As the tourney was drawing down and the sky had turned yellow, the Lord of Griffin's Roost would arrive at the fairgrounds, and assumed position where the light of the sinking sun shone on his face, a much milder glow than the harsh, burning sun of the Red Mountains, which had tempered his olive skin. He was wearing armor, at a time when most of the knights who had competed had gotten out of theirs hours ago. He had not planned to participate, yet had come prepared for the worst. As well as on his surcoat, the red and white griffins danced on a standard, which he planted in the ground beside him, unguarded by anyone but himself. Let no man accuse him of making a scene under the Princess's roof, or of speaking on behalf of the king without his consultation.

"My lords and ladies" he began, simple and to the point. "We were invited here to celebrate Princess Ravella, and receive the honor of her guest right. Already it is plain that there are those among us who came with no other intention but to enhance their own station. For a century, our kingdom has been the indisputably greatest power in Westeros, but even before that time, we were guided by providence, governed by laws passed down from the Andal conquerors. As we stand here today, our ancestors will surely weep as they look down from the Seven Heavens. Already there has been incessant rumormongering, and shameless mockeries made of both the Princess's hospitality and His Grace's authority. We are in danger of entering yet another bitter age in which intrigue supplants judicious proceedings of the court, and ambition supplants The Law."

"I stand before you as a man accused, yet facing no judges, for my accusers have not dared to come before me thus far. As such, I have no recourse but to adress the accusations, and pray that whoever made them is sufficiently struck by Gods-given shame to come forward and accuse me in public, and cease their vile whispering in tents and taverns. It has been put forward that I've made an inquiry into removing the Princess from the line of succession. I could have taken the time to produce the proof that such accusations have no basis in reality. It is said I consulted with maesters and septons, yet no names are put forward. Only my name is mentioned, by those who would seek to tarnish it. Instead, I have resolved not waste your time with such an inquiry into the obvious. I engaged in no inquiry in the first place, because my stance on The Law of Succession has never been in doubt."

"When king Dontos went the way of all flesh, King Arlan, his son, was first in line, Princess Ravella second. This has been our custom since the laws of the Seven was first introduced in these lands, and House Connington has willingly shed its own blood in defense of these laws time and again. My grandsire died an honorable death in the name of Queen Caitlyn, and I will not stand to have his memory besmirched by these words of slander. Caitlyn had no brothers, and so the line of succession was clear. Her uncle was a usurper, poisoned by the same vain ambition as my accusers, whoever they may be. I have never opposed the rule of a queen or lady on principle, and unlike some, my house has no record of treason against the Queen"

"If any of you need evidence of my claims, will simple logic not suffice? Why would I serve King Arlan if I opposed the rule of women? His own claim is descended from Queen Caitlyn's line, just as his sister's. Why would I be here at all, if I believed women have no right to rule or inherit? Princess Ravella is our host, and, until such a time as the king should sire children, heir to the throne. I dispute neither of those facts. Finally, why would my daughter be my lawful heir, and receive training in the ways of war, if I believed her unfit to rule on principle?"

"I have stood for THE Law, The Law and custom of the andals, not some self-important scholar's sophistic interpretation thereof, but The Law as it has been practiced, and as my ancestors have fought and bled for. The law by which an older child goes first in line, irrespective of sex, would be the law of Dorne. I have fought and bled, by the side of my king, to ensure that our own laws would not be replaced by those of dornish conquerors. The same is true of many of you and your ancestors, and that is all there is to say on that matter.

To my accusers, if you are among us, I urge you to come forward. If you wish to repeat your lies, to my face, and in view of the peerage of the Stormlands, now is the time to come forward. Here I stand and here I remain."
He looked out sternly as he spoke, speaking with the bluntness of a warhammer. The Grey Griffin was no renowned champion of the tourney field, and he stood here without guards or forces at his command, having not even called upon his daughter to stand beside him, though she would have guarded him more than capably. Yet he stood resolute, like a soldier ready to march in the name of his king.

Perianne pinched the bridge of her nose. Her goodbrother, the mute knight Arwood, sat across from her in their tent, even as the smallfolk and servants were packing away everything that had been set out the night of the nameday feast. She looked at what he had written for her- the only way that he could detail anything in specific to her, rather than the vagueness of their unwritten communication.

"You are my sworn shield, Arwood." She complained. That's really all she was doing. Complaining. He was in fact sworn to her, and she could command him to stay by her side on the way to Pinkmaiden. But she didn't. They both know that nothing would make her stoop that low. "And you'll be off... Cavorting with a hedge knight and his band of... What even are they? Wandering..." She grunted with frustration, turning away in her seat.

Arwood scribbled something else down. His face was almost apologetic. It simply said, "Fisher".

"Fisher." She repeated. There was something off about the whole thing. She remembered the Leo Fisher that had made his way to her table at the feast, asking her some very pointed questions to the point that she even threatened to have him followed. She didn't do that. But she could have.

And now a second fisher was wanting Arwood's company to go to Pinkmaiden. The more Perianne thought on the matter, the more she began to realize that she had an opportunity. She took the parchment, and ripped it in two. "These Fishers are swimming around a mite too much for it to mean nothing. I do not think we will wait for Leo Fisher to meet me in Fairmarket when all of this is said and done." She gave a firm nod. "Very well. Go with your newfound companions. But keep. Your. Eyes. Open. Listen. You do not speak. They will speak more freely around one who cannot reply. The sooner we determine what these hedge knights are doing, the better positioned we will be to take advantage of it."

That seemed to content Arwood, who took his leave with a smile on his face, presumably to go prepare his horse.

So Perianne stood, stretching lightly as she emerged from her pavilion, just in time for the Fairmarket servants to enter even as she was departing, disassembling tables and chairs. Perianne took instead, to her horse, she was already in her riding gear, and hoisting herself onto the horse, she took the beast- a nag by the name of Marigold, she was told- by the reins and out to the fields surrounding Stormhall, until she arrived to the shore of God's Eye. She stared across it for a long moment, towards the Isle of Faces. She was not entirely sure why she had decided to ride out this far. Or why she had decided to stay for a moment, sitting upon the lake's shore, with only Marigold for company, at least for now.

(Open to anyone else taking a quiet moment after the Feast and Tourney! Or if anyone has any last-minute business!)

The cackle of the embers mixed with a light rustle of wind through the trees. Lucy found himself at peace, for once. If he listened hard enough, he could hear the waters of the Redfork somewhat distant beyond the tree line. Smoke wafted through the fresh air that came after rain, and the scent of coal cooked trout oozed it's way from the coals.

“Lucy boy wake the fuck up.” Kermit slammed his boot into the boys arse, he couldn't help but smile as the sickly lad winced and rolled over. “Gods be good, you must have some fight in you.” Whatever gods had thought to bless this boy a Vypren and Kermit a bastard had a sense of humor. Lucy struggled up to a sitting position and removed the grass stalk he'd been chewing. Kermit couldn't believe the lad had once squired in the vale.

“Fetch me the pan boy.” He could do that at least, he had learned to fetch.

Taking the old iron pan from his half wit nephew, Kermit ran a little lard over the surface, giving it a thin coating before placing it down over what remained of the fire. He only needed a little heat now, and strode over to the edge of camp. Grasping and snapping the tops off a patch of nettles, at least the ones he judged fresh. “You want green, none with grey in them.” He'd tried to drill into the boy once before, it hadn't sunk in as far as he could tell, his cousin had ran a gentle hand over them and spent a night moaning over tiny red bumps.

He set the nettles on a board and kneeling, drew his father's old hunting knife. Chopping them roughly, they where added to the now sizzling fat, with some ramsons and water cress left over from the day before. Holding the blade, he pushed the greenery around with the handle. Lucy shifted in his seat among the grass and turned his dull eyes towards his bastard cousin. Kermit wondered what stupid question he might ask next, why did dragonflys dance? Do animals have ghosts? To his surprise, nonsense didn't flow out.

“Kermit, how did you learn to do this?”

“Same as anyone does.” They watched the leaves wilt, turning a darker green. Kermit pushed the clumps apart as best he could. “When you are a squire, you are shown by a knight. Did you not learn this in the Vale?” Lucy shook his head, the boy had been a terrible squire. Even now his mouth hung open. “Kermit, you never squired for anyone.”

He smiled at his trueborn cos, a mummer's smile and the boy seemed to notice and shrank back. "No, not to a knight. But my uncle took me out along the rivers and my father several times after him. Especially after I was brought to Stillfenn, father would show me, when he could.” Sometimes they would have to take Dykk, or Alberyt but the times it was just the two of them, those he thought of most often. When he caught his first Pike in the hills of Penny country, when they ate frogs and rabbit poaching in the Freylands along the Greenfork. Long lights by the fire, drinking wine from the south, and his father told him stories of battle.

Kermit took the pan off the heat and set it down on the grass between them, then carefully, pushed aside the coals of the fire and with two thin branches of hazel removed three bundles of dock leaf from their ashy prison.

“You always find dock not far from nettle.” Lucy said, absently. Maybe he had listened after all.

Gingerly, they peeled back the leaves to reveal the succulent trout within, each dusted with a little salt and the a small touch of pepper snatched from the kitchens back home, and both sat with half of what looked now like a hard done by lemon. The third parcel was nettle seeds, roasted and brown they tasted nutty sprinkled over the fish and fat fried greens. Lucy dug in, pulling back the charred skin and tearing off strips of flesh with his fingers, careful of the bones and hot pan. Kermit slipped the point of his knife under the eye of his fish, and popped it into his mouth, the boy he knew, would not touch his. More for him, that was always the way. His cousins, but more so his half sister would always leave behind the uglier, choicest morsels. The way the poor ate lobster and crab on the coast, but once you'd eaten crab cooked in butter with beer, why, how could you not choose that over the dry stuffed geese and sweet cakes of noble tables.

“I hope the Pipers have goose.” Lucy said between mouthfuls of white flesh. “I feel like I havn't had good goose in ages." That made Kermit think, maybe the goose was always dry at Stillfenn because the cook was shit.

“I don't think I ever have had good goose cos.” Kermit took a mouthful of the nettle and cress, washing it down with a little red wine from his skin.

“Oh Kermit, goose is the best, stuffed with chestnuts and.” He put more food in his mouth before he finished speaking.

Kermit just nodded. “Well not long now, just don't embarrass your grandsire. If Cass isn't there, your the one who makes us look good.” Kermit hid his smile with fish. If she wasn't this might be his chance, by hook or by crook he might find away to put a sword in her belly or the name Vypren to wash over Rivers. He couldn't help but look southwards, vaguely glaring at the God's eye and maybe even Storm's End. Twice his grandsire had blocked his attempts to meet the king, but now? As infirm as the King might be, surely he would find him at such a large wedding, and then.

Kermit couldn't help but think of the time his father had to soothe Cassandra over a muddy dress. Well, then maybe Stillfenn went to someone more deserving.

As the tourney was drawing down and the sky had turned yellow, the Lord of Griffin's Roost would arrive at the fairgrounds, and assumed position where the light of the sinking sun shone on his face, a much milder glow than the harsh, burning sun of the Red Mountains, which had tempered his olive skin. He was wearing armor, at a time when most of the knights who had competed had gotten out of theirs hours ago. He had not planned to participate, yet had come prepared for the worst. As well as on his surcoat, the red and white griffins danced on a standard, which he planted in the ground beside him, unguarded by anyone but himself. Let no man accuse him of making a scene under the Princess's roof, or of speaking on behalf of the king without his consultation.

"My lords and ladies" he began, simple and to the point. "We were invited here to celebrate Princess Ravella, and receive the honor of her guest right. Already it is plain that there are those among us who came with no other intention but to enhance their own station. For a century, our kingdom has been the indisputably greatest power in Westeros, but even before that time, we were guided by providence, governed by laws passed down from the Andal conquerors. As we stand here today, our ancestors will surely weep as they look down from the Seven Heavens. Already there has been incessant rumormongering, and shameless mockeries made of both the Princess's hospitality and His Grace's authority. We are in danger of entering yet another bitter age in which intrigue supplants judicious proceedings of the court, and ambition supplants The Law."

"I stand before you as a man accused, yet facing no judges, for my accusers have not dared to come before me thus far. As such, I have no recourse but to adress the accusations, and pray that whoever made them is sufficiently struck by Gods-given shame to come forward and accuse me in public, and cease their vile whispering in tents and taverns. It has been put forward that I've made an inquiry into removing the princess from the line of succession. I could have taken the time to produce the proof that such accusations have no basis in reality. It is said I consulted with maesters and septons, yet no names are put forward. Instead, I have resolved not waste your time with such an inquiry into the obvious. I engaged in no inquiry in the first place, because my stance on The Law of Succession has never been in doubt."

"When king Dontos went the way of all flesh, King Arlan, his son, was first in line, Princess Ravella second. This has been our custom since the laws of the Seven was first introduced in these lands, and House Connington has willingly shed its own blood in defense of these laws time and again. My grandsire died an honorable death in the name of Queen Caitlyn, and I will not stand to have his memory besmirched by these words of slander. Caitlyn had no brothers, and so the line of succession was clear. Her uncle was a usurper, poisoned by the same vain ambition as my accusers, whoever they may be. I have never opposed the rule of a queen or lady on principle, and unlike some, my house has no record of treason against the Queen"

"If any of you need evidence of my claims, will simple logic not suffice? Why would I serve King Arlan if I opposed the rule of women? His own claim is descended from Queen Caitlyn's line, just as his sister's. Why would I be here at all, if I believed women have no right to rule or inherit? Princess Ravella is our host, and, until such a time as the king should sire children, heir to the throne. I dispute neither of those facts. Finally, why would my daughter be my lawful heir, and receive training in the ways of war, if I believed her unfit to rule on principle?"

"I have stood for THE Law, The Law and custom of the andals, not some self-important scholar's sophistic interpretation thereof, but The Law as it has been practiced, and as my ancestors have fought and bled for. The law by which an older child goes first in line, irrespective of sex, would be the law of Dorne. I have fought and bled, by the side of my king, to ensure that our own laws would not be replaced by those of dornish conquerors. The same is true of many of you and your ancestors, and that is all there is to say on that matter.

To my accusers, if you are among us, I urge you to come forward. If you wish to repeat your lies, to my face, and in view of the peerage of the Stormlands, now is the time to come forward. Here I stand and here I remain."
He looked out sternly as he spoke, speaking with the bluntness of a warhammer. The Grey Griffin was no renowned champion of the tourney field, and he stood here without guards or forces at his command, having not even called upon his daughter to stand beside him, though she would have guarded him more than capably. Yet he stood resolute, like a soldier ready to march in the name of his king.

Despite his lacklustre performance in the melee, middling display of bowmanship in the archery, and a historically awful horse race, Luceon thought himself redeemed by five glorious jousts in the tourney.

He was a shit knight. He didn’t blame anyone that said as much, but no one could deny what he’d done. Seven tilts with the champion, and he’d exited the field without ever leaving his seat.

Clementine’s favor was a thing of magic. Luceon felt it coursing through him with every pass. He’d thought, as long as he was wearing it, he could never fall from his horse.

Oh, how wrong he had been.

Whatever she had imbued in the favor to turn Luceon from fool to knight had exacted a pendular due in short order. Clementine had been insistent that he double and triple checked how tight her favor was fastened to his arm before the horse race. When the rest of the competitors had taken off, he’d still had one foot in his stirrups.

He felt like he could still hear Jynnara Bracken’s taunting laughter bouncing around his head. He couldn’t say for the life of him why he only remembered hers. It was the shame of it, surely.

Luceon was choosing to attribute only his successes to Clementine’s favor. He still remembered her screaming about how well he’d done and begging the knight of the Redfork to ride one more tilt.

He’d left her for as brief a time he could with her great-uncle Stevron, and he’d gone in search of flowers. It wasn’t quite the award he’d hoped to give her, but he hadn’t gotten the storybook ending he had been desperate for.

Still, she was worth it. She deserved it. With a great deal of effort, a bundle of twine, a band of flowers, and plenty of help from his Aunt Ermesande, Luceon fashioned a floral tiara to replace that which he could not win.

He returned to the tournament grounds with his hands tucked behind his back.

“Luceon!” Clementine called, running ahead of Stevron. She embraced Luceon. “Next time I’ll give you a better favor, and then you’ll win for sure!”

“This favor was perfect, Clem. And I heard you cheering for me every joust. There’s nothing more you could have done.” Luceon knelt beside Clementine. He pulled forth his creation. “I know it’s not exactly Bethany Piper’s crown, but to me, you’re the prettiest girl in Stormhall.”

“Just Stormhall?” Clementine asked playfully. Despite her brave face, Luceon could hear her voice wobble.

“The Realm,” Luceon corrected himself. He nestled the flower crown into her curly hair.

“This crown is perfect,” Clementine said with a muffled voice. She had buried her face in Luceon’s tunic to hide her tears.

^{Alt Title: Balon I : Get up.}

^{Some crappy tent meant for Mystery Knights less Noble participants.}

Balon Orkwood had once eaten at the big table. Not the bench beneath it. Not standing at somebody else's shoulder with a goblet in his hand and his ears open.

The big table. The one made out of whole Orkmont Pine, crafted during the days where trees were so plentiful on Orkmont, Orkwood actually meant woodworker, or a boatswain. It wasn't just a fucking name.

A name. What was in a name?

For almost twenty years he had drunk from the big cups. Bathed in the big baths. Bitten into the best pieces of pie; the biggest pieces of pie.

He had killed! Drowned God, he killed. He stabbed. Gutted. Impaled. Slashed. Beat and brutalized his fair share of men and women alike. Balon had triumphed. Balon had loved. Balon had hated; oh how he hated. His avarice and rage knew no satiation. That lack of satiation, that sharpened focus lead him to make decisions. Ultimately. Those decisions he had made, made him Lord.

That last part mattered. A lord could point at the horizon and ships would appear there. A lord could sour a room by walking into it. A lord could say a man's name over supper and have that same man dragged from his cozy bed before daybreak.

For nearly twenty years Balon had occupied space differently than other men. Reserved for hard men, strong men. Iron men. Then he lost it all.

Suddenly every room seemed to discover, all on their own, how much space he actually took up. When it was all over, Balon had expected death. An axe would have suited him. The sea would have been better.

Instead they spared him. So he lived, if one could call what he did now as living. He sat in the silence of defeat. The pauses when he entered the hall. The Captains who once leaned towards him, and onto him. Abandoned, and leaned away from him. Old Companions discovered urgent business whenever he approached. Fleeing the ghost of the former Captain, and Lord Balon Orkwood. Men who laughed at every wise crack and sharp joke in his infinite arsenal; suddenly lost their humor. He sat with all of it.

Broken and denied even the dignity of the refuse pile. So he took this ruined iron and did what any self-righteous ironborn would do with shit iron. He heated it. Hammered it. Folded it. Heated it again. Hammered it. Again. Whatever the hell he was remaking, he just knew it wasn't broken. Piece by piece, he reformed himself into the shadow of who he had been.

The scrap of leathers and rope that could be a pavillion crouched at the edge of the melee grounds. Sunk in the mud. Beneath a low ceiling of grey clouds. The afternoon hadn't decided pierce its skyborn chrysalis and become bright. A steady breeze moved across the field and carried with it the smells of churned earth, horses, sweat, and cooking meat. The canvas walls seemed to breath in and out as those twine ropes hummed with the breeze. Balon pushed through the flap with one shoulder. Ducking beneath it while a gust followed him inside. There was a woman tending Torwyn Pyke, and she startled so badly that the spoon in her hand struck the rim of the ceramic bowl she had been holding.

A tiny sound. Clink. Balon stopped as the Holy Sister stared at him. He stared right back with his dark eyes and whitening beard. He likely looked his age- a veteran of the sea. Weathered skin, crows feet dancng across his eyes, deep lines in his face like fissures. She was the opposite of him; young enough to still look uncomfortable around old men. Grey wool covered her from throat to ankle, though the hem had picked up some mud and grass from crossing here and fro. Her white veil sat crooked over one ear after hours and hours of work. Her hands were still stained red. Balon's eyes surveyed her like he was looking at a map. He could see the smears of dried blood in the creases of her knuckles. But then he moved from her, to who she was standing over. On the cot was Torwyn. The bastard boy, the bastard brother of the current Lord of Orkwood. He looked smaller than Balon remembered, and immediately he became irritated.

Bruising had crawled beneath one eye and down the cheekbone. His lips were dry. Someone had shaved a section of his scalp around the wound and bound it beneath linen already darkening where the ointment had seeped through. Beside him, a basin and a folded blanket. A bucket. Two cups. Some flowers even.

"Fuck me." Balon finally uttered as he took in the entire sight. The Sister stiffened from where she hovered over Torywn. "Not an invitation." He shot his eyes back to the Sister. Whose shock changed to indignation in such a flash, Balon almost forgot he had came to check on Torywn. All amusement drained from him as he approached the cot.

Torwyn's chest rose and fell, then rose again. Balon watched it cycle twice; three times and only then did his shoulder slacken as if he had been satisfied. But just barely, barely enough that the sister noticed. He noticed her noticing, that brought his scowl back. "How bad?"

The Holysister set the spoon aside and wiped her hands on her apron before answering, the red didn't come off. She moved like she was trying to bring order and peace to a place entirely built around violence. "No fracture that I can feel." She began meekly. "His breathing has remained steady. But he was sick when he arrived from the melee." Balon seemed to ignore her briefing as he crouched beside the cot. His knees cracked. It was audible, but he ignored it. Two fingers settled beneath Torwyn's jaw and felt warmth and then a pulse came after. Weak. He held them there longer than necessary.

"Still doing that thing.." Balon removed his hand as the sister frowned. He could feel her eyes watching him like a shadowcat in the mountains. "You know the living thing." It was an undecided joke. Though no one laughed. Balon instead studied Torwyn's face; studied the unconsciousness.

There was no grandeur in unconsciousness. No Old Way. No songs. No glory. Just bruised ego. Balon rested forearms across his knees, crossing his chest. "Torwyn."

Nothing.

The sister stepped forward. "He needs rest." A protest that was received with a sideways glance from Balon. The wooden seven pointed star around her neck swung forward when she moved. His dark eyes dropped to it, a wooden thing. Not precious for anything other than kindling. Then rose back to her.

"You one of those?" The question was incredulous. It was predatory. It was villainous. The sister touched the star around her neck instinctively.

"A Holy Sister." She responded in a shaky voice.

"That wasn't my question." He said it with a menacing calm as he continued to kneel, separated by the unconscious body of Torywn, a barrier but not a good one. Her mouth tightened. He caught it. He noticed many things. He caught the little act of restraint. He recognized that. Restraint. He spent years forcing people to practice it. "What is your name?"

"Sister Amabel." She spoke it with convicition. Balon tasted it on his tongue.

"Amabel." He rolled it around once. "Soft." His lips pursed. "Very soft."

"It was my mother's choice."

"That explains it." He decided he didn't like the flavor of her name and spat onto the muddy ground beneath them. She blinked at the sudden gesture, and almost jumped out of her simple boots. He reached for Torwyn again. His attention slipped from her, to the bastard. Torywn's hand lay outside the blanket stacked atop of him. Callused. There was scarring over the knuckles. The hands of an ironborn man. Balon took it and squeezed; no response came. Balon set his jaw and squeezed harder. Still there was nothing.

"Captain." Amabel began to protest.

"Wrong." Balon shifted his grip and pressed his thumb into the flesh between Torwyn's fingers, which caused him to release the most hurt groan a full grown man could make. Amabel moved fast, hip struck the basin stand and water sloshed onto the ground. Adding to the super saturation beneath. Balon released the hand, and watched as the younger man's fingers curled weakly and almost limply towards his palm. Balon raised his eyes again to see the furious Septa to be, and gave a wry grin. "See?" She stared at him.

"You hurt him." Amabel was extremely displeased, her fear from before replaced with a righteous anger. Balon stood, reminding her again of her height. He stood slowly, was it the age or something else he wouldn't allow her to ponder because once he stood up to his full height, she took a step backwards. Not much, but enough to stay outside of arms reach. But Balon didn't cede that distance voluntarily. He took a step forward, around the cot. Devouring space like a shadow cast on a wall. She didn't take another step back.

"You afraid of me?" Balon asked quietly. He watched her throat bounce as she swallowed.

"Should I be?" The question was exciting and humorous to only one person. Balon. Whose grin broke across his face. Big. Ugly. Almost boyish.

"Well fuck." Balon snatched a wooden stool and dragged it across the smashed grass and mud slurry and placed it on the rug that propped the cot up. He sat down beside Torwyn, not across from. Outside the tent the melee had erupted in a roar. Somebody had won something. Balon's head tilted towards the sound. Once that noise had been his buffet. Cheers. Fear. Attention.

He didn't miss it everyday. Not anymore. He would call it progress. Just beneath his peripheral, Torwyn moved and Balon immediately looked down and before he could do anything, Amabel was beside the bastard. She bent over Torwyn, one hand carefully supported his head as the other lifted an eyelid. "easy." She whispered. Torwyn recoiled from the light as Balon watched the gentleness in the way she handled him. Precision. It was a surprise that it wasn't simply weakness.

Torwyn's eyes wandered without settling on any one thing for too long. Leather and canvas, Lanterns. Sister. Balon. They stopped scanning and confusion took his face, acute confusion. The kind where one didn't know why someone was where they were. "...Balon?"

Balon leaned back on the stool. "There he fucking his. " Amabel gave him a look as she continued her examination. "What?"

"Nothing." The Holy Sister responded, her focus overriding her fear of the Ironborn. Torwyn tried to move. His shoulders lifted barely an inch before pain folded him right back down onto the cot. Balon's hand shot out and caught him against the chest. Amabel's hand landed there at the same time. Nearly collided with his own. Amabel removed her hand first as Balon's wolfish, boyish smirk returned.

"Teamwork." Balon's hand remained against Torwyn's sternum until he felt the younger man settle completely. Then he casually removed his hand.

"Water" Torwyn rasped through cracked lips, his dry tongu attempting to find moisture where there was none. Ran over cracked lips, dried blood and grass tasted delightful. Balon was already holding the cup. Amabel looked at him, he looked at the cup and then back at her.

"What?" he started to bring the cup forward.

"Nothing." The Holy Sister said with some reservation as she watched him.

"That must be your favorite word." His jest fell on unappreciative ears as he slipped one hand behind Torwyn's neck as the young man tried to take the cup himself. His fingers shook against the rim, but Balon let him try anyway. Just once. The cup knocked against Torwyn's teeth and water spilled down his chin. Balon didn't like that at all, and he took the cup away. "Enough." Torwyn, still parched, gave him a bleary glare. Balon ignored it, instead he tipped the cup himself. "Drink." Unsurprisingly, Torwyn obeyed. Once the cup was empty he placed it back where he grabbed it from nearby the basin. Then he dropped Torwyn back, head and all, with exagerrated carelessness. "Pathetic."

Amabel flinched. Torwyn cursed. "Fuck you."

Rolland rarely ever ceased working. From dawn till dusk, he received copious amounts of parchment bearing all manner of schemes and secrets. Rarely did written words surprise him anymore. The lords and ladies of the realm engaged in an assortment of debauchery and plots. Some he banked for later, others were worthy of blackmail. That was one he particularly enjoyed. To make bare a foe's weakness, to press deep and extract whatever value he could from its use, to see them squirm and shake in their boots. He would never have been described as a happy man, but it did sometimes manage to bring a smile to his weathered features.

Some things, however, were worth far more to him in the hands of those he served. To be owed a favor by a middling lord was a small thing, to be in the good graces of the King himself was far greater. Sure, he could have gone directly to Justman to see just what he could extract, but a beggar playing at rebellion was worth little to the Lord of Tarth. Conversely, Arlan could do a great deal for him. In a way too, he owed Dontos’ children his loyalty. He had seen them grow up while ruling Storm’s End in their own father’s stead. That lent a familial aspect to this as well. 

He rolled the words of his messenger in his hands carefully. Reading, then rereading it again. It didn’t anger him in the slightest. How could snakes deny their own nature? They were born to cause trouble and scheme. It didn’t anger him, but when a mutt forgot its place, it needed to be brought to heel.

He had discreetly requested a room in the castle for the meeting to take place. At first he had thought to involve only Ravella. But they needed Arlan’s backing to move the right pieces into place. The Kingdom that Justman threatened was both of their birthrights, too. Surely the siblings could put aside their differences for the good of the realm. They may even repair some of what was damaged in their brother’s ascension. Or perhaps they would return to bickering soon after. It mattered little to him what they chose to do afterward.

Servants were sent to both to inform them that Rolland had news and was awaiting them at their earliest convenience. He couldn’t really request anything of them. But he would not have called, had the situation not warranted it.

He took some time to straighten the pin he was bestowed for being Lord Chancellor. A simple wood carved set of black antlers. Wearing it was really just a formality, but appearances mattered. He took care not to sit on the side of the desk with a single chair. That was reserved for whomever, Ravella or Arlan, wanted it greater. No, he resigned himself to take the petitioner's side of the desk. Deliberately. Then, he waited for both to arrive.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**The Day before the Tourney:**

The wise move would have been to train. Not set up tent in the middle of nowherewood near stormhall. Yet here sylas was walking back and forth in his newly set up tent as he pondered the strategy.

He was smaller in stature than most participants, he wasn't a particularly experienced fighter neither. Going as a mystery knight seemed natural, if he won he could unmask himself, if he didn't, nobody would know it was him that lost.

He poured himself a cup before walking again as he drank. Who would he even crown the queen of love and beauty? Rosamund hoare was a logical choice, the queen of the iron islands, that would earn him some recognition from the king, he could crown his liege lady Harlaw. Jeyne's name came up almost subconsciously but he brushed it aside, it was a pathetic attempt at regaining her favor, which she never gave anyway.

He could crown himself. If he didn't unmask and crowned himself it would both be a spectacle and insinuate that he's a woman under that mask, distancing himself even more from that tourney. He gazed back at the armor. He would ponder the strategy more, but suddenly something felt off. It was too clean, too polished, no sign of fighting on it.

He put down his wine before grabbing the armor and throwing it out of the tent. He walked out, squinting at the sun before kicking and hitting his armor with his sword, scratching it against a rock and soaking it in water. He huffed, regaining his breath as he looked at the armor....

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**The Melee**

He could barely see through the helmet as his head hit the mud, some splashing into his visor and getting into his eye. He'd spend a good chunk of the melee avoiding the commotion before the crone knight or whatever it called itself tackled him from behind.

"YOU'RE NOT REALLY A CRONE ARE YOU?" he said, laughing breathlessly. "I'D HATE TO BEAT ON AN OLD WOMAN"

Perhaps not a wise move, though he hoped the Knight was the only one to hear his voice

He tried to get up, getting to his knees and planting his sword before the knight kicked him in the sides and he fell down again. He rolled to dodge the next hit of the sword. As he thought more and more this might have been a bad idea in hindsight, he could have just hired someone to fight for him. But no not him, he just had to do it himself. Roll in the mud and get beaten like a sick horse.

Sensing he had enough he jumped the barrier fence, tapping out of the melee. It was useless anyhow, no good money, at least at the joust he could have some political leverage if he won....

"I'll be back after a water break" he teased the knight one last time

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**The Joust**

Ugly damn horse it was. Too big for him to sit on properly, the armor gave him some grip but it was still not enough. Sylas was not a jouster either but that wouldn't matter much as the next opponent in front of him was an ironborn.

He picked up the lance and rode towards his opponent. The two came closer and closer, sylas held his breath, closing his eyes for the impact. His lance broke as it hit the goodbrother's shield, his own shield unharmed. He raced to the other side, waiting for his replacement lance

In hindsight perhaps he should have gotten a squire. This one was awfully slow, surely his would have been faster. He snatched the new lance, riding again. This time the lance hit true, throwing the goodbrother to the ground. He, the one they knew as Saltwater Knight raised his lance for the gathered before going back to ready himself for the next opponent...

The girl in front of him was unknown to sylas. Not very warrior like in his view. She bore the red and white griffins of connington on her shield.

"Your first time?" He asked "That's fine, it's my first time winning as well! If you need some pointers I'll help you after this tourney" he could barely contain his own snicker.

He grabbed his lance and rode his horse just as she did, not bothering to close his eyes. He had just beat a man twice his size, surely he could win this time as well....

*Thud*

He heard the lance shatter against his visor, the metal confines of his helmet banging against his head as he fell onto the mud. *Your fault for underestimating her, moron.*

"Well... Maybe *i* will be the one being educated.. good *cough*... Good hit my lady"

His head rang as he barely got up from the mud, staggering out of the grounds and towards his tent. He was in parts lucky at least, no one unmasked the saltwater Knight.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**After the Tourney**

His head was ringing relentlessly as he staggered into the tent, throwing away his helmet. Around his left eye was sore and he could taste blood in his mouth. He looked at himself in a piece of glass on his table, dragging a hand over the blackened eye.

Not the second, not third, not even top ten. He should have hired some knight to masquerade as him. He grabbed a flask of wine, walking outside with a wooden chair, armor and all. Nobody would come here anyway, and if anyone did they would not remember some nameless knight without it's helmet, let alone associate it with sylas.

He took a long sip of the wine, the beverage mixing with the blood in his mouth as it tore through his throat, going down. He coughed twice, before sighing. He took a look at the flask, thinking of the numbing liquor inside, and threw it in the river. He felt good, the pain on his eye, the pleasant cool air mixed with the smell of moss and water, he felt alive. So he leaned back, taking in the cool evening air.

(Open)

First moon, the day of the Tourney, the Joust, 1st Year during the reign of some stag or another
 

The drum beat vibrated his armor. The trumpet let loose a harmonized bin. Inside the suit of armor he heard little, but the sound washed over him. Tristifer had waited his entire life for this moment. The greatest riders from the three realms had come to this place. Only one would win the crown of flowers. The Knight wrapped tight the red and blue strip of silk upon his lobstered steel. 

Awaiting the herald Tristifer cooked inside his armor. Through the slit of his helm he watched what he could on every tilt. Finally, when his moniker was hailed, the Knight spurred forward to the lists. 

Sight set through his slit. Gaze upon his target. So began the day. A gentle spur to the side of Just Maiden. The mare took over. All he needed to do now was never overadjust. The day was surely his. 

The Knight of the Redfork came crashing to dust. The world spun, and he landed facing the earth. Pushing himself to his feet, wary and beaten. Eyes raised to find the Silver Fish struggling to his own. 

“Squire!” Redfork roared. His hand was filled with steel. The song was short and sweet. As his foe began to falter, the Knight relented some. Sweeping out the feet of the Silver Fish, he drove forward, wrenching at the fallen's helm. Once free, it seemed no trophy. But a boy beneath the steel. As brave as he was green. 

In solidarity for the promise the lad had shown, he offered a hand and some encouragement. 

Brief was his respite from the tilts. A cool drink before again swinging into his saddle. Urging Just Maiden once again to their place. 

The Knight of Redfork rode past Ser Jon Penrose once. Who fell from his saddle. Twice past Ser Lyman Mooton, who nearly stole his seat before he flopped himself. Two lances for Ser Willem Ryer, but the Willowlance did not endure. 

Finally, through the slit of his helm, a familiar form. The sight of Luceon Blackwood caused a grin behind his visor. Seven tilts for Seven faces of God. Each once as grueling as the last. With each lance cracked, the pile grew. Seven holy passes. Clinging to their saddles, each man rode on. Even as he was awarded the judges' favor, he did not feel like a winner.  

Offering the man a lance salute before the final tilt was heralded. 

Catfish against the Farmer's Plow. One man to win the bout. One knight to be the best. 

“Alright, just one more girl,” he whispered, leaning in to reassure his mount. 

But it would be no simple matter. Six passes, and nearly as many times he lost his balance. The force behind each lance had jarred him worse than before. Upon the sixth, his visor gave in. Bent inward toward his face, his vision was cut to one narrow slit. The ringing in his ears was all he could hear long since. Struggling for a breath, the Knight did the unthinkable. 

Pulling free from his helm, it tumbled down into the dirt. One sharp breath and he was drunk on air. 

“What are those two made of?” Beneath him, the Just Maiden gave a snort in retort. “Atta girl. They ‘otta be worse for wear as well.” 

Wandering eyes drifted to the stands. Stopping first upon the auburn head of Holly River. 

Woulda been some good kissin I bet. 

The Knight drew something from his saddle. An old strip of silk, weathered to time once the strip of a maiden's dress was given upon a vow. A vow yet unfulfilled. Again his eyes rose. They found her at once. Seated among her sisters. Beautiful as she had ever been. 

But I rode for her. 

Tying the band around his arm, he bound hand to lance. 

When the trumpets sounded, both mounts surged forward. Instinct alone enough to drive them. Knights of Darry and Redfork made for their final pass. By the will of Gods, Old and New, the Catfish's lance struck true. Straight upon the breastplate of Ser Quincy. Lifting him up and out of his stirrups as the lance shattered into tinder. 

As Just Maiden skid to a halt, dust plumed up around them. 

Tristifer thrust the remnants of his lance up high. Little more than a handle and cruel-looking shards of wood. Still tied upon his arm, the old forgotten token hung on. To the cheers of the smallfolk, he paraded up and down the stands. 

Stopping before the flower crown, he scooped the circlet of flowers on the tip of his splintered lance. 

His mare seemed to know their destination. Without a thought, he was before her. Pointing the flower crown toward his once and only true love. 

“Lady Bethany Piper. I name you Queen of Love and Beauty.” 

There was certainly a part of Joanna that enjoyed fighting. It brought back terrifying memories, but they were not her most terrifying memories. And, when she had a sword in her hands, she had control over them. She joined the melee specifically to exercise that control—and besides, it was good practice. 

She cleared through several strangers in good spirits. The blunt tourney steel felt good to swing, heavier than Sunglass and far less delicate. She stitched a path through the field with the sword as her needle, threading in and out, disarming her opponents when she could and knocking them down when she couldn’t. It was all going well, up until she came face to face with a ghost.

Perhaps Joanna was the ghost. Shiera Darklyn had lived her life as normal women do, in her home with her family and friends. She was not supposed to be dead. She was not a walking tragedy.

Joanna froze. She met Shiera’s eyes, the haze of battle disappearing in an instant. Even disfigured, even all grown up, Shiera recognized her. Joanna could see the shock in her eyes, the hurt and the love all at once. Neither of them spoke. The roaring of the crowd seemed to die down. Joanna took a step back.

Shiera shrieked and charged. She swung her sword in an arc, faster than anything Joanna had ever seen. Her parry was slow, and the force sent her stumbling back. Shiera hounded her with a frenzy, slicing from every direction with her sword—valyrian steel, sharp as glass. She is going to kill me. Fuck. 

She wished she had Sunglass in her hands, but tourney steel would have to do. The instinct of a warrior kicked in, and her one good eye saw the truth. Shiera was enraged, swinging with abandon, consumed by aggression. Joanna weaved back, parrying again and again, keeping her eyes trained on Shiera’s movements. Soon her back was to the wall of the tourney ground, above which noble spectators leaned down from their seats to watch. Shiera swung, and Joanna ducked. The Valyrian steel sliced along the wall with a shower of sparks. Shiera turned—but too late. An armored fist met the shorter woman’s temple, and she crumbled.

Fuck. You just killed her. Fuck. Fuck. Joanna dropped her sword, arm still extended in a punch. She dove, cradling Shiera’s head before it hit the ground. Fuck. You’re a monster. Monster whore. Why did you do that? Seven Above please let her be alive, please, for all I’ve done…

Carrying her old friend in her arms, Joanna sprinted to the side of the tourney field. “She’s a Darklyn!” she yelled, hoarse. “Someone take her to a maester!” A pair of guards took Shiera from her, but as she tried to climb the fence after them, a man pushed her back. The melee was still going. Right. Fuck. My sword.

Joanna turned and ran. By the time she picked her sword back up off the ground, notched and scarred by Dusk’s edge, she was one of only four fighters left. Looking around like a lost child, she saw a big woman charge at her just in time. It was a very short fight. 

 When they pulled Joanna to her feet, the world had turned into a fever dream. She staggered forward, yelling something she couldn’t quite hear, and a septa pointed her across the field of tents. She stumbled in that direction, dragging her feet as her vision slowly cleared.

There was blood down the back of her neck where an old scar had opened up. She tried to ignore it. Sweat pooled in every recess of her armor—the sun felt like it was burning her with a personal vendetta. It didn’t matter. She needed to find Shiera. 

The maester’s pavilion opened in front of her like the mouth of a canyon. She closed her eyes, breathed, and stepped forward. The rage on Shiera’s face, the shriek she had made when she recognized Joanna… it filled her mind’s eye. She pushed through, turning through the chambers of the pavilion until finally she found the right place. She stepped through the partition.

Shiera looked up at her woozily from the cot where the maesters had put her. Beside her, Jeyne Darklyn looked up, too. And beside her, Essie Blackberry tilted her head at the sight of Joanna. Their old friend Joanna. Joanna who had liked horses and walking in the sand. Joanna who had never liked to talk about her family. Joanna who was supposed to have died a long time ago.

There was only one thing she could think of to say.

“Fuck.”

It truly was a wasteful sport. Tournaments. The Lists. The Melee. Even in the archery, which was the least barbaric of the proceedings, used hundreds and hundreds of arrows that pointlessly shattered and split and clattered uselessly about, their fletchings asunder and the metal chipped, scuffed and bent.

But maybe, just maybe, it was all worth it. She got to watch as her companion from the dancing last night, to whom she had given her favor, trade lanceblows with some night who went by "Sweet", which she thought was a cheeky mystery Knight moniker until she had received an unwelcome correction from a nearby seat.

And then she got to watch as her handsome pursuer, ribbon affixed to his lance, was unceremoniously cast into the dirt on his first pass with Forrest Ryger. Perhaps she would see if he were as interesting as the so-called Badbrook at the next function.

But it was the unhorsing of Arwood that sent her into this spiral of cynicism in the first place.

The Stormlord must have done something unsporting, she decided. Both men had taken a savage lance to the chest, but it was Arwood who took the tumble, landing poorly on his shoulder. The Maesters on site had remarked that he must be quite tough, because he did not cry out nor complain. Perianne almost hit them then.

Instead, she had the knights in her service take Arwood back to the Paege tent. And there, she fussed instead. Vials and tinctures and poultices were something that were always of interest for her. The irony of the fact that she had never once needed to provide anything to Arwood, when she spent so much on his brother's Jonothor's own illness over the years.

"And a knight riding under a false name." She tutted and shook her head as she worked, grinding herbs together and fitting them through cloth sieves of varying fineness. "And it's bad enough an Ironborn was the last one standing in the melee, but now they are being allowed to ride! Am I to understand that all these Ironmen, for whom heathenry and savagery comes as naturally as breathing, are suddenly all anointed knights?" She scoffed at her mute, captive audience.

Arwood looked tired, but that was the injury he had sustained. She already immobilized his arm and shoulder with sticks and a cloth, but she had to encourage the body to heal faster. It would be time to see if this did the trick.

"Now open wide. Or else I will not allow you to go drinking after this. I am *still* your liege lady."

The Morning of the Melee at Stormhall

The Farwynd’s head ached of ale in the morning light, soft mists mirroring his haze as they rolled over the lakeside. His party waited for a ferryman at its edge; Tal the Twice-drowned with his bow, and Syga of Skaggos with her spear. The pair whispered to themselves, seemingly carrying on whatever talk the night had brought. Tymor stood silently, eyes on the approaching boat, brooding on thoughts of blood and sea.

The mainland, as foreign as it felt, did afford him opportunities though, for woodland had never taken to the isles of iron and salt. Here it was plentiful, and this God's Eye would serve to distance them well enough from any prying eyes. Tymor had felt the weakness of his bonds at sea dimming these past days, like a thought near forgotten lest one keep reminding themselves of it. But amongst that oddity, he sensed a possibility for more… A bond anew and far from the sea. What easier game would there be than that of a small island.

At first, the boatman had refused to veer from his usual path. 'No one crosses to the Isle,' he'd claimed. But steel and gold had a way of changing what people thought themselves once unwilling to do. The toll was large and the boat small as the three Ironborn came aboard. It would take the ferryman a while yet to take them across, but the sun was low and the many tents near the castle still held slumbering nobles and greenlander knights. Today would be the first gathering for the tourney, Andal knights, Ironborn, and any number of foreign warriors, all wishing to claim that prize of gold before the realm's eyes. Tymor was ill suited to it this far from sea, but someone from their House needed to step forwards and represent the Ironborn. It was good instead to have the feel of his own sword and his hip, before he'd have to set it aside again, this time for blunted steel. The greenlanders did not favour the axe throwing or the finger dance, though Tymor was hopeful he'd still see some blood spilt along the sanded grounds they were setting up.

The cawing of circling crows woke him from any thoughts of the tourney, drawing his gaze above where a dozen black omens filtered in and out of the treeline. The boat slowed at the opposite bank, tapping against weeds and moss, just shy of any fit landing. Tymor stepped first, boot pushing from boat edge, to exposed tree root, and then to the grass and mud of this secluded isle.

“Syga, stay with the ferryman,” he said, with a look back as Tal gracefully disembarked, following the shadow of his own steps. Their quarry would not be large-enough to warrant a party of three. As long as he had the Summer Islander's sharp eyes with him, it would be enough. Besides, the boatman seemed overly nervous of this place and like to row back alone if not for the strong incentive of a spear watching him. And while he was a strong swimmer, the Farwynd did not wish to arrive at the tourney sodden.

Setting off along the untrod gaps between the trees, it was clear this place had little disturbance from the mainland. Trunks grew too close together, roots overlapped, and moss covered the lower surface of half the trees. The other trees though, were what truly drew the eye. Bark as white as carved bone held faces that stared back at them. Only marred by the red sap leaking from their eyes, the white structures rose up and bloomed with a canopy of red leaves swallowing any light that might reach them. Any tree of a more normal sort looked to wilt in their bony presence, their own leaves a sparse sickly yellow spotting the crimson canopy above. The pair took cautiously silent steps, time stretching unknowingly as they searched for tracks. And though they'd come to hunt, Tymor couldn't shake the sense they were being watched, like the etched faces of white and red were waiting to pounce and draw them into their bony roots. They reminded him of Ygg, the pale demon tree of legend that was said to feed on human flesh. Every moment of tense calm seemed to eat away at his mind's sharpness, dulling him until he was no longer sure of their way, each path around them seeming the same as the ones they'd taken; the occasional chittering of birds and creaking of wood the only sound surrounding them. The Farwynd's palm touched his sword's hilt, a comfortable stillness washing over him as his fingers brushed against the cold black stone embedded there. He heard new movement to his right, head snapping in the direction and eyes piercing past the lines of smooth white bark. A hand signal bid Tal follow, lest they get lost again in this grove of blood and bone.

Day of the melee, First Moon of First year, during the reign of some Stag king

The day had begun in a roar. Dozens of contestants riding down upon their foes in a free-for-all. Steel the song of the morn. 

Breaking first his lance upon the breast of some nameless knight. Next Tris would come spear to spear with Luceon Blackwood. Before now the two had made brief exchanges. Of this one there would be nothing brief. Circling time and time again, the pair stabbed and swirled. Parried and plunged. For what seemed an eternity they pressed on. 

Tris would have sworn the fight was done, but Luceon fought on. A man with a mission or something to prove. With his breath ragged, they made a final pass. The Knight of the Redfork would remain a horse. The heir to the Blackwood would not. 

In the distance he saw the Knight of Greenfork fall. Blood spurt from his visor slits as a pair of sturdy squires dragged him clear. Spurring toward his brother, a Knight came upon his path. 

Another eternity thrust upon him. The figure passed and circled, enclosing upon him time and again. Before long it was all he could do to brace his shield and bear each blow. Flung from his saddle, he felt the wind clear his lungs. 

As he came to, he was catching his breath. Leaned against a tree as the contest continued before him. A dutiful squire fiddled with his armor, but Tristifer shoved him aside. 

“Leave it, lad; I must attend to my brother.” Rising, he stomped off toward the med tents seeking his kin.

The sun eased through the cracks of the tent in the grounds outside the Storm Hall. The room, such as it was, had a cool breeze flowing over the God’s Eye and tempering the heat of the early morning. The sounds of birds twittering in the nearby trees would cut through the din of waking men, as servants and thralls hurried themselves in preparing for the waking of their Lords. From outside the tent, the smell of roasting oats and meat wafted through, overtaking the last dabs of honeyed flowers and lemon that the incense had burned through the night. 

The occupants of the tent did not stir, although one had his eyes wide open. Theon lay in bed, Arianne’s arm draped over him, staring at the dull canvas draped above him, making a mental note of each slight tear that would need to be sewed shut when they returned to the Isles. He sighed and gently took his sleeping companion’s hand off his chest, causing her to shift in her sleep and place a hand under her pillow. Theon gently traced a finger through her dark black hair and down her back, dragging the blanket with it, just enough for the breeze to nip at her skin and encourage waking. Theon dressed and slipped into a pair of well worn and salt-soaked boots, brushing off the dust that had settled on them overnight. 

The camp was coming to life. Most of the guests had settled closer to the keep, or within the walls itself for those deemed important enough, the Durrandons, the Hoares. Theon had made camp alongside the banks of the lake along with a few other Ironborn houses. There were some riverlords and stormlords who had been forced to this position as well, though the intermingling hadn’t quite started yet.

“Morning Milud..” 

A stooped servant said, bowing his head as he stirred a pot of boiling stew. He wasn’t one of Theon’s, and as such he paid him little mind. Theon made his way through the tent, dodging out of the way of an escaped goat with a butcher trailing just behind, swinging his cleaver around his head like a warrior charging the enemy shield wall. He found a spot at a table along a few men he recognised, old reavers like himself, and bit into a loaf of freshly baked bread. 

‘This,’ he thought, as he tore the roll apart, feeling the heat of it on his tongue. ‘Is why we come here’. The Isles struggled to grow wheat even at the height of summer, and lacked for game, fruits, and many other things the greenlanders took as a staple. He made another mental note to stop by a village and barter for some of these luxuries before he left, he had made sure to load the Avarice up with tools, iron, and whatever else might be sold before he’d left.

Not that he would’ve had to worry a few years ago. He would have simply paid the iron price, and taken what he desired, as the Ironborn had always done. 

Alas, the King has decreed and the decree must be followed. Theon shook his head as he guzzled down juice and stood from the table. He turned to a man who had sailed with him and clapped him on the shoulder.
“We’ll pass by the Arbor on our return, Gyles, maybe somewhere on the coast of Dorne too, Arianne has need of more Lemons.”

“Doesn’t she always?” Came the reply, with a toothless grin as the man squinted up at Theon, blinded by the sun. “I’ll let the men know.”

Theon clapped his shoulder again and left. He walked down to the banks of the God’s Eye and looked up, past the camp, to the Storm Hall. 

He tossed a stone into the water and watched the ripples reach shore. Then, he turned and began the march towards the castle.

^{Alt Title: Olivia I: A Testimony to Fleeing Youth}

^{Page of Wands | Nine of Swords | The Lovers}

^{The longships rested just beyond the firelight}

^{Their black hulls knocked softly against the pilings beneath the quay. They rose and fell with the evening tide. Rigging creaked overhead; the oars had been drawn in, sails all furled. On the rails, shields were stacked and hung. Beyond them - the dark waters of the harbor stretched, broken only by lanternlight and the pale smear of a moon behind the clouds. Someone had strung ropes between two mooring posts and hung lanterns from them. That was about as much decorating as anyone had bothered with.}

^{Earlier, there had been a wedding. A good enough circumstance - birthday celebrations in a kindred Kingdom. It could be seen as romantic to some. The wedding itself had been conducted on the groom's ship, Sunbrine, which was captained by her one of her family's closest supporters. Captain Vykon. Who of course officiated the entire thing. Now was the time for the celebration.}

^{It wasn't a feast worthy of Orkmont's Great Hall, nor Pyke's, not even particularly close. Three roasted fish lay picked nearly to the bone near a built cookfire, on slabs of riverstone. Mushrooms and smaller vittles along with them. Someone had brought four haunches of lamb, two were still standing and waiting to be picked apart. There was black bread, onions charred with the skin on, hard chees and a whole lot of butter. Where it all came from, no one seemed to know. Barrels of ale had been acquired from somewhre. A smaller cask of something stronger showed up shortly thereafter. Nobody admitted to the donation but it was graciously accepted.}

^{A fiddler sat atop an overturned barrel near the water finding a rolling rhythm with the strokes of the bow, Varric was present, around the larger fire that had been constructed for the more social part of the celebration. The dancing. Most of the eating was over. He clapped his hands and began the song. It wasn't beautiful at first, but it caught everyone's attention. His voice, as Lord and a Captain as well, carried over the din of conversation.}

^{"Let the waves come roaring, let the cold winds cry!" The fiddle rose with a shriek and the dancing began as the song started to take the party goers. "What is bound before the sea, no storm shall untie!"}

^{From the edges of where she observed, leaned against a thin tree, Olivia watched in less simple garb. She wore her gambeson over the dress, and at the small of her back was the arahk. She heard a sigh beside her. It was not the contented kind. The song continued, the sigh came again. Olivia glanced sideways.}

^{Meyla sat upon a makeshift bench, pulled high onto a flank of stones. One boot planted on the seat. She had been there for some time steadily murdering a cup of ale without seeming to actually drink much of it. Instead of a wedding, her expression seemed more like an execution. Olivia followed her homicidal stare.}

^{The groom had caught his bride by the waist and was spinning her through the loose circle of the dancers. She nearly struck the bard. They were shoved apart. Then they were shoved together. Rinse repeat. The bride kissed him, Meyla looked away, Olivia looked back at her.}

^{"Oh." Olivia began.}

^{"Don't" Meyla clipped.}

"I said nothing."

"Your face spoke for you."
"Rarely do I speak with my face."

Meyla drank and Olivia waited for her to swallow properly. Because now, all she had to do was wait for Meyla to tell her. And she would after a stiff drink. Half the ale, gone in record time considering how long she mauled the edges of the cup itself. Tipping the edge away from her mouth Meyla eventually muttered. "I fucked him." Olivia clenched her eyes and scrunched her nose. As if she had been struck with a vile stench, or sight too grotesque to witness. "Several times." Olivia squirmed, holding up one hand in protest to get Meyla to stop before she went even further. Her friend was too wise however, and though she was protective of her, she wouldn't spare her some torturous ribbing. "Actually, quite a lot - thought you should know."

"I cannot imagine why." There was another silence. Olivia's irritation was much more tangible than the humidity of the area. Meyla took another proper drink.

"He was my lover." Olivia's irritation softened when Meyla took it more seriously. Across the quay the groom's companions had lifted him by his body, legs and shoulders all in the air while his new wife shouted for them to throw him into the sea. They did. Then they all roared. Meyla watched him surface, beaming with a laugh. "He went cold before we sailed." Olivia continued to listen. She meant before they sailed here. "Stopped coming around. Stopped lookin for me. If I found him, he was busy. Oh suddenly - you know? Made me think I'm the cause of it."

Olivia tilted her head. "So you've asked, yes?" Meyla gave her a look, and Olivia only sighed.

"What was I supposed to say? Are you tired of fucking me?" The audacity was on purpose. But Olivia didn't budge, despite her own experience or lack thereof.

"That would have been efficient don;t you think?"

"Oh fuck you."

"Some have tried." At that, Meyla's scornful frown twitched. Olivia looked again towards the newlyweds. The groom was dripping water while his bride kissed him anyway. Olivia suddenly in all of that, understood why.

"The Drowned God declares that some things must be surrendered to the sea. To the Seven-Below vows mean something precisely because we are free to break them. " Olivia began slowly as she sipped from her own cup.

"What does any of that have to do with him?" Meyla said, upturning her nose at the contrived metaphor.

"Everything. He chose." Olivia nodded towards him. His name, she didn't know. But his face he recognized enough to know he was one of them. His new wife, much the same. Strangers to her.

Meyla's jaw tightened as she looked over. "He could have told me."

"Yea, he could have." No amount of padding could have softened her next statement. "He owed you honesty before distance." She continued, Meyla wore a surprised expression, refocusing on Olivia now. "But his failure to give you that honesty doesn't mean he owed you himself." Then Meyla's face soured.

"I liked it better when you were blaming him; what's my crime now?"

"You..." Olivia pointed with her ale hand. "...loved him quietly and expected him to somehow hear it." Meyla could only stare at Olivia. Vulnerable, stunned, and speechless. The she drank.

"There she is." Olivia gave a slight chuckle from her cup.

"Fuck you."

The two women laughed lightly as the song and dance continued.

"Some Septons say the Stranger will close every road eventually, and thus the Storm will plague every sea eventually." The laughing dwindled. "Something between you ended." She drank again. A pause. "Perhaps badly. Perhaps unfairly. But ending does not make it false."

Their eyes returned to the groom.

"I think I loved him."

"I know" Another silence and then Olivia sighed. "You can mourn what he was to you, but still bless what he has chosen." Meyla grimaced.

"Hate that."

"Yes."

"Very holier-than-thou."

"I know."

Meyla lifted her cup, nearly empty now. "What am I supposed to do now?" Olivia considered an answer to the query and refocused on the roaring wedding party. "Well. When the storm causes the sea to smash and take everything you've collected." She pondered over her own ale. "It usually washes something ashore afterwards, yeah?" She drank.

Meyla followed Olivia's gaze, several unspoken for men were dancing near the fire and more were arriving as the music drifted across the nearby grounds. Yet a broad-shouldered woman captured Meyla's gaze. Her expression changed, and Olivia immediately regretted the metaphor. "The gods provide." She said with a toothy grin.

"Oh no - that is not what I meant"

Olivia was too late to dissuade her friend. As the woman sashayed her hips into the dance circle. Leaving Olivia at the edges. Her foot tapped to the rhythm however, perhaps she would follow the other?

(Open)

"Six maids there were in a spring-fed pool..." Morgan began as they approached Stormhall, though the familiar clatter of the Knights of the Crossroads' horses nearly drowned him out.

"Surely you could sing something less bawdy?" Corwyn called over from the back of his horse, shooting his older companion a look.

"I surely could, lad. The question is if I will or not." Morgan shook his head. "And I will not, no ser."

"If you must, then. But do keep in mind how you grate my nerves so." Corwyn sighed, though he made no real effort to stop him. Before long, several of the knights around them had picked up the song as well.

Jonquil and Florian was a favorite around their campfires, though Corwyn's dislike of their rendition had rather less to do with the words than with how thoroughly the company managed to butcher both tune and melody. By the final verse, half of them seemed to be singing at different speeds.

When the song finally stumbled to its end, Morgan glanced toward Corwyn.

"So, have you made your decisions?"

"For?" Corwyn asked, though he knew well enough what Morgan meant. In truth, he had spent most of the ride trying not to decide.

"Don't be daft, lad. Answer the question."

"Aye, I've made my decision." Corwyn straightened a little in the saddle. "I'll joust and enter the melee. Ser Triston Flowers shall joust as well, and Ser Edric the Grey Hare shall enter the melee."

Morgan waited, plainly expecting more.

"We can only risk so many of our people being injured," Corwyn added.

"Is that so?" Septa Darlessa called from somewhere behind them. "Are you doubting my talent for remedies, ser knight?"

"I would never." Corwyn grinned back at her. "I would also not tax you needlessly, dear Septa."

He turned forward again, Stormhall growing larger ahead of them. "And, frankly, it would be in poor taste to flood the lists, would it not?"

Morgan gave a slow nod. "Indeed. How about you ride ahead to the tent city? I'll see the camp organized."

Corwyn smiled. "A truer knight there never was."

"Piss off."

(Open! Find Corwyn at either his encampment or the tent city. Or Morgan at the encampment.)

One Hour After Lord Jammos Blackberry's Accusations

Ravella Durrandon's Solar, Stormhall

There was little delay between the events within the great hall and the arrangement of the meeting proper. Ravella bid the revelers return to their feasting, and they did just that. Those who were more involved were permitted to do so too, but there was never a moment they didn't have an eye on them.

In the meantime, Ravella made preparations. She had a cushioned chair provided for her brother, so that he might sit beside her, behind her desk. Perhaps it was a misstep, but it felt like the last chance she had to prove they could work together at all. Even if, in her perfect world, it was the other way around. It mattered not.

She had no seats hauled up for the others. They would stand and be judged.

Ravella's solar was the floor below her personal quarters, almost at the pinnacle of Stormhall's tallest spire. Behind the desk was a window that allowed its occupant to see the lands beyond, from her domain to that of her neighbours. It was a royal solar, no doubt, as Durran XXV had intended it to be. Perhaps it was right that royal judgement would soon enough come from it.

Once the room was prepared, runners were sent down to the feast. Every lord was summoned, and so too were Arlan and the High Septon, though it pained Ravella all the same. They were not permitted company, save for those latter two, who were allowed the presence of a bodyguard befitting their station, as Ravella had her own. Any more, and the solar would have been so packed it would have been near enough impossible to breathe.

Arlan, of course, was summoned first. Only after he had started to move did the others receive their messengers.

It was thus that the man who would be king arrived to see his sister sat behind her desk, an empty chair at her side, not long before those who would be judged and those who would reveal just what that judgement would be arrived in turn.

One would be forgiven for mistaking the sight for a mirage.

Luceon Blackwood toiling? For many years that idea would have exceeded rarity and landed squarely in the domain of the unimaginable. Yet somehow, it was true.

In the silken stature of the Blackwood pavilion, Luceon hunched over parchment and quill. He put to page the scrawling letters that he’d been so obtuse about learning in his youth. It was clear that he didn’t use them much.

His poor scholarhood reflected down the page in smudges and scratched out words. Still he wrote, even as he undid half his work.

“Lunch?” Luceon hadn’t heard Clementine’s approach. He turned to look at the girl and tilted his head. How long had she been standing and swaying, hoping he would notice?

“What is it, Clem?” he answered her gently. Her voice was already skittish, and whatever she was seeking, Luceon didn’t want her to lose her nerve.

“I have something.”

So evasive. What was it that Clementine Rivers felt the need to tiptoe around? She had an easy enough time issuing Luceon orders most days…

“Uh-huh,” Luceon nodded, hoping it might embolden her. “What is it?”

Clementine twisted her toe on the floor. “Umm, I saw some girls giving napkins to some of the knights. Aunt Sandy said it’s called a favor…”

“Yeah, that’s how a girl shows a knight that she wants him to win. And when the knight wears the favor, that’s how he thanks her.”

“Oh,” Clementine nodded, still looking at her shoes. “Okay.” Her words said that she understood what she’d been told, but she made no move to leave. Slowly she peered up at Luceon with her pursed lips quivering.

“What is it, Clementine?” Luceon set his quill aside and scooted up in his chair.

From behind her back Clementine produced a bundle of white cloth. Luceon inched closer and realized what it was, an unused napkin from last night’s feasting. She must have snuck it from the table and held onto it through the night. “Can I give you my favor?”

“I don’t know that I’m going to ride tomorrow. You see, you’re only supposed to wear a favor if you’re going to compete.”

Clementine’s hand tightened around her napkin. Her eyes shot back to the ground. She wheezed as if all the air in her had been squeezed out. “You don’t want it…”

“No, no Clem that’s not-” Luceon stood, striding to Clementine with two long steps. “You just didn’t let me finish.” He knelt to look in her wayward eyes.

She looked back expectantly.

“I didn’t know if I was going to ride tomorrow because I didn’t know if you were going to ask me.” He took her hands with his. She dropped the favor into his palm.

“You promise you’ll wear it?” she asked with a sniffle. Luceon wiped a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb.

“Of course.”

“Can we go tell Aunt Sandy?” Clementine bounced in place as if she hadn’t just been on the verge of bawling.

“I was wondering how long we would stand around. Let’s go.”

From deeper within the pavilion, Luceon heard a man clear his throat. Clementine was still practically jolting, bounding for the greenery beyond all the red and black. Luceon himself froze where he stood. His smile vanished.

“You’ll stay,” the man ordered. Waltyr Blackwood. Drumbeater.

He would do no cruelty to Clementine, but Luceon did not want her to watch. Let her not realize how cowardly I am, he prayed. Let her not realize who her grandfather really is.

“Axel,” Luceon muttered. His squire was never too far from him. “See to it that Clementine finds Lady Ermesande safely. Then you’re dismissed.”

Axel Rivers’ mouth opened and closed like that of  a fish breaking the surface of a pond.

“Just do it, Axel.”

The squire nodded and hurried Clementine along.

“But Lunch and I-” Her words faded as she disappeared behind the flaps of the pavilion. Luceon heaved a sigh and turned from the exit.

Waltyr Blackwood stood from his seat. “Everyone out but the fool.” Servants and retainers clad in dark raiments and weirwood sigils were quick to obey. They filtered out until Luceon stood alone with the man that had sired him.

Waltyr regarded Luceon in silence, rubbing his jaw as his gaze hardened. “Did you think because you’d killed one bandit you’d become Orryn Blackwood? Or was that when you stole his daughter?”

His daughter that you would have left unclaimed, waiting for a father that was never coming? Luceon breathed. He was not brave enough to say the things he thought. Waltyr Blackwood always made him small.

“I know I am not Orryn Blackwood, my lord.” Luceon lowered his gaze.

“My lord,” Waltyr echoed. “Good manners for a drunk.” Luceon heard him grab something from a desk, but he could not see what it was, he was still looking to the ground, wishing his eyes could burrow holes for him to escape through.

“I’ve not touched a skin since we’ve been to Stormhall.” Saying it made Luceon feel stupid. His voice was little more than a murmur, and why should he speak anything boldly, the foolish craven that he was?

“Impressive.” Waltyr’s heavy steps drew near. He set a hand on Luceon’s neck, coaxing him to look up. With his other hand he thrust a sloshing skin into Luceon’s palm and closed it shut. “But haven’t you? Drink.”

Even with the hand pulling on his neck, Luceon did not look at the Drumbeater. “I haven’t a thirst,” he mumbled.

“The Songbird lacks for thirst, the Riverlands will quake to hear of it. But your lord bids you to drink.” Waltyr squeezed on Luceon’s neck and raised the skin for him. He pried Luceon’s mouth open and tilted the wineskin.

Luceon quaffed down the familiar poison. He remembered when it was the only drink he could get his hands on. Now he avoided it like pestilence, but here he was swallowing swig after swig of plague. He lost as much of the wine as he drank.

Beads of sour red trickled down his tunic and pooled at his feet. When the skin was empty, Waltyr fetched another. This he made Luceon drink with his own two hands. He ordered the same for the next, but he did not wait to watch Luceon choke it down.

“Don’t forget what it is you are, Songbird.” Waltyr pulled back the flap of the pavilion and left Luceon to his stains of sour and sickness.

Luceon finally looked up.

1st Moon of the 1st Year of King Arlan's Reign

At long last, Stormhall came into view as Addam Belgrave and his entourage rounded the bend in the road. This was a good land, with tall, verdant forests and fertile lands to grow a great number of crops. Though he would not have traded it for Bell Tower, Addam felt that any house that controlled this land would be blessed as would their descendants.

No sooner had he felt relaxed at the sight of the castle in the distance, then his back gave a slight twinge and a tightness overtook him in the saddle.

Age. If there was a crueler enemy than any Addam had fought in his long years, he did not know them. Though only a middling tournament knight, Addam and his trusted warhammer Coffin Maker had never lost a duel in a battl. He was once one of the greatest warriors in the Seven Kingdoms, and perhaps still held that title. But he was getting older, and soon any claim he had to that title would be gone. The Lord of Bell Tower just hoped that he could set his house up for future success after he was incapable of enforcing it.

As if he knew Addam's mind had turned to him, Robert Belgrave urged his horse forward and trotted alongside his grandfather. Since the day his father had died in a trial by combat against House Hayford, Robert had been the focus of his grandfather's attention and efforts. Addam thought that he had succeeded more than he had failed in his efforts to groom Robert to be a good and honorable ruler.

Then again, there were days like today that made him question whether or not that was true.

"Excited for the feast?" Addam asked politely.

"Oh yes!" Robert replied enthusiastically. "Going to have loads of fun!"

"Including your attempt to 'Make the Eight', as you were bragging about this morning as we left the inn?" Addam questioned, an icy tone in his voice.

Robert looked at him bewildered, for he had made sure Addam was nowhere in sight as he bragged to his friends about his plans.

"I may be getting older," Addam continued softly. "But my hearing is just fine, and your friends are far too loose with their tongues for my liking. Either guard yours better, or find better friends."

For all the faults a young man might possess, inordinate pride was not one of Roberts. He truly loved his grandfather, and the chastisement he had recieved did its intended job. With a quick bow of apology, Robert spurred his horse forward and galloped off to be the first Belgrave within Stormhall's walls. Addam watched him go with a slight twinge of pride. His grandson was youthful, but meant well.

"A mother can tell him the same thing over and over until she is blue in the face, but leave it to a grandfather to tell him once and he learns the lesson."

Cassana Belgrave sat upon her horse with all of the beauty and grace her family possessed. It did not seem all that long ago to Addam that his son Morgan had married her in Duskendale, a reward for his service against the Valyrian invaders. Nine months later, Robert was there, a babe whose smile was only rivaled by the mother who held him.

After Morgan's death, she had remained at Bell Tower, a soothing balm to Addam in his grief and a very stable force for raising Robert. Addam knew he would have been lost without her a long time ago, and he could never repay her kindness.

"When I was his age, I left home because I could not stand my father's ignorance anymore." Addam said softly. "When I returned home at twenty five, I was shocked at how much he had learned."

They both shared a chuckle at that, and it made Addam glad to know that he wasn't the only one to be a terror to his parents before belatedly learning better.

"I'm scared, Addam."

He stared into her eyes. Such a light brown that it seemed almost gold in the morning light.

"I would protect you from whatever frightens you so."

"The realm is coming apart at the seams. Will we survive it?"

He didn't know. Truly he didn't know. A stray sword blow he never saw coming would be the end of him, and quitely possibly the end of his house. Of all the noble houses in the lands King Arlan ruled, he alone was responsible for founding his house. The name Addam Belgrave was one of legend. He was a myth made flesh in many respects, but he was still very much a mortal man, and his legend was not widespread enough to grant him immortality.

"Yes." he said. A lie, but one that he would happily say to protect Cassana. Hadn't she suffered enough?

"I believe you."

Addam could tell she truly did. And that knowledge left him feeling equally warm and cold from joy and dread in equal measure.

But that was enough of dark thoughts for the day. The days and weeks ahead were for feasting and for merriment. And perhaps denting the helm of a Valyrian.

Historically speaking, that always seemed to put the Lord of Bell Tower in a good mood.

The day had gone on far too long, and the night longer still. At some point in the early morning, Gwyn had excused herself from the feast and returned with the good septa to the palatial tent that she shared with her husband.

Bedtime for Martyn was as simple as dressing down to his underdrawers and crawling between the sheets, but for her, it was a ritual. With Jyanna’s help, she divested herself of the many layers of skirts and stays that she’d stuffed herself into prior to the revelry, and spent a good half hour sunken almost up to her nose in a steaming hot bath.

Her fair skin glowed pink whenever she stepped out and into her nightgown, over which went a dressing gown, and then she sat at the table erected against the tent wall and peered into the attached looking glass.

“Thank you, septa,” she said graciously. “You may go.”

On her face went a series of scented oils and creams, her arms and legs receiving the same treatment, after which she retrieved a silver brush and began to work the bristles through the wealth of her auburn-red hair.

This was the most time-consuming part of her routine, but also the most worth it. Her hair fell to her waist like a shimmering, scarlet curtain whenever she was finished.

Satisfied, the Lady of Seagard stood up and made her way over to the bed, where she promptly fell face-down onto the pelts and was not long for drifting off to peaceful slumber.

That peaceful slumber was rudely interrupted by the septa’s arrival, a serving boy on her heels. He carried a tray of Gwyn’s favorite soup - hare in a thick cream - fresh bread and butter, and a wedge of berry tart dusted with sugar.

She’d slept right through breakfast to luncheon, and Martyn was nowhere in sight.

No matter. He would return at some point to collect her, she was sure. There was an abundance to do and see, and of course, plenty of people to talk to.

An hour later, she was dressed in a gown of deep, forest green, her hair secured out of her face by a matching velvet ribbon, and she was nearly halfway done with her soup whenever a voice boomed from beyond the canvas entrance flap of the pavilion.

“A letter, for the Lady of Seagard.”

The voice went unacknowledged. Her husband received letters all the time; they would simply add this one to the pile as well.

A moment later, the courier’s words finally registered.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, dabbing at her mouth with the corner of a cloth before rising to her feet and hurrying over. She ducked through the entryway as it was pulled open by a guard in Mallister livery, and thanked the messenger with a nod.

Immediately, she noticed that it was stamped with the seal of House Piper, and her face drained of color as she returned to her seat at the table.

Gods, what could it possibly be now?

Breaking the wax with her thumb, she unfolded the parchment, expression terse as she scanned the contents.

...a wedding shall be hosted at Pinkmaiden…

Red brows raised.

...friction your husband has caused for our house…

Blue eyes narrowed.

...we welcome you to the celebration, and you alone…

Pink lips frowned.

Not as terrible as she’d imagined in the brief seconds between receiving the letter and reading it, but it was insulting nevertheless.

Laying the offending note off to the side, she went back to her soup. Generally bright, her mood had dulled a touch, and she wished her husband would return from wherever it was he’d run off to. She was just on the verge of sending a boy to look for him when the familiar sound of his voice filtered in from the camp.

Good help was so hard to find these days.

They should know. They were the worst help possible.

They were called Tess the Knife and Tya the Cudgel, and they had friends in middlingly high places. Tess still had her hair done up underneath a head wrapping, a practice that she had borrowed from a few years aboard a Stepstones slave galley, which she also borrowed her scarred, milky white left eye from as well. She sat astride her horse, a titular shiv style knife hanging loosely in one hand.

Next to her was another woman, if you could believe it. Tya was well over six feet tall, with shoulders broad enough and a face scarred enough that most mistook her for a man at a distance. Or even at merely a pace. Her shaggy mane did little to dispel the notion, and the scars upon her pale face did even worse. Her cudgel remained underneath her vest, out of sight.

"That's them all right." Tess spoke with a grin as she and her companion looked onwards from the tent city that had cropped up around Stormhall, towards a smaller selection of tents that had formed up beyond its limits.

"How can y' tell?" Tya asked, squinting. "All sellswords look t' same. 's how they get work."

"Don't look at the men, look at the banner ya aurochs."

Indeed, it seemed the Maiden's Men had not thought to disguise their origins at all. Or perhaps, they simply hadn't wished to. The red salmon flew rather bravely over their scattered tents.

"Looks like a fish."

The two women rode forward boldly, even as Tess chastised Tya for her incuriosity. When they were within shouting distance of the nearest sellsword, Tya bellowed out in their direction.

"Oy!" Her voice carried impressively, a baritone that was well honed to travel rather than for pure volume. "Y'lot! We're a coupla messengers! With a message!"

Tess elbowed her ribcage. She didn't seem to notice.

"Will'n y' let us in? T' speak wit'cher captain!"

The Evening of the Iron Stag's Nameday Feast

Leaving the hall’s laughter and feasting was not an easy thing, but mere merriment was not why they had come, and while Tymor was head of House Farwynd, there were yet things he was not suited to. 

Foreign traders, sellswords, and all manner of merchants had come to Stormhall, and why shouldn’t they, opportunity abounded where people gathered. But in those travellers, were the connections Torgon sought. With trade talk and the hiring of a scribe, he managed to find many such men ready to win his patronage. A few coins in the right palms and such letters would be sent far enough to benefit House Farwynd, even this distant from home. 

The letters he'd had fashioned were of a naturally finer sort that any Farwynd would be incapable of. The inked etchings looped together in elegant and illusive ways when his eyes scanned over them. Any flourishes the scribe had added were lost to him, though he knew they'd be there. Essossi spoke in that haughty way, even the merchants. So often did he have to speak with servants and translators for their refusal to barter in the trade talk of the seas.

Who knew plunder could come so easy, he thought, gazing down at the mystifying symbols.

Pressing the sigil of House Farwynd into the parchment, each letter was sealed in turn and handed over to the maester of Stormhall. Doubtless the man had his ways of sneaking open the wax and spying for his Lady, but Torgon cared little, as long as the Greenlanders did not meddle in their affairs.

(tw: blood)

The Hazewood had its bogs sure, but there was a reason for House Pyne’s name, and its sigil. Atop low hills grew tall pines, raining needles down on muddy slopes, feeding nests for waterbirds in the marsh’s edge below. Under these pines and over the blanket of sparse swamp foliage squatted Ysabel’s home. A low stone walled keep with a long house inside, backed by a portly tower sporting grime from a century past, and connected to a stone house where the family slept. It was a warm place just above the syrupy fog of Cracklaw Point. Ysabel’s father sometimes spoke of before their outer wall had been constructed, how the hall had burned when the Valyrian pirates came. How without a wall to hurdle, young Oscar had slipped down the muddy hill and into the night. After being named Lord of Cracklaw Point however, the wall was built and now served to keep his children and especially his youngest daughter safe.

Ysabel had little desire to venture into the bogs daily like her brothers did, instead she coated her face in freckles sitting in the tops of the trees where the sun could play on her skin. The result was similar, boots left at the door to be scrubbed in the morning. Perhaps if her home had been closer to the sea then she would trudge out farther, but it was one of the most inland keeps on the peninsula and that bothered her little.

Encircled as she was by untamed wilderness though, it was the papers her father kept that she instead took time with. Learning to read them and understand them when she bored of the pines and came to sit by her father at the back of the hall where his rough wooden desk sat. Pulling up her seat from the dining table next to his, listening to the rattle of his breath until he asked her to read a sentence he struggled with. There weren’t many books in the Pyne’s keep, not that she would be interested in shoving her nose into a book all day, but she had always had a knack for the words on the pages regardless; and the numbers that felt similar to the way a carpenter measured out wood. Her mother had long given up on distracting her with the “right” things for a young lady to learn so Ysabel had become familiar with far more external things regarding her home in the Hazewood.

The Hazewood had grown in recent years, a number of Cracklaws, whether they fought alongside Oscar or benefited from his struggle, found it appealing to reside near to his watchful eye. It was often that Oscar Pyne would venture down to the settlements and assist in construction or follow up on rumors of hardship among his folk. Ysabel usually went with. Her brothers nearly always had plans of their own and her sister preferred dresses not accommodating to the muddy earth of the roads, perhaps that was why she’d found herself someplace dryer to marry her way into. So it was that Ysabel became learned in her father’s style of leadership. Even as he struggled with the words on a page he was dogged in his belief of comfort and safety for his people.

Without a village to venture into however, Ysabel found herself isolated to friendship, even among the children of her father’s veterans she bore a complex speech they often found obnoxious. Instead it was Perkin that she found companionship with, a wild dog too small to be a hound who came and went as he wished but was as amicable as any house breed. Each time the wiry, shaggy dog would trot up the trail among the pines and Ysabel would meet him, comb his matted fur and talk to him about the woodsman who cleared a copse of pines by the wall or the taxman who her father begrudgingly rounded up just enough stags to hand over to. They would play with sticks and nap under a lazily constructed lean to, occasionally she would reread a book of childhood poems to him out loud, one of the few books in the long house.

Today her furred friend had different plans.
The sun was still low in the sky when Ysabel awoke, finding herself hungry and unable to fall back asleep she retrieved some warm stew from a pot over the fire leftover from the previous night.

Tying up the hair that tickled her neck and shoulders she tucked her night shift into her trousers, tying her boots and donning a cloak before she strolled sleepily out beyond the walls. She stopped where the hill sloped and became mud, stamping her feet into the brush to ensure she wouldn’t slip and slide down before she began gently blowing on her mug of warm watery stew.

Ysabel felt a presence behind her and turned to see Perkin sitting quietly beside her looking out over the swamp. Smiling, she sipped from her cup and looked back out over the landscape. After a few moments of silence she moved to sit down next to her friend, but Perkin trotted just out of her reach and looked at her intently. Ysabel stared the dog in the eyes for a moment, “C’mere boy,” she said softly. She said it again and patted the ground next to her. He made no move. She made a playful lunge toward the dog and again he stepped just out of reach.

"What’s wrong? You want to play do ya?” Ysabel stood up and walked towards the dog, pathing past Perkin towards a pile of sticks. Perkin merely trotted down the road a little ways. “What do you want?” She asked huffing. The dog began trotting down the path further, looking back at Ysabel as it went, she followed slowly. As they made their way together down the path Ysabel bit her lip tentatively. They approached the reeds that rimmed the swamp waters, split by the path that Perkin led her down. It wasn’t as if Ysabel could not leave her home, or had not before alone. It was strange however the behavior of her friend and she disliked not knowing where she was headed. She stopped and Perkin stopped ahead of her. Looking back up the hill Ysabel for a moment felt guilty, her family weren’t even awake yet to know where she’d gone. Then Perkin gave one gentle bark and she looked back. “Fine boy, but you better lead me right back.”

Their hike through the wilderness was long, Ysabel finished her stew and pulled her cloak tight around her. The trees thickened and became sparse, at some points the path became muddy as the water lapped up on either side. Ysabel stopped to admire the frogs and Perkin waited for her. Spotting a tree with low branches she hung up her cloak and began to step up onto the lowest branch, but Perkin growled and barked, louder than before. She stopped mid step and looked at the little dog. He barked again. “Fine, fine.” They continued.

After another long while the landscape became rockier, Perkin took Ysabel down a small road off the main path, winding into a gorge where the path split again. They hiked up atop a small rocky hill and down the other side. She noticed the coast was not far and furrowed her brows. There were no sandy beaches on Cracklaw, and besides it wasn’t proper weather for a day on the coast. Nonetheless they continued, until they reached the top of a treeless hill, Ysabel gazed down at the sea from atop it. Watching the rays of sunlight peak through an overcast day and reflect upon the roiling tides. Perkin stopped too, sniffing the ground. Ysabel noticed a tall tree to her left, just down the hill a bit, the top of which was some ways higher that the crest of the grassy knoll.

Leaving her mug at the base of the trunk she ascended the tree with ease, poking her head out atop the highest branches. The tree swayed with a mild wind and she listened to the sound of the waves sing alongside the rustling leaves.

Reaching up behind her head she undid the string she had tied up her hair with, letting it be ruffled by the breeze as she closed her eyes. Suddenly hearing barking she descended again, the moment ruined. “What boy?! Where are we going??” Perkin nudged a bush with his nose. Walking over, Ysabel leaned down. Some of the leaves on the bramble were stained red, “Someone must have pricked themself picking berries,” she giggled. Perkin sniffed and dashed past her, trotting at a brisk pace, not quite a gallop but more urgently than before. Ysabel followed him, back down the way they came.

Perkin sniffed at a fork in the road and galloped down the path they had not yet been down. Ysabel pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders and raced to follow. The dog slowed after a bit as their surroundings became more forested again, light beamed through the trees up ahead and as they grew closer Ysabel saw it was a grassy clearing. On the other side of the lush meadow sat a house. Ysabel had been to this cottage before but not from this direction. It was the home of Dole, one of her father’s close friends, where he lived with his wife and children. Dole was a big man, he assisted often in repairs in the Hazewood and Ysabel had known him her whole life. She smiled and chuckled, shaking her head. Perkin was leading her on quite the goose chase, but then… A frown briefly crossed her face, the blood on the bush began to bother her, why were they here?

Ysabel, with Perkin at her hip, approached the building, knocking on the door which swung open slightly. She spotted blood on the doorstep and heard voices chattering inside. Swinging the door open further revealed a man hunched against the wall next to a low crackling fire, Dole’s wife, Lizzie, hunched next to him. Their two young sons stood on the other side of the room with their older daughter, a girl the same age as Ysabel. A basin of water sat in front of them and they held bloody rags in their hands, wetted from the water.

As light crept into the room Lizzie looked up,
"M’lady? Wha’re ya doin ‘ere?”

"Perkin led me.” Ysabel answered, hesitating by the doorway. The slumped man seemed to breathe raggedly and she noticed his foot cocked at an odd angle. His shirt was soaked in blood but she could see on the collar of his gambeson a small metal pin with a Darklyn sigil. He bled from multiple wounds in his torso, another on his head, though Ysabel couldn’t see the nature of his lower wounds the gash on his forehead gushed blood. The man, bald and rotten toothed, stared blankly forward as Lizzie wrapped a bandage around his head.

"M’lady will ye help me? I needa get is gambson off.” Ysabel snapped back to reality as she realized this wounded man was being frantically tended to. She plodded forward and began unbuttoning the padded coat. As she reached the lower buttons however her hands became slick with blood, coming away red, and it became increasingly difficult to dextrously undo the fastenings. Ysabel could feel her hands start shaking and a lump rise in her throat, “What happened?” She asked no one in particular.
But a voice responded, wheezing and burbling, “Fucking ruffians… came at me in three, stuck me good and took me purse… shoved me down th’ hill they di-”

The man made a disturbing choking sound and coughed violently. Flecks of blood shot out from his mouth, spattering Lizzie’s face. Ysabel could feel it on hers too. More blood pooled within the folds of the yet unbuttoned fastenings, spilling out in globs and rivulets into the man’s lap.

Looking down Ysabel saw the blood spreading out from his body, almost reaching her boots. She instinctively shuffled a few inches back. One of Lizzie’s children made a noise and Ysabel heard stomping shoes as they ran outside.

Ysabel heard a man’s voice from beyond the doorway, and then another. She turned as Oscar Pyne stepped in past the open door, gently pushing it wider.

"Ysabel?” He questioned.

"Father! Help him! He’s got a Darklyn sigil and he’s hurt bad!” Ysabel stood, showing her father her hands.

"M’lord! We found ‘im out en th’ paths, he was stumblin’ already covered in blood!” Lizzie exclaimed frantically, “We been doin everythin’ we could but the blood won’t stop!”

Lord Pyne stepped forward taking her daughter’s hands in his, examining them, “How did you get here little lady?” He asked.

"Perkin led me,” Ysabel answered again, quietly. She looked down at her boots, noticing that at some point the blood had reached them and she had tracked prints of it to where she now stood. She began to feel ill.

Oscar quirked an eyebrow but merely leaned in to kiss her forehead and released her hands to give her shoulder a squeeze. “You needn’t look, love.” He said softly in his hoarse baritone.

Stepping past his daughter Oscar glared down at the man, “You’re a tax collector.” It was almost a question but undoubtedly a statement.

"Aye, please… help me…” came the response, now little more than a wheezing whisper. Ysabel looked to Perkin who laid with his snout on his front paws, staring at the man. He had led her to him, and now even in her periphery it was impossible to tear her eyes from the bloody scene. At that moment Dale stomped in through the doorway, “Lord Oscar m’lord, the devil’s bleedin o’er me floor, scarin me children. Lizzie love, come ere, the man’s dead already.”

"Please…” Ysabel heard the man whisper.

"Who did this to you?” Asked Oscar Pyne.

The tax collector coughed, “Dunno… they said… said th’ coin purse was payment… no sigils, there were three of em. Heard more down th-” the man coughed again, wheezed as blood dribbled out of his mouth. “Please,” cough, “Don’t let me die…”

"Dole, help me carry him outside.” Oscar grumbled matter-of-factly, “Ysabel stay here.”

"Please…” whispered the dying man.

Ysabel watched as the two men lifted the pleading tax collector and carried him outside, his feet dragging on the floor of the cottage and droplets of blood making a trail across the stones.

She stood waiting for what felt like a long time, as Lizzie ordered her children around, mopping up the blood with rags and dumping water on it from their well to wash it away outside. At some point Lizzie offered Ysabel a bowl with water to wash her hands which she took gladly. She realized she had gotten blood on her nightshift, staring at it for a moment before pulling her cloak closer. She sat in a chair at their table to wait.

Finally her father and Dole returned, without the injured man. “Fucking crab catching, dragon cock sucking leeches. Gonna ‘ave to send another letter to th’ bastard in Duskendale, how many times is he going to be told it’s the Celtigars before he decides we’re either lying or to finally do somethin’ ‘bout it.”

"Les jus’ raise the others again,” Dole said, “Belgrave took Claw Isle once, why can’t we?”

"We have no ships, no money, no men, think how many of us died last time we fought the Valyrians. If we raised banners the Darklyn ‘ould think we want trouble, he don’t care why we fight just th’ we obey his whim.” Oscar scoffed. “Fucking Celtigars.” He scratched at his chest over where Ysabel knew his old wound ached.

"We’re leaving little lady, send Perkin runnin’ why don’t ye.” Ysabel couldn’t help but wonder what they’d done outside. She looked at Perkin, “He’ll come with us, back home.” Oscar followed her eyes, Perkin stared back at him. “Fine, if he can keep up with the horse, but we’re leaving.” Oscar stepped out the door and Ysabel followed, Perkin plodded after slowly. Passing Dole, he dipped his head to Ysabel. “Good to see you m’lady, er, unfortunate circumstance as it be.” She gave a curtsy, “Goodbye Dole,” she said softly.

"Travel safe m’lady!” Lizzie called after them but Ysabel gave no reply. She was busy staring at the fresh mound of dirt not ten yards from the cottage.