Tammy
Lord Nathaniel Vivayn
Gates of Castle Barrmount, the Iron Plaines

The lush and plentiful flakes that had fallen from the sky draped the canvas of earth as far as the eye could see. For miles and miles it blanketed the harshness and roughness of the Witherlands' terrain and made it appear clean and beautiful and untouched. Then the thudding came. A disturbance distinct enough it came building to a fever pitch until all that could be heard echoing through the forest of winter was the thudding and the crunching, pressing itself into the scene and asserting its will. The trees shook. The birds squawked and flapped their wings and eventually the cacophony of horses' whinnies, the sound of leather lashing against hide, the climactic increase of thudding against the ground, the crunching of snow and the shouting of men filled the atmosphere with their symphony. It rang high into the heavens, screeching of the apocalypse that was to come. The blissful scene of unbridled nature had been touched by their choir, with the maestro at the helm. 

"Halt!" Came a cry from a tower. Modest as it was, it almost blended into the woodlands that surrounded it. Yet it was tall enough to oversee the untamed wilderness of the Iron Plaines, with strong, stalwart stonework and space to house a good number of men. "Men at arms, stand tall! Ready your weapons! Archers, nock and draw!" The voice commanded, and the disturbance of the ambiance only furthered, as men scrambled to their positions to comply with the orders given. More thudding. More pounding. The archers pulled the string of their bows backwards until eventually the tautness of their bows and the struggle heard from their resistance was the only thing that could be heard, like a dead man hanging from a tree, blowing in the wind, just *Waiting* To snap off.

Those at the head of the pack dismounted from their steeds. Draped in furs and feathers, two armoured men bore two separate banners: one, the sigil of House Vivayn, the Snow Crow in flight, in pursuit of its prey, on a black and nickel background. The other, a white flag of pacifism. Both flapped in unison in the cold winds. 

The man who boomed out all the commands appeared from the battlements. A man of middle aged, grizzled, with lined features that had seen many a battle met the three figures standing before the outpost. "What business do you have here, usurper?" He called down. 

Lord Nathaniel Vivayn craned his neck upwards, seeing the sun's silver rays retreat behind foreboding clouds. His riding attire was still rather striking. His overcoat robed around him, with furs springing out from the nape of his neck. His cloak looked as if it had been torn straight from a king's bed, with satin inlay that shone with all other fineries. The hood of that cloak was pulled heavily across his head, shielding his features. Standing there, in the snow, he looked like the most well-dressed druid that ever lived. He took care to free himself from the hood, eventually revealing his face. His facial expressions always invoked more queries than they ever answered. His sharp characteristics made his presence naturally intimidating. Though an ugly, bookish youth, he had matured into a rather handsome young man, yet onlookers would not bask in that. Rather, they would be drawn to the lifeless voids that were his eyes. They were the colour of murky ice and just about as chilling. People who were in close proximity with him were like to get lost in them, and then, never return.

Nathaniel took two deliberate steps forward, his boots crunching in the snow. "I seek the fair lady of Castle Barrmount. Long have tales of her prowess and fortitude sparked intrigue in me. I believe she and I are long overdue for a conversation. The Frozen Gods have confided in me that this conversation will shape the future of our sacred kingdom." Strong winds picked up, flapping the banners and his cloak rapidly. 

"The Frozen Gods confide in you, do they? You're a wanted man, Vivayn. The Ice Lord wants your head on a pike. Why would I permit you to seek an audience with my lady?" The commander replied. 

Nathaniel briefly glanced at the ensemble behind him: a never-ending sea of steel and humanity atop destriers of despair. "Well... That, I presumed," His lips curled upwards into something of a wry smile. 

"Castle Barrmount is defended. We will fight you tooth and nail if you so wish it. This is our land you are in now, turncloak," The seasoned knight responded defiantly. 

"'Tooth and nail', I like that. As far as I am aware, horses have neither the teeth to bite to break bones, nor the nails to draw blood. Yet the armoured warhorse of House Barrmount is a sturdy thing. I am sure you would keep us at bay, for a time," The Lord of Wingsway sounded, as the tautness of the archers' bows rang even heavier in the air, "But of course, I intend for no such unpleasantness. My men bear the white flag for a reason. I come in peace, sir." Nathaniel Vivayn raised both arms to his side, his skeletal hands extending upwards in an air of amity.

"To trust any words that vibrate off your poisonous tongue would damn this place far worse than any plague. We will take no such chance," The knight nodded his head and in unison, the sound of blades being released from their sheaths travelled around the tower, the sounds much more poetic than the din of chaos Nathaniel's host brought with it. "I bloody well know just how much that peace banner means to you, Lord Vivayn. As I recall you set it above your castle walls and permitted the entry of the False King's men after your mother and father were beheaded for traitors. The men who thought they were under the protection of that white banner you now mockingly wield were slaughtered the very night you received them and displayed in a most inhumane fashion when the Ice Lord came to demand your loyalty. If I allow you to pass, no doubt the same fate will befall my men." 

The veteran fighter pointed his blade towards Nathaniel and his men, adding to the arsenal of weapons being pointed at the Vivayn army. "I will ask you one thing before all this begins. Why stab the Lord Ruler in the back when you had the opportunity to stab him in the front tens of thousands of times, like a man? What twisted game were you playing when you presented yourself as an ally of Marshall Carter to just coil and attack from the darkness like a serpent?" The knight asked, feeling the hairs stand up on the back of his neck as they had many times before battle.

"I did what I did to survive. War broke out and every fabric of the realm was disturbed. My foolish mother and father, the Lady and Lord Vivayn would have seen the extinction of our house if they were to continue to support the False King. Just the same as Jarys Barrmount would have been the last lord of House Barrmount if it were not for his younger brother. He and I are not so different. You would do well to remember that." He felt the venom surfacing, the way he almost spat that last sentence out at the stubborn knight who halted his progression, his destiny. He breathed in the cold air, steeling himself. 

"Marshall was the obvious choice over Felix, but after the dust had settled and the Brother's Rebellion concluded, it occurred to me how much the Carters had made this sacred kingdom bleed. Why continue to suffer under the carelessness and decadence of two men who have only ever fought for themselves, when the dynasty of their arrogance and pride could be replaced with new blood?" Purging the old and injecting the new and brilliant was what almost always pulsated around Nathaniel's being; it emanated from his aura. Purification was what he believed he was put on this world for. Dousing the stains of the malformed and aberrations that crept in every corner of civilisation with his remedy was what he realised to be his destiny. 

"New blood, is it? Your dynasty consists of much the same: of bloodshed and lies and greed and corruption. You have the gaul to stand there and compare yourself to Yaron Barrmount, who was the bravest man I had ever known. You are nothing like him. You are just another tyrant," The older man stated emphatically. "And aye, the old warhorse may not have much in the ways of brutality, nor razor-sharp weapons... But it will still break the neck of your little snow crow if it slams its weighted hoof on it," The knights and archers and all other that occupied the outpost chanted in support of their commander.

Nathaniel exhaled in frustration, his breath steaming in the cold air. "I suppose there is one distinct difference between your late lord and myself... I am still alive." *And I will ascend beyond even that soon enough*. He spun in an instant and returned to the two knights at his rear. He pushed the cape of one of them to the side and reached in his swordbelt to unsheath the blade within. He then pointed it directly to the man who showed no fear against him. "How very noble of you, sir. A noble death is one of the best ways to go," He twisted the sword, looking at his reflection in the dimming light that illuminated their interaction, "But I think the screams and howls would not make it appear so noble." The thought lifted some of the fog in his mind. 

"As tempting as it is to peel the flesh of every last one of you insolent, boorish occupants of this shoddy slab of stone and mortar, I have no intention of doing so. House Barrmount has not yet declared for either side of this war. It would not be beneficial to me to leave you to my snow crows with what I intend to proposition your lady with." When the head knight did not respond and Nathaniel heard the tautness of those bows ring in his ears like a saw on wood, a knowing smirk crept across his features.

"I even come to you bearing gifts." Lord Nathaniel turned to his men and gave a signal and the ensemble parted with a column in the middle. He walked into it, like a rogue walking into a dark valley at moonfall to be with other nefarious creatures of the night. When he returned, six men followed him. Six men who appeared to have been through the hells and back, but returned without their souls. Their garbs were torn and tattered. Their faces gaunt, stricken with the marks of sweat, dirt and exhaustion. These were *Broken* Men. 

The knight commander narrowed his eyes at the scene before him and then widened them upon realisation. "Sir Wentworth?! Is that you?" The man called down.

The honourable knight in question had his gaze fixated distantly onto the snowy earth beneath all of them, appearing to be somewhere entirely else. Somewhere not in the land of the living. After a moment or so had passed with the knight not responding, Nathaniel gave him a nudge. The man cleared his throat, almost as if he were gulping. "Yes, Commander Vygris, it is I." Meekly, the man looked up at the outpost to meet his superior's eyes.

"My men found these brave guardians attempting to keep the peace in the village of Drejmire after the local men-at-arms were being bombarded by the afflicted. They valiantly held back those driven by madness and compulsion to the point of savagely attacking the line that would not permit their entry. Similarly, they attacked my men as we were riding eastwards and it is there we put them out of their misery," Lord Nathaniel explained, appearing to take on a solemn tone.

Commander Vygris was none too convinced. "You slaughter an entire village and take hostages. Is that what you expect grants you access to the castle?" He let out a dry, humourless chuckle.

"I – *We* – Sir Wentworth and the other courageous fighters beside me were left with no alternative." Nathaniel slid his skeletal hand onto Sir Wentworth's shoulders, gripping it tightly. "I have seen them up close, commander. Whatever illness that has infested them has made their minds dull and their actions ferocious. They would have started tearing each other apart alongside your knights here if it were not for me. The disease ridden inside of them is evil, and I extracted it out from them. Their lives were an unfortunate price to pay." Lord Vivayn once again raised the sword in his hand as the lithe digits of his other hand encircled around the sloped shoulder of Sir Wentworth. "Yet it will be my cross to bear, sir. I will slash and thrust my way through any opponents that threaten the prosperity of this great kingdom. *Anyone* And *Anything,*" He tugged Sir Wentworth closer to him, with the sword in his other hand flashing like a silver beacon. Even though the archers had long stood down, Nathaniel could still hear the tautness in his head. The struggle, the frustration. It was a symphony in his head. He kept picturing that dead man swinging from a noose in the wind, just begging to be snapped off from that branch. Then, at that moment, every fibre of his being was almost begging Commander Vygris to make him do it, just the same as the dead man in his head was begging to finally fall off and be one with the earth again. He wanted so badly to replace that swinging dead man with another poor soul so the winds would have another to torment. 

"It is true..." Sir Wentworth suddenly blurted out. His head struggled to look up once again, as if he were wearing a crown decorated with rocks. "Everything he speaks is true. Lord Vivayn is our saviour... Our liberator." The man sounded depleted.

Commander Vygris ran his gloved hand through his grizzled beard as he contemplated Sir Wentworth's words. He sighed, before ushering one of his subordinates over. "Sir Harlan, you are to inform Lady Sibyl of Vivayn's arrival immediately. Speak to no one other than the lady herself. Do not stir panic," He instructed. 

"But commander... Lord Rodrick's wake is still in progression. To disturb it would be—" 

"Just go. Now. Ride fast," Vygris interrupted. The knight left without another moment's hesitation. 
Satisfied, Nathaniel dropped the sword in the snow, leaving an imprint of the weapon. "If your men would be so kind as to escort mine to the gates, I would very much appreciate it. Time is of the essence," He spoke clearly. 

"My men and I will escort *You* And the two knights alone, not your entire host. And you will wait here until Lady Sibyl has been informed of your presence." The distant thudding of a horse's galloping echoed in the background. 

Nathaniel held his bony hand up to ear, his hearing apparently suddenly failing him. "What was that, commander? I cannot hear you all the way up there." Nathaniel gave an innocent smile. "You will have to come down here and meet me face-to-face." 

Seething, Commander Vygris led his knights from atop the outpost, storming down the tower. Large oaken doors were booted open, their creaks painful. The knights of House Barrmount made their cavalcade before the foreboding sight of House Vivayn's army, with Commander Vygris meeting Lord Nathaniel head on. 

"We will escort you and the men beside you, not your entire host," The knight commander repeated gruffly. 

"Well that would put me at a distinct disadvantage, would it not?" Nathaniel asked rhetorically.

"There are Skagerlly men in your ranks. If I take them any further than the pass, the sight of their banners will create a frenzy. My men will want blood if they so much as lay eyes on them. If you truly proclaim that the white flag you wave means peace, then you will leave them here, along with the rest of your host."

Lord Vivayn nulled that over, impressed with the knight's tact and forethought. A man like Vygris was useful in times of war. "Very well. Lead the way, sir," Nathaniel complied. 

"Not just yet. Lady Sibyl *Will* Be informed of your presence before you so much as step foot near the gates. You disturb us on a sacred day. She dons the white gown," Vygris explained. 

"Oh bloody hells, how long has it been now since the old man has perished? A year? Longer? How long will she need to mourn before I can have a rational conversation with her?" Nathaniel queried, bemused. 

"Not her lord father. Her brother, Lord Rodrick. He passed from the affliction mere days ago," Vygris explained. 

That caught Nathaniel off guard. His pale eyes traced over the lined face of the head knight, thinking of what that meant. *Mayhaps the Frozen Gods have sent me another challenge. Another boy to bring back from the grave.* Silence crept over the scene like a shadow. *Or perhaps it was meant to be that I come to her now. One replacing the other.* Another soul for the precarious branch. The revelation changed Nathaniel's direction dramatically. 

"Well, how tragic..." He sounded, lifelessly. "I hope your man rides fast, because it is getting rather chilly out. I would hate to have to burn the entirety of your precious forests just to stay warm." In truth, he did not feel the cold. Rather, it was likely if one touched Lord Nathaniel Vivayn's own person, one's hand would turn black with frostbite.
Brenda
Lady Sibyl Barrmount
Castle Barrmount, the Iron Plaines

Sibyl was wearing white. Through the transparent veil covering her visage, she looked impassive. Her mouth was set in a grim line, her eyes staring directly ahead of her. The world was shrouded, covered in a thin sheet of gossamer fabric, her vision obscured. It was only the smarting dryness in her eyeballs that reminded her, torturously, of her desire to blink.

In her head, she saw faint images fleeting past: the limestone statue of her father that stood beside her mother's in the courtyard; the rows of scattered phials in the castle physician's office; the vomit, like black sludge, that she had managed to purge from herself after minutes of heaving; Rodrick's pale face, tranquil as deep sleep, and his large, honest grey eyes, staring at her, unaffected, unsmiling, unending.

She blinked, and there they were again.

She kept her eyes in front of her. She had, earlier today, overseen the proceedings in the great hall of Barrmount Castle. The three large wooden tables had been cleared away, and an ornate, gold-lined white runner had been placed in the center of the room. The high table, too, was gone, and every seat along with it. The remaining fixtures still decorated the hall, and some others were hastily added. Barrmount banners hung proudly on every wall—the rearing, armored horse of her House seemed never far from her line of sight.

Her brother's body lay enclosed in a small, simple casket ahead of her, where the high table used to be. Vagrohl Vilgot stood next to him, also clad in white, his extravagant robes belying his somber expression. She had been standing like this, motionless, for an hour, watching blurred outlines of people walking to and fro. Sometimes, they would come to her, shake her hand, and pay her their respects, to which she would reply with a cursory nod or a half-hearted "Thank you". The vagrohl had, in the beginning, stated a few prayers and blessings in Oldtongue, before choosing to, like her, simply stand and watch the people who had seen fit to attend the former Lord Barrmount's wake.

The doors of the Great Hall opened. She heard, dully, a conversation at the door, but still she kept her eyes forward, trusting the guards to keep out unwanted visitors. Again, the doors shut. Sibyl prepared herself for another perfunctory conversation and therefore felt no surprise when the new arrival walked up to meet her directly.

"Lady Barrmount," He greeted. He was wearing a knight's uniform. Sibyl didn't recognize him, though, dimly, she wondered if she should have. She nodded at him, looking him up and down, before her eyes landed on his face. He was young and not altogether ugly, but there was some horrible, frantic, desperate look in his eyes, curdling his features. "I'm sorry for your loss. Lord Rodrick's death was a blow to us all."

"Thank you," Sibyl said shortly.

"Lady Barrmount," He began again, gulping, "I have urgent news."

The now-familiar feeling of sick dread settled once more in her stomach. "Yes?"

"Nathaniel Vivayn is at the gates." He paused. "His army is a league away, and he brings with him a retinue of our men."

It was like a thousand pinpricks set off in Sibyl's body instantaneously. Yes, she had scouts looking over the terrain, and she had known that Vivayn's army was close by, but with the ongoing scourge of the plague and, even worse, the tumult of her brother's untimely death, she had not been expecting him to seek to meet with her so soon and certainly not today, on the darkest and most difficult of days.

"The gates have not been opened?" She asked, fearing the answer.

"No, not yet, my lady," Answered the knight. "He is, however, insistent on an audience with you."

"I see," Said she, pursing her lips. She had known this was possible, of course. Beyond her personal troubles, she had always had the war in the back of her mind. If it wasn't in her domain directly, it was certainly encroaching upon it, and she had always considered that one day, it would arrive, but she hadn't, perhaps naively, ever imagined that it would come like this: unannounced, on the morrow of her only brother's death.

The knight stood, awaiting her order. She looked around the room, with all her people roaming about the hall like so many bleating sheep. Silently, she gazed upon the white wood casket which held her brother's stiff body in preparation for the funeral proceedings that were to go on tomorrow.

Sibyl willed herself into action. She would meet with him, but first she would allow her brother and his mourners a proper wake, uninterrupted by the war which had already upended so many lives. If he would siege her castle, then she had her own standing garrison and stables of war horses to face him. It was not enough to defeat Lord Vivayn's army unprepared, but it would bide her a semblance of time.

And if he was seeking an audience with her, for his own good it would do him better to have her soldiers alive, not dead.

"Very well," She pronounced finally. "Let him come. But do inform him of Lord Rodrick's wake. Keep the gates closed until the proceedings have finished."

"Yes, my lady," The knight replied, looking at her nervously but then ultimately bowing slightly and marching out of the hall. The great wooden doors shut behind him.

Sibyl watched him leave and then surveyed the throng of people scurrying around her. She swallowed. The image of her brother's body surfaced beneath her eyelids, and she felt her heart beating precipitously under her chest, her own forehead forming a sleek sheen of sweat. Her people would have the duty of the wake, but first she had to inform her sister of the coming arrival.

She turned to look at Anna, then, for the first time since the wake had started. Sibyl watched her sister's raised head, her straight back, her rigid shoulders, and she knew that same posture was mirrored in her own body. She wanted to reach out and grab her sister's hands to reassure her, but she thought better of it.

Without turning her head, she began to speak. "Anna," She whispered, addressing her sister. "Don't turn to look at me, but I need you to listen.

"I presume you have heard of the convening of the Council of Marin. I had planned to go myself, but Lord Nathaniel Vivayn is outside the gates of our castle, and he has come to seek an audience with me. He has an army within close reach, and he has captured some of our knights. With him here, I cannot leave," Said Sibyl, with as much dignity and solemnity as she could muster. Her voice shook only a little. "You must go in my stead. As soon as the wake is over, I will go speak with him and offer him our allegiance.

"I need you to communicate his presence to the council. Leave immediately. You must be quick. Go through the dungeons if you must. Take as few servants and guards as you can, but enough to keep you safe." She spoke hurriedly, the sense of urgency emphasized in her speech. "You must be safe, Anna. Be on the lookout for news. I will send you letters if I can, but if I cannot, stay in Taemar for as long as possible. I do not know what will come of this alliance, and I cannot promise your safety if you stay here." Sibyl hastily wiped at her cheeks with her hands. "I cannot lose both of my siblings," She whispered finally, her voice low.

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Sibyl watched Anna leave, her eyes flicking over her sister's form for only a moment. Somewhere, in the deep trenches of her mind, she wondered if she would ever see her again and what fortunes, exactly, the council might bring for the both of them. As soon as her sister slammed the door shut, Sibyl's unblinking eyes turned back once more to her brother's coffin and, finally, up to the dais where Vagrohl Vilgot was standing.

Her breathing was shallow, her heart frantic, its tense, rhythmic beating reminding her of a coiled creature about to unfurl, like the viper she once found in a thick, dense thicket deep in the forests near her home.

When she finally blinked, she had a vision of the Great Hall flooded with unceasing, rolling waves of seawater, but then she opened her eyes again, and the room was quiet and dry, and the throngs of mourners and well-wishers and sycophants were buzzing around her, softly, like bees looking for spring honey.

She stood like this for a time, subtly clenching and unclenching her jaw, stretching her index finger, then her middle and her third, flexing her toes underneath her shoes. Somewhere, dimly, the vagrohl was speaking.

His voice was rough and wavering, hitting tonal peaks like crags or the tops of mountains, and then lowering once more so as to soothe his audience into a lull. She could only just understand what he was saying, though she knew the customary Oldtongue rites. He was speaking in a language even older than her own, old enough so that the gods would listen and heed him. Sibyl had learned the words as a child, but she also knew that what mattered was listening, allowing the sound of his voice to sink into her bones, whether or not she knew exactly what he was saying.

It was plain enough: the vagrohl was chanting a plea for clemency and for salvation, and Sibyl felt the worship in his voice in her own body, allowing herself to fall into the deep, slow yearning of prayer.

She knew not how long he spoke, but by the time he finished Sibyl realized that she must have been crying, and she wiped the tears from her face with the sleeve of her white gown as if waking from a dream. She walked up to the platform where the vagrohl was still standing, and though she felt reluctant, she knew she must address the crowd before her.

"Thank you for attending," She said, her voice quiet. "The funeral for Lord Rodrick will be held tomorrow." She paused for a second and resisted the urge to rub her red, itching eyes. "You are all welcome to stay at the castle in preparation for tomorrow's proceedings." She did not mention the presence of Lord Vivayn or his army so close by outside, but silently she knew she would be convening with him not just for her or for her House but on behalf of all the people innocently gathered here today. She stepped down from the dais, stopping for a second to place her hand upon the wooden surface of the coffin and say her own wordless prayer.

After one last nod to the people gathered here, she walked out of the Great Hall, the throng parting before her like the waves she so clearly pictured in her mind's eye.

She knew it was time to face the inevitable, and she did not need to seek it out. There, standing outside the doors, stood the same knight who had informed her of Vivayn's presence outside the castle. His expression looked fearful, but she kept her gaze and her twitching heart as steady as she could.

"It is over," She told him. "Open the gates. Please inform Lord Vivayn that I will greet him personally once he is safely inside the castle."

The knight nodded, thanked her, and set off to tell his superiors to open the portcullises and allow the rebel lord to enter Castle Barrmount. As she watched him walk off, Sibyl herself moved several steps and leaned against the walls of her family's castle, pressing her body against the thick, sturdy stone and willing it to support her. She breathed deeply, stood like this for a moment, and then she, too, walked away, moving swiftly down the grand corridors of her home to welcome the man who would meet with her on such an unwelcome occasion.

With her gown trailing behind her, she made her way to the castle's entrance, eventually stopping beside the house's first and most prominent stairwell. Despite the noiseless clamor of her spinning mind, she stood, and she waited.
Tammy
Lord Nathaniel Vivayn
Castle Barrmount, the Iron Plaines

The chains of the portcullises that shielded the ancient castle from the elements cranked and ground as they were raised. The visage of the Lord of Wingsway could be discerned from the other side the higher the metal beams receded, and there was something otherworldly in his eyes. 

The melted snow and sleet crunched, squelched and echoed underneath the dense gatehouse as Nathaniel, his two knights and Commander Vygris's men made their entrance into the stronghold. It felt like a never-ending tunnel, with light from either side eventually disappearing until one made it to the other side. When he saw the first first hints of what the day's silver rays had left for him, Nathaniel was almost blinded, like he was walking into purgatory. 

On the other side, he peered around analytically. There was not much to note aside from the surrounding grounds which were composed of a large plot for the Barrmounts' famous war horses, where they could roam and gallop freely. Walking up the designated road that led to the manor, there were a few buildings spotted throughout the space that caught his eye: a number of modestly-built keeps that could house a few decent men. When he was a boy, his father spoke of the insignificance of the Barrmount estate, so Nathaniel was expecting a mere timber construction in the centre of a few courtyards, but walking the area himself he found it to be entirely contradictory. Whilst it was not grandiose or ostentatious in display, there was a certain subtle regality about the place. It was no Wingsway in size or stature, but Lord Vivayn could feel the hardiness of the place emanating off the strong and solid stone and pinewood structures.

As he approached the manor, Nathaniel stopped a moment, just before the stone steps that led up to the abode of the Barrmount family, which halted the entire gathering accompanying him. His eyes scanned around the wild and unfamiliar terrain, and he found it much more ominous than out in the endless winter wilderness of the Witherlands. 

"What did they use for his coffin?" Nathaniel suddenly blurted out. 

A confused exchange of glances took place between the men in attendance before Commander Vygris cleared his throat, narrowed his eyes at the lord and said, "What?" 

"The material. The structure of the coffin. What did they use?" The Lord of Wingsway asked, pointedly. 

Commander Vygris deadpanned the rebel lord for a few seconds before exhaling. "I do not know. I did not attend the wake. I was stationed at the outpost to spot for enemies." He side-eyed the Vivayn knights. 

"Marble is the best. A porcelain coffin is pure and clean. When my parents passed - sad as it was - there was a certain... Beauty in watching two perfectly-shaped marmoreals descend into the ice. They fit into their tombs so perfectly. It is almost as it was meant to be." It was like he was reminiscing. Though only Nathaniel knew those coffins were hollow. 

"I'll suffer no more of your manaicial machinations. Bloody well get on with it." Commander Vygris marched forward, though Lord Nathaniel did not follow. 

"I particularly like the feel of the stone-cold marble against the tips of my fingers. It feels just like the carcass beneath." 

In the blink of an eye, Commander Vygris was in Nathaniel's face, barely an inch separating them. "You impeach upon my late lord's honour on his own grounds once more and I will strike you down where you stand!" He yelled right into the younger man's pale face.

Nathaniel stared directly into the veteran knight's eyes. He could see his blood boiling. "Oh, I meant no disrespect," He sounded, calmly. "None of that could possibly be directed at Lord Rodrick as you Barrmounts have no means of acquiring such material. A little too rich for your tastes." His gaze broke off momentarily as he pondered. "Teak. I would wager it was teak. It is strong, sturdy and the right colour for such an occasion. Certainly fitting for you Barrmounts surrounded by those bloody desolate forests." 

"You will wager nothing in my presence any longer. Not in my presence, nor on these grounds." Vygris' voice went from a heightened yell to a low whisper, and each was just as terrifying. 

"I cannot help my inquisitive nature, dear commander. New grounds breeds new information. I wish to acquire all of it. Yet, I have realised standing here and conversing with you like gentlemen that you are not a man to let much loose, are you?" He paused, any coy or sly expression that had befell his features in that interaction disappeared, leaving a blank nothingness. "I think it is high time I see the one person who can answer my questions. Alone. No more interference. No more waiting. I have the power to reign hellfire on your precious abode the likes of which you have never seen before. I can snap my fingers and have every last living Barrmount brought before me and mutilated in the most grotesque fashion imaginable... And I'd force you to be the man to do it. You are a man that lets very few things loose, so hold that little thought tightly, *Ferociously* Next to your heart as you ride back to your rickety tower." Suddenly, some signs of life reappeared about his face. "Most perilous winds are travelling our way, commander. I will need a strong and dutiful man such as yourself to keep watch out for whatever monsters make an appearance." He turned, without another word.

Nathaniel climbed the stone steps towards Barrmount manor. He walked through purgatory, traversed the long, muddy trail and now stood what before whatever waited for him inside. He traced his skeletal fingers across the engravings of the large oaken doors, feeling for signs of life. Eventually, he placed his palms and pushed against the doors. He felt his ligaments stretching and aching with the resistance of the structures, with the creaking and groaning of the hinges and grinding against the ground to add to the sense of struggle. The sound permeated around his being, much the same way he heard that dead man swinging from his noose in the wind, until eventually... Silence. The doors slammed shut and echoed about the building like a boulder had been dropped from the balconies. 

Nathaniel Vivayn looked around the manor from the reception. It was larger than he imagined, with long corridors and open hallways. Family heirlooms lingered around, but something felt off. There was a hollowness inside that place, a sense of desolation and strandedness. The loss of Lord Rodrick ached in every nook and cranny of the castle. Ghosts hung in the walls of that place much the same way they did in Wingsway.

When he looked up to the landing of the staircase, he saw a woman standing there like a statue. 

"Lady Barrmount," He announced, "My most sincere condolences for the loss of your lord and brother. Had I known of the tragedy that has befallen your family, I would have sent a courier with gifts and afforded you as much time as you needed before an audience." The words sounded almost forthcoming from the formal tone of the rebel lord, yet the declaration hung in the air with the same hollowness the aura of the manor presented. 

"Yet it is tragedy that unfortunately brings I to you on this day. I have travelled a very long way to finally make your acquaintance."
Brenda
Lady Sibyl Barrmount
Castle Barrmount, the Iron Plaines

Sibyl stood for what felt like mere seconds. The doors opened, and the tremulous, traitorous beating of her heart quickened; she could feel it, fast and loud, against her chest. When she turned her eyes, there stood Nathaniel Vivayn.

He was young and pale and striking. The too-rich robes he wore swallowed him, framing his gaunt face like a cocoon, and the contours of that same face betrayed his status. There was something terrible behind the frail noblesse of his features, but there was recognition, too.

Sibyl smiled tightly, the corners of her lips hardly twitching.

"Lord Vivayn," She greeted, "Welcome to Castle Barrmount." She watched him as he spoke to her, noting his speech patterns and the formality of his diction. "Thank you for your condolences. As you well know, your arrival was preceded most unfortunately by my brother's wake, and I felt it necessary to defer our meeting until after the wake had concluded. I trust you were not waiting too long."

She stood in silence as he broached the topic of his arrival. "Tragedy has impacted us all in some way," She replied. Sibyl looked him up and down before continuing. "I was informed that you have brought some of my knights with you. I appreciate you having retrieved them from their posts, but I do assure you that it was unnecessary." Sibyl knew what the knights were called by another name: hostages. It was a way of forcing her hand—she had little recourse but to speak with him, lest she forfeit her own men to his army. The scouts she had employed were hopeless in stopping Vivayn and his troops, but even had she been informed, she knew there was nothing she could have done about errant knights being carted off by an invader.

Still, it was as good a pretense as any for a necessary acquaintance. Had it been on any other day, perhaps she would've praised him for his cunning. As it were, all she could do was remark upon it.

"I understand we have much to talk about," She said. "Please, follow me. We can conduct this meeting in my solar." With her feet already poised to climb the staircase, Sibyl took several steps before stopping, gesturing for Lord Vivayn to follow her, and continuing her ascent further into the castle.
Tammy
Lord Nathaniel Vivayn
Castle Barrmount, the Iron Plaines

"Yes, most unfortunate," He acknowledged, peering around the confines of the Barrmount's home. Loss and longing perfumed the air, he sensed. 

"My arrival was most warmly received by your men. They were ever accommodating and hospitable after the arduous journey myself and my army had to endure. I believe your sentinels were almost jubilant to see their compatriots alive and well, particularly Commander Vygris. What a fine man he is." The hollowness of Nathaniel's cheeks truly became apparent whenever he attempted a genuine smile. In a certain light, one might have even been able to see the outline of his skull. 

His eyes scarcely blinked as he looked up to her, listening to every word she had to say intently. "I must offer a correction, my lady. It was not a retrieval. It was a rescue. Your men held their posts as best they could, but by the time we had arrived in Drejmire, the entire populace had overrun them and become ravenous. The affliction, I fear, contaminated their minds. Had myself and my men not intervened, your men would have also been lost to the plague. As the nights grow darker and the winds grow colder, this illness will only defile more of our land." 

At Lady Barrmount's invitation, Nathaniel proceeded to climb the long staircase that presumably led up to her solar. His elusive hostess already made some ground on him, causing him to walk with a sense of urgency that had not been instilled within him since he arrived at Castle Barrmount. Lord Vivayn felt that was a prerequisite for the remainder of their meeting.
Brenda
Lady Sibyl Barrmount
Castle Barrmount, the Iron Plaines

Upon ascending the stairs, Sibyl acknowledged Lord Vivayn's correction with a taciturn, "I see." In her mind arose a depiction of his words: there stood her stranded soldiers, lost in the unending cries and hunger of the sick. She glimpsed the silhouette of her brother's pale head in the crowd, bobbing alongside the others, but could not abide the starkness of that image and suddenly shook her head, moving further along the straight path of the upstairs corridor.

"If my men appreciated your rescue as much as you say," Continued Sibyl, "Then I thank you." She punctuated her words with a pause, her face half-lit by the brass torches spanning the length of the hallway. She knew the illness touched her lands—Rodrick was the icy proof of that. The embellishment of Vivayn's tale was another matter entirely. With a ravenous village, deserted soldiers, and the Skeleton Lord himself as the unlikely hero, she was certain the bards would compose epics of his story.

At the thought, Sibyl's mouth turned up in a sardonic smile.

She resumed walking, her eyes glancing to and from the embellished halls of her castle. On the walls hung rich tapestries and paintings. Some were snowy landscapes, vestal icons of the forested region she called home, but most were portraits of long-dead Barrmounts, their pale faces and stern eyes staring solemnly down at her. When they reached the broad oak door leading to her solar, Sibyl opened it only to look up at the face of the latest portrait: a large canvas of her father, Yaron. He had commissioned his likeness to be painted only a year before he died, and when she looked at him she saw the reflection of the man she remembered so vividly.

It was an extraordinarily well-crafted portrait, with solid linework and perspective. In it, her father donned his knight's attire, sword sheathed at his hip and his helmet resting on a table behind him. He appeared strong and healthy. Still, despite the unerring resemblance, there was something missing. There was no glimmer of emotion in his eyes, no determination, no love for her. It was merely a frail vignette of a man who used to be her father. Someday, she told herself, she would replace it with her own portrait, but for now she couldn't bring herself to take it down.

The rest of her solar was similarly adorned. Many more tapestries, silk-spun and reeling with color, hung from the walls, and ornaments from disparate kingdoms decorated the bookshelves which circumscribed the room. There were small statues of solid gold; pearls, encased in glass and fetched from salty southern waters; and books of every persuasion, hand-inked and illuminated with precious metals, among other conspicuous displays of the Barrmounts' wealth and status.

In the center of the solar was a large desk, made of pine heartwood and carved by artisans at Castle Barrmount. There were papers lying atop it, parallel to quills and ink, but the array was well-organized, and Sibyl took great care to make sure her writing didn't stain the worktop. Near it were two chairs: one, a large leather armchair, and the other made of wood and padded with soft green thread.

After unceremoniously taking a seat in the armchair, she gestured to the other and said, "Please, have a seat." Sibyl placed both of her hands on the table, delicately folding them together and looking at the man before her. She cleared her throat and steeled her gaze before continuing. "Now that we are alone, I shan't be coy, and I expect you won't be either," She stated, her tone blunt. "You have come here for a reason, Lord Vivayn. Tell me what it is you want."
Tammy
Lord Nathaniel Vivayn
Castle Barrmount, the Iron Plaines

His environment was ever-changing that day. From the wintry wastelands of the Iron Plaines where he met the Barrmount men, to the long walk up the sodden and dreary trail that was encircled by the foreboding structures the Barrmounts used to shield themselves, to then inside the manor itself. The passage of time followed them as they walked to Lady Barrmount's solar, he felt, as he viewed the faces from old Barrmount rulers of days gone. The aura of death and sorrow seemed to follow the Barrmounts wherever they went, much the same way Nathaniel felt their eyes watching him as he followed the lady of the castle. He recognised the likeness of Lord Yaron Barrmount from the few times he peered at him at his visits to Wingsway when attempting to mediate the rising tensions between his older brother Lord Jarys and Lord Radgore Skagerlly, alongside Nathaniel's father. *Perhaps Rodrick will replace his portrait soon. Though he was not half as tall,* Lord Vivayn thought to himself.

When entering Lady Barrmount's solar, Nathaniel spied what she decorated her abode with. Large bookshelves stood like standing soldiers at arms, well organised and well kept. There were a variety of different covers and spines, marked with engravings that he hadn't seen before. The bright colours spoke out to him, inviting his intrigue. Perhaps Lady Barrmount was a connoisseur of literature like he was. The trinkets and fineries that enriched the lady's solar were much grander and more vibrant than the novel displays of moderate wealth the Barrmounts presented in the superficial layers of the interior of their castle and in the corridors, almost out of a sense of obligation. Those visible in her solar were gilded, eye-catching and specialised, likely to fetch a high price for any pirates seeking treasure in the black markets. Nathaniel thought that interesting; that only once the layers of flesh were peeled from the Barrmount's stony walls could one peer behind the curtains and get a measure of their character. The truth laid beneath the armour, but a bloody strong hand was required to rip it apart. 

The rebel lord looked at the large desk placed strategically in the centre of the room, finely-crafted and well-made. The sturdy contraption was presumably made from the thick pinewood that surrounded their fortress. 

Nathaniel acknowledged how neat Lady Barrmount kept her desk, and how it nearly mirrored his own workplace. At her invitation, he unclasped the snow crow brooch that held his cloak together and swung from his person to delicately lay it on top of the chair that had been designated for him. He wore a black leather jerkin beneath that was spun with a smoky grey, just like the colours of House Vivayn.

When he sat on the cushioned chair, he let out a slight exhale of amusement and flashed a small smile at her in response to her proclamation. Suddenly, in the bat of an eye, any indication of feeling or emotion was stricken from his features, becoming a complete blank slate. Then he studied her, analysing her own facial features after finally being in close proximity to her. He watched the way the light danced in her eyes. 

At her question, Nathaniel considered his answer. "What do I want?" He repeated. He admired her bluntness. "It is just so rare that anyone ever asks me that anymore." He licked the inside of his sharp teeth upon his contemplation. "What do I want?" He said again. He exhaled sharply, returning to her gaze. "Well, now that you mention it, after the sleepless days, long travels, endless ridings and ghastly amount of walking, I am rather parched. I want a drink," He stated, emphatically. 

"May I?" He gestured to the decanter full of wine placed on her desk, with two idle glasses sitting beside it.
Brenda
Lady Sibyl Barrmount
Castle Barrmount, the Iron Plaines

Sibyl eyed Lord Vivayn intensely after she spoke to him. She noticed how he smiled at her, briefly, before carefully moving his facial features into an impassive mask. For that one moment he seemed human, so unlike the spectre he had been before. The mask made him look like himself again, though his next words flummoxed her.

She had expected a different sort of request: a vie for power, certainly political but perhaps personal, too. Instead, he wanted a drink. *May he?*

"I—yes," She responded, nonplussed. She nodded towards the decanter, its two delicate wine glasses glittering faintly in the light. Sibyl was no connoisseur. She drank wine rarely, and when she did, she preferred it rather diluted. Still, the option was there, should she have visitors, so her servants dutifully filled, emptied, and refilled the decanter before she ever entered the solar. "An Araedian import," Said Sibyl, tilting her head at the wine by way of explanation. "I'm afraid I don't know its vintage."

Having already dismissed the fleeting notion of summoning a servant to do the pouring, she raised one eyebrow pointedly at Lord Vivayn and waited.
Tammy
Lord Nathaniel Vivayn
Castle Barrmount, the Iron Plaines

"I assure you my lady, after the journey I have had, anything will suffice," He said in response to her, grasping his long skeletal fingers around the decanter. He methodically placed the two wine glasses beside one another and poured the rich, dark liquid in one and then the other with precision. After setting the decanter down delicately, he lifted one of the wine glasses between his index and middle finger and placed it in front of Lady Barrmount. 

Lord Nathaniel raised his own glass in the same manner he had for the Lady of Barrmount Castle and studied its contents, watching how the volume of it flowed. He took one sharp inhale from its rim to surmise its quality. 

"Perhaps not vintage, but potent and pleasant. A good catch to whomever stocks your cellars," He complimented, graciously. 

"Araedian you say?" He questioned, with a flash of amusement about his features. "I care little for southerners, admittedly, but I will say, they make exceptional wines." 

"I do not usually partake myself, as alcohol undoes many a people wildly. Yet after these past months, I seemed to have craved its embrace more than ever," He said, almost confiding in her. 

He glanced down at his glass once again, looking at the vibrant concoction with seeming hesitation. "My father always taught me it was both improper and uncouth to accept the generosity of a host without raising a toast beforehand. So, if I may be so bold," He extended his arm above their heads which caused the ruby beverage to swill in its glass slightly, "To the memory of your father and brother, and to the good health and prosperity of your family in these times wrought with strife. May the Frozen Gods watch over them," He voiced. Nathaniel Vivayn had a piercing stare and it was directed straight through the heart of Lady Barrmount as he awaited her response.
Brenda
Lady Sibyl Barrmount
Castle Barrmount, the Iron Plaines

Sibyl listened intently to Lord Vivayn's words as he spoke them. She parsed the subtle confession of his stress and nodded her head in acknowledgement. The recent months, too, had all but undone her, as they had so many across their land.

His next words—a toast—came unexpectedly. Sibyl felt little like toasting on the eve of her brother's burial, but she met Lord Vivayn's pointed gaze and raised her glass just the same. She moved the glass towards his for a brief moment before redirecting it to her waiting mouth. Wine, dark and heavy, burned a path down her tongue, and she suppressed the urge to cough. Instead, she cleared her throat, once, and echoed, "May the Frozen Gods watch over them."

She placed the glass down and closed her eyes for a second to steady herself. When she opened them she looked directly at the Skeleton Lord's pale face. "I am pleased you like the wine, Lord Vivayn. I will relay your compliments to the kitchens," She said, gracing him with a pleasant, though narrow, smile. She was silent for a moment more, her index finger idly tracing the grain of the wood on her desk. Then, she spoke up, her expression suddenly steely. "I know you have not come here to drink my wine and toast my family. Certainly not with the entire Vivayn host at your back. Do not toy with me any longer, my lord. What is your purpose here?"

With those words came the familiar sick dread. Sibyl sensed it course through her, and she stilled, relaxing the movements of her body and feeling the weight of her unmoving hand as it slipped, placid, at her side.
Tammy
Lord Nathaniel Vivayn
Castle Barrmount, the Iron Plaines

The Lord of Wingsway watched as his host politely sipped back the wine. When she cleared her throat, Nathaniel finally raised the rim to his lips and let the liquid pour into his mouth, sliding all the way down his throat. He let the flow continue, gulping and suckling at the flavours and spices the mixture offered like a babe would at its mother's teats. The muscles in his neck looked as if they were convulsing as he swallowed the remnants that lingered in his glass. The dark red drink and the strain he underwent to satiate his thirst made it appear as if he were some mythic vampire bat feeding upon the blood he'd drained from a victim. When he finished his glass, beads of crimson hung from his lip, threatening to drop and stain his clothing. One bead trickled down his chin and dripped off, but he caught it in a handkerchief before it made contact with anything. Then, Lord Vivayn dabbed the rest of his mouth dry with that same piece of cloth so he didn't appear fresh off a feeding. After neatly folding the handkerchief, he slid it away into his breast pocket. 

At Lady Barrmount's insistence on knowing why he was here, Nathaniel wrapped his lithe digits around the decanter and lifted it once again to pour another glass for himself. He eyed what point of the glass the contents remained in her glass and matched that as he poured his own. 

He slid the glass to one side as Lady Barrmount raised more serious matters, noticing how she tensed then relaxed in the blink of an eye. If she were fearful of him, she was good at hiding it.

"Very well, my lady," He said, putting her out of her misery. "I assume you are neither deaf nor blind, judging by your ability to respond to everything I say to you without assistance, and the gracefulness in which you ascended your stairs to lead me here to your solar. So, you know exactly why I am here." At the sudden sound of friction, his ghostly eyes fell down to the point of origin, noticing that she was tracing her finger against her immaculate heartwood desk. Subconsciously, Nathaniel traced his thumb against it as well, attempting to understand her before what he said next.

"Marshall Carter wants my head mounted on a pike, and he is willing to pay a very high price for it. All the Great Houses of the Witherlands have declared their allegiance for him, except for House Barrmount. Knowing this, naturally I had to travel to the foreboding Iron Plaines to ask you," He traced his thumb against the heartwood desk again before leaning back in his chair, sitting up straight, "To ask you to join me in my war against the Carters and assist me in removing them as the power of the cold north." He let that settle in the air between them for a moment. 

"Though I must admit, I am curious," He said, tensing his jaw. "I suppose another purpose of me coming to you on this day, at this hour is to know why." He lay his hands flat on his lap. "Why did you not declare for the Ice Lord, when everyone else has, in this war? Surely he sent letters, birds, riders. Why not throw your lot in with the rest of Withic nobility?"
Brenda
Lady Sibyl Barrmount
Castle Barrmount, the Iron Plaines

*He guzzles wine like a drunkard,* Sibyl thought as she observed the lord opposite her. She pushed her still-full glass away with distaste just as he began to pour another. His prior confession rang true, at least, though this middling truth was of little comfort to her.

Then the full truth came out. When he stated his purpose, Sibyl felt a sense of relief. The dread sickness left her. So there it was—in the open, finally. Lord Vivayn was no fool, she knew, eyeing him critically. And neither was she. Still, there was the crux of it; he wanted her allegiance, as she knew he did, and he had ridden all this way to threaten or coax or bribe her into it. If she had been a smarter woman, or if her circumstances were different, she might have prevented it. Yet with this came the question she had spent countless nights asking herself: did she even want to?

"I don't know," She answered simply. Her voice was quiet, pensive. Sibyl sighed, a long exhale. The images of her sleepless dreams floated past her, then: the determined face of her beloved father, riding out on his armored warhorse; his face as he lay dying silently in his bed; the blurry, nightmarish depiction of her uncle's face resting on a crimson spike; her brother, Rodrick, his body not yet preserved, sleeping in his solid white casket. And her most vivid memory: her first successful hunt. She remembered the weight of the dagger in her hands, the feel of sticky, hot blood on her hands, the velvet softness of the rabbit's fur as she cut through him. She had felt half a goddess, then.

She stood up from her chair, momentarily gripping her desk for support, before silently walking over to the curtainless window on the opposite end of her solar. She saw, as she looked outside, the vast woods of her domain. The forest stretched deeper and darker and bigger than her eyes could fathom. It would take many months to traverse the entirety of these shadowed plains. Lord Vivayn had taken months to get here, she was certain.

"My father declared for Marshall Carter," She said, after some time. "He died a few years later. It was a fever, not the war," She explained. She still remembered the feel of those wet, frail hands as she held them at his bedside. "But my uncle did not. I'm told the lord ruler put his head on the spikes of Grand Stead shortly thereafter," She chuckled, a dry, mirthless sound. "My father begged him not to, but the Ice Lord did not listen."

She turned around and looked at Lord Vivayn. "Yes, he sent letters. And crows. But not once has he come here, not even when my father was lord. I do not know if I've ever met him," She said. There was wounded pride there, she knew. And there were other things: the dreams, the memory of that first thrill of power. "I do not remember meeting you either, lord, I must confess. Yet here you are."

She studied the outlines of the Skeleton Lord's sharp, pale, regal face. And she smiled.
Tammy
Lord Nathaniel Vivayn
Castle Barrmount, the Iron Plaines

Nathaniel's thin lips curled upwards slightly into a knowing smile. It was at her response he had confirmation of the reading of her character, when he was finally at an arm's length away from her. Lady Barrmount stood and drifted to the bay window where the snows were starting to flurry in silent contemplation. As she did so, he too contemplated, sitting by the drinks his host had abandoned. He knew then that she was made of sterner stuff than any of the other noble ladies for a thousand leagues, but she lacked direction and questioned herself frequently. *Sometimes being guided into the darkness becomes most illuminating,* He thought to himself. 

Nathaniel Vivayn sat back, wordlessly, as Lady Barrmount expounded all the information to him. Most of what she told him he had already heard through rumour or hearsay, but to listen to it come from her lips and her lips alone made him feel an ecstasy wash over his body that soothed all his aches and pains he had acquired on his journey to the Iron Plaines. Even all the way across her solar, Nathaniel eyed the look of pain, of unchecked rage appearing and disappearing across her countenance like an assassin in the night. 

Yet it was not the words of resentment she spoke in regard to the infamous Ice Lord that he chose to address first.

"We have met before," He said, almost in a hushed tone. "Well, not formally, but I saw you there that night." He rose slowly, picturing the dichotomy between the fateful night he was referring to, and then, when she was smiling at him. "Eight years ago at Snowhall. Lord Gareth Torck hosted a feast for all the high lords and ladies of the Witherlands and their families. Any name worth anything was in attendance," He said, passing the columns of bookshelves. "When it came time for the children of the lords and ladies to dance with one another, I stood alone in the shadows. I had been teased relentlessly by the other noble boys the entire night for not so much as looking in the same direction as a girl. Achron Chesterfill in particular, the biggest of them all, liked to prod at me and grab me by the scruff of my neck to try and throw me onto the dancefloor." He joined Lady Barrmount by her side, staring out from the curtainless window to see how far the foreboding terrain of the Barrmounts' outstretched. It seemed to go on forever. 

"As a constant bystander for the night's events, naturally my gaze was quick to recognise familiarity. I saw you, a young, striking lady, lurking in the corners away from the land of the living much the same as I was. I was trying to find the nerve to go up to you and ask for the honour of having your hand in a dance but," He clicked his tongue, a coy smile overcoming his features, "Achron Chesterfill saw what I was planning and started that full, rich laugh he was so famous for. The other boys soon started joining him." He looked to her quickly, before continuing to stare across the castle grounds and beyond. "I confess my fears overcame me on that night," He admitted.

"Yet the world works in mysterious ways. Now Achron Chesterfill and his lord father fight for me. They are subordinates to me. And here you and I are once more, strangers in the shadows, watching the land of the living slowly become unmasked." The snow intensified outside, almost as if a blizzard was approaching, with the winds snapping around violently, but inside Lady Barrmount's solar, it was complete silence.

Nathaniel tapped each one of his digits against his thumb, almost like he was rolling a coin between them. "I found myself in a similar position to your father during the war, though the fate of my house was decided even before the conclusion of the conflict," He said, not blinking once as he kept staring forward. "Admittedly I bore my parents little love," He sighed, though it was unclear what it denoted. "They were not kind to me as a child, and I was a constant disappointment to them. Try as I might, I never managed to convince them I was worthy of their land and titles." Lord Nathaniel traced his thumb against his lips, his face a plain canvas. 

"Peter and Catrese Vivayn were foolish and gluttonous to side with the False King and believe they would reap any benefits from his regime. I told them their heads would roll if they pursued their folly, and low and behold, I was right, something they did not think I was capable of." He let out a dry, grim laugh, almost identical to the one Lady Barrmount let out when she spoke of her uncle. "Yet still, for all their misgivings of me and my existence, as well as their severe lack of pragmatism and judgment, I requested that the Ice Lord spare their lives, because they were my blood and of my house, and... They were still my parents."

His gaze fell for a few seconds, his memory flashing back to the day their bodies arrived at Wingsway. The physicians and the vagrohl of House Vivayn worked tirelessly to sew the heads of Lord Peter and Lady Catrese back to their bodies, but it was a difficult and harrowing process. Nathaniel had watched the entire process, never once taking a break or stepping out. He had even delayed the ceremony of his ascension to assume the lordship of Wingsway so he could see that it was complete. The younger physicians cried in dismay at how many times the stitches came undone and the heads rolled on the stone floor. He could still hear the loud *Thud* That reverberated about the chambers when one of their heads would fall again ringing in his ears. Whilst the young and timid physicians expressed anguish and agony, young Nathaniel said nothing. When he looked over their bodies when it was finally complete, he was disappointed that they had turned an unsightly greyish colour, and not the porcelain white he had envisioned. He had pictured clean white, like the snows outside their castle, or the sclera of a mortal eye, not some murky putrid grey. Their skin did not match their caskets when they were lowered into their icy tombs, though Nathaniel did find something that matched them in the end.

"The Ice Lord did not honour my request and lopped off both of their heads off, in similar fashion to Jarys Barrmount."
Brenda
Lady Sibyl Barrmount
Castle Barrmount, the Iron Plaines

The window misted over with the slow fall of so many snowflakes. Sibyl's view, which was so clear but a moment before, clouded just as Lord Vivayn arrived at her side. She exhaled, and the imprint of her breath left a damp circle of fog on the glass.

"I remember that night," Sibyl replied, brow furrowed. "I never saw you." Her lord father had taken Anna and her to that ball. It had been so long ago that it felt like a different world—before this war, before Yaron's death, before the Brother's Rebellion. She was still a girl then, but even in her carefree youth she had never been gregarious. The dances and fleeting romances that so enthralled her childhood companions held little appeal for her. She was wont to skulk in corners, watching the others, but she had been more social on that occasion. She had danced. A boy, large and handsome, had asked her, and she assented. He was a confident dancer with a hearty laugh, and he made her feel pretty.

Sibyl looked away from Lord Vivayn and brushed her finger lightly against the wood of the windowpane.

His next story was one she had heard before. The entirety of the Witherlands was aware of the gruesome deaths of the former Lord and Lady Vivayn. She had listened to a traveling bard sing about them once, though she left before her uncle's name was mentioned. They, and Jarys, and all of Felix Carter's co-conspirators had been dealt a grizzly fate—except for the rebel leader himself, of course. The Lord Ruler had spared him. Their shared blood had inspired his clemency.

She glanced again at the man beside her. She heard her own voice in his laugh and saw her gaze reflected in his as it fell, finally, to the floor. He looked forlorn, even timid, in that moment. But Sibyl knew the bards told tales about him, too.

"It seems we have both lost someone, then," She said, after some time. Her voice was steely, but her finger, now back at her side, trembled for a second. She covered it with her other hand, then turned around and leaned against the windowsill, her hands behind her back. In that position, their faces were almost close enough to touch. She swallowed. "And you, my lord?" She asked, pressing her hands deep into the sill. "What prompted your declaration? Your parents' death, while unfortunate, could not have been the true catalyst."
Tammy
Lord Nathaniel Vivayn
Castle Barrmount, the Iron Plaines

"I was never to be seen, my lady. I much preferred it that way. But the shadows cannot shield us forever." He had a twang in his voice that made him sound poetic. 

Nathaniel watched her move and noted her mannerisms, reflecting on them. He stood like a statue, much the same way he found her standing on her staircase when he entered her castle. Lord Vivayn was an ominous spectre that would make most shiver when he looked at them with his deathly pale eyes, but he did not feel that in Lady Sibyl Barrmount. Nervousness, yes; perhaps slight unease, but she was not afraid to look him in the face. She was more difficult to read than most he had encountered. 

When she spoke of their shared bereavement, her words were unshaken, yet Nathaniel noticed how her hand quake and how she captured it with her other hand to make it stop. She was capable of putting up a brave front, but she had her limits. Nathaniel realised that when he saw his own hand shaking. 

Nathaniel gave the faintest hints of a coy smile when he registered how quickly Lady Barrmount diverted the attention from her, to both of them, to then just him, and became more relaxed when she did so. It was like they were both struggling to keep the torchlight away from them, just like that night at the ball. 

Lady Barrmount did something that shocked him when she became more comfortable, though. She got closer than any man or woman had dared to get towards him since he could remember. They were staring directly at one another and it was at that moment he discerned what was so remarkable about her all those years ago to the point that he remembered her. It was not the way the light danced in her eyes; it was how she only ever allowed people to see what she wanted them to. Nathaniel deduced there was much to be seen from Lady Barrmount.

His jaw tensed when posed the question about his rebellion, forming waves across his cheekbones. "You are right," He answered her, almost breathing a sigh of relief to accept those that would call him 'tyrant' or 'usurper'. He looked outside of the solar's bay window for a few seconds, watching the gusts of snow throttle violently in the wind. "Half right, at least," He eventually added. 

"After the Ice Lord executed both of my parents, despite my attempted intervention, I thought to let the slight go, stain on my house and all. I even fought for the man *Tooth and nail* Against his brother. Thereafter when I took his niece as my wife, I stomached his nephew's attempt to provoke me at every turn." He rolled his neck, making it audibly crack. "The Battle of Brothers they called it, that day in the terrain of the Ashfields. I wish I could say the massacre in Drejmire was the first time I have witnessed bloodshed on a catastrophic scale, but unfortunately I cannot. I saw men gutted and pulverised so that their mothers would not even recognise their features. I saw women raped and cut down like cattle. I saw children burnt alive. That was all when I fought the False King Felix Carter. I will remember that day until I myself am lowered into my frosty tomb." Nathaniel did not blink when he told his tale to Lady Barrmount. In that moment, he only let her see what he desired, and that was trepidation and pain.

"When the battle had concluded, I and all the other surviving lords stood in the Great Hall of Grand Stead's castle, and Marshall Carter looked us all in the eye and said his treacherous brother was dead." A flash of anger overcame his features before he managed to neutralise it. "But that was a lie. A mummer's folly he tricked us all into playing." Nathaniel held his left skeletal hand out. "My parents were executed despite me pleading with him to spare their lives." He then held his right bony hand out, palms open. "Your uncle and Lord of Castle Barrmount was also executed, despite your father pleading with him to show mercy. Many others that fought against him begged for the lives of their loved ones, but he would still not be swayed." Pain and trepidation in his ghostly eyes turned to righteous fury. "Then when it was revealed that the False King was still alive and his head had not been removed from his shoulders-" He suddenly shut his hands closed, making a thump that echoed slightly in the all but silent solar. "My parents, your uncle, all the rest, they died for nothing. They had their heads removed by the Ice Lord for fighting for Felix Carter, yet the man still draws breath because Marshall allows it. The man who caused this kingdom to be torn in half; the man who is responsible for all of those deaths will not suffer the same fate, because he is now protected by the very man that swore to me he had perished."

Nathaniel leant his forearm against the windowsill and watched as his breath steamed against the glass before disappearing again. He looked over to her once more.

"House Carter has ruled the Witherlands for thousands of years. They were the most powerful and mighty of all the ancient bloodlines, but they forget the bloodied hands that built the stairways to their throne. They consider themselves above the laws of gods and men because *They are* The laws of gods and men, believing it renders them infallible," He straightened himself, standing his usual formal stance. "Well no longer," He added. "I fight them so families such as ours will no longer suffer under their yoke. I fight them to inject new blood into the realm and affirm that justice still exists to the Frozen Gods."
Brenda
Lady Sibyl Barrmount
Castle Barrmount, the Iron Plaines

Sibyl stood next to Lord Vivayn and listened to him speak: heard the rhythms, the crests and troughs of his voice, and saw the emotions, both hidden and displayed, on his face. She had always found it easier to listen than to speak. She learned more by listening. And in listening to the Skeleton Lord beside her, she saw why they called him what they did: there was something unnerving about him. But she thought there was conviction, too.

"I share in your understanding of the Lord Ruler's hypocrisy," She said finally. "He did all of the Great Houses a disservice when he lied about the outcome of his brother's rebellion and the truth of his brother's fate. And I will admit, my lord, I was angry then." Her face contorted stiffly for a second. "My father was angry." There had been little love shared between her father and her uncle, but they were kin, and there remained a familial affection. She knew that Marshall Carter had felt the same way about his own brother, but the courtesy of that understanding had not been dealt to his vassals. Nor was House Barrmount done the courtesy of being spared the shame of seeing Lord Jarys beheaded and paraded about on a spike, as if he were no more than a common criminal.

Her father had not agreed with her uncle's convictions, but he had convictions, just as Felix Carter had them—and just as the man beside her had them.

Whether those convictions were righteous was another matter. The thought of her uncle's head on a spike pained Sibyl, but it did not move her to war. There were, after all, reasons other than pain for which men went to war: power, greed, zealotry. Sibyl admitted, if only in her innermost thoughts, that she did not lack those same desires; she was only human. To some degree, she understood even the zealots. Sibyl believed in the Frozen Gods. She prayed to them every morning and every night without complaint. She felt safe in their presence, and even the thought of their whispers calmed her. But whether war was justice for the gods—whether a country that had already been so ravished by battle and famine and plague needed more bloodshed in the name of justice—Sibyl did not know.

She sighed and looked away from Lord Vivayn for a moment. His eyes were ice blue, she realized, and remarkably cold even with such little distance between them. Still, she did not dare let the lord see her discomfort. Almost immediately, she turned her gaze back to the angles of his face, the icy depths of his eyes. There were other, better feelings too; the sickness seemed to have left her, and she did not have to heed the familiar dread eating at her insides. Inexplicably, she felt alive.

There were other considerations, too. The Vivayn army stood only just outside her gates, barely two miles' march. The entire host could arrive by the end of the hour, if the lord beside her gave that command, and they could put her castle to the torch. Her men, she knew, were ill-prepared to withstand a siege, nor would they survive any significant battle. But Lord Vivayn was here, in her solar, and he had not come to form an army of dead men. He knew as well as she did that without her knights and levies, he had no chance against House Carter.

"Anger is fickle," She said, "But justice is an admirable thing to strive for. I believe in justice, Lord Vivayn." She smiled slightly then, the corners of her mouth crooked, as she looked at him. "And I believe we can come to an agreement."