Mole Town

[The Smith]

Abandoned during the Long Winter, a shanty town of wooden huts, and tents now stands in its ruins. Thousands of North men, women and children have flocked to the Wall to aid in the defense if the Dragon's failed.

And to celebrate if the Dragons return successfully.

[Brown Ben]

.......................

While the Lords and Ladies feasted, he spent the night upon another log. This time, it was not with Wildling companions, but fellow Riverlanders, all huddled protectively around a large fire. Snow speckled their clothing: Itchy wool blankets, linen robes, even what had once been tent sides were being used, ice formed on their beards, and froze their running noses. Some men were missing fingers, some were still black from the frostbite. They bitched about the cold, they bitched about the wetness in their boots, they bitched about the North; They even bitched about the Westermen for being Westermen.

Erren slowly but suredly turned to his right, and simply nodded. At this unseen command, three men doffed their layers of protective cloth and produced their instruments: A small, flute of tin, a round, frame drum and a fiddle. Another, slightly jittery nod, and the drummer began, a fast, but steady beat. Slowly, the fluteist and fiddler joined in, and all three soon found their rhythm.

And even though the Rivermen bitched, bitched since they had come up to these blasted lands, a shudder of excitement, a buzz of pride and happiness and hope spread throughout the men; Some men started singing along to the music, some joked or spoke with their comrades about their homes, their wives, sweethearts, and children, while some simply stared mournfully into the fire, at images only they could see...

Erren exchanged a glance with his brother, Emmett, and both exchanged smirks before Emmett spoke up, "I need to find a good Riverwoman, with big, soft breasts, and wide hips for all the children we'll have..." He nudged Erren, "How about buying up a small boat and becoming fishermen on the Forks?" Both men became silent as their eyes turn onto the fire once again as Erren muttered, "I think I'd quite like to be a fisherman someday... Very much..." He sniffed, in vain stopping nothing, before growing quiet and listening to the music.

[Quenton Baratheon]

A figure who appears to be dressed much like the rest of them arrives on horseback. Walking into the light cast off by the fire, it becomes apparent that he isn't just another one of them however. He is Ser Vincent Darry, who but for the fact that his brother's death cannot be confirmed, would be Lord Darry.

"Whatchu looking at?" he almost softly asks one somewhat-shocked looking bystander. "Cannot a fellow riverlander sit amongst his own kind? You're worse than them lot up at the castle," he sneered with half a gesture in the direction of the wall. Another horse reins up nearby and Ser Leonard of the Trident emerges, plopping himself down next to Ser Vincent with a grunt

"The sad truth is I'd rather spend an evening with you ugly crew of fuckwits than an hour with that nest of uppity bastards at their feast." He smiled. "So don't think you've got it all bad. Now who's gonna feed me?"

[Brown Ben]

He gave a nod at the two newcomers, cold bodies shuffling aside to give them their seats. Almost indistinguishable from the other men, in their layered warmth, his face was plain and round, his stubble brown beard and short brown hair wet and sprinkled over with snowflakes, only his eyes, very bright blue, set him apart.

"The ugly fuckwits welcome you fine 'gentlemen' to this wonderful celebration. To the left you will see our honeied hams, to the right, our fresh, baked buttery bread. Roasted duck, lemoned fish, and to top it off, a hearty helping of fruit pies."

Instead, what was passed around were two earthenware bowels, that brimmed with warmth from the vegetable and meat (They guessed it to be horse; They hoped it was cow), a large square piece of bread, a tough strip of salted meat, tough as leather and just as tasty (Which they had assumed were the former whores of Mole town), and a small cup of a minty drink.

Erren, wrapping himself back up, began again, "Name is Erren. The Tall, for lack of anything more creative... Least it ain't somethin' worse. Like us all here, we came up to fight the Nightmares for duty, honor and glory."

Erren, and the man next to him both shared a glance, then barked out a laugh. Erren continued, "Naw, it was for the money; And good money it was at that. Came up here 15 strong with some Lordly Blackwood. Me thinks you know the rest of the story, but a long one short; Ole Lordly Blackwood got himself deader than a Dorneman in Highgarden, we got our pay, and well... We're still here. If something better comes up, so be it. But the loot has been decent so far."

[Dyther Morrigen]

Dyther Morrigen arrives to have himself a time. Maybe they wouldn't suck as much as his last party.

[The Smith]

Dyther walks among the throngs of farmers, shepherds, tailors, merchants, and men-at-arms. The caper about drinking and shouting. He sees several tents and huts converted into ale houses. He also sees women, in all shapes and sizes, wandering the narrow streets.

[Dyther Morrigen]

He grabs a drink and starts singing offensive songs about impotent stags and dragons who have lost their wings, and one about how much wolves kick ass.

[The Smith]

A young man in black velvets steps up to him and smiles, "Your song makes no sense, but I like the part where the wolves eat the Stags."

[Dyther Morrigen]

"Stags eat themselves, lad. They bend to the nearest force without pride or remorse. Have you a name?"

[The Smith]

"Yes, I do. Most of us Northmen are born with them." The Lad smiled, "Is that not how it works in the south?"

[Dyther Morrigen]

"You wouldn't know it sometimes; our generation is better off nameless to save our descendants the shame. What are you called? Nevermind, I shall call you....Steve the Black."

[The Smith]

Steve tilted his head and smiled, "Right on the first guess. I would give you the prize, but the last bloke said Skeve, and I figured that was close enough."

[Dyther Morrigen]

"I need no prize, Steve. Now, tell me what the hell is going on in this far southern land. And yes, Idid say southern. Go north o'the Wall and this seems like King's Fucking Landing."

[The Smith]

"I have been North of the wall once or twice." Steve replied, "What the hell is going one every where now or soon. Drunken celebrations that we are alive and the others are not. Lots of Northmen want to come and see this Dragon that saved all out lives, and their Stag King/Not-king."

[Dyther Morrigen]

Not what I meant, Dyther thought. "Well, then, go see'em." He heads over to throw some gold and have a decent night before moving south.