. "We'll be okay…"

"Yes," the boy's father nodded. "I- I shall do whatever you ask, demon…"

That title was still in effect it seemed, but none the less... it was an improvement…

"Splendid!" Willam clapped his hands, all smiles. "Karstark, I trust the escort to your men; if that's well and good?"

"It'll be done," Harrion replied with a nod and a blank look.

"Edwyn," Willam turned to the man. "Take anything of use that isn't nailed down – split any coin between the men."

"Aye cousin," Edwyn replied with a smile and move as the Greycloaks let out a cheer.

"That was not part of our de-"

Willam glared at Buckwell. The man held his tongue.

"Aedan, see to the men; help out Fisher – you know how he can be."

"I heard that, Will!" Edwyn shouted over to him.

"And what great important task do you have for me, Stark?"

"You my dear Suko…"

"Indeed?" Suko wondered.

"Um," Willam had nothing for him. "Stand here and… look pretty or something!"

"Look-" He frowned at that, rolling his onyx eyes. "Piss of Stark…"

The Greycloaks that hadn't left already laughed at the imperials expense.

"My Prince?" Lady Rowana's voice called on him, walking up eagerly. "Shall I?"

"Aye," Willam knew what she meant. "You know your training, so see to it Row, aye?"

"My Prince," she bowed low before taking her leave, following by their other scouts – off to the rookery to do their duty.

"Maester Whatever," Willam eyed the old man in a grey rope with chains around his neck. "I'm lord here now, so off you go – assist the lady…"

"I-" The maester looked to Buckwell for but a moment. "As you say, My Lord…"

The grey rat scurried away to the rookery, off to help the enemy with their duties.

"Ser Florian," Willam called on the Mooton then, one of the few remaining in this hall.

"Prince," the Knight lowered his head and awaited orders dutifully.

"The guard is yours Ser," came the order. "Keep the smallfolk in line, assist them how you wish; but I'll have no trouble."

"It'll be done Prince Willam," Mooton bowed as he turned and left, his red-fish cloak flapping at his heels.

The people of Antlers would be less inclined to revolt against Riverlanders than they would Northmen… or Demons…

Lord Buckwell's study was quite the mess, with parchments scattered across it in uneven stacks and half his notes covered in a spilled inkwell; it was difficult to make head or tails of the chaos – but in time Willam had gone about organizing the lot of it neatly. He despised mess, an odd quirk of his though it rarely proved an issue.

Most of the lord's letters were addressed to and from Sow's Horn and Hayford about some dispute in the Brindlewood. Nothing of importance.

"Find anything useful?" Ashlyn's voice came from the doorway.

Dressed in her usual leathers and chainmail, she looked every part the common soldier – if not for those eyes of hers.

"Lady Ash," Willam replied with his usual moniker. "Nothing of note, just the squabbling of lords…"

"Sounds like home," she muttered, leading on the doorframe.

"West or East, politics remain the same."

Truer words had never been spoken…

"What is it about?"

"Lumber," Willam scoffed at that. "Hogg and Hayford both believe-"

She barely contained the chuckle at that.

"Hogg?" Ashlyn smirked, stifling the laughter.

"Aye," Willam pushed over one of the parchments, mark by the sigil of a wild boar. "House Hogg of Sow's Horn."

"Bloody hell," Ashlyn's smile grew as she looked at the boar.

It was cute – as far as smiles went – but that thought faded quickly.

"Did you need something?" Willam asked her, taking back the letter to place it back on the pile of organized chaos.

"Grey asked me to inform you of an incident…"

"Grey, is it?" Willam arched his brow.

"Something wrong with that?"

"No," Willam supposed not. "Just, only I call him that…"

"I despise titles," she frowned at the mere thought of the things.

"Is that why you've ran from becoming Lady Ryder," Willam pried with a smirk. "Lady Ash?"

"None of your business Princeling," She huffed, staring daggers at him.

"As you wish," he knew better than to push too hard. "What's this incident then?"

"The people," Ashlyn answered with a tired sigh. "Antler's smallfolk that is – or what's left of them – one of em killed a Mooton knight…"

"How the hell did-"

"He was drinking," she rolled her eyes. "With that red priest, is what I'm told."

"Ser Whatever-his-name-was is handling this mess, is he not?"

"Ser Florian," she corrected with the ghost of a smirk. "He's capable enough, just thought you'd like to know…"

It went without saying that they were unwelcome guests in the ruins that were Antlers, even with Mooton's men assisting the smallfolk with their burials – it was no small thing for these folks to forget or forgive, ignoring all the zealous or superstitious ones that had branded them all as demons or demon worshipers.

"There's more bad news," This news came with a frown on her lips.

"What now?" Willam put down his papers, sighing deeply.

"One man – the town blacksmith, he took his hammer to one of the Greycloaks wolves and…"

"Idiot," Willam's frown turned to a scowl. Foul news…

"He's dead," Ashlyn confirmed. "Broke one of the wolf's legs though…"

"Well shit," the curse came easily. Willam could feel a headache coming along.

They hadn't the wargs to spare. "Rowana tells me she has taken on some of Buckwell's ravens as her own."

"Damn girl, she knows the risks."

That headache was coming along nicely now.

"I'm telling you; she's doing this to impress you…"

"She needn't bother," he eyed her then as Ashlyn took a step closer to the desk.

"What you do with your wargs is none of my business..."

Willam stared at her for a moment before an idea clicked.

"Are you…" his smirk grew tenfold. "…jealous, Lady Ash?"

"What!?" She turned wide-eyed, her hands slamming on the desk in righteous anger.

It sent more than one pile of papers falling over, returning the organized chaos to mere chaos.

"My papers… they were innocent…"

If Ashlyn heard his whimper she didn't care.

"You've some nerve, Princeling!"

"Mhmm," Willam barely contained the laughter.

"You arrogant stuck up spoiled little-"

"You're cute when you're angry My Lady."

He saw one of her eyes twitch, then before he knew it her dagger slammed into the table with a THUD – just an inch from his hand.

"Bastard," she growled before turning, leaving her dagger behind as she stormed out and slammed the door on her exit.

"What?" Willam looked over at Wraith, whose eyes were locked onto him judgingly from his resting place.

Ashlyn's dagger was stuck hard and fast in the fine oaken desk, right through Buckwell's finest map.

"Pretty thing," Willam gripped the handle, noting the fine smooth amber gracing its pommel.

Wraith had returned to his slumber, lowering his heat beside the warmth of the fireplace.

"Well then," Willam pulled the dagger free of its rest, right over Rook's Rest on the map. "Staunton…"

He'd considered Sow's Horn at first – and had sought to know of Buckwells relation to them – but ultimately, that poor excuse of a castle was too near to Duskendale and neighbouring regions for comfort. Rook's Rest was further north and closer to Maidenpool… the obvious target…

That the lady's dagger had landed squarely on the castle was either coincidence, or the gods thought they were funny.

My Note(s): Antlers is burnt to a crisp in the beginning of Willam's lil Conquest of the Crownlands. It's a little brutal – and he by no means enjoys it – but like father like son in more ways than he'd like to admit; Will is very capable of being ruthless. On another note, I shall fully admit, I completely forgot about Thoros :P but he's a role to play in the Crownlands so you'll see abit more of the drunk priest. Ahead lays Rook's Rest… and no doubt King's Landing will take notice soon too…

Betmen123: I sometimes question if certain reviewers actually read the story or if they're reading something else entirely. Following canon? Really? Considering there are 80-ish chapters planned, we're a long way off to claim "it's just canon" especially when you've only seen literally the start of the war. Some things remain the same (with subtle changes) because not all ripples are waves. I could list a hundred things but will instead say go re-read and consider the future ramifications.

Some things have changed, some haven't, but the vast majority of 'ripples' have yet to be seen. Chapter 33 was largely filler to keep readers in the know.

Force Smuggler: From an in-world perspective (I try not to let modern perspectives effect the story) her treatment of Jon was fairly mild most of the time. Cersei for example had most of Robert's bastards murdered and they weren't even acknowledged – so its really a less of two evils deal; though you could blame Ned somewhat – with Willam around my version of Jon has grown as a character faster (arguably for the better) than he did being shipped off to the Night's Watch.

Guest: In regard to Jon's skill at arms, in the books he believes that Robb is better with a lance but that he himself is better with a sword; though we've no real proof of Robb being all that great a swordsman. I'd call him Average. Jon is maybe a little above Average in canon, but in This story, he's trained with Willam, and Willam is actually far better than he lets on – though not quite Jaime Lannister, the tutelage mixed with Jon's 'natural talent' has done a world of good for his skills.

That said, I still wouldn't put my gold on Jon against Jaime; he's still a young boy and gaining experience. Jaime however is very experienced.

1962strat: Bolton's loyalties are spoiler territory, so I avoid saying much on the subject :) you'll have to wait and see.

Dave: As always, glad you're enjoying the story :) tyvm for leaving comments.