Upon the ramparts of Crow Castle stood the guards. Barl the Burly stood watch as captain this evening. The honor bestowed to him by Ser Sledda the Commander. Down below them was the Crag, where jagged gray rock rose and fell like hills. The eight paths of the Crag sprayed outward in all directions like a webbed crack in broken glass. The Red Crow, Ser Jaqon, led his Hunters from the Crow’s Quarters along the paths to ensure the great houses of Dalrin would not have troubled passage along the eight paths. Whenever there was a great procession of banners there was a great draw for bandits and thieves.

“It is like a fly drawn to fruit,” described Barl the Burly to Pret and Lun. “One day, maybe you’ll be manning these walls,” he said.

Pret, the older of the two, gave Lun a pat on the back. “Maybe you, Lun. I’ll be leading the line someday like Ser Sledda.” Barl the Burly laughed at Pret’s uncharacteristically adult-like tone of voice. Lun punched Pret. Pret did not take to it well, putting his younger brother in a headlock. Before Barl could disentangle them, Lun had freed himself and taken off running along the ramparts towards the stairs. Pret followed closely behind with his wooden sword in hand.

“I shall slay you like the enemies of my forefathers!” shouted Pret. Barl harumphed, turning his attention forward again. He could see the faintest sight of a blue banners coming up from a faraway ridgeline.

“Blue banners. House Swordrin must be,” said a guard.

“Could be House Alamong,” replied another guard.

“No,” said Barl. “This banner got a swordfish on it. Has to be the Swordrins. The Alamongs are not big enough to receive a call like this from our king.”

Striding up the stairs with hand on hilt was Ser Sledda. As burly as Barl was, Ser Sledda still had height and muscle on him. Barl took note of his commander and straightened his posture, pointing to the banners.

“They’re here, commander. The Swordrin’s, it would seem.”

Sledda narrowed his eyes, his mouth gaping. “It would seem so,” he replied. A cold wind bit at them. Barl’s long, thin hair blew back.

“Let the fun begin,” said Sledda. Barl gave a grunt.

The Swordrins rode in with a host of thirty men and women. Lord Mared Swordrin led the way. His daughter, Lyah Swordrin, followed behind. She had hair to her neck and a back as straight as a razor’s edge.

“She’s no slouch,” joked Barl. Sledda jabbed him with his elbow. “Save it.”

Mared Swordrin wore a perturbed scowl on his face. His hair was buzzed. His facial was well trimmed and speckled with gray.

“Aye!” he shouted.

“Welcome, Lord Mared,” replied Sledda. “Draw the gates!”

The guards took to winding the crank to lower the gates. The heavy door was lowered, and Lord Swordrin led his small crew of thirty into the castle’s confines. Queen Lenora was just inside to greet them and have the squire Jal lead them to their quarters for the next two nights.

The next house arrived from west, having traveled through the capital to be at Crow Castle.

The rider was mounted upon a black horse with his own daughter and suitor for the prince. He was a stout little lord by the name of Kyn Malarin. He yanked the reins, drawing up his horse with a small guard of ten armed knights behind him and his daughter.

“Good evening, Lord Kyn. Your presence has been anticipated with excitement.”

Kyn gave a forced smile, which quickly faded. Barl smirked. Lord Kyn’s black beard was running down to the middle of his stomach. “Fisty little man,” muttered Barl. Sledda elbowed him again. Barl coughed, slouching over to clutch his stomach. “Won’t happen again,” he croaked.

“Can’t you be patient enough to wait until he has passed, you fool?” Sledda wanted to maintain face, assuming his insolence would be reported to the king if Kyn Malarin had taken a notice to their mocking.

Lord Kyn gave a cold stare towards the ramparts before urging his horse along through the gates. All of his knights wore purple capes atop silver armor. Bows and quivers sat on their backs.

“His kin are no swordsman. Not with that height,” said Barl.

“Eh…don’t need to be when you can pin a target from thirty yards away with a bow,” replied Sledda. “They’ve got longbows which are nearly half their height, possibly more.”

“And now you’re the one making jests about our visitors?” asked Barl.

Sledda turned to Barl with a look of dismay. “That was a fact, not a jest. Second, notice the timing. Lord Kyn has entered the castle. He’s not within earshot, you damned fool.”

The next group of men arrived with dark markings and multiple piercings atop dreaded blonde hair. They were larger in stature than most men. Barl took a step back from the rampart. He found it unbearable to be seen by these men—he feared them.

“House Tchoreg,” said Sledda. Guards shouted for the gate to be opened.

They were a house that was as far south as Dalrin’s border would allow. Formerly enemies to the crown when kingship was first established, but the band of outlandish men came to an agreement after years of skirmishes and bloody affairs. They had maintained their private affairs however, only answering to formal summoning’s such as this one.

“It is Lord Torkild Tchoreg of the Axe,” noted Sledda quietly.

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“Aye, the Axe,” said Barl softly.

The guard behind Sledda leaned in, “Do we let them in with their arms and shields, commander?” Sledda thought about it before nodding. “They do not handle diplomacy well without their weapons,” said Sledda.

“They are barbaric. Their hair needs washing,” commented Barl.

Down below them at the gates stood their host. Lord Torkild was escorted by two heavy set women that appeared fiercer Sledda’s own guards. Behind them came his daughter, the equally gruff looking Grehte Tchoreg. The host stopped just before the gate. Barl and Sledda waited, unsure as to what the holdup was about.

Lord Torkild turned a slow head up towards Sledda, yelling angrily in his native tongue.

The troop of twenty men and two women slammed the butts of their spears down on the dirt path, repeatedly for five rounds.

“You may keep your weapons!” yelled Sledda. Torkild did not appear relieved at Sledda’s words but moved forward anyways. His host moved through the gates and were shown to their quarters.

“No horses, eh?” said Barl.

“Nope, they’ll travel by foot every time,” replied Sledda. “Their ancestors were nomads. They have the legs of a stallion anyways. Didn’t you see the way the ladies were built?”

Barl smirked. “I did.” Sledda met Barl’s smirk with a look of grievance. “Are you unable to handle normal conversation about women? No matter you’re in charge of the ramparts. The king will have you nowhere near his daughters nor his queen.” Barl’s smirk quickly faded.

Pret and Lun had come running back up the stairs. Pret was the pursuant, a wild grin spread across his face. Their hair flew back in the wind as they chased. Lun dove from the last two steps to the top, but Pret had caught his foot just in time.

“Aye! Lads, it’s time to relax now. Come and stand with me until the last two hosts arrive,” said Sledda. The two drew up blank expressions, seeing that Sledda was serious. Pret had no patience to wait and so he turned and dashed back down the stairs, desperate to be anywhere but standing still atop the castle walls and watching the winds blow. Lun, knowing not what he ought to do with himself without his brother, quickly followed suit.

As the hour passed, the sun began to hang low in the sky. The Red Crow was walking towards the castle gates down below with a Hunter at his heels.

“Our hunters further down alerted us that the Maykeeps have been spotted.”

“Fair enough,” replied Sledda. “Figured the host from Venistar would be last—always are.”

“Mmm, indeed,” said Ser Jaqon. “The Maykeeps bring the largest show of force, estimated at around two hundred in all.”

“Two hundred?” Sledda turned away in shock. His gasp had turned into a wry smile. “Do they mean to scale these walls with two hundred men? They know this was an open invitation, right?”

The Red Crow was not phased. “Lord Warren Maykeep enjoys a boast. He is surely demonstrating his force by leading us to believe he has extra men lying around. You know how he gets.”

“S’pose you’re right. Our relations have always been strained, but two hundred men. How does he expect us to house and feed two hundred men?”

The Red Crow shrugged. “Don’t have to let all of them in.”

Sledda’s lips tightened. He had an idea.

“Gather your men in. Have them set a perimeter on either side of the path they travel just as they pull up to the gates. I’ll have my men stand two lines alongside each other along the path from the rocks to the gates. They don’t get closer until he sets his men up for camp out here.”

“A camp?” said Jaqon.

“A camp.”

“If you say so, commander. If angering Lord Warren would go over well with the king, then be my guest.”

“It will not,” said Sledda. He knew he had enough repoured with the king to risk it. But he knew two hundred men was not acceptable. They did not have the resources to properly take in that many hungry men.

“Well, there’s plenty of game out here for those men to hunt. My own men can attest to it,” said Jaqon.

Jaqon turned to gather his men before the Maykeeps got any closer. Sledda had Barl the Burly spread the word about the perimeter that was to be set between the king’s guard and the Crows.

By the time Lord Maykeep arrived with his host of two hundred men, the perimeter was set and Sledda was down amongst Jaqon’s hunters and his own kingsguard.

“Welcome, Lord Warren. We’re glad you could make the journey,” Sledda had false cordiality to his words. Warren Maykeep did not like it.

“What kind of welcome is this? Looks like you’re not about to let us in.”

“We will, but you bring a large force. We sent our crow with word to bring no more than one hundred. You can leave half your men out here, to camp for the night.” There was silence. Sledda dared not break it.

Lord Maykeep looked to his concubines that he had brought. There were four with him, but everyone knew he had dozens of others back home.

“These the favorites?” came a voice. It was the prince. Rohinar strode up with hand on hilt, a cockey walk about him. “That lot you’ve got with you, they the favorites?” Rohinar pulled up beside Sledda.

Maykeep snared. He had a wrinkly, pale face. His eyes were mean and dark, and a thinning tuft of white hair sat upon his head. The wind blew it to the side, exposing his baldness. “Young prince,” he acknowledged. His face depicted neither angry nor excitement. He scanned the prince head to toe.

“Surely you’ve brought them to share with me?” asked the prince.

Sledda grit his teeth. Warren Maykeep made the shape of an “o” with his mouth, unsure if he was hearing the prince correctly.

Rohinar repeated, “I said…you’ve brought your concubines to share? Or no? I was just wondering because I know you’ve got a few more at home. Wasn’t sure if you like to share your accessories or if you’ve just brought them for show. Like a knight bringing his finest horses to a jousting tournament.”

Two of Lord Maykeep’s less experienced men made the mistake of putting their hands to their hilts. The sound of fifty swords scraping their scabbard made a hiss that was echoed by the night wind pushing through. A hundred arrows had been knocked atop the parapets. Prince Rohinar was cool as the wind.

“Welcome to the Crag, Lord Warren. Bring your better half inside. We’ll look after your other men with lodgings and tents for the night. There is a small town just west of here that’ll sort some of your men seeking an ale after a long travel.” Prince Rohinar spoke as though he had not just created an unnecessary tension.

Lord Maykeep gave a nod of the head and the back half of his host veered off to canter their horses towards the small town just west of the castle. Sledda’s men led the way towards the town. Swords were sheathed. Bowstrings were relaxed.

“Forget them. I could use a couple mugs of ale myself. Now let us in it is getting cold.” Lord Maykeep pushed past Rohinar, an offense that would have been punishable had it been a commoner or a low-born. Rohinar brushed his leather jacket where Warren Maykeep’s hand had brushed.

“Guards, show him inside!” shouted Sledda. He turned to his prince. “Really?”

“What?”

“You are here to evaluate his daughter. The betrothal…that whole thing? Is any of that sounding familiar?” said Sledda.

“Ah, yes. The betrothal.” Rohinar’s insolence had grown far less prominent than it had been. Just like his brothers Pret and Lun, thought Sledda. Only, four years older and with a man’s body.

“Who is left to arrive?” asked Rohinar.

“You know you weren’t supposed to be out here.”

“I didn’t even lay eyes on his daughter,” replied Rohinar.

“That’s not the point,” yelled Sledda.

“Aye, you didn’t answer me.” Rohinar was flipping his dagger around in his hands. Sledda snatched it from him.

“You best be heading in for the night. If you pull that nonsense when the Vornaraks arrive, you’ll be dead by the morning.”

Rohinar laughed. “I am a prince. This will be my castle someday.” Rohinar looked behind them at the Crow Castle looming above them. “And you think Valnaraks, or anyone for that matter, would dare to assassinate the prince because of petty insolence?”

“Yes, I do. And if you don’t think they would, then you don’t know a thing about the Valnaraks.”

Hours later, in the black of night, there was a red flare glowing in the distance. Sledda pointed ahead and eyes followed his pointing finger.

“House Valnarak of Venistar. Prepare the gates, man the ramparts. This is no group to quarrel with.”

And he was right.