Ashford Castle, home of Umber.

Ashford had once been the proud seat of a storied line of marcher lords, men that summoned thousands to their banners to ride to war with the kings of old. Now the castle was little more than a ruin, a place for outlaws, vagabonds, and sellswords. Tattered banners hung from the ramparts, but they did not fly the Ashford chevron, nor the Tyrell rose. Instead, the Umber giant snarled downwards from atop the walls, marking the status of a northern barbarian as the current master of the vacant castle.

The Bull had rode with Umber for the last few months, and had been first of the Northman’s warband to scale Ashford’s walls, axe in hand. Whoever the squatters were, they had not put up much of a fight - they did not stand against seasoned soldiers, and melted away faster than snow in dragonfire. The cowardly among them had surrendered. Unfortunately for them, they could not cater for more mouths to feed, especially weak ones that buckled at the first sight of real blood. Gendry had tried his best to give them a quick death, and recalled mumbling a prayer for a swift journey into the next life. He doubted they were listening. Prayers were no shield for the innocent, and proved no comfort for the guilty. The Gods had sent them nothing but winter, death, and damnation.

A man had to carve out his own place in this cruel world. The weak could not be protected; he had tried, only to fail at every turn. Only the strong survived, and by the Gods was Gendry strong. Tall as a bear and broad as an ox, the men had dubbed him ‘The Bull’. Though the horned helm he wore was a little old and blood-stained, it still served its purpose well, and put fear into every man that stood against him.

”Rotbelly. Pass the ale.”

They were sat around the campfire, he and a few other of Umber’s motley gang that he liked the most. Like him, they were winter veterans, and had stared death in the face right in the heart of it. Winterfell was a day they all remembered but never spoke of, and had ran from it ever since. Like their lord, he suspected, else why would he ride this far south?

"Aye, m'lord. Some dog piss from the cellars."

Gendry took a swig then held it up to his liege. It was rancid stuff, some peasant's home brewed muck most like. But it was better than nothing.

"We finished the strongwine a few days ago. I'll send Weasel-Face here to find more, m'lord."

The Bull gestured to a rodent looking man. Most of the men answered to such nom de guerre, having left their old lives and named behind after the Winter. They were an army of bastards and criminals, mostly. Some wore tattered cloaks as black as night, marking them as survivors of the old Night's Watch. Once, they would have been oathbreakers, but now the Wall was little more than the relic of a war that they would all soon forget.

A look of unsubtle surprise was visibly written over Gendry’s widened eyes as he kept pace with the Northman. The pay had been good, along with a roof over his head. And there was enough wine and women to go around. But this was something different. A knight and his lord, rather than a band of sellswords. Perhaps it was time to remember the vows he had sworn all those years ago at the Hollow Hill. True loyalty, rather than a sellsword’s excuse.

”I am honoured, m’lord. What would you have me do?”

Gendry raised a fist in salute to those who cheered, not caring if they were meant sincerely or as mockery. ”M’lord. I say you are right enough as Lord of this castle, seeing as none else have the strength to force us out.” The Bull was no expert on political matters, or the rightness of claims. Umber was a hard man, but a fair one, as Northmen were wont to be. A better lord than the thieves and murderers they had driven away. ”I can set the men to work on the walls, m’lord. It will be hard labour, but it will keep them busy.” As well as stop them drinking all the wine, he mused silently. His thick brow furrowed, something he often did when he tried to think. ”What about the smallfolk? We could put those that are stupid enough to still live here to good use.”

Gendry shrugged, taking a swig of ale. ”They want protecting, m’lord. A chance to raise their families and till their fields. Bring peace and order and you will win them over.” Peasants were simple folk, and had none of the restlessness that had made its way into his own blood. A simple life was not for him. Maybe it was from his father, who he imagined to be a wandering sellsword or hedge knight, like himself. Restless blood that craved a higher purpose.

The Bull suddenly moved towards the campfire, hauling one of the men to his feet like one would lift a child. ”Get twenty men who are sober enough to ride. Send them to every village and farm. Tell them that the Northern Bear rules these lands now, and that he’ll hang any man who kills, thieves or rapes.” He sobered up quick, nodding frantically and scuttling away to the gatehouse as Gendry turned back to Umber. ”That should do it, m’lord.”