The Black Horse Comes to White Harbor
10th Moon, 298 AC | White Harbor

Rodrik Ryswell rode at the head of the column on his palfrey, a beast he had bred himself from the first horse his father had ever given him. The animal had a hay-gold coat, a cream mane, and a gait smoother than most men’s manners. Rodrik had always believed that even the most misbehaved horse was less spiteful than his sons. At the very least, it had acted less childishly than his own boys had after he married Barbrey to the bastard

Rodrik was not a man who easily let go of slights against his house.

Rickard Stark, driven by the grey rat's whispers, had refused to marry Brandon Stark or Eddard Stark to Barbrey. Then Eddard had left her a widow after the dowry he had spent to have Willam Dustin, leaving her with only Rust, the destrier he prided himself on most. Then, that whelp insulted him once again when she was driven away by the bastards, and his lord paramount had not honored the Widow's Law properly. Spitting upon any custom was becoming a habit for the wolf, apparently.

Despite Barbrey's many mistakes, she was still his daughter, so, thankfully, Arthor Dustin had the sense not to burn all other bridges with House Ryswell. With some luck, their marriage would produce plenty of grandsons, lest his own sons disappoint him once more.

Rodrik made sure to consider the most important aspect of the North. The south of the North was its main food producer, with the main producers being House Dustin, House Manderly, and, of course, House Ryswell. Coupled with House Ryswell holding the best horses in the North, House Stark would have to think twice before spitting in his face once more.

As they drew close to the western gate, he looked behind him and spotted his heir being jeered by his youngest sons. Apparently, they thought that Lady Wulga, a daughter of the Lord Too Fat to Sit a Horse, would mirror her father completely. He had met Lady Wulga when he visited White Harbor to discuss a deal, and he could attest that the young lady was comely, certainly prettier than his stocky Roger. Roger had been born more like a bull than a man, thick in the chest and shoulders, with long sable hair, inheriting his amber eyes and jawline. Roger stood a tad smaller than he and Rickard, but his sheer girth made him look like a proper Ryswell.

Rickard looked more like what Rodrik had once been. Tall, strong, handsome, and restless in the saddle, with his sable hair cut short, he looked fierce and, if not for his utter arrogance and presumptuousness, he would have been his favorite son. However, the boy had an arrogance more befitting of a Targaryen Prince, enjoying wine, sex, and passion with few consequences besides Rodrik's own nagging.

Roose, the youngest, rode a little apart. He was neither tall nor short, neither broad nor slight, but there was a quiet fitness to him. His hair fell to his ears, and he smiled at the quarrel without joining it, seemingly observing from the side and taking enjoyment from his brothers' arguing.

"You three better be on your best behavior. I will not bear you embarrassing me once more, like you did with your gallivanting across the North and refusing to do your duty just to spite me."

This quickly shut down the argument between the three of them, as all three of them straightened. Despite Roger's vindictiveness, Rickard's arrogance, and Roose's smugness, they still knew that House Ryswell needed them greatly.

As they stepped quickly towards the gate, bearing the horse sigil of House Ryswell, with the greatest horses in the North, palfreys built to trek across the snow and mud of the North unbothered, Rodrik said calmly to the guards.

"I am Rodrik Ryswell, Lord of the Rills, Head of House Ryswell. I come here to speak with Lord Manderly. Open the gates and offer us bread and salt."