[color=Black][center][h1]Barth Blacksword,
Lord of Winterfell[/h1][/center][/color]

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Nearly two thousand men at his back as they had traveled days and prepared as best they could they had been searching for ruins and signs of battle. Now they had their answer Barthogan stood over desiccated and chewed human bones the village around them burned down and and destroyed one of the scouts vomiting as he had little stomach for it. "Aye, it's the Skags... Only people worse are the wildlings. We make for Karhold. We will need more men. Have the scouts track them, carful and quiet too. Send riders to the Manderlys... We may have needs of their knights for this." He explained scratching his beard as he looked along seeing more smoke in the distance. "And a rider to Karhold... This is their land, their men will be useful. Our forces together should crush this horde of unruly fools." He turned looking around at his sworn swords and nodded. "We keep on them but look for their ships too. Best to separate them from the boats and force them towards us without a method of retreat." 

Barthogan stared hard as he mounted his horse a big black mare that could run all day with him sat astride on her back, one that had been a gift from Brandon. He thought of his brother off down in the south probably drinking with Lannisters and talking of trade with Tyrells, maybe even feasting with one of the dragons. His brother was the diplomatic sorts, the reasonable sort, the thinking sort. Barth touched a hand to Ice and gave a grin, this was all he needed to be a good lord of Winterfell to fell his foemen and cleave traitors in twain. He was his father's son and with iron grip and steady hand he'd direct the north for years to come or so he hoped. Yet his age caught up with him sometimes he couldn't quiet walk right in the morning or he'd have to wrap warm towels around his arms to ease the pain in the muscle.

He walked back towards his horse sighing as he looked out at the horizon, maybe it was time to stop... To rest and command, not charging in the van with his men, or riding round the flanks with the outriders. Perhaps he should take the advice of others, he was old now... He paused leading his horse to trough of water and brushing her down as he sank against a tree. Fetching out an oil cloth as he laid the great family heirloom Ice down across his legs. Slowly oiling the blade as he wondered how many generations had oiled this sword next to a weirwood... And how many more would, that this blade was their connection to each other. How they held it... How they took the heads of those they demanded justice from with it. Ice was his... And yet part of him wondered if it was safe to wander with this blade so far from home towards an enemy mob.

No leaving it at home only give Edric ideas... But perhaps it should not be his in the next battle to precious to risk to monstrous cannibals in battles untested. As he cleaned his blade he looked up to see a crow perched above staring down at him as he yet again drifted his thoughts back. He wondered what it would have been like at the Wall as first ranger, as Lord Commander... He would have done it eventually as good as he was in his youth. Still though... He had to admit for not having fought wars Brandon was sharp, honed from fighting his brothers to learn and his father's orders. To be the first to hunt and kill a dire wolf in gods know how many years after it slayed their father? He had to admit Blacksword wasn't much of a title compared to Wolf Lord. Both were better than Edric's moniker the nobility had given him, the patient?! Bah, he'd never have Winterfell or the north no sane lord would follow him as long as any other Stark lived he was sniveling coward more concerned with the Red Keep than the North.


[hider=TLDR]
The Lord of Winterfell sends for reinforcements as he prepares to close in on the skags. Thinks over his life and choices wonders if he should make a different choice before its to late.
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