Fuck the mountains. Fuck the snow. Fuck the mountain people.
I write this from a cozy shithole fort that is pleasantly down off of the mountains, out of the snow, and far far away from the mountain people. It is comfortingly back in the familiar drizzle of the lower Vale. Ho ho!
Our party – those of house Jasper – has temporarily grown to nine and thank the Seven for that! After meeting up in Gulltown we made for Heart's Home, but were ambushed by a hoard of wildmen in the fucking mountains. Those fifteen or more clansman would have seen us in if not distracted by our sheer number.
I personally engaged their leader and her warhammer-wielding champion while a blizzard raged. The others cleaned up the less heavily armed ones. It was a taxing battle due to the conditions. One in which I sustained two grievous wounds.
Even our Maester and young prince needed take up arms! The prince with his sword, the Maester with the very chain off his neck! It was only by the bold and brilliant persuasion of the farmer that we were able to escape over the pass without loss of life. I promised him that I'd help him with his fence when this is all over and I'm starting to really consider it!
What I really want when this is all over is get a tankard of Ale and some entertainment. The bard says he's written Westeros's next great ballad, but he's too licked to play. Don't blame him. He's good, but we're all probably too licked to listen. Now that I think about it I'd rather some whores than some music anyway. Ho ho ho!
Before I get some rest I ought to mention the witch who shares our campsite tonight. Said some things about three ravens jointing with the falcon and the black cat. Also that we must find the glass and use it, must open the tomb, and that the path to the tomb begins with the children. Seems like this place really will drive a person mad!