King's Landing
Summer, 325 AC

With the rising sun came Aemon. Rhaenys couldn't actually see him from so far away, but there was no mistaking his dragon. It's milk-pale wings stretched across the dawn sky, it's white gold scales gleaming with the day's first light. It could be none other than Snowfyre, and his rider was the Prince of Dragonstone. Aemon was evidently in no hurry as Snowfyre was casually gliding along. He was bigger now than when Rhaenys last saw him; but she bet that her and Lyrax would be faster. She couldn't wait to show Aemon the new tricks she'd been learning. She just hoped he would have time for his little sister in all the commotion. But there was small hope of that, he was getting married after all.

Behind her brother came a fleet, one of the largest Rhaenys had ever seen. There must have been almost three hundred of them by Rhaeny's figuring, though she lost count after sixty. A handful had the gold stars of House Sunglass, a score or two had the swordfish of House Bar Emmon or the Celtigar crabs. Several had the triple spiral of House Massey; more than a third bore the Velaryon Seahorse, though one large dromond flew a sea serpent and Rhaenys knew it to be her uncle Monterys' flagship Sea Snake. Rhaenys smiled at the thought of seeing her sister Daenyra again. Her children all had dragon eggs, perhaps one would hatch while they were here. Rhaenys turned her attention to the larger fleet and saw more than half bore the three-headed dragon, while one massive three-decked galley flew Aemon's colors; a white scaled, red-eyed dragon with it's wings crossed over it's chest. That must have been Ghost. Rhaenys promised herself she'd get on it to explore somehow, whether she would have to beg Aemon or sneak in.

She watched the ships for a few moments longer as they sailed to port and docked near the black or gold sailed ships already there. She had rarely seen the whole royal fleet brought together at once and it was magnificent as ever. Rhaenys knew there'd be more however. There would be ships coming from the Stormlands, from Dorne, the Reach, the West, the Riverlands, the North, even the Stepstones and the Iron Islands. Soon stags, pierced suns, silver moons, red grapes, mermen, lions, gold roses, eagles, white towers, and krakens would all be flying next to the dragon banner. There'd even be merchants from the Summer Isles or dignitaries from the Free Cities. All of them were coming to honor the marriage of the dragon and the lion.

The city was already almost full to bursting, as the travelers had been streaming in for weeks and Rhaenys knew there'd be even more coming today. Merchants, bards, mummers, hedge knights, and all manner of folk had been trickling in. The markets would be full of foreigners and locals alike hawking their goods as jugglers, fire-breathers, and acrobats plied their trade. Soon the lords and knights would be arriving. Her brother Viserys and the people from Summerhall would be coming soon. Uncle Aegon, Aunt Arianne, and their elephants wouldn't be long after. The castle had been in a ceaseless bustle for days getting chambers ready for all the guests. Rhaenys knew her sister Baella would be excited to see the mummers and acrobats perform, and her brother Jaehaerys was itching to discuss theorems with scholars, but she was looking forward to the fighting. Father had let her train with a sword but he was furious when she suggested competing in the melee. She hoped her brothers would do well however.

If Rhaegar was good enough, maybe father would let him join the Kingsguard. Then Rhaegar wouldn't have to marry some lord's daughter and leave her alone with Jahaerys and Baella. She loved them, but they never made mischief with her like she had with Aemon, Daenyra, Viserys, and Rhaegar. But Daenyra and Viserys were both married and almost never home now and Aemon would soon be the same. This would be the first time they were all together again in a long while. Rhaenys vowed she would make the most of it. She watched in her apartment in Maegor's Holdfast, as Snowfyre drew close to the Red Keep. The dragon slowed and skillfully landed on a large perch, barely making a sound. Father had extensive additions made to the castle to make room for the ever-growing dragons.

She saw a distant shape slide off of Snowfyre. Rhaenys smiled wide and ran out of the room in excitement, only pausing to throw on a shirt and trousers and not bothering to close her door. Her black cat, Night, hurried after her. The gold cloaks nearby were startled and called out but she paid no mind. She hurriedly exited the holdfast, slowing slightly as she crossed the bridge over the spiked dry moat. Rhaenys cheerfully hailed the white-cloaked Ser Wex and he grinned in return. She picked up speed again and took the stairs up to the battlements three at a time. She breathed evenly, not even breaking a sweat. Father and mother had both believed in physical education and Rhaenys was glad for it.

Rhaenys forced herself to slow down as she approached the perch where Snowfyre landed. She was older now and couldn't just go running up to Aemon and jumping into his arms like a child, even though she wanted to. He had to see his little sister was nearly a woman grown now. She stepped silently but quickly as Aunt Arya had taught her, and reached to open the door to the landing before she heard faint voices on the other side. Without a second thought, Rhaenys slightly cracked open the door and pressed her ear near the opening. She recognized the voices as Aemon and father.

"...word from Aurane. He says the raiders are getting bolder now."

"They're growing into a real nuisance. Trade and travel is being hampered. Perhaps it's time Asha takes a fleet and straightens them out."

"It's not just local malcontents now. He says rumors are flying about the Daughters and the Empire gearing up for war. They say it could erupt any moment now."

"I hear the same, and any war would be disastrous. Trade to the east would collapse. And if either side wins that wouldn't be the end of it. Tyrion is advising caution and restraint, and I agree, but we must still be ready. The last time either Volantis or the Three Daughters had such ambitions, Westeros bled. Now they both seek conquest. And if that isn't enough, they talk of another Great Khal and the Gold Harpy rising in Essos, the Freemen and Sparrows running amok in the countryside, the Silence and this Stepstone Pirate King raiding the coasts, a new High Chief leading the mountain clans, ghouls and other beasts probing the Wall, monsters and demons preying on the peasantry, the Pureborn sharpening their swords for war with the Bay of Dragons, and now another Vulture King rising in Dorne. We are beset by enemies within and without, and we cannot sit idly by."

"What should we do father? Intervening militarily could prove a disaster."

"Nothing overt. But we must prepare all the same. Once the wedding is over, have Monterys' fleet sail to the Stepstones. The world will think he will be there to help his uncle but if war erupts, we will have a fleet already in position to defend our waters. I will also have Arianne and Shireen ready their fleets. Stepstone raiders are a problem for them as well and the same pretense will suffice. I'll have Asha make sure our own fleet is ready."

"Understood father. Once I return to Dragonstone, I'll have our men ready to muster as well."

A new voice, a woman's voice, suddenly interjected.

"You're not even home for a few minutes and already you talk of war and battle. You're going to be married Aemon, this is to be a time of happiness and content for you. Ah, you're just like your father. Never happy unless some crisis looms on the horizon."

"I know how important today is mother. It is best to keep the Lannisters on our side. We will need them if the violence escalates."

Rhaenys heard her mother utter a long-suffering sigh, "My son. I pray to all the gods that you never experience the kind of war your father and I have. That is why we've spent almost our whole lives creating lasting peace in the hope you would never know war and its horrors. Tyrion sent some of his finest men to treat with the Essosi, have faith in their ability. As such, I will have no further talk of troop movements and battles today. Think of your wedding instead. You've known Julianna since you were both babes. She is a beautiful, kind, intelligent young woman and I know she will make you happy and bear us many rosy-cheeked grandchildren."

"Mother, I..."

"Your mother's right Aemon. These are serious matters, but they can wait for a day or two. I'll not let belligerent Essosi ruin your wedding. We best get ready for the day."

It was then Rhaenys chose to open the door and enter with a grin. She saw Lord Commander Podrick, though she called him Pod, turn and wave cheerfully. Mother was next and she smiled at her youngest child. Rhaenys smiled right back at her. Her mother was surely the most beautiful woman in the kingdoms. Ghost perked up at the sight of Rhaenys and padded silently toward her, licking her hands, and baring his neck for her enthusiastic petting. Night brushed up against Ghost's leg and purred. Father grinned at Rhaenys and even Aemon cracked a rare smile, his violet eyes gleaming.

He looked different from the last time she saw him. His silver hair wasn't shoulder length anymore and he was clean-shaven now. Rhaenys knew he did so because mother would have made him do it anyway. But that wasn't it. Aemon had never been soft, but he had obviously been training extensively at Dragonstone, his travelling leathers were a tight fit. And his skin had been slightly tanned a shade or two, probably from the travel and outdoor training. All this she took in a few moments however, since she decided to abandon her resolution and immediately jump into his arms cheering happily.

Aemon caught her in mid-air and laughed along with her, clutching her tight to his chest and hugging her back. Rhaenys closed her eyes and savored the moment. Snowfyre grunted and she felt his forked tongue lick her forehead. She knew she was grinning like a fool but she didn't care. She was incurably happy now, and at that moment, the future seemed bright as the sun reflecting off of Snowfyre's scales.

---

They marched into the sept, armed with smiles and armored in finery. First had come the High Septon and the Most Devout with their crystal crowns and silver robes. With them were a large train of lower septons and septas of all orders who swung braziers of incense and recited melodic chants, blessing the ground as they walked. The commons looked on from the crowded alleys and shopfronts, overriding the sounds of prayer with cheering.

After the holy men came the royal army. First came a company of Night Riders, a light cavalry unit of both Dothraki or Westerosi descent. The Dothraki-born wore their hairs in braids, and even the Westerosi sported long beards and flowing manes. Each man wore a curved bow strapped across his chest with a curved arakh at his hip. But unlike the khalasars of Essos, all also wore light armor of hardened leather and minimal steel plate. The officers dismounted and entered the rebuilt Great Sept of Baelor while the enlisted took positions at the bottom of the steps. At their head were the Blood Riders, a cadre of men sworn to defend the royal family to the death.

Following the riders were a company of Mother's Legion, marching in step with shield and spear. The Unsullied of old were no longer created the same, but similar training had been given to volunteers. They were not fanatical in their devotion, but they were highly disciplined all the same. Unlike the Unsullied they wore leather armor and steel helms. They followed the same process as the Night Riders as officers with three-spiked helms ascended the steps.

After both came the men-at-arms, the gold cloaks. Jon had reformed the watch into a standing army and navy, and they made an impressive sight with their gold-gilded armor and matching cloaks. Many of them were shavepates and freedmen from Essos, and added foreign flourishes to the standard armor. The marines of the gold fleet were more lightly attired in gold leather with longswords or axes at their hips. The Lord Commander of the City Watch, Ser Morros Slynt rode a gold-barded destrier before dismounting.

The commons cheered loudly when the Dragon's Teeth rode into view. They wore black and red armor, with leather cloaks and dragon-head helms. Each man bore a dragonbone bow with a longsword at their hip. They were the finest of the Iron Throne's fighting men, a unit of highly trained scouts, marksmen, and soldiers sent on the most dangerous missions. They had so far been the only ones to effectively fight the Freemen Brotherhood and their fame was quickly spreading through the land. Black Visenya led them. The bastard princess, with her short black hair and indigo eyes was also far famed in Westeros. She was the daughter of Robert Baratheon and Jeyne Greystone, herself the natural child of Aerys Targaryen. Cersei Lannister had sought Visenya's death when she was a babe, but Varys had spirited her away to the care of her kinsman Aegon. Now Visenya was one of the Iron Throne's greatest champions.

Those the commons had been long waiting for now finally arrived. Their cheers and applause drowned out all other sound, reverberating through the air. King Jon Stark, the White Wolf rode on a black courser with Queen Daenerys Targaryen at his side on her silver mare. The direwolf ghost stalked behind his master. With the monarchs came their children. Viserys, the Prince of Summerhall, and his wife Princess Ashara Martell rode on Dornish sand steeds with their children in an open-windowed carriage. Viserys with his long snow-white hair, lilac eyes, bright smile, and youthful features; wearing a Dornish robe, with his Braavoshi rapier at his hip cut a striking figure and Aemon saw many maidens blush at the sight of him. Princess Daenyra and her husband Lord Monterys Velaryon rode side by side, their children sharing their carriage with their cousins along with Rhaenys who stared wide-eyed at the crowds. Aemon smiled at the sight of Daenyra, his twin, as beautiful as ever with her braided platinum blonde hair. The Velaryons rode nearby. Prince Jahaerys and Princess Baella rode behind. Jahearys kept his hair silver cropped short, and his stormy grey eyes studied the sights around him with an inquisitive air. Baella with her curled white locks and violet eyes laughed at his side, waving at the commons. Both were unmarried, though many knew they adored each other. The Kingsguard flanked the royal family, resplendent in white armor and white cloaks, and Aemon grinned at the sight of Rhaegar riding next to Lord Commander Podrick.

Another din arose and many pointed to the skies as the dragons, riderless, flew above, roaring above the crowds to shrieks and cheers alike before perching on and around the great sept. Drogon landed on the top of the dome, with Viserion and Rhaegal nearby, while Snowfyre draped himself above the entrance near the other young dragons. There were ten dragons in King's Landing now, and there were likely to be more soon. Viserys and Daenyra had placed eggs in all of their children's cribs, and the first would be hatching any day. Aemon too looked forward to the day he could teach his children how to ride. How to slip the bonds of the Earth and fly free. The hope both gave him solace and strengthened his resolve.

All the great knights and high lords of Westeros followed the royal family. The Starks led by Lord Brandon and his family marched proudly with their train of northmen, direwolves by their sides. The famed Winter Wolves, with their wolven cloaks and wolf helms, flanked them and Aemon could see even some wildling lords with shaggy beards and locks were attending. There were Night's Watchmen with them, among them Lord Commander Theon Greyjoy. A small train of children of the forest rode with the northerners on the back of shadowcats and even a few giants stomped behind them. The Martells were no less fascinating. Princess Arianne and Lord Aegon rode at the head of a long train of Princes and Princesses of Dorne. Edric Dayne rode nearby, the famed Dawn holstered on his back. The exotic Dornishmen were just as striking to the commons as the Targaryens. Many pointed and gasped at the sight of the mounted elephant plodding behind the Dornishmen.

The men and women of the court followed; led by the members of the Small Council and comprising an eclectic mix of Westerosi nobility and Essosi-borne luminaries. Knights rode next to Dothraki warriors with bell-braided hair, Ghiscari shavepates with bare heads, swaggering bravos with colorful tunics, dark-robed alchemists, and Summer Islanders with feather capes. There was even a Red Priest among them. All fell silent, when a handful of white robed figures walked behind the others. Their cloaks seemed to shift colors, and they stepped noiselessly across the cobblestones. Everyone knew who they were, and many dared not to breath until they were past. The following trains were somewhat less exotic but no less magnificent.

All the chivalry and nobility of the Stormlands, the Reach, the Riverlands, and the Vale marched in a procession of splendor and honor. The Lords Baratheon, Tully, Arryn, and Tyrell rode with all their vassals and sworn swords, striding with a bevy of colorful banners atop magnificent mounts. Lord Willas rode in a carriage escorted by the Knights of the Green Hand while the Sweetrobin and Ser Harry Arryn led a formidable column of falcon-helmed Winged Knights. Lady Brienne of Tarth, the Just Maid at her side, sternly advanced while Dickon Tarly waved at the commons, and Edmure Tully freely smiled and threw trinkets at the crowds and occasionally brandishing Oathkeeper to cheers and applause. Even the Ironborn lords with their scars and hard looks, and the Stepstone lords with their gaudy jewelry and finery inspired the commoner's love. Behind all of them came the bride's family, the men of the West, with the Lion of Lannister at their head. Lord Tyrion and Ser Jaime drew little love but their train was one of the largest and most splendid, and drew much acclaim besides.

Soon, the lords and ladies of the realm gathered inside the great sept and took their places before the Seven. The Starks, Tullys, Arryns, Velaryons, and Martells were placed closest to the Targaryens on one side of the aisle while the Lannisters took up a large portion of the other side. An honor guard of Targaryen and Stark men-at-arms stood at attention as Aemon strode to the altar to stand with the High Septon, one of the Hightower brood. He waited anxiously in his black doublet, red sash, and black cloak, with a black steel coronet on his head. The High Septon droned on through many verses of the Seven Pointed Star, as the guests excitedly whispered, the collective buzz obscuring most of the High Septon's benediction. No doubt equal parts gossip and scheming was ongoing as the prayers continued.

A flood of emotions coursed through Aemon, who somehow managed to maintain his composure. He felt equal parts nervousness and anticipation with a strong current of bewilderment. He rarely saw Julianna since he assumed the lordship of Dragonstone, and only for a brief moments at that. He wondered if they would be close again or if they had both changed too much. He wondered what she thought about this marriage, if she was happy to be wed to him. It had not been chosen by either of them, as truth be told Aemon had been more concerned with leading Dragonstone than romance. But he vowed to himself to make the most out of this union. He was a lucky man after all. Father and mother would reign for years yet, he and Julianna would have all the time they needed to settle in and get used to one another. He ought to have thanked the gods for such providence. He looked to father and mother, who held hands and smiled at him. Aemon managed a smile back.

The densely packed crowds finally quieted just as the High Septon's recital came to an end and the doors opened. Aemon looked up and down the aisle as the bride approached. She wore a long, flowing white dress with gold embroidery. A gold veil covered her face while a red and gold cloak covered her shoulders. Tyrion limped along with the help of his cane, hand in hand with his daughter. Aemon felt his heart begin to pound monstrously, and he felt a sweat break out under his doublet. Tyrion plodded up the stars and silently presented her to Aemon before retreating back down. She threw back her veil and Aemon stared into her deep vibrant eyes, and felt a smile touch his lips. He took in her rich long hair, her soft skin, and her own dazzling smile. She really was beautiful.

The High Septon broke the silence, "You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection."

The nervousness left Aemon and he felt his hands work automatically as Julianna turned. He quickly removed the lion stamped cloak from her shoulders, folded it, and placed it on a nearby pedestal before removing the cloak from his own back. He unfolded the cloak and hesitating just a fraction of a second, wrapped the cloak around her shoulders, displaying the three-headed dragon to the guests.

The High Septon then proclaimed, "Your grace, your grace, my lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever."

Aemon slowly grasped Julianna soft warm hand in his callused one and they exchanged a look as the High Septon tied a ribbon around their hands, binding them together and speaking, "Let it be known that Prince Aemon of House Targaryen and Lady Julianna of House Lannister, are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder."

Their hands were tied together now and the Septon continued, "In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity." He unwrapped the ribbon but they still held onto each other's hands.

The High Septon gazed at them both, "Look upon each other and say the words."

Aemon and Julianna turned to each other and Aemon carefully took her other hand in his. They spoke together, his strong tones flowing in sync with her melodic voice, "Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger"

The young prince spoke the words and realized he meant them, and as he looked into her eyes he knew she felt the same, "I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days."

Aemon released one of her hands and turned to his family, to his friends, to the realm, "With this kiss, I pledge my love."

Then the Prince of Dragonstone embraced his future queen on the altar, grasping her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers. The cheers and applause of the onlookers overwhelmed his own beating heart, and above them all, Aemon thought he could hear the dragons on top of the sept.

Aemon knew he would remember this moment till the day he died.

---

Jon couldn't remember the last time he had been so happy. The past months had cast a dark cloud over his world, but seeing his young son kiss his beautiful bride made him forget it all. Ghost had howled to the heavens when the pair kissed, and all of the wolves followed suit. The roaring of the dragons had shaken the roof and the smiles and applause of all of Jon's friends and family lifted his spirits immeasurably. When he was young, he had never thought he would live to see this day, to see his son marry while he stood next to his own wife. He truly had not known what he sacrificed when he took his Night's Watch vows, and he counted himself lucky everyday that he was surrounded by those he loved.

The guests had left quickly, cheering and hollering as they followed the Prince and his bride out of the door to the adulation of the commons. Jon watched them leave, these young and happy children and he vowed he would do everything in his power to preserve their bliss. Jon took Daenerys' hand and the two followed the procession out.

The crowds soon filled up the nearby fairgrounds outside the city walls. The crowds in the city streets were simply inconceivable. The market was full to bursting with tradesmen hawking their wares, and commoners flew the dragon banner from windows, drinking to Jon and Daenerys' names and the names of the newlyweds. Music, laughter, and revelry buzzed around them, and the air was thick with the aroma of succulent meats and delectable pastries. The dragons freely roamed, flying about the sky, performing aerial tricks and occasionally blasting out bursts of multi-colored flame.

The lords and ladies had erected scores of pavilions, and hundreds of different banners flapped in the air. Jon, with Daenerys, and a small cadre of companions, drank in the sights and sounds.

"If only we had this kind of army when we fought the walkers."

"Today they're coming for something far more important Jon."

"In that you are correct. Come, I have to start the tourney at least."

The king and queen had then taken their seats on the tourney grounds and Jon had quickly proclaimed the beginning of the games. The tilts began in earnest, with the bravest and most skilled knights of the realm charging down the lists and striking each other with colorful lances atop thoroughbred mounts. Jon himself had little taste for jousting and quickly retired after a few matches, but the jousts continued. No doubt many high knights and courageous warriors would prove their valor and ability today. Jon trusted Daenerys to recognize any competitors of worth. He would of course return for the final rounds, but the jousting would continue all day till the evening feast and for many days after.

The rest of the fairgrounds were no less busy. Merchants also sold their goods here, everything from fine food to fine jewelry to weapons and armor was being traded. All manner of entertainers played music and performed tricks to the delight of their audience. No coin had been spared for the festivities, and many curiosities from around the world were on display. He saw mummers reenact all manner of scenes from the War of Ten Crowns and he heard more than a few songs that had used those events as the subject of their ballads.

He passed by several pavilions were the lords and ladies were having their own large luncheon feasts. No doubt there were many schemes underway, juicy bits of gossip and rumor being spread, and vacuous pleasantries being exchanged as they gorged themselves on rich food. Jon had no love for the Game of Thrones and left the schemers to it. He played only when he needed to. The peasants also were celebrating, loudly singing songs and knocking back barrels of ale as they danced to the music and played many quaint games. Jon whistled to Ghost, who immediately ran off to begin scrounging for food.

Nearby competitions and exhibitions of all variety had sprung up. Daenerys' Essosi ties had brought much foreign pageantry to the celebrations, and a wide variety of foreigners were peddling curiosities, new fashions, and inventions. More than a few claimed to be magicians, though Jon doubted they were truly or if they were, that they had much power. He had seen true magic in his time, and it was not a thing to be trifled with. Nearby a large tent held a dice tournament while one lord hosted cyvasse games in his pavilion, and Jaehearys was playing a match with Willas Tyrell. The archery competition was well under way and Jon could clearly see Visenya among the competitors. Baella was playfully strumming her lute next to a band of travelling bards while Rhaenys charged around the green with a gaggle of other trouble-making children and that black cat of hers. Daenyra was among a number of nobles pleasantly chatting in another pavilion and Jon shook his head with a grin as he watched Viserys duel some bravo while trading witty jests.

One of Brandon's boys was stripped to the waist, covered in mud, and was wrestling a wildling. He flipped the man to the ground to the roar of the watching crowd. The young nobles were devising all kinds of contests to prove their skill, and Jon watched as one Dornish prince skillfully threw a spear into a far-off hay bale while a Reachman unsuccessfully tried to emulate him. Another group of boys tried to see who was the best hand with a hammer by taking turns smashing increasingly ridiculous objects while some others had a knife throwing contest. The ironborn were attempting to introduce the finger-dance to their peers, with mixed results. Jon saw many playful duels and on the fields, mock battles between competing teams of knights raged. He watched it all with a small smile on his face.

However it was the melee that interested him most. Hundreds of warriors were preparing for an all-out brawl and Jon knew he would not be left out. He returned with his Kingsguard, to his great pavilion, itself the size of a house, and made ready to strap on his arms and armor but stopped when he saw a large company of unfamiliar men outside the tent; arguing with the guards posted there. There must have been two score of them, all had the look of cutthroats, and their leader was a Tyroshi with a green beard. Tensions were high, and more than one man had his hand on his sword.

Jon cleared his throat, "What seems to be the problem Serjeant?"

Serjeant Addam, who was posted at the entrance said, "Your grace, these fine gentlemen demanded to speak to you. I said that your grace was enjoying the festivities and had no time for unwashed foreign thugs. They took offense to that."

Jon glared at the men, specifically their leader, "This is my son's wedding, if you wanted an audience, you chose exactly the wrong day to seek one. Forgetting the fact that I don't hold audiences with complete strangers. State who you are and what your business is here, now."

The Tyroshi with his garish silks and gaudy rings turned and Jon saw he was holding a large lacquer box, "Ah but your grace, we reckoned that this would be the perfect time to approach you. My name is of no import but I come bearing gifts for you on this joyous day, on behalf of my master."

Jon heard Podrick's hand slide to his longsword, "And just who are these gifts from?"

"From the new lord of the Stepstones. He hopes this trinket will help demonstrate to you that there are no hard feelings."

The Tyroshi turned and opened the box and Jon glared at the man. In it was the head of a knight, complete with helm. He looked to be one of Aurane's men, no doubt captured in a raid.

"Ah, the so-called Pirate King sends his regards eh?"

"That is correct your grace. He would like you to know that the Iron Throne's imperialism will no longer be tolerated and that, henceforth this adventurism will cease. Aurane will be permitted to retain his land on Torturer's Deep, but he and by extension, you, will evict the other nobles on our lands and surrender all dominion over the Stepstones."

"Well this is surely an eloquently composed message. Allow me to relay my reply."

Jon's hand flashed to his belt and in a blur, his sword cleared, the sheath. A second later, the Tyroshi's head fell from his body which fell soundlessly to the ground. The other men gawped for a moment before drawing their own weapons and shouting in several different languages.

Lightbringer burst into flame and Jon heard Podrick cry out, "To the king!" As the Kingsguard drew swords and followed him. They were a handful against dozens but Jon had faced worse odds before. The clang of the skirmish was loud, and several passing warriors observed the commotion and rushed to Jon's defense. The noise of the festivities continued however, and many did not notice the din over the music and revelry. But if the violence wasn't quelled soon, it cause a panic.

Mable had been ever so pleased when she was invited to tag along behind the Tully's to the wedding. The Mudd's rode nearby, but it was nearly impossible to get a word in with the rush of travel. The padding of her boots made her weary, warn, and miserable. Mable had no rank among the Frey's. If she had the Tully's still would never have loaned her so much as the dirt from there boots. The Frey were no one to the Tully's after the Red Wedding. Mable strode next to her old mistress the young Lady Tully. It could be the day her hand is given away and she was chatty as her Lady always had been. The handmaidens at her side had first not recognized the scarred warrior until Mable spoke. It had taken all of the handmaidens just to allow Mable close to them let alone her mistress.

Steffon has hoped through his daughter the Tully's could be reasoned with about the Mudd's. The two families stood at the brink of war after Malkar had assassinated there entire family save one man. The Mudd's had responded by threatening to destroy the Frey's. Mable needed to help the Lord see that her twin had nothing to do with her. The scar across Mable's face twinged with annoyance at the very thought.

In spite of the trouble Mable truly loved her home marveling in the wild creatures that had appeared in it's many areas. At the gates in a sign of uncommon loyalty the Frey's allowed free passage to all Northern Lord's. The soldiers only had to pay a copper a regiment. When most Frey had ruled such a deal was completely unheard of. A gold piece for every man, woman, and child was the old way. In the need for an army Steffon had still lowered the price to a copper. It would be improper to explain to a dragon rider that there wedding was ruined by greed.

In truth Mable feared two things in her life. The wrath of Dragon's and the wrath of Arya Stark. The shadow of the king was a living legend in the Frey's house. A rumor had it she'd killed almost all of the one hundred descendants herself. Arya had killed more Frey's in others then there were Frey's. It was easily shocking to hear that the Tully's would of course wait for the Warden of the North riding in together. Theon came first his black army wandering in many away from the wall for the first time. It was likely many wouldn't be going back either. It was lucky then as the wolves and giants came into view no one dared flee. The winged wolf was approaching with his sister's. Mable wondered if it would be rude to bow to him so as the Starks and Northmen passed Mable bowed obediently.

It was midday on the last day of marching the dragon's city came into view. A fool might see the Red Keep as beautiful. Mable could only see it as a feeding ground for ten hungry dragons who flew above them. The Tully's needed to get in formation for there dramatic entrance to Mable was asked to wait for her cousin's forces. The Tully banner men had laughed at the very idea. A true Frey hadn't set foot in the Red Keep since rumors of her cousin Steffon the second had fled crying from the dragon's wrath. Mable knew her cousin wouldn't bare the comment any mind. The sight of her new shield with her house symbol made many spit at her. It was honestly rather refreshing after such a long days march. Mable had been sent here to meet up with the other Frey's and complete her two missions. The Tully's were not to march on the Frey's if she could prevent it and to make sure absolutely nothing happens to the King's children while a Frey is in the Red Keep. Steffon had been extremely clear that it was her job to guard the cradles of the Targaryen's.

Mable knew the hardest step of this would be gaining permission to near the guards to the cribs to join them. Mable instead chose a cautious route walking with the performers into the keep and making her way towards the nursery. Mable nearly laughed when she saw the entire row of gold cloaks guarding the hallway in all direction. It was clear these kids weren't who Steffon worried for unless Malkar had brought an army. In a panic Mable scanned the east seeing nothing. The golden fields were stretched with lavish forces of merchants, but not bandits. A sad realization came that she'd come for nothing. Steffon wouldn't need her here the only thing of worth was the tourney. The best Mable could be is the last place prize these thoughts raced through her head as she passed a strange sight indeed.

A single man with a dirty cloak was also surveying the room holding something green in his hand. Mable knew nothing about the orb, but Steffon's orders were crystal clear in this case. Mable walked past him gently taking the orb in passing the fire inside going out. Mable could feel her skin crawl recognizing and hating magic. The man had barely turned when Mable pulled him inside driving a spear through his stomach. A vulture was tattooed on his shoulder. Mable smirked as his eyes went blank. She knew her targets kill anyone bearing a black skull tattoo. Mable gently broke the dragon glass the object worthless to her. Mable was no assassin however quickly reporting the scene to the gold cloaks. "There are men in the keep with the Skull's mark can you spread the word?"

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Jenn had a simple mission. It was to watch the young Lord Rhaegar Targaryen "The dumb dragon", but she'd already failed. Jenn had spent the morning working with the servants. Jenn polished all the armor, helped cook the food, and set up the pavilion. It would be her blood sweat and tears that would go into aiding the young man. Jenn had volunteered to fetch the youth his water to prevent any enemies from poisoning it. Jenn wasn't trusted instead being asked to find him a suitable horse. A week later the diplomat found the perfect horse only to be told the prince had chosen one long before then. It was part of her life in King's Landing that she would try to work the hardest to help gain respect for her Lord only to be made a fool of by others. Jenn knew however that the time for that was over for them. Jenn had wrote to her Lord. The Frey's of old had perished with the first family all hail the second family. Jenn nearly saluted the training kicking in, but repressed it. Jenn was setting up a large area for the dragons to watch the tourney. It would be a grievous insult not to include them in the fun. Jenn wore a simple blue dress with the symbol of her house on the back.

When Jenn worked it was alone the thread placed in each dragon's color food assembled for them. Jenn was one of the few non Targaryen's who dared feed there dragons. The majority hunted, but the younger needed something brought to them. Jenn hummed warmly her mind on Lady's and Lord's fighting for a woman's hand or to honor a prince in the arena. Jenn worked from before sunrise to midday on the decorations as servants poured out to prepare giving her a wide berth. When it was done she hurried back in to help bring out the food. Jenn set up the tents happily excited that her lord would be returning for her. It was time he'd sent for Jenn to many assassins lived in the Riverland's for her taste.

Jenn stood at her masters plate horrified and disappointed when neither Steffon or Lady Mable took there seat for the wedding. Jenn instead gave the gift to the courier the other River Lords looking unsurprised at the absence. A story had been spread years ago that Steffon had fled Jon after trying to kiss Lord Tyrion out of fear. A rumor she'd later been blamed for starting to guilt the Lannister's into aiding them. Jenn had been amazed that of all the traitors to be punished the Lannisters were still on top.

Jenn could tell thought he love both felt was long and deep. It was a glorious day for the kingdom. It even held rumors of new eggs with the possibility of dragon's making a full comeback. The idea had lead to a small amount of jokes about trying to smash the eggs. A few servants were executed that day for the threat. The topic was then absolutely closed for discussion. Jenn bowed to the king and princes as they passed keeping her eyes lowered from the light pleased the dragons were enjoying the food knowing more would need fetching. In truth a servants work was never done even a diplomats. Jenn hurried to the wagon hoping the dragon's would check for her before biting.

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A long time ago Walder Frey was deemed Walder the late for arriving late to a major battle in Robert's rebellion. Steffon knew that he'd be late, but Steffon lead a party behind the host to attack the forces of Malkor that would be attacking the north after the men left. The small party headed towards Riverun was no doubt spotted by the Tully's. Steffon knew an attack was expected from him, but instead rode out. A black two towers with a background of fire emerged from the opposite ride of Riverrun. Malkar was easily tempted all the men had rode south and his lieutenant was given the orders. The lieutenant had marched out to sack Riverrun and offense that wouldn't go unanswered. A Frey was never known in all westeros history to ride into battle. If Malkar was the first it was Steffon who was the second. A Mace in hand and plate armor on the Frey forces battled the mountain men without mercy.

The forces slammed together fiercely the horses trampling the mountain men as Steffon leaped off swinging at the main enemy braining him. Steffon stood tall his armor that of the Frey's as he marched forward wielding the two handed Maul with malicious ease. The Frey force was twice the size of what Malkor had sent. The mission was to butcher the Tully's families not hold the keep. Steffon roared his disgust at the few of his subjects he saw killing them personally. Steffon received two arrows in his left shoulder. The injury wasn't critical so Steffon refused to stop. The Maul shattered chests, shields, and weapons of any kind Steffon swung at. The Frey's lost quite a few horses in the massacre. It was Steffon however alone who met the messenger from house Tully who greeted him.

Steffon said quickly "We'd heard rumors, but the messengers weren't fast enough I'm leaving my men outside Rivverrun to guard it from these bastards. A Frey will never rule that accursed castle while I live." Steffon without further comment to the poor messenger turned to his own captain "I want a twenty four hour report sent to them and scouts in the surrounding area. I will take twenty men and ride to the wedding to tell Lord Tully and King Jon. If the Tully's request us to leave do so without question." The captain gave a salute as a twenty man honor guard joined Steffon as he rode hard south. The knights around him were ecstatic. The win seemed to energize them, but the horses could only be pushed so hard. Steffon let them drink that night at camp keeping watch himself. when asked he simply put "I was a solider before a lord and before that I was only a serving boy to Aemon. I held his gear when he trained occasionally his sparing partner if his brothers were to busy. I kept the girls entertained by singing to them or reading. I've worked many areas and know one thing. You're never to good to do something kind."

The knights were happy to follow him on this mad adventure. There Lord worked with them not above them showing appreciation for hard work and mercy for errors. The group still only made it an hour late to the wedding. A cue had formed up, but Steffon could see King Jon speaking to a group of thugs. Steffon was charging before the lead Man's head flew off. The sight of brigands surrounding his king was not what Steffon meant by "No problems at the wedding" A few of the men heard his roar as Steffon lunged forward braining the closest brigands the Jon. A sight never scene and unheard of befell the stunned crowd as the Frey's dispatched the Brigands. A squad of Frey's stood there battle worn, tired from travel, and with the blood of armed men on there weapons.

Steffon was no fool dropping to one knee with his knights before Jon awaiting judgement "My apologizes my Liege first for missing the wedding and second for denying you the pleasure of slaughtering those fools yourself." Steffon kept his eyes on Jon's feet.

While Rhaenys looked out from her chambers in Maegors Holdfast in awe, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen gazed out from a white marble window in another part of the Red Keep. Probably the both of them agreed that it was a truly majestic sight, and if it wasn't for the joyous reason that Aemon was returning home fore, as well as the color of Snowfyres scales, one could say that his brother was the very image of Aegon the Conqueror, leading his army from on Dragonback from his ancestral Seat, landing and claiming his stake as the one True King of Westeros. Another one that made such a claim was Stannis Baratheon, the brother of the Usurper, that sailed through Blackwater Bay with a similar fleet on his tail. Stories of Wars of the past, passed down to him by his tutor who during that time was only a lowly squire, standing besides the Hand of the King on the battlements and watching an-what he thought to be-imminent defeat coming their way.

Speaking about the Lord-Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Podrick Payne was also present, looming over a large map of the Capital while discussing security plans with one of his brothers, Ser Terrance Thorne. Due to how busy everyone was, there was no time for their daily sparring, but that didn't mean he couldn't follow him mentor to the White Swords Tower and study the way the Whitecloaks operated "The Kingsguard will be on duty of course. Ser Patrek will be stationed here..." he said as he pointed at the map "Ser Josmyn will be stationed here besides the Royal dais where the Queen will be seated, and Ser Wex will be guarding Jaehaerys, Baela and Rhaenys..." Ser Terrance chuckled at that "All three of them? If you ask me, the girl is a handful for all of us..."

"I could keep my eyes on her too. I know Rhaenys can be a bit of temperamental at times..."

"This won't be needed Your Highness, this is our duty to uphold. The place of a Prince its amongst its people, enjoying the festivities." it was Pod that interjected and landed the young Dragon back to reality. He wasn't a Sworn Brother and wore no White Cloak....yet. He wasn't prepared to even be a bodyguard, and at such an enormous event, he would only get in their way. He should just feel fortunate to ride besides the Lord-Commander, which was a boyhood dream in itself. It was then that one of the pages entered the room, announcing that the King called for an immediate Small Council meeting in light of the arrival of the Prince of Dragonstone. Rhaegar thought about asking to attend, but at the possibility of another rebuttal....

"I think I'll excuse myself now, Lord Commander. We shall meet at the stables before the procession." he said with a neutral expression and in turn left the room with Ser Terrance on his heel. The more he thought about the handmaidens waiting for him in his chambers, choosing in which doublet to fit him for the ceremony made a scowl slowly form on his lips.
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Rhaegar was never one to fawn over ceremony, but he would be a liar if he ever said that he didn't envy Aemon this day. Both he and Juliana looked like two burning flames before the High Septon, their radiance unmatched by anything he saw before. It almost made his reluctant of taking the oath of celibacy that followed the White Cloak....

Forget that. Aemon and his wife would have children one day, heirs to the Iron Throne and nephews to protect. This should be the only goal in his mind. He allowed the rest of his thoughts to drown in the noise of the surrounding celebrators, the yells of merchants and bystanders of the small duels that broke out, or even the low whistling of the Smiths wheel as it sharpened his sword. He had seen his father passing by with his retinue and noticed the stop he made by the Melee Field. Things were going just the way Rhaegar wanted. He had a horse, armor and all his weapons prepared for him to join in the event, and if the Warrior wills it, to face the King in Combat. He needed a way to prove his skill to Jon and while fighting him with real weapons wasn't the wisest way to go about it, considering a past Trial of the Seven at Ashford, this was the only idea Rhaegar could think of.

Perhaps he was a 'Dumb Dragon' after all.

When he returned to his personal Pavilion, he found it unexpectedly empty. His shield and armor where there, but no squire in sight. He cursed under his breath, knowing that such incident could clearly sabotage his plans for the great Melee, the Prince cursed under his breath left his weapons on the ground as he walked out. With a certain hurry on his step, he stumbled across a certain Frey Bastard that seemed to be in a similar rush.

"Jenn, wait for a minute..." he called after her, knowing that if he was to go on a search through the literal jungle of tents and heraldries to find a few brats, he had to start from somewhere and ask for information "Have you seen where all the pages ran off to?"

(Hope you are okay with that@Masterkeun)

"'Nother rund!" shouted William, his voice already slurring from the heavy alcohol he'd been kicking back since he woke in the morning. The barkeep quickly brought out another huge tankard of ale and slammed it down in front of him.

"This is your last one, for real this time," he said, laughing at the inebriated lord. William gave a crooked smile back, then pulled out his coinpurse. He began counting out the coins, but they were so little and his head was swimming, he couldn't get the right number out.

"Auh, fuggit," he groaned, grabbing a huge handful of coins and slamming it down on the table. Through his blurred vision, he could see that they were yellowish, stamped with the head of a dragon. Obviously they must be coppers. Reassured with that thought, he stumbled out into the blinding sun, tankard in hand. Had so much of the day gone past already? And didn't the wedding start at dawn? He began shuffling his way towards the blurred outline of the Red Keep.

"Nuh, nuh, ya dunnunnerstan', ther mus' b'some mis . . . mist . . ." William burbled, to a perplexed pair of guards at the entrance tent.

"No there isn't. I have the list right here, and I don't believe the Boltons are on it. Can't imagine why . . ." the guard at the door answered, voice thick with sarcasm. William gave a pitiful squeak of anger and lashed out with his fist at the guard. However, his cognitive abilities were severely dulled by the ale weighing on his brain, and the guard was able to catch his fist and return one of his own encased in a gauntlet. William fell to the ground and passed out, but not before retching all over the ground as well as the guardsman's shoes.

He woke later, with a splitting headache. Groaning, William got up from the cot he found himself in and took a cursory look at his surroundings. It was a small and cramped tent, a flap cut into one corner to act as a door. Inside was a simple bed and a small table, upon which were various medicines. A maester shuffled in a few minutes later, a look of concern over his face.

"My lord Bolton, you still require a bit more res-,"

"Yes, yes, now shut up," William interrupted, rushing out of the tent and pushing the maester out of his way. Garish tents were propped up as far as the eye could see, lavishly designed and surmounted by the symbols of numerous houses. Clutching his head with one hand, William slowly made his way towards where he thinks the jousting is taking place.

The River Gate, King's Landing

Ser Aerion Goldfyre steadied himself as the "Grouchy Seagull" bumped against the docks of King's Landing, jostling the ship about for a few moments, before the harbor men deftly tied the ship up safe and sound. Aerion looked overhead, looking at the massive walls of King's Landing, the Red Keep, and the lands that belonged to his Great Grandfather's family. The tales his mother told him, were no lies. It truly was as large as the bed time stories he'd enthusiastically fall asleep to. His reverie was distracted by the harbor master, who was already present to collect the dock fees.

"That'll be two gold dragons, and not a penny less. You damned merchants always try and cheat your way out of payin, but I will have none of your misgivings and complaints. That's the law here, and the Goldcloaks will enforce it by my word... yah filthy shems." The rough harbor master spoke in an in-grateful tone, and judging by the majority of the docks being occupied by military vessels, and Blackwater Bay jam packed with ships as well, Aerion could see why the man was so gruff. He thought to himself as he fished about for the dock fees, 'The poxy old fool is probably hurting in that he can not swindle as many vessels as he usually does... best to pay him and be on my way.'

"Two gold dragons, as requested. I apologize for it being in an assortment of coins, but this should suffice Harbor Master." Ser Aerion spoke politely, handing the change over to the older man. "For a few silvers more, could you perhaps be so kind as to direct some weary travelers to a clean inn with good grog and warm food?" He moved six silver stags in his left palm, with a seven playing across the fingers of his right. "My friends and I would be most, most appreciative."

The greedy harbor master's eyes looked hungrily at the coins, going so far as to lick his own lips, perhaps already savoring the wines he would be able to drink with the extra coin. Running his hands through his beard, the man smiled a grimy smile. "Well, since you put it that way, I'd be happy to send you to a decent establishment, one that don't have dog or other unsavory meats being served." He beckoned Aerion closer, and spoke quietly to him. "You warm me heart, no dickering, and then a little gift, well, suffice to say, you'd be safest away from the harbor and River Row, less you fancy a bit of danger. But, I doubt that. There is a royal tourney going on... and far be it from me to keep that bit of information from you." He took a few of the silvers, and then pointed to across the harbor, to the West.

"Follow the road about the outer walls, it'll be quicker and easier to get to the tourney grounds. Them nobles and lords will be hogging the grounds by the walls, but just beyond their tents, is a cousin of mine. Quarren Hamshanks, best cook in all of King's Landing, and I don't lie about that... the bloody bastard can even out cook them fancy pricks who serve the royals. Piss on them, piss on em all, those cooks and food folks, for Quarren will make you the finest food you'll ever eat. Perhaps that is why he got the spot he did. Serve the lords an ladies, the royals, the rich, and he gets to shame their personal cooks. Ha, I tell you, if I had a son like him, well, I wouldn't need to work ever again." He smiles, his ale intoxicated breath filling the air, "Though... for my name, and a discount from Quarren... well, and even ten would be ever so fine."

Aerion couldn't help but smile. His mother had spoken of King's Landing well. You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. At least the pirates and sellswords of the Stepstones were honest about who they were. They were hard men, who chose hard lives and never took anything for granted. Here though, people hid behind masks and stations, doing what they could to prevent their true colors from spilling out.

"An even ten stags it shall be... Master...?" Aerion asked questioningly, looking at the Harbor Master for his name. The man greedily took the coins, pocketing them, before turning back to Aerion. "Call me Darren, Darren Shanks. You take care now you fine Ser, and you ever need anything... well, you come to me. I know damn near half the city, and can get you anything you want... and I mean anything, within reason of course. Everything comes with a price." Darren smiled, tipping his straw hat, before sauntering off, counting his money, and no doubt heading for a nearby inn.

Aerion held up his hand, already sensing the protest from his compatriots. "Not here... remember... we are guests here, even though we've lived here in past lives. Come, lets head to this tourney. We will find out more along the way." Aerion smiled to his friends, and together, the seven men set off to the tourney grounds. Aerion knew what his friends were thinking, they had been fleeced, been robbed, yet, such things to Aerion... and the greater good of the Band of Seven mattered little in grand scheme of their desired goals. He donned his kettle helm, and set forth a brisk pace to the Tourney grounds. What a day to make landfall he surmised, something big was surely going on.

As Aerion made his way about the throngs of people, passing all different colors and cuts of men and women, he learned a great deal of what was transpiring. A royal wedding. A nameday for a new grandchild of the King and Queen, a royal baby. Trade disputes. Taxes... funny with that one, even in peace, no one ever was happy about taxes. Food shortages concerning imported fine Essosi delicacies. A dispute between some houses in Dorne. Pirates, thought that came as no suprise to Aerion, he had spent his entire life in the Stepstones, and they were the only home he knew, and the main stomping ground of the Company of the Cat. Something that caught Aerion's ear was the talk of Black Visenya, said to be a beautiful warrior maiden... a bastard too. How fitting, always such colorful talk about the surprise offspring of nobility. One thing that was common though, was everyone's fear of another war... but who could blame them. The Stepstones and its constant pirate and peasant rebellions, the stirrings in Essos, with New Valyria, the Three Daughters... and who knows when another screaming horde of Dothraki would come... Aerion looked to the sky, seeing the dragons flying about, perching, and generally not caring.

'Perhaps one day... one day my great grandsire's egg will hatch, and I too could soar aloft with them... carefree, able to just be free, if only for a few moments.' Aerion moved his shield about on his back, before continuing onward, making his way to the Tourney grounds. The king and queen were there, and countless other nobles. Perhaps even the Hand of the King, Lord Tyrion... but his best hopes was to be granted an audience with someone who could help the Band of Seven raise their standing in Westeros, and change the fates of their respective houses.

Ser Oswell Whent, the unlanded heir to House Whent and their claim to Harrenhal. Oswell had his reservations about ever regaining that castle, but perhaps one of the many smaller castles about it could one day be his.

Ser Harwin Stong, another claimant to Harrenhal, whose family fled to the Stepstones after losing everything during the Dance of Dragons. He and Ser Oswell were close friends, and both sought to help out the other.

Lady Lyvia Clegane, the sole remaining heir to House Clegane. She said her mother was Layna, a server in an Ale House that Lord Gregor had stopped in after his loss at a tournament... her mother was the unfortunate victim of a gang rape. She certainly had the look of the Clegane's, and she was almost six feet tall, and was a better fighter than any within the Band of Seven.

The brother and sister of House Lefford. Ser Lorimer and Lady Cerenna Lefford, both seeking to reclaim the Golden Tooth, since its loss during the reconquest of the Westerlands by the Targaryen forces. Their mother and father had died fighting alongside Queen Cersei's forces, and were spared the same fate due to them being in tutelage in Lannisport. Ser Lorimer was deeply protective of his sister, and swore that a thousand hells awaited anyone who would are harm her. Lady Cerenna was kind and gentle, and most importantly, a very skilled healer. She was the reason why all of the Band of Seven were still walking, and able to fight. She saw to their wounds and hurts, and nursed them back to health many a time.

Last was Ser Uther Tattershall, a Stone Dornishman who claimed to be the true claimant of the Prince's Pass and the Tower of Joy. As he said, his family was nearly exterminated, and its survivors fled to the Stepstones, and had lived there ever since. He never lied about anything, and Aerion had no doubts that what he said was true. Ser Uther perhaps had the darkest heart of the seven, having carried the family blood feud for generations, his shield passed down for decades. Upon its back held numerous scratches, each one representing the years that House Tattershall had been forced from home.

The Band of Seven was an interesting lot, but then, who wasn't these days?

The Tourney Grounds, Food tent of Quarren Hamshanks, across the clearing from the Targaryen Encampment

Ser Aerion and his friends sat quietly, eating their food happily. The grouchy Harbor Master hadn't lied, the food was to die for. They all talked quietly, enjoying the company, the festivities, and the warm weather. It was a sunny day, and that alone was something to smile about. Aerion himself looked across the pavilion, across the clearing, to the Targaryen encampment. The tents were numerous and all marvelous. He laughed to himself, thinking of how those tents had probably never traveled farther than King's Landing, and certainly had not seen a battlefield in a long time, if ever. What caught his eye though, was a curious sight indeed, and one that he was accustomed to, but not here in Westeros.

Aerion motioned his friends to the Stepstoners gathering about a rather large tent. Pirates and mercenaries... their lot had been causing a great deal of trouble for the realm. They had taken part in every uprising and rebellion, and no matter how many were killed, they seem to always come back. What reason they'd have to leave their pirate havens, the sheltered coves and caves, the holdfasts and villages that they clung to like fleas on a dog, and brazenly stroll to the royal encampment, well, was beyond anyone in the Band of Seven. They had been fighting this kind of villainy for decades, either through their own deeds, those of their forebears, or the exploits of the Company of the Cat, which had been almost unceasingly under the employ of local lords or the Iron Throne.

Before Aerion could say 'Roasted Lamb Sauce', a violent fight had broken out. The pirate leader collapsed headless, whilst their band drew their weapons and joined combat with the royal guard of someone important looking. The cry of a man in white armor drew Aerion and his friend to arms, rushing to lay aid to who they now knew to be the King. "To the King!" was bellowed by perhaps none other than a Kingsguard, but that was more than enough for Aerion to answer to.

The fight ended as any would, dead and wounded on both sides. The King stood, unscathed save a scratch or two... or perhaps it was just the blood of the defeated. The pirates and brigands had lost, with most of their number dead, though a few had been saved, perhaps through Aerion and his allies sense of honor, and sensing that these unfortunate fools would certainly have some information. 'Pirates,' Aerion thought, 'Little honor exists among these scum, and they will sell out their own mother to save their skin.' Ser Oswell and Ser Uther had been the unlucky ones this time, and would no doubt have to spend a week or two healing from their new sets of scars. Thank the gods though, that another group of soldiers had been nearby. Freys, by Aerion's guess, had provided a large amount to the defenders of the King, and they fought like hell.

Looking back to the King, and the Kingsguard... Aerion quickly knelt down, taking a knee, and his comrades followed suit. They would be judged by their actions today, and breaching etiquette would do no good. The Band of Seven pointed their blades into the ground, and bent their heads to the King and his retinue. Best to let the King and his guards sort the rest of the situation out, and let him address them first, for they were but knights and two ladies before the King of Westeros. Ser Harwin guarded the three pirates that the Band of Seven captured, having quickly tied their hands behind their backs, before taking a knee as well. Aerion hoped that he had not made a grievous mistake, and awaited the King's judgement.

Taria Snow was an early riser from a young age. It came with growing up in a brothel, yes, but she also liked watching the sun rise. There was something about the cool early morning, the dark sky slowly lightening, the red, pink and orange spreading through the sky, only to be preceded by a bold and dark sun. If she'd had a way with words, perhaps the bastard would have written a poem about the feelings it incited in her. Instead, she would simply watch from the tallest climbable building she could find. A few moments of peace before the rest of the day's hustle and bustle.

It remained that way even as she grew, even here in King's Landing, and especially today. Now it wasn't as if she was all too interested in the Prince's marriage or anything of the sort. People with names were always getting married, and this wouldn't be the first time she was in the city of such festivities. Though, in all fairness, even she had to admit that a Prince's wedding was a much bigger affair than one of a lord. Everyone was in high spirits, from high-born to commoners, and the city actually seemed and smelled cleaner today that it normally did.

This was finally an opportunity to see the face of her father for herself.

She'd heard about him from her mother as well as they other prostitutes, raunchy tales told in between giggles and wine as they nestled upon the laps of other men. He had been a ward of Eddard Stark, a traitor who had taken over Winterfell, only to be brought down by the bastard Ramsay Bolton. The patrons of the brothel would revel in telling the tales of how he was stripped not only of his manhood but of his very name, turning him into something lower than a dog. Taria would listen quietly, curiously, sometimes even feeling sympathy for her estranged father.

Taria hadn't made any extra effort to dress up like quite a few commoners had, but she did make sure she was there early enough that she wouldn't be jostled by the crowd. She easily climbed up onto the roof of a shop, settling down comfortably, waiting for the events to take place. There was the half of her that simply wished to go back to the inn, or perhaps the rocky shores to watch the waves; there would be no work today, not with the feasting and jousting. The other half was what kept her seated on the roof. She couldn't miss this chance.

The holy men didn't interest her in the slightest. When she felt the need to, she called to the Drowned God. The rest were simply names that she heard and nodded carelessly at if spoken before her. The Mother, the Father, what had they to do with her? Nothing, not as actual parents, not as deities. She kept all this to herself, however. People were stupid when questioned about their faith, and Taria found no need to broach an excuse for the idiotic rage of others.

She continued watching, keeping to her perch even as others joined, unshaken by all the jostling, keeping a deaf ear to the cheering and waving and simpering others passed before them. Taria recognized the different factions by sight, not having any real personal contact. Perhaps a drink in the same tavern as a rider from the Mother's Legion. Perhaps chuckling over a stupid joke some street rats played on a soldier. Nothing more or less.

Truly, it was starting to become tiresome, and Taria was even beginning to scorn herself for coming when the cheers increased in volume. Of course, she thought to herself, seeing the Royal family. King Jon and Queen Daenerys. As much as she didn't wish for it, she couldn't help but feel awe. They were, after all, the reason Westeros still was. Despite herself, she smiled and clapped, though refrained from cheering. Her eyes followed after them, though it wasn't long before her interest shifted.

The dragons flew overhead, and even if she, with her bias towards sea creatures, had to admit that they made quite the beauteous sight. A slight smile touched her lips, wondering how it might actually feel, sitting upon those mighty fire-breathing beasts. She shook her head. Dreams, and f**king stupid ones too.

A breath escaped her when she finally looked away, eyes swerving back to the procession, just in time to catch the Starks. They were a house she had been familiar with since her childhood until she finally left the North. However, she barely glanced at them, looking instead to those who followed. With their black cloaks, it certainly wasn't hard to see why they were called crows. Which one was he though? She tried to recall what she was told about his looks by her Aunt Asha.

"Father," she barely muttered, when she finally saw him. It was foolish, but the small hope of being validated by him burned in her for the first time in years. It was there for the smallest moment, and then she became cold. Her hands clenched and her eyes shut tightly. Idiocy, she told herself. There was no way she was the only Snow that had been born due to her father's many trysts. It was a fool's thought that she would be any different.

She waited no longer, sliding down the roof and letting herself fall to the street below.

It was an hour or so after the vows of marriage had been taken when Taria headed toward the fairgrounds, deciding she may as well join in some sort of festivities there, the kind that had to do with free food and drink. Anything to erase her stupidity from her mind, really. As she had expected, it was crowded and noisy, but that was quite fine by her. She let her stomach lead the way for now, not paying much attention to where she was headed.

The Red Keep

The Gold Cloak serjeant gawped at the body and turned to shout when a dark-clothed figure stepped into view and his cries died. The figure was slender and lithe but wore a man's tunic, with a dagger and Braavoshi rapier on their belt. Short straight brown hair framed cold grey eyes and a long, solemn face. The man knew who she was instantly and moved to bow. The woman waved a hand and minutely shook her head, then gestured to the body, "Have your men take him to the Grand Maester's Laboratory. Best to do an autopsy. And have the Maester's assistant retrieve a vial of this material for study, though he is unlike to find anything. It seems like sludge that cutthroat thought to be a weapon, but best to make sure." The Serjeant saluted and motioned to the cadre of Gold Cloaks who come forward to move the body. The Mistress of Whisperers continued to speak, ignoring Mable for the duration, "It was lucky the children were away but it is clear that these accommodations were inadequate as both myself and Lord Commander Payne indicated; but alas my dear nephew has a mind of his own. See Viserys' family relocated. And double the guard. There will be no further intrusions. Have our men increase patrols and search every inch of the keep from top to bottom. If one rat could sneak in with our guests, who knows how many more skitter in the shadows?"

Finally the Mistress turned to Mable, "And have Lady Frey escorted from these premises. Her place is with our other visitors in the public wing, not here. I am not ungrateful for your assistance my lady, but it is best you leave security to us. But my brother will know of your actions. It is lucky you proved loyal or else I might have taken you as another rogue. However my subordinates might not be as permitting to a Frey wandering the castle. Perhaps you can join your kin in the tourney," the Mistress regarded Mable with her grey eyes for several more moments before turning, "I must take my leave. Please, enjoy the festivities." She turned and stepped out of view as the men made ready to follow her orders. The serjeant seemed to relax as the Mistress left but glared at Mable, "You heard the Mistress, Frey. You're lucky her ladyship is right merciful or else I might gut you right here on the spot. Wat! Gerry! See the Frey out of this wing, we've enough rodents here without weasels coming in." The Serjeant turned around and muttered under his breath, likely airing all manner of obscenities to himself.

The two Gold Cloaks who escorted her out of the wing gave her hard stares. They had the look of Northmen about them, and their hands were tight on the pommels of their blades. They escorted her out of the private area of the Red Keep towards the vicinity of the courtyard, where all manner of guests were congregating. One of the guards said, "Best leave the Keep entirely Frey, wouldn't want any accidents happening to your ladyship." They slammed the door in her face and that was that. Normally, lowly men-at-arms would not dare to speak in such a way to one nobly born, but Mable was a Frey and so bore an ill name in the Seven Kingdoms. While the King himself spared the family from extinction, the Frey name was synonymous with duplicity, skulduggery, and treason. Mable was not technically barred from the Keep, but it was clear her presence would attract much attention and almost all of it negative. Either she would have to act more covertly and risk greater ire, or she would have to stick to the public areas.

---

The Fairgrounds

In the bright sun of the afternoon, even the Black Brothers shined. Decades ago the sworn brotherhood had been on a step decline, lacking in men and material. But those days were past. The coming of the Long Night had vindicated the Night's Watch's mission and no longer were they the laughingstock of the realm. Instead their numbers had swelled, exponentially every year with support from the Great Houses and now they were once again a force to be reckoned with. No longer were they simply a haven for the desperate, now men sought their honor on the Wall, defending the Seven Kingdoms from stray Others, roving Wights, and all manner of dark and monstrous creatures that had arisen in the years following the Long Night. As such, the Black Brothers were attending the royal wedding, eager to find recruits for their mission. Several crows were working the crowds, shouting aloud to young boys and knights alike about the glory of the Watch, the honor that could be earned on the Wall. Years ago, they would have been spat or laughed upon. But now, in their fine black cloaks and expertly crafted black armor, they made for inspiring figures who drew several enthusiastic recruits.

Lord Commander Greyjoy looked upon it all with satisfaction. He and the Watch had much in common. Once upon a time, they had both been wretches inches away from death, dishonored and sullied nearly beyond repair. It had taken years, but the Night's Watch had regained it's glory while even Theon's name was not as black as it once had been. He was not the emaciated creature he had been under the Boltons. Jon had taken pity upon him and had the best healers in the Seven Kingdoms tend to him. After many years, he had regained some semblance of his former self. His scars would never fully heal, and he would never be the fighter he once was, but he could once again swing a sword and string a bow and for that he was forever grateful. Theon surveyed the fairgrounds, feeling an odd pleasure on witnessing the countless vain and arrogant youths that reminded him so much of himself. It was thanks to the efforts of himself and so many others that they could live life so blissfully.

When he surveyed the crowd he caught a sight of someone he had not thought to see. Asha wrote him often, and she had told him of his daughter. Theon knew he had put more than a few bastards in the world, but almost none were known to him. Asha had told him of Taria Snow; how she was and what she looked like. She even had her Maester send a charcoal drawing of her. The girl was every inch a true Ironborn, with salt flowing in her veins, a talent for seamanship, and a thirst for travel. A true Greyjoy, even if she did not have the name. Theon had never lain eyes upon her before. And was momentarily frozen by indecision. After a moment however, he carefully walked towards her, unsure of what he would say.

He stood near her and clearing his throat said, "Fine afternoon isn't it?" Nearly stuttering now, Theon decided to plow forward, "If I am not mistaken you are the famous Taria Snow, Lady Asha told me much about. Doubtless, you know who I am." Theon stared at her for a moment, still half-unbelieving that she was here in front of him, "I have thought about this day for years, ever since your Aunt told me about you. There are no words that can describe how I feel. All I can say is I cannot say how sorry I am, I never sought you out. That I was never a father to you. My life has simply not allowed me the privilege. I have no illusions about being a father now. But please... would you join an old man for a drink and a meal? Just the two of us. We have much to speak of."

---

Royal Pavilion

Meanwhile as father and daughter reunited, steel met with steel. It had been almost a year since Jon had had a proper sword fight and if truth be told he was almost relieved to have been attacked. All the political strife, diplomatic necessities, matters of state, and economic policy left him as he focused on the simple world of combat. Lightbringer carved through the pirates like a cake while the White Swords stained their cloaks red with the blood of hapless mercenaries. Several warriors jumped into the fight and the Stepstoners were soon outnumbered and surrounded. Visenya quietly strode forward, loosing single arrows into throats, eye sockets, and hearts while Viserys slashed and thrust; gutting and piercing the pirates as if they were standing still. With the arrival of several other fighting men and women, the fight was soon over with minimal casualties for the crown loyalists. Jon was almost disappointed with how quickly the fight ended. And surprised by how many men suddenly bowed before him. Jon was still not fully accustomed to such pageantry but recognized its necessity. With a gesture, Lightbringer's flames were extinguished and he sheathed the blade and gestured to his Kingsguard to do the same.

Jon first addressed the men-at-arms who were rushing to the scene, "Men, help take these brave warriors to the medical pavilion. Ensure they receive the best of care and comfort, as well as my thanks." Several men rushed to aid the wounded, either carrying them on stretchers or lending a helping shoulder to bring them to the medical tent, where their wounds would be looked at by Maesters, Septons, and Nurses. Then Jon turned to Serjeant Addam, "Serjeant, have the Night Riders send out riding patrols in the Kingswood and perimeter of the city. Ensure no further surprises. Double the patrols in the fair grounds and have these prisoners taken to the Red Keep. I am sure my sister will have questions for them. And have the remains of these pirates taken as well. There will be no heads on spikes during my son's wedding. Burn them all." The Serjeant moved to comply, taking the prisoners from Ser Harwin's custody while many other men-at-arms began bustling about to strengthen the guard and move the bodies from the pavilion. Several took the time to loot the bodies.

Viserys approached Jon, "Father, are you alright?"

"Not a scratch. Don't worry about me. We'll have this situation sorted soon. Please, return to your merriment." Viserys looked skeptically at the beheaded Tyroshi, "Ah yes, any can see this is simply a small matter of no import. Very well father. Best for me to get ready for the joust." Viserys swaggered off without a glance at any of the kneeling men.

Jon addressed Steffon next, "No need to stand on such ceremony. Steffon. You grew up here. I thank you for your assistance and understand your tardiness entirely. I received word of your aid to Riverrun. Malkor's raiders would have been no true threat but you demonstrated your loyalty twice over. Mark my words, but your loyalty will bear fruit for yourself and your house. Furthermore please, enjoy the festivities. Seats of honor have been reserved for your house on the lists, and I expect to see you tonight at the feast." Jon smiled at the young lord and turned to the other warriors.

"I know not who you young warriors may be, but your valor and skill in combat is clear. You all have my heartfelt thanks and I will see to it that you are rewarded for your aid. Many of you bear sigils and devices familiar to me, and I would ask the names of such valiant fighters." Jon waited for each of the gathered knights, excluding those taken to the hospital tent, to speak their names and he nodded in return, "Hmm, many of your names are known to me. I do not recognize your device Ser Goldfyre. But it is clear Valyrian blood flows in your veins. For your service, you shall all be given a place of honor at the lists to witness the spectacle. And tonight at the Red Keep, you shall be my guests at my son's wedding feast, I shall hear no refusal. There we may converse further and I shall bequeath the rewards due to you. But for now, alas, I must depart for the Grand Melee calls to me. We shall speak more in the evening sers. Visenya, may you do me the service of escorting these knights to whatever festivities they wish to partake in?"

Black Visenya bowed to Jon, "It would be my honor cousin."

"My thanks. And ah, young William!" Jon called out to William Bolton, who drunkenly stumbled onto the scene of carnage as guards continued to ferry out the bodies. "Alas, you missed the excitement, but no doubt you sought the joust. These fine young men and women will mayhaps be joining you shortly. I myself must depart sers to prepare for the Grand Melee. But I shall see you later today." He smiled and nodded to Visenya who nodded in return.

With that the King of Westeros turned on his heels, followed by his Kingsguard, into his tent to prepare for the Grand Melee.

Black Visenya, with her bright indigo eyes and night-black hair, appraised the lord and ladies, casting her gaze over William with something of a smirk, enigmatically eyed Ser Towers, and held stares with Aerion for a few moments before speaking, "As the king decreed, you shall all have places of honor in these merriments. If you wish you may compete, but you may also observe in comfort with fine food and drink. It would be my honor to guide you to where you wish to go. The jousting is still ongoing, and the next round of archery will begin soon. Perhaps you wish to see the king compete in the melee."

A shadow of a grin crossed Visenya's face then, "Or we could forgo the formal events entirely. The commons have their own array of amusements, and there is many a young noble or knight who are engaged in all manner of folly. Finger dances, duels, dagger throwing, wrestling, gambling, drinking, a woman or two, all can be found here. Although I am not certain the young lord Bolton can stomach more drinks."

---

Near Rhaegar's tent, several young pages hurriedly charged forward, excitedly yelling and bantering. They all stopped short when they saw Rhaegar and Jenn. One of them was a white-haired Velaryon lad, one of Daenyra's sons and Rhaegar's cousin Corlys. Among them was Rhaenys, the oldest of the group of the clear ring-leader. Corlys sheepishly stared at Rhaegar, before bowing low, "Ah hello Rhaegar. We ah, did not expect you to be here so soon. The melee is still a ways off and..." Corlys, embarrassed trailed off and shifted his legs. He had just turned nine, but Rhaenys had him wrapped around her little finger. Rhaenys interrupted him, "We were just having a bit of fun Rhaegar, Corlys' egg is going to hatch soon and we wanted to show his friends what his dragon might someday look like." Nearby Lyrax, with her dark sapphire scales, finished her meal and belched a small spout of blue flame.

One of the other pages, a small Stark tot said, "Rhaenys was going to let us tou-" Rhaenys glared at him and he fell silent. Rhaenys smiled at Rhaegar, "So you see, nothing wrong here. I got them back in time to help you ready for the melee. I heard father had to execute some Stepstoners beforehand so the melee was delayed a bit. You'll have plenty of time to don your armor and weapons, no harm done, right? Why don't we get you in your armor and go to the grounds. Oh hello Jenn!" Rhaenys smiled prettily and waved at the Frey woman.

Jenn- Rheagar's Tent

"I haven't, but with permission I may dress you." Jenn blushed nearly having all of the armor for Rheagar on when the children burst onto the scene. It was a tough moment denying the young girl might mean her death, but Jenn also knew if the kids wandered off Jon might blame her for not staying. Jenn smiled trying to be both civil and firm "I'll help the young prince get ready, but if you boys would like you can help or go enjoy a fantastic day on the field. Jenn turned back to her charge making sure everything was perfect before the event. It would be a disgrace if the prince died due to poor armor placement. Jenn smiled sweat at her brow as she labored. "Do you know how to surrender if you fight to strong of an enemy in combat?" Jenn knew this may sting the young man's pride, but such things were important in an emergency. Jenn slowly just in case went over the main instructions as the youth readied himself. Jenn stepped aside for the other kids admiring Rheagar's powerful moves and style. Jenn secretly wondered who the combatants were and if her lord had any plans for the combats. It may do the house good to compete.
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Mable Frey

Mable nearly fainted from terror when Arya emerged from the shadows. The following sentences barely dawned on her. The men who dragged her may have felt they were being rude, but honestly she needed the help to stand. The men threw her from them which was fine as she stumbled. The eyes of the black hand had terrified her. Lady Stark was an assassin in every sense. Mable who was a good tracker still couldn't notice the slinking shadow. The sun was beautiful as Mable flinched seeing more dragons. The best part of the inside was that most dragons couldn't fit. Mable could picture the sight of the Twins in flames as Arya murdered her family. The image remained with Mable as to her utter shock a place of honor had been allowed to her cousin Steffon. In an odd twist of Steffon's mind he had assigned it as her seat for the show. Mable sat next to Lord Tully and The newly weds in utter shock. Mable turned first to her liege lord "It's been four years to many Lord Tully, though your daughter hasn't aged a day." Mable made brief, but purposeful conversation about there plans to ride close to Riverrun hoping to get his permission to ride past towards the hill tribes and Malkor. In the end though the tourney started. Mable only hoped her cousin wouldn't be killed out of spite during any of his training. The first section the archery was nearly at a close as she saw Steffon preparing for his first duel. In fact the first duel in Frey history if rumor was to be believed.
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Steffon- Tournament grounds

Steffon smiled taking his men to set up a pavilion signing up for the melee and the dance. The red keep was a beautiful backdrop for the day. Aemon might not consider Steffon his closest friend, but to Steffon the wedding was like seeing an older brother wed. It would be unbecoming not to be shown in full celebration. It was in that manor that Steffon chose to let Mable sit by the Tully's as he showed them what he was made of. The melee was divided into levels. Steffon was proud to be fighting Ser Patrek Mallister's son. It would not be an easy fight as the Frey's had long kept his father a prisoner. Steffon exchanged his two handed hammer for a light one handed hammer and shield. Steffon's knights dressed him helping him prep wearing his symbol proudly. Steffon marched onto the field in the hot dirt to boos and looks of disgust. The noise was stifled slightly at the sight of Steffon. The man was massive, hairy, and vicious looking. Ser Mallister who was already talking about a win turned to see a wall of aggressive iron clad muscle in his way.

Steffon rolled his eyes. The crowd must have assumed Walder Frey would walk out to do battle. Steffon smiled giving a polite bow between lords which was not returned. Ser Mallister charged swinging a sword in what was an elegant stroke his blade glittering like silver as he swung. It took awhile for Steffon to notice it was indeed silver. The fool had brought a silver and jewel ridden blade to a fight. The blade could sheer through someones armor if it wasn't taken care of. Steffon said gruffly "A silver weapon eh? expensive and deadly I'll admit." The youth lunged forward stabbing through Steffon's shield. "A shame you don't know how to use the thing." Steffon smiled as the young man tugged on the blade unable to move it. A crack sounded as Steffon carefully knocked his opponent unconscious. The crowd's boos were over the top, but Steffon grinned the more they hated him the better his defeat would honor Aemon. If Steffon was lucky he'd make someone a hero.

@Nightwing95

Deleted

To say she was surprised would have been an understatement, but it was just so. Taria hadn't expected to be greeted by anyone. Though she had lived at King's Landing for six years and a little more now, it wasn't as if she had made friends. Acquaintances, certainly, plenty. But those were the sort of people she had worked for doing odd jobs, or perhaps the odd man she had decided to have a jolly time with. Not anyone who would wish to call out to her on an auspicious day like this.

She hardly had a chance to say a word when she saw who the speaker was. She blinked, stunned, simply listening to his words. He knew her? How? Oh... Aunt Asha? She hadn't thought of that. Her aunt was the Lady Reaver of the Islands, with so much on her mind already. She had never thought that the Greyjoy leader might have paid any attention or even cared much about her when they first met, but she had been surprised. Still, to have been spoken of? It was something strange, yet it made Taria feel a little something inside. Warm, perhaps, and it wasn't due to the sun.

"I'd hardly call myself famous," she finally said, seemingly awkward as she looked at the Lord Commander... her father. She had known her entire life who he was and never forgot it for a day, but seeing him there, right before her, close enough that she could reach out and touch his cloak- well, it was almost surreal. "I haven't done any great deeds... I simply travel." She cleared her throat slightly, hands tucking into the pockets of her trousers so that she didn't start twiddling her thumbs. She eyed him as she searched for more words. It amazed her that he seemed as awkward as she was feeling. Perhaps it amused her as well because it did manage to relax her somewhat.

"Well, I'm hungry, the only reason I came here was to get food and something to drink." She gave a little nod, deciding it wouldn't do any harm to finally catch up with her old man. Hands still tucked in her pockets, she slowly started walking, following her nose as she continued to speak. Her looks were certainly that of a Greyjoy, though her hair had a touch of brown rather than black like her aunt, and once Theon Greyjoy. Even if what she felt inside may have been akin to a whirlwind of emotions, on the outside she exuded strength and some confidence, and her stride was proud, much like Asha's.

"Mother told me lots about you," she said offhandedly. "I don't know if you remember her..." She smirked. "Probably best if you don't. I can't even remember the last time I saw her. I left Winterfell when I was thirteen. I wanted to go north, Castle Black, to meet you. It was a bitch of a journey though, so I stopped and turned around..." She continued talking, telling little tidbits about her travels. It wasn't really because she enjoyed talking; having travelled alone for all her teenage and adult life, she was used to solitude. No, this was simply so that there was no awkward silence. Nothing was more painful than that.

"You don't have to apologize," she added when she finally came to a stop, her nose having led them to a canopy erected specifically for today. Below were long tables laden with food, other tables with chairs for sitting, and easy to reach barrels of wine. "I'm a Snow, and it's not like I'm the only one." She smirked yet again. "Our own King used to be a Snow as well." She pulled a chair out for the Lord Commander to sit, nodding toward it with her head. Her manners weren't the best perhaps, but then it wasn't as if she was known for them. "Being a bastard just meant I had the freedom to do whatever I bloody well wanted to."

She shrugged her shoulders lightly before sitting down on a second chair. "Seems I talked enough... what about you, Lord Commander?" As much as she wanted to call him Father, she didn't know if it would be right, or even sound right.

@MrDidact

William turned this way and that, reaching maybe hundreds of dead ends in the veritable maze of tents. Everything was too bright, too vivid, and his head pounded merrily away inside of his skull. The distant clashes of steel on steel suddenly rang out, breaking the noisy ambience of the celebrating crowds. He panicked, fear lancing through him, and picked a random direction in which to run. Left, left, right, it all blurred together into one painful struggle to put one foot in front of the other.

The fighting noises ceased, and he emerged through a small path to find to his surprise a huge chunk of the royal family, all sporting bloody weapons. Oops, wrong turn. King Jon said something looking vaguely in his direction. Something about youth, and jousting, William couldn't hear exactly what he said, but it can't have been anything good. Targaryen oathbreakers never do say anything good. The king turned, and as he did, William doubled over to retch thick alcohol and partially digested (not to mention somewhat rotten) food all over the ground. Already, his head was beginning to clear up, at least enough to spit some vile residue at the king's receding form. Unfortunately, he missed.

". . . although I am not certain the young lord Bolton can stomach more drinks," the Targaryen scion said, smirking in that annoying Targaryen way and seeming to give him a once over. In a purely objective standpoint, William thought to himself, perhaps this was at least partially true. However, he never let something as trivial as his life stop him from doing anything.

"Drink, you say?" he said, standing himself up to full height. However, this action hurt, and his mind redoubled its efforts to explode out of his skull. "I could use some drink. Maybe a few whores as well. Who knows, as long as I can stop thinking about more damn Targaryens coming into this world? No offense intended, milady.”

King's Landing



The festivities were in full play, and the jousting lists had begun. Though of course, to say the least, the Tyrells did not make an understated appearance at such a wedding, or a joust like this. The two large green and gold tents were pitched almost as a high as a house at the end of the lists, and whilst it was not just the presence of House Tyrell alone, it did indeed scream of the status of the Reachmen that had come here. Fighters from House Tarly, Goldengrove, Florent, Hightower, and nameless other Reach houses, great and small, had entered the melee, jousts and the feasting, and to say the least, Ellion Tyrell was certainly one of them.

From the golden glint in his eyes, a trait that seemed incredibly pronounced in Ellion compared to his brown-eyed brother or father, to the gentle smell of roses that seemed to trail him with his brown curly hair looked after gently, there was no doubt that he had come here to please. Ellion was looking on in the mirror, and with his squire, Rodrick, affixing the last pieces of his platemail. His armour was truly something that had been sculpted almost perfectly, having an edge. The Northern Kingdoms had cold pragmatism at their heart, the Westerlands, a strange mixture of Plate and mail that didn't seem to mix, that looked overbearing....like the Lannisters that Ellion knew. The Dornish had light leather, and it suited them in their climes, but they did not look beautiful. Neither did the Stormlands, the tales he was told of Robert Baratheon's armour, with a stag's antlers on his helm, by the Seven he wish he could have seen it with his own two eyes. The Reach did armour in a way that never failed to turn heads. Each strike, each curve, plate, was functional, but was an artisan's work. The silvery-gold armour almost shone in the light, with Roses and thorns etched in, it was done across the surface, from his metal vambraces to his shoulderplate, his chestplate which in itself, had numerous vines, roses and thorns interlocking, covered in other flowers, scratched in with a metalworker's tool and an artisan's eye. It's price? You didn't ask, it would have been rude to know. A helm that in itself, would look ornate to most, but was functional, the visor interlaced with strong steel that was in a rose-like design, though allowing for a clear vision, despite being a little blurry in places. From his pointed metal boots, to his crafted metal vambraces and gauntlets, themselves even having etching. Gold cloth in the shape of a rose, sat on his shoulderplate and on numerous parts of his chestplate, while under the arms and under the plate itself, was a hefty compiling of mail, something that could offer a little more movement than a solid plate would, while leaving no gaps at all. If Ellion had ever seen a better suit in the Seven Kingdoms, it had to be that of perhaps Lord Jamie Lannister, or the Whitecloaks. The helm in his hands, he looked on, seeing a particular woman emerge from behind the cloth cover to his quarters, turning his head rather than looking in the mirror. Sister.

"You boys like your armour far too much. Far more than my dresses!" Alerie giggled, as she kissed her tall brother on his cheek, Ellion blushing his usually firm cheeks as red as a Cox's Apple. Alerie's burgundy hair brushed by, kept to about shoulder-length, her green and golden dress a light one, adept to the climes of King's Landing.

"I aim to please, sister." Ellion replied, as he smiled, wrapping his gauntleted arm around his sister, the two of them getting on well. Even if Alerie didn't agree entirely with her brother's lifestyle, she knew that he had his ways, and why he did all of it. It wasn't easy to see it at first, but Alerie appeared to be the sharpest of the four siblings, she appeared to have a certain kind of intelligence, wit and charm that didn't immediately make it's way to the surface, but could be deduced by spending enough time with her.

"So you do....fancy Ellion Tyrell, you really do want to bombard the senses. Are you trying to get yourself a beauty? They'll all fall at their knees for you." She said, walking around him, his squire, Duncan, a boy of ten, away and cleaning his lance.
"Well....possibly?" Ellion meekly said, as Alerie giggled further, grabbing the hilt of his sword.
"They all just fancy a bit of cock really. You don't need all the perfume in the world...you're in King's Landing, love. Anything goes, even if you're as beautiful as you are, brother." Alerie giggled further, as she heard the hubub of chanting outside, before looking back at Ellion.
"I'll leave you prepare. Sounds like you'll be in the lists soon. I'll join father in the stands." Alerie said, as she gently headed towards the exit of his quarter, before turning, Ellion almost entirely speechless. She was a huge tease, sisterly, not in a Lannister-type way doing this, just because she could. And Ellion himself, despite his total grasp of how to attract men and women, didn't actually understand how his fucking sister worked.
"Good to hear. I'll do what I can. No pressure...there's only thousands of people and you to impress."
"Oh, come on, Ellion. You're good. Don't get killed, because there's going to be a lot of disappointed maidens if you do. Okay?" With that, Alerie winked, as she left, leaving Ellion looking on, confused. Her sister was mad, he thought to himself, as he saw his squire head back in, a gleeful look on his face, the Tyrell's head coming back to his senses. Right, he was here to joust.

"Ser Ellion, I've cleaned your lance, is there anything else?" Duncan asked, as Ellion looked down, taking a knee.
"Not really, I think that's enough for now, Duncan. Is my horse ready?"
"Aye, whenever you are, Ser Ellion." He spoke, as Ellion smiled, knowing his squire reminded him a lot of a young him. He was from House Peake, and had black hair, though he was very short for his age, a brave lad- one he could see definitely getting involved in some melees and jousts of his own when he was older.

"Good to hear it, Duncan." Ellion stood once more, and headed out of his quarters, headed towards the exit of the tent, the roaring crowds coming into view, the enormous Red Keep, the banners of all the major Houses, including the golden rose on the green banner, of his own. Knights and squires milled around, ladies and lords, the area felt tight and humid. But the stables and the lists were close, the noise of metal on metal clashing loudly, as the first lists sprung into life. Ellion would sweep the first ones with ease, but how far he could go, he didn't even really know. Ellion had a method, a certain kind of confidence and commitment that many didn't have, combined with a certain kind of precision with his lance. He was fit enough to endure tilt after tilt, and when his moment come, he always just went all in, when he saw his opponent would buckle. The sight was one that even Ellion knew he wouldn't see in his lifetime maybe, a phenominal tourney for the whole realm to see.

Headed towards the stables, he found his steed, Desdemona, named after his first love. A fine galloping dark-haired warhorse, a loyal friend, and the steed that he chose to use when hurtling towards another man with a very sharp, pointy wooden stick, at very high speed. Jousting was dangerous, and the stakes were high. Fall off, become a cripple, die, or stay on, become a cripple, die, bloodily and incredibly messily, in front of a crowd. Ellion understood the risks he was taking. And that well, glory was a better one to go for. Mounting the horse's saddle, he heard his steed gently bray, as he reassured it. The white and golden quilt, and the pretty nature of his horse, hell, even it didn't smell as badly of shit and hay as the other horses, said it all that Ellion understood that he knew that there was a certain image to retain. Might as well see how far the well goes, he thought to himself. And he was good at being stupid, perhaps he thought to himself. He'd proven it so far. And he wasn't going to die on this field. He wasn't going to be complacent. He was going to joust.

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

Alerie ran up the large stand, two Tyrell guardsmen by her side, as she found Willas, her dad. Willas Tyrell may have had a bad leg from this exact sport, but he did enjoy watching jousting, even if it gave him an uncomfortable memory. He remembered, the sight of Oberyn Martell, and the fact that it was him who had made the cripple he was today. The horse falling onto his leg, and twisting it. It hurt like nothing he'd ever felt, it was an agony only beaten by the raven on a fateful day, 25 years ago. How he knew it hurt more, well, you only needed to barely ask him. Willas had been insular, but he was good at what he did, and kept a facade, of something that hadn't been deeply affected by it. The Master of Coin, the Lord Treasurer of the Seven Kingdoms, sat comfortably, as his daughter came by his side, taking a seat, surrounded by a small retinue of guards. They were close to the action, but not too close, commoners, other Lords and Ladies, all scattered in a weird way.
"Ellion is getting prepared, father. He looks dashing as always."

"So did I back then. Seven Hells, I was good." Willas cracked a wry smile, as Alerie took a seat by his side, Willas not a drunken oaf, or a bad particular influence. He just seemed to look after the family, and he was kindly enough to those he met, a good hearted man. Even Alerie's particular cunning and wit, her charm and her plotting, even had to weaken to the fact that her father did all he could that was good for the family, and didn't sit there like some fool.

"Will you go to speak with King Jon?" Alerie asked, as Willas sighed, drinking a little more Arbor Gold, the wine a beautiful one, and that of their homeland.
"Later. But I think he's attending to matters of politics. By which I mean, the King is probably having to deal with those Stepstoners again." Willas replied, as he drank gently down a little more, looking back to his daughter.

"It's good to see you again, Alerie. I always guess you are still looking after Alys?" Willas asked, as he leaned back in his chair, looking down as two jousters went into each other, to much cheering, somehow staying on their horses.
"I try, father, but she's so stupid, she doesn't even..."
"She's younger than you, Alerie. Just let her do what she wants. She's a good girl, she might not have a lofty set of goals, but Alys is happy. So are you, my dear. I hope so, at least!" Willas said, chuckling as Alerie sat up, chuckling herself a little, smiling. She enjoyed her time with Lady Alys a little more than her father, but even so, she was close with him, and knew that he was kindly, and well intended.
"Alright, I suppose so. I wish I could join you in King's Landing for longer father, it looks exiting here. It's boring back at home, here there seems to be so much intrigue."
"It isn't all good, my dear. There are some dangerous men here, you need to be careful. Seven Hells, I'm not sure how I'm not dead yet." He replied, as Alerie chuckled.

"I just need bigger fish to fry. More than Merlin or Ellion can do here. Help our family." She said, as Willas nodded, knowing just how much like Margaery she sounded. Alerie's fire burnt bright, like his deceased sister's, she always looked out for her own, disregarding the others that only wanted to watch House Tyrell flounder. And whilst she was right, even Willas knew it wasn't time, not yet.
"Soon enough, my dear. You're a smart woman, you'll do more than just be some wife to some Lord someplace, we will look after you and make sure you do our family proud. Now, we should watch the tilts. Shall we get more wine?"

Rhaegar might have been call been called dumb by the people, but that didn't mean he was blind to what stood before him. During a discussion he had with his aunt Arya, the Mistress of Whispers, she shared with him an invaluable advice that was passed down to her from her former Braavosi mentor, Syrio Forell.

Opening your eyes is all that is needing. The heart lies and the head plays trick with us, but the eyes see true. Look with your eyes. Hear with your ears. Taste with your mouth. Smell with your nose. Feel with your skin. Then comes the thinking afterwards and in that way knowing the truth.

When push came to shove, Rhaegar knew how to observe everything around him with both his heart and mind in order to get a little taste of the truth....especially in a place like Kings Landing. But what he perceived from Jenn left him nearly dumbfounded. Receiving even the smallest sign of affection from a woman was a surprise to the prince, as he was used in being overlooked in favor of his more bold and popular brothers. Even the prick Jaehaerys turned more heads with his bookish knowledge and eloquent words. Still, he knew that the time for the Melee was getting dangerously close, so instead of riding in his gambeson alone, he silently accepted Jenns offer.

It was another moment of surprise when she managed to put on most of his armor with great success, with the belts being perfectly tightened and the shoulder guards placed in the right position. It was a splendid piece, with a tint as black as obsidian and a red jasper dragon on the breast, all wrought by using the technique one could only find in the forge at the top of the Street of Steel. He was ready to give her congratulatory comment when she made a remark about yielding to a superior opponent. This was not what he wished to hear about on that moment, not when he was so close to his personal goal "What I know is that big men fall just as quick as little ones if you strike them at the right place. I wouldn't expect your father to tell you this, Rivers..." Rhaegar knew that he was needlessly malicious with Jenn, yet he couldn't afford to display any sort of weakness, especially before her.

Sensing the distress of his rider, Theron left his meal unfinished and approached slowly, his amber eyes staring dangerously onto the Frey woman. His scales are were in the colors of forest leaves, with the sun shining through them and the finest emeralds, and while he was quickly reaching the size of his fellow brethren, he had a more gangly body than Snowfyres and with thinner legs. That didn't change the fact that Theron was still a dangerous beast that could easily gulp down a full grown human, so Rhaegar rushed to place his armored hand upon his mounts snout, calming him down with soothing strokes before any misunderstanding could occur. It was during his petting that Rhaenys and her little gang burst into the scene.

"This is Aemons wedding Rhae, you should be enjoying yourselves, not waiting for me on guard outside the Pavilion..." although he should be giving them a well-deserved thrashing for nearly leaving him high and dry, he couldn't be angry at his youngest sister. The moment he saw her, his cold ivory stare changed into a calmer purple, one resembling the color of the thistle "Just warn me the next time you ran off with this little pack of yours. Jenn, I trust you to keep mu sister and her companions safe, and you Corlys...you are coming with me." he added as he nearly dragged his Velaryon nephew with him as he gave him to carry all of his weapon, his shield and his helmet while they made their way to the stables to retrieve his horse and then head for the grounds. Whatever mischief Rhaenys had in mind couldn't draw the care of this Prince any less, and while he couldn't punish her, somebody had to take the brunt of her actions. And the poor Velaryon boy seemed ready to topple down from all the baggage he had in own two arms.

Jenn
Rheagar's Tent

The young prince was a Targaryan after all. Jenn thought the boy having misunderstood he comment to be also about recognizing when your foe surrendered. The youth if unfamiliar would kill a lesser opponent. Jenn had continued her explanation as the your spat hard words at her. It was her place to keep the youth from dying on her watch not to teach him etiquette. Jenn bowed low to him preparing to leave as she saw the familiar sight of Theron. The dragon was lazy in his gate and slow as the crowd ran in panic the dragon parting the crowd causing a disturbance. Jenn smiled when Rheagar knew enough to run forward to calm the beautiful dragon. Jenn loved his green scales having enjoyed polishing them in the dragon's youth. It appeared confident and bold now, but Rheagar had trained it well. Jenn didn't mind the Prince's order to serve his younger sister for the time being. Jenn was just grateful that combat wasn't necessary between her and the dragon. The pup was close to her heart even if he didn't feel the same.

The arrival of the gaggle of kids was reason enough to go without the clear dismissal. Jenn bowed to all of them a low and obedient bow. Lady Rhaenys was a young girl it wouldn't hopefully take to much to keep up with the small girl having been trained for her speed. "It appears your brother has tired of my presence and has assigned me to you. I only hope that I may serve you better" Jenn stood at attention as she heard that Lord Steffon had won his melee interested. It would be necessary to give him a full report once the young girl was under the watch of someone else. Jenn was equally shocked to find Mable Frey up in her cousin's chair doing her best to keep the peace between the Frey's, Tully's, and Mudd's. Jenn hurried off with the kids as the prince readied for battle. It was impolite, but could save his life so Jenn called back "Prince please don't forget interference by dragon is illegal and not all targaryens are fire proof."

Royal Pavilion, aftermath of the Pirates

Ser Aerion waited patiently for each of his friends to introduce themselves to the King, each one bowing their heads in reverence, saying "It was our honor," or "It was our duty your Grace," words along that line, showing their respect and fealty to the king, even if they were not directly sworn to him, or lords that were sworn to him. They had been sellswords, men and women without a true master, wandering wherever war and pay took them. But perhaps today would be the start of something different, a return to a time in the past when their families laid claim to lands and castles, with their own families and knights and men at arms sworn to them, and their fealty sworn to their Highlords, and from them, to the Lord Paramount's, and from them, to the Crown. The King certainly for all appearances was the honorable and dutiful man from stories and tales that had circulated for years now, but it was nice to actually put a face and voice to those stories.

"Your Grace, I am Ser Aerion Goldfyre, of House Goldfyre. It was a great honor to have been able to come to your defense. I speak for my friends, we are all deeply honored by your generosity, and would be forever in your debt to be allowed such an honor. We look forward to meeting once again, when you deem it fit. Your Grace." Ser Aerion bowed deeply once more before King Jon Targaryen, before stepping back to allow the King and his entourage to make their way to the Grand Melee. The Band of Seven followed suit, all bowing deeply before the King and his retainers as they made their way past them, looking to one another is profound surprise at this sudden change of fortune, even if it only came to having their names spoken among the people of power and prominence for a few weeks.

Once the King had departed, Ser Aerion and his friends turned to one another, looking over Ser Oswell and Ser Uther, both of whom would need to head to the medical tents, and get some bandages and care for their wounds. Nothing serious, but enough to where both men would need to stay out of combat for a few weeks. Ser Oswell chuckled softly as Lady Cerenna looked over him, holding his hands up before him, "My Lady, these wounds are hardly worth fussing over, just some cuts and bruises..." before he was cut off.

"Cuts and bruises Ser Oswell, do you think me a concerned mother, clucking over her baby?" Lady Cerenna smiled, shaking her head. "You will let me tend to your wounds, along with your wounds as well, Ser Uther. I will not have anymore argument in this matter. The smallest of cuts can get infected, if either of you remember, those pirates and brigands don't exactly keep their weapons and gear clean, let alone if not tainted by other things. So hush your belly aching, and we will head to the medical tents, and I, not them, will look after you." Lady Cerenna finished, not even bothering to let either man speak another word. She hurried over to her brother Ser Lorimer, sharing a few words with him, and sharing an embrace.

"Don't worry brother, if I come to any danger, I will whistle for you, and you can come save me like brave Ser Florian." She smiled, twirling away from her brother, and moving back to help both Ser Oswell and Ser Uther to the medical tents. Lady Cerenna and her two charges made their way, soon vanishing in the teaming crowd of people.

Ser Lorimer sighed, and walked back over to his other friends, turning now with everyone left to face the beautiful and dangerous Baratheon bastard, Lady Visenya Storm, though most of the common rabble referred to her as Black Visenya. She had the striking black obsidian hair of any pure-born Baratheon, but in contrast to every other Baratheon, high and natural born, Visenya had striking indigo eyes, a mix of purple and browns to create a striking set of eyes.

Ser Aerion watched with careful reverie, almost studying everything about Lady Visenya. It would appear that he was not the only bastard of ancient Valyria, and that the blood of the dragons flowed through Lady Visenya's blood as much as his. Though hers had the tell tale streak of the Stag and Storm Kings of old. Her armor fit well, a princess in her own right. Ser Aerion wondered if she had a dragon of her own, or if the Targaryen's did not bequeath such honors unto the "lesser" bloodlines. He listened to her speak, and found her voice to be alluring, seductive, whilst being powerful and threatening all at the same time. Aerion watched her closely, noting to himself that this would be someone he would not want to get on their bad side.

As she turned to address Ser Aerion, his remaining friends, and the Freys, their eyes met for a few passing moments, almost as though she held her gaze upon him for a few seconds longer than normal. Aerion swallowed hard, his sense of calm and collection being warped, before Black Visenya's eyes moved elsewhere. She spoke in a polite commanding tone, inviting those to choose their own destination, what revelries to take part in.

"As the king decreed, you shall all have places of honor in these merriments. If you wish you may compete, but you may also observe in comfort with fine food and drink. It would be my honor to guide you to where you wish to go. The jousting is still ongoing, and the next round of archery will begin soon. Perhaps you wish to see the king compete in the melee." Lady Visenya would pause, before a shadow of a grin crossed her face, her tone changing as she spoke of another alternative set of choices, "Or we could forgo the formal events entirely. The commons have their own array of amusements, and there is many a young noble or knight who are engaged in all manner of folly. Finger dances, duels, dagger throwing, wrestling, gambling, drinking, a woman or two, all can be found here. Although I am not certain the young lord Bolton can stomach more drinks."

Ser Aerion looked over to see the current Lord Bolton having thrown up recently... no doubt from heavy drinking, as the wind shifted wafting over the aroma of booze and half digested food. Aerion looked away from that sight, back to Black Visenya, watching her as she held a smile on her face whilst looking on at the dismal sight of the Lord Bolton. He turned to his friends, chatting with them quickly, nodding at a few suggestions, before sighing.

They were right, it was his turn to go hob-knob with the landed gentry and nobility. Ser Aerion bowed before Lady Visenya, before speaking for his friends. "Your Highness, it would be a great honor if you could ensure that my companions enjoy themselves amongst the commons. They would surely enjoy themselves in your company, and I have no doubt that you would see them all to the best array of amusements there are to offer." He sighed, Ser Harwin and Ser Lorimer may have been joking with him when they said he had to address Lady Visenya with formality, but better to error on the side of caution rather than risk offending their hostess.

"Ser Harwin, Lady Lyvia, and Ser Lorimer look forward to seeing how the people of Westeros occupy their time, and would certainly enjoy some good food and drink. Not to mention Lady Lyvia is an accomplished wrestler and duelist, she should prove to be a fun companion for the time being. Ser Lorimer and Ser Harwin have expressed interest with some drinking and as they put it, 'Some innocent carnal activites'." Ser Areion turned his head, smiling at his friends. He mouthed 'Go enjoy yourselves, stay out of trouble.' He turned back to face Lady Visenya, before speaking again.

"If you'd be so kind, would you either escort me to the lists, or point the direction. I have been 'chosen' to spectate these royal events, and intermingle with those of importance. I am but a landless knight, like my friends, and we are in need of a patron to help see us raise our fortunes for the better." He smiled, bowing his head forward slightly, before finishing with, "If it pleases you, your highness." Ser Aerion straightened back up, and awaited for Black Visenya to respond in kind, knowing today was but the start of many adventures to come.

Passion was not a dragon, but she flew with far more grace and speed than any dragon ever could. She silently soared high through the clear blue sky, almost invisible to the naked eye. She made a few pirouettes, clearly enjoying his unusually long moment of freedom, and she seemed almost reluctant as she descended towards him, gliding down slower. Her claws wrapped themselves around his gloved arm without a single screech coming from her beak.

Mychel Arryn stared into her dark, intelligent eyes and dared to caress the back of her bluish black head with a single finger. He smiled as she leaned into it, clearly appreciating the attention.

Falcons could be trained, taught to obey the commands of their masters, but it was a rare thing for such creatures to be loyal and sentimental. Yet Passion had been born and raised in the Eyrie, and even as a chick she had known the pale, black-haired youth that was now showing her affection. Thus she had grown to be both things, a dutiful and amicable companion, who yearned to fly but did not resent her position.

Of all the gifts his father had given him, Passion was the only one that the heir to the Vale had kept. The sole attempt to purchase his love that the young lord had honestly accepted. All else, from the fine armor to the even finer wine, he had given away. The silver and sapphire circlet for his fifteenth nameday now belonged to a farmer at the foot of the Giant's Lance. The sword for his knighthood now rested in a soldier's scabbard in the Redfort. But Passion he had kept, though not to use her for sport.

"You have spoiled the poor beast." Said Lord Andar Royce behind him. Mychel had not seen or heard him enter the High Hall, but he was not too startled. He turned to the older man and away from the wide open Moon Door. The wind blew into his dark tresses, and elicited a small sigh as it raised goosebumps along the back of his neck.

"She's a bird of prey, not a pup." The lord of the Runestone lamented, the cold air of the mountain rustling his cloak. His short, grey hair and thick beard seemed as impervious to it as his hard face. "You've stripped a noble creature of her dignity."

Mychel chuckled, placing his nose against Passion's beak. As he spoke, his voice was as cheerful as usual. "She doesn't mind. And I never enjoyed hawking anyway, so what use would I have for a vicious hunter?"

Lord Andar scoffed with amusement, shaking his head as he took a few steps closer to the youth. His bronze gauntlet firmly stayed on the pommel of his sword, but his free hand he used to straighten the neck of Mychel's feathered cloak. "Someday you're going to need to grow some claws of your own, if you wish to truly earn the name of Black Falcon."

The boy uttered a humph, looking back at the vast landscape through the Moon Door. Passion seemed more insterested in the movement of Lord Royce's fingers, probably wondering if the bronze digits were palatable.

"I won't need them." He said, a sudden smug grin on his comely face. "Give me just a chisel and some wood, and I'll do wonders."

"Cocky lad." Lord Royce chuckled.

The man finished with his brief fussing, patting the boy on the shoulder. "It's almost time for your father's retinue to leave. Why are you here?"

"I wanted to look through the Moon Door one last time." He answered, leaving unsaid the reason. He had wanted to be alone with his thoughts, let them swirl in his mind in the quiet of the empty High Hall. And he needed the pure, heavenly air that came through the door.

"What is it?"

Mychel did not answer. He caressed the top of Passion's head, and the falcon made a sound almost like a coo. The other sighed.

"The Vale will be safe in your absence. I will make sure of it." Said Lord Andar, closing the Moon Door and barring it in quick motions.

"I should stay nevertheless." Mychel said, walking away to place Passion in her cage. He did so carefully, as always. "There's a lot that could be done, and if father and Ser Harrold are both abroad..."

"You overreach, Mychel." Lord Andar interrupted him. "I will be proud to stand by you when you become Lord Paramount, but I would not let you undermine your father while he still lives."

"I shall be sending you ravens while on the road, then." He said, and his boyish grin widened. "And you shall tell me everything you won't tell my father. If we are fortunate, maybe things will improve while we're gone."

Lord Andar grunted. "You are a stubborn little bird, aren't you?"

"Of course I am, my lord. I was your ward." Quipped the young lord, taking off his falconry glove and grabbing the ornate wood and iron cage. He had made the carvings on the wood himself. They were rather crude and unrefined, which made sense, given that he had made them at the age of twelve.

Lord Andar laughed, joining him as the two walked to the door that led out of the High Hall and into the Crescent Chamber. They passed by the few statues that decorated the hall, made in the same blue-veined white marble as the walls, and Mychel spared them, and his father's weirwood throne, one last look before Lord Andar and him closed the massive door.

"Do try to avoid controversies on this journey, Mychel. The eyes of your father's peers, and of the royal family, will surely be upon you."

Now it was Mychel's turn to place a reassuring hand on the other's shoulder. His grin softened into a small but bright smile as he did so.

"No, Lord Andar. My eyes will be upon them... like a falcon's."

---

The road to King's Landing had been uncommonly kind to Lord Robin Arryn's retinue. There had been few unexpected threats and obstacles. The Mountains of the Moon had been cleared of most clans' presence, and the passage through the Riverlands, which had caused concern among the Winged Knights, had in fact been quite pleasant. Lord Arryn's heir, at least, had felt as much, largely because he had been able to spend most of it without sharing a single conversation with either of his kinsmen. Instead, the many nights of traveling had been occupied by books he had brought with him from the Eyrie, as well as mornings dedicated to carving small pieces of wood and afternoons enjoyed watching Passion glide through this new, foreign air.

Their arrival at the great city, the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, found Mychel tired but not exhausted, and intrigued by sights he had never seen before. This was the first time he set foot in King's Landing, and at once he was fascinated. Though scarred, as all cities were, by impoverished smallfolk and the slums they dwelled in, there undeniably was much life and beauty in it. Not even in Gulltown he had seen such a diverse display of people and goods. And compared to the austerity of the Eyrie, the opulence of the city's greatest structures was striking.

From atop his chestnut courser, dressed in his black feathered armor, Mychel Arryn watched the spectacle with enthusiasm, and cheerfully greeted all those who bid him welcome and blessed him. Their retinue advanced slowly through the crowded streets, which gave him ample time to listen to the strange tongues of foreigners, share a few words with passing hedge knights, bards and merchants, and give what few silver stags he carried with him to beggars and septons. He saw Dothraki riders and Dornish spearmen, and knights with trouts, lions and roses on their armors.

Beside him, his father and Ser Harry also looked on, albeit with far less interest. They had come to this city more than once before, and their thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. Mychel purposefully paid them little attention.

Robin Arryn was a man grown now, and much different from the sickly boy Mychel had heard so much about. Yet he was hardly an impressive figure even now. He remained quite thin, and shorter than his own son. His brown hair had grown thin, and his face had grown mousy and plain, with measly whiskers. Though his posture was lordly enough, his large round eyes betrayed his still boyish nature, weak in character and meager in intelligence, insecure and capricious. He sat with noble dignity on his own beautiful destrier wearing an impeccable doublet, but uncertainty was visible on his face.

Ser Harrold Hardyng, although older than his father, was everything that the Lord Paramount of the Vale was not. Handsome even now, with his blue eyes and sandy hair, the years had not diminished him. Tall and muscular, he rode proudly on his own mount, looking every bit like a great knight of the Vale in his falcon-helmed armor. Some said he looked more like Mychel's grandfather than Lord Robin himself did, and Mychel believed them. His smile was charming and his voice was strong, and he had the boastful, glory-hungry spirit of a warrior of legend.

Mychel did not actively despise either of them, but he had not been close to them as a child, and he saw little reason to close that old gap now. On his return from the Runestone, it had taken him a very short time to discover how little he truly shared with his own father, and how little Ser Harry thought of him. Lord Robin had no patience for his son's enthusiastic meddling into his lordly affairs, and did not know how to show what love he had for Mychel. And whatever Ser Harry had seen in him, he had disliked it. Arguments had soon become plentiful and bitter, and the Eyrie had become less of a home and more of a battlefield.

The Vale under them was not a kingdom in shambles. At least not at first glance. Yet Mychel had seen the small cracks, the minor imperfections that were slowly but surely affecting his father's rule. The war with mountain clans was bleeding their house dry, both in coin and manpower, and Lord Robin's taxes, while they kept the Eyrie afloat, left countless farmers on the edge of misery. The prestige of House Arryn's legacy was waning, and a part of Mychel suspected that it would collapse as soon as their bannermen began to lose confidence in their family's name.

Mychel lost himself in those thoughts, his mind traversing from the Vale to this city, considering problems and possibilities, recalling knowledge and raising questions. All the while, the Winged Knights followed the three closely, some saluting the crowds as their horses led them further into the city. The banners of House Arryn, the famous moon and falcon, rippled in the air.

---

There were no arguments before the procession, no moments of tension between father and son. They simply made some smalltalk, empty and harmless. Lord Robin asked for his opinion on the city's sculptures, compared the Knights of the Green Hand to his own Winged Knights, and complained about the presence of the 'little man' who he had once wanted to throw through the Moon Door. Ser Harry did not participate, focused entirely on his knights.

When the time came, they all rode towards the sept and joined the colorful and elaborate procession. This time, both Mychel's father and Ser Harry waved to the crowds along with him. All the while, was admiring the views and, more importantly, he was looking at his fellow lords and ladies, trying to elucidate who they were and remember what he knew about them and their houses. It was almost a game, and one he enjoyed. Some of those in attendance caught his attention more than others, starting with the Targaryens. He had never seen people with Valyrian features, and he found them almost as entrancing as the dragons that accompanied them.

The ceremony itself was a grand and beautiful affair, but Mychel spent much of it looking at the other lords and ladies, and listening to their whispers. There appeared to be conflicts brewing in all the kingdoms, not just the Vale. And he could not help but feel a certain longing when he saw his Tully and Stark relatives, as well as King Jon. He had grown up hearing the tales of their lives, yet he had only seen them a handful of times, and too briefly for his liking.

By the end of the wedding, the heir to the Vale was anxious, expectant and quite ready to explore this little world, so far away from his father's kingdom, and so close to great power.

---

Like the Eyrie itself, the three tents of House Arryn were austere in look. Their blue fabric had few ornaments. What made them a sight to behold was not their opulence, but the military might they displayed. The armors of the Winged Knights that guarded it were perfectly polished, and their weapons looked like they had just been sharpened. Their movements and posture were an example in discipline. Around them were rows of equally well-kept armors and weapons, and a small army of smiths and quartermasters diligently oversaw the preparations for the knights who would participate in the various events of the tourney. On the side of the third tent, cages that held falcons and hawks were neatly lined up, except for one. This one, made of iron and poorly carved wood, sat empty on a table, surrounded by small wooden figures.

The bird that said cage belonged to was within the main tent, perched on her owner's shoulder. She was staring curiously at the loud world outside, and paid no heed to the angry discussion taking place inside.

"You will do no such thing, boy." Growled Ser Harry, his face red as he stood just a few inches away from the object of his wrath. His once pristine armor was splattered with wine. The product of the very recent outburst that had led to this moment.

"Of course I will. My father failed to bring proper gifts for the royal family on this happy day." Said Mychel, calm and smiling. "I don't know who advised him to do so, but I am quite sure that the skulls of a few mountain clan chiefs are not a wedding gift that royalty would accept."

"It is meant to show that Lord Arryn is doing his part in keeping the peace in the realm!" Ser Harry shouted, louder now.

"No, it is meant to show that the great Ser Harrold Hardying likes to boast." Said Mychel, and his smile gained a more visible spark of defiance. "If you wanted to prove my father's ability to maintain order, you would have brought them a peace treaty made with the High Chief. But alas, that treaty does not exist, does it?"

"I am tired of hearing your nonsense about making peace with those wildlings!" Said Ser Harry, his hand menacingly ghosting over the pommel of his sword. "You are a child, and as such you will watch your tongue and stay out of these matters."

"Under threat of what?" Asked Mychel with a chuckle. "If you wish to cross swords, ser, we can have a duel right here, or face one another in the melee or the lists. You are almost certain to win. Although I wonder what the lords of the Vale would think if Robin Arryn's heir were to die by your hand."

"Mychel!" His father spoke up at last, after all but fading into the background. Like Ser Harry, his face had become red as he sat in his chair by the coffer which held the aforementioned skulls. The boy immediately turned his head in his father's direction, as did Passion, fluttering her wings as if in annoyance.

"You do not have the right to make such decisions. Not without my consent." Said the Lord Paramount with pleading eyes. "Nor do you have the right to give away my best falcons."

"Father, do you truly want to embarrass yourself and our house in front of all the lords of the realm?" Mychel questioned him, and he was smiling no longer. "You are a Lord Paramount, the Warden of the East, and you would gift the royal family with the skulls of men whose names they have never heard?"

His father was silent, the uncertainty in his features as plain to see as Ser Harry's barely contained fury. The moment stretched, the three men seemingly holding their breaths as the tension in the air lingered. And then someone sighed.

"I'll be in the lists, my lord." Ser Harry muttered as he walked out, his plate-clad feet stomping on the ground below with terrifying aggression. Just as he crossed the threshold, he gave Mychel a hateful glare from the corner of his blue eyes.

"My son..." His father began, his voice meek and shaken. It was a testament to what maturity he had that he was not in fact trembling in his seat.

"Yes, father?" Mychel said, interrupting him. His voice was warm as usual, but there was a small sharp edge to it.

"Ser Harrold has done a lot for me."

"For himself, my lord. He has done a lot for himself." Said Mychel with a small but meaningful sigh, the same he had made in many similar conversations. A sigh that contained frustration and deep disappointment. "And for the throne he feels entitled to. The one I stole from him the day I was born."

"You dare?" Said Lord Robin as he rose from his seat. "You, my own son, who undermines me at every turn, acting like he deserves to rule while I still live? While I am still lord of the Vale?"

"Well, since my father insists on being a capricious fool of a lord..."

His father's slap resonated through the tent.

Mychel did not look at him. He did not even flinch. He just stayed where he was, feeling the pain on his cheek dwindle.

The two men of House Arryn were quiet for some time, until his father spoke in what was almost a whisper.

"I don't understand you, Mychel." Said Lord Robin. "But alright. They can have my finest birds instead."

When his son turned to him again, he was grinning with plain, pure satisfaction. "A fine choice, my lord."

He left the blue tent in swift strides, walking towards the stables and the lists. All the while, Passion kept herself perched on his shoulder, observing everything around her with as much attention as he was. Mychel took note of every important detail he could find. The tourney was a cacophony of carelessly spread information, even if not all of it was interesting. Knights of houses both great and small prepared on the stables and clashed in the lists, and even those who did not speak told him something. Some were young and ambitious, some were old and arrogant, some were fearful, and some were cheating. And he could see and hear nearby ladies debate the merits of each contestant and which of them would receive their favor. From afar, he saw Ser Harry mounting his horse and putting on his ornate helm, and Mychel silently wished him a harmless but humilliating defeat.

Mychel himself would not joust. He had not done so since his days as a squire, and he understood his own skills well enough to know he would not go far. He was an anointed knight, but he was not keen on living as one. His greatest pleasures were others. His art lacked the prestige of knighthood, but it was safe and intimate and fully under his control, and it did not pose a challenge to his still shy nature.

Just as he was about to go in the direction of the Targaryen tents, another knight caught his eye. A young man with brown curls and golden eyes, sitting atop a dark horse, he wore a beautiful, intricately ornamented armor with an unmistakable theme: golden roses. Truth be told, the symbols of House Tyrell only drew him to the knight half as much as his good looks did.

Mychel raised his arm, and Passion screeched as she moved to perch herself on it, looking at him with what he assumed was mild curiosity. "I ought to introduce myself."

He thought the look on the face of the bird of prey became skeptical in response.

"I am far away from home and I do not enjoy solitude." He thought aloud. "And some pleasant interaction between an Arryn and a Tyrell could only be good for both our houses."

Passion did not appear to be the least bit interested in debating him. In fact, she was now staring at a sparrow sitting on the roof of the stable. Mychel shrugged.

"Very well. Enjoy your hunting." He told her, quickly raising his arm in permission. With another screech, his falcon flew away and towards her target.

Mychel stood out in his feathered black armor, but did not seem to be drawing nearly as many looks as the clashes taking place in the lists. Thus he approached the Tyrell knight with no incidents, nothing that could have further increased the blatant shyness in his smile. Only the sound of Passion catching the sparrow distracted him, and just for an instant. Once he reached the other young man, his smile only grew, even if his confidence did not.

"Pardon me, ser." He spoke, fortunately not as loud as he had feared. "I could not help but notice the fine craftsmanship in your armor. Only a true knight of Highgarden would ride into a joust with such a masterpiece."

He politely bowed his head, hand on his chest. "I am Mychel Arryn."

@kingkonrad

Near the Royal Pavillion

Visenya nodded at Ser Towers, a faint smile of approval gracing her features, "Certainly, ser. There are hundreds of competitors and we can find room for another, especially one who has won the king's favor. But if you wish, you may also enter the lists again if you like. A knight was injured in a duel over a maiden's favor and his spot is currently unoccupied. Another was found dreadfully drunk and could not mount his horse. It would be a trivial matter to arrange you to fill their places. I saw you ride at these Stepstone curs, and I am certain you would do well. Either way, I shall see to it you have an honored place at tonight's feast. And you may certainly accompany us in our enjoyments."

The bastard princess chuckled and grinned in response to William, "No offense taken my Lord. I am a Waters after all, but you are lucky our revered Mistress of Whispers was not in earshot. Regardless, I am confident I can assuage your requests of wine and wenches."

Amusement crossed Visenya's face as she talked to Ser Aerion, "There is no need to stand on formality ser. I am what I am, you may simply call me Visenya if you wish. But I thank you. I shall escort you to the stands. My royal cousins and many high lords and noble ladies are seated there. They will no doubt be charmed by you. Afterwards I will find your friends their amusements."

Visenya nodded at them all and escorted the whole party to the stands, where the crashing of the joust and cheers of the crowd blanketed all else. The Kingsguard on duty inclined their heads, and Visenya nodded her head in return as she mounted the steps. Many of the great houses of the realm were seated in this section, protected from the sun by silk awnings, attended by all manner of servants, with a feast's worth of refreshments on hand. Queen Daenerys sat over them all on a wooden chair carved into the shape of a flying dragon, with the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, a trio of Dothraki Bloodriders, and a cadre of Mother's Legion behind her. Princess Arianne Martell and Ser Aegon sat next to her and all were having pleasant conversation.

Prince Aemon and his bride Julianna were rapt in conversation nearby, joking among themselves. Several small council members including Willas Tyrell, Sansa Stark, Tyrion Lannister, and Asha Greyjoy were present, along with all their retinues and family members. Lord Brandon Stark, his cousin Lord Robin Arryn, and their uncle Lord Edmure Tully sat with their vassals and houses, and discussed matters of state, while the children either watched the tilts or got to all manner of games and mischief. Famed heroes such as Dickon Tarly, Brienne of Tarth, Jorah Mormont, Edric Dayne, and Davos Seaworth were present as well. Even the Freys were present. On the face of it, they were all calm and cordial, even pleasant, but a discerning eye could see subtle signs of rivalry in enmity in the air as the families formed alliances based on seating arrangements and conversational groups.

Tyrion Lannister, his hair so white he almost looked like a Targaryen, approached Willas Tyrell, extending a goblet of wine, "Ah Willas, fine day for a wedding is it not? Care for a sip? It is my own vintage, Imp's Delight. To die for, if I do say so myself." Sansa, smiled prettily at Willas, "Thank you for attending our daughter's wedding my lord, the presence of your family means a great deal." Tyrion chuckled, "Even though you had to be here, we appreciate it all the same. It is a triumph in itself we are gathered here today. Just a few decades past, we would have all been at each other's throats."

Meanwhile, Alerie was approached by Princess Baella and Prince Jahaerys. The Princess, a maiden of six-and-ten, smiled widely at Alerie, "Welcome to the capital, you must be Alerie, Lord Willas' daughter. I am Baella, this is my brother Jahaerys. Your father is a charming man and quite brilliant. How are you finding our city today? I trust you enjoy the festivities?" Jahaerys, who was the same age as Alerie, bowed and kissed her hand, "Your father is a gallant and kind man; but it is a great crime that one so beautiful as yourself was kept away from court for so long. Men have been hanged for less." Jahaerys smiled at Alerie. The youth was famed for his eloquence, and his chivalrous compliments and it was unclear whether his praise was anything more than polite. Baella for her part, immediately began introducing Alerie to other luminaries of the court while asking her opinions on topics such as the latest fashions, the arts, and what life was like in Highgarden.



Meanwhile on the field, Prince Viserys mounted his horse. His armor was black but seemed to glint in the sunlight and was enameled with bright flame patterns. His great helm was in the shape of a horned dragon, it's mouth opening to reveal his comely face with his violet eyes and silver hair. His horse, a big black destrier was barded with dragon and fire patterns. Viserys' squire handed him his lance and he charged down the list at his opponent, a young Mallister knight. They had already broken three points against each other and the crowd roared as the two knights rode at the other, horseflesh furiously pounding down the lists as lances dipped. Viserys rode his mount as skillfully as he did his dragon Seraxis, a golden beast who perched above the lists nearby. Viserys smoothly lowered his lance straight on at the silver eagle while the Mallister youth lowered his at the last moment, before the crash of impact. Viserys buckled in his seat but stayed ahorse, while Ser Mallister fell off of his mount with a crash. Viserys opened his helm and waved at the crowd and its thunderous applause while Mallister was helped off of the field by his squire. The Prince of Summerhall had already beaten one of the Conningtons, a Prince of Dorne, and Ser Terrance of the Kingsguard. He was renowned for his skill at the lists and was a crowd favorite. Viserys was intent to defend his mother's crown as the queen of love and beauty, and he seemed well on track to do so.

Visenya watched Aerion and nodded in approval, "My cousin may be a braggart, but not without good reason." She bowed to the Queen before turning to Aerion, "You may sit where you like, and approach whomever you wish. Even the Queen, she is the friendly sort. Just take care to keep your hands where the guards can see them. Best of luck Ser Aerion, I have no taste for this game myself. I shall find more simple pleasures." She nodded at Aerion, holding his gaze for a moment before departing with the others.

---

Fairgrounds

Visenya led the gathered warriors back to the fairgrounds. She pointed out a group of a few dozen young lordlings and knights from all of the kingdoms who were forming a circle around two men wrestling in the mud, shouting and yelling all the while. She called out to Lyvia, "The young lords are having their own wrestling tournament. The reigning champion so far is Jeor Mormont, one of the She-Bear's sons." The young Bear was wild and strong. He could not have been more than six-and-ten but he was rippled with muscle, with arms, legs, and chest covered in black hair. He roared as he pinned one opponent to the ground. His opponent, a hapless Sisterman, by the looks of it, yielded to the jubilation of the crowd. Nearby, two Westerlanders, a Lannister and a Marbrand, clashed blades playfully. The lion knight knocked his opponent's blade out of his hands and held the point to his throat as his friend ruefully raised his hands. "Gerion. A second cousin, but quick with a blade." Visenya pointed at a fist fight between two Dragon's Teeth, "My men are fond of fisticuffs, and the company has gathered together a pool for the one who beats all challengers. I hear it's a fair bit of coin." There were many more martial distractions and after pointing them all out Visenya led them to a pavilion of colorful silk tents.

Inside where beautiful concubines of all colors and descriptions, hailing from all over the known world. Silver-haired lyseni cavorted with dark-skinned Summer Islanders and pale YiTish as well as girls from all the kingdoms. There were scores of girls, and more than a few men, but between them all they had barely enough clothing for a newborn babe. Their customer base was just as diverse, with a multitude of soldiers, sellswords, knights, and lordlings among them. Most were young, and filled with more lust than they knew what to do with. Visenya knew many a bastard would be sired today.

Visenya hailed a thin and lithe young man with a thin black mustache, "Bird, my friends are looking for entertainment. On me." She threw him a pouch of coins which he deftly caught in the air with a wide grin, "Of course. Anything for you Visenya." He snapped his fingers and a long line of prospective companions arrayed themselves before the band. Visenya grinned and said, "Pick whichever one, or two, whomever you like. Then I'll take you to my favorite winesink."

Wenches in hand, the knights then made their way to find some drinks.

---

Food Tent

Theon listened attentively to his daughter as she spoke at length about her travels and her journeys. He rarely interjected, only briefly interrupting to supply a question or the odd jape, but for the most part he let her speak. All the while, Theon felt his apprehension melt away and he gazed at his daughter. He saw much of himself in her. Not his one-time arrogance or vanity, not his hunger for glory, but he saw a thirst for adventure and life that he recognized all too much. A small smile crossed his face as he considered his daughter, and more than a pang of regret run through his mind as he considered how different his life may have been if not for a few choices. He smiled widely at Taria and nodded his thanks before flipping several coins on the table and gesturing at the proprietor, "Ale and the day's catch, fried, for me. My daughter can have whatever she likes." Saying the words out loud drove home their reality. His daughter. His flesh and blood. The thought made him both joyous and sorrowful at the same time.

Theon turned to Taria and began speaking, the shadow of a grin crossing his face, "Don't be so formal. You're my daughter, a Greyjoy by blood if not by name. Call me whatever you like. Father, Theon, arsehole, it matters not, so long as it is not Lord Commander. I get that enough from my sworn brothers." He chuckled, "It was a long time ago but I believe I know who you mother was. I would remember those eyes and that hair anywhere. Now she was one of my favorites. I wonder how she fares now." The serving girl brought both their drinks and Theon raised his tankard, "To your mother. And to family. What is dead may never die." He clanked his tankard against hers and drank deeply before slamming the tankard back down and gesturing for another round.

"If truth be told, perhaps it was for the better that you were never trueborn. Between my uncle and the Boltons, you never would have survived. And if you were a named Greyjoy now... well my sister raised true Ironborn, and that is both a blessing and a curse. But I am glad, we are here now, and you are the woman you grew up to be. Snow or Greyjoy, you are my daughter and for that I am forever thankful." Theon held eyes with Taria and smiled warmly.

"As for stories, well I suppose I have a few." Theon's drink was refilled and he began to tell her of his life, his adventures, his failings, and triumphs. While he drank, and ate, and laughed, he told her of his childhood growing up on Pyke; then at Winterfell where he grew close to the Starks. He told her of his days riding under the Young Wolf, his encounters with Stannis Baratheon, the war with Euron Greyjoy, his climb from lowly turncloak to Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He told her many farcical jokes and stories involving Robb Stark, Jon Snow, and many other legendary and powerful people he had known. He told her nothing of the Siege of Pyke, of his betrayal of Robb Stark, his time held captive by the Boltons, nor of the War for the Dawn. All of those were dark memories, and he wished for his first meeting with his daughter to be full of only mirth.

When he was finished, and on his third fish, he drained his newest tankard and said, "The Wall may be a place of high honor, but the food leaves much to be desired. As does the company in many cases. Unsullied do not make for fine drinking companions. It is dark, windy, full of cutthroats and thieves. And damn cold. But it is beautiful. Perhaps someday I can show you the Wall. There's nothing like standing at the end of the world."

Suddenly, a large group of warriors with whores on their arms entered the tent with much cheer and humor on their lips. Theon smiled and embraced one of them, none other than Black Visenya herself; clad in her black and red leather. He laughed, "Visenya Waters, the most ruthless cold-hearted warrior outside the Iron Islands!"

Visenya chuckled back, "Theon Greyjoy, as flattering as ever."

"Visenya, this is my daughter Taria."

"My sympathies Taria, your father is a rogue of the highest order. And I mean that in the best way possible."

"And Visenya is almost as good an archer as I was at her age. It is a shame they don't allow women on the Wall, Visenya, you'd be First Ranger in a year."

"What do you mean they don't allow women? You're the Lord Commander!" Their shared laughter bellowed through the tent and Theon slapped Visenya on the back before doing the same to Taria.

Theon turned to his daughter, "I've had a wonderful time, but duty calls now. I must mingle with the nobles, convince them to keep supporting the Watch. You are free to join me, you'll have a place of honor and get to meet the likes of the Imp, and the Silver Queen. But if not, come to the Red Keep later to the wedding feast; and all the visiting officers of the Watch will be quartered there as well. Otherwise, Black Visenya will certainly provide you with entertainment."

Theon waited for her answer before embracing Taria and departing, either with her by his side or not, but with the promise of seeing her again in the future.

Black Visenya threw the proprietor another heavy bag of coin, "Another round on me!" The whole tent, wenches and customers both, shouted in approval as the serving girl brought them all drinks. Visenya humorously wrapped an arm around the inebriated Lord Bolton and raised her tankard to the air, "To the White Wolf and the Silver Queen! To Prince Aemon and Princess Julianna! To the Targaryens! Fire and Blood!"

The whole tent shouted with her, "Fire and Blood!" Then they all shouted cheerfully and began downing their drinks, with Visenya finishing hers in one long pull.

---

Rhaenys tugged on Jenn's skirts, "Let's go to the stands Jenn, we should watch the tilts. I hear Viserys is going to be matched up with the Tyrell boy. I want to see who'll win, come on!" The children, half-dragged half-led Jenn to the tourney stands with Lyrax flying over to perch next to her sibling as the gang ran up to join the audience in the private boxes, leaving Jenn free to converse with her kin to her heart's content.

---

Jon was strapping on his armor with the help of his squires, one of Brandon's sons and one of Aegon's. The plate was white, the color of a weirwood, and patterned like dragon scales with swirling enamel designs evoking blood spatters. The pauldrons depicted snarling white wolves with red eyes and bloody teeth. His helm was topped by black spikes shaped into knives and patterned like a crown. The armor was more opulent and rich than was his preference but Tyrion and Dany had long ago convinced him of the important of such ceremony and appearances to both the commons and the nobility.

Jon strapped on his sword, a plain bastard sword with a white wolf pommel, when he looked up in the mirror and saw his sister standing silently behind them all. "How do you do that? I didn't hear a thing. Neither did Ghost." Indeed, the direwolf looked up at his master's sister and padded over to sniff her. Nymeria slunk into the room and the two wolves immediately ran off together out of the tent.

Arya simply said, "We need to talk."

Jon nodded to his squires, "Leave us. Wait for me near the melee grounds." The two boys bowed and silently retreated.

He turned to Arya, "Well?"

"We found a would-be assassin in the Keep. I had been tracking him, but a Frey slew him when he entered the guest wings. He had been sneaking around the Martell quarters. It is lucky we already had Viserys' family moved to Maegor's Holdfast."

Jon's face darkened dangerously, "On my grandchild's nameday? On my son's wedding day? That rat is lucky, he is already dead. How did he get in? The guard was doubled."

"We think he either found one of the secret passages, or... had alternate means of travel."

"Neither bodes well."

"Indeed, we must act."

"I took prisoners, perhaps they know something of this Pirate King's location. Gather what intelligence you can. Give me a target. And when this wedding is done, I will wipe these scum from the face of the Earth."

"I have a few ideas about how that can be achieved. After the feast, at the council meeting, I shall present my findings."

"Good. Now, I have a melee to attend. Time runs short."

"Your son intends to face you."

"I know."

"He is intent on the Kingsguard, intent on gaining your favor and respect."

"I wish he would choose differently. Aemon is the one who shall rule, his duty is his birthright. But Rhaegar need not make himself a slave to honor and duty, he is young; and has not tasted life's treasures. He does not know what he would be giving up."

"He is his father's son."

Jon smiled, "Yes. He is."

Jon donned his helm and walked out of the tent, Arya by his side. The melee would begin within the hour.

When he rode onto the field in his white armor, atop his red and white barded destrier, the cheering of the crowd's rang in his ears as several cried out, "WHITE WOLF! WHITE WOLF! WHITE WOLF! WHITE WOLF!"

He rode onto the field with no Kingsguard. They would have been a valuable asset in the competition, but they would have only fought at his side and would not have given their all when fighting him. However many worthy competitors had taken to the field with deadly arms and strong mounts.

The Commander of the Winter Wolves, himself a young Stark, rode onto the field with a wolf-like helm and a black-furred cloak. A Corbray Winged Knight with his falcon-winged helm and silver plate armor cut an imposing figure while a cadre of Green Hand knights threw several roses into the stands to the approval of the bystanders. A Dothraki, one of the Bloodriders, shouted in his foreign tongue and twirled his curved arakh in his hand as a tall, broad shouldered Dragon's Tooth sat quietly atop his horse; and a Martell princess with leather armor made a show of twirling her snake-headed spear above her head and behind her back while standing in the stirrups. Morros Slynt, in his gold gilded steel atop his gold barded mount had a broad smile for the whole field, assured of his victory. The lightning lord in his black and purple plate waved at the crowd while a burly Drumm reaver readied twin axes, a Mormont She-Bear pounded her mace on her shield, and an Alchemist in fire patterned robes wielded a sword aflame with green fire. One man of the Watch, a ranger with a cocky grin, had two swords strapped to his belt; and one of the Manderlys rode onto the field bedecked in merman armor, looking as if he had rode in from the sea. There were over two hundred competitors in all, many veterans of the old wars, but many more youthful warriors itching to prove their worth.

Jon knew his son would soon be among them.

---

@Masterkeun@DrunkasaurusRex@bloonewb@kingkonrad@Abefroeman@Greenie

Ruger had never been to a wedding before, and he had never been around so many nobles before, let alone the Royal family. So when he was asked to act as a bodyguard for one of the people he worked for before, he was quite suprised. Not because the person who hired him was able to get into such an event as a guest, but he was surprised that she would want to hire him for such an event.

The woman who hired him was a courtesan who called herself Lady Swan. She was well known by the rich and powerful and had hired him a few times when she was traveling to the Seven Kingdoms. She was a very interesting woman, and was so successful at attracting clients that they usually had to make bookings months in advance just to meet with her for a while, and even then she could decline them if she had met them before and didn't like them very much. The first time he had met Lady Swan, he was hired onto to be a guard as part of her caravan, he was never meant ti actually meet her outside of a few glances when she talked to someone else.

But the second time he was hired as a guard for her was a year later on one of her other trips around the Seven Kingdoms, she decided for some reason to engage him in conversation. At first he didn't say much, spoke in short sentences and giving basic answers. But she kept talking with him on the trip, and the more they talked, the more he said and the more in depth answers he gave. By the time she was on a ship back to Braavos, he felt as if he had said fairwell to a good friend.

After that he was hired as her personal bodyguard every time she was in Westeros, which while it wasn't that often, it was enough for him to think of her like she was a long lost sister. There was only one time he had to ever hurt someone to protect her, some bandits thought her caravan would make a good and juicy target. He went near mad in the fight, and killed most of the bandits on his own. After the fight he was covered head to toe in blood, and decided it was best if he rode at the front of the caravan, it was the one time he felt shame for killing someone. He thought that his rage would scare her. It didn't, after three days and nights that she finally had enough of his shit and demanded that he speak with her. After a fierce shouting match, they made up and went back to buisness as usual.

But here, in the midst of all these rich and powerful people, prople at the top rung of society, he had no idea how to react. He was unsure of himself, unsure of what to say or do, who was a threat and who wasn't. For a moment, just a small moment, he felt as if he may lose himself. But then Lady Swan grabbed his arm in hers and walked side by side with him.

"Don't worry so much my friend," she whispered to him, "just act like the tough and hardened mercenary everyone sees you as. Afterall, they don't know you like I do." Ruger cracked a smile at that, she was a damn good woman and he needed to focus on his job. Looking tough and making sure nobody tries to fuck with her. "You're right Swan, I need to act like I'm a big bear and not small cub. I'll be fine, so long as nobody tries to harm you, and if they do I will tear them asunder."

She laughed at that, he never did have a way with words, but at least he felt much better. They walked around for a while, her greeting a few people and chatting with them while he stood by and keeping an eye on the people around them. They eventually made their way to where there were people jousting.

Jousting never interested Ruger that much. Mainly because he couldn't even ride a horse, and because for the most part he thought it was a fancy soort for fancy folk. He saw some rich prick in ornamental armour with golden roses on it an snorted in laughter to himself.

Not quiet enough apparently, as he felt Lady Swan punch his armoured arm, "You hush with your giggling now. That knight is from House Tyrell, a very rich and popular House here. Besides, if the other nobles hear you giggle at one of their own, they may not think about hiring you as a bodyguard." That stopped any response Ruger may have had. She was right, the pretty boy was popular, and him making fun of the boy would not end well.

He saw another fancy lad walk up to the flower knight. This lad was in feathery armour, but his armour looked more functional than ornamental. Plus, the feathered lad was easy on the eyes. Lady Swan saw him looking at the feathered noble and leaned in to whisper to Ruger, "Why Ruger, have you taken a fancy to young Mychel Arryn. If you'd like, I could easily arrange an introduction."

Ruger didn't even respond to her, not in words at least. Through his travels with Lady Swan and their talks together and he had found her weakness. She was extremely ticklish. He looked her straight in the eye, as if he was about to make a some sort of quip, then just started tickling her neck and arms. She burst out with laughter, trying to stop him from tickling her, but he too quick for her, "You give up? You apologise?" She spoke to him with short quick gasps, "I give! I give! You win!"

He eased off of her, smiling to himself in triumph. When he glanced around, people were staring at him and Lady Swan. "What're you all staring at?" He growled at them, "Joust is over there." He gestured with his chin at where the joust was to take place, doing his best to give a snarl at anyone who kept staring. After a few moemnts, people thought it best for their health not to look too long in his direction. After he thought they got the message, he returned to normal and didn't snarl or sneer at any gawkers. He had embarrassed Swan enough, at least for now.

@MrDidact@Celeste

(collab with MrDidact.)

Willas looked down at Tyrion, then up at Sansa, chuckling lightly, when he mentioned the last part of his phrase.
"Imp's Delight? The famed wine that I hear you've grown in the Westerlands?" Willas replied, smirking at him.
"I'm sure it can't kill me. I've had a hellish brew from Cider Hall, so it can't be worse. Bloody Fosseways." He added, gently taking the cup from Tyrion, and giving it a sip, like a proper wine taster, before drinking more.

"You are right. This stuff really is hot on the throat compared to the Arbor, fierce, not gentile. A real delight. But it won't beat the Arbor, Tyrion. Apologies." Willas chuckled, shrugging gently, as he sighed, the Lord Tyrell happy to work under someone such as Tyrion Lannister. The man who had been known as a murderer of King Joffrey, who had....well, actually taken a good bait for his mother, in Olenna's scheme as he heard on her deathbead. It was incredible to think that now, they worked together, and that they had a gentle sarcasm they played with each other. And Willas saw that good in him, beyond an alcoholic dwarf, he was capable of extraordinary things, and he hoped that Tyrion knew that Willas understood he wanted the same common outcome of some good.

"I'm glad too, I suppose, House Tyrell is happy to be to provide the bread and wine of our Kingdoms' celebrations. You are right, Tyrion...my family lost a great deal in those affairs. I still suffer the same horrors of hearing of their deaths, every day. We all did. So it is good to see that we are well, especially you Sansa, and merry at this wedding with our houses in order." He said to the both of them, sitting up a little, the Tyrell Lord's appearance a little weary, but kind, and happy, he seemed to still have his heart in the right place, as he gently sipped a little more.

"I suppose things did work out well...we look after a prosperous and healthy Kingdom. The wounds of the past, healing. I hope for the world for your daughter and Aemon." Willas said, a ginger smile on his face, still sitting in his chair, as he looked up to Sansa, a tall Lady indeed, far more so than the dwarf she accompanied. He remembered the times, how Loras was almost forced to court Sansa. It would have never fit, his brother despised the presence of women, as kindly as it was, it never was settled, he was agitated, frightened, scared, and Willas had to often look after his most gallant brother, when he broke into tears, he remembered Loras's embrace like it was visceral in his mind. And even with Tyrion, he knew she had a husband who would not lie, would stand tall in times thick and thin, he had proven himself, far and beyond.

"Gosh, I don't know I'm going to stand after this, because of the wine or my leg...and I'm going to have to take a cask of that home!" Willas was no fool though he chuckled heartily, he sometimes enjoyed playing one with Tyrion, knowing deep down, Tyrion would understand that Willas understood precisely the certain sarcasm and understanding of his own condition, that a cripple and a dwarf were closely in the same vein...a certain kind of disability that perhaps, they had overcome.

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Meanwhile, Alerie turned, to see Jaehaerys and Baela, the brother and sister, as they approached. They were both pretty, the typical Targaryen features you would expect, as she nodded, a gleeful and playful smile on her face. Jaehaerys was just the chivalric man she had heard about...she already knew that, Baela not as much, but it hardly came as a surprise. Ah well, she thought to herself, he is being nice, she told herself. She stood, smiling as she shook hands with Baela, the Tyrell's golden and green dress keeping to her frame, yet loose, looser than some Ladies of the Realm, probably bar Dorne, had theirs. A little cleavage, and her golden-hazel eyes, almost at a total and utter contrast with her Targaryen counterparts.
"It has been quite lovely, Princess. It's been a beautiful day indeed!" She replied with a certain kind of glee, gently putting her cup down, the one she'd been drinking alongside her father.

"Indeed, he's a lovely old Rose, and I suppose, he looked after us well." Alerie added, looking back at Willas, speaking with Tyrion and Sansa. As Jaehaerys bowed, she offered her hand out, Jaehaerys kissing her hand, as she gently blushed. This wasn't the first time. It wasn't going to be the last, as she gently played with the Targaryen Prince's white hair.

"You are a playful one, Jaehaerys...you really do know how to make a lady blush, my dear. I didn't know dragons liked the smell of rosebushes. I thought your dragons just set them on fire" She said, giggling, a gentle wink at Baela as she took Jaehaerys's hand, looking at Baela, almost completely teasing him now. Alerie knew no bounds, the redhead beaming.
"Shall we go see the rest of the fairgrounds?" She suggested, as they spoke to other luminaries, Alerie keeping her wits and charm about her, knowing Jaehaerys had to be definitely more than enthralled. Honestly, she didn't know with him how it would go, she would let him be kind, experience a warm glow, his warm blood against her hands, the Targaryens were beautiful indeed but Alerie didn't know how this would go. Maybe she'd play him a little, maybe if he was nice enough, and actually genuine, she'd see. He didn't control her. She did.

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

Ellion smiled, just about to get onto his horse, when he saw Mychael come, intrigued, and wonderlusted at what he saw. Ellion smiled, as Mychel introduced himself, the distant Falcon that he had with him chasing a bird behind. A sparrow in fact, and even Ellion knew that from his father's falconry. Mychael was good, perhaps him and Merlin would have much in common he thought to himself, as he looked back, helm in hand.
"Why, thank you, Mychael. It takes a long time to make a suit of armour like this, and I'm lucky for it." Ellion said, with his typical smile, the look in Mychael's eyes a little curious. Sure, a lot of women said that about his armour, and many men would be impressed by it. But it was something in the way that he said it, just a weird thing, that Ellion had well....he had laid with people who weren't the fairer sex. An adventure, an urge nonetheless, he was indifferent and knew ultimately, the place for that sort of behaviour in society was not among Lords and Ladies. He knew his brother and sister understood, maybe not approvingly, but they understood. That was enough for him, because he didn't really care entirely, and Mychael was giving Ellion that sort of thought.

"I am Ser Ellion Tyrell. Your falcon is rather lovely. My brother would love to see a bird of prey bred in the Eyrie rather than from our home. He is a falconer, like my father, Willas...alas." He added, smiling as he shook hands, as he looked out of the tent, hearing the distant drumming.

"Shit, seven hells. I need to be out there...I'll be around the stables to talk later. It sounds like we have a lot in common, Mychael, even if our lands are different. Wish me luck, as I wish your falcon's talons their target." He said, almost a little romantic in his words, well, not towards Mychael, but it did sound very poetical. Ellion blushed more around his sister, yet to anyone else, seemed hardened, fired and gallant as any, as he mounted his steed.

Trotting out, Ellion could see the crowds, and knew he had to make his introduction.

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Ellion smiled with a particular beam, the crowd cheering, the noise of some women, commoners and lower ladies alike, particularly so as he threw a red rose from his gauntleted hands into the crowd. Spiky it was, from the fabric of his chestplate it had come, as he turned his head, looking down the list, the Targaryen that he was to joust yet to come out. He smiled, his fair face and long brown hair blowing in the gentle breeze, his golden eyes catching the gaze of Willas, as he looked back, with a gentle nod. They knew he didn't have a suitor, or a lady waiting, he was a brave, young soul and to them, looked beautiful, and the exact epitome of a Knight in shining armour, perhaps. Some chanted, and some swooned, the shining presence of the Reachman an opposite to the black armours of the Targaryens, a light that shimmered, the golden and reflective surfaces brilliant in the golden sun. Ellion relished in it.

As he made his way to the end of the long line, it felt like a mile, his heart thundered, and he smirked. This was wonderful. It was no doubt that Viserys would be good, he was a master at this, after all, and getting this far into the tourney had been a hell of a proof to himself that he could cut this, as he gently let Desdemona bray a little, the horse kicking feet into the sand.To the end, he said to himself, to that end. Helm on, lance raised. He looked across, into the distance, the gentle sweat that would run through him, his mind focussed. Duncan had backed away now, and had found his spare lances, as Ellion only put his mind to one task. What was coming out on the long distance.

Viserys casually rode his black destrier, which he so humbly named Balerion, onto the field, his visor up so the crowd could see his bright smile and clear violet eyes. His fair hair and youthful skin made a startling contrast to the dark, draconic armor he was encased in. Instead of roses, Viserys had wrapped silken flames around his arms; and these he unwrapped and handed to several young maidens in the gallery as he rode by. Viserys was a married man, but he had something of a reputation, one that his wife Princess Nymeria Martell did not begrudge in the least. Many said she was an accomplice to his pursuits. Indeed, there was more than one Waters at court in Summerhall, though even Viserys did not dare to display them at the festivities.

His squire, one of his Martell nephews, had retreated and awaited him with extra lances at the ready. Viserys did not even deign to give his opponent more than a cursory glance. Instead he bowed his head to his family watching in the royal box, and winked at Nymeria before sliding his visor down. Now a snarling dragon covered his smile, and Viserys awaited the sound of the charge at the end of the lists. He had heard tales of the Tyrell boy's prowess, but he did not expect much. Viserys had already unhorsed four great knights, and he doubted the youth would make it past the first lance. Already bored by waiting, and completely calm, Viserys held his lance in hand and was already thinking about who he might next face.

The drums beat, and the noise of the trumpet signaled only one thing. It was the same rush, again and again, and only learning to control it was the only way that Ellion knew it could get better. A certain kind of focus, and it fired into Ellion's mind, the rose-designed helm covering his face and locks, only the metal shine visible from afar. Desmedona's hooves kicked, as the horse lunged forwards, the lance pointed forwards, as the horse picked up speed. The green and white shield concave held tight in his left arm, and the green and golden lance pointed directly at the other oncoming lane, was a sight and a half, and so too was the dragon that rode that was coming quickly. Viserys was going to be good, Ellion knew that. He'd have a tough time beating him, but he knew the only way it would work, would be to outlast, and make sure his athleticism kept him able to keep going, tilt after tilt. He knew not much of strategy, but it was sound enough to work, and would at least keep the crowd happy, if anything. Then he'd pick his strike.

The two were racing, as Ellion gently pushed his lance to the left, straying away, as he smashed it into Viscerys's chestplate, though it scrubbed past his hip and ricocheted off his shield, snapping into two. Strike.

The crowd cooed, as the two trotted back around, Ellion looking directly into Visaerys's eyes, and knowing full well beyond the metallic dragonhelm that the Targaryen wore, he would see the same. Duncan already had another lance, and so it began again, as he picked it up, and began again, the horse kicking it's hooves upward as the Tyrell gently poked it to move. He couldn't yet tell, and was angry, that Viserys had taken a close shot, as had he. They were close, the young Ellion was closer in abillity than he'd first imagined, but it would take the luck of the Seven, because he didn't know how to weigh this one up. He'd try and last, he thought to himself, well, whilst getting whatever he could in strikes.

Nobody could see it, but Viserys fumed. The boy had struck, and worse yet, kept his seat. There was no easy victory here. The Prince now understood Ellion was not to be underestimated. Viserys called Doran for another lance and readied for another pass. This time, he would not underestimate the Tyrell. Viserys charged when the trumpet sounded for another pass. He kept his shield steady, but his lance rode high. As they closed the distance, Viserys' lance lowered until it was dead center on the golden rose of Ellion's shield. The lance splintered and Viserys grunted as Ellion's lance struck his own shield. Viserys managed to bear the force gamefully and barely stirred in the saddle. He saw the Tyrell buckle after the pass, but he kept ahorse and rode down the lists. Viserys threw down his broken lance, determined now. The boy had skill, and stamina. But Viserys would break as many lances as it took to see him drop into the mud. Ellion felt the force still echo in his suit almost, as he let it recoil, breathing hard, knowing he had to keep up his mind, in order to remain horsed and on an equal number of strikes. A tall order, against Viserys Targaryen, but one that he had to keep going with. There was no going back now.

The jousts felt tough, hard, and worst of all, for both of them, it was not going to be a deadlock broken easily. Staring down from the stands, Willas, Alerie and the Targaryen family of Viserys could only watch on, waiting, hoping, the tension building on every single tilt. The third was the same, so was the fourth. And the fifth. If the tension in the air could be felt, it would be cut like a knife, it could be pieced apart in two, because they were dealing hits, and still staying true, the number of strikes by both jousters the same by the eighth tilt. Many broken bits of wood were being swept off the ground, and the number of lances that they were going through seemed almost comedic....any Hedge Knight would have conceded by now, given he'd be out of lances!

And yet, they were going. Desmedona felt fresh, after a swig of a pale, trotting back to the position, Ellion's stare keeping strong, even if his body felt weak, his mind was better than this. And from the commoners to the higher Lords, the wenches to the Ladies, they were watching, and waiting. It had been truly unexpected, but Ellion had held his own. And nobody still knew which way it would go.

The horses charged once more, and Ellion breathed out hard, the air rushing out of his lungs, and holding for just one second, as he lowered his lance. He had waited, he had waited, and let the stalemate hold for the last couple, restored his focus, his mindset. Viserys would think the same, and go for a crippling hit, no doubt, but Ellion had a mind to throw whatever he had now, end it whilst he knew Viserys would want to maybe carry on. He knew his spot, it was visualized in his head, and he would strike it. As they came closer and closer, he lowered the lance, aiming it off-centre, higher than dead centre. Viserys was taking hits to centre with little on his posture, he could hold it. But Ellion took a punt that if it wasn't glancing, if it went right, and if he stayed in that position, it would throw him. And by the Seven, those small calculations he hoped, he prayed, would end it. Ultimate glory, or ultimate defeat. The two were a heartbeat away.

The Tyrell and the Targaryen, like a pair of unstoppable forces on only one course, made contact, and in almost what felt like a snapping moment, Ellion managed to hit the very head of the second dragon on Viserys's shield, almost pivoting the blow and turning at an angle, a dangerous but ultimately worthwhile move....as it threw the very thrust of the force directly into Viserys. The lance snapped, but it smashed with a hell of a lot of force, his shield arm forced backward and into his chestplate, uprooting him from his mount, and throwing him off backwards. It was an incredible hit, something Ellion didn't believe was that true, as he let Desmedona skid, the loud smack of metal on gravel audible, Viserys hitting the ground off his mount.

Ellion knew what he'd done. He hadn't just struck the poor fucking guy, he'd literally smashed him off his horse, not just weaked his grip, he'd flung him out. He saw a wincing movement, and instantly stopped, dropping the shattered lance, going under the wooden fence, towards where his horse trotted, looking almost at Ellion with a cold and sullen stare. He looked down at Viserys, his helm off, as he put it aside.
"Are you alright?" He asked, looking at his posture, his legs, his arms. When people got crippled, killed and maimed at these fucking things, the last thing he wanted to look like was indifferent after severely injuring a Targaryen Prince. That, did not bode well for him...so at least this looked better? That said, he did look fine, albeit winded.

"We gave one hell of a show. You ride well, Ser Viserys." Ellion said, his concentrated and focussed expression melting, as he offered a metal gauntleted hand to Viserys, helping him up, as his face turned to a certain smirk, and smile. Not smug, but well, it wasn't exactly the look of someone who had lost.

"We've given these people quite enough merriment. Well played." He said, keeping his hand out, knowing he'd be confused. Viserys kept a broad smile on his face as he removed his helm, and took the hand graciously, inclining his head to Ellion before grasping his gauntlet in his hand and raising Ellion's fist to the gallery. The crowd's cheers rattled the stands. Viserys had almost never been unhorsed, and it was a worthy feat to have done so. And despite his fall, the Prince seemed in good spirits. Viserys turned his head to Ellion, grinning, "A fine thrust, Ser Ellion. You are one of the best riders, I've ever seen. It has been an honor." Ellion could only smile, keeping their hands raised, not entirely infering what may have lay beneath Viserys. It was like nothing he'd ever heard, it was a moment of pure triumph, of pure wonder, that he had done it. And he felt invincible, as he walked towards the cheering crowd. He had a reputation to retain, and it came with chivalry.

Viserys handed his helm to Doran and strode off the field, waving to the crowd who cheered him almost as much as they did Ser Ellion. It was the kind of chivalrous display that audiences absolutely adored and Viserys knew it was expected of him. Unbeknowest to all except those who truly knew him, he was seething. The boy had defeated him, and Viserys vowed he would see the favor paid back.

William followed Visenya's lead as she took him and the rest of her little in-group to the stands of the main attraction, the joust. As she went to socialize with highborns and other such folk, William decided that he would be better off not trying to get along with Starks and broke off from the party a bit to watch the proceedings, but not before swiping an apple off a platter going to the royal stands. Unfortunately, he bumped into someone unpleasant as he took a bite into his apple. It flew out of his mouth into a dark corner, already likely being invaded by worms.

“Argh, ya bastard! Watch where ye . . . “ Said the man, or rather boy, he slammed into.

“Torrhen,” greeted William.

“William,” greeted Torrhen Stark, son of Bran Stark and lord of the Dreadfort.

“Are you still keeping my seat warm for me?” William said, unable to keep the ire from creeping into his voice.

“Fack off, Bolton,” Torrhen grumbled, pushing past him and stomping away. William decided then that he has had enough of the tourney and went to rejoin the group a little later.

". . . Eh, no, not that one . . ." William muttered to himself. Dozens of women of all shapes and colors danced in front of him, some already cavorting with a couple of knights. The decision is most certainly not as easy as Visenya would have him believe. "Look at that one," he said, pointing to a summer islander sitting on the lap of Ser Someone-or-Other. "She's got some sort of Sothoryon corruption. Tries to hide it, but the swelling veins in her wrists betray that. He's in for a surprise in the morning." He turned again to another girl, this time a gaunt Lysene. "And her. Slightly limping, possibly Kingslander rot. Her slit must burn like the Ghiscari sun every waking moment." His eyes scanned the room, stopping on various whores and grimacing when he discovered their faults. "I don't like where this is going. Perhaps I should keep of the whores . . . for a very long time."

Finally, she kept her word, and soon William found himself in an expansive pavilion surrounded by people almost as drunk as he was. The ambience was lively, to say the least. Shouting, cursing, and guzzling dominated the ears of everyone present, and drink rushed down throats like a Reachman cavalry charge. The free wine, the pleasant environment, left him feeling almost . . . content. Visenya threw an arm around his neck, and he found that he didn't even mind. When the deafening shouts died down, a renegade thought jumped into William’s head. Quietly furious, he stamped it out, but moments later, it returned. The drink overpowered him, and when he turned to Visenya, she was as alluring as a figure out of a children’s story.

“As you know, I am the last ever Bolton. My blood, by conclusion, is perhaps the rarest in the kingdom.” The words came tumbling out of his mouth in an uncontrollable torrent. “Simply by being born, I promised my ancestors to carry on the family line. So will you do me the honor of becoming the Lady of Ethering?”