[CENTER][sup][h1][img]https://imgs.search.brave.com/zPqCc3MzYjZtYmc_LWKcDr33EjNmbWLdlV3acwwBowM/rs:fit:860:0:0:0/g:ce/aHR0cHM6Ly9zdGF0/aWMudmVjdGVlenku/Y29tL3N5c3RlbS9y/ZXNvdXJjZXMvdGh1/bWJuYWlscy8wNTkv/NDk2Lzk4NC9zbWFs/bC9hLXJpdmVyLXJ1/bm5pbmctdGhyb3Vn/aC1hLWdyZWVuLWZv/cmVzdC1waG90by5q/cGc[/img] [b][color=green]T H E R I V E R L A N D S[/color][/b][/h1][/sup] [/CENTER] Lord Walytr granted his private audience with all the proper respects, no highborn here might complain for the lack of hospitality. Nobles were offered the comforts of the somewhat overcrowded castles, Harold even received his own quarters in the northbank keep which he shared with his grandson and new ward Nory. His retinue were found lodging in the castle town, which seemed in the midst of an economic boom comparable to a tourney. The streets were packed by merchants and farmers hawking their wares, while tavernkeepers let their brews flow as coins changed hands rapidly. These Northern lords alongside many riverlanders and valemen brought great hosts, and though the towns outside the Twins seemed full to bursting these were no armies, merely retinues designed to display wealth and power. When they are reminded of their oaths and swayed to act they must return home. Harold thought, his lip twisting in displeasure. They must slowly gather their armies, and rally their knights and ride south again. How much time must they waste? The bastard who would be king already had an army, a competent one if the reports were anything to go by. Every second they delayed Daemon took more ground, and here in the Twins it seemed everyone wished to do naught but delay. Harold was shown into a comfortable study in the southbank keep, within the private chambers of the Frey’s. Books lined the walls, looking dusty and unread and ample animal skins carpeted the floor, but they seemed old and well trodden. A lord who wishes to appear a lord without the strain Harold noted as his greying host welcomed him. “How might I serve you my lord Harold?” Lord Walytr Frey had a nasally whining voice that irked Harold on some primal level. Great effort became required to keep his face passive, not a hint of irritation appearing in his own tone. “It is a great honor to be welcomed into your hall my Lord Walytr. Your courtesy lives up to your reputation. I do not wish to take up much of your time, I understand the gathering happens soon. I have a simple query, one of minor importance, but I came upon a curiosity during my travels to your hall. Might I beseech of your knowledge of the local nobility?” The Frey lord’s eyebrows rose and he sat a little straighter, and Harold was reminded of a clever weasel who’d caught the scent of a hunting hound on the wind. “Of course, were you beset by one of my sworn knights? Or perhaps scorned the comfort of their holdfasts? If you were given an offense I shall see to it, that I swear.” “Nay, no offense from your chivalry, no I merely ask if you are familiar with the current Lord Vance?” Frey noticeably relaxed and seemed thoughtful for a moment. “Of course, which one?” That gave Harold some pause, he recalled there were two Lords named Vance. One ruling from Altranta and the other from Wayfarer’s Rest. The latter's holding was far from the Twins, across two rivers, far too great a journey surely to be reasonable for a wounded governess to flee. “Altranta’s lord, I am curious if he will be attending this gathering.” “Ah, my good-brother. Married to my younger sister.” Walytr said knowingly. “I think not, he sent no ravens declaring his intentions either way. I believe he was ill last I heard. He goes by the name Lord Armistead Vance.” “His heir?” “A babe, Norbert I believe the name was.” Harold gave his thanks and offered his excuses to depart from Waltyr’s study. The heir and potentially the lord of a powerful noble house, dropped into his hands by the providence of the gods. Here was one lord whose banners would join the red dragon in full muster, of that Harold felt certain. Letters would need to be sent, threats need to be made but an army he would have. _____ The great hall hosted a grand assembly of nobility. Direwolf banners were ranked just below those of the red dragon, and alongside the silver fish of Tully and the two towers of Frey. The rest of the walls were an explosion of colors and animals and shapes from the rivers and north. Even the fretty green and gold of Hayford could be seen amongst the others. Lord Hayford found the Crownlands section of the hall largely empty, his fellow lords were well convinced of Daeron’s cause by the simple threat of proximity to the capital or loyalty to their oaths. The great travel distance put pause to most who desired to attend as well. Nevertheless a young Stockworth second son or somesuch knight represented his house alongside a wizened lord Celtigar who looked as if he’d much rather be anywhere else. Harold greeted his fellow Crownlanders courteously, easily gaining their pledge of support to any of his proposals. ”Will any of the Targaryen's attend?” The Stockworth knight asked fidgeting with his swordbelt. “Their presence would lend us credence, and we can be more certain of our pledges.” “I do not know,” Harold admitted. “However I have the King’s seal, and speak using his voice and authority. I can make promises and the crown will fulfill them. I have done so before.” “Yes, but what do the northerners care for some crownland lord’s words? They do not know you.” Lord Celtigar grumbled. “They will know me.” Beside Harold his grandson Steffon held parchment and quill. He scribbled in furious abandon recording every detail using a neat penmanship Harold could only dream of. The names of those attending were already written, and Harold’s first deals were jotted down in suspiciously flowery detail and accurate quotes. “Every word and scene is not needed. It will be too long of a report to send back to King Daeron.” Harold admonished a smile twitching at his lips. “Of course lord grandfather.” Steffon said scribbling down every word of that as well. Harold chuckled and turned his attention to those he most wished to address. The Lord Stark of course, the cold and imposing lord would be a challenge. Ice could be melted but he wanted something, or rather a lot of something. Perhaps his sons or daughters would prove more receptive and provide an opportunity he could exploit, one that would not promise half the treasury away. “It bears considering.” He murmured to himself, noting with a flare of annoyance that Stefforn wrote that down too.