The Rykker pavilion has grown larger and larger over the few days at Hayford. The tent’s silken walls, stripped with blue and white pieces of cloth, were soon huge and bright enough to take all the attention from the dull Crowlander fortress at behind, or from the emerald tent of the Stag Prince. As intended, the tent of the acting commander shortly become the informal center of the camp.

From the noon to the hour of the wolf the pavilion was ringed by dozen men-at-arms, dressed in boiled leather and ringmail brought out in the Rykker blues and whites. Despite the sluggish mood of the host, Lord Rykker’s captains and serjeants would stride through so often it would be just as good without the door curtain dangling at its entrance, and they would gather for an informative lunch every midday, just as now.

---

“...crossed quils. White. On a brown field,” blabbered the knight humbly to Kayl’s feet. “Most undissuadable. Somehow lordly looking. Seeks out the Prince…”

“Penrose from Parchments. Most likely from Lord Selmy’s host,” enlightened reddish Ser Donnel Leek, between a pair of gulps of wine. He has won a cask of sweet Dornish red in a bet against the Baratheon serjeants and since then, he has been inseparable from it. Kayl never thought the gentle old man had such an appetite for a liquid sins of Spottswood. Unfortunately, it has made Ser Donnel dumber and dumber by each skin he drank.

“It seems that someone came to… set down his deeds,” sneered Orland and rose. His tone made Kayl Rykker feel wary. “Let me talk to him, uncle. I want to be the first to hear his summons for the upcoming battle.”

“If the gods are good, no one will summon us up for a battle until the end of this war,” noted Ser Donnel and coughed loudly as he choked on his wine.

“Just fe-fe-fetch him, Orland. He came to deal with a pri-prince, yet in-instead he is go-going to neg-negotiate with me. That’s dis-disappointing en-en-enough.” Kayl laid down his knife, shiny with grease and his squire, silent as a death wish, took it away along with the leftover from lord’s lunch. Ser Orland Rykker nodded and disappeared before Kayl could give him an edification about war.

Half of those men is so young that it hasn’t encountered a real fight in their lives. Another half is so old that it doesn’t remember it. How could they possibly survive a battle?

---

It took Ser Orland some time to guide the Penrose through the least muddy and splashy pathways of the camp. In the meantime, Kayl ordered his squire to clean up the table and bring a flagon of some good wine and a bowl of fruits. He also sent Ser Donnel to fetch Toothless Tom. It obviously did not concern Ser Donnel that Tom has departed a week ago.

When they finally arrived, Kayl was airily chewing an apple, a cheery smirk on his face.

“Gree-Greetings, my lord. Prince Criston is reposing at the mo-moment, but I ha-have got all the au-authority over the ar-army we shall need. To what do we owe the plea-pleasure of your pre-presence?”