The salt-tanged air of Lannisport swirled around Rickard Flint and his retinue as they disembarked at the bustling harbour, where the sea's breath mingled with the acrid smoke of forges and the sweet rot of fish markets. Gilded banners of House Lannister snapped in the wind above the city's golden stone walls, their crimson fields emblazoned with roaring lions that seemed to snarl at the churning waves below. The docks teemed with life—sailors hauling ropes thick as a man's arm, merchants haggling over crates of Myrish lace and Dornish wine, and urchins darting through the crowd like minnows in a tidepool. The sun hung low, painting Lannisport in hues of molten amber and bruised purple, while gulls screeched their endless quarrels overhead.
Rickard's boot struck the weathered planks as his eyes scanned around. Beside him, Maester Murenmure clutched a satchel of scrolls, his grey robes flapping, while Maester Turquin's chain clinked softly, the maester's links glinting in the fading light. Ralph Sedlow, Vulfgar Helm and Henry Wilmot flanked them. "We have some weeks before Ser Colton Holt's party reaches Lannisport." Rickard said as he looked back. "I want to go to Plummsfield, keep of the house Plumm, if it's alright with you." Rickard's party agreed to his proposal right away.
🔸
The road from Lannisport stretched like a ribbon of dust and dreams, unfurling toward the keep of House Plumm, nestled in the rugged embrace between Clegane's Keep and Deep Den. Plummsfield, as the keep was called, rose modest yet proud, its walls of honeyed stone catching the sun's rays like a chalice brimming with molten gold. The surrounding lands were a tapestry of rolling hills, their flanks cloaked in emerald grasses that swayed in the breeze, punctuated by gnarled oaks whose branches twisted like the fingers of ancient gods. Streams, silver as quicksilver, carved sinuous paths through the meadows, their burbling songs mingling with the trill of larks and the distant lowing of cattle. Wildflowers—crimson poppies, violet lupines, and golden buttercups—spilled across the landscape like a painter's fevered strokes, their perfume a heady balm against the dust of travel. In the distance, the foothills of the Westerlands loomed, their craggy faces dappled with shadow, promising secrets and shelter in equal measure.
Rickard Flint, astride his white colt Rosetail, led his retinue along the winding path, the clop of hooves a steady drumbeat against the earth. His cloak, glacier grey with hints of blue, fluttered like a banner, catching the eye of Denis Plumm, who awaited them at the keep's gate. Denis, broad as a barrel and ruddy-faced, his auburn hair glinting like burnished copper, greeted them with a booming laugh that echoed off the stone. "Young Lord Flint! Welcome to Plummsfield, where the wine's sweet and the company sweeter!" His eyes, bright as polished amber, sparkled with mischief, and his grin promised camaraderie as warm as a hearthfire.
Inside the keep's hall, tapestries of plum and gold depicted the Plumm's storied past—knights in amethyst armor clashing with foes beneath orchards heavy with fruit. Over a feast of roasted pheasant, honeyed carrots, and blackberry tarts, Rickard and Denis relived their memories of the tourney. Denis, leaning back in his oaken chair, swirled his goblet of arbor gold, his gaze keen. " Didn't you say you wanted to be merchant king? How is it coming along? "
" I have already gotten seven ships from Lord Hewett to haul my wares worldwide. I'll be richer than that goldshitterin no time." Rickard replied while intently looking at his wine-cup.
"You wouldn't forget your friends,right?" Denis had a wide grin on his face. "Westerlands has a saying It is not unreasonable to think rich friends will make you richer."
"As long as you dedicate your body to me that shouldn't be a problem." Rickard's gave even wider grin.
"Aye, I will place my everything on our captain."
"That's the spirit." Rickard toasted his cup. "To future Goldshitters."
"To furure Goldshitters." Denis gulped the whole cup.
_______________ 🔸🔸🔸 _________________
The return to Lannisport was a whirl of salt and splendor, the city's golden sprawl gleaming under a sky bruised with twilight. The harbor churned with ships, their masts a forest swaying against the tide, while gulls screeched like heralds of chaos. The air was thick with the tang of tar, fish, and the faint sweetness of citrus from Braavosi traders' stalls.
From the crowd emerged Colton Holt, his plate armor gleaming like a polished mirror. Hugh Wenman, Edric Seville, and Attwel Upton followed him along with King's Landing recruits.
"Young lord!!" Colton Holt called, striding forward while grinning widely. "The Old Gods have favoured us. We have able to get Ironbelly, a master smith, a tanner named Lysa, and carpenter Old Tom to come to Flint's Finger with us. Salloreon has agreed to make helms and armour for us."
Rickard's lips curled into a smile. "Well done, Sir Colton. Now, let us part ways briefly. You, Vulfgar, Henry, and I ride for House Plumm's keep. The rest—return to Flint's Finger with our new craftsmen. Maesters, ensure their skills are put to use at once."
Murenmure nodded, his slim frame bowing slightly. "As you command, my lord. We sail at dawn." With farewells exchanged, Rickard's party split, the sea-bound group vanishing into the harbor's chaos as Rickard and his chosen knights turned inland.
________________ 🔸🔸🔸_________________
The River Road to Stone Hedge was a ballad of earth and water, its path hugging the Red Fork's sinuous curves. The river gleamed like molten sapphire, its banks lush with willow and alder, their leaves whispering secrets to the breeze. Meadows stretched wide, their grasses a sea of green flecked with white clover and dandelion stars. Ancient barrows, moss-clad and silent, dotted the landscape, their stones etched with runes of forgotten kings. Villages of wattle-and-daub huddled under thatched roofs, their chimneys trailing wisps of smoke like banners of peace. Herons stalked the shallows, their spear-like beaks flashing as they struck, while otters tumbled in playful dance with the current. The air was sweet with the scent of damp earth and blooming hawthorn, a balm to the dust of travel.
Stone Hedge, seat of House Bracken, rose eagles eyes away from Red Fork, stern and unyielding, its wall of grey iron veined with iron, squat towers capped with slate. Lord Jonos Bracken, a man with brown hair and brown eyes, received Rickard in a hall hung with tapestries of charging stallions.
Rickard finished customary pleasantries. "Lord Bracken, I have come here to seek your finest steeds. What is the appropriate price, your lordship thinks, for your horses?"
"Horses you say?" Lord Jonos puffed his chest and straightened his back. "My steeds are the lifeblood of the Riverlands—strong as stone, swift as streams. If you pay One golden dragon per horse you shall have them. Remember, these horses are gelded"
"I thank you for your generosity, lord Jonos. May I inquire the price of stallions and mares?"
Lord Jonos's eyebrows slanted upwards. "Whelp, state how many horses you want. As for a stallion or a mare, I can give you ten of each, no more."
Rickard accepted. " I'll purchase two hundred horses including the ten stallions and mares."
Lord Jonos Bracken became quiet for a moment. "Do you have that much gold?" He asked in disbelief only to be shocked by Rickard's affirmation. "We don't have two hundred horses that can be sold right now. But we can provide that over a two year period."
Rickard thought for a moment. "Then may I request at least ten mares during every time you send us horses. I'll pay for them."
Lord Janos and Rickard clasped each other's hands and the deal was struck, the hall echoing with the promise of hooves thundering north.
________________ 🔸🔸🔸 ________________
The latter half of the third moon of 290AC saw Rickard's return to Flint's Finger, a cavalcade of fifty Bracken horses trailing like a storm of muscle and mane. The road to the castle wound through cliffs of jagged basalt, white limestone,and dense forests. Their faces scoured by salt winds, while the sea roared from afar, its waves a symphony of foam and fury. Gulls wheeled in a sky of bruised lavender, their cries sharp as knives, while the air tasted of brine and heather. The horses snorted clouds of steam, their hooves drumming a war chant against the earth. Rickard, atop Rosetail, rode at the fore, his face weathered but resolute, the weight of his triumphs etched in his steady gaze.
After a night's rest in his stately manor, where hearth crackled and the sea's lullaby drifted through the windows, Rickard was called to the hall.
The hall was full to the brim with retainers of the House Flint while Laina Flint sat upon the dais, her eyes gleaming with the pride. Rickard entered the hall and bowed before his mother.
"Welcome back. I hope you had a refreshing rest at yesterday's night to wear away the weariness of your long journey. Your recent accomplishments merit proper recognition and reward. I have decided to allow you to create your own troop and let it have its own heraldry. And you're also given the responsibility of giving appropriate reward to others who accompanied you." Laina Flint decreed.
Rickard bowed deeply, Flint's Finger's hall drowned in the roars of the retainers. "I accept the responsibilities with grave seriousness. I'll need a few days to decide on the rewards."
🔸
In Maester Murenmure's study, Rickard met him, whose quill scratched like a bettle across the parchment. "The laws are collated, my lord." Maester said, his voice as soft as ash. "King's edicts — taxes, levies, justice; Local laws — land rights, fishing quotas, market rents. I've marked discrepancies for your convenience."
Rickard nodded. " I'll study it. I want you to start to work on educating our retainers on matters regarding to administration. I plan to introduce new laws and regulations that would require considerable knowledge of it. You can disregard age as long as they show talent for it."