The Black Barracks was the home to most of the White Cloaks that lived in the Blight Castle. Most of the time, the place was bustling with laughter and lively banter, but currently it was akin to a nursing ward. Mentally and Physically, the white cloaks were all but defeated. And defeated men go to one of three places: A grave, a bar

or a brothel.

Sir Bronx felt far too old to be running errands in the thickest month of winter, but orders were orders. He was heading to the most popular place and the second son’s favorite in the black Barracks. Cindy’s Brothel.

His boots crunched the snow, his heavy coat fought against the sharp, chilly breeze to keep him warm while the wind cut through his spotless cloak like a blade. His insignia waved behind him, planted on his white cape. Many white cloaks pounded their chest into a salute as he passed by.

Right before he entered the brothel, he heard a commotion to his right. A scrawny barefoot boy no older than eleven with tattered clothing was running straight at him with a bag of bread in his hands. Behind him, a shorter, well defined man chased after him, shouting for his food back.

Bronx caught the boy's arm as he tried to slip past him and the kid kicked, punched and bit Bronx in a futile attempt to escape. Bronx, still as a statue, stared at the kid with a neutral gaze. At least the boy had some fire in him. More than he could say for most grown men these days.

The victim caught up and when he saw who Bronx was, he stiffened into a salute. “Captain!”

Bronx’s tone was filled with disappointment as he said, “You let a young boy steal your bread?”

The man hesitated to reply. “...I was taking a…bath, Captain!”

Old Bronx had heard many lies better than that one. Nonetheless, he wasn’t the one in trouble. The kid had stolen bread and broken his Honor, one of the sacred three rules. His old friend, Lord Vander, Vlad’s father, would have taken the kid's hand. Bronx hesitated, but alas, he wasn’t Vander. He snatched the bag from the kid and tossed it to the victim, watching him bow and scurry off before he let go of the kid.

The little snake pretended to walk away before sending a surprise kick to Bronx’s gut. Amused, Bronx couldn’t help but let out a short laugh. Bronx knew the boy's fire well enough; he'd felt it in himself once, long before the years turned him to stone. And then he looked into those dark, angry eyes and he felt a sense of deja vu. The boy reminded him of someone he found in the White Harbor long ago. That boy was also a thief, much more skilled than this one. But not with nearly the same fire. He didn’t think he would find another child that interested him in his old age.

“What’s your name, boy.”

The boy spat on his boots. “What do you care? That ol bastard didn’t need that bread anyways.”

“Maybe not. But he worked for it. Can you say the same?”

“Stealing is a kind of work.”

The boy needed some work on his attitude. But Bronx saw some potential. “You want food? Go hunt a wolf and I'll give you enough food for the year.”

The wolf was the first test for white cloak trainees–Strength.

“How will I find you,” the boy asked.

Bronx smiled; that was not the question he had expected. “Just drag it to the front doors of the Iron keep, I'll find you.”

Upon entering Cindy’s Brothel, Bronx peeled back his hood and blew the cold air out of his lungs, replacing it with the brothel’s husky warmth. The aroma was displeasing and the walls were far too thin for the type of business they were selling. Half-dressed women, preying for their next catch, slithered his way until he waved all but one back to their corners. The woman flirted with touch and words.

Bronx tried his best to hide his displeasure as he asked, “Have you seen a kid come in here? About as tall as me, broad shoulders, long black hair, icy blue eyes, most likely drunk?”

“Ahh!” The woman smiled brightly. “You mean Von?”

Bronx sighed. “Sadly.”

The second son of House Ironstone was in the furthest back room of the brothel, enjoying a long, slender redhead under the sheets of a twin bed. His dirt-stained white cloak was curled on the floor along with a dozen bottles of emptied wine.

Bronx cleared his throat to get their attention. The redhead squealed and instinctively covered her top with the tan sheets. Bronx nodded to the door and she swifty ran out of the room, leaving the blue-balled Von all alone.

Von groaned and sat on the edge of the bed, his unkempt hair dangling over his exhausted face. His words slurred as he said, “And I was just getting to the good part.”

Bronx picked up Von’s white cloak and tossed it to him. “This is–”

“Save the lecture, old man,” Von cut in as he pulled up his pants. “What does that brother of mine want now?”

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Bronx signed inwardly. He looked every bit an Ironheart. He certainly had the blood of the giants, but sadly the mind of a fish. “Lord Vlad wants you in his office. Now.”

“Lord Vlad,” Von mocked as he wrapped himself in the cloak. “Please, old man, you’ve changed his diapers. Just call him Vlad, for Winter's sake.”

“You ought to show your brother more respect. With Vior gone and your sister away,

he’s the only person keeping this house together.”

“Vior’s gone?” There was a flicker of soberness in Von’s expression. “Lucky him. Maybe wherever he’s headed there’s enough space to breathe from Vlad’s arrogance.”

The Bronx remained silent. He considered any insults from a drunk null.

…

Vlad watched Von as he walked into the Lord Commander’s Office, flanked by Bronx. He nodded to Bronx and the Old man walked out, closing the door behind him, leaving a tense silence in the room as Von walked to the side bar and poured himself a drink. He proceeded to lean on the bar, refusing to leave his precious merchandise.

“So brother? What’s the news?”

Vlad cleared his throat before saying, “You're getting married, brother.” His gaze stayed straight.

Von paused the glass of wine at his lips and slowly lowered it. “That’s funny. I don’t remember agreeing to any marriage.”

“It’s a good thing I don’t need your permission.”

Von’s expression sharpened. “I’m not getting married, brother. Not without at least knowing my sutor.”

Vlad inhaled. “She’s a York.”

Von’s head titled. A marriage with the York would be a good thing. So why did Vlad have such a sullen expression?

“She’s the third daughter, Penelope II.”

“The thirteen year old?”

Vlad remained silent.

“Your selling me off to a fucking thirteen year old? What am I getting?”

“Her dowry.”

Von scoffed. He turned around; his brother’s face was the thing he needed to see right now. The anger couldn’t even settle in yet, the disbelief was too large. “You couldn’t even get me the second daughter?”

“She’s promised to another.”

“So make them UNpromise her! You often boast about how strong and ancient our house is but you don’t ever do a damn thing with it!”

“We are guardians, brother. Our strength is used to protect.”

Von just laughed and after a while the room returned to silence.

“Look at you! Comfortably sitting in that chair. I remember a time when you said, "We'd face the wall together”. So Vlad, where’s my seat?”

“Two people can’t rule the same place, brother.”

“I know that much, brother. But there are three castles on this wall. You could have given me either of the other two. Just like father, uncle Ed, and uncle Ru. They were brothers who fought SiDE BY SIDE!” Von popped off of the bar, veins bulged from his neck as his voice grew louder with each word. “But you’d rather give the opportunity to strangers than your blood. You’d rather give the gift of knighthood to a twenty-one year old upstart than your twenty-three year old brother!” Von’s face was inches away from Vlads.

The young lord calmly turned to his brother and replied, “Maybe if you weren’t always drunk—”

“DON’T DO THAT!” Von shattered his glass against the wall. “I’ve fought in every battle you have! I was uncle Ed’s squire and cupbearer for 10 whole years! And still, father only saw the golden child. The biggest and strongest of us all. He thought you’d be the one to bring us together. But he was wrong. Our sister married a man she didn’t even like just to get away from you. You practically imprisoned Vior in this hell hole just for him to escape anyways. Mother! O’our dear mother has been a weeping widow ever since father died. And the only person who’s stayed by your side, you marry to fucking child for the York’s scaps! Is that how House Ironstone treat’s loyalty, Vlad? IS IT?”

Vlad wipes the spit off of his face. “Is that all, brother?”

Von jerked back with wide eyes that quickly turned cold. “One day, brother…” Von said, his voice a whisper but heavy with threat. For the first time Vlad looks at his brother. The drunkenness had long faded, turned into a glare that made Vlad hold his breath. “One day, the consequences of your actions are going to catch up to you and crush you like a hammer. On that day, you're going to look around and see that no one has lifted a finger to help.” Von stared at his brother for a while and when he noticed Vlad planned to keep his silence with his stoic expression, Von left, slamming the door behind him.

As the door slammed shut, Vlad clenched his fists, staring down at the ring his father once wore. He was the chosen heir—the one meant to bind the North together. But more often, he felt as though he were only holding the pieces of his family’s ruin.

Vlad releases a long sigh and hangs his head from the back of his chair. The painting of his grandfather is upside down, much like his life. Vlad's mind churned. The Yorks’ control was tightening like a noose around the North, but aligning with them was the only way to keep the Ironstone line secure…at least, until he found a way to loosen the Yorks' hold.

His mind fades into a conversation he had with his father.

“The North’s code applies to everyone.”

“Even Us?”

“Especially us. Why would the people follow a code we don’t follow ourselves? We may no longer be kings, Vlad. But that doesn't mean we aren’t responsible for all of The North.”

“But House York rules the North now.”

“House York gained its power from the alliance. It has no roots here. We are one of the last of old traditions. We must make sure the North does not lose its identity. That will be your job Vlad. The North is, nor will it ever, be anyone's slave.” His father’s words were clear as frost-laden steel. “Honor binds us to this land, and it binds them to us. Without it, we’re just another clan fighting over frozen soil."

He’s done nothing differently from father. His sister was a brute, she had no Honor. Vior was weak, cowardly, he had no strength. Von was a drunken waste without courage. Why would he give them responsibilities, power? To watch them burn it? They were ruining the image. Falling into the debaucherous customs of the south. Stealing, lying, robbing, murder.

Vlad continued to see the flipped world as he stared at the painting. Grandfather, am I doing it right?

A raven flies into the window seal with a letter attached to its leg. Grateful for the distraction, Vlad grabs the letter and rolls it open. He frowns. Looks like it was time to head to Whitecall.