11th Moon, 8024

Outskirts of Stoney Sept

Ser Desmond Ryger and his exhausted small company rested under the shade of a willow tree, ironic considering a green willow tree on white was the sigil of House Ryger.

He looked at his own shield to try and look for any similarities, but there was little to be found. The white paint that had once fully covered his shield remained only in specks, most of it being hacked off, leaving only the battered wood below, the green tree was even worse, the green paint changed to a sickly brown tint as a result of the blood.

A poet might have been able to make a fucking ballad about this He thought to himself, looking at his houses namesake, strong and steady, in stark opposition to his own party.

He had led a company of 100 Ryger men at the beginning of the war, courtesy of his nephew, the Lord of Willow Wood. Now just 40 remained, and they would soon be 39, Quick Brynnan had taken an arrow to the neck at Peckledon, it had been just a graze in truth but a fever had set in on their retreat north to Stoney Sept and it was clear he didn't have long left.

Wasn't quick enough to get out of the way of that arrow He thought to himself dryly.

The Tully host had been ground to pieces at Nunn's Deep and the Battle of Borrows, but still Lord Tully, known as the hotspur, had ordered the remnants of his army to attack west yet again, this time from the south into the flatlands of the Westerlands.

The result had been the same. They had been met by a combined force of both Westerman and men from the Vale of Arryn and had been repulsed in a bloody battle at Peckledon, sending the Tully force retreating in half a dozen directions, Ser Desmond had taken his surviving men north to Stoney Sept, back into the Riverlands.

Damn fool of a Tully He thought to himself angrily, Ser Desmond was no coward and had distinguished himself at all 3 battles with his bravery, yet after Nunn's Deep and Borrows they never should have advanced west again.

A cool breeze upon his face slowly abated his anger, the songs of birds in the distance made their camp almost peaceful.

‘’Almost makes one forget were at war.’’ One of his men said, and Ser Desmond nodded.

‘’Aye….but it seems to me us Rivermen have been the only ones fighting this war….where is the King….where are the Stormlanders.’’ Ser Desmond said, the frustration returning.

His man did not respond to that, simply spitting a hack of sourleaf to the ground.

‘’Rider!.’’ One of his archers, who had been posted at the perimeter, called out with alarm.

‘’SHIELDS, SPEARS.’’ Ser Desmond called out loudly, awakening his men from their slumber, hastily arming themselves and throwing on whatever armor they had on hand.

Ser Desmond pulled on a faded surcoat over his studded leather jerkin, leaving his chainmail by the tree; he had no time to don it.

He made his way to the edge of the knoll and looked at the rider.

He was dressed lightly for fast riding in a leather brigandine and wore a leather cap, he wore a half surcoat showing 3 black ravens holding 3 black hearts.

Ser Desmond scanned the horizon, the terrain was flat all around and he could see no signs of any other companions or riders.

The rider waited at the base of the hill patiently, Ser Desmond, ascertaining there were no other riders in sight, made his way down the hill to meet him.

‘’I didn't see any other riders with you……but if this is some kind of trick, it will be the last one you play.’’ Ser Desmond said, hand brushing his longsword in a not so subtle gesture.

‘’There will be no need for that.’’ The rider said, raising his arms in the air slowly, showing that he was unarmed.

‘’It's considered damn poor manners to treat with dismounted man while one remains mounted….especially a knight.’’ Ser Desmond said curtly and the rider nodded and dismounted, holding his black horse's reins.

‘’Who are you….I see by your surcoat you serve the Corbrays…..we saw quite a few of your comrades at Peckledon…slew some too if I recall.’’ Ser Desmond said.

‘’Who I am is not important….but the message I bring you is of great import…..King Ronnel Arryn is marching from Peckledon with a small escort not 10 miles away from here….he means to return to the Vale….a small force as I said as to not draw attention to himself.’’ The rider said.

‘’Do you take me for a fool?’’ Ser Desmond asked after the shock of the revelation wore off.

‘’I take you for a soldier….that is within grasping distance of the greatest prize you could think to grasp…the King of the Vale.’’ The man responded.

‘’Aye im sure if I follow a rainbow I'll find myself a pot of gold, a comely wench and the King of the Vale trussed up and ready for the fucking dungeons…..though I find the prospect of some of your fellows waiting to ambush us sours the appeal.’’ Ser Desmond said.

The messenger laughed lightly at that ‘’There is no need for traps, you number just 40 men, tired and wounded, if I wanted you dead i'd ride here not alone but with three dozen corbray knights and as many men at arms.’’

Ser Desmond couldn't help but see the truth in the man's words ‘’And why would a Valemen such as you want your own king captured.’’

‘’It is not so much what I, a humble messenger want, it is what my Lord wishes….but I have said too much…..King Ronnel is traveling with some 15 men ten miles south of here along a small river, go or don't…the choice is yours…farewell.’’ The rider said, mounting up and riding off into the distance.

Ser Desmond stood there for a good long while, pondering the man's words.

To hell with it He thought, turning back to his men on the hill who were waiting anxiously.

‘’THOSE OF YOU STRONG ENOUGH TO MOVE FORM UP…..ARM AND ARMOR YOURSELVES, WE MOVE IN THIRTY MINUTES, SADDLE WHAT HORSES REMAIN TO US.’’ He bellowed.

‘’For what purpose Ser.’’ One of his men asked.

‘’Were going to catch ourselves a falcon.’’ He said, earning bewildered looks from his men who nonetheless obeyed.

Two Hours Later

The small retinue made their way beside the small river, the call of some water bird being the only noise to break the silence.

I couldn't have known King Ronnel Arryn thought to himself grimly, seated atop his white stallion.

He had received a raven some days past from Lord Wallace Waynwood, his good friend and one of his most trusted advisors and vassals, the man had helped him immensely in his years since coming of age and the King trusted him completely.

The message was a grim one, it stated that Ser Bryan of Stone Keep had committed savageries against the village of Rosesk, executing most of the men while the women and children were locked inside a granary and burned alive.

I couldn't have known the King thought once again more confidently this time. At the outbreak of war, Ronnel had proposed two main hosts, one which he would lead personally would march west to help their Lannister allies, while another would remain in the Vale and secure their own lands from the Royces, who remained loyal to the Targaryens.

He had chosen Ser Bryan of Stone Keep to lead the latter host, it was true the man was not of a great house and his lands only included one of the three small waycastles that guarded the ascent to the Eyrie, but he was young, bold, and martially inclined, and the King thought it best that any victories in the Vale be won by one of low birth as opposed to some great lord, as to not take away from his own glory.

That had proven a terrible mistake however, he had visited Rosesk once, a rather unremarkable village in truth but the smallfolk had been generous and Ronnel had always done his best to be kind to villagers in the Vale….and now they were dead….slaughtered.

He would not remain in the West while his smallfolk suffered, even after winning much glory at the battle of Peckledon where several thousand Valemen fought alongside their Westerlander allies to drive off a Tully attack.

His place was in the Vale; he had also received a raven detailing that the surviving army of Lord Nestor Royce had joined with an army of Sistermen and seized 2 small island castles off the fingers, aided by a royal fleet from Dragonstone.

Ronnel meant to return to the Vale and negotiate a peace or at the very least a ceasefire with Nestor Royce, when he had declared himself King, he had never meant for any bloodshed to occur within his own lands, and he meant for it to stop, there would be no more burning of villages, no more slaughter.

How he would attain the peace with Nestor Royce he could not say, Ronnel had never been a man that was blessed with charisma or natural negotiating skills, but he would find a way, he was a King now after all.

He turned and looked at his escort, 15 mounted knights, their horses donning the pale blue falcon banner upon their caparisons.

Too few He thought to himself, he supposed he could have taken his entire force he had brought west with him, a host of several thousand, but they would likely be discovered, the way back to the Vale would take them through most of the Riverlands, the Tully’s strength had been ground to pieces in their attacks west but there was always the risk they might be ambushed with nowhere to retreat.

His Marshal, Lord Qarl Corbray had suggested taking such a small force, stating that a force of under 20 men avoiding the main roads was unlikely to be discovered and would reach the Vale quicker than a larger host, and Ronnel had not spoken against it, as was his nature.

All these thoughts were running through his mind when the first shout of alarm came from his escort.

He turned and saw a small force of mounted men appear from a small forested thicket, their sigils bearing a green willow tree on white, a banner he had seen at the battle of Peckledon….on the opposite side.

The captain of his escort shouted a brusque command for his men to form a circle around the King.

It's just a few scouts Ronnel thought confidently, his escort was more than capable of dealing with the small ragtag band of rivermen scouts ahead of him.

No sooner than Ronnel had drawn his sword, however, a band of two dozen footmen appeared from behind two large rock formations on the bank of the river, charging alongside the calvary from the forest with a war cry

He saw one of his knights take an ax in the helmet from a Riverman rider, delivering a loud clanging noise, but his man managed to block the next strike and thrust his sword into the man's belly, blood dripping from his face.

Another one of his knights took an arrow in his plate armor chestplate, the arrow did not puncture the heavy plate, but the impact startled the man so much he kicked his horse which reared and sent him flying to the ground, his leg trapped in the stirrups, sending the man thudding along the grass after his horse.

An axeman with a shield tried to grab his reins but Ronnel shot out a plated elbow at the man's face, knocking him away.

‘’Flee your Grace….we shall hold them.’’ One of his men cried out but Ronnel paid him no need and returned to the fray,

A King does not run He thought to himself.

Suddenly, another rider was upon him, unlike the other mounted rivermen he seemed to be a knight, dressed in blackchainmail and wearing a surcoat of the green willow, a mail coif adorned his face.

The enemy knight brought down his sword towards Ronnel in a slow yet powerful arc, but the King of the Vale managed to get up his metal shield and block it, sending flecks of pale blue paint everywhere.

The enemy launched another strike but Ronnel was ready this time and bashed his shield forward, surprising the man and giving him time to hack at one of the the man's leg, his heavy ornamental sword cutting through the ringmail and causing his enemy to withdraw his horse with a curse, an arrow whistled towards him, striking his shield as he looked for his next opponent.

He saw one of his knights stick a lance through an enemy pikeman's face, attempting to cut his way free of the ambush but just as it looked as if he might have opened a path of escape, the knight in black ringmail Ronnel had wounded moments before was on him, hacking the man in the leg, before another slash to the chest knocked him from his horse wounded.

Ronnels escort was thining by now, the enemy forming a circle around the survivors, while archers were forming a line to make good on this advantage.

It's over He thought to himself, he had a duty to his men to preserve their lives.

‘’Stop!’’ He cried out, as loud as he could.

He turned to the man in black ringmail ‘’I will yield to you Ser…..but on one condition….it's me you're after, the King of the Vale, allow my men safe passage back west….you have no need of them.’’

The enemy knight grimaced in pain, holding his wounded leg in one hand ‘’Normally I wouldn't give a rats ass about a defeated foes conditions…..but youre a better sword than most high lordlings, and a good deal braver….aye, your men can leave…but you…..you'll rot in the darkest dungeon in Riverrun for the rest of the fucking war.’’

Ronnel cursed himself for a fool the entire ride to Riverrun.

No crown is worth this much trouble He thought to himself as the red sandstone walls of Riverrun came into view.