The large, open hall was clouded with people for once. Normally the great hall was rather empty, servants feet shuffling around being the only sound in it. But the dukes early death had given reason for it's use again, if not for a coronation of the next duke, then for a meeting of the earls and marquis', the noblemen and the common advisors. But sadly the coronation would have to wait. Many of the nobles had travelled from their holdings to the Wintershouse, where the snow fell thick and heavy, and the trees were without leaves for nine months, only to grow out yellow and brown, before falling again. These nobles stood together, bickering and talking about affairs of the realm. Some talked about lord Gregars role in king Etwine's campaign. Others spoke of lord Perris of Harrighfield, discussing whether he should own the iron mine that sparked the war, or if king Etwine should own it. The opinions were diferring, but many of them agreed that the war was unnessecary, and Gregars involvement even more unneccesary. Others had talk of trade, and recent sightings of the horsemen of the west, and a single minor lordling jested about a man crossing the icey oceans. An impossible feat, as many knew.

“THUD.” A silence befell the hall, as the heads turned towards the young boy sitting on the simple wooden throne, adorned with stags' antlers. The young lord regents' face spoke books, his teeth clenched and his hands balled into fists after having smacked on the armrests. Looking around the hall, he looked over the faces of all those that had gathered, and knew this to not be all, as many were still returning from the Kings battles in the Ironhills. Nevertheless he raised from the throne, pushing his chest forward and lifting his chin. The earls and other vassals looked at him, some with hope and bravery in their eyes, others with distrust and disdain. It was a known fact that Joakim's young age was a matter of discussion amongst the nobles. And Joakim knew now was the time to show he was not a boy, but a man.

“Friends of the Whitelands!” he spoke, loudly as the walls of the hall bounced his words, echoing them and giving them figurative weight. “We meet to mourn my father, god have his soul. Slain in battle, he died an honorable death amongst his fellow soldiers, loyal to the crown as always. We meet to gather oaths of fealty to my brother, lord Gregar Weade, rightful heir of the North, who is fulfilling his duty to the king as we speak.” He looked around the room once more, assuring everyone was looking at him still. He was remarkably steady for a man that just heard of the death of his father. Perhaps it was the knowledge that this was his duty that held him in place. Just as he wanted to continue, he saw his mother at the large doors with two of her maidens. They wore traditional, simple black dresses, and had used a piece of black charcoal to mark a dot on their forehead, as was custom for a period of mourning.

Forcing himself to swallow his emotions, he continued, his mother turning around and leaving the hall at the same time. “Are there any who object to Gregars claim on the Whitelands? Speak now, and be free to voice your concerns for the good of the realm!” The room stayed silent, but when Joakim moved forward a step to continue with the collection of oaths, a loud and gritty voice broke the silence. “If the good lord Gregar is so concerned with the well being of our realm, why is he fighting the Kings' battle, far away from his home and family, who need him now?” The man that spoke was Earl Redford, of Redford keep in the south bordering the Forklands. He was short and stubby, but strong and a capable fighter none the less. He had a black beard, with scars throughout it, and had a shaved head, littered with scars likewise. “I say... I say he is more concerned with personal glory and honor than the wellbeing of his people.” He had a serious look in his eyes, and stared at Joakim as if he was challenging him. And not any less important, it seemed some of the others in the hall nodded, agreeing with the mans points.

Joakim was petrified, as he hadn't anticipated an actual reply. Slowly he rectified himself, standing straight again and walking down the few stairs that lead up to the throne, walking closer to Earl Redford. “Earl Redford, if I am not mistaken, last year you were named Shieldbrother of the duke. I know I am not mistaken, as I attended the festivities at your keep. Does your duty as Shieldbrother not mean you were supposed to be with my father, Duke Rikard? Were you not supposed to guard him?” The Earl grinded his teeth and didn't seem to accept this as an answer, stepping forward with a hint of aggression. Some of the nobles around the two got a bit more on edge, ready to interfere, but it wasn't neccesary. “What are you saying, lord regent..” the Earl said, spitting the words as if it was saliva on his tongue.

“Perhaps you would've been home from campaign right now, celebrating with the duke.. if you had been there, earl Redford.” The earl seemed agitated, but stepped back and shut his mouth, granting Joakim this 'victory' for now. Joakim slowly backed off too, and walked back to the throne, placing a hand on the armrest. “My brother is serving for the king, as any son of the duke would. We have received a messenger who says he is currently returning to the Wintershouse, his rightful place. As soon as he arrives, we will coronate him as duke, but first I shall need the oaths of allegiance from his bannerman, you. Do you swear unto the banner of your house loyalty, respect and fealty to the rightful heir of the Whitelands, son of duke Rikard the Just, and guardsman of the North?”

The nobles bowed their heads and put a hand on their right shoulder, while simultaneously stating that they did indeed swear fealty, respect and allegiance to lord Gregar Weade, future duke of the Whitelands. Meanwhile Joakim sat down on the throne again, signs of weariness showing in his face due to the restless nights he had endured, and now this attack of Earl Redford. The stress had been wearing him down, and he wasn't sure he had handled adequately in this situation, despite the quick training in these type of situations he received from several advisors. “Very well. I am sure you all would wish to return to your quarters, it has been a long day for all of us. We will meet again at the word of Gregars arrival.” And with that, the meeting was ended, and everyone was to return to their daily tasks, meaning most of the noblemen went to enjoy some food at the local tavern, normally a place for peasantry, but today a place for blue blood.

---

The handsome young knight swayed side to side in his saddle, his horse slowly trotting the muddy grounds. His face was stern, tranquil and had a hint of drowsiness on it. As he passed the fifth waystone, he turned his horse to the right, leading it onto a better path, though still muddy. A farmer standing on his lands nearby, tending the pigs, looked onto him as he rode by, though the young man payed him no mind. In front of him was the first stop on the way home, the Mosskeep, whose outside walls are covered in thick slippery moss. The actual keep inside it was much better maintained. It had a certain charm, he'd admit. But it was no better than his home.

As he approached the walls at an ever slow pace, one of the forward guards noticed him and halted him, pointing his spear at the man from a distance while letting out a “You, stop.” The young knight halted his horse, and looked at the guard, who wore a simple kettle hat with chainmail to cover the neck, along with a chainmail with surcoat and some simple leather boots. They certainly saved money on his equipment. The knight slowly raised his hand and grabbed his woolen hood, lowering it with a short tug. The guard squinted his eyes, then opened them wide before looking at the shield hanging from the horses' saddle, which was yellow with the Old Tree insignia of the Weade's on it. Suddenly he turned around, the poor man realizing his error in pointing his spear at the man, and ran for the gate, shouting at the gatesman to open it. Slowly the man rode his horse forward again, towards the gate, as he listened to the man yell. “He's here! The Oakheart of the North! Call lady Rossric! Gregar Weade is here!”

He still had it, old Gregar. His name was still known to the common man, as was his nickname. A grin escaped from his tired lips as he pulled the hood back on, the rain bothering him too much to keep it off. Certainly, it wouldn't rain in the north, it'd be snowing, just like Gregar liked it. The horse rode into the stables almost by itself, and Gregar got off, leaving his equipment to be gathered by a stableboy or servant. Hopefully lady Rossric employed better stableboys than her father did, as items frequently went missing whenever Gregar had visited years before. Patting the horses neck a few times, he sent his other hand across it's manes, almost as if he were thanking him for it's service. After that he turned around and approached the keep, passing through the small but bustling crowd of people that were working, and through the doors of the keep, into the main hall. “Lady Rossric.” he'd speak, with a warm and low toned voice, approaching the throne she'd be seated on with graceful, but steady and tough steps. His face had a small smile on it, though lady Rossric would've known Gregar long enough to see it was a smile bothered by weariness, fatigue and sadness. If anything, he smiled out of sheer social requirement. “Last time I saw you, you were throwing a tantrum at your father.” His head would turn around the court, taking a look at those that were present in an attempt to see if he remembered or recognised any of them. Perhaps a knight or guardsman would strike him familiar, or an advisor or nobleman met at a feast once. And perhaps he partially wished to see if anyone was truly in awe of the famed 'Oakheart' or if they were merely thinking that Gregar could not be thé Oakheart that he was known to be, as the stories often made him out to be much more handsome and formidable as he himself found himself to be.

---

Gidja walked her round amongst the quarters of the lords, making sure to differ her patterns every now and then. Mostly she did this by just walking where ever struck her fancy. This meant she mostly walked around the balconies overlooking the garden - well, a garden. It was more like a snowed over field of grass, with hints of dark purple and deep yellow Snowdragons, a type of fower that grew only in the north. Not that it was any special except for it's exclusivety in southern regions. From the balcony she could see into this garden, where most servants spent their spare time resting, and she could also walk around the premises of the guest quarters. They were simple quarters, made of stone, and most did not have more than a bed, a chest for weaponry and other such things and a table and stool. It was good enough for the lords, who seemed to pride themselves in their simplicity, and often mocked the southern lords for their standards.

It was turning night, and many lords and their servants came back from the tavern, drunk or sober depending on the lord. They all entered their quarters straight away, most likely wishing to sleep away the drinks. Gidja could't fault them. Just as she was about to change her position again to take a look onto the garden, she got called over by another guardsman, Eirik, a young and able recruit. The young boy was barely 16, and had not a spot of hair on his chin. Even the lord regent, Joakim, looked more manly than this young guard. She grinned to herself, her slight laugh uncovering her joy in the boys appearance. As she got closer to him he grinned at her as well. “Laughing at me again are we? Just watch, one day I'll be yer' boss, Gidja.” She smiled and playfully tugged on his cheek as a mother would. “Sure you will. What did you want, hairless Eirik?” The boy adjusted his leather belt again, his sheathed sword being slightly too heavy for him. It would never stay up comfortably, always dragging on behind him. “Capt'n told me ter' release you, 'n ordered you to visit the courtyard. Somefin' about keeping an eye on thieves.. not sure who'd risk their handses right now fer' stealing, but orders be orders, right Gidja?”

Gidja shrugged it off, the boy was right, orders were orders. She nodded at him and gripped her spear closer while heading off for the courtyard, passing through the guest quarters, into a stairwell and down into the garden where she'd greet Svit, a servant of the liege lord. After the garden it was a straight walk through the main hall, past the sides of it, out the large doors and into the courtyard. It seemed quiet, two of the dogs running by chasing eachother and playing around, generally being a nuisance, but an enjoyable nuisance at that. A cat had laid down nearby and purred softly as it slept, but one open eye would reveal it wasn't truly sleeping, more so watching the two dogs scuffle about.

It had become part of her routine, to stand in the cold outside during the snow, watching the moon shine it's light on the keep and it's surrounding village, leaning on her spear and keeping a watchful eye on the surroundings. Surely nobody would try anything tonight, not with all the guards of the visiting earls and other noblemen walking about. Lord regent Joakim had made a good decision to offer them shelter inside the village rather than outside, and it seemed the tavern owner, Andrik, agreed with her. He was making good bussiness with these drunk soldiers walking around, and those that didn't drink sat around their fires near the tents they set up in the village, talking and having a merry time, despite the bitter cold.

Surely, it would be fun to see someone from the south spend a night here. Maybe that pesky little Edúar Athos, of the Falkhalls. That little brat always had such a runny mouth whenever she had seen him, surely his father would do good to send him to the Whitelands for some Northern discipline to be beaten into him. Gidja giggled to herself, the mere idea of a southerner here was idiotic ofcourse, but she couldn't help but wonder what he'd do. Probably scream bloody murder at the 'abuse' of putting him in a cold chamber with a bed and table. And so the night carried away, drunk men passing by, dogs chasing eachother and a half sleeping cat to keep her company. She wondered what her own cat was up to, but she knew the answer - he'd be laying in her bed, lazy as always. It'd been months since he'd caught a rat. Stupid critter it was.

Amber sat back in her throne. She was holding court, and listening to the local people's pleas or comments, as was customary to do once in a while. Next to her, in chairs of their own, the advisors stood watch, occasionally making a remark or giving a piece of advice. Her father had chosen them, but had told her not to trust them. The promise of gold makes even the most pious monk betray and connive, he'd said to her. Tomas seemed to agree with him, and often asked her to get rid of them. But she did rely on them. And after all, they were possibly both just being paranoid, as the kingdom was still standing and her heart still beating.

She sat quite comfortably with her legs crossed, leaning on one arm to the side of her throne. In her free hand she held a chalice of wine, which she occasionally took sips out of and otherwise swirled around. Habits picked up from watching her father do the very same thing while holding court. She hoped she looked presentable, as she had spent quite a long time getting ready to appear in public. She'd let her auburn hair fall down to her shoulders, and was wearing her leather tabard and boots, as usual. The nuns in the palace kept trying to convince her to wear a dress, but she found them uncomfortable and unempowering. She heard the clink of metal and footsteps from outside, and the door opened. A guard ran in and bowed.

"Milady, Gregor the Oakheart of House Weade is here to see you."

"Bring him in then," she said. The guard next to her nodded and walked towards the now thin line of farmers, the metal of his armour clinking, filling the empty sound of the courtroom. He made them clear to the side to wait for the arrival of the Lord. Not many people had showed up that day. In the audience she could see a few barons, some close friends, guards, and of course, Tomas. He looked bored, scratching his beard. She had told him he didn't have to come, as she knew it bored him, but he had insisted. He could be so stubborn. He seemed more interested in the young widowed Marquess next to him, who was blushing, than the arrival of the Lord.

Gregar walked in. "Lady Rossric," he said, his lips forming into something he perhaps thought was a smile. It was a false smile, that was for sure. "The last time I saw you, you were throwing a temper tantrum at your father."

She saw Tomas raise an eyebrow out of the corner of her eye. She smiled, remembering the incident. She would have been around five, making him seven or eight.

"And you fell off your horse while learning to ride," a poor comeback, as she couldn't ride either, but that day had made her giggle so much that she remembered it vividly.

She saw Gregor look around the room. He was making eye contact with most of the people in the court. He was quite handsome, she thought. He was broad shouldered and had a handsome face, though it was lined with hard work and sleeplessness. She had seen this in her own father, the same restlessness. Especially in the eyes.

Rolland
Sitting in the watch tower over looking the southern gate and the trade road. It was one of the few places in Wintershouse he truly could think without distraction. Gazing out to the landscape, watching the trees in the breeze. Interrupted though by trailing footsteps up the stairs, behind each step a light clank. That clank he recognized as Eirik. The boy really needed to do something about that belt. Rolland let it go today seeing as minor lords and earls loomed in Weade halls holding an what was disrespect to him but refrained from spitting out distasteful words towards them.

"You called for me captain?" The young Eirik spoke climbing the last step, taxed at the long trek up the stairs.

"Yes. I want you to take Gidja's post tonight. Tell her she's to report to the courtyard to watch for thieves." Wanting one of the more senior and keen members watching over the courtyard. With the nobility around it would be the perfect chance for any thief looking to test his luck and score big. It would only take on incident and the lord regent would be the earl's constant heckling.

"Understood sir." Turning back around to relieve Gidja from her current patrol.

Glaring out one last time to the moon lit plains before he left the tower. He needed to give Joakim the report on the days event and to rescue him if need be from the earls residing in halls currently. Also the messages that have come.

Walking to the hall were the young regent lord was speaking with various earls. Redford spoke out of tone, but waited on his lords response. Eyeing the situation and as expected Redford had yielded his statement for the time being. Standing in the back waiting for meeting to disperse before approaching.

"Well defended my lord." Handing Joakim the days raven messages. "I'm sorry to bother but a few more things require your attention. Three poachers have been caught. Also two merchants using false weights, swindling our common folk out of all their coin. Suggestions on a punishment?"
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jovan/Ayca



It was the message Jovan had sent to the young lord a few week ago. Now he was on the trade road north with Ayca to the Weade lands. His current position, well he didn't remember the signs but the duo were well in the Forklands now. Truthfully though Jovan only wanted to stop for the night and rest, his body racked with pain but gave no hint to the dreaded sensation. Ayca stooping her pony seeing a castle to the left thick with moss on their left and to her right a road leading down to the bustling town it watched over.

"I'm in a mood." Ayca's coy grin turned devious, looking down at the town.

"That so... Well let us find a brothel to sate your hunger." Jovan maneuvered his horse down the road to the adjacent town, unable to finger what the name was but he knew who the castle belonged. Letting her deal with affairs of state for the moment. Perhaps on the morrow if he felt well enough.

Both of them look for a suitable brothel for him to rest and her to indulge in carnal desires of the flesh. Settling in the pricier part of town at the 'Blue Rose'. Ayca had to help Jovan get down, though it wasn't as bad for her due to his loss in weight. Using the sapphire topped cane to help them move into the house of pleasure.

"A room, some food, along with some of your ladies for my companion if you can spare them madam. And parchment with some ink if you don't mind." Giving the madam a thick purse of gold coins for the expenses. Jovan did ask for a handful though most brothels knew from hear say when Silver Face was on the move he did give quiet generously and were all to quick to oblige.

Given some time to eat and then allow Ayca her activities. She removed his mask slowly hesitantly removing it, scared that his conditioned had worsened. Upon removing the sigh of relief, he was still the same. Half of his nose looked to be eaten away along with half of his face, with pocket marks across the rest of his face. The same look for three months now, no new damage which she rejoiced at.

"Same or worse?" With a smile Ayca, kissed his forehead. "Same, hopefully the gods will take this from you soon." A fools hope both new would never happen but stranger things have happened.

Gently she helped him eat the sharp cheese along with a variety fruits, complimented with a dry red wine. Slowly he ate and drank, feeling slightly rejuvenated. Knowing his partner was lustful, he'd save the rest for later. Jovan placed his mask back on, just in time for three beautiful ladies to come and indulge his partner. He watched as it gave him joy that she could enjoy herself to a degree and still be together. Giving a slight laugh beast like noises came from the the group. Turning to the table with the parchment, grasping the quill.



"Get this to a courier to Mosskeep."Sealing the parchment with his ring, handing it to serving girl who brought another pitcher of wine. Turning his attention back Ayca and her lust.

The road north was growing colder with each passing day and night. Alethea despised the cold. It brought back memories of many long nights from years gone by that she had spent huddled and shivering against her sister’s frame - the only source of warmth available to her - while she prayed to any of the gods generous enough to hear her plea, that they would both wake up the next morning. She would often pray for more food too.

Alethea hadn’t wanted to leave the relative safety and comfort of the Great City in the south. Pickings were far more favourable there than those of other regions and the rich had more money than sense. However, her recent high-profile heists had earned her a reputation - and a price on her head. While she was wary of bounty hunters and their ilk, it was other thieves that had ultimately been behind her decision to accept an offer from a nobleman to steal something up north. The thieves and con-artists of the Great City were very territorial and had not taken kindly to a newcomer stepping on their toes and taking what they viewed as their bounty and loot. People said there was honour among thieves, but Alethea knew that if you were to ask any real thief, they would tell you you were sorely mistaken.

Traveling the Great Northern Road alone was too risky, Alethea had decided, especially now that winter was drawing in. While the south enjoyed a moderate winter, the north truly did battle with the elements. Furthermore, if she decided to only travel when she thought she could pass unnoticed all the way to the north, it would take her an age to reach her destination. Thus, the most practical and safest avenue open to her was to join the wagons belonging to various traders that were heading that way. Choices were slim given the time of year, but Alethea secured herself a spot on one of them. Well, two spots really as Baego, the young lad that had stuck to her side like an adhesive for the past few months had decided to join her on her sudden journey.

The wagons were less than a days ride from the heart of the north, the home of the infamous Weades. Alethea had so far tried to limit her contact with members of the trading company. The men soon got the message that no, she would not be warming their beds along the way and mostly left her alone now. The few women traveling with the wagons did try to draw her into idle chatter, but this always made Alethea feel uncomfortable. Simply talking with people had always been difficult for the young woman. She was never sure on what she should say or how to act. In such circumstances, Baego was her hero. He had sensed her discomfort right from the get go and would step into conversations or even answer for her. Baego had no problem talking - in fact, there was rarely a time when he wasn’t talking. Even in his sleep he would murmur.

The thief pulled her cloak tighter around her thin frame as a rather strong gale started to pick up. She hadn’t managed to purchase thicker clothing for herself or Baego before they had left the Great City and the pair was suffering for it. Though neither had come down with an illness, Alethea was thankful that on the morrow she would be able to buy something more substantial to ward off the chill in the air. In the coming days, Alethea knew she would be receiving more information from her current employer on where exactly she would be stealing from as the nobleman had been rather vague on that particular aspect of the heist, simply telling her he would reveal such things when he knew she was in the north. Alethea did not like accepting work when there were such matters concealed and unknown to her, but the excitement she felt over what she was about to steal had swayed her decision.

Joakim sat upon the throne for several more minutes, as some of the earls had not yet left and he didn't want to seem rude by leaving before them. They were talking to eachother while overlooking the strategic map on the large table in front of the throne, pointing at several holdings of their own, to the north where recent reports of barbaric woodspeople have surfaced, an old annoyance to the Weade that Joakims' father had thought dealt with. Apparently they hadn't been dealt with.

After pointing at the north, their hands shifted south to the border of the Forklands and the Whitelands. The few things Joakim heard from them related to the trade resuming there after a road had become unaccesible due to a heavy storm. It's good that trade resumed, whatever small amount of trade passed through. After discussing all that they bowed for Joakim, whom nodded in return and made a small gesture with his hand, before they left. Joakim was about to follow suit and retire for the night, but it seemed ser Rolland had urgent news of some sorts. He walked towards Joakim with a Northerners stride, it seemed, and handed him the daily raven messages.

An annoyed look becrept Joakims face, more so for the messages than ser Rolland, for he had already gotten plenty of messages. No doubt these were more letters of support in this time of mourning. Joakim shook his head, they were merely trying to rub the Weades' the right way for the most part as most of them paid no mind to Rikard unless they needed something. However a certain letter caught his eye, being sealed with the seal of an Athos man. Quickly he opened it, and read it carefully. It seemed Jovan Athos was on his way to the north, a dangerous escapade for anyone, and more so this plagued man. But he was welcome none the less.

Joakim turned back to Rolland, throwing the other letters onto the table without paying them more mind. From his jackets' pocket he revealed a letter, marked with the sign of Harrighfield, meaning it must've been written by lord Perris himself. “A message from the Harrighfields,” he spoke softly, to not allow anyone other than Rolland to hear. “he claims the right to sit on our throne, as according to him Gregar is not fit to rule. And more so, he claims that right by force. We are going to war, it seems. I want you to raise the guards, and double the patrols. There will be no tresspassers here tonight.” Joakim gave him a serious, stern and strict look before rolling the letter back to a mere roll of paper, and stuffed it back in his jacket. What he didn't mention to Rolland was the chance for a peaceful solution, though Gregar would not like it, most likely. His hands went over to the table again, grabbing the pile of letters, before greeting Rolland with a nod and walking away to his chambers. He would probably have to spend a night writing the 'thank you' letters to everyone, and then the entire tomorrow to rewrite them, as his handwriting was rather sloppy.

---

Gregar smiled at Amber, who seemed intent on mocking him as he did her. “Aye, that horse was a tough one.” His head turned around the room once again, spotting amidst the crowd that had gathered a man he knew as Tomas, the bastard. The man had somewhat short hair and a small beard, with a pair of blue eyes that would make any woman swoon as soon as the next. Gregar had never really been interested in him, and usually talked to him only when he had to, but he was sure the boy was a fine man. A bastard, but a fine man. A hand went up as he waved at Tomas slightly, almost as if he was trying to be funny doing it.

He noticed some others, amongst others a tradesman he knew to be.. less than trustworthy, but very rich. He hadn't understood why Amber had kept the tradesman turned noble around, but then again Gregar didn't understand the concept of wealth either. Some armed man stood around the tradesman, but Gregar paid him no mind, since he blent in with the environment rather easily.

Besides Amber were the advisors, all looking the part with their fancy robes and clothes, and a devilous grin on their face, as if they were so happy to spend their days listening to commoners' pleas. Or perhaps they were happy because they could rub their grubby little hands all over the Rossrics' wealth. “However if you'd excuse me, I wish to rest and the road to my home is yet long. Perhaps you have a quarters for me, after which I can stay the rest of tomorrow, leaving in the evening? I'd reach the border before midnight, and after that it would be not much longer.”

Amber nodded. She beckoned to one of the guards next to her, the Captain of the Guard, the man she trusted most after Tomas. "Please find lodgings for our good friend Lord Gregar. I should think my father's chambers are in order," she said. She hoped he would not be modest and refuse. The truth was most of the other chambers were now full, the royal one being among the few empty ones. She had chosen to keep her old room, and her brother and Tomas both avoided the royal chambers, leaving it unused.

No one seemed shock at offering the old Duke's chambers, as Gregar was a reknowned nobleman and fighter. Amber thought for a second, then added "We'd be glad to entertain you for the night and tomorrow. Will you dine with us in the hall?". She made a mental note to ask the cooks to prepare a feast tonight, in honour of their guest. A few bards could be in order. She'd have to find a maid to see to the seating, as well.

The Guard Captain came back to stand next to the queen. The manservant he'd brought came next to Gregar, waiting for his answer before bringing him to his chambers.

There was a blizzard coming from the north. Though it was still some hours from fully reaching the small group of wagons Alethea and Baego were traveling with, the winds were picking up and the snow was coming down heavier than in the days before. The biting cold had been causing Alethea’s face to ache, but as the temperature continued to drop, as did the sun in the sky, her entire body had started to feel numb. She held Baego close to her side inside the wagon as it rolled along the Great North Road. Instead of waiting for the storm to pass, the traders had decided to plough onwards and try to reach the north’s capital before the storm reached them. Apparently there was no point in waiting for the storm to pass as blizzards this far north could last for days on end. Furthermore, they were unsure if any help from the castle would come to them if the wagons became snowed in. They had sent someone on ahead, but there was no guarantee of help.

The pace the company of traders was setting was unforgiving and as Baego shivered uncontrollably next to her, Alethea found herself worrying for the young boy’s health. Having lived his entire life in the south, he was not used to such harsh weather. Even though he had spent time living without a roof over his head, Alethea knew that the boy had never experienced such extremes in climate and she once again questioned the decision to allow the lad to accompany to the Great White North. She hadn’t asked Baego along, but she hadn’t stopped him either.

”They grow up so fast, don’t they?”

Alethea looked up at the sound of the woman’s voice. The woman was glancing before her and the shivering form against Alethea’s side, meaning she was talking about Baego. Alethea felt her throat constrict when she realised the woman was address her and she had asked her a question. The thief’s mind was sent into a whirl, scrambling to come up with an answer. A few moments passed and the woman was still looking at her expectantly.

“I, um, I do not have enough experience with children nor do I have any offspring of my own to be able to give you an adequate response.” Alethea’s response came out rushed and as soon as she saw the slightly confused and surprised look on the woman’s face, knew she had said the wrong thing once again.

The woman merely nodded uncertainly, before turning to talk to someone else. Alethea let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding, glad she would not have to engage in conversation with her fellow traveller any more. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the woman and her companion shooting her glances as they spoke to each other. Clearly they were talking about her. Alethea ignored them. She was used to it.

“You could have answered that one,” she muttered quietly to Baego.

The lad raised his head to look at her. “It was a statement and a question. All you had to do was agree with her.”

Oh. Alethea hadn’t known that, but filed it away for later use.

“And 'offspring’? Don’t call children that.”

Again, the unknown snippet was filed away.

Cregan had been stoically beside Joakim throughout the meeting of earls and small lords and other titles Cregan could barely be bothered to remember. He hadn't been paying very much attention to the mumbling of the lords milling through the great hall as his job was to protect Joakim, not spy on the dealings of underlings. Not that Joakim needed that much protection, the boy had grown into quite the warrior, but appearances mattered and if someone really wanted the boy dead it would be significantly harder to get through Cregan.

When Joakim opened with his speech Cregan began to pay more attention, watching the faces of the crowd to determine who would be loyal and who might cause problems, and it took him a fair bit of willpower not to lash out at Earl Redford when the blithering fool spoke up, but he knew that would reflect poorly on Joakim, so he kept himself in check. He politely stepped away when Rolland arrived to give him privacy to speak with Joakim, not that it particularly mattered, he was already aware of the situation with Harrighfield, and was quite ready to help Gregar prove that the Whitelands were not as weak as the Harrighfields seemed to believe.

Finally after Joakim had safely retired to his quarters Cregan relaxed, taking a brisk walk outside the halls into the yard, where he saw Rollands men training both against eachother and against straw targets. He casually walked over to a wall, leaning against it and regarding the lads training with a slight smirk. Occasionally he worked with Rolland to train particularly promising recruits, but none of the ones in the yard stood out to him.

Gregar smiled and nodded, with a polite bow added onto the end of that social scene. “Ofcourse, miss Rossric, if it humors you I shall attend your feast.” He gave the entire room one final glance, making sure to take a peek at the advisors too. The manservant bowed before Gregar before leading him away to the royal chambers. It was.. an awkward room, after the passing of Amber's father, and it seemed out of place to sleep here. Gregar decided he'd just spend most his time avoiding this room - after all, he'd be attending a feast most of the night. Oh, the headache he'd have in the morrow. The manservant was about to leave when Gregar raised his hand to him, calling him closer. “Good man, help me take off my armour would you? I can hardly attend a feast in battledress.” He grinned slightly, almost appearing as if he was a normal soldier, but at the same time there was a tone of authority and respect in his voice. He certainly seemed to try hard to be kind and noble at the same time.. a combination most noblemen wouldn't even think of.

The manservant seemed happily surprised with the tone Gregar used, and Gregar could read off of the poor mans' face that he'd been mistreated by some noblemen in this area before, as kindness from nobles was often far too seek in any area that wasn't the North. Well, that's not true, as many nobles in the North were cruel as well. The man helped him with his armor, neatly putting it in a nearby chest, and resting the shield with the Weade crest on it against the chest. When he moved to fetch Gregars sword to put it away, Gregar stopped his hand and smiled. “I will carry this. No man should be caught unarmed. No smart man, either way. I am sure you have a knife somewhere. You seem smart enough to realize value in a weapon.” The man responded, again, awestruck. Gregar needed no more information, the reaction was enough to see that this man did indeed carry a knife - somewhere. As did most other men, and some women. Gregar simply changed into more comfortable clothes, smiling at the manservant who had yet to say a single word to Gregar.

When Gregar left the room, the manservant led him back to the grand hall. However before they entered, Gregar stopped the man one final time. “Before we enter, what is your name, peasant? I wish to commend your services to the duchess. Perhaps you will find some fortune in that.” The man nodded and opened his mouth, barely any sound coming out before pushing himself to say it. “I-It's Rowan, s-ser Oakheart.” Gregar tilted his head slightly when he heard his nickname, but smiled and continued the way inside. He opened the large single door, and stepped inside, traversing down the steps with gentle, tough but gracious steps, with a remarkable and characteristical hand placed on the hilt of his sword. He wore a burgundy red tunic with simple decorations on the trims of the shirt, and some fine woolen pants under his tunic. His boots never left his feet.

Gregar stepped closer to the main table, where Amber and Tomas would be seated, and although it was rather strange to see a bastard at the main table, Gregar paid no mind and instead focussed on the environments. In a short period of time, Amber had managed to transform the room into a feasting hall, put together with minstrels, bards and poets. But what caught Gregars eye the most was the table on the left, closest to Amber, where the three advisors were seated. They were the commonly found set of advisors, one being a master at arms, the other a tradesman and finally the spymaster, someone who you couldn't be sure of what he exactly did, except for spying.

The feast continued deep into the night, and Gregar had a few too many wine glasses, when the fattest of advisors stood up and raised his glass. “I wish to propose a greeting to Gregar Weade, the Oakheart!” A grin twisted on his face, but Gregar was far too drunk to pay mind to that. For that reason he'd also not noticed the spymaster slip out of his seat and slip into a passageway, and if anyone noticed, they'd likely think he went to relieve himself. “And a celebration to duchess Rossric! Under your rule we will live in prosperity and wealth, may the gods protect you.” It was then that a scream was heard from the upper balcony, where a set of four archers had appeared, longbow in hand and arrow nocked, ready to fire at the part of three sitting at the main table. Before anyone would be able to react, a group of guardsmen with spears entered the hall through the man door, and another one through the door that led to the quarters. As Gregar got up to defend himself, drunkenly throwing over the chair he had sat upon, the first volley of arrows was loosed, narrowly missing Gregar and Amber, but a single arrow grazing past Tomas' calves. It wouldn't hurt much, but it was sure that the archers knew how to aim.

As Gregar got up from the chair he drew his sword, preparing to meet the guard that came from behind them through the door first. As the guardsmen closed the distance, Gregar stepped forward too, sending his sword for the mans arm. Ofcourse, the man saw it coming from miles away and parried it with ease, but Gregar had something else up his sleeve. His sword having been blocked, he swung his left fist for the mans head and “OW!” The man stammered back, one hand on his eye as he stumbled around. It was enough time for Gregar to send another strike at the mans shoulder, hitting it and giving him a deep cut. The man dropped his sword and was now grasping for his shoulder when he felt a foot hit his knee sending him face first into the ground.

When he turned to face towards the small stairs leading up to the heightened platform with the main table, he noticed one of the soldiers from the larger door had come to him, where as the other two had gone for the other side to get to Amber and Tomas. Everyone in the hall was busy trying to get out, causing a ruckus as they pressed for the door. At the very least the three of them had some moments time before the archers could get a better aim at them, the peasantry and nobles that attended the feast busy blocking their shots to get away. Gregar was too drunk to notice the soldier approaching him had already cocked his arm back to strike him with the spear, but was saved by a peasant with a knife. “Oakheart! RUN!” the voice was familiar, as was the face, but Gregar couldn't remember the name that went along with the face; perhaps it was because the face was bloodied from the blood squirting from a soldiers neck. Before Gregar had a chance to react another arrow flew past him, notching itself into a wooden beam behind him.

With no time to react to anything other than the 'Run!' command, from a peasant no less, Gregar moved swiftly towards Amber in an attempt to grab her arm, after which he would quickly run back towards the stairs he came from before heading towards the door. He was sure Tomas could fend for himself, given that Amber had had plenty of time to deal with an attacker of her own herself. As he ran outside, with or without Amber, he headed for the peasant that had helped him earlier, who appeared to be waiting with his horse. “W-wait, I can.. cannot leave without my battledr..” Ah, yes. The wine was certainly delicious at these events. “Ser Oakheart, I.. I had known of their plot to kill duchess Rossric for some time, and I was even involved at one point.. but you made me realize my error. Not all noblemen are cruel. In fact, it is these imposters that are cruel, taking my taxes and raising them every week. I fear they have too many in this complot of theirs, as you could see they have even bribed the guards with their wealth. I took the chance after you would commend my name to gather your equipment and prepare your horse. I just fear I wasn't quick enough. Please, hurry before it is too late.” The entire idea of a plot to kill Amber was ridiculous, but then again they just got shot at with arrows, and stabbed at with spears. Perhaps it was true, and perhaps the peasant saved Gregars drunk life. Without asking any more questions Gregar mounted the horse, looked over to see if Amber and Tomas were there and then rode off, sure that they would follow. If they'd ride through the night, they'd arrive at the Wintershouse by the next afternoon.

---

As Gidja was standing guard, a scrawny and pale skinned man entered the palisades of the village, one who she hadn't seen before. He certainly wasn't from around the village, that was sure. Leaving her post was dangerous.. but then again, a stranger in the village that she didn't know was probably just as dangerous. She shrugged and approached the man, hailing him with her left hand while gripping her spear tightly with the right. “Hail and welcome to the Wintershouse. Might I ask what your bussiness here is, traveler?” she said with her most guardly voice, one that seemed just and respectful, rather than oppressive and mean. “It's- it's the wagons, m'lady. We were travelin' to Wintershouse, ye' see? And our wagons, we got them travelin' here ye' see? But there be a blizzard comin' and they don' know if they'll be makin' it 'ere. Might freeze to death, hear me?” Well, the man certainly had a thick lower class Ironhills accent. “I hear you. I'll get the captain of the guard, and we can decide if we'll send someone out.” Knowing the captain of the guard, most likely Gidja would get sent out. For some reason she always got the annoying and hard jobs, and she never got to stand around doing nothing for more than an hour before he had some task for her that needed special attention.

She told the man to wait in the courtyard, stay in the inn and stay warm. She wouldn't have him freezing to death, the man seemed fair despite being from the Ironhills. She headed back inside towards the armory, where she'd likely find captain Rolland. On her way she passed young lord regent Joakim, who seemed to be retiring to his quarters. She bowed shortly before continueing on her way past the large hall designated for meeting the earls for strategic discussions or anything of the sorts. She took a peak inside and spotted Rolland, who for some reason wasn't in the armory. “Captain Rolland! Urgent news!” she almost yelled when she entered the hall, “A wagon group is caught in the weather. They say there's a blizzard coming. I'm not sure about that, but it might be best if we send someone out.” She smirked at him before continueing. “Perhaps you want to get some real experience again? I can take you with me to go fetch these wagons, give you something to do other than standing around here picking your noooooos..” She didn't even see ser Cregan until she spoke her last word, slowly letting it fall out of her mouth while staring at Cregan. “I mean.. maybe you would like to accompany me, sir captain, to show me how to best fulfil this task?”

That was stupid of her, making the captain look like an idiot in front of Cregan.. I hope I don't get watchtower duty for this.. she thought to herself, a light blush coming onto her face.

Vincent's morning began earlier than most others as he woke to the diming stars. He had always woken up early and now he had a reason to wake up earlier. The coals of the forge were burning, though cool, and it was Vincent's job to add more coal to the fire so that it would burn hot enough. As the coals started to glow red, Vincent pumped the great bellows of the forge and forced air to flow into the space between the coals. Jerald walked into the forge in his usual garb, a simple leather apron with pockets for his tongs hammers, and such and simple woolen pants an shirt. "Ah, up already Vincent! Ya certainly are better than the other two lazy slugs. But, how am I suppose to be your Master if you get up before me?" Jerald said as he used the back of his hand to check the heat of the forge.

"Ha, well of course I am better than those two fools. They stay up late drinking in the tavern while I am here clsoing the forge. As for that, if I didn't get up earlier than you, you would throw a bucket of water on me." Vincent said jokingly as he pumped the bellows once more. The air throughout the forge grew warmer as the fires began to burn hotter. Jerald responded to Vincent's joke with a chuckle as he read an order from the guards and and stables. "Well, we certainly do have quite a few orders. Says here we need six horse shoes, three nails for each, and minor reapirs for three hauberks," Jerald quickly looked at the hauberks before continuing," and it appears that the reapirs here are quite simply replacing seven links in the first two and at least twelve on this third one here."

With a final grunt, Vincent finished pumping the bellows and groaned. Jerald's other two apprentices, Tychus and Hubert, both walked in to the forge with an obvious hanger to much of Jerald's displeasure. "Ah! So you two fools are finally here and I don't have to send out a search crew to hall your asses back here." Jerald yelled much to his pleasure. Both rubbed their foreheads as Jerald kept railing on before he issued orders. Tychus was to craft the horse shoes and Hubert was to make the nails for the shoes. Vincent, on the other hand, would be helping Jerald with the repairs to the hauberks and delivering finished products when they were done.

It was nearing night when all the finished products were done and Vincent was to deliver them. The cold night air was crisp and cooled the sweat on his face as he hauled the box of horse shoes and nails out to the stables and handed them over to the stable master. Vincent rested for only a few minutes in the stable before running back to the forge and hauling the hauberks to the quarter master for the guards. With his work done, Vincent was free to wonder through the courtyard. It was only afterwards that he realized that Gidja, one of the guards he had seen plenty of times in Wintershouse, was running into the armory with a singular purpose. Vincent's eyes wondered around the courtyard before he noticed there was a man who Gidja must have been dealing with before she left. The man seemed to be ill dressed for the cold of the north but most people were like that if they were coming from the south. Vincent wondered towards the door of the forge only to stand in the doorway in case anything exciting happened.

Rolland nodded with a curtsy to Cregan as Joakim out of respect. Having known the man for quite sometime and also immensely respected him for his unwavering loyalty as Joakim’s personal guard. Remaining at attention as the young regent lord sorted threw the messages. His attention drifted at the other nobles around the court at least until he heard the name Harrighfield was voiced. He hated the Lord Perris’s son as they fought over a whore a few years ago, ever since it made for bad times between the two young men. The name brought further discomfort as he heard that war was about them.

“It will be done at once my lord.” Bowing back to Joakim before taking his leave to relay orders for the guard patrol and prepare. First stop the barracks. His stride quick as he carried out his order without delay. The men would be agitated being woken from their sleep or still carrying hangovers but their job was more urgent than petty desires. “Wake up the lot of you!” Rolland yelled with urgency. “We got a possible threat so double patrols. Until I can organize set patrol everyone out on the walls for the time being.” Nothing but grumbles, he’d make it up to them later.

Returning back to the courtyard to find Gidja but instead the woman had found him first. In the hall past the earls, hearing her in depth about the wagon train but had made the mistake of not being subtle. From the gesture of picking his noose to her lack of being quite in matters that other noble shouldn’t be privy to. He’d decide on the punishment later but for now the wagon’s safety was paramount.

“Gidja, round up Eirik and another strong lad to meet me at the gates with the man from the wagons. I’ll have horses ready and saddled. We’ll handle this mess. And on the double.” Rolland next went to Cregan, grabbing his head in a firm grip as he accounted the man as a friend. “Organise and set the double patrols until I get back. Reprimand the men if they fall out of line. Do this for me and your next drink is on me. You have the guard until my return.” Releasing the shake as he went to the stables preparing the mounts for travel.

His thick bearskin cloak weaved slightly as he made way to the gates. Passing through the courtyard he spotted one of the smiths, one of the apprentice's standing in the doorway. An extra able body would be helpful in securing the wagon train. Pulling beside him with the extra horses tethered to his own. “I’m in need of an extra able bodied man. Boring and hard work but will grant you extra coin. If this suits you go to the keep and tell them the Black Whale sent you. Saddle a horse and meet me at the gates with haste.” Rolland needed more people but besides himself and the three others a wagon train was a daunting task but the double patrol was more paramount. Seeing the young man provided him with an extra able body to help if he did come to assist.

Tomas watched as Amber followed Gregar out. She had put on leather armour, as always, but he'd opted for some light cloth. The arrow had shot right into his calf and ripped it on the side.

He was hiding under the table. He looked around the room. The guards were fighting each other, indistinguishable as to whom was on whom's side. He grabbed a carving knife off a nearby chicken and got up. He saw a clear path to the Battlemaster, who was fighting two men at once. One was a guard, the other was the General of the army. He'd not turned his cloak, Tomas was grateful for that, as he was the man Amber trusted most besides him.

He staggered towards the fight and tried to stab the battlemaster. A quick parry slammed the knife out of his hand, and another blow sent him out of the way. Horvik the Battlemaster slashed again, slitting the guard's throat and smashing General Turnham's jaw in one go. A thin spurt of blood splattered on his face, which he let trickle down. Turnham was on the floor, his jaw completely ripped off, writhing.

Tomas leapt forward and jumped on Horvik. He had leather armour under his cloak, he could feel it. They both fell to the ground, and he tried to punch the battlemaster in the face. But he was too quicK. The sword flashed again and cut his arm. Tomas recoiled as Horvik tried another swing, bringing the flat of the sword on his shoulder. Tomas realised he was going to die. Nuns always told tales of your life flashing in front of your eyes. But Tomas only saw death. That grin on Horvik's face. The blood of good men on his face. And Amber. The only person who ever loved him.

Tomas turned. The sword slammed into his hip, but he didn't cry out. He grabbed a knife and brought all his force down on the Battlemaster. The sword stopped and caught in his armour. "Fuck!" was all he had time to say, before his hand spun around and knocked Tomas off his feet. As the blade slid out of his hip, his vision went fuzzy and the searing pain went away.

Someone let out a roar. The General had gotten up, and was wrestling with Horvik on the ground. Tomas got up. "A bastard and a coward. This'll make a good song," he though, and ran out through the open gates.

-------------------------------------

Amber followed Gregar, who had grabbed her arm. She paused briefly at the servant, who she could vaguely recall having seen before. "You shall be knighted for this," she commented briefly. The insurrectors had killed a few horses, but not harmed hers or Tomas'. She saw he hadn't followed her. Stubborn fool. If he got killed she couldn't forgive herself.

She gingerly tried a few steps with the horse. "Woah, there," she said. The horse stopped. Satisfied that she'd manage not to fall off, she kicked the horse and followed after Gregar.

Cregan gave a nod of assent to the captain of the guard, followed by a friendly smile. “Don't worry Rolland, I'll keep your boys in line till you get back.” He had never been much for leading but he could still organize soldiers while Rolland was gone.

After things had quieted down in the great hall, he went out to the barracks where the soldiers waited for their captain, though it seemed they would be getting a substitute for awhile. “Rolland is away, boys. I'm your commanding officer until he returns. Lord Joakim has ordered double patrols, I don't want to see anyone slacking off, and if I find you sleeping on guard duty not even God himself can save you, understand?”

While his speech might normally have been met with grumbles and groans, respect for Cregan was almost unanimous in the Whitelands soldiers, and somehow even the idea of tougher work and stricter punishment was met with cheers at the idea that they might stand out to Cregan. He planned to talk to Rolland when the man had returned about recruiting the best and brightest soldiers into an elite castle guard for the Weades, but it seemed that would have to wait for awhile.

Gray Marsh Warlord Kaziden Ceceryan galloped onwards towards the first real sign of civilization since they had come to this land. This was at no small part of luck or misfortune- the White Tundra tracker he had brought with them had been told, very clearly, that they were going to have to avoid all civilization, up until they meet the Northern authority here. And the first White Tundra tracker had been beheaded, because he lead them nearly right into a village of considerable size- enough to warrant a couple dozen watchmen, most simply farmers or teenagers who wanted to brag about facing down nonexistent wolves.

Skanda, beneath him, shuddered again, his hide vibrating back and forth in a way usually meant to fend off insects. He didn't like the cold weather, and neither did Kaz- it was unnatural, it was the opposite of what he had grown up in. Oh, the days were boiling hot and the nights cold enough to lightly freeze water, in the winter, but it was never so persistent as this. Day after day after day of constant cold weather, a week and a half of traveling in weather so unlike his own he was sure White Tundra shamans had conjured it up to punish him for the souls he held in his blade. It was needless to say that all but the White Tundra clansmen suffered from the cold, and he was looking forward to warmth- and he'll have it, through welcomed words or bared sword.

His horse slipped, catching himself before anything could happen, on the icy rocks that were common in this country. He muttered a curse under his breath, blaming his father and his White Tundra clansmen for this fool trip. They should've just built ships, and sailed overseas to this land, rather than try and cross by foot or horseback. His thoughts quickly changed, however, when the castle that was supposedly the seat of this land appeared ahead of him. Where he was, there was no need for large, towering walls, or great big keeps of stone blocks- they had lower, domed buildings, walls only a little higher than a cavalryman's head, with the largest buildings only three stories tall, maximum. The castle showed itself to be much, much more impregnable than even the Gray Marsh's capital.

So why not ride straight up to the riders leaving the castle's gates, a dozen armed men.

Gidja left swiftly, not wishing to emberass herself nor her superior any further. The captain said to fetch Eirik, the green one, so she went to do just that. She made sure to not get caught up in anything on the way there, as she had a tendency to do just that. Approaching the stairs she noticed the boy, standing at the balcony leaning on the wooden supports on the side, nodding his head down and back up, falling asleep slowly. If the captain saw that...

Walking up on him she slapped his back, awakening him fully again. “Wakey wakey, Eirik. We have to fetch some tradesmen who were dumb enough to travel to the Whitelands.” She rubbed her nose as she often did when speaking of foreigners. “Don't they know the Weades' have little interest in trinkets?” she said, smiling at Eirik who cracked a smile in return. Together they left for the gate where they'd find the captain with some horses, talking to Vincent. Gidja knew Vincent a tiny bit, seeing him pass by every now and then when she was on duty in the courtyard. Never having talked, her opinion on him had always been something of 'he looks nice enough'. But that's just a general statement.

“Captain, we're ready.” she said softly, trying not to interrupt the captain as she mounted the horse, Eirik following suit. Deciding not to wait too long, she headed out the front gate already to take a quick look, Eirik slowly trotting the horse to somewhere between the captain and Gidja, not wishing to leave without the captain.

Gidja took a quick look around and through the falling snow noticed a formation of riders. “Captain, I think the caravan already found us. No need to r- wait.. where's the wagons? The man mentioned wagons. It's not the caravan. And they carry weaponry. Call Joakim!” her words went directed at the captain, and then into a more general statement. It didn't matter who called Joakim.

---

Joakim was taking a stroll in the castle as he passed a slit in the wall for archers, hearing screams outside. “Call Joakim!” it sounded, and realizing that it must be some sort of serious issue for him to be called, he immediately headed downstairs in the large stairwell that was on the right side of the castle. As he got downstairs he ran into a servant who had gone to fetch him, but he raised his hand at him and continued on his way. “Fetch my sword and shield from the armory!” he managed to yell as he crossed a corner. He took the time while walking to fasten his belt tighter and quickly adjust his armor a bit, but missed his helmet. He'd have to do without. By God and his children, Joakim wasn't even sure what was coming.

As he walked into the courtyard at a speedy pace he noticed the captain and Cregan, calling out to them. “To me! What's going on?” Joakim had heard something about a caravan, that much Gidja had yelled out at the top of her lungs, loud as ever. And then something about armed riders. Without much time to prepare, and a stuck caravan that was out there apparently, Joakim issued some orders. “Gidja, go on your way with that new recruit, and fetch the caravan. Cregan, Rolland, stick with me and see what these riders want.” By now the situation had gathered attention from others, too, including several soldiers of the bannermen that were called on by Joakim, and those that weren't completely drunk of ale went to stand by Joakim, attempting to listen in on what was being said. Riders? Armed? It would all sound very interesting to them, perhaps some fun to be had with would be knights, attempting to rob the Weades' of their riches. Or perhaps it was some famed traveler, that they could host a small combat competition with. Either way, they wished to see who was there.

Joakim turned around as his servant reached him, and handed him his sheathed sword and the shield with the Old Oak emblazoned on it. Thanking him with a nod he quickly attached the sheath to his belt and put his hand on the handle of his sword, gripping his shield tightly with the other hand. Whoever was there would be matched in strength by a welcoming party, looking both menacing as well as diplomatic with Joakim, the young boy, standing at the front with Cregan and Rolland at his sides. Well, maybe that smith boy looked sort of imposing too, with his muscled arms.

---

Gidja nodded at Joakim and reared her horse for the gate, Eirik in close pursuit. She pushed her feet into it's flanks and rode off, taking a quick glance at the approaching band of men, before riding off with her horse which kicked up snow behind them. Surely the riders would notice the shadow riding off into the snow. She just hoped they were more interested in the castle than in her.

After some time of riding as fast as she could, the silhouettes of wagons doomed up in front of her, and if that wasn't enough to alarm her, Eirik made sure to point out the obvious. “Gidja, it's the wagons.” She glanced at him with a semi annoyed look in her eyes. “Thanks.” she grumbled at him, before bursting out laughing. What an idiot. Approaching the caravan fast, she hailed the man on the front wagon. “Hail and welcome to the Whitelands. Just passing through then? Going to visit the whales in the north, sell them some trinkets?” Ofcourse, that could mean two things. ''The Whales'' could refer to the family of captain Rolland, who had a crest that was a whale or something. Supposedly they hunted whales, an incredibly dangerous.. but apparently fun way to pass the time and get some food while doing it. Besides that, whale bone was often carved into nice hangers and lockets, or sometimes even knifes. Mostly ceremonic.. well, that's what southerners thought anyway.

And apart from Rollands family, she could also mean literal trade with whales. As in, setting up shop on a frozen beach and selling stuff to whales. The idea was more funny than when it was said, noticeable by the man responding with a firm 'No. Just lead us to the Wintershouse.' Gidja nodded and held her laugh in, pointing at Eirik and telling him to lead the way back. Greenie could use some training, she thought. Besides fighting, you'd have to deal with people a lot - people like this grumpy old tradesman.

Ofcourse, Gidja didn't want to do boring stuff like leading a caravan so instead decided to check what was in the wagons. Productive, as there were some wares that were forbidden from trade in Borhilon - such as any cheese that wasn't yellowish in color. It seemed stupid, but the king had his mandates and the people were to follow suit. In that aspect, any cheese that was blue was not allowed to be traded, but if you made it yourself you were allowed to eat it. It was rules like that that came from a couple of mad kings, who were all crazy in their later years and made up royal laws that acted on the kings' superstitions or beliefs - more often than not, a result of so called 'witches and wizards' who would whisper things to the king for some coin.

Passing by the last wagon, she saw a woman and a child huddled up in a bunch, shivering the both of them, but the child more so than the woman. The woman looked southern, and the kid looked like he crawled out of a roadside sewer in the big city. Most kids looked like that, though. Dirty bunch, especially boys. Most girls were pretty clean for children standards. “He looks cold.” Gidja said softly as she made her horse trot behind the wagon line, continueing her conversation with these Southerners. “You're from the South? Should've known to take some clothes with you. Gets cold here, much colder than this. You'll get used to it, might even grow on you.” she said to the boy with a smile. Her left hand went to her right shoulder swiftly and unclasped the cloak she wore, grabbing it before it could fall, and rolled it into a ball before tossing it at the two. “Roll yourself in that. Keeps you warm - warmer than you are.” She started riding her horse forward again before slowing down, seeming to remember something. “I want that back - it's mine. Killed a wolf for it, so it's not a cheap thing... might be some bloodstains left on it from when I hunted that wolf.” She cracked a grin at the boy and lady before riding to the front again, in an attempt to see how far they were from the castle. Not too far, it seemed.

---

Gregar turned his head, and upon seeing Amber, rode off through the gate, under the portcullis and towards the direction of the Whitelands. He had no intent to stay in this land - not with murderous bastards that were seeking to take control of lands by force. What remained to be seen was which side would win - there were still people loyal to Amber, but it was doubtful they'd continue fighting for long if even Amber herself had fled the scene. Perhaps they'd go to the Whitelands, or perhaps they'd die. Gregar was too drunk to care, at that moment.

After riding a fair amount, and surely crossing the border which lay close to the Mosskeep, the sun started rising again. They must've been riding for atleast 3 hours. Sighing, Gregar turned around and looked at Amber with a tired set of eyes almost shut. “S-shall we rest here..” he mumbled, but didn't bother waiting for an answer as he'd made up his mind already. He dismounted from his horse and led it to an opening in the thick line of trees, where he'd tie it to a tree and sit down leaning against a pinetree. His head would fall backwards to follow example of his body, and get some support from the tree. “They say that spirits of the children of god rest in these trees. Ever given it much thought? Not just any trees, I mean. Just pine trees. That would mean your lands have no spirits of any children. I don't think that's right - is there any superstitions about gods' children in your lands, Amber?”

However, before she'd be able to answer, he'd have dozed off into a sleep far too deep to awaken him from unless she'd slap him. And knowing Amber, she probably wouldn't. Then again, the last time they'd met was a long time ago, and she had grown into a woman.. a fierce woman, at that. Perhaps she would slap him. If he pushed her hard enough. A grin curled onto Gregars sleeping face as he let out a few snores and grunts.

Amber sat next to him, and closed her eyes in exasperation. "He certainly isn't any more polite than last time," she thought. It was true what he had said, though. Forklandish legend claimed god's son and daughter had created the rivers that divided into a fork, and lead all the way to the ocean. Other religions had always fascinated her, as her father had tried to explain them to her. She'd ended up with the local beliefs, as was customary.

Her thighs were sore from having ridden with no saddle. There had been no time to put one on her horse, and riding for so long had made it a painful ride. She was relieved when Gregar stopped, as she didn't want to stop on account of any problem she had. A minor one, too.

She thought about dozing off, but then someone might ambush them or steal their supplies. She decided to keep watch until Gregar woke up. She thought about Tomas, maybe he'd follow the same road? Or had he... Best not to think about it. She played around with her dagger, planting it in the ground. After a while she got up and paced around, humming the hymn of the Forklands. It was a beautiful tune, usually sung by a woman accompanied by a group of harps. Forklandish women often sang it to their childrens in their cribs. Soldiers had their own rowdy version of it to lift their spritis up.

Finally, she got tired of waiting, and stepped up to Gregard, lightly shaking his shoulder. "Wake up, Oakheart"

Ash scoffed. It was certainly amazing how one's fortune could twist and turn in a matter of hours. Upon his arrival to his homeland, Ash had found himself with no place to go, besides the crude gravestone that some stranger had carved to remember his mother long lost. The village was swelling with lords and soldiers, so he was hard pressed to find an affordable inn to sleep. And he wasn't very well-off in the financial issue either. Perhaps he should've considered his actions a little more, before tossing some coins at the assorted orphans who had not been put off by his appearance.

He hadn't been so lucky with other people. Most adults and honest folk knew better than to talk with a man whose armor was black. A sellsword at best, and a miscreant at worst. That was the opinion of people on those who painted their armor black. Black Knights were always the villain of the tales. Half of it was true. He was a sellsword after all, and he had done morally reprehensible actions in the past. But now, all that he wanted was a place to rest and forget. It was then when the edict of the bounty had caught its attention. A good thing he could read, because apparently there was a couple of highwaymen who had assaulted and killed travellers on occassion. The cultured warrior had decided to grab the reward for himself, as it could solve his short term problems.

So he had made questions, searched for witnesses who could describe where and how they had been attacked. And then he imposed the patterns of attack on a map, sniffing out several possible locations. He didn't have much expectations on finding them the first day of search, but somehow, he had done so. Thanking his good luck, he fell upon them. The man was completely caught unaware, only uttering a gurgle when the sword severed his throat and promptly woke him up from his complacent sleep. The woman was shook awake by the noise, and grabbed a quarterstaff in a desperate attempt to defend herself, but Ash didn't hesitate. He rammed her with his shield against the wall of the hovel, and then ran her through with his blade. Incidentally, the thrashing of the moribund female bandit stained his black plate with red blood. His deed done, the black knight then cut off their heads to claim the bounty upon them.

And in that exact moment, his luck had started to go sour. Just as he had fallen upon the bandits, night had fallen upon him. And he was still a fair distance away from the safety of the village. Adding further grief, a chilly wind was announcing the start of a blizzard. Luckily for him, he had spotted some wheel marks and threaded snow. Ash followed the trail at a fair distance, as probably whoever was in the caravan would not react kindly upon seeing a bloodstained black knight with two severed heads on his horse's rump. He had noticed, though, that some of the people were struggling to keep the pace, and he was about to help them when he noticed more riders approaching the caravan. By the looks of them, they seemed Whiteland troops. And if he could see them, he had been likely spotted.

Muttering a curse, and then rummaging for his flask of brandy and taking a generous sip out of it, he quickly began to think what kind of explanation he was about to give to them.

Gavin spent most of his day wandering the halls doing the bidding of his young master. But today was different, many of the lords were in the halls due to the recent death of there Duke. For some reason Joakim wanted to keep Gavin, a simple humble servant, near by. Gavin had done away with his usual smile. His face stern as he stood off the side beside Joakim. This was normal for him though, if there were no needs that needed his personal attention he was not far from Joakim. He looked around, he recognized every noble in the room, had met most of them. Though they had seen him many times, ask one of them his name. Most of the time they probably didn't even notice he was in the room. Nobles seem to be blind to servants, At least until they needed there wine glasses filled or there chamber pots emptied. Telth liked this, it meant he was unnoticed.

Soon Joakim was speaking, calling order to the room. Telth watched Joakim, despite the recent death of his father he kept himself strudy, speaking sternly. He was rather impressed and even a little reminded of himself at that age, both were forced to grow quickly and for that never had a real childhood, the only by the time he was by Joakim's age, Telth had already killed four people. Telth's eyes however looked over the crowd, watching them all, there reactions and movements. Soon a noble stepped out, Earl Redford, he was pompous fool in Telth's opinion. Despite that lashing he was a dog with no teeth, and if he really did try anything, Cregan was there. If he wasn't fast enough, Telth was. No the earl would hire somebody like Telth rather then do anything himself.

Much of the proceedings seemed to be going on as Gavin stood quietly. Watching others, they were speaking of things, that frankly he already knew of. You learned a lot when you were invisible, also though other channels that Telth had access too. Soon though these were over, and Joakim left. Gavin fallowed after him, he kept quite as his young master seemed to be preoccupied in thought, though that little smile was soon on his as he clasped his hands behind his back fallowing. He of course was mostly un-noticed by people, even though he stood at his masters side.

Gavin looked over out the muderhole hearing some one calling for Joakim. Soon he looked over to him, he was told to get his sword and shield as Gavin nodded "Of course young lord" was all he said before he was gone. It didn't take long for him to be outside, his coat on now as he handed the weapons to his lord. The cold didn't bother him, despite being from the falklands, he had to endure worse during training. "Is there 'Anything' you need of me m'lord" he spoke. His accent was a mix of nobles high speech and peasants slurred words. It helped cement his guise of Gavin.

As soon as the band of riders had reached the castle, Joakim would step forward, his sword still sheathed but his hand resting on it warily. Behind him was the small band of warriors that had gathered, but given the fact that there were many lords visiting with their own following, the group was much larger than it would be if this had happened throughout any period earlier than the death of Joakim's father. “Welcome to the Whitelands, traveller. I take it you are here to rest from the cold weather?” The young boy would stand readily, looking at the pack leader with eyes of a warrior - not a politician or lord. The added presence of Cregan and Rolland would make it pretty clear that the boy was not a lord of sorts, but a replacement or even an invaluable guard captain. He was not, but that was besides the point.

Joakim would look at the men and their outfits. They were out of place, outlandish almost. Resembled the Northern tribes in some way, but those had been conquered nearly a hundred years ago. “... you have travelled a long way, have you? Where are you from? You look Northern, the lot of you, in dress, but not you, big man.” He would direct himself to face Kaz, the biggest of them all, and also the most imposing. “Your armor is different. I would like to know more.” Any thing of martial importance was interesting to Joakim, given his bring-up and interests. Furthermore, there were foreign influences on the armor that were not from Borhilon. A traveller from the West? Perhaps, unlikely but perhaps.

The boys eyebrows raised, before he would step forward. A couple of soldiers behind Joakim raised their shields, and put themselves on edge, making ready for.. whatever the young lord regent was planning. But the boys hand left the hilt of his sword, and instead went forward, an invitation to shake hands. “I'd like to welcome you to my halls. I take it your men have tents?” While waiting for an answer he'd face around, nodding to Cregan and Rolland. He was hoping that it would put them and the rest at ease. “Your men can camp outside the palisades of the village. You, yourself, are welcome in my halls. If you'd agree, I'd like to speak to you about your weapons and armor. ..You are.. not from Borhilon, are you?” Well, that was obvious, but the question was more where he was from if not Borhilon. Somehow all the events of the day had caused the day to progress relatively fast, and it was quite dark outside - a sign that morning would come quite soon.

---

Gidja was about to ride for the gates ahead of the caravan, just to make sure that Joakim was alright with the riders, but then she noticed a rider in the distance through the thick snow. A rider with heavy armor none the less. Perhaps a hedgeknight, or perhaps just a figment of her imagination. “Eirik, I see a rider over there. Guard the caravan while I go see what he wants. Here I was hoping this'd be a quiet night..” Giving him a small nod as comfort she turned the horse to the side and rode for the rider, and as she got closer noticed his black armor.

Not usually a good sign, that. “HAIL!” she said in a loud tone, gripping her spear tighter as she closed the distance. “State your name and bussiness traveller! This is not a good time to be riding about, especially with this blizzard picking up. Now, if you hurry, we can get back to the Wintershouse in time without having to trudge through the snow.” She aimed her spear at him, subtly just in case. Black armored knights were generally not the friendliest people around, and the Whitelands had the luck to not see many of them. It made her wonder.. what was this man doing so far North.

---

Gregar grunted as he got woken up, in a particularily rude fashion. “Damnit Amber.. I was just dreaming.” He grinned at her and slowly got up, rubbing his back slightly to alleviate the soreness he got from leaning against the tree. “Alright, are we heading for the Wintershouse then? We can find a company of mercenaries there no doubt to bring you back your throne. No rush, though. You should profit from some time away from your duties.” The lighthearted comments were starting to come out now that he wasn't required to be more courtly than he really was. “I'll show you the gardens - they are lovely this time of the year. All covered in white snow. Now that I think of it, they're not much different than any other time of the year.. you should probably skip the gardens. Try our wine.” He smiled at Amber in a friendly manner and walked over to his horse where he'd pull on the saddle, ensuring it was well attached.

Slowly he climbed up, grunting slightly and rubbing over the back of his knee, where a wound from the war was obstructing movement at the moment. It might've opened up last night, something he'd have to get looked at in the Wintershouse. He turned the horse towards the road again, calling on Amber to follow him swiftly or get left behind. Then again, Amber was probably already ahead of him.

Ash clenched the reins of his horse tightly. He had been spotted. Quickly examining his options, he maintained a semblance of tranquility while in his mind the options raced like startled doves. Fighting in the snow was definitely out of the question. Fleeing back towards the hovel was going to be difficult, as the very steps he had taken were quickly erased. He then heard the voice of the guard.“HAIL!” Surprisingly the guard was definitely a woman. While not impossible, Ash could count on the hands the occassions in which he had seen female guards around. Although, this could be worked in his favour, as well. “State your name and bussiness traveller! This is not a good time to be riding about, especially with this blizzard picking up. Now, if you hurry, we can get back to the Wintershouse in time without having to trudge through the snow.” Women usually were more down to earth and slightly less prone to stupid bouts of righteousness and honor, and this seemed to be the case.

"Hail, m'lady" Ash answered back, in a calm, composed tone, an accent similar to hers. "I am Ash, son of Lily." He decided to disclose the truth about himself, not that he had much to lose. Although this was more of a formality. He doubted that a female guard would be acquainted with prostitutes enough to know who Lily was. "I was hunting for bounty when night and this blizzard fell upon me. I decided to follow the caravan to not be trapped on the snow. At a certain distance, m'lady. Because as you can see, I am not bound to give a good impression with my current guise." He added, pointing at both his armor and the severed heads next to his horse's saddle. He then pondered.

"No one likes to be in the middle of such a fierce snowstorm. Give me the word, m'lady, and I'll see to help your lot move the caravan to a safe shelter." He concluded. Perhaps a token of goodwill might mull things over. "I do have a flask of brandy aswell."

---

The world was going mad. The things she had considered for granted had been turned into ash and dust, and there wasn't any single friendly shoulder around her. Brier clutched her shoulders, as some sort of self embrace, trying to lessening the blow that she had suffered. A part of her mind refused to acknowledge it as real, but Briar knew better. If only Kevin had not tried to do the right thing with that big heart of his, none of this would have happened. If only she knew how to wield a sword like her elder brother... she would've been able to save Brian.

Yet, Kevin laid dead, at the side of her father, and for his actions, she had lost everything but her life. Even though that she herself had suffered only mild wounds, the pain inside her was much much worse. Clenching her teeth, she eyed her surroundings once more. Abundant grass and trees around her. She gathered she had moved into the Forklands some time ago in her frantic escape, only letting her horse rest when it was threatening to die on her. She would've killed it with exertion if she didn't knew better than she had no guarantee of getting a new one, and as such the beastie was in front of herself, grazing in the meadow quietly.

"You surely have an easy life." She managed to quip, half in jest, half in bitter acknowledgement. She checked her clothes once more. Dirty with soot and blood, snagged in all sort of places, her headpiece missing, but still pretty much in a decent condition. She also revised her dagger, the only thing that could help her guarantee her safety when things turned against her again. The high blade quality was enticing, and slitting her wrists or neck was a growing temptation in the back of her mind.

"No, Kitty, you're a daughter of Rikard. You're better than this." She grasped the dagger tightly, and put it back in the sheath. If only Joakim or Gregar were here. She could vividly portray them. Joakim with his measured but stern way of talking. And Gregar warmly urging her to follow him. It was as if almost she could hear his voice.

No, definitely she was hearing his voice.

What could that mean? Had she gone mad with grief? Quickly, she twisted the skin in one of her shoulders, causing herself a jolt of pain. No, his voice was real, she could feel it. Her heart skipped a beat, as she jumped upright, eyes wide.

"The gods haven't abandoned me." She whispered to herself as she quickly reached for the reins of her mount, jumping on the saddle quickly and then spurring the horse to head in the direction of the voice. It was him!

"GREEEG!" She yelled at the top of her lungs, speeding towards the road. "You are no ghost, aren't you!??