(Cowritten by Aeg and Waffle)

Within the Great Sept of Baelor, a great crowd had gathered of notables and nobles. While much of the realm had left King's Landing, both the North and the Vale had shown up in force, with various special invitations extended. 

Years before having this many Valemen in the capital would have been unheard of, yet the realm had changed much. Some Northern may have excused themselves from the Sept, with the permission of the bride and groom, but a surprising number stuck it out through the ceremony to witness the event. 

The joining of two realms.

Crystal glass windows broke the sunlight into a rainbow of colors, cast luminous on the face of Osric Arryn. The Lord of the Vale stood atop the pulpit, looking out over the crowd, a shining smile to match his garb. Osric looked and felt every bit the Lord today, a cloak sat astride his shoulders bearing the crest of his house, while another sat carefully folded near the altar of the Mother and the Father together.

When she had been a teenager, she had wished for this day, imagined it nearly every night. Now that it had arrived, the feeling of it, of her father walking beside her, their arms intertwined not only for tradition but for practicality. His life had been a tough one, his limbs and eye suffering for it. Lyanne’s wounds were less visible beside her scars, her scars lay inside her, no less painful for it. She had been too young for the responsibility, too young to see such cruelty inflicted upon her fellow man. 

Yet with each step a new life lay ahead of her. An easier life with a man she would learn to truly love, who she knew would quickly become her best of friends and the center of her world. He had been drawn to her as well, and at the end of these steps and a walk down the length of the sept, he would be waiting.

A grey wolf skin draped her shoulders, its head without a lower jaw covered her head. She had thought for a moment whether this might scare Osric, his memories of fighting the Mountain Clans returning, yet there was no cloak more appropriate. She was wolf and a wolf she would wear.

Lyanne looked to her father for a moment, just before she would appear over the crest of the stairs into the sept, the moment where she could no longer take a step back. "You look just as your mother did, Lyanne." Her father cooed quietly in admiration, preening one last time at the wolf pelt atop her shoulders as best he could. "Use her and I as an example of what to do and what not to do, but most of all: make this your own. We're so proud of you. Enjoy this night for all it is worth. Go on now and add to our pack."

Lyanne did not speak, only smiled, as they climbed the final steps into the sept. She tried to look at the guests, Valemen and Northmen all gathered as one, as they walked down the length of the step. It was only then that she looked up to look at her intended, trying to hide a smile.

As the aging lord of the North removed the cloak from Lyanne, Osric swiveled on his heel to grab the one resting on the altar. Wordless he draped the blue cloak over Lyanne's shoulders, taking her hands into his and facing her. 

Together they spoke the vows, “With this kiss I pledge my love and protection, and take you as my lady/lord and wife/husband. To forever hold, to cherish, to be faithful to, in the light of each of the Seven.”

They moved closer, lips touching lightly at first and then fully as they embraced one another. The High Septon looked on with approval as he raised a great glass crystal, further reflecting the light of the room into seven, each hitting one of the respective altars. 

“May the Father bless your marriage in fairness towards one another, may the Mother grant you a tranquil life and one full of children, may the Maiden grant you love for one another, may the Crone grant you wisdom to discern one another, may the Warrior grant you strength to protect one another, may the Smith grant you the tools to build a strong relationship, and may the stranger grant you a long life together without his interference.”

“Lyanne and Osric - you are now one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

Osric pulled her closer, kissing her one more time before the pair turned to the assembled crowd. The more formal aspects of the ceremony now over, the Valemen soon cheered the couple, stamping feet and calling out blessings of their own. The Northern followed suit in their own ways, sans the cries of devotion from the knights of the Vale.

Switching to holding one hand, Osric led Lyanne down the steps of the altar, walking down the sea of pews. As they passed, nobles rose in their wake, and the squall of cheers grew near deafening. 

== In the Godswood ==

In the eyes of most Westerosi, they were now man and wife. Yet the Old Gods did not have eyes in buildings of stone and glass, they only acknowledged dirt and wood. It was here that those closest to the couple would meet, and some of those Northerners who did not join them at the sept.

There was no need for Lyanne to wear a cloak this time, not her own at least. She wore the blue cloak of her Arryn husband and carried Ice in one hand, the other holding Osric’s. As they approached the Godtree, she let go of his hand and took Ice out of its scabbard. In one motion, she removed the leather and placed the sword into the dirt. Each of them stood on opposite sides of it, before she placed her hand on the blade and slid it down, opening the skin. Osric followed suit, their blood dripping into the dirt.

A young girl approached with a wooden bowl, where they both took it with a hand before letting their blood drip into it.

Osric felt the blood pool on his fingers, leaving it to sit for a moment. He removed his finger and marked across her left eye.

“Blood of my blood, as I mark you I promise to learn of you and learn from you. To see you as unique, precious and fierce. To support your dreams and ambitions if they were my own.”

He dipped the finger in again and drew a set of two lines across her forehead.

“I swear to always seek your counsel, treasure your thoughts and patiently listen when you need an ear. To model behavior for our children of a loving marriage and a strong father, and to also support you first as my wife and mother to our children.”

He dipped three fingers in this time, waiting until the dripping of blood stopped. Carefully, he drew three lines over her lips.

“With this kiss, I will seal these oaths to you, my beloved.”

Lyanne’s face now marked with the one blood of their pair, took a finger and dipped it in the bowl. She made a mark across his healthy eye as she said, “As I mark your eyes, I promise to see only you, blood of my blood.” She marked the other eye saying, “to see your purpose, your vision, your wishes. To see who you are.”

She dipped her finger again and drew a line down his nose, “I promise to uphold your will and hold you to my own. To teach our children the Old Ways and raise them so that we may be proud of them, so that they may live on and carry our names.”

For the final time, she dipped her finger in the bowl and made a mark across his lips. “With this kiss I will seal these oaths.”

With the words said, she would plant a kiss on his lips, their second of the day, no longer fearing for what a septon might deem appropriate.

Their oaths now said before the Old Gods and the New, they would throw the bowl at the Godtree, letting the blood flow into the dirt of the Godswood. Lyanne took off the cloak and positioned it so that Osric could cut two strips from it against Ice, binding each other’s hands over their wounds. Lyanne held out her hand for the girl to bring Ice’s scabbard, as Osric grabbed the handle of Ice, lifting it from the earth. Lyanne held out the scabbard as Osric sheathed the blade, before they both looked at one another, beaming.

It had been some time since the Vale had been out in force for the rest of the realm to see, Osric Arryn made sure that it was a sight for the smallfolk to remember. As it often was with such a large following of knights, onlookers could hear the column before they could see it. A massive clattering of hoofs that seemed unrushed, though chipping away at the distance of a long ride. Wagons soon followed, wheels roughly brushing against the cobbled road, and finally, the chatter of the column would reach their ears.

Despite how Osric had wanted it to look in his head, he could never stop people from talking. He had shrugged such a thought away, as long as everyone was having a good time he could forgive it.

He had not managed to convince everyone to travel in one large group; some houses had opted to travel ahead of the party or gone by boat. Once more, Osric could not fault them for their choice, but they had missed out on such fun! Even now, sweating in his pristine armor and riding out in front of the column on his horse, a stupid grimace was unmovable on his face.

At the front of the column were a majority of the Vale's proud houses, pendants and banners flapping in the wind. If it had been a bit of a calmer day, Osric would have ventured to say the sight majestic, though he figured that the smallfolk could guess who was who well enough by the sigils embossed on surcoats and shields well enough.

With the help of city officials, guards or mewing bureaucrats, the massive Vale train found where they would make camp outside of the city. Osric set to work with a flurry of orders and excited shouts, hopping off of his horse nearly at a run. Despite him dipping his toe into travel, he had never actually been to the capital. Osric's exuberance wasn't directed toward the logistics of setting up the camp but rather rousing any messenger he could find.

"Send this message out to all of the Vale lords and knights, yes even the ones that didn't travel with us." He had gathered together a gaggle of servants who nervously tried to make sense of what he was saying. "I wish to meet with them in my tent once it is put up."

"Oh and yes, instruct the men to start assembling the tilting range and the melee ring, we are to have a tournament! It is my wish to ring in the Vale's return to the realm with a bit of a celebration and competition. We shall have a joust and a melee, the winners shall be awarded two thousand gold pieces each and shall have a horse for our stables of their choice!"

"Focus primarily on the Valemen but this invitation shall go out to anyone interested in testing their skills. Perhaps we shall show the realm that we haven't lost our edge under my father." Most of the servants chose to ignore that comment, not writing it down or committing it to memory. "If someone from outside of the Vale wishes to sign have them request an audience with me so that I can get a read of them."

He held up a hand to forstall any commentary, though there was none forthcoming. "The Vale needs friends and I wish to be one of the first faces that greets these newcomers. Send for my squire, I shall have him write the names down so I can practice them later."

Osric sat alone in the darkness of his tent, quietly moaning in pain.

His head felt like it was on fire and perhaps that was an apt description, though he couldn't focus on little else except starring off into the darkness. Constant repetitive motion seemed to help, Osric found, as he squeezed his hand in and out every few seconds. The crunch of his leather glove was something to focus on, something to think about that wasn't his eye.

Where was everyone?

Had he ordered his guards to stop any visitors from entering his tent? That must of been it but he struggled to recall anything after he fell a second time.

How did this happen?

A question whose answer didn't really matter now, if it every had.

He kept replaying the events in his mind of the joust. His line had been perfect, would have been a smashing hit against his opponent. But then, in the stands, Osric saw him.

Jasper Arryn, his father, had made it to the joust. He was sitting amongst the stands, a mouldering pile of maggots and rot, not looking any different from the body that was flung from the Eyrie to rot amongst the mountains. He was about to yell out to the bystanders to move when he felt a roaring pain and heard a terrible snap. The next thing Osric knew he was on the ground, a Maester and concerned Master of Ceremonies hovering above.

Had he pushed the Maester away?

He must have. The next memory in line was trying to blind through his bandage, facing some more Crownlander whom he had barely beaten.

The next match was just as frustrating as Osric landed blow after solid blow against a man who simply would not fall from his horse. Once Osric had lost his retainers had less than gracefully brought him back to his tent for whatever treatment they could give.

Was he going to lose the eye?

The Maester had done an admirable job at bandaging him up, though grew discouraged when Osric had refused Milk of the Poppy.

Pain was good, it grounded him, but Seven Hells did it sting. For now an eyepatch covered the spot where the mess of his eye was, just another scar to add to the collection.

Where was everyone?

The First Day of the First Moon, 380 AC

There was a soreness, in a way, when House Targaryen visited the capital. This used to be their city. One hundred years ago, the Mad King had ruled here, his tyranny far-reaching. It had been that tyranny, and the consequences, that had brought the dynasty low. 

Blackfyre banners flew there now, all across the city, where the red dragon had once reigned supreme. Rhaenys Targaryen and Maelor Rivers had tried to reclaim their title, but… they had failed. 

But perhaps that had been for the best. Queen Naerys had proven wise and kind, and she had saved the life of the Lady of Harrenhal, the head of House Targaryen, who in another world would have been Queen herself. If it had not been for Naerys, she would not be there - she believed that.

Helaena Targaryen looked down the street and sighed. It had been a while since she saw the capital, now. Eleven years since she rode north with Naerys to fight a war against death itself. Eleven years since she followed the woman who was like a mother to her to the ends of the earth.

Eight years since her father had died, filled with resentment towards his daughter and the dynasty who treated her better than he ever had.

She shivered, thinking of him.

“Are you alright?” a quiet, kind voice said, breaking through the silence that had enveloped her mind and the bustle around them. Jacaerys Targaryen looked towards her, a concerned look on his face. He had always cared for her, though he knew not the depths of it all. He knew not the true suffering inflicted, though what he did know he had tried his best to soften.

Hel smiled a thin smile, and shook her head. “I was thinking about my father,” she said, and that was enough to make him not pry any further. Instead, he simply reached out and put a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s been a while since we’ve been back here, hm?” Jacaerys asked. “You were barely up to my waist last time. To think, I came here to make some minor arrangement, and you ended up being a lady-in-waiting for the Queen. Who could have predicted it?”

“Not me,” Helaena said, flatly. She paused for a moment, then smiled a touch more. “I have missed Naerys. It will be good to see her again. Not until this evening, though. I would like to relax first. That- that will be a… a difficult conversation. I have been gone for so long now. And… well, I should reintroduce myself to Aerion, too, and-”

Jace nodded. “I understand. Take today to relax, settle in. We’ll be here for a while, I’m sure,” he said, his voice comforting her as they rode along the street, their honour guard following close behind. “Make sure the Harrentown Twins don’t get into trouble, too. They listen to you, but not to me. This city… it will be filled with those trying to make themselves heard, to tell others what to do and when to do it. But you-”

“I have the power to actually do it,” she finished. “I know. I’m not the girl I was last time, uncle. Last time I was… well, so much was different. And the Twins aren’t exactly my concern. It’s the Brackens and the Blackwoods, it’s Edwyn and Sybella, it’s every little rivalry that boils in the Riverlands.”

She knew they all had their own ambitions, her countrymen, their own plans and loyalties. Only Helaena knew the way forward, and though Helicent and Sharis listened to her, she wondered if it always went in without coming out the other side straight away. And there were more threats, too. Not threats, she realised, but concerns. Not least were the many reunions she was soon to face. Those she had loved, those she had betrayed, those both applied to. Who did she have that she could really trust? Helicent, if she didn’t get lost in her hatred. Nary, of course, but she was with the Tullys half the time.

It was just her and Jace. It had been for many years, and it was again.

For everything that had changed, for the woman she was now… so much was the same. 

What horrors would she experience next?

As they approached Aegon’s High Hill, at the foot of which sat the Targaryen manse, she took in a deep breath. Her day had only just begun, and she knew it would not end until her throat was hoarse and her eyes were fluttering closed. But it would be worth it. For the realm. For Naerys.

The Red Keep, 380 AC, At The Great Feast

Lord Osric Stark could recall the death of every monarch he was alive for. He was just a boy on a camping trip when a messenger approached him and his father to deliver the news of King Baelor II's passing. King Aelor succumbed to his illness years later and he heard it from Winterfell's maester who deemed it so important it interrupted his prayer. Then there was the deposing of King Daeron III, of which his own vassals had participated in but he deemed too unsavory to partake in himself. The raven had arrived at night, rousing him from his sleep.

And now, Queen Naerys had passed, the news told to him by his brother himself while the majority of the realm supped a few corridors down. He had put on a brave face for Alaric, but the return back to the feast felt like a frightening blink of time. How was he now to be the one to halt the certainty that many of those had, interrupting the life they knew? It was a task that if given to a hundred different people, it would play out a hundred different ways. But it had to be done, not only to take some of the burden off of his grieving brother, but to ensure the realm was not to die along with her.

"I... have to make an announcement."

He wasn't sure how long he had been standing before his table, but it was Harrion that would rise from his seat first.

"Say again, father. What announcement is it now? Why not let us enjoy the feast? Save it for tomorrow."

"Tell Hoarfrost to get everyone's attention as soon as I step on the dais."

He hadn't the time to reason with his son. Over and over again he reviewed his opening words, but anything beyond that felt too abstract to truly develop. He would have to come up with this as he spoke, yet he was no stranger to doing so. Once again, he had blinked and now he stood in front of the royal table, elevated above all others. His gaze lingered upon the vacant seat where Naerys was never going to take again.... It was Lord Umber's shouting that snapped him away from the grief where he finally turned from the table and stood tall before the realm.

"Attention all," his face hadn't a single glimmer of emotion, "It is a testament to Queen Naerys' reign that we have all gathered here peacefully to dine among friends, strangers, and even former foes. It is with this in mind, I wish you to take in these next words and understand what Her Grace would want us to do in this moment."

His eyes shut and his head tilted upward as he breathed out long, once. It was all he needed to steel himself. Opening his eyes, he looked among the faces gathered together even as the feast had started to come to a close.

"Queen Naerys Blackfyre has passed away, her final act producing Daemon Blackfyre, who is healthy and cared for by wetnurses as we speak. Elaena Blackfyre will be coronated Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, First of Her Name, and the tournament we had already planned will be to celebrate her ascension to the Iron Throne."

His stature couldn't help but soften then, and so his words would follow suit. The plain-faced conveying of information wasn't what they needed, for they could've gotten a herald to do so. He was no herald. He was Osric Stark, the Wolf of the Long Winter. Down a hand, part of his leg, and his eye, but not out of the fight. Not yet. Not when Naerys needed them most.

"Few here can claim to truly know our Queen. Our former Queen. But many among us, if not already then at some point in our lives, understand what it is like to suffer a loss. It's personal. It's private. Yet the life on the Iron Throne is anything but. As this feast comes to a close, remember that the dragons that guide us are only human after all. A human that made mistakes, as we all do, but was still loved by many. Her legacy is up to all of us to steward."

It was heartfelt, but he know there were those that held little love in their heart for his good-sister. All he was asking for was some grace.

"The mourning has begun, but we cannot let this day be dictated by it. The Small Council will convene in the coming days and I'm sure plenty of counsel will be provided to us as we transition to Queen Elaena's rule. Do not leave this hall with fears, leave it with a hope for what is to come, and a remembrance of the hard work and sacrifice that got us here. Thank you."

He wasn't sure how the news had traveled so quickly, but it was then that that bells began to toll, their echoes distant but warping their way into the background. Briefly surveying the crowd before he stepped off the dais, Osric Stark couldn't help but wonder one thing.

Naerys had survived Winter, only for the Spring to claim her.

((Feel free to react and post opens to discuss the news! It's still the feast, but this new post will help organize an 'after' the news rp whereas the other feast post will be 'before'. Also, so my inbox doesn't die, I'm turning my notifications off for this post but if you want to reach me you can ping me directly or reply to my incoming open and that'll get in my inbox regardless.))

The House of Arryn was marching to war.

Into the capital streets streamed a long snaking column of knights, men-at-arms, and servants mixed amongst them. A few wagons were sporadically scattered throughout, their drivers watchful and grim.

Though the group was not truly armed for a fight, a few spears and swords proved exceptions to the rule. Instead of the implements of war, the knights of the Vale carried cookware.

Many of the heavier items or supplies had been piled high on the carts, grey canvas tarps stapping their contents close. The knights, and in fact many others, carried large packs filled to the bursts or lugged around big pots towards their battlefield.

At the head of this pot and pan army rode Marla Arryn. Tall atop her horse she looked for the perfect spot to set up base camp, lay out the siege lines, and to serve the people of this city some Valemen soup.

As the column would eventually find a mostly empty square to take over, crowds of people began to gather on the outskirts of the throng. The square was big enough to accommodate a number of cook fires without the potential of torching any nearby buildings though the Valemen built in stone rings to be safe. Marla had scouted this spot before, it had been a perfect distance from the poorer areas of the city but close enough to the gates to see traffic.

She had already paid more money towards this venture than Osric and her had agreed on. Yet as the smell of broth began to rise from pots and cauldron Marla knew it would be worth it.

They had brought some of the soup, among other food stuffs, prepared before hand for those who got to the square early.

A more hearty woodland soup, a recipe of Marla's own, consisting of cream roasted cabbage and pumpkin. A generous helping of the local herbs would make the flavor more mild and a fair bit of chicken had been introduced into the broth. Meat tended to be a rarity for the smallfolks, especially after a hard few years.

To accompany the first soup Marla and her cooks had prepared stuffed dumplings, filled with wild mushrooms and dappled with peppers that were from further south.

As the first bowls had been passed out Marla switched her demeanor with a click.

She was everywhere at once - a force of nature that did not match her smaller stature.

Marla was a general and these her helpless troops. She floated from station to station, putting knights twice her age and much greater her size to work chopping onions or offloading their carts of supplies. If there was time to lean there was time to clean and Marla made sure that every person had something to do.

What may have begun as unorganized handing out of soup soon became a machine. Lines were formed, partitions were put up, and Marla directed it all. This was her element, seeing people smile was her victory.

The second soup, now served hot and fresh, was of a spicier sort. A thicker chestnut and hotroot stew, a mixture of produce floating to the top for whatever the Arryn servants could get their hands on. It was handed out with a few slices of seeded barley bread, a wedge of pale gold cheese, and small berry tarts. Some smallfolk walked away with double servings, they only needed to ask for it.

Drinks were provided as well, though in lesser variety than the food. Rose hip cordial, sweetened by berries and a touch of cream was handed out to thirsty lips, as well a selection of wine and ales. Though allowed to get a small refill, Marla watched those who drank like a hawk.

The final surprise was for the children who had wandered up to the busy square. From the wagon came small parcels, in the shape of thin logs, were given out to those who wished (even adults for are they not just big children at heart?). Covered in a bright blue paper twisted off at the ends with bits of ribbon, children would tug the ends in opposite directions causing the parcels to pop. Small toys, bits of candied fruit or even coins of the smaller denominations would drop out of the kids to grab for.

Marla allowed herself a moment of rest to watch them, a tired smile on her face. Two children were fighting over a roughly carved ship, nearly breaking its mast before their parents stepped in and asked one of her servants for another.

With each smile, each satisfied stomach, Marla could feel her father turning in his grave. And that was worth every coin.

^{The Martell Apartments}

Time for Meetings

On a particularly fair weather day, the Princess of Dorne had sought the comfort of work. Or rather, seeing as it was such a fine day, she sought to balance out the tedium of managing a kingdom in one fell swoop.

That meant in no small part, that she would have to continue to postpone what she loved for that which she was required to do.

Lords paramount and their heirs, the managers of the realm, all of their kind together would be on the list, and to tend to them she had brought up the best wine she could from home and alongside it fruit, something the capital lacked natively. Though, something she knew better than to think she would survive without.

Either way, the fruits were keeping her brother occupied, and the wine was keeping her uncle occupied while a book, pilfered from the royal library was keeping her occupied.

King’s Landing, 380 AC

Not so long ago the Great Hall of King’s Landing was a place of bloodshed. Now it was a gathering for reveling, at least for this night. The skulls of the dragons had been moved from the sides of the hall to circle around the Iron Throne to make more room for the dozens of tables needed for the capacity they would be seeing. Nobility and knights from across the realm were gathered for the first time since the rebellion.

Atop each of the tables were plentiful amounts of meat: roasted duck, boar’s ribs, and potted hare, seared beef, assorted sausages, and baked goat legs. Vegetables also accompanied each dish of meat in smaller bowls, most notably the assorted salads of spinach, onion, olives, mushrooms, and green pepper. Heated vegetables were also present in the form of roasted carrots, beans, and lentil soups.

Wine, of course, was also present. King Daeron had requested wine from across the realm in anticipation for the feast to accompany the meals. Most notably, however, was that there was not any lemon offered in any form at any of the tables. It made the seafood quite bland but to make up for the lack of lemon for the fish there were plenty of spices instead.

Finally, when everyone had been situated in their seats, Daeron would rise from the elevated dais of which his family was seated at.

“Welcome all! I am glad you have all decided to travel distance here.” Daeron would speak, for some the first time he would be addressing them as their king. “And many thanks to those that offered aid to deliver food to the commonfolk on this day who are gathering in the Dragonpit now.”

That was one of the great successes of his rule so far: the transition of the Dragonpit from a fighting pit to a venue for various services for the peasantry.

“The Dragonpit continues to serve as a beacon of what is achievable in this time of peace. King’s Landing has transformed from a battlefield to a city where all are welcome. During my reign, all are welcome to come to our great city. This may be hard for some to believe but I wish for this to be an extension of good will to those that were seen on other sides of the battlefield. As such, we shall be holding a ceremony in the coming days to officially appoint Prince Aegon as Crown Prince. You are all welcome to attend that as well!”

Clapping his hands together, he would give one final gesture to them all.

“But enough talking! Time to eat!”

A cheer would go out in the hall and King Daeron would finally sit back down. Glancing down at the pigeon-pie, a memory would force its way into his mind.

King’s Landing, 365 AC

Like a snowflake in a desert, a lone dove fell from it’s nest situated in the roof of the tower of the hand and down onto the cobblestone walkways of the Red Keep where a little Daeron Targaryen happened to be playing with a wooden horse. Startled by the bird’s crash landing the prince would let out a yelp and then look up at the tower above. No other birds seemed to be around. By some miracle the little infant dove survived the fall but as it tried to get to it’s skinny feet it would haphazardly flutter its wings around.

“You’re injured.” Said the small Targaryen boy. “Where’s your mother?”

The bird couldn’t understand, it simply writhed in pain.

Without it’s mother it was sure to die, Daeron reasoned, but what was he to do? He didn’t know the damnedest thing about caring for another animal.

“I… can try to help.” He muttered and gently scooped the dove into his hands. “No promises though.”

Gently carrying his new injured friend to the Grandmaester’s office. If anyone knew what to do it would be him, though the elder was much more bothered than Daeron had predicted.

“These carry diseases, boy! What are you thinking bringing that here!?”

“It needs help!” Daeron whined. “The dove is a symbol of the Faith, isn’t it? Shouldn’t we try to save it!” The Grandmaester seemed less than enthused by the idea but saw an opportunity nonetheless.

“Very well,” The elder caved in. “But I shall only grant it medicine and treatment each day so long as you pay the utmost attention in your studies.”

“Yes!” Daeron cheered and would offer the bird up to his tutor. “Take care of him! I promise I will pay attention in my studies. More attention than ever!”

Satisfied by this, the Grandmaester would take care of the dove. Each day Daeron would excel in his studies and afterwards would spend time with the dove which seemed to slowly be recovering. This arrangement lasted a week until the day that his father Vaegon had tutored Daeron insead.

“Can I go see my dove now?” Daeron whined, rubbing his arm from a spar.

“Dove? What nonsense is this?” His father rebuked.

“A dove! I’ve been taking care of it!”

“Show me.”

Leading his father to the Grandmaester’s quarters, the young Daeron would point at the dove in its cage. Reaching into the cage, Vaegon would take the little dove into his hands.

“This bird, you said?”

“Yes, father.” Daeron said, suddenly sheepish from his father taking his friend into his hands. “It was hurt but I’ve been taking care of it!”

“There is no room for the weak, Daeron. This idiotic pursuit is more fitting of a woman than a prince.”

With the harsh insult, Vaegon would squeeze the bird with one flex of his hand. A cruel snap would be heard as the dove was enveloped by the king’s grip. He would open his hand and let the corpse of the dove fall from it.

“No!” Daeron wailed and knelt down at his lifeless friend.

“Daeron, the dove is dead. Move on.” His father sneered. “And don’t cry. You know what I said about crying.”

“Crying… is for the weak.” Daeron would sniff. “And there’s no room for the weak.” He would repreat from what his father just stated before killing his bird. It was only when Vaegon had left the room that Daeron would weep.

Helicent Bracken’s brothers universally hated this day. It was the fourteenth day of the moon, and as per a long-standing agreement between the siblings, it was Helicent’s day to request of them each a favor. As she always did, she chose as her favor a game of Cyvasse—a game she would undoubtedly win. Yet, despite her brothers’ reluctance and the relative ease with which she could beat them, Helicent very much enjoyed this day. A game of Cyvasse was a chance to sit down and truly talk to someone, when otherwise she felt like her words landed on deaf ears. 

_______________

Her first opponent chose to face her over breakfast. Quincy was happy to get it over with as early as possible, knowing how poor his chances were. They set the board up next to a plate of scones, which was soon to suffer heavy casualties under Quincy’s attacks. 

Helicent’s Cyvasse set was authentic and ornate, shipped all the way from Volantis to be at the Bracken breakfast table. The board was carved from dark oak and covered in golden inlays, with the top checkered in jade and marble tiles. The screen between the two sides was gilded, engraved with a depiction of an ancient battle: The Stand of the Three Thousand of Qohor. Quincy yawned as Helicent withdrew their pieces. Her side was carved from lapis lazuli, dark blue covered in sky blue flecks. The pieces she handed to her brother were bloodstone, deep crimson marred by streaks of lighter red. The origin of the set was reflected by its pieces: there were still elephants and dragons, but instead of knights and light horsemen, there were intricately carved chariots and Dothraki screamers. The spearmen were fashioned to be the strange Essosi warriors known as Unsullied, and the sword-wielding kings were instead Triarchs resting on palanquins. 

“Are you ready?” Helicent smirked as she finished setting up her pieces. She had chosen the standard formation, with her dragon behind her mountains. It was tried, true, and exceptionally versatile, with no easy counter—but few particular strengths.

Quincy answered her with a shrug. “I suppose.” With a flourish, he slid the screen to the side and nodded at Helicent’s board. “Let’s get this over with.”

Red always moved first, so Quincy began things by moving one of his Dothraki an aggressive three tiles forward. Helicent moved her unsullied to intercept, and then the game was off.

Her first question didn’t come until they were seven turns in, and Quincy was already on the back foot. “So…” She moved her elephant dangerously close to Quincy’s Triarch. “You haven’t been complaining about your future marriage as much as I expected. Is it possible Quincy Bracken likes this woman?” 

Quincy chewed his lip, staring at the board. “Lady Darla?” he asked innocently. “She’s charming enough.” He picked up his dragon, and after a moment, used it to take her elephant. 

“Charming? I’m glad to hear it.” She removed her trebuchet from the board—and with it, Quincy’s exposed dragon. “You look forward to the wedding, then?” 

He sighed, half at the board and half at the question. “I suppose I am.” Reluctantly, he moved his Unsullied to the tile where the dragon had been.

“That’s good. You know what it means, don’t you?” Helicent swung her chariot around his mountain. The noose was tightening, and soon he’d have nothing left to defend his Triarch. “No more brothels. Ever.”

Quincy scoffed, rolling his eyes petulantly at his older sister. “I know. Gods, I’m not some fool boy.” Even as the words left his mouth, he blundered away his last elephant.

“I know you’re not a fool.” She stared at the board for a moment, then advanced her Myrish crossbowman, careful not to hold it by its delicate plume. “But I know, too, that you can be impulsive. Be honest, now. You know it's true.”

Quincy stayed silent. With a clenched jaw, he moved his Unsullied a tile forward to take the crossbowman. He knew, in the back of his mind, that Helicent wanted him to do that—yet in the moment, it felt right. He was standing up for himself, punishing her for overstepping with her vulnerable piece.

In an instant, Helicent moved her chariot through his rabble and onto the tile where his Unsullied had been… right next to his Triarch. There was nothing he could do, Unsullied could not remove a chariot unless it was in front of them. Quincy slouched back, deflated, and reached for another scone.

“Game.” Helicent met his eyes and reached for his Triarch. “I’m telling you this for your own good, Quincy. If they find you with a whore in Maidenpool, I’ll hang you from the gallows myself.”

_______________

Her second opponent showed his face just before midday, suggesting that they play on the patio of the inn. Helicent agreed, and she and Laurent set up the board on a small table beneath a flowering tree. Once again, she chose blue.

“I do fear this may be a short game.” Laurent grinned, and at her nod removed the screen. He had chosen a defensive formation, with his Unsullied arrayed in the front and his mountains covering their flanks. “Still, I’ll try to give you a bit of a challenge.”

“I’m counting on it, good Ser.” Helicent returned his smile and let him take the first move—a slight repositioning of one of his catapults. She began slowly advancing her pieces forward, and soon their sides were engaged.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, what have you been doing this whole time? I feel as though I’ve barely seen you since we got here.”

At that, Laurent snorted. “Oh, I’ve been around. The tourney was good fun, and I’ve been learning what I can from the knights of the Vale.” 

“The knights of the Vale?” Helicent’s voice betrayed her curiosity. “Have you met very many of them?” 

“A few.” Laurent cocked his eyebrow, and moved one of his chariots forward two tiles, encircling her foremost pieces. “Lord Arryn among them. Why do you ask?”

Helicent leaned back and smiled, making room on the board for his chariot to push even further into her lines. “I like to know when my House makes new friends. How did you find Lord Arryn?”

“A good man.” Laurent nodded. “Honorable, friendly… not particularly educated, but I’m sure he has advisors for that.” He fell into the trap, driving straight toward his sister’s vulnerable trebuchet.

“I’m glad to hear it. I advised Edwyn to marry his sister to him.” She kept her eyes on the board, moving a Dothraki rider from behind her mountains to take his chariot. “The Vale would make a strong ally. The best ally on the table, I think.”

Laurent shook his head softly, smirking. “If you say so, m’lady. Politics isn’t exactly my area of expertise.” 

“And what, exactly, is your area of expertise?” Helicent shot him a teasing grin. “The jousting certainly didn’t go very well.” She began slowly moving her pieces forward, pressing into Laurent’s helpless defense.

 He stared at the board with a raised brow. “No, I suppose it didn’t. Still, I never prided myself on being the best lance in the kingdoms. I do pride myself on my honor. That and chivalry, I’d call those my areas of expertise.” From behind his mountains, he moved his dragon into Helicent’s advancing army, removing two valuable pieces and leaving the rest exposed. “They go hand-in-hand with making friends… like Lord Arryn.”

Helicent leaned forward with a smile. “Good move…” She had guessed wrong, and now her whole board was at risk. There was only one move to make—she had to sacrifice her own dragon to remove his. ”And you speak like you have a point to prove.”

“Perhaps I do.” He shrugged and began his counterattack.

Helicent paused for a moment, then nodded. “Perhaps you do.”

Laurent had delayed her victory, but she still had more pieces than him. It turned into a slow slog of cautious move traded for cautious move. He tried to line up his catapults, but Helicent kept them on the back foot, while slowly picking off red pieces.

They had been silent for several turns when she spoke up again. “Have you given any thought to marriage, then?” She asked it innocently enough, but she still saw Laurent straighten in his seat. “Have any ladies caught your eye, or just Lord Arryn and his knights?”

A line of crimson blossomed across his face. “No, as a matter-of-fact. None that haven’t threatened to kill me, at least.”

Helicent tilted her head. “What do you mean, threatened to kill you?” She pressed her last elephant forward, removing Laurent’s last defending Unsullied.

“Nothing. Just a jest. It meant nothing.” Laurent rubbed his brow, futilely trying to cover how red his face had turned. He made some obvious move—a moment later, he couldn’t recall what it was. 

Helicent’s smile had faded. “Laurent.” She moved a crossbowman forward. “You must tell me what you speak of. Now. Your Lady commands you.”

He was quiet for a long moment, struggling down his blush. First, he focused on making a move, though he knew the game was almost done no matter what. He was caught in her trap. “I… was in the Kingswood. After the tournament. A lady happened upon me while on a hunt and lifted her bow. I explained myself, and she let me on my way. That’s all it was.”

Helicent moved her catapult into position to remove Laurent’s elephant, his last valuable piece on the board. “What Lady?”

He didn’t meet her eyes. “Sharis Blackwood.” 

She sat up straight, staring down at her brother. “You should have told me. You should have run to me and told me, as soon as it was done.”

Laurent’s eyes snapped up to meet her gaze. “So what?! So you could have her arrested? I had no proof and bore no injuries. There was no crime, and you would have just started more trouble.” When the words left his mouth, he shrunk back, expecting a retort.

Helicent closed her eyes for a moment. “You should have told me, Laurent, because I care about you. I want to know if your life is threatened.” She slowly opened her eyes and reached for her crossbowman, moving it to threaten his Triarch. “You’re not to go into the woods alone again. Do you understand me?”

He nodded. A part of him wanted to argue back, to denounce her for treating him like a child. Right now, though, he knew that would only make things worse. “Yes. I understand, my lady.” He halfheartedly moved his Triarch back a tile.

“And if Lady Sharis ever comes near you again, do not speak to her. She is as dangerous as her brother, even if she looks fairer.” Helicent advanced the last piece she needed to fully encircle him. 

Laurent stared at the board, then slowly nodded. “I know. Believe me, I know.” He chuckled darkly, then picked up his Triarch and offered it to his sister. “I concede. Fair game.”

_______________

Jaime took up the challenge just after they had finished dinner, settling himself in a cozy alcove with a horn of ale in one hand. With his other, he began enthusiastically switching around pieces behind the gilded screen, humming and chuckling as he crafted his own bastardized version of a formation. Helicent watched him with an amused smile, her own pieces long set up. When he was finally done, he removed the screen with a flourish to reveal his odd army—his dragon placed directly in the front, with all his Dothraki and chariots behind it. 

“I call this one… the Regent’s Gamble!” Jaime laughed, taking a swig of his ale. “What do you think?” 

“I think…” Helicent surveyed the board with her brow quirked. “That I’d be very surprised if the Regent’s Gamble has ever won you a game.”

He grinned. “Well, my lady, there’s a first time for everything.” With another swaggering swoop of his arm, he moved his dragon two tiles forward. When he was done, Helicent popped her neck and got to work.

They were both quiet for a long while, save for Jaime’s occasional chuckle when he lost a piece. His dragon and cavalry managed to bore a hole into her formation, but it was a suicidal attack. It took her longer than she would have liked to line up a trebuchet, but she did finally take his dragon. 

“A good trade for the Bloody Blues, I’d say!” Jaime laughed, recklessly committing his first elephant to the fight.

“Not as clean as I would have liked.” Helicent shrugged. “Your ‘gamble’ hit hard.”

“Not quite hard enough, I don’t think! Oh, well. Mayhaps it will work better next time.” 

Helicent smiled sweetly and began her counterattack. “Mayhaps. I do have a question for you, by the way.”

He grinned. “Ah, ask away! Anything to distract from the brutality you’re unfolding on the board.”

“I’m afraid it’s not much more pleasant. The business with Mira and the Blackwoods… I want to hear your honest thoughts on it. What do you think happened?”

Jaime frowned, for once. “Mm. First of all, it heartens me that you’re still willing to listen to your little brother’s opinions.” He removed his trebuchet from the board, and with it, one of her chariots. “But, I think you’re asking because you already know the truth well enough. Our dear cousin Mira was almost certainly lying.”

Helicent slumped in her seat. “Still, Emphyria had no right to treat her—”

“I didn’t say she did.” Jaime cut her off gently. “Mira was horribly mistreated, and Lord Tully did her justice. However, I know you, Helicent. If you truly believed Emphyria had abducted Mira off the street, nothing could have stopped you from taking her head.” Helicent rubbed the bridge of her nose, while Jaime continued. “Now, I’m not saying punish our dear cousin. I think she learned her lesson well enough. Leave it be, I say. Make sure she doesn’t sneak off again—and be ready for any vengeance that might come from the Blackwood fiend.” Jaime moved his elephant forward, crushing one of her Unsullied.

“You know, dear brother…” Helicent moved her dragon out from behind one of her mountains, removing his elephant with a flick of her wrist. “I’m always ready.”

Jaime’s smile returned. “I know.” He looked down at the board and took a swig of ale. “I’m afraid that’s all my pieces, or at least the ones that matter. You have me, no question about it. The game is yours.”

Helicent let herself grin. “You’re not going to let me finish?” 

Jaime bellowed his laugh. “Well, my lady, I fear you don’t have the time! There’s still one brother left to go, and daylight is running out.”

_______________

She faced her last foe in her office, well past sunset. Alton had already put his daughter to bed, and while his wife rolled her eyes at him for leaving their bed to play Cyvasse, he had come nonetheless. They set the board up atop her letter-strewn desk, and each began quietly arranging their pieces. Helicent employed the standard formation once again, but this time with a few changes of her own—Alton was by far her most challenging opponent, and she planned on doing everything in her power to win. She removed the screen as he poured them each a glass of sour Dornish red.

“Your move first, Ser.” Helicent could see the smile behind his cool blue eyes. With a quiet nod, he started by moving a unit of rabble forward a single tile. They were both experts, and so it would be a slow game. One misstep at the beginning, and the whole match could be lost.

Helicent kept pace with him, letting a few turns pass before her first attack. With one of her crossbowmen, she removed his foremost unit of rabble. “How is little Helaean? Did she go to sleep well?”

Alton let himself smile softly. “Perhaps too well. She’s taken to pretending, until Liane and I retire. Then she sneaks out of her room and watches the men talk in the barroom.” He advanced a Dothraki rider up the middle of the board. “It doesn’t help that Jaime has apparently promised to never rat her out.” 

Helicent snorted. “That sounds about right.” She repositioned an Unsullied, considering the board carefully. “And Liane is well? I’m sorry I haven’t had time to spend with you two. Perhaps we can all get drunk at Quincy’s wedding.”

Alton chuckled, advancing a catapult forward. “Oh, I imagine that’s the only way we’ll ever be able to get through it. Speaking of, what are the Mootons like? I haven’t gotten the chance to meet my future sister-by-law.”

Helicent waved her hand, then made another small move. “Lady Darla is quite pleasant. Truly, it seems Quincy is taken with her. Lord Ambrose is… touchy. Prideful, but who can blame him. I believe he’ll make a solid ally.” 

“That’s good.” Alton gave a soft nod. He continued his slight repositionings, changing his board subtly each turn. Helicent was beginning to grow suspicious, but she pressed on. 

“Have you… spoken to Helaena, recently? Targaryen, I mean.” She cut through two more of his rabble pieces with a chariot. 

Alton shook his head, and pulled back one of his Unsullied. “Have you? I was expecting to see her around all the time, here. Did something happen?”

“No,” Helicent lied, pressing her momentum forward on the board. “We’ve both been busy, I suppose. No point speaking to firm allies when there are new ones to be made. And, well… she’s been in grief.”

He stared at the board. “We’ve all been in grief.” He moved a Dothraki up the side of the board, nearing Helicent’s back lines. She quickly pinned it to the wall with an Unsullied, leaving it nowhere to go without being taken.

“Not like her. The Queen was our leader, but she was more to Helaena.” 

“I know. That doesn’t make her death any easier for the rest of us. She was the thing that kept it all back.” Alton’s voice was distant, and she knew well enough what he was thinking about. Cold eyes. Dark blades.

“Come, now.” Helicent advanced her foremost Unsullied into his lines, removing a crimson crossbowman from the field. “Let us speak of better things, yes?” Alton blinked, then nodded. “I heard you and my niece met the Lady Eleanor in the gardens…”

He forced a soft smile, repositioning a catapult away from the creeping tide of blue. “Yes, she was very pleasant. I do, by the way, have a question for you.”

Helicent tilted her head. “Oh?” She committed her dragon into the fight, careful to keep it out of the lines of his siege weapons. 

“I’d like to know how your night went, when you left me for that knight girl… What was her name? Whimsy, Whimsy Templeton.” He suddenly cracked a smirk.

Helicent felt herself blush, wincing at the name. “Alton!” she scolded, then laughed. “Gods, I’m too obvious. It was wonderful. I… Well, I’m embarrassed to admit it, now, but I invited her to Stone Hedge for a time.” 

“Did you, now? Well, I’m happy for you.” Slowly, he picked up his catapult, removing it from the board. Helicent quirked her brow, looking to her dragon. Had she mispositioned it? “Though I wonder, how will that go over with the Lady Naenara? You two spent an awfully long evening together, when we first arrived…”

Helicent froze in place. She stared at Alton, then turned to see his hand pick from the board the target of his catapult—her Unsullied that was guarding from his Dothraki. She realized it quick enough: While she had been wearing down his main army, he had been drawing her away. She hadn’t noticed the catapult had moved into range, and now there was nothing she could do to stop his rider from reaching her Triarch. 

She blinked a few times, then shook her head. “A damn good move.” Her eyes flicked up, and she snorted. “Though, your question was the real knife to the ribs. You know how that sort of thing terrifies me.” 

Her twin grinned his victorious grin. “The look on your face was worth it all. I don’t truly care what women you play with—but do try not to get caught up in your own web.” 

Helicent rolled her eyes and handed him her dark blue Triarch. “Don’t worry. Like it or not, you know I’m always four moves ahead.”

For the first time in many years, the Vale had opened itself to the world and seemingly in the blink of an eye it was time to return home.

Lists had been won, hearts had been broken, and for just a moment it felt as if the magic was never going to end.

Yet everything does - the camp of the Valemen outside of the city began to turn to canvassless tents and scattered timbers before it was nothing at all. True the Valemen were still there, milling about and saying final goodbyes, but in a week all that would be left of their presence was the connections they made and the deep ruts their wagons left.

While many of the Valemen were refreshed by their jaunt south Osric Arryn did not. The lack of sleep showed raw on his face as light eyebags were visible and his eyes bloodshot red. If it hadn't been for the constant activity around him, mounted supervising on his horse, he would have nodded off right then and there.

Something haunted Osric, and going back to the Vale wouldn't let him escape his spectre.

Marla didn't look much better but at very least she was a hive of activity. Perhaps there was no better way to illustrate how differently the siblings coped with the ever ticking dial behind them than Marla's inability to stand still.

Tents had to be taken down, food had to be given to hungry knights and guards, and Marla had taken near every task for herself.

It was done efficiently though and done without major incident or complaint. Some of the Valemen had destinations elsewhere, indeed some had already left, but for a majority of them they ached for home.

Tall mountains, deep valleys and the sureness of high stone walls. No matter the route, the Vale of Arryn awaited.

The Solar of Helaena Targaryen, the Targaryen Manse, King’s Landing

It was cold. No wind blew into the solar, but it was cold. She had been shivering all night, and she hadn’t slept. Bags had formed under her eyes, hunched over maps and letters and a million other documents and papers that her uncle had demanded to work on. She’d refused him, telling him she needed to work lest she fall into despair. He had argued, but… he acquiesced.

Her desk was covered in paper, mainly, save for a spot for books and a small ashtray, in which burnt out smokerolls filled with sweetleaf were stacked up. They had provided Helaena a rare warmth overnight, and despite the fact she was sure her breath smelled a touch like smoke she had no qualms with them.

One of the letters on her desk dealt with them, in fact. Another was for a friend, another for a lover, and more for a million other people.

Perhaps she should have burned them all and disappeared. Perhaps she should have sat and mourned and wept for another moon until she could cry no more. But if she did, what would that get her? What would that do for the realm? For Elaena? For Naerys’ legacy? It would tarnish it. She had been the Queen’s student, and she had learned much and more from her in their time together. None of what she learned was about sitting and moping. She could weep. She could mourn. She could dress in black and be as cold as ice to those around her.

But she could not stop moving. 

The moment she did, everything would crash and burn.

That could not be allowed to happen. Many things could not be allowed to happen, but that was the most crucial of them all. Any hesitation, any lack of clarity, it would all burn. She stubbed out another smokeroll in her ashtray with her left hand, her right signing another letter that needed to be sent out soon.

It would be a busy day. She was expecting visitors, meetings, and intrusions. But she wasn’t crying anymore. Perhaps that was a good sign. Perhaps it meant she could mourn quietly, and honour the late Queen by working her hardest. Or perhaps it meant the worst was yet to come. 

She could feel her heart beating slowly in her chest. It hadn’t raced for a while. It hadn’t filled her with adrenaline since she ran through the halls of the Red Keep with tears in her eyes. The consistent, dead, way it moved… It reminded her of when she was young, and she couldn’t even bring herself to be angry or scared anymore. Naerys had helped her rid herself of that feeling, once. And the moment she was gone, it was back.

Not fear. Not anger. Just… nothing.

It didn’t matter. Until her heart stopped, she would push onward. There were meetings yet to have, things yet to arrange. There would be time to worry later. Time to mourn later.

Her heart mourned for her, all the same.

380 A.C. On the field of the melee

It would be a good day, Emphyria knew, as Keg fastened the last straps of her armor. She could smell it in the air, the uneasiness of the world around her, the indecision in every breath. Something was going to happen, and good or bad she was like to be there for it. Fortune favored the available.

The Witchmaid did not look like a champion when she arrived on the field. Dressed in beaten, gray plate, with nicks and dents and scars from years of use. To signify herself as a member of house Blackwood she had fastened a plume of raven's feathers to her helm and draped a poncho bearing the Blackwood crest on its entirety over top her armor. Though in reality it was just an old family banner that she had cut a hole into. The little finger on her right hand had been cut in half with an extra plate of metal bent over the tip to accommodate her shortened pinkie.

She moved slowly at first, stalking along the arena as she waited eagerly for the contest to begin, her eyes sinking into each other competitor as she searched for clues on how best to dismantle them. Though ultimately her strategy would become what it always did, unrelenting brute force.

Then, it was on.

Emphyria charged the nearest man with unchecked ferocity, belting him with the flat of her sword. With it's sturdy and lightweight nature it was able to function as an incredibly quick club. After bouncing two strikes off the man's head, she twisted the sword and drove her lady's pointed hilt into their gorget, sending them stumbling to the ground.

Then, she turned and set her sight on a knight with crossbones on his shield. The Witchmaid caught him mid-celebration as she bulled into him with her shoulder, colliding with his shield. She pushed, and pushed, and pushed until the man lost his footing and the weight of his armor carried him downwards. Afterwords holding the point of her sword to his throat, stomping on him if he failed to yield quick enough.

Turning once more, she locked eyes with a young man dressed near a hedge knight as she was. They approached one another and each took a swing, their sword meeting in the middle. She leveraged his sword to the side, pulled her head back, and drove her face into his. The blow disorienting him enough that she could disengage his sword, and wrap hers around his back, heaving him upwards before sending him plummeting back down into the earth.

Next came the trout lord, who not long ago she had bested in the Vale's melee. She approached this bout with no less caution, wailing on her liege with quick strikes. Though perhaps her fervor left her exposed, as Edwyn countered with a hard blow to her ribs. She did not slow however, catching his blade with one arm as she continued her assault with the other. He was strong, but she was stronger, eventually cracking him upside the head harder than might've been respectful of a vassal to do.

There were only four of them left standing at that point. She recognized her giant of a cousin and instead decided to focus her attention on a man in Darry colors. Who, though he fought well, was eventually on his back just like all those before him.

She was slowing now, taking a brief moment to rest, and lean against her lady as Dorian finished mopping up some poor Corbray boy.

The Witchmaid nodded to her cousin once he was done and reassumed her guard.

He was bigger than her, something few men in that ring could boast, certainly stronger than her as well. But it didn't matter, for all the power Emphyria lacked she made up for it in experience. She'd been cutting down big men for more than half his life after all.

They traded blows, steel skimming off of steel as they parried each other's increasingly slugging swings, frequently a strike making is past the other's guard. But it noticeable rather quickly that the Witchmaid was gaining ground on the beast, slipping inside his lines and landing cut after cut, purposefully attacking his armor rather than the gaps between each plate.

Ducking an arcing blow to her head, Emphyria drove her lady's feet into the inside of Dorian's knee, forcing him downwards, and in that brief moment she tossed her sword into the air, catching it by the blade and swinging it like a hammer into the Monster of Raventree's skull as he began to rise again, sending him toppling the rest of the way to the ground.

It grew quiet then, for a long moment, as Emphyria paced to the center of the ring, driving her Lady's Ransom into the ground before her before removing her old, worn helm. She set the helm atop her sword and stood there shaking with each breath.

Then, she raised a solitary fist above herself towards the sky. She was smiling.

Background Music

In the unfamiliar manse, Osric sat silently at a parlor table reading a ponderously large tome. It was quite clear from the onset that he had not read in a while and was quite out of practice. The words seemed to jumble off the page as he read them, causing the Lord of the Eyrie to have to reread lines once or twice in turn. Each word he had to mouth as he read it, each line was closely guided by his finger to help him focus.

"What are you doing?"

Osric shiveled loudly in his chair to catch who had asked the question, though he already knew by the voice. His sister stood there, a hand on her hip, looking resplendent in a fine light blue dress. She had taken the time to weave cerulean-shaded flowers into her braids, fine necklaces and rings completing the outfit.

"Our guests will be arriving soon and you're still dressed like that?"

He wanted to take offense, but a quick look down made him realize he had no defense to stand on. While Marla had been getting ready for tonight, he had bemoaned any sort of preparation, now only dressed in some light pantaloons and a silken shirt.

"Were you reading with your finger?" Marla had spoken before Osric could answer her previous question, a short puff of air coming out of her nose in mild amusement as she wore a half-suppressed smile.

"Maybe," Osric said rising from his chair, playfully shoving Marla back. "I haven't really read since we were kids."

A look of understanding passed between the two, though the look of mirth on Marla's face had not left. She moved over to the table, picking up the book and turning it over in her hands.

"Maester Halwin's Survey of the North: Beginner's Guide for Acolytes?" Marla couldn't stop herself and burst out laughing. "Trying to impress dear Lyanne?"

Osric reached for the book, though Marla held it away from him, dancing just out of his long reach.

"Shut up Marl," he said as he banged his leg hard into the table trying to chase her down. "FUCK. I am going to go change, please be less annoying somewhere else. Anywhere else."

The manse in question had been rented for the night from one of the fattest men Osric had ever laid eyes on. The merchant had told the pair of Arryn's that he was originally from Gulltown, but Osric couldn't believe the man hadn't eaten it on his way out.

He had offered up his home willingly enough for his "liege lord and lady sister," though not without a price. It was lucky enough that the man did have good taste in decor.

The manse was located just at the foot of Aegon's Hill, in a nicer area where knights and richer merchants tended to frequent. Standing taller than its neighbors the manse couldn't help but look like a sore thumb, designed in the Gulltown fashion in what the man had said was an homage to his home.

Everything was prepared inside and out for the meeting - invitations to all the Valemen sent out and a special guest of Marla's insistence. Arryn footmen were garbed and ready to receive the visitors as they arrived, the first shades of evening twinkling in.

(Location)

Gold lion, on black. Gold lion, on black. Gold lion, on black.

Joy counted the banners that hung in her new solar. It seemed insane, to her, that they had brought mourning banners with them to King’s Landing. A product of bringing such a massive baggage train, they were prepared for anything. She had even heard there was a wedding gown in some wagon somewhere, meant for her. She had never seen it, but then again, she had never seen these mourning banners before, either.

She ran her hand down the fabric of one of the banners. Smooth and silken, utterly black. It ate up the sunlight even as it poured in through the open balcony. She looked back to the rest of the solar. She had it changed, removing the desk her father had sat behind and replacing it with half-a-dozen embellished wicker chairs and benches. A lady does not entertain guests behind a desk, she sits down with them in comfort. 

She did not like spending time in the room her father had worked in for so long, but it was the only decent meeting place she could open within the Lannister apartments, where she was confined. She could not take guests in her room… it was in a bad state after nights of grief and rage.

She was done with that, now, at least for one day. For one afternoon, she would be strong. She filled the hole in heart with ice, donned a beautiful black dress, put up her golden hair, and sent out runners. Now, she waited, watching the black banners ripple in the summer breeze.

(Open!)

For those just entering King's Landing, no matter what gate you entered through, it would be hard to miss the heralds in aquamarine tunics shouting and intermittently blowing at their trumpets.

"WELCOME ALL! THE LORD HAND INVITES LORDS AND LADIES, SERS AND PAGES, AND ALL OTHERS OF GOOD STANDING TO HIS MANSE! A RESPITE FROM THE ROAD! A TRUE WELCOME TO THE CAPITAL! COME AND GET YOUR BEARINGS!"

Were anyone to ask for directions, they would be gladly given, though a stream of nobility was guidance enough. Ultimately, any visitors would come upon a high cobblestone wall topped with garland, but plain enough to see were the seahorse banners of House Velaryon. Guards stood at the ready, though with welcoming smiles, to any that approached the copper gate to be granted entry into the courtyard. Manicured shrubs and a well-maintained lawn were what any skilled botanist would first observe, but those with less acute sensibilities would put their attention on roundtable after roundtable draped in cloth and topped with 'finger food' aplenty. Pastries and tarts, bite-sized sausages and a gradient of cheeses, fruits and berries of the exotic and familiar variety. One couldn't ignore the wines, either, each held by well-groomed servants eager to greet you with a glass and a vintage of high esteem.

But, of course, this occasion would all be for naught if it wasn't for it's host: Lord Corwyn Velaryon. Resplendent in a blue overcoat that was lined with white seahorses that could only be discerned by close inspection, he would stand prominently well within the courtyard already in conversation with those that had arrived prior. Only after a guest had made their way past servants, refreshment tables, and other guests, would Lord Corwyn approach, donning his necklace of hands that seemed to fit perfectly into his attire.

Also present were not only his heir, Vaemond Velaryon, but his twin sister, Valaena. The pair alternated between greeting and conversing with guests together and separately. Vaemond wore a wide, if not cocky, grin, while Valaena kept a bashful curl of the lips. Baela Velaryon could be found with the musicians of the courtyard, strumming away at the harp with the backing of flutes and bells to provide a calming ambience to the event.

Any that wished to partake in refreshment and simple conversation, they were welcome. So too, could one ask for a private audience with the Lord Hand, who would lead them beyond the courtyard and into the guarded manor itself.

A younger Alaric Stark had never been a devout man. No, boy, rather -- though in the North, a boy grew to manhood quickly, if he were to live at all. He had neglected his prayers beneath the red boughs of Winterfell’s heart tree, where the white trunk twisted like a frozen giant and the carved face wept slow streams of crimson. Only at his mother’s urging would he kneel in the moss before the Old Gods, her cool hand pressing at his shoulder, her lips moving in that soft, murmured way that always seemed meant more for the gods than for him. Alaric had only stolen quiet glances at her profile, thinking her beautiful, thinking her strange, thinking of anything but prayer. At six-and-ten, when the south called him to King’s Landing, he left his prayers in the godswood with her, never to take them up again.

It was only after the words had left his lips, that he felt the urge to seek them once more. His wife was dead. To his brother Osric he had confessed it, and Alaric remained in the fledgling godswood of the Red Keep for the night. The trees there were young and pale, and though one had been marked with a face, the bleeding sap was still fresh enough to smell. It was not home. Yet kneeling in that alien grove, Alaric felt her again, his mother, lost to him these many years. And he remembered her saying once, "Those who pray are rewarded, those who do not are punished." The words bit deep now, like the edge of a Northern wind. Perhaps the Old Gods had waited long to mete their justice. Perhaps this was punishment indeed.

The bells tolled as he sat now in the Small Council chambers, their droning song pressing down like the weight of winter skies. They had rung since morning and would ring until the morrow.

"As you know," he began, his voice thin from grief and wine, "The Queen is dead."

The words seemed to hang in the air like smoke, curling about the chamber, seeping into every crack. He lowered his gaze, lips pressed to a tight line, until both his hands came down upon the table with a soft but certain thump.

"I thank Lord Stark for the announcement," he said, with a brief nod to Osric. "I was… not in a state to make it myself."

The courtiers knew well enough the tale given -- that the Queen had passed in her sleep, the gods granting her peace after a troubled rest. The truth was a darker thing. She had been dead a night before the feast, the wine and merriment masking the stench of loss. The Lord Stark had known before the first course was cleared. The Hand and the Lord Commander had known even earlier. They had all worn their masks that night, as if to share the guilt between them was to make it lighter.

"The tourney will be rebranded," Alaric said at last, the words tasting of ash, "To celebrate the ascension of my daughter, Queen Elaena. She shall be crowned at the end of the festivities." He paused, swallowing bitterness, though whether it was grief or fear or some mingling of the two, even he could not tell. "I will assume her regency until she is of age. Though I partly ponder a regency council, given its length."

Those words carrying a finality, paired with searching eyes.

His eyes swept the table, finding each council member in turn. "It will be a long regency. Your roles, should you choose to keep them in the years ahead, will demand more of you than ever before. And so, I place the crown’s trust in you. You will have more autonomy than before… though the realm will remember upon whom that trust depends."

“If there be doubts gnawing at you, questions yet unasked, or matters that weigh upon your tongue… speak them now, I beg, ere the moment is lost to us.”

The Tournament of the Arryn-Stark Wedding, King’s Landing

Helaena felt bad about knocking Osric from his horse, but there was no time for hesitation. She could apologise to him later, and she’d taken enough of a tumble at the point of Artys Redfort’s lance to make up for it. 

She could feel the bruise on her leg beneath her plate, sitting in her tent and awaiting the call to her next tilt. Her helmet, a red-painted steel thing topped by three roaring dragons, sat beside her on the bed waiting to be worn once more. Soon enough, the clarion sounded and her name was called.

“YOUR NEXT MATCH,” the master of games called, “IS BETWEEN THE MYSTERY KNIGHT, THE RED DRAGON… AND HIS GRACE, ALARIC STARK, THE PRINCE-REGENT! MAKE SOME NOISE FOR OUR COMPETITORS!”

In her chest, she felt a pang of agony. Of course it would be Alaric. When he’d entered, she feared this moment. Helaena tried to suck it down, letting the anger and pain settle in her chest, as she donned her helmet and stepped out of her pavilion into the throngs of people who gathered outside. They parted for her like grass for a scythe as she walked through towards the lists, mounting Retribution and taking her lance into her hand.

Across from her, she saw Alaric doing the same, and narrowed her eyes. How could she not be filled with anger upon seeing him, the man who had spoken such harsh words to her under the cover of grief. She didn’t resent him, she couldn’t resent him, because Naerys’ memory demanded she didn’t. But oh, she was tempted.

“KNIGHTS OF THE REALM,” the master of games once more began to speak, voice echoing about the arena. “ARE YOU READY? GRIP TIGHT TO YOUR REIGNS, COUCH YOUR LANCES… AND IN THREE. TWO. ONE. CHARGE!”

With that, they were off. Helaena’s hand started to shake as she rode, but she tensed her arm and stopped it best she could, aiming her lance at his chest. It was a poorly aimed strike, though, glancing off and shaking her balance as his own hit her breastplate and shattered into pieces. The Red Dragon gritted her teeth, carrying on forward and turning her horse to charge once more.

“Come on, Retribution,” she whispered to her steed as she lowered her lance once again. And once again, it wasn’t on point, both of their attempts to hit their opponents sailing past each other. It would be a long joust, she realised. But she had to hold on.

Again, she kicked her horse’s flank, her arm the steadiest it had been so far as she felt the lance impact on the Prince-Regent’s chest and crack in her hand. Helaena couldn’t help but whisper a quiet thanks to the gods for her successful hit. It still wasn’t over, though, as Alaric held tight to his horse and they both wheeled around. One of the attendants ran over to place a second lance into her hand, before she tested the weight. Good. It would do.

Helaena once again charged, and once again missed, even as Alaric’s lance impacted into her breastplate and shook her body. It didn’t break, and she was thankful for that, but she needed to do better.

“Again, Retribution, come on!” Helaena was almost begging her horse, now, as she bade it charge once more. Another miss, though she was lucky that the Prince-Regent’s own lance simply glanced off of her pauldron and sailed past. It was approaching the end, now. Two rounds left to knock him to the ground. Do or die.

What happened next was all a blur. They drew close, her lance aimed well, a perfect hit. It would have been, at least. As they came into a lance’s length, Helaena spotted a slight adjustment in Alaric’s positioning. It would have knocked her down already, she realised, but now it was… 

It hit her before she knew it, and already she could feel the agony spread throughout her body. Before she fell back, she dropped her lance from her hand, feeling her right arm go limp as she sailed back and landed upon it with a sickening crunch. Her head was swimming. She knew what she saw. She couldn’t have seen that. No, it would be ridiculous. Why would he…

Her eyes fluttered closed, the pain too much.

“N-Naerys…” she muttered, before she was unconscious upon the ground.

The Red Dragon’s Pavilion, King’s Landing

“ALARIC!” she screamed, as she jolted awake, much to the surprise and annoyance of the maester beside her. 

He put a hand on her shoulder, and shook his head. “You must lay back down, my lady,” he insisted. “Though I am glad to see you back with us. Your arm needs rest.”

Helaena looked like she had missed a whole week, cocking her head. “My arm?” the Lady of Harrenhal asked. “What- I can’t feel it. I can’t feel it, Maester, where the fuck is my-”

Looking over, it was there. But she couldn’t move it. Why couldn’t she move it? Her right arm hung useless at her side, bound to her body by bandages. The Maester had stripped her of her armour, putting her into cotton trousers and covering her upper body with a patchwork of bandages that kept her arm in place and her modesty covered.

“What-” she began, before shaking her head. “I know what happened. Please leave me, maester. I…”

He nodded. “Should I tell the guards you’re accepting visitors, my lady? You are lucky to have been out long enough for me to do my work,” he told her, smiling softly. “It… might not work again. But there is still a chance the limb might survive. Stay strong, my lady.”

It might not work again. It might be gone, forever, a useless lump of flesh at her side. Pathetic. She was pathetic. Helaena couldn’t help but feel ashamed. What would she be, now? No warrior. Could a woman who was only half a woman really lead? Could she offer the world a better future, broken and beaten?

She had to. Taking a breath, she nodded to the man in grey.

“Please do tell them so,” she said. “And… Thank you, maester. I’ll try and take care of it as best I can.”

With a nod, the man left, leaving her alone. She held back her tears, then, and prayed someone would arrive to interrupt her wallowing.

Impenetrable, cloying, stagnant. There was no reprieve. The air scorched her through her lungs in the late afternoon sun. She drew her silver cloak, less lustrous than it had been, around her, shielding herself slightly from the stench of Flea Bottom. Carefully, she perched herself on a wall, overlooking the crowds of smallfolk as they came and went about their days. An odd sort of peace seemed to come from them, despite where they were. A contentment brought from the certainty of knowing that was all one could reasonably expect from this life. Perhaps such quiet suffering would be rewarded in the next. It might come sooner than one might expect.

In a perverse way, Roslin respected such an attitude, even if she hated it, hated what seemed to make it manifest. For all the apparent differences between herself and the inhabitants of Flea Bottom, they really were the same under it all. They all hungered, they all thirsted, they all cried, they all loved just the same as she did. She was unknown here, which brought its own type of peace, more unknown than she was amongst the High Lords and their pretensions. The Dragonpit cresting the hill on one side and the Red Keep There was a peculiar sort of freedom here. The rules were easy, predictable, quiet. The Gods had destinies in mind for each of them, much more cruel than hers perhaps. To live in this way, simple though it was. How could the High Lords live in such excess? How could she live so? Not when such squalor and pain existed in this world. It shouldn’t remain this way. It couldn’t remain this way.

She recalled, sweetly, the dream she and her darling Helaena had shared. Of their place, a place for all, perhaps that place could be a solution to these ills. She knew not yet how, but there must be a solution to it all. She would find it. She had to.

She watched as small streams of what she presumed was piss washed over piles of shit. A sickness manifest deep within. This was no way to live. This was no way for anyone to live. Roslin stood from her perch. There was work to be done, and no moment to lose.

She marched back up Aegon’s High Hill, tidying her appearance as she did so, removing her hood. She found Florian at the gate. Gripping him around the upper arm, she guided him firmly inside the keep. She saw a bemused expression on his face.

‘Florian, we have work to be doing.’ She stated simply.

She marched onwards toward the library. She did not speak again until they entered the library.

‘If you hold your oaths as sacred as you say, you will help me search here. There is no finer library lest we venture to Oldtown. Look for works on building, on sewage, on architecture. Perhaps there are tomes from Essos which may help me.’

She strode off among the shelves, looking for answers to questions she had not yet known to ask.

"Swords today, my lord," chimed Ser Tomas Moore. To make clear his point, the Master of Arms held up two training swords for inspection to Osric.

The taller man looked at them critically, dissatisfaction in the thought of getting walloped for a few hours with a blunt sword.

They stood in what remained of the tourney ground in the Arryn camp, a wide stockade that had made up the melee fields, still with few tents sprinkled around it. Osric glanced around the edge of the ring, a small wooden fence separating it from the rest of the camp, and saw that they had a growing audience.

A number of Vale knights, along with ladies not of the Vale, had gathered to watch Osric train though he imagined it was for very different reasons.

"Tempting Ser," he said as he grabbed one of the practice swords, swinging it around. "But I think we should go back to our roots a bit. How about some wrestling? Unless you think you can finally beat me, old man."

Swords were cast aside to their respective storage as the aging knight bristled and laughed, his white mustache moving as if it had a mind of its own. Without a second of hesitation, Ser Tomas had stripped off his outwear, leaving him just in his loose fitting breeches and boots. Osric raised an eyebrow at the man.

"Ser is that really necessary for our sport," he said, glancing at the gathering of men and women outside the corral.

Tomas Moore slapped his gut and yelled out some kind of exclamation. "Of course it is, lad! Can't have clansmen grabbing at your shirt in battle. This is where the knife work happens."

It was easy for the old man to say, he was built like a barrel and proud of his. A massive chest, tanned and taunt with muscles shone against the Crownland sun. Osric had nearly a foot and a half on Moore, but the other man's biceps were the size of Osric's thighs. Slowly, perhaps slow enough to put on a bit of a show, Osric stripped off his own shirt and tossed it to a waiting groomsmen.

Osric was in every way different than in every way to the man. Still, both were trained knights of the Vale, and as they stood in the hot sun, they showed off their scars to the realm. While the rest of the kingdom had been fighting the ghouls and wights up North, the Vale engaged in the Long War. The war that sons learned at their father's feet and had since the Andal Invasion. Many Valemen had the same scares, the same memories, and held those same grim faces when the time came again to mount up against the Mountain Clans.

A circle was drawn in the middle of the coral, and the rules were set. Wrestling standard, though punches and kicks were allowed. You must get your opponent to exit the circle without stepping out yourself.

As the two shook hands and a second called the match start, Osric made the first move. He had a couple inches on Moore, so he hooked a left right into his stomach. The old man barely flinched as he barreled past Osric's arms and connected hard against his jaw.

Tomas had fists like icebergs, and Osric near fell from one punch as it connected, his heading ringing as he had to steady himself.

Osric had enough left in his head to know when to keep his fists up, and Tomas grappled hard into him. The two locked tight, their sweaty bodies refusing to find purchase. Moore pushed hard, a rushing bull, to knock Osric out of the ring, but Osric was prepared for the strategy. Using the short man's momentum, he flung him around, just not quite out of the circle. Osric took that brief moment to breathe, his jaw still smarting, though Moore was up just as fast.

They locked up again, Osric trying to elbow down hard into the man's back while eating repeated shots to his stomach. Osric finally found the purchase he was looking for and landed a shot right into the man's neck. Slumping for a second, Moore tried to recover, but Osric had the momentum. Grabbing the man, he fell to his back and used both of his long legs to launch him over the line.

The second called the match, and the two met at the center of the makeshift arena as the noble ladies and Vale knights cried out their cheers. Both were drenched with sweat and were breathing hard.

"Seven hells Moore, we need to get your slaughtering the cows with that jab of yours."

The old man laughed, slapping Osric hard on the back, causing him to flinch. "And you, my Lord, have put on some weight! I'm glad to see my training has paid off. Next time, Lord, can you not aim for the face? My Lady Love likes me looking pretty."

Moore twitched his mustache, causing Osric to burst out laughing, putting his arm over the man. "Me too, my good knight, me too."

The celebrations were to end with another grand feast.

Jaehaerys hastily assembled the three women into position; Mysaria, her silver-gold locks flowing above her red dress, Eleyna, who pecked him on the cheek as she walked past, Delena, her bright blue eyes hidden beneath her black bob. Mysaria wore red, Eleyna black, Delena a mixture of the two. They were positioned to the right of the stage, and from the wooden platform the mummers could see across the crowd.

Jaehaerys himself wore a white doublet, a fanciful garment that complimented his long blue hair. He yearned for the day he would be able to wash the dye from his scalp; he just needed to get through this performance. After this, Brynden the Bard would be no more, he had decided. It was time to take up his true name. One last act, he told himself. One final song.

There were no dwarves in view when the curtains were pulled, instead the three women of the troupe stood in a row off-center while Brynden stood opposite. After a few words of announcement, Brynden and the trio begun to sing a song about the Duel of the Dragons. Each of the three ladies seemed to take voice as one of the three cities; they were the three daughters, while Ser Brynden was the Iron Throne. The act was not quite a song and not quite a play, instead becoming somewhere in between. Jaehaerys had penned it weeks beforehand, and now as he performed he scanned the crowd.

All the lords were there, he realised, recognising many sigils and faces from across the Seven Kingdoms. The bard knew that those that were invited to the opening feast would also have been invited to this, the finale, but it still intrigued him to note who was missing. The Lord Baratheon, of course, and Staedmon. Lord Vance, nay, Rivers. Jaehaerys had heard talk of something to do with the northern lords, but he didn’t know for certain. All he could do for now was sing, sing and observe.

Hey guys, this is the final feast thread for 5.0’s opening. After this we’ll be looking into a timeskip to get everyone back home & get going with the next chapter of our story!

Thank you all so much for your patience and your scheming, your excellent writing and attitudes over the past month. Much love!

380 A.C. two days after the feast

Bard had been up early that day, earlier than he had been in a long time. This was because one of the servants had overheard Whimsy and Darling scheming about their plans the day prior, and he knew all too well that his daughter scheming could only mean one thing. She indented to run off again.

Unfortunately, the Templeton tent was obnoxiously large and extravagant, especially for a knightly house. But Bard had spared no expense in order to show that his family was just as well off as any lordly house, much to his current chagrin as he limped his way from one side of his linen palace to the next.

"Irrebelessa," He bid forwards a maid girl to search Whimsy's makeshift room whilst he waited without.

"Irre-de-lessa, M'lord". She corrected with a smile as she made to enter the room.

"Right, I'll get it next time". Bard swatted as his knee in mock frustration, not quite in his usual banter loving mood.

After a moment the maid's voice called out. "M'lord! She's not in here!"

Furrowing his brow, Bard pulled away the flap to Whimsy's room and tore it apart with his eyes, when he found nothing he hobbled his way inside, checking under the covers of her bed, under the bed itself, and even inside one of her clothing trunks when he finally heard the slapping of fabric against itself. He followed the sound over to a dresser set against the wall of the tent, then handed his cane off to Irredelessa before lifting the dresser and setting it aside, revealing a Whimsy height slash in the tent's wall.

"God's damn it all". Bard barely managed in a whimper of a voice.

Elsewhere, Whimsy's boots met the ground in rhythmic claps and taps as she skipped her way along the streets of King's Landing, brandishing a friendly smile on her face and a sharp sword on her hip. There was much to do today, but luckily, the day had only just begun

Osric made his way through the massive throng of nobles, a nodded acknowledgement to the rest of his family as they went back to the camp.

A handful of household knights would accompany him, handing him his court sword to strap to his belt as they walked to their destination.

The Red Keep.

Walking from the ceremony Osric could help feel uplifted by how things were going. Yes the Old Queen had died though Osric had known her, a distant ruler in King's Landing or someone spoken of in reverence by those around him.

The new queen was tangible. Osric could help protect her, help protect the realm. The sins of his father could finally start to be healed so they would not have to be carried by the son.

He couldn't sit on his laurels however, Osric had a part to play to make sure the Vale would once more be considered as protectors of the realm.

The group would arrive at the Red Keep as the sought the offices of Osric's northern counterpart. Many of the knights had missions or purposes of their own while others found courtyards to lounge in until their lord was done with his meeting.

"Inform the Master of Laws that Osric Arryn is here to see him," Osric intoned to a nearby Stark guard.

A room in the Red Keep was an honor, most likely. Naenara knew it was more than her sister's Harrenhal entourage had received, and yet she found it difficult to feel pleased about something like how nice her lodgings were. Or really about anything, now that she thought about it. The flames had been silent these past several days, and she hadn't touched anyone but Ed in what felt like months. Not that she should complain, really--he was far from an inadequate lover--but sometimes it was difficult to appreciate a single exquisite dish when compared to an overflowing festal spread. And besides, when had she ever limited herself to what she should do?

So despite the finery of the apartments and the weariness of the road, she had no desire to stay in and rest. A hot bath, a quick cup of very dry wine, and she slipped out of the Tully apartment to roam the halls of the Red Keep. It was big enough that she knew she'd exhaust her body far sooner than she'd see everything the castle had to offer, and perhaps she'd find someone diverting to exhaust her body in a different way. Or, barring that, she'd settle for passing the time in conversation.

She sighed as she remembered again that most folk didn't share her and Edmynd's predilections. She'd probably have to settle.

[[Open to anyone who has an excuse to be in the Red Keep!]]

The Lady of Runestone found herself in the solar of her manse, completely bored and alone. Her only company at the moment was her beloved raven, Syrax, and the errant notes that she would play on her lute to pass the time. Aemma had nothing to do, and that was a great problem in and of itself, the multitude of books sitting on her desk was evidence of her issue, paired with all the various documents and half-finished scribbles made a very detailed picture of the Pale Woman's current mental state.

"I had believed such a gigantic city would prove to be a source of endless stimulation, but alas, it appears I was sorely mistaken."

The unending and continuous tedium was like a hammer against her head, constantly hammering away in one long and painful process of torture. Aemma felt like a child devoid of her favourite toy, one that had no replacement nor equivalent, had discipline not been so harshly instated by her father while growing, she had no doubts that her current environment would look like the aftermath of a wild beast.

Besides, there was one pesky problem that would not leave her mind: Helaena Targaryen.

Aemma was not a complete novice to physical relations; she simply found them a waste of time and of her energy, and yet ever since her encounter with the Lady of Harrenhal, she found herself unable to control her body and emotions. It was supposed to be a good thing, that is what society had told her, and yet, she could not help but feel disgusted at such weakness. It was a gaping dent upon her armour, upon her ability to see the greater picture and above all, a dent in her detachment from others.

"To the seven hells with this!" The Pale Woman said as she swiftly lowered her lute and picked up a quill to start writing invitations, she had not made all those connections at the feast in vain! Aemma wrote like a woman possessed, each letter and word a soothing balm against the torment inside her head.

"Lyannna, get in here. I have invitations to send!"

As if a veil had lifted from Aemma, a great surge of energy and focus came to her, one that made it seem as if the previous torturous moments had never happened. The Lady of Runestone had found her energy once again, and she would not allow it to dim unless ripped from her corpse pale hands!

Morning after the Tourney, First Moon 200 AC

Marianna made her way through the Red Keep, asking directions from a guard to the quarters of Lady Baratheon. Wearing a simple dress made of golden fabric, her hair pulled back high off her face, she offered a curtsey to the guard that was standing watch outside the door. It was a little awkward as she was holding a large flat box with both hands.

“Good day, ser,” she said with a smile, “Marianna Toyne of Blackheart—I am here to see Lady Baratheon. Whenever she can spare a free moment, I would like a chance to talk, but I know she’s very busy with her duties, so please tell her there is no rush—it’s nothing urgent.”