Ser Royce Baratheon

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Just before evenfall on the second day of riding, the Baratheon men and their leader, Ser Royce, came to a halt before the walls of that hated place, Summerhall. Ser Royce fought the urge to spit, restrained only by the thought that some guardsman or their silver-haired masters might see him do so.

They stood in silence for a moment or two, under the banners of House Baratheon and House Targaryen. Ser Royce had chosen two hundred men to provide an honor guard for their wagons, two hundred men who had themselves fought the bandits. Each could vouch for the size of the bandit company, smallfolk who had put no thought into assaulting the Crown Prince and a member of House Baratheon-- like as not the slaying of the former Hand emboldened them to come after Lord Penrose’s land.

Behind them were the trio of wagons, the rearmost of the two smelling like death. The first was covered, attended by the Silent Sisters. Two white horses pulled it, and a septon held the reins. The ceremony was unpleasant to Ser Royce, but he had always been a soldier. Soldiers followed orders.

Ser Royce put his spurs to Thunderhead and they cantered towards the walls, where he saw a number of men looking down. “Tell your masters that Ser Royce Baratheon returns from the field of battle, with the body of this castle’s last lord and the heads of two hundred men who took part in his assassination.”