[center][h1]LEORIC CADE[/h1]
[i]On the outskirts of Cade land, the next morning[/i]
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Morning had not yet dawned over the landscape when the Cade men were roused from their sleep by their sarjeants. Almost every man in the camp was suffering from too much drink and too little sleep; even Ser Leopold, Ser Greith, and Ser Numes, the household knights who had survived the fighting, were miserable; high rank usually set one apart from the affairs of the common man, but when coming back home after nearly a war of bloody fighting, men tended to celebrate life without regard for the morrow. Leoric had stayed sober, of course. He eschewed the spirits as a matter of principle, and besides, he could hardly waddle up to the gates of Castle Tarrow drunk as an oarsman, though the thought did bring a private smile to his lips. 
 
He was currently in his tent, a meagre thing that was nevertheless a palace compared to what his men had, facing his assembled chivalry, such as they were. Leopold was sly and craven, Greith was a large brute with a temper, and Numes, though a good man and true, had not been the same since a wayward arrow had left him with a bum leg. He looked at them cooly. They should not have drunk with the men. Now they were irritable and undependable, just another problem he had to deal with.
 
“The pain after the drink is the punishment of the Father,” he scolded them sternly, wrapping his hands behind his back.
 
Leopold and Greith looked at each other, unsure. Numes had the decency to look abashed. “Yes, my lord.”
 
“Yes indeed. You three should know better to act in such a way. You’re anointed knights, not boys. It appears I will have to make my return to my ancestral home, a warrior returning from the fields of blood, accompanied by men who look half like corpses.” He paused, and sighed. They had erred, but they were men. [i]From duty runs rivers of gold[/i], he reminded himself. Those of higher birth had a responsibility to set an example, to be a paragon of what lesser men might strive for, but not everyone could be a paragon of virtue. These men had fought for him valiantly despite all their faults, and he could forgive a slip such as this on such a day. “Leopold, Greith, you will accompany the men back to their villages,” he decided. “Leopold to the Tarrow Town, Greith to the farmsteads up Garend’s Fork. Have it be understood that they will likely be called to service once more in the future. Go assemble the men at once.”
When they’d left, he turned to remaining knight. “Ser Numes, you will accompany me to the Castle. How many men remain of those we had taken from the garrison?”
 
“Twelve, my lord.”
 
“They will accompany us back. We’ll make a sight less regal than when we’d left, I don’t doubt, but no matter.”
 
Ser Numes nodded, and left the tent to do as directed. Leoric followed, stepping out into the damp, chilly air. Fall is ending, he thought. It wasn’t long before winter would sweep in from the north. The ground was a muddy mess, soaked from the last night’s rains. He felt a stab of pity for his men, who had had to sleep under that chilling precipitation. The bigger and cleverer among them had taken shelter in trees or bushes, while some of the wealthier had erected private shelters, though these were nothing to look at. 
 
Two great lines were streaming from the camp, lead by his knights. Soon, only those who would accompany him to the castle were left. He gave the order for the wagons to be assembled - they’d be bringing all their supplies to the castle, but with so few men on hand everyone had to work with the vigor of two men. Nor did he exempt himself from that; after giving his commands, he took to filling the wagons with the supplies they had unloaded for the night, the busy work keeping his mind off things. 
 
Finally, when the shelters were taken down, the wagons assembled into a column, and the men ready to depart, he gave the order to leave the site. They began a slow march uphill in silence. It was strangely disturbing to tell the truth: they had been thousands, then hundreds, and now they were barely above twenty. 
 
As Castle Tarrow grew larger and larger up ahead, he became more and more uneasy. He had always been anxious, even if he had grown adept at not showing it. He would second guess his every decision, and always expected things to turn for the worse. For all its terrors, at least the war had freed him from lordship. Having to put out fires was exhausting, and at Castle Tarrow it had often seemed fires started up faster than they could be extinguished. He looked back to the men riding behind him, frowning at their haggard and tired looks. It was true that they looked like dead men walking, and not just because of the night’s drinking: war had taken a toll on every man among them. Watching your friends being butchered, killing a foeman with your bare hands, living under the constant shadow of starvation and disease… such things could break anyone. They had all lost something to the Young Wolf’s war, he mused, whether it was family, limbs, or innocence. He wondered if he looked as broken as they did.
 
Following the trail, they came upon the palisade at the bottom of Tarrow Hill, an old and rotten earthwork which stretch across the river’s bend. They passed through the path’s gap, and found themselves face to face with four horseman, the chief among which was large and portly man, who seemed as if his mass could barely fit in his armor..
 
The fat man advanced his mount a few steps. “Lord Cade, it is good to see you.back whole. Castle Tarrow is yours.” 
 
“That’s good to hear, Ser Podrick,” Leoric  answered drily. “We’re heartily sick of sleeping in the rain.” He took a close look at the riders, and frowned. “I confess, I expected my brother to be the one to greet me.”
 
Ser Podrick looked uneasy. “I’m afraid Ser Raymun is… indisposed, my Lord. A… malady of the stomach. He was in no condition to ride himself, so...”
 
A malady of the stomach. To be sure. He knew his bastard brother to have the constitution of an ox. More like than not the bastard had drunk himself blind, or was hiding whatever whore he’d found to warm his bed that day. “The Father’s vengeance, I assume?” he mused, more to himself than anyone else.
 
“M’lord?” Ser Podrick asked, confused. 
 
Leoric gave a tired smile. “It’s nothing, Ser, just idle nonsense. My men and I are tired, however; we’ve been marching for weeks now. If you would be so kind as to lead the way...?”
 
“Of course.”
 
They continued up the path, through the open outer gate. He could see sentries posted in the gatehouse, and along the wall. That pleased him, though he wondered whether it was arranged purely for his benefit. He hoped not. Though Castle Tarrow was strong, and not seriously threatened, they were still in wartime, and the lions were ravaging every pile of stone in the Riverlands.
 
A small crowd was assembled in the courtyard, the servants, stableboys, and other vagabonds watching the return of their lord and menfolk. He saw a few women turn and leave, their faces stricken by the absence of their husbands and sons. 
 
Straight ahead, the inner gates were open as well, and some familiar- and unfamiliar- faces were there to see. Good Maester Illric was there, and a girl that he took a moment to register as being Gulian’s daughter. She resembled her father to a startling degree, he found. They’d have to marry in the next few days, he knew. He was the last true Cade, and he was likely to be called to the battlefield again when Lord Walder decided to where his allegiance lied. If he should die- and in war death was an omnipresent reality, by the sword or the pox- his three hundred year line would die with him, and he refused to allow that to happen. At least if he could put a child in her womb, the Cades had a chance of living on, though such a  long minority would jeopardize the family’s fortunes. Seven above, he thought to himself, what morbid thoughts. He resolved not to think on any of that just now. 
 
As his men mingled with the crowd and dispersed to their own ways in the castle, he took a long cool look at his brother. Raymun looked the part of a warrior, possessing the appearance of a man who’d been drilling since he was old enough to hold a sword, which Leoric knew to be true. His brother also had the same pained look that he had seen far too often that morning already. I should prohibit drink, he told himself. Drain all that damned wine in Garend’s fork and never have to deal with men without sense of moderation again. 
 
After a moment’s wait, his page, a local boy of low birth by the name of Barth, arrived from the wagons. Leoric dismounted, and walked towards the inner castle, wordless.
 
Facing his household, he finally spoke. “Alright, no need for formalities, I am far too cold and wet to be bothered. Let’s speak what needs to be spoken in the hall, like civilized people.” He turned to his brother, who looked less than pleased to see him. He wondered whether Raymun had become overly accustomed to his position as castellan. Had the bastard forgotten his station?
 
Leoric clapped his hand around his brother's shoulder. Though he was nearly twice as old, Raymun was taller, which made the gesture awkward. “You too, brother. This wet air can’t be good for your… malady.” He walked on into the keep, the others on his heels, and together they went into the hall.