[i]In the streets of Portston:[/I]

Crone rubbed at the stinging flesh of the back of his hand, then chuckled at the whore's threats.  Throwing the [i]Gash[/i] across an overturned ale barrel and showing her how the true purpose God had put females on this world would have been an easy feat for the man of violence.  But Lars Barker had long term plans for the girl that Crone was sure would be even more humiliating in the end.

"Just get the job done," he growled, still smiling at her.  He pulled a small purse from a deep pocket hidden in his jacket and lofted it casually through the air to Sophia.  He gestured low on her body as he declared, "From now on, the only cock that finds comfort in that well used hole of yours ... is that hanging before the Noble thighs of Paul Cranston."  

He ignored her response and turned to leave.  He was imagining raping the farm girl before the eyes of her younger sisters, telling them [i]Don't worry, you'll get yours[/i], when he passed by a bakery that he knew to be critically late on their taxes.  He paid a visit to the owner, then -- in a back room -- to the man's until-now-virgin daughter, before putting his clothes back together and returning to the Castle to make his report to the Count.

..........

[i]In the Black Raven Inn:[/i]

"A full day."

Paul had been watching the dance within the Inn's large stone fireplace when he heard to his right the unexpected but familiar voice of his Lieutenant, Sir Orden of Longbrook.  Orden was one of only a handful of Guard who left Westrock with Paul back in 917, almost a decade earlier.  He was Paul's most trusted knight, confidant, and friend, yet the man was now and always had been impatient about issues from negotiation to battle to fucking.  

Paul responded, "I'm sorry, you were saying--"

"It's been a full day since we arrived," the man clarified.  "How much longer are we going to wait?  We should have ridden [i]right[/i] through the gate ... right through the Castle doors to that throne that that--"

"It's not a throne," Paul cut in, causing his friend to don a confused look.  As he pushed against the back of a nearby, unoccupied seat, Paul continued, "It's just a chair.  A big chair, sitting atop a dais, upon which my father sat and upon which his father sat before him ... [i]and[/i] upon which I will sit soon enough.  [i]But[/i] ... it's not a throne."

He looked off into the flames again, recalling what had led to the start of The First War a generation earlier.  For as long as history had been recorded, the Dukes of the Continent had been content to rule their individual Duchies with no designs on controlling anything more than what had traditionally been theirs, been their fathers, been their grandfathers.  Marriages between the various jurisdictions -- Towns, Cities, Counties, and Duchies -- had for centuries strengthened the binds between those communities, preserving peace and prosperity for all.

And then came along the Black Duke.  His true name was Resterhoff, Duke of North Edenmire, and his ambitions -- for himself and for his heirs -- had had no bounds.  He put his wealth to work creating an army like no one had ever seen and struck south and east at his neighbors.  Soon, Towns and Cities and Counties and Duchies across the Continent were selecting a side, for if they didn't [i]one[/i] of those sides selected [i]them[/i], as either an ally to be courted or an enemy to be trampled.  Within a decade, The First War had come to affect the entirety of the Continent ... including the House of Westrock.  

"This damned war was about a throne," Paul reminded his friend.  "I will not sit upon one ... ever.  In fact--"  He looked up at his friend with a smile.  "I will [i]burn[/i] that chair when I return to the castle."  He laughed, lifting his stein of brew, draining it, and pounding it to the table.  He laughed, declaring, "I will burn it ... and I will sit upon a keg of ale."

"With a pillow to cushion your soft little ass?" Orden asked with a smirk.  

They laughed together, teasing one another about which was the roughest, toughest of warriors.  They had been through a great many fights and battles together, and -- if things went as Paul feared -- they would continue to go through more in the future.  

They were sitting at the end of a long table in the corner most distant from the tavern's main entrance.  The Inn Keeper -- who had very clearly expressed his happiness about Paul's return -- had [i]unofficially[/i] made that corner of the Inn the Force's own.  He'd been steering both his familiar patrons and unfamiliar travelers to other seating areas of the Inn's first floor eating and dining area; and he'd ceased renting rooms to some of those travelers -- merchants, wanderers, and more who arrived in Portston via the road or port -- so that Paul's men would each have a bed for themselves and not have to sleep on the wood floors.

A pair of Expeditionary Force scouts entered, sat to make their report, then headed to the counter to get some food.  Orden waited for their departure before asking again, "How long are we going to wait?  [i]You[/i] are the Duke of Westrock.  [i]You[/i] should be sitting up there in that castle ... upon a ... hell, a barrel of ale if you want."

"One more day," Paul reassured him.  "One more, then..."

Their scouts had spied some movement of Westrock Guard troops -- loyal, of course, to Lars -- but there had been nothing of which to be concerned.  The Count didn't seem to making a military play against Paul, so Paul was willing to wait to see if the man running [i]his[/i] Duchy was going to sent an envoy ... or an assassin.  

He looked up to a pair of tavern wenches descending the stairs from the second floor and smiled.  Unlike their first night in Portston-- which had passed without booze or broads -- this night Paul had allowed his men to partake of some of life's little pleasures.  The crackling fire near Paul hadn't been nearly enough to mask the sound of laughter, screaming, and grunting flooding down from the second floor.

"Why don't you go spend some coin?" Paul suggested to his friend with a devilish smirk.  He saw the concerned look on Orden's face: his Lieutenant rarely left his side, and -- except for when Paul was dealing with [i]Mother Nature[/i] -- he hadn't since they'd passed the Westrock frontier.  Paul nodded toward the two wenches, now making their way amongst the unaccompanied fighters looking for a man with needs.  "Go ahead.  Nothing's going to happen to me here."

Orden departed with hesitance, grabbed one of the women, then -- being [i]hungry[/i] -- grabbed the other one as well.  They hurried up the creaking stairs to and through the open door of an unoccupied room, slamming it behind them.  Paul smiled and shook his head, imagining the scene behind the door.

And that was when [i]she[/i] walked through the tavern door...