Relief of Planky Town

Varran Santagar looked out on the ruins of Planky Town from the back of his horse, a grim expression woven onto his face. He'd heard stories of the savagery of the ironborn, but the sheer totality of the destruction dismayed even the maimed lord.

Those buildings that were still standing were little more than burned-out husks, and most had collapsed into themselves. The people of the town shambled about listlessly. Some were still weeping along the Greenblood. As the convoy arrived, a small crowd began to form.

"Orphans of the Greenblood!" Varran's voice was calm, but authoritative. "The Spottswood sends it's sympathies and anguish for the terror you have faced. We bring supplies; timber and food, so as to help you rebuild this fair town. All will be dealt with fairly, and by the Seven we shall give the ironborn their proper due."

There were a few scattered cheers, but it was hardly a very stirring speech. Oration was not particularly a talent of Lord Santagar. A spearman reached out his arm towards Varran, and slowly, carefully, he descended from horseback.

Varran addressed one of the spearmen, a lietenant of his guard. "Be sure to portion out the rations evenly, only a few days bread at a time. We don't want to run out our stores before the Bloodroyal and her men arrive."

Remembering Yronwood's letter, he again addressed the crowd, "Who here can tell me where I can find Ser Quentyn Sand?"