The Cold Heart of Buschfell
Prologue
In the aftermath of the Great War of the North, several winters have passed since the Wrigley Walkers broke through the Wall, casting down their rivals and after many false dawns at last claimed victory in the Centrle Kingdoms and set the realm alight with their claim to glory. Their victory was no mere conquest; it was a breach of the great barrier that had kept them from true power.
For years, they had languished in the shadow of the House of Saint Card, whose reign over the Centrle had been long and prosperous. But that winter, the Walkers breached the Wall, and the Cubs—with their bloated coffers and young talents—were no longer the laughingstock of the kingdom. They claimed the body of fallen Saint Card Ser Jasyn Heyward proving they were a force to be reckoned with.
Eight years have passed since that fateful day, and though the Walkers had tasted the sweet fruit of victory, their hold on the kingdom was fragile. Even further north in Milwaukeros, the brave and gallant Ser Yelich rallied the house and with their defenses steady and strong held back the Walkers. Their “Winter of Pitching” has kept the Cubs from advancing further into the heart of the realm, though their strength has grown.
Meanwhile, House Saint Card—once the dominant power of the land of the Centrle —has weathered the years with a grim resolve. Their grip on the kingdom has loosened, the winter chill deepening with each passing season. They are no longer the mighty power they once were, yet they remain steadfast, proud, and unwilling to bend the knee. But their strength has waned, and their once-proud House is now but a shadow of its former self.
The proud knights of House Saint Card, once the mightiest in the kingdom, have fallen one by one. Ser Allyn, valiant and steadfast, met his end upon the field of battle, his sword broken and his shield shattered. The revered veterans of the House—Yadier Saint Card, the Lord of the Backstop, and Ser Wainwright — could no longer take arms. Their strength waned with the years, their bodies betraying them as time’s cruel hand claimed what age could not.
The mightiest of them all, Ser Matthew the Strong, Master of Arms at Buschfell, took his final swing of the Greatbat. No longer could he stand tall upon the battlements, guarding the realm from foes near and far. His absence left a gaping wound in the heart of the kingdom.
And then, Matheny Saint Card, the noble leader of the council, the man who had once stood as the unyielding pillar of the realm, was betrayed by those closest to him. Matheny’s demise came not in battle but in the darkened halls of power. The traitor’s blade, swift and merciless, struck when he least expected it. Bound by his own code, he refused to betray the kingdom’s traditions, even when treachery whispered in his ear.
His death sent shockwaves through the kingdom, for Matheny had just signed that contract extension into 2020. His noble belief in the goodness of the realm—and in the strength of the Buschfell — his undoing. The ax fell as he stood unguarded, his last words a plea for unity and honor. But the council—cold and calculating—had already sealed his fate.
The return of the exiled Lord Albert, once cast out by the fickle winds of fate, had sparked hope across the land. His fiery spirit had once again ignited the hearts of the people, and for a time, it seemed the realm might be restored. Yet, even Lord Albert, great though he was, could not defy the inevitable. His fall, too, came in a time of struggle, his fate sealed by the encroaching forces of age and circumstance.
Still, House Saint Card is faced with a question that may yet unravel its very foundation: does the once-proud house possess the strength to withstand the growing threats to the North, or will it be forced to bend the knee?
Ser Ryan the Hells-Bringer, their fiercest and most unyielding knight, has been a beacon of hope amid the long, bitter winter that has gripped the kingdom. His fastball—like a storm of fire—has been the heart of their defense, keeping enemies at bay. Yet, whispers grow louder in the shadowed corridors of Buschfell.
A decision looms, one that could alter the course of the kingdom itself. Will the House of Saint Card stand resolute, or will they sacrifice their future for the hope of fleeting glory?
And so, with the Wrigley Walkers and the Milwaukeros to the north, Buschfell stands on the brink of a new era. What will become of the Saint Cards, the once-proud house of the realm? Will they remain steadfast in their loyalty to Helsley, or will the winds of change force them to let him go, to sacrifice the present for an uncertain future?
Mo Zelak
It was never supposed to be like this.
For Mo Zalek, the Maester of Buschfell, the rise of the House of Saint Card had been a thing of deliberate design —a kingdom he had helped craft, some might say, while other might claim he had been blessed to witness. Both truths, he knew, were wrapped in layers. But the wisest men make their own luck, and Mo Zalek had always known how to position himself just so, to claim the winds when they shifted in his favor.
He would not deny it: a few lucky breaks had helped him along the way. But luck, he had learned, was not the true foundation of power. Power was something one carved from the bones of necessity.
Matheny Saint Card, the former Lord of Buschfell, had been an honorable man—no one could deny it. But honor, for all its virtues, would only carry a man so far. There were wars to win, victories to claim, and glory to be seized. And Matheny—though a man of virtue—was not the one to make the hard calls when they were most needed.
It had been Matheny who sent Ser Wacha to the front lines before the knight was ready, exposing him to a savage slaughter. It had been Matheny who leaned too heavily on his aging veterans, ignoring the younger, more promising knights waiting in the wings. Mo Zalek had warned him, over and over again. He had told him that this path would lead to ruin, but Matheny’s blind devotion to tradition had been his undoing.
Betraying Matheny had been a bitter but necessary step. It bought Buschfell time—a few more years, perhaps. But time was running out. And Mo Zalek was no fool. He had no room for sentiment in these final years. No room for regret.
The flickering torchlight danced against the cold stone walls of the council chamber, where the banners of Buschfell rippled faintly in the chill wind that crept through the cracks of the old fortress. Mo Zalek sat at the head of the table, fingers steepled, his gaze sharp and calculating. He let his eyes roam over the room, noting the empty chairs—this was not a meeting for the full council. It was a private gathering, a moment of true power, and the only other occupant at the table was the newly appointed advisor, Bloom.
Bloom, young and eager, sat across from him, his face betraying a nervousness he could not mask. The weight of the room pressed upon him.
Mo Zalek spoke first, his voice low and measured.
“The future of our kingdom is uncertain,” Bloom began, his voice unsure but deliberate, “yet we must be shrewd in our dealings. Ser Ryan, while a warrior of great renown, is not without his flaws. His power—his arm—may be invaluable, but to hold onto him would be to risk stagnation. A trade could yield us what we truly need: a future built on younger, more promising knights. The kingdom must evolve.”
Mo Zalek cut him off with a quiet, almost amused smile.
“We have stood by him through the seasons, through the trials. He is not just a player. He is a symbol,” he said, his voice thick with meaning.
Bloom’s eyes narrowed, but he pressed on.
“Symbolism is well and good, but it is not the stuff of championships. We must be practical. A trade for young, untested knights could secure our reign for years to come. The kingdom cannot afford sentimentality.”
Mo Zalek allowed a small smirk to creep across his lips. His eyes glinted with the calculation of years spent in the shadows of power.
“Very good. The path of loyalty and sacrifice is fraught with peril,” he mused. “There are times when a house must part with its knights, no matter how legendary, to ensure the kingdom survives. My own hands, stained with such decisions, know the price of long-term glory.”
He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering with authority.
“But the question is not what we lose with Ser Ryan,” Mo Zalek continued, the weight of his words sinking deep into the chamber. “It is what we stand to gain in his absence.”
At that moment, a serving girl entered with the evening’s supper, her footsteps light, almost hesitant in the quiet room. Mo Zalek waved her off with a lazy flick of his wrist, his gaze never leaving Bloom’s.
Bloom hesitated, but Mo Zalek had already dismissed him. There was no time for hesitation, no time for doubts. The endless march of time weighed heavily in Mo Zalek’s mind. Time was running out, but Buschfell must endure. No matter the cost. And as he chewed the evening’s meal, savoring the bitterness of the moment, his thoughts turned once again to the decisions ahead. Hard decisions. Necessary ones.
He had no regrets. Not anymore.
