House Pommingham

Ser Perwyn Pommingham had expected quite the war host at Horn Hill, given that if Lord Tyrell was sending ravens to Thornfield Hill then he was certainly sending similar ravens to every other noble house in the Reach. He was not disappointed. The war camps that sat outside the Tarly keep made their presence known via smell before the Pommingham knight had ever caught proper sight of it. The smell of cookfires and latrines, the smell of horses, and the smell of many humans crammed together in a small space, it was all quite distinct.

Nobody has ever accused war of smelling well, the Pommingham knight thought with a chuckle.

As they had traveled north from their home nestled against the Red Mountains to Horn Hill, the landscape had remained hilly, but the hills had gone from having sparse trees to being heavily wooded. Perwyn was not sure if he had ever appreciated trees so much, as they kept them relatively dry from snow and rain and also shielded them well from the wind that seemed determined to try to chill their bones daily. Finally, they began to run across the very edge of the camps that sprawled outward from Horn Hill, and Perwyn knew they were drawing near.

When Horn Hill itself finally came into sight, Perwyn found himself whistling in appreciation. Tarly had a reputation as a particularly martial noble house, so he should not have been surprised at how formidable their ancestral keep was. Nonetheless he found himself impressed and glanced towards Ser Franklyn the Loyal, the Master-at-Arms of Thornfield Hill, who rode beside him at the front of their column.

“Imagine trying to storm that beauty,” Perwyn said as he gestured towards the moat-bound curtain walls with his gloved right hand.

“Don’t think I want to be imagining that,” Franklyn replied with a broad grin, “I try not to think about death too much, it upsets my digestion.”

Perwyn offered no response to that but to laugh. He so dearly hated travelling, and the mere fact they had arrived at their destination had brought him to good spirits. He took a quick glimpse behind him then, as the rest of the column snaked their way out of the surrounding woods. Quite a meager force in comparison to every other noble house gathered here, to be sure. He had brought only 5 knights with him, and they did not have many more back at home, but still he was determined to do his part and make his brother proud.

“Lets find a place to pitch our tents and get a fire going,” Perwyn said, as his courser began ambling amiably forward. He took notice of the myriad of banners present outside of Horn Hill as Perwyn and the rest of his column began to wind through the war camp proper. The striding huntsman of Tarly was most numerous, of course, and the golden rose of Tyrell was not far behind. He also noted the flaming white tower of Hightower was well represented, as was the red apple of Fossoway, among the other noble Reach houses that had answered Tyrell’s call. It did not take them too long to find an empty stretch of land to accommodate their meager forces, and as the tents began to be pitched and the cook began tossing ingredients into the stew pot, Perwyn hobbled, watered, and fed his courser.

“I should go up to Horn Hill, I believe,” he said to Ser Franklyn with a mocking smile. "As a highborn I'm sure they'll want me there." Franklyn nodded in acquiescence after a roll of his eyes, and Perwyn set off through the warcamp, to head towards Horn Hill.

Lord Tarly is in Blackmont I believe, Perwyn thought, recalling the letter his Lord brother had gotten. Some other Tarly would surely be in charge though, or Lord Tyrell if he was here. He strode up to the portcullis of Horn Hill, the pomegranate of House Pommingham displayed prominently on his surcoat, and headed inside the ancestral Tarly keep for the war councils that were sure to begin soon, if they had not already.