House Ryswells War

Roger I

Roger idly waited as the Stark host slowly entered his view. To think it was led by a boy who was hardly fifteen disgusted the man. Yet he had no choice to oblige, even if Robb Stark's father was the one who had his uncle killed, never even visiting the Rills with a word of an apology. He'd rather kill him than follow him, there were doubts in the Ryswell and Dustin men on whether some houses would even follow him. Even bets were made, Roger knew how poor some of the men were now, he saw every banner that he knew, His brother, Roose, one of them. Twenty of his guards rode out. They were not the best of fighters. Maybe they were intimidating enough on their black stallions. Twenty of their mounted detached from the main force and arrived in less than ten minutes. Multiple lords were a part of this force, his good-brother Roose Bolton, the giant Greatjon, a Manderly he could not tell which but probably not Lord Too Fat, Lord Cerwyn, Lord Tallhart, Lord Glover and finally the Stark boy. He looked more like a Tully, freckled with auburn hair rather than a north man. It was embarrassing to have an overlord such as that to say the least. More southern than northern. Nevertheless he gave a curt bow and turned around to lead the nobles into Barrowtown. Where his father, the army and his siblings awaited them. Roger glanced behind him as he rode through the narrow streets of the town. Smallfolk stared through their windows, shops and even stood in the middle of the street gawking. The Stark boy hid his fear well though, staring forward and only forward. It was probably the awkward silence that compelled him to speak and the matter that the Ryswells seemed to basically abandon him so the Stark boy rode forward and next to him. "Lord Ryswell, I was expecting you at Winterfell. I do not remember asking you to gather up here." He could see the shocked faces on the guard that was closest to him. The Stark spoke with much more authority than what was expected of a fourteen year old. Even a stark one. "Well my Lord, you have unfortunately never had the pleasure to visit the rills yet, so I doubt this would be known but to gather our forces and then travel to Winterfell in the time you have given us was impossible. So we went south to Barrowton instead." Robb looked thoughtful for a moment, then continued riding on without another word.

His father Rodrick and his sister had readied a feast for the highborn in barrowhall and a lesser feast throughout the whole of Barrowton for anyone who was not deemed worthy to sit with them. There was a very clear division when it came to the Ryswell retainers. The "Greys" who supported Roger himself sat at the back. He'd rather have a view of everyone in the hall rather than sit at the table of honour. His "faction" as others called it was full of more veteran fighters including men who fought in the Greyjoy rebellion. Such as Bowen the Bald, Donnel Bronzeaxe, Blue Lew and others. They were also the strongest faction, with many common folk also supporting him. His brother Rickard did not seem to care, the most tactical and smartest of the three brothers. He managed to garner the support of men who wanted land and women. Promising them land that was rightfully Ryswell through and through not one of their vassal's they were the browns. The worst faction and the one which caused the most trouble was led by Roose Ryswell. A flirt and often drunk however he was still an able man. Unlike some of his men, young and rowdy glory hunters. He suspected most of them would die charging to the Lannisters front lines if they had the chance and that would be good riddance for them all. They were an annoyance like a shit stain on his shoe, the gold horses. They sat at the front, even men outside could hear their shouts, some had serving girls on their laps others were passed out on the table. He could see the disapproval on the Stark boys face as he looked down at them. That was when Bald Bowen, a knight and an old one at that, spoke "Mi'lord when has the stark boy told you or your father about the plans for the war. I do hope we are not marching blindly, after all his most trusted man here is Greatjon. Never hear compliments about his wits." Roger nodded as he listened. He doubted the Stark boy had thought about this at all. He was mostly feasting on the glory of marching his host down to play war with Tywin. Feasting on fantasies that the giant oaf whispers in his ears. He did not see this ending well at all. In fact he could see northern blood caking the grass of the riverlands and dyeing their rivers red. Glory, that was the reason. He doubts that he even cares about his grandfather and his lands. Unfortunately he would not speak of such things so close to such staunch Stark supporters. "I will be discussing with my good brother whether or not the boy has planned and if they are at least possible." He glanced around, first towards his sister who was constantly talking to the person on the left of her. His father, who was talking to the boy. Roose Ryswell kissing a serving wench. Rickard in deep discussion with Lord Hornwoods son. Then he stood and walked to Roose Bolton.

Roose Boltons pale eyes showed no trace of emotion. It was quite unsettling in fact, always sending a shiver down Rogers spine but this wasn't a time to be scared of his own good brother. He's a Ryswell not a bloody craven, so he bowed his head. "Lord Bolton, may I have a seat. There is something I believe we must discuss." Lord Bolton's reply was quick but awfully quiet. "Of course Lord Ryswell" so Roger took a seat surrounded by Bolton men rather than the Cerwyns at the back of the hall. He spoke with no fear of being overhead. "What do you think of the Stark boy? A glory hunter? A simple child? He does not seem impressive nor northern." Still the pale eyes of Bolton unsettled him as he spoke. They looked into him as if they belonged to a ghost. Then when Roger finished he'd reply "Robb Stark is capable enough. His wolf chewed off the fingers of Greatjon. He seems to have gained the respect of many lords of the north. Even I respect him. I will follow him, good brother, you should do the same." Having strained to hear the man. The words severely disappointed him. Even if Bolton accepts him as his liege, Roger would not. He excused himself and left the hall to walk the streets of Barrowton. It was even louder out in the town. He walked through the street lined by elm trees looking at nature. Looking at the drunken Karstark fools who were fighting with Flints. From where, Roger did not know. It was not any of his business so he continued to walk until he reached an inn. A wheat sheaf was painted on its sign and he decided to sleep there for the night. Away from the starks, boltons and even his own men