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[b][color=f26522]T H E   S T O R M L A N D S[/color][/b][/h1][/sup]
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	Ninety men galloped through the Stormlands from the west, taking the lesser known route through the mountain woodlands guided by Selmy scouts. The small company were mostly mounted yeomen though Unwin did not count himself the only knight. Four others were present, mostly to keep the eager lowborns in check. For their mission required the heavy hand of a brigand, and the careful restraint of a seasoned knight. At daybreak Ser Samuel took thirty riders and split off towards the northeast while Ser Patryk took a score and rode hard for the southeast. Unwin and his two score would ride due east at a hard gallop and strike before the morning ended. Before the people of Summerhall’s lands knew what had befallen them. They were practically in the shadow of Maekor’s castle, a mere six leagues from the keep.

	Silent and swift they went, skirting the open areas that would betray their approach. A cattleman stumbled upon them to his great misfortune, and a yeoman skewered him with a spear, his warning cry dying on his lips. Onward they went, the faint curl of smoke drifted from cookfires, the scent of roasting chicken and barley porridge could be tasted in the air. Voices were heard, morning greetings between smallfolk who were attending their daily routines. A group of children ran down the muddy lane that ran between the settlement’s homes. There stood at a quick count twenty cottages, ramshackle and covered by thatched roofs that would burn easily. All around Unwin were eager grins as the company assembled just inside the treeline. This is why smallfolk went so willingly to war, Unwin reflected as he regarded the cruel expressions around him. The chance to feel a taste of power. An opportunity for self enrichment and to satisfy brutal cravings. So far they’d been kept under tight control, Lord Gormon did not wish to burn the Reach nor anger its lords. These were Summerhall lands however, and these people paid their taxes to the red dragon, and fought in its armies. They were no better than foreigners in the eyes of Reachmen.

	A young woman, carrying water from the town well, wandered too close to the treeline. Her sharp ears caught the sound of a horse’s hooves scraping over root and rock. For a moment she smiled, expecting scouts from Summerhall, but the men slinking through the trees wore no emblem. Their surcoats and gambesons were covered by black cloth, their faces concealed behind fire darkened steel. The girl screamed, dropping her bucket and running for her life. A warning shout sounded, men scrambled to find whatever lay close at hand to use as a weapon. It was too late, far too late.

	“Let some women flee, kill the men and boys. Take everything you can carry or herd and burn the rest.” Unwin ordered, hardening his heart against what was about to happen. Wild shouts rose from the throats of his reavers and they surged forward in a terrible lust and fury.


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	The day enacted a heavy toll on Summerhall’s lands and people. Unwin and his men savaged three villages, and nearly a dozen farmsteads. Fields were put to the torch, women assaulted, the men were outright slain while the children were brutalized by those who could stomach such acts. Animals were rounded up, and those that couldn’t were killed and left to rot. The losses for Unwin were minimal, a few scrapes and bruises and one man dead. The man in question had gotten far too distracted in his pursuits on top of a woman that he hadn’t noticed her son sneak up behind wielding a wood axe to cleave his skull in two. The boy and woman were both dead now hanging from a tree. The fallen reaver remained behind in a pool of his own blood. A bitter warning to his compatriots to take greater care in their clearing of the houses. Satisfied they had made their presence known, and a great deal of woeful refugees would soon be crowding Summerhall’s gates Ser Unwin turned his men west. Heavily ladened by loot and animals, their hands stained red from a grisly work well done.