One Day Ago...

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The first of the fat raindrops tapped on the pauldrons of Ser Robin’s plate as he and the column of beaten rebels marched on to the south-east. He listened to the rain splatter across the countless leaves on the trees, a sound he remembered fondly enough from his childhood. It sounded different here.

Before these past two days there had only been one other instance where Ser Robin had marched with a host like this, and it had been on the way to and from Highgarden. Raymont had been there, then, and his uncle Harlon. It pained him to think it, but Robin was the last of the three of them who still lived.

His cousin lay dead, his father was missing, his home lost and his family within it. He prayed-- fervently-- to the Mother for their protection. There was little more to do now but to march onwards to Storm’s End with the remnants of their rebel host.

If only we hadn’t ridden out, he thought sourly. If we had stayed behind our gates we might’ve bled Orys dry on the walls of the Parchments.

A black courser trotted up alongside his, he recognized it as Shadow, Ser Pearse’s mount. They’d met at Highgarden those years ago, and he was similarly without a home-- there had been no news from The Horns since the siege, and they both shared the same fears. “Well, the weather hasn’t changed,” Ser Pearse called, squinting as the rain intensified. “Small comfort there.”

“It’ll slow the march,” Ser Robin observed. “It’ll slow the fat bastard down as well.”

“That is more comforting,” Ser Pearse agreed. “Have you heard of a plan?”

Ser Robin cast a glance over his left shoulder, wincing involuntarily as rain splashed off the pauldron onto his face. “Regroup at Storm’s End, that’s all I’ve heard.”

Thunder pounded overhead, one long roll.

“Any word from the other two?” Ser Robin asked.

His companion nodded towards the rear of the column. “Allard and Ronnel went off on a hunt, they best not have gotten lost in all this. What about Ser-- Lord-- Lorent?”

“I haven’t seen him,” Ser Robin admitted. “Perhaps he is with the King. Things are too damned disorganized right now.”

Shadow and Ser Robin’s own brown courser, Ardent, continued on side-by-side, straying further from the column of infantry into the relative cover of the tree canopy. Ser Robin removed his helm and let the rain hit his head directly, washing some of the dirt and sweat from his hair and face. “It has been a hard campaign,” he observed.

“Very hard,” Ser Pearse agreed. “For such a lowly creature, the false King fights well.”

“It’s a wonder we lost to the Northmen at all, from what I have seen on display here. Combined our hosts would be formidable indeed,” Ser Robin said. He reined up, bringing Ardent to a halt-- he heard something.

Galloping along the ragged column were the brothers Peasbury, Allard and Ronnel, a pair of rabbits in-hand. “Robin, Pearse,” Allard called, stopping his own horse short of the pair. He hoisted the rabbit higher. “At least we won’t go to sleep hungry on a woeful day like this.”

“How do you propose to cook that, brother?” Ronnel asked, gesturing to the darkening skies and the rain falling from them. “There is no dry wood for a day’s ride in any direction.”

Allard cast Ronnel a black look and turned back to his friends. “I rode behind the host. It does not appear that the oaf has bestirred himself yet, at least. I suspect we’ll make it to Storm’s End without incident.”

“Unless we encounter those raiders,” Ser Ronnel said. “What I wouldn’t give to see them hang.”

“All in due time,” Ser Robin said. He felt a connection to Poddingfield almost as strong as that he felt to the Parchments, and he wanted the bastards hanged as well. His thoughts returned to Corenna, and his heart felt heavy.

Allard dismounted alongside Robin and Pearse. In a moment, Ronnel did as well, splashing into the mud. “Corenna is a strong girl,” Allard said, putting a hand on Robin’s shoulder. “I know her better than anyone. She will be fine.”

“It is true,” Ronnel agreed. “We will revisit Parchments soon enough, I know the King will see it back in our hands. Poddingfield, too.”

“The Horns, too,” Ser Pearse added, grinning halfheartedly.

“Seven hells, I need a drink,” Ser Robin announced. He uncorked his wineskin, half-empty though it was, and took a long pull of it. The strong ale washed some of the dirt from his throat, too, and he at last began to feel a little better as it hit his stomach. He offered the skin to Allard, who gratefully took it. He looked up the road to the north. “I think we have time for a short rest here before we are left behind.”

He strode to the woodline and dragged a thick fallen branch out of the brush and into the grass. With exhausted abandon he dropped onto it, exhaling deeply.