9M, 237AC

It was late in the evening, and a spring storm threatened to roll in from the Sunset Sea. The Rills was not the most impressive fortification in the North, situated in the rolling hills north of the Saltspear. On one such hill stood the keep of the Rills, once an ancient motte castle of the First Men it had been slowly fortified over the centuries with wood giving way to stone. Yet, the Great Hall maintained some of what had been the ancient seat of the Ryders. Wide and low, with arches of ancient timber carved with leaping stallions, with smoldering braziers to keep out the chill of a spring evening. A dark raven flapped its wings against the gathering storm, but the creature could not have imagined that the wind and the rain that would break the spring evening was nothing against the storm it carried tied to its leg.

The sudden appearance of the raven startled the maester, who was deep into a late meal of black bread, cheese and ale. Annoyed at being interrupted, he plucked the message from the raven and unrolled it. "Damn," was all he could manage before he set off to the Great Hall, the links of his chain a clinking against his chest and announcing his arrival before he could be seen. There he found the three Ryswell brothers, the sons of Domeric, all returned to the Rills from their recent campaigns. They too had ale set before them, as Lord Roderick heard the tales of his brothers' exploits. The conviviality of the reunion was shattered by the maester's appearance and the look he carried on his face.

"Dark wings, my lord."

"From Moat Cailin," Rolland suggested.

"From the Finger," Robard added.

"Nay, my lords, from Winterfell."

The maester set the message on the table, and read it aloud. Deep furrows formed in the brows of the three men, for all knew what this message meant. The battle that they had long awaited was upon them, and a chance to strike a blow against the Ironborn for their crimes against the North.

"My brothers, it seems that the time has come at last to show the Ironborn what it means to fight on land. If they think that wildling rabble with deliver them victory, then so be it. The North Remembers!” Lord Roderick raised his tankard, and his brothers followed suit. “And still, I cannot help but fear that with the armies of the North drawn to the wall that we remain vulnerable in the south.”

“Aye,” Robard mused, “the strength of the Ironborn is in their ships, not their swords. The farther from the boats, the more vulnerable they become. I do not doubt that they could stir the wildlings to attack, but it seems like a perfect ambush.”

“Brothers, please,” Rolland interjected, “can you not see? The Ironborn queen and her lords have grown overconfident. Their victories have clouded their judgment, and now their pride has led them to make a fatal mistake. The Old Gods have delivered us the chance to deliver the killing blow, if we have the courage to grasp it.

“Rolland, you are an arrogant fool,” Robard laughed, “the Ironborn are no fools. Certainly, they must be trying to draw us out, leaving us vulnerable along the Saltspear. They could sail as far north as Torrhen’s Square if we are not careful, or make land and march their own way to Moat Cailin. We cannot commit our full force, lest we leave the Rills vulnerable.”

They both turned to their eldest brother, who nodded. “You both speak truth. We will leave a small force here in the Rills to guard the coast under your command Robard. Rolland and I will march north to meet the Ironborn challenge. The North will need as many strong swords as can be mustered to the wall.”

Robard stood, he knew that with his arm he would not be among those who met the Ironborn this time. “I will remain here, watching your back as always brother. How many times were we caught while I was the lookout?” He smiled and raised his tankard.

Rolland stood, turning to his brother, “I think this time there is more at stake than the last time,” he laughed nostalgically, “we will miss your council before the battle.”

Robard laughed, “as if you ever listened!”

Roderick stood last, tankard in hand, “then it is settled. You shall guard our lands and our posterity while we ride north to meet the challenge. I do not have to remind you of the dangers of battle, and if this be my last you shall be regent until my son comes of age.”

“The Gods are good, brother, but if it comes to that then I shall.”

All three raised their tankards

“The North Remembers!”