[CENTER][sup][h1][img]https://imgs.search.brave.com/PUA4r3zAA181OZqhL5p1EGpJAITlG8Xi51IiJLgj1aE/rs:fit:860:0:0:0/g:ce/aHR0cHM6Ly9tZWRp/YS5nZXR0eWltYWdl/cy5jb20vaWQvMTg2/ODQ4MzE5MS9waG90/by9zY2VuaWMtdmll/dy1vZi1hZ3JpY3Vs/dHVyYWwtZmllbGQt/YWdhaW5zdC1za3kt/bWlubmVzb3RhLXVu/aXRlZC1zdGF0ZXMt/dXNhLmpwZz9zPTYx/Mng2MTImdz0wJms9/MjAmYz03OUJValVt/dmlYZ3RPRTluRG16/ckhSWGlvdmxPdGVW/NE9qZ0NLV0U0eWlZ/PQ[/img]
[b][color=f26522]T H E   R E A C H[/color][/b][/h1][/sup]
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	The procession of exhausted men limped its way through the lower hill country tracing their rapid steps back from whence they came. They were slower this time, far from the hectic pursuit before that had brought them into battle. Weighed down by battle loot, leading captured horses, and carrying fallen comrades they were in no rush. Every one of them had been pushed to their limit, hard pressed to crush the Dornishmen who had invaded the Reach. Lord Gormon had not permitted a proper pursuit of the routing foe, rightfully concerned they may be led into yet another company of Martell riders.They brought back a mere three prisoners, two knights and a squire of noble blood who were deemed valuable enough to keep in irons. The rest were put to the sword. He allowed only a short rest so that man and horse could drink from a nearby stream and scrounge any valuables from the dead. Once they’d recovered their own fallen the Marcher company set off, leaving the sandblooded corpses to rot under the late day sun. Of the hundred knights Gormon led out from their encampment in pursuit of a handle of scouts, only four score and a half returned, and nearly every man bore a wound of some kind, whether serious or benign. Only Ser Samuel seemed wholly unharmed, though even his broad shoulders were slumped by weariness. 

	Gormon’s own muscles ached, and dried blood caked his lower thigh where Willem’s sword found a weakness in the ringmail. Not once during the slow ride back to the encampment did he let the twinges of pain from his throbbing skull or lacerated leg show on his face. Instead he set his jaw in grim resolve and bore it without complaint. He rode a captured horse, some bay Dornish courser which allowed his enfeebled destrier a much needed rest. The big red horse limped noticeably, its arrow injury clearly causing the animal considerable distress. He ought to name the beast, Gormon mused glancing back. River mud had been slathered around where the arrow had been extracted to help staunch the bleeding. The red had survived multiple battles so far and no doubt when the wound healed they would ride together again. The beast was proven, sturdy, and most importantly fortunate. In the business where warhorses regularly perished alongside their riders, being lucky could not be understated. Gormon turned a few suitable names over in his head, murmuring them under his breath to test them, but none seemed right. He pondered for a moment more before shaking his head, as if trying to rid himself of a persistent gnat. He would ask his son Able, the boy could be far more sentimental and clever when it came to naming conventions. He probably already had a name for the red stallion and would only need to be prompted to share it.

	Gormon thought back to thirteen years ago when Able had been born to him. He would have named him Titus for the infant’s grandfather and left it at that, but Antonie insisted he be called Able after some story or hero past. It seemed a dreadfully common name to Gormon, nor could it be found in his lineage. In truth his protests against his wife’s preferred name were half hearted, for he bore little love for his lord father. Lord Titus Peake in his day proved cold and distant, caring little for his four sons even unto the day he died sick and alone in his chambers. Instead Gormon’s first born son would be anointed in the seven oils and named Able of House Peake. Heir to nothing, not even a towerhouse in the mountains, but the cruel hand of fate turned and now Gormon ruled Starpike and commanded its armies. His elder brothers and their children were naught but memories, stolen from the world by disease. Every time Gormon thought of them, guilt turned his stomach. How could he have been rewarded so generously from the deaths of his nephews and brothers? It seemed wrong to be pleased but Gormon could not deny that sense of rightfulness when he’d received the raven flown letter which had given him equal parts grief and pleasure. His son would rule at Starpike, and if they won this war greater honors and rewards awaited.

	Engrossed in his thoughts Gormon heard a satisfied snort from Ser Samuel and glanced up to see their journey at an end. The Peake host had made its camp in the shelter of a triple hill not far from the road. A half ring of wagons secured the vulnerable flanks of the tentline, while sharped stakes hammered into the dirt protected the fore. Soldiers hustled about fetching water, digging latine ditches, and cooking the evening meal not wasting a single moment of the dwindling daylight. The scents of roasted beef and chicken drew the hungry knights in and they rode through the makeship threshold where guards saluted their returning lord and his chivalry. Immediately they were surrounded by squires, dozens of them who set about attending their charges. More than a few were grief stricken, as they searched in vain for a knight who did not return alongside the others. Gormon’s squire and good-brother Antill Amborse approached gifting him a wineskin from which he drank greedily.

	“You took a wound my lord?” The young man said examining the rushed patchjob of mud and cloak tearings that stymied the bleeding. He paled at the sight and looked as if he might be ill. Antill was a dutiful squire, intelligent and diligent yet he possessed a hopelessly weak stomach and little talent for battle. Lord Ambrose must have thought Gormon would toughen up the boy and fashion him into a proper warrior. A forlorn prospect to be sure.

	“My skull is worse.” Gormon grunted once he’d drunk his fill, throwing away the wineskin. “The knight I fought, one of Sandstone’s spawn I think. The whoreson rang my helm more than once but I saw to him in the end. One less scorpion to worry us. Give me your arm and do not let me stumble damn you. I must not fall in front of the men.”

	“I have you my lord.” At least Antill possessed a good strength of arm Gormon thought when he slid out of the saddle and put his full weight on his legs. Even a man like he could not keep the hiss of pain from escaping. Antill held tight to his arm practically holding him upright. For a moment Gormon felt light headed and his knees shook but he threw off the temporary weakness and shoved Antill away.

	“That’s enough, I can stand on my own. Others take you, I only needed steadying, not carrying.”

	“Of course my lord.” Antill brushed at his yellow tunic patterned in scurrying ants. Gormon’s arms were stained by the gore of his enemies, and he’d left considerable amounts smeared on Antill’s own pristine clothing. He looked sickened again. “Ser Unwin awaits you in your pavilion my lord. Uh- shall tend to your horses?”

	“Aye, do that. See that the horsemaster heals my destrier’s hurts. The beast took an arrow and I’d rather not see it fester.” Leaving Antill to his duties Gormon stomped his irritable way towards the unmistakable orange pavilion that held a commanding position at the encampment’s center, atop a small rise. He did everything in his power to not limp, but he was glad of the lengthening shadows to help cloak his pain. Pushing his way through the entrance flap he found Unwin and Able within awaiting his presence, a spread of warm food and wine already laid at the small table. The tent’s interior was a spartan affair lacking the usual luxury of a high lord’s campaign quarters. At least it had a proper bed and a table and chairs, comforts most of the army lacked. The moment he entered Able leapt up and embraced him, unmistakable concern written on his youthful face. Gormon hesitated, wanting to rebuke the boy for the display, but only Unwin was there to see. His brother would not fault him. He growled in disapproval but he relented and gave his worried son a half hug. It was more than his own father ever would have allowed public or private he mused silently.

	“The outrider’s report said you took a wound.” The boy explained his concern, when he pulled away gesturing towards Gormon’s bandaged leg. “I thought maybe-”

	“Nothing,” Gormon snorted, waving away the worry. “The bugger proved swifter than my shield is all. He wielded an accurate blade, and a strong hand. He lies dead now, him and a hundred of his ilk. I will admit my head is muddled, I must sit and eat and I want out of this armor.”

	“Of course brother, you look weary.” Unwin said standing as well. “Rest a moment, we shall rid you of that steel, and then we must hear of your exploits in the skirmish.” While they carefully removed his armor and bloodied clothing Gormon recounted the battle, describing in detail his victory. The two were good listeners and Able even gave a cheer when Gormon described how he finally bested the Qorgyle knight. He produced the captured scimitar and let Able hold it. The boy’s face became enraptured by the bejeweled weapon.

	“I shall win one just the same before this war is through.” The boy swore as he passed the sword off to Unwin to examine. Gormon felt his heart swell with pride and he let the faintest hint of a smile appear on his lips thankfully hidden by the dim candlelight.

	“You shall listen and train hard under your Uncle, and heed his orders.” He admonished in a serious yet pleased tone. “Do that and you’ll live long enough to be capable of vanquishing a worthy foe. Be patient and level headed, you will have your chance for glory, every man does.”

	“You advising patience and cool headedness Gormy?” Unwin jibbed. “I must have missed when the sun rose in the west, and pigs took to wing. The world has turned to madness.” Gormon growled, throwing his gauntlet at his insolent brother, Unwin laughed and dodged while Able was all smiles.

	They ate heartily of a haunch of goat and drank deeply of wine and spring water. The taste of warm savory blood on his tongue restored Gormon’s strength and his head felt clearer despite the abundance of alcohol. The two men discussed Unwin’s diplomatic venture with Lord Selmy, and the pledge to drive away the Dornish first and foremost. The conversation turned then towards how best to utilize the meager resources the Marcher lords had at hand to defeat the Martells. Able listened raptly drinking in every word of strategy and logistics, but as the hours dragged on the boy’s head drooped and his eyelids fluttered until at last he lost the hard fought battle against sleep. His head nestled on his arms, resting against the table. His soft snores drew the men’s attention, and Gormon shook his head irritably. “My son has the right of it, we should rest. The scheming can wait for the morrow. We need Selmy’s approval before anything may be set in stone.”

	“I concur brother, but I am certain Summerhall remains the chink in our armor. The Boneway must be closed before we can rendezvous north.” Unwin stood and suppressed a yawn. “Shall I return my squire to his tent? Seems a shame to disturb him.”

	“Nay leave him be, he may sleep here for the night.” They parted, Unwin vanishing out into the darkness for his own pavilion while Gormon gently picked up his son and deposited the boy in the bed. For a brief moment Able seemed to Gormon’s eyes a tiny babe again, asleep in his crib beneath an Ambrose roof. Those days were simple, serving as a knight without prospects. He never would have guessed how it would develop. Everything he had, his brave sons and dutiful daughter, his loyal wife, his titles and castles and honors all given by the gods. Would they be so cruel as to snatch them away again? Should he have accepted his fortunes and forgone ambition, duty and hatred? The slumbering boy stirred, and his trusting grey eyes found Gormon’s own.

	“The seven keep you father.” He murmured before sleep stole him away again.