Game of Thrones: Lord of the Flames

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After crossing a tributary of the Honeywine River, Samwell and his men finally came upon a towering gray-stone castle. Moss and ivy crawled up the castle's weather-worn walls, silently telling tales of the many storms this ancient fortress had endured. Flying atop the castle's hundred-foot tower was a white flag adorned with fluttering black-and-orange butterflies.

This was the sigil of House Mullendore, Lords of Uplands Castle.

Traveling southwest from here would soon lead them to the Red Mountains. If Samwell managed to establish a new fief in those mountains, House Mullendore would become his nearest neighbor.

Hoping to secure a good relationship with his future neighbors, Samwell didn't bypass the castle. Instead, he dispatched Gavin to deliver a formal request for an audience with the Mullendores.

"Samwell Caesar," Lord Martin Mullendore said aloud, a bemused smile crossing his face as he held Samwell's letter in hand. "This is the so-called 'pioneer knight'... knighted by a woman?"

Gavin inclined his head slightly, his tone neither humble nor arrogant:

"My lord, Sir Caesar was knighted on behalf of Lord Mace Tyrell by his daughter, Lady Margaery, and serves as an official vassal of House Tyrell."

Lord Martin gave a disdainful snort. "So yes, then, a knighted-by-a-woman knight."

Gavin kept his head lowered and didn't respond.

"Fine," Lord Martin sighed in lazy tones. "Let him in."

Gavin gave a short bow before turning and leaving.

Lord Martin then addressed his steward.

"Have the kitchen prepare a dinner, but no need to go overboard. Just keep it respectable."

"Yes, my lord."

"Father, this is the Tarly family's 'wastrel' son?" asked Lord Martin's eldest son, Mark Mullendore.

Tall and broad-shouldered, Mark wore a full beard, and perched on his shoulder was a black-and-white monkey who was focused intently on cracking a nut.

"Exactly," Lord Martin replied. "Randall Tarly is certainly a man to be reckoned with, yet he managed to produce a son like this. Now he's finally decided to strip Samwell of his inheritance—though I never would've expected him to exile him as a 'pioneer knight' of all things. He may as well have sent him to the Wall."

Mark shrugged. "If I had the choice, I'd take pioneering over the Wall any day rather than be trapped in that godforsaken place."

Lord Martin cast his son a sideways glance and laughed.

"You think pioneering is easy, then?"

"I know it's not easy, but the Wall is clearly worse. Freezing cold, and I hear it's overrun with wights who can't be killed."

"Wights?" Lord Martin chuckled. "Nothing but children's tales. Thousands of years, and who's seen a wight? And besides, it's summer, so the Wall's hardly even cold right now."

"But winter's bound to come sooner or later."

"Who's to say?" Lord Martin replied. "This summer's been dragging on endlessly. It could last even longer yet. Only those godswood-worshipping northern savages would obsess about their 'Winter Is Coming' nonsense."

Mark seemed to consider this before asking, "Father, could this be the Eternal Summer the Seven promised, a world with no winter?"

"The Seven said the Eternal Summer would arrive once all human sins were cleansed. Do you believe that day has come?"

Mark shook his head, resting his chin in his hand in thought. His shoulder monkey also began scratching its head, deep in monkey-thought.

Just then, a sound of marching boots echoed from outside the castle.

"Father! Come see!" Mark called out.

Lord Martin slowly walked to the balcony. "What is it?"

"Are you sure this Samwell is the disowned son?" Mark asked in disbelief.

Lord Martin was also taken aback.

The sight of the two hundred neatly arrayed, well-equipped soldiers below left him speechless.

Samwell's two months of training had produced notable results; those conscripted dockworkers now moved with the disciplined bearing of veteran soldiers.

In truth, of course, they'd yet to face the blood and fire of real combat, where their flaws would likely show. But with Samwell's investments in equipment and daily rations, these soldiers were more than enough to intimidate most onlookers.

To Lord Martin, this so-called 'disowned wastrel' had somehow assembled a two-hundred-man force of what seemed to be elite troops!

This was no minor armed escort.

Uplands Castle, after all, only maintained a standing force of just over three hundred.

House Mullendore did have about a dozen vassal knights, and if necessary, Lord Martin could muster a force of up to three thousand men, mainly farmers. He certainly wouldn't fear Samwell's force of two hundred.

However, Lord Martin was a noble lord and the ruler of The Uplands. Samwell, on the other hand, was merely a pioneering knight without even a plot of land. Even a victory would be beneath his dignity.

"Where in the Seven Hells did he find so many seasoned soldiers?" Lord Martin growled, grinding his teeth.

His initial contempt had quickly shifted into a strange mix of jealousy and resentment.

After a moment's thought, Mark ventured, "Could Randall Tarly have given them to him?"

"Do you know how few regular troops House Tarly has? There's no way he'd spare so many soldiers for a disowned son!"

Mark scratched his head. He'd never visited the Tarlys' lands, but he knew that House Tarly, while somewhat stronger than House Mullendore, couldn't afford to waste troops on a wastrel's pioneering expedition. Losing so many men in the Red Mountains would seriously weaken them.

"Maybe House Tyrell gave him these men?"

Only the wealth and resources of House Tyrell seemed sufficient to provide such a force to a 'wastrel' like Samwell.

Lord Martin rolled his eyes. "Lord Pufffish wouldn't even knight him personally, and you think he'd hand him an army?"

Mark found this reasoning sound and scratched his head harder. His monkey began jumping and yanking on its fur, mirroring his frustration.

Lord Martin stared down at the soldiers, his eyes hardening as he finally turned and headed for the stairs.

Mark quickly followed.

When father and son arrived at the castle gate, the steward and servants were already waiting with bread and salt.

In Westeros, bread and salt signified the sacred law of guest right. Once a guest accepted a host's bread and salt, neither party could harm the other, as breaking this covenant was an offense to both the Old Gods and the New.

Taking a small piece of bread, Samwell dipped it in salt and ate it. Then he placed his hand over his chest and bowed slightly to Lord Martin.

"My Lord Mullendore, thank you for your hospitality!"

With a warm smile, Lord Martin replied, "Sir Caesar, welcome to Uplands Castle."

(End of Chapter)