Asoiaf: I Have a Wolverine Template

Chapter 56

Chapter 56: The Crag
...
Richard POV

A few days later, as the sun dipped low on the horizon, I sat astride my steed, Lancelot, his sleek black coat gleaming beneath the polished plates of his dark armor.

Like me, he bore blackened steel trimmed with gold, the muted glow catching the dying light of evening.

Together, we struck an imposing figure against the amber hues of twilight.

Behind me, my knights sat tall in their saddles, their dark steel and gold armor shimmering faintly in the fading sun.

The crest of the Nemean lion emblazoned on their breastplates stood as an unyielding symbol of strength and loyalty.

These were no ordinary soldiers—they were Nemeós knights, men forged in discipline and dedication, sworn to my cause.

We had arrived at the Crag and waited patiently outside its gates. The purpose of my visit was to deal with Ser Jamond, a troublesome knight who had encroached upon my lands.

Though I could have sent assassins or dealt with him myself, handling this matter publicly served a greater purpose.

I needed to send a clear message, and with the aid of Lord Westerling, my ally, I would do just that.

The jagged coastline of the Westerlands stretched endlessly behind us, waves from the Sunset Sea crashing relentlessly against the cliffs.

Before us stood the Crag, a fortress defiant in its simplicity, its grey stone walls seeming to rise naturally from the rocky landscape.

The sharp tang of salt filled the air as the wind carried sea spray and tugged at our cloaks.

Above, the golden banners of House Westerling fluttered in the breeze, adorned with their sigil: a golden field scattered with white seashells, a modest yet dignified emblem reflecting their ties to the sea and their noble, if diminished, heritage.

The Crag itself was a testament to endurance, its weathered stones shaped more by survival than splendor. Yet, signs of renewal were evident—fresh stonework reinforced the gates, and the walls had been restored since my last visit.

These changes spoke of Lord Gawen Westerling's resolve and the strength of the alliance we had forged.

With our pact of increased trade and mutual support, our lands had prospered.

The thriving Lionheart establishment within his territory had only made the deal more practical and profitable.

The gates groaned open at last, revealing a small procession of men-at-arms clad in the gold and white of House Westerling.

At their head rode Lord Gawen himself, his posture straight, his expression calm and composed.

He was young, twenty name days, with shoulder-length chestnut hair and steady brown eyes that held the wisdom of a man already accustomed to leadership.

"Well, if it isn't Galahad the Gallant. Welcome to the Crag again, my friend," Gawen called, his voice cutting through the sea breeze. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he rode forward, his cloak billowing behind him like a banner in the wind.

I spurred Lancelot ahead to meet him, and as we drew near, we clasped forearms, a gesture of mutual respect even from atop our horses.

"It has been too long, Gawen," I said, my grip firm. "I trust all has been well in your halls."

"Well enough," Gawen replied with a dry chuckle, glancing back toward the castle gates. "But I doubt you've ridden all this way simply to exchange pleasantries. Come, let us talk inside."