Plot: The Bandit King's arrival was marked with death and despair. At least, that was the idea ... before he accidentally passed his message on to the wrong man. And Robb Stark of the North, no less!
Though the Bandit King called Crackclaw Point home … he could very easily see himself settling into the Summerhall.
There was still the pomp of nobility that the Targaryens brought with them wherever they went and the lords and ladies were still sneering and scowling at anyone they viewed as beneath them. ut It wasn’t for them that the Bandit King could call this place home, but for the actual land itself. While the Crownlands seemed intent on proving to the world that it was the home of Kings, the Stormlands appeared far more utilitarian and functional. At least that was the case to the King’s eyes. It was a place that tested the strong and culled the weak. No wonder the Baratheons had found it such a favourable place. All the Bandit King needed to do now, was destroy the lords and he could claim this place for his own.
But he was getting ahead of himself. It did not hurt to plan, but it certainly was no point getting his hopes up. It was still early in the afternoon, the sun at its hottest. Shining down on them all, for a place called the ‘Stormlands’, he expected there to be more clouds. Although, they were also residing in a place called ‘Summerhall’, so in truth, the Bandit King didn’t know what to expect in that regard. Yet here he was, having travelled furthest from the Point since establishing his foothold there. He’d left his faithful Commander in charge, while he rode here with a few of his vassals and soldiers.
This was a great opportunity to take care of some business. After all, with so many lords and ladies here as well as many events, it would be easy to slip a knife between ribs or leave a few drops of poison on goblets. And it would all start now. He had enjoyed the revels of the tourney, but business called. The Bandit King was going to leave ruin in his wake. His operatives were all ready set throughout all of Summerhall. All he needed to do now was to pass on the order and four lords and two ladies would be found dead within the hour.
The finery and silks of the event made it easy to spot where his men were. Clad in simple cloaks – enough to pass, but not enough to be mistaken – the Bandit King made his way through the crowd. He was a silent and careful creature, wading through bodies without touching them and he made sure not to draw attention until at last, he arrived at the back of one of his men. It would be a subtle message, one that all of his men were waiting for. Back to him, the Bandit King craned his neck ever so slightly and whispered his command:
“Inform the others. We strike now, before the sun sets. The four lords and three ladies. Let the night run rampant with terror.”
He stood there for a moment, waiting for recognition of his command. And he waited a bit more. Slowly, the Bandit King turned around. And what he saw made even his jaw drop. This was no bandit of his. Instead, he found himself face to face with a pale-skinned, dark haired man. The furs on his back were dark enough to easily be mistaken for one of his bandits. But now, looking at him from the front, it was clear that he had made a mistake. A very big mistake. Well, Bandit King … how are you going talk your way out of this one, he thought to himself.