Pastiche

Our march through the Kingswood offered little ease. There was no 'taking it easy' or 'getting back into the swing of things'. If we didn't march at least 20 miles before stopping to make camp, there was hell to pay.

Each day, a different squad would accompany me as I varied my position in the formation. My favorite place was obviously the front, where my view remained unobstructed. However, for safety, the center with Brien and Theodore was the most secure position.

I didn't like the idea of marching in the same place in the formation each day. Granted, it was evident where I stood, considering my two sworn Kingsguard with their white cloaks that stuck out like a sore thumb, usually mounted as well.

We were about a week into our trek through the Kingswood, and the Wendwater grew ever nearer.

"Curious," I remarked. "Everyone seems to be in much better shape than I imagined."

Lieutenant Mathew's squad was accompanying me that day. "Can't speak for the others," replied Mathew Buck, his front teeth as large as ever, "But us Brindlewood lads trained twice daily, morning and night."

"I'm glad to hear it," I replied. "And here I thought Pheonix would have to whip everyone back into shape."

"I think that's what everyone was hoping to avoid," chuckled Mathew Buck. "How did you fare in the capital?"

I glanced and marveled at how the sun seeped through the gaps between the leaves. "Us? Many things," I said, "You'd have to ask Dirty Douglas. We practically took over half of the city. Hmm, that reminds me... Doug!"

At my call, Douglas' name spread down the line, and he shortly came running up to my position. "Prince?"

"Just double-checking that you had all your ducks in a row before we left."

"Ducks, geese, pigeons," said Douglas, "And everything else."

"Good work," I said. "In any case, I'm sure Cleave will revel in the bloodshed if someone tries anything while we're gone."

Douglas scoffed, "He's a mad fuck, that Cleave. Skin crawls just looking at him."

"An acquired taste, to be sure."

"Mind my asking," said Douglas. Despite his hard life in Fleabottom, he had a certain manner about him. His single mother raised him well. "How did we ever get involved with... him?"

"The worst thing for an artist is for their work to be ignored," I said. "When one wanders the desert for so long, one bit of praise can seem an oasis."

It was then that Mathew Buck spied something out of the corner of his eye. "Prince Rhaenar—!"

But his warning came too late. Suddenly, we were being rained upon by arrows. Red splattered as the Rhaenari hastily formed lines and raised their shields.

"Form up!" ordered Mathew. "Protect the Prince!"

We shielded in a turtle formation, with me snug in the middle, and the arrows rained and rained. When they finally stopped, we could not see anyone, as if the trees themselves were to blame.

And surprisingly, not a soul was killed. Douglas picked up one of the fallen arrows. Instead of arrowheads at their end, they had pouches of...

"Berries?" said Douglas, "What the f—?"

Laughter sang in the wood, and dozens of archers emerged behind tree trunks, their white cloaks flowing as they walked.

I clapped, "Bravo!"

Mathew Buck kept the formation raised, "Hmm?"

"At ease, Lieutenant. They're the White Rangers, protectors of the Kingswood, and our good allies!"

Fabien stepped forward, his cloak noticeably different as it's not an actual cloak, but the skin of the White Hart from that fated day he killed it before my eyes. He kneeled before me, and the rest of the Rangers followed suit.

"My Prince."

"Fabien, how good to see you. I see your numbers have increased?"

What was once a band of children and teens had now become a band of even more children and teens, with some men to boot. There had to be at least 100 of them.

"Better yet," said Fabien, "The wood has never teemed with more life."

"Excellent. Where is Downes? I do hope he's been teaching others to track as well as he."

Fabien apologized, "A boar killed one of the elders at the mouth of the Wendwater. The whole village was up in arms about it. The biggest they'd ever seen, they said. They wouldn't settle for any green boys, they said."

I laughed, "Just as well. Or we'd have to call you the Green Rangers."

By then, the officers came, "Seven hells," said Zane, berries splattered all over him, "What was that all about?"

"An ambush," I said, "Where it looks like you'd be dead."

Sari sheathed his dirk, "You didn't warn me? I could have killed someone."

Fabien's bow fingers twitched, "I'm sure."

And so, our company enjoyed the added escort of the White Rangers for the rest of our travels through the Kingswood.

It was interesting to see the disparities between our archery training and the lifestyle of the Rangers. Naturally, we organized an archery competition between the two groups, and in the finals, it came down to our very own Deadeye Ronny vs. Fabien.

Fabien emerged as the winner in all categories, most notably in maximum distance. Brien theorized that his life in the Kingswood had trained his eyes to fix on targets further away between the trees. Theodore surmised that Ronny was not far behind, given more training.

Unsatisfied with the results, Ronny proposed another category of contest where they would get incredibly drunk, which he won.

In his victory, Ronny boasted that it was no wonder, as he was used to shooting at multiple targets on the battlefield. Next, he suggested a that which resembled a wild-west duel, where each man would stand a few paces away from the other and, on a mark, turn, notch their arrows, and take aim at one another.

However, when Fabien rejected the idea on account of his Ranger vows to only use the bow to protect the wood, he did not want to engage in any bloodshed. We called that one a forfeit, giving another point to Ronny.

Finally, it came down to a compromise. If Fabien wouldn't agree to the shoot-off due to the fear of causing harm, then shooting an apple off someone's head would suffice. If you were skilled enough, no one would be harmed. Fabien could not refuse as everyone in camp hollered and was well drunk by then.

We needed a volunteer to place the apple on their head. Zane was intoxicated enough to feel invincible, so he stepped up to the plate. There wasn't much accuracy in hitting the target, both men missing time and time again but eventually, Fabien managed to hit the apple dead center, splattering its juicy bits all over Zane's head.

Other than that, our trek was peaceful enough. Before we knew it, we came before the Wendwater Bridge, and the wood dispersed, opening to the plains of the Stormlands.

"This is where we leave you," said Fabien, "Good luck, Prince Rhaenar."

"And you, Ranger. Keep up the good work."

No sooner did we turn to make our way south did we spy the orange banners with a yellow haystack, the coat of arms of House Errol.

I mounted my stallion and sullied to the front of the formation alongside my kingsguard to meet the small contingent of riders.

"My Lords of Haystack Hall," I called to them, "You're the first to greet us, I thank you."

During my journey, procuring livestock from local lords became necessary to satisfy Sundance's voracious appetite. To prevent him from helping himself to unattended fields, I had established arrangements with various keeps throughout the realm, serving as convenient "bolt holes" where Sundance could feast without restraint. Among these fortified havens was Haystack Hall, and my correspondence with House Errol had spanned weeks to orchestrate this endeavor.

But then, over the hill, a mesmerizing tableau unfolded before me. Like a living tapestry woven by skilled hands, banners emerged, catching the sunlight with their vibrancy.

(A/N: Skip this next paragraph if you don't hate yourself and/or value your sanity.)

House Buckler's three brass knuckles danced upon a canvas of cerulean, House Cafferen's white fawns pranced amidst lush fields of green, and House Estermont's dark green sea turtle glided upon a gentle sea of grass. As the riders approached, House Fell's banner adorned the sky with a cloak of darkness, where a shimmering crescent moon cast its ethereal glow. House Gower's design, a tapestry of black trefoils upon a cross of ermine, whispered tales of heritage and strength. House Grandison's emblem, a slumbering black lion upon a regal golden stage of serenity. Amid this majesty, House Hasty's purple standard donned a white sash, a mark of honor and distinction. House Herston's red field soared with a vibrant yellow cock of vitality and courage. House Horpe's three moths, their wings adorned with death's heads, fluttered with a foreboding grace. House Kellington's banner, a black bound book, bore the weight of knowledge, a testament to their valued wisdom. House Tarth of Evenfall's stars and moons adorned the celestial blue, a dance mirrored in their noble spirit. House Trant's dark man, hanged in the azure, evoked both mystery and stoicism. House Tudbury's brown tortoise, encased in a yellow lozenge, carried the wisdom of ages upon its aged shell. House Wagstaff's five yellow diamonds shimmered like treasures of the heart, weaving tales of prosperity and ambition. The banner of House Rain, a tempest of blue-green hues. House Swann's sable swans glided upon ebony waters of elegance. House Selmy's three stacks of wheat urged for a bountiful harvest. House Caron's black nightingales sang their haunting melodies, weaving enchantment through the air. And, of course, House Baratheon's black stag, regal in all its strength.

If all of that bored you, then good! You should taste my pain at least once. Enduring the monotonous lectures of Archmaester Mellos was a formidable challenge, a burden I bore so you could be spared from this moment forward.

As the spectacle unfolded, a sense of unease crept over me, like a survival instinct stirring within. I turned my gaze to Pheonix, my eyes ablaze with venom.

"An approach from such a large force without our knowledge is troubling, regardless of friend or foe" I asserted, "No longer. The Rhaenari scouts must be famed throughout the land."

Phoenix nodded solemnly, "As you command."

And thus, I was met with the enthusiastic presence of the young and ambitious from every notable noble house in the Stormlands. Each vied for the privilege of safeguarding my well-being, leading me through their lands, showcasing the splendors of their castles, their esteemed daughters, and so on.

Our camp was strictly controlled, permitting entry only to those with authorized access and an accompanying escort.

The process of establishing our camp began after marching at least 20 miles each day. We dug trenches, set up wooden spikes as makeshift fences, pitched our tents, and arranged camp facilities. The following day, everything was dismantled, trenches filled, and all traces of our presence erased.

Lords Dondarrion, Caron, Swann, and Selmy, the esteemed marcher lords with their extensive experience in battles along the Dornish marches, brought a fresh perspective to our camp design. These noble houses, deeply rooted in the history of warfare with the Dornish, possessed a natural affinity for military matters.

Through our discussions, I discovered the storied reputation of the March lands for their exceptional archery skills. This revelation sparked a glimmer of hope within me, envisioning the potential recruitment of talented volunteers from the Stormlands to bolster our corps.

We opted for the direct route, using the King's Road. As such, the only noteworthy keep we visited along the way was Bronzegate, the seat of House Buckler.

It took us almost 3 weeks to reach our destination but when we did it was quite the sight. Climbing over a small hill, it lay before us.

The heavens brooded with dark clouds, churning and swirling ominously above the expanse of Shipbreaker Bay.

Amidst this tempestuous backdrop, the castle stood unyielding, a bastion that dared to challenge the very forces of nature. Perched at Durran's Point, where the sheer white cliffs embraced the tumultuous sea, it radiated an aura of indomitable strength.

Storm's End. Unlike other castles, it only boasted one main structure; an imposing drum tower that reaches for the sky like a colossal spiked fist. Possibly the largest (and only) man made 'fuck you!' to the sky in the entire world.

The origins of Storm's End trace back to the Dawn Age, when Durran Godsgrief, the first Storm King, sought vengeance against the sea god and wind goddess for the tragic loss of his family and guests during his ill-fated wedding.

Legends speak of Durran's relentless determination to build a stronghold capable of withstanding the fierce storms that plagued the region. After six failed attempts, the seventh and final castle, Storm's End, emerged as a testament to his defiance.

Some tales attribute the castle's resilience to the intervention of the children of the forest, who purportedly employed their magical abilities in its construction.

Others suggest that a young Bran the Builder, renowned for his architectural prowess, guided Durran's efforts. In any case, Storm's End has a long-standing reputation for withstanding the region's annual storms, as noted by the maesters.

During the Andal invasion, the castle proved impregnable, leading the invaders to abandon their futile sieges and resort to marriage alliances to incorporate House Durrandon into their fold.

It was during Aegon's Conquest that Storm's End faced its only moment of vulnerability. The castle's impregnable defenses were compromised not by a lengthy siege, but by the ill-advised actions of Argilac the Arrogant, the last Storm King.

In a fateful decision, he ventured out of the safety of Storm's End's formidable walls to confront Orys Baratheon, a loyal commander and rumored bastard-brother to King Aegon.

The ensuing battle, known as the Last Storm, ended in Argilac's defeat. Seizing the opportunity, Orys married Argilac's daughter, Argella, solidifying House Baratheon's rule over Storm's End as unwavering vassals of the Targaryen Dynasty.

The sight of our destination left us speechless. It was as if the weight of history pressed upon us, humbling our spirits and evoking a sense of reverence akin to the invading Andals of old, silenced by the monumental task that lay ahead.

Despite the bleak weather, I seized the opportunity for theatrics. Sundance descended, and together we soared gracefully around the castle, mesmerizing onlookers.

The lone tower stood colossal and impregnable, inspiring a fleeting thought that Sundance could perch atop its peak without causing a ripple of damage.

Yet, I chose to land in the outer yard, ensuring that the thunderous flapping of his wings reverberated through the assembled crowd of Lord Baratheon and the gathered nobles.

The stoic Lord Boremund Baratheon, an aging figure and half-brother of the late King Jaehaerys, stood below me. His once stalwart shoulders now stooped, his jet-black hair was now a salty shade.

Despite his niece, Princess Rhaenys, being overlooked as the rightful queen in favor of my father, Boremund harbored great affection for our entire family. His laughter boomed through the gusts of wind as I touched down in the yard.

From the moment I arrived I felt warmly welcomed, so much so that I couldn't resist enveloping the lord in a heartfelt hug. In that fleeting moment, the strength of House Baratheon resurged as he returned the embrace with a powerful bear squeeze.

Lord Boremund's had but a single child, Borros, whose growing renown as a warrior commanded admiration throughout the southern frontiers.

Whispers of his martial prowess were intertwined with tales of a wild temperament, emotions untamed.

It was evident that Borros embodied the enduring Baratheon genetics, and his burgeoning reputation preceded him. Yet I detected no trace of his father's warmth, only a distant, curt exchange of cold indifference.

Thus, Storm's End became our established base camp, providing us with the true rugged hospitality of the Stormlands, a land shaped by the crucible of war and weather.

In the following weeks, I embarked on a series of regional explorations. One such venture led me to the Rainwood, an ancient forest situated on Cape Wrath.

The Rainwood's name was befitting, as it seemed to be in a perpetual state of rainfall. Its rich history fascinated me, its majestic maples and towering pines. Accompanied by Lord Wydle, I traversed the forest, discovering numerous caves that dotted its landscape.

To my delight, we also stumbled upon a few surviving weirwood trees, despite the relentless effort by the Andals to eradicate them.

It stirred my curiosity to learn that during the reign of the Storm Kings, a rebellion led by a woods witch known as the Green Queen had held dominion over the Rainwood for an entire generation.

My exploration yielded no encounters with witches, much to my regret. I had hoped to engage in conversations with them, particularly regarding their knowledge of medicine and their reputation in fortune-telling.

Enthralled by tales of its breathtaking beauty, I embarked on a flight to Tarth, the fabled Sapphire Isle, nestled in the embrace of the azure waters of the Narrow Sea.

As I soared above its sublime mountains, gazed upon shimmering lakes, and beheld captivating waterfalls, my heart was sent aflutter. Green meadows stretched endlessly, while hidden valleys revealed a mosiac of vibrant flora, perfuming the air with a sweet fragrance.

Tarth was a paradise that truly stirred the senses.

Acknowledging the considerable distance to Blackhaven and Nightsong, renowned for their formiddible architecture, it became clear that visiting these holdfasts within my limited timeframe in the Stormlands would pose a challenge.

Fortunately, Lords Caron and Dondarrion graciously offered to ride ahead of my party once we journeyed westward. They would ensure everything was in order by the time I reached a suitable location along the rose road, from where I could take flight and explore the Dornish Marches. This arrangement would allow me to venture the southern frontier without deviating from my itinerary.

Thus was the general sequence of events during my time in the Stormlands.

As we prepared to depart, the entourage of camp followers caught up to us, filling the fields outside Storm's End with a multitude of people and tents. The once solitary keep now resembled a sprawling town, a far cry from the humble camp of our initial 501.

Among the newcomers were volunteers who, to put it bluntly, attached themselves to our company.

To earn their place among our ranks, they would need to endure the challenges of our traveling boot camp, an additional undertaking that required our attention for the remainder of the journey.

After a final feast that extended beyond the castle walls into the makeshift, moving city, we packed our belongings and set out, marching towards our next destination.

I stole a final glance, catching Lord Boremund Baratheon's grand smile and farewell wave, to which I share this poem:

'In that fleeting moment, unbeknownst to me

His countenance etched, my heart embraced

I did not fathom that it would be

My final glimpse upon his face.'