12th Moon 125AD
The heavy spring rain made quite the racket as it drenched the earth. It was constant, almost a certain rhythm to each and every single rain drop. Perhaps if he tried hard enough, he would be able to think up a song of some kind?
Queer Quinn grabbed at his arm with a tight grip. "Listen, do you hear that?"
Kimble frowned as he listened, his ears twitching to catch whatever Queer Quinn had heard. "Nothing. I don'-." Then there it was. It was a bird call. Three short sharp bursts then followed by a moment of silence and then a long shrill burst. "Ah, I hear it now."
Queer Quinn grinned at him in the dark, the little light the moon gave more than enough to show the missing teeth the older rider had. "Well, go on then."
Kimble rolled his eyes as he fumbled for the whistle around his neck. He licked his lips for some wetness then brought the instrument to his lips and returned the call. One long burst, silence then three staccato bursts.
A moment passed before they heard another bird call, a simple one now. Just a long one, along with a couple more, but the message had been received.
Queer Quinn kicked at his horse. "Come on then, let's go meet our fellows."
"Aye," Kimble returned before he followed after the knight, following the path that many men had travelled through over the past few moons. He had come through this thicket of pines, oaks and sentinels so many times that he knew the path like he knew the back of his hand.
'Steer a little left here,' he thought as he directed his horse round a hole that had been burrowed by some woodland creature, a rabbit, hare or whatever. One of the horses had broken its legs falling down such a thing and had to be put down.
They had lost a horse to a nest and the chances of getting another horse was quite difficult and would more than likely get the attention of the people of these lands. Attention that they sorely did not need. For now, anyway.
'Oooh duck.' He thought as he held his head low to avoid a low hanging branch from a sentinel tree that had whacked him in the face an embarrassing few times before. 'Close.' If that had hit, how many times would that make him the victim of such a thing again?
Too many to count by the looks of things.
Queer Quinn stopped a little way in front. "We've been expecting you. A little late aren't we?"
Kimble rode next to him and saw several figures riding towards them. He counted six on horseback with three mules with them. All of them were dressed in heavy cloaks that protected them from the rain and hid them in the shadows of the woods and mountains.
"You've been through the paths." The man in front grumbled, coming to a stop in front of them. "You know how difficult they are. Had to stop a few times cos of the rain. Feared some landslides every now and then. Had to be careful or would you rather we all have met a grizzly end in the West Mountains?"
Queer Quinn grinned toothily at the man. "I'm sure we would be able to find a suitable replacement for you Roche." He held out a hand, a hand that was then clasped by the man that had been identified as Roche.
"Quinn, you old whoreson!" He greeted as he clutched the hand in a strong grip and shake. "And Kimble, is that you? Didn't recognise you."
"Must be the beard." Kimble quipped as he stroked the mass of hair that had grown over his chin and neck in the last weeks. "It's been said it gives me a certain gravitas."
Roche gave a snort. "Gravitas you say?" He shook his head as he waved forward the other five men that where behind him. "This is the last of the men. Lyle, Grover, Little Pete and Manfryd. Good, capable."
Queer Quinn nodded as he grasped hands with the introduced men. "Good, cos I think it's about time that we get to work here. With you lot, that'll bring us to a hundred men for our group. Enough to do some damage and light some fires up these westermen." He said as Kimble began to lead the way back to their hideout.
The one that was called Little Pete chimed up at Queer Quinn's words. "I thought that was what we were going to be doing?"
"Along with some raping." A deep voice said with a little too much inflection for Kimble to like. Looking back, Kimble learned it belonged to the one called Grover. "Never tasted a woman from these lands before."
"Oh, you'll be tasting them alright," Queer Quinn said. "In a whorehouse or her bed if she invites you so willingly. There'll be no raping in this unit. Our orders are clear, we are to burn their farms and storehouses, harass the lands. Nothing at all about raping."
Grover scoffed. "We are at war, ser, rape is a part of war. Part of the rights afforded to a man fighting for his lord."
"I thought you said they were good and capable?" Queer Quinn asked accusingly in the direction of Roche.
Roche merely shrugged his shoulders. "I never particularly said they were good men."
"You are a fucking whoreson, you."
"Fuck you."
Queer Quinn looked back in the direction of Grover, the man spotting a shit-eating grin on his face. "You are a lucky fucker you know that? If we didn't need all the men we could spare, you'd be hanged. Just so you know, rapers are gelded. As it turns out, you can still fight, even without your dick. If you think a little pussy is worth that, then you are a bigger fool than you seem."
Grover grinned some more. "Then I just won't get caught."
Kimble couldn't help but sigh to himself. It seemed this Grover man was going to suffer an accident or fall in the line of duty before they were set to do anything. For some strange reason, all the rapists seemed to suffer some foul accident one way or another.
He decided to change the subject to something that concerned his home. "How goes the war?" He asked the man called Roche.
Roche shrugged, wiping some water that had splattered near his eyes. "Well enough I guess. From what I heard from others back home, the Lannisters poured through the Golden Tooth, but they've found themselves held at Pinkmaiden. Though the real threat is in the south I hear. There is where the larger of the invading forces is located."
Kimble blinked some. "I thought we won against them in the south?"
"A battle against the Faith Militant." Roche corrected. "Boys did well, kicked their sorry, pampered asses back to the south! But the actual Reach host led by their king is currently making its way north slowly. Though we are not making it easy for them."
"Stoney Sept fell then?" Kimble felt his heart sink some. That wasn't good.
The one called Manfryd eagerly shook his head. "No! We still hold it, just the Gardeners and Lannisters left some forces behind to besiege it whilst they head further north."
Queer Quinn let out a whistle. "Brave, splitting his host like that. Though it might not matter in the end if they end up linking with the other Lannister host at Pinkmaiden."
"You think they might do that?" Kimble asked, the dark thought hanging about his head with some trepidation.
"Who knows?" Queer Quinn asked with a shrug. "It doesn't really matter though, we aren't the ones fighting them. We have our own sort of fighting to do. Come on now, the quicker we get to it, the more we'll relieve the pressure of the lads back home!"
***
1st Moon 126AD
"Brandon," He said with resigned fatigue. "No."
His brother scoffed as he sat on a table, arms crossed. "Why not? The little fishes have done well for us. It's only right if we return the favour."
Torrhen couldn't help but close his eyes as he tried to think away the impending headache that he was sure was going to come to his head. His brother meant well, and he could see where he was coming from. The Tullys had done well for them, yes, but this war had nothing to do with them.
For now anyway.
His brother picked up an apple from a table and drew his knife and started to peel away at it. For a man that many of his cohorts likened to a wild wolf, his brother could be quite refined in his actions and words. Behind the behaviour suitable for a dockside thug, there was a man who thought of things thoroughly.
Well, for as thorough as Brandon could.
Then again, if he wasn't so, he would never have thought his brother would rise to become his right-hand. Clearly there was more to him.
It was just sometimes...
"I understand but at this moment in time, if we intervene, our Tully friend will face more than just two kingdoms." Torrhen rose from his seat and made to stare out the window of his solar to the expanse of Winterfell. "He might very well face the entirety of the Seven worshipping southron kingdoms as a matter of the old gods vs the new."
"Then send the Manderlys." Brandon suggested as he cut away a piece of the apple. "They worship the new. Surely, no-one can complain about that."
"Brandon..."
"You worry too much."
He turned to face his brother and watched him curiously. "And I didn't know you cared so much for matters involving the south."
"I'm not blind to the threat that a victory by the Reach and the Westerlands would mean for the north." His brother replied with a snort, still eating away at his apple. "If the true nature of the southron invasion of the Trident is true, then we could very well face Andals knocking at our gates."
"We'll turn them back." Torrhen replied with the utmost confidence. He believed in his lords and the men of the north. And it would be poor for him to be the first King of Winter to see the north invaded in centuries, millennia even. "The North is a hard land. The soft fools below the Neck won't last long when the North truly embraces them."
"Ah, there is the wolf in you." Brandon chuckled some, waving his knife. "Takes some time to just pry it out a little. Still though, what you say is true, we still lack some in terms of significant naval power to turn away any landings from sea like the Andals of old."
He raised an eyebrow at that statement. "Theon turned them back and he didn't have any significant strength at sea either."
"Theon was a bloody mad fool who got lucky." Brandon stopped for a moment. "He most likely had the help of some witch or another in truth. Don't you just find it queer how he was always there to turn away the invaders when they made their landings? Without fail? Either our illustrious ancestor was the luckiest son of a bitch ever born or he had someone looking out for him. No-one is that good."
Torrhen chuckled some at his brother's words even if he did admit that his words more than likely held some truth to them. It is true that no Andal invader ever truly took a step into the North without Theon and his army of northmen ready to meet them and turn them back into the sea.
Amongst the Starks, it was quite possible that their ancestor had some help from a power not seen in the realm of the mortals.
"Perhaps he just was." He said as he returned to the ledgers and taking in the reports from across his vast kingdom.
What he saw made him happy. The north was blooming. The northern mountain mines were proving to be quite profitable, gems and metals being mined. The road that had been built to connect the mines to Winterfell had proven to help improve trade.
Torrhen already planned to build many such roads in the same manner, although finding the men to do so could prove a little difficult. The north did not lack in land, but it did lack in the number of people to live in such land.
The Trident had helped a little in that manner, with more grain to be given out during winter. That had saved some lives, true, but still not enough to truly make a difference. Or perhaps the difference was there, but had yet to be truly felt.
An increase in wealth did not hurt. At the very least, it would allow him to buy grain from across the narrow sea for the winters to come.
"Will you truly leave him to fight that war alone?" Brandon asked.
Torrhen had known his brother ever since he could remember. They had grown up together, fought together and even bled for each other. There was no man in the world he half trusted as much as he did Brandon.
Either Brandon truly felt bad about leaving the Tullys to fight two foes alone or he just wanted to go kill something. Whenever his brother consoled force, it was a question of whether it was necessary or his brother was bored and needed to do something a little bloody.
'I should find him a castle. Good land. He deserves it.'
Brandon was already Castellan of Moat Caitlin. Why not just give it to him? He would not give it to less a loyal man than he. That was something to think about, although he would rather not think about the implications of giving a usually royal holding to a new house outside of its control.
"I offered aid." He finally admitted to his brother.
Dark eyebrows rose up in pleasant surprise on Brandon's face. "And?"
"He denied it." He continued, his eyes having never drifted away from the reports in front of him. A report from the Night's Watch was the next to have itself read by his eyes. "For the same reasons I gave you, though he did leave the option open in case the war became less about in his words 'the Faith griping at him about something' and more about blatant land grabbing."
"I thought they were trying to do that."
"Oh, they most likely are, but one doesn't just go to war for no reason. If you are going to get men killed, you at the very least have to give a good reason for it, other than 'I want that land over there by the river'." He paused and glanced at his brother. "People tend to not like such things."
His brother snorted, just about as expected.
"From the reports by Ser Glen, they seem to be doing well for themselves in truth. They have yet to truly suffer a great defeat or any defeat. Apart from one battle, they have yet to meet their foe in open battle. Some stratagem of some sort, I suspect."
At the end of it all, although quite thankful to the Tully king for his help. Torrhen didn't feel compelled to come to his aid.
He would rather not waste northmen blood in banal southron matters if he could help it. Though if things did start to turn for the worse for the trout in the south, he would be forced to intervene.
If this war was truly driven by the ambitions of the High Septon, at some point, his attentions would be turned to the north. Theon was a hero of his, but he had no intention of fighting against constant invasions of his land by southron kings and their war hosts. He would prefer to keep the fighting as far away from his own lands as possible.
After all, that is what a good king would do.