12M A 77AD

Harlan watched as the men gathered around the keep of Ironoaks. The Queen had called for aid, and his father had mustered it. A thousand men prepared to march against the mountain clans with the Lord of Ironoaks at its head. Yet, he was a man who had been confined to his bed scarce months before and Harlan thought this show of force to be unwise. He knew better than to raise his voice too loud, for his father was a stubborn man who would move at his own pace. It would be easier to coax a mountain into the valley than to sway his father's will on this matter.

"The mountain clans are a menace, and the only thing they understand is steel," his father had said beneath furrowed brow.

"Would it not be better that I go? That I lead our swords against them?" Harlan had retorted.

"They killed my brother, and I will not breathe my last until this house has avenged its honor. You are my son, but you have lived in a time of peace. This house will need you one day, as strong and proud as the walls of this castle. Today is still my time in the sun, though it wanes. Better that one old man fall than there be a gap in our house between the generations."

Harlan hadn't responded to that, but had mulled the words over in his mind many times. His father was a more experienced commander, to be sure, but he could not help but feel trepidation that the words might prove prophetic. He had offered his prayers to the Seven, and mouthed one final silent plea as the army marched west.