Robar Caron

Robar Caron, Lord of Nightsong and Lord of the Marches

Born in the Three Hundred Sixty-Fifth Year after Aegon's Conquest.

Robar had never been the most placable of youths, born third to Lord Titus Caron and following quickly after his father to his family's ancestral seat. He was a severe and serious child, diligent in his studies and arduous in his training. Under the finest minds of the Marches he had been baptized in the most rigorous training Nightsong could offer. He had never particularly wished to be Lord, but that was not a card in his hand and so when his father passed he took up the mantle of Lord of the Marches and examined his lands and his people.

Following a serious youth came a serious adulthood, starting from the day he took up his seat, and Nightsong prospered into what could only be surmised as a war state, the youth of the hinterlands issued spear and shield before their tenth nameday. It was Robar's prerogative that only a fool would be caught with his breeches down, and his duty to ensure that his people were prepared.

It was in his early days that he met his wife, the match producing seven healthy children and two stillbirths before the pox took her just two moons before their fortieth namedays. His wife having been the rare light to lift the dark and serious lord, his eldest son the second, Robar leaned even harder into his martial teachings and issued standing orders to every village under his domain to maintain an active militia, the people of the March who were suited not for farming, mining, or otherwise making their trade, but for war. They were the Warrior folk, and he saw no purpose in wasting them on menial tasks, raising up the strong and the pious to a near military governance over their common counterparts. It was a hard thing, prone to grumbles and muttered dark words whispered into half-empty tankards, but even in the Marches there were rules and overt abuses of power by the militia were both rare and punished without mercy by their solemn Lord.

Robar now looked to the future, to the lands of Harvest Hall and those to his east which once fell under his family's old domain. Though now past his fiftieth nameday, Robar knew that it was time that the roar of the Marches was heard once more.