Outside the walls of Summerhall, where the largest gathering of Westeros’ nobility for decades was taking place, thousands of men were present; sitting around, waiting for the Great Lords of the realm to decide upon the details of their invasion of Dorne; the details of many of those gathered’s deaths. 

Garlan Mormont, eldest son of the aging Androw Mormont and heir to Bear Island, sat with a group of Northmen soldiers around a large fire, passing a large skin of wine around. The Lordling had found that he mixed with the lowborn men of the North more easily than he did with the highborn of the South, or the ‘Summer Lords’, as he and his men mockingly referred to them. Garlan took a particularly large swig of wine when the skin returned to his hands, laughing uproariously at a crude joke one of the Stark’s bannermen had made, a grin on his bearded lips as he rose to his feet, belching and wiping at his lips with the back of his right hand - a loud yawn leaving him before he murmured his farewells to the men gathered, slapping a few on the back as he began the walk back toward his tent; the tent that he shared with his younger brother and sister. 

The Northerner’s boots crunched on the small stones beneath his feet as he walked through the section of the large, sprawling city of tents set aside for the Northron ‘army’. Even though it was dark, the sky was bright, and the moon was near full - the light provided was enough to illuminate his path, brightened even more so by the occasional flickering torch. While the majority of the Lords feasted and talked within Summerhall’s relatively new walls, the men who’s blood would soon run into Dornish sand ate and drank outside. Although he had only been through their campsites briefly, the majority of any of the men recruited from below the neck were green; either young, or inexperienced and foolish - or both. [i]Geldings, all of them - still wet behind the ears, clumsy and foolish. With more arrogance than brains. They’ll be men soon enough - if they survive their first battle.[/i] 

While Garlan did not particularly understand nor approve of the young King Daeron’s decision to invade the unexplored lands of the Dornish, he was going to do his best to use this opportunity whilst he was close to the young man to attempt to curry his favour. He knew his father wouldn’t approve of any attempt to sweeten up the King, but he was all the way back in Bear Island - Garlan was in charge, and Ramsay and Cassana would certainly cooperate. 

He arrived back at the relatively large tent that had been erected for his and his sibling’s use within a few minutes, ducking beneath the tarpaulin that served as a door and stepping inside the roomy - albeit temporary - structure. Fine, hand-sewn rugs covered the ground, as well as various pelts that the Mormonts had brought with them from home; it was nothing fancy, but it helped to keep the feet warm and to remind the Northerners of home, even though they were so far away from it. 

The tent was dimly lit - by a few candles scattered around the place - and Garlan could see the curled-up form of Cassana; already asleep. Ramsay, however, was sitting at a temporary writing desk - pouring over the information about various lords he had already been able to collect from those of their bannermen who were eager to talk. “Ramsay,” Garlan barked, startling his younger brother, “Get some clothes on - make sure they’re nice ones. And rouse Cassana. We’re going to join the feast.” 

Twenty minutes later, the three Mormont siblings were on their way to Summerhall; dressed in their finest clothing, which for Ramsay and Garlan consisted of finely made leather garments decorated by the occasional piece of bearfur, the colours of their House sewn onto the chest and back of their jackets, and for Cassana a beautiful cream dress, which complimented her curves, purchased during the Mormont’s descent South. Longclaw, the Mormont’s Ancestral Valyrian bastard sword, was slung diagonally across Garlan’s shoulders, the bear-shaped pommel clearly visible over his broad shoulders. Accompanying the Mormonts were two large, shaggy-looking men - wielding battleaxes, about as well groomed as they could be on short notice with their ponytails pulled back and beards braided. 

As they left the sea of tents behind them, heading for the far-off but still visible walls of Summerhall, the hubbub and clatter of the drunken soldiers gradually died away until the only thing that could be heard was the occasional bird chirp, or the rustling of the undergrowth as the Mormonts made their way through it; walking along a small, windy path. There were various others along the path as well - servants, mostly, but the occasional lord or knight could be seen further up the road, hurrying towards the castle - or [i]palace[/i] - to take their place in the Great Hall. 

“Thoughts, Ramsay?” Garlan inquired in his rumbling bass, eyeing Summerhall’s walls. “It’s beautiful, brother,” Ramsay replied in his smooth baritone, smirking, “But it looks rather.. flimsy. It could be taken quite easily, I imagine - it would be child’s play in comparison to taking The Twins, Winterfell or The Dreadfort.” The eldest Mormont grunted, nodding his head. “A palace, if anything - not a castle. A holiday home for the Dragons, I imagine. And now it is to be a staging point for an expedition into unexplored, unchartered and hostile territory.” 

“At least you’ll have a fight for once, Garlan - so you’ll quit your complaining.” The soft voice, tinged by a mocking tone, came from Cassana - a mischievous grin on her lips as she looked up at her older brother. “Aye, Cass - there’ll be fighting. Fighting you won’t be taking part in. I’ll find somewhere for you to stay when we go into Dorne - or send a few of the boys with you to take you home.” Before Cassana could open her mouth to argue, a low sound left Garlan’s mouth - almost akin to a growl - and the woman’s words died on her lips; a sullen expression on plainly beautiful features as she walked. Although she walked with a Lady-like grace, it was clear that Cassana was unused to wearing dresses; and, truthfully, she felt naked without an axe by her side - but Garlan had forbidden her to bring her weapon with her; it would be unladylike, he’d said. 

After a fair bit of walking, the small party of Northerners approached the gates of Summerhall - which were manned by men wearing the colours of House Targaryen. “The Mormonts of Bear Island, banners of House Stark. Here to join the feasting.” Garlan’s voice had a gruff, commanding edge to it - the voice of a man used to yelling orders above the din of battle; a warrior’s voice. Garlan may have noble blood, but he was as good a fighter - if not better - than any lowborn mercenary. The Targaryen Guards checked their list, before grunting and waving the Mormonts inside the gates - where a servant was waiting to escort them to the Great Hall. 

Garlan cleared his throat as he pushed past the guardsmen, adjusting his finely made jacket - eyes looking around the beautifully built palace into which he had stepped, with an expression of awe akin to that of an uneducated farmboy’s painted on his features for a few moments as he simply stood and.. stared. After all, the log hall that he’d grown up in on Bear Island possessed none of the grandeur of this Targaryen-built palace. 

Ramsay pushed past his older brother, giving the rough-looking man a hard jab in the ribs to snap him out of his gawking, muttering harshly as he passed him, “We can’t have you looking like a boy who’s just seen his first pair of tits, brother - close your mouth, and get moving. We have a King to meet.” 

The Mormonts entered the Great Hall just as Daeron stood to address the gathered lords, slipping in through a back door. Garlan tried to move as quietly as possible, but various heads turned to see the arrival of the Mormont siblings and their two escorts; Garlan could easily have been mistaken for a Wildling, were it not for his House’s colours emblazoned upon his chest, and the sword made from Valyrian steel slung across his shoulders. 

The bear of a man led the way over to the section set aside for the representatives from the North, nodding to those few lords whom he recognised - the Mormonts quickly assuming their seats, Garlan in the middle, Ramsay on his right and Cassana on his left - their guards standing a good few feet away, arms folded across their chests.