Cold.
A deep, bone-gnawing cold.
It seeped into his flesh, the wind trailing icy fingers along his collarbone, making him tremble. He gripped his spear tighter.
But was it the cruel climate of the north that weakened his legs, or the colder bite of fear?
With a sharp slap to his cheeks, he steadied himself, tempering both body and heart. His stance straightened. He forced the tremor from his arms. Eyes fixed on the horizon, on the roiling sea of clouds that settled across the land, curling at the castle's feet, like a premonition of what is yet to come.
The fog had been there since the night before, thick and stubborn, appearing almost unnaturally, as the weather was clement the day before. The harsh coldness and the mist both coming almost at the same time that the cruel news brought back by the scouts.
At the very time the little party led by Rurik came back from their mission, bringing the terrible news, it appeared behind them... following, or perhaps hunting, would be the truer word.
The white cloak masking the earth seemingly pursuing the horses riding at full galop, and their desperate riders with it, like white ghostly hands trying to grab them, to bring them into the shadows, from which none would return. Adding to the already profoundly haunting atmosphere that everyone in the keep could feel, men and animals alike.
The mist clung to the hollows and folds of the land like a newborn to its mother's tits. From his usual post at the top of the northern watchtower, Jorren could see little beyond the dark line of the oak palisade and even less beyond that, about seventy meters away, the first row of skeletal pines, their tops, trunks, and roots seemingly engulfed by pale vapors.
The air, as usual, had a taste of damp wood and cold iron, although this time, Jorren didn't know if it was because of the latest news, or some kind of devilry, but this air left a bitter taste in his mouth, like a rotten apple or damp earth that he would be forced to chew without ever swallowing.
Everything today seemed to weigh like a mountain on the guard's shoulders, a kind of morning where every sound carries twice as far and where the world seems to hold its breath, waiting for the inevitable. Or caught up in the suspense of an ending that cannot be anticipated. Even the venison, warmly offered by Lord Slater, was not enough to comfort him and tasted like ash in his mouth.
And about that... Venison, for everyone? And at will ?
Lord Slater graciously offered this to all his men last night, as a gift for their courage, past and future, in his own words. This encouraged many of his peers. A beautiful and anticipated celebration of their upcoming victory.
But Jorren could see it only as a sign of ill omen.
In the worst hours of his sleepless night, it felt like a funeral ceremony.
And that mist… that Godsdamn fucking mist.
This wasn't natural — he could feel it in his very bones.
Some dark magic was at work here, he was certain, bringing death and blood to Blackwood Hold.
The clouds crept around the castle like a sea of death, like wolves circling a bleeding prey — a sign of what was coming for them all.
Would that be possible? Without a doubt, Jorren whispered, a hot cloud of breath spilling from his lips into the cold night.
He had heard the stories, the rumors… about them. And if even a quarter of it was true, he and his comrades were well and truly fucked.
Cold killers, terrible monsters in human skin, lurking in the night. Thieves of corpses for their blasphemous rites. Walking side by side with the dark watchers.
Blood-drinkers who feasted on human flesh, using what they could not stomach as grisly tools for strange and awful sorcery — cursing their enemies, calling on dark entities buried deep in the winter forests, with the remains of those they had slain.
He heard that they made pacts with them, with these entities, these nameless ones, that prey and feast on whom could not hide in a castle during the cold winters, and that sleep deep in the earth through the summer months. Creatures, that whispering their only name, is to bring curse to himself. Bringing them their unholy meals in exchange for power beyond mortal reach.
They spoke in hushed tones, during the coldest nights, about them, of dark rituals carried out beneath the ancient weirwoods, whose roots stretched deep into the earth, are nourished during ceremonies, not by mere water or soil, but by the blood of their enemies. Sacrificial offerings, spilled in secret beneath the watchful eyes carved into the gnarled trunks.
These rites, carried out to satisfy some of the most despised among the gods, not known for mercy or kindness, but for cruelty and madness. Whose hunger for blood is endless, insatiable, their thirst unquenchable. The very ground beneath the weirwoods is said to pulse with the power of these offerings.
Could it be their doing? These swirling clouds of mist that clung to the hold ?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Surely, there was no way to know.
Wait—no! He must stay calm!
Jorren told himself this firmly, slapping his face twice with rough hands to steady his racing thoughts. His mind, worn thin from sleepless nights and gnawing stress, teetered dangerously close to believing the superstitious tales told by the nannies to frighten children into eating their soup.
He had been staring into that grey nothingness for hours, watching shapes shift and swim in the mist. It unsettled him—that and nothing more. But the weight of his worries twisted the shadows in his mind, stirring up childish fears that clawed at his reason.
Sometimes the mist made the trees seem closer to him, sometimes farther, sometimes not there at all. Like a moving sea, wave coming after the other to make an endless landscape, which is never the same to look at.
Or so they said, he never has been to the sea himself, so he assumes it is like the stories Little Jack told him when he came back from his trades with House Frostvein.
Although the atmosphere was tense, it was a calm night, a very calm night. And now a very calm morning.
After hours there, alone in this high tower, he had almost convinced himself that today would be like any other day, that despite the tensions, the threats, and the last informations reported, this would still be a day of boredom and damp boots, a day to think about everything and nothing, as he eyed the horizon to finally see nothing, and go to sleep at the first hour of the afternoon.
That what he thought, as he saw the sun rising on where the horizon should be, piercing through the clouds and fog, to shine the castle by his presence, and warm the atmosphere, remembering to the people that, whatever darkness can install itself on the land, a new day will always shine, sooner or later.
Until he heard the first sound.
A hoof.
A single hoof, clacking against the frozen ground.
Leather creaked, the faint jingle of tack.
One beat, far off in the mist.
Then another.
He froze, fingers tightening around the haft of his spear until his knuckles ached. The sound hadn't come from is left, the west, from the road where merchants sometimes rattled past in the early hours. No... this noise was directly ahead of him, from the deep woods to the north of the keep.
Then again, but another one, joining the two others.
Then, a fourth, a fifth...
As the seconds passed, more and more hoofbeats joined the first, until it was a resonating sound in the little valley. Slow and unhurried, like if whatever approached had all the time in the world to reach its destination, but that, Jorren didn't know if it made him any less frightened, if not more.
Then came the creak of leather. The faint chime of harness rings. The heavy rhythm of more riders than he could really count.
The fog stirred. Hidden creatures slipping in, moving carelessly, as although they were hiding in it, they never really cared to be discovered anyway, cloaked by the mist.
And then, they appeared, one by one.
At first, their only shapes emerged, dim and colorless at first, that could likely be took for an animal, if not being seen at all. Like shadows moving against other shadows, but as the time rapidly passed, so them drew closer to Jorren's eyes, letting him discern more easily.
He then saw it, not them.
It wasn't a warrior he saw first.Not a rider, not the sound of mail armour or the shape of a charging horse. Neither the shield or the sword. Or the spear.
But a banner.
The wind shifted... slightly though, but just enough. And the fog parted like curtains drawn by unseen hands. Slowly, silently, the first flag revealed itself, rising above the mist.
It was lashed to a tall, gnarled tree trunk stripped of bark and branches, turned into a crude, towering banner pole. The ragged cloth snapped once in the wind, revealing its colors. Their colors.
His gut turned.
It pierced the mist, like the fin of a shark emerging from the waters to head towards its prey, rising above the low clouds, branded toward Jorren and the keep.
At its peak, the flag came into view.
Red. A deep, violent red, somehow vivid even in the dull grey light of this twisted dawn.
Red, shining, even in the dull haze of morning.
It rippled once, and the shape came clear
At its center, pale and contorted, a pale, twisted figure. Dangling. Limbs stretched unnaturally wide. Arms and legs outstretched in a sign of incredible agony. Skinless.
The flayed man.
Bolton's mark.
Jorren's stomach turned, the infamous sight spitting ice in his guts. Like everyone in the North, he knew that sigil.
Not just a house's banner But a threat...
No... worse. A promise.
A warning to all who dared stand in the way of the house who harboured this symbol. Fear and pain are all you could hope from if you dare defy them.
The cloth snapped once in the cold wind, then hung still, heavy with silence, like a corpse left swaying on a rope.
Jorren was feeling a fear in his bones, an instinctive urge to flee, flee as far as his legs could make him go, going through mountains, forest and seas only to hope to hide from that sign, and from the men who bear it in their banners and cloaks.
But He couldn't lose himself right. Slapping himself again to be focused. Before running to the other side of the room, arriving at a table where a pile of weapons and various objects are laid out, notably a horn, which he grabs before blowing into it with all his strength and for as long as he can, emptying his lungs and more, but only stopping once he is sure that at least the entire valley has heard the sound of this alert, and can try to seek shelter. Either in the castle or in the mountains, if they can flee fast enough.
Then he took the ladder, descending as fast as he could. He got splinters and almost stubbed his foot as he hurried to reach the ground floor of the wooden building.
As he exited the tower, he glanced at the inside of the fortress, where he saw soldiers and servants bustling about, the first fleeing villagers just arriving to take shelter, crossing the gates that would soon close. The servants and soldiers alike, were running in all directions, like a colony of ants.
The servants were stockpiling food in the reserves, bringing arrows and stones to their respective places on the rampart, carrying those who could not walk to bring them safely into the castle.
The soldiers were also energetic; moreover, those who were not yet awake armed themselves and donned chainmail, for those who could afford it, and leather for the less fortunate. Taking spears, clubs, bows, axes and swords before taking their positions on the oak towers and ramparts. With anxious looks, murmuring vague prayers between their teeth.
Then he saw him, already leaning against the wall, his arm resting on a parapet as he seemed to inspect the horizon, calm but not resigned. His chainmail and leather armor already in place, his famous axe at his belt, his cloak made of wirewolf skin billowing in the wind, as were his long hair, the same color as the trunk of an oak, his penetrating eyes of authority, which almost masked his youth.
"Lord i..."
"I know Jorren, I can see them."
The young Lord Slater spoke in a flat tone, his other hand seeming to play with the tip of his axe, rubbing the metallic part. ...
The Jorren followed his Lord's gaze, and he could see it.
Behind the previously alone standard, came more, a lot more. Their poles swaying in the damp air, the same dreadful device painted over and over, until it seemed the whole mist was full of flayed men, hanging and staring without eyes.
Then followed the men, spearmen in tight ranks, shields of pink and black, their boots sinking into the sodden ground without breaking pace, but without haste either, in an almost rhythmic pace. A wave of conical helmets, with sorts of groove or rim around the edge.
Not a one of them spoke. Not a one of them sang, at best, you could hear a humming in the air, profound, powerful, though Jorren didn't know if it was them, or his imagination that hear something in the cold wind. They marched like an army of ghost.
The line did not end.
After the spearmen came the riders.
They advanced in silence, their faces hidden behind cold iron visors, emotionless and implacable. The breath of their horses bloomed in the frigid air, white clouds rising like ghosts from flared nostrils.
Mail and plate clinked with every step, the sound echoing softly through the mist—like distant chains dragging across stone.
Across their chests, the terrible sigil appeared again and again: the flayed man of House Bolton. And among them, other banners too—those of lesser houses, ten or more, forced into loyalty. Houses cruel enough to serve willingly, or frightened enough to kneel to such a shame-stained name.
Each emblem was a silent declaration: they had chosen fear.
But was it out of chains... or out of pleasure?
Jorren didn't know. And he didn't want to.
Behind them rolled carts, to transport for supplies, meat, drinks and wood, for a siege. Or maybe to carry the spoils that came after the battle.
By the time the sun had dragged itself halfway above the treeline, the mist began to rapidly disappear, like an interrupted spell. Revealing the totality of the army at their gate. Numerous, like a sea of insects.
"I expected them to arrive now, or at sundown, these cowards would never dare come here during plain light. Leeches as they are."
The whole meadow beyond the ditch was alive with their movement. Campfires sprouted like dark blossoms, spitting thin smoke into the retreating fog. Men moved in silent, purposeful knots, driving sharpened stakes into the earth, stacking shields in neat rows, laying out piles of timber.
Some of them where already at work. Cutting wood to raise buildings, piles, and camps all around the castle. Entering the houses in the village, taking everything that can be taken. The food having not been brought in on time, the wooden and metal objects, the hay, and any item with a semblance of value. Before setting the homes ablaze without even a glance. Moving from one to another with supernatural efficiency.
And at the heart of it all, raised on a low wooden platform, above the ground to avoid getting dirty, like a spider in the center of its web, stood Lord Bolton's pavilion. Its fabric was pink, the same cruel pink that some of their shields displayed, its trim the color of old blood. Banners lined its edge, his own, and those of his hounds.
From the tower, Jorren could see the valley and its meadows change shape before his eyes, mutating, transforming from an empty expanse of grass and ferns into a gigantic machine, piece by piece, built for a single purpose. He had never seen an army settle in so quickly.
The mist had thinned by now, but the feeling in the air had not lifted. If anything, it had grown heavier, as if the place itself was against them, or was bending the knee in terror.
"Don't worry…"
The voice was calm, steady and warm. while a hand rested firmly on Jorren's shoulder, grounding him like an anchor against the rising storm in his chest.
"Our allies and banners should arrive within the week... no later. Our walls are strong, and these are good men guarding it, and more than enough supplies to hold until the cavalry arrives. We will stand our ground."
Jorren turned, and there stood his lord. Young in years, yes but not in courage and wisdom, as usual. His face was calm, unworried, like the first light of dawn breaking through a storm.
He was young yes, especially for a lord, since his father's passing last year, but when he spoke, the men listened anyway. His voice cutting through dread like a sword through smoke.
Even now, surrounded by mist and facing the threat of flayed banners on the horizon, he shone like a sun in all this grey.
Actually, if anything, his youth only made his confidence more infectious. There was no fear in his eyes, but resolve. And somehow, that was enough to keep Jorren standing.
"Soon," the young lord said, stepping forward to the edge of the battlements, eyes fixed on the shrouded treeline, "we'll drive them back to their cursed land. And when they go, it'll be with their tails between their legs and their banners torn from the wind."
Jorren exhaled.
He still felt the cold, the fear, the dread curling in the back of his throat—
But beneath it now, something else stirred.
Hope.
Around him, scattered across the fort, Jorren saw his war-brothers.
They were weary—bone-tired from long nights, from the cold that bit through furs and steel alike—but not broken. A grim determination clung to them like frost.
Most stood posted behind the wooden palisades, eyes fixed on the treeline. Others crowded the towers, weapons at their sides, shifting from foot to foot to keep the blood moving in the morning chill.
Every few minutes, one or another would glance toward the lord.
Looking for courage?Or waiting for orders?
Jorren couldn't say. Maybe both.
But Jorren's attention was soon focused on far more important. As the head of the snake made its entry.
From the road, a host of riders arrived, most of them in full armour plates, bearing banners and colours, some reds and roses, others of different colours.
But it wasn't what really interested Jorren.
At the head of its host, through the mist and snowfall, rode the one who had haunted Jorren's thoughts long before the banners ever came into view. Riding a dark horse in a cold, calculated and deliberately slow advance.
His armor was of a deep, glistening red, almost shining among the other dark and less eccentric armours; a lacquered crimson that caught what little light the grey morning gave, making it seem almost wet. Every plate was shaped with cruel precision: ridges and hollows that rose and dipped like some intricate carving, shadows pooling in the seams, darker streaks running in lines as though following the grain of something alive. The breastplate bulged and narrowed in unnatural places, the vambraces and cuisses etched with fine striations, and the pauldrons curved sharply as if to suggest something just beneath the surface struggling to break through.
At first, Jorren could not place what it reminded him of. And then it struck him.
The helmet, the colour, the impression of veins and tendons and muscle that seems exposed on this armour, the intricates patterns seeming almost alive.
The armor was made to mimic the famous symbol of his house, a man with no skin — every muscle, every sinew, every cord of flesh recreated in steel and paint. A walking flayed corpse, encased in metal. The mouth on the helmet opened big, like trapped in an eternal scream, without sounds. The armour the perfect representation of a man having endured what nothing in the world would deserve.
The helm was in the same spirit, fashioned in this grotesque intent to recreate in an armour this barbarous practice that this man bears as his sigil. Smooth and close-fitting, worked into the hollow, lipless visage of a flayed face, its narrow black slits serving as eyes and the faint suggestion of cheekbone and jawline, like if the skull of the bearer itself was pressed against the cold steel from within.
There was not any trace of expression on this helmet, in the shape of a human skull, but no sign of humanity in its features. Only the pale suggestion of exposed bone and stretched tendon wrought in steel.
The horse was dressed to match, the dark creature barding stitched and painted in the same hideous style evocating the peeled flesh, each flank patterned like muscle fibers, the headpiece molded into the bared, lipless snarl of a skinned beast. The beast's breath misted in heavy, slow clouds, curling around its head like some sort of demonic beast.
Behind him, the ranks of riders and men-at-arms followed the men in a calm pace, their armors marked with the flayed man or the colors of lesser houses sworn... or shackled, but probably both, to him.
Yet even in this wave of steel and banners. And even if he was anywhere else in the pack of hundreds of riders, none could claim to draw the eye, or the fear, like Lord Bolton.
Above him, the banner caught the wind once more. In red on rose for some, the true and ancient arms of his house. Red on a dark, almost black, blue for most. The simpler, more common standard carried by most of his host. Side by side they flew, the flayed man stretched across both, the pale figure stark against their fields, swaying together like twin omens over the army below.
The pale, skinless figures were stretched across the army of cloths, an exact reflection of the uncanny man who rode beneath it.
When Jorren came back to the man in blasphemous attire, his heart froze. As his saw his face, now turned in direction of the castle. The red skull like a glim ghost came back from the grave to haunt you.
But if you asked Jorren at this exact moment, he could swear on his very life and on all of his ancestors' honor, that he saw the red king look at him, precisely at him. The deep and black orbits seeming like entirely focused on his little existence, at his great unease.
With a twist of the reins, the Lord of the Dreadfort drove his armored horse toward the castle, leaving the crowd of riders to either dismount and settle down or watch him from afar, the red rider advancing alone, approaching the walls, until his mount was only more than a hundred meters from the wall, around 140 meters if Jorren's eyes are still as good as in his youth.
The lord stopped at about this distance from the oak wall, then made no further movement for the entirety of the next minutes. Silently observing the fortifications, no emotion to be read in his movements, slows and deliberates. Without any gesture, of the head or the rest of the body, judging them from his position with his nonchalant calm. Like if he was a statue.
Then, slowly, the master loosened his grip on the reins, letting the leather fall slack between his fingers until the horse guided itself. His arms hung free at his sides, unhurried, unguarded — as if nothing in this frozen world could threaten him.
It was then Jorren noticed the final detail that he first missed on the crimson armored clothes.
The gauntlets did not end in fingers at all, but in blades... the rider's fingers ended in sharp points, like steel claws, ready to pierce, cut, and tear with a wave of the hand at the slightest annoyance. Steel talons, glinting faintly in the pallid light, curved just enough to hook and tear. They looked ready to rip away what little protection armor might give, with a single gesture of the hand.
After what felt like an eternity to Jorren, the accursed and forsaken lord began to stir, albeit only his head. His earthen helmet shifted a bit, then leaned toward his right shoulder, silently elongating his neck, pushing the boundaries of human capability, as Jorren noticed the top of the helmet nearly grazing his shoulder. Like a beast, a predator observing its prey with fleeting curiosity before tearing it apart and devouring its remains.
Silently observing, with a brief interested, but nothing more. Maybe also just the suspense of seeing if the prey will get back on its legs and stand, curious to see if it is capable of it.
Then the rider spread his arms, slowly, deliberately, opening them to each side until they stretched wide. His elbows locked, his back straightened, and for a moment he seemed to be standing in the stirrups, his body rigid, his head tilted just enough to look directly at the walls.
The crimson plates of his armor caught the dim grey light; the grotesque representation of muscles and sinews etched into the steel flexing as he held the pose. The bladed gauntlets caught what little light there was, glinting like the fangs of some great beast.
Jorren that, at this moment, anything could happen, and any person or even entity could appear right here, even the white walkers themselves, he could not be swayed to look at anything else that the man alone, on his saddle.
It was a gesture without words — a taunt cast toward the walls.
He stood there in the saddle, daring them. Daring them to shoot, to ride out, to try and drag him from his horse. To try anything they could, calling them cowards in a thousand silent words
His mount's hooves pressed into soil, stamping the frozen ground. A ground that should never have felt the presence of such a man, yet here he was... riding freely on it, as if the land itself had already bent the knee to his person.
He made certain they could see it.
And he was tainting them to do anything about it.
He was roaring it, silently, proclaiming, with his whole body "Here I stand, Here I am... and there is nothing you can do to undo me."
The Dreadfort Lord then moved his head slightly to the other side, bending his neck in the other direction, just in time to avoid the projectile. He then turns his head to look behind his monture, on the ground, where the arrow that nearly touched him is firmly planted.
The red King then turns his gaze back on the keep, like a brief renewed interest settled in him, before disappearing then again, the man giving a push on his horse, making the monture go back to the camp, to his tent, where he soon disappears, to never coming from again from.
"Another of the Bolton's fear tactics." Lord Slater says with disdain in his voice, as he land the bow to the person that wear before he took it.
"Do not fall for these kinds of tricks. I am fully aware of the type of man this sadistic fuck is, as well as his fighting style. If you succumb to even a single one of his twisted ploys, you have already granted him his victory." He stated before turning back towards the castle, his gaze fixed on the assembly of soldiers and servants scattered here and there, continuing in a louder tone.
"Maintain your position, and yield them nothing, not even the satisfaction of witnessing fear in your eyes; these beasts thrive and grow stronger on such emotions. Soon, Lord Hamhrum, Lord Thoren, and our valiant bannermen will arrive, and together, we shall drive the vermin back to the filth they refer to as home. Therefore, holding them at bay for a few days is all we must accomplish. And hold them back we shall, with iron and wood. In the shadows, we will stand!"
"In the shadows, we will stand!" The warriors echoed while brandishing their axes, bows, and swords in the air.
...
The camp slowly settled as the last light of dusk bled away, swallowed by the heavy cloak of night. Torches flickered, casting long, trembling shadows across the encampment, while the murmurs of men hidden in the fortress diminished into whispers... and then silence, as the almost full moon had risen.
Around the castle's towering walls, the siege lines had formed a rough circle, that was tightening with each passing hour, as more and more arrived. Assaillant moved with careful precision, setting up makeshift shelters, tending to weapons. The air hung thick with the scent of damp earth and smoke.
In the towers and on the wall, a few watchful archers kept vigil during the night, their eyes glinting like shards of glass in the dark, prepared to sound the horn at the first sign of an attack. They scanned the perimeter with quiet intensity and great resolve, every rustle in the trees or crack of a branch twisting nerves tighter. The castle, though silent, seemed alive... as Jorren don't think anyone could really sleep more than a few minutes after hours tiresome stress.
Within the campfires' glow, that have been settled in the courtyards, towers and on places, each of them close to the parapets. Men settled and shared quiet stories or stared into the flames, minds took in a powerful fight between exhaustion and readiness. Even the bravest could feel it. There was a stillness in the air, but this stillness was not peace... just breath before the storm.
Lord Slater moved among his ranks, his presence steady and reassuring. His eyes, sharp and clear, reflected the flickering flames as he spoke softly to his captains, planning the day ahead, whispering words of encouragement, giving orders and checking if everything was going as planned.
The Red King's taunt still echoed in their minds. Reminder of the enemy's sadistic nature, but also his cunningness. But here, under the cold stars, the soldiers stood firm, not playing fools, but ready to follow the orders of their liege, whatever they could be.
And as the night deepened, a cold wind swept across the fields, bringing sounds from below the walls and after, carried with it a whisper — the distant sound of hooves, the howling of wolves, the rustle of armor, and the promise that dawn would bring battle.
...
The first pale fingers of dawn crept over the horizon, brushing the sky with faint strokes of pink and gray. The camp stirred slowly, waking from a restless slumber. Soldiers rose from their blankets, rubbed sleep from their eyes, stretched themselves before putting their equipment, and readied themselves for the day ahead.
But, despite the odds, whatever was outside the castle, it remained silent. Only the same sounds we could hear in the keep, the sound of men waking up, eating and beginning their labors of the today, but no readiness, no sudden moves, no running or precipitation.
No war cries shattered the morning air. No noise of hooves or clash of steel disturbed the fragile peace. The walls stood as immovable as ever, the banners fluttering faintly in the chill breeze.
It was... calm. A very calm morning.
Almost pleasant, if it weren't for the army settled around their home.
Instead, the siege settled into its grim rhythm — the dull thud of pounding stakes, the clatter of tools against stone, and the measured shuffle of boots along the frozen earth. Men worked steadily, reinforcing barricades, digging trenches, and hauling supplies closer to the walls.
Lord Slater watched from a slight rise overlooking the keep, then approached the battlements, before settling down with his back against a battlement, arms crossed, as his gaze was fixed on the camp below him. The silence gnawed at him, his young heart screaming at him to come down and drive these scums off of his land.
"The vermin are waiting," he muttered under his breath, Jorren wasn't sure if it was addressed to him, or if he was just talking to himself. "They are testing our patience, our discipline."
Around the fires, the men ate quickly and spoke little, minds heavy with the uncertainty of what the day might bring. Some sharpened blades, others checked their bows, but all waited — waiting for the inevitable breaking point.
"These idiots think all of our army and bannermen are reunited here, in this keep." Slater continues, after realising, a little smile on his lips, having reports of the received numbers of the sieging army, realising they aren't as numerous as he feared, and after having realised what the flayer's plan was.
"They think they cornered all of our forces, here, like a mouse in a trap. So they think they can lay the siege and starve us to death, while waiting tranquilly for us to come..."
"The fools... that is our chance." He turns to his captains, his faithful men, now also smiling for some, as they understand, while some others have more reserves.
"When our allies and vassals arrive, we will have the double more men than this pathetic excuse of an army. And as these idiots don't expect to be attacked, they will have no defenses. We will trap them between our two forces, and massacre this cursed Lord and his cowards bannermen, then, we will march on their supposed "Dreadfort."."
In the meantime, raven left and came, most of them shoot down by the archers of the enemy, but some being successful in their escape or entry. The fortunate that arrived have bring with them good news, promises of arriving reinforcements from the allies, currently are regrouping in the south, promising hope yet to come. Until then, the soldiers should and would hold their ground, bound by duty and honor.
So right now, Jorren, in his mind and heart, felt more than a calm resolution, but hope.
Hope, and excitation, ready to liberate his sacred land from these savages.
That was his thoughts, bearing pride in his torso, as he watched an heavily armoured rider coming from the enemy's camp. Riding alone toward the castle, bearing a white flag.