“THE KING IN THE NORTH!”, Edrik Mutt roared above the din of the feast, his booming voice carrying throughout the modest hall of the Westerlings. The visibly drunk northman swayed as he did so, falling over to general laughter.

“And to the Queen in the North!” another man shouted, though Leoric could not tell who through the thick smoke that drifted in the room. The Crag was not well circulated with air, its walls being more rock than stone, and the hall had been filled up with the hearth’s smoke for days now as it hosted the lords of the North. Though many found the fortress to be a miserable rock, damp and and stuffy, Leoric found himself remembering fond memories of exploring the caverns below Castle Tarrow walking through the Crag’s caverns. The nostalgia was a small, much needed comfort. There was far too little of that these days, he reflected as he huddled silently at his place on the banquet table, silently watching the proceedings.

“Why are you so melancholic, my lord?” Ser Barth Urbans, the freerider sitting beside him, asked. “This is a day of celebration. The Young Wolf’s won every battle in this war, and the Westerlings are now on our side as well. When we march again, we may even be able to take Lannisport. It seems to me this war is all but won.” Leoric looked up from his untouched drink- he had sworn himself off wine for years now- and looked to the large knight. The Urbans was a large man with a piggish, but earnest, face. He was well and truly drunk, that much was apparent.

“I wish I had your certainty, Ser,” Leoric answered in a tired voice. “But the ravens speak of misfortune, not victory. The Ironborn have Winterfell… and more of the North is falling with every dispatch, it seems. And today’s news of the Blackwater would indicate that the rose has thrown its lot in with the lions.”

Another figure on the other side of Ser Urbans, the bone-thin and cold as winter form of Ser Nichat, leaned against the table. “Not to mention that Lannisport will not fall to our ragged host,” the old knight interrupted in a raspy voice. “We did not have the strength before the Crag, and we will not have the strength on the morrow.”

Ser Urbans snorted, accidentally knocking over his cup of wine in the process. “The lion’s curled up in his den like a frightened hare, and for good reason. We’ve got the young wolf leading us, and we’ve smashed every army we’ve fought. Mark my words, as long as His Grace leads us, we can’t lose.”

A woman came up from behind them and put a hand on the knight’s shoulder. “I'm sorry, m'lord, but you look tired. Would he like to accompany me to somewhere more… discreet?”

Ser Urbans grew a grin the size of his face. “I'm no m'lord, m'lady, but of course I will see you safely away from this rabble!” He got up, winked in Leoric’s direction, and staggered away, weighed down by drink and the woman at his arm.

The lord sighed. The woman was probably one of the camp followers that had accompanied their army for so long; or perhaps she was a servant in the Crag who’d found that bedding wolves was good coin. Women of their repute had multiplied in the castle since they’d made it their base of operations, while waiting for His Grace’s recovery from the wound he had suffered in taking the fortress. Though he did not begrudge their need to make a livelihood, they spread disease, chaos, and rowdiness among the rank and file. Just that day there had been a brawl between a group of Umber and Hornwood men over a particularly attractive camp follower. They’d been sitting idle for too long: bored soldiers would take any excuse to cause mischief, and it would not be long before the subjects of their carnal desires instigated bloodshed.

“These whores seem to be breeding like rodents,” Ser Nichat observed drily, as if sensing Leoric’s thoughts. The old man moved to Umbers’s now vacant chair, seemingly amused. “I am surprised that my lord hasn’t indulged in this newfound bounty. Surely a proper lord such as yourself could find a maid even in this castle of orgies.”

Leoric frowned. The hedge knight’s barb bothered him more than it perhaps should have, partly because it was true: the camp followers had rapidly learned that this lord was not a client. In truth, he had not been with a woman for two years, since Ena had died. Though he had not been particularly fond of his second wife- she had been an entitled shrew who cared not a whit for anyone who didn’t share her last name- it hadn’t felt right to pursue other women afterwards. He sometimes wondered whether it was his fault that his wives had died, if it was some sin of his that brought death to those around him. And he’d never gotten over his suspicion that a prostitute had poisoned his father during Robert’s war; consorting with those of that profession was a recipe for disaster, and the pox.

“I am to be married, Ser, as you well know,” he said only, reverting to a simpler explanation. “Sarisa Swann waits for me still at Castle Tarrow. I haven’t the desire to dishonor her that these others have for their own wives.”

Nichat chuckled softly, pulling on his beard, clearly not deceived. “A betrothal is not a marriage. Until your cape goes on her back, My Lord is free to deflower every girl in the kingdoms for all the Seven care. And besides,” he continued, bringing his voice down to a conspiratorial whisper, “if his Grace can bed and wed a whore, why shouldn’t those of us without crowns do likewise?”

He’s drunk, Leoric realized. Not visibly like Ser Umbers had been, but drunk all the same. He curled his fist on the table, glancing around to see if anyone had heard what the senile fool had said. “Not a whore, a Westerling, and now the Queen,” he corrected the knight calmly. “And I’d watch that decrepit tongue of yours, Nichat, if you’ve any desire to keep it. His Grace is young, and perhaps marrying the girl was unwise, but-”

Nichat laughed audibly this time, wheezing. “But? You of all people should know what Walder Frey will think of ‘but’. Bad enough to injure his pride by deflowering a western lady, but to then break the betrothal like this? I hear His Grace has been arguing with jolly Black Walder all day. But no, I’m sure I’m my tongue is the one that is, ah, in danger.” He got up and walked away, still laughing in his grating rasp.

Leoric left the feasting hall, troubled. As he heard the shouts of merriment vanish behind him, the freerider’s words nagged at the back of his mind. He had to admit that it was a certainty that the Freys would take offense; he’d served their family all his life as a bannerman to the Twins, and he’d learned that the Freys had the unenviable combination of pride and lack of respect from their peers. The other great houses looked down upon them for being relative newcomers in Westerosi politics. Lord Walder resented their elitism more than anything else. And he could hold a grudge longer than anyone else in Westeros.

As he walked down the dank hall, the sound of torrents of rain echoing from outside, he was taken by surprise as a door smashed open with a loud crash, almost hitting him in the face. Two men stalked out of the room, both wearing tunics boasting two upright castles.

“My- my lords of Frey,” Leoric managed, taken aback. “I take it you weren’t at the feast?”

Ryman Frey, the larger and considerably more stupid of the two, snorted angrily. “That bitch’s feast? The northern savage’s feast? I think not. We’re leaving, my Lord. Gather your men. If this bastard of a Stark wants to bed his whore, we won’t continue to fight his war, he’ll see. He’ll regret the day he made a fool of a Frey!”
Leoric frowned. “Leave, my lord? Leave the war? Should we not wait for word from Lord Walder before taking such… rash action?”

“Lord Walder would have me skin the dog’s pelt off his miserable skin.” Black Walder spat out the words like venom, a look of murder in his eyes. “He had the nerve to threaten my life for objecting to this travesty. My great-grandfather already sent us word to leave if the wedding was consummated, and here we are." He looked at Leoric, who hadn't moved. "The heir of the Crossing has given you and order, Lord Cade.”

The two made an uncanny duo, Leoric found. Ryman was fat, ugly, and the gods had seen fit to make him look as stupid as he was. Seven save them all, Ser Ryman was the future Lord of the Crossing and Leoric’s own liege lord, now that old Ser Stevron was dead. One had to restrain themselves from laughing at his imbecility. Then, next to him, was his son, Walder Frey, Black Walder Frey, and no sane man would laugh at him. Ever since old Stevron had died, Leoric had found that it was the son, and not the father, who held real power among the Frey forces here.

After a moment, Leoric bowed stiffly. “As you wish, my lords. I’ll inform the men we’ll be returning to Castle Tarrow; I’m certain they’ll be pleased.”


The next morning, before the sun even rose, the Cades left the Crag, marching with the rest of the Frey host as the last drops of the last night’s storm fell. Though it felt as though they were abandoning the other riverlords, after some time he had to admit he was not displeased by the thought that he was done with the war. Nearly four hundred Cade men had marched south under the wolf’s banner, most being illiterate peasants who had never seen the world beyond their farmsteads. Now, a mere two hundred marched back, the rest lost to battle, disease, and desertion. Though the men complained about being cheated glory and pillage, he could tell by speaking with them that they were just as tired of the killing as he was, and desired nothing more than to return to their homes.

As they crossed into the Riverlands, the devastation became more and more apparent. After they passed through Riverrun, the land slipped into a charred wasteland, with nary a home unburnt or maid unspoiled to be found. Crossing the Red Fork, they encountered a raided village filled with mutilated corpses tied to stakes. He was not a squeamish man, but even he struggled to contain his bile at the sight of the mangled cadavers. At Ser Walder’s command, they took buried the corpses and continued on northwards.

After crossing the Blue Fork, he requested permission to lead his men back to Castle Tarrow. Ser Walder seemed annoyed, but gave his permission. “Keep your men on leash,” he answered curtly. “My great-grandfather might well have need of you before long.” Goodbyes were said, and the Cades split off from the rest of the host, making their way west following Garend’s Fork, the small river on which Castle Tarrow sat. The terrain became rougher as they ventured, but they made good time, and it it was not long before Leoric saw the shape of Castle Tarrow on its hill in the distance, overlooking the Fork and all the land for miles around.

He gave the order for the host to make camp for the night, and descended from his horse. He looked to the distant castle, his mind filled with apprehension. They’d sent a raven ahead of them to warn of their return, yet still he couldn’t shake his anxiety at what he would find in his home. He trusted the capabilities of his bastard brother, Raymun, as castellan, but from what news maester Illric had sent him things had been eventful in his absence. First his betrothed, Lady Sarisa, had arrived in the middle of wartime, and from what he’d been told her presence was somewhat awkward: neither a Cade nor a proper guest, the servants at the castle were reportedly unsure whether to consider her a master or a guest. Even that surprise was nothing next to the unannounced and uninvited appearance of a girl claiming to be the daughter of his uncle, Alder Cade. He was skeptical of her legitimacy, his uncle having not been seen since his elopement. He recalled his father’s rage on hearing of it; he had beaten the stable boy who’d given Alder a horse half to death, and declared that he had no brother. Even if she was not lying for status, was she truly a Cade, having never set foot in Castle Tarrow? He had given instructions to accommodate her temporarily until he returned, but now that he was back, he’d have to settle the matter once and for all.

Part of him wanted nothing more than to turn back and never set foot in the old ruin again. The other wanted to take his horse and ride for it at once, and never leave its walls again. He sighed, and went to sit by a campfire.



A raven arrives in the study of maester Illric in the keep tower of Castle Tarrow. Placating the raven and taken the scrap of paper, he reads its. It is a short and curt missive from Lord Leoric, sent from Fairmarket a few days ago, indicating that he'd be arriving at his castle in a few days time. By now, the maester knew, his lord should be arriving at the castle within the next day.

---

Darkness, chains, cold. Evil things, grasping at his neck, twisting, squeezing. A sword bloodied and impaled in his gut. Eyes stinging from piercing sparks of blades clashing, and a rising din of fracas blaring in his ears. A distant, mounting, building sound. It sounded vile, dire, ancient. It sounded... Like... A r- Illric blinked awake, his nightmare at an end. It was the middle of the night, and he was lying in his bed, shivering. Illric turned over, and got out of bed. No point in avoiding work once he'd been roused. Still, the sensations his dreams had brought attention to left him shaken. He needed to find a way to limber up, as he made his stiff way around the room, lighting candles and feeling his back ache.

Illric began performing his morning routine, albeit in the very early morning. He started developing a fine sheen of sweat on his bare chest and face, when the raven arrived. He finished performing a few more repetitions of the sword forms that Ser Jakob had taught him on the road. Of course as a maester he didn't strictly speaking own a weapon or take up arms, but having had the opportunity to observe the fighting prowess of his friend the hedge knight up close, Illric had taken to practicing Jakob's forms when he needed an intensive bout of exercise in the mornings. Forms completed, and sweat shed, Illric grabbed a towel and dried off. He donned his robes, and drew his chains back out of his collar to shine brilliantly against the rough-sewn cloth. Still warm, the metal gleamed with his reflection slightly distorted by mist. Illric had thought he'd be able to remove his chain, only he found he preferred to keep it on at all times. It was a symbol of who he had become, and even during the most difficult of exercises where he might have been benefitted by the chain's removal, he persevered.

Illric's breathing was still laboured as he removed the scroll from the bird's ankle. He recognized it as a Cade specimen. News from the front, from Lord Leoric perhaps? Illric unrolled the scroll and read it quickly by candlelight. Sent days ago, to warn of his lordship's arrival in a few days? Illric frowned, wondering why the Cade levies had withdrawn from the front at the very moment when Illric surmised they would be needed most. He put it out of his mind, deciding he would know soon enough when Lord Leoric arrived, most likely only in a few hours. It was fortunate then, that Illric had woken earlier than usual, and the maester was definitely an early riser. He gathered his thoughts, marshalled his energy, loose and well-stretched though he was, attention turning to the preparation of Castle Tarrow for its lord's return.

Illric would need to track down Ser Raymun, as Castellan it would be imperative for the knight to be informed of his brother's impending return so as to put affairs in order. It might also be good for the Lady Sarisa to learn of her betrothed earlier-than-expected return. Of both members of the Cade family, or in Sarisa's case, soon-to-be Cade family, Illric was by far and away more comfortable dealing with Sarisa. She seemed a lovely girl, and amiable enough. It certainly helped that they were both newcomers to House Cade, and there was less glacial barriers to break down for a rapport to be made. Sarisa was a friendly girl, if shy, which was understandable. In fact, the Lady Sarisa was everything that might be expected of a young Lady betrothed to her Lord. She must've been a quick learner, well-suited to her role, and well-schooled in it at that. Though their conversations had been brief, Illric had definitely picked up on a sort of hesitation? Underlying her entire persona, she seemed to be restless, as though she'd done this all before. As though she did not truly believe that this time it would come to pass, to fruition.

Of course, Illric was often told he read too much into other people. He still remember Gyles's jibes about Illric overthinking things, followed by his own reply that, "A maester overthinking things, would be like a lord overgoverning, or a hedge knight overtraining." I miss Gyles and Ser Jakob, though I don't suppose that they'd take especially well to Tarrow, come to think of it. The trio had travelled the wild roads of Westeros, enjoying the open air, and the free-ranging wilderness that abounded within it. Tarrow on the other hand, was gloomy at best, bleak at worst. Many areas of the castle were left unlit, uncleaned, and untended to, for lack of habitation. Illric still remembered the day of his arrival, when he had learned that the Rookery had cobwebs and a thick layer of dust coating the walls. The previous maester had found a way to send ravens from the courtyard, and had decided that rather than trouble his gouty legs to walk all the way up the steps to the tower, he would simply do all his business from the courtyard. It had taken, and would still take a long while before the birds all knew to fly up to the rookery once more, and not down to the courtyard, looking for a man whose gout had finally led him to death's door. It had also been a harrowing task, cleaning up several decades-worth of dust, grime, and clutter. Finally though, the Maester's Quarters were starting to come alive again.

It was his finely cleaned quarters that Illric left, carrying a torch down several flights of stairs to the main castle in search of Lady Sarisa, and when he came to her door finally, he paused in hesitation. He could not tell from sight nor sound whether she was still awake at this late or early hour, depending on how one viewed it. Would it be proper to wake her, to warn her of her betrothed's imminent arrival? Or should he go on to find Ser Raymun, and run the risk of waking him up before he was wont to? It took Illric not a second more to remember the black look the Bastard of Tarrow had given him when he'd asked after the whereabouts of spare candle wicks, and in that moment Illric's mind was made up. He would do his best to arrange things on his own, and wait as long as possible before alerting the grim castellan of his half-brother's return. Lady Sarisa on the other hand, would probably benefit greatly from the news that Illric could provide, and so he knocked on her door. Illric put all thoughts of nightmares, dead maesters, and grim bastards from his mind, hoping that his voice sounded suitably respectable.

"Lady Sarisa? I have received a raven from my Lord of Cade. You will want to know what he says, your humble servant believes."

Illric cursed himself silently, I sound like a midnight beau, coming to serenade her! Am I mad? Damn, my fool's eyes. Despite the fact that she was betrothed to another man, his lord no less, Lady Sarisa had most certainly caught Illric's eye. Much though he might wish she were in different circumstances, as a maester sworn and chained, he owed it to her, his lord, and himself, to quit pining after her and simply do his duty. He waited, deciding the best course to be remaining silent until she answered the door, no doubt with some snide remark belittling his rightly mock-worthy address.

---

---

Sarisa had woken a short time ago, and was now just laying in bed letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. The only light in the room was a soft glow from the embers in the fireplace. It had been about two weeks now, since she arrived at castle Tarrow, and she had yet to get a full nights sleep. Tossing and turning, wide awake with a million thoughts going through her head at every moment. Will I ever feel comfortable here? Will it feel like home, or am I perpetually an outsider? When will Lord Cade return? What happens if Lord Leoric doesn't like me? Or what if he dies in battle, and I actually am cursed to never marry? Is he similar to his brother...?

She pushed the covers off, and sat up out of bed, frustrated that she couldn't fall back asleep. Her thick brown hair, was always a wild mess of curls when she woke up. She fidgeted with the ends of it, and sighed. It was colder here in the Riverlands compared to the Dornish Marshes where she grew up. As she placed her feet on the ground the chill from the stone floor crept up her legs. She shivered and quickly grabbed her woolen robe from the end of the bed. Sarisa shrugged it on over her nightdress. Most of her clothes were meant for warm humid summers, and with the rumors of winter on its way, she would need to start on sewing a new wardrobe. The shorts sleeves, Dornish silks, and light cotton were going to have to be traded in for more sensible wool, and fur linings. Luckily sewing and embroidery was a talent of hers.

She stumbled in the darkness as she made her way over to the window to open it. The shutters squeaked open and the cold night air slithered its way into the room. Sarisa pulled her robe tighter around herself as she crossed her arms over her chest to fight the frost. Looking down at the courtyard it seemed that other then a pair of guards, and the steward, everyone was still asleep. The moon was high in the night sky, and she was just as restless as the night before. Anxious about the war, getting married, the wedding night, becoming a wife, and the coming winter. She prayed that she would soon feel settled here at castle Tarrow. For the short time she had been here, she only felt out of place. Using the moonlight Sarisa was able to lite all the candles in the room she could reach. The candlelight flickered, making dancing shadows on the wall. After closing the window she knelt down to open the chest at the end of her bed. Sarisa smiled, as she unlocked the chest and opened the lid. As she ran her fingers along the soft ivory material, and traced the embroidery, she imagined herself walking down the aisle. Admiring her wedding gown, always made her feel better.

The journey here from Stonehelm took over two months, and with battles ragging all around, it was a wonder she and her party had made it here in one peace. Why her father thought it was a good idea to send her off during a time of war, was something she would never understand. Her uncle Clifford's prompting most likely had something to do with it. Sarisa had brought with her fifty of the Swann's household guard, her personal belongings, her horse, and a rather substantial dowry. Her father had gone all out for her dowry this time around. It was rather large, especially compared to what it had been three betrothals ago. Two chest full of coin, a goose feather bed, 8 casks of the finest arbor gold, her mother's jewels, six fast horses, and multiple bolts of Dornish silks, and soft linens.

After closing the chest she sat down on the bench in front of the fireplace and got lost in daydreams for what seemed like hours as she stitched away at her needlework. A knock at her door startled her out of her thoughts. She placed her embroidery aside and walked over to her door. She checked to make sure her robe was tied shut, and then opened the door to Maester Illric in the candlelight hall. She remembered her first day here, when she spotted Castle Tarrow's young maester. He was the youngest maester she had ever met, and she thought he was rather amazing for having so many chain links, and being just about the same age as her. A raven from Lord Cade. She felt worried and excited all at once. It was the first correspondence from her betrothed she had gotten in months. The only other time being his agreement to be married. "Good news?" She asked him quietly trying not to wake anyone.

---

"Good news?" Lady Sarisa asked him, and Illric nodded, breathing a sigh of relief that she hadn't seemed to have noticed his foolish phrasing. He extended the scroll to her, and allowed her to read it at her leisure.

"Allow me to summarize, that Lord Leoric will be arriving some time this morning. I will endeavour to prepare the castle for his return, as much as that can be done given the limited span of time we have. For the nonce, that involves waking and setting the maids to work, and the cook can set to making a welcome breakfast for Lord Cade. I was also going to inform the Castellan, but thought it possibly wiser to allow Ser Raymun to find out for himself of his brother's return. Unless you require anything else Lady Sarisa, I shall be attending to those matters now."

Illric paid careful attention to the paths his eyes followed, and while he didn't outwardly betray his nervousness, he felt a quivering sensation in his chest. His gaze slipped past the Lady and to her chambers, which looked full of candlelight and half-sewn articles of clothing. It seemed a warm space at first, but as Illric continued his observation he noticed that the window was open, a chill breeze was brushing through the drapes. He knew well the cold winds that could blow on a night like this, and he found himself wondering how warm the Lady could be, dressed even in furs as warm as those. The curves of the fur draped seductively over-

Illric blinked, and his gaze returned to Lady Sarisa's eye level. He coughed abruptly, "My apologies my Lady, my duties await." And without heeding whatever she might have said, had she noticed his damned wandering eyes, Illric fled the corridor. He made his way down several flights of stairs, feeling the breeze of his hastened movement in the chilled beads of sweat on his neck. He'd been stupid, and made a mummer's farce out of that exchange! It was only when he'd banged on the maid's quarters with enough force to bruise his hand that he realized that he was seething. Who am I angry at? Myself surely? Or is my anger directed at the Lady for being betrothed to another? Or yet even more, perhaps my anger is towards Lord Cade himself? Gods, but I should never have become a maester, this is the seventh hell! I was doing just fine in a congregation of only male acolytes but now? NOW? I'm at a loss! I'm an utter disas-

"Beg your pardon?" Illric asked, internal dialogue broken by somebody's voice. One of the senior maids was staring at him in the doorway with consternation.

"I said, what do you want Maester? 'Tis late and my girls are still too groggy to sweep the kitch'."

"Well sweep the 'kitch' they shall! Lord Cade will be arriving in a scant few hours and it would be in all of our best interests to see to it that he recieves a fair welcome home!" Illric retorted, nodding curtly to the maid before turning to leave. The maid nodded to him as well, and then closed the door. However the wood on lower floors was cheaper and thinner than the quarters of the nobility and Illric heard the maid's comments about the "Raven-boy" loud and clear.

Illric stormed down through another level, woke the cook, and then stepped outside for a breather. He nodded to the Dornishmen who had remained at Tarrow as an honour guard for Lady Sarisa, and their commander nodded in return. It wasn't unusual for the soldiers to be woken at unusual times at regular intervals. These men were cut from a fine cloth indeed, demonstrating the readiness at any hour. Perhaps they'd even see fit to provide the Lord Cade with a welcoming salute, Illric didn't think that possibility unlikely. Still his mind buzzed with thoughts as he rushed through the courtyard, attention flitting this way and that, until he staggered, took a breath, and sat down. He felt a rush of blood in his head, pounding in his ears, and realized he was panicking. There wasn't any need for that, or so he told himself. Illric's thoughts turned once more to Ser Jakob, and how he would prepare for a battle that he was expecting. The maester drew himself into a cross-legged sitting position, folded his arms and breathed deeply. He put his worries from his mind, and breathed. He could hear some of the early morning birds, and faintly, the clangour of men in the barracks preparing to run drills. That was who he was, or at least used to be, in his time on the trail. The roads that had led to battle had been roads that Illric ran readily with restless risibility. A man of arms, and armour, and the arts of anatomy. Cleaning wounds, shouting orders, and in a few cases, even clashing blade to blade with the boldest of intruders.

Illric breathed and remembered those days, and he drew gentle lines over his scars underneath his robes with his fingers. It had been the nightmare which had set him on edge, distracted him and thrown off his guard. He would have to see about checking his stores for sleeping herbs that could deaden his dreams. Of course, plants hadn't been a strong focus for Illric, so a visit to the castle's library would be essential, to leaf through some of the Cade's own tomes on herbology. A clear course, and specific goals, the surest path to a clear conscience and healthy mind... But, Lady Sarisa?

Illric breathed, and assured himself that whatever else he might feel, his duty to the Archmaesters, the Cades, and himself mandated that he set aside his urges, and let the marriage come to pass without protest. The cold pragmatic side of Illric added helpfully that should his needs become impossible to control, a polite (and veiled) request to draw upon the wealth of House Cade could grant him the opportunity to proposition a lady more properly suited to his needs and status. Honour was no object when it came to serving the Lord of Tarrow. Loyalty over honour, Illric decided. And if he were to engage in less than glamorous activities to preserve that loyalty, so be it. The Seven knew what happened to men incapable of compromising their principles from time to time, Illric remembered the chill in his spine when the news of Lord Eddard Stark's death had come to Tarrow. He vowed to learn from the man's mistakes, and do his best to avoid meeting the same fate. Illric understood he was unlikely to lose his head to Ser Illyn Payne, but rather, the point he made to himself was merely that in upholding his station, he was becoming a more capable maester, and an effective servant to his masters. But what would Ser Jakob and Gyles say of this line of thinking?

Illric breathed, and arose. Those days were over, and he had to adapt to his new life sooner than later, considering the Lord's imminent return. Gone was the era of idealistic youth, and permeable layers of society. Gone was the age of dragons and fire. Gone was the season of summer. As the Starks were so wont to warn, Illric reflected darkly, Winter is Coming, and stronger men than me will fall into the Stranger's embrace. Illric kept walking, and decided he was ready to face the Bastard. He adjusted his course accordingly.

***

Illric stood outside the Bastard's door, and just like Lady Sarisa's door, it too made guessing at the activities of the occupant impossible. Unlike Lady Sarisa's door, the bastard's portal was wrought of dark iron, bearing a knocker forged in the shape of a bear. That had always puzzled Illric, seeing as Bear Island was many leagues north of Tarrow, and to his knowledge no Mormonts had ever possessed any holdings in the Riverlands. The much more worrying interpretation was of course, that bears tended to raid beehives. The sigil of House Cade. Illric shrugged, and used the knocker. As he awaited Ser Raymun, he wondered what state of dishevelled lechery the bastard would be in when he answered the door. It certainly wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility, given what behaviour Illric had observed of the Bastard.

Raymun felt like death. His head was splitting and throbbing in the quiet darkness of his chambers as the bed rolled beneath him as if upon the deck of galley. He fought back the urge to spew the contents of his stomach the night before back up onto the rush strewn floor. His great bear like chest rising and falling like unsteady and pained breathes. He had been drinking again. Others take the son of the whore who had coerced him into it.

The evening had started innocently enough he supposed, he had gone down into the village below Castle Tarrow in search of fletchers to order more crossbow quarrels for the garrison. Reports were that Clegane and his dogs had turned back North and were making for the Ruby Ford. With most of the Young Wolf's strength in the west, they would have to rely on their own strength if he made the crossing. And besides them there were outlaws and broken men in the Riverlands these days, as well as this Brotherhood Without Banners.

He hadn't meant to stop in the old half stone and timbered inn that leaned drunkenly on the market square of the village. But it at had been a long day, and the men he had brought with him wouldn't stop talking about how nice it would be to enjoy a refreshing horn of dark, foaming ale. So he had gone inside. One horn of ale easily turned to two and two horns of ale easily turned to five. By the time they had staggered up the motte to the gates of the outer ward the sun had set and his purse was significantly lighter.

After that they had sat around the fire in the guardsroom drinking sour wine and rolling dice until the hour of the wolf came and went and Ser Raymun had climbed the steps to find his bed. Fucking wine. What had he been thinking? He would struggle to rise for hours yet and when he did he would feel sick as a dog for the coming day. Responsible steward that he proved to be.

To tell the truth he had been surprised when his Lordly brother had named him Castellan to Tarrow Raymun had always considered himself more a warrior than an administrator. He would have rather saddled his horse and donned steel to join the levies in the battle than sit on his arse here while there was killing to be done. But he had nodded and smiled as best he could and accepted the position as if pleased him, at least it showed how dear brother Leoric was coming to trust him. It gave the wretches and serfs a chance to get used to him as Lord, something Raymun suspected they would have to get used to in the near future. His brother had no heirs, and people have a habit of dying in wars. He smiled at that.

That was when someone knocked upon his door. Who the fuck wanted him at this hour?

He threw back the covers and stumbled into his small clothes and breeches, muttering and cursing as he did so. Most of the servants knew not to disturb Ser Raymun before he woke of his own accord, a lesson they had been quick in learning. He rubbed his face down with stale water that sat in the old pewter wash stand and donned a jerkin of cracked dark leather.

He almost went to the door before remembering he was yet to put his eye back into its socket. He found it in his pocket and jammed it back into its rightful place. It had been almost a year since he had lost his eye to Black Walder Frey, murderous shit that he was, and he still sometimes forgot that it had happened in the morning.

He wrenched open the door to look upon the face of Illric, the Maester. Raymun scowled.

“What in Seven Hells do you want?"

---

After an age, the iron door swung open with a squeal and a wafting scent of drink assaulted Illric. He tried not to flinch, and only mostly succeeded. The bastard, fake eye looking comically in the opposite direction, scowled out at him. He must not have checked in the mirror. I should... But I'm not going to. "What in the Seven Hells do you want?" The Bastard asked grumpily.

Illric drew himself up, staring at Raymun with disapproval. "While you've been on your drunken carouse, I've received a letter from your Lord brother, that he is returning to Tarrow. Has returned in fact, and Lord Cade will most likely be here in a span of hours, not days. Given your current state, I suppose you will have to pull yourself together. The affairs of the Castle require tending to Castellan. I'm but a maester, and I've gotten the smallfolk up and working. You should see to it that they do the work properly, and to the benefit of the House. I have other errands to tend to, good morning Ser Raymun." Illric's disapproval softened, if only slightly. His thoughts had turned, as they so often did, to matters other might consider irrelevant. He found himself guessing at what might prompt a man to turn so strongly to drink. The problem being, it could just a easily be the man's fancy, as it could be his nightmares that had him seeking ale. They were of a height, the Bastard, and he. Illric nodded to the man, and then turned and left.

The Bastard, Illric pondered, climbing back up to his quarters. He is certainly older than me, but he acts like a child. Has he ever been taught how to behave? Bastards are seldom the most favoured of children, at the best of times. Though Illric was nominally trueborn, the Brackens had never really seen him as their child, what with the concerns of elder children taking up their time. It was a thing to keep him up at nights, back when he'd been living in the Citadel. Had his parents shipped him off as though he were an afterthought? Was the decision painstaking? Did they regret their actions now? Or had they forgotten he'd ever even existed? A maddening trail to follow, but one that Illric chose to walk when he felt he had the ability to, in case he ever found a way to resolve it.

The way this war is going, I might actually be grateful to my parents for sending me away to Oldtown. Though perhaps the true person to thank would be the Arch-maester who chose a replacement for Castle Tarrow's maester. Illric couldn't imagine anybody ever really having a valid reason to take the castle, for strategy's purposes. Mostly as an issue of size, Tarrow was in a sweet spot of sorts. Too large to assault with a cursory force, but not large enough to justify devoting one's entire effort towards taking. To Illric's knowledge, the Castle had never been captured during its existence, and was more in danger of abandonment than of siege.

Illric opened his door and stepped into his quarters. Not extravagant the way Lord Leoric or Lady Sarisa's chambers, or even Ser Raymun's might be, and somewhat merged with the rookery to boot. Still, it felt cosy to Illric. Bookshelves lined the walls, scattered with volumes half-read and a menagerie of odd things. Dried ink bottled strewn here, blunted quills tossed there. Illric set about putting his bed in order, which was still damp from his sweat-fraught sleep of earlier that night. He also tidied the shelves, setting markers into pages he intended to read again, while closing up books he'd set aside from boredom. His chamberpot, merely recessed into the space over one of the tower's corbels, needed emptying. Tarrow was no King's Landing, and though Illric despised the task, he very carefully began the process of ejecting the contents.

***

Illric's errands were complete. He felt more awake now, even more than since his morning exertion. Skipping down to the lower levels of the castle, Illric found his way into the dining hall. The maester hurried up to the kitchens, hearing a promising din of clanging dishes and boiling pots. The cookfires were burning too, and Illric was sweating by the time he'd brought out his chosen breakfast. Eggs, coupled with a few rashers of bacon and a slice of fresh-baked bread. He'd even decided to treat himself to a glass of Dornish red, since it came from the private stores, and Illric had noticed that Lord Leoric abstained from alcohol entirely. This meant that Tarrow's cellars possessed finely aged wines of rare and delightful breeds. No doubt the Bastard might notice, should he get the same idea as Illric had, however even the bold Ser Raymun wouldn't be dull enough to miss the fact that his exposure of the maester would lead to uncomfortable questions for him as well.

Illric sipped at the wine, and decided he didn't care about people asking inconvenient questions. As he had reflected earlier, this wasn't King's Landing, and the maester was surely entitled to at least a glass of fine wine once and a while was he not? The Seven protect him, but he would enjoy his breakfast for the short amount of time he allowed himself. Soon enough Illric presumed, the Lord would have a host of tasks for his maester to tend to, and Illric would need to be in his best form to serve.

Illric decided that his best form had a lovely buzzing in the back of his head, like a sweet note of music playing to accompany his excellent discipline and sense of duty. The breakfast was excellent.

Morning had not yet dawned over the landscape when the Cade men were roused from their sleep by their sarjeants. Almost every man in the camp was suffering from too much drink and too little sleep; even Ser Leopold, Ser Greith, and Ser Numes, the household knights who had survived the fighting, were miserable; high rank usually set one apart from the affairs of the common man, but when coming back home after nearly a war of bloody fighting, men tended to celebrate life without regard for the morrow. Leoric had stayed sober, of course. He eschewed the spirits as a matter of principle, and besides, he could hardly waddle up to the gates of Castle Tarrow drunk as an oarsman, though the thought did bring a private smile to his lips.

He was currently in his tent, a meagre thing that was nevertheless a palace compared to what his men had, facing his assembled chivalry, such as they were. Leopold was sly and craven, Greith was a large brute with a temper, and Numes, though a good man and true, had not been the same since a wayward arrow had left him with a bum leg. He looked at them cooly. They should not have drunk with the men. Now they were irritable and undependable, just another problem he had to deal with.

“The pain after the drink is the punishment of the Father,” he scolded them sternly, wrapping his hands behind his back.

Leopold and Greith looked at each other, unsure. Numes had the decency to look abashed. “Yes, my lord.”

“Yes indeed. You three should know better to act in such a way. You’re anointed knights, not boys. It appears I will have to make my return to my ancestral home, a warrior returning from the fields of blood, accompanied by men who look half like corpses.” He paused, and sighed. They had erred, but they were men. From duty runs rivers of gold, he reminded himself. Those of higher birth had a responsibility to set an example, to be a paragon of what lesser men might strive for, but not everyone could be a paragon of virtue. These men had fought for him valiantly despite all their faults, and he could forgive a slip such as this on such a day. “Leopold, Greith, you will accompany the men back to their villages,” he decided. “Leopold to the Tarrow Town, Greith to the farmsteads up Garend’s Fork. Have it be understood that they will likely be called to service once more in the future. Go assemble the men at once.”
When they’d left, he turned to remaining knight. “Ser Numes, you will accompany me to the Castle. How many men remain of those we had taken from the garrison?”

“Twelve, my lord.”

“They will accompany us back. We’ll make a sight less regal than when we’d left, I don’t doubt, but no matter.”

Ser Numes nodded, and left the tent to do as directed. Leoric followed, stepping out into the damp, chilly air. Fall is ending, he thought. It wasn’t long before winter would sweep in from the north. The ground was a muddy mess, soaked from the last night’s rains. He felt a stab of pity for his men, who had had to sleep under that chilling precipitation. The bigger and cleverer among them had taken shelter in trees or bushes, while some of the wealthier had erected private shelters, though these were nothing to look at.

Two great lines were streaming from the camp, lead by his knights. Soon, only those who would accompany him to the castle were left. He gave the order for the wagons to be assembled - they’d be bringing all their supplies to the castle, but with so few men on hand everyone had to work with the vigor of two men. Nor did he exempt himself from that; after giving his commands, he took to filling the wagons with the supplies they had unloaded for the night, the busy work keeping his mind off things.

Finally, when the shelters were taken down, the wagons assembled into a column, and the men ready to depart, he gave the order to leave the site. They began a slow march uphill in silence. It was strangely disturbing to tell the truth: they had been thousands, then hundreds, and now they were barely above twenty.

As Castle Tarrow grew larger and larger up ahead, he became more and more uneasy. He had always been anxious, even if he had grown adept at not showing it. He would second guess his every decision, and always expected things to turn for the worse. For all its terrors, at least the war had freed him from lordship. Having to put out fires was exhausting, and at Castle Tarrow it had often seemed fires started up faster than they could be extinguished. He looked back to the men riding behind him, frowning at their haggard and tired looks. It was true that they looked like dead men walking, and not just because of the night’s drinking: war had taken a toll on every man among them. Watching your friends being butchered, killing a foeman with your bare hands, living under the constant shadow of starvation and disease… such things could break anyone. They had all lost something to the Young Wolf’s war, he mused, whether it was family, limbs, or innocence. He wondered if he looked as broken as they did.

Following the trail, they came upon the palisade at the bottom of Tarrow Hill, an old and rotten earthwork which stretch across the river’s bend. They passed through the path’s gap, and found themselves face to face with four horseman, the chief among which was large and portly man, who seemed as if his mass could barely fit in his armor..

The fat man advanced his mount a few steps. “Lord Cade, it is good to see you.back whole. Castle Tarrow is yours.”

“That’s good to hear, Ser Podrick,” Leoric answered drily. “We’re heartily sick of sleeping in the rain.” He took a close look at the riders, and frowned. “I confess, I expected my brother to be the one to greet me.”

Ser Podrick looked uneasy. “I’m afraid Ser Raymun is… indisposed, my Lord. A… malady of the stomach. He was in no condition to ride himself, so...”

A malady of the stomach. To be sure. He knew his bastard brother to have the constitution of an ox. More like than not the bastard had drunk himself blind, or was hiding whatever whore he’d found to warm his bed that day. “The Father’s vengeance, I assume?” he mused, more to himself than anyone else.

“M’lord?” Ser Podrick asked, confused.

Leoric gave a tired smile. “It’s nothing, Ser, just idle nonsense. My men and I are tired, however; we’ve been marching for weeks now. If you would be so kind as to lead the way...?”

“Of course.”

They continued up the path, through the open outer gate. He could see sentries posted in the gatehouse, and along the wall. That pleased him, though he wondered whether it was arranged purely for his benefit. He hoped not. Though Castle Tarrow was strong, and not seriously threatened, they were still in wartime, and the lions were ravaging every pile of stone in the Riverlands.

A small crowd was assembled in the courtyard, the servants, stableboys, and other vagabonds watching the return of their lord and menfolk. He saw a few women turn and leave, their faces stricken by the absence of their husbands and sons.

Straight ahead, the inner gates were open as well, and some familiar- and unfamiliar- faces were there to see. Good Maester Illric was there, and a girl that he took a moment to register as being Gulian’s daughter. She resembled her father to a startling degree, he found. They’d have to marry in the next few days, he knew. He was the last true Cade, and he was likely to be called to the battlefield again when Lord Walder decided to where his allegiance lied. If he should die- and in war death was an omnipresent reality, by the sword or the pox- his three hundred year line would die with him, and he refused to allow that to happen. At least if he could put a child in her womb, the Cades had a chance of living on, though such a long minority would jeopardize the family’s fortunes. Seven above, he thought to himself, what morbid thoughts. He resolved not to think on any of that just now.

As his men mingled with the crowd and dispersed to their own ways in the castle, he took a long cool look at his brother. Raymun looked the part of a warrior, possessing the appearance of a man who’d been drilling since he was old enough to hold a sword, which Leoric knew to be true. His brother also had the same pained look that he had seen far too often that morning already. I should prohibit drink, he told himself. Drain all that damned wine in Garend’s fork and never have to deal with men without sense of moderation again.

After a moment’s wait, his page, a local boy of low birth by the name of Barth, arrived from the wagons. Leoric dismounted, and walked towards the inner castle, wordless.

Facing his household, he finally spoke. “Alright, no need for formalities, I am far too cold and wet to be bothered. Let’s speak what needs to be spoken in the hall, like civilized people.” He turned to his brother, who looked less than pleased to see him. He wondered whether Raymun had become overly accustomed to his position as castellan. Had the bastard forgotten his station?

Leoric clapped his hand around his brother's shoulder. Though he was nearly twice as old, Raymun was taller, which made the gesture awkward. “You too, brother. This wet air can’t be good for your… malady.” He walked on into the keep, the others on his heels, and together they went into the hall.