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Ser Arthur Gant strapped the Iron Bulava to his belt, and slid the Sword of the Kingdom into a sheath at his hip. Sergeant, Marshal. It was of no difference. The knight would do his duty.

"Ah wonder if they'll keep beggin' to Aaun n' Balian," Ser Arthur Gant pondered. "Elves, Adrians... Everyone else they can ge', really. Would they still cry o' coalitions if it all wen' their way?"

"AHAHA!" laughed the Lord Marshal of Haense. He slapped his belly with fervour.

Ser Arthur Gant narrowed his eyes as he read the missive. He moved a candle close to the parchment and ran his finger under the word... "Inbred," he muttered to himself. "Well, tha' explains it. Legs're too twisted to leave their city."

"THIS IS A CHANGE OF TONE!" Ser Arthur Gant slapped his belly, and wheezed heartily as he snatched the missive from his squire. "NORDLING SAVAGES PLAYIN' THE VICTIM IN A WAR THEY STARTED!"

"This man needs a new set o' eyes," Ser Arthur Gant scoffed. "Ah stabbed 'er once, then cut off 'er 'ead. It was as clean a death as any."

"A strange day it is when the smallfolk weep fer vampyrs n' other creatures o' the nigh'," grumbled Ser Arthur Gant. Nonetheless, the knight lit a candle for the babe that never was.

"Declare war already!" exclaimed Ser Arthur Gant, growing tired of this war of words.

"At least 'e showed up!" said Ser Arthur Gant.

Ser Arthur Gant stared at a copy of the treaty. He felt no anger, for he knew this was coming."'undreds of Haensemen dead. My sister be'eaded... And fer wha'?" he muttered, coldly. "There's no grea'er sin than cowardice."

"Love the dwarves," Ser Arthur commented to his squire as they walked the halls of the barracks. "Migh' no' be Canonists, bu' they've more 'onour n' spine than 'alf the men alive."

Ser Arthur of House Gant put a crossbow in his mouth.

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"Well, now we've 'ad three treacherous women. Ah cut one's 'ead off, an' Vanhart go' the other," Ser Arthur Gant thought to himself. "Ah wonder who'll swing the blade on this one?"

"Wha' ever 'appened to tha' Anton fellow?" Ser Arthur mumbled to himself as he read the missive. He scratched his beard, ponderously...

Ser Arthur Gant looked to the sword he carried at his hip. "By GOD, it would no' surprise me if one o' these quill-pushers came fer me steel," he thought to himself, as he drummed his fingers against its pommel. "Skaul is an 'onourable man. Worthy o' me vote!"

Ser Arthur Gant donned his armour with newfound vigour.

"Dead? The king is dead?" Ser Arthur could almost not believe the news, though he knew it in his heart to be true. The knight had been tending to his armour, idly beating the dents from it with a hammer. It was a strange thing he felt. The two did not speak often, for they were far too different in character. The king was fond of his women, his poetry and literature, while Arthur lusted only for battle. Despite this, the knight had sworn every moment of his life to serving this man. And now he was dead. "Leave a man to 'is thoughts," he grumbled to the squire that'd delivered the news. The boy nodded, and slammed a clenched fist against his breastplate. Bells resounded through the streets as the squire set off down the dusty cobbles. He struck hammer to steel as those thoughts came back to him. He thought of his Duchess, dressed in black once more, and how he would go to her. He thought of the traitor, and her bloodied head rolling from the block. He thought of his sister, twisted and broken in a cell. And finally, he thought of the prince. The man who had ridden at his side throughout it all. A man of war. A man he could call friend. Visions of fire came to him. Then of blood staining red walls and pooling in black streets. Ser Arthur felt his lips tug into a smile beneath his beard. "Long live the king."

"Let us pray this one keeps 'er 'ead," Ser Arthur Gant grumbled as he dragged a whetstone along the edge of his longsword.

WYLZK VA SPARVEED MARTIAL JUDGEMENT OF 481 E.S “I SHALL NOT FALTER.” Written by the Hand of SER ARTHUR GANT On the 10th day of Joma ag Umund of 481 E.S MEA BORSAS, “To my left I see my fellow brothers, to the right I see the same. For all in the world, we fight for the peace of this land.” These are the words we swear, our oath bound by blood. To break it is to spit in the face of our fathers, and their fathers before them. We fight to keep the king’s peace, and to preserve the freedom of our fellow Haensemen. We do not draw steel in the name of petty politics. We do not bloody our fists at every slight, and by GOD, we do not do so in the king’s own halls. After consultation with His Excellency, Lord Marshal Wilheim of House Barclay, we see fit to render judgment upon Lord Andrik var Ruthern and Initiate Kaida Valtonen-Novikov. These sworn brothers turned against one another in the Esrova, and engaged in a bloody and reckless brawl. Each shall receive five lashings in the barracks courtyard, all of which shall be delivered by the Lord Marshal’s hand. Lord Andrik, Initiate Kaida, present yourselves to myself or the Lord Marshal. You have two Saint’s Days. Should you fail to do so, the Brotherhood of St. Karl shall seize you. Let us end this rightly. KRUSAE ZWY KONGZEM, His Excellency, Sir Wilheim Konstanz Barclay KOU, Lord Marshal of Hanseti-Ruska Ser Arthur Gant, Knight of the Order of the Crow

turn grief back on for the last few days.

Ser Arthur Gant stood before the Karosgradi newspole, hands on his waist. "A good lad, tha' Hans," he remarked to himself. "Bu', justice is justice. Ah pray 'e returns to GOD."

Ser Arthur Gant muttered to himself as he stood before the newspole. "This is the war o' our fathers, n' their fathers before them. I' will never end."

Ser Arthur Gant sat next to the grave of his sister in silence. He had buried her himself. The newly made knight stared blankly over the waters of Lake Voron, watching the waves gently roll into shore. He looked down to his hands. They shook, and her blood still stained his gloves. It was everywhere. His cloak, his boots. "I did not swing the sword," he told himself. "I am no kinslayer." It was not convincing. His throat was choked, and his face was hot. Arthur and his sister were not close, not by any stretch of the word. But they were blood. The stench of that shared blood now filled his nostrils. He pulled a letter from his belt, and it was smeared on that too. "Lorena," was all he had written before he was called upon to ride. He had planned to tell to her of his victory in the day's tourney, of his knighthood - Of home. She would never hear it now. He set the parchment on the dirt, and turned to the waters once more.